Echoes
In A Shallow Bay
Suddenly the walls resonated with the following address: "What the feurke is going on 'ere!"
"What da..." blurted villain number one.
Silhouetted against the sky, standing proudly right under the sun, a hirsute man complete with beard and long flowing locks was confronting the devilish duo, fists firmly clamped on his hips. Cast against the sun as he was, his features were hard to make out but there was something oddly familiar about him. He was a big man, and he sported what appeared to be a red unbuttoned shirt with its collar up.
"And what exactly do yeur think you’re deuring?" he thundered. The voice was unmistakable -the baddies shat themselves in unison: Cantona!!!
Cheeky scallywag smiling eyes leprechaun Keane let out a vengeful laugh:
"Ha ha you rotters, did yous imagine I’d come on my own without a back-up plan? Little did yous know, ya big numpties! One always prepares for the eventuality of a red card! You lot make me laugh, how could you presume to judge this book by its cover when you only glanced at its prologue! I scoff at your naiveté! (Ha ha ha ha ha!) All along I’ve been keeping in touch with The King, of course I did! Not only that, but I now know all about your fiendish scheme, you blabbermouth! Have you never seen a James Bond movie?? And now your time had come to meet your maker, bow down before the Power Of Street Knowledge -Bring it on, Eric!"
The aboveabused thugs, belatedly realising who they were in the presence of, scuttled about in a panic. The air turned a deeper shade of blue with curses ringing round (Curse! Curse!) then they remembered they had a gun. They pointed their gun at Cantona. Alas -for them, that is- King Eric availed himself of a red-and-white can of sugary cola lying in the dirt and booted it with great vengeance towards the stained glass panel towering above those below. "CRRRRASH" went the erstwhile one-piece, "CLLLLINK" went the multiple pieces of glass showering down on the ill-begotters.
Oh but it was mayhem all round -Sodom and Begorrah! His face bleeding through every pore, the second sadist charged towards the Frenchman who stopped him dead in his tracks with a mighty kick that hadn't lost the skill of propelling a round object (in the present case, a human head) at furious speed in the opposite direction. The King didn’t even need to indulge in a spot of karate.
"Cripes, we've been rumbled!" eructed the roughneck as he found himself sampling a taste of his own medicine. "Is this it?" It was.
Keane, meanwhile, did away with the other plotter. (After naturally untying himself no bother, dusting himself off and getting a jump on his unsuspecting tormentor.)
"You're nicked, sunshine! I went for the balls -I think. Take that, ya c"
The buffoon now lay in a moaning heap.
But Cantona was not finished:
"So you’re already dead eh? You disteurb me from my reading of Desproges and Barthes and you’re already lying on the fleur? What a rip-eurff!" His raven black locks trailing behind him in a cloud of Eau De Sterone, the Frenchman advanced in his Mexican boots and carefully ripped Paco Rabane leather coat, looking for someone to kick but no-one was up for a fight. How disappeurnting.
Keane stretched his aching bones, cast his mental chains aside, and extended the international hand of friendship:
"Ah there you are you soft lad, you nearly got me waiting you know?"
"I know" replied Eric "…I had to take an English train."
"Ouch. Ah well then, in that case..." Keane and Cantona exchanged a manly forehead bump (Bump!). "How ‘you been keeping, big man?"
"Ah not too bad not too bad, can’t complain, and you romantic Fenian?"
"Eh, could be better... then again, could be worse. Nearly got killed today, got locked in the toilet, and had to share a flight with a hen-party but... can't complain no, mustn’t grumble y’know? Money in the bank like, three points lead over Chelsea, sun shining instead of rain pissing -life's not too bad all things considered. Which reminds me. I've got the Taoiseach to save still. He's gonna get murdered shortly."
"May I seurggest that you make haste then? My tailor is rich, but my uncle's garden is not as spacious as my aunt's cooking area."
"Er... right-so."
"That is to say, roll the dice while it's still heurt Irishman, or else two beurds slipping through your hands won't provide you with a nutritious meal on special eurffeur at Les Trois Gros in Lyon, geddit?"
"Why of course, by Begorrah you’re right Eric! I’d better hurry the feck up like, otherwise it'll be too late!"
"Speurt-on my friend, good call! Off you go then, make like the wind! As for me and since I'm here, hmmm... I might as well gueu and try to decipher The Book Of Kells –‘always looked to me like it was heulding a secret message. Maybe Cuchulain -son of god Lug- wasn’t born on Christmas Day? Maybe B.e.r.t.i.e. x3 spelt the number of the Beast? The truth is out there, waiting to be uncovered. ...Then I suppose I’ll jeuin the Travelleurs feur a bit of bare kneuckle fighting to keep me fit like."
"Gas! Sounds like a plan! Thanks again Eric, you saved my bacon right here."
"I certainly did, Roy. Once again. But let's neut harp on about it for seuch is life... Friends on one side, feurcking skeumbags on the other. No preurblem, mate."
And Roy exited the crime scene, never to return. Time was short, and it was running out! Left to stand guard over the two inanimate bodies, the Frenchman bent down and picked a flower just in time before it got carried to the gutter by the blood stream. He stuck it in his buttonhole. There. Bieurtiful.
Whereto
From Here?
As for now he needed to get to the National Library pronto: the clock was ticking down what with the future having this annoying habit of getting ever closer.
Right then... the National Library.
To be fair, it had been some time since he last went. Was it for his first communion? the Wilde centenary? Or was it for that series of lectures on miserable old sod Patrick Kavanagh organised by the lovely Avice-Claire? Huh, ‘probably went there to research his genealogical tree or photocopy photos of leprechauns for his American cousins (this type of request was not unheard of at the National Library). Time flies, it really does.
‘Problem is, Roy couldn't place it anymore: where the feck was the bleeding Temple Of Culture again? Left? Right? Shake it all about?
Ach, fiddlesticks, poppycock and synthetic cocoa! Fecked if he knew! Roy knew it was in the area, should he retrace his steps, go around that yoke past your man or... -Hang on (suddenly remembered he) hadn’t the scumbag mentioned it was right behind him, well then... Roy turned round. Vistas opened to new perspectives, angles popped up on his 360 degrees and he couldn't tell which one from the others! Urban landscape, atomised destinies, ever redefined crossroads, one-way systems and no stopping allowed, enter at your own peril, snakes and ladders, rabbit in the headlights -confusion reigned supreme. So many streets to choose from and so little time left!
In the end, Roy took the only logical option:
"Excuse me mate, d'you know the way to the National Library?"
"Hein, quoi, qu'est-ce qu'il m’veut, l'autre? la librairie? Are you wanting to buy ze books?"
Ooooh shit.
"Xcuse me mate, the National Library? Which street?"
"Que dice? Que quieres cabron, la Biblioteca Nacional? is in Madrid, conio -ja ja ja ja!"
Oh Lord. Roy started running towards the sun. Just when the moment of truth was about to draw its final curtain, he found himself right fecking lost! Damn, that wouldn't look good on his CV would it? Fate, hold your grain of sand till I get hold of my A-Z! Roy sprinted forth -and funnily enough, away from the FAI headquarters (Abbotstown, Dublin 15)- like a bat out of hell.
He ran and ran when suddenly who did he crash into.... but Sinead herself!!!
......
Confused, Sinead certainly was. Bewildered, not less so. As the plot thickened and the screw allowed itself one more turn, things could only get worse!
Stumped for an answer to any of these questions, the BRAVE lass made it right and continued straight-on.
A group of babbling foreign kids was walking ahead. They disappeared into the car exhaust smog one by one; three, two, one –and there were none. Sinead could usually tell which country they hailed from by their clothes: t-shirts of Kurt Cobain, Bob Marley and Jim Morrison (either Italian or Spanish), Eminem (could be French), cheap Ireland replica sports jackets that read "spot the tourist, mug me" (Eastern Europeans). Fourteen year old young wans in branded sunglasses smoking? Totally Italian. As for elephants who wore shorts in all seasons and balanced teleobjectives on their NYC #1 / Florida The Sunshine State branded bellies, there was no room for doubt. (And that was even before mentioning their fanny packs.)
Using her skill and judgement, HEROIC Sinead worked out that Roy couldn't have strayed too far away. Logically, he should be around. Oh, oh, lookit, Waterford offered free Post and Delivery to the US, fair play to them... and what lovely vases too. This one would look right grand in her rasta themed study wallpapered with Indian sky charts (just make sure not to cut the stem too short otherwise the flower’ll)-Hang on, she caught herself, that’s Waterford Crystal that was! She still owed the feckers enough to cover for their deliveries over the pond for a good while yet, so no way no way was she gonna reward them with her custom! No no no no! And Sinead ground her teeth. These stratospheric high notes of hers, they were certainly starting to cost her a fortune...
Raising her COURAGEOUS head, who then did Sinead then spot rushing towards her?
That's right, Paul Delaye. The pissed-off looking English teacher was having one of his days: the teens on alcoopop under his supervision were behaving worse than a bunch of cats in a bag. Mad as hammers, they were. Their raging hormones had gone to their excitable heads and commanded them to ignore every single instruction. Cars coming from the left? Let’s run right into the road and see what happens! Need to form an elderly queue? Let’s charge forward and see what happens! No mixing rashers with ice-cream? Let’s down it in one go and see (etc.). Fortunately, Paul Delaye had managed to track down his last stray pupil and was dragging the little BASTARD back to the group (who of course hadn't waited as instructed and had gaily charged ahead into Wild West territory). As if school-trips were about chatting up amused local lassies! As if away trips involved showing off in front of your mates and indulging in shoplifting!
Thankfully the intrepid pedagogue had taken decisive action before the situation got out of control and had nipped it in the bud, turning the gas off before oil was poured on it and caught the kid lost in the rye. (And would the pizza face be grateful for his timely intervention? Huh? Would he thank him for depriving the local fuzz of a public dress-down? Would he f)
"Wait till your Ma hears about it! Is that what you're looking for? Huh? It's bad enough having your mother for head-mistress but if you insist on playing silly bugger with me let me tell you young man, it will only get worse for everyone concerned! Much worse! Let's say we make a deal, you and me: I keep my mouth shut about what’s just happened and you keep quiet for the rest of the day. Deal? Otherwise forget about me covering for you any longer -It's straight back home for you and no mistake!"
Sinead marveled at the canny operator (being able to understand French for the purpose of this chapter). Reverse psychology, emotional blackmail, plea bargaining, alleged solidarity, human understanding -all the right ingredients for efficient man-management. Ah yes, it's sometime better not to play strictly by the rules, one has to be clever, one has to show some tactical awareness… She sure liked a bit of subtlety in a man did Sinead...
-Roy Keane appeared at this point.
The
Fact Of The Matter
"OhmyGod ohmyGod ohmyGod -or my Goddess, even- what you're telling me here is terrible! It’s –like- totally not on yeah! From the National Library?!? Just what is this world coming to, Roy??”
“I know, it’s like a jungle sometime, people keep trying to push us under!”
“OK OK, I'll show you where it is right away -just don't call me pet."
"Understood. Now show me where, sugar pie."
"Why, it's right around the corner you silly Billy, where the sign says "National Library" that’ll be the place, and you know what?"
"What?"
"The longer we talk, the less time we have left to save Bertie!"
"By George Best you're right! Let's not waste another second then!"
"Let's not!"
And off our heroes went, legging it around the aforementioned corner -where a dreadful spectacle awaited them!
Meanwhile Back At The Ranch
The blood-curling shrill of the fire alarm, the joyful stampede of the children ("No running down the stairs, I said no running down the stairs!"), the librarian invasions, the confusion resulting therefrom. Freckled maidens in serigraphed aprons speeding out of their place of gainful employment, Young Sarahs grinning their teeth out, senior figures exiting with the appropriate degree of dignified slowness, wild-haired professors in their Tweed jacket, turfed-out bums rich in plastic bags and ministers learning to read –what a microcosm it was that got thrust upon the unsuspecting pavement!
Ah yes, if there was one thing you could trust the little brats to come good on, that certainly was how to cause trouble. Liam the friendly Science And Art Attendant still couldn't believe it: he had warned them, hadn't he? He had told them not to take pictures inside (that’s what the souvenirs shop is for, goddammit). Long sigh, why oh why bother... Talk to me sack and all that –except Liam the friendly Science And Art Attendant didn’t use these words, for Liam the friendly Science And Art Attendant was a polite man. Mayhem still ensued and with it, a pale horse named Death usually followed.
“Women and children first!”
“Not if I have anything to do with it! Make way, peasants, I am a subject of Her Britannic Majesty!”
“Me too mate, good’day! Push over Sheila, big man coming!”
“Pardon me, is this the way to the toilet? Why’s everyone going?”
“How peculiar, I seem to have heard a huge noise, are we under attack or something?”
“Hey Mister, ‘think I’ve left my wallet behind, I had five hundred in it! Who’s gonna pay for it now?”
“Not now James, we're busy!”
“Fire, fire! I swear I saw a great ball of fire and maybe some men with beards yeah –Can I get on the nine o’clock news now?”
Yes, we were in for another spot of verbal diarrhoea.
Bus drivers only answer to God and Heaven forbid if you find yourself crossing the road in front, Gardai check their text messages on the sly ("DONt forgt by BttR SOSAGES mlk"), The Edge wears a woolly hat to hide his receded hairline, amour amour, where did our love go, Man United need Glazier like you need a bullet in your head, Yeats's very own Heloise had "less than perfect hands", helicopters hover above the scene of the disaster (as is only logical), my Six Pairs Of Inverted Commas is bouncing up and down the tarmac in her Converse trainers, money doesn't grow on trees you know, traffic is diverted half-way to Sligo and the toll bridge is a rip-off, 15.32 the motorcade turns the corner of McElm Street, stunned Japanese tourists lose the power of photo-taking, Paul Delaye promises himself never to take his pupils on a culshural trip ever again and this time for real, it will take more than a poxy fire alarm slash terrorist attack to dissuade the staff of the Alliance Française next door from lighting up on the front steps hell no, pretty girls make graves, Free Leonard Peltier, babies cry and every parent gives in to panic, there is a guy down the chippie ‘thinks he's Elvis Costello, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions but what about the other way round, 15.33 the front car hovers into view and men in uniform feel manly
-and amidst all the chaos, the confusion, the copacetic cataclysm and clashing calls, the mad feck-headlessness of it all, NLI attendants impeccably attended to the baffled visitors, leading them to safety in an orderly fashion. Give or take that N**l fellow that is. N**l had previously been an air steward, and he went for the tried-and-tested approach of "And now let me show you how to exit the plane -Goodbye!": exit the cheeky scamp, close bracket.
As Roy and Sinead sprinted around the corner -him smarting from his recent skirmish, her panting from her lack of physical exercise these last few days-, chaos was there for all to see.
Evacuees in floods of tears were seen hugging their most attractive neighbours as if they were Americans or Reality Shows participants, teenagers were taking phone photos of each other proudly posing in front of the presumed blaze that –to be perfectly honest widcha- took its bleeding time to actually get started yeah, Buswell's opposite had opened its doors to the refugees and was going as far as to offer a five percent reduction on his mussel-and-butter soupe du jour –in a word it was mayhem. The situation was so bad that it had traffic halted all the way to Lara’s Suntan Saloon. Oh the local phone-ins would have a field day with irate commuters, you were never going to hear the end of it...
Meanwhile on the other side and utterly unaware of the tragedy in the making, the Oriental delegation was making its way towards its intended goal. With every roll of the tyre, every piston thrust, the visiting dignitaries were getting closer ...closer to the Man Of The Moment that is: closer to the assassin! From the corner of their eyes (if only they had the gift of seeing through street corner walls, not an unenviable skill to possess to be sure) Roy and Sinead could almost discern the black diplomatic Trabants with their red flags approaching Bertie-The-Man-Himself's official residence, they could almost make out the naturally inscrutable profiles of their occupants (except that, as previously stated, this was technically impossible).
Masking the diplomatic ballet from our heroes’ view was the throng of the displaced, spilling onto the road in a manner not prescribed by the Highway Code. The flux of the escapees spread out, squealing and whooping (“Free, I’m free! Look at me, Ma!”), and the Guards lost no time in clearing the path for Our Visitors From The Far East, playfully making good with their truncheon: "Away, away I said, yous arty-farty four-eyed bin-label thieving hipsters off me erse! This ain’t a place for you lot –This is proper diplomatic business like! Make way for Our Visitors From The Far East yeah! Off yous go, off! off! off! Yous keep the road clear now yous hear! What was that, you have something to say sunny Jim?" (Insert egg crack sound-effect here.) Camera crews -one of them from TV3, home of husky Jo-Anne Cantwell on "Sports Results" at eleven- were not missing a beat of the action, recording it for posterity and (ruefully remarked to himself Roy) in serious danger of nabbing themselves an unexpected massive scoop for their trouble. Oh it was pandemonium alright, it was a bloody mess: apoplectic secret agents running with one hand on the motorcade, flat-capped Gardai enthusiastically batoning back the heaving crowd of them dangerous scholars in leather-elbowed cardigans, carefree scamps in short trousers having a blast as little pests are wont to, English teacher Paul Delaye gathering his flock, Liam the friendly Science And Art Attendant returning satchels and backpacks to their rightful owners and in their midst -in the mist of it all- Roy and Sinead painstakingly elbowing their way through Celtic Renaissance romantics and Wilde wannabes –sadly to little success.
Pegged back they were, totally unable to progress!
With all the commotion, it was easy to understand how no-one was paying attention to the top floor of the National Library where a sinister figure was busy assembling assorted tubes of metal concealed about his -or her...- person into a high-velocity precision firearm.
Roy and Sinead were doing their best to pierce the mêlée and get to the other side. Effing and blinding, huffing and puffing, they eventually pushed through, only to be stopped by a Guard:
“Hold it there! Nobody beyond this point at this moment in time. These are my orders."
“Yep, sure, but look, this is important! There's someone inside the Library 's about to"
“Like I said, no-one goes past beyond this present line and I am the line here, geddit?"
“Ah sure officer, and you make a fine one to be sure, but you don't understand though, we need to get to the Library, something terrible's going to happen -we need to stop it!"
“Right-so, Sir. Your objection has been duly noted and will be taken into consideration as and of when. Now as I saiiid, nobody past this point, my orders and that’s the end of it. Them’s the rules. I don't care if you're the deadliest footballer of this generation (after Zidane naturally), you ain't getting past and that's final."
“Lord give me strength! Look here my good man, under normal circumstances I’d totally understand, but we're talking definite and identified security risk here: someone's gonna try to assassinate Bertie for crying out loud! Yes, you heard me right: try to assassinate Bertie!?!? I happen to know there’s a guy in the Library, he’s preparing to take a shot at our highly respected Taoiseach –Doesn’t that mean anything to you??"
“Tut tut tut! Keep talking Corkman, like I’ll listen to you yeah! This present officer told you to move back repeatedly and you are blatantly ignoring –nay, disregarding- his direct orders to comply. Should you continue to do so Sir, you will give me no other alternative but to formally issue you with a breach of the peace warning. This represents a clear abuse of Police Respect Act article 3, alinea 1, now how would you like that ...ya runaway rag?"
Sinead saw the veins on Keane's forehead starting to throb -She butted in.
“Look officer, we totally understand your position, you're absolutely right here, rules and regulations eh, can't do without, not in a civilised society where would we be without them, wouldn’t dream of it meself oh no, ‘problem is, what we're saying, this is an emergency. An emergency. There is -please mark my words- there is a HITMAN inside the Library, a HITMAN who's about to try to KILL the Taoiseach. A KILLER. Yes…? ........ Officer? Did you hear what I said?"
“Ma'am, this present officer has now been made aware of an allegation relating to a possible offence. I have been speaking to a man and a woman in their thirties; it is understood that these two individuals –which include yourself- have made an allegation of the most serious nature. This has been taken in confidence, on board and at face value by this officer. I shall personally look into the circumstances surrounding this volunteered statement ASAP and will reflect on them in due course. In the meantime, I will advise you to keep your distance and your purdy mouth shut or else I will issue you –and you- with a Breach Of The Peace warning. Should you persevere in your refusal to comply, I shall direct you to my direct superiors and you don’t want that -You don't fancy spending a few hours in a van under the hot sun do you? Right-so. I shall therefore ask you presently to observe my clear and direct order as per your unshaved companion. Yous heard me both, this is the last time I am telling yous."
This was clearly too much for Roy and, with a nimble drop of the shoulder borne out of his long footballing experience, he barged past the uniformed gobshite. Throwing caution to the wind, your man sprinted towards the Library’s gaping front door. With not a care in the world, he ran like the wind: twenty more meters to go, then fifteen, ten, five... oh it was beautiful. Only remaining between him and the dastardly devil were the sas-like door, ticket turnstile, and spiral staircase (the painful scourge of many a high heel, some were reliably informed). Alas! Just as Roy finally reached the gilded swan head with butterfly wings corrugated iron gate, two rugby type coppers burst out of nowhere, tackling the heroic Corkman and wrestling him to the ground: cccckkkrrRRRASH!!!
"And where 'you think you're going? You're nicked, sunshine!" snarled the sodding scene stealers.
The situation was not critical, it was getting desperate.
Left behind in the madding crowd, Sinead spotted to her horror the official vehicles making their way towards the Big Man’s residence. The Trabies came to a rest at the steps of Leinster House in an exhaust fart and their running escort collapsed in a puddle of sweat (“About fecking time too, I’m telling you Fergus, I’m getting too old for this!”). By Saint John-Paul II, she be damned! In a second or two Bertie In Person would appear at the top of the stairs to welcome his guest –and present a clean target to the ruffian rifleman! Anything could happen -and was probably about to!
Sinead frowned, took her exquisite chin into her lovely hand. She thought hard. Now then, Leinster House’s stairs were only stairs by name; there was no more than a couple of them. So, in order to get a good view of the target, the sniper would have to be situated... in a substantially elevated position.
Sinead cocked her gorgeous head to one side and scanned the row of openings on the top floor: there! Would you believe it, she thought she could see him! A surely sinister -but otherwise definitely discreet- figure had propped itself against the large stained window adorning the corner of the adjoining building. The silhouette leaned against the panel out of which some sort of tube protruded. Sinead gasped: surely this was no time to conjure up facile phallic similes! (For a long one, it certainly was a long one...) Why, of course! It had to be! She concluded that that yoke must be a gun -and to be sure it was! (A gun, that is.) A gun which your man was about to shoot! Shoot at her Prime Minister!! In defiance of all known laws that forbid to shoot other human beings in times of peace!!! (Genuine or American defined!!!!) There was no second to spare and yet -yet- she couldn't see how she could possibly act to prevent the atrocious act about to take place any second now at this agonising juncture only aggravated by the etc. etc. etc..
Sinead grabbed another Guard’s arm:
"Look, look, there's a sharp-shooter up there! He's gonna shoot Bertie, you've got to intervene!"
But the roar of the crowd, the sirens overhead, the free-for-all involving an incredulous Keano and a giddy gaggle of grudgeful Guards going for his groin, the sudden explosion of the national anthem on the P.A. and the whack in her face administered by the startled uniform (A woman had touched him! He would need five sick days!), all conspired to a severe case of No Can Do. Feck!!
The familiar avuncular figure of the Taoiseach appeared in the distance, crown of milky white hair and all (suit by Giuseppe Penneys, shoes by Ricardo). The big man raised his right hand and extended it generously towards his visitor. Up there in his death post, the hit-man took a deep breath and prepared to Pull The Trigger.
Was this the end?
Was Bertie doomed?
Had our heroes messed up big time?
Inspiration suddenly came to Sinead, not something that had happened to her since –oh- "The Lion And The Cobra", nasty people would contend. Nursing her bruised yet still enchanting cheekbone, she focussed on the sinister figure at the window. She took a deep breath and.................................. unleashed her primal scream.
“WWWWWWWUUUAAAAAARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!”
What da?? Everyone stopped in their track like mid-morning shoppers chancing upon one of The LadyBoys Of Bangkok dropping by to get some Rizlas. Jaws dropped to the floor and ears started to bleed, it was pure mule.
Still Sinead persevered. “AAAAAAAAOOOORGGGKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!” Sinead folded in on herself and gathered her thoughts, summoned up all of her childhood and showbiz memories. She short-circuited her synapses and sensitised her vocal cords.
Years of pent-up tension were recalled, exploitative tour managers and inconsiderate journalists, “The Sun”, corrupt politicians, lynch-mobs, strike scabs, bananas gone black, alcohol-free beer, chips with no salt n vinegar, Margaret Thatcher, Oasis. That sorry bunch fed her rage and she gathered all her pain and anguish into a knot of burning energy. She let it rip.
"Attica Attica for I am the Light and the Resurrection! Me ves y sufres! No pasaran attaboy! Go down the river Moses, qui ne saute pas n'est pas Lyonnais! Morituri te salutant, I wanna search, search and Destroy!! (BRRRreeeuuUUAARRRR)"
The voice soared, it rose from the depths of her tortured soul and reached up to the forgiving ether of high heaven. It tore up the fabric of the sky and drew a line of fire. It shredded ear-drums and liquefied clouds found wandering in its path.
The Ultimate Note raised an eyebrow, roused from its beatific slumber. It floated down to the divine demented Dubliner diva (“AAAARGGKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!! KeuPEUKKKK!!”); it lent her an ear and heard that it was good (“BBBeeeUUUUUWWW, cllllAAAAKKK!!”).
Back in the Kildare Street repository of culshure, something happened. A crack appeared, lizarding through the window. “AAAARGKKKKKKKKK!!!!” Gravity ruled, physics decided: the window gave way under the weight of the sniper -and burst! The man, understandably losing balance in the process, fell head -and gun- first to the ground, five stories below. The rifle made a soft "spleesh" sound as it entered the man’s thorax via its butt, rearranging his internal organs in a way that certainly didn't look too promising as far as his prognostic was concerned (nobody knew the difference between “diagnostic” and “prognostic” anymore).
As the trigger encountered the pelvis bone, the rifle detonated, blasting the man's face off. Ouch.
"Sodom and Begorrah! Bygob you were right!"
The Guards halted their punches half-way through and ran towards the villain whom they shot to shit to make sure. The almost-killer twitched on the tarmac, life spraying out of him in orgasmic spasms of blood.
As he lay dying, the unidentifiable rascal croaked:
"Aw aw aw, hurts so much, iss not funny… well I guess it’s my turn now… Although to be fair, it's been quite a run eh, I’ve had a good innings, so have I.
Still -‘tell you what, son- as I lay dying and face my final curtain, I want to come clean, me, I need to tell you, iss important:"
But no word got recorded! No word got taken down for posterity! As if he didn't have time to spill the beans or... as if he had been censored!?!
Censored you say ...but by which devilish power??
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