Billy Five Donkeys and The Red Fandango

Billy Five Donkeys scuttled along the passageway of his old Victorian villa. In the kitchen Bella number one donkey, thumped her hooves upon the battered kitchen table.

An African blue parrot now hosting the spirit of Billy’s Father, squawked parental advice from its cage.

“Take the gun Bill! Take the gun!”

The early morning found Billy in his underpants and two mismatched fetid socks. He scuttled down the dark hallway, holding a half-eaten bacon sandwich. The stained glass reveals of a Victorian door, cast amber light over his worn out torso.

He peered out to the other side.

Bill recognized the two large shapes instantly. He hurriedly found a home for the bacon sandwich in the waistband of his underpants. A second violent sequence of knocks rattled the door in its frame. Billy jolted upright, as if he were called to attention by a drill sergeant.

The bacon sandwich dislodged and slithered down. It came to a halt between his buttocks. He grimaced and answered the door in a huff.

Derek Eats Dogs and Gay Otis grinned back at him.

Derek Eats Dogs blasted past Billy as if he owned the place; he neither knew nor understood any other way. Otis, a mahogany coloured Grenadian, sported a large blonde beehive wig. He wore a tastefully cut red velvet dress, with matching boots and handbag. The handbag contained a gold plated meat cleaver.

It was widely accepted that Derek Eats Dogs was, ‘of the buttock’. However it was never wise to pass comment humorous or otherwise, about Derek’s leaning. For it would only ever result in an afternoon of plastic surgery with Otis.

Bella rose to greet the two apparitions as they entered the kitchen. She said in a low sultry west donkey accent.
“I’ll be back at the stable Billy, nice to see you Derek. You too Otis, nice dress!”

“Droppa scotch in yer tea Derek?”

“Very kind Billy my son, very kind”

Harry the parrot remained silent, his golden eyes anxiously watching his son and the two men settling down in the kitchen.

They shared a lupine silence. Billy anxious to please pressed on.

“Otis I have tea, coffee, scotch or ginger beer?”

Billy immediately realized he had dropped a clanger. As far as Otis was concerned, ginger beer referred to his gender. A slap with the meat cleaver could not be ruled out.

“Coffee” said Otis and after a petrifying beat in time, the silence descended again.

Billy felt Derek’s eyes boring into his back.

“Bill I’ve got to ask, what’s in yer underpants mate?”

“Me bacon sandwich Derek, want one?”

“Na fink I’ll pass Bill, don’t look too comfortable that!”

Bill felt as if an alligator sat behind him, waiting to strike.

Fortunately for now, Billy was of use to Derek.

Billy placed the huge mug of tea on the table. With his other hand he served Otis a cup of black coffee. He used his mother’s best bone china cup and saucer. The bottle of scotch followed, Derek Eats Dogs growled appreciation.

“First fings first Bill, I’ve got a lorry load of Alcan foil, two dozen Samsung tellys, nine hundred weight of smoked haddock and twenty eight rolls of Worsted wool. Any of that interest ya?”

“Derek mate you do look after me! Jewish Billy in Golders Green will ’ave the wool, loves a bit of clobber that boy. I’ll ‘ave the TV’s. The rest I’ll 'ave to work on.

“Next!” roared Derek indicating the serious business had now begun. Billy and Otis bounced upright like terrified pupils. Harry the parrot fell, spooked from his perch onto his back. Claws curled in the air he squawked desperately, “For fucks sake Derek!”

Derek Eats Dogs leaned forward to conspire,

“I’ve got a large red fandango!” he cried

lifting his pink rimmed spectacles up from his nose. He let them fall back under their own weight. Then with outstretched palms exclaimed,

“Shazam!”

“Oh bouffant Derek, bouffant!” cried Otis, gleefully appreciating Derek’s theatrical delivery.

Otis and Derek sat quite still, their hyenic stares willing Billy to join in.

Billy Five Donkeys shot a shaking comedy finger across the table, bullied into the grim sketch.

“How big is your red fandango?” cried Billy, a foil against two sabres.

“We’ve cut off the head and it should fit into a family saloon or hatchback Bill.”

“I can leave this in your capable hands I trust?”

“Derek, I am your ‘umble servant.”

“Bless your little eek Billy!”

*****

He gripped upon the carpet tack, causing its razor sharp point to bite into his palm.

The pain brought him back from the other side.

The front parlour fire had died down, leaving the room uncomfortably cold.

He looked toward his feet, the dust around them not so neat.

A shuffle to the window shook the cigarette ash from his dressing gown.

He pulled the curtain aside.

A neighbour gardened. The postman cycled by, no mail for Billy today.

Just cats and dogs and children’s gangs, he dropped the curtain with his head.

Then stood silent, manacled.

“Not today!” hollered Billy Five Donkeys.

More coal on the fire, now burning bright, he sat and closed his eyes again.

He repositioned the carpet tack.

Laughter pealed out from the kitchen, donkeys clip clopped on the floor.

The parrot squawked. “It’s bollocks Bill!”

Billy returned, to the side he loved best.

© Stephen Pullman 2011