Owl And Pussycat Go Bananas Again

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

It was a lazy summer morning in Hog's Bottom, and Owl and Pussycat had the day in its blissful entirety to themselves. The children had gone on a school trip on the magic bus to a popular seaside resort called Blunderland in Apathy, Dullsville's southernmost county, and they wouldn't be back until late evening. Pussycat had granted himself a day off from door to door trombone selling, which was starting to get him down because he wasn't making a fat lot of money. He made enough to get by on, but, he mused, it would be awfully lovely to be rich.

“I wanna be a fat cat, Susan,” he said as he leaned over in his deckchair to flick a beetle into the garden pond, which was gobbled up as soon as it hit the water by a huge red and white Koi carp called Helen – Pussycat had given names to all of his fish. “I wanna be filthy rich.”

“You are a fat cat, Eugene,” Owl said idly, sitting up on her lie-low and rolling a joint. “It's be lovely to be wealthy, wouldn't it, not having to worry if we have enough money for a few treats after we've paid the bills. You have to be thankful, though. We have things that money can't buy, we've got our health, we've got a nice house and three lovely kids. And, of course, we have each other.”

“True,” Pussycat said, eyeing another wandering beetle trundling his way, this one a curious shining green. For reasons that he was too snug and somnolent to even try to determine the beetle was wearing bright yellow six legged flares and pink star shaped sunglasses, but he flicked it into the water nevertheless and it was quickly snapped up by Brian, a chunky blue and orange Shubunkin. “And I thank God for all those things every day, but I'd still love to be rich. I wish I hadn't flicked that beetle in now, it was kind of special looking, but it's too late now, Brian has swallowed it.”

“Well we're not rich, and that's that. You're a not particularly successful purveyor of fine musical instruments and I'm a part time cleaner at the big house by the river, which isn't exactly the pleasantest job in the world, but the extra money helps to pay the bills.”

“I don't like you working for those toffee nosed snobs at the big house behind the ocelot stretching factory,” Pussycat mumbled, sucking ice cold lemonade through a straw. “It wasn't so bad when Mr and Mrs Chaffinch lived there, they were nice enough, but that extreme sports loving Water buffalo couple who own it now are a right pair of arse-holes, and they treat their staff like shit, or so I've heard, though you rarely complain. Anyway, a woman's place is in the home, not looking after someone else's house.”

“Oh, shut up, you fat misogynistic twat!”

“And I don't like you smoking that hallucinogenic fungus, Susan, Dead Man's Elbow or whatever it's bloody called. How many joints is that you've smoked today?”

“This is my third one,” Owl replied. “And it's Dead Man's Fist, not Dead Man's Elbow, how many times do I have to tell you, you galumphing great donkey? Oh, they stretch designer hats for posh people in that factory, not bloody ocelots, I must have told you that a dozen times.”

“I can't help my little recollection blunders,” Pussycat said. “My mum dropped me-”

“I know, your mum dropped you on your noggin when you were a kitten, causing occasional memory lapses - I'm sorry for snapping at you, Eugene. Anyway, this morning I laced your lemonade with a powerful infusion of ripe Dead Man's Fist spawn capsules, which is the most psychoactive part of the fungus. I've had a handful of spawn capsules soaking in vodka for three months to extract the essential oils, so it'll blow your socks off before much longer. I'm sorry, honey-bunch, but you know I don't like getting high on my lonesome.....”

“Oh God, no,” Pussycat groaned as his socks shot off at great speed and landed high in the boughs of a weeping willow at the bottom of the garden. “I thought that last beetle looked a bit funky compared to the others.”

*************************

“Whatcha mean, you want your beetle back?” Brian the Shubunkin said in a deep, raucous voice, his head sticking up out of the water. “I cannae do that, Jimmy, I swallowed the crunchy morsel whole, and he's dissolving in mae virulent stomach juices as we speak.”

“Well I want him back, you covetous Scottish dick,” Pussycat said, “so you'd better sick him up pronto. How come you're talking to me, Brian? You've never done that before, and as far as I can remember you weren't Scottish either – not noticeably, anyway.”

“That's partly 'cos you've never been this stoned before, laddie,” Brian replied. “But it's also 'cos you cannae be bothered to listen to me or even respect mae racial heritage. Can you not see mae ginger beard and fine McDoodle clan kilt and sporran? I'm Scottish through and through, Jimmy, I'm as Scottish as Scots porridge oats an' haggis biryani. Shit, you hardly ever chuck us poor fish a handful of pond pellets, you old skinflint, and you say Scottish folk are tight. Oh, by the way, mae name's Jimmy, not Brian, Jimmy.”

“C'mere, you cheeky little git,” Pussycat said, deftly hooking Brian-cum-Jimmy with his claws and dragging him onto the mossy slates surrounding the pond. “Gimme my lovely beetle back, he's special!”

“You cannae have him, he's mine!” the fish replied. “That wee beetle is all I've had to eat all week. Put me back in the water, Jimmy, please, I cannae breathe.”

“Shan't, Jimmy,” Pussycat said. “Not until you vomit up my precious beetle.”

“I cannae do that, Jimmy, I cannae stick mae fishfingers down mae throat, yodel to Rolf and Hughie in choked, broken syllables across a seemingly infinite porcelain expanse of bleached Domestos white wilderness bereft of ninety nine percent of all known germs and spew ma guts up without a seemingly infinite porcelain expanse of bleached Domestos white wilderness bereft of ninety nine percent of all known germs tae spew into - it's unhygienic an' unethical,” the fish gasped as Pussycat violently prodded his belly.

“Spew my lovely beetle up at once!” Pussycat growled, and this time the Shubunkin obeyed and coughed up the beetle, which landed on its back helplessly wriggling its legs in a pool of sticky mucous and diced carrots.

“Would you look at that, Jimmy?” the fish said. “I've nae eaten diced carrots since I went to mae wee niece's wedding in the spring of 2009.” Pussycat threw Brian-cum-Jimmy back into the pond. “See you, Jimmy,” the fish said, and then he vanished under the lilly pads.

*************************

“Why have you saved that nasty little beetle, Eugene,” Owl said, taking a long drag of her joint and looking at Pussycat with heavy lidded eyes. “Chuck the appalling thing back in for the fish, you spoilsport, it'll be one less creepy crawly infesting our lovely garden.”

“No, it's a special beetle,” Pussycat said, rescuing the tiny creature from death by vomit and carefully drying it on his shorts. “It's not like all the others.”

“Wow, thanks, dude,” the beetle said.

“You can talk too?” Pussycat said, his eyebrows almost falling off in surprise.

“Of course I can talk, man. Hey, pretty baby, that's some heavy shit you're smoking there, it smells divine. How about rolling me a nice fat joint?”

“Less of the pretty baby, that's my wife you're talking to, and I have a good mind to throw you back to Jimmy,” Pussycat said.

“I can relate with that, man, sorry about hitting on your chick, though in my opinion all property is theft.”

“And less of the chick!” Owl said. “My name is Owl. If you want a smoke you'll have to roll it yourself, because my fingers and my rizzlas are too big to roll a joint for a dinky little thing like you.”

“No hassle, chick, I mean babe, I mean Owl, I have my own special papers in a waterproof pouch in case I get flicked into ponds by giant pussycats and eaten alive by multicoloured psychedelic carp – that kind of comes with the territory I like to explore, man, you dig? My names Dylan Beetle, by the way.”

“Hello, Dylan. My name is Eugene, and this is Susan, we both dig and we're pleased to meet you.”

“Wow, man, this shit is far out!” Dylan said as he took a drag on the joint he had just rolled. “Why don't you two jump on my back and come for a ride, I know some really wild places and some unbelievably cool cats, if you get my drift.”

“We can't jump on your back, we're huge and you're tiny, so we'll squish you,” Pussycat said.

“Sure you can, man. Down the last few mouthfuls of that funky, mind-bending lemonade, then you'll see that anything and everything is possible.”

“Yeah, Eugene, then you'll shee that anything and everything is poshible,” Owl said as she finished her joint and Pussycat gulped down the last of his lemonade.

“Cool,” Pussycat mumbled as Dylan swelled to tremendous size and he and Owl climbed up his flares and sat on his shiny green back.

*************************

“Where are we going?” Pussycat groaned, eyeing the strange landscape that the beetle was unhurriedly gliding over. “I hope it's not far wherever it is, because everything looks wobbly down there and I feel a bit sick.”

“You'll be fine, man,” Dylan said. “Hold on tight, we're going down. This place is great, you'll both love it, I'm sure. Welcome to Wibbly-wobblyland, by the way.”

“That's a shilly name for a land,” Owl said, “but I love it to bitsh.”

“I'm gonna land over there by that ginormous Trifle tree,” Beetle said. “It looks like a good place to hang out. Maybe we can eat a little trifle and smoke some more dope.”

Pussycat eyed the huge tree as he jumped off Beetle's back onto the lush grass, which was an odd turquoise hue. “That tree's moving, and there's no wind,” he said. “In fact it almost looks like it's dancing.”

“My limbs are like palm trees swaying in no breeze,” the Trifle tree sang, waving its heavily laden boughs back and forth. “My body's an oasis to take from as you please.”

“The tree'sh a Shoushee and the Bansheesh fan,” Owl slurred. “Cool, man.”

“It's inviting you to eat some of its trifle,” Dylan said. “Go ahead, it won't bite you.”

“What flavour would you like, madam?” the Trifle tree said as Owl moved under the shade of its branches.

“What flavoursh have you got?” she replied.

“I have every flavour under the sun, plus every flavour under the other sun,” the tree said, “which adds up to an awful lot of flavours. Take your pick, Owl, what is your innermost desire?” Owl looked up at the twin suns, but though she saw a tiny, ridiculously bright sun swiftly orbiting an improbably big but slightly dimmer one she shrugged it off because she thought she was seeing double, as she often did when she smoked too much Dead Man's Fist.

“I'll have mint and mango with chocolate shauce,” she said, and one of the branches bent down and handed her a huge china bowl overflowing with trifle with a silver spoon sticking out of the top.

“I bet you haven't got lion and tulip flavour,” Pussycat said.

“I believe I have,” the Trifle tree said. “Would you like chocolate sauce or raspberry? Strawberry or cider and avocado? Your wish is my command.”

“I bet you haven't got wombat and wizard flavour,” Pussycat said, determined to catch the tree out.

“Two questions,” the tree replied, a mischievous smile playing across the gnarled face that Pussycat had only just noticed halfway up its ancient pitted looking trunk. “Do you like your wombat boiled, roasted or fried, and do you want regular wizard or Gandalph flavour?”

“I, erm, I think I'll just have raspberry and vanilla flavour with a teensy drop of chocolate sauce,” Pussycat said, finally admitting defeat.

“I'll have banana and decomposing road-kill with loads of toffee sauce, Mr. Trifle tree,” Dylan said. “Then we'll take a walk down the hill, sit by the river and have a little picnic.”

*************************

The river was deep and sluggish and its water was blood red and semitransparent, it looked more like red ink than blood. It was populated by shoals of tiny iridescent blue and yellow fish that darted a short distance away in response to the slightest movement and vanished altogether when an occasional bigger fish swam by. There was a silty beach with a partially buried tree trunk lying across it, the narrowest end of which draped in the bloody water, and Owl and Pussycat sat on it while Dylan scuttled around restlessly and rolled himself another joint from Owl's stash. “How are you feeling now, Pussycat?” Dylan said.

“Not so bad, I suppose,” Pussycat replied. “Well I felt OK until this supposed tree trunk started to move, then I felt a bit queasy - and I think my ring-piece fired a couple of Maltesers into my skidders when the blunt end reared up and yawned, revealing a mouthful of pointy six inch teeth, and the big, not particularly comfy old log turned out to be what I suspect is a crocodile.”

“Oh, don't worry about him,” Dylan said nonchalantly. “That's just Trousers. You were about to ask me why I call him Trousers, weren't you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I was.”

“The crocodile's real name is Clarence, but I lured a tax inspector from Dog town here a few years back, a big, ugly mongrel Dogue de Bordeaux called Rodon Tufty who was investigating me for suspected tax evasion, and Clarence ate him up as a favour. A week or so later the croc did a whopping great shit about where your feet are, and all I could find of poor old Tufty was his trousers, hence Clarence's nickname. How's it going, Trousers? These are my new friends Owl and Pussycat, they're chillin' out with me for a while.”

“Hello,” Trousers said in a deep, rather mournful voice. “Pleased to meet you, I'm sure. Are you made of meat?”

“Um, er, yes, I guesh we are,” Owl replied as she rolled herself another joint, still sitting on the crocodile's back, though Pussycat had long since sidled away. “You're not planning on gobbling ush up, I hope.”

“I think not,” Trousers said after a long pause, “I'm not terribly hungry. I had a fat Water buffalo a week or two back, a big, ugly diabolically violent thing, it kicked the shit out of me before I managed to drown it in Blood river, which explains the state of my poor, battered old head. Anyway, friends of Dylan Beetle are friends of mine, and I never eat my friends, not even in the dry season when the river almost dries up and decent meals are few and far between.”

“You like Water buffalo then, Trousers?” Pussycat enquired.

“Oh yes, they're very tasty indeed.”

“Would you like me to introduce you to a couple of rich, super fit extreme sports obsessed Water buffalo whose sleek, muscular bodies are overloaded with vitamins and brimming with meaty goodness?”

“' oo are you on about?” Owl said, almost falling of the crocodile's back. “Cor blimey, I ain't half friggin' wasted.”

“No one you know, Owl,” Pussycat replied.

“Sounds good to me,” Trousers said. “Yeah, bring 'em on. I can't face eating them right now, mind, but I'll drown them and leave them to ferment in my underwater larder for a few days until I feel peckish.”

“Could we arrange that sometime when someone not a million miles away from here isn't paying attention to our activities, Dylan?” Pussycat said. “Could we bring a couple of friends along to meet Trousers?”

“Yeah, man, no worries,” Dylan replied.