Pongo #47

Andaw

Don't think I haven't been tempted. A hundred shopping trolleys must have groaned past the window as I've been sat here and a thousand rusty voices have asked for loose change from blushing passers-by. I could have been down there like a shot and arranged the trade in seconds. There's a bottle of premium quality vodka in the freezer, a few stray cigarettes, even a little pot in my top drawer, and my bank account tells me there's more where that came from. Or something more outwardly noble perhaps. I could offer one of those stinking strays a new life. Yeah, set him up with a room, a new suit, a toothbrush for God's sake. Get him into rehab, force-feed him oxtail soup, get antibiotics to cure the clap he's scratching with. A job ' I could get him a moron job down the local grocer's, joke that I only hang out with him for the staff discount, spray away his fleas, burn his ragged tracksuit, make him tea. All this in exchange for you sitting in a chair, slapping this soft plastic thing on your belly and clicking OK. Whaddya say?

The mumbled thanksthangyerSirblessyer. The first bath, the clipping of the toenails. And you're sure this all I have to do? Oh LorblessyerthangyerthangyereversamuchSir. I sit down here, do I?

The rolling up of the jumper. The expanse of newly cleaned flesh, track-marked or criss-crossed with the scars of old fights. I've done my research. Of all the varieties, stomach seems the most tolerable to me, and that's where I'd slap it. Now he's all scrubbed up, he doesn't look very different to me. He smiles and sups his hot chocolate as I unfold the pastry-thin substance and spread it tenderly across his navel.

But that hasn't happened. The login page is complete in front of me and beneath my nickname, a knowing line of stars completes my password. On my lap, a tissue paper bundle practically purrs.

I wonder, I think, as I lift out the contents and smooth the edges down onto my stretched excuse for a belly. Oh Christ, something clawed me. Something gripped onto me, I swear it. I swallow back down a fizzy ball of sick.

I wonder if after this is done, I get free licence to piss the world off with carpe diem crap, get free abseiling sponsorship from shrewd mountaineering merchandisers, wear garish bumbags and flaking neon baseball caps and still be welcomed at charity balls. Wonder if I can crack gags about chemo and polite people will laugh, making the Jew/Holocaust joke allowance for me, or the black man/slavery joke allowance, or the big tits/big tits joke allowance. Wonder if I'll the chance to meet Santa in Lapland, a nurse gurning under the weight of my oxygen tank as I perch on his lap.

The mask makes me shiver; this giant verruca, pinkgrey pocked with charcoal spores dances my gut as I turn back to the screen. If nothing else, I better fucking get to go swimming with dolphins.

Casenotes

(Extract from Zoom Magazine found alongside samples of subject's handwriting)

GILLIGAN NOT ILL AGAIN!

Maren Gilligan, quizzed by reporters yesterday at the premiere of her latest comedy "Yes To All, denied for the first time rumours that she was suffering from cancer of the stomach. Ms Gilligan, looking radiant in damson Giicca tulle, denied also that the whole affair had been a publicity stunt, and claimed that at the time many of the photos were taken, she had been visiting an ill friend at the St Merna's Hospital.
When asked about the accusations, the actress replied "I would never deliberately deceive my fans, especially not in connection with such a serious illness. I have been connected with medical charities for many years now and regularly try to support their work in raising awareness of cancer, so I would have to be rather two-faced to exploit the agony of genuine sufferers by faking symptoms for publicity. In the photograph mentioned, I was holding my stomach because I had severe indigestion accentuated by temporarily increased stress levels.

As to whether these increased stress levels were due to a certain stalker, Maren remained tight-lipped, commenting only that the individual was " obviously sick, disturbed and in need of psychiatric help, not column inches.

"Yes To All is out on Monday at cinemas nationwide.

Dr N. Quellar M.D.

Here, if you will observe, the subject has written extensive margin notes in red ink, mainly accusing the idol of being a "LIARBITCH. We have reason to believe this reaction supports the theory of sickness acquisition for the purposes of mimickry. We also have reason to believe that the subject, as well as being hungry, desperate and lonely, is probably extremely confused and angry at this point.

What we do not know is the effect this news will have had on her idolmorphic state. There is now an unmistakeable difference between her and her chosen idol that cannot be altered by different clothing. It is now of paramount importance that we find her and then perhaps we shall learn the truth.