Ffumpf

So there you are, Oul Lad.

Moloney had woken up in the attic; he was tied to a wooden chair, one of those usually situated downstairs in the front room.  It was dark but he could see across from him another sitting figure, that raised corpse he had come for.

Yep, I can call you Oul Lad now can’t I without fear of a smack.  Jesus, what a smack it was I gave you, wasn’t it?  Woo-wee!  Ffumpf!  That’s what it sounded like when the hoe cracked into your skull in case you were wondering.  A big Ffumpf.  Like hacking into an oul turnip.  I got a fair clip by one of those clowns below, you’ll be glad to know, back of my head stings like a fucker.

A flash of lightning above the roof and the windowglass clattered.  The room lit up and the face became more visible.  It didn’t much look like the Oul Lad Moloney remembered or any man he could remember, all chewed up with rot and expressionless, not quite human, not quite. 

Jesus, you’re not looking good at all.  But understandable I’d say from being in that dark dank ground so long with the grubs and crawlies.  You couldn’t stay under could ye?  Wasn’t good enough for you, eh?  What the bloody hell is this shelf we’re on anyway?  Nasty rafter-room.  This is where all the shagging went on I bet.  All the cinemagoers probably know it well.  Sorry for talking of the sexual matters in front of you I know you had issues with the subject yourself cock gash and hairy balls and asscrack but don’t we live only once to say and experience these things and if you can’t share with family who can you share with at all isn’t that right, prick-pulling pussface.  We live only once.  You know.  I never grew into my slacks to ask you, and by the time I did I’d already cut you down, but what in the hell did you have against her?  Apart from all the light she put to your pitch-blackness.  Did she ever harm you once in all her lifetime?      

The room lit up again as electric flashes struck the house and blue-white gleams sliced in and across the blank lifeless face of the bog body.

I’m good if you must know but the business is not.  The farm’s a mess.  What livestock is left is meagre and not worth half a farthing collected.  And soon they’ll be wanting no more peat to burn in the country if the woolly mulligans get their way.  Oh, not now.  Not today or even next year.  But soon, yes.  It’s a whimper only some of us can hear in the present but eventually you’ll hear them roaring louder than that thunder.  So your farm has no life in it, Oul Lad.  And no wife in it either.  Not since the one you had and battered and shamed and wasted.  There’s waste in the blood, eh.  Ffumpf.  Ffumpf.  Ffumpf.  I painted the barn by the way you might also be glad to know.  Red as the blood that came out of your head.  Like the ones in America.  And I fixed the paddock gates you were always giving out about.  Put in a new one.  But it’s starting to give way now too.  Everything’s giving way it would seem and I thought you’d like to know.   FFUMPF.  FFUMPF.  Ffumpf.  Ffumpf.  Sorry.  Sorry?  Am I sorry for what I done?  Not on your noggin, your split noggin, not even on your spilt nuggets.  You had it coming all your life.  But.  I will say I am sorry for the crime of it.  The worldly violation.  I doubt the world cares about it --in fact I know-- because there was no knock on the door, not a single enquiry made, but I know the Oul Lass would find the whole transgression distasteful.  It’s well for her she never lived to see her son a murderer.  A no good wifeless feckless pig-shooting menace.  And more’ll be shot before the night, the year, the end.  If I’ve to put the whole country right I....ffumpf.