| The tame east. The dust swelled up under the carts of the village. Climbing higher and curling down again, back to the ground where it lay before the disruption of the rusty wheels. The inhabitants of the wooden town sat around, immersed in gloom. Ronseals woodstain hadn�t reached them yet. It was Pennyville, frontier town of the tame east. Nothing much happens unless you make it, Pennyville was nothing much and made out of iron. Rugged, roving travellers passed through this town, shepherding milkfloats from west to east. Making the dangerous journey across the Prairie and past a little house. They were milk boys. �Ye-har�ing on their Hondas and lasooing stray pints. They were wild, and sometimes not home by tea time. Out of the saloon was kicked a man with no teeth and no dentist. The dust perishing his back as the midday sun beats down on him. He crawls in a heap, protecting himself from the termites that follow. Meanwhile in Swindon a little man crawls below a dark shelf, amongst the shadows in his shed. His name is Alf, so we shall call him Terry. Alf is known as Terry for three reasons. 1 - no one knows his name, even himself. 2- He�s an alien in disguise 3- Porkchops are unhealthy pigs. Thought I�d clear that up. So, Jeff was looking under this shelf in Swindon. Below it was a bucket of crap. It was called a bucket of crap for 5 reasons 1- Swindon 2-Bristol 3- London 4- Edinburgh 5 -30 miles north of east Wales. �What are you talking about?� comes a voice from beyond the page. �I�m talking about 30 words a minute�. I reply to the mysterious voice. Terry was looking at this bucket of feet, often wondering about time travel. Does it take a bus or walk? How would it fair in a marathon and how long would it take to travel 30 seconds, considering wind resistance. Alf was a weird kind of guy, often devoting time and pleasure to such matters as sleeping and being awake. If time was to travel to 30 miles away from north Wales, without a stick, then how many coconuts will it fit into 90 tonnes of Bounty? �I�m taking over this chapter� says the mysterious voice �you�re talking shit�. �No. I�m on about 3 kilos of lettuce. Why are hot cross buns always so angry?� replies the author, pissed off with the imminent seizure of the chapter to some enemy force. You may take my page but you will never take my money�. �We�ll take the lot� says the greedy publishing firm, about to substitute me for another writer of a slightly higher calibre. I�ve been told my replacement has a stunning track record of 14 consecutive best sellers. Yes! 14 copies of books sold! How I hope to emulate his success. I�ve gotto shift now. It�s been nice writing for you. Derek- it�s over to you. �Hi - I�m the new writer of this chapter Derek, but everyone calls me Paul. This is to save confusion at bus stops. You know when all those vegetables get off at the stops, pretending to be sandwiches, sliding between pieces of bread to save having to pay the bus fare, well most of them are called Paul; I call myself that name just so I get dry cleaned sheets and a job at a sandwich bar selling sugar puffs� �Stop, stop� yells the narrative observer. �Next you�ll be wanting to be an onion. My God....this bullshit disease is spreading. That Campbell chap is polluting my mind with creosote. Soon all the back up writers will be intoxicated, what shall I do? Page suspended. We�re sorry about the inconvenience to your reading pleasure, you can paste a more, worthwhile cutting over the space provided.� OUT OF ORDER After a neat course of medication I think I am able to continue with this chapter. It has taken a while to get through �bullshit writing� rehab but I think I�m ready, so long as I take it one word at a time. Pennyville - USA. The Tame east. Four miles outside the boundaries of the dusty town Manfred lays a map on the floor. It�s observed by a Ragamuffin bunch of men - the bank robbers who, not only rob banks but rob the little pens that are attached to the counter by a string of ballbearings who are midgets. A ruthless band of men. Sid on trumpet, Steve on guitar and the rest of percussion. Music was considered the ultimate weapon in the tame east, tambourines were banned. People could steal milkfloats, only armed with a clap. Singing wars were conducted and people went out to kill the local Indians who were armed with middle C. Today they planned to use their musical talents to hold up the bank. They had been rehearsing for weeks. An hour later the Honda laden wheels roll up on the dusky tracks outside the location. At the moment it was tranquil, people doing bank type things. Mortgages, filling in forms and complaining. A shockwave that was oblivious to hit them. At twelve noon the highly exercised plan was in force. They approached the wooded steps, the creaking door blowing in the breeze. Drawing upto their destiny and started to tune their instruments to be in deadly harmony. As the door was only feet away they began to play. Just a low bassoon at first , but then there�s the trumpet that rips into the cashiers like a knife. Security officers, furnished with ill equip earmuffs, head for their tambourines. Firing commences. Sid dives for cover behind a soundproof box before letting rip a blazing harmony. Steve covers him with his scales interspersed with C flat. In the bloodshed the notes blaze around, destroying furniture and other appliances. An innocent bystander gets inflicted with serious high pitched injuries. Another is locked in the corner, singing for his own protection. One of the security men managed to hit the alarm, God�s Mum starts to wail. The policeforce is summoned. They surround the building, homing in on their targets armed with their short-wave radios. They tune into �gunfire FM� and a deadly sound cracks around the building. Behind a bucket of tiles Steve crouches, fingers in ears trying to protect himself from the deadly sound. He unleashes a B flat solo, the spraying of notes hitting the police and littering the ground. Sid is in trouble and has ran out of notes for his trumpet. Steve sees his colleagues peril and rolls across the floor a magazine of notes, past the door which is being torn off with the deadening noise. He plugs the new ammunition into his machine trumpet and starts to fire. The police retreat to behind each other at the fresh onslaught, Atkinson phoning for support, the ultimate backup. Innocent bystanders, armed with the odd tuba ran for cover as the police�s emergency, weapon was being called for. Inside the bank the band knew their number was up. The manager begs them to surrender before the onslaught that even Rambo couldn�t survive without extra training. Up pulled the police�s soundproof truck and out stepped Geri Halliwell. Escorted both sides by officers in fully sound proof gear, the rank and file police force starts to run away with fingers in their ears. She starts to talk. Sid reels in pain. We know what is coming, what is required for the values of the police in the state. She starts to sing happy birthday to Prince Charles. The bank fills up with vomit as the band throw down their instruments and walk outside, fingers in ears. �We need to get a spice girl of our own� they said as Geri is ushered into the van once more. The defeated bank robbers stand in the middle of the town the deafening sound still echoing around their heads. Atkinson ushers in the troops who had rightfully retreated in the deadly battle. Atkinson points his hand trumpet at the robbers and is poised to blow a note. A note can kill a man, but these people withstood Geri Spice so they are obviously hard. He put his weapon away in his holster. �Who�s the leader of this gang?� Chief Atkinson circled the band of crooks with fingers in their ears. �Tell me she�s gone� Sid responded. �She�s in the van.� Atkinson responded �Drive it off a cliff� Steve suggested |