Brian's Brief Encounters

This is an Unofficial Kaffe Fassett fanzine. Brought to you from a Leafy Suburb of the Throbbing Metropolis.

Friday, June 10, 2005

Mind That Youth

Incoming!!

One quick Hail Mary later and the main force are upon us.

There’s less warning with this attack. Slightly quieter, a bit taller and with a few more teeth on display. Offering some relief to the Fairy. Still, it was backs to the wall time. Stiff upper lips all round. Hell had been unleashed and we were not going down easy.

They were getting sneakier though. It seemed that the presence of incisors gave them the ability to pronounce their effs. “Hello Police” was now interspersed with the occasional “Hello Officer”. Dirty tricks or not, we weathered the storm. Almost manfully.

In these situations, being able to rely on your partner is crucial. Without even looking at each other we’d settled into a steady rhythm. By replying alternately and changing waving arms on a regular basis we were conserving our energy. Initial battle honours may have been awarded to the invaders. We were prepared for the long haul. It was to be our Stalingrad.

They kept coming. I hoped Father Ted had enough wine in.

The volume to height ratio was still widening. Hand-holding was becoming a distant memory and I could almost hear the Fairy sighing with thanks. There was now an air of sullen-ness; increasing with each successive wave.

By the time we reached the veterans they had lost their appetite for the fight. Gleeful skipping had changed to surly trudging. Only the misty-eyed were clinging on to each other. Neat, uniform uniforms had been accessorised and there was blatant gum chewing at the back.

Even the adults looked weary and battle scarred. Pitying smiles were swapped. No words were necessary.

We were relaxed, complacent. Faced with overwhelming odds, we were to be triumphant! This was a story we would be telling our children’s children.

Suitably lulled, our guard had dropped. Little did we know the fourth from last combatant still had plenty of fight in him. It came out of nowhere.

“Wassup?”

With that single query, delivered with the correct inflection of attitude, we were crushed. Defeated. Enola Gay had arrived over Small Corner and deposited its payload. The effects would be felt by his nearest and dearest for nearly a decade. Musky smells would linger. No amount of skin creams would be sufficient.

The empathetic glances exchanged between the adults present suddenly took on a new meaning. We wouldn’t be escaping lightly either.

I wanted to rush ahead and warn Father Ted.

I couldn’t move. Frozen with fear I looked skywards and got on the hotline.

Unaware of the correct protocols, I was brief.

“Father. Beware the Teenager, for he is amongst us.”

2 Comments:

At 10/6/05 9:37 AM, Anonymous Silverback said...

With writing like this, surely you are wasted on the Met! As someone who comes into contact with traffic officers in the region from time to time, pass along my appreciation for the large majority of them acting like human beings. I would much rather see a horde of uniforms keeping an eye on things rather than flippin' speed cameras everywhere.

Enjoy the blog - keep it up!

 
At 10/6/05 9:24 PM, Anonymous Brian said...

Thank-you.

Unfortunately, without the (hopefully unwitting) input from the Met, source material would be quite thin.

Making this blog somewhat...err...brief.

 

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