Dimwit had no doubts as to why he wanted to be a boy in black. No hazy stabbings into the void for Dimwit. Oh, no! The sight of the local bobby gallantly assisting his Mother up the stairs, long after all the other mourners had departed his Father’s funeral was a vision he would treasure. How noble the copper; all erect and blue with a shiny helmet perched proudly on top. For the nine-year-old Dimwit this was his future, personified. Somehow the demise of his father was unimportant, except of course for the Researchers from the Guinness Book of Records, here to check that he had in fact, actually drank and fucked himself to death. Such was the value of statistics. But this meant nothing to Dimwit, Dimwit was in another world, another Planet! and on this Planet, Dimwit was shiny also, and happy to be so.
In the Measureless Scheme of Life, Dimwit’s vision and subsequent resolve bloomed like a flower. As was its due. And only when ready. Later, Dimwit’s vision and resolve would take its place in the Measureless Scheme of Life, and have appropriate significance. But for Dimwit, at that time, he wanted no more. And then of course he did.—
—‘Bomb them, Mr. President,’ said the Defense Secretary, ‘before they bomb us.’
‘Bomb who?’ whimpered the President.
The hawkish Defense Secretary walked to the Map of the World and looked at it. He recalled how only two days earlier, his beloved daughter had howled when she discovered that her: “Thai Massage Barbie” came minus batteries! Ruined the fucking day, still irritated him. He remembered where the: “Thai Massage Barbie” came from. Made in…‘Korea!’ he said to the President, ‘bomb Korea!’
The President looked at the Map of the World and after a little while managed to find Korea. He looked more closely. “Ah! Shit!Two Koreas!!” ‘Which one?’ he sobbed, ‘North or South?’
‘Your choice, Mr. President.’
The President almost wilted. More decisions, North or South? Which one?? Suddenly he knew. This time he was taking no chances. ‘Bomb them both!’ he said, ‘North and South!’—-
—As the new “Dick” on the block, Dimwit was, naturally enough, consigned to the Tearoom. Or what used to be the Tea-room; when the Sun never set on the Empire, and everyone drank Tea. But things had changed, and so had Dimwit. ‘Fuck me,’ he muttered, as the Tea-list spilled from his fingers like a Till-Roll. He had recently acquired the art of cursing at the Police-Training-College and now, as his position dictated, every other word was, “Fuck.” His Mum had been quite shocked that first weekend he’d had at home and everything was: “Fuck this,” and “Fuck that,” and the, “Fuck Off!” was particularly hurtful. Well, she’d only asked if he’d like a cup of Tea! Actually, it turned out alright, as his Mum sat him down and told him to keep a grip on himself and not let himself go totally into his work. And certainly never bring it home! ‘Leave that sort of filth where it belongs, Frank.’
“New Scotland Yard,” thought Dimwit.—
—‘Of course, Sir,’ replied the receptionist, ‘it’ll be a pleasure, happy to be of service!’ then the Prime Minister turned, and with a wave, made his way outside. Dimwit thought fast and with his heart in his mouth, quickly pulled out his Warrant Card and flipping it to dangle outside his lapel-pocket, joined the throng of Close-Protection-Officers. ‘Wait!’ he mouthed to April, then they were out on the pavement and an Officer was opening the passenger door of the Prime Minister’s official car and the wife was getting in and all Dimwit could think was, “Get a sample! D.N.A! Make sure!” and he acted instinctively, riding his luck all the way. He pushed through the swarm of Close-Protection-Officers and as the Prime Minister stepped into the back of the car, he placed his hand on the Prime Ministers’ head and said, ‘Watch your head, Sir!’ then he grabbed a handful of hair and pulled just as the Prime Minister fell into the back seat…and a great clump of hair was torn from the Prime Ministers’ head.
‘OWHH!!’ he screamed, in instant pain and anger, ‘he’s pulled out half my bloody head!’ and blinked through tear-filled eyes.
‘Oh, stop moaning!’ snapped his wife.
‘But he’s pulled out half my hair!’
‘But I’ve got an audience with the Queen!’ wailed the Prime Minister, ‘How the fuck can I see the Queen looking like this?!’
‘Wear a hat.’
Excerpt from Dimwit of the Yard.
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