Being Mr. Kenny

Once upon a time there was a small brown stain who lived upon someone’s jacket. The jacket belonged to a terrible person named Jim. Jim was the world’s worst fool, and he smelt extremely bad. He also had disgusting white hair which was very greasy. In between meals he would be found roaming the corridors of the asylum wearing nothing but rubber gloves and a big pair of granny knickers, bashing himself repeatedly over the head with a large plastic mallet. The local children found this a highly amusing sight and flocked to the windows of the corridors to watch in silent awe. Afterwards there would be a discussion (that would sometimes last for days) about his roaming and bashing technique, and any major developments swept through the village in no time at all reaching the STD clinic in less than fifteen minutes.

The carers all hated him and often poked things up his nose when he was sleeping in the hope that he might sneeze and kill himself. This they did nightly and they called it the Stinky Stinky Nosestick Game, for his room was foul and the stench of his breath hung heavy in the air. Their game was never successful, but they played it for hours and hours anyway, laughing hysterically for it was quite the highlight of the evening. Once the game had finished they would stumble back to their rooms and dream their happy dreams about the day Jim’s heart might finally give way.

Now, the stain was called Billy, but all his friends knew him as Bonce. Bonce had been a stain for his whole life, and had been seated on Jim’s smelly old jacket for three years. Before his work with Jim he had been “Ornament to the Head” of Russian politician Mikhail Gorbachev — a very important position. Another member of his agency had taken over this job shortly after Gorbachev went suddenly and irretrievably mad. Bonce enjoyed his work as a stain for he was a simple creature, and doing something awful to Jim, such as ruining his favourite jacket, was a job he felt to be very important and it gave him great satisfaction. Bonce was world famous, and was held in the highest regard for the work he was doing.

Bonce’s most fervent ambition was to make his way through Jim’s jacket and onto his skin where he might progress into a condition, or perhaps even a complaint. He laid his plans carefully, thinking them over until he knew them thoroughly.

It was on a rather ridiculous day (when Jim had fallen over and plunged headfirst into a hole left by a dog) that Bonce decided to strike. And strike he did! He shot straight through the cloth of Jim’s jacket and onto the disgusting spludgy skin that covered the bastard from head to toe.

Jim rolled over in the hole and let out a cry like a thousand seagulls being violently and instantly killed. As he beheld his once fine jacket tears began to run down his face. They landed on the mud with a wet plopping sound and where they landed tiny flowers grew, with the most wonderful shimmering leaves and such delicate petals that to behold them was to cause them to turn into dust.

Jim lay at the bottom of the hole considering his next move, stroking his beard and patting his head at the same time. It occurred to him that he may never leave the hole since it was incredibly deep. He never knew it, but the hole had in fact been dug by a beast the size of a small house. He had made it for his lover and was about to present it when she floated into space. The dog was so overcome with grief and woe that he left the hole as a reminder to all.

Jim decided to remain in the hole for his entire life, and there he made a living out of selling delicately carved tables and chairs to the woodlice and the chuckie pigs who joined him at the bottom of this most glorious hole.

Many years later, a small child approached the cavernous pit with curiosity and ice cream. He peered into the trench and shouted, in a high pitched voice (much like a woman’s);
“Jim! Jim! Will you fix it for me?“
Immediately Jim became enraged, for he had not heard that accursed phrase for many decades. He looked up at the boy with anger and disgust and bellowed at him, an oratory that lasted for twenty minutes. The boy began to cry. Then he too fell into the hole. Mystery surrounded his fall, and people for centuries after would ask the question “did he fall or was he pushed?”. In fact it was neither, for he was pulled into the hole by the sheer force of Jim’s malice.

Jim raced over to the boy and found that he was still breathing. This brought great relief to Jim for at last he had a possible means of escape. Ten years into his life in the hole he decided that he wanted out at any cost. Jim thought for a moment and it was clear that the best course of action was to wait until the boy was old enough to throw him to safety. He reasoned that he would have to wait until the boy was 18, or maybe 17, and upon enquiring found that the boy’s age was nine and a half. There was some serious waiting to be done.

Two years on, Jim decided that he had had quite enough, and it was time to attempt a hurling. He had been training the boy, starting with throwing woodlice, moving onto small rocks and finally shoes and dead animals, and the boy had shown an incredible aptitude for throwing objects out of holes. He took his place in the boy’s hands and shouted “NOW!”.

The boy lifted the elderly man clean off the ground and Jim sailed, in a graceful arc, twenty metres from the mouth of his hole-erous prison. Unfortunately for Jim, he had also flown 4 km into the air, and he hit the ground at a speed of nearly seventy miles an hour with an impact so sudden and forceful that he exploded, sending a million tiny pieces of himself across an area the size of Bristol.

Upon hearing this the boy fell over in hysterics and laughed and laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks and into his mouth.

The boy remained in the hole for twenty years until he became strong enough to jump out. On his last day the woodlice and the chuckie pigs had a tea party and a dance, and much merriment was made until they all toddled to their beds.

The boy went on to write his memoirs and became a hero to many people stuck in holes all around the globe. His example serves to encourage us all to jump out of our own ‘holes’ in life, even if at the expense of the elderly.

The end.

This story is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any real event or person (living or dead) is entirely coincidental. Except for the part of the giant dog, which is true (the poor beast).