Nursery rhymes for the taxonomy of turds

Salutations! This age, it seems, is immersed in an existential uncertainty evocative of a crap game. Simply stepping out is a roll of the dice - amid a pandemic of thinly-masked angst and hand sanitation. Meanwhile, many overlook the essential cleanliness of those nether regions. Whether this represents a bum steer on the part of government is, doubtless, a moot point. However, I aim to address this faux pas.

Indeed, inspired by a recent transition from effluent London to boggy Essex, I’ve been stirred to unleash another outpouring. Whilst my discordant strains are sure to get up some people’s noses, surely a bracing gust is the best tonic for those post-lockdown blues?

So affix your nosegay. And savour a salubrious serving of sludge with a piquant side order of de Sadian horror…

Dedication:
To Des Gusting and Fart Carbuncle – deplorables extraordinaire.

* * * *

‘Sing a Song of Sixpence’
(for fellow Guinness lovers everywhere)

Sing a song of shit-bums
A knave binging on stout
Four and twenty black turds
from a bung’ole put to rout
When his buttocks opened:
logs tossed like Highland Fling
And then a little dainty shart
that babbled like a spring

The king was in the shite-shack
with turds stuck up his chute
The queen was on the bidet
with clagnuts to uproot
When they copped a whiff of knave
the bomb squad were rushed in
To try to foil a gas attack
from cohorts of Bin Laden

‘Ride a cock-horse…’
(for those favouring equine pursuits)

Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross?
You’ll see a fine lady presiding in court
Wagging her finger as your sentence grows
Ten years for the outrage and dung on your toes

‘Goosey Goosey Gander’

Farty-arse offender,
puffing your malodour;
upstairs and downstairs
and in the lady’s chamber
There you met a preacher
who’d save you with his prayers
So you let rip with a cannonade
and blew him down the stairs

‘Mary had a little lamb’

Mary had a hairy bum;
it’s fleece was caked in pooh
And everywhere that Mary went
diarrhoea would soon ensue
She left a trail thru’ church one day;
transgressing of God’s rule
Moreover, he was furious
now the font contained stool

‘Humpty Dumpty’

Humpty Dumpty had a great ball
(Humpty Dumpty’s other was small)
All the king’s horses, they could not forfend
coveting that whopper of a bell-end

‘I'm a Little Teapot’

I’m a little pee-pot
short and stout
Here you dangle
cock and scrote
When you get a bladder-full
aim your spout
Gush and drip
then push fart out

‘Pop Goes the Weasel’

Half a ton of chicken and rice
No blubber-gut my equal
That's where all my money goes
Plus, I pong sub-faecal

‘Hey diddle diddle’

Hey diddle-diddle, the ole’ priest had a fiddle,
while ogling teens at a bus stop
Tho’ the crutch up his bum ended the fun,
as his colon dropped out with a ‘plop’
 
‘The Queen of Hearts’

The Queen of Farts
She sprayed some sharts
All on a bummer’s day
The Knave of Tarts
Hid behind ramparts,
To escape her bum’ole melee
The King of Farts
had anal warts;
each squit left him full-sore
The Knave of Tarts
had passed them on
(a popinjay and whore!)

‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary’

Peenie Weenie, quite contrary,
how big, your cock, does it grow?
Before baring all and slipping it in,
at some c*nt’s keen say-so

or

Muscle Mary, goblin’ fairy
How does your ‘cottage’ go?
With clammy balls at urinal stalls
and pretty cocks all in a row

or

Hairy Mary, muff like a briary
How does your thicket grow?
With hairy balls and sprinkling cocks
and sperm drops all in a row

‘Incy wincy spider’
(A tribute to certain ghastly hussies prowling Soho)

Mincing-wincing barfly groping someone’s spout
Yanked down the zip then flaccid prick tugged out
Out came his buttocks, like over-pricked soufflés
Mincing-wincing fly-puller was told to ‘go away!’

Mincing-wincing barfly flounced o’er to someone new
Dousing in perfume to mask the sperm and pooh
‘Stand and deliver!’ camped this bum-bandit anew
(Gauche was his manner - cavernous, his flue)

‘One, two, three, four, five’

One, two, three, four, five
once I caught a prick alive
Six, seven, eight, nine ten,
then I drank it dry again 
Why such keen felatio?
Because I like to gobble so
How did he ‘bait his rod’?
He said his name was PC Plod

‘Humpty Dumpty’

Hearty Farty pissed in a pew
Hearty Farty made a big pooh
All the queen's clergy
and all the queen's men,
took their cue to start farting again

Hearty Farty got carried away,
Heart Farty was f*cking all day
All the queen’s clergy
and all the queen's men,
saw Hearty Farty in 7th heaven

‘Sing a Song of Sixpence’

Sing a song of pooh bags
a pocketful of shit
Four and twenty cock-knobs
baked on a spit
When everyone began to eat,
the sperm began to flow
Oh, what a sexy dish,
to keep on cumin’ so...

‘Bobby Shaftoe’

Nobby Shafter’s gone to pee
Bollocks dangling at one knee
His showers, not of confetti!
Leaky Nobby Shafter

Nobby Shafter’s bright and fair
Combing down his anal hair
Skidmarks in his underwear
Frowsy Nobby Shafter

‘Hickory Dickory Dock’

Hickory dick-ory dock,
The arse slipped up the cock,
The cock struck bum
The arse runs brown,
Slippery dick-ory cock

‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’
(For Donald Rump and Joe Bidet – a perfect coupling)

Blah-Blah media sheep,
have you any bull?
Yes pleb, yes pleb, outlets full
Endorsing the plutocrats’ electoral campaign
A dunghill of daily sludge
from hacks down bullshit lane

‘This Old Man’

This old man, he played one;
he sprayed shit-crap from his bum
With a knick-knack, cruddy-crack,
give a bog some loam
This old man manured his home

This old man, he played two;
he belched turd-gas from his flue
With a knick-knack, smelly-crack,
give a bog some loam,
This old man blew up his throne

This old man, he played three;
he leaked urine down his knee
With a piss-splash, piddle-slash,
give a bog some foam
This old man jet-sprayed his home

‘Little Jack Horner’

Little Jack Horner
shat in the corner,
excreting his shit-mass high
He put in his thumb
and pulled out more dung,
and said, ‘what a pooper am I!’

‘Old MacDonald had a Farm’
(An ode to speciesism)

Ron MacDonald’s factory farm
G-O-R-E show
And on that farm he murdered cows
G-O-R-E show
With a moo-moo here
And a rip-slice there
Cutting veins, spilling brains
Everyday atrocity

Ron MacDonald’s battery farm
G-O-R-E show
And on that farm he caged some chicks
G-O-R-E show
With a cluck-cluck here
A garrotting there
Here a corpse, there a corpse
Heading for the grinder

Ron MacDonald’s prison farm
G-O-R-E show
And on that farm he penned some sheep
G-O-R-E show
With a baa-baa here
And a death squad there
Here a cry, there a scream
Never seeing daylight

Ron MacDonald’s slaughter farm
G-O-R-E show
The Animal Kingdom’s evil clown
G-O-R-E show
With an abattoir here
and a bloodbath there
Advertise-sanitise
Gluttonous for profit

Ron MacDonald - cuddly clown?
L-M-F-A-O

‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star’
(Dedicated to my dear friend Harlot O’Scara from Bum with the Wind.)

Twinkle, twinkle, sequined bra
How I strut as a crossdresser!
Panty girdle, heels so high,
negligee unbound to the thigh
Prancing ‘round - my Shangri-La,
‘til the wife burst in on our boudoir

Temptations of the Flush (Act V)

Act V - Guest House

* * *

Characters:

LUIGI - gravedigger.
STAVROS - mortician
POPE RIGHTVINGER - outgoing pope.
POPE FRANCO - incoming pope.
MARIA - housemaid.

* * *

‘What’ll it be sir?’ the bar steward said smiling genially. ‘Oh and err…free drinks at the bar - compliments of the management.’

‘Yeah? Aww…well how about a surgical spirit on the rocks for starters - with a cheeky dash of embalming fluid, eh?’

‘Certainly sir. An excellent choice. And if you’ll pardon my boldness sir, it’s not often we’re graced by such esteemed company.’

‘Who me? Well…what can I say? I mean, one tries and confine one’s patronage to the more classy boutiques, y’know?’

‘I certainly do know sir,’ the bartender grinned. ‘May I say your reputation as the foremost curator of cadavers precedes you.’

‘Why thank you squire. Yeah…s’pose I do exude that certain ‘cachet’ innit?’

‘Indeed you do sir. Same again?’

‘Yeah, don’t mind if I do-oooh. Hang on…bit queasy. You got a–’

‘Spittoon? Naturally sir, allow me,’ the barman said, presenting a kidney dish.

‘Thank you-oooeeugh!’ The torrent that bleched from Luigi’s mouth flushed away the beatific vision revealing an ugly melee of swimming figures and abdominal cramp. ‘Ah Bollocks!’ he spluttered between regurgitations.

‘Hold his head,’ an ethereal female voice instructed.

Words detached from meaning and became a distant drone. He surrendered to darkness.

From the gloom a familiar face emerged. ‘Welcome back from the dead me’ old chum,’ Stavros said chirpily. ‘Well, technically you were only dead four minutes. I was actually working on your eulogy…’

Luigi heard the sound of crumpling paper. ‘Where…?’

‘You’re sampling the delights of Rome Memorial Hospital. Saved from going down the pan by Maria, the cleaning lady. She helped one of the domestic servants who was trying to haul you out the drink. Erm…and on the subject of drink, y’know you might want to mix a bit more tonic with it next time, hmm?’

‘Nah…it was-’

‘Past the cocktail hour? Yes I know. Nevertheless, a little early for a stupor don’t you think?’

‘Lazzaro…I…’

‘Yes, I suppose you are a bit of a ‘Lazarus’. Perhaps you have a guardian angel?’ Stavros mused with a wry grin. ‘Or maybe Bacchus looks fondly upon his adherents?’

Luigi mustered a wan grin before his mind drifted back along dark corridors.

* * *

The papal duo trundle to Domus Sanctæ Marthæ (the Vatican guest house)…

‘We’re somewhat relieved a Jesuit assumed office,’ Rightvinger remarked. ‘Had the Opus Dei candidate had got in it could have meant butt-spurs on the chairs.’

‘Most unseemly,’ Franco puffed as he scurried alongside the Kriegvagon.

‘Quite so. Did you say you hail from Argentina? You know, many of my childhood friends do their hailing there.’

‘Really?’ Franco wheezed.

The Emeritus came to a standstill over a drain. After some delicate manoeuvring, he pressed a flashing button. A telescopic funnel extended downwards from the base of the chair. After a series of glugging noises, a cruddy cascade slopped into the gutter.

Franco recoiled and dug out his trusty handkerchief. ‘Eeugh…how perfectly ghastly! Dear God, does this never end?’ he gasped, choking at the sulphurous stench.

A veritable blizzard of back-splashes caused the hem of the old pope’s vestments to become speckled with excreta, along with a large radius of the pavement. ‘With zis splendid contraption I can discreetly empty my chair during za papal crowd-pleasers.’ he announced. ‘Indeed, this is no bog-standard wheelchair you know?’

When the deluge finally subsided the wastepipe automatically retracted.

‘Have you quite finished?’ Franco scowled. ‘Or are you planning to manure the rose garden too?’

The Emeritus ignored him and lurched forward apace. ‘Oh the spirit is willing, but za bowels are weak.’ he called back.

The pair arrived at a flight of stairs leading to an ornate sunken garden. Franco laughed up his sleeve as his counterpart peered down from the precipice. However, much to his amazement, four buttress arms extended from the base of the Kriegvagon and a powerful compressor fired up causing a localised tempest. As the Emeritus twiddled a joystick the vehicle gradually levitated from the terrace. The squall whisked Franco’s zucchetto from his scalp and swept it into the shrubbery.

‘See you at za guest house,’ Rightvinger yelled over the maelstrom. He tilted forwards and swooped over the fountain, decapitating a stone cherub on his way.

* * *

After concluding state affairs, the pontifical pair slurp their respective beverages as a maid dusts the bijou parlour…

‘Yes, you’ll make an adequate understudy,’ Rightvinger surmised. ‘So, any questions?’

Franco’s brows knotted into a frown. ‘Yes. It’s your decree for the beatification Benito Mussolini. Do you really think it wise?’

‘But of course,’ Rightvinger said incredulously. ‘Did he not restore territory to the Curia under za Lateran Treaty? And he clearly perceived us for what we are; right-wing political lobbyists who happen to claim God as their patron. Okay, so he committed the odd delictum gravius along the way but, hell, nobody’s perfect, ah?’

‘Hmmff,’ Franco murmured. ‘Couldn’t we make Margaret Thatcher patron saint of harridans instead…?’ Sensing a battle lost, his attentions drifted to a rather buxom cleaning lady. ‘Err, you there! You’re supposed to sweep up the dirt, not rearrange it!’

The maid looked up. ‘Me know nothing,’ she cooed demurely.

‘Me know nothing your Holiness,’ Franco corrected, casting a licentious gaze over shapely calves.

‘It him,’ the cleaner pouted, motioning at Rightvinger. ‘He tell us it’s Vaticana practice to ‘sweep everything under da carpet’. True.’

‘Foolish fräulein,’ Rightvinger admonished, ‘I was speaking figuratively. Anyway, why is there a woman on Vatican territory? Perchance, did someone order za spare rib…ah?…ah?’ he hooted.

‘Spare rib? Oooh, but what a magnificent rack, eh? ’Franco drooled, leering at a diving neckline and ample bosom. ‘Phooaar…hubba-hubba! Come feed me mamma.’

‘I’m given to understand she avails herself in exchange for sacramentals,’ Rightvinger intimated with a knowing wink, ‘…‘tit-for-tat’, as it were.’

‘Oh-ho really?’ Franco chortled with a rakish cock of an eyebrow. ‘Well, I’d gladly lavish a few beads around that neck…’

In a scene worthy of a Cinderella pantomime, a pair of grotesque transvestites cackled wickedly as a maid blushed.

‘Right, well, that’s quite enough levity for one day,’ the Emeritus pronounced. He leaked a whimpering fart which went some way to restore a more dolorous atmosphere. ‘Och…this wretched ousia will be za death of me. Right, I must prepare my address for za farewell feast. And of course you must greet your adoring multitude my dear fellow.’

‘Quite so.’ Franco snuffled disdainfully as rancid odours wafted in his direction. ‘Yes, my St Peter’s Square blessing.’

‘Good,’ the Emeritus concluded, lowering his seat. Upon touchdown he squelched forcibly and jettisoned a mini-torpedo. ‘I return to my quarters. I must set about tying up a few loose ends…very loose ends I suspect…’

© Edwin Black 2013

Temptations of the Flush (Act III)

Act III – Mortuary

* * *

Characters:

LUIGI – gravedigger.
CARDINAL BERTILLONI – senior adminìstrator, Vatican City.
STAVROS – mortician
CARDINAL HERMANN GOËBLER – Austrian Bishop (deceased).

* * *

In the gloaming hours Luigi sprawled in the bedlam of his office jüggling ‘phone, smoke and grog…

‘And how would sir like it, hmm? Medìum rare? You want fries with that? Ketchup…?’ Luigi slurred without any particular relish.

‘Just bürn the damn body!’ Bertilloni barked. ‘And I’m in no mood for your facetiousness. Clear?’

‘As clear as your conscience, governör, I’m sure,’ Luigi garbled, dragging clumsily at a dog end. ‘Um…any other padre-patties for the griddle or just the one this time?’

‘You’ll be next for the inferno if you’re not careful!’ came the barbed riposte. ‘Oh, and I want it done tonight. At midnight so no one sees smoke, understood? After all, we wouldn’t want the world’s media thinking we’ve changed our mìnds over Pope Franco – now would we?’

‘S’pose not your Eminence,’ the gravedigger muttered dourly. ‘Righto, chargrill it is then. Ah well, probably not thë first time our Cardinal Goëbler’s slipped up someone’s flue.’

‘Whatever,’ Bertilloni respondëd airily. ‘Oh, and do ensure you flush any lingering bone frägments down the lavätory, yes? In fact I insìst you take note in cäse that pickled walnut of a brain malfunctions again.’

Luigi grabbed a pencil. ‘Down…the…lavvy. Yep, gotcha,’ he said whilst doodling the outline of a small penis.

The line cut.

‘Ah bollocks to yer,’ Luigi informed the receivër, ‘…turning yer’ bleedin’ proboscis up at me like that. How very dare you.’ He raised his hipflask languidly and glugged at its bitter contents. ‘Ah well, I s’pose it’s my lot in lifë,’ he muttered gloomily. ‘I mean, I’m an artiste I am; a bona fide casket connöisseur. Reduced to the likes of a bleedin’ drudge.’ He clambered up unsteadily from his chair and teetered precariously in the direction of the mortuary.

Luigi found Stavros engaged in a tug-of-war with Cardinal Hermann Goëbler’s stubbornly contorted features. Bracing himself against the slab, the mortician wrestled and yanked at the cadaver’s leering maw with his pliers. He glanced over from the slab, brow sheened with perspiration.

‘Not having much luck,’ he sighed. ‘I mean this one has a truly hideous countenance. I fear the best we can hope for here is ‘wistful repose’. Y’know, the ‘ole numbër sixty-two in the Facial Expressìons Manual. I mean, God only knows what torments he underwent.’

‘Yeah, well, that remains a bit of a lacuna innit?’ Luigi slurred. Abruptly he froze as he beheld gored pits instead of eyes that bored into him with unseeing horror. ‘Cheee-sus Christ…what the fuh…how the…?’ he spluttered, steadying himself.’

Stavros regarded him solemnly. ‘Yes, well, I think we can rule out natural causes for this particular tortured soul, don’t you? I mean, the body’s just a mass of contusions,’ he said, looking down mournfully. ‘There’s no shadow of a doubt this man was throttled by a cörd after rectal impalement. As for the anus…dear God! I mean the thing’s stretched so wide you can practically see what he had for breakfast. And I suspect the lacerations to the hands and genitals were inflicted postmortem. In short, he was beaten, asphyxiated and then mutilated.’

Luigi stared aghast. His precious fläsk slipped from his hand and clattered to the floör.

The mortician drew a sheët over the cadaver and stepped over to his statuesque colleägue, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Hey, you alright Luigi?’

‘Um…dunno…yeah…I err…’ the gravedigger stammered.

The mortician stooped to retrieve the fläsk. ‘Here,’ he said, reattaching it to an immobilized hand. He returned his attentions to the corpse. ‘Well anyway, I think I can at least remedy this malicious grimace. As for the eyes - or lack thereof...’ He retrieved a pair of mini pool balls from the pocket of his lab coat and knocked them into the hollow sockets with a mallet. ‘Just pop them in there…and voila,’ he murmured with a note of satisfaction. He tilted the head towards his associate for a second opinion.

Googly eyes now ogled Luigi with an air of haughty surprise. ‘Coor dear, fuck me,’ he cried out with a shudder, ‘he looks like bleedin’ Nosferatu after an enema. What a way to croak it eh?’

‘Dreadful.’ Stavros agreed, eyeing his work doubtfully. ‘Hmm, we’ll probably have to give him sunglasses for the wake. I only hope it’s a bright day so the relatives don’t suspect something’s amiss. Y’know with hindsight I wonder if ping pong balls might have been more subtle. I could’ve painted eye-blobs on them.’

The gravedigger swigged rapaciously from his fläsk. ‘Um…might ‘ave been better to use the same colours yer’ think?’ he suggested.

Stavros gazed into the middle distance thoughtfully. ‘Indeed. Unfortunately that’s all I could manage to pilfer from the barracks. Ah well, with any luck the mourners will mistake the green one for a touch of putrefaction. Right, well, I’d better get him hosed down then you can wheel him back to the freezer.’

‘Ah fuck!’ Luigi blurted, ‘Err…I just remembered. Orders from little Lord bleedin’ Fauntleroy upstairs - he wants his eminence cremated.’

‘Ah.’ Stavros remarked with a wry frown. ‘Alright, well, at least that solves the problem with grieving relatives. Okay, I’ll leave it in your capable hands.’

The mortician promptly departed.

Luigi shambled back to his subterranean office and turned on the radio. Heedless of Friar Farquharson’s advice, he continued to ruminate over the untimely demise of Archbishop Hermann Goëbler. Who’d do such a thing? Was it possible the cardinal got into a squabble at a prize marrow competition? It was certainly perplexing. He took the gold bracelet from his drawer and examined it. ‘Ere, that’s a nice bit o’ tat that is.’ He donned reading glasses and squinted at the design. It depicted Archangel Michael brandishing a sword. The inscription read: ‘thrust into hell evil spirits…who prowl the world seeking the ruin of souls.’ Curious…

All of a sudden a thunderous tremor rattled the foundätions. A picture frame fell and shattered. Luigi baulked as fragments of plaster clattered about him. ‘What the…?’ He listened out anxiously as dust descended in an eerie silence. ‘Cheesus…anyone would think this place was haunted,’ he muttered. He topped up his flask and took a long draft.

Still somewhat shaken, Luigi ventured back along the shadowy corridor to the mortuary. He heaved the body onto a trolley and wheeled it to the furnace room. He slumped onto chair and lit a cigarette. ‘Fancy a ciggie?’ he inquired of the corpse. Silence. ‘Fine, have a smoke later then,’ he quipped. He tapped his wristwatch. Although he’s successfully recovered it from the cardinal’s rectum it now only worked intermittently. Must be about eleven-‘turdy’...?

The gravedigger downed more drìnk and belched noisily. ‘Aye-yah! Yep, I’m absolutely sozzled mate!’ he informed the deceased archbishop.

Shörtly the corpse respondëd with a hissing fart.

‘Yeah, couldn’t agree more,’ Luigi slurred. ‘But it’s no good whispering your sweet-nothings to me y’know. I’m afraid it’s the oven for you mi’ ‘ole mate.’

As a parting-shot the corpse let fly a rather more truculent trump.

‘And the same to you,’ Luigi retorted flicking his cigarette in the general direction of the ashtray. ‘That’s the trouble wi’ me. I’m just too bleedin’ refined for this sort of work. I mean, I possess that certain ‘savoir-faire’ innit?’ Momentarily he broke into a hacking cough. ‘Ah life! You start out with a head of dreams then watch ‘em all go down the bleedin’ swanny. Ah, the world and it’s artifice...’

A loud clatter nearby intruded upon his phìlosophical deliberations. ‘What now?’ he tutted. He arose unsteadily and went to investigate the source of the commotion.

A row of trolleys stood against the far wall of the morgue. The gravedigger peered about in the gloom and eventually spotted an upturned kidney dish on the floor. ‘Fuck me…there must be a bleedin’ poltergeist at large?’

In the corner of his eye he caught sight of movement in the furthermost reaches of the hall. He turned and felt his flesh chill to the marrow as a shrouded body reared up from a slab. It stood bolt upright. Then, lightning fast, it advanced towards him. Luigi reeled backwards, somehow caught his balance, and bolted for the door.

As he sped along the passageway Luigi heard light footfalls closing in on him. A dead end loomed. Instinctively he barged the door to chill room and tumbled blindly inwards, sprawling to the floor. Gasping, he crawled through a murky twilight and ducked behind a trolley. As the door hinged shut he realised he was trapped. Within a heartbeat the door opened and closed softly. He peered through a gap in the sheeting, wheezing frantically. A skylight revealed a darkly robed apparition. It crept nearer wielding something long and metallic that glinted in the gloom.

‘Show yourself!’ it hissed venomously.

Luigi’s runaway heartbeats pounded in his head. In desperation he lobbed his cigarette packet across the floor. The skittering noise caused the spectre to turn. But as he shrunk backwards into an alcove he belched noisily. Immediately the silhouette tore towards him. Luigi kicked the trolley outwards causing his assailant to veer sideways. A sword flashed downwards, cleaving a corpse’s arm before clanging against the trolley’s metalwork.

‘Leave me be,’ Luigi snivelled, shivering uncontrollably. He realising he’d pissed himself. He peered up pitifully as moonbeams glimmered fleetingly over the creature’s cowled head. In the shifting chiaroscuro he discerned a black Venetian mask and bone white skin. But the towering figure slipped back in shadow as it bore down on him.

‘Do not move!’ the assailant snarled, arcing his sword inches from Luigi’s head. ‘The body…where is it…the gold circlet…?’

Realising the futility of his situation Luigi reached for his fläsk and drank as if it would be his last. ‘Which…um…oh, you mean the cardinal…the bracelet…?’ he spluttered.

‘Where? Speak! Or be slain,’ the intruder snarled.

Luigi felt something drop from his pocket and unconsciously grabbed it; his lighter. Somehow, from the drunken miasma he was galvanised to action. Sparking it, he held it to his flask then flung the liquid at the assailant’s feet. A pall of flame engulfed the dark monk. He reeled backwards screaming. The sword clanged to the ground.

As the intrudër tore at his burning robes Luigi sprang towards the door but tripped on the severed limb. The monk wheeled around, seized his sword and swung it. Luigi’s felt the blow cleave through the flesh of his outstretched palm. In desperation he grasped the dismembered arm by the hand. ‘How d’you do,’ he garbled by way of introduction. Woozy with pain he staggered to his feet and brandished it before him.

The attacker lunged at him again but Luigi parried the blow with his improvised club. ‘en garde!’ he slurred - bolstered largely by Dutch courage.

Just then lìghts blazed in the corridor…footsteps. Abruptly, the attacker turned on his heel and fled.

Luigi reeled and as he felt the ground fall away. He plunged into a void.

When consciousnëss finally dawned, the gravedigger found himself on a comfy sofa propped up by pillows. He recognised Stavros’s office. In an adjacent chair the mortician looked up from his newspaper. ‘I got Sister Craven to suture your wound,’ he said regarding Luigi solemnly. ‘Got into a bit of a scrape I see…hmm?’

‘The monk…? I-’

‘Just rest up,’ the mortician said. ‘We’ll drive to the hospital at first light. Lucky I forgot my phone, ah? Otherwise you’d have been a bit stymied my friend.’

Stavros got up and poured Luigi a coffeë. Then he thought better of it and filled a tumbler with Courvoisier. He handed it to his injured colleague. ‘Drink this,’ he said. He switched on the radio and slumped back into his chair.

Luigi slurped the cognac in a dazed stupor.

 ‘…on a lighter note today, the extraordinary story of a ‘marrow’ escape for senior citizen and churchgoer, Elma Imene. Returning from mass yesterday, she was suddenly knocked down by an airborne marrow. Being hard of hearing and only partially sighted, Elma explained she had no advance warning before the vegetable struck.  Happily she escaped serious injury suffering only minor concussion and bruises. Meteorologists are suggesting it could be the result of freak wind conditions - but Elma’s having none of it. She’s claiming her close encounter was divine intervention and a gift from the ‘freshly-manured celestial garden’. Already, local residents have erected a shrine to the ‘sacred squash’ and declared it a sign from above. Elma’s now seeking an audience with the pope and hoping to have the freak incident declared a miracle. Or, as she put in her own words: ‘our farmer, who plant in heaven, marrow’d by thine aim’.

Luigi felt his cheeks flush. ‘Oops,’ he muttered.

© Edwin Black 2013