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Sunday, 5 February 2012

HYDE AND SIKH (Chapters 9/10/11) Snowed In Sunday Omnibus

9. Hyde, Ball Digger and Tits

When Tits said she “just needed to get her stuff” she hadn’t made it clear she was in between homes and so her stuff would include a gramophone, four bin liners of clothing a wok and two kittens. It was as if Hyde and Ball Digger were going back to the station having won all the prizes on the conveyor belt on the Generation Game. Tits obviously being equivalent to what would have been the Jet Ski’s or Yacht, basically the star prize. At least this was the case through Ball Diggers eyes. The shapeless knitted jumpsuit she had chosen to put on, made her look like a Yeti, and though he could tell Hyde would probably still make sure he sealed the deal, he definitely wasn’t as interested as when she was naked. Hyde tried to discreetly turn the heating up in the car. “Phew for the middle of January this is one steaming day,” he said flapping the collar on his fur coat. He looked out the rear view window to see if he had tricked Tits into removing her clothes.  Hyde definitely felt that things were better when Tits wasn’t wearing the knitted blob of an outfit. Ball Digger looked at Hyde as he tried to discreetly spy on her. He thought to himself if he could omit laser beams from his eyes at this moment he would have. Green beams that would singe the moustache from Hyde’s face.
“I want to hear more about your writing” Tits said from the back, clothed.
“Absolutely, I have a lot to tell, it’s nice to find someone who is actually interested in culture” Hyde was clearly bulshitting.
Ball Digger still unable to speak was beginning to feel like he was hallucinating, which wasn’t a good way to feel when you are driving, and responsible for the livelihoods of a beautiful woman, a pain in the ass, two kittens a gramophone and a wok. He found it hard to stomach Hyde’s successful attempt at impressing Tits with his bullshit. Particularly because this Bullshit, omitting Ernest Hemmingway’s involvement was almost Ball Diggers truth. He thought to himself isn’t it funny how one persons bullshit could work better than the truth, even though the bullshit was the truth. Just coming out the wrong face. “I’m incredible at Ice skating” suddenly noises were flying out of Ball Digger mouth. Ball Digger had never been good at bull shitting and the silence that followed his claim proved that had not changed.
“Stop here!” Hyde suddenly screamed out. Ball Digger pulled an emergency stop. “ I need to get some Jaffa Cakes” Hyde got out the car and ran as fast as he could into one of the many Tesco Expresses which were slowly littering Rotherhithe’s street corners. Mysterious shops, which sold nothing you, wanted. Hyde really did run like a small child, lots of little steps but with intense enthusiasm.
“So how often do you go ice skating”?
Ball Digger was surprised to hear a voice come from the back of the car. He checked in the mirror to make sure it wasn’t one of the kittens talking at him.
“Oh it’s like a drug, I go whenever I’m not on duty, I can’t get enough” He didn’t feel comfortable with his lies, and knew in himself having finished the sentence, he would now have to invest in some skates and some lessons and make this a reality. As much as he wanted Tits to like him, he couldn’t live with the lies.
Suddenly Hyde appeared, he was carrying a giant bouquet of flowers. He was hand signaling for Tits to roll down her window. She did, and he stuffed the flowers in, with not a word spoken. It was one of the worst and most aggressive handing over of flowers Ball Digger had ever seen.
He got back in the car with a doorstop in his hands. “They didn’t have any Jaffa Cakes” he said, angry. “I’m not sure why I bought this,” he continued.

10. The Snack and The Reality Check

“Bitches” Hyde nodded to the room as he strutted through Rotherhithe Police Station arm in arm with Tits. He was walking like a pimp, which was misguided in its cockiness considering he was a policeman in a police station. Ball Digger trailed behind holding onto their newly acquired doorstop. “Where the hell have you been? It’s the end of the day!” The constable said putting down his duster. He registered the female presence in the room and noted that he was not looking at his most masculine. He lowered his vocals down a couple of octaves, to a thick inaudible baritone, and continued “ You’re lucky there was absolutely nothing bad happening in Rotherhithe today”. Hyde being smart instantly clocked the way the constables new voice was shaking Tits’s world like a miniature volcano. She could have just been hungry, but the grumblings began as the constables booming voice erupted and Hyde only had one way of thinking and that was always worst-case scenario. Though he had only known Tits for a couple of hours, and the last hour had been spent with her dressed in what looked like a knitted sack, he enjoyed the feeling of envy he received off the other policeman. Not to be out done Hyde lowered his octaves a further two. Practically as if talking in slow motion Hyde replied “Oh Yeah, then what do you call this?” He threw the trousers in the Constables direction. For a second the ferocity of the trousers movement broke up the hypnotic mood the two men had created. Tits didn’t understand what was going on, she still didn’t fully understand how she could help in the case either, but she was keen to hear more of Hyde’s Ernest Hemmingway stories, and she didn’t mind getting out the kitchen for a while. As she watched the two of them speaking in deeper and deeper voices their body movements and hand gestures synching up with their voices in half speed it dawned on her she may have been hungry for a real long time. She snuck out of Hyde’s grasp while he was still trying to out deep voice the constable in search of a snack.
“You got any snacks around here?” She walked over to Ball Digger who was stood holding the doorstop with two hands. Tit’s moved towards him with the grace of a swan. As had already been noted by him earlier there was something incredibly Swanlike about her. However she did not have a beak and there were other things that also set her apart from actually being a Swan. For instance she was asking for snacks, using the medium of speech.
“What do we look like here? ... A Spud U Like?” Ball Digger had tried to assert an arrogant manliness he had thought he had seen in Hyde’s success with tits, but somehow he had got the tone all-wrong
“I wouldn’t call a baked potato a snack, would you?” Tits was smart, and irked. Ball digger wasn’t sure how to reply. He felt bad for letting himself down and not being himself. He had always upheld a strong sense of self. In defiance of all his insecurities Ball Digger always believed his fundamental being a good honest person would win out. His insides would laugh in disbelief as he listened to Hyde bullshitting about Hemmingway’s teachings. Hyde was no way a writer, sure he was a racist, and a misogynist, and possibly an alcoholic and sure these are qualities that good writers have in abundance, but let’s face it it’s a fine line that divides a writer and a racist, and as far as Ball Digger was concerned Hyde had not crossed over. What most upset Ball Digger though was the realization that he had to go and book himself some Ice Skating lessons, and the realization that however he may have enjoyed feeling at least morally superior to Hyde, he was actually the same. When left alone with Tits, he couldn’t tell her how he had ridiculously fallen in love with her within (according to his stopwatch) two minutes and thirty-seven seconds. He didn’t have the balls to actually lay it on the line honestly, instead he tried to impress her with niche skills he didn’t actually have. Why had he chosen Ice Skating?  It would be hard to showcase the skills, and harder to pick them up in the first place.
“No, I guess not” Ball Digger replied solemnly, he was surprised the irked Tits was still waiting for a reply to her baked potato being a snack question, while he wallowed extensively through his thoughts. “We have a Scotch Egg vending machine in the corridor”, as he spoke Ball Digger wedged the door open with the new doorstop, and stepped aside-allowing Tits to investigate the Scotch Eggs. In his eyes he had stepped back, a heroic loser admitting defeat in his actions. In her eyes he was the guy who told him where to find some Scotch eggs.

11. The Brad Pitt Cameo

Hyde and the Constable had to call a stalemate after the Constable nearly choked on his own tongue while trying to out deep voice Hyde. After fourty minutes of listening to what felt like a didgeridoo with occasional swearing the two men’s normal voices almost sounded like they were on helium. “Wait, who’s that?” Hyde had used his eyes to spot somebody familiar looking just sitting at a desk. He was familiar, but not familiar to Rotherhithe Police Station.
“That’s Brad Pitt,” The Constable said discretely. Hyde’s eyes lit up.
“The Architect?” Hyde was visibly excited, “How’s the New Orleans Project going?”
Brad Pitt gave no response he just sat in his seat wearing his shades looking as if he was blind, which didn’t explain why he couldn’t answer the question. The Constable leaned in and whispered to Hyde, “He isn’t allowed to speak”
“What!” Hyde was pissed
“He’s doing a subtle cameo, when the ratings are down, the writer asks favours from his better known friends and then the mention of their name gets loads of hits again on the Internet. It serves no purpose to anyone, he doesn’t care about Brad, He doesn’t care that my wife doesn’t love me anymore, or that you have a Jalapeño in your moustache still. He just wants to make himself feel better with some accidental views from unassuming Brad Pitt fans”
“Well that seems like a load of bull crap, do you not think when you have a world famous environmentally conscious architect in your space you would not want to benefit from his thoughts?”
“If he spoke, he’d be acting, and we’d have to pay him”

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