Conan The Ball Bearing by Paul Tristram

He’s perched amongst the chimney pots
with a catapult stretccccchhhhhhhhed
to an almost impossible, impending velocity.
There’s a CPN and a Social Worker
cowering behind the backend of a Ford Cortina
upon the opposite side of the road.
The screeching sirens of the approaching Heddlu
are gaining in momentum and importance.
“The metal of my ammunition
and the steel of my resolve… are not delusions.
I am not tolerating your crap diagnosis,
prejudices, nor false medical pigeonholing
for a precious moment longer!
You drew first blood…”
“For Christ sake, Conan… that’s from Rambo.
You are confused, muddled, mixing up the entire picture.
Come on down quietly before it’s too late.”
“You are all beneath me!”
“Aye, well, you are up on top of a roof.
Look, the postman is only slightly wounded…”
“Just a flesh wound?”
“… Now is not the time for Monty Python.
Remember the last time you sang
‘Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life’
you had a female hostage from the bureau de change kiosk
strapped inside a Tesco shopping trolley
with a condom half covering her head
and a box of New Daz Ultra washing powder in her lap
with the word ‘nitroglycerin’
magic markered across the front.
You were pushing it, completely naked,
except for a pink tutu and a pair of roller-skates
down the middle of King Street at noon…
they shot you with a tranquilizer.”
“I told you all that she was a ‘Bad ‘Un’
She tried to crucify me in that farce of a Courthouse.”
“Of course she did… you kidnapped her
and plugged both of her ears
with a mixture of daisy and buttercup petals
congealed with snot and semen….
the poor woman’s still in therapy.
And it was a Courtroom not a Courthouse…
this is Britain… come back to us, please,
don’t go all Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid on us,
you know what happens,
especially when you take on both at the same time.”
There was a twang and a whirring through the air,
a fraction of a second later the petrol cap
right next to the Social Worker’s head
exploded into smithereens.
Conan leapt up and lifting his hood into place
instantly became the King of Outlaws
from Sherwood Forest to no one but himself.
With a snarl, growl and a diabolical fart
he took off towards the edge of the roof, that way.
Where he slipped upon some seagull shit
(This being Dorset and not the North of England).
He fell off backwards, in a clumsy, giddying fashion,
his Spiderman webs not working
and impaled his right thigh upon some railings, ouch.
Just as the Heddlu screeeeched onto the scene
like a right old bunch of beauties,
cordoned off the street and let the ambulance through.
“I’m a real boy at last, Geppetto.”
was the very last thing that Conan said to the CPN
as they banged him full of morphine and cut the nutter free.

SAMSUNG

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096 ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036 And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204 You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

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