by Tara Basi
“Stop whining, you’ll just sit in a wheelchair, motionless and dribble sadly when I give you the sign,” Dimple explained. She brought her long pointy finger with its almost-as-long red finger nail to the corner of her mouth, as though thinking a very deep thought. At the same time her eyes grew very big and moist.
“That’s the sign?”
“Yes, now let me see you dribble. More, more, I need to see real emotion. Keep you face absolutely rigid. Don’t move, eyes closed, just dribble emotionally. That’ll do for now, but you need to keep practicing,” Dimple shouted as I tried to squeeze some spit out of the side of my mouth without moving a muscle. On the night I was going to have to stock up on saliva.
“Now, direct me in… Slim Chihuahua! Slum and dog are such ugly words, don’t you think?” Dimple asked.
“Do it Saturday night from 8pm to 10pm, with a 20 minute interval for charity chicken feet sales. Keep it snappy and look good,” I directed in the deepest most commanding voice I could summon up.
“And?” Dimple asked, looking very menacing with her huge red talons and ripped arms aggressively crossed.
“Obviously you’ll be totally fabulous,” I added, kicking myself for not remembering my directing basics.
“Really, you really think so? Thank you, thank you,” Dimple replied sweetly. She looked down at the stage floor, and tugged at her long black hair while swivelling her hips gently from side to side. When she looked up and found I was still there her tone changed, “You’re still here? Don’t you have some dribble practicing to do? Now leave me while I hone my performance to perfection. I’ve had enough direction.”
What a relief. I’d thought I was going to have to spend the whole afternoon watching a spinning Dimple while getting more and more seasick. I rushed out of the church hall and set off to find Madge. Soon afterwards I spotted her getting off the bus in the town square looking a bit pale and queasy.
“Are you all right Madge, you looked a bit ill,” I asked sympathetically.
“You would be too if you knew what those mad old men are planning. They’re all really sick in the head,” Madge replied while shaking her head vigorously as though trying to get rid of a few mental images she’d rather not have.
“Well Dimple’s sorted out, 8pm-10pm Saturday,” I explained, hoping to cheer Madge up a bit.
“I picked up Mother Superior’s piece. The banker tossing is Saturday afternoon, Sunday morning is the McTater Beach challenge and Dicklightly is doing a 12 hour extreme read-athon, with a twisted twist, from Sunday afternoon. I’ve also got photos of everyone,” Madge reeled off in a tired voice.
“Sounds good, let’s go see McFont,” I said.
“I wish, but we need a photo of Dimple first.”
“Oh,” I said with just a hint fear.
We started trying to get our photo of Dimple at noon, and by 3:30pm we finally got away. Dimple had insisted on being fully made up, which took a good hour, and then having her picture taken in over twenty different outfits before she could possibly narrow it down to her top ten. It was only when Madge said she was going with the shot of Dimple falling backwards off the stage half in and half out of a particularly flouncy number that we finally got her to choose just one picture for the Vanity Times.
We got everything to Mr Mcfont just before 4pm.
“My god, surely these idiots are not serious, is any of this even possible? Then again, people might turn up, even if it’s just on the off chance there might be blood,” McFont said after he finished reading Madge’s notes about the events.
“And what’s Dimple doing?” McFont finally directed at me after he stopped shaking his head and hissing though his teeth.
“Some sort of musical about famous stars’ dogs slumming it and her brain dead boyfriend,” I answered enthusiastically, surprising myself about how much I remembered.
“What’s it called?” McFont asked.
“Slump Chipolata,” I answered with all the confidence I could muster.
“Crazy woman, still, she’s in good company,” McFont answered as he finished taking his notes.
“Are you sure about that Terry?” Madge asked looking doubtful.
“Madge, I am the director and co-star,” I answered indignantly, while furiously trying to remember any detail of what Dimple had told me other than my own dribbling contribution.
“At least the Mother Superior’s piece is very good. Anyway it’s too late for changes, I’ll have to start printing within the hour. You two need to be back here at 7pm to help me with the folding and the glossy inserts.”
The charity edition of the Vanity Times looked really good, well worth whatever an ‘asterisk’ turned out to cost. Madge’s photos came out a treat, everyone looked very smiley. By 9pm Madge and I were on our way home. I still hadn’t had time to actually read my copy of the Charity X pull-out and tonight I was just too tired. I was going to save that for my morning treat. So far everything had gone great, and maybe, just maybe Bobby would get to go to Zurich.
Chapter Thirteen – Dying – Part 2 – Charity X
Over breakfast Friday morning I carefully laid out the lovely Charity X pull-out on the table next to the boiled egg and cornflakes that Mum had left out before she’d gone to work. The screaming started almost immediately as I read about Mr McStrumpy’s event, and I just carried on till I finished up with the horrible description of what Mr Dicklightly was planning. Pausing for breath and starting to feel a little sick I was broken out of horrible thoughts of a charity disaster by an unexpected knock at the front door. It couldn’t be Madge, I’d agreed to meet her at Mr Singh’s Café Tent for elevenses just after ten. Mum had always said never to answer the door if I was home on my own, as it could be the bailiffs. Trying to keep very quiet I hoped whoever it was would go away. Then a familiar voice rang out.
“It’s not the bailiffs, it’s me - Bobby. Have you seen the Charity X thing in the Vanity Times?” Bobby shouted cheerfully through the letter box.
In surprise I banged my head as I clambered out from underneath the table and rushed for the front door.
“Bobby, you’re looking a lot better,” I shouted happily, glad to see my friend back to something like his old self.
“Well, Mum and Dad are going next Saturday, and I’m starting to accept the situation. In the end it’s probably better this way. And, we’re going to have a lot of fun this weekend going to all these insane Charity X events. They’re just sick. Who comes up with madness like this?” Bobby continued with a big grin.
“Who indeed, just read it myself over breakfast, has to be the dumbest thing ever, but I’ll probably go as well. I’m kind of helping Dimple with her Slim Chipolata show,” I answered happily. I was glad that at least Bobby was getting some fun out of Charity X even if he wouldn’t be getting much money out of it. Plus he’d never know I was the instigator of all the madness.
“Just came around because I thought you wanted to tell me something yesterday in the church?” Bobby asked, still smiling.
“No, it’s nothing, it can wait.” I couldn’t upset Bobby now, not when he was looking so much happier.
“I’ll see you Saturday then at McStrumpy’s Big Banker Toss. Got to go, we’re off to the Big Island to buy stuff for the trip, Mum’s going to max the plastic,” Bobby called over his shoulder as he headed back home.
Back in the kitchen, I noticed the time and rushed off to meet Madge to try to come up with some sort plan to save the day.
“It’s too late to change anything now. Relax and go with the flow. The Vanity is selling like it was an actual newspaper with news and Mr Singh’s sold zillions of raffle tickets. I’d hate to actually win the first prize though, a super pampering beauty treatment day in Harley Street,” Madge said calmly after I’d poured out my rising panic about the events.
“I don’t suppose Mr Singh mentioned it was Harley Street Dundee? Let’s go check the balance on Bobby’s account,” I replied, cheered up by the news of all the Vanity and raffle t
icket sales.
“Well, how much,” Madge quizzed as I got off the pay phone to the banking lady in Mr Singh’s shop.
“£424,” I glumly told her.
“Wow, amazing, why so glum?” Madge squealed, jumping up and down excitedly and looking very pretty.
I didn’t tell her that we had to collect at least £4000 for Bobby to go to Disneyland Zurich and, if we were to keep Bobby’s family safe from the bailiffs, another £16,000. Instead I just smiled, accepted that the charity events were completely out of control and tried to enjoy my CAC.
Saturday morning and first up was Mr McStumpy’s Big Banker Toss. Madge would be getting there early to make sure she captured everything on camera. If I could have skipped going altogether I would have, but Bobby was coming with his mum and dad. My mum, who was normally very squeamish, decided she wanted to go as well. Besides, Mr McStrumpy meant well even if he had invented the most sickening charity event ever.
I arrived at the event around 11am with Mum, though we were still not officially speaking after her horrible news about next year. I expected there to be only a few people milling around. But when I saw the place, my mouth just hung open and stayed that way. It appeared that the entire population of our Small Island and legions of non-Small Island foreigners had gathered on the grassy fields above the beach dump. Most people were in one of the long lines in front of big medieval looking catapults waiting their tossing turn. The rest were queued up in front of McStrumpy’s stall to buy a banker or to have their generic banker stamped with a specific bank logo and the name of a banker before they joined the catapult queues.
There was big a sign at the stall painted in what seemed to be blood on a white background, ‘1 for a £1, 4 for £5 or 7 for £10’, which didn’t make a lot of sense but people at the front of the stall queue were calling out for seven bankers and waving £10 notes. I wandered around the back and was surprised to find Tony behind the stall selling the bankers. Tiny Tim was doing the branding with spray cans and cut-outs held at arm’s length. RBS seemed to be a popular choice. McStrumpy was sat at the back on an old deck chair sucking at very long straw snaking down into a gallon can of Agent Orange. He was carefully studying the Vanity Times.
“Amazing Mr McStrumpy, so many people, who’d have thought,” I gasped, still unable to believe the size of the crowd.
“Gone well so far boy, though we almost ran out of bankers. But Tony went out a couple of hours ago and brought back another 700. Should last us through the afternoon. Good lad that Tony, very keen, helped me no end with setting up the stylish death targets for the catapults,” Mr McStrumpy explained, obviously very pleased with himself.
“Did they suffer?” I asked, feeling a little squeamish.
“Course not boy – see that sign?” McStrumpy said pointing out a big white board I hadn’t noticed before – ‘No Vampire Rat was injured in the making of this charity event.’
“But they’re dead. And then people catapult them into flaming tar pools, at large electrified metal plates and big boards covered in nails,” I pointed out to a very relaxed looking Mr McStrumpy.
“Exactly, we kill the smelly little bastards stone dead with a huge electric shock, none of ‘em gets injured; then we dip ‘em in boiling oil, it kills the germs. Then we singes the hairs off with a blow torch, for appearances sake. After that they get popped into the molten latex, makes ‘em more hygienic to handle. We lets ‘em cool for a bit, and pop ‘em on the stall,” McStrumpy explained carefully as though I was thick and strange, and everything about his Big Banker Toss was perfectly normal.
“Still, lots of money for Charity X, right Mr McStrumpy?” I asked, mentally calculating a pound a rat and a lot of rats.
“In theory,” McStrumpy answered evasively,
“What do you mean, in theory? We’re all paying un-theoretical money for each banker toss?” I pointed out in frustration.
“Well I might have gone a bit overboard on the expenses side, latex and tar are not cheap, and I had to hire the catapults from the historical society on the Big Island, plus refreshments for the staff,” McStrumpy explained with a slightly sheepish expression, as he took another sip from the gallon can of Agent Orange.
“How much will we get?” I asked getting more and more exasperated.
“I reckon you’ll easily get £500. And just remember if we hadn’t done it proper we wouldn’t be selling so many banker rats in the first place.”
“You’re right Mr McStrumpy, thanks very much,” I sighed. He was right, a lot of money was being collected, it was just that Bobby needed thousands, not hundreds. I cheered myself up by remembering this was only the first event of the weekend, though the rest were even more bizarre and unlikely to raise much money.
Later I caught up with Mum handing over a bag of seven bankers to Tiny Tim for customisation. I heard her whisper to Tiny that she wanted two of them stamped with my dad’s name, which seemed a little harsh. Then off we went to the catapults, caught up in the blood lust of the crowd as they waved their white latex-covered rats in the air. The catapults were all up on a big raised platform and firmly nailed down. There were three groups of catapults and each group was aimed at different banker death trap. All you had to do was wind the catapult up, put your dead rat in the basket and press the release button with your foot. Your customised rodent would be hurled into the air to land precisely on your chosen target and be electrocuted, burned or pin-cushioned in a burst of bloody gore. As we flung Dad’s namesake into the burning tar and Mum shrieked with joy, I noticed Bobby releasing his rat to splatter against a wall of nails. It was grotesque but also enormous fun. Our five bankers and two dads were gone far too quickly. I even saw Mr Singh tossing.
“I thought all life was sacred in your religion Mr Singh,” I casually asked as I waited for mum to come back with some more rats. I’d finally persuaded her to buy them one at a time, to make the little we had stretch a bit further.
“Stupid, rat already dead, I’m just doing respectful last rights,” Mr Singh indignantly answered and snorted. Then he shrieked in delight as he released his rat to fly skywards and land with a loud plop and burst into a ball of flame in the pond of burning tar.
The hours just rushed by.
“Just one more rat, you’ve got to, please McStrumpy, please,” I whined pathetically as I clamoured along with the rest of the desperate crowd when McStrumpy announced he’d been cleaned out.
“I told you boy, and I’m telling the rest of you we’re out of rodents. Get off home, you’ve all had enough, go home before you start reaching for the family pets,” McStrumpy shouted back unsympathetically.
After the crowds had dispersed it was just me, Bobby, Tony, Tiny Tim and Madge all quietly sitting on the catapult platform watching the sun set over the burning tar pit.
“That was crazy. Who’d think people could go so mad over tossing rats?” Tiny Tim asked shaking in his head.
“What is Charity X?” Bobby added quietly, while staring dreamily at the huge red sun slipping behind the rat smoke.
“Psychotic Donkey sanctuary my mum said,” Tiny Tim suggested without much conviction.
“No, it’s a nun thing, raising money for some… nut with rabies, got bit by a frothing Vampire rat,” Madge quickly volunteered, just as I started to panic in case anyone mentioned Bobby or his family.
“That would explain the tossing, sort of revenge and money raiser all in one,” Tony added.
“Aren’t Vampire rats protected?” Bobby questioned absently to no one in particular.
“That was a problem, but Tim sorted it out,” an unusually calm and smiley Tony answered.
“Fine print says it’s only the Greater Vampire Rat that’s protected, the common Vampire Rat is fair game,” Tiny Tim replied distractedly, distracted and fascinated by the swirling patterns of the blue rat smoke rising from the still lightly sparking electric plate.
“How’d you tell which is which?” I asked with interest, having never heard any of t
his before and glad the conversation had moved on from Charity X.
“Have to be a real expert apparently, something to do with the genitals. McStrumpy sorted it out. He figured the common ones were obviously stupider so we’d only be able to catch those ones,” Tony explained.
“Aren’t you supposed to be meeting Dimple?” Madge prompted me absentmindedly, staring in fascination at the blood spatter patterns on the nail boards.
“Arghhhhhh, see you all at the show later,” I screamed and rushed off towards the church hall. I could still just about make it in time.
Dimple hardly noticed my arrival, she seemed to be simultaneously rehearsing dance steps, trying on costumes, fiddling with her mix-tape soundtrack and shouting lighting directions at Mr Jones the church hall caretaker. Mummy-ji was close by, just off stage, fussing with a huge rail of brightly coloured costumes that made me think of exploding parakeets in a paint factory that side-lined in sparkles. Any other time I’d have left the two of them to it, but she hadn’t told me exactly what I was supposed to do, apart from dribbling to order, and the show was starting in less than an hour.
After a long anxious wait Mummy-ji finally noticed me standing in the middle of the stage directly in front of Dimple, who continued to ignore me.
“Dimple dear, stupid schoolboy, bit player slash director is here,” she shouted through cupped hands, and even then I could only just hear her over the kidney throbbing bass line from Dimple’s backing track.
“Good, you’re here. Let’s go rehearse,” Dimple ordered after cutting off the music. She strode off into the stage wings Mr Jones had made out of the stable walls from the nativity props. Behind a plywood wall sat a snazzy looking wheelchair, four changes of costume neatly hung on a rail and a large piece of cardboard stapled to the back of the fake wall. My little rail was dwarfed by Dimple’s long line of costumes.
