Jimmy, The Glue Factory and Mad Mr Viscous

by Gerrard Wllson

at nothing, trying to reason with such a person, Jimmy said, “Yes, I would like to speak with Mr Viscous.”

  Without saying another word, though eyeing him with some considerable disdain, Mr Gaunt closed the factory door, leaving Jimmy for a second time listening to the sound of his footsteps fading into the distance as he waited for him to return. Unlike before, this time Jimmy was certain Mr Gaunt would return. Pulling the hood of his duffle coat down low over his face, he blew into his hands trying to warm them, to offer them some respite from the increasingly blustery, near acetic conditions.

  Like before, the sound of footsteps shuffling along the red painted factory floor signalled the return of Mr Gaunt. Stepping away from the door, Jimmy, his heart skipping a beat, wondered what sort of a welcome he was about to receive.

  The door inching open revealed the drab visage of Mr Gaunt. “Mr Viscous will now see you,” he said vacantly. “Please enter.”

  Stepping through the doorway and into the factory, Jimmy welcomed its warmth. “Phew, it’s warm in here,” he said, “much warmer than before.”

  The languid excuse of a man, however, offering no explanation, said, “Please follow me.” With that, he began walking along the corridor, into the darkly, mysterious factory interior. Trotting after him, Jimmy called out, “Hey, wait for me!”

  The further Jimmy went along the corridor, into the very bowels of the glue factory, the louder all the noises generated by the machines, became. He heard them all, every munch, crunch, whirr, buzz and slash. Moreover, he felt sick, so incredibly sick, thinking some more horses were meeting their doom.

  Slowing his pace, Mr Gaunt, turning a corner, entered another, much narrower corridor. This one, unlike the former, was gloomy, dusty and incredibly cobwebby. Pointing to a dark, brown panted door at the end of the corridor, Mr Gaunt said, “Mr Viscous will see you in there.”

  “In there?” Jimmy asked, thinking it might be a trap, “Are you sure?”

  Mr Gaunt nodded a yes.

  Staring at the brown painted door, hesitating, wondering if he should do as instructed, or try another tack, Jimmy turned to ask Mr Gaunt a question, but he was gone.

  “Hmm, I wonder where he went,” Jimmy mused. “Mr Gaunt?” he called out. “Are you there? I say, Mr Gaunt…”

  Accepting that the miserable little man had somehow given him the slip, Jimmy decided to open the door. Turning its handle, pushing the door slowly open, he poked his head into the room.

  “Ah! You have decided to honour us once again with your company,” said Mr Viscous, sitting proudly behind an ornately carved desk piled high with food, so much Jimmy struggled to see him, in front of a huge safe. There were two others sitting behind the desk, one on either side of Mr Viscous. It was a scene far removed from the plain functionally and isolation of the desk in the office adjacent the factory door.

  Staring in sheer disbelief at what he was seeing, Jimmy said nothing.

  “Have you nothing to say?” the factory owner asked. “I thought you wanted to see me…” Jimmy, staring at the abundance of food piled high on the desk, remained silent. “It appears the cat got your tongue after all,” Mr Viscous said laughing. Slapping his wrist, in mock chastisement, he added, “How impolite of me not to have introduced my, err, guests.” Turning to his left, Mr Viscous went about introducing the first. “Jimmy – you don’t mind if I call you by your first name, do you? Jimmy, this is my good friend, Mr Voracity.”

  As far as Jimmy was concerned, Mr Voracity, a hairy, rough skinned stumpy individual, wearing an even hairier suit, had more in common with a hog or even a dog than with a man. Dribbling saliva (it ran profusely down his elongated jaw), he stood up, and for some peculiar reason took a bow.

  Turning to his right, Mr Viscous said, “Secondly, and definitely not least, I would like to present, Madam Poulfarriy.”

  The Madam, a beautiful woman in an animalistic sort of a way (if you ignored her long jaw line, that is), standing up in her long hairy dress, offered Jimmy a little curtsy. Suddenly reaching across the desk, to a plate of chicken pieces in front of Mr Voracity, she made a dive for it, securing a drumstick in the process.

  Having no intention of letting her get away with it, Mr Voracity leapt onto the desk, retrieving the drumstick with one hand, while wrestling for possession of the plate with his other. After that, absolute pandemonium ensued.

  Please Pull Up a Chair, Jimmy

  Sitting on his chair in front of the huge safe, ignoring the melee going on around him, Mr Viscous said, “Please pull up a chair, Jimmy, there’s more than enough food to go round.”

  “Not by the look of those two, there isn’t,” Jimmy replied, ducking a plate that one of the protagonists suddenly let rip.

  “Hmm, perhaps you’re right,” the factory owner agreed, “Anyway, there’s always tomorrow, and another fine meal to look forward to. What say you my fine friends?” he said, touching a plate of fried onions.

  Eyeballing the plate of onions, Mr Voracity and Madam Poulfarriy stopped fighting. Relinquishing what little food they had managed to secure, they waited for Mr Viscous to resume speaking.

  “What is it with those two?” asked Jimmy. “It’s like the Mad Hatter’s tea party all over again. They are behaving as if they have not eaten for a week.

  “How droll,” the factory owner replied. Waving to Mr Gaunt (Jimmy had no idea where he had come from, for the door that he had entered by was still firmly shut), he said “A chair for our little friend.”

  Offering Jimmy a chair next to Madam Poulfarriy, Mr Gaunt waited for him to accept it.

  “Thank you,” said Jimmy, thinking it far easier to sit than to refuse.

  After placing a plate, a knife and a fork in front of Jimmy, Mr Gaunt produced a glass that he filled to the brim with water.

  “Go on, Jimmy, get stuck in,” Mr Viscous told him, waving a hand across the abundance of food set out before them. “Despite that, cough, little disturbance, there’s still plenty of food left,” he said, waving his hand again.

  After taking a long, refreshing drink of water, Jimmy inspected the food. The factory owner was certainly right; the top of the desk was crammed full of food. However, it was bashed, squashed, pummelled and torn to ribbons. Jimmy wondered why Mr Viscous was offering it to him, considering its damaged state. Searching for something to eat, Jimmy spotted a plate of sausage rolls that had somehow remained unscathed during the melee, and he reached out a hand to get one. Seeing, noticing the beady eyes of Mr Voracity and Madam Poulfarriy following his every move, he thought better of it. “No,” he said, “I have already eaten, thank you. I am really quite full.” Turning, first to Madam Poulfarriy, then to Mr Voracity, he said, “Please feel free to begin without me.”

  The Madam and the Mr made a lunge for the plate. BANG, CLATTER, KAPOW – it shot into the air, striking the ceiling with such force, the sausage rolls, every one of them, stuck to the ceiling as if someone had glued them to it.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” the Madam complained, poking Jimmy in the ribs with her long bony fingers.

  “Yes,” said the Mr, “you little pipsqueak.”

  Stuttering his apologies, Jimmy tried to explain, to tell them that it was not his fault, but the two peculiar individuals sidelined his faltering excuses.

  Poking Jimmy in the arm, shaking a half eaten chicken carcass in front of his startled eyes, the Madam said, “There is more flesh on him than on this rubbish.” With that, she crushed the bird with her long bony fingers and flung it at the wall.

  Poking Jimmy in the ribs, following the Madam’s unsettling lead, Mr Voracity grumbled, “Perhaps we should have tried him, first,”

  “We shall not be having any of that talk, here,” Mr Viscous interjected, touching the plate of fried onions, again. “Young Jimmy is our guest.”

  Ignoring the factory owner, the Madam and the Mr sulking, brooding; saliva running freely down their elongated jaw lines cared to differ. Creeping closer, noses twitching, smelling,
ticking, they sensed a fresh new course to their damaged meal. Then they pounced; Mr Voracity and Madam Poulfarriy pounced on their prey, they pounced on Jimmy, fast and furious. Jimmy, however, running as fast as the wind escaped them. Howling, snarling, baying their annoyance at losing the extra-tasty course to their meal, Mr Voracity and Madam Poulfarriy, confounded as to where he had gone, bayed at an invisible moon.

  Far away, Jimmy found himself in the darkest part of the factory. “How on earth did I get there?” he whispered, alone. Scratching his head, trying to remember, he said, “I ran away, I escaped them.” Scratching his head some more, he added, “I never realised I was so fast.” Looking about him, he made out a door. “I must have come through there,” he said, inspecting it. “That must be how Mr Gaunt got in, earlier, without me noticing him.” Scratching his head, Jimmy’s thoughts drifted to Eric. “I wonder how he’s faring,” he mused. “It can’t be any worse than me.” Moreover, he was right, what had he done since his return to the factory, apart from joining a Mad Hatter’s tea party, gone terribly wrong, that is? Jimmy had not even discussed with the factory owner the reason for his return. Hearing a dripping sound somewhere in the distance, Jimmy decided follow it, to see where it was coming from. Drip, drip, drip, the sound had a twofold effect on him: the first led him on; the second to make him want to pee.

  “Why is