Jimmy, The Glue Factory and Mad Mr Viscous

by Gerrard Wllson

were-.”

  “Dead?” Jimmy said, finishing the sentence for him.

  Regaining his composure as fast as he had lost it, the factory owner, sickly, sweetly, said, “I am so glad you could join me.”

  “You are?” Eric asked, agog.

  Closing the door of his safe, locking it shut, Mr Viscous replied, “Certainly! Admittedly I wanted you, err, dead – but that was before!” he explained, his eyes lighting up with excitement.

  “Before?” the boys asked. “Before – what?”

  Having secured their attention, rubbing his hands slowly, deliberately, his piggy eyes staring hypnotically at them, Mr Viscous replied, “Before I saw...the error of my ways, of course!”

  Taken aback, for what he had just told them was the last thing Jimmy and Eric had expected to hear, the boys were a loss for words.

  Mr Viscous, however, being the wily old individual that he was, had plenty to say. “Ah, I see this has caught your attention,” he said. “And, no, it is not some sort of a trick I am playing upon you.”

  “But,” Eric said, “we heard you speaking inside the safe, saying what you were going to do with all your money!”

  Thinking fast, Mr Viscous replied, “Words, they were just words without any real meaning or commitment.”

  His eyebrows creasing with suspicion, Jimmy said, “If that is indeed so, why did you say them?”

  “Old habits,” the factory owner replied.

  “Old habits?”

  “Yes,” he explained. “I have been doing it for years, speaking to myself, rambling on without any real thought as to what I am saying. You can hardly expect me to stop the instant I change?”

  “Well, no, I suppose not.” His eyebrows creasing again, Jimmy asked, “How come you had such a turnaround, seeing the error of my ways?”

  “When I thought you were dead, I was aghast with remorse,” explained Mr Viscous, rubbing his hands contritely, and then lowering his head.

  Taken in by his words of repentance, Eric said, “Well, we are not dead. We are alive as can be, so cheer up, Mr Viscous.”

  Also swayed by the factory owner’s words of repentance, Jimmy, offering an olive branch, said, “I am glad to hear that, Mr Viscous. That old woman sure had you wrong.”

  “Old woman?” the factory owner asked, still rubbing his hands contritely.

  “Yes, the witch,” said Eric. For a second, a split second, Mr Viscous appeared annoyed. His façade of calm contriteness returning, he said, “It just goes to show you never know who you can trust. Moving on, he said, “The factory is awfully quite. Can I assume it was you who turned off the munching machine?”

  “We did!” they proudly told him.

  “And the horses?” he asked. “Did you save them?”

  “We did, we did!” the boys answered again. “Though,” Eric added uncomfortably, regretfully, “not all of them...”

  “Yes,” said Jimmy. “Some fell to their death inside the machine...”

  “Oh, I am so sorry to hear that,” Mr Viscous replied. Making his way out from the office, he said, “To show you how sorry I feel, I will destroy that dreadful machine. I don’t know what came over me; I really don’t, when I made it.”

  Following Mr Viscous along the corridor, into the very bowels of building, Jimmy and Eric appeared more like puppies than the children they were. Following him, believing his every word, the boys were so excited, thinking Mr Viscous, good Mr Viscous, was going to destroy the munching machine.

  Betrayed

  Pointing to the ramp leading up to the munching machine, the factory owner said, “There you are, boys, the way into the machine. I will go up there and set about decommissioning it.” Repeating the words he had said earlier, in his office, he said, “I don’t know what came over me; I really don’t, when I made it.” Opening the gate leading onto the ramp, Mr Viscous, smiling sweetly, sickly, said, “After you, boys.”

  The hypotonic fog surrounding his brain, diminishing, Jimmy, smelling a rat, said, “No, after you – I insist.” For a second, a split second Jimmy thought he saw a scowl creep onto the factory owner’s face.

  “Very well,” Mr Viscous replied, “I will.” With that, he stepped onto the ramp, whistling Tiptoe Through the Tulips as he made his way gaily along it. “I do like a good whistle,” he said, opening the door at the top of the ramp, stepping through it, disappearing from sight.

  “Why did you say that?” asked Eric, all in a tizz. “Anyone might think you did not trust him!”

  “But I do trust him,” Jimmy answered, “I think...”

  “You think! What do you mean, you think?” Eric asked, opening the gate, following Mr Viscous.

  “It’s...it’s... Oh, never mind,” said Jimmy, stepping onto the ramp, following Eric.

  It was dark, incredibly dark behind that door. However, the sound of whistling somewhere ahead of them spurred the boys on. “It’s great, isn’t it?” said Eric. “To think we have been instrumental in the factory owner’s rehabilitation!”

  Although Jimmy felt, believed something was not quite right, some of the hypotonic fog engulfing his brain was still clinging to it. Agreeing with Eric, he put it down to his imagination, the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, warning him to be careful.

  By the time Jimmy and Eric caught up with Mr Viscous, he was standing, waiting patiently at a half-open door, behind which a bright light beckoned. “Ah,” he said cheerfully, “you have caught up with me. That is good.”

  “It is?” Eric asked.

  “Yes, indeed,” he replied. “Surely you want to be there along with me, when I decommission the munching machine, to ensure it can never be restarted? You boys deserve to be a part of it,” he insisted.

  “Decommissioning it is all very well,” said Jimmy, still feeling uneasy with the facade the factory owner was portraying, “considering the number of horses you have killed. Pray tell me,” he continued, “what you intend doing with the glue you have already made?”

  His eyes narrowing, though smiling sickly, sweetly, Mr Viscous said, “Sell it, of course.”

  “Sell it?” Eric gasped, stunned at the thought of it.

  “Yes,” the factory owner answered. “Before you judge, though, let me explain.” By the time the factory had finished explaining, telling the boys of all the good things he was going to do with the money he made from selling his glue, like building a home for old horses, they were eating out of his hand, taken in, bamboozled by his sickly sweet words. Approaching the spiral staircase, he said, “If you will pardon me, I must ascend these steps, to inspect the workings of the munching machine, below.”

  “Why are you doing that?” asked Eric.

  “Because, my dear boy,” he replied, “there might be an unfortunate horse trapped down there. Yes, I know it’s not very likely, nevertheless, it’s my duty to go see.”

  “I will do it for you,” said Eric, believing his every word.

  “Why, thank you,” Mr Viscous replied. “That is most kind of you.”

  “Jimmy will help me. Won’t you, Jim?” Eric asked.

  “I’d rather not, if it’s alright with you,” Jimmy replied, reaching out, touching the rickety staircase. It wobbled and shook from his touch.

  “Don’t be a spoilsport,” said Eric. “We are all friends now. Come on, Jim, I will race you to the top.”

  Although he did not like doing it, for peace’s sake, Jimmy agreed to help. “I will go up there and help you,” he said. “However,” he warned, “I am certainly not racing you up such a rickety old thing!”

  “That wasn’t so bad,” said Eric, the instant they arrived on the small landing atop the staircase.

  “That is a matter of opinion,” Jimmy answered, holding the handrail, trying to steady himself. “It was not this wobbly before,” he said, “when we were last up here.”

  “You’re right,” Eric replied, also trying to keep steady. “How is this so?”

  “Perhaps it’s because of this,” the factory
owner said, from below.

  Looking over the handrail, Jimmy and Eric saw Mr Viscous waving something.

  The fog lifting from his startled brain, Eric cried out, “He’s got a wand, Jim. Is he a witch?”

  “No!” Mr Viscous insisted. “I am not a silly do-gooder witch. And as to why I am doing it, making the staircase wobble about, so, is really quite simple,” he went on, “I want you to fall over the railings, into the workings of my munching machine. Is that a good enough reason?” he asked.

  As if things were not bad enough for the boys to contend with, the munching machine, below, suddenly roared into life. “Jim!” Eric bemoaned. “The munching machine! Who started it?”

  Smiling serenely, tapping his wand, Mr Viscous said, “I did.”

  “But, but I thought we were friends?” said Eric, hoping to talk sense into him.

  “Friends?” the factory boomed. “Bah, humbug!”

  Twirling his wand, enjoying himself immensely, Mr Viscous made the spiral staircase wobble, shake and shiver about so much the electric fan’s cord they had attached to it, earlier, snapped in two. Stumbling, losing his grip, Jimmy toppled over the side of the railing. “Jimmy!” Eric shrieked. Reaching down fast over the side of the landing, he managed to grab hold of Jimmy’s hood. “I’ve got you,” he said, thankfully.

  “I can’t breathe!” Jimmy gurgled, hanging below him. “You’re strangling me!”

  He was right; although Eric’s grip on the hood had saved Jimmy from certain death, it was chocking him.

  “Reach up,” Eric yelled. “Grab hold of the railing; support some of your weight. I will then be able to pull you