... but I stopped. Now I'm a dad, and may blog again...

Monday, May 16, 2011

296: Repeatedly barking WhaRRGH, wAAAA, wAARGHHH.

The bus stopped, as it usually does, on Princess Road in Moss Side outside the mildly amusing side-by-side dichotomy of The Pork Shop and Cohen’s Chemist.  I heard a strange barking sound; not human, but not quite canine either.  Then I heard a sudden banging and saw a young man kicking at a wooden door (possibly leading to a flat above a shop).  Blood ran from the right of his face, just beside his eye, and he seemed to be perversely enjoying himself.  He was scrawny, tall, dressed in black tracky top; his face was sunken and boney.

He turned to face the bus and barked; the noise crawling viciously from his vocal chords seemed to be a primitive approximation of the word what.  Like the European settlers who first encountered Native Americans, I will try to approximate the guttural language using the written word: WAAAAr, WHaaRRRgh, WhAAAArGHHH.  Repeatedly barking: WhaRRGH, wAAAA, wAARGHHH.

As he stumbled, kicked, barked, and antisocial’d his way down the street, he was followed at a safe distance by two similarly dressed young men; one slowly bicycling along.  The relationship between the two followers and their manic violent leader reminded me of Trainspotting.  Like Renton, Sick Boy and Spud, they were friends with the psychotic Begbie since childhood.  They hated and feared him; at any moment he could turn and knife anyone, including his friends; but, you know, he’s a mate, so what can you do?

As the leader barked and bled, the followers provided a docile and encouraging audience.  They smiled, stayed away, but not far enough to elicit their friend’s dangerous attention.  The world turned, and the bus drove on, but I have no idea what happens with our hate-filled, hateful hero.  In an ideal world he would have tried his wAARGh, WAAAAr, WHaRGH shit on Begbie, and the two of them would have been caught in a brawl, distracting them both so neither notice the silent approach of a true antihero.  They don’t notice the shattering bulbs of the nearby street lamps and the darkness that spills around them.  Seconds later they both lay dead and a mysterious inkblot pattern scrawled on a scrap of paper flutters through the spilled blood and disappears on the breeze.

The scene excites the merest mention amongst my fellow bus riders.  We are all tediously and terrifyingly sensitised to such mindless acts of belligerence and violence.  What is the world coming to?

When I get home there is a stray dog in my front garden.  It is spinning around in a circle, growling and biting compulsively at its arsehole.  I stand wondering if it is safe to pass.  The dog leaves its smelly, chewy anus alone, and diverts its attention to the young blogger staring at it.  It seems harmless and I am able to walk past and enter my flat.  As I do it follows me with its eyes, and as I step through the door it returns its attention to its hole.  Where’s Rorschach when you need him?

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