The Black Ferret comes a-callin’
Up on the highest floor of the towering Stalin-era excrescence looming in all its bleak and monolithic ugliness above the exact nucleus of downtown Kyiv’s pit-like Khreshchatyk street in a palace-sized room with ceilings so high you can’t even see them, we hear a depraved bellowing.
Muwa-a-a-a-aaa… muwa-a-a-aaaaa…
A crunching sound accompanies Binky’s swing of a croquet mallet into the head of the Big Loveable White Trash, who had been chained by the neck to the inside of the giant crib for good measure, and whose infernal bawling has now been halted – at least for the time being.
Knock, knock, knock…
Who could that be, Binky asks in alarm, And how did they find us? We don’t even have a door!
Unperturbed, the gaunt high-shouldered man wearing a gray tweed jacket with elbow patches we know as Outrage Reggie raises his head a moment from the secret English records he’s been transcribing at the small writing table under a monstrous Soviet-draped window and then sinks his large hooked birdlike nose back into his work again.
Enters The Black Ferret.
The reason for The Black Ferret is because there is a Black Welsh Losser. For reasons for The Black Welsh Losser, please refer to The Clown Chronicles Nos. 3 and 1. Now back to the story.
The Black Ferret struts up to the little writing table with great aplomb and drops “The Tin Drum” by Closet Nazi Gunther Grass on it with a dust-heavy thump.
He says, I’z here to collec’ de love a ma life, Da Black Welsh Losser.
Oh, yeah, says Binky, because I just ripped his fucking heart out!
Laaaaawdy laaaaawd…
Jagged-edged, Outrage Reggie now raises his severe-looking self from the table and adds:
O, Black Ferret, The Black Welsh Losser pined away for you for days on end, without end, endlessly sodomized up his end, in that giant crib, by The Big Loveable White Trash, whom you now see chained there by his neck and making an infernal noise every time he regains consciousness.
But I wuz jes’ playin’ hards to get – heh-heh-heh…
Binky grabs The Black Ferret and slams his Al Jolson head against the floor. He then ties him up and pounds “The Tin Drum” into his mouth with the croquet mallet. The Black Ferret’s big rubbery lips tear at the sides and bleed while his bug eyes pop out.
Days go by as Binky finishes a coffin for The Black Welsh Losser, whose vile corpse has been stinking up the palatial Stalin-era chamber all the way up to its un-seeable ceiling as Outrage Reggie continues transcribing secret English records at the little writing table.
Binky ties The Black Ferret with the 600-page soft-cover “Tin Drum” pounded into his mouth to the top of the coffin with The Black Welsh Losser in it, lifts the entire complex onto his tiny clown shoulders and heaves it through the window, watching as it crashes and Black Welsh Losser and Black Ferret body parts splatter on the precipitous concrete steps far below.
Binky slams the blood-caked croquet mallet into The Big Loveable White Trash’s head while Outrage Reggie does not look up from his work.
For reasons only Binky and Outrage Reggie could ever understand, they both now use the moment of silent reflection that follows to look way-way down toward the center of the boundless room at the high-backed leather chair on wheels behind a giant mahogany desk in which can be seen bobbing from side to side, as the body’s brittle-twig arms flail about, a very large head that immediately recalls Humpty Dumpty and King Henry VIII, topped with a wispy sprout of red-blonde hair.
We think this is Chic Dickie, but the figure, intermittent parts of which we can only see from the back, is too far away and blurred for us to make a positive identification.
An updated note here on Chic Dickie – the one we know:
Chic Dickie is an incredibly cunning and clever publisher-at-large of the highly successful monthly magazine, Doing Things for Money Ukraine – mostly paid for by a widely unread insert of the robustly anti-Ukrainian American Chamber of Sexual Repression.
Chic Dickie looks like Henry VIII at the point in his life after he had prematurely worn out his youth. The body has gotten large, and that largeness has attained an irreversible permanence, including of the head, which is a fat one.
Nevertheless, Chic Dickie remains possessed of a particularly English species of slyness, and believes, as of yore, that he is still quite the handsome ladies’ rake.
To project this contention, Chic Dickie draws his quivering flab face forward, as though into a camera, sensing somehow – and correctly, thanks, of course, to his incredibly English slyness – that he is being observed and photographed, although from where, he does not know.
This matters little and not, for from behind his enormous mahogany desk Chic Dickie turns his head to the angle he has always fancied captures the best of his rugged ruddy features, though by now they be dissolved in his ever-vaster fatness and gouty. The mouth is opened in a coxcomb’s grin, the jaw jutted out to the side to capture the real rogue’s daring, although the yawning orifice is now grotesque within the depths of his flesh’s shapeless swell. The eyes dart forward challenging, playful, commanding, glowing amber and full of passion’s fire – sleek and catlike, quite the forgivably good-looking predator, this Chic Dickie, he, this sexually irresistible beast.
His large head on thin neck wobbles. His shoulders rise up automatically on either side as though to steady and catch it.
He says:
I’m Chic Dickie. I’m incredibly smart and no one gets anything over on me – never has, does, or will. I just wanted to get that out of the way, for of import today is the visit of The Black Ferret, who will be arriving here any minute to interview for a reporting job with my highly successful monthly magazine, Doing Things For Money Ukraine, even though no such job has been advertised, all the more because I never use any journalists, as big important corporations, organizations, and extremely wealthy businesspeople pay ME to publish their articles in my magazine. No one gets anything over on me, no one! Nevertheless…
A split moment’s sheen and glint of Chic Dickie’s short-cropped reddish-blonde mustache and beard is captured by the photo lens like humanity capturing the promethean spark. The flashing liquid gleam of a spit-bubbled good front tooth.
Chic Dickie doesn’t see himself the way we see him. He doesn’t think he is a nearly shapeless egglike mass or that his large head is actually very large and altogether too big. His pasty ghost-like pallor overlaid with shining lard-greased cheeks; the swollen scarlet lips smacking the mutton fat. He thinks he is a handsome woman slayer, a tiger, a real ladies’ man. Not for a minute does he consider that he has devolved to a gouty Henry VIII with major Humpty Dumpty implications.
Again, Chic Dickie is about to speak, but…
… enters The Black Ferret.
The knotty black hair on his big tottering Al Jolson head is meticulously styled into combed and slicked jet waves. All perfumed up, The Black Ferret nevertheless carries a sour almost rancid smell.
Lawdy laaawd – heh-heh-heh…
Filed March 28, 2015