Death by Ruffians

Flee, Graham! Don't suffer my fate!

Flee, Graham! Don't suffer my fate!

It was dusk and the hunting hour was upon the city. I pulled the woollen ruff of my duffel coat up around my plump nervous cheeks and tried to ignore the small shadows prowling on the horizon. Experience had taught me that I was not adept at fighting children, even the weedy ones. I really didn’t want a confrontation. Perhaps they will leave me alone, I thought, though I knew they wouldn’t.

The leader presented himself first: a spry pre-pubescent in a tailcoat and tricorne hat. He spoke in a local variety of nadsat that, as far as I could tell, was a kind of Harry Potter and Beano-based creole.

“Well huffle my pufflewart, if it isn’t a scrunge-ing muggle-nonce creeping along to the penny opera like a right wet Walter” he exclaimed, in the manner of a circus ringleader.

“Pardon” I said

“Well Cor and Chortle. This one squirts muggle-spells out of his nosh-hole” he cried.

“Listen you”, I said, unadvisedly, “I’m a big lad, and I’ll thump you all rotten if you don’t expilatum out of here”

The evil boys laughed at my crude attempt to master their youthful argot.

“Come on lads, let’s groo him in the griffin door till he thinks it’s bangers and mash time”

At last, the inevitable beating took place. They tweaked my nose horribly. They rubbed rotten sprouts into my ears. They fired pea shooters into my hands and inflicted terrible stigmata-esque wounds upon my palms. They poked my beautiful plump cheeks, my beautiful plump cheeks that wouldn’t hurt a fly, with their Quidditch broomsticks. Finally, they pulled out their uzis and shot me into little pieces.

Needless to say, I died.

Parents: think long and hard about the appropriateness of the reading material you give your children.


2 Responses to “Death by Ruffians”

  1. oldrope Says:

    Jack, your schtick is part of a wider tradition – and/or your underworld colleagues are ripping you off. Get your farting gear around this:

  2. jlebaptiste Says:

    That link took me to a veritable slurry of arty jabberwocky. It would’ve killed me if I wasn’t dead many times over already.

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