Death by Old Rope

Under siege for 3 days, drinking a cocktail of out-of-date cordial, boiler-tank water and my own urine (I call it Me-Ora), I began to wonder if I would ever escape. How long would my tormentor persecute me? Was there no way to assuage his insane vendetta?

It had all begun a week earlier when I had, innocently enough, posted a comment on a blog entry by Old Rope. The entry in question attempted to give a measured assessment of the legacy of the Beatles on the popular music of the last half century. In it, Old Rope had cited their complicated chord structures, their innovative harmonies and their ability to evolve, stylistically, as evidence that their music had ushered in a new, more sophisticated interpretation of the pop mode. I felt that Old Rope had made some convincing arguments and that his scholarship was impeccable, but that his conclusions perhaps overstated the case. So I wrote “LENNON PIG-FUCKER BEATLES SHIT LOL” in the comments section of the blog. I was soon given reason to regret having done this.

Two hours after posting the comment I heard an insane screeching through my letterbox. Peeking tentatively into the hall I was accosted by a bulging yellow eye poking through the letterbox. “BAPTISTE” the eye shouted. “BAPTISTE YOU FRENCH SCOUNDREL. GET OUT HERE NOW”. There was no mistaking the terrifying Merseyside burr. It was Old Rope. And he was irked.

He then proceeded to prod a soiled lollipop stick under the door and wail like a wolf drowning in hydrochloric acid. “AIEEE. GET OUT YOU SAGGY BEAST. OUT. I’LL HAVE AT YOU. I’LL MINCE YOU UP GOOD. DOUBLEGOOD.” Readers will not think any the less of me when I tell them that I feared for my safety. I fled upstairs and, cowering under a paisley quilt, subsisted for the next few days on the tankards of Me-Ora that I keep in storage for emergencies.

Then, three days into the siege, an upstairs window exploded, and Old Rope was catapulted into the bedroom dressed like a cyborg Phil Spector – a page-boy bob for hair, a velvet sports-jerkin straggling about his upper torso, and a futuristic laser cannon grafted to his pointy scouse chin. I ineffectually attempted to defend myself by throwing buttons at him. Old Rope roared and fired the chin-laser directly into my eyes, which melted into horrible blubberous lumps of plasma. He then opened his rucksack, from whence a terrifying feline beast leaped out and attacked me with its claws and its horrid jagged teeth. “Get him Yoko Ono” he shouted. I was lacerated into revolting chunks of catfood

As I lay dying in pieces, Old Rope strode over to the barrel of Me-Ora and poured himself a cup. After swigging the brew greedily, he smacked his evil murderous lips gluttonously and murmured “Mmmm. Delicious real ale.”

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9 Responses to “Death by Old Rope”

  1. oldrope Says:

    Me and the cat are like a sort of more butch version of He-Man and the green tiger thing he had before the RSPCA confiscated and repatriated it back to Africa whence it had not came.

    And the whole sorry business could have been avoided if you had explained to me that you meant Lennon and not Lenin – who I fancy something rotton.

    I should, in the parlance of our times, have gone to spec-savers.

  2. jlebaptiste Says:

    Lenin, he was just some bleeding heart lefty.

    Yikes, I’d better lock the door and get some more Me-Ora on the brew.

  3. oldrope Says:

    I thought you couldn’t be died for the same thing twice?

  4. jlebaptiste Says:

    I hope so. Otherwise it’s deathsville for me.

  5. oldrope Says:

    Have you not died of owt else yet? Lazy living bastard.

  6. jlebaptiste Says:

    On the contrary, I’ve been so mortal I’ve barely had a moment to jot all of my deaths down. Here are some of them:

    Death by Joss Whedon
    Death by Rupert Bear
    Death by ebola
    Death by vintage clothing
    Death by crispy pancakes
    Death by brilliance
    Death by David Attenborough

    Watch this space!

  7. oldrope Says:

    I can scarce believe the penultimate one, JLB

  8. jlebaptiste Says:

    You’d better buddy, it’s as good as gospel. There is such a thing as being too perfect. It got my ass killed, as I shall relate anon.

  9. oldrope Says:

    Why wont you die already, you rat bastard

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