Crying Out For Natural Justice

Forget any part of any kind of belief that any other living being has put to you - especially Humans. This is just between You, and Me. If you have it in you to speak your own words from your own mind then by all means - you may read my words, as I would love to share them with you. However, I fear my words are not really meant for you, for this is a potential wake-up call to the few who matter, and a warning to those who don't. Either way - it's just a little something to sleep on!

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2. My Thrup'nny Bit Shield

No . . . you plum - put that one for Rumple up there, and squesh that bloody pink one behind it - but don't forget it's there - it'll no doubt want feeding before I can unload the damn thing. What? What do you mean "it's open!" ? What is? "Plank's gone to nuke his dinner and he's left Coms open." Well then - shut the flippin' thing off before we get within yappin' range of Earth . . . already 5 minutes in huh ! ? Oh crap . . . right . . . Stuxxy, be a good Tayzmian and nip over to Coms . . . turn yourself down first though - we don't want you frying the damn thing. Everybody else - look busy, or pig-off out o'sight. Ready Stux?  Hang-on . . . where are we?  Oh aye . . . Earth . . . right . . . hit it . . .

 

Hey-up, how-do to you - you little useful one you. If that be a fresh pot of brew - don't be tight with it. Mines a milky two-some.

 

I didn't think you'd miss the likes o' me, so I just popped off up-wind for a bit . . . errands and the like if you must know . . . well - this thing isn't all that it is on simple Goodwill and Sellotape alone you know! Besides, you wouldn't believe a word of it anyway. Soooo . . . What’s the weather like down there? Actually - you don't need to answer that one, as I do after all, have the mother-of-all views from up here. Speaking of which . . . you're fine 'til the weekend . . . but it gets a bit moist and murky as Saturday soggily dawns, so - you might want to dust off your . . . huh-hoo-OOOOFF . . .

 

. . . Allow for a few moments of teetering about. Followed by another moment for Course Readjustment.  And I'll steal another which I'll spend recomposing myself, then . .

 

THAT was down-right ticklish (sniffs up), the bugger singed a bit too . . . the flares off that Sun o'yourn can play havoc with ones' innards if they catch you !

 

Right. Hold it. Pull up for a sec'. if I may indulge in a few more of your lovely little moments, for in light of a particular and very recent event, I find I am experiencing a severe need to deal with the problem of a niggly little something emanating from the human part of the ships doings.

 

Hey, Plank, what are you doing .!? Incidentally (for Human use only), these words were uttered by me, to me, under the hood of a severe self-admonishment, as I should know by now - as sure as shite ain't sugar - you don't put a human within any kind of reach of a real-life working console - especially one that this thing fettles its self along with.

Plank - for the next quarter of a second - did actually merit a spark of admiration from some misbegotten spot within me, for not only did he untwistingly extricate himself from a very odd position under his console - all this with his arse firmly planted in its seat I might add, he actually managed to reach a full-blown stance-of-attention without hurting himself - or breaking something. It could have been nothing short of fluid perfection - were it not for the fact that his dinner was spread all over the front of him - from chops to chopper if you like . . !

 

"Sorry Sir", whimpered Plank. No . . . no good . . . that did it . . . it’s gone . . . here endeth afore mentioned spark of admiration . . . he spoke. Ah well . . . back to business I suppose.

Don't call me 'Sir' Plank - that would indicate to some, that you yourself have been granted a rank of some form or other.

 

Plank, at this point, had the good grace to lower his pasty n' mash ridden features in abject shame.

"Sorry Seth". Now, with this one - I've got to say that, at that point, I did consider that the plaintiff utterance of those two little words, did so scarily fit the pathetically sad sight drooped before me, and just for a moment or three, my head was figuratively bursting with memories of the one-and-only-ever brush with thievery in my entire life. Alright . . . I know . . . I've given you that bit - I might as well give you the rest of it. So . . .

 

There was me, Worms (with a big fat plural - no way was he only carrying the one). Point of fact - for those who like such irrelevances - had I known what 'black holes' were back then, I'd have called him a biological one, because he could scan incessantly ('eat none-stop' - for those with the I.Q of a bubble). Anything, everything, all day, every day - but he parted with none of it - if you get my drift. In the three years that we frolicked our lives away together - I never knew him once to drop a single dump - if you'll forgive the vulgarity . . . hence the name - Worms . . . just seem to fit!

 

Now, Cuthbert . . . yes . . . Cuthbert! He wasn't your typical-looking smarty-Alecky book-wormy type of spotty swatty - you know the sort . . . bespectacled, greasy parting and a smacked nose. Oh no . . . he were a clever little bugger was that one. He was a proper little smart arse who learned how to get away with it - which came in right handy now and then. Most folks that knew him said he was going to become a rich and famous scientist who will, one day, invent the 'cure of all ill's' - last I heard though, he'd opened a Mackdonglers franchise on Dribblington's Grey Rim. Well . . . it might not be particularly cure-some - or even close to past envisionings . . . but it is at least a stable income. . !

 

Anyway, as eight year olds growing up in Ingleton, what of the world we could reach, was ours to mooch about in and make mischief of - all over Fell and beautiful British countryside. Simply seeing what’s what - and what you can do with it when you find a bit, and - as you may imagine, we - being such lively little oiks - required feeding on occasion, and the general rule was - 'as long as it's nobody else's and you can keep it down . . . it's yourn'. However, pickings were sufferingly scarce this blistering August afternoon, and we three were fair parched - a gnats-gnut nearer to bein' sazzled actually.

 

As we lurched around the top bend onto Main Street - shop wards I do recall . . . and with a pretty serious intent about us too I must say - me with my Thrup'nny bit -mercilessly wrapped and trapped inside my filthy little fist, and nothing more in my head, than the image of one of Burkes big fat juicy pears. An image that so taunted me each and every tortured step o' the way, until . . . at last . . . aaahh . . . that smell . . . the enticive scent of natures' very own natural facewash . . . the sweet . . . succulent . . . hey . . . that’s . . . MELON . ! !

 

'Twas at that very moment, when my own wretched little path was graced by this errant whiff, that my chosen faith was thus confirmed. From that very same moment - that very same heart-beat, my each and every prayer would be offered to the Great Melon Maker in the Sky.

 

As it happens . . . yes - I did think melons were Sunsweat, or bits of its spit at least, and no - I didn't give a monkey's thought about the 'who and how' of it . . . but then - I was only eight.

 

Anyway. Fully armed with my thru'pence, I made a bee-line for Burkes, for he was the Evil One who held these glorious yellow Godspits to ransom, but I cared not a jot as, whilst fast approaching full-flight . . . I swooped and scooped the biggest n' yellerest chunk o' Sun on the pile. Then, with melon precariously grippled in one hand, and my Thrup'nny bit in my grubby other - held aloft as if a mighty shield - ready to ward off the Evil One.

 

I blasted through the shop door to claim my prize - and was duly met with the fullest brunt of ol' granny Jessops wrath, as apparently - my somewhat 'explosive' entrance not only caused her to drop her shopping - which just happened to include a half dozen fresh eggs, she also squeezed off a fart, which, had I read it rightly . . . probably could have meant 'duck' or at least give rise to a 'scarpper' sort o' thought.

 

As it happened however - I read it quite wrongly, and could feel the warm giddy stirrings of a belly laugh starting to creep across my cheeky little cherubic chops - which was instantly and emphatically removed by the back of ol' Jittery Jessops bony claw, which suddenly switched direction, to snatch a death grip on my collar. This was immediately followed up by her other claw, which came swinging out of nowhere to cuff me right upside my lug'ole. " An' that one’s fer sassing Brutus me cat", she duly informed me with a 'stuck-pig' sort of screechy growl.

 

I looked - with much beseechfulness - across at Burke - my whole world awash with a mixture of indignation, fury, and down-right fear - only to see him leaning heavily against the haberdashery stand - almost wetting himself laughing at the spectacle before him. Well . . . that did it . . . With all the latent fury of a proper little hissy-fit - I launched my thrup'nny bit at Burkes big fat belly . . . spun around like a dervished whirl . . . then . . . deftly side-skipping ol' witchy Jessop . . . who was still spitting feathers . . . an' still squeezing the odd one off now n' then, I dashed from the shop, in the firm belief that my little legs were up to the job required.

 

And so . . . off I shot - with the frantic spluttering’s of baddie Burke barking at the heels of my tortured plimsolls. My little legs, pumping hell-for-leather under my little backside. "Oi . . !" He offered in broken sporadics' . . . "Oi . . . you . . . tuppence . . . little . . . scroat . . . short . . !" Point of fact for you . . . looking back from this very moment in your time . . . I must say, that for what was typically expected of bully Burke when he got his wind up - this, his most recent outburst - could only really merit a 'tepid' . . . considering recent events!

 

Anyway, the gateposts were rushing up a blur . . . beyond them lay the wide open road - and freedom . . . and I had just kicked it into top gear, and was about to let rip with a triumphant cowboy sort of 'YAHOO' . . . then . . . my lights went out . . ! However . . . my other senses - apart from the 'standing-up' one - remained . . . just long enough for me to hear my melon . . . my beautiful yellow kiss of the Sun . . . smash itself to death as it burst, then bounced down that steep and sleepily picturesque cobbled street - which was now a distant memory of freedom . . . yet even this was stolen from me, as the last things I recall . . . were the gravelly grunts and . . . hoohff . . . oh Christ . . . the all-cloying cloud of stale pee and talc abuse . . . Ma Burke.  My very, very last thought however, was something along the lines of . . . shite!

 

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