Jolly Good Show(For Lyn)

All day stuck up this bloody tree in the middle of bloody nowhere. All the landscape shrunk to this crossroads like the crosshairs on a gun sight brings the distance into focus. “Bloody Nora! ” He swears to himself and laughs. His mother’s name was Nora. Always thought it was hilarious to swear by her. Remembers one time as a boy swearing at her: “And eh by gum she didn’t half hit me hard! ” “Blood seeping through the gum still taste the taste of it on my tongue bloody ‘orrible it was! hated it ever since.” “Now, look whatcha made me done! ” she hollered at him. “Yes…sorry our Mum! ” He didn’t dare cry ‘cos she’d hit for crying! “She was a hard one…our Mum! Had to be with us bloody lot! She were fun though when she were happy! ” He hoped to God that his man would come so he could kill him and be done. Didn’t know him from Adam (leader of the insurgents capable of getting men around him) . “Dangerously Charismatic! ” Better dead to keep the British peace alive as the Empire lay dying. The sun setting dying him a golden brown. “If he don’t come soon I won’t have the light to kill him.” “Remembering shooting game with our Dad rabbit…pheasant up ‘eath in sunlight such as this.” The dangly bloody rabbit turning into next night’s stew eating a celebration of what you can do do well...kill. How he came to be here up a bloody gum tree gun in hand…staring waiting for a man to kill. Same bloody thing. Simple bloody plan! Waiting 3 days now and no man. “Keep your position ...over.” “Maintain radio silence.” “Report in when job done.” “Roger ok that ...over & out.” “Eager to get job done so I can go bloody ‘ome! ” “Didn’t believe it myself until I seed it! ” Dot in the distance translating itself into a man. Just enough light left for killing. “And now, put out the light ...put out the light! ” He muttered to himself. Bloody Othello! The only Shakespeare he knew. “A lass I once knew A real brain & chatter box! ” “ I only ever wanted to get into her knickers & the only way to do so was to listen…so I listened.” “Trying to teach bloody me Proper English and she bloody well Scottish! Bloody cheek! ...och aye...but nooo! ” The crossroads funnel him into the killing spot “Trot trot trot trot! like Noye’s THE HIGHWAYMAN! Why think of Majorie Wallace and her bloody poetry now! No poetry in killing just plain bloody prose. Dead is dead is dead. A blown rose fading on the periphery of his vision. The crosshairs come to rest like a deadly spider on the rider’s face. He’s bloody grinning. The man doesn’t even know he’s already dead! Won’t even know what’s hit him! (Probably thinking of a sweetheart and getting her into bloody bed) Just like I am. Just the gentlest of squeezes like stroking a lassie’s clit (Oh Marjorie bloody Wallace!) Then that’s it! The rifle spits and speaks in the language of the dead and only one man understands what’s said. And where there was a head there is no head. You see it only for the briefest of seconds and can’t really believe it! How the head blossoms! Like a sudden flower and then fades in that instant. Mindless now... he plucks the faded rose (or whatever it is it’s called around here) reminds him of England. Pops it into an amo pocket. Good clean kill. Head shot – one shot. Tries to pretend... but it always hits him hard taking a closer look at his handiwork. Kicks the body: “You poor stupid bloody fucker! ” “ A man no less a man than I am...” Faceless. Lying there in the dirt as he were only having a kip. Becoming dirt. Breaks radio silence: “Come and bloody well pick me up! ” “Jolly well done! ” The radio cackles back. “Jolly good show! ”