Backfire, Pt 2

`Sweet revenge,’ I thought...but how?

Years ago, while still at school, I’d learned the old adage "Don’t get mad - get even", and because of my generally soft nature, it was a maxim I’d stuck to when things got rough. Practical joke paybacks became my forte - and almost my nemesis, on one occasion - and humiliation was the name of the game. Time to think...

I had a strong hunch that `physical’ punishment side of things had been taken care of - judging by Ozzy’s comments - and, as it seemed unlikely I’d get any backlash from them, I nurtured a few ideas of suitable repartee for the rest of the damage. Just for once, I was determined to see this through. I badly wanted to regain some of my long-lost self-respect - I was carrying too many mental scars from other violent past events - and I was damned if I was going to run home to my strong-minded wife with my tail between my legs. What would she think? I didn’t want to find out...and besides, I’d paid for the ticket and weekend expenses.

In the jeep, I set up a plug-in car kettle for a brew, and when I had a cup of hot, strong tea to swallow, I put some painkillers to good use (I always carried a small stock of `soothers’ for various ailments). I considered my options - but after a while it became obvious that I needed some basic information before I could put any plans into action, so when I finished my tea I cleaned up, took my collapsible walking stick from the jeep and locked up, then slowly hobbled back to the show field. I didn’t have to work too hard at looking sore and frail - pain lanced at me from every point in my body.

Heading for the catering area I saw that the showground was beginning to liven up, with people flowing back and forth and others arriving in a steady trickle. When I glanced at my watch, I was amazed to see that it was only just eight o’clock in the morning; it felt more like eleven to my battered head and body. I managed to find someone selling paper-mache bowls of cereal, spied an empty seat at a plastic table, sat down heavily and began spooning corn flakes, though it was hard going with pain sparking from my nose, each time I opened my mouth.

Before I knew it, a couple of bikers joined me and rattled up a conversation about the kerfuffle that morning, and I numbly nodded at the usual `it shouldn’t happen, all bikers together’ comments, and all that jazz; I totally agreed with them. Eventually, I made my polite excuses without letting on my involvement, struggled to my feet and started to shuffle away, leaning heavily on the walking stick. The painkillers might have been half-working, but every joint in my body felt so stiff I could hardly move from the table. I felt about ninety-four, instead of forty-nine...

...And then, a few minutes after a quick visit to a portaloo, I unexpectedly discovered the troglodyte lying inside the open doorway into a barn behind the marquee, partly curled-up with a bottle of brown ale in his fist. I felt my heart lurch at the sight of him, but I soon realised that he was out for the count, his tent, sleeping bag and other possessions all heaped up against his back, and his bike - a `survivalised’ heap of an ex-army trail-bike, all matt black and rust - on its stand behind.

For all intents and purposes, he looked just like he’d drunk himself into oblivion - but when I leaned a little closer and squinted, I could see the beginnings of bruises around his face and the backs of his hands. I winced, but felt no pity for him - and respect for whoever had dealt the blows. No split lips, no black eyes or a broken nose - just bruises. Ouch! Serve the bastard right...

"Hey, Baz," came a quiet but steely voice, "what’re you doing here, mate?"

I jumped, then turned to find Ozzy standing behind me, hands on hips and frowning deeply.

"Come away, and leave him be," he prompted, and I nodded, stepping toward him.

"It’s okay, Ozzy - just passing by, literally," I excused, turning to take another scan of a few details, frowning and squinting as I laboured a few observations. "I wasn’t looking for him - just happened to walk this way. Coming back from the loo, y’see?"

We stood and looked down at the troglodyte, and I thought, ‘He’s going to be bloody angry when he comes round, and probably blame me’. I said so to Ozzy, but he shrugged and jerked his head.

"He’s been put straight on that score, mate. You get any hassle from him, you tell me," and he passed me a business card with his phone number on. I read it, saw that he was now the owner of a motorcycle shop - his dream, I remembered - and I smiled, nodding.

"You got there, then? Well done, mate!" I congratulated him, as I pocketed the card.

He smiled as he accepted my card in return, and I glanced back at the `trog’ before we moved away. Something caught my eye, but I kept the observation to myself...

"It took a long while," he began, proud to tell me of his achievement. "Got a good business now, though," he continued, and we strolled away, catching up on drifting lifestyles. When I’d last seen him, his previous club had been draining his finances and causing him some worry. Once again, though, Black Sabbath interrupted the chat, and he had to excuse himself with a roll of his eyes.

"Sorry, Baz - got things to organise. No peace for the wicked," he apologised. "Look, I’m going to be a bit busy today - we’re having a `barbie’ this evening, before the bands kick off. You want to join us? We can have a better chinwag. You can tell me all about your wife, then, and why you didn’t invite me to the wedding!"

"Invite you? She wouldn’t have been safe!" I retorted, trying to smile. "Anyway, will I be welcome after all this aggro?" My heart was fluttering a little at the thought - I wasn’t sure at all.

"’Course you will," he assured me. "You’ll be my guest. There’ll be others - you’ll be fine." I could see that look of exasperation in his eyes and I hastily accepted.

"I’d be glad to, mate! Anyone else I might know?" I added, putting as much enthusiasm as I could muster into it.

"Maybe...I don’t know. You’ve been out of it a long time," he reminded me. "Anyway, we’ll catch up later, okay? Gotta go... Oh, I nearly forgot," he added, fishing in a waistcoat pocket. "Thirty quid, mate - it’s all we managed to squeeze out of him. Can you get a `bag or tent for that?"

"Er - yeah, I think Tesco are doing some cheapies right now," I confirmed, my eyebrows up. "They’ll do, if they’ve got any in stock around here...and thanks, mate. I really didn’t expect anything."

"The least I can do. Catch you later, then."

We exchanged nods and he turned on his heel, marching off briskly. I waited until he was out of sight, shoved the cash into a pocket, turned and scanned the area - trying not to look furtive - then edged my way back to the barn. Keeping out of reach and being careful where I trod, I squinted at a cloudy black mark on the back of the `trog’s Levi jeans, just between right thigh and buttock. I felt a frown creasing my forehead as I moved around his bike for a quick look at a couple of details on it - and once again, I felt that wicked grin fighting its way back. An unexpected bonus, I realised...

Time to go shopping, I decided, and I toddled away. With a plan brewing gleefully in my warped imagination I managed to put a little zest into my step, almost swinging the walking stick as I went.

* * *

Over the missing years, I’ve learned a great deal from my wife about culinary and animal hygiene, and from work, a little more about hazardous chemicals; I put that knowledge to good use during that shopping trip. The local supermarket produced four fresh chickens, some decent sausages and some baking spuds for the barbie, a loaf of budget brown bread (for the ducks!), a twelve pack of bottled Newcastle brown, a couple of packs of lager...and a few other - er - necessities. Oh, and a cheap replacement tent and sleeping bag, as predicted.

Back at the showground car park I found I’d lost my original space, but I found a better spot further around the pond, slightly screened by shrubs and trees. With my car kettle set up for another tea brew-up, I opened the jeep’s rear door, folded the seats forward, then set to work on my shopping...

* * *

A while later, I was trembling nervously as I slowly made my way back to the showground, labouring my painful hobbling, with the walking stick very prominent. I stopped near the marquee to lower my carrier-bagged burdens, then dialled Ozzy’s number into my mobile. He answered reassuringly quickly.

"Baz? You okay?"

"Yeah, fine, mate - sore, but fine," I assured him. "Listen - can you spare me a few minutes? There’s something I need to do, and I’d like you with me...for back-up, so to speak."

"What’s that then, mate?" He quizzed, though from the sound of his voice, he’d started moving. "Where are you?"

"I’ll tell you when you get here - I’m at the entrance to the marquee," I told him.

"Okay," he said. "Won’t be a mo’."

Just before he caught up with me, I felt a few shuddering collywobbles for what I was about to do, but I managed to shake off the flurry of fear and smiled at his arrival.

"Come on," he prompted, "what’re you up to?"

"I thought I might try having a little chat with troglodyte over there," I told him, watching his mouth drop open. "Don’t say anything now - just be there, eh? Come on," I urged, picking up my bags and turning, while I still had the courage to do so.

My heart began to pound as I shuffled toward the `trog’, who was now awake, slouched across his belongings and getting angrier in the face, the nearer we approached.

"What the hell do you want?" He growled, his eyes darting from me to Ozzy and back.

"Just a quick word," I began, not having to work at nervousness - it was flowing naturally. Ozzy stood about two paces to one side, his arms folded across his chest, as puzzled as the troglodyte. I placed one of the bags on the grass in front of me, within his reach. Its contents clinked, and he frowned.

"I think you’ve been told it wasn’t me who tipped that water over you, and I’m more than just a bit pissed-off at being on the wrong end of your shitty temper just because I was there, but...whatever," I began, my voice quavering naturally. "The point is, I haven’t been to a bike show in nearly fifteen years," I continued, taking a deliberately shuddering breath, "because I’ve been ill, and I wanted to come to this one because it’s fairly local for me. To be honest, it’s probably the last one I’ll ever do, too - I haven’t got long to go, you see?" I was beginning to babble too fast, so I paused.

His face was a moving picture, running through scorn, pity, embarrassment and a host of other expressions - but Ozzy just stared at me, stunned to the core. I gently patted my lower abdomen.

"Bowels, y’see?" I breathed, jerking my head a little. "They say it’s only a few months off, so I’m getting a few last visits in, while I can still move...though I don’t suppose getting a kicking from you has helped things at all, because I’ve just had to take my strongest painkillers..."

My story seemed to be triggering the right sort of effect. The `trog’s temper appeared to be subsiding, and poor Ozzy’s eyes seemed a little misty as he swallowed something, as hard as he was. Neither seemed to know what to say, so I rounded off as quickly as I could, while I seemed to hold the advantage. I leaned heavily on the walking stick and slightly screwed up my face.

"Look, I think things have got a bit out of hand. I’m prepared to put it aside, though -" I moved the carrier bag closer to him "- and give you these as a peace offering. We all know I don’t have to do this - Ozzy might call me mad, in fact - but all I ask is that you leave me alone, so I can enjoy this last show?"

He glanced at Ozzy, stared at me for a few seconds as he digested my story, then eased himself more upright and sighed deeply, looking at the ground at my feet. I could tell that he didn’t want to apologise - his sort never did - but he accepted my `plea’ with a quick nod.

"Okay," he consented, glancing at Ozzy again.

Ozzy stepped forward a pace, and glared, curling his fists. "I think you owe the man an apology?" He prompted.

I thought he was pushing the moment, but to my surprise, the troglodyte grumbled something that sounded vaguely remorseful, and I nodded to please Ozzy. I didn’t believe he was sorry - not for a moment - but I just wanted the meeting to finish.

"You go near this man again, and I’ll be on you like a ton of bricks," Ozzy rumbled. "Got that? Show the man some respect, and leave him alone!"

There seemed to be a clash of lightning between their eyes, but the tension passed as quickly.

"Okay, okay," the `trog’ mumbled, then reached out and accepted the bag I was proffering. Not another word, nor a glance, and that was that. I wouldn't risk a handshake - I hadn't forgiven him at all, and I wasn't prepared to go quite that far into peace-making.

I turned to Ozzy, nodded, then turned again and hobbled away with him pacing quietly at my side, though I could feel the `trog’s glare burning into my back as we ambled along. I was a quivering wreck and my legs felt like jellies by the time we stopped in front of the marquee, well out of sight and earshot. He looked lost for words as I turned to face him.

"Baz..mate...I - I don’t know what to say," he began. "I didn’t realise..."

I winked, pulled a sly smile, and watched as a hint of comprehension dawned in his eyes.

"If you believed that, mate, you’ll believe anything!" I jibed, the fluttering in my chest slowing.

"You mean...? You sly old...bugger!" He finished, almost laughing and shaking his head. "You really had me going, there!"

"That’s what I call `going for the sympathy vote’," I said. "It’s worked before, though not since I got pounded at junior school." I tilted my head in the direction of the barn. "The beer’s just an insurance policy I didn’t mind paying - as long as he’s the boozer I think he is, and drinks it all..."

He squinted at me, quizzically, resting his hands on his hips as his eyes bored into mine. "What have you done? Spiked the bottles?" He was quick, I’ll give him his due.

"Wait and see," I returned.

He frowned, rolled his eyes, then grinned, nodding. "Old habits die hard, eh, mate? Can't resist a gag or two?"

"All I can do at this stage is keep my fingers crossed," I continued. "There’s more than one way to cook a chicken, so-to-speak...and talking of chickens - here’s some things for the barbie, mate!"

I held the other carrier bag out to him, and he took it and peered inside.

"Nice one!" He exclaimed, grinning again. "You didn’t have to, but thanks, Baz."

"It’s the least I could do, after you saved my skin...again. It’s a token of my appreciation," I smiled to break the sobering mood, "but please, chuck `em in the caterers’ fridge, or something, and don’t forget to tell your chef to cook `em well - I don’t want food poisoning as well as bruises!"

He smiled, and we parted company with a `meet up later’ promise. I hobbled back to the corner of the marquee, casually surveyed the showground’s collection of displayed bikes and trikes - and caught the glowering eyes of the troglodyte as he lounged beside his heap. He raised one of the bottles of Newcastle Brown, tipped it at me in a mock salute and took a large swig. Definitely not someone to trust in keeping promises, I could see, and my heart fluttered again. I just hoped it would work...

I lifted my chin in a return gesture, then turned away to go feed the ducks.

* * *

Three hours on, the show was in full swing, an afternoon support band was playing some Gary Moore numbers, people were milling around, inspecting the show bikes and doing all that show-goers do...and the troglodyte looked encouragingly intoxicated, after just three bottles out of eight.

* * *

The hours ticked on by, prizes were given, events moved on, the Club’s barbie began around six, I joined them and presented them with the lager packs and last few Newcastle Browns (untouched!), and as we stood munching and chatting, reminiscing and joke cracking, I cast a glance toward the ‘trog’. Somehow, he’d managed to pitch his tent - not too straight, mind you - outside the barn, but now he was sprawled like a starfish, just about comatose again...and grasping the seventh Newcastle Brown in his fist.

Pulling my attention back to the knot of bikers I was standing with, listening to one of Ozzy’s jokes, I smiled from my core as I felt a wave of relief washing through me like a gentle tide. It looked like `Phase One’ was working, but I needed to be certain. I waited, chatted and laughed amiably...

A couple of hours later, I sneaked over to the `trog’ by a roundabout route, checked his slow, steady pulse and deep breathing, then returned to the party.

* * *

It was about three in the morning when I finally got back to my jeep, stone cold sober, to collect the remainder of my shopping. I’d pitched the new tent and laid the sleeping bag just as the first evening band had started - when I was sure the `plot’ was working - and I’d really enjoyed the socialising and reminiscing, so I was looking forward to a good sleep soon; all that remained was a little technical skulduggery.

I traced my way back to the comatose troglodyte, then set to work on his bike, starting with the plug cap, adding a touch of vegetable matter where it counted, and ending with a chemical additive or two...

* * *

I was standing chatting with Ozzy and a couple of other past acquaintances, cuddling a china mug of steaming tea at around eight-thirty on the Sunday morning, when I heard the pounding of boots approaching, but not particularly rhythmically. Our conversation dwindled as the troglodyte stomped and staggered past as rapidly as he could weave, holding his stomach, heading for the toilets...

"Phase two," I whispered as I caught Ozzy’s eye, winked and allowed myself a little smirk. He twitched an eyebrow and shot a brief, puzzled half-smile at me, then we returned to our four-way rose-tinted bike chat. He kept firing odd glances at me during the conversation, forcing me to fight down smiles that would have been inappropriate to the subjects, until our two companions eventually rounded off and wandered away to meet their friends. Finally, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Ozzy jerked his head at the rank of portaloos.

"What was that about `Phase two’?" He queried. "What the hell did you put in that beer?" He was smiling, though.

"A few diazepam to knock him out, and a good few slugs of syrup of figs to get him...er...going, when the pills wore off," I confessed.

Ozzy roared with laughter, clapping me on one shoulder. I winced and flinched as fierce pains shot through me again, and he stopped laughing abruptly, apologising as he cast glances at other people around us - some also wincing, but more from having their hangovers jangled than anything else.

"You bastard!" He hissed, gleefully. "You sneaky little bastard! You know, I really didn’t think you had the bottle, but..." He chuckled again, shaking his head, nodding at the toilets as a dreadful groaning emerged from one. "Jesus!" He breathed as others took notice of the noises and smiled, guessing their own theories. "How many did you give him, for Christ’s sake? Where’d you get it from, anyway?"

"Three per bottle - probably enough to zap a hippo, I should think. I keep some handy for occasional palpitations," I said, tapping my chest. "You’re not supposed to drink alcohol with `em, though - it’s probably given him a whopping hangover."

"Oh, what a shame!" He mocked, raising his coffee mug and grinning.

We both chuckled, then watched as the `trog’ slammed open the door of the cubicle he was using, fell forward on his hands and knees, groaned again as he held his head in his hands and vomited - and then jack-knifed back into the cubicle. Why people smile at others’ misfortune, I’m not sure, but many folks grinned at each other after witnessing the movements.

I twitched my eyebrows in a `told you so’ gesture as I grinned and left Ozzy talking to a trader, and tramped off to collect my tent and sleeping bag. I just hoped the gorilla was going to recover enough to fulfil the piece de resistance...

* * *

It was around mid-day when I next caught up with Ozzy, Danny and a couple of others in an old caravan behind the marquee and next to the barn. The caravan had provided an organisational nerve-centre for the host club, and a succession of bikers tramped in and out as the show was gradually closed down and tasks were issued to anyone daft enough to stand still for longer than thirty seconds.

Ozzy was chatting with his `oppo’ Sergeant-At Arms, who was a surprisingly short but wiry character, but still someone I wouldn’t like to cross in a dark alley, that’s for sure. Ozzy broke off when I stepped in and made the introductions between us...just as I noticed the tattoo on the other S.A.A’s hand. Both he and Ozzy saw my expression change, and the apology was issued.

"Sorry about the trouble you’ve had, my friend," the wiry one growled. "Bastard can’t take a joke, can he?" He commented, jerking his head across the front of the barn door. "I didn’t think he’d pick on you - thought he’d seen me through the flap."

I sighed deeply, shaking my head and feeling strangely nauseous for an instant. What could I say?

"Water under the bridge," I finally replied, being as neutral as possible; what the hell... "Good shot, though!" I congratulated him, trying to be hearty. "Made up for my beer," I added. "Mind you, if I had done it, I’d’ve used a bucket of slurry from the pig farm over there..."

It was an entertainment `bravado’ comment more than truth, but they laughed and groaned as one, the other S.A.A. reaching out to shake my hand. "No hard feelings then, my friend?"

"Hell, no," I said. "Life’s too short..."

"When’re you leaving, Baz?" Ozzy asked.

"Sometime in the next hour or so," I told him, beginning to feel somewhat dismayed that it looked like the `Grand Finale’ I’d planned was in fact going to be an anti-climax; I thought that maybe I’d `disabled’ the `trog’ too far...until I noticed movement beyond the window as he strapped his bundled tent and belongings across his tatty bike.

My heart lurched as I watched the `trog’ pull on his helmet, then bend down for one last bout of stomach emptying; alcohol, diazepam and laxative obviously didn’t mix. He straightened up, swaying, and put the key in the ignition switch, swung out the kick-starter, leapt on it - and all I heard was a faint "chaff". Ozzy frowned, turned, and everyone followed my squint.

After a few more fruitless swings on the kick-starter (the `trick’ needed `priming’ to work, so the more the merrier, I hoped!), his temper was beginning to fray a little - and finally he noticed the spark plug cap dangling idle. I heard him snarl and yell "BASTARDS!", casting fearsome glares at Ozzy’s Club’s pitch, obviously blaming them - and after jamming the cap back in place, he took a hefty lunge on the kick-starter. He was rewarded.

There came a peculiar loud "Whaff-THUD!" combination, and a jet of jellied flame lanced upward from a very rusty exhaust pipe to his thigh and buttock as an un-barbecued spud rocketed toward us in the caravan.

`Oh, shit!’ I thought...

We ducked as the blackened missile splattered and shattered the window, cowering as toughened glass burst everywhere.

There was an instant of shocked silence - and then, our ears were assaulted with the most unearthly, blood-curdling howl, and one by one, we straightened up to stare out, bemused, at the downed troglodyte. The others laughed harder still at the sight of the him slapping at the flames boiling around his thigh and buttocks as he rolled on the grass next to his fallen bike. I settled for a satisfied grin as Ozzy swivelled on his heel.

"Go, Danny!" he urged, snatching up a fire extinguisher and shoving it into the youngster’s hands. Both of them shot me an odd look, but Danny was off at a sprint as Ozzy carried on sniggering beside me, the others laughing fit to burst as one picked up the spud’s battered core from the floor and they, too, left the caravan.

Their laughter seemed to fade into echoes as I stood there, hands deep in pockets, taking a deep breath and releasing it as a slow sigh as I watched the culmination of my `dastardly’ efforts.

"’Vengeance is a dish best served cold’," I quoted aloud, and as I saw Ozzy’s head snap around on hearing the old Arabian proverb, I looked at him and completed with "...and you can’t get much colder than a good blast of CO2 up yer backside, eh?"

"Eh?" He breathed, and I swallowed. I wondered if I’d taken things too far for him - and then he caught on and roared with laughter once more, watching as Danny enthusiastically squirted the prostrated `trog’ and then a bit of his bike, briefly, until the cylinder puffed its last, leaving the victim’s bared thigh and buttock almost caked in a film of frost.

It was as if a switch had been thrown in my head, and with a sobering face, I jerked my head at Ozzy.

"Come on - there’s something I just have to do," I told him, and stepped out of the caravan. I walked slowly, still using the stick to offset the pain in my right knee, and stopped near the `trog’. One Club member frowned at me and raised an arm to hold me back, but Ozzy stopped him and nodded his assent.

"Oooh, that looks so sore!" I teased loudly, putting as much mock concern as I could into it as I crouched down out of reach, while the `trog’ groaned, utterly spent from throwing up yet again. The others mostly sniggered as I looked at the palm-sized blister where his buttock and thigh joined, and the surrounding bright red skin as the frost evaporated, steaming. I was surprised - and disappointed - that it wasn’t worse.

"Does it hurt?" I asked him, acting the innocent. "Does it really hurt?"

From an inside pocket in my jacket, I pulled a small aerosol of burns treatment and tossed it to Danny, drawing some curious glances from a couple of the lads. I could almost hear them thinking `Why would he have that, so conveniently?’ Danny shook the can, a slow smile spreading across his face...

"Furroff!" I think the troglodyte mumbled.

"That’s good...I mean, that’s terrible!" I played, getting a few more sniggers and a choking sound from Ozzy. I looked up and saw him struggling not to laugh aloud. Danny set to work with the aerosol, and the `trog’ howled and bucked, forcing a couple of burly lads to pin him down so the burns could be squirted...I mean, treated properly. Danny finished spraying with a flourishing spiral, and when the howling subsided, I gently tapped the `trog’s shoulder with my walking stick.

"How’s your guts?" I continued. The `trog’ turned his head, and his bleary eyes wavered toward me.

"F’goff!" He groaned, beginning to realise who I was.

"How’s your head?"

"F’GOFF!" He yelled at me, and I flinched a little, in spite of my advantage. The lads were still grinning, though.

"It all hurts, doesn’t it?" I commented. "Thing is, though - what hurts more?" I paused as I waited for him to focus. "The squirts? The hangover? That little burn? ...Or is it the humiliation, in front of all these lads?" I hissed, labouring the last point. "Not nice to be made a fool of, eh?"

"F’GOFF, Y’BASTARD!" He screamed, trying to heave off his `minders’. He gritted his teeth as the spray worked at the burn, and I leaned a little closer to him, supported by the walking stick.

"You reap as you sow, my friend," I growled, "you reap as you sow..."

I’d had enough, and I felt strangely calm as I grasped Ozzy’s arm for physical support. He heaved me upright, and I nodded to the others one by one as I turned, drawing an interesting selection of expressions, then I hobbled off with my knee burning in agony. I didn’t care about the pain - I was just surprised at how cool and settled I was feeling after the confrontation. I suppose it had been a long, long time coming...

I heard Ozzy mumbling instructions behind me, then he caught up and we walked slowly and silently back to my jeep. When we reached it, I stowed the walking stick behind the seat, then turned to Ozzy.

"I think you `turned a corner’, back there," he said, looking me straight in the eyes. "I think you’ve finally opened up. Whatever you’ve been bottling up all this time, I reckon you’ve exorcised it with him."

"You reckon?" I queried, surprised at his philosophical change.

"Yep. To be honest, I didn’t think you had it in you, facing someone like that."

"I’d be the first to agree with that, mate," I nodded. "I don’t know where it all came from." I smiled, nodded again, then gave him a grin. "Good laugh, though, eh?"

He chuckled, then surprised me again by grasping me in a gentle bear hug. I returned it without a second thought.

"You take care, now - and keep in touch," he ordered me.

"I will," I promised. "Don’t think I’ll be doing any more shows or rallies, though. We’ll see..."

"I know one thing," he said, "I won’t forget this weekend in a hurry."

"Same here," I agreed as I climbed into the jeep and started the engine, "and nor will ‘Napalm Nuts’ over there - especially the next few weeks whenever he tries to sit on the loo..." Ozzy smiled at the nickname and chuckled at the thought "...and I reckon he’ll be doing that more than normal for the next few days at least..."

"How d’you mean?" He queried, frowning as he caught my comment.

"You'd be amazed at just how much juice you can squeeze into beer bottles from four raw chickens," I told him. "I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he goes down with a dose of salmonella..."

He was laughing so hard that his eyes were watering and he had to hold his stomach as I edged the jeep back to the gateway, then grinned and waved goodbye...


by Baz Elzebub.

So you think The Da Vinci Code is blasphemy? You need to read this, because it’s life, Jim, but not as you know it!...

Hark! I heard an ominous rumble as I passed through our village! No, it wasn’t my stomach – well, not that time, anyway…

Silence...then there it was again! Rumble-mumble-bumble…

Was it…a Harley Davidson that I heard? No – that’s more of a ‘blatta-blat’ noise...

Perhaps it was…the onset of Armageddon? No, that’s usually just the speedway running again…

But wait! I saw great, dark storm clouds gathering, the vivid flashes of lightning and heard the mighty rolling crash of thunder over… the Baptist church!?! Aha! Now I know what’s happening – our very own pulpit-pounding ‘pyrotechnical Pastor’ Jim was once again up in front of his flock, calling down fire, brimstone, hell and damnation on all who dared to…um…read a book??

"Pardon me?" You might ask; allow me to elucidate…

In two issues of our parish newsletter, you could have read the Baptist Church column in which the Pastor had been vehemently and vociferously vivisecting author Dan Brown’s best-selling novel, "The Da Vinci Code" (now also a major film script). Well, it would seem the book has also stabbed raw nerves in other – er – persons-of-the-cloth, too; Pastor Jim was not alone in his ostentatious protestations. Strange, really, as the book is just a fictitious story that essentially covers an unorthodox view on the Holy Grail theme. Hmm - there’s a distinct lack of Testamental tolerance afoot…

In case you’d spent too many months in Outer Mongolia, I’ll recap the novel’s plot very briefly. It follows a professor’s quest to discover the ‘truth’ behind a claim about Jesus’ blood-line (in the form of a collection of ‘family tree’-type documents, or similar), Mary Magdalene appearing to be more than just a bystander, a secret brotherhood protecting the…um…’secret’, bouncing off Pagans, Knights Templar and several other ‘mystic’ clans en route to the truth – and, of course, the professor’s enemies in his journey of discovery takes the villainous form of a renegade Catholic Bishop and a psychopathic monk, both hell-bent on murderously preventing the consequent catastrophic exposure of a centuries-old fraudulent Christian cover-up.

It may sound like a far-fetched and crazy plot to some folks, but it is a very entertaining, thoroughly-enjoyable thriller that I recommend highly to every open-minded citizen…and strangely-enough, I hear a whisper from within that – following the Pastor’s twin tirades - our local supermarkets have experienced a slight upsurge in this novel’s sales … How strange...

Perhaps the sales increase may have a connection with the ministerial mention of Pagan (sex) rituals? Perhaps the new readers are keener to learn about those, more than the plot itself, I wonder? Hmm – I’m intrigued! Has anyone a contact address for the local Pagan Swingers Society? Sounds like fun… Ahem! I digress…

From that parish magazine column – and other sources - we are urged to believe that The Da Vinci Code is pure baloney, but…well…methinks that the clergy doth protest too much!!

Gadzooks! Perchance that the novel’s ‘claims’ are too close to the ‘truth’ for comfort? Perhaps all churches are party to the greatest religion-wide ‘cover-up’ in history?? That, dear reader, would go some way to explain particularly potent palpitational pontifications, of late! The novel’s plot (if even vaguely true) would almost certainly qualify the oft-said phrase "Jesus lives on in all our hearts", if the Messiah’s blood-line has continued through Mary Magdalene’s womb, as the story is purported to ‘claim’ – yet who can prove, indisputably, that it hasn’t continued in this way? Not even the Vatican…and let's face it, the canny Cardinals wouldn’t endorse that theory, anyway, or the clergy would all be claiming unemployment benefits, tout-de-suite.

Well, if The Da Vinci Code has resoundingly rattled rectory railings, I can’t help but wonder – just for a jaunty jest - how the clergy en masse might have reacted to another book that I read in my youth? It was a compendium of novelettes written at the time when the phrase ‘genetic engineering’ was first coined for the masses.

The central thread of the stories was that of an alien race cruising the cosmos in a vast spaceship-laboratory, seeking out planets to ‘colonise’ – with a difference. Instead of invading and annihilating, they’d assess the current inhabitants (if any), wipe out the nasties among them, do any ecological modifications that were necessary to sustain intelligent life, and then biologically engineer a new ‘breed’ to evolve into a superior ‘race’, tailored to that environment. Thus, fish went to water-based planets, birds to others, insectoids on another, etc, etc – until, finally, this alien ‘Creator’ race came upon a green and blue planet, removed the huge, vicious carnivores from its surface by ‘firing’ a couple of passing asteroids at it to alter to atmosphere for a while, and when the dust settled, re-populated the planet with genetic replicas of themselves, and allowed these humanoid forms to evolve. Sounds like a vaguely familiar theory, eh?

I know, I know – you could see the end coming before I got there, but it was a cleverly concocted collection of conundrums, all fascinatingly detailed from a vivid imagination, and as a youngster, I enjoyed them. Yes, it was pure escapism - yet strangely, the stories also helped to open my mind to many other possible explanations of the origin and evolution of ‘the species’. The only sickener in the collection was the very end, when the Alien Creators’ identity was revealed as "Genetic Orienteering & Development", or something close – and of course, the very obvious acronym of their pompous title is …wait for it…G.O.D.! That identity was passed down to the planet’s inhabitants, and the rest was supposed to be gospel history. Oo-er, missus!

"Oh, what a load of silly-billy, sci-fi clap-trap!!" I hear all the zealots howl. Oh, really? How do you know - with absolute and total 200% conviction - that this exercise in a fictional guess-work/artistic interpretation of ‘Genesis’ isn’t what really happened thousands of years ago, hmm? Were any of us actually there when ‘creation’ happened? ‘Course not; even the Pope isn’t quite that old…

Well – it was a fun book for a young man… But - Shock! Horror! - What if that book had reached cult-status in the same way of The Da Vinci Code, hit the mainstream of publishing and sold millions, and ‘converted’ the weaker minds of parish populace? What would the churches have proclaimed then, with Christianity teetering on the brink of collapse as the worshippers left their chapels in droves, seeking ‘true’ enlightenment - whilst vicars twisted their knickers and squeezed their ankhs in angst, facing mass redundancy? Time for apostolic apoplexy, I suspect!!

Take things a stage further; what, I wonder, would the clergy have also thought of the next revelation that I fell upon a while later? Astoundingly – by some quaint quantum quirk - this ‘secret’ coincidentally framed the last of those short stories into ‘parallel’ context…sort-of…

It was during a very deep and spiritual conversation with a gathering of New Age Sages (‘Bikers’, to you and I!) that a casual remark was made – but the shocking effect was electric… palpable… there for all to feel! There we were, all gathered around a crackling camp fire in a circle of standing stones in deepest Wiltshire, surrounded by dense fog (oddly odorous of scorching leather, wacky-baccy and beer fumes), mellowed by measures of whisky and wine, gently mumbling our way around the trials and tribulations of life, the universe and the latest turbo-doodah superbikes, when ‘The Wise One’ (the chap with the longest beard and baldest crown) uttered the immortal words: "Did you all know that Jesus was half-alien?"

It was as if a bomb had been dropped in our midst! One moment we were all sitting up, leaning forward and listening closely to whispered words of intense wisdom, and the next, falling flat on our backs, peeling outwards like a fast-opening sunflower, beer cans spouting and frothing everywhere, bodies all over the place…

When we all finally stopped laughing and whooping long enough to listen further to the ‘Sage’, who was still sitting calmly waiting for the fuss to die down, he qualified his claim by stating that the Star Of Bethlehem was in fact the name of Jesus’ father’s spaceship, and that this errant alien took on human form as he beamed-down, had his wicked way with the Virgin Mary (having zapped Joseph with a stun-gun first), then returned nine months later to witness the birth of "Our Saviour" ‘from the hover’ in his spaceship, thus giving the not-so-wise men something of an aiming point to take their goodies. Oh, and Jesus’ daddy’s race had built our planet, but didn’t like the way we were running the show, so he decided to "install a new manager", so-to-speak. "Perhaps something went wrong in the translation," mumbled this great Sage, "’coz the baby ended up in a manger, instead!"

All true, I swear (though not on the bible!). A new ‘religion’ was born that night – once the hysterics had faltered into boozy snores… and believe it or not, there’s a large number of people from many walks of life who follow that (or very similar) thinking…but even they don’t know the Holy Son’s real identity – according to the latest polled theory of disenchanted ex-worshippers, that is.

You see, the absolute ‘truth’ – according to the ‘gospel’ of this poll – is that Jesus was in fact… a JEDI KNIGHT!! (Star Wars, George Lucas, 1977.)

Yes, folks – you did read that right: the claim is that yes, the Star of Bethlehem was a spaceship…but it was actually a Diplomatic Cruiser, owned by Senator Bail Organa of the planet Alderaan… and the rest of the claim states that the baby Jesus was in fact another off-spring of a powerful Jedi, left to the Virgin Mary by Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, for her to name as she wished and raise as her own son, thus keeping him secret from an unknown evil being…

How do I know this (theory) to be a supported ‘true’ faith? Take a look at the last UK National Census, and you will find that there are now over 36,000 people in these Hallowed Isles registered as ‘Jedi’ in the box marked ‘Religion’, turning their backs on whatever they followed before to take their newly chosen path of logic and reason according to the ‘gospel’ of George Lucas, creator of the "Star Wars" universe. Most are normal people who are just a touch fed-up with the world religious scene in general…but there are a few kookies amongst them who do interpret the fables in the Holy Bible in a different way to Christians. How else, these new Jedi claim, can the biblical ‘miracles’ be explained, except in Jedi terms?

Feed the 5,000? Simple, they say – a teaspoon-full of fish/bread gruel and a basic Jedi mind trick ("You are not hungry, my Padawan – sup this and move along. Next, please!").

Walking on water? Easy-peasy, they claim – "Use the force to levitate, my son."

Resurrection, after crucifixion? It has been seen that all good Jedi pass on to immortality – a simple ‘force’-push to roll away the stone as the body fades into the ether…or into the Shroud Of Turin, perhaps?

The list of (explicable) claims stretch on into infinity, it seems – and the ‘Chosen Ones’ (as these few call themselves) also claim the Jesus wasn’t the only Jedi in the bible – Moses was believed to be another! He is purported to have used ‘the force’ to hold back the waters, to name but one of his famous tricks (and, I see, he also had a motorbike, all those centuries ago: "Moses came down the hill on his Triumph"! Can’t be all bad, having a biblical biker…). Perhaps Jesus was a ‘Yoda’, after all…

So, with all these freshly-converted ‘Jedi’ in our midst, it can only be a matter of time until their opposition, the evil Sith Lords, put in an appearance…though I’m already harbouring serious doubts about the true identity of "Emperor" George ‘Dubya’ Bush; could he really be Darth [Hideous] Sidious in disguise? Or…

…Or was that the Pastor? Is that how he cast down flame and thunder upon all who dare stray from the indoctrinated Christian path? Was that ‘Force’ lightning that I saw crackling over the church, drawn from ‘The Dark Side’ when someone was audacious enough to challenge conventional Christian thinking? …

Uh-oh! Never mind the pyrotechnic postulations! Forget the apostolic apoplexy! There's an earthquake underfoot, storm clouds are gathering once more! It seems I've spoken the truth!The Pastor’s really going for it now - steam from the ears…eyes bulging on sprung stalks…flames from the mouth…thunderbolts from the fingertips…the heady odour of ozone (or something)…the fuses are popping like mad…he’s – he’s - eee-yuk! – melted, into a pungent, putrified sludge… Oh, whoops! Temper, temper…

Well, of course I’m "’Avin’ a larf", as they whine in BBC’s ‘Dead-Enders’! That’s the whole point of this article – a tongue-in-cheek repartee to the Pastoral proclamations over a work of fiction, intended merely to open the minds of our readers to the indisputable reality that nobody, but no-body, knows the total and absolute truth to our being and our evolution, no matter what dusty old books and piles of papyrus might claim.

There are some who say that the Holy Bible is the greatest work of fiction ever written (and we may never know the truth of that theory) – but let’s face it, ALL opinions and notions are equally valid [even apparently wild, fictional concepts] until history is proven unequivocally, one way or another. Come on, let’s face it – we’d be a dull society indeed, if we were all denied the imagination to create such escapism from tedium, routine and indoctrination; flex those chuckle-muscles and ‘live and let live’, I say…

My ‘umble apologies to the Pastor - I hope he won’t take personal offence at this ‘riposte’ – none was intended. I know him not from Adam or Eve – but I never could resist a little ecclesiastical excitation; it’s the devil in me! However, if I’m zapped by a massive lightning bolt when passing the Baptist Church at any time, I’ll take that to mean he’s got the ‘ump with me! I’ll know for sure, then, that he’ll have had an NHS ‘humorectomy’, without anaesthetic…

Having lit the blue touch paper, I’ll close my elevator doors and return to the burning basement…

Baz Elzebub.

(alias ‘Dartht Bleeda’ - May The Force Be With You, Always!)

Run, Mortal, RUN!


Deep within that darkest hour
When vampires leave their eerie towers,
Banshees’ howling fills the night,
The undead rise, a fearful sight…

You mortals scatter far and wide,
So desperate to find a hide,
Footsteps echo close behind,
Terror fills your tiny mind…

On you run, eyes wide with fear,
The swirling mist creeps ever near,
You slip and slide across the mud,
Shadows chasing for your blood…

Cross a bridge, through the trees,
You trip and fall on hands and knees,
Your lungs are burning, out of breath,
And all around, the stench of death…

Hear the moaning of the ghouls,
The wailing of tormented souls,
Feel the draught of leathered wings,
The touch of putrid, gruesome things…

Legs so heavy, on you lurch,
Sanctuary, a gothic church,
Stumble on toward the nave,
Stagger past an open grave…

Icy fingers grasp your legs,
You fall, you scream, you sob, you beg,
You kick and claw for all you’re worth
But can’t escape that pull to earth…

Then on your neck, the foetid hiss
Of Nosferatu’s deadly kiss,
The gargoyles grin and dip their heads,
They count... the seconds…‘til…you’re...dead...

by Baz L. Zebub, 1982 - (pre-Thriller, Michael Jackson!)

FICTION: Backfire, Pt 1

The smoke stung my eyes as it drifted up from the smouldering remains of my tent. I sat on the cold earth, leaning bruised arms on battered knees as I gazed blankly at the mess, the nauseous smell of melted nylon and plastic creeping into my bloodied nostrils as I wondered, painfully, why some people could be so...

The right expression escaped me just for a moment, but despite (or maybe because of) the boot-inflicted pains all over my body, the anguish of my losses, and strangely, the sense of shame at my failure to defend myself, I could feel pure rage simmering for the first time in many, many years. It took quite a while for the sensation to well up, rising from my tingling bare feet and soothing bruised nerves on its way to my numbed brain, but when it hit and the shaking began, I knew that for only the second time in my life, I really wanted to fight back - and I would, somehow. No way was that...bastard...going to get away with this; no way on Earth...


It had all started out well enough. For the first time in fifteen years, I wanted to go to a bike show and have a chill-out weekend, away from the stress of driving, working, call-outs and exhaustion, and my long-suffering, non-biking wife agreed that it would probably do me some sort of good - either calm me down, or prove that I’d "grown out of such things", to loosely quote her. Whatever the outcome, I’d packed my old tent and kit into our little 4WD (the `Guzzi was in bits in the garage, having choked on a dropped valve) and chugged off on the Friday afternoon to what I’d hoped would be a quiet weekend filled with bikes, chinwags and music. I’d parked the `jeep’ in a neighbouring field, lugged my basic kit on site and pitched the tent, chucked the sleeping bag in and strolled off to grab a small beer and see what was what.

The atmosphere was a warm, familiar one - a sea of tents, growing larger by the hour as bikes and trikes rumbled and growled through the gateway, leather-clad people weaving between them all as they sought out old friends, or inspected others' machinery... I caught myself grinning with pleasure, muted it to a subtle smile in case anyone thought I was on "happy pills" or something, and I wandered the grounds, taking in the smells of hot oil, the "tink-tink-tink" sounds of cooling engines and exhausts, the glow of subtle paint schemes, the dazzle of others; it felt good to be back...

As the evening ticked by and the first band started up, I plonked myself on a hay bale and leaned against one of the marquee poles, all set to enjoy things. To be honest, I don’t tend to get up and bop around like I used to because various problems and illnesses have weakened me more than I like to admit, so I was content to enjoy a long sit-down, nod and foot-tap to the beat, without hassle. Sadly, it wasn’t to be.

A hand grabbed the neck of my old cut-off jacket and yanked me backwards off the bale, my fresh beer tipping all over my face and chest as I landed on my back beside a pair of huge boots. Someone laughed above me, and a voice was raised above the music.

"Oi! That’s MY seat!" came the declaration, as I wiped the beer from my eyes and face and struggled to my feet.

"Since when?" I responded without thinking. "I didn’t see any names on it."

"Oh, we’ve got a smart-arse, Danny!" came the rumble of impending doom.

I thought, `Oh, shit - here we go’ - and the troglodyte landed a punch in my ribcage that sent me flying backwards into another group of lads like a ten-pin ball into skittles. A few went down with me, but all I could focus on was the searing pain in my chest that seemed to stop my heart. I heard a lot of strong language, but as the lads picked themselves - and me - off the floor, their protests dwindled as I followed their eyes. Some heavy-looking bodies had swung into view, and other folks turned away. When I could breathe again, I apologised to the lads and offered replacement pints for spilled drinks, but they waved me away, wanting to distance themselves from the disturbance.

Eventually I got my wits and vision back, and I saw the `trog’ and his mate - presumably `laughing Danny’ - perched on the hay bale, with their backs turned to me as if I no longer existed...and it was then that I noticed the Prospect bottom `rocker’ badge on `Laughing Danny’s’ cut-off. The troglodyte’s back was bare, but even so, my already pained mood plummeted even further when I noticed that most of the crowd now around them were full members of the same MC. The troglodyte glanced back at me, bared his teeth in a snarl, and I thought `Uh-oh, here we go again’ as I glared and gritted my teeth back at him, slowly shook my head, then turned and shuffled out of the marquee. The last thing I saw when I exited and glanced back was the `trog’ grinning his head off as he and his mate turned the bale to the side of the marquee.

I’ve never been one to dispense violence and certainly didn’t enjoy receiving it, but there had been a time, long ago, when - if it had been a one-to-one situation - I would have dug deep into my reserves and slugged him back, or maybe unleashed one of my old anti-bully `penalty kick’ specialities into his groin and given him a triple Adams apple to choke on - but not now at my age, not in my present state...and certainly not against an `army’, because I simply didn’t know if he was actually connected with the Club; that old cliche of the "all for one, one for all" MC motto still drifted in my head. I knew I’d lose - it was that simple.

I felt that old double-sense of dismay and depression as I wandered aimlessly around the ground for nearly an hour, browsing trade stands, noticing a few vaguely familiar faces from long ago, and all the while experiencing that emotional roller-coaster of fury then frustrating depression; should I stay, or slide off home? Maybe I should forget the bike scene once and for all and be comfortable with my changed lifestyle...?

I kept glancing at the marquee entrance, thinking to myself, `Why me?’ while I plodded around, stewing on the unfairness of it all, and the lousy coincidence after all this time; the last two bike shows I’d visited had resulted in similar scenes, and had been a deciding factor in my `dropping out’ and going into animal rescue, amongst other things.

It looked like another weekend was going to turn sour...but then, something sparked deep inside, smouldering into resolution, and I thought, `Oh, to hell with him!’ I wasn’t going to waste my ticket money after all, and in those few seconds I recaptured a little self-respect, turned around, and went back into the marquee to join the queue at the bar.

As I waited to be served, just to boost my slightly dented confidence, I struck up a conversation with someone who looked vaguely familiar. He turned out to be a bike spares trader who’d been doing the shows for years, and we cross-referenced many long-past events we’d attended.

A pleasant chat indeed, I was thinking, as a bottle of pale ale finally materialised in front of me, and just as I raised it for a sip, I caught sight of a side-curtain moving slightly behind the `trog’. A tattooed fist appeared, then a fire bucket slid through the gap in the canvas over his head, and I nudged my companion and nodded toward the `trog’. As the trader turned his head to see, the bucket was inverted and the icy contents cascaded down. A roar of anger thundered out as the `trog’ leapt to his feet, and the whole marquee seemed to freeze, then roar with laughter as water streamed from the `trog’s long greasy hair and beard. I laughed too, thinking `YESSS! There IS justice, after all!’, judging the quantity of water as "accrued interest" on the loss of my first beer - and then he was pounding past us, barging everyone aside with `laughing Danny’ close on his heels, in furious pursuit of the joker.

There were smiles all round as life resumed in the marquee, with several of the MC Club’s members grinning their heads off as they follow slowly after the `trog’. They returned a few minutes later with him still dripping amongst them, slapping his back and shoulders to make him squelch and grimace...but a few moments later, his eyes locked on to mine.

He zeroed in on me like a heat-seeking missile, a snarl on his face as he hunched his head and bunched his fists. My blood ran cold and I felt rooted to the spot, my heart starting to pound with both fear and anger as he closed in on me. Strangely, the muscles in my right leg began twitching, subconsciously preparing for action. `What the hell...?’ I thought. I narrowed my eyes back at him, started to raise my hands in both defence and protest, but the trader and another bystander stepped forward to block his approach as two of the Club members saw what was starting and joined the bunch. For a moment it looked like things were going to get ugly, but the Club members held the `trog’s arms as the trader spoke to him.

"I think you should back off, my friend," he advised, obviously confident in dealing with the type. "You’re picking the wrong fight - it wasn’t him."

"No, I -" I began, but the trader cut me off with a wave and a sidelong glance.

"He was standing right here when it happened," he continued, "so let’s just calm down, eh? Like a drink, maybe?"

I lowered one hand, but the Club members pulled at the `trog’s arms; he looked far from happy at the turn of events as he was pulled away. They nodded and waved mute apologies, though, so I nodded to accept the gesture, breathing a huge sigh of relief as my leg muscles slackened. It felt reassuringly good to know that the old leg-twitching reactionary instinct was still there, even though I might not have had the real strength to follow through.

"Let me buy you both drinks, lads," I offered my defenders, and refused to take no for an answer. "Thanks a lot for that - I thought that was going to turn rough, there."

"No problem," the trader said, as we turned back to the bar. "We saw what happened earlier, when he pulled you off the bale. Not very gentlemanly, was he?"

"His sort never are," I confirmed, still nervous at the reminder...and I began to tremble a little in reaction to the close shave.

"Something not right with the grey cells there, I’d say," the trader continued. "Might pay you to stay out of his way," he suggested.

"Don’t worry, I intend to," I confirmed. "I came here for a quiet weekend. Anyway - where were we, before we were so rudely interrupted?" I asked, trying to inject some jovial dignity back into the moment. Maybe - just maybe - the troglodyte would find out who really doused him, and leave me alone.

I really should have known better.

* * *

I woke with a start as something clinked outside my tent, then I heard mumbling, followed by the sound of liquid spilling on the fabric.

`Bloody cheek!’ I thought, believing someone was peeing on my tent - until the acrid stench of petrol hit my nostrils and I turned ice cold in an instant. I don’t mind admitting that I felt abject terror for the first time, and I felt my insides turn liquid as I scrambled to free myself from my cocoon of a sleeping bag as a match was struck and my world erupted in an eye-searing flash.

Seen from inside, a fireball is horrific. It turned my muscles to jelly as I fumbled with the flap zipper, but I couldn’t move it. Desperate and absolutely terrified, I grabbed the tag, pulled with all my strength and every hidden reserve I could muster, and the fabric ripped all the way up as I dived out - straight into a pair of steel toe-cap boots that battered first my nose, the back of my head as I hastily covered it, and then my back and shoulders as I instinctively rolled into a ball for protection.

"Oi! That’s enough!" someone bawled, running, but the boots kept pounding my back. I could hear several more feet approaching fast, and my fear increased.

"I said, THAT’S ENOUGH!" came a second shout, punctuated by the sounds of several heavy thumps and grunts.

The kicking stopped, but I stayed foetal, too scared to move in case the pummelling resumed from even more boots, but then my `saviour’ - whoever it was - doled out a string of obscenities at the assailant.

"Take him to the barn," I heard. "Danny - take care of the old boy. See you in a while."

I felt anger rising again at the mention of Danny. It had to be the same one who’d laughed at me in the marquee, but the pain now coursing through me from all points took prime attention and I couldn’t stop shaking as my eyes watered, not crying, certainly in shock, but very grateful to have survived either being roasted or kicked to death. I sensed someone squat down close to my face, then a hand touched my shoulder.

"It’s okay, mate - he’s gone. You can relax, now," came a voice. "Come on, mate - open up, and let me check..." He touched my arm, but his voice trailed off as I took my hands from my throbbing face, raised one elbow defensively and squinted sideways at him, trying to deter his touch. He sighed and shook his head.

"Look, my friend, I’m trying to help you here," he tried.

"You? Help me? After what happened in the marquee?" I reminded him. I groaned, but relented and allowed him to ease me into a sitting position. "Oh shit!" I gritted at the pains lancing from all over.

"Hey, I’m sorry about that," he said, not very convincingly. "Just high spirits, y’know?"

"High spirits, my arse!" I retorted, trying for a touch of dignified contempt. "Too much beer, more like it!" I protested - and that started me off. "That bloody well hurt - he twisted my back and almost smashed my ribs! What gives arseholes like him the right to throw their weight around, eh? Does he always pick on weak people? Being big in front of his mates? What did I do to deserve that?"

"I don’t know," he muttered, giving me all the answers in one. "Still, that was a bloody stupid thing to do, tipping that water over him. Asking for trouble, that was."

"I didn’t!" I growled. "I was in the marquee at the bar when it happened. You both ran right past me on your way out," I continued, seeing sudden doubt in his eyes as I glared at him. "It must have been one of your own blokes pissing about, or something. I saw a heavy tattoo on the hand - ring any bells?"

I saw his frown deepen as he thought hard about it. "Yeah, maybe..." he mumbled, eyeing the ground between us. I was certain he knew the culprit from that detail, but true to form, he wasn’t going to let on to me. "Any bones broken?" he asked, diverting the subject and trying to check me over.

"Hope not - especially not my nose," I mumbled, shivering, and searched the ground for something to staunch the dribble of blood. I couldn’t find anything, so I pulled up the bottom hem of my t-shirt instead, and swabbed. "The bastard! My wife’ll go mad if it’s bust." Stupid thing to babble, but true enough, I thought.

I really started shaking then, as much from cold as shock, because I’d been sleeping in just t-shirt and pants. Danny pulled the burnt remains of my sleeping bag towards me, then shook it out and wrapped it around my shoulders as best he could.

"You sure you don’t need any first aid?" he offered. I shook my head, very slowly. "Can I get you anything?" He tried. "Hot drink, or something?" He was only young, and I sensed that his nerve was breaking; maybe he wasn’t so hard, after all.

"Where’ll you get that at this time in the morning?" I had to ask, somewhat ungraciously, squinting at my watch. 5.30am, it told me. I groaned again.

He looked over to his Club’s pitch, then turned back and twitched his head.

"Someone’s got a brew on. Fancy a coffee?"

"Make it a sweet tea, then," I relented. "And thanks. Maybe you didn’t mean me any harm, but that psycho mate of yours..."

"Yeah, well, the less said about him the better, I think, my friend," he said, turning serious once more. "I’ll be back in a mo’."

He stood up and trudged off, and it was then that I noticed quite a few spectators outside their tents despite the early hour, many bleary-eyed and hung-over, but most looking sympathetic. When Danny had made distance, a few came over to make all the right sort of noises, one or two helping to salvage my scorched jeans and cut-off (miraculously intact, thanks to a habit of sleeping on them in case of sneak thieves) and boots. The remains of the tent still smouldered, and I managed a few quiet, grateful comments to the concerned as I gradually stopped shaking. Eventually they drifted back to their tents, and I subsided into a stupor, gazing at the ashes and blinking the smoke away from my stinging eyes. At least, I think it was the smoke making them tingle...

I tried to tell myself that the fire could have been worse, that the heavy weatherproofing I’d been applying to the storm-sheet over the years had probably saved me a severe burning, that I was lucky he hadn’t doused the surrounding grass as well; lucky, too, that the others were close enough to stop me getting totally pulverised... My thoughts hopped all over the place as I shivered and twitched again with my nerves jangling, staring blankly at the mess, until I slumped to that nadir of numbness that all victims reach, a point I thought I’d never reach again..and that’s when I began to feel umpteen years’ worth of anger rising, bubbling up from half-forgotten episodes, all focussing on that one Neanderthal nutter, who - at that moment - stood to represent all the bullying arseholes I’d ever fallen foul of, at school, at work, at `play’ in my varied social life...

I’d learned how to look after myself the hard way when I was younger and fitter, though I rarely needed to resort to violent behaviour; there were always other ways to deal with people - especially if it hurt the offender’s pockets (always more satisfyingly painful in the long run) - but right then, I wanted to belt seven bells out of that troglodyte; I yearned revenge like never before. It was a strange sensation feeling my temper `hitting the red line’, as some folks put it.

I sat and seethed, rocking back and forth - but as maddened as I was, my temper slowly subsided from boiling point as my frustration with my ageing body grew in its place; it was no good thinking violent thoughts - I wasn’t strong enough for that - but I still wanted revenge, no matter what. Could I find a form of payback that wouldn’t backfire on me? I really hoped so, because I felt that if I was to regain my self-respect, I needed to deal with this problem with dignity and finesse. I was still huddled up and stewing on it, grinding my teeth into oblivion and muttering to myself when Danny returned.

"Here you go, my friend - one hot tea," he offered, "and a bacon roll, if you’re up to it."

I squinted up at him and half-turned to take the polystyrene cup, thought about the roll and nodded.

"It’s a bit early for me," I said, "but thanks, anyway. I’ll eat it in a while, when my stomach stops churning."

He nodded in return, twitched his eyes briefly and turned away, then a voice to my left made me jump.

"How’re you doing, my friend? I’d like to offer you an apology for the aggro you’ve had," came a half-familiar voice, "and to ask you-"

His words tailed off, and pains shot up my back as I tried to turn to face the newcomer, but I gave up as he moved in front of me, then crouched down.

"Don’t I know you from somewhere?" He asked.

I squinted hard at him, unravelling the lines now etched in his face. I tried a smile.

"Hello, Ozzy - long time, no see," I greeted him, a strange and unexpected sense of relief washing through me.

"Baz? Is that really you?" He’d suddenly turned very pale.

I nodded confirmation, and winced at the spasms of pain from too many places. He settled on his knees, his mouth hanging open as his eyes flicked around my face and hands, taking stock of my general condition.

"How’re you doing, mate?" I croaked at him, and sipped some tea.

"Better than you, by the looks of it. Well, stuff my old boots! I don’t believe it! I heard you’d popped your clogs!" He breathed. "Where’ve you been hiding?"

It was my turn to gape; no wonder he looked like he’d seen a ghost.

"Me? Dead? No - though I feel about quarter-past-dead right now," I groaned. "Who told you that?"

"Some nugget obviously got it wrong, years ago - don’t worry about it," he said, flapping a hand to drop the subject. "More importantly - how are you now? Any serious damage? Anything broken? Need the hospital?"

I shook my head at the suggestion, sipped at the tea between my hands, shuddered again and spilled a little down my sleeping bag. It hardly mattered now.

"No, I think I’ll be okay. I don’t want the hassle." I squinted at him again, then ruefully - but carefully - shook my head. "Why me, Ozzy? What have I done wrong to deserve this shit? Just like the last bloody show - wrong place at the wrong time..." I slowly shook my head again at the memory as my voice cracked a little, and my temper fizzed a little more. Ozzy had been there, too...

"Well, he won’t be bothering you again - we’ve dealt with it," he said, meaningfully. He jerked his head a little, and carried on. "It’s sorted, okay?"

"You reckon?" I quizzed. He pulled a face that made me raise a hand in acceptance. "Okay," I agreed, not totally happy as my temper simmered away. "But, what’ve you done? Kicked him out of the grounds? Or shouldn’t I ask what you do with errant Prospects?"

"He isn’t a Prospect, mate - never will be, now, either. He’s a `wannabe’ with too many loose screws, to be honest. We heard he tried to get into a couple of big clubs, but apparently they sussed him pretty quick and booted him out of it, so he thought we’d be a softer option. He was wrong," he told me, flatly. "Let’s just say he’s crossed the line once too often, and leave it there, eh?" He nodded sideways at the ashes. "That’s going too far..." he paused, pulling out a tobacco pouch. He offered it up, but I shook my head.

"We can’t really kick him out," he carried on, "we’re not the hosts - but to be honest he’s so demented, it’ll be safer to keep him here where I can keep an eye on him and stop him picking on anyone else - or you, again. Once the show’s over, though...well, that’s him out."

He lit his roll-up, picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue, and squinted at me.

"That bucket...Danny told me what you said about a tattooed hand. You sure you’re not just diverting attention? It wasn’t you who half-drowned him?" He smiled, though, when I shot him an aggrieved glance. "I remember your practical jokes, only too well!"

"Me? Don’t be daft, Ozzy! No way would I be stupid enough to do that to a gorilla like him, since he seemed well in with the club." I shook my head and took another sip of tea. "Much as I’d like to have done it..." I admitted, with a half-smile. He grinned and snorted.

"Yeah, I’ll bet!" He agreed.

"Anyway," I continued, more to divert the immediate subject, "what are you doing with this club? I thought you were..." I halted as he raised a finger to his lips, a mean look in his eyes.

"They’re long gone, mate - some other time," he cut me off; obviously a sensitive issue. "Look, what about your tent and stuff? You want me to squeeze some compensation out of him?"

I shrugged, winced, then cast a glance at the heap.

"Whatever you feel’s best, mate. It’d be nice if you can manage it," I compromised, "but don’t worry too much about it. It was old kit - and it’s insured, anyway, thanks to my wife introducing me to sensible things like household contents policies."

"Well - okay. I’ll see what I can do anyway, as it’s you."

Black Sabbath’s Paranoid blasted out right then, and he pulled a mobile phone from a jacket pocket and activated it, merely listening. "Okay," he grunted, flipping the phone shut and pocketing it again. "Got to get back, mate - the Prez is here, and he’s not a happy bunny," he told me.

"I’m not surprised," I commented.

His face softened again. "Hey, Baz - it’s good to see you again, anyway. I’ll come back later, and we can catch up on what’s what, eh?"

I squinted at him, taking in the changes again - shaven head, full beard, calloused knuckles and muscled arms, in tougher contrast to the fuzzy-haired, crazy-eyed, average-looking ex-squaddie I remembered. He wore a `Sergeant-At-Arms’ patch now, though - and I certainly wouldn’t cross him.

"Yeah, you do that," I said. "Good to see you, too, mate."

"See you later, then - `spook’," he said, smiling at his own joke as he shook hands. He stood up then, nodded and paced off briskly, leaving a lot of memories stirring in his wake.

For a few moments I felt inordinately happier - probably because of the luck of discovering an ally - but then I began to feel strangely disappointed that my previously burning temper had subsided as I finished the tea, gazing once more at the wisps of smoke and ashes and slipping into exhausted depression again. Slowly, I stretched my throbbing arms, legs and back, and finally moved on to my knees to lean forward and pull at the mess, trying to roll it up.

"Here, mate - let me help," said one of my earlier helpers, reaching down to rake the pile together for me. "Everything okay with you and that lot?" He asked, politely concerned.

"Thanks," I replied, "and yes, it’s pretty well sorted. Turns out that I know him," I added, nodding at Ozzy’s departing back.

I wriggled into my cut-off, then slowly stood and tried to step into my jeans, but wobbled an almost fell backwards. My helper grabbed me and balanced me, and I managed to pull on the stiffened jeans, shivering again from their chill. Boots on, and I picked up the bacon roll, straightening very slowly, grimacing all the way up. He hooked the sleeping bag back across my shoulders as I said my thanks, then I turned to trudge slowly and numbly back to the jeep, intent upon finding some warm extra clothes, have another brew and a couple of painkillers, and to sit and try to think.

I unwrapped the roll and ate just the cold bacon rashers as I plodded, unable to face the greasy bread. When I reached the jeep, a family of mallards on the pond close by got my attention, the mother quacking at me for food, and as I broke up the bread, cast it across the bank and idly watched them dabble-feeding and going though their...er...’motions’ - literally - I just started to smile as my dulled imagination sparked. Dabble, chew, splat; dabble, chew, splat...

My desire for revenge began to fester once more in my mind. It had to be some form of poetic justice, something that hopefully wouldn’t cost me any more pain, something to repay the deep sense of shame and humiliation I felt, likewise and with `interest’ - and the mental spark became a flame as a series of possibilities began to tantalise my imagination, inspired - in two parts - by one of Ozzy’s comments, and the ducks. I could feel my smile become a wicked grin as I stood by the pond. I felt oddly wide awake again. `Practical jokes, eh?’ I thought.

"Ah got me an idea!" I told the ducks, mimicking a hoodlum from the old film, American Graffiti. "Ah got me a good ah-dea!"

The ducks eyed me briefly, probably wondering what the nutter was muttering, then resumed their dabbling and drifted away.

Maybe they were right - maybe I was going doolally...

* * * *
To Be Continued...