Coven - Part 4

So Mayor Porker is now Korky the Cat from the old Dandy comic that was popular in Britain during the 1950’s and 60’s. Why the hell I let these ludicrous situations develop, I simply do not know.

Perhaps I should make it clear that I accept very little responsibility for the direction these daft stories take. When I was a small child my Mother once asked me how I got into some of the tangled mess-ups she had to get me out of and I told her I didn’t know – “it just happens to me, Mum.” 60 years later I am still leaping from foothold to toehold and applying the same rule I did all those years ago; just keep going and, whatever else you do, don’t look down. So, in the unlikely event there might be someone out there following these Tales of Bogan, please don’t think it’s just you that’s confused, I don’t have a clue either.

While I’m on the subject of confusion I must mention that I have decided to dispense with much of the profanity that has littered this blog. The reason is embarrassing but I’ll tell you anyway. On occasions I check out the Sitemeter data to see if there are still folk other than me reading this rubbish. Last time I looked it was after another long period of not posting anything so I didn’t expect any customers to have shown up but, surprisingly, on June 11th I had a reader - so I clicked on the details to see who it was. Sitemeter told me it was someone from Ankara in Turkey and they had reached my blog via a Google search. In that event Sitemeter even gives me the search words used by the visitor to find my blog on Google. On this occasion the Turkish reader had typed in “ man and dog fucketing”.

So there I was.
Stunned.
I thought I was being sooooo clever and coooool by using grown-up, no nonsense words and refusing to pander to the prissy pretence that we all talk like TV newsreaders or Catholic Bishops. But all the time my blog was drifting into that dirty little corner of Google patronised by Catholic Bishops and hairy Turkish deviants yanking frantically on their tent pegs.

Well, that’s me chopped down to insignificant dimensions. In future the “F” word is out and will be replaced by “Doris”. The “C” word becomes “really naughty person” and the rest can stay as they are because they aren’t too rude anyway. But they will be limited.

I apologise for any offence.

Ah well, back to the rubbish.
Where was I?
Korky the bleeding Cat!
Whatever next for Doris sake?

We are still in the Bogan Council chamber and Mayor Porker (who is now Korky the Cat) is preparing to leave for Jimboomba.

Winnie: You can’t leave looking like that.

Korky: What choice do I have? I didn’t ask to be turned into a Dorising cat.

Winnie: But you do have a choice. You will always be the cat but you can manipulate the image to an extent. It’s just a matter of filtered perception.

Korky: This is Winnie Rugarse talking is it?

Winnie: That’s right and if I can be Winnie, you can be Porky. Just slide your molecules around each other. Mentally mould the clay. Stand up straight, lose the fur and BE the Porky.

Korky: What, like ……. this?

Winnie: Not quite. That’s more like a hairy water cooler. Concentrate, concentrate. Make your eyes go narrow, focus and extend yourself …. not like that …… concentrate. You’re not trying, do it properly. Come on BE the Porky, BE the Porky……don’t forget the ears! What are you doing? I said concentrate… God, you’re really hopeless. Now FOCUS!

ONE HOUR LATER.

Winnie: I suppose that will have to do. It’s not right but it’s close enough.

Korky: Do I look like me again?

Winnie: Not really. You look more like Sean Bean with really big tits.

Korky: I can’t see any tits!

Winnie: They’re on your back. Don’t worry about it. Forget it. Wear a big coat.

Korky: I still feel different though. Sort of …. edgy.

Winnie: That’s because you retain all the characteristics of a cat.

Korky: I can lick my own arsehole?

Winnie: That and the ability to jump and land on your feet. Sneaky - stone-killer - nine lives and all that kind of thing.

Korky: Just the talents I shall need in Jimboomba. I’ll be off then.

Winnie: Good luck.

(The armed guard at the Council Offices entry ignores Korky as she leaves; he has been trained only to shoot people coming in. Korky wends her way between the burnt-out car wrecks and the temporary crack houses set up in the council car park. She steps over the bodies of the three women who were protesting against the opening of the drive-in abortion clinic on Wombley Road and then she makes her way to a queue forming near the sharps disposal bins. A scruffy, foul smelling dero at the head of the queue speaks to her. Korky recognises him as the Chairman of Woodsludge Chamber of Commerce.)

Chairman: Got any change?

Korky: You wouldn’t believe the amount of change.

Chairman: Where are you waiting for?

Korky: Jimboomba.

Chairman: Be along in a minute.

Korky: So, has the Chamber of Commerce decided what to do about all the looting in Woodsludge?

Chairman: We’re still denying it was us. What’s the Bogan Council doing about the extortion racket?

Korky: Rates have to be collected somehow.

Chairman: You wanted Jimboomba? Here it comes.

(A gigantic wedge of terrain swoops down and Korky leaps for the edge as it drops into the gaping trench where Woodsludge had been moments before. She lands nimbly in Cusack Lane near the bottle shop exit of Jimboomba Tavern.

Korky sees the small town differently now. It is a dark forbidding place, cold and dank. There is a smell of methane and carrion and a taste of copper in the air. Freakish sounds of screeching beasts startle the maggot stew of wandering goblin folk who mix with lanky elvish-kind and humans tied to trees. And those trees beside the road are nightmare growths that writhe rank on rank and have fleshy leaves all large and pocked and with pus coloured thorns about the edges. The leaves are hanging limp like rotten organs from the branching bones of a forest shaded by the dimmest glow of feeble, yellow light and everywhere is misted gloom, everywhere is melancholy. Jimboomba is not just a vale of tears it is a dreary, miserable, unrelenting sadness that sucks the joy from every living thing and leaves the dead less vital. It is howling - anguished - and a pit of tortured grief. So, outwardly, Jimboomba has not changed at all but, with her newfound feline instincts, Korky can now sense the difference and can trace the subtle underlying stink of urban decay eating through the township.

There is a shout. Across the road a familiar figure waves and stumbles across Cusack Lane and faces Korky, grinning like a fool.)

Roscoe Lunchpack: Korky? You’re Mayor Porker’s familiar aren’t you? I thought I recognised the tits on your back.

Korky: Roscoe! How did you get here so fast? I left you in the council offices counting your feet.

Roscoe Lunchpack: Yes, I do that sometimes. Like to keep abreast of things.

Korky: But why are you here?

Roscoe Lunchpack: I don’t follow you, Korky. I’m always here. I run the Military Police Academy now you know.

Korky: Military ….. Look, Roscoe. Read my lips. Why are you here in Jimboomba and how did you get here so quickly?

Roscoe Lunchpack: That’s a bit tricky, Korky old sprite. Not quite sure of the answer to that one. It’s usually two by the way.

Korky: What’s usually two?

Roscoe Lunchpack: My feet. When I count them. Usually two of the buggers.

Korky: Usually two?

Roscoe Lunchpack: Well, I’d say invariably but it’s best to keep options isn’t it?

Korky: Jesus! Just forget your feet will you!

Roscoe Lunchpack: Fair enough, Korky. Shit! Crikey!

Korky: Not literally forget them. Oh do get up, Roscoe, and try to think for Doris sake!

Roscoe Lunchpack: No need to get shirty, Korky. Come to think about it, it’s probably you that’s confused. Familiars get like that sometimes. Something to do with the way you see the world. You might need re-booting – bit like a computer really. Set all your whatsits again.

Korky: You mean to say all this may not be real?

Roscoe Lunchpack: I think so, but don’t quote me. Gosh, I haven’t said that ‘don’t quote me’ thing since we disbanded Bogan Council.

Korky: Bogan Council has been disbanded? Since when?

Roscoe Lunchpack: Since 8 years ago when Andy McDuck and Bart Rugarse set up The Protectorate.

Korky: But Rugarse is dead. He was killed in Kevin Rudd’s slightly rectangular office.

Roscoe Lunchpack: Killed? Rugarse? My God! When did this happen and who is Kevin Rudd? There’s been nothing about this on the Datadrain. I’d better get back to the Academy.

Korky: Roscoe, wait! You mean to say that ……

Roscoe Lunchpack: I wish you wouldn’t keep doing that.

Korky: Keep doing what?

Roscoe Lunchpack: Telling me what I mean to say then describing something I don’t understand but that you think I meant to say.

Korky: Okay, Roscoe. I think we need to re-boot. Forget about Rugarse; just start telling me what’s going on. Start with 8 years ago. Why was Bogan Council disbanded and what has happened since then? I need details.

Roscoe Lunchpack: What, ALL the details? Even the stuff that shouldn’t be mentioned in the same breath as holidays, pretty flowers and babies?

Korky: What’s that about babies?

Roscoe Lunchpack: You really don’t want to know about the babies.

Korky: What happened 8 years ago?

Roscoe Lunchpack: I suppose it all started when Lin Emhall blew his stack at a council meeting. He really started to abuse us from the public gallery. It was very embarrassing; he even called me an incompetent jackass. Bloody cheek! Eventually the council charged him with inciting public dissent and illegal blogging. We threw the book at him.

Korky: So they disbanded the council for that?

Roscoe Lunchpack: No, not for that. I think it was when we sentenced him.

Korky: Bit harsh, was it?

Roscoe Lunchpack: Just a touch. We stuck him in front of a firing squad and shot him.

Korky: You … the Bogan Council …. shot Lin Emhall? In front of a ….. firing squad?

Roscoe Lunchpack: Well, of course all the bleeding heart liberals made a fuss. We were hauled over the coals and accused of overstepping our authority, all that sort of bollocks. But then Andy McDuck and Bart Rugarse crawled onto the bandwagon. Oh, what a tragedy for free speech. Oh, what an abuse of office etc. etc. etc. We thought it would never end. Do you know, Korky, they even had Lin Emhall stuffed and set up in a glass case in the Jimboomba library? It’s supposed to be a memorial to freedom. The Bloggers Shrine they call it. Mind you, it looks really pretty at Christmas. They put little fairy lights in all the bullet holes and Lin stands there twinkling away. The kiddies love it.

Korky: …….And then what happened, Roscoe?

TO BE CONTINUED.