Fascist Man in a Carrier Bag
How to whip up a frenzy when you are tormented by idiots
by Pete
Gioconda
WHAT DO I SEE? Columns of people dressed in sandwich boards like playing cards, a game of headstone patience in a cemetery.
I can read the nearest ones: ‘TV my Redeemer’, ‘The four words of Downton’, ‘always have the correct change as mistakes cannot . . .’ (the rest crammed in too tight), ‘Receipts for Sale’ and ‘Spend your Holy Hours interest free –>’ (arrow indicates to read the other face, which I go and do) + ‘–> shafting one of our Tarts’.
The SMational Front take the stage again, dancing a vigorous twist routine. I look up and they make me sick. The fascist leader is dressed in death-invocational gear and his followers adjust their garb to approximate his, snatching like piranhas, desperately lending each other marker pens. Agape and goggle-eyed beneath the banner of Order, they are warned in Mr Nasty’s windbag speech how they must be prepared to slice up guts with bayonets when the time comes. To illustrate the point, the deputy Mr Hate tips baby rats from a sack and stamps on them.
When the cheering dies down I am welcomed open-armed onto the stage, assumed SMational for being there. No one noticed my quiet arrival during Nasty’s raging speech. Someone even kisses me fervently on the lips. I must say I find them dubiously inconsistent with their ‘hate’ philosophy: having to venerate a leader and not hate him too. With SMational Pride they plan to kick out the incorrectly hued or imbued, then pull together like boy scouts, smug and bug-eyed, responding to the best-loved sandwich boards.
As it’s my first occasion I’m asked to take the rostrum. To calm my nerves I read the facing sandwich boards: ‘Work is Joy – so get to Jerk’, ‘Do Fash-Shift Work’, ‘Free to Spree’. Now I must speak. My lack of sandwich board has not gone unnoticed.
‘I’m going to read you a poem . . .’
Eyes swivel as they follow my words. Two heads in the front row knock together.
I love my heart – it works so well
Right now it astonishes
Stokes me up to a roaring flame –
Life is all right for you and me, my baby
I gaze one row further by degrees, see the expressions become more gormless. Mouths agape with dribble, drooping to the floor, sloppy heads swivelling – an endless clacking, echoing . . .
‘Well wasn’t that bad, considering I made it up as I went along! Dissect it please – with as many thoughts and meditations as you can – and have it on my desk Monday morning. Oh, before I forget, there’s a second verse. If you can indulge me a little, just roll along with it . . .’
Weariness talks and decides
Let’s jealousy prosper
Choking on marbles . . .
They can’t fathom it so they don’t heckle, merely gawp. A minion in the third row patches one eye with a £5 note, repeating in a nasal whine, ‘Leave me alone, head.’
‘Never mind, eh?’ I excuse. ‘I was just trying to add a pinch of loonicity before getting on with more serious business – as the Buttress said to the Fishop . . . Listen kiddos, your scheme of “chuck you in” – like “no choice baby” – why you so stuck on it? Is it guilt at not being working class? Or being working class? Everyone goes through that you know, it’s part of growing up. Yet there’s no cause to be so childish, so completely . . .’
‘Now wait. Stop! Hold it, that’s far enough!’ Big man Mr Hate seizes the mike in his teeth, forcing me to step aside. I notice his flies are hanging loose. I don’t expect him to say: ‘The speech is fine, no problem there, but what we need is music – so take it away Jean!’
Lo and behold, a Wurlitzer organ rises up on steam hydraulics, with a church bazaar woman performing vintage TV theme Sale of the Century.
Mr Hate announces: ‘Prizes everybody!’
Fascist Man and his gauleiter (the church bazaar woman) dance across the stage, first one way then the other, in the same twist routine as earlier. I improvise lines and fit them in gaps in the organ playing, as though they’re meant to be there:
‘I designate you – the degenerates!’ – da da dum-de-dum da da dum dum dum – ‘Seeing how it is – that’s my biz!’ – da da dum-de-dum da da dum dum dum – ‘TV oh TV, up your baby arse!’ – da da-dum de-dum da da dum-dum dum – ‘Queen in blue – big deal!’ – da-da dum-de dum-dum da-dum dum-dum – ‘Hitler, wherefore art though Hitler?’
Everyone is whipped into a frenzy, dancing like booze fiends all over the stage, thumping and crashing, trampling the folding chairs in the hall. I’ve taken on the responsibility of Sid Vicious and shed my shirt, darting to be dashed on the chest with bottles and pop cans. With the desire to turn the SMational Front meeting into an unpredictable mess, I buzz round the fascist man, bumping and knocking.
Now I am ready to slack in the sail of Mr Nasty. As if by magic I produce a Tesco plastic bag from my pocket and shake it, cracking it open like a wind sock. Tap the mike to get attention.
‘Hear ye, hear ye, oh hear ye! In my hand is an ordinary common-or-garden carrier bag. Look you while I leap and dance, and remember how easily we con ourselves. Nasty is not good. We don’t have to dig deep. It’s on the label . . .’
(At this point a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale lands in my hand and I swig it.)
‘Okay, here goes.’
I crack the bag once more and in one sweep capture Misters Hate and Nasty, who join like a spider within.
‘Come on Jean, I want a fanfare from your organ!’
Jean complies, thinking it all part of the rally.
Da da da dare dare dare dare!
The organ speeds to a foxtrot as I dance left right and centre, climbing on the monitors to swing the bag. The Misters flick their fists and arms in time with the music and soon the crowd joins in. After five minutes everyone is hysterical.
‘Now – in the words of Monty Python – call the Church Police!’
Ner-ner ner-ner ner-ner.
From the back of the hall the Special Branch trot in bawling: ‘Where’s the man responsible?’
I put my hand up, not thinking it’s anything.
‘We’ll arrest and fine you for breach of the peace.’
I drop the bag, agog.
‘Oh.’
© 2023 Copyright by Pete Gioconda & Black Cat Communications
The
story “Fascist Man in a Carrier Bag” is an original work
protected under copyright law,
and may not be reproduced or adapted without the written permission of
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Edible Society – Short Stories
