‘Have you heard?’
‘About what?’ she asked.
‘The yeti, that Sasquatch thing,’ said her husband, Peter.
‘What yeti thing?’ quizzed Jenny again.
‘There is a Sasquatch in England. Someone saw one in a street in the middle of London,’ Peter paraphrased.
‘No,’ added Jenny with mild surprise.
‘Well someone saw it. I’m surprised at that,’ Peter went on. ‘I didn’t think they would find any in England.’
‘I must agree with you, my dear,’ said Jenny. ‘They look all over America but never here. How could he let them see him in London?’
‘He began to relax and didn’t think they would notice him, I expect,’ added Peter.
‘What a fool,’ Jenny went on, full of indignation.
‘And now they have got him,’ said Peter.
‘What?’
‘They captured him, this morning. That’s how they know for sure,’ concluded Peter.
‘Well,’ Jenny decided. ‘We’ll have to leave here, won’t we Peter?’ Peter looked at his lovely wife, smiled sadly and conceded:
‘Yes dear, we will.’
Jenny gazed up at her husband and stroked his thick fur. She was still smiling when she showed off her sharp teeth.
‘France this time, dear,’ she suggested.
‘No,’ Peter returned. ‘Back to Mongolia, I think.’
‘Maybe you are right,’ Jenny said. ‘I’ll pack then.’
‘Yes,’ said Peter, ‘I’ll help you.’
So, the two big bigfoots packed some bags, left England and went to live in east Asia.
The tall man climbed out of the London taxi cab. After paying the driver with a rapid jerk, he rushed into the entrance of the hotel. On entering, the swarthy individual approached the reception deck.
‘Room for Povits,’ asked the obvious New Yorker, slurring his words.
‘Yes, sir,’ exclaimed the male receptionist. ‘Povits. Here we are, room 205. In the lift, on the fifth floor.’
‘I’ll find it, buster.’
‘Very good sir.’ The receptionist watched the big American walk off towards the lift. ‘Some people.’
‘What did you say?’ the New Yorker turned around.
‘Nothing, sir,’ answered the receptionist
The American continued to the lift.
‘Lousy Brits,’ he exclaimed. As he turned he met a woman, nearly knocking her over with his heavy form.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘No, it was clearly my fault,’ added Povits. ‘You British are too polite.’
‘American?’ asked the woman, short, thick wave of black hair covering a fair pretty face.
‘That’s right,’ smiled the American. ‘You been to the States?’
‘No, not yet anyway.’
‘One day, hey?’ suggested Povits with a wry smirk.
‘Maybe,’ returned the woman prettily.
‘Say,’ added Povits. ‘Have a drink with me tonight?’ he was not taking his time.
‘Can I say no?’ answered the woman, unsurprised by the man’s forward nature.
‘No.’
‘Well then, yes,’ concluded the woman.
‘Right,’ said the American, setting off to his room. ‘I didn’t ask the girl’s name.’ He returned to speak to the woman again, but she was gone. ‘I didn’t say what time, neither. Oh shoot, you idiot.’
The tall dark American continued to his room, high on what floor he couldn’t remember. But he found room 205. He slumped on the bed once inside and began to snore like a giant grizzly bear.
10pm. He awoke, rose, took a shower, drank a coffee, which he hated, then left the room via the lift to the ground floor, knowing the woman would not show. He stepped into the bar. He spied the area for some seconds, and in a red dress directly in front of him smiling the beautiful woman he met earlier was sitting. He approached her table.
‘I got you a Bud,’ she said. ‘Was I wrong?’
‘Sure not. Spot on, thanks,’ he added and sat in the seat facing her on the small table. ‘What’s your name?’ he continued, sounding angry with himself.
‘Sally.’
‘Great. Is there another one?’ he asked her.
‘I do love a sarcastic American.’ She smiled and added: ‘Anderson. Do you have a name?’
‘Sam. Samuel Povits.’ Povits said this uncomfortably.
‘That’s not it, is it?’ said Sally. ‘Are you Polish?’
‘Grandfather,’ was his information.
‘And Italian?’ Sally continued as if she was the F.B.I.
‘Maybe. Are you the cops?’
Sally was silent but smiled. She looked at her drink and drank some of her red wine.
‘You don’t smile like a cop,’ said Sam.
‘Really,’ she added. ‘What’s your real name?’
The American seemed to be about to rise. He didn’t, yet with a slanted smile said.
‘If I did use a different name, do you think I’m gonna tell you my real name?’
The beautiful woman said nothing, took a sip of her gin and tonic, half smiling. Povits sipped his beer. After some seconds, he conceded.
‘Beni Udinese.’ He whispered first, then.’ Yes, I’m Italian American, but don’t get any ideas, I’m not what you’re thinking. I’m from New York, yes: the bad Italians live in New Jersey (he said noojuyzee). I’m using this name coz…it’s to do with business, you understand…capisci? That was a joke.’
Sally laughed, tipping her pretty head.
‘You’ve relaxed,’ she said after enjoying Beni’s joke. ‘The more you talk, the more you sound like you’re from New Yoyk.’
Udinese chuckled unconvincingly. Beni sat back and smiled, chuckled.
‘You are funny, Sally. If that’s your real name.’
Sally smiled again.
‘Yes, it’s my real name.’
Beni sat back and was totally relaxed now. He smiled and took another sip of his beer.
‘Hey, you hungry?’ He asked…
This is all he knew for a while, because all went black and he awoke in a hotel room. This room was not his room. As his eyes opened, the pretty woman he was with earlier, stood over him. Here Beni knew he could not move. He didn’t know what was holding him, but his arms were stretched back and tied to the head of the bed. He did know that woman put something in his lager.
He started to shout, but here a male he hadn’t seen until now appeared to beat his face with a pistol. Udinese shouted.
‘What’s going on here?’
‘You couldn’t escape me Udinese, could you?’ Uttered the woman he knew as Sally.
‘What? Who are you woman?’
‘Don’t try to get up,’ said Sally. ‘I’m Patrick Andrews, the man you owe money back in America.’
‘You’re Andrews,’ Beni blubbered with spittle. ‘You’re a woman. I saw you, you were a guy.’
‘It is surprising,’ said Andrews, with an unattractive smirk, ‘what a hoody and a fake moustache can do.’
‘You double-crossing…’
‘Now, now Udinese,’ she continued. ‘Calm yourself, everything is fine. The police are after me too.’
‘SO, what is all this about?’ Udinese quizzed, struggling with the handcuffs.
‘I propose a deal,’ said the woman.
‘What’s the deal?’ asked the American very slowly.
‘You don’t owe me a penny and you take the rap for me with the police over that little incident last year.’
‘Are you kidding me woman?’
‘No,’ said Sally Andrews.
Beni Udinese sat up and scrutinised this beautiful woman. He took in the long legs and half smiled to himself. Another day, a different situation…
‘What did you do?’
‘Does it really matter, Beni? she answered. ‘Just take the deal and you owe me nothing.’
‘For fuck’s sakes!’ Beni tried to stand up, but the two goons had a hold of him tight. They were stupid, ugly and strong. ‘I’ve got no choice, have I?’
‘Not really.’ Andrews voice became heavy and deep.
The deal was agreed, Beni would go to prison for whatever Sally Andrews did. Beni had to know what it was. It didn’t matter anyway, he wasn’t doing it: he was going to kill the woman. After that he was going to Cuba; that was Beni’s plan.
When Sally Andrews was satisfied that Beni was in on the deal, her thugs untied him. When Beni rose from the bed, he faced a pistol that Sally was holding.
‘Any silly ideas,’ said Sally, ‘and you’re going six feet under, not in prison.’ His plans were put on hold, for now. She led him downstairs via the lift, the pistol firmly in his back. Her goons taking the stairs to avert suspicion. The lift took an age to descend to the ground floor. Beni could feel the drugs that knocked him out, working off now. He was awake and ready for what he had to do.
‘You are going straight,’ Sally said, watching the numbers go down, ‘to the police and confess to the murder of…’
…Beni was not waiting; with a quick flick he turned and kicked the pistol from the hand of this beautiful woman. He had the gun firmly in his grasp; aimed at the double-crosser’s head. The lift, meantime reached the ground floor. The double doors slid open. With the pistol at Sally’s face, Beni looked about.
‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY!’
They had all appeared: mum, dad, his two sisters, his boys; Jimmy and Luke, and his lovely wife Georgina.
Beni had already pulled the trigger.
‘Bloody thing!’ bellowed the man. He was holding and shaking the cleaning contraption, swearing all the time. ‘These damn things always gets something stuck in the bloody tube. Useless thing. What is this? Bloody hell!’
The next thing the man knew, the hoover had switch on automatically, and was sucking like made. Better than ever.
‘Ain’t it marvellous!’ he exclaimed. Here he attempted to continue with his cleaning: no-she would not let him.
Stop. The hoover made a thudding noise and stopped.
‘WHAT NOW?’
Without warning the hoover started up again. The machine went on sucking no matter how many times Mr Cartwright pressed the OFF switch. The head of the tube was not attached, and so the end of the tube and the tube itself began to rise in the direction of Mr Cartwright like a mechanical serpent wriggling and full of determination. At last it has reached the desired destination; Mr Andrew Cartwright’s head; it opened the end wide; the mouth attaching itself to the face, still sucking. The head first was in the extended tube. The torso next, then in no time the rest of Andrew; all seven stone of him.
The vacuum cleaner switched itself off.
The tin can was just lying there on the pavement when I saw it. A plain silver-grey can, there was no label. First I thought the can was an empty backed beans tin with the label torn off. I would’ve thrown it, but there was some writing on the side. The words, written with a black marker pen in scruffy capital letters read:
ELELPHANT FOR SALE.
Here curiosity took over. I had to ask myself two questions.
Question 1- why write such a thing? Question B- was there really an elephant in the can? And one more question: why did I care? And another question- did I believe there was an elephant in a tin can? I didn’t know the answer to any of those questions, but I had to find out the answer to one of them. I picked up the tin can, put it into my jacket pocket and skipped home. Mum and dad were both in when I got home, so I couldn’t try to open it.
I went straight upstairs to my bedroom, took the can out of my coat pocket, and put it on my bed and just stared at the simple object. I starred at the thing for ages, as it lay slanted on the duvet: an hour in fact. Then mum called me for dinner.
‘Jacob, your dinner is ready.’
Just as I went to go, I heard a sound. The sound came a second time. This was clearly the blow of an elephant trunk. The sound was faint, as if in the distance. I meant to inspect the can for a further inspection, however…
‘JACOB…DINNER!’
I Scoffed my fishfingers down, and poured down a cup of tea, most of it on my shirt.
‘What are you doing Jacob? Where are you going?’ said mum, said dad. ‘Don’t you want pudding?’
I was upstairs, I couldn’t hear them anymore when I slowly crept into my bedroom. Taking the can I put my ear against the cold metal. Nothing, then that loud trumpet sound of an elephant trunk I heard earlier. I smiled at my big wiggly face reflecting from the silvery can. Next I sat on my bed and didn’t know what to do.
‘I need a tin opener,’ I said to myself. Before that a new idea went into my head, I rubbed it like a genie’s lamp. No, nothing, just the elephant trumpet getting louder and louder. I had to open the thing.
I wonder if it’s a tiny elephant or a full size one? I thought. No, it must be a little one, you idiot.
After a little bit of time I crept downstairs. Mum and dad were in the living room, dad was asleep, I think. The kitchen door was open a little touch, so I was able to slide through. I was opening drawer after drawer, and cupboard after cupboard.
‘Tin opener, tin opener,’ I was whispering to myself. ‘Tin opener.’ I found one at last. Grabbing it, I ran upstairs holding my precious weapon.
‘What are you doing, Jacob?’ mum was shouting from the living room.
I ignored her, took the trusty opener, attached it to the can and twisted. All would be revealed in the new few minutes.
‘I said what are you doing?’ Mum was outside my door.
The opener was turning and turning, the answer was nearly here. I was very excited. Mum and dad now were both shouting outside my bedroom when the can was opened. The round jagged edge top piece dropped to the floor.
My door was opening.
There was a full size grey elephant standing in my bedroom. The wonderful animal lifted the amazing trunk and blew, then flapped his giant ears. Mum and came in just in time to see my new friend.
‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING, JACOB?’ they asked.
Malkovich watched the clock: the big hand was passing very slowly, the little hand was not moving a bit.
TIME IS RELATIVE! read the giant sign in the office, in red capital letters.
Malkovich continued with his work; whatever that was. He never knew what to do, and he still worked at that place. Everyone knew Malkovich just looked at the clock all day long, and never worked.
It’s better to work, was their argument, time goes quicker. Malkovich thought time went quicker when he watched the clock. Either way Malkovich didn’t care, for he was a cat.
I walked on, the field was mushy. I did not know the time, if time still existed. I could only venture on. The sky seemed different in some way, I can’t explain how. An orange colour. I just didn’t know.
I saw the first one, a man. He must’ve been sixty feet tall. Then a child, only twenty five feet. Next a girl, about the same age and size as the boy. They didn’t see me, I don’t know how. I hid behind a bush, a large bush compared to me. The giants stomped past me. When they were gone I stepped out and watched the big people walk away, growing down smaller and smaller until I was bigger than them. I looked about. In the near distance were buildings representing a town. A farmers field surround the town. I knew giants roamed there, so I decided not to go anywhere near. But where could I go instead? I could not see the portal that brought me here, so I remained in that field till dark. Here I encountered a second thing, a large badger. The black and white creature just stood in front of me. The creature was the same size as me, so I was very afraid of this vicious beast that I had encountered before. This animal turned its head to observe me.
I’m dead, I’m so dead, I thought. This beast will kill me.
Then to my absolute surprise, fright and relief the animal spoke:
‘What are you, then?’ it asked me in English, unless I understood badger.
‘You speak English?’ I asked.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a language that we’re speaking,’ I told it.
‘I don’t know about that,’ the badger returned. ‘I just open my mouth and talk. Don’t know anything about any langij.’
‘Do you have a name?’ I asked the black and white bear, because that was what the animal was to me.
‘Of course,’ it snapped. He was angry with horrible, slimy teeth. I don’t think it meant to be rude. ‘I’m called Nightcrawler,’ he answered me with a twitch. ‘What you called?’
I opened my mouth to answer but nothing came out: I’d forgotten my name.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Funny name.’
‘No, I mean I can’t remember my name.’
‘I’ll name you,’ said the arrogant beast.
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Yes I can. I am the king, you know.’
‘King?’
‘Yes, I’m the king of Short Meadow, the land you are now trespassing on.’ He sniffed the air and returned to his four legs. He began strolling away. I just stood there, cold. He turned around. ‘Are you coming, Sunface.’
‘What did you say?’ I asked.
‘Are you coming Sunface? - your face is big and bright like the sun. What animal are you, anyway?
‘I’m a human being,’ I told him.
The badger laughed at me.
‘A what- one of those big things? The spitefuls, we call them. You’re too small for a spiteful.’
‘Something happened to me, or I’m from a different world. I’m not sure,’ I tried to explain.
‘You’re too hairy for a spiteful, too,’ explained Nightcrawler. ‘You look more like a lovey to me.’
‘A lovey?’
‘Yes, you should know. Spitefuls tie rope around their necks and walked about with them.’
‘A dog?’ I suggested.
‘I don’t know,’ said the badger in an uncaring manner.
‘I’m a woof…woof…’
‘And we don’t like loveys in Short Meadow, do we lads…?’
‘He was here yesterday. And he was here the day before. And he’s coming today.’
‘Who is?’ I asked him again.
‘My tiger,’ he said firmly.
‘Your what?’
‘My tiger,’ he answered with annoyance.
‘Are you joking? A real tiger?’
‘No, a pretend one,’ he said, in sardonic tones.
‘Does he talk?’ I asked thinking this would trip him up.
‘Course not, he’s a tiger.’ That told me. I continued with more questions:
‘Why?’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why does he come here?’ I asked.
‘For tea,’ he told me with unswerving confidence.
‘Tea? And sandwiches?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Cheese, marmite? Crisps?’
‘He’s favourite is tomato and cucumber,’ he told me. ‘And Darjeeling tea.’
‘Not a wild pig, fish, rabbit or a man?’ I asked, hoping I wasn’t for lunch.
‘No.’
‘No meat?’
‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘But not for tea.’
‘I see, I think,’ I said. ‘What time is he coming today?’
‘In about 10 minutes.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘I should get out of your way, should I?’
‘No, he would love to meet you.’
‘Really?’ I didn’t know if I liked this or not.
‘Yes, he’s very sociable,’ he informed me. ‘A party type. A real extravert.’
‘Is he?’ I wasn’t impressed.
‘Oh yes. Here he is now.’
As it turned out, my tiger, was just a man in a tiger suit. I was furious, so I ate him. Serves him right for pretending to be a tiger like us. What a cheek…
A man is wondering around a small room, scratching his head and searching under the pillows on his sofa.
= WHERE THE BLOODY HELL IS IT? WHY CAN YOU NEVER FIND IT WHEN YOU WANT IT..? THERE IT IS. NOW I CAN PUT THE TV ON.
The man sits on the sofa and aims the remote control at the television. The telephone rings and the man looks to the ceiling.
= THAT’S GREAT, JUST AS I RUDDY SIT DOWN.
He rises to answer his old-fashioned phone.
= HELLO—WHAT? — ARE YOU JOKING—NO—NO—NO—FOR THE LAST TIME I’M NOT ALBANIAN.
He replaces his phone on the receiver.
=FOR GOODNESS SAKE, ALBANIAN! AM I ALBANIAN? WHAT A WEIRD PERSON.
The telephone rings again. The man picks it up again.
= HELLO…I TOLD YOU NOT TWO MINUTES AGO, I AM NOT ALBANIAN. I’M BRITISH BORN AND BRED, WITH A SPLASH OF IBERIAN; THE SPANISH ARMADO, YOU KNOW. YES, A BIT OF SCOTTISH, AND IRISH. NOT WELSH. AND CERTAINLY NOT ALBANIAN…AND NO I DON’T HAVE A SON LIVING IN ALBANIA, THE RIGHTFUL KING…SO WHO’S THE KING NOW...? IS THIS A JOKE…? THIS IS ABSURD, IT REALLY IS…HAVE I GOT THIS CORRECT? YOU ARE SAYING I AM THE TRUE KING OF ALBANIA…? WHAT’S THE WEATHER LIKE THERE…? WARM SUMMERS AY…I’LL THINK ABOUT IT…
He replaces his phone.
=KING OF ALBANIA, AI’NT IT MARVELOUS. SOME TYPE OF SCAM, I SUPPOSE. WHERE IS ALBANIA ANYWAY? WHERE’S MY MAP. LET’S HAVE A LOOK. RIGHT, AFRICA… NO IT’S IN EUROPE, I THINK…AH THERE IT IS, NEXT TO GREECE. I THOUGT IT WAS SOMEWHERE, SORT OF MORE NORTHISH THAN THAT. I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS THERE. THIS MAP IS WRONG…
The phone rings again.
= I’M NOT ANSWERING IT. THIS IS RIDICULOUS.
The phones goes on ringing.
= OH, I BETTER ANSWER IT THEN—WHAT?— MY NAME? - IT’S ZOG, MALCOM ZOG.
‘Right, action!’
The director has let it all begin.
Thirty minutes later the final scene was done, the catch phrases uttered for the final time, the series finished. The classic show had come to an end.
‘All right, love?’
‘Lovely,’ says actor Charles Slim. ‘That’s that then, dear?’
‘That’s that,’ says director Roy Cradle. ‘Very well done, love.’
‘Was I very good?’ asks Charles, wanting to make sure.
‘Yes, very funny.’
‘Very funny?’ Charles wants to make absolutely certain.
‘Hilarious, Charles,’ Roy assures the seasoned actor.
‘You’re not just saying that?’ asks Charles.
Roy Cradle laughs.
‘You were marvelous, Charlie boy. Where’s Roger?’
‘Here, love,’ calls Roger Nelson, with an over-the-top wave.
‘Wasn’t Charles marvelous, Roger?’ asks Roy.
‘Brilliant, absolutely brilliant,’ exclaims Roger. ‘I could not have done it without you, Charlie, my love.’
‘Thanks very much,’ utters Charles. He is a touch red around the cheeks.
‘Why don’t you do it one more time,’ suggests Roy seriously. ‘One last time. And you Roger.’
‘Really?’ ask Charles.
‘Absolutely, love,’ Roy reassures the actor.
The two actors stand tall, both over six feet tall. Roger Nelson has dark hair, 30. Charles Slim, greying, 51 now. They play the parts they had performed for so long. Over seven years they had entertained the nation with their lovable TV comedy characters. Here they were performing for the very last time in front of the backstage staff.
‘Up you get, dun be so lazy,’ are the words of Roger, dragging his speech.
‘Dun talk to me like that, son,’ says Charles. Laughing everywhere.
‘Ah will talk to you ‘aw ah like.’
‘No yu don’t. Ahm your favuh, you know. You’re not too young to go over mah knee.’
‘If you ken get up, dad. If you ken get up.’
The two take a bow at this short version of their performance.
‘Yes, marvelous,’ shouts Roy, clapping enthusiastically. ‘You made MY LAZY DAD a classic, you really did, both of you. Very well done, my loves.’
Reverend Samuels placed the hymn books in their places upon the grooves of the pews for next Sunday. He set them every week in this same routine. Only Mr Grey, the old bachelor and Mrs Burns the widow would be present at next week’s service. This is how it has been every Sunday for the last nine years. Except for two weeks in August when Mrs Burns visited her niece in Aberdeen.
‘I don’t know why I bother,’ Samuels whispered, not in prayer. ‘Perhaps I’ll give it up. Two people every week. Sometimes Mr Grey brings his dog. Some Sundays Wigglesworth, Mrs Burns’s cat follows her here by mistake. What’s the point…oh my God…I’m sorry I didn’t see you there.’
The reverend had spotted someone still sitting in a pew. This large presence was not Mr Grey or Mrs Burns, or the dog, certainly not Wigglesworth.
‘I am thorry,’ said the person. And stood to go; all eight feet of him.
‘NO!’ Hollered Samuels. Although the vicar was scared of this stranger, who apart from being very tall was also disfigured with a thick scar running straight across his face, Samuels walked towards the man.
‘Please sit, my friend. This is the house of God- none shall be turned away.’
‘I thank you,’ said the person. ‘But you do not know me. And you have not heard of my father?’
‘An accident?’ asked the vicar, directing his hand to the individual’s disfigured face.
The person, a man chuckled. His face splitting, the scar protruding.
‘In one thenth, you could thay that,’ he answered the vicar politely.
Samuels became brave enough to sit near the man.
‘What is your story, my friend?’ asked Samuels with comfort. ‘Tell me, maybe I can help.’
‘You cannot help this poor thoul, if that is what I am.’
‘I will try my very best,’ insisted Samuels. ‘Please tell me. First of all, my name is Victor Samuels.’
The disfigured man laughed again, deep and full.
‘Victor the vicar. And my father’th name.’
‘Really?’
‘Truly,’ the man confirmed.
‘What is your name?’ asked Victor.
‘I have no name. The last time I thaw my father, he called me Adam, and then the Devil.’
‘That’s sad, and a horrible thing to call a son.’
‘Ith more than thad: I am a horror, Victor.’
‘I can’t
Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 19.04.2020
ISBN: 978-3-7487-3692-9
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Widmung:
The book has 100 movies. Mainly in short story form . Designed to promote film ideas that could grow into novels or movies.