I should probably explain to a lot of people who have stumbled into Shitsville accidentally drunk or simply stupefied by the insane rants of the illiterate on Twitter that although it seems I skip from one thing to the next it will all come together in the end. If you were wondering whatever happened to my old Shitsville aunts and to Carl Brooks who wanted to take their house then I will tell you now. Apparently I am in a generous and expansive mood.
After we left the court Brooks and I (in my sling backs and polka dot dress remember) drove through the atmospheric rain while the surface of the road was a mirror of the platinum sky; the puddles made the crab grass lawns look like they were dissolving. Brooks had for weeks beforehand been stuffing the corners of the aunt’s house with high explosives and now standing before it in his appalling suit he lit a cigar with a book of matches and smoked it with long post-coital-like exhalations. Unfortunately in his self-satisfied reverie he failed to shake out his match sufficiently and returned the used match to the box, and thence to his pocket. Lying side by side the matches smouldered like Lesbians with a secret passion. Finally the entire box was aflame and ignited the last stick of dynamite that he had also absent-mindedly stowed in his breast pocket, thinking it was a cigar.
While my aunts and I watched the house went up in a puff like a mushroom cloud and so did Carl Brooks; eloquently fizzing he shot up into the clouds and left a diminishing line of smoke and the rank smell of burnt hair. Meanwhile his suit remained standing where he had been, perfectly intact but empty, proving that it was, in fact, indestructible, like he’d said.
I have had to wait some months before posting this because there had to be an inquest. In the end dear cousin Frankie Shitsville returned from the mists, patting his suit pockets to find a handkerchief and claiming to have overslept because the alarm on his mobile had been set to 7pm rather than am. But I bare him no grudge, he is my cousin, after all; if ever in the long, cold, dark nights, high up in the hills on Shitsville Ranch, I begin to feel that he let me and the aunts down, it helps if I think of him as a kind of handsome simpleton. In the days since I shot my cousin Roger I have mellowed quite a bit.