Day 31

Dear Diary,

It’s me again, and I’m ever so glad I hid my pencil and paid attention to what was going on around me. While I was scribbling away in your pages, Dear Diary, I got so carried away thinking about Missus Milly Da Fardle in the secret stainless steel laboratory behind Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ and worrying about what Miss Luella Da Bunkle must’a looked like both dead and naked, that I failed to notice six black cars, each on the size of Detroit (which was where they was born), pulling up and parking in front of The Bank of Old Wanger Nose. One of the drivers, who was especially memorable seeing as how he was about six foot ten inches and built like one of them brick buildings wot lives out in back of not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker’s Petrol Pumps, wedged hisself outta his car and came slouching over in my direction. Naturally, I broke out all sweaty and accidentally made a rude noise, but then I thought the best plan was to pretend to be asleep. ‘Course, Miss Cabbage and Mrs. Emily Da Onion started yelling at him and telling him he couldn’t come aboard on account of his not having rung the call centre for a reservation. He acted as though they wasn’t there (which made ‘em yell all the louder on account of ‘em not appreciating being ignored) and reached into the bus (being me) and pulled Finian Da Fabricator right out of the drivers seat. “Move the Goddam bus,” he said real low and hostile and sounding like an extra from a black and white movie. “Bu…bu…bu,” stuttered Finian Da Fabricator, “I’m waiting on Old Wanger Nose to bring Missus Milly Da Fardle her receipt for her bank deposit.” Right there I could tell that Finian Da Fabricator knew what was what and was a man of the world. Imagine his including two such sophisticated terms as ‘receipt’ and ‘bank deposit’ in the same sentence. Not-so-owld Fergal Da Fecker wouldn’a managed it, and neither would owld Fingus Da Flatulator, not even after he’d blowed hisself up and went up to the pearly gates where folks talk fancy and use plenty of ‘thees’ and ‘thous’.

“I said ‘move the Goddam bus’,” repeated the tall shithouse-built man, adjusting his sunglasses and smiling a smile I hope never to see again. He tightened his grip around Finian Da Fabricator’s scrawny neck, which made his ears stick out further than a hare’s and his eyes bulge like a pair of poached eggs (but even yellower). I could tell Finian Da Fabricator was on the brink of grovelling on account of the way his poop turned to water and he peed hisself at one and the same time. Of course, Miss Cabbage wasted no time at all in phoning the call centre and complaining how ‘the driver’ (being Finian Da Fabricator) had the runs all over the bus and how there was gonna be a worldwide outbreak of heathens as a result. I’m not sure where she got her education, but the nuns must’a had a good sense of humour.

I thought old Brick shithouse was gonna strangle Finian Da Fabricator then and there on account of the gallons of what they call bodily fluids squirting down his shiny black suit, but then out of the blue the iron front door of The Bank of Old Wanger Noise flew open and who should come out but Old Wanger Nose hisself, and did he look like a frightened rabbit or what. He ran straight to one of the big black cars (the one whose driver was busy throttling Finian Da Fabricator) and got in the back seat. ‘Course, the driver forgot about old Finian Da Fabricator almost immediately cuz he knew on which side of his bread the margarine was smeared. I could tell from the expression on his face that Old Wanger Nose paid his bills and he wanted ‘em to go right on being paid. Probably he had six or seven children by his kept women with sticky-out big tits, as well as a naggy wife with used-up saggy big tits and seventeen spoiled brats of hers to support (which is how they do it in Chicago).

Anyway, Old Brick Shithouse (which is how I’ll always think of him) dropped Finian Da Fabricator like a hot potato and ran to the black car, trying to scrape as much as possible of Finian Da Fabricator’s leavings off his shiny clack suit. He opened the door and wedged hisself in front of the wheel (which wasn’t the easiest thing to do on account of his bulging muscles and the fact that his hands were the size of the hams the biddies like to over-boil for their special Sunday after-mass dinners), and faster’n a rabbit can take off after a beagle’s bit his butt, the car zoomed away from The Bank of Old Wanger Nose and sped down the street. Or at least that’s what would’a happened in the movies, but in movies there’s never any traffic, is there. Unlike here, where wherever you go (and I should know, being a bus) there are always at least two tractors, one going one way and the other facing the opposite direction, both stopped in the middle of the street so the farmers can comment about the weather (in case the other one hasn’t been out in it) and solve all the government’s problems.

Anyway, the big black car couldn’t make its getaway, not like Old Wanger Nose wanted, and they had to sit there like sitting ducks while I could hear sirens approaching from a distance.

Well, we’re all sit here waiting for the cops to swoop in on Old Wanger Nose and take him away to be hunged, which when it happens won’t be all that exciting on account of the town having only two constables (Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Helen Da Barren, who’s what they use to call a ‘woman policeman’ back in the good old days) to do their investigating and arresting. Hanging was done away with way before I was even built, and even if it was still around, they’re too lazy even to hang beef proper down at the abattoir, so I’d hate to think of what they’d do to Old Wanger Nose.

While we’re waiting with baited breath, I’m gonna take a little nap, after which I promise to tell you more about what happened with Missus Milly Da Fardle in the funeral parlour and why she gets to keep all the bingo winnings and why Misther Patchouli Da Fanny gives all his rejects from the homemade money he makes. Until then I’ll wish myself pleasant dreams and say, so endeth another exciting coupl’a hours.