IMAGINo.9

Strange times in the asylum.

Bandanna couldn’t help laughing as he was slapping into Martha's ample arse. She reckoned being taken from behind improved the quality of the communiqué. He could hear nothing but there was no denying the dogs howling back like there was something in the air. Anyway, he was happy enough, f*****g away, and when it got to the throb it was him that started grunting " at a frequency anyone could hear.

'Those animal noises, loud they are,' said Martha, towelling the spunk off her backside, 'the White Hawk'll be getting suspicious.'

'What? So he's gonna cup his ear " hark, there's Bandanna riding Martha at the meshed window, boosting up that witch screech just fine. The niece is bound to hear that one.’

'Haha, no, but...'

'That's in between The Howler Monkey running up and down the corridor and mad Lizzie's horror film terror screams. Give me a break.'

'Haah, right you are,'

'Too right I'm right, so what was the message of the day.'

'Not really a message it isn't, more a state of mind transfer. Hard to explain.'

'Like a distress signal.'

'Sort of, more emotional it is.'

'Well whatever, if it helps get us sprung out of here, screetch it up girl,' said Bandanna, sounding keen, holding back on the ridicule. She was in her zone, wisest to keep her happy and bedsides he was getting his hole on a regular basis, only a fool would f**k that up so best to lay off with the smart-arse comments.

'So, what's the machine got planned for you today?'

'Role play therapy. You?'

'Same, but I'm giving it a swerve, The Emperor's challenged me to a chess match, right out there in that corridor, it's his domain, seemingly.”

'What with Howler running wild?'

'I know but I need the game, the mental exercise.'

'Come looking for you they will.'

'Nothing surer but by the time the search gets to...the freak’s hall , I'll have beaten the old fool.'

'Really? Good he is, I've heard.'

'That's as may be but I'm no beginner myself,'said Bandanna, stretching his arms up towards the ceiling, interlocking his fingers and cracking his knuckles in preparation for the approaching, strenuous, moving of the pieces in a board game. He opened the door and entered the fray.

His opponent - already seated, cowl up, half-hidden furious face, setting out his hand carved chessmen - refused to give his foe any kind of credence by even looking at him as he took up his position. Eyes fixed on the board he held out his fists. Bandanna tapped one. White. The Emperor spun round his universe. He pulled out a sand timer and turned it upside down indicating the start of the game.

Bandanna, feeling cocky, decided to go for the fool's mate but his arrogance proved futile as, too late, a few moves later, he realised he'd lost his bishop. As The Emperor lifted the piece from the board his other arm shot out and slapped Bandanna’s face.

'Oi,' he yelled, hurt. 'What's the game?' The Emperor remained still, silent, staring at the board.

'Chess I suppose,' tried Bandanna, laughing a little. The Emperor remained still, silent, staring at the board.

Conversation was obviously off limits, Bandanna decided to keep quiet, concentrate, the slap had been his own fault, maybe it was best to refrain from acting the wide boy while engaged in a game of chess with a guy who looks like Death.

Soon he found himself in the position of taking a pawn, that he suspected The Emperor had sacrificed for gain, as he took it his opponent pulled down his hood.

'Surely you don't expect me to...reciprocate.'

The Emperor remained still, silent, staring at the board. Bandanna hesitated, then, dished out a playful smack. The hood was replaced and the game continued. It continued in much the same vein, with Bandanna receiving hard slaps to the side of the head every time he lost a piece. It was starting to really hurt, despite his age The Emperor had strength, the muscles in his arms were twisted like wrought iron. Then, at the far end of the corridor a cell door banged open and The Howler hopped out. The lope was on " a sort of half skip, prance and jump that generated a fair turn of speed as he trundled along on his well worn route howling his lungs out.

It was worse than he'd imagined, no man should have to put up with this carry on, with a sore face, but to throw the game was not an option. He had to concentrate, ignore all the craziness, he had to win, for the sake of his sanity. The Emperor was not a 'good', player, competent, yes, but he was a piece taker and that was his weakness. There was a situation looming out, it could mean victory but it involved the losing of his Queen, he winced at the anticipation of the force of the slap that that would entail. A high risk gambit indeed and one that should not be taken on a rash whim. Then The Howler got to Lizzie's door, opened it, and the battle of the noise of hellish creatures began. Bandanna fingered his Queen...

'Checkmate.'

The Emperor remained still, silent, staring at the board, until, on the next sweeping pass, he booted The Howler's heels together, causing flight to the performance and an almighty crashing end. He pocketed his sand timer, folded his board, and table, and chairs, and went back to his cell.

The Howler was broken, Bandanna was loathe to go over and see if he could fix him, the f****r would probably just start up again straight away, besides, soon he saw the balloon of blood blossoming from his head " that would take hospital fixing.

The crunch of keys resonated up the now silent corridor like a ghost's chain. Bandanna knew the noise, that rattle could denote only one owner, those were The White Hawk's keys and there he was alone with a badly injured patient. He made haste with his escape into Mad Lizzies' pod and immediately received a slap to the face and a scream, right in the ear.

'For f**k's sake, what is it with you mad freaks,' he yelled, protecting his head with his hands, 'it's like being in a …' He silenced himself, the shouting had been reckless, no matter how much of a nightmare he'd been through he knew that the most vicious b*****d was right out there in that corridor - bent over an inmate who had obviously been assaulted, the whirring of his mind deducing that the culprit was his quarry, the missing guy from the role play class, the trouble maker they called Mr Plant.

Bandanna squeezed his eye to the crack and could make out the approval on the faces of three henchman as the White Hawk held his syringe aloft, expelling the air with ritualistic verve.

'He's readying his weapon Lizzie,' said Bandanna, 'and that solution is one king f**k of a hit, it's designed to bring down rhinos but, alas, sad to say, if that b*****d finds me, the only flesh it’ll be piercing will be my hairy arse.'

Silence, no response, could she even speak? All he had ever heard was screams. She was staring at him pretty damn serious. He feared attack but Lizzie pulled out a piece of chalk from her drawer and scrawled I CAN HELP YOU on the wall.

'How? How can you help me?'

She formed her mouth into a crooked 'O' and gave him a drum busting burst.

'Aargh...okay that'll do it.'

BUT she chalked up.

Right, here we go.

YOU HAVE TO F**K ME

He eyed her, she looked like a crystal meth victim, could he f**k that? The keys rattled closer. Of course he could. He gave her the thumbs up.

HARD

'It's the only way I know,' he said.

The door started to open. Bandanna jumped behind it. Lizzies mouth did the crooked thing, next, a deafening noise but it was no Hammer House howl. A wind up, screaming klaxon of that intensity could only have come from a machine.

He waited a while then risked a peek " patients were coming out of their pods, confused, deafened, fingers in ears but no sign of the white coat boys. He ventured out. They looked at him for guidance. Unsure himself, he moved slowly down the corridor. Towards the wide open outside door. Tip-toing through The Howler's blood. Sensing strangeness.

The lawn in front of the main building was being violated by an old style circus carriage - emblazoned with “Arsefaces' Acrobats and Artistes” - being drawn up by a tractor with a kilt wearing Mohawk at the helm. He jumped up onto the roof of the carriage.

'Ladies and gentlemen, I am Arseface, come closer, you are about to be entertained with a troupe of exquisite performers the like of which you have never before seen in your lives.'

Bandanna felt himself being joined by a stream of patients oozing out beside him, Martha gripping his arm, all staring at the spectacle in wonder. They moved in closer. The line of white coats stayed where they were, they were close enough, all armed with bats and pick axe handles. The thing The White Hawk had in his grip had sparks coming off it.

Arseface turned the handle of a hurdie-gurdie, the carriage doors flew open and out came a guy in a black hat, no costume. Christ, thought Bandanna, he's steaming drunk, he looks as if he's just been dragged out the pub.

The performer, ignoring the snorts of derision from the white coat guys, lit up a fiery stick, stuck it in his mouth and breathed out a volcanic like eruption of flame. That seemed to go on for too long. His hat caught fire. It was obvious he was in trouble. He collapsed to his knees. Coughing out embers and smoke. Fucked.

The snorts turned into laughter.

Next out was a rolling ball of bald head and black leotard that opened out into the shape of a lithe young woman exuding an air of artistic ability. The display she produced reminded Bandanna of the mat workout at the Olympics: all flips, cartwheels, forward rolls and ending up with a perfect backwards somersault. Finished, she stretched out in a pose of arresting grace.

All snorting and giggling disappeared.

Only to return with the appearance of two identical leopard skin attired 'strong men' lathered all over in white grease paint and sporting dastardly moustaches. A juggler, complete in the outfit of a fool, led the way. Christ, thought Bandanna, that mouser and shaved head doesn't throw me, that's Bing, that's two Bings, f**k those pills are f*****g me up good style.

These comic appearances proved to be deceiving, the white coats fell silent when one of the muscle men jammed an impressive metal bar between his teeth and began to bend it into an upturned U and the other started working out on an old fashioned ball barbell like a demon. The grease paint showed off an impressive display of rippling muscle power.

The pickaxe handles were gripped tighter.

The mirth returned though when a clown stumbled out with a bountiful supply of balloons with which he proceeded to blow up and create artistic delight.

One of the white coats let out a super snort, 'what the f**k's that' he yelped, 'a f*****g c**k and balls?'

The White Hawk made his move, waving his prod he ventured in closer. 'Righty oh,' he said, 'that's jus about 'nough of this here lil carneeval.'

He stopped soon enough when the clown pulled out a revolver and pointed it at his face. Coming from the land of the gun he knew that this was some serious piece of kit. He dropped the prod.

'I've had it up to here,' said the clown, 'all this humiliation and embarrassment has worked me to wake up time. But it's not everybody that can blow a man's head off. Most people wouldn't have it in them, and I'm probably one of them. 'But,' he said, his voice tightening, 'I've thought of a way. You see I don't see a man's face in front of me. I see a skull. An impersonal piece of bone...

The White Hawk crumpled before his eyes. A blurry figure of Bing spun round, brandishing a bloody juggling skittle. 'Skulls are for crackin Kaiser.'

The white coats didn't move, the gun and the ease with which their leader was dispatched had frozen them.

The patients seeing that the sadist was down, that the white coats were cowards, began running down the hill, eyes flashing like a gang of baboons out on the rob.