The website of writer & artist Dan McNeil


20th February, 2021
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(Spinning slowly, sliding free,
That greyhound bus came flying at me).

It had been running and running around the track for six and a half years, people betting ginormous sums of money that it would never beat the Nova Scotian Labrador, but in the end it was the rank outsider from Newfoundland, “Ontario Smackhead” that came romping home. “Home, ah yes! Home is where the heart is!” barked the psychopathic struck-off East German refugee surgeon from Dresden, as he ripped the still pumping heart from the chest of the Nato soldier who had been born of a nice middle class family (two loving parents, a charming if slightly dim older sister and a three legged daschund being the main components) in Bruges twenty-three years earlier, and was now dying most horribly on the Isle of Dogs.

“Disunited Dog Country, par for the course really,” laughed Captain Basil Brush in clipped tones as he smashed Sergeant Nathaniel Spaniel over the head with a Jeremy Eight-Iron, horrible flared polyester trousers with vomit inspiring check pattern (circa 1974) flapping around his poxy-foxy legs. Sergeant Nathaniel Spaniel fell to the ground, four dumpy legs twitching spasmodically, as the Penguin moved in, slicing Captain Brush’s neck with a sliver of tin.

“Ooohhwahhhh, ooohhwahhhh, bum bum!” screamed Brush.

“You do not spell boom boom in that anally fixated fashion, you moron glove puppet,” hissed the Penguin.

“You stupid bastard bar of cheapo chocolate!” yelled the director at the Penguin. “You’ve cut Crispin’s goddamn wrist with that bit of tin. Get outta this goddamn studio!”

The Penguin, now visibly melting in the harsh studio lights, looked over to where Crispin, sad Crispin with the huge ego and delusions of acting alongside Jeremy Eight-Irons, was trying to pull a bloodstained Captain Basil Brush from his right arm. To the Penguin it appeared as if Crispin had been trying to fist Captain Brush up the arse. Crispin finally wrenched the corpse of Captain Brush from his arm. This unfortunately made matters much worse, as to anybody but the most blithering idiot it would have been obvious that the latex inner body of Brush acted on Crispin’s almost severed wrist with much the same splendid efficiency as a tourniquet. Crispin ran around like a stuck pig, great fountains of blood spraying from his wrist. As he died, the Penguin finally melted into oblivion. Human blood and Penguin chocolate swirled and mingled in peace on the studio floor as they never could have done in life.

The inquest into Captain Brush’s death was an amusing affair.

Colonel Arthur Doberman-Pinscher was the prosecuting counsel. All well and good, except that there was nobody alive worth prosecuting. Crispin – dead due to sudden loss of blood. The Penguin – transmogrified into liquid chocolate. Nathaniel Spaniel – brains splattered all over the rug. The Nato soldier from Bruges – not really part of this story anyway. Doberman-Pinscher realised that he was basically a spare prick in an empty courtroom. Barking in a manic fashion, he trotted unsteadily toward the drinks cabinet, poured himself another bowl of milk, and settled down in his basket to watch the final instalment of 45 Minutes To Doomsday.


©Dan McNeil 2005