Looking out through the letterbox I watched the world in widescreen. The car that had been parked out front last night was gone only to be replaced by another. Inside this one was a ginormous detective who in between squashing whole donuts into his gob and sucking and kissing the sugar off his fingers, did a bit of surveillance work (which entailed looking over at my garden gate and then pulling a disgusting face.) As he gorged on his latest deep fried treat I let out a loud ghostly “Wooooaaahhhh” and sniggering, waited for his reaction. There was nothing. Not from him anyhow. But something reacted, made a sudden movement... and not too far away. That's when I spotted the footprints in the snow. They led up the garden path and veered off to the right, over towards the window boxes. Not only that, but I could hear someone over there, scraping, patting, out of breath.

I looked back to the detective in the car. He was turned that way and made a signal with his hands. Something like “keep going, it's OK”. My heart was pounding. Was it Little Dick Tracy over there? Digging through the window boxes? Was this the moment? I experienced a kind of a rush. Not really a pleasureable thing but somewhere between a panic attack and an orgasm. If this was 'IT', there was no way I was going to exit my legend being calmly led away to a waiting police car. No! Once I knew for sure that the whistle had been blown there would be an emergency evacuation: a running jump, headfirst, right through the back window, and off beyond the Silver Birch tree and away. Whether it would go down in history as a daring escape bid or pathetic suicide attempt, who could know? All I know is that my struggle for freedom is as great as any mans and against my head, my body would not let itself be dragged off to the knackers yard without a fight.

I remained crouched down at the letter box listening intently and watching the detective still swallowing donuts and still giving encouragement to whoever was in my yard. I thought of going into the living room, but it would have been impossible to peep out the window without being seen.

After a good five minutes more of listening to the gatecrasher in my yard something happened which actually made sense. It came by way of a thick northern accent: “Owt fer twenty four this mornin' Pet?” It said.

My God, she was asking about letters. It was Brian in my fucking yard! But what was he up to? I scampered off to the bedroom, slipped into my paisley pyjama bottoms, grabbed my Lumix TS2 digital camera and was then rushing back and out the front door ready to snap Brian in the act... hopefully get him on a criminal damage charge or something.

As the door flew open the ginormous detective in the surveillance car beeped his horn before calmly repositioning himself as if he had nothing to do with it. I burst onto the scene flashing and capturing images for all I was worth. Before Brian even had time to react I had a lovely one of him bent up like a fairy with a shocked look on his face as he realized he'd been caught. He didn't hang around, just let out a childish “hee hee” and then came barging my way. “Oh, Tristram, hee hee, I've what seems quite an important letter for you. Looks like it's from the Council... hee hee.” I barged Brian out the way and went to see what the hell he had been up to. There, sat on the top of the window box, on a little bed of snow, was the body of John... a little snow effigy complete with hair and glasses.

“What the fuck is this monstrosity?” I cried, really nearly weeping.
“Hmmm, ah, well let's see...” said Brian looking over, “Aw, well it looks like a little Snow Fella to me... and Oh, if it doesn't resemble....”
“A snow what?” I interrupted,
“A snow fella... a fella made outta snow, hee hee...”
“You cruel, stupid, twisted little shit stain!” I cried. “Why would anybody be so fucking heartless? It's evil!”
“Wasn't me... I's just here to deliver you a letter. I thought you had made it, you know, as a little memorial to your murdered lover. Yeah, that is evil.”
“So, John's in the window box...ha, how ironic.. John's in the fucking window box!”
“Well, all I know is I didn't put him there,” said Brian, “I thought it was you and just wanted a closer look.”

Sidling up to Brian I whispered in his ear: “One day soon we'll all have to wash our hands... everyone. When you try washing yours don't forget this day, this moment, how you said I put John in the window box. Don't ever forget that, OK? And good luck with the fucking scrubbing.... make sure you get all the shit off your middle finger!” Brian looked puzzled. He knew there was some kind of riddle at play but was too stupid to figure out what. He narrowed his eyes a little, tried to look at me like Little Dick Tracy does, and then handed me my letter and was gone. Just footprints in the snow leading off to God knows where.


  1. Do you think he grew out of the body parts?? xx

  2. To All:

    It didn't grow... it's not a mind fuck and it wasn't Banksy: It was BRIAN.... the snow was still dripping off his fingers as he gave me the letter (and you'll all know what that is!!)



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