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Just a jester, eh? Or is it? Okay, so it looks like your standard photo of yet another stuffed jester sleeping one off. You see them all the time. Or do you? The sort of thing a wet-behind-the-ears paparazzi in search of a lucrative career scouring dustbins of the famous in the middle of the night might snap a shot of. Just in case there was something more to it. Get the picture! Think about the big question marks it leaves hanging in the air: where? who? how and why? What? I hear you ask. And well you might. Do I hear the sound of a guilty conscience? Or is it my ears ringing again?
In my present state of self-loathing and guilt that inevitably follows an evening of heavy alcoholic indulgence, and in search of financial reward, I feel moved to publish this picture of a stuffed toy resembling a rather unctuous jester in the hope it might be the property of a child of a famous personality at the height of their career. Straightforward, honest, blackmail being hit rather hard by the crisis, I’m having to widen my field a bit. Things having got tough in the world of compromising, nudist, art photography, soft toynapping.seems like an obvious option. Surely somebody must want this grubby, little thing back?
Obviously, carelessly tossed from a baby carriage by its tiny owner in a fit of unnoticed infant rage, I feel the time has come for the two arguing partners to be re-united in order to re-establish their formerly perfect relationship. That wide smile is not the smile of a happy toy, it’s the forced smile of a brave, little toy facing the cruel reality of being made homeless. If only parents could be made to love the homeless as much as their babies do.
But never mind that. If I have to, I might tear one of the jester’s legs off and post it to the toddler who owns it, once I find out where the little tinker lives. That’ll give it something to smile about. Just try me. I will if I have to. I’m ruthless when desperate. I once bit the ear off my youngest sister’s teddy bear. When I was much younger. You can never no how long it takes to get rid of the bits of fluff in your mouth. It left me dry spitting for the rest of the day.
All correspondence will be kept in strictest confidence. Unless some bent hack offers me more to release any delicate information I might have about certain matters to the world’s press. And that means don’t wise-up the plods. You don’t know what I know about you, do you? Whoever you are. But we all have secrets and I might know yours. That jester could be the vital clue to your part in an unsolved crime. For all I know, you could have murdered someone. Or even a series of people, and that jester might be dripping with your DNA. Admit it, you don’t know how much I know, and I don’t know how important that information could be in the wrong hands. I feel a thriller coming on. So, I’m going to have to leave this hanging in the air. For the moment. But, if you have anything to do with this abandoned jester, and its fun and games, don’t sit back thinking you’re getting off lightly, I’ll be back, mark my words.
For those of you can still remember, remember not to forget. One thing is certain, for the life of me, I can’t remember where I took the photo. Let this be a lesson to all youngsters everywhere, never snap when under the influence. That’s how I got to be where I am today. And I’m not quite sure exactly where that is. But I’ll probably find out as soon as I can find my trousers.
So, what was this supposed to be about? Do people pay for this sort of rubbish? Or do I have to keep writing it for free?
Copyright © 2014 Bryan Hemming
Une fois. Encore.
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