the round light reflecting on the tip of his black gleaming shoe, bouncing quietly with each heart beat. Bonniface's eyes flooding with a warm regard. Tiny smile tugging the edges of noble lips. Leads the whole world to the brink, holds up a hand as he peers down into the darkness and says let's have a drink before we jump.
"Smith, I know you came here in a long somewhat strange car. I watched out the window. I want you to take me to the airport four miles south. I'm late for duty. We will take Mr. Mystery. He understands. Bow, wow. Woof woof. He knows. Wags his tail when he is near the big runways and hears the metal birds roar up into the cloud banks. Smith let me try on your garments."
Bonniface pulling on Smith's gloves. Putting arms into the sleeves of the fur lined coat. Looking down the long line of his person.
"Smith in a moment of wretched hopelessness I took my hunting horn to the airport, just to bring back memories. And sounded it while seated in the crapper. After a few sentimental blasts the police descended answering a summons to bugle blowing in the gents. Comes a time when one is forced to take matters out of God's hands. Across these lands it throbs and thunders. They are happy in their fat. I must go look in my bedroom mirror at this fine garment."
Bonniface opening the curtained french doors. Shattering crash. Smith stiffening, standing. A yelp and bark from the bedroom. Sound of scrabbling.
"George help me, they've got me."
Smith parting the doors. A huge bed lay like a hillside against the wall, propped crazily on books and magazines. Bonniface flattened beneath an ironing board, his fist gripped round the neck of a gigantic wine bottle. Photographs strewn on the floor. Of children, meadows and ponies. Bereft outpost, like room 604 Dynamo. Personal trinkets scattered between barren plaster walls. Sad enough to laugh. Just as he wandered without warning into Fartbrook. And I, two weeks ago installed a bath in 604 Dynamo, desperately needing to wallow in the warm of water. Secret plumbers came. They fiddled with the pipes. While one of them put his foot through the ceiling. A poor lone guilty operator in the office below saw the emerging leg and got down on his knees and started to pray. And just as he felt relief as the leg retreated, and the guilt was swept away the other one came crashing through.
"Smith help me get out from under this. I thought it was them. The white coats. Lurking and jumping on me from behind."
Entanglement of wires, a wake up coffee machine, an ironing board stained with burns. Floor strewn with cigarette stubs. And in the corner a gable roofed doghouse, the face of Mr. Mystery peering out upon the holocaust. As Bonniface crawled away to the bathroom. Legs jutting out the door. Head encased in shower curtain. Man of desperate strength, magically fading through walls, haunting the flatland boulevards. Ushering travellers out across the tarmac to the waiting big birds. Waves them bye bye. Leads the blind, taps out code to the deaf. Walks stiffly, quickly. Knowing every pause invites a punch out of nowhere.
Smith retreating to the living room. Twisted with spectacular death. Come tonight all the way here. With Bonniface twitching his elegant heels. Striking sparks with each click. Now sporting my coat and gloves. As night outside groans away with wheels. Bonniface swan dives from his ironing board. Till the bed hangs down from the wall. As my reputation waves in tatters. Overrun by a horde of low voltage hearts. The hot sunny day when the salesman took me, his prospect, through the marvellous leafy avenues of Renown. Told me of the beauty and permanency. Mr. Smith you rest in peace completely free of any rodent threat. In this little temple. Airtight behind that slab. Cleaned and polished daily. Fresh flowers on the mantel. And as we left stepping down away from that mausoleum on the hot sunny day. It blew up. Salesman ran for cover. Found him lurking in the shrubbery weeping over his lost sale. But I bought. One day I will scatter up the birds with a blast out under the trees. All salesmen, battle fatigued, are sent away for rehabilitation.
Bonniface combing his wet hair. Please let me wear your coat George. Just tonight. To have the fine feel of fur next my underwear. I'm not going to last,