Pachyderms and Prejudice

The following is merely intended to be a fictitious, humorous story.

Most stories in this blog carry something of a ‘social message’.

No story is intended to be judgemental.

Some readers may find content offensive, but there is little that one wouldn’t find in a post-watershed sitcom.

I walked into a music and film shop, as I call them.

I asked the two assistants behind the counter for a video of a film called Hannibal Brooks.

I like the film; it’s an old film, but I find it humorous and I like Oliver Reed and elephants.

The two assistants laughed.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Would that be Betamax or VHS?” asked one of them, still laughing.

“VHS.” I replied. “Why are you laughing?”

The two assistants started to laugh even harder.

A crowd of people, wondering what the laughter was about, had gathered around me.

“Have you got one?” I asked.

“Have you ever heard of a DVD?” arsehole number one asked me.

“Have you ever heard of a punch in the head?”

“Alright, grandfather, calm down. Nobody sells videos these days. Everything is on DVD.”

“Not everything is on DVD,” I suggested.

“I think you’ll find it is,” said arsehole number two.

“I’ve never seen your face on DVD,” I responded, picking up a blank disc and placing it on the counter. I reached over, put both hands behind his head and slammed his face into the counter.

“Until now, of course.” I said.

I turned to the remaining A-hole and asked, “do you have Hannibal Brooks on DVD?”

His colleague had run off with blood pouring from his snout.

“I’ll check for you, sir.”

He tapped a few keys on his computer’s keyboard and then studied the screen.

He started to sweat.

“Is there any chance of you hurrying up? As you’ve already pointed out, I’m knocking on in years; I could keel over right now and start shitting all over the place, so time is of the essence.”

“Don’t hit me. My wife’s six months pregnant.”

“Do you have Hannibal Brooks on DVD?”

“It’s not on DVD,” he cried miserably. “It’s only ever been on video. It’s never been put on DVD.”

He started to sob.

“Which explains why I asked for the video, you fucking moron.”

I left the shop and headed for the other music and film shop in the town.

My town, Bogton, is split into two parts: Lower Bogton and Upper Bogton.

I live in Lower Bogton with all the other lower echelon scum.

Once, I tried living in Upper Bogton with the ‘nice’ people, but it was awful.

By eight o’clock in the morning, the place would be deserted; the Upper Bogton residents would cram themselves into trains and head for the city.

At first I would sneak past the big cars in the drives and peek through house windows to see how the successful people lived.

But, looking at barren rooms and cheap furniture soon became boring.

At six in the evening, I would stand outside my moderately sized home, sipping a bevvie and watch as the commuters returned.

They didn’t speak to each other.

Over the weeks it became clear that nobody ever visited neighbours, they’d have nowhere to sit, anyway.

My kids—the ‘poor’ kids of the area—had the best school uniforms, the best toys...but no friends.

My kids, like all kids at some stages in life, were right little fuckers, but they were unhappy, friendless little fuckers.

In Upper Bogton, parents wouldn’t allow their children to play with other children, for fear of friends being brought home to play and then telling their parents what the insides of the homes were like.

One, late evening, as I returned from a weekend piss up with the lads from Lower Bogton, I went up and down my street, knocking on every door.

I asked every homeowner the same thing: “Is your house insured?”

If they answered ‘yes’, then I merely said: “Good.”

If they answered ‘no’, I said: “It needs to be.”

Three days later, at eight o’clock in the morning, I set fire to the entire street.

As I drove the wife and kids back to Lower Bogton, the wife, not complaining, sat next to me and the little fuckers laughed in the back.

I walked into the Upper Bogton music and film shop.

“Do you have a video of a film called Hannibal Brooks?”

“We don’t want any trouble,” the assistant said, as a security guard appeared at his side.

“I don’t want any trouble, either. I just want a bloody film called Hannibal Brooks. Have you got a copy?”

“That’s him,” screamed the terrified assistant, “he’s the one from the other shop. He’s violent. He’s put three of them in the hospital. He once torched the whole of Bogton because it didn’t have a pub. Get rid of him!”

“That was over twenty years ago! And anyway, it was only one street!”

“He’s from the Lower part of town!”

“And it had naff all to do with pubs, but everything to do with bigoted cunts like you!”

I turned and started to leave the shop. A single handclap made me turn around.

The elderly lady continued to clap and painfully walked towards me.

She passed me a piece of paper. “This is where my son lives. I live with him. He’s got Hannibal Brooks. He’ll do you a copy. He likes elephants, you know.”

I looked at the address on the paper:

28 Slag End,

Lower Bogton