Comedy Open Mic Round 16 : THE VILLAGE Part 10 - A Near Death Experience.

Back despite popular demand and an increasing number of death threats. I've decided to continue with the pointless tale called The Village. It will not gain a new audience and it will not win any Comedy Open Mic prizes. Like the man who found himself trapped in a cage with an over amorous silverback gorilla; this is going to happen whether you like it or not. The more you struggle the worse it will get. You are only postponing the inevitable so the sooner this starts the sooner it's finished. Here is picture of Cliff House. If you ever find yourself in Newquay during the inevitable zombie apocalypse this is the place to head to. You can fish at the bottom of the garden.

(The copyright for this picture is the property of Boutique Retreats)

This was one of those times when the ability to to live your life via the medium of montage would have come in handy. Unfortunately the common folk are unable to do this. They have to go the long way round, unlike Hollywood. There you can montage all you like, day or night. You can also speed up the boring bits then do all of the good bits in slow motion. It's a different world but no less imaginary. For Michael Penrose this option was not open. Actually very few options were open to him at all. Therefore the lack of montage capabilities barely registered except in circumstances like the vast majority of his life. He was angry he hadn't come up with the idea before. Then he could have moaned about that. Instead here he was alone in a library van. Driving around the village of St Erile swapping books with people he'd known since his birth 35 years ago. This was his home, whether he hated it or hated it even more.

At each of his stops the denizens would stroll forth from their homes to bring back books then borrow other books. Every now and then someone would take a DVD or a CD. Generally so they could immediately take it home to pirate a copy or ten. Once upon a time there'd been no such thing as DVD's and CD's, although there had allegedly been three porridge eating bears, who made no sense. It was ridiculous. How could Mother Bear make porridge that was simultaneously too hot, too cold and just right? Given the fact they'd left for a walk and must have been gone quite a while, the story had even more plot holes. Why didn't more people question this? That too cold porridge would have been just right surely. Although it was possible that Goldilocks might be a spoiled brat who nothing was ever good enough for. The only thing he could be certain of was that she was a thief and housebreaker.

It was amazing what the human brain got up to when it was so bored there was every chance his neck might snap itself to end the misery. Michael was always miserable yet today he couldn't get comfortable wallowing in it. Something had changed. It took him ages to work out that it was Darcy Young's fault. She'd made him smile. Well almost, but that wasn't like him at all. There had been a disturbance in the force. Damn, he had to take his mind off this aberration. He'd doodle for a bit. Pen, paper and a fertile, if somewhat cruel, imagination that had chosen today to go on holiday. Maybe this would distract him enough for normality to return. So far he had 2 touching circles one of which was big and the other small. Was that a good start? It had been so long since he'd doodled. Perhaps he'd lost the knack. Something caught his eye. There. Over by those bushes. If he wasn't mistaken, that had to be Doidge.

He and Doogie were doing some work at Tall Girl's. As well as being thieves and con men they also carried out building repairs. Multiple income streams as Doogie liked to refer to it. Yes, it was definitely Doidge. No knowing how long he'd been there. He was coming closer. Hiding for a bit, then looking round before moving again. Doidge being sneaky was a new phenomenon. The young man had enough experience to know that sneaking was the best way to get caught. When you were bent on larceny walking around like you belonged somewhere was vital. Where the hell was Doidge going? More importantly what the hell was he doing? Michael worried for a moment about his tires. But no, if he'd wanted them the van would have been resting on bricks after it was repaired. Michael would have asked where they were and then there'd have been a lengthy tour of la la land. Nothing was ever straightforward where the terrible twins were concerned. If he could work out the general direction Doidge was headed in there was a good chance Michael could work this out. Whatever it was had to be behind him and in front of the van.

He took a good long look. If memory served him right the only thing in that direction was the abandoned coastguard station. Which had been stripped clean of anything of value five minutes after it was permanently closed. There was every chance parts of it were being incorporated into Tall Girl's cottage that very day. The days when passing ships would run aground were long past, so it wasn't an opportunistic bit of wrecking. A now almost defunct old Cornish custom. Which had last been practiced at least 4 years ago when all that Lego washed ashore. Michael turned back. His whole world staggered and almost fell. Something unbelievable was happening. Possibly equivalent to the Titanic reaching New York. No this was even more impossible. Doidge was backing onto and into a library. How was this possible? Was it pissing down with rain? No. This had to be a boredom induced hallucination. Either that or a near death experience. There were no other possible explanations. Doidge backed into the central double sided bookcase. Stepped round it, still in reverse. Finally he turned.

His Doidge brain struggled to process this unnaturally close proximity to books. It failed. Everywhere he looked his shocked eyes saw tomes. Eventually, after he'd spun in circles a few times, Doidge regained a modicum of equilibrium. He grinned at Michael self consciously, before edging closer to the counter. Maintaining a safe distance between him and the words that now surrounded him. So many questions, Michael mused. Am I dead? Is it actually pissing down outside? What happened to reality? These and a dozen more queued up in his brain causing a log jam. For once Michael was speechless. Purely to be on the safe side, he checked if there were any valuables in Doidge's vicinity. You could trust Doidge with your life, but it would be insane to allow him access to your wallet or cards.

"There's a lot of books in here ain't there." Doidge stated shakily. "Most of human knowledge is in here I expect."
Michael knew he should let that one pass. Obviously he didn't.
"If it is, mankind is well and truly fucked. To what do I owe the pleasure? First though, just to clarify this illusion for me, is it raining?" Doidge shook his head. "Well I'm all out of ideas then. So?"
At this point Doidge turned bashful. Staring at his feet while twisting them.
"Before I say anything I gotta know right. Is it still the case that anything I say in a library always stays secret? You can't tell anyone what I say in here?"
Michael let that seep in for a while.
"Shit. Why not? Everything you say in here is confidential. Dominus vobiscum crudites nomine domino self cleaning ovenum. There you go it's all official. Lay it on me brother Doidge."
He leaned in close to his librarian.
"I been thinking about poetry."
"Oh I'm so sorry. That must be terrible for you. Say three shushes and a quiet please and all will be forgiven my son."
Doidge, who had grown up with Michael, ignored this. Resolutely carrying on his thread.
"You know Stephanie Newcombe right?
"I do indeed. I'm also aware you've become enamored of her."
"No I haven't. I wouldn't. She's beautiful and wonderful and I'm like dirt beneath her lovely feet. I'd never even think of doing anything like that to her."
"No Doidge. It means you love her. Or whatever passes for love among the Doidge's. What did you think it meant?"
The young man blushed.
"Well you know. Doing things to me self while thinking about her and that. Only I wouldn't. She's like a goddess to me. I'm unworthy of her. That would be rape in my eyes. I'd kill me self first."
"Christ. You have got it bad. You do know that she's probably not... On second thoughts, please continue."
"Thing is see. I was thinking." A shudder went through Michael at the thought Doidge had been thinking. This did not bode well for someone, but as long as it wasn't him Michael didn't care. "I get tongue tied anywhere near her see. I haven't got the right words. You've got lots of words and you know about poems. So I was thinking if I knew about poems I'd have the right words to say."
"I think I've got you. You want to copy out some amorous poetry so you can try it out on the fragrant Stephanie Newcombe."
"No. I wouldn't do second hand poems to her. Those poems will be about other ladies, not her. I wants to do new poems that's hers only. Can you teach me to do poems?"
The possibilities here were near endless. The vast majority were awful. Letting the Doidge loose on an unsuspecting Stephanie could have hilarious results. And despite all the evidence to the contrary he might even be good at this. Doidge had unusual talents. Some of them so far beyond genius they seemed like magic.
"Sure why the hell not. This could be fun. First though I'm not a poet by any stretch of the imagination, although I have read a fair few in my time. How were you thinking of doing this?"
"I was thinking I should read some of them and then get the knowledge. You got poems on here ain't ya?"
"Yes."
Michael replied cautiously and reluctantly.
"Which ones should I read then?"
"Wordsworth, Keats and Byron are your best bets. There's nothing those boys didn't know about the secrets of gaining access to the contents of a young ladies petticoats. Steer clear of Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon and Laurence Binyon. They were pretty depressing. Trench warfare can do that to a man."
"Right so I'd like some poem books then. Please."
Michael balked internally at that. He liked books. They were reliable. They never talked about you behind your back.
"Aye, there's the rub." He picked up the pen. It might be a good idea to explain this with diagrams. "You see Doidge, libraries lend books. Those books are borrowed. I'm trying to think of a simple way to explain this concept to you so bear with me. When you borrow something it's on the understanding you return it. Do you remember when you and Doogie borrowed that Audi I used to have?" Doidge nodded, Michael drew more lines. "Well, stupidly as it turned out, I assumed I'd get it back. Only you both said it was making a funny noise so it might need some attention. Now I haven't seen that car since. I've seen bits of it, although oddly not most of the engine or the chassis. There is no definition of the word borrowed that indicates the borrowed item will never be seen again, is what I'm saying here."
"Oh right. When did they change the meaning of borrowed then?"
Michael blinked a few times before deciding on a suitable answer.
"There was a meeting. You probably had something else on so they decided without you. I didn't go either but they had a vote. There's nothing we can do about it now. That being said; any books, of poetry or otherwise, that you borrow from the library must be returned back here to this library. Preferably when I'm in it. Scratch that, definitely when I'm in it. I do not want to find parts of these books spread out across the parish in other peoples books. They must be brought back here. Intact or one piece. Whichever is easiest for you"
Michael stabbed in a full stop and put the pen down. Doidge turned the diagram round and studied it.
"Look. You just drawed a pig. There's its head and eyes and there's its body and legs. That's the tail and that's his cock."
"Oh yeah. I see what you mean."
"Only you got its dick wrong." Doidge picked up the pen to adjust the drawing. "See? It's shaped like a corkscrew."
"Well I never. Is it really?"
"Yeah. My Nan used to keep pigs. They got swirly penises."
"Well you learn something new everyday. Not much I can say about that except lucky Mrs Pig."
"That's not all. See her parts is swirled as well. Only hers goes in the opposite direction. That's like the opposite thread."
"If it wasn't though. Would she be screwed?"

I would like to nominate @africaunited and @vladivostok for the next round.