Post Number Forty

“A Match Made in Prison”

A few short eves ago (’round about supper time) I took my girl (Natasha De Nasha) on a date. As promised, I went formally dressed in my finest quality polo shirt, bow tie, and a clean(ish) pair of tracky dacks. In short, I was dazzling. She, on the other hand, wore… I dunno… something that exposed her cleavage. Prob’ly a dress or a gown or something. Mag-NIFICENT cleavage, though. Perhaps a teensy bit revealing for the place where I took her for dinner… but I shouldn’t really complain. I mean, the meal was FREE, after all.

Now, I know exactly what you’re thinking and it’s (more or less) this: “Duncan Dooligan, you penny-pinchin’ pussy-pounder, did you– in exercising your new-fangled expertise in that myth called economics– take your girl to a (gulp) SOUP KITCHEN??

“Oh, no, no, no,” (is my reply). Zeus bless your hand woven hosiery, No. Your “Soup Kitchen Scenario” would not be (quote) “economical”, but rather would instead be (quote) “stingy”. Because many “guys of the homeless persuasion” who go to those kitchens are absolutely teemin’ with vermin. By that I mean the sorts o’ vermin that “sting” (which is why I said “stingy”). The place I took my Womyn to was a much more safe and hygienic dump– namely, the very same dump where we first met: prison.

Yes, call me a Nostalgic Fool if you will, and then (if you feel an ongoing urge to subject me to further name-calling) call me a ROMANTIC Fool, as well, because I knew Natasha De Nasha would be pleasantly astonished when I jerked the blindfold off her eyes and revealed the DUNGEON CAFETERIA where all the old gang(s) were sitting in polite, goggle-eyed silence!

But now you must be wondering how a poverty-stricken Someone like me could rustle up the baksheesh to bribe us a table at this exclusive dump. Simple. I “pulled a few strings”– or one string, to be precise. The “string” that is UNCLE MIKE SPILLIGAN (AKA my man on the inside). Mike set it up so that me and my blushing Date were placed at a cozy little out-of-the-way table for eight (after we stood– for too long– in the queue and got this green, sloppy stuff splodged onto our plates with a soup ladle, that is). To be honest, I wasn’t over-impressed by the over-all service (especially the service by the guys in the over-alls). The portions were très small, for starters. Which is why I said:

“You there! Slop Walla! I don’t think you’d be scrimpin’ so much if you knew the lady I’m with right now is an EX-PRISON GUARD from around these parts. Yair, that’s right. From this very dungeon, too. EVERYONE LOOK AT HER!! HAVE A CLOSE LOOK!! You prob’ly didn’t recognise her in that dress… or gown… or whatever… but under it all is the same fierce disciplinarian who– legend has it– put the screws on many  a wayward nipple here. So slap on the slops, dood! Slap it on, BIG TIME!!”

And he did. In fact, he seemed so impressed by both my Alpha Male bossiness and my date’s Alpha Female coyness (as her eyes darted shyly ’round that prison cafeteria) that he said he’d “pop a succulent LAND OYSTER” into her slops, as well. Then he turned away and — I suppose– did as promised. Although it was hard for me to hear the shucking of the oyster shell over the “hyook-p’TUH” noise from the ceiling fan.

Then my Date and me glided elegantly towards the table Mike snaffled for us. Prob’ly would’a been better if it wasn’t a table for eight, I guess, but me and my Date felt… mostly alone… because five out of the six other guys at the table couldn’t speak no English. Ah, but what of the other other guy? Here’s a clue: His presence had a cold spooning effect on the blossoming of romance. Yes, if “Mike” (so-called) wasn’t there I wouldn’t have gotten the urge to chastigate him (that’s a word, right?) for sending me on a pointless and futile Tocsin Rashapoon Hunt.

“Could not find him anywhere in that city of ten million souls, dood,” I protested. “Which can only mean one thing: jus’ like economics, Tocsin Rashapoon is a MYTH.”

“You jus’ plain WRONG, bitch,” Mike said, confusingly. “I shall now let you in on a little ‘English-Speaking People Only’ secret: I–” (Then he paused for dramatic effect, guzzling the soup, eating all his main course, and getting half way through dessert before resuming with:) “– AM TOCSIN RASHAPOON.”

“Bullshit you are, man!” I hotly-disputed. “You look nothin’ like ‘im.”

“And what does he look like?” said Mike.

“NON-EXISTENT,” said The Author.

But Mike then explained how “Tocsin Rashapoon” was an alias that he (Mike) used when he (Mike) was on one of his (Mike’s) Bangkok sausage-smugglin’ jaunts. He further said that he bought the name from a street vendor and kept it on his (i.e. Mike’s) person at all times, until the day came when he might need it.

Well, I can tell you, Reader, I did not believe Word One of this.

“How come you told me to find a ‘certain fella’ you now say you are, when I could’a found you right here?” I probed.

“Ah, Young One,” said the guy who’s four years older than me. “I sent you there as a test. And it was a test– I’m happy to say– that you passed with PRIMARY COLOURS.”

“Gee, I… dunno wha’ to say…” is what I did say. “This is all so… so unexpected. I’d like to thank my mother and my lawyers an’– WAIT A MINUTE. You didn’t ‘send me’ anywhere, ya prick! I went over there myself, on a quest for… umm…”

“Revenge,” is what my wallflower Date (finally) chipped in.

“YAIR!” I agreed. “So what the fug, man? WHAT THE FUG??”

Unfortunately, I never found out “what the fug” because a Prison-Chaplain-Beardy-Muslimy-type guy came up and said my sheer Alpha Male bossiness was frightening the other diners.

Thus me and my Date were kicked out of jail. Once we glided elegantly beyond the prison walls, she gave me a look and said:

“Any other fun surprise places you wan’a go to, Drooligan?”

“I dunno,” I said, while staring her straight in the groin. “Are you… ‘up’…  for a spot of bowling..?”