iBlog: Chapter 2


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Saturday, November 29, 2008

Chapter 2

`The Unamiable Like Mindedness of Criminal Masterminds and Those Who Don't Commit Crimes But Watch Films About Then None the Less` - By Benvolio Haversham-Brown

Chapter 2

`The prisoner knows not the prison, save that of the prison of his heart, the heart of the prisoner` - Muhammed Jones

Chapman lay on a dirty matress in his motel room. He wondered about all the airborne spores and particles from the old matress and covered his mouth with a doiley. He then put a second larger doiley under his elderly head so the pillow didn't infect his scalp. They (people) didn't call him `two doiley Chapman` for nothing. And there he lay for a hundred and fourty nine minutes or there abouts while he slept cradling his holstel full of money.

The sleep with which he was currently occupied came to an end by the occourance of the event of his awakening up. The time at that moment was 10am in the morning. Chapman was used to getting up at seven but under these circumstances decided to let it slide. There would be enough time for re-aligning his body clock in the next coming weeks but now it was time to get a move on and leave. He got up, squinted his eyes and mumbled dramaticly ``but first... ``.

And with that he de-squinted his eyes and picked out his picture of Hyunkw. He held it for a few seconds and out of his left tear duct he reluctantly surrendered a solitary tear. A leak of loneliness.

He returned the picture to the holstel and clapping his hands declared ``right!`` and swept out of his motel room and into his car.

The car was old like the neck of a turkey and yet it still had the manerisms of the very healthiest of necks, like that of a giraffe perhaps. Spritely with a 5 cylinder engine. Just like mother nature intended. At one time in his life, Chapman had penned a poem about the old car.

Oh my automotive dream
You are an octane stream
You help me with my scheme(s)
Because we are a team!

The poem wasn't much but he loved it. He was confident the car felt the same way too. It was blue with a chrome bumper. A big steering wheel for a man with big steering, a grunt from the right pedal and most importantly: No ABS.

Chapman started his car routine that involved checking all tyre pressures (including the spare), coolant level, bulbs, oil condition and level. Some people thought it excessive but considering he was now a bank robber, Chapman was a man who took few chances. He got into the car and buckled the seat belt. He pulled it thrice just to make sure in the event of a collision, his inertia would be well absorbed by the safety device. There were few crime lords who used Chapman as a get-away driver twice.

His destination was clear - the ancient village of Birmingham. He had been there when he was wee. He spent the journey recollecting his childhood memories of this picturesque ideal hamlet. He thought of Birmingham Village Green with Birmingham Village Hall beside. It was a happy place where people minded their manners. Where children were neither seen or heard and old people were always welcomed - fugative or not.

When he arrived he was taken aback. ``what - what is this monstrosity?!`` he yelled like a man consumed by the vision of a megalopolis where a quaint village once lay. As with most things, a solitary tear was emitted from his left tear duct and fell to the ground like a bad juggler's [juggling] balls.

He parked his car in a Morrison's car park, locked the door and tried each door handle in turn to make sure he had locked the car properly. He may have been really old but he was still able to walk to the village green that was now called the Birmingham National and Royal Gallery. He recognised a house across the entrance that was there when he was a child and with a glimour of hope he whispered ``bless us and save us``.

Of course when he was in the midst of his childhood (that is to say when he was a child) this wasn't his favourite house. It was the home of Eleanor Rigby. In those days the Beatles belonged to Birmingham until Liverpool bought the rights to them in 1960s. Eleanor Rigby was an old lady even when Chapman was a chapchild. All the children of the area were terrified of the house and if their ball accidently flew over the railings they would say to themselves `the ball is lost to Eleanor Rigby` and they would bow their heads for the ball would never be seen again.

Such was the terror of the house that some swore she had the face of a mushroom in a jar by the door, though this was often attributed to artistic licence. Indeed the only time she was ever seen was when she left prison in 1922. She had been convicted of stealing the rice from after a church wedding. In those days any carbohydrate that had been dropped was considered property of the King and so she was sentenced to six months hard labour in the oil mines.

The house now stood overgrown and delapidated. Knowing he had no where left to turn, Chapman slowly paced up the drive to Eleanor Rigby's house with that same sense of foreboding he had when he was a child. At length he reached the door and paused, it seems the myth about a face in the jar was no more than an old picked ghurkin left in the sun. Some mysteries are easier to solve than others. It was precisely this uncertainty that stopped Chapman from becomming a private detective.

Before he had a chance to ring the bell the door swung open with a lengthy creak in what sounded to Chapman like some cliche gothic horror movie. But now wasn't the time for type casting the old woman, now was the time for his wits. He got his wits out of his proverbial knapsack and wore them like a figurative balaclava.

``Eleanor Rigby?`` he called up the dusty stairs. No response. He walked through the house in search of life. Was she dead? Had she moved? Was she hiding? He pushed the door to the lader and found some old tins of tuna chunks and a box of Mr Kipling French Fancies with all the pink ones missing. He considered releiving the old woman of a brown one as old men like brown confectionary but a his thoughts were broken by a rat scurrying through his legs going `squeek squeek squeek!`. They always made that squeeking noise around Chapman.

He proceeded to the stairs and took each at a time. They were so old he had to be careful where he put his weight. In the wrong place or placed too quickly and it might give way and he'd fall exactly the height that he had hitherto escillated and he couldn't bear that thought. When he got to the top of the stairs he thought ``phew, I'm at the top of the stairs``. It wasn't a profound thought but there would be time for being profound later.

``Eleanor Rigby`` he called again but this time there was a quiet mumble from the room on the left. He put his holdall on the floor and walked dramaticly to the door, pulled the handle and that didn't work. ``Stupid man`` he thought as he should have known that all doors open into rooms from the landing apart from when airing cupboards are concerned and this was about as far away from an airing cupboard as you can get. But not literally as there was one adjascant to the door he had just incorrectly tried.

He stepped into the room and paused for a moment taking in what was before him. He proclaimed ``Eleanor Rigby!``. The time for being profound isn't far away Chapman promise himself.


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