Испалец в колесе - страница 9
«No, my dear Whopper, it's OXO WHITNEY» he bellowed as if I was in another room, and I wasn't.
«How d'you know Womlbs?» I whispered excretely.
«Harrybellafonte, my dear Whopper.» At that precise morman a tall rather angularce tall thin man knocked on the door. «By all accounts that must be he, Whopper.» I marvelled at his acute osbert lancaster.
«How on urge do you know Womlbs» f asped, revealing my bad armchair.
«Eliphantitus my deaf Whopper» he baggage knocking out his pip on his large leather leg. In warped the favourite Oxo Whitney none the worse for worms.
«I'm an escaped primrose Mr Womlbs» he grate darting franetically about the room.
«Calm down Mr Whitney!» I interpolled «or you'll have a nervous breadvan.»
«You must be Doctored Whopper» he pharted. My friend was starving at Whitney with a strange hook on his eager face, that tightening of the lips, that quiver of the nostriches and constapation of the heavy tufted brows which I knew so well.
«Gorra ciggie Oxo» said Womlbs quickly. I looked at my colledge, hoping for some clue as to the reason for this sodden outboard, he gave me no sign except a slight movement of his good leg as he kicked Oxo Whitney to the floor. «Gorra ciggie Oxo» he reapeted almouth hysterically.
«What on urn are you doing my dear Womlbs» I imply; «nay I besiege you, stop lest you do this poor wretch an injury!»
«Shut yer face yer blubbering owld get» screamed Womlbs like a man fermented, and laid into Mr Whitney something powerful wat. This wasn't not the Shamrock Womlbs I used to nose, I thought puzzled and hearn at this suddy change in my old friend.
Mary Atkins pruned herselves in the mirage, running her hand wantanly through her large blond hair. Her tight dress was cut low revealingly three or four blackheads, carefully scrubbed on her chess. She addled the final touches to her makeup and fixed her teeth firmly in her head. «He's going to want me tonight» she thought and pictured his hamsome black curly face and jaundice. She looked at her clocks impatiently and went to the window, then leapt into her favorite armchurch, picking up the paper she glassed at the headlines. «MORE NEGOES IN THE CONGO» it read, and there was, but it was the Stop Press which corked her eye. «JACK THE NIPPLE STRIKE AGAIN.» She went cold all over, it was Sydnees and he'd left the door open.
«Hello lover» he said slapping her on the butter.
«Oh you did give me a start Sydnees» she shrieked laughing arf arfily.
«I always do my love» he replied jumping on all fours. She joined him and they galloffed quickly downstairs into a harrased cab. «Follow that calf» yelped Sydnees pointing a rude fingure.
«White hole mate!» said the scabbie.
«Why are we bellowing that card Sydnees?» inquired Mary fashionably.
«He might know where the party» explained Sydnees.
«Oh I see» said Mary looking up at him as if to say.
The journey parssed pleasantly enough with Sydnees and Mary pointing out places of interest to the scab driver; such as Buckinghell Parcel, the Horses of Parliamint, the Chasing of the Guards. One place of particularge interest was the Statue of Eric in Picanniny Surplass.
«They say that if you stand there long enough you'll meet a friend» said Sydnees knowingly, «that's if your not run over.»
«God Save the Queens» shouted the scabbie as they passed the Parcel for maybe the fourth time.
«Jack the Nipple» said Womlbs puffing deeply on his wife, «is not only a vicious murderer but a sex meany of the lowest orgy.» Then my steamed collic relit his pig and walkered to the windy of his famous flat in Bugger St in London where it all happened. I pondled on his statemouth for a mormon then turding sharply I said. «But how do you know Womlbs?»
«Alibabba my dead Whopper, I have seen the film» I knew him toby right for I had only read the comic.
That evenig we had an unexpeckled visitor, Inspectre Basil, I knew him by his tell-tale unicorn.
«Ah Inspectre Basil mon cher amie» said Womlbs spotting him at once. «What brings you to our humble rich establishment?»