The Hippopotamus And His Hippopotamissus (A Sequel To The Mahogany Hippopotamus) Part One

© 2012 David Jasmin-Green

The mahogany hippopotamus sat on his battered sofa sipping bitter tea from a chipped Superman mug, tea that he found rather unpalatable because he had long since run out of sugar and milk. He spent most of his time out and about because he couldn't face the misery of staring at four blank walls all day. When he was out he felt reasonably content, and he punctuated his little expeditions with reminiscences of the good times he had shared with the one true love of his life, Blodwen, the depressed, slightly bemused moose (or at least that was how she described herself when they met). When he was home, though, he tended to linger on the not so good times, and like most folks' less favourable recollections they had an exasperating habit of shitting all over his fonder memories.

After a blissful courtship and what the hippo considered to be a wonderful decade or so of marriage his hippopotamissus had gradually become the bane of his existence. “She stopped being bloody depressed once we grew accustomed to one another, didn't she?” he said. “Oh so slowly Blodwen's blues were replaced with a creeping belligerence, a hatred of everyone and everything, it seemed, especially me – I was the main focus of her hostility. And the trouble with hostility is that it's never one sided, it's highly contagious and it invariably spreads its poison sooner or later. I cant say how or why enmity wormed its way into our marriage, but eventually it drove us apart.

Twenty two years I gave that moose,” he groaned to the grey, peeling walls of his modestly sized abode. “Twenty two bloody years! You don't get that for murder.....

But it wasn't Blodwen's fault that we split up, was it? Not completely, anyway. Oh no, it was much more complicated than that. I believe it was mostly my fault, and blaming her is the crutch I lean on to make me feel a bit better about my own failings.

The kids drove the first wedges between us, or to be truthful it was my inability to cope with their anarchic behaviour. I never guessed that growing moosapotami could be such a pain in the bum. They were lovely when they were nippers, all fat and fluffy and kissy, but once they reached adolescence and their hormones started to kick in, coupled, no doubt, with the difficulties of coming from a mixed species background and growing up in a mostly white, middle class, largely human society they became an absolute nightmare. Which is why, I suppose, my belly imperceptibly turned yellow and I did a runner - I'm an absolute arse, and it's about time I faced up to it. It takes two to Tango, though, so maybe I shouldn't blame myself entirely.....”

The hippo leaned back and looked into the inky blackness of space through the large dome at the top of his dwelling. To be more precise he peered through one of the small sections of plexiglass that he could actually see through, because the exterior was rather battered - too battered for the three years or so that he had spent on the dark side of the moon.

He had purchased his lunar surface living module from a couple of Russians he met in a pub. They admitted that it was second hand, or slightly used, as they put it, but they failed to tell him quite how run down it was. The module arrived in sections on the back of a huge lorry. It was covered in filthy tarpaulins, which concealed its shoddy appearance, and despite the fact that the Russians might well have been dressed as Highway men (the gullible hippo was too excited to notice) he paid Dickev Turpinov and Iripta Suckerof a substantial sum of money before the two crooks galloped off into the sunset, never to be seen again.

“Never mind that now,” the hippo mumbled. “It doesn't matter. It'll all come out in the wash, probably. Nah, I'm just kidding myself again, aren't I? But I guess if I stop kidding myself I'll go bonkers. Blunder, blunder, bungle, fuck-up - that's the story of my life.”

Just then a loud beeping interrupted his melancholic reverie. The computer console was trying to tell him something. “That had better be the Tesco delivery ship,” he said, leaping to his feet. “The useless bastards are already a month late, and if I wasn't such a wimp I'd make a complaint.” He shuffled over and jiggled the mouse, at which point the screen flickered to life.

“What is it, Microsoft Paper-clip, you nauseating little shit?” he said. “You are aware that I dislike you intensely, aren't you? You do know that my bottomless hatred grows with every passing second I spend in this godforsaken place? Surely you realise that if I could somehow wangle my way into your twee, two dimensional digital world I'd straighten your faux wire frame and with unprecedented brutality remould it into a smiley face or a balloon swan or a wiry turd - and if I could smuggle a knife into there I'd carve you a new arse-hole. God, I hate you.”

The Microsoft Paper-clip smiled its perpetually irritating smile, wiggled one infuriating eyebrow, gave the hippo the finger and cheerily rung its bell as it climbed onto its bike and fucked off over an imaginary hill. A little box was flashing in the corner of the screen. 'An unidentified vehicle is approaching the landing pad,' the text informed him.

“Oh, goody,” the hippo said. “That must be my Tesco delivery. And about bloody time.....”

**************************************************

A fat little landing craft came into view on the computer monitor, and it wasn't the familiar scruffy red, white and blue Tesco delivery vehicle. It was a blindingly white, brand, spanking new jobbie with the latest Photon drive and a red, white and green logo that the hippo didn't recognise and strained his eyes trying to decipher. He turned up the magnification, and the awful truth hit him between the eyes like a large cod brandished by a psychotic North Sea trawler-man. It was Idris, a red dragon against a green and white background – it was the Welsh flag.

“Taffies aren't welcome here!” the hippo yelled into the microphone. “I must be bloody hallucinating, because there are no Welsh spacemen, not to my knowledge, anyway. Go away! I'm in the shower, I'm having a dump, I'm on the internet racking off to some fat Welsh tart with dreadful skin doing interesting things with a ginormous leek. Fuck off home, you're not coming in. And don't bother coming back! What are you lot doing here anyway? In my opinion the best thing that ever came out of Wales is the A458.”

“This is Mark Edwards,” came the reply. “I'm second in command of Boyo 16, which is currently orbiting several hundred miles above us. I can't see it, though, and I'm getting a bit scared. Waah! Sorry about that, I don't know what's up with me.....

Oh, though I'm feeling uncharacteristically happy today for no good reason I can think of, I'd prefer not to be beleaguered with your casual racism in future, boyo. Wow, look at that shooting star, isn't it lovely! I'm a little teapot short and stout, here's my handle and here's my spout. No! I'm sorry, I have no idea where that came from or what it might imply. Forgive me, Mr. Hippo, I think I might be a bit delirious with man flu or something. What I meant to tell you is that I'm a second cousin twice removed of Neil Armstrong's grandson. Between you and me, though, that's not really true, so I apologise again – third time lucky, A? - but it's what I told the lads at the Wanking Duck last Sunday lunchtime, so I'd thank you not to reveal my penchant for white lies to the rest of the crew, look you.”

“I repeat,” said the hippo, “what are you doing here? This is private property, so kindly bugger off. I expect your answer to be concise and to the point, with a minimum of bullshitting, boyo. Why are you so ridiculously happy, by the way? What are you on? You have a responsible position, young man - you're not supposed to smoke whacky baccy in the confines of a space craft, it's against the Health and Safety regulations. Well it is in educated countries anyway, I don't know about Wales.....”

“We, erm, have your groceries. We agreed to drop them off as a favour to Tesco, because they've had a spot of trouble with your delivery. Rumour has it that the usual pilot is off sick. Being tight bastards the management persuaded one of the checkout girls to fly the space van, and she sort of got lost and blamed it on her Satnav. No one knows where she is, because they lost radio contact a few days ago. Maybe she's gone to find Barbie, or Barbarella. Hee-hee-hee..... It's only a rumour, mind, so I wouldn't take too much notice.”

“I see,” the hippo said. “I suppose you'd better come on over, then.” He watched the lunar module land towards the edge of the crater. Just like in the faked Apollo moon landings of the nineteen sixties the landing rockets kicked up no dust whatsoever, but in this case that was explicable because the spot was well used to traffic and the dust had long since blown away. A ramp descended beneath the vehicle and a little buggy started trundling across the lunar surface towards the hippo's abode.

Before long the back of the buggy docked with the airlock with a loud hiss. The hippo waited for precisely two minutes before punching the big red button that operated the inner door. A space suited astronaut stood before him holding half a dozen or so heavy carrier bags. It wasn't Mark Edwards, second in command of Boyo 16, he realised - that was perfectly obvious, because the astronaut wasn't human. The last thing the hippo remembered was the figure placing the carrier bags on the floor and taking off his helmet. No, her helmet. And then he fainted.