Ugly Puggly 72

Ugly Puggly’s house was familiar and unfamiliar as an aged aunt. We crept up four stairs near the door, looking and listening like kids learning the green-cross code from an unconvicted paedophile waving a big cigar and with a shock of blonde hair.

My hand drifted to the light switch in the kitchen, before remembering the power was off, but our eyes quickly adjusted to the dull shapes. He ran the water into the sink as if checking to see if it still worked. I squeezed into the seat on the bench near the door, which was mostly filled with boxes of rubbish, some of it taped up with odd bulges. Outside, I could see the dim outline of the side and roof of the hut and a sprinkling of lights from our neighbour’s houses.

Turning his head, I made out he was smiling by the glint of his teeth. ‘There’s nae food, so I’ll jist make an omelette.’

I sat a little straighter. ‘I could jist go hame and get us two tins of tomato soup. Molly seems to have stocked up for HP Armageddon. She was never was much of a cook,’ I admitted. ‘But she’s other assets. If yeh poured her intae a mini-skirt and followed those legs, yeh went straight tae hell on a handcart, without crying, Alleluia!’  

‘I remember her da well. He was in the Masons, wasn’t he? A fat geezer wae Elvis sideburn. Her da was funny like that. Like most church-goin people, he didnae mind a bit of torture, murders or mass genocide to preserve the Protestant faith, but mention vulvas or vaginas and he’d look at yeh as if yeh were a fanny wae a filthy mouth, or worse a Catholic, like my ma.’

‘Yer tellin me?’ I choked on the memories. ‘Hud tae marry Molly before I got a haun on her wee tits. I was told our wedding night was the best night of our lives. She told me. And I believed her. I couldnae dae otherwise.’

I was glad it was dark, because I felt I had to explain. ‘Wan, she was naked. I’d plenty of practice goin solo, but after a hauf or two, I was more confident. It’s like that Meatloaf song, it was all done by the duvet light. She’d love me forever. I was a decent enough Christian boy ready to ravish anything that moved. Just searching for the right orifice amid the lubricated come-hither connections. It got a bit complicated with all that fleshy newness. Yer virgin bride offered a few shrill hints. But I’d already splashed doon on top of her. A short spurt and yeh were done and asleep on top of her tae beat the band. Yer celebrations had caught up wae yeh. You were jist good at the rhythm method before you knew whit it was. Technically, she was still a virgin, but you’d hud sex. Whose fault was that?’

‘Jesus,’ he grunted. ‘It took Molly almost thirty years and two kids later to find oot yeh were a dud.’ He changed tack. ‘I wiz thinkin I think I’ve got some noodles and dried mushrooms. I could chop up some ginger. How does that sound?’

‘Yeh daddy, but yer forgetting wan thing.’

‘Whit?’

‘Nae power.’

He rubbed his unshaved chin and tugged his earlobe. ‘So I did,’ he admitted. He leaned on tiptoes, stretched his long neck and glanced out the window. When he turned back to me he had the solution. ‘Camping stove. I’ve got wan up the stairs under the bed wae the fishin gear. I’m sure I’ve got a gas canister, saved.’

‘Yeh, got a torch?’

‘Aye, but I don’t know where it is.’

‘Great.’ I got up from the bench. ‘I’ll gie you a haun tae look. If we don’t find a campin stove. At least we’ll huv a torch and can go fuckin fishin blind.’

I wasn’t sure if he was talking about his room (his mum’s old room) or mine. But we checked under his bed first. Stour caught in the back of my throat as he pushed and pulled stuff about, before returning it to the dust pile of Hades.

Kneeling down, I had a look and a quick feel and pulled out an ancient copy of Playboy. Sitting on my old mattress, I peeled open the pages. I held it up to my forehead and tried to take a peek. Giving up, I walked over to the window and angled the pages so I could see by the orange halo of the streetlight. I was never much of a reader, more likely to look at the pictures.

Ugly Puggly came into the room still bowed from searching under the bed in a semi-crouch, as if it was him that had the hard-on. ‘Whit’s that?’

I flashed him a pair of tits from the magazine.

‘Fuck sake,’ he cried. ‘Put that away.’    

‘Don’t be so fuckin stupid. It’s a classic. A rite of passage. We aw did it. This must have been yers.’

He shook his head. ‘Nah, it wisnae.’

‘Must huv been. Whose else would it huv been?’ I sniggered. ‘The Playboy certainly wouldnae huv been the playboys.’

‘Shut it,’ he growled.

‘Alright.’ I opened the window and tossed The Playboy out. We watched it fluttering to the ground.

‘Whit did you dae that for?’ he asked. ‘Some wee boy could pick that up.’

‘Or some wee lassie. And play scraps and doll’s house wae it. You asked me tae get rid of it and I did.’

‘No that way.’

I snorted. ‘Whit wae dae you want me to dae it?’

‘Yer jist bein a cunt.’

‘I’m bein a cunt?’ I shook my head. ‘I’m jist gonnae be honest here. Yer no gonnnae marry him, ur yeh? A wank is totally consensual. Marriage murders mair dreams than a bingo caller on a mega-link-up aw all halls. Yeh dae get tae sleep on yer any side of the bed. As long as yeh don’t snore, breathe or fart. As long as she lets yeh. It’s totally consensual. Like sex. Whit yeh marryin him for? He’s gieing yeh aw the sex yeh want—he’s gieing everybody aw the sex they want.’

‘I love im,’ he whined morosely, cutting me off.

‘Look, I loved my dog, and it could balance on two legs and dance wae me. But I never married it, even though it did sniff my bum. It could even pogo tae the Sex Pistols, and no look stupid, but cute.’

‘Och, don’t talk shite.’  

‘Alright then,’ I admitted defeat. ‘I’m jist gonnae come oot and say it then. I think yeh can dae better than that. But let’s face it. Yer too old. And it’s bad enough for young people to get married. But it’s no normal for poofs tae get married. Whit’s the point?’

He nodded in what I took for agreement, even as he grabbed me by the throat and picked me up and shook me, like an empty donkey jacket. I smelt dampness and cardboard and wondered if he’d try to bury me out the back garden, or, cut up the middle man, or if he’d need to break back into the Crematorium, and add my corpse to the stack of bodies newly burned. My feet struggled to connect with the earth.