V Darts chap 20

Chapter 20

It was raining again. There was that sound on the roof again. We were
all sitting around the table that changed into a bed. We were having a
cup of tea. Outside the rain hit the water making liquid
goosebumps.

Earlier we had watched the steelworkers pull up anchor and sail away.
We waved as they went. They didn't wave back. Their boat was very heavy
and consequently it moved very slowly. They had sacrificed speed for
something but I wasn't sure what. In a way, I felt sorry for them. They
represented something that was passing, out of date. For all their
posturing, for all their pride, the truth was that pretty soon their
way of life would be gone.

Now the broad was completely empty except for us, the rain and the
birds that I guessed were hiding somewhere. Night was coming. It was on
the horizon and it was rushing closer.

"So Captain Vegas," said The Poet, placing his hands flat on the table
and asking what we were all wanting to ask, "what's the story about?
You know, the one that the steelworkers wrote."

Captain Vegas shook his head. "I don't know."

"You don't know!" said 16, surprised.

"I tried not to look as they were writing it. I wasn't sure what they
would write."

"Oh," said The Poet.

"Oh," said 16.

"And also," said Captain Vegas, "I didn't want to give them the
satisfaction. I wanted to show them what the story meant to us,
nothing."

"Oh," said The Poet.

"Oh," said 16.

"I think we should have a look now though," I said. I was saying
perhaps what The Poet had wanted to say. It was a case of taking the
bull by its horns. "You're right, it doesn't mean anything. But it
wouldn't hurt to have a look."

Captain Vegas shook his head again and looked around the table. "Don't
forget," he said, "I am captain."

I knew a certain amount of diplomacy was required. Captain Vegas was
obviously sensitive about having the story read out. Perhaps it was
because he had lost us the match. Perhaps it was because it was written
on his cock.

"Even captain's can have stories on their cocks," I said. "Look at
Captain Oates. He was a proud man and he had quite a tale on his. How
do you think Scott and the others entertained themselves night after
night in the subzero temperatures of the Antarctic? Then there was
Captain Cook. How long do you think it took to sail to Australia on the
Endeavour? His cock had more stories on it than practically any other
cock in history. And Captain Nemo. Did you think 20,000 Leagues Under
The Sea was a true story?"

"He's right," said The Poet.

"Definitely," said 16. "Go on Vegas."

Captain Vegas put his head on one side and then the other. He lifted
up his midriff slightly and gave his hips a slight wiggle.

"Please," I said.

"You know you want to," said The Poet.

Captain Vegas smiled. "OK," he said. "Go for it. But don't blame me
for it's content. I'm saying here and now that I am not responsible. It
could be any kind of nonsense."

"I hope so," said Seven.

As 16 was sitting nearest to Captain Vegas it was decided that he
should be the one to read out the story. Carefully he unbuttoned
Captain Vegas's fly and pulled out the mound of flesh hidden therein.
He weighed it in his hand like a priest would a prayer book, or a
grocer would a courgette, and then he started to read.

"The Steel Empire," he said, "a story with metal."

"Doesn't sound too bad," said The Poet. "I like that, a story with
metal."

"Shush," I said. "Carry on 16."

"A story with metal," read 16 again, and then he read the rest,
reading it in the voice I imagined he used at school when the teacher
told him to turn to a certain page and to read the words written
there.

"Once upon a time in a land far away there was a village. In this
village everything was made of wood. The houses were made of wood, the
streets were made of wood, even the people were made of wood. It was a
happy place to live, except in the long boiling Summers when fires were
apt to break out at the slightest spark and destroy whole sections of
the community. But, as the wooden people would philosophically point
out, if you are made of wood, that is what you have to expect.

"It was just after one such fire, a particularly ferocious one that
had destroyed the butcher's, the baker's and the candlestick maker's
and much else besides that the two strangers turned up. Immediately in
them a difference was noticed. You see, they were not made of wood.
They were not made of larch, of birch, or even of polished oak. No.
They were made of steel. Their bodies sparkled like sunshine, their
limbs reflected like a pool of water and wherever they walked you would
hear them coming. Clang, clang, clang went their metal footsteps on the
wooden sidewalks.

"At first much was made of the strangers' metal bodies. The wooden
people thought the bodies clumsy and unnecessarily loud. Why, they
didn't even have any grain! The wooden people let the metal strangers
stay in their village but they were glad all the same that they
themselves were made of wood. Wood was far superior to metal any day
they believed.

"Time passed, and gradually, little by little, the metal strangers
became part of village life. They opened a small shop where they sold
sundry metal goods. They joined the local committee for wooden affairs.
But most importantly of all, on the outskirts of the village, they
built themselves a home. This home, of course, was made of metal.

"When the wooden people knew that the metal strangers were at work in
their shop and therefore knew that it was safe to visit without
disturbance they would gather outside the metal home. They would shake
their heads.

"It is ugly," they would say.

"It doesn't look comfortable," they would say.

"It's too shiny. It hurts my eyes," they would say.

But the most common refrain was this. "It has no grain! It has no
grain at all!"

"Then one day, of course, the inevitable happened. There was a
devastating fire. It started in the wooden baker's once again and
spread throughout the wooden streets. This time not a single house was
spared, not a single dwelling remained. That is, except one.

"The metal house was still standing. It had buckled slightly under the
intense head, but more or less, it was intact.

"The wooden survivors gathered outside the metal doors and knocked
gently. At once the doors swung open and standing there were the two
metal strangers.

"Please," said the wooden people, "will you help us? Our houses are
destroyed, our possessions are just ashes. We have nothing left. Will
you help us?"

"Sure," said the metal strangers, "what do you want us to do?"

"We want you to make this."

One of the wooden people stepped forward and handed the metal
strangers a piece of paper on which was drawn an elaborate
diagram.

"Can you make it?" said the wooden people all together. "Can
you?"

"Sure," said the metal strangers. And they did.

And that is the story of how the axe was invented."

16 stopped talking.

"Well," said The Poet, "carry on."

"That's it," said 16, "that's the end."

"It can't be," said The Poet, "check under the foreskin, perhaps
there's more."

Carefully 16 pulled back Captain Vegas's foreskin. He bent closer to
have a look then straightened himself. "No," he said, "there's nothing
there. Not a word, only a bad smell. That must be the end."

"I liked the ending," said Seven. "It was a surprise. "And that is the
story of how the axe was invented." Yes, I liked it." He chuckled to
himself.

"I don't get it," said 16.

"They needed the axe to chop down trees to rebuild their city," said
Seven.

"Oh," said 16. "But why didn't they ask the metal strangers to help
them build metal houses so that they wouldn't burn down again?"

"That's the point of the story," said Seven. "It's a fable."

"Oh," said 16. "I don't understand."

"Like, a leopard can't change its spots," said Seven, "or, people in
glass houses shouldn't throw stones."

"Oh," said 16, "I see. But I don't remember any glass houses, only
wooden ones."

Then I noticed something and the story was forgotten.

"Captain Vegas," I said. "Look at your cock, it's huge."

Captain Vegas leapt up. He wiggled his hips. Two teacups went flying.
Luckily, they were nearly empty.

"I've got an idea," I said.

"What is it?" said Seven.

So I explained.

Everyone thought it was a good idea, even Captain Vegas, which
surprised me. I think he was trying to make his embarrassment into a
joke. That was his way of dealing with it. It was a common trait in
straight men. Rugby players dropping their trousers. Football players
defecating in the post-match bath. In fact, it was like the wooden
people wanting to live in wooden houses. Almost natural.

"Come on," said Captain Vegas, "let's get on with it. There's no time
like the present."

He was right. There wasn't.

Seven got the flag from the cupboard and then we all went outside. We
stood Captain Vegas on the prow and attached the flag to his cock,
tying it firmly in place.

"How does it look?" said Captain Vegas.

"Fine," I said.

"Very proud," said 16.

Then The Poet went and got his camera and took photographs. "If he had
a cutlass in his hand and a parrot up his arse it would make a better
picture," he said to me. But he said it quietly. He didn't want to hurt
Captain Vegas's feelings. When the pictures were done we left Captain
Vegas there, the Jolly Roger flapping gaily from his pole. We went back
inside and had another cup of
tea. And then another. That evening we drank a lot of tea. There was
something in the air.

Later, when it was time for bed, I went outside and told Captain Vegas
he could come back in. He said that he had had a very nice evening. He
said that he had enjoyed standing there with a flag on his cock. Like I
said before, I think making his erection into a joke was Captain
Vegas's way of dealing with it. I understood. It wasn't every straight
man who would want to go on holiday with a group of gays. Captain Vegas
was different. I had known that since the very first time I had seen
him and since then I had been proved right on many occasions.

* * * * * *

The next morning I was woken be a loud commotion.

"Do you think the steelworkers are back?" I said to Seven kissing him
on each of his many tattoos.

"No," said Seven, "it's coming from The Poet's room. You'd better go
and see what it is."

In The Poet's room The Poet was on the floor, AkiMat was sitting up in
bed folding the sheet into a swan and Captain Vegas was wiggling his
hips and shouting.

"WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME?" he was saying, over and over. "WHY IS IT ALWAYS
ME?"

"What's happened?" I said.

"It's Captain Vegas," said The Poet from the floor. "When I woke up I
found him in my bed. He was just lying there. I thought I was
dead."

I looked at Captain Vegas hard. "Captain Vegas," I said, "what's going
on? Yesterday you were in my bed and today The Poet's. What's going
on?"

All of a sudden Captain Vegas stopped wiggling his hips.

"I should explain," he said.

"Go on then," I said.

"It's difficult," said Captain Vegas. "I'll write it down and then you
can read it."

"OK," I said.

"Get me a pen and paper," said Captain Vegas. Then he looked at me.
There was a sadness in his eyes. "Hold on to your hat though, it's
going to be a bumpy ride."