Crazy Horse's Last Stand 1976

Crazy Horse had dozed off. His first thought on waking was to wonder how 'Rainbow Warrior' had fared in the 2.45 at Chepstow. Sinatra was crooning 'Fly me to the moon' on the transistor radio beside his makeshift bed of old pallets. He tried to focus, began searching for his timepiece amongst the detritus on the piece of tree trunk, beside the woodstove: tobacco, papers, lighters, soiled bag containing the last inch of crusty sugar, dried end of french bread, incense sticks, pocket knife, a little statue of Ganesh the elephant god, tea bags (some still usable) and some gone off milk. Admitting defeat, he groggily pulled on an embroidered waistcoat over his grey, curly haired chest and wrapped a brightly coloured sarong about his baggy, greyish Y fronts. The beads and feathers that hung around his neck had become tangled up in the toggles of his waistcoat and he shook them free as he staggered out of the tepee. The sun still shone brightly piercing his eyes like Shiva's thunderbolts.
He scratched at his tanned bald head. Where was everybody? He stood surveying the encampment distractedly sucking on one of his thin grey plaits. The brightly coloured rainbow flags from the flag circle fused and wove surreal patterns before his eyes. He'd overdone the weed again.
In search of company, he stumbled through the long grass which tickled his legs, feathery and erotic beneath the sarong, which felt dangerously as if it were falling off. Kingcups like little tubs of butter reflected the sun from a thousand stalks. He squinted his eyes and saw Stag disappearing into the Big Lodge, the biggest tepee on site and made his way haphazardly towards it.
Pulling back the flap, Crazy Horse almost fell over when he found the Lodge was full of bodies and a host of eager faces, children and adults smiling at him in welcome and eager anticipation..

Shit!

It was the long held tradition at Green Warrior camp that every evening at 6, for half an hour, Crazy Horse would regale the tribe with tales (as translated and embossed by him, in his unique, roguish, cockney fashion) weaving together fact and fiction describing the trials and tribulations of Geronimo, Sitting Bull, Running Bear and Little White Dove finishing with a rousing chorus of the golden oldie.
Now Crazy Horse stood before the assembly wondering what the occasion was.
He searched in the chaotic, colourful wonderland that was his mind for words but found he kept forgetting what he was looking for.
He looked at the faces of all his beloved tribe and bellowed 'Wakan Tanka!'
'Wakan Tanka 'came back the cry echoed by all.
He paused wondering what else was expected of him.
In a moment of lucidity, thinking that he recognised what it was, he threw back his head and howled like a wolf. Immediately sixty or so wolf cries reverberated across the idyllic Somerset fields.
Confident that his work was done, Crazy Horse smiled triumphantly and as his olfactory sense picked up wafts of cocoa , announced 'Cocoa time!'
There followed a moment of confusion. Cocoa always came at the end of the story but the children used to the unpredictability of camp life, happily jumped to their feet and swarmed forward.
Summer Moon began ladling out the prepared cocoa from a large dented urn into an assortment of mugs.
Crazy Horse, off the hook, slumped down in a heap onto the earth floor. As he leant back his upper body fell through the canvas flap, his fat, hairy legs escaping the sarong and left helplessly cycling in the air. The bells about his ankles played 'Fly me to the moon' and the blackened soles of his feet configured a Sun dance.
Summer Moon watching his performance shook her head, cast her eyes heavenward and muttered affectionately, 'You old dog!'