A Broken Comedian

By Jason Shield

'A hilarious LAUGH-OUT LOUD book: Manages to combine story-telling depth with great gags.'

There is no hope in Decland Bunten’s cage. There is no exit. Until the world famous Timur Klaun, the greatest stand-up comedian alive announces a new live talent show, promising to change the lives of great comedians who have gone unnoticed. With an expected live audience figure of 4.5 million viewers and a winning prize of £250,000 this could be Decland’s exit door, if only he could find a way to get involved.

'A fairy tale story packed with laugh out jokes. Decland Bunten, a hopeless and lonely comedian who dreams of being as successful as his late idol Sal Turner, finds himself trapped in a desperate situation when he is framed for murder. Afraid that he himself has not got long to live he throws all his energy in to creating a legacy as a brilliant comedian before he is killed. ***The tension in this story keeps building and the jokes get funnier and funnier, till in the final chapter the jokes and the tension reach a riveting climax.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Shield
• Release date: Feb 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463865637

Jason Shield

Jason Shield has been writing stories for many years, he has studied character development, scene development and the story-telling art form for longer than Mother Theresa has been a Christian. Jason is an exceptionally jovial individual to go to parties with, because he also holds an accolade in truth-bending in the manner in which Uri Geller bends spoons.Jason holds a BA (Hons) degree in Business Studies and specialised in Human Resources Management, he likes to regularly remind people of this information as if he were the only human ever to gain a certificate. After a few years of working in the HR field he wished to work in more creative industries where he could experiment with his imagination, mainly making stuff up. So he travelled to the film industry.Jason started off with screenplay writing, taking several courses on storyline development, character development, plotting (not plotting to kill people), and he even completed a comedy course. The best joke he ever wrote was about a chicken with no legs that couldn't cross the road. He has now progressed on to writing fictional novels and hopes to dedicate his life to writing engaging stories that are heart-breaking, yet funny, tragic, yet fun to read. Use your reviews to let him know if he has succeeded.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Chrrrpk.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Why would anyone ever want to stand at the centre of a barren stage and wait for applause?

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Surely, there’d have to be something wrong with their mental stability?

Tap.

Chrrrpk.

Or maybe it’s all the people watching me who are deranged. Desperate for someone to entertain them for a few minutes out of their humdrum lives.

Tap.

My father had once asked me these questions, I’d been in the audience at that time, desperate and impatient for a different kind of comedian to enter the stage, a real poet, a hero amongst comedians. I hadn’t cared for my father’s opinions, I just needed his ‘swave’ and his connections to get his teen son into the Dominion theatre that night in 1996. When Sal Turner came to the UK.

Sal Turner had once been the world's greatest stand-up comedian. He was the comedian's comedian, the guy who the best comedians in the world went to see. Not because he had more jokes than anyone else, not because his jokes were necessarily funnier, though they were funny, they were hilarious I thought…

Tap.

Tap.

But because… Sal Turner was dangerous with his comedy, he had wit, and he took his wit to lands that other comedians dare not tread. He was controversial, disliked, even hated by politicians. But he was also very often enlightening, the way he would use a joke to reveal conspiracies about wars, about political assassinations, about… but it was always funny.

Sal Turner was dead. And his death spawned its own conspiracy. Had he been murdered? If so, by whom, no one would ever know. But here I was wishing I was like him. At least, when he was alive.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Chrrrpk.

That fucking sound. It won’t…

Tap tap frickin’ tappin’. Please make it stop.

Times have changed, years have passed, and I can tell you, there’s nothing scarier in the world than standing at the centre of a desolate stage, watching a room full of eyes staring back at you…

In complete silence.

Imagine it. You’re completely alone on that huge stage. With no actors or clowns to hide your faults behind. No props, and no one else to blame for your failures. From the pitch darkness before you, a thousand white eyes glare back, as if they’re hunting you. Waiting for you to trip. Hear the whisper in your ear, it’s your fault you’re shit.

This is what I chose.

I’m alone here on this barely erect stage, tilted at an angle ‘cause of the broken supports. I exist in a tiny microcosm of the ambitions I dream about.

And no one is laughing… at my jokes.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap frickin’ tap.

Why’re the microphones always broken at these five pound gigs?

Tapping away in my head like a pneumatic…

I’d actually worked quite hard on this last set, recorded it, played it back to myself, I was sure it was a bone breaker. Maybe it was the delivery, possibly I’d used the wrong tone of voice.

The imbalance in my feet distracting me…

The brightness of the one light in the room brought me back to the moment. One spotlight. Shining straight into my retinas. This stage manager was a shithead.

My ultimate hero is Daffy Duck, I announced.

Then caught the reflection of my bright yellow jacket on the curved Guinness glass of a punter’s drink. I looked like the ugly half-brother of that fat yellow bird from Sesame Street. The chestnut buttons of my suit were meant to be comical, clownish, but they seemed beaten with the sound of weariness.

… no matter how many times they beat him down, he always comes back fighting, I continued.

There were only seven people in this dingy pub anyway, an’ that included the barman. Every Monday night it pretended to be a theatre stage that mattered. But no comedian worth their salt would ever mention this place in their autobiography. Not Jimmy the Carr, or the other Carr with the talk show, not Benny Hill who rumour has it was fooled into performing here once, but now he was too dead to defend his rep.

Instead, this pub theatre served as a practice joint for anyone new or anyone seasoned who wanted to try out completely new material. I find myself somewhere in between those labels.

This used to give me confidence in my life, but my Mum said drunks don’t give up either.

Barely a person looking up to see what I was gonna say next.

My own mother comparing me to a piss-head?

A flash of red laser light from the very back of the pub penetrating my pupils an’ dazzling my sight. It signalled my time was up. Everyone was given ten minutes to perform. I decided the drunk with the red laser couldn’t count.

A drink flew out from the audience. It hit my guitar, the one strung over my shoulder like an oversized banjo. The drink became a smashed bottle of pungent brown liquid on the stage floor. The effete underdogs of this establishment were so worthless they couldn’t even afford a decent quality beer or master the dexterity to aim straight. I tried to turn this thought into a quick-witted joke. But there was nothing in my head. I was blank and useless.

An audience member in a mimic forty-pound haircut and tailor-made suit that worked hard to make him look superior followed the bottle throwing by launching an open packet of crisps at me, it barely even reached the next table, let alone break the speed barrier. If this pub was Mordor this fuckhead would never be chosen to protect the ring from Sauron.

The man who’d thrown the beer finally shouted out as I knew he eventually would.

Why don't ye do somin’ useful wid’ that guitar and kill yer’self wiv it?

I felt the bile build up inside me. I replied.

Is that beer frothing an’ dribbling down your lips? Or are you just on heat?

That was all I managed to come up with. Fuck. I gotta do better. That bloody red light from the back of the room was blasting around all over my face now, making it hard to concentrate.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The irritating tapping. Broken tools.

That's what old broken microphones do at these cheap trial gigs, they crackle, and tick, and tap, there's no rhythm to their irritable annoyance, they only serve to distract the performer.

Everyone was watching me. Laughing AT ME.

I gotta focus. I gotta be better.

The drunk yelled something again that thankfully nobody could understand. It bought me a few seconds.

You can always tell when there’s a bricklayer in the room, ‘cause yer always looking for the translator. I cried out.

Suddenly the city boy with the lost packet of crisps jumped to his feet with a thrill, pointing accusingly at the ‘bricklayer’.

Haaaa! Good ‘un. Goood ‘uuunn. The monkey interpreter is out tonight. Maybe this guy was on my side, maybe he didn’t know what planet he was on.

The bricklayer screamed out at me Whaddye know ‘bout comedy? Yurr rubbish. My grandma is funnier ‘en you. An she’s dead.

What’d you do? Kill her? I screamed back. And for the first time, the audience laughed. Not at me, at the heckler.

I decided to play to my strength.

I’m sorry. Let me speak to you in your own private language.

I’d spent years mimicking Chaplin. Imitating Lewis. Trying to be the fat version of Norman Wisdom. This better bleeding work.

I scooped down, waved my arms about making hugely exaggerated hyena noises and monkey motions. The way Jerry Lewis would've done it.

Wheaa, hee-haaya, heee yaiii yaisi yaiii... I exaggerated.

The audience continued to laugh – at the ‘bricklayer’.

Whew!

The suit was now mimicking me and making his own monkey gestures.

The bricklayer was infused.

Shut yer’ mouth stripey. I'm a professional. He commanded in a drunken slur.

What’re ya? A professional twat? I announced. Do you need a qualification for that? Or can everyone apply?

The bricklayer was on his feet now, trying to threaten me with muscles the size of pumpkins and fists like small dogs. His mouth gawped open like an aeroplane hangar, waiting to respond, but nothin’ exited. ‘Cause he didn’t have the smarts to figure what to say next.

Now that I could see his full physique, I had new ammunition.

You remind me of Pappa Smurf - but he was taller. Thank you for having me. I'm Dec Bunten.

I quickly finished off. Best quit now whilst I was good enough to hold the lead. Besides, with the red laser light burning up my retina and the blinding white spotlight murdering my iris, it was only a matter of time before I got into an epileptic fit.

I rushed to the edge of the stage, handed the microphone to the Compère who was busily clicking a finger at his watch like it might explode if I didn’t move faster.

The Compère rudely grabbed the mic, leapt on to the stage.

The glorious Dec Bunten ladies and gentlemen. Dec Bunten. He reminds me of a soaring aeroplane… after it's been bombed.

He laughed at his own joke.

You’ve seen him, you’ll never see him again.

The bricklayer was still on his feet, and clearly, he was about to say something, but the Compère was too fast.

My fiend the brickie. Shut the fuck up or I’ll come down there and brick your mouth up.

The tiny audience roared into laughter.

Then I’ll seal it up with ‘No More Nails’, the shit that’s gonna put you out of a job.

The brickie sat back down glumly.

I watched this last takedown from behind the curtains. Hiding. I didn’t mind the jokes against me, I had to learn to take it, especially when my job required me to dish it out. But what I really envied was this Compère’s fearless ability to control the room. No one dared heckle him. No one challenged his status on the stage. He commanded this room.

By contrast, I was weak, slow-footed, overweight, and carried a face that looked like a Caucasian squashed cabbage. I was five foot six with a thinning and messy hairline. Nobody was ever scared of me. I didn’t mind that. But it meant I was easy pickings. This ain’t so bad if making jokes was the only job I ever did. But it wasn’t. The other one, the one that paid the rent was… well, frightening.

I withdrew my thirty-six years of hoarded fat into the back room, yes, I was slightly obese. I disappeared into the darkness of... what should be called ‘backstage’, but really it was the landing to the emergency exit staircase.

The light was dim. The wallpaper ugly.

The hallway was crowded with acts waiting to go on, or just done.

A guy with a bizarre hairstyle, a double act with Mancunian thick curly hair and moustaches. An overweight woman trying to look like a surfer chick, a guy with a face painted on like a clown, putting the finishing touches on his cheeks with a hand mirror.

I finished packing my guitar away, started neatly packing up my hat and costume into an over-used, partly-torn sports bag. Next to me, the clown guy was saying,

"... it took them that long, then two days later they found Stevie dead in his bedsit.

The weird hair guy responded, What's he, overdose?

Clown guy dived back with, Fuck knows. Makes you wonder... how you’re gonna go down when it’s your turn.

I heard the overweight surfer chick now butt in, So much shit yee ‘ave te’ go through… on that one off tiny chance you might make som’in of yer stupid life.

I nodded to myself in agreement but kept my mouth shut.

The exit door threw its arm wide open like the Lyceum Theatre curtains, pouring in a clamour of laughter from the audience. The Compère almost pirouetted in with a pint of beer, stretching out towards me, his other foot still clinging into the stage room.

Bunten!? Here's your pay.

I waved it off, Is alright. I'm going light this week. I said.

Some shitty beer they home-brewed in the kitchen no one would ever eat out of. They wouldn’t even offer me a branded drink, even a cheap one. I wasn’t even good enough for that.

Anyone? The Compère offered.

Everyone gave him a dirty ‘piss-off’ look. I started plodging down the stairs. I could hear the clown guy say…

Anyway. His parents are Jehovas bitchnesses so won't let the police into an autopsy.

Chapter 2

The night was cold. The air was damp. There was no rain in sight but the weather made me feel mucky. More so, it made me feel lonely.

Or maybe it was the standing in this open stretch of roadside with almost nothing nearby, my gear was dropped on the ground by my feet, and I was convinced at one point I spotted my sports bag shiver and complain about the cold.

The broken clock on the overhang behind me smiled 10 pm, but I knew it was past 1 am. My mind started drifting to my second job, it made me depressed. How could I quit? I tried to cheer myself up by thinking of Miriam. Such a lovely smile. Just like me, she looked like a teapot, but unlike me no one ever noticed. I think it was the way she walked, graceful. Or her attitude, always enlightened, smiles pouring out of her in such minute but regular quantities it felt like rainfall on a summer’s day. Pity she always seemed to smile past me.

The coach arrived forty minutes late, it was a very basic model and I found out from the driver the scheduled vehicle had broken down so they had to rush this thirty-year-old emergency back-up model out to maintain some kind of timetable. It smelled musty inside, like your grandma’s clothing, and the heat from the radiators left the vehicle faster than it could warm it up for the passengers. I found myself staggering down the narrow aisle with my kit, the coach had already started moving off, there were eight other people on board on this cold dark night. I thought some more of Miriam, and in my distraction, my bag snagged on an umbrella that was sticking out from some careless person’s bag.

A dirty furball animal leapt out of my bag. The umbrella’s owner was an elderly woman leant on the aisle seat, I couldn’t call it sitting since she was bent at such an awkward angle from some kind of deformity she seemed to be permanently leaning. She was truly grey without exaggeration, and not just her hair, certainly the wrinkles of her face that imprisoned every shadow that touched them didn’t help. Even the way she panicked at the furball animal leaping at her was contained like she were caged, with no freedom to move.

I picked up the alien creature, a soft toy rat that was part of an old joke I rarely felt motivated to re-use. I took the seat on the opposite side of the aisle to help calm her nerves, and in some effort to apologise I explained, I had a show… Dec Bunten, you should see me. I caught myself shamelessly plugging my act. Oh, how desperate I was.

The old woman whom by now I’d assumed was gonna ignore me finally opened up, At your age? Grow up!

I guess I looked older than my years. It didn’t take too much these days to dampen my spirits, but I felt its light flicker, then blow out. Even this old hag couldn’t find a kind word for me.

I slunked off to find a more positive seat. And on route I came up with a new joke.

What is it with old people and their scathing attitude? They’re always complaining about something. It’s easier to get joy out of a suicide pill.

Chapter 3

The coach had dropped me off at Whitechapel High Street in East London, not too far from the London Underground tube station. I was now on New Road trundling through the murky untidy mess of dust and grime, which had layered itself so thick over the paving slabs and buildings that lined it that you had to struggle to see the original texture.

Mr Fatigue had clawed his way into my bones, and I was pretty sure by now he had invited Miss Frost with him, cause clearly from the way I was shaking they were having a love affair inside my body.

I tried to ignore the cold and tiresomeness, I tried to take this time to make myself useful to society in some little way that only I Decland Bunten could. I lifted up a street bin that’d been knocked over, I kicked the spilt rubbish to the base of the bin.

Feeling rather proud of myself, I skipped along, kicking more cans and carrier bags to the kerbside, this would ease life for the street cleaner that came by sometimes at four in the morning with his broom and trolley.

I had cleaned a whole 100 metres, and upon looking back I felt real proud of myself. I was like Gene Kelly, and ready to sing his signature song ‘dancing in the rubbish pile’.

For a long moment, I wondered if God had only placed me on this earth just to move rubbish around the streets, surely I had a better purpose to this life. I decided at this point the rubbish was a distraction; I was standing outside ‘Naseema’s Saree Shop’. My favourite stopover on the route from home to work, or the other way around. There was something magical about this place. There had to be, because of all the shops on the high street, Miriam had chosen to work in here.

Well… not exactly ‘chosen’.

The man who owned the shop was himself a bit of a local celebrity, to me he just seemed like a madman, but a lovable one. A migrant who had the audacity to enter a country he knew nothing about, and start an entire business before he could speak the English language. Such was his brilliance he spelt the name of his daughter wrong on the shop front.

His name was Mr Shakram and his firstborn was Naesima. He had great hopes and loving pride for her in her early years, and this only grew in time, and she repaid his hopes by eloping with a man he despised, never realising or appreciating how many years of hard labour, sacrifice and the odd tax dodging it took to fund a huge glowing shop sign.

Mr Shakram’s second born was Miriam. She was quiet, down to earth, and much less likely to excite him with wild dreams. She specialised in fabric patterning and tailoring, but spent almost all of her days mending torn stitching.

And for some odd reason, I always seemed to be tearing the stitching on my stage outfit.

Needless to say, I was a faithful and well-known customer.

At the shop window, I’d taken note of a new red saree bedazzled with glittering silver, crystals and diamonds. All fake, but beautifully sewn in. I’d spotted Miriam working on the material a few times and guessed she must’ve finished all but the headdress which was missing.

I caught my reflection in the mirror, it had a slight aura to it as of the glow from the moon on this cloudless night. I shuffled my torso till it was in alignment with the mannequin, and I could more easily imagine myself dressed in Miriam’s hand-made saree.

I jiggled my belly, raised my arms up into a pyramid, tried to imitate an old dance I had seen in a Bollywood movie.

Jiggle jiggle.

Followed by a bum shuffle.

I was trying to improve the pendulum-like rhythm my bust must go through to make the movement sexy when I noticed a figure lurking behind me.

I froze.

Turned.

Three tall young men were stood behind me, all three had the hoods of their puffed up anoraks hanging over their eyes, and all I could think was, ‘what a clichéd way to die’.

They were staring at me in a way in which I couldn’t tell if they were confused or intent on a mugging. I would make a shit victim but they didn’t know that.

I couldn’t run, I was too slow and sloppy, besides, these youngsters looked athletic.

In a moment of brilliance, I did the only thing I could do.

I carried on dancing.

I waved my arms to the left, then to the right… and hoped my belly was moving in some kind of acceptable circular rhythm.

Wha’ ya doin’, blud? The green-coated youngster finally yelled. The foul stench of chicken wings pouring out of his mouth. I made an assumption that he must be the ‘lead’.

I carried on dancing, ignoring his question. And trying harder to ignore the spirit of chicken wings that hung like a ghostly vapour. He punched me in the arm, not too hard, waved an open paw into my face as if it were an acceptable way to repeat the question?

I stopped.

I’m performing thing’s part, what’s ‘er name. Her part, from that film… thingymajiggy. I explained. I was drowning so fast I wasn’t worth saving. Have you seen it?

It must have meant something, because he replied, but yoh a shit dancer.

My eyes fell to the floor. Weighted with insignificance. Even the fucking muggers couldn’t be nice to me.

Without thinking I retorted.

I’m shit at a lot of things, but what’re you so special at? You’re so ugly they had to ban the ‘Ugly Duckling’ book in case you got your hopes up.

The face behind the green hood gawped at me.

I immediately regretted opening my mouth.

What ya say? He twisted to his friend in the blue hood What he say?

He said your mum’s so ugly she has to walk backwards to forewarn people.

Why did I have to be so mouthy? Fuck me for being stupid.

That’s not what he said! The green hood yelled at his friend. He said somin’ about the ugly duckling.

The green hood then turned his hopeful vengeance on me What you say about my mum? I’ll fukin’ knife you!

He reached into several pockets, searching… probably for a blade…

I noticed at this point all three of the young men were hiding cans of cheap lager in their pockets, clearly this wasn’t going to be their first sip of the booze, it appeared they’d started some time ago, and if the booze was boring them? Then I was good entertainment.

I didn’t say anythin’ nasty about your mum. I offered as a truce, I started looking around for an easy escape where speed didn’t factor in, maybe a pathway where they couldn’t follow me. But there was nothing. Whichever way I went they could outrun me.

The green hood finally searched his inside pocket and pulled out a small three-inch plastic blade. He thrust it at me. But it was still another half metre from my chest, he held that knife there.

The black hooded accomplice who’d been silent all this time pulled out his can of cheap lager, opened it, and finally spoke out.

Diva, bruv. You gotta do somin’ ‘bout yer temper man. We got a wedding to go to tommorah an’ you wanna kill someone today?

He said my mum was somin’ nasty.

She is somin’ nasty, she had you!

Look, ermmm… I started, but was faltering already. Those beers yer ‘avin are sweet, but everything’s closed now.

What!?

That’s your last beer for the night. But I know a place open late where they’ll let you in, if I take you, an’ the first twenty pounds of drinks’re on me.

All three of the hoodies looked around at the street, I wasn’t wrong. Everything was closed.

But I’m still pissed at you blud! Green hoodie shouted.

I know, but twenty pounds worth of booze.

Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about, fuck yer vengeance Diva, I wanna party before the weddin’. The guy in the blue hood was screwing at the one called Diva.

Finally, Diva relented.

I picked up my bag and took the boys to a place I knew several minutes’ walk away. The bouncers weren’t pleased about letting these unknown kids in, but after I dropped some names I knew the security would be afraid of they begrudgingly agreed to let me buy beer and bring it outside for the hoodlums.

It was 4:00 am by the time I got back to New Road and most of the night was wasted. I’d performed a gig for free, an’ lost £14.00 for a return coach trip, plus £4.00 for a sandwich and coupl’a drinks which didn’t even fill me up. And now £20.00 blown on someone else’s alcohol. £38.00 in one day was a budget breaker for me.

I searched behind me, and satisfied that no one was following me I paced down a side alley off of the main road, it was a much better spot to be mugged. The walls reached four storeys high in this dead end loading space, any sound made here bounced back at you from the thick double-bricked walls so no one could hear your scream, the walls also seemed to suck in all light, even in the heat of day, this alley seemed to be experiencing an eclipse.

To my surprise there was a tramp lying under the bottom rungs of the galvanised steel fire escape, I was about to ignore him, but I sensed the thick unforgiving build-up of clouds in the changing night sky. I grabbed his torso and struggled as I moved him over to the arch-shaped loading entrance that formed the closest thing to a shelter, the doorway was no longer in use anyway since the business had gone bust months ago. It always rained in England, and if it didn’t it was always about to rain.

I ascended the staircase feeling lighter as I replayed the confrontation with the teenagers earlier in the night. I felt silly for losing control of my mouth, it had never given me any use this far into my life, and one day it was sure to get me killed. Especially with the people I hung out with.

The cindered door at the top of the fire escape was splintered in many places, but somehow kept its strength. I allowed myself in with my single key, and envied people who seemed to have a bunch of important and vital keys to look after.

I was immediately in my bedroom. I collapsed into my bed, the mattress easily rolled me into the middle from the many years of overuse. I was also in my kitchen, but I generally tried to keep the cooking to the far left corner of the studio where there’d been a built-in cupboard at one point and some previous tenant had ripped it open and moved the sink and cooker to that corner.

A fair sized window always seemed to gaze down at me from the right, but like I said, the light was limited. At many times I wondered whether to layer the window with white posters and use it as a screen for a bigger TV, but sadly projectors were a pricey dream. I was making do with a 14" someone had discarded for absolutely no good reason. It was a CRT TV, but I was quite proud of that.

The foot of my bed faced a pale yellow coloured wall, a large part of which displayed a very huge painting I had ironed on of the Dominion Theatre auditorium, from the point of view of someone performing on stage. It was quite detailed and even had audience members laughing at something that was taking place beyond the open curtains of the stage, or talking to each other, but generally having a good time. There was one guy at the very back who even seemed to be stealing from someone else’s handbag, but parts of the picture were smudged and that might just be my imagination.

The walls behind the headrest of my bed held posters of people I loved, first and foremost there was Sal Turner, a fearless American comedian who either focused on weed or political controversies. Either way, he died young, some believe through self-indulgence, others believe through assassination because he kept pointing out all of his country’s wrongs. There was also Ken Dodd, a man who got funnier with age, like wine, but also a man remembered fondly by single-handedly proving even those marked with the ugly fate of looking like a raisin could carve their own success. I’d tried to find a free poster of Jerry Lewis, but settled instead for the great silent maestros Harold Lloyd, Oliver Hardy and Stan Laurel. None of whom need intros.

I got distracted with massaging the fatigue from my face, and it did nothing to reinvigorate me. So I closed my eyes. Remembered the cold-hearted old woman on the bus. I fantasised her smiling at me, I was taking her out on a date, to a coffin shop.

After a heavy sigh, I forced myself to my feet, I needed time to unwind before I could sleep. I grabbed a coat hanger from the hook on the front door, balanced one end on a single finger and held my arms out straight. The hanger was quavering terribly. I then juggled with three hangars, after a minute I was bored and caught two hangars in the hook of the first hangar. I pulled out a packet of Propranolol from a nearby chest of drawers, swallowed a couple of pills, I almost choked, I grabbed a cold cup of tea from yesterday and gushed that down my throat to force the pills down.

It did the trick.

My coughing eased.

As did my loneliness.

From the corner of the kitchen cupboard, I pulled forward a microphone which rested lazily on a taped up stand, and placed them before the large painting of the Dominion auditorium.

I looked to my audience with a gaze that would capture their attention, the way a lion would assess a herd of buffalo.

I announced to my crowd, … I present to you, the great… the excellent… Sal Turner.

I pirouetted on the spot as if to transform to a different character…

I was now