The curtains fall away, exposing the booth’s wooden frame. Mr Punch shits himself: it looks like a gibbet. Where’s Ketch? He turns around this way. He’s behind you! He turns around that way. Where where I no see him. Behind you! Fucking bricking it. An imaginary rope hangs in the salty air. Where’s that nasty Jack Ketch, children? Ketchup on bags of chips looks like the blood throbbing from Mr Punch’s broken brain. Got sand in mine, made them crunchy. You’ve been framed. A face as flat as malice turns this way, turns that. Thisser way, thatter way. Nasty Ketch. Come on, let’s have a dip. A ripe cloud covers the sun and a dog chokes on a crab.
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