The curtains jerk open for the thirteenth time today and Mr Punch lurches into view. He’s driven by the mad red hand clutching his mad red heart. Desire croaks and squeaks from him. Judy, my love! Judy, my dear! Pretty Judy, come upstairs! He hears his own sozzled, swazzled speech, as if he’s outside himself. Again: Judy, my love, my precious darling creature! He sees himself in the eyes of the kiddies sitting on the sand. The booth wobbles with violent magic. Judy, where are you, my sweeting, my sweetmeat? He coughs and barks. But Judy doesn’t come. Judy, oh Judy! The slapstick waves like a wand. Judy, Judy, Judy! He waggles with fury. The spell doesn’t work. She doesn’t appear. Beside himself, he raves and swears and screams.
Hidden in the red night of the booth, the Punchman has fallen asleep. His dreaming hand twitches around Mr Punch’s heart. A lifeless Judy lies on his lap.
All texts on this site are the copyright of James Knight. All rights reserved.