PAGE 2 My mind was made up: I definitely needed to think about going or staying.
Should I follow her, track her down, propose, and to hell with the ‘mob’? Or play it safe, take the easy, dweeb’s way out; hide away from life and the adversity it throws at us? Be a wuss? A weevil? A pus- stained papule on the handsome face of life? Not be able to look myself in the mirror each morning? (Then again, a beard could be quite fetching.)
Like a dude with the handle, Saul (alias Paul of Tarsus, aka Paul of the tribe of Benjamin, aka Paul (where’s my guide dog?) Cilicia), on an oft-traversed itinerary accessing Damascus, I was visually stimulated by an ostentatious effulgent materialisation that possessed the mien of conferring some arcane religious significance.
Yes! I had it. Hank Conan - expunger of wrongdoers, nemesis of sewer-sucking scum-buckets and low-lives, nullifier of nerds and deleter of dorks - was off to join the French Foreign Legion to forget.
After that diatribe, though, I’m screwed if I can remember what. But I suppose a little sightseeing along the way wouldn’t go amiss!
Hitching a lift from some hippy-unwashed-type female in a campervan called Winnie Baygo- that’s the female not the campervan, that’d be silly - I rode as far as the eastern seaboard.
I needed to pull a few favours and get across the Big Pond without attracting attention, so I joined up with the Ku Klux Klan (Boyz in the Hoods) World Tour 2002.
After they dropped me off near the port, I yanked a homie-looking mother and broke his balls till he grassed on the last known whereabouts of the ticket office.
I shagged on over to the window in my homburg (Don’t even think about it!) and laid it on the bitch squeezing tickets.
Hank Conan sure as hell wasn’t going to arrive in just any old town in the UK of GB.
I used my mythical chameleon-like linguistic skills (I’d voice-coached Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins), convinced the ticket-seller I was from her level of social class, and explained, as patiently as possible, as you do to the lower orders, that I wanted to hit the high life; the glitteratzi; the opulent. Hank Conan wanted a ticket to somewhere with a big name in the UK.
Which is probably how I ended up here in Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.
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Fear not readers, I can smell the stench of the finale approaching. Or is it the plot. Look you?
THE END.
Hank will return in:
HANK CONAN - PRIVATE EYE.
EPISODE SIX - ALIMENTARY, MY DEAR CONAN.
SEE BELOW
