Johnny and the Four (Short dark humour story) Benedict Brooke

Johnny Davies was only short when they told him the story.  About the four men who had lived next door.  But then you’re not that tall at only two.

Anyway, one day, Johnny was crossing the road and one of the men, the tall thin one, offered to help him to cross. How they got out of the way of that truck, I’ll never know.  Funny guy.  Funny peculiar- that is, dressed a bit like a monk. You know, long black habit, cowl, guess he was a gardener or some such with that scythe he carried.

Do you remember the riot? Johnny does, when those five guys started up on the black family next door, (on the left hand side, not on the right hand side where the four guys were).  Before you knew it, Combat 18, NF, the Anti-Nazi League and a representative of the Monster Raving Loony part, who had gotten lost while canvassing, all turned up with knives, skewers, corkscrews and whatever other implements they had managed tom borrow from the other 4 guys next door.

Do you remember how the police turned up? After the majority of the crowd had dispersed, and they arrested anyone remaining, bleeding or drunk (apart from the off duty officer of course.).  And Johnny meanwhile, looking aghast from the window, was moved, pyjamas and all,  to throw on his dressing gown and shove his feet into slippers and bugger off down the road, to a safe distance, to absorb events.

The gentleman standing beside him in the gawking throng was smiling at this time, although Johnny, in his combination of shock, amazement and excitement, didn’t notice this.  Anyway, Johnny grew older, as unfortunately and inevitably one does.  He didn’t move.  His parents were victims of a car crash when he was eighteen, when he was of an age, to take charge of the house.

But by this age, Johnny had a problem with his weight.  Despite incipient anorexia and the earnest but terrible cooking of his mother, (in earlier years obviously... even I’m not stupid enough to confuse my continuity that much)… no matter how little he ate, he steadily piled on the pounds.  So that at the age of 20, he realised that the only career he could embark on was that of professional wrestler.   Fortunately one of the gentlemen next door came to visit dear old Johnny.  This neighbour was the pale rather slim one -with the ash blond hair and albino eyes.  This gentleman suggested a high- quality though rather unnerving diet. Anyway, luckily for Johnny -he was never brought to book for his – ahem –cannibalistic crimes. Though he was rather foolish in that he used the same cab firm each time.  But the desired effect was achieved and Johnny soon became a fine figure of a man (albeit rather short).  So his thoughts began to run to courting.

Joanna was tall, fair and graceful.  Johnny met her at the Jim.  He had intended to go and work-out, but was unfortunately dyslexic and had in fact walked into a bar.  He managed somehow to work his way into her favour, and after the obligatory “coffee”, her knickers as well.  Indeed, with the very marriage arranged and a stag night in view, Johnny was left, as one is, deciding to whom to invite to the “almighty piss up”.  But he had few friends, more like “acquaintances”, due to his earlier more unsociable activities. So Johnny thought it might be appropriate to invite the four men next door (Although he was very insecure concerning their ménage a quarter).

Anyway, a jolly old evening was had by all, apart from the barman who experienced an attack of scrofula, and the knife fight about whose pint was whose?

Johnny hadn’t realised that the Farmers Arms was a gay pub, and what with all the pub grub being out of date, and the old guy at the corner table being found dead, when everyone thought that he was just taking his time over his pint.  Mind you, the tall skinny man was winning at pool.

And when Johnny got home (he’d invited them all in for a drink) there was the message on his voicemail.  From the hospital.  Joanna was critically ill with pneumonia, pleurisy, and something that they’ve only just discovered and hadn’t given a name to, yet.  (They were sure they’d be able to think of something in time for the TV news.)

“Oh and she was dead” they added.

“Never mind, better luck next time?”

However Johnny remained single, and heartbroken.   Mourning his lost love, until, some 10 years later, all four chaps who lived next door  (who had been his emotional and physical crutch), popped up on the doorstep.

“Hello Johnny” they said, in an affable  manner.  “We’ve come to cheer you up.”

“And give you a good haircut,” remarked the stocky one... although not in a way that anyone could hear clearly.

“Anyway” the thin one said, affixing a tourniquet on his upper arm as they sat at Johnny’s kitchen table,

“Anyway,” he reiterated, “We think – that is we collectively –“

“Hold on -” the deep voice of the tall one said, “Who the fuck’s in charge here?”

“Just get the fucking clippers” the stocky one replied.

Johnny, proud of his lush and flowing locks (and the fact that he hadn’t had to pay for a haircut in 11 years), was somewhat taken aback at this.  However, when held down by Mr Skinny, Mr Pale and with his head held firmly in place by the muscular forearms of Mr Stocky, he resigned himself to the robust attentions of Mr Grim (I think you’ve all guessed it by now!).  Time passed – as it does – and here we find Johnny sitting bemused and shorn, upon his kitchen floor. Rubbing his shaven and rather itchy denuded head.  He is heard to mutter to himself (first sign of lunacy –or maybe it is the first sign of sanity)...

“That fucking tattoo, what does it mean anyway?  And what did he mean by that?”

For as the tall one had left, tattooing equipment still in hand, he had said softly, smiling,

 “You’re ready now Johnny, you’re ready.”

Mind you, with a face like that, there’s not much you can do but smile.  And why, as the sign was engraved on his head, and he had yelled the characteristic “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” had the pale one replied “How apt, how apt.”

Three years later, at the age of 33, Johnny was elected Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.  The rest will be history, (Or Prophecy depending on how you look at it.).