Today, she’s under cover as a working girl. Estate agent. Tough assignment. They can sniff out a member of the public through a thousand square yards of desirable office space. Extensive market intelligence is required to perfect the correct level of zombification. Melon is exasperated. The cheeky cheeky girls are driving him to Distraction, Alabama, where the entire state house has approved legislation to prevent rubber necking. He wants to impose Sharia law.
The heat wave has led to an outbreak of ogling and lechery. The graphics card has been upgraded. The wibble wobble of flesh is apparent. Nothing gets pixelated.
“It’s the booty shorts, Troll. They animate me immensely,” Melon declares melodramatically.
A passing pair of booty cheeks coupled with chiselled cheek bones transfixes Melon. Trolley must improvise. It is fortunate for everyone concerned that he has been reading his David Herbert. He reaches for a purple-headed passage of passionate, sensuous, reverent modernist tosh. The Born-Again Virgin & the Migrant: the story of a marginalized traveller and a full-bottomed Roma girl who pulls his levers for kicks.
The bird of his companion’s heart sinks and dies. His will departs from his limbs. The woman has power over him. And Melon, as he blows out his own cheeks, is aware of only one thing: the on-going struggle against the constraints of civilisation. The mysterious over-ripe fruit of his born-again virginity leaks into the perfect tenderness of his soul. Like a flowering bud of cannabis sativa, like a dewdrop which drips its stringy line of snot into a waking sleep of brief blossoming, he is full out. He is entranced in the waking sleep of his re-virginity, as yet another dewdrop drips in the sunshine. He wipes his nose.
It engenders within him momentum. Once in a blood moon, Melon gets an idea into his head that warrants a translation in the outer world. Such a notion is upon him. From out of the finest, highest-density, re-generated polyethelene, Melon has fabricated a bhurka-like item he intends to drape over unsuspecting hot pants’ wearers whose specifications conform to type.
An enormously versatile garment, it looks set to make in-roads into the world of Islamic fast fashion, the new Osama Bin Liner is available in both charcoal black and jet black!
“I am going squat up here and bag me up a hottie,” explains Melon to Trolley, whose left eyebrow makes the shape of a zigzag and whose right eyebrow dimples.
Trolley has seen the girl with the bicycle tattoo above her right ankle. The classic design, it is only slightly more elaborate than those daubed across cycle lanes the length and breadth of East Anglia by unarmed roadmen in reflective vests of the type suburban cyclists cloak their young in to protest against tree felling along their victimised boulevards.
“Sharia D.I.Y. The campaign needs a name, Troll,” announces Melon, as he crouches on his branch like a potty-training toddler, right down to the facial contortions and visceral grunts. Trolley hears a nearby wood pigeon. Melon forces out another strange sound. The gastrointestinal distress of avian and human roosters makes a brown noise that would produce involuntary bowel motility in all but the strongest constitutions. Luckily, Trolley has been dipped in enough Lawrentian prose to be able to weather any elemental outbreak of intensity.
“Brrp. Brrp. Coo. Coo.”
Melon and the wood dove compete to break the dramatic tension.
The girl with the bicycle tattoo approaches. The Brigate Ragazziprepares to swoop. Melon readies himself. He clasps the bin liner by the corners and, like a vampire about to put the duvet cover back on, hovers over the spot where she will soon be. The self-directed attractive young woman moves forward unhindered.
Trolley looks up. Melon is hard to see in the shade. Trolley shakes the tree.
“Promise you won’t laugh, Troll.”
Trolley helps his friend down. There has been a change of tactic. Melon has also improvised.
Fully donned in his polymer outfit, to which he has added a set of blinkers made from sticky back plastic, it's the kid whose parents have forgotten it’s a fancy dress party and have had to make do last minute. As an act of emotional self-management it is unparalleled, if not a bit too makeshift and difficult to market.
Trolley chortles. Trolley titters. Trolley weeps tears of hilarity.
Melon wonders why you can’t get heavy duty liners in brilliant white. A flimsier pedal bin number might appeal to today's more fashion-conscious, sexually-frustrated Herbert. Though it wouldn't leave much to the imagination.
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