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The Sound Of Dick DangerousMay 13 '08 Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line Ever wondered how an American soldier of fortune, a Brit rapper, a Welsh terrorist and an Australian a*shole ended up in Finchley? Here's why...
Ain’t it unfair y’all how some motherf*ckers have all the luck. Take Bruce Fearless - I been waitin’ for that beer-swilling Aussie hick to get himself eaten by whatever large and dangerous creature he’s tryin’ to interfere with, and somehow he always survives. I figure he’s either got regenerative powers or else all that alcohol has somehow pickled him into some kinda p*ssed up Captain Scarlet. But then that mofo didn’t even have any genitals, and Bruce has waved his at me enough times on numerous occasions. Case in point, y’all may remember (Except only a handful of you motherf*ckers had the balls to read my last essay) Bruce was last seen leaping towards a giant space crab from another dimension, and I thought he’d finally had it, but rest-assured, fifteen minutes later he’s swillin’ beers by the prostate form of a very shocked lookin’ space monster. “Ya put up a fair dinkum fight ya bastard,” said Bruce to the crab, “But I’d have slung you on the barby with the other shrimp, if ya hadn’t cried like a Pommie with a redback on his todger.” The rest of the space-crab army had fled and would probably be seeking intergalactic therapy or else askin’ mommy where Bruce had been stickin’ his thumb. “Wow!” said Nerd Dick Dangerous, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “Your friend was pretty amazing, if a little unconventional…” “Ya callin’ me a poofta?” “But now all that remains is to rebuild the Earth. It’s just a shame all my friends died.” “Oim alright actually,” said Tricky who hadn’t quite worked out that no-one was looking at him. “Y’know it’d be my pleasure to help rebuild the planet…” I began, but realised that everything was hurtling away from me and pretty soon we found ourselves stood back on the stage of I’d Do Anything. The theater was deserted, except for two figures stood next to the Dark Energy machine. “Ooo look! It’s Dick. What’s up homies?” squeaked the ever-confused form of Skittles. Next to him, 50 looked like Christmas had come and Jay-Z had sent him a whole packet of marshmallows. “Skittles,” said M, “You mean to tell us you’re actually a Physics genius and figured out how to manipulate dark energy?” Skittles looked rather pleased with himself. “Well yes, we realised that if we reversed the polarity of the neutron flow, and… and… twiddled the flange… oscillator…” 㦞 tried to make a toastie in it, didn’t he?” I asked, noticing the limp cheese sandwich 50 Cent was holding. “No!” rallied Skittles, “We didn’t use the dish thing, we were using this toastie machine.” He held up a small box which had an LCD screen counting down in big red numbers. It had just reached 30. “See, almost done,” Skittles continued to twitter. “Skittles, that’s a bomb.” “No it’s not,” said Skittles as the numbers reached 20. “You put your sandwich in the top, and then it toasts it.” Cheese was leaking out and sizzling. There was a brief pause as we considered the bomb, which passed 10 seconds. “Dick, what’s a flange?” I sighed. “A flange sure ain‘t somewhere you put your toastie Skittles,” I managed before the bomb exploded. ____________________________________ Dick Three years ago Dick wasn’t in Finchley, he was half-way up a mountain in the middle of Tibet. He’d come here to learn the secret Martial Arts of the greatest master of all time - Hu Wang. “Okay!” screamed Wang as Dick attached a weight to his crotch, “Now you swing it!” Hu Wang’s command of the English language wasn’t brilliant and Dick had hoped he hadn’t meant to tell him to attach the weight to his “Third leg,” but apparently this was essential to achieving Chi. “Y’know Hu buddy, I’m a bit worried about what muscle groups this is meant to be workin’.” “It work very big muscle,” screamed Wang, “Er… you swing, I sit over here and watch. Fear not woman who practise one move a million times!” “Woman? I don’t usually beat up on chicks.” Dick failed to add that this was because he usually lost. “Yes! You might go one-on-one with woman who know very many move. They very flexible.” Dick stopped swinging, and looked over to Wang whose hand hastily came out of his trousers. “Look Hu, I don’t see how this is meant to make me stronger. Is this gonna like send Chi energy into my Dangerous Dick or what?” Wang stroked his beard. “Yes… definite. Make you very big and strong, and make your Chi powerful. It go everywhere - all over many ladies.” “Can we stop with the beatin’ up women.” “Why you not wanna be beaten off by a woman! I improve Dick Dangerous Chi to make him the greatest.” “You told me shaving my pub*c area would make my Chi stronger…” Wang stood up to his full height, beard dragging on the ground. “In two days you go up against Wan Long Dong! You must be longer!” Dick’s eyes narrowed. “Erm, Hu, this is a Shaolin monastry ain’t it?” “No,” replied Wang, “We no like them poncing around, so we turn them out and make Tibetan art house movie studio.” “You’re makin’ pornos aren’t you.” Wang looked slightly puzzled, then proffered a digital camera. “Yes.” “I came here to learn how to pluck a man’s eye out with my bare hands, not the best way to light me doin’ him doggy-style. I’m leavin’.” “Where you go? If you not going to be in Hong-Kong porn industries, what’re you going to do?” Dick thought for a moment. “I’m gonna go where every other motherf*cker who wants to be someone goes…” “Dutch porn industry is in decline. Tibet pornos are the future!” “I was gonna say London actually.” “Ah, you go to Soho…” As Dick hoisted his shoulder bag he thought about this for a moment before forming an answer. “Well it ain’t like I haven’t got the experience.” ________________________________________ M. Three years ago and M. was about to have the most important meeting of his life, with the director of Tone Def, the hottest record label in the whole of North London. Tone Def’s director leant back in his smart leather chair and regarded the hopeful and rather dumpy face of M. Ravioli. “You know,” he drawled, “I don’t usually like to upset hapless creatures…” “That’s good!” said M. “No, Mr Ravioli, that’s not good.” M looked crestfallen. “What I mean is that I don’t want to sit here and tell you that your demo sounds like it was recorded by a retarded 14 year old. I don’t want to tell you that I could walk into any branch of Kentucky Fried Chicken and hear toddlers with more natural talent than you.” “But that’s alright because you’re not going to…” said M. “No you’re right, I’m not going to. This recording was so awful that when I put it on my home stereo it caused my dog to cardiac arrest.” M. frowned. “Do you know how much vet bills are at the moment?” “Er…” “It didn’t help it was a Shih Tzu either.” “That reminds me of a joke,” said M. conversationally. “I don’t want to hear it. In short, if I was charitable I’d probably just flush this recording down the toilet.” M. frowned. “But I’m the greatest rapper in Golder’s Green and Finchley.” “Both of which are internationally recognised for the skill of their rappers of course.” “Well there’s Skittles,” said M. “He’s a hot dawg.” “Yes, and he appears on his own track which is entitled, ‘Mittens ‘n’ Kittens.’” “It’s pimpin’,” said M. “That’s one way of describing it.” M. had always dreamt of being a pimp gangsta and driving around in a Cadillac with honeyz, even if his chances were constantly suffering from having to hang around with Skittles on his mother’s orders, and he was damned if he was going to stop dreaming. “What can I do to improve?” “Improve?” said the director, “You can’t even rap. Look, if you can find some deluded or sick individual who believes you’re actually talented and, I don’t know, become the greatest rapper in Hendon as well, then maybe, just maybe you might get a recording contract.” “But where can I find such a person?” “Try looking for an American,” said the director before having M. thrown out on the street. ________________________________________ Bruce Three years ago and Bruce Fearless is stood on the edge of Circular Quay in Sydney drinking a can of beer which in most other parts of the world would be labelled with the words “Uric Acid.” On the quayside a large gathering of civic dignitaries is welcoming an ambassador from China who is hoping to foment trade links with Australia which will be worth millions of dollars. As you might imagine, Bruce Fearless was about to make this economic nest-egg go rotten. “Hey Bruce,” said Wayno, “Isn’t that John Howard over there?” “I dunno mate,” slurred Bruce, “Who the fackin’ hell is John Howard?” “Ain’t he that bloke who done the dirty with your mother Bruce?” suggested Stabbers MacGregor who was also present at this historic moment. “Nah mate, that was you Stabbers ya b*stard, and ya went and did the sheep afterwards. John Howard’s that bloke who did all those sheep in the wrong ‘un over at Dubbo back in 㤅, and he didn’t leave an address or anything the filthy mongrel.” “I reckon you should go over there and sort him out mate,” said Wayno. “I reckon you’re right Wayno,” said Bruce, and so slugging the last of his beer he staggered towards the ceremony. Wayno and Stabbers looked on as Bruce approached the Prime Minister and started to make lewd gestures at him which appeared to be simulating having sex with some kind of bipedal marsupial. “He’s a good bloke is Bruce,” said Wayno to Stabbers. “Yeah mate, it’s a wonder he’s never found himself a Sheila.” Bruce was now pointing at the Chinese ambassador and appeared to be miming some sort of act which involved the Prime Minister and a root vegetable. “Yup,” said Stabbers, “Bruce is a true blue Aussie mate. John Howard himself was only complaining about the death of mateship last week.” They looked on at Bruce who was now attempting to grapple Howard to the floor. “So Bruce went to tell off the Prime Minister for interfering with his sheep?” said Wayno. There was a brief pause. “Reckon we should tell ‘im?” “Nah.” After a few minutes Bruce was frog-marched towards them by two serious men in black suits. Unfortunately, having been born in America it turned out very badly for Bruce. “G’day mate,” said Wayno as they passed. “Hey Wayno,” yelled Bruce, “What’s it mean if you’re extradited to London?” “Means you’re a stuck up Pommie b*stard,” replied Stabbers. “Yeah, good on yer mate, at least my Dad didn’t get caught rodgerin’ a budgie!” said Bruce as his head was forced into the Australian special forces car. “Yup,” said Stabbers wiping a tear away, “And we’re proud of him to this day.” ________________________________________ Dai Three years ago and Dai Hard was sat on a bench. Generally people who sit on benches in the middle of Hampstead Heath are either tramps or spies and Dai wasn’t drinking special brew out of a can, so that would make him a spy. Then again, he could have been waiting for some bum. As he sat glaring at the city in front of him a young man in a tracksuit and baseball cap came and sat down next to him. “The weather is sunny in Cardiff today…” said Dai out of the side of his mouth. “Is it?” said the man sat next to him. “No Agent Jones, it’s a code; you’re supposed to say that there’s a storm in the Bristol Channel. It’s so I know that you’re one of us boyo.” “Of course you know who I am Dai,” replied Agent Jones, “I cleaned out your Mam’s drains only last April.” “That’s as may be Agent Jones, but I have to consider whether you’ve been compromised. Do you have the package?” “Hang on a tick Dai,” said Agent Jones as he rummaged around in his bag before brandishing a large leek. “Good heavens boy, put the f*ckin’ thing away!” said Dai hastily hiding it under his coat. “It’s only a leek Dai.” “I’m beginning to doubt your zeal in pursuing the aims of the Welsh Liberation Army Dafydd. It seems obvious to me that I’m going to have to go undercover myself, and you’re comin’ with me.” “But Dai, Cash In The Attic’s on at 12...” “You have been idle too long Agent Jones, it’s time for us to use Bangor Rules.” Agent Jones seemed a little perplexed. “What are Bangor Rules exactly?” “Didn’t you even read the training manual Agent Jones?” screamed Dai. “Next thing you’ll be telling me you don’t know how to deploy a leek for maximum effect.” “I’m sorry Dai, me Mam needed something to clean her windows with.” “Bangor Rules are as follows. Firstly Agents are to avoid the use of all technology because it might have been invented by English and would therefore corrupt the hallowed ideals of the WLA. Secondly, there is to be no mention of rugby. Ever. If Rugby comes up in a conversation then it is likely you are talking to enemy agents. Or New Zealanders. In both cases you must kill yourself immediately.” “Why don’t we like New Zealanders Dai?” asked Agent Jones. “Because they are not of pure Welsh stock. And that goes for all the other commonwealth countries - New Zealand and Canada welcomed the Scots, America and Australia welcomed the Irish, but where were the Welsh welcomed I ask you?” “Argentina,” said Agent Jones. “And ‘ave you ever seen Welsh Patagonia? It’s a f*cking sh*thole so we hate them as well. I continue. Rule Three: You do not talk about the WLA, unless using the secret communication language known only to our small band operatives.” “You mean Welsh?” “Yes.” “But neither of us can speak Welsh, except to say Cymru am Byth!” Rule Four: In the event of capture, consume this document. It’s made out of edible paper.” “What flavour is it?” “Lamb and leek. And don’t let anyone else eat it mark you. Rule Five: Don’t use private transport. Or public transport. Or even walk. In fact, don’t move at all.” “But how are we goin’ to carry out the mission if we can’t move?” “Don’t question the programme Agent Jones. This is how we managed to resist the English for over 700 years.” “By not doin’ anything?” “Oh yes. And they couldn’t stop us from doin’ that now could they? Do you now understand Bangor Rules Agent Jones?” “Not really…” “Good. That’s the whole point of Bangor Rules, what the enemy isn’t expecting. If we can’t understand it then there’s no way on God’s own Earth they will.” “When did Bangor Rules originate Dai?” “Well some say that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd invented Bangor Rules in the year 1257 as a way of resisting the English but I got ‘em off Spooks last night.” “Isn’t that an English programme Dai?” “Silence Dafydd, Bangor Rules apply… now.” “But there wasn’t a rule about not askin’ questions was there?” “There was, but my typewriter broke down, so rules 9, 10 and 11 weren’t recorded.” “Well what are they then?” “Rule nine states that when Bangor Rules apply what Dai says goes, so no talking about the origins of Bangor Rules. Rule ten is a secret rule and if I tell you, I’ll ‘ave to kill you and rule eleven was something to do with making sure that your Mam records Poblycwm for us.” “But we don’t even speak Welsh…” “Well I like to make the effort Dafydd.” “What ‘appened to rule number eight anyway?” asked Agent Jones and Dai grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “Now listen here Agent Jones. Rule eight was lost to the English back in 1971, we’ve been campaigning to ‘ave it returned and we’ve promised that we won’t be calling Charlotte Church off until they deliver it to us, so we don’t talk about rule number eight. Is that clear boyo?” “Yes Dai.” Dai sat back and folded his arms while Agent Jones twiddled his thumbs. A light rain began to fall on their heads and pretty soon a drenching downpour was further clouding the distant tower blocks of central London. Eventually, after half an hour had passed in this way, Agent Jones started to fidget until finally he couldn’t contain himself any longer. “I gotta pee Dai!” “Sit back down Agent Jones, you might compromise the entire mission,” said Dai, grabbing him by the back of his jumper which pulled away to reveal a red shirt underneath. “Dafydd, what’s all this?” “I’m sorry Dai,” said Agent Jones removing his jumper to reveal a red Brains rugby shirt, “I put it on without thinking. It’s the only clean shirt I got!” “We’re going to have to regroup,” said Dai, “And besides the train back to Cardiff leaves in about an hour.” “Wouldn’t it be better if we stayed here longer than a day Dai?” “What, and live among heathens and English? I’d sooner die!” ________________________________________ Skittles Fortunately muffled in his mittens, the explosion didn’t really affect Skittles more than making him fall over and say, “Ow! I hurt my botty!” Standing up uncertainly he looked around to see a room full of devastation. The bomb had ripped through and buried everyone in rubble and they were all lying unconscious on the floor. All except one man who had muffling of his own… ________________________________________ When I came round it was to see 50 preparing’ to lay the kiss of life on me. “Jeez you a*shole, get off me!” I yelled and 50 let go. “It’s like being attacked my a pair of ravenous man-boobs.” Dai and Skittles were back on their feet and M. was retching off the side of the stage. “So he got you then M?” “It was like kissing your Mom,” replied M. between chunks. 50 was now shaking a prostate Bruce who didn’t seem to be moving, so he bent down and blew air into Bruce’s lungs. There was a slight deflation as Bruce snorted and said under his breath, “Not now Skippo, ya b*tard, I’ve got a fackin’ headache. Bloody randy wallaby.” A few moments later and Bruce’s eyes were open, and bloodshot. “Jeez Bruce, the explosion affected you pretty bad.” “Explosion?” said Bruce, “I was in the dunny, and when I came back you b*stards were all hiding under a load of rubble like a bunch of yellow drongo-headed Pommie badger b*ggerers. It’s no worries though ‘cause I found the green room while you lot were fackin’ about.” “Y’know Bruce, it might have been nice of you to rescue us, even 50 somehow managed it.” 50 Cent had been curiously unaffected by the bomb, except a large chunk of masonry bounced off his b*tch t*ts. “Why should I rescue you b*stards? You’d only go and help ya selves to my sheep dip and go and roger the Dingos me mam’s been feedin’.” “Well if you didn’t save us, where’d you get your beer from.” Bruce thought about this and his face fell. “Thanks for rescuing us 50, ya Pommie pr*ck.” 50 puffed himself up and looked happy. “Don’t encourage the dipsh*t, he might try ‘Freestylin’, or gibbering as the rest of us call it.” I kicked the now seemingly inert bomb which buzzed and a hologram flickered on revealing Roger Foxby leering menacingly at us. “Ah Dangerous, if my clever ruse to send you to a dimension of absolute pain and my cunning plan to blow you up didn’t work and the killer ferret-badgers failed to rip you up, then this message will automatically play.” “Ferret-badgers?” asked M. I figured the bad smell coming out the orchestra pit would explain that one. “I have captured your long-lost brother Dangerous,” continued Roger, which was curious ‘cause I only have a sister and I’m actively trying to hide from her. On the hologram there was a pause, and a slightly less podgy arm pushed Foxby out of the way to reveal the face of Foxby’s younger self. “Yes Dangerous, that’s right, it’s me the evil Roger Foxby from the past. I managed to find a way of travelling to the future by means of the paradox we created in 1993. Although I told that bumbling fool it was a cure for constipation.” “It did work,” came the disembodied voice of Foxby senior. “Despite surviving all the traps I laid for you and your common fool friends, it would appear that you have somehow got through them.” “Dog rabbits might get them,” said Foxby senior. I looked down to see a small dog-like creature makin’ sweet love to 50’s leg. “Jeez 50, get a room.” “But I have one final weapon which I think not even you can defeat.” He took a step back and there now appeared on the screen… me. “Oh my God!” yelled Skittles, “They’ve captured you Dick!” “Skittles, I’m stood right next to you. Although that’s quite weird - does my hair always look like that.” But there were more figures hoving into view and they all looked like me, ‘cept they had a slightly glazed expression on their faces and were chanting, “Foxby, Foxby,” over and over. “Can you hear it?” said Foxby junior, “The Sound of Dick Dangerous? Ha ha ha! Nothing in the world can stop me now!” And with that the hologram vanished. “Why do people always say that just before they get their a*ses kicked?” “Insecurity,” said M. “I mean your average evil genius has some pretty Freudian issues going on.” “That figures,” I replied. “I already seen him f*ck his own Mom.” Thanks folks - here comes the Dick Dangerous!  |
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