Monday, January the 7th, 2013

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Babinsky's Diary 7.1.66

The lumbering walrus-moustached psychopathic serial killer Babinsky was a conscientious diarist. Here is what he had to say for himself on this day in 1966:

Woke up feeling murderous. Preened my moustache and sharpened my axe and cleaver and slicer. Tossed them into a gunny sack, slung it over my shoulder, and went out on a rampage. The sky was blue, birds were singing, and the municipal flowerbeds hereabouts were splurged with glory—plastic glory, in the depths of winter, but glory nonetheless.

I am no Panglossian, far from it, but even I was persuaded that this might indeed be the best of all possible worlds. In fact, I felt so chipper that when a beggar person approached me, his grubby withered paw outstretched for alms, I pressed a penny upon him and wished him all the best. His awful gob broke into a toothless grin that warmed my cockles. Further down the street, several puppies were frolicking. I struck the fear of the dog-God into them and they scampered away.

Above, in the blue sky, a trio of cranes flew by, and I thought of Sibelius. He was a baldy man with a drink problem, but he knew how to write a symphony. I thought about popping into a Finnish church to say a prayer for his immortal soul, and I stopped a passer-by to ask if there were any Finnish churches in this neighbourhood, ones I might have overlooked. I have only been here for a couple of days, after fleeing the coppers following that gore-splattered business over by Pointy Town Town Hall.

The coppers here have not noticed my presence yet, except for one particularly inquisitive and irritating constable who demanded to see my library ticket. I smote him, as if we were living in Old Testament times, and then I smote him again, and again, and when he was thrice smitten I slew him with a flaming sword. Setting fire to a sword is easier said than done, but I recently came across some kind of flammable jelly. Smear that liberally on your sword, and strike a match, and hey presto!

The passer-by was ignorant of any Finnish churches, but he told me where I might find a guidebook to the local amenities. He was so helpful that I spared his life, just having a few little chops at him with my cleaver, nothing that emergency paramedics in a well-equipped air ambulance won't be able to patch up.

The guidebook I found as promised in the newsagent's kiosk did not list a single Finnish church. What kind of bailiwick was this? Humming a few snatches from Sibelius' majestic sixth symphony I smashed the kiosk to firewood with my axe, and then set off in pursuit of the newsagent, who had run off screaming into the hills. I soon caught and slaughtered him, and it was such a lovely spot, up there in the hills, despite the cold, that I snacked on his brains and liver and lights before going back into town for a bit more rampaging.

But in the meantime, the coppers had arrived, headed by that relentless Detective Captain Cargpan, my Nemesis, so I had to go into hiding. I am currently cooped up in a hut at the waterworks. Tomorrow I will have to create a diversion and make my escape. It's a pity I have run out of flammable jelly.