Chicken Four

I may have been wrong about the drugs.

Chicken Four has been sick for some time. I fear he may have been experimented on by JB. Chicken Four was always smaller than his brethren. Perhaps JB has been feeding him some kind of anti-growth hormone, which he plans to release into the water supply.

Chicken Four is not a well bunny.

Chicken Four shits on my floor.

Chicken Four is savagely murdered by Jonny B.

Of Chicken Four, there is no more.

Maybe he had to kill Chicken Four before his genes mutated.

Piff Paff Poof!

It's funny how sometimes you think you know someone, and then, poof, out of the blue, you learn something that completely changes your perception of them.

Listen, avid reader. Jonny B can do magic. I jest you not.

I'd popped around to have a talk about the curious disease that has been affecting Chicken Four of late. Jonny B is standing there, holding Chicken Five at about waste level. Jonny B appears to be a bit naked, as in he's not wearing any clothes, at all. I consider this for a moment, as I have been trained to avoid making snap judgements. I decide to garner more knowledge of the situation.

"Jonny? Why are you holding Chicken Five at about waste level, with more than the normal level of undress common in these parts?"

Jonny appears to be a bit stumped by this line of questioning.

"Umm," he says. "Umm. Because...I am practicing my magic? Yes. I am practicing my magic. That is what I am doing."

"Oh," says I. "You can do magic? May I see some?"

"Of course", says Jonny, more confident now. "Observe."

And sure enough, before my very eyes, Jonny removes first one, and then the second, hand from Chicken Five.

Chicken Five does not fall to the ground in the normal chickenny manner. Chicken Five is floating in mid-air! Chicken Five looks as surprised as anyone about this turn of events.

I return to my house with a new respect for Jonny B. If he can manage to levitate the whole chicken brood is this manner, there may be a new David Blaine in town.

I stare at Chicken Four, who is taking refuge in my conservatory. Chicken Four is looking introspective. It is a shame that he will never experience the sensation of floating before Jonny B's navel. I would have thought that would be the highlight of any chicken's career.

I get the olive oil out of the cupboard, and prepare to stick my finger up his arse.

Chickens

We go through the charade of purchasing chickens together.

There has been a lot of talk about high-quality chickens. Jonny apparently wants to buy the "Rolls-Royce" of the chicken world. Yet, by the time our chicken-perusal is complete, Jonny has settled on the chickens who reside closer to the Kia end of the market. These chickens cost barely more than a family-size bucket from KFC, and some of them wouldn't look out of place there.

Clearly, JB has realised that the sham of actually keeping chickens is going to eat into his skunk profit-margin.

Coup

Len the Fish toils on a wooden structure in Jonny's garden. For hour after hour, he nails, saws, hacks and tacks. Jonny makes him a cup of tea from time to time.

Len is very good with his hands, particularly when it comes to cultivating the 'erb. This structure appears to be some kind of advanced marijuana production facility. I wonder what kind of cut JB is going to give the Fish. I'm surprised he would let Jonny move into production - there must be a healthy sweetner involved.

Later in the day, JB asks me if I had ever considered keeping chickens. I play him for a while, and eventually he asks if I would like to share his new coup. This is a subtle strategy, I must say. Get me on side, then grow the skunk right under my nose. It reeks so bad I can almost smell it.

Urdu

Staring at Jonny through his kitchen window is a worrying sight.

He is wearing only his pants.

He is watching the cricket.

He is chortling at the intense physical pain another human being is experiencing after being struck in the testicles with a very hard ball.

He is tuned to the Urdu channel.

I am acutely disturbed by the pants. The pants are, in themselves, disturbing. But, sporting as they are one Jonny Billericay, they are doubly so.

I am disturbed that he seems to be enjoying cricket. Surely only half-crazed lunatics actually enjoy cricket.

The fact he is taking pleasure in the torture of a fellow human should not come as a surprise. Yet disturbed I remain.

But most of all, I am disturbed by the apparent ease with which he is understanding the commentary. I had previously thought that Jonny had been radicalised after a Western upbringing. Now I may have to reassess this view - perhaps he was born and raised in the developing world, and has since contracted some kind of weird skin pigmentation disease, like Michael Jackson.

Quid Pro Quo

From the chatter that we have to wade through on a daily basis, I get wind of a possible attack. Maybe I'm feeling paranoid today, but my gut tells me that Jonny B is going to be involved.

I think back to anti-terrorism 101, the heart of which seemed to be:

1) Don't shoot anyone unless you are really, really sure they are almost definately a terrorist.
2) If you have to shoot someone, try and do it in a third-world country, as you can get away with practically anything there.
3) Don't let the target get near a large crowd.

So I make a pre-emptive strike, and get the agency to arrange a little "accident" for Jonny's car.

A little while later, I'm coming back from the shops when I'm rear-ended by a white van. Coincidence? Or retribution?

Middle Ages

An air of depression hangs over our houses.

My 40th birthday has come and gone. Being forty is no fun at all. It's bad enough in the months leading up to being forty. It occupies your thoughts, clouds your judgements, pops into your head as you're trying to be charming to sales assistants. But the time after being 40 is the worst. You realise that life hasn't come to an end, that you have more of the same old shit to deal with, that with every day that goes by you're just another step closer to 50. Half a century.

Jonny has kept a low profile for a spell. The LTLP has been ordering him around - she at least has bounced back well from her near-death experience. Some months have passed since the bodged attempt on her life. Jonny has been unwell. Whether he has been simply feigning sickness, or whether he has actually been ill, I do not know.

Tonight I found him in his bathroom covered in his own puke. He was half-crazed on mesc or crack or whatever it is the cool kids are taking these days. Was this an attempt on his own life? Again, I neither know nor care. I stood over him, one part of me in disgust at what has become of him. But there was another part, a not insignificant part, that just wanted to lay down next to him, close my eyes, and swallow the bottle of pills that were on the sink.

I am at a low.

I strip Jonny naked and hose him down in the shower. Then I pull him into the bedroom and lift him onto the bed. I think he might just get through this one.

Me?

I'm not so sure.