Badass Farmers
Part 6; The Flashback Episode (Not recommended for epileptic viewers)
In Cecil's camp, banners flying high overhead, the men were preparing for war. Bob and Kurt were loading their AK-47's, bullets strung over their shoulders like necklaces. The sexy technician, Ann, who was so hot nobody even made fun of her for being ginger, was packing grenades with high-grade manure.
"You know," she said to Cecil, "these might be more effective if we use explosives instead of shit."
"I didn't ask for your opinion, bitch!" Cecil fumed. "I've always told Jamie he's full of shit and now it's time to make good on my words."
Ann stood to her full height, her crop top breasts straining under her braces, one hand on her hips, the other- tossing the shit grenade up and down.
"What did you call me?" she said.
"I said you were a bitch, bit—" He eyed the grenade in her hand, where she was now thoughtfully stroking the pin. "I mean, you're a hand worker and keep it up!"
"That's what I thought," she said, sitting back down.
"Hey Cecil, you better watch out!" Nina giggled. "Or you might end up as a shitty leader."
"Oh shut and get back to the shagging," Cecil snapped.
"I am," she said, and continued bonking the gourmet. She threw her head back and moaned, as saliva ran down the gourmet's fat lips.
Cecil thought; That bitch has got great work ethic. She's gonna go places.
Then he thought; Fucking Jamie I'm gonna rip his balls off and shove them up his arse.
Then he thought; Actually, he'd probably enjoy that.
Lately Cecil was often caught by thoughts went off at a tangent. He suspected it had something to do with the two hundred ounces of hasha he'd smoked of Nina's mum's ass. Damn that woman was sexy. What he wouldn't give to have a threesome with the two of them. And maybe she'd jam a jammy dodger up his behind and use his balls as bongo drums again, just as he liked it. Oh, yeah…
"Cecil!" Bob yelled. "A messenger from the enemy camp!"
Cecil was approached by the most badass eight-year old you could ever meet. Tim had invested the gold from the mines wisely, putting it into Cecil's marijuana and Nike trainers. He sidled up to Cecil clutching his privates, draped in gold bling, his cap set jauntily on his head.
"Wassup blud," he said, flicking his fingers. "Cuz you 'as dissed my main man Jamie-o, started all this funk and shit, not givin' him his fair fetti when he's been helping yo stack papa you caused a damn set trippin. Now Jamie wants to make one thing clear; unless he gets he gets his scratch you scanless wanksta, things are goin' down por vida and you're gonna catch a hot one."
Cecil whispered to Bob; "You know what he's saying?"
"How the hell should I?" said Bob. "I ain't black. You should know."
"I gotta be honest with ya Bob…" said Cecil, leaning close to Bob's ear. "I'm gonna tell ya something I ain't told anyone… I ain't actually black."
Bob stared at Cecil's white skin in shock. "You ain't!"
"No," said Cecil. "I'm British."
"Holy shit!" said Bob. "You're a teapot twizzler!"
"Yeah, I jus watched too much MTV in my youth."
"Damn!" said Bob. "We oughta call in a specialist then. I can't understand this shit. Do you actually know anyone… who is black?"
They both thought about it for a long time.
"Ronald is Mexican…" Cecil said hesitantly.
"Buenas muchos!" said Ronald.
"That's no good," said Bob.
"…Henry?" said Cecil.
"Fuck man! He's French. Are you saying there's NO black people in this ghetto?"
At that moment, Dan strode by. "Hullo guys!" he cried merrily, swinging his pocket book by his side. "Hope the war's going well! See you all later!"
"DAN'S A BLACK GUY!" they gasped. And Bob yanked Dan over towards them.
"We need you to translate out of the black language for us," he said.
"Fuck!" said Tim. "This cracka's a BG. He ain't swool. Now the boss wants you ho's to know that the fight's gonna start at dawn. So be there, or we'll marinade your spuds in cranberry basting sauce."
Cecil and Bob turned to Dan. "Well?" they said.
Dan shrugged his shoulders. "I've no idea," he said.
Cecil shook his by the shoulders. "But this is your language! You're one of the honoured People. You got black blood flowing through your honourable veins!"
"Black people don't have black blood," Dan said.
"THEY DON'T?" said Cecil.
"Of course not."
"And you've no idea what he's saying?"
"He's just speaking garbage. How am I supposed to understand it?"
"It's not the black language?" Cecil gaped.
"No, he's just being a douche bag," said Dan.
Cecil felt like he was having a revelation. He knew it was a revelation because his toes started to tingle, up to his knees and his hips, through his wang and all the way up. Well, it was a revelation or a stroke. Suddenly, he remembered the day when he had decided to become a gangsta…
FLASHBACK!
Cecil was eleven years old, and a student at Jim-Jim-Jimmedy-Jimson's boarding school. He was a hardworking but awful student, and every afternoon had the blackboard rubber whizzing past his ear for not paying attention. And then, the cane across his palms for refusing to play rugby because he wasn't fond of games where he was stripped shirtless and piled on top of by other bigger boys. The headmaster gave him six of the best and told him that was what boarding school was all about. Then he sent him packing to polish the older boys' in his dorm shoes and obey their sexual commands.
That evening, Cecil Eustace Julian Edmund Harvey sat by the window crying like a pansy. He cried very softly, because just earlier that day he'd been locked into the store cupboard with Bruce "bruiser" Kingsley for the exact same thing.
"Why me?" he sobbed. "Why does this happen to me? I never hurt anybody. I try my best. So why…?"
"Well bludd ya won't change anything by crying," a voice said. Cecil turned his head; a man was sat next to him, wearing trackies, a baseball cap and holding a magic wand. His skin was as dark and rich as chocolate.
"Are you my… fairy godmother?" Cecil gasped.
"Hell no!" said the man. "I'm here to steal the motherfucking protractors and take down the system."
"When why do you have a fairy wand?" Cecil asked.
"This is a crowbar kid. I just took out three bitches and a window on my way in."
Cecil wasn't listening. "A fairy godmother. My own fairy godmother!"
"Hey kid, I don't suppose you know where they stash the stationary here?"
"So you can turn calculators and erasers into a carriage and coachmen, right?" said Cecil excitedly.
The fairy godmother laughed. "Yeah, and then we're gonna ride that goddamn pumpkin to put a compass in The Man's eye."
"Sweeeet," said Cecil.
They snuck through the dark school towards the stationary cupboard, that gleaming cache of staplers, hole-punchers and coloured crayons. But when he tried to turn the handle, it wouldn't budge.
"I guess we'll have to go home," he sighed.
The fairy godmother pulled out a chain saw and tore chunks out of the door like a shark would.
"Having a fairy godmother is a LOT cooler than in Cinderella," he said, awed.
Clicking on the flickering fluorescent light, the man threw down his bag, and started throwing it full of stationary.
"Grab a load for me," he told Cecil. "Just stick the shit in."
Cecil grabbed an armful of plastic wallets and amusing pencil-top erasers and stuffed them into the rucksack. He was now enjoying himself immensely; school had never been this fun before. "Now when do you use your magic to transform it?" he asked.
"Later. Now, go and place these around the school and meet me outside." He handed Cecil several petrol bombs and carrying the detonator, he started reeling the wire out into the car park. Cecil skipped merrily down the school corridors, planting the packages his fairy godmother had given him. When he was done, he met the man outside, now sat down on the detonator, puffing on a fag.
"Want a puff?" he asked, offering it.
Cecil shook his head. "I don't succumb to peer pressure," he said.
"Alright," said the man. "Flip this switch for me."
Cecil pushed the detonator and the school exploded. Fiery tongues engulfed it; the roof slid in, and the entire building collapsed into rubble.
He said, "Did I do that?"
His fairy godmother put his hand on Cecil's shoulder, and told him, "The way to deal with your problems, kid, is not to cry about them. Instead, blow them up with five hundred pounds of nitroglycerine."
"Well," said Cecil. "I suppose you do know best. You ARE my fairy godmother."
"There ain't no fairy tales in this life. All there are are guns, sex and Jay-Z."
Cecil only knew what two of those things were and his mother didn't let him listen to rap music anyway because it was corrupting today's youth.
His fairy godmother finished; "You got someone screwing you around? Kick 'em in the balls. Don't let people walk over you; walk over THEM before you get a chance. And if there's something you want, TAKE it. It's up to YOU to take control of your life kid."
"My name's not kid," he said. "It's Cecil."
The man burst into laughter. "Cecil!" he guffawed.
"It's not funny!" Cecil fumed.
The man rolled around with laughter.
"It's not!"
He broke into hysterics.
"Okay, maybe it is a little…" Cecil admitted. The man straightened up.
"This is why you ain't gotta take no shit from nobody," he said. "Especially with a name like… Cecil," he struggled from bursting into giggles. "You gotta be so bad that the name… Cecil will make people tremble in fear. Be the most badass Cecil there ever was, till nobody dares to laugh at your name. Anyone who messes with you, pop a cap in their ass."
"But fairy godmother, I'm not like you," Cecil protested. "I don't have a Addidas cap."
The man took off his hat, and placed it on Cecil's head.
"Or Nike trainers!" he said.
The man took of his trainers and dangled them towards him on his index finger.
"And—and—I'm not black either! How am I supposed to be badass and pop caps in asses, if I'm not black? "
"Sorry," said the man, smiling sadly. "That's one wish I can't grant. But let me tell you this; jus because you ain't black on the outside, it doesn't mean you're not black on the inside." He touched Cecil on his chest, right on the heart.
There were the sounds of sirens, approaching closer.
"Respect, little man," he said, offering his knuckles.
"Respect!" said Cecil. Then his fairy godmother hucked his rucksack over his back, and fled into the woods as the police arrived. Cecil waved, smiling contentedly into the far distance.
An officer saw him standing there, and the detonator at his feet, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Son, you didn't have anything to do with this, did you?" he said. But he had a son of his own this age, and the boy looked so friendly—he was sure he wasn't involved.
Cecil picked up the chainsaw and revved it. "Get out of ma face motherfucker or I'll pop a cap in your ass!" he screamed.
END OF FLASHBACK!
Cecil was standing there with a very strange look in his eye. Bob waved his hand in front of him, to no response.
"Hey Cecil man, you okay?" he asked.
"I must admit I am feeling a tad queer," Cecil squeaked. Bob and Tim stared. Cecil clapped a hand over his mouth. "I mean—I feel like a fucking lump of shit."
"What's wrong?" said Bob. "You want some more hash?"
"It is against my morality to do recreational drugs," said Cecil. "Ahh- I mean, get me twenty pounds of coke!"
Bob was frowning. "Cecil—"
"You people think you're so hard and cool but you 'gangstas' are really nothing but bullies!" he exclaimed tearfully. "Wait—" he said. Actually, perhaps this wasn't a revelation after all, and it really a stroke. He swayed on his feet, and then sunk unconscious to the ground.
TO BE CONTINUED...!