Tewksbury at the Movies: If...

The Fantastical Duke of Losers, Part 2

(continued from Part 1)

The Duke had hired Sammari to play the gig under two conditions:

1) The Duke, Nigel Tewksbury, will be allowed to play one song: a sultry version of "My Funny Valentine." Sammari will mime accompaniment on saxophone.

2) The Duke will be permitted to spend the night with the back-up dancer of his choosing.

Cigarette in hand, a warm clarity overcame the Duke as the motorcycle grew louder. Oh shit, he thought, here comes the visions of the future--those fucking gyres and the Holy Om. And oh shit, he saw the future, and it was the best of all possible worlds. He sat peacefully beside a lake with the Indian girl; they wore fine moccasins and nibbled buffalo meat; she washed his silk pyjamas and caught fish while he told her beautiful stories of pixies and demons (hiddenfolk sat on the rocks and listened, knowing they were safe amongst friends). And oh shit, he saw exactly what he had to do to create this paradise, but oh shit, the freaks were in the way, ruining everything, ruining the Indian girl, possibly for good. No bones about it, thought the Duke, This is shaping up a real tragedy. I'll have to smarten up to even have a shot; I'll have to become a tender-hearted warrior, or some bullshit like that.

An amplified pre-recorded shout echoed in the distance:

We're doing a Sammari Safari!

Dump the tour bus, hop in my Ferrari!

Sammari's entrance was elegant and spectacular. The motorcycle accelerated through the barn--maiming two chickens in the process--and skidded to a halt amid wild pyrotechnics. Out of the smoke emerged the short, muscular body of Sammari, and the freaks went wild with hooting and hollering and popping pills of various colours, completely ignoring the talented stunt driver who quickly dashed backstage to be drunk and unappreciated. The Duke hung his head, thought of his pagan gods, questioned their reality, and cried.

He threw away his canteen and began his calisthenic routine--tears in his eyes--while Sammari went through the verses.

"Thanks everyone. This is your boy Sammari. This next song goes out to my favourite shorty, the Little Indian Girl. Isn't she fine, baby? All right, all right, let's drink some Hennessy on ice!"

In the corner the Duke rehearsed his song. Some things a man must do alone.

Product Review: Marshall Ferret Beret from ferret.com

Buyer Beware!

I purchased the Marshall Beret for my little ferret friend Daedalus. He has always had an artistic temperament--he would go into a trance whenever he heard Miles Davis and would sulk in the corner for days should a female refuse to mate with him. In September he was intensely melancholic, sometimes refusing to emerge from his Marshall Fleece Leisure Lodge for days on end. He grew emaciated and took to eating cigarette butts. In a last ditch effort to cheer him up, I presented him with the beret.

Immediately he was more active and expressed an interest in painting. I purchased him some watercolours and he began making mad--sometimes pornographic--designs with his paws. Previously it was my habit to drink half a bottle of red wine with breakfast, but since purchasing the beret, I cannot open a bottle without Daedalus sticking his nose in it with the sole aim of intoxication. The beret has changed him entirely. I have created a monster.

He has begun shagging female ferrets without regard to age or appearance, and last week he began experimenting with homosexuality. Though I know full well he is litter-trained, he has taken to defecating and urinating indiscriminately--sometimes he seems to do this to make a statement, though I cannot fathom what it is. His actions have become wild and abstract. I no longer understand him, and I find his bohemian lifestyle rather destructive for a ferret.

Hedgehog in the Fog