Me and Tweety and Dog Man and You
There are guys in here who make Charles Manson look like Mr. Bean with a
beard. They are feral and fickle and unshackled by conscience. But I do
not fear them, for I am one of them. That is to say, our minds and
actions follow similar, well-worn paths that make us predictable to one
another, but seemingly unpredictable to the outside world. You’d be
surprised how much support and understanding the whackos accord each
other here at the Institute for Forensic Observation. Believe me, there
is nothing more heart-warming than a circle of psychopaths nodding
empathically while one of their cold-blooded brethren calmly unfolds a
nightmare in which logic, plot and motive can range from relatively
accessible to Grade-A goofy, with storylines more convoluted than a
plateful of congealed spaghetti.
But I am rushing ahead. Let me
explain how things work here. You’ve got your basic six-category system,
with the smart-but-lethal cookies up in Category 1 and the nuttiest
fruitcakes down in Category 6.
It’s all about accountability. The
Cat-1 boys want to prove they’re fully accountable, knowing that
they’ll get 12 years max and will be up for parole before that.
Meanwhile, the Cat-6 loons aren’t even aware of the rules of engagement,
which means they’re looking forward to very sedate(d) lives in one of
the Queen’s fine institutions.
Needless to say, the Cat-1 boys
are by far the most dangerous. The latest addition to their fraternity
is Warsaw, who strangled his wife and two children and hid their bodies
so that he could go on a blind date with some teeny-bopper from behind
the Rusty Curtain. Warsaw dresses and talks like a sales rep, and he can
lay down logic, plot and motive like an accountant doing the books – an
unfaltering summation of fact upon fact, which he sucks from his blonde
moustache when he pauses to stroke it with his lower lip. He will go on
trial, he will go to jail, and he will be released eventually.
Most
of the Juice & Juju boys are in Categories 3 and 4. This includes
guys like Dog Man, who ran over his neighbour’s dog three times. (Not
one dog thrice, mind you, three dogs once.) Dog Man, a rotund farmer in
his early 50s, claims he was drunk on all three occasions. The dogs
barked incessantly, so it was only logical that he should get in his
car, drive into his neighbour’s farmyard and silence the errant cur by
running over it. After the third dog was sent to The Kennel Invisible,
the police spotted a pattern and Dog Man was arrested. Now he’s trying
to prove it was the juice that made him do it. He’ll probably go to
trial and get off with a suspended sentence and a ticket to compulsory
rehab.
Way down in Category 6 we find guys like Tweety, who cut
off his wife’s hand because he caught her “trying to steal the bird in
his heart”. Love the symbolism, dude, but you’re going nowhere for a
long, long time. Mainly because you don’t have a grip on the game. If
you did, you’d blame it on the juju and promise to mend your ways. But
no, you go around putting your ear to people’s chests, listening to
their inner birds and whistling to them, and then sharing your
conversations with whoever is willing to listen. That makes you a poster
boy for complete unaccountability, Tweets. Which means the Queen will
find a nice, comfortable, peg-making chore for you to do until your
dying day.
That said, I should add that I mostly hang out with
Tweety and Dog Man. Here’s why: Tweety is seven-foot-plus and built like
a front end of a brown freight train. He plays Chief to my Randle for
the simple reason that I can do impressions of about 15 different birds.
And he’s handy to have around, because he’ll rip the heart out of any
man if he’s convinced there’s a bird trapped inside. And I can be quite
convincing.
Dog Man, on the other hand, is my insurance for the
outside world. He has a farm and a car and a family and, most
importantly, he shares my pathological hatred for dogs of all species.
When I get out, which I will eventually, he’ll be waiting for me. A
rural springboard to the rest of my life.
And now I suppose
you’re wondering what trips my switch. Well, firstly, I suffer from
chronic constipation – which I am told is the consequence of bottling up
my emotions for decades – and secondly, I abhor apathy. You know what I
mean: those oh-so-innocent bystanders. People who sit back passively
and watch things happen. Does that sound familiar? Have you let people
die and starve and suffer without so much as raising a finger? If so,
you’re a potential target. Yes, you. You with the mobile device, sitting in
your average little home, on your average little couch, next to some
average little person, who insists on watching all the whack on TV. Did I
hear a sigh of relief? You think I’m not talking to you because you’re
lying in bed alone, or next to some sad soul who is trying to get some
sleep? No wait, you’re locked into the eye of your screen, drooling into
your keyboard in slack-jawed wonder. Oh no, silly me, you’ve taken your
phone to the shitter, to engage in some malodorous reading. Well, all
that doesn’t really matter, because wherever you may be, I am talking to
you, you apathetic little voyeur.
I know what you’re thinking:
“He won’t come after me, because I’m just one of the many millions who
don’t give a shit.” But you’re special now, because you have been
warned, which means I've given you a chance to mend your ways. And to
those of you who feel comfortable behind your high walls, with a popgun
close at hand, I say this: you're the easiest targets, because you
never see me coming, because you think I’m kidding, because you’re
unable to see your own shortcomings. Your overconfidence will be your
downfall. I am already inside your head.
