Alec Sillifant

LAST OF THE SUMMER VOOOOOOM!

 

The sky was grey, the land was dull; even the lashing sleet was slate coloured and being blown by a wind that had a hint of monochrome to its edge. It was not a nice day…especially to be at a graveside.

“How you feeling, Dave?” said one of the two old men wrapped in great coats against the elements, as they stared into the open grave.

Dave did not answer.

“Nice ceremony,” continued the old man, “nice things the vicar said about your mum.”

“He didn’t know her,” muttered Dave, “he just read out what I wrote down.”

“Yeah but they were still nice…wait a minute you wrote them down?”

Dave lifted his head. “What would you have me ask the sky pilot  say, Pete, ‘Ding dong the witch is dead’?”

“Well…there was only the two of us at the ceremony and that would have been more accurate.”

Dave turned his gaze to Pete a tear forming in his eye. “She’s dead, Pete, she’s finally dead.”

“I’m sorry mate, I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” said Pete.

Dave wiped at his eye and muttered, “Bloody sleet. No, you don’t get it. She’s dead Pete, she’s finally dead. Woo-Hoo!”

“Are you alright Dave? You’re not going into shock are you?”

“Never felt better. The dragon that has held me back all these years has finally gone to meet her maker…whoever that twisted son of a bitch is? I’m free, Pete. Free!” Dave added to his joyful relief, a little dance of the jig variety. “I’m going to do all the things I’ve ever wanted to and finally live my own life.”

Pete turned up his collar against the biting wind. “Good for you mate but don’t you think 78 is a little late to start living your life? Changing your brand of cocoa at our age can cause complications.”

Dave continued without even hearing the protest. “I’m going to grow my hair, what’s left of it, get an earring…and tattoos and I’m never going to eat vegetables again; chips with everything from now on.”

“Chips are a vegetable, Dave,” chipped in Pete.

“Fuck off, Pete,” spat Dave.

“What?!”

“And I’m going to start fucking swearing all the fucking time and change my name to Psycho. You got a fucking problem with that you fucking…spleen?”

“Spleen?”

“Give me a break, I’m just starting to get into my stride,” shrugged Psycho. “But do you know what I’m going to do first? I’m going to get my fucking bike out of my fucking lock-up and take the fucking bitch for a fucking good blast.”

“Bike? Lock-up?” said Pete.

“Oh yeah baby,” grinned Psycho, “you just fucking follow fucking me.”

“A bit too much with the swearing, Dave.”

“Really?” frowned Psycho. “Yeah you’re probably fucking right…and it’s Psycho from now on remember.”

 

********

 

“Wow, how long have you had this place?” said Pete, looking round Psycho’s lock-up, as he whip cracked the sleet off his flat cap.

“Since ’83, when Mum said I couldn’t have a motorbike,” replied Psycho, flicking on the convector heater that sat on a well distressed workbench.

“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“I couldn’t, mate. Mum had more spies in her control than George Smiley. The slightest sniff of bike engine oil on the breeze and she’d have raided the gaff. Remember what happened when she found my…specialist reading under my mattress?”

“Oh yeah…nasty.”

“Tell me about it. For years after I couldn’t look at a pair of tits without seeing her snarling, disapproving face where the nipples should be.” Psycho shuddered. “But that’s all in the past now and from today on it’s all about ‘avin a larf’.”

Pete pointed at the sheet covered bulk in the centre of the garage. “What’s that?”

“That, my friend, is what this great day is all about.” Psycho grabbed at a peak in the sheet and whipped it off like a stage magician. “Tah-dah!”

“What the fuck is that?!” said Pete slowly.

“Great you’re getting into the swearing too,” grinned Psycho. “Say hello to ‘Fanny Rocket’.”

Pete was silent for a moment or two as he let his ageing eyes soak up the vision before him. “Please, let me re-phrase what I said a moment ago. What…THEFUCK…is that?!”

“This is my ticket to freedom. The freedom long denied to me. Brilliant isn’t she?” said Psycho, running his hand down what could be loosely described as a petrol tank.

Pete was trying to take the whole vision in at once but instead individual components of the design were jumping out to catch his attention one after another. It was like trying to do a jigsaw of a sand dune whilst on a bad acid trip. “Is that back wheel off a tractor?” he managed to ask, his mind finally grasping onto one detail.

“Oh yes,” said Psycho, “gotta have a big fat boy at the rear for the proper look.”

Pete’s head scanned to the right. “And the front wheel is off..?”

“A pushchair,” clarified Psycho, “and it’s murder trying to get one of those chrome spoked jobs nowadays, everything is plastic. I think the styling slides perfectly into the Arlen Ness school of thought.”

“Sliding into Loch Ness would be more suitable,” muttered Pete, as his head swivelled far back to the left. “It’s bloody long.”

“Eighteen foot wheelbase. A few inches longer than I’d liked but I needed the length to get the engines in.”

“Engines? Plural?” said Pete, looking at the mass of metal that sat weighing heavy in the centre of an obviously buckling frame.

“I decided the best combination for the powerhouse was a 250LC engine up front, followed by a GS550, the engine from the donor bike, followed by a Z1 unit at the rear. Giving 1699cc of pure beast.”

“So you’ve built a ten cylinder motorbike?”

“Yup, I like round numbers.”

“A 4-4-2?”

“Hey, that set up has worked for Alex Ferguson for years,” shrugged Psycho.

“Of course, how stupid of me,” said Pete. “Did it take long to weld them together and set up the synchronising of the timing and gears and…stuff like that?”

Psycho laughed. “Weld. Synchronising. You just don’t get it do you, Pete. I have been working on this bike for nearly 50--”

“Minutes?”

“Years. It’s not about the engineering, it’s about the heart and soul of the machine. It’s about how she is going to make me feel on the open road; how I feel with the wind in my face. How damp the chicks’ knickers get as I blast into the pub car park.”

“So you’ve ridden this already then?” asked Pete, unable to hide his disbelief.

“Not yet.”

“Started it up?”

“Well…”

“Let someone with a clue look at it…or better still a vet who at least could put it out of its misery.”

“You’ve got to understand Pete, I’ve been reading custom mags for years; studying the bikes, their lines, the power units, the paint jobs, the passion of the people behind them. Those engineeronauts wouldn’t let anything get in their way. They grab a spanner and a hammer…and probably a crate of ale and some weird smelling tobacco...and follow their dreams.”

Pete ‘Hmmmed’ as he took a closer look at the bike he felt Isambard Kingdom Brunel would want to build…when he came home from the Victoria Arms…after a lock in. “Is that Blu-Tack holding the engines together?”

“How stupid do you think I am?” rebuked Psycho. “It’s Blu-Tack and Araldite, much stronger.”

“What about the handlebars, they’re held on with cable ties and Cellotape.”

“Exactly, cables and Cellotape,” grinned Psycho, “twice as secure. You’re not going to bring me down Pete, I’m on a high; and today, me and my baby hit the road.”

“I don’t doubt that for one second,” said Pete, “with your face probably.”

Psycho opened an old wardrobe, pulled out a helmet and plonked it on his head.

“You’re not going to wear that are you?” said Pete.

“Of course, the chromed German soldier’s helmet is the height of biker fashion,” said Psycho, fastening the petrified leather strap under his chin.

“Maybe the World War Two model is but that First World War one has got a bloody great spike on it.”

“Yeah I know, goes great with the bike don’t you think?”

“Well, I know I wouldn’t like to sit on either of them, if that’s what you mean?” said Pete, wincing.

“Stop being negative,” said Psycho, slipping into an old cracked leather jacket, loosening a layer of dust into the air as he did so, “you’re not my mum.”

Pete sighed. “You know what mate, you’re right, I’m not your mum and I’m sorry for raining on your parade. You really going to take the bike for a ride then; in this weather?”

“Too right,” said Psycho, pulling out the kick-start and gripping the handlebars. “I’ve been waiting too long for a sunny day in my life and I’m not going to wait any longer.” He stamped down…but the kick-start didn’t budge. “Look at the compression in this baby. This is going to be great.” He jumped again, nothing. “Couldn’t give me a hand, or foot, here could you, Pete?”

Pete took a depth breath and joined his mate standing on the kick-start.

“Ready?” said Psycho. “After three, one…two…three.” The two old men dropped their combined weight and the engines exploded into life, throwing the kick-start back with such force that Pete was catapulted into the corner of the lock-up to crumple on a pile of rags.

Pete shook his head clear and shouted above the dim of the ten cylinder engine as it ticked over with a noise similar to a canary giving birth to a hedgehog. “Dave! Dave, it works! It bloody works…Dave…Dave!?”

“Up…here…” came a choking reply, “…in the…roof….and how many times…it’s Psycho.”

Pete ran over to Psycho’s dangling, kicking legs and tried to support his body weight to stop him being strangled by the strap of the spiked German helmet that had embedded itself into a joist. “Undo the strap, you pillock,” gasped Pete.

Psycho did so and fell to the ground, coughing enthusiastically. “Maybe I’ll skip the fashionable helmet this time, it’s probably out of season anyway.” With his breath back, Psycho got to his feet and with tears in his eyes walked around ‘Fanny Rocket’. “Listen to that Pete, she’s talking to me; beckoning me out onto the open road.”

Pete was dusting off coat. “I must admit it I am impressed it’s running at all; but what I’m hearing her say is, ‘Put one leg over me and I’ll rip your nuts off’.”

Psycho turned to Pete and grabbed him by the shoulders. “This is it mate, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for since 1983. I’m going to ride my bike. I’m going to do what I want for once…I…I…I think I’ve got an erection…sorry about that.”

Pete pulled himself free of Psycho’s grasp and straightened his coat collar. “Yeah, well I suppose it’s only natural,” he said, shivering slightly, “it’s a big thing for you…the bike thing I mean, not your…erm…though good on yer at your age and  without a pill too. It’s all pluses for you today isn’t it? Your mum is dead, new bike, hard on…” Pete looked at the chugging motorcycle rocking menacingly and couldn’t help thinking it looked like what Satan might do if he was chuckling, “…what could possibly go wrong?”

“Right, I’m off,” said Psycho, moving to mount the bike once more. “Oh, wait a second,” he said, “just got to let my erm…subside a bit.” He tugged at his crouch to loosen the cloth. “Weather’s a bit chilly isn’t it?”

“Yes,” agreed Pete, kicking the floor with his shoe to avoid eye contact. “Did you see the match last night?”

“No,” said Psycho, “Did they play that...” he looked down. “Okay, it’s gone…hope it wasn’t my last, I’ve got a lot of living to do.” Psycho smiled and offered his hand to Pete. “Well, I’m off old friend.”

“Erm, I won’t if you don’t mind,” said Pete, raising both his hands surrender style to avoid the handshake. “Not so close to you having just had an…” his voice trailed off.

“Of course, of course,” said Psycho, with a throat clearing, manly cough. “Fully understand. You will wish me luck though, won’t you?”

“It was at the forefront of my mind,” said Pete, throwing another glance at the growling two wheeled beast. “Have a good one.”

“I intend to,” said Psycho, happier than he had felt in years…or since the very recent hard on anyway. “Couldn’t do me one last favour could you, Pete?”

“Sure, what is it?”

Psycho cocked his leg over the bike and revved the engines. “Open the door for me.” He grabbed the clutch lever pulled it to the bars and stamped down on the gear selector.

Pete could never recall if he heard the ‘ping’ of snapping clutch cable for sure but when Fanny Rocket took off he would never forget the shape it, and the screaming Psycho, made in the wooden doors of the lock up. He swore blind if you tilted your head 66.6º to the left the splintered wood that remained formed the shape of a horned goat.

 

********

​

Psycho spat out a large splinter of two-be-one and screamed as he held onto ‘Fanny Rocket’ for dear life. The freezing sleet filled his mouth like a flavourless ‘Slush Puppy’.

“W-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-H,” screeched Dave but it very soon was finished off with an enthusiastic, “H-O-O-O-O-O-O-O!” as he realised he was living his dream; blatting down the road on his bike. “This is awe-fucking-some,” he shouted into the wind. “I’m freeeeeeeee!”

He pulled back on the clutch lever, which just flopped around effectively as a sports sock being used as a condom. ‘Ah well,’ thought Psycho, with his new philosophical outlook, ‘I’ll just crash the box.’ With that he dipped the throttle, kicked the gear lever up and selected second. Fanny Rocket jumped forward like a rutting stag as its burden wound the throttle on again.

Psycho turned his sleet stung eyes down to look at the speedo, the needle bounced back and forth between ‘20’ and ‘140’, so obviously he averaged it out as ‘80’. ‘Not bad for second gear,’ he mused to himself, getting into test pilot mode.

The ride was a little rough but he expected that of a hard-tail and it wasn’t unpleasant mainly because the vibration had rattled his testicles into his rectal cavity. ‘Besides,’ thought Psycho, ‘I can add some springs to the seat when I finish this maiden voyage and start on the tweaking’.

Psycho booted it into third and the tractor tyre bit harder into the tarmac leaving another layer of wobbly rubber on the road. So far he been running in a straight line but he was fast approaching the sharp left hander by the petrol station. ‘The perfect handling test,’ mused the Chuck Yeagar of two wheels.

Psycho pressed his right foot down…and down…and down a bit more. He decided to add ‘brake adjustment’ to the tweaking list. ‘Not a biggee,’ thought Psycho, ‘I’ll use the engines’ breaking power to knock off the pace’. He eased the throttle back. He pushed the throttle back. He throttled the throttle back with two hands. None of which worked. ‘Right then, soft tail, brakes and oil the throttle cable,’ thought Psycho, surprisingly calmly.

The big yellow shell on the petrol station sign was getting bigger at a fair rate of knots.

‘Okay, this is a bit of a rapid approach but if I lean the bike over far enough…’ Psycho leant. Fanny Rocket stayed bolt upright. Psycho leaned some more…and more…and more, until his ear was so close to the soaked road he could hear the whispering threats of violent bodily harm hissing from the Tarmac. At this point he would have gone for the old ‘balls out’ but he couldn’t as his balls were still in his rectal cavity.

There was only one thing he could do. The last resort that all bikers do when faced with this situation. He closed his eyes, muttered ‘Shitshitshitshitshit’ and prayed to all the gods he could think of.

For a few moments he waited for a painful crunch as he watched his life flash before his eyes. It was a pretty poor B-movie with too little sex (with other people anyway) and not enough laughs by half but when the curtain dropped it was not accompanied by a bone crushing crunch or internal organ splat/skid, which had to be good…didn’t it?

Psycho slowly peeled one eye open and then the other. “Whoa, that was close,” he gasped, “and look at that, the weather has cleared up too.”

He looked ahead at the sunshine bathed road rising before him, as Fanny Rocket propelled him smoothly along on a pair of white feathered wings. Below him a pretty orange fire ball smelling of petroleum was erupting into the sky. “Ah bollocks,” said Psycho.

As Fanny Rocket ticked over perfectly outside the Pearly Gates, a bloke with long hair and a beard, his white robes flowing behind him, ran up to stand on the other side of the impressive wrought iron work. “Nice ride, man,” said the bloke, his pale blue eyes bursting with love and warmth.

“I’m dead aren’t I?” said Psycho coldly.

“Yeah, man, but you can bring your bike in too,” said the robed bloke, smiling with perfect Hollywood pegs.

“It’s not fucking fair,” shouted Pyscho, jumping off Fanny Rocket and kicking the tractor tyre. “I’ve only been ‘alive’ for ten fucking minutes and now I’m fucking dead!” He stopped his rant and looked at the bloke who seemed to be counting something on his fingers. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

Another of the bloke’s fingers went up. “Careful man, you’re only one swear word away from not getting in.”

“What the fu…”

“Ah!” interrupted the bloke with panic in his eyes. “Twenty two swear words and you’re barred from Heaven, man.”

“That’s ridiculous,” argued Psycho.

“Well there’s other stuff too obviously,” said the bloke, “murder, trying to pay a half on the bus, lying about not having socks in your underpants, that kind of thing, man.”

Psycho paused for a second, taking control of his anger at being plucked from life when he was far from ready. “Okay, I get it. No more swearing and me and my bike can come in?”

“You got it man,” said the bloke. “Give me two seconds to open the gates and you’re both-”

“David Brian Foster,” said a shrill voice. “You are not bringing that death trap in here, young man.”

Pyscho staggered back as his mum materialised out of the cloud. In an instant he felt 17 and terrified. It was ’83 all over again. “Aww mum, it’s not a death trap.”

David Brian Foster’s mum used the ‘oh really’ expression that only mums can do. It’s to do with womb expansion or something.

“Okay, I suppose all things considered, it is technically a death trap,” argued Psycho, “but what harm can it do now?”

“You are not bringing that thing in here and that is that!” said Psycho’s mum with complete finality, accompanied by a folding of her arms.

Psycho breathed in deeply. “Oh really, we’ll see about that. Hey, you, bloke with the beard, can I bring my bike in or not?”

The bloke tugged at his beard. “Well, you haven’t broken any rules if you don’t count the laws of engineering and common sense, man, so I don’t see why no-”

“Jesus Horatio Christ, get way from that motorcycle now,” said a serene looking woman in blue.

“But, muuuum,”

“Don’t you ‘but mum’ me young man,” snapped Big J’s mum, “are you trying to break my bleedin’ heart? Those things are dangerous.”

Jesus kicked at a cloud with his sandal and turned to Psycho. “Sorry man, your Fanny Rocket can’t come in,” he mumbled sulkily.

“But…but…but you said…” said Psycho.

“Don’t you back-chat the son of God, David Foster,” scolded Psycho’s mum, “the matter is closed. Get in here now! You’re not too dead for a clout around the ear ’ole young man!” Psycho took a step forward as the gates silently began to glide open. His Fanny Rocket began to slip silently down between the pink folds of the delicate clouds. Psycho stopped. “No!”

“I beg your pardon young man,” said Psycho’s mum. “You’ll do as you’re told or there’ll be no last supper for you!”

“You tell the ungrateful, little punk, girlfriend,” said Jesus’ mum.

“No, I won’t do what I’m told anymore. That’s all I did all my life and I’m not about to start my afterlife the same way.”

“Yeah, you tell her man,” said Jesus, before mouthing, ‘Only joking, mum,’ over his shoulder.

“Do this, don’t do that…I’m sick to death of it, mum! Literally, as it turns out,” said Psycho.

Jesus gave a Psycho a secret thumbs up of encouragement hidden from the view of his own mum. For which he got a clipped ear as Mary employed her rear cranial visual orbs.

Psycho turned his enraged attention on the robed saviour. “And as for you, man. You’re a yellow bellied, turncoat, mummy’s boy, back-stabbing, complete and utter cun-”

Twenty two. SHAZAM!

 

********

  

Satan laughed some more. “I can’t believe you said that to the Big Man’s son. I’d love to have seen it.”

“Yeah well, I’m not so sure it was a good idea now,” said Psycho, who was strapped face down and naked on Fanny Rocket’s petrol tank.

“I mean, you were in. Paradise for eternity and all that but you just had to go for broke didn’t you? Two little ducks, twenty two. House!”

“Okay, no need to rub it in.”

“I think you’ll find that’s the idea of this place.”

“Will you just shut the fuck up and get on with it,” said Psycho.

“As you wish,” said Satan, magically producing a red hot poker from the ether. “Just so you know, I am going to ram this poker right up your…what are your bollocks doing in there?”

“It’s a long story,” said Psycho, “and it all started the day I was born…”