I’m going to hit Robert McAlpine very hard with a cricket bat on his horrible globular head. With any luck, right where his insipid stories live.

Oh No! Jimmy Crumpets Bonks his Noggin

By G. Henderson

It’s perhaps worth stating that I don’t intend to kill the idiot, fond as I am of the notion. It’s just to give him a little scare and a very tangible reason to never again mess with me. A little something to say hey, remember – I am absolutely not to be trifled with.

I’ve even had a few test swings on cabbages (the best approximation for his head shape) hung from fishing line in my garage and let me tell you – my accuracy is decent and my golf swing proffers a solid base for power. Enough to send big green leaves ricocheting off the walls.

Ouch! Jimmy Crumpets Slips into a Coma

By G. Henderson

Now, I’d like to hit him hard enough so that when he falls down, supine on his patio, he makes an embarrassing and effeminate moan of surprised pain. “Eooh!” said Robert, pathetically. Perhaps he quivers in the moonlight lying next to a potted azalea, all dizzy and vulnerable, hands held in supplication of useless self-defence. Perhaps Agatha the Deaf Lhasa Apso witnesses the humiliation and having seen her master dominated she loses all that hard-won respect, refusing henceforth to obey even the most favourable “come”. Perhaps Charlotte the Comely Wife witnesses the whole event and also loses all hard-won respect, concluding that she needs to feel safe with a partner who is far less susceptible to assault. Perhaps she feels like she needs to be with a man who takes direct action, who looks their problems in the eye and if need be, hits them with a cricket bat. Perhaps she leaves and he has to sell the house and turns to the bottle, one night ambling onto a busy motorway where headlights streak like comets in his vision and whoopsie daisy!

Perhaps then this silly feud would be over and we could all move on, like adults. But I suppose we’ll just have to see how the night plays out.

Jimmy Crumpets Barks up the Wrong Tree

By G. Henderson

You see, I didn’t start this and though first and foremost I am a man of words – I am also a man of action. And so I wait, still as a monument, face painted dark green to camouflage myself amongst his tall back-garden hedge, cricket bat resting against my leg which is covered (as is the rest of me) in a tactical ghillie suit.

He’ll come any minute now. He’ll be needing to let Agatha out for what I expect will be rather urgent business. Earlier today, through my binoculars, I watched her mindless animal eyes bulge as she gobbled up four of my carefully plotted laxative-filled cocktail sausages on her afternoon walk. All the while Robert stared vacuously at his phone, probably at an email from his publisher disclosing this month’s dwindling book sales.

Uh oh! Agatha Eats a Nasty Sausage

By G. Henderson

So he’ll pop outside to keep an eye on poor Agatha while she skitters across the lawn and ha-HA! I’ll strike like a camouflaged lightning bolt, delivering swift and timely retribution. Any minute now.

What’s sad is that it didn’t have to be like this. I’ve never been against a bit of friendly rivalry. To the contrary, I believe healthy competition is often the key to innovation in any given field. I don’t see how it’d be any different in the world of children’s literature. But his jealousy got the better of him and his low character prevailed.

It started when my twenty-fourth book; Johnny Crocodile Makes a Yummy Sandwich, had a stratospheric launch. Following a swathe of praising literary reviews I was interviewed on THREE local radio stations, performed readings at no less than SIX Book Bambino sessions and then (the feather in my cap and the thorn in his side) a window display in Graham’s Book Zone; the epicentre of local children’s literature.

Immortalised in a glorious four foot tall, high-gloss cardboard cut-out, Johnny Crocodile stood like a victor of the Colosseum, razor teeth displayed within his wicked smile, jam sandwich held aloft. I would walk past every morning and marvel at him – a creature of my own creative fundament made real on the plane of the physical, here to share with his readers the simple joy to be found in the making of a sandwich while allegorising on the perils of sticky fingers.

I wonder how many times Robert had walked past trying not to look and fumed in impotent silence. How he must have raged and cursed my name and once home was probably grumpy to Charlotte without saying why and inside her heart she let the shores of the once abundant river of her love dry that little bit more. I mean how could you truly devote yourself to someone who names their canonical protagonist Jimmy Crumpets? He looks like the scribbling of a disturbed child. Especially so next to the high fidelity of Johnny Crocodile, sporting his signature neckerchief, radiating Dickensian charm. His illustrations don’t come close to rivalling the rendered detail or joie de vivre of my motley animal players. His have no amplitude or dimensionality. Flat inane characters by a flat inane man. How do you expect to teach children anything when you lack the gumption to extend your palette beyond soft pastels?

Jimmy Idiot and the Distinct Lack of Balls

By G. Henderson

Speak of the devil. His round round head appears at the kitchen window and he rinses a plate. How drab. He’s smiling and glancing over his shoulder, continuing a conversation, probably with Charlotte, probably about how tightly they’ll have to budget this month.

He pours two glasses of red wine and hands one to her. He says something and pulls her toward him and she squeals with laughter. I watch them kiss. She runs her hand through his hair. My desire to hit Robert multiplies tenfold. From my vantage point I can just make out the music. They move from the window and their elongated shadows begin to dance maladroitly across the kitchen wall together, wine glasses in hand.

I tighten my grip on Colin Cricket Bat.

I think it was after the release of my seventeenth book that he began to feel really threatened by me. My Golden Kiddie-Winkle Award Winner; Johnny Crocodile and the Sneezing Tree. A literary tour de force that delivers both a whimsical narrative AND an important lesson on unattended allergies. It was my express ticket into the big leagues. I could tell he didn’t like that one bit.

And who should he happen to introduce into his canon upon his next release? Simon Slime – a revulsive and reductive little character denoted with permanent wavy stench lines. “Everyone, run from Simon Slime!” his other characters cry whenever he shuffles near. He’s never confirmed that Simon Slime is a tasteless depiction of me but he doesn’t have to. Subtlety is impossible for such a heavy handed writer.

You see, I suffer from occasional bouts of hyperhidrosis and will from time to time, sweat quite a lot. I carry spare shirts around with me. I use prescription-grade antiperspirant. With grace and decorum, I do what I can with the hand I’ve been dealt. And while we’ve never really met I don’t doubt that he’s seen me signing books or performing a reading, seeping a little bit through a shirt despite my best efforts and what does his pitiless mind see? An opportunity for attack. His attempt to embarrass me for such a helpless medical affliction is beyond distasteful. And all because his fragile ego feels threatened.

To bastardise the ancient tradition of storytelling into a vehicle for petty malice should be, in my humble opinion, sentenceable as a criminal offence. By death, ideally.

Colin Cricket Bat and the Swing of Reckoning

By G. Henderson

The unventilated hot interior of my ghillie suit is now sopping with sweat. I hear more laughter from inside and my desire for justice intensifies, its orange flickering flame pitching into a concentrated blue torch.

I suppress the urge to destroy something in his garden in lieu of his awful head. A shed window. A bed of tulips. A decorative bird bath. But I’m not here for petty vandalism. I’m here for justice. I realign my focus on the greater goal: Robert and his rendezvous with Colin Cricket Bat.

The backdoor handle rattles as it opens and out sprints little brainless Agatha. She scurries to the lawn and with an urgent whimper begins to empty herself just a few meters from my feet. I look to the backdoor, hoping to see Robert in tow, and my hope plunges in my chest as it’s closed almost immediately behind her. No toilet-time chaperone. Damn.

But hope is not lost – she’ll need to go back in at some point. And from prior recce I learned that she needs to be guided back inside on account of her profound canine deafness, so that may be my only opportunity. I employ some slow breathing through my nostrils to settle my frustration and steel my resolve. Agatha, now empty, sniffs at my shoe. I don’t move. I am a hedge.

Hedgey Hedgerson and the Diarrhea Dog

By G. Henderson

While Robert and I have never had a conversation, our paths have crossed. At KidCon 2022 my Johnny Crocodile merchandise was practically flying off my stall; the Get Your Sticky Fingers Off My Jam Sandwich! t-shirts selling like hotcakes. A chubby child had been hovering around my stall, as though I actually were selling hotcakes, thumbing clumsily through my books and disarranging the display of Alan Porpoise plushies. His lingering had already roused my suspicion so after he suddenly turned tail and began an approximation of running I too leapt into action.

“Thief!” I yelled, “a little fat thief!”.

I made after him, weaving through the crowds. He was surprisingly lithe for such a chubby boy. Eventually I seized him, indignant and furious that he’d brought a practice as foul as theft to an event as sacred as KidCon.

“Come on now, show me what you have stolen!”

Many eyes were on us now. The boy’s eyes watered and then he began to weep.

“Stop these amateur dramatics and give back what you have stolen!” I declared, providing him with an opportunity for honest redemption.

His cries only became louder and louder and soon a puddle of urine was pooling around his little velcro strapped trainers. The crowd gasped and tittered. It was at this moment when I decided that he’d learned his lesson and perhaps the best course of action now was to exeunt the scene.

And who then should I lock eyes with but Robert McAlpine, watching the whole thing from behind his meagre pastel-coloured stand with a look of utter contempt. That told me all I need know about a man of his ilk; a man who’d sooner condemn an innocent fellow author for merely protecting his inventory, who happened to be near a child when they pissed themselves in fear. And what kind of man is that? No man.

In spite of the mishap I still went on to sell out of plushies and T-shirts, so who really won the day? And after tallying my sales and stock I was delighted to conclude that nothing had been stolen AND that portly lad is unlikely to even consider stealing for the rest of his days. No harm was done and a valuable lesson was taught. But that didn’t stop Robert’s nasty, condemning glower. I can still see it.

Jimmy Prick and the Eyes of the Beady Bastard

By G. Henderson

Agatha has been sniffing around the garden now for ten minutes while Robert and Charlotte are still chatting loudly and laughing like dolts in their tasteless lounge.

I feel the fruiting of an unpleasant conclusion: if Robert isn’t going to come out and accept what’s coming then…then Agatha here is just going to have to be the one. She is a blameless beast, I know that. I don’t exactly feel great about this but she belongs to Robert and as such is an extension of Robert. If he refuses to man-up and pay the piper then his debt simply must roll on – it’s fundamental moral economics. It’s unfortunate, yes, but my hands are tied here.

How cruel he is, to have authored these circumstances. To make me do this.

It’s time. I emerge from the hedge and shuffle slowly across the lawn toward deaf stupid Agatha who is sniffing around a bamboo plant. I’m exposed in the open now but still hidden by the veil of night, so long as my movement is gradual and steady. I edge closer, my tiny steps causing the hessian strips of my ghillie suit to chafe mercilessly between my sweaty thighs. Occasionally the damp rubbing material squeaks and I thank the gods that Agatha is deaf.

I grit my teeth through the pain and reach Agatha who, facing away, hasn’t detected me.

Slowly I raise Colin Cricket Bat above my head.

“I’m sorry, Agatha. But your master must pay.” I say gently into the night.

I’m ready to strike…and I hesitate for a fraction of a second and before I can unleash the swing she toddles away, entirely unaware of me. Shit. Sweat beads on my brow as I remain frozen in place watching her meander like a window-shopping tourist on a cheap holiday.

She stops to sniff the shed. I resume my slow burning shuffle toward her across the lawn. She snuffles a tuft of grass while I line up for a good clear swing. I raise Colin aloft.

“Again – I’m sorry, Agatha. I want you to know this isn’t your fault, and if only-”

The little idiot waddles away. I swing and I miss. Under my breath I curse and stomp and in frustration, sweat now stinging my eyes.

I’m about to pursue her once more when I hear the backdoor open and from it a shaft of light splashes across the patio toward me. I drop to my stomach and spread myself like a starfish, concealing Colin Cricket Bat beneath me. I pray the back of my ghillie suit is as camouflaged as the front. I never thought to check.

I hold my breath.

Lenny Lawn and the Non-Threatening Stillness of Night

By G. Henderson

“Aggs! Aggs! Come on, old girl!” Robert calls. She doesn’t hear but notices the open door and saunters toward him.

“Deaf as a doorknob, eh Aggs? How’s your tummy feeling, m’lady? Any better?” He asks her in a babying voice that makes him sound even more stupid than he is.

He shuts the door behind them and the night stills around me once more.

I begin a slow count to sixty before I consider moving.

I reach forty-four when the smell hits me and I realise, in my great haste, I have lain in Agatha mess, the fibres of my ghillie suit acting as a traitorous sponge. I get to my hands and knees and vomit into the twilight dew.

I’m back on my feet. My stomach churns and my head is dizzy with adrenaline and nausea when I hear laughing emanating from the upstairs window. Their shadows are mingling in the light that leaks out around the edges of their drawn curtain. I stand and stare, my vision lolling. The laughter stops. The shadows come together. There is stillness. And a giggle. And the lights go out.

I spit the taste of sick out of my mouth, pick up Colin Cricket Bat and prepare to make my exit. But not before I execute on Contingency Plan D.

…

As I squeeze myself back through the tiny gap in the fence I can concede that the night’s plan did not execute quite as I’d hoped. But this doesn’t spell failure nor even setback. This is a game of fractions, won decimal by decimal by decimal by decimal. My victory over Robert will be as the weather conquers a rock; a barely perceptible yet constant erosion. One day the rock thinks it’s all that but before it even realises – oh dear, now I’m sand.

So there’s no rush. No banners to wave. Justice will come. Besides, Robert’s enduring of his own existence is sufficient punishment in itself, for now at least.

Tomorrow he’ll still be the same uninspired man. He’ll still carry around a cabbage-ey head void of original thought. He’ll still be the worst kind of average. And he’ll know, perhaps not consciously, but somewhere deep in the recess of his psyche, that he’s half the man I am. Tomorrow morning he’ll wake up next to his average wife and let out his stupid dog and dread will crusade through his veins when he sees what I have left for him and he realises – Gordon Henderson was here.

Jimmy Crumpets and the Surprise in the Birdbath

By G. Henderson