Hotter than a sumo wrestler's ballocks Part 2OR,
Three men act the maggot.
(Read Part 1)
Two hours elapse, during which time I had been fed, watered and clad in attire more suited for battle than a large fluffy bath towel. Situated at my front window box, juiced on a possibly unsafe dose of caffeine, via some scary Martiniquan blend that I should patent, and concealed by several layers of gauzy polyester I peered balefully downhill awaiting Round Two. My initial self-congratulatory glee at single-handedly dispatching the nappy haired brother now effectively quashed by an abortive call to the local po-po idling not five minutes by new Japanese financed jeep down the road.
"But Officer I'm certain that he is going to come back."
"Well - yes, probably... He might. You know how dem fellas are."
"I'm by myself."
"Just call back when he returns", replied Castries' finest.
"Riiiiight... Umh, what's your name? You know, so I know who to ask for when I call back."
"I'm not going to be here", he answered shortly.
"You might", I foolishly suggested.
"No, I won't. Just call the station, and tell dem wha' happen."
"Riiiiight... But what if they have trouble understanding me over the gurgling? Maybe you should write a report or something?"
"What?!" Ah good, now I had his attention.
"The gurgling. When he slices my throat. It might be difficult for me to effectively articulate the nature of my emergency, seeing how you won't be there and all."
"*click - hummmmmm*"
"Well, *bleep* me!"
Eleven-thirty in the morn and Nappy Haired Brother was back; and this time he'd brought back up. It would seem that three hard-backed men VS one diminutive, albeit mouthy brown girl, is what passes for a fair fight in Lucia these days.
Taking point was Portly Neighbour Guy; who I wouldn't have known to spit on, but who apparently had resided two rows east of me for the better part of two decades; and who was clearly pissed. He was closely seconded by the only slightly less irritated Knobby-kneed Guy, whose voluble teeth sucking carried uphill and against the wind. Nappy, with pocketed fists and ears mated to clavicle, slunk twenty feet behind.
I rapidly assessed the situation and deduced that given my position of relative safety, perched upon the window box of a tightly locked house, and general cussedness; that I had the advantage; but that a surprise attack wouldn't have hurt my overall plan to come out of the confrontation with epidermis intact.
They were half way up the rise when I yelled, "We don't want that good for nothing hanging around here!" Two heads attempted to unscrew themselves from their bases, while the third ducked ever more fractionally as its owner wisely hung even further back.
Portly, clearly the brains of the operation, spotted the fluttering curtain and opted for a belligerent opening as well. Still two houses off, but within comfortable screeching distance, he pronounced, "You have my *bleeeeeeeeeeep* ladder!"
"That's not the way I'd start", I responded amiably.
"Huh?!" Ah, sweet confusion. Point to me.
"I said, that's not the way I'd have started." I paused for this to sink in and wondered how long my voice would hold up. "First I'd have tried a nice little "good morning" or something, and then I'd have proceeded on to explain just what the *bleep* my ladder was doing in someone else's back yard!"
"You're not in any position to be asking questions here, friend", I advised sternly.
"Uh...", he stalled momentarily, considered the question of my mental health and then tried placation, "But it's my ladder." Point to me.
"No it isn't."
"Yes it is", he rejoined, exasperation taking a hold of him. He resumed his approach, a six foot mahogany shadow at heel. "Look woman-"
A shrill "Ah-ah-ah-ah" froze both himself and his as yet silent shadow mid-stride. "Not one inch further! You can explain yourself perfectly well right there on the government's road!" "Besides," I continued, flicking a nod at Nappy who was being so rudely ignored by all, "it's his ladder. He said so."
Nappy glanced at his companions for help, and finding none graced me with a shrug; which managed to convey a denial, a "maybe", an "I don't know" and a "don't look at me, I'm not here at all" in one fluid movement. I was impressed. Then the son-of-a-fatherless-goat smiled and baseline indignation thankfully rose up to banish whatever nappy haired spell he was attempting to cast. Unfortunately my temporary distraction was what Portly had been waiting for and sidled forward. Alarmed at losing scads of points, I counselled myself that since I was no athlete I'd better focus on the play and not the score.
"Look, my lady, lemme explain", Portly called out with strained cordiality. I dragged my eyes away from the unkempt magi nwè ¹ to his left.
"I hire ah fella to fix my roof."
"Yeah him", a thumb hook to his right was offered in clarification. Knobby nodded vigorously in corroboration. An index finger then pointed to the left, "And dat fella-"
"You mean the teef ²", I interjected.
"Yeah, de tee-", he pulled up sharply, indignation seeping through, "Look, I doh know nuting about no plantain!"
"Plantain? What plantain? I thought we were discussing a ladder."
(On to Part 3)
¹ magi nwè=black magician
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