34. Statue of Fucking Liberty


“My mate Treacle got him self in a right fix the other night, Lucifer.”
“Did he now, Scorcher.”
“Yeah. We’d been for a few pints of Tetley’s down The Mythical Beast, and he went home early. He were supposed to meet us next day, but he never showed.”
“Did you try phoning him?”
“Yeah. No answer. I went back to the pub at lunchtime, but there were still no sign of him.”
“What did you do then, Scorcher?”
“I took a walk round to his house. On the way, I saw some cones up around some repairs on the pavement. They’d been pouring concrete, but it were a right mess. There was a big imprint of a bloke’s body, right in the middle of this ‘ere concrete, and a trail of footprints going off in the direction of my mates house.”
“No…”
“Well I broke into a run, Lucifer. There were no time to lose! These footprints were rock hard!”
*sigh*
“I got to his house, ran round the back, and guess what?”
“I’ve guessed, but go on.”
“There were me mate. Rock solid, covered in concrete, frozen with his house key an inch from the lock. He were just like a statue.”
“Come on then. What did you do?”
“I went into his shed, got out his lump hammer and swung it at him as hard as I could! The concrete shatters into a million pieces, Lucifer. It all came off clean. There weren’t a bit left on him. And you know what Treacle did?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“His hand just kept going toward the lock as if nowt had happened! He popped in his key, lets himself in and shuts the door.”
“Really.”
“Yeah! Well, I couldn’t believe it!”
“Neither can I.”

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