Purge of the Teddy Bears
After disastrous post pullage of this morning, [I am so sorry] it is now time to empty locker of ALL bear-related writes, submissions and such…here is a half-bake, Brighton Acopolypse, original title, rejected April 2015, only once, well he, sub, he chose not to ever talk about it to me, ever, so. Some weakness in language, I will draft her tidy…:)
Brighton Apocalypse by Mat
Mr Arkwright senior, a dark horse in his personal and professional life, possessed industry networks that stretched back through time, and long before young Stiffe came to dominate the world bear market, as such. I think it was probably one of the last telex messages ever sent that Arkwright waved in his hand, high above the factory workshop.
‘Girls, I have saved the business,’ he beamed with pleasure.
The seamstresses, hunched over the sewing machines, squinted up towards their bald messiah stood there on the balcony. Sunlight streamed over his shoulder, and his wife, wearing the tortoiseshell spectacles, she was kind of like his secretary, she rushed out from behind of her desk and put a hand on the old boy’s shoulder. She did not want the chap making a fool of himself in front of the staff, no. Lifting her glasses off of her face, she read the telex. It was like a bingo ticket on Christmas day.
‘One hundred thousand units, stuffed and armed,’ she said, ‘armed, what’s armed?’
‘Each miniature teddy bear requires his own miniature bandoleer and an Ak47 rifle,’ said Arkwright.
‘Oh, of course,’ said Mrs Arkwright, ‘one hundred thousand red teddies, we shall be rich.’
‘Rich? What are you talking about, woman,’ said Arkwright. A faraway glint reflected in the old man’s eye. ‘This job is for the party, the ninety year anniversary of The Long March.’
Soon, leaks emerged from the factory floor, and the press were upon Arkwright,
‘Is this the greatest financial capture, irony of sand like Brighton beach selling sand to the desert tribes?’ said the journalists. ‘You know, but with bears to China?’
‘No,’ said Arkwright to the crowd of pigs, amidst the flash of bulbs, and gathered in his office, ‘No, it’s not like that at all. These are bears, they are not pandas.’
The first delivery vessel departed from Shoreham harbour. This ship was the renowned Isvestia, and as residents shall know, harbour impounded since ’99 for the unpaid parking tickets upon the highway. Of course, she had a rusted bottom this ship: all crusty down there through under use, crumbs of steel ,
and there occurred a terrible tragedy, you will recall. The ship sank half a mile off the coast of Sussex. Its Back broke, and the bow rode high into the moonlight like the jaws of a wolf, yes. The twenty Filipino crewmen at the stern rushed to the rail and leaped into the black water. Meanwhile their Soviet commander remained stoic at his post and puffed his pipe of tobacco. The authorities heard all this commotion, sparked the giant searchlight at the end of Brighton pier, and seeing these bloody refugees in the sea, the gunners set to work.
‘Pomp pomp pomp, pomp pomp pomp,’ went the Bofers guns.
‘Hurrah for Blighty,’ cried the crowd of onlookers, red-cheeked, and fresh from a day at the races; the women rushed the strand to strip the corpses of their flip-flops. Yet amidst the jamboree of slaughter, this crispy hull of the vessel grazed the main gas pipeline to Siberia. An enormous whoosh erupted out at sea, and deep underwater, compression waves pulsated a dreadful force out and back into the steel sides of the containers on board. One tiny crack appeared in the bottom left hand corner of the blue container, with its contents, as we know, marked Arkwrights Toy Manufacturers, and slowly the first red teddy bears floated to the surface. Weighed down by their AK47s and Wellington boots, the surviving bears struggled through the slicks of oil that coated their fur.
Zhang Wei, bear commando, the size and colour of a coca-cola can, led the fellows and spotted the sizeable beacon of the Volks railway station-house, down at Black Rock – this is in Brighton. Zhang felt the thunder of the inch high breakers as they crashed to the pebbles. He took a single breath of air, and half-submerged in foam, recalled his desperate will to endure and drove himself onwards to the shore in a powerful sidestroke. Behind of him, Li Qiang bear snuffled, and he suffocated, a strip of Asda bag wrapped around his throat.
‘Li,’ cried Zhang, but it was too late for Li and his tiny, limp corpse washed up on the beach. A Pomeranian pooch prowled at the water line and grasped the little chap in his jaws. A savage mutt, it ragged the bear’s head from side to side, held in its disgusting black lips.
Zhang fixed the dog in gun sights and with a rat a tat, the bullets slashed through the beast’s eyes. It yelped, and blood squirted like a plastic flower. The dog masters rushed to his aid clutching their tennis ball and leash. Zhang and the bear Li Jun crouched side by side, dripped salt water and aimed high, their bullets penetrating the upper thighs of these two men-dogger types, who fell to the pebbles with mortal wounds. By now, a dozen teddy bears had established a beach head and clambered to the railway station. At their left side the roar increased as a crazed crowd with their lollipops raced towards the scene. A steady stream of bears mushroomed at the bridgehead, and surrounded the railway station, secured vantage points on either side. To their right lay the terrifying concrete morass of the marina, and ahead of them the seemingly unscaleable heights of Marina Drive. And so began the first battle of Brighton.