Mr Gum and the Biscuit Billionaire. Andy Stanton
filled with entrails and slimy cow lips and rubbery old turkey necks. But he knew it would never happen. It was just a beautiful dream.
‘Mornin’, me old suitcase,’ said Billy William as Mr Gum wafted in. ‘Want some entrails?’ he added, slurping up a load of bad meat off the counter with his grotty old tongue.
‘No time for that, Caterpillar Joe!’ replied Mr Gum, which is what he sometimes called Billy when he was over-excited with evil.
‘You’re over-excited with evil, ain’tcha?’ said Billy. ‘I can always tell.’
‘It’s true,’ said Mr Gum, jumping up on the counter and dancing around in a bucket of pig’s brains. ‘I fancies doin’ some terrible bad deeds today an’ no mistake!’
‘I know what’d be funty,’ said Billy William, scratching his chin with a long unwashed finger. (He always pronounced the word ‘funny’ in this way. Pronouncing words strangely was one of his hobbies, like collecting phlegm or trying to see up ladies’ skirts.) ‘We could break a skateboard,’ he suggested.
‘Nah, I already done that,’ said Mr Gum impatiently.
‘OK,’ said Billy William. ‘How about we stand out on the street an’ step on butterflies?’
‘It just ain’t evil enough, Billy!’ said Mr Gum, kicking a cow’s eyeball across the shop in frustration. ‘What we gonna do?’
Just then the door opened and in came Alan Taylor. He’d been all over town, inviting people to his party and giving out money (or ‘making friends’, as he called it). Unfortunately no one had warned him about Billy William’s, otherwise he’d have kept well away. And as soon as he opened the door and slipped on an eyeball he knew he’d made a biffer of a mistake. But Alan Taylor was a gentleman born and bread, and he remembered his manners as best he could.
‘Greetings!’ he gabbled, bravely ignoring all the blood and guts and the pile of strange twisty bones in the corner. ‘I am Alan Taylor and I’m having a party tomorrow night on Boaster’s Hill! Do come along. You’d be most welco–’
A hairy old pig’s head fell off a hook, slid down the wall and came rolling slowly towards him. With that, the last of Alan Taylor’s courage disappeared. He gave a little yelp, threw a handful of money into the air and ran back outside to safety.
‘Did you see that?’ said Mr Gum, stuffing the cash down his pants where no one would dare to go after it, not even Billy William.
‘I did,’ replied the dreadful butcher. ‘That little tungler’s as rich as a mushroom!’
‘Now listen,’ Mr Gum continued slyly, ‘I wants that money, not just a bit of it but the whole burpin’ lot. But we’ll need a plan, an’ that’s where you come in, you enormous guff merchant. So get hatchin’ plans like you never hatched plans before!’
‘Righty-oh,’ smirked Billy William, and with that he closed his eyes and began hatching a plan in perfect silence. He was like a horrible hen, except he hatched plans instead of eggs and the plans grew into misery instead of chickens, and he didn’t have wings or a beak or feathers and he didn’t make clucking noises and he wasn’t a hen.
Four hours later Billy William opened his eyes.
‘Right, I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘We’ll go to Taylor’s stupid party, then when it’s dark we sneak up on him an’ take his biscuit tin. Then we escape to France, change our names an’ live like powerful kings on all the cash.’
‘Caterpillar Joe, you’re a genius!’ laughed Mr Gum through a mouthful of entrails. ‘A blibberin’ genius!’
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