An entry in the Crocodile Prize
PNG Government Award for Short Stories
AUNT a hypocrite. Court case sucks. Well....
The head ache started at 7 am today. Right on time.
Lately, everything has been really screwed. Now, the head throbbing was doing weird things to me.
Like a hen to the slaughter, I dressed and got into my car, with a litre bottle of Scotch whisky under the driver’s seat.
Aunt came out of the rat infested shack we called our home and, like a loudhailer, asked where I was going.
Out, I said.
Let me pray for you, she said, and walked over to my Mitsubishi.
Darn, with the rolled tobacco in your mouth, I thought.
Her right hand held the tobacco and a loud prayer of forgiveness was said on my behalf, followed by a song that ended the prayer.
This hypocrite smokes endless rolls of tobacco and then at night gets down on her knees and rebukes the neighbours and curses her relatives. At 11:30, goodnight tobacco is smoked and then the shack is filled with her thunderous snoring and farting.
At 6:00 am, a good morning tobacco is lit and then down on her hypocrite knees again, with the singing that ends it all.
Where you off to hon, she puffed.
I bumped a cop, remember, I’m going to court.
Go to court and tell them, the cop pushed his right hand into your blouse. Stand your ground and lock eyes with the magistrate.
I looked at her. Was she mad?
Hypocrite was smiling.
Cops are humans, don’t wet your pants, winked the hypocrite prayer warrior and tobacco puffer.
Sweating, I waited outside the court house, eyeing everyone in twos. I was the only one alone. I pulled out a cigarette and walked to the car park. Lit and puffed. Inhaled and exhaled. Once more, two times more. Then threw the butt into the flower bed and walked over as names were read.
Dahlina Bray, traffic offence to Court Room 2.
Swell. Loud hail it and broadcast if you want. And traffic offence, my foot! I was fuming.
I walked to Court Room 2.
Message beeped on cell phone. Hypocrite says, be strong, don’t drop.
I stand when my name is call. Magistrate looks me up and down.
Your bail receipt? I hand it to cop then cop hands it to magistrate.
Deulina, he says. Wrong name. Clears his throat and says again, Dahlina, are you guilty of bumping a cop?
I was reversing and he was relaxing at the back of my car, as if he was at his home on his lounge reading the Post-Courier.
Was that your vehicle you were driving? Yes.
Can I see your licence? Licence to cop, then to magistrate. Back to me.
You have caused an accident and a cop nearly lost his life. (Yeah, his screwed up life, standing behind vehicles and pulling wax out of his ears.)
You are hereby sentenced by this court to pay a K500 fine (What the xxxx!) Give Sergeant Nickolas Torur cash at the police station and let them receipt you there. I give you until today and tomorrow.
Crooks and daylight robbery. Dammmn!
The cop I bumped was standing outside with crew cut, clean shaven face, blue polo pullover, stockman boots and nice round butt in denim jeans. He looked like a model from Stella magazine.
K500 was for someone who was limping, with swollen groin and dislocated hips. What a laugh, what a joke. Hahahahahaha.
I opened the car and pushed my hand under the seat, pulled out the one litre fiend, pour some into an empty container and mixed it with Coke. I skulled it down in three gulps. Throbbing in head disappeared. Gulped, glug, glug, glug. Gluuuuuugggged!
Darn. Life sucks.
Cell phone beep. Hypocrite says, well, I hope they were fair to you. If they weren’t, it’s because you didn’t say what I told you too.
Cruel world, no one is fair. Much love aunty.
Stuff aunty, stuff court case.