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The Chronicles of Timmy Dorknit

Updated on June 7, 2015

Book 1: The Boy Who Hated Ballet

“What in the hell is that?” said a man.

“Looks like a wee child”, replied another with a Celtic accent bordering on barely comprehensible.

The first man angrily replied “I can see that you kilt wearing prick”

The second man retorted “Hey, I am Irish”.

Timmy arched his neck and looked down below at the throng of heads that have gathered, to take in whatever pointless that was going on. There weren't any signs of his mother yet, which only meant that he had to keep on with this charade out in public a bit longer and cross his fingers that she will eventually take heed of the commotion and would find her bearings to ponder and go ye yonder.

He loved it when a plan came together. That's the banal reason for which he had taken the staggering pains to set up this little "take hostage, threaten and make demands" and the two dingbats having a pissing contest down there weren’t helping his cause.

Another sharp voice bellowed the same thing again, “Who the hell is that kid?”

Timmy then retorted out a line, a line that only could be learnt by the courtesy of watching the tube with no parental supervision or restriction, “It’s not what I am underneath, it’s what I do that defines me”.

He had seen the movie at least 5 times these past one week. “Seriously, HBO, no wonder you suck”, vented Timmy.

Timmy Dorknit had been bemusing hisself since he has gathered the small audience beneath. All these frantic looking humanoids arched their heads at an awkward angle, trying to catch a glimpse at the face of this masked vigilante.

All his audience were at a loss as to what was going on. The boy stood on the edge of a roof of a third stored building, draped in a batman costume. He kept swaying on his foot and flapped his cape, and kept on humming the catchy theme tune of the very archaic series Batman-“na na na na Batmaan!!!”

“Kid, are you crazy? Go back from the ledge”, spoke the first man

The Irish man spoke “Wheres his mother?”

Seriously, haven’t the Micks got anything better to do?, Timmy screamed out loud to the two of the concerned samaritans in the crowd, at the utter astonishment of his benefactors.

Even a month ago Timmy had been free, as free as one can ever be. Being on the beat of the neighbourhood in every other evening and then certainly had its highs. Nerds and Star Wars fans alike were his prey. Their allowances for whiling the day away at the local gaming arcade had been his longing. But that was not to be anymore because of his mother. She somehow got the wind from a certain someone that Timmy had been “playing” vigilante Batman, terrorizing the neighbourhood kids.

That someone had also been kind enough to relay to her the weapon of his choice- a baton; the baton which still had little Elliot's brains on it.

“For God’s sake people, I only slightly touched him with the end of my stick and he fell to the ground” was Timmy’s excuse if he ever need to use one.

But the morale of the story is that from there on then, our anti-protagonist had been on house arrest and to make it worse his mother under duress and over his protest have enrolled him into ballet. Apparently he needs to "tone it down or something". So before everything went FUBAR and trapped Timmy in that cul-de-saced hell hole for time indefinite, Timmy plotted his prison break. Even Shia LeBouff had a serial killer living next door so that he could while away his time inside spying on him and make a movie out of it. But in this little Scottish suburbia of Blouwe-ME-Town little something happened except might be for the fact that now little Timmy had an enemy. An enemy who ratted him out to his beloved mother. An enemy that should have been of no concern or import for this chronicler. For this enemy is not the kind of enemy that you keeps out a look out for in the darkest corners of the school corridors or in a prison shower. However this enemy had quite the penchant from cropping up uncalled and uninvited in the exploits of little Timmy Dorknit that little could be done to write him off the pages. So he shall be written about, unless forgotten, forever lost in the greatest depths of history and time old. His sordid and misdeeds shall be exposed and further elucidated, but not till Timmy Dorknit still stays standing on the ledge of the roof.

As a sidebar of speaking about this enemy though all, I, the reporter cum chronicler have to say this about the Scotts, “No wonder the English raped and pillaged them for so long. Long live the King or Queen, whoever had the Crown at that time”.

“Timmy get down from there”, ordered his mother as she cut through the throng, elbowing a him, her or it out of the way.

The boy looked down at the plump woman, struggling her way through the crowd. Her face reddened from the sheer exertion and possibly she was antagonized more into it with
the crowd bombarding her with rude questions, remarks, pissed off facial countenance and most importantly suggestive and creative hand gestures.

“Is that your son?”
“What kind of irresponsible mother let her child alone?”
“Get him off that building and scram ya hag”
“Please get off Timmy”, almost cried his mother.

“All right” and Timmy left off his right foot slowly off the ledge and prayed silently that the rope secured round his waist, with the other end of it knotted to a wooden post on the roof, would do its work if he slipped. Otherwise this hostage and making demands situation would go haywire on his face, with his face splattered from the accelerated contact with the ground. Though there was a slight chance of the rope being spotted by someone, he figured that he had to stay on his course.

“No, no use the stairs”, squeaked his mother.
“Not until you consider my demands”, he snubbed off his mother’s request perfunctorily with a cliched flick of the arm.
“Please Timmy listen to me, honey please go back a few steps”

Timmy placed his right back next to his left in due compliance but cautiously enumerating his demands in the same. It was about time that his mother listened to him. The door to the roof jerked suddenly with loud successive thuds emanating from the other side. But fortunately it stayed locked to its hinges and bolted shut. Some dumb wannabe hero must have scaled the building to try to save the poor little boy from his predicament.

The door spoke or rather the man on the other side of it " Little boy, hey little boy, please open the door. Everythings gonna be alright. Do you want to go for an ice cream?"

Timmy skeptically decided to reply "Who is it?"

The man jerked the handle of the locked immobile door and said "I am a security guard of the mall. How about that icecream then ? Dollys is just down a few blocks from the plaza".

"I would love some Dolly's right now, but my mother says not to trust rent a cop, wannabe security guards", blurted out Timmy in haste.

"Why not?" asked the man while still persistently jarring the handle to and fro.

"Caus she says they will take you to a dark corner and sod your ass. So sod off Mr. Officer, I mean Mr. Guard. I have negotiations to attend to", said Timmy in concluding this briefest conversation.

Timmy looked down again. It wasn’t hard to slip off his warden mother’s grip once they were in the mall. Women and shopping, the two dumbest things on earth had been Timmy’s hypothesis.

He asked his scared looking mother as sweetly as he could, “Shall I jump mother?”

He wanted to do a deep voice; like Bale uncannily does when he is posing as Batman, but not yet getting his shot of hormones he was unable.

“No! Please go backwards, backwards”
“Well my demands?”, asked Timmy in reply.

“What of it?” spoke Sergeant Fletcher, who walked in briskly to cull the madhouse.

Fletcher was a family friend, at least to his parents. And Timmy disliked him for his tentacles like mustache, which came down on his upper lips like Jamie Hymen from Mythbusters. He couldn’t pronounce Jamie Hyneman. Timmy abhorred the guy.

“Disgusting git”, Timmy vented to himself.
Timmy retorted back, “Don’t you have a job to do? Like catch bad people?”

“Apparently, yes. But they sent me down here for some nut case trying to commit suicide”, finished Fletcher.

“Mom you will cut my name off that ballet class. I hate wearing stockings and it sticks to my bottom and all of the boys next door at karate tease me cause of it”

“Its punishment for ya you little brat. What do u think, that I don’t know what you
did to that little boy? ” said mother making the face of a hyena.

“I effing did nuthing. Elliot fell on his face”, Timmy bluttered out his prepared

His mother yelled out with horror in her voice “Timmy Dorknit, how dare you use
that word?”

Timmy excused himself by retorting “Hey father uses that word every time before he calls
you that B-word”. The public hung in utter suspense.

His mother restraining her voice said “Ok ok, just come down. I will take you off
ballet. Please you are the son I am proud of.”

Timmy knew there was at least the little bit of truth in that statement as his elder brother was a ganja junkie shacking up with a transvestite.

Timmy in an attempt to further take advantage of his predicament, demanded
“And no more house arrest from now on isn’t it mommy dear?”

Before his mother could answer, Timmy out of the side of his head saw a shimmer in the hot dense noon air, glittering and reflecting the unforgiving sun. It became increasingly larger as each seconds slowly passed and when it was a little too late to do anything our little vigilante realized what the innocent looking shimmer was.

He succumbed to the effect of the drugs as the dirt latched on to his neck, tearing into flesh and sinew. His thoughts were getting foggy as he saw his mascara dabbed assailant approach him, a gun held casually flung across his arms.

Even though Timmy could see who it was he couldn’t help but ask with fear “Who are ya?”

The clown faced, mascara dabbed, child replied with a chortle full of yellow infested teeth “Why, your other half. Every bat needs a clown”.

And with that succinct introduction he pushed the drug addled Timmy off the ledge, only to be saved by the rope secured round his waist. As the little boy plummeted, the safety rope secured around his waist became increasingly tighter and tighter. It cut into his skin, leaving an ugly gash, for every inch he fell. He grasped at the air, trying to gather sense of orientation correct. And before he could fall any further he came to an abrupt, skin scathing and juddering halt and hung in the air for a few seconds before swinging on a full fulcrum, face first, into the side of the building. His mind dawdled for a few seconds and it hung in stasis before registering anything else. As he gained consciousness of self for the last time that evening, his mind became fully enveloped with his mother's shrill scream and yet he somehow knew that he had more to be worried about than stupid ballet.

To be continued

Coming next, Book 2: Mirror Mirror


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