Following on from Part One yesterday, read on to complete the penultimate chapter of David Yates’ serialisation. Ed
At the TV Centre, the final piece of the espionage jigsaw puzzle was put in place, as the national TV link-up was changed to go via satellite around the globe.
In homes all over the world, TV sets flickered, and then re-focused on the developing scene at the long sandy beach in Spain. At that moment, Margarita’s live commentary from the ‘eye-in-the-sky’ commenced.
“Good day, viewers around the world. Welcome to the sunny south of Spain, where we are about to bring you a live programme you’ll never forget.”
In the Television Studio, the phone started ringing, as angry callers tried to question what was going on. Nobody answered the calls. All non-involved staff had been held captive by a team of men in dark balaclavas and blackened faces. Up in the sky, the birds began their final approaches.
“Okay chaps,” Roger called to the rest of his Flying Rats Squadron, “This is it. Here we go. Don’t release your bombs until you see the whites of their eyes.”
One hundred Swinhoes Snipes led the attack, their swooping dives making a whistling sound as the air passed between their tail feathers. Dickie and Musky’s flock, plus thousands of other feathered friends followed in close support: the Flying Rats, the Rising Sun Squadron, the swallows, blackbirds, thrushes, Baz and Gaz, bee-eaters, and even a large flock of sparrows.
Unable to resist these living targets, Valera shouted to his men,
“Forget the competition. Aim at the birds. Are you ready men?” Valera didn’t wait for a reply. “Fire,” he screamed – but nothing happened. Not a single shot left the barrels. As Valera and his men stared at their jammed guns in surprise, the birds went into action. The snipes’ tail-feathers whistled, as a rain of hawthorns hit the fifty bemused men. Margarita’s commentary took in the action, as a second cloud fell, only this time it was a cloud of bird-poop – dodgy prawn curry and sour milk bird-poop.
Valera and his men were covered in thorns and evil-smelling poop, dazed and frightened. They turned away from the sea, and fled in panic. The birds launched their next attack on the townsfolk, who got the same treatment – clouds of thorns, and then a rain of bird-poop. The terrified townsfolk joined Valera’s men and stormed for the safety of the town.
Wave after wave of birds swooped down upon the fleeing people as they raced towards cover. “Take that Valera,” screamed Dickie, as he pooped all over the man’s head.
“This is for my brother,” yelled another swallow. “Here, stick that in your pipe and smoke it.”
The birds’ attack continued until the people reached a point midway between the beach and the town – a previously dry, sandy area, that was now an enormous pool of runny bulls’ poo – that also stunk of dodgy prawn curry and sour milk! The people charged into the light-brown lake. Their feet skidded in the slippery mire, and soon they were not just trying to run through the lake of bulls’ poo – they were trying to swim through it too!
With the people all in one place and out in the open, and with Margarita’s global commentary continuing, the next stage of the battle began. The birds ceased their attacks, and the bulls launched theirs. As people began to pull themselves upright from the stinking lake of bulls’ poo, they were shocked to see that they were now surrounded by a great circle of black bulls – all roaring and stamping their front hooves. Thirty bulls approached the grotesque lake of people and formed up forty feet away in three ranks of ten, one rank behind the other.
“It’s those English bulls! I knew they were up to something. Let’s get them. Come on, grab rocks and stones – anything – follow me,” said Valera.
Rory flew into position on a perch just to the left of the bulls as Valera and some of his men managed to clamber out of the pool and start advancing towards the three ranks of bulls. With the advancing men less than twenty yards away, Rory, in his best Michael Caine-in-Zulu-voice yelled,
“Right you lot, listen to my orders. A-bout turn.” With perfect coordination, Tommy, Dud the Stud, Interesting Bob and the other bulls spun round, pointed their backsides at Valera and his men, and lifted their tails. Rory’s Michael Cain yelled again, “Front rank – fire. Centre rank – fire. Rear rank – fire. Front rank – fire. Centre rank – fire. Rear rank – fire.”
Once the front rank had fired their exploding bottoms, they lay down and chewed the cud. The second rank fired over the top of them, then they lay down too. Finally the rear rank did the same, and then they all stood up and the whole process was repeated over and over again until the barrage had driven Valera and his men back into the stinking lake – and out of the other side – along with the rest of the townsfolk. The battle was over. The vanquished fled the field in terror, frantically trying to wipe dripping clots of bird and bull-poop out of their eyes.
Tune in next weekend for the final chapter of The Last Bullfighter by local author, David Yates.
Image: JunCTionS
