American Visa or Nigerian Prison
With the crazily high volume of Archer’s stereo lowered Robinson Red could then speak and they would not be wasted words. Robinson Red was still having problems excusing Archer’s voicing of his wish that curiosity keep killing the cat. It was paper-white clear Boss Archer’s Queer disaffection for Cats. For Rat Thief-Killing Cats!
“Oh! Common, Robinson,” Boss Archer said easily “You know I’d mainly tried to focus on the risks in one being overly curious.”
It was a scarcely convinced Robinson, who kept looking back at Archer, his countenance that of a forced taker of a close-to-cyanide-poisonous stuff. It might be just stupid ruling out that his Boss, Archer, has been contentedly keeping a great dislike for The World’s Number One Feline Creature as well as unwilling to have any one tamper with The Dislike.
“Honestly, Boss, I should like to be told what A Cat or Cats had done to you that The Curiosity which had been killing their members shall continue this murderous job.”
For a full two minutes, Boss Archer, forty-eight or forty-nine, was grinning from ear to ear over Robinson Red’s refusal to accept him on his own terms: a clear asterisking of his sincerity of purpose.
Well, what’s there? He, Archer Simple, simply hates Cats and their Yellow Eyes. Besides he has a Strong-Like-Zuma-Rock reason to wipe out all Cats from Planet Earth, feline, half-feline or not at all. With Robinson’s eyes ever trained on Archer’s, he however genially began preparing to open up to him, his head first rolling from one side to the other.
“Yep, November 22 2022 shall round off Thirty-Five-Years, I Archer, had to go home with inflamed buttocks for drawing what had looked everything but A kitten, courtesy of our no-nonsense Cat Teacher and his Unsmiling Whip.
“What! Your Cat Teacher? repeated Disbelieving Robinson, “Probably, You’d meant your Art Teacher.”
“No! The Cat Teacher, I said,” Robinson Archer maintained and hatefully added that Cat was The Animal Mr. Ignatius Bell loved more than his Biological Children and ‘cat’ The Topic-Concept he could keep teaching in a week, revisit a following week and still pay fresh visits in two subsequent weeks.
Robinson Red’s face wore his genuine sympathy for Archer’s ordeal at the hands of Mr. Ignatius Bell in 1987 but he still aired his honest opinion on the matter.
“Very Simple, Boss: Your Art Teacher not Cat Teacher loved Cats.”
“And then was wonderfully demonstrating it with much milk in their meals,” Boss Archer disclosed, in his eyes Leaker of A Secret’s Conspiracy. For this he got from Robinson “A Really?” or rather “The Really?” dropped from Robinson’s lips. Painfully, Robinson had just been reminded that he to treasured milk but recently had not been nearing either its liquid or powdered forms in shops because of their forbidden prices. Archer Simple needed no Seer to tell him that it was time to further poison the mind of A Just-Discovered-Lover-of-Milk like Cats against A Once-Severe Former Art Teacher, who was wastefully sharing the nutritive liquid food with three cats, whose highest attribute was their scary yellow ‘eyes.
To the question “How many kids has Mr. Ignatius?” Robinson promptly got from Boss Archer “Three, also.”
“Like his cats!”
“Yes,” assured Archer in his firmest voice, “Though, I wouldn’t say his kids were getting as much milk from him as did his cats,” Boss Archer thought he should let Robinson know.
“But you weren’t there,” reasoned Robinson.
I didn’t need to be there,” rasped Archer, “Such was not his passion for the cats that it had to be they not The Kids that were getting The Milk on difficult days.”
Robinson did not judge it sensible any more stretching the subject one more bit. Not when he could more safely show his honest surprise at Boss Archer’s inability, albeit Thirty-Five Years ago to sketch a kitten. To be candid, Boss, you shouldn’t have had troubles dropping a kitten on a drawing sheet,” he courageously opened.
To Boss Archer, Robinson’s surprise and disappointment in his artistic weakness might turn into sincere sympathy, if he found that he had A Bad Artist Father and more Disgusting Artist Grandfather.
“Oh! I’m sorry… So, that was the picture of things” Robinson could only limply ask.
“I tell you it was the reason why I couldn’t neatly fasten The Whiskers of A Kitten on its already badly drawn oval face!”
Once again, Robinson Red showed himself The Piteously Touched, advised Boss Archer on how to set about planning The Whiskers of A Cat on its oval face, usually Three or Four Lines laterally radiating out from its right and left cheek and then remembered that he never got to hear from him, at last, about their Proposed Documentary on Dogs.
“Because I’d insisted that things be done in a particular way and you would have none of it.”
Just this remark by Mr. Archer Simple and Robinson froze like ice: became ten times alive to a future tragedy and started wondering why he had not remembered the last hearted arguments between him and Archer over the shape their Proposed Documentary on Dogs should take.
“Sorry, Boss, you’ll have to discard your planned filming and recording of the crushing of The Skulls of Dogs by Paid Killers.
“What-at!” half-thundered Archer, what Robinson had said a sting.
“You’d perfectly heard me, Boss.”
“But you know that I’m not accepting it,” Archer said resolutely.
Archer was fixated on arranged slaughters of mongrels for the hard and soft copies of the Documentary. At a very important moment Robinson Red had forgotten that he was the one in charge; no doubt, for the fact he had not been bossing Robinson around… Something he could begin to do, until he is able to include, without fail, Scenes of Deaths of Dogs from received savage blows to their heads!
“Pooh!”
Archer’s mere voicing of the idea had revolted Robinson and according to him made his skin creep!
“It shouldn’t, Robbie… A scene which is merely crucial to The Film’s Success!”
“How crucial?” fought Robinson Red, his face somewhat reddening.”
“Oh common! Something Episodic,” quipped Enthused Archer. “It’s sure to make viewers start breathing in snatches!”
Archer Simple himself had begun a fast-paced intake of the oxygen-filled air in his room. Dog Violence-Hating Robinson remembered Animatronics and eagerly pointed out that Animatronics of Dogs earmarked for death by their would-be killers would do.
“No. Please, Robbie,” Archer quickly took over, as soon as he had picked his point. “Your Animatronics Shit would impress on viewers that we’re Half-Hearted Providers of The Real Savage Treatment of Man’s Foremost Pet by our Taranki People.”
From Robinson Red Archer simply earned a fairly long neglect but eventually Robinson’s entreating wish that he be allowed to steer The Ship of The Enterprise while he Archer still remain The True Captain.
“But to which direction?” Archer asked with concern.
“I’m afraid, Boss, if many dogs or even a single dog is slaughtered in your film for the purpose of exposing Dogs’ Ill-Treatment, Dog Lovers The World Over might have it out with you!”
“Hah! Hah! Hah!”
Archer Simple was ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain that Americans wouldn’t fault The Documentary or if they did, pick much quarrel with it.
“Wonderful” piped Robinson, “So, this was all along about America and for America.”
“The United Kingdom, too, Robinson… We’ll be getting interview chances in the U K! and, above all, American Visa!”
A vicarious suffering of Shame by Robinson Red for his Boss, Archer. It was, to say the least, dumbfounding both Archer’s demonstrated stubbornness and naivety. An unusual zeal to keep chasing after what should make him sadly begin to breathe the air in any of the prisons in The United States or Britain or Nigeria for Life. Now, Robinson Red could riskily swear before Quick-To-Kill-A-Liar Oracle that Archer Simple hated not only Cats, but also Dogs. But what can have dogs done to The Guy that he would not think twice about crushing their skulls in A Documentary?
“Boss Archer, I think a bit obvious is your dislike for dogs.”
An instant wave of fresh shame by Robinson, this time for his cowardly substitution of the appropriate word ‘Hatred’ with Milder Dislike in his intended raw message attack on Archer. On his part, Archer was not ashamed to own up that he had never hugged a dog all his life nor allowed its coat to brush against his own coat.
“Wonderful! God’s Special Creature that I hold as My Most Valued Asset,” said Robinson visibly wearing his embarrassment “Three fine ones I’ve got, all of them comfortable with me!”
“Whereas for Thirty-Five Good Years I myself have avoided them”
“Thirty-Five-Years, again!” yelled Robinson. “For cats, it was Thirty-Five Years, wasn’t it?”
Unfeeling Mr. Archer Simple could only deem it important telling Robinson that his yell was not even remotely necessarily and disclosing his earnest wish that, one day, Robinson would be absentmindedly walking down a street and A Bitch would from nowhere surface to fasten her Ugly Canines on his calf, because she was completely convinced that he, Robinson, was about to collect one or all of the six puppies she had just whelped!
“Oh! My God,” heaved Robinson “Nearly Thirty-five year ago, you’d said?” You won’t believe it, one silly dark mongrel like that called Jackie!”
Mr. Archer Simple did not know when he had begun fresh battles with old bitter memories, letting these battles reflect in his utterances and repeatedly capturing Jackie as ‘A Dog Harlot’ decorated with Devious Eyes!
“No, honestly, I don’t fancy that,” Robinson said to let Archer know officially.
“All along, I knew you wouldn’t,” returned Archer, who all of a sudden remembered an appointment he must keep and for it should soon leave and lock his door!
Fresh trembling by Robinson Red, who owned enough imagination to link Archer Simple’s intended exit from his apartment with a decided pursuit of A Suspended Dog Bite Revenge or, still-bad, foolish hopes of securing the quickest flight-travel through a visa to either the United States or the UK from the skulls of dogs crushed in A Phony True-To-Life Capture of Cruelty to Dogs by their Dog-Eating Taranki People in A Documentary. Robinson could faultlessly guess where exactly Archer would soon surface...
His Film-Shooting Site! An Abattoir for just Mongrels!
He, Robinson, shall have to act fast in realistic assumption of his challenge to A Race Against Time on behalf of The Endangered Lives of a Handful Mongrels At that moment.
It shall have to be a timely alerting of handcuffing security operatives to a soon-to-be-brought-off Dog Savagery by a Self-Styled Lover of Dogs and Defender of their Animal Rights , to wit, Mr. Archer Simple…
And indeed, for his film shooting site Archer Simple had headed, in a half hour producing himself flesh and blood at the cleverly secluded venue of about a plot with overgrown shrubs, weed and screening walls, on all sides above six feet. There Archer Simple was content to release his magnetic microphone to Invited Dog Killer Friday for a ceremonial self-introduction before an already filming camera.
“No. Sorry, I don’t near The Microphone as part of wasting a mongrel,” Friday stated.
“But our viewers and my humble self need your name,” Archer insisted and from Friday got, at last, “Easy… Easy” and soon, his name identity.
“So, is Friday your First Name or The Last?” pressed Archer.
“Bad Friday is my Full Name,” supplied Archer’s interviewee for it harvesting “A Wuuh” Shout and “What A Name!” from Archer.
“But I’m sure it’s a fitting name for one who rips open the skulls of lousy mongrel!”
“Hard language, Bad Friday, or isn’t it?”
“Rather, a Language which shows my pride in my Dog Job.”
“Permit me to actually say Dirty Job.”
“Well, clean or dirty, it’s been placing delicious dishes and a cold stout on my dining table.”
“That I know, Bad Friday.”
“Besides often changing my clothes and shoes!”
Do you know that one, two?”
In all Interviewed Bad Friday had never had to pity a dog dying in his hands.
“Hah! No!”
He, Friday, would never think about it for a second split into A Hundred… Very Dangerous! Indeed The Easiest way to give Regrettable Mistakes undeserved chances.
“Yet, The Mistakes you fear could still occur from some miscalculation and your Dog Victim finish you off,” offered Archer.
“Ho-ho-ho! Not when it already had a fitting noose round its neck and Bad Friday’s hands controlling the hollow pipe with a rope for adjusting its circumference!”
Another Wuuh! Outburst from Archer Simple, this time with a bit of A Thrilled Victor’s Note to it…
Now, Bad Friday would only entertain skeletal questions, as he would soon riskily un-cage one of the three mongrels in a crate.
“To then do what with them?” sympathizing Archer asked or, perhaps, one faking a piteous heart. On his part, Bad Friday, ever detached, handed Archer in words his immediate plans to land his heavy club on the first dog’s waiting skull!
A terrifying succession of barks from the approached dogs, their Wow- Wow blending with powered growls. Bad Friday could not help screaming his admiration for the mongrel’s recognition of his mission and remarking that every mongrel knows what A Tightening Noose does to their necks and breathing.
“Then, The Noose of The Rope is really their Arch-Enemy,” Archer Simple summed up.
“well, nevertheless, it’s my, muscular arms that would narrow its circumference after it’s been slipped round their necks…” bragged Bad Friday wanting Mr. Archer Simple to never ever forget that.
All-the-same, Bad Friday began to show open interest in being quietly watched while opening the cage to pull out the most fleshy of the mongrels. His efforts in this regard was answered by the safety-craving mongrel with fresh unnerving barks. But in a matter of a half-minute, Bad Friday had effortlessly slipped the noose round a neck for all its twists and turns to helpful directions.
An initial silence. Then whines of mongrel in serious trouble. Already, Bad Friday had begun to tighten the noose of The Rope round the dog’s neck by rapidly constricting its circumference to breath-choking size, preparatory to bashing its defenseless head without collecting a half scratch himself. Any moment, Archer’s Arranged On-Lookers for The Documentary - not less than a dozen dog-eaters - would be picking The Pleasant Sounds of a heavy object on a bony surface and the louder eerie whines of A Dying Dog…
Of course, often the moment too, Bad Friday would be heard entreating The Doomed Dog to take heart, for it usually reserving The Name ‘Tiger!’ It would not matter that The Dying Dogs, Name was more correctly Bingo, Billy, Shirley, Lion or Thunder!
“Wuuh! Who’s trying to claim that he knows my Full Name.”
Boss Archer Simple had just been called his name and designation from behind by A Hulking Near Seven-Footer, who did not forget after a couple of seconds to importantly identify himself as Bonaparte Justice, Taranki Detective Agent.
Quite timely was Bonaparte’s entry into the site for a regaining by a Dying Dog of a life as good as lost but not quite as timely for an interception of Bad Friday’s determined roguish disappearance from the same site after glimpsing Bonaparte’s rather carelessly displayed handcuffs for Archer.
“Oh! Please, welcome Detective Bonaparte,” Archer Simple still found the courage to say and himself pass off as Protector of Dog Rights, who had been working on A Documentary to that effect… A film bound to be superb and phenomena! Deceptive Bonaparte could only emptily say “Splendid!” but not as emptily disclose to Archer that his visit to the site had a lot to do with The Documentary…
“Interesting! I’m happy!” bawled Archer Simple. “Except that you’re holding a pair of steely handcuffs”
“Also shiny and stainless, Archer! Ideally for your two wrists!”
“No! This is a bit of The Unbelievable!”
A Smiling-By-Half Archer, also looking like An Angel, anxiously sought to know, if Bonaparte reply expected him to try the handcuffs on.
“Right now! Not later” rang out Bonaparte voice wondrously authoritative.
But Archer Simple could only freeze, let a hesitation lengthen and later brave the opinion that some playacting he had not been good at was being demanded from him by Bonaparte.
“No… You don’t board that train,” Archer Detective Bonaparte warned him, harshly making it clear that the handcuffs were for him to try for Close Fitting.
But Ever-Hesitant Archer Simple would not. Besides, if only Detective Bonaparte would watch closely he would observe that the handcuffs were far from his size.
“Look! Be warned, Mr. Archer,” said A Correcting Bonaparte. “Nobody ever talked sensibly about Size for Adjustable Metals like Manacles
“And what about the point that Manacles and handcuffs belong rightly to Law Breakers and Lunatics,” Archer contended.”
“In reality, you know you fall under both categories, except that you don’t quite know it.”
The speechlessness of A Truly Hurt Man and Pride. Mr. Archer Simple could not articulate any speech sound nor throat-clearing cough. As though to make amends Detective Bonaparte said he would want to take The Evil Pleasure of making him The First Saint to disgracefully wear Handcuffs.
An Archer Simple that seemed to have been both commended and insulted!
“Alright… Alright, I’ve got the point,” A Broken Archer conceded.” In fact, finally, picked up what I should’ve long grabbed”
Detective Bonaparte could not pretend that Archer’s words had not touched his curious side, going ahead to ask Archer, “What’s that?”
“Simple” A Shameless Snake - actually Robinson Red - had slid into the nearest Area command to snitch on me over a courageous Film Expose of Taranki People’s unacceptable craving for Dog Meat and Meal!”
“When you could’ve fallen to Animatronics for same” upbraided Bonaparte.
An intervening silence of The Uncomfortable and Archer soon, by himself, admitting to his being, therefore, in A Big Shit…
“Yeah, if what you meant is that your situation is an ugly one sure to end in Imprisonment, Yep.”
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