Goodnight, John-boy: Chapter 8
Dave does some creative editing on 'The Bottom Line' and adds Fiddy's grandson Tim to the Caning Commando story. Anything to stay out of prison, eh?
Welcome to Book Two of my dark comedy thriller series, Read Em And Weep.
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If you’re new to the Read Em And Weep series, start with Book One: Serial Killer.
DAVE HAD the luck of the devils. His inner demons, his Gadarene Swine, somehow always seemed to get him out of trouble. The fear of exposure of his criminal activities caused him to move fast. He took an existing Caning Commando script and quickly adapted it to feature Fiddy’s grandson, showing him in the co-starring role, rather than Alf Mast, Victor Grabham’s regular sidekick. Raised from his usual creative torpor, he made a supreme effort, knowing the consequences if the story was not to the detective’s liking.
The setting for the story was Mafeking and Jones: the Caning Commando’s official cane-makers, who actually existed. The Major had bought his canes from the emporium when he taught at St Swithins and the cane-makers rather appreciated Victor Grabham being their poster boy. In fact, whenever the Major featured them in a story, they would send a bottle of malt whisky to Fleetpit for the comic writer.
Dave and Greg had just had a most unfortunate run-in with Mafeking and Jones*, with painful results, so he had plenty of information about the legendary caning emporium to inspire him. More than he cared for, in fact. The experience was one he would not care to repeat. Neither would Greg.
But Dave was happy with his story starring Tim, and he was pretty certain Fiddy would be, too.
It was as ridiculous and frenetic as usual and the picture strip story began with the regular introductory caption:
‘Because of his legendary caning skills, the War Office recruited schoolmaster Victor Grabham to be – THE CANING COMMANDO.’
The episode was entitled:
The Bottom Line
Wearing a sinister black teacher’s cape over his army uniform, the Caning Commando scanned the racks of canes arranged along the walls of his cane-makers, Mafeking and Jones of St James’s. There were hundreds of canes on display, along with leather tawses for Scottish teachers, wooden spanking paddles for American teachers and birch rods for use in prisons. Victor Grabham was tall and gaunt, but he had the strength of ten gym masters. A Military Cross medal from a grateful nation hung down from the mortarboard on his head. He had a widow’s peak, a hawk-like nose, a cruel mouth and beetle brows which were furrowed in concentration as he went about selecting the best and most punitive canes to use on enemy backsides.
He gave each cane the circle test. A good cane should bend into a complete circle with the tip touching the handle. These were perfect for sending the Boche back to Berlin with red rears. As he picked his canes, he saw the owner, Mr Jones, was showing another gowned teacher and his young grandson around his shop.
Jones held up a rattan with knobbly segments along its length. ‘How about this one, Mr Ferguson? “The Holler!”, an unprocessed rattan ranging in colour from pale yellow to a mottled brown. A pliant, reliable weapon for 20 shillings a dozen.’
‘Very reasonable,’ commented the teacher approvingly as his grandson wandered off around the shop.
‘Gosh! You’re the Caning Commando!’ the boy exclaimed, spotting Grabham’s army uniform under the cape. He was a plucky little chap, the kind that Grabham thoroughly approved of.
‘I trust you can keep my secret, young man?’ asked the Caning Commando.
‘Oh, you bet, sir,’ said the boy, looking up at him in awe. ‘I’m Tim and I’m your biggest fan. Are you here to “Carpet Bum the Hun”?’
Suddenly, Grabham’s attention was caught by a sinister smell emanating from the basement. A smell of pure evil. ‘Yes, Tim, I rather think I am,’ he murmured grimly. ‘Stay up here with your grandfather.’
His favourite cane in hand, a Windsor Chastiser, Grabham slipped away down the dark stairs, merging with the shadows, an almost invisible figure in his black cloak. ‘I’ve got to get to the bottom of this,’ he growled.
Meanwhile, the boy’s grandfather had picked up a sturdy cane and was flexing it for size. He turned to Mr Jones. ‘I rather like the feel of this one. The Persuader, eh?’
‘Half an inch in diameter,’ explained the owner. ‘It’s heavier and thicker than the official canes approved by the Home Office. But sometimes this is the only cane that will persuade boys to mend their ways.’
‘Yes. It looks like the perfect instrument to instil ethics in boys through violence,’ agreed the teacher.
‘How long does a cane last?’ asked his grandson Tim curiously.
‘The life of a cane depends on how often it’s used, young man,’ said Mr Jones. ‘I guarantee them not to break with fair wear, but, should they fail to give satisfaction, I will exchange them. I have repeat orders from schools all over the world. My canes warm white, black and brown seats equally.’
Meanwhile, following his nose, the Caning Commando had entered the shadowy basement of the caning emporium. Suddenly, he saw an all-too familiar, black-clad figure emerge from the darkness. It couldn’t be! But it was! His greatest foe: Moriarsey, the leader of the British Union of Fascists! His ominous emblem: a bundle of fasces, canes, with a crook cane on one side, emblazoned in a circle on his chest.
‘Moriarsey!’ exclaimed the shocked Commando.
‘So we meet again, Caning Commando,’ scowled the teacher’s evil Nemesis.
‘But I thought you were dead!’ said Grabham. ‘You had to be after our legendary caning duel on the Reichenbutt Falls in “The Final Thrashing”.’
Moriarsey sneered: ‘When you thrashed me over the edge of the waterfall? And I, seemingly, fell screaming to my death? Think again, Caning Commando!’ And he lunged at him with his cane and the two great enemies began a furious duel.
‘Allow me to introduce my 36-inch Dragon Smoking Malacca,’ Moriarsey smiled. ‘I adapted it from an opium pipe.’
‘You fiend,’ snarled Grabham turning his head away from the fumes, leaving his rear unguarded to a succession of rapid blows from the malacca. ‘It was the opium I smelt, pouring from your hollow cane.’
‘Correct,’ laughed Moriarsey. ‘A drug I am immune to, after years of abuse.’
‘A dope fiend and a traitor to your country!’ barked the Commando covering his mouth with his gown as he retaliated and striped Moriarsey’s rear.
‘Under fascism, Britain will relive the glories of the Roman Empire,’ retorted Moriarsey, wincing from the cuts. ‘The days of the Emperor Gluteus Maximus, the great caning Caesar.’
The two men locked canes and glared into each other’s faces. ‘Let’s see how much punishment your gluteus maximus can take, Moriarsey!’
Grabham used his legendary flexible wrist action to deadly effect, getting in three vicious stripes in rapid succession without having to raise his arm. ‘Here’s three off the wrist,’ he proclaimed.
‘Aah! Aah! Aah!’ screamed Moriarsey.
With his Chastiser, Grabham should have got the better of his enemy, but the Dragon Smoking Malacca was now filling the basement with its foul fumes and Grabham’s cloak could no longer protect him from its effects; he started to choke on the drug.
‘I’m not blowing smoke up your arse, but you’re good, Grabham,’ acknowledged Moriarsey as the hero staggered back under its effects then slumped to the ground in a narcotic stupor.
The mastermind looked down at the prone figure and smiled, ‘You’re just not good enough.’ And snapped the Chastiser over his knee.
When the Caning Commando recovered consciousness, the smoke had cleared and he found he was bent over and tied to a flogging block as Moriarsey wheeled a caning machine into position
‘Your arse is grass and I’m the lawnmower,’ Moriarsey taunted him. ‘Meet … The Spinmeister!’
‘You swine!’ growled Grabham as he slowly regained his wits.
The electric machine was fitted with three revolving canes, each 36 inches long. The speed knob controlled the motion from slow to rapid movement: one, two, three or more strokes every five seconds. Moriarsey turned the machine even higher. So it inflicted one stroke a second! Sixty strokes a minute!
He was going to cane Grabham to death!
‘The Emperor Gluteus Maximus,’ Moriarsey gloated, ‘had revolving canes fitted to the wheels of his chariot, to thrash his enemies to death, just like the Spinmeister. Now it’s time to kiss your arse goodbye, too.’
Moriarsey switched on the caning machine. ‘The machine is now live. It cannot be switched off. Anyone who tries to do so will be electrocuted. I leave you to your fate, Caning Commando.’
The Spinmeister delivered an endless series of cruel blows on Grabham’s posterior. He almost lost his mind from the pain. Whenever he caned his boys, he always urged them to avoid ‘girlitis’ and not cry out. Now he, too, had to bite his lip not to scream. But he gritted his teeth and took it. The Caning Commando would never blub.
Then he saw – through a haze of pain – the boy Tim, from upstairs, approaching the machine. ‘Don’t worry, Caning Commando. I’ll save you!’
‘No, Tim! No! Get back! It’s electrified!’
But the courageous boy took no notice. At great personal risk, he crawled under the revolving canes and pulled the plug out from the wall. Then, as The Spinmeister came to a halt, he ran in search of Moriarsey.
‘Come back, Tim!’ Grabham called after him. ‘Leave Moriarsey to me! He’s too dangerous!’ But the boy hero was gone.
Moriarsey was preparing to escape, loading his van with valuable canes for his gang. As he was about to go up the stairs with a final consignment, Tim used the crook of a cane to trip up the fascist, and he tumbled back down into the basement.
Grabham picked a cane from a rack and brandished it at his old enemy.
‘Now let me introduce you to The Germicidal, Moriarsey. It’s an antiseptic, sterilised cane that enables teachers to still cane boys on the bare during contagious school epidemics. So they can’t get out of a beating with namby-pamby excuses like having measles, mumps or scarlet fever. Your arse will have scarlet fever after I’ve finished!’
Moriarsey looked horrified. ‘No! Please! No! Not…The Germicidal!’
‘Yes,’ leered Grabham with great relish. ‘The Germicidal. An appropriate name for a cane to punish a Nazi-lover. But no need for trousers down, Moriarsey. The cane will cut them to shreds. Into him, Tim! It’s time to Carpet Bum the Hun!’
Tim and the Commando, both wielding their canes, attacked and soundly thrashed the cringing arch-villain.
‘Here’s some heat for your seat,’ laughed the intrepid boy. They were still caning him when a Black Maria arrived to take him off to prison.
Then Grabham turned to congratulate the boy and told him he made a far better companion for him than the gormless idiot, Alf Mast. ‘You’ve done well, Tim, my boy. I’d never have survived without you. You’re a true hero.’
Tim explained that he and his grandfather were in London for his birthday and invited the Caning Commando to join them for a slap-up meal. Grabham was delighted to accept and meet the boy’s kindly grandfather, Mr ‘Fiddy’ Ferguson.
‘Happy Birthday, Tim,’ said the Caning Commando.
‘Together, we Carpet Bummed the Hun!’
Dave was taking no chances. He ensured the artist draw a large flattering image of the Caning Commando and Tim together as the boy was presented by Grabham with his very own special cane. A souvenir of the day when he had saved Britain’s greatest hero from Moriarsey.
And saved Dave’s arse, too.
*See bonus story ‘Relieving Mr Mafeking’ for an account of what happened when Dave and Greg visited Mafeking and Jones.
Goodnight, John-boy is the first book in the Read Em And Weep series and is on sale digitally or as paperback.