No Help for the Whelp

(OK here’s another try:)

No Help for the Whelp

In came a Whelp, a wee whippersnapper, and the auditorium choked on their hors d’oeuvres (which was seaweed and smelts). He let out a yelp, this Whelp, and a man by the door with a pregnant wife and macrobiotic diet puked out half a pound of kelp. El Puko could not breathe, his wife cried ‘help – he can’t swallow that much kelp!’ The ambulance came, took his pulse and led the man away, the pregnant lady had to drive herself home. It was simply not her day.

The Whelp’s surname was Cyrus; he etched his name on papyrus. He was Egyptian in descent, following after Isis and Osiris. He was a bit of a rebel, a small smoochie, a lovey dovey, a hoochie-kootchie. He had a friend, whose name was Franz Barbican, half-Mexican and part-time bishop. Franz proselytized at the cathedral; he traded baseball cards with street urchins as a way to save their souls. If you ever need a baseball card, search the alleyways around St. Paul’s. But you might have to pray the rosary.

The Whelp and Franz were pious troublemakers, Catholic but deadly, gay and smiling but potent in all the wrong poisonery. Not poissonery, which is fishiness, but poison, the deadly kind, which Cleopatras of old used to ensure their continual queendoms. Poison, as in cyanide, lead pipes, asbestos, Taco Bell; all the worst stuff in nature and science combined. And so it was with the Whelp.

The Whelp had a first name too: Koko. And a middle name: Caligula. Koko Caligula Cyrus. Koko was nicknamed ‘The Whelp’ by a local blacksmith, a man keen on branding, not just with the forge but with nomenclature, who took one look at Koko Cyrus and labelled him dangerous. “You’re a whelp if you’re in front of me at all – if my eyes can see right,” said the blacksmith. “You’re a wee whelp, yes Koko Caligula Cyrus - a whelp!” What a strange but proud day. Koko was overjoyed. He was whelplashed.

From then on the Whelp terrorized the townsfolk and made out like a scurrilous bandit. Then Franz Barbican came along and their little bubble went from trouble to double. The Whelp and Franz took to each other like crab and shell, like sniff and smell, like schoolteacher and brazen bell; like Sporty Spice and Scary Spice – you know, the two Mels...

(ok that’s it)