ANOTHER DAY AT THE MARKET
Another day at the market, and Mark takes hold of his spanner to begin assembling the stage upon which he will star in his play about “selling goods”.
Rowell, his not so helpful assistant, is walking towards him, having parked the Electric van in the “dealers” car park.
“Its cold this morning” he suggests to his struggling tarpaulin assembly artiste friend struggling with spanner in one hand and a teetering pole in the other.
“Give us a hand will ya”?
“Sorry Mark...Mark the spot with your spanner..’eh mark”?
“Shut up…it’s too early for crap jokes. Get hold of this.”
The two men begin a dance of motion in an attempt to balance the wind against the poles and “sails’” that catch today’s powerful force of nature…which disable mans efforts resulting in the very conclusion that life continues to be equal to suffering.
“Sometimes you can be so unimaginative” said Mark to his long suffering pal.
“Well I can be full of clichés when it helps moral…is today not a cliché’ day?”
“Shut up…and hold the pole upright”
“Nope…Guess not...”
Ostensibly, together the men soon overcome the wind and the stage appears ready…all that’s needed now are the players and the day will soon progress as to inevitably bring them forth.
Mark decides to return to the van (alone) to replenish himself with some warmth from the van’s inner cabin and collect and transport the product.
Pointing the key at the electric van door he looks back on Rowell observing his movements. Rowell has his back to Mark and is bending over something that seems to need re-constructing.
Mark hops into the van and feels the warmth, around his fingers first, then upon his face. He takes a breath of yet more warmth and then thinks for a moment.
Mark thinks to himself. I could leave the twit here, go to my house, pack some things and could be anywhere out side of his reach within a couple of hours. It would take ages before he works things out (if he ever does that is). Should I?
Looking back again he could see Rowell had given in to the winds force and decided to take rest from his chores.
Mark opens the van drivers door, goes to the back of the van. Opens the back door and peer’s down and looks bewilderingly onto the van’s contents.
Mark…knows he wants to leave a Mark upon his world and can see before him an opportunity.
One hundred and two self operating, auto mechanised, optionally externally guided, wooden puppets stand to attention militarily composing themselves in a unison upright stance all presenting their lethal puppet guns for a full general inspection.
Mark reached down towards the master-controlling box on the floor...and reads upon its surface the commands available.
Walk/stop/March…(like Mark)…shoot…sleep and eat (charge battery).
Mark thinks again upon the movements of the long distanced friend Rowell.
He presses the march button and walks back to Rowell, still lay next to the as yet unconstructed /damaged market stand.
One hundred of the puppet’s follow him leaving only two to guard the van. The sound they make in marching is so unison that musician’s ears could not outplace a single foot against another.
Mark leads them all together towards the selling stand. Every step seems nearer to his goal,to dispel the nagging nuisance that is Rowell (the man from Pluto…asleep…cold…alone…unable to develop).
Via 100 puppet paces (very close now) the world will be rid off…it.
Rowell’s approach to life compares to that of the freedom of the locally gathered pigeon’s. Food, then rest, then food, then, rest. (Probably followed by instinctive naturistic activities involving attractive Pigeons who surreptitiously but instinctively explore their masculine position.)
But on this perceptively auspicious occasion Rowell simplistically remembers his childhood.
His mother crying as his father leaves their house to fight for the queen as his real duty was still to his older work life.
A soldier in training now “called” to the outranking needs of his in-voted political leaders.
His father would tell him stories of Malaya, The Middle East, and Palestine, South Africa.
And the only thing Rowell could now re call was, In a very loud voice, “Turn and fire....Turn and fire.”
So much childhood. Too much childhood. Rowell’s childhood. Rowell...a man of little flux or electricity of mind.
Meanwhile………..
“Mark My Words…On your Marks...Lets go”
Mark shouts to the toy soldiers as, pressing the remote control in his hands, One hundred toy soldiers stamp towards the market stands. Close but safely behind, is Mark, carefully modifying the course of the toys should they stray. However they did not. Seeming to think themselves into Marks intentional path.
Closer, ever closer to Rowell now.
Rowell could hear the footsteps approaching as to be strange to him. So he looked up to see the “army” getting closer to him...and again…closer still. Beginning to scare Rowell awakes as if from a trance.
Remembering the teachings of his Father in his dream, Rowell yells a command. “Turn and fire…”(He could not remember the rest of his fathers teachings).
The toy soldiers suddenly stopped to a military halt.
Mark was the only other target around other than Rowell. So the soldiers followed a programmed logic. They turned and fired. Mark was then shot 100 times (even a trained ear could not name the number off shots fired)…… correctly hitting the Marked nearest programmed Dead spot. The Heart.
So… Mark left his Mark. Through this tale of a dreamy betrayal, of hatred and Profit motivated by over indulged weapon storage and the mark of blood spilling under his fallen body.
So Mark has his cross to bear. Upon the crosshairs he found he had to bear into a position of wanton death. As for Rowell? He knew his Father well enough to take cover when cover needed taking and when to fire.
X Marks the spot……Rowell…….. Takes the lot.
Copyright owned by PNPB
