sparky lightbourne
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The Wild Whippets of Whipps CrossWhippets that roam the wilds
A dirty, mud spattered landrover bounces over tussocks of grass and earthy mounds. The driver is concentrating, brow furrowed like the field in front of him as he grips the twisting wheel, trying to hold a straight line. Two men are standing on the back seat, their upper bodies exposed through the open sun roof, one clutches an unwieldy TV camera to his shoulder, squinting through the view finder. Next to him, the other bloke is holding binoculars and has a microphone clipped to his jacket.
“Look!” he shouts.
The cameraman swings in the direction his colleague is pointing, there away to their right, leaping of a dry stone wall like dolphins coming up for air is one, no two, no four magnificent brown and tan whippets. They race across the next field towards the far wall. The man with the bins bangs on the roof, but the driver has already seen.
“Quick after them, come on Al we’ve got a bite at last!”
The travel stained vehicle swings to the right in hot pursuit, luckily the gate is open and they scrape through the narrow opening at speed. Mounting the rise they gain sight of the pack again.
“There! There they are! Are you getting this Mick?”
The camera man grunts an affirmation.
“They’re heading for the woods.”
The landrover grinds through the soft mud and down the other side of the modest slope, and the whippets clear the far wall and are gone into the dark evergreen wood.
A moment later and they have come to a rest against the wall separating the field from the trees. The three men jump out and walk over to the wall, Mick is training his camera into the trees. A flurry of yapping breaks out in the distance.
“What do you reckon Pete?” Says Al.
“Yeah that’s our little gang alright, they’ve probably caught something.”
Despite the effort or maybe because of it the three are all grinning like school boys. Mick is reluctant to put the camera down even though another shot is unlikely.
“This is great our first footage of real live wild whippets, and it’s only our first day.”
“I can’t wait to tell those fellas from the pub last night.” Al had got in a heated argument with some locals, who had denied the very existence of the wild whippets of whipps cross.
“Never mind them, the bosses are going to be happy, and happy bosses means less pressure for us right?”
“C’mon lets get back on the road and drive round the other side of the wood, we might get a glimpse of them breaking cover again.”
Several hours later, and it’s evening. Our lads are sitting in the comfortable, warm and cosy pub; ‘The Wenches Attacker’. Al is bantering and arguing happily with the same locals at the bar, Mick is concentrating on the intricacies of the pub’s single antiquated one armed bandit, and Pete is sat in a corner snug, a half drunk pint of bitter in front of him flattening down one corner of his dog eared map of the area. Along with the creases and beer stains there are a series of pencil asterisks dotting the village and it’s surrounding area. Pete was adding another one, and drawing a line back to the last reported sighting. Now he’s frowning, again a pattern has cropped up, just like last time. He hasn’t told anyone yet, not his bosses nor his workmates. They would only laugh, Christ he laughed about it himself the first time…And yet, this time it didn’t seem so funny. As Pete heads to the bar for another, we see the map and the picture that has emerged from linking the dots, the unmistakeable image of a running whippet, and one that with today’s sighting looks like it starting to open it’s mouth.
More hours pass, and it’s time to leave the pub and head for the B&B. Pete is waiting in the carpark while Mick and Al, laughing help each other stagger through the narrow doorway. The locals have already left calling cheerio as they lurch down the little lane into the village. There’s a movement out of the corner of Pete’s eye, there next to the hedge at the left side of the car park the unmistakeable silhouette of a whippet, Pete turns with a shock as the scene penetrates his beer fogged brain, but it’s gone, maybe it was just his imagination after all. He shrugs.
“Come on lads, lets get some sleep. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”
The silent whistle blows again and the errant whippet, which had retreated into the shadows closer to the hedge at the first blast now pushed through and onto the road on the other side. There a scruffy blue Volvo estate with the boot open was waiting.
“Here we go boy, up with your brothers.” Said Katrina, Pete’s ex wife as she half pushed half lifted the dog into the boot to join the other three slightly dishevelled hounds. With a curious half smile playing about her lips, Katrina jumped behind the steering wheel and fired up the engine. This hadn’t got boring yet, revenge was indeed sweet.
Pete spent the night tossing and turning in bed, he couldn’t sleep properly and kept waking in a sweat, dreaming of giant whippets eating little country villages. Horrible.
by rednblack aged 29.9
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