A Matter Of Machismo
“Are yer comin’ a bigun?” The hard one demanded between clenched teeth; his piggy eyes glaring through the quickening murk of winter’s afternoon.
The onus was on him to make the first move being the incumbent Mr. Big. He wasn’t as hard as he used to be, due to thirty-nine excessive kilograms but in this matter of machismo, his meanness more than made up for the softness of his large, bouncing belly.
“Are yer comin’ a biggerun?” The dirty one growled in return; his gaunt face scary in the glow of yuletide neon.
This was the classic response in a clash of rampant testosterone. The dirty one was fifteen years passed his best and his breath bore testament to ten thousand whiskeys, but this did not detract from the ferocity of his camp, mocking snarl.
“Yer ain’t gorra bigun in yer,” the hard one grunted.
Steady drizzle cast a deeper gloom over the grey, December day.
“My bigun’s bigger’n yer bigun.” The dirty one’s vitriol dramatically upped the stakes.
“I’ve gorra lump on the end of my bigun.” The hard one dealt his trump card as the crowd tensed, sensing the impending climax to this duel of the faded egos.
“Ave yer really gorra lump on the end of yer bigun?” asked the dirty one in a seeming moment of weakness.
“A bigun on the end of my bigun,” the hard one bragged in rising triumph.
“I ‘ave too,” returned the dirty-one, “an’ it’s bigger’n yer lump on the end of yer bigun.”
Pinched faces on beta males told their own story as each yearned for the physical prowess necessary for admitting to a bigun, bigger’n any other bigun, on the end of their own bigun.
“Yer ain’t gorra lump an’ yer ain’t gorra bigun,” scoffed the hard one.
“Oh, yes I ‘ave,” returned the dirty one, with a hint of mince in his tone.
The hard one’s eyes narrowed even further and his belly wobbled even more as he took a half step closer and dared, “Show me.”
The dirty one coughed asthmatically as he leered, took a half step closer and spat, “It’ll take yer eye out.”
Both protagonists took a sudden full step backwards as they realised how close they’d actually got to each other.
They circled… each trying to make the most of the shelter available under the lee of big Gupta’s haberdashery stall.
It’s a shame the situation was allowed to get this far. Neither has ever been a good man and you could say they deserve the very worst from life, though it’s quite sickening to see them trading blows in this gothic parody of an urban tennis match.
There’s too much at stake and one of them has to die… though I think they’ll both find work in the future… and someone had to write the script… and the audience is desperate for testosterone, vitriol and blood… and it will boost the Christmas ratings.
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