The Butt of the Joke

She was hungover, she was annoyed, and she was bored. Molly glared across the sunny field towards the idiocy of the British public. A public who, come the afternoon, would be passing out from sunstroke and itching with sunburn. At least by then her hangover would have worn off, and these people would be so addled from the heat that if she was still annoyed with them, they probably wouldn’t spot it.

Molly, or Dr. Corbyn, as she was usually known, was annoyed for myriad reasons. One, there was a boyfriend who was no longer her boyfriend. Because he was lazy, a bit of a show-off and, Molly was pretty sure, the reason why her bathroom always smelt liked burnt chilli. Two, she had had a horrible night. When trying to drink away her mixed emotions about said boyfriend at a friend’s birthday do, a woman with more mouth than sense had attempting to convince her that life would be better after Mercury was no longer in retrograde. And, well, the situation, had escalated.

The third factor in her bad mood was the extremely annoying historical interpreters at the festival, where she was now volunteering at the first aid tent. When she’d arrived one of them had done the whole town idiot thing. He had got all up in her face, quite literally, with his narcissism and something that looked like a feather duster, but could have also been Donald Trump’s hair. One thing had led to another and her jeans had become trapped in her bicycle’s sprocket. So now to cap everything off she also had ripped jeans and a broken bicycle. Also, her knickers were stuck in her bum.

Molly backed up into the far corner of the first aid shelter, away from prying eyes, and surreptitiously pushed the flat palm of her hand down the back of jeans. There. That was at least one problem sorted. But no sooner had she dislodged her pants than two men appeared at the shelter entrance. Well, one man and one in a wheelbarrow. They looked familiar. The one standing was tall and looked like a young Jeremy Clarkson, the one in the wheelbarrow looked like an uglier, stupider (if that was possible) Jeremy Hunt. Both wore Tudor garb. The man in the wheelbarrow addressed her.

‘Good day! Good lady! I wonder if you can help me?’ He swept his left arm around in a theatrical manner. ‘I appear to have injured my posterior. I wonder if you would be so good as to offer me some medical care?’ Molly eyed him suspiciously. ‘What seems to be the problem?’. ‘Well, my fine lady’ he continued ‘I was in yonder field, engaging the younger rapscallions in the quaint art of frottage, when alas I fell-‘. ‘They pushed him’ his friend interjected. The man turned and glared at his friend. ‘As I was saying… I felt faint from the roaring midday sun’ he gestured above him ‘and so I decided to sit myself down. I went to sit on a upturned bucket but, alas’ he paused for dramatic effect ‘I fell through and’ he grimaced sheepishly ‘wounded myself somewhat’ he gestured behind him.

Molly cocked an eyebrow. ‘It was only a cheap thing from poundland’ the friend interjected ‘he went straight through it. Probably got plastic up his bum and everything’. The wheelbarrowed man turned to glare once again at his friend. ‘Well, if you can get up on the bed and we’ll take a look’, Molly gestured toward a medical bed inside of the tent. As the friend wheeled him over she quickly washed her hands and put on some gloves. (Because fiction does not negate proper hygienic practices). Her and the friend leaned forward to help the man out of the wheelbarrow. She put an arm around him to pull him forward ‘woah there darling’ he said in a low voice, smirking ‘maybe you buy me a drink before cuddling me like that’. Molly tried to ignore him, as she rather to suddenly yanked him forward and threw his weight onto the bed.

‘Well, let’s take a look then’, Molly grabbed him and roughly turned him over. There was a satisfying squeak from him as he landed on his front. She pulled down the loose trousers to find the red beginnings of massive bruising and a small shard of plastic, lodged precariously close to the man’s anus. ‘Urgh’ the friend remarked, stepping back. ‘What? What does it look like, mate?’ the man’s muffled voice responded. His friend stepped forward ‘what mate? Can’t you feel that?’. ‘Feel what?’ came back the worried voice. ‘You’ve got a massive’ – Molly said a silent thank you to all that was male exaggeration – ‘bit of plastic stuck in your bum!’. ‘WHAT?’ came the strangled voice of the man. ‘Yes,’ said Molly ‘what? You mean you can’t feel this?’. With that Molly took a gloved finger and pressed it firmly against the wound. The man screamed loudly and painfully in response. ‘Wow!’ said Molly ‘I guess the pain must have just numbed you right out to it’. The man whimpered in response.

‘So what do we have to do?’ the friend asked. ‘Do we go see one of them proctologist people? ‘Cause, I mean, that could do some serious damage, couldn’t it?’. The man on the table moaned. ‘Oh no’ said Molly ‘a GP could pull it out, have that stitched up’. ‘Could you do it?’ the friend asked. Molly pulled her best glum face. ‘Well, I could. But outside? Like this?’ she took in a deep breath of air ‘could be risky, what with the infection…’. ‘Right, right’ the friend responded, ‘so he’ll need to go to the hospital? There’s one near here right? ‘. Molly nodded. ‘Oh yeah, yeah, the infirmary’s not to far. GPS will take you right there. Best place for him. They’ll get him sorted right out’. The friend nodded enthusiastically. ‘Cool, yeah. Um, mate?’. The man groaned in response. ‘I’m going to take you the hospital. Okay?’. ‘Okay’ came the muffled voice.

Molly pulled up the man’s trousers and together she and the friend rolled him on to his back. They then helped him into the wheelbarrow. When it became apparent he was trying to cop a feel of her bum and thigh, she dropped him suddenly into the wheelbarrow. He screamed out in pain. ‘Oops silly me’ Molly said, she smiled at him coldly. The friend leaned over him, and said, in a moronically loud and careful way, ‘now mate, whatever you do, don’t trump. And definitely don’t take a shit. Because that’s gonna hurt… A LOT! Like having a baby or something’. The man turned and raised an eyebrow at him.

Molly watched them, amused. ‘Now, can I give you anything for the pain?’ she said, sounding more like herself. As the man began to respond, two younger women walked into the shelter with her colleague. The man eyed them, and their jean short clad legs for a bit longer than anyone in the tent thought was necessary. Five pair of eyes gazed at him curiously. He jumped suddenly, enough to make him grimace, and looked about himself, suddenly embarrassed. ‘Ah! I think not good lady’ he was back to his pseudo posh Tudor speak ‘I will merely soak the affected area in something I will obtain from the apothecary, no doubt’. Molly cocked an eyebrow. ‘But it could get infected’. ‘Nay bother, I shall soak my bum in a bucket of rum, shall I not?’ he looked about him to make sure he was gaining the attention of the two other women. ‘You seriously don’t even want some ibuprofen?’ Molly deadpanned ‘it’s going to hurt! A lot!’. ‘What is pain my good lady? Pain is life. To live happily we must also live painfully? Do we not? Is that not the existential quandary?’. ‘Yeeeeahhhh’ said Molly, looking around, ‘not sure about that, also existentialism wasn’t really a thing in Tudor England’. Then, feeling like she could get away with this one shot she scrunched up her face and added ‘maybe remember that for next time’. The man scowled at her. His friend took up the back of the wheelbarrow and pulled him out of the tent. As they headed off toward the event entrance she caught the words ‘silly cow’ being thrown in her direction.

Yeah, Molly thought, she might be a silly cow. But then, maybe not. After all, she had just sent the lecherous dickhead who’d ruined her morning, her bike, and her jeans, to an infirmary over an hour’s distance away. That was pretty smart in the field of passive revenge. Plus, if her timings were right, and the traffic was as bad as she suspected, he might even get there a little later, and hopefully would turn up just in time to get lost in the crowd of rugby players and DIY enthusiasts. All things considered, in the end, this had turned into a pretty good day. Molly looked over to her colleague and gestured to the tent entrance, he caught her eye and nodded to her. Then she put on her sunglasses, stepped into the sunlight, and went in search of ye olde churros.

The End

If you’ve seen my other stories you’ll know I usually work from three words. In this case I was getting in a bad mood about Chris Evans and his constant prattling about the kids 500 word competition he does every year. To calm myself I decided to work on a 500 word story of my own, using whatever words my friends threw at me. Then I ended up having so much fun with it, it turned into 1500 words. Still, it did calm me down though. Also, I no longer listen to Chris Evans on the radio.

Words provided by a whole bunch of people: Baby (KL), bucket (HP), ‘bum in a bucket of rum’ (HP), Corbyn (AG), existential quandary (DF), feather duster (LM), frottage (DC), infirmary (RS), Jeremy Clarkson (DC), no (PJ), proctologist (LM), rapscallion (AS), retrograde (DC), sprocket (DN), surreptiously (MS), Trump – the man & the fart joke – (WJ), the end (JD), Tudor (BJ), wheelbarrow (JL).

P.S. Molly is named after Molly Solverson in the first season of Fargo. I was watching it when I started this and I liked her so much I made her name my contribution to the story.

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