Officer Punch
Officer Punch
Gather ’round now, fellas; I’ve a truthful tale to tell ya. This account of the happenings of last night will have ya wonderin’ if yer forever safe out there, ’specially at night. I had a run-in with an Officer Punch that still has my heart afire and my brains ascrambled. This happened just last night, as I told ya, before the morn, when the night was Indian ink and the cold dew on the grass was no friend to yer trousers.
I had to summon the county officials, on account of me being robbed, and they sent over Officer Punch, much to this storyteller’s initial dismay. I described to the officer part of the occurrence I’m about to relate to ya right now. But, ya know, I’m ahead of myself already, so let me commence at where it starts off for real.
My good pal, Scrim, and I went out to the fields behind the dormitories there to catch a glimpse of the meteor shower appearin’ in last night’s sky. This was half past two, best time to see ’em, ya know. After we had our fill of the celestial rainfall, we parted; he went back to his room, and I to the student lounge for a cup of somethin’ hot. Wouldn’t ya know, I fell sound asleep in one of those plush sofa seats that are in there—ya can’t blame me now, it bein’ that late and all. Well, a most terrifyin’ nightmare roused me in due time—three thugs from town were kickin’ my legs and beatin’ me with fists, and they were spittin’ on me as well. Let me tell ya, I woke up to find this was no dream, but a real scuffle, and to top it off, they robbed me of my journal.
I demanded the night manager call the authorities for me to get my book returned from those dastardly hooligans. After a while, Officer Punch sauntered in, all superior-like, and after announcin’ rank and name, asked what the trouble was at that unholy hour of the night. Well, I was already a bit out of my head, and after hearin’ the copper’s introduction, I was even more in a frightful state. So I detailed the sad events, only to be given in return a distasteful smirk and a skeptical raised eyebrow. Officer Punch asked for a description of the punks, only with a disbelievin’ attitude and showin’ a bit of cheer, which I found disheartenin’ considerin’ my predicament. I said I was knackered, ya know, and they wore bloody masks, see, so even if I had me a sorcerer’s wand and made them appear right there and then, ya wouldn’t be able to identify the buggers.
This Officer Punch treated me as a criminal, not a victim, grinnin’ like an eejit when I told the story of my missing journal. It was my grandpap’s, ya see, from the war—a family heirloom, a piece of my history. He was an airman, a parachutist to be exact, and he’d drop into enemy domain from a low-flyin’ spy plane and note down territorial landmarks for the ground troops, right there in that same book those damned thieves nicked from me. He’d given me his journal when I was but a mere ten years of age, and I’ve had it ever since. I take it with me on all my travels, in case I need me some inspiration, ya see.
Now, tellin’ this grim tale of misfortune, ya would expect a sympathetic ear, a pout of condolence even, some words of encouragement that I’d get my grandpap’s journal back before I could even shower and get some breakfast in me. But nary a sign of pity, barely a note of commiseration. This Officer Punch does the one thing ya would never ’spect—a chuckle, and a debilitatin’ one at that. Now, I’m a man who has a certain amount of pride, see, but this officer eroded that pride with a single snicker. I’m sure if I’d’ve had me a maggot-finding glass or even a microbe-scope, I wouldn’t’ve discovered an iota of compassion in the heartless being who wore that uniform.
So, I asked Officer Punch, with a bit of disdain in my voice, not gonna lie, what the issue was that seemed to be so amusin’. Well, I tell ya, things turned right around just then, and my opinion of that copper changed from cold-hearted bastard to playful pixie, for, ya see, Officer Punch had the goods on me the entire time. I was told, with good humour, that I didn’t have a scratch on me, and my grandpap’s journal was wedged between the cushions of the sofa, exactly where I endured my troubled slumber.
I must say, boys, when Officer Punch solved this blasted mystery and cracked a warm, hospitable smile, I fell straight down in love with that woman right there and then. Her shining, green eyes and soft-as-rain voice sent a cupid’s arrow, a dagger of desire, a thunderbolt of sweet, bloody affection right through my unsuspectin’ heart. Now, I could tell she was havin’ a bit o’ fun with me, but I knew with some certainty it wasn’t the cruel, heartless kind, but a teasin’, sentimental variety, if yer sails catch the gust of what I’m speakin’.
She and I sat down on that very same sofa-of-suspense and, with a genuine interest, mind ya, she inquired about the contents of my treasured notebook. We had a grand time readin’ some passages and carryin’ on like, and I can tell ya, some romantic feelings were sittin’ atop both those cushions, sure.
So lads, this is what I’m drivin’ at—if yer havin’ a troubled time, whether it’s in yer head or an actual distress, stay the course and see it through. It could very well turn out to be a misplaced notebook and an unnervin’ dream. And who knows, ya just may end up with a kiss on the cheek and the promise of many more.
My first thought was “ No! Not his journal!” so I’m very glad it turned out OK in the end