Wordsmoker

It was a dark and rainy night. I was visiting an old friend of mine who had ran out of meat for his pet tiger, Derek. As I drove along windswept road after windswept road at low speed, ever mindful of the six dead badgers wrapped in a Hessian bag on the passenger seat, I suddenly heard a noise like a gunshot. My car started to veer over the road like a drunken child, but I managed to keep control of it, and shuddered to a halt in front of a big tree. I was lost in a forest, surrounded by more big trees – and something else. Something worse than a big tree, or a sizeable bush. Death stalked the forest that night, my friend. Death in the form of badger rustlers.

They’d shot at one of my tyres, and it had burst like Obama-fuelled optimism in 2009. I exited my car to see the damage. True enough, my starboard tyre was completely deflated, like an old man’s penis. I started to panic. I’d heard that badger rustlers worked these roads – the traffic was easy pickings, as it was common knowledge that Derek the tiger ran out of fresh meat on a regular basis, and dead badgers were all he would eat until his usual supply of food was re-established. Of course I knew I was taking a risk that night, but my love and all-encompassing fear of Derek had driven me to extremes. I had to get some badger in his mouth. I just had to, no matter the risk.

I ran to the stern of my car to get the spare. In the wind and rain, I never heard the second gunshot until it was too late. My port mirror exploded in a shower of glass and ABS plastic, showering me in glittery bits and messing up my hair. I was under attack. Under attack from somewhere.

Under attack from someone.

I had no other choice but to continue trying to change the spare. I huddled around the stern and got the spare out of the trunk, or “lorry” as we call them in Scotland. I clutched it to my chest under the knowledge that it was my only hope of making it out of the forest alive. The vulcanized rubber marked the light Summer dress I was wearing, but I didn’t care – I had to change the tyre – or die.

Suddenly a tall, languid figure appeared in the bow headlights. He was dressed casually, but looked smart enough to take to any function with an open buffet. I gasped in shock at his striking features. Features I’d seen in independent cinema from the late ’90′s. Features I’d seen on my television multiple times. Features I’d heard about from women, soft features, but masculine – caring, yet gentle. Deep soulful eyes, eyes that seemed to mourn the misery of existence. Eyes that spoke to us all.

It was Ryan Gosling.

Before I could say the words “Hello, Ryan Gosling” he grabbed the tyre from my hands in a deep, soulful way. I was frozen both with shock and cold, a cold that picked away at the straps of my dress, that made my nipples erect. The only thing keeping me alive in that moment was a deep, soulful warmth from Ryan Gosling’s eyes. It surrounded my soul like a dream blanket, like body temperature piss from a speciality prostitute you’d eventually end up killing and burying at sea. I felt safe. A deep, mournful safety.

He spoke to me. While changing the tyre.

“You know these roads aren’t safe at night?”

“I do, Ryan Gosling.”

“I take it you were ferrying meat to Derek?”

“Yes. Yes I was, Ryan Gosling”.

“He’s a funny old sort, is Derek. He still got a taste for badger meat? I saw the Hessian bag in the passenger seat. Looked like multiple badgers to me.”

“I got six of them at short notice, Ryan Gosling. You know how Derek is.”

Ryan Gosling laughed a deeply soulful, bitter laugh as he tightened the nuts on the wheel.

“You’re taking a risk tonight. The badger hunters are out in force, what with it being a waning moon and so close to Easter. But I guess Ol’ Derek is worth it, ain’t he?”

For the first time that evening I laughed. I thought of Derek playing with his badger corpses, ripping the heads off and throwing the legs out of his bamboo cage with a roar of pleasure. How he plucked out their eyes with a practised claw for us to wear on our own heads. Ryan Gosling finished the spare and put the deflated tyre in the lorry.

“Yeah. You’re thinking of Ol’ Derek, playing with those dead badger eyes, ain’t ya?”

“I am, Ryan Gosling. I am.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. You get those dead badgers to Derek tonight, safe and sound. Maybe one day we’ll both wear their eyes on our own heads, my friend. Until then, I’ll keep those damned badger rustlers off your back. Now drive. Drive like the wind.”

“Drive for Derek.”

“I will, Ryan Gosling. I will.”

And with a flash of those deep, soulful eyes, he was gone. Gone into the night. Gone to distract God-knows how many badger-rustlers with his deep, soulful eyes and his cunning yet gentle woodsman ways. I got back into the car, and started the engine with a deeply soulful turn of the ignition key.

Derek ate well that night, my friends.

Derek ate well.