This weeks words: Conceit Android Illeist (A person who refers to themselves in the 3rdperson) Fizzle Zinc Mischief Brick Strangle Intersection Ghetto Ridicule Draftsack (a bag of garbage, figuratively a big belly)
You could never say that the man we called The Fizz was in any way shape or form a conceited man. Robert Fizzle lived two doors down from me on Morpeth Road. The Fizz was to put it mildly a gentle man. Though you could be forgiven thinking he was more than he really was should you happen to eavesdrop at the monthly Morpeth Road Book Club meeting as you’d hear The Fizz waxing lyrical about the poetic conceits of Johns Donne and Keats.
All this of course belied the fact that The Fizz was a large man. His draftsack appearance he used to his advantage for as a part time weekend axe murderer you could be mistaken should you be ear marked as a victim for thinking he was a harmless old man making his way in the world free from whatever mischief might come his way.
In fact The Fizz took his job very seriously, and should you know about him and be so bold as to ridicule him, LOCK YOUR DOORS!!!
I liked the fact that whenever you drew him into conversation the illeist nature of him came out. For example:
‘How are you today Robert?’
‘The Fizz is doing well thank you.’
‘Have you been busy?’
The Fizz is always busy.’
‘Had any jobs lately?’
‘The Fizz had one this morning, all done and dusted, he did a thorough job.’
The Fizz’ house was a small brick bungalow built well back off the street. In the front yard and hiding much of the house grew a variety of vines that threatened to strangle you should you linger too long under them as you made your way into his yard. The Fizz wasn’t much into home maintenance preferring the more ghetto type appearance of his house for he argued that the look kept the hawkers out.
So whilst he wasn’t much into care of his place he was into technology. He owned six android phones and devices, why I have no idea but when he wasn’t out on a job, and lets face it a part time weekend axe murderer does have a fair bit of down time, he would be playing with his technological toys, engrossed in whatever new game he had discovered.
I did take him out once, it was a weekend when he had no jobs on and I suggested we go to the beach. I picked him up at his front door, well sort of an estimate of where his door might be and he emerged from his house his face covered in zinc cream his way of guarding himself from sunburn and as he said: “The Fizz has a fear of skin cancer and likes his face the way it is.”
As we approached the beach we came upon a busy intersection and with traffic heavy and for reasons best known only to the Fizz he took it upon himself to whip out his latest android device and begin filming the traffic providing a running commentary with his recording. It was all fairly innocent until he got out of the car and stood on the median strip, camera held up filming the comings and goings of the traffic.
The sight of this man swathed in zinc cream, his draftsack gut protruding from his shirt standing in the middle of the intersection brought about honks from passing cars and ultimately a pile up of cars as drivers attentions were diverted from the road.
The Fizz well pleased with the mischief he had caused smiled at me as he climbed back into my car:
‘The Fizz has done good. They ridicule the Fizz at their peril,’ he said eyeing off what I perceived was a potential victim.