Jackpot Jack: A London Farce - страница 3

His internal monologue soon spilled into the streets, escalating from a grumble to a full-blown bellow. “Greedy gits!” he roared, his face turning a shade of crimson that would make a beetroot blush. “They wouldn't know a hard day's work if it bit them on their well-padded bottoms!”

Just as Jack, lost in his tirade, was about to waltz across the red light, a booming voice stopped him in his tracks. “Hold it right there, sir!”

A police constable, looking as solid as a brick wall, stood before him. '”Name, please?”

“Jack,” our hero mumbled, “Just Jack.”

The constable's face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Jack, you say? Jack… Good heavens, it is you! We've been looking for you for a fortnight!”

Jack, usually invisible as a grain of sand on a beach, was baffled. “Looking for me? Whatever for? Did I park my bicycle in a restricted zone without knowing?”

“Restricted zone? No, no, nothing like that!” The constable beamed. “The Mayor himself put out the word! There's a reward, a hefty one, for Jack. You, sir, are a hero!”

“A hero?” Jack echoed, his jaw slack. “But I’ve never charged into a burning building! Or rescued anyone from a runaway train!”

“Not a runaway train, no,” the constable chuckled. “But you did rescue Mrs. Taylor's tabby, Whiskers, from that oak tree last month! The poor thing was stranded, mewling like a banshee, and you, Jack, climbed right up and brought him down. The Mayor saw the whole thing! He was touched! He declared you an honorary citizen and has insisted on giving you some compensation.”

Jack, the hero, stood there, flabbergasted. He had set out to find a villain, a scapegoat for the world's injustices, and instead, he found himself lauded as a saviour of felines. The irony was as thick as pea soup. Here he was, ready to rail against the government, and they were about to reward him for a good deed he barely remembered doing. Life, as they say, is a funny old game.

Jack, was never the sharpest tool in the shed. He was as daft as a brush and as likely to misunderstand a situation as a cat is to enjoy a bath. But he had a good heart, did Jack, even if it was sometimes buried under layers of misguided opinions and a rather alarming sense of self-importance.

Imagine, then, his delight when he received a whopping £500 for rescuing Mrs. Taylor's Whiskers from the clutches of a particularly lofty oak tree. Five hundred pounds! It felt like winning the lottery, a prize fit for a king! “Life,” he mused, a smug grin plastered across his face, “is a funny old sausage, isn't it?”

Humming a jaunty tune, as out of tune as a bagpipe convention after a power cut, Jack turned the corner and nearly tripped over a sight that made his jaw drop. Dozens, scores, a veritable army of pensioners, were pounding the pavement, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, in what appeared to be a 10k marathon.

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, nearly swallowing his chewing gum. “They're off like a shot!”

His face crumpled in horror. “Madness! Absolute madness!” he sputtered, his voice rising in alarm. “They're running headfirst into their own doom! Cardiac arrest, strokes, broken hips! I can see it all now! Their blood pressure's probably hitting the roof! They should be at home, tucked up with a nice cup of tea and “Antiques Roadshow”!” He envisioned ambulances screeching, paramedics frantically pumping chests, the whole scene a catastrophic symphony of wheezing and snapping bones. Yes, Jack was a walking, talking tragedy magnet that day.