16. DOG ENDS

CATCH OF THE DAY

Crecy Poker has declared her first foray into the live coverage of Man Hunts in the UK a resounding success.

‘It’s sheer beaut,’ she said as her new channel Die Sports went from zero to four million subscribers in a week and the prestigious Wembley Stadium was packed to the rafters 85,000 paying an average of £100 a ticket with the guarantee of a bloodfest. So successful has this venture been and such is the interest in this Antipodean wonder businesswoman that she is rarely seen in public and when she is she usually conceals herself to afford her some privacy.

She couldn’t have chosen a bigger name in the field of the hunted than Terry Jackson-Brown, the prey famous for avoiding death and staying on the run by hiding in Royal Mail parcels. With an enticement said to be in the region of a whopping £1,500,000 Jackson-Brown agreed to appear on the famous football pitch at Wembley Stadium adorned in brown cardboard and parcel tape and duel to the death with his hunters in front of a global audience and a stadium filled with so many excited blood hungry patrons that one could’ve been excused for thinking it was instead a VampireFest.

‘Back in my day,’ said former hunt victim Devon Boucher through a computer aided voice replacer owing to his face being hideously mangled with the rest of his body, ‘we got sod all for providing the hounds with something to gnaw upon. Of course I am envious. But that’s manhunts today for you. Load of overpaid prima donnas.’

In a brilliant touch to the dramatic eight large parcels were placed at various points of the pitch with one containing the former painter and decorator now turned prey, the dogs of the Swindon & Wiltshire Hunt were then let loose to select the one to open. For those watching at home Stefan Hornet-Creeper Master of the Cambridge Counter Hunts, an elite bunch of wealthy hunting mathematicians, provided expert punditry.

‘I like how that hound has peeled off that parcel the other dogs are attracted to in the penalty area,’ he explained, ‘and is now sniffing out an opportunity at the far post. Oh… it’s just so he can have a piss.’

After twelve minutes the best move of the game occurred when one of the parcels suddenly opened itself to reveal a model of Big Ben made from Lego.

‘Jackson-Brown must be bricking it now,’ commented Hornet-Creeper seizing the opportunity, ‘we’re down to seven parcels now through no fault of his own so the odds on finding him have shortened.’

‘Shouldn’t be too long before the claret starts flying,’ remarked the commentator, Rob Sneed, as the hounds zeroed in on a large package on the centre-spot shaped somewhat like a man. Once a few of them were on the scent of it the others followed at a rapid pace and thirty hounds converged upon the parcel like it was full of canine treats.

Just then the huntsmen and women on horseback entered the field of play and the Master of the Hounds gave the signal for his charges to back off a little and give the Master of the Swindon & Wiltshire Hunt, Sir Simon Bedigree, room to access the package and open it with theatrical aplomb for the pawed beasts to feast themselves. He dismounted and rather like a matador he approached Terry Jackson-Brown’s concealed person as if taking a vital role in his public demolition. But before commencing the coup de grace he was approached by the grinning, popular TV presenter Howard Yondell.

‘Are you sure as Hell, that’s the guy you’re after,’ he said before adding after consulting a cue card, ‘the guy from Wiltshire, Terry Jackson-Brown?’ Yondell in his immaculate tuxedo placed the microphone under Bedigree’s sweaty nose.

‘I will be soon, Howie,’ he responded and produced from the pocket of his red hunting jacket a tape measure. ‘That Jackson-Pillock is five feet eleven and a half. Allowing for the packaging we reckon that this parcel should be six foot one and three-quarter inches to accommodate him.’

The crowd that had been coerced into a crescendo of noise by the unfolding events and the anticipation of blood fell as silent as the grave while Bedigree made the crucial measurement. Howard Yondell who’d backed away returned momentarily to thrust the microphone towards the hunter who milked every moment before he delivered the result.

‘Six foot one and three-quarter inches exactly, Howie. That’s our man.’

The parcel which had hitherto been static started to twitch and appeared to be preparing itself to make a run for it. But the Master hunter and his cohorts were having none of it. They surrounded it and Sir Simon tore into it with the hounds baying for its blood and the crowd whipped into a frenzy of excitement at the development and pure lust for blood to flow.

‘They soon made light of divesting him of the packaging,’ Rob Sneed’s commentary continued. ‘Oh my goodness, it isn’t Terry Jackson-Brown they’ve revealed, but the mass-murderer and expert doggy hypnotist Abe Gardweed who just happens to also be five feet eleven and a half inches tall and on day release from Wandsworth Prison. Although I don’t remember him being allowed to wield a foot long machete as part of the conditions of his parole?’

The carnage that then followed was so one sided a contest especially as the hounds were rendered immobile by Gardweed’s specialist training in canine hypnosis and could only look on as their masters were annihilated. Bedigree futilely endeavoured to protect himself and some of his colleagues using stuffing from the parcel.

‘Their defence was carved right open there, Rob,’ commented Hornet-Creeper. ‘They got what was coming to them. They clearly didn’t do their homework. Not knowing the heights of mass murderers has cost them dear here today.’

The crowd were enthralled. The whole of the Swindon & Wiltshire huntsmen and women were killed in a public orgy of blood and guts. They came to Wembley in their droves expecting one gory death and left massively satisfied with twenty times that number.

Terry Jackson-Brown then emerged from his parcel so much the richer for the experience. Much to the amusement of the crowd and the millions watching at home he was in the parcel on the penalty spot. But not at Wembley for he had been erroneously delivered to Fulham’s ground at Craven Cottage. Nobody at Fulham had sought to question it because it was during the transfer window and often players were acquired clandestinely to avoid the attention of rival clubs.

The massive bloodfest was a great commercial success and the loss of the hunters was chalked up to their poor preparation and trusting Royal Mail to deliver parcels to the right address.