I had scarcely spoken; yet scarcely had I started speaking, than I was spoken to… by a voice from the floor.
“Mister Speaker. Am I right in thinking that you are just going to stand there and spout forth upon your wonderful self, whilst we here in the cheap seats – and they are ‘so’ uncomfortable – have to listen to your verbal diarrhoea for upwards of an hour?”
The heckler was none other than the renowned town heckler, who went by the name of Solomon ‘The Heckler’ Hecular.
“Mr Heck-u-larrr!” I rejoindered. “Pop-u-larrr belief has it that you are a knob-head! I happen to be of the opinion that you are much more than that!”
The audience woke up to this.
“Furthermore…” I continued “Your personal standing in this community is such that if you were on fire none of the firemen in Hicksville would even consider the option of putting themselves out by putting ‘you’ out!” This was less of an insult and more of a statement of fact – seeing as the fire service were renowned for their antipathy towards Soloman Hecular since he referred to them as ‘hoes with hoses’ back in the fall of ’93. And a fireman is like an elephant as regards not forgetting (as well as being useful in spraying water at force).
That was the moment when ‘The Heckler’ gained his new nickname ‘The Crackshot Crackpot with a Slingshot Catapault!’ From all of thirty feet he levied a ball-baring into my forehead, concussing me like a yeti being Tasered. I fell ‘slump!’ to the ground, and he yelled his defiance to me and my kindred as he scooted out the back door of the Town Hall and flitted into the night.