I am a peaceable man. I have no use for violence, except against politicans. I abhor it especially when it is directed towards me. I have been known to cross the road, just to avoid two old ladies bickering.
But now I am consumed with Blood Lust. In full kill mode. Compared to me, Ghengis Khan was a wussie, and Rambo made from blancmange. I am spitting tacks. Let me explain.
The place: my room in the little town of Lindos on Rhodes, where I have come to escape my creditors the English political scene.
The time: 2 am on a sweaty night in mid-May.
Dramatis Personae: Myself, a desirably property in need of repair, with only a few careless previous owners. And Godzilla, the name I have bestowed on an irritating and persistent female, currently preventing me from sleeping. For three weary hours now, we have played a game of cat and mouse, or man versus mosquito, for such is the case.
My ankles and arms are already pock-marked with the bites she and her sisters have inflicted on me during the day. Fair enough. We all have a living to make. And I have plenty of blood to spare. But why must I also donate to the night-shift?
Every time I have closed my eyes to surrender to sleep — Tzzzz! — Godzilla has zipped past my ear, and I have jerked awake, hands flailing at her vapour trail. Miles too late.
It is my ear-lobe blood she is after, of course. Your ankle blood is all very well, if you like that sort of thing. And you can keep your ordinary wrist-blood plonk. Ear-lobe blood is the good stuff, the vintage stuff, the Mother’s milk of blood.
After three hours, all thoughts of knitting up the ravell’d sleeve of care suddenly vanish. Tne big vein in my head is about to pop, the adrenaline of rage is barrelling through my veins, and I leap from bed, fighting mad.
Now begins a dual as old as Time. The tables are turned, and the prey is now the predator. Man the Hunter is in relentless pursuit of his quarry.
Death Before Dishonour!
Silently, in the far reaches of the night, we stalk each other around the room. Me, with a rolled-up Telegraph, and Godzilla, flitting noiselessly from wall to wall, proboscis at the ready.
My tormenter lands on a whitewashed wall, and sits there, taunting me. I advance casually, crabwise, trying to look as if I was hailing a taxi, the Telegraph poised for a back-hand flick.
Tableau. And then…
Thwack!
Like a coiled cobra I strike. The building resounds. The noise is picked up by several earth-quake monitoring stations.
But… there is no tell-tale smear on the wall. The Telegraph likewise is still pristine. Where is the body? Habeas , as they say, Corpus ?
A quick search reveals nothing. No tiny corpse. No arms and legs torn apart. But a sudden flash of movement reveals Godzilla, flying in lazy circles at a cruising altitude of eight feet, and laughing as she flies.
The hunt begins again. Man versus mosquito, as it has always been since the first proto-mosquito, Mosquito Rex, crawled from the primeval swamp. (Can this be right? Ed .)
A dozen times my Telegraph flashes rapier-like towards its deadly prey. A dozen times the lightning reflexes of the predator save it from the jaws of death.
Finally, battle fatigue takes its toll on both sides. Godzilla retreats to a secret lair which all my searches fail to find. And I, exhausted from the rigours of battle, lie on the bed, eyes scanning the ceiling, rolled-up paper in hand, poised for action.
Watchful. Ever vigilant…
Asleep.
Waking abruptly at seven, a hasty review of the battle ground reveals nothing. Godzilla is either in hiding or has flown in search of other prey.
But there — just there — on my ear-lobe, is a trickle of blood, where the anaesthetising stinger has pierced the skin and Godzilla has drunk her fill.
As I examine the wound in the mirror, a tiny form rises in the air before my eyes, like a Harrier jump-jet. It is Godzilla, her body swollen with my blood, gloating.
Without conscious thought I clap my hands together, flattening my torturer between them. Opening my hands, there is only a bright red smear to show where Godzilla once existed.
The blood lust is over now, the killing fever gone. The smell of death is in the air. And honour is satisfied. Both combatants have spilled the blood of the other.
But Godzilla is no more.
And Man — Man the Hunter — lives on.
