Think about it.’ĭunce told me that Kitty had a thing about ice cream cones, a fetish you could say. ‘Enjoy it while you can but face facts: you are Dunce and she is Kitty Malone. Not ‘fell for’ as in ‘was deceived by’ because there’s no deception where Dunce is concerned, he can’t do it, but she fell from her deceptions towards him. Twelve hours later and Dunce was in love! How about that? And what’s more, Kitty was in love too! And not only that but they were in love with each other! Kitty fell for Dunce. She walked over and invited him to her dressing room. She seemed to be fascinated by the top of his head. The play got a standing ovation and we headed for the bar. He didn’t speak or look at me until the play was over. I watched Dunce’s face change from shock to confusion to understanding to embarrassment. No one really shot me,’ Kitty hissed at Dunce. What a birthday treat this was turning out to be. ‘No I’m not!’ Kitty hissed at him through clenched teeth. Kitty was stoically sticking to her role, thinking that the show must go on, but Dunce was clambering up onto the stage, crying, stroking Kitty’s hair and checking her pulse. ‘This is wonderful, just wonderful,’ I heard someone say behind me.

‘How can you carry on as if nothing has happened?’ ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Dunce shouted at the audience. The audience thought that Dunce was an actor, that the play was being cleverly extended beyond the stage, questioning the boundaries of theatre.

‘Someone call for an ambulance! And the police!’ The lights came back on and Kitty was lying in a pool of blood. Kitty Malone, the beautiful star of the show, was stood centre stage. He stared at the actors with a gaping mouth. ‘No, Dunce, I’ll eat it later,’ and stashing box number sixteen in the cupboard, I decided to take Dunce to the theatre. Dunce thinks that because I wear a fez I must be Turkish (I’m not) and that being Turkish I must like that powder-covered gunk (I don’t, I hate the stuff). I don’t have to use my memory to work that out I just count the number of boxes of Turkish Delight I’ve got stashed in my cupboard. My name is Bill but Dunce calls me ‘Fez’ on account of my hat.

They swear he has a third eye under there. ‘What’s underneath the plaster, mister? Show us!’ Trouble is he can’t afford to have it removed so he wears a big plaster over it. I used to think so too but not any more.ĭunce is completely bald and has a really pointed head so the temptation to get him paralytic on his thirtieth birthday, carry him to the tattooist’s and get a nice big ‘D’ smack bang in the middle of his forehead was too much for me. I hope you enjoy it 🙂Įveryone calls Dunce ‘Dunce’. This week’s short story is Mike Russell’s Dunce.

Nothing Is Strange by Mike Russell