Pinocchio and Rapunzel, the final two members of the celebrated brute squad; a more vile and cunning pair of assassins you will never meet. We had a day’s grace before the deadly duo caught up to us at a farm just outside the city.

The doll who would be a boy - what a joke.

“C’mon you termite ridden piece of rotten wood,” the Stranger yelled in defiance.

All I wanted to know is “what do we do now?” Before I could get an answer Pinocchio struck; filling the air with lethal poisonous five inch long splinters that barely missed out vitals. They shot out of secret compartments all over his body. Although small and meek looking in appearance, Pinocchio was a mean son-of-a-bitch. Which shouldn’t be surprising as his mentor was the great and all powerful Jimmy Cricket - but that’s another story. We had our hands full with his prized student.

“Time to pay the piper old man,” Pinocchio taunted the Stranger. “I’m going to fill you with so many splinters that you’re going to resemble a pin cushion.”

“Pretty big talk for a little wood pecker,” the Stranger responded in his own taunting deadpan manner.

So the battle commenced.

Several splinters struck the Stranger in his right arm but his leather coat stopped them from penetrating into the flesh. I tried to circle around the little menace but he was fast, light on his feet and no matter how hard I tried I could never get the jump on him. Pinocchio’s speed would be our undoing, I was sure of it. But as always the Stranger had counter measures. For all of Pinocchio’s deadliness he has one weakness, beneath the skin he was still wood.

“Time to make woodchips,” the Stranger said, as he pulls out a small hand chainsaw from within his coat. When he put it there, to this day, I still have no idea. One thing for sure little Pinocchio wasn’t so cocky of success anymore. He relied on speed and stealth; the chainsaw changed the field of play. The Stranger went after him, the chainsaw’s engine spluttering to life as the blade began to spin.

We would have had the little bugger then and there but for Rapunzel.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” Pinocchio cried out.

And let down her hair she did.

Like Medusa her golden locks unfurled like a bunch of snakes lashing out at us. Her strands of hair wrapped around our bodies like a Boa constrictor, holding us tight as they began to squeeze the life out of us.

“Isn’t my hair just beautiful,” she commented, “so thick, strong and shiny.”

“Most beautiful,” Pinocchio says as he approached. “What shampoo do you use?”

“Why none, it’s all natural.”

“Well, then, squeeze the living daylights out of them.”

“Don’t you want to play with them a bit?” She asked.

“I’m done playing games,” Pinocchio told her grimly.

I felt the life begin to drain out of me. It was like being held by an octopus, her tendrils were everywhere, lifting us several feet off the ground.

“Wait”... the Stranger croaked out.

“Why should we?” Rapunzel asked.

“Because you’ve made a mistake.”

Rapunzel and Pinocchio looked at one another in puzzlement, but only for a moment.

“It’s you who’s made the mistake old man. You’ve killed too many of our brothers and sisters, but now it’s your turn.” Pinocchio’s words had finality about them.

“You made a mistake I said,” the Stranger insisted.

“What,” Rapunzel asked again.

“You kept talking instead of killing,” he responded as his left hand broke free holding an unlit match, which was quickly ignited by a flick of his fingernail. Within moments Rapunzel’s beautiful, thick and lush golden locks were alight. The flames ran quickly down towards her head, instantly freeing us from our binds.

Rapunzel burst into flames.

The Stranger, dropping to the ground and continuing in one fluid motion, grabbed the fallen chainsaw, brought it to life, and then brought it to bear upon Pinocchio. The blade cut deep into his shoulder and kept on going as the doll who wanted to be a boy was severed in half and became a pile of woodchips. The Stranger always kept his word.

And so ended the ballad of the Brute Squad.

The once mythical warriors of the Dreamer.

Done and dusted.

Next it would be Frosty the Snowman’s turn as we drew ever closer to finding the Dreamer.

Peter Jessop © February 2017