As we would expect, Mr. Punch hits Judy with a bat until she’s dead. It’s not confirmed she’s dead, but certainly she’s in bad shape. Naturally, the Law and the Hangman come after him, but Mr. Punch defeats them as well, thanks to his bat, while we cheer him the whole way.

Next Mr. Punch turns to the members of the audience, you and I. He hits us with his bat, cracking our bones and blacking our minds. It’s funny with the first few but less so as he moves toward us. The park cop on the horse comes by, and Mr. Punch drops him in a single blow. Now it’s off to the playground, the cute tykes on the swings and jungle gyms. They’re short work, along with their parents, and Mr. Punch spirals out into all walks of society, his bat felling any who stand before him. Police and firemen and the National Guard. The United States Marine Corps. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Jet fighters drop from the sky. Tanks sputter and stop, bat-shaped creases right down their middles.

Mr. Punch moves from land to land, subjecting the people to his relentless bat. None knows what he wants. He speaks no demands, takes no hostages, remakes no nation’s constitution with himself as autarch. Economic embargoes don’t do it. Nuclear weapons don’t do it. Sacrificing a virgin a day gets us nowhere. It seems that Mr. Punch will have his way, his way being a bat to the head of every man, woman, and child on this great Earth. And then what?

Mr. Punch looks to the stars, wistfully.

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A recent Pushcart Prize nominee, Ptim Callan's fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in over twenty literary magazines including Mississippi Review, ZYZZYVA, Third Coast, and Fiction International. His independent films have been screened at major film festivals. He took his English degree from UCLA where he studied writing under Robert Coover and John Barth. His name is pronounced "Tim." Read more at www.ptim.org.

This piece was first published in INK POT #2 - 2003, a literary journal.

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