The conclusion of our brave hero's quest to subdue the forces of evil, in the form of a 330 lb defensive linebacker on horse tranquilisers (ketamine probably?)
Plan C
After a quick team huddle a plan was hatched.
It was a very familiar plan.
In Small Corner we like to keep things simple.
I was despatched to search the cars for a bazooka or a harpoon. After successfully resisting the temptation to drive off, I returned with the next best thing. Two small plastic shields. Or what Hank might call dinner plates.
Realising that possession of a shield may entail being at the front and therefore closest to Hank, I tried to hand them to my colleagues. Only one of them was stupid enough to take one. Great.
With far too much pushing from behind, we advanced slowly up into Hanks lair.
At one end of a very dark corridor was what appeared at first glance to be an igloo. A closer look suggested that it might be a very large man, wrapped in a white blanket, sitting in a corner. He looked very peaceful and my heart rate slowed a touch. This was going to be a doddle.
At the other end of the passageway was a gaggle of assorted Galactic Travellers in their night clothes, clearly roused by the kerfuffle. Hank-v-The Met was going to be their equivalent of WWF. No-one had had the time to make any placards, but Im sure I could see them passing round the popcorn. If they had a book running Id bet that the smart money was on Hank. Thats where mine would have been.
Between Hank and his fans were the remnants of a number of security light fittings and what had once been a wheelchair. Evidently Hank had an issue with switches and had preferred to turn the lights out by separating the fittings from the ceiling, some ten feet above the ground. I guessed that this might have been the much mentioned kinda scary behaviour.
Still, Hank looked kinda asleep now. Hoping he had vented his angst, we sneaked up on him.
Hello Hank
Nothing. I lifted my head from behind my shield and tried again in a slightly less squeaky voice.
You alright mate?
The blanket twitched. We froze.
Having crunched over broken glass and plastic for the last twenty paces I had realised something very important. Whatever planet Hank was currently visiting was a dark and comforting one, probably Pluto. Light wasnt something that he needed or wanted in his life right now. If that was what Hank wanted that was fine by me.
Unfortunately, I dont think Inspector School covers the etiquette of visiting 330lb men on their own planets. Either that or he was just being helpful from his position of covering our backs. For there can be no other explanation for his decision to shine a very bright torch into Hanks face. Cheers for that Guv.
Hank roared.
****! We backed off slowly.
Hank got to his feet.
******* ****! We backed off less slowly.
Hank charged.
Run! We ran.
The Pamplonese would have been impressed as we legged it towards Hanks fan club, who were now scattering for cover; popcorn and betting slips long forgotten.
Thankfully, someone had carelessly left a dismembered wheelchair in Hanks path. It would have been a wet dream for a Personal Injury lawyer, and it wasn't far off it for us.
Hank tripped.
We stopped.
Hank crashed to the floor.
We pounced.
(&to be completed&)
Plan D
You know those cartoon fights?
Where they dont want to show any actual violence to the kiddies? Instead they have a big cloud of dust, lots of sound effects and the occasional arm and leg appearing? Well this was our Plan D. It was like 5 Tweety Pies trying to subdue Brutus.
To a chorus of booing and hissing from the now very brave Hank fan club, we set about trying to restore our dignity. Our mission was to keep Hank down and apply some handcuffs. Hanks aims werent very obvious, though it was safe to say that lying down and allowing himself to be handcuffed wasnt high on his list.
Shields, batons, torches and incapacitant sprays are useless for this type of work and they went skittering off into the darkness as we dived in.
Ive got a leg! Someone shrieked.
That would be me then. I managed to get both legs in a bear-hug and hung on for dear life. It wasnt clear to me what was going on at the other end of Hank. When a 330lb man is lying on his front, and you have his legs in a bear-hug, this means that your head is in close proximity to his gluteus maximus. Everything goes a bit dark and quiet after that. I was just thankful he wasnt lying on his back.
After what seemed like an eternity punctuated by an assortment of muffled oofs , swearing and roaring from Hank; silence reigned. Without relaxing my grip I extracted my head and opened my eyes.
Three pairs of handcuffs forming a daisy chain across Hanks back had his wrists connected together. Four indistinct and panting shapes confirmed that we had all lived to tell the tale. The heavy breathing of Hank made it six for six.
The ever helpful Inspector managed to locate his torch and the enormity of the situation was revealed. Closely followed by a lot of pointing, at me, and laughing. Gee, thanks guys. I quickly moved my position closer to Hanks knees before someone got their camera phone out.
Now it was time for stage two of our cunning plan. The good thing about being in a crossed wires hospital is that they have drugs. Lots of drugs. A trembling doctor holding a syringe was summoned.
Enough to knock a bull out for hours. He assured us as he stuck the needle in Hanks posterior.
Just give it five minutes. He continued knowledgably.
Twenty minutes and three injections later, Hank was snoring peacefully.
Stage three required us to get Hank from the corridor and into the secure room. The bad thing about being in a crossed wires hospital, as we were about to find out, is that none of their beds have wheels. Nor do they have a forklift truck handy when you most need it. Even if they could find a wheelchair with all its bits still attached it wouldnt have been much use.
If youve never tried to carry a 330lb, sweaty, snoring, dead weight for thirty yards; I can thoroughly not recommend it. Not without a complicated system of winches and pulleys. A firemans lift was definitely out.
With each of us grabbing hold of a piece we lifted and staggered. Being the leg guy meant I had my arms wrapped around Hanks knees. In what I believe the Kama Sutra may describe as The Wheelbarrow position.
Im not sure if it was the combination of drugs, the fight or flight syndrome or just a dodgy kebab. But, being the leg guy in the wheelbarrow position is not the place you want to be when a 330lb man has a windy tummy.
******* ****! We chorused.
Sorry. A sleepy Hank mumbled.
****! Hes awake! With eyes streaming and trying not to breathe in, we staggered past his fan club and into the secure room.
Fortunately, Hank had gone back to snoring. Long enough for us to arrange him on the mattress, remove the handcuffs and lock the very flimsy door on our way out.
The trembling doctor seemed concerned.
What do we do if he wakes up?
Halfway to the exit door, and fresh air, the ever helpful Inspector shouted back.
Pray that hes in a better mood.
