Following another routine night of automatic weapon-related carnage, Dalston mayor Miles Toob made an emotional televised appeal for stronger gun controls in the borough.
‘I’m not suggesting we should ban guns completely,’ he said, ‘they are, after all, central to our proud Dalstonite culture and a part of our shared heritage. It’s just that I, and many of my fellow Dalstonites, believe that each household should be barred from owning more than one rocket-propelled grenade launcher and that sales of heavy calibre ammunition should be denied to the under-twelves, unless they have a note from their dad.’
He also repeated claims that there is a statistical correlation between the fact that, while Dalston is a perpetual blood-soaked hell, across the border in Haggerston where guns are more strictly controlled, only one citizen has died in a shooting since 1832, and he asked for it.
It was the mayor’s 17th such appeal to the borough this year alone. But his words met with an angry response from a representative of the Dalston Rifle Association, Charlton ‘Heston’ Calhoun. Mr Calhoun, a local butcher and freelance hand grenade importer told the Mercury: ‘We will never give up our heavy weapons. For one thing, the right to get tooled-up is enshrined in our ancient Dalston constitution. And we know the constitution is right about everything because it was written in the 18th Century by a load of slave-owning tax-dodgers wearing wigs. And if you can’t trust a dead transvestite slave owner, who can you trust?’
‘But it’s all about self-defence, init?’ said Mr Calhoun, ‘I mean, without my arsenal of Kalashnikovs, how would I protect my family from the overweening federal might of Dalston Council? And traffic wardens and that?’
When we pointed out to Mr Calhoun, who was wearing a baseball cap backwards, that Dalston Council hardly ever gunned down innocent civilians, he went on: ‘It’s not just the council though, is it? It’s villains. There’s a lot of nutters with guns around these days.’
‘Who knows,’ he ranted on, ‘if I didn’t have my Abrams M1 battle tank parked in the front yard I might have been burgled at gunpoint dozens of times. And what about zombies, eh? What are you going to do if there’s a zombie apocalypse, eh? Alien invasion? Labour government? What then? No mate, you can have my gun when you prise it from my cold, dead fingers. And even then my brother would twat you one and get it back.’
Then he said he was off to enjoy some Nascar racing, a tasteless gassy lager and a nice bowl of Grandma’s grits, whatever they are.