Village madman

He would stand out side the crumpled council house, the houses I feared from my own, just one road down. And on my way to school, I would hear his yells, his cloud like hair spun above his head, his stick waving; a rabid, rampant preacher. And of course, he knew my name, knew I was late, quite how I never bothered to question, as everyone’s business he seemed to adopt. He was the genius mechanic, who as a child killed three guinea pigs with his bare hands, sent the local vicar mad. Not one person had a bad word to say about him. This ever present immaculate imbecile.