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Forest frenzy erupts as children’s TV favourite Oakie Doke murdered in cold sap

Last   week   popular   children’s   TV presenter Oakie Doke was brutally murdered just outside his bachelor- pad-oak tree home

Oakie Doke was a celebrated local personality and friends of the helpful acorn-man displayed their disbelief: ‘What f**king cowards,’ a visibly distressed Mrs. Tickle told us, ‘can’t believe scum  like  this  are  allowed  to  roam the forest. They should be locked up behind bars forever, the c**ts.’

Reactions like Mrs. Tickle’s are all too common and the way the community has dealt with this tragic loss, although somewhat  understandable,  is  far from positive. The lynching of one Albert Corncracker – a particular low point. ‘We  all  had  our  suspicions of  Albert,’ a frog who preferred his identity  to  remain  anonymous  told us, ‘he was never really part of the community, and besides, everyone knew he was an aggressive drunk. What I reckon happened is that Oakie tried to stage a small intervention on his behalf, but Al wouldn’t take that, and he stabbed him.’

A  newspaper  is  no  place  for  idle speculation, but upon seeing the glorious – nay triumphant – display of naked chaos, this reporter could not help but be swept into the beautiful dance of the damned. I am not ashamed to say I stripped to the waist and bathed myself in the blood of Mr Corncracker that night. I feasted on the roaring flames that charred and devoured his rodent body. I laughed as if  possessed by some demon spirit as the Corncracker family wept for their innocent father.

I knew Mr Corncracker    was    innocent,    and a reporter of my stature has seen communities torn by grief indulge themselves in finger-pointing, but usually this reaction is hidden under hushed tones. It was exhilarating to see  such  unabashed  violence,  such a grotesque display of the id, thatid that I wished to leave my corporeal shackles and wash the land in a godly hellfire. The truth is, as a collective, we had managed to do so. We were at one, and we were cruel.”

But this ecstasy, like all joys that are born  from  malice,  soon  faded.  My eyes grew tight; I feared my fellow man. The blood! The blood! My heart cried, where is the blood?! I snatched up the young Hickory Corncracker, holding his squirming body like a trophy. “‘My friends!’ ” I cried, ‘“here is our unholy sacrifice!’ ” The crowd bayed and howled with hot relish. They snarled and spat. I know it is unprofessional for a journalist to dictate the action rather than observe it, but every once in a while a man must disobey his professional ethics and plunge into the aching soul. My heart burned like sulphur, my mind span in violent, whirling passion. Released from the prison that society built for me, I threw the child to the writhing  masses.  I  was  Beelzebub and the Buddha, enlightened by the darkness.”

I  began  writing  this  article  as  an obituary to a friendly woodland creature.  It  was  to  be  a  homage to a little man who was made of acorns and oak leaves who helped people. Oakie Doke was a pillar of a respectable neighbourhood. One must ask the question, what happens when the pillar is ripped from its place? Some unnamed Judas crippled this forest and the pagans revelled. I am no longer man but beast. There is a song they used to sing in this forest, when the glades were green and the water bubbled and spat. The song was an ode to the departed, and the chorus sang fresh and free. What a helpful handy man Get ready for good old mister Oakie Doke.

No one was ready for this.

I report to you now from the carcass of a tree. I write with a stick burnt into charcoal, and my page is the shirt that I ripped off my back. I am lost now and I hide from the villagers, who maraud  still,  artlessly  and  furiously. I am now imprisoned by my lucidity, my guilt. What happened here was wrong – all so wrong – and there is dark pit resting in my belly. When I close my eyes I see the ghost of Oakie Doke  though  I  never  saw  his  face, and it calls me by name though he never knew my name. ‘Declan…’  it whispers, ‘Declan…’ My name is not Declan, but I forgive this because, as aforementioned, he never knew my name.  ‘Declan…  Atone  Declan…’

The message is clear. I must forget what I once was, even if it takes me a lifetime. I must crawl across deserts, I must fight against injustice, and above all, I must do all this in the name of Oakie Doke. Though we are merely a cult now, soon we will be a religion. I am the conduit, I am the tidings. Worship me, that you may worship the countenance that only I am privileged to, the face that sleeps and dreams in my head. I must escape this sulphurous hellscape that I built out of what is good and joyous, and I must find myself a parish.

If you are interested in the teachings of the Reverend Deacon Declan, please consult your local climbing club for more details. Declan will be the one with the big papier-mâché acorn on his head.

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