Land Mime Disposal

Carefully, timidly, I stepped onto what appeared to be a patch of harmless lawn, my hands clasped tightly over my eyes, feeling carefully with the bare sole of my foot.

I was uncertain whether I had found one, but I had to be certain... I couldn't just leave it there for some poor, unsuspecting soul to trip upon. By now I was quite certain I had found what I was seeking.

I knelt to the grass and unsheathed my bayonet, sliding it into the soft earth beneath the grass and levering the blade gently upward. There was something large and reasonably soft just under the grass. I lifted a little harder and caught a peek of a striped jersey. Now I simply had to identify the country of origin and the type and I was home and hosed.

Working quickly, I unearthed the mime, a post-WWII Bip, French in origin, from the Marcel Mangel School. It began to sit up so I rapped it across the head with a police baton and watched as its eyes rolled back in its head.

Uncertain whether it was awake and simply pretending to be unconscious, I motioned my colleague to take the other end as we lifted it bodily into a waiting glass tank, filled with poisoned water of unusual clarity.

Quickly, we put a heavy lid on the tank and sat on it.

The mime erupted into motion, struggling against the glass for a long time before apparently running out of air. We waited another fifteen minutes, to be certain. Tricky buggers, these French mimes.