He was sixteen when he received his first lanyard. A proud moment. He hung it around his neck and it swung at his belly. Bounced off his belly, even. As if alive.
That day and every day thereafter, Darren Dean did not go anywhere without a lanyard around his neck. Yes, he changed jobs. Yes, he got married. Yes, he saw Rome. But never did he take a job which did not come with the guarantee of a lanyard. The lanyard, in his eyes – I would not be exaggerating to say – was considered the most reliable indicator of substance and social esteem. Proof that he mattered.
Darren Dean could not express this in words, but he felt it. Felt it in the pelvic region. When he made love to Dorrie (his inflatable sex pony), he was wearing the lanyard. When he made love to Dorrie Dean (his wife), he wore the lanyard. It tended to hit her in the face as he did so and – even though she complained that it took her out of the romance of the moment – he was deaf to reason when it came to taking off the bloody lanyard.
“I will die wearing the lanyard,” he exclaimed to his secret club of Lanyard Fuckers. They met at midnight in dimly lit car parks. There, they would eat M&S sandwiches and admire each other’s lanyards.
“Can I touch your Lanyard?” One would ask.
“May I put your Lanyard down my underpants for a brief moment?” Another would ask.
Such requests were often granted.
Darren Dean was the ringleader of the Lanyard Fuckers. There were more of them than you might imagine. Your spouse, perhaps, could be a Lanyard Fucker… You never know. People keep secrets. The Lanyard Fuckers certainly did. In fact, it became a cult. One that was willing to kill people in the name of its core tenets and beliefs. Namely, that Lanyards are central to the human experience.
Around here, we capitalise the word Lanyard.
They named and shamed people in their respective workplaces who refused to wear the Lanyard. Then, with a sense of mission and clarity of mind, they would bundle perplexed heretics into the back of cars. Take the poor slugs to Jim’s place. Strangle them with lanyards. Bury them in Bertie’s back garden. Order a curry. Have a go on Darren Dean’s inflatable sex pony. These were great nights.
Then, Darren Dean died. It feels strange to say it, but Darren Dean died. It happened while doing what he loved most – boarding a train wearing his Lanyard. But this time, his lanyard got caught in the train door as it was pulling away from the station. Accidental strangulation. It was a quick death. Fitting. He was, one would have to say, fucked by the lanyard. In many ways, it was like Romeo and Juliet.
But the Lanyard Fuckers I hear you ask… What of them? It is rumoured that they are still going. Still out there. Somewhere. Furthering the cause. Dangerous fuckers are the Lanyard Fuckers. Like rats, they’re closer than you care to imagine. This in mind, I do now strongly suggest to everyone I meet, pleasant or otherwise, don’t go within twenty yards of a Lanyard. Your life may very well depend on it.
