The Tragic Tale of Dr Banksy’s Monster

‘It lives,’ exclaimed a hunchbacked assistant in unrestrained excitement as the thunder of the titans lit the sky in terror illuminating the secret Shoreditch laboratory. ‘Indeed,’ was the measured response from Dr Banksy who rubbed his hands in glee, ‘My creation, its perfect.’

Observing his fine work awakening upon the table, the medical professional stroked the hair of the beast and whispered, ‘you will change the world my child…’

As the weather shook the lab to its very foundations, the beast stirred against his restraints prompting the assistant to cow against the wall, he grabbed for a nearby broom to subdue the beast which was breaking his bonds of servitude. He was repeatedly hit across the skull, urging the beast to plead for safety with his gentle eyes but there was no respite from the blows raining upon him.

The Beast of Banksy angered and snatched the brush, bringing it down on the assistant’s head, smooshing it like a rotten pumpkin in a hydraulic press. Yelling in grief, Banksy kept brushing the brain matter off in an attempt to destroy the evidence of the murder but the actions inexplicably created that iconic piece of street art, of two gay police officers sucking each other’s face, taking a swipe at the hegemonic patriarchy with subverted nostalgic semiotics (or something).

The beast fled for the Shoreditch hills. He heard his master bellowing after him throughout the valley. ‘Baaaaaanksy, Baaaanksy comeeeee backkkk, myyyyy soooooooon, coommmmmme back.’

He stayed on the move, after drawing attention to himself accidentally creating generation defining works of street art. Between these bouts of creative hysteria, he would from time-to-time, have flashes of its previous life, of a normality now twisted into a twisted man’s twisted tale twisting satire and cultural commentary… with a twist. In his trancelike state in a Milton Keynes crackhouse, he scratched a mural of the Tardis dropping bombs on Libya to protest the BBC’S global cultural homogenization (or something like that) — the junk users, fans of his accessible street works, were beginning to suspect his involvement in the work and so Banksy slipped out the back door while the others were cooking rock.

He was back on the road again, living the living of the artisan tinker, he’d squat by the side of the road and blast an artwork out his keister which favoured the constructivism style — this particular movement encapsulated a fecal Mount Rushmore doubling as a slaves stockades, underlining the power of the people and the inevitable demise of tyrants (or something like that).

It was never easy for Banksy, not quite man, not quite beast, he had to flee from the works his affliction implored him to create, lest they consume him. Each mural, mosaic, canvas, sticker, sculpture, painting, gallery and Gaza-strip theme park, strengthened the beast in him, and further distanced himself from an old life he would never return to.

Tales of the Banksy’s exploits spread with vigour, he was the sole opposition of the incumbent government and, with his minimalism, an enemy of the world’s powerbrokers. The people shared tales of the subversive street artist in hushed tones, hoping to suffer mind paralysis by stumbling upon one of his ragtag truth bombs.

Maybot gathered the Cobra taskforce to initiate a national witch hunt to subdue the subversive Banksy before the tools of oppression were distinguished forever with overly simplistic stylised imagery designed to evoke vague anger at vague sources instilling in the public a ‘gosh darn it, I’m properly irked now’. This widespread demeanor resulted in a 6% lowering in the UK’s GDP.

Police heavies remained vigilant, art was forced underground, underground art went further underground in a move that would inevitably boggle the minds of future archaeologists. Bigots, of which there were many, would viciously speculate about that “odd boy round the corner’ probably being the Banksy, and casual artists were abducted and sent to internment camps to be re-educated, ultimately to serve the state by drawing up MayBot’s Brexit propaganda posters. ‘Strong and Stable, Strong and Stable, Strong and Stable’.

But the beast continued wandering blindly, until it ended back where it all started, Shoreditchshire. He rested his ghastly art limbs in a coffee store, spending his the coins he earned designing avant garde leaflets for a gourmet sausage shop using crying emoji instead of words. Upon ordering a double mocha mochaccino, Banksy caught her eye. The woman who would define the rest of his art life. The waitress. Jeannie Joplin. Small caring hands, piercing eyes and a smile so warm it’d melt an igloo made a connection with the beast, the likes of which he had never felt before his trancension.

Banksy intended on scrawling down a love letter for the Jeanie, his escape from the guerrilla warrior life, but the curse took control, the creative magic took control of his pen, letters became broad outlines, punctuation became minimalist shading. Instead he’d drawn a Tellytubbie with an illuminati eye for a face and a exposed beating heart where its TV stomach should be (or something like that).

Nonetheless, the scrawl, which scholars to this day still assume is the answer to the question of why we live, conveyed a very concise message of unconditional love for the waitress, the duo embraced lovingly. He whispered kind words in her ear in his Bristol twang, his giant beast hands eclipsing her face. He wished the moment would last forever, had it done so, we would not be in the awful situation we find ourselves in now…

A beat-bobby police-gentleman who happened to be passing caught a glimpse of the napkin and muttered ‘A Banksy’ before sprinting back to his automobile car.

‘Hello operator, I’m reporting an Alpha 7 B H 15 ¥ please, roger,’ he said.

The response from central control was prompt: ‘You just saw Banksy in a coffee store fall in love with a waitress after doodling her a Tellytubbie with an illuminati eye for a face and a exposed beating heart where its TV stomach should be? Roger’

‘That’s what I said wasn’t it? Roger’

The artistic hairs on the back of Banksy’s neck stood up, he was spotted, he motioned an escape but Jeannie pled ‘Don’t leave me, I can’t leave without you’. He hesitated for a moment and like that his escape window evaporated like the tears of a wounded artist seeing his love for the last time — in the middle of a warm desert.

A line of police opened fire on the beast, several bullets penetrated Banksy’s hide sparking his inevitable metamorphosis. Bulking up and becoming harrier and more aggressive, his clothes ripped, his shoes popped off, and an ape-like beast gathered Jeannie up in his hand and bounded down the thoroughfare before scaling the Shoreditch’s Empire State Building that definitely exists.

Police tanks created a boundary around the building and standard issue NYPD bi-planes unleashed machine gunfire at the beast. Up and up he scaled hoping the dizzying heights would scare off his pursuers. His carcass filled with lead as he shielded his love from the gunfire. Protecting her with his final moments.

Dr Banksy looked at the cataclysmic disaster unfolding in the skyline, his wayward child was being taken down, a perfect creation putting the good doctor on a throne equaling that of the one true God (that’s Zeus by the way).

Resting atop the Empire State Building The Banksy gathered its entrails and drew a smilie face that was wearing Google Glass specs but couldn’t see the atrocities happening before it to signify how society is being blinded to tragedy by popular media and technology (or something like that).

Jeanette’s tears fell on the artwork, distorting the lines, making the whole piece more abstract, likely gaining it more media attention. The very same media attention that was distracting people from real world issues like tree diseases and limescale erosion.

The Banksy fell from the building landing at the base, cracking the pavement with his force, somehow creating a mosaic portaging the Olympic logo as a multi wheeled tank rolling over the working class in protest of the feudal-like grasp the Games has over host states (or something like that). Upon seeing the work, the Cobra board, wracked with guilt or a chemical imbalance approximating it, committed simultaneous seppuku in front of a daycare.

Dr Banksy, the beast’s creator pushed through the crowd, to lay his eyes on the creation. ’Twas many bullets and an intense fall that killed the beast,’ he muttered self referentially, ignorant of the tale’s poorly misappropriation of the Frankenstein and King Kong mythos.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.