Many people in the town regarded Billy as a total pest.
He was always in trouble, mainly for spraying graffiti over their nice clean walls. The town was very proud of their lovely clean walls. In fact, they even used to boast of their lovely clean walls.
Till Billy came along and wrecked everything.
The police hated him, the shopkeepers hated him for spraying their lovely clean walls with graffiti, the town magistrates got tired with the way Billy used to appear in front of them week after week.
The magistrates used to say things like ‘Oh no, it’s not young Billy again, he was up in front of us just last week. What’s wrong with the lad? Why can’t somebody give us a rest?’ But sadly, life is not quite like that.
Billy was the cross the town had to bear.
Then someone introduced Billy to the idea of shading his artwork, giving his work shape and form. Maybe an art teacher lay behind Billy’s transformation.
From that moment on his handiwork, as he used to call it, came on by leaps and bounds. As Billy used to say, the art teacher made his work far more professional. Like a real artist. Then, there was no holding Billy back. He worked at his graffiti like a true professional
If, up to that moment, Billy had been the bane of people’s lives, now (having been introduced to the idea of making his artwork professional,) he became a changed man. The Police still hated him; maybe they always would.
‘Spotty, silly youth,’ as the magistrates would, no doubt, as a body, call him. ‘Oh the waste,’ the magistrates used to grumble, to themselves, mainly because there wasn’t anyone else listening to them.
It was just as this was happening that another miracle happened. Someone kicked Billy on the bottom. Only it wasn’t someone from the town, as you’d expect.
It was Billy’s own drawing that had kicked him on the bottom. Suddenly, with no warning at all, this fist appeared from out of his own artwork and kicked him in the bottom.
‘Gotcha!’ said the artwork ‘You deserved that,’ and hit him on the bottom again, just when he was least expecting in. The thing was that the first time it happened, Billy had his back turned. Grabbing another tin of paint. Now, it was round the back of Billy that the kick came from.
Billy was astonished. Nothing like that had ever happened to Billy before.
‘Serves you right for not expecting it,’ said a voice ‘if you start drawing me with real fingers, what else can you expect?’
‘Idiot,’ said the same voice, ‘Brainless boy.’
‘Who said that?’ said Billy, now thoroughly demoralised and deeply confused.
‘Actually, it was me,’ said the artwork. From Billy’s shoes.
‘I wish you would stop moving around. It’s not fair, confusing me like this,’ said Billy, his voice rising to a crescendo of panic.
Now there was a changed voice, and this one came from the direction, as far as Billy could tell, from Billy’s pants.
‘Oh my God’ wailed Billy ‘I’m surrounded. Kicks from one direction, kicks from another direction. I give up. I surrender. Help! Help me! Please, I’ve given up graffiting for ever. Promise! I’ll never go painting nice clean walls again.’
Billy started to blub. Great sobs burst from Billy’s tortured mouth. He hadn’t blubbed like this for ages, not since he was last attacked in the play-ground and that must have been when he was quite little.
Then he’d become a bit of a bully himself. In his final year at school. He’d enjoyed the power, like he enjoyed baiting the magistrates.
Poor old Billy, he was cornered. By his own artwork. Sobbing, Billy gave up and never did graffiti again.
Instead, Billy became quite a famous artist in his own right, specialising in painting famous people’s portraits. For oodles of money, of course. Sometimes Billy used to give lectures on how to admiring audiences of Private school children on to become a famous artist. But only when the money was right. Billy charged a lot for his lectures, which was why he only gave talks to Private schools. Later Billy became world-famous and charged for his profession advice. Billy enjoyed that.
Being famous, that is..