Christ, not so much dead as in the advanced stages of rigor mortis, this one.
Fin.
whoops I’m not dead
3 years ago
Monday, 26 October 2009
Sunday, 9 August 2009
The Failure
Here it is. The piece of writing that has let me down twice. Once in the mirror-themed contest it was first written for, again in the Glasgow to Saturn. In retrospect, I am not overly surprised. Lambast it to your hearts content before I do.
Godless
In the ponds and puddles of a thousand lands, in the antique houses of innumerable towns, were They. In the house on the hill beneath an eve of dwindling Venus and dying song, in the bedroom of the Lady, was the Mirror.
It stole no souls, as the fearful claimed. All it did was give. Nothing but. And what it gave was Truth; a virtue sought by many but rejected by all. All but the Mirror, and because it had no choice. Man was a beast of choosing; the Mirror was a natural force, bound and warped by man’s machines into a different thing. A knight in mirrored mail, with Truth as its sword. And the sword could pierce deep. A terrible thing to Man; them that made nothing but harm toward themselves.
The Mirror did not snare Narcissus or his brood. They snared themselves, never looking beyond the silvered surface to a Truth found in Nature, themselves separated from it by their own design and fated to stare blankly only at the mortal body, and never the immortal soul. The Mirror’s Truth lay unseen beneath a clouded surface of murk and deep depth where men drowned and were lost.
For Men always saw something. The brightness of a day, the darkness of an eyelid, the duality of a dream. A Mirror could and did see All. A mirror could and did see Nothing. There, reflected, the truth behind the well-kept woman’s grooming, behind the powdered eyes and rouged cheeks, the depths of eyeless sockets and jutting bone. The face of death, a funeral shroud of pampered skin décor. On the table behind her, a bound Bible, it’s pages open and a bookmark trailing across polished wood, a deep magenta against the yellowed page of Corinthians. And the sun sets with dying fire, night sneaking through the window, darkly.
These patrons of the Mirror come and go, ash in a breeze, but the Mirror remains whole. Silent. Years pass. Times change. The Mirror remains. Passed down as an heirloom, a mute bard citing only what it saw, the sands of Time within locked fast but never lying, never deceiving, though the eyes would.
In its bracket of wood it sat, for many years, now tossed hatefully upon the grass and a car drives away, in a shower of dust. The Mirror breaks upon the hard-dirt ground, made metal with frost, the autumn days now died. Fragments settle, gleam in the light. The Mirror reflects.
The dust of the retreating tyres. The shivering grass. The braying cows. The bare-faced hedge. And one side of a universe, cold as death, shrouded by a baby-blue of cloud-powdered sky. It sees much there; flaming stars, frozen voids, and the twinkling all-seeing eye of a thing that cannot be seen.
Godless
In the ponds and puddles of a thousand lands, in the antique houses of innumerable towns, were They. In the house on the hill beneath an eve of dwindling Venus and dying song, in the bedroom of the Lady, was the Mirror.
It stole no souls, as the fearful claimed. All it did was give. Nothing but. And what it gave was Truth; a virtue sought by many but rejected by all. All but the Mirror, and because it had no choice. Man was a beast of choosing; the Mirror was a natural force, bound and warped by man’s machines into a different thing. A knight in mirrored mail, with Truth as its sword. And the sword could pierce deep. A terrible thing to Man; them that made nothing but harm toward themselves.
The Mirror did not snare Narcissus or his brood. They snared themselves, never looking beyond the silvered surface to a Truth found in Nature, themselves separated from it by their own design and fated to stare blankly only at the mortal body, and never the immortal soul. The Mirror’s Truth lay unseen beneath a clouded surface of murk and deep depth where men drowned and were lost.
For Men always saw something. The brightness of a day, the darkness of an eyelid, the duality of a dream. A Mirror could and did see All. A mirror could and did see Nothing. There, reflected, the truth behind the well-kept woman’s grooming, behind the powdered eyes and rouged cheeks, the depths of eyeless sockets and jutting bone. The face of death, a funeral shroud of pampered skin décor. On the table behind her, a bound Bible, it’s pages open and a bookmark trailing across polished wood, a deep magenta against the yellowed page of Corinthians. And the sun sets with dying fire, night sneaking through the window, darkly.
These patrons of the Mirror come and go, ash in a breeze, but the Mirror remains whole. Silent. Years pass. Times change. The Mirror remains. Passed down as an heirloom, a mute bard citing only what it saw, the sands of Time within locked fast but never lying, never deceiving, though the eyes would.
In its bracket of wood it sat, for many years, now tossed hatefully upon the grass and a car drives away, in a shower of dust. The Mirror breaks upon the hard-dirt ground, made metal with frost, the autumn days now died. Fragments settle, gleam in the light. The Mirror reflects.
The dust of the retreating tyres. The shivering grass. The braying cows. The bare-faced hedge. And one side of a universe, cold as death, shrouded by a baby-blue of cloud-powdered sky. It sees much there; flaming stars, frozen voids, and the twinkling all-seeing eye of a thing that cannot be seen.
Friday, 3 July 2009
Thursday, 12 March 2009
What up?
‘What If ?’
An idea, if you please, for a new series in which we explore the possibility of
‘What If?’
In tonight’s episode, we take a look at what might have been the case if Jesus Christ had been born in the modern world.
And if his name had been Robert Kilgour.
***
It was the peak of midday in Glasgow, and the grassy garden hill upon which Strathclyde University was built around lay swamped by a multitude of people in airy sarongs and loose-fitting robes, that being the style of things at the time. The sun was relentless, and beat upon them with a ferocity that drove a few back and tested the resolve of the others. But the crowd, for the larger part, remained; something special was on the way.
“D’you think he’ll come?”
“Is he really six feet tall as they say?”
“I heard that he’s a First Grade Lieutenant on Halo Online-”
Someone in the crowd shushed them. For there, on the peak, a man in a navy-blue felt hoodie and long dark hair appeared, standing on the crest of the hill. He trekked to the very top and stood there, his legion of followers staring up in adulation at the prophet, the saviour, the-
“Arrriba!”
Silence swept across the hillside. The Saviour just stood there, thinking what to say next. He tried another random noise.
“Huaaah!”
“He’s so manly,” whispered one awestruck follower.
Indeed, all eyes were fixated on this miracle of the modern age. His name was Robert, and he was the Son of God. So it goes. Bob carefully reaches into his rucksack and produces a home-made chicken tikka roll. When sure he had everyone’s attention, he reached forward…and took a bite out of the roll.
A susurrus of astonishment rippled through the crowd.
“Mein God!” declared a suspiciously dressed follower. “He ist eating ze roll! Heil Saviour!”
“Heil! Heil! Heil!” chanted the crowd.
Everybody loves Bobert, thought Bob. Except Bobert…
***
They followed him from the hill, all sixty thousand of them, and waited patiently outside the Livingstone Tower as The Saviour attended a tutorial on Literature Culture and Technology. When he re-emerged, he noticed a tall gentleman with mad eyes and a wispy goatee standing at the head of the crowd. When he saw Robert exiting the tower, he flung his arm toward him in supplication.
“Mein Fuhr-Saviour!” the man cried. “Your people have vaited patiently for you here! But! Ve have followed you for nearly ze hour and ten minutes and have not eaten and now consider eating the genetically weaker among us for sustenance and for the better survival of the STRONK!”
Rob took this news very seriously. To show just how seriously he was taking it, he put on his Contemplative face.
“Hmm,” he said. “No food and no play does make Rob a dull boy…but then food is for losers. What you boys need is a little consoling from Mr. Daniels and Mr. Jack!” he held up his hand for the high-five. “Alright!”
The followers stared at him, wondering who the hell he was talking about.
“So, yeah,” said Robert, lowering his hand and nodding soberly. “Who wants to join the revolution that is Burger Thursdays?” (diving sideways motion).
This caused an excited stir. Amongst them, the soon-to-be disciples decided that this ‘Burger Thursday’ must in some way be a holy day, the day of the Saviour. After little deliberation, the self-appointed spokesman of the group delivered their reply.
“Ve vill follow you, O Lord!” he cried. “And where iz thiz Burger of the Aryan Thursday to take place-munchen?”
“In a little place I like to call…the Ark.”
“Oooooo…” chorused the crowd. “Ahhhhhh…”
***
And so it was on the upper floor of the Ark that on every Thursday, burgers were to be had by all men of all races, yea, and falafel to be ordained by David the Disciple of Partying as the Vegetarian Option. And so did the disciples of Bob eat and drink and make merry and there was much rejoicing in the Lord’s name.
“This is my body,” said Robert, holding up the bread of his buns. “And this is my blood.” All the disciples stared at the cup brimming over with Jack Daniels in awe. He began to pass the cup around.
“This’s a lot of bread!” said one disciple, through a mouthful.
“That’s what she said!” replied Robert.
“May I have some more bread, O Saviour?” said another.
“You can have as much ‘bread’ as you like, stud! There’s more than enough of these buns to go round!”
When the cup and buns had been consumed, Bob looked spent. He sagged but was supported by his beau, Ruthless Magdalene, who sat on his left side.
“Let it not be said that Bob is not a generous host,” he said groggily. “’Cause like always, I give so much and you all take too much.”
Listening to this speech on goodwill, selflessness, and general nuggets of ambiguous wisdom was disciple number thirteen, Jonas Judas, (Jim-Jam for short) and he was looking at the table and stabbing it with his fork.
He was irate for many reasons. One was that his own burger had been delivered last and was therefore cold. Another was that he had a bad flu and it was affecting his ability to swallow; a massive inconvenience. But third and foremost, he was pissed off because Bob had beaten him one too many times at Smash Bros. for a man to remain wholly sane.
As he thought thoughts of betrayal, Bob looked right at him, as if sensing the thoughts there.
“Jim-Jam,” he said.
Judas sat bolt upright like a rabbit in the headlights.
“Y-yes?”
Silence ebbed through the Ark. Bob’s eyes bore into Judas with weighty gravitas.
“Buy me a drink,” said Bob.
***
And so it was that Judas the Traitor went direct to his nearest police station and arranged with the police a deal, who wanted The Saviour off the streets before he could contribute any more to the mass crisis of over-population present in the country; that and the outstanding multiple charges of assault with a deadly weapon they were looking to bring against him. (The defence being: “I never heard any complaints at the time! Alright!”)
They paid Judas his silver pieces of bounty money and arranged a sting. Judas met Bob in the very grassy hill in which he had delivered his first speech to the masses, and approached him with purpose. Bob watched him approach with a bemused expression that twisted into mock grumpiness.
“Hey, stud,” said Bob. “What’s the man chat with you?”
Judas reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Bob gave him a Look.
“Are you trying to out-gay me, Judas?” he asked after a moments pause. “’Cause if you are; BIG mistake!”
As Bob ground his hips against a disturbed Judas’, the SWAT team moved in for the arrest. They slapped handcuffs around Bob’s wrists and bore him away toward the paddy wagon waiting on the street outside. As the doors were locked, Bob put on his Angry face.
“Aw, fuck’s sake!” he said, with feeling.
***
That night in the cells, Bob reflected on his life so far. Or at least he would have if he was one to procrastinate. Like I would ever do that! he thought, with a wry mental smile to himself.
He lay down on the cell bunk. Just as he was about to get some proper sleep for the first time in years, the cell wall burst open in a shower of stone! Through the gaping gap swept a man in officious black clothing, his black tails trailing in the wind, his top hat perched precariously on his head, his shiny shoes glinting in the ebony light of the cell. As he stood, he straightened the hat on his head, with a winning grin.
“Never fear!” he cried. “I am here, if I may be so bold as to forgo an introduction first!”
In this troubled age of yore/
Roam the arseholes and the scum.
Never fear these men again,
CAPTAIN FORMAL’S HERE!
He wears a cloak and top-hat/
He’s always well turned-out!
And if your clothes are quite the mess/
He’ll rebuke you with great force!
He’s the manifest of manners/
The paragon of polite!
When Captain Formal comes for you/
You’re absolutely screwed!
So always watch your manners, folks/
And mind your P’s & Q’s.
‘Cause if you don’t and he finds out/
He will knock out your teeth!* (By Appointment)
“Huh,” said Robert, when the theme tune had died away. “Anyway, why are you here?”
Captain Formal realised he had his back to a gentleman and span round with as much speed as dignity would allow.
“Excuse me!” he said. “I appear to have the advantage of you, sir! I am Captain Formal, Champion of Courtesy, Paragon of Politeness, Master of Manners, and Defender of Debutants! Though I fear my reputation precedes me somewhat. Let it not be said that Captain Formal knows not the Humbleness of Humility!”
Robert stared at him.
“WTF?” he said, looking the formally-dressed gentleman up and down. “Well, d’you know who I am?”
“Why, yes I do!” replied Captain Formal. “You’re-
“I’m fucking Robert Kilgour!” said Robert, rudely cutting across him. “And I had a date with Ruthless Magdalene tonight so I’m in no mood for-”
Captain Formal wagged an admonishing finger.
“Ah-ah-ah!” he chided. “As we say in Bothwell, ‘Bad language is bad manners’!”
“And as we say in Lanark,” countered Rob, “This!”
Captain Formal stared at the hairy hand-gesture that hovered in front of his face. His benevolent countenance all at once flushed to that dark red of all gentlemen when faced with such vulgarity.
“Sir, you have tested my patience too far!” announced Captain Formal, slipping off his glove with which he slapped Robert about the cheeks before throwing at his feet. “I challenge you to a duel! Choose your weapon!”
“Smash Bros?” said Bob hopefully.
“Fiend! You mock me! Have at you!”
Captain Formal drove his fist into Bob’s stomach. It bounced off and Robert shook his head in a pitying kind of way.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “It looks like Robert is too manly for-
The stone cell shattered as Captain Formal’s Justice Shot shelved Bob through the wall and out into the police compound outside. As he tumbled across the ground, Captain Formal jumped after him and politely waited for Bob to get to his feet.
“Let that be a lesson to you, plebeian of Lanark!” he said, as Bob stoically stood up straight. “I will not be insulted by anyone of less than total refinement and-and-and-ah-ah-ah-AHHHHH!”
“Got your nose!” shouted Bob with glee. He twisted it until it could twist no more and then kicked Captain Formal in the Bad Place. The Champion of Chastity flew backwards in an arc and landed in a police car windshield which buckled under him.
“Oh my,” said Captain Formal groggily. “I think I‘m stuck-
“That what she said!” cried Robert, lifting his opponent bodily from the ruined windshield and pile-driving him into a nearby dustbin. As Captain Formal’s legs flailed in the air for purchase, Bob clapped his hands together.
“Takin’ out the trash!” he said happily (though inside he was dying).
“Of course you know, this means war,” came the tinny echo of Captain Formal’s voice amongst the garbage. “Though I am glad I came to you before the Busmaster. I am clearly in need of more training before I begin to tackle impoliteness in all its forms.”
“Everyone comes to Robert first,” said Robert regretfully. “And all they do is use him terribly.”
There was a loaded silence. Captain Formal stopped kicking and he took this sombrely.
“I am sorry to hear that,” came his echoing reply. “I would ask for your forgiveness.”
“Ey, no worries,” said Bob pulling Captain Formal out of the dustbin. “The important thing is that I wasn’t hurt.”
Captain Formal was set on his feet and he quickly brushed away the errant banana peels and stains covering his suit. He reached back into the bin and got his top-hat, which ahd been flattened like an accordion. He replaced the hat with a flourish then saluted, bowed, and prepared to leave. He tipped his ruined hat in respect to his former adversary and threw his arm skyward before flying into the air.
“If I may be excuuuuused!” came the echoing cry, and the dark shape of Captain Formal disappeared amongst the clouds.
And with that, Bob the former messiah walked into the sunset, never to be seen again until he resurfaced some time later in a bar, doing what he does best; out-gaying the gay community.
“Alright!”
***
And in a shiny new submarine, deep beneath the rolling blue waves of the Indian Ocean, a man seated in front of a glaring screen monitor watches the two heroes going their separate ways. They had not killed each other as he had intended, and this failure of his perfect plan to come to fruition angered him deeply. He stroked the white cat in his lap so hard that it screeched and scratched at his blood-red hoodie.
“So they didn’t kill each other, eh?” he said to himself. “Hm. Well, there will always be next time! Next time, I say! Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
“Sir!” came a crackly voice over the intercom. “We have an unidentified mass in the compactor room!”
“Show me!” demanded Tom, turning on another monitor. The monitor fizzed and hummed as the signal was piped through. He leaned forward, heart racing, unable to imagine what would be shown when the monitor warmed up and displayed the inside of the compactor room. Then the image appeared, dancing as it settled.
“My God…” whispered Tom, staring at the beast inside his compacter room.
“Blwahk” said the squid, flailing. It died five minutes later of natural causes and Tom had calamari for supper that night.
Fin
An idea, if you please, for a new series in which we explore the possibility of
‘What If?’
In tonight’s episode, we take a look at what might have been the case if Jesus Christ had been born in the modern world.
And if his name had been Robert Kilgour.
***
It was the peak of midday in Glasgow, and the grassy garden hill upon which Strathclyde University was built around lay swamped by a multitude of people in airy sarongs and loose-fitting robes, that being the style of things at the time. The sun was relentless, and beat upon them with a ferocity that drove a few back and tested the resolve of the others. But the crowd, for the larger part, remained; something special was on the way.
“D’you think he’ll come?”
“Is he really six feet tall as they say?”
“I heard that he’s a First Grade Lieutenant on Halo Online-”
Someone in the crowd shushed them. For there, on the peak, a man in a navy-blue felt hoodie and long dark hair appeared, standing on the crest of the hill. He trekked to the very top and stood there, his legion of followers staring up in adulation at the prophet, the saviour, the-
“Arrriba!”
Silence swept across the hillside. The Saviour just stood there, thinking what to say next. He tried another random noise.
“Huaaah!”
“He’s so manly,” whispered one awestruck follower.
Indeed, all eyes were fixated on this miracle of the modern age. His name was Robert, and he was the Son of God. So it goes. Bob carefully reaches into his rucksack and produces a home-made chicken tikka roll. When sure he had everyone’s attention, he reached forward…and took a bite out of the roll.
A susurrus of astonishment rippled through the crowd.
“Mein God!” declared a suspiciously dressed follower. “He ist eating ze roll! Heil Saviour!”
“Heil! Heil! Heil!” chanted the crowd.
Everybody loves Bobert, thought Bob. Except Bobert…
***
They followed him from the hill, all sixty thousand of them, and waited patiently outside the Livingstone Tower as The Saviour attended a tutorial on Literature Culture and Technology. When he re-emerged, he noticed a tall gentleman with mad eyes and a wispy goatee standing at the head of the crowd. When he saw Robert exiting the tower, he flung his arm toward him in supplication.
“Mein Fuhr-Saviour!” the man cried. “Your people have vaited patiently for you here! But! Ve have followed you for nearly ze hour and ten minutes and have not eaten and now consider eating the genetically weaker among us for sustenance and for the better survival of the STRONK!”
Rob took this news very seriously. To show just how seriously he was taking it, he put on his Contemplative face.
“Hmm,” he said. “No food and no play does make Rob a dull boy…but then food is for losers. What you boys need is a little consoling from Mr. Daniels and Mr. Jack!” he held up his hand for the high-five. “Alright!”
The followers stared at him, wondering who the hell he was talking about.
“So, yeah,” said Robert, lowering his hand and nodding soberly. “Who wants to join the revolution that is Burger Thursdays?” (diving sideways motion).
This caused an excited stir. Amongst them, the soon-to-be disciples decided that this ‘Burger Thursday’ must in some way be a holy day, the day of the Saviour. After little deliberation, the self-appointed spokesman of the group delivered their reply.
“Ve vill follow you, O Lord!” he cried. “And where iz thiz Burger of the Aryan Thursday to take place-munchen?”
“In a little place I like to call…the Ark.”
“Oooooo…” chorused the crowd. “Ahhhhhh…”
***
And so it was on the upper floor of the Ark that on every Thursday, burgers were to be had by all men of all races, yea, and falafel to be ordained by David the Disciple of Partying as the Vegetarian Option. And so did the disciples of Bob eat and drink and make merry and there was much rejoicing in the Lord’s name.
“This is my body,” said Robert, holding up the bread of his buns. “And this is my blood.” All the disciples stared at the cup brimming over with Jack Daniels in awe. He began to pass the cup around.
“This’s a lot of bread!” said one disciple, through a mouthful.
“That’s what she said!” replied Robert.
“May I have some more bread, O Saviour?” said another.
“You can have as much ‘bread’ as you like, stud! There’s more than enough of these buns to go round!”
When the cup and buns had been consumed, Bob looked spent. He sagged but was supported by his beau, Ruthless Magdalene, who sat on his left side.
“Let it not be said that Bob is not a generous host,” he said groggily. “’Cause like always, I give so much and you all take too much.”
Listening to this speech on goodwill, selflessness, and general nuggets of ambiguous wisdom was disciple number thirteen, Jonas Judas, (Jim-Jam for short) and he was looking at the table and stabbing it with his fork.
He was irate for many reasons. One was that his own burger had been delivered last and was therefore cold. Another was that he had a bad flu and it was affecting his ability to swallow; a massive inconvenience. But third and foremost, he was pissed off because Bob had beaten him one too many times at Smash Bros. for a man to remain wholly sane.
As he thought thoughts of betrayal, Bob looked right at him, as if sensing the thoughts there.
“Jim-Jam,” he said.
Judas sat bolt upright like a rabbit in the headlights.
“Y-yes?”
Silence ebbed through the Ark. Bob’s eyes bore into Judas with weighty gravitas.
“Buy me a drink,” said Bob.
***
And so it was that Judas the Traitor went direct to his nearest police station and arranged with the police a deal, who wanted The Saviour off the streets before he could contribute any more to the mass crisis of over-population present in the country; that and the outstanding multiple charges of assault with a deadly weapon they were looking to bring against him. (The defence being: “I never heard any complaints at the time! Alright!”)
They paid Judas his silver pieces of bounty money and arranged a sting. Judas met Bob in the very grassy hill in which he had delivered his first speech to the masses, and approached him with purpose. Bob watched him approach with a bemused expression that twisted into mock grumpiness.
“Hey, stud,” said Bob. “What’s the man chat with you?”
Judas reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Bob gave him a Look.
“Are you trying to out-gay me, Judas?” he asked after a moments pause. “’Cause if you are; BIG mistake!”
As Bob ground his hips against a disturbed Judas’, the SWAT team moved in for the arrest. They slapped handcuffs around Bob’s wrists and bore him away toward the paddy wagon waiting on the street outside. As the doors were locked, Bob put on his Angry face.
“Aw, fuck’s sake!” he said, with feeling.
***
That night in the cells, Bob reflected on his life so far. Or at least he would have if he was one to procrastinate. Like I would ever do that! he thought, with a wry mental smile to himself.
He lay down on the cell bunk. Just as he was about to get some proper sleep for the first time in years, the cell wall burst open in a shower of stone! Through the gaping gap swept a man in officious black clothing, his black tails trailing in the wind, his top hat perched precariously on his head, his shiny shoes glinting in the ebony light of the cell. As he stood, he straightened the hat on his head, with a winning grin.
“Never fear!” he cried. “I am here, if I may be so bold as to forgo an introduction first!”
In this troubled age of yore/
Roam the arseholes and the scum.
Never fear these men again,
CAPTAIN FORMAL’S HERE!
He wears a cloak and top-hat/
He’s always well turned-out!
And if your clothes are quite the mess/
He’ll rebuke you with great force!
He’s the manifest of manners/
The paragon of polite!
When Captain Formal comes for you/
You’re absolutely screwed!
So always watch your manners, folks/
And mind your P’s & Q’s.
‘Cause if you don’t and he finds out/
He will knock out your teeth!* (By Appointment)
“Huh,” said Robert, when the theme tune had died away. “Anyway, why are you here?”
Captain Formal realised he had his back to a gentleman and span round with as much speed as dignity would allow.
“Excuse me!” he said. “I appear to have the advantage of you, sir! I am Captain Formal, Champion of Courtesy, Paragon of Politeness, Master of Manners, and Defender of Debutants! Though I fear my reputation precedes me somewhat. Let it not be said that Captain Formal knows not the Humbleness of Humility!”
Robert stared at him.
“WTF?” he said, looking the formally-dressed gentleman up and down. “Well, d’you know who I am?”
“Why, yes I do!” replied Captain Formal. “You’re-
“I’m fucking Robert Kilgour!” said Robert, rudely cutting across him. “And I had a date with Ruthless Magdalene tonight so I’m in no mood for-”
Captain Formal wagged an admonishing finger.
“Ah-ah-ah!” he chided. “As we say in Bothwell, ‘Bad language is bad manners’!”
“And as we say in Lanark,” countered Rob, “This!”
Captain Formal stared at the hairy hand-gesture that hovered in front of his face. His benevolent countenance all at once flushed to that dark red of all gentlemen when faced with such vulgarity.
“Sir, you have tested my patience too far!” announced Captain Formal, slipping off his glove with which he slapped Robert about the cheeks before throwing at his feet. “I challenge you to a duel! Choose your weapon!”
“Smash Bros?” said Bob hopefully.
“Fiend! You mock me! Have at you!”
Captain Formal drove his fist into Bob’s stomach. It bounced off and Robert shook his head in a pitying kind of way.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “It looks like Robert is too manly for-
The stone cell shattered as Captain Formal’s Justice Shot shelved Bob through the wall and out into the police compound outside. As he tumbled across the ground, Captain Formal jumped after him and politely waited for Bob to get to his feet.
“Let that be a lesson to you, plebeian of Lanark!” he said, as Bob stoically stood up straight. “I will not be insulted by anyone of less than total refinement and-and-and-ah-ah-ah-AHHHHH!”
“Got your nose!” shouted Bob with glee. He twisted it until it could twist no more and then kicked Captain Formal in the Bad Place. The Champion of Chastity flew backwards in an arc and landed in a police car windshield which buckled under him.
“Oh my,” said Captain Formal groggily. “I think I‘m stuck-
“That what she said!” cried Robert, lifting his opponent bodily from the ruined windshield and pile-driving him into a nearby dustbin. As Captain Formal’s legs flailed in the air for purchase, Bob clapped his hands together.
“Takin’ out the trash!” he said happily (though inside he was dying).
“Of course you know, this means war,” came the tinny echo of Captain Formal’s voice amongst the garbage. “Though I am glad I came to you before the Busmaster. I am clearly in need of more training before I begin to tackle impoliteness in all its forms.”
“Everyone comes to Robert first,” said Robert regretfully. “And all they do is use him terribly.”
There was a loaded silence. Captain Formal stopped kicking and he took this sombrely.
“I am sorry to hear that,” came his echoing reply. “I would ask for your forgiveness.”
“Ey, no worries,” said Bob pulling Captain Formal out of the dustbin. “The important thing is that I wasn’t hurt.”
Captain Formal was set on his feet and he quickly brushed away the errant banana peels and stains covering his suit. He reached back into the bin and got his top-hat, which ahd been flattened like an accordion. He replaced the hat with a flourish then saluted, bowed, and prepared to leave. He tipped his ruined hat in respect to his former adversary and threw his arm skyward before flying into the air.
“If I may be excuuuuused!” came the echoing cry, and the dark shape of Captain Formal disappeared amongst the clouds.
And with that, Bob the former messiah walked into the sunset, never to be seen again until he resurfaced some time later in a bar, doing what he does best; out-gaying the gay community.
“Alright!”
***
And in a shiny new submarine, deep beneath the rolling blue waves of the Indian Ocean, a man seated in front of a glaring screen monitor watches the two heroes going their separate ways. They had not killed each other as he had intended, and this failure of his perfect plan to come to fruition angered him deeply. He stroked the white cat in his lap so hard that it screeched and scratched at his blood-red hoodie.
“So they didn’t kill each other, eh?” he said to himself. “Hm. Well, there will always be next time! Next time, I say! Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
“Sir!” came a crackly voice over the intercom. “We have an unidentified mass in the compactor room!”
“Show me!” demanded Tom, turning on another monitor. The monitor fizzed and hummed as the signal was piped through. He leaned forward, heart racing, unable to imagine what would be shown when the monitor warmed up and displayed the inside of the compactor room. Then the image appeared, dancing as it settled.
“My God…” whispered Tom, staring at the beast inside his compacter room.
“Blwahk” said the squid, flailing. It died five minutes later of natural causes and Tom had calamari for supper that night.
Fin
Thursday, 25 December 2008
My ill-fated romp into the World of Romancing despite the fact that I've never...Harumph! Lets stay on topic, shall we?
Behold as I somehow manage to turn potato peeling into innuendo. Bugger.
It was a beautiful day in the August autumn fall of 1801 when news of the British Imperial Army’s defeat at the hands of the Spanish reached us through the secretly opened window in the pantry. The shoe-shiner’s son stood on tip-toes on the other side, peering in at us from beneath an over-sized peaked cap that quite dwarfed his little head. This boy came by the side of the house often at my sister’s arranging, often to relate goings on and happenings in the world we would otherwise have not seen. My sister Milly trades such titbits for what food that won’t be missed from the pantry.
She does this now, and the shoeshiner’s son who wants to be a Man full-grown touches his forelock respectfully as a fledged tradesman would do and strides off, imitating a man’s gait as closely as a distorted mirror. She locks up the tiny window and returns to her rough stool opposite mine.
“That is good news for us,” says Milly as we laboriously peel a potato each, chuck the skin into one bin, and place the revealed foodstuff into another. Milly is older than I, and my sister only through closeness and situation which, I feel unnecessary to point out now, is rather plebeian. Milly can take the skin off in one spiralling piece; I myself am left to resort to a more pedantic process of chipping away until both skin and a larger part of the potato is gone.
“How so?” I ask. I know little of political affairs, save what my sister translates to me. She sighs when I ask such questions of her, as if the ignorance foisted upon me by my lowly station strikes at her good humour and causes an inconvenience she can hardly bear .A skinned potato is flung forcibly into it’s bin, the thump making me flinch.
“The Spanish victory means less trade,” my sister explained. “And less trade means shortages, which in turn creates expense. I dare say Lady Battersby will have considerably less potatoes for us to peel in future!”
Oh-ho-ho. That one was fucking hilarious. Lets see what else I came up with-
***
She, of course, blushed at such coarse language. If she had but the courage to put him down as her sister would have! Lilly tightened her hand about the other, as if wringing the desire to scathe onto the front of her greasy apron. The rough man’s hand still rested against the alley wall, barring her exit.
“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir,” Lilly managed through a face screwed by distaste.
“An advantage I wouldn’t mind having, to be sure,” said the man with viper’s charm. “And they say a little fear is healthy to a man’s constitution.”
His other hand was creeping up to her chin. Lilly stepped back and curtsied as fast as decency would allow before scurrying back down the alleyway and onto the street. She walked quickly, trying to ignore the disapproving looks her red-cheeks and haste were attracting. The back of her neck tingled with the shame of having been seen exiting an alleyway, herself a lady, and in such a visible state of harassment. Perhaps the contours of Eve’s neck had burned so, after fleeing her own scene of the crime.
***
Deary me. Poor Lilly. She’ll be left traumatized, I’m sure.
***
The spaceship doors retracted and a ramp of some description extended from it. Mr Darcy-X mounted the extension, his boot pinning its tip to the moist earth below.
“I must leave you now, Ms. Bennett. Your lessons in the emotional complexity of human beings has taught me much. But now I must spread these teachings to my people, who await me far, far, away.”
“I believe you cannot keep your people waiting, Mr. Darcy,” said Ms. Bennet. “For if the flock did not have it’s shining shepherd to lead them by the leash, I dare not think what practises they may find themselves waking up to.”
Mr. Darcy did not reply. His antennae, buried deep into his cravat, sensed something amiss with Ms. Bennet’s tone but he could not fathom what. Instead he bade her farewell forever and entered the spaceship which flew away up into the diamond-dusted cosmos.
“I’ll never forgive you,” said Ms. Bennet, scratching her infected private parts furiously.
***
Ohh, what did you expect?
It was a beautiful day in the August autumn fall of 1801 when news of the British Imperial Army’s defeat at the hands of the Spanish reached us through the secretly opened window in the pantry. The shoe-shiner’s son stood on tip-toes on the other side, peering in at us from beneath an over-sized peaked cap that quite dwarfed his little head. This boy came by the side of the house often at my sister’s arranging, often to relate goings on and happenings in the world we would otherwise have not seen. My sister Milly trades such titbits for what food that won’t be missed from the pantry.
She does this now, and the shoeshiner’s son who wants to be a Man full-grown touches his forelock respectfully as a fledged tradesman would do and strides off, imitating a man’s gait as closely as a distorted mirror. She locks up the tiny window and returns to her rough stool opposite mine.
“That is good news for us,” says Milly as we laboriously peel a potato each, chuck the skin into one bin, and place the revealed foodstuff into another. Milly is older than I, and my sister only through closeness and situation which, I feel unnecessary to point out now, is rather plebeian. Milly can take the skin off in one spiralling piece; I myself am left to resort to a more pedantic process of chipping away until both skin and a larger part of the potato is gone.
“How so?” I ask. I know little of political affairs, save what my sister translates to me. She sighs when I ask such questions of her, as if the ignorance foisted upon me by my lowly station strikes at her good humour and causes an inconvenience she can hardly bear .A skinned potato is flung forcibly into it’s bin, the thump making me flinch.
“The Spanish victory means less trade,” my sister explained. “And less trade means shortages, which in turn creates expense. I dare say Lady Battersby will have considerably less potatoes for us to peel in future!”
Oh-ho-ho. That one was fucking hilarious. Lets see what else I came up with-
***
She, of course, blushed at such coarse language. If she had but the courage to put him down as her sister would have! Lilly tightened her hand about the other, as if wringing the desire to scathe onto the front of her greasy apron. The rough man’s hand still rested against the alley wall, barring her exit.
“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir,” Lilly managed through a face screwed by distaste.
“An advantage I wouldn’t mind having, to be sure,” said the man with viper’s charm. “And they say a little fear is healthy to a man’s constitution.”
His other hand was creeping up to her chin. Lilly stepped back and curtsied as fast as decency would allow before scurrying back down the alleyway and onto the street. She walked quickly, trying to ignore the disapproving looks her red-cheeks and haste were attracting. The back of her neck tingled with the shame of having been seen exiting an alleyway, herself a lady, and in such a visible state of harassment. Perhaps the contours of Eve’s neck had burned so, after fleeing her own scene of the crime.
***
Deary me. Poor Lilly. She’ll be left traumatized, I’m sure.
***
The spaceship doors retracted and a ramp of some description extended from it. Mr Darcy-X mounted the extension, his boot pinning its tip to the moist earth below.
“I must leave you now, Ms. Bennett. Your lessons in the emotional complexity of human beings has taught me much. But now I must spread these teachings to my people, who await me far, far, away.”
“I believe you cannot keep your people waiting, Mr. Darcy,” said Ms. Bennet. “For if the flock did not have it’s shining shepherd to lead them by the leash, I dare not think what practises they may find themselves waking up to.”
Mr. Darcy did not reply. His antennae, buried deep into his cravat, sensed something amiss with Ms. Bennet’s tone but he could not fathom what. Instead he bade her farewell forever and entered the spaceship which flew away up into the diamond-dusted cosmos.
“I’ll never forgive you,” said Ms. Bennet, scratching her infected private parts furiously.
***
Ohh, what did you expect?
Friday, 12 December 2008
Give me time...to write the lines.
Been a while since I posted anything up here. Will amend this shortly with the most AWESOME STORY ABOUT BUCKETS EVER! Though in truth it could go anywhere. I think I'lln have a stab at Romance literature that C-to-the-Louise puished me to go for. Erego...
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Frog Prince Grimm Fairy Tale
A young spoilt brat- I mean, princess, was playing with her Golden Balls (no relation to the hit *snort* comedy show) when she tossed them so vigorously that they didn't come down again. They had retreated upwards. As she lamented the loss of her playthings, a frog suddenly arose from a pond, wearing a cape and sword.
"Who be you?" said the princess, whose name was Helgus.
"I am Frog," said Frog. "And for reasons utterly unrelatedn to perversion, I shall fetch your balls for you."
And so he set off on a journey to find out where the balls had landed. Judging by the trajectory, he guessed that one would descend somewhere over East Asia. As for the other one, he had no clue but would enquire during his Travels. After a long, lonely boat ride with equally long, lonely sailors, Sir Frog disembarked onto the shores of a foreign soil. It is here that he meets Basil, the British Ninja sent to the land of the Orient asd an emissary.
"Ey! Sir Frog! I hwait for you for hlong time!"
So they set off for the forest of Aokigahara. Here the first ball should have fallen.
"Careful!" said Basil warningly. "This forest ish full of-
"Full of what?" said Sir Frog, as his friend disappeared into the ground.
To Be Continued...
"Who be you?" said the princess, whose name was Helgus.
"I am Frog," said Frog. "And for reasons utterly unrelatedn to perversion, I shall fetch your balls for you."
And so he set off on a journey to find out where the balls had landed. Judging by the trajectory, he guessed that one would descend somewhere over East Asia. As for the other one, he had no clue but would enquire during his Travels. After a long, lonely boat ride with equally long, lonely sailors, Sir Frog disembarked onto the shores of a foreign soil. It is here that he meets Basil, the British Ninja sent to the land of the Orient asd an emissary.
"Ey! Sir Frog! I hwait for you for hlong time!"
So they set off for the forest of Aokigahara. Here the first ball should have fallen.
"Careful!" said Basil warningly. "This forest ish full of-
"Full of what?" said Sir Frog, as his friend disappeared into the ground.
To Be Continued...
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