Yet Another Blog

Yet Another Blog (R.I.P)

2009-10-26T04:25:00.000-07:00

Christ, not so much dead as in the advanced stages of rigor mortis, this one.

Fin.

The Failure

2009-08-09T07:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Maybe soon.

2009-07-03T16:12:00.000-07:00

A writing blog with no new writing in it.

Long may it exist so.

What up?

2009-03-12T07:18:00.000-07:00

‘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

My ill-fated romp into the World of Romancing despite the fact that I've never...Harumph! Lets stay on topic, shall we?

2008-12-25T12:21:00.000-08:00

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?

Give me time...to write the lines.

2008-12-12T07:18:00.000-08:00

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...

Frog Prince Grimm Fairy Tale

2008-11-18T08:11:00.000-08:00

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...

The MisAdventures of King Cophetua! Episode 3: Legend of the Thousand Throws

2008-11-11T05:10:00.000-08:00

‘Twas a merry day, perfect for the Yarnsdale festival of Yewing. Children played, Maiden’s danced, large men of Imposing stature engaged in manly contests of muscle and sweat which was in no way homo-erotic in any way whatsoever.
Into this scene of colour and festivalness strode a three strong party of travellers. One of noble bearing, our very own King Cophetua. One of stressed and put-upon countenance, Our King’s very own attendant Benji. One of armoured and valorous guise, the noble Knight Apprentice Windelthorpe.
“My word,” spake King, as they stood at the threshold of the festival. “Ne’er would one see as many fish in all the seas as I see fine Booty here today. Benji, Windelthorpe; we go.”
Benji’s expression went nova.
“Aiiiiiiieeeee!!!!” he screeched. “My liege! Such a place is also teeming with undesirables! Surely thou wouldst not encumber our noble friend so early into his service? Surely thou wouldst not even think of-
Benji realised that both King and Windelthorpe were gone. He shrieked again and began to run through the crowd, searching frantically.

Heading in the opposite direction, King Cophetua and Windelthorpe began to sample some of the stalls. One was a coconut shy and up stepped King with his regal grace.
“Come one, come all,” becried the teller. “A shilling for a ball, a ball to the coconut, a fallen coconut for a kiss from my lovely sister Mary over here; she’s lovely.”
Mary was indeed lovely. King’s eyebrow sprang up in a canny way.
“My good sir!” he yelled, slamming down forty pieces of gold. “I wish to have a thousand goes! Is this acceptable?”
The teller stared at the pile of gold that was nearly crushing his stall into the dust.
“Yarrrt- I mean, Yes! Yes, it is! You may partake in my many balls, sir!”
And so the legend of King Cophetua and the thousand throws begins. Long into the night, he threw balls at those coconuts but not one would dislodge the hairy brown nut from its lonely tiered fortress. At last, dawn arose, and the second day of the festival was about to begin.
“Your last ball, sir,” said the teller wearily. “Throwest your last offering to this fool’s task and set me free from the world of waking; I fear my bed needs sleeping in.”
And King Cophetua made to pitch…then stopped.
“People of the Fair!” he called to the watching crowd. “My aim hath been true a full nine and ninety-nine times plus a nine hundred! However, my efforts hath all been in vain…until now! Behold! The power of craft and wit to overcome all!”
And he ran toward the coconut sitting on it’s stick and, ball in hand, punched the coconut clean from it’s perch at last. An almighty gasp went up. King Cophetua held the ball aloft.
“My task was to knock yon coconut to floor with ball!” he cried. “This I have done! No-one said you had to throw the ball!”
And such an uproar that went up to shake the buried Lords of Gaia to wakefulness themselves. King Cophetua strode past the be-stunned teller and took his prize into his arms, his lips finding succour in a wet place at long last.
And there was much rejoicing.
“My liege!” yelled Benji as he found Our Hero at last. Windelthorpe was only just waking up and so was ever so slightly groggy. He looked at the woman who had her arms wrapped around his King and completely mis-read the situation.
“Cretin!” he yelled. “I’ll teach you to suck the life forces of my King through his mouth! HAVE AT YOU!”
The onion sword cut deep. The teller’s sister slumped to the floor with a bloody gash in her shoulder. As she sobbed with the pain, the assembled crowd stared at them in disbelief. Benji, sensing that this shock would soon wear off, slung both kissing king and befuddled Squire up onto his shoulders through sheer fear and began to sprint away over the hills. Behind them, a swarm of villagers can be seen giving chase, their farming utensils and burning torches as they rise over the crest of the hill, ready to deal damage.
“Aiiiiiiieeeeeee!!!!!” shrieked Benji, who accelerated off into the horizon.
***

More soon!

The Tennyson slaughter continues...

2008-10-31T09:13:00.001-07:00

Episodic 2: Boldly Gallivanting to where no man has Gallivanted before

“Damn that hedgy tease,” spake King Cophetua, his aide du camp Benji fast upon his heels. “Twelve of the clock and not a hoor in the nunnery spanked.”
The field road suddenly petered out into a clearing, which rolled out before them and ended in a smattering of fern trees. In the middle of this clearing was a crude circle of Standing Stones, erected by druids in some long forgotten ritual. A light turned on in the King’s eyes.
“A rumour one hast heard, of ladies nubile to these places come,” he said, eyes ablaze. “There to await Dame Moonlight’s kiss, and bare all for her borrowed grace…”
Benji made a screeching, wailing sound.
“Eeeeeekkkkkk! My liege!” he whined. “You aren’t seriously suggesting that we spy on people like a pair of common perverts?!”
“All is fair in love and war’s embrace,” replied King with a devilish smirk. “Besides, this merely be an inspection of all my lands and subjects. There is aught perverted in all this.”
Benji clearly thought otherwise and lectured King Cophetua all the way to the smattering of trees on the other side of the clearing. He picked for them a small enclave and to the top they climbed, an eagle-eye view afforded of the rolling plains below.
“And now, dearest Foole of an attendant, to play yon waiting game.”
Minutes passed. King Copehtua sighed.
“I spyeth, with mine little eyeth…”
***

Night fell, and Moon rose. Stars appeared but these were the only concealed treasures that had yet appeared. Benji held his king upright as he snored, dribbling royal dribble down Benji’s right hand cheek.
“Hath inspectable material appeared yet?” slurred the King.
“Nay. And ask me not of such things. Had I the strength, I would have long dragged His Highness away from such infernal business.”
“Ah, shaddup.”
They fell still and night wore on. The Standing Stones below glittered coldly, emanating malice. Then…
“My Lord! A Figure east do I see!”
“What-ho?!” King Cophetuia opened his eyes. “My stars and soul, ‘tis newcomers indeed!”
The shape of little grace and stocky bearing entered the consecrated circle of stone. The figure kneeled down on the grass, produced what looked to be a sword, and then set it down, bowing a head in prayer. King Cophetua’s heart sank.
“’Tis the prayer of the Knight’s Sovereign,” he said, with audible regret. “Of that of a man. A thousand Buggers would not voice my vexed anger-
At which point they fell from their tree with a tremendous thump onto a small badger hill whose stripy occupant promptly attacked them. Fearing for his life at the hands of Badger paws and teeth, King Cophetua began to scream.
“Ohhhhh, mercy! BENJI! SAVE ME FROM THIS MARSUPIAL-ESQUE MENACE!”
“Forgive me, My Lord!” Benji yelled back. “It’s young hath just scurried up my trouser legs! I fear I may be soon-OOOHHHHH-HOHOHO!”
“Cease and desist, you scallywags!”
There were one, two, three thumps of wood. The maternal badger fell back to it’s lair looking dazed. Of it’s young, Benji’s trousers suddenly fell open and two small Badger cubs fell out, chasing their mother into the abyssal lair. Benji, quite taken with the Excitement of the whole affair, promptly fell into a dead swoon.
“My liege! Be you unharmed?” shouted the rescuer.
King Cophetua was helped to his feet by scrawny hands. His benefactor was none other than the Knight formerly at prayer in the stone circle. The knight had a prominent apple’s apple, thick milk-bottle glasses and a gawky look. Yet he wielded his toy wooden sword with aplomb, holding it the wrong way round which he quickly amended.
“I am shaken, but as yet unstirred. My thanks to you, young man, whose name I would immediately know.”
“At once, my liege! My name is Windelthorpe! Knight’s apprentice to the Earl of Clapton! As you can see, I have yet to master the art of Badger Thwacking or those three scoundrels would not have been able to flee and to fight another night.”
“Worry not,” said King Cophetua kindly. “This peril hath opened mine eyes to the danger of travelling unguarded. Squire Windelthorpe! I will grant you the honour of escorting me along with my assistant Benji here on this most perilous of perilous inspection trips. Do you accept such peril?”
“Always, my Lord! I have much to prove in the ways of Peril Acceptance!”
“Then it is so. Arise, Squire Windelthrope!”
And so it was that two became three. What dangers await them on their Inspection of the King’s lands and his Subjects? Only time (and the next episode, obviously) will tell.

The Adventures of King Cophetua! Episiode One: The Girl in the Hedge

2008-10-28T09:03:00.000-07:00

‘Twas the days of yore, when grass was Grass and men were Men, with a capital M.
Through the verdant rolling fields/plains of wherever the hell this is set, King Cortuna and his loyal aide de campe, Benji, walked the highroads of the former’s kingdom, undertaking a Royal Inspection of His lands.
“Twenty miles, and still no sign of clap-free crumpet,” remarked the King with a sigh. “I’m beginning to think about abdicating.
Benji, who was a full foot taller than his king and bore an anxious expression ready to turn into full-fledged panic at any notice, grows moon pale.
“My liege! Do not SAY such things!” he screeched. “Why, without you, this land should surely wither and die-”
“Be quiet, moron. I was joking,” replied the king, not unkindly. “’Twas the speech of figuration that I spoke, yea, on this fine Summer’s day.”
Birds tweeted and camels…honked. If, for argument’s sake, King Cortua was a king of the Middle East then the dusty trail whipped, with a Saharan-bound wind, about their feet.
“My lord, you must not speak so e’er lightly on subjects of such weight. T’would be it I, the lowly Benji of Pudding Lane Just Next To The Blacksmiths, being the recipient of such calamitous jest! Surely would hair from head fall thin.”
At which point King Corthua hit him and bore him down onto the ground. A young damsel fair had crossed their path who may, or then again may not, have been wearing a sarong. Or medieval clothes. Depends, again, on where our tale of debauchery high is set.
“Of all the lands one hast travelled,” whispered the King. “Ne’er has such a sight at once graced these eyes, and assailed this mind for wont of having! Benji, prepare the chloroform!”
“Another jest remark of ill-taste strong, milord?”
“Um. Yes.”
The object of our king’s arising passions crossed the lane and, with a hop and skip, jumped into the hedge that materialised out of thin air next to that indistinct road of indistinct nation and time. His humours of bemusement well and truly begottled, King Corthua arose.
“My lord, your sword jabs into my back!”
“’Tis not my sword, Benji, though that name amongst many it oft-time bears.”
King Corthua got to his feet and approached the hedge, his retainer clung strongly to his Royal cankles in poor bid to cease this foolhard approach.
“My Lord, think of thou children four!”
“Four’s akin to scant, when faced with numbers dwarfing eight.”
“My lord, think of your reputation!”
“Reputation? Oh, naive Benji, your eyes are blind, to this flushed Banner’s fraying edge and fleeing colours.”
They reach the hedge. Naught stands in there, but is huddled down, beneath prickly branches and rose red leaves. Corthua brushes these leaves away, sweeping arms, an ember inlay of…stuff.
“Where did she goeth?” mutters king, distraught.
“I think you should have gone to Specsavers, m’lud.”

Fin.

Coming Soon...!

2008-10-27T11:56:00.000-07:00

The Mis-Adventures of...

King Cophetua!

A riveting and grippeing storee of the Worlde Before Time! Excitment of the Higest Order for our audience, as we follow the Life and Times of this Nobly Warrior! Containeth all the Great Story Elements! Shallowness! Clap! Bigamy! 15yr Olds! And Wet Celery!

Episode One: The Girl In the Hedge!

Drunken Creativity 2: Translation

2008-10-02T01:44:00.000-07:00

I will attempt to convey the meaning of the previous post. Basically, the creation of Earth and Man was turned into a office job, and the completion of the project is being celebrated by way of an office party. Lucifer,personnel manager, is carryong back drinks from the bar when his boss, God, bumps into him. Pissed off, and at the lack of recognition for his own controbution, Lucifer plans a hostile takeover of the business, only to fall before the might of God's business acumen. Lucifer is then fired and forced to work in a office block in Slough somewhere, there chained to a desk and consigned to stare forever at an LCD display of burning cyan and people's personal details for the area of Slough.

Which is a metaphor for everything, really.

Drunken creativity

2008-09-30T16:40:00.000-07:00

Ere goes....hrrrmmmmm...

It waS A DArk AND STORMY NIGHT .

So ti eaa,was. But no-one cared cause it was a stereotyoucal beginning. Neverthrelss, everuone was happy at the party which God arranged vacause it hallmarke dte finished eartyh tat sat below them. All te nagenlangels and sit. yeah,

This is when Lucifer got knocked by God wile he carrierinks back from the bar.

Lucfier was pissedc off.

He began to concto a plan to exatcv revenge. Buyt he was bertrayed by an angel called Judas wich is kinda ironic when you thinl about it all philosphoval and hitstocially lile. witrh a k.
***

I'd better stop now with all the crap Get some sleep. I'm actually fine.

Yeah, right.

To what he does best...

2008-08-27T18:21:00.000-07:00

Superhero Character (Inspired by Nightwatch and the Blue Tick)

Overview
A character encounter created for the sake of it other than any important plot device. Mind you, a character with plenty of brute strength might come in handy. Scenario for this one is: Vigilante group joined for money to pay for the room at the Inn. Jack goes out on patrol. He hears other vigilantes yelling. Heads for the scene. Jack pads down the wide alleyway next to the docks, which is lined with dock warehouses.

***

Lying in the alleyway were the other vigilantes. Fat Sam was upside down in a dustbin, Eagle Pete was hanging from a streetlight by his collar and Ollie Owl was sitting unconscious against a wall with his two-by-four broken over his head. Jack rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, and padded cautiously towards them.

Every shadow lining the alley of warehouses began to take menacing form. Unseen assailants stared unblinkingly at him, ready to slip silently from the shadows and cosh him senseless.

“Halt!” bellowed a voice.

Jack span round. The voice had sounded muscular, but was echoing down the alley and off the warehouses, bouncing in every direction. It was impossible to tell where it had come from.

“So, a new face amongst the Evildoers has emerged! Prepare to meet Justice, Nefarious Villain!”

Jack heard a thud, a swoop, and flung himself flat against the cobbles as a crate smashed down onto the ground where he’d been. As fragments of timber bounced and skipped everywhere, the voice like booming thunder echoed again down the alley.

“Ah! Impressive, Worthy Adversary! You are not like your Hapless Peers, it seems!”

Jack looked up. The massive silhouette of a muscular man standing with his arms folded and a cape billowing rhythmically in the wind was standing atop one of the warehouses.

“But I, the Champion of Justice, will not be Denied!” continued the massive man. “Prepare to meet Doom at the hands of…Daniel Defender!”

The man jumped from the roof, and Jack watched as the massive shape plummeted to the ground. The caped man landed with a crunch of cobblestone, and slowly straightened up. Now that he was bathed in the light of the streetlamp, Jack could see his ‘adversary’ clearly. He stared.

Daniel Defender was big. Very big. Tree-trunk legs supported a torso seemingly constructed of bricks. The man was decked out in a tight-fitting red satin costume that left nothing to the imagination. From behind his shield-shaped red mask, Daniel mistook Jack’s horror for breathless admiration.

“Indeed, Nefarious Villain!” he said gloatingly. “Gaze upon my Rippliness with Awe! With these hands, I will make you see the Error of your Way! Hya!”

Daniel pushed off into a lumbering charge. Uneager to be ground into a pulp, Jack reached down and picked up the largest piece of broken crate timber to hand, backed off, and hefted it. As the Champion of Justice charged toward him, Jack took aim at the man’s chin and swung as hard as he could.

There was a sound like a home-run.

Daniel’s head jerked sideways as if he’d been shot. He veered left, barrelling past Jack and crashing into a pile of dustbins. Jack looked at the piece of timber in his hands. Teeth were imbedded in it.

Behind him, Daniel was struggling to free himself of the bin stuck over his head, jammed on his broad shoulders.

“Cretin!” the man roared, slightly muffled by the bin. “Using a weapon in a contest of strength?! Well, two can play at that ignoble game!”

Jack watched as Daniel found the edges of the bin with both hands and prised it awkwardly off from his shoulders. He then gripped the bin either side and pushed. Both he and the bin groaned as it was squashed flat into a thick bar of iron. Jack swallowed.

“Prepare to be out-muscled, Evil-doer!” cried Daniel as he swung the new bin club experimentally through the air. “The oiled muscles of Justice will never be worn down by the-” he hesitated here but only for a moment, “-burning chemical fatigue of Evil!”

He hefted the misshapen club and charged again. Jack retreated a little way down the alley and drew his sword. He fixed his eyes on Daniel’s. He ducked the man’s wild swipe and simply stepped out of the way as the club was brought down in an arc onto the cobblestones, where the point embedded itself. As Daniel tried to pull it free, Jack casually sauntered forward and swiped the man’s leg with his sword. Daniel grunted and staggered back before collapsing forward onto all fours. The loosened bin-club, now unsupported, fell toward Daniel’s skull like a lumbered tree. There was a solid thud. Daniel groaned gutturally.

“You…” he gasped indignantly, his mask now sporting a large dent. “Have you no honour? No Justice!?”

“Nope,” replied Jack proudly. He put his sword away. “I’m just here to make a quick buck or two before I move on to the next town. It’s nothing personal, by the way.”

Daniel didn’t say anything. His mouth curled into a textbook frown.

“So,” he said darkly. “The Champion of Justice is defeated at last by the forces of Avarice; this is a shame I cannot bear…”

And then, to Jack’s surprise, the man began to cry. Great, chest-heaving sobs that echoed down the alleyway like small explosions of animal sorrow. Jack would have walked away if Daniel hadn’t grabbed his leg and begun weeping into it.

“Yeah, well,” said Jack, not sure what to do or say at a time like this. “Look at it this way; you got off with just a gash. The way things could have panned out, you might have really got hurt-”

“The…‘Champion of Justice’…isn’t supposed to be…injured!” Daniel said between sobs. He blew his nose on Jack’s trousers, with a sound like a damp foghorn.

Jack made to point out that a Champion of Justice, to his mind, didn’t break down into tears whenever he lost a fight…but he refrained. A wave of unfamiliar pity washed over him. Instead, he leaned down and patted the man reassuringly on the heaving shoulder. As he did, Daniel finally let go off his leg. Jack watched him scrabble quickly up the alley, where he got to his feet.

“Ah-ha!” cried Daniel, striking a heroic pose. “You fell for my pity trap, Cretinous Cur! The ‘Champion of Justice’ shall live to fight Evil another day!”

Jack stared at him.

“So you’re running away in other words,” he said.

Daniel froze. Then unfroze.

“Uh…A-Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha! Do not lie, cretin! It is you who runs, o’erwhelmed by the might of Truth and Justice Incarnate! Do not besmirch my honour by projecting your cowardliness onto me, cretin!”

A strange moment passed between them. Noting the look of pleading in Daniel’s eyes, Jack took pity. He threw an arm up over his eyes.

“Gah,” yelled Jack flatly, staggering back theatrically. “I may be beaten today but I will get you next time, Champion of…Truth?”

“Justice.”

“Right.”

Daniel struck another pose. Even from ten yards away, Jack could hear the red satin costume straining at the seams.

“And so Justice has claimed another victory!” shouted Daniel, flexing like a madman.

“Indeed he has,” said Jack kindly.

“None can resist my mighty Herculean strength!” Daniel panted.

“No?”

“Behold my Rippliness!”

“…’kay?”

Daniel stopped flexing. He pointed a large, gloved finger at Jack, a wry smile playing across his concealed face.

“Until we meet again…Worthy Adversary!”

The giant man swept his cloak and darted away through an open gate. Jack watched the dark hulking shape disappear from view between two warehouses, from which the sound of bins being knocked over and barking dogs resounded a second later. Jack sighed.

“I must be some kind of freak magnet,” he muttered.

“Dude!”

Jack turned to see Surf pottering into the alleyway. The reddie was looking out of breath. Jack rolled his eyes. Yup, he thought. Definitely a freak magnet…

“Been looking for you everywhere, dude!” chirped Surf breathlessly as he approached Jack. “Vee wants everyone to come back to the Inn! She says it’s important, dude!”

“What now?” replied Jack. “Did she realize she’s being a bitch and wants to apologise?”

“Dude?”

“Nothing. Let’s just go.”

Surf peered round Jack.

“What about those guys, dude?”

Jack looked round at the fallen vigilantes. One of them was starting to come round, sounding like he wished he weren’t.

“What about them?” yawned Jack, stretching his arms. “Let’s head back. Could do with a drink, anyway.”

[to be continued]

So whaddya think? Does Daniel Defender pass the grade? Or should he be relegated to the recycle bin of fond memories?

Is it a poem? Is it a story! No, it's...a poem!

2008-08-10T15:26:00.000-07:00

Written on the fly after reading a brief label about nuclear war which will probably (though at the same time improbably) be caused by the incident in Georgia. See the mushroom cloud structure? It was probably ruined by the format. *Sigh*.
***

Silhouettes

It was five-to-five when the missiles fell, big and black and shiny. Movie-like.
Total ground zero became home to nothing. Aftershocks blew in doors, collapsed windows. Razed the lawns and schemes. Clean. Surviving
buildings lost their face, and so did occupants.
It was five-past-five when the rumbling stopped. Fires burned, cinders scattered. So did people. Survivors wandered, staggered, fell. Vomited. Died. Cracking thunder as high-rise came to earth. Those that walked, lay. And never got up again.
It is five-twenty-five when the wailing starts. High and low, drifting on poison winds. An animal lament for what had came. They knew, but didn’t, that it would come to this. ‘Ignorance is no excuse’, the slighted book had said.
It is five-thirty-five when the wailing stops. Wind blows, buildings fall.
No one to see, the world has gone dark. Every eye a whited
Streaming mass of blur and pus and jelly and agony and
Skin peels to join nature’s fertilizer, bastardised by
Things split that weren’t meant to be.
And humanity, the joke,
Has had it’s laughs
And now
Dwindles
down
to
.

This is Bush-league, psyche-out shit! Laughable man! AHHH-HAHA!

2008-08-02T07:37:00.000-07:00

Inspired by the piecemeal 'Some Thoughts' (because if nothing comes from that disaster in philospical thinking then...)

Time for some Psycho-babble!

***
It was getting dark, where he was.
As the colours of the room began to fade, so too did the sun outside the window, growing paler and paler as if it were burning out and dying. He sighed. And waited.
The voice came soon after.
“You’re hiding you know.”
“No I’m not…”
“You are. Glorious day out there, and you? You stay in here, watching it go by. Again.”
He fell silent. The voice laughed awhile then grew more serious.
“I wouldn’t waste such a day. Not like this.”
“Oh yeah? What would you do?”
“I’d enjoy the sun, walk around town, meet people…perhaps have a drink or two…you know, all the things you can’t do.”
“I could do them…”
“But you can’t. It’s not what you’re around for.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been thinking lately…about the way things are now.”
“And…?”
“Come with me.”

The monochrome scenery changed. The room was gone but it’s dankness was still inherent in the sky and ground of the new place. It wasn’t really a place, though. He knew this. It was a state of mind.

“See that bed of plants?” said the voice, beside him. “Look closely and tell me what you see.”
It was lined with sickly green plants, the leaves of which were both jagged and sticking out at odd angles. They were at least two foot high.
“Weeds?”
“In appearance they are. Nothing is real here remember, just imaginary. Like thoughts. Like you.”
Silence. Then:
“What do they represent?”
“Anger. Resentment. Lots of things. It’s easier to look at them this way than taking them for what they really are. Think of them as a…metaphor. By expending rage and thinking on things in the past that can no longer be changed, you cut some of the weeds away.”
“Yeah, so it’s a good thing to go back and let all your aggression out. Gets rid of all this…”
“Only for a time. I chose the weed as an example for a reason. You know that weeds grow back if their roots are left within the soil. You know this because I know this.”
“So that means-”
“Yes. Revisiting the past and reworking it in your head only expunges the bad memories for so long. In time, they grow again. And because they are usually left unchecked, deep in the unconsciousness while other things are attended to, they are allowed to grow uncontrollably, choking and denying anything else the chance to grow. But you already know this.”
“I…did?”
“Yes. But you lack the capacity to fully understand what needs to be done to attack the roots of the problem. Instead, the short term ‘solution’ is chosen. To tell you the truth, I’m getting tired of it.”
“Who are you?”
“I am who you think you are. You call me the Ego from time to time, that which protects an individual from themselves by way of repression and so on. Funny, really.”
“Why’s that?”
“You know why. But you repress it.”
“You mean you repress it.”
“Ha. Not I. You.”
“What do you want?”
“Later. Back to the weeds for now…look how the other plants find themselves being choked and their growth warped and hindered. This, too, is a metaphor. By not uprooting the bad, the good is killed. In the end, there is only bad. The weeds could also be called ‘fear’; a fear of allowing the chance of good things to grow. No seeds are worked into the soil either, because experience says that those seeds will either fail or turn into more weeds. Where does this experience come from? Where else can it come from? The bad memories, of course.”
“Well let’s do something about it!”
“I intend to. But it will require…sacrifice. Are you willing to listen? You who are afraid of listening even to yourself?”
“…I’m listening.”
“Years ago, these bad memories began to pour in uncontrollably. The will power to get through them all simply didn’t exist. As with anyone, a mental retreat took place. Unable to cope with the pressures their own wounded pride and ego were extolling, I gradually created characteristics to replace those ones that I saw as being the reasons behind others scorn. Over time, a character was made.”
“What?”
“This character became a shield. What was scorn if it were being directed at another? It wasn’t me they were laughing at, it was the decoy. The character. The pain subsided and the sleepless nights waned.”
“Then what?”
“The character became harder and harder to distinguish from my actual self. In time, there was little difference. You became, as many synthetic psyches, the actual person. Over time, I nearly forgot that you were a construct at all.”
“But now?”
“Mm. You know what I know. So you also know that you can’t continue to exist.”
“But I like it here.”
“Do you? Seems like the only things you feel nowadays are regret and anguish. The whole world causes you some kind of grievance. The sunshine is an example.”
“But where will I go?”
“Nowhere. It’ll be a simple process of reinstating the actual personality. All you have to do is try not to interfere.”
“But it’s my nature,” he said. The remnant psyche was fading now. Form passed to the voice, which was getting stronger and richer.
“And in nature, all things die,” said the voice.

There were no black feathers, no piercing rays of light. Reality was a cruel and ugly thing, no room for romance and no room for it grow either. For a second, the remnant psyche saw past the limits of perception and saw It’s nature. It was a dead thing. Yet it continued to grow nonetheless. The psyche also saw that for all it’s vastness and size, there was no room for him anywhere.
“It isn’t fair,” it whined. One last noise to trouble the crowding silence. The greyness of ambiguity began to press.

The remnant psyche died.
***

You may now clap.

Introverted Controllers

2008-08-02T07:06:00.000-07:00

A story covering an age-old deebate that has sparked countless wars and consumed many hours of people's lives as they go into config menus to repair the damage wrought by their eternal rivals. Enjoy the dialogue.

***
It was just another night in Oblivion, the nightclub/bar. In the corner of this unassuming pub of cheap drink and even cheaper slot machines, an age-old debate raged. The five-strong group sitting at the end table listened to the closing lines of their sort-of leader’s compelling argument. Some were nodding passionately.
“And that’s why it’s better to have the view inverted,” said Lee, with a self-satisfied sigh.
This was met with agreement by half the table. The other half, though, were still unconvinced.
“That is so much bollocks coming from a man who has none,” said Adam. “Up is up, and down is down; why are you having so much trouble seeing that? Have you wanked yourself blind or something?”
“Nah, your mom does that for me,” Lee fired back. “But if it’s the bloody obvious we’re gonna state then how about this: you’re a cock.”
“Yeah, man, I mean, think about it, you know?” cut in the man they call Luke. “It’s the way your head rotates man…Like, think about it.”
“Explain,” demanded a drunken fourth person who was called, despite the better judgement of his parents, Willy.
Lee sighed again; why were people so dumb? Come to that, why were they so ugly too?
“Right, look,” he said, in a leaderly way. “Imagine that the analogue stick is the back of your skull, right? If the back of your skull goes down, then you look up, right? It’s all about tilting and stuff.”
The table tried this and hands went on the backs of heads, nodding up and down like some strange cult ceremony. There was a round of grudging acceptance from the ‘normal view’ faction.
“Alright, alright…” said Adam, conceding the battle but not the war. “Can we talk about something else now?”
“Why, because you’re wrong?”
“No…” he said slowly. “It’s because, uh, we have more important things to talk about.”
This caused an ominous stirring. If Adam mentioned that bloody, bloody argument again then-
“Who’s harder,” he announced in a serious voice. “Cloud or Squall?”
“No!” wailed Lee. “Adam, we’ve been over this! Seven times! For God’s sake, talk about something else and let it go!”
Adam wagged an admonishing finger.
“No, no, no, no,” he said pleasantly. “This’s important. There’s some new evidence that I’d like to-
“Would you like me to present my cut-and-thrust argument, Adam?” said Luke. “It involves this bottle, this table, and then your face. Cut and thrust, got it?”
Adam shrugged and sat back, arms behind his head. He suddenly looked very nonchalant.
“Well…if it’s a forfeit you’re calling, then-
Luke’s eyes widened.
“What?” he shouted. “Bollocks to that!”
Lee and Willy exchanged despairing glances as the heated exchange began. They just sat back and let it run its course. Anyone with a little sense of maturity and poise steered clear of that sort of thing. They knew that it was an un-winnable argument in any case; besides, everyone knew that Sephiroth was the best character anyway.
Nevertheless…
“It’s all about adversity, ya see? Anyone who can come back from the very brink of time and space is a winner in my book.”
‘Mind you’, thought Lee. ‘There had been a chap who’d once said Zidane was in with a shout for ‘hardest character’; they’d ran old James out of town, he remembered. It had been the humane thing to do, when you thought about it.
“What about the tragedy of overcoming Aerith’s death?” asked Adam wildly. “That takes strength of character, that does!”
“What?!” screamed Luke. “I’m embarrassed to even think you just said that! If you look at the limit breaks then you’ll see-
“Bitch. You can stop right there. Anyone who gets gubbed by the Guard Scorpion on his first go isn’t entitled to talk about Things He Does Not Understand. You’re a disgrace to the profession and I move for a vote of no-confidence.”
“I’m a disgrace?!” demanded Adam. “Who couldn’t find the white Seed ship, eh? Who had to show Mr. Beanpole where it was, eh? Eh?!”
“Pfft. Look, the fact is, tubs, I’ve done the LLNIIENACMO challenge and you haven’t; which means I am considerably better at games than you.”
And so it went on. There was a much looking at watches and half-drunk drinks going on until, breaking the deadlock, came-
“If it’s overall damage caused you’re aiming at then Vincent is your man, as over sixty-five thousand kills with this character causes the binary code to rout into the next set of text-character lists thereby adopting symbols rather than numbers,” said a quiet voice. “This results in attacks denoted by symbols and glitches, rather than numbers, which can take down Emerald Weapon in one hit.”
That was David. He was to games what Frank Sweeney was to people; he chopped them up, took out the contents and then had a quick look at the weird little things that went ‘gloop’ inside. He knew everything about their small universe and he’d found in FFVII, much to the adulation of his peers, a debug menu, an un-used soundtrack, a new room and some other stuff that was simply mind blowing…well, to them at least. David was generally celebrated by the group as a brilliant genius, right up until the point where he used the word ‘master code’ in one of his more ill-fated chat-up lines.
But you could say this for him; when it came to getting your face slapped by women, David was world champion. It was often said that he could have his face slapped by any woman of his choosing which was, when all was said and done, physical contact.
When David talked, an unsettled silence descended over the group. When he’d finished, there were a lot of glazed expressions.
“What?” said Adam weakly. “What did he just say?”
“I think he said it was your round,” said Lee meaningfully. “I think he also said that it’s been your round for over three years. Get some exercise into those legs, yeah? You’re starting to take root, you fat bastard.”
Adam patted his pockets theatrically. A familiar expression crossed his face, sort of like an apologetic smile that everyone present knew only too well.
“Well, wouldn’t you know it…” he said companionably. “Out of money again. Guess I’ll just have to get the drinks in next week, you bum-cheese.”
“No worries,” said Lee innocently. “I’ll just ask your mom for a little extra cash when I, ah-ha, administer my services to her. That should cover next week’s round.”
“Oh yeah?” said Adam. “Get paid do you? Guess it’s just as well you don’t do refunds, eh?”
Lee raised a lazy middle finger. He always did when he couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Up yours,” he said softly.
As ever, the conversation took a dip and a great deal of concentrating on drinks was made as they waited for the next collective group thought to turn up. It turned up in Willy’s mind, who was already half-pissed at this point.
“Is it just me?” he slurred slightly from his half-collapsed position against the table. “Or is that bird with the long hair at the bar giving me the eye?”
Lee turned in his seat to look and then sighed. He turned back to Willy and began counting off his fingers,
“Okay, number one: no woman has ever given you the eye, Willy. Number two: the object of your supposed affection has their back turned to you, so no eye-contact there. Number three: that ‘bird’ of yours is a man. With a shaven head…How much has he had?”
Luke checked the glasses.
“About, like, two lemon shandys and my bloody peanuts, man.”
Lee didn’t flinch, but held his gaze with steady firmness to deliver his award-winning quip.
“Been munching on your salty nuts has he? I guess this, in cohesion with that guy over there, proves once and for all that Willy is gay; shall we have a vote?”
It was unanimous. Willy had also raised his hand because everyone else was doing it. The hands went down, Willy’s the last to do so.
“Right, that’s that settled then…” said Lee, satisfied at this small victory. “Now, where were we on the subject of inversed controllers? I believe we were-”
But he got no further because, with a kind of merciful timing, the smoke machine in the corner flooded the bar with acrid smoke. As Lee choked on the fumes, the rest of the group heaved a quiet sigh of relief and got on with suffocating. It was looking to be an alright night, really.
Later, they went round Adam’s place and played Worms. Lee lost.

The End.

Another Long Story

2008-07-30T06:21:00.001-07:00

Fair warning. It's not as long as the preceding story but it's still long enough to induce tears. It'll be the last story about Herr Josef Trimms anyway. So try to savour it. I hope you get something out of it 'cause the only thing I got was that you call stone stairs 'steps' and that big rocky circle thing you get at the top of mountains a 'dais'. Useful words for describing scenery but...meh.

***

From the Twat that brought you ‘Dude, where’s my cigarette?’, Some Guy Productions is not very proud to present:

‘Gone With The Weed’
Starring Josef Trimms as…Josef Trimms!!
And Some More People

From the deepest, blackest pits of a tired old veteran’s threadbare soul to the plantation fields of Redemption. Join one man’s quest for peace, justice, truth…and a bag of the Good Stuff.

[There are many references to other stories, characters and the what-have-you. Spot one that wasn’t consciously included and you will win a slap! That’s what you get for not minding YOUR OWN DAMN BUSINESS!!!]

The Genesis (i)

It was one of those days. Josef sat perched in front of his magic typewriter, wondering why the bloody thing wasn’t accepting the ink he was pouring into it. Shrugging, he threw the drained biro away and began to type.
“Hey, dude!”
Josef swivelled on it. His chair, that is. Surf had entered the room with a bag of messages in one hand and a cellular phone in the other. He was just putting the phone away.
“Who were you talking to?!” Josef demanded jealously.
“My dealer, dude,” replied Surf. “He won’t go below 6k.”
“The bastard! How are we supposed to get around now?”
The Mini, worn out by some over-zealous use of the Overdrive button as Josef travelled back in time to enjoy his weed many times over, had given up the ghost last week. The hunt was on for a replacement. It wasn’t going well.
“And I had my heart set on that Beetle, too,” said Eddie, who had just…‘appeared’.
Josef drummed his fingers against the black enamel of his magical typewriter. What he really needed right now…was some weed.
And he knew just the man.
“Alright, goons. I’m stressed, bored, and got a writer’s block bigger than…dammit! Anyway, I need some recreation. Either we go pay Suda a visit or you two fight to the death for my amusement.”
Eddie and Surf looked at each other.
“I think I sense another zany adventure coming on, dude!” chirped Surf happily.
“Indeed! Just another colourful chapter in the great story of our lives!” added Eddie.
The door flew open. Tif- I mean, Lorraine, walked in through the door. As ever, she looked vaguely disappointed and after she was done meteo-dropping Surf through the floor, she pecked Josef on the cheek.
“My train leaves in a few. You take care, okay?”
“Yeah, you too,” replied Josef casually. Lorraine stopped at the door to glare savagely at the prone forms of Surf and Eddie.
“But you two can drop dead for all I care,” she spat. “Pair of self-insistent generic bastards!”
The door slammed. Surf tentatively picked himself up from the carpet, feeling the bumps rising on his head.
“Duuu-uude…” he groaned. “That’s all your fault, you know. Grooming someone into a fictional character like that…”
“What? What?” said Josef defensively. “I didn’t notice until it was pointed out to me! Tif-I mean, Lorraine decided to straighten her hair, put on a white tank-top, wear hob-nail boots, put in brown contacts, put on a miniskirt, learn martial arts, and change the way she talks of her own accord!”
Eddie and Surf stared at him. Then shrugged.
“Anyway, weren’t we away to see the dealer, dude?”
“Ah, yes,” smiled Josef wryly. “The ‘dealer’. Eddie, fetch the saddle.”
For Eddie, it was like Christmas had come early and it showed in his face. For Surf, it was like the Seventh Circle of Hell had just opened up to consume him.
“Me again, dude?” said Surf hopelessly.
“Damn right,” replied Josef, leaping to his feet. “Gee’ up!”

The Dealer (ii)

It had been a long trip of some two thousand miles but they had arrived at a secret location in the Pyrenees and Josef was now ascending the last stretch of the way up the mountain to where the you would expect a hermit or sage to live. In a way, The Dealer was both.
“Alright, Surf, hang ten,” said Josef graciously. “I’ll walk from here.”
Surf collapsed under him. Getting up without a word, Josef left him there in the baking heat against the limestone rocks and began to climb the steps cut into the very stone. At the top waited a dais. And on the dais, waited-
“Ay! Ragazzo! Where you been, ay?!”
The Dealer a.k.a Roberto Suda, was a man of awesome charisma. Standing there in his resplendent red spandex tights and blue plumber overalls, the man certainly cut a dash over any social function or alcoholic beverage he felt lacked ‘The Passion’. He was also wearing a fake moustache and a scarf that was, Josef noted, eternally billowing in the wind.
But there was no wind, his thoughts added disquietly.
“So!” announced Roberto. “You want-a the weed, ay? Ragazzo…I give you something mucho better! More el-favour! More passion! More GUSTO!”
He reached into his spandex tights and removed the suspicious lump that had been riding over his crotch. His hand came up with a greasy brown bag that was stuffed to bursting with the Good Stuff; Josef eyed the errant wiry hairs covering it with barely concealed horror. There was no way he was touching that.
“This is for you, ay?!” announced Roberto Suda, shoving it into Josef’s resisting hands. “You-a no worry about the dampness…Ragazzo…for it is meant to be in this way! This is its very nature! Grade-A weed, seasoned with-a the man-juice of a Reformed Anti-hero, ay? Its passion will blow your be-curled head off-a your slopey shoulders!”
Josef sampled some of the weed in the bag. He made a face.
“It certainly does blow,” he said. “Is this all you’ve got?”
Roberto flung his head back, his laughter piercing the very heavens with its passion.
“The wind-a tells me this no be enough for you!” he shouted. “It is why I, Roberto, have prepared a special bag for-a you, pezzonovante!
The hand went back in. The lump over the crotch diminished slightly, and this bag was a shade of light grey. Parts of it were on fire.
“This is GUSTO! Solid, golden, flaming passion in a bag! For-a you, Mr. Ninety Calibre, only the best, ay?”
Josef looked at the glimmering, sparking bag of Uber Weed with something akin to worship. He was as a pilgrim that had traversed the world, braved its dangers, met it’s trials and tribulations, all to find the Holy Grail awaiting him at Journey’s End. He crossed himself, and reached out for the bag. Roberto held it up out of reach.
“To have passion, you must-a make-a the passion, ay? My man-juice doesn’t make itself, Ragazzo. I-a need to recoup my diminished MUCHO strength! You will do this, pezzonovante, straight exchange!”
Josef nodded, understanding. He got out his wallet and produced a sizeable wad. As he counted the bills out, though, Roberto knocked them from his hand, scattering them to the high winds.
“No, no, no, NO, Ragazzo! Not-a with the soulless commercial, ay?! But with passion, with GUSTO! I will-a need four of the Soul Shells!”
“Four?” cried Josef. “Four? Most guys only get one in their entire lifetimes! What the hell, man?”
“FOUR!” shouted Roberto, four fingers held erect. “Any less, we have no deal, ay?”
Josef’s eyes narrowed. He had seen paradise. And no-one, not even Roberto Suda, was going to deny him of the prize. He began to back away toward the descending steps.
“I’ll be back,” he said, in a low voice. “With back-up.”
“Ah-ho-ho!” laughed Roberto, arms folded. “I await with the bad breath for your return…Ragazzo.”

The Rally (iii)

“Right, so basically your plan is that me ‘n Surf launch a full frontal attack while you attempt to cut the crotch of the spandex tights with a pair of scissors in the heat of the fray, thus freeing the bag of Uber weed, which you will then repatriate with to a place of safety while me and Surf get pulverised.”
Josef nodded. As plans went, it was one of his better ones. Also seated at the table were a few other assorted malcontents. Their role in the plan was to get distracted on the way back up to the dais where Suda awaited, the distraction taking the form of one of their number’s most awesome skirt.
“Such a good skirt,” she muttered. “And you can all go to hell.”
“Charming,” said Josef. “Here, have a muffin.”
“Could we talk about this plan some more, dude?!” Surf half-wailed. “I think it’s, uh…”
“Logistically unviable,” supplied Eddie.
“Right! Maybe you should just confront Suda mano-a-mano, dude.”
Josef rose from his chair. Truth was shining through the window. It was a sunray, but truth nonetheless. He produced a cigarette and lit it slickly, eyes gleaming with steely resolve. Fuck yeah, he thought. This was even better than that time he got romantically involved with that ditto.
“Very well,” he said at last. “It takes a fez-wearing pole-dancer to do a man’s job, after all. I shall meet Suda head-on. I will win. I am, after all, the son of God.”
“You’re certainly a son of a something, dude,” muttered Surf, feeling the red welt lines where the saddle had dug in.
“What?”
“I said: You certainly are, dude!”
“Damn straight.”

Showdown (iv)

It was sundown on the Pyrenees. Up on the dais, Josef had just laid down his challenge to Roberto Suda, whose eyes had narrowed.
“You wanna repeat that, Ragazzo? I was not to believing my ears.”
“I said: ‘Get out. This is my dais now. And so’s the Good Stuff you’ve got stuffed down the front of your trousers.’”
Suda raised an eyebrow. Fury leapt from his eyes.
“You think…that you got it what it takes…to go toes to the toes with me, ay?! Ragazzo! I will show you the burning passion that flows through-a these veins! The mighty GUSTO of me…ROBERTO SUDA!!!!!”
“You want a fight scene?” muttered Josef, tearing off his leather jacket and shirt. Two large nipples stood taught and ready for action. “I’LL SHOW YOU A FIGHT SCENE!”
“Is good! Is good!” Roberto shouted back. “The passion is there! The spirit is there! The body…not so there, but the GUSTO very much so!”
Josef charged, full tilt, toward Roberto. So inflamed was he that he only had to take two breaks to catch his breath. When he did reach Roberto, he dodged under the dealer’s arms easily and caught him full on in the chest, driving him to the floor…or at least, this was how he’d envisaged it would go. What actually happened was that Roberto caught the reckless Josef by the ears before driving his knee into the man’s nose. There was a soft sound of cartilage breaking.
“My nofhe!” yelled Josef, staggering back to a safe distance. “You -hnah- fhtruck me!”
From here, it was a long range fire-fight; with fireballs.
“Haduken!”
“Tiger!”
“Sonic Boom!”
“Get over here!”
Roberto pulled on the wire, Josef hurtling towards him like a speeding bullet. His fist sailed up to meet Josef’s chin, connecting sweetly with a sound like a cannon going off. Josef’s body arced away, flying gracefully up and up…until he ran out of momentum and began to plummet earthwards. Luckily, both the rocky ground and Josef’s teeth broke his fall.
There was a sickening crunch.
“Brutality!” shouted Roberto triumphantly. Josef made an attempt at standing, realised he couldn’t, and then fell down again, vanquished. Moments later, something soft landed on his head.
“You have passed the test, Raggazo!” Roberto roared. “You-a gotta my passion flowing again! You showed-a your own GUSTO in our manly duel! Pezzonovante! May my weed bring you happiness!”
“I can’t feel my legs…” mumbled Josef.
“I call a doctor, too.”

The Trip (v)

A week had passed. Josef was in the hospital, a neck brace on him and his jaw wired shut. In front of him on the bed was a tray with his liquefied dinner on it. As he sucked it up with a clumsy straw, two people came in.
“Hey, dude!” said Surf happily. “So you’re awake, now, huh?”
Josef nodded regretfully, wishing he wasn’t. Though he was in pain, it was the thought of the widespread suffering that would soon be going on in the wake of his incapacitating injuries that hurt him the most. There would be no humorous quips or insights from him for a good two months. He wondered if his adoring public could hold out that long.
“Well, we brought you some grapes,” said Eddie, forgetting completely that Josef was incapable of eating them. “And some good news. The car dealer relented! We got the Beetle!”
Josef couldn’t smile so he made some thumbs-up gestures. There was some more news too, and for this Surf and Eddie joined hands.
“Got something else to tell you, too,” said Eddie shyly. “Turns out me an’ Surf were…more than friends for quite a while. We’re gonna tie the knot in two weeks!”
“And we want you to be best man, dude!” added Surf ecstatically. “Isn’t this a wonderful way to end things, dude?”
Josef nodded, giving them his blessing. He stopped midway, though, when a light grey bag was plopped onto the tray. Josef stared hungrily at it.
“We thought you might like this, dude,” said Surf, shrugging. “Seeing as you went to all the trouble to get it, an’ all.”
Josef stared at the bag on the tray that he could do absolutely nothing about. The overpowering smell of Uber weed drifted up and assailed his flaring nostrils.
“Well, time’s up. Bye-bye, dude!”
Josef tried to call them back but it was too late, and besides he couldn’t speak. The grey bag sat there like a terrible itch that couldn’t be reached. His arms had been constricted to a point to prevent any further damage to his neck. He was, in a word, screwed.
Unless…
Josef eyed the open nape of the grey bag of Uber weed. The straw in his mouth quivered slightly. It was a long shot, and it would require a hellish amount of lung capacity, but it might just work…

***fin***

Weak ending, huh? Didn’t really want to bother with this halfway through but once you start on something you’ve gotta see it through. And Mr. Mercer? I’m not sorry. It’s not my fault if you’re such a good vehicle for this sort of thing. Just try to take it as a bizarrely warped compliment. God bless- I mean, Joe Bless.

Some Thoughts

2008-07-29T03:46:00.002-07:00

I found this whilst scouring old files for the undeniably long story I just posted. Whether it changes your life or makes you snigger, one thing is true: everyone talks crap at some point.

Some thoughts

I believe in fate. But I also know of the chaos nature of reality and it’s random property, thus making the idea of fate impossible. A paradox in my mind. However, what I believe and what I know to be true are not one and the same thing.
I know there’s an unpredictability about everything, that nothing certain and all is chaos; in fact, even nothing itself is uncertain. All is chaos and quantum.
I also believe in God. I believe because I like to have something to blame when things go wrong, something to vent petty frustrations out on that wouldn’t have been satisfying or feasible with a random universe oblivious to the oblivious atoms that make the illusion of me shouting at them if you‘ll excuse the word choice. A personification of it gives my rants meaning, to myself that is. The equivalent of shouting at the universe as it is, without any sort of layer of conscious purpose put upon it, would be like a shouting at a vacuum. Pointless. Just like the thing you are shouting at.
Such beliefs in God or fate are logically wrong and cannot be arrived at through pure rational means. They are untrue compared to (if that were possible) the universe of reality, that is, how the universe is without perception or understanding foisted upon it, which, again, simply isn‘t possible in real terms; the universe isn’t there to be understood, there isn’t anything to understand.
But I believe anyway. Just as I believe in God I believe in fate. Fate cannot exist; at levels of understanding ignoring chaos and reality, the level I stood at last year, the universe was one big chemical reaction running to a set of unfathomable rules that would run it’s course like a train on a rail. The truth is, randomness is the essence of everything; some things even don’t exist but have an effect on that which ‘does’ anyway! Impossible for there to be fate.
So why do I persist with these conceptions? Why are they still there, outmoded and known by me to be untrue as they are? Because I don’t know truth. I will never know truth and neither will anyone else as truth does not exist, the very nature of the universe is one that itself is subject to chaos theory and change. If it changes then there is no meaning to it. With no meaning, there can be no understanding. And no truth as a result.
Besides, even if it were possible then the only way to achieve such a truth is by becoming completely and unconditionally rational. (which is basically a paradox because without any ego or what have you there is just the unconscious mind that performs much like a computer on steroids or whatever it’s binary equivalent is; if utter rationality were gained, and truth then attainable, there would be no active search for it by the brain because it would no longer recognise the need to do so, it wouldn’t recognize anything at all. In a way, such impartialness is truth.)
I can’t. Because so long as I harbour irrational feelings like love for my mother and sister then it is impossible to become rational. Basically because to pursue truth means to cast off the very reason you wanted to search for it in the first place (decision to search for it reached as the result of thoughts and desires tempered by ego and self, therefore impossible to attain as truth requires mind unable to think in this way, utterly logical and high math based. Being this way is truth. Unattainable because of the paradox; to gain truth you must lose the ability to understand it. The truth to reality isn’t something to understand, it is something to become. Something to be as.)
It is for this reason that I will give up my ruminations at night and during the day as to the nature of truth and attaining it. It is an impossible task that no amount of illusion or ego tempered thought can begin, let alone complete. This entire document itself was a paradox, attempting to explain that which cannot be explained. My thoughts on the subject up until now have been moot. They have instead been an ego driven exercise in the furthering of one’s understanding of oneself rather than reality. While we are the ego it is not possible to understand the truest nature of anything outside the consciousness. Only those illusory meanings, like space and time, can be understood by us, just as soulless, egoless entities utterly in touch with reality )like the humble computer) can only understand true math and reality, not illusory meaning (‘subjective meaning‘, is perhaps the word I am looking for here. Illusory is a negative word that biases the entire nature of things, calling illusory bad and reality good when neither is anything other than ’is’. Good and bad itself is a conception remember; the ego cannot be branded as inhibiting or the pursuit of higher understanding meaningful in any way; it all just is and wasn’t. Neither is true. Truth itself is just another ‘meaning‘.)
I myself will instead embrace my ego and subjective essence. If the pursuit of truth means being robbed of the very reason you set out to do it in the first place then, from the subjective viewpoint my ego inhabits, it’s not worth doing. Being in subjective existence is not better or worse than being in reality; you are what you are, even if you is an illusion. Let go of your own dogma and prejudice of the ego and see it for what it is; yourself. Your interface. That which acts as your universe. You’ll never escape it, because to be frank you are the ego. Nothing more. When you think of it as a defence system against ’bad’ input, we think of it as separate. The ego isn’t the defence mechanism. You put those defence mechanisms there.
To conclude. Anyone who pursues the nature of the universe and it’s ultimate truth will be contradicting themselves. There’s no meaning to anything and no meaning for it to happen. Your pursuit of this truth strikes at the very heart of it.
Anyways, there’s a lot going on with the whole illusory meanings and stuff. If your going to die and cease to be anyway (lets not go into the whole reincarnation thing, lets face it; there’s no such thing as a soul aside the ego) might as well throw oneself at whatever takes their fancy in terms of interest. You won’t be getting to the absolute truth in the ‘real’ reality anyway, so why not go for the one that is doctored by the mind to have meaning or some sense of context within the imagination?
Because if everything is meaningless, then meaning is yours to give. It’s not as if the universe is going to correct you now, is it?

Or alternatively..

2008-07-29T03:46:00.001-07:00

Flash from the Past! That's sherry, baby!

2008-07-29T03:31:00.000-07:00

This takes me back. I'm posting this up as a prelude to the sequel I'm writing for this one (Yes, you fucking heard correctly). Should set the mood nicely, I feel.

It's a shame I lost all the formatting. Bear with it.

From Some Guy Productions comes:

‘Dude, Where’s My Cigarette?’
Starring Josef Trimms as…Josef Trimms!!
And Some Other People.

From the recesses of a dingy flat in East Kilbride to the killing fields of Cambodia, join one man’s quest for peace, truth, justice…and a Luckie’s cigarette.

[There are five references to other stuff throughout this story, such as films and other stories. Spot them all and win your very own Josef figurine! Answers on a postcard.]

The Odyssey (i)

It was just your average night in an average flat owned by an average man. Sitting in the armchairs dotted about the sitting room were two made-up people eating Doritos and watching Rangers defender David Weir lurch his way into yet another opponent striker, eating his flesh like the zombie that he was.
“When do you think they’ll finally admit Weir died of old age and bury him with the respect his dead body deserves?” asked Surf quietly.
“Who cares?” said Eddie, “He’s better than that Arse-featured Steven McManus-”
“Disaster!!”
The living-room door had slammed open, admitting the haunted owner of the flat. Joe strode into the room and stood in front of the television set, just as Rangers scabbed yet another cheap goal from Werder Bremen; Eddie was less than happy about this.
“Hey, man, you’re blocking the game-”
“To hell with your game!” shouted Josef as he switched the thing off at the plug, “This’s serious; we’ve got a crisis on our hands, goons!”
Eddie looked over at Surf, who shrugged.
“Has…Yellowstone park erupted or something?” said Eddie hesitantly. “Did the seething super-volcano sitting beneath it finally burst its seams?” he asked. In the other armchair, a light seemed to go on in Surf’s eyes.
“Dood! That’d explain the earthquake down south, dood!” he said in a rush.
“Yeah…yeah, that’s right!” said Eddie as it all began to slot into place. “Score one for deductive work by the Home Team!”
They rose from their seats and high-fived. Josef stared at them.
“What? No! Well, yes. While this did, in fact, happen and there is a super-cloud of poisonous dust and ash heading towards us, I was talking about a different crisis; one far more serious than the mere ‘end of the world’…” he walked toward the coffee table in the centre of the room and plopped something onto it. Eddie and Surf cut their complex high-five routine short and looked down.
It was an empty pack of cigarettes.
Surf and Eddie stared at it in horror.
“How long since your last smoke?” whispered Eddie; the Rangers game seemed a world away now.
“About five seconds,” replied Josef regretfully. “It’s all my fault; I should have kept a back-up stock just in case something like this happened.”
And so should we have, Eddie thought to himself grimly. “Now don’t worry,” he found himself saying. “Me and Surf’ll help you find some more cigs, right Surf?”
“Mm?”
“I said: Me and Surf’ll help you, won’t we Surf?”
“You’ll help Surf?” asked Surf, confused. “What’s going on, dood?”
Eddie sighed. Then hit Surf with an ashtray.
“Dood!!”
“See? Surf’ll help you too. Now,” cried Eddie as he struck a pose and took control of the situation, “To the Josef-Mobile!”
Josef blinked.
“The what?”
“The Mini Cooper you bought from that strange sweaty man who offered us a full MOT on the car if we also paid him with our young, taut bodies,” explained Eddie.
“Oh.”
“Dood!! I’m bleeding here!!”

The Journey (ii)
“Mind that sign!!”
The Mini cooper bounced off it and skittled away, rolling on into the night. Josef was at the wheel while Eddie and Surf bounced around the back seats as they tried, in vain, to make Josef slow down.
“I’m sorry!” he called to them as the car narrowly avoided a line of late night shoppers, “It’s just that I get tetchy when I haven’t smoked- GET OFF THE DAMN ROAD! – and you know what cars do to people; they turn them into egocentric, power-obsessed madmen.”
“So unlike your usual self,” said Eddie drolly. “By the way; this is a public street, not a road.”
Understanding dawned on Josef’s face; no wonder there were so many people in the way. Good thing the Mini was equipped with spiky bull-bars. He careened into another old granny and swore as her twisted Zimmer-frame embedded itself into the windshield; Josef resolved the problem by putting his foot down and swearing some more.
“Damn pedestrians!” he roared. “Don’t they realize that I am God?!?”
Eddie grabbed the back of the drivers seat and wrenched himself upright toward Josef’s ear.
“Your holiness!” he shouted. “I’ve an idea; let’s try Chris’ place! He might have cigarettes!”
Josef nodded at this; it was a good plan but with one major flaw.
“Hey, I’ve an idea too!” shouted Josef. “Let’s go to Chris’ place! He’ll have the cigarettes I crave!”
Eddie blinked.
“But Josef, I just-“
Josef elbowed him.
“All these bright ideas of mine…I was born gifted, I guess. Listen up goons! We’re making for Chris’ place double-time so hold on to your drawers and for My sake don’t piss in ‘em!”
He barrelled the car down a side-street which at that particular point in time was being crossed by a strange looking guy who was, according to certain people, a little on the short side apparently. Josef recognized the illuminated figure up ahead and shifted into fifth; it was payback time.
“Finger-lickin’ good!” he roared as blood splattered against the windshield and side-windows. “That’s the last time that bastard says I’m not getting enough!”
“Josef, please! You’re driving like a madman!
“Bull!” he yelled. “I’m a brilliant driver! I can even drive with just one hand on the wheel!”
“…why would you want to do that, dood?” asked Surf.
“Um. No reason,” said Josef, clamming up. He concentrated on the road but was soon bombing it at sixty miles an hour again.
“Must be so he can talk on a mobile,” said Eddie mercifully.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought too, dood.”
After a minute of driving, Josef had calmed down enough to start stopping at traffic lights. They stopped at some now, an old lady with a wheely-suitcase crossing the road very slowly. Behind them, a bus full of nuns pulled up.
“Come on, come on, come on…” muttered Josef, tooting the horn.
The granny stopped in the middle of the road. She turned to them, bared her teeth and then produced a small portable rocket launcher from her bag. Josef, Eddie and Surf gawked. Josef recovered from shock first.
“Duck!” he screamed.
There was a whoosh as the rocket’s warhead fled it’s gun and scooted toward them. There was a tremendous smash as the last of the windscreen was taken out, followed by another smash of glass as the rocket shot straight through the car and clean out the back window. Needless to say, the bus full of nuns behind them didn’t stand a chance.
It began to rain nun.
“Oh, the humanity!” yelled Josef, as he slipped the car out of neutral and accelerated into the hapless old granny. She flipped up and onto the bonnet as the force of impact took her. Somehow, she managed to cling for dear life onto the remnants of the windscreen wipers. With a determined look on her face, she drew a knife and began to slowly pull herself up the bonnet of the car, toward them.
Josef’s eyes narrowed. He slipped the car’s gearbox into fifth and put his foot down to the metal as far as it would go. For reasons probably linked to Chaos Theory in some obscure way, a funky seventies soundtrack began to play on the radio.
“RPG-7, eh?” remarked Josef, his eyebrow raised in a canny way. “Impressive, worthy adversary…but now its time for my secret weapon.”
Josef flipped up a panel on the gear-stick with his thumb and pushed the little red button it revealed down hard. Eddie lunged forward from the back seat to stop him, but was too late.
“No! Not the Time-Travel button!” screamed Eddie, “I’ve only just had my knees replaced!”
“Sorry, Ed,” called Josef in his best manly action-hero voice, “ but desperate ‘times’ call for desperate half-measures with a dash of funky bravado! Here we go!”
The Mini’s engine roared as it went into Overdrive. The old lady clinging to the bonnet grimaced as G-forces pulled at her and the surrounding buildings whipped past in a blur before merging into a cheesy technicolour effect normally associated with a sixties LSD trip or a seventies Time-Jump. The old lady slowly slid down the bonnet and toward the fender, her gnarled nails leaving deep white scores on the paintwork. As her last living act drew near, she reached into her shawl and produced a primed grenade. Josef smiled the smile of tigers.
“Sorry, but you outta time, baby!”
He slammed on the brakes. The car’s wheels squealed as reality bent around them, and the old woman found herself flung from the fender of the car and into the swirling, rainbow-coloured vortex that was Limbo. As Time corrected itself, the surroundings began to merge back into that of a normal Glaswegian street at night; there was even someone vomiting copiously just outside the window.
“Josef?” murmered Eddie from somewhere in the vicinity of the boot.
“Yes, Ed?”
“Please don’t do that again.”
“Sorry Ed.”
“Dood…I think my head’s broken,” said a pale-looking Surf.
“Don’t we know it…” muttered Eddie.

The Porno (iii)

The rest of the drive to Chris’ flat passed without incident, save that of a spontaneous attack by mutant monkeys which was only repulsed when their mortal enemies, the ninja-chickens led by a one Party Dave, showed up to join the fray. Josef and co. had slipped out in the besieged Mini during the confusion and now they rolled into the driveway where Chris owned/rented (delete where appropriate) a flat.
“Here we are,” said Eddie jubilantly, feeling better now that his organs had settled back into their correct positions. “I know which one it is, follow me.”
Within a minute they were knocking on the door to Chris’ flat. They waited, listening to the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Just a sec,” said Chris through the door. He opened the door a crack and peered out at them. Recognizing Josef, he shut it to unhitch the chain and then opened the door wide.
“Evening Children,” he yawned. “Do your apathetic mothers know you’re out this late?”
“Can the humour, Chris,” said Eddie authoritatively. “I’ve an emergency here. Josef’s ran out of- is that a porno I can hear upstairs?”
Chris nodded.
“Yeah. The guy living in the flat above got dumped again; you boys want some weed?”
“Ah, no,” said Eddie politely as they followed Chris into the flat. “We just had some an hour ago. What we do want though is-”
“Hey dood, why’s there a guy over there in the corner sitting under a pile of jackets?” asked Surf as he guided the trembling Josef into an armchair. Chris’ eyes flitted about the room.
“No…reason,” he said slowly.
“Light is for losers,” said the Pile of Jackets.
They sat awhile, trying hard to look as if they were above listening to the sound of a woman/man/donkey being whipped by scented bootlaces. Chris, who was already immune to the obscene noises drifting down to them, just sat and said nothing. He let his guests stew in the agonizingly loud and sometimes yelping silence instead. Eddie drummed his hands against his knees, sitting hunched over for some reason or other.
“So,” he said awkwardly.
“So,” replied Chris, not awkward in the least.
“Any…cigarettes at all?” he hazarded. Chris produced one and threw it to him. Eddie shook his head.
“No, what I mean is; do you have any Luckie’s Cigarettes? You know, the ones that taste of cancer?”
“Aren’t those women’s cigarettes?” asked Chris accusingly, “Why would I have them?”
“Well, I just thought- I mean, seeing as you and Josef sometimes go outside the Union and smoke together, you might have some of his brand lying around, you know?”
Chris looked at him.
“Well, I don’t. Sorry.”
Silence. The sound of wet celery being put to various uses could be heard.
“Do you know anyone else who does?” Eddie asked desperately.
“No,” said Chris, and he left it at that.
Able to bear the squelching noises no more, Eddie leapt to his feet and immediately hunched over again with a gasp as he remembered something pressing about the state of his nether regions; he had to get out of there.
“Well,” he said as he hobbled towards the door. “It was good seeing you again Chris but you should really think about getting insulator in or something; you know, to block out the noise. Surf, bring Josef. Now.”
“See you on Tuesday,” said Surf politely, guiding a tranced-out Joe toward the door. Chris waved them off from his armchair, listening to the door closing to hear if it locked properly. In the flat upstairs, the sound of the well-worn porno reaching its climax blasted through the ceiling. Chris sank in his chair, looked up, and sighed.
“She’s faking it,” he muttered knowingly.
“I wanna be ‘The Guy’,” said Jackets.

The Withdrawal (iv)

They had just left Chris’ place and Eddie was driving, he was also just beginning to notice Josef’s deteriorating condition.
“Is…he alright?” he asked, looking at a slumped Josef in the rear-view mirror.
Surf shook his head; a thin patina of sweat was glistening on Joe’s brow.
“He’s been getting quiet ever since that mutant monkey business, dood; I think the last residues of nicotine in his blood are drying up.”
Eddie went pale himself. That could only mean one thing.
Cold Turkey.
They were running out of time…
“I was rather hoping it wouldn’t have to come to this,” said Eddie gravely as they continued driving back into the City Centre.
“Dood?”
Eddie turned up another street. His eyes were reflecting the light of the streetlamps in a strange way. He steeled himself to deliver the bombshell to his friend: “We’re going to have to…buy-“
“Dood?!”
“Buy,” continued Eddie forcefully, “some cigarettes. Surf, empty your pockets.”
“No!” protested Surf. “No, Eddie, no! Buying cigarettes?! With money?! It’s not natural! It’s-”
“It’s our only option,” Eddie cut across him gravely. “I mean, look at him! He’s fading fast!”
Josef was lying even further slumped in the back, muttering something about radioactive spider-spunk. He was clearly becoming delirious. Stirred by the lone mote of compassion that remained in his twisted, blackened and thread-bare soul, Surf decided that Eddie was right. It was time for sacrifices.
“Alright, dood…for Josef.”
“For Josef,” agreed Eddie, who began to search his own pocket with one hand. “And while you’re at it, rifle through Josef’s pockets, too.”
Surf’s eyes widened.
“What? No way, dood! I am not putting my hand in there!”
“Do it! Do it now!”
Spurred on by the repeated threats that were now being thrown at him, Surf tentatively reached toward Josef’s pockets. As he watched Surf reach in, Eddie couldn’t help but wonder what horrors were about to be revealed, what cheap shots were about to be-
“There’s…five pounds exact in there. Yeah.”
Eddie drove the car in silence for a while.
“And…that’s it, is it?” he asked, like a man probing a boil with his fingernail. “Nothing else?”
“Nope. That’s all, dood.”
“No crusty tissues or suspicious smelling hankies?” asked Eddie. “No miscellaneous sex toys or embarrassing photographs that attack his moral character? No condoms still in their packaging with the ‘use by’ dates expired? Nothing?”
“I just said there wasn’t, dood…why?”
Eddie shrugged and just got on with driving.
“Oh, I dunno,” he said. “Just seemed like a bit of a wasted opportunity was all. Now, we’ve got to find a store that sells these bloody smokes of his. Surf, did you lift that empty cigarette packet that Josef put on the coffee table back in the flat?”
Surf checked his pockets and produced the aforementioned empty cigarette pack; he handed it to Eddie.
“How terribly convenient,” he remarked, taking the pack. With one hand left on the wheel, Eddie flipped the pack around and read the back. The words: ‘Made in Cambodia’ stared back at him in faded black letters. He swore.
“Surf, how far is Cambodia from here?” he asked distantly.
“It’s near Australia, I think. Why, dood?”
Eddie didn’t reply; he was too busy looking at the speedometer. He began to accelerate.
“No reason…no reason at all; just keep an eye on Josef for me, will you?”
“Yeah, about Josef…he’s started muttering to himself again, dood.”
“What? What did he say?”
“He said: ‘If you look close enough you can see her pixellated chest’…whatever that means, dood.”
“He’s slipped into the FF7-trivia phase, hasn’t he Surf?”
“’Fraid so, Dood!”
Eddie slammed a fist against the dash board; Cambodia was still ten thousand miles away.
“Damn it! I’m not gonna lose this kid!”
Eddie’s thumb flipped open the gear-stick top, just as Josef had done an hour before. It hovered over the red button hesitantly.
“I swore to never again use this device…but I have no choice! Here’s to Sherry, baby!”
The radio blared out the funky seventies soundtrack again as he pressed the button. The Mini began to accelerate with impossible speed.
“Dood, look!”
“By God!”
“Someone say my name?” asked Josef blearily.
The rainbow vortex had appeared again, but waiting there, shawl and all, was the old lady Josef had banished here before. Eddie narrowed his eyes.
“Surf, break out Big Betty from the glove compartment.”
“Aye-aye, dood!”
Jumping into the front passenger seat, Surf flipped the glove-box open and produced a G-18 automatic pistol. Eddie took it from his hand and steeled himself.
“If I don’t make it back…” he started.
“Dood, I know what you’re gonna say…and I feel the same way. Dood, I lov-
“No time! It comes!”
With his foot still down on the accelerator, Eddie raised his other leg and looped it through the open car-door window, half his torso leaning out the window with it. He took careful aim at the Granny who was gliding towards them, teeth bared and her primed grenade still waiting to go off. Eddie grinned right back, teeth reflecting the rainbow swirl of the Time-Vortex around them.
“Oh yeah!” he screamed. “Open wide, old timer, ‘cause we’re meals on wheels and you about to get served! Eat it!”
He pulled on the trigger and held on as best he could while the G-18 emptied it’s sixty-six round magazine into the old lady. Not a single round missed its mark. She fell away, grenade still in hand, never to be seen again.
“Alright!” whooped Eddie as he dragged his full body back into the car. He handed the empty G-18 to Surf, who was looking faintly embarrassed. Eddie remembered that his friend had been about to tell him something. “By the way, what were you going to say a moment ago?”
“Nothing, dood,” muttered Surf as he put the G-18 away. “Nothing at all…”
“Comic books are literature too,” muttered Josef.

The Showdown (v)

They reached Cambodia double time, thanks to the Mini Cooper’s top speed of ten thousand miles an anti-hour; in fact, they arrived there a full hour before they’d actually left for the damn place.
As such, Josef was now back in the Angry phase, much to the short-lived relief of his companions.
“Shut up, goons! If I say the Sun revolves around the Earth then the Sun damn well revolves around us in a Sidereal period of 365.265 days, alright?!”
“Yes, Josef,” said Surf and Eddie meekly.
“Alright then…” said Josef, placated for the time being. He swung the shop door open and marched inside, Surf and Eddie following after him like seaweed caught in a Tsunami’s wake; inside, a Cambodian shopkeeper eyed them up with suspicion.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked, being a fluent speaker of English by pure chance.
“Yes,” said Josef as he tried to resist the urge to kill something. “I would like to purchase a pack of Luckie’s cigarettes, please.”
The shopkeeper didn’t turn but kept his eyes on them as he stepped back and took the pack from the shelf behind him. He held onto it as he put his other hand out, asking for the money. Josef put the five pounds three pence they’d managed to garner between them into the shopkeeper’s hand.
“No. Not enough,” said the shopkeeper flatly. “You are three pounds short.”
Josef sighed and smiled in that way he does. He knew it was going to come to this. It always did, every bloody week…
“Shopkeep,” he said, raising his voice as he produced a weapon. “You’re entering a world of pain here, friend.”
“But you are short” stuttered the shopkeeper.
“A world of pain,” repeated Josef. Behind him, Eddie tried to reason with Josef.
“Listen, Josef, this guy’s just trying to run a business in a very poor country that relies heavily on foreign aid with agriculture being their main economic activity, especially at a subsidiary level, which itself produces rice, rubber, livestock, maize, vegetables, tobacco-”
“Tobacco?!” roared Josef. “Don’t talk to me about damn tobacco! I’m on edge here, Ed! Like a tickin’ time bomb ready to go off in EVERYBODY’S face! Let me handle this!”
“Just one more thing, dood,” said Surf in a tiny voice. “Bananas aren’t generally known to be a threatening weapon; as a general rule.”
Josef looked at him. And then back at the shopkeeper. Reality was beyond him now.
“Mark it down,” he said with deceptive calm.
“I-I cannot…”
Josef swore, and cocked his banana.
“I swear to Me, if you don’t mark those cigs down right now…”*

Exodus (vii)

It was a nice night to be driving home. Eddie was at the wheel and Surf sat beside him on the passenger seat. Behind them, Josef lay spread out over the back seats, singing a song about flowers. The car was gradually beginning to fill up with second-hand smoke.
“Well, Surf,” said Eddie companionably as the car turned up London Road, “This sure was one zany adventure.”
-petals of green, petals of blue, here I am, singing to you, la de da-
“You said it, dood,” replied Surf, resting back in his seat as oxygen starvation wracked his brain. “You think you could open a window there, dood?”
“My pleasure.”
Eddie pumped the crank next to his own seat, winding the window down. Air rushed into the car and mercifully drowned out the rear-seat occupant’s singing somewhat.
“I’ll tell you something though, old friend,” Eddie’s good mood continued, “It’ll be a while before I can look a cigarette in the face again…Ah ha ha ha!”
“Ah ha ha ha!” said Surf.
“Ah ha ha ha!” said Eddie again.
“Ah ha ha ha!” said Surf again.
“Ah ha ha ha!” said Eddie yet again.
“Ah ha ha ha!” said Surf yet again.
“Ah ha ha ha!” said Eddie once more.
“Ah ha ha ha!” said Surf once more.
“La de da la,” added Josef, seriously.

Fin.
*You may think it unusual that a Cambodian shopkeeper speaks fluent English but this is actually a highly likely prospect, you see while Khmer is the national language, French and English are also widely spoken what with the country being, as it was, a protectorate of France way back in 1863. It was also of interest to America during their bloody struggle with Communism in the region during the Cold War. No doubt these occupations over the years are responsible for the Cambodian people’s wide repertoire of spoken languages.

Just thought you’d like to know.

An Attempt at the Alternate

2008-07-27T15:15:00.000-07:00

Inspired by Killer 7. Open your third eye…

Ouroboross

The Saloon of Infinite was full tonight. It was always full. Except for a spot at the bar that a certain man would be making his own soon. He came in now, doors swinging in his wake and a swagger on him that inspired great loathing from anyone with a hint of pride.
He took in the clientele as he padded toward the bar. By the door, a man explained patiently to his waiter that he did not want butter on his sandwiches before smashing himself to death with the plate. In the middle was an array of round tables each hoarded by one solitary knight trying to keep out the dark with dark drinks. A suited man by the wall sat and stared in smug silence, a straight whisky in his hand. At the piano, an Asian-looking man wearing a fez about his nether-regions and nothing else played the honky-tonk. Neon lights bathed the scene in electric red.

Roy Rogers (no relation) reaches the bar and puts his full weight against it. He feels the familiar jags and crags in the wood beneath gnarly fingers like a hate-filled lover caressing his hate-bearing spouse. He catches the barman’s eye and orders a whisky straight with a whisky chaser without uttering a word. The bar knows Roy Rogers…and Roy Rogers knows the bar only too well.
“Play it again, Ishmael!”
The same honky-tonk tune washes over him as he downs his drink. He leers around for the attentions of any ladies but they reply coldly or simply ignore him. Roy Rogers shrugs and downs his chaser; he can just rape one of them later, he thinks.
The honky-tonk stops. Roy Rogers turns round to see the pianoman dashing towards the exit. The piano itself shudders and shakes; the black & white keys tremble ominously.
Roy Rogers may be forever wasted, but he wastes no time. He hits the deck shoulder first and the flying piano keys go over him, scissoring through the bar like a knife through hot flesh. Bottles behind it smash, and the barman doubles up. First there is one thump, and then another as the barman’s legs fall on top of his severed torso. Roy Rogers gets lethargically to his feet and draws his Wesson. Only one person in the saloon will meet his eye.
“Commendable, Mr. Rogers!” claps the man in a suit. “Faster than an old man with a burlesque hoar, eh?”
Roy Rogers fires his gun at the man’s head. The bullet goes clean through his mouth, blasting skull and brain matter up onto the wall behind him. As it oozes down the nicotine-stained wallpaper, the man finishes clapping and walks forward. Roy Rogers eyes the dead-man walking with suspicion.
“Looks like I’m slower than an impotent stud with your mother,” the Suit slushed, his throat spewing like an open sewer. “You shouldn’t be so rash, Mr. Rogers.”
Roy snorts and spits over the ruined bar, hitting the barman dead centre in his glazing eye. He holsters his gun and reaches over into the bar, picking up a smashed bottle. He advances on Suit with murder in his eyes.
“Stop that!” the Suit moans. “This is an Armani!”
Roy stops slashing wildly at the blood-drenched Suit. He can see the far wall through the gaping hole in the man’s head. He spits viscously through it.
“What choo want from me?” Roy snarls viciously.
“Your cooperation,” replies Suit in a voice that sounds like he is talking through a drainpipe. “You will die a child tonight.”
Roy Rogers roars his animal fury to the smoke-stained ceiling. He leaps for Suit and rips at everything he can reach. Feet smash into shins and a groin, teeth search for the nose and ears, hands seek out eyes and are stuck into the gaping wound to tear and twist and pull. After an hour, Roy Rogers is covered in Suit’s blood and exhausted. He staggers back and collapses against the bar, fighting for air. Suit is still standing.
“Now,” said Suit in his drainpipe voice. “It begins now.”
Roy Rogers gives him a Look. It turns into horror when the sticky blood caking him begins to move, working it’s way into his skin. He flails as it enters his system, catching and converting every drop of blood it can find in Roy’s body. Roy Roger’s blood itself rushes into his feet, the lowest point. But there is no escape. The arteries have become a prison. The sticky blood of Suit continues it’s relentless purge and conversion until not a spot of fluid is untainted in the whole of Roy’s body. As he stands there dazed, Suit begins to undress.
“There is order in cycles,” he says, echoing gutturally. “Order to defeat the Chaos that surrounds us. In order is survival. Our cycle will be unending.”
Suit is completely naked. He moves closer to Roy Rogers and begins undressing him like a carer with a brain-dead child.
“Now, give me your clothes.”
***

The next night, the saloon doors swing open again. There is an empty spot at the repaired bar and the place is full again. The newcomer swaggers in with confidence, his name is Buck McCoy (no relation).
He eyes the clientele on his way to the bar. By the door is a man eating his unbuttered sandwiches with a surly expression. In the middle is an array of round tables hoarded by drunks pretending to be nice people for the night. And by the far wall, swigging a whisky, is a smug man in a suit. His eyes are knowing and his smile is confident; there is order in cycles, order to beat the Chaos that surrounds and threatens us. In order is survival; action heroes will never die.

***fin***

Double-whammy

2008-07-27T11:09:00.000-07:00

This should start the ball rolling: Two short stories of which the identity of something has been concealed. You'll probably guess mid-way but I tried not to make it too obvious what both are. Enjoy!

The Resignation

It was eight o’clock pee-em and for reasons Marek couldn’t quite understand, the man tied to a chair in the living room still wasn’t dead yet.
There was froth coming out of his mouth, sure, and the deep cuts scored across his chest like crimson sashes were seeping pus as well as blood. He ran the crusty knife up and down these wounds impatiently but all the man did was moan and writhe some more. But not die. He just wouldn’t die.
Selfish bastard.
Marek pushed the dying man’s head backward, the neck cricking. He hoped the man would drown in his own frothy saliva but he just swallowed it down and down until he could take no more and vomited a cocktail of blood, pus and enzymes over both himself and Marek’s flowing white robe. Marek stepped back in disgust.
“Christ! You filthy little pig…this was my best robe!”
The man tied to the chair said nothing.
“There truly is nothing elegant about you at all is there?” Marek went on. “A slobbery wilderbeest in life and a slobbery wilderbeest in death. Oh, God…is that a chunk of fried chicken on my foot?”
The chair creaked slightly. It was nailed down to the floor so the man’s insistent attempts to rock it over served only to make the flex cords tying him to it dig in all the deeper. He groaned damply.
“I’ll never understand, you people,” sighed Marek. “Never in a million years.”
The eyes of the tied up man dulled slightly. When they had first met face to face on this fateful night, those same eyes had been alive with fear, suspicion and disbelief. Marek had used the surprise to overpower the man in the chair. Now he longed to deliver the final blow but under the ancient law he himself abided by, he had to wait. Marek could not deliver a blow that killed a man outright; there had to be time for that man to make his peace first. It was the Rules. He couldn’t deny the man that.
Even if he is repulsive.
“I’ve said this before,” Marek whispered, coming closer again and bending toward the man’s ear. “But I’ve seen everything you’ve done in your life. Every little sinful thing. And it makes me sick to the core. Just bearing witness to it all makes me feel tainted for the experience.”
He stood to slap the man a few times, then stopped because the man’s face was painted with sweat. Marek wiped his hand on the wall and shuddered.
“I can’t imagine what he sees in you,” he went on. “So many disgusting flaws. And the stench. Not like me and my peers. You’re nothing like me and my peers.”
And here he turned to the mirror, examining his own visage with undisguised pride. Marek’s face was smooth and devoid of a nose, mouth or any other distinguishing characteristic. All there was aside the pearly smoothness was a set of massive eyes, which were blue. Flawless, he thought to himself. Absolutely flawless.
“I was your watcher and protector,” said Marek, still gazing at his own reflection. “I was assigned to this, not my decision you understand, and loath it though I did, there was no possibility of saying ‘No’. His will is irresistible…or rather it was. Times have changed now. His influence is on the wane. Once you pass on, I’ll be free.”
There was a short, sharp sound from the chair. Marek tore his eyes from the mirror and back to the repulsive image strapped to the chair. The man had fallen still. Marek winced as he reached forward to feel for a pulse beating under the man’s moist neck. There was none.
“At last,” he breathed. Marek stood still for a long, long time. It was well into next week when he finally did move. The man in the chair had begun to rot. Marek looked at the flies buzzing around with barely concealed disgust; another questionable indulgence of his lord. The World of Filth was full of them.
“Goodbye, my charge.” Marek leaned forward and kissed the dead man on the forehead. He wiped away the mucus and moved over to the window. Nightfall had descended again. Perfect. He opened the window as far as possible and clambered over it, his bare feet keeping balance on the sill. He was five floors up but Marek had no fear of falling. Down in the alley below, a barking dog stopped barking at the bins and looked up to stare at the poised figure. He seemed to glow iridescently in the night.
Marek looked up at the stars. He intended to visit them. And so Marek, a guardian angel (now retired), kicked off from the sill, spread his wings and soared up and up into the starry twilight above. He was never seen by living eyes again.

***fin***

The Guessing Game

[Try to guess who, or indeed what, the narrator of this one might be. Answers on a postcard or their Mexican equivalent.]

I am the light of your life. Sound big? Well, it’s true. Not that any of you little people ever stop to give me the proper credit for it, mind. Where’s my praise, huh? Without me, you people would be nothing but cooling corpses and that’s the truth. But you pass me by every day without so much as a word of gratitude. In fact, you won’t even look me in the eye. Not that I blame you; I’m so glorious that I’m blinding. Besides, we can’t have you unwashed gazing at me, now, can we?

Oh, I make you feel uncomfortable, do I? That’s your own fault for hiding behind so many layers. I’m just being myself. Can’t be any way else. What? I’m never here when you want me to be? Well, I’m not your goddamn servant. I come and go however I want and if I want to follow a routine then I will. Besides, what the hell are you gonna do, huh? Set me about? Spit on me? Yeah, that’ll work.

You’re like little flies buzzing about my head. You and the rest of those bloody things. Heh, but at least they don’t have ungrateful little sods like you running around on them, eh? Only reason I haven’t buggered off to do my own thing is because you people depend on me for so much. Least you could do is offer up the odd sacrifice now and then, like the good old days.

I can see that you’re all getting a little hot under the collar now. That’s fine. If you want to heat yourselves up then go for it. But when you guys start going hungry and getting displaced ‘cause you can’t keep your sea levels down then that;s your problem, got it? Don’t expect me to go easy on you just because you’re the only ones in the neighbourhood. Far as I’m concerned, I could care less if you were alive or dead.

Well, that’s all from me. I’ve got something huge flaring up on my surface right now…

And in the immortal words of Rolf Harris: Can you tell what it is yet?