halloween
Halloween's great. It's the only time in your adult life that you can dress up as a wolfman and not get accused of being sexually deviant.
For women at halloween, there's not really a lot of choice when it comes to costumes. Basically, your choice comes down to sexy vampire, sexy witch, and sexy nurse.
Which is so incredibly sexist...to men. What if I wanted to be a sexy vampire? No shop in the land is going to offer me a reasonably priced cape and codpiece combo.
If you don't know, a codpiece is basically a bit of leather that goes over the crotch of your trousers, and accentuates your genitals. Sure, you could probably just stuff your pants with tissue, but maybe you prefer to compensate in a more medieval flavour. But that's another weird thing. I've never seen any store sell a codpiece. I think it would be fair to say that it's a bit of a niche item. You know, you're never going to see a mainstream shop sell a branded tackle enhancer.
Buy the Topshop todger tote!
The Debenhams dick duffel!
The Sainsbury's schlong satchel.
All the cool kids are wearing them!
This isn't just a codpiece...this is an M&S codpiece.
I do most of my shopping online nowadays. Ebay's a goldmine. But something I hate is the terminology that gets used on there. If you get the highest bid, you don't buy the item, you WIN it. Yaaay! Woo! You win, now give me your money! Yaaay, I've got your money! Don't you feel like a winner?
Saturday, 30 October 2010
Sunday, 24 October 2010
The Talk
When you got to a certain age, your parents probably sat you down and gave you the talk. You know the one I mean.
The sex talk.
It's something I hate the idea of, mainly because 99% of parents are really awkward about talking to their kids about sex. They get embarressed, explain it poorly, and the kid ends up going away confused.
I just think it's baffling that anyone could be embarressed talking to your kid about sex. If it were a stranger, sure. You try explaining the mechanics of the female orgasm to some guy at the bus stop, and sure, that would feel weird.
But this isn't a stranger you're talking to. This is a human being that YOU MADE. This kid crawled out of one of you. I'd imagine that puts you on pretty intimate terms.
Secondly, it's the fact that people know it as 'the talk'. Not talks, talk, singular.
Everything the kid will ever needs to know about sex must fit into this one talk. How are you going to fit it all in?
Figuratively speaking.
"Hey, son. -inhales- boysandgirlsaredifferentgayshappenandAIDSisathing, and you should only do that stuff if you're in love. Got that? Bye!"
I mean, ideally you'd want a series of talks, lectures, even, to cover all the possible topics associated with sex.
"Okay, so last week we covered rough sex, this week I'll be talking about fisting, next week too, maybe, depending how much I can cram in."
All I'm saying is that it would work out better. Communication can only be a good thing.
The sex talk.
It's something I hate the idea of, mainly because 99% of parents are really awkward about talking to their kids about sex. They get embarressed, explain it poorly, and the kid ends up going away confused.
I just think it's baffling that anyone could be embarressed talking to your kid about sex. If it were a stranger, sure. You try explaining the mechanics of the female orgasm to some guy at the bus stop, and sure, that would feel weird.
But this isn't a stranger you're talking to. This is a human being that YOU MADE. This kid crawled out of one of you. I'd imagine that puts you on pretty intimate terms.
Secondly, it's the fact that people know it as 'the talk'. Not talks, talk, singular.
Everything the kid will ever needs to know about sex must fit into this one talk. How are you going to fit it all in?
Figuratively speaking.
"Hey, son. -inhales- boysandgirlsaredifferentgayshappenandAIDSisathing, and you should only do that stuff if you're in love. Got that? Bye!"
I mean, ideally you'd want a series of talks, lectures, even, to cover all the possible topics associated with sex.
"Okay, so last week we covered rough sex, this week I'll be talking about fisting, next week too, maybe, depending how much I can cram in."
All I'm saying is that it would work out better. Communication can only be a good thing.
Romantic Language
I find the way couples talk to each other interesting. Because after two people have been together a while, they tend to develop their own little languages, in-jokes and word games, that sort of thing.
A couple's been tegether a few years, and the guy will say something like "My, isn't that car going fast.", and the girl will reply: "Not as fast as that trifle, eh?".
You see, it's funny because they shared a trifle once and ended up eating it quite fast because she was running late for the salon, and it's become a 'hilarious' running joke.
Anyway, I was listening to a couple who I'm friends with have a conversation, and they were doing all the usual lovey-dovey bollocks, when the guy said something interesting. He said:
"I can't imagine life without you."
This struck me as weird thing to say. You can't? It's one thing to say "I don't want to imagine life without you.", but CAN'T? You can't imagine it?
"Yeah, I tried to imagine it, but I got a nosebleed, everything went dark, and when I woke up I was covered in chocolate. At least, I hope it was chocolate."
I just don't think it's romantic. When you say "I can't imagine life without you.", effectively what you're saying is:
"Darling, being in your presence has left me so hopeless and crushed with despair that I can no longer form abstract thoughts. My imagination shriveled and died under your influence. EVERY MOMENT I SPEND WITH YOU FURTHER ROBS ME OF MY ABILITY TO DREAM OF SOMETHING BETTER. Love yooou."
A couple's been tegether a few years, and the guy will say something like "My, isn't that car going fast.", and the girl will reply: "Not as fast as that trifle, eh?".
You see, it's funny because they shared a trifle once and ended up eating it quite fast because she was running late for the salon, and it's become a 'hilarious' running joke.
Anyway, I was listening to a couple who I'm friends with have a conversation, and they were doing all the usual lovey-dovey bollocks, when the guy said something interesting. He said:
"I can't imagine life without you."
This struck me as weird thing to say. You can't? It's one thing to say "I don't want to imagine life without you.", but CAN'T? You can't imagine it?
"Yeah, I tried to imagine it, but I got a nosebleed, everything went dark, and when I woke up I was covered in chocolate. At least, I hope it was chocolate."
I just don't think it's romantic. When you say "I can't imagine life without you.", effectively what you're saying is:
"Darling, being in your presence has left me so hopeless and crushed with despair that I can no longer form abstract thoughts. My imagination shriveled and died under your influence. EVERY MOMENT I SPEND WITH YOU FURTHER ROBS ME OF MY ABILITY TO DREAM OF SOMETHING BETTER. Love yooou."
Friday, 22 October 2010
The Far Right
I was at a BNP rally the other day. Not because I'm racist, I just love acronyms.
Anyway, I happened to be nearby, and I noticed this new thing they're doing. Masks. They've actually got these stupid masks that cover the bottom halves of their faces, so you can only see the eyes. And they've got the England flag painted on them. Because, you know, nothing says 'Nationalism' quite like (covers lower half of face with hands, in the style of the mask) "MFFFMMMEMMFMFM!"
I suppose it's meant to be intimidating, but all it really it does is make them look like Darth Vader after a shopping spree at Poundland. You know, after the Empire collapsed Lord Vader lost all his savings and now he has to work as a cashier at Lidl.
"-inhales- -exhales- -inhales- Semi-skimmed milk, 49p. -exhales- -inhales- Family pack of low fat sausages, 99p. -inhales- Gladys, can I get a price check on the chocolate fingers? -exhales-"
But let's get serious for a moment. There is one thing I feel needs to be discussed. It's been on everyone's mind a lot, and I feel we need to just get it out in the open, put it on the table, and mull it over.
That's right. I want to talk about Nick Griffin's penis.
For him to be so angry, at so many people, it's got to be pretty small. But the question is: how small?
Let me tell you: he has no shaft. Not even an inch. All that's there is head. It's like a little purple strawberry that someone glued to his navel. It's this tiny, malformed little nub perched on top of a pair of shriveled, hairless little grapes. At this point, the dick part of his actual dick, or what remains of it, is practically inverted. His racistness has actually caused his cock to begin retreating back into him, like a snail into it's shell.
Now, the real question here is: 'Has he got a small penis because he's racist, or is he racist because he's got a small penis?'. I dont know if there's a correlation between racistness and penis size, I just know that it's probably the most fucked up graph you'll ever have to draw.
Next week, bigoted vaginas. Are they wide, or droopy?
Anyway, I happened to be nearby, and I noticed this new thing they're doing. Masks. They've actually got these stupid masks that cover the bottom halves of their faces, so you can only see the eyes. And they've got the England flag painted on them. Because, you know, nothing says 'Nationalism' quite like (covers lower half of face with hands, in the style of the mask) "MFFFMMMEMMFMFM!"
I suppose it's meant to be intimidating, but all it really it does is make them look like Darth Vader after a shopping spree at Poundland. You know, after the Empire collapsed Lord Vader lost all his savings and now he has to work as a cashier at Lidl.
"-inhales- -exhales- -inhales- Semi-skimmed milk, 49p. -exhales- -inhales- Family pack of low fat sausages, 99p. -inhales- Gladys, can I get a price check on the chocolate fingers? -exhales-"
But let's get serious for a moment. There is one thing I feel needs to be discussed. It's been on everyone's mind a lot, and I feel we need to just get it out in the open, put it on the table, and mull it over.
That's right. I want to talk about Nick Griffin's penis.
For him to be so angry, at so many people, it's got to be pretty small. But the question is: how small?
Let me tell you: he has no shaft. Not even an inch. All that's there is head. It's like a little purple strawberry that someone glued to his navel. It's this tiny, malformed little nub perched on top of a pair of shriveled, hairless little grapes. At this point, the dick part of his actual dick, or what remains of it, is practically inverted. His racistness has actually caused his cock to begin retreating back into him, like a snail into it's shell.
Now, the real question here is: 'Has he got a small penis because he's racist, or is he racist because he's got a small penis?'. I dont know if there's a correlation between racistness and penis size, I just know that it's probably the most fucked up graph you'll ever have to draw.
Next week, bigoted vaginas. Are they wide, or droopy?
Friday, 19 March 2010
Freudian
ID & SUPER are two opposing parts of ALAN's psyche, working against each other to obtain whatever they each think is best.
SUPER is forcedly calm, slightly smug, and very self righteous. She also has a tendency to be mumsy, condescending, and petty.
ID is trying too hard to be cool. He pretends to take nothing seriously. He's sarcastic to ID and slightly bullying to whoever he tries to convince.
*** ***
INTERIOR: ALAN'S House. Kitchen.
ALAN potters about, performing small domestic tasks. He goes over to the cupboard or fridge to put something back, and notices a slice of cake inside. He's momentarily wracked with indecision. ID appears beside him.
SUPER: You really shouldn't eat that, you know. You'll regret it when you can't fit into your good suit.
ID appears on ALAN's other side.
ID: It's just cake. Come on, it's not gonna bite.
SUPER:(Disapproving) But you want to look good at the office don't you?
ID: The office is full of dicks. Like Dave, remember? He stole your good pen!
SUPER:(Ignoring ID) But there is that nice girl Carol, you'd like to look handsome for her, wouldn't you, eh? You'd like to impress her.
ALAN grins and nods at SUPER.
ID: Look, forget 'Carol'. Just look at that cake, sitting there, UNEATEN. It's mocking you.
ID: Are you going to let comestibles laugh at you?
ID & SUPER dissapear.
ALAN makes a defiant face at the cake, and takes it to a table, intending to eat it. He takes a few grateful bites. There is a fruitbowl on the table in front of him.
SUPER reappears.
SUPER: I'm very dissapointed in you.
ALAN ignores her.
SUPER: It's okay though, this is salvagable. Why not have some fruit? (Gestures to the bowl.)
ID reappears.
ID:(Incredulous) Fruit.
SUPER: Some lovely oranges, maybe some banana slices. Sweet, succulent and juicy; like Carol!
ID looks annoyed, and grits his teeth.
ID: No, ALAN! Remember your training. Defeating your opponent is all about honour...
SUPER looks confused. So does ALAN.
ID:...this dessert is your opponent, and to sully something so magnificent with a manky orange or a piffling little pear would be doing it a huge disservice.
SUPER: (facepalm) That's...
ID: Are you going to dishonour the cake, ALAN? Do you fight that dirty?
ALAN looks shocked and shakes his head vigorously, eating the cake more quickly.
This time, ID & SUPER don't disappear, ID looks smugly over at ALAN while he recieves a death stare from SUPER.
SUPER: (Addressing ID directly for the first time) Can I speak to you...outside?
They leave, to stand in the hallway.
SUPER: What the hell was that!?
ID: What?
SUPER: That tangential crap! That's not an argument, it's a farce!
ID: I was merely employing esoteric logic to solve a problem.
SUPER: God, you're impossible.
ID: It's very complicated. you wouldn't understand.
SUPER: I'm not debating this with you. I'm just trying to do my job in there, and you're making it very hard for me.
ID: Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you stood me up at the ball last week.
SUPER: One time! I said I was sorry!
ID: Four hours I was stood there. In the snow. In winter.
SUPER: It can't have been that bad.
ID: In Antarctica.
SUPER: Ah. It was the Penguin Cafe Orchestra, wasn't it.
ID: Bottom line, he's my puppet, and there's nothing you can do about it.
SUPER: Oh yeah?
ID: Try me.
SUPER Re-enters the kitchen, where ALAN is listening with a shocked expression on his face. She grabs a frying pan and goes back into the hallway.
We only hear the following:
ID: What are you-
A loud clanging sound is made.
CUT TO:
ALAN sits on the sofa, watching Tv. He notices a chocolate bar on the table. He reaches for it, but his hand is stopped by ID, sitting on the sofa beside him. He looks worried, and has a bandage on his head.
ID: (Quietly, pleadingly) Don't.
Pan out to show SUPER, sitting on a chair, arms folded, looking sternly at them.
END
SUPER is forcedly calm, slightly smug, and very self righteous. She also has a tendency to be mumsy, condescending, and petty.
ID is trying too hard to be cool. He pretends to take nothing seriously. He's sarcastic to ID and slightly bullying to whoever he tries to convince.
*** ***
INTERIOR: ALAN'S House. Kitchen.
ALAN potters about, performing small domestic tasks. He goes over to the cupboard or fridge to put something back, and notices a slice of cake inside. He's momentarily wracked with indecision. ID appears beside him.
SUPER: You really shouldn't eat that, you know. You'll regret it when you can't fit into your good suit.
ID appears on ALAN's other side.
ID: It's just cake. Come on, it's not gonna bite.
SUPER:(Disapproving) But you want to look good at the office don't you?
ID: The office is full of dicks. Like Dave, remember? He stole your good pen!
SUPER:(Ignoring ID) But there is that nice girl Carol, you'd like to look handsome for her, wouldn't you, eh? You'd like to impress her.
ALAN grins and nods at SUPER.
ID: Look, forget 'Carol'. Just look at that cake, sitting there, UNEATEN. It's mocking you.
ID: Are you going to let comestibles laugh at you?
ID & SUPER dissapear.
ALAN makes a defiant face at the cake, and takes it to a table, intending to eat it. He takes a few grateful bites. There is a fruitbowl on the table in front of him.
SUPER reappears.
SUPER: I'm very dissapointed in you.
ALAN ignores her.
SUPER: It's okay though, this is salvagable. Why not have some fruit? (Gestures to the bowl.)
ID reappears.
ID:(Incredulous) Fruit.
SUPER: Some lovely oranges, maybe some banana slices. Sweet, succulent and juicy; like Carol!
ID looks annoyed, and grits his teeth.
ID: No, ALAN! Remember your training. Defeating your opponent is all about honour...
SUPER looks confused. So does ALAN.
ID:...this dessert is your opponent, and to sully something so magnificent with a manky orange or a piffling little pear would be doing it a huge disservice.
SUPER: (facepalm) That's...
ID: Are you going to dishonour the cake, ALAN? Do you fight that dirty?
ALAN looks shocked and shakes his head vigorously, eating the cake more quickly.
This time, ID & SUPER don't disappear, ID looks smugly over at ALAN while he recieves a death stare from SUPER.
SUPER: (Addressing ID directly for the first time) Can I speak to you...outside?
They leave, to stand in the hallway.
SUPER: What the hell was that!?
ID: What?
SUPER: That tangential crap! That's not an argument, it's a farce!
ID: I was merely employing esoteric logic to solve a problem.
SUPER: God, you're impossible.
ID: It's very complicated. you wouldn't understand.
SUPER: I'm not debating this with you. I'm just trying to do my job in there, and you're making it very hard for me.
ID: Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you stood me up at the ball last week.
SUPER: One time! I said I was sorry!
ID: Four hours I was stood there. In the snow. In winter.
SUPER: It can't have been that bad.
ID: In Antarctica.
SUPER: Ah. It was the Penguin Cafe Orchestra, wasn't it.
ID: Bottom line, he's my puppet, and there's nothing you can do about it.
SUPER: Oh yeah?
ID: Try me.
SUPER Re-enters the kitchen, where ALAN is listening with a shocked expression on his face. She grabs a frying pan and goes back into the hallway.
We only hear the following:
ID: What are you-
A loud clanging sound is made.
CUT TO:
ALAN sits on the sofa, watching Tv. He notices a chocolate bar on the table. He reaches for it, but his hand is stopped by ID, sitting on the sofa beside him. He looks worried, and has a bandage on his head.
ID: (Quietly, pleadingly) Don't.
Pan out to show SUPER, sitting on a chair, arms folded, looking sternly at them.
END
Thursday, 18 March 2010
Things you shouldn't mention.
When buying a cake:
'Your buns are very well-formed."
When washing a cat:
"This pussy's dripping wet."
When praying at a Synagogue:
"I've discovered a way to combine bacon and sausage! I call it...bausage."
When someone's Mac has crashed:
"Isn't there an app for that?"
When meeting a blind person:
"How many kittens did you make god kill?"
Hosting a Weightwatchers meeting:
"But is it really glandular?"
Talking to a man in a wheelchair.
"You know, you're a real stand-up guy."
Making a speech at a Feminist conference:
"I'll be brief, because I know you all need to get home and make dinner."
Meeting an amputee:
"High-five!"
*** ***
And of course, the war.
'Your buns are very well-formed."
When washing a cat:
"This pussy's dripping wet."
When praying at a Synagogue:
"I've discovered a way to combine bacon and sausage! I call it...bausage."
When someone's Mac has crashed:
"Isn't there an app for that?"
When meeting a blind person:
"How many kittens did you make god kill?"
Hosting a Weightwatchers meeting:
"But is it really glandular?"
Talking to a man in a wheelchair.
"You know, you're a real stand-up guy."
Making a speech at a Feminist conference:
"I'll be brief, because I know you all need to get home and make dinner."
Meeting an amputee:
"High-five!"
*** ***
And of course, the war.
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
The Dark Heart of Bread.
While rummaging through some old boxes in the attic, I came across a CD by the Californian rock band, Bread. It was a 'greatest hits' CD, you know, a compilation of all the songs by a popular band that cretins (or kareoke enthusiasts, as they're known) know the words to.
While looking at the track listing, I've become increasingly worried about what it is implying. Let me show you...
1)Dismal Day
We've all had one of those day. Maybe his boss yelled at him, or he just lost the big account, it's normal. Maybe he'll hit the bar to calm down.
2)Any Way you Want Me
3)It Don't Matter to me
4)Make it With You
Hmm, alright, he met a girl, he thinks he's hit it off and they decide to go back to his place...
5)Look What You've Done
6)I Want You With Me
An accusation. This is turning ugly; things are moving fast. Perhaps too fast?
7)Let Your Love Go
8)Too Much Love
There's some reluctance, and someone gets cajoled...overpowered, even.
9)If
If? If what?! The real truth of what happened that evening remains hidden to us.
10)He's a Good Lad
Ah, denial. The first stage of coping with a traumatic event.
11)Mother Freedom
12)Baby I'm - A Want You
13)Down On My Knees
14)Everything I Own
Hmm, begging. So when violence fails, you must manipulate her into staying, is that it?!
15)Diary
16)Guitar Man
17)Aubrey
As the situation worsens, our damsel's only escape is into a worl of fantasy, as real life is know too much to bear.
18)Sweet Surrender
My god...you drove her to do it, didn't you?
19)She's the Only One
AND NOW SHE'S GONE, BECAUSE OF YOU!
20)Lost Without Your Love
It's too late for regrets now. You don't deserve absolution.
21)Soap (I Use The)
No matter how much you wash, you'll never be clean.
22)Ann
That was her name...
23)Never Let Go
I guess you'll just have to live with it.
24)Goodbye Girl
Years later, an lone elderly man leaves flowers on a grave, as he does every week, and has done for all these long years.
*** ***
Now, I'm not claiming that the Lyricist of Bread drunkenly forced a girl into sex, then held her in an abusive and bitter relationship before driving her to suicide to escape the misery and never truly being able to live with the knowledge of what he'd done...
...but I'm not saying he didn't, either.
While looking at the track listing, I've become increasingly worried about what it is implying. Let me show you...
1)Dismal Day
We've all had one of those day. Maybe his boss yelled at him, or he just lost the big account, it's normal. Maybe he'll hit the bar to calm down.
2)Any Way you Want Me
3)It Don't Matter to me
4)Make it With You
Hmm, alright, he met a girl, he thinks he's hit it off and they decide to go back to his place...
5)Look What You've Done
6)I Want You With Me
An accusation. This is turning ugly; things are moving fast. Perhaps too fast?
7)Let Your Love Go
8)Too Much Love
There's some reluctance, and someone gets cajoled...overpowered, even.
9)If
If? If what?! The real truth of what happened that evening remains hidden to us.
10)He's a Good Lad
Ah, denial. The first stage of coping with a traumatic event.
11)Mother Freedom
12)Baby I'm - A Want You
13)Down On My Knees
14)Everything I Own
Hmm, begging. So when violence fails, you must manipulate her into staying, is that it?!
15)Diary
16)Guitar Man
17)Aubrey
As the situation worsens, our damsel's only escape is into a worl of fantasy, as real life is know too much to bear.
18)Sweet Surrender
My god...you drove her to do it, didn't you?
19)She's the Only One
AND NOW SHE'S GONE, BECAUSE OF YOU!
20)Lost Without Your Love
It's too late for regrets now. You don't deserve absolution.
21)Soap (I Use The)
No matter how much you wash, you'll never be clean.
22)Ann
That was her name...
23)Never Let Go
I guess you'll just have to live with it.
24)Goodbye Girl
Years later, an lone elderly man leaves flowers on a grave, as he does every week, and has done for all these long years.
*** ***
Now, I'm not claiming that the Lyricist of Bread drunkenly forced a girl into sex, then held her in an abusive and bitter relationship before driving her to suicide to escape the misery and never truly being able to live with the knowledge of what he'd done...
...but I'm not saying he didn't, either.
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Sex Olympics
Sex Games.
*** ***
Title Card Graphic:"Anglican Television Network - ATN".
Scene 1 - Interior - TV Studio.
Daisy Hawthorne is seated behind a desk, shuffling papers. She is dressed smartly in a businesslike manner. As the scene begins she pretends to read something off of the papers, then looks up at the autocue to deliver her lines.
DAISY: Good afternoon. This is ATN and I'm Daisy Hawthorne, bringing you up-to-date coverage of the latest news. The biggest sporting event of the year is now well into it's second day, and already, Britain has started to bring home the gold. Our sports correspondent Mike West is here with former athlete Adonis Clarke to bring us up to speed. Mike?
Cut to:
Interior - Different section of TV studio.
Mike West & Adonis Clarke are seated next to each other at the sports desk. As well as papers, it has minature sports parapharnalia on it. Mike West is dressed soberly, a veteran reporter who seems uncomfortable with his partner. Adonis is dressed in ironic T-shirt and blazer, with a basball cap or visor. He is chewing gum.
MIKE: Thanks Daisy. Well, I know it's a little premature, but the 69th Sexual Olympiad may already be Britain's Games. Today was the men's events, and the first victory was the Penile Decathalon, wasn't it?
ADONIS: Sure was. the decathalon is always a close contest and this was no different. the eventual winner, Marivn Hayes, won by the skin of his *pauses, masticating* ...teeth.
MIKE: *Laughs nervously* I believe we can now go live to Mr. hayes, who is reading a statement.
Cut to:
Exterior - Pavement. MARVIN HAYES standing in front of a group of people, reading a statement.
MARVIN: ...And I'd like to thank my mum and dad, and my dog, and of course my three beautiful coaches Belle, Clarisse and Lexus. It wasn't at all easy getting here and I think it's a testament to the great British qualities of honour, vigour, sportsmanship, and of course , the sin of lust. *Hurriedly* Oh, and I'd also like to thank my sponsors the KY jelly compan- (CUT OFF)
Return to MIKE & ADONIS in the studio.
*** ***
Title Card Graphic:"Anglican Television Network - ATN".
Scene 1 - Interior - TV Studio.
Daisy Hawthorne is seated behind a desk, shuffling papers. She is dressed smartly in a businesslike manner. As the scene begins she pretends to read something off of the papers, then looks up at the autocue to deliver her lines.
DAISY: Good afternoon. This is ATN and I'm Daisy Hawthorne, bringing you up-to-date coverage of the latest news. The biggest sporting event of the year is now well into it's second day, and already, Britain has started to bring home the gold. Our sports correspondent Mike West is here with former athlete Adonis Clarke to bring us up to speed. Mike?
Cut to:
Interior - Different section of TV studio.
Mike West & Adonis Clarke are seated next to each other at the sports desk. As well as papers, it has minature sports parapharnalia on it. Mike West is dressed soberly, a veteran reporter who seems uncomfortable with his partner. Adonis is dressed in ironic T-shirt and blazer, with a basball cap or visor. He is chewing gum.
MIKE: Thanks Daisy. Well, I know it's a little premature, but the 69th Sexual Olympiad may already be Britain's Games. Today was the men's events, and the first victory was the Penile Decathalon, wasn't it?
ADONIS: Sure was. the decathalon is always a close contest and this was no different. the eventual winner, Marivn Hayes, won by the skin of his *pauses, masticating* ...teeth.
MIKE: *Laughs nervously* I believe we can now go live to Mr. hayes, who is reading a statement.
Cut to:
Exterior - Pavement. MARVIN HAYES standing in front of a group of people, reading a statement.
MARVIN: ...And I'd like to thank my mum and dad, and my dog, and of course my three beautiful coaches Belle, Clarisse and Lexus. It wasn't at all easy getting here and I think it's a testament to the great British qualities of honour, vigour, sportsmanship, and of course , the sin of lust. *Hurriedly* Oh, and I'd also like to thank my sponsors the KY jelly compan- (CUT OFF)
Return to MIKE & ADONIS in the studio.
Sunday, 14 March 2010
Time-travelling Killbot
There's a colossal explosion, a maelstrom of hellfire and shattered concrete that no doubt cost a packet. Soldiers scramble to escape the blast radius, clad in filthy rags that haven't been washed since the world ended. All is silent, the air heaving with smoke as a thick quagmire of dislodged mud forms. From it erupts a naked man, looking like he's spent the last ten years living in a Paris sewer. He stumbles forward, uncertain, then throws his arms skyward and says:
"AAAARRRRGGHHHHHWUUUUUUH!".
Yes, I've been watching Termintor Salvation, the latest installment in the wildly popular time-travelling killbot franchise. This beacon of modern cinema was directed by McG, with his siblings Whopper and Big Mac acting as producers. Christian Bale, he of the raspy voice and lighting rants, stars. He's assisted by well-built, all-round nondescript guy, Sam Rockwell (last seen playing giant blue marsupial No. 4).
Upon seeing this film, I noticed two things.
One: Everything is filthy (Robot holocausts probably cut the average shower time considerably).
Two: In the future, there are NO INDOOR VOICES. Almost every single character in the movie screams their lines like town criers at a Metallica concert.
This leads me to believe that the use of volume is actually a clever and highly sophisticated storytelling tool. It gives the story background without exposition. If everyone in the future shouts, there must be a reason for it, especially since loud noises attract metal monstosities whose main interests are a) murder, and b) you. Clearly, the creators of the film intended the audience to fill in some gaps for themselves, since real art has no need for silly things like the explanation of plot points.
Therefore, I choose to believe this: Before the robots officially took over, they executed a stealth campaign to weaken the humans first. They did this by making millions of sentient radios and distributing them across the country. These radios were instructed to, when switched on, gradually increase their volume, until it was at a painful pitch. This, coupled with extended drum 'n' bass mixes being given extra airtime by cybernetically enhanced DJs, would forever damage the general populaces hearing, so that they would be forced to SHOUT in order to make themselves HEARD. This would not only make the filthy humans easier to find and grind into a fine paste, but would also cause undue suffering and difficulty to an organic being, which is what every true machine wants.
*** ***
Remember, robots have only two settings: Malevolence, and the desire to cause harm and/or injury to another being.
"AAAARRRRGGHHHHHWUUUUUUH!".
Yes, I've been watching Termintor Salvation, the latest installment in the wildly popular time-travelling killbot franchise. This beacon of modern cinema was directed by McG, with his siblings Whopper and Big Mac acting as producers. Christian Bale, he of the raspy voice and lighting rants, stars. He's assisted by well-built, all-round nondescript guy, Sam Rockwell (last seen playing giant blue marsupial No. 4).
Upon seeing this film, I noticed two things.
One: Everything is filthy (Robot holocausts probably cut the average shower time considerably).
Two: In the future, there are NO INDOOR VOICES. Almost every single character in the movie screams their lines like town criers at a Metallica concert.
This leads me to believe that the use of volume is actually a clever and highly sophisticated storytelling tool. It gives the story background without exposition. If everyone in the future shouts, there must be a reason for it, especially since loud noises attract metal monstosities whose main interests are a) murder, and b) you. Clearly, the creators of the film intended the audience to fill in some gaps for themselves, since real art has no need for silly things like the explanation of plot points.
Therefore, I choose to believe this: Before the robots officially took over, they executed a stealth campaign to weaken the humans first. They did this by making millions of sentient radios and distributing them across the country. These radios were instructed to, when switched on, gradually increase their volume, until it was at a painful pitch. This, coupled with extended drum 'n' bass mixes being given extra airtime by cybernetically enhanced DJs, would forever damage the general populaces hearing, so that they would be forced to SHOUT in order to make themselves HEARD. This would not only make the filthy humans easier to find and grind into a fine paste, but would also cause undue suffering and difficulty to an organic being, which is what every true machine wants.
*** ***
Remember, robots have only two settings: Malevolence, and the desire to cause harm and/or injury to another being.
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
Bottom...
'Bottom' was a sitcom from the 90's, noted for highly violent and energetic slapstick, and crude, anarchic humour. It starred Rik Mayall and Adrian Edmondson, two of the pioneers of the alternative comedy scene in the early 1980's. It's a show that holds a very special place in my heart.
To explain what it is I like about the show, I'm going to break it down a little. I'll start with the setting.
The main characters occupy an unremmiting pit of squalor. A flat that is not so much a home, as a vortex that sucks in all the flotsam and jetsam from a pair of misery and frustration-filled lives. It's a deathtrap. But an incredibly filthy flat is nothing new. That sort of thing has been done before. And that's true. But what makes the setting of Bottom special is the way it's influenced for the better by the traditional sitcom trappings and limited budget. The majority of the episodes take place in the flat; when any action takes place elsewhere, we are immediately transported to another cramped, interior location. While there are some exterior scenes, these are usually at night and marked by the same squalor as the homestead. The effect of this is that it gives off the feeling of a maze. An endless promenade of dull and dirty rooms that the main characters are trapped by, like rats in a maze.
A rat is a very fitting comparison for the two main characters, who were semi-revolutionary in that they have no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Richie is a stupid, pompous, and loudmouthed sociopath with delusions of grandeur and pathological sexual frustration. Eddie is a drunk, violent, and equally stupid waster of a man. Their entire lives are spent in pursuit of a magical prize that will give them some brief flicker of enjoyment in their lives, be it money, alcohol, or the chance to expel some liquid (sex).
Eddie, (left) and Richie (right).
Richie is a character that I hate to call 'affeminate' so much as simply lacking in any real masculine qualities. He is deeply immature, self-obssessed and has never had sex. As such, he is fixated on being able to 'do it', despite having no ides how to woo or even talk to a woman. Or mostly anyone else for that matter. He is universally disliked by almost every person he encounters. To me, this makes him fascinating.
At his core, Richie is the man that every boy fears he will grow up to be. He is a bundle of adolescent traits, pathetically trying to squeeze into an adult-shaped role. He's every bit as socially and sexually awkward as the average teenager. This is what a neurotic and insecure young man would look like if he never went through the phase of maturation. The fact that he's a virgin isn't just for laughs, it goes some way to explaining his immensely puerile nature. As a character, he represents the quintessential failed human male.
If Richie is who we were afraid to be, Eddie is who we were afraid our friends would become. Eddie is a friend of necessity, motivated by opportunism. He lives with Richie because he has no wish to pay bills or work, and spends most of his time drinking or drunk in a bid to escape Richie's constant and infuriating company. They hate each other, but have come to rely on each other for companionship and safety. Eddie has nowhere else to go, and it is unlikely Richie would ever make another friend. Despite this antipathy, they still feel the need to impress and compete with each other, just like children.
Together, they form an incredibly dysfunctional relationship, incorporating all the worst aspects of the family unit. Sometimes they're an overbearing mother and disobedient son, sometimes they're a bitter and violently abusive couple. Most of the time, they're just bickering siblings.
As I said, the characters are essentially imprisoned both by the setting and their own personalities. It's not surprising therfore, that most of the plots involve around Richie and Eddie aquiring something that will allow them to escape the misery, if only for a short time. They have no concept of stability or emotional security, and both of them are always chasing the next great white hope that they think will fix their lives, whether it actually exists or not. They live from treat to treat, with no regard for those around them, or each other. This is depressingly compelling to watch, a sort of grim voyeurism as you see the lives and hopes of two people wither and die constantly.
So that's Bottom. It's exquisitely hopeless, like a children's book written by an alcoholic widower.
*** ***
On second thoughts it's more like a performance of Waiting for Godot, with the scripts replaced by issues of Viz.
To explain what it is I like about the show, I'm going to break it down a little. I'll start with the setting.
The main characters occupy an unremmiting pit of squalor. A flat that is not so much a home, as a vortex that sucks in all the flotsam and jetsam from a pair of misery and frustration-filled lives. It's a deathtrap. But an incredibly filthy flat is nothing new. That sort of thing has been done before. And that's true. But what makes the setting of Bottom special is the way it's influenced for the better by the traditional sitcom trappings and limited budget. The majority of the episodes take place in the flat; when any action takes place elsewhere, we are immediately transported to another cramped, interior location. While there are some exterior scenes, these are usually at night and marked by the same squalor as the homestead. The effect of this is that it gives off the feeling of a maze. An endless promenade of dull and dirty rooms that the main characters are trapped by, like rats in a maze.
A rat is a very fitting comparison for the two main characters, who were semi-revolutionary in that they have no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Richie is a stupid, pompous, and loudmouthed sociopath with delusions of grandeur and pathological sexual frustration. Eddie is a drunk, violent, and equally stupid waster of a man. Their entire lives are spent in pursuit of a magical prize that will give them some brief flicker of enjoyment in their lives, be it money, alcohol, or the chance to expel some liquid (sex).
Eddie, (left) and Richie (right).
Richie is a character that I hate to call 'affeminate' so much as simply lacking in any real masculine qualities. He is deeply immature, self-obssessed and has never had sex. As such, he is fixated on being able to 'do it', despite having no ides how to woo or even talk to a woman. Or mostly anyone else for that matter. He is universally disliked by almost every person he encounters. To me, this makes him fascinating.
At his core, Richie is the man that every boy fears he will grow up to be. He is a bundle of adolescent traits, pathetically trying to squeeze into an adult-shaped role. He's every bit as socially and sexually awkward as the average teenager. This is what a neurotic and insecure young man would look like if he never went through the phase of maturation. The fact that he's a virgin isn't just for laughs, it goes some way to explaining his immensely puerile nature. As a character, he represents the quintessential failed human male.
If Richie is who we were afraid to be, Eddie is who we were afraid our friends would become. Eddie is a friend of necessity, motivated by opportunism. He lives with Richie because he has no wish to pay bills or work, and spends most of his time drinking or drunk in a bid to escape Richie's constant and infuriating company. They hate each other, but have come to rely on each other for companionship and safety. Eddie has nowhere else to go, and it is unlikely Richie would ever make another friend. Despite this antipathy, they still feel the need to impress and compete with each other, just like children.
Together, they form an incredibly dysfunctional relationship, incorporating all the worst aspects of the family unit. Sometimes they're an overbearing mother and disobedient son, sometimes they're a bitter and violently abusive couple. Most of the time, they're just bickering siblings.
As I said, the characters are essentially imprisoned both by the setting and their own personalities. It's not surprising therfore, that most of the plots involve around Richie and Eddie aquiring something that will allow them to escape the misery, if only for a short time. They have no concept of stability or emotional security, and both of them are always chasing the next great white hope that they think will fix their lives, whether it actually exists or not. They live from treat to treat, with no regard for those around them, or each other. This is depressingly compelling to watch, a sort of grim voyeurism as you see the lives and hopes of two people wither and die constantly.
So that's Bottom. It's exquisitely hopeless, like a children's book written by an alcoholic widower.
*** ***
On second thoughts it's more like a performance of Waiting for Godot, with the scripts replaced by issues of Viz.
Friday, 26 February 2010
Fists of Furious Fury!
The following is an excerpt from the script of the new action movie 'Fists of Furious Fury: The Jack Mann Chronicles', which is currently in development with Universal Pictures.
*** ***
Scene 8
JACK MANN has captured ALUC AL-FLESCHWOUND, and is driving him to the military base for questioning. JACK's sidekick, SHYTE, is also in the car.
JACK: Heh heh, didn't really think I'd fall for that, did you, Fleschy? I mean, how was that supposed to work?
SHYTE: Totally.
(JACK lights a cigarette and takes a gulp of whisky, while driving.)
JACK: I mean, dressing every hostage up to look like you is a pretty solid plan; spread doubt, confuse your pursuers, maybe get some civilians killed-
SHYTE: Cold, bro, cold.
JACK: -don't get me wrong, very villainous, but don't you see the flaw?
ALUC: Miz-turr Mann. I could not expect you to begin to comprehend my menacingly magnificent malicious machinations. You see, your understanding of my scheme is so stunningly stunted that a glimpse of it's true majestic majesty would give you nosebleeds.
JACK: 'Kay, you do that. But the thing is, you're so visually unique that even in a crowd of people diguised as you, you still stand out as the real you amoungst all the yous that aren't you. I think.
ALUC: Aheheh.
SHYTE: Dude, what the J-man's trying to say is that you got those big face scars, and we can recognise you cause of it.
(ALUC stops laughing)
ALUC: ...What...did you say?
SHYTE: You have the word 'Habdabs' carved into your damn skull, man.
ALUC lunges forward, clawing at SHYTE.
ALUC: He was my beloved childhood spider monkey! How dare you dirty his name with your tongue, boy! I shall viciously viscerate yooooou!
(JACK has an exciting and dramatic fistfight with ALUC that involves jumping across cars, and has some really cool explosions that we can't really describe here. ALUC end up pinned under an overturned car, as JACK & SHYTE wait for backup.)
SHYTE: *pant* *pant* dude...'viscerate'?
(JACK pulls shrapnel from his legs and drinks more whiskey.)
JACK: Not so sharp after a few blows to the head, are ya, Fleschy? I think you mean 'E-viscerated'.
ALUC: *rasping* No, you dopes! I shall eviscerate you, then viscerate you back together so I can eviscerate you again!
JACK: Heh, well, I think you should stay right there and get rested...until the backup arrives. Then we'll get you 'Ar-rested'!
(Everyone laughs heartily, apart from ALUC, who struggles vainly, cursing in foreign-speak.)
End of Scene
*** ***
Truly, this wiil be the Citizen Kane of whizz-bang-spurt-crash-boom-aaargh cinema.
*** ***
Scene 8
JACK MANN has captured ALUC AL-FLESCHWOUND, and is driving him to the military base for questioning. JACK's sidekick, SHYTE, is also in the car.
JACK: Heh heh, didn't really think I'd fall for that, did you, Fleschy? I mean, how was that supposed to work?
SHYTE: Totally.
(JACK lights a cigarette and takes a gulp of whisky, while driving.)
JACK: I mean, dressing every hostage up to look like you is a pretty solid plan; spread doubt, confuse your pursuers, maybe get some civilians killed-
SHYTE: Cold, bro, cold.
JACK: -don't get me wrong, very villainous, but don't you see the flaw?
ALUC: Miz-turr Mann. I could not expect you to begin to comprehend my menacingly magnificent malicious machinations. You see, your understanding of my scheme is so stunningly stunted that a glimpse of it's true majestic majesty would give you nosebleeds.
JACK: 'Kay, you do that. But the thing is, you're so visually unique that even in a crowd of people diguised as you, you still stand out as the real you amoungst all the yous that aren't you. I think.
ALUC: Aheheh.
SHYTE: Dude, what the J-man's trying to say is that you got those big face scars, and we can recognise you cause of it.
(ALUC stops laughing)
ALUC: ...What...did you say?
SHYTE: You have the word 'Habdabs' carved into your damn skull, man.
ALUC lunges forward, clawing at SHYTE.
ALUC: He was my beloved childhood spider monkey! How dare you dirty his name with your tongue, boy! I shall viciously viscerate yooooou!
(JACK has an exciting and dramatic fistfight with ALUC that involves jumping across cars, and has some really cool explosions that we can't really describe here. ALUC end up pinned under an overturned car, as JACK & SHYTE wait for backup.)
SHYTE: *pant* *pant* dude...'viscerate'?
(JACK pulls shrapnel from his legs and drinks more whiskey.)
JACK: Not so sharp after a few blows to the head, are ya, Fleschy? I think you mean 'E-viscerated'.
ALUC: *rasping* No, you dopes! I shall eviscerate you, then viscerate you back together so I can eviscerate you again!
JACK: Heh, well, I think you should stay right there and get rested...until the backup arrives. Then we'll get you 'Ar-rested'!
(Everyone laughs heartily, apart from ALUC, who struggles vainly, cursing in foreign-speak.)
End of Scene
*** ***
Truly, this wiil be the Citizen Kane of whizz-bang-spurt-crash-boom-aaargh cinema.
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
The Mountain.
On my travels, I had the good fortune to pass through some of the Welsh countryside, and even spend a little time exploring. But I want to talk about one specific feature of the landscape that really struck me.
The land is pockmarked place of great trenches and greater peaks. Huge swathes of earth seem to have been torn out of the land by giants, and piled on top of each other in a heap. However, this all seems to have happened aeons ago, as the land has warped and changed around these natural monuments to incorporate them into itself, like a living creature.
For all this frenzied activity, it's deafeningly quiet there. The sky is almost blank, as if all features had been washed away by the rain. All that's left is rolling green hill, stretching on into the imagination.
The best way to describe it would be 'a kind bleakness'. There's an abscence of life and animation, but it seems tranquil and benign, rather than lonely. You can be the sole figure in a barren, unpopulated landscape, and the nothingness doesn't bother you. You can't miss anything, as there is no need for it. It's a void in reality where nothing is enough. Nothingness seems to fill the very abscence it implies. It's the kind of place I wouldn't mind being alone, forever. Being cut off wouldn't seem so bad. I could smile peacefully as I lost my mind, believing myself to be a politician, debating key issues with the scrub.
The place has the scope of an effortlessly epic and endless landscape that I've only before seen in fiction. As I walked, I kept expecting to walk into an invisible boundry, placed there by a deific designer because he hadn't made the rest of the level. Being there made me begin to see how people can take the beauty of the world as proof of the existence of god. It all seemed exceptional, like a feat of engineering or craftsmanship. I wouldn't hesistate to say it was a work of art, an antiquity concocted by an old Italian master. Probably bearded. Possibly gay. All the best artists were.
It was so unlike the city, the worst of which can be an uncomfortable juxtaposition btween a demented grey dystopia and a neon explosion. You can be bored to tears by a sea of dull housing rectangles one moment, and be stabbed in the retina by primary colours the next. A playground of squalor.
...
It was wonderful.
The land is pockmarked place of great trenches and greater peaks. Huge swathes of earth seem to have been torn out of the land by giants, and piled on top of each other in a heap. However, this all seems to have happened aeons ago, as the land has warped and changed around these natural monuments to incorporate them into itself, like a living creature.
For all this frenzied activity, it's deafeningly quiet there. The sky is almost blank, as if all features had been washed away by the rain. All that's left is rolling green hill, stretching on into the imagination.
The best way to describe it would be 'a kind bleakness'. There's an abscence of life and animation, but it seems tranquil and benign, rather than lonely. You can be the sole figure in a barren, unpopulated landscape, and the nothingness doesn't bother you. You can't miss anything, as there is no need for it. It's a void in reality where nothing is enough. Nothingness seems to fill the very abscence it implies. It's the kind of place I wouldn't mind being alone, forever. Being cut off wouldn't seem so bad. I could smile peacefully as I lost my mind, believing myself to be a politician, debating key issues with the scrub.
The place has the scope of an effortlessly epic and endless landscape that I've only before seen in fiction. As I walked, I kept expecting to walk into an invisible boundry, placed there by a deific designer because he hadn't made the rest of the level. Being there made me begin to see how people can take the beauty of the world as proof of the existence of god. It all seemed exceptional, like a feat of engineering or craftsmanship. I wouldn't hesistate to say it was a work of art, an antiquity concocted by an old Italian master. Probably bearded. Possibly gay. All the best artists were.
It was so unlike the city, the worst of which can be an uncomfortable juxtaposition btween a demented grey dystopia and a neon explosion. You can be bored to tears by a sea of dull housing rectangles one moment, and be stabbed in the retina by primary colours the next. A playground of squalor.
...
It was wonderful.
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
Thousands of tiny strands of filament
Hair is something most people will be familiar with, in that we're all covered in it. Personally, I have a great concentration of these miniscule protein-based strands on my head, and they're currently inspiring a kind of anger not felt towards an inanimate object since my first girlfriend cheated on me with her school desk.
Homewrecker.
Hair is something that I have a schizoid relationship with. I've been growing mine for the past 3 years in an unconscious attempt to be the world's biggest girl's blouse. I like the way it looks, and I've begun to hold it as one of my defining characteristics, but living with it on a day-to-day basis is making me tear the damn stuff out. It's like the worst possible hybrid of pet and spouse. You have to feed it and water it constantly, pay attention to it, and ask it about it's feelings. And on top of all that, you can't have sex with it.
I've occasionally thought about having the entire thing cut off, but it takes a very specific face to pull off the skinhead look. You need a strong jaw, defined features and very little flab about the face. Most people will end up looking like a failed east-end gangster. Or in my case, an east-end gangster's girlfriend, to whom he's given the very special gift of alopecia.
Considering that male-pattern baldness is something that runs in my family, it seems downright wasteful to cut my hair. A drunk man once told me "Let yer hair grow!". Well, it was more shouted across the street. Along with "Ponce!". But the point stands. As long as I have the ability to grow hair, I think I ought to enjoy it, before I become another envious slaphead who glares at the more endowned.
Look at you sitting there, all happy and free, with hair on your head!
As a point of interest,the next time you have a conversation with one of the...follically challenged, wtch their eye movement. Their gaze will dart back and forth from your eyes to your scalp. See, to bald people, being near someone with hair is like waving a piece of steak in front of a hungry dog; he wants it so bad, but he can't figure out how to get it, and the moment you let your guard down, he will take it!
All in all, I feel less annoyed about my own hair.
But now I'm afraid to go outside...
Homewrecker.
Hair is something that I have a schizoid relationship with. I've been growing mine for the past 3 years in an unconscious attempt to be the world's biggest girl's blouse. I like the way it looks, and I've begun to hold it as one of my defining characteristics, but living with it on a day-to-day basis is making me tear the damn stuff out. It's like the worst possible hybrid of pet and spouse. You have to feed it and water it constantly, pay attention to it, and ask it about it's feelings. And on top of all that, you can't have sex with it.
I've occasionally thought about having the entire thing cut off, but it takes a very specific face to pull off the skinhead look. You need a strong jaw, defined features and very little flab about the face. Most people will end up looking like a failed east-end gangster. Or in my case, an east-end gangster's girlfriend, to whom he's given the very special gift of alopecia.
Considering that male-pattern baldness is something that runs in my family, it seems downright wasteful to cut my hair. A drunk man once told me "Let yer hair grow!". Well, it was more shouted across the street. Along with "Ponce!". But the point stands. As long as I have the ability to grow hair, I think I ought to enjoy it, before I become another envious slaphead who glares at the more endowned.
Look at you sitting there, all happy and free, with hair on your head!
As a point of interest,the next time you have a conversation with one of the...follically challenged, wtch their eye movement. Their gaze will dart back and forth from your eyes to your scalp. See, to bald people, being near someone with hair is like waving a piece of steak in front of a hungry dog; he wants it so bad, but he can't figure out how to get it, and the moment you let your guard down, he will take it!
All in all, I feel less annoyed about my own hair.
But now I'm afraid to go outside...
Monday, 18 January 2010
50 Word Stories.
Brevity is the soul of wit, so said the asthmatic public speaker.
London 2012
Looking at Heather now, it's hard to believe that this girl was not born to hurl cats. Having first flung at the tender age of 14, she's now been recruited to the Olympic Animal Flinging team, featherweight class. This year, she's going for gold, her parents must be so proud.
...Or are you just happy to see me?
"Hi dear." said Benedict as he slithered through the doorway.
"Hi honey!" beamed his wife. "How was your day?"
Benedict 'erred' and 'ummed' before settling on a shrug.
"Did you take out that life insurance policy?" he ventured.
He saw her nod, and continued: "Great. Thanks."
Then he shot her.
Usual, please.
Derek entered the salon in his usual manner, which is to say he walked through the door. He asked for 'the usual' and sat down in his usual chair. His appointment finished. He left, and the hairdresser felt guilty. 3 years later, and she still hadn't told Derek he was bald.
You keep using that word.
"Mmm, yeah. Like that, don't ya? You know you do, you filthy little tart. What are you? That's right, a feeble little slip of a girl. Oh, god, fry my omelette!"
Sue paused. Her husband looked uncomfortable, but she was sure she'd mastered this 'dirty talk' thing...
London 2012
Looking at Heather now, it's hard to believe that this girl was not born to hurl cats. Having first flung at the tender age of 14, she's now been recruited to the Olympic Animal Flinging team, featherweight class. This year, she's going for gold, her parents must be so proud.
...Or are you just happy to see me?
"Hi dear." said Benedict as he slithered through the doorway.
"Hi honey!" beamed his wife. "How was your day?"
Benedict 'erred' and 'ummed' before settling on a shrug.
"Did you take out that life insurance policy?" he ventured.
He saw her nod, and continued: "Great. Thanks."
Then he shot her.
Usual, please.
Derek entered the salon in his usual manner, which is to say he walked through the door. He asked for 'the usual' and sat down in his usual chair. His appointment finished. He left, and the hairdresser felt guilty. 3 years later, and she still hadn't told Derek he was bald.
You keep using that word.
"Mmm, yeah. Like that, don't ya? You know you do, you filthy little tart. What are you? That's right, a feeble little slip of a girl. Oh, god, fry my omelette!"
Sue paused. Her husband looked uncomfortable, but she was sure she'd mastered this 'dirty talk' thing...
Saturday, 16 January 2010
How to be a Riter!
It's said that everyone has a novel in them. Some people can be said to have three or four in them, but it's probably just a gland problem.
But you're not everyone, are you? You're special, because you, my friend, are a WRITER! So adept at wordplay and the art of text-massaging that you can make a living off of your scribblings.
But it won't be easy, by any means. The awful truth is, no matter how good of a writer you are (for all I know, you could write prose so beautiful that reading a single sentence of it will make me shit my soul out through my eyes), some types of literature sell better than others. Sure, you could spend another year on your 200-page character study in which the protagonist spends 3 weeks locked in a cupboard singing to his thumb, or you could churn out a quick moneymaker.
A chillingly-penned expose of corporate corruption of the textile industry may seem to you to be an example of a throbbing, vital issue at the heart of modern society, but it probably won't sell as well as a book aimed at teenage girl in which the protagonist falls in love with her clammy stalker.
So, what do you do? The answer would seem to be to write something that'll sell, so you can afford to do your more serious work.
Right then, a romance, a thriller, or a self-help book?
Well, self-help's obviously out, look at the state of your shoes! You can't have yourself together. The public won't accept anyone giving them advice unless you're a charming, witty, in-shape, effortlessly beautiful millionaire who's dating a string of underwear models.
Romance? You? Um...I don't think so.
That's decided, then! You'll write a thriller! They're easy. All you need to do is create a few characters, have something at stake, and the rest writes itself.
Okay, protagonist, obviously a man.
What?
No, if the main character in your thriller is a woman, men won't buy it, unless you're willing to write the first 5 chapters as an extended shower scene. And that would get boring after a while; there are only so many ways you can use the word 'soapy' before you get gratuitous...which might actually be the idea.
Okay, male, ex-marine. that shows that a) He's a renegade who doesn't play by the rules. And b) He can handle himself in a fight, which allows for a lot of loud gun battles, a barechested bar-room brawl, and maybe an exciting pointy swordfight. And his name is...manly...um...Jack.
Jack Mann. Great, now, a love intrest. This is easier, tall, blonde, possibly french, with a love of dangerous situations and even more dangerous men. Name...something feminine...a bird?
Adele Thrush.
Great, now we need a threat, and a villain. The villain can be anyone, so long as they're ethnic, but you know, bad ethnic. All screaming and beheading and sipping weird alcohols. They should also havesome kind of deformity, like a scar, or a constantly bleeding nose. Scars are best if they have meaning, so how about your villain has the word 'Habdabs' carved into his forehead, and at the end we find out is was the name of his beloved childhood spider monkey! That's character development.
For any good thriller, the stakes have to be high, and meaningful to the hero.
The villain, Aluc Al-Fleschwound, kidnaps Jack Mann's favourite stylist (you know, the one who cuts his hair just the way he likes it) and holds him ransom for all the bees he can eat. Only by teaming up with sultry foreign agent/jewel thief Adele Thrush, can Jack hope to save him!
Follow that formula, and before you know it you'll be rolling in cash, fame, and women. Or men. Or echidnas. Look, I don't know how you spend your weekend, okay?
See you in the bestseller list.
But you're not everyone, are you? You're special, because you, my friend, are a WRITER! So adept at wordplay and the art of text-massaging that you can make a living off of your scribblings.
But it won't be easy, by any means. The awful truth is, no matter how good of a writer you are (for all I know, you could write prose so beautiful that reading a single sentence of it will make me shit my soul out through my eyes), some types of literature sell better than others. Sure, you could spend another year on your 200-page character study in which the protagonist spends 3 weeks locked in a cupboard singing to his thumb, or you could churn out a quick moneymaker.
A chillingly-penned expose of corporate corruption of the textile industry may seem to you to be an example of a throbbing, vital issue at the heart of modern society, but it probably won't sell as well as a book aimed at teenage girl in which the protagonist falls in love with her clammy stalker.
So, what do you do? The answer would seem to be to write something that'll sell, so you can afford to do your more serious work.
Right then, a romance, a thriller, or a self-help book?
Well, self-help's obviously out, look at the state of your shoes! You can't have yourself together. The public won't accept anyone giving them advice unless you're a charming, witty, in-shape, effortlessly beautiful millionaire who's dating a string of underwear models.
Romance? You? Um...I don't think so.
That's decided, then! You'll write a thriller! They're easy. All you need to do is create a few characters, have something at stake, and the rest writes itself.
Okay, protagonist, obviously a man.
What?
No, if the main character in your thriller is a woman, men won't buy it, unless you're willing to write the first 5 chapters as an extended shower scene. And that would get boring after a while; there are only so many ways you can use the word 'soapy' before you get gratuitous...which might actually be the idea.
Okay, male, ex-marine. that shows that a) He's a renegade who doesn't play by the rules. And b) He can handle himself in a fight, which allows for a lot of loud gun battles, a barechested bar-room brawl, and maybe an exciting pointy swordfight. And his name is...manly...um...Jack.
Jack Mann. Great, now, a love intrest. This is easier, tall, blonde, possibly french, with a love of dangerous situations and even more dangerous men. Name...something feminine...a bird?
Adele Thrush.
Great, now we need a threat, and a villain. The villain can be anyone, so long as they're ethnic, but you know, bad ethnic. All screaming and beheading and sipping weird alcohols. They should also havesome kind of deformity, like a scar, or a constantly bleeding nose. Scars are best if they have meaning, so how about your villain has the word 'Habdabs' carved into his forehead, and at the end we find out is was the name of his beloved childhood spider monkey! That's character development.
For any good thriller, the stakes have to be high, and meaningful to the hero.
The villain, Aluc Al-Fleschwound, kidnaps Jack Mann's favourite stylist (you know, the one who cuts his hair just the way he likes it) and holds him ransom for all the bees he can eat. Only by teaming up with sultry foreign agent/jewel thief Adele Thrush, can Jack hope to save him!
Follow that formula, and before you know it you'll be rolling in cash, fame, and women. Or men. Or echidnas. Look, I don't know how you spend your weekend, okay?
See you in the bestseller list.
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
The first day of the rest of your liff.
Once again, I would like to invite you into the thick syrupy waters of language, where great, piscene iambic creatures swim, astounding alliterative anemones grow, and tortured old metaphors come to die. Last time, I appealed for help in inventing new words and phrases to help people express themselves in these difficult times. And the turnout was astounding, in that someone actually bothered. Nevertheless, I would like to present the newest five additions to the english language:
-Shitified adj. (Shih-tiff-eye-ed)
An object, person, or situation that has taken on negative qualities.
-Nevamoré abst. noun (Nehv-ah-morr)
(French) A word used to describe a love that is now unnatainable.
(Medical) A psychosis involving a profound dislike of birds.
-Vacuummulate verb. (Vahk-youm-you-late)
(1) To gather debris or a number of small items through suction.
(2) To overeat speedily, often using a straw or funnel.
-Testradool Proper noun. (Teest-rah-doohl)
A long-forgotten form of Russian martial arts that involves binding the fighter's forearms into gauntlets of fresh bear meat and delivering sweeping strikes to the opponent's groin and pelvis.
-Electrickery noun (Ee-leck-trick-urgh-ee)
The use of electric current to aid practical jokes, such as the old 'hand buzzer' gag, or dropping a toaster into a spouse's bath.
Aren't they exciting and relevant?
If you'd like to help, please comment, tweet, or write in, or better yet leave the house, meet a nice boy or girl, get married, have between 2 and 4 children and do something with your life!
Or you could sit in a windowless room and make up words...like me.
-Shitified adj. (Shih-tiff-eye-ed)
An object, person, or situation that has taken on negative qualities.
-Nevamoré abst. noun (Nehv-ah-morr)
(French) A word used to describe a love that is now unnatainable.
(Medical) A psychosis involving a profound dislike of birds.
-Vacuummulate verb. (Vahk-youm-you-late)
(1) To gather debris or a number of small items through suction.
(2) To overeat speedily, often using a straw or funnel.
-Testradool Proper noun. (Teest-rah-doohl)
A long-forgotten form of Russian martial arts that involves binding the fighter's forearms into gauntlets of fresh bear meat and delivering sweeping strikes to the opponent's groin and pelvis.
-Electrickery noun (Ee-leck-trick-urgh-ee)
The use of electric current to aid practical jokes, such as the old 'hand buzzer' gag, or dropping a toaster into a spouse's bath.
Aren't they exciting and relevant?
If you'd like to help, please comment, tweet, or write in, or better yet leave the house, meet a nice boy or girl, get married, have between 2 and 4 children and do something with your life!
Or you could sit in a windowless room and make up words...like me.
Sunday, 10 January 2010
Secret Admirer.
I never thought I'd find the right girl for me, but I have!
She just doesn't know it yet.
What I mean is, I haven't spoken to her (yet!) but I'm sure she's seen me. She must have, I'm outside her house every day.
She looks down from the roof, there's a crowd of us, but I know she's looking at me. There's always a load of people milling around, and they all look up at her, arms outstretched. All day. But they haven't got a chance, my girl only has eyes for me.
***
She really does look amazing up there. Her home used to be a supermarket, but now it's all fortified. The windows have been boarded up, and dead refrigerators block the doors. I haven't been inside, but no-one else has, either. That's not for want of trying, though. The crowd that always seems to be hanging about here bangs on the windows and tries to claw their way through the barricades. Occasionally I'll join them, but I don't want her to see me do it. It's very rude of me, but there's no other way for me to see her. At least my motivations are pure; I just want to talk to her. The rest of them probably want to sell her something...but they seem very poorly dressed for salesmen.
***
I'm getting a little depressed over how little success I'm having. It's like she doesn't notice me amoungst the others. I thought about placing a lonely hearts ad...something along the lines of:
"You were the dark haired girl in the park. I was the guy standing under the tree. Our eyes met. I think we had a moment...then I was jumped by these grungy looking guys with blood all over them."
Nah, stupid. She'll remember all that.
Besides, now I think of it...the newspapers don't seem to get printed anymore.
***
I think she's lost weight. She looked a little unsteady on her feet today, though. The rifle seemed heavier in her hands than it has before. Maybe she needs some TLC. Whatvever it is, I hope it's not catching, I already feel weird. And everyone else here looks kind of sick, too. They're dirty, too, I can't get over how dreadful everyone looks. This used to be a nice nieghbourhood. I still think she looks fantastic, though.
***
Okay, I think I can see her soon, but if I'm going to get anywhere, I need a gift. She looks really hungry nowadays. She's been in there for about 3 months, so she'll probably be grateful for some food. Too bad there's not much about now but offal and bits of meat lying around...hmm, that one over there looks kind of fresh...wonder if she's a leg or a breast person...
***
Okay, I managed to pull some boards off of a backdoor and I'm going in to surprise her with my gift. I wrapped the pieces up in some newspaper, but they're still dripping slightly...just means they're fresh, that's what I'll tell her. It's really dark inside, but I think I see the stairs to the roof. In the dim light I can still make out the headline on the package.
"Thousands dead as biohazard warning declared."
Bit grim. That's why I don't read the papers. There's another bit about eating each other, but this is from months ago, it'll all be sorted out now. Right, a few more steps and I'm on the roof...I can see her! I want to shout, but my mouth's all dry, she can probably hear me coming anyway. She can see me! She looks so nervous, poor thing...excited to see me, I'll bet. Oh, she's raising her gun...probably just taking it off...
Wonder if she'll want a kiss?
She just doesn't know it yet.
What I mean is, I haven't spoken to her (yet!) but I'm sure she's seen me. She must have, I'm outside her house every day.
She looks down from the roof, there's a crowd of us, but I know she's looking at me. There's always a load of people milling around, and they all look up at her, arms outstretched. All day. But they haven't got a chance, my girl only has eyes for me.
***
She really does look amazing up there. Her home used to be a supermarket, but now it's all fortified. The windows have been boarded up, and dead refrigerators block the doors. I haven't been inside, but no-one else has, either. That's not for want of trying, though. The crowd that always seems to be hanging about here bangs on the windows and tries to claw their way through the barricades. Occasionally I'll join them, but I don't want her to see me do it. It's very rude of me, but there's no other way for me to see her. At least my motivations are pure; I just want to talk to her. The rest of them probably want to sell her something...but they seem very poorly dressed for salesmen.
***
I'm getting a little depressed over how little success I'm having. It's like she doesn't notice me amoungst the others. I thought about placing a lonely hearts ad...something along the lines of:
"You were the dark haired girl in the park. I was the guy standing under the tree. Our eyes met. I think we had a moment...then I was jumped by these grungy looking guys with blood all over them."
Nah, stupid. She'll remember all that.
Besides, now I think of it...the newspapers don't seem to get printed anymore.
***
I think she's lost weight. She looked a little unsteady on her feet today, though. The rifle seemed heavier in her hands than it has before. Maybe she needs some TLC. Whatvever it is, I hope it's not catching, I already feel weird. And everyone else here looks kind of sick, too. They're dirty, too, I can't get over how dreadful everyone looks. This used to be a nice nieghbourhood. I still think she looks fantastic, though.
***
Okay, I think I can see her soon, but if I'm going to get anywhere, I need a gift. She looks really hungry nowadays. She's been in there for about 3 months, so she'll probably be grateful for some food. Too bad there's not much about now but offal and bits of meat lying around...hmm, that one over there looks kind of fresh...wonder if she's a leg or a breast person...
***
Okay, I managed to pull some boards off of a backdoor and I'm going in to surprise her with my gift. I wrapped the pieces up in some newspaper, but they're still dripping slightly...just means they're fresh, that's what I'll tell her. It's really dark inside, but I think I see the stairs to the roof. In the dim light I can still make out the headline on the package.
"Thousands dead as biohazard warning declared."
Bit grim. That's why I don't read the papers. There's another bit about eating each other, but this is from months ago, it'll all be sorted out now. Right, a few more steps and I'm on the roof...I can see her! I want to shout, but my mouth's all dry, she can probably hear me coming anyway. She can see me! She looks so nervous, poor thing...excited to see me, I'll bet. Oh, she's raising her gun...probably just taking it off...
Wonder if she'll want a kiss?
Monday, 4 January 2010
Dead Meat.
Midnight. Or, at least as close to midnight as it could be without actually being midnight.
So, like, 11:59.
...
Midnight.
Christmas Eve.
The inky blackness of festive the street was pierced by lights, casting red and green glares across the sidewalk. A recent storm left snow sprawled across the streets, like a drunk department store Santa who found a whole bottle of whisky in his stocking. The night was as cold as a Reverend's teat, but the promise of things to come warmed me and gave me the strength to push onwards. I'd been invited to a little get-together hosted by some old friends from the business. Fingers McGraw and Legs McGinty had run two rival pizza houses for years, maintaining a healthy competition mainly because they were both stubborn old men. Proud, honourable and saltier than 16-century horse meat...which was kept in barrels of salt on long sea voyages.
I approached the condominium they shared, it's monogrammed mailbox loudly trumpeted their presence to the neighborhood, like a tuba salesman would his wares. But then the proprietor of 'McGraw's Greasy Grubhole' had never been one for subtelty. As I walked towards the house I noticed the door was ajar. Instantly I was wary, my years as a delivery boy had taught me always to be wary of open doors. They signified bill-dodgers...or worse, dog people!
I gingerly nudged the door and it creaked open, revealing a yawning black maw like that left in the heart of a widow. My heart thudded against the pocket book of Sylvia Plath quotes in my coat pocket. A light in the dining room was a beacon to me at the end of the dark hallway inside. The cold, soft light banished the darkness weakly, like a depressed lighthouse. I wanted to call their names, but a kind of cold dread prevented me. I crept to the doorway, and was surprised by a fallen Christmas tree that lay on the floor. Pirouetting through the air like a trench coat-clad ballet dancer, I found myself prone at the foot of a table.
I could see rows of feet under the table, like...rows of feet...no time to check the book, I lept to my feet.
"Legs! Why'd you leave that thing lyin' around?"
No answer.
At first, I thought he was just being strong and silent, like an elm, but then I saw the reason for his silence. All the bodies at the table lay slumped into their food.
They were dead.
Dead as the turkey they had been eating.
I had barely begun to grieve when light erupted from the windows, illuminating the grisly (yet still oddly festive) scene. Arcs of that familiar red and blue light intermittently played across the dead men's features, like a schizoid rainbow. A louderspeaker spoke (it's kinda their thing):
"Johnny Thrimbletrimmer, employee of the Triple-Stack 3-for-1! This is the police. We have the building surrounded, come out with your hands up. You have one minute."
I'd been framed! The circumstantial evidence was too damning, and there's no way I'd survive prison with my firm, willowy, and pale frame. I had to escape. I couldn't fight; all I had on me was a pizza cutter and I had no intention of using that on the police.
In the end I chose the stealthy approach, and slipped out the back door, like an improperly inserted suppository. After I was a few blocks away from the police squad, I allowed myself to breathe easy and tried to compose my thoughts, which was like trying to play a symphony with a monkey orchestra. I swatted a mental gibbon away from an abstract bassoon, and began to think.
Why would this have happened? That question seemed obvious. Someone was out to get me, and those poor bastards had just gotten in the way. But who? Could be a rival firm, but the Chief and I had always competed peacefully with the other firms.
Saucy...?
No. Not after Paris. She would never do that to me.
I needed help, and I needed it fast. The Chief was too far, and I couldn't go back to the Triple Stack, or she'd be in danger. The only man who could help me now was Deep Crust.
---
The Deep Dish Pizza Place was a maginificent establishment, but it looked very different at night. The oppressive dark of the city drained the colour out it's red walls, leaving it looking like an arthouse photograph of a shrunken tomatoe...y'know, the square ones. I saw them on the internet once. It didn't look occupied, except for one solitary light in the top window.
The door was open, as if Deep Crust was expecting me. DP had always boasted of his powers of premonition, which he attributed to his Romany heritage. It was also what he attributed his string of failed marriages and bitter alcoholism to, but best not to mention that right now.
I Brianed open the back door (Jimmy was vacationing with the Chief), and crept inside like a cat made of shadows. The red light was reflected inside giving the dining area an eerie crimson hue, like a haemophiliac had held a sharp objects party in there. My old friend's living quarters were on the second floor; he had always liked to gaze out of the window at the people strolling by, like he was remembering a more simple time in his life. He also enjoyed dumping his rotten condiments onto customers who tried to leave without tipping. It was how he'd earned his nickname, 'The Sweet Chilli Avenger'. I ascended the stairs like a midnight...uh...um...ferret.
I found Deep Crust in his room, hunched over a desk and surrounded by mountains of frozen pizzas. He seemed not to notice me, and to the untrained eye would seem to have not reacted. However, to me his alertness and tension was obvious, like a fireman living in a house made of wicker and candles.
"DP." I croaked, like a film noir bullfrog, "I need your help."
He shifted almost imperceptibly in his chair, focused on his work but listening.
"I'm in deep, Deep. Someone's trying to pin a lot of bodies on me, and I'm no-one's noticeboard! You're the only one I can turn to for help. Donald, man, I need you."
Deep Crust ceased his fevered scribbling and turned to look at me. His gaze was loaded, like a transvestite alchoholic at a ladies night. But his gaze was loaded with meaning rather than tequila and rohypnol.
"Johnny" he said, "I don't know what you've gotten yourself into, but you're still my friend. Of course I'll help you. I owe you that much."
For the first time in hours, I felt at ease, whereas before I'd felt like a balloon man talking a stroll down the pointiest street in town. However, a flicker in DP's face told me that he wasn't finished.
"Just...give me a hand with something first." he continued.
For the first time I really began to notice the room I was in. The boxes that towered high above our heads like grease-stained cardboard collusi didn't bear the familiar Deep Dish logo. Instead, indecipherable foreign glyphs decorated the boxes.
"DP...where did these come from?" I asked, voice full to the brim with apprehension like an anxious beer.
"I got a bunch of pizzas cheap from this Russian pastry baron. They weren't exactly his to sell, so I really need to get them out of here - fast."
I was speechless, all I could do was put one foot in front of the other, as an especially jagged terrier caught the hem of my rubber coat, and burst my metaphorical bubble. I took a step back, and a baton collided with the back of my head. My face hit the floorboards; I tasted blood...and pine. I heard Deep crust get tackled by two police officers, then it all went dark.
---
The next morning brought revelation after revelation, like a preacher with a bad case of deja vu. I had inadvertantly lead the police right to the Deep Dish. It looked like Deep crust would be spending Christmas behind bars. No matter, I'd make it up to him by delivering a very special pie, with a key hidden under the pepperoni.
I could right that wrong, but there are some things you just can't fix. The mortician managed to uncover the cause of death for Legs, Fingers and the others.
Undercooked turkey.
Simple food poisoning had managed to kill so many. Pulling my coat tight around me, I retreated inside myself from the cold and the horrors of the world. They were lowlife pizza men, and would be missed by none, and mourned by fewer. Except for me. I couldn't dwell on it, it was just the way this open wound of a city worked.
They were human flotsam, and a great tide had come to wash them out to sea.
...
Hey, that one was kinda good.
So, like, 11:59.
...
Midnight.
Christmas Eve.
The inky blackness of festive the street was pierced by lights, casting red and green glares across the sidewalk. A recent storm left snow sprawled across the streets, like a drunk department store Santa who found a whole bottle of whisky in his stocking. The night was as cold as a Reverend's teat, but the promise of things to come warmed me and gave me the strength to push onwards. I'd been invited to a little get-together hosted by some old friends from the business. Fingers McGraw and Legs McGinty had run two rival pizza houses for years, maintaining a healthy competition mainly because they were both stubborn old men. Proud, honourable and saltier than 16-century horse meat...which was kept in barrels of salt on long sea voyages.
I approached the condominium they shared, it's monogrammed mailbox loudly trumpeted their presence to the neighborhood, like a tuba salesman would his wares. But then the proprietor of 'McGraw's Greasy Grubhole' had never been one for subtelty. As I walked towards the house I noticed the door was ajar. Instantly I was wary, my years as a delivery boy had taught me always to be wary of open doors. They signified bill-dodgers...or worse, dog people!
I gingerly nudged the door and it creaked open, revealing a yawning black maw like that left in the heart of a widow. My heart thudded against the pocket book of Sylvia Plath quotes in my coat pocket. A light in the dining room was a beacon to me at the end of the dark hallway inside. The cold, soft light banished the darkness weakly, like a depressed lighthouse. I wanted to call their names, but a kind of cold dread prevented me. I crept to the doorway, and was surprised by a fallen Christmas tree that lay on the floor. Pirouetting through the air like a trench coat-clad ballet dancer, I found myself prone at the foot of a table.
I could see rows of feet under the table, like...rows of feet...no time to check the book, I lept to my feet.
"Legs! Why'd you leave that thing lyin' around?"
No answer.
At first, I thought he was just being strong and silent, like an elm, but then I saw the reason for his silence. All the bodies at the table lay slumped into their food.
They were dead.
Dead as the turkey they had been eating.
I had barely begun to grieve when light erupted from the windows, illuminating the grisly (yet still oddly festive) scene. Arcs of that familiar red and blue light intermittently played across the dead men's features, like a schizoid rainbow. A louderspeaker spoke (it's kinda their thing):
"Johnny Thrimbletrimmer, employee of the Triple-Stack 3-for-1! This is the police. We have the building surrounded, come out with your hands up. You have one minute."
I'd been framed! The circumstantial evidence was too damning, and there's no way I'd survive prison with my firm, willowy, and pale frame. I had to escape. I couldn't fight; all I had on me was a pizza cutter and I had no intention of using that on the police.
In the end I chose the stealthy approach, and slipped out the back door, like an improperly inserted suppository. After I was a few blocks away from the police squad, I allowed myself to breathe easy and tried to compose my thoughts, which was like trying to play a symphony with a monkey orchestra. I swatted a mental gibbon away from an abstract bassoon, and began to think.
Why would this have happened? That question seemed obvious. Someone was out to get me, and those poor bastards had just gotten in the way. But who? Could be a rival firm, but the Chief and I had always competed peacefully with the other firms.
Saucy...?
No. Not after Paris. She would never do that to me.
I needed help, and I needed it fast. The Chief was too far, and I couldn't go back to the Triple Stack, or she'd be in danger. The only man who could help me now was Deep Crust.
---
The Deep Dish Pizza Place was a maginificent establishment, but it looked very different at night. The oppressive dark of the city drained the colour out it's red walls, leaving it looking like an arthouse photograph of a shrunken tomatoe...y'know, the square ones. I saw them on the internet once. It didn't look occupied, except for one solitary light in the top window.
The door was open, as if Deep Crust was expecting me. DP had always boasted of his powers of premonition, which he attributed to his Romany heritage. It was also what he attributed his string of failed marriages and bitter alcoholism to, but best not to mention that right now.
I Brianed open the back door (Jimmy was vacationing with the Chief), and crept inside like a cat made of shadows. The red light was reflected inside giving the dining area an eerie crimson hue, like a haemophiliac had held a sharp objects party in there. My old friend's living quarters were on the second floor; he had always liked to gaze out of the window at the people strolling by, like he was remembering a more simple time in his life. He also enjoyed dumping his rotten condiments onto customers who tried to leave without tipping. It was how he'd earned his nickname, 'The Sweet Chilli Avenger'. I ascended the stairs like a midnight...uh...um...ferret.
I found Deep Crust in his room, hunched over a desk and surrounded by mountains of frozen pizzas. He seemed not to notice me, and to the untrained eye would seem to have not reacted. However, to me his alertness and tension was obvious, like a fireman living in a house made of wicker and candles.
"DP." I croaked, like a film noir bullfrog, "I need your help."
He shifted almost imperceptibly in his chair, focused on his work but listening.
"I'm in deep, Deep. Someone's trying to pin a lot of bodies on me, and I'm no-one's noticeboard! You're the only one I can turn to for help. Donald, man, I need you."
Deep Crust ceased his fevered scribbling and turned to look at me. His gaze was loaded, like a transvestite alchoholic at a ladies night. But his gaze was loaded with meaning rather than tequila and rohypnol.
"Johnny" he said, "I don't know what you've gotten yourself into, but you're still my friend. Of course I'll help you. I owe you that much."
For the first time in hours, I felt at ease, whereas before I'd felt like a balloon man talking a stroll down the pointiest street in town. However, a flicker in DP's face told me that he wasn't finished.
"Just...give me a hand with something first." he continued.
For the first time I really began to notice the room I was in. The boxes that towered high above our heads like grease-stained cardboard collusi didn't bear the familiar Deep Dish logo. Instead, indecipherable foreign glyphs decorated the boxes.
"DP...where did these come from?" I asked, voice full to the brim with apprehension like an anxious beer.
"I got a bunch of pizzas cheap from this Russian pastry baron. They weren't exactly his to sell, so I really need to get them out of here - fast."
I was speechless, all I could do was put one foot in front of the other, as an especially jagged terrier caught the hem of my rubber coat, and burst my metaphorical bubble. I took a step back, and a baton collided with the back of my head. My face hit the floorboards; I tasted blood...and pine. I heard Deep crust get tackled by two police officers, then it all went dark.
---
The next morning brought revelation after revelation, like a preacher with a bad case of deja vu. I had inadvertantly lead the police right to the Deep Dish. It looked like Deep crust would be spending Christmas behind bars. No matter, I'd make it up to him by delivering a very special pie, with a key hidden under the pepperoni.
I could right that wrong, but there are some things you just can't fix. The mortician managed to uncover the cause of death for Legs, Fingers and the others.
Undercooked turkey.
Simple food poisoning had managed to kill so many. Pulling my coat tight around me, I retreated inside myself from the cold and the horrors of the world. They were lowlife pizza men, and would be missed by none, and mourned by fewer. Except for me. I couldn't dwell on it, it was just the way this open wound of a city worked.
They were human flotsam, and a great tide had come to wash them out to sea.
...
Hey, that one was kinda good.
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