"Do you want to run over it again?"
"Take me for a fool human and I will remove your testicles through your trout."
"Trout?"
"I meant throat."
"Well you said trout."
"I am aware of what I said."
"Why don't you be aware of what you say, as your saying it? We are here at the request of the local garrison to find out what really happened, we are their last chance for justice. Now try it again."
"Your head will make for a fine codpiece."
"I'm not really feeling it Rangnar. Have you eaten today?
"Must I always be the bad guy McCool?"
"I have some salted meat, do you want that? Hold on, here have some cheese."
"MacCool, you know that this is not about delicious num nums."
"You're a troll for Sighlongs sake....."
"And I have quested to rid myself of what is supposedly set in stone. You know this."
"Its an act Rangnar."
"Its a betrayal to what I strive to become."
"It doesn't mean anything. We do this for good."
"If it does not mean anything, why do you not do it?"
"Fine, we haven't time to argue about this. All you have to say is, 'You'll need these spare undergarments because if you don't tell me the truth, it’s my friends job to rip your hands off and at that point, most people defecate themselves.' I'll handle the rest. You understand?"
"Perfectly."
Rangnar slouched slightly to accommodate his height. The room was small and hairy like the internals of a rabbit that had been turned inside out. In the centre under directed sunlight sat Racs Bass, business associate of the murdered elf, Sequoia Bigtree and chief suspect in the subsequent investigation.
Behind Rangnar, leaning moodily against the shadowed wall, posed the dark figure of Legend McCool. Renowned for his altruism and heroics, he was now awaiting the cue to get violent.
Amateurs, thought Racs Bass. The stench of smug dripping from his very gums. They had nothing conclusive and the Troll and Thug were the theatrics of desperation. Maybe after he was free he would commit another murder just to rub it in the hollow fleshpots that bore their faces.
"What were your business dealings with the victim?"
So the smelly abomination was asking the questions. Bass decided then that he would enjoy this.
"The end of wee as the world knows it."
"I do not understand."
"Of course not," sneered Bass. "We were developing a process by which urine could be used as a cleaning agent for clothing."
"And where did you acquire my rine?"
"Urine troll. Piss. What your kind drinks instead of everything else."
Legend shifted slightly but Rangnar let the comment slide.
"You clean clothing with piss?"
"Its technical. In the future all civilised people will wash in urine. Not that you'll know about it."
"Somewhere along the path," Rangnar declared grimly, "the purity of this piss was tainted with the shittiness of murder." He was facing the wall now, arms folded behind his back, pretending to contemplate some meaningless speck on the wall.
The lumbering pus bag was dumber than a stillborn sow. Bass would have laughed, but he was saving that for the thugs almost certain attempt to strong-arm him. These fools would get nothing, no confession, no clues. Nothing. Interrogation tactics were child play to a man steeped in the business guild.
The troll turned, one arm remained resting by his back; the other outstretched offering a washboard fresh pair of jocks. Legend moistened his lips. Rangnar's eyes lit up. One hundred and forty seven miles east, a white buffalo was born.
"You will need this spare undergarments," said a newly intense Rangnar, "after my friend here gives you a hand job."
A barely audible snap was the only clue that MacCools suddenly tensed body had broken a rib.
Racs Bass's head darted from side to side in a desperate attempt to catch any words that may have lost their way to his head. Surely he didn't just say that. A vice gripped his face. "...What?"
Rangnar, unaware of his error, nodded viciously. "You will felate yourself," he declared. .
"...Excuse me?"
"Most people do," smiled the Troll.
"You can't do this, there are rules for prisoner treatment."
Rangnar snorted, "You may talk sweet about rules to my friend as he is pulling bits of you off. He does enjoy the moan of his victims."
Snap.
"You can't..."
"Make no mistake Bass, he does not want to do it, but you have forced his hand."
The prisoner licked his lips, his breathing thick, his pupils wide. Silence.
"On your head it be." Rangnar moved for the door. Legend's bowls moved for the floor.
"Okay, okay, Bigtrees methods of refining the urine were disastrous to the environment. I tried to make him understand but he didn't care about the damage."
"Are you admitting your involvement?"
"Yes...but I had to kill him. His mind was diseased with thoughts of lucrative profits and the three types of elfen pun tang. Someone had to stop him. For the sake of us all."
Racs put his arm on his chest, the finishing touch to a calculated move.
"Earth is an anagram for heart you know."
"And Racs Bass is an anagram for ass crabs," spat Rangnar, "spew your falsehoods else where."
"It," said Bass referring contemptuously to Rangnar, "knows what an anagram is?"
"That's the problem with you smart people," said Rangnar, "you believe everyone else to be stupid."
Legend's words were whitewashed with relief, "who the fool now?"
"I shall think fondly of you over a warm jug of piss, ass crabs," said green hero as he moved from the room.
"Don't feel left out. In prison you get to drink from the source," quipped Legend." And he too was away.
EPILOGUE
Rangnar and Legend stood with the leader of the local law enforcement. Their belongings packed, the road to adventures new waiting.
"My thanks to you both. I must say, you make for an odd couple, troll and human."
"I've seen stranger in my travels commander." said MacCool. "On one occasion I happened upon a chicken having intercourse with an egg."
"I have not heard this tale," said Rangnar.
"There is plenty more you haven't heard."
"A chicken and an egg," mused the commander.
"Tell me," ventured Rangnar, "which came first?"
A mischievous grin caught Legend's face by the balls.
"I did," he said sheepishly.
The commander laughed heartily at the joke. Rangnar knew better.
************************************************************
On the new season of John Doe.
John Doe remembers who he is, but forgets everything else.
John Doe
"I remember who I am. But I've forgotten everything else."
Black Cop
"Maybe we should call you John Duh. Snizzle."
And coming up next, Pimp my Ride.
Mike.
"How you gonna trip this sucka out 2shay?"
2shay
"I'm gonna put a 20 inch LCD on the bitch's back so when our boy Tyrone is pounding her dog style, he can watch skin flicks."
X-biscuit
"Faw real."
Monday, November 21, 2005
Thursday, November 10, 2005
A Lesson in History
The las vegas times ran this story on the 21st of October after a dead body without any fingers turned up in the back alley of a strip club. Appearently the local cops discovered the body with a message written on the wall beside the body. Below is a copy of the message.
‘If you are reading this note you will have realized it is written in blood. I only pray as each finger wears down against the granite of the wall that I have enough fingers to finish my tail. It is a tale which must be told no matter the cost so that future generations do not make the mistake I made. I was once as you are now, living my life with a care free abandon which make light of the dangers in every day life. This is a tale of time travel and drunken debauchery with family members. But the most important fact the which I must warn everyone of is the ………’
The only thing found on the person was the below photo which had one word written on the back of it.
‘If you are reading this note you will have realized it is written in blood. I only pray as each finger wears down against the granite of the wall that I have enough fingers to finish my tail. It is a tale which must be told no matter the cost so that future generations do not make the mistake I made. I was once as you are now, living my life with a care free abandon which make light of the dangers in every day life. This is a tale of time travel and drunken debauchery with family members. But the most important fact the which I must warn everyone of is the ………’
The only thing found on the person was the below photo which had one word written on the back of it.
Grandma
Friday, October 14, 2005
HUMANITY IN SPACE
“2 no, 3 yea I think 3”
“3 ha, you don’t even……”
Alarms interrupt the conversation and the com on the desk beside the men crackles.
“Captain….. Captain”
“Ya, what” says the slightly over weight balding man who had just been conversing with a skinny twitchy individual.
“Sir we have a problem”
…………………….
“Your going to make me ask what the problem is?” says the captain still with his legs strewn over the desk.
“Sorry sir the problem is…”
“Answer my question.”
“What? Am, ah. No sir. I mean yes sir I’m not going to make you ask sir. The problem is…”
“Two years in deep space and they still don’t have a clue.” The captain says to his companion.
The skinny man scratches the skin below his left eye, clears his throat, spits and sits back without responding.
The captain looks at him with slight disgust and then realizes the person on the com is still talking.
“.. and now we don’t know if we ever had one but that’s not the worst of it…”
“What the hell do you mean not the worst of it you moron just fix it and stop brining me this shit.” With that he gets up and walks down the corridor. His skinny companion follows and 200 meters down to corridor they sit at an identical desk and begin there conversation again.
“Ya 3 women is definitely the best number to sleep with at one time” the captain continues, “with 2 you always feel you could do more and with 4 you can never walk the da…….”
His gaze is drawn to the window and the port engine which can be seen through it. He tilts his head slightly as he watches the engine lean to its left, a crack appears in it and it floats off into space.
“Uha idiots. 4000 crew and they can’t even stop the engine from falling off.”
He presses the intercom on this desk.
“Hey what the hell is going on”?
The same voice crackles on the inter com.
“Sir we have a problem”
“Oh no not you, Isn’t there anyone more senior then you on the bridge?”
“What bridge?”
Silence.
“What bridge” repeats the captain bareley controlling his temper, “The God damn bridge you are calling me from. You idiot.”
“Oh sorry Sir. No sir I’m all alone”
“Well what’s happening what is engineering saying?”
“Ah as I said earlier we don’t seem to have an engineer on board and we don’t know if we ever had one.”
“What?”
“The only person I could get through to on the intercom was a journalist who had gotten lost in engineering the day we launched and can’t find his way out.”
“I seem to remember you saying there was worse news? I’m hoping you meant the engine was about to fall off.”
“No Sir we’re heading for a black hole.”
“Ok don’t panic” said the captain with a definite look of panic in his eyes, “Abandon ship. Everyone to the escape pods.”
“But yo..”
“But nothing, I’m out of here if you want to stay fine.”
“No sir, don’t you remember you ejected the escape pods a month ago because people had been using them as toilets.”
“Shit.” Is all the captain can say as he stares into the space he has been floating in for the last 2 years and thinks ‘What the fuck are we doing up here.’
His skinny companion clears his throat once more and spits on the window.
An alien ship monitoring them sends a one word message before leaving the sector.
“DICKHEADS”
“3 ha, you don’t even……”
Alarms interrupt the conversation and the com on the desk beside the men crackles.
“Captain….. Captain”
“Ya, what” says the slightly over weight balding man who had just been conversing with a skinny twitchy individual.
“Sir we have a problem”
…………………….
“Your going to make me ask what the problem is?” says the captain still with his legs strewn over the desk.
“Sorry sir the problem is…”
“Answer my question.”
“What? Am, ah. No sir. I mean yes sir I’m not going to make you ask sir. The problem is…”
“Two years in deep space and they still don’t have a clue.” The captain says to his companion.
The skinny man scratches the skin below his left eye, clears his throat, spits and sits back without responding.
The captain looks at him with slight disgust and then realizes the person on the com is still talking.
“.. and now we don’t know if we ever had one but that’s not the worst of it…”
“What the hell do you mean not the worst of it you moron just fix it and stop brining me this shit.” With that he gets up and walks down the corridor. His skinny companion follows and 200 meters down to corridor they sit at an identical desk and begin there conversation again.
“Ya 3 women is definitely the best number to sleep with at one time” the captain continues, “with 2 you always feel you could do more and with 4 you can never walk the da…….”
His gaze is drawn to the window and the port engine which can be seen through it. He tilts his head slightly as he watches the engine lean to its left, a crack appears in it and it floats off into space.
“Uha idiots. 4000 crew and they can’t even stop the engine from falling off.”
He presses the intercom on this desk.
“Hey what the hell is going on”?
The same voice crackles on the inter com.
“Sir we have a problem”
“Oh no not you, Isn’t there anyone more senior then you on the bridge?”
“What bridge?”
Silence.
“What bridge” repeats the captain bareley controlling his temper, “The God damn bridge you are calling me from. You idiot.”
“Oh sorry Sir. No sir I’m all alone”
“Well what’s happening what is engineering saying?”
“Ah as I said earlier we don’t seem to have an engineer on board and we don’t know if we ever had one.”
“What?”
“The only person I could get through to on the intercom was a journalist who had gotten lost in engineering the day we launched and can’t find his way out.”
“I seem to remember you saying there was worse news? I’m hoping you meant the engine was about to fall off.”
“No Sir we’re heading for a black hole.”
“Ok don’t panic” said the captain with a definite look of panic in his eyes, “Abandon ship. Everyone to the escape pods.”
“But yo..”
“But nothing, I’m out of here if you want to stay fine.”
“No sir, don’t you remember you ejected the escape pods a month ago because people had been using them as toilets.”
“Shit.” Is all the captain can say as he stares into the space he has been floating in for the last 2 years and thinks ‘What the fuck are we doing up here.’
His skinny companion clears his throat once more and spits on the window.
An alien ship monitoring them sends a one word message before leaving the sector.
“DICKHEADS”
Sunday, October 02, 2005
"Like Father, Like Crimson"
"I took a dump in your shower," said Crimson Dominic, wiping his ass on a dishtowel. He ran it past his face breathing deeply. No one loved the smell of his or her own shit more. She was still sprawled on the bed mourning the loss of more intimate times. There was the sound of glass breaking from the kitchen and a moment later, "you're out of milk."
There are many qualities that separate us from animals. In the case of Crimson Dominic it was either a restraining order or a condom. As with all people, he wasn't that simple to classify. What can sometimes feel like multiple opposing personalities are all driven by the same goal. However when a man cannot tell the difference between opinion and knowledge, between what is important and what he thinks is important, then it is unlikely that he will make an effort to truly understand who he is. Dominic instead put his complex brain to other uses, developing an equation for exploitation.
She wasn't thin or beautiful. She hated herself more than she would ever tell anyone. Sometimes when she was alone, she would cry and curse God and rage, and spit with fury and self-pity because she had no one who loved her. He could feel it, like it was something tangible. A noose of anguish and despair that he would use to strangle her.
It didn't take much effort to get into her bedroom; she was hideous. Any port in the storm thought Crimson. Only there wasn't a storm.
"I have a girlfriend."
If it ain't kin, stick it in.
"Crimson, what?"
"I have a girlfriend."
"No," she said sitting up on the bed.
"For fuck sake Crimson."
"Carol."
"For fuck sake."
"Carol."
"Damnit Crimson." Silence.
"Are you engaged?"
"No," replied Crimson.
"Is she pregnant?"
"No," snorted Crimson.
"Where is she?"
"She had to go to a with her friends from work. She is staying at my parent’s house tonight. She thinks I'm on a job."
None of this mattered and Crimson knew it. The putrid bitch would have to put up a fight or she would look like the fat whore she was pretending not to be. Truth be told, he had only said it because he knew it would mess her up. Watching her squirm was foreplay.
He lay on top of her rolls of fat and pawed her mouth open with his stubby fingers. Licking the sweat from between the folds of her chin, he felt hair stubble and imagined he was tonguing a cat. He took great mouthfuls of her breasts or her elbows, he couldn't be sure. Skin was everywhere and the sickly vinegar smell of body odor hung over them like murder. They groaned and rolled and vomited their illicit passions. After, Dominic lay on his side facing away from her.
Unaccustomed as she was to optimism, Carol occasionally allowed herself slivers of hope. They had shared something special, an intimate moment that connected them. He would understand how she felt.
"There is this idea that I studied in college. It says that when you study something, it changes. You can't know its true nature because just by looking you affect it. I always thought that counted for something." She was almost whispering now. “If our perception actually changes reality then maybe that means we're important, that we matter."
He heard her swallow heavily, her words tied up in emotions.
"Crimson, what do you think?"
"Are your nails trimmed?"
"Yeah." The word came from her mouth softly.
"Stick a finger in my ass."
As the unfortunate digit was wrapped in shit and flab, he was wrapped only in the infinite wonder of himself.
Night blended into a splendid dawn. The canvas sky orange and red. Life stirring into a fresh world to explore new moments the virgin day would bring.
"Crimson, get your dick out of my face."
"Sorry, I thought it was your ass," he spat pulling away. His time was up, just one more scar to leave.
"Will you call me?"
Crimson was already at the door. "Call you what, a frigid bitch?" And he was gone. That would eat at her like stomach cancer and next time he could be sure that she wouldn't be so fucking prude.
Within an hour, the fat cheating bastard was lightly knocking on the door of his parent’s spare bedroom.
"Open up, this is the smile police," said Crimson.
"Come in," replied a soft voice, worn thin with a night of excess.
"Ma'am," said Crimson standing at the door, his hands planted on his hips, "I'm afraid you’re going to have to turn that frown upside down."
"I'm hung over you bastard," she said playfully.
"Have a good night?" he asked gathering up her clothes and putting them on the bed.
"I don't remember."
"Well get up, and when your ready come downstairs and I'll have breakfast ready, okay babe?
"Hmmm."
He was already at the door when she said, "Crimson, I love you."
He turned and smiled, "You'll love me even more when you see breakfast, now get that gorgeous face of yours out of bed."
"Jesus, that girl of yours was a mess last night." Crimson's dad was on his hands and knees sniffing at the kitchen floor. "I had to help her into bed." He swept his palm underneath the old armchair that decorated the corner of the room. "She kept saying, "Crimson this, Crimson that." He picked up the dog's basket, threw a glance underneath and replaced it.
"She was drunk as a stone in a whiskey barrel." His dad dissected the couch but found it a wasted effort.
"She loves me," smirked Dominic as he read the newly received text message.
"I'm so sorry about this morning, can we meet again? I want to make it up 2 u."
But his dad had wandered off and in his place stood his grinning girlfriend twitching with a nervous energy.
"Crimson, I think I'm pregnant,"
Abortion, miscarriage, stillborn, fetus cat food, bitch, baby cancer, fucking bitch, baby jam, dead baby, dead baby, die you fucking bitch, mistake, cot death, thought Crimson.
"W-what?" said Crimson.
"Look," she said holding out her hand, "These were in my uterus."
"Your what?"
"In my vagina, look."
"Look in your vagina?" He was almost hysterical.
"At my hand."
Three white solid objects lay in her palm.
"Teeth," she declared, "I think they're baby teeth!"
"Oh great, you found them," Old Daddy Crimson smiled revealing the black gaps in his mouth. "Where were they? I thought one of the cats had 'em for breakfast."
How can you know what someone is thinking, what they're goal is? Start by knowing what your goal is. Crimson Dominic shook his head in disbelief. He didn't see it.
"I had to help her into bed."
"She loves me."
He didn't see that they were both doing the same thing.
Bragging.
There are many qualities that separate us from animals. In the case of Crimson Dominic it was either a restraining order or a condom. As with all people, he wasn't that simple to classify. What can sometimes feel like multiple opposing personalities are all driven by the same goal. However when a man cannot tell the difference between opinion and knowledge, between what is important and what he thinks is important, then it is unlikely that he will make an effort to truly understand who he is. Dominic instead put his complex brain to other uses, developing an equation for exploitation.
She wasn't thin or beautiful. She hated herself more than she would ever tell anyone. Sometimes when she was alone, she would cry and curse God and rage, and spit with fury and self-pity because she had no one who loved her. He could feel it, like it was something tangible. A noose of anguish and despair that he would use to strangle her.
It didn't take much effort to get into her bedroom; she was hideous. Any port in the storm thought Crimson. Only there wasn't a storm.
"I have a girlfriend."
If it ain't kin, stick it in.
"Crimson, what?"
"I have a girlfriend."
"No," she said sitting up on the bed.
"For fuck sake Crimson."
"Carol."
"For fuck sake."
"Carol."
"Damnit Crimson." Silence.
"Are you engaged?"
"No," replied Crimson.
"Is she pregnant?"
"No," snorted Crimson.
"Where is she?"
"She had to go to a with her friends from work. She is staying at my parent’s house tonight. She thinks I'm on a job."
None of this mattered and Crimson knew it. The putrid bitch would have to put up a fight or she would look like the fat whore she was pretending not to be. Truth be told, he had only said it because he knew it would mess her up. Watching her squirm was foreplay.
He lay on top of her rolls of fat and pawed her mouth open with his stubby fingers. Licking the sweat from between the folds of her chin, he felt hair stubble and imagined he was tonguing a cat. He took great mouthfuls of her breasts or her elbows, he couldn't be sure. Skin was everywhere and the sickly vinegar smell of body odor hung over them like murder. They groaned and rolled and vomited their illicit passions. After, Dominic lay on his side facing away from her.
Unaccustomed as she was to optimism, Carol occasionally allowed herself slivers of hope. They had shared something special, an intimate moment that connected them. He would understand how she felt.
"There is this idea that I studied in college. It says that when you study something, it changes. You can't know its true nature because just by looking you affect it. I always thought that counted for something." She was almost whispering now. “If our perception actually changes reality then maybe that means we're important, that we matter."
He heard her swallow heavily, her words tied up in emotions.
"Crimson, what do you think?"
"Are your nails trimmed?"
"Yeah." The word came from her mouth softly.
"Stick a finger in my ass."
As the unfortunate digit was wrapped in shit and flab, he was wrapped only in the infinite wonder of himself.
Night blended into a splendid dawn. The canvas sky orange and red. Life stirring into a fresh world to explore new moments the virgin day would bring.
"Crimson, get your dick out of my face."
"Sorry, I thought it was your ass," he spat pulling away. His time was up, just one more scar to leave.
"Will you call me?"
Crimson was already at the door. "Call you what, a frigid bitch?" And he was gone. That would eat at her like stomach cancer and next time he could be sure that she wouldn't be so fucking prude.
Within an hour, the fat cheating bastard was lightly knocking on the door of his parent’s spare bedroom.
"Open up, this is the smile police," said Crimson.
"Come in," replied a soft voice, worn thin with a night of excess.
"Ma'am," said Crimson standing at the door, his hands planted on his hips, "I'm afraid you’re going to have to turn that frown upside down."
"I'm hung over you bastard," she said playfully.
"Have a good night?" he asked gathering up her clothes and putting them on the bed.
"I don't remember."
"Well get up, and when your ready come downstairs and I'll have breakfast ready, okay babe?
"Hmmm."
He was already at the door when she said, "Crimson, I love you."
He turned and smiled, "You'll love me even more when you see breakfast, now get that gorgeous face of yours out of bed."
"Jesus, that girl of yours was a mess last night." Crimson's dad was on his hands and knees sniffing at the kitchen floor. "I had to help her into bed." He swept his palm underneath the old armchair that decorated the corner of the room. "She kept saying, "Crimson this, Crimson that." He picked up the dog's basket, threw a glance underneath and replaced it.
"She was drunk as a stone in a whiskey barrel." His dad dissected the couch but found it a wasted effort.
"She loves me," smirked Dominic as he read the newly received text message.
"I'm so sorry about this morning, can we meet again? I want to make it up 2 u."
But his dad had wandered off and in his place stood his grinning girlfriend twitching with a nervous energy.
"Crimson, I think I'm pregnant,"
Abortion, miscarriage, stillborn, fetus cat food, bitch, baby cancer, fucking bitch, baby jam, dead baby, dead baby, die you fucking bitch, mistake, cot death, thought Crimson.
"W-what?" said Crimson.
"Look," she said holding out her hand, "These were in my uterus."
"Your what?"
"In my vagina, look."
"Look in your vagina?" He was almost hysterical.
"At my hand."
Three white solid objects lay in her palm.
"Teeth," she declared, "I think they're baby teeth!"
"Oh great, you found them," Old Daddy Crimson smiled revealing the black gaps in his mouth. "Where were they? I thought one of the cats had 'em for breakfast."
How can you know what someone is thinking, what they're goal is? Start by knowing what your goal is. Crimson Dominic shook his head in disbelief. He didn't see it.
"I had to help her into bed."
"She loves me."
He didn't see that they were both doing the same thing.
Bragging.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
My so called shitty life
A conversation between two people which started with out any previous reference.
“When do they start?”
“What?”
“What time do they usually start?”
“Who?”
“They are normally in by now.”
“Who are?”
“Oh no wait they are usually not in for another hour airnt they?”
“Who are not in for another hour”
“No. What time do they normally start work?”
“Stop. What time do who start work ?”
“AMERICA”
“When do they start?”
“What?”
“What time do they usually start?”
“Who?”
“They are normally in by now.”
“Who are?”
“Oh no wait they are usually not in for another hour airnt they?”
“Who are not in for another hour”
“No. What time do they normally start work?”
“Stop. What time do who start work ?”
“AMERICA”
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
The Devils Baseball
What a crazy week he thought as he picked up the bin outside his house. He had been meaning to burn the papers for some time but with everything that had happened he didn’t have a chance. As he casually threw the papers into the flames he went over his plans for the next day in his head. He had met the girl a week ago but had just worked up the courage to ask her out that day. He couldn’t believe she said yes but now all he had to worry about was the date itself.
The man in black opened the gate and walked into the garden he didn’t know why but he knew that this was where he was supposed to be. He still had the Childs blood on him but had been too preoccupied to do anything about it. He saw the man burning his papers and walked up to him until he was right behind him. Looking over the mans shoulder, he watched for a moment as the paper disappeared into flame.
The children were playing on the green, about ten of them had gathered and were engaged in a game of tag. The old woman looked on still in awe at a Childs ability to recover from traumatic events. The ambulance had left just ten minutes ago but already the children had returned to the same state as they were before the accident. Without thinking she knelt down and picked up the baseball which was at her feet and walked back into her house to finish her dinner. As she walked into the kitchen she thought she smelt something but put it down to her imagination. Once she finished eating she put her left overs in the bin outside. It was then she discovered the baseball she had put in her pocket, she stared at it for a moment before she threw it over her fence into the neighbors bin. She lit her cigarette and walked back into her house. The resulting explosion caused by the gas leek being lit by her cigarette rocked the whole neighborhood.
Charlie was always alone. Being the smallest and youngest kid in the neighborhood he always felt the other kids picked on him. They would call him names and throw things at him, sometimes he wished he was dead. That would show them, they would be sorry they were so mean to him then. At this moment he was standing alone in the shade of a tree near the road. As he watched the other children play he began to cry, even the new kid in the neighborhood had been allowed to play there game. The new kid was the son of a local baseball hero and all of the kids wanted to play with him. They had started a game of baseball and had picked two teams but told Charlie he was too small to play. As he watched them play the baseball was hit out of the green and rolled out onto the road near Charlie. Seeing his chance Charlie rushed out to pickup the baseball. As his hand grasped the ball he looked up to see a man in black standing on the side of the road directly in front of him, where no one had stood seconds before. Charlie froze as he looked at this man and then something hit him from his left. Charlie’s body flew through the air and his last though was that perhaps now that he had gotten the ball the other kids would let him play. As the bus skidded to a halt one of it passengers began to scream.
Being new in town sucked but when you were the son of a sports star you had to learn to make friends fast. His father was always changing teams or moving into a new rented house. This was the latest in a long line of teams who had bought his fathers ability but this could be the last. His father had been playing bad for the past few months and this was the only pro team who were still interested in him. The kid walked into his father’s room, picked up the baseball from his father’s bed and went out to meet the local kids. He failed to notice through the half open bathroom door, his father’s lifeless body hanging from the light switch.
THUMP. The man who had been burning papers snapped back to reality as he heard the sound. Looking down he saw a baseball had fallen into the flames. He stared at it for a moment as it began to unravel in the heat and wondered at the events that had led to this ball being left in his bin. As the ball burned the man in black shrank back in to the shadows from where he had come.
The man in black opened the gate and walked into the garden he didn’t know why but he knew that this was where he was supposed to be. He still had the Childs blood on him but had been too preoccupied to do anything about it. He saw the man burning his papers and walked up to him until he was right behind him. Looking over the mans shoulder, he watched for a moment as the paper disappeared into flame.
The children were playing on the green, about ten of them had gathered and were engaged in a game of tag. The old woman looked on still in awe at a Childs ability to recover from traumatic events. The ambulance had left just ten minutes ago but already the children had returned to the same state as they were before the accident. Without thinking she knelt down and picked up the baseball which was at her feet and walked back into her house to finish her dinner. As she walked into the kitchen she thought she smelt something but put it down to her imagination. Once she finished eating she put her left overs in the bin outside. It was then she discovered the baseball she had put in her pocket, she stared at it for a moment before she threw it over her fence into the neighbors bin. She lit her cigarette and walked back into her house. The resulting explosion caused by the gas leek being lit by her cigarette rocked the whole neighborhood.
Charlie was always alone. Being the smallest and youngest kid in the neighborhood he always felt the other kids picked on him. They would call him names and throw things at him, sometimes he wished he was dead. That would show them, they would be sorry they were so mean to him then. At this moment he was standing alone in the shade of a tree near the road. As he watched the other children play he began to cry, even the new kid in the neighborhood had been allowed to play there game. The new kid was the son of a local baseball hero and all of the kids wanted to play with him. They had started a game of baseball and had picked two teams but told Charlie he was too small to play. As he watched them play the baseball was hit out of the green and rolled out onto the road near Charlie. Seeing his chance Charlie rushed out to pickup the baseball. As his hand grasped the ball he looked up to see a man in black standing on the side of the road directly in front of him, where no one had stood seconds before. Charlie froze as he looked at this man and then something hit him from his left. Charlie’s body flew through the air and his last though was that perhaps now that he had gotten the ball the other kids would let him play. As the bus skidded to a halt one of it passengers began to scream.
Being new in town sucked but when you were the son of a sports star you had to learn to make friends fast. His father was always changing teams or moving into a new rented house. This was the latest in a long line of teams who had bought his fathers ability but this could be the last. His father had been playing bad for the past few months and this was the only pro team who were still interested in him. The kid walked into his father’s room, picked up the baseball from his father’s bed and went out to meet the local kids. He failed to notice through the half open bathroom door, his father’s lifeless body hanging from the light switch.
THUMP. The man who had been burning papers snapped back to reality as he heard the sound. Looking down he saw a baseball had fallen into the flames. He stared at it for a moment as it began to unravel in the heat and wondered at the events that had led to this ball being left in his bin. As the ball burned the man in black shrank back in to the shadows from where he had come.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
The Process
Posts are transcribed predominantly from the frontal lobe area of my brain onto feint ruled A4 size paper, using a black “Imperial” Conway Stewart ballpoint pen, sometime between the hours of two and five a.m.The paper is carefully torn from a brown Cartier Refill Pad which originally contained eighty leaves. However, at present only thirty-four feint ruled leaves remain. Each page or leaf has a thin, royal red margin.
Next the finished handwritten script is sent away to be typed up by a dedicated team of criminals and degenerates, while they await execution for the diabolical crime of original thought. A crime, which in many instances they are innocent of.
When the typing process is completed and the post is published on the site “Retard Vegas”, the handwritten copy is shredded using a Hewlett Packard 3300C ShredJet. This data is then separated into the lovely consonants that we all know and love, and the evil vowels which decent society loathes.
First, the horrible vowels are cast haphazardly into the core of a nuclear reactor along with the afters of a gypsy wedding.
Then, the wholesome consonants are carefully inserted into a particle accelerator where they collide at high speeds with other consonants causing them to fuse together, ultimately creating new words. This process is particularly significant as it allows the formation of words without resorting to the use those of backstabbing vowels.
However, the high-speed collisions produced in the particle accelerator can occasionally cause the consonants to become unstuck in time, so to speak.
Unfortunately for everyone, these dissident consonants are usually deposited somewhere between 40 and 200 B.C., where they are used as the literary source for the Bible of St. Paul.
The Author fervently regrets this unfortunate side effect of the Blogging Process and wishes to express his deepest sympathy to anyone who has suffered at the elongated and freakish hands of boredom.
Next the finished handwritten script is sent away to be typed up by a dedicated team of criminals and degenerates, while they await execution for the diabolical crime of original thought. A crime, which in many instances they are innocent of.
When the typing process is completed and the post is published on the site “Retard Vegas”, the handwritten copy is shredded using a Hewlett Packard 3300C ShredJet. This data is then separated into the lovely consonants that we all know and love, and the evil vowels which decent society loathes.
First, the horrible vowels are cast haphazardly into the core of a nuclear reactor along with the afters of a gypsy wedding.
Then, the wholesome consonants are carefully inserted into a particle accelerator where they collide at high speeds with other consonants causing them to fuse together, ultimately creating new words. This process is particularly significant as it allows the formation of words without resorting to the use those of backstabbing vowels.
However, the high-speed collisions produced in the particle accelerator can occasionally cause the consonants to become unstuck in time, so to speak.
Unfortunately for everyone, these dissident consonants are usually deposited somewhere between 40 and 200 B.C., where they are used as the literary source for the Bible of St. Paul.
The Author fervently regrets this unfortunate side effect of the Blogging Process and wishes to express his deepest sympathy to anyone who has suffered at the elongated and freakish hands of boredom.
A Head in Crisis
In the wet town dry mouths scream for water.
Rampaging rape mobs stampede to earthy ecstasy as death squads stalk the ravaged rooftops, snatching military choppers out of the air like butterflies. The liquid death of the streets turned mosquito rivers; greet those attempting to escape the city’s escalating lawlessness.
It is something resembling day. A balding captain and a hairy young man are moving through the chin deep flood mire, approaching each other from opposite sides of what was at some point in time a street. After an indeterminate lapse of time the two men draw level, or should I say their heads draw level, for that is all of both men that is visible.
A third man sitting on the balcony of a fourth story apartment eating breakfast, is struck by the similarity between the scene before him and a dream he had two nights previously, involving talking heads, a horse and a monkey. Having monitored their slow progress through the floodwater, he now observes the heads as they begin to talk.
Captain: Hey Beardo! Did you forget to shave this morning soldier?
Beardo (laughing nervously): Oh no I’m not in the army, I’m a reporter actually, for the Limerick Leader. It’s a newspaper in Ireland.
Captain: Don’t you know me soldier?
Beardo: No.
Captain: Where’s the rest of the division? You know I don’t believe you when you say that you don’t recognize me. You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar when I found you! I made you what you are now; I turned you into someone new. Five years later on you’ve got the world at your feet; success has been so easy for you!
Beardo: What the hell are you talking about you bloody mentalist?
Captain: The Division of Joy, soldier.
Beardo: I have no idea what that is.
Just then the head of the Beardo heard a sound that can only be described as the noise a gun makes when it is cocked under water. This alarmed the Beard, as he was familiar with such a sound, having cocked under water himself several times in his secret past.
Beardo: Take it easy man! Drop the gun!
Captain (raising the gun to his head): Love, love will tear us apart.
Beardo (Screams): No!
But the Captain’s head did not hear the Beard because it had a large bullet hole in it. The dead head sank beneath the oily surface and the Beard began to cry for a bit because no matter how much he hated the Captain for taking away his childhood, he still loved him for rescuing him from the cut throat world of waitressing, giving him a home in the religious/ military sect known as “The Division of Joy”, and ultimately taking him to the pinnacle of natural disaster journalism. And the Beard was silent for a time.
Meanwhile, it was all going to plan for the man on the balcony. Having finished his breakfast, he was meditating on the power of dreams and how they are really a form of time travel, as a horse with a monkey on it’s back, came swimming merrily down the street. Both (living) human heads looked on in amazement and both were equally touched inside, though in different places, by this fantastic, horse/ monkey combo.
“Pride is the real enemy, not the Black Panthers”, pondered the Beard as he moved off in the direction of the east, a head in crisis, not really knowing where he was going or what lay in store for him but inconsequentially getting closer to Mecca, among other things.
Rampaging rape mobs stampede to earthy ecstasy as death squads stalk the ravaged rooftops, snatching military choppers out of the air like butterflies. The liquid death of the streets turned mosquito rivers; greet those attempting to escape the city’s escalating lawlessness.
It is something resembling day. A balding captain and a hairy young man are moving through the chin deep flood mire, approaching each other from opposite sides of what was at some point in time a street. After an indeterminate lapse of time the two men draw level, or should I say their heads draw level, for that is all of both men that is visible.
A third man sitting on the balcony of a fourth story apartment eating breakfast, is struck by the similarity between the scene before him and a dream he had two nights previously, involving talking heads, a horse and a monkey. Having monitored their slow progress through the floodwater, he now observes the heads as they begin to talk.
Captain: Hey Beardo! Did you forget to shave this morning soldier?
Beardo (laughing nervously): Oh no I’m not in the army, I’m a reporter actually, for the Limerick Leader. It’s a newspaper in Ireland.
Captain: Don’t you know me soldier?
Beardo: No.
Captain: Where’s the rest of the division? You know I don’t believe you when you say that you don’t recognize me. You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar when I found you! I made you what you are now; I turned you into someone new. Five years later on you’ve got the world at your feet; success has been so easy for you!
Beardo: What the hell are you talking about you bloody mentalist?
Captain: The Division of Joy, soldier.
Beardo: I have no idea what that is.
Just then the head of the Beardo heard a sound that can only be described as the noise a gun makes when it is cocked under water. This alarmed the Beard, as he was familiar with such a sound, having cocked under water himself several times in his secret past.
Beardo: Take it easy man! Drop the gun!
Captain (raising the gun to his head): Love, love will tear us apart.
Beardo (Screams): No!
But the Captain’s head did not hear the Beard because it had a large bullet hole in it. The dead head sank beneath the oily surface and the Beard began to cry for a bit because no matter how much he hated the Captain for taking away his childhood, he still loved him for rescuing him from the cut throat world of waitressing, giving him a home in the religious/ military sect known as “The Division of Joy”, and ultimately taking him to the pinnacle of natural disaster journalism. And the Beard was silent for a time.
Meanwhile, it was all going to plan for the man on the balcony. Having finished his breakfast, he was meditating on the power of dreams and how they are really a form of time travel, as a horse with a monkey on it’s back, came swimming merrily down the street. Both (living) human heads looked on in amazement and both were equally touched inside, though in different places, by this fantastic, horse/ monkey combo.
“Pride is the real enemy, not the Black Panthers”, pondered the Beard as he moved off in the direction of the east, a head in crisis, not really knowing where he was going or what lay in store for him but inconsequentially getting closer to Mecca, among other things.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
The Closet
When I got to the house it was already engulfed in flames. I knew that Jack was still inside and rushed through the front door. As the flames licked the sky I searched for my friend. I knew where he would be and when I burst into his bedroom I saw him lying on the floor in front of his closet. I dragged him out into the cool night air and checked if he was still breathing. To my relief he was and I lay on the ground beside him. I looked up at the clear night sky, listening to the approaching sirens and tried to figure out the circumstances that had led me to this.
I had been sitting at home half asleep when the phone rang. Answering it I heard the panicked voice of my friend Jack muttering incomprehensibly into the phone.
"Calm down, Calm down" I said suddenly awake.
"Its true, it’s all true. I always knew some thing but not his I... can’t... don’t understand," he stuttered. “The closet, it’s the closet I told you about it. I knew it"
In my mind images, situations and the edges of conversation flickered into thought. Stories he had told me of sleepless nights feelings of dread and foreboding all because of his closet. As a child he had thought it haunted as, a teenager it haunted his dreams to this day he said he couldn’t go near it with out feeling like some one was watching him.
"What about the closet Jack. I don’t understand, what happened?" I said my mind still racing with images of disaster.
"We were doing renovations on the house and we were knocking through my closet as usual the builders were about three weeks late. I was outside when the builder came to get me. They had knocked through the wall of the closet but had not gotten straight into the bathroom as they had expected but had found a space of about two foot. The only thing that was in this space was an old chair. I ran inside to see this but when I got to my room and looked into the closet I collapsed on the floor.
In my mind ...at least I think it was in my mind I woke up on a mud path. As I got up and look around I saw I stood in an old fashioned village with a wooden wall round it. The main gate was open and a cart was coming through. I saw people talking but although there mouths moved I couldn’t hear anything. I noticed people began turning towards the gate and move away. As I turned to where they were looking I saw men streaming through the gate swords held high cutting through men, women and children. I was routed to the ground I stood transfixed as the slaughter enfolded before me. I soon noticed one figure in black more cruel than the rest. Although his back was to me I could see he twisted his sword as he pulled it from the dead and his body shook as if he laughed. I approached him and was right behind him when he turned. I couldn’t see his face as a mask covered it. No sooner had he turned than I collapsed once more.
I awoke this time on a wooden floor I got up and walked towards a door which opened into a dinning hall. From the clothes and physical appearance of the people I knew that this was a soup kitchen which was used in the famine. The mainly women and children who crashed past me had looks of dread on there faces. Bodies of dead children lay all over the place and again the man in black was weigh ding through them again with his back to me. I knew it was the same person and ran towards him, once more he turned to face me and I collapsed.
I awoke in a garden in front of my house but something was different. The car in the drive way looked like it belonged in the 40's. I immediately ran to the front door and tried to warn who ever was inside of this maniac I banged on the door and when no one answered I tried to look in the window. I saw movement and was filled with dread. I kicked the front door in and saw the first body, as I walked through the house I found two dead adults and the bodies of three young children. Before I entered my room I knew what I would find, as I walked in I immediately looked at the figure in black sitting in my closet on the chair. Although his face was masked I could feel his hatred as he stared at me and I collapsed.
When I awoke the builders said I had only been out for a few moments. I sent them home and have been trying to figure out what had happened ever since." He droned out to me as if he was watching the scenes unfold in his mind.
"Well did he look familiar? Did you know him? Was there anything familiar about him" I said slightly panicked.
Only silence answered my questions. I knew something was wrong as I rushed over.
Now lying on the grass I couldn’t figure out what had happened to him. The sirens were only moments away and I prayed they would speed up.
Jack suddenly coughed and leapt up.
"NO....." he screamed.
I stepped towards him to try to calm him down but he continued to scream.
"YOU DONT UNDERSTAND" he screamed looking around" HIS FACE, THE MASKED FACE. I SAW WHAT HE LOOKED LIKE" He grabbed me so hard I wince and he presses his face close to mine.
"It was the face of my grandfather...............MY FACE."
He turned and ran into the burning building. I stood stunned as the police and fire brigade rushed around me shouting and pushing me. As the roof of Jack Egan’s house caved in I collapsed.
I had been sitting at home half asleep when the phone rang. Answering it I heard the panicked voice of my friend Jack muttering incomprehensibly into the phone.
"Calm down, Calm down" I said suddenly awake.
"Its true, it’s all true. I always knew some thing but not his I... can’t... don’t understand," he stuttered. “The closet, it’s the closet I told you about it. I knew it"
In my mind images, situations and the edges of conversation flickered into thought. Stories he had told me of sleepless nights feelings of dread and foreboding all because of his closet. As a child he had thought it haunted as, a teenager it haunted his dreams to this day he said he couldn’t go near it with out feeling like some one was watching him.
"What about the closet Jack. I don’t understand, what happened?" I said my mind still racing with images of disaster.
"We were doing renovations on the house and we were knocking through my closet as usual the builders were about three weeks late. I was outside when the builder came to get me. They had knocked through the wall of the closet but had not gotten straight into the bathroom as they had expected but had found a space of about two foot. The only thing that was in this space was an old chair. I ran inside to see this but when I got to my room and looked into the closet I collapsed on the floor.
In my mind ...at least I think it was in my mind I woke up on a mud path. As I got up and look around I saw I stood in an old fashioned village with a wooden wall round it. The main gate was open and a cart was coming through. I saw people talking but although there mouths moved I couldn’t hear anything. I noticed people began turning towards the gate and move away. As I turned to where they were looking I saw men streaming through the gate swords held high cutting through men, women and children. I was routed to the ground I stood transfixed as the slaughter enfolded before me. I soon noticed one figure in black more cruel than the rest. Although his back was to me I could see he twisted his sword as he pulled it from the dead and his body shook as if he laughed. I approached him and was right behind him when he turned. I couldn’t see his face as a mask covered it. No sooner had he turned than I collapsed once more.
I awoke this time on a wooden floor I got up and walked towards a door which opened into a dinning hall. From the clothes and physical appearance of the people I knew that this was a soup kitchen which was used in the famine. The mainly women and children who crashed past me had looks of dread on there faces. Bodies of dead children lay all over the place and again the man in black was weigh ding through them again with his back to me. I knew it was the same person and ran towards him, once more he turned to face me and I collapsed.
I awoke in a garden in front of my house but something was different. The car in the drive way looked like it belonged in the 40's. I immediately ran to the front door and tried to warn who ever was inside of this maniac I banged on the door and when no one answered I tried to look in the window. I saw movement and was filled with dread. I kicked the front door in and saw the first body, as I walked through the house I found two dead adults and the bodies of three young children. Before I entered my room I knew what I would find, as I walked in I immediately looked at the figure in black sitting in my closet on the chair. Although his face was masked I could feel his hatred as he stared at me and I collapsed.
When I awoke the builders said I had only been out for a few moments. I sent them home and have been trying to figure out what had happened ever since." He droned out to me as if he was watching the scenes unfold in his mind.
"Well did he look familiar? Did you know him? Was there anything familiar about him" I said slightly panicked.
Only silence answered my questions. I knew something was wrong as I rushed over.
Now lying on the grass I couldn’t figure out what had happened to him. The sirens were only moments away and I prayed they would speed up.
Jack suddenly coughed and leapt up.
"NO....." he screamed.
I stepped towards him to try to calm him down but he continued to scream.
"YOU DONT UNDERSTAND" he screamed looking around" HIS FACE, THE MASKED FACE. I SAW WHAT HE LOOKED LIKE" He grabbed me so hard I wince and he presses his face close to mine.
"It was the face of my grandfather...............MY FACE."
He turned and ran into the burning building. I stood stunned as the police and fire brigade rushed around me shouting and pushing me. As the roof of Jack Egan’s house caved in I collapsed.
Monday, August 29, 2005
"Coal as Ice"
"Actually, people don't have philosophies per say, they have personal truths," spewed Vincinzo Coal as he stood in line for the butchers counter at his local supermarket. "When you hear, 'that’s my philosophy,' what you’re actually hearing is, 'that’s a justification for my personal truth. 'My way of explaining the mess that is my life.' It isn't that people spend time meditating, come to some big metaphysical conclusion and developed their existence around that idea. No, people look a their lives, at their faults and weaknesses, then evolve an idea that will suit and complement it. So they don't look so stupid. Well, at least that’s my philosophy."
These words were spoken to a random old hag, who's brain was as shriveled as her nipples. "He'll eat carrots," she mumbled. "He'll eat garden peas," she drooled. "He'll eat broccoli," she mentalised. "Cauliflower, he'll eat that."
Coal cared not for the otherworldly ramblings of the witch, using her to direct his conversation to the tall blonde who was deciding which part of the inside of a dead animal would looking pleasing on her dinner plate.
Like many drones, Vincinzo Coal didn't have much time for original thought. But according to last month’s issue of the refined man's cum-book Esquire, the intellectual image appealed to women. Delicious scoops of thought, swirls of sticky musings, topped with crunchy nuggets of the mind. A cornetto of mental passion to wet even the driest of panties. Thanks to passages he memorised from the best selling Dan Browne novel, "Success is Not Being Yourself," he was now armed with a silo of intelligent comments.
"Hi," said the blonde. "I couldn't help but overhear what you said, what with you shouting and all. Are you a professor or something?" "No," laughed Coal as modestly as he could pretend, never having felt that particular trait, "I'm just a simple thought merchant unwrapping the delicate nuances of the world around me. My name is Vincinzo Coal."
"You look familiar Vincinzo Coal," she said touching his arm slightly. Coal was aware that this meant one of two things. For most women, this tactile maneuver was a sign of sexual interest, a twirl of the flirting dance. For others however, this was part of an insecurity that required them to have the attention of anything with a Y chromosome in touching distance without any actual attraction involved.
Rich man's paper vagina, Esquire magazine insisted that these cock wrestlers had a purpose. Friends could easily be convinced that the lady lightly brushing your shoulder with her hand was also shampooing your crotch with her mouth. Either way, I end up looking good, thought Vincinzo.
"Now where would I have seen you before?” "Perhaps you saw the pilot TV show I made last year. It was called The Naked Carpenter. I call round to a celebrities house, shoot the shit, an interview of sorts, real casual though. Then I'd stay for a few days, hang a door upside down, charge them a grand and leave. It was a very exciting format."
"Oh my God, you were on television. That is amazing."
"Well, no, it never aired. The suits had issues with the cutting edge nature of it. And they thought the title was misleading."
"You were fully clothed then."
"Oh no," said Vincinzo, "I was naked."
"Can I help you?" interrupted the saggy-bodied meat slave. Vincinzo would have read price list, but his lips were already tired from sliming to his potential trophy lay. Mentally referring to successful players jacking in the box publication Esquire magazines article on how to impress at the butchers or fish market, Vincinzo scratched his chin idly in the way he had practiced often.
"I'll have some steak," he said casually.
"Some steak?"
"Yeah, some steak."
The meat boy shrugged his shoulders displaying the universal sign of indifference.
"Aren't you going to ask me how much steak I want?" The board was set, the pieces in play.
Mouth open, eyes vacant, the meat zombie did as commanded.
"How much steak do you want?"
Checkmate thought Vincinzo and he threw a small grin in the direction of the breasts that he had been talking at before returning his gaze to the spot bag treasurer of the meat.
"All of it," he said.
"All of it?"
"You heard me," said Coal soaking in the glory.
"Would you like to get a coffee Vincinzo, talk a bit more about the world," said the teeth, tits and tan.
"I'd rather have something to eat," subtly suggested Vincinzo while staring intently at the entrance to her womb. "I'm supposed to be knocking at a wall at the old Egan place, but I'm already..." Vincinzo flicked his wrist, exposing a limited edition IWC Prada timepiece... "three weeks late, so I don't think it will be an issue."
"Are you sure you won't get in trouble for not being on time?" Coal exhaled the air in his lungs reserved for blowing off silly comments. "What you have to understand," he said, " is that Nail and Wood Relocation experts like myself measure time in a abstract fashion, like how long has elapsed between the moment you realise that someone you love has lost all respect for you and the moment you realise that you just don't care." Wealthy socialite hand jazz magazine Esquire, issue 147. "Its a different experience for everyone."
The blonde beauty, who at the tender age of nineteen mistook a miscarriage for a heavy period stood in shock. "I've never met anyone like you before. Who are you Vincinzo Coal?"
Life is full of strange contradictions. Why is that when we are young our parents teach us of death and the dangers of the world but never warn us of the pain of loving someone with all our hearts who will never feel the same in return. Or why it is that the most honest answer is always the most shameful.
"I'm unique," he said finally. The truth whispered in his mind.
"I don't know."
"I don't know."
"I don't know."
These words were spoken to a random old hag, who's brain was as shriveled as her nipples. "He'll eat carrots," she mumbled. "He'll eat garden peas," she drooled. "He'll eat broccoli," she mentalised. "Cauliflower, he'll eat that."
Coal cared not for the otherworldly ramblings of the witch, using her to direct his conversation to the tall blonde who was deciding which part of the inside of a dead animal would looking pleasing on her dinner plate.
Like many drones, Vincinzo Coal didn't have much time for original thought. But according to last month’s issue of the refined man's cum-book Esquire, the intellectual image appealed to women. Delicious scoops of thought, swirls of sticky musings, topped with crunchy nuggets of the mind. A cornetto of mental passion to wet even the driest of panties. Thanks to passages he memorised from the best selling Dan Browne novel, "Success is Not Being Yourself," he was now armed with a silo of intelligent comments.
"Hi," said the blonde. "I couldn't help but overhear what you said, what with you shouting and all. Are you a professor or something?" "No," laughed Coal as modestly as he could pretend, never having felt that particular trait, "I'm just a simple thought merchant unwrapping the delicate nuances of the world around me. My name is Vincinzo Coal."
"You look familiar Vincinzo Coal," she said touching his arm slightly. Coal was aware that this meant one of two things. For most women, this tactile maneuver was a sign of sexual interest, a twirl of the flirting dance. For others however, this was part of an insecurity that required them to have the attention of anything with a Y chromosome in touching distance without any actual attraction involved.
Rich man's paper vagina, Esquire magazine insisted that these cock wrestlers had a purpose. Friends could easily be convinced that the lady lightly brushing your shoulder with her hand was also shampooing your crotch with her mouth. Either way, I end up looking good, thought Vincinzo.
"Now where would I have seen you before?” "Perhaps you saw the pilot TV show I made last year. It was called The Naked Carpenter. I call round to a celebrities house, shoot the shit, an interview of sorts, real casual though. Then I'd stay for a few days, hang a door upside down, charge them a grand and leave. It was a very exciting format."
"Oh my God, you were on television. That is amazing."
"Well, no, it never aired. The suits had issues with the cutting edge nature of it. And they thought the title was misleading."
"You were fully clothed then."
"Oh no," said Vincinzo, "I was naked."
"Can I help you?" interrupted the saggy-bodied meat slave. Vincinzo would have read price list, but his lips were already tired from sliming to his potential trophy lay. Mentally referring to successful players jacking in the box publication Esquire magazines article on how to impress at the butchers or fish market, Vincinzo scratched his chin idly in the way he had practiced often.
"I'll have some steak," he said casually.
"Some steak?"
"Yeah, some steak."
The meat boy shrugged his shoulders displaying the universal sign of indifference.
"Aren't you going to ask me how much steak I want?" The board was set, the pieces in play.
Mouth open, eyes vacant, the meat zombie did as commanded.
"How much steak do you want?"
Checkmate thought Vincinzo and he threw a small grin in the direction of the breasts that he had been talking at before returning his gaze to the spot bag treasurer of the meat.
"All of it," he said.
"All of it?"
"You heard me," said Coal soaking in the glory.
"Would you like to get a coffee Vincinzo, talk a bit more about the world," said the teeth, tits and tan.
"I'd rather have something to eat," subtly suggested Vincinzo while staring intently at the entrance to her womb. "I'm supposed to be knocking at a wall at the old Egan place, but I'm already..." Vincinzo flicked his wrist, exposing a limited edition IWC Prada timepiece... "three weeks late, so I don't think it will be an issue."
"Are you sure you won't get in trouble for not being on time?" Coal exhaled the air in his lungs reserved for blowing off silly comments. "What you have to understand," he said, " is that Nail and Wood Relocation experts like myself measure time in a abstract fashion, like how long has elapsed between the moment you realise that someone you love has lost all respect for you and the moment you realise that you just don't care." Wealthy socialite hand jazz magazine Esquire, issue 147. "Its a different experience for everyone."
The blonde beauty, who at the tender age of nineteen mistook a miscarriage for a heavy period stood in shock. "I've never met anyone like you before. Who are you Vincinzo Coal?"
Life is full of strange contradictions. Why is that when we are young our parents teach us of death and the dangers of the world but never warn us of the pain of loving someone with all our hearts who will never feel the same in return. Or why it is that the most honest answer is always the most shameful.
"I'm unique," he said finally. The truth whispered in his mind.
"I don't know."
"I don't know."
"I don't know."
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Beneath the Great Donut
Everyone gathered agreed it was a lovely night for a human sacrifice to an unholy idol but no unfortunately the mansion was struck twenty five times by lighting.
Astonish!
It must be “divine intervention,” said a local pedophile. The man who was the butler Egan lived but everyone else perished painfully in the fire and everything was burned except a chair. Remarkable!
The chair was the Min Gate of course, so you could go from this world to the next in like ten seconds by sitting on it. He made a deal with the devil no less, the man called Min who built the chair long ago so he could be immortal and escape the lake of fire if he did the devil’s bidding, which made him pure powerful and a right bastard. But the devil must have tricked him cause he died after a while. In the ashes Egan saw one person badly burned who was moving and might have been still alive but he took the chair instead. Why?
The sounds of the dead was what Egan heard when he placed the chair on the Altar Stone in the forest. Then footsteps after the howls got louder and stopped. They had him surrouned!OH NO!
AND ON TO THE CHAIR HE MUST NOW JUMP TO ESCAPE!
So he fell through space and a great donut to the outskirts of hell. He looked down from a cliff at the sea of woe where the dead floated whom the devil had tricked and he saw his old master without immortality. They floated face down for eternity! And it was freezing with sharp rocks that they sometimes hit off. Inland is the lake of fire with the bad guys without deals where he meets the devil.
So which was it to be? The fire or the freezing with the sharp rocks?
Of course he said I’ll think about it for five seconds.
And yes he went for the sea of woe and in no time at all he was back on earth to do the devil’s work.
But what happened the chair?
Well you could say he bricked up the chair in his new house where no one would find it but probably his unborn grandson.
But that would be telling.
Astonish!
It must be “divine intervention,” said a local pedophile. The man who was the butler Egan lived but everyone else perished painfully in the fire and everything was burned except a chair. Remarkable!
The chair was the Min Gate of course, so you could go from this world to the next in like ten seconds by sitting on it. He made a deal with the devil no less, the man called Min who built the chair long ago so he could be immortal and escape the lake of fire if he did the devil’s bidding, which made him pure powerful and a right bastard. But the devil must have tricked him cause he died after a while. In the ashes Egan saw one person badly burned who was moving and might have been still alive but he took the chair instead. Why?
The sounds of the dead was what Egan heard when he placed the chair on the Altar Stone in the forest. Then footsteps after the howls got louder and stopped. They had him surrouned!OH NO!
AND ON TO THE CHAIR HE MUST NOW JUMP TO ESCAPE!
So he fell through space and a great donut to the outskirts of hell. He looked down from a cliff at the sea of woe where the dead floated whom the devil had tricked and he saw his old master without immortality. They floated face down for eternity! And it was freezing with sharp rocks that they sometimes hit off. Inland is the lake of fire with the bad guys without deals where he meets the devil.
So which was it to be? The fire or the freezing with the sharp rocks?
Of course he said I’ll think about it for five seconds.
And yes he went for the sea of woe and in no time at all he was back on earth to do the devil’s work.
But what happened the chair?
Well you could say he bricked up the chair in his new house where no one would find it but probably his unborn grandson.
But that would be telling.
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