Saturday, July 07, 2007
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Rabid Elephants II
I watch my contacts facial expression change from shock to disgust as he drinks his first mouthful of beer. For a moment it looks like he is going to spit it out but he manages to swallow and then pushing the glass a little further from himself, he turns to me.
“So, how’s your end going to come?”
This is it, the question which has replaced nice to meet you or how are you. One of the many questions in this world of paranoia and fear which I hate to hear. I will answer that I don’t know, he will call me crazy for not finding out, start shouting that it could happen at any minute and say that he doesn’t want to hang around to find out. But I need this job so I think back to something the barman said earlier turn to him and say.
“Rabid Elephants. How about you?”
“Shit, what’s the chance of meeting a rabid elephant. Still I’d stay away from the peanuts if I was you. Mine is ‘Birds’. Can you believe that shit, at any time a fuckin blue tit could fly into my eye and that’s it game over. I’m Bob by the way John said you were alright but the real test was how you were going to die. Looks like you’re in.”
John was the mutual friend who had set up this meeting, he was a good guy but spent a bit too much time hanging around with the wrong people. He had shown me a picture of my contact and given me the name of the bar in which I was now sitting.
“What do you mean ‘the real test was how you were going to die’?” I ask relieved that it seem like I had the job but not sure why.
“Well your part of the job is mainly lookout which means almost anyone can do it but we want to make sure the way you died is not some thing which is too closely linked to someone else’s or with the job. Like if you had said ‘shiny objects’ then me and you could have been killed by magpies. Or because some of the job is under ground if you had said ‘cave in’ there’s no way you were coming.”
“Ok so what’s the job?” I ask, feeling a little guilty that for all I know ‘talking to Bob’ is how it will end for me.
“You’ll be filled in later. Here is the address, be there at 12 midnight tomorrow and make sure your on time.”
“Relax,” I say “I’m never late.”
12.15, I arrive at the address given to me. I had stopped at a bar on the way over for some Dutch courage but unfortunately they only served Russian courage. So 8 vodka’s later I was a little unsteady on my feet but ready for what ever job I was about to get. I had heard an odd story while drinking my vodka apparently the owner of the bar I was in yesterday had died in a fire.
‘Well,’ I thought, ‘I guess the machine is not always right. And I guess my new friend Bob can stop worrying that some day he will be walking down a dark alley when big bird and his mates will appear and beat him to death.’
I walk through the open door of the abandoned building and immediately saw Bob standing beside a table in the middle of the room. He was looking into the corner rafters of the warehouse. No doubt searching for the birds which would one day be the death of him.
“Your late!” he said without taking his eyes off the rafters.
“Traffic” I said.
I noticed a second man who had entered the building from another door.
“What traffic?” said the second man, “The reason we picked this place was to be as far from other people as possible.”
“Ya well I expected there would be traffic and over compensated.”
The second man just stood there staring at me.
“R-I-G-H-T. Anyway I’m here now so let’s get this over with.” I said a little unnerved by the fact that a complete stranger was standing in front of me staring at me without saying anything.
“Bob, what the fuck is this? What were you thinking bringing this jack ass in on this job?” said the second man to Bob.
“Rabid Elephants, Steve, Rabid elephants. He is just another insurance policy.” Said Bob turning his attention from the corner and on to me for the first time.
“I’d rather act like a jack ass than look like one Steve.” I said looking at the man who Bob had referred to as Steve.
Steve ignored this and turned back to Bob.
“How many of these clowns do we need? Isn’t Alan enough? Do I really need to put up with this shit too?”
“When you’re doing a bank job and the way you die is ‘dynamite’ you need all the help you can get.” Said Bob who picked something up from the table and walked towards me.
“So…. We’re doing a bank job then?” I asked still feeling the effects of the vodka.
“‘WE,’ aren’t doing shit. Bob and I are doing a bank Job you and that other shit are just watching. Where the hell is he anyway.”
“He’ll meet us there with the plastic explosive, don’t worry.” Said Bob who was now standing in front of me.
"Did you hear that bar man from last night died in a fire?"
"Ya" I said "I guess the machine can get it wrong sometimes."
"What are you talking about he was pissed off his skull and fell asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand. Its amazing how that idiot stayed alive as long as he did. Imagine owning a bar when alcohol was how you die. Here.” He said handing me a hand gun.
“I thought I was on look out?” I said checking if the gun was real.
“You are” Bob said with a smile on his face, “and if you see anyone while you are looking out, shoot them in the head. Now get in the car we are ready to go.”
“As long as he doesn’t shoot himself in the foot first.” Said Steve as he got into the drivers seat.
“So, how’s your end going to come?”
This is it, the question which has replaced nice to meet you or how are you. One of the many questions in this world of paranoia and fear which I hate to hear. I will answer that I don’t know, he will call me crazy for not finding out, start shouting that it could happen at any minute and say that he doesn’t want to hang around to find out. But I need this job so I think back to something the barman said earlier turn to him and say.
“Rabid Elephants. How about you?”
“Shit, what’s the chance of meeting a rabid elephant. Still I’d stay away from the peanuts if I was you. Mine is ‘Birds’. Can you believe that shit, at any time a fuckin blue tit could fly into my eye and that’s it game over. I’m Bob by the way John said you were alright but the real test was how you were going to die. Looks like you’re in.”
John was the mutual friend who had set up this meeting, he was a good guy but spent a bit too much time hanging around with the wrong people. He had shown me a picture of my contact and given me the name of the bar in which I was now sitting.
“What do you mean ‘the real test was how you were going to die’?” I ask relieved that it seem like I had the job but not sure why.
“Well your part of the job is mainly lookout which means almost anyone can do it but we want to make sure the way you died is not some thing which is too closely linked to someone else’s or with the job. Like if you had said ‘shiny objects’ then me and you could have been killed by magpies. Or because some of the job is under ground if you had said ‘cave in’ there’s no way you were coming.”
“Ok so what’s the job?” I ask, feeling a little guilty that for all I know ‘talking to Bob’ is how it will end for me.
“You’ll be filled in later. Here is the address, be there at 12 midnight tomorrow and make sure your on time.”
“Relax,” I say “I’m never late.”
12.15, I arrive at the address given to me. I had stopped at a bar on the way over for some Dutch courage but unfortunately they only served Russian courage. So 8 vodka’s later I was a little unsteady on my feet but ready for what ever job I was about to get. I had heard an odd story while drinking my vodka apparently the owner of the bar I was in yesterday had died in a fire.
‘Well,’ I thought, ‘I guess the machine is not always right. And I guess my new friend Bob can stop worrying that some day he will be walking down a dark alley when big bird and his mates will appear and beat him to death.’
I walk through the open door of the abandoned building and immediately saw Bob standing beside a table in the middle of the room. He was looking into the corner rafters of the warehouse. No doubt searching for the birds which would one day be the death of him.
“Your late!” he said without taking his eyes off the rafters.
“Traffic” I said.
I noticed a second man who had entered the building from another door.
“What traffic?” said the second man, “The reason we picked this place was to be as far from other people as possible.”
“Ya well I expected there would be traffic and over compensated.”
The second man just stood there staring at me.
“R-I-G-H-T. Anyway I’m here now so let’s get this over with.” I said a little unnerved by the fact that a complete stranger was standing in front of me staring at me without saying anything.
“Bob, what the fuck is this? What were you thinking bringing this jack ass in on this job?” said the second man to Bob.
“Rabid Elephants, Steve, Rabid elephants. He is just another insurance policy.” Said Bob turning his attention from the corner and on to me for the first time.
“I’d rather act like a jack ass than look like one Steve.” I said looking at the man who Bob had referred to as Steve.
Steve ignored this and turned back to Bob.
“How many of these clowns do we need? Isn’t Alan enough? Do I really need to put up with this shit too?”
“When you’re doing a bank job and the way you die is ‘dynamite’ you need all the help you can get.” Said Bob who picked something up from the table and walked towards me.
“So…. We’re doing a bank job then?” I asked still feeling the effects of the vodka.
“‘WE,’ aren’t doing shit. Bob and I are doing a bank Job you and that other shit are just watching. Where the hell is he anyway.”
“He’ll meet us there with the plastic explosive, don’t worry.” Said Bob who was now standing in front of me.
"Did you hear that bar man from last night died in a fire?"
"Ya" I said "I guess the machine can get it wrong sometimes."
"What are you talking about he was pissed off his skull and fell asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand. Its amazing how that idiot stayed alive as long as he did. Imagine owning a bar when alcohol was how you die. Here.” He said handing me a hand gun.
“I thought I was on look out?” I said checking if the gun was real.
“You are” Bob said with a smile on his face, “and if you see anyone while you are looking out, shoot them in the head. Now get in the car we are ready to go.”
“As long as he doesn’t shoot himself in the foot first.” Said Steve as he got into the drivers seat.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Cast Away
They have forgotten more than you know.
On Saturdays I take pieces of furniture from the house and place them in the fire. Chairs, coffee tables and picture frames. It’s hard to describe the pleasure I feel seeing them change shape and shrivel in the flames. It’s like a cold wind blowing through my soul. I’ve discovered that different materials produce different colored flames. Sometimes, I pour white spirits on the furniture as it burns, to increase the effect. Sometimes a small slow burn feels better.
Recently, the latisimuss dorsal muscles of my back have offended me. They seem to have forgotten their training. It is my opinion that my lats may have forgotten more than a man will know in his entire lifetime. I have placed my lats under investigation. My lats are the subject of an internal tribunal chaired by clever lats.The tribunal will come to a unanimous and overwhelming verdict. The muscles of my mid back will be found guilty of high treason. My lats shall be banished into exile and replaced through the miracle of lat transplant surgery.
I once had a dream that I was Tom Hank’s bicep muscles in the film Cast Away. At the start of the film I am neglected, ignored and overweight. After the plane crash, as Tom learns to survive through a number of trails and tribulations, I too wrestle with my demons, becoming stronger and more focused, ultimately making fire to burn the parts of my psyche I no longer need. Of all the bicep muscles that have appeared in Hollywood movies down through the years none have spoken to me with such honesty and dignity. They tell me things I never knew about myself. They show me how to forget myself. They show me how to remember what counts…………
How can you ask me now to surrender my spear and return to the world ……… you who have taught me how to kill for survival, how to hunt another living creature, how to defecate out of doorways!
The latisimuss dorsal muscles of the mid back have little or no memory of an empty house that was once inhabited by real people. No recollection of a bust up refrigerator resembling a Dadaist installation. They cannot recall that the refrigerator door has been ripped off its hinges and inserted in the wall space behind. They may choose to forget that the sides of the refrigerator have sustained a number of heavy blows from a blunt object. They may ask if a clear attempt has really been made to light a fire inside……… even though they were there.
I find it peculiar to think that Hanks had to resort to talking to a volley ball head instead of conversing with the living, intelligent muscles of his own body. Surely the pectoral muscles of the chest and the tricep and bicep muscles of the arm make the best companions. It could be argued that existence itself is nothing more than a continuous conversation between the brain and these muscle groups, the muscles effectively becoming an extension of our own personality and mental make up. The triceps, biceps and pecks have replaced the eyes as the real windows of the soul.
I believe my ex lats are living in the attic. I believe this because I can hear them watching Dr Phil on the old 15 inch television I put up there in a box last spring. There is no tv remote which means channels must be changed manually.
From a window in the attic, the lats look down on the roofs of the adjoining buildings. The sun is reflecting off roof tiles and aerial steel.
As they work the biceps try to compare things which are by their nature incomparable. The authorities warn against comparing things directly. The biceps recall a conversation they have heard or a piece of furniture they’ve seen or some idea that occurred to them sitting on the toilet at three in the morning.
The biceps don't watch TV in the traditional sense. It’s just another piece of furniture, another tool, muted sound and marginal awareness of moving pictures in the time between sets of preacher curls and press ups. The biceps are active, moving and alert. If they sit still they’ll fall into a deep sleep from which they’ll never punch their way out. They would forget what we have become together.
Forget what is unimportant
She had a small birth mark on her neck, beneath her left ear. We sat on a black leather couch watching wildlife documentaries and ultimate fighter. Her fingers were small and stumpy and she smelled like cigarettes .I tolerated her weaknesses. I tolerated her strengths. I was relieved when she left. Although I felt released, I wonder now what color flame she could have made in my fire.
In the evenings I rearrange at random the insides of my desktop computer. I don’t miss the internet. I usually just ended up on Amazon, looking up albums I will never buy. I liked reading the reviews that customers had written for the albums. I preferred reading the reviews than listening to the 30 second song samples. I preferred to hear about what the songs meant to total strangers than finding out if they could mean anything to me. Sometimes the reviewers told a story or anecdote about when they first heard a particular song or album. I liked those stories.
Live now, live at all costs
When your airplane crashes in the ocean it changes you mentally. Sometimes you die, other times you live, but no one survives the crash. No one’s mind escapes intact whether it’s a physical or mental crash. The smell of death stays with you. You wash your underwear but the smell is under your skin, in your brain.
In reality, there’s no way Hanks would have sought out his wife after he got off that island. He would have blanked her. He would have spat in her face. He would have gone home and gathered together his furniture. He would have made a fire.
On Saturdays I take pieces of furniture from the house and place them in the fire. Chairs, coffee tables and picture frames. It’s hard to describe the pleasure I feel seeing them change shape and shrivel in the flames. It’s like a cold wind blowing through my soul. I’ve discovered that different materials produce different colored flames. Sometimes, I pour white spirits on the furniture as it burns, to increase the effect. Sometimes a small slow burn feels better.
Recently, the latisimuss dorsal muscles of my back have offended me. They seem to have forgotten their training. It is my opinion that my lats may have forgotten more than a man will know in his entire lifetime. I have placed my lats under investigation. My lats are the subject of an internal tribunal chaired by clever lats.The tribunal will come to a unanimous and overwhelming verdict. The muscles of my mid back will be found guilty of high treason. My lats shall be banished into exile and replaced through the miracle of lat transplant surgery.
I once had a dream that I was Tom Hank’s bicep muscles in the film Cast Away. At the start of the film I am neglected, ignored and overweight. After the plane crash, as Tom learns to survive through a number of trails and tribulations, I too wrestle with my demons, becoming stronger and more focused, ultimately making fire to burn the parts of my psyche I no longer need. Of all the bicep muscles that have appeared in Hollywood movies down through the years none have spoken to me with such honesty and dignity. They tell me things I never knew about myself. They show me how to forget myself. They show me how to remember what counts…………
How can you ask me now to surrender my spear and return to the world ……… you who have taught me how to kill for survival, how to hunt another living creature, how to defecate out of doorways!
The latisimuss dorsal muscles of the mid back have little or no memory of an empty house that was once inhabited by real people. No recollection of a bust up refrigerator resembling a Dadaist installation. They cannot recall that the refrigerator door has been ripped off its hinges and inserted in the wall space behind. They may choose to forget that the sides of the refrigerator have sustained a number of heavy blows from a blunt object. They may ask if a clear attempt has really been made to light a fire inside……… even though they were there.
I find it peculiar to think that Hanks had to resort to talking to a volley ball head instead of conversing with the living, intelligent muscles of his own body. Surely the pectoral muscles of the chest and the tricep and bicep muscles of the arm make the best companions. It could be argued that existence itself is nothing more than a continuous conversation between the brain and these muscle groups, the muscles effectively becoming an extension of our own personality and mental make up. The triceps, biceps and pecks have replaced the eyes as the real windows of the soul.
I believe my ex lats are living in the attic. I believe this because I can hear them watching Dr Phil on the old 15 inch television I put up there in a box last spring. There is no tv remote which means channels must be changed manually.
From a window in the attic, the lats look down on the roofs of the adjoining buildings. The sun is reflecting off roof tiles and aerial steel.
As they work the biceps try to compare things which are by their nature incomparable. The authorities warn against comparing things directly. The biceps recall a conversation they have heard or a piece of furniture they’ve seen or some idea that occurred to them sitting on the toilet at three in the morning.
The biceps don't watch TV in the traditional sense. It’s just another piece of furniture, another tool, muted sound and marginal awareness of moving pictures in the time between sets of preacher curls and press ups. The biceps are active, moving and alert. If they sit still they’ll fall into a deep sleep from which they’ll never punch their way out. They would forget what we have become together.
Forget what is unimportant
She had a small birth mark on her neck, beneath her left ear. We sat on a black leather couch watching wildlife documentaries and ultimate fighter. Her fingers were small and stumpy and she smelled like cigarettes .I tolerated her weaknesses. I tolerated her strengths. I was relieved when she left. Although I felt released, I wonder now what color flame she could have made in my fire.
In the evenings I rearrange at random the insides of my desktop computer. I don’t miss the internet. I usually just ended up on Amazon, looking up albums I will never buy. I liked reading the reviews that customers had written for the albums. I preferred reading the reviews than listening to the 30 second song samples. I preferred to hear about what the songs meant to total strangers than finding out if they could mean anything to me. Sometimes the reviewers told a story or anecdote about when they first heard a particular song or album. I liked those stories.
Live now, live at all costs
When your airplane crashes in the ocean it changes you mentally. Sometimes you die, other times you live, but no one survives the crash. No one’s mind escapes intact whether it’s a physical or mental crash. The smell of death stays with you. You wash your underwear but the smell is under your skin, in your brain.
In reality, there’s no way Hanks would have sought out his wife after he got off that island. He would have blanked her. He would have spat in her face. He would have gone home and gathered together his furniture. He would have made a fire.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Rabid Elephants
I take a mouth full of beer and decide against doing that again, it tastes like what I always imagined battery acid tastes like. And from the feeling in my stomach it was having a similar effect. As my eyes scan the room I think, ‘This is it, I always knew I would reach rock bottom some day and that day has finally arrived’. I was sitting in the worst shit hole bar in the worst part of town waiting for a guy I barely knew to give me a job. It wasn’t just my life that was falling apart, things were getting worse by the day for everyone. Paranoia was at an all time high, suicide and murder were everyday occurrences. Very little surprised anyone any more and it doesn’t look like getting better any time soon.
When I walked into the bar earlier, a body was being carried out.
‘Trouble?’ I asked the bar man who was cleaning a pint glass.
“Guy offered Jonny a peanut, Jonny freaked out, Jonny knifed the guy.” Said the bar man without even looking at me.
“Harsh” I said, “I know some people are allergic but that’s going a bit far aint it?”
“Huh!” grunted the bar man “Jonny hates peanuts cos elephants like peanuts. Jonny hates elephants cos that damn machine told Jonny his death would be cause by elephants. Now Jonny is going to the electric chair cos Jonny stabbed a guy who had peanuts which Jonny thought would attract Elephants.” The barman paused to pick up another glass. “Jonny was an idiot everyone knows that the only was to beat the machine is to surround yourself with what ever it says. Take me for instance 10 years ago I got a slip of paper that said ‘alcohol’. I walked straight out and bought this bar, haven’t been sick a day since. Machine don’t know how to handle it if you do that. Once Jonny saw elephant on that bit of paper he should have moved into a zoo. Sure one day a rabid elephant might maul him but I doubt it.”
“Ah…. Ya, makes sense I guess,” I said a little confused by the logic or lack there of, “So how’s the beer?” I asked in an effort to change the subject.
The bar man looked at me for the first time, smiled and said, “Best in Town.”
Back in the present I still couldn’t get over how many times the bar man had said ‘Jonny’. Man that was annoying, still not as annoying as that damn machine. It was about 20 year ago when it first appeared. For the super rich back then but soon the cheaper models started to appear everywhere. ‘Find out the answer to the only question you’ll ever need to ask,’ they said. What was that even supposed to mean, ‘Your born, life sucks and then you die’ that’s my motto. It’s simple, but people being people can’t leave well enough alone. No one is happy with A to B to C. No they have to meddle, You’re born, life sucks, you get a vague prediction of how you’ll die, you spend years being manically paranoid and depressed and then you die horribly. Ha, so this is where thousands of years of human evolution have got us. I think we would have been happier running away from some prehistoric monster at least then we would have something real to fear. Now we have only our minds to fear. Not me though, no machine was going to mess my life up. I was doing a good enough job of that on my own.
At that moment the door opens and my contact walks in. A skinny man with pale skin and dark eyes. He had the look of a tortured soul about him, he kept giving darting looks over his shoulders and had a twitch under his left eye.
“How’s the beer?” he asked.
“Best in town.” I say with a smile.
When I walked into the bar earlier, a body was being carried out.
‘Trouble?’ I asked the bar man who was cleaning a pint glass.
“Guy offered Jonny a peanut, Jonny freaked out, Jonny knifed the guy.” Said the bar man without even looking at me.
“Harsh” I said, “I know some people are allergic but that’s going a bit far aint it?”
“Huh!” grunted the bar man “Jonny hates peanuts cos elephants like peanuts. Jonny hates elephants cos that damn machine told Jonny his death would be cause by elephants. Now Jonny is going to the electric chair cos Jonny stabbed a guy who had peanuts which Jonny thought would attract Elephants.” The barman paused to pick up another glass. “Jonny was an idiot everyone knows that the only was to beat the machine is to surround yourself with what ever it says. Take me for instance 10 years ago I got a slip of paper that said ‘alcohol’. I walked straight out and bought this bar, haven’t been sick a day since. Machine don’t know how to handle it if you do that. Once Jonny saw elephant on that bit of paper he should have moved into a zoo. Sure one day a rabid elephant might maul him but I doubt it.”
“Ah…. Ya, makes sense I guess,” I said a little confused by the logic or lack there of, “So how’s the beer?” I asked in an effort to change the subject.
The bar man looked at me for the first time, smiled and said, “Best in Town.”
Back in the present I still couldn’t get over how many times the bar man had said ‘Jonny’. Man that was annoying, still not as annoying as that damn machine. It was about 20 year ago when it first appeared. For the super rich back then but soon the cheaper models started to appear everywhere. ‘Find out the answer to the only question you’ll ever need to ask,’ they said. What was that even supposed to mean, ‘Your born, life sucks and then you die’ that’s my motto. It’s simple, but people being people can’t leave well enough alone. No one is happy with A to B to C. No they have to meddle, You’re born, life sucks, you get a vague prediction of how you’ll die, you spend years being manically paranoid and depressed and then you die horribly. Ha, so this is where thousands of years of human evolution have got us. I think we would have been happier running away from some prehistoric monster at least then we would have something real to fear. Now we have only our minds to fear. Not me though, no machine was going to mess my life up. I was doing a good enough job of that on my own.
At that moment the door opens and my contact walks in. A skinny man with pale skin and dark eyes. He had the look of a tortured soul about him, he kept giving darting looks over his shoulders and had a twitch under his left eye.
“How’s the beer?” he asked.
“Best in town.” I say with a smile.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
The Art of Eating Toast
“The phrase "You're Toast" is often used to refer to those who are about to suffer brutal damage at the hands of the speaker.” Wikipedia
Press play.
The interior of the café is not unpleasant. The smell is not revolting. The pale blue walls and general underwater ambience are enough, however; to impress upon the enterer the feeling he’s stepped inside a fish tank. Tables and chairs are old and worn, perhaps salvaged from the hulk of a sunken ship, lost at some ragged spot upon a rocky coast, in the deep dark woods, of the soul. Somewhere behind an iron door, a radio is playing rag time classics.
Behind a door, it is playing.
Indeed, one chair in particular may catch the eye of the hapless seeker of a hearty breakfast. Painted a fire engine red and adorned with the purple face of Barney the Dinosaur, it appears quite out of place among the rest of the faded grey furniture. There is something strangely comfortable looking about it; perhaps the only chair in the room with some form of cushioning material. And it is upon this very red chair, above all else, that the dweller on the threshold desires to rest his weary legs. Therefore you lead your sleepy companion to a corner of the room and sit yourself down upon your very red chair, satisfied with your choice of seating and the fact that your companion has to sit on a much less comfortable and interestingly coloured, grey chair. Menu now in hand, there can no doubting the special appeal for the hungry and hung-over traveller, of the adequate and reasonably priced mini grill.
Travellers between late night and early morning are we, upon this stage of life.
But it’s only after the moustachioed waiter has taken your order, complemented you on your excellent choice of seating and disappeared behind the iron door that strange questions begin to arise in your mind’s inner mind, like:
What’s behind the iron door?
Does the mini grill come with toast?
Did that old guy get toast with his?
Did he get the more expensive mixed grill?
Is my companion getting up to go for a number one or a number two?
In this life there are only questions. Does one really enjoy a toilet activity or is it more a feeling of relief? Is enjoyment and relief the same thing?
You make ask who they are, this greasy waiter bringing out two plates of grilled rot, that old prick with his basket of toast and more luxurious mixed grill, your strange companion who hasn’t said a word since entering the café. Do they enjoy all this business? You want nothing but a small basket of toast.
“Can I get some toast with that?” You demand desperately above a plate of grilled junk.
People move in and out. A child enters in its young fathers arms, crying and pointing in your direction. Your companion returns and hands you a phone he found in the hallway.
The human eye usually takes a number of split seconds to focus on a digital image. The focus time however is unique to each pair of eyes. The average time it takes between looking at an image and our brain making sense of what we are seeing is usually about 0.02 seconds. However, after a time you will comprehend the image on the phone is a photo of a purple dinosaur attacking a clearly distressed man, who is sitting on a very red chair, at a grey table, in a small café.
The inside of the café however, is not unpleasant.
In fact you are so astonished by the image that you are quite unaware of the purple dinosaur that has entered the room from behind the iron door and has come to stand at your side holding a basket of toast and an electric carving knife, until he screams in a shrill feminine voice:
“You’re toast, fucker!” and proceeds to carve you open.
Behind the iron door time slows down. Chairs have been placed at tables, floors have been swept. The moment has come and the sound of nervous shuffling echoes through the great halls. A thousand dinosaur eyes roll and stare and blink in the darkness.
Breakfast is served.
Press play.
The interior of the café is not unpleasant. The smell is not revolting. The pale blue walls and general underwater ambience are enough, however; to impress upon the enterer the feeling he’s stepped inside a fish tank. Tables and chairs are old and worn, perhaps salvaged from the hulk of a sunken ship, lost at some ragged spot upon a rocky coast, in the deep dark woods, of the soul. Somewhere behind an iron door, a radio is playing rag time classics.
Behind a door, it is playing.
Indeed, one chair in particular may catch the eye of the hapless seeker of a hearty breakfast. Painted a fire engine red and adorned with the purple face of Barney the Dinosaur, it appears quite out of place among the rest of the faded grey furniture. There is something strangely comfortable looking about it; perhaps the only chair in the room with some form of cushioning material. And it is upon this very red chair, above all else, that the dweller on the threshold desires to rest his weary legs. Therefore you lead your sleepy companion to a corner of the room and sit yourself down upon your very red chair, satisfied with your choice of seating and the fact that your companion has to sit on a much less comfortable and interestingly coloured, grey chair. Menu now in hand, there can no doubting the special appeal for the hungry and hung-over traveller, of the adequate and reasonably priced mini grill.
Travellers between late night and early morning are we, upon this stage of life.
But it’s only after the moustachioed waiter has taken your order, complemented you on your excellent choice of seating and disappeared behind the iron door that strange questions begin to arise in your mind’s inner mind, like:
What’s behind the iron door?
Does the mini grill come with toast?
Did that old guy get toast with his?
Did he get the more expensive mixed grill?
Is my companion getting up to go for a number one or a number two?
In this life there are only questions. Does one really enjoy a toilet activity or is it more a feeling of relief? Is enjoyment and relief the same thing?
You make ask who they are, this greasy waiter bringing out two plates of grilled rot, that old prick with his basket of toast and more luxurious mixed grill, your strange companion who hasn’t said a word since entering the café. Do they enjoy all this business? You want nothing but a small basket of toast.
“Can I get some toast with that?” You demand desperately above a plate of grilled junk.
People move in and out. A child enters in its young fathers arms, crying and pointing in your direction. Your companion returns and hands you a phone he found in the hallway.
The human eye usually takes a number of split seconds to focus on a digital image. The focus time however is unique to each pair of eyes. The average time it takes between looking at an image and our brain making sense of what we are seeing is usually about 0.02 seconds. However, after a time you will comprehend the image on the phone is a photo of a purple dinosaur attacking a clearly distressed man, who is sitting on a very red chair, at a grey table, in a small café.
The inside of the café however, is not unpleasant.
In fact you are so astonished by the image that you are quite unaware of the purple dinosaur that has entered the room from behind the iron door and has come to stand at your side holding a basket of toast and an electric carving knife, until he screams in a shrill feminine voice:
“You’re toast, fucker!” and proceeds to carve you open.
Behind the iron door time slows down. Chairs have been placed at tables, floors have been swept. The moment has come and the sound of nervous shuffling echoes through the great halls. A thousand dinosaur eyes roll and stare and blink in the darkness.
Breakfast is served.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Day Seven. Part 1
Day seven. I was late to work again today but who cares. Seven days no clients maybe I needed to do a bit more advertising. I don’t know though if telling all five people I know about my new business doesn’t work then what would? Still I decided to place an ad in the local paper, mainly because it was cheap.
I call the number and spoke to a young woman who took my details and tells me the ad will appear in tomorrow’s edition.
“Nothing to do now but sit back and wait for the work to roll in.” I say to no one in particular.
Just as I put my feet up on the desk to relax the phone rings.
“OH YA” I scream jumping to my feet. But wait I think the ad is not out until tomorrow.
“Hello.” I say once I have picked up the phone.
“Hello this is Mary from the newspaper office. I was wondering what type of work you do?”
“Oh the usual. Ah…..” to be honest I didn’t really know what I did as I hadn’t gotten any jobs yet, “Body guard, finding missing people ah….. Being an all around legend ….. Basically what ever I will get paid for.”
“Oh good, be at 10 waldon street at 8 tonight and come alone.” She says and hangs up.
‘Interesting’ I think, ‘finally a case to get my teeth into’.
8.30 I arrive at 10 waldon street and I see the woman standing in a door way wearing a tight black dress. ‘This could be a very sexy first job.’ I think. She has a dog on a leash beside her. ‘Not really into that,’ I think, ‘but let’s see where this goes.’
“You’re late.” She says glaring at me.
“I doubt it.” I say, “So what’s the job?”
She looks me up and down for a minute and then says, “I’m going to la Rome for dinner and I want you…..”
I interrupt her before I she can finish “I’m afraid you are going to have to go some where else. Unfortunately last time I was in la Rome there was some unpleasantness and let’s just say I am no longer welcome there.”
“Yes well luckily for everyone you are not coming with me. I need you……”
“Lady,” I say interrupting her again, “why would you call me out here not to go anywhere with you. I mean it’s your buck. I charge the same for doing nothing as I do for ah…doing.”
“Well don’t worry you will be ‘doing’ as you put it. I called you here to look after fufu.” She says.
“Lady, I don’t know what the hell that is but if it’s illegal I charge double.”
“Fufu is my dog. La Rome has the best food in town but they don’t allow dogs, even dogs as sophisticated as fufu into the restaurant. My usual minder cancelled at the last moment so I am going to pay you to stand here and mind fufu while I eat my meal.”
“No bother lady,” I say taking the dogs lead. “cujo is safe with me.”
“FUFU, is a champion poodle and worth more than your life. Please don’t move from this spot.” She turns and walks into the restaurant.
I look down at the animal who is wearing a rather flashy blue cardigan and say, “Come on Cujo lets go for a walk.”
I call the number and spoke to a young woman who took my details and tells me the ad will appear in tomorrow’s edition.
“Nothing to do now but sit back and wait for the work to roll in.” I say to no one in particular.
Just as I put my feet up on the desk to relax the phone rings.
“OH YA” I scream jumping to my feet. But wait I think the ad is not out until tomorrow.
“Hello.” I say once I have picked up the phone.
“Hello this is Mary from the newspaper office. I was wondering what type of work you do?”
“Oh the usual. Ah…..” to be honest I didn’t really know what I did as I hadn’t gotten any jobs yet, “Body guard, finding missing people ah….. Being an all around legend ….. Basically what ever I will get paid for.”
“Oh good, be at 10 waldon street at 8 tonight and come alone.” She says and hangs up.
‘Interesting’ I think, ‘finally a case to get my teeth into’.
8.30 I arrive at 10 waldon street and I see the woman standing in a door way wearing a tight black dress. ‘This could be a very sexy first job.’ I think. She has a dog on a leash beside her. ‘Not really into that,’ I think, ‘but let’s see where this goes.’
“You’re late.” She says glaring at me.
“I doubt it.” I say, “So what’s the job?”
She looks me up and down for a minute and then says, “I’m going to la Rome for dinner and I want you…..”
I interrupt her before I she can finish “I’m afraid you are going to have to go some where else. Unfortunately last time I was in la Rome there was some unpleasantness and let’s just say I am no longer welcome there.”
“Yes well luckily for everyone you are not coming with me. I need you……”
“Lady,” I say interrupting her again, “why would you call me out here not to go anywhere with you. I mean it’s your buck. I charge the same for doing nothing as I do for ah…doing.”
“Well don’t worry you will be ‘doing’ as you put it. I called you here to look after fufu.” She says.
“Lady, I don’t know what the hell that is but if it’s illegal I charge double.”
“Fufu is my dog. La Rome has the best food in town but they don’t allow dogs, even dogs as sophisticated as fufu into the restaurant. My usual minder cancelled at the last moment so I am going to pay you to stand here and mind fufu while I eat my meal.”
“No bother lady,” I say taking the dogs lead. “cujo is safe with me.”
“FUFU, is a champion poodle and worth more than your life. Please don’t move from this spot.” She turns and walks into the restaurant.
I look down at the animal who is wearing a rather flashy blue cardigan and say, “Come on Cujo lets go for a walk.”
Monday, February 05, 2007
Day one. Part 2.
10.20 the lights are red for crossing the street, it is a single lane of traffic and I mentally judge the distance to the other side of the road. Too far to jump even with a running start. As I scan the area for something which might help I notice a newspaper vending machine about 3 feet high.
“Eureka.” I scream and move back to get a running start. My idea is simple I run full speed at the machine and use it to get enough height to clear the cars and land safely on the other side of the road. At the same time I would be praying that there wouldn’t be a truck passing.
Then I am off, running full speed I leap and land with my full weight on the machine. But instead of going up I find myself going down. I hear the sound of Glass shatters and metal bending as I am catapulted face first onto the street. I jump to my feet expecting to be battered by an oncoming car, but to my relief the lights have changed and I’m going to live. I now have a lump on my forehead, a nose covered in blood, cuts on my face, a limp and I’m pretty sure I am wanted for assault on an old lady but I don’t have time to dwell on this I have to get to work. As I turn to continue my journey I see two men in suites and a lady with a fur coat wrestling for the last newspaper from the vending machine I just broke. ‘Some people have no dignity’ I think as I sprint off towards my new job.
10.30 I get to the building all I need to do now is make it to the third floor after the incident with the elevator earlier I decide to use the stairs. I burst through the door to the stairs and run straight into the cleaning lady. Moments later I am in the basement lying on top of the woman, covered in dirty water with a mop on my head. ‘Damn,’ I think, ‘most people pay good money to get into this position.’ I jump to my feet again heading up the stairs three steps at a time. I burst open the door to the third floor and there it is my new place of work. I walk up and look at the sign on the door:
KELLY INVESTIGATIONS
P.I., DETECTIVE, VISIONARY.
Finally I was here my first day at a new job, working for myself which was lucky as anyone else would have fired me on the spot.
“Eureka.” I scream and move back to get a running start. My idea is simple I run full speed at the machine and use it to get enough height to clear the cars and land safely on the other side of the road. At the same time I would be praying that there wouldn’t be a truck passing.
Then I am off, running full speed I leap and land with my full weight on the machine. But instead of going up I find myself going down. I hear the sound of Glass shatters and metal bending as I am catapulted face first onto the street. I jump to my feet expecting to be battered by an oncoming car, but to my relief the lights have changed and I’m going to live. I now have a lump on my forehead, a nose covered in blood, cuts on my face, a limp and I’m pretty sure I am wanted for assault on an old lady but I don’t have time to dwell on this I have to get to work. As I turn to continue my journey I see two men in suites and a lady with a fur coat wrestling for the last newspaper from the vending machine I just broke. ‘Some people have no dignity’ I think as I sprint off towards my new job.
10.30 I get to the building all I need to do now is make it to the third floor after the incident with the elevator earlier I decide to use the stairs. I burst through the door to the stairs and run straight into the cleaning lady. Moments later I am in the basement lying on top of the woman, covered in dirty water with a mop on my head. ‘Damn,’ I think, ‘most people pay good money to get into this position.’ I jump to my feet again heading up the stairs three steps at a time. I burst open the door to the third floor and there it is my new place of work. I walk up and look at the sign on the door:
KELLY INVESTIGATIONS
P.I., DETECTIVE, VISIONARY.
Finally I was here my first day at a new job, working for myself which was lucky as anyone else would have fired me on the spot.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
"Asslestar Galactica"
“We’ve got contacts.”
Commander Danadama birthed no emotion.
“How many?”
“Five Cylon Basestars.” Petty Officer Dualla’s voice trembled.
“Sir,” interrupted Lt. Agathon, “we only have four Cylon contacts.”
Petty Officer Dualla slammed her fist against her screen, “There are, FIVE, lights.”
“One of those is us,” spat Agathon.
“Sir, Lt. Agathon is a Cylon.”
Colonel Tigh awoke from a stupor. He was drunk, angry and his balls hurt.
“That is it,” he roared, drawing his firearm which had been wedged between his legs, “ I have had it with these mother fracking Cylons, on this mother fracking Battlestar.”
Danadama spoke. “Old friend, there are no Cylons on Galactica.”
“Sir, we’re receiving a transmission.”
“Put it on speakers Lt. Roborg.”
Roborg’s one red eye flashed across his face. “By your command.”
There was static first and then a voice.
“I don’t think they’re going to pick up.”
“This is Galactica Actual.”
“This is, uh, Cylon Actual. Listen, about that war, we’ve had a change of, uh, faith. We don’t believe in God anymore.” “Yeah fuck God,” chimed another voice.
“We found something way better to believe. So, you know, sorry… about the nuking and genocide…and stuff.” “Uh, so, we’ll be off, busy busy busy.”
“Target the lead Cylon ship.”
“Bringing guns online”
Danadama’s knuckles were white. “You destroyed everything we hold dear. You brought our people to the brink of extinction. You expect it to end like that.”
A new voice broke over the speakers.
“Danadama, you know, I could have killed you in your sleep.”
…
Almost everyone in the Galactica control centre turned to look at Danadama. Tigh, the only exception pulled at his collar. His face was covered in grey stubble and booze sweat. His ass hurt like hell and his gun was missing. Finally, he turned to his leader.
“It’s a beautiful morning,” said Danadama, “why don’t I make breakfast.”
Commander Danadama birthed no emotion.
“How many?”
“Five Cylon Basestars.” Petty Officer Dualla’s voice trembled.
“Sir,” interrupted Lt. Agathon, “we only have four Cylon contacts.”
Petty Officer Dualla slammed her fist against her screen, “There are, FIVE, lights.”
“One of those is us,” spat Agathon.
“Sir, Lt. Agathon is a Cylon.”
Colonel Tigh awoke from a stupor. He was drunk, angry and his balls hurt.
“That is it,” he roared, drawing his firearm which had been wedged between his legs, “ I have had it with these mother fracking Cylons, on this mother fracking Battlestar.”
Danadama spoke. “Old friend, there are no Cylons on Galactica.”
“Sir, we’re receiving a transmission.”
“Put it on speakers Lt. Roborg.”
Roborg’s one red eye flashed across his face. “By your command.”
There was static first and then a voice.
“I don’t think they’re going to pick up.”
“This is Galactica Actual.”
“This is, uh, Cylon Actual. Listen, about that war, we’ve had a change of, uh, faith. We don’t believe in God anymore.” “Yeah fuck God,” chimed another voice.
“We found something way better to believe. So, you know, sorry… about the nuking and genocide…and stuff.” “Uh, so, we’ll be off, busy busy busy.”
“Target the lead Cylon ship.”
“Bringing guns online”
Danadama’s knuckles were white. “You destroyed everything we hold dear. You brought our people to the brink of extinction. You expect it to end like that.”
A new voice broke over the speakers.
“Danadama, you know, I could have killed you in your sleep.”
…
Almost everyone in the Galactica control centre turned to look at Danadama. Tigh, the only exception pulled at his collar. His face was covered in grey stubble and booze sweat. His ass hurt like hell and his gun was missing. Finally, he turned to his leader.
“It’s a beautiful morning,” said Danadama, “why don’t I make breakfast.”
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Day 1. Part 1
Day one of my new life. I am finally starting my dream job. I had set the alarm set to wake me early as I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be late. 5.00 alarm goes off. 10.00 I awake to find myself in a sitting position with one arm on the off button of the alarm.
“Shit, I’m late.” I scream. Although there was no one there to hear me.
I jump up fall over one of my shoes and smash my forehead into the wall. Damn but this day was off to a bad start. I start to pile the assortment of clothing and shoes which are currently on the floor into a heap. Sure it would be a lot better to actually tidy everything away but who has time for that?
I am still trying to get my second shoe on when I get to the elevator. The elevator is on the ground floor, I’m on the fifth, I start work at 8, it is currently 10.10 but I have an ace up my sleeve. It’s a little known fact that by pressing the elevator button as many times as possible the elevator will arrive sooner. I am in the middle of this flurry of finger work when the door beside me opens.
“Kelly rent”, says my grossly over weight landlord. What little hair he has left is black and from the corner of my eye I can see that he is wearing a string vest and a pair of boxers.
“What is a little money between friends?” I say without taking my eyes off the elevator button.
“It’s the difference between you living here and you living on the street.” He says in a rasping voice.
“Not a big difference then.” I mumble.
“Rent is paid by the end of the week or your out” he says and disappears back into the void he calls his home.
Finally my finger tapping pays off and the elevator opens. One occupant an old lady with the thickest pair of glasses I have ever seen. As I press lobby I note that she has pressed the 6th floor. Damn I think I do not need this today. As we get to the sixth floor and the doors have opened she looks out then looks at the elevator buttons.
“Oh dear,” she mumbles “I thought I pressed 8”.
“NOOO” I scream and grasp her by the shoulders. With all of my strength I launch the little old lady head first out of the elevator. The doors close to the shouts of “My hip, my hip” but hell at least I am on my way once more.
10.15, the doors open on the ground floor and I am off and running. I have to run 8 blocks and some how go back in time more that 2 hours, still no one ever said first days are easy.
As I get out the front door I run straight into the postman sending him flying into a parked car. I don’t even slow down I’m late and that bastard never gives me anything but bills.
“Shit, I’m late.” I scream. Although there was no one there to hear me.
I jump up fall over one of my shoes and smash my forehead into the wall. Damn but this day was off to a bad start. I start to pile the assortment of clothing and shoes which are currently on the floor into a heap. Sure it would be a lot better to actually tidy everything away but who has time for that?
I am still trying to get my second shoe on when I get to the elevator. The elevator is on the ground floor, I’m on the fifth, I start work at 8, it is currently 10.10 but I have an ace up my sleeve. It’s a little known fact that by pressing the elevator button as many times as possible the elevator will arrive sooner. I am in the middle of this flurry of finger work when the door beside me opens.
“Kelly rent”, says my grossly over weight landlord. What little hair he has left is black and from the corner of my eye I can see that he is wearing a string vest and a pair of boxers.
“What is a little money between friends?” I say without taking my eyes off the elevator button.
“It’s the difference between you living here and you living on the street.” He says in a rasping voice.
“Not a big difference then.” I mumble.
“Rent is paid by the end of the week or your out” he says and disappears back into the void he calls his home.
Finally my finger tapping pays off and the elevator opens. One occupant an old lady with the thickest pair of glasses I have ever seen. As I press lobby I note that she has pressed the 6th floor. Damn I think I do not need this today. As we get to the sixth floor and the doors have opened she looks out then looks at the elevator buttons.
“Oh dear,” she mumbles “I thought I pressed 8”.
“NOOO” I scream and grasp her by the shoulders. With all of my strength I launch the little old lady head first out of the elevator. The doors close to the shouts of “My hip, my hip” but hell at least I am on my way once more.
10.15, the doors open on the ground floor and I am off and running. I have to run 8 blocks and some how go back in time more that 2 hours, still no one ever said first days are easy.
As I get out the front door I run straight into the postman sending him flying into a parked car. I don’t even slow down I’m late and that bastard never gives me anything but bills.
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