Sunday, 30 November 2014

The Void

Once there was a town. Within this town there was a void.

No man or woman had any idea what was down that void. No human hands had constructed it, so muttered the populace to visitors, aware that even if it wasn’t true there would be no way to disprove it, for one had ever reported what life was like at the bottom of the void.

Seasons came and went. The tourism industry in the town boomed and busted during periods of recession and wealth. The void sat on the edge of the high street, wrapped in fencing, only open to gawk at during official opening hours, although of course, even in the dead of night when no humans roamed, the void’s gaze opened onto the black sky, a reciprocal stare from deity to deity.

It was one Thursday when a science crew turned up to the town. Townsfolk knew this day would come. Several scientists had in the past attempted to seek permission to explore the cave using their gadgets but the mayor would always deny them that right, saying as he did that the population “didn’t want to see it disturbed. Traditions to you city folk that might seem antiquated are part and parcel of life here.” At any rate, scientists visiting the site were usually scared off by the locals, who took pride in their void, defending it from the eyes of those outside town. They could look at it - that was fine - but most of these college boys wanted to investigate, to delve. Why disturb it, when it was the number one source of tourism to the town?

But these new scientists turning up had sought permission from the mayor, and for whatever reason, whether financial or personal, the mayor allowed them access to the site. Townsfolk gathered around the streets, silently watching the scientists and their gadgetry make their way to the void.

The fenced off area was soon surrounded by film crews and the population looking into the process. The void sat waiting whilst the scientists set up their equipment. Things that looked like tripods came floating down before crashing onto the ground. To the credit of the scientists, they talked to the townsfolk in an informative way, telling everyone how these gadgets measured seismic pressure beneath the ground. Nobody was really listening - they were too busy wondering how long it would be before these scientists hit the bottom and dispelled the myth of the void forever.

Then a drone was taken out of a bag. The crowd’s reaction was a sigh and a muttered cheer (mostly from kids who hadn’t seen drones in real life before). The drone buzzed merrily before descending without haste into the void.

Scientists watched a video screen, showing the drone’s progress down through the earth.

It hit rock ten seconds later.

The crowd filtered away, disappointed.

The scientists remained. Questions needed to be asked in order for the mission not to have been a complete waste of time. What was beneath the surface?

So the scientists went into the hole and began digging.

The next day the population returned to the hole to find that the scientists had gone, evidently having left town.

Life came and went, with the secret of the void’s non-voidness being kept diligently by all members of the town. Until one day when the secret was spilled by a teenager who had been a child when the scientists had made their expedition all those years ago.

The papers went crazy. National questions were being asked - how had the townsfolk kept this secret for so long? And how had nobody spoken out when the reports of the missing scientists came out in the national press?

A day later, the world’s press turned up, along with more scientist people. They delved their drones into the hole and hit the bottom, but not before hitting the bodies of the scientists who had come before them.

The case was deemed a mystery: something in the void had killed these scientists, but no one could figure out what it was. Then came back the autopsy reports: the scientists had bee trying to dig through the rock with their bare hands, and had been doing so for at least two weeks until finally succumbing to thirst and exhaustion.

Scientists sent more probes and drones into the mine, aware now that human intervention was at best difficult and at worst potentially fatal. The drones stared their flash lights into the depths of the void, and set their feelers down upon its surface.

The material was detected.

The bottom of the void was made of bone.

Further digging with more probes revealed for at least two metres, the floor was made of bone. More drones and probes were sent, and they kept digging, finding layer upon layer of stratified bone, apparently all belonging to humans.

Then one day a drone, sitting in a vertical tunnel a mile below the ground, finally hit something that wasn’t bone.

The scientists and townsfolk were united now in curiosity, although mixed with horror and disbelief. Nonetheless, the world demanded that the probes keep digging. The analysis of this material was that it was the same material used to create the drone.

The drone kept digging, until it was effectively digging into a layer of itself: this layer, though, was crushed by the weight of years. Still the drone kept digging. By this point the drone had lost contact with the outside world, and nobody dared to follow the drone or send another, because it was said amongst not only the populace but amongst the world’s population, “Some things aren’t worth knowing.”

The drone dug until it emerged into the light to see a collection of people staring at it.

The townsfolk fled in terror at the sight of this alien robot emerging from the earth; they watched it leave town on some unknown errand.

From that time on no one dared step near the hole from which it had emerged.

Saturday, 29 November 2014

what i wrote last time at yours i got the fear and went to bed: this is what came out

Well... shit.
"All life ends at 40," postulated the Arctic Governor.
"That can't be true," swayed I upon my drunken chair. "How can all life end at 40 when there are many, many species that die before they get to 40?"
"Not true either," replied the Arctic Governor, seizing a nearby barrel and cracking it open using his head, before smashing it open using his head, before using his eyes to freeze the liquid within, before realising the liquid within was vodka, and proceeded to kneel down on all fours and lap it like a cat.
A beard swept its lonesome way onto my chin and I gazed. He strangely resembled a diplodocus, but upon further observation, seemed akin to the cat.
"Shit," I said out loud, "I should have stuck with the original."
"The original what?" slurped the Arctic Governor.
Chop chopped away into a helicopter, facing without hope the final turning point. A heartbeat farted throughout the cabinet and all the passengers from my mind proceeded to receive free book tokens as a reward for their agreement that in future roles, their matter regarding the book tokens would be settled and all would be redeemed. Christ, who memorably fucked around with dragons, decided this would be a good day to grab a nearby Idiot,
Fresh slices of pigeon, crushed the napkin Mayflower
/the whole thing is sold and the redeemed book token changes shape, like a Chinese whisper gone astray, unbalancing the quantum function and reinstalling the waveform. Vomit circumstance rubs its hands in anti-cipation and the entire cipation movement goes up in arms.
"All life ends at 0," proposed the Decimal Magnetiser.
"That's impossible," slobbered I upon my icicle, "Existence is graded by numbers."
"That's it though. The numbers do not exist. We created them. Did you know," he suddenly crudded, "The Arabians invented the number 0! Until 976 CE there was no 0!"
"This is shit," I suddenly guffawed, twisting like plasma upon a tired old Stadt, sucking to finished apathetic finality. There was no 0. There was therefore no 1. Binary was robotic, and unnatural. As a result he went to Harvard and got a 2:1. His achievement went unrecognised by him; forever assuming there were no numbers anywhere, he rejected their numerical homoeroticism.

I feel sick. Why did I drink stupid shit and smoke stupid shit? I'm hot and pissed off at myself a little for doing stupid things like that. Sleep would be nice. But can't. Nausea eating away at my insides, as the Red Bull's job, half-finished, is to make my heart beat like a cunt, whilst the alcohol finishes the job by helping create dehydration, and a headache.
And I can't go back out there because I'm stoned and I'm afraid of saying something stupid. I knew this would happen if I had any, and of course I thought having just a tiny bit would be good for me. Maybe it would make me seem cool and uncaring, so uncaring that I can smoke and not be bothered about it. Everyone knows the cool ones are the ones who smoke/drink and don't appear to have gathered any of the effects.
I'm baking. Like, I'm going to actually die of heat.And this is the cooler room. Stupid heart. Stupid head. For fuck's sake. I don't recall feeling this physically shitty since that time I drank Cherryade and it accidentally flushed out of my nose all over the canteen table. Then everyone noticed and did the loser sign. Well no because not American.

Fading consciousness. Words... cannot. Life... worthless. Inevitable voice of Shatner enters head. The master of the ellipsis. Pinter was the master of the pause. Beckett was the mater of silence. Together they make Shittet.


Walter Shittet's first play appeared in drunken form scrawled upon the walls of Broadway. Similarly, in the same year, the Broadway Wall was erected, setting a dividing line between the Broad and the Way. The Broad declared independence in 123324, creating its own army and flag. As a response, the Way did absolutely nothing.
The drunken scrawls were glanced at by the passing Master of Arts Percy Fletcher, who had earned his degree by studying an MA and a PF. The PF was rewarded for studying the Master of Arts Percy Fletcher, who was the master of arts at the arts mastery factory based in Arcery Mart located downtown of uptown and round the bendy bend.
The drunken scrawls anyway were deemed to be art of a playwrighty kind despite they appearing to be no particular language in particular particularly. Peculiarly P.Q. Arly witnessed this mistake and dived into a local chocolate.
Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn don't fall asleep yet, you'll be hungover and ill.
The play, with its unknown language and heavy-set pauses, went on to be a failure. Critics complained that the silences were longer than the script, and it felt like it was "just a bit of a waste of time" by P.Q.Arly - a critical response that no critic read and consequently could not reply to, despite the quote being embedded on page 85 of Theatre Womb magazine in Braille, and indelible ink, and knife etchings.
I like how this makes pretty much as little sense as other nonsense pieces I've written but the problem this time is that every now and then the words become real. And I realise that I'm being propelled to write to try and let my mind calm down, because it's not calm because of the stupid Red Bull, and that if I close my eyes whilst feeling this rough then I'll want to hurl. And I can only hurl once everyone's gone to bed.
Why do people enjoy this shit?

That said, I do seem to have got the Famous Munchies. Only because I'm hungry. Does that count? I wonder whether people dying of starvation ever smoked weed and were like
"Oh fuck man, I'm starving!"
"I'd eat like, a slice of pizza!"
"Dude that would be the best!"
"Yeah. That would be the best."
"We could always just each other."

Then the world's most grotesque version of Face/Off happens. And teeth get involved. And faces. And the word 'off.' Without spoiling the ending, I'm going to spoilen the ending and suggest that Faces Are Teeth Off. I wonder what it's like being eaten by a face.
You're getting quite stoned, aren't you?
You pleased with yourself, little man?
Wish you could go to sleep now, don't you?
Wish you would stop feeling sick now, don't you?
Wish you were a yeoman now, don't you?

Arnie Yeoman had had his last case. He yeoed a man last week and damned if it hadn't been ought. It would have been tough but Yeoman was dyslexic. He did however time his runs to perfection, which meant that the Baron of Carrion could not escape the manliness of his yeo.
"Shit," said Yeoman, pulling his yeo from the back of the Baron. "Fucking cyborg all along."
He went back to Londone (that's how they spelt it in the olden days) and wheezed up the marble stairs until he beheld Queen Elizabeth herself upon the golden throne. Gaolden throne more like, he laughed at himself, pretending it was something sort of comment on the prison system and not a typo because then he'd have to change his name to Arnie Typoman, and it's a lot harder to his baron cyborgs in the back wielding a typo. "Shit," he said again. "She's a droid." He pointed his thing at the queen, who recoiled in terror. She wasn't called the virgin queen for nothing, he said out loud. Then he grabbed his yeo and twatted about with it for a while.
"Yeo," he sang. "Yeo. Daylight come and me wanna go home."
"Ye," retorted Elizabeth, "before singing the rest of that weird bit in the song."
"Ah," replied Yeoman, putting down his yeo. "You must be human. No one who has heard that song can resist singing along in a failed manner like you just did."
"Did not!" said Natasha Richardson. Oh wait she's dead.
"Did not!" said Miranda Richardson. The name Miranda was then moved on; another Miranda took her place and so the great line was continued ad nauseum. Then nauseum changed her name to Miranda and all was well.
Until next time! screamed a bronz.

Everyone's gone to bed but I still can't move. What can I really do? I can't sleep, I can't eat. I have a little water but the thought of drinking makes me feel rough. I suppose I could take some paracetamol.
Closing my eyes, I remember what I was going to go out there for. To vomit. To vomit acid from my beleagured stomach. The Red Bull did it. Damn you, Red Bull.
Well no, two glasses were about the equivalent of one can.
Dude, we all know what did it. Let's not beat around the bush.
You ever wonder whether Kate Bush's husband indulged in domestic abuse at any point just so he could make that joke?
Man, this is weird. I can actually hear the characters from Edgy Show saying this dialogue.
Dude, no way. Oh shit.
Here comes Danny De Vito.
Shit. Dom diddy dom diddy dom.
Don't fucking sing that song.
Why? Everyone likes it. It made that advert.
Dude, you're English. How the fuck do you ever know about that advert?

Shut the fuck up.
Toaster sandwiches. Ever see such a thing?
Oh god stop this - I can't stop hearing our voices.
Our? Their?
No, transgressions all getting cummed upon.
So I can still hear the characters' voices even when writing that.
Hail Satan! I shit my pants! Yep I heard that. And that. And that.
But that's not even surprising dude, because those are the kind of things we'd say.
Existential platinum whacking 'em. Who invented Whack a Mole? Fucking cruelty to animals, that is.

ffs how many stupid words is this
Nutcase delirium fancies a fuck in the rancid doorway. Piss in the sink floats down and out and ends up there. High rise flats nibble crackers upon wistful balconies. The moon sneers into the grime. Liquor passes from animal to animal. Yodels and brawls trade places within the cauldron. Tossed back and forth, the world floats within the oyster. The world is...

Fuck that wasn’t intended

And anyway. So many unbeginnings, too little time for satisfaction here. I last bailed on my hay back after escaping from Bale Hay, a Jail Bait that was located in Sale Bay, a Frail Boy saw me sleeping on a bed of lies and decided he would let me have a mattress in exchange because he was incapable of lying. On the mattress. Touching his face with my old bear hands [sic] I was sick inevitably upon his lobster, and from that we get babies.
Pocket dog. I remember that fucking time we went to Fucking Town.
Fuck me. Been a while since I went down to Fucking Town.
I put the wrong petrol in my car in Fucking Town, just to watch him diesel.
And they sing a song called Fucking Town, and that’s also where babies came from.

Imagine right.
Imagine left.
Oh. Like that is it. Is that it? Is that all you’ve got, Fucking Town? Too late for this. Too late for piss. Too late for incest. To set in their ways. Touche, one day we’ll fly, and when that happens, we’ll have misaligned ourselves with the gods and be condemned to Hell, for a day. And then we’ll sing it again, and this time it’ll be true. We’ll fly back to Earth and emerge from underneath the arches and become jolly cockneys.
Or cock-er-nees as Donna says. Well damn, I miss her. Well shit. Well piss! Well well well. I shot a welly once. Had to get it out of the mud. But I couldn’t get it out. Best thing to do would be to shoot it, I thought. So I shot it. And it hurt. And I wondered whether I was mourning for the welly. But of course I was mourning for the bullet I’d thrown away. This was the same bullet that killed my grandfather. It was handed down to him by the bullet that killed his grandfather, and his grandfather before him.
Bruce Bullet found himself passing from master to master. He often had to go places in the country,  move out. It was tough on the kids. Little Steve Bullet had emotional problems, they said. Couldn’t get on with the other kids, they said. Couldn’t read, they said. Was a fucking bullet, they said. First of all, replied Bruce Bullet, I can’t speak, because I’m also a fucking bullet, so really, what’s the point of this meeting?
Ah, it’s just this, Mr. Bullet. Your son isn’t performing to national standards. His behaviour isn’t great - he keeps trying to shoot people.
That’s him walking.
He occasionally succeeds. The other day he caused a child to nearly lose their arm.
He was playing. Kids play.
He tried ‘playing’ with my son the other day who, as you well know, also is a pupil at this school.
Your school’s a pupil? Wow!
No, you stoned cunt. You meant to say
Yeah. Shall I try it again?
- Roll with the same take, screamed the director in a silent voice.
Bruce Bullet flexed his neck, hexed his penis, and
Your son’s a pupil? He sad.
Fuck. Yes, my son’s a pupil.
That’s cool. He must be quite similar in interests!
How do you mean.
I mean... they’re both round black circles, aren’t they? Plenty to talk about there.
No, sir. Your son is a bullet. An actual bullet.
But I was going to use bullets in the Word document as illustration.
You’re too stoned and tired to do that. You’re actually visualising and hearing me as the woman from Edgy Show.
Yeah, okay. But the joke was -
I know. Sit down, sir. Your son is an actual bullet, and so are you. It’s quite hard for me to try and converse with you, because as you are sitting on the chair in front of my desk instead of actually on my desk as I requested, I can’t see you at all and am pretty sure I heard you roll off it two minutes ago.
I did. I’m... on the floor.
This is why your son is failing. Because you are the sort of parent who doesn’t speak up. Who doesn’t do anything. Who has mackerels for breakfast. Who watched a generation of gnats grow old. Who babysits mittens. Who travels the world in search of ‘genuine ketchup.’ Who punches the living daylights out of all the Bond films, so that Roger Daltry doesn’t get a look in -
Seriously. What. I mean, Roger Daltrey? That’s not even close to Roger Moore.
To Sean Connery.
No. To Timothy Dalton.
I didn’t know you were a fan.
I’m not. I’m a bullet.
And now you sound like like a stupid sketch from the thirties.
Like like? That’s a bad guy in the Zelda series. You can’t speak properly.
Yes, but that’s exactly what I mean. You sound like a like like from the thirties.
Erm... Zelda games weren’t even made in the thirties.
I’m sorry you have no imagination.
No, you’re a bullet.
Oh ho! Oh HO! Oh GOD! OH GOD!
Fine. Your son’s going to be expelled.
Ah, but I don’t remember having ever being impelled.
But that’s like saying imposition is the opposite of exposition.
It’s actually the same. It’s being imposing to be exposed to.
Oh, you absolutely illiterate stoned unfunny cocksucking monkeyfucker.
Not heard that one for a while. Should tide things tide and I’m going home. I’m gonna be your.
Oh, don’t leave me hanging.
That’s what the snot said.
Your son has a snot for a friend?
Oh, sorry, no. That would be really stupid. Come on. He’s a bullet. Does that really surprise you?
You are full of slurps, Master Bullet.
Slurps. Why is slurps such a disturbing word? It is because it takes so long to say? Is it because it rhymes with icdjgfoigurps? Is it because we have no toilet paper left? Is it because the lunch queue jumpers went on strike and as a result fifty people that day were struck by people jumping in front of them, hoping they were a queue?
A man did this, and the man he did this was actually, right, huh, get this yeah - the man himself was queuing like, in front of nothing.
Wow, like, that’s like so fucking random? So he queued for nothing in front of nothing? Whoa.
Okay, fine. You don’t like that. We can do something else. What have you got?
Well, I’ll try the slush pile. Sometimes you find nuggets. Hmm, let me see. Used windowsills. Christmas pudding that contains so much alcohol that it actually is 100% proof. Cookies that never crumble. Milk that never spills. Trees that resist barking. Clouds without silver linings. Blammo. It’s been a donkey one, hasn’t it? Yep, yep. That kind of nonsense era where moustaches rule the galaxy and all techno pop is downgraded to ‘even shitter than scraping your teeth against a chalk board’ which, seeing as neither teeth nor chalk boards exist anymore ever since they were replaced by whiteboards,
Yes. All teeth in the future are actually whiteboards. Think of it. Just think of the potential. You could cheat on so many exams. All you’d need to bring with you into an exam would be a mirror and a magnifiying glass. Oh, and also the ability to write backwards. Oh yeah, and also the ability to write all the answers on a tooth. Oh, and all the answers.
Not looking so good for you now, my man, is it? Time for me to create a bit of hubris by suggesting that you pitch me against the whole of Falkirk.
Influenza runs a mock campaign against the mayor of Falkirk, who became a fall gay. Yes, a fall gay for the last line in the Fall. The circle cannot hold. Falkirk formed part of the circle, and Ted knew this. Yes, Ted knew this. Falkirk
Urgh god that motorbike just destroyed my head. I can’t believe I have to get up early tomorrow. Ok, let’s think. I have to be home at one by the latest. So that means I have to set off at eleven. So really... I could get up at ten. I’m still okay. Yes, I’m great. It’s two o’ clock. Way I see it, I’m not even sure whether I’ll feel better by three o’ clock. I guess right now I do feel a bit less hot, and a bit more capable of getting up and going to the kitchen. I can still hear Abby talking to people outside. Where in God’s holy name does she get the energy from?
Energy. Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle.
“Sir,” said GBH Agent Winston Lobotomy, striding across the room, holding a piece of important-looking paper in his fingers because, after all, that is what we hold paper in - between fingers, not in the hands as such, otherwise it would screw up. “I believe you need to take a look at this.”
Captain (captain) Vice Aldermaroy, chief of staff of the GIF lowered his strangely oblique wooden-lensed glasses and frowned at Lobotomy. His stony face resembled a spastic. Tie-dye t-shirts used to be all the rage, he mused. Kids don’t care about that kind of stuff these days. All into their computer games and porn. “What is it, Lobotomy?”
“Someone’s written the worst lyric in the whole world.” He handed Aldermaroy the piece of paper.
Energy. Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle.
Aldermary made a growling, groaning sound that Lobotomy hadn’t heard since Aldermary strode in one way and announced “I’m going to show you all the sound I make when I’m really mad.” At this point Lobotomy took a mental note, saying to himself, “This might come in handy later.” To which his erstwhile colleague Erst While replied
“Like hell it will.”
“Like you know. And anyway, your name’s Erst Weill. Makes more sense that way.”
“Well no, because there’s no such name as Erst. I’m Ernest.”
“Well no, it’s pretty obvious what you are. You know what you are? You’re Just a Godamned Kid. You don't have the faintest idea what you're talkin' about. If I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life's work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that. If I ask you about women, you'd probably give me a syllabus about your personal favourites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You're a tough kid. And I'd ask you about war, you'd probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, "once more unto the breach dear friends." But you've never been near one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help. I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much. And look at you... I don't see an intelligent, confident man... I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you're a genius, Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my fucking life apart. You're an orphan right?
Will nodded.
Sean: You think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally... I don't give a shit about all that, because you know what, I can't learn anything from you, I can't read in some fuckin' book. Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I'm fascinated. I'm in. But you don't want to do that do you sport? You're terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief.
That’s cool bro, but why did you say the word ‘Sean’ for no reason? You’re scared to death, old man. Bene there, done that.
You spelt it wrong, son. Bene is an Italian pasta dish.
You don’t think I know that? I know that. I know you got apples. How do you like them?
I like ‘em fine, kiddo. Trust me, said Robin Williams from Good Will Shitting, I’m a doctor.
A doctor of what?
Ah, I should have guessed. Just a Gehenna. Just a Robson. You’re no better than Bobby Davro. Got a twenty for kicks and a buttermilk flavouring. Your favourite form of dodger is marmalady. If you kiss, you always tell. You once went on Sesame Street and butchered the cast. You once went into a butcher and threw a bunch of sesame seeds around. I’ve seen you treat vampires to extra helpings. If you were offered a lettuce, you would turn it down for being too dry. You think you’ve got it made but you’ve got nothing to vouch for save a couple of Tesco vouchers. Bologna is located in Italy. I don’t know whether to call you a pumpkin.
The bell rings.
Sean: Why do bridges have Terance Stamp upon their sides?
Bean: Because the giants must be appeased. They enjoy him. If they do not get worshipped, they emerge. And you know what?
They all look like Terence Stamp.
No, I was being short and hip for narcassist. This is how it is in the middle class neurotic ghetto. We have shortened word-forms for everything that related to life in the hood. That’s short for parenthood. I gave my kids the gene that made them bald. They were born bald and I laughed. Then they grew hair and I despaired. Then I read a book and it said that men go bald and I laughed. Then I realised that was what was happening to me and I despaired. Then I decided I would go down to the river and plonk some lunchboxes into it, to see if they could make it to Delaware. They ended up in Tupperware. I was close, I ventured. Unfortunately, it meant that all the Delas out where ended up in wares section, replacing the wolves so that in the end all werewolves became Delaware. And that’s where babies came from.
Lou. Ya fuck. Don’t go near my stash of pistachios.
Her face, was light, like an enzyme made of matchsticks and regret. I danced upon her grave and lolloped angrily upon realising I wasn’t Irish. Decided to eat some ginger. Rotted from the inside. Turned out I had turned-out pockets. Checked inside: cancer.
Not him again.
Step aside folks, said the cop, lifting up his shirt and revealing his abs, nothing to see here.
The issue with tissues is how easily they rhyme with issue and are the first word to spring to mind when considering chopsticks. The ‘tissue issue’ issue was discussed in the United Nations, brought up as Charter 3023. Charter 3023 was a secret kept secret from all but the highest levels of government. Fortunately for me, I was able to get to a high level of government and entered the door where Charter 3023 was kept. I was then able to discover its secrets. It was only the next day that I realised I had been drunk and had written it myself.
Trying to ensure I didn’t lose my job, I created a lie. A fable. A parable. A para-fable.
A para-fable? Is that Aesop? The story of how the little boy ran out between the tracks and got run over, losing the use of his legs?
Hurrrrrrrrrrr you’re so fucking edgy.
Hurrrrrrrrrrrrrr you’re such a cunt because you use hurrrrrrrrrrr
Shut up and get back to the project.
Yeaaaaaaaaa. The projects. That’s where I’m from, yo.
My name isn’t Yo. It’s...
[strangling him]
[strangling him even more]
It’s Neo!
Neo jumped up like the devil, ramming the agent onto the ceiling, but not before another appeared.
I’m Yeo.
And the yeoman returned in his first full-length adventure consisting of one sentence: this one.
Folks, said the organiser of the organ festival. We’re going to set the world record in organ-playing. Together we can make history. Together - we can create time and space. Together, we can change the world. Together... we can make history.
You just said that.
The organs all prepared themselves. Then bam. And the sound of a thousand vibrations shattered into the pores of the very earth itself, and rendered unto the soil a vast crack, but a crack which was quickly revealed to be probably something that’s gonna set you back what, about a hundred quid if you act upon it now, but that’s assuming you act upon it now of course; most people will go and just like laugh it off you know, never listen to the builder man, he doesn’t know anything because he’s juts the builder but believe me, I’ve done enough jobs to tell you, tell you you fucking cunt, are you listening?
Yeah, I’m listening.
I’m gonna fucking tell you that that cracks gonna fucking get worse unless you let us take care of it quick.
Did you know an interesting face?
You have recently said two sentences which contain the same word happening twice in a row. There’s a name for it. I can’t for the life of me remember what it is, but...
Fucking remember it now! shat the builder, holding a nerf gun up to the middleclassman’s face.
What’s it like to be eaten by a face?
Not now!  You have a nerf in your face, soldier. What do you do?
Well, whilst I’m impressed you knew I was a soldier, I know for a fact that gun isn’t loaded. Check it all you like, but you know as well as I know that that gun isn’t loaded. Huh, now you’ve got me doing it. Should probably watch my mouth, seeing as it has a gun pointed at it. But that’s the issue here. I know like you know that that gun isn’t even a real nerf gun.
It is, said the builder, pressing the trigger, but to no consequence except a stupid clicking sound.
FUCK screamed the middleclassman, holding his hands up to his ears. How did you know I’m averse to clicking noises?
Since I went trekking with you to Africa and we watched that tribe and you fucking freaked out man, do you remember that? How old were you then, man? Like what, eight?
Yeah, eight. A hard eight. I rolled the wrong number of life. Toked on my last kebab. Sucked on my last Phil. Ate twenty-one too many crisps. He sighed, and wondered when he might get tired. Wasn’t happening anytime soon. Previous stoned-babbling record had just been surpassed.
But yeah I was going to do some stupid joke around the word ‘nerfed’ and its relationship to weaponry in modern day multiplayer death arenas (or MDMA) and make some sort of satirical comment suggesting that weaponry in real life is simply an extending of the phallus produced by the correct, to use the parlance, ‘gear’ used within these, as you say...
Yes. Moonpig, com.
Thank you for that.
I didn’t sing it.
You must have. There is no way of actually saying those words. You must sing them.
And he sang them. And it was a big palaver, mostly in Andrew Pavlova’s mission, within which balked a roasting church, sitting inside a heatwave. Only the cooling love of Jesus Christ can stop the hellish furnace surrounding us, said the preacher.

You could always buy air conditioning, replied a church-goer.

Sunday, 2 November 2014

Bad Idea

“It’s madness.”
Jim’s opinions as usual were like barbed wire thrown over the face of a thorn bush: welcome, despite their intentions to the contrary. I expected him to assault me with a couple of miscued bazooka insults (“your face is as wretched as a broken Bourbon”) as well as a mistaken case of mistrust (“once, many years ago, your father and my father shook hands, and made a deal that would seal the fate of our clans forever. I have come today to honour that deal” (there was no deal; our fathers had never met) and in any case I knew that the deal had been cut off by a passing randomninja) and an extra acidic touch of voyeurism (“only a gorilla could masturbate as flamboyantly as you”) which I suppose added an extra touch of disinterest to our erstwhile friendship: a friendship that was perhaps the erstwhilest of all friendships, seeing as it had been cloven into place by the axe of a wandering picnic inventor whose name was Ga and whose axe was forged in the same place as a.
“You don’t know that,” I replied, dodging the chicken wing thrown my way by Jim’s lawyer. “It’s entirely possible.”
Jim stood up and offered his hand to his lawyer. “Thank you, John, for providing me with this company but, in the case of the case of the case offered to me by my beloved enemy James here, I don’t feel I am in need of representation, mostly because I am one hundred percent sure I will win this argument against him seeing as his entire well-being rests on my informed and cushioned views.”
A handshake and walk to the door later, and Jim had somehow also managed to brew two mugs of tea. Handing a cup to me, and perching himself on the arm of my sofa (I pushed him onto the other sofa using telekenesis) he fixed me with a gaze, his moustache bristling and his greased parting hair serving only to provide me with the painful truth that this role model, this fashionable hip-man, had in fact become a bit of a bellend.
“As you were,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“I wasn’t anywhere.”
“That’s precisely my point. You were going nowhere. Your hands are shaking, your mug is on the verge of catastrophe, and as for the tea, well.”
“Well what?”
“I don’t think I need to finish that sentence. Your tea speaks for itself.”
And so it did. Inside my mug the tea bubbled and burped, before the entire thing exploded in my hand. Tea splattered the sofa and got into the carpet.
“This is what happens when you come up with an idea like the one you came up with.”
“I’m not sorry.” I was almost sorry, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. For the universe to destroy my tea, the Gods must truly be wrathful. An idea so devastating that even the Gods had to intervene? It wasn’t that hideous an idea, surely.
“Not that hideous an early, surely?” I yelled to the ceiling, before being greeted by a ceiling.

The portion of ceiling that attempted to land on my head was thwarted by my eloquent dive away from the sofa onto the table. I grabbed hold of the tablecloth for dear table (it was a light blue and white chequered tablecloth, and upon it were a species of condiments one may only refer to as nibbles (although to refer to them this way requires the time to be no earlier than 18:01 PM) such as sausage rolls, boiled eggs, slices of ham, pork pie, and some Surströmming), not for dear life, as one might think, and allowed the entire contents of said table to crash one by one onto my bonce in a comical manner requiring me to look at the camera. The objects on the table were not interesting enough to be mentioned.

Jim had now taken to standing upon the sofa and pointing at me like a minister giving a sermon in the deepest South of the American Midwest, a little bit north, a tiny bit east, just in the middle of the edge of nowhere. “That’s what happens, James!” he screamed. “That’s what happens when you put forth the proposition that you did put forth! Repent, you wretched villain!”
“Never,” I said, standing wearily to my feet, wondering why I had bothered to use an adverb. “The more your people assail me, the greater my strength becomes. The Streisand Effect is in full force here, buddy. All you needed to have done was shake your head sadly at my idea, but no. You had to cast some kind of spell, a rite, a rune-based voodoo catastro-spasm and all that was good in my world had to be cast aside like a nostalgic lettuce.”
“A what? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Be silent. My idea is mine and mine alone. I have taken my stand; I can do no other.” I too clambered upon a sofa and delivered my sermon to the room, into which now the cat entered. Cat, his name was, and Cat he was, sitting and listening to our duel, a duel not only deciding whether my idea was worth mentioning at all seeing as it was clearly insane, but a duel to decide whether or not the universe would be capable of accepting the -
“Meiow,” he said.
“Shit,” we replied, getting down.
“When did you last feed him?” I said.
“About an hour ago.”
“Greedy furball.”

We stared at Cat, and Cat stared back.
“So yeah, pretending to be autistic just to get a hot autistic girl to like you is a terrible idea.”
“I know. But I’d like to try.”
“You know this story was going to be about that.”
“Not sure what happened.”
“Me neither. Either way if twenty one more words are written then this will be a thousand words.”
“A thousand wasted words.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”