The Moon

Rain in the Parking Lot

2010-05-19T02:04:00.002+10:00

Amanda sat in a large puddle in the supermarket parking lot. She couldn’t remember how she got there, or why she didn’t get up out of that growing puddle and head inside out of the rain. Or why the rain drops were falling so slowly, or why they were all different colours, or why they sang as they fell. There was a lot she didn’t know just now, but mostly she was content in not knowing. Besides, these rain drops, so big now, the size of baseballs and shining like diamonds under the fluorescent lighting, would surely answer any question she might wish to ask, so friendly did they smile.

‘Why are you so happy, anyway?’ She asked a raindrop as it hovered about her face laughing and flicking little droplets of glitter that tasted of static.

‘Anyway’ it said, and crashed into the grey slate asphalt of the car park, exploding and drenching Amanda to the bone. She felt like ants were pulling on the fine hairs all over her skin.

‘It must have been a nitwit’ said Amanda to herself. ‘All these raindrops are nitwits, it would seem.’

She watched them fall, toothsome grins and vacant eyes glazed over, their innocent chuckling now mindless braying as they bounced about, too dim to know to burst upon hitting the ground. Flecks of foamy spittle shot forth from the droplets as they ricocheted around the car park, soaking Amanda to the bone and filling her mouth with an unpleasant metallic tang. She turned her head and spat, most unladylike, and tried climbing to her feet, but every time she shifted forward the rain would bowl her back, leaping at her like an overly friendly dog.

So she sat in the growing puddle and watched the dusk approach, the red sun reflected in the puddle and spreading, staining her fine dress. Where was her mother? She wouldn’t be happy to see the mess the raindrops had made of her fine blue dress. The rain had stopped, and the drops what remained were content to roll about the parking lot, pitching back and forth as if on the deck of a ship at sea. And their strange dance wove a curious dizziness about Amanda, so she lay back in the puddle, now forgotten, and thought about the best way to climb back up, and find her mother, and why her body itched just so, and the drops were shining not like diamonds but globes with candles inside and they no longer sang but hummed, and how to find her mother, and dry off and warm up, and to climb out and up and see the sky again instead of this hard grey asphalt.

‘Anyway.’ she muttered to herself. Anyway.

A Small Boy Watches His Father Chop Wood.

2008-08-01T02:57:00.001+10:00

When I was six I remember watching my father. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was setting, and he'd line up block after block and swing that axe and the wood would split and fall to either side of the log, and he was still strong then and untouched by the cancer in his belly, and when he'd miss a block or fail to split it in one go he'd glance at me quickly, afraid to disappoint me even then.

And I wanted to tell him, but I was six and I didn't have the words, and he went on chopping until it got too dark to see and we walked back to the house hand in hand, and now as I try to thread a worm on the hook of my son's fishing line, my hand trembles slightly and I glance at him and he looks back, and I still don't have the words.

The Boney King of Nowhere

2008-03-22T15:33:00.004+10:00

This is a story about a boy named Peter, a girl named Jill, and the Boney King of Nowhere

No-one knows who or what the Boney King is, except the Boney King. It is his secret, and if there is one thing the Boney King loves, it is secrets. He hungers for them, he lusts for them. He longs to know all the secrets, and to be the only one who knows them all.

The Boney King knows the secret about secrets. He knows they hide in the flesh. You can taste them. He can taste them. He chews the flesh from the animals and in doing so he learns all their secrets. He devours the little insects whole; they have but a few secrets. He spends days peeling the flesh from the elephants; their secrets are many, and powerful.

So the Boney King stalked through his jungles, and one by one he learned the secrets of all the animals, till there were no animals left. And then he returned to his cave, to sit and dwell on the secrets he knew. For years he sat, lost in his own thoughts, till a noise outside his cave roused him. He crept forward, and just outside the entrance to the cave he spied two young children.

"I told you we should've gone back." said Jill, who was never any fun.

"And I'm telling you that we should keep heading north, which is this way!" replied Peter, who tells awful lies.

"You don't even know where we are!" said Jill, who was often too much to bear.

"I do so! We are here!" shouted Peter, who had very few friends.

"And where is here?!" screamed Jill, who had fewer.

"Here," said the Boney King, "is Nowhere."

The children screamed, and drew close together. The Boney King stepped out of the cave and into the light.

"Tell me, young ones, who are you, and what are you doing in my jungle?"

The children were badly frightened, but Peter managed to speak up.

"My m-mom says never to t-talk to strangers."

"Oh, you are tellling me that your names are a... secret?"

His eyes flashed with hunger.

"How delicious. I wonder what else you know."

The children turned to run, but his arm shot forward and grabbed them around the legs, and he dragged them screaming into his cave.

Inside the cave he threw the children into a small bamboo cage. The floor beneath them was covered in old, dry bones. The Boney King walked to the opposite end of the room and sat on the floor, and looked at the children. They screamed and shook the cage bars, but he just sat there in silence, watching them. For what felt like hours they shouted, till finally they fell to the floor of the cage exhausted.

Finally, Jill asked in a small voice "Who are you, and what do you want from us?"

"I am the Boney King, and I want to know your secrets."

"Well too bad!" said Jill, gaining some courage, "We won't tell you anything!"

The King laughed, and stood up.

"You will tell me everything, young girl." He said as he prowled over to the cage. "You don't have a choice."

In one quick movement his head darted forward and his jaws snapped shut, and he bit the two middle fingers off Jill's hand. She screamed, and fell back onto the cage floor, clutching her bloody hand. The Boney King chewed slowly, his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. Then he swallowed loudly.

"Dear oh dear." He said, leaning down. "It was you, Jill. It was you that got you both lost, and you know it. You tried to blame it on Peter. How terrifically naughty of you. I don't mind though. Naughty children have the best secrets. Lets see what else you're hiding."

The Boney king bent low and reached in as Jill scrabbled up against the back wall. Suddenly Peter jumped forward.

"Stop it, i'll tell you wh-" he started to yell, but the Boney King wrapped his hand around Peter's head, silencing him. And with a horrible slowness, the Boney King dug his clawed thumb into Peter's left eye, and popped it out, like a plum. Peter fell to the ground with his hands pressed against his eye, screaming in agony. The Boney King admired the little ball of jelly still quivering on the tip of his thumb for a moment, then stuck the whole lot into his mouth. He stood stone still, eyes rolled up into his head, sucking on his thumb like a baby. Then he groaned.

"Oh Peter, you wicked thing!" he said with glee. "You killed the cat. You hit it with sticks and stones till you broke its bones, then you threw it on the road and blamed the man in the car." The Boney King let out an awful cackle.

"Please, don't do this." whimpered Jill.

"You know Jill, some of the best secrets of all hide in the tongue." He moved forward again. "Lets see what you're hiding."

The Boney King again bent down low, and reached his arm into the cage, his cruel hand seeking out Jill's head, when Peter let out a beastial snarl and leapt on the arm, sinking his fingernails deep into the skin. The Boney King screamed, and tried to pull his arm out of the cage, but Peter's grip was too tight. The Boney King grabbed Peter with his other arm and pulled at him, but Peter bit down hard into the flesh, his one remaining eye insane with rage.

The Boney King roared with agony and lifted the cage from the floor. He staggered back and forth swinging the cage around, and finally started bashing it against the cave wall. The cage broke, sending the two children flying and the Boney King stumbling back onto the floor. He sat up, panting with exhaustion and nursing his bleeding arm. He looked around, Jill was lying unconscious against the far wall of the cave. Peter was standing nearby.

"You horrible little beast! You'll suffer for this." he snarled, but Peter did not move. He was standing perfectly still, and his eyes were rolled up into the back of his head. In the sudden quiet, the Boney King heard him swallow.

"I know." said Peter. His eye locked onto the Boney King. "I know your secret."

"No... No! You cannot..."

The Boney King looked down at his wounded arm and saw the teeth marks, the tear in the flesh. He looked back up at Peter, who was already advancing on him.

"I know what you are."

---

When Jill awoke it was nightfall. Someone had lit a fire in the middle of the cave. She sat up and looked around in a panic, but then she saw Peter sitting at the entrance to the cave, looking out. She rushed over and grabbed him by the shoulder with her good hand.

"Quickly, lets go before it comes back!" she said, but Peter didn't move.

"It's not coming back, Jill. I killed it."

Jill looked back into the cave. Against the far wall she could see the slumped form of the Boney King.

"Oh Peter, you've saved us. But how did you manage to kill it?"

"How?"

Jill looked at the corpse. In the flickering firelight, it looked strange. It almost looked like some rats had been chewing on it.

"How? I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Jill." He said, and he turned to face her.

His eye flashed with hunger.

"It's a secret."

The Life and Times

2007-09-13T03:58:00.000+10:00

The music in the club is deafening.

I can't make out any lyrics or melody, at this volume only the rhythm exists. I stand elbow to elbow with young gel-slicked men, all clustered around the outskirts of the dance floor. Each clutches his beer, the only lifeline in this sea of sweaty swaying bodies. Suddenly they seem pathetic, voyeuristic. Why are they standing back, huddling into the dark corners while out there the young women are dancing wildly. The dancefloor, the one place outside a female gym and a lesbian bookstore where the ratio of women to men tips finally in our favour, and these young bucks shy away, one hand in a pocket, the other gripping firmly the glass safety blanket.

I didn't come here to dance, or to hook up, but I can't stand to be grouped in with these popped-collar cockheads any more. I down my drink and lurch towards the dancefloor. I can't dance, it's no secret, but what most men don't understand is you don't need to actually dance when dancing. You just gotta move. Shrug the shoulders, wiggle the hips, it doesn't really matter. The only thing you can't do on a dancefloor is stand still. I've had a lot to drink, so standing still is quite beyond my abilities. I start shuckin' and jivin', eager to remove myself from the bad vibes I felt at the bar. I shuffle in to the centre of the cluster of bodies. Before long a young woman starts dancing with me. This requires a touch more finesse. The only move in my arsenal for mackin' on the dancefloor is the two-hand raise, but damned if i'm not good at it. I raise my fists like im boxing a nine-foot man, and the girl goes in low. We're cutting it up nicely, and she yells something to me. I can't hear a word she's saying, but again, it doesn't matter. All you need to do is smile with your eyes and yell something, anything back. I yell

"You look like you suck a mean dick!"

She shouts something back. I can't make out a single word, but it seems clear she said I could suck a bowling ball through a straw.

She starts grinding into my crotch, and I get a small chub. I want you to ruin me she says.

"I want to shit on your face" I shout back. She smiles. Lets get out of here.

Hours or minutes later we're on the beach, making out. I stop for a breath, and she looks up at me and says something. It's hard to hear her, for some reason her voice is out of sync with her mouth. Pack my skull with sand she says.

"What?" I shake my head to clear the cobwebs. The ocean sounds far too loud. Something is definitely wrong. She looks troubled.

I'm full of poison she says, her forehead creasing. I'll melt your cock. The words are coming from a long way off. I feel something cool in my hand, something solid. It's a rock. Where did it come from?

She has tears in her eyes now. There's treasure inside she says, but i'm wary. The rock is too convenient. Staggering to my feet, I hurl the rock into the ocean. I wander off down the beach, leaving the pitfalls far behind. Salt crusting the skin, dried in the sun she shouts, but it's too late. I've seen behind the curtain. I scold myself for my lapse in awareness, but it's only half-hearted. Mostly I am proud, yet another obstacle successfully avoided.

The sun peaks over the ocean and already i'm laughing. Today will be a good day.

Silence of the Lamps

2007-03-13T05:48:00.000+10:00

The smell of fear filled the front office, as thick and powerful as a fart in a shower. Cutbacks, layoffs, and redundancies all floated about in the ether, waiting for the chance to be made real. The staff gathered, as per instructions, around the door of Helen Bach, the Junior Regional Vice Manager of Sales and Distribution, and watched the hands crawl towards ten o'clock.

Helen was already inside, of course. They could see the dark shillouettes of her feet on the carpet as she stood behind her office door, counting the second so as to emerge at precisely ten. Always a stickler for punctuality, she had become almost obsessive in the week since she had returned from her unexplained five-month medical leave. The office pool had chronic stomach ulcers as the odds on favourite. Maternity leave was coming in at 20-1.

The hour struck, and the door opened. Helen emerged wearing an olive-green pantsuit, short hair pulled back tight in a ponytail. Her chin showed a faint hint of blue, like that of a freshly-shaved man. She looked, in other words, the same as always. She gathered the crowd's attention by eye.

"Robert, can I speak to you please?"

Robert got to his feet and shuffled towards the door. The atmosphere in the room shifted as the gathered workers all sighed inwardly. Creepy Bob was going to get the axe.

"Have a seat please, Robert."

"Thank you."

He moved towards the only spare chair in the sparsely decorated office. Apart from the desk and the plastic ficus in the corner, it was empty. No paintings, no photographs on the walls. She didn't even have photos on her - Robert recoiled in surprise at the small photo frame adorning the corner of the otherwise sterile desk. Sometimes pigs do fly. She caught him staring at the frame. She reached out and flipped it around. Under the glass was a photo of a screaming, red-faced infant.

"His name is Jeremy." She said, with the faintest whisper of a smile on her face.

"Jeremy... Tell me, Helen, did you nurse him yourself?"

The smile disappeared along with the photo. Helen cleared her throat.

"Robert, I went to head office yesterday."

"And what did you see, Helen? What did you see?"

"I saw John Fitzpatrick, the Chief Regional Manager. He had troubling news."

"They were slaughtering the spring lambs?"

"Please Robert, i'm trying to talk to you here. I saw John, and he said he was starting to recieve complaints from customers and from inside the company itself."

"And you ran away?"

"Robert, i'm trying to help you here. I'm sure you can guess who the complaints were about."

"Enthrall me with your acumen."

"It's that, Robert. The endless quotations. Listen, I know you love this film. And it's a good film; I've seen it myself, twice. But you have to stop with the constant quoting. We're salespeople, and you can't sell product if you go around spouting movie dialogue all day. It's unprofessional, and it's very strange. People are starting to talk, Robert. You're starting to sound like a... well, like a crazy person."

"You know what you look like with your good bag and your cheap shoes? You look like a rube!"

"I'm not the enemy here Robert. Frankly, John wanted me to fire you."

"Oh my, does he hate us."

"No he doesn't hate you. He's concerned about the business, and so am I. But I talked him in to giving you a second chance."

She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a thick form.

"This is a psychiatric evaluation consent form, Robert. If you agree to attend a two day review at our facility in New Hampshire, you can keep your job, pending the results of the evaluation, of course."

Robert leaned forward and grabbed the form. He started flicking through it.

"Shady Pines is an excellent facility, Robert. It's really more a resort than a medical centre."

"Shady Pines Animal Disease Research Center. Sounds charming."

"Please Robert, you're a good salesman, and I don't want to lose you from my team. Sign the form."

He sat for a minute, then scribbled his signature on the paper.

"Thank you, Robert. You made the smart choice."

"You know, a census taker once tried to test me." He said, placing the pen and paper back on her desk. "I ate his liver with some fava beans and-"

"And a bottle of chianti, yes, thank you Robert, you may go now. And could you please tell Julian I need to see him? Thank you."

Robert rose and made his way out of the office. He paused at the door.

"Oh, and Helen, just one more thing..."

"Yes?"

"...love the suit."

She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. It was already a long day, and it was just going to get longer. After a minute, a sharp rap came at the door. It was Julian.

"Come in, Julian, have a seat. Now, I assume you know what this is all about."

"You shouldn't use my name."

"Julian, we have footage of you stealing company property."

She pivoted her computer screen to afford him a view of the black and white footage. Onscreen, his tiny double was walking through the parking lot with an armload of supplies.

"We installed hidden security cameras in the garage, foyer, loading dock, and supply room, and they all caught you in the act."

"You spared no expense."

"Indeed. Now, you can still get off relatively lightly if you co-operate with us. Only managers are supposed to have access to the supply rooms. You tell us who gave you the keys, and we'll leave the police out of this. Now, who gave you the keys, Julian?"

He stared at the looped footage a moment longer, then turned toward her.

"Ah, ah, ah, you didn't say the magic word."

It was going to be a very long day.

Apologies to all.

2007-02-19T01:21:00.000+10:00

The deep blue ocean stretched out before them like the spandex on a Sweatin' To the Oldies background extra. High above, the sky was clear and empty, like a mormon's urine sample. First mate Semaphore stood at the prow, the silence hung heavy about his shoulders, like a leaden shawl.

Finally, like a irish workman, he started.

"Captain, three long weeks we been out here, sailing round and round the Cape of Simile like a turd that won't flush. When will you give up this fool's quest?!"

"Fools quest?" replied the Captain.

"Aye, a fools quest! We're running out of food, we're dangerously low on water, and the crew's morale ain't been this low since you made Johnny Metaphor walk the plank!"

The Captain snarled at the crowd that had gathered, like a tiger with a tick on its nuts.

"Don't mention the name of that filth to me! He was a lead weight around the neck of this crew! Next person to speak his name to me will join that dog in his watery hell."

"But Captain!" shouted Semaphore, gesticulating wildly, "What are we doing out here?"

"We're here to find the lost treasure of Abrams!"

The crew of the Ambience gasped.

"But.. but the treasure is a myth!" stammered Semaphore, like a retard at Peter Piper's Pickle Patch. "Why, no one has ever seen the island it on which it was set!"

"Aah, there ye be wrong! Before we left port, I had an interesting chat with Old Man Irony."

"That rusty old gimmer? He's crazy. He just sits in that old hovel on the hill and counts his spoon collection all day."

"Aye, he is mad. But he weren't always. No, he used to be a ships' psychologist, back before he was driven mad by the over-saturation of the psychologist market. Couldn't find work, you see. Anyhow, he told me about his first voyage, aboard the Chickenchaser. Aye, the Chickenchaser, Abram's fabled ship. He told me all about it; and more importantly, how to find it. First, he said, you sail into the Cape of Simile. Be on your guard, he said, for the Cape of Similie was like nothing i've ever seen."

A cry came down from the crow's nest, interrupting the Captain, like a girl.

"Avast! Freudian Vikings, starboard!"

The Captain gazed out across the ocean. The merciless Freudian Vikings we're coming straight for them. Their long, powerful craft surged through the water, each mighty stroke of it's oars pushing the craft onward, tearing through the waves, breaking them apart.

"Man the cannons!" shouted the Captain, "We'll give these dogs a taste of our long nines!"

Bright Lights and Long Knives

2007-02-13T02:30:00.000+10:00

The crowd gasped as the knife thrower flipped the seventh blade high above his head. The whirlwind of knives cut a beautiful arc through the air. Then, as suddenly as it all started, the shining blades came to rest, three in each hand, one in his mouth, and he bowed to the applause of the crowd.

"Now, for my final and most deadly trick, I will require a volunteer from the audience." His eyes swept the crowd. "You there, the fat redhead in the green dress!"

He guestured sharply at the woman, sitting in the third row, as a soft murmur rose from the crowd. The woman sat, dumbstruck.

"Come now, madame, we can all see you, even if we can't see all of you." He smiled a wide, toothy smile. The crowd had gone silent. "I know it's hard, but I need you to hoist yourself out of that chair and waddle down here into the ring."

She rose from her seat and walked down into the spotlight.

"Now, do you have a name?"

She mouthed something, inaudible despite the silence.

"Jennifer? Ladies and gentleman..." he cried, his rich voice carrying easily to the far corners of the tent, "...I give you, Jennifer!"

He waited for the applause to die down.

"Now Jennifer, lets speak plainly for a moment. You are tremendously fat."

She again mouthed silent words of protest.

"Come now Jenny, speak up for the crowd!"

"I'm not that fat!" she shouted, her shrill voice straining to be heard.

"Not that fat? My dear, you are a pig. You are a gross spectacle of human decadence! You are a walking tribute to the power of the Buffet! To stand this close to your putrid, sweaty hulk of a body, to feel the heat rising off it's disgusting corpulence, to breathe in the rank odour of your heaving, fleshy bulk, why madame, it makes me want to vomit up my own lungs and shit my pants, all at the same time."

"However!" he said, talking over her protests, "I have a solution. Go stand against that board."

"Now!" he turned, and adressed the crowd. "I'm assuming everyone here has heard of acupuncture. Yes, the secret art of the slant-eyed devils from the wild and far east."

He walked a slow pace, away from the fat woman, now trembling up against the large wooden board on one edge of the ring.

"Sadly, like most men, our saffron brothers shied away from true power. They reached the edge, and were afraid to make the bold leap into the unknown."

As he spoke, he drew two long, cruel-looking knives from within his sleeves.

"I, however, hold no such fears. There is a thin woman hiding inside you, Miss Jennifer..." his back was still turned as he spoke, "...and I intend to free her!"

He suddenly spun, and hurled the two knives toward her. They punched home with a sick, wet slap. She screamed in pain as the knives stuck, hilts wobbling, each positioned perfectly between shoulder and collarbone. The woman slumped, but the knives held her fast, pinning her to the board. Her screams echoed round the tent, high and terrible, the screeching death knell of a wounded beast. Several audience members were violently sick in the stands.

The knife thrower shook his head.

"Dear oh dear, such a racket you're making, Miss Jennifer. You're upsetting the crowd! Let's see if we can't do something about this."

A smaller, broader knife appeared in his hand, and he hurled it with blinding speed, striking her in the throat. Instantly her screams were silenced, replaced by a small gurgling, then nothing.

"Much better. Now, let the real work begin!"

He produced knife after knife from the hidden folds and recesses of his outfit, hurling them one after the other in quick succession at the struggling woman. She may have been silenced, but the fierce struggling, the terrible aspect of her eye let the crowd know she was still very much alive and aware, despite the spreading pool of gore below her.

The knives sliced in cleanly, staking out a wide circle around the enormous girth of her stomach with geometric precision. As the seventh and final knife struck home, directly below her sternum, the woman gave a mighty shudder. Fresh gouts of blood spurted from her wounds, and she seemed on the verge of shaking herself apart. Blood frothed out her mouth, and her eyes flushed red as the capillaries burst from the pressure.

Finally, a loud tear cut through the deep and terrible silence that had descended upon the crowd. Her stomach split open, and wave of blood washed out onto the floor it. and with it, a naked human form. It rose unsteadily to it's feet, and looked about the tent in a drunken haze. Long copper hair shone bright like a living flame under the spotlight. It was a woman. A young, thin woman, clearly beautiful despite the scarlett blood still dripping from her skin. Perhaps because of it.

Behind her, the skin of the fat woman remained stuck to the board, looking like an empty suit haphazardly hung in a closet. The knife thrower strode forward and grabbed her by the hand.

"Ladies and Gentleman, I give you the new Jennifer!"

Hand in hand, they bowed to the thunderous ovation of the crowd.

Death of a Mailman

2007-01-31T15:29:00.000+10:00

"Hey, aren't you Karl Malone?"

He remained on his stool, hunched over a small city of empty shot glasses.

"Oh man, I was just reading about Stockton in the paper. My buddy heard he choked on his own puke."

Malone lifted his head, and tried to focus on the swaying image in front of him.

"You got five seconds to get outta my face, else im'a stomp your white ass into jelly."

"Jesus man, I was only askin'..."

"Five..."

"Alright, alright, jeez."

Malone turned back to the bar. He grabbed clumsily at the bottle of bourbon and poured himself another. The room was becoming hazy, but the alcohol had done nothing to dim the memories, nothing to stop the slideshow. The eulogy, the slow procession, lowering the coffin; the day's events burned in his mind with awful clarity. He could still see the face of his little buddy.

Someone was talking to him. He looked up.

"...hear me? I said you've had enough, chief. Time to go."

It was the bartender.

"Don't tell me i've had enough."

"Listen Jack, you've had a hard day. How about I call you a taxi, and you go home and get some rest."

"I said don't tell me i've had enough, goddammit!"

He threw the bottle at the wall, smashing glass and spraying the liquor over the bar.

"Don't you know who I am?!"

"Yeah, you're the guy who's gonna be going home home in a cop car if he doesn't get the fuck outta my bar right fucking now!"

"Forget it. Forget you, forget this shithole bar, and forget this whole fucking city. I don't need this shit. I'm two-time MVP, goddammit. You think I need this shitheap? Hell, there was only one real man in this town anyway. Only one man big enough to lean on, and he's gone. Only one real man in this whole fucking place, and he's gone. He was a star. He was a goddamn treasure, and you pieces of shit didn't even realize what you had! But he's gone. So fuck you all, I don't need this shit. Now i'm gone."

***

Karl hammered on the door

"Julia!"

The porch light flicked on. A young woman peered out through the screen.

"Karl, baby, what's wrong?"

"I need a place to stay."

He pushed past her into the hall, and stumbled his way to the kitchen. Julia followed, finding him searching through the pantry.

"What are you after baby? I got some chinese in the fridge if you're hungry, or I can..."

She stopped as he emerged with his trophy in hand. A half-bottle of vodka. He pulled the lid off and took a swig.

"Baby, what's wrong?"

A newspaper was lying on the kitchen counter. On the front page was a big picture of John. Karl picked it up, and stared at it. He was gone. Julia grabbed him softly by the arm.

"I understand, baby. Come lie down with me, i'll make you feel better." She grabbed the bottle from his hand. "Lets put this back, ok? I think you've had enough for one night."

"DON'T TELL ME WHEN I'VE HAD ENOUGH!" He roared. "I'm sick of this! I'm sick everyone always posting up on my dreams! Every time I try to drive it in there's always someone waiting to block me. I thought you had my back. I thought you were there with me, but you're just like the others. Always trying to make me feel small. Baby, I thought you were on my team."

"I am! I am on your team."

"Well it doesn't feel like it! I feel like i'm all alone out here! Like i'm waiting in the key for a pass that ain't ever gonna come. I can feel 'em, thousand of eyes all watchin' me, waiting for me to make a move. But they don't know me! Nobody does! I need someone to understand me, I need someone who can read me!"

Tears welled up in her eyes.

"I don't know what you want, but i'll do it. Just tell me what you need baby, and i'll do it."

"I..." his voice lowered to a whisper "...I need you to throw me a bounce pass every now and then."

He turned, and walked back down the hall. She ran after him.

"Karl, wait! Is this about the wedding? We can postpone it, if you need to wait then we can wait."

He stopped, and looked back at her over his shoulder.

"There's only one ring I ever cared about, and you can't give it to me."

Then he was gone.

***

The air whipped by his face, clearing away his cloudy thoughts and leaving the crystal sense of purpose. He was no longer lost. From his vantage point on top of the Wells-Fargo centre, he could see bright lights of Salt-Lake City spreading out below, like a giant pool reflecting the endless stars above. The city was mourning one of its champions, but he wasn't. Not any more. He'd finally found peace.

Up above, the moon shone full and bright. To Karl, it seemed like a basketball in mid flight, one of the countless alleys Stockton had thrown him in the past. He hadn't always made it to them in time, he hadn't always finished. But this time he knew, he just knew, that he'd make it.

"I'm comin', little buddy."

Ben and the dead rabbit.

2007-01-21T03:32:00.000+10:00

Ben looked down at the deceased corpse of his dead rabbit Punchy.

"Why Punchy?" he asked, "Why did you have to die?"

But Punchy didn't reply. This was because he was DEAD.

Ben had taken him to the museum earlier that day, to see the new Horse exhibit. Punchy had been looking forward to it all week. Punchy loved horses. They drove there in Ben's vintage "automobile." Punchy hated driving, but he loved the radio in Ben's "automobile." Punchy only loved or hated things, a trait that Ben couldn't stand. Punchy loved that Ben couldn't stand it.

"Punchy," Ben would often ask, "Just for once, could you just like something? Or feel indifferent about something?"

"I hate it when you talk like this." said Punchy. Punchy loved it when Ben talked like that, but hated admitting it.

Then they arrived at the museum. Punchy was so excited, he ran up the steps and into the building. He loved running up steps, but hated entering things. That's why he was still single. Punchy hated being single.

Once inside, he cartwheeled down the hall to the Horse exhibit. But on his way, he passed a security guard, who mistook Punchy for a Muslim, and shot him in the chest three times. Punchy lay on the shiny tile floor, his little body bleeding red blood in a big red bloody puddle. Ben ran over to him.

"Punchy! Punchy you have been shot!" Said Ben. "I know you hate being shot, Punchy."

Punchy turned his little head toward Ben, and smiled.

"Eh, it's not so bad, I guess."

"Really, Punchy?" Said Ben, with a tear in his eye.

"Just kidding, I hate it." Said Punchy.

Punchy loved to kid.

Night of a Thousand Minutes

2006-11-27T17:31:00.000+10:00

Part I

It was night. The moon was full. The sun was nowhere to be seen, because like I just said, it was night. It'd be a pretty piss-poor night if there was some sun involved. Even a little bit of sun would've spoiled the spooky ambiance (that's french for atmosphere). But luckily, there was no sun. That's because it was night.

I strode manfully up the path to the castle. It was a long path, long and windy, like a sentence in a novel that refused to end, taking all manner of strange twists and turns, like a waterpark slide built by an mad, demonic architect, sent from the very bowels of hell to enact a strange and cruel torture upon thousands of sun-fried kiddies who just wanted a quick thrill with a splash at the end and their parents, who were only after a relatively cheap day of summer family fun, especially after all that gloomy business with grandma and her dodgy hip, so fragile, so crumbly, a bone-biscuit munched by the ever-hungry maw of fate.

I knocked at the castle door. Shave and a haircut.

All of a sudden I was plunged into darkness. It was Otis, the Count's manservant. I swear to god, he was even blacker than last time. If you looked under Nigger in the dictionary, you wouldn't see his picture. Thats because nigger is a racist word. He'd be under African.

'Can I take your coat, Mr. Frothington?' he asked, his voice raising slightly at the end to indicate he was asking a question.

'No, I replied' I replied. I was recording myself on a dictaphone, so I could write this story later. 'Note self, I continued' I continued, 'remember not to write a second "I replied" when writing this up later.'

Otis led me up the stairway, it was a long, winding stairway, like the path I described earlier, only indoors, and made of stone instead dirt. We travelled upwards and onwards and forwards and skywards, all simultaneously, till finally, we reached the top of the stone tower. Otis gestured at the door, then hastened back down the stairs. 'What is he afraid of,' I thought, 'besides the AIDs epidemic?' There was only one way to find out. I took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Inside, I came across a most disturbing scene. I'm ashamed to say such horror managed to sexually excite me so powerfully, but we can't help who we are. The Count was standing over a gory operating table, hacksaw in hand. He didn't look up as I entered.

'Glad you could make it, Gregory' he said. 'You're just in time for the main event.'

'What's going on here, Count?' I replied. I wandered over to the table. Littering the floor around it were dozens of mutilated rabbits, and some empty chip packets.

'What we have here, Gregory, is the ultimate union of form and function. Listen, we all know rabbits like to fuck, eh? Well what then would happen if you cut out the brain and placed it in the body of a Nazi!'

He threw back the sheet, somewhat over-dramatically I felt, to reveal the fresh corpse of a Nazi foot soldier. Around his head was a thick, hasty line of stitches, probably from the brain-swapping procedure the Count had just talked about. He looked stone dead.

'He looks stone dead' I said.

'Oh he is, for the moment.' replied the Count. 'But i'll have him up and about soon enough. Think of it gregory, an army of horny, goose-stepping zombies. Ever had a pelvis jack-hammered into your face at 30mph?'

'Once,' I replied, 'but I don't like to talk about it.'

'And the best part is each zombie will sire another, and another, and another, till the whole world is fucked to death. And there, at the top, will be me and my camcorder.'

'But Count' I said, quite smugly, 'everone knows Nazis are infertile.' I'd heard that watching jeopardy a few weeks ago.

'Indeed, indeed. And that's why I need one last, key ingrediant. The sperm of a potent, desirable male. By the way, Gregory, how are the kids these days? Still young and healthy?'

I was uncomfortable with such an obvious segue. I backed slowly to the door, only to find it bolted from the other side. I slammed my fist against it

'Otis, you fiendish monkey! Open the door!'

I turned back to find the Count advancing on me, wielding his gothic vaccuum menacingly.

'Don't worry Gregory, this won't hurt... much! Mwahahahahahaaaaaaaa'

He was probably lying. It would probably hurt a lot.

Fin

Eulogy

2006-11-15T03:05:00.000+10:00

In the spring of his 47th year, Donald Andrews passed away.

He wasn't a man of great renown, his name was familiar to only a handful of people in this world.

His youth was spent in the city of Melbourne. He like cars, and girls, and funny movies. When he was 19 his mother died. She drowned during a trip to the beach. Donald didn't speak at the funeral.

When he was 22 he got a job at an garage, fixing people's cars. He liked the smell of engine grease.

His pride and joy was a mint-condition 1983 Cadillac Deville D'elegance.

When he was 25 he married a girl called Susan Bradford. They had two children together. The eldest, Harley, got hit by a car while crossing the road. He died aged 6. Their other son, Peter, was fond of animals, and space. When he was 14, he and Donald saw a rocket launch while on holiday in the United States of America. Peter said it was the most fantastic thing he ever saw, and Donald agreed.

When he was 30, he had an affair with a woman from work. She drove a brown Toyota Corona with bad brakes and a bobble-head Elvis on the dashboard. They slept together once. He never told his wife.

He was a heavy smoker since age 15, and was secretly delighted that it never presented him with any health problems.

When he was 47, he was driving his Cadillac along the Great Ocean Road, when he swerved to miss a wallaby that had wandered onto the road. He hit clipped the front of an oncoming truck, and the car spun around, and was hit in the side by the car behind him. It was a Ford Falcon station wagon.

When the paramedics arrived, Donald was smiling. He told them the Cadillac's engine was still running. Two minutes later, Donald died from internal injuries.

The Cadillac was still running.

Flowers of Innocence

2006-10-02T00:27:00.000+10:00

When I was 17 my family home burned to the ground (I suspect it was for insurance reason, as we were heavily in debt, but dad denied all my accusations). Anyhow, while it was being rebuilt I took the opportunity to stay with a family friend. He was an expatriot aussie who ran an emu farm in Nevada.

So for 5 weeks in the summer of '99 I lived and worked the ranch. It was hot, and dry, and I probably should've chosen somewhere a bit less australian in feel. But still, I had a great time. And before long, I became aquainted with some of the young ladies in town. And I became very well aquainted with one in particular, a Miss Sadie Adams.

I'm not ashamed to say that, back home, I was very shy, especially around girls. I'm short, and thin, and my personality tended to match. But since coming to America, I felt different. Maybe it was the freedom from my well-trodden rut, maybe it was all the fresh air, and the work adding some hint of muscle to my wiry frame. Maybe it was my "exotic" accent. Whatever it was, I found myself talking freely and, if I do say so myself, quite charmingly, to the local lasses.

I started taking long walks with Sadie. She looked very much the farmer's daughter stereotype, slim jeans and boots, lovely full lips. The only real departure from the cliche was her long, jet black hair. Like a witch. And sure enough, I fell under her spell.

I had my first kiss. I spent hours uncounted lip-locked afterward. Like two remora. We thought we were hiding our indiscretions, but in the years since i've found out that the only people we fooled were ourselves. So the weeks passed and my departure loomed. We sat up late in fields, kissing and holding each other and making all those silly promises of love and undying devotion that young lovers make.

Then, my last day arrived. I was due at the airport that evening. Just after noon I went to find Sadie, to say my final goodbyes. I found her in a secluded part of the trail we often walked. She had a perculiar look in her eye. I started to speak, but she shushed me, and walked behind a large rock at the side of the trail, beckoning me to follw with a silent gesture.

She had laid a small blanket out amidst the dry grass. A small basket sat on the corner. I started to speak, but was again held to silence. Her eyes locked on to mine, her hands reached up and, with a motion of powerful sensuality i've yet to see surpassed, started unbuttoning her blouse. Her small, pale breasts caused a terrible aching in my loins. I started forwards, eager to take this next step, when she held up a hand, stopping me.

"Not yet"

It was clear she intended this tantric dance to last. She removed her pants with the same slow intensity, and when she was done, she sat down on the blanket, leaning back against the rock.
"Now you" She said, her eyes filled with a predatory hunger.

So I started unbuttoning my shirt, trying to still my shaking hands and affect some of the same smooth sexual grace she exhibited. When I got caught up on the third button, I blushed terribly. I felt you could fry an egg on my burning cheeks. She merely laughed. A small, friendly laugh.

I'd finally gotten my shirt off, having pracitcally ripped the last few buttons apart. I reached for the button on my jeans, when a swift brown blur shot out from underneath the rock. Before either of us knew what was going on, the rattlesnake had bitten her. In a surge of hormone-driven heroics, I leapt forward and crushed the snake's head underneath my boots. I looked down at Sadie, and she was doubled up with agony.

"Did you get bit? Show me where!" I yelled. My childhood had imparted some basic knowledge of treating snakewounds. She remained curled up tight, sobbing.

"I can suck the poison out, but we have to hurry!"

She lifted her head, her eyes were bloodshot and watery. She rolled onto her back, and spread her legs.

"Oh."

"I don't want to die." She said, her voice so soft, so fragile. "I love you so much, I don't want to die."

The air was thick and hot, and the silence was heavy. A fly buzzed near my ear. I looked at my boots.

"Well... this is kinda embarassing. See, I don't actually do that, y'know? It's nothing against you personally, im sure you're, uh, clean and everything. I just don't do... that. "

The Taste Is Not So Sweet

2006-07-30T00:58:00.000+10:00

I go to catch the bus today and it's pouring down rain. By the time I get to the bus stop i'm drenched head to toe and the chill is starting grip my bones. The bus hoves into view about 10 minutes late and I get on only to find that all my ex-girlfriends and one night stands are riding the bus. The icy stare of a four dozen jilted women shrinks my testicles to the size of baby peas, before they erupt in a cacophony of vile insults. All my insecurities and sexual shortcomings are outlined in vicious, succinct sentences, screeched at me above the metallic din of hundreds of coins being hurled at my face, chest, arms and crotch.

I stagger backwards down the steps and fall out of the bus onto the street, and the bus drives on, the unholy din drowned out by the renewed vigour of the rainfall. I get to my feet amidst a pile of coins, looking for all the world like a man who'd lost a fight with a slot machine. Across the street I see the new bus stop, recently completed. It has covered seating, and would probably get me home quicker, but I am fond of my routine. So I wait in the rain for the next bus. A homeless man approaches me.

"Can you spare ten dollars?"

"Not really" I reply, "but you can have these"

I gesture to the coins scattered about my feet. The old man recoils in horror. I ask him what's wrong, and he he fixes his grey, tired eyes on mine, and says

"I'm afraid of change."

Murder Most Foul

2006-06-18T03:37:00.000+10:00

I thank you all for your patience, and I know the hour is most unseemly, but it was not without great need or grim purpose that I summoned you here to the drawing room tonight. For you see, your dutiful host, Mrs. Pithwick, is dead!

Silence! Silence please good people! And stay seated, Mr. Hart. It is vitally important that none of us leave this room. For Mrs. Pithwick did not merely die. Oh no, she was murdered! And the cruel hand that fell upon her pleasant countenace so darkly belongs to someone in THIS VERY ROOM!

Silence! Esteban, the key! Thank you lad. Have a brandy.

Here you see, ladies and gentleman, the only key to the door. It shall remain upon my person until the matter is put to rest and dear Mrs. Pithwick avenged. Whats that, Ms. Pootle? Ah, a good question. The murderer has to be someone in this room. for you see, there is no murder without motive, and you all have motive. The only one here who stands to lose from Mrs. Pithwick's death is poor Esteban here. I'm afraid without her patronage, it's back to the colonies with him. As for the rest of you, well, where do I begin?

Sir Gregory Fleece, you knew the deceased quite well, did you not? Very well indeed, if one is to believe the scuttlebutt. Please sir, it is common knowledge that you and the late Mrs. Pithwick became close after the death of her husband. What is less common knowledge, however, is that her husband died while riding one of your colts. The spirited Geronimo, I believe. Was it chance then, sir, that the inexperienced Lord Pithwick was saddled upon the most devilish horse in all of London? Or did you have eyes on his wife and, through her, his vast fortune?

What? Oh thank you Esteban. Yes, just a small one.

Where were we? Oh yes, Mr Frederick Hart. Great explorer and hunter of beasts. You must have been disappointed to her Mrs. Pithwick had refused to fund your expedition to the Yukon. But tell me, Mr. Hart, how did you enjoy your time in the congo? I hear you spent considerable time with the Watuzi tribe. A fiendishly clever people. Masters of poison. They say the venom they milk from the beautiful but deadly triple-banded tree viper can, when applied to a blowdart, kill a man in a heartbeat and leave not a trace of wrong doing. Correct me if i'm wrong, but wasn't that a ceremonial Watuzi blowgun mounted on the sitting room mantle? A gift for Mrs. Pithwick, you say. Sometimes it pays to look a gifthorse in the mouth.

Excuse me while I pull up a chair. The night's exertions are proving somewhat taxing.

Now, Ms. Pootle. Such a promising little social butterfly. You and Mrs. Pithwick were very chummy, I believe. Why, a young dilettante such as yourself must have greatly admired such a powerful and avid supporter of the arts. And how deeply it must have stung when she critically lambasted your latest curtain-raiser. "A stunning display of vulgarity and moral vagrancy" quoted the Times. How your stock must have fallen that day! How the fiery passion of youth must have burned in your veins, how strong the lust for revenge must have felt. But revenge, they say, is a dish best served cold. Much like your famous gazpacho soup. I noticed a large bowl of it in the kitchen, by the way. I'm curious to see the recipe.

I say, is it a trifle warm in here? Open up a window, Esteban. There's a good lad.

Aah, the charming Dr. McDougal. You travelled all the way from Scotland at Mrs. Pithwick's request, I believe. Such devotion! I don't know many young doctors who would be willing to give up their own thriving practice in order to play nurse to an aging hypochondriac. But what else could one expect? After all, it was Mrs. Pithwick who plucked you from the mean streets of Glasgow and put you through medical school. But that wasn't all she put you through, was it, Doctor? Your fellow guests may be suprised to learn that...

...excuse me, I feel a little faint. Another draught of brandy should set me right. Ahhh. As I was saying, you may be surprised to learn that our good doctor was...

...Pardon me, im just having a little trouble breathing... I'll just loosen my collar... hem HEM...

...maybe another sip of... Good lord, the brandy! Esteban you devil!

I'll see you rot in hell you... urk!

Misogynette

2006-06-11T03:39:00.000+10:00

In the dim light of the bedside lamp, I can see her eyes. They are empty and distant, like the eyes of a porcelain doll, but I keep watching. I’m waiting for the sign. The tightening of the pupil, the slight furrow in the brow as she realizes something’s not right. I start to exert myself, my deep breathing matching my rhythm, but I don’t look away. I want to see it happen.

The people out at this time of night are cockroaches. They hustle back and forth, spreading their filth as far and as deep as they can before the sun comes up. I’d love to flick a switch, make that sun leap up into the sky in the dead of night and watch these people scurry away in terror, flee back to their hovels before someone steps on them, but I can’t. So instead, I do this. She shifts her body under me, trying to figure out what’s happening, what’s gone wrong. She looks up, and catches me staring at her. She quickly looks away. She remembers shame.

I have trouble sleeping. I’ve seen a shrink about it, and he said it was due to unresolved anger issues, stemming from my childhood. The problem with shrinks is they can figure out why you’re messed up pretty well, but there isn’t a single fucking thing they can do about it. I tried plenty of things to fix it. Drink worked well enough, so did pills, but the price I paid the morning after was too high. I tried dating. A long procession of braying, shallow women cemented my disgust with the human race. The clawing desperation of women my age, the fierce desire to procreate that oozes from their pores and coats them like a layer of thick sweat. I found myself increasingly repulsed by the thought of any human contact beyond the most basic. So I turned to prostitution. I figured I’d pick up a cheap fuck, and if that didn’t help, well, I’d drive her out of town and smash her face in with a shovel. That’s when I discovered the answer.

I work faster now, strong, deep thrusts. She lets out a moan despite herself. I’m a terribly gifted lover. I’d always considered this natural ability to be a piece of bitter irony, but now I use it to it’s full. Her back arches slightly, and she grips the sheets. I remain locked on her eyes. I’ve watched them go from cool indifference to bewilderment to open loathing. She’s coming. Her whole body tenses like there was a thousand volts coursing though it. And with her release comes memories, drifting down through the long years. Memories of what seems like a different life. She remembers when she made love for pleasure, when she made love with passion. She remembers time when sex was good and whole and pure; a time when she could still feel strength and safety in a man’s arms. A time when she could still come. She sees all these things, and more. Then her thoughts become a mirror, and she sees what she has become. And she cries. I watch her as she sees these things, and I see her tears. And I come.

I buckle my pants and stand up. She remains curled up on the hotel bed, sobbing gently. She looks at me through red-rimmed eyes. I pull a few notes from my pocket and toss them on the bed. I’ll sleep well tonight.

Winter.

2006-05-11T19:46:00.000+10:00

The forest is quiet. A blanket of snow covers it like a shroud. Lying there, under the eaves of a small tree, is a man. He lies still; a mound of snow has piled on his back. He's been lying there, so still, for hours. In his hands he holds a rifle. It's an old weapon, but well cared for. It's an old man holding that old rifle, the deep grooves on his face matching the grain of the smooth, wooden stock. Following his cloudy eye down the iron sights of that old rifle leads us to a place in the thick snow several hundred yards away, where lies a rabbit. The rabbit is dead; already snow has begun to cover it. Like a shroud.

The rabbit's blood has stained the white forest floor, the great red jag of colour lying in stark contrast to the somber surroundings. It's a sign, or a sacrifice, depending on your point of view. It means the world, or it's meaningless. Or it's a mistake, soon to be forgotten under the cleansing purity of fallen snow. We could ask the old man what it meant, for surely it was he who made it. We could ask him why he holds that old rifle so still, why it fits so comfortably in his steady hands. But I doubt he'd answer. But for the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing, he seems less a man than a statue.

Age hangs in shallow pools about his face. The tired skin sags, the whiskers grow white as the snow in which he lies. But for all the age and all the cold, he remains still. His eyes are blank and lifeless, like that of a Buddha, or an idiot. He has retreated far into his mind, or he has lost his mind, depending on your point of view. He thinks of everything, or nothing. Or both. We could ask him what he thinks of, we could ask him what he wants with the life he took from that rabbit, but I don't think he'd answer.

Presently, a young wolf enters the scene. The scent of blood or juvenile curiosity has drawn it into the open. It moves forward and sniffs the dead animal. It raises its head, and looks around, but it is alone. It begins to eat the rabbit, unnoticed by all but the old man. His pupil tightens, his breathing pauses, he pulls the trigger.

A loud crack tears through the gentle silence. The metal slug catches the wolf in the neck, throwing it to the ground. It stirs, but only faintly. Already large amounts of warm blood are streaming onto the white snow, steaming ever so slightly. The blood spreads out, creating patterns in the snow. You can see a dozen different shapes in the inkblot. Signs. Symbols. Silence falls once more over the scene, the deep, unnatural silence of a forest full of life. The world moves on, the bright red stain remains the only testament to the life of the young wolf. And the snow falls, erasing that final tribute. Covering it up, like a shroud.

The old man remains still. But for the slight kick of his weapon, he hasn't moved an inch. We could ask him why he shot that wolf; ask him what he plans to do with it. We could ask him if he intends to lie here until he is covered by the snow, erased by the pure, untouched whiteness of the snow.

But I doubt he'd tell us.

Painkiller

2006-05-08T17:39:00.000+10:00

I go to the toilet and there's a baby otter in the bowl. I slam the lid but it's too late, it saw the magazine in my hand.

Karate kick the door shut, seal all the exits. I grab the toilet brush and flip the lid back up. The otter feigns indifference, but I can see a small dictaphone in its pocket. It's all over the 6 o'clock news.

I stab down with the brush missing by all the width of a lie spoken out loud. Too wily, too wiry. Sleeves rolled high, I hold my breathe and lunge, fighting for the soap in a bathtub. It's so soft in my hands, feels like clay. I squeeze until it stops thrashing, wring the life out of the cloth, wring out all the dirty water.

Breathing in ragged gasps, gotta hide the evidence. The horror climbs my spine hand over bloody hand. What was I trying to do? My girlfriend walks in, the thrashing has awoken her. I turn away but it's too late, she's seen the fecal matter coating my hands, arms.

Karate kick the door shut

Ant Fiction

2006-04-03T01:54:00.000+10:00

#33208961c designation: Worker.

[query= food? False]

Resume follow scout trail.

Identify local traffic [query= #33208997b designation: Scout? True] Also present local traffic/suggest worm [threat = 0]

Resume follow Scout trail.

Scout trail terminus. Identify food source/suggest beetle [1] [deceased].

Request assistance.

Identify local traffic [queried]/[received #33209076 designation: Worker]

Thorax secured. Request [return to nest]/[received: approved]

Returning to nest.

_______________________________________________________________

Identification: #33208961c designation: Worker/supp #33208961c designation: Worker

Cargo: beetle [1][deceased] Destination [queried]/[received = chamber 84-7]

[query deactivation time = 0.44] Request [replacement]/[approved]

[query deactivation time = 0.21] Request [barrack 17/1/Worker C class]/[approved]

Progressing to barrack 17

_______________________________________________________________

Identification: #33208961c designation: Worker

[received: entrance approved] [received: deactivation time = -1.08] [received: deactivate immediately]

Deactivating

_______________________________________________________________

Identification: #33208961c designation: Worker

Identify location [queried]/[unknown]

Identify local command [queried]/[none]

Error? [queried]/[unknown]

Identify Queen [queried]/[none]

Error

Reinitialize

Identification: #00000001 designation:

Error? [queried]/[unknown]

Identification: #00000001 designation:

Identify local traffic [queried]/[received #33209076 designation: Worker]

Request command [recieved: follow]

Following

ALERT Traction loss [stability = 0]

ALERT Height [1.09 increasing]

ALERT Height [3.77 increasing]

ALERT Candela [3.52 increasing]

ALERT Height [7.98 increasing] Request command

[received: awaiting command]

Identification: #00000001 designation: Queen

[received: awaiting command]

_______________________________________________________________

Activating

Identification: #33208961c designation: Worker

[query = deactivation time? 14.90]

[received: chamber 51 clearing detail]

Holding

[received: chamber 51 clearing detail]

Request information [recent movement] [received: activation .05/deactivation 14.90/enter barrack 14.94/enter nest 17.93]

Holding

Identification #33208961c designation: Worker.

[received: chamber 51 clearing detail proceed immediately]

Request deactivation: permanent [Reason: internal errors]

[received: granted. Proceed to chamber 104 deconstruction]

'Tis the season

2006-03-17T03:56:00.000+10:00

The freezing wind sliced through the tissue-thin mini skirt and bit into me like an icy pit bull. I paced back and forth along the street in an effort to get my blood flowing. It was far too cold to be walking the streets, but I needed the money. Fast. A car turned the corner, plowing inexorably through the snow drifts with all the speed of a lumbering elephant as it made its way down the street. I stopped pacing and leaned against the streetlamp, striking the best casual pose I could manage with frozen toes, but the car didn't stop. I swore loudly as I lit up a cigarette. No one wanted action on a night like this. Everyone with any sense was at home in front of the TV watching Frosty the goddamn snowman.

I set off home, cursing the holiday season, when a battered pickup pulled alongside me.

"Hey baby" a voiced called from within, "wanna make some money?"

"Fifty for a blowjob, hundred for a fuck" I called back.

The car door swung open.

"Get in."

I climbed into the truck and found myself looking down into a broad, smiling face, sitting on a child’s body. He caught the surprised look on my face and blushed, so I said

"That's ok, I do midgets. But it'll cost double."

He threw his head back and laughed.

"Good to know, good to know. But you're not for me, you're for my buddy. He doesn't get out much, so once a year I like to buy him a little company."

"Well I’ll be glad to help" I say, "but your buddy has to come out here. I don't do house calls."

The dwarf leans past me and opens the glove box, pulling out a wad of bills.

"Five hundred dollars." He says.

I know girls who have taken rides with strangers and never come back, but my rent is well overdue. I pick up the money and stuff it into my purse. The midget smiles, and starts the car.

"So where's your friend?" I ask.

"Oh, not far." he replies. "We rent a room at the motel six on Broad Street whenever we're in town."

"Is that often?"

"Once a year."

"And your friend... what's wrong with him?"

The dwarf raised an eyebrow at me.

"Well you're paying extra for me to go to him, so I figure something must be wrong, else he'd be driving out to me."

The dwarf chuckled to himself.

"Relax, he's fine. He's just... private."

I sat back and lit up another cigarette. I should be more worried, I knew, but something about this guy felt alright.

The car lapsed into silence until we reached the motel. I got out of the truck and followed the little man to his room. As I watched him lead the way, I stifled a giggle. He couldn't have been more than four feet tall. I imagined the surprise a cop would've gotten had we been pulled over. Winding down the window to see a tiny little man at the wheel, it would've been...

It dawned on me that I had no idea how the midget had just driven me here.

I looked up and saw that he'd reached his room already. I hustled up and followed him in, closing the door behind me. I was about to ask him how he'd driven a full-sized car when I noticed we weren't alone. About a dozen other midgets were also in the room, lying on the bed, going through the mini bar, watching TV. I turned back to the first midget.

"If all these boys wanna watch, it's gonna cost extra."

This brought a chorus of tittering laughter from the room. The dwarf grabbed me by the hand.

"Come on, he's through here."

He led me to the door adjoining the next room. I opened it and walked through, trying to focus on the large wad of bills in my purse.

The room was dark, lit only by a single lamp next to an armchair. I closed the door and walked towards the lamp. I could make out the figure of a large man sitting in the armchair.

"Uh... Hello? Your friend said you wanted some company?"

There was a moment of silence, then a rich, deep voice rolled out of the shadowy figure.

"And what's your name, pretty girl?"

"Alice."

"Well Alice, why don't you come sit on my lap."

Familiar territory at last. I'd worked 'daddies' before. I moved over to him and saw he was wearing a garish red suit. No wonder he stays in. I sat down on his knee, surprised at how soft it was. I looked into his dark face, and for a second I thought I saw a faint twinkle. Then he spoke again.

"Tell me Alice, have you been a good girl this year?"

"Oh no, I’ve been a bad girl. I've been a very naughty girl."

He chuckled to himself.

"I’m afraid it's coal for you this year then."

That was... unusual. I reached out and grabbed the lamp, and tilted it closer, illuminating his face. A ruddy-cheeked old face stared back at me. A bright smile shone out from the midst of his full white beard.

"Well Alice, perhaps there's something we can do to change that." He said.

He guided me gently off his lap to the floor, and stood up, undoing his large gold buckle.

"I'd like you to meet my old friend, Rudolph."

He dropped his pants. I looked up into his jolly old face, and the twinkle had returned to his eye.

"I wonder, do you know any Christmas carols?

Five minutes later, I was in the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. I could almost pass it off as a joke, a big prank, a waking dream, but for the taste of eggnog in my mouth. I steeled myself in the mirror, and walked back into the room. He was still sitting in chair, but he had pulled his trousers back up. His face shone with cheer. He beckoned me back on to his lap.

"Well young Alice, you've done a nice thing for Santa tonight. Now tell me, is there anything Santa can do for you? What is your Christmas wish?"

"Well..."

"Yes?"

"Well Santa, what I want for Christmas, what I want most of all is..."

I grab Santa’s gloved hand and guide it to my crotch. I watch his eyes widen.

"...is to be a real girl."

Heist Society

2006-02-17T03:43:00.000+10:00

Midday at the bank.

The lines shuffle forward with all the speed of a whisper through fog. My eyes wander the room seeking distraction, settling on the shapely rear of the blonde at the teller one line over. I watch it shuck and jive ever so slightly as its owner talks money to the cashier. I spare a glance for the woman's face as she turns and exits the bank, and instantly I see something is wrong. Barely controlled hysteria covers her face like a veil. I'd feel a bolt of empathy, if it weren't for my chronic misogyny. I'm about to write it off to the ever-present bogeyman that is Women's Troubles, when I notice the man exiting behind her. A similar look of buried panic decorates his mug as well. As it does for everyone else exiting the bank. Something rotten is going down in this bank. And I intend to avoid it.

My reverie is interrupted by an insistent "Next, please." It's my turn. I approach the smiling teller, his eyes far too bright, and my adrenaline already pumping strong.

"I need to cash this check" I say.

"I'm sorry sir, but the bank is running a little short of cash today"

Ordinarily I’d demand to see the manager, but my six, seventh and eighth senses are crackling like a pig on a spit. I turn to beat a hasty exit when the teller coughs a polite service-industry cough.

"You don't quite understand, Sir. The bank is running short of money, so we need our valued customers to make a small contribution. Whatever is in your wallet will do fine."

He raises a small, evil looking handgun just above the edge of the counter and points it at me.

"Quietly, if you please, Sir."

I glance to the side and see all the cashiers holding weapons under their desks. It's a goddamn shakedown.

My teller is starting to get impatient. He's been holding the gun all day long, and I can see he's desperate to squeeze that little trigger and hear it pop. Well shit, it is my goddamned day off, and these bandits are testing my patience.

I reach into my wallet and grab all the bills. I toss them onto the counter in front of him, and he lowers his eyes momentarily as he gathers them up. So ends any chance of taking it easy today. I reach forward and stamp the gun onto the countertop, pinning it there, and slug him across the chops with a solid right hook. As his limp form slides beneath the counter I dive over the top and scoop up the gun. The tellers down the line have noticed the commotion and turn towards me. The nearest one sees the gun in my hands and panics, allowing me time to squeeze off three shots into her gut. She collapses in a screaming pile of blood and hysterics, unaware that my last bullet shattered her lower spine, buying her a lifetime pass to all the best parking spaces.

The other tellers start coming to life, so I spring across the floor and dive headfirst through the open door of an office. I shoulder-roll to my feet, Kirk-style, and find myself face to face with the bank manager. He's dressed like a silent movie villain, all black tuxedo and thin moustache. I grab him by the tie and jam the gun into his neck, just in time to watch his minions crowd through the door.

"Hold right there, swine" I say "Or this little piggy's going wee wee wee all the way to hell"

"You haven’t got the stones" the manager says "And your banter is weak and amateurish"

This is true. Heroic witticisms have always been a weak point of mine. But I didn't need some fatcat banker to point it out for me. Not on my day off. So I angle my gun behind his head and pull the trigger, showering his employees with gore and warm greed. The body slumps forward and hits the ground with a dull thud. I raise my pistol.

"If anyone else has a problem with my banter, speak now, and forever taste my piece"

I’ve really got to do something about my banter.

Sweet delight, endless night

2006-01-31T17:04:00.000+10:00

Amidst the stony field sat a crow.

Its beady eye fixed upon the shapeless lump ahead. So still, it lay, but for the slight rise and fall of its breathing.

The crow sat. The shape breathed. The sun passed overhead.

Finally, and to no fanfare save the soft drone of the horseflies, the breathing stopped, and life fled from its body. The crow hopped forward, eager to claim his treasure. It moved around to the face of the beast, seeking the tender eyes, when a hand shot forward and grabbed him.

“I caught you, crow” said the man, sitting up. “Your life is mine.”

“What do you ask?” replied the crow.

“Only your life forfeit, so that mine will continue. This place is barren, and I haven’t eaten in weeks.”

The Dangers of Competitive Sport

2006-01-27T03:26:00.000+10:00

A woman raced past me, her hair thick and black and alive with spiders. I tried to swat some off as she passed, but she couldn't feel me. She couldn't feel anything except the hundreds of hairy legs gripping her scalp like the thousand fingers of the heathen monkey devil. She ran screaming in a blind panic, veering wildly through the street till at last she took a monumental leap off the bridge and fell dumbly into the water. This was a big mistake, I knew. When a spider is submerged it grips onto the nearest solid surface with grim determination. Nothing would dislodge those spiders now. She'll have to shear her hair off at the scalp, providing she survives long enough to reach some clippers, or maybe a buzzsaw.

I hefted my rifle and signaled for the others to continue. Naturally, Hell had broken loose on this, the day of the State Finals. Well we would make the Game, goddammit. We had Big Money on the line. We continued onward, dodging between the burnt-out car husks, when a powerful drone filled the air. Soaring in from above was a giant demonic bee, with legs of bright red flame. We ducked behind an SUV and watched as the great beast landed a hundred feet in front of us. We were cooked.

We sat for several long minutes, but the bee wasn't moving. I noticed the SUV looked to be in working condition, and hatched a desperate plan. We filed into the car via the back door, and climbed into the front. I let Mike slip in behind the wheel; I would need my hands free. I gave him the signal, and he started the engine. Instantly, the bee was alert. Mike stomped on the gas and the car leapt forward like a great metal warhorse. I wormed up through the skylight and took aim with my rifle, and fired. A direct hit, just below where the bee's wing joined its back. This was enough to stop it from taking off, and before it could gather it's wits we plowed straight into it, smearing it along the bitumen like perverted sidewalk art.

I whooped with glee as the wind rushed through my hair. We would make the game, and we would win the bet. I had been coaching my son extremely harshly all season, and this was the Payoff. I sank back down into my seat and began to detail the shortcomings of the School Coach, when I noticed everyone was wearing a sickly grimace and staring out the back of the car. I glanced in the mirror and saw that the sky had turned black. A thousand bees filled the air, twins of the monster we just brutalized. A dark storm cloud of flaming vengeance.

Things were getting out of control. The game was slipping away.

"Take this next left" I said. "It's a shortcut, we'll lose them"

Of course, I was lying. But in this kind of situation, people need a leader. They need orders, if only to free them from their grim personal thoughts. And I've found that Lady Luck favours the risk taker. Once again, I was proven right.

The turnoff led to a tunnel. As we sped down into the bowels of the city, I hoped the bees would cry off the chase. They proved to be far more tenacious than I expected. Seeing their brother smeared into a fine paste must have incensed them mightily. They swooped down into the low-roofed tunnel with wild abandon, jostling for pole position like insane Stock Car drivers. I climbed back up and started shooting. Aiming at this speed was impossible, but the bees were so thickly clustered together than it didn't matter. Each shot struck home, and each falling bee took out a dozen of its comrades. But their ranks did not diminish, and I was running out of ammunition. Just then I heard Mike cry out. I turned, and saw a tanker up ahead, lying on its side. Its cargo had spilt out across the road, soaking it. The smell of gasoline was thick in the air. Mike spun the wheel wildly, attempting to circumvent this new obstacle. The gap he had us pointed at was very narrow, but I felt we could make it. Turning back, I reached into my pocket and found my trusted Zippo lighter. I thumbed it open and lit it, the wick catching instantly. This was the best lighter I ever knew, and I would be sad to see it go.

The car sped onwards and hit the narrow channel between the back of the tanker and the tunnel wall. Sparks flew as we slammed into the wall, and I almost lost my grip on the lighter. But then we were through, gaining speed once more, and I hurled the lighter toward the tanker in a glorious Hail Mary straight arm toss. It struck the cement, and a huge wall of flame shot up, roaring like a mad bull and filling the tunnel. I saw the first of the bees burst through it, a burning ball of rage, and crash into the floor. Then the tunnel turned a corner, and the adrenaline coursing though my guts turned into pure elation, and we screamed like monkeys in heat. The car shot out of the tunnel, and we made straight for the school.

We arrived without further incident, but our joy had turned to cautious fear. As we made our way to the gymnasium, we all expected the worst. Gradually, the dull roar of a crowd high on competition filtered down through the hallways to us, and we relaxed. The game was in full swing. We kicked open the doors and were greeted with a scene of macabre vitality. The stands were filled with vile demons of all sorts, hollering like insane pigs at the game. Makeshift fire pits had been erected, and they were busy cooking and feasting upon the crowd, washing it all down with plastic cups of cheap beer. Some were engaging in the most obscene acts of sexual congress, others were content with tearing their neighbours to shreds. And in the middle of it all, was the game.

Even more horrifying, the second quarter was almost done, and we were down by twelve. From the look of things the new Power Forward for S.C. was crushing our boys, stomping them like they were blind hairless moles.

Well that's alright. Lady Luck had given us more than our share today. It was time to make our own luck. And my rifle still had several shots left.

You did this to me, Krispy Kreme

2005-12-04T02:08:00.000+10:00

This time I had to kill a young malaysian boy who couldn't keep his mouth shut.

He was the favoured rent boy of oil tycoon Raffles Fairmont. Every time Raffles was in town on business, he'd be sure to stop in at the Dune Bug for a few drinks and a visit from his beloved "nephew". Things were going well, and young Pak Cho was raking in the moolah, when he goes and shoots his mouth off to local goon Gums McKinley. Spills the beans. Well Gums is sick of his lot in life, and wants to trade up. So he hears this and decides he'll get some happy snaps of the couple next time Raffles is in town, see if Raffles will be interested in purchasing some saucy glamour shots. Gums knows all about leverage.

Gums sends out a few lines, and before long he gets a bite. Raffles is in town for the big power conference. So Gums takes his new Nikon and hides in the cupboard of the Dune Bug's Velvet Room, that being Raffles' boudoir of choice. Two days Gums waits in that closet, with nothing but a mars bar to settle the growling in his belly. But it's worth the effort, because after the big conference is done, in strolls Raffles, having decided to spend one last night in our fair city before jetting home.

Raffles and his cronies had shouted down some beatnik clean earth activists and their electric car proposal earlier that day, and he was feeling well chuffed, and nat'rlly wants to share his happiness with his smallest friend. So Raffles and Pak Cho retire to the velvet room and no sooner has the door clicked shut than Raffles has Pak pinned to the mattress, tearing off his underwear with his teeth.

Oh the things they did. Things that would make your pubes straight. If the staff had known exactly what went on in the velvet room when Raffles was in town, they’d wonder no longer about the teeth marks on the bedhead. But Raffles never invited anyone into his personal business except Pak, so the best they all could do was guess. Well, Gums was about to change all that. He was ready for them, and began clicking away. He was momentarily worried that Raffles might hear the shutters, but it soon became apparent that Raffles wouldn't have noticed an elephant passing a stone at the foot of the bed while he was on the job.

So Gums clicked away, amazed and disgusted at the depths of Raffles sleaze. Gums had grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, and knew all about the darker side of life, but even he had never suspected the hidden wells of human depravity that Raffles had tapped. Indeed, it wasn't until ten minutes in that Gums noticed he was sporting a massive erection. The idea of getting off to such filth made Gums’ skin crawl, but even that just made him harder. Some startling skeletons were hanging with Gums in that closet, it seemed. Well, Gums was never one to shy away from the dirty jobs, so in the end, as with most endeavors he undertook, Gums dived in with both hands.

Well just as the events were drawing to a climax in the bedroom, Raffles grabs hold of Pak's ankles and hoists him up for the fatality. Gums, still playing a flute solo in the closet, sees this and can't believe his luck. He knows that this shot alone could buy him a lifetime ride on the gravy train. So he reaches out and picks up the camera. The display reads one photo left; can't mess this up. So he stops scratching his itch and focuses the lens, just in time for the money shot.

-Click-

He's done. They're done. Calm settles over the scene as its players are swamped in a tide of post-coital relief. Then, a sharp buzzing cuts through the room. Gums freezes in horror, his eyes swiveling to the spent camera in his hand.

It was set on auto. The film is winding up.

He reaches down to try and desperately to stop it when the closet doors are wrenched open. Raffles sees him standing there, camera in hand, massive swollen penis pointing an accusing finger out at him. His position as second most violated person in the room becomes readily apparent, and Raffles launches into a stunningly violent rage.

Apparently, the sudden guilt of a being caught out in an unthinkably perverse sexual tryst ranks just behind the possibility of losing your massive, hand-carved empire because of those very same perversions. The two of them combined lends the perpetrator access to a Hulk-like fit of murderous strength. Raffles explodes all over gums like human shrapnel, punching, clawing, and biting. Gums is down and being mashed to a boneless pulp before he realizes what happened.

Pak Cho, on the other hand, is a quick little thinker. He knows the game is up, and decides to exit as fast as humanly possible. Sadly, Raffles has locked the door. Searching through his discarded pants for the key is an inefficient usage of his time, Pak decides, and so he legs it out the window. He's only on the first floor, and the fall is easily survivable. Sadly, my car going 80 down the street isn't.

Pak Cho crumples under my grill like a paper cup. I slam on the brakes and jump out, praying to god for a get out of jail free card, and find Pak spread out over ten feet of asphalt like a giant jam sandwich. I'm weighing up the idea of running for it when Raffles comes tearing out of the building, naked but for a pillow clutched desperately to his nether regions. He surveys the scene for a moment and then turns to me, eyes gleaming.

"My boy" he starts "You've just earned my undying gratitude. You have no idea how you've helped me. Ask of me anything, literally anything. Your reward cannot be too great."

"B-but... police..." I stammer.

"Forget the police" he replies "They won't be asking any questions, I assure you. Come now, your reward. Name your price".

I stand silent for a moment as his face finds it's entry in my brain. Raffles Fairmont, the oil billionaire.

I look him in the eyes.

"Anything?"

Immortality

2005-11-03T01:53:00.000+10:00

Last thing I remember was being bitten.

Then, a timeless interval of darkness.

I remember a vague feeling of coldness, a clammy sensation of claustrophobia. Mounting panic drove me to seek a way out of my prison, but I did not know where I was, or who I was. Cohesive thought was nearly impossible; each thought was separated from the next by a gulf of amnesia. With each thought I had to again recall my name, and identity. With each thought I was reborn into a struggle for consciousness. And, with geographical slowness, I won through. My thoughts started to filter in through an uninterrupted stream of awareness, and I pieced together my situation.

I was jogging through the park one afternoon, as was my habit. I stopped at the drinking fountain to refresh myself, when I heard the bushes behind me rustle. I turned, and there was a homeless man, looking pale as death and shuffling forward in a blind stupor. I stepped forward, thinking to assist the man, when he suddenly lurched forward and bit me savagely about the neck. I kicked him off, and tried to flee back along the path, but I barely made it a dozen yards before stumbling to the ground. The wound in my neck was bleeding profusely. I’d worked as a paramedic long enough to realize that this amount of blood loss was fatal. I rolled over onto my back, and started to think about staunching the blood flow. I tried to compress the wound with my handkerchief, but my arms were surprisingly weak. Things grew dim, and I was aware of a hazy figure standing in front of me. He was shaking me, but I could barely feel it. I think he was shouting, but the words couldn’t make it through the cotton balls in my ears. I felt I was at the beach again, being gently washed away from shore. I didn’t try to fight it; the water was so warm and relaxing. I let it wash over me, carry me away. My last thoughts were of my cat. I liked that cat.

So then, I was dead? I was seeing my last moments clearly in my mind, and it seemed no doubt. The wound to my neck must have been horrific. I felt a momentary shame at having given up my life so easily. Ok, so I’m dead. But I can still think. Can still remember. So that makes this what? Heaven? Hell? I was never a religious man, but I’d always thought that heaven and hell would be a bit more... busy. Clouds and fires and the like. This was nothingness. Was I in limbo then? I guess that would suit. I may not have been religious, but I certainly wasn’t a bad person. Was Limbo was to be my reward? But again, Limbo is supposed to be nothingness, and this wasn’t nothingness. For starters, I still felt cold. Now that I thought about it, I still felt.

And right now, I felt something tickling my foot.

I screamed.

Or rather, I tried to scream. I tried to kick out with my foot, but nothing happened there either. For a brief moment, I thought perhaps I didn’t die, but was instead paralyzed, but that made no sense. A paralyzed person is numb; they feel nothing from the injury down. And I could feel all over. I suddenly became aware of a horrible sensation of movement all over my body, like I was covered in worms. And not just covered. It felt like they were boring into me, inching their way into my flesh. The sense of revulsion was overwhelming, but I could not gag. That made it worse somehow, like a boiling kettle with no spout to let out the steam. With no physical release, the feeling of disgust welled up on itself, till it dominated my mind completely. I felt like a man with no mouth, vomiting up a stomach full of bile, only to have to swallow it back down again and again. I screamed and screamed in my mind till rational thought was completely obliterated, and my thoughts became a storm of black and red. Then, thankfully, I passed out.

When I came to, I felt the immediate sensation of movement. Not worms this time, however. This time I was moving. My arms were scrabbling in front of me, clawing up through what I now realize was dirt. I was underground. My mind raced at the thought! I was moving again, I wasn’t dead! But again, my body refused to sway to my demands. I could feel the arms and legs moving, fighting to reach the surface. I could feel the dirt between my fingernails, but I was powerless to move my hand in the slightest. My body was moving of its own volition. To my disgust, it opened its mouth, and I got a throat full of soil. I could taste it, feel it stuck halfway down my throat as my body refused to swallow. It seemed not to notice the dirt clogging its airway. The feeling of choking was unbearable, and threatened to overwhelm me again, but I fought back the rising panic. I tried to focus instead on what was going on. I was trapped in my own body, somehow. Maybe somewhere, in some secret government lab, I was a guinea pig for a sinister new technology. Like what they did with that cockroach, putting a chip on it’s back that hotwired it’s nervous system, so the could control it via remote. Maybe I was the logical succession of that technology. That was the only plausible explanation I could think of.

My ruminations were cut short as I felt something new. My right hand no longer scrabbled through the dirt. It had broken free. I could feel a gentle breeze blowing past it. My other arm shot through and, with a mighty heave, I was wrenched up into the sunlight. It was midday, and the bright sun shone down harshly into eyes that refused to blink. The pain seared through my thoughts for a few seconds before my head mercifully turned away. When the spots in my eyes had faded, I managed to get a look at where I was. Stretching in front of me were hundreds of tombstones. The graveyard. Makes sense, I guess. Where else would you bury a dead guy? Well, an almost dead guy. Laughter echoed around my mind as I considered how odd he scene would’ve looked to a bystander. A body clawing its way out of a fresh grave, just like in those cheesy old zombie films. They’d probably go and…

…

Oh god.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.
…

No, no, no, this can’t be right. No. Zombies aren’t real. They just aren’t. They’re Hollywood fiction. Cheap thrill moneymakers, and that’s it. If zombies were real, people would notice them. Dead bodies can’t just shuffle about biting people without attracting attenti- oh shit. Oh shitty shit! The man in the park.

I replayed the scene in my head. It was embarrassing, really. Zombies were the weakest, most easily escapable movie monster around, and I was taken out by a solitary one. Hell, I walked up to it and tried to help. But then, who is on the lookout for zombies! Really! None of the major religions warn you about this. There are no Look Once Look Twice ads concerning the living dead. Living Dead. Whoever coined that term was spot on. I get to live forever, potentially, feeling everything this body, this zombie, does.

Oh crap, Zombie. Brains. Shit!

I snap back to attention, and the body has ambled down out of the cemetery and onto the street. I scan the way ahead, but it is surprisingly empty for this time of day. Suddenly, I spot movement in the alley across the road. Hopefully the zombie hasn’t spotted- no, too late, we’re shuffling straight for it. Oh god, I’m going to eat someone’s brains. I’m going to feel it biting through their skull and eating their brains. I can feel the phantom bile rising in my throat when out of the alley stumbles another zombie. Thank Christ for that. It turns to return to the alley, and my body follows. My eyes adjust to the relative darkness, and I see there are at least five of us in this alley. Well, that explains the empty streets. A zombie pandemic must have broken loose. And why the hell not! Zombies overrunning the free world! And hey, I’m sure if I hang around long enough, I’ll see the rugged hero come blasting through here with his shotgun! Hysterical laughter swirls around my mind. I feel I’m on the verge of losing it for good, when suddenly I lock eyes with one of the zombies ahead. I realize that there’s someone in there, just like me. There’s someone in all these walking corpses, watching through the dead eyes, unable to stop the horror. The thought gives me a perverse kind of comfort. I’m not alone in this nightmare. A good chunk of the population is right here beside me.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming from around the bend in the alley. They are falling to fast to be another zombie. It’s someone running. The others with me here all turn towards the sound, just as a young woman comes tearing around the corner. She collides with the lead zombie and crashes to the ground. She screams, and tries to back up, but it’s too late. They fall on her, and my body lumbers in to joint the feast. I feel myself reach out and grab her arm. It feels so soft, so fragile. I scream in horror as my body wrenches it from its socket and brings it up to its mouth.

Sweetness. A taste beyond any I have ever experienced in my living life. My body tears flesh from the young arm in great hunks and swallows them down, as my mind shudders with sensation. The flesh quenches a burning hunger I had barely noticed, but will now never forget. Finished with the arm, I move in once more to the young girl, who has now stopped moving. She’s dead now, I think, so she is out of pain. Plus, she’ll not be able to come back as a zombie if we pick her bones clean. Really, she’s being spared a horrific fate. I tell myself all this and more, but I know I’m just rationalizing. Want I really want now is more flesh. I want to taste it again. Already I can feel a great hunger returning to my body, and I have to silence it. I reach back down and tear out two great handfuls of flesh when, from behind, I hear a noise familiar to any moviegoer in the last thirty years. The distinctive sound of a shotgun being cocked. Then comes the growl

“Get away from her you bastards!”

We turn, and there is a man standing at the mouth of the alley, holding the menacing looking weapon. My body drops the flesh and starts towards the man; I feel it let out a moan of hunger. The first zombie reaches him and a devastating blast echoes around through the alley. It drops, headless and motionless. Here then, is my salvation. The next zombie falls to the harsh bark of his gun, and the one after. I close in, and relief floods me. After this nightmare, I could care less about an afterlife. I just want the sweet relief of unconsciousness. The man waits till I move right in, and I see the disgust on his face. I realize that part of his friend is still hanging from my mouth. He lifts the gun up point blank to my face and pulls the trigger.

The dry click echoes louder than the gunfire, somehow.

Love at first sighting

2005-10-20T01:20:00.000+10:00

We met on a bus to the cinema.

She was seventeen stories tall, this girl, and as wide as three buses. I was riding on one of the three buses at the time, and I glanced out the back window to see this mountain of woman being dragged along behind. We hit it off at the cinema, and before long we were an item.

We'd spend the weekends lying on the grass, watching the clouds float by, eating entire fields of corn. At night we'd hold each other close, and i'd scale her tremendous body looking for the skeletons of former boyfriends.

Once, I got lost in her vagina for three whole weeks. It was a sticky, pulsating labyrinth, and the small amount of oxygen in the air left me dazed and confused. Nothing in a vagina looks right. The walls glow with a sickly sheen and radiate heat. The floor lends itself to Slip 'N' Slide more than exploration, and the air is enough to curdle the bile in your belly. I survived only by eating an odd brackish moss I discovered growing in there, tasting somewhat like a fish-flavoured biscuit dipped in vinager, and by drinking..., well, i'd rather not think about it.

I'm not claustrophobic in the slightest, and spelunking is a favourite hobby, but I knew I could not last forever in there. Living in a vagina changes a man. You go mad with cabin fever, lashing out at unseen fallopian demons, laughing hysterically one second then curled up on the gooey floor sobbing into your hands the next. While there was no actual physical danger, (apart from a hairless turkey whose nest I stumbled upon in some distant vaginal cul de sac. It protected it's lair quite fiercely, but made no move to pursue me) I was quite sure this vagina would be my final resting place if I did not escape soon.

So I steeled my nerves, filled the pouch I had fashioned from an old piece of uteral lining with provisions, and set off on my own personal Bataan death march.

Eventually I found my way out, exhausted and half-mad, but not before finding the map to the fabled Lost Treasure of LaRue. He was her second husband, and an infamous international sky pirate. His hidden fortune was the stuff of campfire legends, and now it would be mine. I kept the map a secret from her, as I intended to end the relationship a.s.a.p. She was a fine, fine woman, but you try spending a nightmarish month lost in someone's vagina, and see if you can ever look at them the same way again.

While I was not looking forward to descending once more into that Lovecraftian nightmare, the temptation was just too great. Besides, this time I would be prepared. I'd pack food, water, flashlights, and above all, noseplugs. The only difficulty was reaching the hidden treasure cave. It would be a dangerous journey, moreso than my previous jaunt, but I felt I could handle it. The real problem was getting her to let me try.

I figured i'd ask her on my birthday. If a girl won't let you go up the butt on your birthday, she never will.

A Man of Most Unseemly Manners

2005-09-15T02:30:00.000+10:00

The gent in question had been taken into my employ in order to set to rights the state of my garden (which I assure you was most frightful, having spent the better part of the new year abroad).

At noon I retired to the sun lounge in order to rest up fully for the evening's fancy. I had no sooner set myself right on the lounge when the fellow in question intruded upon my relaxation without even the slightest attempt at an excuse-you-do, instead speaking to me as I were one of his peers.

"Hey buddy" he began, in that full mouthed way his kind have "can I get a drink or something? It's damn hot out here"

I very nearly spat out the toffee I had been dutifully sucking! Heavens, I knew better than most the level of barbarism these dark skinned chaps had not yet emerged from, having spent my share of time in some of the unseemlier ale houses in the common end of town, but this really was too much! I mean, it was my own yard, by the Queen's eyes!

"I say!" I exclaimed "I'm not sure how you are used to addressing your brethren, but I am Lord of this house, and when you address me it must begin with 'Sir' if it must begin at all! I have no particular grudge against you and your lot. I know very well just how well you can perform, so long as there is a firm hand on the reins, as it were, but I must impress upon you the fact that I shall not overlook such gaping chasms in your social ettiquette in the future! Now return to your work, put your back into it, and perhaps I will not have to take up words with your Master! Now shoo!"

Well, during my discourse this fellows eyes widened to the most remarkable size. Ghastly, it was. I shan't have liked to seen that prowling towards me over the serengeti plains with a spear in hand. Ghastly!

Nevertheless, my outburst, though fully warranted, was probably quite upsetting for the poor wretch. I fairly thought he must have imagined going to bed without his water that night, though I confess I never intended to talk with his Lord. Still, you can't give these chaps any quarter, lest they forget their proper place.

Imagine my shock then, when anger, not fear, played across his broad face. He rushed forward and grabbed my lapels in a most ungentlemanly manner, hoisting me out of the chair.

"What the fuck did you say? What the fuck did you say?!" he roared. "Oh shit, you gonna pay now, bitch"

I saw that he fully intended to do violence upon my person. Some foolish ass along the chain hadn't broken this wretch in properly, and now I was to suffer the consequences of his lazy hand. Fear not though, for as soon as I had ascertained this beast's intent, I launched into action, and set upon him with my cane. He soon scurried off, clutching his rump and bleching obscenities in what I can only assume is his native gibberish.

Sadly, my favourite bronze cane was bent quite out of shape. Still, a bit of sport in the afternoon works wonders for the digestion. I felt quite vital indeed as I sat back down for my nap. I mean, good show, what!

the Life and Times of George W. Bush.

2005-06-23T02:31:00.000+10:00

People often ask me "Jason, who is this George W. Bush? Who is this figure that sits so loftily above the common man, striking forth with his armies of wroth, choking on mighty steel-forged pretzels?"

Well he is a man, and he is an American. But more than that, he is a Texan. Those unfamiliar with American geography will do well to study the ancient duchy of Texash, within whose lush jungles and rolling fields did live many great beasts, not least of which was the clan Bush.

In the beginning...

So named because of their unique reproduction methods, the Bushes grew (literally) from a small amphibious tribe of swamp jockeys and gnat farmers to become Lords of the steamy basin Tiglerre. They consolidated their power by capturing the central Texash processing plant, needed to convert the toxic gases of the Jumbo Jumbo plants into harmless oxygen. With this ace in their familial hole, the Bushes went on to win the allegiance of the many scattered tribes, through violent threats and acts of great daring. In fact, G.W.'s great uncle Vulcanix is still renowned in song and puppetry after his awe-inspiring daylight ride through the murderous fields of the peanut whales.

So the Bushes grew many in number and volume, and earned their right to walk on two legs, in the fashion of the buzzard. However, things would not remain peaceful for long in their tropical haven. A vicious gang of dust goblins calling themselves the 'Cow Boys' rode in from the north on great wooden sleds drawn by hulking flava beasts. The Cow Boys were so named because of their ritual dress, a warm hat adorned with cow horns, and false udders fashioned from dried lemon husks and scabs. And so the Cow Boys swept into town, bringing with them a great dusty breeze. The Bushes were not afraid of these bandits, for the swamps proved too iresome for their great sleds, and they daren't enter on foot. Disaster struck all the same though, for the dusty winds did clog up the vents in the processing plant, which the Bushes had become lax in cleaning, lazy so they were. When the inevitable explosion came, it rent a massive hole in the earth, draining the swamp of its precious damp. And the fiery shockwave razed the earth of greenery from many thousands of miles, leaving nothing but tumble weed and a delicious smokey BBQ flavour.

The face of Texash was forever change, as was the spelling of its name, all h's being eaten to extinction by the massive bookworms which ruled the sandy wastes. And so the Bus family crawled from beneath the skeletal remains of their manor, standing defiantly against the Sun, whose many-fingered hands had finally found purchase in this land, and swore to climb back to the top of the shitheap and rule forever more.

Part 2 - The Rise of Gorgeous George

Flash forward many generations. The great turmoil of Texas' past has settled, and nearly faded from memory. H's are again plentiful. The Mauradering Cow Boys have mutated into Buffalo, much to their chagrin. And most of the young disbelieve the legends of the elders concerning their fernacious ancestry, preferring instead to ride the long plains on their thoroughbred Segways, tossing pigskins hither and yon.

But one child did listen, and drank deep of his people's history. For he felt in his bones a stong desire to lead, to command, to sit in the big chair at the head of the world and laugh wildly at the Gods. And his name was George Bush.

So young Bush traveled deep into the wilderness, searching for the remains of his ancient land. Days and weeks he traversed the red plains, with nary a bag of Fritos and a big Gulp to feed upon, but his search was in vain. To great was the passage of time, and too many were the miles, so Bush gave up on this quest. He resolved to bring a dog or a helicopter or something next time. He traveled even deeper into the wilderness, searching for the way back, but had the red plain was featureless in all directions, and old man sun, ever the enemy of the Texan, held his girth high over the world for longer than is wont, and so deprived Bush of his guidance.

For eighty weeks Bush wandered lost, both in the desert and his own mind, before finding his way home, and each day the sun dallied longer, taunting Bush with his blinding malice. Yet when he did finally return, the people did not recognize him, for he had aged 56 years.

He never spoke of what he saw during the long hours and long years. Some say he went mad. Others say he burrowed deep into the earth and learned the tongue of all the things that live there. And still others say he broke the greatest taboo of all, and sired a child with his own shadow. It was clear to all, however, that this was a changed man. Behind the leathery skin and wrinkles was a gleam of madness in his eye. A gleam of madness, wearing a fine ebony suit of brilliance. It was clear to all that Bush would not rest until the fate of the world lay within his tortured claw.

Part 3 - The Hill

George set out from his birthranch shortly after, finding no more peace in the dusty plains or smoky mesquite. His sojourn into the badlands left him with far loftier ambitions. Not content with a full jug of steak sauce like his boyhood chums, George hungered for a different sauce. A zesty sauce. The sauce of Kings and Dinosaurs alike; the full-bodied sauce of Power. With a full side of wealth for dipping. So he departed, sniffing back tears as he waved goodbye to his pod-mother. Setting his belt to the North, he started on the long road to destiny.

The days slowly passed. Then the weeks. Then, when enough weeks had passed, a month passed. This is how we record the passage of time in the world of Man. George, who until now had never left the confines of his family land, saw many sights of wonder, and met many strange beings. He saw a man leaping from a rooftop, trying vainly to fly. He saw the sky close its great eye and weep. He saw a boar as large as two boars half its size. He won the heart of a comely young artichoke. He met a man called David who taught him how to weave baskets of bracken, moss, and dreams. He spoke to Long Gary, King of the Ocelots. He drowned in a sea of marbles.

But never once, during all his travels, did he take his eyes off the prize. And eventually, through sweat, tears, perseverance, and a tunnel, he came to his goal: The Hill

Part 4 - The maze of the Senator

George looked out over the valley below him. It was lush, green, filled with wildflowers and kiosks. And there in the centre, standing proud and mighty like an ivory titan, was the temple called Capitol building.

The fields around the temple were bustling with activity. And much more activity than usual, for, unbeknownst to George, today was the day when a new President was to be chosen. All the senators from across the land had shown up for the ceremony, each hoping to become the new King of this land. The grounds were alive with activity. Tents were being erected; the various squires were busy running their various errands, and the senators themselves were preparing for the challenges ahead. Some were lining their bellies with meat and powerful cheeses, to give them fortitude. Others were exercising in the morning sun, steaming and naked. Except the ones doing squat thrusts. They had to wear pants. And yet still more were sparring with the servants, horses, trees and kiosks.

The previous President had died a week ago. Rumours said someone had poisoned his iPod, but this didn't concern the senators, for his entire retinue had already been burnt in the ceremonial chimney, casting a black pall over the valley to signify the start of mourning. But now the smoke had cleared, and it was time to pick a new Lord. The process of selecting the new King was simple. All the senators would compete in three challenges, challenges designed to test their might, cunning, willpower, and mana. The senator who survived was then named King.

And so it was as George strode down the valley, and into the throng. As he made his way to the temple, he drew many a curious and querulous glance, for he was worn and weatherbeaten from the long days on the trail. Yet none dared stop him, for they all marked well the gleam in his eye, and the madness written on his pant. Seeing his fellows so cowed and cowardly, a proud and fearless senator called Hughnormous of Seattle stepped forward, blocking George’s path.

"You must turn back" boomed Hughnormous, "for the temple is closed today. The King is dead, and the time has come for selecting a new ruler. The temple is closed to all but the senators today"

Yet George did not move. A crowd was gathering, eager to see what would transpire between these two imposing figures. George looked into the eyes of Hughnormous, took a deep breath; too deep, in fact, and he had to exhale a bit before talking, and said "I seek to enter the temple, step aside. My name is George, and I would preside over these lands." There followed a second of silence, a stillness of air which typically follows a suitably offensive joke, before it was rent by the roaring laughter of Hughnormous. The crowd, bolstered by Hughnormous' lead, tittered with laughter themselves. George made to move past Hughnormous, but his path was quickly blocked by the man-giant.

"On your way, puffo, before you feel the flat of my blade on the silken curves of your buttock!" Hughnormous snarled at George, baring his teeth in an animalistic display of animosity, like an angry animal angry at another animal, yet still George did not move. Hughnormous bellowed for his sword, a tiny claymore of hideous, compact brutality, when a wizened old man stepped into the circle.

"Wait!" he cried, and moved to George. He leant in close, close enough for George to smell the rank odour of decay and cranberry rising from him like a .5 calibre waft, and examined the trinket around George's neck. George had worn the medallion for years; it was given to him by a talking raven called John Beak. John claimed to be George's lost uncle, changed forever into a raven by the cruel desert witch Ju-Jude. George didn't pay much attention to that, because the raven also claimed to be the frontman for Crowded House, but he did like the medallion, and wore it at all times, even during number twos.

The old man looked at it a moment longer, then thrust it aloft in his rotty paw. "Look, one and all!" he cried "The Golden Bee with Saxophone, the ancient heraldry of the kingdom of Texas! This man is the Texan Senator!" The crowd gasped, and none more so than Hughnormous, who gasped so powerfully that he inhaled a small dog and much loose change. The old man bent before George on one knee, and began to speak. But before he could start, a loud tolling sounded from deep within the Capitol Building. It was the signal for the start of the trials. The senators immediately forgot about the excitement, and begun filing into the halls of the temple. And with them strode George.

He knew that within these walls he would find death or glory, or perhaps both. And also hopefully a toilet.

Part 5 - Bush-league

Deep through the dark stone tunnels wound the Senators, like a giant segmented worm of sweaty determination. And at the very rear was George, the grim caboose on this freight train of heroes. For the first time on his long quest, George was nervous. All the other senators were much bigger than he, well armed and armoured, and with years of practice and preparation for this day. And then there was he, stumbling blindly forward in both physical and metaphorical darkness, gripping like death onto the belt of the senator in front of him. George did not fully realize it, but the veil of doubt had been pulled over his eyes. An ill-fitting cashmere beanie of apprehension, hand knitted by a queer-eyed demon, and until he removed it, his chances of winning through were very slim indeed.

Up ahead the darkness was lifting, and a speck of light began to grow. As they drew nearer, George could make out the high walls surrounding the massive central pit of the stadium. And it was a stadium, naturally, for these types of events were rarely held in conference rooms, theatrettes, or parking lots. The long line filed out, till finally George emerged from the tunnel, awestruck at what he saw.

The stadium, known the country wide as the Colossus Liberté, or Nike Presents the Colossus Liberté, was massive. Bigger than 17 football fields, and indeed with a few football fields scattered throughout and also a hockey rink, it was the ultimate battleground of modern man. American Gladiators would literally shit their pants upon hearing it's name. It was the field upon which men were made, and boys were crushed down into the sod like fleshy nails of living weakness. And it was the ground upon which the fate of the mighty America, and therefore the world, would be decided.

Surrounding the senators, at the base of each wall and high in the rafters, were immense eldritch bonfires of red, blue, and white, filling the sky with their patriotic smoke. The sight of it was enough to make any red-blooded American weep with pride, and not in a gay way. And as they burned with righteous power, they also burned through the veil of doubt covering George's eyes, and parts of his retinas.

Staring deep into the dancing flames, George felt a mighty beast stir within his loins, and his mind was cast back to his fateful passage through the Texan badlands.

He had never told anyone exactly what transpired in the desert, only that he had been bestowed with an epic destiny. By all rights he should have perished in the wastelands. He had gone days without food or liquid, and had collapsed upon a large rock to wait for death. What came instead was his guardian angel. What the Cherokee call the Spirit Guide, what the Germans call Der Leistungsfähige Revisor, and what the Jews have no name for. He appeared to George in the form of a giant flying 10 gallon hat, with a braid of purest nylon. He called to George with the voice of a velvet trumpet, and beckoned him back from the brink of death.

He showed George how to survive in the desert; how to collect water from the belly of a snake, how to harvest moss cheese, and where scorpions hide their honey. The spoke at length, and spake even longer. Once the hat let George fly around on his back for a bit. Finally the hat departed, but not before telling George of his true destiny. And so it was that George survived where no others could, and so it was that he set out toward Capitol Hill with out hesitation, and so it would be that he would survive the trial of the Colossus Liberté!

He turned his face towards the massive stone dais in the centre of the stadium, and saw there a cloaked figure. The other senators had begun to notice this mysterious figure also, and a slowly hush fell over them. Only then did the cloaked stranger rise, and begin to speak

Part 6 – The Stadium

The First Challenge

"Welcome, senators from near and far and Idaho. You have gathered today to decide who alone among you is fit to rule. I shall warn you all now, only one of you will survive the trials. Look deep into yourselves and take measure. If you find yourself lacking, this is your only chance to retreat, and nurse your wounded pride at home in a comfy chair, like the little bitch that you are." At these harsh words, several of the senators ran screaming from the stadium.

"The rest of you shall now divide into teams of five. HUSTLE!" There was a ripple of confusion and panic as the senators tried to get sorted into teams. In the bustle, George wound up on a team with the senators from Washington, Alaska, New York, and inevitably, Hughnormous of Seattle. Hughnormous squinted down at George. "If you should lose this event for us, Tex-ASS, I will be sure to bite your tongue from your face before you die." But visions of his guardian hat were still fresh in Georges mind, and he did not quail. The teams were formed, and the senators turned toward the dais, but it was empty.

"Up here, ladies" called a voice from high above. There, perched upon a wall, was the cloaked MC. "I think I’ll stay up here for this one, if it's all the same to you. New shoes. But don’t worry, I think you'll find this competition will run quite smoothly. The rules are very simple..." And as he dived into an explanation of the game, it became clear to George that they were anything but simple.

Basically, it was an egg and spoon race. But instead of an egg, it was a Bengal tiger, and instead of a spoon, it was a small fibreglass boat, and instead of a race, it was a battle to the death. Victory would be achieved by leading your tiger to the raised stone dais in the centre of the island, and coaxing it into eating the victory steak positioned there. But to do that, you would have to navigate the many obstacles placed along the way, not the least of which were your competitors.

As he was speaking attendants placed small boats along the outskirts of the stadium, each with an angry tiger lashed to the prow. "The contest will begin when I blow this ivory whistle" cried the cloaked man. "Now, I suggest you board your boat with all haste" And as he uttered this last sentence, the stadium began to fill with water. George and his team rushed to the nearest boat.

Now, a tiger isn't the friendliest animals in the best of circumstances, and when chained to a rather cramped little boat, surrounded by strange men and sloshing about on a lake, they become downright narky. This tiger was no exception. It would swipe wildly at anyone in range, baring its impressive fangs and tearing up great splinters of wood with its claws. George heard a scream behind him, and turned to see an unlucky senator step too close to his tiger and get horrifically disemboweled. This would take some cunning. Remembering his travels across America, and his time spent with the fierce Ocelots, George formulated a plan.

"Quick" he began "everyone spit in its eyes. Jungle cats are very strict about ocular hygiene, and will pause to clean its face!" Without even waiting to hear their responses, George started hocking up an award winning loogie. The senator from New York, well accustomed to spitting on things, followed suit. They both spat their gobs of saliva straight into the tiger’s eyes, and sure enough, it paused to clean them. Hughnormous, skeptical but no fool, took advantage of this opening, and leapt at the beast, tackling it to the decking. He raised a mighty gauntlet to crush the lion's skull, when George stopped him. "No, we need it alive to win the contest!" Hughnormous grunted his assent, and the team climbed into the boat. Not a moment to soon either, as the water was waist deep by now.

In another minute, the stadium was full. Of the nine teams, only seven had made it into their boats, and only three completely intact. The others were either mauled or drowned to death. The surviving teams waited with baited breath, each team filling as many of the oars as they could. Hughnormous, being the strongest senator in the team, remained heaped on the tiger, with George and the other four each manning an oar. All was silent. Then, a shrill whistle pierced the air, and the contest proper was underway.

George's team made a beeline for the dais, which had risen to the appropriate height to form a small stone island in the centre of the stadium. Before they had gotten far, a tremendous rumbling shook the boat, and an imposing peak jutted from the water in front of them. The team strained at the oars, and managed to halt their progress just before crashing into it. On top the island were several steel caricatures of monkeys holding tiny coconuts in their paws. One monkey tossed his toward the boat, narrowly missing the hull. From the water where it landed came a resounding boom. "Holy Jesus!" cried the Alaskan senator "Explod-e-nuts! Hard-a port!" The crew leapt into action, rowing around the island at all speed while Hughnormous swatted at the incoming explosives with his one free hand. The central island was again in sight, and onward they rowed.

George looked about at the pandemonium filling the stadium. He saw boats burning, large mechanical sea monsters thrashing others into pieces, and men being gored in the water by monstrous swordfishes. But none were so close to the island as they, and hope began to well in his heart. Then came the terrific jolt as they were rammed by another vehicle.

They opposing team crashed straight into them, their prow puncturing the side of George’s craft. Before George could react, the tiger from the opposing boat leapt into their hull, and started attacking Hughnormous, who was struggling to keep his own tiger at bay. Things were going tits up quickly, and George had to think fast. He hoisted his oar from the water and leapt into the enemy boat. Wielding the oar like a madman, he blindsided one senator, knocking him overboard. That left three. The two on the aft oars were still rowing for all they were worth, and so hadn't noticed him leaping aboard. The third, the miraculous tiger wrangler from Wyoming, snarled at George, and commanded his tiger back into their boat to attack. Freed from attack, Hughnormous ordered his boat onward, favouring George with a friendly wave as they shoved off.

Desperate, George tried the only gamble he could think of. Hefting the oar like a lance, he waited for the tiger to roar. And tigers being tigers, it gladly obliged. Just as it started to let for its blood-curdling growl, George rammed the oar down its throat, angling it downward as he did so, and vaulted off the boat, narrowly catching the keel of his own. Quickly he dragged himself over the edge, and fell gasping to the deck.

They powered the last hundred metres to the island with such speed that they very nearly bashed themselves to bits upon its stony surface. Snapping the binding that held the tiger to the boat, they led it off and towards the centre of the dais, where it gladly devoured the bloody victory steak. No sooner had it done so than the whistle sounded again, and the monsters vanished below the water, leaving a still lake about them. "Congratulations!" called the cloaked man from his high vantage. "You will now proceed to the second round!" As the water began to recede, and with it the dais, the senators shook each others hands and clapped each others backs. Except George, who asked "And what of the other competitors?"

"What other competitors?" replied the cloaked man, and George looked around to see that they indeed were the only survivors of round one. "I wouldn't spare them too much thought" continued the MC "for now you face round two" The dais had sunk back to its original height, and the senators jumped off onto the now soggy ground. "You fared well against the lake, but how will you do against the Hydra?!"

At the far end of the stadium a large portcullis began to open, and from within its shadows came a horrible din

The Second Challenge

The Hydra, as we all know, is a mythical beast with many reptilian heads. But very few realize that it was once more than mythical. It was real.

Alas, it was also damn tasty, and had thus been hunted into extinction. And so the beast that emerged from the darkness and into the nightmares of our surviving senators was not the incredible beast of legend, but rather a feral dog with snakes taped to it.

The senators stared dumbfounded at this frothing, thrashing beast with confusion, and obvious disgust. It smelled quite potent, what with some of the snakes having died the previous day. "Surely you jest!" cried Hughnormous "This is the terrifying second challenge? A dog?"

"A dog with snakes on!" screamed the cloaked man. He had not been looking forward to this event. Tradition demanded the contestants battle a hydra, or the nearest thing to it. Normally they are able to scour the land and dig up some hideous mutated beast to battle the hopeful kings, but this year there had been budget cutbacks.

"Beware his many fanged bite, and his deadly poison" said the cloaked man. "For all who enter the whirlwind of fangs will surely perish in a hellish agony of fevered nightmares. Liquid madness drips from the almost-dozen maws of the Hydra, like a leaky faucet of pure distilled evil! So step forward young Senators, and face this beast, if ye DARE"

Hughnormous picked up an oar, strode over toward the seething beast, and clubbed its skull in. "Done" he exclaimed jovially.

The Final Challenge

A grinding of stone came from the dais. The senators turned to see five keen swords rise up from its depths, hilts gleaming in the light. The cloaked man spoke.

"The final test is quite simple, yet quite elegant, and damn fun to watch. Simply, you must kill each other. Go."

The senators stood, dumbfounded for a moment, then scrambled towards the dais, and the waiting swords. George, being more nimble than the rest, reached the dais first, and ripped a sword free. Then, being a complete nonce, jumped down and allowed the other a chance to reach their weapons. Hughnormous was not so forgiving, and succeeded in slicing the throats of the New York and Utah senators as they struggled to free their weapons. The Alaskan senator grabbed his sword in the confusion and leapt off, heading straight toward George.

"That monster is too much for either of us" he cried, pointing at Hughnormous, "let us combine forces to kill him" George, never having used a sword in his life, readily agreed. Hughnormous squared up to both of them. "Two at once, eh? That’s cool; the pain train has room for two, so climb aboard!" George nodded at the Alaskan, and together they rushed Hughnormous.

Unfortunately, Hughnormous was a far superior swordsman. As they rushed in, he swatted the Alaskan's sword aside with his own, whilst simultaneously delivering a brutal kick to George's midsection, sending George sprawling to the ground. As he tried in vain to catch his wind, George saw Hughnormous cut down the Alaskan with ease. Then he turned, and started advancing on George. In a panic, George started crawling away, scrabbling across the stadium ground on his ass, unable to take his eyes of his approaching doom. Hughnormous saw this, and roared with laughter

"Where are you going, little man? You had a lovely stay in Asskick-ville, but now it's time for your connecting flight to DEATH, courtesy of the good people at Pain Am Airlines!"

"I thought you were the Pain Train" stammered George.

"I AM MANY MODES OF PAIN TRANSPORT!" screamed Hughnormous "And you will ride them all, free of charge!" And with that, he raised his sword to cut George down.

Just then George felt a hot pain in his hand. He looked down, and saw that he had been bitten by one of the snakes attached to the "Hydra". Fast as lighting, he grabbed the snake's head, and swung the entire carcass of writhing reptiles over his head and into the face of Hughnormous. Hughnormous screamed, and tried to grapple with the many biting heads of the foul corpse. George seized the fallen sword from the ground, reversed his grip on it, and drove it straight into Hughnormous' chest, proving again the old adage that the quickest way to a man's heart is through his sternum.

Hughnormous thrashed for an instant, then toppled backwards onto the ground.

Standing over his corpse, breathing raggedly, George became aware of a faint clapping. He turned to the dais. There he saw the cloaked man, sitting casually on its edge, affording him the politest of golf claps. "So shines a good deed in a weary world. Congratulations, George."

"How do you know my name?" asked George, as he stepped toward the cloaked figure.

"I'm surprised you didn't recognize my voice. Ah well, it has been a long while since we last met." George, overcome with curiosity ran the last few paces and ripped the cloak from the mysterious figure. And there, shining in his tearful eyes, was his guardian spirit.

"George, my boy, you won! You did it! You did it! I knew you would; I just knew you would. Oh, George, forgive me for putting you through this. Please, forgive me." The hat flew in close and hugged George. And George hugged right back.

And for the first time in memory, George felt at peace. He had finally reached his destiny.

Who you gonna call?

2005-06-16T02:43:00.000+10:00

It was my close friend's birthday, and that is the only reason I was in the club.

Normally I wouldn't set foot in a hole like that, but the powers granted to the Birthday Boy are not easily resisted. He himself was lured along by a cheap shiny miniskirt that was wrapped around a cigarette. There may have been a girl somewhere in between, but I was fairly buzzed from a long afternoon at the pub, and didn't take much notice.

We arrived at the club, a cheap faux-modernist affair called Iso-66, or something equally inexplicable. Drunk though I was, I still wondered what sort of being could be fooled by such blatantly manufactured Trend into thinking this was a "place to be". As we strolled up through the queue, my question was answered.

The line was a shuffling behemoth of short skirts, tittering laughs, and far too much eyeliner. Fresh out of highschool, or very nearly, and looking for some cheap thrills on the dancefloor, these girls were the bread and butter of the nightclub industry. And as the saying goes, where there's smoke, there's fire. And sure enough, there were handfuls of gel-topped punks in up market wifebeaters scattered throughout the line, each with an unmistakable gleam in his roving eyes.

I knew instantly then what the club inside would be like, having visited my fair share during the precious years at the end of the 'teens, and was gripped with a sudden powerful urge to flee. I turned to my friend with a passable excuse ready and loaded, when he grabbed my shirt and we were sucked into the club. Apparently the shiny miniskirt knew someone who knew someone, and we were fast-tracked into the bass-fuzz gloom.

I was immediately assaulted by a powerful wave of Nightclub Musk. The heady mix of sweat, smoke, and stale vomit which is the staple of cheap clubs everywhere. We moved to a small booth in the far corner of the room, and my ass had just reached seat when the birthday boy was peeled away onto the dancefloor by the tinsel tart. Her pug-like friend made uneasy eye contact with me, and seemed on the verge of speaking, before she correctly identified my mood and fled for the relative safety of the dancefloor.

I was trying to decide between ordering a drink and dashing for the door when my bladder chimed in with a third, more imperative option. I made the error of opening the floodgates before we left the pub, and now I would pay for that mistake.

I stumbled my way into the bathroom, and unloaded at the urinal wall. It was one of the old school toilet urinals, a big aluminium wall with water running down it, built on the theory that even an inebriated blind guy with no hands can piss up against a wall. The slick floor says otherwise, but I digress. So I’m peeing at the wall, and I catch sight of the guy next to me. He's weaving like a punch drunk boxer, and from the way his flow is oscillating back and forth along the wall you'd think we were out to sea.

Normally I keep to myself in public toilets. When I’m sufficiently tipsy, however, I like to whistle, sing, and occasionally make small talk. Dreadful bathroom etiquette, I know, but a man on the bottle is no man at all, as my father used to say. Anyway, this guy is waving his golden laser back and forth, building up a decent rhythm. I notice this, and instantly a terribly witty remark jumps to mind. I wait until he's swinging back in my direction, swing my own whiz in his direction, then scream "DON'T CROSS THE STREAMS!"

Hilarious, I know.

Apparently I yelled it a little too loudly though. The guy is completely startled, and damn near falls back onto the tiles. In his surprise he let go of the lizard, which proceeded to flop about somewhat wildly, spraying piss all over the bottom of his trousers. He turns on me, eyes bugging like a madman, and screams "WHAT THE FUCK?!" I feebly respond "Y'know man, Ghostbusters. Don't cross the streams!" He is less than amused. He's starting to flip out, and he begins to wet his pant legs down at the sink.

At this point, I probably could have zipped up and escaped, but fate stepped in.
I've always had a hard time controlling my laughter. When I’m placed in a serious or silent situation, it'll take no more than three minutes for some inappropriate thought to occur. Typically, it's "Oh man, if you laughed now you'd be in the shit so bad." Then BAM, I start giggling. I try to hold it in, but the thought of laughing out loud fuels itself, a horrible cycle of positive reinforcement. And before I can help it, I’m shaking with laughter.

Well sure enough, I start thinking "Heh, that guy just peed all over his pants." And sure enough, I start giggling. In my drunken state, trying to hold back the laughter is like trying to hold water in your hands. I start chuckling to myself, and I hear my bathroom buddy cry "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LAUGHING AT?!" I'm deep in the shit now, and I know it, so I zip up and turn to him, desperately thinking of an excuse, a plea. He's going red in the face now, and advancing upon me in a storm of vulgarities. But the best I can manage is a timid "Dude, relax" which is clearly far worse than saying nothing.

He starts pushing me. Small pushes, intended as a show of aggression rather than a physical attack. Schoolyard pushes. Now I’m a very non-aggressive guy. I've never been in a fight my whole life, and never felt the urge too. But this guy is right in my face, pushing me around and hurling abuse at me. I feel I should do something, and not just let this ass walk all over me. After all, he was about my size, and physically non-threatening. So I risk my luck with a small push back. This catches him off guard; so far I’ve been as reactive as a shop-front dummy. So he says "You wanna try it, tough guy" and pushes me with considerably more force than before.

I've seen enough meatheads do this dance over the years to know the steps pretty well. The pushing escalates for a small while, then sinks back down and we go our separate ways. An aggression Bell curve. So I come back with a "Just back off, man" and an upscale push of my own. Again, fate steps forward.

During the course of this short exchange, we've maneuvered in a slow waltz around the bathroom, and have ended up with his back towards the urinal wall. My short push sends him back only a few steps, but sadly, there were less than a few steps of room behind him.

His heel catches on the tile dais that fronts the urinal. Again, he was caught off guard, and goes flying ass first into the urinal, back pressed against the wall, water streaming down over his head. He looks slightly stunned, unsure of what just happened, and remains seated. Whatever machismo I posses evaporates, and I hightail it out of the bathroom.

I make a beeline for the dancefloor, and soon find my friend. I grab his arm and tell him we've got to split, but he has a solid lay with the bar trash, and is hesitant to leave. The issue is quickly decided for us however, as two hefty bouncers close in and "escort" us out of the club.

We're very nearly tossed out onto the street. My friend turns to the bouncers and inquires as to what the fuck is going on, and the bouncer tells me that the guy in the toilet was the house DJ. As they turned to re-enter the club, one of the bouncers, a large Samoan man, says to me "Personally mate, I think he's a dick. Nice one"

My friend was suitably peeved at missing out on a bit of rumpy pumpy, but cheers up remarkably when I tell him my story. Overall, I say the night was stunning success.

Mix bag

2005-05-27T02:55:00.000+10:00

It was 7am, and had been for several hours now. My body was covered in a slick sheen of sweat from my exertions. They say getting a kangaroo to swallow a pill is hard, but it's nowhere near as hard as a kangaroo who's just swallowed a pill. Nevertheless, I will get these kangaroos to mate with sheep.

People said I was mad when I proposed my plan. Sheep and kangaroos cannot breed they said. What you're doing is an abomination they said. My god, how old is that joke, they said. But I ignored them all. I'm no inverse floater, destined to sink into obscurity. I was a plastic bag in an updraft, a modern day Icarus, a great glass elevator! I was going to rise to such heights as to blind all those who looked on. I was going to pierce through the clouds of obscurity and soar to a place where angels fear to dance. And before I fell, I would spit in the eye of God and call out my name.

How could I be so confidant, you ask? Well, it so happens that I know a secret. The secret of reproduction. Doctors, Quacks, and Medicine men will talk into the wee hours about bio-rhythms, fertility, and 'erbal remedies. This is all bunk, naturally. The real secret is rap. The music and movement of Rap.

Surprised? You shouldn't be. Why, just look at the tenacity of the negro. His kind have spread and flourished in abundance. In a few short decades he has gone from a mythical half-existence, liked the Jackalope or Chupacabra, to dominating our sports and entertainment arenas. And what is the single common thread between all "black" people, regardless of wealth, status, or education? Rap. The negro predisposition towards rap is also the key to his abundant growth. It was this power which I intended to harness in order to see my blashpemy to light.

And so it was that I opened the gate to the sheep pen, and herded them forward. While hesitant to approach each other, the sheep and kangaroos were not aggressive. The time was ripe.

I stood on the small stage at the fore of the mixed pen, and surveyed my crowd. The sheep were milling about, with nowt but a quiet bleat among them. On the other side, my kangaroo sires were standing to attention, as it were. Time to work the magic. The stage lights dimmed, and the overheads flared deep reds and purples. I began.

Cunning rhymes and devilish schemes poured forth from my lips like a great lyrical flood. It nourished my listeners, starved as they were for the beat, then slowly it built up, overwhelming them in powerful waves of simile and metaphor. The music smothered them, filling their bodies and then replacing them, a powerful lyrical osmosis.

As I wove my words of life and lust, I saw one of the sheep raise it's head in dawning comprehension. Slowly, so slowly, it turned its gaze from the stage to one of the male roos. I smiled slightly, and let the words flow. Tonight there would be love.

Tomorrow, there would be the world.

Please, no coin

2005-05-24T19:34:00.000+10:00

Today I went to a cafe for lunch. The waiter told me his name was Emmanuel, and that he knew all about todays specials, if only we would ask.

Emmanuel struck as the kind of fruit I didnt want to touch; a sour beast who yearns powerfully for human contact. His very countenence sickened me, so I dissmissed him with nothing but an order for a tall glass o' lemonade.

Keen to get my hooks into this broad before Emmanuel returned with his sunday mince, I asked her about her job. A predictable opening, I know, but a handy one nonetheless. She told me she sold haircuts to unstable women. I have always been disgusted by the barber, but this girl had gams up the yuiyang, and so I held my tongue.

We chatted over our meals, and for about half an our afterwards, each nursing an expresso. I hated expressos and the people who drank them, but this girl had ta-ta's like a 5 star hotel, sans mints, so I digressed.

She told me of her fondness for children, and her involvement in local youth groups. My predjudices against her were mounting, and would soon overwhelm the inviting prospect of nude wrasslin. I resolved to end this discussion and progress to the bedroom post-haste.

I paid the bill with my credit card. Being of the fairer sex, this impression of careless wealth impressed her, and no doubt loosened her gully. All the better for me.

As we exited the restaurant she stopped to drop some change in the plastic guide dog perched next to the register. It was then that I knew this was a lost cause. Feigning tiredness, I slipped away into the night, fully intending to call Madame Lui for some coital relief.

It occurs to me, and not for the first time, that escorts are both more convenient, and more accessible, than real women.

I should probably worry for the future of the species, but then I remember that 'crazy frog' ringtone, and suddenly my whore seems like a sound investment.

Barbiturate salad

2005-04-04T02:17:00.000+10:00

I got punched in the knees by a Turkish sailor the other day.

I was minding my own business, riding the rail, when a hefty bearded man with stubby little legs sat down next to me. It was unpleasant, and a little disturbing, seeing as the carriage was nearly empty. He turned his head toward me and I saw the mad gleam in his eyes, like a hungry seagull, and he told me he was looking for a man named Crisp. I told him I hadn't seen him, and suddenly I felt a blade pressed under my chin.

"Listen you little puke" he grunted "I didn't tell you what he looked like, so how do you know you haven't seen him?"

He held me with those mad eyes for a moment longer, and I knew the suffering of a lonely chip on the beach, then he relaxed, folded in the blade of his knife and stashed it back in his beard. He unfurled a small dirty sack filled with bits, and began to tell me his tale.

Apparently he was a sailor in the Turkish Armada. One day he recieved a letter from home. His younger sister had run off to marry a man named Crisp. Crisp was a t-shirt mogul from England, and had steadily wooed this man's sister with expensive dinners and also a shirt which read "GLAMOUR PUSS" in glitter on the chest. But this Crisp was a bad sort. Prone to massively violent tempers, he would come home stinking of wine and powerful cheese, and would reel about wildly in the hotel room, smashing windows and records. Not records like in the guiness book, but vinyl records. Except once when he threw a bag of geese into the pool, winning the world record for Loudest Pool.

But his sister was dazed by the jetsetting lifestyle Crisp offered, and so agreed to run away with him. Her parents tried to stop her by locking her in her bedroom, located on the first floor of their house. They locked the windows too. So late one night, she cut a hole in the wall using a knife she had made from her own teeth and sharpened on a lathe made from her own femur.

And so she fled, and this fellow had been pursuing his sister across the globe, finally tracking her to Australia. Apparently some Street Urchin in India saw her buying a guidebook to Ayers Rock, and remembered her distinctive tattoo and black hair. I asked why he thought this train would take him to Crisp and his sister. He told me to look around at the fellow passengers. Sure enough, almost half had poorly made novelty t-shirts exclaiming thier fondess for breasts, or close association with Stupid. Now I recalled that, with each stop, the number of passengers with these shirts had been steadily increasing. We were nearing the epicentre of Crisp's operations.

So moved was I by his tale that I decided then and there to join his quest to save his sister. He grabbed my hand, looked deep into my eyes, his own starting to fill with tears, and yelled "APRIL FOOLS!" He roared with laughter and started slapping his thighs, till I pointed out that it was April 3rd. His eyes turned on me then, narrowing sharply and causing a small brown goblin to set up shop in my pants. Then he sucker punched me in the knee.

He got off at the next stop, and stopped to wave goodbye from the platform. For some reason, I waved back.

I hate the train.

The Adventures of Pecos the Grasshopper

2005-04-01T23:47:00.000+10:00

Pecos was the Grasshopper Chief. He won that position by travelling across the country, seeding the fields with mulberry trees. He rode around on a magic bottle that was given to him by the Lemon Goblins. The bottle could travel twice the speed of a dandelion in the breeze.

Pecos travelled around on his magic bottle, picking up strays and hitchhikers, like Tiny Andy Beetle, the small andy beetle. An andy beetle lives in the bark of a dog. Also they found Jeremy Jeremy, the spiderkin who couldn't spin web. He was outcast from his home for raping a smaller spider. They all travelled around on the magic bottle, which Pecos dubbed The Stately Zoomer, seeding mulberries and befriending small children. Sometimes they broke into houses and watched television.

Once they found an old windmill. The miller had died trying to grind some bones to make bread. The local kids all thought he was mad, but that was because they'd never tasted toasted bone sarnies. So Pecos and his team tricked a Lonely Mule into dragging the miller out into the field, and they all buried him using their tiny paws as shovels. It took a year and a day, but in the end, the miller was a proper ten feet underground, and a large mulberry tree marks his grave. It is said the miller's ghost is extremely proud of his mulberry hat, and spits into the roots to help it grow the sweetest berries in all the province.

Life onboard the Mighty Zoomer was peaceful, and it wasn't long before one of the crew was expecting. Margarite the fly was swollen with childe, yet no one onboard was willing to step forward as the father. This is because Margarite was terrible ugly. Arguments over the hideous spawn grew more and more terse until one morning a sword fight broke out between Tiny Andy and Gushopper. Gushopper was a cicada who dreamt of being a grasshopper, much like eminem dreams of black people. Eventually wise Pecos had to intervene. He sat all night long, thinking of a plan. He didn't own an iPod, so he made the crew sing to him. Eventually he thought up a cunning solution. He got Margarite to sit in a puzzle box, which is like the box a magician uses to saw a woman in half, only with her naked body hanging out from waist down. It was so named because it was a puzzle how he managed to talk her into it. Pecos knew that it took a special breed of pervert to get with a crusty fly like Margarite, so he lined up the crew, and one by one they would penetrate Margarite, until the guilty gasp of pleasure gave away the culprit.

First up was Andy. "Oh no" he cried immediately, "It's like a sandpaper breeze in there"

Next was Jeremy Jeremy. "Urk!" he exclaimed, "I felt like I was drowning in a quarry."

Gushopper went next. "GOSH!" he cried, "I just shook hands with the devil, and I think he's out of toilet paper"

And so they went, one by one, until the last man standing was Pecos himself. He was, naturally, the father, but had banked on having more than one filthy perv on board. As he stepped up to the plate he thought quickly, and, using his sleight of hand skills, he donned a condom, thus depriving the act of any possible pleasure (right guys? YEAH!).

"O willikers!" he shammed "It feels really wrong, like a custard aeroplane!"

Naturally the crew was flummoxed, and turned to Pecos. "Obviously" he began, "Margarite has been visiting Johns on the side". The crew was furious, for whores in those days were reviled well and proper. "The only gentlemanly thing left to do is to stone this bitch to death" The crew searched the ship, finding only three stones. These they placed in the puzzle box with Margarite, and they dropped the whole lot in the next dirty puddle they passed.

Unknown to them, Margarite's child survived, and crawled from the lifeless womb cold and angry. Thus, the mosquito was born.

The sea is an ass, a freakin' ass I say!

2005-03-17T00:52:00.000+10:00

I wrote a 1500 page biography of Kelp, charting it's rise to prominence among nautical weeds, but before it could be released my publisher was sued into insolvency by a family of Baleen whales.

This weekend I decided to take a trip to the seaside. Apparently "the seaside" isn't a good enough descriptor, and my pal Jeremy got lost. Undaunted, I set about creating my own beach fun. A quick dip was completely out of the question, what with my fear of Squids and their extended family. It was going to be sand all the way!

I concentrated my efforts on creating a hermit crab ranch. Somewhat more spry than I imagined, the crabs easily scaled my two-inch sand fence. After a few mis-starts and a significant budget increase, I overcame that little problem, and got down to some serious crab farming. I had twenty thousand head of cattle and was still trying to figure out how to milk them when my entire stock was rustled by a bunch of kids with shovels. Unfortunately, i'd left my shooting irons in the car, and the dastards got away with it. I was lucky it happened when it did, I guess, before i'd taken a wife and raised some little 'uns.

After that emotional sandstorm (pun intended; failed) I decided to build a festive Sandman, but I kept falling asleep before I could finish.

Finally I decided it was time to call it quits. The beach had bested me once again, and it was time to return home and prepare for the inevitable drug-fuelled knife attack from Jeremy. He really isn't doing to well these days, and I must remember to ask for my door key back. As I drove home, I reflected upon the long deep that is the ocean. In it's depths live such monsters as to make a grown man piss his bed at night, yet we flock to its shore in droves, seeking fun and frivolity.

It is water, the giver of life, but horribly twisted. It is the Mr Hyde to the lake, to the river. It is the salty nemesis who beckons with one hand and sharpens the claws on the other. It is also really cold.

Paper beats logic

2005-03-01T16:01:00.000+10:00

I was pretty much guaranteed to win the local robot bi-elections until Stephen Hawking had someone throw his hat into the ring for him.

It's wednesday night, and i'm lying in bed trying to sleep, but the family of robots next door are making a tremendous racket. They moved in three weeks ago, and now I yearn for the days of the shiftless rastafarian tribe that burrowed in several years ago.

I went over there to have a word with the father, PERTURBOTRON, but he wasn't making a lick of sense. All those flashing lights on his face really make it hard to concentrate. I resolved to call the police and let them deal with it. Four hours later and the seige still hasn't lifted. The police have shown remarkable courage, but that is small defence against gleaming metal claws and concentrated acid jets.

I knew from the start these mechanical horrors would be bad news. Still, I went over there with a traditional Greeting Egg, nicely wrapped, in an effort to overcome my inbred fear of soulless monstrosities. At the door I was greeted by the younger sibling, Anne. She was essentially a vast drilling machine on treads. I caught the look of disgust mere nanoseconds after it played across my face, and resumed my friendly, winsome smile.
"Hi there little girl. I'm your next-door neighbour, and I was wondering if your parents were home?"
She replied with a piercing metal shriek and disappeared, only to be replaced by her dad PERTURBOTRON, who proceeded to project my greatest fears into high definition rainbow of terror. Needless to say, I ran as fast as I could, screaming like a banshee and barely able to see through the tears. But not before giving Mr TRON his Greeting Egg. After all, good manners don't cost a thing.

So I lie here listening to the drone of police helicopters closing in on the house next door. As I reflect upon my short time with robot neighbours, I realize that we're not so different. Sure, I may spend my Sundays watching TV and casually swearing rather than drilling into the Earth's core to harvest precious super-minerals, but in the end, we're all just living day to day, making do with what God/Sony gave us.

It's my life's ambition to write a James Bond theme

2004-10-06T02:43:00.000+10:00

Theme from The Golden Spy with a Gun

If you're out to have some fun

Beware of the spy

The Golden Spy with a Gun

He'll kill your fuuuuun

With a bullet from his Guuuuuuuun

He's made of solid gold

He lives underwater

He'll steal your secret heart

Then do it with your daughter

If you're going to go for a run

Why not ask the spy

The Golden Spy with a Gun

He'll go for a ruuuun

And show you that Guuuuuun

He carries a nifty gun

It's only made of base metals

He skilled with it's use

He shoot bees from flower petals!

If you're going to eat some bun

Can you fetch the spy

The Golden Spy with a Gun

He'll eat your buuuun

Then shoot you with his Guuuuuun

Oh watch out for that Guuuuun

Held by the Golden Spy

Beware that Guuuuuuun

And you might not diiiiiiiiie

Die by the Spyyyyyyyy

The Golden Spy with a Guuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuun

Sexy Misadventures

2004-10-05T01:28:00.000+10:00

I had really bad nasal congestion the other day, so I went to the doctor to see if he could fix it. He's a large, scottish doctor, with a big red beard and an almost cliched scottish accent. His bedside manner is very good, and he always manages to put me at ease, even when I'm wearing those awful loose fitting gowns.

So I explain my problem, and he gives me a quick once over, and decides to give me some pills. I have two, as he recommended, and washed them down with a can of lemonade, which his nurse was kind enough to fetch me. He then explains that the pills take half an hour to work, and he'd like me to wait around, so he can see if it helps. So he ushers me into his little staff room, where there's a TV and a comfy chair. I settle in, and flick on the tv.

I hadn't been in there more than a minute or two when i noticed there was a porno sitting ejected in the VCR attached to the TV. Being a man, I was naturally curious to see whatit was like, so I flicked it on. Fittingly, it was a sexy nurse tape, and nothing I hadn't seen before. I was just about to flick it off when I noticed the primary female star was the actual nurse from this office. She is quite attractive, but she always seemed so nice and friendly, i'd never have guessed she was moonlighting as a porn star. So I keep watching, and soon my eyes are agog at the things this friendly nurse is doing. The room in the video is gradually filling up with more men, and yet she manages to keep them all busy, like a skilled juggler of human desire.

Now, seeing this wholesome-seeming nurse perform a myriad of mind-boggling sexual stunts, all the while knowing she was no more than 10 metres away, has gotten me quite excited, and before long there was a tent pitched in my lap that would've earned me a merit badge from the Scouts. I know my Doctor won't be back for a good 20 minutes, and I was positive that I could be home and hosed in under a minute, so I think 'What the hell', and I start unzipping my pants.

Just as I get my Tiny Dancer out from his den, the door bursts open, and in rushes the good Doctor. I start to stammer out an apology, but before the first few syllables can leave my mouth, he lauches head-first into my lap, wraps his gob around my phallus, and blows on it like he was Dizzy Gillespie. And as he plays his painful tune, and enourmous gob of crusty snot comes flying out of my nose, and, for the first time in weeks, I can breathe through my nose again.

The naughty nurse enters soon after with a much needed cup of tea, and it is over the tea that the doctor explains that it is an old Scottish remedy for blocked noses. I left the Doctor with three bits of valuable information that day, and, in descending order of importance, they were:

1. The reason Scottish people wear kilts
2. The name of a new GP.
3. His nurse's phone number.

Penmanship counts

2004-10-02T18:23:00.000+10:00

I rate the previous test a "B".
Satisfactory, but without pizazz.

This is a test.

2004-10-02T18:15:00.000+10:00

This is only a test