And it doubles as poetry. It is as follows:
He was like 'lol'
And I was like 'roftlol'
So he was like 'ftw'
So I was like 'ftmfw'
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Murder on the Cricket Pitch, Chapter I
Arthur Penningham was a man who enjoyed cricket. He had, at one point, played professionally with a plethora of competitors until a heart condition forced him to retire his bat and ball, becoming merely a spectator to the game he loved. Many days for Arthur Penningham were spent sitting alone on the cricket pitch, fondling the memories of his active days of good sport.
Lying on the pitch in a starry night, Arthur whistled a song to himself, unaware of being watched. The cricket pitch he was resting against was the last pitch in which he’d won a match, his favourite memory before being diagnosed with tachycardia. His heart prevented him from excessive running, heavy lifting or drinking shots of whisky. Arthur mainly missed gulping shots of whisky, a tradition indiscriminate of winning or losing the game.
Arthur felt a massive pain explode in the back of his head and then awoke with his body paralysed, right up to his tongue. His eyes darted around until they latched upon a man donned in a black cricket uniform, including head gear to obscure his face. However, Arthur could see the skin of this man glow slightly under the netting, a fiendish yellow. Attempting to yell brought no sound, to which Arthur’s assailant laughed menacingly, with a deep, ringing chuckle.
“Argh” Arthur managed to get out with only his throat, “argh, argh urgh”
“I’m going to guess you said something along the lines of ‘who are you?’ and to tell you the truth, I’m your killer” the man in black gear said, waving a well-knocked, dark blue cricket bat, a trademark which Arthur recognised instantly, “because I am the ghost of Jacob Rankin and this, is my attacking shot”
Lee Granger was no stranger to the world of private detectives, requiring their services to prove his wife’s affair, and the recovery of his possessions during a break-in. However, with his current case he had been turned down by every other private detective, with only a referral to Degrassi & Sharpe in the shape of a business card, embedded with a logo and phone number. With options falling apart, Granger found a phone box and slid in two silver coins and punched in the digits.
“ Degrassi & Sharpe?” Granger said into the receiver.
“Yes” an electronically filtered voice replied, “who is this?”
“My name is Lee Granger, I have a case for you” Lee said, “can I meet you? I’d rather discuss this face-to-face”
There was a pause, “yes, the headquarters is at 112 Argyle Street, could you appear at eight o’clock tonight?”
“Yes” Granger said, and as soon as he had, the other line had hung up. With forced determination, he passed the office at 112 Argyle Street and with great reluctance, entered the office of the Degrassi & Sharpe at exactly eight o’clock.
The door to their office was ajar so Granger let himself in. He had only met private detectives at public meeting places, cafes, libraries, he had never set foot into the office of a PI and his conceptions came substantially from fiction he had read or movies he had watched. He had expected venetian blinds, several file cabinets, a ceiling fan sluggishly rotating and a single desk. The room he had walked into was rather sparse of any furniture, with two computers set up on boxes. A stack of plastic chairs hid in a corner, as if cowering from anyone who might use them. Alone in this Zen-like room, Granger slipped off his tweed overcoat and slung it over his figure with the sleeves hanging loose like a Chicago gangster at rest. He stood for ten minutes patiently in the office until finally a voice broke the silence.
“Name?” the familiar electronic voice said, seemingly omniscient.
“Lee Granger”
“Unarmed?”
“Yes”
Granger turned his head as he heard footsteps. However, the moment his head returned to it’s normal position he was facing two men, one with a muscular appearance and the other with a stick-like figure, in aviators, vintage tuxedos and overcoats, even more unlike the private detectives Granger had seen on television.
“Sorry about the wait” said the stick-like one in a New Jersey accent, “we had to see if you’d stay. Since you were willing to wait for ten minutes, this is obviously important to you at least”
The muscular figure unstacked three chairs and handed one to Granger and another to his associate, “take a seat Lee Granger. My name is Noel Degrassi, this is Damocles Sharpe. Explain your case”
As Granger positioned himself, he noticed that Sharpe sat at the very edge of the seat, almost leaning against the chair, “I used to play cricket, semi-professionally for a time. My team, the Blue Bloods, consisted of a group of young scallywags. We submerged ourselves in the game, thinking about it for most of our waking hours”
“One day we were practicing and Jacob Rankin, our star batter was up. Terry Gogh was bowling when he struck Jacob in the head. This caused an aneurysm in Jacob’s brain to rupture and Jacob died. However, before he died he swore revenge upon all of us”
“We’re going to need something a little more substantial than that”
“Last night, Arthur Penningham, who was one of the Blue Bloods, was bludgeoned to death with a cricket bat, the third victim to die in this fashion. I think that someone is killing us Blue Bloods”
“Interesting” mused Sharpe, lighting a cigarette, “and what makes you think this is the ghost of Jacob Rankin?”
“A can of French lager, âme de les vin” Granger explained, “was found a few feet from the body. That was the only kind of drink that Jacob consumed and he must have consumed several cans a day”
Sharpe blew nicotine smoke from his nose, “Did anyone else see this can?”
“Yes, I don’t suppose it would have mattered to anyone who didn’t know Jacob”
“So you think that the ghost of Jacob Rankin drank from a can of ghost beer?”
“Well, that’s what I’m paying you to find out” Granger took out his wallet, “I think that he’s killing in the order of which we were up to bat, in reverse. Arthur was up to bat fifth, I was up to bat eighth and I don’t know how much more my nerves can take”
“You skipped a victim” Sharpe noticed, “Arthur should have been up to bat fourth with your reasoning”
“Tom Spade, who was second batsman, died in a car crash a year ago”
Degrassi shrugged, “OK”
“You’ll take my case?”
“Yes, please leave contact details” Degrassi was blunt and Granger scribbled it on some scrap paper, a number and an address, “can you tell me who was sixth and seventh to bat?”
“Warrick Edmund and Lance DeMilo but Lance died in the car crash that killed Tom, they were the only two who stayed close friends after the rest of us... dissolved”
“OK” Degrassi had committed everything to memory, “we’ll charge after the investigation, you’re aware you are liable for any expenses?”
“I am”
“Now please leave” Sharpe held opened the door and Granger quickly let himself out.
“A ghost” Sharpe said to his partner, “we’re tracking down a ghost. What happened to the days when people died from gunshot wounds or cyanide poisoning?”
“You take the crime scene, I’ll take the body” Degrassi designated, rubbing his hands to create warmth, “who’re you going to call?”
Lying on the pitch in a starry night, Arthur whistled a song to himself, unaware of being watched. The cricket pitch he was resting against was the last pitch in which he’d won a match, his favourite memory before being diagnosed with tachycardia. His heart prevented him from excessive running, heavy lifting or drinking shots of whisky. Arthur mainly missed gulping shots of whisky, a tradition indiscriminate of winning or losing the game.
Arthur felt a massive pain explode in the back of his head and then awoke with his body paralysed, right up to his tongue. His eyes darted around until they latched upon a man donned in a black cricket uniform, including head gear to obscure his face. However, Arthur could see the skin of this man glow slightly under the netting, a fiendish yellow. Attempting to yell brought no sound, to which Arthur’s assailant laughed menacingly, with a deep, ringing chuckle.
“Argh” Arthur managed to get out with only his throat, “argh, argh urgh”
“I’m going to guess you said something along the lines of ‘who are you?’ and to tell you the truth, I’m your killer” the man in black gear said, waving a well-knocked, dark blue cricket bat, a trademark which Arthur recognised instantly, “because I am the ghost of Jacob Rankin and this, is my attacking shot”
Lee Granger was no stranger to the world of private detectives, requiring their services to prove his wife’s affair, and the recovery of his possessions during a break-in. However, with his current case he had been turned down by every other private detective, with only a referral to Degrassi & Sharpe in the shape of a business card, embedded with a logo and phone number. With options falling apart, Granger found a phone box and slid in two silver coins and punched in the digits.
“ Degrassi & Sharpe?” Granger said into the receiver.
“Yes” an electronically filtered voice replied, “who is this?”
“My name is Lee Granger, I have a case for you” Lee said, “can I meet you? I’d rather discuss this face-to-face”
There was a pause, “yes, the headquarters is at 112 Argyle Street, could you appear at eight o’clock tonight?”
“Yes” Granger said, and as soon as he had, the other line had hung up. With forced determination, he passed the office at 112 Argyle Street and with great reluctance, entered the office of the Degrassi & Sharpe at exactly eight o’clock.
The door to their office was ajar so Granger let himself in. He had only met private detectives at public meeting places, cafes, libraries, he had never set foot into the office of a PI and his conceptions came substantially from fiction he had read or movies he had watched. He had expected venetian blinds, several file cabinets, a ceiling fan sluggishly rotating and a single desk. The room he had walked into was rather sparse of any furniture, with two computers set up on boxes. A stack of plastic chairs hid in a corner, as if cowering from anyone who might use them. Alone in this Zen-like room, Granger slipped off his tweed overcoat and slung it over his figure with the sleeves hanging loose like a Chicago gangster at rest. He stood for ten minutes patiently in the office until finally a voice broke the silence.
“Name?” the familiar electronic voice said, seemingly omniscient.
“Lee Granger”
“Unarmed?”
“Yes”
Granger turned his head as he heard footsteps. However, the moment his head returned to it’s normal position he was facing two men, one with a muscular appearance and the other with a stick-like figure, in aviators, vintage tuxedos and overcoats, even more unlike the private detectives Granger had seen on television.
“Sorry about the wait” said the stick-like one in a New Jersey accent, “we had to see if you’d stay. Since you were willing to wait for ten minutes, this is obviously important to you at least”
The muscular figure unstacked three chairs and handed one to Granger and another to his associate, “take a seat Lee Granger. My name is Noel Degrassi, this is Damocles Sharpe. Explain your case”
As Granger positioned himself, he noticed that Sharpe sat at the very edge of the seat, almost leaning against the chair, “I used to play cricket, semi-professionally for a time. My team, the Blue Bloods, consisted of a group of young scallywags. We submerged ourselves in the game, thinking about it for most of our waking hours”
“One day we were practicing and Jacob Rankin, our star batter was up. Terry Gogh was bowling when he struck Jacob in the head. This caused an aneurysm in Jacob’s brain to rupture and Jacob died. However, before he died he swore revenge upon all of us”
“We’re going to need something a little more substantial than that”
“Last night, Arthur Penningham, who was one of the Blue Bloods, was bludgeoned to death with a cricket bat, the third victim to die in this fashion. I think that someone is killing us Blue Bloods”
“Interesting” mused Sharpe, lighting a cigarette, “and what makes you think this is the ghost of Jacob Rankin?”
“A can of French lager, âme de les vin” Granger explained, “was found a few feet from the body. That was the only kind of drink that Jacob consumed and he must have consumed several cans a day”
Sharpe blew nicotine smoke from his nose, “Did anyone else see this can?”
“Yes, I don’t suppose it would have mattered to anyone who didn’t know Jacob”
“So you think that the ghost of Jacob Rankin drank from a can of ghost beer?”
“Well, that’s what I’m paying you to find out” Granger took out his wallet, “I think that he’s killing in the order of which we were up to bat, in reverse. Arthur was up to bat fifth, I was up to bat eighth and I don’t know how much more my nerves can take”
“You skipped a victim” Sharpe noticed, “Arthur should have been up to bat fourth with your reasoning”
“Tom Spade, who was second batsman, died in a car crash a year ago”
Degrassi shrugged, “OK”
“You’ll take my case?”
“Yes, please leave contact details” Degrassi was blunt and Granger scribbled it on some scrap paper, a number and an address, “can you tell me who was sixth and seventh to bat?”
“Warrick Edmund and Lance DeMilo but Lance died in the car crash that killed Tom, they were the only two who stayed close friends after the rest of us... dissolved”
“OK” Degrassi had committed everything to memory, “we’ll charge after the investigation, you’re aware you are liable for any expenses?”
“I am”
“Now please leave” Sharpe held opened the door and Granger quickly let himself out.
“A ghost” Sharpe said to his partner, “we’re tracking down a ghost. What happened to the days when people died from gunshot wounds or cyanide poisoning?”
“You take the crime scene, I’ll take the body” Degrassi designated, rubbing his hands to create warmth, “who’re you going to call?”
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Pain, Nylon & Those By Sialon- Part 1
I awoke with a start, as though someone had shaken me violently. Elina was snoring gently beside me in the moonlight. The curtains seemed to have opened themselves. I found my dressing gown and went outside into the cold London air to have a smoke. In the pocket of the dressing gown I found a pack of cigarettes I had given up and smoke matches.
I puffed away gently as the small hours began to tick over. My sleep had brought forth a rather disturbing dream if put in perspective. It was more of a montage of very violent acts, without thought, without reason, people committing terrible deeds simply because they were terrible. I no that I’m in no way perfect but at least I always have a reason for what I do. I smoked the last three cigarettes, dropping the used filters to the ground before going back inside. I tried to wash away the grotesque images in the shower to no avail.
It was puzzling me, mocking me almost. I had seen Elina peel away a young boy’s flesh so that you could tickle his heart. The boy was awake, drugged, but still very much awake. I remembered the time I broke so many bones of this one girl’s body, her arms, legs, pelvis, that if I hadn’t have killed her she would have been about as much use as Helen Keller. My dream however, was penetrating my subconscious, making me feel standoffish of something far milder than I had seen in real life. It was if I was skimming the surface, touching the tip of an iceberg, with a fear not of what it was but what it foretold. I needed to shrug it off quickly for I had a busy schedule planned. Reports were to be filed, testimonies to be signed, it was if the hand of justice always had a form for one to scratch initials.
“I thought you had quit smoking” Cinquain said slowly. I turned around, having missed him when walking outside. He was rolling a silver dollar between his fingers, a neat little trick which rather gave away his Flaws.
“I did; those were candy sticks” I toweled my hair vigorously, “don’t you ever go to bed?”
Cinquain, whenever out of original replies, quoted, “No rest for the wicked”
“It’s funny you should say that. I had a rather disturbing dream”
“You watched ‘Children of Men’?”
“Funny, no. I was in some sort of-”
“Afterlife?”
“I was going to say cinema. I was watching a movie over people being decapitated, have their facial features removed, the kind of thing you see on those medical shows”
“What did you have to eat?”
“Buttered popcorn and a chilled lemon-lime soda. Anyway, I’m watching this movie and suddenly I hear this voice. Usually I hate it when people yell advice to the characters on the screen but what he was saying didn’t quite synch with what was happening”
“Go on”
“Well then I turned to see someone sitting next to me-”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know; it was more of a shadow of a man than any sort of being. Anyway, it started whispering things, things that disturbed even me, well not quite me. My Flaw, although he didn’t call it a Flaw, he called it- I can’t remember but it was good. It was as if he and I were related”
“Sort of the way you and I are related?”
“And our Flaws our what makes us inhuman?” I paused for thought, “I don’t know if a Flaw can be passed down through blood, my mother certainly never showed any sign of it. It was one of those dreams, makes you think, doesn’t it?”
I shook it off in that sentence but it crept into my mind while I was filing a school shoot-out into the database. Uploading the photographs I had taken were taking time of their own and so I began seeing if I could remember my conversation in my imaginary movie theatre. As I began typing my transcript, the name ‘Sialon’ rolled off of the keyboard. Although I’m not a heavy drinker and drinking at work is usual frowned upon, I added vodka to my lemon-lime soda. I didn’t know why; I just thought it was a good idea and the more I drank the clearer my memory became.
“Excuse me but do you have to smoke in here?”
“It begins” (you’ll just have to imagine the demonic voice I’m afraid)
“What do you think of the movie? Personally, I find the plot rubbish”
“You look like your father, just like a Sophistai”
“Who are you?”
“The better question is: who are you?”
“I am Parable, the Paedophile”
“Or you are the Son of Panthalassa”
“What are you?”
“Work it out, Son of Panthalassa”
“I prefer Parable, and are you my Dark Flaw?”
“I am not a student on Flaws; I am a professor of a far wider Academy; of which Dark Flaws are only a part. You’re a Sophistai, but you can call me Sialon”
“What did you say?”
“A Sophistai, a Rache, one of the Cognoscenti. Don’t you know?... you don’t, do you? Parable, the Paedophile doesn’t know”
“I’m tired of you-”
“I am not of you. Your Abilities aren’t like the others, you’re something new”
“I like to surprise people; I’m good at being shiny and new. What do you want?”
“Only what you want”
I saved the file on my computer as is my habit. I’m a data hoarder, I will save anything to my hard drive that I find vaguely interesting. It was a strange sort of dream, usually my dreams are understandable, something both Freud and Jung can agree on. I finished up with the school shoot-out and found myself tipsy as a movie star.
I was called away to the Ferguson Apartment Complex, a very cozy sort of place where someone had been murdered. Rice was already on the scene, keen to book Celia Cunningham, girlfriend of the victim. She was impeccably dressed for a murder suspect; wither hair freshly straightened, her make-up reapplied and her clothes without crease. The apartment itself was fairly clean, with Douglas Fry sprawled along the sofa with his neck slit and his trousers around his ankles, genitals mangled with a hair straightener. Rather like a charred sausage left on the grill.
“Something funny Parable?” Rice growled at me as I photographed the scene, “this is someone’s child”
Usually I can hold in laughter but it was too much. Right in front of Cunningham, I corpsed with total laughter. Even Byrnes had a scowl.
“The suspect doesn’t deny that the hair straightener that mutilated the victim’s genitals was hers, she was the only one with a key and there’s no sign of forced entry. He was drugged from a bottle of beer, probably with Rohypnol”
“Celia Cunningham” I declared in my heroic tone, “is not the killer”
“How do you know?”
“It’s a little early for me to be doing my ‘the facts were these’ scene but I know for a fact that Celia Cunningham did not kill this man”
“How do you know?”
“Her hair has been straightened in the last few hours, there’s only one hair straightener on the inventory. Would you knowingly use a hair straightener that had been applied to someone’s genitals?”
After work, I toddled off to my wonderful girlfriend Elina’s flat and let myself in. Our conversations had grown weary but with the anecdote of the Mutilated Genitals I felt armed for battle. I surveyed her apartment; It was messy but homely, lots of books, booze and little else. She herself wasn’t in so I helped myself to her bourbon while I waited. Bourbon has always been a tricky drink for me and as soon as I had downed my fifth glass I felt like I was sinking into a dream, or a nightmare, or something even deeper.
“Did you make me laugh?”
“You found it funny; I only lowered your super-ego. It’s been lowered before”
“Tell me what you know about Dark Flaws”
“The Rache?”
“I demand you tell me who you are! What you know!”
“You demand me? OK, I’ll humour you, but only you my puppet. The legends say that God, in all his benevolence, created the Angels to watch over his work, but as they fell from his grace he became depressed, ashamed of what he had done. God is not forgiving, nor does he forget. He let out a sigh of revenge that was whisked away by the tides of the universe, flowing across the Streams of Neverhappens and Unlikelys, through the Forest of Shouldnots and Havenots, passed around the Army of Smoke-and-Fire, before it ended up here”
“In me?”
“In you? Don’t be so vain. You’re nothing special, you were an accident, simply in the right place at the right time. Or, at least, your ancestor was”
“My ancestor? What ancestor?”
“Why don’t we have a child? Something tasty? I can hear you salivating at the thought of a juicy steak, a morsel”
“It’s a school day”
“That’s never been a problem before”
“Elina wouldn’t like it if I were to-”
“Nobody tells us what to do, Parable, the Paedophile, Son of Panthalassa. Let’s go find us a child”
I puffed away gently as the small hours began to tick over. My sleep had brought forth a rather disturbing dream if put in perspective. It was more of a montage of very violent acts, without thought, without reason, people committing terrible deeds simply because they were terrible. I no that I’m in no way perfect but at least I always have a reason for what I do. I smoked the last three cigarettes, dropping the used filters to the ground before going back inside. I tried to wash away the grotesque images in the shower to no avail.
It was puzzling me, mocking me almost. I had seen Elina peel away a young boy’s flesh so that you could tickle his heart. The boy was awake, drugged, but still very much awake. I remembered the time I broke so many bones of this one girl’s body, her arms, legs, pelvis, that if I hadn’t have killed her she would have been about as much use as Helen Keller. My dream however, was penetrating my subconscious, making me feel standoffish of something far milder than I had seen in real life. It was if I was skimming the surface, touching the tip of an iceberg, with a fear not of what it was but what it foretold. I needed to shrug it off quickly for I had a busy schedule planned. Reports were to be filed, testimonies to be signed, it was if the hand of justice always had a form for one to scratch initials.
“I thought you had quit smoking” Cinquain said slowly. I turned around, having missed him when walking outside. He was rolling a silver dollar between his fingers, a neat little trick which rather gave away his Flaws.
“I did; those were candy sticks” I toweled my hair vigorously, “don’t you ever go to bed?”
Cinquain, whenever out of original replies, quoted, “No rest for the wicked”
“It’s funny you should say that. I had a rather disturbing dream”
“You watched ‘Children of Men’?”
“Funny, no. I was in some sort of-”
“Afterlife?”
“I was going to say cinema. I was watching a movie over people being decapitated, have their facial features removed, the kind of thing you see on those medical shows”
“What did you have to eat?”
“Buttered popcorn and a chilled lemon-lime soda. Anyway, I’m watching this movie and suddenly I hear this voice. Usually I hate it when people yell advice to the characters on the screen but what he was saying didn’t quite synch with what was happening”
“Go on”
“Well then I turned to see someone sitting next to me-”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know; it was more of a shadow of a man than any sort of being. Anyway, it started whispering things, things that disturbed even me, well not quite me. My Flaw, although he didn’t call it a Flaw, he called it- I can’t remember but it was good. It was as if he and I were related”
“Sort of the way you and I are related?”
“And our Flaws our what makes us inhuman?” I paused for thought, “I don’t know if a Flaw can be passed down through blood, my mother certainly never showed any sign of it. It was one of those dreams, makes you think, doesn’t it?”
I shook it off in that sentence but it crept into my mind while I was filing a school shoot-out into the database. Uploading the photographs I had taken were taking time of their own and so I began seeing if I could remember my conversation in my imaginary movie theatre. As I began typing my transcript, the name ‘Sialon’ rolled off of the keyboard. Although I’m not a heavy drinker and drinking at work is usual frowned upon, I added vodka to my lemon-lime soda. I didn’t know why; I just thought it was a good idea and the more I drank the clearer my memory became.
“Excuse me but do you have to smoke in here?”
“It begins” (you’ll just have to imagine the demonic voice I’m afraid)
“What do you think of the movie? Personally, I find the plot rubbish”
“You look like your father, just like a Sophistai”
“Who are you?”
“The better question is: who are you?”
“I am Parable, the Paedophile”
“Or you are the Son of Panthalassa”
“What are you?”
“Work it out, Son of Panthalassa”
“I prefer Parable, and are you my Dark Flaw?”
“I am not a student on Flaws; I am a professor of a far wider Academy; of which Dark Flaws are only a part. You’re a Sophistai, but you can call me Sialon”
“What did you say?”
“A Sophistai, a Rache, one of the Cognoscenti. Don’t you know?... you don’t, do you? Parable, the Paedophile doesn’t know”
“I’m tired of you-”
“I am not of you. Your Abilities aren’t like the others, you’re something new”
“I like to surprise people; I’m good at being shiny and new. What do you want?”
“Only what you want”
I saved the file on my computer as is my habit. I’m a data hoarder, I will save anything to my hard drive that I find vaguely interesting. It was a strange sort of dream, usually my dreams are understandable, something both Freud and Jung can agree on. I finished up with the school shoot-out and found myself tipsy as a movie star.
I was called away to the Ferguson Apartment Complex, a very cozy sort of place where someone had been murdered. Rice was already on the scene, keen to book Celia Cunningham, girlfriend of the victim. She was impeccably dressed for a murder suspect; wither hair freshly straightened, her make-up reapplied and her clothes without crease. The apartment itself was fairly clean, with Douglas Fry sprawled along the sofa with his neck slit and his trousers around his ankles, genitals mangled with a hair straightener. Rather like a charred sausage left on the grill.
“Something funny Parable?” Rice growled at me as I photographed the scene, “this is someone’s child”
Usually I can hold in laughter but it was too much. Right in front of Cunningham, I corpsed with total laughter. Even Byrnes had a scowl.
“The suspect doesn’t deny that the hair straightener that mutilated the victim’s genitals was hers, she was the only one with a key and there’s no sign of forced entry. He was drugged from a bottle of beer, probably with Rohypnol”
“Celia Cunningham” I declared in my heroic tone, “is not the killer”
“How do you know?”
“It’s a little early for me to be doing my ‘the facts were these’ scene but I know for a fact that Celia Cunningham did not kill this man”
“How do you know?”
“Her hair has been straightened in the last few hours, there’s only one hair straightener on the inventory. Would you knowingly use a hair straightener that had been applied to someone’s genitals?”
After work, I toddled off to my wonderful girlfriend Elina’s flat and let myself in. Our conversations had grown weary but with the anecdote of the Mutilated Genitals I felt armed for battle. I surveyed her apartment; It was messy but homely, lots of books, booze and little else. She herself wasn’t in so I helped myself to her bourbon while I waited. Bourbon has always been a tricky drink for me and as soon as I had downed my fifth glass I felt like I was sinking into a dream, or a nightmare, or something even deeper.
“Did you make me laugh?”
“You found it funny; I only lowered your super-ego. It’s been lowered before”
“Tell me what you know about Dark Flaws”
“The Rache?”
“I demand you tell me who you are! What you know!”
“You demand me? OK, I’ll humour you, but only you my puppet. The legends say that God, in all his benevolence, created the Angels to watch over his work, but as they fell from his grace he became depressed, ashamed of what he had done. God is not forgiving, nor does he forget. He let out a sigh of revenge that was whisked away by the tides of the universe, flowing across the Streams of Neverhappens and Unlikelys, through the Forest of Shouldnots and Havenots, passed around the Army of Smoke-and-Fire, before it ended up here”
“In me?”
“In you? Don’t be so vain. You’re nothing special, you were an accident, simply in the right place at the right time. Or, at least, your ancestor was”
“My ancestor? What ancestor?”
“Why don’t we have a child? Something tasty? I can hear you salivating at the thought of a juicy steak, a morsel”
“It’s a school day”
“That’s never been a problem before”
“Elina wouldn’t like it if I were to-”
“Nobody tells us what to do, Parable, the Paedophile, Son of Panthalassa. Let’s go find us a child”
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