Well done Belushi on your winning entry and to, in fact, all the entrants who submitted, I thought, very high quality writing.
I'll post next months' topic once it actually gets into August so it's all neat and tidy.
And a reiteration of the rules. Mostly for my own benefit.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Creative Commons Licence
The People's Writing Contest by Urban75 Collective is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.
Based on a work at thepeopleswritingcontest.blogspot.com.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Detention
He knows the routine by now. The steady footsteps of the guard approaching along the corridor signal breakfast. Bananas and bread. The same everyday. Two bananas and a half stale baguette, left without a word between the bars of his cell.
Everyday he takes the bread and leaves the bananas.The guard never removes them and they rot where they sit, growing blacker every day. He likes them there. They comfort him. He keeps track of his days in here by counting their blackening remains..The higher the mountain of rotten bananas, the longer he's sat in this cell. They’re his decomposing calendar, his prison diary of mould, decaying alongside him.
Every morning the footsteps stop outside his cell and every morning he sits up and looks to the door. Every morning he holds his breath and waits, trying hard not to plead with a god he he knows isn't there. Waiting for the footsteps along the corridor. Waiting for the sound of the key turning in the keyhole. Despite himself he trembles with anticipation, trying not to hope lest disappointment crashes down around him yet again. He mouthes the words to himself, "Turn, damn you, turn." All else evaporates. The whole universe suddenly revolves around a small iron key hanging on a guards belt in a corridor outside a cell.
In those few seconds, all that there is slams into that key and that door and that keyhole. It holds the answer to his unwilling prayers. Ashamed, he offers god his soul if he will "just open that fucking door." What would he give, now, just to hear that key turn? Sobering how ones world can be reduced to something as simple and mundane as the turning of a key .
His silent mantra continues in his head, as if he could bend it to his will by desire alone. "Turn.turn turn turn turn turn turn turn. Damn you, turn."
Right now, to him, its life and death. If that door opens at this hour, he has a visitor. Just a turn of that key and he can spend a precious hour out of this stinking box with its rotten banana calendar and mountain of empty water bottles and piles of garbage and torn paperback novels and scrawled prayers to jesus on the walls. If only that key will turn, he can touch another person. He can hear another voice and he can make it through another day.
Occasionally it does. and the door swings open. Light floods his cell. He's on his feet reaching for his shoes before the guard steps inside. A visitor means conversation and contact, the chance to talk and be heard and to be listened to. It means news from the outside world. It means a precious cargo of food and books and cigarettes. Essential survival tools until he can make it out of this nightmare. Most of all it means some news on his son who he hasnt seen for months.
But usually it doesn’t . Most mornings the footsteps don’t stop and the key doesn’t turn and the cell door doesn't swing open. The guard leaves more bananas and bread to blacken on the window ledge and walks on down the corridor.The outer door slams shut and he is alone. He lies back on his mat and listens to the retreating footsteps. He chokes down a wave of disappointment and steeles himself for one more day of bitter, angry loneliness..... until tomorrow.
Everyday he takes the bread and leaves the bananas.The guard never removes them and they rot where they sit, growing blacker every day. He likes them there. They comfort him. He keeps track of his days in here by counting their blackening remains..The higher the mountain of rotten bananas, the longer he's sat in this cell. They’re his decomposing calendar, his prison diary of mould, decaying alongside him.
Every morning the footsteps stop outside his cell and every morning he sits up and looks to the door. Every morning he holds his breath and waits, trying hard not to plead with a god he he knows isn't there. Waiting for the footsteps along the corridor. Waiting for the sound of the key turning in the keyhole. Despite himself he trembles with anticipation, trying not to hope lest disappointment crashes down around him yet again. He mouthes the words to himself, "Turn, damn you, turn." All else evaporates. The whole universe suddenly revolves around a small iron key hanging on a guards belt in a corridor outside a cell.
In those few seconds, all that there is slams into that key and that door and that keyhole. It holds the answer to his unwilling prayers. Ashamed, he offers god his soul if he will "just open that fucking door." What would he give, now, just to hear that key turn? Sobering how ones world can be reduced to something as simple and mundane as the turning of a key .
His silent mantra continues in his head, as if he could bend it to his will by desire alone. "Turn.turn turn turn turn turn turn turn. Damn you, turn."
Right now, to him, its life and death. If that door opens at this hour, he has a visitor. Just a turn of that key and he can spend a precious hour out of this stinking box with its rotten banana calendar and mountain of empty water bottles and piles of garbage and torn paperback novels and scrawled prayers to jesus on the walls. If only that key will turn, he can touch another person. He can hear another voice and he can make it through another day.
Occasionally it does. and the door swings open. Light floods his cell. He's on his feet reaching for his shoes before the guard steps inside. A visitor means conversation and contact, the chance to talk and be heard and to be listened to. It means news from the outside world. It means a precious cargo of food and books and cigarettes. Essential survival tools until he can make it out of this nightmare. Most of all it means some news on his son who he hasnt seen for months.
But usually it doesn’t . Most mornings the footsteps don’t stop and the key doesn’t turn and the cell door doesn't swing open. The guard leaves more bananas and bread to blacken on the window ledge and walks on down the corridor.The outer door slams shut and he is alone. He lies back on his mat and listens to the retreating footsteps. He chokes down a wave of disappointment and steeles himself for one more day of bitter, angry loneliness..... until tomorrow.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Sons of Thunder
He stood diffidently in his new uniform, the sleeves slightly too long and the collar slightly too big. His Grandmother spoke to the deputy and he tuned out, thinking about the last place and the place before that.
‘James’ he heard the deputy say in her soft Scottish burr ‘James’.
‘Yes’ he responded, back in the here and now.
She smiled, reminding him of a Crocodile.
‘Your Grandmother has explained your situation to me. And some of the problems you’ve faced. We’re sure you’re going to thrive here with us’.
He forced a weak smile as his Grandmother looked anxiously on.
A tall, plain girl showed him around the school. Library, hall, canteen; nothing out of the ordinary. He was introduced to his form tutor and given a timetable and a desk next to a skinny, nervous looking 14 year old named Chris.
They had double Spanish and at break stood in the corner of the yard as Chris introduced him to his friends. It was immediately apparent that his group weren’t the coolest in the school. They weren’t the friends he wanted, not this time.
He sat next to a tubby girl with bad skin for Geography; she did most of the talking for them until shushed by the pretty young teacher. A blonde boy called Barlow stared at him for a while daring him to stare back until he lost interest and started kicking the back of the chair in front of him.
At lunch he joined Chris and his friends in the Canteen, He ate fish fingers and chips as they asked him what bands he liked and what football team he supported. He told them they could call him Jim or Jimmy but not James and never Jamie.
A couple of older kids at the next table kept looking over and snickering. They threw a few chips at Chris who looked down, humiliated in front of his friends.
‘Pricks’ he said softly as they filed past after the bell had rung.
‘You what?’ the fat one exclaimed. He kept walking, trying to look like he didn’t give a fuck, but clenching his fists in his pockets to stop the shaking. He remembered his last two schools and knew this time it had to be different, he had to be different.
‘Oi you, you little bastard’ the fat one clattered into a chair as he tried to get up and after him.
‘Cheeky little wanker!’ his mate yelled, coming around the side of the table.
He could hardly breathe but he knew what he had to do. He remembered the last place, and the place before. The taunts, the ‘practical jokes’, that bastard Dobson waiting for him on the way home every fucking night. No cunt was ever going to terrorise him again.
He stopped and turned.
‘Cunts!’ he screamed, picking up a chair and swinging it wildly at his startled pursuers. ‘Fucking Cunts!’ as he smashed the fat fucker across his face and then hurled the chair at the other wanker. All he could see was a blur of open mouthed faces around him and a dull roar of noise. He pushed a table over and was preparing to hurl another chair when a pair of strong arms grabbed him and he was dragged kicking and cursing from the canteen.
‘There was an incident at lunchtime’ the deputy head said ‘in the Canteen’.
It’s a terrible thing to see your Grandmother with tears in her eyes and know that you are the cause. He stared at the floor as they discussed him, his Grandmother pleading and tearful as she explained what he had been through, the bullying, his father, and the beatings. The deputy head laying down the law.
He wanted to speak, but nothing would come. When asked a question he had to force a blurted out ‘Yes’ and ‘Sorry’. He wanted to cry, he knew he’d feel better if he cried but he felt nothing inside. A dark lonely calm. And something else. An absence. No one scared him any more.
Eventually, after a stream of stern lecturing and promises from his Grandmother and mumbled undertakings from him, it was agreed that he would be able to return the next day. She tried to talk to him when they got back home, she put her arms around him, he pulled away and ran up the stairs, no one was ever going to see him cry again.
There was silence when he entered the form room the next morning, followed by excited whispering as he nonchalantly took his place. Chris looked at him with a mix of fear and awe. At first break Barlow sauntered over and asked him if he smoked. He took leave of his old self, of Jamie, forever.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Lights, Camera, Action...
Right then, this is a crime story that deals with the transformation of a living, breathing human being into seemingly nothing at all, and in an especially twisted and savage way. Not for the faint-hearted.
Lights, Camera, Action
An undisclosed location, July 1984.
Vinny ‘The Axe’ Martorano was slowly coming out of the anaesthetic. The chloroform-soaked wad of cotton wool, encased in a huge hand that had muzzled him as he went to unlock his car after a heavy night’s drinking, was beginning to wear off.
And now he was slowly becoming fully aware of the real nightmare that now awaited him.
He came to, stiff and aching as if he had spent the entire night in the trunk of a car, which he had. A big, bear-like man with a neck like a bull and a face only marginally more attractive, riding in the same position all night while bound and gagged had left him barely able to move and that was exactly what his assailant had wanted. The man in question hauled Martorano from the car in his huge hands as though he were little more than a sack of laundry and with as little effort, or gentleness, casually tossed him to the ground. Now fully awake, as if the fear of realising he’d been kidnapped hadn’t been enough, Martorano recognised his captor and stark terror flooded through his body.
It was Richard Kuklinski.
One of the most feared, and fearsome, freelance hitmen in the United States, if not the world, Richard ‘The Ice Man’ Kuklinski was no joke. He was a very discreet man, he had to be in his line of work, but within the Mob and the criminal world he was known as a man who delivered the goods in whatever way his clients asked him to.
No matter how sadistic or sick-minded the client’s needs.
However you wanted someone whacked, Kuklinski would deliver. He didn’t kill women or children, but if you were a man then you were fair game for him. It didn’t matter who you were or what you’d done or if you’d even done anything at all. Kuklinski didn’t moralise, he didn’t judge, he didn’t even revel in his work as some hitmen do. He just killed. Whoever he was paid to. In whatever way his employer of the day dictated.
He’d use any method that suited him. Some he strangled, some he shot, some he stabbed. Just lately he had taken to spraying cyanide into the faces of his many victims. But, on this occasion, his employers had asked him to make Martorano really suffer and, as usual, he had no trouble whatsoever in obliging.
‘Hello, Vinny.’ he said, casually tearing the gag from Martorano’s mouth. ‘You know who I am and what I’m going to do. And you know why and who for, so there’s no point in begging or trying to bribe or threaten me so I’ll let you go. I always deliver on a contract, your bosses know that. That’s why they hire me. And you, my friend, are going to find out, first hand and only too well, just how efficient and obliging I really am.’
‘You know, you really shouldn’t have tried to muscle in on Little Nicky’s share of the rackets. It’s disrespectful to try taking a man’s business just because he’s in the can for the next twenty years, and you know how these old bosses feel about disrespect. You thought that he was out of sight, so he was out of mind. But he’s right here. He’s me.’
Martorano let out a fearsome, animal shriek, much as a cornered animal does when the hunters are closing in for the kill. He knew Kuklinski and what he was capable of. Indeed, he had done a couple of hits with him and had seen his horrifying lack of pity and remorse at close quarters. He had laughed about it afterwards with his Mob buddies, his ‘goodfellas’ as he called them. Now he knew that his time on this Earth was rapidly drawing to an end and that, if Kuklinski (or whoever had hired him) had his way, that end was never going to be a pretty one.
‘Now, now Vinny’ said Kuklinski. ‘We’re in a cave, miles away from anybody. Nobody’s going to hear you and, even if they do, I’ll be ready and waiting for them with my little friend here.’ With this he produced and lovingly caressed the silenced Uzi he always carried when he was preparing for a long night’s work. ‘So be a nice guy and don’t bother making a scene. Nobody saw us arrive, nobody will see me leave. And nobody will know that you were ever even here.’ Kuklinski smiled as he spoke, a wolfish grin that only made Martorano even more afraid of whatever horror undoubtedly awaited him this night.
‘OK, Ice Man, I know this is it... and you’re gonna whack me. Just make it quick and clean, like a wiseguy should, that’s all I want.’
Kuklinski tutted softly and thought for a moment before replying conversationally. ‘Vinny, Vinny, Vinny... You know me. I’m always happy to do whatever a customer asks. The problem is, you’re not the customer, you’re the mark. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to satisfy Little Nicky. And he’s asked me to make this job a really special one, OK?’
Martorano writhed and struggled against his bonds, as if trying to test them for any looseness that would enable him to free himself and take on Kuklinski man to man. There was, however, no chance of that. Kuklinski had been too thorough, he had done his job too well for Martorano to find any help from that quarter. Instead, all his struggling only tightened the plastic ratchet straps already locking his arms and legs so tightly together and effectively sealed his fate then and there.
Kuklinski sat in his chair, expressionless and utterly dispassionate as he watched Martorano roll around, trying ever more desperately to free himself. Kuklinski was a vastly experienced, utterly reliable and entirely cold-blooded hitman, but he had never attempted a kill like this one. Even by his advanced standards, this was something very special and he awaited the results with interest and anticipation. Who knew, maybe nobody had done this before, and it could certainly be sold to future customers as a special, and very expensive, means of doing murder.Even the most twisted of his customers, and there were many of that disposition on his list, couldn’t fail to appreciate the sadism involved in such a slow and painful hit. And, while it offered the thrill and customer satisfaction of which he was so proud, Kuklinski couldn’t fail to appreciate the practical element in that it also solved the trickiest problem for many a hitman before him, that of disposing of the victim after death.
For, with this method, there would be nothing left to dispose of...
Kuklinski looked down at his intended victim and again gave him a wolfish grin, not because he enjoyed Martorano’s suffering but because he wanted to fulfil his contract to the letter. That meant making him suffer as much mentally as physically and that could be accomplished not only by making Martorano suffer a ghastly physical fate, but accompanying that with the mental agony of not letting him know exactly what awaited him until the last second. That way, Martorano’s mind and imagination could run riot, especially as he knew Kuklinski and his methods of old. Martorano knew Kuklinski to be utterly indifferent to the pain and suffering of others, especially that of his victims. For instance, Martorano knew that Kuklinski had once taken a blowtorch and burnt off the genitals of another wiseguy who had tried to rip him off over some stolen property one time. He had let the man live, but he was much less of a man nowadays. It was with thoughts like this running through his fevered brain that Martorano was left to ponder his fate as Kuklinsky stepped out for some fresh air and let Martorano think about it for a while.
Kuklinski stood by his car, as if pondering his next move and whether this was one step too far even for him. No, of course it wasn’t. And even though it didn’t turn him on, he still had his customer’s wishes and thereby his own reputation to consider. And this would seal his reputation as delivering the ultimate in cold-blooded customer satisfaction. In his business, as in so many others both legal and illegal, reputation was everything.
He unlocked the back door of his car and checked that all the contents were in place. They were, as Kuklinski was always careful to ensure he had all he needed for whatever kind of job he hired for. A video camera, a tripod, a microphone and stand, a trio of battery powered storm lanterns and a couple of spare batteries. All was there and ready for immediate use. He also pulled out a flask of hot coffee, a large bag of his favourite sandwiches, a decent-sized salami and a surgeon’s scalpel. It would, after all, be a long night and he didn’t want to go without some food and a hot drink. He packed the film equipment into a large kitbag, slipped it casually on to his shoulder, picked up his food and flask in his free hand and started back to the cave. A little work setting up for the shoot and all would be in place for Martorano’s short-lived film career.
As the star of his very own ‘snuff’ movie.
Kuklinski strolled back into the cave and carefully laid down the bag of film gear near his chair. He made himself comfortable, poured himself a coffee and began to eat his sandwiches. As he did so, he noted the look on Martorano’s face as he calmly ate his evening meal. Martorano couldn’t believe his eyes as Kuklinski calmly munched his way through his sandwiches, and marvelled at the absolute coolness of the man who had, as he had earlier said, something ‘special’ lined up for Martorano’s death. Martorano had always been a reliable killer himself, but nothing like as cool and relaxed as his nemesis, now sat calmly before him as if studying Martorano like some sort of lab animal.
Kuklinski looked down at Martorano as he finished his meal and said in a friendly tone of voice ‘Sorry, buddy. Are you hungry? Or would some coffee go down well about now? Pity I finished it all. After all, the condemned man is meant to have a hearty last meal. But don’t worry, I’ve got something here that might do just as well.’
Martorano, despite the stark terror that had accompanied him since the dope had worn off, felt his belly rumbling. ‘Yeah, sure, go ahead. I’m hardly worrying about my figure right now, am I?’
Kuklinski looked down at Martorano as he produced the salami from the bag. Along with the scalpel. Martorano blanched as he saw the blade in Kuklinski’s hand and Kuklinski seemed genuinely concerned as he said ‘It’s OK, Vinny. I’m not going to cut you up into strips and throw you into the nearest trash pile. Here, have some good Italian sausage to keep you going.’ With that he deftly sliced off a couple of segments and fed them to Martorano who craned his neck forward to accept the morsels like a well-trained lap dog accepts a biscuit. Vinny ‘The Axe’ Martorano, feared enforcer with the Philadelphia Mob, reduced to begging for scraps like a poodle. The thought upset him so much he almost appreciated what Kuklinski was going to do to him. The shame and humiliation would have finished him as a wiseguy and left him a laughing stock on the street otherwise. At least he would have gone out as a goodfella should, proud and defiant to the last, with nobody to know he was spoon-fed his last meal. He was ready for whatever Kuklinski had in mind for him now.
Or so he thought...
Kuklinski took his time setting up the film camera, lights and microphone. True to form, he was the consummate professional in all things, looking carefully at positioning the lights so as to give him the clearest of shots of Martorano as he lay on the stony cave floor, trussed and helpless. Kuklinski even found time for a rare moment of gallows humour as he made his final preparations for the big show.
‘Am I getting your best side, Vinny?’ Kuklinski said, grinning as he did so.
‘Man, you can go and FUCK YOURSELF!’ roared Martorano, in a mixture of frustration and blind terror as he finally realised just how messy his final end was to be. He had noticed the stirring in the shadows thrown around by the storm lanterns and, while he couldn’t see exactly what was moving around in the cave, he knew full well it was something alive and that Kuklinski was going to kill him and leave his body exactly where it was. No Last Rites or Mass to be said for the soul of Vinny Martorano. No decent burial in consecrated ground. He was about to die and be left as food for whatever lived here in this dank little hole in the ground.
Except he wasn’t. Kuklinski had, as he had promised earlier, come up with something particularly ‘special’ for ‘Martorano: The Movie.’ He wasn’t going to kill Martorano himself and simply film that. That would be too simple and quick. No, the customer had demanded that Martorano be made to really suffer. And suffer he would, because if there was one thing about his work that Kuklinski really enjoyed, and it wasn’t the actual killing itself, it was that in his opinion the customer was always right. If he wanted Martorano to really suffer, then Richard Kuklinski was the man for the job.
Kuklinski stepped forward, bent down and casually cuffed Martorano across the face, as if to punish him for the insult. Then the scalpel suddenly appeared in his other hand and Martorano knew that the time had come. Kuklinski began deftly slicing off his clothes. First his expensive tailor-made Italian suit had to go, then his shirt, then his black silk boxer shorts. Kuklinski worked in silence, smiling companionably at Martorano as he stripped him of his wallet, his expensive gold Rolex watch and other jewellery, as nothing was to be left behind to identify Martorano. Little Nicky had been quite clear when he placed the contract. Outside of the underworld, nobody was to know where Martorano had disappeared to, and Martorano was to suffer in a manner so hideous that any and all hoodlums were to understand that Little Nicky was still the boss, whether in jail or on the outside. And Kuklinski was never one to disappoint a customer.
Once Kuklinski had finished his amateur tailoring, he stood and looked down at his victim. He turned on the camera and looked carefully through the viewfinder, as if to ensure that Martorano was fully in shot and a decent close-up of his face was a definite possibility, and smiled wolfishly. This was going to be very interesting indeed. He stepped forward and began making small, clearly defined cuts in Martorano’s limbs and body. He was careful, for as an experienced hitman he had anatomical knowledge as good as that of any surgeon, not to accidentally nick any veins or arteries. He didn’t want Martorano to die or lose consciousness from lack of blood, after all.
Martorano began to scream with every cut and, as he lay shrieking like a banshee, he twisted and turned and bled, slowly but surely. The noise attracted the attention of the permanent residents of the cave, the creatures that lived here full time, were always ravenous for a meal and always happy to find one laid on for them. The combined smells of sweat, fresh blood and fear overrode their natural caution at the amount of noise dinner was making and they began to creep forward, sniffing at the air and growing ever more interested with every breath. Then they began to speak, chattering to one another.
As a horde of half-starved rats tend to do.
Kuklinski watched with ever more interest as the rats began creeping closer and closer towards the shrieking Martorano. Martorano began writhing and twisting with desperate urgency, trying to scuttle away from what was something out of his worst nightmares. Kuklinski had promised him something special and now here it was, not being killed and left for the rats, but being cut up and left to be slowly eaten alive.
The rats began to cluster around Martorano, sniffing and prodding him with their claws and noses, scuttling round and all over him in an obscene circus of hungry mouths and writhing tails. Then they began to nibble at parts of him, ears, fingertips, his nose, lips and tongue. Kuklinski watched and listened in silence as the shrieks of the dying human began to be subsumed beneath the rabid chattering of the rats as they devoured him alive. He panned the camera up and down Martorano’s rapidly vanishing body as the rats did his obscene work for him. Martorano’s shrieks gradually diminished, first to mere screams, then to gurgling moans, then, finally, to nothing.
Vinny ‘The Axe’ Martorano, once the most feared enforcer in the Philadelphia Mob, was dead. He had met his match and nobody could even give him a decent burial, let alone mourn him.
It was near dawn now. Kuklinski switched off the camera and packed away his kit. It had been a fascinating evening and his employer would be well pleased with his next home movie. Kuklinski paused and took a last look back at what had once been a colleague, not that Kuklinski had ever had any real friends. Nothing remained, even the bones had been devoured.
All that remained of Vinny Martorano was a large patch of blood and a few scraps of bloody flesh, nothing whatsoever to identify Kuklinski’s latest kill
It was an excellent day’s work.
Lights, Camera, Action
An undisclosed location, July 1984.
Vinny ‘The Axe’ Martorano was slowly coming out of the anaesthetic. The chloroform-soaked wad of cotton wool, encased in a huge hand that had muzzled him as he went to unlock his car after a heavy night’s drinking, was beginning to wear off.
And now he was slowly becoming fully aware of the real nightmare that now awaited him.
He came to, stiff and aching as if he had spent the entire night in the trunk of a car, which he had. A big, bear-like man with a neck like a bull and a face only marginally more attractive, riding in the same position all night while bound and gagged had left him barely able to move and that was exactly what his assailant had wanted. The man in question hauled Martorano from the car in his huge hands as though he were little more than a sack of laundry and with as little effort, or gentleness, casually tossed him to the ground. Now fully awake, as if the fear of realising he’d been kidnapped hadn’t been enough, Martorano recognised his captor and stark terror flooded through his body.
It was Richard Kuklinski.
One of the most feared, and fearsome, freelance hitmen in the United States, if not the world, Richard ‘The Ice Man’ Kuklinski was no joke. He was a very discreet man, he had to be in his line of work, but within the Mob and the criminal world he was known as a man who delivered the goods in whatever way his clients asked him to.
No matter how sadistic or sick-minded the client’s needs.
However you wanted someone whacked, Kuklinski would deliver. He didn’t kill women or children, but if you were a man then you were fair game for him. It didn’t matter who you were or what you’d done or if you’d even done anything at all. Kuklinski didn’t moralise, he didn’t judge, he didn’t even revel in his work as some hitmen do. He just killed. Whoever he was paid to. In whatever way his employer of the day dictated.
He’d use any method that suited him. Some he strangled, some he shot, some he stabbed. Just lately he had taken to spraying cyanide into the faces of his many victims. But, on this occasion, his employers had asked him to make Martorano really suffer and, as usual, he had no trouble whatsoever in obliging.
‘Hello, Vinny.’ he said, casually tearing the gag from Martorano’s mouth. ‘You know who I am and what I’m going to do. And you know why and who for, so there’s no point in begging or trying to bribe or threaten me so I’ll let you go. I always deliver on a contract, your bosses know that. That’s why they hire me. And you, my friend, are going to find out, first hand and only too well, just how efficient and obliging I really am.’
‘You know, you really shouldn’t have tried to muscle in on Little Nicky’s share of the rackets. It’s disrespectful to try taking a man’s business just because he’s in the can for the next twenty years, and you know how these old bosses feel about disrespect. You thought that he was out of sight, so he was out of mind. But he’s right here. He’s me.’
Martorano let out a fearsome, animal shriek, much as a cornered animal does when the hunters are closing in for the kill. He knew Kuklinski and what he was capable of. Indeed, he had done a couple of hits with him and had seen his horrifying lack of pity and remorse at close quarters. He had laughed about it afterwards with his Mob buddies, his ‘goodfellas’ as he called them. Now he knew that his time on this Earth was rapidly drawing to an end and that, if Kuklinski (or whoever had hired him) had his way, that end was never going to be a pretty one.
‘Now, now Vinny’ said Kuklinski. ‘We’re in a cave, miles away from anybody. Nobody’s going to hear you and, even if they do, I’ll be ready and waiting for them with my little friend here.’ With this he produced and lovingly caressed the silenced Uzi he always carried when he was preparing for a long night’s work. ‘So be a nice guy and don’t bother making a scene. Nobody saw us arrive, nobody will see me leave. And nobody will know that you were ever even here.’ Kuklinski smiled as he spoke, a wolfish grin that only made Martorano even more afraid of whatever horror undoubtedly awaited him this night.
‘OK, Ice Man, I know this is it... and you’re gonna whack me. Just make it quick and clean, like a wiseguy should, that’s all I want.’
Kuklinski tutted softly and thought for a moment before replying conversationally. ‘Vinny, Vinny, Vinny... You know me. I’m always happy to do whatever a customer asks. The problem is, you’re not the customer, you’re the mark. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to satisfy Little Nicky. And he’s asked me to make this job a really special one, OK?’
Martorano writhed and struggled against his bonds, as if trying to test them for any looseness that would enable him to free himself and take on Kuklinski man to man. There was, however, no chance of that. Kuklinski had been too thorough, he had done his job too well for Martorano to find any help from that quarter. Instead, all his struggling only tightened the plastic ratchet straps already locking his arms and legs so tightly together and effectively sealed his fate then and there.
Kuklinski sat in his chair, expressionless and utterly dispassionate as he watched Martorano roll around, trying ever more desperately to free himself. Kuklinski was a vastly experienced, utterly reliable and entirely cold-blooded hitman, but he had never attempted a kill like this one. Even by his advanced standards, this was something very special and he awaited the results with interest and anticipation. Who knew, maybe nobody had done this before, and it could certainly be sold to future customers as a special, and very expensive, means of doing murder.Even the most twisted of his customers, and there were many of that disposition on his list, couldn’t fail to appreciate the sadism involved in such a slow and painful hit. And, while it offered the thrill and customer satisfaction of which he was so proud, Kuklinski couldn’t fail to appreciate the practical element in that it also solved the trickiest problem for many a hitman before him, that of disposing of the victim after death.
For, with this method, there would be nothing left to dispose of...
Kuklinski looked down at his intended victim and again gave him a wolfish grin, not because he enjoyed Martorano’s suffering but because he wanted to fulfil his contract to the letter. That meant making him suffer as much mentally as physically and that could be accomplished not only by making Martorano suffer a ghastly physical fate, but accompanying that with the mental agony of not letting him know exactly what awaited him until the last second. That way, Martorano’s mind and imagination could run riot, especially as he knew Kuklinski and his methods of old. Martorano knew Kuklinski to be utterly indifferent to the pain and suffering of others, especially that of his victims. For instance, Martorano knew that Kuklinski had once taken a blowtorch and burnt off the genitals of another wiseguy who had tried to rip him off over some stolen property one time. He had let the man live, but he was much less of a man nowadays. It was with thoughts like this running through his fevered brain that Martorano was left to ponder his fate as Kuklinsky stepped out for some fresh air and let Martorano think about it for a while.
Kuklinski stood by his car, as if pondering his next move and whether this was one step too far even for him. No, of course it wasn’t. And even though it didn’t turn him on, he still had his customer’s wishes and thereby his own reputation to consider. And this would seal his reputation as delivering the ultimate in cold-blooded customer satisfaction. In his business, as in so many others both legal and illegal, reputation was everything.
He unlocked the back door of his car and checked that all the contents were in place. They were, as Kuklinski was always careful to ensure he had all he needed for whatever kind of job he hired for. A video camera, a tripod, a microphone and stand, a trio of battery powered storm lanterns and a couple of spare batteries. All was there and ready for immediate use. He also pulled out a flask of hot coffee, a large bag of his favourite sandwiches, a decent-sized salami and a surgeon’s scalpel. It would, after all, be a long night and he didn’t want to go without some food and a hot drink. He packed the film equipment into a large kitbag, slipped it casually on to his shoulder, picked up his food and flask in his free hand and started back to the cave. A little work setting up for the shoot and all would be in place for Martorano’s short-lived film career.
As the star of his very own ‘snuff’ movie.
Kuklinski strolled back into the cave and carefully laid down the bag of film gear near his chair. He made himself comfortable, poured himself a coffee and began to eat his sandwiches. As he did so, he noted the look on Martorano’s face as he calmly ate his evening meal. Martorano couldn’t believe his eyes as Kuklinski calmly munched his way through his sandwiches, and marvelled at the absolute coolness of the man who had, as he had earlier said, something ‘special’ lined up for Martorano’s death. Martorano had always been a reliable killer himself, but nothing like as cool and relaxed as his nemesis, now sat calmly before him as if studying Martorano like some sort of lab animal.
Kuklinski looked down at Martorano as he finished his meal and said in a friendly tone of voice ‘Sorry, buddy. Are you hungry? Or would some coffee go down well about now? Pity I finished it all. After all, the condemned man is meant to have a hearty last meal. But don’t worry, I’ve got something here that might do just as well.’
Martorano, despite the stark terror that had accompanied him since the dope had worn off, felt his belly rumbling. ‘Yeah, sure, go ahead. I’m hardly worrying about my figure right now, am I?’
Kuklinski looked down at Martorano as he produced the salami from the bag. Along with the scalpel. Martorano blanched as he saw the blade in Kuklinski’s hand and Kuklinski seemed genuinely concerned as he said ‘It’s OK, Vinny. I’m not going to cut you up into strips and throw you into the nearest trash pile. Here, have some good Italian sausage to keep you going.’ With that he deftly sliced off a couple of segments and fed them to Martorano who craned his neck forward to accept the morsels like a well-trained lap dog accepts a biscuit. Vinny ‘The Axe’ Martorano, feared enforcer with the Philadelphia Mob, reduced to begging for scraps like a poodle. The thought upset him so much he almost appreciated what Kuklinski was going to do to him. The shame and humiliation would have finished him as a wiseguy and left him a laughing stock on the street otherwise. At least he would have gone out as a goodfella should, proud and defiant to the last, with nobody to know he was spoon-fed his last meal. He was ready for whatever Kuklinski had in mind for him now.
Or so he thought...
Kuklinski took his time setting up the film camera, lights and microphone. True to form, he was the consummate professional in all things, looking carefully at positioning the lights so as to give him the clearest of shots of Martorano as he lay on the stony cave floor, trussed and helpless. Kuklinski even found time for a rare moment of gallows humour as he made his final preparations for the big show.
‘Am I getting your best side, Vinny?’ Kuklinski said, grinning as he did so.
‘Man, you can go and FUCK YOURSELF!’ roared Martorano, in a mixture of frustration and blind terror as he finally realised just how messy his final end was to be. He had noticed the stirring in the shadows thrown around by the storm lanterns and, while he couldn’t see exactly what was moving around in the cave, he knew full well it was something alive and that Kuklinski was going to kill him and leave his body exactly where it was. No Last Rites or Mass to be said for the soul of Vinny Martorano. No decent burial in consecrated ground. He was about to die and be left as food for whatever lived here in this dank little hole in the ground.
Except he wasn’t. Kuklinski had, as he had promised earlier, come up with something particularly ‘special’ for ‘Martorano: The Movie.’ He wasn’t going to kill Martorano himself and simply film that. That would be too simple and quick. No, the customer had demanded that Martorano be made to really suffer. And suffer he would, because if there was one thing about his work that Kuklinski really enjoyed, and it wasn’t the actual killing itself, it was that in his opinion the customer was always right. If he wanted Martorano to really suffer, then Richard Kuklinski was the man for the job.
Kuklinski stepped forward, bent down and casually cuffed Martorano across the face, as if to punish him for the insult. Then the scalpel suddenly appeared in his other hand and Martorano knew that the time had come. Kuklinski began deftly slicing off his clothes. First his expensive tailor-made Italian suit had to go, then his shirt, then his black silk boxer shorts. Kuklinski worked in silence, smiling companionably at Martorano as he stripped him of his wallet, his expensive gold Rolex watch and other jewellery, as nothing was to be left behind to identify Martorano. Little Nicky had been quite clear when he placed the contract. Outside of the underworld, nobody was to know where Martorano had disappeared to, and Martorano was to suffer in a manner so hideous that any and all hoodlums were to understand that Little Nicky was still the boss, whether in jail or on the outside. And Kuklinski was never one to disappoint a customer.
Once Kuklinski had finished his amateur tailoring, he stood and looked down at his victim. He turned on the camera and looked carefully through the viewfinder, as if to ensure that Martorano was fully in shot and a decent close-up of his face was a definite possibility, and smiled wolfishly. This was going to be very interesting indeed. He stepped forward and began making small, clearly defined cuts in Martorano’s limbs and body. He was careful, for as an experienced hitman he had anatomical knowledge as good as that of any surgeon, not to accidentally nick any veins or arteries. He didn’t want Martorano to die or lose consciousness from lack of blood, after all.
Martorano began to scream with every cut and, as he lay shrieking like a banshee, he twisted and turned and bled, slowly but surely. The noise attracted the attention of the permanent residents of the cave, the creatures that lived here full time, were always ravenous for a meal and always happy to find one laid on for them. The combined smells of sweat, fresh blood and fear overrode their natural caution at the amount of noise dinner was making and they began to creep forward, sniffing at the air and growing ever more interested with every breath. Then they began to speak, chattering to one another.
As a horde of half-starved rats tend to do.
Kuklinski watched with ever more interest as the rats began creeping closer and closer towards the shrieking Martorano. Martorano began writhing and twisting with desperate urgency, trying to scuttle away from what was something out of his worst nightmares. Kuklinski had promised him something special and now here it was, not being killed and left for the rats, but being cut up and left to be slowly eaten alive.
The rats began to cluster around Martorano, sniffing and prodding him with their claws and noses, scuttling round and all over him in an obscene circus of hungry mouths and writhing tails. Then they began to nibble at parts of him, ears, fingertips, his nose, lips and tongue. Kuklinski watched and listened in silence as the shrieks of the dying human began to be subsumed beneath the rabid chattering of the rats as they devoured him alive. He panned the camera up and down Martorano’s rapidly vanishing body as the rats did his obscene work for him. Martorano’s shrieks gradually diminished, first to mere screams, then to gurgling moans, then, finally, to nothing.
Vinny ‘The Axe’ Martorano, once the most feared enforcer in the Philadelphia Mob, was dead. He had met his match and nobody could even give him a decent burial, let alone mourn him.
It was near dawn now. Kuklinski switched off the camera and packed away his kit. It had been a fascinating evening and his employer would be well pleased with his next home movie. Kuklinski paused and took a last look back at what had once been a colleague, not that Kuklinski had ever had any real friends. Nothing remained, even the bones had been devoured.
All that remained of Vinny Martorano was a large patch of blood and a few scraps of bloody flesh, nothing whatsoever to identify Kuklinski’s latest kill
It was an excellent day’s work.
Wish
I will always regret the day I wished I was a Dragon. On a mundane autumn day at High Bree primary school I had been half day-dreaming, half paying attention as the two classmates who had prepared the George and the Dragon presentation came to the front.
In their story, George was portrayed as the perfect blonde-haired and blue eyed fantasy, striding down the battle-scarred road to save humankind from the slavering beast.
It was not at all the image which my youthful mind conjured up, quite the opposite in fac t, but when Mrs Thistle looked at me inquisitively through her rather cheap-looking glasses and asked,
“So, Mark, what’s your opinion of the George and the Dragon myth?”
“Umm. It’s alright.”
“Alright? Come on Mark, you can do better than that.”
“You know, it’s a bit boring compared with some of the other ones.”
“But why, Mark? Why is it boring? What are the underlying themes?”
“I dunno.”
It was true – I didn’t know, but I wanted to be a dragon all the same, I wanted to be flying around,
burning stuff with my breath and scaring the shit out of people.
Ten years later, I was reminded of that day in the most peculiar circumstances. I was finishing the Christmas term at University. As we walked out of the examination hall, most of my Science and Logic coursemates were talking about various things, and in a moment of serendipity, what they would do if they could wish for anything they wanted. The strange thing was that it made me remember that particular day back in my childhood, and as they slowly walked towards the bar, I gave my excuses and left.
I walked out of campus, and through the park, which was still heavily dusted with the snow from the previous night. I sat down near the frozen duckpond .
“You OK?” a voice said, in a rather sombre, dulcet tone.
I looked up and glanced around. The path either side of the pond was empty, and I couldn’t see a soul in sight.
“No,” the voice continued, “My appearance is not important. When you said you wished you were a dragon, did you mean it?”
“Absolutely,” I replied, “With all my heart.”
“Then it will be so.”
With that, I felt a strangeness in the air, a tightening, and then, after that, the opposite, something appeared to leave me and I felt rested, boosted and recharged.
“What was that?” I said.
The voice had gone. I looked around, my mind glowing with energy. As I looked at the pond, some of the ice at the top seemed to start to melt, steam soaring skyward as if in reaction to the hot excess power my body was emanating.
On the way home I paid a trip to the student bar and without even thinking about it, hammered my housemates at pool, drank 7 pints of stella without even feeling it and, being somewhat afraid of where this new power would lead me, I pretended that the beer had suddenly kicked in (it hadn’t) and left for home, my mind glowing with energy. When I got home I had a shave with an old razorblade, which tore at my skin painfully, but I didn’t even notice, it, the pain seemed to boost my fired up mind even more. As I shaved, the muscles in my arm rippled bigger and bigger, my left arm more so than the right, and to my horror, the pink skin on the left arm began to dry up visibly before my very eyes. It felt as if it was withering away like a tree which had been uprooted and left in the desert sun, growing tighter and tighter, and then cracking, and beginning to peel. As it fell off, I was presented not with veins and sinew and muscle, but with a new arm, green skinned, reptilian, my fingers had turned into a set of lizard hands and claws. After that, the process suddenly stopped, and my right arm remained normal.
When I awoke the next morning, my arm was still suspiciously repilian, so I quickly threw on a long-sleeved jumper and donned a pair of thick gloves. Laura, the rather tasty hippy chick archaeology student who lived in the room below mine and who I had always quite fancied but never actually got round to asking out, winked at me as I walked through the front room.
“Mark,” she said, “Have fun last night?”
“You what?” I replied.
“Whatever you were doing up there, it certainly sounded as if you were enjoying yourself. Oh – no need for gloves, by the way, it’s pretty mild out there today.”
“I had a shave, then went straight to bed,” I replied, “Anyhow, I’m heading out to Shearsmere; want to come?”
Laura looked taken aback. This kind of spontaneous behaviour was rare for me.
“For sure,”, she said, looking at me inquisitively, “I’ll chuck my coat on and we’ll go.”
Shearsmere Peak stood an hour above our University City, grey and imposing. I had been up it once before, and had the misfortune to do so on one of the coldest and most-hail-ridden days of the year.
Today, though, despite the calendar nearing Christmas, it was absolutely azure, with the snow having fallen two days previously, and we made our way through the ancient historical streets rapidly, emboldened by the inter sun.
“Are you OK, Mark?” Laura asked me, “You’re not normally like this. Normally it’s us lot who have to drag you out of the house like an unwilling toddler, particularly on days like today.”
As we made our way through Stanbrook City’s crumbling walls, remnants of the long-gone Slav Empire of 3000 years previously which had stretched from New York to Vladivostock, she asked, “What turned you from staunch bedroom-bound scientific geek to great rugged outdoors lover?” she asked me.
“I don’t know,” I replied, “I feel changed.”
She looked somewhat quizzical then asked, ”how long do ya reckon you can make it to the peak in?”
I smiled, and I looked at Laura, considering the question for a moment.
“One hour, tops.” I replied.
“Yeah right,” she replied, “Ten hours, more like.”
Taken offence at that, I charged on ahead, stomping up the rocky path which led to Shearsmere’s plateau-like peak.
Back in 900 AD, at the peak of the Octavian Empire, Shearsmere had been a vital stronghold for revolutionary forces. Seen from our town, it looked like an unremarkable, typically southern English peak – white, dry, gradual incline, would take most elderly people two hours tops. However, the paths which lead up it are in fact an eerie labyrinth of granite that was the graveyard of many a foreign invader. That was why Stanbrook tended to think of itself as the most English city, even if that was only the Stanbrook of the past, not the present.
“Laura,” I said.
“Yeah?” she said, looking relieved that I had broken my thoughts – and the silence – to ask her a question.
“Do you really believe in that stuff? You know, Liberty, Equality and all that? You think the English revolution 1400 years ago really meant anything?”
“Yeah,” she replied, “For sure. They are the ideals our country was founded on.”
“If you say so, “ I replied – a long time ago, and still in other places, but not the stuffy elitists of Stanbrook today.”
“What on earth has happened to you, Mark?” Laura asked me, “Something’s changed. I like it – but it’s a bit strange. And why are you wearing gloves? It’s not that cold.”
She reached her hand towards me, momentarily brushing my arm for just a second longer than she normally might, and then quickly yanked off one glove and then the other. I braced myself, wondering what her reaction might be at my newly formed green, scaly hand and claws.
“You hiding something?” she asked, “Or just extremely sensitive to the cold?”
I looked at my hands. The left arm had returned to normal.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, “Do you suffer from some kind of body heat rapid depletion issues?
“No,” I replied, “Why did you say that?”
“Well, just the gloves. It isn’t that cold.”
She touched my right hand. My skin tingled as she did so. She moved her hand away sharply and then touched my left one.
“My god, Mark,” she said, “What’s wrong with your left hand?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, my own right hand brushing hers as it also felt the much more pallid skin on my left one, which felt as if all body warmth had been completely drained away, it wasn’t ice cold, but had that leathery but smooth that snakeskin boots tend to have, and my skin temperature was like a glass jar which had been left in a cellar, “This hasn’t happened before.”
“Rapid depletion,” she said, “My cousin used to suffer from it. His body temperature would plummet by 20 degrees centigrade and he was in constant danger of suffering from hypothermia, and even in the middle of summer we had to have someone standing next to him at all times with blankets and coats. That said-“
and Laura stood facing me, looking into my increasingly burning eyes with a mixture of marked concern and a bewildering admiration, taking my cold leathery left hand in her right hand, and my still-warm and soft right hand in hers, which is where I felt the tingling, exciting sensation return as her fingers drifted gently over the tips of mine.
“You’re a strange guy, Mark,” she said, “You spend all your time in your room writing up your strange historical essays and proposals, and you never tell us your problems or issues. You appear so sad and withdrawn a lot of the time, and then today, you came down, it was like a new person, it was like I had met my housemate all over again, except that now you aren’t just my housemate, are you, you’re a different person. Your hands are significantly different temperatures. That is not right, Mark, not right at all – something is up with you. It’s changing your body, changing the flow of your blood, the temperature.”
She squeezed my right hand, then the left, and I felt some of the blood on my right hand side of my body flow over to the left side and down the arm into my hand. Laura rubbed my left hand with her fingers as it did, and the hand’s leathery feel seemed to smooth out into my softer normal skin.
She leaned over and kissed me on the lips, then her hands dropped away.
“Yeah,” she said, “anyway, want to race me to the top?” She beckoned up the path, which was deserted, to the point where it split into two roughly equal paths through the granite corridors which slowly let up to the Shearsmere’s Peak’s main summit, the red path and the blue path.
“I’ll take the red, and you the blue,” she said.
Blowing me a kiss, she turned and ran through the white, marble carved doorway which bordered the red path. I ran towards the blue path, heart beating, remembering the ancient local Anglo custom: if a woman wanted to notify a man that she wanted him, she would do so by challenging him to a race in this way.
I ran and ran, my blood coursing faster and faster through my body, sometimes faster than it ever had before. Had I been paying attention to something other than my forthcoming cessation of celibacy, I would have noticed that along with the faster beat, my body temperature was rising and falling with a faster speed than it ever had done before, both going down to around 15c, and then rising to around 80c as a new fiery power rushed through me. I would have realised that the wish I had made before was still, very shortly, going to come true, and that this new found love would soon be cut, viciously, brutally, cut short as quickly as it had come to fruition.
It is painful to recall the moment and to address the bitter regret my earlier wish has caused me. If I had never made that wish, it is true that Laura might never have come up the mountain with me that day, she might never have instigated our short lived relationship so swiftly, and we might not have had that moment of passion, underneath the iron oak tree which decorated the left hand chamber of the 500ad revolutionary temple which stood to the left of Shearsmere Peak’s summit. As much as I still remember that moment as a great one, what happened soon after, the sadness I felt as I looked down at my body almost as soon as she turned to get dressed, to see my skin changing colour and texture from head to toe, my body growing and growing and growing and growing until the iron temple was shattered into a billion with the most brutal simplicity as my head pierced its roof like butter, my former arms, and other new limbs breaking through its walls and nearby granite rock surface with absolute ease. I remember Laura turning towards me as she put her wooden multicoloured bead necklace back over her head, lost in love, not even noticing the screeching, searing noises which near split even my less sensitive dragon ears in two, the way she had turned towards me, amidst the chaos and noise, expecting me to still be lying there in bliss, and that look in her eyes turning into naked fear when she saw what had become of me, raised on my hind legs, wings stretched out, near blocking out the sunshine.
I looked down at her, wanting to speak, wanting to tell her how I felt, but it was already too late, my dragon voice box was incapable of human speech (although I do, to this day, still think in English, as I have no fellow creatures to actually converse with) and whatever English word I said came out simply as incoherent rumblings, which floated out into the ether accompanied by small wisps of fire and flame.
“Mark?” she said, her face wrought with disbelief
I tried to tell her that I did not know, but it was no use whatsoever.
“Mark, was this why you appeared so changed this morning? So much more confident, striding out of the house?”
Still able to nod, I did so.
“Look, you have to know, I’ve always quite liked you, but the way you were, trapped in your room, well I thought you just weren’t interested in me at all.”
I never had the chance to find out anything more about what she thought, as just then our conversation was shattered by the sound of the arrival of some fifty police helicopters, triggered by the collapse of the Temple walls, and the alarms which had been ringing around our heads for some three minutes now.
There was no attempt at finding out who or what I was, no wonderment at seeing the first Dragon to have walked this world since they were wiped out in 7000 BC, there was only blast after blast of rockets, bullets, and lazers, some of which scratched me as a thistle might scratch a human, but most of which was harmless. The only thing that I cared about was that during that barrage, the exact point of which I cannot remember, Laura was hit all over her considerably more frail human body and fell, lifeless, to the ground.
I remember feeling so numb that the confidence I had originally felt subsided, and sadness overcame anger, and rather than destroying each of the helicopters as I might, or razing the city to the ground, I simply rose into the air and flew away at a reasonable and constant speed, the helicopters first giving chase, and then, slowly fading away, when they realised I was heading over Asia, my now numb mind aghast, unable to take in what had taken place.
I did, eventually, settle down in a cave near the outskirts of the old ruined city of Tramberlan here in once-German Empire-ruled Central Asia. I cannot write, but I do have a huge pile of books, which I often ruin as I use my claws (which I have found impossible to trim or cut) to turn their pages, that I have stockpiled over the years during nightly raids on cities at times when I’ve grown bored of the early thrill of stealing buffalo and yak from the clutches of nearby nomads and farmers.
To this day, now twenty thousand years old, and physically no nearer to death, now far more well read than I was back then, when I understood our history in emotive but not really actual terms, with the rest of my old race all but extinct, the world now a place only of ruins and nature, I will always regret that day in my childhood, the blinkered, delusional belief in something that would make me stronger, instead of trying to make myself stronger, and the sure-fire knowledge, now, that had I not always been lost in my own thoughts, someone like Laura would have liked me without my having to take such drastic measures.
The invisible force or being who granted the wish to me has never returned, either. I wish he or she would one of these days, for closure, to tell me that they could turn back time or reverse the process or bring Laura back or just let me die, which also appears impossible.
My final word before I head out tonight to fly over the woods and mountains in search of food, an activity which ceased being enjoyable long, long ago, is that I hope that that being can return, some day, and put things right, one way or the other.
-
In their story, George was portrayed as the perfect blonde-haired and blue eyed fantasy, striding down the battle-scarred road to save humankind from the slavering beast.
It was not at all the image which my youthful mind conjured up, quite the opposite in fac t, but when Mrs Thistle looked at me inquisitively through her rather cheap-looking glasses and asked,
“So, Mark, what’s your opinion of the George and the Dragon myth?”
“Umm. It’s alright.”
“Alright? Come on Mark, you can do better than that.”
“You know, it’s a bit boring compared with some of the other ones.”
“But why, Mark? Why is it boring? What are the underlying themes?”
“I dunno.”
It was true – I didn’t know, but I wanted to be a dragon all the same, I wanted to be flying around,
burning stuff with my breath and scaring the shit out of people.
Ten years later, I was reminded of that day in the most peculiar circumstances. I was finishing the Christmas term at University. As we walked out of the examination hall, most of my Science and Logic coursemates were talking about various things, and in a moment of serendipity, what they would do if they could wish for anything they wanted. The strange thing was that it made me remember that particular day back in my childhood, and as they slowly walked towards the bar, I gave my excuses and left.
I walked out of campus, and through the park, which was still heavily dusted with the snow from the previous night. I sat down near the frozen duckpond .
“You OK?” a voice said, in a rather sombre, dulcet tone.
I looked up and glanced around. The path either side of the pond was empty, and I couldn’t see a soul in sight.
“No,” the voice continued, “My appearance is not important. When you said you wished you were a dragon, did you mean it?”
“Absolutely,” I replied, “With all my heart.”
“Then it will be so.”
With that, I felt a strangeness in the air, a tightening, and then, after that, the opposite, something appeared to leave me and I felt rested, boosted and recharged.
“What was that?” I said.
The voice had gone. I looked around, my mind glowing with energy. As I looked at the pond, some of the ice at the top seemed to start to melt, steam soaring skyward as if in reaction to the hot excess power my body was emanating.
On the way home I paid a trip to the student bar and without even thinking about it, hammered my housemates at pool, drank 7 pints of stella without even feeling it and, being somewhat afraid of where this new power would lead me, I pretended that the beer had suddenly kicked in (it hadn’t) and left for home, my mind glowing with energy. When I got home I had a shave with an old razorblade, which tore at my skin painfully, but I didn’t even notice, it, the pain seemed to boost my fired up mind even more. As I shaved, the muscles in my arm rippled bigger and bigger, my left arm more so than the right, and to my horror, the pink skin on the left arm began to dry up visibly before my very eyes. It felt as if it was withering away like a tree which had been uprooted and left in the desert sun, growing tighter and tighter, and then cracking, and beginning to peel. As it fell off, I was presented not with veins and sinew and muscle, but with a new arm, green skinned, reptilian, my fingers had turned into a set of lizard hands and claws. After that, the process suddenly stopped, and my right arm remained normal.
When I awoke the next morning, my arm was still suspiciously repilian, so I quickly threw on a long-sleeved jumper and donned a pair of thick gloves. Laura, the rather tasty hippy chick archaeology student who lived in the room below mine and who I had always quite fancied but never actually got round to asking out, winked at me as I walked through the front room.
“Mark,” she said, “Have fun last night?”
“You what?” I replied.
“Whatever you were doing up there, it certainly sounded as if you were enjoying yourself. Oh – no need for gloves, by the way, it’s pretty mild out there today.”
“I had a shave, then went straight to bed,” I replied, “Anyhow, I’m heading out to Shearsmere; want to come?”
Laura looked taken aback. This kind of spontaneous behaviour was rare for me.
“For sure,”, she said, looking at me inquisitively, “I’ll chuck my coat on and we’ll go.”
Shearsmere Peak stood an hour above our University City, grey and imposing. I had been up it once before, and had the misfortune to do so on one of the coldest and most-hail-ridden days of the year.
Today, though, despite the calendar nearing Christmas, it was absolutely azure, with the snow having fallen two days previously, and we made our way through the ancient historical streets rapidly, emboldened by the inter sun.
“Are you OK, Mark?” Laura asked me, “You’re not normally like this. Normally it’s us lot who have to drag you out of the house like an unwilling toddler, particularly on days like today.”
As we made our way through Stanbrook City’s crumbling walls, remnants of the long-gone Slav Empire of 3000 years previously which had stretched from New York to Vladivostock, she asked, “What turned you from staunch bedroom-bound scientific geek to great rugged outdoors lover?” she asked me.
“I don’t know,” I replied, “I feel changed.”
She looked somewhat quizzical then asked, ”how long do ya reckon you can make it to the peak in?”
I smiled, and I looked at Laura, considering the question for a moment.
“One hour, tops.” I replied.
“Yeah right,” she replied, “Ten hours, more like.”
Taken offence at that, I charged on ahead, stomping up the rocky path which led to Shearsmere’s plateau-like peak.
Back in 900 AD, at the peak of the Octavian Empire, Shearsmere had been a vital stronghold for revolutionary forces. Seen from our town, it looked like an unremarkable, typically southern English peak – white, dry, gradual incline, would take most elderly people two hours tops. However, the paths which lead up it are in fact an eerie labyrinth of granite that was the graveyard of many a foreign invader. That was why Stanbrook tended to think of itself as the most English city, even if that was only the Stanbrook of the past, not the present.
“Laura,” I said.
“Yeah?” she said, looking relieved that I had broken my thoughts – and the silence – to ask her a question.
“Do you really believe in that stuff? You know, Liberty, Equality and all that? You think the English revolution 1400 years ago really meant anything?”
“Yeah,” she replied, “For sure. They are the ideals our country was founded on.”
“If you say so, “ I replied – a long time ago, and still in other places, but not the stuffy elitists of Stanbrook today.”
“What on earth has happened to you, Mark?” Laura asked me, “Something’s changed. I like it – but it’s a bit strange. And why are you wearing gloves? It’s not that cold.”
She reached her hand towards me, momentarily brushing my arm for just a second longer than she normally might, and then quickly yanked off one glove and then the other. I braced myself, wondering what her reaction might be at my newly formed green, scaly hand and claws.
“You hiding something?” she asked, “Or just extremely sensitive to the cold?”
I looked at my hands. The left arm had returned to normal.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, “Do you suffer from some kind of body heat rapid depletion issues?
“No,” I replied, “Why did you say that?”
“Well, just the gloves. It isn’t that cold.”
She touched my right hand. My skin tingled as she did so. She moved her hand away sharply and then touched my left one.
“My god, Mark,” she said, “What’s wrong with your left hand?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, my own right hand brushing hers as it also felt the much more pallid skin on my left one, which felt as if all body warmth had been completely drained away, it wasn’t ice cold, but had that leathery but smooth that snakeskin boots tend to have, and my skin temperature was like a glass jar which had been left in a cellar, “This hasn’t happened before.”
“Rapid depletion,” she said, “My cousin used to suffer from it. His body temperature would plummet by 20 degrees centigrade and he was in constant danger of suffering from hypothermia, and even in the middle of summer we had to have someone standing next to him at all times with blankets and coats. That said-“
and Laura stood facing me, looking into my increasingly burning eyes with a mixture of marked concern and a bewildering admiration, taking my cold leathery left hand in her right hand, and my still-warm and soft right hand in hers, which is where I felt the tingling, exciting sensation return as her fingers drifted gently over the tips of mine.
“You’re a strange guy, Mark,” she said, “You spend all your time in your room writing up your strange historical essays and proposals, and you never tell us your problems or issues. You appear so sad and withdrawn a lot of the time, and then today, you came down, it was like a new person, it was like I had met my housemate all over again, except that now you aren’t just my housemate, are you, you’re a different person. Your hands are significantly different temperatures. That is not right, Mark, not right at all – something is up with you. It’s changing your body, changing the flow of your blood, the temperature.”
She squeezed my right hand, then the left, and I felt some of the blood on my right hand side of my body flow over to the left side and down the arm into my hand. Laura rubbed my left hand with her fingers as it did, and the hand’s leathery feel seemed to smooth out into my softer normal skin.
She leaned over and kissed me on the lips, then her hands dropped away.
“Yeah,” she said, “anyway, want to race me to the top?” She beckoned up the path, which was deserted, to the point where it split into two roughly equal paths through the granite corridors which slowly let up to the Shearsmere’s Peak’s main summit, the red path and the blue path.
“I’ll take the red, and you the blue,” she said.
Blowing me a kiss, she turned and ran through the white, marble carved doorway which bordered the red path. I ran towards the blue path, heart beating, remembering the ancient local Anglo custom: if a woman wanted to notify a man that she wanted him, she would do so by challenging him to a race in this way.
I ran and ran, my blood coursing faster and faster through my body, sometimes faster than it ever had before. Had I been paying attention to something other than my forthcoming cessation of celibacy, I would have noticed that along with the faster beat, my body temperature was rising and falling with a faster speed than it ever had done before, both going down to around 15c, and then rising to around 80c as a new fiery power rushed through me. I would have realised that the wish I had made before was still, very shortly, going to come true, and that this new found love would soon be cut, viciously, brutally, cut short as quickly as it had come to fruition.
It is painful to recall the moment and to address the bitter regret my earlier wish has caused me. If I had never made that wish, it is true that Laura might never have come up the mountain with me that day, she might never have instigated our short lived relationship so swiftly, and we might not have had that moment of passion, underneath the iron oak tree which decorated the left hand chamber of the 500ad revolutionary temple which stood to the left of Shearsmere Peak’s summit. As much as I still remember that moment as a great one, what happened soon after, the sadness I felt as I looked down at my body almost as soon as she turned to get dressed, to see my skin changing colour and texture from head to toe, my body growing and growing and growing and growing until the iron temple was shattered into a billion with the most brutal simplicity as my head pierced its roof like butter, my former arms, and other new limbs breaking through its walls and nearby granite rock surface with absolute ease. I remember Laura turning towards me as she put her wooden multicoloured bead necklace back over her head, lost in love, not even noticing the screeching, searing noises which near split even my less sensitive dragon ears in two, the way she had turned towards me, amidst the chaos and noise, expecting me to still be lying there in bliss, and that look in her eyes turning into naked fear when she saw what had become of me, raised on my hind legs, wings stretched out, near blocking out the sunshine.
I looked down at her, wanting to speak, wanting to tell her how I felt, but it was already too late, my dragon voice box was incapable of human speech (although I do, to this day, still think in English, as I have no fellow creatures to actually converse with) and whatever English word I said came out simply as incoherent rumblings, which floated out into the ether accompanied by small wisps of fire and flame.
“Mark?” she said, her face wrought with disbelief
I tried to tell her that I did not know, but it was no use whatsoever.
“Mark, was this why you appeared so changed this morning? So much more confident, striding out of the house?”
Still able to nod, I did so.
“Look, you have to know, I’ve always quite liked you, but the way you were, trapped in your room, well I thought you just weren’t interested in me at all.”
I never had the chance to find out anything more about what she thought, as just then our conversation was shattered by the sound of the arrival of some fifty police helicopters, triggered by the collapse of the Temple walls, and the alarms which had been ringing around our heads for some three minutes now.
There was no attempt at finding out who or what I was, no wonderment at seeing the first Dragon to have walked this world since they were wiped out in 7000 BC, there was only blast after blast of rockets, bullets, and lazers, some of which scratched me as a thistle might scratch a human, but most of which was harmless. The only thing that I cared about was that during that barrage, the exact point of which I cannot remember, Laura was hit all over her considerably more frail human body and fell, lifeless, to the ground.
I remember feeling so numb that the confidence I had originally felt subsided, and sadness overcame anger, and rather than destroying each of the helicopters as I might, or razing the city to the ground, I simply rose into the air and flew away at a reasonable and constant speed, the helicopters first giving chase, and then, slowly fading away, when they realised I was heading over Asia, my now numb mind aghast, unable to take in what had taken place.
I did, eventually, settle down in a cave near the outskirts of the old ruined city of Tramberlan here in once-German Empire-ruled Central Asia. I cannot write, but I do have a huge pile of books, which I often ruin as I use my claws (which I have found impossible to trim or cut) to turn their pages, that I have stockpiled over the years during nightly raids on cities at times when I’ve grown bored of the early thrill of stealing buffalo and yak from the clutches of nearby nomads and farmers.
To this day, now twenty thousand years old, and physically no nearer to death, now far more well read than I was back then, when I understood our history in emotive but not really actual terms, with the rest of my old race all but extinct, the world now a place only of ruins and nature, I will always regret that day in my childhood, the blinkered, delusional belief in something that would make me stronger, instead of trying to make myself stronger, and the sure-fire knowledge, now, that had I not always been lost in my own thoughts, someone like Laura would have liked me without my having to take such drastic measures.
The invisible force or being who granted the wish to me has never returned, either. I wish he or she would one of these days, for closure, to tell me that they could turn back time or reverse the process or bring Laura back or just let me die, which also appears impossible.
My final word before I head out tonight to fly over the woods and mountains in search of food, an activity which ceased being enjoyable long, long ago, is that I hope that that being can return, some day, and put things right, one way or the other.
-
Friday, July 24, 2009
Raven
I tricked the Moon into the heavens, my cunning put the Sun to blaze in
the sky. I was the most beautiful, most loved thing in creation. All
men worshipped me. I rode the skies high currents uncaged and
unchallenged. Sometimes I would fish; more often your forefathers gave
me the fattest portion of their catches, out of respect and love. Those
were the first and best days of the world. Everything we created was
new. So as you can imagine it’s a bit of a comedown to be sitting
shivering in a damp hall waiting for my first meeting in the 12-Step
Program to start
There's about thirty of us packed into this old school hall. I’m second
to last row drawing some odd glances from those around me because I
have my shades on indoors. I’m riding the body of a half Cherokee
shaman tonight but I can’t use eyes to see anymore. Had a little
trouble when I stole the Sun, oh way back now. But eyes aint all I got
to watch with.
I’m here cause I have a habit to beat, same as everyone else in the
room. There comes a point where you tell yourself enough is enough. As
it’s my first time, I had my host spike before we came, reasoning that
even a truly unbearable meeting would be ok if I was high
The low murmur of voices subsides as a huge Greek man stands and takes
the lectern. He has one eye in the middle of his forehead, but it’s
covered with a patch. I feel a little whisper of recognition, but
before I chase the memory he begins to speak
‘Hi everybody, my name is Bob’ his low rumble makes the windows vibrate
‘Hi Bob’ we all chorus
‘I see a lotta new faces tonight, and I’m glad. Some of you regular
guys are about ready to sponsor, and we’ll talk about that later. But
let me tell you about why I’m here’ he paused to sip at his orange
juice
‘I have a drinking problem. Took me a long time and a lotta pain before
I realised and admitted that. See it starts off so slow you don’t even
see it coming. I was a farmer, a good farmer. Had me plenty of sheep,
some grain crops, a mortgage on the prettiest little cave you ever saw.
Life was good, and yeah, I enjoyed the odd barrelful of wine. Why
shouldn’t I? He shook his massive head
‘But it didn’t end there. One barrel became two barrels, and before you
know it I was drunk every night. Mean drunk. I started drinking with a
bad crowd, mixing with all sortsa pondlife. One night some humans came
by and I caught em stealing my stuff. things got outta hand. I killed a
few of them. Then I got real stupid. Drank some more, this time wine
the humans gave me. It was strong stuff. I passed out on the floor, and
while I was sleeping the humans got a wood spear and put out my damn
eye’
With this he lifted up his patch to show us all the gory socket. Stupid
as he was, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Being screwed over
by other Gods is bad enough, but getting shafted by humans must be a
constant source of bitterness
‘Since then it’s been one day at a time. I aint always made it, and
sometimes I still slip up. But with the help of Father Zeus and the
support of my 12-step sponsor, I can beat this thing’ he hung his head
briefly as the assembled deities clapped.
‘Okay gods, let’s take a breather. Give yourselves 10 minutes, then
Aphrodite will see about getting some of you newcomers paired up with
sponsors. If anyone wants to share, come and let me know’
The assembled addicts of half a dozen pantheons stirred. Most turned in
their seats to talk to their neighbours, but I joined the handful going
outside for a smoke. Outside we huddled under a streetlight and
exchanged names and addiction. ‘Thor’ says the hulking blond
muscle-Mary ‘I got anger issues’ He sucks at a soggy looking hand
rolled cigarette
The dark haired full figured woman speaks up with a welsh lilt
‘Arianrhod’ sighing ‘they say I have a sex addiction’
Thor looks like he’s about to crack a dirty joke so I speak up
‘Call me Raven. I inject heroin’ I tell them ‘Nearly every day’ there
is a shocked silence
‘You use your worshippers’ bodies to get high?’ Arianrhod is outraged
‘Come on people there’s no judgements here’ says the second woman ‘we
all done some terrible things.’
She slaps her huge gut ‘I’m clinically obese. Annapurna’s the name but
you can call me Anna’ We soon file back in to the hall past the crude
daubing of houses and animals pinned to the wall. When did we get like
this? What happened to the glory days, the smiting the creating and
feasting?
Oh I know we lost a lot of grip when Yahweh and Allah came tearing out
of the desert, smashing our places of power and slaughtering our
followers. Cults and legends, children’s prayers and nursery rhymes saw
some of us through the long dark night. But that’s not enough to
explain the bunch of neurotic gods here tonight, wallowing in their own
self-doubt. I can feel the sanctimonious gaze of Arianrhod boring into
my back as I take my seat. A worm of guilt wriggles somewhere, under
the layers of bliss feeding back from my worshipper’s brain. I close my
eyes and imagine wind under my wings, hovering and wheeling in
updrafts, diving to catch the new spring’s fish on a morning when the
world was young. A fluting voice brings me to my senses
‘Hi everybody my name’s Aphrodite’
‘Hi Aphrodite’
‘I think our regulars have all heard me share plenty of times....’ she
began
‘I wouldn’t mind hearing it again’ a leering voice called
‘SO, I’ll go right to the first person who wants to share tonight. He’s
a good friend of mine and I’m so glad he’s here tonight to admit to his
drinking problem, please give it up for Dionysus’
At that something in me just snapped. As the ruddy faced God took to
the stage I stood up
‘What the hell is wrong with you Gods? Seriously I have never seen so
many whining deities in all my long, long life. Apart from the no-eyed
degenerate drunk, none of you have any real problems. When did you all
become such pussies?’
‘That’s enough buddy’ growls ‘Bob’
‘Shut up! You’ I point at Thor ‘Anger issues. You’re the god of storm
and thunder; you gotta right to go postal sometimes. Dionysus, of
course you drink all the time. It’s what you are!’
Aphrodite rises from her seat and makes shushing gestures
‘I will not be quiet. You woman, goddess of fertility right? Then stop
being ashamed of how much fucking you do! It’s ridiculous. I’m so weak
I can’t take my Raven shape, and it’s killing me. I want to fly so
badly that I’m using heroin to stop myself going insane. And you jokers
think you got problems. Well fuck you’
I left in a seething rage striding blindly out into the night, just
walking alone in the dark. I must have walked for an hour through
Vancouver’s cold streets, past liquor stores and ail-night grocery
outlets. I could feel my anger and bitterness snapping out ahead of me.
Once a street walker approached me, but recoiled in terror as I locked
my gaze with hers. She turned and ran without a word. In the hour
before sun up I dropped down onto a bench exhausted. Out of the looming
dark a figure took shape. There was a sense of weight, a shifting in
the air. My host’s ears hurt.
‘Morningstar’ I gave him a weary nod. He grins at me, with his blue
eyed cherub mask on, black Armani suit crisp. Las time I saw him he was
still doing the old Horns and Hooves manifestation
‘I am glad someone remembers the formalities. So little respect for the
New Order amongst you older gods these days. Shocking’
‘What do you want Lucifer? I’m having a bad night’
‘Yes I enjoyed your little outburst earlier. You know why they’re like
that don’t you? It’s because they tend to mirror humanity a lot closer
than you or I do. Those pantheons always were unhealthily close to
their worshippers’
If he has a point I am failing to understand it. Suddenly this upstart
with his vast power makes me angry
‘Well whoopy-doo Lucifer. Just tell me what you want. Like I said, bad
night’
‘A bad century from where I’m standing. You know I never really liked
your kind’
‘My kind?’
‘You little trickster gods, capering about, like tiny mockeries of my
glory. Stealing the power that should be mine.’ There’s a nasty edge to
his voice and a touch of fear
strokes my spine
‘So you’ve come to kill me then?’
‘No Raven. Truth is the tiny scrap of power you possess isn’t worth the
effort of taking. I’ve been watching you for a while though and I’ve
come to admire your persistence. You were the trickster god for a
people that haven’t existed for over a thousand years. Stronger gods
have come and gone while you held on to your scraps of followers. Even
now, too weak to change and staring dissolution in the face you cling
to life with a heroin addiction. I’m impressed’
‘What’ I laugh ‘Is this the big recruitment speech? ‘
Lucifer turned to look at dawn’s first blush coming up over the firs.
He was quiet so long I thought he’d forgotten about me.
‘I’m going to give you your wings back Raven. Because I can. Because I
want to.’ He turned and grinned at me ‘And because I think it will
annoy Yahweh. ‘
‘No strings?’
‘None. You’ll as ever be confined to your territory, and should you
take man shape again, I doubt you’d ever be able to leave it. Are you
ready?’
I nodded. A massive surge of etheric force surged through my
consciousness, blasting me up and out of the half-Cherokee host.
Suspended above the ground I felt myself twist, expanding alarmingly.
Then I was Raven, gliding down to perch on the bench next to my
slumbering worshipper. I bobbed my head once to Lucifer and launched
myself into the night sky.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Tom Boys Last Summer
Tom boys last summer
We lay there amongst the grass lazily absorbing the sky; I was absent mindedly picking clovers with one hand and twisting the leaves off one by one. I had long since given up trying to find the elusive four leaves, we had all found one at some point anyway so we felt lucky enough.
Julie was doing what she called her opera singing, it was annoying and nothing like those fat women I had seen on the telly anyway, to me she sounded like those chickens at the back of her neighbour's house when they thought you had food in your pocket. I told her to shut it and for once she did. She had her jewellery box at her side, the one with the pretty shells on top, some of them missing, a brown crust beneath that had at one time held them tight. I knew she had only brought it out so that she could show off. She was saying I could borrow anything I liked but I knew that if I agreed, the offer would vanish like a mosquito you are certain is trapped in your hand, evaporates as you give it light.
I wasn’t really interested in jewellery anyway; my Mum had a box at home, a Chinese one. It was black and had brass corners. In the middle was a picture of some sort of shed and a bird with long legs beside it. I used to enjoy looking in there when I was younger. The chains were always tangled up together in a knot with earrings hanging off when I lifted them out, like a crazy jumble sale of a charm bracelet. I liked to untangle them, felt like I was doing her a favour, though she rarely wore any of them. She had other things in there too, in between the dividers I would find hair grips, safety pins and some sort of seeds all covered in fluff and tobacco dust. It smelled a bit like her handbag but not as sweet.
I had always been fascinated with my Mums boxes and the things she kept inside, she had so many and over time I found out what they all held. I would do that when she was not around though, it’s not that she would have minded but it was more exciting doing it without her permission. Similar to when you pinch a chip off someone, it always tastes a lot better than if they were yours in the first place.
To me, each box was a treasure trove that may contain a dark secret, or a glimpse of the life she had before me. One box I looked in, one of her smallest, had a sort of mosaic of shiny stones in the shape of a flower on the lid. It was hard to open which to me meant whatever was inside it must have been very important, or very secret indeed. Not that I could hear anything rattling around inside. When I finally managed to prise it open I found inside a lock of golden hair, it was soft and shiny and held in place by an ancient piece of elastic band that now resembled a worm that had dried up in the sun. I wondered why my Mum had somebody’s hair in a box, I thought maybe she was a witch but that didn’t seem quite right.
We watched the others as they raced up and down the bumpy dirt track on their bikes and I wondered why everything had to be a competition with human beings. It was rare we played any games that didn’t involve one up man ship. Even my favourite game of making dens down the woods ended with a prize for the best den. The prize being whatever we could steal from our kitchens while our parent’s backs were turned. I had to admit that when I had won and had gone home with my winnings, that walk had been the easiest of my life, my pride a hovercraft beneath my feet.
I laid them out on my bed, one carrot, one mostly red apple that Pete had shined on his t shirt for me and best of all, a bag of space raiders, which I took quickly outside with me, up the old tree and into the tree house to feast on. It was nearly tea time and Mum would have gone mad had she seen me.
I could hear it now- Where’d you get ‘em? Who gave you the money? You better not have been stealing again madam! You wont want this lovely food I been slaving over a hot stove for then? She was always like that my Mum; ask ten questions before you got to answer one.
Now the boys had joined us on the grass, their bikes thrown down uncaringly to the ground, their jeans and shoes looked like they had been painted by Jackson Pollock with a limited palette. Tim had mud all up his back too cos he always rode through puddles too fast. My Mum said his mum must love washing.
The wind rose a little, shaking the Big Beech trees like paper rattles. The clouds drifted by above, the boys only seeing boobies and shitting arses in their forms. Julie tried again to gain some interest in her jewellery box but got even less response for her efforts this time and so wandered off to get lunch, her red curls bouncing sharply, showing her annoyance from behind.
As soon as Julie’s front door banged shut, Pete turned to look at me, giving me one of his long stares that he seemed to do a lot these days. Julie’s tits are bigger than yours but her arse is too big he said. I felt the heat rising from my neck and up into my face, prickling as it grew. I let my head hang forward so my hair would hide my shame. He let out a sadistic yet fake laugh and Tim joined in, although apparently unaware of what was funny.
My chest hurt, I mean it really hurt, worse than when me and Tim had fought and he had kneeled on it to pin me down. I hated the fact that my once flat chest, not unlike both Tim’s and Pete’s was now marking me out as different to them. My Gran had even brought up the subject of bras last weekend, though I had quickly escaped to the garden to play with her dog. I came in to find a catalogue left open at a page full of coffee coloured boob scaffolding. I had seen my Nan's bras and they were similar to those, as far as I knew all of them were like that cos my Mum didn’t wear one. When I asked why she said well you don’t need a shopping bag if you are only buying a strawberry. I had no idea what she meant but thought her nipples looked more like raspberries to me, though my Nan called hers cherries. I had no interest in wearing a bra and didn’t want to think about what fruit my nipples most resembled anymore so I quickly found the page that held remote control cars and the robot with the flashing lights and voice I had been seeing adverts about on Saturday morning. Now that, is seriously cool I thought. I didn’t hold out much hope of ever getting it though, last Christmas I got my little ponies! What an absolute insult, I was disgusted. This is why I hate opening presents in front of people, if they choose such an unsuitable gift, I feel insulted and then my face insults them.
Pete starts throwing grass at me, first little bits, then manically pulling great big clumps out, and hurtling them towards me while making the noise of a bomb falling. One hits me right in the mouth, earth flying onto my tongue and teeth. I roll away furious and quickly get up, Pete is still laughing, clutching his belly, when I kick him full force in the shin, he pulls his knee up in agony and hits himself in the lip. Now he is squealing and me and Tim are laughing, this time Tim being in no doubt about the joke.
I spit out my muddied saliva, Pete spits out a bit of blood, we’re even now I thought.
For the rest of that day I was part of the boy’s crew again, Pete refrained from any talk of tits and no more mountains were made out of my molehills.
We lay there amongst the grass lazily absorbing the sky; I was absent mindedly picking clovers with one hand and twisting the leaves off one by one. I had long since given up trying to find the elusive four leaves, we had all found one at some point anyway so we felt lucky enough.
Julie was doing what she called her opera singing, it was annoying and nothing like those fat women I had seen on the telly anyway, to me she sounded like those chickens at the back of her neighbour's house when they thought you had food in your pocket. I told her to shut it and for once she did. She had her jewellery box at her side, the one with the pretty shells on top, some of them missing, a brown crust beneath that had at one time held them tight. I knew she had only brought it out so that she could show off. She was saying I could borrow anything I liked but I knew that if I agreed, the offer would vanish like a mosquito you are certain is trapped in your hand, evaporates as you give it light.
I wasn’t really interested in jewellery anyway; my Mum had a box at home, a Chinese one. It was black and had brass corners. In the middle was a picture of some sort of shed and a bird with long legs beside it. I used to enjoy looking in there when I was younger. The chains were always tangled up together in a knot with earrings hanging off when I lifted them out, like a crazy jumble sale of a charm bracelet. I liked to untangle them, felt like I was doing her a favour, though she rarely wore any of them. She had other things in there too, in between the dividers I would find hair grips, safety pins and some sort of seeds all covered in fluff and tobacco dust. It smelled a bit like her handbag but not as sweet.
I had always been fascinated with my Mums boxes and the things she kept inside, she had so many and over time I found out what they all held. I would do that when she was not around though, it’s not that she would have minded but it was more exciting doing it without her permission. Similar to when you pinch a chip off someone, it always tastes a lot better than if they were yours in the first place.
To me, each box was a treasure trove that may contain a dark secret, or a glimpse of the life she had before me. One box I looked in, one of her smallest, had a sort of mosaic of shiny stones in the shape of a flower on the lid. It was hard to open which to me meant whatever was inside it must have been very important, or very secret indeed. Not that I could hear anything rattling around inside. When I finally managed to prise it open I found inside a lock of golden hair, it was soft and shiny and held in place by an ancient piece of elastic band that now resembled a worm that had dried up in the sun. I wondered why my Mum had somebody’s hair in a box, I thought maybe she was a witch but that didn’t seem quite right.
We watched the others as they raced up and down the bumpy dirt track on their bikes and I wondered why everything had to be a competition with human beings. It was rare we played any games that didn’t involve one up man ship. Even my favourite game of making dens down the woods ended with a prize for the best den. The prize being whatever we could steal from our kitchens while our parent’s backs were turned. I had to admit that when I had won and had gone home with my winnings, that walk had been the easiest of my life, my pride a hovercraft beneath my feet.
I laid them out on my bed, one carrot, one mostly red apple that Pete had shined on his t shirt for me and best of all, a bag of space raiders, which I took quickly outside with me, up the old tree and into the tree house to feast on. It was nearly tea time and Mum would have gone mad had she seen me.
I could hear it now- Where’d you get ‘em? Who gave you the money? You better not have been stealing again madam! You wont want this lovely food I been slaving over a hot stove for then? She was always like that my Mum; ask ten questions before you got to answer one.
Now the boys had joined us on the grass, their bikes thrown down uncaringly to the ground, their jeans and shoes looked like they had been painted by Jackson Pollock with a limited palette. Tim had mud all up his back too cos he always rode through puddles too fast. My Mum said his mum must love washing.
The wind rose a little, shaking the Big Beech trees like paper rattles. The clouds drifted by above, the boys only seeing boobies and shitting arses in their forms. Julie tried again to gain some interest in her jewellery box but got even less response for her efforts this time and so wandered off to get lunch, her red curls bouncing sharply, showing her annoyance from behind.
As soon as Julie’s front door banged shut, Pete turned to look at me, giving me one of his long stares that he seemed to do a lot these days. Julie’s tits are bigger than yours but her arse is too big he said. I felt the heat rising from my neck and up into my face, prickling as it grew. I let my head hang forward so my hair would hide my shame. He let out a sadistic yet fake laugh and Tim joined in, although apparently unaware of what was funny.
My chest hurt, I mean it really hurt, worse than when me and Tim had fought and he had kneeled on it to pin me down. I hated the fact that my once flat chest, not unlike both Tim’s and Pete’s was now marking me out as different to them. My Gran had even brought up the subject of bras last weekend, though I had quickly escaped to the garden to play with her dog. I came in to find a catalogue left open at a page full of coffee coloured boob scaffolding. I had seen my Nan's bras and they were similar to those, as far as I knew all of them were like that cos my Mum didn’t wear one. When I asked why she said well you don’t need a shopping bag if you are only buying a strawberry. I had no idea what she meant but thought her nipples looked more like raspberries to me, though my Nan called hers cherries. I had no interest in wearing a bra and didn’t want to think about what fruit my nipples most resembled anymore so I quickly found the page that held remote control cars and the robot with the flashing lights and voice I had been seeing adverts about on Saturday morning. Now that, is seriously cool I thought. I didn’t hold out much hope of ever getting it though, last Christmas I got my little ponies! What an absolute insult, I was disgusted. This is why I hate opening presents in front of people, if they choose such an unsuitable gift, I feel insulted and then my face insults them.
Pete starts throwing grass at me, first little bits, then manically pulling great big clumps out, and hurtling them towards me while making the noise of a bomb falling. One hits me right in the mouth, earth flying onto my tongue and teeth. I roll away furious and quickly get up, Pete is still laughing, clutching his belly, when I kick him full force in the shin, he pulls his knee up in agony and hits himself in the lip. Now he is squealing and me and Tim are laughing, this time Tim being in no doubt about the joke.
I spit out my muddied saliva, Pete spits out a bit of blood, we’re even now I thought.
For the rest of that day I was part of the boy’s crew again, Pete refrained from any talk of tits and no more mountains were made out of my molehills.
Monday, July 20, 2009
The Clinic
The Clinic
I met her in the clinic. The waiting area. We bonded over a shared distaste for the terrible coffee provided by the impressive-looking and impressively noisy machine perched on the corner of the reception desk. Honestly, the amount these people charge you’d think they’d spring for a decent coffee machine. But then I suppose you don’t have to go out of your way to provide excellent service when you’re the only people in the world who can provide the service at all. Shit coffee it is then, but I’ll take shit coffee if it gives me an excuse to talk to a woman like that one. Small talk mostly, no names, both of us being very careful to avoid the elephant in the room. I cracked before she did;
“So…before or after?” I ask as casually as I can. She laughs; no mere polite waiting room chuckle, she really goes for it. I like the way her shoulders move when she laughs, I wonder if mine do that. I wonder if mine will do that.
“Before,” she says.
“So, consultation or what?”
“Nope,” she says cheerfully, pointing to an overstuffed rucksack tucked under her chair, “today’s the day.”
“Me too. Christ, I’d expect you to be a bit more nervous.”
“You don’t seem nervous either.”
“I’m just pretending to be calm to impress you,” I admit. She laughs again.
“This doesn’t seem to be any time to go around trying to chat up women,” she says.
“Well no but, I suppose I thought, because we’ll both be fairly new at it, sort of understanding…it could be fun anyway.”
“Oh, I see. You think we should team up afterwards,” she says, her voice giving me no hint of what she thinks of the idea. I turn away and stare at a rather sad-looking potted plant for a while.
“Fuck it,” she says at last “why not? It’s not like it’ll be the weirdest thing that’s gonna happen to us today is it? Why don’t you come by later this evening once we’ve both had time to settle in a bit?”
I nod in agreement. She scrawls her address on the corner of a magazine cover and, checking that the receptionist isn’t looking, tears it off and hands it to me.
“Should I bring a bottle or something?” I ask, and instantly regret it. Laughter again from the woman.
“Do what you like mate, no offence but I’m going to be roaring drunk already by the time you show up.”
“Can’t say fairer than that.”
“Miss Samantha Hindes?” the receptionist calls out.
“That’s me,” she says, gathering her things together and getting to her feet. She is nervous, I can see her hands trembling. She turns and gives me a quick wink before the receptionist shepherds her away. I am left alone in the waiting room suddenly realising how godless and scary the place seems, even by waiting room standards. The doors are all unmarked, no nameplates or anything. That bothers me for some reason. Soon enough, from behind the nameless door by which Samantha Hindes just left, the screaming starts.
I could have put more thought into the outfit I suppose, although in my defence I had no opportunity to test it out beforehand. It’s a nice enough dress, a simple flowing dark green effort, but the instant I leave the clinic I realise that it’s not the sort of thing people wear at 4 o’ clock in the afternoon. The shoes were a mistake, that’s for damn sure. Change of plan then, instead of going straight home to regroup, I’m going shopping. I fish around in my wallet (a fucking wallet, you haven’t thought this through at all have you? You don’t even have pockets any more) for the handy little card they gave me before I left the clinic. It features an array of strange numbers, although there’s one I recognise instantly; 34D. I vaguely recall asking for 34C but then they do tell you over and over again that it’s not an exact science. Glancing downwards I find it hard to be too upset about the discrepancy. As for the physical sensation of having the things there, I’m trying to ignore it for the time being. Just focus; clothes now, then fun. And what fun it will be. I step into a shop, realising that as I’m now a woman I am freed from the obligation to look awkward and ashamed whilst clothes shopping. I consult the little card once more, I am a size twelve. I buy some jeans and a white blouse to go with them. My feet are size four. I find a pair of size four shoes. Trainers. Heels are a fucking awful idea. I accept my new purchases from the girl on the till and head back home.
I go home and take my shoes off. I then place the delicate, skeletal black shoes in the bin and spit on them. I scramble out of my dress and run to the full-length mirror that I had the foresight to buy earlier in the week. Not half bad. I reckon they’ve made me more like 25 years old than my real tally of 32. The face, yeah I’m pretty hot alright but these tits, they’re fucking fantastic. I start to feel almost delirious with joy as I stare at the mirror and see them staring back at me. I tell myself I should go out again in case I end up staying in here forever fondling my own breasts. I drag on some underwear I purchased earlier, and slide my new jeans over the top. Once they’re buttoned up they leave little to the imagination, but there’s not much left to imagine so that doesn’t seem to matter. I have completely forgotten to acquire a suitable bra but my tits don’t look like they need one. There’s no room for anything much in my new pockets so I unclip my front door key from the rest of the bundle and slide it into one pocket. I slide a hundred quid in notes into the other. Sod makeup, I bought some earlier but I’ve no idea how to use it and I look good enough as it is. In fact I sort of wish I had my dick back so I could fuck me, however that might work. I tuck my hair back behind my ears and head back out into the world.
Walking is a strange experience alright, not only has the comforting presence of my balls disappeared but my pelvis seems to be entirely the wrong shape for walking. I dread to think how much energy is being wasted on sideways motion when I only need to go forwards. Even more noticeable than the ridiculous bone structure and the lack of balls are the eyes. Not my eyes you understand, the eyes of pretty much everyone else I pass in the street. I can feel my tits bouncing gently in sympathy with my stride, unconstrained by the light fabric that’s just about shielding them from view. I find myself looking at the men passing by as well. I’m not interested in their faces, only what I can make out lower down. Excitement is building alright, but it’s too early to go and see Samantha. I settle for a bar instead, an expensive one by the looks of it. There are lots of shiny black things in this bar; shiny black bar counter, shiny black tables, shiny black door to what must surely be shiny black bogs. There is a mirror behind the bar. My tits look even better than they did when I left the house. I order a gin and tonic. Whether the barman pays for the drink himself or simply forgets to charge me seems to be a moot point. A guy appears next to me at the bar, looking slimy and unpleasant but definitely rich. I allow him to sit down beside me. We talk for a while. He talks anyway, mostly about how important he and his company are but with occasional interludes to tell me how beautiful I am. If this routine has ever worked, ever in the history of the world, then women everywhere ought to be ashamed of themselves. All I can think about is what a total cunt this guy is. I hope he dies of syphilis. This thought brings a smile to my face, and a small snigger with it.
“What’s funny?” he asks, sounding like a parent asking a five-year-old child what’s funny about throwing mud in the house.
“Two things really, firstly you actually think I’m going to fuck you despite the fact that you’re boring me to tears. Secondly there’s the fact that earlier today I was a man. I had a dick and everything, probably a bigger one than yours,” I say, looking down at his crotch with a pitiful half smile. Mister Important looks every bit as upset as I hoped he would, but he throws in some visible nausea to go with it. He runs out, leaving his wallet on the bar counter. I take out the cash, surreptitiously drop the wallet onto the shiny black floor and swivel round on my bar stool. My tits stop moving a good five seconds after the rest of me, much to the amusement of the barman whose face leaves me in no doubt that he’s seen and heard everything that just happened.
“You saw me take that guy’s money didn’t you?” I ask him.
“Depends,” he says, “how do you feel about tipping bar staff?”
“Nothing gives me greater joy,” I tell him, handing him two twenties from Mister Important’s nest egg, “except perhaps a pint of lager if that could be arranged.”
The barman takes the money and pours my drink and another for himself.
“Did you hear the bit about…” I begin.
“Yep.”
“You don’t seen horrified.”
“I’m a barman love, mate, whatever. Unflappable comes with the territory. And to be honest I assumed those things were too good to be true to one way or another.”
“These are real I’ll have you know.”
“How’s that then?” he asks, slurping his pint.
“Fucked if I know. It’s the latest thing, they use genetic reconstruction to totally rebuild you, no implants or surgery or anything like that. Only your brain stays the same, or at least they tell you it does. Whole thing takes about ninety minutes. Hurts like a bastard mind you. I don’t remember much about it, but it fucking hurts.”
“Can they change you back?”
“Yeah, but you hve to choose beforehand whether you want to change back or not. I took the four week deal,” I tell him. I listen to my own voice as I speak, it’s nothing like my old voice. It is strangely familiar though. Not the only thing that’s going to take some getting used to I’m sure.
“You didn’t want to be a woman for good then?”
“Nah, couldn’t resist giving it a try though. To be honest I really want to know what it’s like to get fucked. I’m not gay or anything, I just sort of have to know what it’s like.”
“Not my place to judge mate, but I’m sure lots of blokes wouldn’t mind trying it, provided their mates never found out.”
“Yeah, well my mates think I’m on holiday in Thailand.”
“It’s dead quiet in here at the moment, I could probably sneak out early…”
“Very kind of you to offer, but I’ve got something lined up already. A bird who switched the other way. Maybe that makes it less gay, I dunno.”
“Well if you get a taste for it and you run out of volunteers, you come and find me. It could be Des Lynam in there and I still would, I don’t mind telling you,” he says cheerfully. On that note I decide it’s time to leave.
Still too early to call on Samantha I reckon, and the attention I’m getting is a pretty powerful drug. I move along to another bar to have more drinks bought for me. At one point I see an awkward-looking young guy staring at me helplessly. I walk over to him and offer to buy him a drink, thinking it’s a huge act of kindness, but he just freaks out, thinks I’m taking the piss out of him or something. This upsets me for some reason and I decide it’s time to find Samantha. She lives just around the corner, but it’s still hard work getting there in my drunken state. Her flat is up three flights of stairs which almost cost me my shiny new shin bones on more than one occasion. When I reach Samantha’s door I find it ajar and stumble gleefully inside. It’s a woman’s flat alright; ornaments, mirrors, tidiness. The big naked bloke laid out on the sofa clutching a whisky bottle looks a bit out of place. He’s not exactly a demigod but I’m happy enough with what I see between his legs. The only problem is that Samantha the man is clearly asleep. I’m not in the mood for wasting time by this point, I decide it’ll be quicker to get naked first and worry about waking him up later. I shed my clothes as quickly as a drunk girl can without serious injury and clamber on top of Samantha, digging my knees into his ribcage in the process. Little Sam wakes up before big Sam does, and big Sam doesn’t seem to have any objections when he sees me on top of him. He looks a bit puzzled but that’s understandable in the circumstances. I grab his dick and, third time lucky, get it inside me. It feels good alright, just the presence of it. It feels good to wrap my legs around him and squeeze. It feels good to slide my hips back and forth and feel his cock move inside me. I use the word good because there aren’t words to describe just how fucking good it really does feel. Sam has tipped his head right back over the arm of the sofa and his breathing has become fast and shallow. The muscles in his stomach bulge and tense and writhe as I ride him. I realise that the yelping noises are coming from me. I also realise that I left the door of Samantha’s flat wide open. I don’t really care about either of those things. I definitely don’t care about whether this counts as gay or not. I keep going. It ends pretty quickly for both of us. We don’t have anything to say afterwards. Once we’ve finally got our breath back Sam is ready again. He doesn’t have to ask, he just picks me up and carries me to his bed.
My head hurts like a bitch. My arsehole seems to hurt too. I suppose I could have just gone down that route to start with and saved myself shitloads of money. Morning is pawing aggressively at the curtains of the strange room. My eyes are reluctant to give me any more information than that. I blink a lot. Some of the blobs begin to coalesce into things. There’s a bed, a ceiling, a door, my naked breasts lolling in front of me, and then there’s me standing over me holding a knife. Even my ruined mind knows there’s something wrong about that.
“What the fuck is this?” I scream, waving the knife at me.
“A dream I reckon. Because I’m here, not there.”
“Fuck off,” I scream again, “you’re me!”
“Nah, y’see this is a new body, had it made special. You don’t exist any more, you’re me now,” the me doing the thinking and seeing says. Something begins to register.
“They’ve fucking swapped us!” both of us holler in unison.
“They didn’t make us new bodies at all the bastards. I should have known, I asked for better abs than these,” Samantha-in-my-body moans, clearly not fussed about offending me at this point.
“How did we not notice last night? How fucking drunk was I?” I wonder out loud.
“I can’t believe I did those things to myself!” Samantha wails.
“They weren’t all bad…”
“Fuck off! Get the fuck out of here! Give me my body back and then get the fuck out of here!”
At this point the bedroom door swings open and a black-suited woman strolls into the room. She seems utterly unfazed by the two shouting naked people in front of her.
“Samantha Hindes?” the newcomer asks. Samantha nods my head in reply, unable to summon any more words.
“And you are Douglas Burton?” she asks me. I nod as well.
“My name is Keisha Jones, I work for Genestruct Ltd. It seems you’ve experienced a crossover event. Terrible administrative fuck up, sackings left right and centre already. The two of you should never have been allowed to meet, this sort of thing sheds rather more light on our methods than we can accept.”
“So you don’t rebuild people at all? What, you just scoop out our brains and swap them round?” Samantha cries.
“Yes that’s more or less it. But we have ways of dealing with this sort of eventuality,” Keisha Jones says evenly, before withdrawing a small pistol from her jacket and shooting Samantha in the head. She then turns to me.
So here I am, lying on some stranger’s bed quietly bleeding to death from two bullet wounds in my chest. Before the Jones woman shot me I had time to ask her how she found us. Samantha and I have GPS chips implanted in our skulls apparently, although Sam’s may have stopped working now. I also asked why she waited so long to come and get us. She said that she had arrived last night, shortly after I had, but that she had wanted to let us have our fun. I thought that was nice.
I met her in the clinic. The waiting area. We bonded over a shared distaste for the terrible coffee provided by the impressive-looking and impressively noisy machine perched on the corner of the reception desk. Honestly, the amount these people charge you’d think they’d spring for a decent coffee machine. But then I suppose you don’t have to go out of your way to provide excellent service when you’re the only people in the world who can provide the service at all. Shit coffee it is then, but I’ll take shit coffee if it gives me an excuse to talk to a woman like that one. Small talk mostly, no names, both of us being very careful to avoid the elephant in the room. I cracked before she did;
“So…before or after?” I ask as casually as I can. She laughs; no mere polite waiting room chuckle, she really goes for it. I like the way her shoulders move when she laughs, I wonder if mine do that. I wonder if mine will do that.
“Before,” she says.
“So, consultation or what?”
“Nope,” she says cheerfully, pointing to an overstuffed rucksack tucked under her chair, “today’s the day.”
“Me too. Christ, I’d expect you to be a bit more nervous.”
“You don’t seem nervous either.”
“I’m just pretending to be calm to impress you,” I admit. She laughs again.
“This doesn’t seem to be any time to go around trying to chat up women,” she says.
“Well no but, I suppose I thought, because we’ll both be fairly new at it, sort of understanding…it could be fun anyway.”
“Oh, I see. You think we should team up afterwards,” she says, her voice giving me no hint of what she thinks of the idea. I turn away and stare at a rather sad-looking potted plant for a while.
“Fuck it,” she says at last “why not? It’s not like it’ll be the weirdest thing that’s gonna happen to us today is it? Why don’t you come by later this evening once we’ve both had time to settle in a bit?”
I nod in agreement. She scrawls her address on the corner of a magazine cover and, checking that the receptionist isn’t looking, tears it off and hands it to me.
“Should I bring a bottle or something?” I ask, and instantly regret it. Laughter again from the woman.
“Do what you like mate, no offence but I’m going to be roaring drunk already by the time you show up.”
“Can’t say fairer than that.”
“Miss Samantha Hindes?” the receptionist calls out.
“That’s me,” she says, gathering her things together and getting to her feet. She is nervous, I can see her hands trembling. She turns and gives me a quick wink before the receptionist shepherds her away. I am left alone in the waiting room suddenly realising how godless and scary the place seems, even by waiting room standards. The doors are all unmarked, no nameplates or anything. That bothers me for some reason. Soon enough, from behind the nameless door by which Samantha Hindes just left, the screaming starts.
I could have put more thought into the outfit I suppose, although in my defence I had no opportunity to test it out beforehand. It’s a nice enough dress, a simple flowing dark green effort, but the instant I leave the clinic I realise that it’s not the sort of thing people wear at 4 o’ clock in the afternoon. The shoes were a mistake, that’s for damn sure. Change of plan then, instead of going straight home to regroup, I’m going shopping. I fish around in my wallet (a fucking wallet, you haven’t thought this through at all have you? You don’t even have pockets any more) for the handy little card they gave me before I left the clinic. It features an array of strange numbers, although there’s one I recognise instantly; 34D. I vaguely recall asking for 34C but then they do tell you over and over again that it’s not an exact science. Glancing downwards I find it hard to be too upset about the discrepancy. As for the physical sensation of having the things there, I’m trying to ignore it for the time being. Just focus; clothes now, then fun. And what fun it will be. I step into a shop, realising that as I’m now a woman I am freed from the obligation to look awkward and ashamed whilst clothes shopping. I consult the little card once more, I am a size twelve. I buy some jeans and a white blouse to go with them. My feet are size four. I find a pair of size four shoes. Trainers. Heels are a fucking awful idea. I accept my new purchases from the girl on the till and head back home.
I go home and take my shoes off. I then place the delicate, skeletal black shoes in the bin and spit on them. I scramble out of my dress and run to the full-length mirror that I had the foresight to buy earlier in the week. Not half bad. I reckon they’ve made me more like 25 years old than my real tally of 32. The face, yeah I’m pretty hot alright but these tits, they’re fucking fantastic. I start to feel almost delirious with joy as I stare at the mirror and see them staring back at me. I tell myself I should go out again in case I end up staying in here forever fondling my own breasts. I drag on some underwear I purchased earlier, and slide my new jeans over the top. Once they’re buttoned up they leave little to the imagination, but there’s not much left to imagine so that doesn’t seem to matter. I have completely forgotten to acquire a suitable bra but my tits don’t look like they need one. There’s no room for anything much in my new pockets so I unclip my front door key from the rest of the bundle and slide it into one pocket. I slide a hundred quid in notes into the other. Sod makeup, I bought some earlier but I’ve no idea how to use it and I look good enough as it is. In fact I sort of wish I had my dick back so I could fuck me, however that might work. I tuck my hair back behind my ears and head back out into the world.
Walking is a strange experience alright, not only has the comforting presence of my balls disappeared but my pelvis seems to be entirely the wrong shape for walking. I dread to think how much energy is being wasted on sideways motion when I only need to go forwards. Even more noticeable than the ridiculous bone structure and the lack of balls are the eyes. Not my eyes you understand, the eyes of pretty much everyone else I pass in the street. I can feel my tits bouncing gently in sympathy with my stride, unconstrained by the light fabric that’s just about shielding them from view. I find myself looking at the men passing by as well. I’m not interested in their faces, only what I can make out lower down. Excitement is building alright, but it’s too early to go and see Samantha. I settle for a bar instead, an expensive one by the looks of it. There are lots of shiny black things in this bar; shiny black bar counter, shiny black tables, shiny black door to what must surely be shiny black bogs. There is a mirror behind the bar. My tits look even better than they did when I left the house. I order a gin and tonic. Whether the barman pays for the drink himself or simply forgets to charge me seems to be a moot point. A guy appears next to me at the bar, looking slimy and unpleasant but definitely rich. I allow him to sit down beside me. We talk for a while. He talks anyway, mostly about how important he and his company are but with occasional interludes to tell me how beautiful I am. If this routine has ever worked, ever in the history of the world, then women everywhere ought to be ashamed of themselves. All I can think about is what a total cunt this guy is. I hope he dies of syphilis. This thought brings a smile to my face, and a small snigger with it.
“What’s funny?” he asks, sounding like a parent asking a five-year-old child what’s funny about throwing mud in the house.
“Two things really, firstly you actually think I’m going to fuck you despite the fact that you’re boring me to tears. Secondly there’s the fact that earlier today I was a man. I had a dick and everything, probably a bigger one than yours,” I say, looking down at his crotch with a pitiful half smile. Mister Important looks every bit as upset as I hoped he would, but he throws in some visible nausea to go with it. He runs out, leaving his wallet on the bar counter. I take out the cash, surreptitiously drop the wallet onto the shiny black floor and swivel round on my bar stool. My tits stop moving a good five seconds after the rest of me, much to the amusement of the barman whose face leaves me in no doubt that he’s seen and heard everything that just happened.
“You saw me take that guy’s money didn’t you?” I ask him.
“Depends,” he says, “how do you feel about tipping bar staff?”
“Nothing gives me greater joy,” I tell him, handing him two twenties from Mister Important’s nest egg, “except perhaps a pint of lager if that could be arranged.”
The barman takes the money and pours my drink and another for himself.
“Did you hear the bit about…” I begin.
“Yep.”
“You don’t seen horrified.”
“I’m a barman love, mate, whatever. Unflappable comes with the territory. And to be honest I assumed those things were too good to be true to one way or another.”
“These are real I’ll have you know.”
“How’s that then?” he asks, slurping his pint.
“Fucked if I know. It’s the latest thing, they use genetic reconstruction to totally rebuild you, no implants or surgery or anything like that. Only your brain stays the same, or at least they tell you it does. Whole thing takes about ninety minutes. Hurts like a bastard mind you. I don’t remember much about it, but it fucking hurts.”
“Can they change you back?”
“Yeah, but you hve to choose beforehand whether you want to change back or not. I took the four week deal,” I tell him. I listen to my own voice as I speak, it’s nothing like my old voice. It is strangely familiar though. Not the only thing that’s going to take some getting used to I’m sure.
“You didn’t want to be a woman for good then?”
“Nah, couldn’t resist giving it a try though. To be honest I really want to know what it’s like to get fucked. I’m not gay or anything, I just sort of have to know what it’s like.”
“Not my place to judge mate, but I’m sure lots of blokes wouldn’t mind trying it, provided their mates never found out.”
“Yeah, well my mates think I’m on holiday in Thailand.”
“It’s dead quiet in here at the moment, I could probably sneak out early…”
“Very kind of you to offer, but I’ve got something lined up already. A bird who switched the other way. Maybe that makes it less gay, I dunno.”
“Well if you get a taste for it and you run out of volunteers, you come and find me. It could be Des Lynam in there and I still would, I don’t mind telling you,” he says cheerfully. On that note I decide it’s time to leave.
Still too early to call on Samantha I reckon, and the attention I’m getting is a pretty powerful drug. I move along to another bar to have more drinks bought for me. At one point I see an awkward-looking young guy staring at me helplessly. I walk over to him and offer to buy him a drink, thinking it’s a huge act of kindness, but he just freaks out, thinks I’m taking the piss out of him or something. This upsets me for some reason and I decide it’s time to find Samantha. She lives just around the corner, but it’s still hard work getting there in my drunken state. Her flat is up three flights of stairs which almost cost me my shiny new shin bones on more than one occasion. When I reach Samantha’s door I find it ajar and stumble gleefully inside. It’s a woman’s flat alright; ornaments, mirrors, tidiness. The big naked bloke laid out on the sofa clutching a whisky bottle looks a bit out of place. He’s not exactly a demigod but I’m happy enough with what I see between his legs. The only problem is that Samantha the man is clearly asleep. I’m not in the mood for wasting time by this point, I decide it’ll be quicker to get naked first and worry about waking him up later. I shed my clothes as quickly as a drunk girl can without serious injury and clamber on top of Samantha, digging my knees into his ribcage in the process. Little Sam wakes up before big Sam does, and big Sam doesn’t seem to have any objections when he sees me on top of him. He looks a bit puzzled but that’s understandable in the circumstances. I grab his dick and, third time lucky, get it inside me. It feels good alright, just the presence of it. It feels good to wrap my legs around him and squeeze. It feels good to slide my hips back and forth and feel his cock move inside me. I use the word good because there aren’t words to describe just how fucking good it really does feel. Sam has tipped his head right back over the arm of the sofa and his breathing has become fast and shallow. The muscles in his stomach bulge and tense and writhe as I ride him. I realise that the yelping noises are coming from me. I also realise that I left the door of Samantha’s flat wide open. I don’t really care about either of those things. I definitely don’t care about whether this counts as gay or not. I keep going. It ends pretty quickly for both of us. We don’t have anything to say afterwards. Once we’ve finally got our breath back Sam is ready again. He doesn’t have to ask, he just picks me up and carries me to his bed.
My head hurts like a bitch. My arsehole seems to hurt too. I suppose I could have just gone down that route to start with and saved myself shitloads of money. Morning is pawing aggressively at the curtains of the strange room. My eyes are reluctant to give me any more information than that. I blink a lot. Some of the blobs begin to coalesce into things. There’s a bed, a ceiling, a door, my naked breasts lolling in front of me, and then there’s me standing over me holding a knife. Even my ruined mind knows there’s something wrong about that.
“What the fuck is this?” I scream, waving the knife at me.
“A dream I reckon. Because I’m here, not there.”
“Fuck off,” I scream again, “you’re me!”
“Nah, y’see this is a new body, had it made special. You don’t exist any more, you’re me now,” the me doing the thinking and seeing says. Something begins to register.
“They’ve fucking swapped us!” both of us holler in unison.
“They didn’t make us new bodies at all the bastards. I should have known, I asked for better abs than these,” Samantha-in-my-body moans, clearly not fussed about offending me at this point.
“How did we not notice last night? How fucking drunk was I?” I wonder out loud.
“I can’t believe I did those things to myself!” Samantha wails.
“They weren’t all bad…”
“Fuck off! Get the fuck out of here! Give me my body back and then get the fuck out of here!”
At this point the bedroom door swings open and a black-suited woman strolls into the room. She seems utterly unfazed by the two shouting naked people in front of her.
“Samantha Hindes?” the newcomer asks. Samantha nods my head in reply, unable to summon any more words.
“And you are Douglas Burton?” she asks me. I nod as well.
“My name is Keisha Jones, I work for Genestruct Ltd. It seems you’ve experienced a crossover event. Terrible administrative fuck up, sackings left right and centre already. The two of you should never have been allowed to meet, this sort of thing sheds rather more light on our methods than we can accept.”
“So you don’t rebuild people at all? What, you just scoop out our brains and swap them round?” Samantha cries.
“Yes that’s more or less it. But we have ways of dealing with this sort of eventuality,” Keisha Jones says evenly, before withdrawing a small pistol from her jacket and shooting Samantha in the head. She then turns to me.
So here I am, lying on some stranger’s bed quietly bleeding to death from two bullet wounds in my chest. Before the Jones woman shot me I had time to ask her how she found us. Samantha and I have GPS chips implanted in our skulls apparently, although Sam’s may have stopped working now. I also asked why she waited so long to come and get us. She said that she had arrived last night, shortly after I had, but that she had wanted to let us have our fun. I thought that was nice.
The Time
It surely hadn't always been this way, been this reflexive and natural. There had to have been a time when it wasn't easy, when there was sweat and fear and sleeplessness and whispers in the night. He steadied himself against a wall, feeling the rain course down the back of his jacket and the warm sour weight of the booze in his gut. There had to have been a time. But now there was the space between the action, and here – this shambling half existence of cigarettes and street lights. Maybe that was what had happened, that the uncertainty had turned to a numb dull apathy towards it all, aided of course by the barely lit backroom bars of whatever city the job was in.
He'd worked with professionals, worked with amateurs – even worked with clients on a few occasions, occasions which usually required twice as much as he'd needed to get him here. The solitary profession, the lonely career. He wasn't recognised anywhere, wouldn't be mourned when either it all got too much or one of the many constantly appearing potential usurpers finally decided they needed to get active about filling a dead man's shoes. At the mouth of the alley, an occasional car hurtled through the rain and the early morning. In the distance a clock tower sonorously sounded the hour, rolling out the morning as the undersides of the storm clouds blanched in the east.
He leant heavily against the lamp post, and breathed in heavily to clear his head. The rain had stirred up the dumpsters, which leaked oily unknown substance into the rainbow sheened puddles. The smell of the evening before, when the storm had come, the breaking of the heat and the almost audible exhalation of the baking streets in the downpour. The storm had been the cover, not ideal given the occasion but it had at least cleared the streets. The job wasn't a big one, but being able to get there and out afterwards without leaving a trace of memory, of a face, a strange figure in a strange part of town – well, the rain might as well have taken a cut of the earnings. Never mind now, it was over and the briefness of it compared to this – the screams and blurred movement, the sweat and the fear just compressed against the steady rainfall, the dripping and the rising silence. Turning into the street, with the first shutters being rattled up by the bleary eyed storekeepers, he dug a crumpled carton of cigarettes out of the detritus of coins, flyers and wrappers that recorded the black periods in his mind from the last twelve hours. Spilling the majority of it onto the street, the cigarette was lit with a sputtering lighter.
Moving off down the street, avoiding eye contact with the storekeepers and drivers of the passing cars the weight of the job, and the drinking after the job – the drinking which had become as much a part of the job as the personality, the solitary lifestyle, the mask of personality. The costume. God, the whole fashion element. And the props. The wave of disgust overcame him, and he grimaced as he trudged along the pavement, his fists clenching automatically. This wasn't the way things were supposed to be, this wasn't anything like an existence. He served those who didn't have the power to do the obvious, who had more respect than to lower themselves to the brief strenuous acts which made their lives just a little bit easier. He allowed himself a small smile and shook his head. Yes indeed, it was a tough life being a clown in this town.
"I think you'd better finish the bottle son", the barman said as he wiped down the formica with a beer soaked cloth, "we're closing now.
Knight looked at the bottle, as it wavered in and out of focus and nodded with the uncertainty of whether or not his head would stay on. The bottle had been full when the bar was and now was almost as empty as the backroom of this desolate haven for night drinkers. He poured the final measure, the bottle clunking against the glass, and downed it. Then, with absolutely no grace and poise whatsoever, he fell backwards off his stool and into the welcoming darkness.
Water. Drip. Cold. Drip. In. Drip. Drips. Drip. Awake. The alley behind the bar, maybe. It could have been any of the hundred alleys he'd woken up in. Eyes opened, but then tightly closed as a push of everything ran against his forehead. Something here. There was something here not right. Not the empty wallet, used lighter and distressing lack of something to smoke. Someone further out. Alley, dumpsters, rain - drip - no, something else. Something that, unlike Knight, definitely did not belong amongst the puddles and debris of city life.
Something that forty minutes later had Knight pulled in for questioning, roughly thrown into the back of a meatwagon and pushed firmly into a wooden chair. The officer smelt of cigarettes and coffee, although in his experience most of them did. It was either that or the unmistakeable perfume that could only be found on the women of South Street, and Knight doubted any of the men here's wives would even know about that particular part of time. Clark had always said the best test of a bent cop was the whiff of perfume. This officer smelt of cigarettes, coffee and the kind of trouble that only a truly law abiding man could bring.
"Look, we found you in the alley right next to her. You," he leant in a sniffed deep "you're drunker than a sailor on shore leave still, and god knows what state you were in. Now you say you don't know what happened, and I can believe that looking at you. So maybe, maybe you blacked out. Met the girl, knocked her around when she wasn't interested and went too far. It'd sure be easier on my for it to happen like that," He proffered a smoke, his eyes fixed on Knight. Knight stared back, unblinking and motionless.
"I want my phone call. I want my lawyer. I want a cup of coffee and a better cigarette than those sticks you're smoking. Then we can talk. Until then, you keep on talking, this is better than a radio play" He stretched in the chair, but was caught by the arm by one of the uniformed goons stood by the door. The blow was calculated, swift and hurt like the dentist without novocaine. Knight sagged as the officer walked past him, looking away.
"Boys, leave enough of him for another round later, we're going to need his hands to sign a confession. I'll be back in ten minutes"
Ah, thought Knight as the door slammed shut, must be lavender. It was a long ten minutes.
The body lay on a block of enamelled metal and was examined and dissected and sample by uncaring men in rubber gloves with shiny tools devoid of any life. It was cut and restored, and tagged and filed. Forms were filled, detectives filed in and out of the room their voices hushed but their cigarettes remained lit. Whatever life had been there before now, was extinguished entirely with the card in the slot on the front of the morgue drawer the body was placed in. What once had been life, was transformed, was now merely evidence.
He'd worked with professionals, worked with amateurs – even worked with clients on a few occasions, occasions which usually required twice as much as he'd needed to get him here. The solitary profession, the lonely career. He wasn't recognised anywhere, wouldn't be mourned when either it all got too much or one of the many constantly appearing potential usurpers finally decided they needed to get active about filling a dead man's shoes. At the mouth of the alley, an occasional car hurtled through the rain and the early morning. In the distance a clock tower sonorously sounded the hour, rolling out the morning as the undersides of the storm clouds blanched in the east.
He leant heavily against the lamp post, and breathed in heavily to clear his head. The rain had stirred up the dumpsters, which leaked oily unknown substance into the rainbow sheened puddles. The smell of the evening before, when the storm had come, the breaking of the heat and the almost audible exhalation of the baking streets in the downpour. The storm had been the cover, not ideal given the occasion but it had at least cleared the streets. The job wasn't a big one, but being able to get there and out afterwards without leaving a trace of memory, of a face, a strange figure in a strange part of town – well, the rain might as well have taken a cut of the earnings. Never mind now, it was over and the briefness of it compared to this – the screams and blurred movement, the sweat and the fear just compressed against the steady rainfall, the dripping and the rising silence. Turning into the street, with the first shutters being rattled up by the bleary eyed storekeepers, he dug a crumpled carton of cigarettes out of the detritus of coins, flyers and wrappers that recorded the black periods in his mind from the last twelve hours. Spilling the majority of it onto the street, the cigarette was lit with a sputtering lighter.
Moving off down the street, avoiding eye contact with the storekeepers and drivers of the passing cars the weight of the job, and the drinking after the job – the drinking which had become as much a part of the job as the personality, the solitary lifestyle, the mask of personality. The costume. God, the whole fashion element. And the props. The wave of disgust overcame him, and he grimaced as he trudged along the pavement, his fists clenching automatically. This wasn't the way things were supposed to be, this wasn't anything like an existence. He served those who didn't have the power to do the obvious, who had more respect than to lower themselves to the brief strenuous acts which made their lives just a little bit easier. He allowed himself a small smile and shook his head. Yes indeed, it was a tough life being a clown in this town.
"I think you'd better finish the bottle son", the barman said as he wiped down the formica with a beer soaked cloth, "we're closing now.
Knight looked at the bottle, as it wavered in and out of focus and nodded with the uncertainty of whether or not his head would stay on. The bottle had been full when the bar was and now was almost as empty as the backroom of this desolate haven for night drinkers. He poured the final measure, the bottle clunking against the glass, and downed it. Then, with absolutely no grace and poise whatsoever, he fell backwards off his stool and into the welcoming darkness.
Water. Drip. Cold. Drip. In. Drip. Drips. Drip. Awake. The alley behind the bar, maybe. It could have been any of the hundred alleys he'd woken up in. Eyes opened, but then tightly closed as a push of everything ran against his forehead. Something here. There was something here not right. Not the empty wallet, used lighter and distressing lack of something to smoke. Someone further out. Alley, dumpsters, rain - drip - no, something else. Something that, unlike Knight, definitely did not belong amongst the puddles and debris of city life.
Something that forty minutes later had Knight pulled in for questioning, roughly thrown into the back of a meatwagon and pushed firmly into a wooden chair. The officer smelt of cigarettes and coffee, although in his experience most of them did. It was either that or the unmistakeable perfume that could only be found on the women of South Street, and Knight doubted any of the men here's wives would even know about that particular part of time. Clark had always said the best test of a bent cop was the whiff of perfume. This officer smelt of cigarettes, coffee and the kind of trouble that only a truly law abiding man could bring.
"Look, we found you in the alley right next to her. You," he leant in a sniffed deep "you're drunker than a sailor on shore leave still, and god knows what state you were in. Now you say you don't know what happened, and I can believe that looking at you. So maybe, maybe you blacked out. Met the girl, knocked her around when she wasn't interested and went too far. It'd sure be easier on my for it to happen like that," He proffered a smoke, his eyes fixed on Knight. Knight stared back, unblinking and motionless.
"I want my phone call. I want my lawyer. I want a cup of coffee and a better cigarette than those sticks you're smoking. Then we can talk. Until then, you keep on talking, this is better than a radio play" He stretched in the chair, but was caught by the arm by one of the uniformed goons stood by the door. The blow was calculated, swift and hurt like the dentist without novocaine. Knight sagged as the officer walked past him, looking away.
"Boys, leave enough of him for another round later, we're going to need his hands to sign a confession. I'll be back in ten minutes"
Ah, thought Knight as the door slammed shut, must be lavender. It was a long ten minutes.
The body lay on a block of enamelled metal and was examined and dissected and sample by uncaring men in rubber gloves with shiny tools devoid of any life. It was cut and restored, and tagged and filed. Forms were filled, detectives filed in and out of the room their voices hushed but their cigarettes remained lit. Whatever life had been there before now, was extinguished entirely with the card in the slot on the front of the morgue drawer the body was placed in. What once had been life, was transformed, was now merely evidence.
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