Abandon the Pope and All who Sail in Her

Joe Bloggs loved television and movies. That was his passion in life. He didn't need much in his tiny appartment; a worn couch, television and DVD player were the celebrity items of his living space inventory. He wasn't rich by any means, yet with his factory job which didn't pay overtime, he managed to save enough each week to keep his flabby body alive and to purchase a DVD movie from the local video store. He loved movies, they were his adventure; he didn't even need to leave his appartment, because all he needed to do was memory quick dial the fast food burger place, which he lived two doors down the road from, and they would bring him his burger and fries, about ten minutes later.

Payday tomorrow. Mmmmm, money left to spend and off to the video store to buy a DVD movie, as he sat on the bus that towards his home. The simply named, Movie Shop, was not far from where Joe lived. He already knew which DVD he wanted and went directly to the shelf where it sat. The Monkey Bride of Marbados sat in its shiny shrink wrapped packet, among its clones - like virgins, they waited nervously to be picked, to have their clothes torn off and ravaged by some dirty bastard's DVD player. With his grubby hands, he snatched the DVD off the shelf, flipped it a few times while his eye ogled the pictures beneath the glare of the wrapper. 'I WANT IT!' he shouted, seconds later, a spotty kid beckoned Joe over to the cash desk.

The kid looked spotty but clean: he smelt clean, yet his spots oozed pus. Joe stared at the boys skin under the glow of the tube lamps, they were like red nipples on soft skin; he licked his lips. Beep. The acne kid ran the DVD through the scanner, the price appeared on the display. Joe panicked as he stared at the illumiglow figures, "That can't be right ya bitch, that is higher than I usually fucking pay - ya bitch."

The kid stared lifelessly at Joe, put his clean hand out, palm facing upward, with its surface normal perpendicular to the ceiling. "Do you want the DVD or not?"

"Look here ya bitch!" Joe raised a dirty knuckled fist at the boy, "I work my fucking arse off at the factory making packaging," his eyes started to tear up, ".. I work my fucking fingers to the fucking bone, and all I want to do is watch a fucking DVD..." he wiped a tear from his eye, "I saved up to buy that DVD, is that too much to fucking ask?"

The boy stared droopy eyed at Joe, dropped his hand and swiped the DVD of the counter and held it in front of his face, "Do you want the DVD or not?" A spot volcanoed on his face, some pressure differential beneath his skin, no doubt caused by rising stress levels.

Joe rubbed his face, eyebrows sagged. "Give me the fucking DVD!" he pulled a banknote from his pocket and tossed it onto the counter top. The boy with his immaculate clean hand picked up the scrunched note with his fingertips and examined the watermark underneath the glaring lights before tapping the buttons of the cash register.

He handed Joe the change, "Want a bag for that sir?"

"Of course I do, I fucking paid for it, gimme that fucking bag," he snorted.

One Thousand and One Samosa Nights

Bobby, his surname was Swizzlestick - that wasn't a real family name; he adopted it himself; he loved the sound of it as much as he enjoyed the product, a sweet sherbert candy dip from which he ripped the name. You see, Bobby's legal name for the sake of a birth document is Robert Smith; the most mundane name you could have. If his name was an object it would be a plank of cheap wood, cut from some tree which nobody ever bothered to find out its species, in a part of the world where names didn't matter too much - the dimensions of the plank of wood would be a boring, unfussy, two by four.

My head hurts thought Bobby; it throbbed from all the artificial additives which made Pickie's Jelly Beans TM such a delectable habit. He had bought a hundred bean bag from the popular Joe Schmell's candy store in a trendy part of Queen Street. Bobby wrapped his hands around his head and applied pressure to the sides of his head, hoping that somehow the pain would go away. He had already eaten over three quarters of the bag which he handpicked from the dozens of assorted flavours in their rainbow coloured bins; all the colours in the bag were the same, he only chose one flavour, his favourite which was called Green Monster Puke. Bobby couldn't cook; he ate candy for dinner.

You have to understand this thing about Bobby, it may make you like him more, or less even; that does not really concern me my dear reader, but it is something you should know - Bobby's skin is green. He never saw a doctor about his skin colour, although if he had, the doctor would have discovered high levels of a toxic green addictive, found exclusively in a particular brand of candy, after examining tissue samples. So Bobby has a green tinge to his skin colour, oh don't discriminate against him (my dear reader) - it's his own fault... oh but the beans, they taste so good, he'd say when someone suggested that they were no good for him.

Minding it's own business, the newly opened Nancy Reagon's Samosa Bar sat idyllically at the corner of Dufferin and Queen West. It's hand painted sign on a white washed rectangle of chipboard hung lopsided over it's door. An hour later, a man with a greenish skin walked through that door clutching his head, he walked up to the counter where a woman who looked like a fuller version of a former US president's wife was rolling pastry on the small space of a cluttered counter; a till sat uncomfortably on a pile of spoons, pens and notepaper lay scattered among pieces of dried pastry. Even though a bell rang when Bobby walked through the door, she continued, uninterrupted. I need food, and this is a place which sells this stuff which makes my body work, thought Bobby as he read the crumpled motivation posters which looked like they had been printed on a cheap inkjet on the wall. One had a clipart picture of a monkey eating a banana with flies around it's head, the slogan, "WORK HARDER!" formed a foundation for the monkey's bum. Another one had a pixellated photograph of a man carrying shopping bags, "NO PAIN - NO GAIN!" was it's loud capitalized message.

Eventually, the woman, who looked like Nancy Reagon, sleepily raised her neck, though her back remained hunched; she continued to move the rolling pin back and forth although she was now absentmindedly banging it against the drawer of the cash machine. Bobby noticed that her knuckles were bleeding. "How can ahh help you?", she drawled, the words appeared to suck her vitality as she spoke them. Bobby looked nervous, he had never purchased food (directly) from a person before; it was quite strange, but it forced him to contain a giggle.

"I need some food substance. My head hurts. I have been eating jelly beans. I need something to overtake the jelly beans in my tummy." He said forcefully - communication not being one of his fortes...

Nancy Reagon narrowed her eyes and looked at him with pursed lips for what seemed like an eternity, but was actually more like three point two seconds. "We have a variety of samosas, all hand-cooked, individually parceled in a crispy crisp crust for that extra crunch." She swung her hand over the cluttered counter where unbalanced baskets of cold samosas fought for space like farm animals waiting to be slaughtered. Bobby smiled, and looked at the labels which he read out loud.

"Beef!" He shouted excitedly. A customer who sat at a wobbly rustic table rolled his eyes and went back to reading his newspaper and sipping his coffee. "Chicken!!", the sound of an angry meow came from the back room of the store. "Pork and Peas! I want pork and peas!" The sound of agitated coffee sipping could be heard from the other side of the room.

"Cold or hot?" asked the woman who now looked mildly awake.

"Ummm..." Bobby thought for a while. He knew that if he answered the question wrongly, he could end up with something that did not quite achieve his cullinery standard. "Hmmmm... Ummm...", he placed a hand over his mouth and rubbed his lips as his other hand wrapped around the elbow which belonged to the mouth hand... (hmmm, well you get the idea, my dear reader - please don't make me explain too much), anyway, those fingers drummed on his elbow with the rhythm of a flat footed marathon runner. A bead of sweat grew out of his forehead as he glanced at the woman who seemed to grow increasingly awake. "Ummmm... Hmmmm... just gotta think..." The woman looked at her watch, sixteen minutes and fourteen seconds had elapsed.

"Okay," exclaimed the woman after the long silence, she swallowed Bobby with her eyes, "let me cut you a deal, K?" He nodded. "I'll make you two samosas, one hot and one cold, K?" Bobby nodded. She grabbed two pork and pea samosas from the basket, liberating them from their insufferable anxiety, she snatched Bobby's hand and slapped one samosa into his hand, "that samosa," she checked his eyes for acknowledgement, "is the cold samosa, K?" Bobby nodded slowly and wide-eyed. The woman shuffled backwards and reversed to the microwave which balanced precariously on a wonky wooden stool, her eyes remaining fixated on Bobby's, "See look, now I take this samosa," she punched it angrily into the air, and pressed the door release of the yellowed plastic Japanese magic cooking box, it popped open, "and then I put it in..." She tossed the samosa haphazardly into the small space, it banged against the back wall of the oven and then settled as if knocked unconscious on the rotating plate. She slammed the door shut and quickly pressed the buttons. Beep, beep, beep. Bobby looked bemused as he clutched the samosa rigidly. "Go and sit down now, eat that thing in your hand, the other one will be ready and I'll bring it over to you." Bobby did as he was told.

Bobby settled his large behind on an old, rickety school chair next to the customer who was lost in a news article. He brought his hand onto the table, and like blooming petals, slowly straightened his fingers to reveal the cold food product which he had unwittingly purchased. It looked like an overgrown fortune cookie, except that it had the colour of a mahogony stained toilet bowl. He had long forgotten about his headache, as far as his brain was concerned, the headache had never existed - it faded as fast as it had onset. He brought the cold parcel of pork and peas to his lips; it smelt of fried lard, he thought to himself. By the way, the dear reader might be interested to know that the pig which the pieces of pork once belonged to was named Geoffrey; it was once the pet of a cute little girl named Annie, but it was sold to an unscrupulous butcher in order to pay the hospital bills of her dying parents. Hmmmm food, Bobby stared momentarily at the clever assembly of animal and vegetable matter before biting voraciously into a corner of the said nutrition object.

One hundred, thirty-two and a half seconds later, the only remainder of the food form were the peas, pork and pastry bits scattered over the wooden surface of the over-stained and over-varnished table. If an expert were called into assess the situation of the table, he probably would have called it 'messy', scribbled into his notepad and estimated that only sixty percent of the original samosa had entered into Bobby's food tract. Bobby sat back and rubbed his stomach. Seconds later, a steaming samosa thudded onto the remnants of his last meal, scattering them again.

Pool Night Finale

What drives people to write? Some are driven by the writers bug more than me; I've managed to refrain from sharing my thoughts for some time. A moment of lucidity or enlightenment I might share with the dear reader. Perhaps it is ego, or merely the need to pass on a discovery of knowledge so that it can further our understanding of our selves and our existence. What gives? I give, and I come back with a need to share a journey, albeit short, it may provide a foundation upon which to build a thorough standing of our need to communicate and open ourselves to ridicule...

I had walked home from my weekly pool tournament. As always, I tend to drink too much. Inebriation doesn't prevent from being a competent competitor, I've always played pool; the actions are ingrained in my muscles as the wrinkles around my eyes. Pool, for me, represents the decisions we make in life, where choices are made based on the confidence of our own abilities.

I sat at the bar, a pint glass of beer, half full, sitting before me. 'This is Canada' I said to myself - awareness is is something that we take for granted; I repeat to myself on a daily basis that I am in Canada. The man next to me frowns at the bill he has been handed. "More than you expected?" I slur at him, the words avalanche from my mouth, burying him in furrowed contemplation.

"No it's fine." he replies. I look at him, he looks as if the world pounced upon him for a piggy back ride. I smile deceptively. The barman glances over and continues to dry glasses as if he had pretended to be deaf many times before. I spin the beer glass in my hand and recall earlier that night:

"I have something to show you...", I pulled out the three transfers from my back pocket. Two read 13th October at 3.33PM. "Look at this," I said to the couple next to me, "I didn't even wait for these, I just showed up," I dragged the third ticket out and exposed it in their direction, "14th October, 4.44PM... Is that weird or what?" The girl looked at me as if undecided about how to respond. "I didn't wait for these, I just showed up..."

Once again at the bar, I pulled the tickets out. "I'm psychic you know" - When I said those words, it was as if I had committed a grave sin; by declaring yourself psychic to the world, you may as well commit to a mental asylum. They looked at me then continued as if I had not said anything at all. The alcohol coursed through my veins and I could feel it, thinking how crazy I might have sounded - "Yeah, it sounds messed up, but I'm psychic, even I find it hard to believe myself." Nothing, silence from confusion.

After what seemed a long time, the guy next to me replied, "So what make you think that?"

"I can see everyone's life." The words spring from my mouth without warning and I am thinking I sound like a crazy person.

The (Fucking) Happy Truck Driver

Jason Pilchards poked, actually not just poked, but bullied the blanched broccoli around his plate. What a fucking useless thing, he thought to himself, musing upon the utter pointlessness of vegetables – particularly ones that had been teased with hot water then placed under a cold shower to calm the excited atoms within its material composition. No! He won’t look at the thing anymore, that green lump of matter which human beings ingested because it allowed them to absorb essential nutrients vital to constitution and thus prolong a miserable existence on this tiny rock called Earth. His mother, the sagging skin bag which contained water, lots of red stuff and some ethanol compounds, two eyes, the stalks of which were hidden inside a solid piece of crust that contained a brain – watched him.

‘Jason…’ she began, as she finished forcing some cooked creature flesh down her food tube. She almost choked – a piece of phlegm shot up the back of her throat and stopped abruptly like an ambulance speeding to an emergency but slamming on the brakes as an old lady in a banged up three wheeled Triumph suddenly pulled out into its path without looking, ‘…finish your peas.’ She picked up a glass of fragrant, damn expensive, red wine, placed it to her lips to guzzle it down; minute pieces of half-chewed and oily food swam into the remainder of the liquid.

It was an expensive restaurant, well, expensive to poor people, but affordable to the rich. Wednesday afternoon, that bloody fourteen year old again with his fucking disgusting mother – Pierre Gonzo Smith, the restaurant owner stared at them with hate seething from beneath his eyelids. They always ate there, same time, same place. He didn’t know anything about these people, all he knew were that they often came in for a snack; who the fuck snacks on creature flesh??? He looked at his watch – still on his break; he stood in a back alleyway, hunched over his cigarette – he hated smoking, he hated his job, he hated himself. A truck was attempting to reverse into the alleyway; the furniture store next door was receiving goods. The drive, his face sweaty, the armpits of his t-shirt damp from perspiration swung the front of the vehicle into on coming traffic.

The broccoli never did anyone any harm – or so it thought. Little did it know that it was responsible for the deaths of over a million people, but that’s another story, something that the reader probably won’t be interested in – I mean, who or what would be interested in an amputated vegetable. Jason stared at it, fascinated by its texture; it’s like tiny world within tiny worlds, repeating; he caught himself saying out his thought out loud.

He looked up and saw a truck reversing into the alleyway. The driver’s face was flustered as onlookers stood on the sidewalk expecting failure. Jason’s eyes scanned the streets – eight people visible, not including the driver. A man inside the car was rubbing his face, his chest rapidly rising up and down, hands clasped so tight around the steering wheel that his knuckles turned white. The truck driver wiped his forehead with the back of his hairy forearm. The rear tire caught the pavement and anchored the truck against the kerb. Jason watched the gorilla of a man wrestle the steering wheel, the engine revved angrily, one loud rev excused the truck from the predicament and the truck slid in between the buildings. A smug and contented smile crept across the driver’s lips, and if it were okay for one to do so in society, he probably would have leapt out from the cab to do a song and dance then take a bow, but he didn’t, he struggled hard to stifle the grin, it looked awkward; he looked like he was having a minor stroke, not enough to raise the concern of gathered audience, but strange enough to make them wonder whether the driver at some point in his youthful life had suffered some kind of heart condition. Jason sneered – he knew exactly what was going on with the driver.

Pierre dropped the cigarette stub and rotated the bottom of his shoe over it, fifteen degrees clockwise, then fifteen degrees anti-clockwise, then stepped back into the kitchen of the restaurant as the truck rattled past with a very a happy occupant inside. That was a pretty good cigarette he thought to himself, now I have to deal with those pig customers.

What's Eating ZombieHellMonkey_Grape?

So, he said, "I'm going to be quite busy", he said.

I am in the process of writing my paperback novel, so he said.

That's right, he said. He said tagged itself like a parasite to his words, he said. A self replicating he said.

Oh! halt all!

I am currently writing my novel. It's ground breaking, cutting edges with a blunt knife, never been done before, only because I don't know the rules, f-i-c-t-i-o-n.

That outline took long enough to write; the idea itself was sitting in my head for a couple of months before my brain ran out of storage space and I had to cast it in ink.

MySpace: A Good Reason to Hate It

MySpace, that ugly site on the internet for wannabe bloggers who can't spell.

You've probably guessed that I'm not a fan of Myspace.com, that's because I have taste, and plus I am a graphic designer. In the evolution of all things internet, I'm surprised that Myspace lasted as long as it did.

If I were to define Myspace, it would be a cross between an internet dating site and a streaming porn server. The users are obsessed with the way they look and the people that appear on their friends list. If you really care about how others perceive you, I wouldn't invest spending time building your Myspace page.

For internet networking, I'm currently subscribed to Facebook.com, a classier site which has been developed with forethought and considerable planning. If Facebook was a car it would be a BMW, although not supremely aesthetic like a Lamborghini, it is functional and efficient; Myspace would be equivalent to a Skoda, not very pretty, gets you about, but when you sit in it, you look like a bit of an idiot.

For further information on MySpace hatred go to: ifuckinghatemyspace.com

Nutrition and Freedom: Speed Blog Series Part I

Welcome to part 1 of the speed blog series. Since I will be spending less time on my blog over the next few months, I've decided to condense my usual long rants.

Here is Part 1: Nutrition

I've always associated the idea of nutrition with freedom. In order for the mind to function properly, the body must be in good constitution. When the body becomes weak, the mind soon follows. Fundamentally, at the heart of any system is a physical infrastructure.

Access to information is the most important, secondary to that is education. Healthy minds are efficient minds. Good education is useless if the mind is not fully able to absorb knowledge. I believe that culinary and nutrition awareness classes are as important, if not more than, as mainstream academia.

It is proven fact that a healthy diet containing the recommended intake of vitamins and minerals produces an individual who is able to think with greater clarity. This is particularly important with young children with growing brains, denying them a proper diet can impede the growth of their bodies and minds. Students who eat healthy have been shown to do better in exams.

Many of the ills and problems in modern societies can be attributed to bad nutrition. With processed foods becoming cheaper and therefore more accessible, people are turning away from freshly cooked meats and vegetables. Large corporations can be blamed for gradually introducing the dependency of 'quick preparation' foods. The cycle of buying the cheaper processed foods will, by a process of supply and demand, keep the prices of fresh food towards the premium.

Aside from cancer and other diseases, malnutrition is known to affect the attention span of the human brain. Deficits in certain vitamins and minerals can cause antisocial behaviour. Tests on prison inmates have shown that a good healthy diet can improve cooperation. Therefore, if the government invested more money into education and diet, then less would be spent on policing.

A healthy community is one that has less crime and fewer diseases. A more holistic approach targets the root cause of many of the problems, rather than the western 'quick fix' method which although effective for the short term, eventually overburdens itself.

The Diary of a Robot Sex Educator

As usual, the alarm clocks nagging beep startled Bob Hoskins out of a deep and fulfilling sleep. It was four o’clock on a Saturday morning and time for him to get ready for work. This was a tough job: two hours sleep a night, seven days a week; God only knows how Bob managed to survive for six straight months without quitting or going insane.

Thirty minutes later, Bob was walking through the front doors of his work place. “Good morning Doctor Hoskins!” called a beautiful front desk receptionist as he walked in a trance-like state across the immaculate, gleaming marble floors of the foyer, oblivious to those he passed.

After a maze of corridors, he eventually arrived at a set of double doors bearing the sign, ‘Artificial Intelligence Training’. He paused outside the doors and sighed. As he stepped forward to open the doors, they slid open while hidden hydraulics announced their presence in the background. A pale faced, bleary eyed co-worker stepped out into the hallway, shoulders still hunched, he pulled a hand up to wave to Bob, Bob ignored him and walked through the doors.

It was another corridor, this time it was narrower and a parade of doors tiled the length of its tall walls. Muffled screams and moaning could be heard from each room. He reached a door with his name on it and swiped his entry card across a narrow slot, he grinned every time he did this as if he shared a secret joke with the security device.

A strong stale musty smell escaped when the door opened. “Good morning Doctor Bob!” said a female voice alerted to his presence from a metal container in the corner of the room as Bob hung his coat on the rack.

“One day to train a toaster oven, a month for a refrigerator, six months for a car, and a year to train an artificial intelligence sex bot!” he uttered, “good morning Elsi! – I hope you have been doing your homework.”

Bob strode over to the metal cabinet and lifted its lid open. Inside, was a plastic cube, no bigger than a pint glass, with rounded edges, flashing lights and the words ‘iFuck’ emblazoned across its surface besides the Apple logo. He placed it on a nearby desk and mechanically pulled his trouser zip down. His expression was one of aloofness as he gazed beyond the confines of the tiny room while he fumbled his manhood into the latest compact fashion accessory to hit the streets.

The Little Brat (Part II)

Continued from Part I

I heard the tumbling of feet down the stairs and a few seconds later Darren appeared in the room beside me followed by a strong whiff of urine. The boy was still wearing his snotty army top minus the trousers and their cargo of faeces; instead, he was wearing a pair of bright green swimming trunks.

I stood stunned. I must have looked stupid because the boy began to laugh, pointing at my face as he did so. I realized that the foul stench of urine that had infiltrated the confines of this claustrophobic nightmare space was emanating like lethal radiation from the boy's swim-wear. 'Darren,' I shouted, calling the boy's attention, "what in the name of the alien overlords are you doing wearing your swimming shorts for?" I sounded like my fourth year primary school teacher, Mrs. Pikes, who used to beat me on the head with a wooden ruler whenever I farted in class.

The boy stopped laughing, the jovialness evaporating from his face like some volatile gas. The creature known as Darren lowered his head, as his mouth split into a evil and menacing sneer, "Yes Mister Vermeer," spoke the boy firmly but slowly, pronouncing each word as if each one was a sharp dagger that he was slowly inserting into my abdomen, "I will do that..."

I looked hard into the eyes of insolence; they were feral, untrained, insubordinate and dangerously unpredictable. Although I was slightly taken aback by the boy's response, given the fact that it made no sense at all in relation to my question, but I wasn't going to surrender my authority to this little evil incarnate. "DAMN YOU KID!" I shouted as I reversed a tightly clenched fist towards the ceiling, "DAMN YOU! WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME!", for a moment, as if the armor of evil had been cracked, I saw for the first time, real fear in Darren's eyes, a vulnerability that softened my anger, and I brought my fist down upon the coffee table, splintering a corner of it, and causing the pile of pornography magazines to slide across it and catapulting the filled ashtray with cat droppings into the air.

I lowered my eyes in shame as the glass ashtray clattered to the ground. The remnants of my rage bubbled themselves out through the ends of my shaking nerves. I felt the strength of my legs leave me, as I helplessly watched my body avalanche to the floor, tumbling onto the fugitive cigarette butts, my head landing on the feline excrement. I began to sob in a way I hadn't done for years. After ten minutes, I fell into a deep restful sleep; that was what I had needed all along: sleep; heavenly sleep, the sleep that only the gods have, the kind of sleep that unleashes the soul from the body and flies it to eternity.

To be continued...

Your Life is Not Complete Until You Have Whored Your Virtual Self - SECOND LIFE!

I've been exploring the virtual world of Second Life lately. You can literally do anything in that world except connect with reality. This world very much like our everyday one is not exempt from prostitution and pornography. Every single object, person, texture in that world is made for and by the users.


I found myself in an awkward position as the artistic screen-shot above demonstrates. Lying on a zebra skin rug and my fingers pulling my deathly white butt-ocks apart like nobody's business and waiting to make it a lucky day for an unsuspecting 'I love creepy Shrek look-a-like Goths' fetishist.

It's the funniest thing in the world. Asked why I created such a crazy looking character, I told another user that I was Paris Hilton in real life, and my only escape is to become a freakish looking, sword welding Goth in Second Life; I began to wonder if perhaps that is how our own reality works.

This virtual reality is certainly a taste of things to come. When I first entered the SL world, it occurred to me that it had a striking resemblance to the science fictional novel 'Snow Crash' by Neal Stephenson. Virtual money can be exchanged for real money, the skills that earn you money in Second Life are the same skills that you have in reality. It's so great that the internet is turning us all into professional porn-stars and distributors! HOORAY! Hip-hip-...

So for all you cyber geeks who enjoy a little bit of digital hedonism here is the fooking LINK.

The Little Brat

This is the story of not me, the narrator, but of the neighbours that share this stinky little street with me.

I live on a crescent, it is not a crescent as such anymore, not since a gas pipe blew up one winter's morning, leaving a gaping hole in the road that resembled a pornstar's anus. The hole divided the street into three sections, those who live either side of it, and those who live around the crater. The gas board haven't even acknowledged the damage, not willing to take responsibility, they fixed the goddamn pipes so they could continue to feed us our bills, yet they refused to fix our road.

Anyway, that's history now, this story is about those horrible, wretched people that live next door. It hurts me to write this story because I grit my teeth together in pain if not only to hold back my gagging reflex. Okay, I'm ready, I'm sitting at the keyboard; I've actually just emptied my bowels, wiped cleanly, and made sure that every drop of urine has been paroled from my bladder. Into these words, I share my tortured soul.

Lucy and Mary, two elderly bitches of the sixties age range who live next door. Lucy, the short and stout one, wears thick rimmed spectacles which perch like a bloated stick insect on her button of a nose. Because those glasses are so thick and heavy, they constantly slide down, and Lucy has developed a habit scrunching her nostrils up in order to push them back up. Mary is lanky bitch, tall like a tree, arms wispy like branches and legs like trunks. She often wears headdresses in bright sickly colours, smokes like a chimney that's on fire, and sometimes walks around with her knickers around her ankles. Lucy works at the local supermarket, while Mary teaches life drawing classes - Excuse me while I puke...

I have not spoken of the little boy that lives with them. His name is Darren, a name that forces violent shivers down my spine. Darren is seven years old, like most boys of the same age, Darren rolls around in the dirt, plays with his toy cars; and unlike most boys of the same age, Darren likes to crawl under Lucy and Mary's skirts and stay there - until, he crawled out by himself, or either woman moved. Nobody knows how these old bitches acquired the little brat, but what everyone is certain of is that the little boy is no angel.

One morning, I heard the doorbell ring, it was about 6am, and it was Sunday. That can't be right, I thought to myself, who would call at this time. The doorbell rang again. I heard myself shouting loudly, 'THAT CAN'T BE RIGHT, WHO THE FUCK WOULD CALL AT THIS TIME!'. I threw the covers over my head and squeezed my eyes tightly - the doorbell continued to persist. I rolled myself out of bed, bleary eyed I shuffled down the stairs to the front door. Through the frosted glass panel of my front door I could make out a pair of glasses. With a bit of difficulty, I took the chain off the lock and opened the door - There she stood, that stupid bitch from next door, Lucy.

Next to the bitch, cowering behind her with his arms wrapped around her skirt was the little boy monster, Darren; his wolfish eyes staring up at me, black muck smeared over his mouth and cheeks. 'Hi, morning John!' said Lucy chirpily. She always got my name wrong; it was Jan, NOT John - I growled under my breath. Her mouth quivered nervously, 'It's a beautiful morning, isn't it? - how are...'

'What the fuck do you want?' I interrupted.
She stood there, wide-eyed in shocked and swung her gaze towards the ground.
'I'm sorry Mrs. Peacock, I've had a rough night,' I added, '...yes indeed it's a wonderful morning - what, perchance, am I to be honoured by such a visit not to mention your grace and charm?
Lucy Peacock giggled, she placed her hand over her mouth as she did so, she snorted slightly and some mucus flew out of her nostrils. She looked coyly at the ground, her eyes met mine flirtingly, 'Oh John...' - I felt sick, but I managed to pull a twisted smile.
'How is the young chap today?' I said while I looked at the boy in disgust, my face confused at the pretense with which it had to bear. I lifted my hand and placed it on the boy's head, rubbing it reluctantly. His hair was thick and greasy, leaving a thin film of oily dirt on my palms and fingers. 'What a handsome boy! He'll grow up to be a fine man oneday!' The boy stared hatefully at me, he wiped snot from his nose with the cuff of his sweater.
'He's a wonderful boy our Darren,' she replied, 'in fact John, that's why I'm here - me and Mary know how much you like the boy so...' she smiled and wrinkled up her nose to push her glasses up, 'we wondered if it would be possible for you to look after him today while we spend a day on Brighton Beach.'
'It would be a pleasure Mrs. Peacock!'

Through the net curtains, I watched Lucy and Mary get into their rusty old lime green Volkswagon Beetle and slowly drive away, leaving a voluptuous grey cloud of vehicle fart behind on the road. Darren had already made himself at home, he was bouncing up and down on my sofa and screaming. The Beetle chugged up the side of the crater, then confirmed it's departure by turning a bend in the road and disappearing from view. I turned to look at the boy, he wore grey trousers which were smeared in miscellaneous brown colours, a discoloured green army style sweater which had snot stains along its lower sleeves. A distinct smell had violated my house, it wasn't nice; it was pungent like gravy with pieces of rotten meat in it.

'Darren!' I said in a firm voice, 'I'm going back to bed.' The brat continued to jump up and down on my sofa. 'Please don't break anything, otherwise I'll have to...' I formed a deliberately twisted smile because I relished the thought of what I was about to say, '...otherwise, I'll have to kill your aunt Mary and aunt Lucy.' The boy hadn't paid attention to what I said, but I didn't care. Sleepily, I went back upstairs and crawled into my warm bed; the birds were singing outside and I fell into a soft cotton dream.

Something was shaking the room. Whooah, an earthquake? - not here in England. I tried to move but the tremor was too great forcing me to lie helplessly in my bed. At the side of my vision, a dark blur was moving up and down. There was a smell, oh the smell - then I remembered. I sat upright in my bed, as Darren bounced up and down at the foot of it. 'DARREN! Get off the bed - NOW!' I shouted; it worked, the smelly boy ceased jumping, became inactive as a deflated balloon and slid off the bed. He sat down on the chair in my room, his shoulders sagged with his bottom limp inflated. The smell in the room was unbearable. 'Darren -' I said, the boy looked at me, 'did you just shit your pants?' - he nodded.

Lucy had left me the key to the couples house, 'in the event of an emergency,' she said. This was an emergency. I walked the boy over next door to get him showered and in some clean underwear, I could see the shit rolling around the boy's trousers like spuds in a sack as he hobbled like a monkey ahead of me. As I was about to put the key into the door, a filthy little hand placed itself on my wrist, 'Mr. Vermeer, I want Chico Pops!' I ignored him. 'I want Chico Pops!' I slipped the key into the lock and tried to turn it. It didn't work. I tried again, no luck, and I began to panic. It was obvious that Lucy wasn't going to trust me with the key to their house, so she had given me a dud; later, she would most likely apologize and go into a tirade about how keys confuse her.

I needed to get inside the bitches' house, there was absolutely no way that that boy was going to use my shower. That filthy, disgusting little brat of a boy. I walked around the back of the house, the monkey hobbled behind me. The stupid bitches had left a kitchen window open, it wasn't a large aperture, but it was enough room to get a brat in. I turned to the kid who was rearranging the objects that now occupied his underwear, 'Kid, I want you to climb through that window, and unlock the front door for me, can you do that??' He nodded with a grin on his face.

I cringed as I lifted the boy up to the window. His feet caught the window sill, but not before kicking me in the teeth, at which I swore loudly. On the other side of the window was a side cupboard, Darren crawled onto it. He stepped onto a chair and vanished on the other side, I heard tiny footsteps dissipate into the background. I went back to the front of the house to wait for the brat to open the door. A minute later, the lock clicked and the door swung open; a musky smell greeted my nostrils.

I had never been into Lucy and Mary's house before, although they had often invited me over for tea, I thought it in my and their best interest for me to decline. 'Darren,' I said, 'throw your underpants in the bin and have a bath.' The boy ran upstairs to his bedroom to do what I said. I walked into the living room. The wallpaper was patterned with wide vertical stripes alternating purple and silver, there were hand painted plates hanging on the wall with pictures of ponies on them. The sofa was upholstered in some course linen woven with floral designs, a pair of white knickers with yellow stains rested upon it. A coffee table stood attentively next to the couch, an ashtray filled with cigarette butts and cat poo balanced on a raggedy pile of torn porno magazines. I gagged.

to be continued...

Lee's pseudo science

I have been drinking coffee and I feel the need to get some ideas out of my head; I will fine tune them later but right now there is a sense of urgency to put them down.

I've got numbers on the brain. Numbers are great tools to use as an aid to illustrate ideas and demonstrate concepts.

If we were to start counting the objects that surround us, that number would quickly grow. If there are a finite number of objects in the universe, it would be a very large number composed of an infinite number of digits.

Let's say that there are ten objects in a study room. A table, chair, desk, lamp, computer, monitor, cup, keyboard, mouse and pencil. We assign each one of those objects a number from one to ten with no particular hierarchy, ten different numbers for ten different objects. No matter what number I assign to each object, there will always be ten objects, that is a fact.

Now if we were to allocate a number to a position in the room where those objects could be placed, we would have different permutations for where those objects could be positioned.

We have another room adjacent to the first room, the bathroom which also contains ten objects. Pretend that each room would only hold ten objects, so in order to move an object from one room, we need to exchange it with another. For the sake of argument, let's say that objects like the bathtub and sink can also be transferred. This creates different possible combinations of what objects exist in any one room at a time. When all the initial objects of each room have been replaced, the original study may resemble the bathroom and vice versa.

If we were to number every single object in reality, we would soon find that we'd start to reach an infinitesimal number, lets say that a number for every object is composed of an array of ten integers from 0-9. Each object is distinctly not the same as another object because they are not able to occupy the same space at the same time. The array of numbers could not be the same as any other array. If one array within an infinite number of arrays is changed, it will become the same as another array. The paradox is that if that happens then the infinite number of arrays becomes gradually finite which could not be possible because it creates gaps, or become a single entity which could not move.

So how does this system deal with this problem? - It does something similar to my first example of exchanging objects between two rooms. So if an array decides to change, then another array has to change too. The best way to visualize this maybe is to imagine a checkerboard made up from a 100 x 100 grid and imagine that there are snakes on this board that each occupy ten squares. The snakes do not overlap or occupy the same square as any other snake, as soon as one snake moves, the other snakes shift position so that they can all stay on the board.

For every action we take, there are an infinitesimal number of others. For each point in time, there is a singular event which marks that time. Imagine that time and space is made from a board of an infinite number of squares, each square numbered from 1 - infinity. If I were on the square labeled number five and move to square six, then someone else could occupy the free square number five, but if square six was occupied I would bump into them and have to find another free square. Because I am interacting with objects and people, I can assume that they are within a localized space that exists in a small range of infinity.

There are certain ways that things move on this board, and it follows a pattern. In mathematical terms it could be called an algorithm. The migration from one square to another follows particular patterns, which explains the forces in our world. The board is rigid and infinite, unmoving, the objects on the board move to their own algorithms. A physical representation of an object may be a particle. When a particle moves it has to displace another particle, there are no free spaces to begin with only the constant exchange of positions.

Each particle contains an infinite array to determine what and where it is. I change one of the values within the array and the arrays of other particles will shift simultaneously to prevent the particle occupying the same space.

Lately, I have been interested in the Fibonacci numbers which is found in nature, often referred to as the golden section. Fibonacci does not only describe the way things look but the way they move.

Two particles cannot occupy the same square at once, what happen when you force them to is that they have to drastically push surrounding particles out of the way to make two squares available for two particles. In order to stabilize the system, all the particles in the surrounding area are forced into new permutations.

Okay, I'm going to bed, I'll refine this to make more sense.

The Master of Changes: Chapter 3

Continued from Chapter 2

Two weeks later, the entire village had been fully upgraded to cable television; each and every house was fitted with a widescreen plasma television connected to only one channel, the Harry MacMann Network.

The Harry MacMann Network, otherwise known as HMN, was a channel dedicated to the people of Nag Nog Creek. The strange inhabitants who would not be entertained unless it was by the young street performer Cranberry Richards. The feline eating kid had met up with Harry MacMann and signed a contract that made him the star of the new television channel.

Mary McJane Richardson sat slumped on her armchair, her breasts sagging dangerously low towards the cup of piping hot tea that sat on her lumpy thighs. She proceeded to shakily pick up the cup from the saucer, and wobbled it towards her lips, spilling it over her favourite black blouse which was printed with red floral designs; the kind of top that would make you puke if you were to stare at it on a long car journey. She stared google eyed at the widescreen television, a close-up of Cranberry's butt cheeks generously filled the screen. Her face cracked into a smile as her eyes glistened with delight. At that moment, her little toy chihuahua decided to go completely insane and leapt up from the floor to clamp it's teeth around Mary Richardson's throat, squeezing her windpipe shut and cutting off the supply of oxygen that kept Mary's brain paying the rent for the headspace.

Meanwhile, on the otherside of the village, Harry McMann was holding a board meeting at the newly acquired Nag Nog Creek offices. Barry Sifton fidgeted nervously with his pen as Harry looked through the network viewing statistics. Harry stared intently at the figures on the page, his eyes tearing through the airspace between the ends of his contact lenses and the material known as paper to the inhabitants of this world. He hummed through his nose; a bogey was trapped in one of his nostrils; if the obstruction had been still, his nose might have whistled instead, but in this case it was one of those bogeys that hung loosely; it fluttered as he breathed out, thus causing the humming sound. Barry kept his gaze fixed on the surface of the boardroom table, it was brand new, yet he decided that he would occupy himself by trying to find imperfections on it's shiny top while Harry looked through the printouts.

Meanwhile, back again to the Richardson house, Mary's dead body lay there, still slumped in the armchair as it was when she was alive. Her eyes were motionless and gazed into infinity, just as they were when she was alive; infact, she looked and acted no different than when she was living and breathing; God, that woman is annoying! - I think we better move on and spy on someone else...

Johnny Pietra was kneeling infront of his brand new widescreen television set. His eyes wide with excitement as the young Cranberry buttocks graced the screen like a swelling bread loaf in the oven. He took a deep breath. The shot changed to a front view of Cranberry; he was chewing and holding a sandwich in his hand. Johnny unbuttoned his BixBoy trousers, and slowly pulled down the zip to reveal his JamMaster Boxer shorts. He kept his eyes glued to the bright screen as Cranberry holding the last piece of a sandwich between thumb and forefinger, dangle it above his open mouth, his head tilted upwards, and dropped it in. Shot change: back to a closeup of his arse. Johnny licked his lips, stretched the elastic of his boxers out, and pulled them down, his erect penis springing out as if an olympic diver had just leapt from it. A few seconds later, some white goo streamed down the screen as the sound of Cranberry's first anal junk hits the metal bucket.

'These figures are just damn fucking disappointing Barry!', shout Harry to his first in command. The other members of the committee remained silent, apart from one man, Joe Fifa who was inspected the plate of biscuits on the table with his long sweaty fingers, poking the crunchy, sugary snacks around the plate. Barry looked at Harry to acknowledge the statement, then quickly pointed his stare somewhere else, accidently landing it on Miss Lewisham's breasts then quickly flopping to the floor.
'I-I-I'm sorry Harry, I don't know what we can do to improve the viewing figures, the channel only goes out to Nag Nog Creek, and most of the population don't know how to operate their visual cortex.' stuttered Barry, as his eyes scoured the grain of the woodwork that was the table.
'No excuse is good enough for me you fucker!' shouted Harry angrily, his fist coming down hard on the oak table and denting it.
'We can try to add some more programmes to the channel...' he paused as if steadying his fear, his shoulder rose defensively as his head shrunk into his neck, 'I think that it's kind of boring to show the same guy twenty-four-seven eating a sandwich and shitting at the same time - sir!'
Harry abruptly stood up, clenched his fist and raised it above his head; he held the quivering melee weapon as his knuckles turned white. He suddenly relaxed, his fist dropped down to his side, a smile returned to his face, 'That's a great idea Barry! - How do you think we should proceed?' Barry looked at Harry with almost puppy-like eyes, and drew his head out from his shoulders. Just as Barry was about to form a smile, Harry's fist appeared out of nowhere and hit Barry square in the jaw with a loud THWACK!

Johnny panted with his head bowed low, eyes closed, hands clasped together and knees still on the floor as if in silent prayer. The cum stain dribbled down the brand new plasma screen, it was so new it still smelt of the factory where it was made, the plastic, foam popcorn and cardboard box in which it was packaged. A final fur covered stool was shown crawling out of Cranberry's arse before the shot changed to it hitting a pile of similar others in a steel walled room. Johnny, rose up; he felt powerful, as if imbued with a renewed strength. He focused his brows tightly and walked towards an 8mm film camera that was perched on top of a tripod. He turned the machine off; it became silent as the cogs within it ground to a halt. He walked with a bounce in his step towards the kitchen, leaving a trail of cum drops on the floor, and poured himself a glass of milk. He guzzled the milk thirstily and slapped the empty glass on the counter top. 'Cranberry Richards, watchout! - You have competition my dear little friend.' he said under his breath, chuckling to himself.

to be continued...