THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 4

Continued from PART 3

There were a couple of other passengers like me aboard, one was a slightly chubby lip ringed, dreadlocked girl who liked to watch the sea while listening to her headphones, the other was Jason, a tall, lanky guy with greasy shoulder-length hair who liked to burn incense in the cabin we shared. Both were in their twenties and often shared whiny conversations about the environment, mixing the smell of marijuana smoke with the diesel fumes, discussing things that – out here - only existed in their minds, as they stared across the yonder less rippling water.

If there are to be serious parts to this book, then let it begin here: three weeks into the sea trip, The Forsaken Joy and its crew were put to the test, as the weather made a turn for the worse. Shortly after dinner, the boat began to rock, more than usual, and the wind got louder as it lashed the deck with rain and bits of ocean. Guitar chords reverberated against the toilet door; I sat on the bed with hands on my knees, waiting for Jason to finish nature's bidding. Suddenly, the boat lurched to the side, the toilet door threw itself wide open; yellow light from a sixty watt light bulb spilled into the room. Jason hugged his guitar, and screamed in a high pitched voice. Disconnected, I watched him like a late night television talk show rerun. He struggled to rise off the seat, knobbly knees creaking like the timber around him; I didn't aid him, not even with my eyes. He dug his claws into the walls, his fingers screeched as they fought to maintain their grip, once again the boat rocked: this time towards the stern, intuitively, Jason grabbed his guitar before it slid to the ground, as he straightened his knees to balance. The next part was horrible, as my visual cortex could only digest the action in glorious slow motion: just when it seemed that Jason had won the bout - as if in retaliation - the boat began to rock from port to starboard, batting Jason from wall to wall, his arse clapping against the walls like a ping-pong ball in a frenzied game of table tennis. An unexplainable force seized me, and I heard myself yell hoarsely at him, “Stop messing about and get your pants on!”, the neck of the guitar snapped as it caught the wall with his weight behind it, instrument and man collapsed into a pile with a clang, “Hurry up for god's sake!”

I got up to the cabin, a large fish thumped the window as another wave washed over the boat, Jason appeared a little while later. Curvey was wrestling with the helm like a rampaging ape. The wind roared outside, and we grabbed onto whatever was available to stop ourselves from being thrown about. “I've had it with this,” shouted Curvey at the front pane of cabin glass, as he rolled his fat arms around the wheel, “I'm retiring as soon as we dock.”

To be continued ...

THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 3

Continued from PART 2

“Have you ever been to Buckaboo? One thing about Buckaboo, is that it's fun!” That's what the convincing strap line in the brochure claimed, the one that I picked up at the travel agency when I went into town to pick up some toilet paper and some curry powder; yes, I remember vividly because being the environmentally friendly kind, I didn't want the plastic carrier, so I squashed, with all my might, the packet of curry powder into my back pocket and threaded my belt through the handle of the toilet paper package so it hung in front of my crotch – this simple set up allowed me to browse the large selection of printed travel information, which for a species in this time period, is the easiest way to absorb data.

“I'm interested in going to Buckaboo.” I stretched my mouth into a jittery grin to bare my flesh munching equipment to the travel agent who sat like a damp piece of cardboard, staring out of the store window, some drool glistened at the corner of his slightly agape mouth, as if it was the most fanciful part of his personality. His eyeballs swivelled towards me, then his body reluctantly followed suit and moved from a slouchy position to a less slouchy position. He gestured to the chair with his hand while he nodded his head, I didn't like the way he did it, it made me think of the cool kids at school who now ended up in boring dead end jobs. He was the king of travel agency land and I was one of his lowly, dirty, ground-hugging subjects.

POP! That was the sound of the bag of curry powder exploding, then it hissed a cloud of spicy brown dust into the air – I had forgotten about the condiment in my back pocket. I knew what had happened, but the travel agent didn't, I watched him become startled in slow motion, his eyes suddenly becoming wide and alert, his body tensed like a steel coil for action, ready to perform like a soldier in the heat of battle, as the adrenaline coursed through his atrophied muscles that hadn't seen action since the glory days of the proud school sports team; for a moment, he did look worthy of the mental crown jewels he adorned his head, but then the curry powder was too intense, too overwhelming for his biologically unfit body, it usurped the throne from right beneath him, as it flitted with great gusto- that all the other curry powder brands would have been proud of- into his nasal cavities, causing him to sneeze and evict some unwelcome tenants. I opened the bag of toilet tissue and handed him a roll; he took it humbly.

The first part of the journey, involved spending one month on a tugboat, The Forsaken Joy. It was an old rusting seafaring lump of metal whose decay was visibly active during the day, and at night, while most of the crew were asleep, pieces of the boat, like handles and railings, would decide to retire from the boating business and say “bon voyage!” with a splash into the inky waters. The captain who was also the owner of the vessel went by the name, Curvey – Captain Curvey; a stout middle-aged man who nurtured a garden of unkempt, greying facial hair, and lugged a generous belly around. The ship did runs, back and forth, between several countries, with its cargo of passengers and exotic spices that kept it in business. Although the crew showed little enthusiasm for the jobs that they were paid to do, they were a merry bunch who enjoyed entertaining the visitors as if the boat was a fairground ride.

To be continued ...

THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 2

Continued from PART 1

Here I am, sitting at this machine, hammering these words onto the page, putting over a decades worth of thoughts onto paper; sometimes, however hard I try to suppress it, I wake up and catch the trail end of a conversation, my own voice, as thoughts evaporating from the surface of my mind. I don't like to plagiarize from real life, but everything that I am about to tell you is completely true, all the character and place names are imaginary; I couldn't take the credit for somebody else's work – it really isn't me, and as my teacher from school used to say, 'by copying your friend's homework, you're only cheating yourself!' The other reason that I don't use names from real life is because I have a terrible memory for them – you see, the only reason why you would need to remember names is for reference within a conversation to another person, and since I haven't had the need to talk to another person for over ten years, I've lost the ability to remember places and faces.

So I shall begin by creating the room we are in, oh yes, you are in my book Mr. Publisher! The room will have four white walls, one kilometre in every direction, a white floor and a white ceiling. It will be evenly lit so you cannot see the boundaries of the room. By the way, I never said that I had a good imagination. There is a white round table in the centre of the room, surrounded by three white chairs. Everything has been recently painted, so you can still smell the paint fumes – it isn't pleasant, but bearable. How shall I describe you? I've never seen a publisher in real life so I'll assume you're a large guy with a roundish belly and a moustache, your skin is shiny and flecked with red from years of alcohol abuse, I'll put a cigar in your hand and a daisy in the pocket of your cheap green polyester suit which makes a static noise whenever you move and explains why the few hairs that remain on your head rebel when you comb them down with your podgy sausage fingers.

Dotted around the room are people holding glasses of champagne, these are the representatives of all the future readers of this unpublished novel, they are the jury and you are the judge. Take a seat Mister Publisher, plonk your bubbling fat arse on the chair! I take a seat next to you and pour you glass of champagne, you hear my nose wheeze as I do so because I'm allergic to some chemical in the cheap paint. Let me introduce you to the person in the third chair on this table, his name is Robert Dalmatian, a fictional name of course, but a person that exists in everyone's lives; he is crucial to the plot of the story that I am about to tell, so remember his face. He sits like a swan in the chair, poised perfectly and not slouching like you. If he were a colour, he would be blue; cool and calm like the sea on a clear day, even an ocean liner could not disturb what lies in his depths. His features, perfect, like chiselled granite. What is there not to love about this man? - oh, what there is to hate! He was a straight A student through school, graduated university with a first and quickly moved up his career ladder. Anyway, enough about him, for now. “Glass of champagne, Mister Dalmatian?”

Note to myself: this chapter may need a rewrite; Mister Publisher does not look too amused, but perhaps he will keep reading ...

To be continued ... PART 3

THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 1

Dear mister publisher man, thank you for giving this cover letter your undivided attention. It has been a long journey for me to bring this manuscript to you, and I don't mean that in a philosophical way, but in the sense that I had to sit on a cramped bus, next to some dried vomit, for two and a half hours, then walk for an hour (because I got lost) to hand-deliver my precious work to you. I hope you have your hot cup of tea ready on your desk with your favourite crunchy snacks, because the story is about to begin ...

I am in no way an enlightened man, but I believe that only an unenlightened man can enlighten himself, and he can either choose to do it the hard way or let some idiot do it for him; I hope to enlighten myself, and perhaps others, by writing this book. Like other homo sapiens, beyond being just a skin bag of sticky red goo with some miscellaneous – but otherwise useful - lumps floating about inside, I have something to say. Some people have a lot to say, but their words carry little meaning, while others have very little to say, although their words convey a fathomless depth of wisdom and knowledge. I sit hunched at the keyboard, occasionally scratching my head and catching a poignant whiff of greasy, stinky hair, typing the novel that will be the last step of my journey towards enlightenment.

It is some time in the early morning, and the sun creeps cautiously above the horizon, as I tap at the oily dandruff covered keys, periodically turning my head to check if the door behind is still shut. Should someone walk in and surprise me, left without any option, I would toss the laptop out of the open window like a snot embalmed tissue, pretend to notice some cobwebs on the stone ceiling, and hope the machine did not smash a passerby's head down below. But back to the point, before you tear the remaining strands of hair out from your shiny balding head – I haven't spoken a single word for eleven years.

To be continued ... PART 2

Sarah Jessica Parker... the Incredible Hulk's long lost twin?

I was casually surfing the net when I stumbled upon a poster image for the movie, 'Did You Hear About the Morgans?', starring Hugh Grant and Sarah Jessica Parker.

Is it just me, or does anyone else think that Sarah Jessica Parker bears an uncanny resemblance to Lou Ferrigno as the Incredible Hulk?

If they ever decide to do a remake of the original 70s Incredible Hulk television series, then Sarah Jessica Parker should be waiting with her phone in one hand and a can of green spray paint in the other.

Please post your answers in the comments below!