SeLF TaKEs

Tintin would kick Ethan Hunt's ass any day, but no one can defeat Kermit

2012-01-17T18:17:00.000-08:00

Some real good music.

When I was about 20, I had a spiritual experience. I visited a spiritual healer, my philosophy of religion lecturer, thinking I was just going to get some atheist reassurance. Instead, he turned down lights, and changed the colours of my soul or something. I felt something and believed it for a while. The reason I visited, Rick Warren's "Purpose Driven Life", a book we had been reading in the Christian Youth Group I attended with my friends, a book that got me thinking that perhaps I was just being arrogant, perhaps God was right after all.

The point in this story: I am impressionable.

I respect critics opinions on movies. I regard rotten tomatoes (RT) and metacritic with a hallowed awe. I read AV club for TV and Pitchfork for music. I am not confident in my own opinions about movies, television, music, so I argue any actual opinion religiously, not rationally.

RT gave Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol a very significant 93%. My flatmate, who also recommended it, points out this merely hints that 93% of the population will like it. I tend to see it as a gospel rendition of objective truth.

Yet confounding my expectations it did not impress me. Too much expectation? Too much of Tom Cruise performing enough physical feats in a 24 hour period to devastate any human being? Too much Simon Pegg cutesie? Too much similarity in Ethan Hunt and Jeremy Renner's characters? Too few twists and turns that characterised the first that have never been lived up to in the sequels? Couldn't they have just blown up San Francisco. Please. Just once in these stupid movies. Sum of All Fear=good times. It was an enjoyable romp, but 93%?? Please. A solid 60% outing if there ever was one.

Tintin suffered a 70s RT ranking, which puts it in the unhappy company of Final Destination 5 and had the significant difficulty of overcoming simplistic, silly story lines that had always struck me as childish, even as a child (caveat: I loved the comics - hated the animated movies). Yet in glorious, far too expensive 3D, it confounded these negative impressions and produced a wonderful action movie. Tintin can get away with ridiculous chase scenes across cities, implausible plot points and characters, it is a cartoon, it is for kids. Mission Impossible doesn't have that excuse.

Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows also promised little, with a RT of 60% but played a highly enjoyable hand, never took itself too seriously and did the whole Moriarty thing significantly better than the BBC TV show. Guy Richie's Sherlock, perpetually high, profoundly awesome fighter.

Then Muppets, hugely enjoyable and heart warming and the rest. The only Muppets movie I've remotely enjoyed but...just...felt lazy. Especially compared to Tintin. They are bloody Muppets, and the humour is built around tired old gags, warm hearted slapstick highjinks, highly condensed cameos and delightful Bret McKenzie musical moments.

A cup of coffee

2011-08-24T20:13:00.000-07:00

Third entry for hungry week. Probably my favourite story I've written in a while, ever so slightly inspired by Katherine Mansfield. Remember, keep sponsoring as I am smegging hungry, but losing weight. So you know, every silver cloud. Losing weight till Saturday at least, when I intend to bathe in a tub filled with sweet chilli sauce.

I am thinking of changing my eating habits quite drastically after this week. Attempting to live on less and give more, but Saturday will be an exception.

A cup of coffee

They really don’t appreciate me. They certainly don’t understand.

I know I have a good life to them and my life is good, I’m not saying it is not good, but the stress I go through on a daily basis, for them, for all of them! It is killing me.

Look at my hands. The skin used to be so nice, now cold, always tight. It is a terrible thing this growing older. Quite unfair.

I just hope Oliver can cook the rice, I really do. I don’t know what I am going to do for dinner otherwise. Daddy won’t be home till 4.30 but by the time Oliver gets home and sits down, he won’t want to do anything else but sit around, he’ll be tired. Oh my. This is very stressful.

Why does sushi has to have such silly rice. I should just buy the rice cooker, I could always do it with the rice cooker. I wonder if I could buy a rice cooker from somewhere round here, where am I anyway. Oh no! Where is the car?

Oh yes, it is just down that street. As long as I remember this street. What is this street? Mmmm.

Time. 10.30, he should be in there another quarter of an hour. Just enough time for a coffee I think. A coffee will calm me down, maybe a Danish. Oh, that will do a lot to help my belly. What is wrong with you Pauline. But it will be nice. Very nice.

- Can I have some coins please?

Oh, oh, oh. Avert eyes. Quick into the shop, into the shop! Deep breath! The woman was huge. Gigantic, ugly, dark skin, teeth black and brown, clenched fists, oh those fists. She could have attacked me! She was probably about to. Oh, funny looks everywhere, the customers are looking at me funny. How dare they, I have just…I, I should order a coffee, I will order a coffee. No line either, and that chocolate croissant looks absolutely gorgeous. I definitely deserve it now.

- Would you like something?
- Oh yes please, could I have one of those and a latte.
- Yes, anything else?
- No, no.
- Take away.

Time is ticking. Best that way.

- Yes, take away please.

Such a pretty little waitress, I wonder if she’d be appropriate for Oliver. Oh, the fat homeless lady is outside still, I can see her legs through the window. Horrible things, cuts running down them, dirty. It must be hard though, such a hard life. Cold nights, everyone just walking past. I do have it so easy, I try to be good, I really do. I am a vegetarian, I do not eat meat. I do so much for my family; look at this now, the stress getting here. That was enough, Oliver losing his papers first thing, I thought we’d never make it, running to get the petrol, I must have looked quite the, oh she is shifting now, that leg.

- Latte and warmed chocolate croissant to take away.

- Oh. That will be mine.

- Thank you very much.

- I hope she wasn’t a bother?

- Who?

- Oh, I saw her ask you before you got in, the police move her on every few hours but she comes back same time every day, bloody nuisance.

Polite nod in reply.

Don’t know what I was thinking for Oliver, snooty little brat, wearing all that makeup and then just treating her like an animal. Horrible to think of the kind of life they lead and little privileged girls like that.

Out of the door, she is sitting there. Looking blankly into the distance, eyes glazed over. If I gave her coins, she really would just use them on drugs or some other such awful thing. I look down at my hands, the latte and croissant.

- Excuse me, would you like these?

A look, inscrutable, horrible, a tongue almost grey emerging and slapping across large, chapped lips. So awful.

- Na, don’t drink coffee, get me a chocolate.

The cheek! The almighty bloody cheek. I hand the croissant over and keep my coffee and walk on, no thanks of course, just a greedy grab. The big fat hands almost touch mine. I will have to wash when I get home, I will just have to.

The coffee, oh, well I can’t drink that now. I walk briskly towards the nearest bin and drop it quickly, such a waste.

I feel so angry. I should have poisoned the croissant that would have solved something. They are so ungrateful but I guess they have…the right to be. It is so confusing how to feel. I can’t believe I just thought I should have killed her, that is terrible. I am terrible. Oh my gosh, the time! It is time to go pick him up. And the rice, I haven’t even thought about the rice.

I just can’t believe she didn’t appreciate that gesture. She didn’t know, I assume. She didn’t appreciate it. She certainly didn’t understand.

I have a good life. She doesn’t, probably never will. Now what street did I park the bloody car?

End of Love

2011-08-23T16:26:00.000-07:00

The second story for the hungry week. Hunger remains a constant companion. I had half a can of beans last night on my pumpkin, kumara, rice, water mix and in comparison, it was pretty much heaven. Tonight, I'm going to steam the pumpkin and bake the kumara, its all very exciting.

The End of Love

“Mister President are you sure this entirely appropriate,” One of his advisors started, “This is not at all consistent with our policy on the use of the world broadcast system.”

The large man turned his eyes heavily entrenched in insomnia to the woman and clenched his teeth, teeth, yellow from coffee and cigarettes, “I have explained myself Miss. Henshaw and this is happening.”

Only a few advisors remained in their posts since the news. All young, roughly divided between the idealists hoping for a miracle and those like Gabriella Henshaw, whose ruthless pragmatism concluded the most effective place to be for the end of the world would be by the President’s side.

They found themselves doing a lot of the menial work, as two set up the camera with the one remaining technical staff, Talan Majid, an attractive and rare idealist from the IT department whose smile still infected those who could bear to be infected with a little bit of good cheer.

Red light flashing three times and green light. A President seated in front of the United Federations flag, a deep breath and the booming voice that the world had grown to rely on.

“My fellow...global...citizens...I want to tell you a lesson I learned...a lesson from my youth...”

The pragmatists stared at each other with worried expressions, they’d approved a speech and this was not it. The idealists however, hung onto ever word.

“I travelled around the world...visited South East Asia...Asia...the sub-continent...all of Europe...made my way on a motorcycle from South America to as far north as I could go...”

Gabby held her head in her hands, she had one concern at this moment, minimising panic. Mentioning the sub-continent and the north had been absolutely banned for months, for obvious reasons.

“In that time...I met many beautiful women...and men that I enjoyed moments with...”

Open mouths around the office. Gabby now gestured at the other pragmatists, and as one they started moving towards the broadcasting equipment and autocue.

“These moments were brief...I said goodbye...almost as soon...as I’d said hello...but citizens, these are...the memories...I cherish most of all.”

“There was no future...for us...but we held hands...underneath the Eiffel tower...we kissed...on the beach...of the setting sun...we made love...in an alleyway...in St. Petersburg...”

By this stage, even the pragmatists had stopped thinking about turning the broadcast off, the entire room was filled with an eerie silence instead of the usual hum of whispered discussion and movement. Indeed, across the planet, billions of rooms sat in awed confusion.

“In this dark hour for our species...and planet...we must remember...every moment is precious...find someone...to share a moment with...do...something....silly...hold a stranger’s hand...kiss your partner...make love with abandon...because as the poets say...the greatest thing...you’ll ever learn...is just to love...and be loved...in return. Happy Valentines Day.”

The cue and fortunately Talan had retained enough self awareness to click the button back to reruns of How I Met Your Mother. As the broadcast ended, the idealists immediately burst out into spontaneous applause and rushed the President as a group. The pragmatists just stood looking at each other in shock.

The President rose his arms, his traditional method of calling for silence before a pronouncement, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, we drink, we all drink and I order you all to do something romantic before the end of the night.”

Idealist laughs, pragmatist withering stares.

Ten minutes later, a small bar was set up on the President’s bench. The President sat with a second scotch being drained fast. At least, what Talan called scotch. Since the winter riots, home breweries had made a big return and the most powerful global Governance body in the world had managed to develop quite a reputation for excellent varieties of mind blowing liquor.

Gabby sat next to him, with a small clipboard and a weathered expression, “Mr. President, again, I do not need your thoughts, I just need your fingers to clutch a pen and make some small movements...”

“Ah, sweet Gabriella,” The President’s hand now making another attempt at the leg after three successive firm movements away, “You know, you are without doubt the most attractive intern I ever employed.”

“Mr. President,” Gabby got out her small but very powerful tazer, a necessary addition to life in New York after the police force became privatised and so, largely arbitrary, “I don’t want to have to hurt you again, please just sign here.”

The President briefly contemplated taking another hit but eventually shrugged and affixed his signature to the bits of paper, “You know Gabby, my order stands, I expect you to do something romantic tonight.”

Gabby walked away with the papers. She stopped for a moment at the door and looked at the room, all thirty odd interns were sitting round drinking. The pragmatists in a firm, no-nonsense way towards oblivion, the others enjoying themselves, some playing games, one well established couple already furiously engaging in tongue tennis. Talan was juggling bottles to the amusement of a load of admiring idealist women. No one had any idea what was about to happen.

Gabby wandered through the open door and gave the papers to a waiting intern, “Mr. Rowe, your papers are signed.”

“Excellent,” The intern, or what appeared to be an intern, smiled, “Where are the others?”

“Should be coming as their shifts start, all here by the end of the night,” Gabby shrugged, “I should stay while you make the necessary preparations, are all the actors in place?”

“Of course, Captain Henshaw,” He smiled a teethy grin and melted into the long dark corridor.

She turned and returned to the main chamber, where the President now had his hand firmly on a young male intern, looking decidedly uneasy. Anyone who had any sort of power remaining in the Government either sat around getting drunk or far away on important errands. It had taken a lot of planning to ensure the central agency would be almost deserted tonight.

Only four of the advisors knew of the craft and the President. Only she knew the President had personally contracted some of the top minds in advanced engineering to get it running and had it loaded with enough provisions to survive for several lifetimes. That had cost her a rather uncomfortable night engaging in the President’s rather strange fantasies, involving three rubber chickens, a vat of ice and large wooden cross.

The rest, for someone of her abilities, had been simple. The craft could support approximately twenty and she’d carefully selected an elite team of geniuses from the hard sciences and engineering fields, who’d consequently decided to take internships at the President’s side. Questions had been asked but fortunately Gabby had been at the right place at the right time to diffuse any problems.

She stood on the periphery of the party, running through the details of the rest of the night. The best and most loyal marines guarded the ship which they did not, and did not want to, understand. Fortunately, having visited the ship with the President and with signed papers from the President, issuing new orders, should be sufficient.

As she contemplated the back up violence, Talan forced a glass into her hand, “Gabby, why aren’t you drinking, we were given orders.”

“Oh!” Gabby woke up and stared at the IT guy, “Sorry, just attempting to keep the world in check here, the British Parliament completely crumbled yesterday remember, we are still dealing with the fall out.”

Talan shrugged, “An order is an order Maam, and I don’t want to have to enforce orders.”

He was quite attractive; Gabby allowed her mind to think briefly. Long black hair, slight hint of his Indian origins in a dark complexion and strangely vibrant green eyes, Gabby smiled in concession and threw back the drink, “Another?”

Ten minutes later, they were sitting on a couch, Gabby slightly panicking at how drunk she felt and how much fun she was having, Talan was explaining his theory, “I know it is lame, I really do, but I can’t help loving it, I always have.”

“Loving what?” Gabby tried to focus, they’d been speaking about movies and inevitably comparing the late twentieth and early twenty first century disaster movies with the actual end of the world.

“Star Trek,” He grimaced, “I really hate mentioning it but...”

“Don’t hate mentioning it!” Gabby started, “I love Star Trek, I really love Star Trek, Deep Space 9 is probably the best TV series of all time, Kira Nerys is so wonderful, one of the best females on television.”

“Oh definitely,” Talan beamed, “I mean, I think I’m more of a The Next Generation fan, I never knew you were a geek!”

Gabby blushed, “I’m not...a geek, just...”

“Don’t be ashamed!” Talan smiled, “It is nothing to be ashamed about...I have to get something, just wait...”

Gabby smiled again, a quite flirtatious smile she realised after a moment. As Taren nodded sheepishly and disappeared into the throng of slowly merging advisors and interns. The awkward young man was now being led away by the President into the notorious side room, resplendent with fish tanks, lounging couches and its own private bar.

“Gabby,” She turned, the young, baby faced intern stood, looking nervous, “It is time.”

Gabby blinked and realised how drunk she was with a start, “Right, lets go.”

Two marines stood just outside the door, one beautiful woman and a very tall man. Technically marines but also the best pilot available and a PhD whose strategies guided the entire military strategy in its attempts to prevent complete social breakdown.

The President’s team had involved comedians, actors and models, she smiled at the two, “I don’t believe we have been introduced.”

“This is Hewitt, our pilot, I am James, we are grateful...” the strategist replied before being interrupted by the pilot.

“Yeah, right, where is it, the plan is takeoff 0400 hours, we are running out of time.”

Gabby nodded, attempting with all her power to hide the fact the world was swirling a little bit, “Yes, this way.”

Through corridors, down tunnels, various locked doors requiring genetic identification and finally, the massive underground compartment. A man who resembled a tank stood at the final, giant door, “Who goes there?”

Not for the first time wincing at the President’s unique brand of humour, “Gabriella Henshaw, person alpha niner seventeen small ducklings going to market, orders for standing marines.”

The tank lumbered towards her, and grabbed the outstretched papers. Lumbering back, he handed it through a small slot in the door, in a few moments, the doors shifted open, and another tank nodded at the two marines, and both wandered down the long corridor.

She smiled at both, and they walked into the chamber. Ahead stood the ship, the pilot stifled a laugh, “Is this it?”

The ship, strangely, looked blocklike, similar to a Star Trek shuttle and with a large opening in its side.

Gabby turned to the pilot quickly, “Captain Hewitt right, this has been field tested and is the fastest craft known to man, a pilot who later died in an experimental craft we built to the same specifications visited the Alpha Centauri system and brought back soil samples from Terra Nova in a mere 6 months, if you do not like its aesthetics you are free to opt out and we can find a more appropriate candidate, you have two hours to fami...famil...familiarise yourself with the equipment.”

Hewitt stood still, “Are you drunk?”

“No I’m not drunk!” Gabby turned, “Now you are in charge from here, Rowe, any unsleduled...unscheduled personnel walk down that walkway, tranquilise first, ask questions then...tranqu...ask questions later, this is virtually impregnable from outside, so you should not struggle, if I do not return before 0400, Rowe is in charge and I wish you all the best for a successful voyage.”

“Where are you going?” Rowe grabbed her arm, “This is not on plan.”

“I negl..lected to tell you this part,” She grimaced, thinking quickly, “Someone had to stay back and press the final emergency button in the office, then the main chamber will open and launch sequence begin.”

“Final...”

But already she’d turned and marched back, there was no final emergency button but she did have one last order to carry out.

She passed another two young geniuses, married electronics engineers from MIT, top in their class and primarily responsible for getting the ship up and running and after a brief and slightly drunken pep talk, kept wandering.

Ahead the door to the President’s office stood open, the main room was almost in orgy mode with the desk shoved to the corner and slow music beating out, and almost everyone on the dance floor locked together. The lights off, Gabby merged in and grabbed a drink off the side, downing it in one.

Talan stood in a corner, being aggressively talked to by a tall, blond intern, with impressive hips. When he noticed Gabby, he managed to extricate himself and walk over, “Where did you go?”

“Before I go, I wanted to do this,” Gabriella leaned in and closed her eyes and felt their lips touch, move and moved closer and her tongue gently lick his lips and his arms encircling her and start dancing softly as their lips kept working against each other gently.

Ten minutes later, she opened her eyes and breathed, Talan was panting slightly, “You...know, ever since I first saw you, I knew...”

“I have to go,” Gabby felt suddenly very sad, for the first time feeling anything but excitement about the mission ahead, “Right now.”

“Wait,” Talan was undoing his shirt.

Gabby blushed and although at least half the room seemed in some level of undress grabbed his arm, “I’m not...”

“Just wait,” He grabbed his arm back and failing with the buttons, ripped off his shirt. Underneath, the arrowhead pendant, dark lycra, red strip of command, Star Trek uniform, “Before you went, I figured, its the last Valentine’s Day ever and possibly the only attractive woman ever who could possibly find it funny...”

Gabby had spent her life planning ahead, taking calculated risks and being ruthless. Her flings had followed similar logic and knowing the end of the world near, never approximated anything serious or really, emotional in any way. Suddenly, something strange stirred within, an irresistible desire to do something very silly.

“Follow me,” Gabby held out her hand.

Talan shrugged, “Where are we going?”

“If I asked you to run with me, right now, and not look back, would you?” Gabby stared into his strangely intoxicating eyes.

“Of course,” He grinned, “A beautiful girl who likes Star Trek, I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth...even if that is only a couple of weeks away.”

She smiled a little, “Might be a little bit further than that.”

“Gabby,” a deep voice boomed across the room, “Why did you relieve the marines?”

The President stood with hastily reassembled suit, flanked by the two giants. The music had been cut and everyone stood around a little drunk and dazed.

“You know how I asked you to run?” Gabby squeezed Talan’s hand, “Now.”

And they ran, the marines followed with the President in close pursuit, corridors, locked rooms, each slightly ahead, the final door, Rowe’s voice piped through an intercom, “Who is that Gabby?”

“No time, Orange Alert right now, going right now,” the door behind her began to open and she exclaimed, “Right now.”

Just as the door opened the marines crested the last door and shot off a burst of fire, which mostly slammed into the big metal door. Rowe stuck his jamming device in the door’s control panel and turned towards the ship, “Who is this?”

Gabby staggered forward, “Talen, technolo...gical, genius meet Rowe, M.D. and...linguistics...expert.”

“This really wasn’t the time to get drunk Gabs,” Rowe grabbed Gabs from one side and gestured to Talen to grab the other.

“Um...is this a time to ask what is going on?” Talen tried.

Rowe winced, “Seriously Gabby?”

Inside, the pilot sat at the controls and the others sat firmly in place.

“We are missing the biologist,” Hewitt turned, “Are we go Orange.”

The sounds of a large explosion rocked the chamber, “I guess that is a yes.”

With a shudder, the launch doors opened above. The giant garden to the back of the Presidential Palace; disappeared with an unfortunate cat falling to its demise on the launch bay ground.

At the same moment, the doors crashed open, and the two marines rolled in, followed by the President.

The last thing Gabby saw was the President’s mask of rage, running desperately towards the craft as the doors crunched shut. As it lifted off, the smooth sounding engines turning on with glorious ease, the marines let off a couple of haphazard shots but the President shook his head and they stopped.

It turned upwards and in a blink, it disappeared.

“Holy shit,” Hewitt yelled, “We are out of the solar system, already, this is something.”

Meanwhile Rowe and Talan were staring at their hands in disbelief, “Where...”

Gabby lay in her seat, firmly belted in by Talan, “I...think...I...was shot.”

Rowe yelled at Hewitt to stop and staggered out of his seat after the ship immediately stopped travelling, “Where Gabby where?”

Talen had already started unbolting her, “In my...side.”

Rowe took off her black blazer and sure enough, a lot of blood soaked into her shirt, “Gabby I have to take this off.”

She nodded and he did, noting the bullet pierced at a point very little could be done, immediately started crying, “Why did you have to go back?”

“Rowe, I know you can do this on your own,” She grabbed his arm weakly, “Return...to Earth as soon as you have...established the colony, rescue all...you can.”

“Of...course,” Rowe snivelled, to Hewitt’s disgust.

“Talen,” she turned to the man whose absolute confusion was matched with the deep sadness in his eyes, “Thank you for sharing a silly moment with me.”

“Don...” Gabby put her hand up to his mouth, feeling the cold start to shudder up her body.

“Live long...and prosper, ok?”

“Ok,” Talen cried, “Please don’t...”

But she had gone.

Three minutes later Hewitt accidentally piloted the ship straight into a planet, killing all the ship’s occupants instantly.

Cats and Dogs

2011-08-22T16:22:00.000-07:00

As part of my week of not eating very much, I'm publishing one of my stories a day. I wrote these at various points over the last few years and have avoided publishing them on here, as they are not particularly good. However, I have written one good one recently, that will come at the end of the week, I'm also going to attempt to finish up a couple that I've been working on.

Most are just silly little adaptations of experiences of travel over the last year.

Cats and Dogs

The setting is a crowded bar in Birmingham.

This is not a special bar; the location is not the point.

The supporting actors are seven, four nameless faces blending in with the rounds of cheap beer. A blond girl of moderate interest, starting university, her eyes downcast and nervous, employing something of a quiet, nervous persona which certainly fit to her attractiveness and would soon result in a steady, if unsatisfying relationship. The connection is an old friend, largely characterless but also essentially nice, told by the purchasing of more rounds than is necessary. The competition is younger, more attractive with a more athletic frame but utterly clueless as to the nature of the contest.

Our protagonist is perplexing in a conventional manner, long hair, a neat blue jersey and shirt with ill-fitting jeans, his eyes betray nervousness but his movements are assured, apart from an unconscious and regular scratch of his scraggly beard. His face is handsome, although flawed and under certain lights, comic. The most distinguishing about him is his hair, all encompassing, thin but plenteous and extending prominently from his face, out of his shirt and down his arms and legs. She sits next to him, coming from outside, cigarettes on her breath.

He takes a moment to register her, two quick beers in and already half way through a third, the apparition before him looks something out of a dream. A dream at the point of waking when everything about a world is normal, apart from one obvious absurdity.

“Hello,” A strange, playful Brummy accent emerges from between two black lips, “I’m Kathy.”

It is only later he checks her facebook profile, also listed as “Kathy”, confirms his initial suspicion, pronouncing “I am a cat” to the world without even the sensible protection of privacy settings.

She is dressed in a black body suit, with black hair styled into two ears. She is the embodiment of Halle Berry and Michelle Pfeiffer but with a type of effortless fashion that draws away from the absurdity and instead somehow establishes the look as commonplace, normal, almost.

“Hello I’m Tom.” He replies, a nervous, contained handshake, “So what do you do?”

“Oh I work with these guys too, I’m just on the floor,” She smiles, a delightful, teethy smile, displaying a committed array of slightly sharpened and terrifying dentures, “Who...do you know?”

“Oh, I’m Simon’s friend,” He again, attempts to be confident but finds himself completely unnerved by this strange creature, “Visiting from New Zealand.”

As is usually the case when mentioning the unusual but recognisable island on the other side of the world, she immediately takes interest, her face bending towards him and away from the competition. He notices features, an oval shaped face with a button nose and effective features, small but appropriately equidistant eyes, a pert mouth accentuated by the strange makeup, including long, convincing whiskers. She is also delicate and petite and somehow suddenly he is interested, that moment where the mind attaches a tray of empty glasses to an image, and starts filling. The lust cup, certainly in the male gender, is usually the first to start overflowing.

A description of New Zealand life is followed by the customary exchange of information, what do you like reading, she asks, he lists some safe classics and literature, certainly not verging near any of the fantasy collections he's been making his way through on his travels. She lists familiar contemporary authors and he breathes a sigh of relief, always terrified by the prospect of being shown up as an intellectual fraud.

Familiarity begins to settle over the conversation, “Do you like art galleries,” she asks.

“Yes, I do like seeing them,” he replies smiling, again thankful no artist’s names needed to be mentioned.

“I should take you round, I’m meant to be curating this one in a few days time.”

“So what do you do?” She asks, changing focus but remaining on focus, smiling reasonably seductively.

“Oh...” He pauses, at this stage, he knows this is the point where he comes across as an arrogant, conceited dickhead, a small, uninvited smirk stakes out a prominent position across his face, despite his best efforts and lasting shame, “Just...finished a masters degree...in...law.”

Again interest, “You want to be a lawyer?”

“No, no, you know law, they expect you to shit golden nuggets and piss rainbows, balancing the world with one hand and mugging poor people with the other,” He recited quickly, with even pacing and smiling at her smile. He calculated it as a rather poor, but reasonably effective method of communicating left leaning ideology and vague humour.

All the time, he doesn’t broach the subject, but to be fair, few do. The few that approach it get met with a genial expression of truth and if pressed, an angry rebuke or worse. You see, Kat is not merely a girl dressed up as a cat. She is both cat and human, one of the many individuals of the planet that can transform between species. At her worst, she can lead a boy into a dark alley and literally rip out his throat.

Time has passed and drinks are drunk, a new round is near and nicotine panging’s tinge. She gestures outside apologetically towards the smokers, he nods compassionately, scratching his beard and heading to get the next round and by the time he returns, she is on the other side of the table with the competition, purring and fawning, although much to his confusion, starts engaging in foot contact under the table, leaving cups swaying but generally continuing to be filled. More drink, more drink, numbers are exchanged and the time hits wherever on the planet a person is, the focus becomes getting home and occupying the culturally appropriate station in front of the toilet.

The next day, he texts Kathy but if there is one word that can sum up the cat species, it is indifference. When translated into humanity, a type of ruthless, pervasive indifference that can cut deeper than the worst tortures. For days, a part of his consciousness remained attached to the phone, and it takes a week before the holes in the cups are fully empty of liquid.

A few weeks later, the text occurs to Kathy and she texts back but by that time, he has moved on and so have the cups.

Upon the slight pang of realisation, she grows bored of the life of a bipedal ape, ventures back into her other life and after a few days of ambling round Birmingham, flirting with toms, gets splattered across a pavement, forgetting that cars don’t usually stop for her species. Tom on the other hand is later correctly identified as a latent werewolf in Transylvania and murdered by angry townsfolk.

An Ode to the Rt. Hon. John Key, Prime Minister of New Zealand, And Pretty Decent Guy

2011-08-09T05:06:00.000-07:00

I can’t quite figure out how I feel about John Key.

On one hand, he is a currency trader. A self made man but ultimately, a currency trader, known as the “smiling assassin” for two faced dealings. Any businessman who doesn’t have two faces (I’m guessing having had no personal experience but having watched Wall Street 1 and 2 a number of times) is pretty doomed.

But a currency trader. I’m sure in the wonderful world of economics there is a logic in people shifting around currency and making money off it but I just can’t help feeling it’s like playing internet poker. Very exciting and involving a lot of skill in psychology, bluffs and percentages but ultimately creating nothing and relying heavily on robbing the weak and stupid for your daily bread and butter.

On the other hand, he hasn’t exactly been an evil prime minister. George Monbiot, Guardian environmental columnist once wrote a glorious version of the climate conspiracy in the wake of climategate. He imagines a dark order called the “Knights Carbonic” secretly profiting from worldwide green initiatives and planning world domination. So like the deluded fringes of climate deniers, we lefty, liberal, tree hugging, pinko crypto-communist hippies also create grand conspiracies with little evidence.

The National party appears to operate on the fundamental maxim that we live in a capitalist world where money is the primary incentive to get most people to work. Invisible hands, trickling wealth and trampling minority views notwithstanding, its real failing is missing the significant percentage of the population that doesn’t follow/live by/want this maxim to define their existence (and that feels like a big, big failing) but beyond that, Key is hardly guilty of secretly planning to exterminate the Maori.

A GST rise and tax cut for the rich is pretty rotten in a world plagued by deficits and rising gap between the rich and poor but I mean, he had an appropriately grim face during the earthquake and certainly hasn’t sold New Zealand to China for 30 pieces of silver just yet.

My main issue with Key is not with his policies which I haven’t really followed with any real interest. Not with 7 seasons of West Wing to get through. It’s his movie preferences.

Many years ago, procrastinating (as I am now), I clicked on his facebook page with interest. I wondered what this upstart challenger for Auntie Helen likes. Who is he beyond that idiotic grin and “pretty decent guy” demeanor. No music, no books, no quotations, disappointing, but a movie, just lying there like a dirty teenagers sock. Just like a dirty teenagers sock, mouldy and filled with rotten holes.

Johnny English.

I’m sure you know what Johnny English is. I am a fan of a lot of trite cinema but even my broad tastes cannot lower to this piece of distended rectum. Its 33% on Rotten Tomatoes is very, very generous. Rowan Atkinson attempts to reprise his vastly overdone Bean character as a bad spy, Natalie Imbruglia embarrases herself as a love interest, John Malkovich proves once again why he needs a new agent as a baddie and director Peter Howitt continues his rather steep “slide” from his decent romance debut “Sliding Doors” through flop after flop, technically sound but about as funny as Trevor Mallard is, while believing it as funny as Trevor Mallard believes himself to be.

I’m not saying the leader of a Country should be a Roger Ebert (if only). Just I’d hope, the guy who is in charge of things, has enough sense to distinguish a reasonable movie from an awful movie.

I don’t even know if Key likes the movie. In truth, it was probably some well paid pollster analysing the most mainstream movie that wouldn’t offend anyone. But that’s just as telling, he doesn’t have a strong enough opinion for it to matter and he trusts someone putting that turd of a movie on his public profile.

It says in his manner a bit. He is a tourist in office. He seems to genuinely enjoy the foreign engagements. He desperately attempts to get on Letterman and "minces" and easily takes the number 2 pathetic New Zealand politician rating. Although he has a long way to go before he comes close to the embarrassment of Russell Norman whining about his lost flag, but you know, at least the Greens have decent policies. Sometimes. A bit. Give them a break. THEY TRY.

But Key has that grin and that “I’m a decent guy” arrogance that is so endlessly grating. Flight of the Conchords is good, but I don't know if thats our best front for international politics. Obama lists Lawrence of Arabia, The Godfather I and II, Casablanca and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Solid, solid choices. An intelligent man surrounded by maggots and a voting public who have no idea how lucky they are. Even George Bush had the decency to list Austen Powers, which is at least funny. Key lists Johnny English.

Key is Johnny English.

A distended piece of infected rectum and until this country decides to get rid of him, it may as well accept being the slightly embarrassing incestuous cousins of Australia that the world sees us as.

Contrasting Cities

2010-09-26T23:03:00.000-07:00

Thailand struggled to finds expression in any single thought, so many things happen, meet people constantly and struggle to deal with the oppressive heat, people and hangovers. The cliched land of paradox is pretty accurate: deeply religious, friendly people who spend their whole time trying to rip you off in every way possible and indulging your (and their) darker impulses - although ultimately its a pretty amazing place to be as long as you have your departure ticket close at hand.

Abu Dhabi also feeds on cliches. Giant, terrible buildings built on sinking artificial islands. The buildings more than a couple of years old are falling apart, its customary to build and demolish the massive apartment blocks every four years, and the construction is utterly terrible, in the one or two days rain a year, absolutely everything leaks and breaks simultaneously. The driving and people are arrogant, weaving round roads at high speeds and unlike Thailand, concern for pedestrians is virtually absent. A death reported matter of factly on the way back from the Grand Mosque as a group of crossing women pretty much dive out of the way of the taxi.

Talking to anyone in the industry, it seems the epic oil deposits will run out sooner rather than later. The government response: epic first class tourist programs is fractured and essentially flawed. The stark and obvious reality of the Arab world painted by Syrianna is terrifying.

Dubai is apparently well built, but they ran out of oil, so now massively in debt to the other Emirates. The tourist infrastructure here is weak, you have fantastic things to see, but only way of getting round is reasonably pricey taxis and incomprehensible bus systems. The place begs for light rail, but no one seems to care. No one caring is a endemic in this place, no taxi ranks and absurd traffic meaning basic mini battles to get anywhere.

Perhaps a symptom of the larger "winning the lottery can be the worst thing that can happen to a family" type national aesthetic. Keep in touch. Planes to catch.

Little deaths

2009-09-09T18:00:00.001-07:00

For Jocks (who wrote the first version of this story)

"But your hand?" said the nurse, her brown eyes betraying a deep concern.
"Oh, don't worry about that!" He said, smiling with the effortless charm he had learnt from watching American movies, "Let me buy you a drink."
His hand continued to stain her uniform as the rest of his body lay prostrate on the sidewalk. Nearby a large green car skidded to a halt and the driver, a large man of that indiscriminate middle age that graces the obese, rushed out.
"My God!" He exclaimed, "Nurse, do something about that man's hand!"
A few more cars stopped and something of a crowd gathered around the young man and woman hunched on the sidewalk.

This was a time in which people would stop their cars when such "outrageous events" occurred. Such incidents could sustain conversations for days at workplaces and provide that crucial anecdote at home before televisions replaced any vestige of regular interaction.
Yet as every story passes through another set of lips, it dies a little death.
Over Sunday lunch, the obese driver's wife, compelled to prompt her husband into any action other than the mechanical consumption of the ample spread, would suggest, "Oh! Alfred, do tell the family about the incident on Monday afternoon!"
Alfred would smile, the pork scratching plainly visible in his teeth and begin the tale.
"The torn bicycle lay on the side of the road," He would say, his mind racing for believable embellishments, "And there the couple lay, the young nurse kneeling beside the grey faced man."
"I have never seen anything like it, his eyes and hers locked, it was something out of the pictures, a great love story."
His wife would smile. Whatever he had lost through over-eating, he had gained in charisma. His stories never failed to silence the table. The next day, she would sit in the parlour with her two friends who always visited on Monday and try to impart the same level of impetus.
"Yet all his silliness didn't distract her from the blood that had made such a terrible mess of her white dress, can you imagine?"
The ladies could not, all imagining the rather arduous cleaning process and tutting in unison.

Yet despite her obvious distress, she simply cradled the boy, letting the blood soak through the dress, until she felt the strange dampness against her arm.

"Well, yer a nurse aint yer?" Interjected a course Scottish worker in overalls, "Do somethin' bout it."
He cradled his young wife later that night, cuddled together in their small Eastside apartment after a hearty meal of beef broth, "Aye lass, 'twas sic a bawherr cut, bit sae muckle blood. Efter ah blethered, she stairted movin, ripping her dress at th' hem, 'n' tying it round his arm."
His wife gripped firmly to his toned chest, the muscular form and deep voice hypnotising her into a dulled fervour.
"He resisted at foremaist bit his een glassed ower, God ca'in th' wee jimmy hame, frae th' smallest o' cuts. Bit th' nurse hud worked her magic, he woke up 'n' baith git in th' motor o' some rich keekin gentleman in a sonsie suit."

The boy tried again to be smooth, but found himself out of breath. The nurse gripped him strongly, his previously immortal body suddenly powerless to resist the gentle urges of the feminine form.
The gentleman opened his door expansively, "Get him in here, we will have him at the doctor's in no time."

The cigar smoke formed a neat ring as it funnelled out of the gentleman's mouth, "By Gods it was an odd sight, the young man in thrall of the wonderful nurse, his masculine form cradled against her engaging breast."
The assembled crowd; all older men grasping strong scotches and cigars at various stages in consumption let out a collective guffaw.
"Do not jest gentlemen," He added sternly, "This was no laughing matter, the boy was clearly quite ill and the vision of a woman did not leave his side for a moment, I drove the pair to Doctor Coldsworth on Pounds Street and assisted her moving his now virtually prostate form into the office."
"Quite the hero!" An moustached face exclaimed.
"Only what we would all have done in the situation."

The doctor took the boy in straight away, the nurse stayed for a while but when the gentlemen offered to take her home, she could not afford to refuse. She lingered briefly, holding his hand as his eyelids flittered and left a small kiss on his cheek.
"Take care of him." She said to the doctor, who stood silently at the door, "He is too young."

"I hate when you tell me such stories, Susan" he said as he removed his work shirt down to just his vest, as was his fashion when he arrived home from the train station.
"It was just quite harrowing Harold, I wanted to tell you," She looked a little downtrodden, but most things about Susan were downtrodden. The skin underneath her eyes had already began that unfortunate descent and had puffed out, her hair sat listlessly, she washed it once a week and stood in the dribbling water and closed her eyes and felt the water cover her body so she wouldn't have to notice the cracks in the shower tiles.
She silently took his dinner to him; it was the same meal she usually made, rushed after her adventure. She could see the dissatisfaction in his face as he saw the imperfectly mashed potatoes and slightly tender steak.
He ate silently, and the whole time Susan continued the conversation in her head. Impatiently, she watched him finish her meal and sit there blankly at the dinner table, the light from the single light bulb falling on his receding hair line like some sort of suburban halo.
"The funny thing was," she said absent mindedly, almost to herself, "I never did find out why the man's hand was bleeding so much."

Mrs Coldsworth looked up expectantly as the door opened. He put his long white coat on the rack and sat down in his chair, the glass of sherry filled and cigar smouldering at its side.
She moved quickly to his side, "Darling, the children are in bed, I made a winter vegetable stew, its still on the stove but should be ready soon."
His eyes lingered on the beautiful woman for a few moments and he nodded softly. A deep sadness lingered in his movements, memories of the ashen faced youth, dead on his table, so young.
She leant over and touched his shoulder softly, as close to affection either had ever reached. He savoured the touch briefly, before reaching for his scotch and cigar, inhaling both quickly until his mind forgot the strange emptiness of the little deaths.
His wife left the room and his gaze settled on the empty spaces.
Silence felt its way through the doors, bellowing out into the night air.

2009-09-09T17:51:00.000-07:00

They ask me to write what I remember. I don't know why. Memory is such a fickle thing. It's hazy at the best of times and downright misleading for the rest. The long forgotten days of youth; trying to find memories from a familiar yet alien mind that once walked around in your feet. Vague memories do get through; when you try to remember, you get further. Simple visions of playing with toys, more significant events; running away from those horrible injections, that embarrassing outburst in the public place. Digging holes in the wall out of frustration, hidden by the old Transformers poster, the discovery, the punishment, the resentment. Then the few bigger things, the events that shape everyone around you.

It just seems so pointless; you can never know how much is true and how much is reconstructed from viewing old home-videos or even reading books about other people's childhoods. I know for a fact that my memories of hearing of 9/11 are actually my friend's who later imparted his slightly more impressive story. Skipping a few days school to play computer games, parents who didn't really talk, siblings away at friends and strangely missing the whole thing. Years later, I can't even remember what happened; did I just stare at CNN like the rest of the world? How much of our histories are lies that you wanted to believe so much they passed into memory? How many are dreams that felt so real that you didn't let them end?

When I think of that night, it still remains clouded. The dog cried. I know that much. I'll remember that sound for a long time. Maybe even after my body rots, those haunting whimpers will follow whatever is left to the end.

Do you find dialogue comes back to you like the lining notes to an album? In that slightly perverted font that's designed to perplex and amaze at the authenticity of the artist. Spoken words taking on the strange accents of the mind.

-- You looked at that woman, you looked at her.
-- Honey you know that's not t...
-- I don't care. You looked at her. Why did you look at her?

My room was green. Why someone chose a pastel green as a room colour I'll never know but it suited me. My favourite colour, whatever that meant. Glow in the dark planets plastered the ceiling; the remainders of the inevitable childhood fascination with space. Expectation demands so much of life. Enjoying going to the movies; first perplexing and a novelty, then taking on that nostalgic character when all you ever really want is to sit in front of the television and let life properly melt away into the emptiness. The glow in the dark planets and stars took on the same quality. Every night, I'd turn on my light for an hour to make sure they glowed properly when I turned it off. As my eyesight dimmed over the years, they grew fuzzier, the clearly out of place Neptune hovering next to Jupiter became a blob, the once clear features of Mars now appeared like all the rest. Pluto, foreshadowing its fall from grace, just looked like another star. Every night a routine of artificial star gazing. Hopeless.

-- I can smell that perfume on you. That fucking perfume. Why...

The arguments continued, subtle, never too loud or obvious. Only in late teenage years did they take on a more vicious quality. Someone threw something across the room, the shattered glass got into the dog's foot, more screaming, the music in my brother's room slowly increased and my sister slipped silently into the night more and more often. I just used to stare out my window, curtains seldom closed, the blurry city stretching into the distance, the trickle of lights across the long causeway, with the artificial sky overhead.

On the night, my sister had already disappeared and my brother's music thumped angrily through the house. I stared at the ceiling, contemplating how exactly I could destroy the music for good.

-- Why does he choose that music; that particular music, its like he is doing it to get at me, he is doing it to get at me.

There is so much anger in youth, so much resentment and hatred for parents and siblings that boils and burns and never gets released. Traditional rituals to channel this energy into maturity lost and replaced by the anaesthetizing medication of situational comedy.

-- I'm going to go. Fucking attack him. Fucker.

Words I use to hide my cowardice. Out of bed. Walking towards the door. Light on. Planets and stars vanish in an instant.

Earlier there had been a muffled argument, nothing too serious. By this stage the fights happened every night. Dad stormed off downstairs, I assumed he was watching the History Channel, something about the holocaust or Stalingrad, material for the middle aged male. Mom would probably be reading some trashy award-winning literature, filled with love, redemption and a final cathartic twist. The dog had retreated to my room, cuddled against the warm blankets.

My brother's room stood only a wall away. It begged a battle of epic proportions, he'd explode, I'd react, I'd try to twist his arms behind his back, he had more muscle mass but I had the weight advantage and could pin him down easily. Mom would start screaming, it would also probably cause another fight. The only thing I could trust, my sister's door would remain securely closed. All these little calculations, predictions, I sat down on my bed, staring back out at the alternating blobby lights on the horizon, slowly inducing the calm and suddenly, with no warning, the Flash.

Mine were one of the few eyes in the city that were fixed upon the Light as it perverted the sky. Most stared at something on the ground or had their curtains closed against the night.

I assume they characterized the incident as a weather phenomenon. No one who stared into that gulf could ever claim mere weather systems produced it. Those few seconds transcended any experience of time I'd ever had. The nearest I've ever got is that feeling when you are waking from a dream, when those few seconds last for hours. Like in a dream, the usual blurred blobs of alternating shapes and colours and intensities disappeared and I could see the perfect intensity of the light.

From the closed curtains and eyes fixed on the ground, it might have seemed bright, blinding, it was neither of those things, it was powerful but never threatened harm, it just transfixed and awed with indescribable magnificence.

Many claim the ravages of the Antarctic wastes cannot be done justice by mere language. This white horizon did not merely stretch to the edge of vision, it went further, it opened a door and pulled you through. Without giving any physical expression, you fell into the white yawning nothingness, until everything shone around you and felt like home. It was so safe but there was something else in this moment, it was hurting. And then, as if it had always been there, I understood its pain. So potent yet without any power; plans for perfection easily polluted; the final hope too far away to reach. I knew, I knew then what I had to do, it changed everything. Then the dog uttered that sound, cutting through the vision and bringing me back. Even that moment, remains a little uncertain, what it meant, what it said. Using these words is pointless; lyrics capturing love, the family photograph, an obituary, not enough vocabulary in language to explore that all too brief encompassing moment. Not enough pain to show how much it meant.

The rest of the night is all a lie. People fill in gaps and I have this vivid sense of what happened but I refuse to accept it. Others supported me, the few others who had their eyes on the sky, they know too. It was never a cruel gaze, it was a loving gaze. It didn't want any pain, it just wanted the world to reflect its own dreams for this place, understand that our satisfaction came at a horrible price.

When my sister came home, she found me huddled in the corner of my room, this manic grin stretched across my face, she says manic, she used the words. I just understood. They never found the bodies. After a long time arguing and fighting and swearing and constructing false realities, they put my life in this room and turned the key. Regular books, a regular meal, I never felt any loss at this restriction in life. In many ways it's a liberation. All the hassle and lies that you have to go through; all the endless meaningless failures and accomplishments. My life has been spent reading and writing, pondering what actually happened on that night, what is real and what is a construction of many overactive imaginations. At least...sometimes...

I'll always remember the dog's despair. It wakes me up at night. That inhuman empty moan chills everything, turns all the walls to black. I so want it to go away. I want it all to go away. I don't want to remember anymore. Why did you do this to me? Please take it back...pleasetakemehome...pleasedon'tletthedarknessin...

Let the Right One In

2009-04-12T20:01:00.000-07:00

Directed by Tomas Alfredson

When movies come in twos, they beg a comparison. Whether its equally awful disaster flicks, (Volcano/Dantes Peak) average meterorite destroy world blockbusters (Deep Impact/Armageddon), excellent second world war epics (Saving Private Ryan / Thin Red Line), utterly bizarre (for quite separate reasons) trips to mars (Red Planet/Mission to Mars) or cheesy but wonderful kids flicks featuring ants as main characters, (Antz/A Bug’s Life) it makes the process of reviewing a lot easier.

For those that have avoided Twilight, whether in its written or celluloid incarnation, you are fortunate. It is, in the words of my friend who quite liked it, “sexual wish fulfilment” from a delusional middle aged woman. You are about as far from Bram Stoker’s vision of the anti-Victorian ideal than you can get, without the Vampire actually saving the world. They “sparkle” in the sun, happy enter each other’s houses without invitation and worst of all have mystical “Heroes” abilities. Trite, chick flick shit, that most chicks will love for the swoony “vegetarian” (Brad “Interview with a Vampire” Pitt style) vampire.

Let the Right One in brings us back home to vampire folklore. If you ever wanted to know what really happens to vampires when they enter a house without asking, this delightful Swedish offering gives you a horrifyingly beautiful answer.

The movie is nicely set in Stockholm, 1982, where the protagonist, a young, well-read Oscar struggles with bullies and loneliness until a mysterious young girl enters his life. It is one of those movies that plays familiar cards but does so in such an innovative way to leave everyone happy. The director, Tomas Alfredson is not afraid to delve into the vampire world, whether it is graphic images of attacks, climbing nimbly up walls or exposure to sunlight, he plays within the genre and exploits the thrills well. The adolescent love story and confidence that Oscar gains through his interaction with the young girl somehow mixes flawlessly with the body count, and a gruesome twist in the tale signposts this as one of the greatest ever manifestations of the Vampire genre.

The American remake is already in the works. Get to this quickly before Hollywood massacres it.

Potential

2009-04-07T22:47:00.000-07:00

With all the time we procrastinate and still succeed to a moderate degree, I wonder what would happen if we stayed productive all the time. Is such a thing even possible?

Fairytale

2009-02-27T15:03:00.000-08:00

"All that glisters is not gold,

Often you have heard that told..."

William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

The gold sunlight filtered in the blinds, casting shadows on the empty desk. Three missing girls, the usual for a mid sized mid West town, a chronic town drunk and marijuana growth for personal use. Nothing to do worth doing.

-- What do you mean dead midgets?
The single deputy repeated the report slowly, ending with a very detailed description of the height of the victims.
Silence stretched thinly across the detective's office, the sounds of phone's and bustle seeping in through the thin walls.
-- What are three midgets doing here?
-- There are a few that pass through the City on the way to the West sir, a specialist recruitment agency, although it shut down six months ago, we don’t know why they are out our way.
-- Have you canvassed the local bigots?
The detective's head firmly stuck in his hands.
-- Sir, there are three men that might have some capacity for murder but we have dealt with the men before and I doubt very much they could pull off something of this…calibre.
-- Suggestions?
-- Well, sir, there are three possibilities, one of our local lads has stepped up to the plate and we have arrested the likely suspects, the second, someone unlikely snapped, or it's a visitor.
-- And the complexity of the poison and elegance of the MO suggests an outsider?
-- Precisely sir.
The detective stood and grabbed the thin file.
-- Well, interrogate the usual suspects, see what you can find out, not just about their movements but about any visitors, perhaps relatives, big city connections, I have a hunch you are right about the outsider, I’ll have a word with Wendy.

Wendy. Frumpy, old matron of the small local motel. Notoriously cold eyes and difficult manner. Prominently on the wall, a picture of her in her youth, an ice cold beauty. For a certain price, she could acquire lesser specimens for a night’s entertainment. Only a couple of years in but already the black heart of the town.
-- Detective.
Stared beyond him, along the line of shoddily kept rooms.
-- Wendy, I need some information.
-- Is this about the little people?
He blinked and looked down at her gesture. Front page of the local paper, huge glaring letters, the three faces staring out.
-- I'll have to have a word with Bill about that.
-- We had seven through this way over the last few weeks, all got here together, some separate rooms, searching for something, very secretive.
-- Seven?
-- Little uns, the three didn't pay up, we still have their things
-- Wendy, you know you should have handed them in.
-- It's been a tough year Detective.
Her eyes locked on the door at the end of the hallway, her voice hollow.
-- I will have the deputy come pick up everything.
The detective lay a small envelope on the table and turned away.
-- You might want to have a word with my guests.
He turned, Wendy eye's remained locked on the far door. A key sat on the bench, the envelope gone.
-- Thank you Wendy.

The door opened, a small man sat on a desk, scribbling something.
-- Sir, I am a detective with the loc…
The man looked up wildly and lunged for the drawer. The detective stepped outside the door, drawing his small pistol out of his pocket and loading it for the first time since training.
-- Sir, please do not do…
A shot, the sound of a body crumpling. He peered round the door, terrified.
-- Wendy, please call the doctor, we have an emergency.

"April 2

Doc,

The witch is coming. Dopey bought it last night, out at the old forest. We have to protect her.

Sleepy."

-- It’s a letter sir but no postmark, or address; there are also a few poems. Nothing else, just clothes, a few blunts and one old .32, in a bad state.
The detective read it again.
-- Snow White?
Sighs echoed round the office, the deputy, detective and pale secretaries stood round a large board. A few lonely cuttings pinned in a haphazard order.
-- Sir, we think, it might have something to do with…the midget factor.
-- Of course, is there any sign of a code?
The deputy looked at the secretaries nervously.
-- We don’t know sir, we assume the old forest refers to the woods surrounding Grimm Lake, where one of the bodies was found, Wendy said…they referred to each other by those names.
Silence, tinged with embarrassment crawled round the office.
-- Also…sir, the poetry, it is all about gold.
The detective stared up from the file.
-- What?
-- Sir, have a look.
The piece of paper caught the light from the open window, blinding for a second.

“Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
so dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.”

-- Robert Frost.
-- Yes sir.
-- I am going to see the Old Lady.

Seeing the Old Lady is not easy. Her daughter disappeared years ago; she translated that into a hatred for all mankind and being the matriarch of the surrounding area, owning most of the woodlands, she could act on her feelings quite comfortably.
-- What do you think you are doing?
Two angry dogs subdued, the detective confidently slammed the door.
-- I’ve been calling all morning M’lady.
-- I do not suffer visitors Detective, you are not welcome in this house, you will never be welcome in this house.
A bullish woman appeared at the door.
-- Margaret, please see our visitor to the door.
-- I am on official police business.
The outstretched badge stopped the large woman. The Old Lady sighed heavily, almost painfully.
-- The little people I presume?
The paper open with the familiar face of Wendy’s resident plastered prominently.
-- Yes, four dead, we need to know about any commercial operations in the woodlands, anything you might have heard.
Another sigh.
-- I am not willing to divulge my business interests Detective, not even to you, if you wish to proceed, be prepared to fight a doomed cause in my courts, made with my wood.
The Old Lady’s connections were notorious throughout the area’s police, filing well-constructed cases into oblivion. The detective took his turn at sighing.
-- Maam, I am at a loss, this is a very serious matter, four dead and all of a very specific minority, we will not be able to restrain Federal involvement much longer.
There a whisper of doubt passed over the Old Lady’s chiseled features. The white cakes of heavy makeup could not conceal the slight contraction of the eyelid.
-- Your threats mean nothing to me detective, we have nothing to hide.
She gestured at the door, Margaret opened it threateningly.
The detective shrugged and walked towards the door.
-- I hope you have contacted your disgusting specimen of a sheriff, he might be of some disservice in this matter.

The station had an edge of panic, each deputy staring at the board.
-- Another one sir, in the woods, bullet through the head this time.
-- I think we will have to call the Sheriff.
The deputy looked up, dread filling his young eyes.

Long black hair shadowed through the door. A smile as broad as the Cheshire Cat and just as menacing. Eyes hungry and deep brown.
-- Hey kid, you wanted me?
He looked into that terrifying face, bristling with a raw power and unclean facial hair.
-- Yes.
The file, open in front of me. His eyes quickly made their way through the contents, hungrily absorbing information.
-- Anything else useful?
I opened my drawer and pulled out the poem.
-- Interesting, man hunt of the forest I’d say, close the town borders, ask the borough chief to keep an eye out for flying broomsticks.

That guffaw. Harsh and loud, piercing the edge of the ear drum.

-- I’m serious about the man hunt, where are the other three?
-- No idea sir, we have made enquiries.
-- Poem sound’s a little environmental, cracked the hippies yet?
-- No sir, that had occurred to me, I went to see the Old Lady.
Another chuckle, softer but crueler.
-- No one gets anything out of that old crone. What about the gold mine?

The gold mine. Abandoned fifteen years ago, just on the edge of the lake. The sheriff carried his assault rifle out in front. A cautious pace but with a loose gait that sent shivers of revulsion up the detective’s spine.
-- Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go.
The detective stopped.
-- That is not appropriate Sheriff.
They kept walking for a while with an uneasy silence. The Sheriff turned suddenly, his eyes narrowed.
-- Son, this ain’t an ordinary town, all our people are good people, no foreigners, no Negroes, no Spics, good old fashioned American born and bred, it’s always the outsiders and that’s the problem with money, it can bring in the outsiders, like those midget fellas, nice enough white boys but I can see why they’d cause a few heads to turn, specially proper well bred folk like Old Lady, she ain’t gunna be happy, but she’s bringing in the money, we joke about it, cause we make light of it, and if we make light of it, it isn’t a deal, understand kid?
The detective opened his mouth to point out the various points that could be disputed or simply didn’t make sense but fell silent to the Sheriff’s long finger.

Faint murmurs of a crowd sounded in the near distance.
They each drew out their firearms. The detective carried standard issue, the others a varied assortment of rifles and illegal semi automatics. Creeping forward, the sheriff gestured he’d go on ahead, the others hung back.

He returned.
-- It’s safe, come through.
Ahead, a large group of white, older men, in neat jeans and shirts nestled round a table, all wearing construction hats. They greeted the Sheriff with a smile.
The others hung back, guns put away quickly.
-- Good to see you Sheriff.
-- Gentlemen, meet our fine county police force, out deer stalking, essential duties.
That same guffawing laughter.
-- Have you men seen any midgets around?
The detective’s question stunned the assembled congregation. Despite feigned ignorance, collective guilt oozed from the hurried answers.
-- Well, what are you jokers playing out this deep in the woods, nothing sinister I hope.
The Sheriff seemed oblivious, the detective wanted to take a different tact but fell silent to the outstretched finger.
-- Since its you Sheriff, we better tell, though Old Lady woulda killed us.
The oldest member of the group smiled broadly.
-- We found a vein, old Gold’s opening again.

The police assembled around the board, cuttings laid out neatly in order, “Snow White” with a picture of a tree beside it nestled neatly in the middle, “Old Lady” at the top. The Sheriff frowned, departing from the usual sinister grin.
-- Looks like simple Old Lady’s killing the forest, activist group tries to stop it, she kills them, not much we can do.
-- Four people are dead Sheriff.
The frown remains and turns coldly on the Detective.
-- You’re young, I’d like to see that old witch burned just as much as you but any judge within fifty miles isn’t going to look in this direction without checking with her first. One day we’ll have a battle we can win but no one in this state is going to give a damn about a few hippy dwarfs, best thing you can do is find the other three, we’ll get em out. I’ll have words with Old Lady, see if I can’t get something more solid.
-- The Feds?
The manical grin returns.
-- You tell the Feds five dwarves been killed, we’ll be joining our little friends under the dirt, mark my words. Don’t know that much about this job do you boy?
-- Sheriff I’ve had enough experience to know there is something else happening here, something that we can’t see.
Eyes locked.
-- Kid, we ain’t got time for conspiracies, we have two men out there being hunted by a witch, orders on the table, all other duties suspended, your commissioned to man hunt, recruit a couple of local lads, should stop her killing again, we’ll get em out and you can get back to sitting at your precious chair.
With a swish of silky hair, he was gone. Leaving a slight stench of cheap cologne on the air.

The board crashed to the ground. The deputies backed off.
-- You have your orders, go round up the men, if you find the…potential victims, restrain first then bring them here.
-- Sir…
A slammed door. Clouds gathered over the town, rain began cascading on the roof. The detective stared at his desk for a while until the sandman stole his consciousness away.

Seven dwarfs sat round a large glass coffin, inside the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Only young, her soft nymphet features and sad, cold expression, reminded him of someone, someone lost. The dwarfs all had fixed grins, somehow hungry. In their eyes, he could only see gold. He fled the room, into someone’s arms.

Later, the pub had a dingy feel to it, truckers with ugly caps and large bloated belly’s sat to the side of locals without hope or direction. The decor attempted to replicate a cowboy ranch, but it felt more like a basement. The unholy stench of long dried vomit hung on the air. He ordered another drink and drained it quickly.
-- Detective.
A beautiful woman approached, in contrast to the dinginess of the bar. A pretty red blouse, laced roses and tight jeans, slight makeup, enough to highlight strong features and large luscious lips. Every night he visited to spend a bit of time with her, some nights she made him pay.
-- Gabriella, bit early for you isn’t it?
-- You know me Detective, nose to the grindstone.
He hummed and stared at the empty vessel thoughtfully.
-- Another?
-- Why not, nothing else important to do today.
The whore brought over a flagon of ale and set it down. Three empty glasses later, mild flirtation and meaningless jokes, Gabrielle’s face shifted to something resembling seriousness.
-- I wanted to talk to you about something.
Clouds of intoxication filled his vision.
-- It’s about Anna.
-- Anna?
-- You know Anna, Old Lady’s youngest.
Sobriety felt its way through the shadows.

-- Old Lady.
-- Yeah, Old Lady, her daughter, every man knew her before she went.
The withered face morphed, something younger, something dream-like.
-- Anna.
-- I know you think these girls just run away and she did, she walked up in the city for a while kept in touch, but I haven’t heard from her in a long time.
-- I don’t understand.
Hazy smoke filled the bar, obscuring the tears.
-- Listen, I trust you, just…
The detective put his hand over hers.
-- Go on.
-- She said she might be coming home, seemed to think a job had opened up, mentioned the Sheriff, I don’t trust him.
The detective stood, then sat down.
-- I don’t trust him either.
-- Please find her.
Eye lashes stained with tears. A close, long, desperate embrace before standing.

The deputy sat at the police station, reading files.
-- No luck?
-- Oh, sorry sir, didn’t see you come in, no reports yet, we are fanned out across the North, a few tracker dogs out there, most of the young men are out too, all very happy to be involved.
-- Right, who is our main underground contact in the city?
-- The city sir?
-- Yeah, I want to follow a lead.
-- Downtown, probably the Fletcher, small-time dealer but knows most of the networks, hangs out on the Square corner.
-- Right, keep me updated, I’ll see you tomorrow.

The car pulled to a halt. A black city cop sauntered slowly up to his old Ford.
-- You were going awful fast down them roads son. I know it all looks pretty empty out here, but you’re on city land now.
-- Detective to you officer.
The officer looked a little taken aback and stared at the proffered badge.
-- Oh, you are the new kid out in the woods, sorry bout this, we all gotta follow the rules though.
The detective interrupted, scenarios still playing out in his mind.
-- We’ve had a few issues, I’m just try…
-- You ain’t been drinking?

The city cells stunk. Someone had seemingly smeared every possible bodily fluid over the walls and a half hearted cleaning effort had done nothing to mask the overpowering odour.
Beside him, a young, well dressed black man stared at the wall patiently, a massive Mexican held onto the bars, pleading with the guard in Spanish and two other anonymous men leaned against the wall. The detective shrugged and began.
-- Have any of your heard of Snow White?
He had one chance to guage the reactions, the Hispanic turned and smiled broadly, the two men stared quizically but the young black man kept his eyes fixed on the mid distance, consciously avoiding any kind of recognition.
-- Aye Padre, me heard, Mickey Mouse more for me, me want fuck, you know. El burro sabe mas que tu.
One of the men on the wall chuckled cruelly.
The detective waited for the Mexican to unload his customary round of Spanish insults and then settle down.
-- Where you from?
It took a minute of pointed staring before the youth turned.
-- She’s gone brother. Let it go.
-- Gone where?
-- Gone where the beauties all go, out West, whores in the big cities, can make good gold turning tricks out there.
The detective hummed briefly.
-- Good money in the big cities.
-- Fuck the money brother, whores don’t need it, if you want a hook up, I give you a name and you give me cash, that’s how it works.
Snow White is a whore. Gold is not money.

-- Number one rule kid, what is the number one rule.
The detective stared blankly ahead, as the Sheriff winked at the policewoman on the front desk and led him out of the bustling city headquarters.
-- Always call me if you are leaving the city, you know better than that, you are in charge when I’m not there, I can’t trust the kid to keep charge of our station. They aren’t made of the same stock as us. I don’t mind the drink but don’t embarrass me like this again or there will be consequences.
-- What’s gold Sheriff?
The Sheriff paused, genuine confusion featuring on his cynical features.
-- You kidding?
-- Couple of the gangsters were talking about it as if it was some kind of new drug, thought it might have a bearing on our case?
The Sheriff shrugged, no sign of recognition.
-- Never heard of it, get in.
-- I’m driving my own car back, thanks Sheriff.
-- One of the slickers has already returned it, didn’t seem to be too keen on you driving again today, best we ride together anyway.
-- I had something to do here.
Quick as a shot, the Sheriff replied, eyes trained on his face.
-- What do you want to do?
The detective stopped and then started again.
-- Some information gathering, see about these dwarfs.
-- Don’t you worry about that, got a couple of men on the inside, been having a look around, so far we found they stayed in a hotel for the first few nights, but that’s about it. Talk to me about this stuff, we are on the same team.
The detective took a breath.
-- Ok, lets go back.

A long drive, both keeping eyes fixed on the road. And then,
-- Stop, Sheriff stop.
Brakes slam, car spins, both jolt forward and back.
-- Fuck kid, what the…
Detective out of the car in a flash, running. The Sheriff looks and sees what he has his eye on. A dwarf disappearing into the undergrowth.

Both enter the forest blindly. After some hurried pursuit in the direction of sounds, the Sheriff begins lagging behind, and the darkness of the canopy sets in.
-- Stop, kid, where are you?
The Sheriff’s voice yells hopelessly. After kicking a few trees and swearing, he turns back to the car.
The Detective, holding his hand over the midget’s mouth breathes again.
-- Right, I want some answers now.
The midget stares with profoundly sad eyes.
-- She’s dead.
-- What do you mean she’s dead?
-- She poisoned her. The witch got her.
-- What are you talking about?
-- We’ve got her in the house, the most beautiful girl in the world.
-- Who?
-- Me and Grumpy, he looks after her.
A sense of emptiness spread around.
-- Can you take me there?

Evening faded into night. Only the moon shone on the old shack in the middle of the woods, straight out of a horror movie. A miserable plume of black smoke from a black chimney, a rotting balcony and smashed windows. The detective had got little else other than location from the midget, whose grief seemed profound and genuine.
The door creaked open, for the third time in as many days, the detective drew his small gun
-- Hello, anyone in there?
-- You bought a fucking cop here? Are you fucking insane?
The midget ignored the voice, staring into the gloom dully
-- I just want to ask some questions.
-- Yeah, that’s what you did to my brothers, just asked them some questions, I’ve got a question for you, do you like the taste of lead?
-- Listen…
Bang.
The midget stared at the blood for a moment flowing from his chest and dropped to the ground.
An unholy scream of anger pierced the night.
The detective ran for the door, followed by a bullet that slammed into the frame.
He dived over the banister, landing painfully. Grumpy followed through the door, a wild, deranged look in his eyes. The detective crouched and gun trained on the door, shot, hitting the shoulder and knocking the far too large rifle out of his hands.
Jumping forward, he grabbed the rifle, threw it out of reach, and kneeled lightly on the midget’s chest.
-- You have the…
Grumpy struggled, his active arm uselessly pummeling the detective.
-- Fucking murderer, fucker.
The detective held down his arm.
-- That’s the first time I’ve ever shot my gun at a person, I don’t know what you are talking about.
The midget’s eyes cast a black shadow.
-- Whatever, you country cops are all fucking crooked, you hunted us all down, each madder than the other.
-- What do you mean?
-- They were all off their heads, all ranting about the Witch, trying to protect the whore.
The detective stood up and sat back on the rotting bannister.
-- The Gold?
-- It does something to you. Makes you believe.
-- It’s a drug?
-- It’s a…I don’t know…it carries drugs, it combines them, does something to you, she gave us some, the whore, they were all on it.
-- What about you?
-- I didn’t take it, I don’t take their fucked up drugs, I just followed, tried to stop everything but then everyone started dying and the chick overdosed.
-- The Witch?
-- It’s just a beast man, its all in their mind, i…ts…fuck.
With a flutter of his eyelids, Grumpy died. The detective stood up in horror, blood surrounded round the midget.
He stood, wiping the deep red off his knees, darkness spread out in every direction.

A match in the near distance. Deep sucking in of air.
-- I’m not a bad guy kid, I’m just a gun for sale.
-- Sheriff?
-- Put down the gun.
A click. Metal scraping.
-- You know kid, I liked you, you didn’t ask questions, you did paperwork, I don’t think you even thought to ask questions, like, why is everyone so scared of the town Sheriff?
The light moved closer. The slight outline of that merciless grin in the darkness.
-- I never trusted you.
-- But you did kid, you called me in, you let me lead, you never thought about calling the Feds.
-- You…
-- I said a lot of things, to be fair, seven dead midgets is probably going to be the end of both of us.
An empty silence stretched out, both contemplated the end.
-- Well one of us anyway, I think I might use this opportunity to retire, with that beauty in there on my side.
-- If you’re just for hire, who are you working for?
-- You know me better than that kid.
-- What about the Gold?
-- Never heard of it, new drugs come and go, I prefer more carnal satisfactions. Now, I want to hear that gun hit the floor.
The sound of metal dropped against wood.
-- Good, now you’ve been good to me kid, any last words for your family, friends? Always liked that whore down in the bar didn’t you? Gabrielle, I could give her a message.
The light went out.
-- Fucking cheap cigarettes.
Another match lit, once again outlining his face.
Dive for rifle. Bang.

The next morning, the police discovered the patch. The sheriff and dwarf’s body sat not far away from each other. The detective inspected the scene quickly, beside him one of the deputies explained.
-- Sheriff clearly shot him in the arm, using his standard issue too, strange for him, the midget who killed his friend returned fire. Not sure what to make of it yet sir, a sad day.
Only the slightest edge of sarcasm.
-- He dropped me off at the station at 8pm, I must have been the last person to see him alive.
-- Don’t worry sir, there is something strange about this whole thing, I don’t know if the Sheriff’s hands are clean.
-- I don’t know either, right I better start making enquiries round town, see if we can’t fill in a few gaps.

The Old Lady smiled.
-- Welcome Detective, do take a seat.
A table sat out on the lawn, the dogs tethered to a far post, champagne had been poured into glasses. Margaret had a smile on her face as she gestured at the seat. He sat.
-- I hear our brave Sheriff perished last night, terrible news for the town but I trust you will be keeping us safe.
The Detective remained silent.
-- I hope you know I had nothing to do with the event, we have a very good alibi, fortunate enough, a charity ball in the City, women’s refuge.
A thin smile.
-- Detective, I do hope you are not implying anything, we both know that Sheriff was not a very noble gentleman, I have laboured for years to end his tenure but he has doggedly remained out of my jurisdiction, now we can finally work on bringing some real order to this town.
-- Tell me a bit about this Gold mine M’Lady.
The Old Lady started quickly.
-- Oh, I should have known you would find out, yes, we investigated and although a very tenuous commercial venture, we can extract more gold. It will be quite the investment, I might be prepared to offer a share.
Her eyebrows raised cruelly highlighting her cragged appearance.

-- So you are not willing to take bribes, I have to say I am relieved, I will support your election as Sheriff, hopefully we can keep any external influence out of this issue, only the land could be easily claimed by the government if they find an active Gold mine, and I really would like to use the profits to start that new women’s hospital in the City.

The detective walked away half an hour later, satisfied the Old Lady had nothing to do with the murders and everything to do with the supply of Gold.

-- What do you know about Gold Wendy?
Blank look.
The Detective strode round the narrow table, sitting down.
-- We have enough to hold you, running a brothel isn’t exactly legal in this state. Make it easy for us.
Her eyes swiveled round and fixed his in an icy stare.
-- I don’t know any Gold, Detective, keep me as long as you want.
A dense silence, the Detective smiled.
-- I thought you might be uncooperative.
He walked over to the door and opened it. The grinning deputy stood outside, ready with a small book.
-- It’s funny, the Sheriff refused to do our paperwork, yet apparently kept his accounts in very good order.
Wendy’s eyes widened slightly.
-- You’re name appears quite extensively over the last few weeks, quite significant payments too.
The detective blinked and in a second the woman had him pinned against the wall
Police flooded the room.

Five minutes later, restrained and seething, the old woman strained against her seat. The detective, labouring his breathing slightly sat in front of her.
-- What did you buy Wendy?
Spit.
-- What did you buy?
-- Protection.
-- Why did you need protection?
-- Competition.
-- Over ten thousand dollars for protection that seems a little steep, what do you know about Gold Wendy?
The remaining blank.
-- I told you I don’t know Gold.
-- Please don’t frustrate us, we know what you have to do to keep your little whores fixed.
Her teeth bared.
-- We saw little Anna, dead from all the Gold, you killed her, you know if you supply drugs to someone who dies, that counts as murder.
Silence for a few moments, a guttural laugh and strange look of resignation.
-- We don’t do Gold, ask my girls.
-- They aren’t going to tell us, drugged up little sluts.
A scream.
-- Don’t talk about them like that, don’t.
-- That’s what they are though aren’t they Wendy, all ending up like little Anna.
-- Gold kills, Gold eats you out from the inside, we saw it in the city, we came out here to get away.
-- What’s the money then for Wendy?
-- I told you, protection, protection for my girls, protection from the little ones, more addicts, Gold diggers, bringing their little whore out here, buy...
-- What kind of Protection Wendy?
A brief pause.
-- The only kind of Protection that works Detective, the perverted little fuck of a Sheriff understood.
-- You paid th…
-- Not all of them, we just wanted to scare them off, kill a couple but they were far too gone for that.
-- Thank you Wendy.
-- Just don’t hurt her. Please don’t hurt her.
Silence.
-- Hurt who?
No more words. A blank stare.
The Detective took a deep drag on a smoke as the deputy read rights and tears came rolling down the old woman’s face.

-- We have to call the Feds sir.
-- I know.
The Detective stared out of his window, the town sat below, twinkling lights as the sun crossed over the horizon.
-- Ever thought we live in a remarkably beautiful town Deputy.
-- Sure.
The deputies stared at the ground.
-- I’m thinking of leaving.
-- Ok.
-- I’m not even sure what we are even doing here anymore.
-- What?
The detective swiveled on his chair and stared at the young policeman. He suddenly felt a lot closer, a lot more familiar.
-- What?
-- Come with me, we’ll just drive for the horizon, they’ll never find us.
-- Loose ends, I have, loose ends.
-- You’ve always been a chump, see you in hell.
A crash of the door and he’d gone.

-- Come in honey.
-- Honey?
She shrugged, and he walked through the door. Inside, an intensely familiar décor met his appraising eye. Gabrielle gestured for him to sit down on a leather coach and quickly sat down next to him.
-- Did you find her?
She looked hopeful but sadness welled.
-- Sorry.
Tears coursed down the face.
-- Overdosed out in the wood.
She broke down and cried heavily for a few minutes.
-- What…what happened?
-- I can’t be sure, I think the midgets got high on this stuff, heard rumours of a gold mine out here and phased into some kind of fantasy about Snow White, fearful of a witch character.
-- What about Anna, did they kidnap her?
-- Sounds like she fell right into the delusion, this Gold stuff, makes you believe in stories.
Gabrielle shrugged.
-- I’ve heard of it, big in the cities, what about Wendy? I heard she got brought in for questioning?
-- Well, this is still a bit sensitive, so keep it to yourself.
Gabrielle nodded, tears still fresh on her face.
-- She hired the Sheriff, hired gun apparently, to kill the midgets, saw them as bringing this Gold stuff into the town.
-- No, Wendy?
-- Apparently very protective of her girls.
A few moments of silence, Gabrielle breathed heavily for a while, then stood up.
-- Well Detective, I should at least offer you a drink.
-- Sit down Gabrielle, there is one thing I don’t understand.
-- What?
-- The Sheriff’s pocket book, contained all his transactions for the last ten years, he took a lot of bribes, but he took one big one from you a couple of years back, when Anna first left.
Gabrielle’s eyes shifted ever so slightly to the kitchen.
-- Oh, I should have told you, when he went after Anna, I tried to pay him to stop, but he wouldn’t, nothing got in the way of him and his sick little projects.
-- That certainly makes sense, well I better take you up on that drink.
She turned again for the kitchen then stopped.
-- Why did you ask me that?
-- Oh, it’s just that someone delivered Gold out to the dwarfs, Gold that put our Snow White in a bit of a coma, need to find out who is supplying in town.
-- You don’t trust me?
-- Of course I do, I just had to ask.

-- I think you better leave.
Both stared at each other for a few moments. The edges of the beautiful woman silhouetted against the light, a slight tension in her eyes.
-- I have a man outside Gabrielle, he can take you away for questioning, we can search this place or you can tell me the truth.
She smiled.
-- Can I show you something?
-- As long as I can follow you.
-- Of course.
He followed her down a long hallway, a key into a lock, turning and into a room deep in the house. When he walked in, he couldn’t hold back the gasp. Every wall had mirrors plastered from ceiling to floor.
-- Can you hear it laughing? Every day it gets louder, it drives me mad, I used to love this room, can you hear it...Detective.
And he could. On the edge of perception, the slightest sound of laughter, something dark and wonderful.
She turned.
-- The Sheriff couldn’t do it, too weak, fell for the little bitch, sent her to the city, thought I wouldn’t find out, you know he killed a fucking deer and brought me the heart thinking I’d fall for it. Tried to do it myself a few times, chased her in the city, but she had the Agency, always dwarves, never alone, knights in shining armour but luckily enough, she came back herself. She was scared. Scared of the Witch. But she still needed the fantasy. So do you, don’t you Detective.
-- What?
-- Dawn’s coming, Eden grieves, young things like that have to die, you should know that, I’m so scared.
-- What do you...
The world around began to crack, as if spinning too fast, everything stained with dripping blood, gold glowing out of the cracks. The sound of the door being forced, muffled yells.
-- Detective, are you alright?
-- In the back.
-- Come with me, come with me to the kingdom.

Nothing gold can stay.

She faded in and out, he sat against the wall, the reflections all turning and looking at him now, but not reflections, the Sheriff, the Sheriff’s grin, his long black hair.
-- I’ve been saving, lots, we can run away, from all this.
-- I don’t understand.
Gabrielle suddenly cackled deep and long, and her pretty dress sprouted a blackness that spread to her skin, and to the floor and to the mirrors, until everything felt empty and dark.
He grabbed a pistol and tried to shoot it, whatever it was. The remains of her head splattered across the assorted mirrors, and with a collective shudder, they shattered.

A thick haze faded across the room, red and black blotches crowded his vision, the shattered glass gone, a normal bedroom, Gabrielle dead on the floor, a suitcase of money on the bed.
-- What just happened?
Anna smiled at the door. A picture of loveliness.
-- The witch is dead, the wicked witch is dead, you found me, you found me and killed the dragon and destroyed the evil witch.
He looked at the pistol in his hand.
-- What?
-- Let’s go, before my evil step mother’s henchmen arrive.
She grabbed his hand and the suitcase and pulled him towards the door.
-- What’s my name Anna?
-- I think you need more, my Prince.
She drew out a thin, evil looking vial with the slightest glint of Gold and a syringe. After flicking the vial a few times, she stuck it in the old syringe.
-- Wha…

********

The darkness engulfs him. Memories unravel and merge, thoughts bounce until they settle on an entirely different personality. The truth, as black as the empty sky felt its way to the surface.

Faint early memories, his mother beautiful, shadowy creature. Poems in the night.
-- Nature’s first green…

A welling of pain, awful pain and she is gone.

Anna White. Even in school, she’d haunted his dreams. Pale skin, snow white, freckles, beautiful, rebellious, unapproachable, untouchable. Always staring out the window. Abused by the bigger boys, the merciless boys who chained him to the rail tracks, shot him in the leg in jest, they did worse to her. Other girls who took pity, he treated badly, always thought about her. He never had the courage, learned to hate everyone who stood in the way.

The Sheriff’s office seemed a natural place to get his revenge, his father, the cold, distant Sheriff happy to sign him up. Happy to cover up too when they discovered the young men’s bodies in the forest. Everyone blamed the Sheriff, vacant eyes and cheap cologne, no one likes a cop that doesn’t take bribes. He learned to hate the cold, silent widower with the rest of the town.

For a while, happiness. Gabrielle. Pretty flowery dress, beautiful. Married. Too kind, a bright, sunny view of the world. Liked a happy ending.
Until one day, she mentioned the name that haunted his dreams.
-- Honey, I’m really worried about Anna, I know you went to school with her, go talk to her mother, see what’s wrong, don’t tell your dad…I don’t trust him.

He had no intention of doing anything of the kind but after days of the face haunting his dreams, he made his way across the town to the large mansion.

Old Lady. Still cruel, hated men but darker and more cynical. Takes blood to get to the top in the forest.
-- I was wondering how long it would take you to come see me.
-- I’ve just got a few questions maam.
-- They don’t interest me, what interests me is you, you killed those boys out in the wood, I know your father had nothing to do with it.
-- That’s horseshit, anyone who says different ain't welcome here.
His hand settled a little closer to his pistol, a nervous silence as the Old Lady eyed him up.
-- How corruptible are you deputy?
Another silence.
-- Whose asking?
-- I want something done that I don't think your father would do.
-- How much are you willing to spend?
-- I like that, 10 grand to kill the Sheriff, another 15 to clean up those hippies camping out by the mine, don’t even ask, another 5, if you can get rid of the whores from the town, especially Wendy’s lot. Investors coming in, we need a clean sheet.
A few moments decision, the pathways opened.
-- Alright.
-- You’ll kill your own father, delightful, we will get on fine, if my daughter is there, cut out her heart, bring it back, earn you an extra grand.
-- My pleasure maam.

The Sheriff beside him in the car. Accelerating away from the city.
-- It’s not the drinking kid, but you drink and get behind a wheel, you can’t just expect me to get you out of these situations every time. You can’t leave the station alone either.
Anger, boiling over.
-- Stop, dad stop, I see something.
Into the forest.
-- What did you see kid?
Blood.

-- Please…don’t, we have Gold.
The gun blasted. He turned to the next one.
-- Where’s this gold?
-- Oh god, oh god, oh god.
Bang.
-- Ha, a midget, I’m going to give you a chance always liked midgets, you must know where the gold is?
-- It’s not gold, it’s a drug, a really expensive drug, sends you to a different world. I don’t do it. Can send you over...Please don’t kill us.
-- Find it deputy.
His friend immediately started searching the bags, avoiding looking at the prostate circle.
-- Why are you doing this, you don’t need to do this.
-- This is a good town, we got no Negroes, spics, even you little people ’d cause a few heads to turn, gotta do something about it, you know?
The midget looked up, an impotent hatred in his eyes.
-- You are disgusting.
-- I’m going to call you Grumpy.
The other hippie, long anonymous dreds desperately lunged on the floor.
-- We’ll just go, we’ll never look back, we’ll never report this, please.
-- Oh, you can go if you want, we have got what we need.
They stared at each other for a moment, then got to their feet and started sprinting towards the trees.
Bang, bang, bang.

-- Let’s split the money buddy, too much for me, I’m out of here.
His eyes remained fixed on the horizon.
-- I’m not sure what we are even doing here anymore.
Still silent, contemplating that final smile on the Sheriff’s face as his cigarette failed to stop a bullet.
-- Come with me, let’s just drive to the horizon.
A frown and her face, only one thing left to do.
-- Loose ends, leave the gold.
-- You’ve always been a chump, see you in hell.
A crash of the door and he’d gone.

Wendy.
-- See anything you like deputy?
-- Anna.
-- Oh, she is a long way away deary, we have some lovely brunettes.
-- Tell me where she is.
Blood. Pain.
-- Out in the woods, they keep her out in the woods, just don't hurt her, please don’t hurt her.
Bang.

The same dark house. Deep in the forest. The Mexican.
-- Aye Padre, you long way out? Here to party.
-- Is Anna here?
-- The whore? Si amigo, cost if you want to fuck.
Eye’s glaze over.
-- Fuck you.
Bang. Climb over body.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Screams.
The black boy dressed immaculately, sitting next to her. Frozen.
Anna. Beautiful Anna.
Bang,
-- Come with me.
-- You…killed them…all.
-- I said come with me.
In a room, the needle draws out the glittering fluid.
-- We’re going to do something together, gold, meant to be something else, you know how long I’ve waited for this, for you, hold still.
A scream and then silence.

A bright light and a new world, the memories came flooding back but perverted and twisted with his own. Blacker, darkness twisting, round and round.

A voice, soft, gentle. Gabrielle. Oh, Gabrielle. The bedroom, a large mirror on the wall. Sitting on the bed, her dress light and tears staining her face.
-- Did you hear, Wendy died today, murdered in her own hotel…who could have done it, the radio said something about not going into the woods, a serial killer…I never trusted that Sheriff but now he’s dead, I don’t like this, all this blood, first the Sheriff, now Wendy, even more, there are all kinds of rumours…we should go honey, we should leave this town, all this money, I’m not even sure what to think, now you bring home this Anna, I’m not sure I feel entirely comfortable, why don’t you take her home to her mother? I’m sure she is worried sick.
His mind struggled between worlds.
-- Oh…say something, anything? You’ve been so quiet, so strange, your eyes are glowing, what’s wrong honey?
-- I’ll…cut…out…her…heart…for…you.
-- What?
Bang.

The Detective and Deputy stared at each other across the empty chalice of consciousness. An understanding, they couldn’t live with those memories, not any more. The Deputy walked away, down the long paths of black despair. The Detective smiled for a while, looking out over the town twinkling lights, the large forest and beautiful lake just visible in the first light of dawn.

Then he blinked, and the courtiers cheered. The crowded thoughts, like whispers of a dream faded from his mind. He swung the beautiful princess onto the horse.

-- We must ride till dawn, your mother and her henchmen will be close behind.

The prince and his princess left the Witch in her castle and voyaged far to avoid the clutches of her evil stepmother, until they found their kingdom, the dark underbelly of the city, where with money they were welcomed with showers of gold. The kingdom rejoiced for many days and they all lived happily ever after, until their brains rotted away and minds slid helplessly into oblivion.

2009-02-19T23:52:00.000-08:00

Intelligent men often conspiratorally nudge each other when watching sport.

-- Waste of time 'int it?

-- Yeah.

-- You know, silly.

-- Course.

-- I mean, you'd have to be an idiot really.

-- Yeah, homosexual too, all the hugging.

-- Nothing wrong with being gay.

-- Yeah, but you know what I mean.

-- It's pretty pointless too, I mean your team is always going to disappoint you.

-- I know.

Yet as the conversation goes down this track, watch their eyes carefully. Never once will it flicker from the screen. In fact, although their voices may be parroting a conversation they have had a hundred times or more, their minds are fully immersed in the strange black hole of sports addiction.

Today, a game completely absorbed my attention for about an hour. England played West Indies in Antigua. With the West Indies 8 wickets down, it looked like England might have victory secured. Yet in a ridiculous show of spirit, the West Indies tailenders held on for an improbable draw. To communicate the various rules and flows of the game that got us to this wonderful outcome would be impossible in a blog.

To further impart the slow death of test cricket at the hands of the vastly more marketable 20/20 and the importance of a such significant game with the disgrace of a disgraceful figure, would take years of painstaking exposure. However, cricket journalism does give it a rather good go.

Yet, still the intelligent men, looking at each other with tired eyes, debate deeply important topics and keep doubting the joy of sport. They do not accept the unjustifiable pleasure one can get out of a close test of athleticism, big sweaty men competing in wits, power and most of all, luck. Maybe its the homoeroticism, maybe its the competition nullified by too many years of left leaning governments, maybe its the emptiness of a capitalist existence clinging onto any kind of artifical meaning that one can find, whatever it is, Aston Villa play Chelsea this weekend, and I am crapping my pants, but probably not quite as much as the English cricketters. See above.

Perkin's Choice

2009-01-24T16:53:00.000-08:00

"Isn't it what you get..." He mused, "This endless recurring sense of disappointment, in your own capacity, your own worth, I never achieve anything, nothing, I'm meaningless,"

"Listen Bob," I tried again, "We all feel that, its just being human, but there are the good feelings, the good times."

Another buffeting wind hit us both, he gripped tightly to the side of the wall, I tried to ignore the terrifying height, "Bob, at least grab this rope, just in case you feel like coming back in."

"But...can the good times make it all worthwhile?" Bob asked, the whine of sirens echoed out, "I mean, the emptiness, that darkness that just leaves you feeling so insignificant, I can't handle it anymore..."

“Bob, you can handle it,” I tried another tact, “People care about you Bob, think about them.”

“I don’t care anymore,” He stared blankly into the city, the lights penetrating through the thick choking smog, “I just want it to mean something.”

The freedom entered his eyes. It always happened in the last few seconds. Maybe that simple realisation that they actually had the power to end it all, or something approximating madness. Nothing stood in the way other than their own will, and that was entirely theirs to do with as they chose. Then something else, an inexplicable peaceful longing finally ripped their hearts away and sent their last vestiges of conscious thought hurtling into the oblivion of death.

Those eyes terrified me.

I knew I had one chance. I swung my body out across his path, but a second too late. A body falling from a building has a strange type of beauty, something of such significance, a human life, enveloped by the giant concrete nothingness that stretched out below.

He bounced before his mangled body settled. I spent a few moments up there, staring out at the city stretching below. After climbing back into the office, I did the customary swearing rant at my deputy, minutes of silence staring out the window, then made my way down to his corpse. It was expected these days but had become almost painfully routine.

It picks up round this time of year, holiday season stretches up, painful reminder of loneliness. Almost every evening spent on ledges hoping someone will change their mind. Some do, I had no illusions that my words had anything to do with it, usually cowardice simply compelled them to take my embrace. One perhaps I had some role in; diving in front of and managing to hold on but a few weeks later she achieved her end in another way.

Despite my low success rate, the management of increased suicides had become my official job. This was either due to my general incompetence with any actual detective work or my inability to refuse work. So I had to endure late nights and nightmares for months at a time.

"Bad luck Jim." A constable muttered as I wandered down the stairs, others shared similar sentiments, patted me on the back, nodded mournfully, "Next time," "Don't beat yourself up about it." “Not your fault.” More painful routine. At the bottom of the stairs, a few reporters milled round, "No comment Jim?"

"You got it." I nodded briefly at their bored expressions and walked decisively towards the Sergeant who had just arrived in his sparkling uniform.

He paused to take in the scene, and then leaned over, patting me on the back with faux concern, “Bad luck Jim, don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“Yes sir,” I grimaced, "Got his details?"

"Robert Perkins, home address and occupation already filed, Chelsea season ticket holder, no surprises there, taking care of clean up, we just need you to inform the wife." He smiled warmly handing over a thin piece of paper, "Take the rest of the day off after that, I'll see you tomorrow back at station."

I nodded back, catching a glimpse of my watch, 6.45pm. Fifteen minutes before my shift ended, would take at least half an hour to get to the wife's house, and she'd probably want to talk about it. The sergeant nodded at me with an oblivious smile. Not really that surprising, his organisational skills never had grown ou.

Letting the frustration course beneath my skin and straight into my blood pressure, I wandered towards my car, a well used Ford, its completely useless bumper bar extending prominently at the front. At least they'd given me that much, squad cars frustrated me beyond anything else, a million gizmos constantly bleeping. After twenty long years service, an office that didn't annoy every fibre of my being was perhaps not adequate reward, but at least a reward.

"Bleeeeep."

Fucking bastard fucker, so much for avoiding gizmos. I fumbled through my pockets to find the incessantly bleeping thing. I preferred the phones they used to give us, large bulky, with solid no nonsense ringing tones. I could change my tone if I was allowed, but my wife insisted I would only hear if it was shrill and caused me pain.

"Where are you." Her voice demanded, before I'd even had a chance to talk.

"I still have quarter of an hour before my watch even ends honey." I replied as coolly as I could, "Might be a bit late t..."

"Not tonight," She replied with icy cold certainty, "Not tonight James, the Andersons are coming over, I've told you about this for weeks, you will be coming home.”

I ignored the rest of the monologue. As usual, her absolute certainty had to face reality and unfortunately, that happened through yelling at me for quarter of an hour. The pain of a woman you have grown to hate yelling at you is hard to translate. I like to think a thumbscrew on its third rotation might come close to the sensation.

Despite the growing frustration and pain, I turned on the engine and drove. Long roads crowded with cars, intersections clogged, malicious lights, the million and one frustrations of a large city. She gave up after ten minutes and insisted on my speed and due diligence, hinting at all kinds of cruel and unusual punishment once I got home.

The feelings melted away inside, I concentrated on the suburbs and the blare of incandescent boredom from my police scanner. I didn’t want to rest my mind, Perkin’s eyes haunted me.

The car moved slowly, rush hour traffic slowly dissipating as I crossed the Thames.

At the corner of Kensington and West Yorks street, I stopped for what I thought might be domestic violence, but ended up getting chased away by both parties. The transition from large businesses through residential nothingness to slightly posher residential nothingness, ended up in the middle of the West End, outside a reasonably nice looking town house.

Turning off my machine and locking it carefully, I walked up to the house. Typical Kings Road, it had that quaint architecture, replicating a few centuries past with almost breathtaking ease, yet retaining a modern illumination. Knocking on the door, I removed my hat and my life changed forever.

The most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life opened the door, her face was turned behind her at first I could only take in the long shapely body, the slight freckles adorning her low cut top, a gentle neck with the most perfect sundrenched skin, "Honey bring out the...oh, officer, what can I do for you?"

"M...rs. P..perkins?" I stammered, breaking every single piece of advice in the "Dealing With Grief" leaflet.

"Yes?" She seemed a little defensive but all I could see in her endless green eyes was happiness at the end of a wharf somewhere, with our feet immersed in gentle coursing water. The soft breeze as I leant over and pecked her on the neck, her giggles lighting my heart on fire.

"Could I come in?" I tried sheepishly, avoiding her eyes, "I have something to tell you and your family."

This at least kept with protocol. Absurdly, at least in every practising policeman's opinion, we now had to ensure all adult family members in the house were present and sitting in the dining or sitting room, before making the announcement. Usually a few seconds after seeing us conclusions were drawn, but Mrs. Perkins seemed worried.

"Do you need a warrant?" She asked haphazardly, "This is not connected to any crime I hope?"

I blinked, even through my love drenched eyes, I couldn't pass up on such a terribly concealed hook, "Not unless you have anything to tell us Mrs. Perkins."

"No, no," After a few moments, she seemed to reach an inner conclusion, "Just give me a few moments."

She disappeared inside and I exhaled, watching her delicious form bound down the corridor, a young child bearing her startling green eyes, peered out, only to have his head snapped back.

My mind raced, how soon was too soon for a widow? What was she worried about? How did I look. Absurdly I removed my wallet, and used my sparkling badge, as I had done a few times in the past, as a mirror. My face still carried a haggard quality from the long conversation I'd had with her husband, my hair slowly receding looked passable despite the wind, I tried flattening it with my hand and sweeping it slightly aside. Otherwise, not too shabby. I smiled, that smile still had a bit of life left. I hoped anyway, guilt hit me suddenly, an image of my wife, but I put it aside, with any worries about Mrs. Perkin's guilt.

She appeared again, her face so lovely I caught my breath. Any pretensions of hope I'd entertained, I immediately abandoned. A woman like her, deserved to be immortalised in art and worshipped with the most expensive things that exist. How could Perkin's ever have ended his life with such a lovely creature at home?

Her immaculate lips moved softly, her voice just as entrancing as the brilliant and perfect teeth that flashed as she spoke, "Please come in."

I entered, the opening stretched further than my vantage point and breathtaking marble floor, with a completely unnecessary chandelier stretched upwards, "Welcome, if you'd like to come through to the kitchen."

"I'd prefer the living room," I replied quickly, "Policy."

She looked round panicked for a moment, but then grabbed my arm, melting every defence I had on offer, every muscle tensed, and a large erection began to form embarrassingly, "Please, we are all in the kitchen already."

I just nodded dreamily as she lead me through to the kitchen. Three children sat on stools, munching away on what appeared to be dry bread, she stared at them meaningfully, and then turned to me, "What did you have to tell us officer?"

I wilted in front of her eyes, "Well, Mrs Perkins, I'm sorry I should probably tell you on your own."

My mistake seemed rather horrible until I realised with a start, the file hadn't said anything about children.

Mrs. Perkins smiled and nodded immaculately, drawing me outside of the room.

"What is it?" She said, a trifle shortly.

"I'm very sorry," I said softly, "Your husband ended his own life earlier today."

She stared at me without comprehension.

I lowered my eyes, "I know this must come of some shock, if you would like me to explain to the child..."

She stuttered, "No, no, I have already told them...I mean...well I mean...I already know...we found him...what I mean to say is..."

I took my turn of staring without comprehension, "Mrs. Perkins?"

"Well as you can imagine it has been a rather stressful day, I just, I am struggling to, I’m a little unclear as to…I just…I’m rather shocked as you can understand…" As she kept talking, falling deeper and deeper into guilt of something, although what exactly I had no idea, I had to fight off every instinct I had to hug her close and hold onto her forever.

"Please Mrs. Perkins, calm down, I understand its very stressful hearing about this, but what do you mean by already told them?" I calmly asked.

The children stood behind the door, I could hear them whisper to each other quickly.

"Well," Mrs Perkins smiled, "I think we all need a coffee and then maybe you can explain to the children better than I can."

She seemed calm, in control, her eyes dazzling, her lips pouting, but I insisted “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure you answered the question Mrs. Perkins."

Suddenly my phone buzzed, I ignored it for a few moments, allowing her eyes to sink into mine a moment longer, "Sorry, I will just be a moment."

My mind worked quickly, what if this was the wrong house, the wrong Perkins, and I’d just walked in on something, the phone revealed my wife's demanding voice, "Its been over half an hour, where are you?"

I moved away from Mrs. Perkins, trying to hide my voice a little, "I'm with the family, I will call you once I am done."

The phone beeped, another line, "Listen, sorry I have to go."

The tirade ceased abruptly, a deeper voice continued, "Jim, are you there?"

"Yes," I again tried to keep my voice down, "Wrong Perkin's?"

"Its the wrong Perkin's Jim," The sergeant stated blankly, "Hope you aren't in there already."

"Seem to have hit on something sir," I replied.

The other end of the line paused, "Get out of there, you've got no warrant, just get over to the right Perkin's, its right near Chelsea stadium, as we might have imagined, we'll investigate whatever you found over there when you do your paperwork, come in after you finish, we can chat about it."

Angrily pushing down the button, I turned back to the image of loveliness, "Thank you for your time Mrs. Perkins but I must be off."

Her eyes panicked, but the rest of her body seemed to move fluidly closer, "I don't think I caught your name Constable?"

"Detective James Griffin maam," I replied automatically, "Bu..."

"Well, James." She interrupted, "I must insist on your coming through to the kitchen and having a coffee, we will call it off-duty and we can talk properly."

She had measured me and knew exactly what I was, a hopelessly lonely married bachelor, waiting for something magical, but I couldn't resist, her bewitching eyes held me in her complete command, "Maybe a quick cuppa, but I'll have to be off after that."

"Of course," She smiled, "Just wait in the lounge for me."

Leading me, I swam in her aroma, her eyes, her speech, "I am very sorry to have confused you earlier, I think I was just very shocked, I didn’t know anything about it."

She continued to lead me, opening the kitchen door. The children scampered back towards their stalls, and continued to munch on the remaining crusts staring at me with blank eyes. Yet something had changed, the way she moved, "How do you have your coffee?"

I smiled back utterly enchanted, "Black, one sugar, but whatever is easiest."

"Just head down the corridor to your left," She thoughtfully moved over to the coffee machine, "The lounge door is the large one."

The children watched me with wide, ominous eyes. I felt something wrong about the situation but felt tied up in her eyes, watching me even as they turned towards the coffee machine. I couldn't do anything else except depart and let the kitchen door swing shut behind me. Wandering along the corridor, the lounge was obvious, a large oak double-panelled door, with a large majestic bronze handle. Carefully, afraid of scratching the immaculate metal, I opened the handle and pushed the door open, stepping in.

The lounge stretched out, a large room, bigger than my ground floor, with a small chandelier, a large grand piano, two large bookshelves prominently against the walls, and a man, lying in a chair, with a knife prominently jutting out of his chest.

For a few moments, I continued to take in the room, then felt my eyes irresistibly drawn back to the man. His eyes stared upwards, his face peaceful.

Facts flew through my mind, the uncertainty, confusion, weak explanation and studied ignorance. Those eyes that only held beauty, suddenly seemed so much more sinister. This Perkin’s had not committed suicide.

The door creaked as it opened. I took a deep breath and turned to see the most beautiful woman in the world with a knife swinging towards me. Instincts kicked in, I grabbed at the blade, feeling the cold chill as it cut into my flesh.

I didn't see the other swing through the air and could only cry out as it plunged into my chest. Falling heavily to the ground, I grasped ineffectively at my chest. The image of terrible loveliness stood in front of me, her hand still gripping a bloody knife, “I am very sorry Mr. Griffin, but I just felt compelled to end my poor husband's life, I do not feel particularly guilty so I do not feel the law should bother me."

Her hand still gripped a bloody knife, I smiled weakly, " I love you."

She shrugged, "Many men have said so, I never really understood what it meant."

Despite the pain, I found my hands unconsciously reaching for the small weapon in my concealed holster, after a few moments my hands reached their goal, "Mrs. Perkins I want you to know I am so sorry."

Her eyes fell on my hands progress a moment too late, raising the knife she launched herself. Almost automatically I fired, a hundred hours painful police training taking control. The bullets pierced her chest, killing her instantly. A lifeless body dropped onto my prostrate form.

Blood flew carelessly onto the immaculate carpet from our three figures, children began appearing and wailing at each other with those piercing eyes, but I ignored their antics. My hand released the gun, and my head dropped onto the carpet.

The phone had become dislodged from my pocket and sat within reaching distance, I had just about enough strength to reach for it. Yet somehow could not find the will. Surprised, I felt any vestige of wanting to retain my life drift away, as her face faded into darkness.

Then I understood Perkin’s choice. That terrible look of freedom that had haunted my dreams, now seemed so clear, so true. Freedom is a myth, will an expression of mechanical desires beyond our understanding. Accepting the universe's blind indifference to our existence is necessary but must be done so in a way to also understand our servitude to a mindless and infinite machine. We are bound in a script written by chaos, only prey to the illusion of choice.

Perkin’s hadn’t given into despair; he had simply embraced the inevitable consequence of his life. No one chooses their end. Everything that had ever been leads towards one's death. Every movement drives inevitably towards the final conclusion. It has to end somewhere and every ending signals the only meaning one can ever gain. Happily, I rested my eyes, and drifted into blissful oblivion.

Vote for me!

2008-10-09T14:12:00.000-07:00

Elections have started to infest our great and noble democracy, and with it, they bring the dark reality of any representative government under capitalism. They are all manifestations of the same unquestioned truth, expertly put by Sir Bob Jones, notoriously socially and politically conservative millionaire, "economic growth is the only way forward."

We have this idea, inherited through years of capitalisation and rejection of state control, that utterly free markets are the only way for a country to thrive. For those markets to continue, they must grow, become more efficient, cut costs, increase production. If you don't grow, you stagnate (stay the same - a bad thing) or regress into the giant abyss of depression.

How do we do this? The field of technology is easy enough, computers keep going faster and getting better, the more we use them, the more efficient things get (or you spend the time you are meant to be working/working on masters blogging). For most fields, such technological gains however cannot be employed without significant capital investment. My dad's plant could buy bindery machines that would make a large casual labour forces jobs obsolette, but they could never afford it, and only in the truly long term would it become profitable (by which times the machines would have broken down many times over).

So, we export our jobs to the third world, who offer a cheap and legislation-free labour force. We dump our goods in the lakes where it is cheaper and easier than recycling or dealing with it in environmentally frieldly ways. And our profits increase and world markets march forward. There is no denying that slave world, with the absence of better words to describe the vast majority of the population of the planet's position, needs positive investment and development, and the most effective way of ensuring this is the violent enforcement of capitalist ideology. But thus must be cautious, the Western world gained its power through the ruthless exploitation of the rest of the world, as China and India develop, we see the potential for a similar standard emerging, lessons learned need to be communicated in greater world governance institutions that have effective control over areas.

But you can deny the Western world can justify the retention of said capitalist ideology. In fact, this growth that we desire, although increasing our standard of life incrementally, seems to benefit the few who take big risks, the gamblers. In a society that condones the use of "pokies", effectively hypnosis machines designed to manipulate the poorer elements of society, we also condone the market economy, a giant hypnosis machine designed to manipulate the richer elements of society. For every John Key who bets well, there are many who fall off the edge, and the only well secured elements are the old money and even then in giant turmoil like that currently hitting the markets, previously well secured stock will now be sadly withdrawing his child from Christs, and enrolling in Linwood.

We need to accept the messages sent by the smaller parties, United Future, Green, and the more aggressively left elements of the Labour party, unrestrained growth is no longer a reasonable path for the world to take. It is time we threw off the shackles of consumer society, destroyed our IPhones, our naked ambition for the next gadget or overseas holiday and started investing in our communities, understanding the meaning of voluntary service. There are many opponents and critics of the communist movements that have inflicted great suffering on large sections of the planet, yet these movements did have something in common. A commitment to volunteer work, that was shared from the top to the bottom. Che, still adorning fashionable tops all over the country, did hundreds of hours a week, participating in everything from building infrastructure to carrying out the rubbish.

There needs to be a new way, looking past this focus on the sorded economics of the world and towards a brighter future, where commitment to ending poverty is placed in real terms and real timetables. Where the light of progress and technology can be used for good and not just to better manipulate the consumer. Where state controls are effective and watchdogs are active and powerful. Where the state means something more than where you come from. Where incentive does not outweigh responsibility. Where ethical responsibility is not just a domain of philosophers, but becomes the cornerstone of how we live our brief lives on this wonderful rock!

The revolution is coming.

The end

2008-09-14T02:31:00.000-07:00

“Just walk away,” I smiled, “you’ll find its all in there.”
“Thank you for the advice,” Her long brown hair moved softly through the air as she turned, “Oh and one more thing…”
I saw it as soon as she’d thrown it, spiraling through the air. A second’s evaluation, no dodging, excellent trajectory, but I had my finger on the trigger and squeezed gently. I noted the thin line of blood at her throat with the slightest edge of satisfaction as the dull pain sunk in.
We nodded at each other. An acknowledgement of skill and perhaps more importantly, an acknowledgement the thin sliver of chemical we had imparted into each other’s blood streams was fatal.
She shut the door, and sat down on the couch, staring at me meaningfully, “So?”
“About half an hour, the same concoction we used on the priest.” I shrugged, “Myself?’
“Looks like we have the same supplier.” She stared thoughtfully at the window, “I thought he might have been playing both sides.”
I leaned back on the couch, drew out my thin cigarettes and offered one to her, she shook her head quickly, drawing out her own thin packet, “I only smoke Camel lite.”
“A Malboro man myself,” I shrugged, sitting back in the seat, lighting it and taking a long drag.
We sat for a few moments, gazing out into nothingness. I looked at her for a moment, huge blank eyes, sharp biting nose, high cheekbones and sunken cheeks, a permanently haunted look etched into a beautiful face. I’d seen so many similar faces over the last few years, but never taken the time to take it in. Fear.
“Ever thought about this,” I asked suddenly.
“The end?” She smiled at my nervous nod, “Constantly.”
“What do you think is going to happen,” I asked after another long pause, “Do you think there is anything else?”
“No.” She took another long drag, “This is just the end, everything has an end.”
I stared upwards, a strange panic filled me, “Doesn’t that terrify you.”
She paused, allowing the reality of the situation to settle, “Of course.”
“Is there any…” I stared hopelessly in my eyes, “Please.”
Hope, “No.”
I stood and began pacing the room, “I just wish, I wish I had more time.”
It is perhaps inevitable that in those moments where time is limited, you waste it wondering about things that do not matter anymore, “Where were you brought up.”
She opened her eyes wide, “What?”
“I mean, tell me a bit about yourself,” I sat next to her, “What got you here?”
She sat abruptly, “I don’t think there is much point, do you?”
“I don’t know, I’m just a little bit….” I settled deeper into the chair, feeling the chill as my extremities started to sting slightly, “What else do you propose?”
Her eyes swiveled around the room quickly, “There is one thing, I’ve been looking for so long, who was your double agent?”
I smiled, feeling the familiar shields rise in my consciousness, “We’ve got less than twenty minutes to live, lets not talk shop.”
She shrugged, twitched, and nodded, “Probably for the best, so much work wasted, so much time for nothing.”
I began to focus on her odd twitches, the way her eyes searched the room. Before, during the act, she had been so smooth, now she seemed much looser but so much more tense. More familiar. Silence settled again, I sat down next to her on the couch, and then after a few moments, leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
My mind started roaming, delving in the past, revisiting regrets, moments, as it focussed the familiar black despair seemed to engulf me. I swam back to the surface trying desperately to breath, “Do you mind if I put on some music?”
She reached out, putting her arm on my arm, then withdrew it quickly, blushing slightly, “I don’t want to die to something I hate.”
Staring at me deeply now, she almost withered my defences, if I hadn’t been trained for years to deny every emotion and carefully structure responses depending on the situation.
“You can’t hate this,” I smiled, “Its perfect.”
I leaned over, and clicked the grubby play button.
The familiar voice began the Zulu chant, “Nants ingonyama bagithi Baba, Sithi uhm ingonyama…”
I lay back and allowed the lyrics to bath me, washing away the emptiness.
After a few minutes of staring at me, a grin stretched across her face, “You know that movie got me through childhood, when Mufasa died, I cried so much…I haven’t heard it in so many years.”
She suddenly shuddered, tensing against the seat, the cold feeling its way through her body as it did through mine. We both sat there, seconds ticking away. Her hand shifted a little until it sat on top of mine, the lack of sensation not stopping the warmth spreading through my body, “Strange meeting like this.”
“I know.” She replied softly, “You know…another time, another place…”
Her eyes darted down, but then faced me steadily for a few seconds, I smiled, “I know.”
Another few moments of silence, I could feel it now. The end, approaching on the edge of sensation, brutally destroying system after system, yet somehow peaceful. Almost, like home.
I forced my head to the side and watched her shudder, I hated myself now, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Katherine,” She smiled weakly, “Katherine Taylor, born in a little Northern town, Little Fielding, built on a motorway, I joined the syndicate after high school.”
Every moment passed slowly, “The double agent, was Kasparov, the barman at the Agency hotel, I think he knew you were on the look out, we all did.”
The song changed, Jeremy Iron’s sinister voice started inciting revolution, and she stood up, “Thank you…I think I’ll take you up on your advice earlier.”
“Wh…” The chill of betrayal, “An…antidote?”
“Yes, the supplier doesn’t really play both sides,” She smiled briefly allowing a slight furrow in her brow give away something, “You know I really do like Lion King though, it’s been fun.”
And as the blackness enfolded me, the edge of sadness merging with a laughing hyena, she just walked away.

Forgetting Sarah Marshall

2008-08-15T21:13:00.000-07:00

Directed by Nicholas Stodder
Currently playing at soulless movie theatres all over the city
*1/2
It would be hard to get through this review without stating the inevitable line: it was forgettable. There we go, its done, now lets get on with it.

This is produced by Judd Apatow, the heart of the new Brat Pack, producing Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgandy, as well as a host of well known, commercially viable and utterly uninspired drone comedies. Writer and lead Jason Segel (How I Met Your Mother) gets broken up with by Veronica Mars (Kristen Bell), goes to Hawaii to accidentally find her with new boyfriend (Russell Brand), but everything ends up happily with him falling for Jackie from that Seventies show (Mila Kunis) who of course is much hotter and nicer than his ex.

This could have worked quite nicely, it didn’t need a decent plot; it just needed a string of well worked laughs. The comedy is there, brimming beneath the surface, but mostly it remains buried beneath Segel’s impenetrable comedy, somehow lingering on the edge of humour; never really making it.

At fault, first time director Nicholas Stodder who, clearly attempting for the “different, but not too much different” style, falls down the cliff, of just different enough to be annoying, and not different enough to be interesting. The jokes are cheap and sparse, and extended maudlin moments utterly bizarre in the context of an essentially unapologetic comedy.

That’s not to say there aren’t genuinely funny moments, Russell Brand, plays his wanker card surprisingly nicely and the concept of a Dracula musical with puppets, allegedly drawn from Segel’s own experience, is genius. But brief moments of inspiration are mired by a lot of pointless boring sequences.

Unfortunately, this will do quite well. Its got Mila Kunis tits in it and who wouldn’t want to see Jackie naked, however brief and obscure the moment is (via a Polaroid). Hollywood’s been saving utterly pointless movies for years with a bit of shameless nudity.

Please don’t go. See Before the Devil Knows Your Dead instead, Philip Seymour’s Hoffman’s tits beat Mila Kunises’ any day. And although the sex is a lot more acrobatic in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, at least you are not subjected to random shots of Segel’s penis in Before the Devil. Just Philip Seymour Hoffman’s beautifully grotesque body. Mmm...

Before the Devil Knows You're Dead

2008-07-28T21:17:00.000-07:00

Before the Devil Knows You're Dead

Directed by Sidney Lumlet

The opening scene to this film is perhaps the most brilliant you will ever see. Far outstripping the brutal realism of Saving Private Ryan’s Normandy landing, the anarchic brilliance of Trainspotting’s junkie run, with Iggy Popp music and Ewan McGreggor’s beautiful Scottish accent narrating, the bizarre almost inexplicable pre-historic start to 2001, Tarantino’s appetising robbery in Pulp Fiction, Something About Mary comic “we’ve got a bleeder” scene, City of God’s chicken chase, and that most epic of openings, Indiana’s escape from a crumbling temple in Raiders of the Lost Arc. Finally, Hollywood has reached its zenith, a perfect opening scene. If only for this, it is not to be missed.

Other than the opening scene, which let me reiterate, is utterly necessary for every human being to watch, this dark, melodramatic masterpiece resembles an ancient Greek tragedy, focussing on flawed families, poor decisions and the devastating consequences when both are combined with awful luck. The situation, begs a comic interpretation, two brothers conceive a simple plan try to rob their own parent’s jewellery store, only to have a series of chance happenings completely ruin their lives. Yet the delicate character study of the three protagonists delivers a far more sinister message, as the demonic diamond fence wisely states, “the world is an evil place, some people make money from it, and some people are destroyed by it.”

The down on his luck, pathetic brother is surprisingly played to perfection by Ethan Hawke, surprisingly pitiful in his ineptitude. The manipulating mastermind is the deservedly acclaimed Philip Seymour Hoffman, who flawed and grotesque, still brings a level of sympathy to the character’s plight. However both are left in the shadows by the wonderful Albert Finney as the growling and senile father.

Despite the rather dire subject matter, director Sidney Lumlet retains a lively beat to the proceedings, each event observed from a different perspective and plenty of nudity to keep things interesting. Highly recommended, especially for those first few minutes, something that will give you a whole new appreciation of what cinema can do.

You complete me

2008-06-15T12:23:00.000-07:00

C.S. Lewis once said, "Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather is one of those things that give value to survival."

This of course, along with most of the claptrap that Christians come up with, is simply wrong. The survival value is simple, with a group of individuals you do better than on your own. We form friendships in an attempt to better survive. Cicero puts it succinctly, "...nature has no love for solitude, and always leans, as it were, on some support; and the sweetest support is found in the most intimate friendship."

Be it in a slow hunt for the lion on the fields of the Serengeti or a fight to the dance off against a mob of sophisticated professionals in a crowded London club, the individual with friends; others who closely affiliate the individual's interests with their own, will usually succeed over the "loner". As Dawkins has argued, "the memetic value of friendship is indisputable...it is the one human trait that is comprehensively demonstrable of adaptive potential."

Aristotle in the Nicomachean Ethics divides friendship into three useful categories: those for utility, pleasure and "the good ". Pursuing friendship for a certain purpose is, in Aristotle's view, an inferior form of friendship. Friendship for personal pleasure, spending time with someone who perhaps shares a hobby or regular habit, is another inferior form, while perhaps satisfying, does not quite capture the meaning the word friendship has become saturated with. Aristotle captures something in his description of friendship as a "greater good" for both involved, a deeper connection, yet C.S. Lewis in the end, is accurate in that describing the joy in a good friendship is certainly not easy. The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy has an excellent and accessible summary of the subject if you are interested.

The point of this post is to identify a few individuals who, I consider close friends.

Richard Flett, or "Rdoc" is a bit of an enigma. While on one hand, we are very different in that he enjoys the rotting corpses of dead animals on a regular basis and sincerely believes in Jewish fairytales, we seem to connect closely after years of inhabiting similar space. He posts interesting music as well as grammatically weak musings on his blog water creatures.

Johnny Hall or "J-Dog" is one of the more interesting specimens of human that I've encountered. The son of a sociologist, his peculiarities are dense and splendid, and our history is about as sordid as it can get, without actually sleeping together, although I think its inevitable, yet I still consider him a good friend. He periodically releases fantastic short films on his personal website.

Jonathan, or "Jocks" is my younger brother, and similar to all brotherly relationships, ours has involved a lot of fighting, silliness and general tomfoolery. Despite this, we remain close friends, and his far superior grasp of the musical world has allowed me to appreciate music past the heady heights of the 1980s. He posts his excellent musical adventures on his blog, named after our childhood home of Mt Pleasant.

I have other friends, but they do not blog, so they are not worth mentioning.

melancholy

2008-06-03T03:14:00.001-07:00

This requires a little bit of explanation. I work in the Alternative Format Centre at the University of Canterbury. My job description, seeking to remove the fluff that is inevitably attracted to such things, is to type things I see. The service provides notes and other materials for those that cannot access them in their original formats. Most of the work I do is for blind students who cannot access books unless they are in a specific Word format and require lecture notes typed up.

There is a small amount of discretion in my work. I may choose for example, to cut down a particularly long passage that cannot be scanned in. Recently, replicating Margaret Greville's epic opus, "Legal Research in New Zealand", I found myself doing this frequently. In an attempt to represent to the blind student something still existed in the holes I left, I typed "more of the same". As I got into this habit, it took over more and more. First I started typing up half a statute list, then quarter, then merely one or two. I found more of the same gave a greater meaning to the passage than the words themselves.

Listening to the new Bonnie Prince Billy, I wondered for a moment, how much it could really be distinguished from this analysis. As I grow older and wiser, and I do grow older and wiser, I wonder. How much can anything be more than more of the same? Perhaps a reasonably self evident truth, but something that just caught me, shook me a little. A gloom and doom evening of inconvenient truth presentation did not help. In the end, the change in entropy must be greater than 0, the whole universe is doomed. So why bother?

Man's Best Friend

2008-06-01T22:20:00.000-07:00

This is an award winning story about a dog. Explores the complexity of the modern relationship between human and canis, while at the same time looking more generally at the nature of family life. What is it that drives us to procreate, form families, why is it that some of us reject this traditional formula, and what happens when a crash between worlds brings everything tumbling down.
Yet, a light piece, identified by judges for its humorous take on a real social issue. A real treat for young and old, and at exactly 1000 words, short enough to enjoy over a coffee break. Enjoy.

http://www.geocities.com/magicalflyingonion//mansbestfriend.html

Who I am?

2008-05-25T00:16:00.000-07:00

I feel, as any blogger should do, I should introduce myself. I am poms, known in some circles as "ace" and sometimes, on very special occasions "big man". If I was going to compare myself to any television character, it would have to be the Fonz. Sophisticated, yet daring, stylish with that rhythm of the feet that sends the most uptight of girls into the throws of ecstasy, all I need to do is walk into a room for the whole place to light up.
I spend most of my time at the University of Canterbury, I'm a bit of a celebrity there. You ask anyone, they'll know my name, if they don't, you can bet they'll know my face, and who can blame them? With a face like this, the ladies want me and the men want to be me, or sometimes want me. Thats part of the reason I named this blog "self takes", its about a snapshot, a tiny section of the world that has me. On many levels, that me being on one little bit of this crazy rock, is really doing damage. I'm a lover, not a hater, instead of giving to "charity" or doing "service" or any of these other crazy newfangled ways people justify their existence, I've decided instead to spread a little bit of my light on the internet, to make the world a better place.
Peace.