Arun D. Ellis's Blog, page 14

Rust by Arun D Ellis - book 9 in the Corpalism series

Living it Large


Lord Geoffrey Bledley-Smythe let loose the dogs, then watched as they raced frantically across the lawn, scattering in different directions.

Rusty, the Red Setter plunged through the Victorian rose arch, Disraeli, the Springer Spaniel crashed headlong into his prized Ceanothus 'Autumnal Blue' and out the other side. Gladstone, an English Bulldog, followed behind moving quite fast for such short legs. They all disappeared into the orchard at the far end of his beloved garden.

The road that ran along the outskirts of Lord Bledley-Smythe's estate was lined with a variety of vehicles; the ubiquitous SUVs driven by distracted mums and full of screaming children, the odd horse carrier and a few white vans driven by heavily tattooed workmen, and all of them belching fumes as they queued to get out of the junction located 100 yards down the road.

He was irritated beyond measure by the noise.

Since handing the 'big house' over to his son, and moving across the fields to the Manor his leisure time had been spent in this cherished garden, 12' high-walled on three sides only since the council decided to demolish the fourth wall for the puerile reason that it bordered the road, replacing it with an impenetrable, but not sound-proof, yew hedge.

The road itself was another bone of contention.

He mourned his youth when it had been little more than a dirt track and the clip clop of horses the only sound to be heard apart from the somnolent buzzing of bees and the occasional cry of circling buzzards.

He regretted the passing of time for that and for the disfigurement it wrought on his body. He was still an imposing six-footer when he forced himself upright, chin in, chest out, even at 84 but he'd lost a good few inches off his previous six-three, and standing erect caused him pain, whilst bending hurt his knees.

He was on 'poo patrol', trowel in hand. Lavinia had been giving him hell about it, the warm weather heightened the smell and he'd finally caved in and agreed to clear the lawn at least. He'd asked her yet again why the bloody gardener couldn't do it and she'd rounded on him as always with some nonsense about the gardener being an artist with the rhododendrons and azaleas in the main grounds and not about to get his hands dirty clearing up after dogs.

As a result he was talking loudly as he walked about, ranting about the unfairness of it all, head down, eying the grass for tell-tale signs that the dogs had been there first.

He twitched his bushy moustache and, spotting a suspicious-looking flattening of the grass, rounded on his target. He stared down at it, 2 days old, dried. This would offer a simple challenge, quick sweep of the trowel underneath, no fuss, no bother. Some deposits were more tricky, the recent soft ones, they tended to stick to the grass and his trowel, never pleasant.

He bent over and with a deft flick of the wrist he scooped the trowel underneath and lifted, then he was off to the road side of the garden, to toss the deposit into the no-man's land gap between his fence and the offending hedge.

He always stopped a good few feet away from the fence to make the toss. He would stand stock still and, flicking his wrist in a move of which he was quite proud, he would launch the poo into the air and watch it sail to its destination.

In more youthful times his aim had been impeccable, the poo landing within an inch of where he'd intended but a recent deterioration in his vision now played havoc with his targeting skills. More often than not it would land in the hedge or, worse still on the wire fence. Then Lavinia, whose vision was still 20/20, would insist he rescue it, a very messy business.

He paused speculatively at the next poo, squidgy and wet. He twitched his moustache, grunted, bent and swept. He readied himself for the flick; this one had to go over as he had no intention of retrieving it from the fence.

On the other side of the hedge Donna Carlton was clicking her manicured finger nails on the steering wheel of her Mercedes-Benz GL. It was her turn to do the school run and her nerves were stretched.

She'd not long come from her full Swedish body massage and hot tub treatment, supposed to set her up for the week, yet at this rate all the effects would have dissipated by the time they reached home.

"I don't care, Ayesha," she snapped, knowing as she did so that this was not good parenting.

She was supposed to have boundless patience with her offspring but truth be told at times she didn't even like them. Darren was bearable when he was on his own, but once roused to annoy his older sister as he was now, there was no reasoning with him.

And as for Ayesha's insufferable new best friend, the odious Hermione Carruthers, seated next to her daughter, words failed her. She continued, trying to keep her voice low and rational as she'd been taught by her therapist, "You can't go out tonight, you're grounded."

Darren buried a smirk in his blazer, nothing he liked more than Ayesha being blocked.

"I can see you, Darren," squealed Ayesha, leaning over the back of her seat and aiming a slap at his head.

"Stop it both of you," Donna said, counting ten and opening the sun roof. She glanced up at the sky and imagined herself on a beach somewhere, with Pierre, her tennis coach.

"Muuum!" wailed Ayesha, "Hermione and I are freezing back here."

"Yeah, mum," said Darren, "it's way cold."

"Way cold?" Donna was instantly back in the real world and very annoyed. She opened the sun roof all the way back to include the rear passengers; one of the design features of this particular SUV.

"We pay enough for your education, the least you could do is speak properly."

Ayesha let out a shriek, her eyes wide and bulging, as Lord Bledley Smythe's foul smelling missile found a target. Hermione's mouth dropped open. Darren burst out laughing.

"Oh my god," said Donna, closing the sun roof, "what's that awful smell? Surely it's too early for muck spreading."

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun

Rust by Arun D Ellis - book 9 in the Corpalism series

Pigs


Ken and Tony were parked up outside a 24 hour food shop. Tony was hungry as usual and being in charge of the car's movements he'd decided they needed to stop.

"What do you think's going on over there?" said Ken, nodding to the silver BMW as it pulled up alongside two young girls.

"Wouldn't like to say, but it don't look good."

"Run the plate," said Ken.

Tony did so, saying, "Belongs to one, Muhammad Jakhrani. Entrepreneur, business man, family man, pillar of the community."

The girls were leaning in the windows of the BMW.

Ken could hear the giggles from where he was sitting and he could feel his anger rising. He cleared his throat, spoke tersely, "Let's just drive by."

"You saw the brief, right?"

"What brief?"

"Shit Ken!" said Tony, "We're not to interfere in anything that might upset the Muslim community."

"Yeah, well, this involves the white community."

"We should call it in," said Tony, "check what they want us to do."

"I say we walk over there," said Ken, unbuckling his seat belt.

"Fuck you," snapped Tony, "I have no intention of fucking up my career just because you don't care about yours. I'm calling it in."

Ken gritted his teeth and stared out of his window. He knew what the response would be.

Tony was listening to a voice on the other end of the car radio phone, "Yeah, local bigwig Muslim," he said, his voice carefully neutral.

Ken could hear the Duty Sergeant's tone and clenched his fist.

"Yes, we read the brief," said Tony, giving Ken a hard stare, "but it's different when you're faced with it."

Ken was buoyed by Tony's words; he did care after all.

"We know that Sarge," said Tony, "but...."

Ken heard the explosion on the other end and grimaced.

"Yes Sarge," said Tony. There were more loud noises, then, "yes Sarge, of course, Sarge." He clicked the radio off, saying "three bags fuckin' full, Sarge." Then he rounded on Ken, "Happy now? I just got my bollocks chewed, or didn't you hear?"

Ken sighed, then looked across at the BMW.

"Yeah I heard," he said, "but I still think we should do something."

"Like what?" asked Tony.

"Like tell them to piss off, fucking perverts."

"Yeah, right, like that's going to happen," said Tony, starting the engine.

"Well, we've got to say something," said Ken.

"What happens when they shout police harassment? We'll be hung out to dry. It's bigger than us, if they want us to leave it alone then we leave it alone."

"But what about those girls?" asked Ken.

"They shouldn't be out this late," said Tony, "it's their parents' fault, they should be looking after them."

"That's not right and you know it," said Ken.

"Say we go over there, do you think those girls'll thank us? And the Muslims? What do you think they'll do?"

Ken clenched his fists helplessly.

Tony was unrelenting, "We'll get reprimanded, someone else will be sat here and do you think they'll get involved or do you think they'll just follow the brief? What if they put a couple of Muslim coppers on this patch? Then what? Don't fuck the system, Ken."

"The fucking system's broken," hissed Ken.

"If it is, we can't fix it."

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun

















Daydream Believers Corpalism II

7 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

Work

All labor that uplifts humanity has dignity and importance
And should be undertaken with painstaking excellence.
Martin Luther King, Jr.


“Terry, you’re public conveniences,” said the supervisor, who’d introduced himself as Phil, “town centre.”

Terry sighed. He was suddenly grateful to be wearing overalls, even one two sizes too big for him. He thought of Sandra, imagined her comments at the irony.

“Eh, good one, mate,” said a fat bloke standing just behind Terry. Age indeterminate.

“Sorry, what?”

“You pulled York Street bogs” Terry stared. “Poofta town…….it’s fulla fags!” He laughed, enjoying himself. “An’ they’re filfy bastards they are, into brown showers an’ all that shit – excuse the pun.”

“Shut up, Brian …at least they clean it all up wiv golden showers,” added a tall skinny bloke on Terry’s left. He was called Thin Mike for obvious reasons.

Phil passed Terry a map, “I’ve marked them for you, here’s keys to your van, an’ don’t forget, you’re on the clock.”

“What?”

“You’re on the clock,” said Thin Mike, “we all are.”
Terry stared blankly.

“You got two ‘ours,” said Brian, “from job allocation to return.” Terry’s mouth opened and Brian continued, speaking really slowly “You…got…two…’ours …from…now…”

“To get the job done and be back here,” interrupted Phil.

“Which ain’t fuckin’ nearly enough time,” snapped Brian.

“An’ don’t be late,” said Thin Mike.

“’cause they dock yer pay,” Brian added.

“An’ they dock yer points,” added Thin Mike.

“Points?”

“Yeah points,” Brian sighed, “ain’t nobody told you nuffin’?”

Terry held his head in his hands, “God, where the fuck, am I?”

“Fuckin’ Boro mate,” said Brian. “Get used to it.”

“Listen, it’s really simple,” said Phil, “you’re here to serve a sentence so you start each week with max points. If you do anything wrong or are sloppy, late etc we dock you points.”

“An’ points make prizes,” said Brian.

“Blast from the past, that is” said Thin Mike.

“At the end of each week we see how many points you’ve got left and pay you accordingly,” said Phil.

“Or…” said Brian, “They check ‘ow many points they’ve deducted and then they cut your pay.”

“But you never know ‘ow much they’ll deduct,” added Thin Mike.

“Because they make it up as they go along,” said Brian.

“No they don’t,” said Phil, “every task and time period has a monetary value and points are calculated against that.”

“It’s just that they can’t tell you what the deductions were for,” said Thin Mike.

“We’re not allowed to,” said Phil, “it’s confidential.”

“Two things,” said Brian, “One, confidential from who and Two, what the fuck do you care? You’re one of us. They’ll dock you points as much as us.”

“Look…” started Phil, “look; just get on with it, will you. I don’t need your aggro today, is that clear?”

“Oh what you gonna do?” asked Brian.

“I could report you,” stated Phil.

“But you won’t.” said Brian, to Phil’s disappearing back.

“What you wanna do that for, Bri, ‘e’s alright is Phil.” said Thin Mike.

“What you ‘ere for anyway?” Brian asked, turning his back on Mike.

Terry sighed, “Actually, I’m not at all sure.”

“HA!” said Brian, “Well you’re a fuckin’ idiot then, at least I know why I’m ‘ere.”

“Yeah, shop liftin’,” said Thin Mike.

“Robbed a fuckin’ bank, I did.” boasted Brian.

“Banks don’t carry cash anymore,” said Terry, looking dubiously at Thin Mike.

“He nicked sweets from a Pakki shop,” said Thin Mike.

“I never, I robbed a fuckin’ bank,” repeated Brian.

“Pakki shop,” said Thin Mike, “don’t keep sayin’ it’s a bank, we’ve all seen your sheet.”

“Why are you here?” Terry asked Thin Mike.

“Rioting, me.” Terry tried not to look surprised; Thin Mike didn’t seem the type. His face was obviously an easy read because Thin Mike continued, “don’t look it, do I? Butter wouldn’t melt” He laughed, “Mind you, twenty years is a long time an’ I only did it the once.”

“So why you ‘ere?” Brian edged Thin Mike out of the way.

“I’m here for debt and….”

“And what?” asked Brian.

“Bein’ late for work,” said Terry. Brian burst out laughing. Terry tried to ignore him, “Any of you fuckers actually from Boro?”

“Nope,” said Thin Mike, “I don’t fink I’ve met anyone who was born ‘ere. They’re sendin’ everyone ‘ere these days. Reckon this is the most crowded place in the country, millions of people crammed in from all over. Now me, I’m from Befn’l Green.”

“What about him?” asked Terry, pointing at Brian, still convulsed, and amusing himself.

“Fuck knows, he’s never said but he came up when I did,” answered Thin Mike, “’e’s an ‘ammers fan, so East London somewhere, I ‘spect, same as me.”

Brian was still laughing five minutes later as Terry drove his beat up van out of the Department of Sanitation court yard.

Cheers

Arun








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Compendium editions

6 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

He was awoken by a loud banging. Surely not the brothers back for more; he rubbed his head and leaned forwards in the arm chair, all the while the banging continued. He splashed his face awake, yelling “All right! All right!” then jogged lightly down the stairs, and prepared to do battle, he flung back the door, “What do you want?”

“Hey Mister.” said the kid on the bike, “will you teach us how to fight?”

“Will you reach us how to fight like that?” this from his companion, standing just behind.

Terry frowned “Go away, an’ leave me alone.”

“Go on Mister.” shouted someone from the crowd gathered at the end of his path.

“Shove off, all of you!” shouted Terry slamming the door.

As Terry climbed the stairs the letterbox opened, “Go on Mister.”

“Sod off!”

∞

Terry left his house and went to the corner shop followed by a gang of about 20 youths.

“Go on Mister, teach us how to fight.”

“Yeah go on Mister.”

Terry ignored them, he was tired of shouting. They’d been on his case for the best part of 3 days now and he was well past bored.

“Please Mister.”

“Show us how to do that Kung Foooo stuff.”

“Go on Mister.”

Terry went into the shop and bought two cans of lager. When he came out the group was still there. They followed him home.

“Why not, Mister?”

“We’re good learners.”

“We won’t give you any trouble.”

Terry shut the door, climbed the stairs and fell into his arm chair. The banging started again.

∞

He woke up, his head shaking backwards and forwards, “What the…?” he mouthed, getting to his feet, his living room was full, “How did you lot get in?”

“Door was open.”

“Come on Mister, teach us how to fight.”

“No it wasn’t.” How the hell do you remonstrate sensibly with a roomful of kids? It was beyond his scope of reference.

“It was.”

“Oh come on mister.”

“Get out,” yelled Terry.

“Please.”

“Fuckin’ out!” yelled Terry pointing, “Now.”

∞

Terry pulled the duvet but it refused to move. He tugged harder but it still wouldn’t budge. He opened his eyes, the room was full of kids, and three of them sat on his bed, “Shit!”

“Come on Mister.”

Terry pulled the pillow over his head, “Fuck off.”

“Please!”

“Go away.”

∞

Terry walked to the local shop, followed by his usual entourage. He bought his usual supplies and a new lock, putting paid to the last of the money Debbie had handed him along with his bus fare. Irritation at this additional expense added unusual flavour to his accustomed response to their persistent demands. They drifted away, this time not following him all the way home.

“What we gonna do, man?” one of the youths said.

“Dunno… ‘e’s just not goin’ for it, is ‘e.”

“I’ve got an idea,” this from one of the smaller of the group “Sandra.”

“What? My Sandra?” One of the older boys spoke, pushing through to the front.

“Yeah, Darren, your Sandra.”

“She won’t do it.”

“Yeah she will.”

“No she won’t, she’s my sister, I should know.”

“You’re right, she won’t do it if you ask her, but she’ll do it for money.”

“No, she won’t.”

“Of course she will, everyone’s got their price.”

“Yeah, come on, Darren, you can at least try!”

“Alright!” said Darren, “but I’m tellin’ ya, she ain’t gonna do it.”

Darren was wrong and right; wrong in that she did agree to do it and right in that it wasn’t for money. Sandra had heard about Terry’s exploits and seen him from a distance and she liked what she’d heard and seen. Besides, anyone who could sort out Jimmy O’Connell can’t be all bad.

∞

There was a knock at Terry’s door, not like the recent banging, this time it was short and somehow polite. He got up from the kitchen table, still chewing his breakfast, ran lightly down the stairs and opened the door, not sure what to expect. Sandra smiled; petite, blonde, brown-eyed and altogether unexpected. He nearly choked on his toast.

“Hello,” said Sandra, calmly aware of the effect she was having.

Terry mumbled something, hid his toast behind his back and sort of shuffled.

“I’m Sandra Coogan,” she said, “I live round the corner. I thought I’d stop by and welcome you to the neighbourhood.”

“Sandra,” repeated Terry, “sorry, yes, hello, Sandra. I’m… erm…Terry.”

“Hello Terry.”

“Er…would you like to come in??”

∞

Darren leaned back on his bike, “told you she’d do it.”

“Shut it Darren.”

“You so did not, Darren.”

∞

“I’m a part-time care worker,” said Sandra. She was perched on the edge of the kitchen chair, her feet neatly together. He had the impression she was trying not to touch anything and he was acutely aware of how tatty the place was.

“Oh,” said Terry, staring at her, “what does that entail?”

“Entail?” She raised her eyebrows slightly, head tilted.

“Yeah, you know,” said Terry, “what do you do?”

“Well I help old people and people who need care.”

“Oh, you mean make them a cuppa and do their housework, sort of thing,” said Terry, “bit of cooking…” He realised he sounded stupid but she’d thrown him, appearing like this when he’d decided the place was populated solely by beer–swilling bullies and pre-pubescent children.

“Yeah, that and other stuff,” said Sandra, “you know.” Terry frowned. Sandra was clearly waiting for some form of comprehension on Terry’s face but when none was forthcoming, she continued “Well…I help them wash, and clean themselves, that sort of thing.”

“Clean themselves?” He frowned as he spoke.

She gave him an odd look, “Well some of them can’t go to the loo without help…”

“Whoa! Go to the loo! What? Do you mean you…you?”

“Yes,” said Sandra, “I help them….”

“You don’t mean?” interrupted Terry, “that you, you know.”

He ignored the signal her further raised eyebrows were sending and continued, “Well… wipe their bums and stuff.”

“Of course I do,” said Sandra, “who else is going to do it?”

“Ewww,” said Terry, “Ugh! That’s gross.”

“What d’ you mean ‘gross’! What are you, a child?” snapped Sandra, “These people need help and I’m a professional carer. If it wasn’t for people like me these people wouldn’t be able to….”

“Oh, no, nothing against you, god no… and I expect there’s good money in it”… thinking, there’d have to be, surely, but she shook her head in denial and he blundered on, “You’re, you know, you’re wonderful for doing that stuff.” Sandra stared at him. “No, I mean it, I think it’s really great that you help other people and besides, it’s not your fault.”

“Not my fault?” asked Sandra.

“That they haven’t done the decent thing.”

“The what?” Her tone was high but Terry was well into his flow.

“Oh come on, I mean, if it was me I’d rather be dead, I mean, let’s face it, it’s rather ignominious for both people isn’t it?”

“Igno what!” snapped Sandra scathingly.

“Ignominious,” repeated Terry, “um… humiliating, er… embarrassing…. Um... you know.”

“No! I don’t know,” snapped Sandra, “these people need someone to help them and at least I’m working which is more than I can say for some people round here.”

“No, no, no” said Terry desperately, “that’s not at all what I meant….really…please let me explain.” Sandra’s look would’ve stopped traffic but not Terry, “I think it’s great that you think you should help these people ….it’s just that ….well … it’s probably just me but I would rather be dead than be that dependent on a complete stranger.” Her expression was now concerning him greatly but he seemed unable to stop his mouth from working. “I just think that, well you know, medical science is all very good and all that but if you can’t control your bodily functions any more, then what’s the point?”

“The point?” repeated Sandra, by now extremely annoyed.

“Yes, I mean we’re here for such a short time surely it’s the quality of life that counts.” Sandra stared open mouthed. “Really,” said Terry digging ever deeper, “I mean, look….surely some of them, probably not all, but some of them would be better off dead.”

Her look of complete disgust finally shut his mouth. She stood up and swung away from him, obviously about to leave and he grasped for something to say that might halt her flight. Then she turned back and looked at him for several long moments.

“For your information, it’s an awful job and sometimes I hate it.”

Her voice was quiet and he waited, hoping he hadn’t ruined everything in a rash outburst. She fell silent, obviously re-living something in her mind and he wished strenuously that sometimes he could think before he spoke, especially to really pretty girls.

“But I like the people and they need help, so I do it and I don’t think about it.”

He took a deep breath about to launch into an apology when she put her hand up to stop him, “Anyway, let’s talk about something else, you for starters and where you’re from, ‘cause work’s boring.”

Cheers for reading

Arun









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Wise Eyed Open - by Arun D Ellis - a compendium edition incorporating 'Helter Skelter', 'Power Grab' & 'Rust' - books 7, 8, & 9 in the series

Preface

November 1973


"David, tell me what went wrong."

David Elazar, Chief of General Staff sighed and shook his head.

He faced the speaker, his leader, Golda Meir, the Prime Minister, and raised his hands, a plea for her forgiveness, "It was close this time, for Israel and her people, we came close to total defeat."

"I disagree, David," this said robustly by the man standing by the window, his back to them both. Moshe Dayan, Minister of Defence making a, not unexpected, defence of his own strategy. He continued, his voice raised, "They made gains yes, but they were never going to win, and in that event, we always had the nuclear option."

Elazar shot back quickly, although his voice was still soft, "I don't know how you can say this, how could we use this option? This nuclear? The world would have turned its back on us. I say that without Sharon's victory all would have gone against us."

"Besides which," said Golda Meir, "the world doesn't yet know about our nuclear capacity and it is our policy to ensure that situation remains for as long as possible."

"Exactly," said Elazar.

"We won," said Dayan, his voice heavy with disdain, "because we were always going to win."

"If you had....." began Elazar.

"Gentlemen, please," the woman interjected quietly; out-ranking them both, she had no need to raise her voice, "the war is over."

Both men turned in deference to their Prime Minister as she continued smoothly, "I have been speaking with some of our main political and economic supporters and we are in agreement, the conduct of the war has lessons for the military and those lessons will be learned."

She looked meaningfully at Dayan, then continued with scarcely a pause, "Our concern and the concern of future leaders should revolve around the global impact."

"Israel has reasserted herself," said Dayan, steadfastly ignoring any implied criticism about lessons to be learned, "we are still a powerful, global force."

"I have to agree with Moshe," said Elazar, his voice betraying how unlikely a scenario this was, "although we came close to losing, we are still here and the world has learned to recognise the superiority of our forces, if not our tactics."

Golda Meir persisted, "There is a bigger picture, one that I have been forced to encompass in my thinking. Here in Israel we were not so aware of the effect of the OPEC sanctions, but in the West and in Europe particularly, I am told the impact has been quite devastating."

Both men shook their heads; the impact on the West a small thing compared to the fate of their beloved country. Elazar spoke quietly for both of them, "It is Israel that nearly died."

"Of course that is true, David, however, I am told the consequences for the West were extreme, and therein lies both our weakness and our strength."

Dayan and Elazar looked confused.

This time it was Moshe Dayan who spoke, "We won this war. By the time they try again we will be so powerful that they will be slaughtered in the deserts."

"I am not talking of another war," said the Prime Minister, her voice steady and resolute. "We are weakened by the threat the OPEC countries hold over the West, can you not see that? When OPEC reduced oil production it brought the West to their knees; power cuts, inflation, strikes. A myriad list of reasons why the West will one day turn its back on Israel."

"Then we need to ensure our intelligence is of a high standard," said Dayan, "assassinate any who are planning to attack us or affect oil production."

Golda shook her head. Her smile was tolerant of the fiery man, nonetheless her voice took on a firm, lecturing tone, "Peak Oil is the term given to the efficiency of the world's oil wells, Moshe. When maximum efficiency is reached in every field and world demand exceeds supply then we will be in the situation recently experienced where shortages will begin to influence Western political decisions related to the whole of the Middle East."

"That sounds like a nightmare scenario," said Elazar. "No right-minded leader would risk his premiership for the sake of another country. It's the end of Israel."

"It's not imminent, David. We have decades before that point is reached so we have time to plan."

"What do we do?" demanded Dayan, "We can't put oil where none exists. We can't sit here and wait for that day."

"It is simple, Moshe. Before it becomes an issue we must have destroyed the capability of our enemies to wage war. Furthermore, we must control their oil fields. That way we ensure our allies remain such."

"The world won't allow us to do that," said Elazar.

"No need, David, we will get an in depth report in the coming weeks but the thinking is that we get the Americans and the UN to do it for us."

"How? Why would they do that for us?" asked Elazar.

Golda smiled, "It is feasible if we think along the following lines; America allows its people to hold dual citizenship, yes?"

She waited for their nods of agreement before continuing, "So over the next 20 to 30 years we must ensure that as many Israelis as possible rise to positions of power within the US political and economic establishment. Once we've achieved that we will be able to dictate their foreign policy."

"Impossible," said Dayan.

She ignored his interruption, "We must ensure that there is an Israeli lobby group in every western democracy. We must back all sides in an election, that way whoever wins will be beholden to our supporters."

"Now that is possible," said Elazar, his expression musing.

"Imperative," she said, "if Israel is to survive."

"But even America cannot declare war on the Arab nations, the world wouldn't stand for it," said Dayan, "the Russians would go to war over it."

"All things are possible," she demurred, "as long as we make sure that America is seen as the victim and any response is by way of self defence."

"This cannot be done," said Dayan.

"It can be," said Elazar, "if approached from the right angle."

Golda Meir continued firmly, "We must gain complete control of the media, both Hollywood and their news outlets."

"That way we could pull all the strings from here," said Elazar. He was pacing now, excitement in his voice.

"But how do you make the US appear a victim to the entire world?" asked Dayan, "She is a super power and no-one can possibly hurt her."

"People will believe what we want them to," said the Prime Minister, her voice steely.

Elazar agreed readily, "It's worked in the past. We just need a workable plan, one that is adaptable to any situation."

"And one so unbelievable it will never be questioned," added Golda Meir, "for the bigger the lie...."

"The more they will believe it," said Dayan.

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun

Helter Skelter by Arun D Ellis - book 7 in the Corpalism series

Descent 7

Louis sipped his tea and continued to channel hop.
He allowed himself a moment to reflect on the old man's passing, aware that had the revelations of the past few weeks not been made then he would have been in full mourning. However, the knowledge had been given to him and couldn't be taken back; that it had been done on his great-grandfather's instructions and apparently in the belief that he would understand was just an added irritation. He didn't understand, he was angry and confused and ashamed.

He rubbed his head in frustration, he was descended from Nazis and he couldn't get rid of the notion that evil had come down through the family line to lodge in him.

Admittedly apart from a bit of shoplifting (and who didn't do that) and a drug dabble (ditto) and ok, he'd tried to kill himself but the family thought it had been a mistake so that didn't count, and anyway it was all years ago, so apart from all that, he'd done nothing to concern his family or friends, especially Jenna.

He shivered; they did not know him as he knew himself; he knew what he was capable of and where his darkest thoughts could go.

His phone buzzed, a text from Jenna.

He allowed himself a few moments to contemplate taking comfort with her. He could see her face, both troubled and caring, warm eyes, soft lips and for a moment he wavered. He wanted to be with her but the last time they'd met up he could talk of nothing but his mixed up feelings.

She'd not been as supportive as he'd hoped when he'd explained his need to search out evidence of the Holocaust his great-grandfather had challenged him to find. Nor did she appreciate his need to find similar evidence to refute all the old man's ramblings about pre and post-war conspiracies to stifle the 'social revolution'.

On the other hand, she'd supported his original plan to burn the folder and put the whole thing out of his head; that he hadn't done either of those things was a source of conflict between them that he couldn't handle right now and had no intention of revisiting anytime soon.

He ignored the text, sipped his tea and changed channel yet again.

The post clattering through the letter box broke through the immobility that had seized him. He snatched at the cardboard, ripping it open to reveal the book he'd ordered. He stared at it; to his mind, one of the most dangerous books ever written, one that professed to explain Hitler and the Nazis; clearly revisionist. He felt odd just holding it; somehow defiled. He was convinced he had been put on some surveillance list the minute he looked it up on line.

He sighed and sat back to read.

He hoped the book would be bunkum; easily dismissed to the file marked 'revisionist nonsense' that he was trying to compile. He had worked out a methodology to make his task easier; read until an outrageous claim was made and then check the claim either on line or on his bookshelves. He had been convinced he would find evidence to debunk the assertions but thus far he had only found evidence in support.

This book proved to be more of the same and three hours later he was still reading; finally he yawned and let the book slide from his lap, he wanted to read more but he was dog tired.

He pinched his cheeks, got up and splashed his face with water from the sink, did a few half-hearted stretches and resumed the task, deciding on an internet search to find an interview with the author, discussing his book. Ten minutes later he started to search elsewhere, the book might well have been intensively researched but the author was sending him to sleep.

He found several other revisionist videos and watched them over and over. Something in them, the very concept of what they preached left him feeling uncomfortable after every viewing.

He stood up and stretched, grabbed his coat and went for a walk.

He returned with a food stock that should hold him in good stead for the next few days while he continued his research. He made short work of a Belgian bun and a can of coke, then slumped down in front of his computer, flicking through until he found a traditional video on the causes of the war.

He watched with quiet satisfaction as frenzied, hysterical Germans, dragooned into lines along the roadside, saluted the megalomaniac dictator. The video had a backdrop of satanic music and the commentary was one he could relate to; Hitler deceiving the masses with tricks like 'Strength through joy' where he bought their loyalty with cheap rate holidays and cruises. It rattled through the same old stuff about how he reduced mass unemployment by building roads, once again buying the loyalty of the masses.

Louis found himself relaxing; his long-held beliefs re-energised as he watched. This fitted what he knew from extensive reading, that Hitler was a control freak, a pervert whose love life was a farce, a man who was obsessed with his mother and couldn't form proper relationships, who as a young man formed an obsession with a young girl, was virtually a stalker, hanging out on street corners with Kubizek, the homosexual. Who later in life totally controlled his niece Gellie until she committed suicide to escape him, then he latched onto Eva Braun. He was a controller of people, a master manipulator and this video proved it. Louis hadn't been aware of how much this revisionist junk had been bothering him.

Louis sighed, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

One hour later he woke with a start, a question thumping in his brain. His sleep hadn't been restful.
He had a test he wanted to conduct and he set to it at once. He watched five minutes of the traditional video he'd fallen asleep in front of, then he watched similar scenes on a revisionist video.

Finally, he turned the sound down and watched them again; without volume they were identical.
Both videos showed thousands of happy Germans all frantic to shake Hitler's hand and they weren't brown shirted party members, these were all ordinary Germans; old men and women, working-age adults, young women and young children.

He rested his fingertips on his forehead, his thoughts racing; stripped of the music or talk overs there was nothing to influence his interpretations. He was left to make his own conclusions of what he was seeing on the screen.

'If they loved him this much then maybe there was something in what he said, in what he and the Nazis offered the ordinary German people.'

He let his thoughts go where they would, conjuring a revolutionary system that encouraged people to work together and for the nation...and supposing it worked, got the German people back into employment when every other western economy remained on its knees, no work, soup kitchens and the like.....

He burst out, his voice loud in the quiet flat, "I need to listen to original broadcasts, hear it for myself.
Fuck it, why didn't I learn German?"

He grabbed his cup, rinsed it out in the sink, switched on the kettle, threw a tea bag in the cup. 'So where do the Jews come in?'

The kettle boiled.

Louis poured the steaming water into his cup, his brain still racing, 'surely not? Churchill didn't pursue the war just because the National Socialist philosophy was taking hold? That would be insane, waging a war over conflicting political philosophical outlooks?'
 
Hope you have a nice week

Cheers for reading

Arun

Daydream Believers - by Arun D Ellis - a compendium edition incorporating 'Insurrection', 'The Cull' & 'Murder, Money & Mayhem' - books 4, 5 & 6 in the series

Extract below

P.A.C.T - one

All around him lay his comrades, brave men of the 24th. The crack of rifles mingled with the cries of the wounded. He loaded a cartridge into the breach of his Martini-Henry and levelled the bayonet to meet the oncoming Zulus. He felt the warmth against his face, eyes closed he smelt the dry air, a slight breeze ruffled through his hair as he slowly exhaled. He heard the tune of Hound Dog and Elvis blasting away, then a heavy banging...

"Alb, you alright in there?"

"What the...?" he mumbled, rubbing his forehead, "Bugger."

"Alb?" Gerry sounded concerned; next step would be the warden and the master key.

"Yeah, yeah," he responded, struggling out his chair. His current favourite book, 'The Washing of the Spears ' slid off his lap and onto the floor, "Coming, give us a chance, won't you."

∞

During the years they’d lived in the Eden Hall Retirement Village, as residents died and apartments became vacant, Alb Rayner and Gerry Arbuthnot had contrived re-locations until they now lived next door to one another; best friends as children, best man at each other’s wedding, they’d billeted together in the army and saw no reason why they shouldn’t support each other in their dotage. (Alb’s words)

Now Gerry's hands trembled slightly as he put the two mugs of tea on the low table and slumped gratefully into the armchair. He looked across the room; at the lines of bookshelves that held the non-fiction that had sustained his friend for all the years he'd known him. For once Alb had no book in his hand, although one was lying open nearby, instead his attention was fixed on the TV, a large flat screened, surround-sound, effort bought so recently that the excitement of watching even boring shows on such a large and loud scale had yet to wear off. Alb had justified the purchase with the stridently voiced comment that since 'not a lot else' was going on in his life except counting the days to death and since he'd no-one to leave his money to even when that happened he would spend it while he could.

“You're just in time, some people’s issues programme's about to start," he muttered, remote in hand, "that poncey prick Tommy Boyle.”

“Ah, the lie detector show, that crap, turn it up, will ya.” There was apparently even less going on in Gerry's life.

"Did you see old Pete died?" Alb was a font of local knowledge, mostly from reading the obituaries.

"A real shame, he wasn't that old either," said Gerry, for once he too had heard the gossip.

"76 next birthday," said Alb; to them at 80 and 81 respectively Pete had been a mere stripling. "Not yet 76 and his bloody kids bunged him in a dump like that." He shivered; 'that' had been a state-run nursing home and could've been his fate too if it weren't for his Army pension and some good investments. His greatest terror, something that could wake him at night sweating, was the loss of his freedom and his beloved books.

"You'd have thought they could've looked after him, bloody selfish little shits." Gerry was instantly outraged, like blue touch paper lit on a firecracker, "You remember, when my old mum moved in with me and Gwen after dad died, we knew how to look after our own in those days."

"Yep," said Alb, who'd done the same for his dad, "it wasn't all me, me, me back then, people were a community."

"We looked out for each other," Gerry was warming to the theme; though they'd gone over the ground time and again, "no-one would've put their parents away, even in places like this."

He waved his hand to take in the whole set up; thirty-two separate one bedroom, ground floor apartments, arranged in a figure of eight around two central courtyards. Each had its own kitchen and lounge but there were communal facilities; a kitchenette, a sun room, a casual dining area and a large TV lounge. The Eden Hall Retirement Village was well equipped with all manner of amenities; available to all with the money to pay for it.

They fell silent, both taking a sip of tea and staring at the TV, the music started and they were entranced in an instant, part of the show, ready to be introduced to the mess-ups some people call their lives, ready to be entertained.

The host of the show, Tommy Boyle, tall, debonair and utterly lethal, his frame dominating the scene, turned to the large, amorphous mass on his right, “Felicity, please, tell us why you’re here.”

“Well, Tommy,” Felicity (all 22 stone of her) bounced in the chair, her arms gesticulating this way and that, “I’m pregnant right an’ Randall, my boyfriend won’t believe I ‘aven’t ‘ad sex wiv no-one else, just ‘im.”

"Bugger me, I'd believe her," Gerry was leaning out of his chair, nearly spilling his tea, "I'm surprised she's had sex with anybody, I mean who the hell could fancy that?"

The crux of the story laid bare the audience relaxed, waiting for the maestro to begin his dissection; “So for you, Felicity, it's clear, it's your boyfriend's baby.”

“Yeah,” said Felicity, the coquettish look she produced sat uneasily on her shapeless face.

"Right, let's get him in here," said Tommy. He put out one arm in a welcoming gesture and onto the stage slouched a tall and skinny youth with a spotty complexion. He made a face at the audience, some hissing at him having already made up their minds, and slumped into a chair.

"Okay Randall," started Tommy, "Felicity has told us that she's pregnant and that you don't believe it's yours."

"I know it ain't," spat Randall, adjusting his position, angling his body away from Felicity's.

"Gawd, will you look at that," guffawed Alb.

"What a bloody mess," said Gerry, trying to make up his mind if the youth's hair was wet or simply greasy. "A quick spell in the army wouldn't do him any harm."

"Too bloody right," agreed Alb, "reckon that goes for most of the lay-abouts."

"Yor a liar," barked Felicity, rising monstrously from her chair. The two book-end bouncers waiting in the wings moved closer at a quick signal from Tommy but she subsided into her chair as quickly as she'd risen from it.

The argument raged back and forth on screen, the all too familiar pattern of lies and deceit; baring your lives to the studio audience's ridicule as well as that of the watching millions, all in the name of entertainment.

Gerry sighed heavily; the repetition was depressing, "We got any biscuits?"

"No, you got any in your place?"

"No," said Gerry, "but I bet Ken has."

Ken Grewcock lived in one of the apartments along the way, a mere minute's walk yet neither could summon the energy to move; they continued to stare at the TV.

Tommy was in command again, doing his showman bit, playing to the audience, "Okay, Randall, we get the general idea, you don't trust Felicity." He paused for effect, “So, if you don’t trust her, why is it that you’re still with her?"

Randall fidgeted in his seat and played with his nose, then picked it with his thumb, "'Cause I luv 'er, doan I." The camera homed in on Randall's tears and then cut to Felicity. She put out a chubby arm and looked tenderly at him.

"Well, if you love each other so much, why are we here?" asked Tommy, "Surely you can make it work together, for the sake of the baby."

"It ain't my fuckin' kid," retorted Randall, tears dried.

"What makes you think it isn't?" asked Tommy.

"I just know, ok," sullen now, head on chest, his voice a low mumble.

"It's your baby," Felicity's voice was ragged with tears, "I love you an' I ain't been wiv no-one else, on my muvver's life."

"Well, we can establish the truth of that statement," said Tommy, stretching his hand out for the 'golden envelope of truth' in a theatrical gesture, "Felicity took the lie detector test this morning and we asked her 'have you had sex with anyone else since dating Randall?'"

Both Gerry and Alb had leaned forward, breath bated, in an unconscious mirroring of the studio audience's reaction.

Tommy glanced round at the audience and then looked at Felicity, ".....and she said 'No'."

He paused for effect and the audience, expectant, leant further forwards in their seats, a pin dropping would have caused mayhem, "and the lie detector test said.....she was........LYING."

At that the audience erupted with gasps, groans, laughs and general abuse directed at both individuals on the stage. Gerry added his own tirade to the general cacophony.

"D'you know," Alb's voice sounded strained, "I blame Thatcher, her and her 'no such thing as society'. We used to look after each other, in the old days, but it's different today." Gerry had half an ear on the TV and half on Alb, never a good thing to do as he would keep talking until he got proper acknowledgement of his point. "No-one looks out for anyone anymore, as soon as you're old they bung you somewhere to die, 'cause that's what they want to do... forget us until we die, then they whisk us away and bung us in the ground, just like that."

"Yeah," said Gerry, "know what you mean."

"And everything we were, everything we stood for, our experiences...."

Gerry caught his drift, "Yeah ...it's a real shame, a man like Pete, all his memories and now they're all gone, lost forever."

He was now quite depressed and was about to say more when Alb, in one of his quick mood changes muttered, "Still, no use cryin' over spilt milk," whilst pulling himself up and out of the chair. He fiddled with the remote, turning off the TV, "Come on; let's go see about those biscuits."



What harm can it do?





“I still can’t believe this is happening to me,” she giggled, leaning into him, her head dipped down to reach his.

If she’d had one extra wish it would have been that he was a tiny bit taller but she could work that out, wear lower heels perhaps… She wrinkled her nose; the endless legs that gave her the height were her stand out feature, although surgically enhanced breasts, and white blonde hair helped. That’s what had attracted Anton on the beach – sent by an Italian photographer to find the next top model and he’d picked her. The first question he'd asked was to check she had a current passport; he'd made up his mind about her so quickly. She giggled again; the speed of her new life was exciting, the secrecy made it more so. Anton had arranged everything so fast there’d been no time to show off even to her friends, let alone tell her mother.

“You’d better believe it, ’cause everything you’ve ever wished for is about to come true, baby." He was murmuring into her ear, his hand possessively on her bottom, giving it a little squeeze. "You’ll live in a mansion in Chelsea; have servants and cars, a swimming pool….”

She purred in response, “and holidays in the Bahamas?”

“Wherever, you just name it, princess.”

It was unfortunate there'd been no time for the promised shopping; they’d cut the journey time fine and had had to scramble for the taxi. Luckily, they were travelling light, passing through to boarding with little delay and took their seats, both a little flustered. Alin had been expecting business class but Anton explained a ticketing error, and she’d stifled her disappointment. She snuggled against him, at his suggestion it being her first flight she’d dosed herself with the airsick pills he’d handed her and was already beginning to doze. Anton switched on his iPhone and sent a short text, ‘on time.’ Then he switched it off and settled back into his seat.

Two and a half hours later the plane touched down in Heathrow. Anton and a still dozy Alin made their way through customs to the collection point where a car was waiting as promised. Alin barely noticed the make although she did note that it didn’t seem quite as luxurious as she’d hoped. She had no time to think much about it; Anton had opened the door and urged her in. He put their bags in the boot and slid in next to her, encouraging her to lean on his shoulder and continue her doze.

The car drove a few miles then pulled into a hotel forecourt. Anton extricated himself carefully from Alin’s embrace; not so pretty now, her mouth open in a silent snore, and slid noiselessly out of the car. The driver had already removed his bag from the boot and stood waiting. He passed Anton an envelope, they shook hands then Anton walked away. The driver checked that the child locks were on, shut the rear door, resumed his seat and drove off.

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers for reading

Arun

5 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

Welcome to ‘Boro


As with a game of patience your life is predetermined,
The only variable is in how you play the game.
Author

He was woken by a loud banging. At first he didn’t know where he was or where the noise was coming from, then he saw the wallpaper and remembered with a depressed sigh. The banging continued. He staggered up from the chair into the hallway, stumbled down the stairs and opened his front door to the unwelcome sight of an ugly youth in track suit bottom and a sleeveless grey hooded garment.

“What you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse?”

Terry frowned, still a bit bleary from his doze, making out the intent if not the meaning of the words.

“I said what the fuck you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse!” screamed the angry youth, his face barely 6 inches from Terry’s.

Terry was now very quickly awake; he slipped his right leg back, raised his heel slightly and turned his right shoulder away from the threat, but kept his expression benign, his posture relaxed and his hands low.

“I said! What the fuckin’ ‘ell’re you doin’ in Mike’s ‘ouse?”

Terry didn’t answer; just stared into the angry eyes.
If the lout hadn’t been so angry then Terry’s stance, relaxed and loose limbed, in the face of such aggression might have sent a warning. To be fair he couldn’t be expected to know that the six year old Terry, then slightly built and shy, had been introduced to Tae Kwon Do by his adoptive parents and unexpectedly thrived, gaining a black belt 4 years later. He’d gone further; by age 12 he was a 2nd Dan, at 15 a 3rd and by the time he was 20 he was a 4th Dan.

He’d found his niche, and whilst gaining notoriety in TKD he’d also trained in Shotokan Karate, and mastered the art of Wing Chun, Jujitsu, Judo and Jeet Kune Do. For good measure he was also a fair boxer, an enthusiastic wrestler and an excellent shot but, all things considered, using that skill here could be considered extreme; besides a gun hadn’t been on the list of necessities that had been provided to him.

“Are you fuckin’ deaf?”

“Are you from ‘round here?” asked Terry, politely.

“What?”

“That’s not a Yorkshire accent, is it?” asked Terry.

“Jest shut the fuck up, I’ll do the fuckin’ talkin’,” he added as he jabbed a finger at Terry’s chest.

The thrusting finger never reached its intended target. Terry reached up, grabbed it with his left hand, imprisoning the wrist with his right, and snapped the finger back so that it rested on the top of the captive hand. In one fluid movement he brought his right leg up, knee to chest, then snapped his leg straight out, driving the ball of his foot into the young man’s solar plexus, this thrust sending him flying backwards virtually all the way the end of the garden.

It was only then that Terry became aware of the watching crowd.

“Fuuuuck!” said a voice in the general commotion that followed, “did you see that?”

Terry strolled down the path and grabbed the now squealing youth and threw him backwards into the road.

“You’re gonna get it now Mister,” said one of the kids.

“Really,” answered Terry, “I don’t think he’s in any fit state, do you?”

“Not from him,” said the kid, “from his brothers.”

“Yeah the O’Connells,” said a girl on Terry’s left.

“Fuckin’ hardest bastards you’ll ever meet,” shouted someone.

“Really?” questioned Terry, “and where can I find these hard nuts?”

“They’ll find you” the girl yelled, pointing at a bike squealing up the road in the direction of her pointing finger.

“Thatcher Close!” shouted another girl, excitement in her eyes.

“Follow us,” shouted the kids as they raced off on their BMXs.

Terry strolled after them followed by a small crowd. They hadn’t travelled far when the kids came racing back on their bikes, “They’re comin’!” they shouted more or less in unison, “the O’Connells are comin’.”

They were coming indeed, marching down the centre of the road towards him.

Four in all, five if you counted the one Terry had just seen off, which Terry didn’t. Mostly sporting variations of the ubiquitous track suit bottom and assorted shapeless upper garments, the biggest one wore jeans instead of trackies, a coating of grease disguising the original colour and his arms were dark with tattoos. Prison tats, Terry would put money on it.

“Is this ‘im, Sean?” yelled the leading O’Connell, this one fully encased in a tracksuit, arms and all.

Terry walked into the middle of the road and waited, there was no traffic so he felt safe enough. He stepped slightly forward with his left leg, raised his heels and spread his balance evenly between both feet. He rotated his shoulders a couple of times and raised his open hands to his chest. The one he’d already tangled with dropped off to the left, hanging back while his brothers spread out across the road; effectively closing off escape should Terry have been contemplating this action, which he wasn’t but they weren’t to know that.

“Yeah, Jimmy, that’s ’im.”

“I’m ‘im, Jimmy,” yelled Terry, grinning ear from ear.

“You watch your mouth,” yelled the O’Connell on Terry’s far left.

Terry stared at Jimmy, fixing him as the leader; “is it one at a time or do you need to hold hands?”

“Don’t you fuckin’ worry ‘bout it, shit head,” yelled Jimmy, “it’ll only take one O’Connell to put you down.” That the direct contradiction to this statement was standing over to his side looking sheepish wasn’t about to deter him from making this rash boast. Terry smiled. He could have beaten them all together, at a push; easier to take them one at a time. “Take him out, Dale”.

Dale, the mouthy one on Terry’s far left moved forwards and pulled a short iron bar from behind his back. Terry nodded. Dale was now at a significant disadvantage; his whole attack would be based round swinging the bar whereas Terry had the freedom to strike with any part of his body, from any angle.

Dale went to raise his right arm so he could swing the iron bar but stopped short, seemingly recognising that doing this would expose him to an attack to his midriff or maybe lower, if Terry fought dirty. He stepped back slightly and pulled his right arm across his body so he could swing backhand. Terry adapted; stepped to his left, and, crossing his feet, slipped round to Dale’s right.

Dale tried to turn and swung his arm but Terry blocked, striking Dale’s elbow as his arm came round, at the same time he kicked him in the back of his right knee, sending him to the ground. He punched him in the temple and Dale’s world went black.

Terry stepped back and grinning beckoned the O’Connell on his far right forwards.

Jimmy waved him back, “No, not you, Brendan…Paddy.”

Terry turned to face the jeans wearing brother, made swarthy with tattoos, a bigger, heavier version of the now unconscious Dale. Terry raised his open hands to guard his face, crouching slightly to protect his lower ribs with his elbows. Paddy pulled out the motor bike chain he wore for a belt and started to swing it round, above his head.

Terry grinned, same mistake as his brother.

The chain came swinging towards Terry’s head and Terry slid backwards out of range. Paddy pulled back and swung the chain again. His recovery was slow and awkward but Terry wanted to check it again; he allowed Paddy to close in once more. Paddy swung the chain at Terry’s head a third time, angrily huffing as Terry ducked easily away. This time Paddy’s recovery was so ponderous that Terry allowed him to close again and when Paddy pulled the chain back above his head Terry followed in and placed a left jab clean on Paddy’s nose.

The speedy follow up - a right hook to the body - sent Paddy straight to the ground; the floating rib, it’ll do that to you. Terry stepped back and raising his eyebrows at Jimmy, said, “So who’s next, Jim?”

The O’Connell on Terry’s right started to move forward, “Leave it, Brendan” instructed Jimmy, “this one’s mine.” Terry grinned and made ready.

Jimmy took off his track suit top revealing a well defined muscular torso; a slighter build so possibly more flexible than his lumbering brothers. He cracked his knuckles and, clenching his fists, took up a good boxing stance. Terry nodded, he recognised the mistakes Jimmy had just made and could predict the ones he would make next. Clenching his fists had tightened Jimmy’s shoulders and reduced the speed of any technique he would deliver and if Jimmy’s fighting knowledge had led him to clench his fists then Terry was confident his movement would not be speedy.

Terry allowed Jimmy to close in. Jimmy threw out a left jab as Terry slipped back, tapping it down with his lead open hand. Nothing annoyed opponents like having a punch swatted away with an open hand. Predictably, Jimmy threw another left, fierce and angry and then threw a right but Terry ducked his way out of both techniques. Terry bounced round behind Jimmy knowing as he did so that the fourth O’Connell would try to take him from behind; he did. Terry threw out a reverse side kick into this new assailant’s floating rib; job done.

Jimmy tried to take advantage of this distraction but Terry had already danced out of range. Jimmy closed again and threw more jabs and rights but each time Terry, a broad grin across his face, blocked or ducked or danced out of range. Jimmy got more and more annoyed. Terry offered his chin. Taking the bait, Jimmy swung a right but Terry wasn’t there anymore.

“Come on, Jimmy,” he goaded, “surely you’re faster than that.”

Jimmy went to throw a left jab, pulled it and tried a quick kick but it was weak; uncontrolled and directionless. Terry shook his head and waited until Jimmy’s foot landed, leaving him off balance with his legs too stretched. Terry then bounced in, planted a left on Jimmy’s nose, a right on his left cheek, another left into his left side floating rib followed by a right upper cut onto his chin.

Jimmy collapsed onto his knees, swaying, dazed and bloodied. Terry bounced out and then swung a right legged turning kick at Jimmy’s temple stopping his foot millimetres from contact. He pulled his leg back and placing it behind him looked over to the one called Sean who waved his hands and shaking his head, backed off.

Terry returned to his flat followed by a large crowd of adoring fans.

Cheers for reading

Arun








More books in the 'Corpalism' series

















Compendium editions

4 Serialisation of the book 'Uprising' 1st book in the 'Corpalism' series - by Arun D Ellis

Waiting at the bus stop outside the Relocations office; nothing if not convenient, he had time to reflect on this next stage of his life.

He had a few regrets; his old apartment had been nothing to write home about; the most exciting thing about it was the space it had afforded for him to train. Space well worth the distance from the office, as he’d thought at the time. Now standing here waiting for the bus that would take him to the sink estate he’d always dreaded, maybe distance should have won over space? Perhaps he could have put off this day?

The bus took him through two checkpoints and he watched carefully the verification process that allowed the transport to continue.

His forearm chip could apparently be read at some distance, not requiring a scanner scrolled over it; he’d not been aware of that since previously his use of it had been to achieve access to buildings and to purchases. The process had a fairly foolproof look about it and the thought depressed him.

Deposited at the corner of Cameron St, again nothing if not convenient, he walked the length of it to get to number 300. He crossed a few side streets en route, Thatcher Close, Clegg Alley, MacMillan Mount and felt the desolation seep into him.

The buildings he passed were ‘past their best’, that was the euphemistic phrase that fit most aptly. He’d relocated hundreds of people to streets just like these and was embarrassed to see, if not exactly hovels, homes that were definitely ‘past their best’. The apartment building he’d been in had been palatial in comparison.

He stared up at number 300.

Now, this was squalid and no mistake; whether it was because he was due to go inside, was expected to live there or whether it was a fact, but forget ‘past its best’, this one was squalid.

The square of grass that fronted the building was overgrown and littered with various objects; several tires reared up in a pile in the middle, a rusting supermarket trolley lay nearby on its side tangled with weeds, an old toilet posed near the front door of the building with a rather pathetic bush poking above the rim, a rusting metal bedhead leaned against the wall, partly covering several piles of bricks, rocks and stones. ‘Lovely,’ thought Terry, ‘just bloody perfect.’

“What you doin’ mister?” asked a kid on a bike.

Terry had been aware that the small crowd who’d been hovering near the bus stop had chosen to follow him to his destination. He’d also been aware that the small crowd had grown en route, and was now quite large and quite noisy. He chose to ignore the spokesperson and picked his way up the path.

He entered the building, previously a single house, now re-structured into flats with a tiny entrance hall and doors off. Just outside the door to Flat 2, his home-to-be for the next 25 years, was a pile of beer cans and pizza boxes, he kicked them away as he put his key in the lock. He unlocked the door and stomped up the uncarpeted wooden stairs. He didn’t linger at the top but walked straight through to the living room.

The carpet was bright pink; faded in parts, thin and wrinkled and the wallpaper was a lurid green. There was a chair, faded blue, the arms worn and stained, the cushion torn and the headrest filthy with years of accumulated grease. He gave a thought to the previous occupant – how long had he or she lasted? The TV sat directly on the floor and looked to be more or less the promised 12”, at least that’s what he figured, whatever it was small.

He crossed the room to the kitchen area, checked the cupboards; all dirty. He found one plate, one bowl and one cup, one knife, one fork, one dessert spoon and one teaspoon – was someone trying to make a point? The sink was stained and slimy to touch, the cold tap dripped sullenly, there was plumbing for a washing machine but no washing machine, damp flourished all along the wall and the window (view over to rendered wall of adjacent building) was cracked.

He checked the bedroom; bed with a dirty duvet, torn pillow and, thankfully given the state of the duvet, no sheet.

In the corner of the room was the promised double wardrobe; albeit with only one door. The carpet was the same as in the front room but the walls were painted yellow, Terry dipped his head and rubbed his brow. He was too disheartened to even look in the ‘think yourself lucky to have one’ bathroom.

He plugged the TV in and slumped into the sole chair. He pressed the on button on the hand control but nothing happened, he tried again, nothing. He removed the back, no batteries ‘Great.’

Cheers

Arun








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I don't know how log I've been waiting for you to read me but you need to know I have had other offers

Helpline

Telephone 'helpline' was a young man's game, but at forty-five Dom had responsibilities and was glad to be in regular employment. In spite of this he had to admit to feeling envious when his younger colleagues left, often on a whim.

One young man had gone in the company of the police, arrested for using the information obtained from customers wanting to use their card abroad to undertake burglaries of their conveniently empty homes.

Dom had liked Russ and had been sorry to see him go.

He switched his phone to receive and began his day, "Hello Mrs Dingle, you're speaking to Dom, I see you wish to transfer some money from your savings account."

"Oh yes love," said the woman, an old lady's voice to match the D.O.B on the screen in front of him, "Can you tell me what I've got in there first?"

"Certainly, Mrs. Dingle," said Dom, dying a little inside, "er, you've got £1.18." He wondered briefly how she'd managed to evade capture and incarceration in the fallout from the OAPs' attack on Parliament. He decided it wasn't his business.

"Oh dear, not much is it," she said, clearly embarrassed, "still, it's more than I've got in my current account, can you transfer it for me, please?"

"Certainly, Mrs. Dingle," said Dom, trying not to sound too hearty, "there you go, all done, is there anything else I can help you with today?"

"No, that's all dear, you've been very helpful."

"You have a nice day now, Mrs. Dingle."

Dom wanted to rip off his head-phones and scream, do something, anything to get the old lady's predicament out of his head but he had another call and his response times were monitored. To make matters worse his next call had an indicator code number 1; high priority, meaning the caller had been pushed to the top of the queue because they were a big investor. He couldn't afford a momentary lapse on this one. He swallowed hard and got to it.

"Hello, Mr Howard, how may I help you?"

"You charged me for going over my overdraft." A voice used to commanding attention.

"Okay Mr Howard," said Dom, un-gritting his teeth with difficulty, "let me take a look at that for you."

"I don't want you to take a look at it, I want you to refund me. Furthermore, I demand compensation for the time I have wasted on this call."

"Okay," said Dom, speaking slowly, "well first of all, Mr Howard, we need to go through security...."

"No, we bloody well don't, you just need to sort this out for me, now."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. Before I can access the account I need to ask some security questions." Dom was annoyed to discover that he was almost afraid, he could feel a complaint coming on no matter what he did.

"That's absurd. Why do you need to do that?"

"I do appreciate how you feel but without it I can't get into your account, Mr Howard."

"Bloody stupid, if you ask me, this will cost you more, believe me."

"Of course, Mr Howard," said Dom, finger twitching over the release button, if only he could.

Twenty-five seconds later, having passed smoothly through the security questions Dom was looking at Mr Howard's statement. He had to admit to being awed by the amount in the current balance and that was with all the outgoings on the account over recent days.

His heart sank when he saw the point at which the account had gone into overdraft and calculated the gap between that and the account returning to black.

"Well? I haven't got all day you know."

"Okay Mr Howard," said Dom, waiting for the outburst to come, "it looks like you went over your overdraft for twenty days...."

"And your point is? That's what an overdraft is for, surely?"

"Well, there is usually a charge of....."

"I don't care about what there usually is, do you have any idea how much money I have with your bank?"

"Well not exactly Mr Howard," said Dom, scanning the savings accounts and arriving at an estimated 600k, "but I'm sure....."

"Refund me now and compensate me for this call or I'm moving everything to another bank."

'Yeah, sure you are,' thought Dom, 'with all the accompanying inconvenience, well let's just play with you for a bit shall we?'

He clicked on the memos, "Bear with me, I just need to check back through the notes on your account, Mr Howard."

"All you need to do is refund me. NOW! And if you can't make that decision then I suggest you get someone on the phone who can."

"I am able to authorise all that, Mr Howard... provided we haven't refunded you anything in the past."

"Well, I can tell you the answer to that, you haven't refunded me, so get on with it."

To Dom's deep joy the memos clearly stated that the man had been refunded and compensated on several previous occasions. He tried to keep his pleasure out of his voice, "I'm going to have to pop you on hold, Mr Howard."

"Why? How long for?"

"I just need to refer this to my manager," said Dom.

"Bloody hurry up, you moron," a snarl of displeasure.

Dom put him on hold, sipped his coffee, flicked through a few articles on RT and then wandered over to his manager.

"Got a high investor demanding charges back and compensation," he murmured, hoping to catch his manager with his balls strapped on. He added quickly, anticipating the inevitable question, "He's been refunded several times in the past 12 months."

"How high an investor?"

Dom's spirits sank, "600k."

"Do it, raise it as a complaint as well and make sure he's properly compensated. How long's he been on the phone?"

"About 5 minutes."

"Give him 20 quid for the cost of the call and 75 quid for the distress and inconvenience."

Dom knew it was pointless but said it just the same, "He's not been inconvenienced, and the call couldn't have cost more than...."

"High investor, Dom, just keep him happy."

"Sure thing," said Dom, bitterly, "keep the rich happy and screw the poor."

"Oi, what have I told you about that, just watch your attitude on the floor, Dom, I mean it."

Hope you have a nice weekend

Cheers

Arun