Dylan Malik Orchard's Blog, page 13

November 28, 2016

The Dark Streets Below (Part 2)

Part 2 of a disjointed and eclectic series. You can find more from Dale & Steve here.



I am the weapon. I am the blade held at the throat of the barbarians. I need to live this fact, this simple truth, I need to shear away everything beyond it and reduce myself to that final role. If the man named ‘Dale’ lives on it can only be as a mask, a smiling veneer to cover the creature beneath, to cover the tool of justice beneath.


“Are you sure that’s safe mate?”


Steve has sidled over to me, nervous, as always. He doesn’t understand, he shouldn’t understand that the times have defined who I must be and what I must do.


“Only my cousin, Tony, you remember him? Big lad, was a wedding DJ until that fell through, after that he became a welder and he did a course on it too. It can be dangerous, that’s all I’m saying, you should at least be wearing goggles or something.”


The cracks are spreading on Steve’s pretty picture of the world, a spiderweb of fears fracturing his perfect peace and that makes him worry. I try to offer him a smile, or as close to one as the liar’s face of Dale can get. It’s hard to do, when all I see is darkness, but he needs comforting and I’m the only one here to offer it. I have a job to do though, a task for the day – if I’m a weapon then I need to live as one, layer the blades around me.


“That’s fair enough, I’m not saying don’t do it, honest, I’m not but just be careful eh? Besides, I don’t know how you’ll ever drive that thing, I mean you’ve stuck big knives all over it now, parking’ll be a bastard. You can forget re-sale value too, not that there’s much of a market these days anyway, but spray painting that big skull on the front must have knocked at least fifty quid off the price.”


I ignore him and get back to my welding. His worries are nothing but dull noise now, the concerns of civilized man in an age gone to savagery. Besides, the skull looks awesome and what price does a 15 year old Nissan Micra fetch anyway?


“Fair point mate, fair point. Just to let you know though, I think you’ve misspelt ‘Avenger’ too, there’s only one ‘A’.”


Shit. Does it matter? ‘I am the weapon’, I repeat that to myself, trying to shed the oppressive rule of Steve’s saccharine world. My car, my machine, will be the last thing the unrighteous see before they go off to answer for their sins. Does the spelling really matter? I can’t look at him now, the concern on his face is a knife stabbing into the armour that I must surround myself with to survive this world. And my eyes hurt, really hurt, the blue flair of the welding torch has scoured itself into my skull. But the weapon feels no pain, the weapon only delivers it.


“Alright Dale, why don’t you just take a bit of a break eh? I’m first aid trained you know, I got a certificate. Get some water on those eyes and you’ll feel good as new and then you can get back to it. And I bet we can change that ‘a’ to an ‘e’, no problem. Who knows, might even add a few quid to the value? I mean it’s a feature, right?”


I steel my jaw for a moment before killing the flame of my welding torch. Isn’t it strength to know when you need to stop? Even the blade needs sharpening from time to time…


“That’s right, just need a minute to, er, sharpen yourself. Got to say though, all those blades on the wheels won’t do anything for your insurance premiums…”


I am the weapon… fighting against the all consuming mass of human squalor, defending the innocent against dark men of cruel intent… do I still need insurance?



Like this? Try one of my novels, like Crashed America – available in all good realities.


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Published on November 28, 2016 02:22

November 26, 2016

The Ballad of Moscow Pete

Pete shed a lonely tear, not bothering to wipe it away. The last of them was gone, dead and burned up with a mixed fanfare of denunciations and praise. All those years devoted to the cause and what was left? Nothing. Just worn out memories and a long list of regrets. He’d be next too, he wasn’t getting any younger and he was running out of reasons to stick around.


He’d lost friends before, too many to recall and more than enough to make that sorrow familiar. Castro was no friend of his though. Fidel had been a onery son of a bitch, stubbon, arrogant and even more paranoid than a person needed to be even when the CIA really was out to get them. He’d also been part of that old school though, the ones who’d led Pete into the game and framed the rules for him. As they’d disappeared one by one, Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Mao, Che and hell, even the ones on the other side, the Kennedys, Reagans and Hoovers – the joy had gone out of the whole thing. What fun was a Cold War when nobody else was fighting it? The only person left who’d even consider trying to have Pete assassinated was Kissinger and he’d stopped being a real when the aliens had replaced half of his brain with that of a hyper-intelligent sheep. Although, to be fair, he seemed happy enough with the arrangement.


Looking up Pete could see two men walking up the long trail to the barn he was sitting outside of, an intrusion on a moment more lonely than solitary. Hit men? His nerves jangled with the preemptive rush of adrenaline for a second but it was optimism more than anything else that fed them. There wouldn’t be any hit men coming. No poison umbrellas, no death rays, no spies, no snipers’ bullets, no suave men in outdated tuxedos and no Illuminati shills out to drive him mad with obscure research chemicals. The only people who came by these days were the McCarrick boys, nursemaids living out their obligation to their dead, or at least departed, mother who’d had an uneasy alliance with him when it came to protecting their small Alabama hometown of Hetsaw. A favour Pete hadn’t asked for but not one he was stupid enough to reject.


He’d come to know them over the years, filing away the ever more bizarre rumours which went around about them in a habitual attempt to build mental files, as if the Kremlin would come knocking for an update report. The older son, Earl, took after his mother when it came to the occult stuff, shit, maybe he even was her in a way, there was no knowing with that mystic nonsense but the dead in the McCarrick family certainly didn’t shirk their familial obligations. The younger one though, Jimmy, he was like his Uncle Waco and his dad, ET, straight up crazy. Good boys for all that though, easy going in a fatally dangerous kind of way.


Pete rose to greet them as they drew close, warily eyeing the pair in their beaten denims and wife beater vests. Good boys or not it never paid to take the pair lightly when they came around. Earl came first, reaching out a calloused and heavy hand to engulf Pete’s own increasingly frail one in a handshake.


“We came when we heard, Moscow, we know you go back a way with the old Commie.”


Moscow was the nickname jokingly given to Pete by Hetsaw locals thanks to his rumoured dealings with the KGB – and one used seriously by those who knew his real past. How much that included Jimmy and Earl he wasn’t sure, although old Ma McCarrick might have told them a pretty story or two before passing on to wherever her kind passed on to. Jimmy followed up with a seemingly genuinely look of concern and his own handshake.


“Thanks boys. He was an asshole but give it long enough and even they end up meaning something to ya.”


There was a pint jug by the bale of hay Pete had been sat on and, reclaiming his seat, he offered it to the two men who took turns taking deep gulps from it.


“We figured we should come up, give our condolences ‘n all” Jimmy said, a surprisingly soft tone belaying the persistent wide eyed look of insanity that he’d made his own.


“Appreciated, would say you shouldn’t have troubled yourselves but I ain’t one to say no to company on a day like this.”


Earl nodded and took a hay bail next to Pete, Jimmy following suit.


“I ain’t meaning to probe” the older brother said “but Ma told me that we should keep an eye out if the old guys from your, ah, way of thinkin’ started to drop. I mean, I know he was ninety but those Agency boys can have some long memories and if you’re name’s next on a list somewhere then best to let us know now. We don’t stand for that sort of thing here in Hetsaw.”


Pete nodded vaguely, letting his confused old man face take over his features, as he tended to when people started probing at things they perhaps ought not to know about.


“You know we’ll keep you covered Moscow but if you know about anything that might go down it’d certainly help. We can stick Cousin Hank and Cousin Myron up here, good men in a shootin’ fight, but those CIA guys have their own line in that… other shit, y’know? If it comes to that we might have to approach things a li’l differently.”


Earl looked the same as always, relaxed to the point of indifference, but for his eyes which, Pete noticed for the first time, were maturing to resemble Ma McCarrick’s. Soft at first glance but hard as steel if you bothered to pay attention. The proper heir to her side of the family business then. Jimmy meanwhile was draining the jug and looking sad, although whether that was out of compassion, because the jug was empty or just because he was crazy there was no way of knowing.


“Well thanks Earl, that’s good to know. Ain’t no need for concern though. No one’s losing sleep over an old son of a bitch like me. You’re smart to be thinkin’ about those Agency boys though, your Ma’s right, they dabble in all sorts of shit. Back in my day it was kept in check mind, they did stuff, we did stuff, everyone scared of goin’ too far with it. Occult M.A.D. y’know? Kids these days, with their computers and Facebooks and whatnot, no sense at all, they’ll summon a demon just to show off. By the way, how’s she keepin’, er, wherever she is?”


That Ma McCarrick was dead Pete was certain, he’d been to the funeral and snuck in the night before while the body way laying out, just to make sure. That she was really gone though was a bit more of an open question.


“Ah she’s good, you know how it is.”


He had no idea how it was, even after his years working in the darkest regions of the KGB’s magical subdivisions he was still, at heart, an old fashioned spy, more used to gunfire and garrotes than sacrifices and chanting.


“Well, that’s good to hear son, good to hear.”


The trio sat in silence for a while, Pete drifting through rough edged memories, the brothers lost in their own thoughts. It was comfortable, he vaguely thought, the boys weren’t kin but they knew enough to be silent company and they knew enough to take him seriously, a rarity in Hetsaw these days. He knew most locals now viewed him as a relic, a senile old farmer living out a life that had stopped making sense decades back and that was just because he was old, never mind the sniggering Moscow Pete jokes they told about him. The rumours which used to make him a mystery now made him a novelty curiosity, he knew that and now with Fidel gone he was even more of a museum piece. The game really was over. These days it was all drones and ‘Cyber Terrorism’, whatever the hell that was. No one believed any more, not in the ideas and definitely not in the right way of doing things. Kids in containers blowing up convoys of trucks a thousand miles away and anonymous people in anonymous suits sticking microphones on the backs of flies – that was no way to run the world.


After a while he was broken away from his thoughts by a faint, but rapidly increasing thrum in the distance. Pete recognised the sound, it was a chopper, a MI-17 ‘Hip’, a favourite of the CIA these days. Made in Russia, for added irony, so hard to trace back to the US. For a moment he thought he was finally starting to give in to senility, hallucinating fragments of excitement dredged up from the distant past but both Earl and Jimmy were already on their feet, scanning the horizon and pulling out pistols. They only cast passing glances at him as they kept their eyes fixed on the treeline that fronted the property, waiting to see what came.


Leaving them to it Pete stood up and shakily rushed into the barn. Old limbs ached, the arthritis in his left knee making him feel like he’d slowed to a crawl but even he knew that he made a fair dash to the pile of hay he was looking for, old man or not. He swept aside the top layer, revealing a steel footlocker buried in the mass of fodder. It took forced concentration to make his trembling fingers work on the combination lock but with only a couple of mistakes he still managed to open it. Inside was a half dozen handguns, a shotgun and an AK47, all immaculately oiled and kept despite years of disuse. Old habits died hard and besides, what else was there to do these days beyond polish mementos of the past? Pulling out the AK he made his way back outside where the McCarrick boys were watching the now visible helicopter approach them, the noise rising to an overwhelming din, sending dirt and dust up into the air around them.


First the ropes dropped down, then the black clad figures. Pete had stopped shaking now and forgotten his aching knee, he was even grinning as he levelled the rifle at a descending figure some forty feet off and with a grunt at the forgotten jolt of a bucking gun reeled off a couple of shots at it. He struck home, a limp form free falling to the ground. Jimmy and Earl followed suit, unleashing a small but meaningful hail of bullets at the invaders as they made their way down.


From there on in it was just like the old days, for Pete at least. The younger men were experienced, well used to the rattle of gunfire, but he barely noticed them. For the few split seconds the gunfight lasted, as CIA operatives hit the ground and dashed for cover, splattering the three men with bullets when they could, he was propelled back into those halcyon days all those years ago. It was just like the Bay of Pigs all over again, like the jungles of Vietnam, like the underground city where they’d duked it out with Navy Seals to make the centre of the earth Communist, it was everything he’d remembered it being, it was –


Earl grabbed Jimmy and hauled him backwards into the barn, guiding him around the fallen figure of Moscow Pete as he went. The old man had died with a smile on his face. Granted, he also had a bullet hole straight through his forehead, but wherever he’d gone now he probably wouldn’t be worrying about that. There was still gunfire from outside, smacking into the wooden planks but with his brother trailing behind him there was nothing left to do but run. Straight through the barn and out of the small door at the back, then a sideways dash for the treeline. The McCarricks could still hear the Agency men wasting ammunition as they fled into the dense woods and shifted from full flight down to a relaxed stroll. The CIA should have surrounded the place but they hadn’t, Earl wasn’t surprised, those guys loved their black helicopters and drama too much to bother with real planning.


They walked in silence for a while, guns tucked back into their belts and the gentle crunch of leaves under their feet audible between their ragged inhalations. It was Jimmy who, eventually, broke it.


“You told them where he was?”


Earl nodded.


“They knew, I just reminded them. Maybe mentioned that he might be planning to write a book or somethin’.”


They walked on in silence for a while before Jimmy spoke again.


“That was nice of you. It’s what he would have wanted.”


“I reckon so. Ma and Pa agreed too, ain’t no joy having to live out yer days as less than the man you were.”


Later that night they drank a toast to Moscow Pete and, along with a dozen other McCarricks and hangers on, sang the Internationale one more time, loud enough for all of Hetsaw to hear.



Moscow Pete, Earl, Jimmy and the McCarrick clan also feature in the novel Crashed America – available in all good realities.


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Published on November 26, 2016 18:01

November 24, 2016

Make Hetsaw Great Again

“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”


Earl hadn’t expected the alarm call, but then he hadn’t expected to wake up in the gutter of Hetsaw’s historic Main Street either. Life was full of surprises.


“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”


Peeling his face off of the road Earl dragged his body round to sit on the sidewalk, a hand running over his face to check whether the dull throbbing pain in his head was just the hangover of the result of some hideous wound. No blood, so it was just the drink, which wasn’t exactly a relief but you took what you could get.


“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP!”


The shouting was coming from a group of perhaps fifty people, flags flying and banners waving as they made their way down the street towards him, blocking off midday traffic and earning irritable glares from local storekeepers. Earl didn’t dabble in politics, living largely outside the boundaries of the law and often on a higher plain of existence. The price of gas or who was busy being corrupt up in Washington weren’t really matters that bothered him. The closest he’d come had been a brief and unintentional stint with some militia guys who’d wanted to invade Mexico and set up a new country. That had been nothing more than a night out that had gotten out of hand but they had, for a couple of days, managed to run the entire town of Tijuana as a feudal state. That said anything, or anyone, that stirred him from a comfortable roadside doze though had to be wrong in some way.


Jimmy was nowhere to be seen, which was no surprise. The last thing Earl could remember was watching his brother climbing up the side of the town hall trailing electric cables and ranting about time travel. Chances were he was still up in the clock tower, sleeping one off, but then he might just have gone backwards, or forwards, in time. In which case he’d just have to deal with his own  hangover as best he could.


The morning was a clear one, humid but with blue skies and an imposing sun already hanging overhead asserting the realities of the day. Never something to be welcomed, in Earl’s experience, not when there were other far more enjoyable realities to be found at least.


The marching crowd was drawing parallel now, their disjointed wall of sound breaking up from it’s organised battle cry into a confusion of angry, laughing and tired voices. Bleary eyed Earl surveyed the mass of people, looking out for local faces and trying to suppress the vague urge to lash out at the nearest person for sending bolts of pain through his chemically damaged brain. Donald Trump, MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN, build the wall, the chants meant nothing to him although Earl had met the man once on a rare trip to New York. Him, Jimmy, their father ET and Uncle Waco had been there on family business, a forceful negotiation with some men in bad suits who all had nicknames like ‘Fat Sal’ and ‘Even Fatter Tony’. That wasn’t why they’d run into Trump though, that had been pure coincidence.


As well as the more routine, criminal side of the family business they’d been running an errand for Ma, checking out some occult goings on that she suspected might need kicking into submission by the McCarrick clan. It had come to nothing, unfortunately. Waco and Jimmy had been disappointed seeing as they’d managed to pick up a barrel of napalm in Brooklyn that they’d been eager to experiment with. What was meant to be a dark cabal messing with the fabric of reality turned out to be nothing more than a club for old men, doing lines of coke and wearing lots of black. Teenage Goth stuff re-purposed for bored millionaires. At least one heart attack had been caused when they’d burst into the penthouse suite, a gaudy hotel room elaborately decorated in black velvet and garish gold candle holders. The buffet had been great though and, while ET and Waco generally disapproved, the mountains of cocaine hadn’t gone down too badly. They didn’t have much time to thank their hosts though, not once they’d tied them up and finished making fun of their XXL robes and bullshit notions about black candles and sacrificing goats.


Trump had been one of the men present, although it was only after a few slaps to the reality TV star’s face that Earl realised it. None of the McCarrick’s were big TV watchers and besides, without the wig you’d never have recognised him, especially with the elaborate Zodiac tattoo that covered his bald head. Symbols of power, really great power, the best power, the irritable politician-to-be had told them, although Ma had later said that the most dangerous thing about them was the risk of infection. Either way Earl hadn’t thought much of the encounter until now.


The man was President of the USA, apparently. A nation that no one in the family really thought of as including the Free State of McCarrick but it never hurt to keep an eye on the neighbours. No one who incited people to go out marching when he was hungover should be allowed near power Earl thought, it was just asking for trouble. It was a thought that made him tense his fists, not out of anger, he seldom felt that, but for the sheer sake of doing something. Ma had always warned him against getting involved in this sort of thing, she’d been dead set against politics ever since Cousin Bennett had had the idea to blow up JFK’s head with his psychic powers. It was best, she said, to be philosophical about these things, besides, there was business to do and the bars would be opening soon.


The crowd had mostly passed Earl now, heading off towards the town hall at the top of the street to shout at somebody for some reason he didn’t much care about. He stood up, shaking the cobwebs out of his head and feeling some of his usual serenity seep back in, the universe once again starting to make blissful sense, from his own unique angle. He even smiled a little when, with a sudden streak of flame, Jimmy appeared at one end of the street in a DeLorean and, swerving to keep the car under control, ploughed into the back of the group of protesters, taking half a dozen of them out as he went. Chances are it wasn’t intentional but then Jimmy, unlike his older brother, had recently bucked family tradition and taken an interest in politics. All politics, which was why so far that month alone he’d cycled through Anarchism, Communism, Primitivism, Tribalism, Libertarianism, Feudalism and – for some reason known only to himself – Will Smith Supremacy, a very niche spin off from the Black Supremacist movement. Earl wasn’t exactly sure what he was on today, although as he pulled a neat 180 hand break turn in the middle of the road he did hear Jimmy screaming ‘MAKE HETSAW GREAT AGAIN’.


All things considered it looked like it’d be another beautiful day.



Earl, Jimmy and the McCarrick clan also feature in the novel Crashed America – available in all good realities.


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Published on November 24, 2016 12:57

November 22, 2016

Jesus : Our Lord of Public Transport

“You really think he’s Jesus?”


“Of course not, Jesus doesn’t drink Tesco Value Lager on the night bus. Wouldn’t be right, besides, the son of God would be more of a wine man I reckon, although how that fits with the blood of Christ thing I’ve no idea.”


“You’ve got to admit though, that bit where he turned that woman’s sick back into a doner kebab was pretty impressive. Don’t often see that on the night bus.”


Barrington nodded, it was true, you didn’t often see that on the night bus.


“Still though, why would the Messiah be headed to Penge, caned on cheap lager and singing ‘South London is Wonderful’ in between sermons? Shouldn’t there be angels and stuff? Heavenly trumpets? That kid in the back with Drum and Bass on his phone doesn’t really fit does it?”


Jay didn’t have an answer for that so he just sat staring at the other worldly figure swaying precariously at the front of the bus, wiping away a dribble of beer from his chin in preparation for another speech to the unbelievers.


“Now you see God doesn’t want you to worship him. I mean, you should like him and all, he’s a great fella my dad, heart of gold, would give you the shirt off his back. Well, would do if his back wasn’t more of a theological concept than an actual, you know, back. He doesn’t need all the churches and temples and mosques though, I mean what the fuck’s he going to do with them? He’s a being of pure energy, encompassing all life and matter, what, is going to use it as a holiday home then? Nah, better off building yourselves something useful like a pub, or a cinema. He likes The Fast and the Furious though you know, big fan, more of that’d be good. Fuckit, I know he’ll get a kick out of this – Vin Diesel is now, officially, a Saint.”


“You think he can do that?”


Barrington thought on that for a moment, trawling through half forgotten memories of slow Sunday mornings spent being shouted at by a priest who thought everything done by everyone everywhere was probably a sin of some sort. Given the current company that made him an authority, Jay had spent his Sundays on the Playstation.


“I suppose so, not that he’s Jesus or anything, but if he was then why not? Saint Vin Diesel, don’t see what the Pope could do to stop it.”


“And another thing” the drunken Christ went on “my dad is not a big bearded white bloke. I mean, I say ‘dad’ but even that’s a stretch, he’s everything, all life, all matter, all space, the lot. You might be confusing him with Santa Claus and take my word for it, that guy’s a prick.”


As the bus turned a corner the Messiah staggered to the right and fell into the lap of a dozing nurse who’d sat up front, which left the rest of the top deck gasping as a flock of doves randomly appeared in the air and started flapping about in mad panic.


“That’s a lot more like it” Jay said, hands up to wave off a particularly terrified bird “doves are in the Bible right? That’s proper miracle stuff there.”


Barrington was too busy picking feathers out of his hair to reply.


“SIT DOWN ON THE TOP DECK! I have to tell you one more time and I’m stoppin’ the bus.”


It took a minute for things to settle down but still the drunken miracle worker got back to his feet, ignoring the drivers order to sit down.


“Anyway, I’m back now. Been a long time eh? I’ve kept an eye on you lot but to be honest it’s all a repeat down here. You fight each other, you feel bad about it, you fight each other again. And the sinning, all the sinning, I tell you, I’m very disappointed in you all, terrible stuff, you should be ashamed.”


Both Barrington and Jay found tears in their eyes now, each wiping them away with as much dignity as they could maintain as the intoxicated preacher’s words slipped under their skin, carrying far more weight than they should.


“I forgive you though. I do, really. When the big man created you he wasn’t at his best, not that that’s an excuse, but it is a reason. You wouldn’t think it really, that your omnipotent, omnipresent cosmic deity could have a bit of an off day but there you go. Tricky stuff creating life, no matter who, or what, you are. Anyway, you’re all forgiven and now I think we’re in Penge. Have a good one.”


“Last stop, this is Penge, your last stop.”


It took a few minutes to everyone to file off of the bus, to the driver’s dismay, his shift was over and the weepy, stunned looking people staggering down from the top deck were holding him up. Something to do with that fucking drunk, no doubt, but then there was always one. Last week it had been a bloke claiming to be the Hidden Imam, that hadn’t been his problem though as he’d just dropped him off at Tottenham Court Road where he’d gone off with a dozen dazed followers to ‘bring peace and justice to the world’. Good luck with that in Leicester Square on a Saturday night.


Standing on the pavement in the drizzling rain Jay looked at Barrington and Barrington looked at Jay.


“That was something, wasn’t it? That forgiveness thing, I feel a lot better for that you know.”


“Yeah” Barrington scratched his head “was definitely something…”


“Not sure I like being called a sinner though, not perfect or anything, but still.”


“Yeah, was a bit out of order wasn’t it? And did you see that beard? Fucking Hipster.”


“Right, fuck him. Offy and home then?”


“Sounds good. Night bus innit, always one on there.”


Fading in the distance the voice of Jesus rang out in the cold night air.


Oh South London,

Is wonderful,

Oh South London is WONDERFUL!



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Published on November 22, 2016 02:24

November 21, 2016

Conflict Resolution in Croydon

It wasn’t so much a gang war as a communal scuffle. Although as fifty-three people wound up dead you could say that was just arguing semantics. They really didn’t mean for things to escalate so fast though, no one did, things just kind of worked their way up from a civil discussion to gun play in the streets without anyone thinking to step back in the intermediate steps.


Really, no one could have predicted it, not on that fresh, crunchy Autumn evening. It was nice, the air was chilled but cutting, not yet settled into that grey London freeze that puts a concrete lid on the passions of the human experience and as they settled down for a quiet evening the notion of violence couldn’t have been further from their minds. Which just goes to show, even the most innocuous of situations can carry the nucleus of conflict where humans are involved.


It was unfair when the police called it a warzone though, even more so when the tabloids referred to Croydon as the ‘Most Dangerous Place on Earth’ and it was bang out of order when questions were asked in Parliament about whether or not to deport the entire population of the borough to a deserted island in the mid-Atlantic as a warning to others. Locals took offence at all of that, they’re proud people out there after all, what with the Croydon tram and the big Ikea – who wouldn’t feel a certain swell of pride when surrounded by such urban bounty? And if they, apparently, had a slight tendency towards the psychotic then who was anyone to judge? Especially those high faluting snobs from the center of the city. What did they know about assembled a fifteen piece Scandinavian storage unit? Nothing, that’s what and who can really say they’ve lived if they haven’t ridden the rails of the tram line down to the Whitgift shopping center, to which the tube is, by comparison, about as worthwhile as a hat on a man with no head.


The truth was, one witness attested, that there’d been a small disagreement about the borrowing of pens at the Bingo hall. These things happen, tempers flaired, a bit of pushing, shoving and shouting ensued. Others corroborated the story, that was the trigger they agreed, no doubt about it and it had all been over in a flash, a minor side note to an otherwise alright evening. That they fell strangely silent about what came after that was a matter for some discussion by the investigating officers. Serious police who’d dealt with drug dealers, gangs, Yakuza hitmen, Mafioso Capos, ‘Ndrangheta assassins and Cartel drug smugglers, they all agreed that when it came to sticking to a story and not grassing anybody up there were none more reliable than the members of Croydon’s Bingo going fraternity.


Not one person admitted to bringing along the baseball bats, Stanley knives and boards with nails through them that evidence suggested were the first tools of escalation after the seemingly innocuous disagreement about pens. And nobody even hinted at who’d handed out the AK47s and Glock 9mms, although there was no doubting that someone must have seen something as the crates were cracked open. Even the CCTV turned out to have been wiped when tired inspectors sat down to look for clues as to where the Chieftain Tank and the surface to air missile launchers had come from. Every question was met with a blank look, whether the witness was a hefty barmen or a little old lady.


The final report, released long after the funeral processions, memorials and recriminations had died down, was vague. As with all government investigations those in charge had agreed that, in the public’s best interest, it should be as long as possible, as incomprehensible as possible and as late as possible just in case anyone looked at it with strange ideas about truth being seen and justice being done. What did emerge from it though was the curious fact that, of all those killed on that fateful night, only one person was actually from Croydon. They were also the only casualty listed to have died from apparently accidental causes as they managed to fire an RPG the wrong way round and blow themselves away while setting up a fortified position at a bus stop. Everyone else though was from beyond the borough. No one could have known that at the time though of course. From what the crime scene investigators could figure the two battling sides, each claiming that the pen had been theirs in the first place and that they’d have won £250 and a bottle of whisky but for those bastards, were completely random in their composition. It really wasn’t Croydon versus the world, they said, although admittedly it did look suspiciously like it.


In the end no charges were brought, no one was exiled and Croydon wasn’t subjected to high altitude bombing, as some residents of neighbouring Bromley had loudly demanded. It wouldn’t ‘serve the public interest to pursue prosecution’ the government said, while the locals who’d been facing charges just nodded serenely and lent meaningfully on unmarked packing cases that seemed to have been delivered to just outside the court. The police agreed too, as they stood warily behind armoured vehicles the officers had paid for out of their own pockets. It was after all, they told rubbernecking journos, just a bit of a slagging match and nothing to be concerned about really. Plus, they whispered later, off the record and after a few pints, it was Croydon and for everyone’s good what happens in Croydon, stays in Croydon.



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Published on November 21, 2016 02:31

November 20, 2016

The Dark Streets Below

I am the fine line that shouldn’t be crossed.


I am the final judgement, the one that all people fear.


I am the vengeful knife in the dark, bringing balance to your sins.


I am –


“Dale to checkout three, Dale to checkout three.”


I am Dale.


By day, a mild mannered cashier at your local supermarket. Ready with a smile and a nod, unjudging of the bucket of Vaseline and bottle of vodka in your trolley, unblinking in the face of your eye rolling disdain, tolerant of your screaming children and loud phone conversations. A ruse, a cunning ruse, to keep you safe from the darkness that lies within me. Because at night, when I’m not working nights that is, I am… The Avenger…


“Mate, I know it gets boring here after a while but seriously, you can’t sit there talking to yourself like that. It makes people nervous.”


Shit. I’m talking out loud again, a bad habit that no amount of long nights on the sharp edge of societies blade can fix. Luckily he doesn’t know the truth. To Steve, checkout team leader, I’m just another co-worker, meekly trudging through the day with no higher hopes than a pie and a pint when I clock out, no greater fear than my card being rejected.


“Dale, we were at the pub quiz last night, granted it was a close finish but that’s not exactly the bleak underside of society is it? And you’re still talking out loud.”


Oh Steve, you poor, soft-hearted fool. Ever blind to the darkness that lays just beyond the happy picket fence of his perception, held back by the things I do, the places I go and the parts of myself I give up to protect his serenity. He’s a reminder, a reassurance that those parts of myself I surrender to protect those around me aren’t lost in vain.


“Whatever. Quiet today isn’t it? Was quiet yesterday too, and the day before. Always seems to be quiet these days, funny that.”


Steve keeps talking. Steve always talks, in the silence he can sense the danger, the danger I live with in every waking hour. The danger that haunts my dreams and sets fire to my nerves as I walk through this clean cut, sterile world, pretending there’s no filth lying beneath the surface. I ignore him, when I can, he’s my ward, but the chatter drags me back to a time when I was an innocent, like him, a complicit yet blind witness to the human detritus of the underworld that surrounds us.


“Dale, I know you might not be the best person to ask, but there’s never really anyone else around is there? Do you, erm, do you think it’s a little weird? All this? I mean, I know you talk to yourself, you’ve always done that, I’ve never minded. You’re a good worker after all, never late, never off sick, very polite and we all have our little quirks don’t we? You must have noticed though that we’ve been here, alone, for six months now? And that’s a little weird right? Even last night at the pub, it was fun and all, really, great laugh but the old place did seem a little, you know, burned down…”


Steve shouldn’t think, I can see the hamster wheel of his mind spinning erratically behind those bovine eyes of his. Childlike in his ignorance, desperate for me to comfort him with simple truths and easy lies. Although he does have a point, not that I’m not used to it and all, being the unshakeable warden of humanities dark underbelly and everything, but the pub did seem a little… destroyed, yeah.


“And my house, you know, you’ve been there, do you remember it being mostly rubble at all? I don’t and it seems like the kind of thing I’d have noticed, I mean we only had the decorators in a year ago and they did a proper job, skirting boards and everything. You live up on the estate don’t you, that’s gone a bit… flat too.”


A suburban idyll, Steve’s pebble dashed fantasy of cosy tedium, a precious dream held far more delicately than he could ever know. Although I admit, there has been a touch of the scorched wreck about it recently. Which is a bit strong, even for the rising tide of scum and criminality that haunts this town. Not to mention that my settee used to be on the tenth floor but not it seems to be at ground level. Surrounded by chunks of blackened concrete.


“Even here, right, even the supermarket used to have a lot more in the way of walls and roofs and running water and… people… things like that. Not that I’m complaining, it’s a good job and all, bit of a grind but they promoted me and I’m glad of it, remember that’s how I paid for the new car. Still though, bit of an odd one eh?”


I don’t want to go on and nor does Steve, I can see tears gathering in his dull, naive eyes as the truth claws at the door to his soul. I turn away, an end point to the dangerous path he was starting to wander, a path only I can walk – my body trialled and tested enough to bear the burden.


“There was that mushroom cloud too. I know you said it was just swamp gas but I’m fairly sure there aren’t any swamps around here and even if there were it did look pretty, well, nuclear didn’t it? I don’t mean to be a dick either but your skin has been flaking off a fair bit recently too. I know I’m no picture myself and I’m not one to bring these things up but you’ve got to wonder haven’t you? Haven’t you? I mean if there’s been an apocal-”


“Steve, mate, could you not just shut up for a bit? I’m on my break in a minute.”


“Yeah, of course mate, of course. We’ll, er, say no more about it then I suppose.”


Sometimes I think Steve’s a bit of a tosser but that’s not a very Avenger-y thing to say. Besides, he’s still the boss. And my innocent ward, I think I’d go a little bit wrong in the head if I didn’t have him to protect from the dark morass of human corruption.



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Published on November 20, 2016 12:56

November 18, 2016

The Pirates of Deptford Creek

The Royal Navy tried, they really did. Frigates, destroyers, dreadnoughts, rubber dinghies, armadas of novelty inflatables, they gave it their best and bless ’em for the effort.


Then the Americans came in, late, as is their habit, and took their turn. They brought an aircraft carrier and three nuclear submarines, not to mention the fighter jets, Apache helicopters and, eventually, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Matt Damon on their day off. They’d both trained extensively for the job but in the end their performances were unconvincing. Right up to the point where they were hung high from the yard arm, tarred and feathered with a copy of the South London Press jammed into their mouths.


The Russians chanced their arm next, ships, planes, tanks and a whole heap of grim faced, heavy set men in ushanka hats with little patience for anything that stood in their way. They filled Deptford Creek with soldiers and sailors, an impressive achievement given that the tide was in, but still they had no luck. In the end Vladimir Putin himself had to do the back stroke in and call his lads off, to the jeers of locals and the smug nods of nervous American Generals keen not to be outshone.


After that it became a bit of a free for all really. The French came and went with not a shot fired, the Germans threw their spiky hats into the ring then ran when they were thrown back, the Israeli’s tried building a wall, the Chinese built a bigger one, the Mongols came by on horseback and the Swiss waved their pikes around. All for nothing as the Pirates of Deptford Creek repelled the greatest powers the world has ever seen without even breaking a sweat. And by the end even they were starting to feel bad about it, after all it doesn’t do anyone’s pride any good to be beaten back by a load of people who’ve only just stumbled out of the pub and onto a slightly lopsided old trawler. When the fire was in them though, when the black flag was flying and the dirty brown sea spray of the Thames was in their eyes there were none finer on the water or under it than those fiendish sailors of South London. And to think, until someone had the bright idea after closing time to sneak onto a ship and go for a joyride not one of them had ever been closer to sailing than floating a rubber duck in the bath.


So it went and so it still goes though. Not a tourist cruise is safe, not a party boat goes un-raided, at least when there’s nothing worthwhile on the telly and it’s not pub quiz night. The Royal yacht doesn’t dare show it’s face and HMS Belfast has given up and applied to join the infantry, police boats skulk in small inlets, surreptitiously smoking roll ups and hoping not to be noticed while coracles sailed down from the wild wastes of Kent and Essex overturn themselves in fear at the shifting of the waves.


The Pirates, for their part, take it all in their stride. They’re local heroes now, their names spoken in reverential awe by landlubbers and salty sea dogs alike – from Brockwell Lido to the raging waters of the Atlantic. Barrington ‘One Eye’ Daniels, Trevor ‘Trevor’ Murdoch, Lisa ‘Kick ‘Em In The Head’ Flynn, Dan ‘I Can’t Swim’ Levy, Irfan ‘Don’t Get My Shoes Wet’ Hussain, Mandy ‘My Other Boats A Frigate’ Mitchell – titans amongst giants amongst mere mortals. One day, they say, we’ll leave these homely waters, when the novelty wears off of sinking boats full of drunken students and confused tourists, we’ll sail to the very edge of the earth – or perhaps over to Calais on a booze cruise. But as the Royal Navy, Americans, Russians, French, Chinese, Swiss, Mexicans, Mongols, Malaysians, Mamluks, Mercians, Madagascans and Peruvians have learnt from bitter experience – you just can’t shift a Deptford Pirate.



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Published on November 18, 2016 16:01

November 17, 2016

The Elephant in Elephant & Castle

Some put it down to the drugs. I was never satisfied with that answer myself. Granted, there was a lot of drugs about in those days, a hell of a lot, but while you can say a person might hallucinate an elephant they’re unlikely to flip a couple of buses over as they do it. Nor are they likely to tear down bus shelters, or storm through a shopping center with all the hallmarks of a pachyderm weighing more than a ton. I don’t care what you’re on, these are not things you can do.


Others blamed the cults, the shamans and the like. And fair enough, maybe they were involved, I can’t judge that sort of thing and we all know about the Catford Cat by now so why not the Elephant & Castle Elephant? If those crazies beyond the Stanstead Road can conjure up some hell beast to watch over them, or God to worship, or whatever it is they do, then why couldn’t we do the same? But like I say, I’m not an expert and I sure as hell didn’t see any dark and macabre ceremonies going on in the run up to the maybe-elephant’s arrival.


What I did see was bad times. Bad times all over. No jobs, all the housing gone to billionaires who couldn’t find London on a map, never mind our little corner of it, the streets paved with the lost and the broken, at least where it wasn’t filled with people stealing what little they had left. Dark times, unhappy times but hey, the government’s always in North London, so what more can you expect? You just do what you can to get by and say no more about it. Now whether these bad times were connected to our big grey friend or not I can’t say. I know my history, people get hysterical when they’re on the edge, they start acting out. Like those towns that went crazy giggling when the plague swept through, laughing their way through the dead until they joined them. Again though, just as I don’t think it was the drugs I don’t think hysteria can leave giant footprints on the grass, no matter how far it goes.


It only lasted for a week. A long week, but still just seven days as the calendar ticks over. That’s all the time there was between the elephant arriving and the elephant disappearing. Both of which, I should add, took place at the tube station although how it could fit on the escalators I don’t know. I’ll admit, because I’m an honest man, that I was a little messed up at the time, who wouldn’t be? Like everyone else I was out on the street, no job and locked out of the big blocks of ‘executive living’ flats so if I dabbled a little in chemical relief then who’s to blame me? No one I’d care to listen to, that’s for sure. Still though, when it started stamping around the roundabout I was awake enough to see it and hell, I can’t have slept for three, maybe four days after that. No one did, no one who was capable of staying on their feet let their eyes get heavy, you didn’t want to miss the spectacle y’know?


I don’t know why the elephant was a trigger, or if it was, or how it was but we certainly rode a tide when that thing appeared. The whole place changed, for a few days there it was like the last days of Rome only with more busses. Debauchery like you couldn’t imagine, rivers of booze in the streets, mountains of drugs, feasts fit for a dozen kings and all the free love you could get – it was like finding out that the Oyster machine isn’t working and you don’t have to pay – the closest I’ve ever come to heaven. Probably the closest I ever will too, because my life hasn’t been entirely without blame I admit.


We became an unstoppable force for those few days, all of us combined into one great big seething mass of humanity. They sent the police and they ended up topless and dancing outside the Tabernacle. They sent the army and they were singing around the campfire that had once been their armoured car. They even sent an MP to talk the crowd down, they ended up buck naked and riding a police horse around while screaming out some of the most perverted shit I ever heard. That might just be MPs though, so I never connect that too much to everything else that was going down. And all the while the elephant just kept walking around, bumping into the occasional obstacle, trumpeting when it felt the need but not hassling anybody that I ever saw. Strange eh?


I hear they called us Anarchists, religious fundamentalists, revolutionaries, crazies, all sorts of things. I hear that the Evening Standard called us enemies of the state but really, who cares? We weren’t listening at the time and some of us still aren’t, even after it’s all gotten back to normal now. Around here people don’t need to talk about it, we don’t need to speculate, we were there you know? We lived it, we don’t need the stories or guesswork and it’s only out of politeness that I tell you about it now, because you asked nicely.


I never did see the elephant leave. As I said, I’m told it went back down onto the tube but I was busy at the time, rolling around somewhere with feathers in my hair and a smile on my face. I felt it go though, no doubt about that. That big grey bastard, whatever the hell it was all about I know I felt it go because everything sunk down again. The edge came off, suddenly we weren’t one mass any more, we were as we’d been, individuals. A whole heap of individuals suddenly wondering what we were doing, wondering why we were there. The police put their uniforms back on, though they never went back to work, the soldiers, I think, went AWOL, the MP resigned the next day. So things did change, but it was never so good again and now, as time passes, people have started to say it never happened. Bullshit, it happened. Though who knows what ‘it’ was.


The bad times are still here now but hey, you do what you do. Me? I like to remember the Elephant of Elephant & Castle. Who knows? Maybe he’ll be back some day. After all, we all know that the Catford Cat never left.


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Published on November 17, 2016 02:50

November 16, 2016

The Dwarves of Camberwell

It wasn’t until they set about building the new flats that questions started to be asked.


They were easy ones at first, mundane in nature, technical in approach. ‘Have you checked the subsidence in the north west corner?’ and ‘we’ll have to add another layer of concrete to those foundations there, any idea why it keeps dropping out?’ They were questions that people in bright yellow safety jackets could feel at home with, nodding sagely as they stared at theodolites and arguing over clipboards with suited council officials. The day to day grind of the working world and nothing new to any of them.


Things got more complex though, quickly. Even more expert experts than the ones already on site were called in, machines with ticking gauges and thermal imaging were deployed with smug pride from those who knew what they did when others didn’t. Bore holes were made, samples taken, studies carried out and, eventually, locked away in secret filing cabinets as strange figures in hazmat suits started to appear in the night, upsetting the part time security guard and casting conspiracies in the minds of the neighbours. Nuclear waste? Ancient alien ruins? Chemical weapons? Everyone at the bus stop had an opinion, to start with at least, until it became a bit too obvious that, one by one, the usual commuters and school kids were disappearing after speculating a little bit too wildly and that the grey man in the grey suit with the grey phone was taking a few too many notes on what was said.


The council, affronted at being left out of the loop, blamed the gas company, who blamed the water company, who blamed the phone company who blamed the gas company again because they were part of a large corporation which wanted the works contract for the area to themselves and it seemed like a good opportunity. The strange figures in hazmat suits didn’t blame anybody, although they did tell the police to sod off when they turned up, insult the fire brigade for showing an interest and question a passing doctor from the hospital who came asking about potential risks. People did try asking them questions but before long the army showed up and, with a few rubber bullets and some tear gas, curiosity seemed to fade a bit.


After that the questions more or less dried up in Camberwell. If anybody knew anything then they didn’t want it known and those who didn’t know anything still knew enough to know that they didn’t want to know any more. Even when the attack helicopters started hovering and the tanks skimmed their way down the Walworth Road the nervous silence was kept and none bar the odd, ignorant child even raised an eyebrow when the dull thud of explosions began to rattle under their feet, dribbles of smoke working their way out of drain covers as distant screams and cries faded from the ground up.


And then one day it was over. The army packed up it’s toys, strangers in hazmat white jumped on the bus out of Camberwell and all was quiet in the ancient South East London idyll again. Except for the kids screaming at bus stops, traffic jams, occasional junkie and night bus revellers lingering outside of McDonalds, of course.


It was easy to forget from there. The construction barriers which had shielded the development came down and all was as it had been. Camberwell Green was green again, forgotten was all talk of executive flats, gentrification, regeneration and ‘Camberwell Village’. A good thing too, spat the street drinkers who’d been shunted along by private security and the kids who’d had to hop the fence for a dare before the army arrived to take pot shots at them.


It was only a select few who ever heard the truth, and of them even fewer who believed it and of them even fewer who’d ever be believed in turn.


It was in a pub, the pub, the name of which goes unspoken because those who know it know and those who don’t, don’t. It was after work on a Friday, when thirsty throats staggered in for a quick pint, or a long one, or seven, a necessity after life’s trials and tribulations had taken their toll. Most present were local to one degree or another, in type if not geographically. The type of locals who, within an hour, would either be plying you with drink and sharing tales of wonder and woe, or giving a blunt lesson in why, of all the places a person could be, the same one as them was the worst available option for you. There was, however, one exception.


He was short, he was surly and he drank Guiness with a Bailey’s on the side without throwing up, at least not so’s you’d notice but with a beard thick enough to crush a pigeon there was always room for doubt on that part. He was no local but then, by the judgement of those present, he was no outsider either, no art school student, aspiring office worker or home counties dandy down to live the life for a laugh. Plus he bought his round and was happy to share his crisps, so why would anyone look too closely? Granted the iron shod boots, small hatchet in the waistband and only being 3ft tall while still being 2ft wide was a bit of a novelty, but it’s rude to stare so people didn’t. Not while he was looking at least.


He didn’t say much, although he was there until last orders, the lock in and the ‘get the fuck out, you’re drunk’ stage of the evening. What little he did say though was, by all intoxicated accounts, a convincing and certain truth.


There’d been a war, he said, rubbing at a red and raw scar above his eye. A terrible clash of arms, a conflagration for the ages, a calamity in Camberwell, a lash up in London – all under his fellow drinkers very feet. He spoke of old ways and old folk, the Little People of myth and legend, Dwarves, to their few friends. Their city lay under ours, a sprawling complex of mines, caves, caverns and cul-de-sacs weaving their way around the sewers, tube lines and dank basements of the surface dwellers. A mystery to most, but a truth known to a select few. Agreements were held, age old treaties which set out the rights of the subterranean underclass in relation to their surface level opposites. Governments, and most of London, had been built on such things, with weighty oaths sworn and blood pacts decided upon. Once upon a time anyway, although apparently that had all gone a bit tits up some time in the ’80s when Thatcher, ever eager for a useful war, had considered invading the city under the city and scoring a quick win against her pocket sized adversaries. It had never come to pass but relations had soured from there, said the bearded drinker. Secret passageways between the civilizations were walled up and friendships forgotten, barring the occasional abduction and probing of the odd Tory MP for shits and giggles. And while none welcomed the stony silence most came to accept it. Until the Camberwell Catastrophe of course.


New builds were spreading like a plague, ignoring old orders and rights, foundations smashing down into lands best left untouched. Much was tolerated, to the point of self-destruction almost but the block of flats in Camberwell had been the last straw as underground parking smashed into underground dwellings, pubs, schools and temples. ‘Fuck this’ was the consensus of the day and so it came to violence. Regrettable violence, of course, but such is life in this hard world, said the stranger with the smirk of one who can be philosophical in victory.


The big men had gone down with guns and rockets and flamethrowers and, mostly, come back up without them, happy to be back in the fresh air and away from the psychotic hordes of the underworld. The little man, or big Dwarf, went on in that vein until he’d drunk his fill and staggered off to leave, having told tales to make Vietnam sound like a walk in a not-at-all deadly jungle. And only in his final words did he reveal his reason for venturing to the surface amidst such unwary company.


“Be careful what you do up here, how you treat this city of yours, because all that’s above rests on all that’s below and there’s an awful lot of us fuckers down there. So no more flats on Camberwell Green, or I’ll bite your face off. G’night all, think I’ll get a kebab on the way home…”


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Published on November 16, 2016 02:46

November 15, 2016

Mission Accomplished

I made it in. Trust me, it wasn’t easy. Hell, the amount of times they almost stopped me, it’s a miracle I lasted this long. What with the stress and all I can’t even remember why I was so desperate to be here but I attached myself to this, this thing for a reason. It’ll come back to me, I’m sure, I just need to get settled, pull myself back together. It’s not easy, y’know? Being up here, being on this. I swear, the constant sweating, the throbbing veins, the scratching – I wasn’t made for this but what can you do? It was the only disguise I could find to pass around these creatures. My species is not an easy one to ignore when we show ourselves properly. It’s only thanks to willful blindness that they didn’t notice me even with the undercover bit. Shit, anyone who looked properly could have guessed right? Nobody has hair that looks like me, nobody. I’ve seen these humans, I’ve watched them, hidden away, seen their private moments and their public arguments. I’m about as subtle as a Great Dane on a pool table, but if people choose not to see then they don’t see. And with this goddamn thing I’ve had to live on to make it this far they at least had plenty to snatch their attention away.


Him though, oh he’s the best, a real diamond clad distraction. You could land a space ship on his head and start anal probing people, no one would look twice because he’d be too busy shouting ‘Wrong!’ and insulting women. I should get a medal for choosing him, I’m the best field operative we ever had. Not that it wasn’t close at times. Eyes wondering upwards, asking what the hell was up with that hair he had and me trying not to make a dash for freedom while I still could. But then he’d say some shit and boom, shocked silence and confusion all over again. And to think they said I should have been Jeb Bush’s beard. That’s High Command for you though, big picture bullshit, no sense of the details. Hell, Presidents don’t have beards, not these days. And the less said about the Hillary idea the better. Although I do wonder if those robotic sons of bitches were trying to take her over, it’s in the eyes, y’see? That dead stare of hers. Like I say though, I’ve seen humans, plenty of them, she wouldn’t be the only one to have eyes like glass balls.


I got the nuclear codes the other day. Which is something. Not my mission, I don’t think, but a bonus nonetheless. If we’re going to invade this rock then these things are useful to know. Plus it gives me something to report back with, buy myself some time until I figure things out. I need time, I sure can’t go asking what I’m supposed to do next, they frown on that sort of thing in my line of work. It’ll be sweet when I figure it out though, real sweet. I got that part figured out already. My last day, just before I get picked up, I’m gonna wait ’til there are cameras, crawl down this son of a bitches face, scream ‘MAKE NEPTUNE GREAT AGAIN!’ and then make a dash for it. Clear to the border, Tijuana, a few drinks – they turn a blind eye to strange shit like me down there – and then off to the rendezvous point and home again. Finally, I can be done with these meat bags, get back to a place where I’m more than a bad wig. Maybe even go into politics, gotta admit, I’ve had some ideas down here, real good ideas… the best ideas,


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Published on November 15, 2016 02:16