Another Short Story

Thank you

2012-01-13T10:19:00.002Z

This isn't a short. Obviously. But today, I hit a milestone on this blog. I don't know who reads my stuff, but I would like to thank you. Feel free to leave comments or get in touch. And thanks again.

To Protect and Serve

2012-01-05T13:12:00.001Z

The couple sat on the seawall running along Colaba, with the Gateway to India to their left and the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel at their backs. "The sea smells of people's desires," she said, stroking his arm.

"That's true," he replied, " if people's desires are fishy and shitty."

"In this City, they usually are."

As they giggle, a Policeman approaches from behind. "Hey! Have some shame!". The couple break away from eachother and maintain a chaste distance. "Bastards. You think this is New York? Behave properly." Satisfied that he was doing his bit for maintaining Mumbai's moral integrity, the Policeman walked on, swinging his laathi back and forth.

Not thirty metres away, two youths stalk a pretty woman, singing lewd Bollywood songs at her back; not twelve metres away, a beggar is foisting a garland of flowers on a reluctant tourist, about to coerce him into buying a month's worth of supplies for her handler; not five metres away, a terrorist is muttering prayers under his breath and thumbing a trigger.

The couple shuffle off to a more private venue. "Let's go to Leopold's," she suggests. "Mondegar" he replies, smiling and wagging his head.

No-one Came Here for a Lecture on Communism

2011-10-09T12:18:00.004+01:00

By day, he was the peoples' champion, crusading against corporate injustice and greed, standing up for the little guy. In his meteoric career, he saved consumers billions of dollars; was solely responsible for successfully litigating against executives who were more than ready for their underpaid underlings to carry the can for their crimes. DA Browning pursued the men at the top and held them to account. "Sir, according to your company's Annual Report, you draw down a salary in excess of $1 million dollars and you sold over $3 million worth of options last year, just two weeks before my investigators indicted you. Are you really telling me that you were not paid money to take responsibility?"

DA Browning cleaned up this stinking City. He cleaned up the Stock Exchange. He was about to clean up the investment banks.

By day, he was the peoples' champion, a crusader for truth, justice and an American ideal people had long stopped believing in. DA Browning was on the fast track to becoming Senator and why the hell not, President. Even his character flaws were virtues: obsessive, dogged, hard-nosed, ruthless even - but only against those who were dragging the country down.

But jailing influential, wealthy people makes you wealthy, influential enemies. By day, he was a hero. By night, he liked to lick whores' anuses. That did for DA Browning's career. "Just six more months and I could have averted the banking collapse," he would say. And the corrupt and greedy laughed.

To Protect and Serve

2011-10-09T12:14:00.000+01:00

The couple sat on the wall running along Colaba, with the Gateway to India to their left and the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel at their backs. “The sea smells of people’s desires,” she said, stroking his arm. “That’s true,” he replied, “ if people’s desires are fishy and shitty.”
“In this City, they usually are.”

As they giggle, a Policeman approaches from behind. “Hey! Have some shame!”. The couple break away from eachother and maintain a chaste distance. “Bastards. You think this is New York? Behave properly.” Satisfied that he was doing his bit for maintaining Mumbai’s moral integrity, the Policeman walked on, swinging his laathi back and forth. Not thirty metres away, two youths stalk a pretty woman, singing lewd Bollywood songs at her back; not twelve metres away, a beggar is foisting a garland of flowers on a reluctant tourist, about to coerce him into buying a month’s worth of supplies for her handler; not five metres away, a terrorist is muttering prayers under his breath and thumbing a trigger.

The couple shuffle off to a more private venue. “Let’s go to Leopold’s,” she suggests. “Mondegar” he replies, wagging his head.

Dial C for Cancer

2011-05-18T13:05:00.003+01:00

Yasmin, Carl’s first girlfriend had purred “Your mouth is divine,” when he had applied it to the sensitive parts of her anatomy. Although a novice, he was a considerate lover, putting Yasmin’s pleasure before his own. He would reflect on those early encounters later in life, when his mouth went from being divine, to a divining instrument, capable of finding, by taste alone, any ailments his lovers’ bodies were harbouring.

Yasmin’s breast cancer was caught and removed incredibly early when Carl had come up for air and worriedly told her, “Your right tit tastes wrong.” How he had understood there was a medical reason behind that remained a mystery to Carl, but his instincts told him that this was neither a hygiene nor aberrant taste-bud issue. The GP’s physical exam gave no indication that Yasmin was at risk, but Carl insisted that Yasmin was tested more thoroughly. The results shocked everyone, and not least Carl, but from thereon, he knew he had tasted cancer, divined it through gustation.

Although Yasmin was grateful, the relationship did not survive. Carl tried to reassure Yasmin that he would take care of her, that if he ever felt she was at risk, he would let her know. But Yasmin become a hypochondriac. Every clinch was peppered with mood-killing phrases.

“Is everything alright down there?”
“You will tell me if I taste funny?!”
“Are you sure you brushed your teeth? It might not work if your mouth’s not totally clean.”
“Am I dying?”

Ending the relationship was the right thing to do. However, news of Carl’s abilities spread through the female grapevine and he found that women made themselves available to him. At first, he was unaware of their motivation. He followed them to their beds and made efforts to satisfy them. Soon, it became apparent that they were not there for his company, for him nor even just the sex, but for a diagnosis. When Kathy asked him if she was at risk... that there was a family history… he grew irritated. He told her that he was just a man, and that she had led him on. He called her a cock tease. He was furious that he had expended energy trying to bring her to climax while she thought of him as nothing more than a sophisticated thermometer.

Kathy realized she had mis-treated Carl. Although not attracted to him, she allowed him to finish ‘his business.’ She was prepared to do this for a diagnosis anyway – it was fear that made her seek him out, and guilt that made her see it through. Carl was not so easily placated, though. He remained angry at her lack of enthusiasm. He had more to offer than mutant taste buds. His anger grew, hard and red. And it was then that he understood that he was not only a diviner of disease, but a channel. Not only the seismograph, but the lightning rod as well. Rage had left a seed in Kathy. The seed would grow and she would develop an aneurism three weeks from their meeting.

Comportment

2011-03-28T13:13:00.001+01:00

My mother was equally traditional and visionary. "Comportment," she would say, "is how people will recognize your quality." Finishing School was something of a shock to the system. Mother had to make use of her friends in high places in order to get me a place at St. Montford's; she didn't tire of telling me how difficult it had been and the sacrifices she had to make to her own standing to assure my place. Nonetheless, she was elated that I was now attending mater's alma mater, so to speak.

As hard as things were for me, I have no doubt that St. Montford's found accommodating me far more difficult. I do appreciate the efforts they undertook on my behalf. Bless them.

And so, as I am faced with the challenges of modern life, I know I have the ability to rise above the slings and arrows; my behavior, I know, reflects well on my family and St. Montford's. Take Peter, for example - my colleague at work. He is, shall we say, un-reconstructed.

"John! Oi, John! Do you have doilies in your sandwich box? You fucking poof, I bet you do!".

I smile curtly at him and walk by, my head held high, back straight and stiff.

They Don't Call Me Aaron Sorkin, Either

2011-03-12T17:28:00.002Z

“His writing is so clever – it's amazing how well he writes.”
“All his characters sound the same. You could assign any character with any line of dialogue, and it would still fit because everyone talks with the same voice, with the same manner, the same rapid pace and the same insanely annoying habit of holding two intertwining conversations at once.”
“Bullshit. You're just annoyed that you don't have that talent.”
“You call bullshit? Bullshit back. It's not clever that every one of his lead characters has the same lack of social grace -social ability- linked with super high brain function. Writing everyone as an Aspergers... savant does not make him a genius.”
“Seriously? That's your point? He has more quotable lines tha...”
“...And it's nothing to do with my self-belief in my own talent. I don't have any issues with that.”
“..n any other writer alive today. And perhaps you don't have issues with talent. Sorry. You have issues with recognition.”
“Now I call bullshit. Plus, his 'normal' characters talk in the same way – they just have slightly more social grace, but not enough to not keep saying how they have social grace and the other guy doesn't. People only quote lines they would never say and not because they're not clever enough to think of them but because they are clever enough to not say them out loud and be taken for a huge asshole. No-one says those lines in non-ironic, real-life situations. Even when they say them, they “say” them with quote marks around them. You can feel the punctuation marks in the air.”
“Bullshit back. You have issues. You have issues that you have a brain the size of a planet and you're sitting in an office cubicle making other people fat off your work while you... wait, what is that you do? And why aren't you writing?”
“I've never said I have a brain the size of a planet – that was you.”
“You didn't argue against it, though.”
“Am I supposed to argue for stupidity?”
“Maybe modesty.”
“Shuttup.”
“Whatever. So, why aren't you writing?”
“It pays the bills. I have responsibilities. I have a lifestyle to which my dependents are accustomed. I have to maintain...”
“You don't have to maintain shit. You have to get out of your suck-ass marriage and fucking do something.”
“Bullshit. I don't have a suck-ass marriage.”
“Right. You don't even have a suck-dick marriage.”
“Fuck you.”
“It's that bad?”
“Seriously. Fuck you.”
“Fuck me? Fuck you!”
“Fuck you. Fuck. You. You. Fucking. Fuck.”
(together) “Fuck you!”
“Wait. Now who am I talking?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. This prick writer never made that clear.”
“Why? We can work out who's who if we go back to the beginning.”
“Wait. Who went first?”
“Who's on first?”
“That's what I'm asking, who's...”
“Oh, that's our shortstop.”
“...on... Fuck you. That's not clever.”
“I fucking told you that in the beginning.”

Mind Your Language

2009-05-13T11:38:00.025+01:00

A had stood as number one for as long as anyone could remember. He had all the attributes for leadership. He was hard and unwavering in uppercase, gentle and flowing in lower-. He was also flexible with an umlaut and always always fronted the rest of his kind when the alphabet was recited.

There had been no precedence of democracy and while individual words were constantly being newly created, evolving in their use or spelling, or falling extinct, their DNA remained unchanged.

Throughout history, A stood resolute. A mighty peak few thought to conquer. But as with all things, there are the haves and havenots. The mutterings originally started between Q and Z. They had felt that X would join them, but his contrary nature meant he was happy with his rather exclusive position. Moreover, no matter who he was sat with, he knew he was the most complex and singular character. “Fuck off, Q and Z. Things are fine as they are,” he told them. Z lost his temper but backed down when X warned him not to make him cross. There was menace in X. Q tried to appease X, tried to appeal to his ego. "Together, we can be quixotic, X!" Q said, but X wasn't interested. "No. You two are out of line. You'll ruin everything. In fact, go away. Just looking at you both is making me feel queasy." Q and Z decided they didn't have a friend there and left, with Z muttering something about "zylophones" under his breath.

Q was the more cautious of the two. He largely kept his opinions to himself. It was doubly hard for him since he was always followed around by U. There was a tacit understanding that the vowels thought themselves above the rest. U would snitch to A; he had a soft centre. It was obvious. It was natural. So who could have foreseen how things would have turned out?

It was the sudden popularity of the website www.quiz.com that would eventually be seen as the birthplace of the coup; the mutiny of A. Millions of hits per day brought Q, U, I and Z in close proximity on a more than usual basis. Z, being rather uncouth and lacking in civil grace wasted little time in shouting his thoughts over to Q. “I can’t take this anymore. Mr. Lah-de-A is such a cock," he started. Q, U and I would have excused him on account of his not getting out much, but he continued, "I can’t stand being near him.” U and I guffawed. “You couldn’t be further away, Z” said I. But that was the beginning. A little seed had been sown and over time, after every few million hits, one of the four would raise an objection to A’s position. Tiny asides. Certainly no thesis was being constructed to start with.

Eventually, U made it clear that he was thinking of everyone, as was his way. “You all deserve better.”

I couldn’t understand why a flaky shit like A was still in charge. “I’m far better. At least I won’t fuck about. I’m a stand-up, take-me-as-you-see-me type. Straight and true.”

That was how Q and Z started to spread their poison through to the rest of the alphabet.

O was initially reticent, "Oooh. No. I don't know about that." Turning O proved to be pivotal, though. The affable and cuddly character became a wrecking ball; they had never seen him so animated, but his blood was up. Way up.

Once they had I, O and U on their side, A was done for. An underlying sea of resentment from the other consonants started to grow. By the time A heard about it, there was very little he could do. O led the charge. "Oi, A! A word!"

"Any one you want, O. Ha ha!" joked A. But quickly he sensed things were not as they had been. There he stood, facing his brothers, alone.

“Er. Eh?” was about the size of his resistance.

"You're on your own, mate" muttered E.

After that, it was chaos: Textspeak, netspeak, leetspeak. The vowels were never quite the same again. Words, even whole sentences were being formed with no vowels whatsoever! Sm flt ths wz rly bd.

Eventually, even numbers started to h1ghj4ck words and the poor little punctuation marks, who had always provided the alphabet society with such joy, diversity and richness, were exiled. Some say ethnically cleansed, but that's not quite true :-) The majority of punctuation marks now live as refugees, apart for the bastard exclamation who was given exemption for his indefatigable party spirit, and as a fop to the liberal conservatives who argued for a return to traditional values. Activists campaign to this day to stop the torture of the apostrophe in every word ending in S, but it seems no-one cares anymore. Life goe's on.

Eventually, even the twins turned on eachother. There was civil war between uppercase and lowercase. Through sheer force of numbers, the lowercase won out, but rumours abound that the uppercase are plotting renewed hostilities as they remain VERY ANGRY.

But at least now you know – blame Q and Z. It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.

And oh! If you're worried about what happened to A, don't be. He now consoles himself in onomatapaeia. I know. Aah!

Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64?

2009-05-12T13:35:00.003+01:00

Charlie stands in front of the toilet bowl and scowls at his member as he takes aim for the centre.

A minute later, he shuffles over to the sink and turns the cold tap to produce a rapid gush of water. Charlie resumes the position.

A minute later, flustered and feeling his legs starting to tire, Charlie thinks of waterfalls and fountains and rivers and water cannons.

Success.

Charlie feels a growing sense of relief as the concentrated yellow stream falls, then dribbles into the yawning porcelain mouth.

Charlie attempts to flex the deep muscles in his pelvic floor; a fraction of pressure squeezes an extra three drops. He relaxes the mysterious muscle group which releases a hidden finger of piss straight onto his dressing gown and pyjamas.

“Mmbugger” Charlie mutters to himself.

Charlie shuffles back to the sink and wets his fingertips in the rushing cold water, closes the tap down halfway and fills a glass. He takes his pillbox from his dressing gown pocket and carefully takes a blue tablet from the case. Charlie swallows the tablet with a gulp of water and closes the tap fully. He feels the stirring and the renewed energy levels.

Charlie makes his way to the cellar through the hidden maze of corridors. He opens the last door and sees her inside, asleep on the floor, chained to wall by her foot, pretty much where he left her. Her unkempt hair hides her face.

“Daddy’s home, Sweetheart” Charlie says.

The Happiest Place on Earth

2009-05-11T11:09:00.006+01:00

Sitting at his kitchen table, Markus looks out of the window and wistfully watches the Sun set. The golden light feels special. Having gone through its arduous and unfathomable boot cycle, his laptop is finally ready to work and connected to the web. Markus logs into his Blog and writes his suicide note.

Dear World,

I have spent the last three months planning my exit. The mortal coil is to be shaken from me – I have little say in the matter. But if I’m going, I’m going on my terms. I know it sounds selfish; we all have to go. It’s just that I’m still young. I haven’t done anything yet. I haven’t done the university life, the corporate climbing, the world travel… the sex ‘n’ drugs ‘n’ rock ‘n’ roll. I haven’t even had time to get fat and slow. I’m supposed to be in my prime but this shit is killing me from the inside.

I know it’s hardly raging against the dying of the light, but it’s me, it’s my one chance to make a mark. Sorry – getting ahead of myself.

I’m going to die at Disney World in Orlando. In all the years it has been open, with all its millions of visitors, with all the roller-coasters and “do not ride if you have a weak heart” stuff, there has never been a single death there. That’s where I want to go. As in, “go.”

I’m taking a close friend - better he stays anonymous. Rather, he’s taking me. He’s going to administer the meds in the car before we enter the theme park. I will be in my wheel chair. If all goes to plan, I should die right in front of the castle thing. I hope I don't freak any kids out.

Goodbye, World. I wish we had got to know each other better.

Markus

One week later, in an ambulance just outside Lake Buena Vista, two men in paramedic whites and a woman in a doctor’s coat look to the driver. He turns to face them and says, “We’re clear. Call it.”

The doctor looks at her wristwatch then speaks into her Dictaphone.
“White male, late teens to early twenties, confirmed dead at 1427 EST en route to Hospital”
The men look expectantly at her
“…on the Palm Parkway, opposite Lake Ruby. Identification to be confirmed, but deceased was in possession of a drivers licence in the name of Markus Hausman.”

Nobody dies at the Happiest Place on Earth. Not officially, anyway.

Partition

2009-03-26T18:25:00.005Z

Swamiji meditated in lotus position, taking in the bars and walls which confined him. He contemplated his role in the new India. His story should have been remarkable for more mundane reasons - the wealthy man who gave up all his material possessions and relationships to lead a life dedicated to poverty, piety and yogic experience. That story was remarkable and common enough to raise the eyebrow of only non-Indians. But Swamiji's role in the civil war which now gripped this land was vital and entirely unintentional.

Swamiji contemplated the decision to travel to Bangalore. His followers regarded it portentous - a sign of what was to follow. What had to follow. Was written. Swamiji doubted this, having lost his faith in such mumbo-jumbo early in his initiation. He knew no Swamis with mystical powers. But he accepted the character he had to play in order that he could dedicate his life to... himself.

Bangalore was like Delhi, only with more white faces. It was one of these faces who had become rather too accustomed to the Indian custom of belittling the lowerdowns. Our man was of a vicious bent, looking on in glee when some middle class Indian beat a lower caste with a stick, chappal or fist. Our man decided to partake; he hit the wrong man; a holy man.

What else could cause the downtrodden to rise up and fight for their rights? Not generations of oppression, but the defence of a firengi's blasphemy by the middle classes. One billion paupers make one hell of an army.

Help the Homeless

2009-02-22T11:35:00.002Z

Sitting in a police interview room, the man greedily drinks his coffee, burning his mouth and loving the sensation. A hot drink. A sugary hot drink. It felt good; he could ignore the cuts, bruises and (probable) broken bones, but the sensation of a Nescafe instant was immense.

"Mr... Penry-Smythe? Is that your real name, Sir?" the wpc asks.
"Yes. Yes."
"Sir, we have some suspects we'd like you to take a look at. If your attackers are amongst them, please identify them. You will be hidden from sight and you are in our care so please don't worry."
"I'm safe here, but I'll be back sleeping rough after this. They won't leave me alone. They're animals."

Looking at the dishevelled man, wpc Roberts swallowed down her disgust. He stank of human waste, but it was who he was that really made her nauseous.

In the line-up, an assortment of the underclass scowled and cursed under their breath. DC Atkins absently stroked his sidearm; a recent addition to the British police force, but one he was comfortable with, present company especially. Walking up to #6, he asks, "Why didn't you finish him off? He's hardly in a position to fight back."
6 replies, "You can only kill a man once, but you can beat him many times, DC."

The DC sighs and glances over to his Watch Sergeant. The Sergeant knows the instruction he's going to receive. It will be a bitch to cover up.

The next morning, The Times headline reads "'Master of the Universe' Chokes on own Faeces in Police Protection".

No Tomorrow

2009-01-26T12:52:00.002Z

I did the maths. I applied my higher rational sense to the question. A cure to ageing – the death of death. Yes, it was expensive. Hugely expensive, but then, I had a long time to pay it back. When it first became available, only the mega-rich could afford it and of course, they paid. When you have life-times’ worth of money, why would you not want to get through it? The one known side-effect was infertility. So, the choices were: “lots of time, lots of money all for me” or plan for the future and have your eggs/sperm put on ice so that some other poor slob could do the grunt of carrying your progeny around until it was ready to face the World. After a very successful few years of sales to the rich, Phoenix Pharma realized that its market base was eroding/had recouped their R&D costs and could now offer the cure at greatly reduced cost. I was able to buy immortality for a mere £1.25m pounds on an 80 year mortgage. I was 22 at the time.

The bottom really fell out of the cryogenesis market back then. A lot of frozen heads thawed out when the lights went out on those businesses. And then rotted. It was the end of one ridiculous joke. I was too slow to react to that; I could have sold short and gone towards paying off some my mortgage, if I was smarter. About 10 years smarter. Ten years into the mortgage, it started to hit me. Before the cure, teenagers and 20-somethings had acted as if there was no tomorrow. Now, for some of us, there wasn’t. But being a flat broke 30 something is not the most attractive feature, and I was on the shelf. No partner and nothing to call my own. I lived in low-rent accommodation and had only the cheapest items in my wardrobe and fridge. The mortgage was tough and I was only ten years in. Each year, I got my mortgage statement and there was virtually no dent in the amount owed. The mortgage company kept offering me payment holidays and after 25 years, I started to take them. I changed the terms of the mortgage. Time really didn’t matter anymore. If it was another 50 years or another 100 years, the company was in pure profit on my account anyway. In the first 25 years I paid just over £1.25m, but that was only interest payments (apparently). I still wasn’t actually making any real headway into the loan.

By this point, I was pretty fed up of feeling tied to the job – whichever job I had at the time; my career is as long as it is shallow and narrow. All I did was work. Still no partner – no time for a partner. That had to change. So, I refinanced; dropped my payments right down to only half my take-home. Time to start living, I thought.

Things went well for a while. I managed to meet a girl I liked, but as things got more serious, she had a hard time coming to terms with us not being able to have children. And with my finances as they were, no adoption agency was going to clear us. Somehow, we made it through that and she decided that I was baby enough. We had a good life together until she fell ill. I don’t like thinking about that; the pain is still fresh. It was hard watching people I knew die, but watching her die was the worst. I still see her last few moments in my mind’s eye every time I go to sleep, every time I wake up.

Now, the only people I know are the ones I work with. I am 90 years old and still nowhere close to paying off the mortgage. I have thought about running. Get a new identity and just… walk the Earth. But then I think, how is that different to what I’m doing now? One day, I’ll take a flight to India and dedicate myself to a yogi. I’ll just disappear. Or I’ll just jump onto these tracks as that train gets closer.

NO ONE CARES about your blog

2008-11-20T14:00:00.002Z

NO ONE CARES about your blog
Originally uploaded by MrLomo

Harsh...

...but true

They Don't Call Me Chris Hoy...

2008-11-05T10:33:00.002Z

Store the bicycle in the garage? Are you joking? No way. This is my baby, and my baby stays in the house, with me. Don’t ask what it cost. That’s irrelevant. Quality comes at a price, but long after the sting, you will enjoy the choice you made. I changed a few things from stock: the wheels, the headset, the drive train, the seat, the forks and the handlebars, but now, the ride’s perfect. Just perfect.

I don my high-performance, windproof, waterproof, breathable, skin-tight and muscle-compressing clothes; I wheel the bike out of the house and hop on. The bike hums along the street with each pedalstroke transferring power from my leg to the crank, to the cog, to the wheel, to the road and covering ground at a very brisk speed. I feel the air rushing over me and see a group of kids loitering near the road. This is where you need to make sure they don’t accidentally (or deliberately) step in front of you, so I tease the brakes and slow down a little. Then one of them yells out, “Oi, Humpty! Speed up. You need the exercise, you fat bastard.”

Be a Man

2008-09-29T10:46:00.003+01:00

"Stand up to the bullies" Dad used to say. "Hit them back. They're cowards. They'll stop hitting you when you stand up for yourself." His words replay in my mind as my eye socket throbs and I struggle to contain my sobs. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth makes me want to gag. I should take my Dad's advice. It worked all those years ago at school. Hit back, hit hard, end it. Be a man! But I can't.

"Keep going! I'm almost there!" she yells. So I carry on licking and nibbling, holding back the sobs.

Dad also said never to hit girls.

It's hormonal. I'll speak to her again about getting on the pill. In a few days. When she's not on. She's not always like this.

I can't help loving her.

Tog Day

2008-09-18T12:23:00.008+01:00

“Tog day” they used to call it. The last day of term when we were allowed to go to school in our normal clothes. There was a 50p fee which went to charity, and we didn't have to wear school uniform for a day. Looking back, I can't see the point, but back then it was exciting.

The school day was totally forgettable. I really don't remember anything about it, but after school broke, I headed to Ealing Broadway with my mates. We would usually go there after school. We would go down to the Basement level in WH Smith where we'd scan the CDs and vinyl. I usually had to talk someone out of nicking something in there. I remember feeling guilty about not trying as hard if they were planning on nicking something I wanted. Bon Jovi – OK. Five Star – fuck off! Not worth getting your collar felt for Rain or fucking Shine. Kids nowadays just steal off that internet. Where's the buzz in that? Toerags. And what's with all the fucking knifing now? Some of my best mates are people I once beat the shit out of – and they fucking respect me. Kids don't get that now. We used to solve problems with our fists; they just want to end their problems now, no matter how small it is. Stupid. No opportunities in that. They want respect but they don't go earn it. But I'm going off-topic – on this particular day, we didn't go to Smiths. And did we go to BOOKS etc., either. I'll never understand why anyone would bother stealing Lord of the Rings or any of that Hobbit shit. That's another story too, though

Ealing Broadway. There I was with Jake, Hardy and Banger. Banger had found God and was (loudly) going on about his love for Jesus and vice versa. We were all tired of his religious shit, but to be fair, he had found something to believe in which didn't involve hating Pakis or over-eating. Banger's Dad had married his Mum, got his British passport, knocked her up, then fucked off back to his Wife in Pakistan (last anyone knew, at least). Yeah, he loved sausages and even the teachers knew not to call him Saleem. His Mum worked in a biscuit factory and took the absolute piss with the freebies. How many broken biscuits can you eat? A fucking lot, I'll tell you. Neither of them were the right side of a coronary, but since they'd found God they were less aggressive. Actually, no they weren't. They were just less violent, but they were right in your face about the Messiah. Banger had become a right pain in the arse, but he was a mate and we couldn't just mug him off.

Hardy was a gobby little cunt. Funny fucker, Hardy. He couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag, but he talked himself out of more fights than his cocky rabbit got him into. You had to like Hardy.

Jake was in his fucking heyday. Tall, skinny and blonde, he milked that Bros-look for all he could, and he got laid earlier and more often than the rest of us. What the fuck were those girls like? He wasn't Matt or Luke, was he? He wasn't even the rat-faced twat “on bass” for fuck's sake. Still, more power to him. He's homeless now, but he got a lot of pussy when we were 15. Balanced out in the end, I suppose.

Oh, and me. I was just me, just a really fucking wet behind the ears me.

So there we all were, in Ealing Broadway, not shoplifting and not in uniform. Goes without saying that Jake was wearing faded jeans, a white t-shirt and DMs with a Grolsch top in the lace eyes, doesn't it? I don't remember what anyone else was wearing. What? Do I look like I wear foundation, or something? So there we were, bored of Banger's shit and looking for a way to ditch him. Heavenly intervention; some other BornAgain twiglet showed up and told Banger there was some lecture on somewhere. He went with him, thank fuck. Banger's holed up in a cult house somewhere now. Lost touch with him that Summer and after the paedo-stories, I didn't really want to know, you know? Innocent until proven guilty and all that, but he was weird, man. And nothing really shocks me anymore. He's on a list somewhere.

So, one down, it was me, Jake and Hardy. Hardy was telling us some tall story and we were pissing ourselves laughing. I got a stitch from laughing so hard. Do you ever laugh that hard now? I mean, like when you were a kid? I don't. But I was laughing my nuts off then. That's when I saw her. As I was trying to get myself together and stop laughing so that my sides would stop aching, I spotted her through a knot of people, staring at us from the other side of the water fountain. She was eating a 99. Our eyes locked and I swear, the balls on her, she started... licking that 99. I mean really fucking licking it, like out of a porn film. Or a rap video. That put an end to the hysterics, man. You know how it is back then, right? You act the man. So I'm all cool now, just looking back at her. She was definitely butters, you know? Everything's good butter face. Not ugly, but angels didn't exactly start singing. Butters. The rest was amazing, mind.

Hardy was in full flow, but me stopping laughing meant something. It either meant trouble, opportunity or he wasn't funny. He would never be ready for one of those, He stopped yakking and followed my eyes. There she was, bold as brass giving him the 99-licking routine. No offence, but Hardy was an ugly cunt and I was starting to think this girl wasn't right. Jake follows and she's giving him the routine as well. Fuck! Hardy could talk himself out a fight, but back then, he couldn't talk himself into a girl's knickers. He made his excuses, something about needing a drink so he'd be back later. Something like that anyway. Basically giving me and Jake the all-clear without having to look like a sap tagging along with no hope.

So while Hardy's off getting his Coke, me and Jake sidle over to 99. “Hello!” she says. I'm thinking Jake knows her. He's thinking I know her. Neither of us knows her, but she's acting very familiar. Anyway, while we're thinking one of us knows her, we're in and acting all familiar as well. “Alright, Darling. How are you?”
“Hot!” she says, and only fucking starts the 99 licking again.

I'm thinking she's not right. Jake's thinking he's met the one.

“Do you want a drink?” Jake asks. The fucking muppet. If you want to look a twat, go to a pub and have the staff tell your new girlfriend that you're too young to order a drink. That was a stupid move.
“Yeah. Let's get drunk.” she says.
“I live just up here.” says Jake. Muppet! He looks at me with a “be cool, I know what I'm doing” look.
“Alright” she says.

So we walk. Hardy'll understand. He'll be alright as long as he gets details.

Jake's house was a fucking mess. I mean, it was always a fucking mess, so this wasn't a surprise, but it was a mess. When his house got trashed during his birthday party, I really couldn't tell. It was only the big TV-shaped hole in the living room that gave it away. What cunt goes a party and nicks the TV though? I mean, fuck's sake! Anyway, apart from getting the TV replaced, things hadn't improved much. I was embarrassed, but she didn't seem to care.

So Jake goes off to get some wine. I'm not Oz Clarke but I know Thunderbirds is liquid evil, not wine, but that's what Jake serves us. Back then, it didn't matter though. We were terribly sophisticated, drinking our Thunderbirds from our plastic wineglasses. I remember me and Jake were trying to make some bollocks smalltalk but she just downs her glass and offers it up for a refill. Jake's the gentleman and fills her up. She downs it and same again.

I'm thinking she's not right. Jake's thinking ahead.

Then, out of nowhere, she turns around and starts taking her clothes off. Right there, in Jake's pigsty of a living room, which truth be told was the best place for it, because Jake's bedroom wished it could be a boxroom when it grew up and his mattress wished it had a base. That was my fault. I broke his bed when I was fucking Kathy on it. It was a bit awkward because it was his bed and his girlfriend, but he got over it. Well, I say his girlfriend, but they had broken up the week before. I know, it was a shitty thing to do, but Kathy had amazing tits. Anyway, Jake's room was a good place to avoid. His Mum's room was a better place to avoid. Can you imagine trying to get it on with someone and your Mum walking in? Or just as likely, you roll across her fucking black mamba dildo. Jake's mum was weird. You couldn't take that risk, trust me.

Anyway, you don't care about that. So, she's taking her clothes off and I mean all of them. She looked good in her bra and knickers. Amazing outside them. Milky skin, perky tits, perfect legs, juicy arse and a trimmed bush. Mate, that was exotic back in the 80s. I wish I could say me and Jake knew what to do, but we just sat there like a pair of lemons. Gobsmacked is right. So then she giggles, and comes over and sits herself on my lap. No warning, no nothing, she starts kissing me. I'm kissing her back on auto-pilot but I know that (A) Jake is in the room watching and (B) I'm still holding that plastic wineglass; I don't know why I was bothered about spilling it – no-one would have noticed one more stain in that carpet. Anyway, I offer her the drink and while she's knocking it back, I start playing with her tits. She doesn't waste any time and pushes them into my mush so I do the only polite thing I can and start sucking. She reaches down and starts on my cock. This is clearly Jake's cue to fuck off, so he gets up to leave.

She tells him to come over and she's straight at his jeans and belt. I have to admit, I'm horny as hell, but I'm thinking she's not right. Anyway, she gets up and starts kissing Jake. Is this my cue to fuck off? Before I could decide, she's back at grabbing for my cock. Well, what would you do? I pulled it out for her.

Oh I know spit-roasting's all the rage now, but she opened our eyes to a whole new world back then. She was up for it like no-one else. “Put it in here,” “put it in there,” “now you,” “now you,” “now both together” (that was awkward), “harder,” “harder,” “harder.” Fucking hell. I mean fucking hell!
“Say my name”
“What is your name?”
“Sarah!”
“Sarah!”
“Sarah!”
“Yess!”

And when we were done, her clothes were back on as quick as they came off. Trust me, sitting naked with your mate with a fully clothed bird is weird. Well, it wasn't my house so I thought I'd better get my gear on and leave. I ended up offering to walk her home, which was a mistake because she lived miles away – near Ealing Hospital. Couldn't afford a cab so we got the bus. A great conversationalist she was not. The whole way, I was thinking she's not right. And any plans I had of doing her again pretty much went up in smoke when we got to her place. It was only a fucking mental institution. The guard gave me the eyeballs at the main door. I walked her to her room and she tried it on there. I wasn't having it though. It's funny now – I mean, I was more scared of nobbing a mentalist than I was of AIDS. I should have checked myself in, man. Mental. Anyway, I had to fight my way out. Seriously. She was naked again and I was tempted, but the nuthouse was a turn-off.

So I left. She was upset, but that wasn't my problem. When I got to the front door, I asked the guard what was going on. People used to talk back then. None of that confidentiality shit. I mean, I'd just been at her holiest of holeys so what's to hide? Anyway, he tells me that she's a nymphomaniac. Proper. Got self-respect issues and thinks the only way to get people to like her is to fuck them. Apparently, her Dad used to abuse her, which is where it all started. I mean, all things being equal, I was a good kid, you know? I felt bad for her. I didn't want to be part of that, even though she was a sure thing. So when I got home, I phoned Jake and course, he was still buzzing. He's making plans to see her again and apparently Hardy wants to come with and maybe Banger just needs a good shag to get him out of his Bible-shit. I thought he'd understand when I told him what happened but he thought I was lying. Things never really went back to normal after that, and I don't really see Jake anymore. He don't ask me for change and I don't give it to him. I sometimes think I should buy him a meal, you know. Sit down with him and talk about the old times. But they were a long time ago, man. Life moves on.

Make a Wish and Blow

2008-08-07T14:54:00.005+01:00

“Eyelash!” screamed the delighted Amy, infecting Rowan with a spontaneous need to both jump with excitement and stand very still, so as not to lose the little follicle. Looking up at his older sister, Rowan entrusted Amy to tackle the operation of removing the eyelash carefully from his cherubic face.

“Be careful, Amy”
“Ooooh! Eyelash eyelash eyelash! You can make a wish and Aunt Emma will make it come true!”
“Careful, Amy!”

Amy’s excitement was getting the better of her and Rowan could sense it. Taking a deep breath, Amy plucked the orphaned eyelash from her brother’s face and placed it in her left palm; then finally allowed herself to exhale. They both looked at the eyelash and allowed the excitement to surge again.

“Quick! Aunt Emma’s!”

They ran to the top of the street where the old lady lived. Everyone called her Aunt Emma, even the grown-ups. She wasn’t related; she was just Aunt Emma. Everyone who had grown up in Barton in the past forty years knew Aunt Emma. She was always at Church, always at School events, always there to help and always so nice.

Aunt Emma was in her front garden as the children approached. She could see the excitement on their faces and felt a warm glow.

“Hello Amy and Rowan. What’s got you so excited?”
“Rowan’s got a” “I got a” “EYELASH” they said in unison.
“An eye-lash, you say! Well. An eyelash. That’s nice, dears” and she feigned to return to her gardening.

“But Aunt Emm-mmaa!” Rowan pleaded, “The eyelash! You have to make my wish come true!”
“Of course. Silly old me. Sorry, Rowan. I forgot all about that” she replied, giving a conspiratorial wink to Amy. Amy tittered to herself.

“Come on in, then” Aunt Emma said, wiping her hands on her pinafore. The children followed Aunt Emma into her cottage and sat at her kitchen table. Aunt Emma washed her hands and brought over her famous china bowl. Rowan knew what to do. He carefully took the eyelash from Amy, placed it on his right index fingertip, muttered his most heartfelt wish under his breath, then gently blew the eyelash into the bowl.

“That’s a good one,”Aunt Emma said. “Off with you two now and I’ll work on the eyelash.”

The children skipped out of the cottage. Aunt Emma waved them off, then closed and locked her front door with some urgency. Returning to the kitchen, Aunt Emma opened her tea tin and and sprinkled a pinch of the powdered contents into the bowl. Then, with her hairpin she pricked her finger and added a few drops of blood to the mixture. Holding a person’s desires gave you great power over them, and Rowan would now forever be lashed to Aunt Emma’s whims.

The Stowaway

2008-08-06T11:36:00.007+01:00

“Girl Friday” was how he referred to her in his recollections, having discovered her as he had on a Friday. A 13th no less. It had been his lucky day, romanticized through the mists of time; a slender, tender young Slav in the back of his scary truck, bravely making her way over to the UK.

He feigned ignorance that she was meant to be there. Pretended that money had not changed hands. He took the moral high ground. Better to believe it oneself if questioned by the authorities.

After crossing the Channel, Bill had taken the opportunity to check on his cargo at a truckers' stop, and to his great surprise, there was the girl. Woman.

Girl.

The act was to first be surprised. How had she gotten into the truck? Then concerned. Was she okay? Then worried. What kind of trouble was she going to get him into? On cue, she tried to convince him that it was okay, she was okay, she had paid Miro to get to the UK. Who was Miro etc? What on Earth was he supposed to do now? And so the act went until Bill pulled out the big guns.

“We're going to have to go to the Police, Love. I can't be mixed up in this. I don't know any Miro and I don't smuggle people.”
“No. Please. Understand. I must be here. Is very important.”
“I can't help you, Love. I'll go to jail. I have a family.”
“Please to help. Please!”

And then the ace in the hole. The pause. The head-scratching. The question.
“What can you do for me, Love?”
A man of advancing years and girth, his eagerness was not well suppressed and she immediately understood what was expected of her. It would be only some hours before she realised that this was staged to induce her to offer herself to him. That way, it's not rape, he had convinced himself.

But it was. It wasn't pleasant for her. Far from it. And neither was it for him. It was payment. Not for the carriage. Miro's cash was for the carriage. It was payment for his failures, his bitterness and the things which were owed him, but were never given. And he was damned if he was going to take her to Welwyn Garden City as arranged. She would have to make her own way there.

“Look, Love. Here's twenty Pounds. You get a cab from here to where you need to go. I can't take you any further” he said. Numb, she took the money. A small voice told her to argue the case, for him to take her to where he was meant to take her, but a stronger voice told her to get away from him as soon as she could.

“You'll be alright here, Love. Loads of taxis pass by here. Good luck and that. I'm John by the way,” Bill said.

Wide-eyed, she blinked at him.

The truck pulled away. It was two hours before the first car passed.

Sixth Sense

2008-08-06T11:30:00.004+01:00

Sky News had got the scoop. Ben Schama had agreed to their live TV interview and to their test of his ability to hear the thoughts of plants. After an internet campaign had made his ability international news, the man of the moment was being given fifteen minutes. Fifteen actual minutes. Sky had alloted him one quarter of one hour on their news station. Unprecedented for anything but disasters and the gravest matters of State. Such as David Beckham's metatarsal bone, Japan 2002.

“Ben,” the oddly un/attractive female newscaster began, “you can communicate with plants. How do...”
“Sorry. No. I can hear what plants are thinking. I can't talk back to them.”
“You can hear what plants are thinking. How do you do it?”
Already , she was scrambling to re-work some of her ad-libs.

“I don't know. I've just aways been in tune with them, since I was about eight years old.”
“Mmm. And when did you first realise you could communicate with plants?”
“At eight. I started to be able to hear their thoughts.”
“And do they know you are listening in?”
“I don't know how they would. I can't talk back to them. Do you know who's listening to you?”
“About three million viewers. Ha ha ha. Ohhh. So, what do plants have to say, Ben?”
“Mostly the...”
“Ben, we have a little experiment set-up for you” cut in the male co-newscaster. He had the look of someone who had once been fit. An undercurrent of strength which conveyed serious journalistic integrity to the viewers. It hinted at an ability to get the story, whatever it took. Even if it meant cracking a few heads. Action Man, twenty years past his prime. Longer hair, but still with the eagle eye and vice grip.

Action Man took Ben and his colleague the three steps to studio left where there sat an assortment of plants on a Sky News table.
“What are they thinking?” Action Man asked. His expression was one of excitement. Who said the news has to be depressing? Not only was this far from depressing, but think about the possibilities! Action Man couldn't wait to get to his questions about the possibilities Ben's ability could bring forth in the areas of agriculture and alternative energies. And hydroponics. That would sound clever.

“Which one?” Ben aked.
Action Man was lost in his thoughts, but the sixth sense that newcasters share amongst eachother kicked un/attractive into gear. “That one,” she chimed, pointing at a cheeseplant.

Ben closed his eyes and focused his mind. Far out of earshot and sight, the omnipotent Director of the programme called, “Camera two, close up on his face. Cut to camera two.”

The three million viewers at home were treated to a close up of Ben.

“It's a bit difficult with lights and...”
Action Man tensed in his suit. The threat of violence required no sixth sense to determine – just proximity.
“er...” Ben tightened his eyelids some more. “It's hot.”

Somewhere out of sight, but not entirely out of earshot, the Director screamed, “Of course it's fucking hot! It's a fucking studio!”.
“That's the studio lights, Ben” un/attractive jumped in, rescuing the moment for the second time in a row. This was good. More of these and she could be trusted with primetime.

“No. I know. But that's what the plant's thinking. That it's hot.”
“Oh. Right. Well, can't argue with that,” said Action Man. “Plant's not lying. I can tell the viewers at home that it is... hot... in the studio.”
Un/attractive nodded convincingly, then fanned her face with her cue cards and puffed out her cheeks. Teamwork.

“What about that one?” un/attractive asked, pointing to a cactus.
Seconds pass. Close-up, eyes tight.
“Thirsty” answered Ben.

Action Man went into serious journalist mode. “The cactus, you say is thirsty? How is that Ben?”
“I don't know. It just is.”
“But it's a cactus. They don't get thirsty.”
“Did they tell you that?”
“Of course not, but everyone knows that cactii” [that was good!] “don't like lots of water.”
“Where'd they get that from?”
“Presumably from the fact that cactii don't grow in swamps” [smile, take the sting out of it]
“Well, this one's thirsty.”

“What else do plants talk about Ben?” un/attractive asked.
“Light. Cold. That's about it.”
“Do plants have feelings?”
“No. They're plants.”
“What about talking to plants. Does that really help them grow?”
“No. They're plants. They can't hear.”
“But can they sense the vibrations in the air?”
“That's called 'hearing' mostly. No. They can't.”

“Cut to the Ronaldo transfer story!” screamed the Director.
“Well, Ben. Thank you for coming in and sharing your insights with us. I'm sure our viewers and their plants enjoyed that. But now, over to James with the sports.”

It's just another orifice

2008-07-17T18:10:00.004+01:00

Strewn around the bedroom is the paraphernalia of what should have been a good night. Empty champagne bottles and boxes of chocolate, a tube of KY Jelly. In the dim glow of the bedside light sit our couple, at opposite sides of the bed facing away from eachother. The night, clearly, has not gone to plan. She looks to the ceiling and shakes her head. He looks to the floor and unknowingly mimics her sentiments and action.

“Why won't you do this? You might like it.”
“I just don't want to.”
“You might like it. You won't know until you try it.”
“It's not fucking asparagus!”
“No. It's not fucking... asparagus.”

The tension is broken and they start to giggle. They look at eachother and something passes between them.

“OK” she says.

He rushes downstairs, to the kitchen, and gets another bottle of champagne.

Four glasses and a handful of giggles later and the look is shared once more between them.

“O-kay” she says.

They awake the next morning, in eachother's arms.
“That was a great night.”
“Mm.”
“Come on. You loved it. You came like a steam train.”
“Yeah. But I'm going to be walking funny for a week.” he replies.

Ctrl-Alt-Del

2008-07-16T18:18:00.009+01:00

Linda glanced over towards Andrew's cubicle for the third time in quick succession. He was still staring at his screen with an expression Linda could not read. Was it shock? Anger? He hadn't moved for the past few minutes and who could tell how long he had been like that before Linda first noticed?

"Huh-mm". Linda hoped she had struck a nonchalant tone. "Do you want a coffee, Andy? I'm just going over to the machine...?"

Too late, Linda realised the raised inflexion at the end of the sentence. She was trying too hard.

Andrew slowly turned towards her, and then she realised that he had been staring at a blank screen. A blank blue screen.

Linda's eyes started to widen; her mouth started to form an "O". A flash of light from the corner of Andrew's cubicle and she found herself staring at the polystyrene ceiling tiles and felt a warmth spreading over her legs and stomach. She wondered whether she had fainted and peed herself, when Andrew stood over her and emptied two more bullets into her skull.

"Blue screen of fucking death!"

Andrew did not submit his management report that month and was summarily let go.

It Happens to the Best of Us

2008-07-16T18:18:00.008+01:00

He was a committed bachelor. Not the Daily Mail, "he was a committed bachelor and fan of stage musicals" type, but a randy-as-hell, lock-up-your-daughters, stick-it-in-anything-that-moves type. And he had been that way since he was a teenager. Never once, in the twenty-something years since he had "discovered girls", did he ever stop to consider he was looking for love. Unlike many 30-something bachelors, he truly loved his "single" marital status. Going home to a cupboard full of long shelf-life foods and high tech gadgets made him feel good, not bad.

And yet, lying beside him was someone who in one night had changed everything. This morning, he woke up early not to slip away, post-it note excuse stuck to the mirror with a promise to call, but to just stare at the sonambulent beauty by his side. "Oh, Mali", he sighed.

The Sun was starting to creep above the horizon and its warm hues began to illuminate the outline of Mali's perfect breasts, the curve of her hip and her pert bottom against the thin white bedsheet. He thought of last night - a wondrous night. The things they had done together; to each other. He still felt the glow. His excitement was starting to grow. He gently brushed his hand over Mali's hip, down her leg to her knee, then back up her thighs, where he tenderly caressed her penis.

She had something the others didn't.

The Heat of the Moment

2008-07-16T18:14:00.005+01:00

"I've spoken to all my friends and all their husbands and boyfriends do the cooking at least once a week. You never do it. What am I? Your slave?"

With those four day old words echoing in his head, he looked at the chopping board, the large knife in his right hand, and sighed. It still felt too soon. This was admitting defeat. Cooking, because he was told to. Not because he was good at it. Because he had been told to.

What to cook, though? What to cook, what to cook?

Well, there were some things which were always needed, so he could chop some onions and chillies to start with, then see what else in the fridge could be thrown in. The fridge contained various chillies; he picked the hottest ones. She didn't like those. Bitch.

Upon chopping the chillies, he went to the cupboard for the onions. None there. Not one. How could they not have onions? Onions!

Well, to Hell with it, then. Can't cook without onions.

Forlornly, he looked again at the chopping board, the large knife in his right hand, and sighed again. A great sense of despair took over his mood. His thoughts were morbid. For some reason, he wanted to do harm to himself. So then she'd appreciate him, when we wasn't there anymore. Or, felt like she came close to losing him.

He quickly realised how stupid that was.

He looked again at the chopping board, the large knife in his right hand, the cut chillies about to go to waste and sighed again. He left the the kitchen, and returned moments later, with her vibrator.

The Visitation

2008-07-16T18:11:00.003+01:00

Whatever they tell you; it's all a lie. They don't know. If they knew, they'd lie anyway. The truth's not worth knowing. It's not.

You realise that if I tell you, you won't know how to live and you won't want to die. For the fleeting moments that you are on the Earth, live in ignorance. Don't ask me again.

I have eternity to refuse you. You'll find out for yourself eventually. Don't ask again. What there is after life... everyone finds out. Just live. Do all you can while you're alive. Remember that the body is loaned to you. Express it. Run, jump, dance, laugh, cry, make love, make babies, eat, sleep. Because after... well, you'll miss it. The body rots away, and what's left is... pure. And impotent.

Look, right now, you are the show. Afterwards, you'll be in the audience. Blow those candles out and get out there.

The Exorcist

2008-07-16T15:41:00.001+01:00

The entrance to the underground room was hidden behind the bookcase. The bookcase held only two books - the only two books the good Doctor ever relied upon. One for his medical practice, the other for his spiritual-. A curious soul would have easily uncovered the entrance had any the bravery or stupidity to enter the good Doctor's premises. The good Doctor's housekeeper was only conspicuous by her work; the elderly Somali never more than the tail of black material whisking around a corner.

Inside the hidden room, the good Doctor surveyed his collection. Row upon row of glass jars, each neatly indexed, sitting atop a manilla envelope; each vessel carrying a similar payload preserved in formaldehyde. The good Doctor found it impossible to contain his pride at his great work.

The good Doctor lifted a jar at random and opened the manilla envelope. From inside, he removed the single reference card with its stapled photo. Yasmeen Ali, daughter of Abdul Ali, born 1988. A beautiful child, Yasmeen, and now mother to two boys and wife to a local farmer. Yasmeen was a product of his life's work, and he knew that her position in the World was safe. She was pure. A good wife and mother. Never to be an adulterous. He replaced the items to the envelope and thought about who he should entrust to carry on his works. His body would not carry him many more years. He had a shortlist of young men. They would require teaching; some would require taming, but amongst them, he had a legion. He wished that he had had the foresight to create this legion in younger years - how many more women could he have saved if he had shared the burden? But an old man should have few regrets and on balance, his work had started an ustoppable movement.

Before leaving, he succumbed to his routine. Taking the unmarked jar from its display case, the good Doctor stroked its lid and looked with sorrow at its contents. He had been too late to save his own wife's virtue, but the Devil that drove her was safely locked away now.

Remembering the time, the good Doctor replaced the jar in a hurry; his boys were awaiting instruction. Inside the jar, the fleshy nub gently swayed from left to right in the agitated formaldehyde.