I saw the Devil step from the train. I looked away. Thought I was wrong, but no.
The Devil stepped from the train and walked straight towards me. Blocked my path. Stared me in the eye. Whispered in my ear promising me wild times and parties and gold. Everything, everything, everything.
I said "No". Turned around. Walked away.
Couldn't help looking back though.
Man. She was HOT!
Friday, December 5, 2008
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
The Identity Thief 3.0
The Identity Thief sat in a bar with a G&T untouched on the counter in front of her. She considered her avoidance of the floppy haired chap a lucky escape. By good fortune Madeline had a small amount of usable funds in her purse. $1000 bills were difficult to convert into drinks in bars in London and a drink had been in order.
The bar was modern retro. Chrome, marble and glass the materials of choice for its designer. Huge ferns and other assorted greenery contrasting with austerity and colonial longing.
She found she was hungry. A steady increase in the number of people in the bar indicating that it was lunchtime only fuelled the feeling. Perhaps Madeline was not the kind of girl who went in for such simplicities as breakfast.
The Identity Thief ordered Salade Nicoise with chargrilled tuna and settled at a table to await her food.
A sudden thunderstorm thrashed against the windows.
She sipped her G&T.
Pulled her skirt hem over Madeline’s stocking tops.
Rested her chin on a hand.
Wondered what would happen next.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Regret
"Gillian!" Lucille cried "how could you! And with HIM." She pointed at the naked man standing by the bed trying to cover his remarkably small and limp member with embarrassed hands.
It was only later that Lucille realised she had not looked at his face and could not describe his features.
Gillian stared back at Lucille with wide bulging eyes.
Gillian said nothing.
She couldn't. She was gagged by a red and black striped necktie tied around her mouth.
She was naked. Spread in a cross and tied to the corners of the bed by her ripped stockings and blouse.
Disgusted at her betrayal Lucille turned angrily from the scene and ran from the room slamming the door behind her. Ran from the house. Drove away fuming. Not seeing in her fury the broken lamp and the cuts and the bruises.
Leaving her friend.
Leaving her lover.
Not realising. Not realising. Just not understanding.
Driving away leaving Gillian's killer to take his time.
And condemning herself to a lifetime of regret, regret, regret.
It was only later that Lucille realised she had not looked at his face and could not describe his features.
Gillian stared back at Lucille with wide bulging eyes.
Gillian said nothing.
She couldn't. She was gagged by a red and black striped necktie tied around her mouth.
She was naked. Spread in a cross and tied to the corners of the bed by her ripped stockings and blouse.
Disgusted at her betrayal Lucille turned angrily from the scene and ran from the room slamming the door behind her. Ran from the house. Drove away fuming. Not seeing in her fury the broken lamp and the cuts and the bruises.
Leaving her friend.
Leaving her lover.
Not realising. Not realising. Just not understanding.
Driving away leaving Gillian's killer to take his time.
And condemning herself to a lifetime of regret, regret, regret.
Friday, May 23, 2008
How Twitter Stole His Life
It started when he tried to link Twitter to Gtalk.
He followed the instructions. But it didn't work. A dud. Nothing.
So he went back to the beginning of the process and started again.
Nope. Didn't work. So he tried again. And again. And again.
He was patient. Its one of those things. When you are a certain age you have grown up as the technology has grown up. You are used to things being kinda buggy and a certain amount of pointless repetition is a normal IT experience. Its just how things are.
After the fifteenth, maybe twentieth time though, he gave up. Moved on. Thought nothing of it.
Days passed. Weeks passed. Life went on. He lived, he twittered, he blogged. Played the odd game of Scrabulous on Facebook. Didn't get sued or anything. He even posted some topless beach shots of an old girlfriend on Facebook.
"That'll teach her!" He sniggered.
But then he noticed a quiet change. His Twitter followers were ebbing away. One here. One there. A quiet trickle.
"Oh well." He shrugged, "Its not as if I really know any of these people."
But pretty soon more than half had gone. A week later three quarters.
By the end of following month he had no followers at all. Zero. Zip. Nada.
Then he started getting blocked. One by one over a period of two or three weeks every single Twitterer he followed blocked him.
He tried contacting those he knew via other applications. But they blanked him. Cut him cold. Left him for dead.
After a month of lonely pointless tweeting he stopped. Gave it up.
But it didn't stop there.
His Facebook friends dropped him. His LinkedIn links unchained him. Jaiku junked him. He found himself isolated. He decided a good solid blog post on the chilly experience would be the first volley in a fight back. Sketched out some notes and logged in at his work station late one evening when the office was deserted.
His password failed. It wouldn't let him in.
He tried again. Slowly. Made sure it was correct. Same again. He tried entering it over and over and over. Nothing. Tried all the various passwords he could ever recall using. All failed. All blocked him.
Feeling panicky and paranoid he tried to get into to all his various accounts. Failed to access Facebook. Locked out of LinkedIn. Gmail fail... the works.
He sat staring at the pc screen. Pale. Sweaty. Trembling.
He grabbed his coat and ran to the elevator. It took too long so he sprinted down the stairs to the car park. Dashed to the space where he had left his car.
The space was empty.
He stood dumb, numb and uncomprehending.
Jones the security guard approached and shone a brilliant beam right in his face.
"What are doing in here?" Jones said "This is a private car park."
"My car has been stolen!" He replied. "I parked it here this morning."
"I don't know who you are," Jones said, "But this car park is for company employees only. I am gonna have to ask you to leave now sir, I don't want any trouble..."
He caught a bus and then walked. Ran the last few blocks. Turned into the street where he lived and stopped. Stood there in the middle of the road and stared.
His house was illuminated. Every room bright pouring light out into the night. Music played loudly. The unmistakable thud, throb and buzz of a party taking place.
"What the..." he rushed to the front door. Tried his key but it wouldn't turn in the lock.
He moved across in front of the window. Peered in and felt a terrible shiver course through him.
In the room. His front room. The room where he watched TV and relaxed. Was a crowd. A crowd of Him. Twenty of Him at least. A throng of doppelgangers. All identical. All with HIS face. Four or five of them were jostling his terrified wife. One pulled her sweater over her head laughing. Another turned and looked directly at him through the window a laugh of triumph visible on his face as the curtains were drawn on the scene and he was shut out into the night. Left staring at his own reflection in the black mirror that the glass had become.
He didn't recognise the face that stared back at him. Didn't recognise it at all.
He followed the instructions. But it didn't work. A dud. Nothing.
So he went back to the beginning of the process and started again.
Nope. Didn't work. So he tried again. And again. And again.
He was patient. Its one of those things. When you are a certain age you have grown up as the technology has grown up. You are used to things being kinda buggy and a certain amount of pointless repetition is a normal IT experience. Its just how things are.
After the fifteenth, maybe twentieth time though, he gave up. Moved on. Thought nothing of it.
Days passed. Weeks passed. Life went on. He lived, he twittered, he blogged. Played the odd game of Scrabulous on Facebook. Didn't get sued or anything. He even posted some topless beach shots of an old girlfriend on Facebook.
"That'll teach her!" He sniggered.
But then he noticed a quiet change. His Twitter followers were ebbing away. One here. One there. A quiet trickle.
"Oh well." He shrugged, "Its not as if I really know any of these people."
But pretty soon more than half had gone. A week later three quarters.
By the end of following month he had no followers at all. Zero. Zip. Nada.
Then he started getting blocked. One by one over a period of two or three weeks every single Twitterer he followed blocked him.
He tried contacting those he knew via other applications. But they blanked him. Cut him cold. Left him for dead.
After a month of lonely pointless tweeting he stopped. Gave it up.
But it didn't stop there.
His Facebook friends dropped him. His LinkedIn links unchained him. Jaiku junked him. He found himself isolated. He decided a good solid blog post on the chilly experience would be the first volley in a fight back. Sketched out some notes and logged in at his work station late one evening when the office was deserted.
His password failed. It wouldn't let him in.
He tried again. Slowly. Made sure it was correct. Same again. He tried entering it over and over and over. Nothing. Tried all the various passwords he could ever recall using. All failed. All blocked him.
Feeling panicky and paranoid he tried to get into to all his various accounts. Failed to access Facebook. Locked out of LinkedIn. Gmail fail... the works.
He sat staring at the pc screen. Pale. Sweaty. Trembling.
He grabbed his coat and ran to the elevator. It took too long so he sprinted down the stairs to the car park. Dashed to the space where he had left his car.
The space was empty.
He stood dumb, numb and uncomprehending.
Jones the security guard approached and shone a brilliant beam right in his face.
"What are doing in here?" Jones said "This is a private car park."
"My car has been stolen!" He replied. "I parked it here this morning."
"I don't know who you are," Jones said, "But this car park is for company employees only. I am gonna have to ask you to leave now sir, I don't want any trouble..."
He caught a bus and then walked. Ran the last few blocks. Turned into the street where he lived and stopped. Stood there in the middle of the road and stared.
His house was illuminated. Every room bright pouring light out into the night. Music played loudly. The unmistakable thud, throb and buzz of a party taking place.
"What the..." he rushed to the front door. Tried his key but it wouldn't turn in the lock.
He moved across in front of the window. Peered in and felt a terrible shiver course through him.
In the room. His front room. The room where he watched TV and relaxed. Was a crowd. A crowd of Him. Twenty of Him at least. A throng of doppelgangers. All identical. All with HIS face. Four or five of them were jostling his terrified wife. One pulled her sweater over her head laughing. Another turned and looked directly at him through the window a laugh of triumph visible on his face as the curtains were drawn on the scene and he was shut out into the night. Left staring at his own reflection in the black mirror that the glass had become.
He didn't recognise the face that stared back at him. Didn't recognise it at all.
Friday, April 25, 2008
The Identity Thief 2.0
The Identity Thief slipped neatly into the life of Madeline Marchant. Bought an A-Z at the station. Found the Library where Madeline worked. Presented herself for the day and within no time at all was sat behind a counter bored out of her mind.
The small urban library was tucked away in a lonely backstreet. Most of the books stocked on its shelves were dusty backed ancient curiosities and the majority of its very limited clientèle were pretty much the same.
Except for one.
Tall, he wore a dark blue pin stripe suit with a pink silk tie knotted in a perfect Windsor. His hair was dark and floppy. His lips a little pale. His eyes a little grey. He approached the counter behind which the Identity Thief was busy being bored.
"Er herm." He coughed.
She looked up.
"Yes?" She said, "Can I help you?"
"I am researching a book." He said, "And I am lead to believe you might be able to er... help."
"Help?" She said.
"Yes. Help." He said.
"How exactly might I do that?" She said
"Well..." He said, "This is the Leonard Roundswell Early Edition Library?"
"It is quite possible that it is." She admitted.
"And you are..." He paused, "...Madeline?"
"Madeline?" She said.
"Yes, Madeline." He confirmed, "You are Madeline aren't you?" He looked momentarily concerned.
"Yes." She said. "I am Madeline."
"Then err..." He fumbled inside the pocket of his jacket. Pulled out a crumpled $1000 bill and smoothed it out on the counter. "This is I believe the correct amount."
She stared at the $1000 dollar bill. Had she not already found nine others in a neat roll hidden in a very intimate part of Madeline's anatomy, she might have been surprised rather than curious.
"The correct amount?" She said.
"Yes, the correct amount." He confirmed.
"The correct amount for what?" She asked.
"For what?" He looked concerned and leaned forwards, "Is this a test? Surely you know what the money is for? You are Madeline aren't you?"
"Yes." She said, "And of course I know what the money is for, but in order for this to proceed you need to reassure me that you understand what the money is for."
"Oh I see." The Chap said. "Yes yes indeed I understand. So sorry. Silly of me!"
"Don't mention it." The Identity Thief said.
"Yes yes I understand." He said again and leaning further forward whispered a few words of explanation into the ear of the impostor.
The Chap stood back and waited. The identity Thief considered the proposition. The Thousand dollar bill lay on the counter between them and a thousand dollar bill is a thousand dollar bill even if you do have a further nine about your person.
"OK." She said to the chap smoothing the thousand dollar bill with a finger. "Second row on the left. Go to the end. Turn right. Go into the fourth reading booth and wait for me. I will be with you in two minutes."
"Of course." He blushed. "Thank you." He hurried away following her instructions.
The identity thief watched him disappear from sight between the bookshelves.
She rolled the thousand dollar bill into a thin tube and secreted it in her cleavage. Retrieved Madeline's bag from the floor. Walked around the counter and straight out of the library door.
She rushed up the steps outside until her feet touched the pavement and ran as far as Madeline's shoes would carry her away from the Chap and his thousand dollar proposition .
The small urban library was tucked away in a lonely backstreet. Most of the books stocked on its shelves were dusty backed ancient curiosities and the majority of its very limited clientèle were pretty much the same.
Except for one.
Tall, he wore a dark blue pin stripe suit with a pink silk tie knotted in a perfect Windsor. His hair was dark and floppy. His lips a little pale. His eyes a little grey. He approached the counter behind which the Identity Thief was busy being bored.
"Er herm." He coughed.
She looked up.
"Yes?" She said, "Can I help you?"
"I am researching a book." He said, "And I am lead to believe you might be able to er... help."
"Help?" She said.
"Yes. Help." He said.
"How exactly might I do that?" She said
"Well..." He said, "This is the Leonard Roundswell Early Edition Library?"
"It is quite possible that it is." She admitted.
"And you are..." He paused, "...Madeline?"
"Madeline?" She said.
"Yes, Madeline." He confirmed, "You are Madeline aren't you?" He looked momentarily concerned.
"Yes." She said. "I am Madeline."
"Then err..." He fumbled inside the pocket of his jacket. Pulled out a crumpled $1000 bill and smoothed it out on the counter. "This is I believe the correct amount."
She stared at the $1000 dollar bill. Had she not already found nine others in a neat roll hidden in a very intimate part of Madeline's anatomy, she might have been surprised rather than curious.
"The correct amount?" She said.
"Yes, the correct amount." He confirmed.
"The correct amount for what?" She asked.
"For what?" He looked concerned and leaned forwards, "Is this a test? Surely you know what the money is for? You are Madeline aren't you?"
"Yes." She said, "And of course I know what the money is for, but in order for this to proceed you need to reassure me that you understand what the money is for."
"Oh I see." The Chap said. "Yes yes indeed I understand. So sorry. Silly of me!"
"Don't mention it." The Identity Thief said.
"Yes yes I understand." He said again and leaning further forward whispered a few words of explanation into the ear of the impostor.
The Chap stood back and waited. The identity Thief considered the proposition. The Thousand dollar bill lay on the counter between them and a thousand dollar bill is a thousand dollar bill even if you do have a further nine about your person.
"OK." She said to the chap smoothing the thousand dollar bill with a finger. "Second row on the left. Go to the end. Turn right. Go into the fourth reading booth and wait for me. I will be with you in two minutes."
"Of course." He blushed. "Thank you." He hurried away following her instructions.
The identity thief watched him disappear from sight between the bookshelves.
She rolled the thousand dollar bill into a thin tube and secreted it in her cleavage. Retrieved Madeline's bag from the floor. Walked around the counter and straight out of the library door.
She rushed up the steps outside until her feet touched the pavement and ran as far as Madeline's shoes would carry her away from the Chap and his thousand dollar proposition .
Friday, April 11, 2008
The NHS Was Trying To Kill Him
The NHS was trying to kill him. It was the third time it had tried and it had been a narrow escape every time.
The night before the operation he lay awake terrified. The first two attempts rolling round in his mind. Staring through the gloom at the ceiling. Every muscle tense. Every breath short and nervy. Every tick of the clock taunting him.
He was hungry. That didn't help. Not eating for 12 hours before the operation as instructed. He was sure this was a ruse to keep him weak and vulnerable.
He had driven to the hospital with shaking hands. This made his driving erratic. That made him slow down which made the journey a drawn out torture. A pulse pounding on his temple all the way.
He checked in two hours before the operation was due. Sat waiting on an old chair in an older corridor. A clock on the wall opposite him counting down what could be the final minutes of his life.
An hour passed. No one came for him. No one even walked past.
A second hour ebbed and ebbed.
When only ten minutes remained until the time of the operation, he stood up and walked back to reception. Surely someone should have come for him by now?
"Oh" The receptionist said on seeing him, "Has no one come to speak to you?"
"No one." He said.
"Wait here." She instructed him.
She returned a few minutes later with a doctor.
"I am Mr Modrigan." The man in the white coat said. "I was due to operate on you this morning."
"Yes?" He said.
"I have some good news!" Mr Modrigan said, "You have had a lucky escape!"
"A lucky escape?"
"Yes, a lucky escape." The consultant continued, "I have just read your notes for the first time and despite the fact that I have a theatre primed, and a team of people ready to go I have decided that it is far too risky a venture. So you can go home."
"Go home?"
"Yes, go home." The consultant smiled, "We'll fix an appointment for you to come back sometime and we can chat through your options."
With that Mr Modrigan turned and walked away.
He watched him stride down the corridor, white coat billowing behind.
He turned slowly, feeling weak. Walked out through automatic doors towards the car park. As the doors closed behind him with a whoosh, and he was sure they whispered:
"We'll get you next time."
The night before the operation he lay awake terrified. The first two attempts rolling round in his mind. Staring through the gloom at the ceiling. Every muscle tense. Every breath short and nervy. Every tick of the clock taunting him.
He was hungry. That didn't help. Not eating for 12 hours before the operation as instructed. He was sure this was a ruse to keep him weak and vulnerable.
He had driven to the hospital with shaking hands. This made his driving erratic. That made him slow down which made the journey a drawn out torture. A pulse pounding on his temple all the way.
He checked in two hours before the operation was due. Sat waiting on an old chair in an older corridor. A clock on the wall opposite him counting down what could be the final minutes of his life.
An hour passed. No one came for him. No one even walked past.
A second hour ebbed and ebbed.
When only ten minutes remained until the time of the operation, he stood up and walked back to reception. Surely someone should have come for him by now?
"Oh" The receptionist said on seeing him, "Has no one come to speak to you?"
"No one." He said.
"Wait here." She instructed him.
She returned a few minutes later with a doctor.
"I am Mr Modrigan." The man in the white coat said. "I was due to operate on you this morning."
"Yes?" He said.
"I have some good news!" Mr Modrigan said, "You have had a lucky escape!"
"A lucky escape?"
"Yes, a lucky escape." The consultant continued, "I have just read your notes for the first time and despite the fact that I have a theatre primed, and a team of people ready to go I have decided that it is far too risky a venture. So you can go home."
"Go home?"
"Yes, go home." The consultant smiled, "We'll fix an appointment for you to come back sometime and we can chat through your options."
With that Mr Modrigan turned and walked away.
He watched him stride down the corridor, white coat billowing behind.
He turned slowly, feeling weak. Walked out through automatic doors towards the car park. As the doors closed behind him with a whoosh, and he was sure they whispered:
"We'll get you next time."
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Open The Doors
The voices had started 21 days out from Earth. He had taken a walk around the ship. Down long dark lonely corridors past the inner doors of the cargo holds. All two hundred of them. Every time he passed a door the voices called after him as if triggered by the hollow ring of his footsteps.
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
Now the voices haunted him. Hunted him. He could hear them even in the silent sanitised safety of the control deck.
They called it the control deck rather than the traditional Bridge because only minor control could be executed from on board the ship. Even "control" was an overstatement. He was only there to execute one command. The final command. The command to displace the contents of all two hundred cargo holds.
He had volunteered to be the sole crew member aboard the ship because the decision was a least a decision. Something he could have control over.
The alternative was to remain in the camp and take his chances. The alternative was unending uncertainty. Unending toil. Unending hunger. Ever present fear.
So he had volunteered.
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
For three days the voices had haunted and taunted him. Pleaded with him. Tore at his conscience throughout those final three days.
He was half convinced he was going mad. Something inside him conjuring the voices to echo in the emptiness.
But the other half knew they were real.
The other half knew the truth.
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
They were meant to be dead. The ship was meant to be a Corpse Bearer, one of a fleet, transferring war dead to the cemetery satellites. Hollowed asteroids parked in orbit around Saturn. But he knew the truth. He knew the truth.
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
He had been told that there were one thousand bodies stored in each hold. All he had to do was execute the displacement command when ordered once the ship was within displacement proximity. The ship would do the rest. The ship would relocate the cargo from the holds directly in the vacuum hollowed out in the centre of the cemetery satellites.
He wouldn't do it. He couldn't. These were his people. That could have been him in there with them.
Three times he had refused to obey the booming orders echoing over the comm. Three times he had stood his ground. He would not do it.
"For the final time." The comm. boomed "Follow the order or face the consequences."
He switched the comm. off.
"Fuck you." he said. "Fuck y..." he felt the breath tighten in his chest as an unseen force clamped him, paralysed him, froze him where he stood. Helpless.
"OPEN THE DOORS!"
"OPEN THE DOORS!"
"OPEN THE... ... ..."
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
Now the voices haunted him. Hunted him. He could hear them even in the silent sanitised safety of the control deck.
They called it the control deck rather than the traditional Bridge because only minor control could be executed from on board the ship. Even "control" was an overstatement. He was only there to execute one command. The final command. The command to displace the contents of all two hundred cargo holds.
He had volunteered to be the sole crew member aboard the ship because the decision was a least a decision. Something he could have control over.
The alternative was to remain in the camp and take his chances. The alternative was unending uncertainty. Unending toil. Unending hunger. Ever present fear.
So he had volunteered.
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
For three days the voices had haunted and taunted him. Pleaded with him. Tore at his conscience throughout those final three days.
He was half convinced he was going mad. Something inside him conjuring the voices to echo in the emptiness.
But the other half knew they were real.
The other half knew the truth.
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
They were meant to be dead. The ship was meant to be a Corpse Bearer, one of a fleet, transferring war dead to the cemetery satellites. Hollowed asteroids parked in orbit around Saturn. But he knew the truth. He knew the truth.
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
"Open the doors!"
He had been told that there were one thousand bodies stored in each hold. All he had to do was execute the displacement command when ordered once the ship was within displacement proximity. The ship would do the rest. The ship would relocate the cargo from the holds directly in the vacuum hollowed out in the centre of the cemetery satellites.
He wouldn't do it. He couldn't. These were his people. That could have been him in there with them.
Three times he had refused to obey the booming orders echoing over the comm. Three times he had stood his ground. He would not do it.
"For the final time." The comm. boomed "Follow the order or face the consequences."
He switched the comm. off.
"Fuck you." he said. "Fuck y..." he felt the breath tighten in his chest as an unseen force clamped him, paralysed him, froze him where he stood. Helpless.
"OPEN THE DOORS!"
"OPEN THE DOORS!"
"OPEN THE... ... ..."
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