Big Ben Gets Ticked-Off

Ben wore bushy sideburns and a day's growth of hair; Stephan wore small silver spectacles and an expensive hat; they both wore confused looks and they both stood upon the amplified centre of the amphitheater. Behind them, the river did its best to roll amidst the mud and twigs.
"I suppose you're wondering why I called you here," I said.
"Not really," said Ben. "You told us on the phone."
"Did I?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Sorry."
"We're wondering," began Stephan, "why you're dressed like a superhero."
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"Well isn't it obvious?"
"No," said Ben. "Not at all."
I looked down upon my beautifully tailored costume.
"It's quite nice, isn't it?" I said.
They shrugged.
"Anyway, I'll get down to business. Sorry."
There was a pause.
"Was that it?" asked Ben.
"Yes."
"Can we go now?"
"Yes—I'll join you."
I hopped down the stairs and joined my comrades.

We set off down the path near the river.
"Oh dear," said Stephan. "I think I just happened in my trousers."
"You mean..." I started.
"Yes, I'm feeling my lunch. I couldn't resist."
"No worries. We'll get you cleaned up in no time." And we did.

Splurge

I was sitting in a tree with my hands folded neatly into a crane when I happened to happen upon a happy little bird with golden wings. Interrogating the bird for some minutes, I came to the conclusion that it wasn't capable of answering back or comprehending my speech or hand gestures or knowing winks, so I pulled the pulley that held me aloft safely in the tree and raised myself higher into the branches. To my surprisingly serpentine surprise, the beak-laden bird flapped its flappers and followed me to my new carefully cautionary coordinates and perched precariously on my nose, where it proceeded to chirp excitedly and dig its claws innocently into my flesh.
"Hello," it said suddenly. My eyes widened eerily and weeped with not tears but wonder.
"Hello," I replied uncertainly, half worried that I was the subject of some cruel practical joke.
"So, how's things?" the bird seemed to ask.
"Um," I began nervously, "good, I think. How about you?"
"I'm marvelous," said the bird.
"Yes," I agreed. "You certainly are."

We wed the following year on a clear April Autumn day in a cheap chapel by the lake. Kids weren't possible, unfortunately, so we adopted a baby bird and a human. I was sitting with my lovely wife on the veranda and briskly brushing her beautiful golden feathers with a feather duster. She turned her glorious beak, and, by rights, the rest of her head, to face me on that lovely morning on the boards.
"Isn't life disappointing?" she said.

Caught on the Cross with Mr. Bee

They were politely nailing my right hand to the wood as I casually glanced over my left shoulder. To my apparent surprise, Mr. Bee was on the cross next to me having his left hand nailed.
"Hello!" I shouted.
He turned his head.
"Hellow!" He smiled warmly.
"What are you doing here, may I ask?" said I.
He considered this a moment before replying.
"It's a funny story, actually," he said. "I was minding my own business—you know, the flower shop—when all of a sudden a large scantily dressed man offered me a ride on a crucifix. He was so kind about it all that I felt obliged to accept. And here I am. What about you?"
"Me?" I was forced to recall. "Well, I came of my own accord. I saw this gorgeous little poster in town and thought it'd be a good idea. You know how it is."
"Yes," he nodded. I nodded back.
"Um," I murmured reflectively, "do you know what happens after this?"
"Not sure," replied Mr. Bee. "The afterlife, I guess."
"Ah yes, that old thing. What do you suppose it'll be like?"
"Quite nice, I should imagine."
We nodded again.

After a while, a nice young lady approached and offered to be my carrier.
"That would be splendid!" I said.
And so off we went into the scorching landscape of rolling dunes. I was pleased to note, twenty minutes into our journey, that my good friend Mr. Bee had also acquired a carrier and had nearly caught up to me.
"Hellow!" he called from the rear.
"Good day, Mr. Bee!" I called back.
As he bobbed up beside me, I noticed that his carrier was a noble Prince in royal garb.

Soon, however, we drifted apart; all that was left of him was a distant silhouette on the horizon. I turned my attention towards my own criminally underdeveloped carrier.
"Favourite books?" I asked.
"Off the top of my head," she began after a pause for thought, "I'd say The Crimson Cutie, Stephan The Gambler, Betweenways, The Tale Of Dr. Livingsworth, The Amazing Mr. Brimage and perhaps Ben's Delicious Roast. Oh yes, and Organs."
"Will you marry me?" I asked suddenly.
"What?"
"Will you marry me?" I repeated.
"Yes, that would be nice."
"So that's a No?"
"No, that's a Yes."
"Really? Terrific."

By the time I saw Mr. Bee again, I was already happily married and wearing a sharp dinner suit. It was at a gathering near a mirage of an oasis and I spotted my old chum taking a drink from one of the springs.
"Is this the end?" asked Mr. Bee when he saw me approach.
"Not yet," I answered truthfully. "There's still a few lines to go."
"Oh," he said glumly. "How about now?"
"Now there's only two."
"The end?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Hey!" shouted Tom Bowler. "That was more then a few."
"A few is anywhere from three to six," I explained.
"No, a few is three."
"But only roughly. Four is still a few."
"Four? More like nine."
I decided not to answer so as the thing could end itself.
"What about my childhood?" said my wife.
"Huh?" I really had no idea what she was talking about.
"What about my opinions?" she continued.
"I don't know," I said defensively.
"What about my name?"
"What about it?" I asked.
"What is it?"

Journey from Post-Mortis

The smoke from the bar pours through my soul like a toilet cake melting on a gas flame. Patrons and gaudy suits avoid my probing eyes as they drink and inhale from wrapped and housed vices like strands of spaghetti sliding down a dusty canyon. My throbbing and brilliant heart sinks from view as I try to find a face in the crowd. And then I do.

The face is that of a lady with rich umber hair like smooth piano wire. Her yellow dress burns through the dull greys and uniform blacks like a lemon in a pool of oil. I stop sinking and start swimming myself to the surface once more. The room swings back into sharp focus as she twirls her sinuous neck and smiles at me. Her jet-red lipstick and billiard-ball eyes call to me like a dying bee on rough cement.
"Hello," she says. The word trickles from her mouth and sails with careless abandon on the muddy airs and graces.
"That word trickled from your mouth and sailed with careless abandon on the muddy airs and graces," I say.
"Oh. Goodbye." She quickly runs out into the street.

The rest of the evening fades into nothingness like a stocky foreigner mapping out a course through unfamiliar woods with only a broken compass and a deflated football. It glides backwards and swallows me whole.
"You return my hole this instant!" I cry to the shriveling night.
But listen it does not and I'm left to my devices. Like an uprooted floorboard I stalk through the dark and massage my careful way back towards home.

The rest of my life played out like a rusty tap welded to a light-bulb.

Mr. Bee's Debut

The eponymous Mr. Bee rose from his chair as I entered.
"Hellow," he said with a friendly grin.
"Hello," I concurred. "How's things?"
He thought for a moment.
"Things are good, perhaps," he said finally. "What about you?"
"I'm fine."
"That's good."
One of those gangly lampshades entered.
"So I was riding my camel, see," it said, "when all of a sudden, a great windstorm rose from its chair and swept me off-a-my saddle. I landed in the hot sand, see, and the camel came-a-tumbling down beside me. So there we were: two perfectly able creatures beat by a bit o' wind. It was degrading, I'll tell ya. And I wasn't about to sit there and take it. So what I did, you see, was rise from the sand and throw my two fists at that wind with all the power that was left in my tank. But my hands just fell through it, and the nasty wind laughed with a roar that again swept me down to earth. Heed my words, patrons: don't go-a-tackling no wind!"
"Yes, sir," said good ol' Mr. Bee. "Consider them heeded."
"Aw, that's awful kind of you," said the lampshade. "No one much trusts me 'round here."
"The end," said Mr. Bee.

Weak Whistles

The sun and the clouds and the air and all that were badly framed. I'm deeply hesitant and afraid to talk to that person in grey who is counting slowly. I'm feeling morbidly overshadowed by some strange event. I'm wondering why that person didn't hang. I'm wondering why that person quit unannounced.

I'm feeling the usual rubbish. I'm feeling as though I'm weeping on my shoelaces. I'm feeling floors. I'm baffled like a calf. I'm envisaging some strange event. I'm thinking of people spinning around and crying like a sprinkler. I'm thinking of bold bars and nice alleys. I'm wondering about a bowl of sweets.

The moon and the stars and the air and all that were up. I feel like I need some perspective. I feel like going and watching an ugly kid starve to death.

Stories from Willie The Drink

I sat on the chair with my friend Willie The Drink and played with his old grey whiskers.
"You stop that at once!" he screamed. "Do you want me to tell the story or not?"
"Sorry," I said, ashamed.
"It's all right. Now for the story. There lived once a man named Curtain and Curtain once lived in a house that once was built by a group of off-duty sailors who once were embryos. Curtain and his friend Bongo were once very communist-like and once conspired to rid the world of the once very un-communist-like politician who once made the rules that they once lived by. They once thought him very evil and once thought they'd be helping a lot of people by getting rid of him. Once they met outside his house that once was built by a group of builders and discussed their plan. They once had with them a bag of tools which they once thought would make good weapons.

"Once they had finished discussing and once they went up to the door and knocked on the door until the door was answered. The man on the other side of the door was the man they were once after and before he could ask them who they were, they beat him to death with a wrench and a crowbar. They were once trying to find a place to hide his body, but before they could, the cleaner came around. The cleaner once came around and once saw two men with the body of his employer and was then beaten to death with a wrench and a crowbar. The two men didn't want to do this, but once thought they had to in order to keep themselves out of jail.

"Once, the politician's wife returned home and saw two men with the body of her husband and cleaner. Once, the two men were forced to kill the politician's wife with a monkey wrench and a crowbar. The two men couldn't find a place to hide the bodies, so they once decided to cut them up into little pieces and put them in a car which they once drove with the body parts of three dead people in the boot. They were once driving this car towards a forest which they once thought would be a good place to dispose of the mutilated bodies of three people they had killed. They were driving this car once and were once stopped by a policemen. A policeman once stopped a speeding vehicle on a dark road at night and was once killed with a monkey wrench and a crowbar so that two men who he didn't know could remain out of jail.

"A little boy found an arm sticking out the ground once in a forest he used to play in and once told his mother who once told a policeman. Once, the two men had buried four bodies in a forest with a monkey wrench and a crowbar that once bore their fingerprints. They were once both in a house that was once surrounded by policeman and they once ran out of the house holding guns and were shot and killed. The end."

"Wow," I said. "That was a sad story."
"What are you talking about, you idiot? That was a bracing pitch-black comedy!" yelled Willie The Drink.

I'm as Hot as a Pancake or: How to Solve Third World Debt

The third world—the small one—has—will have— problems. Like an opal on a bed of rice on a bed of flowers on a bed of ice, like all that—it's quite complex—and, confusing; it's hard to understand; you have to be strange and smart and—no one is. No one has any meanings to put forth or jangle over the slums like a key that glints with silence—with pitiful awe—and no one has a big enough beard or thick enough glasses or wide enough ankles to offer one, simple—brutal—compassionate —solution that will succeed or fail—or live in theory only like a whale. White, and other colours are for painting one's own town red—for breeding and buying small magazines in paper bags; for opening steak houses in Mid-Western jungles; for barking up dogs. None know things at all—and no one can help themselves—but we can all rejoice in our chemists and smoking rooms and downstairs liberated adult bookshops. But the solution, when you think about it—when you think about it—is simple.

First, we need to discover—to find out—to feel—to check up on, and we need—require—enough rooms with enough white beard whites and sleepless nights—and then—like all spinning planets and stars—we'll have enough pure simplicity and nothing will break our doors—our feelings will bubble and sap in our laps and we'll find and discover and check and discover and see at last—see—our imaginary walls. Then we can lie low like street rats or alley cats and hang like flies over bins and around clergymen. And we'll grip and sow and hang heads low and overthrow and grow and greet the street and its flies and cats and rats and glowing eyes and meet with overflowing empires and suns and hats on business and sleet on seats and crows on sills and exchange pills with beds and slips of streams and dreams. And then—there—in the minds of men—to be replaced by the minds of wo-men—and the minds of other kinds we can't hope but find in the worst possible places—like where seas are parted—dearly depot—and dears and brought by elders.

So you see, it's not impossible.

The Penguin, the King, the Woman's Best Friend and the Fleshy Tripod

Hugh the Beautiful Penguin, Stephan the King of Mexico (in disguise as a commoner), Harry the Woman's Best Friend and Ben the Fleshy Tripod were at large on a hill. They had with them a tall, handsome flag of blue and yellow which they stuck in the grass near some daisies. They christened the hill 'Daisy Hill'. Hugh the Beautiful Penguin, Stephan the King of Mexico and Harry the Woman's Best Friend began setting up their beautiful tents on the hill—Daisy Hill. Ben the Fleshy Tripod already had his tent prepared.
"Good gravy," said Hugh the Beautiful Penguin.
"Yes it is, isn't it?" agreed Ben the Fleshy Tripod. "I'll make some more."
"I think it's because of that great big mixing spoon he has," said Harry the Woman's Best Friend.
"Nonsense!" cried Ben. "It's all down to those special juices you put in."
"No," interjected Stephan the King of Mexico, "I think it's Hugh's colouring that makes it so good."
"If anything," began Hugh, "it's Stephan's ointment."
"Maybe it's my great big mixing spoon, Harry's special juices, Hugh's colouring and Stephan's ointment that make it great together," said Ben.
"Yes!" agreed the rest of 'em.

That night they all contracted food poisoning. By dawn, there was a large pool of brown vomit streaming down the side of the hill and caking in the sun.
"It was Stephan's ointment," cried Hugh, "that made us sick!"
"My ointment was fine!" screamed Stephan. "It was your stupid colouring."
"No, it was most certainly Harry's horrid juices that made us sick," said Ben.
"It was that dirty spoon of yours, and you know it!" yelled Harry.
"Maybe it was Stephan's ointment, Hugh's colouring, Harry's juices and Ben's spoon that all made you sick," said a greedy tyrant.
They all turned to look at the strange battle-equipped woman.
"Would you like to see my great big cooking spoon?" asked Ben.
"Would you like to see my beautiful colours?" asked Hugh.
"Would you mind if I made some special juice?" asked Harry.
"Would you like to taste my ointment?" asked Stephan.
"No," replied the woman flatly. "I have a battle to attend to."
"Oh," said Ben.
"Oh," said Hugh.
"Oh," said Harry.
"Oh," said Stephan.
"We're in a battle, too," said Ben.
"That's right," said Hugh.
"A great big battle," said Harry.
"A dangerous battle," said Stephan.
"Really?" said the woman. "Who are you fighting?"
"The Tyrants," they said.
"Interesting. What would you say if I said I was one of the Tyrants?" said the greedy tyrant.
"Well," said Ben, "I'd say: 'wow, what a coincidence'."
"And I'd say: 'oh dear'," said Hugh.
"And then I'd say: 'that's incredible'," said Harry.
"And I would say: 'small world'," said Stephan.
"Well I am one of the Tyrants," said the tyrant.
"Wow, what a coincidence."
"Oh dear."
"That's incredible."
"Small world."
"So what happens now?" asked one of them.
"I was thinking we could all sit around and hold my great big cooking spoon," suggested Ben.
"I think we should all lie down while I splash my colours about like a rainbow," said Hugh.
"I was hoping you would all taste my ointment," said Stephan.
"I had my heart set on some sex," said Harry.
There was a pause.
"So no fighting then?" said the woman.
They shrugged.
"In that case, I'll be off. I'm already late for the battle," she said.
"Oh," said all. "Bye."
She waved and disappeared down the hill.
"Maybe we should have followed her," said Ben. "We are in that battle, after all."
"Let's go that way then," said Harry.

A few hours later, they found themselves at a battle of sorts.
"Well," said Hugh or Ben or Harry or Stephan, "this is it."
They ran down to the battle holding their tents as weapons. The first person they saw was the greedy tyrant.
"Hello," she said as she stabbed Hugh with a spear.
"Hello," she said as she stabbed Stephan with a sword.
"Hello," she said as she stabbed Ben with a pencil.
"Hello," she said as she stabbed Harry with a brick.
As Harry fell towards the ground, he tried to angle himself such that he might appear an attractive prospect to the greedy, stabby tyrant. What happened instead was that he impaled himself in the head with the spear that had initially impaled Hugh. Suffice to say they all died.

They floated promisingly towards the afterlife.
"Do you believe in God?" asked Ben.
"No. Do you believe in God?" asked Hugh.
"No," said Ben.
"Me neither," said Harry and Stephan respectively.
"Oh dear," said Hugh.
Suddenly God appeared.
"I suppose you want to shoot up my arse?" it said.
"No, why should we want to do that?" they asked.
"Because that's how you came here in the first place."
"Well we certainly don't want to go back."
"Oh. Never mind, then. Toodle-oo."
"Bye."
"Oh and one more thing."
"Yes?"
"I think, therefore I Ben-penis."
With that good ol' God disappeared.

They started to fall.

Eventually, they landed in a river in a rainforest next to a slab of Solo™ and went to sleep. Someone buried them eventually.

Why Ben Is Not a Christian

Ben, whose Southern can is in my possession, once proudly claimed that life was, in essence, life. As aphorisms go, it wasn't the most revelatory, but it still served to illustrate Ben's illustrious passion for philosophy. Indeed I can't remember a single exchange I've had with him where he didn't start a sentence with: "you know what life is?". Of course the answers to these self-posed questions were invariably "life" with a big fat question mark, but you could tell that he was, at the very least, thinking about the bigger picture.

One rainy morning, we were in each other's company at a small café and I spoke.
"Silly, bad and silly, you know?" I said.
"I'm not sure I follow, o soldier," said Ben.
"I'm talking about these two words, you see?"
"I think I do! What words are these two words?"
"These words are 'blog' and 'zine'."
"Ah, I see. One's short for 'web log' the other's short for 'magazine', 's'at right?"
"Yes, that's right! Isn't it odd that both of them are specifically—in most cases—amateur projects?"
"That is odd. Speaking of which, have you heard about life?"
"I've heard that it's life, yes."
"Ah, but have you heard that it is what it is, my sword-swallowing friend?"
"Not in so many words, no."
"Well now you have!"

One day we were holed up in the Chelsea Marina Hotel Off Chapel and we found each other in the lobby.
"Hello Ben, my beautiful, my beautiful balloon," I said.
"Hello you silly sailor. I've got a brand new angle on life now, don't you know?"
"Oh boy! What is it?"
"Life is nothing much."
"Wow. That's the best yet."

A Small Wrote upon the Wall

The bleak grasses across the fog and the morning waved with each blade with each breeze and shook last night's heavy rain. Pushing a foamy wooden box through the wet and dulled green, a bearded, weathered male individual in black hoodlum dinner suit guise made his merry way up to the summit of a hill. A crackle and perhaps a burst indicated the onslaught of rain which fell in attractive pummels that were occasionally spotlighted by shards of lightning. 'Neath his grisly and grimly white beard, the man gritted his remaining teeth to the elements and continued his pained path up the high horrid slope.

As the pre-midday slump of 8.00 AM whistled and resonated from a distant, empty chapel, the determined shaking mass of weary world flesh found himself with sudden ease atop the hill. And from this very vantage point he was shown a deliberately snaking landscape of rivers and trees that wallowed in the important wake of a city. He raised two arms high in the air, as if expecting the fellow beard to strike his wailing form with an empowering bolt, and let out a side street cry. When his lungs finally pulled the vocal chords from their twisted sockets under the strain, he relaxed himself and closed his lids. Envisaging a host of society's all, he began to speak.

"People of Earth," he began promisingly, "I am here to help. Over the years I have observed your poverty, your wars, your murders, your prisons and your especially wretched architecture. I have seen the coming and going of the young and the old; I have seen what there is to see. And only now can I offer salvation: submit to me and your troubles will be no more."
He opened his eyes hopefully and looked.
"Well," he said quietly, "it was worth a shot."
He sighed and began to dig himself a grave.

The Drums of My Inner Shelf

Being a thoughtful account of the human condition as told from the perspective of one suffering from it.

What, if anything at all—though it's not perfect by any means, which in a way proves there's something wrong with it—though you have to take into account my credibility, which, under the best circumstances, doesn't exist—and, if it does, it would certainly be struggling for life on a rocky shore somewhere, and I'd be forced to march along with my gun (which I had to buy specially for the occasion—in any other circumstances I would avoid such harmful devices—no matter how well-polished) and tastefully blast it away, thus ridding me of, oddly enough, the only feature that one could possibly compliment me on (I do hate compliments, you see; you can never tell if they're really being sincere or not); so, in essence, I'm left as a free citizen, with no encroachments on my personal space (everyone usually crosses to the other side of the road when they see me) and, even on the off-chance that I do find my way into a conversation of sorts, the person in question—enacting the other half of the exchange—would be entirely lost for words and would eventually be forced to bid adieu and run amuck with the rest of the folks—you know how it is; I'd then retire to my empty carriage and puff a few notes out of the old trumpet (C, D and E, to be precise) and lapse into beautiful obscurity, is wrong with life?

The Onward Roll of Sport, Booze and Karaoke

Here lies Stephan.

The months, the years of Queen and Bowie mouthings in sweaty, after-work clubs frequented by suits 'tween birth and death; the countless nights in the company of pale white Russians—sometimes black—and yellow and green chartreuse soldiers staring out to sea; the chrome plating of show-reel wheelers that held his eyes and the low resolution snapping of a flick-top mobile; the lust for the South; the pounds of impeccable pastries crafted with an artist's eye in two cross-town kitchens: these were his downfall; the pace couldn't be kept, and eventually, one day, he just let slip and lay dead—out on the tiles of a favourite—and was dragged by countrymen to the cemetery where now he lies under the epitaph:

It's true that honesty seems to always fail.

Hugh's out of Home Adventures

"I have come to the conclusion," said he, "that you need to cultivate more outside experiences; leave the house once in while. As a direct result, you shall become a better person—like me, perhaps."
I nodded dumbly.
"How can you possibly know anything when you're holed up like this?" he continued.
"Mmm," I admitted.
"Well, I've got things to do. Bye."
He picked himself carefully from the chair and bade farewell.

So off I went on my journey to self-improvement. By train, I found myself at the station we had discussed and decided upon. I was uncharacteristically late by about three minutes, but was happy to discover I wasn't the only one. No one was there as yet. I spent my time observing.

A dumpling nestled into a corner; groups of black-lipped, black-dyed, black-clothed; groups of giggles; groups of peers; a woman dressed in shades of brown; police with tempting holsters; no one I knew.

After the half hour was hit, I was among the remainders. No longer was it a place to meet. I left. The train which would serve me best was scheduled to arrive in half an hour, so I decided to continue my waiting until then. And I did, making my entire patience reach an hour in length.

I wish I could get out more often.

My Love She's Bold as Buttons

A someone in a top-hat—I'll assume it's a man—is walking down that street dressed smartly in what looks like a nice clean white shirt and rich black pants. He's holding a suitcase or something; I can't quite make it out. Now he's stopped outside a café. He's looking in the window at something. Now he's going in. He's in. I can't see him anymore. There is a small cat outside near a bin. It's fairly sunny. Now he's out of the store holding a cup or something. Yes, it's a cup; he's drinking out of it. He's still walking down the busy street. He just disappeared behind a building. I may have lost him. No, wait, there he is —I think. He's got the same clothes. I'll just assume it's him. If not, it's a big coincidence that after he disappeared behind a building, another man dressed in the same clothes, holding the same objects comes out the other side of the building. Whoops, I've lost him again. I should have been watching.

I guess now I should talk about the man himself. I really don't know much about him, so I'll have to invent some stuff. Um... All right, well, I'll say he owns a chain of antique stores across the city, and right now he's on his way to an antique convention to buy some things. He's depressed because his wife's just passed away from Polio—wait, they got rid of that, didn't they? Um, make it pneumonia. Anyway, he feels he needs to keep buying antiques to get his mind off things. Wait, is that him? Yes, I think so. Now he's in a park by the river. He's still got a cup and a suitcase. Now he's talking to a woman and getting into a row boat. They're kissing. That kind of contradicts what I said before—though it's not necessarily his wife. They're too far out to see now. Hey, I could have also said, "they're too far out to sea now" and it wouldn't have made much difference.

All right, scrap what I said before about him. Let's say he's a disillusioned employee of a business firm and he's just quit his job to spend more time with his wife. He hasn't told her yet, though, so he's taking her on a romantic trip on the river to break the news. He's got it all figured out. If they spend money wisely and invest in the right places, they may be able to retire. But he's not sure how his wife will like it. Hang on, I think I see them again. They're coming around from the other side. Wait, no, that's not them. Never mind. Actually, let's say he's taking his wife out to a special place on the river where a vortex tunnel thing swirls on a little island at twilight. An outdoor, tent-less circus is around there too, and so is a strange band comprised of people wearing green, pink, blue and red uniforms. He wants to lead his wife into the vortex so they can live together in some sort of nowhere.

There they are. I guess they didn't go into the vortex after all. And they're still kissing. Even as they're climbing out of the boat, they're kissing. But they've stopped now and they're walking towards a boathouse/café type thing. They go up the stairs and onto the top level. Now they're searching for a table. Still searching. They find one near the end and sit down. Now a waiter comes along and takes their order. I didn't hear what it was, just in case you were wondering. The waiter goes away and they start talking. I can't hear that, either. But they certainly look like they they're enjoying themselves. Still talking. Now he picks up his suitcase and opens it on the table. He takes out a photo or a painting and shows it to her. She looks very happy and she hugs and kisses him. He then puts the painting/photo back into the suitcase and puts the suitcase back underneath the table. They keep talking. Now the waiter is there with their order and he puts it on the table. They thank the waiter and start eating.

Now they're back by the river. I skipped the bit where they paid for the meal and left the café. They're getting back into the boat and they're kissing again. Still kissing. Now they're rowing off down the river—again. Perhaps this time he'll take her to the vortex thing on that island with the circus and the band. It is actually twilight now, so it'd make sense. Well, that's all I wanted to say. Goodbye.

Rivers of Slime

Near the post office, the following occurred:
"How's the wife?" asked Mr Rows with a friendly grin.
"She's abroad," replied Jelly.
"I know. That's why I said 'wife'."

Untangling himself from that encounter, and brimming with verve, Jelly made his way through the next ten years of his life and onto a bridge over an ice frosted lake. Coffee in hand and thoughts in mind, he spent a jolly half hour in the winter cold with a look of abstract happiness on his face.

Upon returning home, he was startled to discover—by way of an answering machine—that his friend had decided to commit suicide out on the mainline. He was then saddened to discover—by way of a second message—that his friend had succeeded in committing suicide out on the mainline.

He lost his wife abroad, too. She wasn't actually dead, as far as he knew, but she was certainly missing—or, at the very least, she had left him for good. So he boiled an egg. Once he deduced it to be ready, he removed it, cracked it open and carefully placed it on his recently purchased egg cup. With the help of long, thin, remotely soldier-shaped pieces of toast, Jelly polished off his meal in no time. Well, that's an exaggeration—he actually took around ten minutes.

Some time later, he found himself huddling 'neath shelter in the rain. It wasn't exactly freezing, so he enjoyed himself and continued shopping. A nice lunch was had soon after.

The next day, Mr Rows stopped him.
"Did you ring that couple?" he asked.
"They were engaged," answered Jelly.
"But they've only known each other for a few weeks! Drat, now I'll have to order that blasted Russian."
"No, I meant I couldn't get through. I'll ring tonight."

He lay down that night with the lights off and listened to Bucket Men on vinyl. After that he read a few chapters of Betweenways by Benjamin Hansen and went to bed.

You can guess the rest.

What's up with Boy Wonder?

Nothing, it turns out.

Covered, Clothed and Over-joyed

"Yes," said I, glancing warily at the clock: 4.oo AM.
And so I began to unwind on the plush couch.
"Now tell me," said I, but in a different voice, "why are you here?"
"Me?" I gasped; I wasn't expecting the question.
"Yes, you," I confirmed.
But aside from that, I decided I needed to sink into code to cover up certain things that didn't flop out right.
"Not in here please," said I sternly.
I listened and lay back down.
"What do you think?" I continued.
"It's very nice. I like the ambiance," I answered, petering into bad French inflection.
I was right as well. The room we were in was certainly nice. I couldn't think up anything visible through the window that wouldn't ruin the mood, though.
"What was wrong with it?" I asked, rapidly changing the subject.
"Haste," I replied simply.
"Elaborate."
"Repetition."
"Keep going."
"Good points lost."
"Uh huh."
"Well, bye."
"Bye."

Steak Sandwiches for Tea

Eating a grisly, over-done steak wrapped in toasted pseudo-healthy commercial grained bread garnished with those most prolific of condiments: mustard (in this case German) and tomato sauce, I watched a half-naked Raquel Welch clad in glittering rags and sporting a dated frizzled hair cut perform a near-catchy tune with wild erotic high kicks on The Muppet Show.

Build Me up Buttercup: Lust for Love

A cruel pair of eyes—two cruel pairs of eyes—stare mercilessly, hollowly, out on a spacious lot of flickering eateries. In hands—their hands—lies a long, thin, sickening rod with a small, taught ball of mechanical wires sending signals—messages— o the little, cruel interface on its hilt. Their thrown, their florid chair drenched in pleasure's waste holds a steady, clear view over the field.

The two once ne'er-do-wells marvel and sweat and think. How, in such a place—in such a horrid ball—, did they, two forever-strandeds, find their other? God's Will.

A parting of the clouds, it must have been; a bolt from the blue. 'Neath those extra eyes and battery faces grew a wind of forgiveness from Him. A wind of validation. The begging, the bedtime pleas paid off. All is not Afterlife quite yet, though.

First, foremost, divide the seas. They did. Spread and smudge God's Will—your word. They have.

Casting, luring; a line flies across and scrapes the concrete footpath. It moves, it slides, it grates and bumps on the concrete. It hangs, it stops. In a doorway, a small, insignificant doorway, it catches and stops. And it stops where?

A greasy, hairy hand plants a greasy, hairy finger on an oily red button and sends a bright magazine into the small, insignificant doorway where it catches and stops in a tiled—black and white—kitchen. It is picked up and thought of by half a person. It is read with a surprised grin. The person, of which there is only half, pulls a chair out from 'neath a table—his table. The chair itself, made of wood, is exactly, to the T, like every single other chair in the lot. The person is thankful.

A green sticky light flashes with a steady monotonous pounding. The reel is wound by the greasy, hairy hand whose owner is enjoying early, inoffensive abortion from the speechless other. As every last tail disappears down a throat, half a person gets carelessly dragged across the concrete lot. He reaches the steep bank and is brought up into a plunging glass box.

Eyes pressed, armoury raised, the person watches. Two figures bend, and twist, and slide, and grease. The person, the no-timer, arms his arms. Two figures scream, call, cry, shout. The person, slipping regret far below, throbs and stops. Two figures stop. The glass box is denied briefly of its lid as a hand reaches in and avoids the avoiding, hunched person. The figure presses their remains against the glass. Half a person involuntarily wakes his third.

It was meant to be.