Posted tagged ‘Big game Hunters’

British Psycho

September 30, 2012

Dexter raved and drooled whenever he had something on his mind. Cleopatra’s, the new eatery on Floyd Avenue was the hottest place in town according to his sources. We’ll hit the place at lunchtime, he said. Parking the car round the bend we headed for the entrance.

“Not today, gents.” our way was blocked by an imposing male, impeccably dressed.

“We have a reservation.” pleaded Dexter.

“Doesn’t matter. He’s not getting in.” The doorman pointed at me. The more I looked at him, the more he resembled Heimdall, the sentry of Asgard. The guardian of the Rainbow Bridge was refusing us entry to the place of gold. This was a frosty reception.

“What seems to be the problem?” I asked. As far as I was concerned there was nothing wrong with my appearance.

“Ink on your shirt.”

I looked at my shirt. Sure enough, there was an ugly black pool of oil spreading over my chest. “My pen is burst.” I gushed silently to myself. I took the offending implement from my breast pocket. It dripped like a beaten fighter’s nosebleed onto the pavement.

“At least I’ll be able to get in,” said the unsympathetic Dexter, “I love the saying, it is not enough that I succeed, others must fail.” Dexter took a step forward and was met by the fierce grip of the doorman’s fist. This had the potential to be a gory moment. Heimdall had a sharp tongue to go with his, hidden for the moment, equally sharp swords.

“You’re not getting in either. You’re guilty by association. On your way, gents”

Now we’re eating our sandwiches in the run of the mill Spartan Bar. The place was full of the hangers-on and hangers-out and middle of the road fraternity. We’re squashed in here because my ball point took a leak. Dexter’s spirits had perked up and he piped.

“The best bouncer story ever was the time ten of us tried to get into Bo Derek’s nightclub. The steward was not having it. “I can’t let ten men in at the one time”. This gave us an excuse to go through all the formations to the bemused keeper of the door. What about four of us get in then three then another three. Or four-four-two. More attackingly you could let us in four-two-four. You know that soon we’re exhausting all the possibilities using improbable line-ups. Two-three-one-two-two. Five-one-three-one. There was a huge queue forming behind us yet still we were churning out systems. Blackie was a bit drunk and his counting went to pot. He had eleven men in his team.”

I’d heard all this before. Dexter added.

“It’s a pity that the nightclub wasn’t called Cleopatra’s. I’d have said “Why don’t you let us in using the pyramid system?”

Dexter laughed a big loud laugh opening his mouth wide as the Nile. What I’d give to fill that orifice with dark ink. In fact, I’d love to go farther and drown Dexter in a vat of ink. I don’t want Dexter to fail. I want him to die gurgling for his life in a man-sized inkwell. The Dex will be in tattoo heaven.

I’m home at the place I share with my girlfriend, Lucy. The usual clutter of department store bags filled with clothes she’s never going to wear blocked my entrance to the flat. I wished there were a roller shutter on our front door so I couldn’t get in. Now that’s what I call a bouncer.

“Hello honey. How was your day?” she purred. She pecked me on the cheek.

“Good. Dexter got a knock back from Cleopatra.” I hung up my jacket that had sustained collateral damage from the earlier incident. Turning my back to her to hide the totalled shirt I entered the bedroom and gave her the obligatory, nice to be nice, reciprocal question. “How was your’s?”

“Penny was with me today and she spent a fortune. The salesperson was all over us at Alamo’s. He had big dollar signs in his eyes. We bought enough leather to start a cattle ranch in Texas-”

And she was off. This would be a thirty minute monologue about the joys of spending money on useless things. I wouldn’t mind the expense on my wallet if she was as adventurous in bed as she was in the mall. She had a puritan bedroom manner. The missionary position had a monopoly between the sheets.

The other men had vamps as misses or so they said. Steam came out of my ear when I was told the acrobatics that went on in their world. Ever the liar, I had to embellish my exploits with Lucy to keep up with the Joneses. The best I could think of was the four-pillow sitting scissor position. I described the motions and nuances in great detail. The other men could not wait to get home to have a go at the four-pillow scissor position.

I was stuck with the missionary. I’ll give her missionary tonight. She was still prattling on with her sermon.

“So we’re eating turkey sandwiches at DiMaggio’s when Penny and I are talking about whether Dallas was better than Dynasty when, who should walk in dressed to kill-”

She’ll be getting the missionary all right. What the original missionaries got when they encountered a cannibal tribe. Her head on a platter and I’m sitting dabbing morsels of her flesh from my chin with a napkin. Good as these visions of supper were, things got better when Lucy walked into the bedroom and saw my coagulated shirt. She screamed. It was the first time she’d screamed in the bedroom.

Sylvester Stallone in the 80’s became one of the all-time greats. Dean burned out and Brando faded away, Stallone was here for the duration. He immersed himself completely in the parts he took.

Escape to Victory (1981) had Stallone playing an allied prisoner of war. The prisoners play a football match against a German team and Stallone was picked as the goalkeeper for the allies. A huge list of real football players featured in the film, none huger than the 5ft 10 Pele. Pele said that Stallone was better than Banks such was his agility between the posts.

Over the Top (1987) gave Stallone ample screen time to flex his muscles. As a man trying to get his life together he sees a chance to make money by entering arm-wrestling competitions. Underplaying it and showing realistic grimaces throughout, you couldn’t see Olivier do this role better. Therein lies the genius of Sylvester Stallone. He could turn his hand to anything.

Tango and Cash (1989) transcended the action film genre and was a flawless piece of art. The premise of pitting two maverick cops who hate one another in jail is the most original slice of scriptwriting to come out of Hollywood. Corrupt guards and henchmen criminals torture the pair in prison. The two cops devise a plan to break-out. Stallone’s electrifying performance was a shoo-in for best actor award. Incredibly, Day-Lewis won the Oscar that year for My Left Foot.

My library books are a day late. The librarian knows this. She sees me coming and has a Mona Lisa smile on her sadistic face. I’ll let her stew awhile. I enter and turn left away from the counter and head for the aisles of reference books. One by one I take them out and lay them on the table. These mighty tomes will weigh heavily on the librarian that has to put them back in their right place. Because everything has a right place in here.

I scan the banks of computer terminals occupied by a mixture of students and fossils. Knowledge is power. There’s knowledge in books. Why aren’t they reading books?

A cough interrupts my thoughts on monitors electrocuting their users. It’s the librarian waiting for me to check-in my out of date hires. I approach.

“My good lady, is it possible I could check these books out again.”

“Of course you can, sir. Let me see if there are any outstanding issues with your selections,” she has seen through my ploy, “I’m sorry sir, they seem to be overdue. You will have to pay a small fine.”

I take out my cheque book though I wish it were an electric saw.

Subterraneons: Chapter 1- Stampede

August 14, 2010

The packed, feathery, skeletal birds cushioned Porter’s fall. In darkness he rubbed his eyes and a vague kind of light gave him sight of his surroundings. With revulsion he eyed the bed of birds. They were picked to the bone and he wondered what fangs had torn and devoured these poor creatures of flight. Standing up, wiping the loose feathers from his trousers and folding his newspaper he saw the source of the light.

Two bright luminous yellow lines lined a path into the horizon. Using the glow from the painted lines Porter opened to the sports section and read the latest Lancashire scorecard and was pleased to see that Tom Smith was having a good knock. He rustled the paper and thought, if this is Hell it’s not as bad as the press make out. Relatively pleased with his lot at this time, from behind him a faint running noise was heard and he feared to turn round. The scurrying and clatter of paws echoed monstrously.

Porter thought it better to leave the birds behind and he headed away from the menace that was not seen. Only the menace was getting louder and approaching. Was this the pigeon predator and now in search of bigger pickings? Porter had no bags but he was a packer in a hurry. Try as he might while dashing along the yellow lined road the scattering footprints were gaining on him. And then he fell.

Suddenly, he was engulfed with a sea of rats. The rodents clamoured over his body burying him in a shroud of brown. Their squeaking and squeals were an orchestra tuning up. One rat faced him eyeball to eyeball and Porter could smell the breath of this Pied Piper plague-carrier.
“Get away from me, you dirty rat.”

Then they got away. They rode over the top of his body with the speed of a chariot of fire. Is this some kind of rat race, thought Porter, as the final rat tripped over his nose. Rising to his feet with his paper in his hand, from the yellow distance where the rats had fled, a zipping noise was heard and Porter was struck by an arrow in the elbow. In not so quick succession another arrow lodged in his heel and he felt an ill at ease. Not helped by the arrival of a man with a bow and arrow set who said.

“Sorry pal, I thought you were a rat. I’m Hawkeye.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“The Ancient One will be glad to meet you. We are always looking for the Others.”

Porter’s immediate reaction was to think of the 1960’s rock band that had a young Brian May in their line-up. To find a copy of their only released single Oh Yeah! would be vinyl heaven. Was Hawkeye searching in this damned underworld for a buried single? Hawkeye brought Porter back to reality.

“There are more of us. We are called The Underdowners.”

* * *

The Subterranean saga has been discontinued. This idea for a long underground series (maybe ten chapters or so) came to me before the Chilean mining incident. Out of respect for the miners I have cancelled the storyline. Porter and his versatile paper were to have been a continuing theme and Porter will be back. On land, next time.