Posted tagged ‘Evil’

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.


Hit came from Outer Space

October 17, 2010

The plethora of teenage slasher movies in recent years are all based on the true story of a mysterious assailant who targeted schoolchildren in a Scottish school circa 1982. All of the following is true.

One of the perks given to the fifth and sixth year pupils in the comprehensive was that they could take their lunch in the games room. The games room had comfortable chairs that ringed-a-round the perimeter walls, though the various cliques rearranged the seating in their preferred way; normally an enclosed circle. Three net less table tennis tables stood in the centre of the room, nobody played on them, there were no bats, there were no balls, they kept getting knocked. These tables were used as overspill seating and tabling for late coming pupils.

At lunchtime the clientele would gather in the full bloom of their youth; spots and all. Aping the bed-sits of older higher students of learning that they hoped to be one day, the mottled crew draped their holdalls, satchels, blazers and plastic carrier bags on the ground, untidily cluttering the floor. The sexes for the most part stayed to their own species though a few relationships of sorts were formed. Some of the boys had the good fortune to have girlfriends and envy poured from their contemporaries. Scorn, however, was poured on the effeminate male or two who had infiltrated the boundary of the boudoir only to sit limply as neutral as PH7.

The assembly’s diet ranged across the syllabus. Sweet snacks were popular though some of the larger X chromosome class quested for a size 8 measurement and drank Diet Coke while secretly tucking into hamburgers when the coast was clear. Lunchtime had just become dangerous and some preferred the safety of the less dangerous playground with the younger, snot-nosed, Brut unsprayed, Indian-inked delinquents to the menace lurking in the games room. There was a serial confectioner killer on the loose.

His modus operandi never changed and his reputation grew as long as the guitarist’s hair in the school’s rock band; his reign of terror was on a French lesson scale. The signature weapon used to devastating effect was the common Mars Bar, Glutinous Maximus. It was the scientific preparation and the unknown formula that has intrigued criminologists and biologists, not to mention cocoa processors, to this day.

It was guessed that the early missiles were bought from the school canteen. After the first wave of attacks they were no longer stocked as tough school board legislation passed the Anti Bars of Mars (ABM) act. This had all the deterrence of a cardboard house versus acid rain. The killer simply imported the bars from outside. Pariah shops traded freely defying International agreements. And worse still, he could use king size bars. The escalation of the violence gave school kids the excuse to flunk behind the bike shed.

Detectives could find no motive for the crimes. Each victim seemed to be as random as Revels. A few of the victims of circumstances included the rugby captain whose mother had just bought him a Watsonians crested boot bag. From the skies flew the bringer of war and it dumped a melted bar on the badge. The flanker cried for all he worth and ran back to mummy. Another casualty was the good-looking girl who only dated teachers. She’d just had her long blonde locks highlighted before a gooey Martian struck and stuck to her head. Screaming in agony, the hair had to go and with it went the affectations of the teachers.

No one knew what became of the confectionary killer or who he was. Suddenly, like a P.E. lesson the action stopped. Theories abound, mostly unfounded. The few facts that emerged are countdown conundrums. All we know is that from somewhere in that games room unwrapped, chewed, licked Mars Bars were thrown and the innocent were hit. Of course, a few missed and one plastered to the ceiling where it stands today as a monument to the wounded. Their names are written beside the other graffiti.


Scotland Yard was involved in the case and after much investigation they found the Confectioner Killer’s methodology for his weaponry. The chocolate on the outside of the bar would be nibbled off leaving the caramel exposed. This would then be salivated on profusely giving it glue-like properties. Now primed this chocolate gelignite was a stick grenade ready to wreck havoc.


At a Top Secret nuclear plant, scientists re-created one of the Mars Bar missiles.


Copycat confectioner killers came out of the woodwork class. Thankfully, Kit-Kat wafers are not adhesive.

The Second Coming

September 20, 2010

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

The parrot cannot hear the parroteer, either. Interminably repeating the “Who’s on first base” routine in a vaudeville ventriloquist act, it plays the straight part while a stuffed ornamental parrot in its cage is the stooge.

The centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

A guy in a chicken suit wins the half marathon and abolishes Christmas. Before long all the old institutions are impeached by a wretched legion of slubberdegullions whose purges give them the name of “The Randan Parliament”.

The ceremony of innocence is drowned

All that was held to be pure and refreshing is revealed to have feet of clay. Biactol is exposed as a spot-fixer whilst cricketers sporting lip gloss are looked on with suspicion. Adult acne prevails and Miss World is cancelled due to repulsiveness.

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

You know, my mother always told me not to slouch. The hunchbacked beast didn’t look were he was going and a slow moving vehicle slays him. The German/Italian axis powers have totally redeemed themselves.


July 30, 2010

One of the most sought after recordings…if it exists. Hangman was an unreleased track pre-Queen from probably the Ibex period. Apparently, and this is all conjecture, a studio performance is in the vaults. The song was performed at concerts in 1973 and 1975/76. Earlier recordings are not available and it would be bootleg heaven to possess a Hangman from a 1971/72 venue. The limited pirated live versions of the song are in inferior quality to the regular polished perfect Queen production. We must make do with what we’ve got, beggars can’t be choosers; that’s troosers to you.

In Nostradamus vein, the song predicted the coming of Mr. T. This revelation came to pass as the Clubber of Rocky was revealed. The Mr. C reference is more ambiguous and experts on these matters claim that it foretells the emergence of our current Prime Minister and that he will go down in history.

I know all about you
They call you, they call you Mr. C
You did a very good job
Oh, you’ll go down, you’ll go down, go down in history
Baby, baby, I’m telling you

Have you made any more pies for me?
Hangman, says they’re very nice, they’re very nice for me, oh yes they are nice

There you go, a great song that replicates the glory of Led Zeppelin’s Gallows Pole; only it’s better. Hang that rope from the highest tree!

Enough persiflage, onto the important part of the blog.
Normal hangman rules apply.
Head, torso, two arms, two legs. Six bits of the body. Six wrong letter guesses = Hangman.
A wrong outright guess = 2 defaults i.e. head/torso or two legs or an arm and a leg or a torso and an arm…OK, that’s plenty, you know the script.

Five letters. Painter.

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