This is the opening chapter of a sci-fi story about a team of UN weapons inspectors sent to investigate a corporate facility on faraway world Athena Parthenos. After an accident at a Keres Corporation facility in Mongolia involving a deadly bio-weapon not engineered on Earth the United Nations has dispatched inspectors to all Keres extraterrestrial facilities. What they find on Athena Parthenos is something else entirely, and what the Keres Virus has done may prove more devastating for humanity than anyone yet realizes.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Part 1: Arrival at Athena Parthenos
Space.
No matter how busy science fiction tries to make it, no matter how colourful or how full of asteroids, comets or shooting stars, no matter how much beauty is painted across the heavens space is still largely just that: space.
Once in a while you might come across some interesting stellar gas, but overall it is just lots and lots of nothingness punctuated by the occasional lonely rock.
In this void the sound of Bach echoed as if playing through a tin can, which maybe wasn’t far from the truth. The timbre of the lonely cello humming the notes of the Prelude reverberated off the exposed metal walls of the lounge as a solitary man drifted in the zero gravity with his eyes closed.
He wore a loose fitting jumpsuit in sky blue, the back of which bore the legend UNITED NATIONS EXPLORATORY FORCE, it wasn’t a uniform so much as it was something comfortable to wear when floating in the zero g sections of the needle-like ship.
He twitched his fingers along to the rise and falls of the piece as it built toward its crescendo, savouring the moment, the rising wave-
The music vanished to be replaced by an intermittent beep and then a man’s voice.
“Agent Westwood, Athena Parthenos is directly ahead, we’ll have locked orbit in thirty minutes. ExFor station Magellan anticipating dock in forty minutes.”
“Thank you, Captain Nicolette,” he replied.
It was time to go to work.
***
An icy blue orb hung before the needlepoint nose of the United Nations starship ExFor Holst, and looming in the distance beyond the icy moon was the massive gas giant Cicerone, the gases of the world swirling purple and green as the vortex of a storm several magnitudes of Earth rolled by.
Between the moon and that raging storm hung a small silvery shard, the Exploratory Force station Magellan with its huge solar panels reflecting the cold blue of the moon far below, the station seemingly insignificant against the celestial canvas.
Drawing closer the scale of Magellan became more apparent, the wheel-like central hub rotating around the stanchions supporting the solar array came to dominate the forward display on the Holst. Beyond the solar arrays on either side were modules with a distinctive disc shape similar to a 1950’s idea of a flying saucer, these were the zero gravity lab areas, cargo holds, and docking bays.
In an observation dome overlooking the moonside docking disc station commander Mila Qwan steadied herself against a brace next to the viewport, her magnetic boots holding her to the deck but her body moving as though submerged.
She watched as a blocky cargo shuttle dropped from beneath the long hull of the ExFor craft with the slightest hint of apprehension. These were armed troops, military men, coming to an enclosed space were the only thing between them and oblivion was a few inches of alloy. She suddenly felt very far from Earth.
Behind her stood Dr Meyers, the Magellan’s chief medical officer and he was equally concerned.
“Why do you suppose they’re sending weapons inspectors?”
“I have no idea,” Qwan replied without taking her eyes off the shuttle, “there must be some mix up at Vandenberg.”
Meyers stared over her shoulder as the Magellan docking arm reached out for the shuttle as it turned broadside to the station, the dark purple X-4 like a silhouette against the white sides of the craft.
For its massive size the Magellan had a crew compliment of less than 50 and being so far isolated from Earth they lived as a tight knit community. News that the UN was sending inspectors had spread like wildfire through the crew, and Meyers like the rest of them had the same question in mind: what if one of these jarheads puts a hole in the side of the station?
Why they were sending inspectors at all was another matter entirely. Magellan’s primary function was an observation post to survey potential colony worlds within the sector, but since they were in deep space they carried out all kinds of experiments from bacteriology to physiology. What they did not do was anything remotely related to weapons research, and even if they did this was a UN station, the computer sent updates back to Vandenberg regular as clockwork.
“Better go greet them,” Qwan said with a resigned sigh, disengaging the maglocks in her boots and pushing off toward the ladder to the docking level.
***
Weirzbowski was already at the docking console when Qwan and Meyers drifted down, a synthetic cigar smouldering in his lips as he cycled through the last of the docking procedure.
“That’s our guests tucked up nice and tight,” he rumbled, “cargo transfer guides moving into place.”
Two large rails rose from the floor of the docking bay to lock against the wall on either side of the larger of the two access ports.
On the smaller port a console beeped and the display changed from red to green, the atmosphere had equalized.
“Here we go.”
A hiss came from the port and the heavy doors slid open to reveal a Middle Eastern man, a square jawed blond man and a raven haired woman, all in ExFor purple.
“Agent Westwood, I’m Mila Qwan, commander of ExFor Magellan,” she addressed the blond man, “welcome aboard.”
“Thank you,” the Middle Eastern man replied, “can I introduce Chuck Brewster, biocoms, and Mary Dowd, EWD.”
Qwan blushed at her mistake and began to stumble an apology.
“Don’t worry about it, everybody makes that mistake.”
Recovering from her error of judgement the commander introduced chief medical officer Meyers and chief engineer Weirzbowski. They shook hands and spoke in a cordial manner which threw the station crew off kilter given their earlier apprehension, it had been expected that the inspectors would be barking orders from the moment of their arrival, now they didn’t know what to think.
“Commander,” Westwood brought her to one side as the first of the cargo pods began to drift between the magnetic guide rails from the shuttle’s hold, “can I have a word while the crew unloads?”
Weirzbowski and Meyers watched as Qwan and the ExFor agent pulled themselves into the lateral tunnel that led back to the station core.
***
When the last of the inspection team and their gear had been brought over and the station’s outgoing waste had been loaded the shuttle returned to the patiently waiting ExFor Holst.
A second, smaller craft dropped from the shuttle bay, a delta winged ship with a wide body and two large scramjet engines, gun turrets on either side and below the tail fin hung menacingly. A Gal-X1 combat utility dropship, the latest rapid deployment vehicle currently in use by the UN on Earth, it rotated on it’s axis and set course for the Magellan docking disc.
“ExFor team, Holst preparing to disembark for Raleigh Outpost. See you in four weeks.”
“Roger that, Captain Nicolette,” Brewster ansered the hail, “see you on your return.”
In the distance over the icy form of Athena Parthenos the two enormous rail guns mounted on the top and underside of the Holst retracted until they sat snug against the needle hull. The rearmost section of the stardrive behind the stubby wings broke apart and began to fan out, rotating around a central core glowing blue white.
“They aren’t hanging about?”
Meyers was surprised to see the starship preparing to leave the system, he had figured that the inspection team would have the run of the ship.
“It costs a lot of money to send those things extra-solar,” Brewster replied, “once they’re out here it’s best to make use of them.”
Modern starships utilised a system that created a wormhole around the hull of the ship, the long term effects of which on the fabric of the universe had not been fully tested, the fear was that it could one day create a rift that wouldn’t close. To that end the UN did not allow rift drives to be fired whilst within the Neptune Orbital Boundary, which meant that ships had to burn a lot of fuel through their sublight drives in order to leave the solar system.
“I’d rather see them hanging about,” Dowd said as a flash of light washed over the Holst in a wave, and then it was gone, “this job is always easier when you have a battleship parked behind your back.”
***
“Have you had much contact with the Eris complex on Athena Parthenos?”
Qwan paused on her drift through the long tunnel, Eris was a corporate facility on the moon surface owned by the Earth multi-national Keres. It had been part of the Magellan Project during construction but was sold off when the station was brought up to full capacity, the sale of obsolete facilities on the open market was one of the ways the UN encouraged expansion and exploration.
“We occasionally swap parts or use each other’s supply craft for urgent runs,” she replied, “is that why you’re out here?”
“Any unusual activity?”
“None,” she didn’t appreciate that Westwood had flat out ignored her question, “would you mind telling me why exactly you are here?”
“In due course.”
“No, Agent Westwood, now,” Qwan’s nostrils and blue eyes flared, “this crew has been on edge since we heard an investigation team was being sent, and unless you are carrying signed orders stating otherwise then I am still the commanding officer of this station. And I want answers.”
Westwood said nothing for a few moments, gripping the bulkhead his dark eyes moved as if trying to decide whether the best course of action was to pull rank or acquiesce.
“I am sorry,” he said at last, “the orders sent ahead of us were deliberately vague. I’ll brief the crew at 1100 hours and clarify everything, for now you can assure them that Magellan’s only involvement is to play host to my team for the duration.”
Qwan didn’t think that he was trying to be deliberately confrontational, watching him hover in the zero gravity, his dark hair rippling in the air current that flowed through the tunnel, she suspected that he was doing his best to be open whilst still telling her nothing.
“There hasn’t been any unusual activity from Eris,” she relented, “we haven’t had reason to communicate with them for over a month now.”
***
A brutal ice storm swept across the surface of Athena Parthenos, battering the frigid black mountain Thantatos Mons and the lonely little complex nestled up against it.
Snow drifts piled high along the walls and stalactites so windswept that they were almost horizontal had formed on windows that had their blast shutters sealed. The three garage facilities all linked to the two storey central complex by an underground basement system were locked up tight and caked with layers of ice, a lonely survey truck sat outside piled high with snow.
A solitary red light blinked on a beacon mounted high up the mountain above the silent facility, the only sign of life from a base that was in lockdown against the storm.
Between the beacon and the complex in a high up sheltered crevice was a man in only a lightweight grey jumpsuit, frozen to death as his fingers had desperately sought grip.
Saturday, 25 June 2011
Saturday, 18 June 2011
The Devil's Boots
Also known as 'When The Man Comes Around, part 2'. This is the prologue and opening chapter to the sequel novella to When The Man Comes Around, set ten years after the events of the first story it begins in San Francisco with Patrick McElhone now a man reunited with one of the other survivors of the first story, the Mescalero Nautzili, who has came to warn him of a threat in the form of a mad monk/witch hunter Xavier. Meanwhile an agent of the newly formed Secret Service, Aiden Muir, has arrived in the town of Armageddon to investigate the events reported by Captain Mitchell and why a representative from the Vatican, Xavier, has been sent to investigate the perpetrator of the events.
And binding these people together is the enigmatic force, The Man.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Prologue
August, 1872
There was still gold in those hills, not much but there certainly was some. Not that miners ever really such much benefit from it, the only people to see profit were the merchants, innkeepers tradesmen, craftsmen and basically anyone else doing business during the waning years of the Gold Rush other than mining gold.
The town of Shasta was doing exceptionally well out of the boom, mule trains and stagecoaches rolled in to this hub of trade before heading further north along the Siskiyou Trail toward Oregon or back south toward Sacramento.
With all the comings and goings and the legends of rivers of gold there was inevitably going to be another type of person also attracted to the town, the grittier sort, men of spit and blood.
Two large gangs had established themselves in the surrounding countryside, engaged in a bitter rivalry with one another that more often then not came to bullets and death. Shasta was spared much of the violence as out of necessity it became something of a neutral territory, a place were either side could trade or otherwise entertain themselves without having to watch their backs.
Not that this did anything for the local population. The Oregon Regulars, a legion of deserters formerly a regiment in the Union’s Continental Army took the view that the locals were a nuisance, whilst the California Defenders simply took what they wanted.
You could not have referred to one side or the other as good, the Oregon Regulars had deserted the army for the sole purpose of making it rich off the sweat of the miners’ backs. The California Defenders on the other hand were simply carrying on the tradition of making life as difficult as possible for the Union that had annexed the territory over twenty years ago.
Where the two met, north against south, was as violent and cataclysmic as that fault through San Andreas, and embattled Shasta was the buffer zone.
For the past two months the Regulars had held the Hotel Royale as their base in the town whilst across that very same street the Defenders had claimed the saloon, marking out the borders of one another’s territory.
Carriages rolled down the street as a fine breeze lifted a layer of dust from the gutters of the busy street, a man stood in the centre as stage coaches and wagons berthed around him casting glares in his direction but remaining silent.
Wind caught his long, navy blue coat revealing a pair of pistols at his side that gleamed as if lit by the fire of angels, the navy blue garments underneath could easily be mistaken for the uniform of a Union officer. His white hair was blown about a face that gave no clue to his age save that he was no coddled child.
Looking first to his left and then to his right he seemed at last to come to a decision.
Walking down the street ignoring the vehicles rumbling to his left and right, the brim of his had casting a shadow over his eyes shielding him from the sun as it set fire to Heaven as it drifted toward the distant horizon. He turned north to the Hotel Royale, its red and white painted sand blasted and sun baked, stepping onto the porch he reached out a gloved hand and gently rapped the door.
This was as good a place to start as any.
He waited patiently as a barrage of cursing came from the other side before a few moments later the door was flung open by a young man in a Union uniform, clearly drunk.
“Yeah? What do you want?”
Without a word and fast as daylight the white haired man reached out and strangled the drunk silently on the doorstep.
Drawing his guns the man stepped inside and closed the door.
***
Chapter 1
San Francisco
That same day.
The wharf of San Francisco was a forest of masts swaying with the gentle rise and fall of the sea, schooners and merchantmen that had been abandoned as their crews sought their fortune inland.
The city itself was booming, what had once been a small coastal settlement serving as a stopover for ships heading to better places was now the hub of California’s growth.
In the hustle and bustle of the area now known as Fisherman’s Wharf a young man sat on a jetty sketching the Italian immigrants toiling on their fishing boats. He ignored the crowds about him and the stares of the curious young women as he carefully etched the crooked lines of a gnarled old fisherman unloading nearby.
There was something about the old man, an adventure or strife, some hardship hidden beneath the lines on his face that gave him energy and determination. He was an excellent subject that the young man loved to try and capture, if even only the slightest glimpse he wanted to find a way to express the vibrancy under the sea-worn skin. If only he could speak Italian, the conversations they could have.
The artist, Patrick, was no more a native of San Francisco than his subject, his family were not part of the Gold Rush mania that had spread across the eastern US. Ten years ago they had been ranchers in New Mexico, but those days were long gone and would burn forever, the memory of a father and brother.
Things had been hard at first, adjusting to a new life and finding employment, but they persisted with the determination of people who refused to be defeated or browbeaten by their past.
His mother found work in an assessor’s office and Patrick when he turned fourteen found work on the docks, and in his spare time he liked to draw. And draw he did, every free moment for the past five years. He found serenity in art, being able to detach oneself from the world and observe dispassionately the ebb and flow of human emotion, to try and capture some of that energy in a single moment.
A young woman sat next to him but he paid her little heed, people always gravitated to him when he drew, he supposed that in some subconscious way they wanted to become subjects themselves.
She smiled at Patrick when he gave her a glance, he briefly returned it before lowering his eyes back to has etching. In truth he was a handsome young man, curly brown hair and green eyes that burned with intensity when he was bent over his sketch book, but he was also shy and distant in the way only a murdered family can make you.
“You’re very good,” she said, looking over his shoulder.
“Thank you,” he smiled but didn’t look up, “it’s just a hobby really, and I doubt my work will ever see the light of a gallery.”
She continued to watch him for a few minutes, sitting in silence as he smudged shadows across the fisherman’s face, his fingers making delicate strokes across the yellowed page.
“What’s your name?”
He paused in his drawing to look directly at her, curly blonde hair and blue green eyes like the ocean, she was dressed as a lady of some culture, not the sort that would normally associate with a dock hand or artist.
“Patrick,” he replied, “Patrick McElhone.”
“Patrick,” she smiled as she said his name, “that’s a nice name. My name is Patricia, Patricia Telford.”
He knew the Telford name, the family were big cotton traders from Louisiana originally but had come west when the Civil War became bad for business. They owned property all over the city and land as far out as Sonoma, including it was said a vineyard in Napa.
“Can I see your sketchbook please, Patrick?”
He handed it over without a word, struck dumb being spoken to by a woman whose family wealth was positively terrifying.
She flicked through images of the docks, the fisherman, the bay, even a sketch of Alcatraz Island before pausing at a drawing of a captivatingly beautiful woman, she looked to be in her early forties with flowing dark hair and slightly sad eyes.
“She’s beautiful,” Patricia whispered, “she looks so haunted. This is amazing work, who is she?”
“My mother,” he replied, “I drew that about a year ago, when she got engaged.”
“Why does she look so sad?”
“She has looked like that for a long time, it’s only since meeting my step-father that she has started to soften.”
“I take it this isn’t something that you want to talk about, not with a stranger certainly.”
“Not really.”
She scanned through the remaining images, pausing to study the lines on each before moving on to the next, until at last she came to a blank page.
“May I borrow your pencil?”
Turning to the back side of the page she wrote a few brief words before closing the book and handing it back to Patrick.
“I have reserved a page in your book,” she stood and gave him a slight nod, “I would like to commission a picture when you have the time. You can find me at the address provided.”
He nodded, unsure and dumbfounded.
“Good day, Mr McElhone,” she offered her hand.
“Uh, good day,” Patrick found his feet, and taking her hand he gave it a gentle kiss, “Miss Telford.”
***
The exchange on the docks, between the McElhone boy and the Telford girl was watched by a figure standing in the shadows. He watched not only Patrick but everyone around, scanning from person to person, eyeing everyone, looking for something.
He had journeyed far to be here now, and it had been a journey in haste but now above all times was when he must be at his most cautious. There was far too much at stake to be reckless and impulsive now.
The Telford girl curtsied and left Patrick standing on the dock looking like a lost idiot, smiling to himself and gripping the sketch book, blissfully unaware of the imminent danger.
The man stepped out of the shadows and pushed through the crowds on the wharf keeping his hand on the knife hidden underneath his jacket.
Young McElhone was staring out to the bay, his back to the advancing figure, his mind full of wonder and new curious feelings.
The man stood directly behind him, hand still on the knife handle.
“She likes you.”
Patrick spun in shock and found himself staring at a tall Native American man with deep eyes like the heart of the earth and a tight lipped smile that only slightly curled at the edges.
“Nautzili!”
And binding these people together is the enigmatic force, The Man.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Prologue
August, 1872
There was still gold in those hills, not much but there certainly was some. Not that miners ever really such much benefit from it, the only people to see profit were the merchants, innkeepers tradesmen, craftsmen and basically anyone else doing business during the waning years of the Gold Rush other than mining gold.
The town of Shasta was doing exceptionally well out of the boom, mule trains and stagecoaches rolled in to this hub of trade before heading further north along the Siskiyou Trail toward Oregon or back south toward Sacramento.
With all the comings and goings and the legends of rivers of gold there was inevitably going to be another type of person also attracted to the town, the grittier sort, men of spit and blood.
Two large gangs had established themselves in the surrounding countryside, engaged in a bitter rivalry with one another that more often then not came to bullets and death. Shasta was spared much of the violence as out of necessity it became something of a neutral territory, a place were either side could trade or otherwise entertain themselves without having to watch their backs.
Not that this did anything for the local population. The Oregon Regulars, a legion of deserters formerly a regiment in the Union’s Continental Army took the view that the locals were a nuisance, whilst the California Defenders simply took what they wanted.
You could not have referred to one side or the other as good, the Oregon Regulars had deserted the army for the sole purpose of making it rich off the sweat of the miners’ backs. The California Defenders on the other hand were simply carrying on the tradition of making life as difficult as possible for the Union that had annexed the territory over twenty years ago.
Where the two met, north against south, was as violent and cataclysmic as that fault through San Andreas, and embattled Shasta was the buffer zone.
For the past two months the Regulars had held the Hotel Royale as their base in the town whilst across that very same street the Defenders had claimed the saloon, marking out the borders of one another’s territory.
Carriages rolled down the street as a fine breeze lifted a layer of dust from the gutters of the busy street, a man stood in the centre as stage coaches and wagons berthed around him casting glares in his direction but remaining silent.
Wind caught his long, navy blue coat revealing a pair of pistols at his side that gleamed as if lit by the fire of angels, the navy blue garments underneath could easily be mistaken for the uniform of a Union officer. His white hair was blown about a face that gave no clue to his age save that he was no coddled child.
Looking first to his left and then to his right he seemed at last to come to a decision.
Walking down the street ignoring the vehicles rumbling to his left and right, the brim of his had casting a shadow over his eyes shielding him from the sun as it set fire to Heaven as it drifted toward the distant horizon. He turned north to the Hotel Royale, its red and white painted sand blasted and sun baked, stepping onto the porch he reached out a gloved hand and gently rapped the door.
This was as good a place to start as any.
He waited patiently as a barrage of cursing came from the other side before a few moments later the door was flung open by a young man in a Union uniform, clearly drunk.
“Yeah? What do you want?”
Without a word and fast as daylight the white haired man reached out and strangled the drunk silently on the doorstep.
Drawing his guns the man stepped inside and closed the door.
***
Chapter 1
San Francisco
That same day.
The wharf of San Francisco was a forest of masts swaying with the gentle rise and fall of the sea, schooners and merchantmen that had been abandoned as their crews sought their fortune inland.
The city itself was booming, what had once been a small coastal settlement serving as a stopover for ships heading to better places was now the hub of California’s growth.
In the hustle and bustle of the area now known as Fisherman’s Wharf a young man sat on a jetty sketching the Italian immigrants toiling on their fishing boats. He ignored the crowds about him and the stares of the curious young women as he carefully etched the crooked lines of a gnarled old fisherman unloading nearby.
There was something about the old man, an adventure or strife, some hardship hidden beneath the lines on his face that gave him energy and determination. He was an excellent subject that the young man loved to try and capture, if even only the slightest glimpse he wanted to find a way to express the vibrancy under the sea-worn skin. If only he could speak Italian, the conversations they could have.
The artist, Patrick, was no more a native of San Francisco than his subject, his family were not part of the Gold Rush mania that had spread across the eastern US. Ten years ago they had been ranchers in New Mexico, but those days were long gone and would burn forever, the memory of a father and brother.
Things had been hard at first, adjusting to a new life and finding employment, but they persisted with the determination of people who refused to be defeated or browbeaten by their past.
His mother found work in an assessor’s office and Patrick when he turned fourteen found work on the docks, and in his spare time he liked to draw. And draw he did, every free moment for the past five years. He found serenity in art, being able to detach oneself from the world and observe dispassionately the ebb and flow of human emotion, to try and capture some of that energy in a single moment.
A young woman sat next to him but he paid her little heed, people always gravitated to him when he drew, he supposed that in some subconscious way they wanted to become subjects themselves.
She smiled at Patrick when he gave her a glance, he briefly returned it before lowering his eyes back to has etching. In truth he was a handsome young man, curly brown hair and green eyes that burned with intensity when he was bent over his sketch book, but he was also shy and distant in the way only a murdered family can make you.
“You’re very good,” she said, looking over his shoulder.
“Thank you,” he smiled but didn’t look up, “it’s just a hobby really, and I doubt my work will ever see the light of a gallery.”
She continued to watch him for a few minutes, sitting in silence as he smudged shadows across the fisherman’s face, his fingers making delicate strokes across the yellowed page.
“What’s your name?”
He paused in his drawing to look directly at her, curly blonde hair and blue green eyes like the ocean, she was dressed as a lady of some culture, not the sort that would normally associate with a dock hand or artist.
“Patrick,” he replied, “Patrick McElhone.”
“Patrick,” she smiled as she said his name, “that’s a nice name. My name is Patricia, Patricia Telford.”
He knew the Telford name, the family were big cotton traders from Louisiana originally but had come west when the Civil War became bad for business. They owned property all over the city and land as far out as Sonoma, including it was said a vineyard in Napa.
“Can I see your sketchbook please, Patrick?”
He handed it over without a word, struck dumb being spoken to by a woman whose family wealth was positively terrifying.
She flicked through images of the docks, the fisherman, the bay, even a sketch of Alcatraz Island before pausing at a drawing of a captivatingly beautiful woman, she looked to be in her early forties with flowing dark hair and slightly sad eyes.
“She’s beautiful,” Patricia whispered, “she looks so haunted. This is amazing work, who is she?”
“My mother,” he replied, “I drew that about a year ago, when she got engaged.”
“Why does she look so sad?”
“She has looked like that for a long time, it’s only since meeting my step-father that she has started to soften.”
“I take it this isn’t something that you want to talk about, not with a stranger certainly.”
“Not really.”
She scanned through the remaining images, pausing to study the lines on each before moving on to the next, until at last she came to a blank page.
“May I borrow your pencil?”
Turning to the back side of the page she wrote a few brief words before closing the book and handing it back to Patrick.
“I have reserved a page in your book,” she stood and gave him a slight nod, “I would like to commission a picture when you have the time. You can find me at the address provided.”
He nodded, unsure and dumbfounded.
“Good day, Mr McElhone,” she offered her hand.
“Uh, good day,” Patrick found his feet, and taking her hand he gave it a gentle kiss, “Miss Telford.”
***
The exchange on the docks, between the McElhone boy and the Telford girl was watched by a figure standing in the shadows. He watched not only Patrick but everyone around, scanning from person to person, eyeing everyone, looking for something.
He had journeyed far to be here now, and it had been a journey in haste but now above all times was when he must be at his most cautious. There was far too much at stake to be reckless and impulsive now.
The Telford girl curtsied and left Patrick standing on the dock looking like a lost idiot, smiling to himself and gripping the sketch book, blissfully unaware of the imminent danger.
The man stepped out of the shadows and pushed through the crowds on the wharf keeping his hand on the knife hidden underneath his jacket.
Young McElhone was staring out to the bay, his back to the advancing figure, his mind full of wonder and new curious feelings.
The man stood directly behind him, hand still on the knife handle.
“She likes you.”
Patrick spun in shock and found himself staring at a tall Native American man with deep eyes like the heart of the earth and a tight lipped smile that only slightly curled at the edges.
“Nautzili!”
Monday, 25 October 2010
The Old One's Epitaph
Enscribed on the wall of the Barrow Den in my short story 'Black Rock'.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Chalnoth rysal hidrik col'na
(In the deep dark)
Chich namwa razan
(In the underbelly of the world)
Litzick harnol anta maydo
(Locked and sealed)
Rado inifinternae lodaz
(Bound for eternity)
Phaethlu
(Phaethlu)
Ti'amoriette
(The Old One)
Riss ternana rado valastadt zof ax
(Interred for the protection of all)
Chu'larthu ax vryft zfad car
(So that the world-bourne may grow)
Exarchedax fszadba ednae trekku felldau
(Unencumbered by the fate we brought upon ourselves)
The remainder of the inscription was irreparably damaged but seemed to imply some sort of pact or creed with an entity described as being one of many faces and none being pure. There were hints that this being is from beyond this world, and that it feared something referred to as 'Vorbados', no translation of this term can be discerned other than 'Void', the possibility remains that 'Vorbados' may be another entity.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Chalnoth rysal hidrik col'na
(In the deep dark)
Chich namwa razan
(In the underbelly of the world)
Litzick harnol anta maydo
(Locked and sealed)
Rado inifinternae lodaz
(Bound for eternity)
Phaethlu
(Phaethlu)
Ti'amoriette
(The Old One)
Riss ternana rado valastadt zof ax
(Interred for the protection of all)
Chu'larthu ax vryft zfad car
(So that the world-bourne may grow)
Exarchedax fszadba ednae trekku felldau
(Unencumbered by the fate we brought upon ourselves)
The remainder of the inscription was irreparably damaged but seemed to imply some sort of pact or creed with an entity described as being one of many faces and none being pure. There were hints that this being is from beyond this world, and that it feared something referred to as 'Vorbados', no translation of this term can be discerned other than 'Void', the possibility remains that 'Vorbados' may be another entity.
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
Angel
This is the actual Cinematic Read (CRead) of Angel. Not in all it's glory because it isn't on a big screen tv with the volume WAY up, but it's not bad. Thanks to YouTube for hosting.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Friday, 3 September 2010
A Letter Of Love
Gush gush gush.
Or practice, you know, because I can't write noir all the time and sooner or later I might have to express a character with emotional depth greater than intense sarcasm.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I lie here in the cold grass staring at the sky, I can feel the dampness beneath me soaking to my skin but I am unconcerned. I am otherwise occupied, always occupied. I am counting the stars, searching the heavens.
I am looking for a place where a star might be missing for I can see no way that such radiance could be bourne of this cold and unforgiving earth. One must be missing for you to be here now for truly only the deepest heavens could nuture such terrifying radiance, such unyielding promise as that I see within your soul.
The ghosts of a million broken dreams, spectres of a past lacking and incomplete are chased away by the luminescence of your tenderness, by the slightest curve of your smile, the softness behind your eyes. All the wrongs of the world, the darkness and despair and hopelessness of the long cold day, those dread thoughts of being alone all are banished by the glory that is the promise of one kiss of your lips.
I see a rightness in your being here, that somehow the world and myself would be for the worse without you, yet deep in my heart I feel that it should not be so. Surely if you are here then some forsaken and lost part of this infinite universe is denied your sublime light, that they must suffer so that we, so that I may know, that I may learn how to ache for something so divine that I will struggle for words.
My soul cannot contain itself in its desire that you should be with me, my body feels drawn and quartered, no longer my own, destitute and weakened without you, needing only to be embraced by the beauty of above and be forever healed.
Angel of the stars, I burn for you in this cold grass, looking up, seeking you out.
For you are eternity.
My heart.
My desire.
My wonder.
Or practice, you know, because I can't write noir all the time and sooner or later I might have to express a character with emotional depth greater than intense sarcasm.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I lie here in the cold grass staring at the sky, I can feel the dampness beneath me soaking to my skin but I am unconcerned. I am otherwise occupied, always occupied. I am counting the stars, searching the heavens.
I am looking for a place where a star might be missing for I can see no way that such radiance could be bourne of this cold and unforgiving earth. One must be missing for you to be here now for truly only the deepest heavens could nuture such terrifying radiance, such unyielding promise as that I see within your soul.
The ghosts of a million broken dreams, spectres of a past lacking and incomplete are chased away by the luminescence of your tenderness, by the slightest curve of your smile, the softness behind your eyes. All the wrongs of the world, the darkness and despair and hopelessness of the long cold day, those dread thoughts of being alone all are banished by the glory that is the promise of one kiss of your lips.
I see a rightness in your being here, that somehow the world and myself would be for the worse without you, yet deep in my heart I feel that it should not be so. Surely if you are here then some forsaken and lost part of this infinite universe is denied your sublime light, that they must suffer so that we, so that I may know, that I may learn how to ache for something so divine that I will struggle for words.
My soul cannot contain itself in its desire that you should be with me, my body feels drawn and quartered, no longer my own, destitute and weakened without you, needing only to be embraced by the beauty of above and be forever healed.
Angel of the stars, I burn for you in this cold grass, looking up, seeking you out.
For you are eternity.
My heart.
My desire.
My wonder.
Saturday, 7 August 2010
Pariah
This is a story that I was thinking about for a while, but wasn't sure how to approach it. It was at Dublin Horse Show in August '10 that I finally came upon my introduction, and with that I found a voice for the story. Don't draw anything from the fact that I wrote it at Dublin Show.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I hear them sniggering and laughing as I stand unsteadily at the checkout counter, fumbling in my pockets for loose change that I'm not even sure is in there.
The thoughts try to form in my head, there's a few coins in there right? I know that I have money somewhere and I try to explain this to the girl behind the counter but she avoids making eye contact with me. She is uncomfortable.
I look to the faces around me hopelessly, most people look away, the rest look on in disgust. My clothes are untidy, my hair disheveled and I'm probably in need of a wash, certainly in need of a shave.
I want to do these things but somehow the time is never there for me.
"Such a waste," I hear one woman say, "all the advantages he had."
Inside me a part of my soul dies.
"And brains to burn too. How anyone can get themselves in such a state."
In the dark nights I think about that too, to try and find some reason, some excuse, something to blame other than my own weakness.
But in truth it was no one thing, no single event that set me down this course from which I find it impossible to escape.
Like being caught in a whirlpool, my life is spiralling downward carrying me out of control on it's inexorable path, I struggle at times just to keep my head above water.
And in the darkest nights I think that there is one easy way out...
But I don't want to go out that way, that is not how I want to be remembered, this is not what I want my life to mean.
On quiet nights not so long ago I would be home from work, back to a home that had been empty for some time, and with my dinner I would open a bottle of beer.
I liked the way the alcohol took the edge off the day, it helped me to unwind and relax, it allayed the boredom of an empty home.
Soon however the beer no longer gave me a feeling that satisfied, so a bottle of beer became a bottle of wine, and not long later in the scheme of things a bottle of wine became two.
I would cry at my loneliness, a feeling amplified by the alcohol in my blood, to make the sorrow go away I would drink more. I would drink until I could no longer think.
And with the hangovers my work suffered, questions were asked.
Was everything all right at home?
Was I feeling ok?
I would always smile and say I was fine, I just head friends round and things went on longer than they should. Nothing to worry about, no big deal.
Inside I was in tears.
At home I would hide the empty bottles, there was no one to hide them from but still I did. I was hiding them from myself.
I am ashamed of myself.
The loss and loneliness became shame and depression, I no longer drank to forget but instead would drink until I like myself. And that was something becoming more difficult to do.
Vodka satisfied when the wine failed to suffice, bit by bit I came to love that bittersweet tang. A bottle a day became no great event.
When I was caught drinking at work my career was over but by now I no longer cared.
I despised myself, hated the drink and hated what I had become. Hated that I didn't care. Sitting in closed shop fronts or park benches with a bottle in my hand became the centre of my existence.
I hear people saying all the time what a mess I am, how it is such a terrible shame that I have thrown away my life. They say these things like they think I cannot hear, cannot understand.
When I loathe myself enough I do try to quit, to face my demons.
I cut my hair, wash my clothes, shave and give every outward impression that I am the man I once was.
Inside however I can feel a fire burning.
I am scared of the world now, afraid to try and make a go at anything. I am scared even of being bored.
As evenings draw near I am frightened the most, what will I do? How will I pass the time? Simple things won't amuse me and then what will I do?
People look at me when I walk the streets, I know what they're thinking.
They are waiting to see when I will fall again.
I hate them at first, but then in a clear head I realise that it is my own doing and then I hate myself.
I hate that I am weak. I hate that my character is so flawed. I hate how I have ruined my life.
And in that cycle of self loathing I open a bottle of wine, and when it is gone I start to laugh. A warm feeling of joy builds up inside me.
I laugh, and then I begin to cry.
Why am I cursed this way? I call this a one off, that I won't take any tomorrow, but I do, and again the next day. I make a deal with myself, I'll finish out this week and then no more. I have yet to ever keep my end of that bargain.
All I want is to be happy and find someone to love for I have so much love to give, my life could be so simple if only I could find a way.
But the only feeling of warmth or acceptance in my life comes from a glass bottle.
The girl in the shop tells me I don't have enough money.
I try to plead my case intelligently but the words fail to come and I know that I look lost.
I walk away from the counter forgetting my groceries, forgetting the money I had handed over, forgetting why I was there.
Dignity was not something to forget for I no longer had any to lose.
Old women look at me with frowning eyes, disapproving as if I were a product of the times, as if there weren't people like me when they were my age.
I stagger and lean against a magazine rack, have I forgotten something?
I stare at the cover of a home interiors magazine trying to think what it is I might have forgotten.
The house on the cover is lovely and I feel a pang of jealousy. I want to try and sort myself out.
To really make a go of it.
I want a better life, the kind of life that I can be proud of.
But my mind is a haze right now and thoughts won't stay.
I want so badly for things to be better.
I want so badly for someone to love.
I want some crisps and a packet of Jaffa Cakes, and I want something to drink.
People are looking at me and I don't like it. What do they know anyway? I'm sure their lives aren't perfect but they'd sooner cast judgement on me than make a change of their own.
The sunlight hurts my eyes, somehow I am outside and I don't know why. Surely there was something that I came here for, wasn't there? I was thinking about something, or someone.
I am alone, lost. I am so very, very sad.
I hate the sadness, I hate the drink. I hate myself.
The tears are forming in my eyes.
People look away as they walk into the shop, hurrying their children on, whispering to one another.
"You don't know what he might do."
"He's a disgrace, someone should lock him up."
I curse them under my breath and collapse against the shop window banging my head. They turn and stare as I slide toward the ground.
Nobody calls for the police, they never do. I'm not a troublemaker, I'm the object of pity. I'm just a mess. Sometimes I wish that they would call the police.
I remember having a nice car and a nice girlfriend, I remember a time when it was said I would go far.
It was not so long ago and yet it feels like ancient history.
I am the broken relic of my own past.
Sitting on the cold concrete with my head against the shop window I fumble in my pockets spilling money, tissues and notes I had written about everything and nothing.
I find at last a quarter bottle of vodka that had been stashed away in the deep recesses of my once good coat.
People walk by shaking their heads, tears are running down my cheeks, they don't know how hard it is, they don't know why I cry.
The only feeling of warmth or acceptance in my life comes from a glass bottle.
I put it to my lips and drink deep.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I hear them sniggering and laughing as I stand unsteadily at the checkout counter, fumbling in my pockets for loose change that I'm not even sure is in there.
The thoughts try to form in my head, there's a few coins in there right? I know that I have money somewhere and I try to explain this to the girl behind the counter but she avoids making eye contact with me. She is uncomfortable.
I look to the faces around me hopelessly, most people look away, the rest look on in disgust. My clothes are untidy, my hair disheveled and I'm probably in need of a wash, certainly in need of a shave.
I want to do these things but somehow the time is never there for me.
"Such a waste," I hear one woman say, "all the advantages he had."
Inside me a part of my soul dies.
"And brains to burn too. How anyone can get themselves in such a state."
In the dark nights I think about that too, to try and find some reason, some excuse, something to blame other than my own weakness.
But in truth it was no one thing, no single event that set me down this course from which I find it impossible to escape.
Like being caught in a whirlpool, my life is spiralling downward carrying me out of control on it's inexorable path, I struggle at times just to keep my head above water.
And in the darkest nights I think that there is one easy way out...
But I don't want to go out that way, that is not how I want to be remembered, this is not what I want my life to mean.
On quiet nights not so long ago I would be home from work, back to a home that had been empty for some time, and with my dinner I would open a bottle of beer.
I liked the way the alcohol took the edge off the day, it helped me to unwind and relax, it allayed the boredom of an empty home.
Soon however the beer no longer gave me a feeling that satisfied, so a bottle of beer became a bottle of wine, and not long later in the scheme of things a bottle of wine became two.
I would cry at my loneliness, a feeling amplified by the alcohol in my blood, to make the sorrow go away I would drink more. I would drink until I could no longer think.
And with the hangovers my work suffered, questions were asked.
Was everything all right at home?
Was I feeling ok?
I would always smile and say I was fine, I just head friends round and things went on longer than they should. Nothing to worry about, no big deal.
Inside I was in tears.
At home I would hide the empty bottles, there was no one to hide them from but still I did. I was hiding them from myself.
I am ashamed of myself.
The loss and loneliness became shame and depression, I no longer drank to forget but instead would drink until I like myself. And that was something becoming more difficult to do.
Vodka satisfied when the wine failed to suffice, bit by bit I came to love that bittersweet tang. A bottle a day became no great event.
When I was caught drinking at work my career was over but by now I no longer cared.
I despised myself, hated the drink and hated what I had become. Hated that I didn't care. Sitting in closed shop fronts or park benches with a bottle in my hand became the centre of my existence.
I hear people saying all the time what a mess I am, how it is such a terrible shame that I have thrown away my life. They say these things like they think I cannot hear, cannot understand.
When I loathe myself enough I do try to quit, to face my demons.
I cut my hair, wash my clothes, shave and give every outward impression that I am the man I once was.
Inside however I can feel a fire burning.
I am scared of the world now, afraid to try and make a go at anything. I am scared even of being bored.
As evenings draw near I am frightened the most, what will I do? How will I pass the time? Simple things won't amuse me and then what will I do?
People look at me when I walk the streets, I know what they're thinking.
They are waiting to see when I will fall again.
I hate them at first, but then in a clear head I realise that it is my own doing and then I hate myself.
I hate that I am weak. I hate that my character is so flawed. I hate how I have ruined my life.
And in that cycle of self loathing I open a bottle of wine, and when it is gone I start to laugh. A warm feeling of joy builds up inside me.
I laugh, and then I begin to cry.
Why am I cursed this way? I call this a one off, that I won't take any tomorrow, but I do, and again the next day. I make a deal with myself, I'll finish out this week and then no more. I have yet to ever keep my end of that bargain.
All I want is to be happy and find someone to love for I have so much love to give, my life could be so simple if only I could find a way.
But the only feeling of warmth or acceptance in my life comes from a glass bottle.
The girl in the shop tells me I don't have enough money.
I try to plead my case intelligently but the words fail to come and I know that I look lost.
I walk away from the counter forgetting my groceries, forgetting the money I had handed over, forgetting why I was there.
Dignity was not something to forget for I no longer had any to lose.
Old women look at me with frowning eyes, disapproving as if I were a product of the times, as if there weren't people like me when they were my age.
I stagger and lean against a magazine rack, have I forgotten something?
I stare at the cover of a home interiors magazine trying to think what it is I might have forgotten.
The house on the cover is lovely and I feel a pang of jealousy. I want to try and sort myself out.
To really make a go of it.
I want a better life, the kind of life that I can be proud of.
But my mind is a haze right now and thoughts won't stay.
I want so badly for things to be better.
I want so badly for someone to love.
I want some crisps and a packet of Jaffa Cakes, and I want something to drink.
People are looking at me and I don't like it. What do they know anyway? I'm sure their lives aren't perfect but they'd sooner cast judgement on me than make a change of their own.
The sunlight hurts my eyes, somehow I am outside and I don't know why. Surely there was something that I came here for, wasn't there? I was thinking about something, or someone.
I am alone, lost. I am so very, very sad.
I hate the sadness, I hate the drink. I hate myself.
The tears are forming in my eyes.
People look away as they walk into the shop, hurrying their children on, whispering to one another.
"You don't know what he might do."
"He's a disgrace, someone should lock him up."
I curse them under my breath and collapse against the shop window banging my head. They turn and stare as I slide toward the ground.
Nobody calls for the police, they never do. I'm not a troublemaker, I'm the object of pity. I'm just a mess. Sometimes I wish that they would call the police.
I remember having a nice car and a nice girlfriend, I remember a time when it was said I would go far.
It was not so long ago and yet it feels like ancient history.
I am the broken relic of my own past.
Sitting on the cold concrete with my head against the shop window I fumble in my pockets spilling money, tissues and notes I had written about everything and nothing.
I find at last a quarter bottle of vodka that had been stashed away in the deep recesses of my once good coat.
People walk by shaking their heads, tears are running down my cheeks, they don't know how hard it is, they don't know why I cry.
The only feeling of warmth or acceptance in my life comes from a glass bottle.
I put it to my lips and drink deep.
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
NSA Global Database
Sometimes (usually lunchtimes in Starbucks) I get bored and decide to piss around, but rather than do anything publicly offensive I write 'investigative journalism' pieces for the NSA (meaning 'News, Sorta Accurate', not the other NSA).
In these I play the role of myself as a headstrong, and slightly psychotic, reporter out to expose the evils in the world today and bring justice to the unjust. That's the idea anyway.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Kyle Spence, mild mannered investigative journalist for the other NSA, I stood outside a dark and seedy hive of villainy in the very heart of this sleepy community.
I knew that inside, right at this very moment, a crime was being committed, a rape against the community. A lawless metaphorical penis forcing itself into the soft pink vagina of this virgin land. A giant throbbing member having it's way with the people of here. A dark manhood having it's wicked way with the citizens of this place.
I had fallen asleep to Skinemax again.
Casually I made my way into the heart of this foul place.
Inside a painted Jezebel flaunted her assets like the brazen hussy she was, I knew that if I were to ever uncover the cancer that was the drugs baron I would have to start with the whores.
"Hi, welcome to Tesco."
"I'd like to buy some of the good stuff," I spoke to her as one knowledgeable of all things crack related.
"I'm sorry, sir, which good stuff would you be referring to?" asked the crack whore coyly.
So that was to be her game, she would show caution in case I was a cop, play the innocent but that's ok, I'm a professional.
"You know, that stuff that gets you a buzz."
"Do you have a facial tick, sir?"
"Not at all," I said, continuing to wink to reassure her that I am in the know, "I was just thinking about something... harder."
"What??" She exclaimed in an obvious ploy to test my authenticity.
"Something to just stick in there, that will make me gasp with the release."
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir."
Shit, I'd been rumbled. Thinking fast I scissor kicked her in the knee and legged it for the fruit and veg, where upon spotting a handy display of potted plants on special offer I took advantage of nature's bounty.
From my vantage point I studied the whore as she summoned her pimp, he took off in the direction I had last been seen running and from the walkie talkie in his hand I could see that he was obviously lower down the food chain.
With no thought for my own personal safety (we journalists thrive on danger and adrenaline) I stepped from my haven and continued on my quest to expose the filth on our streets.
Creeping through aisles stacked high with chemicals with such innocuous names as Surf, Lenor, and Caustic Soda I came to realize the true spread of the poison eating away the heart of our community.
"Disgusting filth," I mumbled to myself, then seeing a woman with a young child lift a box of something marked Dreft, my good temper finally gave way and I screamed.
"YOUR CHILD SHOULD BE TAKEN FROM YOU, YOU FILTHY CRACK WHORE! YOU ROTTEN SKANK!"
I ran, leaving the woman to think about the consequences of her actions as she tended to the crying child, probably the most attention that the critter had seen since birth.
Dreft, Persil, Tide, Daz, Bold. All these new names to confuse those of us who would seek to root out the wicked stuff and expose it's purveyors. Flingers, poppers, tabs, whack, smack, crack, dope, smoke, X, Y, and Z. Whatever happened to the good old days when it was Cocaine, Opium, and when spoiling oneself... Heroin?
Running smack into a guy a suit I realized that the game was over, it was the big enchilada, the hairy cojones, the mother of pearl.
He called himself 'The Manager'.
"Sir, might I ask what all the commotion is?"
Flanking him on either side were two heavies in blue shirts and black pants, they wore batons on their belts and carried walkie talkies.
"I'm just looking to buy something to get my mind off what a rough day I've been having," I said casually from my vantage point on the floor.
"Sir, I've had complaints about you from several members of staff, not to mention the customer you just yelled at. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave the store."
"YOU CAN TAKE MY LIFE, BUT YOU CAN NEVER TAKE MY FREEEEEEDOM!" I yelled at the top of my lungs as I was hefted off the floor and escorted toward the front door.
Violently I was nudged outside and brutally told not to set foot across the door again or they would call the cops.
In best journalistic manner I straightened my jacket, lit a cigarette and promptly gave the 'security guard' the middle finger.
It was hard to believe that I could have been exposed so easily and as I type this I wonder if it is at all possible that someone could have tipped them off to my presence.
My journey into the inner circles of the local drugs racket was eye-opening. It was truly surprising how close I got to the top, and it is now that I understand how powerful the ring has become that they can be so cavalier about peddling their wares in open defiance of society's laws.
This reporter for one hopes never again to cross their path.
In these I play the role of myself as a headstrong, and slightly psychotic, reporter out to expose the evils in the world today and bring justice to the unjust. That's the idea anyway.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Kyle Spence, mild mannered investigative journalist for the other NSA, I stood outside a dark and seedy hive of villainy in the very heart of this sleepy community.
I knew that inside, right at this very moment, a crime was being committed, a rape against the community. A lawless metaphorical penis forcing itself into the soft pink vagina of this virgin land. A giant throbbing member having it's way with the people of here. A dark manhood having it's wicked way with the citizens of this place.
I had fallen asleep to Skinemax again.
Casually I made my way into the heart of this foul place.
Inside a painted Jezebel flaunted her assets like the brazen hussy she was, I knew that if I were to ever uncover the cancer that was the drugs baron I would have to start with the whores.
"Hi, welcome to Tesco."
"I'd like to buy some of the good stuff," I spoke to her as one knowledgeable of all things crack related.
"I'm sorry, sir, which good stuff would you be referring to?" asked the crack whore coyly.
So that was to be her game, she would show caution in case I was a cop, play the innocent but that's ok, I'm a professional.
"You know, that stuff that gets you a buzz."
"Do you have a facial tick, sir?"
"Not at all," I said, continuing to wink to reassure her that I am in the know, "I was just thinking about something... harder."
"What??" She exclaimed in an obvious ploy to test my authenticity.
"Something to just stick in there, that will make me gasp with the release."
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir."
Shit, I'd been rumbled. Thinking fast I scissor kicked her in the knee and legged it for the fruit and veg, where upon spotting a handy display of potted plants on special offer I took advantage of nature's bounty.
From my vantage point I studied the whore as she summoned her pimp, he took off in the direction I had last been seen running and from the walkie talkie in his hand I could see that he was obviously lower down the food chain.
With no thought for my own personal safety (we journalists thrive on danger and adrenaline) I stepped from my haven and continued on my quest to expose the filth on our streets.
Creeping through aisles stacked high with chemicals with such innocuous names as Surf, Lenor, and Caustic Soda I came to realize the true spread of the poison eating away the heart of our community.
"Disgusting filth," I mumbled to myself, then seeing a woman with a young child lift a box of something marked Dreft, my good temper finally gave way and I screamed.
"YOUR CHILD SHOULD BE TAKEN FROM YOU, YOU FILTHY CRACK WHORE! YOU ROTTEN SKANK!"
I ran, leaving the woman to think about the consequences of her actions as she tended to the crying child, probably the most attention that the critter had seen since birth.
Dreft, Persil, Tide, Daz, Bold. All these new names to confuse those of us who would seek to root out the wicked stuff and expose it's purveyors. Flingers, poppers, tabs, whack, smack, crack, dope, smoke, X, Y, and Z. Whatever happened to the good old days when it was Cocaine, Opium, and when spoiling oneself... Heroin?
Running smack into a guy a suit I realized that the game was over, it was the big enchilada, the hairy cojones, the mother of pearl.
He called himself 'The Manager'.
"Sir, might I ask what all the commotion is?"
Flanking him on either side were two heavies in blue shirts and black pants, they wore batons on their belts and carried walkie talkies.
"I'm just looking to buy something to get my mind off what a rough day I've been having," I said casually from my vantage point on the floor.
"Sir, I've had complaints about you from several members of staff, not to mention the customer you just yelled at. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave the store."
"YOU CAN TAKE MY LIFE, BUT YOU CAN NEVER TAKE MY FREEEEEEDOM!" I yelled at the top of my lungs as I was hefted off the floor and escorted toward the front door.
Violently I was nudged outside and brutally told not to set foot across the door again or they would call the cops.
In best journalistic manner I straightened my jacket, lit a cigarette and promptly gave the 'security guard' the middle finger.
It was hard to believe that I could have been exposed so easily and as I type this I wonder if it is at all possible that someone could have tipped them off to my presence.
My journey into the inner circles of the local drugs racket was eye-opening. It was truly surprising how close I got to the top, and it is now that I understand how powerful the ring has become that they can be so cavalier about peddling their wares in open defiance of society's laws.
This reporter for one hopes never again to cross their path.
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