A huge television screen looms over the Gothic banquet hall. Torches burn feebly on the walls. The vast table is covered in rotten food. Rats scurry invisibly into holes while bats flitter in the darkness. Vague screams and cries fold out of the distant dungeons. Beyond the Endless labyrinthine corridors of the castle the faint sounds of thunder and pounding rain echoes. This place is abandoned.
Suddenly the television screen flickers into life. It is only static at first. Then a voice and vague stringy fragments of a face float out of the white.
“what makes this creature so remarkable is its extraordinary talent for suffering. The wolf bits and can be bitten. The mouse fears the monstrous cat. The shark swims up from the gloom and splits the seal into brutal twos. But this beast alone can suffer and inflict suffering with a ecstatic agonising artistry that lesser creatures can barely comprehend. Even the very sound of my voice, even when unheard and written down, causes such pain.”
Suddenly a terrified man bursts into the room. He is sweating. He is also bleeding a little. He pays no attention to the room. He couldn’t comprehend the screen even if he were to notice it. Something growls behind him. He runs out of the room.
Moments later the torches snuff out and some terrible unseen presence flits across the room. The torches return. A foul scream fills the air and then silence again.
“The creature I am referring to of course is God.”
They burst from the cold sea. Their bodies are incomprehensibly alien. They have fronds and barnacles. They shoot plumes of white water from their backs. They are like nothing I understand. I know rationally they are warm bodies like I am. But I just see the impossible alien edifice cruising through an icy water-wilderness that would claim my warm body. Make me the utterly alien cold corpsish thing.
But then the creatures make noise. There it is! They are a horse! They are an elephant! They are a man! They are a mammal! They are me! I see now in their small flippers the vestiges of my own legs I see the two nostrils that were once further down I see I see the landed creature. I freeze. The spray flies across my face. They were like I once and abandoned the warm normality of the land. With that I can only silently watch as the dogs as the monkeys as the cats float back down into the see with a single stroke of their gigantic tails. They plunge into the deep- utterly committed now to the path they have chosen.
I watch the water silently now.
Dun dun a ling
Dun dun a LING
Dun dundun dun dun dundun dun dun dundun dun dundundun duuuuunnnnnnnn
The screaming anuses flew across the ruddy plane! Look at them go children! Look at them go! Look at the screaming anuses! Look how they fly! Don’t it make you feel proud?!
The screaming anuses scream and scream and fly and fly. They eat lighting and crap thunder and scream like banshees across the barren landscape. Their liquid shit is napalm death. They are capital r capital t Righteous Truth. Love the screaming anuses. Teach your children to love the screaming anuses. God smiles down sweating on the screaming anus squadrons off to bomb freedom out themselves and down the rushing throats of the world. They are God’s own Valkyries carried on avenging angel wings. They are pure thought pure death pure sex. They are the unrelenting vanquishers and terror of the unjust and they don’t give a darn who the prime minister is.
Now the sky is opening up. What is this? Do the screaming anuses have to do battle again? No. It is merely the force of their flight. A few kakka demons here and there in wild prisms on undulating photon death are no problem for the screaming anuses. It brings me a terrible trembling thrill to watch the screaming anuses. I wait eagerly for them to crash into the enemy lines. To obliterate the righteously demeaned enemy. To drag their faces through the dirt and clasp their women to our bosoms for once. I almost can’t take it anymore.
The screaming anuses keep flying. Keep screaming. I am eager for the orgasmic release of cluster bombs.
But who would dare provoke them?
“The wind howls outside and the creature sits over the mangled bleeding remains. I have to fuck. It says in a straightforward way. The creature tries to fuck. The creature tries to fuck. The creature gives up trying to fuck and so dies instantly.”
Oh my goodness its brilliant who did you come up with that oh wow its so creative oh wow your imagination is crazy wow were you on drugs to make this ha-ha oh wow I really like the part where it says the creature tries to fuck I think that’s so clever ha-ha that’s really clever how do you come up with oh ha-ha oh ohhhhhhh I think it’s because you’re just so clever and intellectual I think you just really have a genius knack for it a really genius knack for writing about a creature trying to fuck and being consumed by the death drive when they give up oh ha-ha
“Dragging its knuckles, the creature sniffs it’s kill. The house is shaken by the storm. Water rushes over the eaves. The creature will not fail like it’s f̷̧̢̛̳̜͖̯͓̭̯̬̳̳͕̣͎̊̎́͌̈́̚̕͘a̵̡̖̝͚̗̟̠̦̹͓̝̜̐̔̄̍͛̒̔̃͛̋͆̕͝ṭ̶̮͖̩̤͕̘̖͔͆̒̅h̴͇̮̑̓͜ȩ̸̧͙͖͎̪͇͙̫̹͔͑̍̓̃̌́̉̽̿͒͝r̶̞̰̝̓. Oh no it will not. It will be sure to never stop trying to fuck. Never stop never stop never stop. Is it trying to fuck now I wonder? Yes indeed yes indeed yes it is. Yes it is still trying to fuck. Necrophilia is really funny and I’m really clever for alluding to it oh yes ha-ha. I wasn’t hugged enough as a child I am a mechanical boy a mechanical boy…”
Oh my brilliant how goodness where did you creative oh drugs that’s so !wow! oh knack genius so that’s yes oh wow ha-oh that’s so s’taht goodness oh my badness that’s so goodness wow
Sammy went deeper into the dark forest as the last of the suns light left the world with a whisper. His eyes were narrowed. He peered. He listened.
At that moment he heard a deep rumbling growl and turned. First one and then another long white snout emerged from the bushes followed by two gigantic hulking furry bodies. Their eyes were aflame. They looked starving. Sammy took no time in rushing forward. One tried to swipe at him with it’s paw but was already clocked in the face with the broad side of his shield. Before Sammy could bring the righteous fury of his axe down upon the beast however the other knocked him back, clawing his arm. The two leapt forward and Sammy felt flesh being torn from bone. He pushed them away and took one last clumsy swing but only grazed the creatures eye- blood running over his own eyes already. Feeling outmatched and unprepared and hearing, but not seeing, the two hungry wolves moving closer Sammy turned and ran. His lithe muscular legs propelled him towards the village. They soon gave up chasing him.
The villagers all turned in awe and horror at the hulking bloody figure who stumbled back through the doors of the tavern after being gone less than half an hour. He was covered in deep wounds. He had clearly been bitten in the face perilously close to his neck. Long claw marks lined his chest under the ripped and bloody tatters of his clothing. He was exhausted. The village girl looked at him with wide eyes that seemed to say ‘what the hell happened?’.
Sammy payed for a room. He was disappointed that the situation proved not to be so straightforward. He may have to stay a little while.
Sammy was an uncomplicated man. He didn’t like to spend long working out every possible solution to a problem. The best solutions, for him, were the ones that came quickly and impulsively. He would immediately try them and, hopefully, quickly sweep aside the problem and move on. He was also a man skilled at many a complex form of physical violence so was predisposed to put such legendary skills to use in such pursuits. So, upon arriving in Root Town, a tiny village out in the frost smothered forest wilderness, and upon being informed in nervous whispers by some clearly terrified village girl, that monsters lived out in the woods and would stop her from leaving- Sammy’s response was unsurprising. For it is worth noting that Sammy had killed many a monster in his time. He reasoned that the monster being dead would probably at least help the poor girl’s situation if not out right solve it. She had said that some sort of strange charm had fallen over the village- something was bewitching them to accept their miserable conditions. That only she and Sammy, this strange new arrival, seemed to be immune to its effects. Sammy knew therefore that it was unlikely going out and killing the monster would do anything about all that. What he did know though was that, while Sammy was not altogether an unintelligent fellow, his strengths lay in killing monsters. He knew it was likely a wizard was involved in the whole charm business, and Wizards were trouble.
So with that he thanked her, said he would be taking a short walk into the forest to sort out the situation, and left. At the very least, even if it didn’t work, he would know what the threat was.
As Sammy reached the edge of the village he unveiled his broad sharp battle axe.
Alarms blaring. I’m awoken in the night and grabbed by a leathery hand. Dragged down into the cellar David won’t tell me anything. Once down there the door is sealed, and I find all the dried and tinned food is already down here sitting prepared on top of the stockpile already gathered months before. Still half asleep I had yet to fully register what happened. -It’s happened Kirstie! He yelled almost as excited as he was shaken. -The Russians finally did it! I told you it wasn’t over! They’ve always had it in for us! He was shaking. The room was shaking. I turned to go back to bed and he stopped me. -Our home is gone. It’ll be ash now. Go out there and the radiation cloud will kill us both! Now I was shaking. Everyone I knew was gone for good. David didn’t trust my friends. He said they all looked like Russians to him. He’d kept telling me to stop associating with them. I’d always thought the bunker thing was some kind of personal quirk, a joke I was yet to be in on, that I’d understand more as our relationship went on. I stood there for a moment, considering the uncountable millions destroyed, and then ran into David’s arms.
Life down here wasn’t so bad at first. We played board games, David made love to me, we watched old movies on his hand-cranked generator powered television. It did a lot to distract us from the fact all our friends and family had burned to death in a terrible instant. It was like any other relationship. But as time went on things began to wear on me. It was a few minor things at first. But as time went on, as tedious timeless days of the same two activities over and over again rolled on, David became unbearably hateful. Now had the world not been destroyed by nuclear war we had only been seeing each other for a little while and could have easily called things off there. But since the bombs fell and since spending two years cooped up in here with him and since there was literally no escape I said nothing. Years turned on. The screaming of confinement grew ever more shrill and straining inside my mind. I began to grow paranoid. I felt myself developing the same nervous ticks as David had always displayed. I began to wander if he’d lied about nuclear war. I had felt like the room was shaking when we’d come down here but I’d been tired and scared and told the world had ended. I was already considering ditching him and maybe he’d known that. Down here he’d had me shagging him and playing his hateful games and watching the same movies again and again. There was no way out except the key that David kept on him at all times. Trying to open the door would surely wake him even if I somehow got it off him.
I began to fantasize about killing him. I didn’t want to. I just liked to think about it sometimes. As he lay on top of me (the years had not tutored him), I imagined lying on top of him and plunging the knife that lay right across from me straight into his hideous pig heart. These thoughts played through my head again and again. They grew more and more appealing.
One night I found myself suggesting, as he went to resume the normal position I suggested I spice things up. I wasn’t sure why I was saying this but I barely registered my conversations with David anymore. I climbed on top of him. Not sure why still. The knife shone in the corner of my eye.
I swung down at him but he knocked me to one side. His leg swept me off the bed and he was up in a flash. I charged for him screaming ten years of grievances, still clutching the knife, screaming he had kept me prisoner. He tried to deflect me and I slashed only his stomach. He roared and swung a meaty fist at me. I was hit. My world was spinning from the impact. I stumbled away letting go of the knife that I had thrust decisively into his chest. I stumbled to the door before turning back to David who had no fallen to the ground. Blood spurted from him in both places. I reached down and took the key from the chain around his neck with one hard vengeful tug.
He lay there begging for my help as I begun unlocking the door. For the first time in many years my aged face etched into a smile.
The door hissed as it opened, I ascended the stairs leaving the pitiful screams behind in the dirt, and stared in dumbfounded horror at what I found of the world above.
It slumped to the ground. I looked at it, drool still gently unravelling from its mouth. The bed was unmade. I had to make the bed. The problem was one always found whilst making the bed a new better way to do it. In particular one always found the new exceptional way to attach the fitted sheet and it was always precisely just not perfect. It was strange, given these perpetual discoveries, that the problem of fitted sheets still came up as a cause for concern at all. But enough, thought I, of this ironic anachronistic tone. What really is fitted about this sheet? I would say the main problem I have with it is the immense difficulty I actually have fitting it. It being fitted would be an extremely commendable improvement. I chuckled to myself, but in doing so noticed once again the thing slumped onto the floor. A little red leaked from the back of its head. It ran all over the cashmere carpets they were rough and covered in those thick strands one could describe as a ‘forest’ but of course they weren’t much of a forest seeing as they bent over flat to the ground not like trees at all I suppose that’s so the strands don’t put undue pressure on ones feet they are made purposefully floppy and unsupported. How bizzare is it that things are every poorly designed when every way of being designed is sometimes the best way?
The dead man was still lying on the rug.
I could see my house from here. Down in the valley it was nestled into a tumbled crescent of other little brick boxes. My husband would probably be getting in soon. He would wonder where I was.
I looked down at it. There was no way out.
all work and no play makes jack a jack boy all jack and no jack makes jack a jack boy all work and on play makes jack a dull boy all work and on play makes jack a dull boy all work and on play makes jack a dull boy all work and on play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all korw and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and all work makes all an all an a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work ankes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play
the working of ideology is to make life seem like garbage and garbage seem like pristine beauty…
ork and no yap makes
jack a jack boy all jack an
d no jack m
akes jack a jack boy
all work and on play makes jack a dull boy all work and ony all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and all work
No dull play a all a no boy work dull.
wake up to the complex play of rubbish
go dogging in a gallery and stab a priest
A dull no makes makes play an boy.
Ja no jack play.
All dull work boy no;
Work boy work.
Boy a work;
A makes jack all makes work an dull all jack a play play and boy dull makes all all.
Makes all and and and and.
Jack jack and;
“fuck a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work ankes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all work and no play makes jack a dull boy all w
we make serious pieces of political art here.
The tree’s swaying. Some eyes looking away at nothing. The trees again. The city for a moment. The city closer still. Now a building. Now a woman working. She is on a telephone. She is at a desk. She is on a desk at a telephone. Hands are chopping vegetables via the utility of a knife. Now she is looking down. Now vegetables. Now her eyes again. The same tree swaying the same way. The same eyes, this time furrowed, this time scrunched up. The same trees again. The woman crossing the street talking on a phone. The eyes looking away at nothing the woman crossing the street the front of a car approaching the woman chatting the eyes the same eyes. Tires skidding against a pavement. The eyes widen. Blonde hair lies on tarmac a hand drops limp against tarmac. Blackness. Rain coming down between trees swaying (different trees) and this time from above looking down eyes looking at nothing a grave stone rain on trees black umbrellas jostling the eyes are unreadable blank eyes. A silhouette appears at a frosted glass door. The sound of a door opening as a hand places keys on a table someone comes and sits on a kitchen chair long silence a torso and an arm the arm picks up the phone and then slowly returns it to it’s place a face looking at nothing and then turning to look at different nothing to compare the two. Eyes looking. Rain falling.
Cut to black.