The corporate manifesto

Bend to the wind and break, like a pathetic little twig, sickly thin and malnourished, vulnerable and naked to the elements. No one will save you, your guardian angel doesn’t give a fuck, the world belongs to the meek but their contract ran out long ago, the producers on that album took the advance and ran like hell. Welcome to the state of your sanitised credit rating, just as dismal as the inevitably sinking rowboat that is your creative ability.  Forget the romance of a late resurgence, your scene died before you were born, every thought you’ve ever had is just a recycled, regurgitated pile of plastic products made by sweatshop workers in a third world country. There is no hope. There are no second chances. Welcome the darkness, it owns your soul. The debt is mounting. Pay up, then die. 

March of the penguin

In another place and another time, there was a Man of Principle. He despised immorality and improper behaviour. Many years had passed since he first started at the zoo, he was a teenager when be began, doing odd jobs and selling tickets. He both loved and hated his job and life at the zoo, it was a place that proved challenging to his ideals and firmly held beliefs. The animals were just that, their tastes and desires unabashed, shitting and squawking and fucking to their hearts content. The zoo’s owner and chief administrator was a man of liberal beliefs, everyday he would stroll around the zoo occasionally chatting to patrons and pontificating on the subject of animal behaviour and the zoo’s desire to create the most natural environments possible.
The Man of Principle hated everything about this kind of behaviour, he couldn’t bear to listen and would scuttle away with a disgusted look on his face if he ever got caught in the wake of such a discussion.
It was on one fateful day that the zoo decided to add a new feature and the Man of Principle first met his nemesis. When he first heard about the addition of the penguin enclosure he was excited, he’d always found them to be sleek and tidy and dignified animals, a little gawky sure but otherwise majestic. He had waited eagerly by the gate as the animals were let into the enclosure, each waddling in curiously but also cautiously. The animals were just as he had imagined them, sleek and tidy with vibrant colour in their bodies. As he watched all of the creatures entered their new home, the last of which was a particularly large and somehow surely looking male. As the man stared, enthralled by the spectacle this beast of an animal proceeded not to scout his new environment but to bear down on one of the females, taking her in an obnoxious and aggressive way, totally without reservation. The man could not stand witness to this, he hid his face ran almost crying with rage and disappointment. He charged into his shed and slammed the door, shutting out the rest of the world and all of its filth. He sat and quietly seethed, he hated the penguin and resolved not to give in to the lack of morals it represented. Everyday from then he would make a trip past the enclosure as part of his daily routine, and every time the penguin would stare with his dark, beady little eyes while he strutted about the yard almost as if he was challenging the man. The man began to take his stroll past the enclosure when he knew nobody was around, he would sneak into the enclosure with a watering can full of ice and water and pour it over the penguin in an attempt to douse the flames of his arrogance and unabashed arousal. To his dismay, the penguin was neither shocked not perturbed by this but rather more excited, it seemed to encourage him and he would strut about squawking and shitting and mounting the females at random. This bred a mounting frustration in the man of principle, his hated grew to a point that he could barely contain it. He became angrily enamoured of the penguin and his blatant refusal to bow to the demands of common decency. The beast had no shame and no respect, he stared with a barely perceptible smug grin on his beak every time the man walked past the enclosure. It didn’t take long for the man of principle to crack, he sat in his shed and ground his teeth thinking about this awful behaviour, the penguin didn’t stop his sexual rampages even when children were around. A rage like none he had felt before surged inside of him and a manic despair took command of his faculties. He tore down a crowbar from the wall of the shed and ran and fast as he could toward the enclosure, tearing at his clothes as he stumbled along. The zoo was particularly busy that day and the patrons were initially shocked at the sight of this figure, sprinting naked along the paths, a look of wild obsession having enveloped his face. Something about his frenzy excited them however and they began to follow in droves, howling and laughing and some also shedding their clothing. The man sprinted toward the penguin enclosure and leapt the fence in one mighty bound, his crowbar ready to rain fire and brimstone down on the demon penguin. His stance was low to the ground and he began swinging the crowbar wildly while penguins fought left and right to get out of his way. Only one combatant failed to retreat, the penguin stood his ground. They squared off, gladiators in the weirdest battle ever known. The man was only vaguely aware that his naked penis was now fully erect and as he struck wildly with the crowbar it swung just as violently. The penguin moved suddenly and with alarming speed, he ducked and weaved narrowly avoiding the man’s strikes and pecking at the top of his cock. The man’s rage was reaching a point of singularity and he launched himself at the penguin striking him in the neck with the crowbar. He felt the blow resonate up his arm and he knew that it was fatal. The crowd was screaming, baying for blood, but as he stared down at his defeated opponent he felt no victory had been achieved. The penguin had won after all and he, the man of principle, was nothing more than an animal.

Excerpt from ‘A History of sunburn’

Here is a little taste-test from the novel I am writing for NaNoWriMo, let me know what you think.

”

He sits up and takes a drag on his cigarette before butting it out on the ground. He feels distinctly unclean. He gets to his feet and nearly falls again as a wave of dizziness darkens his vision. He wishes he was in the field with her, if for no more reason than to make her feel less alone. There is a feeling growing inside him, its electric, his feet feel like they are vibrating. Still stark naked he runs through the door of the tent as hard as he can, he draws as much air into his lungs as he can and runs headlong through the camp his eyes and his airways open. There are people all over the camp going about their day and they laugh and cheer as he speeds by. Several children take up the chase, laughing and skipping as they sprint after him. In this moment he feels free, there is no resistance but the wind and his own body. The sun is sharp but he is running so hard that the wind cools him. He jumps and dodges around people and laughs wildly, the children still hot on his heels. He crests a rise and sees a dam down below, perfect. Without slowing he charges to the bank and dives headlong under the water. The cold rushes over and through him and he dives as far down as he can, burying his hands in the soft mud at the bottom. He opens his eyes and can see only murky water. Here at the bottom he stays, with only two choices, he could wait here and let his oxygen run out, to die pure and naked as the day he was born, or fight his way to the surface and continue down his dark path. Distantly he can hear people laughing cheering, it seems so far away, maybe from another time entirely. Maybe Kasey is sitting on the bank, patiently waiting to see if he will rise or fade away at the bottom of this murky pool. His chest is burning but the pain is cleansing, he waits a few more seconds before pushing his feet against the bottom and rising as fast as he can. The sun becomes clearer and he bursts through the surface spraying water up in a fountain. He is awake and the sunshine on his face feels better than anything he has ever known.”

Morning Sunshine, a short story

Her breath feels stale in the cold morning sunlight. The aftertaste of toothpaste is what kept her from breakfast before she left and now her stomach is making an appeal. She locks the car and makes her way toward the platform, following the path worn into the ground by her fellow nine-to-five drones. She imagines their shuffling feet and slack mouths, lobotomised androids that dispensed with their dreams as soon as they were old enough to understand what a mortgage was. Privately she has cordoned herself off from these people, the thought of being comfortable with this kind of life is too much to even contemplate. She has a plan and this won’t last forever. She hasn’t yet lost her sense of romance, well not entirely, but seeing so many others who have brings on a dark feeling that she finds hard to shake. Mondays are always the worst.
She looks left and right, making sure she won’t be run down in the street by some idiot in a four-wheel drive. Absentmindedness nearly got her killed last week, but it was the way the woman had screamed at her after that disturbed her most. She wasn’t going to risk it again. What if she did get run down, she wasn’t even wearing nice underwear.
Her legs move at the behest of her brain, firing on auto-pilot. She doesn’t really want them to. As she nears the platform entrance she looks across to where the obligatory coffee shop is. How crafty these coffee people are, they know that she hasn’t eaten and in the morning what more could a person want than to hide their face behind a latte. Her stomach gives a well-timed gurgle that disturbingly sounds like the word ‘muffin’. The coffee shop is painted brown, a semantic reflection of the coffee waiting inside. Blunt, but still strangely effective.
She heads for the door and of course some prick pushes in front of her. She stops and lets him. This sort of thing used to have her silently fuming, grinding her teeth and shooting nasty looks at the culprits. But now she is tired of that, it leaves knots in her stomach and they are inevitably too fucking ignorant to notice or care. As he passes she gives him a private judgement. Nice shoes, expensive suit, cologne that would probably smell good if he hadn’t showered in it. He probably has insecurities about the size of his dick.
As she steps into the enveloping warmth of the shop she overhears Mr Obnoxious curtly ordering his coffee, of course prefacing with the announcement that he is in a hurry. She never rushes, never has the need. Maybe she is just better organised than other people or maybe she just doesn’t have that much going on in her life. Such a smart move, she hopes they spit in his drink or better yet burn him with the steam nozzle. These violent fantasies help get her through the day and leave her smirking to herself. The suit bustles past her with his coffee and she watches as he checks himself out in the window. What a bastard. She wishes she could get out of the habit of making judgments about men. She hates guys like that and is getting worried that her subconscious has mutinied, examining potential mates behind her back. Like a monkey. And of course her thoughts shift to Ben. He is in her brain far more than she would care to admit these days.
Someone behind her makes a pointed cough and she realises that she has been staring into space and it’s her turn to order. The guy behind the counter smiles too widely at her, a predatory look. He thinks that she is within his price range, and she feels insulted. She has unfortunately become something of a regular here and this guy has decided he has the right to be familiar with her.
Again she curses herself as she makes a little mental list of his pros and cons. Not bad looking, a little hipsterish for her tastes, too many tattoos and ear stretchers have always looked strange to her. But then she has been less picky before, amazing what the right situation and a little social lubricant can do for a guy’s chances. He waits for her to order, his smile screaming, throw me just one flirty look and I’ll be happy forever. She finds it kind of pathetic but in a way it makes her feel like she has power over him. Her thoughts betray her, she remembers seeing that same look on Ben’s face, except then it had felt good, exciting. A bitter thought rising from an old stagnant memory pond. Not important now.
The guy, Mike or Matt or something, he had uninvitingly introduced himself to her on a particularly bad morning, looks expectant. “Hey, what can I do for you this morning,” as if there was a long list of things he could for her besides making passable coffee. In his mind the most prominent would be helping her get undressed. “Just a skinny latte thanks,” “oh and an apple-cinnamon muffin,” said with a half-smile and a downward glance, trying to appear disinterested but probably succeeding only to look demure. Fuck.
So many of her guy friends love to repeat the mantra ‘women are cold and evil’ which has always upset her and it has taken her a long time to realise why they thought that way. In her experience women could be cold and evil, most of all toward other women. Guys liked to see the world in black and white, when they wanted something they begged for it, they’d go to great lengths to get it, and not just sex. When they lost interest, they’d dispense with it completely. This was far more cold and ‘evil’. Sometimes they just couldn’t see past their own egos.
She wonders what it must be like to feel the weight of balls in your pants and the pull of mental gravity. Such a distraction, and it always seems to be the reason they makes such stupid decisions. It must be such a pain in the arse to have them there, trying to make you fuck up all the time.
Ben always had a propensity for talking about his balls, they seemed to fascinate him, and he wanted to share his fascination with the world. He was well-spoken and intelligent and kind and also utterly inappropriate. Her mother didn’t like him at all but was so disarmed by his natural charm she didn’t know what to do about it. He was so irritatingly lovable.
She becomes aware that while she is fighting down the dull ache in her chest, coffee boy is shooting her glances over the top of the machine. She looks up at the wrong moment and he gives her a little wink, condescending fucker. She takes out her phone so she has somewhere to look and discovers more anxiety, more messages, more things to deal with, more guilt, more people with an unhealthy interest in her life. She wishes she could escape somewhere, where no one could bother her and all of life’s disappointments couldn’t catch up.
He finishes making her coffee and hands it to her with a brown paper bag containing the muffin, the look in his eyes announces that he is proud of his achievement. “There you are,” she can almost hear the “gorgeous” he wants to add to that sentence but realises social protocol wouldn’t allow it. Would have been better if he had said it, at least then she would have a reason to tell him to stick it up his arse. Not that she would, maybe. She wonders if he is happy with his life. Maybe he has hidden depths and she is being unfair, maybe someone he cares about fucked everything up too. What if he is an artist or something in his spare time, shouldering the burden of minimum wage so he can follow his dreams. She realises that she likes to think of people this way, because the alternative is a world full of empty promises. She gives him another half-smile and a thanks as she shoulders her bag and exits stage left to the world outside.
She pauses and takes a deep breath, the cold hurts her lungs a little but it’s a clear spring morning and if she weren’t on her way to work she might have enjoyed the sunshine as it warmed her. Nah fuck that, if she wasn’t going to work she would be hiding under her doona with a good book eating chocolate biscuits. With a sigh she follows the crowd onto the station platform and tries in vain to find a space not occupied with people trying to feign nonchalance and furtively preparing to rush the doors of the oncoming train. Everyone ends up jammed up like battery chickens in that big metal cage anyway.
She tears up the warm muffin and puts big pieces of into her mouth, just as she has done since she was little. It’s these little moments of pleasure that make life bearable. They are so simple, so uncomplicated. There are absolutely zero ill consequences when it comes to enjoying a warm apple and cinnamon muffin. If only relationships were that simple. It’d be nice to still feel some of that old naivety, to still believe the reason your grandparents were together for so long was because they loved each other.
The train ambles into the station, already groaning with other commuters. They stare out of the vandalised windows at her, each wearing the same look of uncomfortable hopelessness. As predicted people begin pushing their way to the doors. Too bad for anyone wanting to get off. She adds herself to the back of one of the little groups pushing their way into the train and only just manages to find a space big enough to fit. Her arms are clamped to her body, making it hard to sip her coffee and she can feel bodies against her on all sides. She tries to hold the top of her bag closed, it would be so easy to reach in and steal something. What a fantastic way to begin the working day, being forcibly crammed into a tiny space with all manner of people touching you. She had had experiences when she didn’t know if someone was moving or trying to feel her up. It’s like being at the worst nightclub in the world, no one is drunk, everyone is passively belligerent and if there was ever a place designed to maximise viral transmission then here it is.
She closes her eyes and reminds herself why she is enduring this hell. She has a plan, work for five years and save every penny to acquire enough capital to open her shop. She had calculated that if she made some sacrifices socially and cut down on her retail therapy the money she needed was achievable. It had come as something of a shock when she had realised this, it had started simply as a little thought experiment, a what-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life sort of thing. After things with Ben collapsed in on themselves she needed something to set her sights on. Well, realistically she needed it long before that, but when a relationship takes up all of your energy it’s hard to see outside the box. Again she tries to block out the rising pain. No matter how bad things are, sometimes you can’t help but break when they change. It had taken more courage than she believed was in her to leave, he had begged her to stay, literally begged. It tore her apart to walk away but she needed to be free. They were the quirky couple, the mismatched lovers doomed to fail for the same reason they loved each other, too much cliché. Sometimes guilt got the better of her and she wondered if it wasn’t her fault for not wanting kids, for not wanting marriage and the white picket fence. He just couldn’t seem to understand. She endured, knowing that better things were waiting for her, happier times. But the dark feeling had set in and he became more bitter and resentful every day, until she just couldn’t bear it. The fear and sadness and pain weren’t going to end until she made them end.
So she had moved out, left him to his misery and shed herself of the belief in love that she had once clung to so desperately. Losing that part of you is a painful process. Perhaps that’s why the other commuters she is crammed in with have given up believing in childish ideals, so armed with the knowledge that life is hard and cruel.
The train starts to get close to the city and her coffee is running low, the last dregs are fast losing their heat making the cup more of a nuisance than anything else. People are beginning to jostle, and she feels like yelling at them. The fucking train isn’t going to leave before you can get off, your workplace will still be there. The train bumps and groans into the city station, brakes squealing in a way that just puts the icing on the shit-sandwich that is the morning commute. The exodus begins. People around her push and shove till she wants to ball up her fists and swing them around windmill style. Thump their heads till they realise how stupid they are. Instead she collects herself and makes her way as quickly as possible toward the exit.
The sun is out and she feels slightly better for the train ride being over, only eight hours of work to go. Yay. Her feet follow the familiar path along the busy street, automatically dodging and weaving through human traffic. The offices loom all around her, oppressive titans and constant reminders that in this economy we are all slaves. Two streets up and one street across she reaches her destination, a small office block that is completely indiscernible.
She drags her feet up the stairs and pulls open the glass double doors, she could have at least picked a job in a decent building, not this old cardboard box. It takes a couple of jabs at the elevator button before it lights up, just a little thing, but it always seems to be adding insult to injury. A muted bell sounds the arrival of the elevator and it opens like an old man coughing. She steps into the strange stale smell of old lift and it closes in a geriatric kind of way. As she approaches her floor she feels the mild apprehension that always overcomes her at this part of the day, as if something other than quiet talking and the hum of computers is going to be there to greet her. Maybe someone had finally cracked and decided that today was the day. They had gone to see their uncle who owned a farm over the weekend and borrowed his bolt-action rifle. This glorious morning they had come to work early and smiled brightly while their finger eagerly caressed the trigger, pumping round after round indiscriminately into their unsuspecting co-workers.
As the doors open she is mildly disappointed to be greeted not with a scene of chaos but with the office’s resident creep, Jeff. “Morning sunshine” spoken in that ludicrous Farmer Bob style of voice, it was all she could do not to kick him in the shin. “Morning” fuck off Jeff. She makes her way to her desk, drops her bag onto it and collapses into the chair. She looks at the clock and tries vaguely to calculate how many more days she has left until this waking nightmare ends but gives up after realising that the answer is too depressing. At least when she was with Ben he would occasionally convince her to call in sick and they would spend the day in bed, having sex and acting like stupid kids.
She steels herself knowing that this attitude will just make the day longer. There is a long road to go, money to make, things to deal with. She feels a little buoyed though; so far she has set her mind to a task and is making it happen. For the first time in a long time she feels she is starting to gain some control. Even so, right now it’s just one day at a time.
She lays her head on the desk and stares at the side of the cubical, wondering how long she could simply stay like this until somebody notices. Not long apparently. Her supervisor walks passed and does a double-take, like something out of a newspaper comic strip about working in an office. He looks at her for a moment, unsure of the situation. “You alright there, Jess?” She doesn’t move her head and gives herself a moment to contemplate the question. Is she ok. She is struck by the thought, “I’m fine” she remains slumped and simply raises her hand to give him a thumbs up. A resigned salute, a ragged white flag. He looks confused but decides the best course of action is to smile and walk away. She laughs inwardly and starts trying to count seconds in her head. Maybe that is all she needs, to count the seconds until things get better.

A short story to liven up your saturday (It has guns and swearing in it)

The Devil You Know

 

11:58am: We find our protagonist at the stroke of midday. He looks beaten already, hunched over a seedy bar with a head full of cheap thoughts and a belly full of cheaper whisky. His overcoat and hat look lived-in. For most people the metaphorical line would have been crossed some time ago. But not for this pillar of the underside community. It’s a matter of precedent.

His mind is consumed with the present dilemma, just another line on the page of his existence. He can’t remember the last time he didn’t have something to deal with. Happiness is a washed out memory of girls and friends long dead or moved on.

His attention is wholly set upon the index finger of his right hand. Pressing his fingertip to the bar and slowly pulling it off, watching as the skin pulls as it is held by whatever horrible concoction of liquids has long accumulated there. Layer after layer of alcohol leaving a permanent sticky residue on his soul.

He sets down his whiskey and scans the bar. Nobody arousing suspicion, just your typical burnt-out geriatric drunks. Eventually he knows he will have to face the sun, but right now he is content to let the worry-pot simmer in his belly. Plenty of time left in the day to suffer.

Enveloped in the comforting smells of cigarette ghosts and stale beer he contemplates his next move. It’s time to visit the Devil. He knows by this point he should have probably walked away already, but he liked the girl and somewhere in his dried-apple of a heart some blood still flows.

5:15pm: He stumbles through the door to his office and slumps heavily into the chair. What a mess. He can still feel the cold pressure of the barrel on his temple. Nothing sharpens you up like being seconds away from death. The Devil, better known as Gary, is as unforgiving as ever.

He reaches into the bottom drawer and retrieves his medicine. The finest amber liquid no money can buy. He has developed a taste for the cheap stuff, his first ever drink had been pilfered from his father’s liquor cabinet and that man didn’t waste time on the finer things. His hand is still shaking and he pauses to admire the way the surface of the whisky bounces and moves. Bad vibrations. Better take a double dose.

He stares at the bottle and can just vaguely see his reflection staring back at him with hard judgemental eyes. Enemies and friends come and go he thinks, but the drink is always there for him. What do they always say? Better the devil you know. Well anything is better than that warped fucking sociopath.

Gary, what a strange, terrifying creature. At first it was funny, a weedy little antisocial guy trying to be tough. Things quickly lose their humour when people find out what game he is really playing. When it came to unnerving a person, Gary had every angle covered.

He was running out of options, though, had to make the sacrifice. Time was a factor here. The Devil knows where everyone is, AT ALL TIMES. Like a fucked-up Santa Claus. And now at least he has a solid lead. He won’t soon forget that nightmarish place though. He takes a long pull from the bottle.

10:45pm: He wakes with a foggy head full of pain and confusion. It takes him a moment to realign his brain. There is a persistent sound, what the hell is it? Something is trying to pound the door in. Reality kicks in and suddenly everything is a lot louder and he is a great deal more sober.

The lights are off and it wouldn’t be that much of a lie to suggest he isn’t in, his brain feels like its glued to the inside of his skull. It’s the kind of knocking that suggests impatience. He slowly reaches into the top drawer of his desk and puts a hand on the hilt of his Excalibur. A worn-out service revolver that may or may not actually fire in the heat of the moment. A fitting weapon for such a warrior. He runs a thumb along the grip, along the familiar lines, his thinking gun. Not that it makes him feel safer, just more dangerous. The weight of the thing always surprises him.

The pounding stops and he holds his breath. Silence but for the clock ticking menacingly. He is sure he can see an eye trying to peer through the keyhole, but it’s likely just the awful machinations of his imagination.

11:13pm: He is exactly where we left him, still too afraid to move from his chair in case of a trap. He still risks the movement of hand to mouth, bottle to lips. He is the only piece of furniture in the office willingly soaking itself in alcohol; the rest generally has no choice. The clock keeps reminding him that he has wasted too much time already, he tries to shut off his imagination as it flicks through scene after terrible scene of what is likely happening to that poor girl while he works his way along the breadcrumb trail. Time to get to work. Somewhere in the middle of his manic, nonsensical monologue, Gary had let slip that a certain little rat might know where the girl was. He was proud of himself for picking this up; it’s hard to focus when your conversation partner is making repeated references to disembowelling people and laughing hysterically.

11:32pm: The street is empty. He feels every shadow leering at him; the darkness drags its cold fingers up his spine. He’s no coward, just a realist, and this city is no place for the unwary. He checks the address scrawled on the scrap of paper in his pocket.

212 Benton St, home of the rat, called so because he bears such a startling resemblance to one in both aesthetics and nature. Things were about to get ugly.

He steps into the streetlight outside the door and places a hand on the knocker, braces himself for the breach and knocks sharply in three quick successions. Already from here he can smell a faint chemical odour. He can hear scurrying. Obviously these people don’t like interruptions. A voice politely enquires as to who the fuck is knocking. He steps back from the door and answers – your mother. At this, half of a less than friendly face appears. One squinting eye darts about trying to judge every angle of danger. Our man doesn’t waste the opportunity. For an average-sized guy with an obvious penchant for inebriation, he can move like a snake when the need arises. He slams his shoulder into the door and a squealing rodent is pinned between it and the wall.

The rat is spitting and hissing right up until he gets the gun barrel jammed right up one of his nostrils. His eyes tell a tale about what is happening to his underwear. Our hero is all menace and authority and stale whisky breath, causing fear and nostalgia for long dead step-fathers. The rat seems to visibly shrink; he thinks that one of his many debts has finally caught up with him.

It’s at this point that another little vermin appears on the scene, obviously being the more street smart of the two she has gone straight for a weapon. She bares her teeth. This one has been backed into a corner many more times than her nest-mate and has endured much, much worse. He can see it in her whole body. She will burn the whole place down around them rather than be trapped by anyone again.

He relaxes his stance and makes a great show of putting away his gun. Darting eyes evaluate his every move. Traps everywhere.

Tell me where they have taken the girl and I’ll walk away, you will never see me again. He hears confidence and power in the tone of his own voice; at least he is maintaining the façade because the little voice in his head is shitting itself. She advances toward him warily, weapon at the ready. Trembling with hatred and fear. Her eyes flick toward her partner, trying to divine some information about what the hell this strange threat was talking about. The rat drags his pointed tongue along cracked and crusted lips. He knows something she does not.

In a show of nonchalance our man lights a cigarette, moving carefully, animals can be prone to nervous reactions. He know that he has a potential ally in this feral little rat girl. Enemy of my enemy and all that. Things have gone better than he expected, for instance, he isn’t dead yet. She turns hard eyes upon her partner. What girl.

1:00am: He takes a deep breath as he steps out into the street. He doesn’t feel bad about the rat’s current condition. After all it was mostly the other little rat doing all the damage. He’d actually had to intervene at one point. That’s definitely got to be the strangest play of good-cop bad-cop in history.

He got what he came for and now he can feel the last few days rising up to meet him. Time is ticking away but he has to sleep sometime. His feet start home; the tension and adrenaline drain away and with it his resolve. If he gives up now though, what then?

He pats his pockets in vain, hoping to find a forgotten flask or bottle but comes up empty. Cigarettes it is. He can feel sobriety looming and it frightens him a great deal more than his impending task.

He hails a cab and his thoughts turn to the girl. When she came looking for help he had assumed she was just another stray in a city full of such vulnerable creatures. He remembers the look of gratitude on her face when he said he’d put her in contact with some people, probably the first time in a long time that anyone had offered her an olive branch. He feels sick, she thought he was helping her but really he was just giving her an elaborate brush-off. Too many of his own problems to deal with and now his fucking conscience is giving him a bad time. She reminded him of a girl he once knew, sweet and somehow free of the jaded cynicism that pervades this fine city. Hell, he probably threw her to the sharks as well.

1:30am: He is more tired than he can remember and his mind’s eye is fixed only on the unopened scotch he has sitting on the kitchen sink. He fumbles with his keys, dropping them at the door. Fuck. It takes him all of his remaining strength to bend down and he is sure this is where he will fall.

A great lurching and summoning of long-lost willpower drives him into the apartment. He lumbers into the kitchen and grabs the bottle with both hands. Tearing off the top he upends it into his mouth. He is running out of oxygen but he keeps drinking with the bottle poised above his head. Maybe this will do it, finally finish him off.

No, not yet.

He can see little stars floating in his vision. Half the bottle is burning its way to his stomach. Tomorrow isn’t going to be a good day.

He drops into his chair and stares at the blank television screen. Not even enough energy to take off his jacket and shoes. He takes another swig from the bottle. The darkness closes in.

4:37am: He wonders whether he is dreaming. He can hear something smashing against wood. But it seems to be coming from a long way away. There is a door crashing open, shrouded figures move toward him in slow motion. His breathing sounds loud and heavy in his ears. Here comes a sense of rushing, of colour and sound. Like ice water down the back of his shirt he is suddenly, intensely aware that he is under attack.

A bat made of dark wood swings at his head with deadly force. He doesn’t get quite out of the way and it clips him over the ear.

Pain engulfs his world, his ears are ringing.

He is on the floor desperately trying to make his legs work. A boot connects with his ribs and his mind loses all bearing.

He rolls onto his back and stares numbly as the bat comes crashing down.

7:04am: darkness.

Spots of colour start forming in the ether. What does this mean? Where am I?

He can see something, his vision swims and it takes him a minute to recognise his own blood-stained trousers. He feels strangely detached; like that time he tried mushrooms as a kid, the same unfocused sense of foreboding lurking in the corners of his brain.

Cold water is thrust into his face and with it pain comes rushing into his world. He tries to shout but all that comes out is a gurgled grunt.

Awake then are you, Mr Sticky-Beak.

He recognises the voice and the fear really begins to set in. The Devil is the father of lies.

How are we feeling then, a little under the weather eh? I’ve warned you before about keeping your nose out of other people’s business, you fucking parasite.

The last is said without any particular emphasis, just with the particularly developed menace of a man who knows no limits and fears no consequences.

Nothing to say? What am I to do with you? I really feel that this time I’m going to have to kill you and hang your corpse from a lamppost somewhere; you’d look pretty trussed up like a flag. I can just see you now, that disgusting fucking coat of yours flapping in the breeze.

While the smug bastard has been running his mouth, our hero has been frantically tugging at the ties on his wrists. The ropes are tight and he can feel them cutting into his skin, but the fear of the man in front of him supersedes everything else. He manages to find a sharpish edge on the metal edge of the chair and gets to work.

Why didn’t you just kill me before Gary, why all this fucking around.

Well we are badly mannered today aren’t we? Where’s the fun in just telling you I had the girl, this way we can play a bit before I chop you up into little pieces and feed you to my dogs.

What have you done with her?

Oh don’t you worry your little head about her, she’s been well looked after, I found lots of uses for that little piece of work. My friends here had some fun with her too. He gestures to his little gang of freaks, sitting around, all fingering some sort of dangerous implement and smiling without mercy.

Our heroes stomach drops out, he looks across the room at a door to another room. The Devil follows his gaze.

Oh yes my little pet, you will get to see her soon enough.

He tries to suppress the sound in his throat as he feels the ropes give under the metal. If anything he is more afraid now that his hands are free. Gary is saying something nasty about skinning him with the little flick knife that has appeared in his hands but his attention is centred on his revolver lodged in the waistband of Gary’s grimy trackpants.

The Devil moves in, obviously feeling up for a little dark humour before he starts cutting. His breath wafts hot and evil smelling over our heroes face. The speed at which the gun appears under the psycho bastard’s chin surprises everybody in the room. Fuck you Gary.

Our man is inches away from his enemy’s face as he pulls the trigger and the top of his head explodes like a high school science experiment.

He will never forget the look on the bastard’s face as he falls away, still grinning like a carved pumpkin.

Before he knows what he is doing he is on his feet, firing wildly at the other people occupying the room. It’s all smoke, shouting and wild movements. He realises that he is still pulling the trigger but all that results is a series of resounding clicks. Lucky for our man he has managed to put down all of the freaks. In a detached way he looks down at his arm which is gushing blood in merry little rivulets from two decisive holes.

Various parts of his mind are screaming at him to move. He moves raggedly toward a door and becomes aware of an overwhelming smell of death. This is all he can take and he steadies himself against a wall and vomits heartily on the floor. He could really use a drink.

There will surely be more coming. He pushes the door into the next room and the smell nearly knocks him to the floor. There is an old dirty mattress on the floor, on top of the mattress, tied by all of her limbs is the girl. Naked, carved, bruised and obviously starting to putrefy. He scrambles backwards through the door, hauls his body in the opposite direction, desperate for an exit.

7:24am: cool air hits his face and the shift sends his stomach reeling again. It turns itself inside-out in the alleyway. He is utterly spent.

Some survival instinct fires and he begins to move as fast as he can, a limping, dragging gait.

There is only one thing on his mind now.

9:45am: he has finally fallen in the alley behind the bar. He drags himself to a wall and begins counting the seconds. Not long now till opening time.