Neither man nor beast nor beast, our lost and mournful hero roamed.
Dwarfed by the towering volcanic peaks of the Aegean,
The sea-dwellers shooed it from their home -
I'm sorry they lied, we've enough problems of our own.
Pitiful amongst the bustling Metropolis,
It was derided and ignored in deference to a latte with extra foam -
There's a recession on, don't you know.
"Moo," said the cows, scornfully.
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
Sunday, 23 August 2009
Requiem
The Alien slouched against the bar, limp cigarette dangling from its front row of teeth. A half drunk rum and cola was its silent partner.
"Come on, come on!" it rasped, "Make the shot already!"
The Predator cocked his head sideways, distracted and aggravated. This was a tense game - their closest yet - and the last thing he needed was this insufferable bounder putting him off with his backchat.
"My dear boy, do be quiet," he mumbled.
The Predator lined up his shot and contemplated. Tricky, yes. Impossible? No. He clicked on his targeting reticule and considered the far cushion; The correct angle would mean sinking the black and winning the frame. You don't let a snooker like this phase you after crossing half a galaxy in search of a worthy opponent. From the corner of his eye he could see his Alien foe lean forward slightly on his bar stool, small bizarre extra head poking out of his mouth in anticipation. What an odd fellow.
He drew back the cue to make the shot, attempting an air of calm to hide the knot of fear in his stomach. At this moment his exoskeleton - his constant companion through battle after battle - felt all too tight. He exhaled to steady himself. Suddenly, a blur of movement. Whipping round he saw the Alien sailing silently through the air, talons first followed by far too many teeth. There was no time to fire or even arm his shoulder cannon - the fiend was upon him! He wheeled the cue around and it connected solidly with his foe's temple. But this did little to slow it and The Predator, caught unawares, struggled to protect his face from the Alien's gaping, gnashing maw.
What kind of conduct was this for a gentleman?
Locked in combat, it was impossible to tell them apart - teeth, spikes and glistening carapaces became one in an orgy of snarling, whirling violence. Suddenly the Predator saw his opening - the cad's chest was exposed! In a moment he had plunged his snooker cue through the Alien's armoured hide and out of its back. A florid bouquet of wood, snooker chalk and blood blossomed across the table. The Alien crumpled to the floor.
Surely that was too easy?
The Predator picked up his battered Fedora and cocked it towards the bar. "Sorry about the mess old chap," he said with a wink. Behind him, acid blood began to mingle with the cigarette ash and dust and eat through the faded polish. just another scar in this lonely pool hall's undistinguished life.
From behind the bar, the bartender quietly cleaned an old pint glass, aghast.
"Come on, come on!" it rasped, "Make the shot already!"
The Predator cocked his head sideways, distracted and aggravated. This was a tense game - their closest yet - and the last thing he needed was this insufferable bounder putting him off with his backchat.
"My dear boy, do be quiet," he mumbled.
The Predator lined up his shot and contemplated. Tricky, yes. Impossible? No. He clicked on his targeting reticule and considered the far cushion; The correct angle would mean sinking the black and winning the frame. You don't let a snooker like this phase you after crossing half a galaxy in search of a worthy opponent. From the corner of his eye he could see his Alien foe lean forward slightly on his bar stool, small bizarre extra head poking out of his mouth in anticipation. What an odd fellow.
He drew back the cue to make the shot, attempting an air of calm to hide the knot of fear in his stomach. At this moment his exoskeleton - his constant companion through battle after battle - felt all too tight. He exhaled to steady himself. Suddenly, a blur of movement. Whipping round he saw the Alien sailing silently through the air, talons first followed by far too many teeth. There was no time to fire or even arm his shoulder cannon - the fiend was upon him! He wheeled the cue around and it connected solidly with his foe's temple. But this did little to slow it and The Predator, caught unawares, struggled to protect his face from the Alien's gaping, gnashing maw.
What kind of conduct was this for a gentleman?
Locked in combat, it was impossible to tell them apart - teeth, spikes and glistening carapaces became one in an orgy of snarling, whirling violence. Suddenly the Predator saw his opening - the cad's chest was exposed! In a moment he had plunged his snooker cue through the Alien's armoured hide and out of its back. A florid bouquet of wood, snooker chalk and blood blossomed across the table. The Alien crumpled to the floor.
Surely that was too easy?
The Predator picked up his battered Fedora and cocked it towards the bar. "Sorry about the mess old chap," he said with a wink. Behind him, acid blood began to mingle with the cigarette ash and dust and eat through the faded polish. just another scar in this lonely pool hall's undistinguished life.
From behind the bar, the bartender quietly cleaned an old pint glass, aghast.
Wednesday, 12 August 2009
Privateer
The first person we met properly was an unlikely taxi driver; no, the unhelpful American Airlines employee doesn't count. The driver was definitely a character, only four foot ten with small bright eyes and a missing front tooth. Wrapped in some kind of red taffeta shoulder-padded number, she wouldn't have looked out of place in a deep south church on a Sunday or a Cyndi Lauper music video. Add a battered tricorne, put her on the high seas behind the tiller of a rogue tea clipper and the look would be complete, if a bit unorthodox. This was all somewhat unexpected. Where was the jovial yet jaded taxi driver with the flat cap, foul mouth and Bronx lilt? Still, she would have to do. This peculiar hybrid looked up at us suspiciously, as if asking 'What do you want from me?'
A taxi ride, hopefully. Nothing relating to pillaging, thanks.
'Julia Street?' she mumbled, 'I don't think there are any hotels on Julia Street!' Her drawl and missing tooth made it hard to make out exactly what she was slurring, but the subsequent giggling cackle made it obvious.
Oh good.
After loading our bags she spent an inordinate amount of time thumbing helplessly at the mangled key fob in her hand. While waiting for her to decipher the complex device, I noticed the taxi door held an imposing sign : 'Only Driver May Operate Door'. Initially confusing, it soon became an ominous warning; What would happen if we, and not the driver, attempted to Operate Door? Could we injure ourselves? Could this even be a veiled threat? The matter was quickly resolved as our odd host, her brow furrowed in concentration and a dash of temporary confusion, put her tongue back inside her mouth and looked back up us. She jabbed a button on the fob, eyes ablaze with triumph.
The door slid open.
We climbed aboard and arranged ourselves around her bags of shopping, laundry and an impossibly large half-eaten slice of watermelon. It was itself sitting in a plastic bag, surrounded by pips and with a worn plastic fork sticking straight up out of the pulpy middle. This was her fruit fork, revered amongst all others, to take centre stage at all times; The mast to her noble vessel. The watermelon sat on the arm rest between the two front seats; August upon its throne, the best seat in the house. It was our silent, sentient guardian gazing tirelessly away beyond the horizon. When she swerved or braked hard, her hand shot out to steady the massive piece of fruit, as though she knew her driving had the potential to spill it or bruise it or otherwise cause it offence.
It is not comforting to be valued less than a watermelon.
The journey to the questionably existent hotel was largely uneventful, marred only by her seeming inability to keep a constant speed. Go. Stop. Go. Stopgo. Gogogostop. And so it continued. I pondered quite how to put on my seatbelt quietly and carefully enough so that she wouldn't realise it wasn't a direct result of her erratic driving. Slowly, carefully, I clicked the catch into place and turned to look out of the window, ashamed. When we finally arrived at our destination, our pilot veered sharply across the thankfully empty road and slid into a parking spot, watermelon always secure.
'You're staying here?' she cackled once more. Hobbling out of her seat and opening the boot - I noted with an odd degree of satisfaction that it was not also automatic - she glanced at us, inviting us to remove our bags. We rummaged through further plunder: shopping, clothes and now baby toys and pulled out our things. She gunned the engine and sailed off down the road, leaving us standing in that muggy street that smelled vaguely of sick, a wino asleep on a bench.
Enjoy your watermelon, weird pirate lady.
A taxi ride, hopefully. Nothing relating to pillaging, thanks.
'Julia Street?' she mumbled, 'I don't think there are any hotels on Julia Street!' Her drawl and missing tooth made it hard to make out exactly what she was slurring, but the subsequent giggling cackle made it obvious.
Oh good.
After loading our bags she spent an inordinate amount of time thumbing helplessly at the mangled key fob in her hand. While waiting for her to decipher the complex device, I noticed the taxi door held an imposing sign : 'Only Driver May Operate Door'. Initially confusing, it soon became an ominous warning; What would happen if we, and not the driver, attempted to Operate Door? Could we injure ourselves? Could this even be a veiled threat? The matter was quickly resolved as our odd host, her brow furrowed in concentration and a dash of temporary confusion, put her tongue back inside her mouth and looked back up us. She jabbed a button on the fob, eyes ablaze with triumph.
The door slid open.
We climbed aboard and arranged ourselves around her bags of shopping, laundry and an impossibly large half-eaten slice of watermelon. It was itself sitting in a plastic bag, surrounded by pips and with a worn plastic fork sticking straight up out of the pulpy middle. This was her fruit fork, revered amongst all others, to take centre stage at all times; The mast to her noble vessel. The watermelon sat on the arm rest between the two front seats; August upon its throne, the best seat in the house. It was our silent, sentient guardian gazing tirelessly away beyond the horizon. When she swerved or braked hard, her hand shot out to steady the massive piece of fruit, as though she knew her driving had the potential to spill it or bruise it or otherwise cause it offence.
It is not comforting to be valued less than a watermelon.
The journey to the questionably existent hotel was largely uneventful, marred only by her seeming inability to keep a constant speed. Go. Stop. Go. Stopgo. Gogogostop. And so it continued. I pondered quite how to put on my seatbelt quietly and carefully enough so that she wouldn't realise it wasn't a direct result of her erratic driving. Slowly, carefully, I clicked the catch into place and turned to look out of the window, ashamed. When we finally arrived at our destination, our pilot veered sharply across the thankfully empty road and slid into a parking spot, watermelon always secure.
'You're staying here?' she cackled once more. Hobbling out of her seat and opening the boot - I noted with an odd degree of satisfaction that it was not also automatic - she glanced at us, inviting us to remove our bags. We rummaged through further plunder: shopping, clothes and now baby toys and pulled out our things. She gunned the engine and sailed off down the road, leaving us standing in that muggy street that smelled vaguely of sick, a wino asleep on a bench.
Enjoy your watermelon, weird pirate lady.
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