"Hello gentlemen"
A curious face peers through the first skin of haze surrounding Bob and Eugene. Placing her painted finger nails beside her chin she searches for the break in the haze, to peel it away, but it is illusive like the beginning of sellotape. She scrapes around a larger area and eventually feels her nail skip on the outer skin, and peels it back, ripping it down to her plimsolls and stepping through. Bob has been rebuilding his broken face, and using his stringy fingers to mop and plug at various pores. His face now propped up by the delicate stilts, his eyebrows being scooped onto his head by his forehead but constantly drooping like a sleeping bag a small man is trying to prod into a loft. Eugenes face does not need a transformation of any kind, it just pulses into a rosey whiskey whiskered pucker, with a tremendous monolithe teeth behind, only the middle of the top row of teeth are visible.
"Sandra, are you out on the rounds today?", Eugene fires like a dart of small talk
"Oh no, I'm round to see Mary", Sandra reacts, lets the chat dart pass her head, letting it be whipped round by her field of gravity, filling it with eye poison and carefully releasing it into the tradgectory of Bob's tradgic foreheadful smile.
"Mary is still on the continent", Bob yelps, raising a pathetic finger that looks like two Milkyways slumped in their wrapper, and rubbing the rickety bridge of his nose that couldn't even hold a pair of reading glasses.
"Oh right I see, it's just, I don't remember her saying anything about going to France"
The whole atmosphere changes completely, or it becomes more intense. If there was atmosphere before, it is now Ten Atmospheres of pressure. Bob's cheeks have sunk to rest in the divets of his collarbones, his nostrils closed like a camels in a sand storm. His chest has deflated as his bones have powderised and he is swaying in the breeze like a Lilo. Sandra's body responded to the atmospheric change by plumping up like a blowfish in a sea of cuppasoup, filling everything in Bob and Eugene's world. Eugene lies like a slimy stone beneath them. Suspicion nips Bob like anemones.
"She didn't want to cause a fuss, she didn't plan to do it, she just did it on a whim, but still she enjoyed herself too much. Enjoying France"
The whole sentence splipped out like oil from an octopus' anus, freudian in its slipperiness, and as similar as his possible motive for murdering her. Mary had been sleep-talking about Randy, and Randy's wife said he had been wet-dream-sleep-talking about Mary and she hadn't seen him for two weeks either. Bob assumed they had ran off together before Sandra brought up this atmosphere of suspicion against him. The prespiration haze around them reached saturation point and began to expire and converge. Whence it disappeared Bob was left there, pissing tears of angst down his knobbly knees. Eugene scuttled through the gap in the fence, and casually started swapping his scuttle for a gentlemanly swagger balanced by the metronome swing of his manhood. Sandra was gone.
Carmarnacock Upon Tweed
Outside the leaf-patterned windows of the door, Eugene was growing exponentially. His shadow on the door remained pulsing through to the wash of checkered shirt creeping towards it. Eugene's head had pushed beyond the gutters of the bungaloo, and were looking across Carmarnacock's mounds to the early yawns of sunshine through stubbly clouds. The mounds bowed down to him, or maybe they pointed downwards, as he looked down to see the fetal pube that was Bob come through the door below him.
(If the camera was to remain at eye height of Bob, you would not see Eugene; for his body would remain at the height of 5'3" that the God and Goddess lent the genes to Eugene for. (When he prayed at night on his knees bringing him down to 4'2", he thanked them for his stunted ego, but afterward, slid in a limbo position under his bed, and cursed them for celestually smoking when he was in the heavenly womb. A dire way to treat the Immaculate Ejaculate that was Himself, Eugene.))
Eugene reigned in his telescopic social legs, and reeled into just above Bob's forehead. He possibly sniffed a line of sweat off his head like sugary milk and started spitting what he had to spray with it.
"Hi Bob!"
"Hi Uggy!!!"
"I'll be round to check your vegetables around 5 this evening" (a curl of his lip obviously noting the triple exclamations used by the pitiful Bob)
"Oh aye, well, 5 oclock isn't great for me sorry"
"Bob, the competition ends tomorrow, your the last man to be marked"
"Aye, well I don't think I'll be entering the competition this year"
"BOB!" *Then into a hushed voice* "You have the best chance of winning this year, what do you think you are f-- f... up to?" (he couldn't work the near curse into the real sentence, instead, just getting to it, stopping, and hopping it like a jobey)
"Well things have changed Eugene, I can't enter anymore"
This diaglogue might possibly have taken place through body language, but I'm 50% sure I heard it. Next though I don't know what happened, but here is what I gathered from the spray I caught downstream. Either Eugene's oceanic spray conversation, or Bob's sudden bulk persperation.
"Bob, what... the... fuck... do... you... think... you... are... up... to...?"
(If the camera was to remain at eye height of Bob, you would not see Eugene; for his body would remain at the height of 5'3" that the God and Goddess lent the genes to Eugene for. (When he prayed at night on his knees bringing him down to 4'2", he thanked them for his stunted ego, but afterward, slid in a limbo position under his bed, and cursed them for celestually smoking when he was in the heavenly womb. A dire way to treat the Immaculate Ejaculate that was Himself, Eugene.))
Eugene reigned in his telescopic social legs, and reeled into just above Bob's forehead. He possibly sniffed a line of sweat off his head like sugary milk and started spitting what he had to spray with it.
"Hi Bob!"
"Hi Uggy!!!"
"I'll be round to check your vegetables around 5 this evening" (a curl of his lip obviously noting the triple exclamations used by the pitiful Bob)
"Oh aye, well, 5 oclock isn't great for me sorry"
"Bob, the competition ends tomorrow, your the last man to be marked"
"Aye, well I don't think I'll be entering the competition this year"
"BOB!" *Then into a hushed voice* "You have the best chance of winning this year, what do you think you are f-- f... up to?" (he couldn't work the near curse into the real sentence, instead, just getting to it, stopping, and hopping it like a jobey)
"Well things have changed Eugene, I can't enter anymore"
This diaglogue might possibly have taken place through body language, but I'm 50% sure I heard it. Next though I don't know what happened, but here is what I gathered from the spray I caught downstream. Either Eugene's oceanic spray conversation, or Bob's sudden bulk persperation.
"Bob, what... the... fuck... do... you... think... you... are... up... to...?"
Carmarnocock.
Bob slowely manouvered towards movement. As if snapping out of a dream, or as if trying to crack a big nut between his thighs, he stood up swiftly. He swayed, and put his hand out to break his fall if he was to faint. Through his eyes, blackness was pooling in from the sides of his vision. Looking at his eyes, he looked concentrated, then dreamily looked into the middle distance with a wee smile on his face, then back to the miserable face. After standing up too fast, his movements were more calculated from then on. Each step to the door was placed as if to avoid treading on a jobey being shuttled under his feet by a team of rogue termites. Every step caused him the displeasure of stepping on that jobey coupled with the pleasure of destroying the naughty termites, that sad equilibrium expressed miserably on his poughty pud.
Medium Paced and Miffed.
This year. From the maker that brought you Infinity Fast and Infinitely Furious. Starring Vin Diesel's reanimated corpse. We bring you. Medium Paced and Miffed. Just when you thought it would definitely end... No longer adherring to the 2036 Finite Power Consumption Policy where cars can only travel for 5 miles at a time, and at 36 miles an hour, but using Electric cars that travel at 60 miles an hour until their batteries run out!! Vin Diesel's Reanimated Corpse never looked so real or happier! ... etc
Inert Etc and Ecstatic etc - watch out for this movie next year.
Inert Etc and Ecstatic etc - watch out for this movie next year.
Carmarnorcock-Upon-Tweed's Suspicious Circumstances/
Latterly, Bob had been rooting around in a toolbox in a manner that suggested what he was looking for was, infact, to be found in his heart. Now his head was rotating towards the door in real-time slow-motion as the doorbell toll warmly in his wife's quiet bungallo. Through the patterned glass the shadow of the man who stood on the porch loomed, and knitted it's way through the letterbox and round Bob's throat, where his heart now resided. He swallowed what sounded like a walnut and gently placed a bag of washers back in the toolbox, and slid the two lids closed. As his hands met at the meeting of the lids, two beads of sweat joined on his hands and as he lifted the toolbox onto the mantlepiece, they ran down his arm and up his sleeve. It sent a shiver starting from the first node of his spine just above the forrestry of his buttocks, straight to the last strand of hair stood on his neck, and seemed to encourage him to laugh as well as top himself on the spot. The shiver rolled up his back strip of hair, and glode onto the bald patch on top. He rubbed his head with a large bulbous hand, his blood pressure was obviously rocketing, but don't ask me because I'm no rocket biologist, I'm just your Narrator. My name is Finnigan Brown and I live in a small village off a windfarm dotted coast, called Carmarnorcock-Upon-Tweed. This story is called:
The Village of the Damned... Oh thats not the title you say. Oh, you say I obviously changed it later because I found out it was already the title of another book. Well you would know because you seen the cover/the finished article of this unedited/unplanned book where as, I'm just writing it. So I shall call it;
Carmarnorcock-Upon-Tweed Mysteries.
The Village of the Damned... Oh thats not the title you say. Oh, you say I obviously changed it later because I found out it was already the title of another book. Well you would know because you seen the cover/the finished article of this unedited/unplanned book where as, I'm just writing it. So I shall call it;
Carmarnorcock-Upon-Tweed Mysteries.
Megapound: PART I & PART II
PART I
Realisation and terror was beginning to dawn on their faces; it resembled more of a facial dusk than a dawn I suppose. They were indeed in the loop round and round the MegaPoundStore, God help their lost soles. Upon passing some geriatrics, "We're just going round in circles" they claimed to each other, and you just knew they were children when they entered the shop.
The dead lay at the checkouts. Maybe they didn't buy enough, but they most likely mistakenly asked the Clerks - or Reapers - a price.
"Every item ONE POUND!" and their souls were pulls up by the scruff or the ear lobe and ejected from the earth, or the earth as they know it... here.
As I walk through the aisle of the shadow of death, the staff do not comfort me. They point to the horlics in a way that says, "we want you to sleep for a long, long time".
PART II
Behind bargain bins, the walls throb. Inside, wicker sinews cackle in their mechanisms and mechanical throats. Items not deemed good enough to sell for only 1 pound are piled like ant hills, buzzing with angst to be sold. Buzzing louder everyday. There is a newspaper held up by a skeleton wearing a hi-vis vest, the newspaper reads:
"2018 - Commonwealth Games to be held in Glasgow again!"
A newspaper with a porridge of ash and rice underneath it and a hi-vis vest laid ontop of it reads:
"Commonwealth games to be renamed - CreditCrunch Games."
A man wearing a hi-vis vest chuckles to himself as he holds a newspaper that has a 30 women on the front of it exposing their bussoms at different angles. He is the new janitor, reading the new 'Nipple Semaphore' version of the sun. After a time, his eyes drift to the previous janitors. A look that sends no condolances. A look that wonders if they could tap him a quid. Their remains remain ashen faced. He shifts angrily in his seat and turns back to the tits.
Realisation and terror was beginning to dawn on their faces; it resembled more of a facial dusk than a dawn I suppose. They were indeed in the loop round and round the MegaPoundStore, God help their lost soles. Upon passing some geriatrics, "We're just going round in circles" they claimed to each other, and you just knew they were children when they entered the shop.
The dead lay at the checkouts. Maybe they didn't buy enough, but they most likely mistakenly asked the Clerks - or Reapers - a price.
"Every item ONE POUND!" and their souls were pulls up by the scruff or the ear lobe and ejected from the earth, or the earth as they know it... here.
As I walk through the aisle of the shadow of death, the staff do not comfort me. They point to the horlics in a way that says, "we want you to sleep for a long, long time".
PART II
Behind bargain bins, the walls throb. Inside, wicker sinews cackle in their mechanisms and mechanical throats. Items not deemed good enough to sell for only 1 pound are piled like ant hills, buzzing with angst to be sold. Buzzing louder everyday. There is a newspaper held up by a skeleton wearing a hi-vis vest, the newspaper reads:
"2018 - Commonwealth Games to be held in Glasgow again!"
A newspaper with a porridge of ash and rice underneath it and a hi-vis vest laid ontop of it reads:
"Commonwealth games to be renamed - CreditCrunch Games."
A man wearing a hi-vis vest chuckles to himself as he holds a newspaper that has a 30 women on the front of it exposing their bussoms at different angles. He is the new janitor, reading the new 'Nipple Semaphore' version of the sun. After a time, his eyes drift to the previous janitors. A look that sends no condolances. A look that wonders if they could tap him a quid. Their remains remain ashen faced. He shifts angrily in his seat and turns back to the tits.
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