Monday, 8 November 2010
FRAGMENTS OF WHAT’S HARD TO TAKE- new fiction for adults
Image by DPF for eye2eye designs international
Copyright 2010 All Rights Reserved
EXTRACTED FROM ‘THE BRIGHTON HORN’
‘Far from shrinking from parties we do go, enjoy ourselves, getting ambiently high- sans alcohol or drugs. We don’t wear martyr’s clothes nor are we activists against the consumption of drink or fun-times but we do believe that- had alcohol not been invented and made profligate as such a tax earner and thus rendered socially viable, and had appeared out of the blue yesterday, today it would be immediately made a Class A drug. Users of it would become vilified overnight as crack addicts are. Alcoholics would become some of the most reviled members of society alongside paedophiles. However, for the sake of the treasury, that will never be the case. People will continue to imbibe, in open and scandalous hypocrisy, their legal ‘Class A’ drug of choice, whilst expressing their inebriated opinions about any target in society they choose. And when they go too far which is almost always, their fallback position is to, without fail, blame it on the booze. The excuse goes that they are not bigots, racists or whatever; it was just the booze talking. Seriously- how fucking lame is that on every level. If only there were a disinfectant for it.’
IS THIS FICTION?
I had just finished sorting the interfering drink driving Tory bitch who insisted on delivering The Parish Magazine against our wishes. Time for a walk. No more talk of church or politics in West Sussex, UK.
It seemed utterly incredible to me that I had been the first to see Dieter wobble like a mad cow, not like the drunk he usually is- is everyone so self-interested, I asked myself, lovers; relatives; a son in-situ; that they missed his symptomatic instability, left it to be spotted by a not entirely committed friend living so far south it might as well have been a foreign country. I broke his fall, helped him back to comfort as if he were a man twice his age- his dead father taken by a stroke in a hen-house, the trick gone into rictus, she needing to be surgically separated from the corpse. A famous night that was in Bourneville’s ER. Once more in an armchair his face arranged itself like that of a baby’s. Dieter was frightened or manipulative or both.
I insisted the medical investigations began the next day, immediately upon their return home. You do. You do that- you never skimp on urgency. It was either a vigorous brain tumour or undiagnosed HIV morphing into full blown AIDS. Ugly survivalism kicked in- it made us clinically evaluate every contact, the ones we could remember that is. Responsible gays we have germ killing wet-wipes and other guns in our armoury.
Ramon’s last ejaculation was six days previous into the bearded mouth of his EFL tutor. Since then he’d rigorously saved himself for this night- no sense in catching a one way ticket to the ‘true community’ without an adequate expression of thanks. Plus he was eighteen at last- finally democratised, deemed by society to be able to make an adult choice. Yes. He understood that the choices you make can help define you. Did he choose these six complicit men and their dicks- not exactly.
He answers his vibrating mobile- the six were now five; a heavy cold; he wouldn’t want to catch a heavy cold. That was close- he loathes colds, everybody who was old had colds. He owns multiple hand-size germ killing sprays- sani-misters.
Ramon smells of pink pepper, sunshine, fresh washed denim and white cotton. It is mid-afternoon when he rings the bell. A breeze from the nearby sea shifts his black gloss locks, carries an abandoned page from The Parish Magazine down the car-lined street.
One quarter of a Valium- 1.25 mgs, it always eases the pain of getting the little blighter out of the car and into the lift; she has carried him all four flights before; six and prematurely sprouting puppy fat screaming no; the thought of his price for an afternoon blotting out all vestige of mothering; that kind of cash buys a week’s worth of crack.
Gregory made the exchange at the flat door. Sweet. She had to wait while he finished constructing a roach- a freebie for her; she watched him tear a strip from The Parish Magazine, make a tube then slip it in.
On the landing Gillian stops to take in the view and listen out for Tom’s screaming. She wet-wipes her face and hands- the scent medicinal and reassuring. In a sudden burst she hears loud Reggae from the nearest flat to her- an altercation between adults then silence. The scenery is illuminated concrete ground-hugging blocks overlapping then intercut by towers- blink and it might seem to be the inside street map of a star-ship. Wicked.
The supplier was conveniently on the first floor. Again the exchange was made over the threshold. Part of her sufferance was the routine quips about how useful her boy was to her; how she needed to forward think to counteract his ageing: she needed getting up the duff and he had just the tool for the job. Knobhead.
Agnes Groom was relatively new to abject loneliness- never been without a cat before. November the 5th- twelve months to the day; the same arguments about British Legion Poppies clogging the airwaves. Since growing old and alone one of the best presents she had ever received was a rubber brick to lob at the offending radio or television; Mary, the plump Warden of the small close of sheltered bungalows gave her that. April Fools- it was well before midday.
There’s no mistaking a missing white moggy being thrown onto a bonfire. Agnes had clawed at her nets screaming. It turned her into someone who’d complain at shadows- Millie, her home-help, a stickler for deodorisers and bleach, had to be an illegal immigrant and that boyfriend of hers an obvious drugs dealer; the smell from the drains was Eastern European. She developed aggravated agoraphobia and signs of dementia- crying at the sight of The Parish Magazine on the doormat.
Determined to go through with it Alice rose at 5am, showered with infection prohibiting deep cleansing agents, chose exercise clothes and an anorak and jogged to the station, rousing the dogs in every other household on her leaf strewn route. She sat on a blue bench in fog quiet, reading The Parish Magazine, waiting for the 5.43. There would be four other commuters- five tops, all of them men dressed in suits and secrets. She lived with this obsessive thought- the numbers of men that get away with bad things are massively greater than those who are ever caught. Part of page seven was missing- must have been an advert someone had cut out, it amused her wondering what; life skills or a life class maybe, something to do with life, how it might be enhanced with attention to the scriptures, hot massage stones and scented oils that told the mind to find the pain more bearable. Distrust and then disgust overwhelmed her- they were familiars.
No identification. Gypsy jewellery. Thirteen- a stab at age. Nurses scissoring damp clothing off the dying girl, fresh in from a TA in the half-cock rain, blood loss extreme. High end bug defence swabs. In her mustard yellow knickers they find five Parish Magazines soaked with menstrual blood or a miscarriage. Makeshift. She was caught short or poverty stricken. The flatness of the green line final on the third time.
Heartbeats in single figures close to death, sleeping Robert Wrench was unaware his social worker had entered the property, that corduroy TV chair of his and him as one- an art installation of creatures and body fluids, making Moira catch her breath as she struggled not to retch. A bony right hand wrapped around a flaccid penis ripe with smegma. On the floor a lost remote amongst a scattering of DVDs. Eighty three and his ennui with sex had travelled him to skat and even more unmentionable themes.
A cross between a sigh and a cough and he is gone- both bladder and lower bowel howling his predicament in unison. Moira used to nurse though never could get used to it. She curses loudly. A small rat leaves the chair and finds the open door.
In the lavatory there is no loo roll- just Parish Magazines hung on string. In the pan, evidence of the previous evacuation- a smeared line drawing of a church spire. Moira flushes it away and waits for the cistern to silence itself before phoning the authorities. In her mind a bucket, mop and Dettol.
The essential thing about the 5.43 is that it does not stop. The 5.55 does. The Tag watch that Alice stole from a TA says 5.40- beautifully crafted it is as exact as it gets. She flights the paper airplane that she’s folded from the Parish Magazine. It works a treat, gliding then neatly dipping into a waste-bin. Cool. Everything is in its place, as it should be.
As planned, Alice throws herself in front of the 5.43 through train; no more lifeless exams. Bits of her red mist stick to the skin and flannel of four grey suits- their occupants screaming like annoyed gulls.
Dieter’s diagnosis harboured no surprises- the emergence of Kaposi’s Sarcoma had dented that. He lived because the drugs they have now mugged it. His mug of a husband proved to be a proper match- what is mine is yours in sickness and in health. They continued to lie to each other incessantly- nothing will separate them from it. What I know, sworn to secrecy, told by one that the other does not know, and vice versa, could be itself a sack of self-spun fantasies. I am no longer in that web.
This week a friend of a friend of a friend, as is often the way in an oppressed minority, managed to let me know that the two of them had been pronounced dead at the scene of a road traffic accident. They had swerved to avoid two girls and run over one. She died in hospital. The police are seeking the other girl as a crucial witness.
Agnes’ sorrow was so great it would not let her sob. There was no cure for the sadness of having a granddaughter robbed from you by the likes of furiously trafficked tar macadam- a step-granddaughter even, not blood kin. The genuine grieving rendered her careless almost reckless. She forgot to lock the doors and hit the gin.
Millie’s boyfriend entered her premises at 1am. Agnes was asleep. It took one blow to make that state of affairs permanent. The killer ransacked, ate and drank then wanked on the old woman’s face. He crumpled the Parish Magazine into a doughnut size ball then stuffed her mouth with it. With his phone camera he took a short vid of her dry vagina- parting the labia with the pencil she used to do word-searches with. He was seventy eight quid richer plus a small haul of Romany earrings.
Moira saw Millie’s boyfriend leaving Agnes’ premises in the small hours. Millie’s boyfriend saw that he had been seen but he was making good his escape and did his best to ignore the fact. That was not going to happen. That Moira was a god-botherer- she cared for his adopted mum’s dad, manned the all night soup kitchen. Her daughter Alice was a right swat- had the gall to tell him that his dick was puny. He figured rape had been too good for her.
Ramon was proper fucked and rectally bleeding. Smiles all round. Twice throughout he had experienced regret. Once at the very start being invited in by middle-age in a string vest and Primark jogging bottoms; secondly on the fourth unique entry when sensation left him and he became a rag doll in the hands of puppet masters. His landlady should not have raged on about his gayness. Moira could be a bitch like that- kidding him on she had his best interest at heart. Now, positive he was positive, he was convinced her attitude would soften. There was that dreadful rift between her and her eldest daughter Gillian- maybe he could mend that. Funny what crosses your mind with your wounded behind stuffed with the diseased ejaculate of four men munching tuna sandwiches and downing pear cider. Like all foreigners to the English language our words thrilled him; he was quizzing himself as to whether or not there was any real difference between a deliberate act and an accident. The English tabloid millions generally pour hostile scorn on such philosophical concerns. They love a good fat fact.
Sick of the sight of the police station and wary of being alone, Moira instructed the driver to drop her at the vicarage; the lesbian incumbent was an old friend who would counsel and cosset then ferry her home. That happened but not without Moira agreeing to deliver the new edition of the Parish Magazine- the garrulous Tory whose usual job it was, was incapacitated, due to being hospitalised for a liver transplant. Moira said- better that than the usual drink driving, so many TAs have alcohol at the heart of them. Years in ERs made her view inarguable.
It often only takes the one bullet.
Ramon- miserable with a head cold, and Gillian between fixes, found Moira dead on a little used pavement a limp, half-empty bag of Parish Magazines trying desperately to escape her neck. The work of God proving to be no defence whatsoever.
In an unexpected turn of events Gillian cried over her estranged mother’s body as Ramon iphoned the police.
They collected at the base of the concrete high-rise. One small group had instructions to deal with the criminal occupant of a flat on the first floor. Gillian went three floors higher with the rest of the policemen who were senior and weaponed up.
When Gregory opened the door and saw her, his first thought was that he had missed a date in his meticulous diary, his second thought was the proximity of massed policemen- every paedophile ring’s worst nightmare. Swift and experienced hands prevented him reaching his goodbye capsule. There were ten hard drives in the flat; a room lined with polythene; multiples of thousands of print images
The rest is every bit as nightmarish as you dare to imagine it. Though that precisely is the point- to what degree is it that any of us are prepared to care.
CONVERSATION IN A CAFE
‘I threw away all sorts of the perverse product that claims to kill all known germs. What authority are they using to say what germs are known and, more importantly, what of unknown germs? Are we not one ourselves? How well do you know the one person closest to you? How well do you know yourself?’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘I wrote to the lesbian vicar and protested the routine letter-box dropping of religious propaganda describing it as a virulent infection. She did not reply.’
‘If anyone knows the game is up she does. Her lover Mary- the warden of that old people’s close of bungalows; the Agnes Groom horror; she’s in bits, fast losing her wits. Can you wonder at it.’
‘Our very handsome gay foreigner is over his cold- a minor irritation in the scheme of things. No more sore and unsightly nostrils. Unbelievably, Ramon believes finally he belongs and is very positive about his future amongst the HIV Positive Club- Brighton, West Sussex, UK- so I am told by a friend of a friend.’
‘Very London-by-the sea. Not! Brighton calls itself so worldly wise and cosmopolitan and is in fact as clubby as fuck. The gay scene makes strangers feel like cockroaches carrying the bubonic plague- unless of course they conform at first sight to the model of prime steak and vulnerability.’
‘Quite so. Addicted and conflicted Gillian believes she is embracing rehabilitation as if it offers salvation. In our guts we feel the truth of that dissembling, don’t we. We had all those buts about religious salvation and they’ve not ever been countered.’
‘Never. God is such a lying cunt.’
‘Much buggered young Tom is now in local authority care of course, learning to shit without crying. Let us trust warily in the brittle hope that he is totally safe there. Unfortunately there exists a catalogue of well documented recent events that have shredded all such guarantees. Advertisers beware. Do not expect human life to be safe or deliver in any way like it promises on the label.’
‘Tell me about it- this lemon frappacino seems never to have kissed a lemon least of all properly sucked the living daylights out of it. It doesn’t help that this floor has been recently mopped with dilute Jeyes Fluid.’
CHRIS MADOCH © 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Image by DPF for eye2eye designs international
Copyright 2010 All Rights Reserved
- ▼ November (5)
- ► 2012 (18)
INFAMOUS EXPLICIT AND CONTENTIOUS CONTENT
- QUEER MESSIAH EXPLICIT AND CONTENTIOUS POETRY AND ...
- THE QUEER MESSIAH BANNED- performance project, mu...
- CHRIS MADOCH ART
- THE QUEER MESSIAH'S GALLERY OF HOT GAY IMAGES
- QUEER MESSIAH SHORT FICTION
- THE QUEER MESSIAH QUOTE UNQUOTE
- QUEER MESSIAH JOURNALISM
- QUEER MESSIAH THE BOOK- RUMOURS FROM THE BALCONY
- STRICTLY SAPPHIC
HAVING A LAUGH
'Put your hands up any heteros in the house. Ah bless. Now put your fists up any gays in the house! Wow! That's more like it- marvellous. I've got this day job, a nice little earner- sales rep for KY Jelly. Look- I know it's a stretch madam but this is supposed to be a laugh. Don't tell me your self-lubricating you're in the OAP seats.' CM
'The fossil stand-up with a walking frame, John Rivers- who thinks jewellery should yell CHEAP louder than fucking canaries on acid said of Yoko Ono- if she found her floating in her pool then she'd punish her dog. I knew that heartless bitch could be cruel to dogs.' CM
THE RUMOUR-MONGERS TONGUE LASHING NEWS DESK
MORTAL INSTRUMENTS Such are the demands of Hollywood that Lily Collins has to continue to pretend that her former relationship with JCB is in fact alive. A little bird tells me it as a dead as a DODO which was a very big bird indeed. Ha. Just like the writer of Mortal Instruments. Believe me the best thing about this movie franchise will be LILY COLLINS who has just delivered the performance of her life in the soon to be released LOVE ROSIE. An Oscar nomination beckons I reckon. And yes, I am in a position to know. THE NEXT LAME DEVELOPMENT IN SELF-PUBLISHING Saddo outfits such as the much fanned ONEIROS BOOKS actually self-publish authors who are too cowardly, lazy, lousy or inept to self-publish themselves. HILARIOUS. Of course you have to get through the onerous filtering processes. Licking arse helps. Judging by this house's nauseatingly variable standard of output the filters in place are utterly worthless. The poetry editor has no understanding of POETRY per se and is a piss-poor poet by any standard. They openly applaud themselves for being revolutionary. Pathetic. They are but a further evolution of the self-affirmation model and the modernly sociopathic ego. Steer clear. Do not indulge their risible waste of tree.
QUEER MESSIAH BANNED PLAYER
This is where the first tracks for the new band will shortly appear but meanwhile I will be showcasing songs from prior collaborations- this first one CALIFORNIAN QUEEN is from the album CERULEAN BLUE that I wrote with the genius Dominic Shaw. I do the spoken word and he does the lead vocals and instruments. He is not a gay man and is now heavily into ambient music. The album was loved by Phil Collins, Hit and Run Music and EMI- but eight years ago no-one had any idea how to market it.