Archives for the month of: January, 2012

Great, pig, trouble.

Fingers stands in a clearing, looking down, as the howling wind rips at his hair and rain smashes into the right side of his face. His trousers are around his ankles, his buttocks are clenched, his knees caked with mud and twigs. At his feet is Ruby, the large saddle back pig, last seen at the quay when Goliath first arrived. She has keeled over, onto her side, panting and snorting breathlessly – then suddenly, she spasms and squeals out in pain.

The last born of a large litter, Ruby was plucked from certain death by Georgie Delaware’s daughter Matty (Matilda); raised by her loving hand from runt to great hulking house pig – albeit with a slight heart defect. Four years ago Matty left the Scottish island on a gap year trip, to pursue adventures in Australia; after sand boarding, diving with sharks and spending time at a Dingo sanctuary, she fell in with a fanatical group of white, middle class Australians, committed to living the ways of the ancient indigenous people; Matty had gone fucking walk about. Ruby is Georgie’s last contact with his only daughter; when he sees Ruby he sees Matty – sad but true.

Georgie hears Ruby cry. He races through the woods battered by the elements and hollers desperately into the storm, “RUBY? RUBY? RUBY?” His voice flies ahead of him reaching Fingers and rousing him from his horrified stupor. He grabs the waistband of his trousers to pull them up but too late – Georgie stumbles into the clearing. RUBY! He wails, rushing forward, pushing Fingers out of the way and sending him flying backwards, hard, onto his arse, legs in the air. Ruby grunts almost imperceptibly, little piggy eyes blink sadly up at Georgie as if she says:

“Goodbye dear friend, goodbye.”

Georgie hears Fingers scrabble to his feet, hoick up his jeans, and stutter that it doesn’t look like what it looks like, which is precisely when Georgie reflects on what the scene, actually, does look like: A rock star + muddy knees + a visible penis + female pig with a ravaged pudenda. Ruby, as if sensing the truth is out, sure now her honour will be avenged, shudders, squeals (like a pig) and abruptly dies.

Georgie roars in anguish. Fingers takes a few tentative steps backwards but George is on his feet and moving towards Fingers who suffers a nauseating feeling of impending doom and tries to lighten the situation.

“Oh no, c’mon love, she came on ter me, honest…’ but clearly humour is not going to work. So he bargains; “look mate, Ah’ll buy yer a new one, Ah’ll buy yer a whole friggin’ flock…Pigs up t’yer nipples.” Georgie launches himself at Fingers, who runs; skidding on mud, stung by nettles, face clawed by angry branches. His lungs threaten to burst and his legs have all but given way but he can hear Georgie crashing after him. Finally, whimpering, he pushes through the door of the old house only to be confronted by the powdery white, red eyed, ghost of Clive Brendon wielding an axe; it is too much for his frayed nerves – Fingers screams shrilly and faints before he can say ‘lock the door’.

There is a reason why guests are corralled into a specific area of the house; the reason is dilapidation. The empty room above the one where Clive slept, clutching the axe, has a large hole in the ceiling with direct views to the sky beyond. Through this hole, for many years, wind whipped, snow drifted and rain poured, soaking the floor below, rotting the rafters to the texture of liver pate. Twenty minutes ago the rafters gave up; the ceiling dropped onto Clive covering him in soft rotted wood, plaster pieces and icing him with a layer of grey-white dust. He woke spluttering and gasping as if risen from the dead. He stumbled out, clutching the axe, half blinded, wishing he’d removed his contact lenses last night. He lurched along the corridor and struggled stiffly down the stairs. He heard the front door fly open and saw someone stagger in and the person screamed, like a girl.

At least that’s what Betty said, after they’d dragged Fingers to the sofa in the drawing room. Will pointed out that using that phrase was demeaning to girls and Betty giggles; he says:

‘Did yer sister tell yer she gave me a gifted tit wank after Blackpool?”

Will sighs, she didn’t just tell him, she posted pictures on Fuckbook and tried to sell the story to the sun, thinking it would help her get on Big Brother. It didn’t. He frowns, searches around the room for a caustic yet poignant response when he notices Cyclon; skin quivering as if an alien fights its way out, sweat cascading off him as he crawls until he makes contact with a wall, where, oblivious to all but his own pain, he bangs his head repeatedly against the faded, ‘Strawberry Thief’, William Morris wallpaper. Will dashes off to scrape cocaine dregs from the kitchen table in a futile attempt to relieve Cyclon of what could be a fatal period of withdrawal from years of drug abuse.

Fingers shows signs of life, muttering as if in a nightmare, calling out for ‘Mindy? Mindy?!’ (This is the name of Clive’s wife). Clive grabs a vase, full of half dead flowers in fetid water and chucks the lot on him – an act that he enjoys immensely until, out of the corner of his eye Clive becomes aware of a figure, looming at the drawing room door. It’s Georgie, tears streaked down his ruddy cheeks; shot gun raised and primed.

He suddenly shouts, “Move ah’way from tha’ murdering rapist bastard!”

Everyone jumps, looks at each other and then at Fingers who has returned to consciousness and the sight of a shotgun – aimed at him. Betty backs away hands stuck vertically in the air, H Butt drops to the floor, behind the sofa – he’s had a gun pointed at him before, during the robbery of his Suffolk mansion, now sold at auction to a pair of Euro lottery winners. Clive thinks very quickly: he considers the band minus their famously vile, but fan-base heavy bassist and concludes that Will could provide both a keyboard bass line and with a bit of work become the fan focus. i.e Fingers is dispensable. This thought makes Clive smile, momentarily, however he is moved by the look of pure terror on Fingers’ face, to consider the option of disarming Georgie, using charm (unlikely to work), or heroics (would look good in the papers) but Will beats him to it. Moments ago he crept silently, from the kitchen, slid soundlessly up the corridor and right now, whacks Georgie Delaware on the side of his head with a medium sized copper bottomed pan. Georgie drops the gun; it hits the floor; it fires – KABOOM – and – in horrible slow motion a splurge of bone, blood and grey matter splatter Clive – a portion of which enters his open mouth and is, in the ensuing panic, swallowed.

To be continued…

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There’s a storm coming.

A Cyclonic roar reverberates through the house as wood splits then metal crashes and glass smashes; out of sight Fingers screams – proceeded by a nasty silence.

Betty, H Butt and Will, peer nervously down the hall then creep forward and stop in a pile of hush a few feet from Fingers; he stares at an axe wedged into the wood panelling a few inches from his head, where it landed, narrowly missing his cheek, when Cyclon rushed blindly forward into the larder with murderous intent and skidded on a Granny Smith apple. Cyclon now prostrate on the flag stone floor, groans, surrounded by more apples, candles, cleaning products and broken jars once filled with jams and pickles. Clive Brendon’s feet and his right arm protrude lifelessly from beneath a metal shelf unit he had placed against the larder door for protection.

“Shit,” Fingers whispers and then volunteers, as an avid fan of medical dramas, to take Clive’s pulse; he can’t find it.

“Fook,” blurts H Butt suddenly, “Fook. Fook. Fook.” Cyclon glances down at his plum jam splattered t-shirt and wild strawberry compote flecked hands and suddenly wails. Fingers crouches down; he grasps the drummers muscular shoulders and shakes him until the hideously feral noise abates.

“It were the shelf that done it Cy! The shelf!” Fingers cradles Cy’s over sized head to his own almost concave chest, emitting soothing noises and adds, “Anyways luv, he used to steal your Haribos…the bastard.”

Cyclon, overcome by sudden ennui, succumbs, and goes limp in Fingers arms.

“Haribo’s,” murmurs Will thoughtfully and a previously unseen light flickers behind his eyes. He backs off, down the hall and out of sight; Fingers watches him go.

“Can it be?” He murmurs to himself, abruptly dropping Cy’s head and announcing, “Ah vote we deal wi’ this t’morra lads.”

Clive comes round when the larder door slams but he lies motionless for some moments more aware he has lost the feeling in his right hand, and both his feet (fortunately it is only blood circulation cut off by the shelf unit on top of him).  As quietly as he can, in pain as he certainly is, he shifts the shelf unit, picks up the axe, and limps, quietly sobbing, up the vast stairs, past the paintings of ruthless looking Scottish gentry. However, hearing Cyclon smash the hell out of his drums lifts Clive’s mood; his plan just might be working and he becomes more determined to get that fucking record written even if it kills him (ignoring the fact it very nearly did). He finds a small room, away from the designated guest area, in what must’ve been the servant’s quarters. He pushes the few pieces of furniture against the locked door, lies down, still sticky with jam and encrusted with pickle, on the bare stained mattress, gripping the axe handle.

Fingers herded the lads back to the vast drawing room where Will scribbled frantically into a grey dog-eared notebook (of the variety you might’ve used at school). “Is that a song luv?” Asked Fingers, hardly daring to hope.

“Well,” whispered Will, smiling his angelic yet crooked smile. “Reckon it is.’

Betty felt bad Clive had to get the chop to rid Will of his writing block but even his relief was palpable as kit came out of boxes and H was sent off to fire up the generator. Spiffs were rolled and lit, coke was snorted and Cy, notoriously off his head since 2004, announced his decision to stop taking drugs – tomorrow – then shoved an E, bestowed on him by Betty, up his arse (for rapid release).

Once his bass was tuned Fingers allowed himself to drift into a sexual fantasy involving Clive’s wife and her two sisters and then her Mum – who has thick blonde hair – seguing neatly to his neighbour Laurie (also blonde) who will be sixteen on Thursday and ends up at his Aunty Ginny, rolling back time to his eleventh birthday, watching her masturbate, afternoon sun spilling in from the bedroom window, her abundant pubic hair back lit – leading him directly to Will (also back lit): at which juncture Fingers experiences a volcanic surge of desire. Will, feeling Fingers’ eyes on him, hisses to Betty, “Fuck. He’s got that rape stare on at me again.”

Betty snorts, “Fingers mate, sex clinic worked out well then did it lover?”

Fingers blushes red raw, “Bugger off, it were working – the bastard took me out a bit soon tis all.” He briefly pictures Clive’s body, in the larder, and frowns, the bastard always could bring a good mood down and he snaps to Betty, “Oi, give us another pill yer wanker, this one ain’t doing owt.”

Betty has an idea, it causes him to smirk: he tosses Fingers a white tablet. It spins in slow motion through the air, round and round and round: Fingers steps forward and opens his mouth; revealing three gold teeth and a longer than average tongue. He carefully positions himself as the pill drops, then shifts his head two degrees and bingo; Fingers swallows and takes a bow.

(“Oh Betty mate…Ah hope yer don’t live to regret tha’,” sighed Will, when Betty, giggling uncontrollably, admitted the pill was Viagra and not Ecstasy,

Betty will live to regret it.)

Then it is sublime – the lads together again, jamming, Will singing to the memory of the late (but actually now snoring) Clive Brendon and his childhood penchant for a certain variety of sweets:

Give me your Haribos / You putrid bunch of weirdos / Give me all you sweets /

Give me all you got / BUT MAINLY / I’D LIKE TO HAVE A LOT / Of your Haribos /

Don’t kid me you’ve got none / Do I take you for a Nun / I see in you’re eyes you’re dark / Your thoughts are clearly very stark /

Give me your Haribos / You putrid bunch of weirdo’s!

The supply of drugs run out at 7am and Goliath drag a sorrier version of themselves and H (by his armpits), up the creaking stairs – a wheezing, coughing four-headed monster with a rotten tail.  It is icy on the first floor and the lads bunk together for warmth.

At 9am Will wakes, partly because of the Siberian wind careering through the building, slamming doors and rattling ill fitting windows and partly because he feels a firmness nudging at the small of his back. Fingers hisses, “Mate, I’ve been trying t’bang one out fer hours but tha ‘Love Rod’ needs a hole – take one for the team eh luv?” Will took a bread knife to bed anticipating this scenario and swiftly brandishes it with quiet menace.

“It’s not fooking fair,’ hisses Fingers, aggrieved but shifting, shivering, into the room and pulling on his clothes.

“It’s not my fault tha knows…Ah’m sick,” he adds, then pauses as he attempts to push his supersized and ominously turgid penis, into his skinny jeans. “Mate?” He asks, gesturing down at his crotch, “What am ah ‘sposed to do wi’ this?”

To be continued…

BONUS: Click and listen to Goliath’s : GIVE ME YOUR HARIBOS!