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Showing posts from 2003
Booyakka. This season of merriment is already beginning to take a noticeable toll on this intrepid Doctor’s constitution. It started about a week ago, in earnest, and apart from the odd night of restrained alcoholic indulgence, it has not stopped since. A few examples of the detrimental effects. On Saturday afternoon, after a Friday night of lager, wine and cava and passionate/drunken love making with a large lady of considerable means, a few hours sleep, a plate of Dr Bruce’s Speciality Scrambled Eggs, it was off to Ivyleaf for a leisurely nine-hole knockabout with a good chum. A means of restoring one’s internal homeostasis before the unavoidable evening’s onslaught of prawn curry and cold lager with honoured invited guests. Now, we must all bear in mind that, unlike many other undertakings, I have never failed to finish a round of golf. Never, despite hailstorms, gale force coastal winds and playing like a fucking muppet. Until last Saturday. The eggs were giving notice of a sudden
Well, goddam it, due to unforeseen logistical problems, I found myself taking the day off. Which was nice, after the weekend of hockey, late nights, excessive inebriation and being attacked by a good mate, who obviously has a strand of lunacy running through his genetic ladder. Having barely survived all that, it was a pleasure to be able to return to bed, fleeing the testicle freezing morning, and watch flipped out Jap movies. However, I failed to remember that Cris was supposed to be filling in some more of me tat tomorrow, a day which will now find me employed. Drattage! I want the fucker finished so that I can decide if I want it extended over the ankle and under the foot. It just started itching a little today, especially just below the knee. That Kamolisan cream (for sore nipples and baby’s bottom rash – and now for tats) is the shit. Better than prep H and Savlon. The scab is not hardening up and just brushes off – hopefully taking no more than just the overfill of ink under my
|Instead of that obviously pre-prepared dribble at the airport about the last weekend that you were down making me forget that I am over you, what I really wanted to say was,”Gemma, FUCK OFF!” I didn’t keep it to my original three words for several reasons, the most prominent of which was that there was a large chance that you may have taken such an outburst the wrong way and kneed me one right in the balls. “Well, how should I have taken it?” is a fair question and I will tell you how. There is no way I could ever want to stop being friends with you, you are far too exceedingly cool and entertaining for that to ever even be a consideration, but as you pointed out on numerous occasions and I eventually realised, that is all you have ever and will ever see me as. A friend. Which is great, although admittedly I did not feel that way at first. It took awhile, a few years, the odd tear and probably about eighty barrels of beer but I had come round to the idea and this meant I could be
Thoughts on designing my third tattoo: Intended to be black shape down left leg outside hemline: Initially thought maybe a Polynesian style. Samoan or the like. These are all very personal tattoos and mean special unique things to each wearer. So, can’t directly rip one out of a mag/website. Got me thinking though – design my own, with its own special meanings to me. So, here I am. What’s important enough and relevant enough to have on me for the rest of my time? My Mantra: “Woke up, Got up, Went out and Got laid, Then died and Got Buried Dead in the Grave, Man.” In Chinese symbols, or hieroglyphs perhaps? Or letters within the shapes? Okay so probably hieroglyphs down ze leg avec a few lines to add form and structure. Maybe not necessarily Egyptian hieroglyphs. There must a more than one system of pictographs. Maybe create my own. Reach a compromise of emphasis between meaning and aesthetics. N.B. Other things to ponder upon. A) Explosion in popular
So, went and played tennis against Viv. She did not appear to be in the best of moods and it seemed I could barely raise a titter out of here with even my most extremely banal and ludicrous antics. So we knocked the balls about for awhile and it became clear that she was quite handy but nothing that the Brucemeister couldn't handle. Shortly afterwards I had to face the fact that my backhand had left me for warmer climes but I was having a laugh so I was not too concerned. Eventually she consents to playing a game or three and we start serving it up. Viv spent the whole time umming and awwing and sighing and making disgruntled faces (which she does very well) but she took the first set off me 6 - 2. I must try and make it quite clear that I was not being competitive at all, I was enjoying myself playing a leisurely game of tennis with this fine filly in the morning sun. With the first set finished Viv says she has had enough because it is dull. "Dull?" said I as we lef
There is not much left. We have to act now or it will be too late to save anything. I know. Where’s the captain? He’s in the galley but he’s not alive. What!? He got a frying pan to the head. It’s not pretty. Shit. It’s just you and me then, man. Who’s in charge? What rank are you? We’re both lieutenants aren’t we? I got promoted last month. O yeah. Congratulations. Thanks. Fuck. I’m in charge. Shit. Okay, that’s fine. I knew this mission would be good for my career. Yeah right. Donna’s parents will be cool about the two of you getting hitched when they know you have power. Donna. Shit. We have to sort this out. I know. We’re about to go critical. No, you don’t understand. Before we shipped out Donna told me she was pregnant. Yeah? Congratulations, man! No, well, yes. Thanks. It is groovy. The only problem is that if she has a child outside of wedlock then the Family will take her. Shit. I didn’t think. Neither did I. She needs to get hit
**CRASH** That was fun. Ugggh. Your irony is not appreciated. Owww. Look at you! I really hope I don’t look like you. Bleed much? No. I ain’t got time to bleed. Wait, what’s that from? Don’t tell me, I know. Wait, wait, I know it. Wait. Shit, there’s more of them. Hold on! Bastards! **CRASH** **CRASH** Stabilisers fucked. Life support wobbly. Thrusters coughing. Nearest planet? That big black one over there, I reckon. I can’t be sure because my wingmirrors are smashed. Looks cozy. Can you land there? I know I’m pretty shit at flying these things but to think that I could miss an entire planet….fuck. Yeah, I can probably hit it. Make it so. Wait, wait, I know that one as well. It’s right on the tip of my tongue. Fly, dammit, fly! O yeah, right. I got it Capitan. Should it be so warm in here? And why’s that flashing? Pants. Stabilisers fucked. Life support wobbly. Thrusters coughing. Radiation leaking. Bejesus Christ! Get a grip o
Incidentally, before I am away to spark one on a bench next door in the yard of graves, let me quickly recommend a fine red for you. It is from Lindemans, who I think are located somewhere in Eastern Australia. It is called Cawarra and is as close as any Shiraz Cabernet will ever get to being a rainbow. Juicy during the primary stages, levels out in the middle and unlike alot of reds arrives back down to earth will a lovely palatable curve and leaves you sitting in the pot of gold there beneath.
As I sit down to write the sun dips his head goodnight. And Lo! What the Lord had said very much came to be! There was light, a great light, a really big ball of fire in the sky that warmed the earth and her inhabitants. Although many millions of fathoms away, this wonderful and enormous torch in the heavens had the ability to light the whole of the day and add brightness to every passing moment. Some moments, however, can be a little too bright and overly warm. Take for example, returning to my car after a long stint on the beach, the car having spent the time lazing in the sun. Thanks in part to the sun and the glass windows, my modest banger, normally only just capable of providing adequate power to break the speed limit and only then when going down a very steep hill, has developed immense internal thermal energy probably capable of laying to waste a small to medium sized hill village in Sicily. If that was your wont, of course. My wont, at this point, is normally to get into
This point of the entry is crucial. There is a mathematical equation to explain the vital importance of quick action at this time. It is T=a(w)*h / S(w/3) + sR; where T= Time of Survival, a = Average heat for the day, w = the number of windows in the car, h = hours in the sun, S = speed of opening, sR= Sunroof. You might think that the sunroof should be included as one of the windows but once, and if, you manage to get the key in the ignition and start moving, an open sunroof will provide at least three times as much cooling wind rush, or CWR, as any window. I have frequently come close to passing out at this point, leaving my dehydrated and handsome corpse for some local fisherman to find a week later and then use as bait. So far, so good. Due to the appalling state of health of my short-term memory and my unbearable thirst, I normally forget the sting in the tale. The heat of the car is finally just bearable, you’ve started the engine and are now in a great rush to get some godfor
Oo, It looks like I’ve been terribly remiss, In getting round to writing this, Several inebriated weeks have passed, Since I submitted last, But I guess that it’s all okay, Coz I’m the only one who reads this anyway. So there. Aah, So there you are, The late Sultan of Omar, You’ve been hiding away of late, Spending your days and nights asleep in the fire grate, Making that warbling noise at eight pm each night, You seem pale, are you quite alright? Then I remember you were hung in 1741, Which explains you’re alabaster complexion. Yep. So, I really must up and away, I have a vital game of hockey to play, Even though my right shoulder is giving me gip, And I suspect my right hamstring is about to rip; But needs must as needs may, Especially on this rather sunny day, And with several key players unavailable, Those resilient Bude men left must lay their cards upon the table, To play together and play with class, So to triumph and
Zap. Bang. Fucking Wallop. Have you ever fallen so hard, for so long through such daunting spaces into a broiling cauldron of lust like I just did? Sitting here, I was, minding my manners and perusing the female bottoms mingling about the store when SMACK, in she walked, a dark haired, slightly taller than a midget, lip stud most assuredly off-centre and dressed like a Peruvian goat herder, beauty whose visage will simply transcend my bumbling attempts at describing it. Take it from this battle-hardened reporter, this girl was the mustard and by Jove, if you’ll excuse my wanton depravity, I wanted to spread her on my wiener schnitzel! My sausage of love has been dry for too long. It needs the kind of moisturising that Olay just can’t provide. So, I trip over my feet and tongue and realise that if I am to make sweet love to this little wonder woman I’d best buck up my ideas. Good God, but what a derriere! I think her name is Natalie. Or maybe just Nat. Natalie, Natalie, Nubile N
Hold your fucking horses mate! Nat’s backs back and Good God does it curve in all the right places! I imagine that if she was lying on her side on a sun lounger, her pores open to the heat of the early afternoon sun and she winked at me as I popped the top of the lotion bottle, my heart might very well flutter and my swimming shorts rustle, and when I pour a line of the oil along the side of her midriff, I can see it dribbling down her back, like s sheen, a lacquer of love. Zip it. She’s just returned to this humble video shop to return Session 9, which I recommended to her last night, the night of my re-infatuation with her fine self. With her enveloping eyes rising to meet mine she answered that it had been sufficiently scary and she had heard voices later on that night. I could tell by the way her two friends were checking out my man breasts that they were sizing me up as a potential suitor. Incidentally, they too were fit, one blonde and tall who laughed at even my crappy jokes
So, anyway, there she is in bare feet and jeans and her two tops, a pink translucent one over a black corset stylee thing, are fly to the uttermost. She’s coordinated even when she’s kicking back. I want some of her, in all kinds of ways, from the best to the very worst. Anyway, bare feet. Hot. She is melting my vitals. I’m sure she can tell as well as she challenges me to find for her the greatest film. So, nonchalant like, a bit like Vince Vaughn out of Clay Pigeons, I saunter around the counter and chuckle and run my long fingers through the beard and reach out to grab Nat’s left breast. NO!! I’m reaching out to grab Donnie. That’s right, Donnie. “This is the film you should have watched last night but it was out. Now it’s in. You must watch it Nat.” “Erm, okay Bruce.” Too fucking right alright! So then I make with the poignant video shop guy observation coz I gotta make sure she knows I’m smart as sin and a whole lotta switched on. “Yeah, you see, this film I’m holding in my
So there I was dropping a log in the gentleman’s lav in the back of the Tree, Stratton, North Cornwall, the Best Pub in the World. I kid thee not. It truly is the greatest waterhole in ze world. Check it – Toilets are funny places. The number of occasions I find myself returning from the bog to a group of discerning friends and interrupt their conversation with the line,”I’ve just had a wicked idea in the toilet/ while I was having a slash/dump.” It all stems from those days of old when I used to lock myself in the toilet tripping my nuts off. All the white walls reflecting one’s rampantly out of control thoughts back onto oneself. Illuminating.
I went for a slow stroll along the beach today. Murray the weatherman had told me to expect warm coastal winds from the south and he wasn’t wrong. There was a spring in my step and a levity to my thoughts. I was jealous of those fellow walkers who had the company of fine dogs and so someone to throw balls or stones for. One long haired setter rushed up to me with expectant eyes as if I was about to pull a slab of steak from my pocket and when I didn’t he barked over his shoulder to his owner and shook himself dry before bounding off after some other intrigue. There was flying spittle and salt water all over my Ralph Lauren T-shirt. I was not bitter at all.
It suddenly occurred to me that this was the perfect opportunity to test run my chainsaw. The ceilings were low, the vamps were packed in densely and we had no other hope. I threw the stake to Sami and bent down to the bag. Sami uttered a scream of panic and then drove the stake into the bald vampire. It screamed and then seemed to implode. The others started to scream and Sami fell backwards over my crouching body and onto the floor. The vampires charged towards us just as I dragged the chainsaw from the bag and brandished it triumphantly over my head. Sami shouted something in French, which I did not understand, the leading vampire leapt into the air, I switched the saw on and ripped the starter cord, all at once. The beauty roared into life just as I arced it over my head and into the path of the descending vampire. The saw blade hit its head and did not stop. It felt like I was carving custard with a scalpel. Bits of the vampire fell all about me as I spliced the bastard in twain.
Sami pulled his revolver from his ankle holster, pointed it at the head of the smiling bald man and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot echoed in the basement and the man’s head snapped backwards, his glasses flying across the room. I dived towards the bag, unzipped it and thrust my hand inside. I looked up at the bald vampire that had not moved and was still smiling. Black liquid was leaking from his right eye socket where Sami’s first bullet had hit. My hand felt a stake and I pulled it out. The vampire stopped smiling and started to growl a deep guttural moan. I shouted: “Tire, Sami, tirent le bâtard!” Sami fired again into the left eyeball which exploded over the vampire’s face. The growling got louder and the vamp began to stand up, using the table as support. I got up from my knees clutching the stake ready to leap across the table and drive the wood through the tweed suit and into the black heart of our blinded enemy, but then I noticed that our table was being surro
He took the apparatus from my hand and I noticed a slight rise in the corner of his mouth. Perhaps at this point I passed out again or perhaps this bald man had the fastest hands in the West but he seemed to have the needle full and sticking into his arm in seconds. I heard Sami express his puzzlement with a grunt and I was about to speak to our new friend when he started to draw his blood into the chamber. Blood? Since when is blood black? The hypodermic was full of a black liquid and, despite his sunglasses, I knew the man was looking and smiling right at me. Since when has blood been black? The man was not in a hurry to inject the mixture into himself, he was just looking at us and smiling inanely and licking his cracked lips. Either due to physiological reasons or this extremely strange situation that had the hairs on the back of my neck erect, I could feel my rush starting to abate. Something was not right and I saw Sami reach toward the ankle holster on his right leg. This spurre
“Bruce.” “Sami” “Bruce, lots of dead bodies. No blood. Maybe I am like a crazy man. I think only of Vampires.” “It’s true. I suspect they are at work in these troubled times.” “You do?” “Yes. These are the worst of times for us and the best for them.” “Was that not your Charlie Dickens.” “You are right. Sami?” “Oui, mon ami.” “Are you armed?” “I have two revolvers.” “Do you have a pencil.” “I have a pen. O. I see. No, I am not armed. Merde.” “Do not worry. I am.” “Ah Bruce, you are a Vampire Hunter, non?!” “Quietly Sami. There are strangers.” I was looking at the bald man in glasses opposite me. At some point, which I did not notice, he had definitely stopped smiling. Because of his shades I could not tell what his eyes were saying, or where they were looking. He did not look particularly happy. My mind was still immersed in the absolute stability of the heroin. I was happy. Perhaps this tweeded chap needed some. Maybe he had taken offens
Sami sat down to my right with only a cursory glance to his right at the bald man in the tweed suit. I pulled the plunger out and watched as my blood swirled into the chamber, mixing with the heroin, getting to know it, and then I pushed the plunger down and my head snapped back as the china white flooded my system. I just had time to swing my arm and hand in the direction of Sami before my eyes closed with a ferocity that suggested that might never open again. I felt Sami loosen my fingers and take the syringe. Sami, Sami, Sami, Constable Sami L’Actose. He had met me at the airport when I landed from Ecuador. I guessed that the authorities over there had informed their equals in Paris that Bruce Campbell was on his way. Sami and his squad had been sent to meet and great me and warn me to behave. I saw them a mile off as I sauntered towards the exit where they were waiting. Sami was clearly uncomfortable with this detail and he was shuffling his feet and twirling his dark moustache
As I opened the glasses case in which I carried my syringe, solution, filter and spoon I watched this man in sunglasses who was sitting opposite me and smiling. He was wearing a tweed suit reminiscent of one that my father used to wear on high days on our country estate in Shropshire. Crumbling the fine white powder into the spoon I noticed that this man’s feet were bare and his toenails long and dirty. I poured the solution onto the powder and saw that his smiling lips were cracked and sore. As I struck my lighter aflame and heated the underside of the spoon I decided that he was no stranger than anyone else down here and that I should concentrate on jacking myself up. The powder and liquid bubbled and spat alittle as I stroked the spoon with the flame. The heroin was as pure as I could obtain it and dissolved in a matter of moments. I balanced the spoon on my folded knee, put down the lighter and picked up the hypo and filter and carefully pulled the solution, through the wadding and
The ‘SUB’ was a subterranean blues bar, lit by small gas lamps that offered so little light that all they really did was draw your attention to all the dark. There was a constant cloud of smoke at head height and the only way to escape it was to sit down on the cushions and mats that littered the whole floor. There was a bar in the corner but waitresses flitted about you at all times so service was never far away. There was always a three-piece band in another corner who provided the musical atmosphere of funky despair. I sank to my haunches briefly to purvey the clientele with my eyes peeled for the familiar faces of the knowledgable miscreants who would be able to help. I could see none. In fact, as I circled around the adjoining rooms, I could not see a single face that I recognised. This would be very strange normally but considering the circumstances outside it was perhaps not so surprising. They regulars, who came here to get off their heads on opium, heroin, laudanum, cocaine or
A minute’s walk from my front door took me to the top of the white stone steps of the Montmatre Cathedral. I could see noone about in the gathering dusk of the evening but I knew where I would find those who would be most able to point me in the direction of suspicious happenings and bloody neck wounds. Normally vampires prefer to keep a low profile and to just nibble at the edges of society, pluck off those specimens that will not be missed. I knew that they would much rather taste the blood of the young and healthy, like I would prefer to sample a vintage Chateau Neuf du Pape than grape juice, but if they drew too much attention to themselves then it would be a species war which they could never win. There are simply not enough of them and they are all loath to create more of themselves with whom they would have to share our blood. Vampires are the biggest snobs I have ever encountered. This period of social distemper was ideal for them. It was like a period of plenty, a time when th
I had come across The Trunk in my early years as I traveled the high and low roads of Eastern Europe. It had belonged to a Pennsylvanian Lord who had lost it to my trickery in a game of poker. It was made of silver and the contents inside made mostly of fine Bavarian pine. There were all kinds of instruments that were designed to bring harm to those that roamed the earth in a state of death. They ranged from the standard two-foot pin-sharp stake to a jointed wooden gauntlet with four mini stakes protruding from the knuckles. Although I imagine they had once looked new, fresh and wholesome in their woodiness, now they were dark and stained and gave off a slight aroma of doom. There was essence of garlic, a small vat of holy water and all the weapons could be combined with each other to create crosses. It was all devilishly well designed by someone who must have had a strong reason to hope that it all worked. To this menagerie of material I had added just one weapon of my own design. It
So, there I was one day, addressing my class with long words and deep meanings when it became apparent to my absynthe soaked self that I had only half of my normal number of students in front of me. Where were my star students? Then again, where were my half-arsed students? As I took time to take my first inventory of my audience it became clear that the fairground was in town and that one of the rides was excessively generous in the G Force zone. Everyone had neck supports on. I was perturbed for a moment but then I remembered that we were all in Paris and almost anything can happen here. It was only as Jean-Pierre asked my opinion on how to best cook garlic bread, at the culmination of my class, that I had the opportunity to ask exactly which ride was so akin to a rocket taking off. He looked non-plussed at me for a second as the resonances of my question sunk into his thick French skull: “Ah non monsieur. Il est en raison des vampires.” “Oui? No shit?” “Oui professeur, pas
Yes. Certainly. So I showered, shaved, plucked, rubbed, styled, splashed, dressed and jumped into the Jenson and hightailed it to Waterloo where I leapt onto a departing train to Gay Paris. I thought of taking the helicopter but landing in Paris is frequently difficult and always illegal. Not that the gendarmes are too opposed to the odd backhander. Furthermore, after those dark and twisted days during the riots in the late sixties, when army tanks, crimson and black bloods filled the streets of the Eastern Quarter, I know that I can always call on Chef Inspecteur L’Actose to aid me. That big fat moustached, sorbet-swilling Parisian has owed me for a quite some time. Incidentally Sami, if you are reading this, you still do. Mais oui, mon ami, ne vous rappelez-vous pas le vampire avec seulement une jambe et un pistolet tres grand? Let me explain. In 1968 I was resident Professeur de Philisophie at the University. I had left my quite jungle abode in Ecuador to take up the post as I ha
Bruce here although only just. I have had quite a beginning to the week. I saw things that I was not expecting to see. Then again, in my life, I have seen many things that I have not expected to have had to see. For example, when Sewer Guy in New York tells you that: “Sure, it’s safe to go down there. Those giant alligators are just stories, y’know, one of those city myth things.” “What, you mean urban legends?” “Sure, dat’s right.” “So it’s safe for me to go down here?” “Sure. No problem.” You shouldn’t necessarily believe him. That’s all I’ll say on the matter other than I’ve always found it in my best interests to carry an over-sized Bowie knife on my person. You have been warned. Anyway, having recovered from the two days of exercising with that olive skinned beauty Sophia and then the half marathon yesterday, that to my surprise I managed to complete (without performance enhancing supplements or any kind of vehicle) I decided that I might take a short holiday
Sophia left me a small and intricately carved wooden box made of teak and which has the look of an object that has been around for quite sometime. She whispered something Mexican into my ear as she pressed it into my palm by the departure gate. As switched on as ever she forgot that I still do not speak a word of her native tongue. Or it occurs to me now, as I sit in front of the fire with a glass of fine red wine not far from my grasp and ponder the box in my hand, that perhaps I was not meant to comprehend what she said. My pleasure-gorged mind is suddenly swimming with romantic and cataclysmic possibilities. Perhaps she whispered a spell that had been passed down in her family for generations, which her grandmother had taught her mother and which Sophia learnt at her knee as well and now used it for some arcane purpose and in the box was the tooth of a pterodactyl. Perhaps, akin to an witch-doctor in the heights of a rhythmical and funky-root enhanced trance who sees the future, Sop
Sophia jetted out this morning. Or maybe it was this afternoon. I’m not sure. About all I am sure about is that I am exhausted. Or to be more specific, knackered. My body is wracked with pains and its energy levels deeply depleted. I am sexually exhausted. The body might be wasted, but the mind is aglow, suffused in the sweetest memory of time well spent and the achievement of minor miracles. Like, how on earth could she do that when I was busy doing that? And surely this diagram is for fun and noone should seriously contemplate that it could ever be performed and WHOA! There you go. Such things do not happen everyday but as my dear old mother was frequently heard to mumble, “It’s quality not quantity, my love.” And so it most certainly is. About all I managed today was to cancel my appointment with Balthazar (who readily understood) and to read a little. I’ve found this wonderful new columnist in the local paper who writes with the wit and ease of a Master Wordsmith and whose words
I got some rather bad news today. Apparently my lower colon is rife with cancer. The doctor who told me was Dr. Rasheed and I find it nigh on impossible to understand anything he says. The fault is most certainly on my side as Dr. Rasheed is, after all, a doctor. I am only a struggling misanthropist with a shadowy background and suspected links to the IRA who has about two weeks to live. So anyway, Dr Rasheed spoke to me for about half an hour and I imagine he was very tactful and sensitive. It was nurse Sally Baker, an ex girlfriend of mine, who cleared up the matter in about thirty seconds after I left the doctor’s office. Considering the whole incident with me and her sister, I think she quite enjoyed it. “Hello Bruce. You’ve got cancer of the lower colon. It’s terminal. You’ve got about two weeks to live. Did you hear that my sister is a lesbian now? See you.” I had been pretty much floored as soon as I saw Sally so she managed to escape down the corridor without any smart a
I’ve just got home from the airfield in Newquay. The trip, as a whole, was rather eventful. As I mentioned yesterday, I was popping over to Sofia to pick up an assignment of Kalashnikovs that Vlad had secured for me. Despite having had my pilots license revoked for party crashing a Mig 31 air show display in my Cessna sometime last year, I have yet to be checked flying in and out of Newquay airfield. Newquay, for those who have never experienced the best surfing beaches in Europe, is perhaps the jewel in the holiday crown of Cornwall, or Kernow for the locals. Anyway, I left there last night in my Stealth Cessna (a Cessna covered in reduced treacle which deflects all known radar) and flew at three hundred feet to Eastern Europe and the cabbage field just outside Sofia where I hooked up with Vlad, my Bulgarian comrade with arms. I met Vlad about ten years ago in some shell hole feet deep in mud, blood and crud, situated somewhere near Ruslintingazzak in former Yugoslavia. We were bo
Anyway, having landed amidst the Bulgarian cabbages, Vlad drove me to his bunker and stood back as I excitedly began to jimmy the lid off one of the two boxes containing those wonderfully effective and reliable Russian automatic rifles. As the lid fell to the floor and I perused the wares within, it became abundantly clear to me that this was going to be one of the numerous occasions when I would regret that I spoke not a word of Bulgarian and Vlad not a syllable of English. I had flown 400 miles at 300 feet at night and spent over 200 pounds on treacle to come and pick up two crates of Kalamares. That’s squid in tins for anyone who doesn’t know. Incidentally, if you have never tried the delicacy that is tinned Kalamares and would like to (believe me, you won’t regret it) contact me at my email address and I’ll sort you right out with some and at a crackerjack price too. Vlad could tell I was disappointed as I got him in a headlock and ran his head against the concrete struts of the bu
At this point I would like to make an observation. I frequently find when looking at a fellow human being that I get a sudden flash of an image of how these people will look when they are much elder. The young features of a bus driver will suddenly distort into the grizzled lines of an aging alcoholic. That fine young girl I pass every morning on the way to the Post Office suddenly looks like she’s carrying the sagging facial flesh of a fourty year old with seventeen kids. What I am trying to say is that often I can’t help but imagine everyone I see as they will look in twenty, thirty, forty years. It is never a pretty sight and puts me right off any further commitment to them. I know this is foolish as I too will end up wrinkly, saggy, incontinent and dribbling (Yes, it is true. Those who know me by sight will find this very hard to believe but I insist it will happen. Probably.) but I cannot help myself. I have too much empathy of the crumbly nature of mankind. Anyway, all of wh
Did I mention that the US Airforce has an airfield base in Newquay? No? Well, they do and they have lots of jets and missiles and radar, hence the treacle. I normally like to land right at the end of their longest runway, out of sight and sound, especially at the moment. Listening to the vibes I am getting from my sources, the Yanks are ready to start shooting at anyone and, judging by past history, that includes themselves. When they are riled up like this I find the best way to deal with them is to duck and cover quite close to whatever object they are at that time attempting to destroy. Give it a moment or two and they will have blown so much dust to shit that they won’t be able to see the target and, confident in the lethal combination of their technology and talent, will move onto the next labeled threat. Anyway, that’s not a rant, fair play to them and all that. In this business morality is for the underachiever. So, having clipped one of the radar masts on the control tower with
Sophia arrived this morning looking as glorious as ever. I’ve known her for over a decade and have never felt anything towards her but desire. I desire her, I desire her to desire me. We’ve always been friends since we met in Seattle all those years ago. She was the public defendant for holidaying immigrants who had run afoul of the US legal system. Purely by accident I had attempted to defraud the Treasury out of about 20 million dollars but the hooker I had been with during the night ratted me out to her favourite client during the day, who turned out to be a FBI agent. So there I was with no fiscal resource and relying on Sophia, this dark skinned Mexican fresh out of some dubious Law School south of the border. She looked the part all right, curvaceous legs and hips, a dark tangle of black hair, brown eyes that raised your heartbeat as they swept across you and a wit and intelligence that could draw blood. However, despite how much I wanted to leave myself in her handsome hands, I
As we walked towards the pub she slipped her hand into mine. She didn’t say anything so neither did I but I felt like singing. She had just made me happier than I had been for a long time and I knew then that even when I had analysed her action and possible motives to death, her simple act would still remain clear, distinct and irrefutable. Perhaps she held my hand as great and platonic friends often do. Maybe, just maybe (but God I hoped so) she had started to feel even a glimmer of what I feel for her. But then I consider that it might just be because her hand is cold. Then I realise she has pockets to protect her svelte fingers from the driving coastal winds and I curse myself for my unstoppable analysis. My unending search for the truth of every situation demands such introspection, to give me the security of indubitable knowledge. But how can I know that I am right. Surely the more I search for the truth the further I take myself from it. Perhaps a subjective approach can only eve
A small and dark village street was no place to fight someone learned in the ways of Ninjitsu. Fuji might move from shadow to shadow with no noise until she could whisper in my ear that the needle she had just stuck into me was coated in some unpleasant poison. I was also worried about Sophie becoming involved so I stood up, moved to the centre of the road where the little moonlight that there was fell, slipped my coat from my shoulders and onto the ground and spoke: ME: “Fuji, get out here and suffer my wrath. See if you can take me. I’m going to fuck you terminally up this time.” Fuji and I had tussled before, once on an oilrig, twice on a narrow suspension bridge and frequently in bed. She was a master assassin who had never been able to terminate me in years of trying and had eventually decided to bed me instead. Which she did with far more success. Since those few sweaty months in Hiroshima she has viewed me as hers, as Bruce-Who-Shall-Not-Poke-Any-Other-Then-Me-Fuji, or ‘Br
And then the shadow I was watching gave birth to the diminutive form of Fuji. I cleared my mind of distractions and found my Happy Place. I smiled to myself. I am going to hurt someone now. Fuji is approaching, flexing her legs and arms for the workout she knows she’s about to get. Our eyes meet for the first time in years and hers are green, like creamy jade. I see her coiling her left arm ready to strike and I tense in preparation of evading her attack and breaking her neck in one clean move just at the same time that Sophia falls out of the doorway: SOPHIA: “Eeeeee. Fuck! Bruce!” (She is just so succinct.) Sophia falls towards me and I turn to catch her and throw her back from whence she came. Couldn’t see she I was involved in mortal combat? Then Fuji spat:
FUJI: “Listen bitch, you stay away from him. He’s mine.” ME: “Er, no I’m not.” FUJI: “O yeah, well you will be.” ME: “I don’t think so.” FUJI: “I’m pregnant.” ME: “O congratulations!” FUJI: “You’re the father.” ME: “I don’t see how that’s possible.” FUJI: “You remember that night? The one when you told me you loved me and then we screwed.” ME: “Not clearly. It was ten years ago. Do you remember?” FUJI: “Hai! You took my cherry.” ME: “Right. I think this is all a dream you’ve had. Perhaps you ate too much cheese one night before you slept. Anyway, I don’t love you, I love her.” SOPHIA: “And I love him.” We take time for an ‘Aside’ during which we look deep into each other’s eyes. FUJI: “NO you don’t. I love him and he loves me. Here look, look at this tattoo.” SOPHIA: “Darran hearts Sharon forever.” FUJI: “See!” ME: “But my name’s Bruce.” FUJI: “So?” ME: “And isn’t your name Fuji?” FUJI: “What? NO! I mean, yes. But I love you B
And she did with nothing so much as a disdainful look backwards. Sophia and I never did make it to “Three in a Bush” although we both spent much of yesterday night in each other’s. That is all there is to be said on the matter, as a gentleman never speaks of such things. Especially not when the lady concerned is waiting in the bath upstairs. And I respect her completely as well. Let’s not forget that.