Howard dreamt about
Blue Peter a children's TV
program. An ensemble of people on the program was
singing merrily away.
'You'd think,' chirped Gallie, who in the dream was the
presenter, 'that a singsong with old friends is nostalgic and fun, like a
get-together with old friends! But
this is
dire. You'd think
that the drugs would have helped, but they were hardly cannabis. The awful
thing is-' her commentary faded out. She looked horrified. Nearby were some
people with shaggy dogs on their feet. Gun muzzles emerged from the dogs'
mouths and fired hails of bullets at the traumatised singers, who continued
their song as best they could.
The hated alarm clock screamed its shrill requiem for his
slumber. He turned over and cursed. Quarter to ten
already!
Leaving his faithful orange Maxi behind, he strolled hastily
down the Chillington Road towards Redater University. He passed Edwardian
houses, tennis courts and the children's hospital.
Quarter of an hour late for the ten o'clock lecture he marched
through the corridors of the physics and astronomy building. He peered in
through the little window in the lecture theatre door. In the semicircular
amphitheatre he could see the audience of students arrayed behind the benches
like iron filings near a magnet. Gingerly, he opened the door and edged inside
with the stealth of a mouse. When he realised the lecturer that was scribbling
on the blackboard was Dr. Hardwick his pulse raced: he recalled Hardwick's
ominous castigations for his crimes against punctuality the previous day.
All he had to do was reach a seat undetected and he was home and dry. As he
gingerly stepped, almost on tiptoe, across the void between the door and the
safety of the seats, a male-voiced declaration rang out: an earnest, sanctimonious
baritone tolled doom.
'Check it out Sir! He's
always late! I can't concentrate,
what, with all these late people, Sir!'
The speaker was sat in the second row. From above his black-with-yellow-striped
shell suit and under his navy blue baseball cap, his uneven lips were fixed
into a snide smile of superiority. Howard's brain quickly committed his vile
countenance to memory, labelled
Bloodthirsty Vengeance.
Eh, what?' snapped the stern, grey lecturer, lifting his
chalk from the blackboard and turning. By this time Howard had reached the
front bench but a student at the end was blocking his path to safety. The
lecturer aimed his flinty eyes upon him. Howard froze. The hush was worthy
of a tribute to the dead. The lecturer's steely expression did not give him
cause for hope. For a moment he could not discern which of the lecturer's
eyes was glass.
'Dr. Hardwick, like I said,
he is always late!' griped
the shell-suited student.
Howard's gaze flicked back to this loathsome being that
had iterated this unprovoked treachery; this foul adversary who looked so
pleased with himself, as one who thinks he has acted above and beyond call
of duty.
'Eh?' snapped the lecturer
'Check it out, Sir!
He's late
again! The man
was late yesterday too, ya know what I mean?'
Howard again regarded that student's physiognomy: the weasel
eyes; the hollow features mounted on a long chin. His face resembled a trophy
cup with lopsided ears for handles lidded by a baseball cap. He earnestly
wished to seize that cup by those wretched handles, cast it forcibly to the
ground and pulverise it underfoot. He vowed he would never associate that
face with any emotion less than wrath.
The lecturer's train of thought seemed to change gear. He
narrowed his eyes at Howard.
'You dare to come to my lectures late
again! You
have a consistency fit for insult! I recall you! Yes, from the car incident!'
The lecturers voice quivered and his skin reddened. The real eye was trained
on Howard whilst his glass eye seemed to spin in its socket. 'You are aware,
I hope,' he continued, 'that the time is sixteen minutes past ten precisely?
You have the privilege to be taught the secrets of the Cosmos and you abuse
it so? Well if you should be ignorant of manners then so shall you remain
ignorant of the Cosmos! I advise you to find out about the Universe by other
means, by perusing research papers perhaps, or by obtaining a telescope. But
do not disrupt my lessons again! Please get
out!'
Howard felt the full assault of this nova and, despite his
best attempts to maintain a sense of dignity, he felt utterly humiliated.
As he backed from the room, he allowed his eyes to veer towards the rows of
awed students. In the front row sat Jacintha. Her small face was prim and
exquisite, her hair immaculate. She pursed her lips and cooled her eyes, yet
the corner of her mouth raised just a touch. She seemed to be faintly sympathetic.
He imagined her as a juror who had pleaded in favour of a villain she knew
to be guilty and had been found out to be guilty. He drew strength from her
and channelled this newfound spiritual commodity into a glare of twisted bile
directed at the student who had shopped him. Muttering dark prescriptions
of death, he turned and departed.
***
*****
***
Back at Napoleon Terrace Howard sipped his cup of tea.
'Karen, there was a cat knocking on my door last night.
It was a black cat. Very black indeed.'
'Oh, that's
Moggie.'
'Moggie?'
'Yes Moggie! Moggie
Macabre.'
'Strange name for a cat.'
'Actually, Greg christened it that. He says it's a
bad
cat, a
witch's cat. Anyway he says it is filled with evil spirits.
But Greg hates cats. And he like
really hates Moggie, but I'm like,
all over our Moggie. I think he's a really fab creature actually, if you,
like, treat him right.'
'It's evil all right,' said Howard. 'I
sensed its
evil. Who does it belong to?'
'Actually we don't think Moggie belongs to anybody but himself.
Well Greg says he belongs to a witch. But I think it's a pet cat that's gone
feral. We don't feed it, actually. But it comes to visit anyway. It comes
to see me.'
'It looks like a mouser,' said Howard.
'That sort of reminds me! I think there's something on the
telly about pets.' Karen walked over to the television and switched the channel
to a lowest-common-denominator-oriented documentary. 'Wow! What a fab horse!
I used to groom a horse just like that, you know, I used to go riding Sunday
mornings. When I was little...'
His mind drifted as Karen chatted about horses and ponies
and, more precisely, about herself.
'Must finish unpacking,' he interjected, once Karen had
paused for breath. Once safely in his room he picked up Tolkien's
Lord
Of The Rings. He was not far through the doorstopper book. For some reason
a wizard named Gandalf was talking a hobbit into embarking on an obviously
suicidal adventure with the object to destroy a rather useful ring: a magic
ring that rendered its bearer invisible. Howard reflected that if
he
had such a ring he would use it to rob banks and impress women at parties.
He doubted he would volunteer to take it into the den of a supernaturally
powerful and evil monster just to destroy it.
So what if he would
become corrupt? Corruption was simply one of the trappings of power. Better
to be an evil emperor than a virtuous peasant.
He was drifting off when there was a thunderous knock at
his door.
'Hey, Howie,' a voice boomed. 'I'm coming in!'
'Uh?'
The door opened. Greg barged in as promised. A music cassette
crunched under his foot. He grinned broadly as if he had done Howard a favour.
'Hey Howie, Gallie tells me that Count Dracula wants to
chop off your balls and shove them up your nostrils!'
'Uh?'
'Vlad Dracule! You know! Drijk! He of the white bleeding
hairdo!
Sodom and Gomorrah! You're lucky to be alive. Gallie said you
called him a faggot. You're a brave brave man!'
'No I didn't.'
'What?'
'No I called him a
Pint of Guinness.'
Greg threw his head back and bellowed with laughter. A few
thumps on the wall reported a next-door neighbour's displeasure with the din.
'Mind yer own beeswax, it's a free country, tossers!' yelled
Greg at the wall. Then he resumed his laughter more heartily yet.
'I can handle this Drijk bloke,' said Howard. His words
owned no conviction.
Greg seemed oblivious to Howard's reply. 'Aha!
Lord
Of The Rings. Reached the end yet?' Greg proceeded to give a synopsis
of the plot from start to finish.
'No, I've only just started. But now you've told me what
happens, you've saved me the chore of reading the six thousand remaining pages.'
'Happy to be of service. It's a crock of dragon shit anyway.
Hey, Howie, we're game for Cleo's tonight.'
'Cleo's?'
'Cleopatra's: cool-as-shit club in town. We sink a few jars
of embalming fluid down the boozer. Then we hit Cleo's and sniff out the talent!'
'Erm, yes. Yes, I'm game! You bet I'm game!' said Howard
nervously.
'Tonight me and you are out on the pull, dude! The chicks
had better run for bleeding cover.'
***
*****
***
In the kitchen Howard cooked up something from the remains
of the stock he had
borrowed from his parents. Karen and conversed
about how tidy the kitchen was now and could he please
keep it that way.
Nevertheless he left the kitchen messier than he had found it and entered
the lounge. Karen and Gallie were watching the BBC Six O'clock News. A fearless
female war reporter interrupted the drabness with urgent tones depicting her
latest feats of bravery from 'war-torn' Beirut. Howard watched Gallie watch
the news.
'Oh yeah, I've been meaning to ask,' he said, 'does Marlon
ever come out of his room?'
Gallie sighed. 'Poor Marlon and his
beloved computers!
Ah, he prefers his computers to
us. I'm not sure he likes us very
much though.' She chuckled.
'Does he have any friends?' asked Howard.
'I doubt it frankly,' said Karen aloofly, 'we call him
Fresh
Marlie because frankly he whiffs a bit. Well a
lot actually.
Anyway, he's too much of a real weirdo. Gives me the creeps.'
The ashtray was host to four cigarette ends. Gallie lit
up. Her face became disfigured with guilt. She exhaled descending smoke.
Howard went up to his room: he wanted to look his best for Cleopatra's. He
stripped, wrapped a towel around his waist and ventured into the downstairs
bathroom. He opened the taps and water gushed into the ivory coloured enamel
bath. The room filled with steam. He waited for the water level to rise and
stepped into pale greenish-looking water. He groaned. No shampoo! He scanned
the assorted bottles of lotions, shampoos and other concoctions, probably
all of which belonged to the girls
Speculatively, he picked up a shampoo bottle on the side
of the bath. The blurb on the bottle informed him that it contained the 'natural
coconut oils essential for manageable and healthy looking' hair. The shampoo
was in a clear container. It looked white and translucent, like seminal fluid.
He opened it. It stank of coconut but it would do. The bottle was full so,
to avoid detection of his shampoo-theft crime, after he had shampooed his
hair, he topped the bottle up with bath water. Unfortunately the water did
not mix with the shampoo. He shook the bottle vigorously. This had the effect
of making the entire contents of the bottle frothy. He cursed and hoped no
one would notice.
Shaving was not fun either: his disposable razor was two
weeks old and it felt like he was scraping his face with a jaggedly lid of
a tin can. His toothbrush was a wreck, but it had served him well for over
a year and that could not be bad. Ablutions completed, he ambled, with towel
around his middle, into the hallway. Opposite was the kitchen and in it were
Gallie and Karen, whose eyes darted at him predatorily.
'Oooh! Let's have a flash for the girls!' cried Gallie.
'Actually, I bet he's
hiding something in there!'
Karen conjectured.
'Yeah, I bet you've a
whopper in there Howie!'
Howard mugged the expression of an angry parent. 'I'll
give you a
whopping good
spanking if you don't
behave.'
Gallie and Karen looked at each other wide eyed.
'Oooh!' they chorused.
'Bagsie
meeee first!' urged Gallie.
'No,
me! Me, me,
me!' cried Karen.
Howard turned to go upstairs when his towel was snatched
away. Naked and dumbfounded he covered his crotch with his hands. A triumphant
Greg, who had appeared out of nowhere, performed a spirited matador dance
with his towel. Karen put her hands to her temples and pointed her fingers
like horns and bent her torso horizontally. Keeping her eyes fixed on the
towel she scuffed the floor with her foot, and mooed. Greg spurred her on
by dangling the towel before her and, with flamboyant histrionics, undulated
it. She charged! Greg whisked the towel over her head.
It was too much for them to bear. Greg, Karen and Gallie
fell into hysterics. Greg's booming laughter spanned two octaves. This bass
and baritone was counterpointed by the soaring sopranos and altos of the girl's
giggles with a musical force to rival the majesty of Wagner.
Howard edged himself around to the stairs. 'You
swine,
Greg! I
will get even with you, just you wait!' he bellowed.
To the chorus of self-fuelling laughter he reached the relative
security of his tiny bedroom. Playing Alexander O'Neal, he dried his hair
and ironed a shirt on his bed.
Finally dressed in his best pair of trousers, shirt (freshly
ironed on an overturned box) and tie, he descended on the lounge. A soap
was finishing on the television.
'Lads' night out then?' said Karen.
'Lad's night out, so the ladies had better stay behind if
they know what's
good for them!' he said, playfully.
On the television a fictional detective show commenced.
Their attention to the programme was interrupted by the sound of Greg thudding
down the stairs and entering the bathroom. He banged about within. Tap water
could be heard splashing into the bath. Shortly, Greg himself could be heard
splashing into it.
'
Sodom and Gomorrah! Howard, you tosser!' Greg yelled,
'Who said you could use up all the frigging hot water?'
Howard bit his lip. Karen smiled at him.
'Greg's a pain: just ignore him. Actually, he doesn't
deserve
any hot water. Ever! You were absolutely right to be selfish, you did the
right and decent thing!'
Greg sang Jail House rock. After a number of bars of this
Karen strode into the hall and shouted
'Kind of cut the racket Greg, you noisy bastard!'
'Here's looking at you, babe,' said Greg in his deep voice.
He sang Black Lace.
'
Ag-a-doo-doo-doo, push pineapples shake the tree...'
Karen stood in the lounge doorway, hands on hips.
'Ohhh, leave it, Kas,' said Gallie. 'You know he's only
doing it to wind you up.'
'
To the left! To the right...' crooned Greg.
Karen re-entered the lounge, griped that she was unable
to concentrate on the television, and was back at the bathroom door within
the minute.
'For Christ's sakes, you great buffoon! Like, how am I supposed
to watch
Bergerac with your lousy bloody singing? If you must sing
then kindly do it really quietly! Frankly, it's too much, actually, totally
over the top! There! I've made myself loud and clear!'
'You're coming through just beautiful, sweetheart!' said
Greg. 'However requests are not free and should be made through the correct
channels. You get two songs for fifty pence or five for a quid.'
'What?'
'
And I-I-I I-I,' Greg belted, '
have become, comfortably
numb!'
Karen was fuming. She stormed into the lounge, wrenched
open her handbag, took a fifty pence coin from her purse and returned, with
Howard and Gallie in pursuit, to the hall. Karen shoved the coin under the
bathroom door.
'Look,' she said, 'here's fifty pee.'
Greg laughed. 'That's my girl! OK you've two song requests.
But I'm warning you, I don't do Bucks Fizz.'
'I want
silence!'
'Erm, I don't know that one. How about
Sisters Of Mercy?'
'Listen, Greg, you brute! Silence is a
song. Silence
is a song with
no notes.'
'
No notes?' said Greg.
'
No notes!
No verse.
No chorus.
No words.
No melody.
No guitars or drums.
Nothing.
And, it's a song that lasts for
forever.
Got it?'
'Oh
that song! OK. You got it, baby!' He laughed
again.
Aside from an occasional whistle, no noise emanated from
the bathroom. Her face glowed. She strode back into the lounge with the pomp
of a victorious general fresh from bloody battle.
'Ha! I shut the son of a bastard up! I
outsmarted
him, actually!'
'Give me fifty pee and you can outsmart
me too,'
Howard mumbled.
'Like, don't worry! I'll kill the fucker and get it back!'
snapped Karen.
Howard looked at his watch and fidgeted ceaselessly as the
same thoughts circled. At Cleopatra's, he must prove himself. He must pull
a lass! He must score! Only by conquering his accursed virginity could he
expect any kudos from Gallie, Greg and Karen. Only then could he be worthy
of the title: man. His insides churned with doubt and fear. He did not have
much of a clue how to attract women. He was no good at it, never had been.
Women were uncontrollable: they were
out of control! Women were haywire,
and the task of taming them, the task of seduction, terrified him. Yet it
had to be done. If only the female could be programmed like a machine. Then
getting laid would be a simple matter of protocol. Input chat-up line. Output
sex. Transaction complete. Kudos!
Karen screamed. Greg was singing something by
Sisters
Of Mercy.
 | | | | |
| From: |
Christopher Michael Holroyd | Subject: | 2001-05-08 20:00:04 |
| | | | |
| From: |
JGR | Subject: | 2001-05-09 01:51:37 |
| | | | |
| From: |
Knoeier | Subject: | 2001-05-09 13:40:55 |
| | | | |
| From: |
Knoeier | Subject: | 2001-05-09 13:53:44 |
| | | | |
| From: |
MadPole | Subject: | 2001-05-11 19:10:42 |
| | | | |
| From: |
MadPole | Subject: | 2001-05-11 19:15:07 |
| | | | |
| From: |
Knoeier | Subject: | 2001-05-17 10:48:55 |
| | | | |
| From: |
Knoeier | Subject: | 2001-05-17 10:49:58 |
| | | | |
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