quote:

---

Originally posted by Thorn Davis:
if (when) finished it would run to at least 15,000 words.

I look forward to reading it!

---

That would be cheating though, wouldn't it?

Actually it was part of a thread I never started and it seemed a shame to waste it.

It's still a shameful cut and shut job, though.

With distance lies devotion, the last words he remembered after being nudged awake by the conductor repeatedly crashing into his foot. He dug his ticket out of his pocket and fed it into the machine, seconds passed, his ticket returned. Only another hour to go before he reached London, thinking about the outcome of this journey made him cold.

He left the station at 14:00 and walked slowly through the concourse, all around him the steady efficiency of the cleaning bots ensuring the battle with the detritus of the city was at least being fought. He calmly looked around for his illuminated nametag. He saw the delicately coloured board gently displaying “damo” and walked over to it. He placed his finger on the pad, the needle sting wasn’t even noticeable anymore. A minute or two passed as the embedded sequencer ran a profile check on him.
“Fack me damo. We thought you’d never get here”
“hello benway”
“Yeah, Right hello. Well we’ve got a little job for you.”
“i gathered as much.”
“Hey hey sarky monkeyboy, you better facking watch it. Remember I can hit play on that takashi mike shit in your head any time”
damo gave an involuntary yelp and a small patch darkened his clothes.
“You need to go to the Hotel Yorba. We’ll be round to see you later, the details will follow. A room is booked for you. Everything you need is there. One hour. Be there”

with the underground now little more than a permanent temporary housing solution and the internal combustion engine no longer permitted within the city limits, he’d have to walk quickly. Arriving at the hotel and checking into his room he was given an envelope, he waited until he was in his room before opening the envelope.
A small plastic wafer dropped out, inside the envelope was a handwritten note:
“plug this in at 15:15”
He checked his watch, 2 minutes to go. He emptied his coat pockets, found the viewer, turned his earpiece on and waited. He put the wafer in the viewer and turned it on, there was a knock at the door.

A new voice, someone a bit older, more assured, came from the viewer.
“Now that we’re all here, lets start. damo you’re here because you have the brains. Don’t think its for any other reasons and this will all go to plan. Start believing in your own press and it’ll go tits up. Got it? Good. Right you’ve got twelve hours to work out how to get rid of this man. Good luck”

A picture flashed on screen. He recognised the face.
He knew what he was going to do. He knew that the target had altered their DNA to match that of one of their heroes. This was going to be easy.
Using the hotel provided computer, damo went to the sequence repositories and started looking in the historical section of the human genome repositories. Finding what he was after he quickly downloaded the whole gene sequence required. Identifying the introns and the microsatellite markers within the noncoding sequence enabled him to identify those regions to which he could make siRNA molecules specific for the target. By targeting the alcohol dehydrogenase mRNA in the hepatocytes, any ingested alcohol would not get metabolised into safer by products. Leading to a body awash in toxic chemicals.
This was gonna be sweet.
5 hours later and the double stranded RNA molecule had been synthesised and suspended within a liposome targeted towards hepatocytes.
He had seven hours to get to the meet. Even if he crawled on his hands and knees he’d make it

He made the call to Benway.
“dude, stop thinking about tae-kwando and chimpanzees.i’ll be there in 20 minutes. i've not met this lot for a long time, so i'll stick out like a sore thumb. can you be there and introduce me? otherwise this isn’t going to work.”
“Fack me damo. Do you want me to do the hit as well? You Facking northerners, all the facking same. Giving it big licks in your provinicial little northern shitstacks, soon as you get to a proper city you facking shit it. Yeah course no problems. He’s been waiting to meet you for ages anyway, so it’s gonna be sweet. I’ll meet you in there, you’ll see my shirt from miles off”.

Walking into the bar damo instantly recognised the music as “Ass and Titties” one of Assaults better contributions to Ghetto-tech. He saw the glow of Benway’s shirt from outside now he just had to pinpoint him. Easy, find the Guinness find the Benway.
”Benway”
“damo. Fack. How ya doin’? this is Rick. You didn’t meet last time did you?”

and Bob,

quote:

---

Originally posted by Bob:
enabled him to identify those regions to which he could make siRNA molecules specific for the target. By targeting the alcohol dehydrogenase mRNA in the hepatocytes, any ingested alcohol would not get metabolised into safer by products. Leading to a body awash in toxic chemicals.

---

So my contribution is very short.

"How marvellously apposite," he smiled, "The Phoenix. Acrid ashes of the burned bird shall newly soar, brilliant as the diamond that once was base coal." He bent to his keyboard.

Shortly before 9:30 on Saturday morning, a new thread appeared, as he'd expected, in TMO Talk: "Meat Pix". He watched a string of images appear, one by one as Misc uploaded them. He smiled thinly as the words Misc typed, intended as captions, gave way to frustrated outbursts of "What the fuck is this?"

Satisfaction grew in him throughout the day, as he read a steady flow of posts about Friday's meeting - followed by short, puzzled messages about the board. By Monday evening, he reckoned most of the regulars had now seen his work. Time to add his signature.

Darryn and Damo, anxiously watching their screens, continued the frantic search for rogue code that had kept them awake throughout this last 60 hours. Nothing. Every headline, every topic, every post now read simply: "Your Forum Has Been Stolen."

At 21:30, UK time, on Monday 7th July, the screen went black. One word, a hand-scripted signature, spread spider-like across the black.

"Rillion".

*bleep*
Deep down in the basement of the British Library, in an area that doesn’t appear on any of the building plans, a small light flickered at the bottom of Ben’s monitor.
He immediately sat bolt upright and yelled:

"We got one! SOS!"

With a flurry of activity, the SCAR ready-room came to life: Sidney, Octavia and Scrawny leaped up from their reclined positions in the soft area, MiscFiles carefully put down the high-tech looking gadget he was fiddling with, and Lowlevel paused, mid-scrape, from his ritual knife sharpening. They all gathered around Ben's terminal.

"How degrading!" gasped Octavia before Ben, fumbling with his mouse, managed to shut down the XXX-porn site and its various pop-up windows through which he'd been whiling away his morning.

"Shuttup and listen." he barked, reaffirming his authority.

"We've got a Code Red! SCAR! A Serious Crime Against...Riting...".

The dubious nature of this threatening sounding yet poorly conceived acronym hung heavily in the air for a moment until,

"Gosh!" Once again Octavia gasped, unwittingly affirming her fictional stereotype. "We haven't had one of those since we brought that Thorn Davies reprobate in!"

"Yes," commented Sidney, clearly the Velma to Octavia's Daphne, "he was the guy that wrote How to Train a Fighting Chimp, back in 2003."

"Uh." Grunted Lowlevel, the joyous expression on his face reminding all those assembled just how long it had taken Davies to finally confess.

Ben too seemed lost in a moment's reverie as he recalled witnessing the pitched battle between Sidney, Octavia, Scrawny and Thorn's army of Kung-Fu chimps, before the self-styled “novelist” was finally taken down.

"South East London, ladies. It’s a job befitting the SOS team. We’ve got a rogue university professor dabbling in fiction…”

“Oh my!” gasped Octavia, making a mental note to show a little more resolve at any future revelations.

“As I was saying,” Ben continued, his gaze unnecessarily lingering on Octavia’s still heaving chest, “the perp’s alias is Kovacs, forename Will, surname…”

“Looks like a contender for this year’s Brooker Prize” quipped Scrawny, looking over Ben’s shoulder at the name emblazoned across the top of the screen.

The room burst into thunderous guffaws and clapping, everyone looking around for the source of this outburst. Not finding it in their small but elaborately furnished ‘base’, they turned their attention back to the computer screen.

“I’ve got a lock on him.” cried MiscFiles, fine tuning an overly complicated looking hand held device.

“Have you recalibrated to allow for the heavy geo-magnetic variations we’ve been experiencing recently Misc?” asked Sydney.

“Ermm…” said Misc, furiously trying to remember which of the superficial stereotypes he was cast to fulfil.

“Never mind that,” Ben continued “look what he’s writing! It seems he’s started on a prequel to Alice in Wonderland!”

“Chou…bleur…huh!” coughed Octavia, choking on her dramatic impulses.

“What’s it called?” asked Scrawny, “Alice in Bastingstoke?”

Once again the room erupted in laughter and applause, the origin of which remained a mystery.

“South London… GO!”

Without another word, the three SOS squad beauties skipped and high kicked their way out of the door.

------------

“I’m not happy with our name,” grumbled MiscFiles when the girls had gone, “it doesn’t really do justice to the rest of us. We should be called the M-O-S-S-L-B or something.”

“I’ve always fancied ‘Bennie’s Angels’ myself”

“Uh” growled Lowlevel.

“I once killed a boar with one punch you know!”

[fade out]

Everyone's gone to the meat, haven't they. Hello? Hello?

It didn’t take long to find his house – armed with an A to Z and a Great British Pub Guide to Manchester, it couldn’t have been easier. All I had to do was skulk in the shadows of the door well and wait for him to return home from the lab. I spotted his hunched, tired form walking through the grey, evening drizzle. He was shorter than I expected. As he walked nearer, I was again surprised – I had been expecting an Uber Urban Boy not Man At C&A. I felt a pang of guilt as I took in his plastic shoes, white towelling socks, and the thin grey coloured suit that was obviously purchased for him when he started at secondary school. The guilt soon gave way to glee: already reality was yielding riches. What other elements of his online persona would fall away before my eyes? How many more skins would be shed before this night was over?

He approached the doorway. I tried sinking further into the shadows but needn’t have worried. My obscurity was so well developed – even if I had worn red sequinned hot pants and a sombrero, he would not have noticed me. He turned the key in the lock and entered, stumbling over the Netto carrier bags he carried. This gave me just enough time to slip past him into the hallway. I stepped backwards towards the foot of the stairwell and watched him struggling with his carrier bags. A notebook had fallen free and I read the words “The Spotter’s Digest – InterCity West Coast Routes”. I glanced around, noting the flowery wallpaper and patterned carpet. Again, not the city living, minimalist abode of a hott boy about town.

“Robert? Is that you, love? Did you remember to get my mazola?”

He slumped forward, resting his forehead against a garishly coloured peony.

“No, mum. I forgot. Sorry. Send our Tracy down the chippie instead, eh?”

“’Appen you’ll forget your head one of these days, son! TRACY! Nip down to the Codfather’s will you? Saveloy and chips all round!”

“Gimme a shout when she gets back, mum.”

He ambled past me and began dragging his feet up the stairs. My heart was pounding – he was going to his room! I followed behind, matching my steps with his to avoid any tell tale creaks. He opened the door to this room. It was small and dark and, like his suit, reminiscent of a 13 year old boy. I shrank back into a corner and began to absorb my surroundings: his single bed adorned with a Playboy motif bedspread, Robot Wars posters on every wall, the shelves filled with Dungeons and Dragons paraphernalia. There, in the corner opposite me, was my prize: the record collection, stacked neatly next to his Alba midi system. He walked by me, just a breath away and still he didn’t notice me, straight to his Alba. The thick square power button clunked inwards and a dim green power light struggled to flare.
“What’ll it be tonight then, eh? What’s gonna get us in a Friday mood?”

He started thumbing through the vinyls. No white labels. No rare editions. Just dog-eared, plastic coated albums.

“Aha! That’s just the ticket! This is what I need.”

From the pile, he pulled out a particularly weather beaten album, it’s plastic coating blistering upwards, distorting the face of the artist beneath. Despite this, the face was immediately recognisable: the gap-toothed gagmeister himself, Jimmy Tarbuck.

“Now then, now then, Sir James! Work your magic – turn little Bob Pothlewick into the man, the legend, the babe-magnet…….DAMO!”

I clasped my hands about my ears, as the noise began. First an accordion, than a saxophone and horribly and without warning, the aural assault that is Jimmy Tarbuck’s voice.

“Damo knows the words, Sir James! Lemme help you out……
Follow the Fairway! Doin’ it our way! Everything’s ok when we’re out on the green…”

I watched, transfixed, as he peeled off his jacket in time to the thumps of Jimmy’s Fairlight. He sashayed from side to side, mimicking a golf swing. He pulled the plastic shoes off and they left his feet with a sweat ridden slurp. He shimmied his way towards an ancient Dell, precariously perched on a side table. He spent the 15 minutes it took to boot up incorporating his golf swing dance into a more complex Hank Marvin Shadows step routine.

“’Appen it’s been busy on the Moon today, Damo. Let’s see who’s still online. C’mon, Sir James, lemme have it!”

He sat down and began to browse today’s active topics. This was my chance. Quickly, I leaped forward and grabbed a handful of the albums. Where was all the Miami Booty Bass? All I could find was The Bobby Socks – A Tribute to Abba, Bucks Fizz The Hits and Grease The Soundtrack. However, this would suit my purposes perfectly well.

Later, back home, I examined my haul. Sure enough, it was incriminating enough. How long could I successfully blackmail him for with these? Only way one to find out. I sat in front of my own monitor and was careful to log in as my troll persona, ‘Exploit-ater’. I hit post reply…..

Edited for image spazzerkiness

Location: Outside

The three SOS chicks dashed out a secret back entrance of the British Library, all shining lip gloss and tight lycra. For a moment they just stood there majestically, each with their legs confidently apart and their hands on their svelt, yet still very feminine, hips.

Sidney gave her hair a swish, catching the light of a nearby streetlamp. Octavia planted her juicy-tube in her ample and well supported bosom, leaned her head forwards and re-applied her prune flavoured shine. Scrawny watched the other two disdainfully before scanning the ground. Seeing what she wanted she strolled casually over to an empty coke can lying on the pavement. In one swift movement that defied the eyes of casual observers, she did the splits right down to the pavement and then bounced back up again, her momentum taking her off her feet, up into the air. She performed 3 somersaults in a tight tuck high up and over a green wheelie bin, landing perfectly on the other side. Seconds later, and with a tinkling peal, the now compacted can landed in the bin.

"Gosh!" gasped Octavia, momentarily forgetting her previous resolve.

"It's nothing to be proud of you know!" chided Sidney in exasperation.

*blee-eep*

Their watches chimed in synchronicity.
"Get the fuck on with the plot!!!" Screamed Ben out of their watches.

"Gosh!" muttered Octavia.
"Affirmative!" chimed Scrawny.
"Let's kick some Arse!" cried Sidney.

And with that, the three lycra-clad lovelies hopped into their pink hot-rod and sped off. Destination: Sarf Lundun. Mission: The arrest of a renegade University professor for a Serious Crime Against...Riting!!! (much like this!)

---------------------------------------------

Scene 3 - Dredging the Barrell

Opening scene - Octavia stands with a small cluster of friends, idly chatting by the roadside in a street lined with cars.

cut to

Small red Peugeot darts in and out of traffic. Slice camera, through window to show dashboard. Tachometer hitting redline. Sound focus on exhaust note. Slice camera back to exterior close up of front wheels as they swing left and right. Sound focus on tyre squeels. Camera pan out, rotating, to rear of car showing the road and the traffic ahead.

cut to

Octavia talking to friends. Cutting off small talk and saying goodbye.

Camera pan to road showing red car in the distance, approaching at speed. Pan back to Octavia stepping out to cross the road from between parked cars.

close up of Ringos eyes focusing on what's ahead. CGI into Ringos eye, through the optic nerve, into the brain. A spark indicates synapses of recognition. CGI pans through the brain, down the nerve stem, through the spine, down to Ringos foot, leaving the body to show close up of Ringos foot move from the accelerator to the brake. Pan out to slow motion close up of the front wheels skidding along the tarmac. Lots of smoke.

"Bullet time" style CGI from this point

Pan out to profile of the road showing Octavia as her head turns to see the car skidding towards her. Car impacts with Octavia, visibly breaking both her legs on the bumper. Her body tumbles across the bonnet, smashing the windscreen. Camera pans along with her body rolling across the roof, panning to rear of the car, revealing another car in front. Red car impacts against the parked car, launching it into the air. Octavia is thrown clear of the car as it spins in mid-air. Fast zoom to underside of the red car. There is a crack in the fuel tank and petrol is gushing from the crack. Still in slow motion.

Red car lands on it's roof and rolls back onto it's wheels, stopping almost instantly.

Cut back to regular speed, close up of Ringos face. There is a cut acros his right brow and blood runing down his face. Slowly his eyes open. Close up of Ringo un-doing his seatbelt then pan out to Ringo exiting the car. Ringo limps down the road to Octavia who is lying in the road. He falls to his knees and gently lifts her broken body. There is blood on her white top and she is obviously dead. Ringo looks down and a tear runs down his face.

cut to shot of underside of car showing petrol running into a pool. There are two wires swinging just above. The wires contact and a spark ignites the petrol.

CGI of car exploding in slow motion.

Ringo on vioce over - I never even got to bone her...

Fade to black with white caption "So you think that your driving impresses the ladies?"

Fade to second caption - "Ringo thought the same thing. Now he's totally blown his chances"

Fade to third caption - "Think about it"

Cut to shot of Ringo hanging by his neck on a rope in a prison cell.

Fade to fourth caption - "Ringo thought about it for the rest of his life"

fin

Followed by

quote:

---

Originally posted by Dr. Benway:
I tried to smile, and I could taste blood in my mouth as my lip gently split. The bag was safe between my legs. The canteen seemed no different to how it had for the last few days. I withdrew from mutual staring with VP to watch a mother breastfeed her child. Her breast was pale and heavy, and I began to drift away from the sale, from the book, and from "Ben". I was so damn tired.

---

That was excellent - well worth the wait!
Let's be fair though, now - I'm not really that menacing a character... and I probably wouldn't shoot VP like that, not even for 50m quid! Also: I don't say "rubby tummy" quite so much!

She makes no approach, no movement at all, in fact, except for the steady cycle of her wrist a few inches above her glass on the bartop, stirring a hurricane in her drink. I wait for her to take control of the conversation, my fingers still on the door handle, a hole of foreboding swelling in my stomach.

Uh ... hi, I say, for the second time, trying to catch her eyes. Where ... where is everyone?

She clears her throat, or chuckles, maybe. Janson is in the toilets, she says. And Joshua – will arrive soon.

I nod, with skewed eyes. And, uh, everyone else?

I give up on eye contact, settle instead for the view of her wrist. Something about its rhythm – its stable momentum, maybe; its perfect sketch of a cocktail glass rim – is quite hypnotic, lulling. I make my way to the stool next to her, sit myself down. She keeps stirring.

It’s just that, well, I thought more people would be here by now.

Do you know who I am? she says.

I smile hesitantly. Well, you look like Niffer. Stir, stir, stir. In, you know, the photos I’ve –

Which people? she interrupts.

Which – ?

– did you think would be here?

Oh. I ... Ringo?

The hand suddenly drops the stick in her drink and she puts a finger to the side of her head. Taps. Stops.

Um, I say. Um, and I thought maybe Mart –

And she fingers her temple again, three short taps of her fingertip.

And ... Modge? I say, experimentally.

Her arm bullets straight, points in the direction of the men’s room.

Modge is in the toilets?

Tell me, Fionnula, she trundles on, Why did you come tonight?

Well, I say. Niffer delves a finger into her drink. I wanted to meet everyone, I guess. She writes a cocktail sick across her tongue. I thought it would be – I try to swallow the word, but it hauls itself past my lips – fun.

O. The sticky, crimson lips pucker around the word. I imagine kissing those lips, imagine my mouth crumpling inside them, as it might crumple through a bullet-hole in an aeroplane window. Fun, the lips repeat, Fun-ny? Fun. Nay.

And she snatches up the cocktail, her arm swinging suddenly towards me and the side of my head shatters. Last thing I see is her fist, arcing back.

*

The knock of a knuckle on wood swings into range. Splinters of a face fill my eyes.

Dead. Knock-knock. Wood.

More hair on his face than his head. Lips are pocked and yellow, rotting off his mouth. Gruesomely familiar. Janson. I struggle to my feet, climbing the wall with my palms. He giggles, combs a hand through his face. Deadwooood, he singsongs, twirling a finger in a corkscrew curl. His other hand is fishing inside the filthy robe he’s wearing, and from it he procures a quaint mahogany box, so similar in design to that of a birdhouse that I immediately remember the box my father nailed to our garden shed a few summers ago. A family of blue-tits made it their home; every morning, I would watch them diving for worms in the soil, or wriggling, mossy-beaked, out of sight through the hole in the side of their box, until one day they did not emerge. A whole week passed, and still there was no sign of them. After a month, when we'd decided they must have caught the autumn wind to a warmer climate, my father unfastened the box from the shed wall and set it down on the patio floor. I watched him unscrew the lid and wedge it to with the screwdriver. He was bowed over his knees and retching into the cracks between the patio tiles before I realised – realised that the brilliant blue-and-yellow downy clumps inside the box were dead babies. Skinny-necked, gaping-beaked blue-tit corpses. We put them in the wheelie bin and tried to forget.

Janson is knocking a swollen yellow fist upon the box lid, grinning a brown methadone smile. What's inside? he gurns. Have a guess.

At the other end of the bar, Niffer tuts and spins off in the direction of the door. Janson takes no notice, keeps on stroking the mahogany box. The gesture seems grotesquely paternal. I shuffle backwards against the wall.

Won't yer guess, Deadwood? A cackle rattles between the gaps in his teeth. Yer'll never guess. Look.

The hinges do not creak, unless I don't hear them. He pushes his face to the opened box; a thick, sonorous breath rustles in his nostrils, and then he exhales thickly, spent. His muddy eyes creep over the edge of the lid, and even though I cannot see his mouth, the creases around his eyelids prove he is smiling. I shut my eyes – sudden blind terror – and wrench open them again. Janson is cradling the box to his heart, rocking it maniacally in his elbows, crooning, There now, there now, as he shuffles towards me. I don't know if he is talking to me or to the box. There, therrrre now – his tongue rolling over the glistening hunk of his bottom lip.

The stench of him is impossible to ignore now, just feet away. He flourishes the box as if it is a lover's gift. I sniff quiet laughter – You Don't Scare Me – and peer inside. As I'm making sense of the colourless mound of ... skin? yes, a bloodless lump of flesh with a cherry on top, his voice bristles in my ear: Victoria's breast; but the bile at is already burning in my throat, my head wrenched to the side, eyes burrowed shut, and he is cackling again as I try to pull the room back into focus.

*

Janson has vanished. There is a man in the doorway. Niffer is whispering in his ear. He has no eyebrows, but a loop of metal pierces the skin where the brow should be. He’s shirtless, wearing just brown plaid shorts and trainers. One of his nipples is shot through with a silver bolt. Niffer leans against the door frame. Joshua approaches me. I am looking at the syringe in his hand.

The needle-tip tickles my neck. I feel heavy and weightless at the same time, which might explain why I cannot move. He fingers the bolt back and fore through his nipple; the teat looks melted, drips off his chest under the weight of the stud. He wedges a finger under my nose and my head recoils, smashing into the wall like a fired shotgun, then his fingers are in my hair, winding their fastidious grip tight to my scalp, and the needle itches the side of my neck, and his face mushes against mine, and there’s a wetness on my chin, scuppering now across my upper lip, the fetid stench of it thick in my nostrils, then a sour explosion on my tongue, and the hand rips out of my hair and punctures the waistband of my jeans, anonymous guttural whimpers shattering any remaining sensory clarity, every pore of me gagging, it seems, as his fingers rake through my pubes, the crotch of his shorts bulging into my thigh, and the kneading of his papyrus fingers, coarse now on the skin of my cock but

– no, Jesus fuck– no, please don't let, don't – fuck, stop me getting, stif–

Uhmmmmm, thassa boy, he gutters, wrapping me tight in a gnarled, horny fist, Thass... awmmyeah, thass, thassa boy.

Focus on the needle at my throat, picture the point penetrating the skin, plunging a liquid death into an artery. Try to puncture my neck against the tip. Can't. Can't make myself do it. His fingers, receding from my trousers. A helmet of pressure on my scalp: his hand, I realise, plunging me like a syringe. The No catches in the back of my throat; the Please in my head swiftly aborts itself. I submit. Crack open.

The stump of flesh plugs my mouth. Gag after a second, not on the tangibility of his stuffing, but on the tang of him, the acerbic flush of yellow sweat, the broil of vintage piss bleeding onto my gums, his fusty pubic bush writhing in my nostrils, and he's hissing for me to, to, no, Jesus, I can't–

Wank, stiffbitch. Wank yourself – uhmmm yeah – wank yourself off.

My neck pierces, rips slightly. I reach down for myself. Voices flutter nearby.

–some sick shit. Stop them–

Wasn’t sick shit when you it was your turn with Bai–

None o’this sick fuckin gay shit, though, was there.

Chill out. The fuck deserves it.

My hands are numb on myself. My head is wedged between waist and wall, his stump pummelling my open face. My eyes leak; his pubes are slick. I try to dry my face but he slams me still, makes a vice around my head with his palms, grinding. His noise is pitching in depth, or deepening in pitch – I can’t decide which. I am manfulctioning, or is it malfunctioning? But he mashes my skull through the wall before I can decide, and voices are splintering over his groans –

–one’s gonna have to calm him down before he fuckin haemorrhages the fuck.

Joshua. Not yet, Joshua. Not yet.

–what we decided, gonna do it together, draw it out.

– not yet.

He’s fuckin ... primordial.

Eh, pri–?

Off his fuckin shelf.

quote:

---

Originally posted by Fionnula the Cooler:
Pungent brilliance.

---