Dog in the Water Pipe

A Heartless wizard of Oz parody (Because no-one's ever done one of those before)

2012-01-18T15:08:00.001Z

He's all like, "Arrgh! I haven't got
a heart!" Image via wikipedia

The hospital was bleak, dull and ironically lifeless. An attempt at Christmas cheer had been made, garlands in brightly-coloured bunches hung from the walls, moulded plastic decorations grinned at us from walls of grey breezeblock. With Christmas long over, it would have been appropriate to take the decorations down, but no-one had done so. A thick coating of dust had settled on the icy iconography, a testament to the cleaning staff of the hospital. The decorations themselves, dust aside, were disturbing on their own merits, and regrettably, I locked eyes with them.
I looked into the cold, dead eyes of a Snowman, looking back at me with the emotionless grin of a psychopath from beneath a warn top-hat. Stick-arms gripped a broom, his twigs curling around the handle in what I took to be a dark parody of hands. His coal eyes fixed on me, following me around the room, burning with a hatred I found frankly surprising. I wasn't even sure why a snowman needed a brush. He couldn't move, for one thing, and what was there to sweep away in winter but snow? His body was made of snow. It would be like us sweeping human flesh from our driveways, making small mounds of the stuff and laughing happily as our children threw it at each other, if snowmen were allowed to sweep up snow. Probably.

With time, my gaze rolled away from the snowman, returning at last to the only occupied bed in the ward, in which my friend slept. His face to one side, his hands put together as for prayer under his head, he looked peaceful for a moment. Better to sleep, I supposed, than sit here cold and alone, and contemplate Christmas decorations.

Dully, a CD looped behind us. Christmas songs are one thing, acceptable in their place and so on. But the CD was stuck on Wham!'s Last Christmas, repeating over and over again. And besides the insanity-enduing monotony of the whole thing, the song wasn't entirely appropriate. As I mulled this over, the sleeping figure stirred. Seeking to spare him the musical hell, I leapt to the CD player, and tempestuously switched it to radio.

"What's happening?"

I looked to the bed, "Nothing Nick," I replied. "Go back to sleep."

"No, why're you jumping around? Are there flying monkeys?"

"No, don't worry." I replied, patting my friend's outstretched arm. A hollow echo reverberated throughout his tin limb, "I was just fiddling with the radio, that's all."

"Oh, right. Any news on a donor?"

I shook my head sadly. Despite the assurances given to my manly tin friend, it turned out in the long run one cannot live without a heart. I mean, he didn't need it for any emotional reasons because that's not how biology works, (Yes, I'm objecting to the idea of emotions coming from the heart, but not the idea people can have their bodies replaced with tin and keep on living) and he didn't need a heart to pump blood or anything. Regardless, he needed a new heart for some reason I didn't understand. I'm not a tin man doctor, leave me alone.

We sat in silence. Truth be known, I didn't really know the tin man very well. I'd met him a few years ago at a counselling session for the survivors of flying monkey attacks, and when I heard about his medical troubles, I'd come to visit out of sympathy. However, he didn't have many friends in the area, so I'd continued to visit regularly, a grim experience which out-of-season decoration did little to improve. (I met a tin man once before. Clearly, it was a different guy. If you wanted a consistent narrative, you've come to the wrong place)

Behind me, the radio blared on. My mind drifted, then centred on the lyrics. Tina Turner's, What's Love Got to do with it?, just arriving at the chorus. My mind focused, and my eyes widened.

What's love got to do, got to do with it? Asked the lyrics.

"So, Nick, want to get out of here?"

What's love but a second hand emotion

"I'm in a hospital." He replied. "I haven't got a heart. Where would we go?"

What's love got to do, got to do with it

Too late, I thought to myself. Desperately, I tried to think of something to say, hoping to drown out the next line. But it was too late.

Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?

I panicked. Nick Chopper, his mind elsewhere, didn't even hear the line I was so worried about, but I didn't realise that at the time. Instead, I threw out the first thing that came to mind.

"Why do you rust? You're made of tin! What's wrong with you?"

The tin man cried. Small, oily tears streamed from his eyes and streaked his face, staining his exterior and dripping onto the bed linen. This continued for a few minutes, an unremitting sadness carried out under the watchful eyes of a stern Santa head you wouldn't let near your children. Time passed, and so did the tears. The tin man addressed me thusly:

"Why are you my only visitor anyway? What happened to all my other friends, and where are my Winkies?"

But his question remained unanswered. Visiting time was over, and I was too busy laughing at the word "Winkies" to offer any reply.

The time I met Hitler's cat

2012-01-05T21:55:00.000Z

There came, with eminent foreboding, a knock upon my door. Nothing new there then.

Upon opening that dreaded portal, I fount 'twixt my door-frame a small cat. I could tell he was down on his luck, because his suit was rather worn and tattered. It was an unusual suit, resembling the kind of thing you might see on an 80s business man. A grey jacket adorned his shoulders, a white collar on a blue striped shirt affixed with a yellow tie. As he bowed down and his arms parted back and pulled, I even made out braces. Red, burgundy perhaps. But his suit was worn, torn and unloved. And, suit or not, he was a talking cat; that's always worth a laugh or two.

I smiled politely at him. A cold light shined on us from the sun. Probably a little bright, if I'm totally honest. He spoke:

"Hello. May I come in and have some tuna? Perhaps a little warm milk, or even some clean water?"

"Well," I said, "I don't know. Have you had all your jabs?"

"Please sir. I used to be Hitler's cat, you know."

He left that piece of trivium hovering in the air between us, shimmering in the early sun. I looked down at the cat.

"Oh" I said at length. "I didn't know Hitler had a cat."

"Well no." He replied. "I try to keep quiet about it. I am ashamed."

I nodded wisely.

"What's your name?"

"Mr. Socks." He replied abashed.

I let him in, and he ate some tuna. After 2 hours, he had even taught me how to use a tin opener. Then he left.

Later, I discovered him to be nothing more than an illusion, a fiction I had dreamed in the midday sun as its gentle rays caressed my face and affected my brain. Cats don't live to 70 years old, and Hitler didn't have a cat. But if he had done, imagine what new light Mr. Socks could have thrown on the Third Reich.

My 5 Least Favourite Horse Names

2011-12-22T00:33:00.002Z

For no real reason, here's my least favourite names for horses:

5. Jingle all the Way

4. Clive

3. Margaret Thatcher

2. Otis Redding

1. $π$

I know many of you aren't planning on getting me a Christmas present...

2011-12-11T23:58:00.001Z

Family Christmas Portrait, 2011

I know that, because many of you assume I'm a rhododendron, you think I don't celebrate Christmas and would be offended if you were to give to me a gift.
This is actually incorrect. I would not be offended if you were to buy me a Christmas present. In fact, I'm not even a rhododendron. I don't know how these rumours start.
Actually, I know exactly how these rumours start. I spread them. I spread them like lying butter over a slice of gullible bread, sometimes coating them with a layer of jam if I so desire. The jam isn't part of the metaphor. I just like jam. In fact, that's what you could get me for Christmas.
That or some new pruning shears.

For all you Dr. Who fans

2011-12-07T15:49:00.000Z

A Dalek costume, obviously.
From Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk

This is a terrible costume, right? It's not just me that thinks that? Like a giant, diseased robotic penis... With arms.

My apologies for anyone who came here looking for a succulent discussion of Rousseauian philosophy...

My Months of Hard work bear fruit!

2011-12-06T21:40:00.000Z

After several months working hard in my lab, my twisted science has born fruit! Not real fruit, like a mechanical pear or a hairless plum, but a metaphorical fruit. In fact, I shouldn't have used that metaphor, it confused me, leaving me riddled with syphilis like only a poorly chosen metaphor or sex worker can do.

Instead, what I mean to say is that after months of hard work, my twisted science has born elixir! Not such a great statement, seeing how elixirs aren't really born (unless they're made from liquidised baby giraffe or something, I suppose) but are made. Regardless, I've been doing evil science and it worked. That's what I wanted so say in the first place, and that's what I should have said. Curse you hubris.

Anyway, at first I worked on a potion to make myself into a catfish. I was inspired by two things, firstly my hatred of human life, and secondly, my love of animals named after two other animals which eat each other in the order they're named (I also like kettlefish and foxgloves for the same reasons).

I was a big boy. Except that's just a catfish.
Via Fishguild.com

In the end, that experiment was a success, and I turned into a catfish. My legs fused into a tail, my penis rotated 180-degrees around my body and grew into a fin, and my face imploded on itself to make gills. However, I was nowhere near water and would have quickly died if not for my twisted lab servant injecting me with the serum that made me human again.

So back to my most recent experiment. I've started blogging again recently, as you may have noticed. A Christmas treat for you all, you delightful sexual deviants, and wanted more followers. So I made a chemical compound, a liquid mixture I could sneak into the water supplies of individuals around the internet, inducing a state of baffled euphoria and most importantly, causing them to promote my blog on their blog.

So in other words, Doug over at I Like Cheese has spoken some kind words about my blog. So thanks to him, and welcome to any new readers who've arrived because of his promotion of myself. Sorry about the mad ramblings...

2011-12-06T00:01:00.019Z

Earlier, I accidentally clicked on a Spam link, one of those "enlarge your penis" ones. It was actually real, although it affected more than my genitalia. You'd think this would be some kind of boon, but in reality, my entire body has grown three-fold, and as a result, my clothes no longer fit me and doors are getting annoying. Tall, wide, terrified, I roam the streets, waving my long arms and flapping my ragged, torn clothes. My hair, spread long across my head lies thin and straggled, my teeth spaced out and widened terrify children.
All in all, its wildly inconvenient...

A tale of childhood innocence.

2011-12-05T12:00:00.002Z

When I was seven, my parents left me to stay with my Uncle Andrew for a week. They didn’t, of course, and I have no uncle Andrew. I don’t even have parents. But this isn’t a story about how I was born with neither mother or father. This is a far more banal story, about wood.

Uncle Andrew had a nice enough house, a semi-detached old townhouse in the middle of some town. It doesn’t matter where, none of this is real. Two floors, 2 bedrooms, living room, study, kitchen and en-suits for all, even the two free-standing bathrooms of the house. I’d met uncle Andrew a few times as I grew up, and he seemed a nice enough gent, absent-minded and flavoured somewhat like hazelnuts, but harmless unless you were a otter - an animal he detested. Anyhow, my parents pulled up outside Andrew’s house, and he met us on the garden path. Running late as usual, my parents had to leave then and there, after only a few pleasantries were exchanged, and my luggage dumped unceremoniously on the footpath.

“Hello my boy!” Uncle Andrew boomed at me. Despite the image that the booming voice of Uncle Andrew might have portrayed, he was actually a small, thin, timidly moustached man.

Taking me by the shoulder, he led me towards the warm and appetising front door of the house. The warmly-scented aroma of freshly-baked pie wafted from the house rousingly. Reaching the base of the steps to the aforementioned sexy door, Uncle Andrew guided me past the portal with his firm grip. I threw a sideways glance at the door in panic, making out the approaching form of a coal-bunker with worry.

“Here we are, here we are,” Andrew boomed, throwing open the bunker lid. “In we go, child.”

With that, he threw both my bag and myself into the container. Caught momentarily in an avalanche of coal, I pulled myself up blackened and bruised to peer over the side of the bunker.

“I’m sorry about this lad,” He said with an appropriately sorry face. “But, well... Ever since your Aunt passed away, I’ve rather taken up woodcraft. You know, a hobby to keep me occupied.”

I nodded. The statement itself was, of course, fairly acceptable. But it hardly explained why I’d been deposited in a coal bunker.

“Well, I’ve been working on a scale model of Saint Francis of Assisi, you know how it is?”

I nodded. I did not know how it was, but I was seven and agreement seemed sensible.

“Well, the problem is it’s not a one-to-one scale. And, well, I’ve filled the guest room with a 17-foot wide model of St. Francis’s foot, you understand.”

I nodded again. I really didn’t understand, partly because I didn’t think the guest room was big enough to accommodate a 17-foot wide model of a Saint’s foot, and partly because it was stupid.

“And, well, I can’t varnish it and soforth until I’ve finished the foot, and with the rain coming, I wouldn’t feel right about putting it outside. Can you imagine St. Francis’s face, ha ha, if an effigy of his foot got rotten in the rain!”

Uncle Andrew continued to chuckle in a snorting, obnoxious manner for several moments. I contemplated St. Francis of Assisi, who’d always seemed a decent chap and would probably be more concerned with the idea of keeping children in coal bunkers that the conservation of his effigies - an item I imagined he would oppose the creation of most strongly.

Above us, a rumble of thunder, and the heavens opened. For a moment, I hoped it would be the blessed Saint, descending to earth to at least bring me an umbrella, but it was just rain. Uncle Andrew, always thoughtful towards other, closed the lid of the coal bunker. Opening the small flap at the front that coal comes out of, he retreated into his house and began to converse loudly with me from the kitchen window.

“This is a two-by-four!” He yelled out happily, holding up a plank of wood. “The interesting thing about a two-by-four is that the name refers to the dimensions of the end - you see how it’s two inches thick by 4 inches wide? Well, actually 1 ½ inches by 3 ½, a ha ha ha! Well, that’s what the name refers to. You have to specify the length you want separately, you see. Now, isn’t interesting?”

“No,” I thought to myself, biting into a piece of coal. “That’s boring.” Still, the whole event was shaping up to be one of my better birthdays.

Winter.

2011-12-04T17:44:00.003Z

It's cold in this cave.
I'm in a cave, you understand, in the cold. The snow, in fact. I've been travelling up hills in the snow recently, mainly because it seems like good, safe fun. Anyway, as usual, I've become trapped in a frozen cave by a blizzard. Snow it piled up around the cave mouth, and I think some yeti are pointing and laughing at me from a much warmer cave across the way.
I've managed to start a fire. It's a small fire, and frankly, I wouldn't use it to try and impress a woman or seduce a lamb or anything like that. But still, it was doing its duty and keeping me alive. Then, outside, a noise! A dog, barking, help?
Something appeared at the mouth of the cave. I could make this description more interesting, but I know you'd like to get straight to action, so I'll just confirm that it was indeed a dog. A St. Bernard's, with a small barrel of brandy around its neck! I was saved!
Sure, it took me a while to roast the dog over the pitiful fire I'd made, but the brandy made for an excellent sauce to roast the mastiff in.
In which to roast the mastiff, sorry. It's getting cold now, and I used the last of my energy to correct that grammatical error. God help me if I actually proof-read the rest of my blog.
Was I going somewhere with this? Who knows...

A doorbell? What a novel concept...

2011-12-04T12:00:00.002Z

The doorbell rang. I know, I know. But it’s been a while since I had a doorbell story, and I’ve been sadder for it. Probably a coincidence, but still, let’s take no chances. Happiness in 3...

2...

1...

Ding!

I opened the door. Outside, a postman with a large package. By that, I mean he was holding an item of some sort, wrapped in brown paper. This isn’t a porn script, probably because it features no sex. The postman smiled sadly, clearly going through the motions and not enjoying his job.

“Morning sir,” he said. “Package for you.”

I smiled politely, confirmed I lived in my house and signed for the package. And normally, that would have been the end of the affair. By that, of course, I mean event, rather than romantic affair. For you see, I have some standards,[1] and the man in front of me was rather hairy. In fact, it was because of this I asked the following:

“You look familiar. Did you go to Dingwall Academy?”

“No.” He replied.

“Are you Bigfoot then?”

He shook his head from side to side, then answered slowly, ashamed.

“Yes.”

I smiled kindly and invited him in for tea. He was very polite, like that Tiger I had round for tea last week, but less homophobic, and he fell asleep very quickly when I drugged him. Confident the mythical beast was sound asleep, I shaved off his hair.

I don’t like a hairy man.

[1] Not really.

Long time, no speak.

2011-12-03T01:25:00.002Z

Sorry its been a while, I was kidnapped again. For weeks, I've been kept prisoner in a dark, squalid dungeon, allowed out only occasionally to judge village fêtes.

Day after day, I could hear them outside, assembling the latest fête, setting up stalls and tents, preparing cheeses for my pallet, arranging gladiola for me to consider.

Then, they would drag me out of the dungeon kicking and screaming, and when I acquiesced to their demands, pile assorted crap before me for my judgement. Without care, I would hand out ribbons and trophies, awards and cash prizes, always under the title of the 'Mayor of Funville'. But I was no elected official, nor was I fun.

After God knows how many fêtes, I resolved to escape or die. Half starved; they dragged me out of the dungeon to judge a display of dioramas. Small town squares, with churches and little, Victorian shops, that sort of thing. After seeing three or four, I was dragged, in my Mayoral garb and handcuffs, before a rather stunning display. Lifelike, scale replicas of a Church and row of shops shined out at me, above a complex reconstruction of the London Underground, a reproduction as stunning as it was out-of-place.

I turned to the creator, a boy of 9 or 10.

"How... How did you create this, surface dweller?" I asked slowly, words inconsiderate strangers in my mouth.

He looked at me coldly, the level stare of a serial killer, and replied in the silky voice of an angel:

"Mice."

I looked at the diorama again. In the forecourt, teams of mice in period clothing were going about their business like snouted midgets, selling tiny wax fruit and buying new suits.

It was beautiful. For the first time since I had been captured, I cried. I dropped to my knees and sobbed, tears streaming through the filth on my face and spilling dirtily onto my Mayor's sash.

One of my captors stepped up to me in time, and dabbed my face dry.

"You want your freedom?"

I nodded, tears still trickling downwards.

"You may have it. Destroy this town, and it is yours."

I shook my head.

"No. I will not do as you ask. The mice are innocent."

"They are not innocent. No-one is innocent. These mice are guilty of sins before God and their fellow man. Strike them down. Take this sickle."

His hand extended towards me, offering a small frying-pan that was, amongst other things, not a sickle.

"No! I cannot!" I said. Not least because my hands were still tied behind my back.

"Then you are not fit to be the Mayor of Funville!" The man shrieked.

I shrugged. "I never wanted to be Mayor." I said at length.

"Really? Oh, cool. Right, on your way then." He said, untying my hands and stripping me of my mayor's gownage.

I got to my feet slowly. The mice, having gathered to watch me decide their fate, applauded and cheered. One offered me a shoe, but I didn't take it because it wouldn't go with my dungeon rags and was very small. Flexing my arms, I stretched out and left.

The mice watched me go. Then, after I was out of site, they turned on my captors and devoured them. Such are the wages of sin.

The Letters' page

2011-12-02T00:12:00.002Z

This is not the letter I received.
Via Wikipedia

I haven't written in a while. I've actually started working on an elaborate lie to justify my asbcence, but first, I feel I must reply to one of the many items of fan mail I've received here in the DITWP mail box.
The letter, authored by a man who may be familiar to readers of this blog, sexual deviants and fans of the handwritten everywhere, is as follows:

Dear Paul,

it has been some time since The last time I crafted you a lovely handwritten letter, so I Thought now would be as much of a good time as any.

For the most part I have been avoiding your blog of mystery and confusion, since it provides me with mental problems whenever I do. However, it comes to my attention That you are growing a moustache for "Movember"

This is an interesting feat! Here is a demonstrative image of what I would like to see.

(As you can probably tell, I don't have a scanner. Anyway, imagine a hand-drawn picture of a moustache, a little thicker on the left than the right, curling at the end.)

... but preferably more even. This is of utmost importance to The success of your mission. I will accept no substitute ~

I look forward to reading your response.

Regards, Neil.

(Fans of this letter can see Neil's original contribution to this blog here)

Obviously, this letter comes from the past. That is to say, Neil gave it to me a while ago and I've been too busy to transcribe it. I grew a moustache. It was disappointing, and I shaved it off today, as it is no longer November. (You can see it here, and laugh at me, if you want. I think you can still sponsor me - the moustache fights cancer). So now, I shall craft Neil a letter as charming as it is flammable.

2011-10-24T12:12:00.001+01:00

Two raisins sit quietly on a counter. An hour passes, but they say nothing to each other.
I don't see why you're surprised. Raisins fail to grasp even the most rudimentary elements of small-talk. Once, a man in Pittsburgh conversed with a raisin about the weather, or so legend tells us. But essentially, raisins are quiet creatures and you shouldn't be upset if they don't reply to the happy greetings you offer them in your singsong voice.

The wonderful thing about Tiggers

2011-09-30T19:42:00.000+01:00

Is, of course, that Tiggers are wonderful things. No-one ever mentions their views of a racially pure Europe though...

It is the 5th of February, 1934

2011-09-29T15:45:00.002+01:00

In the shade of an old oak tree, two squirrels make plans. An hour passes, then they exchange a solemn handshake and depart.
No-one knows exactly what happened under that tree, but the next day, the Far-Right Leagues attempt a coup in Paris. The event is just one of many political crisises to rock the Third Republic, and yet another example of the determination squirrels show in their obsessive quest to destroy France.
Remember, Squirrels are the enemy! I've you've ever enjoyed a croissant or made love to a beret, defend France! Gather up as many squirrels as you can and put them in a sack, then launch the sack into space!

It's about the birds and the bees, but I'm using a different metaphor.

2011-09-27T00:13:00.000+01:00

"Where do babies come from?"

I looked around in confusion. Nearby, a small child stood by the shop door, looking at me with expectations. Of course, I probably shouldn't talk to strange children on the street, not after the last time, but this child was rather fat and ugly, so I'd probably be fine.

"Well, isn't that a question you should ask your parents?" I replied, hoping to reach safe ground. After all, talking to a strange child is one thing, but talking to a strange child about sexy sex is where things start to get sinister. That's where it went wrong last time. Damn children with their sexy talk.

"I did." The fat, ugly child replied. "I asked mummy, and she said the stork brings them."

"Ah!" I sighed with relief. "Yes. That's right. A stork flies children to mummies and daddies who want them."

"But where does the stork get them from?" Fatso Uglyass asked

"What?"

"Does he make them? The babies, they have to come from somewhere. Or does the stork get a supply from somewhere else? And how does he decide who gets which baby?"

"I... erm? He just has babies, I think. He doesn't make them, storks don't have hands!" I had been shaken for a minute, but felt I was regaining ground now I'd established storks didn't have hands.

"So he just has a big pile of babies? In his house?"

"Erm... No, I think he has a storage unit or something. A warehouse, you know?"

"And how does he decide who gets which baby? I mean, most babies look like their parents, and they've got the same skin and things. So does the stork get a picture of the parents and find a baby that looks like them?"

"Yes, that's it!" I replied. Thinks were getting out of hand fast. Not out of hand like last time, of course, which is fortunate. But still out of hand.

"But what about children who don't look like their parents? Or children with problems. My friend Tommy has three ears. Did his parents ask the stock especially for a kid like that, or did the stork think they deserved a child with three ears?"

I began to look around in panic. Resisting the temptation to start calling out for the child's parents, I tried to think of a plausible answer.

"Three ears? How does he have three ears?"

"Well, he's got his normal two, and a third ear, on the back of his head. His hair usually covers it, but you can see it when he's had a haircut."

I nodded, that made sense. A few seconds passed in silent contemplation, and the shop door opened. A young woman came out, and taking the child's hand, turned to me.

"Hi. I hope he hasn't been bothering you." She asked. I smiled politely and shook my head, but didn't say anything. I probably should have, but I felt shy. She smiled too, a look of gentle confusion spreading across her face. Then, muttering goodbye, she turned and left, taking her podgy, ugly spawn with her. I went home.

Halfway, I saw another young woman, this time pushing a pram. I smiled politely and cooed at the child. Suddenly, two storks rushed from a nearby alleyway, wearing masks and waving pistols. In a flash, they grabbed the baby and took off into the sky.

Leaving the woman shouting angrily at the sky, I headed home whistling happily. Well, I thought, that answered the question of the day. Fortunately, I'd tagged the lardy child from earlier, and tonight I'd find him and answer his question about storks. I think I'll sneak into his room later, and laugh at his ugly face when he's asleep, leave him a note explaining the whole thing.

Politics

2011-09-24T11:40:00.003+01:00

A filthy Commie.
Image via Wikipedia.

The heavy rainfall continued. You don't care though, do you? You think the weather's just for old people and owls, don't you? Well, I don't give a damn what you think.

"Can't we go in?" Max pleaded from the other side of two watery coffees.

"No." I replied. "We're staying here until after 6."

The reason for staying outside - beyond, of the course, the vague possibility that Max may catch hypothermia and die - was that Raiden (Yup, we're still doing that) was still plaguing my home, teleporting in and out of the living room to tell me about his day. His day was never interesting. The highlight of his week, I understood, had been seeing a documentary on seals. I used to like seals, but now I just want to club their adorable faces in and eat their fatty innards.

"Besides, the rain's letting off a little."

Max shrugged an indifferent agreement. The rain was definitely reducing in watery volume. Near the cafe table at which we had situated ourselves, the pavement began to bustle with life. Wet life, but life all the same.Seals are a type of wet life. Little bastards.
Seemingly drawn out by the temporary drynessity, a few men and women began to stroll the aforementioned city streets. Their shoes splished and splashed into puddles and gutters, and little waves spread across the street. It was all nice and shit. Nearby, a wombat walked purposefully to the street corner and stepped up onto a soap box.

"Is that a marsupial?" I asked Max out of curiosity.

"Yea, wombat I think."

Max's suspicions were confirmed a moment later, when the short-legged, muscular quadruped began to talk in a strong, clear Australia accent.

"Good morning, comrades!" He yelled in a strong, inflected voice.

I looked up in interest. Wombats, as is well known, hold strong Communist views. Whether you agree with them or not, they often make compelling, charismatic speakers, and I was eager to hear one in action. However, I quickly realised that I wasn't going to witness such a spectacle today.

"Hey! Hey you!"

From the other side of the street, a haranguer emerged from a small crowed. Smartly dressed, he was some kind of creature made of potato sacks. In fact, as I watched him move across the street, I came to imagine him still filled with potatoes. His sack-arms heaved as he pointed and gesticulated, large bumps rolling and bulging across his personage.

"Yes!" He yelled as the Wombat looked to him in response. "I'm talking to you, you... you womb-bat!"

I furrowed my brow, but continued to watch the ongoing scene.

"Yes sir, you have a question. Or perhaps you want to silence me!" To this he raised an energetic jeer from the crowd. "Yes, you fear me talking! You want to stop me before I tell these people the truth!"

This too raised a roar from the crowd, who turned in unison to see the newcomer's reply. Throwing back his cheeks, the man huffed and puffed in shocked, angry indignation. He shook, recovering himself, and prepared to speak.

But Suddenly, a third figure arrived on the scene, riding triumphantly into the argument on the back of a lion. Her gown fluttering behind her, I recognised the figure of Britannia. Raising her trident, she thrust and jabbed in an arousing manner, knocking the Wombat aside her path.

"Down with diesel! Oats, power cars with oats!" She yelled triumphantly.

"But that isn't the argument mate?" The Wombat called out from the paving. "We're debating political ideologies. And you've gone and ruined it!"

"Yea!" Yelled the sack of Potatoes, "How will I dispute this man's Capitalist stance if you go about knocking people down an' yelling?"

"I'm a Communist!" Yelled the injured marsupial.

"Oh." Potato-Sackman mumbled. "Me too."

Britannia, dismounting and removing her helmet, explained that she too leaned far to the left.

Joining arms, the three skipped merrily into a nearby hardware store, returning soon with red and yellow paint. First painting the town red, then gently painting the hammer and sickle onto the street walls, they made their way into the distance.

I watched them go, their linked arms catching on lamp-posts and passers-by. This, I thought to myself through sips of coffee, was exactly why New Zealand won the Cold War.

Fear

2011-09-09T13:41:00.002+01:00

Fucking hell. I was going to write some kind of fictional excuse for why I haven't posted for a while. But the typy-bloggy box thing has changed.
God I'm scared...

Max's house is back

2011-08-02T01:24:00.000+01:00

"Mars?"

"Well. It was somewhere."

I nodded. I do that a lot, these days. Talking is an exertion I cannot afford to make. I need to keep my energy up. For fleeing. I'm no Rincewind, but there's a lot of things I'd rather be quite a distance from. This was one such thing.

Max, you see, had found his house. As you regular reading bastards know, he seems to have been staying at mine for some time. You know, so we can engage in zany adventures, and drain my will to live. Anyhow, whatever had happened to Max's house was over, and it was back where it'd been when he'd bought it. I maintain that the house never moved, but Max insists it's been in space, or was taken for a joyride. He swears he saw some nuns filling it up with dried pasta at Asda. I denounced him publicly. I won't have him insulting anything that looks like a penguin.

The house, for all the neglect and abandonment it had suffered, didn't look too bad. Sure, there was a lot of graffetti on the walls. And a lot of stray cats inside. And a crazed old man. I'd expected a crazy-cat-lady-type squatter, but what I got was a suited man who looked a little like Bismarck drinking tea from the Tupperware. I chased him out with a broom, while Max polished the banisters.

The kitchen was bare. Max offered my a cat, but I declined, explaining I'd already eaten. Lichen fell from the ceiling, showering us as we sat at the table. I looked out the back window at the swings and see-saw outside. I looked around at the walls. I looked at Max.

"I don't think this is your house."

He looked around slowly.

"No." He replied at length.

We herded the cats back inside, rounded up the homeless and regrimed the staircase. Then we went home. I'm thinking of posting Max somewhere, but I doubt the Post Office will let me.

2011-07-28T23:43:00.000+01:00

He looked across the table. The table, too polite to voice a dissenting opinion, allowed him the freedom to gaze.
The woman opposite was striking. Obviously a great beauty in her youth, the flame of a pleasing physique still burned in her ivory skin and golden locks. A careless smile greeted him as he met her eyes, a match-head burning down behind her pupils. Then she stopped, and wrinkled. She was getting old, he though. We all are.
He reached across the table, touching her arm. When he had first met her, 40 years ago perhaps, she had been soft and supple. Of course, she was harder now; more jagged. He knew, of course, that as a woman aged, she began slowly to turn to rock. It was common knowledge. But still, he had expected something more... shimmering in this case. An amethyst or shining geode.
Now that the light was dying down, he saw her skin free of illuminating reflection. She was greying, lichen and moss growing in the creases of her skin.
He chuckled as he looked at her - he was a fine one to talk, after all. Ageing had been kinder to him than to some, but he knew he was no Adonis. His fingers were long and damp to the touch, and fish swam the lengths of his shoulders in the evening breeze.
"What are you laughing about?" She asked at length.
"Just thinking." He replied. "We're old, you and I. Remember when we first met?"
He needed say no more. The very idea that they would grow old at all, when they had first met so many years ago, seemed ridiculous. But now, the long years had taken their toll.
They left the café, with a generous tip for the waiter, and strolled down the path beside the river. Reaching a bench, they stopped and sat quietly in the park. The sun set and the night closed around them, and the fireflies buzzed gently. Then the sun rose again, and dawn broke the night's peace quietly.
They held hands on the bench as the sun rose. Then, as it reached the highest point, he turned to her.
She shimmered in the light. Perhaps, he though, he'd been wrong after all. A hint of quartz. He smiled to himself, chuckling at length. She would have liked that, perhaps. Quartz.
He kissed her forehead. She didn't move, it was beyond her now.
Leaving her where she sat, immobile and immovable, he walked to the fence beside the river. He leaned over it and waited.
No point in making a mess, after all.

Dogs in funny clothing. I've given up on good titles. I wish I was dead.

2011-07-26T01:00:00.002+01:00

The doorbell rang. I can't even be bothered writing the onomatopoeic words to describe a doorbell doorbelling any more.

On the step, a pair of small dogs stood looking up expectantly. They were kind of cute, but I detected an edge of cynicalism, as if they harboured a detached, dangerous view of the world. One of the dogs, taller (They were on hind legs) red knickerbockers, blue pork-pie hat, offered a tin towards me.

"Would you like to make a donation, sir?"

"Sure." I replied, fishing for my wallet. "What are you collecting for, the dogs' home?"

"No." Replied the first dog. "I've started an awareness campaign to raise awareness about the lack of suitable clothing for dogs. You see, people aren't aware that there isn't much clothing for dogs - sure, there're some novelty hats and little costumes and things. But on the whole, there is little clothing that allows a dog to remain both stylish and warm."

I nodded.

"I didn't think dogs really liked clothing. I mean, you've got those little tartan coats for the rain, what more do you want?"

"Look," He replied in a patient-yet-weary tone, "See Tim here? He hasn't got more than 3 shoes in the world. It's all very well, you saying he should get a job, earn some money, buy his own sewing machine and make his own clothes, but how can he expect to find employment with only 3 shoes?"

I looked at Tim. Stupid name for a dog, I thought to myself, but I kept quiet. A moment ago I'd apparently given a tirade against dogs not working for a living, so I didn't know what I might say next.

"Besides." Said the first dog. "Look at this picture. This is your grandmother, isn't it?"

I looked at the picture. It was true - a stylish sepia print of my grandmother hunting game in Montecristo was being thrust in front of my face.

"Your grandmother. She likes to keep a clean lawn, doesn't she?" The dog asked, with the rising inflection of a seasoned talking dog blackmailer.

I hastily pulled out 67p from my pocket and gave it to the dogs.

"Good man." The dog who wasn't Tim said. "Now, unless you've got anything to bark at, we'll be on our way."

I told them I didn't, then went back inside. Even though I'd met their blackmail demands, I didn't trust the two dogs. Loading up my shotgun and fetching the cat's revolver from behind the stairs, I set off to Grandma's. The cat met me there, having picked up some bear traps at the fish market. We waited until dawn, but there was no sign of the dogs. Satisfied, we prepared to go home. Spotting us as she went out for her morning jog, Grandma invited us in for Currie and vodka. It was a good day, and only one passer-bye got caught in the bear traps.

It takes all kinds...

2011-07-21T22:21:00.000+01:00

Early morning gloom blocked up most of the light, but through the shadows I could see two other figures in the bar with me. One, a large man in a suit far too small for him, was combing his hair obsessively, using the back of a spoon to style it. His breakfast drinking companion, a 5-foot tall Chinese version of Sylvester Stallone, was reading the cocktail menu and tutting in contemplation.

Time passed as I watched the unlikely pair order something, then settle back to wait. After more of the aforementioned time passed, the suited man turned and caught my eye.

"We're not together!" He yelled out, panicked.

I smiled politely. I couldn't care less.

"And we don't drink this early!" He continued. "It's just that our coffee machine is broken, and raccoons stole our cereal!"

I continued to smile politely, turning my straw this way and that as I drank my bucket of vodka.

"We're not homosexuals!" He yelled, determined to make the point.

I smiled some more. As long as they weren't owl rapists, I didn't bother me.

Chinese Sly looked up in confusion.

"I am." He said at length.

"What? You never said!" Yelled the suited man, evidently scared that he might have caught something from sharing his breakfast with a gay man.

"I thought this was a date." Chinese Sly mumbled sadly.

I continued to watch the drama play out in front of me. After a while, the pair left awkwardly. When they were out of sight, I scurried over to their table and began to nibble at the crumbs of food they'd left behind.

Don't judge me, a bucket of vodka a day is an expensive habit you know. I've got to make savings where I can.

Love

2011-07-20T23:43:00.000+01:00

Over dinner, I stared into her eyes. Cold, emotionless. She stared back for a while, nibbling at her food.

"We never talk any more." I said. What I meant was that she never talked any more. I still talked.

"And we don't go out. I don't mind curling up in front of the fire, but we have to go out sometime. We never see anyone any more."

She said nothing back. I was unsurprised but disappointed.

"And you only show me affection when you want something. You showed the postman more affection last week."

Still nothing.

"And when you go to the toilet in the garden, I'm glad you cover it up, but could you be more careful in future? You dug up all my petunias.

She meowed back at me.

I smiled. It was progress.

"You're a good girl really." I said, patting her on the head. "I just wish you wouldn't scratch the furniture."

Swans.

2011-07-13T23:23:00.001+01:00

Vicious, peace-loving bastards.

The guests were fleeing in terror. I didn't blame them. Nearby, a couple recoiled, cowed by fear, as a ferocious swan pecked and honked in their general vicinity.

Around us, the other eleven swans created similar mayhem, biting passers-bye and flapping their wings on occasion.

"So, how did this work out? You know, in your head?"

"Well," Max replied. "The Bride and Groom exit the Chapel, and I open the cage."

"Yup. With you so far. Then the doves should fly out, making everything magical and dove-like?"

"Yes. Except, as you can see, I couldn't get my hands on any doves."

I nodded.

"And why, Max, why did you think swans would be a good substitute?"

Max shook his head sadly. "No idea" was the only answer offered. I nodded some more, adding the pursing of the lips to my head-based motions.

"Why were you even allowed to handle such a delicate task? Have you been telling people you're a professional dove-wrangler again?"

Max shrugged. After a moment, he turned and walked away, at some speed. The wind carried words back to me, and they sounded like "don't look in the van".

I looked in the van. It was a small, white unassuming van, with the words "Professional Dove-Wrangler" painted on the side in big letters. Underneath said script lay a smaller message, explaining the owner of such a van would use doves, and not swans. I opened the van.

Inside, tied and gagged, lay a professional dove-wrangler. He seemed rather annoyed, and explained what I'd already guessed as I untied him: Max, probably on the ether again, had attacked the man on the street, tickling him mercilessness. When he collapsed in forced mirth, Max had tied him up and stolen the van. Obviously.

"So what about the doves?" I asked. "Surely you must have doves of your own, being a professional and not a swan-vendor."

Sadly, the man explained that he had eaten all the doves prior to his kidnap. I nodded, finding this answer acceptable. Then I drove the van home. It's mine now, and there's nothing any of you can do about it.

No man is an island, part 3

2011-07-04T22:22:00.001+01:00

For Harold, the Island was starting to lose its appeal. Certainly, the alluring palm trees still waved seductively in the wind, and the crabs danced dances of titillation and excitement. But overall, Harold missed his home.

A gentle breeze carried itself across the beach, listlessly caressing the ragged remains of Harold's shoes. "Maude", the breeze seemed to whisper.

Well, though Harold, I think that was her name. Maude. He'd been married, he thought. Or she'd been at the bus-stop. Either way, his missed her hair, coloured in a particular fashion as it had been, and also her face, which had probably been very pretty, or at least lacked hair in the right places.

Yes, he thought happily. She'd have never stood for this kind of thing. Kept a clean house, Maude probably did. No sand around the place. Yes, beautiful as the island was, Harold (Oh fuck, I've just noticed the names are 'Harold and Maude', Like that film. I wasn't going for that. I was just thinking of Maude Flanders. Like any young man. Well, I'm too lazy to use another name. Let's just plough on).

Yes, though Harold. The Island was beautiful. But he'd trade it all for Maude, just to see her again. He missed her more than anything.

A gentle current stroked its way up the beach. Harold leaned back in the sand, and wondered if he'd actually been gay. Yes, that seemed familiar. The sun beat down on him from on high. Sadly, Harold wondered who Maude was. She could have been his hairdresser, now he thought about it.

Islands aren't fun, kids.