Torchland

As You All Know, In This Last Year, My Personal Life Has Taken A Hell Of A Beating

2005-10-22T17:01:00.000-07:00

It was the new century. Fresh pickings. The kids were in school now, and times were good, if a little poopy. Mostly it was velcro and lavender, and Spike was tickled.

Miss Doherty had started going to night school, and became a fully fledged psychiatrist. It made her feel good at the end of the day, she told Spike. An achievement. He was proud of her, and shut the gates at night knowing that his home was a little fortress, and he was guarding something precious.

Spike had been learning the clarinet, but it wasn't going so well. He kept practicing to Pee Wee Russell records, and the guy kept playing so goddamn fast. He couldn't keep up. Finally he had hurled the instrument out the window, and damaged the mouthpiece beyond repair. It had been a costly musical lesson, but at least, he reasoned, he had learnt 'New Orleans Rag' before jacking the whole thing in, and could play it at parties if fortified with alcohol and naked self-delusion.

It had been three years since they'd taken a case, and Miss Doherty told Spike over dinner that she missed the good old days. The adrenaline pump. The sense of ridiculous danger. The paychecks. All that jazz. Spike had to agree with her. Maybe it was time they put a little advertisement out, like they had all those years ago. Miss Doherty wiped the table down, and looked at Spike, in a way he liked quite deeply.

Once again - Torchland & Co. was open for business.

Vernan, the Sooth

2005-03-19T19:37:00.000-08:00

Years later, Spike and Miss Doherty would sit together and laugh and remember all the crazy shit that had gone down, wondering how they had managed to get out of it with their wallets and the kids and everything.

The Dublin phone call turned into a cross-country Mad Max marathon of misunderstandings and random petrol stops, until the man came clean and approached them at an Esso in Tullamore, asking if the Torchland Detective Agency was still open for business.

"I sold it to a multinational conglomerate," said Spike. "So no."

"I see," said the man.

"Why did you leave those pumpkins outside our hotel in Galway?"

"I didn't," said the man. "I've just been following you since you ran out on me in that hotel in Dublin."

The man paused. He looked pained.

"I have a problem, and I think you can help me."

"Let's eat first. I need some fish."

They ate sushi and talked quietly in a Japanese restaurant on the main Tullamore strip. It was called "Miso!", and it closed three weeks later, confused and disappointed.

"A friend of mine has become...delusional."

"Wasabi," said Spike to the waiter. "A good glunk of it."

"He has become convinced that a woman he once spurned is out to mangle him. She has helicopters following him around, agents on his trail, and his food has been frangled."

"Excuse me?"

The man refused soy sauce and continued, unalarmed.

"He believes it all relates to a fortune teller he visited some years ago, who told him he would be screwed over by a red-haired woman. This woman is now controlling his life. Voices are warning him to watch out. He can't sleep. Ever."

Spike dunked a gyoza.

"Sounds to me like a classic paranoid schizophrenic. Where does he live, and how much can you pay me?"

"Wexford. And as much as it takes."

Spike took the job, found a yellow pages, and called a reputable looking Wexford fortune teller.

"I have a friend who is a paranoid schizophrenic."

"I see," said Victor Vernan, the Wexford soothsayer.

"If he comes to see you, will you tell him exactly what I tell you to say?"

"Of course." said Victor, without pausing. "Anything you want."

"Sensational."

The man visited Victor two days later, and brought his friend, whose name was Kenneth.

"You believe you are being persecuted" said Victor.

Kenneth looked unnerved, but said nothing.

"A woman is seeking your destruction."

Kenneth kept his eyes on the floor. He still felt suspicious. Victor had a large purple turban on his head, and seemed to be a little drunk.

"She is not to be feared. She seeks only your wellbeing and happiness. If you wish it, these people will follow others instead."

Kenneth looked up.

"How do you know?"

"Because I can see the future."

Kenneth furrowed his brow.

"What are the winning lottery numbers for tomorrow night?"

Victor smiled.

"I don't use my powers for monetary gain. That would be unethical."

"Bollocks," said Kenneth. "You're a fraud."

Victor could hear the sound of helicopters in the distance. He decided he had done all he could do.

"Do not fear," he said solemnly. "All will be well if you wish it."

The helicopters touched down right outside Victor's tent. They crushed some deckchairs beyond repair. Five men got out and grabbed Kenneth, handcuffed him, threw him into one of the choppers and then took off in a cloud of dust.

Victor was taken aback.

"I saw that coming" he said solemnly. "I wish I could have done something to stop it."

Spike never got paid.

The Fourteen Floor Descent

2005-02-02T17:02:00.000-08:00

Everything was the wrong way round in Ireland. The cars. The roads. The people. But the family seemed to like it.

"Let's live here" said Miss Doherty on their first night in adjacent hotel rooms in the plush, slightly run-down Gresham hotel.

Spike wasn't so sure. He knew he was being paranoid, but he saw vipers everywhere. The funny-looking bell-hop. The weird old guy reading a paper in the lobby who always seemed to be looking at them. The angry knackers on O'Connell street that kept circulating them in full predatory mode.

Spike figured they'd hire a car and head west in the morning. He'd heard there were some good mountains they could take a shot at. Keep that vim percolating. Then he could start to size up some options.

They were about to bring their bags down to the lobby the following morning when the phone rang. Miss Doherty picked it up.

She turned to Spike.

"It's for you."

Spike took the receiver and stared at the kids.

"Yeah."

The voice on the other end was muffled, but he made out a harsh, Dublin accent.

"Spike? It's time to get to it."

"Who is this?"

"It's Larry."

"Come on up."

Spike hung up quickly and turned to the others.

"Remember what we practiced earlier on? Well it's time to hustle."

They walked to the stairs and began the fourteen floor descent without protest. Spike and Miss Doherty carried the kids in turn and whistled show tunes they'd heard on the radio. The kids joined in on the choruses. When they reached the lobby, they left through the fire escape and hailed a taxi.

"Yeah. Let's head west."

The driver looked squarely back at Spike.

"Anywhere in particular?"

"Where can we rent a car?"

"I'm sure you could get one from that hotel."

"That hotel's no good."

"Okay. We'll head west", the driver said reasonably.

And they did. To Meath. It cost 300 euro. Spike paid in weird cash and hired a large Honda from a small car hire establishment beside a petrol station on the main street. They bade farewell to the taxi driver and clambered into the new wheels. Miss Doherty put on some Coltrane, and four hours later they were in Galway. Spike checked them into a hotel near the Bay and they ate seafood and pie and slept like babies.

They were awoken by the faint, sickly smell of burning. It was 4.16 am.

Soiled, Irrevocably

2004-12-05T10:00:00.000-08:00

The first thing Spike noticed was the sweet, sickly smell of burning. He checked his watch. It was 5.18am. He rose quickly, kissed the still sleeping Miss Doherty on the cheek, checked on the kids, and walked slowly downstairs carrying the fully loaded AK-47 he had picked up cheap in Zurich. He could see a small, angry man through the living room window, standing on the front lawn beside two burning pumpkins. He was unarmed. Spike opened the front door, came out onto the lawn and nodded to the man. It was like a cheap Mexican standoff. Crazy music played in Spike's head as he stopped before him.

It had only been a matter of time. Coots had made a lot of enemies over the years, and Spike had regularly felt the consequences. In response to Coots' mercurial method of investigation, Spike had been shot at, stabbed, dangerously eyepoked, dangled at perilously high altitudes, poisoned with a mercury-based beverage disguised as Jagermeister, and nearly assmangled by a gang of crazed Chinese stained-glass windowcleaners who thought Coots was trying to kill them when in fact he was only asking directions to a restaurant off Delancey.

This guy was no doubt being paid by one of the many asshole criminals Spike and Coots had put away. Specifically, Spike had a pretty strong suspicion it was one Larry Jaguar, a wealthy ratfucker from Brooklyn they had caught peddling junk to pensioners in New England. He was locked up for good, but that didn't stop him making orders on the outside. Larry liked his assassins to add a personal touch, to really rub it in, so an enemy's corpse was usually found with some burnt-out pumpkins nearby to symbolise the deed. Pumpkins were burned in ancient times to signify vengeance, Larry had once explained to Spike under interrogation, which Spike found out later was total horseshit.

"Can I help you?" said Spike, as the music in his head came to a stop.

The man smiled. "Yes. Yes you can."

"I've got children upstairs. I don't want any trouble."

The man nodded.

"These are just a warning, " the man said quietly. "A certain person wishes you to know that you are not safe. Not here. Not anywhere. And when he orders it, you will be eliminated for good. He wants you to sweat it out a little first."

"That's it?"

"That's pretty much it," said the man.

"Ok," said Spike. "Tell Larry I think he's a gutless fruitcake, and he has terrible hair. Now kindly get these things off my lawn, and fuck off while you're at it."

The man nodded, turned away and walked slowly down the driveway until he was gone. The pumpkins lay there, smoking. Spike kicked one straight through, and soiled one of his brand new suede-based shoes irrevocably.

Six hours later, Miss Doherty and the kids were waiting at a Lufthansa check-in desk while Spike booked four one-way tickets to Dublin, Ireland. He used his newfound powers of telepathy to convince the woman behind the counter to upgrade them from economy to first class, then felt bad about it and made her change them back to business. It was only fair.

The Limo Guy

2004-12-01T16:22:00.000-08:00

The driver was twenty minutes late getting to the airport, and reached the arrivals terminal anxious and out of breath. He felt stupid. This was a big job, and here he was, late for the mysterious client Bernie had told him to make sure to be on time for. He scanned the board for details of the flight from Frankfurt, lighting a Gauloise to calm his nerves. At once he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to face a small, bearded man in his late fifties, carrying a large black suitcase. He looked incredibly angry.

"You're Guy?"

"Guy, yes sir" he said, pronouncing it differently without trying to cause too much offence.

"You're late."

The man began walking out of the terminal.

"Yes, I'm sorry sir, the evening traffic here, it's terrible - "

"Don't bullshit me, you fucking frog. You should have left earlier."

"Sir, I'm not French - "

"I don't give a shit. Just don't jerk me around again, comprende?"

"Of course sir. Can I take your bag?"

"No."

The vacuum doors shut behind them and they emerged into the cold night air.

"I have car right here."

Guy opened the back door of the plush stretchjob for the small, angry man, shut it carefully behind him, and sighed gently before getting into the front seat and speeding off towards the exit.

"Take me to Via Orselina 6, Muralto. You know where that is?"

"Muralto? I think so sir, I think so."

"You make sure so, you hear me, guy?"

"Yes sir. No problem at all."

Cold air pumped in mercilessly around them as they drove on into the city. The driver laughed nervously, and called back to him.

"I'm sorry sir for the air, it broken you see, I can make it hot if you like though."

There was no response from the back.

"You want radio? TV?"

After another long silence, Guy sighed again and floored the accelerator. It was three hours' drive from Locarno airport to the small, isolated village of Muralto, across vast mountains and deep, dark lakes. Beautiful in the daytime. Completely, cosmically black at night. It wasn't going to be fun.

An hour into the trip, the man asked to stop at a petrol station so he could buy cigarettes. Guy offered him some of his own, but the man told him in so many words they were not the sort of cigarettes he liked to smoke. So they pulled into a Tamoil and bought some Marlboros. Back on the road, Guy attempted a little light conversation about the weather, but was shot down mercilessly in another display of icy silence, so he concentrated on improving his gearstick action and thinking about other, more ambitious courses he should have taken in college.

Some minutes later the man's phone rang, and Guy listened with interest as the man spoke quietly in a cold, brittle New England twang.

"Yeah, I made it."

A pause.

"I'll be in touch."

And he hung up. It was the last event of note for the final two hours of the trip, which dragged on endlessly in freezing cold silence as they climbed higher and higher into the mountains. When they finally entered the tiny, snow-tipped village of Muralto, Guy's ears had popped, and he didn't really care any more, so he straight up asked the man his business in the area.

"I'm here to take care of some pumpkins," came the cryptic reply.

After dropping the man off at his huge, custom-built chalet, and receiving a scolding, less-than-it-should-have-been tip, Guy headed back into the mountains with the TV blaring, wondering what the old man had meant and why he hadn't complained once about the air conditioning.

Alone in his bedroom, the man opened his briefcase and checked everything was in order. He placed an alarm clock on his bedside table, set for 5am Swiss time. It was now almost 2am. He went to the window. Looking out, he could see the Torchland estate far in the distance, its lights extinguished for the night. He closed his curtains, turned out the light, got into bed and lay there in the darkness for the next three hours, wide awake.

Cleaver Monkeys

2004-10-25T14:19:00.000-07:00

Two years had passed, and little had changed in Spike and Miss Doherty's world, except for the twins she had kindly produced, and the buyout of Torchland & Co. by a multinational conglomerate.

Spike climbed a lot of mountains to keep grounded after the checks cashed. He hit the miles hard. Sometimes he took the kids with him. Doherty had named the two girls Sophie and Jo. They couldn't talk yet, but damn they could listen well. Chips off the Torchland block.

Miss Doherty was in the porch, on the phone to her hilarious stockbroker Kevin Lithe, when she saw a car drive up outside and park near her Honda. A tall, wiry man emerged from the car and knocked on the screen door. It was Spike's old boss, the Chief, whose name she never did catch, and he wanted to talk to Spike.

Four hours later Spike was back from the mountains, the kids in tow, listening as the Chief told him about the Burning Pumpkin case. Someone seemed to be making a lot of noise back east, and they wanted Spike to hear all about it.

"It's Coots, Spike."

"Excuse me?"

"Coots, your old partner."

"That old bastard. He's retired, isn't he?"

"You could say that. Or you could say that somebody just retired him. You could say a lot of things."

The Chief had a terrible habit of not just beating around the bush, but sometimes wandering off from the bush altogether.

"Get to the point, Chief."

"He's dead is what I'm getting at Spike, and it wasn't pretty."

"Killing's never pretty", said Spike. "Poor old Coots. Never hurt anybody. Except all those people he killed."

"Yeah. Then he was unbelievably vicious. But most of them deserved it."

Spike nodded, and stirred his mint tea, thinking about all the crazy stuff Coots had done. Headgraters, cleaver monkeys, the whole nine yards. To Coots, it was theatre. He was psychotically inventive with that shit. Spike hadn't been all that fond of him, but they'd ridden the same bumper for five years, and that had to count for something.

"They found some burning pumpkins near his body. We thought that might be meant for you."

Spike put his cup down, and sighed. He knew who it was. He couldn't tell the Chief a goddamn thing, or he'd be next on the list.

After the Chief left, Spike booked the family into a chalet in Switzerland for a year, and hit the road.

Switzerland was in the middle of a heatwave, and Miss Doherty had only brought winter clothes. She went shopping with the kids and bought some t-shirts, slacks, crepe paper and ice cream. They went skiing and mountain climbing and then got tired and went home to their huge chalet and had doughnuts.

Spike never left the house. He was reading up on hypnosis. He had a hunch he was going to need it.

Torchland & Co.

2004-10-14T07:53:00.000-07:00

After they got married, Spike and Miss Doherty decided to go into business together as a crime-fighting duo, a sort of downmarket version of Dempsey and Makepeace.

They placed an advertisement in the local Gazette announcing that the Torchland & Co. detective agency was open and eager for business. Doherty would have liked a little more recognition in the title, seeing as she was a full fifty percent of the team, but had to agree her name lacked a certain zing. So Torchland & Co. it was.

They rented an office high above a stained-glass window shop in Harmley and waited for the phone to ring. They didn't have to wait long. An hour into their first game of Cluedo, a Mrs. Hubblescope placed a call asking them to visit her at her flat in Parsnip Grove, regarding her husband's alleged philandering. Spike put down the receiver and shrieked a shriek of hungry pleasure.

Mrs. Hubblescope was a tiny, terrifying woman. After showing them into her cramped, one-room apartment on the 86th floor of Greystroke House, she informed them that she suspected her husband was having with an affair with an elderly woman from the 34th floor.

"What makes you think he's doing the dirt, Mrs. H?"

"Well he always goes out for groceries late at night, and returns empty handed and exhausted. I also can smell barley water on his breath. Do you need me to draw you a map? He's playing around!"

"We can follow him, check out his movements, monitor his phone calls, anything you want" said Doherty. "Our rates our very reasonable. 100 clams a day plus expenses. "

"The money doesn't matter. I am incredibly wealthy, but choose to live below my means. Harry hasn't two marbles to click together. My father was a relative of St. Paul, you know."

"That's great," said Spike. "He was one of my favourites."

They followed Harry for two weeks, existing only on rusks and oatmeal, during which time they observed Harry visiting the post office, going to the track, buying a lot of expensive presents, and regularly visiting a stooped, elderly woman on the 34th floor who always looked very pleased to see him.

Mrs. Hubblescope was understandably distraught when confronted with the news, and the vivid and unnecessarily explicit photographs.

"I'll never talk to him again. He's broken my heart."

"You're too good for him," said Doherty. "Why don't you sell up and buy a mansion? He can have the crummy 34th floor. "

So that's what she did. Mrs. Hubblescope moved to Monte Carlo and became romantically linked with the elderly father of David Coulthard, the celebrated Grand Prix winner.

Spike and Doherty resumed their game of Cluedo with a renewed sense of accomplishment. Doherty won by correctly guessing that none of the assembled guests were guilty because Professor Plum had faked his own death to claim on some insurance money. Spike laughed a crazy laugh, and poured themselves another round of Moonshine Mysteries.

Real Time

2004-09-30T04:17:00.000-07:00

Spike had a new partner, and he wasn't fucking happy about it.

It was some chick. Some dumbass, mousy-featured thing called Doherty. He was supposed to ride around trying to fight crime in a car smelling of Oil of Ulay and bad perfume? No fucking way.

The chief's door was shut, and he could hear him on the phone, but Spike walked in anyway and sat in one of the empty plastic chairs opposite him, looking unhappy.

The chief was angry, but he was always angry. When he hung up, he looked pretty goddamn furious.

"Not now, Spike. I got eighty four things to do today, and you're not one of them."

"What the fuck am I supposed to do with this chick, Chief? When did she get out of the academy, last week?"

"You drew her. She's yours. Do your job, asshole."

Goddamn chief. Never gives a motherfucking inch.

Five minutes later, Spike gets in the car with Doherty.

"Alright. Let's roll."

She sets off.

"I know you're not happy about this, Spike."

"Just drive the goddamn car."

"But you know, you're living in the past if you think just cos you're a man you're any better than me. So deal with it."

Here we go. This is my life now. At least a year before I can get transferred. Or get out altogether. Open a fucken bakery or something.

"I want to get along with you, Spike. Really."

Spike stared out at all the passing potential criminals, ignoring her.

"By the way, what kind of a name is Torchland?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's a little unusual."

"It's Greek. It means mind your own fucking business."

She sighed, and gripped the wheel a little tighter. He looked at her. She obviously liked him a lot. Maybe they could get married and have babies. Why the fuck not? She was pretty attractive. And he could do with the action. Torchland ain't no monk, you know. But he had been going through a bad patch recently. He needed to impress her.

Their first call was pretty routine, they had break up a domestic, but the second call was interesting. Some dude was holding up the local 7-Eleven armed with a set of steak knives.

"Sweet" said Spike. "Let's take it."

There were lots of people outside the joint, hoping for a bit of random carnage to brighten up the day.

Spike ignored the potential hazards by simply entering the 7-Eleven, shouting at the punk -

"Hey, punk."

- the punk looks around, and Spike just toasts him. Like a piece of bread. He's a fuckin hero. The place goes nuts.

Back in the car, on the way back to the station, Spike is a little happier.

"You did good, Torchland."

"Thanks, Doherty. You too."

"I didn't do anything."

"That's right. You didn't. And I like that."

"You're insane, Spike. In a good way."

"I know, honey. I know."

And they kissed for what seemed like a minute, even though it was more like thirty seconds in real time.

A Sorry Episode

2004-08-03T04:58:00.000-07:00

The phone had been ringing for some time in the spacious, immaculately designed riverside offices of Edgar James Johnston Esq. The silver-haired, self-proclaimed prophet of modern conceptual architecture was himself nowhere to be seen, and the receptionist, a young woman with a serious face hidden behind thick prescription glasses, was finishing her cigarette out on the balcony. She quickly ran back inside to answer it.

- Edgar James Johnson’s, Ellen speaking.

Ellen was a little overqualified for her position, having recently completed her PhD in structural engineering, but she had turned down more prestigious, better paid offers to work there. Her apprenticeship at E.J’s was all part of a carefully conceived master plan, an invisible blueprint of a life she had already mapped out for herself in perfect detail. Like everyone around her, she had arrived hoping that some of E.J’s talent would rub off on her, and even if that meant he bawled her out occasionally, it would be worth it. That, at least, had been the plan. The reality was proving depressingly different.

- Ellen? Give me E.J. And don’t dick me around. I want to talk to him, okay?

The voice was angry, impatient, and American. She recognised it immediately.

- He’s in a meeting at present. Who may I say is calling?

- You know who it is, Ellen. It’s me. Larry. Fox. I’m at the airport. Tell him I’m coming over. That oughta shake him up a bit.

- Hold please.

- That’s right.

Ellen punched a button, took a deep breath, and held it, unsure of what to do next. She had brushed Larry off many times before, but now it seemed things were coming to a head. In a way, it was inevitable. Everyone working there knew that Larry was waiting for designs E.J. was supposed to have finished months ago, and everyone also knew that E.J. hadn’t even started them yet. They were under strict orders to keep silent about the whole affair in the vain hope that it would, miraculously, just go away.

The whispers had spread through the office like wildfire. E.J. was finished. Lost in the throes of an ugly divorce, he hadn’t produced a workable design in months. Privately he told friends he believed his most treasured gift from the great funky Lord, his creativity, to be irrevocably shattered. He had fallen hard into a black funk, and there seemed to be no coming back. Although he still reported for work, he refused to take part in any business, wouldn’t take phone calls, and spent most of his time locked in his office, drinking beer and watching the Discovery channel, reeking of indignant defeat.

And now Larry had had enough. Ellen was already thinking about writing back to some of the companies she had so flippantly disregarded only a few months earlier, as she dialled through to E.J. and nervously waited for him to pick up. After several rings he was at her ear, growling in a voice of leavened granite, bored and irritated.

- Yeah? What’s the problem?

- You might want to take this, E.J. It’s Larry. Fox. I -

- Jesus Christ. Are you out of your mind? Why the hell would I want talk to that bastard?

- He’s at the airport, E.J. He says he’s coming over.

E.J. was silent for a moment, measuring his response to this new piece of information. Again, Ellen held her breath. Now E.J. spoke with an eerie calmness.

- Well what are you waiting for? Put him through.

She couldn’t help herself. With her hand covering the mouthpiece, she listened in on the conversation, fascinated to hear how he was going to get out of this one.

- Larry, she heard E.J. say, with badly affected jollity. So I hear you’re in town.

- Yeah, thought that might get your attention. I’m going to make this very simple, E.J. I’ll be there in one hour. I want my designs, or I want my money back. You hear me, you asshat?

There was a long pause, as E.J. decided the fate of the whole sorry episode.

- Sure thing, Larry. You know how to get here now don’t you?

Ellen had to admire E.J’s bluffing technique. Still razor sharp.

- Yeah, I know.

- Great. See you soon.

Ellen replaced the receiver. A moment later she heard E.J. smash something expensive. Nothing in E.J’s office was cheap.

The internal phone rang, and she picked it up.

- Ellen? Get in here. Now.

Gingerly, she stepped into his office. There was a whiff of sulphur in the air. E.J. was sitting behind his desk, a bunch of empty beer cans before him. For some reason he was wearing a kaftan. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

- Alright. I need some work done and it needs to be done fast. Who have we got? Is Jerome here?

- Jerome quit, E.J, remember?

- Shit. Right. He was dead weight anyway. What about Phil?

- You fired Phil three weeks ago.

- Jesus. I wasn’t serious. Can’t he take a joke? Okay. How about Greggy Mohawk? Nigel Breem?

She shook her head, sadly. She’d liked Nigel Breem.

- Fat Sally?

- She’s suing you for defamation. I’m the only one here today, E.J.

Everyone else has given up on you, she almost said.

- Shit. Right. This requires some thought. Take a seat, will you? You’re making me nervous standing there, hovering. I need to think.

She sat down. He looked at her for a few moments, sizing her up.

- How’s your draughtsmanship, Ellen?

- Pretty good, E.J.

- Okay. Good. That’s a start. What we need to do, Ellen, you and me, is we’ve got to pull the fucking bunny out of the hat here, or we’re in serious, serious trouble. Are you with me?

- I think so, E.J.

- Good. So here’s the deal.

He rifled through his desk, finally finding a pad with some crazed, jumbled drawings which he tentatively pushed before her.

- Larry is expecting me to have designed a house for his ridiculously young new wife. I think her name is Barbara. He has paid me fifty thousand pounds, all of which I have spent on Coronas and painkillers, both of which I am now immune to, the fuckers. All I’ve got to show for it is this. What do you think?

He held up the pad. Drawn in biro was a design for a house that while probably brilliant in design, concept and draughtsmanship, very much resembled the work of a crazed four year old child.

She looked him directly in the eye.

- I think if we don’t come up with something right now, we’re both out of a job.

- Right. Good thinking.

Ellen opened the windows, letting in some badly needed fresh air, found a pen, some fresh paper, and sat down again. This was it, she thought. Her big break. Despite his badly careening mental state, E.J. still remained a well-respected pillar of the community, and now here he was, asking her to collaborate with him on a design. This was what she had been waiting for all her life. Her friends from college would be so jealous.

- It doesn’t have to be perfect. But it has got to look like…something. Something expensive. You may not have noticed, but I’ve been going through kind of a dry patch lately, so I’d appreciate your input. Beer?

- No thanks, E.J.

- Mm.

He cracked a fresh one for himself.

Ellen thought about it, and slowly she began to draw. Elevations. Balconies. Oblongs. Rooms with extended corridors. Anything she could think of. Expansions on her college thesis. Stuff she had noodled with.

Half an hour passed.

Finally she stopped, exhausted, and passed over the paper to him. He took a long, hard look at it.

- Okay, that’s a start. Actually, it’s not bad. You’ve done this before.

Ellen beamed. She had passed the first test.

- Now all we have to do is give it the E.J. touch.

He grabbed a pen and started scribbling. Ellen’s heart fluttered. She was collaborating with the master. This was what it felt like to really be involved.

She risked a look over his shoulder. Her heart stopped fluttering, and began to sink. Her careful design, a version of which she had used for her master’s, was now covered in random lines, arrows, measurements and elevations which didn’t make a lick of sense. She looked up at E.J., who was smiling back at her, ecstatically.

- Well? What do you think?

She had no choice. She lied beautifully.

- It’s great, E.J.

<>- Well, what do you know? We did it! I mean, sure, it’ll need some work, but fuck it, Larry won’t know the difference! The man’s an asshat. I knew we could pull it out of the bag if we put our minds to it.

Ellen nodded, politely excused herself, walked down the corridor to the toilet, and threw up into the cool lavender air.

The doorbell rang five minutes later. Ellen showed Larry into E.J.’s office, and he sank into a sofa opposite the desk. He looked upset. She had managed to get rid of all the beer cans and sprayed the room with an industrial strength disinfectant.

- Smells like a hospital in here, said Larry. Where is he?

- He’s just freshening up.

The toilet flushed and E.J appeared. He was still wearing the kaftan.

- You old bastard, he said. Let me look at you.

Larry remained quiet. Another moment passed. E.J tapped the desk.

- I bet you want to see the designs.

- I paid for em, didn’t I?

- That you did. That you did.

E.J paused and cracked a beer.

- Corona?

- Not before five.

- It’s five o’clock somewhere, Larry.

E.J. downed the bottle in one, and threw it into the waste paper basket. Then he took the designs and passed them over with a regal flourish.

- I hope you like them.

Larry took the pages and looked through them slowly. He made no immediate visible reaction. Ellen tried to focus on the hummingbirds hovering on the television as Larry rifled through the pages.

Finally he sat back. He lit a cigar, and looked at E.J.

- What are you trying to do? Bankrupt me?

E.J didn’t blink.

- What do you mean, Larry?

- It looks fucking expensive. How much is it going to cost?

E.J was immediately effusive.

- I know a guy who knows a guy. He’s just had some legal troubles so he’ll roll over pretty easily. Ellen, get us some Bloody Marys will you? We have to celebrate.

E.J. was back in business.

Five minutes later, on her way to the store for Tabasco sauce which E.J. insisted on being part of the package, Ellen thought about the year of her life she’d wasted. Next time would be different. Next time, she wouldn’t aim so high. Something was sure to come up sometime. Something small, and something unimpressive that she could really underperform in.

And it was at that very moment, as she turned the corner onto Main St, that she drove straight into Barry Jaguar, an unemployed stained glass window cleaner and soon to be ex-employee of Zucchini’s, and broke his leg in three places. It was here the whole tale seemed certain to take an uncertain turn for the weirder.

The Beard

2004-07-03T19:53:00.000-07:00

Barry Jaguar was shaving his beard off. He hacked at his face in broad, jerky strokes. A few cuts opened up, but Barry didn’t seem to flinch.
He’d had the thing for almost five years, and he had no idea what he was going to look like without it. Today, he thought, as he admired his new reflection, was going to be a remarkable day.
“Yvette”, he shouted out, towelling himself off. “Get in here and look at this.”
The beard had always been a bone of contention between Barry and his boss, Mr. Lancaster, the manager of Zucchini’s, a local grease joint that had pretended to be an old-school Italian family restaurant for as long as anyone could remember, even though Mr Lancaster and his kin all hailed from Leitrim.
Mr Lancaster’s private nickname among staff was ‘The Cunt’, and it was well-deserved. Mr Lancaster was an unforgivable bastard of a fellow. He insisted on recycling leftovers, lying about the origin and freshness of his ingredients, and prided himself on buying cheap and overcharging outrageously - “They’re sheep, Barry”, he’d reason, referring to the customers. “Why should I treat them any better?” He tried to fuck all the waitresses and then fired them if they gave him any shit about it. And he hated Barry’s beard. He thought his customers were being put off their food by Barry’s ‘ape-like’ appearance and demanded he shave it off. Barry had refused, so Lancaster docked him fifty percent of his Christmas bonus. Sometimes Barry imagined what he could do to Mr Lancaster with some good lead piping.
Things had come to a head earlier that morning during a heated argument in front of some customers, and now Barry was shaving his beard off in the dank back toilet of the restaurant. But this did not mean Barry was giving in. If he wanted to, he could have quit right then and there in front of everyone, and made a scene, and derived a certain satisfaction from it. But Barry had other ideas. He wanted to wait, and secure a just and reasonable revenge on Mr Lancaster. He had decided to ruin Mr Lancaster’s life, slowly and carefully. Things were going to be different around here and no error.

Yvette slouched into Barry’s toilet from the main office.
She looked him up and down and rubbed her eyes.
“Jesus. You did it.”
“Yup. How’d I look?”
“Um…different.”
“Good different or bad different?”
“I don’t know. Just different.”
There was a moment when neither of them said anything.
For a few precious seconds, Yvette was looking at a new person. Then the old one came back to her and she gulped and was gone again.
Barry looked back in the mirror and splashed on some cheap quid-fifty cologne. He felt good.
He walked back outside, ready to present Mr Lancaster with the new and improved Barry Jaguar, dedicated waiter and employee extraordinaire.
And so it began.

In Cuba They're Still Dancing

2004-06-29T16:05:00.000-07:00

Some years ago I received a postcard from a friend with a picture of an old woman on it. She was sitting in the back of a car with the door open, wearing a pair of dark sunglasses. She looked happy. A title printed above her head proclaimed, "In Cuba They're Still Dancing". I looked on the back of the card but there was no credit for the picture, or details of where it had been taken. Nothing.

My friend, as far as I know, had never been to Cuba. He had sent the card while on holiday in Edinburgh. The old woman in the back of the car was not dancing, but maybe she was from Cuba - she was wearing sunglasses, after all, and the sunlight did look a bit hazy in the background. She might have been watching some fellow Cubans from the cool interior of her car, who were dancing joyously late into the evening. Or maybe it was a political thing - they're still dancing in Cuba, dammit, just you try and stop them! But why the picture of the old woman with the sunglasses to signify this defiance? Why?

I called my friend and asked him what the postcard meant. What was it trying to say? Confused, he made me remind him of the title, and the old woman, which of course he remembered, but on the subject of its meaning he feigned ignorance, saying he simply thought it looked funny, and hung up on me rather quickly. I won't forget that, Barry.

I gave in too, knowing there was so much more to it than I would ever really understand, just like so many other things in fucking life. I put the postcard on my wall, where it stayed for about five years, until it was lost during a hasty move following a furious attack of winged cicadas - an incident which time does not allow me to delve into here (it got ugly). But the phrase haunts me to this day. In Cuba, they're still dancing...and you know what? Just knowing that makes me feel good.

Asshat

2004-06-28T17:53:00.000-07:00

Spike Torchland goes up to reception desk. Puts down bags. Man behind reception desk.

TORCHLAND
Good evening, I was wondering if you had a room available for tonight.

RECEPTIONIST
Well I’m afraid we are pretty much booked up this evening, but let me just have a look. (punches computer) Ah. We do have one room – but it is on the twelfth floor.

TORCHLAND
That’s fine.

The Receptionist looks Spike over, and raises an eyebrow uncertainly.

Rec
Are you sure, sir?

TORCHLAND
Yes.

Rec
It’s just that – I will have to ask you a few questions.

TORCHLAND
That’s fine.

Starts writing on the necessary form.

Rec
Your name, please?

TORCHLAND
Spike Torchland. (laughs) Unusual, I know.

REC
We get all sorts round here, sir. (writes it down)
Age?

TORCHLAND
45.

Rec
Do you or any of your family, have a history of mental disorder? Depression, schizophrenia, anything like that?

TORCHLAND
Hmmm… I don’t really see the relevance of that sort of information, so I’m probably not going to say anything
if that’s alright.

REC (sharply)
Do you want the room or not?

TORCHLAND
Yes I do, I’m a busy man.

REC
So? Yes or no, sir? Regarding the mental illness thing? You may as well come clean sooner or later.

TORCHLAND
Well, no. No illness.

Rec smiles broadly.

Rec
That’s fine. Just one more question, sir, and that’ll be that. Are you intending on taking your own life in our establishment here this evening, Mr Torchland?

TORCHLAND
I beg your pardon? What in Crack’s name sort of question is that?

Rec
I’m sorry sir, it is just routine.

TORCHLAND
Well it’s a fucking unpleasant one if you ask me. Why are you asking me that?

Rec
We do get a bit of that round here sometimes, sir, I’m afraid to say. Middle aged men, usually like yourself. They check in, down the contents of the minibar, and bob’s your uncle, next thing you know we’re peeling them off the road with a spatula. It’s an ugly thing is what I’m saying, sir, and I wouldn’t want to have it on my conscience.

TORCHLAND
Well I can assure you I'm not going to jump out the window. I have a very important meeting in the morning. Now will you please just check me in.

The receptionist pauses, uncertain - then shakes his head.

Rec
I’m sorry sir, I’m afraid I can’t risk it. You’d be my third this month.

TORCHLAND
You silly asshat. Miss! Miss!

Woman worker comes over.

TORCHLAND
Look toots, this lunatic won’t give me my room. He says he thinks I’m going to kill myself!

Rec
Twelfth floor, Edna.

Rec whistles a bomb sound and his finger dives out a window. Edna looks at Spike, obviously agreeing with the Receptionist. She turns to Spike and talks to him gently, like a therapist.

Edna
Are you really sure you should, sir? You wouldn’t try anything silly up there now would you?

Spike pauses, and sighs.

TORCHLAND
Well I have been feeling a bit down lately.

Origins of Crack Jackson LEAKED....

2004-06-28T17:07:00.000-07:00

He won't like this....

Graphics - The Crack Jackson Show. Insane.

Studio, with four guests. Talk show.

Spike to camera.

Spike- Welcome to the Crack Jackson show, I’m your host, Spike Torchland, sitting in tonight for Crack, he’s on retreat in Burma. Tonight’s topic is a dark one – pitch black even. It’s suicide - the silent killer. With me tonight, (close-ups)- the noted animal attorney, Abba Hutchinson, Doctor Amelia Stubbs, who has recently been named chief medical officer of The Cheek and Thigh Clinic in Portumna, Reverend Simon Libido Jr, from the Church
of Fundamental Fundamentalists, and Barry Jaguar, an unemployed stained-glass window cleaner from Lucan.
And to up the stakes of things, one of these four people here actually intends committing suicide in the next couple of days. There’s a prize if anyone can guess who it is.

Applause.

Spike – Abba Hutchinson, I’d like to turn to you first, and ask Reverend Libido Jr, how do the Fundamental Fundamentalists deal with the very serious and sensitive subject of suicide?

Rev- Well the fundamental basis for communication at the church is, of course, fundamental communication. When I council someone who is considering such a heartbreakingly destructive course of action, not only to themselves, but to their loved ones, I try to reassure and convince them of the goodness in the world, the kindness that is present all around us, and the everlasting love and inspirational leadership that the Great Womble gives us. There is goodness in the world, no matter how much the individual’s experience seems to contradict that. There is hope. There is - the Womble.

Spike- Indeed. Amelia Studds. You have had some very painful personal experience of the subject.

Amelia- Well yes I have, Spike, and may I just say that I think it’s Barry Jaguar who’s going to kill himself.

Spike- What do you know, she’s right!

MUSIC, CHEERS, SHE SMILES AND WAVES, CONFETTI FALLS

Spike- Congratulations Amelia, tonight you’re going home with 200 ‘cash’ tokens for goods and services from Armitage Shanks!

Everything turns serious.

Spike- Barry, what has driven you to consider this terrible act?

Barry- Just bored generally, and angry.

Spike- Think of your family, Barry. Imagine what it would do to them.

Barry- Yeah, I know.

Amelia- be strong, barry.

Dr-remember the Womble.

Shouts from the audience – don’t do it barry!

Barry- Look, I’m not really going to do it, Spike just paid me 50 quid to say it.

Spike gets fucking furious.

Spike- You fucking turncoat!

Spike goes mad and beats the living shit out of him live on prime time.

He turns to cameras, spitting blood.

Spike- It’s not so much that you all know we rigged it. That cocksucker broke his word to me!

Kicks him some more, then begins to try and piss on him.

People run in and tear him off. The place goes wild. Spike is led away.

Pan to Reporter, Dan Spink, on the Scene.

Dan- Amazing Scenes here at KBBF studios, it’s absolute pandemonium down there. What do you make of it all - Mum?

Reveal his old MUM, standing with him.

Mum- I think people that want to top themselves deserve getting beaten up. I mean, they should know that life is a shining light that burns all too briefly.
Dan- I love you, Mum.

Burning Pumpkins

2004-06-28T17:03:00.000-07:00

Beware.