If You Only Watch One Horror Film This… Lifetime

Somebody once wrote, ‘Hell is the impossibility of reason.’

– Oliver Stone

The above quote, ironically enough, makes perfect sense, at least in the context of a horror film. Surely horror in its purest, undiluted form would indeed be the projection of the horrific, the monstrous, the irrevocably disturbing with no comprehensible meaning or corresponding logic: it’s what we don’t understand, see, or hear that terrifies us the most.

Forget your cheap jump scares and sustained gore; in 2011, indie director Ben Wheatley brought to us Kill List – in my humble opinion, the most effectively disturbing and important British horror film since Robin Hardy’s classic The Wicker Man (1973).  The aforementioned classic, depicting Edward Woodward’s by the book police officer investigating the report of a missing child in Christopher Lee’s (supposed) sleepy Scottish island of Summerisle, was clearly a huge influence on Wheatley’s film.

There were no showboating visual effects in The Wicker Man, it confidently presented the escalation of creepy events as business as usual, the skewed events seen as absolute normality for the converted residents.

Kill List doesn’t so much go one step further as rewrite the rules. Unlike Wicker, there are scenes of hugely disturbing graphic violence, but these aren’t sustained or even gratuitous. The images don’t so much disgust as slowly sear themselves into your brain for a long time to come.

Deadeyed: Neil Maskell excels as the tortured Jay

 

The premise of the film – the only semblance of narrative and chronology the director and screenwriters allow – follows our protagonist, Jay (a retired soldier still reeling physically and emotionally from a botched mission in Kiev), and his best friend and former fellow soldier, Gal, on a mission to assassinate three targets. To give any more away would spoil the proceedings; needless to say, what transpires escalates to a final act and a final two minutes that will burrow under your skin for days, months, or possibly years to come. A final shot so haunting that you’ll be trying to fill in the blanks forever, and that’s the supreme strength of the film: the best horrors eschew exposition, reason and logic. The most effective horrors leave the answers to those questions scattered throughout the darkest recesses of the human psyche, and believe me, this film with leave you searching and searching.

One scene in particular features Jay watching, against his friend’s desperate protestations, a videotape in a creepy, decrepit warehouse. Jay has evidently seen some unspeakable events during his military tenure, a hard man who is no-nonsense (take one, comically tinged scene where he, in no uncertain terms silences an overzealous party at a neighbouring table at his hotel) and will not hesitate to embark on a frenzy of psychosis, should the situation call for it. We, the viewer, can hear what is transpiring in this appalling ‘film’, but Jay’s horrified, tear-filled reaction ensures the horror of the proceedings are compounded tenfold. The blanks are there, and we’re filling them in.

The cast acquits itself in uniform excellence – Myanna Buring as Jay’s long-suffering (and also former soldier) wife, Michael Smiley as the less volatile Gal, Emma Fryer as Gal’s phantom-eyed girlfriend-with-a-secret and a small but memorable and downright haunting role from Struan Rodger as the hitmen’s softly spoken, nameless client.

Mean business: Struan Rodger, perfectly cast as the hitmen’s inkwell-eyed client

 

 

This is five-star filmmaking without question and I urge all those with a strong constitution and appreciation for the art to give it a watch (it’s currently on Amazon Prime).

Let me know what you think, and…

“Thank You.”

 

 

Reacher #3: Something’s Cookin’

‘WHERE’S REACHER, NORMAN?’

Three simple words, scrawled on a napkin.  It wasn’t what he expected, nor what he wanted.

But it was what he needed.

Norman was frogmarched out of the coffee shop to the Mercedes by the two taciturn men.  The lady followed.  He was carefully placed in the back of the four-by-four.  One man accompanied him, the other ducked into the driver’s side.  The lady slid into the passenger side.  The other two men that had been standing guard entered another four-by-four behind.  The vehicles slowly moved off.

‘So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?  What’s this all got to do with my brother?’

There was no reply.

Norman knew any further questions were an exercise in futility.  This wasn’t a vehicle encouraging discussion.  Let’s see where this takes me, he thought.

After around 45 minutes, the vehicle came to a stop outside a small, secluded building just west of the main highway exit they’d taken earlier.  Norman was led out toward the building’s entrance – a large glass door outlined in chrome.  They approached a front desk in a lobby, of sorts.  The lady approached a uniformed man, presumably local PD, and whispered in his ear.  The man nodded and gestured over to the opposite side of the entrance, where a solitary, empty cell was situated.

Norman heard a loud buzz and the cell door opened.  He was ushered in and the door was closed and electronically locked behind him.  The lady and men left, silently.

‘What, no phone call?’ Norman shouted after them.  There came no reply as the glass door closed behind them as they exited the building.  The man at the desk tapped away at a keyboard, occasionally looking at some files to his right on the desk.

‘Hey, can you get HBO on those monitors?’ Norman asked the man.

Again, no reply.

Norman looked at his watch – 3:15.  All he could do now was wait.

He removed his thin summer jacket and slung it over a horizontal bar that fed through the vertical cell door bars.  Lied down on the surprisingly comfortable bed.

He was awoken by a loud buzz, the same one as earlier.

He blinked several times to regain his focus.  Looked at his watch – 7:22pm.

He saw a man approach the cell, dressed in a light grey suit and black tie.  The man beckoned Norman out of the cell, ‘Follow me, sir,’ he said.

Norman grabbed his jacket and followed the man toward the building’s exit, glancing at the guard at the desk on his way out – he was still tapping away at his keyboard.

Norman followed the man around the corner of the building, the early evening summer sun offering an impossibly beautiful concentration of light on a flawless, shiny 1970 Dodge Charger.

The man gestured to Norman to get in the car.  As he approached, he almost hesitated to touch the door handle, as flawless as it was.

‘You’re moving up in the world, Jack,’ Norman said, smiling.

Reacher said nothing.

Reacher nosed out of the small, sandy parking lot and turned right, back on to the road that’d led Norman here.

‘What are you doing here, Jake?’ Reacher asked.

Joe, Jack and Jake.  The Reacher brothers.  Except Norman never wanted that kind of allegiance; it was alien to him.  He’d idolised his brothers – their strength, accomplishments, but he wasn’t them.  Didn’t bother him, why not be proud of your siblings?  He was Norman, a separate entity but still a Reacher.  He’d not heard from Joe for several years before his murder.  Jack even more so.  Didn’t stop him thinking about both of them every day.

He was Norman Reacher.  And he was very alone.

‘I needed to see you.  How do you find the man who can’t be reached?’

Reacher glanced over, frowned.

Norman continued, ‘I knew you’d be in Chicago.  Leon Garber, your old mentor had been stationed up here, years ago.  He’d done a lot of good and had many friends.  I recalled you attending his funeral around this time.  One of the guests, a friend of Dad’s, emailed me.  Said you looked well.  Said some of his old compatriots met up around this time every year.  Didn’t know where in Chicago though.  The trick was getting to you.  It was a stab in the dark, but all I had to go on.’

Norman pointed to his bow tie.  ‘You walk around dressed like this enough and you get noticed.  More cameras around now than there used to be.  It was only a matter of time before I got recognised.  And found.  Needed to bring you out of hiding.’

Reacher slowed down as he approached a red light.

‘Well, whatever the reason, it’s cost me time and a lot of trouble,’ Reacher replied.  ‘It’s gonna have to wait.  I’m late for an appointment and it’s more important than your game of hide and seek, that’s for damn sure.’

‘Getting involved in another crazy adventure, Jack?’ Norman asked.

Reacher gestured to the back seat of the car.  There lay a light brown folder.  He trusted Norman more than most people in his life.  He wouldn’t humour him with specifics, but didn’t want to lie.  ‘I’m working with a friend in the DEA, he called in a favour.  Just like the one I called in to get you out of that cell, quickly.  He needed some undercover hired muscle at some drug buys.  I need to get back to my motel and change out of this suit.  Can’t show up looking like this.’

‘Anything I can help you with?’ Norman offered.

Reacher said nothing.

The light changed to green and Reacher squeezed down on the Dodge’s gas pedal.  It let out an exhilarating growl.  He took a corner faster than he needed to, but well within the Dodge’s capabilities.  Norman noticed the contents of the folder spill across the length of the back seat as the car screeched through the turn; in particular, a high quality surveillance photograph of a smartly dressed middle-aged man standing next to a younger man dressed in baggy clothing.

There was a name written at the base of the photograph in thick black marker pen.

‘Walter White’

Norman Reacher in Reacher #2: ‘Two’s Company’

Chicago has a population of roughly 2.7 million people.  Norman Reacher was sitting in a coffee shop, containing around one hundred.  Everywhere he looked, there were people: men, women, children, families.  He was surrounded by people, yet he’d never felt so alone.  Every time someone walked past his table, he automatically looked up and attempted to make eye contact.  A simple glance and smile – an acknowledgement – would have helped remedy his ongoing, near terminal feeling of isolation.  He needed to find his brother.

He felt close to his brother, sitting in such an establishment.  He knew how much he liked his coffee, ever since he was a teenager.  This was the closest he was going to get.  How do you find the man who can’t be reached?

The door to the coffee shop opened.  A ray of blinding sun eclipsed the shop’s entrance as a figure emerged.  A smartly dressed lady in her early thirties, dark brunette bobbed hair, slim figure, a dark skirt and blazer covering a crisp, clean, open-necked white blouse.  Norman watched as she reached up to remove her sunglasses.  She scanned the room for a place to sit.  All the tables were taken.  She glanced over in his direction and only then he noticed her eyes.  Big, piercing blue eyes; the kind that could disarm anyone.  Like him.

She shifted her gaze to Norman and proceeded to stride over, confidently.

‘Excuse me, is this seat…’

‘No, please, sit down,’ Norman said, cutting her off before she had time to finish her question.

‘Oh, thank you.  I guess I timed my visit wrong, huh?’  she smiled.

‘Lunchtime rush,’ Norman replied.

The lady took a seat on the cheap but comfortable wooden chair with brown leather cushions.  She removed an expensive looking red handbag from her shoulder and placed it on the floor next to her feet.  Norman couldn’t take his eyes of her the whole time.  It was the most familiar of sights – someone making themselves comfortable on a chair – but the way she moved, looked, smelt, had him absolutely engaged.  Engagement was something he’d not experienced with someone for weeks, months, maybe longer.

The lady looked up and caught the attention of the waitress.  She ordered a turkey sandwich and coffee.  The waitress offered to refill Norman’s mug of coffee.  He had to snap out of his trance in order to accept.

The waitress hurried off amidst the ambient customer chatter and the clinking of dishes and cutlery from the shop kitchen.

‘Lunch hour?’ Norman asked.

‘Yeah, I like to get away from the office and get some fresh air.  I also like to people watch, it’s a guilty pleasure of mine, noseying at people as they walk past,’ she remarked, thoughtfully.

‘I’m just as guilty of that,’ Norman smiled.  ‘You do it long enough, you begin to see things other than people walking, sitting or eating.’

‘Really?’ she asked, genuinely interested in his claim.

‘Sure,’ he replied.

Norman nodded over to the counter area in front of the kitchen.

‘See that kid with the piece of paper, tapping his foot on the floor, biting his nail?’ he asked her.

‘Yeah,’ she replied.

‘I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he’s got a job interview in the next hour.’

‘How do you know?’ she asked.

‘Nobody adjusts their tie every thirty seconds if they’re stopping by for a quick coffee… unless they have a crush on one of the waitresses,’ he said.

The lady laughed, an irresistible giggle that merely increased his resolve to maintain the conversation, and more so, her attention.

‘Old guy, two o’clock,’ he said.

The lady looked over to a man in his early eighties, sitting alone at a table in the corner of the shop.  He nursed a cup of steaming coffee whilst reading a newspaper.  Opposite him was another cup and an orange hat that was perched on the corner of the chair facing him.

‘Go on,’ she offered.

Norman sighed, thoughtfully.  ‘I’d say he lost his wife recently.  They came here a lot.  She bought him that hat and he didn’t like it, but she found it funny.  It made her very happy to see him jokingly wear it about town.  Just for her.  He keeps that memory going, makes him remember how happy he made her.  And how happy she made him.  How he loved the way she didn’t take life too seriously.’

‘That’s so lovely,’ she said.

Norman nodded.  ‘See the steam only coming from his cup?  I’ll bet he has a few coffees and just orders one for her.  Like he always did.  It just sits there, every time he comes here.’

The waitress arrived with the sandwich: two brown baguettes covering turkey, lettuce and mayonnaise.  Looked appetising.  The lady thanked the waitress and she hurried off again.

They sat in silence and watched as the man sipped the coffee, read the newspaper, and occasionally glanced up at the hat and the coffee, misty-eyed, with a knowing, poignant smile.  He touched a thick gold wedding ring each time he glanced.  It was clear to see that he’d loved his wife and refused to let her go so quickly.  Not yet, Norman guessed the man was thinking.  Not yet.

The lady slowly shifted her attention back to Norman.  Took a deep breath and sighed.

‘You ever lose anyone?’ she asked.

On any other day, Norman would not volunteer such information.  This was not any other day.  It was the first time he’d been engaged, and, in turn, engaged another person, in as long as he could remember.

‘Yeah, a brother.  Lost him a few years back,’ he replied.

The lady pursed her lips.  ‘I’m sorry.’

Norman smiled.  Not in his eyes, just his mouth.  That kind of ‘thank you’, acknowledging smile.  Not a real one.

‘You?’ he asked.

The lady glanced down at her sandwich, picked at some lettuce.

‘I’ve been here a few times, but never seen you.  What’s with the bow tie?’ she smiled.

Norman acknowledged the subject change, but chose not to continue his line of enquiry.

‘Hey, it’s different, right?’ he smiled.

The lady chuckled.

There was nothing quite like making a lady laugh, Norman thought.  Especially one to which he was irrevocably attracted.

The lady began to eat her sandwich whilst Norman sipped his coffee.  They both sat in a comfortable silence and looked outside at the crowds as they walked past the window, occasionally blocking out the sun rays beaming on to their table.

Chicago was a vast place, infinite stretches of road snaking around huge skyscrapers.  You’re out there, somewhere, he thought.

The lady finished her sandwich and carefully dabbed each side of her mouth with a napkin.

‘Well, I’m going to have to get back to the grindstone,’ she said.  ‘It’s been really nice speaking to you.’

Norman felt his heart sink as she smiled, thoughtfully, and searched his face with her eyes, awaiting his response.

‘You too,’ he said, barely hiding his disappointment at her impending exit.

She looked at the napkin holder and reached over, smoothly removing one and placing it down in front of her.  She leaned down to her handbag and removed an expensive looking gold-plated ball point pen.  She began to write.

Norman felt a surge of adrenaline as she began to scrawl on the white napkin.  His heart-rate increased.  She clicked the pen, turned the napkin around and slid it across the table.  She was no longer smiling.  Now, she was looking at him, dead-eyed.  This was no longer the lady that had walked in earlier, this was a chameleon.

Norman slowly read the smudged blue lettering.  He felt a huge icy wave of anxiety wash over him.  He froze.

He looked across the table as the lady carefully gripped the left lapel of her blazer and pulled it open, marginally, revealing a gun holster.  Whatever gun she was carrying, Norman thought, it sure as hell wasn’t standard government issue.  He was no expert, but that much he did know.

Outside, almost simultaneously, an impeccable black Mercedes four-by-four screeched to a halt on the sidewalk adjacent to their table.  He saw four heavy-set men, all dressed in black, methodically pace out of the vehicle in unison.  Two bounded over and stood either side of the shop’s entrance, the other two unhurriedly entered the shop and paced over to Norman’s table, each one glaring directly at him.  Nobody else.  Him.

Norman could talk his way out of most situations.

Not today…

Introducing the hitherto unknown younger brother, Norman Reacher, in his first story – Don’t Judge A Book.

‘A nerd walks into a bar…’  No, this wasn’t the start of a joke, though there would be a punchline, and it’d be pretty damn good.

Norman had been at the bar for a couple of hours now.  He wasn’t one for alcohol, never had the taste for it.  It lost him an edge, an edge he would demonstrate tonight, and shortly.

‘Hey, nice bow tie,’ said the blond girl to his right, reaching over and smoothing her thumb and forefinger across it.  Norman was taken aback, her silent approach temporarily disarming his composure.  The hybrid of vodka and perfume was improbably alluring.  ‘That 212?’ Norman asked.  ‘Oh, and what a sharp little nose you have,’ she said, smiling.  She glanced to her left, her smile dropped, she made her excuses and walked off, slightly unbalanced in her stride.

Norman felt three pairs of eyes on him, burning a hole through his tweed jacket.  He was leaving after this final sip of club soda and he wouldn’t be alone.  He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar note, placed it on the bar and slid off the polished silver stool.

In any other walk of life, a 148lb, 5″ 9 man, dressed like the judge of a spelling bee, inadvertently antagonising three stocky knuckleheads wasn’t going to have a pleasant solitary walk home.  But there was one thing he shared with his brothers – it sure as hell wasn’t an aptitude for military abilities – but was something equally as effective for the forthcoming scenario – simple, acute observation.  It had served him well in the past and it would serve him well tonight.

Norman buttoned up his jacket and made his way through the narrow central walkway toward the bar’s exit.  Over the soft rock music in the background he heard several seats shuffle and squeak behind him.  This was no surprise.  He made it to the exit, entering an adequate parking lot and slowed his pace in anticipation.

‘Hey, nerd!’ came the raucous growl behind him.  Norman stopped and turned, slowly.  Pointed to his chest, quizzically.  ‘Yeah, fuckin’ you,’ the man said.  Norman gently paced over to the three men as two women, one the blond girl from earlier, emerged, made their way to the side of the bar entrance and leaned against the bonnet of a dusty grey pickup truck.  Both sparked up cigarettes and vaguely watched as the drama unfolded.

‘What you think you’re playin’ at, flirting with my girl, nerd?’

The two other men, mid to late twenties, stood behind, eyes fixed on Norman.

‘I was just having a conversation with her, about her perfume.  It’s called 212.  It’d really suit you, too.  I love what you’ve done with that t-shirt, by the way.  Kind of half tucked in, but not.’

‘Oh, a wise guy huh?  You wanna piece of me?’

‘You’re not my type,’ Norman replied.  The two girls cracked up, howling with laughter.  The blond girl dropped her cigarette and doubled over.

‘What makes you think you’re gonna walk away from here without all three of us kicking your ass?’ He growled.

‘I can give you four reasons, Rambo,’ Norman said.

The man raised his arms.  ‘I’m listening, faggot.’

Norman smiled.  ‘Reason one: your boy to your left there?  Earlier, he spent an eternity looking at the beer signs at the bar with his nose practically pressed against each one.  Either he’s wasted, or his eyesight is shot to shit; and given the fact I don’t feel any rain, he must have a grey cloud above his crotch, because he’s got more leaks than a torpedoed submarine.  My guess is he couldn’t piss on to the side of a warehouse right now.  If I stood back two more metres, he wouldn’t know which one of me to hit.’

The drunken man stumbled back, glanced at his crotch then back at the men.

‘Reason two: your boy to the right has been twitching like a heroin addict on payday.  He’s never had a fight in his life.  A little drunken confidence when he’s standing behind you, for sure, but get him in a sticky situation, and he’s out like a rocket.  Which brings me to reason three,’ Norman turned to the girls.  ‘And you’re gonna love this one, folks.  When you were at the bar before and reached over to pick up that pitcher of beer, you looked like a four-year-old lifting a giant watering can.  Given your build and t-shirt, I guess the football career didn’t work out after the injury?’

The man looked back, stifled.  As always, Norman had made him.

‘So I’m willing to bet that if you swing for me – with the same hand, as you are right-handed – it’ll be as slow and clunky as your way with words.  I’d just need to step to the side, put a little pressure on that shoulder with my elbow and you’d be in more pain than you can imagine. Oh, and here’s reason four – I don’t think your father would care much for trouble in his bar when it’s this dead on a Friday night.  I guess he needs the business.’

The man scowled, anxiously. ‘How the fu-‘

‘How did I know it was your father’s bar?’  Norman gestured to the worn brass plaque above the bar’s entrance. ‘There can’t be that many Zeterhoffers in a dive bar in Chicago, and you should really conceal your work ID pass when you’re off duty.’

The man looked at his pass and back at Norman.

‘You got a real smart mouth, don’t you?  You ain’t worth the bother.  Don’t let me catch you around here again, Sherlock.’

The men walked back into the bar, stumbling as they went.  One of the girls followed, chuckling to herself.  The blond girl walked over to Norman and raised her head a little. ‘Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy settle a fight with his mouth before.  Good going.’

Norman said nothing.

‘What brings you to Chicago?’ she asked.

‘I’m looking for someone,’ said Norman.

‘Well, I hope to see you around.  For a guy who looks like an antique dealer, you’re quite impressive.’

Norman smiled, leaned in to her.

‘Think I’m impressive?’ He asked.

‘You don’t know Jack…’

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED.

Not Fond Of Video Games? Read On, If You Dare…

Okay, it’s about a video game, but imagine this: no guns, no grenades, no bat, no sword, no magic.  Imagine being trapped in an insane asylum with unspeakably, unsightly hideous beasts with the following for your protection:

1 notepad;

1 high definition video camera with night vision function.

Yes, you’re basically fucked.

The game is called Outlast.  You play an over-earnest investigative journalist who’s clearly out of his depth, yet still decides to trawl through the murky past of a (thought to be) long since abandoned insane asylum.  All the basic facets of the video game are stripped to the absolute bare minimum, no salvation or help, and here, you’re unequivocally the hunted.  No sense of power or predatory entitlement  in this undeniably rare yet refreshingly welcome video game scenario.  You can walk, run, look, climb and use the night-vision to see through the pitch black darkness; and even that marginally tactical advantage isn’t inexhaustible, there’s only a small smattering of batteries darted around the place.  You’d better stock up, too, or you’ll last roughly as long as a film executive pitching a big budget, warm-hearted Jimmy Savile biopic.

Allow me to elaborate.

You’re edging down a tight corridor, the visibility is down to zero, you click your video camera’s night vision on, with a high pitched digital squeal.  You’re suddenly confronted by a hulking demon, eyes burning through the darkness right at you.  Your character’s breath, your breath, becomes audible, fast and heavy all in one horrific moment.  You turn and run into a nearby room, slamming and barely bolting the door shut in terror.  You pause, your heart beating through your chest like a small metal pipe trying to ram through your rib cage.  Silence.  Then the silence is shattered by the horrific hybrid smash of flesh on wood.  CRACK…CRACK…CRACK…

Amidst your panic, you spot a bed in the corner of the room, darting over and sliding under it.

CRRRRAAAAAACK!

With the door now smashed through, the unhinged hulking maniac is in the room with you, his demonic, sadistic grunts competing with your now overwhelmingly terrified, barely suppressed gasps for breath and a heartbeat that sounds like an overly loud, malfunctioning drum machine.  Make no mistake, your heart is doing the same.

With a trembling hand, you slowly move the video camera up to your sweating, terror-stricken face.  The beeeeeeeeeeeeep of the night vision clicks on.  You can see the beast in the room.  Can he see you?  The thump of his footsteps vibrate the room, shaking your camera’s grainy, bright green screen display.

Thump…thump…thump…

He lets out one last unbearable growl then stomps out into the darkness from whence he came.

And this is just the beginning.

This isn’t a video game so much as an experience in fear.  A note-perfect lesson in basic, primal terror.  You can run, you can occasionally hide, you can see; but if he sees you first, prepare to have the last thing you see be a pair of bright green piercing eyes glaring malevolently into your soul as a fist the size of your head punches through your chest, tears your heart out, then throws your corpse to the floor like the lifeless piece of meat you’ve just become.

Welcome to Outlast.

Sleep well…

The Shawshank Redemption – A Different Story For Brooks

Dear fellas, I can’t believe how fast things move on the outside. I saw an automobile once when I was a kid, but now they’re everywhere. The world went and got itself in a big damn hurry. The parole board got me into this halfway house called “The Brewer” and a job bagging groceries at the Foodway. It’s hard work and I try to keep up, but my hands hurt most of the time. I don’t think the store manager likes me very much.  At first, I had trouble sleepin’ at night. I had bad dreams like I was falling. I woke up scared. Sometimes it took me a while to remember where I was.  I was tired of being afraid all the time.

An old lady came into the store a while back.  Iris. A frail old thing.  Said I reminded her of her husband, Arthur.  Said we both had eyes like moonstones. She was the first person to look at me on the outside like I was a human being.  A man with a past outside of home.  Outside of Shawshank.

She came into the store every Wednesday and we got to know each other kinda well.  Didn’t bother her, my prison time.  Said we all do wrong things.  Said we all pay for it somehow.  She’d always stroll up to my till, every Wednesday, wouldn’t let anyone else pack her bags; even though I was slower than a turtle.  These damn old hands. 

I plucked up the courage to ask her for some coffee and pie after my shift one day.  We sat and smiled and talked.  She had to go to the rest room.  I stood up as she walked off.  The sun shone through the window next to our table.  I looked up, and there was a crow, right there on the ledge.  Tapped on the window with his beak and squawked at me.  Clear as day I saw him.  The sun shining through his feathers.  ‘I’ll be,’ I thought.  That sure as heck looks like old Jake.  He flew off and that was the last I saw of him. 

I guess some friends do come back.

Even for an old crook like me.

I’ll be sein’ ya, fellas.  You take care and keep an eye on those books.  Don’t you be forgetting old Brooksy.

Easy peasy Japanesey.

Your friend,

Brooks.

P.S. No more dreams of falling. Now I dream I’m flying.  Flying just like old Jake.  Flying over Shawshank. Seeing you all playing baseball and checkers.  No more bad dreams.  No more being afraid.

I guess an old dame and a crow can make a man feel happy again.

 

Going Postal… At Formby Post Office.

Auditions for the new Batman film weren’t up to much

I’m a pacifist.  I never lose my temper with people or raise my voice to them.  I raise my voice and lose my temper with inanimate objects, but that’s another story.  Even on Saturday, I maintained a wholly cool demeanour of which Jack Reacher himself would be proud.  Scenario, thus:

Post Office, Saturday morning.  Yes, there were a few old people in attendance, but that’s by the by for such an establishment.  Otherwise, there was quite a reasonably skewed demographic of Lancashire folk filed up to the entrance all going about their business.  There was a curious incident concerning the lady in front of me.  If it wasn’t for her odd omission, I could have been served one person quicker.  We queued for around five to ten minutes, and when she approached the counter, she asked for a passport photo.  The thing was, she’d walked passed the passport photo booth that was right next to the entrance.  As she walked in.  Signposted – PASSPORT PHOTOS.

After she embarked on a short walk of shame, it was my turn to party, conversation thus:

Me: “Hello, I’d like another twelve months on my tax disc, please.”

*Assistant thoughtfully rifles through my documents*

Assistant: “Oh, I’m sorry, you can’t use this insurance certificate as it runs out before the tax disc starts.”

Me *Grinding my teeth*: “Ah, right, I see.  I’ll have to get my new certificate then.  Thanks, goodbye.”

That is what actually happened, although at the time, my barely contained frustration in the knowledge I’d have to return and queue up all over again made me yearn for this alternate scenario to play out:

Of course, I wouldn’t actually ram through the front of the building with a (fully insured) vehicle.

Not being one to quit easily, I returned home and printed out my latest certificate of insurance.  Then returned.  Then queued up.  Again.

When I approached the counter, it was the same lady that had served me on the previous attempt.

“Back again,” I smiled.  She replied with a polite smile, one that implied, “I’ve no idea who you are, I don’t recognise you, but I’m just going to smile and deal with another human.”

I experienced a feeling of dread as she, again, thoughtfully sifted through my documents.  But everything went fine.  As she proceeded with my disc, the gentleman adjacent was called into some curtained booth in front of the counter to the far left.  There was a space-age scanner of sorts with some buttons dotted here and there.   I’m still clueless as to its purpose.  Maybe it’s a recharge station for pensioners’ hearing aids.  Or Terminators.

I may never know.

Until then…

I’ll be back…

A Christmas Message From The Joker

Hello, people of cyberspace.  How does the impending Christmas season find you?  Huh?  Are ya… are ya happy?  Excited, perhaps?  Why?  Y’see… that’s what I’ve never really understood about people.  People like me, a… guy like me, as you’ll probably guess, doesn’t attend mass on a Sunday.  They’d never let me in with this suit, hahahahahaha.

I digress.

Christmas.  What are you all… what are you all… celebrating?  I… I don’t get it.   Nope.  Not at all.

Atheists – they celebrate Christmas, right?  They’re celebrating, in essence, the birth of a guy, born two thousand and twelve years ago.  That they may or may not believe existed.  God doesn’t though, right?  Agnostics – maybe they celebrate the possibility of this guy being born and whatever.  Or, are you not celebrating it at all?  What is ‘Christmas’, anyway?  It’s a bunch of people dancing around to the musical equivalent of having people stand either side of you, pushing a rancid sponge into each ear with a sharp pencil.  It’s about braving the elements on a high street, negotiating a slalom of carol singers, musicians, vendors; a whirlwind of impatience and greed amongst the masses for gifts that have to be bought and given on this oh so special day.  We sit around a table wearing silly little paper hats, ostensibly for fun, but really mimicking Three Wise Men who may or may not have bought gifts for this guy who may or may not have existed. *Lets off party popper*

Jesus.

And people say I’m crazy…

“Peace and goodwill to all men” – now, for the warm-hearted of you, shouldn’t that be… every day?  Not seasonal?  It’s a slogan, a sentimental seasonal slogan.  People should be nice all the time, right?  Right?  “Oh, hi… you.  Yeaaahhh, I haven’t seen you in 364 days.  It’s Christmas, so let’s have an uncomfortable thirty-second exchange where we pretend to like each other.”  Now that, dear people, is honesty.  Good ooooooooollllllll’ honesty.  Let’s not delude ourselves any longer.  Okay?  Forced.  Forced.  It’s all forced.

I have a proposal.  How about we turn Christmas on its head?  Roll the dice and see if we can get a couple of sevens?

Now, heh heh heh heh heh, the plan.  It’s simple.  Christmas is all about giving, right?  NOT receiving.  So, on 24th December, everybody go to the store and give.  Everything you have.  From toothpaste to life savings.  From iPads to house deeds.  Give.  Give, give, give.  Let’s set the counter back to zero.  Let’s see how the spirit of Christmas tides us over then.  All the goodwill.  All the laughter.  How will we function without any of our possessions on which we place such precious emphasis?  I reaaaalllllly want this for Christmas.  If I had a girlfriend, hahaha, I’d buy her her favourite perfume not to coincide with the inception of a deity.  I’d buy it because, awwwwwwwww, I hadn’t seen her since that morning.  Nothing exceeds like spontaneity.  Spontaneity, not deity.  Hahahaha, ya… y’see what I did there?  Heh heh heh.

I know, I know what you’re thinking: ‘What about the kids, Joker?  Won’t they be upset?’

But I thought Christmas was not about receiving?

Or is it just me?

So put your Santa hats where your mouths are and let’s get ready to rumble.

And If there is a God… whatever the Devil that is… don’t worry.

He’ll take care of us.

That’s what he does.

Right?

Fifty Shades of… Eh? My Take on Skyfall. James Bond. Played by Me.

[A bar in Monte Carlo. Many well-to-do businessmen and women populate an opulent hotel bar adorned with paintings and golden statues.]

Bond: Vodka Martini, shaken, not stirred.

Barman: Very well, sir.

[Bond shoots a discreet glance to his left and spots his mark at the opposite end of the bar, surrounded by attractive, scantily clad ladies.  The man gets up to leave as the barman returns with Bond’s drink.]

Barman: Will that be all, sir?

Bond: For now. [Downs drink] Excuse me.  I’ve got time to kill.

[The barman nods approvingly as Bond follows his mark to the lift at the lobby of the hotel.  Bond and the mark enter the lift, alone. They ride in silence until the lift emits a soft tone as it reaches the seventh floor.  The man exits, as does Bond, following him down a seemingly endless corridor roughly ten paces behind, covertly undoing his gun holster.  As the man enters his room,  Bond begins to sprint towards the door and in one swift motion, kicks it open and pushes the man to the floor, pulling out his gun as he kicks the door shut behind him.]

Bond: Mark Lomax?

Lomax: [Stunned] Yes.  Who the hell are you?  What do you want?

Bond: That’s not your worry.  [Bond squeezes the trigger of his silenced Walther PPK, the bullet cleanly penetrating Lomax’s forehead and exiting in a spray of red on the brilliant white carpet.]

[Bond calmly walks to the man’s corpse, crouches over it and reaches into the inside pocket of a clearly expensive Hugo Boss suit.  He pulls out Lomax’s wallet and opens it to reveal a small piece of card.  Bond takes the card and notes it is inscribed with the numbers 761923.  Bond slips the card into his tuxedo inner pocket and exits the room, placing a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door’s gleaming gold handle.  He then makes his way downstairs and reclaims his former spot at the bar.]

Barman: Hello again sir.  Back so soon?

Bond:  I just had to shoot upstairs.

Barman: The same again, sir?

Bond: Yes, thank you.

[As the barman strides away purposefully to prepare Bond’s drink, a staggeringly attractive woman approaches Bond from his right.  She is dressed in an impeccably well-fitting white dress, tanned and sporting bobbed, dyed bright red hair.  Bond can see her reflection in the mirror, but doesn’t allow his glance to linger and looks away, staring at the spot in front of him.]

Woman: [Perching on the stool next to Bond] All alone?

[At this stage, Bond begins to blush uncontrollably and, smiling nervously, just barely manages to turn in the woman’s direction, making cursory eye contact.]

Bond:  Sorry?

Woman:  A handsome man like you all alone?  We’ll have to do something about this, won’t we?

[Despite the totally disarming effect the woman’s confidence has on him, Bond manages to maintain eye contact with her long enough to drink in her beautiful, expansive pale blue eyes.  Causing him to blush even harder.]

Bond: [Now laughing nervously] Oh… um… right.  I see.  Haha.

Woman:  My name is Selina Black.  [She hands Bond a card]  Here is my room number.  Come and see me in fifteen minutes.  I think you need a little… ‘release’.

[Bond reaches out for the card with a trembling hand and barely manages to keep a grip on it as he places the card in his breast pocket.]

Bond: Oh… er… thank you.

[Selina smooths a manicured nail under Bond’s chin then confidently strides off to the lift.  The barman returns with his drink.]

Bond: [Noting the barman’s name on a silver name tag standing out noticeably on a uniform consisting of black trousers and waistcoat with a white cotton shirt] Francois?

Francois: Yes, sir?

Bond:  Um… you know that lady that was just speaking to me?

Francois: [Eyes instantly lighting up] Oh, oui monsieur.  Very attractive lady.  I did, yes.

Bond:  Um… well [coughs] she just asked me to meet her in her room in fifteen minutes.

Francois:  Oh, tres bien sir.  You are very fortunate, no?

Bond: [Looking absolutely blank] What do you mean?

Francois: Well sir, I anticipate that the lady does not want you to go to her room to play Scrabble, non? [Laughs]

Bond: You mean, you think she wants to… kiss me, or something?

[Francois cackles uncontrollably until he registers Bond’s fixed blank, clueless expression.  The cackle descends gradually from laughter, to a giggle, to silence, to a look of unmistakeable puzzlement.]

Bond:  So what the hell am I supposed to do?  Oh God.  Francois, get me five more vodka Martinis.  There’s no way I can go up there sober.  She’s gorgeous!  Oh God.  Excuse me a second.

[Bond dashes across the room towards the gents’ rest rooms, tripping over a yapping chihuahua on the way and bursts into a cubicle, scarcely able to get his trousers off in time.  Washing his hands afterwards in the marble sink complemented by striking gold taps, he looks into the mirror.]

Bond:  Come, on 007 – you can DO this!  What are you worried about?  You’re an ice-cold government agent.  And you’ve got a really cool watch!  It opens safes and lasers things and everything!

[Bond returns to the bar, and without acknowledging Francois, he slams three of the five drinks prepared for him.  He then makes his way towards the lift]

Francois: Bon voyage, monsieur!

[Bond lifts up a hand as he staggers away towards the lift.  As he enters, he removes the card and notes the room number: 817.  Pressing the button for the eighth floor, his nerves are now uncontrollable and his heart is beating very fast and very hard.]

Bond: [Taking deep breaths] The incey wincey spider climbed up the water spout.  Down came the rain and washed the spider out.  Out came the sun and dried up all the rain.  And the incey wincey spider climbed up again.  [Bond straightens his lapels then adjusts his silver cufflinks]  Okay, I’m ready.

[The lift doors open and Bond exits, gingerly making his way to Selina’s room.  He arrives and lightly knocks on the door]

To be continued!

Have a Drink, Max. On the House.

“Same again, Max?”

The question was as redundant as it was expected. If Sam, the bartender, had asked once, he’d asked five times in the last hour. I’d sure become that predictable. A cursory nod in place of a gruff “yes” proposed a welcome alternative, ensuring my chain-smoking wasn’t affected. I was well-stocked with cigarettes, and wasn’t going anywhere.

‘Connected’ by Stereo MCs piped out of the well-worn speakers in the dive bar I’d been existing in for the past week. The irony of the song’s title wasn’t wasted on me. The only thing I’d connected with in the past five years was a glass bottle or a large tumbler. A connection to reality got as far as playing Pong in my head, without a ball. A connection to anything else was looking unlikely, each day more than the last. I was in my own dreary-eyed bubble, and nobody was bursting it any time soon.

I was almost knocked out of my stupor by the sudden accompaniment of a woman gingerly placing herself on the stool immediately beside me. Her perfume overwhelming but pleasing amidst the pungent cloud of smoke and stench of stale beer. I didn’t move my head – such an action would lose my battle to focus on the reflection directly ahead in the large mirror dominating a clean, varnished bar. What gazed back was a shell of a man: all seven-day shadow, crumpled, dark brown leather jacket and grimace. I was Columbo meets Keith Richards, and this Stone wasn’t so much rolling as falling, gathering momentum, tumbling down a chasm, yet to reach terminal velocity, long-since reaching a tragic terminal boredom. That, I guess, I could connect to.

“Same again, Max?”, a voice enquired. Either Sam had just had a pretty hasty sex change, or the woman next to me had offered me a drink, and not only knew my name, but what I wanted. And by the patronising tone of her voice, maybe even why.

“Sure”, I replied, my gaze still struggling on one of the images in front. One… three… two… there were a few Maxes staring back at me. Another whisky wasn’t going to change this. She gestured toward Sam, then me, the whole exchange wordless and effortless.

“What keeps you alive, Max?”, she asked. Now my suspicion had become too much and I had to turn to her. A few blinks and I was able to muster some sort of focus. She was in her late fifties, dressed impeccably in a jet black dress and matching gloves. “How do you know me?”, I growled. “We all know you, Max”, she responded. This time, her tone was deadly serious.

“I’ve been following your exploits for quite some time now, Mr. Payne”. She gestured, the same way she did for the drink, to her chest. Then began to slowly tap her finger. I turned my gaze to my chest and scattering nervously was a little red dot. I’d seen enough laser sights in my years on the force to gather this wasn’t some trinket you pulled out of a Christmas cracker. This was the real deal. Instinctively, I squinted and scanned across the line of the beam. It ended at an inconspicuous man leaning against the fire exit at the end of the bar, a long black trench coat draped over his right arm.

Forget black coffee, there’s something about a gun pointing at you that starts to sober you up. Real quick…