mostly blood and bones and pain

diary of a professional antagonist

Monthly Archives: September 2011

Sunset of My Youth

So, at the moment, I’m going through what people keep telling me is a mid-life crisis. Apparently trying to have a good time when you’re a man of a certain age means you’re totally fucked in the head – I wasn’t aware of this. Admittedly my behavior has been a tad off. I’ve been hanging in bars I used to frequent during my college days, I found an ex-favorite pair of jeans and an old-school beanie I had forgotten and I’ve been grooming my stubble into a neat little design – add my Oxford cut coat to the mix and I think I look pretty damn good. So did the little honey I took out last week, well, that is until the generation gap made itself known.

I met her in a downtown cafe after the lunch bunch had rushed back to their nine-to-fives. The only two people in the place. Me, sporting the aforementioned, sipping on a type of coffee I never heard of before, reading Don Quixote. She, tank top, jeans so tight they must have been sold with a body laminator, and high heels, damn. I was desperately willing my gearstick to stay in neutral as I stole the occasional glance but my tongue was paralyzed, until she spoke…

“Hey, there. What’cha readin’?”

“Oh, hi. Don Quixote. ‘Read it?”

“No. ‘On my wishlist.”

“Here. Have mine. I’m re-reading – ‘my favorite book.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“You can. You must. I insist.”

“Thanks! So, what kind of a guy gets to sit in coffee shops reading his favorite books mid-afternoon on a Monday?”

“A writer. ‘Name’s Chukkas.”

Carla, with a K. Chukkas? I like that. What do you write, Chukkas?”

“Screenplays, mostly.”

“Oh, cool. Anything I’d know?”

“Not unless you tune into the high numbers.”

“Still, that’s awesome. I’m a philosophy major.”

“Deep thinker, eh? A lady worth getting to know.”

“Pff, I don’t know about that.”

“I can tell, I sit here a lot, character profiling, and you’re the first person in a long while I didn’t feel the need to invent a life for. You look like you’ve got things to say, like making a wider contribution is a fundamental right, a purpose, and not just something you hope for in your life.”

“Jeez! Thanks, man.’Glad I talked to you today.”

“Anyway, my book has a new keeper, my Chi-whatever-the-fuck-it-is is cold and I’ve a deadline to meet.”

“Aw, really? Just like that you’re leaving?”

“Gotta, but we should catch a movie or something sometime.”

“Yeah, that’d be cool.”

“OK, then, here’s my card.”

“Uhm, one sec, let me just scribble down my number.”

“Cool. Thanks. I’ll call you.”

“Sure. See you, Chukkas.”

I couldn’t fucking believe how well it’d gone, corny line aside I didn’t want to bury myself in a hole in perpetual descent to the center of the earth. She was smoking hot and I bailed before I had to, but also before a stream of bullshit exposing me as a sperm loaded dirty-bomb counted down and unloaded in her ears. I figured that there were at least fifteen years between us, that was me being most generous to myself, the reality was probably closer to eighteen but fuck it, this warranted the first purchase of boxers since two years ago and my dick was more excited than a T-Rex on sighting a nice, big, fat, blind, three legged buffalo on an open range.

This night last week was one week later. I had to hold off long enough to pretend that I actually had a deadline to meet and that once that was done with, a date with her was top priority and the best reward I could ask for after all my hard work. In truth I’d spent the week trying to build up some stamina, practicing on porn, congratulating myself to the point of mania then icing my balls close to the point of frostbite. She looked so screamingly hot, wedges, skin groping skirt and top, body tighter than a sniper rifle – I was sweating so much I was afraid she’d look down and think I’d pissed myself. I chose some boring looking, art house, Eurotrash shit in hope that it’d impress her and score me a few intellectual points and basically allow her to see me as a good guy – a good guy whose penis was worth getting to know.

Aside from an old, scowling couple who HAD to sit in the same row a few seats away we had the cinema to ourselves. About half way through the movie I couldn’t take the sight of those crossed legs and the rhythmic movement of her upper body any longer and did something to a twenty-something I hadn’t done for a long time – I made a move. The fact that she responded favorably made me wonder if I was really so deeply embedded in fantasy that in reality I was a drooling, slobbering cretin thrown in the corner of some hospital for the deranged and daft-as-fuck. Well, I thought, until I come to I’m going to see where this goes – please don’t be a dream, please don’t let me wake up when I’m this close to second base.

I didn’t, and as my balls swelled and begged for release I suggested we move back a few rows and make good use of the bright of the projector light and allow our actions all but vanish in the darkness below. She gave it a thought then agreed, on one condition – I had to wear a rubber. Fuck. Back in my day people just went for it, but with all the god-damn shit you can catch just by looking at someone’s crotch these days she was insistent on it. Here’s where my sad, middle aged life began to reveal itself. I’d never used a rubber before and as I wandered out of the auditorium toward the restroom where she assured me I could find one, panic began to set in. The success or failure of this event would determine my confidence to engage with the youth of the nation for the rest of my life. All I could think was, if this doesn’t work out I’ll be stuck with loose-skinned clap traps, just like the one slouched next to that mean looking old fucker sitting two seats away from Karla for the rest of my life.

I have to admit, in the restroom I was actually embarrassed as my dollars disappeared into the vending machine. There was something humiliating about it, buying rubbers in a cinema toilet seemed like something a kid would do because they couldn’t muster the nerve to buy over the counter. It didn’t help when two fifteen year olds disturbed me and laughed at catching me in the act. In the dying light as I re-entered the auditorium I thought the expiry date looked past. I soon forgot when I noticed that the old couple were necking, now alone, and Karla was in the back row, barely visible beneath the glare of the projector light. I hopped in next to her and the party was officially kicking off.

It was getting hot. Crazy hot. I was dehydrating faster than any human ever had, steam was rising from me as I tried to put my stamina work into effect and savor the event, then came the time to embrace the modern world. The bastard rubber couldn’t have been drier and the forced removal of hair from my nether regions didn’t help my confidence. Karla was getting frustrated at the delay. In a flurry I finally managed it. Comfort wasn’t on the agenda and I felt that part of me was being strangled to the point of asphyxiation. Bad enough as I felt, disaster then presented itself.

I straightened up a little to make my approach and bridge that generation gap in the most spectacular way, then suddenly saw a flash of white light, stars, and heard a smack that echoed through the room followed by the sound of my own vocal chords emitting a scream that hadn’t been heard in my family since neanderthal times. The rubber had exploded and was now flayed and hanging from my cock, looking like a back fired acme gun that Wile E Coyote had attempted to shoot. As it split it gave my balls the ultimate lashing and long after Karla had abandoned the auditorium I hobbled down the aisle and knew that it was time to hang up the beanie and buy a pair of New Balance.

I’m happy to report that I’m slowly getting back to myself now. I tried calling Karla but the number has been disconnected. I wandered down to the coffee shop earlier, ordered a good old-fashioned, all American coffee and read the sports pages in hope that she might wander in – alas, no. Once the swelling goes down I figure I’ll hit up some of the bars that cater to men of my age and while I’m emptying the frustration of another humiliation into some aging body, which’ll probably be older and hopefully more desperate than me, I’ll think of Karla and imagine myself her Don Quixote, riding off into the sad sunset of my youth.

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Shite Night in a Ghost House

Research is something I don’t take too seriously, especially when writing a horror script which involves a bunch of sadist ghosts out for revenge from the cruel spirits that crushed and stole their young lives. I’ll admit now that this was a low point in my writing career, a necessary evil in order to get in good with a director on the rise who in all honesty was a hack that somehow managed to get financed without problem on every daft idea his colon conjured up. So, I took the offer of knocking out a quick draft which came with the clause of spending a ‘night in a seriously creepy old house in the country’… this was supposed to help me get in the right frame of mind and draw on the energies betwixt the four walls, instead of making me feel like I was in an episode of Scooby-fucking-Doo as I drove the rental out there.

On arrival my gut tightened. Someone was having a laugh at the expense of my pride. There were no windows or doors in the bastard, and it was huge, and sitting up on top of a hill, and it just so happened to be windy and wet as fuck. The surrounding area wasn’t much better, crappy old storage shed the other side of the hill next to a big old marsh, some looming forestry on the nearby mountains, old stone walls and the one neighborly light that was visible at least a mile away extinguished almost immediately. I took the sleeping bag, a pen and notepad (pointless), two bottles of whisky from the trunk, the jumbo bag of chips and the now damp ‘steak and cheese’ footlong I bought a few hours earlier and made my way inside. The whole place was gutted, nobody had lived in it for decades and the stench of rat piss, decaying wooden beams and mould only made me thank God even more that I had the good sense to bring two bottles and not one.

Part confession at this point, I’ve this really bad habit every time I enter someone else’s home, it’s more a compulsion that comes from who knows where, probably some primal ancestor – the long and short of it is, I piss somewhere in the house, I suppose marking terrain or just planting a familiar scent of myself that enables me to relax. In a normal house it’s usually just a squirt in a potted plant or on the towels in the bathroom. In this glorified cave I decided to go all out and with a full bladder let loose everywhere, making sure I hit every room. Once I’d shaken out the last drop I found the least breezy corner, climbed into the sleeping bag and hit the bottle hard.

It was around midnight and I had to piss again so I staggered about until I made it outside. As relief was washing over me I checked my cell. Text message from the director. I’d been getting hourly updates since noon, random facts about the house, who lived in it, what they did, why nobody lived in it and how they died. Turns out I was staying in the ultimate cliché movie house (this guy had no imagination) – the Dad was a loner type butcher, heard voices, chopped up his doting wife and kid, buried their body parts in the floor boards, then turned a shotgun on himself and blew his head up into the chimney as he set fire to his clothes. Laughable. Returning inside, I stubbed my toe on a board as I crossed the threshold and sight of the blood dripping from my toe onto those filthy, tetanus infested floorboards was the final straw that riled me so bad my bowels loosened. Revenge was in order.

I found the fireplace, unloaded an unmerciful spray then fashioned a makeshift fire from twigs, leaves and set the whole lot off after siphoning some gas from the rental – I wasn’t going to waste whisky. I was nicely into the second bottle by three AM and decided more gas and a voodoo dance was in order. The spirits must have taken hold of me because I ended up spiraling around the old shit-hole letting the remaining fixtures, grout and window frames have it with my trusty baseball bat. I fucked that place up good but ended up knocking over the vat of gas and fire spread from room to room. Five minutes later and the whole place was ablaze but it didn’t matter, there was nothing inside aching to catch the flames, run rampant and help it go epic and so, disappointingly, within an hour it was dead, just like my second bottle. At least I’d got some warmth out of it while it lasted but was in need of more so I threw caution to the wind and wandered back inside.

Nothing was going on outside other than that one light on the hillside blinking on for a few minutes then vanishing again, just like my self esteem. My buzz was begin to die and bring a death all its own to my head so I tried to distract myself and started to break the floorboards just to rid myself of the cretinous text plot that was supposed to bring entertainment to the night. After wrecking a few rooms and finding nothing resembling bone I checked the charred chimney stack. Fine, there were some scars in the cement that may have been caused by buckshot but I was aware of a concept called ‘wear and tear’ so ruled it out. I’d hit the wall, boredom, hangover, cold, miserable, resenting my desperation for bringing me to this point and the darkest hour of the night was reaching pitch black. Then a text blinked in from the director which unsettled me.

The land had once been an Indian burial ground, I sighed. The family who took over the land had left no will so ownership went back to the natives. The area was declared sacred and no removals were allowed unless authorized by some descendant chief in their council. The absent bodies had been moved, to the storage shed at the back of the house. The chief had written an account of the tragedy, self published it, sold the rights to my director for pittance and approved my stay for one night. I didn’t sigh… I said ‘fuck’ instead. The director told me to be sure and check out the storage shed before I left. I was already drawn to it, hypnotized in my hammered state, having pissed and shit and desecrated and shed blood on sacred ground – I had to see what was in there.

It took me a full twenty minutes to baby-step my way to the door, despite it being a thirty second walk, tops. The door was already cracked open. I reached out and gave it a gentle push. My eyes squinted against the darkness inside, searching for shapes and then, something presented itself. It looked like a mound of soil. A drop of urine ran down my leg as I stepped closer. Then I heard a noise behind me and spun around. On top of the hill were three silhouettes. A man. A woman. A child. The man was holding a shotgun. In the dark I’m sure I was glowing white. And then he started to make his way down toward me. I ran like a fucking rabbit. That’s right, hopping on all fours, waiting on the blast and hoping my death rattle would at least be somewhat acrobatic and impressive.

It never came. I toppled into a patch of briars and landed face first in the marsh and the man pulled me out before I sank and drowned. He didn’t look anything like I expected. First off he was alive. He was also a native Indian, so was his wife and kid. They looked pissed. After I’d cleared the muck from my ears I realized he was the aforementioned chief who had been alerted by the neighbors on the other side of the hill after they saw the house take to flames. I protested innocence but all that got me was the butt of his shotgun in the mouth. He dragged me to my rental and unloaded on the windshield and the rearview, telling me I’d be hearing from his lawyer and that I’d be personally liable for the restoration. I told him he “was out of his fucking mind” and got another jab of the shotgun in the forehead before haphazardly toppling into the rental and swerving like a lunatic as I made my escape.

An hour down the road I decided ignoring the persistent calls from the director was a good idea. I realized that this low point would sink me so deep I would never getting a writing assignment in the western world ever again, so I did the only thing I felt was sensible. First I threw the cell into a lake, then once the rental prematurely ran out of gas I shoved it off the side of a cliff, moved city and had my name changed by deed poll. There was a momentary grumble of the incident in local news but nobody really gave a shit. The director took the blame, had to fork out for the rental (cheapskate hadn’t opted for insurance) then got his dumb ass blacklisted by trying to make that daft horror story without official permission from the shotgun wielding chief – he had changed the idea but seemingly not enough to convince the judge. Last I heard he was working toilets in a casino as part of his community service.

Unscathed, the road was clear for me to re-enter the business. I decided to do it right, return home, play by the rules and lick the right arseholes until that first big sale dropped. Two years later here I am – still desperate, still drunk, still pissing in rooms.

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