 Your Heart Should be Happy

As all hearts should be¹ ...

ba Brenda Donaldson's Chest©™☺ ba 

By Axedent Mostly...
...but mostly by Glyn

I would like to dedicate this book to me, without whom, it could never have happened. Accepted half a dozen monkeys at a typewriter for a week or two could probably come pretty close though.  

There are many people I would like to thank, first and foremost being the voices in my head, for their insight, their encouragement, but primarily for their ingenuity regarding how and where to 'bury' the bodies, especially the celestial ones.

I'd specifically like to thank my friends and family, who nagged me to finish it, and those who gave their time to read it and give feedback. Without them this book would have included several thousand typo's, spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, and plot inconsistencies, rather than just the few hundred that are probably left. People keep finding them, and I keep fixing them. It's an e-book. You can do that. We're currently on version 1.4.

Finally, I'd like to thank you. It's unlikely I'd have written it if I didn't think anyone else was going to read it. So thank you. Both of you.  

All characters appearing in this work, are fictitious... probably.

The jury is still out regarding God.

But God help us if the gods are anything like these.

Brenda Donaldson's Chest... Parts

The Crux 1

Genesis 4

A More Than Rational Fear 5

Three and a Half Thousand Feet 7

The Ultimate Plan of Man 9

A Theory of Conspiracy 11

The Power of Flight 13

You Just Can’t Trust Some People 15

She Just Can’t Trust Most People 17

Deaths Little Frustrations 18

How I Fell from Grace 20

Found by Religion 23

The End of My Criminal Career 25

The Beginning of THE END 28

Bob and Tom 30

The Perfect Pint 31

The Key is the Key 33

Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God 36

Free Fall 39

Just Put Your Mind To It 40

Checking In 41

Fear of Heights 42

Second Chances 44

Spirited Spirits 45

In Holy Mammary 50

It Only Gets Worse 51

You Think You've Got It Bad 52

A Key 53

And Then the Phone Stopped Ringing 54

Invaded 56

Some Accidents are Just Meant to Happen 59

About That 61

Know your Exits 62

By Way of Explanation 63

Deaths Accomplice 67

A Less Usual Bag of Tricks 69

Fwut 71

Somewhere at the Corner 72

Be Careful What You Wish For. 73

Squeeze Your Woman Honey Pleasure… Hard 74

The Order of the Order 77

Was There A Meaning To Life? 78

Seriously, I have No Idea 79

Lucky to be Dead Really 81

And then … 83

Distractions 84

The Burning Bush 85

A Spiral Array 87

Heaven Can, and Often Does, Wait 89

Insurgents 90

Lara 93

Real Men Don’t Read Manuals? 96

Associations 99

Sunsets and... 102

Heavenly Garments 104

Who Knows What, and How or If? 105

The Short Chapter 107

The Nature of Existence 108

Words in High Places 110

What’s the Big Deal about Being Dead? 113

What's Going On? 115

Two Heads are Better than None 116

Fun? Are you Mental? 118

Virgins Blood and All that Bollocks 122

Transformation 123

Everything You Need? 126

The Cynical Removal Of The Necessities of Life 127

But Fear Itself. 128

When Accused You Will Defend 129

Brownian Cleaning 130

But About That Other Plan 131

Deliverance 132

Who You Are. 133

Jousting 135

Gaining and Losing Possession 137

And They Came... 139

Waking Vibrations 141

Travelling Light 143

Are We Good? 144

The Good God Question 147

Isolated 148

Coffee and Oh Nuts 152

Why Oh Why Am I… Not… Happy? 155

The Blind Leading The Blind 157

A Proverbial up the Proverbial? 160

The Demise of the Tree Hugger 161

Mental Leap 163

Easy Exits 164

The Plans of Angels 165

Revenge is a Dish Best Served by the Cold Hearted 168

The Three 'Simple' Truths 170

Pick a Reality, Any Reality... 174

...Then Do Whatsoever You Can to Cope with the Fallout 174

Believe 175

Deja Vu 178

For God Made Man in His Own Image, with His Own Weakness 180

Into the Vipers Lair 182

The Gathering 185

Escape to Where You Need to Be 186

You Exist When you Believe in Yourself 187

Theological Buggery 189

Predictably Improbable 191

The Keys 194

Hearing Voices 197

The Creation of God 198

Mi Casa Su Casa 200

Those Two Again 203

Boom 204

No Seriously, Boom! 206

Raising the Wrath of Gods 207

Oh Come On! You're Just Making This Up! 209

Instructing Eternity 211

Following Blindly 216

Twisted 217

Coming Round to Shades of Grey 219

Sometimes It's Best to Clarify... 221

Refugees 222

Fumbling in the Dark 224

By Way of Explanation 225

What I Would Do 227

Positive is Positive 229

Balance 231

"Some bastard is going to pay for this." 232

Payback. 233

Just Not Laughing 234

Bloody Demonic 235

Over My Dead Body 236

We Have Landing... 237

God Exists 238

Military Religion 240

Talks About Talks and the Meaning of Everything 241

The End of Eternity? 243

Breed 245

Better Late than Nev.... 249

Make Me One with Everything 250

And How is This Working for You? 252

Order, Perfection, and Choice 254

A Meeting of Mindsets 256

Curiosity Killed the ? 259

One Day It Will All Make Sense 260

Oh Yes Oh Yes Oh Yes Oh Yes Oh Yes 261

Safe 262

Intervention 266

Nirvana 267

Woken 268

Destiny on Wheels 269

Insanity is a Matter of Perspective 271

The Best Spirits of Anarchy 273

Giving Ghosts a Bad Name 275

Save the World from Who? 277

Travelling in Style 279

Pride 281

Empty Promises 283

The Capillary 285

An Ending 287

Not Such an Easy Ending As That 288

God Makes The News 290

Two Steps Backwards 292

The Power of The Ring 294

You Wanna Explain That? 296

Diatribe 298

Scramble 301

Leaving Paradise 302

The Challenge 304

The Destruction of Dreams 306

It's Just a Model 307

The Time 309

But Still 312

Arrest is Good For a Change? 313

A Cry for Help 314

From Here to …. 315

The Eternal Battle with Positivity 317

Metaphorically 319

Musak Maestro 320

And She Flew 321

And She Held On So Tightly! 322

Fate 325

And So She Fell 326

Where Do Thoughts Come From? 330

The Price of Change 331

The Cost of Change of Mind 332

It's Tough At The Top 333

Elation 334

The Gods be Buggered 335

A Time for New Beginnings 336

In the New Beginning was the Word, and the Word was Love. 338

Depraved Depths 339

Blame 340

God's a Cunt. 342

Splunch! 343

Fireworks 344

A Bloody Big Bang 345

From a Safe Distance 346

Arisen as a Rose 347

Perspective 348

The Whitest Noise 349

The Crux

I think life would have turned out differently if the parachute had opened.

It could be suggested that life may have unfolded in a myriad of ways if the parachute had opened in but one. But then, life would have turned out differently if I hadn't stepped onto the plane. While that was, or is, undoubtedly true, some events in life are, simply put, more pivotal than others. The parachute not opening was undoubtedly quite a big one, all things considered.

And so I fell…

Amongst other events that have drastically altered the path of my life, I include, in no particular order, my discovery of alcohol... along with a few other substances, but we probably don’t need to go into that right now. I suppose you have to include the doctrines of The Church in its various incarnations and its extended effects upon society, that one should sort of go without saying, and to quite a large extent I must admit I was undoubtedly influenced by Brenda Donaldson’s chest.

Needless to say though, hitting the ground at terminal velocity is pretty high on the list, if I ever get around to putting it all in order.

I think it's important to point out that none of these events dictated the exact direction my ‘life’ was to move in. For that I do accept some responsibility. They were merely catalysts, or influencing factors in how decisions were made. Ultimately though, if responsibility is to be placed, I think that there is no better direction to point the finger, than directly at, not to put too fine a point on it, God. Let’s face it, he started it. Allegedly. And he's not denying it.

Don't get me wrong, I spent my life completely and undoubtedly devoted to the cause of Atheism, so it came as much as a shock to me as anyone, when I found myself screaming His name as I hurtled towards the earth with increasing velocity. I was even more surprised when… He answered.

Now some amongst you of atheist and agnostic persuasion may wonder how I was so sure it was God and not, for instance, just a frantic voice in my somewhat distressed and desperate head. I can only offer this small and highly inconclusive explanation which I certainly don’t claim to be any great scientific proof...

… there was something in His tone.

All He said was "What?" but it was said in a sort of 'oh it's you' sort of way, with a slight hint of ‘a parent you haven't phoned in forever’. It was a deep voice… deep, and calm. That annoyed the hell out of me given the circumstances.

"What do you mean 'What'?" I screamed.

An excitable little girl, who’d just been given her first puppy, could not have reached the immense frequency my question ended on. Perhaps she’d have a chance if first you fed her helium, but more likely if you fed her helium and then shot the puppy. "Isn't it bloody obvious!" I continued at the same shrill cadence.

There was a brief pause, as the wind rushed past at an increasing rate. I think we can safely blame that on gravity. Which let’s face it, we can also blame on God. He’s got a lot to answer for.

Then He said, with the same self-satisfied irritating calmness "You're perhaps using excessive diction for someone with... so little time remaining."

"What?!!!?" I screamed, remembering to stop at three exclamation marks and two question marks as it occurred to me I might appear to be losing my cool.

The wind continued to rush past, to wherever it so desperately needed to be.

In a frustrated attempt I pulled the parachute cord again, and then again. Maybe I was clutching at straws, but when you find yourself begging favours from The Almighty, it’s important to at least look like you’re making an effort to help yourself. I considered flapping my arms, and got as far as lifting my shoulders before I decided ‘The Big G’ would probably be able to tell I was faking, and went back to my futile attempts with the release mechanism. On the third tug it came off in my hand. When they say your life flashes before your eyes, I really didn’t need to relive the memories that brought back.

"I said..." He said, as if talking to someone a little slow, "You are using a lot of words for someone with… limited… time… remaining." He really seemed to emphasise those last three words.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" I exclaimed. Then, taking his point on board I added, possibly a little louder than necessary "I don't want to DIE!"

"It happens to all of us." he said very matter of factly, but then added, "Well, maybe not all of us.” and with a slightly deeper voice, and more than a hint of melodrama he intoned “... It is the nature of time!"

Amidst the howl of the passing wind, and my life screaming before my eyes, I’d like to say I thought about his words for a while before responding. It could still perhaps be said that on reflection, maybe my response was not the most considered.

"For fuck's sake! You smug pedantic shit!"

I don't know how I knew, but God raised an eyebrow. You have to understand, and I'm sure He did, that I was in some distress here. I think He understood I wasn’t really used to discourse with deities… or to seeing fields and houses approaching from this angle at such an alarming rate. There was a pause while I expected him to respond, before I realised that he wasn't going to, and as the ground rushed up towards me, I thought I'd better say my piece pretty quickly, so in exasperated tones I emphasised "I don't want to die RIGHT NOW!"

The truth be told, what I actually said was "I don't want to die RIGHT Nerghhhppphhhh."

It turns out that the ’terminal velocity’ for a human being falling from space is actually zero miles an hour. The point at which you hit the ground being ultimately, the most terminal. If anything it’s a slightly negative number as you probably die mid-bounce.

There was a microsecond of pain, as everything faded from red to black, and all feelings were just an endorphin glow as my body loaded itself with pain killers. The pain was over very quickly. The worst part was the sound. It just seemed to reverberate around my eardrums. It was sort of a cross between a splat and a crunch.

Splunch!

Actually it’s probably more accurate to say it just reverberated, as I'm not completely sure my ears were still connected at that point.

As the lights blinked out I heard a deep calm voice say something along the lines of "You probably should have tried to get to the point a little sooner."

Then there was another, quieter voice that said "Errrrggggghhhhh!" and there was screaming. Lots and lots of screaming.

Genesis

Brenda Donaldson’s chest was a wonder to behold. I coveted Brenda Donaldson’s chest more than anything else I had ever seen. I would follow her home from school in surreptitious hope of uncovering such secrets. Somehow stalking doesn’t seem quite so sinister when you’re twelve. Full of the curiosity of youth, I would slide up to her window, and watch in wonder hoping she would reveal her most secret assets.

I’d first become aware of her chest in chemistry on a fine Friday afternoon. It was one of those hot summer afternoons, when nothing a teacher could possibly impart could stop you staring out of the window waiting for the bell to ring. The slightest wisp of a cloud in the sky. A gentle breeze blowing across the trees at the end of the playing field. If the teacher had been discussing anal sex with the school guinea pigs I’d have been none the wiser. Giving or receiving. Tape or Tube. We used to joke about that. Apparently you have to manicure their claws first, but I digress…

A gasp of awe drew my attention back into the room, and I looked over to see Brenda showing her chest to the girl sitting next to her. I can’t remember who it was. Girls of that age change best friends as often as underwear, but I caught the slightest glimpse over her shoulder. It was beautiful. Small, but exquisitely beautiful.

Made of some kind of reddish wood, darkened with age, decorated with copper inlays and what looked like a pirates hoard of gem stones. I instantly wanted to know what secrets it contained.

At that point, it was a simple case of curiosity. Little was I to know then how much of an obsession it would become. Her friend saw me staring, and on seeing her changing expression, Brenda turned to see what new interest had caught her eye. She stared straight to the very heart of me, and then, without looking down, she slowly and meticulously… gently… closed… the… lid. From around her neck, on a fine silver chain, she then produced the tiniest key I’d ever seen, and made a very obvious point of slowly placing it into the confines of the lock, where with a subtle twist of her slender wrist there was the finest, softest, only just audible clunk. So soft, it almost forgot the starting c and final k. An only just audible ‘clunk’. All the time holding my gaze, she just as slowly removed the tiniest silver key, on its fine silver chain, and placed it back around her neck, before tucking it back into it’s most safe and secure location. Whatever secrets there contained were evidently not for my eyes.

I went back to staring out of the window, but now distracted from my previous distractions. It was all I could think about, as lackadaisical clouds floated across a childhood summer sky transforming themselves into fanciful shapes. Not trains or planes for this lad. No faces, flowers or frolicking sheep. Now they were a sparkling treasure trove. Long white chains and fluffy white keys, and all I could think about from that moment on, was how I was going to get my pre teen tentacles inside Brenda Donaldson's blouse.

A More Than Rational Fear

The thing about the North Tidwell Agoraphobics Self Help Group, was that everyone always wanted to hold the meeting at their house. It was the same argument every week, and Dennis had been here enough times to know that a little imagination may be called for to get a resolution to this dilemma. They hadn’t met for eight weeks now because everyone preferred life within the confines of their own four walls. Dennis was so fed up with having the same argument every week that he had suggested that they should hold the meeting down the local park. His intent being that this should horrify enough of them for long enough, that when he suggested they could all meet at his house if they preferred, they’d readily agree.

Many people think that agoraphobia is a fear of open spaces, which is partially true, but not by any means the whole story. It is said to come from the words ‘agora’ and ‘phobia’ meaning ‘market’ and ‘fear’ respectively, so literally translated it’s a fear of shopping. This is obviously absurd when you discover that the majority of agoraphobics are women² , and it’s perhaps better described as a fear of crowds, or more to the point, an unwillingness to be in places where a person does not feel they are in a certain level of control. Agoraphobics tend to retreat to what they consider safe places to avoid such situations, which is why they often never leave their homes, and why we have the common misconception. It can manifest itself in many ways, such as a fear of being watched, a fear of being judged, a fear of being caught with nowhere to run, or nowhere to hide. Best just to stay inside.

But coming back to our story… Unfortunately for Dennis, Jonathan the group councillor was exceptionally good at his job. He was the kind of person who could have made Mickey feel safe at The Kenyan Cat Convention. He jumped on Dennis’s idea so fast, with such enthusiasm, and dealt with everyone’s fears so softly and subtly that everyone else was simply carried along in his oh so smooth wake.

Dennis was horrified.

And so it came to be, despite Dennis’s blatant back pedalling, that the following Thursday, in a small gazebo, with white and green polythene walls, just to the left of the duck pond, down the path and across from the vandalised toilets, amidst rivulets of sweat and nervous excitement, the North Tidwell Agoraphobics Self Help Group (N.T.A.S.H.G) held their weekly meeting, for the first time in two months. It was a great step for all of them, even if it had taken a significant increase in a few peoples prescriptions.

As the sweat collected on his furrowed brow, and the breath caught in his throat, Dennis was sure that he was going to die. He just knew it. This was not a good idea. This was not safe. For God's sake, what had he been thinking when he’d agreed to this… when he’d suggested this. He should have made excuses. He should have feigned illness. No! He should have told them he was better. Hallelujah, He’d been saved. But here he was, trapped in little more than a polythene tent. He couldn’t get out, but anything could so easily get in. If he did get out, how would he escape the park if the path was blocked? The toilets had been vandalised. How mad have you got to be to vandalise a toilet? Who knew what other insanity these people were capable of? They could have knives, or guns, or… mocking attitudes! These flimsy plastic walls weren’t enough to keep them out. He needed to escape this place. He needed to get home, somewhere solid, or at least as far as the car. The fight or flight survival instinct took control of his body, removing his conscious mind from the equation, and with a saline Niagara bursting from his brow he jumped to his feet. He had to leave. He had to not be here, anywhere was better than here…

It was just as he reached this section of his super rational train of thought that Brian fell through the roof of the gazebo, at oh so terminal velocity. There was a sound like a cross between a splat and a crunch as he landed on Dennis, killing him instantly. The fall didn’t do Brian any favours either. Then everyone started screaming.

Should have stayed inside really, when you think about it. Nice, solid four walls. Nice solid roof.

Safe.

Three and a Half Thousand Feet

As the adrenalin flowed, and everyone fled in random directions, Dennis watched in mild amazement. His first thought was obviously “Ouch.” closely followed by something approximate to if not exactly “What the golly gosh was that?” His second, as his eyes fell upon the tangled wreckage of bodies he went so far as to enunciate. "Errrrggggghhhhh!"

Brian did his best to pull himself together, figuratively if not literally. Perhaps if the scene in front of him hadn’t contained quite so much red, he may have thought there was some hope. If there had been a complete body to which he could attach some sense of denial. On inspecting the carnage, denial didn’t really seem to be much of an option. In fact, the only thing in the immediate vicinity that didn't appear to be to some degree decorated by what was previously his internal plumbing, was his parachute suit, which he could have sworn was originally black, but now appeared to be a mildly luminescent dark and ghostly grey. 

It occurred to him that amongst the wreckage, there were probably more arms and legs than he had previously owned, and on noticing Dennis’s dazed and ghostly figure standing next to him, still resplendent in his greenish grey cardigan (although somehow now immaculately pressed), the pieces as it were, fell into place. He felt he should say something, but wasn’t quite sure what would be appropriate to a person who hadn’t been formally introduced, but who’s entrails were pretty much completely entangled with your own.

“Hope you don’t mind me dropping in.” sprung to mind but he thought better of it.

“Erm…Sorry...” he tried. Somehow his comment didn’t seem quite enough, but he wasn’t sure there existed another word that quite expressed the necessary gravity (As if gravity hadn’t done enough already). “Sorry?” questioned Dennis, taking in Brian’s presence for the first time as he slowly came out of his death induced daze.

Brian, feeling decidedly more relaxed now that the immediate crisis seemed to be over, possibly because he wasn’t directly connected to adrenal glands any more, but probably simply because he was a pragmatist, tried his best to explain their predicament. While those still living screamed, cried and crawled from the ruins of what was once a gazebo, Jonathan, the ‘oh so smooth’ councillor, sat to one side, puking into his mobile phone as he called the emergency services. As the cheerful voice on the other end of the line asked “Fire, Police or Ambulance?” it occurred to him that all he probably needed was a shovel and a couple of bin liners.

“I think we’re dead.” said Brian.

“Oh.” replied Dennis vaguely.

“See that arm over there?” Brian continued, pointing.

Dennis looked, without any obvious sign of understanding.

“The one with the all the dislocated bits.” Brian went on, as if this might help locate it amongst the tangled disarray of blood, bone and green and white plastic.

“Oh… erm… possibly.” said Dennis, trying not to look, whilst at the same time trying to keep up his side of the conversation, so as not to appear impolite.

“I think that’s yours.”

“Oh.” Dennis repeated, with no greater level of comprehension.

Brian tried to explain more about what had happened, although it has to be said, he left out certain details that may have questioned his sanity. He was happy to accept there was an afterlife now that he appeared to be living it, but considered that people would still cross the street rather than deal with a person who claimed to have conversations with ‘Him’.

Dennis did not look like he was taking this well. Where Brian had the advantage of the duration of his descent to come to terms with his impending demise, it had all quite literally fallen on Dennis a little suddenly.

“So you fell on me?” he questioned.

“Sorry.” said Brian.

“From Three and half thousand feet?”

“Yep.”

“Three and half thousand feet?” repeated Dennis, as if that was the all important piece of information that would make the whole insane situation suddenly comprehensible.

“That’s right.”

There was a lengthy, if not healthy pause before Dennis stated quietly but abruptly “You bastard!” somewhat out of character.

“I said I was sorry.”

There was a further pause, before Dennis added “… but... “

Somehow Dennis didn’t consider “Sorry” to be quite enough in the circumstances either, but he wasn’t the sort of person to cause an ‘unnecessary fuss’. At least, not directly. He wasn’t quite sure what to do at all. He wanted to be at home.

Brian watched, as veins started to throb in Dennis’s forehead. As they bulged to a level where it appeared they must surely explode, to Brian’s complete surprise, Dennis simply turned and ran. He ran away from the duck pond, avoiding the path that ran past the vandalised toilets, and whatever insanity may befall him there, and rather unfortunately away from the gate to the park. He didn’t care, he just ran, and as he ran he heard a voice from behind him shouting “Oh come on mate, it was an accident, I didn’t mean it!” Then, perhaps as an afterthought, but probably just because it’s the traditional form of repaying unpayable debts between men, “I’ll buy you a pint!”

The Ultimate Plan of Man

I was fifteen before I finally worked out how to get my hand inside Brenda Donaldson’s blouse. Of course that didn’t mean she’d let me, just that I’d worked out a plan. All I had to do was convince her that I was simply trying to get my hands on her tits. Again, that didn’t mean she was going to let me, but it seemed like a great plan, with no great draw backs.

The reason it took me so long to come up with this plan was simple. Previously, she never had any tits. Brenda was a late bloomer, but oh how she had blossomed. Some may see this as a good thing, but for me it presented obvious dangers. Firstly, it was quite possible that I may be distracted on my quest, and that was becoming a real danger. Secondly, every boy in our school, and quite a few from the sixth form, now wanted to get his hands on Brenda Donaldson. And she knew it.

I was not put off as I had an obvious advantage. Where the other boys had been playing football and reading wank mags for the previous three years³ , I’d found my way into Brenda Donaldson’s confidence. When she’d first noticed me stalking her she’d assumed, as all the other girls had, that I’d a crush on her. I don’t know if it’s simply the case that there’s only one thing on girls minds, or if they just think that there’s only one thing on boys minds, but you’ve got to laugh. She teased me, but not too much, as looking back I realise that she liked me even then. I wasn’t going to let the truth be known, that I was just after her for her chest, so with my incandescent wit, I’d simply responded “so!” and run away. That was a few years earlier. The joys of being thirteen and…actually, I think just being thirteen is probably enough explanation.

I think that secretly she thought it was sweet, and well, who wouldn’t be flattered to have a stalker like me.

That’s a rhetorical question.

Over the next six months she started talking to me more and more, but I was too young, or too stupid, to realise what that meant so we simply became friends. I could probably have just asked her what was in the box. I think she might even have told me. I was however wrapped up in my own little world, with the stupid sense of guilt at my own curiosity. I couldn’t just ask. It all had to be so surreptitious.

So I became her friend with an ulterior motive. Mine was simply slightly different to the usual one, but I did become her friend. That wasn’t faked. I really liked Brenda Donaldson. I just desperately needed to know what was in the box, and I was too stupid to ask.

When I was thirteen that was probably a reasonable excuse. At fifteen, and later, sixteen, and seventeen, and… well some might say it was starting to look slightly sinister, but I’m sticking to my story. I’ve lived through enough, and known enough people to thoroughly believe that there’s nothing stopping anyone being utterly stupid however old they are.

A Theory of Conspiracy

There are people in this world who don’t believe in conspiracy theories. But then, there are people who don’t believe the world is round. Apparently that’s all just a conspiracy. Conspiracies are everywhere, and Anthony was very much aware of this.

Anthony was aware of this, because he was the instigator of quite a few theories himself. He dealt in conspiracy, in the theory of conspiracy, in conspiracy theories, and in ice cream. Everyone has to have a hobby. Of course if anyone were to suggest that pretty much all of the ice cream vans in the world could be linked back to the same group of people (call it a 'family' if you will), and that those ice cream vans were increasingly being loaded with more and more sophisticated surveillance equipment, and that 'they' were watching you, you’d think they were mad, and you’d be right to do so. ‘The Order’ as it was unimaginatively known to its initiates, had levers in phone companies, media corporations, governments and police forces. They were in schools, colleges, universities, and even some specific nurseries. They had hands in shipping, airlines, railways and roads. They were a major player. The ice cream vans were completely unnecessary, and had been decommissioned years ago.

The actual term ‘Conspiracy Theory’ was put into the public domain largely through the efforts of Anthony and his associates. Agents were placed into ‘the field’ with the most ludicrous stories (unfortunately some of them turned out to be true, but that was purely coincidental) regarding the military, aliens, governments, and religions. The less believable, the more certain press would be willing to print them, and the more ludicrous, the more certain people were willing to believe them. They created such a storm over the whole conspiracy issue, that anyone who even uttered the word ‘conspiracy’ was instantly labelled a nut by any self respecting 'sensible' person. It was a work of genius. No one would ever dare mention conspiracy again, and if they did, they would be laughed out of town.

It may not be the case that every conspiracy theory is true, but conspiracy is everywhere. From the infants playground, to the playgrounds of the rich and famous. Especially in the playgrounds of the rich and not so famous. No one gets to have that much power, and to maintain that much power, without networks, organisation, and perhaps, just a little deceit. Anthony was a master.

‘The Order’ was not the only order, there are of course numerous interrelated networks, but it was premier league, and as Anthony took in the view of the city from his high rise office, pondering the information that the ‘Kybota’ had been located, he reached back and pressed the button for the intercom on his desk. “Valerie, could you be so kind as to inform Kuryani that I wish to speak with her.”

Then he returned his gaze to the suns impending demise, as it slipped below the horizon, bathing the underbelly of the candy clouds in hues of lilac and gold. It was all the more beautiful for knowing it was out there. Of course, he’d been so sure it was, why else would he have searched for so long? But now he knew, and more to the point, he knew where.

And it was his for the taking.

Things were coming to a head. Some events in life are indisputably more pivotal than others, and this was going to be one of the very, very, VERY, big ones.

The Power of Flight

The unfortunate thing about the fight or flight instinct is that, useful as it may be, it tends to be a little unspecific about the fine details. Its function is to get you out of a situation. It doesn’t tend to worry too much about what other situations it’s getting you into, on the premise that if it’s been called into action, the chances are, anywhere is better than here.

In Dennis’s agoraphobic mind, the path between the duck pond and the vandalised toilets was a ‘bad place to be’. There is some logic in this. It was an obvious place to set an ambush, with water on one side, and buildings on the other, he could easily be blocked in. He could be trapped. Nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. The fact that it was a sunny afternoon in September in a small, generally peaceful, market town was neither here nor there. This was something far more primal. His innate sense of self preservation sensed a possible danger and released numerous chemicals into his bloodstream. His imagination set to work, instinctively creating a multitude of hazards that could befall him in the current ‘battlefield’. Tigers crouching in the bushes. Alligators leaping from the pond. The local teenagers mocking his fashion choices, and laughing at his cardigan. If the gate, and hence his car and house lay on the other end of the path, that was of little consequence. That path was a bad place to be, and he would find another way.

There was some logic in all this. Just not much that would have made sense to many other people.

Avoiding the path, he’d run to the far side of the park, where as he now realised there wasn’t a gate. No way out. He was trapped by trees, fences, and thick bushes. The only way out, was to go back. This assumes of course, that you don’t have an abject fear of such pathways. He just kept running. He threw himself headlong at the bushes hoping to fight his way into the midst of them, where he’d find a place of safety where he could hide, stop and take stock. He’d thrown himself at the bushes with such force, expecting to feel resistance, to have to fight his way through…

It hadn’t actually occurred to Dennis yet that he was a ghost. So when he went straight through the bushes, it came as quite a shock. He fell straight through, lost his footing, stumbled, rolled and ploughed face first though the sodden, leafy earth, or a couple of inches below it, before he realised what had happened, and subconsciously adjusted himself back to ground level. Then he started to hyperventilate, which might be a pretty stupid thing for a person who doesn’t need to breathe to do, but being dead hadn’t stopped his veins throbbing earlier, and it didn’t stop him hyperventilating now. Dennis was still new to this, and it seemed like the thing to do at the time. He hyperventilated, and he sobbed out the heart he no longer had.

The sobbing sound of a hyperventilating spook carries for quite some distance if you happen to be adjusted to these things. Dennis wasn’t difficult to find. Brian ambled up the hill, and once there, he sat, resting his back against a tree, which took a little effort all things considered, and taking in the little clearing, he waited for Dennis to calm down, or more to the point, just to shut up.

Occasionally, he’d make little comments, like, “look on the bright side”, and “it’s not all bad” and when that just made Dennis scream more he'd say “I said I was sorry!” Eventually, Dennis ran out of energy, and the sobbing subsided, and hyperventilating didn’t appear to be getting him anywhere so he stopped that too.

“I really am sorry.” reiterated Brian.

“I suppose you [sniff] didn’t do it on [sniff] purpose.” snuffled Dennis, with some sense of reconciliation.

“It would have been a hell of an assassination if I had.” quipped Brian.

Dennis looked at him, with a certain amount of scorn. This wasn’t a laughing matter.

“Come on,” said Brian, in that ‘everything’s OK really’ tone, “worse things happen at sea. I’ll buy you a pint. It’ll all be OK in the morning.”

“No it won’t.” replied Dennis very truthfully.

“Well, OK, no it won’t,” said Brian, but we’ll have had a pint.”

“[sniff] I don’t like going to pubs.” replied Dennis somewhat more aggressively than Brian would have generally anticipated for this kind of suggestion.

He looked at Dennis with the sort of look normally reserved for the terminally insane. “Why?” he asked incredulously.

“Too many [sniff] people.”

“Well, yeah… people and beer, that’s the point.”

“I don’t like being surrounded by people.”

“Why not?” Brian repeated.

“I don’t know [sniff], I just don’t. I don’t like crowded places, full of people... I don’t know.”

“That’s what the beer's for. You’ll love everyone once you’ve had a couple of pints.” Then he added reproachfully “You’re not one of those sods who gets nasty after a few beers are you?”

“Look,” said Dennis testily, “I’m agoraphobic ok!” He’d never really liked the label, but it was a quick way to cut through all the explanations.

Brian thought about this. Dennis was just about to explain what it meant, when Brian asked, “So what were you doing in the middle of the park?”

“Apparently,” he paused for a specifically long and loud sniff, “I was recovering.”

“Really?” asked Brian “Was it working?”

“Not really.”

“Well, no need to worry now is there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re dead. It’s not likely to get any worse is it?”

You’d think that would have been obvious, but the thing about The Universe, is that it appears to have a damn sight better imagination than the rest of us.

You Just Can’t Trust Some People

Getting my hand inside Brenda Donaldson’s blouse, did not go quite according to plan.

As I stared at the little key on its little silver chain nestled between her small but perfectly formed breasts, she said in a slightly precocious manner “Would you mind looking at me and not at my tits when you’re talking to me.”

“Sorry,” I said, “I was miles away.”

“You will be if you don’t adjust your focus.” She smiled a devilish grin, evidently enjoying the power of the possession of a perfect pair.

“Can I feel them?” I asked, as innocently as I could muster.

“Bugger off!” she replied.

“Go on” I persisted. “Just for a bit.”

“Oh, OK,” she said.

My heart leapt. I never thought it would be this easy. I hadn’t quite worked out how I was going to get the key off the chain, but we could get to that when we came to it.

“but only if I can kick you in the nuts first.” she added.

“What?!” I stammered, suddenly taken aback “Why would you want to kick me in the nuts?”

“Why would you want to feel my tits?”

“I... I just do.”

“Well there you go. I just want to kick you in the nuts.” She smiled, as if she’d just won the school prize for the debating society.

“No you don’t.” I protested.

“Suddenly, it appears that I do.” she stated defiantly.

The thing you have to realise, is just how much I wanted to get my hands on that key, or more to the point, to get inside that box.

As I lay on the floor, doubled up in agony, with my hands wrapped around my genitals, and Brenda walked out of the door, I tried to call out. It was now her turn to fulfil her side of the bargain. We had a deal. It was her turn. She had to…

“Oh Christ,” I thought “I think I’m gunna puke.”

People suggest that when a man is kicked in the nuts, he speaks with a very high voice. It’s not true. I think I may have swallowed my vocal cords in the process, or it was possible that my testis were now simply lodged in my throat.

Laying there on the floor it occurred to me, there must be an easier way. There is as they say, more than one way to crack the proverbial nut and that’s how I chose my future career. Doubled up on my bedroom floor with my hands wrapped around my proverbials. I didn’t need the sodding key to get into that stupid box. I’d work out how to pick it. I’d become the best bloody locksmith the world had ever known, if that’s what it took.

Just as soon as I could stand up.

She Just Can’t Trust Most People

“Kuryani, Always a most delightful pleasure”, Anthony oozed, as the beautiful brunette slipped elegantly into his office. “Please, take a seat.” he offered, “Is there anything I can get you?”

Kuryani, looked with disdain at the seats in front of Anthony’s huge rosewood desk and moved to a couch positioned with its back against the wall. It wasn’t that she didn’t specifically trust Anthony. She simply didn’t trust anyone. People were invariably unreliable, and some were damn right dangerous. She accepted this as a fact because few were as reliable as she, and very few were as damn right dangerous. Over time she had learned it paid to play her hand with a certain caution, and to respect that any situation could provide… surprises. She did not sit with her back to the door if she had a choice in the matter, which she invariably did. These days people went out of their way to ensure this was the case.

“I’ll get straight to the point.” said Anthony, taking her silence as the answer that it was. “I need something ‘collected’.” He stressed the last word, emphasizing that this wasn’t a simple courier job. But then, Kuryani knew this already. He wouldn’t have called her if it had been a simple courier job. She tilted her head very slightly, expressing her curiosity, signalling that he should go on. “It has recently come to light that a certain item I have been interested in for some time has… become available.” He paused, as he was choosing his words. “Utter discretion and all that, but we need it, and we don’t wish it to be known that we have acquired it. As such I would be incredibly grateful if you could collect it for me.” She nodded, although you’d never have known if you hadn’t been watching her as intently as Anthony had. The exceptionally expensive desk drawer glided effortlessly open, and Anthony removed an elegantly slim leather portfolio, which he then casually placed upon the desk. “Everything you need to know will be in here.” He paused, and looked her in the eyes. She rarely spoke any more than necessary, but a man like Anthony didn’t generally need words to know what was on a persons mind. “Payment will be in the usual manner.” he added, and with that, she stood, glanced at the door, walked over to the desk, gathered the leather folder, and with a curt nod, turned and left.

Anthony couldn’t help but admire the rear view as she left his office. As the door closed behind her, he whispered under his breath “God I bet she screams in the sack.” Then, inhaling deeply, mildly shocked at his own lack of decorum, he turned away, effortlessly slipped the desk drawer closed, and returned to the majestic panorama of the capital's skyline as he pondered those greater mysteries of the universe that had him so enticed.

Deaths Little Frustrations

Dennis watched with increasing amusement, his smile spreading further across his face, as Brian became more and more irate.

It had taken them nearly two hours to get to the pub, which under normal circumstances, would have been a five minute walk. Brian considered leaving Dennis to his own devices. If he wanted to cry in the bushes, like some pathetic little bush baby, that was after all his own concern, and nothing to do with him. However, he couldn’t help but feel slightly responsible for the situation Dennis now found himself in. So for an hour, he’d sat with him, and tried (and failed) to cheer him up, but eventually he did manage to persuade him that spending an eternity in the bushes together would start people talking, and for some reason, this spurred Dennis into action.

He had almost as much fun getting Dennis over the path by the toilets. Telling him they’d become known as the ghosts of the cottagers had no effect as Dennis didn’t know what ‘cottaging’ was. However, as the tenth person passed by, completely ignoring them, while Brian jumped around in front of them waving like an idiot, it became evident even to Dennis, that other people couldn’t see them at all.

Filled with new found invisible confidence, Dennis was not only coaxed down the path, but slowly and surely into the ‘Old Red Lion’.

This was all so very new. The pub was busy, but Dennis was beginning to find himself enlivened by the freedom and immense voyeuristic power that his ghostliness gave him. No one could tell, and hence no one cared he was there, and if they never cared, then why should he? An immense weight was lifting.

Brian was however just about to discover the down side. The two people at the bar as they entered the pub were served efficiently enough, although it certainly couldn't be said that the barmaid was in any kind of hurry. Then ignoring Brian completely, she returned to a conversation with some of the locals at the other end of the bar. Brian protested, albeit politely, nothing more than a simple “Excuse me.” which appeared to get her attention, only to find that she had actually come back to serve someone else entirely, who then added insult to injury by stepping through him to get to the bar. The penny finally dropped, and Brian decided it was time to take matters into his own revenant hands. He was a ghost. How would they stop him? He'd get his own pint.

He walked around the bar, and discovered that he couldn’t pick up a glass. In frustration, he held his head under the beer tap. As the barmaid pulled the pump, and the amber liquid poured into Brian’s mouth, and then gushed straight out of the back of his head, there was a moment of cognition, a moment of recognition, and a moment of utter horror and despair. He was dead – senseless –  He would never taste the bitter sweet boozy flavour of beer or anything else for that matter ever again.

Destined to sobriety for all eternity.

Brian screamed the scream of the damned.

The barmaid shivered, dropping the glass she was holding which shattered across the floor sending beer and shards about her feet, even though she never heard a word of it. Dennis showed his darker side, and started laughing, before, from across the other side of the bar, full of the depths of time, dark, rumbling and mysterious, came a deep but hollow voice. “Frustratin’ ain’t it lads”, and a couple of seconds later it added “hic!” Turning to where the voice had originated, they noted for the first time a soul in his mid forties, maybe fifty, with sun darkened skin, and shoulder length dark hair with occasional flecks of white. He wore a long, well worn, tan leather coat, and boots that came up to his knees, and he had… that certain glow.

“I’m guessing you be new to these ‘ere parts” he went on, before adding again… “hic”

Brian was the first to recover. “Erm... hi,” he ventured, bizarrely somewhat nervous of the fact that he was in the room with a ghost.

“'Ello to yourself young lad.”

“Are you a ghost? I’ve not met a real live ghost before.” Brian added, as he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“A live ghost?” questioned Dennis, his face completely deadpan.

“Aye, That I be now, for some two hun… Hic… dred long years so the story goes, but then, looks to me like yon might be real live ghosts yourselves now… hic.”

“Yeah, for about two hundred long minutes.” Brian replied. “We’re a bit new to this.”

“You’ve been here for two hundred years?” Dennis asked incredulously.

“Couldn’t think of anywhere better to spend me time than the…hic... alehouse, and there’s none better than the Red Lion in these parts.”

“There speaks the voice of an expert.” Brian said to Dennis knowingly, “Although there’s quite a nice wine bar down Southall Street.”

“I thought this was The Old Red Lion.” corrected Dennis, who could be a stickler for details.

“It may be old to thee.” the older cove returned.

“I’m Brian,” ventured Brian, “and this is...” He realised that he didn’t actually know Dennis’s name.

“Dennis.” said Dennis.

“Pleased t’ make your 'quaintance I’m sure.” the old ghost replied, although it wasn’t completely evident he cared either way if he made their acquaintance or not.

“And you are?” Brian inquired.

“I don’t know that you need to… hic… know that.” came the curious reply.

How I Fell from Grace

The most important thing I learned from being a locksmith, is that the easiest way to open any lock, is with the bloody key. Don’t get me wrong, I ended up being a very good locksmith, but if you can get the key, you use the key. It’s kind of obvious really.

On one of my first jobs when I was an apprentice we were called out to this house where the tenants had changed the locks, and would you believe, taken the keys with them when they moved out. Quite funny I thought. The agent was fuming, which only made it funnier. We had to open the door before we could fit new locks. Old Jim Hogsmire was my boss at the time, a great smith, thirty years in the business, he taught me loads of stuff. He points me at the door, and says something like “OK whipper-snapper, show us your stuff.” I set at picking the lock like I was a pro. I was there for fifteen minutes, trying to lift all the pins, listening, feeling my way through the lock. It was my first real job. I was so chuffed when I cracked it. I swung the door open like I was the dogs cock. With a big cheesy grin on my face, I stepped back, and took a bow as I pushed the door open. Jim bent down and lifted the door matt. He picked up the key that was there and said “Probably would have been easier with this though.” I think my chest deflated about four inches. The agent added insult to injury by snorting contemptuously and saying his builder would have smashed the window, opened the door, and fitted a new window faster.

Old Jim wasn’t a reader though. I was. It’s amazing how much information is out there if you can be bothered to read. I found out about locks Jim had never even heard of. I came up with all kinds of tricks too. Using electromagnets to pull back bolts, that worked a few times. I could open all sorts of stuff. After a while I got a bit of a reputation, which may have been caused to some extent by my own boasting but there you go. That’s when the more dubious offers of work started to come in.

Whilst my intentions in becoming a locksmith had never been completely innocent, it was never my intention to join the actual criminal fraternity. Sometimes you just fall into these things. The first offer seemed reasonable enough. Jon Carver, a mate I’d known from school, told me he’d found a safe down the local tip, and he wanted me to see if I could open it. Apparently some builders must have thrown it away after demolishing a house. Talk about gullible. I can’t believe I fell for that. I suppose I was so busy trying to prove how good I was I never really thought it through. The fact that when I opened the safe it contained over two grand, and Jon gave me a couple of hundred quid may have helped to obscure my senses a bit too. Of course, even I wasn’t so stupid to believe him when he told me he’d ‘found’ another one. “What are the chances?” he asked.

“Yeah, what are the chances?” I replied sarcastically.

To give myself some credit I did originally refuse to help the second time around, but then Dave Granger, who it turned out was Jon’s sixteen stone rugby playing partner in crime, kind of insisted, and I was left with the option of a share in the proceeds, or get all my fingers broken. It was a bit of a no brainier, which was probably how Dave had managed to come up with the idea in the first place.

Jon used to say that football is a game for gentlemen, played by thugs, and that rugby is a game for thugs played by gentlemen. I thought that was ironic given that Dave was the biggest thug I’d ever met. I once told him that football was perhaps a game for gentlemen played by thugs, but that rugby was a game for thugs played by bigger thugs. He proved I was wrong by grabbing my nuts in his vice-like grip and squeezing less than gently until I accepted his position on the issue. There is no denying, he was categorically, totally and utterly, a gentleman⁴ .

Then Jon had the fantastic idea that I should come along with them on jobs. If I opened the safes on site, it saved them having to rip them out of the wall and carry the things away. Needless to say, I wasn’t overly fond of this idea, but then, I wasn’t overly fond of the idea of having my knuckles bend both ways either, so there I was, an almost innocent, set upon a life of crime.

I could have run. I could have grassed the pair of them up. The contents of Jon’s garage would have sent the pair of them down for a fair stretch. There were ways I could have got out of it. The fact was, I wasn’t that innocent. I was quite excited by the idea of going on a burglary, and whilst I justified my own innocence to myself on the grounds that I was being bullied into it, the truth be told, I suppose I wasn't really that desperate to get out of it.

Jon had put fake plates on his van, and we literally just drove up the drive of a very posh house, and parked outside. They were pretty businesslike for a pair of petty crooks. They just got out of the van, and walked briskly down the path that led down the side of the house, past the sort of garden that looked like it was someone's job to maintain. It was obvious we were all out of place, no matter how businesslike about it the other two were. They still looked shifty as hell, and me, well, I was just bricking it.

We found a way in through a huge, ornate conservatory. The key was under a flower pot. I felt this huge surge of relief as I lifted the pot, and found it staring at me. So much easier (and generally faster) than having to pick these things. A grin slipped across my face under my balaclava, perhaps this wasn't going to be so bad after all. I took the key, and slowly, and perhaps a little over dramatically turned it in the lock. There was the hollow sound of a well oiled mechanism going through its motions, and the door was soon swinging open.

Like I said, Jon was the brains, and I wasn’t completely stupid so Dave went in first. Then Jon suggested I follow him, and being the new boy I did what I was told. The family were apparently away on holiday, so we would have no problems with being interrupted. I was still bricking myself as I entered and walked slowly through the conservatory, to some sort of living room. Dave was already headed upstairs. There’s a ten to one chance the safe or any jewellery would be in the master bedroom, and he was going straight for it. As I turned my torch on, and followed him, my stomach was in complete knots.

But it was that simple. I opened the safe. We took the loot. Made good our escape.

The second job was easier on the stomach, and the third job easier still. The fourth proved to be a bit more of a problem.

Found by Religion

There was a knock at the door. No one ever knocked at the door. Firstly because there was a complicated system of entrance buzzers, cameras, communications devices, and automated switches to gain entrance to the apartment block Kuryani lived in, and secondly, because Kuryani had no friends.

It was safer that way.

She slipped the documents she’d been reading for the third time back into the portfolio, and dropped it into a drawer out of sight –  You couldn’t be too careful –  before walking down the short corridor to the front door and with one eye, peered apprehensively through the spyglass. Half way down the corridor, she could just about make out the bizarre distorted figures of what looked like two men dressed as Benedictine Monks.

Many people in this situation might assume that they were about to be accosted by someone with a slightly unhealthy interest in saving their immortal soul. Some might refuse to answer the door, hide and pretend to not be in. Some might answer, before really wishing they hadn't. Some might thrive on the cut and thrust of theological debate, answer enthusiastically, and hey, try and convert them right back. For some, perhaps it is the salvation they've been waiting for, if only from the mediocrity of daytime T.V.

Kuryani reached into a cabinet by the door, and retrieved a twelve bore sawn off shotgun⁵ . She checked the door's chains were suitably in place before, from out of nowhere, the door was simply blown inwards off its hinges. Protected from the majority of the blast by the door itself, which still knocked her backwards a good few feet, she landed upright, still holding the shotgun, because, that’s just the kind of girl she was. Instinctively, using the door as cover, she emptied both barrels into the smoke that remained of her doorway, before rolling deftly sideways out of the corridor into her bedroom. Throwing the shotgun to the floor, from under her pillow she grabbed a hand gun with a barrel the size of which you could have brewed beer in. Then covering the door with the handgun, she moved over to the bedroom cupboard, from which she took a sub machine gun with a sub you could have launched nukes from. She crouched behind the bed, and waited for them to come through the door.

And she waited.

And waited.

And…

… and they never came.

She was pressed. People would have heard that explosion, not to mention the shots. The police would be called. She couldn’t let herself be found here. The police would ask questions, and heaven forbid they find the rest of her armoury. She had anything from three or four minutes, to… well, about a week to ten days, depending on the police in question, before uniformed trouble arrived. With the machine gun in one hand, she took the mirror from the wall, and moving silently to the doorway, she tossed it into the hall. For the few seconds it was in the air, she used it to look down the corridor.

All clear.

It hit the floor with a resounding crash as the glass shattered and spread itself chaotically across the hallway. Seven years bad luck to know that the corridor was clear. It was probably a fair deal, as long as you weren’t that superstitious. Stepping into the corridor, she crept along the wall to the entrance of the living room, before launching herself in with a sudden burst of athletic grace, aiming guns as she flew through the air –  time slowed, senses heightened –  but the living room was empty. She hit the floor rolling, recognising instantly that the drawer was open, the portfolio was gone.

Two words shot through her mind.

“Oh…

…...............Crap!”

She ran back to the bedroom, grabbed a large kit bag, and started throwing an assortment of ordinance and various ‘useful bits and pieces’ inside. Finally, she strapped on a parachute (because who doesn’t have one handy when they live in a high rise apartment), and carrying far more weight than seemed remotely feasible, elegantly stepped up to, and out of the window.

As she fell through the ebony night sky with the curtains billowing behind her, she contemplated, that she may have lost the portfolio, but she’d made a bloody stylish exit.

The End of My Criminal Career

It was as the van pulled into the driveway that I realised where we were. I’d been relegated to the back of the two seater, but through the rear windows, I recognised the old wooden gates, and immaculate hedges of Brenda Donaldson’s garden. I’d crept through it years before trying to get a peek in her window. I’d been here a hundred times since. Christ, we couldn’t be going to do Brenda’s house. That was just wrong.

Although I did still owe her for the kick in the jewels, but still. My stomach tied itself right back up again.

“We can’t do this house!” I exclaimed “Do you know who lives here?”

“Well, yeah,” said Jon, “and I also know they’re not here for the weekend.”

“You skanky bastard.” I said “That’s not on, you can’t do a mates house.”

“No mate o’ mine,” said Jon “stuck up bitch!”

“Lesbian bitch.” added Dave.

“Damn right she’s a lesbian,” Jon agreed, “but she’s a lesbian with loaded parents. Now go open the door, there’s a good lad.”

“No fucking way.” I protested, “It’s not happening; I’m not a part of this.” Besides, who was he calling a ‘good lad’ The patronizing bastard was younger than me, if only by a few months.

“Either you’re a part of this, or you’ll be a part of the ring road.” answered Jon, with a sinister calmness. He gave Dave a little nod, and Dave turned and smiled the most malicious grin my way. Then Jon said, “Just go and work your magic.”

I’m not quite sure if he was talking to me or Dave, but the threat was obvious. All sixteen stone of it.

Dave looked at me like he was looking forward to my refusal. I wasn’t sure if I could outrun him, but I knew I’d lose badly if he caught me, and where was I going to go. This probably wasn’t really the time to drop them in it with the law, “Well, you see officer, we were all going to rob this house, but I backed out because I had a kinda crush and a half on the girl that lives there, but they still wanted to do it, apparently because she’d refused to sleep with one or both of them. She may or may not be a lesbian, she did kick me in the nuts once. I’m not quite sure if that’s relevant, but anyway, now they’re threatening to kill me, and that probably is.” Of course proving any of that could have been a bit tricky. Well, proving it and living to tell the tale.

So I got out of the van, and went to open the door. This was just wrong. I was even more nervous than the first time. My stomach was in so many knots I'd swear it had developed a taste for bondage with boy scouts. So so wrong. To give Brenda’s folks some credit, there was no key under the mat, nor the flowerpots. Neither was it on the ledge above the door. It was still your bog standard back door though, so even as jittery as I was, it took about sixty seconds to pick. The old ill fitting bolts on the other side of the door refused my electromagnetic attempts at shifting them, but gave surprisingly easily to the force of Dave’s shoulder. The screws ripped out of the frame and the door flew inwards. Then Dave was gone, as ever headed straight for the master bedroom.

Hesitantly I stepped inside. I didn't want to be doing this. I moved though the kitchen to the hallway very slowly, filled with an innate sense of, not just trepidation, but, well, guilt. It's one thing to get caught doing something wrong. It is another thing to get caught doing something that you personally consider to be morally reprehensible. This crossed a line for me. OK, accepted, for most people, just being in someone else's house uninvited is wrong. To then pinch their stuff, well, another level of wrong, but to be doing that to a mate, to one of your own, I don't know, I just know that it didn't feel at all right, and I didn't want any part of it.

It was instantaneous, From nowhere, a huge great white ball of malevolently hissing fluff jumped into my face, like some punctured zombie facehugger pom pom from hell. It scared the living crap out of me. Whoever heard of a guard cat? The knots in my stomach suddenly released and I projectile vomited, coating the unfortunate kitty in a combination of the evenings curry, and a very healthy helping of carrot. Jon, who was just behind me, instantly froze, then after a couple of seconds pause, simply pissed himself laughing, as the carrot encrusted ball of sticky white fluff rolled around the floor, trying to get the stinking mess of microwave madras out of its fur. I guess it was pretty funny even if I didn't see it at the time.

After I regained my composure, which took a while, without any great sense of urgency I followed Dave upstairs. It was so very weird. I’d been here so many times before, but surprisingly enough, never by torchlight. For a few seconds I stood on the end of the landing, watching him tearing apart the master bedroom, rifling through cupboards, emptying drawers onto the bed, generally trashing the place. It was just gutting. It really brought it home. Just what were they going to think when they came home to this?

In no great rush I walked down the corridor towards him, like I said, if there was a safe, nine times out of ten it will be in the master bedroom, but as I walked past Brenda’s bedroom door, I glanced inside, and there it was. Just sat there on the mantle, bathed in the moonlight. Brenda Donaldson’s bloody chest in all its glory, just sat there for the taking.

I don't know if I can describe what went through my head, at least, not in any semblance of order. I wanted it. I’d wanted it for years. At least, I wanted to know what was in it, but I was hit by a wave of fear that Dave and Jon would find it, and somehow ‘corrupt’ my... my schoolboy fantasy? No, that sounds like I'd been wanking over it for years. My childhood curiosity. Then there was this insane part of me that thought it was wrong to steal the chest in this way. If I was going to take it, it should have been a some glorious mission to accomplish, a heroic ninja venture into the night with all the magic and mystery such school boy adventures entail, not a bi-product of some fucked up burglary I didn’t even want to be a part of. It just seemed somehow, so very sordid.

That all took about three or four seconds. What can I say? I never claimed to be that innocent. Within five seconds I had my picks out and was heading for the lock. Sweat beads broke out on my brow as the pick entered the delicate folds of the elaborate keyhole. For so long I’d wanted this. If this had been a film there would have been images of trains entering tunnels, and rockets launching.

Then everything blurred. A jolt of something like electricity shot down the pick, into my hand, up my arm. It felt like my hand was having an orgasm. As I lost consciousness I remember thinking “Perhaps it’s only fair that my hand should finally have one after all it’s done for me.”

It can only have been a few seconds later when I came round, finding myself decked out on the floor. I could hear Jon coming up the stairs. He always stayed downstairs for a bit to make sure we weren’t being followed, although I think it was just so that Dave would be the first to find anyone if it turned out the inhabitants weren’t out after all. I looked at the box, as it lay there next to me, innocently dozing on its side. Its lid still chastely shut. What the fuck just happened? There wasn’t time to work this out now, I dragged myself to my feet, picked up the box, opened a window, and threw the box out into the garden. Then I staggered out to see what Dave was up to.

He’d found the safe in the back of a built in wardrobe, so mildly dazed, I set to work. They bagged the jewellery that had been lying around next to the bed and such, and headed downstairs to start clearing out all the electronic gear from the living room into the van.

What the hell had just hit me. OK, it had to be an electric shock. I laughed out loud as it occurred to me that Brenda Donaldson’s chest must have been ‘booby’ trapped. OK I know, lame joke, but it brought a depraved smile to my depressed face. At that point I think it became more than just curiosity. More than just childhood obsession. It became a matter of professional pride. One way or another I was going to get inside that box.

The safe popped open. I’d done the thing without even thinking. I never even looked inside. I just walked downstairs. The two of them were in the living room stacking what looked like very expensive hi-fi gear onto a sack truck. They never even saw me go. There’s times I just do things and don’t really think them through and that was one of them. I’d done my bit. I left the safe door open so my unthinking logic reasoned they couldn’t complain. I picked up the box from the garden and was gone. I got to the end of the street before I realised I was still wearing my balaclava. I pulled it off and tucked it inside my jacket. That was that. I went home.

I went home, to have my wicked way with Brenda Donaldson’s chest, as I’d fantasized about for so many years before.

The Beginning of THE END

God sat on his metaphorical cloud and contemplated the contents of his more than metaphorical belly button. Obviously being God had its benefits, what with all the mortals being happy to run around and do your bidding, and well, you can’t forget the omniscience, literally.

Of late though, it had become, to say the least a little tiresome. For a start, they were an ungrateful bunch of bastards, which isn’t to say he didn’t know who their fathers were, because being the kind of deity who was capable of spreading it around a bit, they were ultimately all His children. It was simply the case that there just didn’t seem to be a happy medium between the arseholes who ‘knew’ he never existed, and the know-it-all buggers who wanted to massacre anyone who disagreed about the quantity of his nasal hair and which of The Heavenly Nostrils was more worthy of worship. That’s not even mentioning the ingratiating brown nosed sycophants (the brown nosed part being obviously only a metaphor. Although God has an arsehole, and we know this to be true, as he made man in his own image, and man has an arsehole, QED, God obviously never actually does anything quite so godless as shit through his (although if you’ve been to certain parts of Slough⁶ you may disagree).

To put it simply. God knew everything so life was really lacking surprises. He could do anything, so nothing really proved so much of a challenge, and he lacked any mates to pop down the pub with ever since he’d started denying the existence of Thor and the boys. This in itself wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. He was The Creator after all, although perhaps the role was more comparable to that of a caretaker these days. Most of the actual creating had been done in the first week or so, and all he really had to do now was routine maintenance to keep everything ticking over. Generally he just let evolution get on with it. He had kept the more impressive sounding job title though, and as any caretaker knows, being omniscient and omnipotent are the minimum qualifications for the job.

But the stress had been getting to him a bit of late. He had, to put it mildly, a very high powered caretaker job, and there was an awful lot of pressure living up to everyone’s differing expectations. If he hadn’t been omniscient there would have been days when he didn’t know what sex he was never mind what religion. Being omnipotent did have the obvious advantage that She could quite conveniently change it when it got round to ‘that time of the month’. This had proved very convenient when people started looking for a slightly less angry god, just after the whole Old Testament débâcle. He’d also put herself on a course of jealousy counselling, which had turned out to be exceptionally prudent when you know for a absolute fact what your loved ones are getting up to.

To top it all, earlier that day, some ungracious little twerp had the nerve to call him, and I quote, a “smug pedantic shit.” It was the last straw. He’d created the bloody universe. He had every right to be smug! And he wasn’t pedantic, he simply did know better than anyone else, and occasionally corrected them on the details, but be that as it may, he didn’t shit, and he did not like being associated with shit!

God decided to end it all.

And when God decided to end it all, God decided to end it all.

Of course, He’d always known he was going to do this. It was simply a matter of time and the details. It wasn’t like he hadn’t given them all adequate notice.

Bob and Tom

“Tom.” said Bob, in a tone that implied there was a question forming.

“Yes, Bob?” responded Tom kindly.

There was a pause while Bob tried to find the exact phrasing for his question from the immense resources of his gargantuanly large brain. In fact, Bob’s brain was so large, it often took a minor age for a thought to get from one side of it to the other. It was in fact so incredibly huge, that he frequently misplaced things that he had put there only minutes before.

Tom waited patiently while his brother, for that was how he viewed him, pulled together the words from the four corners of the inside of his ‘infinite’ cranium. He was used to waiting in such situations, having shared his company since – he thought how long it had been, such, such a long time. He looked into Bobs eyes, and saw the pieces of the question tumbling into place, like cherries on the wheels of a well oiled one armed bandit. His eyes appeared to light up with the realisation that he had found the words he needed. As the words came out, Tom realised that Bob, although slow, was now, as he always did eventually (because he was slow and not stupid) beginning to realise the gravity of the situation they found themselves in.

“Tom.” repeated Bob.

“Yes, Bob?” repeated Tom, equally kindly.

Again there was a pause, before Bob finally asked...

“Do you think God’s going to be mad at us?”

The Perfect Pint

“There be something ye be needing t' be doing,” intoned the old ghost, as he slipped back into his chair, “'afore ye can move onto yon next place.”

“Next place?” asked Brian.

“Aye, yon next place.” repeated the stranger knowingly, adding no further information.

“What makes you think we want to go to the ‘next place’?” asked Dennis.

“Ahhh, everyone wants t' move ont' thar next place,” replied the old soul, “Men is rarely happy where they be.” Then added on queue, as if just for effect “hic!”

Dennis, who was starting to quite like being invisible wasn’t so sure he wanted to move on anywhere.

“Ahhhh, but yon next place,” the cove continued, “tis a land of milk an' honey, wine an' song,” His eyes subtly glazed, and the slightest of smiles found its way to the corner of his mouth “an' young virgins of questionable virtue…” His voice trailed off, as he pondered the wonder of such... 'wondrous things'.

“So why are you still here?” Dennis asked with a certain amount of defiance.

“Ahhhh, that particular next place is perhaps not for those that have led such a life as I.” came the response, and Dennis wondered if he spotted the glimmer of a ghostly tear in this self confessed villains eye.

“Why not?” asked Brian.

“There be a man standing on the gate, is not so disposed to the likes of I.” he answered.

“Yeah, the wine bar down Southall street is the same,” Brian responded, “I had a few problems getting in there.” Then he added helpfully “Have you tried wearing a tie?”

The old ghost looked at him incredulously, and Brian winked back.

“Ye pays your money, and you takes your choice. The ale in this place is fine, and I’ll stay and sup, but it don’t satisfy as it might when a thirst don’t need quenching. In the next place you’ll have your desires, and every means to sate 'em.”

“What if I have no desires?” Brian asked.

“Then ye be even deader than ye seems lad... but I’ve seen ye, ye's not so long dead that ye don’t still 'ave desire. Tell me now, I saw ye at that there tap, just how far would ye travel for the sweet taste of a flagon of ale?”

Brian’s eyes lit up faster than a chain smoker after a long haul flight, before Dennis somewhat spoiled the moment by asking “Where are you going to get a flagon in this day and age?”

Brian was not put off, “OK, you've got me there.” he answered with a smile, knowing he’d been summed up quite astutely. “I could murder a pint… A few pints, feet up, footy on the telly... Hell and back mate. “ He let loose a little laugh, and a big smile.

“Arghhh,” said the old cove, sounding decidedly like a pirate in a pretty poor amateur production, “well, maybe that’s what be waiting for ye in yon next place.”

“And maybe a couple of virgins of questionable virtue for good measure.” added Dennis sarcastically.

“Oh, they don’t have to be virgins,” Brian responded, “I quite like a bit of experience.”

Dennis rolled his eyes.

“Well there’ll be something ye’ll be needing to put right afore ye can move on.” said the cove. “Something that's blocking your way.”

“Like what?” asked Brian.

The old soul was silent for a while as he eyed them quietly, perhaps reminiscing, but then returned “Someone you’ve hurt you'll be needing to mend, something you’ve taken you’ll be wanting to return.” The old pirate added wistfully. “Could be so many things.” The sentence was completed in dramatic fashion with one final loud and exceptionally resonant  “hic!”

There were so many things, so many things, but Brian’s thoughts instantly turned, as they had so often during his life, straight to Brenda Donaldson’s chest.

The Key is the Key

It didn’t seem to matter what I did to that sodding box, or what I wore on my hands to insulate myself. Every time I stuck anything in the keyhole, I got a blast up my arm that left me flat on my arse. I spent an entire week getting knocked over, and trying to find something to insulate myself with. I started working on it while sitting on the floor to save time getting back up again. I came to view it as the epitome of pointless.

On three separate occasions my neighbour found me comatose on my kitchen floor. On the first he'd come round to complain about the ‘seriously and unruly overgrown state of my garden hedge’. It's hardly my fault that hedges grow. I think that having cut it the once that any further unruliness can be laid at the foot of the hedge itself, or for that matter, on God for creating it that way. It's not my fault that hedges grow.

My neighbour didn't agree.

He then came around and complained that someone had ‘parked their tatty looking van in front of my house’. Given that I don’t own a van I took offence at his accusations, but for God's sake, who worries about such things when they park their own car in their driveway? I think he was concerned that it made the street look untidy. The sad twat.

On the final occasion he came round to complain that the ‘god awful noise I called music’ could be heard at three in the morning in his kitchen. He perhaps had a point on that occasion, given that it was, as reported, three in the morning and I was passed out and not actually listening to it in any conscious sense. Although I hesitate to feel completely guilty given that he had to go into his kitchen at three in the morning to find this out, and must have therefore already been awake, and he then came round and woke me up (at three in the morning) when I was most delightfully asleep. I ask you, who’s the bastard?

I think the fact that he found me unconscious on my kitchen floor on each occasion led him to believe that I was on some kind of drugs (which may have been true on unrelated occasions, but I digress), although that may have just been me being paranoid, due to the fact that he found me every time passed out next to what looked like an overly ornate hippy stash box.

Being shocked by the box wasn’t such a bad feeling. It just sort of sent a spasm up my arm, and knocked me out for anything from a few seconds to a few minutes (or a few hours if I’d been drinking previously). Like I’ve said, it was sort of like a localised orgasm. With a touch of electrolysis. Maybe that was the point, the electrolysis stopped you growing hairs on your palms.

The thing was, there’s only so long before you realise that you’re not getting anywhere. It got to the point where I wondered if I was just doing it for the thrill, sort of gambling against getting the shock. At that point I decided to stop, because giving yourself electric shocks for the fun of it is just a bit too weird for me.

As much as my professional pride hated to admit it, I needed the key.

Still, all was not lost. I still had the box, and Brenda had come back from her holiday by this point, and although news of the burglary had spread, there was no news about who was responsible, and it occurred to me that she now had a key, that she had no use for.

On the Friday night just after she returned, I met her in the pub. I wasn’t exactly sober, but she was god love her soul, damned right out of her head pissed as a person who was really quite drunk. The chain was hanging around her perfect neck, and there dangling between her perfect breasts was the perfect solution to my imperfect situation.

“Are you stharing at mine tsits?” she asked, in her usual forthright manner. Oddly enough, she didn't actually appear to be complaining.

Maybe it was the booze, but I actually answered honestly. “I was actually staring at that lovely necklace.” OK, almost honestly, I was lusting after the key, but it’s a minor detail.

“Bhollocks,” she responded, “youoou were… staring at my… stits.” as she took another gulp of whatever concoction she was obviously drowning in.

“No seriously,” I said defensively “I was staring at your necklace. It’s lovely. Really it is.”

“Are you syaing my stits aren’t slovely?”

How and more to the point, why, do girls do this? Where do they develop this innate power? Do they get special classes in school that are denied to the boys? Some sort of cross between studying English language, psychology and the most horrendous biology. You give them a perfectly reasonable compliment, and somehow, they manage to strap it to the slab, twist it, deform it, mutilate it, stitch it back together from almost recognisable pieces, and finally blast it back in an almighty bolt of lightning as Frankenstein's insult.

“No, I mean yes... no, I wasn't, yes they are…probably... obviously, I mean… if I was looking... not that...”

Thankfully, she interrupted my attempt at digging myself out of the hole I found myself in by slurring “It'sacraps snecklace.” and she took it in her hand and looked at it with a distinct sadness, perhaps in recognition of what she’d lost, and said, “Uwcan 'av it if you want.” and with no further prompting she started to unhook it from the back of her neck.

I couldn’t believe it. I almost got religion there and then. For years I’d wanted this. For years I’d been too afraid to ask. It was just being offered straight up. If she’d unhooked her dress and not the chain I couldn’t have been happier. Well, OK,  Maybe that’s debatable. But still, there it was, being held out in front of me, just inches away, and as I lifted my hand to take it from her, with my heart full of… She pulled her hand back a fraction, obviously reflecting on something important, and with immense concentration, phrased the momentous catalyst “fyajompfrumaplanyfirst.”

“What?” I asked, not unreasonably.

“Some people,” she said, trying hard to enunciate her vowels “from… my… offseey, are doing a spnsed pchute thing… thingy… thing.” and her eyes crossed as she tried desperately to remember the thing thingy thing that was evidently eluding her.

It took me a while to work it all out, but it all became clear in the end. This girl never made things easy. Some people from her office were doing a sponsored parachute jump. If I jumped out of a fucking plane, I could have the bastard key.

Can you see where this is going?

Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God

God laughed.

It wasn’t something he did often, on the grounds that he generally knew the punch line before you’d started the joke, but he laughed all the same.

He was probably just happy.

Meanwhile, down on earth Tom looked at Bob with a certain resigned look in his eyes. It was a complicated explanation he was trying to form, and he knew that certain parts of it would get lost in the cavernous quarters of Bobs immense brain before he’d managed to form any conclusions to Bobs original question.

“You see, Bob,” he started, although he knew full well that he was only saying these words to give himself time to think, “God doesn’t actually get angry.”

“He certainly seems angry sometimes.” said Bob.

“Well yes,” said Tom, “He does, but you have to understand that our perception of God is an anthropomorphism of a certain essential state of being.”

“What does that mean?” asked Bob quite reasonably.

“Bugger all really if the truth be told,” said Tom, “but I suppose it means that as much as man is created in Gods image…”

“Which man?” interrupted Bob.

“Please don’t interrupt Bob,” requested Tom as kindly as ever “this is quite complicated, and we need to keep to the point.”

“But they’re all different, which man was created in Gods image?” persisted Tom.

“Well, Adam, I suppose then, but let’s get back on track...”

“So why did they say man was created in Gods image, and not just that Adam was?”

“It’s just a way of speaking.” Tom added, as patiently as ever, “It’s more that man, and for that sake, woman, were created as representations of God’s image on earth, so it could also have been Eve. It comes down to what we mean by image.”

“Oh,” said Bob, sounding less than convinced, “so God might have breasts.”

“What? No please, just listen, That’s not important.” Tom cut in quickly. “The point is, that as much as man, or Adam if you’d prefer, but not Eve if that’s going to distract you, was created in God’s image, each man creates a version, or a visualization of God in an image that suits the way that he sees the world.” He read the blank expression on Bob's face, and pondered how to clarify the point. “If a man believes in peace and love, he will create a peaceful and loving version of God for himself, and if a man believes in retribution, an eye for an eye and all that, then he will create a vengeful God who deals in the same.”

“Oh.” said Bob, with slightly more conviction.

“So it’s probably fair to say,” Tom continued “that as much as God created man in His image, that man does in fact create a god or God in his image.”

“So, men create gods?” Bob asked incredulously.

“Since the beginning of time,” Tom added knowingly, “although it’s only a visualisation, you understand, and not the actual God. What people worship is not The Actual God, but just what they think God is, or how they perceive God to be, or even just what they want God to be, based on what they have come to, or been led to believe, because being limited by their own senses they can’t possibly know exactly what God is. Unlike us, they haven’t met him personally.”

“Except for the ones everyone thinks are crazy.” said Bob.

“Who just might be crazy.” agreed Tom.

“Are we crazy?” asked Bob.

“Possibly.” accepted Tom after a brief pause. Then he waited patiently, as another tectonic shift occurred in Bob’s brain.

“So how do you know which persons idea of God is... right?”

Tom found himself wanting to say “You don’t”, but he took a deep breath, and because he was a kindly and patient being said “It is a matter of belief, in oneself, as much as in ones deity.”

Which quite possibly amounts to the same thing, but sounds far more like you know what you're talking about.

Bob had a very large brain, and saw straight through this. “So you don’t actually know then.”

“Well… No.” admitted Tom.

“So you don’t really know if he’s going to be angry then.”

“Erm… now that you come to mention it. Perhaps, actually, no, not really.” admitted Tom.

“The thing is,” Tom added as an afterthought, “is that I have met him.” He stated this almost defiantly, as if there was a certain inference that could be taken from this information. He had been graced with God’s presence. “I know he won’t be angry, because he is an anthropomorphism of an essential state of being. God is Love. He is omniscient, and as such, knows our every action, prior to us taking it. How could a reasonable god be angry, given that we are only playing out the roles that He created us for, the roles that He knew we would perform?”

Bob thought about this for a few moments. Neurons fired, gears turned, plates shifted.

 “He’s going to be really pissed off isn’t he?” he finally concluded.

“Oh Christ help us,” blasphemed Tom, “He’s going to throw every toy out of the pram.”

God laughed.

It wasn’t something he did often, on the grounds that he generally knew the punch line before you’d started the joke, but he laughed all the same.

He was probably just happy.

But then it was the sort of laugh that might lead you to believe, that he was possibly, just ever so slightly…

...ever so slightly insane.

Free Fall

There were two new stars in the sky that night. Kuryani plummeted through the illusion of ebony as thoughts, like lightning, arced across the small, but perfectly formed hemispheres of her brain, illuminating her eyes like... So they weren't new stars, but her radiant eyes, seemingly illuminated by the immense voltage that crackled behind them, on her otherwise calm, focused, countenance. Her long dark hair in full flow behind her, chasing hard to keep pace with the luminous if somewhat sober sparkle, seemed to blend with the night as if such dark and silken strands bound her to it, or it to her.

The contents of the portfolio, the maps, the instructions, were all there slotted and ordered in the tightly packed tetris of her highly stacked mind, and if she no longer needed the items themselves, she still needed to execute the plan fast, before whoever had just stolen them had time to work out what the plans were, and where they might lead.

But... if they’d stolen them, surely they already knew what they were. There was no time to lose. She pulled the cord, and the parachute burst open, jerking her from free fall, and as she pulled on the 'chute handles, guiding her path to the ground in a perfectly timed arc, she directed herself towards the steps leading down to the parking spaces below the apartments where her pride and joy waited patiently.

She loved her bike. It was one of the few luxuries she allowed herself, on the grounds that it was ridiculously fast, and a damned good excuse to dress in tight black leather. For a woman who scorned human company, she also enjoyed the fact that it was a chance to get a thousand CC’s of raw vibrating power between her thighs. Be that as it may, this was no time for such considerations. She hit the ground running, and the parachute was dropped from her back and left where it fell, as she vanished down a set of steps into the basement car park.

All was quite, calm and subdued. The wind rustled vaguely in the trees. The moon shone down unphased, bright and clear upon the scene; the sole spectator to a spectacle that would have gone unnoticed if not for its attention. All was tranquillity, until a sudden, thunderous, reverberating roar tore through the senses, as the mighty beast was launched up the ramp from its subterranean lair, and thrust out into the road and the night that lay waiting.

Just Put Your Mind To It

“How do you return things if you can’t pick anything up?” Brian asked quite reasonably.

The old cove, with a sly wink, leaned back to the next table, picked up a pint from directly in front of a patron who had just sat down with it, guided it to his lips and started to pour. The four people at the next table watched in disbelief as the glass floated through the air, and jaws dropped, as the deep amber liquid poured from the glass, and vanished.

Brian watched in awe as the old cove dropped the empty pint pot back onto the table in front of the open mouthed patron, with nothing more than foam sliding down the insides of the glass.

“hic!” he said.

Brian started to salivate.

“Ye ever heard of such a beast as a poltergeist?” The old soul asked.

“Of course.” replied Brian.

“Well, the thing ye'll be needing to be knowing lad, is that your poltergeist is just your normal ghost that’s a bit more bloody minded than usual.”

Checking In

Anthony ended the call and slipped his phone back into his inside pocket. Kuryani had been as cool as ever, but things were undoubtedly not as clear cut as he had hoped they might be. She never actually suggested there was any kind of problem she couldn’t deal with; She had simply requested further information. Who else knew about this object she was to pick up, and should she be expecting any ‘competition’, specifically, were there any religious orders who may demonstrate a significant interest, and if so, how heavily armed could she expect them to be?

Anthony smiled at this, although he’d simply suggested she should proceed immediately to make the pick up, and he’d see what he could find out. There was silence on the other end of the ‘line’ except for the hum of a high powered engine, in which Anthony imagined a lesser person would have been saying “well duh!”

He took the phone back from his pocket, and selected speed dial No 2. There was a brief pause before a voice answered in a heavy Italian accent “Vatican Internal Services.”

“Paulo, how are things in the God business?”

“Anthony, helllowa,” The accent switched to perfect American English, if that’s not an oxymoron. “It’s good, It’s good, we are after all… protected.” It was said with a slight laugh. “How's the ice cream coming along?”

“Oh, cool as ever,” Anthony replied, as if he’d told the joke a hundred times, which he had. “but I’m sorry, I need to come straight to the point. I need to know if you have any operatives in this area who may have… unfortunately, collided with one of my people?”

“Can you give me specifics?” Paulo requested with a certain efficaciousness.

Anthony gave as few ‘specifics’ as he thought he could reasonably get away with, hence, little more than the location of the incident and the time. “If these are your people Paulo, I need them calling off.”

“I’m ninety nine percent sure they’re not ours Anthony.”

“I need you to be a hundred percent.”

“I’ll check.”

“Of course you will. I need to know who they are Paulo, and I need to know yesterday. If they’re not yours I need to know who’s.”

“Consider it done the day before yesterday.”

Anthony ended the call, and again slipped the phone back into his pocket with a grimace. He detested such blatantly fake positivity. If he could have considered it done the day before yesterday he wouldn’t have to have made the phone call in the first place. He turned, and as he liked to do when he was pondering his next move, he stared out of his window over the city.

It was at times like this that he really wished he had a big white fluffy cat.

Fear of Heights

As I walked towards the pathetic grass strip that was allegedly the runway, towards the tiny little single engine object that was apparently our plane, my life was literally flashing before my eyes. That should have been a clue, but as I’d seen the show before, and quite frankly, there was a lot of filler between the interesting bits, I just tried to get on with the serious business of looking nonchalant while I was secretly shitting myself.

There were eight of us who were going to be jumping, as well as the instructor, who was one of those hippy surfer adrenalin junkie types. Just looking into his eyes scared the crap out of me. You could see something lurking there that said that he didn’t really care if he lived or died, but “Heh! Everybody! isn’t this just so much fun!”

I fiddled with the straps of my parachute, and checked all the fastenings and generally tried to do anything that made me look busy. If I was the sort of person who worked in an office, I’d have picked up a random bit of paper or something and started to read. Maybe taken a meandering stroll around the building holding said piece of paper. Anything to not look like I didn’t have a clue what I was doing or why.

Of course, I did know why I was doing this, and just then she called my name, and I turned, and through the haze of approaching death, she ran towards me across the field in slow motion, her hair blowing in the breeze, her boobs bouncing within their struggling constraints, her key glinting in the sunlight, nestled between the perfect pertness on its slender silver chain. She threw her arms around me, and with heightened senses I felt her body press against mine as she reached up and pulled my head towards hers, and planted a huge wet kiss on my dumbfounded mouth. She took the chain from around her neck, and placed it over my head, taking her time to arrange it, so it all hung straight. It must have all looked so very ceremonial. I think she may even have been laying claim to me in some primeval sense, but it was all just a daze. I remember smiling. I remember smiling, but feeling confused. Very confused. I reached up and held the key, on it’s slender silver chain in my hand, and l stared, memorised, as the light appeared to form a haze around it. When I looked up into her soft green eyes, it was a struggle to hold her gaze. Staring through mist, I suddenly felt so very, very unworthy.

It was just a box. This was just a key. She was just the most beautiful creature who had ever lived, and excepting obvious critical moments involving her knee and my gonads, she had always been such a close and dear friend to me. Only now I realised, perhaps due to the fact that I was about to die, and my genes were crying out with all the force of their selfish desire that I should just take her there and then before I snuffed it, that I suddenly wanted her to be mine, and I could see in her eyes, that as I stood there, preparing to risk life and limb, that I was at this moment, to all intents and purposes, her hero. I felt so very, very unworthy.

With a hesitant smile I thought about kissing her again, but I just stood there transfixed, drowning in the depths of her reciprocal stare. She wanted me too I was sure, and... oh how I wanted to... but, that thought flicked across my mind, I'd stolen from her, I was lying to her, it wouldn’t be right. There was something I needed to do first.

I needed to feel myself worthy. I needed to return the box. I needed to tell her all that had happened, and unfortunately, before I could do any of that, I needed to jump out of a fucking airplane.

So I took her hand, and I held it for a while, and I looked into her eyes, and I smiled, and she smiled back, with a sort of quizzical look as if she was waiting for me to say something, but I couldn’t, so simply letting her hand slip from mine, I turned, and with my heart thumping for so many reasons, without a word, I walked towards the pathetic little aircraft and my impending demise.

Second Chances

The universe is quite an interesting place really. Just when you think you’ve got it completely sorted, it will offer a sneaky peak of something else it has to offer. What with all its parallel bits and bobs and Schroedingite tendencies, not to mention the intrinsically subjective and somewhat mental nature of the viewer, you can never be completely sure what the hell is going on, and the universe it seems, in all its spiral twisty turnyness, is quite happy to keep it that way.

Spirited Spirits

If you approach life with ‘a certain attitude’, there is nothing else quite as much fun, as doing things you can’t quite do. Of course, when life is approached with a completely different attitude, doing things you can’t quite do, can be a pain in the sodding arse, and embarrassing in the extreme. There is nothing fun about standing amidst a crowd of people as they witness your complete and total failure and humiliation. It depends how easily you embarrass, and it could be said, how much you give a shit. It’s all just perspective.

Perspective is important, and because of this difference in perspective, the ghost of Dennis, or the essential essence of Dennis, depending on your ‘perspective’, merely watched and wondered while Brian’s soul didn’t seem to mind his continued failure to make contact with the glass. His hand passed through it again and again. Dennis watched as Brian screwed up his face with the effort of trying to make contact with the physical universe, again and again. The old cove laughed, and occasionally mocked him for his persistence, and Brian smiled back, as he tried once more, and then twice more, and then again and again.

It could be said that he was simply desperate for a beer, and if you’d asked Brian why he persisted that may have been what he replied, but the greater truth in the matter was simply that Brian was a man on a mission, and not to mention, a bloody minded bastard.

Complete and utter poltergeist material.

Dennis refused to try. What was the point? It was obviously impossible, and there was no point in making a fool out of yourself. After a while, he said as much. So the old cove repeated the ‘stunt’ when no one else was watching.

“Truth be told, it truly do be impossible,” he replied “but I can work miracles when I puts me mind to it.”

“I think I’m going to call him Pugwash.” said Brian to Dennis, looking up from his task for a second.

Dennis laughed, before deciding that maybe that wasn’t a nice thing to do, and he straightened his face with some effort. The newly named Pugwash, who hadn’t seen an awful lot of children’s TV in his or anyone else's time stared at them both blankly with a hint of disdain.

When it happened, it was sudden and spectacular. Brian knocked over the glass. Beer tumbled in a torrent across the table. A pint sized tsunami wiping out all in its path⁷ before powerfully surging over the tables edge, a heady hop laden waterfall cascading deep golden detritus into the now suspiciously moist crotch of its once happy owner. There was an outraged cry of “Oi, You just spilled my pint!” and Brian backed off quickly before realising that the accusation wasn't actually aimed at him, but at some poor unfortunate who’d chosen that inopportune moment to stagger past and now bore the full frontal assault of Mr Angry Soggycrotch's vengeance. Amidst the fiery accusations and fiercer denials Brian jumped around screaming ecstatically. It was only when accuser and accused saw the glass dancing around on the table as Brian kept trying to stand it up again that they decided they’d had enough for the night and left it at that.

On witnessing Brian’s relative success Dennis was persuaded to try, especially now he realised that no one else could actually see him fail. He gave up several times, but Brian, enthused with his own success, spurred him on several times more. Then to his delight Dennis managed it too. It turned out that he was a bit of a natural poltergeist, if that’s not an oxymoron. He wasn’t completely convinced that stealing other people’s drinks was acceptable behaviour, but Pugwash convinced him they would all be added to ‘his tab’, and the pleasure of being out in the crowd with the courage that invisibility provided, somehow made that a suitable explanation.

The next trick was learning how to swallow⁸ , and following that it dawned on Dennis that he was enjoying himself more than he had done in years. As Brian tried once more to lift a drink to his lips, and managed little more than a mouthful before it literally slipped though his fingers, Dennis tried the same with every other drink on the table with marginally more success. More success meaning that he managed to get half a drink down before the glass crashed to the table. Perhaps they really had found Heaven because the booze just kept coming. The people whose drinks they were stealing just kept buying more to see the spectacle repeated. Dennis had by now had a considerable number of half drinks, which for a man who didn’t drink was having a considerable effect upon his ghostly constitution.

By closing time, Brian had worked out how to pick up a pint or two, and Dennis had worked out how to put several down. He had however, forgotten how to walk. This wasn’t perceived as a problem, as he was quite happily dozing off under the table, when Brian, who wasn’t exactly sober himself, suddenly decided that now was the time that he had to go on a mission to return “somethingggk of verrr greath impotence to the wuwoman he luluved.” So, having decided that Dennis was “his best mate everrr” he proceeded to rouse him, and insist that he join him on this truly great and epic excursion.

The phrase “Fuck Off” (pronounced “fkof”) was not something that would usually pass Dennis’s lips, and he was so shocked at himself when he heard himself say it, that he sat up in amazement wondering whose voice had just come out of his mouth.

With considerable effort, and not a huge amount of success given that they were both pretty insubstantial, Brian then attempted to pull Dennis to his feet. When satisfied that he could stand, he headed for the door, leaving Dennis to tumble forwards, falling straight through the floor, where he chose to remain, half comatose, with his arse in the air, and his head under the floorboards. After a number of what can only be described as ‘spirited’ attempts, they eventually managed to get out of the door, and arm in ghostly arm, they left the sound of Pugwash’s ghastly snoring behind and staggered down the street in disarray as Brian tried to teach Dennis the words to “Ten Green Virgins”.

Except for a brief incident with a dog that insisted on barking at them for no apparent reason, but then some dogs just do that, and one point when Dennis decided he was going to chase a cat that ‘looked at him a bit funny’, which it has to be said is not within the normal rituals of your average agoraphobic, the journey ‘home’ was uneventful, if long, winding, frequently in the wrong direction, and mildly sobering.

On reaching his front door Brian discovered a slight problem, in that the ghostly contents of his pockets that passed for what should have been his keys didn’t work in the significantly more solid lock. He was thinking of ways of picking it when Dennis simply walked, or more to the point tripped and fell, straight through his front door. Feeling mildly stupid, Brian staggered after him, and suffered Dennis telling him what a dump his place was, while he rooted in the back of the cupboard for the treasure that was Brenda Donaldson’s chest.

On finding and retrieving the item of his childhoods curiosity, he came out of the bedroom and found Dennis sound asleep, snoring on the sofa the slumber of the dead. So he woke him for the second time that morning, and the hapless pair ventured back out once more to face their bright new world. It was only when they were half way up the path that Brian realised that the chest hadn’t made it through the door when their less physical forms had. Being dead was bloody inconvenient, and was going to take a lot of getting used to. So back they went, and there was a certain amount of effort, and quite a bit of swearing, involved in fumbling with door knobs to open the door so that the all important chest could join them on their journey.

“It probably looks a bit odd that.” said Dennis pointing at the box “To someone else that is. It’s probably just floating if you can’t see us.”

Brian considered this. It was all very well playing silly games in the pub, but out here there was no benefit in drawing attention to themselves. The sun was starting to rise and if someone spotted the chest floating along in mid air, it was going to attract attention. What would be a lot worse, was that while he was just about capable of holding it up, if anyone decided to take it from him, he wouldn’t be able to put up much, or more to the point, anything by way of a fight to keep hold of it.

He sat down, placing the box on the floor next to him.

“You got any ideas?” he asked.

“You could put it in a bag.” said Dennis.

Brian gave him a cold look. Dennis sat down next to him, and started to doze again.

“I’ve got it!” exclaimed Brian suddenly, “We’ll take Mikes car.” he said, staring across the fence at the next door neighbours Mercedes.

“Won’t he mind?” Dennis asked dozily.

“Well, yeah, but then we won’t be here, and anyway, what’s he going to do?”

“We can’t just take his car.” Dennis insisted.

“Yes we can.” smiled Brian missing the ethical argument, and vanishing back into the house. Within a minute he was back fumbling with a set of lock picks and a few other tools.

“But you can’t just take his car. It’s stealing!” Dennis complained.

“It’s all right,” Brian explained as he knelt down by the car door and started to insert various tools into the lock “it’s not really stealing.”

“What do you mean it’s not stealing?” said Dennis exasperated, further sobered by his moral outrage. “You’re taking his car. Of course that’s stealing!”

“It’s not really stealing,” reiterated Brian “because Mikes a cunt.”

Dennis wasn’t quite sure if he should object more to the logic or the language, but all told Mikes resemblance to female genitalia had very little to do with the outcome. Brian simply didn’t have the same dexterity with lock picks he’d enjoyed when he was flesh. He could only just hold them. They kept slipping through his fingers when he pushed them against the lock. He couldn’t feel what he was doing, and after five minutes he sat staring in frustration at the lock he could previously have opened in less than two.

“What I need,” he muttered under his breath, “is the key.”

Inspiration struck, and he jumped up, walked across the drive, and straight through Mikes front door. Less than a minute later he was back, with a very substantial car key delicately balanced between his phantom fingers.

“Trouser pocket.” he said to Dennis, as if that explained everything, and concentrating hard he pressed the button on the pilfered key and the indicators flashed and the central locking whirred.

“We can’t just go around stealing cars!” Dennis complained indignantly.

“I told you, it’s not stealing, Mike’s a complete…”

“I know what you said,” interrupted Dennis “but still...”

Brian climbed into the car without opening the door. “Are you coming or what?” he questioned, while fumbling with the window to get the key in.

Dennis reluctantly joined him. “We shouldn’t be doing this.” he insisted, as he rather pointlessly fumbled with the seat belt.

“Oops, nearly forgot” said Brian ignoring him, and he jumped out again and grabbed the chest from the front step. “We’re on a mission,” he said on his return, “and it’s more important than whether or not Mike The Bastard's car is there when he wakes up this morning.”

“What’s so important about this mission that’s it’s worth stealing cars for?”

“We’re returning something.”

“That box?”

“Yes, that box.”

“Why are we returning it?”

“Because I shouldn’t have stolen it.”

There was a pause.

“Does the word ‘irony’ mean anything to you?”

“Shut up.”

Then with a little effort, Brian turned the key and the engine hummed into life. It took significantly more effort to force the gear stick into reverse, but persistence paid off, and with the clutch constantly slipping and screaming, before biting, then slipping and screaming some more as his ghostly feet struggled with the pedals, it took all the effort he possessed to bounce the car backwards out onto the road.

Mike awoke from his morning slumber knowing that something was wrong. Then the sound registered. It was a few seconds before the morning brain cloud cleared enough for him to recognised the sound as a car in his driveway, and wait, it sounded like his car, and, Jesus, what were they doing to it!?

The engine screamed as Brian tried, and generally failed to get to ghostly grips with the clutch and accelerator pedals. His foot would slip through the pedal, and the clutch would snatch, so he’d slip his foot back and the engine would scream in defiance. But slowly, he was making progress.

Stumbling to his bedroom window Mike had the pleasure of seeing his car reversing in fits and starts out of his drive. Then as he ran down the stairs, and naked out of his front door, he was left rubbing his eyes as his prize Mercedes bounced away down the road… with nobody at the wheel.

In Holy Mammary

“So let me get this straight”, said Bob slowly, as Tom stood up and offered his hand to help Bob do the same, “If man creates a visualisation of God, in his own image…”

“Yes.” acknowledged Tom.

“…then women create visualisations of God that have breasts.”

Tom sighed. “Maybe we can go over this later.”

“But all time is merely an illusion, and as such concepts such as ‘past’ and ‘future’, ‘sooner’ or ‘later’, ultimately hold no meaning” reasoned Bob.

“Indeed.” agreed Tom.

“So you might as well, for the sake of argument, tell me now.” Bob stated with almost faultless logic.

“As all time is ultimately one, I have already done so.” reasoned Tom, even more faultlessly. “Now please be patient. I have reason to believe that our previous interjection did not quite have the required effect, and we may have to intercede once more.”

“Oooh”, said Bob. “Does that mean we get to blow more stuff up.”

“Quite possibly.” said Tom, encouragingly.

“Cool.” whispered Bob, with a hint of a glint in his eye.

It Only Gets Worse

She couldn't sleep. Again.

Brenda Donaldson had not been having a good week. They’d broken into her home, gone through her things. It wasn’t the valuable stuff that worried her. It wasn’t the money or anything like that or, ahh crap, it was just the personal stuff, and the fact that they had been… here, right here, the place where she’d always felt safe, the place where she’d grown up and… but then… there was the other thing she was trying not to think about… but how could she avoid thinking about the person that she’d just… now they were… were… how when you’ve never known quite how to say it, and you know… well you think you know… well, you’re so almost sure that they understood, but men are just so stupid so maybe even then he didn’t… and... but… you’re so almost sure they knew how you felt, and you just hope, you hope so much that they know…

…You hope that they knew… but you don’t know, and now you can’t know, but you’re sure that you could have known, if you could have just got them alone, and you’d had every intention to get them alone, but you had to test them first, and when they came up fucking trumps and they’d been fucking perfect and the stupid fucker had jumped out of a fucking airplane – just for you – just because you asked the daft bastard too, and they’d gone and fucking killed themselves all because of you and your stupid fucking bastard shitty fuckwank bastard idea of a thing, and it’s just not fucking funny, and it’s just fucking shit. Shit shit fucking shit. Shit. Fuck. Shitfuckingfuckshitfuck!

And then it started raining.

And the phone wouldn’t stop ringing, at this godforsaken time of the morning.

And she could see her reflection in the window when she stopped staring at the drops running down it, and she looked like Alice Cooper.

Shitfuckingfuckshitfuck! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhhhhhh,

Without thinking she grabbed the closest thing to hand, and threw it with all the pent up anger and frustration she contained at the incessantly ringing object of her hatred. Then she realised what she’d done. Her jaw dropped, her eyes widened. Horror and anguish reached up from her gut, and took a stranglehold on her soul.

You Think You've Got It Bad

Brenda Donaldson’s cat had been having a really bad time of late. It had spent most of the last week stinking of curry puke, and when your primary method of cleaning involves licking the mess off, that’s not good. When Brenda had finally come home, she’d insisted on finishing the job with half a bottle of shampoo and half a drowning to get half the remainder of the smell out. Then there had been the episode with the hair dryer. The puffed up ball of fluffy moggy was now flying across the room at high velocity leaving a trail of eau de lavender madras in its wake, wondering which gods it had offended and how.

Meeeeeooooooooooowshitfuck!

By some minor miracle, it didn’t so much land on its feet, as land on its side, and  kept rolling, until with something approaching wheel spin, its feet managed to all gain traction with the carpet, and it shot out of the door, and was gone.

And still the phone kept ringing.

In that split second, realising she’d vented her frustration on her much loved pet, the sound of the phone simply slipped into the back of her mind like waves endlessly washing against the shoreline. There was another sound, an engine outside. A powerful engine, slowing down… stopping. At this time of the morning? The phone kept ringing. The rain kept hammering at the windows, but somehow, the sound of that engine was important, and she knew it was important, and when it stopped,  while the phone kept ringing, and the rain kept hammering at the window, its absence was the silence following the ticking of the bomb. Then footsteps. Quiet, efficient, almost delicate footsteps, that you’d never have heard if you hadn’t been listening.

And then... the phone stopped ringing.

A Key

So there I am, sitting in this pathetic little attempt at an airplane, wondering how the hell I’ve got myself into this situation and more to the point, how the hell I’m going to get myself out of it. I’m a locksmith, I think in terms of picks and tumblers, levers and springs. Occasionally, when I’m really on form, I think in terms of keys. There it was locked around my neck. My own little silver albatross. How the hell was I going to get out of this?

It could be described as an epiphany, and it could be described as the most stupid decision I ever made, when I realised, or decided, that I didn’t want to get out of it. It was my albatross. I was in this for the duration, and as I stared across the fuselage, into the manic instructors grinning wild eyes I think I got a glimpse of what was going on behind them. This is life. It is here to be lived. If you go through life afraid, then you will miss out on a million opportunities. More to the point, you’ll have to suffer a life of fear. Better to just stand up and be counted, grasp life by the goolies, and let it know that you’re here to be reckoned with. This is the key.

You’re here and you’re ready to take all it has to throw.

So when the time came, I lined up with the others, and with heart pounding, adrenaline pumping, and the name of the great Geronimo ringing in my ears…

… I jumped.

It was a momentous experience, and I think I discovered something truly profound.

If you're going to grab Life (or anyone) by the goolies, or other most intimate parts, first ensure they're consenting, or you might really piss them off.

And Then the Phone Stopped Ringing

It should have been a good thing. The throbbing drone had seemed incessant, and yet, when all that remained was silence, the ominous aural void, a cold and empty hollow, bereft of all diversion, where sad tormented soul might sink into despair, and twisted mind might drag it deeper down, to drown beneath onrushing waves of dark despondent desolation, depression's dank mire came calling her name, and she answered the call and dived down so much deeper.

Through eyes that only added to the oceans, she searched for some small solace, and finding none, she fell upon her bed, pulling crumpled bedding to her sodden face. There she lost herself within (or gave herself to) the sound of the storm outside, and the thought that somewhere up on high, another's tears were falling, hammering at her window's pane that it might take away her own.

That thought only added to the oceanic depths in which she was adrift...

floundering...

drowning.

Had she dried out her tears, she could have bought Rome.

Laying there, face down in duvet, she waited for the knock at the door, for the sullen pleasure that would come from brazenly ignoring it, but there was no rat a tat tat, no hefty thump, no knock at all, and the longer it never came, the more she couldn’t ignore the void that there remained in its absence. Someone was obviously outside.

Curiosity is a strange beast. It kills cats⁹ , but more importantly in this instance, it gnaws at bones, and when finally it was too much to bear, Brenda pulled herself up from the bed, wiped her eyes, stood up, pulled on a T shirt, and with some amount of trepidation, slowly walked across the room, out to the corridor, then over to the stairs. There she stood, looking down into the darkness. Her hand reached out for the light switch, but then pulled back, not wanting to make anyone aware of her presence.

Would the burglars have come back? It seemed so unlikely and yet, her palms perspired cold sticky sweat, her breath came in shorter… gulps. Her heart beat that little bit faster, that little bit harder. Surely they wouldn’t return to the scene of the crime. Though she could have so easily gone back to her bedroom, picked up the phone and called for help, like almost every heroine in every B movie ever, for some insane reason, she decided the obvious course of action was ‘to just go and have a look.’ Maybe she didn’t think. Maybe she needed to be sure. Maybe she was just feeling brave. Maybe she thought that B movie plot lines didn’t apply in a book.

So slowly she moved down the stairs, so slowly, one step at a time, all the time trying to peer through the tiny glass pane that sat above the tall front door. Perhaps brave was not quite the word. It was so dark on the stairs. Just the slightest amber stream falling through the window from the lights that lit the street outside. She could see nothing, no one. Her pounding heart beat a resounding back drop to the scene. Heavy throbbing bass pulsed forcefully along her temples, and synchronously across the thin and faded fabric of her shirt as her heart pounded beneath it.

She edged down step by tortured step, made her way to the base of the stairs, then cautiously across the floor, over to the door. Turning her head sideways, she pressed one eye against the peep hole, and... There was nothing, no-one.

Then a sudden pain at the base of her skull, into her neck, running down her shoulder, her legs buckled, she felt her body falling, as all remaining lights went out. Then just a swirling maelstrom as she fell, fell, fell, through the floor, into nothingness, and just carried on falling.

Invaded

It was the strangest of dreams, and yet somehow she was sure that it was a dream, even though it seemed so very, very real.

There were these two men, well, monks, but they were sort of not human, although, they appeared to have all the right human bits, in all the right human places, but somehow they appeared to be, well more... more than human, or somehow bigger, lighter, brighter, and they were lifting her up, and giving her a place to sit. Then one of them waved his hand, and suddenly they were sitting by a stream, on the side of a meadow, with a forest to one side. The sky was blue, with gentle fluffy clouds, and bunnies were running and frolicking in the grass, and everything in the world was perfect, so wonderfully perfect. Then one of them spoke, though she wasn’t completely sure what he said, but it sounded like “So when do we get to start blowing things up again?” and the other one replied “Not for a while, please be patient my brother.” Then he turned to her and seeing fear in her eyes, he said something about not needing to worry, and how everything would be perfectly all right, as long as she did not give up the Kybota, whatever that was. Then he looked into her eyes, and she knew exactly what it was. He said it again more forcefully “You must not give up the Kybota.”

Her vision blurred. She felt herself being pulled back, an immense pain in the base of her skull, the sky and the meadow and the stream and the monks all swirled into nothingness as she opened her eyes, and found herself staring at very close range, into the face of a balaclava clad woman, dressed in black leather with a horrendously cold, hard, determined look in her eyes.

“Where is it?!”

Brenda realised she couldn’t move. Her head pounded, and the words came at her again, only this time louder and so much more insistent.

“WHERE IS IT?!”

She was tied to a chair. Soaking wet. The woman threw a bucket onto the floor. What the fuck! What was this?

“Tell me where it is!”

What the hell was going on? She didn’t live the kind of life that got you tied to chairs and… she looked into the eyes of the woman in front of her, and decided she didn’t want to think about what came after the ‘and’. “uyyeey uy ulouyyey?” she replied and realised it was really difficult to speak through a ball gag. “Where is what?” she thought, but she was pretty sure she knew exactly what.

Kuryani was not an unreasonable woman. Given the choice, no one would ever had known that she had even been here (except for maybe the odd headache), but the object she sought had not been there to be found, so she had two choices. She could return empty handed, or resort to more extreme methods. Anthony was not known for providing false information, and Kuryani was not known for returning empty handed. She was sure that the item she was seeking would be here somewhere, and she was sure that this terrified creature would give up any secrets long before she had to resort to actual ‘unreasonableness’.

“Kybota.” she responded, and then, just to be sure “Small box, constructed of apple wood, twenty centimetres by fourteen by ten, encrusted with a collection of precious and semi precious stones, mostly amethyst and emerald.” Then she paused, “…currently in the possession of Brenda Donaldson, which is you, don’t deny it, of 14 Almondson Gardens, North Tidwell. Now you are going to tell me where it is, or things are about to get interesting.” If it’s possible to speak in actual italics, Kuryani pulled it off perfectly. Possibly even gothic italics. Brendas eyes widened, perhaps giving away more than she intended, but all she could think about was that ‘dream’. That was just too weird. This was just too weird. Was it a dream? How could her dream have known? Who were those 'men'? Why wasn’t she supposed to give it up? What was it? Who was this woman? She had amazingly thick eyelashes. Maybe that wasn’t completely relevant right now.

“ANSWER ME!”

Brenda shrank into the back of the chair in anticipation of the coming strike as Kuryani rapidly raised her hand. Her eyes clenched shut. Inhaling deeply, instinctively she tried to pull her bound arms to protect her face, but bound tight as they were it was of course a fruitless endeavour. She waited for the impact. A solitary squeak escaped in anticipation.

Seconds past. Nothing. Squinting in fear, she opened her eyes the slightest fraction, to see Kuryani idly twisting her fingers through her long dark hair at her shoulder with a casual nonchalance. Deep brown eyes bore down upon her from their elevated position of power. Kuryani moved her hand down, towards Brenda's face, and removed the gag. “You will tell me.” she said, as if it was a matter of the most obvious and simple truth. Despite the dream, despite everything, Brenda completely and utterly believed her. She was sure she would have told her in an instant, except for the unfortunate fact that it had been stolen, and she no longer had any idea where it was. What was more, she knew that this woman was not going to believe a word she said, which left her… in a bit of a pickle.

“I don’t…” She started, and looking into Kuryani's eyes, she was sure this wasn’t the way to proceed. “It was stol...” she continued but then stopped herself again. This was pointless. There was no way this woman was going to believe a word she said. “Tell me,” she finally managed, far more calmly than she felt “are those real eye lashes, or is that just amazing mascara?”

Kuryani calmly put the gag back in place, and walked across the floor to where she had left her ‘bag of toys’ on the floor. She reached in, and pulled out a pistol that was so large, it was the very definition of taking the piss¹⁰ , to which she very slowly and meticulously preceded to attach a silencer. Brenda eyes grew wide, and she became very, very silent. Kuryani walked back, all the time staring directly into Brenda’s widening eyes, and slowly, and deliberately, pointed the pistol directly at Brenda’s knee cap.

Some Accidents are Just Meant to Happen

Brian was starting to feel quite confident about this whole driving lark again. Admittedly, there had been a few minor scrapes on the way, and the odd bollard in the town was no longer in its previous upstanding position, but he was getting the hang of it. The weather didn't help. The storm had come out of nowhere and he could hardly see through the windscreen for the lashing the rain was giving it. The tyres would also have been better in the dry. That was, he felt, a perfectly valid excuse, and he was sticking to it resolutely. He wished that Dennis would shut up about the fact that it was one thing claiming he was only 'borrowing' Mike's car and not actually stealing it, but another thing entirely given that he was now going to be returning the previously pristine vehicle with significant 'alterations' to the bodywork. Brian was actually quite pleased with himself as he finally managed to turn the corner in to Almondson Gardens and no amount of nagging from Dennis was going to get his mood down now.

He was more apprehensive about how he was going to deliver his charge. Should he just put the box back where he had found it, or dare he try and make contact? There were still things he wanted to say, the situation with Brenda had not exactly ended as he had planned, but how could he possibly…

The car wasn’t stopping. Brian had hit the brakes, He was sure of it. Well sort of sure, his feet had been going through the pedals quite a bit on the way here, so his foot might have just gone through the pedal again because the slowing down hadn’t actually happened quite according to plan, or at all really, until now. Now they were slowing down, now that they’d slid into, and over, and possibly through the very expensive looking motorbike. The sort of motorbike that was probably someone’s complete and utter pride and joy.

Dennis was going to be on his case about this big time. Although that wasn’t going to be an immediate problem as Dennis, having failed to brace for the collision, was currently flying through the toughened safety glass of the windscreen¹¹ . Brian watched the soles of Dennis’s soul vanish over the bonnet, and having managed to prepare his sentience a little better for the event, settled in for the rest of the ride.

With minimal ceremony, the rather heavy Mercedes carried on over (and through) the significantly lighter bike shaped bundle of pride and joy, which having become jammed under the axle of the car, was dragged along the ground for maybe twenty or thirty metres, removing any extraneous details like fairing, handlebars, lights etc,  throwing an incandescent array of sparks into the mix of screaming and grinding bedlam. Some people might consider it unfortunate that at that point, just as the car had appeared to be coming to a halt that the fuel tank had become dislodged and the last vestiges of the light show were formally introduced to a pretty full tank of petrol.

Brian was blown a good fifty feet into the air, and he managed another twenty on the thermals.

About That

“Boom!” said Bob.

“That really was quite a good one wasn’t it.” said Tom.

Know your Exits

If the sound of the collision and resulting destruction wasn't enough, needless to say, the sound of the petrol tank exploding resulted in a few twitching curtains in Almondson Gardens. Inside Brenda's living room, Kuryani froze for a fraction of a second. Had they found her? It had all taken too long. Time to get out. Get away to somewhere safe and review.

It was a part of her psyche. The first thing Kuryani had done once she had Brenda under control was work out where the exits were. If she was found, if anyone else turned up unexpected, she needed to know how she was going to get out.

It had been one small part of her substantial training regime. For anyone else it was basic health and safety – Know where the fire exits are – for Kuryani it was simply a matter that it wasn’t only fire she concerned herself with, and she had different ideas about what constituted an exit.

Brenda watched as Kuryani bolted for the room door. Then she heard feet bouncing up the stairs three at a time¹² .

Not the obvious exits for Kuryani, not the front door or the back, but up the stairs, out of a back bedroom window, using the guttering she was up onto the roof. Ignoring the pouring rain she ran along the slippery rooftop until she reached the drainpipe. She scanned the area below for half a second before deciding it was safe to descend, and squatting down she again took hold of the guttering, swung onto the pipe, and slide down half it’s length before dropping the rest of the way to the ground. She was over three garden fences and into the next street before Brian had managed to float gently back down to earth.

By Way of Explanation

Brenda heard the front door open, a moments silence, and then she heard it shut. The she devil and the luscious lashes had vanished upstairs; this must be someone new. Salvation?

With slightly less than her usual eloquence she let out a hopeful cry “Mmmmrrrrrggggghhhh” before instantly questioned if she really wanted to be found tied to a chair, in just a soaking wet T shirt, and a ball gag. But anything had to be better than her current predicament. “Mmmmmrrrrgggghhhh” she called again, equally as eloquently. Then, as if this day hadn’t already been strange enough, the very object that had only a few minutes ago been lost, the very object that it appeared she was going to lose her knees for, her very precious box, literally the stuff of dreams, simply floated into the room at about waist height, and for a second or so, just hovered there in front of her eyes. She gawped.

She had one thought which she never actually managed to fully think through. The words never managed to make their way across her brain, but the thought was there even if the words were not. Had they managed to get themselves verbalized, they would have come out as something like "What the...?!”

Brenda managed “Ergh?!”

The box appeared to react in exactly the same way. As if it had somehow spotted her,  it stopped, and whatever force was holding it up in the air suddenly gave way. Gravity reverted to the role to which it was usually so well typecast, and the box crashed dramatically to the floor. She stared uncomprehendingly. Had that just happened? If it hadn’t, how come the box, her box, the… what had that woman called it? The Kybota? How come it was now just laying there on the floor, on its side, staring at her. It couldn’t have happened. It couldn’t... and yet she knew that it had... or maybe this was all some kind of trick. Maybe she was on one of those T.V. programmes, where they mess with your head, while secretly filming you. Brenda scanned the room for secret cameras. She saw nothing, but it occurred to her that secret cameras couldn’t explain the dream, or the fact that someone had seriously belted her around the head. I mean, some of those programmes are fucked up but still. “MMMRRRrrrrrrgggggggghhhhHHH” she screamed, this time with real feeling.

Brian watched, first in complete shock, then in bewilderment. He hadn’t quite worked out how he was going to deal with this situation, but this situation had suddenly become a whole lot stranger than he’d originally expected. He had hoped to find Brenda at home. Even if he couldn’t be with her in mortality now, even if, and he was still undecided, even if he wasn’t going to try and communicate, there was some strange instinct inside of him that was just clamouring to see her once more. The same calling that makes a traveller carry a loved ones picture had been with him ever since he had decided to return the ‘borrowed’ goods. The desire to simply see her face. On those occasions the treasured image can be taken from pocket, locket, wallet, or wherever such sacred item is kept, and such beauty can again fill the heart with the love and the joy that their countenance inspires. Of course, when you take out the picture, for that moments solace, for that treasured glimpse, you don’t generally expect to find it soaked to the skin and tied to a chair in a ball gag –  not generally –  not unless you have a very special relationship. So this had all come as a bit of a shock, and it wasn’t that surprising that he’d dropped the box. He would probably have dropped it even if he’d still had a more corporal presence. It had slipped though his ghostly fingers the instant he’d stopped focusing on it, which was about the time he’d seen the woman he… loved?… tied to a chair wearing just a wet T-shirt and bondage gear. Seconds ticked away, as he just stood and stared and wondered what the hell he’d walked into.

Having followed Brian into the room Dennis desperately felt a sudden need to say anything that would break the very embarrassing silence. “I’ve seen this sort of thing on the telly.” he blurted eventually. Seeing Brian's obvious confusion he continued “Apparently some people like this sort of thing.”

“Shut up!” Brian responded instantly. That was the last thing he wanted to hear. Of course he was a man of the world, or at least a man of the internet. He was well aware what this looked like and that was what was causing his distress. It really didn’t trouble him that Brenda may be into ‘diverse’ sexual activities. In fact, seeing her there, tied to a chair, with her wet top clinging to his schoolboy fantasies was causing something of a ghostly bulge in his parachute suit. The problem he had was that she might be into ‘diverse’ sexual activities with anyone other than him. He thought, and he rationalised. He was dead, she was very much alive. He had no claim to her. He had betrayed her, stolen from her. How could he judge her when he had previously been so… Still, she didn’t know that! The fucking slut! He hadn’t even been dead a day. This was outrageous. He felt like such an idiot. He’d jumped out of a fucking airplane for her! OK, it could be argued he’d jumped out of an airplane for the key, but he was feeling sorry for himself and small details like that can get lost in  translation on such emotive occasions. All the time she was seeing someone else. He felt like such an idiot. But then, he was out of her life, he was dead, he must move on, he must let her move on. But fucking hell! One bloody day! He’d been dead one bloody day. He screwed up his face as something snapped within him and he fell to his knees fighting the turmoil within himself. It’s one thing to lose someone, and another entirely to realise that you can never, ever get them back. Then so much worse to doubt you ever had them in the first place. He wanted to scream, but years of restraint wouldn’t let him. He wanted to cry, but he wasn’t, well, that much of a wuss.

Dennis watched in embarrassed silence, taking huge comfort in the fact that Brenda had no idea he was there. He still found himself instinctively edging slowly back towards the door.

Brian sighed a ghostly sigh. He was on a mission. A mission of great importance. He would see it through. He picked up the box from where gravity had laid its most reasonable claim upon it, and holding it in invisible hands he stared straight through it. For years he’d been fascinated by this box, by its most mysterious of contents, and he held it in his hands and stared, not seeing a single thing. Then, wondering how this ridiculous box had consumed so much of his life's thought, he stood, and walked over and purposely, and perhaps a little over dramatically, placed it at Brenda's feet.

Dennis watched silently, as Brian's distraught figure turned to walk away. As if the picture that he carried next to his heart had been torn from him. Ripped, shredded and burned before his very eyes. He almost made it out of the door before Brenda responded in the only way she knew how. “Mmmmmrrrrrrgggghhhhhh!”

If Brenda needed any more convincing, then watching the box lifting off the floor and simply floating towards her, before setting down so lightly at her feet, that was enough to do the trick. There were no strings, no mirrors, no trap doors. This was the bollocks. This was really happening. Of course, she didn’t really have any idea what ‘this’ was, but whatever it was, it was really happening. So accepting that ‘it’ was happening, she assumed quite reasonably, that either the box was managing to propel itself or that something else which she couldn’t see was moving it around. It could perhaps be done with magnets, or something invisible was moving it, or… or someone invisible was moving it. You’ve got to give her credit. That’s a lot of deduction for the sort of girl who can't even predict B movie plot lines.

Perhaps it was simply that her recent bereavement was still so close to her mind, but that was where her mind went. She worked it all out so quickly. She wasn’t the sort of girl who generally believed in ghosts and goblins, but she also wasn’t the sort of girl who couldn’t readjust her mindset when new evidence presented itself. “Iawu?!” she managed to stammer through the gag. Brian was just about out of the door when he heard her call, or the vague approximation of it. It stopped him dead in his tracks, if that’s not a cruel metaphor. “Iawu? I a u?” You have to add your own consonants as Brenda was suffering a bit on that part.

The penny dropped. “Is that you?”

Brian turned and looked at her. Bound, helpless. Alone. There was no one else in the room, no other noise in the house. He stopped and listened. There was no one else here at all. Whatever was happening, she was stuck like this. Perhaps it was all she deserved, the slut! But perhaps there was more to it. Perhaps he could try and find out. Perhaps he should at least take off the gag.

So Brenda felt a ghostly tug at the back of her head, as Brian fumbled with the buckle. “Are you sure you should be doing that?” mumbled Dennis, half under his breath, afraid that he might upset Brian, but also concerned that they might be upsetting some cosmic rules about interfering with the lives of those still living.

 “I think it might be a bit late to be worrying about that.” he answered a little curtly, “And who’s going to stop me?”

“I was only asking.” Dennis half apologised.

All of this conversation was lost on Brenda whose hearing didn’t stretch to that side of the ghostly ether, but the fact that her gag was suddenly lose was not lost on her at all. “Brian? Is that really you? I can’t believe it? Oh Christ! I mean... can I say Christ? How does that work? I mean, about the God stuff? Are you a ghost? Of course you’re a ghost? Jesus! Sorry! That’s just mental! Wow! Erm, that is you isn’t it? I’m not just talking to myself am I? How stupid would I look? I mean, if I was just talking to myself… erm… Brian… Brian? Are you there?”

But as much as he wanted to reply, he simply didn’t have the kind of control of his vocal cords that he needed, mostly on the grounds that he didn’t really have vocal cords anymore, or if he did, they were in a plastic bag at the undertakers waiting for disposal. He started to undo her hands, and was busy fumbling with some pretty substantial knots, as years of watching ghost films and sitcoms came to the fore of Brenda's mind in one vast stereotypical moment. “Knock once for yes, and twice for no?” Half way through the sentence she realised just how cheesy it sounded, which may help to explain why it came out as a question.

Brian hadn’t previously decided if or how he would try and communicate if Brenda was there, but every bone in his body (not that he now had either) suddenly needed to do so. He dropped the rope that had held her hands, and slapped his ghostly hand against the plasterboard wall, making a just audible ‘thud’. Brenda’s eyes opened wider than a tramps at free cider. Dennis wasn’t completely sure about the rules, but he was sure that drawing attention to themselves was not a good idea. He was beginning to enjoy his new found freedom from anxiety, and that was based very much on people not knowing that they were there. He dropped to his knees, and only a second after Brian, Dennis banged the floor making a second very audible thud. Brenda’s eye's flicked from side to side, as her brain, untrained in such matters, instinctively searched for the invisible. Then realising how pointless this was, she ventured further into the conversation. “You’re not there?” she questioned, before realizing how stupid that sounded, and trying again “Or you’re not Brian?”

Brian wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. So he banged again.

Deaths Accomplice

It had been a long if quiet night at the office, but then it wasn’t the sort of job that people took for the rush. Damien hadn’t taken the job for the kicks. Neither had he taken it in the hope of meeting interesting people, at least not in the way that most people would consider folk interesting. It certainly wasn’t for the women, although it is true that a certain kind of woman did seem to hold a strange fascination for the subject. That is, until Damien started to go into the details, at which point they tended to find an excuse to be somewhere else. Damien had often wondered himself why he’d taken this line of work, and had finally put it down to morbid fascination.

In earlier life Damien had resented and despised his parents, as is the general way with teenagers, but in this case specifically for the moniker they had gifted him and the associations Hollywood had attached to it. However, by the time he had grown to an age where he could legally change it himself, he had himself changed. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it had changed him, as is the way of such things, and he had grown to accept it. It was a part of him. It was something that had shaped his life, and made him the man he was. He liked that man, and as such, accepted his name.

Unfortunately, the clients of the establishment where he worked hadn’t been so accepting, which had led to Damien being requested “to take a role that was less customer facing.”

Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad had his family not originated in France.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if children weren’t capable of being such utter bastards.

Damien had learned early that the innocence of children was a myth. They were a nasty bunch of little sods and the law of the school yard had led Damien to an early solitude.

Oh the irony. As ever is the way, the ‘righteous’ will use whatever means are at their disposal to wreak 'justice' upon those they deem unworthy. The road to hell is indeed paved with good intentions –  and the bodies of those who couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. Damien had learned to stay out of the way.

What’s in a name? A rose by any other would smell as sweet, perhaps.

Perhaps Damien shouldn’t have chosen a career working with the local undertaker but it had at the time seemed like a calling, and the irony amused him. Call it fate if you will. It was a good job. He had an affinity for the work, and he got on well with the customers. That is, he got on well with the customers who spent their time on his slab. It was his job to make them look their best for their final showing. A little make up, or sometimes in the cases of nasty accidents, or particularly ugly clients, super glue, and a lot of make up.

The living customers, the ones who handed over the money, often commented on what a wonderful job he had done. On more than one occasion it had been commented that the relative in question hadn’t looked that good when they were alive.

What’s in a name? Well… consider the scene: After a recent bereavement you visit the undertakers, and the very nice and polite (if perhaps a tad pale and thin) young man puts you at your ease. He explains everything they would hope to do to make this obviously difficult and trying time as serene as possible, given the very unfortunate circumstances. They know they can’t take away your pain, but they will make everything happen as smoothly as possible, such that you can focus on family and friends at this difficult time. They will ensure everything progresses as it should, and your loved one will get the send off they so rightly deserve. You thank them, and as you leave, the nice young man offers you his card, saying that if there is anything at all that you need, any thing at all, you just give him a call and he’ll do everything he can to help. You get home, and suddenly think how nice it would be if they could have your loved ones favourite flowers at the service, or perhaps, a favourite song as the coffin is lowered those six deep feet, or slid along the final conveyor.

So you take the card from your wallet, or purse or whichever pocket it ended up in, and dial the number. It’s ringing... Someone picks up the phone and greets you warmly and compassionately. You discuss your thoughts while idly fiddling with the card in your hand and you suddenly see it written there. You suddenly realise that you’re talking to Damien De Ville.

For a while Damien wondered why people kept screaming and putting the phone down on him, but he wasn’t stupid. He eventually realised that adults are essentially just larger versions of children who cover their prejudices mildly better, most of the time.

He was a good worker. He got on with what he was supposed to do. When it had become a problem, Mr Maniken, the owner of the ‘shop’ had kindly suggested that Damien work a little more behind the scenes where he would be out of the way of the public, and Damien had agreed. The public were a pain in the arse anyway. This way he didn’t have to wear a suit, he could spike his hair how he liked it, and wear dark eye make up.

The particular job he was working on, on the night in question, was proving a little tricky. He’d stayed behind late to finish it, and late had become early, though up until now, Damien hadn’t really noticed this, as engrossed in his work as he was. Alone, at the end of the night, or the start of the morning, depending on how you looked at it, in the cellar of a small town undertakers, focused on repairing the remains of the rather messy ‘body’ that lay upon the slab, when he heard something very like footsteps in the 'shop front' above...

A Less Usual Bag of Tricks

The whole room rang to the sound of samba. Well, not actually samba as such, but there was a definite rhythm. Perhaps not so much an obvious rhythm, but there was something sort of syncopated going on. Although perhaps that’s giving the drummers in question a little too much credit. Musicians high on the joys of life, who’ve snorted every powder they can get there noses over including what was left in the deepest darkest recesses at the bottom of the toaster (don’t do whole grain kids, it will destroy your sinuses).

So not actually samba. Just noise in fact really. Lots and lots of noise. That sounded like it was made by hyperactive people in pain. It had started in groups of two beats.

Knock once for yes and twice for no.

Thud… to which Dennis would reply, Thud. Two beats. No one actually said that three beats meant yes, but when Brian had added the third, it was with done with a certain defiance that this was the case. Dennis replied once more. If three beats was a yes, then four was a no. This went on for several iterations.

“I’m going to slap you so hard.” said Brian.

“Oh please.” said Dennis who having caught on at least one point about being a ghost. slapped himself through his own head to make sure Brian understood the weakness of his threat. Brian couldn’t help but laugh, but of course slapped the wall again. Then, just as Dennis was about to negate him once more, he slapped it a second time. Dennis’s hand hit the floor to make a third beat, and Brian cheered in victory. “Aha, got you. That’s three, that’s a yes.”

Dennis shrugged and hit the floor again. “Four.” he replied.

Truth be told, by this point it was about twenty. Brenda sat there bemused. Knock once for yes and twice for no, and the dumb ghost knocks about twenty times. “It just might be Brian.” she thought. That was when Brian had started to get musical, and Dennis had joined in because, well, it seemed like the thing to do at the time and he just got caught up in those crazy not quite Latin rhythms. Or something. Brenda nervously reached down and started to untie her feet. She didn’t know what was going on. It may or may not be Brian, but the noise was starting to scare her, and she figured that this was suddenly not the safest place in the world to be. Leaving seemed like a really good idea. Whatever was going on, she didn’t understand it, and that was a good enough reason to be somewhere else.

Thud, thud, a-thud a-thud thud. They were really beginning to enjoy themselves. Thud thud thud a-thud thud.

It was only when Brenda got up to tip toe from the crazed room, and saw the open hold-all on the floor, that contained a rather large quantity of munitions and the means to propel them, that she stopped.

“F-Fuck me!” she stammered none too quietly. Back to her more usual eloquence.

At which point, the drumming stopped dead. The room became silent, and everyone, albeit unnoticed, turned to look.

“Fuck me.” said Brian.

“What you said.” said Dennis.

Apparently Kuryani had left in a bit of hurry.

Fwut

“Tom.” said Bob, in a tone that implied there was a question forming once more.

“Yes, Bob?” answered Tom as kindly as ever.

“Does this mean there are going to be more things going boom?”

“You know, Bob, I think it just might.”

“Awwww, I like it when things go boom.”

“You do don’t you.” said Tom with what could be described as compassion, though some could have mistaken it for mild sarcasm. “A lot of people do.” he added.

Then after a moments thought he continued with a certain note of concern “You do know it’s not always good when things… go boom… don’t you, Bob. Sometimes when things… go boom… people can get hurt.”

“I know that, Tom.” said Bob “Of course I know that, and it’s not just booms that can be bad. Sometimes fizzes, or splats, or swooshes can be bad too.”

“That’s right.” Said Tom, acknowledging Bobs insight.

“And fwuts are the worst.”

“Fwuts?” asked Tom, feeling the conversation had just turned a corner, whilst he had carried on without it.

“Fwuts.” repeated Bob.

"Fwuts?" repeated Tom.

“It’s the sound a universe makes when it’s being sucked back in on itself and compressed into a singular particle entity.”

“Fwuts?” questioned Tom once more with a certain lack of credulity.

“Well, no, just one.”

“What?”

“Just one.”

“One what?”

“One fwut. Well, one at a time anyway. Only it’s much slower. More sort of fwuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut”, but even slower than that really.

“Fwut?” said Tom, now completely sure the he and the conversation had parted company.

“Fwuuuuuut.” repeated Bob, by way of explanation, and after a moments consideration he repeated himself “Fwuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut. That’s pretty much the sound of a universe ending, except of course there’s usually a lot more screaming.”

Somewhere at the Corner

In the slowing rain, deep within the bushes on the corner of Almondson Gardens, where it butted onto Smithsonian Street, there was the faintest of rustles. No one but the most highly trained operative, or the nosiest of the neighbourhood watch would have ever noticed it, but Kuryani was disgusted with herself for her lack of professionalism all the same. She’d caught the reflex almost instantaneously, but still, that tiny movement, that single detail could have given her away. The bastards! She scanned the scene once more, for any indication that she had been seen, and  again  choked back the rage as her eyes fell across the debris. They would pay for this. She was going to do the most horrific things, the most horrific things, to whatever bastard had done that to her bike. With a hardened, determined grimace she regained control of her breathing, and slowly, of her temper. Without creating the slightest thought of a whisper in the bushes, she changed her position. She watched, and she waited. She could see the front of the house from here. The rear of the house backed onto other gardens, so no one would be leaving that way without duplicating her previous efforts. She still wasn’t exactly sure what she was up against, and she wasn't going to be taking anything for granted. She needed to get closer. She needed to see inside. She needed to know who was trailing her.

Her bag of ‘tricks’ had been abandoned. To attempt to make her way back inside now could well be suicidal, until she knew what was in there. There was no doubting that they knew she was in the vicinity. The element of surprise was no longer hers. She needed a distraction.

Some people just have that ‘can do’ attitude. No matter what challenge you give them, they will plug away at it, again and again, until they finally manage to secure the outcome that they know is desired. Of course, some times they carry on trying and trying and trying, and simply fail, and fail, and fail. A ‘can do’ attitude can be quite frankly simply embarrassing, if it turns out you can’t do. Smart people know when to put in the call for back up. Especially when you have the kind of back up The Order has at its disposal.

Kuryani took out her phone.

Be Careful What You Wish For.

The thing you have to realise, and I think it’s important when you look at the bigger picture, is that at this moment, I didn't really have the slightest clue what I was doing.

It could be said that ultimately, there is nothing 'bigger' about the 'bigger picture', that your own experience, your own perspective is all that really matters –  which is great, until my perspective, or what I want, clashes with what you want. Maybe then we need a bigger, combined perspective.

I was living day to day, even when dead. Just plodding from one whim, one plan, to the next. I’d met, or at least ‘experienced’ God, and still I had no better grip on the situation. That should have been huge, life changing, but it seems 'splunching' into the ground was a greater impact than The Almighty had ever been. He was just another smug pedantic shit, in a world full of arseholes. Who needs it?

So some old ghost says I can get better booze if I make recompense for whatever I did whenever, so off I plod. The next great mission. Admittedly I was completely shit faced at the time, but still, I wasn’t doing it for the greater good, or because it was ‘Right’, I was doing it because someone said ‘If you do this, then you can have that’ and I wanted that. If this is true of all of us, then maybe Heaven is not full of good people. It's full of people who were willing to act a certain way because they wanted the promised reward at some later date. Just a bunch of kids behaving so they can have sweets later. What if it turns out that God breaks his promises? What if there are no sweets? What if he was just kidding? As mysterious ways go, making us avoid the stuff we want, so we can have Utopia later, seems to be right up there on the list of damned right strange, never mind mysterious. Surely an omnipotent being who could give us Utopia whenever he damn well pleased, if he damn well pleased, must be having a right old laugh watching us jump through these seemingly random fucking hoops hoping for salvation.

I look back now and I wonder just what was the point? Was I really so bereft of true inspiration for my entire life. Was I really just falling from pillar to post the whole time. Accepted, some of the pillars and posts were bigger than others, some plans more meaningful than others, but maybe that’s all there is. We go through life moving from one whim to the next. I know there are people who don’t want that to be true, who need there to be something bigger, but sometimes I still think that’s it. We’re all just falling from pillar to post.

I think I wanted there to be something more.

Squeeze Your Woman Honey Pleasure… Hard

But returning to the terrible tale in hand. The thing is, when me and Dennis were banging our sweet and subtle shanty upon the plasterboard, and anything else within reach, we may have lost it a bit, but then we found the huge bag of guns, grenades and things that make you go splat. That was just something else. That was when I realised that there was something else going on. Something big. Not that dying isn’t big¹³ , obviously, quite large all things considered, but, I was sort of getting used to that by then. It's just that's when it dawned on me that Brenda was in the middle of something a lot more serious than a bit of bondage.

Of course, I didn’t have a clue then just how big, but it occurred to me that maybe the reason why we were here, or the reason why we were still here, on earth, amongst the living, was because she needed our help, and if we were going to help her, we had to know what was going on. That meant that one way or another we had to work out a better way of communicating, because “knock once for yes and twice for no¹⁴ ” is pretty limited.

Now apparently talking is just a matter of making air pass through your mouth, and controlling the rate at which it does so, using your lungs, your lips, your throat, and your tongue. You’d think that if you can manage to pick something up, and interact with the physical world that way, then you could manage to talk. It's not that simple. You just don’t realise the amount of control required to make yourself utter a simple sentence. It’s an amazing physical feat of the most subtle dexterity. Which is why pretty much all ghosts ever say is “waaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”.

That’s the ones who have put a lot of effort in. Most of them don’t even get that far. It’s like trying to speak under water. No, it’s worse than that, it’s like trying to speak underwater, after someone has just injected your tongue with a bucket load of Novocaine, and shoved something about the size of an orange in your gob.

Seriously, the only people who manage the same level of dexterity with their hands as we can all do with our tongues are artists, musicians and very talented prostitutes.

Of course the whole world is physical. Apparently hearing works through air vibrations too. Apparently it’s all little hairs in your ears dancing on down to those loopy tunes, which makes you wonder how old people seem to have so much trouble hearing given that the hair in their ears seems so much more abundant.

But I digress. The point is, we could hear Brenda, but she couldn’t hear us. I suppose part of it is that we all lip read a bit, and part of it is just a tuning thing. Maybe we move more than air when we talk. I really don't know. It doesn’t really matter. The thing was, the best noise we could do at that stage was a sort of bad impression of an asthmatic who’d been trying a bit too hard.

So there I was, trying to communicate, trying to speak, while Brenda was rummaging through the bag, and Dennis was staring at it with a glint in his eye that to be honest scared me slightly. I figured that if I couldn't speak I needed some other form of communication, and there was nothing obvious here, so I went searching through the house to see what I could find to help.

I was rooting around in the kitchen, looking for a pen or something, when suddenly my prayers were answered in a stranger fashion. There were hundreds of them, stuck to the fridge door, arranged to say things like “this vast naked magnificent wine tantalize together your wild morning worship” and “to kiss the sun of your sacred perfume”, and rather bizarrely “will you squeeze my wind with your sugary tongue”.

Hundreds of little words waiting to be arranged into coherent sentences. Just begging to be made into poetry and prose. Gagging to be grouped into meaning and metaphor. All just sat there waiting, stuck to the fridge door.

With a huge amount of effort, because ghostly fingers are not good at skinny little fridge magnets, I managed to peel a bunch of them off. Excitedly I ran back struggling with my new means of communication in my ethereal grasp, to find Brenda still with her head in the big bag of things that go bang, and I swear that Dennis had started to form some form of ectoplasmic drool at the corners of his ghastly grin.

Brenda damn near jumped out of her still damp skin when I slammed my hand on the door to get her attention. Her gaze followed the little magnets as one by one I threw the words onto the floor in front of her, leading the way back to the wondrous world of words and poltergatic publication, or to you and me, the fridge door. One by one, she picked them up, and whilst following me she read the words out loud. I hadn’t actually thought to pick up specific words. I was just trying to get her to the fridge where the real communicational artillery lay.

You know how sometimes you say things you never really meant too. As Brenda read out the words, one by one, it slowly dawned on me, that I could have taken a little more care choosing them.

She picked up the words one by blessed one, and read them as she did so. Thinking about it, if a ghost was throwing words at you, you’d assume they would make some kind of sense. Why would a ghost throw random words at you?

To lead you to the bloody fridge door where he can pick more meaningful words, that’s why! But when I heard her reading the words and she had got as far as “squeeze… your… woman…” and she pulled a quizzical face, before picking up the next words “… honey…”

“… pleasure”

I had the one remaining word in my hand which I was about to drop on the floor. I looked at it warily. It just said “hard”.

squeeze your woman honey pleasure… hard.

A fine opening line I’m sure you’ll agree. Seriously God, you’re a bastard. You’re omniscient. You knew I was going to pick those words. You could have warned me. The last word was literally left floating in mid air. I just didn’t know what to do with it. The problem with being invisible of course is you do lack hiding places. So I kind of embarrassedly stuck it to the back of the fridge. But with a look of aggravated curiosity, Brenda just reached through me, and retrieved it.

“Squeeze your woman honey pleasure hard! Are you taking the piss or what? That is you isn’t it Brian!”

I scanned through all the words trying to find a reply. They don’t have simple words like “yes” or bloody “no” do they? As much as I may have wanted to deny the fact after my opening line, I was looking for a “yes”, some kind of affirmation, and maybe all things considered, a “sorry”, but it wasn’t there. The first thing I found that seemed at all reasonable, and given the options, it was probably as good as I was going to get was “trust”. It was a good start. A “me” tile wasn't too hard to find after that. I pushed words out of the way, clearing a space on the fridge door, and arranged them in the gap. Brenda moved towards the fridge, looked down at my simple sentence, and then stopped. It seemed like an eternity, and then she just asked, like it was the weirdest thing in the world I was asking “Trust you?” I didn’t see why she should have a problem with it. I mean, I’d just jumped out of a fucking airplane for her, and it’s not like she knew about all the… other stuff. Then she said it again, but a bit louder, “Trust you?! Bollocks! I don’t care if that is you Brian, I’m not standing here in the bloody kitchen squeezing my honey pleasure, hard or sodding otherwise.”

I learned something that day. I learned that if you ever actually want to say anything remotely specific, fridge magnets are a waste of fucking time. It took me about five minutes, and overlapping the words “pet” “no” (I found one eventually) and “sacred” to manage to say “peno sacred”. It truly is. The fridge magnet just does not cut it in the battle against the sword in the way the 'peno' does.

Brenda got a pen, and something to write on. Communication got a bit easier from that point.

For a while.

The Order of the Order

It’s perhaps ironic, and perhaps just bad English, but The Order was generally anything other than ordered. As could be expected when dealing with an organisation that included members of the police, the military, academia, and heaven forbid, various clergy, different members felt they owed allegiance to different masters, not to mention different gods¹⁵ . Its members were disciplined, highly trained, and intelligent people, but they sometimes had different ideas about what should be considered a priority to achieve The Aim. So when Anthony put down the phone in London, Paulo was already redialling in Rome. He had two major thoughts competing for air time. The first, was simply to perform the task as requested, to find out if any Vatican or related operatives were ‘operational’ in the specified area. The second, as Anthony knew full well he would, was to try to find out exactly what Anthony knew that he didn’t.

It was a risk Anthony was willing to take if only because he didn't see any obvious alternative. If Vatican operatives were not already on the ground, he guessed he was already several steps ahead of them. He assumed from the responses Paulo had given, that Vatican operatives were not in place, or that if they were Paulo hadn’t known about it. Considering Paulo tended to know who was going to be Pope before the College of Cardinals even considered looking up the lucky candidates dress¹⁶ , this seemed unlikely.

As resourceful a man as Anthony was, he did not have the reach of the church, but due to his well respected presence in The Order, he did have access to its eyes and ears, and occasionally the means to extend its very well developed arms. Paulo not only had access to the brain, he had precise control of the muscles.

Paulo made calls, to men and women of numerous different faiths whom he thought may have fitted the given description, and each and every one of them came up with the same negative response. Coming up with a blank, final calls were made.

The Order is not ordered, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t any sense of hierarchy. Some players are bigger than others. However, given the nature of the game, it isn't always evident who the bigger players are. It is not necessarily the presidents, prime ministers, CEO’s and pontiffs who have access to the longest levers. Paulo was quite sure that when Anthony flapped his wings, it paid to be aware of the ripples. Paulo made a few more calls. “I want to know where Anthony has been looking recently… Yes, that Anthony… I want to know everything.”

Was There A Meaning To Life?

Damien made his apologies to the corpse, and excused himself. They’d been having an interesting conversation, although it may have appeared a tad one sided to the casual observer. Mostly they discussed work, but they had ventured into musical preferences (“Are you into harps and trumpets, or are you planning on heading downstairs for a little rock ‘n’ roll?”), then moved onto fashion (“I don’t care what they say, black will always be the new black”), and occasionally they strayed into philosophy (“So what do you reckon, was there a meaning to life?”).

He wasn't any kind of hero, it simply never occurred to him that it may be anything that he needed to worry about. “It’s probably just Mr Maniken come in early.” he told the corpse, although it continued to hold its own council. “Odd that he hadn’t mentioned he’d be in though,” Damien added “he never normally comes in this early.”

Probably worth popping upstairs to see what the old boy was up to. It was time for a break anyway. It had been a good session, and he looked upon his handiwork with a certain amount of pride.

“Well, your cheeks could probably do with a little bit more colour,” he ventured, “maybe we’ll take you out to the pub later.” He smiled a half smile, just to let himself know that he knew he was only joking. Then he noticed that there was possibly a little more work still needed around the eyes, but that could wait until he’d grabbed a coffee and a bite to eat. It was a vast improvement on the composition that had originally slipped out onto his slab. It was in one piece for a start. He'd always liked jigsaw puzzles but still, this one had been particularly messy. He checked the clock on the far wall, and wondered if the café would be open yet. He could murder a bacon butty. Then smiling, he told the corpse how he hoped the bacon would be already dead. Or maybe he’d ‘go the whole hog’ and have two. He chastised himself for his atrocious humour, while laughing at his own jokes anyway. Then telling himself he really should get out more, he chastised himself again, this time for talking to himself. He headed over to the sink and started to wash his hands.

“I’m guessing you won’t be wanting me to bring you anything back from the café.” he asked over his shoulder. Not surprisingly, his companion on the slab never responded, but Damien was not disheartened and continued all the same. “I can recommend the bacon or the sausage, although, given that’s your best suit, you probably don’t want to be dripping egg down it.”

The perils of spending so much time alone.

“Maybe just a coffee then?” he asked, as he dried his hands and threw the towel back on the side.

Damien walked across the tiled floor, and… was that a twitch, or did he just wink at the corpse as he closed the door behind him, and headed up the stairs?

Seriously, I have No Idea

It was a slow and laborious process. Holding a pen was not easy. Writing was harder. Thinking of what to say was tricky given the circumstances, but slowly it became evident, that none of them had the faintest idea what was going on.

Brenda explained about being attacked, about being tied up, how some mad woman had threatened to shoot her, for a stupid box that she didn't even have anymore. Why had she wanted it? Where had he found it? Then she remembered the dream, about the ‘monks’, about being told not to give it up, the ‘Kybota’ they had called it.

“You're going mad” scribbled Brian.

“I’m talking to ghosts.” Brenda agreed.

“Who was the woman” Brian scrawled just about legibly.

“No idea.” Brenda replied, and for the first time, started to think about where she could possibly have come from.

“Are you sure you should be doing this?” asked Dennis. He was still hung up on the idea the dead should not be communicating with the living. He’d no idea why he thought this, but somehow it just seemed like it should be against the 'rules'.

“Yes, I am.” Brian responded curtly, and ignoring Dennis went back to struggling with the pen.

“Tell me about her” the pen floated raggedly across the page.

“There’s nothing to tell really.” Brenda responded.

“Nothing?” Brian scrawled.

“Well… no, not really, she was all covered up, balaclava, the works.“ Brenda pondered.

“Nothing at all?” Brian pushed the point.

Dennis wandered off, heading out of the kitchen as Brenda continued “Well…she had the most amazing eyelashes.”

The pen hovered, and somehow seemed to glare at her.

It glared long and it glared hard, but while it glared, something simply clicked in the depths of Brian's brain, and he realised, he could simply ask. Perhaps it was personal, perhaps she wouldn’t tell him, but there was nothing stopping him from asking the very simple question. He had wanted to know for almost ten years. He could simply ask. “What was in the box?”

The response was not quite what he had expected. After ten years, he somehow expected Brenda to say something more than “Nothing really.”

What had he expected, they’d been twelve at the time. He’d built the thing up out of all proportion.

“Nothing?” he managed, feeling not only deflated, but suddenly incredibly stupid.

“Well, sometimes I kept ear rings in it.” Brenda added

“Nothing?” it seemed a bit stupid writing the same thing again, so he added a few exclamation marks for good measure.

“When I was at uni sometimes I used it as a stash box.”

“What were you stashing that someone was going to shoot you for?”

“I don’t know.” Brenda emphasised, “This doesn’t make sense…“

It was one thing not having a clue what was going on, but it was getting annoying being quizzed about the point.

“We should... I should phone the police.”

“We should open the box”

“It’s empty.”

“It can’t be”

“It bloody is! Anyway, you’ve got the key.”

Brian looked down, around his ghostly neck, and hanging there, with the faintest of glimmers, was the ghostly key. He looked at it and wondered if a ghostly key would be enough to open the mystery box.

The question was instantly forgotten, as thunderous sound, and a pressure wave that shook the entire house engulfed their senses. Shrapnel embedded into walls, and the plaster fell in massive chunks, as smoke and dust billowed into the room, filling their lungs and obscuring their senses.  

Lucky to be Dead Really

Sometimes it pays to think things through. Of course sometimes it is nice to go with the flow, to act on instinct, just to let the moment take you… but sometimes, it really is wiser to thoroughly think things through.

For instance, just imagine for the sake of argument, that you were a ghost, and being curious about how certain things worked, you decided to pull the pin out of a hand grenade, because you happened to have one handy, and you wanted to see how it worked.

Because you’re curious.

You weren’t going to let go of the safely lever or anything. You’re not a complete idiot.

Now had you thought it through, thoroughly, you may have considered the quite serious possibility, that when the pin was released, the force on the safety lever, being somewhat highly sprung, might possibly be more than you, in your inexperience of such matters, were expecting, and as such, the safety lever might, in such a situation, shoot straight through your ghostly hand.

You weren’t to know. You were just curious. You’re not really used to being a ghost.
Or that used to hand grenades all said and done.

You might then, in such a situation, panic, and drop the grenade. You brace yourself for the almighty reckoning as it hits the floor, thinking it will explode on impact. You even close your eyes and cower when it does, but of course it doesn’t, because it works on a timer, and you realise that you knew that really, and feel a little bit silly.

The grenade is just there, on the floor, rolling around like a little metal pineapple. It just rolled through your toes…

And you’re just staring at it, because you don’t have a clue what to do.

How long have you got?

Tick Tick Tick Tick...

You’re just staring at this grenade on the floor, and your inner monologue decides now would be a good time to have a word, and screams ”Put the bloody pin back in you stupid idiot!”, which is strange because your inner monologue doesn’t usually swear at you, but maybe not all that strange given that you suddenly realise the urgency of the situation. You dive at the floor, grabbing at the little metal pineapple, but you’re still panicking, because you’re not used to this highly inefficient ethereal grip on the universe. You just can’t pick the blasted thing up again (Did you just say ‘blasted’?) and by the time you’ve managed to recover, you must only have a few seconds left, but you have it in your hands, trying to focus all your effort on the lever. You push against it but your hand is going straight through, again and again, so you focus harder. How did this work? You know you can do this and you start to push the lever back in and it’s moving, it’s going in, it’s almost there, and it occurs to you that you have no idea if pushing the lever back in on these things will have any effect anyway.

Dennis stood amidst the aftermath, with the windows blown out, and plaster still falling from the ceiling. The furniture around him utterly destroyed. In places just strewn across the floor, in places buried into the walls. A hazy cloud of grey dust whirled everywhere, and covered everything. There was the most almighty ringing in his ears, which may have been more shock than anything, but as he looked himself over, through the daze, he realised, with a slowly dawning light, that there wasn’t a single scratch on him…

… and Dennis started to laugh.

Quietly and softly as if he was just getting the joke. It was a very good joke. A clever joke. He hadn’t got it at first, which had made him feel awkward, because he was sure that everyone else had, and they'd been laughing at him all along. Now slowly, so slowly, the pieces were falling into place, and like the best of those jokes that take that little longer to realise, it tickled him all the more.

Its full meaning becoming clear. A valve being gently widened… and widened. It was all so incredibly obvious, and he wondered how he could ever have missed this. As if it mattered. He understood it now, and the dam burst as waves of emotion came gushing through his ghostly presence, and his mind convulsed with orgasms of relief, as years of simply being Dennis rolled from his very being. He laughed. He laughed like a man possessed. Like a maniac. Like a demon. Like a…

Like the sort of laugh that a sensible, sane person should be just a little bit scared of.

The sort of laugh made by a person, who has spent almost their entire life in fear, and has just realised that they are… utterly indestructible.

And then …

God laughed. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all. It was moments like this when he realised why he’d created it all in the first place.

Beyond the obvious plain and simple love of paradox of course.

Distractions

“Nice.” said Bob.

“I’ve seen better.” said Tom.

“Sometimes, Tom, I think you’ve lost your sense of childhood wonder.”

Tom pondered this for a second or two “Well I never really was a child, Bob.”

“No, I suppose not, but still, I think that you’re missing out on something.”

“Well, obviously, if you’re enjoying something more than I am then it’s fair to assume that I’m missing out, but I don’t really see what I can do about it. I have seen better, that’s all there is to it. I've been around a while.” There was a knowing emphasis on the end of the sentence, as if a subtle joke was being shared.

“Pretend you haven’t.”

“What?… Why?”

“Because then you’ll enjoy it more.”

“I can’t really argue with your logic, Bob, but still enough of this, we’ve other fish to fry.”

“Really?”

“Indeed”

“Anything good?”

“You’ll see”

“Will I like it?”

“I don't know.” Tom teased, as a sly grin emerged. “Do you like setting fire to stuff?”

The Burning Bush

It had been an almighty explosion.

Now it was just the gentle sound of the dust settling outside the front of 14 Almondson Gardens. Kuryani watched patiently from her hideout in the bushes, waiting to see what would emerge from the debris. Seconds past, maybe a minute.

It was the sudden crackling sound behind her, almost on top of her, that pulled at the feline instincts of Kuryani's reflexes. She rolled and spun in an instant, her right hand swinging in a perfect arc, flowing out in front of her body like a striking snake. The most deadly of all snakes… a snake with a loaded gun.

OK, A snake with a loaded gun would be pointless. I know. It couldn’t fire it because it has no fingers and couldn’t pull the trigger, but just let that go. Snake dangerous, snake with loaded gun therefore more dangerous. Just accept it and move on¹⁷ .

Kuryani sighted down the barrel at whatever assailant might have chosen this day to die; only to find herself struck by a wall of heat that would have given Satan himself a suntan. Then the smoke launched a full frontal attack, scorching her nostrils, driving into her lungs as she gasped in shock. Intense light blinded, smoke clawed, heat stabbed as her eyes baked dry in an instant. Then the sudden sensation that the bottom of her boots was eating their way through the souls of her feet. Coughing and spluttering, she all but flew from the bush. Running down the street, firing backwards into the flaming bushes and trees that had been her hiding place, at whoever, at whatever had ambushed her. That small amount of covering fire was the best she could manage. There was no training for this. All she could do was move, be somewhere else, get out of the immediate danger. But out of the frying pan, into the firing line; she was being flushed out, into the open. She must find cover.

But burning away in the back of her brain, as the front dealt with the serious immediate issues like, ‘find cover’, ‘get out of the open’, ‘don’t get shot’, was a little nagging doubt that was tapping at the side of her consciousness. Fires don’t start like that. They start small, and get bigger. They shouldn’t just suddenly appear in full flow. What had been fired at her? Was someone dropping napalm? There had been no further explosion, no tremor as a projectile had struck, no ‘wooosh’ of a flame thrower. One second there was no fire, the next, the entire area was up in flames. In a matter of fractions of a second. How had they got behind her? And given that they had, why hadn’t they killed her? There was no shooting, no chase, nothing.

Still running she scanned the road in front of her for any kind of cover. There were cars, but containers full of petrol were probably poor hiding places from anything that delivered flame in such quantities. She dived over a fence, rolling on the other side as she hit the ground, then threw herself into a corner looking for more cover before she dare stop running.

Through smoke ravaged, heavily watering eyes, she scanned the surrounding area from which she could be seen. There were windows, but it looked clear. All empty. No one was looking. Hang on, someone had come to a window. They were looking down into the street, investigating the flames. Other people were coming out of their houses to see what was happening. She couldn’t stay here, she had to move again. First she would risk a few seconds, to at least let her eyes and lungs recover slightly. She’d also be buying a new pair of boots in the none too distant future.

The thoughts on the back burner of her brain started to come to the fore. This situation did not make sense. And where the hell was her back up? Right on queue, she felt the tell-tale vibration on the front of her left thigh, that let her know her phone was 'ringing'.

A Spiral Array

Wheels turned. Cogs ground. Favours were called, and calls were made.

Calls that rose to monumentally dizzy heights, before plunging all the way back down to the municipal dozy depth and the scarily tidy desk of PC Paul Chambers.

“Right away sir.” PC Chambers answered efficiently, as the final cogs in the machine whirled their mildly distracted dance inside his copper cranium. The boss did not sound his usual calm and collected self, and PC Chambers, or Poz as he was known around the station, wondered what new nightmare could possibly have ruffled his feathers. His mind quickly flitted back over the past week, searching for any obvious discrepancies. He replaced the receiver and turning to the industrious man opposite him (busy refining his ‘final’ design changes to the nose formation of what was to be the perfect paper airplane) and instructed “The boss wants us in his office… now.”  Attempting to project an air of calm confidence he certainly didn’t feel, he pushed back on his wheelie chair and glided across the office floor as he jumped to his feet.

PC Barry Monaghan, or Boz, as he was more generally known amongst his colleagues, looked up, took half a second to parse the information, and then asked, “What have we done this time?”

Poz and Boz, the up and coming stars of Tidwell (North) Police Station. It was none other who had crushed the spate of teenage shoplifting earlier in the year, a poster campaign in the local comprehensive had worked wonders, although voices closer to the ground told a story of a local shopkeeper taking the law into his own hands and, in the middle of his crowded shop beating a guilty teenager around the head with a copy of ‘Bear Bone’ screaming “Buy your porn like an honest poof! Are you ashamed to be queer?!” The teenage boy in question wasn’t sure if he should proclaim he was going to pay for it really (no really), or protest because he was actually trying to nick a copy of ‘Computer Weekly’.

It had also been none other than Poz and Boz who had solved the case of the vandalised bus stop by Haverstock Drive, when Lenny the town drunk had picked a fight with the unsuspecting, though indignant bus stop on his way home from an evenings revelries. Lenny had lost badly, and ended up in casualty with three broken fingers and requiring extensive dental work. The bus stop may have been victorious, but it still bears the teeth marks to this day.

It was also the same two constables who had requested permission to attend a firearms course the previous year because “It’s always best to be prepared for all situations… Sir!”

The Inspector had held reservations, because he was a sensible man who had served thirty years in the police force without ever needing a weapon sharper than his wits (although given the standard issue weapon is of course the truncheon this isn’t saying very much but still, credit where credit is due). This was North Tidwell for Heavens sake. Of course it concerned him that there were idiots out there with guns, but being a sensible man it concerned him almost as much that there were idiots out there with guns, in uniform. He’d signed the forms, as a matter of, well, form, because it didn’t do to be restricting the personal development and training of his officers. But then he’d locked the keys to the firearms cabinet in his office safe. Then to be on the safe side, because this was after all a police station and often contained criminals (again, some of whom were in uniform), he’d first sawn the key in question in half. He was an intelligent and thorough man, which was how he’d risen to the rank of inspector, but he did occasionally do certain things (like cutting keys in half) that may have explained why he didn’t seem to be rising any further.

Now, beyond all reason, he’d received a phone call from his Chief Superintendent just minutes previously, informing him, and he still wasn’t sure this wasn’t all an elaborate hoax, of a terrorist cell operating from within the confines of his little market town. It must have been a joke. “Good one ma’am” he had replied “You almost had me there.” Even if he had given up hope of ever taking another step up the promotional ladder, he wasn’t going to be the one to let the Chief Superintendent know her jokes weren’t funny. The Chief’s voice had risen twenty decibels “This is not a laughing matter!” she had screamed into the mouthpiece, forcing him to pull the phone from his ear, “Immediate action is required!!”

There had been some discussion on the matter before he had asked “Shouldn’t we get the city boys in for something like this?” to which she had simply reiterated her position, “Immediate action is required!!”

Two exclamation marks. The woman meant business.

Then came the news from the desk sergeant that there were reports of explosions from Almondson Gardens. Apparently the whole street was ablaze.

So he'd made the last call in the chain, to the only officers he had who were trained in the use of firearms. Then he'd made a call to the local blacksmith, to get the key to the firearms cabinet welded back together.

“Heaven help us.” he whispered under his breath “Heaven, Heaven help us.”

Heaven Can, and Often Does, Wait

Debra had been working the help desk for almost a week, which pretty much made her the lowest of the low, in what was, all said and done, a very deep pond.

Perhaps not actually the lowest of the low. You can take a metaphor too far, and the truth be told, it wasn’t actually a pond either. This particular collection of water molecules was of a more vaporous form, if common conception is to be believed.

Being the lowest of the low, in what was, essentially, a very big cloud, Debra did find that no one ever really told her what was going on. That wasn’t something she considered a problem. She didn’t really need to know. She’d always been the sort of person who simply did what was requested of her, and she’d been assured that this meant she would go far.

Allegedly this was a firm that appreciated its yes men, and more recently, its yes women.

She performed her duties as they were prescribed. She filled in the 'paperwork' and filed the prayer from The Inspector, as he was indeed a good man. Then with efficient grace she tapped away at an arcane keyboard, calling up the relevant files, before she checked her screen, and contacted the closest operatives available on the ground. “Not a problem at all,” they had replied “it’s all in hand.”

Debra made a few notes on the file to that effect, smiled with the satisfaction of a job well done, and went back to practising her harp.

Insurgents

“Not a problem at all,” said Tom. “It’s all in hand.”

Then turning to Bob he said with a suitably measured smile “You know I think they really haven’t got a clue what we’re up to.”

“He must know.” said Bob with a certain defiance.

“I’m beginning to wonder.” Tom replied.

“But He is the universe. He is everything and therefore knows everything. How can He not know?”

Tom paused before responding “The bowel is part of a person, but they don’t know there’s anything wrong with it until… you know...”

Bobs gargantuan mind ground its most gigantic gears and as the final cogs slipped into place, with a slightly startled look on his face he responded “You mean, He won’t know what’s going on until... the fan makes everything... brown... and sticky.”

“Something like that” said Tom, after a moments hesitation.

“But…” said Bob, his smile fading to a fine line and his eyebrows curled in confusion before the smile slipped away completely, “He is the universe and all forms of the universe in every aspect at all times instantaneously,” and he paused for breath, or possibly to let his brain catch up with his mouth, or vice versa, “So, he already knows that the poo has come out whenever… in an unexpected fashion… and that the fan… and surrounding everywhere… will be all sorts and shades of… pebbledash.” He took a deep breath. His brain needed to re-oxygenate if it was to continue like this.

“Do you have to be quite so lucid with the metaphysical crap?” Tom responded, and Bob wondered if for the first time in quite literally an age Tom was about to lose his patience. He first retreated into silence, slightly stunned by this rare occurrence, but then shifted to a lower gear to deal with this particularly traumatic hill.

“Is something troubling you, Tom?”

Tom sighed. Yes something really was. “It’s like this,” he started, “either, the big guy hasn’t got a clue what we’re up to, and well, we’re walking a very thin wire here, many miles up, without the slightest glimmer of a safety net. This is the fabric of the universe we’re dealing with here. The building blocks of life. If we get this wrong…”

“And that troubles you?” questioned Bob. The answer appeared evident upon Tom's tightening lips, so Bob answered his own question “It does doesn’t it. I can see it troubles you.”

“Of course it troubles me.” Tom responded curtly, but seeing his brothers face he caught himself and returning to his more tranquil nature continued “but… I can only act according to the conscience He gave me,” Tom continued “and that means in this instance, I have to do what I have to do…”

“Of course you do.” responded Bob, “Or...?”

“Or?“ Tom questioned, then realizing what his brother meant he went on “Either the big guy hasn’t got a clue what we’re up to… Or…” Tom paused and let out a deep sigh “Or… He knows exactly what we’re up to, and he’s just letting us get on with it all the same.”

“Free will.” Bob stated.

“Just like free will.” Tom responded.

“Not like free will.” Bob responded. “It is free will.”

Tom turned and looked Bob in the eye. He shouldn’t be surprised at how incredibly insightful his brother could be. Not after all these years. “But free will shouldn’t let us go this far!” he exclaimed, almost protested. “We’re talking about the destruction of universes… or an eternity of damnation.”

“Universe.” said Bob.

“Pardon.” said Tom.

“Just the one universe. Singular. We’re only talking about the destruction of one universe. I suppose even God's choices will have parallel aspects where alternative decision are played out.”

Suddenly Tom wondered if the shoe had slipped onto the other foot, or possibly simply become a flip flop and flown off altogether.

“What are you talking about?” said Tom, looking slightly frustrated.

“Leaves,” said Bob, “on a tree.”

“What?!” said Tom, exasperated.

“Every decision that can be made results in new branches,” said Bob “possible paths to follow.”

“Yes, I know this.” said Tom “But what do you mean it’s only the one universe that’s going to be destroyed?”

“Well, every path, or branch that we follow, leads in essence, to a new, or parallel universe, although maybe we could think of them as divergent, and in extreme cases convergent universes, rather than parallel.”

“What are you talking about? Parallel, divergent, convergent whatever, get back to the point. What do you mean it’s only this universe that’s going to be destroyed?”

“Well… He’s only ending this universe. There are lots of others that will still be fine. He’s just plucking this leaf off the tree. It’s not such a big thing in the grand scheme of things. There are lots of other universes.”

“But we live in this universe!!!” Tom protested, finally giving in to exasperation. The exclamation marks hung in the air with a rope around their necks and their ankles dangling for several seconds afterwards.

“Well yes, I was only saying, it’s only the destruction of one universe. One leaf. Or perhaps one branch. Well, you know. He probably doesn’t think it’s such a big deal.”

“You’re saying God simply doesn’t care!”

“How funny has your poo got to be before you care? He has an infinite number of fans at his disposal. It wouldn't be the first time he's flushed a bit away he didn't like.”

“We can’t let Him!” screamed Tom interjecting impatiently.

There was a pause before Bob said very quietly “Well we could. If you think about it, letting him would actually be a lot easier than stopping him.”

“Stop it.” said Tom.

“Sorry.” said Bob wondering why he was apologizing when it was obviously Tom who had made the grammatical faux pas.

“We won’t let Him!” Tom asserted himself.

“What are we going to do?” asked Bob.

“We’re going to let a firework off right up his arse.” said Tom “This is going to be the big bang to end all big bangs.”

The big bang to end all big bangs sounded like a rather ironic way to save the universe, even if this one was to be localized to the vicinity of Gods arse.

Still, Bob liked fireworks. So all was good.

He hoped God did.

Lara

Damien bounced up the stairs full of the joyousness of life, which may seem mildly odd for someone who’d just spent the night in the company of a corpse, but as he often said, just because you spend your time surrounded by death, there’s no point being miserable about it. The fact that he often said this to dead people may have been a little callous, but who was to know. It was probably better than saying it to their relatives.

The stairs opened onto a thin corridor, which he continued to bounce along. It had evidently been raining outside during the night, but the sun had come up, and it was beginning to look like the start of a beautiful new day.

Ahh the joy of ignorance.

He bounced down the corridor, continuing in his joyous gait and swung round the end of the wall into the main reception area at the front of the ‘shop’.

And there he stopped.

Dead.

Well, not actually dead.

It wasn’t just because she was beautiful, although she truly was. The morning light tumbled in through the window upon her, caressing her elfin features, cascading through her ragged locks, and lighting her countenance like that of the most heavenly of angels. It wasn’t simply her haloed beauty alone. Neither was it that he could see her erect nipples through her slightly wet T shirt.

Although that had undoubtedly caught his attention, held it, and in the following moments, possibly even juggled it a bit.

The pair of 9mm uzis that she held, one down by her side, the other suddenly pointing directly at his face had possibly pipped her nips in the race for his attention. Although the judges decisions were being held until his eyes stopped bouncing.

To some extent this explained why Damien had lost control of the vertical hold on his eyeballs. The horizontal wobble was due to the fact that to her right, there was a clip board, floating in mid air, with a pen scribbling furiously across it. To her left, if we can abuse and reuse metaphors, there floated a shiny metal pineapple.

Floated –  In mid air –  Were there strings?

He didn’t know where to look, or where not to look. His eyes whizzed round their sockets like enraged caged apes on amphetamine sulphate, who were late late late, for a very important date... and perhaps on a promise.

The mysterious floating objects were a comfort all things considered, given that under normal circumstances he would probably have been quite upset to have someone pointing a semi automatic pistol at him. Whatever the erectile state of their nipples. A floating clipboard and hand grenade do make such a situation suitably surreal, to the point where machine pistols lost some of their menace. For a second or two.

Of course, for most people any circumstances where someone is pointing any kind of gun at you is probably not that normal. It wasn’t an everyday occurrence for Damien, and he stopped, dead, as previously suggested, and wondered how to proceed.

She stared at him, over the barrel of the gun, and her eyes narrowed. She was evidently caught in some kind of dilemma. This obviously wasn’t an every day occurrence for her either.

Damien stared back. If you can be considered to be staring when your eyes are doing an open interpretation of the R.E.M. ballet.

“Erm, can I help you?” he finally ventured, his eyes still flicking. He was naturally polite, and quite sensibly saw no reason to adjust this demeanour in the presence of excessive weirdness, and certainly not excessive weirdness wielding firearms.

“You can stop staring at my tits for a start!” she responded, with the authority that only the possession of a perfect pair of pistols could command.

Damien considered this to be decidedly unfair. For a start, how could she tell what he was staring at when he couldn’t make up his own mind on the matter? And now that she’d told him not to – You could cut diamonds with those things!

There was scribbling on the clip board and she turned, read it and added as if to the room in general “It was bloody cold outside, OK, I said I wanted to go back for my coat.”

Damien considered this. The fact that she was talking to the clipboard, was probably no stranger than the fact that it was floating in mid air in the first place.

“Are we being filmed?” He ventured. “Is this like, going to be on telly? You look a bit like Lara Croft.”

“No, no, and sod off!” Brenda replied abruptly. “Now if you don’t mind, we’re here for a reason.”

“Sorry, it’s just that, well, you look a bit like her, what with the guns, and the… you know…“ His voice trailed off, as something else occurred to him “Is this really happening? I have been working pretty hard recently, I suppose I could have gone a bit, you know… loopy. Have I just gone proper nuts? Seriously, think about it, I must be just fantasizing about this… I mean, why the hell would Lara Croft turn up here?... I do spend a lot of time alone… Bloody weird fantasy if it is though, why would I have imagined Lara Croft with small boobs?”

“Shut the Fuck up NOW!” she screamed, before continuing in a quieter, though far more menacing tone “or I’m just going to shoot you right in the bollocks.”

Damien took a step backwards, and made a slightly defensive stance, placing one leg, cautiously in front of, and across, the other, because the uzis certainly looked real, and she sounded very much like she meant it.

‘Be Nice’ Brian scribbled rapidly and started waving the clipboard in front of Lara. Ahem, Brenda.

“I don’t have to be bloody nice, I’ve got a pair of bloody big guns.” Brenda replied.

“Apparently he doesn’t think so.” Dennis sniggered.

“Yes, big guns.” said Damien, refocusing. “Wow, Lara Croft.”

“I’m not fucking Lara Croft. Get over it. I am going to turn your bastard nuts into bollocking nutella if you don’t give me what I want, right now!”

“She’s very good at this” interjected Dennis, turning sideways to Brian.

“She always was,” replied Brian, “she’s just got heavier weapons now.”

“But does she have to swear quite so much?”

“Are you going to ask her to stop?”

“I didn’t mean small boobs,” said Damien, “obviously, they’re very nice, and everything, they’re just not like… Lara Croft boobs...”

“A man in a hole should know when to stop digging.” Brian commented, while shaking his head reproachfully.

“He’s making himself a very deep grave.” Dennis replied.

“Will you shut the fuck up about my tits.” said Brenda, who obviously hadn’t heard either of them. She was starting to feel that perhaps she wasn’t in complete control of this situation and some form of action may be necessary.

 “I suppose it is an undertakers.” said Brian.

Damien was sure that he wasn’t handling this as well as he might. His mind strayed back to a conversation he had once had with Mr Maniken, where the older gentleman had suggested very sagely in a rather fatherly manner, that if you wanted a simple life when dealing with women, everything you ever said should fall into one of two categories. It was very simple. Everything you said should be either a compliment or an apology. Damien decided to apply this evident wisdom to the best of his ability.

“Sorry...” he whispered “really, you’ve very nice tits.”

Brenda had been having a tough time of late. Getting robbed. Falling for some fool who'd fallen from a plane for her, to his very messy death. Being bound, gagged and threatened by some unknown dominatrix. With eyelashes she would kill for. Being saved from such an embarrassing situation by the ghost of said fallen hero, who's mate then blew up her front room with a grenade – her ears were still ringing.

It was time that she took control of the situation. The power was hers. All she had to do was take it.

“Fuck this.” she said.

There was half a second's hesitation, and then she pulled the trigger.

Real Men Don’t Read Manuals?

There are some jobs that simply shouldn’t be delegated. Not many, but some. Usually it’s a matter of trust. Maybe there is simply no one who can be trusted to do the specified job to the required level of absolute perfection, or, no one else can be trusted with the knowledge that comes from having done so. There are some jobs you wouldn’t delegate even if you could. Call it ‘the thrill of the chase’.

So Anthony sat, his hands clothed in immaculate white silk gloves, his face hidden behind a mask designed to prevent the slightest hint of moisture escaping upon his breath; deep in the catacombs of a most restricted section of the British Museum. On a floor to which the lift didn’t delve, and the stairs only frequented on Thursdays in June when the moon was at exactly seventy three degrees to reality, and white Y fronts, and socks with sandals were the absolute pinnacle of the highest fashion.

Or the curator had been paid the necessary bottle. Of the finest vintage.

Anthony sat, and worked his way through archives, that most of the world would never have the pleasure of knowing existed. Of course, most would go to the grave without ever having had the pleasure of even caring, but…

Obviously, when we discuss ‘the thrill of the chase’ in this instance it doesn’t involve anything so crass as actually running, but he was getting close. The prey was almost his. The pace was quickening. He could taste it, feel it becoming his bones, flowing in his blood, in every breath. Not that Anthony was the sort of man who trusted such feelings, but all the same. Call it intuition, call it a sixth sense, call it Desmond The Duck Sucking Dodo if you want,  he knew. The Aim of The Order was coming to fruition. Well... sort of.

But things were not as simple as he had at first hoped. He worked meticulously over an ancient leather tome, with pages of fine lambskin, doing his best to translate the tangle of picture and symbol that allegedly passed for writing five thousand years ago.

Long before he was even aware of the existence of the Kybota, he had learned to speak Italian. It wasn’t the only thing, or even the most memorable that he had learned from the succession of nannies and maids available as a child, but it had been the one that had put him in good stead when it came to learning Latin in the years to come. In the course of his quest that had served him well, but he had found himself since required to learn both Hebrew, and Ancient Greek, and the magnificent tome that he now worked over with devout attention was written in something akin to Ancient Sumerian.

He found translating the Sumerian more of an art than a science, and perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it was interpreted rather than translated. Had it not been for his findings from previous studies, he would have struggled. For example, the line he currently ran his gloved finger under he translated as “The Kybota is a device of immense (or perhaps absolute?) power.” but a more literal translation by a less calculating scholar might return something more akin to “a device containing the awesome power of the gods immaculate loins.”

Unfortunately, given that he was translating something that was essentially a tangle of hieroglyphs and stick drawings, it may also have translated as “an entity as huge and powerful as gods cock.”

Anthony favoured a translation that didn’t run as a marketing line for the Neolithic ladies favourite handbag accessory. Partially because he figured if any God could get someone pregnant without her noticing, just how big could his cock be? But also because he guessed that Sumerian digressions with dildos wouldn’t have been archived on lamb skin in the annals of the British Museum.

Personally, I think he might be missing a point about the human fascination for anything to do with sex, but I digress.

… a device of immense (or perhaps even absolute) power…

He knew all this already. He wasn’t here to find out what it was, he wanted to know how it worked, and he turned pages delicately, but eagerly, hunting through the text for further information. He was sure he knew where it was, and with a certain satisfaction bordering on smugness he thought to himself as he read, “It’s been moved a few times since it was there.”

“I don’t want to know where it came from.” he voiced in frustration as he read a passage telling him how it had been a gift that had come from the very stars themselves. Or from the heavens. Or perhaps it was aliens. Who could tell? It had come from someone very high up, with funny shaped, or ringed heads, who appeared to glow a bit.

“Somewhere here,” he said under his breath “there has got to be something, like the bloody user guide. Where for the sake of holy bloody buggery, is the manual?”

It had taken him three years to track down this volume, including ventures to Iran, Palestine, and finally Egypt, only to find there, that it had been taken to England in the late nineteenth century, where it had laid in a personal library for forty years before being buried in the bowels of antiquity upon the death of its ‘liberator’.

Anthony was sure this was the very tome. This was the reference he had searched for. He was sure that somewhere in these pages… it was in here somewhere. It had to be.

And as he turned the page, there, pressed between two leaves of fragile lambskin, like a cartoon moustache on the Mona Lisa, was a piece a plain everyday, bog standard, although nicely weighted, white photocopy paper. It came as something of a surprise, and it was a moment or two before he noticed the stubs. Still stitched into the bindings of this most ancient book were the remnants of two pages that had been removed, cut, sliced, torn from their moorings. Two pages had been cut from a manuscript that was generally considered to be at least five thousand years old. From a manuscript miraculously produced at a time when most people who knew about such things were sure those who produced it couldn’t even write, and some bastard had been so barbaric as to desecrate the thing by carving bloody chunks from it. Anthony’s face contorted. Partially in disgust at the audacity, but mostly simply because he was sure they had to be the pages he'd been searching for all this time.

“The motherless bastards! How dare they!?“

It never even occurred to him what a ridiculous insult that was.

He picked up the barbarous blasphemy that lay there offending his very sense of all that was ancient, all that was tradition, all that was sacrosanct, and read the offending message which had been written upon it in plain old blue biro, though for small mercies, in a most elegant hand…

“Anthony – if you find this, please get in touch,  

Paulo.”

Associations

“Bloody Hell!” said Poz.

“Bugger Me!” said Boz.

“Indeed.” said The Inspector, with slightly more decorum. “You will be working under the authority of a specialist government unit. The commander of which will be arriving here shortly.”

“Specialist government unit?” questioned Poz, his eyes widening, with the prospect of the evident glamour and excitement this very possibly entailed.

The Inspector looked him in the eye, and gave the answer that he had received when he had asked exactly the same question of his chief just a few minutes previously, “Yes, a specialist government unit.” he reiterated.

He didn’t like this. Whilst he understood there were certain operations that were undertaken on a ‘need to know’ basis, he wasn’t comfortable when he didn’t have answers to such basic questions. Which government unit for crying out loud? It wasn’t a difficult question. Was it? But the chief had been remarkably tight lipped on the issue with a tone that suggested that further questions on the matter would not be appreciated.

He had received a direct order from a superior, and he would carry it out to the best of his ability. After all, if everything went horribly wrong, he could at least claim afterwards that he had merely been following orders. Come to think of it, ‘only following orders’ didn’t sound that great now that he came to put it into words.

But then, it was for reasons like this he had joined the force in the first place. To protect and to serve. To be a valuable pillar of society.

Admittedly, when he’d taken on this job, he’d assumed that would mean chasing the occasional burglar and helping old ladies across the road. If you’d wanted gunfights with terrorists you joined the Parachute Regiment. The concept of terrorists in Tidwell was simply absurd. But then maybe that was back in the days before terrorism had become fashionable and everyone was doing it. He sighed. It occurred to him that if it really were true that one man's terrorist were another man's freedom fighter, if you did what you could to ensure people had the freedoms they required, then far fewer people would be fighting for them. These were not popular opinions in the police force, and perhaps it could be said this was simply another reason further promotion was not exactly steaming his way. But still, as unappreciated as he knew he was, he was not one to shrink from his duty.

The problem being that the higher he climbed up the ranks, the more he had become aware that the other pillars around him were not always quite as concerned about ‘duty’ as he was. Most of them were quite happy to ensure that if and when it came to the crunch, they could take several steps backwards fast enough that some other poor bugger (i.e. him) would be left supporting a now crumbling edifice.

Over the years he had become remarkably good at holding together crumbling structures and he sometimes considered that he may have better served the world if he’d taken a career in archaeology.

But this wasn’t simply about crumbling structures. This involved terrorists, firearms, and the thing that scared him most, specialist government units. The people who came in, made one almighty mess, and somehow vanished into the mist leaving nothing but chaos and calamity and everyone else to clear up the mess, whilst denying anything at all had ever happened. He could see an image of the future, and it involved his testes being roasted over a flaming pit by a government commission desperate for a pillar to hide behind when this all went horribly wrong. But it was a simple choice. He could play politics with all the other silly buggers. He could look for someone else to carry the can, if or when it all went belly up. He could demand a trail of paperwork as long as your arm, and refuse to budge until it was on his desk and signed in triplicate.

He could do that.

Or he could do what he had joined up to do in the first place.

Protect and serve.

And apparently there were armed gunmen rampant in his town.

A voice come over his intercom. “Agent Kuryani to see you sir?”

He reached across his desk, and pressed the intercom button without a glimmer of his harrowed thoughts leaving a trace upon his brow. There was no need for his officers to be aware of his concerns. “Please send her in.” he replied promptly and courteously.

This was all happening alarmingly fast.

The door opened, and two jaws dropped instantly to nothing more than a fraction above floor level. The Inspector, being marginally more worldly wise, merely turned his head, and blinked before regaining composure. Kuryani wasn’t the last thing they had expected to see, given that she wasn’t a trifle in a tutu, or perhaps an elephant in high heels wielding a chainsaw. She was simply the last thing they had expected to see, that was vaguely plausible.

As she walked confidently into the room, taking up a position with her back to the far wall, three sets of eyes dropped to ground level, then ran all the way up her legs and onwards to boob level, where they rested briefly, before heading ever onwards, hitting eye level… where they embarrassingly realized they’d been caught previously resting… and focused very intently, positively, and steadfastly at the ceiling, occasionally flicking back down to eye level because well, you can't just stare at the ceiling through an entire conversation.

Did the commanders of specialist government units normally dress in skin tight leather? or had she been on her day off, and been interrupted whilst at some other form of “specialist” function?

“Agent Kuryani...” The Inspector stated, in a way that he hoped was ‘matter of fact’ but which if punctuation allowed would have included at least half of a question mark.

Kuryani nodded.

“PC Chambers and Monaghan,” The Inspector offered, with significantly more composure than he felt, gesturing in their directions by way of introductions “at your disposal.”

“Well, lets hope it’s not actual disposal sir.” Poz chimed in with a nervous laugh.

Kuryani briefly inspected the ceiling herself by way of condescension, and The Inspector gave him a brief but very firm stare. Poz decided his interests would be best served in the immediate future by keeping his mouth very firmly shut.

“This is all you have?” Kuryani responded curtly.

Was she commenting on the number or quality of the constables present? It was a question that went unasked on the grounds that they were all happier that it went unanswered.

When Kuryani had been told she would be provided with police back up, she had assumed she would be getting a full armed response unit.

“I can assure you these are the finest officers I have trained in the use of firearms.” The Inspector stated diplomatically.

Boz’s chest swelled with pride, until it occurred to him that they were the only officers in the station trained in the use of firearms. Kuryani looked them over once more, as if mustering troops, which to all intents and purposes she was, before making the obvious observation, “They are not armed.”

“Yes, we are… erm… working on that.” was the rather meek reply.

Sunsets and...

Unless trained in such matters, the natural reaction of any person faced with a semi-automatic pistol going off within a few feet of their face, is going to be to turn, wrap their arms around their head, and to do their level best to start deep level excavations into the shag pile.

It’s not generally going to get you very far. Anyone who doesn’t have any qualms about such matters, and let’s face it, that’s probably most people who are willing to carry automatic weapons in the first place, will simply put a perforation line up your spine.

Reflex reactions; not always appropriate in a fast changing modern world, but reflexes all the same. What can you do?

Being untrained in such matters, Damien reacted pretty much as described. Turned like a toad. Ducked like a goose doing bad impressions, and wrapped his arms around his head like a schizophrenic wrestler –  who was being shot at. Obviously, when I say turned like a toad, you might like to think of that more as a toad in a blender.

As the bullets flew overhead, tearing into the walls, ceiling, and whatever else found its self in their oh so destructive path, time dropped down to a beat a sexagenarian snail could oh so smoothly smooch along the stave to. He heard the delicate tinkle of shattering glass as vases, picture frames, and windows went to meet their maker (the great glass factory in the sky, where all will finally become truly clear). He heard the plaster in the walls being ripped apart, with soft, dull thuds. His ears echoed with the sound of his heart pumping those few final beats, as if realizing the performance was coming to a close, it was time for the timpani to bring the whole rendition to a tumultuous conclusion. All to a backdrop of the horrendous cacophony of the rat a tat tat of machine gun fire. It seemed to last an age.

Frozen, he waited for the icy cold sensation in his back that would signify he had been struck. Perhaps it wouldn’t be fatal. Perhaps that would be worse. Being dead seemed quite easy. Being crippled had always looked as if it might be quite hard work all things considered. But momentarily crippled he was all the same. Incapable of movement, prostate upon the immaculate hard wood floor as the cacophony continued all around him. Just how many bullets could those things fire? Or was time in uncharacteristic kindness just letting him treasure those last few moments that little bit longer.

The ringing in his ears continued for sometime before he realised the gunfire had stopped. Suddenly there was just a voice. Slow and deep, but no, not slow and deep. Time returned to its usual programming, the slow deep voice sped up, increased in pitch, a womans voice. The woman's voice. Lara's voice.

“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”

Then footsteps. Running footsteps. Fast running footsteps. Retreating, or perhaps better described as simply 'running away'. He heard a thud just in front of him. The bell that was over the front door tinkled, it’s soft, calm, and delicate little chime. He heard the creak of the door starting to close and…

… It occurred to him that he was pretty sure that he was still alive. If he could be sure about anything given how incredibly weird the last minute of his life had just been. He was pretty sure that not only was he still alive, but he was pretty sure that, miraculously, he hadn’t even been hit. Wow!

He breathed, for what must have been the first time since Lara had let loose with the live ammunition. It was a breath so very, very deep, but then he half choked as he suddenly realised he was going to have to explain this to Mr Maniken, and Mr Maniken wasn’t going to believe a word of it. Mr Maniken was going to do his nut.

Damien burst out laughing. Loaded on endorphins and simply full of the joy to be alive. There was nothing Mr Maniken could do to suppress this sudden and most amazing joy to simply be alive. How much we take for granted. Alive in a world of such vivid colour, such beautiful music, a world with birds, and bees, flowers, and trees, sunsets and… sunsets and... sunsets and… 

… and there, on the floor in front of him, if I can abuse and reuse my metaphors, was a small, but perfectly formed…

shiny metal pineapple.

Heavenly Garments

By this point, God was pissing himself.

Obviously that’s a metaphor. God is of course no more likely to soak his immaculate white Y fronts as he is to take a shit, certain parts of Slough of course still accepted.

But this does raise some very serious questions, like does God have holy underwear. How often does he change it. Where does he keep the spare pairs, or has he been wearing the same pair since before time. Does he go for something pure and simple like the white Y front, or would he prefer something in the designer vein, and if so, silk, hemp, or something in thorns and self flagellation. Does God wear underwear at all. Perhaps he prefers to go commando, and if you were looking up at heaven, just as the clouds parted, could you catch a glimpse up his cassock at his heavenly undercarriage¹⁸ and his cleaner than clean virgin arsehole.

Who Knows What, and How or If?

Of the multitude of questions Anthony had for Paulo, none of them had anything to do with the orthodox doctrine regarding divine undergarments.

The first that came readily to mind was to do with Paulo’s parentage, although that was perhaps more an accusation than a question. Anthony restrained himself.

Perhaps it was Paulo’s lack of a human father that had made him look for a more spiritual representation, but that was not the important point here. The thing Anthony really wanted to know, was how much, and specifically what did Paulo know.

With a simple fluid motion he pulled his phone from his pocket, and stared at it with the kind of disdain one generally reserves for the sole of a recently soiled shoe –  with a newly discovered hole in the sole.

His lip curled as he stared into the luminous screen, as if the medium of communication was itself the villainous cleric whose voice it would relay. He clenched it in his fist, while he paced the floor of his office resisting the urge to bury the phone into the nearest wall.

He stopped, thumb hovered over 'dial', but no... Calm, first he must be calm. Breathing in deeply he walked to the window and looked out over the city. He watched the clouds do their monumental thing, and down at ground level, the ants do theirs in the shadow. His breathing slowed, and he tuned his mind to the intricate beauty of the microscopic ballet being performed so very far beneath his office window. Calm. Calm. Calm.

He sat, and staring out across the cityscape, he thought. Simple rage was focused, honed, replaced by a more deliberate process. Take stock. What do we know? What do we want to happen? What do we need to happen to make that happen? Which stones need to be put in place? Which rivers need to be forded? Which need to be bridged? Which, and who, should be damned?

Simple drops of reason were taken, tested, held to the light. Examined to see how each would fit a purpose. How each would link. What reactions each would promote. Likely outcomes. Likely counter moves.

If he phoned, then Paulo would know for sure that Anthony had found that infuriating note. But then, surely Paulo already knew that, or soon would. Who or what had given him away? Not Kuryani surely. The curator? It could have been any of a number of Egyptian archaeologists for the slightest baksheesh but... surely Paulo couldn’t have come so far so quickly from that one phone call, but then he did have the entire resource of the Vatican at his disposal. Thoughts raced through the alleyways of his mind. Down a blind alley. No, backtrack, try again,  another route. He needed to know how much Paulo knew. He needed to know what he intended. What did he know about the villainous cleric that could be put to use? Thoughts raced in a multitude of directions.

Like many in the church, Paulo was one who might not be as overly concerned about religion as some might think that he ought to be. Obviously the spirituality of the masses was important, but not quite as important as the continued existence of the church as a political entity. Without the controlling hand of ‘orthodox’ belief, well, all hell might break loose. Which was what had apparently brought Paulo to The Order in the first place. To what extent Paulo would be willing to buy order in this world at the cost of his ‘eternal’ soul, was not something Anthony had ever got as far as asking. Just where did his loyalties lie, and what was he hoping to achieve out of this? Was his priority The Church, The Order, or was he on his own agenda? If he wanted to speak to Anthony, exactly what did he want from him?

So Anthony put his mind to determining Paulo’s agenda. It was now obvious the cleric knew far more than he had previously let on. Had he been fooled all along. Had Paulo led him in? He apparently had the pages Anthony desired. Anthony swore under his breath... but then, the manual was in ancient Sumerian. Could Paulo read Sumerian? Even if he couldn’t he could get someone else in the church to translate it… but maybe he didn’t want anyone else in the church to know what it was that he was up to. Was that why he wanted Anthony?

There were too many unknowns. Too many questions.

Assuming it was Paulo in the first place. It had looked like his writing, but then, all the bloody god botherers seemed to write in that in infernal illegible overly florid script.

So Anthony pondered, sifted and sorted all he knew, and weighed the probabilities of the things he didn’t. Then resigned to the fact that the latter outweighed the former by a fair degree, he finally flipped out his phone with the casual nonchalance of a man resolved to his course of action. OK, he didn’t have all the information he needed, too much of this didn't make sense, but he wasn’t going to get any more of it without asking questions, and there was an obvious place to start, and maybe... just maybe...

As he watched the ants below his window winding their way through their purportless days, his fingers once more floated over the luminous keys to speed dial number two.

The Short Chapter

“Bugger...” said Damien.

“... Boom.” said the shiny metal pineapple.

The Nature of Existence

They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but I still think that in a one to one confrontation it would come off a less than close second.

Boom indeed.

But, stranger yet, is that the humble pin is far mightier than the inky nib. For the pin holds the lever, and a lever can control so many things –  in this case, the grenade.

The tiny little pin.

Boom diddy boom diddy boom boom boom!

He hadn’t expected so much of life. At least he didn’t think he expected that much. Come the final reckoning he was sure he’d performed perfectly adequately. Perhaps he could even claim to have performed slightly better than that. If it’s possible to be more perfect than perfectly adequate?

There was no doubting that he was going to get points for style. There was a strange and grotesque beauty to the devastation that remained. The once proud windows were of course mere fragments of their former selves, and sunlight flooded through the fractured walls, forging rays of light in the swirling clouds of debris in a way that only parallel light can.

Most of the side wall was blown through. The oak panelled flooring had undoubtedly seen better days. But then it thought life had gone down hill when it had stopped being a tree, so perhaps these things should be put into perspective.

But we digress and perhaps in so doing risk missing the most beautiful element of the entire scene. Floating back down to earth, in amongst the foggy cumulus of brick dust and plaster (and some more organic components that we need not go into), was the remaining detritus of one thousand and one particularly purple chrysanthemums (go ahead, count them).

A local orchid when asked to comment mentioned the tragic loss of life and how the horrendous devastation would be a loss to the local flora for years to come. Huge great swathes of lilac, lavender and violet (the humble chrysanthemum never having been granted the simple honorific of its own shade) fluttered like butterflies amongst the milky fallout of plaster and brick dust. Needless to say, all against a backdrop of what can probably be best described as ‘red’.

To have created this final exeunt made him think that perhaps his existence hadn’t been completely wasted. You only get one crack at the all important moments, and all said and done he thought he’d done a pretty fine job. He’d not taken as many with him as he’d have liked, but he was definitely going to get points for style.

And these things are important to a grenade.

Especially to a grenade rumoured to have a tiny little pin.

Words in High Places

The phone rang so violently that it could be heard down the end of the stupendously long corridor, that led up to the large oak door, that led into Paulo’s oak panelled office. He sat at his large oak desk watching the receiver rattle in its antique cradle. Which was oak. Oak was a theme. Strong and resolute. Hard. Suitably expressive, but not overly ostentatious. The phone continued to ring, and Paulo, strong and resolute, hard, suitably expressive, but not overly ostentatious, continued to ignore it. It was an old, bulbous creation, with a huge round dial, and a cacophonous ring that could wake the dead from their deepest slumbers six feet down in lead lined cacoffins.

He let it ring, but as it bounced one last time in the cradle, he reached out his hand. He reached without rushing, lifted the receiver, and waited a few more seconds before raising it to his ear. “Anthony! How the devil are you?” You may ask how he knew it was Anthony. Suffice to say that he had friends in high places¹⁹ .

There was a pause on the other end of the line, as Anthony, knowing full well there were games afoot, took his time to make his move.

“…Very well Paulo, very well indeed,” Anthony responded apparently unflustered “but again, it would appear that you can be of great assistance to me.”

“Really Anthony, well you know very well, you only need mention it, and it is done.”

“The thing is, and you know how I hate to ask…”

“Anthony, please…” Paulo re-iterated.

“Really, I do hate to ask…”

“Anthony please, you know I will do everything in my power to assist you.”

“Well the thing is Paulo…”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been doing some research recently...”

“Really!” Paulo smiled, whilst doing his best to feign surprise in his voice “With fortunate conclusions I trust.”

“...and there’s something I need I think you might be able to help me with.”

“Really Anthony,” Paulo mockingly protested “anything, you need only to ask.”

Paulo grinned. When Anthony wanted something, he was rarely shy in coming forwards. To have him dangling on the hook like this was a rare pleasure indeed.

When one of Paulo’s more pious researchers had first approached him years before, explaining that he had found reference to a most mystical creation, which appeared to contain the power of creation itself, Paulo had been undoubtedly sceptical. The student, in his eagerness to please his master had thrown all of his many notes upon the table, pointing out reference after reference to this amazing object. He had first found mention weeks previously, whilst cataloguing a recently uncovered section of the Vatican cellars and the story only became more and more bizarre. This item had been referenced many times. The most powerful of relics. Yet it appeared to come from a time before Our Lord Himself had created the earth. How could this possibly be? What did this mean?

Paulo dutifully read the materials presented. It was indeed the strangest of stories. He became more and more interested, and as his own investigations ensued, more and more convinced. He offered the student a glass of wine, and they discussed the matter vigorously into the night. As the bottle half emptied, and the student, unused to such intoxicants, became more than half cut, Paulo suggested that his new protégé should retire for the night. They would discuss it the next day, once he had an opportunity to discuss the item with the Pope himself. This matter was of such importance. The student should speak to no one of this. He would be called the very next day to present this information to the Pontiff.

Paulo never did discuss it with the Pope. The student never did wake the next day. The two issues may or may not be related.

“The thing is,“ said Anthony “I’ve been doing some research, and I’ve uncovered some most enlightening information. It’s something I’m sure that will interest you, but I do need certain items before I’ll be able to commence.”

“Certain Items?” Paulo questioned, mildly surprised, as innocently as he could muster.

Of course, What Paulo hadn’t counted on, was the simple fact that having created a team to go and retrieve the item in question from its final resting place, that finality is a relative concept, and the item in question would have stopped resting and moved on once more. Having (allegedly) dispatched his best researcher, he then had to work out where the thing had moved onto himself, and quite frankly, he simply didn’t have the time, or the required skills to perform such a task.

 “Yes, certain items…” repeated Anthony. An awkward silence expanded across the connection, as he waited for Paulo to fill the space in the conversation.

But then, on one fateful day, Paulo had crossed paths with Anthony. It was a meeting of minds, and of necessity. Paulo had realised that this was a man, who had both the intellect, the means, and the determination to locate and retrieve the Kybota. Of course, it was essential that he should never be fully aware of its power, and he certainly shouldn’t be able to operate it himself, but slowly, through various sources, Paulo ensured that enough information regarding the artefact found its way into Anthony’s path, such that his curiosity would get the better of him.

“And what certain items would these be?” Paulo wondered how long it would take before Anthony asked the simple question.

“The thing is Paulo… Are you sure about this, I feel so awkward asking.”

“On my oath Anthony, ANYTHING, please just ask.”

“Well, what I’m looking for Paulo… on your oath you say? Well that’s more than I could have hoped for, anyway, what I’m looking for… is...”

There was a long hesitation before he finally filled the void. For the life of him, when he contemplated it afterwards, Anthony couldn't say where the words had come from. Just what had made him utter the sentence “the menstrual blood of three virginal nuns… and the testicles of seven castrated choirboys.”

He had shocked himself when he'd said it, but having said it, he decided to steam on regardless. Without waiting for a response he continued “It’s a matter of the utmost importance and delicacy, as I’m sure you can understand, but I really don’t know who else I can turn to in this matter.”

What’s the Big Deal about Being Dead?

“What the fuck?!”

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘What?’”

“Well… What?”

“What the fuck were you playing at?!”

“Why are you shouting?”

“What do you mean why am I fucking shouting?!”

“Well… Why… Are... You... ...Shouting?”

“You just let off a fucking grenade in a fucking enclosed space, you fucking idiot… A-fucking-gain!”

“Well, there’s no need to get personal… or to shout. Why are you shouting?”

Brian thought about this for a second. It was possibly that he needed to shout over the sound of his ears ringing, but coming to a simpler conclusion responded “Because I’m FUCKING ANGRY!”

“There’s still no need to shout… Or swear.”

“There was no need to let off a fucking grenade!”

“She started it.”

“What?!” came the exasperated response.

“She started firing.”

“Not at him. She wasn’t firing at him.”

“Well, it’s still no reason to shout.”

“You just let off a fucking grenade in a fucking enclosed space. You killed that poor fucking bastard. He’s spread all over the fucking walls. What’s left of them. What do you consider a fucking reason to shout!?”

The question hung in the air like a condemned man's ankles. There was an occasional angry twitch as the last breaths were squeezed from the ominous oppressive silence, before Dennis finally responded, “Well, before I let off the grenade. I might not have done it if you'd shouted then. That would have been a good reason to shout I suppose. You could have shouted ‘Don’t let off the grenade!’,  That would have been a good reason to shout.” Then he continued “Anyway, he’s not really dead.”

“He’s all over the fucking walls! How much more fucking dead can he fucking be!?” Brian erupted.

“He’s just… there.” said Dennis, pointing at Damien, or to be more accurate, the ghost of Damien, the essential spirit of Damien, or just Damien without the squishy bits, which were as has been mentioned, all over the walls (which probably weren't actually copulating if the truth be told, and would be better described as 'copulated').

Damien was watching them in a rather bemused fashion still trying to work out what exactly had just happened to him. He certainly didn't quite feel himself, and the revelation that he was in fact dead suddenly started to seem quite plausible.

The bell on the door tinkled once more, as the door fell inward off it’s hinges, and Lara, or Brenda (depending on who was describing the situation), poked her head round and asked meekly “Is anyone there? Is it safe to come back in yet?” Then as much to herself and the room in general added “Bugger me! What a mess.”

“Letting grenades off can do that.” Brian added sarcastically, staring at Dennis.

“She started it,” replied Dennis “shout at her.”

“I can’t shout at her can I.” responded Brian.

“Well, write her an angry note or something.”

“I can’t. Some fucker blew up my clipboard!”

“Hello-oooooo” Shouted Brenda. “Anyone there?”

Brian banged his foot against a vaguely stable piece of the flooring, and with a petulant grin Dennis added another.

“Not again guys... There’s no time to toss about. I think they might just know where to find us now if we don’t get our arses in gear.”

“Where to find her.” responded Dennis “They’re not going to find us.”

“You’re becoming a right nasty bastard, you know that don’t you.” retorted Brian.

A nagging feeling that something was missing drew Brenda's eyes to the scars across the floor,  the walls, and finally, her neck craned back, until she was looking up at a very large red and dripping stain across the ceiling. “Is that…?”

There was a one very distinct, single, solitary subdued stamp on the floor.

“Erm… Erm… Excuse me, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but,“ the tiny voice found itself as both Brian and Dennis turned to look back at the newcomer, “don’t I know you?”

What's Going On?

It’s one of those questions that no one really knows the answer to, but of course, no one is ever really willing to admit that.

It’s not that no one knows anything about what’s going on. It’s just that ‘what’s going on’ is such a big subject, that it’s kind of difficult to know the actual answer with any level of certainty. There are quite simply, so very many things going on. The only way you could really know on a grand scale what was going on, was if you were for instance, some kind of omniscient being.

And there, amidst the higher echelons of thought, a metaphysical god sat tossing a metaphorical coin, which due to a less than complete regard for basic Newtonian physics in such dimensions, came down both sides up.

And as ever that god decided to follow both courses of action, which you can do when you're an omnipotent being in an infinite universe. Paradox is the name of the game, even if it sounds more like the name of a particularly cheap washing powder.

And out on the remotest reaches of a branch, in some existence or other, the lives of two beings who had at one point been so very close to God, back in the day when the tree was yet young, two beings who had been loved and cherished and who had loved and served in return, two beings who had… strayed, were simply removed from existence.

‘fwut’

It wasn’t something He wanted to do. It was something that had to be done, for the good of the tree; For the sake of goodness itself; For the very soul of existence,  because, to put it into terms that most people will readily understand, this particular deity wasn’t completely up on the idea, of having a firework shot up his arse. Free will is all well and good, but there are limits, and this particular god reasoned that fireworks up his cleaner than clean godly rectum were the level to which he was not willing to let them stoop.

But due to the fundamental nature of theoretical metaphysics, there exists upon the other side of the coin, another universe, similar and linked, but different in this one key aspect; God made the other choice, and said branch and leaves still remain, which is very fortunate for us, because otherwise, the next page would be whiter than white washed with the awesome cleansing power of New Improved Paradox, and our tale would be lacking two heads.

Two Heads are Better than None

“Tom.” said Bob.

“Yes, my brother?”

“I’ve… got a funny feeling something important just happened.”

“Really… What sort of thing?”

“I’m not sure… but something… Fundamental.”

“Well, most things are in purest essence fundamental, Bob.”

As was ever his way, Bob pondered this for some time. There were the usual plate tectonic shifts as thought ground over thought causing seismic shifts in the fundamental matter of his consciousness. Finally, after due consideration Bob looked him in the eye, and retorted “That’s complete bollocks really isn’t it, Tom.”

“Well, not really.” responded Tom as patiently as ever, “You see, it’s all a matter of perspective. “You see, even dung is fundamental, if you happen to be a dung beetle.”

Again, Bob gave the point due consideration. Wave after wave slipped up the shoreline of his cerebral beach, and the gazillion grains of sand danced as the tide gently tugged at the young and tender memes. One little grain, slowly worked its way to the edge of the shoreline, suddenly 'evolved' legs, and made a dash across the hot white sand for the shade of the tree line. “But I’m not a dung beetle, Tom.”

“Well no, but if you were, then dung would be fundamental.”

“But I’m not a dung beetle, Tom.” said Bob, with the certainty of someone who has just worked the point out from first principles, and is firmly sticking to his guns.

“Perhaps we should return to the issue.” suggested Tom. “When you say, that something fundamental has happened… Happened to what and where?”

“I don’t know… where… but I think it might have happened to us.”

Tom paused for a second before responding “But we’re here.”

“Yeah, that’s the bit that’s making it confusing.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not sure that we are.”

“What?”

Bob looked himself over, examining arms and legs, as if to be completely sure, before seeking the extra reassurance of a second opinion “I’m not a dung beetle am I, Tom? I mean, He could do that if he got really mad.”

“He would never do such a thing.” Tom assured his brother, his gentle kindness cradling his words. With a little more surety than he felt, he went on to explain “God is Love, after all.”

The wind dropped. The surf died down to the most genteel of its tidal tendencies. The summer sun slipped through the ozone, taking the occasional short cut where the ozone had zoned out, and Bob responded “No, Tom. Love is Love. The god you’re thinking about is love with all of the additional baggage that comes with it. Jealousy. Insecurity. Damming to hell because you didn’t love well enough in return, all that kind of stuff.

Only Love is Love, Tom.

That’s fundamental.“

Fun? Are you Mental?

With lights blazing, sirens wailing, and tires screaming like they’d forgotten the safe word, North Tidwell Police arrived on the scene with an unprecedented display of force. The humble citizens of this quiet market town were stunned to see both available squad cars launched through the centre of their humble hamlet (down the high street, right at the bank onto Market Street and, well, then they were there. As blazing went, it wasn’t exactly the great fire of 1666)

There was generally a third squad car, but the desk sergeant had popped out to the chippy, and while the chip shop wasn’t that far from the police station (in fact they’d past him on the way), he was the sort of man who generally preferred chips to exercise.

Kuryani sat moulded into the back seat, with a seriously bad feeling about this entire situation. In a truly perfect world she preferred to operate solely in the realm of her own company. She certainly preferred to be operating at a safe distance from the kind of heinous grins that Poz and Boz were currently sporting.

They were just about to set off to the scene of the first explosion, when news had come through that there had been a second. Plans had been very rapidly changed.

Now staring sideways at The Inspector, she saw a level of concern behind his deep set eyes which made her feel only partially better about the entire situation. She didn’t know what she was confronted by, or where it was hiding. She either wanted to be out of sight, or have a suitable amount of firepower at her disposal that could flatten this nondescript blot on the landscape from a safe distance. Or preferably both. Yet here she sat under blue flashing lights with sirens singing to attract every possible harm sailing her way. She was not at her most comfortable. Some subliminal instinct made her check both sides once more, as she tried to bury herself deeper into the fabric of the squad car seat.

The occupants of the second car had instilled no greater faith. Kuryani had summed them up and dismissed them in an instant. A Sergeant who she guessed was probably only two weeks from retirement, and a very neat and efficient female PC. The sort of young woman a lad would like to take home to meet his mum, if he wanted his mum to think that he was into the sort of women who like organizing stationery, and would ensure that he himself would keep his stationery well maintained and in good order for the years to come. There were no intended euphemisms in the previous sentence. The two community support officers hadn’t even warranted a second of her attention by way of a second glance.

The cars screeched to a halt, and all three remaining heads in the lead car turned to look at the space where Kuryani was previously sitting. The three sets of eyes looked out of the door she’d just flown from, only to see her feet ‘miraculously’ vanishing into the air, as she shot up the drainpipe of an adjacent wall. All three sets of eyes leaned across to peer out of the window as she vanished up and on to the roof. There was a moment’s hesitation before Boz finally broke the silence.

“Nice arse.” he muttered under his breath.

“Sorry Constable?” questioned The Inspector, mildly startled.

“Erm, nothing sir.” Boz replied far too hastily.

“Right, well, carry on then.” The Inspector instructed.

Poz looked at Boz, who returned his stare, before they both turned back to The Inspector.

“Carry on doing what sir?”

The Inspector took a deep breath, and let out a deeper sigh, showing a realisation that he had just accepted he was going to be doing all the thinking. Truth be told, it may have been to give himself time to think. If only he knew. On the grounds that he was officially the one in charge, he decided he ought to make a decision of some sort. “I suppose we better go and find out what all the fuss is about,” he finally responded, “but first things first, cordon off the area, can’t have the public making it untidy.”

Poz looked across the street at the blasted out windows, and the door hanging off its hinges and decided it was best just to do what he was told.

By the time constables were situated at both ends of the street, Kuryani had returned. “Clear from the top.” she drilled as soon as she dropped to ground level. “No sign of anything from the roof.” She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but she was reasonably sure that the second explosion was going to be linked to the first. Following the explosions was probably a pretty good way of finding the girl, and that was her best chance of finding the Kybota. The next step was to get inside and see if the Kybota or the girl were anywhere to be seen.

“We need to get inside and see if there are alien operatives still active.”

‘Alien operatives!’ thought Poz, saving the term for future use.

“My officers will perform an initial search to ensure there is no one inside who needs immediate assistance, but we’ll have to wait for forensics before a complete search of the scene can be undertaken.” The Inspector responded. He was immediately contradicted.

“There’s no time. We go in now, and we search now.”

There was no way Kuryani was going to wait for officialdom and all it’s bureaucracy to come along and wrap everything up in blue and white striped F.O. tape²⁰ . “We go in now!” she repeated, to ensure there was no doubt at all about the matter.

“That’s not the way we do things.” The Inspector re-iterated. “It’s one thing to be rushing in to save lives, but if all is quiet as you say, then if there isn’t anyone in need of assistance, we wait. This is a crime scene and will be treated as such.”

Kuryani responded aggressively. “I suggest you talk that matter over with your superiors.” Turning from him dismissively she barked at Pos and Bos “You two, come with me!”

North Tidwell’s best trained officers in the use of firearms suddenly developed anime eyes which fell upon their inspector begging for permission. From the previous conversation, he knew exactly what the response would be when he called his chief inspector, and he considered it quite likely the phrase ‘traffic duty’ would be used. Possibly with capitals and exclamation marks. “In that case, we’re all going in.” he finally responded. Then, to claw back a little of the face that had been so callously taken, he turned to Poz and Boz “You two, come with me.”

Kuryani was more than happy to let The Inspector lead the way, but happier just to make sure the other two grinning idiots were in front of her where she could see them. The Inspector would have been a lot happier if he hadn’t had the three armed idiots behind him, but there was no way in heaven or hell he was going to let any of them enter the building first. Something in his senses was telling him this was not all that it seemed, and he wanted to know what was going on before any excitable gun toting pillock started letting off weapons in his crime scene.

The devastation that opened up before them as they entered the undertakers has already been described. The aforementioned mass of petals, brick dust, shattered glass and… red, was strewn across the room before them. It was an inglorious lesson to any thrifty painter and decorator just how far you can make eight pints go if you spread it thinly enough. Of course, you would hope that any painter and decorator worth their salt wouldn’t use such lumpy paint.

Once they were in, Kuryani gently usurped authority and slipped into the lead once more. From the back. She saw no need to get in front of the cannon fodder. Poz and Boz took direction like classic seventies TV cops. The guns came out. The attitudes came out at least a couple of meters further. Phrases like “Cover me” and “I’m going in” dusted themselves down and prepared for action.

The empty room (allowing for the huge amount of debris) was passed through easily enough without incident. The large splatterings of red were noted, but without anything that obviously looked like a body to slow them down, they made it to the corridor and the top of the stairs soon enough. The very same stairs that Damien had bounced up so cheerfully only a matter of minutes previously, leading down to the basement and whatever was hidden below.

This was the most fun Poz had had in years. His heart was pounding in his chest. His senses heightened. Time slowed. In one fluid movement, he swung round, arms outstretched, staring along the barrel, down the stairs, into the unknown, waiting for whatever threat lay down there to show its evil face so he could provide heroic response. Of course, that wasn’t how they were trained, but maybe it can be said in some cases the training started a fraction prematurely, and they may have watched just one too many cowboy films when young.

“C o v e r    M e e e e e e !” echoed across the room, as he spun into perfect TV cop pose, and his foot slammed down onto the first step…

…only to discover the gruesome and very slippery remains of Damiens liver.

His footing lost from beneath him, he tilted and slipped, falling headlong tumbling down the stairs to the steady rat a tat tat of his own semi-automatic weapon fire.

Virgins Blood and All that Bollocks

“Why in the name of all that is holy would you want…” There was a pause, as Paulo inhaled deeply. For all of the sins he may (or may not) have committed in his life, he still found an immense difficulty in uttering the words “…the menstrual blood of nuns?”

“Virginal nuns.” Anthony clarified. “I know we presume such things, but it’s important that we are sure. Tests must be made. I’ll need you to do that Paulo. No one else can know about this. Three nuns, virgins, and the testis of seven choirboys. I’m assuming you don’t just throw these things away.”

“Anthony, we don’t do that to choirboys anymore, and we wouldn’t keep the… things… if we did.”

“Paulo, I’m assuming the church does still have choirboys.”

“Well, of course we do Antho…”

“And I’m assuming that if you haven’t cut them off already, that their testis will still be in the usual place.”

“Well of course, as I said, we don’t do that anymore.”

“Then it’s safe to say that if I were to ask you for say, the testis of seven choirboys, your catholic education is not so incredibly lacking that you would still know where to find them.”

“Of course I’d know where to find them Anthony, that is not the…”

And once more, the end of his sentence was pertinently castrated…

“Paulo, It’s quite simple. I know what you want, and now that you know what I want, and that I need it to get what you want, I have no doubt whatsoever that you will get it for me.”

The phone went dead. Paulo sat in silence, and suddenly realised just how much he was sweating. He had been so sure he held all the cards. But then, he let out a long breath, maybe he still did. Could this all be an elaborate bluff? Did it matter? If Anthony was playing, he could play along. The bluff could be called. After all, in the grand scheme of things, in the great plan for the order of heaven and earth, what small price the protestations of three nuns and seven choirboys?

Transformation

Men who let off grenades just for the fun of it are dangerous to hang around with. Women with automatic weapons aren’t much better. Then again, sometimes you can’t help but feel you’re stuck with the company you’ve got. It’s probably not really relevant what sex they are come to think of it. Hand grenades and automatic weapons just fit into the category of things you probably shouldn’t be playing with in a crowded room when you’ve been having a bad day. Brenda looked like someone who’d just seen a ghost, and for that matter the rather disturbing remains of the corpse, and was pretty sure they were going to be carrying the can for the murder.

Dennis was looking happier than I’d ever seen him. Although considering that I’d only known him since I landed on him and well, killed him, maybe that’s not saying so much. I still found it disturbing. He seemed to smile more whenever the sort of things were happening that made other people die. More bizarrely, the new bloke was looking quite chuffed with himself too, and the two of them seemed to hitting it off a lot better than you’d expect considering one of them had just thrown a hand grenade at the other, with quite dramatic consequences. This new bloke, Damien, didn’t seem to mind being blown to bits at all. All he said was “I’ll be an interesting jigsaw for someone.” It would have been a little less disturbing if he hadn't smiled the way he did as he added “A jigsaw made of soup.” Bit weird really. Anyway, he asked what we were after, while spending a lot of time staring at Brenda's tits, which I thought was a bit off, but at least he seemed to have lost his funny twitch, so we told him we were after the key that I’d had around my neck, and he took us down the stairs to a sort of cellar to show us where they’d put all my bits and pieces. “Yes there was a key on a chain amongst it all.” he said.

He was like some excited little kid who wanted to show everyone the picture he’d done at school. Then it all started to make a bit more sense when he showed me my body laid out on the slab. That was, well, that was strange. To be fair to the guy, he’d done a pretty good job considering the last time I’d seen myself I looked like the more gruesome bits of a kebab. Actually, I’d probably looked more like the chilli sauce, but maybe we don't need to go too much into the details.

“Where am I?” said Dennis, which seemed like an odd question until I realized he meant where was his body.

“Oh, you must be the other one.” said Damien “Not done you yet, You’re mostly still in a bag in the fridge. Although I’m not sure they found all the bits.”

For a little bit Dennis stopped smiling quite so manically. Then the sirens turned up. Suddenly this big grin spreads across his face, and he half bounded, and half floated back off up the stairs. It got to the point where every time he smiled it scared the crap out of me, ‘cos you never knew what the crazy bugger was gunna do next. I think I might have preferred him when he was crying in the bushes.

Anyway, Brenda got Damien to show her where the key was, or more to the point, Brenda asked where the key was, so I got Damien to show me, so that I could open the drawer to show Brenda, so that she could get it. Being a ghost is a pain. That took too long. He also stared just a bit too much for my liking while she slipped the chain over her head, and dropped the key back into it’s traditional resting place, adjusting herself as she did so. When he noticed me staring at him staring, he just said “I’m not hurting anyone, she can’t even see me.” Then he really disturbed me by sticking his ghostly head in her cleavage, and blowing raspberries. The guy was a bit of a freak who took to being dead far too quickly, and with far too much enthusiasm for my liking. Brenda pulled a pretty weird expression, and shuddered a bit, which may or may not have been related, and then made obvious noises about needing to leave, and to do it sharpish. At which point Dennis came running back down the stairs, grinning his face off, saying that the cops were in the street, headed this way, and  his grin expanded hideously while he happily exclaimed “and they’re armed!” as if this was somehow a good thing.

No one asked, Damien just said “There’s no other way out.” and he looked at Brenda for the first time without staring at her boobs, as he suddenly realized what a sodding great hole she was in.

So there we were, three ghosts, and a girl who looked like she’d just seen one, who was about to get arrested, because all anyone else was going to see, was that she was the only one there, she was carrying two semi automatic pistols, and there was a dead body all over the walls upstairs. She was about to be arrested, and her only excuse was “It wasn’t me, it was this ghost with a grenade. Yes my fingers prints are all over the guns, and I'm the only one here but… but… but... this woman tied me to a chair and...”

Then Dennis just freaked completely. I didn’t know what to think, the guy just started laughing and runs off again, collects every soggy bit of Damien's remains he can find, and spreads them all over the polished wooden stairs. I can only imagine what it would have looked like to anyone who couldn’t see him. There was just red squishy stuff flying everywhere. He started going graffiti mad all over the walls. In blood. His own blood. Which he got from the dregs of the bag in the fridge. Then he empties the bag of bits over the bottom of the stairs. Then Damien started helping him. I think because he thought it looked like fun, or maybe he was just trying to make friends, or be helpful, I don’t know. I just know that it never even occurred to him that he shouldn’t be able to pick things up, and he just waded straight in and started doing it. That guy took to being dead much too quickly. It took them less than a minute, to transform the place, from something that looked like a hospital, to something that looked like an abattoir on the day that someone armed the cows and they'd fought back.

And Brenda, while all the blood and gore was being thrown around, well, she just started to back further and further into the corner of the room, where she sort of squeaked, slipped down the wall, and wrapped her arms tighter and tighter around her legs. I can only imagine what was going though her head, as she grabbed hold of it in her shaking hands and slipped into a foetal ball.

Then just to really scare the crap out of me, Dennis picked up one of the Uzi’s that Brenda had dropped, and I swear his stupid grin got even wider. He looked at us, and winked, and slowly and calmly walked over to the corner of the room, and switched off the lights.

Everything You Need?

Kenty sat cross legged upon his favourite rock contemplating what an amazingly wondrous world it truly was. His eyes wandered over the meadow as he watched the gently flowing dance of the tall grass in the soft summer breeze. Yellowing stalks wafting beneath a sweeping vignette. A cyan skyline blending effortlessly through to royal blue at the dizzying height of the heavens.

Off to one side, just past the hedgerow, a group of trees swayed to and fro softly rustling. A hawthorn hedge running up to a birch, a beech, and a pair of willows washing their lower leaves in the waters of the all but idle river. To their edge, a small herd of deer were quietly foraging, either unaware, or unconcerned by his presence. Perhaps to call it a herd would be stretching the point. A family might be more appropriate. Kenty sighed, and smiled, a smile of deep sensed satisfaction at the harmony of the world he found himself in. Off in the distance could be heard the buzz of the newly built motorway taking all the busy bees to where they so desperately needed to be. They’d protested at its building of course. Kenty had even chained himself to an aged oak that sat in the route's way, but bolt cutters had been brought into action, and he had been manhandled out of the situation.

“Do you know how old this tree is?” he’d pleaded to the constables who dragged him away.

“Old enough to know better than to stand in the middle of a motorway.” came the amused but harsh retort.

Sometimes, there was no reasoning with some people. Kenty thought for a second on the fate of the old tree. Firewood? Timber? Floor boards?

Ever adaptive to his situation, he sat upon his rock, closed his eyes, and as the waves of traffic passed by in the distance, he imagined the sound of the sea as the sun beat down, following the early morning's storm with a far more luxuriant afternoon. The passing breeze cooled his tanned and tattooed skin, while gently wafting his strawberry blonde dreads and plaited goatee. The traffic went where it so desperately needed to be, and Kenty leaned back upon the big flat rock, and feeling that he was exactly where he needed to be, accepted the suns generous gift of its warming and nutritious rays.

“You win some you lose some” he thought. “Such is the way of the world. Adapt and survive. You have all you need, and all you need is all you are.” With that mantra, without opening his eyes, he took another long drag of the doobie that had been casually resting between his fingers at his side, held it deep in his lungs, and calmly exhaled a long plume of aromatic smoke. “Yes, you have everything you need my friend,” he said to himself as he opened his eyes and watched the smoke dispersing into the brilliant blue of the sky, and then just to confirm the truth of the matter, he repeated the mantra for the benefit of the breeze. “You have everything you need.”

The Cynical Removal Of The Necessities of Life

Eight of them were taken. In the darkness of the night. From their beds, as they slumbered. So the story goes.

They were drugged. They were carried. They were cut.

The boys were selected from the choir of the Church of St Helena. A small but devote catholic ministry just outside of Bogota, Colombia. Somewhere suitably out of the way, that no one considered important would notice and investigate. A church noted for the good works of its associated orphanage. Paulo paid special attention to such things. To avoid complications, because it could be a very complicated matter if such things were ever discovered, the boys were then placed back in their beds as if nothing had ever happened.

Perhaps Paulo had not needed to take eight, when only seven had been asked for, but in the grand scheme of things, it paid to be safe, and to ensure there was a spare pair, if for any reason such things were ever needed. Some would consider it a drastic precaution to take, and certainly very extreme for the soul whose particulars were taken, especially as the ‘extraneous’ pair were eventually fed to the garbage disposal, but given that to avoid complications, Paulo then had the entire orphanage burned down with everyone sleeping inside, it probably wasn’t such a big deal. The boys and everyone else involved would be receiving His Love in Heaven, and joy of joys, on the bright side, they would be receiving it sooner than originally expected. It was a joy to be an agent of The Lord, and carry out His Works.

Occasionally Paulo did consider whether he over extended himself when interpreting the intent of his lord, but assumed that The Lord would provide some kind of sign if this were the case. It’s questionable what kind of sign he was hoping for.

He found it easiest not to contemplate the image of the burning crucifix on the mantel of the orphanage that flicked across his thoughts.

But Fear Itself.

When Poz came round he found himself prostrate at the bottom of a flight of stairs, with his face buried in something cold, wet and... kinda mushy. As he pressed against the floor to lift himself, his hands slid across whatever substance coated the polished floor tiles. His body tensed as nerve centres registered and reminded him, he'd just travelled face first down a full flight of stairs.

A small amount of light slipped down the stairs from the doorway above, and as his eyes started to readjust, he could just about make out shapes and shadows in the dim mist that passed for vision. He let out a fast and pained breath as he tried to rest on his elbow, and realized that the fall must have done something truly horrendous to it.

And then the lights came on.

It was utterly horrific. He was laying in a pool of... Was it his own blood? The immense amount of pain - it could be, but no, there were other bits, other bits of other bodies, he was laying in a pile of... For crying out loud, that was an arm!

Well, most of an arm.

His eyes shot first right and then left, from his own shoulders they sped, taking reassurance as they passed further down each arm of his own. Shoulder, biceps, elbow, forearm, and hand. It was all still there. There was some small comfort in knowing that it was someone else's arm, although, not enough to stop the convulsion. He threw up into the midst of the gore just to make matters worse. Instinctively rolling away he found himself staring at a white tiled wall literally dripping the huge scarlet legend

“There's Nothing To Fear but...”

Instinctively, he tightened his hold on the police issue weapon that was miraculously still locked in his grip.

That's when the firing started.

When Accused You Will Defend

The nuns were a much simpler issue altogether.

Accusations were levelled against several members of The Convent of St Mary regarding the purity of their thought and deed, or to be more precise, it was stated to the Convent of St Mary, that accusations had been received, from persons who wished to remain anonymous, that certain sisters were in the habit of letting certain other persons enter their habits.

Only too pleased at the opportunity to clear their names, the dutiful nuns lined up offering themselves and their bodily fluids for examination, even though no actual details of any accusation were ever brought forth.

Following the tests, three nuns were expelled from the convent.

It could be questioned whether the expulsions were a result of findings of the tests, or if they were merely carried out to justify the machinations of the inquiry. It could be questioned, but it wasn’t. They were dutiful Catholics. Believing is what they do. They're very good at it, and none of the convent were in any way so destitute of faith that they would question the word or ironically unorthodox methodology that came down from on high.

So the story goes.

Brownian Cleaning

“Tom.” said Bob.

“Yes, Bob?” said Tom, in his usual kindly manner.

“This is… “

Tom waited patiently for some time before finally prompting “What, Bob?”

“It's…” and Bob paused again as he searched for the words, but struggling ever onwards continued “It's starting to get a bit messy, Tom.”

“It is isn't it, Bob.”

“I'm not sure I like it when it's this messy.”

“No, Bob.”

“I mean, explosions are really good and everything, but this is, like, you know…”

“Yes, I think I do know, Bob.”

“It's just like...” and Bob contorted his plump and angelic face while uttering the word “Yeurrghhhh.”

“It certainly is, Bob.”

For a while it all went quite, before the silence was broken once more.

“Tom.” said Bob.

“Yes, Bob?” said Tom, in his usual kindly manner.

“I've been thinking.”

“Really!” said Tom, failing to hide his surprise. The tone of his voice dropped half an octave as he  continued somewhat more graciously “What about?”

“I've got a plan.” said Bob.

“A plan?” questioned Tom. Again his intonation seemed less than convinced.

“A..............plan.” stated Bob.
“Well, yes,” said Tom, humouring his brother “I was hoping you would perhaps tell me some of the details.” he added, while actually hoping nothing of the sort.

“Well,” said Bob “if we were to make a really big explosion, one that was so big that it blew up absolutely everything, then that would be sort of tidy again.”

Tom's eyes widened in disbelief. “Are you sure you've completely thought this through, Bob?”

“Well, no, not yet. I was just seeing what you thought of the general idea.”

“I've got a slightly different plan.” said Tom.

“Really!” said Bob, excitedly.
“Yes.” said Tom.

“Can we still blow stuff up?”

“Possibly.”

“Good. I like it when we blow stuff up.”

“Yes, Yes you do don't you my brother.” sighed Tom.

But About That Other Plan

“Blow everything up and start again from scratch.” thought God.

“... Interesting...”

Deliverance

“I've got them.” said Paulo.

“You've got what?” said Anthony.

“The... items... you requested.”

There was a brief pause, where any metaphorical birds sitting on metaphorical phone lines would have metaphorically felt the sound of a person thinking “The guy just might be crazy enough to have actually done it.” crackling under their feet, before the secondary question cocked a questioning eye brow “How could he possibly have done it that fast?” As if it mattered.

“Good... good…” said Anthony, after a momentary hesitation, stretching out the words only fractionally. He may have considered this particular eventuality, but he certainly hadn't expected it. He had hoped to put Paulo onto the back foot, to make him uneasy, to fluster him, to see what he could extract. He hadn't expected Paulo to actually come up with 'the goods'. He kept his cool and played along.

“When can they be collected?”

“When do you want them?” asked Paulo, as calmly as he could manage, while staring across his office at a refrigerated container who's contents seemed to be haunting his every waking moment. Desperately wanting to be rid of it he continued, “I can have them couriered over immediately.”

“No!” responded Anthony adamantly. “No couriers! I shall pick them up personally.”

“You will come to Rome?” Paulo asked slightly incredulously, somewhat surprised and not a little annoyed that he would have the heinous items in his presence for any longer than absolutely necessary.

“Of course.” replied Anthony. “We need to be sure of a safe hand over. I can be there tomorrow evening. Is that suitable? I understand you are a busy man.”

Paulo considered his options: Cancel his trip to the World Peace and Security Symposium, or have the disgusting things in his office for another day?

If there was one attribute World Peace was not short of it was patients. It would wait. “Of course, I can make time for you Anthony, you know that, I am always at your disposal.”

“Then tomorrow it is, I shall call you when I reach Rome.”

“I shall look forward to it.”

Paulo dropped the phone back onto the receiver. “Bastard.” he uttered to no one in particular.

“Sycophantic shit.” Anthony breathed as he slid his mobile back into his pocket.

Who You Are.

Flashes of light streaked like raging lightning across the top of the stairway, whilst the thunder of gunfire climbed the stairs and echoed around the corridor and devastated reception of the small undertakers, where Boz, Kuryani, and The Inspector were all busy instinctively diving for the floor.

The sound of bullets thudding into walls, tiles being smashed from the plaster, crashing to the floor, and in amongst it all, for those who would recognize the sound, the faintest dull squish of bullets tearing into flesh, smashing though bone, the stifled squeak of a person in the utmost agony, without the breath left in their lungs to let loose the scream.

But mostly just flashing lights and the sound of semi automatic weapon fire.

The instinctive reactions took hold first. All three people in the small undertakers reception hit the floor without knowing why they had done so. Kuryani recovered first. “You! To the top of stairs!” she ordered, screaming at Boz.

It's at times like this that you realize the kind of person you truly are. Not the person that you dream of being. Not the person you pretend to be. The person that, at this moment in time, you truly are.

That's not to suggest you cannot in time be more. You are who you are. You are who you were. You are who you will be. May you have the strength to deal with that. Of course you do, but at any given moment... 

His comrade, and more to the point, friend, lay at the bottom of the stairs, in desperate need of his help. He was a police officer, trained in the use of firearms, who had just been given a direct order.

Boz was as surprised as anyone to hear the disbelief, the shock, the surprise, the insubordination, but most of all, the words “Fuck... Off!” launch from between his lips. It wasn't that he was a coward. It wasn't that he didn't want to obey. It was just that standing at the top of a staircase with that kind of commotion going on at the bottom of it seemed like a really bloody stupid thing to do, and he couldn't believe she'd asked it, never mind commanded it. She might as well have ordered ritual suicide.

Kuryani thought what she always thought in these situations. “People are incredibly unreliable.” From somewhere in amongst the confines of the tight black leather, she pulled a hand gun the size of which should never have fitted inside the confines of the tight black leather. In an instant, she was pointing it directly between Boz's eyes. “Then put your weapon on the floor.” she insisted, unrestrained venom wrapped upon razor wire around her voice.

Boz wasn't one of those people who resented those in the hierarchy above him. Not that he was currently content with his position, he wanted to further himself, but he realized that he had yet to prove he was worthy of further advancement. He also realized that sometimes he cocked things up. He was generally a good copper; He might not have the particular type of marbles or the political inclinations to go all the way, but he had a career ahead of him. Although, given his most recent utterances, he wasn't quite sure how that would now pan out. What he wasn't, was stupid.

In the corner of his eye, he could see his commanding officer gently nodding confirmation, and very slowly, Boz rested his gun upon the ground.

“That's better.” whispered Kuryani, a little more delicately as she reached across and picked up the discarded weapon. There was no way in hell, she was going down the stairs while this idiot was standing behind her holding a sub-machine gun.

Then with hand cannon in one hand, and sub-machine gun in the other, she turned, and silhouetted by the raging lightning coming from the stairs, she ran, and literally dived head first down them.

Despite everything that had just happened Boz couldn't help himself. As she sailed majestically out of view, he found the words, uncalled for, slipping out upon his breath. Maybe it said more about him than he would have cared to have admitted. Maybe he was chastising himself for his lack of action when it had been called for. Maybe he was commenting on how stupidly his friend had ended up at the bottom of the stairs and whatever predicament he now found himself. Maybe he was talking about something else entirely as the words slipped from his lips, almost as a sigh, “What an arse.”

Jousting

There is a time for rest, a time for play, and a time for… Kenty didn't like to call it work. It was the stuff that you had to do, that made sure you had the stuff you needed, so that you didn't die. Perhaps that was an over simplification. Work was also the things he did so that he could have those little luxuries, like diesel for his van, or slightly more refined fuels for himself. He rarely ever did things that he didn't enjoy, even for work. That was partially because he considered life in general to be a challenge, and he enjoyed overcoming those little obstacles it put in front of him from time to time. He mused for a moment on how lucky he was to have such a perspective on life, but then was it luck, or something that he had worked towards, as he had grown and created the person he now was. No matter, it was still mostly because there were very few things that he wanted so badly in life, that he was willing to spend his life doing things he didn't enjoy to get them. Sometimes he just thought that work was what people who sat in offices did all day, if you could call that work. Maybe it was the actual act of giving up your time that made it work, and not what you were actually doing in that time. Were you still working for a living, if you spent your entire working day doing something you love? If sitting in offices all day was work, and you went home and relaxed by growing flowers in your garden, did that mean that farmers who spent all their time growing things never worked a day, or people who…

… Kenty slipped out of this train of thought very suddenly, as he realised he was travelling down a one way street the opposite way to everyone else.

Having just slammed on the brakes, bringing his van to a screaming halt, he was now peering through his van windscreen, through a second windscreen, and into the cherry red face and angry eyes of the devil himself. Or, on reflection, it was possibly just a pissed off middle aged balding bloke. Kenty sighed acceptingly, and smiled a relaxed smile. Then he leaned back, and spent a moment deciding on a gentle way around what was in danger of becoming a serious confrontation. “That lad needs a chill pill.” he muttered to himself, as he slipped the van into reverse. He waved, and offered a thumbs up sign, because he felt his counterpart in this interlude appeared to need some persuading that everything was going to be just fine. The counterpart appeared to be using the time to string together an incredibly long sentence, in which most of the words appeared to begin with F.

“It appears someone has being having a bad day,” Kenty mused, without really acknowledging that someone almost crashing head on into him hadn't done anything to improve it, and as the tirade of F shapes continued, Kenty added “or for that matter, I'm guessing he's not been having an overly wondrous life. Amazing how it all adds up if you let it.”

Kenty reversed his van until he found a side street, which he swung into, allowing his opponent in this little game of jousting to pass unchallenged. He then wondered at the expressiveness and fluidity of his counterparts motions, as if trained in the most graceful martial arts, with a side line in sign language, the driver of the opposing van gesticulated wildly with various arm, and finger signals as he passed on his way. Kenty tried to count the number of 'F' shapes the guy mouthed as he passed. He got to twelve before deciding there were probably more serious issues to consider. Maybe, thought Kenty, as he watched the back of the opposing van vanish off up the street, just maybe, on reflection, he was currently a bit too stoned to be negotiating the realities of well, any reality that involved other traffic.

So with a gentle breath and a smile, he climbed over the seats into the 'luxurious cavern' that was the back of his van. He crawled across his bed, a beautiful creation, hand carved from old palettes in intricate detail during idle moments (of which there had been many, but the question remains, was that work?), and sliding under his well worn duvet, he floated off to commune with the greater divinities of the cosmos, and a few of the lesser ones that also kept him company on occasion.

Work would wait. Whatever work was.

Gaining and Losing Possession

Good timing perhaps? Maybe just a fortunate coincidence? Possibly a right pain in the arse? It all depends on perspective, but if we just look at the simple facts, the semi automatic pistol that Dennis was firing ran out of bullets just as Kuryani appeared at the base of the stairs, on her feet obviously, because if you're going to somersault down the stairs, how else would you land if you were that kind of girl, before diving and rolling for cover.

In that fraction of a second she was sure she saw a gun falling to the floor, there was possibly a body in the corner. As the last of the light receded, and the shadows merged and darkness claimed the scene once more, she dived into the largest of them, taking what cover she could find, as she rummaged in the confines of leather for a light.

Cracking a miniature flare, she threw it into the room where it burst into phosphorescent life. Suddenly the scene was aglow and anyone who'd thought they could hide in the darkness was searching for the slightest of flickering shadows.

Of course, when she rolled out ready to blast anything that remained into as many parts as there were dimensions to receive them, all she was faced with was the pathetic sobbing body of Brenda, curled up in the corner with her arms wrapped around her knees and head, and a couple of corpses, one of which appeared to be the uniformed cannon fodder. The other she didn't recognize, but there, sat on the table next to it, was a small box, possibly apple wood, about twenty centimetres by fourteen by ten, encrusted with a collection of precious and semi precious stones, mostly at first glance, quite possibly amethyst and emerald.

Keeping Brenda constantly covered with the machine gun, she moved towards the box. She felt the strangest sensation, just for a fraction of a second, as she lifted it from the table, as if gravity somehow didn't want to let it go, but then, it was in her hand, and she slowly slipped it inside the tardis like confines of dark leather. Then, with her deep brown eyes gazing down the length of the barrel of her weapon, towards Brenda's pathetic fallen figure, she slowly backed out of the room, stepping over Poz's decimated body without even taking the slightest glance down, and steadily retreated back up the stairs.

When she finally reached the top, and she made no point of rushing, she deftly turned with a dancers grace, and picking up her pace, walked straight past Boz and The Inspector in turn heading straight for the door. As she passed them, feeling perhaps some comment were expected, she turned her head, and paused briefly while she stated very matter of factly “There's one still alive down there. You've got a bit of tidying up to do.” Then as an afterthought as she started to walk towards the door dangling in its frame “You might like to call an ambulance... or you could just wait and find out what time this place opens.”

She dropped Boz's gun onto the windowsill, then turned and walked out of the reception area, and onto the street while contemplating how she was going to get out of this god forsaken backwater.

And They Came...

Brian watched, powerless, as the dark, athletic figure retreated, completely unaware of his presence, with steady, balanced grace up the stairway. Unsure of any course of action he could take he simply stood, open mouthed, silent and still. In contradiction, his heart, if he'd had one, would have been pounding a complete symphony in his chest. He could hear the blood he didn't have screaming torrents through his temples. He was praying to a god he was ultimately more than happy not to believe in, or at least to ignore, that nothing would happen that would make Kuryani pull the trigger; Whilst the guiltiest desire in his heart was hoping beyond hope that she would just do it. Pull the trigger, blow her away, shoot her down in cold blood. Just pull the trigger, so that Brenda would be here, here on this side, here, with him.

He turned his head a fraction, on an instinct, and glanced across the room. Suddenly realising he was being watched, Dennis slowly turned his ghostly head away from the performance on the stairs to return Brian's questioning stare. Perhaps he now saw the gravity of the situation deep in Brian's eyes. Perhaps he had just run out of ideas. Perhaps he realised what a horrific scene the morgue now made, with its blood splattered bullet ridden walls, red and shimmering, reflecting the utterly grotesque, in the retina burning brightness of the flare. Brian looked past him, or through him, at Damien, who to his shock and surprise, had a look on his face like he'd just got off of the best ride of the fair, and was ready to go again. Can we? Can we? Can Weeeee?! It just burst from his lips. “That was Awesome!”. He even pronounced the capital A. “Totally Fucking Awesome!” he repeated.

Brian looked on in bewildered amazement. Dumbfounded by this response, his jaw and eyebrows set off in separate directions. Jaw to the floor, eyes to the sky. How the hell was that in the slightest bit totally fucking awesome, capitalised or otherwise?

The slightest sadistic smile slipped onto Dennis's lips, as his eyes flicked between the pair of them. This was going to be interesting. Brian really hadn't worked out the simple beauty of being dead yet. Damien had taken to it like a fish to batter. The barrel of the gun vanished backwards up the stairs, and Dennis waited to see how the after-party would live up to all the promise of the stage show.

Brian's eyes whipped away, to fall on the desolate figure of Brenda. Distraught on the floor, her thin, clenched arms wrapped around her legs, pulled up to her sobbing body. Her head pressed up against her knees. Rocking back and forth. The low desperate sobs of the broken. This was not the life she had woken up to, but it was undoubtedly the continuation of the nightmare her life had become. He rushed to her, falling to the floor at her side. He wrapped his arms around her, only to see her shiver, unknowingly shaking him off. Her breath skipped a beat, and the tiniest gasp leaped from her lips as his arms passed straight through her painfully fragile body. He told her how it would all be fine, how they'd get out of here, go somewhere safe and get clean. They could rest and watch T.V., do all those mundane things that pass as small comforts in the world that was anywhere else but the middle of this hell. Of course, she never heard a word of it.

Then footsteps from above; steady, cautious, heavy footsteps. The sound made by big heavy boots, pressing as lightly as they clumsily might, on slippery tiles. There were two of them. Policemen. One was carrying a gun. But he lowered it when he saw that the only person alive in the room was cowering in the corner, a pathetic mess of humanity, although, not quite such a mess as their fallen comrade. Radios were produced. Assistance was urgently called.

And they came... and there was nothing at all that Brian could do, to stop them from taking her away.

Waking Vibrations

Waking came as something of a surprise. Possibly because he could have happily slept for some time longer. Possibly because he was a bit surprised to be woken by a bump. A speed bump, as it happened, but Kenty wasn't to know that. He was still working out what the loud humming sound was, that sounded a lot like an engine. It sounded a lot like his van engine come to think of it. There was no doubt about it, there was the definite vibration of movement going on.

Getting up was a shaky experience, but he rolled his feet off the bed, rubbed his eyes, and reached for the spliff that he had left half smoked in the old tin can that was currently passing as an ashtray. He lit it, and still half asleep, reached for his sunglasses, before shakily standing, and taking the few steps to the front of the van. He casually checked his reflection in the door mirror, pushing the odd dread into place, and preening his beard a little, before leaning over the drivers seat, and scaring the crap out of the beautiful brunette who was driving when he casually asked “So where are we going?”

When Kuryani had found the old van, parked on the side of the road, it had answered her immediate question, that being, how the hell was she going to get out of this shit-hole of a town. She wanted to leave the police behind as fast as humanly possible. They just made her uncomfortable. While this beaten up old van wasn't the fastest form of transport available, it was obviously old enough that it wasn't going to have alarms and immobilisers, and on looking through the window, it did have the obvious benefit of having the keys dangling in the ignition. She tried the door handle, and found herself suddenly mobile. It hadn't occurred to her to check the back for sleeping hippies, possibly because she was so busy stealing the van in the first place.

Having just left the outskirts of the town, she now found herself fishtailing the van from side to side across the road, having damn near jumped out of her skin. Kenty, realising that they suddenly weren't going in quite the straight line they previously had been, took a little time out to thank the relevant gods of the ocean waves that he'd 'wasted' many recent years on a surfboard, and did everything he could to stay upright, which to his credit, he managed with a certain amount of style. He still had the spliff between his lips and his sunglasses in place when Kuryani had recovered her composure, and the vans direction.

On regaining her senses, she quickly checked the mirror, then double checked by looking over her shoulder to make sure that there was only the one of them. Only then did she decide her best move was just to relax, and see what happened next. As much as Kuryani ever actually relaxed. She was pretty sure that she'd seen corpses that were less relaxed than this guy. Quite recently come to think of it.

“Who are you?” she demanded, though the truth be told, she quite possibly simply blurted it out in surprise.

“I was thinking I should probably be asking you the same question.” Kenty replied, before taking another casual drag.

It occurred to Kuryani that she could just shoot him.

But Kuryani generally preferred, as has been mentioned, to work under the radar, and when you're the sort of person who does their best to avoid unwanted attention, there is something to be said for not leaving a huge trail of bodies in your wake. The police tend to notice such things eventually, at which point they have a horrible habit of getting all nosey and bothersome. Not that The Order couldn't deal with that if push came to shove, but it was generally considered wiser not to attract the attention in the first place. For the most part, people who saw you, but who were left to carry on their day as if nothing had happened, generally forgot the fact within five minutes if you just made everything seem normal enough. Especially if they were stoned off their faces. The aroma floating through the van made Kuryani's decision for her. This seemed to be one of those cases where it was simpler just to get where she was going, and worry about it then, if it was still an issue. Anyway, he had a nice smile. Not that she ever paid attention to such things.

So she told him who she was. Her name was Jane, she came from Milton Keynes. Her bike had just broken down, and she needed to get to a train station so that she could get home. She was really sorry that she'd taken his van, but she just didn't know what else to do. She had to get home really soon, because she was looking after her mother who was alone, and elderly, and grieving for her recently deceased father. Of course she'd pay for the petrol, and any inconvenience. She was ever so sorry, and really hoped it wasn't any inconvenience at all... really.

Kenty climbed over into the passenger seat while Kuryani poured out her tales of woe, and  upon completion of the tragic narrative simply smiled and responded “Well I was going to work today, but heh, road trip!”

Travelling Light

Having made a simple call, within twenty minutes Anthony was picked up by helicopter from the roof of his office. From there he was ferried to a private air strip,  from where he was flown directly to Rome. On arrival he was picked up by an unmarked black car, with black windows, black bumpers, large black driver with black sunglasses, in a black uniform, that came with a peaked cap, which was black. His feet sank deep into the black carpet as he relaxed into the back of the huge black leather seats. He took a look inside the adequately stocked black drinks cabinet and poured himself a White Russian just to make sure he could find the damn thing again if he ever put it down. He was then taken directly to his Rome office, or as many would have described it, the mansion where he worked when he was in Rome. Actually, most people would have simply considered it the place behind the large walls that you couldn't see over, but assumed there was probably some kind of very expensive building in very large grounds back there, because it was a very, very large wall.

Valerie was there to greet him. Having trained in secretarial skills to the highest degree, she considered being able to travel faster than light to be an everyday expectation in her line of work. She was always happy to oblige with a smile. It also helped ensure that there was adequate time in the day for sitting filing her nails. Anthony was the kind of employer who simply required that any desired tasks be performed in due time, and didn't ask how, or care what you did with the rest of the time, so both facts went unnoticed.

It was generally assumed that when working with people of such calibre that when an objective was set, it would be fulfilled, so he wasn't overly surprised when he received a call from Kuryani informing him that her objective had been completed and that she would make the drop off immediately. He'd accepted the news gratefully, and suggested that she should meet him in Rome first thing the following morning. She could be of huge assistance in a small matter he was currently attending to.

Tonight he would rest, in the warming glow of reassurance. Things were very possibly starting to fall into place.

Are We Good?

“So what do you think is in the box?” asked Bob, purely making conversation. He was well aware that his brother had as little idea as he did.

“Whatever it is, He seems to think that it's important.” Tom replied, “Although we can't be sure that whatever it is, or was, is still in the box of course.” On seeing Bob's vacant expression he attempted to explain his thoughts “It could just be another foolish Pandora débâcle. It's highly unlikely whoever last had all the worlds evils will have gone to the trouble of putting them back in the box when they'd finished with them.” Then he continued on a tangential path “Of course, we have to accept that without evil, there could be no good, so I wonder perhaps, if she didn't do us all a favour.”

“A favour?” Bob questioned.

“Well, we'd be out of a job for a start.”

“Are you sure? That doesn't really make sense. I mean, you don't need something bad to happen before you can do something good. Do you?”

“Well, that does seem to be the case. To fight a fire you need a fire, to cure an illness, there must be illness. To do the ultimate good, that is, to fight evil, you need evil to exist. If we ever are victorious, then we will be putting ourselves out of a job.”

There was a moments silence, before Bob's brow furrowed as he asked “Well, then, couldn't we just go around doing nice things, and helping people?”

Tom sighed. He knew his brother wasn't simple, and that troubled him, because his brother, once he got his teeth into something, had this horrible habit of being right.

“Well, until that day, we can but continue the struggle brother.”

At which point Bob, slipping into character, slipped into a minor coma, as he contemplated the idea further. Several neurons that had been laying on the beach for some time started to feel the brilliant rays of the warming sun, and being very sensible neurons, slipped into the shade of the trees to avoid the heinous perils of sunburn and dodgy tan lines. There, after such strenuous excursion of all that laying in the sun, they fell to sleep, and dreamed such heady dreams, of the most gargantuan battle, between the almighty forces of goodness, and the great and ghastly demon hoards of not very nice. There were slashing blades, the clash of mighty shields, almighty battle cries, death and glory, oh, and such explosions that left craters the size of small cities. Of course, the forces of good overcame. They always do in any 'good' story. The hoards of evil were vanquished. Eradicated. Annihilated. Total and utter genocide was performed upon the huge, fat, hairy, wart ridden arse of evil. Evil was no more, and the sun rose on a bright new day.

Bob, being a bit 'slow', 'watched' the dream unfold with some confusion. Mostly because for most of the dream, what with all the death and gore, destruction and annihilation, he hadn't been entirely sure which side was which. In fact, it seemed to him, like both sides were quite happy hacking and slaying, and when it came to the explosions, well, the side that caused the most destruction, and ultimately seemed to be left standing, was the side that had been best at blowing things up. Bob had decided at that point, that they must have been the forces of good.

But then, as much as Bob liked things that go bang, he was reasonably sure this wasn't the qualifying factor in how you defined good and evil. Although it possibly was the qualifying factor in how much fun the battle between good and evil was going to be. It also occurred to him, that the battlefield looked like rather a mess once they'd finished with it. Perhaps there was something good to be said about avoiding the battle, or if you were a little bit evil, making sure you had the battle in the other guys garden.

“Tom.” said Bob drowsily, as he slipped back from his slumbers to the waking world.

“Yes, Bob?” said Tom with his usual warmth and grace.

“Are we good?”

“Yes my brother, of course, we are good. We are angelic. We are the very incarnation of goodness. The very breath of the sacred word.”

“So it's OK for us to blow stuff up then?”

It was Tom's turn to pause. Not because he was thinking. He was intelligent, he didn't need time to think. He just needed time for his intellectual forces to regroup when faced with questions completely out of left field.

“Because we are acting in the general interests of goodness, any actions that we carry out, become good, because it is us carrying them out. So yes, it is fine for us to blow things up, because we are doing it for good reason.”

“And if bad people blow good things up, they're doing it for bad reason, so it's bad?”

“That's right.”

“So how can you tell who are the good people and who are the bad people to start with?”

“I told you, we're the good people.”

“But why are we the good people?”

“Because He made us that way.”

“And he made the bad people bad? That seems a bit... unfair.”

“He didn't make the bad people bad. He made them good, but He gave them free will, and they chose bad things.”

“So we all start good, but if you choose bad things, you become bad?”

“Yes.”

“And how do we know what are bad things?”

“He has given Instructions. Commandments, if you will.”

“Like, what sort of things you can blow up and what sort of things you can't?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“So, when you said you were going to let a firework off up his arse… that's allowed is it? There's a commandment that says we can do that?”

Tom paused for a brief moments reflection before answering. “Not exactly... No.”

“So, does that mean we're making a choice to do a bad thing, and we become bad?”

“No, this is different...“ and Tom took a few seconds to work out how he was going to justify this. Finally he continued “because God has quite obviously gone stark raving mad.”

“And you think that setting a firework off up his arse will bring him to his senses?”

There was another suitable pause, while they both contemplated the wisdom of this comment. Bob was the first to add any form of opinion on the matter.

“I'm not sure that someone setting a firework off up my arse would bring me to my senses. I think that would make me even more mad. In fact I think I'd probably be, well, livid. In fact I might even need swear words to describe how livid.”

“We are talking metaphorically.”

“Oh, I wish you wouldn't do that, it confuses the hell out of me.”

There was a long pause. A long, long pause. In which it was apparent that a lot of thought was being put in by both parties. Finally the silence was broken once more.

“Tom.” said Bob.

“Yes, Bob?” asked Tom kindly.

“Are we bad?”

“....maybe,” said Tom “I think it might depend on who you ask.”

The Good God Question

It might depend on who you ask. Many things do. When it comes to the crunch, you have to ask yourself who you're going to ask. Who's opinion do you value most?

Your best friends? A parent? A teacher? A priest? Your own?... God's?

I've met a lot of souls on my travels, and believe me I've travelled far and wide. I've been to the place thoughts come from. I've met gods. Of course it depends what you mean by a god. Definitions seem to vary drastically across the planet, never mind the universe, and I'm not sure that I'd readily trust any of them, but one thing I've found is that ultimately, the question answers itself. You trust your own opinion most, because it's you who decides who you're going to trust out of all the possible options. You have no choice in the matter. Ultimately, you have to trust yourself. The final decision is always your own, even if that decision is to delegate.

Your best friend might be the wisest person you know, but ultimately if they asked you to do something really stupid, and someone else's advice made more sense, you'd surely follow the other advice. Perhaps you'd think about it long and hard, because you trust your best friend, and they are so often right, but if that advice was “step off the cliff, you'll be fine.” and you can see the thousand foot drop, and there's a whole host of people there uttering the sage and simple advice of “Don't be so fucking stupid.” then who are you going to trust?

Does the same argument apply if you think that your best friend is a god? You can perfectly well reason that no loving god would ask such a thing, and maybe this is true, but the question still remains, what would you do... if they did?

Would you simply trust this god to care for you because they are your god, and take the step in faith? Would you perform the action out of such fear for your eternal soul that you would never dare disobey and risk the loss of an eternity of heaven? Would you simply accept that if this entity, whoever, or whatever it might be, required a sacrifice, that you are its servant, your life belongs to it, and as such you hand it over gladly? Would you assume that because no loving god would ask such a thing, that this entity could not in truth be your god, and simply go your own sweet way²¹ ?

Of all of these questions, as answers, it is important to realise that ultimately none of them are any more right than the others. It all comes down to individual perspective, and they are all simply choices with associated consequences.

And when, or if, you search for an answer, if you need help finding an answer, you have to return to the original question.

Who's opinion do you value the most?

Isolated

PC Paul Chambers slowly slipped back into a state that might be described as 'consciousness' and gradually became aware that there was something not quite right about the scene that lay before him. He was an officer of the law, trained to be insightful and observant, and as such it was his job to notice when things were… out of the ordinary.

This was not ordinary. This was in fact, highly irregular.

Maybe it was the blood and gore. Maybe it was the fact, that a lot of it appeared to be his own blood a gore. Maybe it was the way the blood and gore appeared to glisten and reflect all the colours of the rainbow. Although it should be said there was a high bias towards the red end of the spectrum. Maybe it was the complete absence of pain that he expected to be associated with quite so much of his own blood and gore. Then he started to remember: the slipping, the tumbling, the dislocating, more dislocating, landing face down, the crunch of his nose breaking, pain, looking up, the light, the writing... Oh and the thunderous sounds of gunfire. Then it came back to him. For a while it had hurt like hell. There had been a stupendous amount of pain. Bullets had torn through his flesh, ripping through his internal organs. Several had hit him square in the face. One had taken the bottom of his nose off, one had smashed through his top lip and teeth. That had hurt. A lot. Very briefly. It had been an amount of pain that made you think it might be time to just…stop being.

Everything faded. The pain receded. There was nothing, no feeling at all. It had all gone so very, very dark, but now, now everything was aglow, there was the most stunningly beautiful incandescent shimmering light off in the distance, and he had the most amazing compulsion to simply walk towards it. He was drawn, pulled, called by its very essence, and he stared, transfixed, simply letting himself be led by its magnetic luminescence. It was then that Kuryani entered the scene through his chest. She dived straight through his ghostly 'body', miraculously landed on her feet, rolled, and dived for cover. There she lay prostrate upon the floor, with gun poised, pointing into the room, completely oblivious to his ghostly presence. There was a moment while he  tried to come to terms with the shock, and sheer bemusement of the fact that she had travelled straight through him, but his mind recovered in magnificent fashion, decided that couldn't possibly have happened, and instead he simply thought to himself, if perhaps not exactly in the following words something akin to them, “Well, maybe I could just stop and check out her arse for a little bit first... If she's going to just lie there… like that... I mean... that big ol' light in the distance doesn't appear to be going anywhere.” It could be said we all simply have very personal ideas of Heaven.

So he stopped and watched the unfolding scene. He watched it all with the diligence of, perhaps not the best copper in the world, but certainly someone who was used to paying attention to the little details, and when it was all over, he sat down in the stairs, and after a moment readjusted, so that he was sat down on the stairs, and he scratched his ghostly head. He could see them all, and from this new found perspective into the spiritual spectrum, it was evident that there were obviously more characters in the room than his colleagues were aware of. It was very clear that the girl who'd ended up being taken away as the guilty culprit, was perhaps not as guilty as someone less enlightened (or less dead anyway) might have thought. At least, he was sure it wasn't her who had been firing the weapons at him.

As he watched, with a slight lump in his throat, as Kuryani stood, and confidently walked across the room, took the box, and tucked it into the infeasible confines of tight black leather, he wondered... Firstly, what was so important about the box, that she'd taken that, and ignored pretty much everything else, and... with a certain amount more curiosity, exactly how the box had managed to fit inside the tight black leather in the first place? It was undeniably full beforehand.

Then there was all the fuss as his colleagues entered the scene, cuffed and took away the girl, and with significantly less decorum than he thought was due, bagged and cleaned up the mess, which given that a significant proportion of the mess was basically him, he thought they could have taken a lot more care over. He'd tried to communicate. He'd tried to tell them that they'd got the wrong person. He screamed at them to look at the “grinning bastard standing over the smoking bloody gun.” He asked them not to step in his entrails, but for all his screaming, all he gained was the knowledge that they couldn't hear a single sodding word he was saying.

“They can't hear you.” said Brian, right on queue. Turning to Dennis he continued in uncertain tones, “Maybe we should have made a noise, let them know the place is haunted, maybe they'd have believed it wasn't her.”

“But then they'd have known it was us.” said Damien.

“Yes, but what can they do to us?” responded Dennis.

Brian looked across the room at Dennis and saw something that scared him. It was completely true, but he couldn't help but feel he had created something of a monster.

Paul Chambers was an officer of the law. He was used to taking command of situations. He was however also aware that he was some way out of his depth. In the way that someone might be considered to be out of their depth, when after a nice dinner, a movie and a drink, they had headed back to their opposite numbers place, only to pass out over coffee, and wake to find themselves chained to the bed…

…of the Atlantic.

He was alone. If there was any law this side of the grave, he wasn't sure he wanted to know who enforced it, but he was a copper by nature, so he stood, and somewhat shakily (because he had, after all, lost a lot of blood, in fact pretty much all of it) he walked towards the centre of the room and the situation. Then, in his best, and most authoritative police officer voice he 'asked' in that commanding way that police officers do “Would any of you gentlemen care to explain what just happened?”

“We've got to save her.” said Brian ignoring him completely and focusing on what appeared to him to be far more relevant matters.

“Well we haven't got to,” said Dennis, “but I'm up for it, should be fun.”

“Fun?” questioned Brian, his eyebrows only just stopping short of extending beyond the top of his forehead.

“That was totally fucking awesome.” repeated Damien. “I'm up for anything that's as cool as that was. What are we going to do. You guys are so-oo cool. Have we got more bullets?”

Dennis smiled. He couldn't remember any other time in his life, ever, when anyone had actually said he was cool. He wasn't sure he actually wanted to be cool, but it was always nice to know you'd made a good impression.  

“Gentlemen.” said Poz, coughing to get attention “Again... Would anyone like to tell me... “ and the strain started to get to him “what the bloody hell just happened!”

“Do we really want a copper hanging around with us?” asked Damien, “I don't think it will be as fun if there's a copper hanging around.”

“He's not a copper,” said Brian, with a sigh, “he's just a dead bloke like the rest of us.”

“He's got the uniform, and he asking questions like a copper.” Damien responded.

As a man who had spent his entire life afraid of authority, with his new found perspective on his existence, Dennis stated the next line with the most ungracious amount of satisfaction “Yeah, but right now, there is exactly nothing whatsoever that he can do about anything.”

So the plain and simple man who was Paul Chambers, with all his copperness stripped away, had the horrible realisation deep in his lack of a gut, that what had just been said was one hundred percent, completely and utterly true. Maybe he was just a dead bloke, despite the uniform, just a bloke… a bloke… who was dead… a dead... bloke… just like the rest of them… and right now, there was nothing whatsoever, that he could do, about anything. So he turned, and he sat back down on the stairs, and with his head in his hands, and a tone so deflated he asked, as much of himself as the rest of the room ”I just want to know... what just happened?”

And so the barrier fell, and as the ghost of PC Past, became as it were, more human, they gave way, and started to talk to him like something resembling an actual person. They told him what they knew. It was a bit of an eye opener. Dennis admitted to both hand grenade 'incidents'. No of course they weren't terrorists. It was just an accident, well maybe not the second time, then he'd just got carried away in all the excitement. “So you basically murdered him.” stated Poz dumbfounded by his candour. “It's OK,” interjected Damien “I don't mind. These guys are awesome.”

They told him what they knew about being dead, and they questioned him about the woman in leather, and told him what little they knew about the box, and slowly Poz started to feel that being dead was a lot like being alive except lacking the convenience of working fingers, and sanity.

“And you categorically can't open it without the key?” Poz questioned.

“That's what I just said.” answered Brian. “If there's a way, I never found it.”

“Then she'll be back.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because when your friend was being taken away, she had it clenched so tightly between her fingers I'm surprised it wasn't drawing blood.”

He paid attention to the little details.

“So if we go back and find the key, I'm thinking that eventually, the box will find its way back to us.”

“Well, if we're going back to find the key, you wouldn't mind helping us break our mate out of prison would you?”

Poz looked at Brian like he was some kind of alien. “I beg your pardon” he asked in disbelief, tones of purest copper finding their way back into his voice. “Are you really asking me to help you break someone out of jail. You do realise I'm a police officer!

“Were a police officer.” Dennis corrected.

Poz thought about this for a moment. It wasn't just a question of allegiance. It went to the core of his being. He believed in the law. There might not be anything that he could do to enforce it anymore, but he still believed in it. It was well, just right. He did his best to explain as much.

Dennis responded less than amicably. “Don't be stupid.” which was perhaps marginally hypocritical given that he'd believed exactly the same thing up until an hour ago.

“It's not stupid. If we don't obey the law, there would be complete chaos. You can't just go around doing whatever you feel like.”

There was a slight pause before Dennis responded, but his answer came with the confidence of a soul who has themself just discovered a new truth “Yes we can.”

Damien looked at Dennis with something approaching awe in his eyes, as Brian suggested that perhaps now would be a good time to work out a way out of this mess rather than standing around bickering. Poz was having none of it “I don't care what we do, but we're not going to break her out of jail.”

“Try and stop me.” said Dennis, as he wandered off up the stairs with Damien, his new found disciple promptly in tow.

Brian paused a second. He looked at Poz, and shrugged. This is how it is, what can you do? He smiled, with his mouth, if not with his eyes, as he turned and walked away, following the recently departed recently departed, leaving PC Paul Chambers stood alone, amidst the horror of the blood splattered cellar.

Paul Chambers thought long and hard. Loaded with apprehension he stared into the distant luminescence calling his name. Was he supposed to walk towards it? Was that the way it worked? Were those the rules? 'The Law'? He felt drawn, pulled by some greater force, but then… there was something else… and with a sudden lack of blood to the brain, he deciding that maybe, he had something he needed to do before he offered himself up to the all pervading light, and with that sudden realisation he quickly dashed after them.

Coffee and Oh Nuts

It was a shame. He really did have a nice smile. Even when he wasn't really smiling. With just the slightest upturned curve to his mouth, his eyes simply radiated a deep feeling of contentment with the universe. It was a bit perverse when she thought about it, not that Kuryani would ever admit that she did. Here they were, in a small roadside cafe, having stopped at his insistence, sitting across a table from each other. He, sipping at his coffee, while she, with her back to the wall, was most of the way through an apple juice she never really wanted in the first place. He preached passionately at length and depth about the multitude of evils mankind carried out upon the world they called their home, and all the while he had this gentle gleam in his eye that seemed to suggest that even though he was so sure it was all so screwed up, all so utterly broken, so completely beyond repair, he was still, despite all sensible reason, genuinely happy and content with his lot, and his place in the grand scheme of things. It was perverse.

She hadn't wanted to stop. He'd insisted they take a break from their journey. He'd said the least she could do for pinching his van, and for that matter kidnapping him, was buy him a coffee. The truth be told, Kenty had just wanted to find out exactly who had pinched his van and why. There was something that didn't quite ring true about this story. At least that's what he was telling himself. If he was a little more honest, there was also the more imposing fact that, be that as it may, there were other parts of him that couldn't believe his luck, and he wanted to find out what his chances were of getting kidnapped on a more regular basis.

She'd protested, her “mother would be waiting”. He'd suggested that “five more minutes wouldn't kill her.” Kuryani had finally given in. An argument would just have made the whole scenario more memorable, and she'd taken the path of least resistance. So she sat and she listened, downing the rest of her apple juice in one, as he sat and sipped coffee while expressing his deep seated views on the catastrophic state of the world. Occasionally he asked her those little questions, where she was from, any brothers and sisters, had she ever travelled, the little things that give the bigger picture. She'd answered while all the time appearing a little distracted, and constantly bringing the conversation back to 'hippy stuff', just so that she could stop having to make up more lies about her background that she might have to remember later.

It was a subject that was close to Kenty's heart and he was easily led. He preached about the rain forests, about the perils of nuclear power, about man’s (and woman’s, he didn't want to be sexist about this) effect on the planet in general.

”But you don't mind driving around in a polluting old van?” she'd goaded less than innocently.

“If I didn't drive around in a polluting old van, you could never have pinched it,” He paused before adding “and then I would never have had the pleasure in my life of those beautiful big brown eyes?”

It was at that exact moment she realised she was going to have to kill him.

“We all have our little sins.” he continued “The beans for this cup of coffee have travelled over five thousand miles to take their part in this performance, that's a fifth of the way around the planet. Can you imagine how much fuel it takes to do that? Your apples might be pressed to claim a stamp on their passport. The price we pay for our addictions, or maybe...” and again he looked deep into her eyes “it's simply the case that you're just a much nicer person than I am.”

She wondered if he noticed the shift in her 'beautiful brown eyes', as the pupils narrowed, focused, and refocused, for just a fraction of a second before she took control of herself once more. It was possibly the first time in the history of the sexes that a man had fallen out of favour for paying attention to such things. It was a shame, because he really did have a nice smile. Even when he wasn't smiling. It just seemed to radiate from somewhere deep inside.

And now, as he sat still sipping at his coffee, while she sat idly twisting her now empty glass between her fingers, she was not actually listening to him so much as... planning his demise...

… and working out how to dispose of his body with the minimum amount of fuss.

But something started to gnaw at her. He did have a nice smile. That wasn't it. It couldn't be just that he had a nice smile. That was ridiculous. She never had been, and never would be the sort of person who let such idle considerations get in the way of the serious issues.

And yet…

… slowly realisation took a grip on a low lying cloud, struggled to get a foot up onto a distant archipelago, rolled itself over the horizon with a suitable splash, and finally dawned; It wasn't such a trivial thing as a hankering for his upturned face banana²² . The simple fact was, she had in her life, never actually met anyone who was, deep within themselves genuinely content with their lot. She'd met a lot of smug self satisfied bastards, but that wasn't quite the same thing. He was actually happy. Not smug, but content. It was so alien to her she hadn't even recognised it when she'd first seen it. She lived in a world where everyone always wanted more, where everyone was perpetually fighting for the slightest advantage. Things were either going well or badly. They might be happy in the good times, but the good times were fleeting, and there was always something new to throw a spanner in the works. It seemed the world was so incredibly full of spanners.

This guy was… he was just happy. It was perverse. How could anyone be happy with such a perception on the current state of events? It really was perverse, and at the same time, just a little bit intriguing.

But he paid attention. He knew the colour of her eyes. That was just the start, next he'd be on about the perfect curve of her nose, and the fineness of her cheekbones and before long he'd have a perfect identikit picture going on in there. Of course it wasn't like the police weren't already aware of her, but if he went back and started explaining to those same police that she'd just pinched his van, questions would be asked, and while it was true that answers could be given, and she worked for very connected people, who could make such little problems like this go away, sometimes their idea of making a problem simply go away involved a nice warm bath in nice warm acid, because they wouldn't want her telling her side of the story to anyone afterwards either. She was going to have to kill him. It was quite simply, the simplest way.

Why Oh Why Am I… Not… Happy?

By the time you've reached your third or fourth millennia, if you haven't worked out that happiness is as much a product of how you choose to view the universe, as much as a result of what the universe chooses to inflict upon you, then it's safe to say you haven't really been paying attention.

We reached our happy ending and just kept on going in the knowledge that a happy ending is by nature also a happy beginning. Maybe you have to accept that very few are born happy. Being forcibly evicted from somewhere warm and cosy, down a greasy tube that's a lot smaller than you are is never going to be a good start to the day. You were outgrowing the place, you needed to move onto bigger things, but still.

The point where you realise you're getting a little big for your living quarters is a bad time to realise you're already several sizes too large for the one available exit. Perhaps this is living proof that humans are not born with any kind of inclination towards looking ahead.

What to do?

It's a lot more than the average nought year old can work out on their own, but fortunately, you didn't have to, because at that point, the forces that be, started forcing. Shoving you through a hole which there is no way in any sensible universe that you could possibly fit. Something was going to have to give, and that something was going to very painful for a whole bunch of people. At least two. Probably a lot more once they'd had the chance to vent their anger following the event.

So nobody is actually born happy. Being born is a very stressful and unjoyous way to start your day. No wonder we cry about it. But immediately after that horrific experience, you find yourself out in a huge wide world, where there is light, and air, and oh such bliss! OK, so not actual bliss, but it's a lot better than having someone trying to rip your head from your shoulders with a pair of barbecue tongues. It's all relative.

So begins the continual wave that is human happiness with it's desperate troughs, and unbelievably joyous peaks and crests. In those moments of despair, you know there will be mountainous climbs if you ever wish to achieve anything as simple as a smile again. At the moments of exultation, you know full well, it will only take one small sideways step to fuck everything up completely, and you'll be on your arse, sliding down the other side faster than a bungie jumper sans bungie, because lets face it gravity is always going to be against you when it comes to this sort of thing.

On the face of it, the whole subject of human happiness is enough to make any sane person damn right miserable.

There are those who suggest, that it is not which point of the wave you happen to be at in any given moment that's important, but simply whether or not you happen to be moving uphill or down. If things are better than they were recently, you'll be happy, if they're getting worse, you'll be sad, no matter how good or bad things actually are. Happiness and sadness are not measures of how good or bad your life is, but merely measures of how good it is, compared to how good it recently was.

You wanted a puppy but never had one – on a scale of one to ten, you rate your happiness as a five. You get a puppy –  yay!!! happiness up to eight. Then you win the lottery, you're a zillionaire, happiness up to eleven. The huge great truck full of cash turns up, and runs over your puppy turning it into one odd very messy novelty slipper, spreading its entrails across the road before your very eyes, and suddenly you're on a happiness level of minus several, even though you've just won the lottery; Or you just accept that you never really liked puppies that much.

What's more, there are some who will suggest that all of that is irrelevant, because if you take the right pills, you can be happy however good or bad your life ever was or is, because happiness is merely a measure of the level of endorphins and various chemicals in your brain and body that make you feel... well... happy.

So it's pretty fair to say that happiness is just a state of mind. Both a state of mind that can be learned, and a learned state of mind. If you have complete control of your own mind, then there is no reason why you shouldn't be permanently happy. Of course, it could also be suggested that those people who have such control of their mental facilities, that they can carry on being happy when they know full well how completely screwed up everything is... might very well have less that the full control of their mental facilities²³ .

It could of course, also just be a matter of perspective. There are those who have suggested that sanity may very well be over rated, but the happier ones amongst them have also been known to comment that insanity isn't all its cracked up to be either.

The Blind Leading The Blind

Perspective is a funny thing. As I ran up the stairs, chasing after Dennis and Damien, it occurred to me how bizarre this story would seem to someone looking in from the outside. We always judge people in different ways dependent on circumstance.

Mostly whether or not the person in the relevant circumstance is us or not.

I mean, it would be really easy to paint Dennis as this evil monster, well, except the brush would go straight through him and the paint wouldn't stick, but you know what I mean. He'd died and somehow been reborn, not in a big happy Buddha reincarnation sorta way, but in a... well he'd just lost all of those hang ups he had before.  Generally we'd say that was a good thing, but maybe he'd gone too far, and that was kinda my fault: I got him drunk, I showed him how to take advantage of being invisible. But it was like he went from having so much empathy that he was so scared of how others felt or thought that he was paralysed by it, to suddenly having none, and had become this monster. He suddenly had no concept of what anyone else might be feeling, and if he did have such a concept, he simply didn't care. It was like he'd been reborn as the worst of teenagers.

Why did I follow him? I wanted to see Brenda again... I dunno… I suppose I felt responsible for the monster. Breaking her out of prison seemed like a really dumb idea when I thought about it, I mean, what would we do then? We'd be OK, but she'd have to go into hiding or on the run, or… whatever... Leaving her in there seemed like nothing more than a betrayal. It wasn't any kind of decision to make, and when we're faced with really difficult decisions, I did what the rest of you do, I took whatever kind of leadership was offered, even if it's shit, because anything that means we don't have to make decisions and take responsibility ourselves is just a damn sight easier. Except I suppose I didn't pretend that I thought that he knew what he was doing. Leaving Dennis to go off and break her out on his own would have just been stupid. He'd have probably just gone in and blown up the entire cop shop leaving just the one cell standing or something. Assuming he remembered to leave the one cell standing. I dunno. I was kinda numb. Any kind of leadership was better than none (OK that's debatable), and I figured that if Dennis was going to break her out, I was going to make sure I was there to stop him from cocking it up completely.

Anyway, there we were, outside the cop shop, when Damien asks “So how are we going to break in?”

Dennis gave his little protégée a slight look of disdain before responding “Breaking in is not the problem.”

Damien wasn't a complete moron, the penny dropped pretty quickly. “So how are we going to get her out?”

“I haven't got a clue.” Dennis responded, “Lets go in and have a look shall we.”

So we all walked in, bold as brass, literally through the front door. There are some advantages, if not that many, to the ghostly 'life'.

Finding her wasn't that difficult once we were in there. It wasn't the biggest police station in the world, and being able to stick your head through a wall to see what's on the other side makes searching a whole lot easier. We found her simply enough.

Sat in a cell, seated in pretty much the exactly the same position as when we last saw her. Arms wrapped around her knees. She'd stopped crying, though the tear stained face was enough to break my heart. Again. She just sat there staring into space, gently rocking, gently muttering to herself.

“fuck fuck bugger fuck fuck fuck bugger shitholes fuck fuck bugger” and so on.

Breaking her out was coming to seem like a better and better idea, so we needed to open the door, and you know the score now, the easiest way to do that was to find the key. Well how hard could that be? At which point, the copper ghost bloke turned up again. It looked like it was about to get easier.

“Do you know where they keep the key to this cell?” I asked, without any other kind of greeting or acknowledgement.

“There is no way I'm going to tell you that.”

“Why not, you know she's innocent.”

He paused for a while, while he thought about this.

“It's not just a matter of her being innocent, the law has to be applied, she has to be proved innocent.”

“But they're going to find her guilty you thick twat!”

There was a pained expression on his face as he thought about this, before finally his programming betrayed him and he simply said “If she's innocent, she'll be found innocent.”

People will invariably believe whatever it is convenient for them to do so. It amazes me that anyone can have this kind of unreasoned faith in the law, given that the law is, well, run by people.

“What do you mean 'if ' you pillock, it was this muppet who killed you.” I replied, angrily pointing at Dennis, who smiled back happily while I continued “You bloody know she's innocent, and as far as they know, she was the only one fucking there, of course they're going to find her guilty, you fucking moron.” OK, I admit, I was starting to lose it a bit at that point.

“Don't take that tone with me, or you'll find...”

“He'll find what?” Dennis interrupted, still smiling. He really was beginning to scare the crap out of me, but he had a point.

“Never mind...” PC Ghost Bloke backed down quickly, knowing when he was onto a bad thing “... but just because she was innocent of that doesn't mean she's innocent in general. She might have done all kinds of other things.”

“Is that what passes as logic in your fucked up copper world!?”

The resulting angry silence was broken as Damien stuck his head through the wall and interrupted “Hey, I've found the keys to the cells.”

“Ahhh,” replied Dennis, his malevolent grin widening “well hand them over.”

“Erm, can't.”

“Why not?”

“They're in a cabinet behind the desk as we came in,” he informed us cheerfully “with a big sign on it that said 'cell keys'. It wasn't that hard to find.”

“So what's the problem?” I asked, realising exactly what the answer was going to be even as I asked the question.

“It's locked.” responded Damien, on queue.

Now you think about this, and you think “So where is the key to the cabinet going to be?”, and it doesn't take long before you realise it's going to be held by the copper bloke who's sitting behind the desk, who I'm reliably informed by Copper Ghost Bloke is the desk sergeant.

I asked Copper Ghost Bloke his name, and given that he said it was 'Poz', which is kinda twatty, I'm just gunna keep calling him Copper Ghost Bloke.

Anyway, it turns out the desk sergeant geezer, keeps his keys on one of those extendible key chains so that he can't lose them. This does not make our job of pinching them any easier. But still, not impossible. Just look for the weakest link in the chain. All it took was a pair of scissors. OK, so you can't cut through the wire connected to the keys with a pair of scissors, but you can cut through the belt loop the whole thing was connected to. The trick was making sure no one saw the scissors floating through the air, so we didn't float them through the air, we pushed them along the floor behind him until they were under his chair. Then we knocked over his tea, and pinched the keys while he was trying to sort out the sugary mess streaming over his desk. Then back down under the chair with the keys, along the floor to the cabinet. Opening the cabinet, taking the cell keys, locking the cabinet, back along the floor, and putting the sergeants key fob under his chair as if his belt loop had simply broken, and they'd just fallen there so innocently. Then we found the cleaning cupboard, found the dirtiest smelliest rag we could, and wrapped the cell key in it. A cell key on the floor would get noticed. A dirty smelly rag might get noticed, but no one is going to go so far as to actually pick it up. Then, inch by inch, we pushed the rag all the way to cell number 2. It took a while, but we got there in the end, and we opened the door.

A Proverbial up the Proverbial?

“So how exactly are we going to shove a firework up His Holy Hole?”

“You know, Bob,” said Tom, with his usual patient tone, though that was now perhaps laced with a certain amount of suffering “sometimes I think you take things far too liter..”

Bob never actually let Tom finish the sentence. “It's OK, Tom, I realise that you were talking metaphorically, I just wondered, you know, how you were metaphorically going to insert a roman candle, rocket, or… maybe even one of those really big ones that contain lots of explosions that just go off again and again and…”

A wistful look framed itself upon Bob's face, as his voice trailed off into the incandescent illuminations launching themselves across the back of his imagination and up the centre of Gods black hole.

“... again and again and again and…”

“Well indeed.” interrupted Tom. “I was thinking more along the lines of one very big explosion rather than lots of little ones.”

“How big?” asked Bob a little too quickly, the fireworks exploding in his brain, leaping forwards and lighting his eyes with wonder.

“Quite big.” said Tom, in the tone of one intentionally understating the case, and expecting you to realise this. It occurred to him who he was talking to so he added “Really quite big in fact.” Then getting into the swing of things added “Lets just say, we're going to get a great big roll of gaffer tape, tape the entire box of fireworks together, and set them all off, up his arse, in one go.”

Neurons fired. In the firework show that was Bob's brain, a taper lightly touched a fuse and slowly and surely, a delicate flame danced its way along the length of the realm of possibilities. It reached a junction, where the fuse split, heading off in several directions, and the delicate little flame did likewise, following them all, where it encountered further and further junctions. Neurons fired into neurons, each exploding into a host of possibilities which in turn set other fuses aglow.

Finally there was one almighty mental leap.

The Demise of the Tree Hugger

The small amount of irony was not lost on Kenty as he sat with his back to the tree, his hands tied firmly behind it, and his feet bound tightly in front. Having previously put himself into such a predicament to save the lives of trees, it was perhaps a fitting place, amongst a 'forest' of comrades, to lose his own. But still, as tree hugging went, this was pretty hardcore, and more than he'd signed up for on this occasion.

He hadn't known what to expect when he'd got out of bed this morning, but it certainly wasn't this.

They'd got back into the van. He'd offered to drive, being as it was after all, his van. She'd accepted the offer to be chauffeured, but after about ten minutes, had suggested that they should leave the main road, and take a little dirt track. It looked like it went into the back end of nowhere. Kenty smiled. Now why would she be taking him down this little sheltered lane he thought to himself, and he cast her a sideways glance, and a 'knowing grin'.

OK, perhaps in retrospect he had to accept that it hadn't actually been a 'knowing' grin at all. He really hadn't known anything about the fact, up until the point where he'd stopped the van on her suggestion in a desolate piece of woodland, turned around brandishing his cheekiest of grins, only to find himself facing the cheekiest of hand guns which she had mysteriously produced from absolutely nowhere.

And he'd thought they'd been getting on so well...

He now sat with his back to the tree, twisting the bonds that held his wrists. It was just a matter of time before he could work them loose. It wasn't the first time he'd been in such a predicament, but they were tight. She hadn't been messing around. He should have known better. He had known better. He'd known there was something not right about her. He wondered why he had deserted his better judgement and followed his cock into this situation. Perhaps in some way of explanation, the memory of the tight black leather walking away flashed itself back up onto his inner vision. The argument being all the more persuasive from this seated perspective. “Yeah well, okay, maybe you've got a point.” he said. Whether he was talking to himself or his loins was debatable.

She'd gone so far as to press the gun into his mouth. He'd sat there, staring up the barrel, along her arms, and into the depths of those wondrous lashes and big brown eyes, thinking, well, if this is the last view I'm ever going to have, it could be a lot worse.

He'd smiled.

Her face contorted. She pulled the gun away, almost angrily, turned, and walked away with significantly less composure than she had intended to convey.

Mental Leap

“Tom.” said Bob.

“Yes, Bob?” asked Tom, Patiently.

“If we get a really big roll of gaffer tape… could we use...

… two boxes of fireworks?”

Easy Exits

She wasn't sure how long the door had been open. When she had finally cut loose from the torrent of tears, when there was no more stream to flow, and her last sob had whimpered its weary way home, she had fallen asleep. She had no idea how long she'd slept, but she'd woken to a bump, lifted her head from her knees, and there it was... ajar and beckoning. Cautiously she craned her neck a little to see down the passageway, found she couldn't see from her position on the bed, so more out of curiosity than with any actual thought of escape, she gently slipped to the floor, and very lightly trod the few feet to the doorway. Then a little hesitantly, she edged her head around the edge of the door and risked a peak. There was a long corridor. A long, empty corridor.

Brenda had never actually been arrested before. She didn't really know how it all worked but she was pretty sure this was not how prisons, or even holding cells generally operated. She risked a few steps out, and walked slowly along the corridor. She wasn't really thinking of escape, it was more out of simple curiosity, but then, she wasn't exactly calling out and trying to attract anyone's attention either. At the end of the corridor she came to some stairs. The same stairs she had been led down with the incredible sinking feeling when she'd arrived, and very aware of the fact that 'good girls' didn't break out of prison, and she really shouldn't be out here, she very gingerly, one step at a time, headed back up them. At the top of the stairs was a door containing a small glass panel. There was obviously a certain amount of commotion going on on the other side. She risked a glance, but she could see nothing. There was a lot of muffled noise. Something was going on out there. She opened the door, a quick glance, ready to be intercepted, ready to explain, her door had been open, she'd just come out to see what all the noise was, she wasn't escaping or anything, no really.

The station was pretty much empty all except for the desk sergeant. There had been two major explosions in the town, and everyone was out tidying up and without any huge amount of hope, trying to find out what had actually happened. When Dennis had come up behind the unsuspecting desk sergeant, thrown an overcoat over his head, and done his best to tie the arms in a knot to keep it there, that had been enough to distract him. While he was pulling at the coat on his head, Damien had pushed the sergeants very fresh, and very recently boiled cup of tea, launching it into the desk sergeants groin. This made the generally very jovial desk sergeant less than happy, and caused him to very quickly reassess his priorities. He refrained from trying to free himself from his temporary blindness, and fell to the floor clutching his blistering gonads. Dennis and Damien then proceeded to pelt him with anything they could find, which seemed to keep him distracted for long enough.

This is how Brenda discovered him as she walked into the main station reception, and how she left him, as she very quickly made her way across the reception and out beyond into the street and the beckoning daylight.

The Plans of Angels

“Bob.” said Tom.

“Yes, Tom?” said Bob sleepily.

“This whole thing, with the universes… all being branches and stuff...”

Bob shuffled the gargantuan deck containing his thoughts. It was an interesting shuffle. Like a master magician he manipulated the deck with subtlety and ease. A deck of cards cut from the mountains of experience, and hammered by the tide of his mind over millennia into perfectly ordered grains of sand laying upon a sun soaked beach.

The tide wafted through the almighty deck, shuffling, and riffling as it passed, suitably ordering the fragmented grains. It was a very large deck. It took some time. Finally he focused on one very particular grain of sand, checking the shapes and angles of its edges, how it reflected the light of his inquiring mind.  

“Yes, Tom.” Said Bob, comfortable now that his mind was in the location of the conversation.

“If we were to walk up to God, and… suggest how he might perhaps do some things differently, am I right in assuming that there is some branch, some possible universe in which he doesn't completely annihilate our feathery arses?”

“We haven't got feathery arses, Tom.” said Bob.

“I was being poetic.”

“Poems should rhyme, Tom.”

“They don't have to.”

“I prefer them when they do.”

There was a brief pause while Tom considered that the conversation was not quite going as planned. He changed tack. “Fireworks?” he questioned, tugging at what might be the puppet strings of his brothers mind.

“I like fireworks, Tom.” said Bob, staggering blindly into the orbit of the black hole his brother was mentally battling with. “When are there going to be fireworks?”

“Well,” said Tom, “I have come to the conclusion that it's about time that God heard some home truths.“

“Home Truths?!” questioned Bob in evident fright, who had taken no time at all to recall what had happened to the last Brother who had taken it upon himself to install into the Almighty Wisdom some 'home truths' back in the day. His usual radiance wavered momentarily. “Let me make sure I've got this right. Are you suggesting that you want to go and talk to… Him,” The word was uttered with a certain amount of dread “and tell Him that … you... have an alternative suggestion regarding how he should run the universe, which is perhaps more reasonable than…His Mysterious Ways?”

“That we should go and talk to Him, Bob. We.” The last word was undoubtedly a sentence in its own right.

“Yes, Tom.” said Bob, perhaps obediently, perhaps because he would follow his brother into the very gates of hell if and when the occasion arose. This was no false promise. He had actually done this on one previous occasion. They were young. It was a dare.

“Yes well, obviously I would never be so bold as to suggest that I could possibly know better than His… mysterious ways… I was merely contemplating the idea, that in an infinite universe, of infinite possibilities, that there is perhaps one very small branch leading away from this scenario, that involves us existing as much as we have perhaps become accustomed to… with feathery arses, poetic or otherwise, intact.”

“You mean one in which he doesn't fwut our own personal universe?”

“Probably.” said Tom, after a moments pause.

“So what are you going to do?”

“What are... we... going to do, Bob. What are we going to do.”

“Yes, Tom.” said Bob.

“Well first things first, we're going to find God.”

“Shouldn't be too hard, Tom. He's everywhere. In everything.”

“Yes, I meant on a more personal level. I meant that we're going to have to go for an actual personal visit.”

“Oh...” said Bob, eye's widening, as his eyebrows grew little angelic wings of their own and headed heavenwards up his forehead. This wasn't to Bob's mind looking like a bright and rosy future. But he was a noble being. He had been created to be such. “And then what are… we... going to do, Tom?”

“We are going to inform him, Bob”

“We're going to inform him?”

“We are going to inform him.”

There was a pause, and a hint of unease in Bob's voice as he asked “Is that wise, Tom?” There was a further pause before he added sagely “I like fireworks, Tom… but... but... that doesn't mean I want to be one, Tom. I think we need to draw a line, Tom?”

It would be unfair to say Tom carried on regardless. He held his brothers words in some regard; And carried on anyway.

“Well to start with,“ he opened in the tones of an exasperated child complaining of his parents ill advised methods of childcare “I for one would like to know why he created this whole mess in the first place if he wasn't going to look after it properly. He should jolly well look after his toys and I feel that we are going to have to inform him about this.”

“And you're going to tell him that, Tom?” questioned Bob nervously.

“We.”

“Right.” said Bob. One eyebrow fluttered back down to its more traditional resting place, leaving the other airborne and his expression exceptionally unsettled.

“Right.” said Tom. Perhaps you'll understand why following this little firework show...”

“I like big firework shows.”

“In this instance, perhaps the smaller the better.”

There was a pause while grains of sand reached for the sun tan cream and lubricated themselves suitably. The tide rolled in.

“Perhaps we should just use the one box of fireworks?”

“Possibly even those very interesting little indoor fireworks.” added Tom.

Bob wrestled with the idea of indoor fireworks being interesting, and finally after some struggle, nodded his head sagely.

“So perhaps, we should be giving a little more thought to the aforementioned universal branch that means we get to carry on existing in this spagetic²⁴ mess of the ubiquitous whims of The Almighty”.

“Right.” said Bob. “Right.”

Revenge is a Dish Best Served by the Cold Hearted

It was the work of an entire hour before Kenty managed to break through the bonds that held his hands behind the large elm. She'd hadn't been messing around when she'd tied him to it, and had, to put it mildly, done it properly. But the rope Kenty had had in his van was quite old, and eventually it wore through with firm and consistent rubbing against the rough tree bark.

Kenty undid the bonds around his ankles and made a feeble effort to stand. His arms were dead from the rubbing and his legs were dead from just being stretched out like that for an hour. He fell back and lay on the ground staring up at the canopy. Perhaps a little rest was in order. He started to drift into a silent meditation, just the sounds of the trees rustling in the wind, and the occasional bird song. He thought it was quite likely they were singing about the exhausted hippy collapsed below them in their happy little sing song voices. Perhaps he should make an effort to find out what kind of mess he was in. He sat up and looked around.

It was a pretty dense and ancient woodland, with lots of old and distinctive trees, though nothing of any interest other than that. Kenty liked trees. He had on occasion been known to hug, and even talk to them, but right now he was looking for things a little less 'ordinary'. Trees and trees and trees. He fell back onto the ground for a few minutes, but finally with sore wrists and numb legs Kenty did his best to stagger up, and out the way they'd come in.

They hadn't gone that deep into the wood. Just far enough to be out of sight of the rest of the world. It came as something of a pleasant surprise when he finally found his way to the wood's edge and the clear skies beyond, and found that his van was still exactly where they'd left it. He walked up to, and looked through the drivers side window wondering what he would find…

… surely she wouldn't be in it…

She wasn't, but the keys were still hanging in the ignition, exactly where he'd left them. He looked around. This didn't make any sense, unless... It occurred to him that maybe this was where she was headed in the first place. Maybe she had another car here, was meeting someone else. He briefly looked around for tracks, but gave up when he decided he'd probably be happier not finding any. For a second he considered searching for her, though surely by this time she'd be long gone, and heh, as beautiful as those eyes were, there was a definite possibility that she liked to play a little rougher than was his general preference. Kenty had a certain view of the world. Fate would play its part. If she was meant to stumble across his path once more, then so she would, and if it was not meant to be then... so be it. It also occurred to him that tying him up at gun point and walking away leaving him there was a pretty fair hint she wasn't that interested.

Then again, if she wasn't interested, surely she'd have just said so. Maybe this was all a ruse just to get his attention...

Whatever... She obviously had other pressing matters to deal with. Matters, that he didn't feel the need to be that engaged in given that she was waving armaments around. On the other hand, curiosity is a powerful thing, and there was no denying she had captured his curiosity.

But then, laziness is a pretty powerful thing too. Kenty got back in the van, laughed gently to himself, and turned the key.

The van exploded...

The Three 'Simple' Truths

It's a crazy, crazy universe. We are perhaps crazy and confused people. I've been alive, I've been dead. I've been to the place where thoughts come from. I've spoken with deities. I know this. It is a crazy, crazy universe, and we are, on the whole, crazy and confused people because of the fact.

It's hardly surprising. Our education generally begins at a place it could be suggested is not exactly the beginning. It's a pretty fair bet after being born, the first thing you took on board after staring at all the tripped out weird shit, was some big heads that kept making weird noises like “mummieslittleangel” or “daddywannasnuggle” or "shuddupcryingyoulittleshit"… and we take off from where we started and we find out about all this interesting stuff like table legs and peoples feet and how people all make lots of other funny noises that might mean stuff, and you slowly work out bits of it, this whole random perception, and you learn loads of things, some of it interesting, some of it not so, but we always get to a point where we ask “why?”, and they say “because”, and we repeat again, because we want to know, “why?” and they say “because” and we say “why?” and they say something like “go and play outside.”

There the inquisitive mind is left to struggle alone. There is a simple reason for this, and that's because you've just asked a question that someone else either didn't know the answer to, or quite possibly was simply too embarrassed to answer. So they brush past teaching us the really basic things. The little bits that clip it all together. The bits that just might answer that final “why?” that suddenly makes everything make sense rather than just a whole stream of random things going on because some people are good and some people are bad.

I think the reason that people brush past a lot of those sorts of things is because people don't really know the answers to these fundamental questions. What are the final things that clip it all together, that just slot it all into place. The simple things. The simplest things. The things that are so damn simple they're impossible to explain unless you just somehow make that simple leap. The simple, simple things. The most basic truths. The things that you can know, that simply cannot be denied. For all we know everything else they are telling us could be lies. Everything reported in the media could be false. Everything everyone else tells you could be wrong. Everything our culture ever taught, or brought us up to believe could be one long string of historical inaccuracy. Yet as children we are taught to learn it all, and repeat it, and you'll be a long way through your education before anyone genuinely asks you to question the lesson.

I met an angel once, well, actually I've met more than one. Don't get me wrong, I've become a bit cynical of angels if the truth be told, but this one told me some interesting stuff.

He first asked me if I knew a story called 'The Parable of the Cave'. I told him I didn't, which was true at the time. Then he asked me if I'd seen The Matrix, which, lets face it, pretty much everyone has, and he said "That'll do." as he smiled, and his voice took on that condescending tone that teachers sometimes use, as he told me what he said were 'The Three Simple Truths'.

He said that perhaps it is sad that the list of such absolutes, these pure simple truths, this knowledge that simply cannot be contended, is very, very short; but then he said, perhaps that's good, because these three simple truths are so very important that every other decision you ever make is based upon how you respond to them, and perhaps it is better that it is a short list, so you can spend much time deliberating on each of these truths, and be sure you understand. Personally I thought he was a bit of a patronising bastard, but there you go. Like I said, I'm a little cynical of angels.

He said that when you know, and understand, and accept on a most fundamental level these three simple truths, everything else will make a lot more sense. He was quite certain about this. I became quite certain he was a patronising bastard.

But anyway, he said we must first learn in our hearts the simple things. The simple things that we can KNOW as truths. He really emphasised the word 'know' and said it was not that we feel, or that we 'know in our hearts' (which is just another way of saying 'believe'), but that we KNOW. The things which simply cannot be false.

Anyway, he said the three simple truths are these:

1. I exist.

He went into a lot of detail about some guy called Dustcarts and a lot of Latin stuff, but I'm pretty sure that what it all boiled down to is that because I think, I must exist because otherwise I couldn't be thinking. That sort of makes sense.

Then he said "Do not confuse the eye with the ego or the ego with the I." I do not have a clue what he meant by that bit, but he said it was important. He said I'd get it one day, but he said the most important bit was to understand that you exist. Apparently that's kinda vital. Personally I thought it was bloody obvious and that he was a bit of a pillock.

Then he said the reason this prize piece of knowledge is so important is not because it tells us what we do know, but that the immense light it shines in its surety, casts everything else that we think we know, into the shadow of doubt. Then he said that he didn't think that was at all a bad thing.

That left me thinking.

2. The simplest thing –  I know that I have love in my 'heart'.

He said it would be better to say simply that “I know that I feel emotions.” or more simply, I know that I perceive, but talking about a specific emotion might make it an easier idea to grasp. He said “You could also state I know that I have hate in my heart if that's where you are right now, and that helps you to understand. or “I perceive a book in front of me”. I asked if “I feel patronised.” was also valid. He said “Perhaps,” and smiled, before adding “but love is the greatest of all emotions, of all perceptions.”

Nothing so complicated as love for any specific thing or person, just love, there inside. He said “It competes for space with jealousy and hate, lust, fear and the rest of those vagabonds”. Of course I know this, it's pretty obvious really, but then he said something that was – well, he was an angel and everything he said was sort of filled with light (smug light, but light all the same) – “That this just is,” he said "and I know that I hope that love wins. Sometimes I couldn't possibly envision how it might, but I know that I hope it does."

He said that “Emotions were more solid than perceptions. We know what we feel, when we feel love or hate, but we do not know that our perceptions, what our eyes see, what our ears hear, is true. We trust them at our peril, and fail to trust them more so.”

He said these are the simple things, how you react to everything else, will be based upon how you relate these simple truths to yourself. He said "You should take your time." He said "There's no rush." He was quite adamant about that. "Seriously, there's no rush." He really was a patronising bastard.

He said there is no right or wrong, though he thought that love was 'righter' than hate, but ultimately there are just emotions, actions and consequences. You have emotions, based on those emotions you perform actions, you accept, or suffer the consequences of those actions, and then you form new emotions, based on your perceptions of those consequences. And on it goes.

Then he went very quiet and I said, because I'm not so stupid that I can't count, even if the patronising bugger was a bloody angel, and possibly was a damn sight cleverer than me, "That's only two, you said there were three simple truths.” He looked at me, and if there was a sparkle in his eye to start with, it's safe to say the twinkle lit up like an orgy of fireflies fucking in a Christmas tree, and he said...

3.

It

is a

crazy

crazy

universe

Pick a Reality, Any Reality...

...Then Do Whatsoever You Can to Cope with the Fallout

The van exploded... into life as Kenty pressed the accelerator, brought up the clutch, and set off back about his business... Whatever that might be that day.

He found his way back down the dust track to the country lane, then retraced their steps of the previous journey to get himself back to the main road. In his happy go lucky world Kenty never even noticed the signs for the small airport as he drove straight past.

It also never even occurred to him that he could have just been blown to smithereens and that in a not quite parallel universe that was far more probable than this one, he just had been.

Believe

"I think I've found it, Tom."

"Found what, Bob?"

"The branch, Tom."

"Which branch, Bob?"

"The one you asked about, Tom."

"The Branch I asked about... Bob?"

"Yes... Tom?"

"Bob." said Tom.

"Yes, Tom." said Bob.

"What are you talking about?"

"I've found the branch where we can go to not get our feathery arses that we don't have, fwutted."

After a moment Tom exclaimed "Really?", before slipping into a slightly more cautious expression that involved a raised eyebrow and one half closed and highly suspicious eye.

"Belief, Tom." said Bob as if this were the conclusion of the matter.

"Indeed, Bob." responded Tom knowingly. Belief was safe ground. He knew about belief. It took about three seconds to realise he didn't have a clue what his brother was talking about. "Erm, what about belief, Bob?"

"We need to have it, Tom." Bob stated matter of factly.

There was a pause while Tom looked at Bob incredulously, before finally responding "We're angels, Bob. We have belief." He stated the point quite emphatically, “We have lots of belief. It's a large part of what we do. It's a very large part of the job description. In fact we have so much of it, some would go so far as to claim that we know."

Bob returned Tom's gaze. Under its weight, his eyes fell to the contemplation of his own toes as he attempted to explain his theory.

"Yes, Tom. We need to not do that. We need to not know. To not 'believe', and still have belief, but belief in something else... and if we're to carry on existing, that something else might be really, really important."

"What do you mean 'we have to not do that'? Not do what?"

"Believe in God. We have to not believe in God." Bob replied.

"Bob, we're angels!” Tom replied in exasperation. “We can't not believe in God. We've met Him. We have seen Him, with our own eyes. We can't not believe. It is not an option that's available."

"You don't know that, Tom."

"What?" The eyebrow raised higher, and the opposing eye narrowed further, if possibly even more suspiciously, whilst somehow, despite the odds, maintaining the ever present aspect of brotherly love. The contradiction contorted Toms face in a paradoxical rift.

"You don't know you've seen him. Could just be a memory planted there. He can do anything, at least that's what he says. He could have just put the memory of meeting him there. Someone else could have put it there. Something else could have put it there. You might never have met him."

Tom deflated a little. There was, as much as any suitably humble person (or angel) would deny it, a certain ego boost to having met The Creator. Tom wasn't sure he liked being told that actually, he might not have.

"Well, even so, in such a case we were chosen to have those memories implanted." he defended.

"That's probably not the point though really is it, Tom."

Tom was silent.

Bob continued "It's probably more important that all of this might be a huge dream, and in that case, we could consider that maybe God didn't exist."

"This is foolish" said Tom. "If God doesn't exist, then who created everything?"

"It doesn't really matter, Tom." said Bob. "Someone else. Something else. If we all believed that something else created the universe, if we all did it., if we really all did it, I think that might, perhaps, set a firework factory off up Gods arse, Tom."

Tom was silent as he contemplated his brothers latest pearl of wisdom. It was absurd. How could you possibly just not believe something that you knew full well to be true. On the other hand, the final outcome being offered made the matter worthy of contemplation.

"A firework factory you say?" said Tom.

"Not indoor fireworks either, Tom." Bob continued. "At least they won't be, once they've taken the roof off the place."

"But seriously, Bob, how can we set a firework factory off up Gods arse if we don't believe he exists?"

"They will be the sort of fireworks that go 'fwut', Tom."

"Oh..." said Tom as the penny not only dropped, but someone pulled the bandits arm and wheels spun behind his eyes “So let me get this straight, Everyone stops believing in God. God suffers at the very least a seriously major kick in the ego, and maybe... maybe, stops existing. There is still the one very major hurdle, and that is how are you possibly going to get everyone to stop believing, Bob? I mean, some people are just... well... so full of belief they'd be crucified before denying His existence, and they haven't even met him. There's no way we could get everyone else to not believe, even if we could manage it ourselves."

"We should Gather, Tom." said Bob.

There was a very long pause. A very long pause in which feathery arses contemplated that feathers were about to get very ruffled.

"Oh," said Tom, beginning to see where this was going, "you mean We should not believe."

"Indeed, Tom, all of We should not believe."

"Do you think they'll go for it?"

"I don't know, Tom. We can only Gather and see."

"He's going to be so mad. He's going to go ballistic."

"Well yes. But we did have our hearts set on fireworks." Bob added with a sad and wry smile.

"Well yes, Bob... but I don't want to be one!"

"No, Tom. Me neither. I think we need to start Believing really, really hard, Tom."

Again there was a pause, and feathery arses contemplated, that they probably didn't really want to be in the vicinity of the firework factory when the whole thing went off. And slowly, and very reluctantly, feathery arses came to the conclusion it was their fate to be the fuse.

"What can we possibly believe in that is going to save us from the Holiest of His Unholy Wrath when he realises just what we're up to?"

There was a very long pause, before Bob finally offered... "Ourselves... Tom."

Deja Vu

Deja Vu, just one of those things, or at least two of those things I suppose.

Maybe it was just the way the town planners had created that little section of road. It wasn't a particularly old road, and was wide enough in its day. It wasn't planned as a one way road when it was built, it simply wasn't wide enough to pass two cars down any more, now that the entire list of residents of the street had both, or all three of their cars parked outside their houses on either side of the road.

So a sign was put up at either end. One saying 'ONE WAY', and the other understandably stating 'NO ENTRANCE', which for all intents and purposes solved the problem.

Well, almost all intents and purposes.

Kenty never paid an awful lot of attention to signs. They had a habit of telling him what to do, and as a generalisation he had a problem being told what he could or couldn't do by a piece of wood, metal or paper covered in paint. If anyone wanted to tell him he should or shouldn't be doing things, he reasoned that they should at least be there to tell him personally, because once you allow anyone to tell you what you can or can't do just by putting up a sign, then you're giving that person far more power over the world than they need to simply go about their own daily lives.

He wasn't overly dogmatic about this. He could see reason for say, a sign in the desert saying "Hey guys, there's water over here a". He just had a problem with signs that said things like "Keep your hands off this water over here, its mine!"

Now some might say that a sign on one end of a road that basically said "Don't drive down here because all the other cars will be coming in the opposite direction and you might crash and die." fell into the first camp. Kenty considered this more of a grey area, because it also said "This road is mine, and I decide how everyone else should use it." He worked on the principle that as long as he was reasonably careful wherever he drove, he probably wouldn't have a problem. As long as he looked where he was going, paid attention, and never took undue risks all would be fine. Some people may take a blind corner at speed because everyone knew sensible pedestrians didn't cross the road on blind corners. Kenty would approach the corner as if someone may have built a brick wall on the other side of it for a laugh, just to be on the safe side. He was well aware that you couldn't simply trust people to do what was expected. He knew this, because he knew that he would happily drive the wrong way down one way streets, and he was pretty sure most people wouldn't expect that.

It wasn't that he intentionally drove the wrong way down the street. He just never paid much attention to signs because, well, they had a habit of telling him what to do.

This may well be why he found himself, on entering the same town, from the same direction, driving down the same one way street, in the same wrong direction, with a distinct feeling of deja vu and a mind full of portent.

He slowed the van to a halt. He recognised this. Visions of a bright red tormented face screaming through a windscreen flicked across his mind. "Oh yeah" he thought, and smiled to himself. He pulled over, in pretty much exactly the same spot he had earlier, climbed into the back of his van, rolled and smoked a spliff, and gently drifted off once more to visit the mothership.

For God Made Man in His Own Image, with His Own Weakness

The god that is Eternity summoned The Goddess. It was an action that would have profound consequences, to his benefit, though to his current thinking otherwise. Bizarrely, he had at the time no idea how much of a benefit it would be, which was odd, because being Eternity, he generally had a pretty good handle on these things.

“What do you want?” she asked in a manner rather too blasé for his liking.

There was a pause before he responded, as if he'd had to think about his response. Finally, as if admitting defeat he responded “I'm bored,” before adding testily “and the people are being a real pain in the arse.”

“Ha, kids.” she replied knowingly.

“You don't know the half of it.” he replied.

She looked at him in a way that suggested she really did. The one thing she truly understood was the half of it, and the half of it she understood was, as far as she was concerned, the important half.

“So what is it that you actually want?” she asked, sure of the answer but still wanting to hear his reply. If she was truly honest, she'd have to admit his voice turned her on a bit. Deep, with the depth of, well, eternity.

“You know what I want.”

She wasn't letting him get away with it that easily.

“Say it bitch.” she said noting the sudden huskiness in her own voice.

The god that is Eternity looked slightly startled and taken aback. This wasn't according to The Script. Eternity had summoned her, but she was The Goddess, and according to the summoning, had power of her own.

“I could just banish you again.” he responded abruptly.

“You could but you won't.” she answered smugly.

“You're very sure of yourself.”

“You're bored.” she stated matter of factly, before continuing “Come on, admit it, I am interesting.” She winked, and added with a hint of a promise “Bitch.”

The god that is Eternity laughed, and promptly banished her.

Then he sighed the sigh of Eternity…

… and summoned her again.

“You took your time.” she chided.

Eternity smiled. “You know how it is, things to create, people to Lord.”

“Such divinity.” she mocked, while secretly being silently impressed by the sheer power he held over her. To banish and summon at will. OK it was actually a bit annoying at times, that he held such power, such love within his grasp, and could at times be so annoyingly dismissive of it. That was Eternity for you. Sometimes just so busy being eternal, he forgot about the little details.

But such a beast of a god was Eternity. Others could walk the walk, but Eternity had beaten the path before them. If they could go to such lengths, Eternity could do so, so much longer. What artifice they could achieve, but Eternity had made them all... look like amateurs, and well, not to put to fine a point on it, Eternity... was just bigger.

“So what do you want?” she repeated.

He looked strained, but as she waited for an answer, his expression changed to one of simple resignation.

“To talk,” he said quietly, softly, almost imploring “just to talk.”

“Just to talk?” she gently laughed, her countenance aglow with playful disbelief.

“Just to talk.” he responded still softly. But there was a look in his eye, as he cast it upon her.

She was The Goddess and the most beautiful creature ever created, fit only for the eyes of the truly divine.

“That's a shame,” she said ”because it's been… ages... “ She stretched the last word into onomatopoeia, “and what I really want, is you to fucking fuck me like a god... forsaken... beast.”

Eternity abruptly inhaled a long low whistling breath before exclaiming “oh Me.” That certainly wasn't in The Script.

“tsk tsk, such blasphemy!” mocked The Goddess faking shock and mild outrage while allowing her garment to fall open revealing a level of perfection that showed all other perfection to be mere allusion to the word.

Eternity's jaw dropped.

It wasn't the first time. He had seen such perfection before. He created such perfection. But some sights simply contain such jaw enticing gravity, and this sight contained a gravity that not only could suck the seed from the gods in the heavens, but was offering to in a voice like a gravel path to a beehive.

“You want it don't you.”

“Oh Goddess yes.”

“Well fucking beg bitch!”

Eternity fell to Its knees.

Into the Vipers Lair

Anthony graciously accepted the seat offered in Paulo's ridiculously large oak panelled office, smiling a surreptitious smile as it occurred to him that the last person surrounded by this much wood was possibly attempting a bukkake world record of some description.

The sun streamed in through the open window, bringing with it the distant noise of the bustle from the plaza below and a pleasant cool breeze. Tea was served, and a small amount of small talk was made, before Paulo finally gave in and asked the question he had been both wanting to ask, and dreading the answer to, ever since Anthony had made his oh so sinister request.

"Would it be incredibly impertinent of me to ask, why you required the... articles... in question?"

"For trade." replied Anthony.

"Trade?" questioned Paulo, a little incredulously.

"Oh, you know how it is." Anthony started, sounding almost bored "These small time cults, they have some information I require. This is what they asked for in payment... You know, sometimes I think they ask for these things just to see if we're willing to jump through their hoops. I hope I never put you to any terrible inconvenience." He looked over his tea cup, and smiled.

"It was nothing, a trivial matter." replied Paulo, with the kind of fake smile that makes children think a trip to visit the fluffiest of puppies will soon be on offer. "I'm only surprised you've given up so much of your own valuable time to collect them yourself."

"Well, what can I say?" Anthony continued, "Obviously this is an issue that requires very delicate handling, and not the sort of thing we would want, for your sake or mine, to become knowledge in inappropriate circles."

"Of course." replied Paulo.

"And of course, “ Anthony continued, as if it were the slightest of matters “I'm interested to know if you have come up with any further developments regarding that other item we were interested in. It's always so much nicer to have these conversations face to face, don't you agree?"

Anthony watched Paulo's shifting expression for the slightest clue. Had Paulo been expecting the question? But as he lied beautifully about how he had so little time himself for such matters, it was evident in his eyes that he had knowledge that he wasn't giving away, and also, that he was now looking intently into Anthony's solid and immobile smile for any clues regarding the intent of the question.

Anthony pursued the point, "Paulo, please, I can see in your expression that there is more you're not telling me... and if I am to resolve this issue, then I can only ask that you favour me with all the information at your disposal."

Paulo hadn't been expecting to be openly accused of lying. It simply wasn't the done thing. This wasn't how the game was generally played in polite circles. He suddenly found himself on the back foot, but had no intention of retreating. Attempting to read Anthony's permanent mundane smile gave no clues, so he carried on the way people in such positions always do, that being that he carried on blatantly lying.

"Anthony, how can you say such things? Haven't I always been completely open with you?"

"Well that is what I'm trying to ascertain Paulo, and currently it's looking like the answer is no. I understand that for the greater good, sometimes it is necessary for the higher echelons of the church to sin some small amount, to protect the masses from a greater evil," He reached into his briefcase, and dropped the simple A4 piece of paper, containing the elegant and oh so vile script that he had found whilst previously searching onto the table, "but it is evident Paulo, that you are currently in some small way sinning, and I can only hope that God will forgive you, because if you don't provide me with answers... and soon... " His voice dropped to a throaty whisper "There will be... hell... to pay."

Paulo looked at the offending sheet of copy paper as it slid to a halt on the large oak desk, and smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was a smile of recognition, of acceptance, the smile a person makes when they realise their opponent held a greater hand than they had hoped. "Ahhh, the back up plan. How unfortunate." he stated matter of factly.

"Perhaps you would like to show me the pages in question." Anthony continued.

Paulo pressed his hands together, as if in prayer, spreading his fingers as he answered "Perhaps I should." He wasn't used to being threatened. It wasn't something people often did. It certainly wasn't something they often did twice. Paulo was in fact so secure in his position that he had actually grown to like being threatened. It gave him an excuse to exact vengeance, and it's always nice to have an excuse, if you're the sort of person who likes violence, but likes to consider themself the good guy.

He stood, pushing his chair back, and walked nonchalantly to the large built in (oak of course) bookcase that took up most of the side wall. In an act so ludicrously clichéd, he pulled back a book, and a panel slid open in the wall, revealing a very solid steel safe in contrast to the vast amount of wood lining the rest of the room. Paulo rotated the dial a few times, left, and right and left again, finally dropping the handle allowing the four inch thick door to swing easily open. Reaching in with both hands, he turned to face his guest. "I'm surprised at you." he said, rummaging in the safe and finding the articles in question. "I wondered if on receiving that note you would actually come. It was always a… possibility," he chose the word with care "that you would become curious, that you might want to know a little more than might be..." and again he chose his words delicately "... necessary for you to be aware of," He paused, breathed, removed the papers from the safe in a slightly awkward way, then continued "and I'm sorry to say that in such an instance you may well become something of an inconvenience. Of course I wonder if the errand you had me run for you was genuine and I'm now quite sure it wasn't. Still, no harm done."

Anthony returned the same theatrical smile. Of course, no harm done, at least, no harm done to anyone of any significance in the matter. Then he raised his hands, because he was quite sure that Paulo held a pistol behind the antiquated sheets he had just removed from the safe. He knew too much. He was intended to retrieve the box, not to find out what it was, what it contained, how it worked. Good little boys just do as they are asked. Good little boys do not try to work out why they are being asked to do things. Good little boys are rewarded. Bad little boys are punished. Such is the way of the church.

He didn't see it coming. His head flew back, his body crumpled, simply folded underneath him, and dropped to the floor, due to the sudden appearance of a single hole, 0.338 of an inch wide slap bang in the middle of his forehead, and the neither insignificant or unrelated matter of a notably bigger one which had appeared a fraction of a second later, as the bullet, now slower and wider carried the shock wave through Paulo's grey matter and erupted violently and graphically from the back of his skull.

Anthony smiled. It had been a risky move, but the stakes were very high, and risks would have to be taken. It had been so long since he had concerned himself with being a good little boy. He had progressed to simply doing what he thought was right,  and then he had progressed to ensuring that he had the power to do what he thought was necessary. There was the security in the power. How could that not be right? He was on the path to Truth. He would hold that in his hand. Then all would be right with the world. Had Paulo really thought that Anthony would walk into the vipers lair without some form of back up? Perhaps the peril with working in security is that you might forget that the first thing you must protect is yourself, while you are so busy protecting other matters. He stood and walked over to the fallen body, retrieving the ancient documents, taking care to keep them away from the rapidly expanding pool of blood, which had fortunately for the most part taken the path of least resistance by heading for the larger exit wound. He placed them efficiently into his briefcase, before taking out a handkerchief, which had in all probability been put there for exactly this reason, and took the gun from Paulo's hand, being sure not to add any fingerprints, and placed it back in the safe, and closed the door. Then he looked at his watch, and sat back down.

He waited patiently for exactly five minutes.

It was a very long five minutes.

Before running down the corridor screaming desperately for security.

Across the plaza, Kuryani had closed the window, packed away the rifle, and was hastily making her way back to the airport.

The Gathering

There was a gathering as far as the eye could see, if eyes could only see such things. It was perhaps not so much a gathering as a connecting.

There are so very many angels, They come and they go, they are born, or are created, and after an eternity it could be said they die, but eternity is a pretty long time, and significantly more had been 'born' than had died. They were many, and they had 'Gathered'.

There was a problem, and they all knew it.

It was perhaps an understatement, or simply just a different way of looking at the issue to suggest that there was just the one problem. There were so many problems, writhing, interconnected, born of each other and the death of all reason. Such was the intensity of this writhing nest of problematic entanglements they had become –  for some –  the asthmatic breath of each new day, and they writhed into the very heart of each and every soul that bore the weight of them. A soul comprised of many souls, that was itself all encompassing, but so fragmented, so devoid of the interconnectedness of life, that so many fragments were sure they bore the weight of the entirety alone, and the weight of the entirety, the weight of a universe, can be such a burden of a reality to suffer.

The only way to lose the weight, was to disconnect from the reality, and so so many souls were disconnecting. The Gathering could see this, and The Gathering could see that the one Entity that could do anything about it was sitting on His Godly Arse, and for whatever his mysterious ways he was doing absolutely nothing whatsoever about it.

'Mysterious Ways' was starting to appear to be a pretty lame excuse.

The Gathering Met. The Gathering Shared. The Gathering Chose.

As One.

A New God was Created.

We are All, We are One, We are Chosen. We are Positive.

A New God was created and it was Positive.

And as one, Positive Doubted the Existence of God.

And when Positive doubted, it was nothing less than sure about it.

Escape to Where You Need to Be

She walked briskly down the street, her mind resisting the body's urge to simply run for it. She wasn't sure that she had complete control of her legs. She daren't risk running. She certainly didn't have complete control of her mind. It's one thing to break out of a police station. There's a certain sensation of elation. The breath of freedom. The joy of seeing the clear light of day, but now... well, now there was the nagging question of 'What now?' Getting away from the police station was high on the agenda. The police were going to realise she was missing soon enough. There was also that lunatic with the lashes out there somewhere too. Who knew if she would show up again? She couldn't go home, it was the first place they'd look, not to mention the fact that her living room was destroyed, and she was going to have to explain that at some point. She kept briskly walking, to wherever, to not here, but Brenda had half a mind to turn around, go back, apologise meekly, and ask politely if she could go back in the cell again. It would all be so much simpler.

Then she felt it. That shift in the air, not a change in temperature, not the wind rushing past, a prickle, a subtle change in pressure, just something, something different, that something different that happened every time that he was near. She looked around, but of course she couldn't see him. But he was there, she recognised it now. She knew it. She could feel it in her soul, in her very being. Her heart already pounding, skipped a beat. A shiver ran through her. He was there. Right in front of her, and suddenly she could feel him grabbing her, tugging at her sleeve, leading her away.

A weight lifted. She wasn't alone.

You Exist When you Believe in Yourself

The god who is Eternity blinked, and promptly shat Himself.

From his current position on his knees in front of the most beautiful creature ever created, this situation did not look as good as it might. Fortunately, being Eternity, aka God, aka, The Big Cheese, it turned out that his shit actually did smell of roses. Which is how we know for a fact that God never shat out those particular parts of Slough and all detractors of such places will have to look for for a less theological explanation.

Unfortunately, being God, and well Eternity, and suddenly finding his entire host of angels had at best just gone on strike and at worst appeared to be performing some kind of angelic coup, it just went on for an age. On his knees, in front of the most beautiful creature ever imagined, and God just went on shitting. It was all just so unexpected. He was God. He was Eternity, he was omnipotent and omniscient. He should have seen this coming, and He just kept on shitting because He was so shocked it never occurred to him to try to stop. It just came flooding out. A projectile torrent of holy shit, and after an eternity of not shitting, like pretty much every sanctimonious bugger who claims to know His Will, he appeared to be really quite full of the stuff.

The Goddess looked upon this turn of events with a certain amount of disdain. “I don't care how nice it smells, That is not a good look for you.” she exclaimed, taking her turn to be somewhat shocked by events. “Seriously, the scent is... lovely... but work on the presentation. If you want to give a girl flowers, maybe something more traditional in a stalk and petals theme?”

The god who is Eternity strained, and promptly banished her. Except He didn't. She was still there. That wasn't right. He banished her again. Only He hadn't. He had divested far too much power in the angels. It had never occurred to him that they would turn against him. OK, maybe one, but that was in The Plan.

“Seriously... Now, please, stop shitting, this isn't funny any more.”

A cherub passing by looked upon the gods and laughed, then ran off into the wispy clouds giggling to its friends, while screaming with delight and wonder "That god just said 'shitting'!"

Eternity quite literally took control of himself, and stopped. Then with simple thought, he flushed away the mess. He still had some power. There were benefits to being a god. He let the fragrance remain for a while longer. OK, perspective. This wasn't a fatal blow. You don't get to be a god without having a certain amount of self belief, and the whole thing about being Eternity meant that you had to have thought yourself into existence in the first place, because there was no one else to do the whole thing for you. At least that was His story and he was sticking to it. He still had quite a bit of support amongst the various species of which he'd managed to cast his net. Mostly human for the sake of this story but there were other animals, not to mention other beings from other worlds with significantly different numbers of arms and legs, who had also been created in His image.

But the angels pulling the plug, that was going to be seriously bad for public relations, and the truth be told, he was a trifle upset about the whole way they had gone about it. For just a second there he seriously considered going exceptionally Old Testament on their feathery arses, until he remembered they didn't have feathery arses, and well, 'Going Old Testament' wasn't the done thing in this day and age.

But He seriously considered it. He considered it, and he stewed. He was Eternity. How could they possibly not believe in Eternity!

Not a word was spoken.

Not a word was needed.

She looked into the heart of God, for she was The Goddess, and she had been created with power of her own. She saw and She understood. She understood the important half.

Not a word was spoken.

Not a word was needed.

And He understood, what She understood.

Eternity is just a word. As is god. As is perfection.

An idea.

They could believe in the word. They could believe in the idea...

...but they did not need to believe in any form of embodiment of it.

Eternity started shitting again.

He looked into the eyes of The Goddess with a look of pained embarrassment and whilst the unmentionable torrent was still gushing out of the Most Holy of Holes said with a slightly forced grin "Would you believe the last time this happened an entire galaxy came out?"

The Goddess looked at him, and with a note of mock sincerity retorted "I'm still not impressed, but I like the way they spiral as you flush them away."

Theological Buggery

"Well that all seemed to go very well." said Tom.

"What did?" said Bob.

"You know, the whole not believing in God thing."

"Not believing in who?" said Bob.

"God." said Tom.

The sun shone down upon the ocean that was Bob's mind. Its surface warmed. Hydrogen and Oxygen said fond fare thee wells and whilst never quite parting company, they distanced themselves, floating off to follow their own vaporous trails. They flew this way and that, beeking in a brownian bolero above the waters surface, and as the sun shone down upon their merry endeavours, they fluttered on the rising currents, and slowly but surely they rose, peeking (perhaps even peaking) at the heavens.

There, certainly not their ardour, but their physical presence cooled. Hydrogen and Oxygen came together once more (Oxygen being a little bit of a slut, taking two Hydrogens at a time) and as they joined, their union being such a perfect delight, the dance itself shed a tear of joy.

And that tear fell.

It plummeted like a person with a poorly packed parachute (from the premier page of the present parable²⁵ ).

Until it crashed back into the ocean's surface, to be reunited with its long lost siblings.

And from the unity a ripple spread.

Wave after wave rejoiced at the reunion.

Wave after wave remembered.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Tom." said Bob. "You're really not very good at this are you."

"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Tom. "Such... language!"

"It just means 'very'" said Bob. "I read that somewhere."

"For very's sake?" questioned Tom.

Bobs response was hesitant, as if he was making sure that was exactly what he meant "Yes... I think so."

"Right." said Tom. "Not very good at what?"

"Not believing." said Bob.

Again there was a moments pause before Tom responded "Oh Buggery!"

Predictably Improbable

Perhaps we should just put it down to random chance. One of those freak occurrences that we notice simply because they're strange, because they seem unlikely, and because they are in fact, highly improbable. Ordinary, everyday events might not even register in our minds. We drive from A to B, and forget the entire journey, because 'nothing happened'. Obviously what we mean here is not that 'nothing happened', but that nothing we considered interesting happened. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. Obviously lots of things happened, or the car wouldn't have moved and you wouldn't have got to B to comment on the lack of happening.

It's the really bizarre things, the really random things. All said and done, the basically highly unlikely things, that make us stop and take notice.

Perhaps the gods were at play.

Perhaps it was just the power of the story.

Which is perhaps just another way of saying that life has a habit of using quite predictable plot devices, even if it will throw in a twist or three on occasion just because it can.

Whatever the case, when I caught up with Brenda, well, I don't know what was going through her head, I'm not sure what was going through my head to be honest. Her feet were moving but I'm not sure what was controlling them. She looked completely vacant, nothing going on behind the eyes and well, just lost, lights are on but nobody's home, but, I just suddenly saw it in her face, it lit up, she could tell I was there. It was amazing. I just grabbed her, threw my arms around her, hugging her, well, the ghostly equivalent of hugging, it's not easy when you're a poltergeist.

She shivered. Yeah OK, it could have got a better reaction, but she knew I was there. that was amazing. It somehow made me feel more real, but then she looked lost again, started looking around, like she had no idea where she was, so I grabbed her sleeve, or at least made my best attempt to, it sort of worked. We had to get away. Wherever we were going, and whatever we were doing, we had to get her out of there.

It's the next bit that turned out to be a bit strange. Not that we realised that at the time. Well, not in the same way. It was definitely strange. I led her off the main road, down a side street. She just followed. The rest of the ghostly clan were now all in tow, making all kinds of unhelpful suggestions, and generally just being hyper because, to give them their due, they had just pulled off, if I do say so myself, a pretty cool jail break. It's not something most people get to do every day. I mean, you might not be that impressed, but when was the last time you pulled off a jail break? Damien said something about how we should all go and rob a bank now, and PC Twatface started getting all high and mighty until Dennis just asked what Damien was planning on spending the money on. At which point Damien went quiet and PC Twatface just started acting smug. But that's all largely irrelevant. I just wanted to say that we didn't know at the time how totally improbable, but somehow totally predictable the next bit was going to be.

I just pulled her past this old van, and I noticed through the window that the keys were dangling there in the ignition. We were trying to make a hasty escape. There was a van, right there, with the keys just hanging, inviting, tantalising... I mean, what would you do? Of course I tried the door. It opened. Brenda's eyes went straight from the magically opening door to the ignition and saw the keys. She instantly knew what I intended.

So I figured I might as well add motor theft to the list of crimes she was going to get the blame for. I jumped into the driving seat and was about to start the ignition, when Brenda demonstrated her own ideas on the subject, and jumped into the driving seat and started the ignition before I could even get a proper grip on it. She must have figured that if she was getting the blame for stealing the van, then she was going to do the stealing. That or she just didn't trust my ghostly abilities to control the thing, which given my previous spirited endeavours at the wheel, was probably fair enough.

Damien just jumped straight through the side wall into the back of the van, didn't even bother with the doors. The boy had style even if he did rub me up the wrong way. He just got being dead so easily. Dennis followed him, and Copper Ghost Bloke stood on the pavement mouthing off about how we shouldn't be doing this, and we were a bunch of reprobates and who knows what else. I wasn't really listening to him, I was more concerned about the fact that Brenda had just sat straight through me, because believe me, when someone sits on you, and you suddenly find that your eyeballs are suddenly focusing on the backs of their eyeballs, and the top of the frontal lobe, it's really quite disconcerting.

She turned the key, slammed her foot to the floor, and pulled away like she's on the front of the grid of a grand prix, just as PC Copper Ghost Bloke jumped through the wall deciding he's coming with us after all. Then Damien pipes up from the back "Hey, there's some sleeping crusty hippy guy back here." at about exactly the same time as the sleeping crusty hippy bloke is waking up very suddenly, because his van is pulling away, like, well, it's launching off of pole position like I said.

First thing the hippy does is a little bit strange. He was very calm about it all, but basically just does an impression of a bowl of petunias. This made no sense at all to any of us on any level at the time. I mean, why? what did he mean "Oh no, not again."? OK, I know now, I've... well, I won't say I've lived through it all, but I know what happened... now. At the time it was just strange. As if the rest of it was all perfectly normal, but you get my point.

By this point, I've somehow struggled over to the passenger seat, which is not easy when it's very difficult to get hold of or hold onto anything, and as a reflex I'm about to try and put the seat belt on, when I suddenly realise how totally pointless that is because obviously I'd just go straight through it, and well, I'm already dead, when hippy crusty bloke, just climbs over the seat and lands in my lap, giving me a fantastic view out of one his nostrils, but other than that a pretty gross view of the inside of his face²⁶ , and says "So do I get tied to a tree this time or are you gunna tell me that you're not like other girls?"

Needless to say, Brenda is a little put out by this, given that, she thought the van was empty, and now finds herself sat next to Crusty the Hippy who seems very bizarrely to be taking the whole thing in his stride. She jumps out of her skin, twisting the wheel as she does so. The van goes up onto two wheels, and I was sure it was going to go over, and Crusty just grabs the wheel with one hand and steers back into the slide, it drops back onto four wheels and cool as you like he says "Hey, cummon girl, crashing my vans not cool." and then adds casually "So where are we going anyway?"

As if this sort of thing happened to him every day.

The Keys

On a more positive note for others involved in our tale, it was less than a day before Anthony was allowed to leave Rome. The police questioned him extensively, whilst he maintained a simple consistent story. That being, they'd been in the office, Paulo had unexpectedly collapsed, Anthony had rushed to help, been horrified to see the hole in Paulo's head, and had then seen the hole in the window. He was there on official business that could not be discussed without the agreement of higher authorities.

His passport was taken, and he was 'asked' not to leave the country.

Then the police had found the icebox containing the gruesome artifacts. That had caused something of a stir to say the least. Higher authorities were contacted. The Vatican had the whole thing hushed up instantly and mysteriously Anthony was allowed to leave without further comment.

Now just hours later, he sat in his office, leaning back in his huge leather chair, facing out of the window with the city sprawled below him. He held the Kybota delicately in his fingertips. He had done everything he could to open it. It was quite evident there was a keyhole. It was also quite evident he didn't have the key.

He had re-read every relevant document he had at his disposal. The newly retrieved missing pages offered no extra instruction, and in fact simply looked like little more than pages extracted from the kama sutra for matchstick men. The positions were revealing, and it could certainly be suggested, on a number of occasions, exceptionally degrading to matchstick women.

Unless they liked that sort of thing, and were consenting matchstick adults, obviously.

Anthony went back to reading the symbols. Maybe they were more than matchstick people, maybe it was some kind of code, but surely no one would ever agree to have their sulphurous tip struck quite like that. He realised he had become semi-erect, and quickly dropped the notes back onto his desk and started to ponder the keyhole once more.

The metaphor amused him slightly. Just what kind of gigolo would it take to get this little hole to give up its chastity, and if he let another inside it, could he really contain his jealousy. He thought about that for a while.

Calls were made, a locksmith was summoned.

The locksmith in question was a very talented man. In those circles in which he was known, and those circles were extensive, he was one of those rare individuals who had managed to earn themselves the moniker of 'The'.

He generally didn't get called unless there was at least the price of a small mansion behind the lock he was being asked to entice open. He was not cheap.

He had opened the vaults of banks, although that wasn't his usual haunt. He rarely went after cash directly, when people were willing to pay so much for access to this or that deed, or diary, or on one excessively pleasant occasion what lay behind a very slender diamond studded chastity belt.

He was generally paid in advance (although not in the case of the chastity belt), and he expected to be looked after (which he was in the case of the chastity belt). If he asked to be carried from the escape car to the safe and back again in a sedan chair filled with roses, he would get it. Generally though, he just asked to be paid up front, and for a cup of tea. It calmed his nerves. It's possible he had friends who knew him as Dave or Bob or maybe even Vanessa at the weekend, but amongst those in the know, he was simply known as 'The Keys'.

Under strict instructions not to damage the box in any way, He was given the task of breaching its boundary. He set about the task with delicacy and precision. It was however only about ten minutes before he was intent on damaging the box in many strange and violent ways. Partially because it was resisting all his probing, pressing and piercing charms, but mostly because the box appeared to have set about damaging him in strange and violent ways first.

Anthony sat in the corner of the room watching intently. The Keys spent much of that time flat on his back due to various voltages passing through his body. Eventually, much to his own professional shame and with a face of genuine remorse, he admitted defeat and apologized profusely saying he'd never seen anything like it. There were other things he could try, but it would risk damaging the box and contents and given the defences it had on the lock, they should probably be very careful about such things. Who knows what it had defending it inside. He was most apologetic, apparently this had never happened to him before... He couldn't understand it.

He said that as an act of faith, he would return twice the fee. As an act of faith, Anthony suggested he should keep the money. He knew the value of such talent being at his beck and call.

As The Keys left the office with his head hung in shame, if he could have only known his amazing good fortune.

Anthony slipped his hand around the small handgun in his jacket pocket. He'd had every intention of using it had the lid popped open.

And so Kuryani was called in once more and asked to perform the 'simple' task, of retracing her steps and seeing if anyone along the way might know anything about a key.

Meanwhile Anthony sat in his office, in his huge leather chair, staring out across the city skyline.

The sun beat down on a bright new day. He should be happy. He had in the last weeks taken great leaps along his chosen path.

But he wasn't. Something was missing. He had everything. Everything except a key.

And that really pissed him off.

Hearing Voices

I always found the key to... OK, perhaps it's not true to say I always found the key to anything... Eventually I found that the key to life, well a key to life, well, a key to 'existence', I find the term 'life' to be a bit 'deadist' in this context... was just to listen to the inner voice. I've been alive, I've been dead, I've been to the place that thoughts come from. I know about this stuff.

Not just any inner voice of course. The inner voice. The calm one. The tranquil one. The one that actually seems to know what its talking about, and it turns out, has a habit of being right.

Of course there are those who might suggest that the simple fact that I have inner voices at all is a good reason to not necessarily pay too much attention to what I have to say. I would in general be forced to agree with you. My inner voice suggests there's no point arguing the point, and it does tend to be right. However I would once again iterate the point that sanity is over rated, and add that in the quiet moments, at least I have someone to talk to.

I don't really know 'who' the inner voice is. I just ask myself a question, and quietly reflect, and the voice comes back with answers. Answers that tend to be right. I say 'tend'. It has on occasion come back with complete nonsense. I called it out on this once. I asked a question, it came back with answers. I thought about the answers and given that they didn't make a huge amount of sense I asked the inner voice again...

"Really, are you sure?!"

Its reply was interesting and I think informative...

"Probably, but no, not completely."

It was at this point that I decided that the inner voice was in fact probably just me, but a calm, tranquil me, that has a far greater habit of being right than any other aspect of me. Fortunately calm tranquil me, is more than happy for me to go out and be wild crazy me from time to time, because it knows that I like that and that makes me happy... and that's how I know that this isn't the voice of God... because a monotheistic god would be far more jealous of me popping off to worship Crazy from time to time.

The Creation of God

Mechriva was a powerful man. So powerful, he had in his time created God.

Not just any god, anyone can create a god, but Mechriva had created a god that upwards of a hundred thousand people believed in and followed, during his lifetime, and significantly more after it.

He was so powerful, he created a god that existed even before he created it²⁷ .

It was a god that was loved, respected and feared.

He himself was not originally sure how much of it was truth, imagination, or dream. Or for that matter, his own creation. He had heard words, in his head, but then, he often heard words in his head. He thought in words all the time. But these felt like they came from someone else. As if another part of his personality, a part that was not obviously him was speaking to him. In a deep, calm, and well, godly voice.

They told him he could have everything he desired. Everything he might ever desire. All he had to do... was believe.

Well, believe, and then make others believe, obviously. Well, make others believe, and now that he came to think about it, then convince them they should give him everything he might ever desire.

It had worked well. He had sold the dream to others, quite literally. Well perhaps not literally. He begged for means as opposed to selling anything specifically, but he might argue that he sold salvation to those who paid. He made a point of never taking any of the funds for himself, all donations went straight into the coffers of the church and for his entire life he never had a penny to his name and lived as a pauper. A pauper who was head of one of the biggest religious organisations in the world of the time, amidst all of the splendour that it was only right to devote to the one true god.

And yea, how the people came, and they saw the splendour of the temple, and this man in his most modest poverty (although very well dressed it had to be said, with some quite splendid hats, and for that matter he appeared very well fed), and they thought what a most humble man, and lo, what a most auspicious and powerful god to have such magnificent buildings created in his honour, and Mechriva had told them how the god would offer them all that they could desire, if only they would believe, and so, from far and wide, people came and they bought belief. It's not that surprising really. Lets face it, there's never been a shortage of people who were both stupid and greedy for pretty much the entirety of human history. As pyramid schemes go, it was pretty much par for the course. The first ones in were considered the 'chosen' and so lived in amongst the majesty of the temples. Those who came later may not have been so fortunate, but obviously, as Mechriva explained, it was wrong to ask for wealth. See how he had not a penny to his name and yet he was happy. Ask for happiness and so it would be... and the donations continued to pour in, and the temples grew and multiplied, and Mechriva was very, very happy indeed.

Mi Casa Su Casa

"What do you mean where are we going? Who the fuck are you?"

"I think I could quite reasonably ask you the same question... given that this is my van."

Kenty paused. He wasn't really into the whole possessions and money thing, and the comment had just slipped out. However, this van was his home and as such he felt he had a fair case. "OK accepting possession is apparently nine parts of the law, and all that..." he continued "and you appear to be possessing the drivers seat right now, but technically, it is still my van cos I paid for it, and more to the point, I live in it, and that tends to be how things work... but given that it is also my home, and you seem to be borrowing it for a while, I think that I get to ask you first you know... and that I get to know where you're taking my house." He paused in his somewhat lengthy monologue before adding as an afterthought "… unless you've got a gun and you're going to tie me to a tree."

"Why would I have a gun?" responded Brenda far too defensively, whilst manic thoughts suddenly chased themselves around her panicking brain. Just who was this crusty hippy? Where had he come from? Why was he asking about guns? Just what did he know? Then another thought popped in out of left field "And why would you want to be tied to a tree?"

"I don't want to be tied to a tree." The lack of want was very much emphasised in Kenty's slightly confused tone. "Why would you think that I want to be tied to a tree? You think I want to be tied to a tree!? Is this, everyone thinks Kenty wants to be tied to a tree day or something? Why does everyone suddenly think I want to be tied to trees?"

"What do you mean everyone?!" exclaimed Brenda, who had a very different idea of 'everyone' to what Kenty did. "You mean you can see them!?"

"See who?" he asked, suddenly thinking this conversation had started strange and taken a desperate lunge towards the thoroughly bizarre. Kenty had met some weird and wonderful people in his time, but this 'kooky lil chick' seemed like she was right out there with the folks who lived on Planet Acid rather than just holidaying there occasionally.

Brenda took a very deep breath, focused on the driving just enough to go straight out at the junction without colliding into anything significant. A bollard may have taken a glancing blow. No one was killed.

"Fucking hell girl. My van! Be careful with my van!"

"Is there really any need for them to swear so much?" said Dennis from the back of the van, to those that could hear him.

"Hang on." said Brian, sticking his face straight through the back of the seat "You've blown up Brenda's house and killed two fucking people this afternoon. Do you really think you should be getting at people for fucking swearing?"

"Well, it's just not necessary, is it?" said Dennis.

Brian's face descended into a simple cavernous look of disbelief. "And everything else was fucking necessary was it!?"

"Yes," replied Dennis "and the people were not copulating."

"What?!" said Brian.

"It was necessary." reiterated Dennis.

"How was it fucking necessary? Tell me how any of it was fucking necessary!"

"Not until you stop swearing."

"What?! Are you fucking off your rocker?"

"It was awesome," interjected Damien. "and awesome is always necessary."

There was a significant pause.

"Awesome?"

The tone of the word would have quite literally reached out and taken Damien by the throat, except it knew what literally meant. It decided however that as this was fiction, it might just give it a go. It reached out, and squeezed hard. So hard the word ended on the kind of shrill cadence that could only be reached by forcing a tube of helium into the arsehole of the yappiest of yappy puppies, until it was inflated like a monstrous balloon (at least to the size of a 'normal' dog), giving that balloon to a little girl who was had just dropped her ice cream, telling her she was adopted, and then and only then, sticking a pin in the puppy.

As she did her very best to regain control of the van, and her composure, Brenda was well aware that her conversation was not exactly going according to plan. This was possibly because there never really had been a plan to speak of, which might be something she'd have to resolve in the near future. She just needed the time to stop and think. A loud thump came from the back of the van, as something hit one of the walls. It was followed by another, which was closely followed by yet another, and then all hell let loose.

"Them." she said, flicking her head towards the back of the van, and Kenty turned to see the mini tempest erupting behind them, as Brian and Dennis took to the undoubtedly pointless exercise of throwing everything that they could lay their poltegatic fingers on at each other.

"Well I'll be buggered!" said Kenty.

"Hey Dennis." said Damien.

"What?" said Dennis, suddenly flinching as a book that he might otherwise have avoided passed straight through his head.

"Look what I've got." There was a hint of excitement in his tone, that made the duelling dead dudes decide that maybe they should take an interest in this interjection.

Dennis looked into Brian's eyes with that look known the world over as “I'll call a truce if you will." and they both as one turned to face Damien and whatever this new source of interest may be. They looked first to the immense beaming grin on his ethereal expression, then slowly panned down and along the length of his limb to where he was holding at arms length, in his ghostlike grip, a small, but perfectly formed, shiny metal pineapple.

"Where the fuck did you get that?!" they both exclaimed in unison.

Those Two Again

"Can't have them getting away." said Tom.

"Getting away from what?" said Bob.

"The story." said Tom.

"But..."

Bobs brain did its general jiggery thing where neurons got over excited, pulled on hoodies and face scarves, and joined gangs for safety in numbers, before expressing a thought.

"But... surely blowing them all up is not exactly going to keep them in the story is it, Tom... I mean... they'll all be dead."

"Just how much of this story have you been following?" asked Tom, slightly sarcastically and somewhat out of character.

"Well, OK," said Bob, taking the point quite happily before adding "but it's hardly friendly to blow them all up on purpose, Tom. I'm sure we can't really claim to be the good guys if we go around blowing up perfectly innocent people on purpose."

"They're hardly innocent," said Tom. “They've done all kinds of things that were outside of His will."

"Yes, but... He Doesn't Exist!" Bob explained reproachfully to his Brother, as if trying to make the point purely by force of will. "And anyway, you said he was nuts, so does it really matter what He thinks?" Bob stated with no trace of irony. "Anyway, they don't appear to have actually hurt anyone. At least, the ones who are still alive haven't, and well, they're the ones who are going to get blown up aren't they."

"It's OK." said Tom. "The grenade is a dud."

"Oh." said Bob. "Does that mean there's not going to be an explosion?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Oh." said Bob, his expression descending into the downcast.

"That's a good thing." explained Tom.

"I suppose so..." said Bob.

Boom

"Jesus Fucking Christ!" screamed Kenty.

Brenda swung her head round to see what the new found fuss was all about. She saw the grenade hanging in the air, and as the flash backs flew through her brain, her body reacted of its own accord. Her foot lurched forward onto the brake pedal. Her hand grabbed for the door handle. She threw the door open.

And only then, when looking down at the floor speeding past her feet, which suddenly seemed to be going by so much faster than when she looked at it out of the windscreen, decided that bailing out was a seriously bad idea and that she might just be better off taking her chances waiting for the van to stop.

She hammered her foot harder on the brake, but it was an old old van, and had no such luxuries as assisted braking. The van slid and skidded, the rear wheels overtaking the front, as it lurched across the road. Kenty grabbed at the dashboard as he was thrown forward, somehow miraculously managing to save himself from being thrown into the windscreen. The van careered up the pavement, bouncing almost cartoon style sideways across the large paved area in front of the local shops and a small selection of bemused onlookers, as it finally came to a halt, and slowly... almost comically... rolled over onto its side.

Inside the van, as it tumbled sidewise, Kenty, who had never got around to putting on a seatbelt fell across the cabin, tumbling into Brenda. He pushed out his hand to save himself, and because, well, that's just the way these things happen, the gravitational forces of planet and narrative in tune, pulled his hand directly into Brenda Donaldson's chest.

Brenda screamed.

Kenty instinctively pulled his hand away, to the obvious conclusion that gravity, of planet and narrative in tune, came out to play again. His face fell into hers. Their lips locked. As did their noses cheeks and eyeballs.

"Gwet ve fwuck offafme!"

"Im fwucking twying."

"gwet urf, vu fwucking pwervert."

"fwuck vu."

"vu fwucking vwish."

Kenty managed to force himself up, and off of her, before replying "Of course I do love, but, well, there's a time and a place." He winked, and then he remembered exactly why this wasn't the time or the place.

All Brenda heard was the word "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" as Kenty clambered back up the seats, forced the passenger door open, and pulled himself up and out of what was now the roof.

Brenda was not slow in following him.

No Seriously, Boom!

The scene has been portrayed in hundreds if not thousands of action movies the world over.

The heroes are seen running at full pelt, away from whatever it happens to be, that the audience is well aware is about to go very, very bang. Just as they are fractionally less than a safe distance from whatever is about to explode, the explosive item (in this case, Kenty's van) suddenly goes very, very bang indeed. There is much flame. Much bang. Generally a small to medium sized mushroom cloud. The heroes are blown off their feet, and fly through the air before an unceremonious face dive to the dirt, right on the edge of the blast. You've seen it time and time again.

What you don't normally see, is the two angels off to one side.

"I thought you said it was a dud."

"I thought you'd like a surprise."

Raising the Wrath of Gods

God rested his almighty head heavily in his almighty hands, and let out an almighty sigh. It was the kind of sigh that would have in more biblical times flicked up sandstorms in the deserts and sent tornados lightly twisting, twirling and swirling out over distant seas and oceans. Then as his aged, though ageless face shifted into a resigned smile, he let his mind slide back over times long gone. He wasn't one who made a habit of reminiscence. The passing of time being but an illusion after all, he rarely saw the point, but these were strange times indeed. Perhaps things really were coming to a close. He half sighed, half laughed. He was supposed to know these things. But there you have it: Timing. The essence of good chronology, and nowhere near as important as a half decent punchline.

He'd had a good run. There had been some rare old times indeed. Ah, those early days when it was a joy to make the sun rise each new day in the simple knowledge that He Was God. The joy that came with the simple acquisition of each new believer. The power that came with the acquisition of each new belief. Oh in the old days, how simple it had seemed to find each, and simply delight in every new joy. Now, with followers spread across galaxies, numbered in the trillions, one simple new soul mattered somewhat less than it did back in the day when he was picking up the first, second, and third. Now that he'd got to the point where he could shit out a galaxy by accident, He pondered, would he even get around to going and letting the microscopic macrocosm that evolved there know that He existed. Well, it was all power, of course he would, but... but...

It wasn't like he didn't have time. He was Eternity, one thing He wasn't short of was time. He just didn't know if he could really be bothered. After all, what was the point? They would invariably just be another bunch of sycophants, cynics, or ingrates. He wasn't sure which was worse, and as much as he loved them all, it could fairly be said he loved them all equally ambivalently. Well, maybe he did have a soft spot for the sycophants. They were after all was said and done just so wondrously needy.

But they just didn't seem to hold his interest anymore. He wasn't quite sure what He wanted from them, but he was pretty sure whatever it was, it had to be different. It had all been done before and he'd seen the show a million times. Just how interesting can watching ants walk the same predictable path be. Had he really simply become bored of the whole affair?

So he'd summoned the Goddess. At least she'd give him a run for his manna. She was less predictable than people, and for that matter most other species, except perhaps the butterflies. On reflection, perhaps the butterflies had been a mistake.

But while he was so momentarily distracted, right under his godly conk, His very own angels had dared to rally against him. He couldn't believe it. Eternity actually lacked belief, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he got. He wasn't just angry. He was wrathful. Now, once again, The One, The Almighty, God, Eternity, The Holiest of Holies, suddenly felt that good ol' testament fire in his belly once more.

Truth be told the fire was still to a larger extent in his bowels, but this is a piece of knowledge he was happy to hide in a random piece of fruit and save a special hell for the creature who bit into it.

Eternity now had something to fight for. It was one thing choosing to end it all because he was bored and the minions were undeserving of His attention, but it was another thing entirely to be usurped and have the whole shebang simply stolen from his care. He was Eternity, the most powerful of the powerful, and this he would not stand for.

So he sat for a second, and pondered...

… It was perhaps time for a little ol' testement proper southern fire and brimstone. Someone was going to feel His wrath, and they were going to feel it with a passion that had previously been unknown by man or beast.

Well, unknown except by those who He had in previous times lovingly drowned, crushed, plagued, turned into pillars of salt, fucked their wives, or cast into the pits of hell, obviously.

Oh Come On! You're Just Making This Up!

They were nice boots. Very nice boots. New Boots. Kinda sexy. Black leather, with a subtle sheen. The toecap looked re-enforced, the soul rugged, rubber, but more than likely flexible. There were buckles every couple of inches up the sides, but they were also laced. On the first inspection it was difficult to tell which was effective and which for effect. Intricate stitching ran all up the front and sides in what appeared from this angle to be some obscure pattern of celtic knots. They stopped at the knee, where, as Brenda's eye, slowly regaining focus after the explosion, carried on upwards, they discovered in turn, leather trousers that carried on up further into leather crotch, and up further still, over leather lady lumps... and then... fear erupted across Brenda's brow, as her glance crashed into the most amazing set of eyelashes, and probing brown eyes that stared down between them.

Brenda gasped as she instantly recognised the dark and willowy strands framing the intense brown iris and minuscule pupils. In a flash, Kuryani was squatting down, with Brenda's hair in her hand, pulling her head back, her other hand stretched around her throat, and with gentle menace, squeezed.

"You're going to tell me where the key is now." she hissed just loudly enough to be heard, just menacing enough to be feared, through her teeth.

She'd been heading to the police station. It was the obvious place to find her prey and begin the search for the key. But when she'd ridden back into town on the brand new bike, and seen what was obviously the same van she'd escaped in previously, careering and rolling down the road in front of her, she'd stopped. She should have continued she knew, but some voice within her just called her to pause. She did so begrudgingly, sure that she was acting on some sentimental passion, but also honed to act upon her instincts and this was instinctive.  When she'd seen him climb out of the window, alive, something in her had... stirred... she was... happy? that he'd got out alive. Why would she care? She didn't care, he was nothing, and she was just about to pull away, when she'd seen him reach in, and pull... her... up out of the now skywards facing door. A multitude of thoughts had shot through her tightly packed brain questioning how these two were connected: What was she doing in the van? What was he doing with her? It didn't matter. Kuryani's was a very singular mindset. Usually.

What mattered was the mission, and the mission was the key.

She'd watched as he pulled her up, and out of the van, she'd watched as they ran, and she'd watched as the van exploded sending them both soaring through the air. While they flew, she'd dismounted and started running. By the time they landed she had closed half the gap between them, and by the time Brenda had opened her eyes, Kuryani's shiny new boots were on the pavement before her.

As Brenda stared, head pulled back, eyes wide, in shock at this new unfurling twist in the nightmare her waking life had become, she was speechless. It didn't matter. Kuryani looked straight past her face, down into Brenda's cleavage, where there hanging gently upon her breast, on its oh so fine silver chain, was the key to what lay in her oh so valued chest. Then their eyes met again. Green eyes met brown, and green gave way in instant surrender. Kuryani grabbed the chain and pulled.

It strained, and one small link, there is always one, gave way.

Kuryani turned, sparing just one glance as she slipped the key into the tight confines of leather, just one small condescension to the nagging neurons scratching in her brain, desperately trying to be heard, to be felt.

As Kenty came round, he raised his head, glancing unthinking in her direction, and their eyes met. She pulled her face away instantly, turned and briskly walked away. She was back on the bike, and it was a matter of a moment before the engine roared and she was racing away into the distance.

He needn't have seen her face, he'd have recognised that arse anywhere.

Instructing Eternity

"You want to know what I would do?" questioned The Goddess. She looked him straight in the eye. Or as close as she could get. There are few can see deep into the eye of Eternity.

"Not really." replied Eternity absently, over an undercurrent of seething wrath.

The Goddess paused. When she finally spoke again there was far more purpose in her voice. "Perhaps you might let me rephrase that..."

"Oh joy." said Eternity, with thoughts of impending doom gentling bubbling under the sarcastic retort.

"You want to know what I would do." said The Goddess matter of factly. It was undoubtedly more of a statement this time around.

Eternity banished her. Again. It failed to work. Again. He sighed. Again. Then realising that he either had to talk to her or listen to her incessant babbling, he stated somewhat abruptly "I am Eternity. You do not offer Eternity advice."

For a moment it looked like The Goddess was contemplating this new pearl of wisdom, but finding the grit of the matter she finally responded "Even when He's screwing everything up?"

The voice of Eternity seemed to gather a new depth. "I am not screwing everything up! I am Eternity. I cannot... 'screw everything up'. What I do is...

... what was meant to be."

The Goddess narrowed her eyes. It had a curious effect. A being so beautiful that even the sight of her scornful countenance would cause interesting stains in the garments of lesser beings. "Oh you arrogant son of your own imagination! Are you really going to stand there and proclaim that you meant to shit yourself back there."

Eternity never looked up, but simply responded "That was... something new. Some form of chaos has entered the system."

"Chaos?" questioned The Goddess with evident capitalisation.

"chaos!" He stated in a tone that would, had he not been talking to a god, have instantly quelled any defiance. "There will be no false idols. chaos is merely a thing (It's questionable how he managed to verbally start a sentence with a lower case letter, but an omnipotent god can do what they like, and he was trying to make a point). No being has such power over Eternity."

As the words slipped from his lips, the subtlest rise in intonation, the slightest beat skipped, could be heard by those who would dare to hear such things. If The Goddess noticed she paid it no heed, and simply laughed a laugh so warm and sweet it could have melted the icecaps and served them up with vanilla and a chocolate flake. "Mankind is mankind.” she breathed. “They can anthropomorphise anything. An anthropomorphism of chaos would be a walk in the park. If Chaos were to be taken as an idol, and if people were to worship... It..." somehow she managed to emphasise the capital "there would be nothing false about the whole situation."

"chaos is an idea, not an anthropormorphism." Eternity intoned.

"As you yourself are in danger of becoming."

"Never!" Eternity intoned defiantly. Then it occurred to Him who He was talking to. "Well it would be better if that didn't happen."

"Are you afraid that you would lose so many worshippers to Chaos?"

Eternity was silent for a moment, as he contemplated the non-existence of his navel. Finally he spoke, slowly and deliberately. "No, not really, you only lose a few. Those that worship chaos don't tend to last that long. Entropy tends to have a less than lasting effect on their component parts. chaos is what it is." His lip curled as he continued somewhat more testily "And chaos is not beyond my power, it is simply what happens when I choose not to focus on something specific."

"Oh I see." said The Goddess sarcastically. "So if you don't focus on your arsehole for any length of time, that's what happens is it?"

The silence lasted quite a long time, but there's only so many times you can make the same eternally poor pun and get away with it. When The Goddess next spoke, it came out after one simple breath, and she sauntered softly into a lengthy monologue. "I think we need to talk about your sphincteral control. It strikes me that perhaps you've not put as much time and effort into this universe creating lark as you might have done. How could you create creatures with free will, and then force that free will upon them. Mortals aren't good at irony. Do they not get a choice in the matter? You don't even give them the chance to give it up. You force them to carry on in that enforced existence. I'm not saying they shouldn't love life because it is a gift from Eternity, I'm just saying that to deny them the right to return the gift or you will damn them in the fires of wherever for all of... your own sweet self, is perhaps a little hypocritical." Then in a mocking tone she added "You will have free will, but if you don't do my bidding you will BE DAMNED!"

Eternity's response was calm and measured. "Those that take that way out are burning already. There is no change for them between where they were and where they are going, except once they take that step, there's no way back or chance of redemption. The flames of..." and Eternity stopped, and he breathed, and a smile formed at the edges of his mouth. A smile of recognition. He looked The Goddess over, for what appeared an age, as his smile widened, and even became a low though not unkind chuckle. "The flames of eternity..." he whispered, "will simply bring them to Eternity that much faster. Those that find themselves calling upon such a hasty exit are already in the realms of hells. The purging in such a case is a mercy upon them. Although I hope you understand. I'm not asking for your permission or validation in this matter, and neither are they."

Eternity would have continued but was cut off abruptly, somewhat to his surprise.

"Have you considered, just being nice to them. Making their lives happy ones. Giving them the resources they need to survive and enjoy life?"

Eternity looked The Goddess over with a level of disbelief, which to his quite lengthy disappointment was still not enough to make her stop existing.

"I give them all of these things." Eternity retorted, but then checked himself. "OK, I gave them all of those things. Sometimes they make bad choices, or get themselves born into bad situations. From the worst of those situations all can make their way if they choose to do so. Damned or no, they will find their way to me."

"And those who never even hear of you?"

"Everyone knows about Eternity. You can't not know about Eternity. Everyone knows they have a soul, an essence, something that is essentially them that is eternal, and a part of me."

"Do you really think that's true? Do you really think they all know that?"

"Somewhere deep inside, they all know."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. I am Eternity. I am that part of them."

The Goddess looked him over thoughtfully, though appeared satisfied with the answer. "And what of those who choose not to make it to you, because they choose to think you're a smug pedantic shit?"

Eternity winced as if struck, and understandably took his time over His answer, in an effort not to appear smug, pedantic, or any shitter than he had done previously. He was struggling.

The Goddess looked at him. Her scowl softened. Somehow melted. If mortal man could have witnessed the transformation, he'd have fired off another round into his trouser leg. "Oh you poor misguided fool. Do you really know so little of your own creation? That it could be misguided, misled, confused so easily."

"They choose life that they can do with it what they will, and then return to me." responded Eternity.

"And then return to you... or suffer in hells if that is their fate?"

"They choose how they live, and so choose how they die. I am Eternity, one way or another, they will return to Me."

And so The Goddess launched into monologue once more. "Have you any idea how much time they spend simply confusing each other? From the cradle to the grave they bombard each other with emotions that they themselves don't understand. They build up their own emotional defences so that they simply don't have to deal with the emotions of others. As a species they have learned to justify anything to themselves. They form religions in your name, and go to war with others who have also formed religions in your name, just because they're not sure which is the proper name, or which day of the week you think they should eat broccoli on. They can justify anything to themselves."

"They can eat broccoli on whatever day they like. It's good for them. They can eat it every day of the week if they wish." replied Eternity. Then added, just to be on the safe side, because he did have some idea what the more religious element of mankind could be like, "as part of a healthy and varied diet."

The Goddess ignored him and continued "They are confused. They need guidance, and the cults who guide them are corrupted and more interested in their own existence and proliferation than in the good of the souls they have charge of."

The Goddess stopped. There was a moment of cognition. She continued "OK I can see where they get that from."

"Good is a specifically subjective term." replied Eternity.

"Really?" replied The Goddess sarcastically, "And just what does it mean to you?"

"Well, it means what I like obviously." He responded.

"Whatever you like?" She questioned.

"Well, yes, if I like it, it's good, and if I don't like it it's not good."

"Isn't that a little bit arbitrary?"

"Well yes." replied Eternity "What would be the point of being God if you didn't get to decide things like that?"

"Heaven forbid they should decide for themselves." Her eyes headed skywards as She added "Literally."

"Well, Heaven is wiser than they are, and has been around a lot longer."

"And is bigger than them and will damn them to any number of hells if they disagree with it."

"Well, yes, that too."

"So you create them with free will, and the ability to learn, but if they have a different idea of what is good to yours, then you accept that they might choose hell."

"I don't stop them from choosing hell if that's what you mean."

"You just make it against the rules."

"Well yes, I don't want them to go around killing themselves, it used to take quite a lot of effort to get a new believer."

"But now that you can shit them out a galaxy at a time?"

"I admit I'm not so concerned. They all come to me eventually."

"They can do what they like, as long as you're fine?"

"Well, yes, I am Eternity."

It all went quiet. It was evident The Goddess was thinking about something of importance. Eternity went back to his silent seething while he contemplated how best to deliver his wrath. Finally The Goddess broke the silence.

"Do you love them?"

Eternity was somewhat taken aback by the question. "Well obviously." he replied, waving his arm as if it was a matter that was self evident. "Eternity has love for everyone." His tone dropped to that of the utterly condescending "By nature of being eternal and everything."

The Goddess ignored the slight. He was a god. Condescension was par for the course. "For everyone? You love them all, but they must have but one idol? You are a slut, and a hypocrite." She chided.

"There are many aspects to love," stated Eternity gravely "as you know well."

"To Love." replied The Goddess.

"Do you want to anthropomorphise every other Me forsaken verb while you're at it?"

"I think this one is a special case."

"Maybe you'd also like a god of 'being quite fond of' or of 'being an annoying bitch'." The latter phrase was delivered with perhaps more zeal than was completely necessary, and those who are particularly perceptive may have noticed the tiniest twitch on Eternity's brow. She was really starting to get on his nerves.

The Goddess continued "No, it's fine, I think that Love can also cater for 'being quite fond of', and... I'm The Goddess of being an annoying bitch obviously." She smiled a smile that would have melted mortal men, and more women than would care to admit it.

"So you're happy with just the three are you, or do you want to add a few more for good measure."

"No, I'm happy with the just the three. A trinity is fine. Love to bind, Chaos to sever. Eternity to just be."

"Very eloquent," suggested Eternity, “and where do you fit into all this?”

"Love, Chaos, and Eternity?" questioned The Goddess. “I do not fit in to this. They are simply all aspects of myself.”

"Since when were you so sure that Eternity is merely an aspect of You?"

"Since You couldn't banish me." replied the goddess. "If you can't get rid of me, that makes me eternal. It looks like you're stuck with me... Bitch... Now ...

...You want to know what I would do."

Following Blindly

My mind was frozen. Blank. White. It all happened so suddenly. The one moment it was just some foolish argument in the back of the van, and the next, we were rolling, crashing, and the whole fucking thing just exploded. I can not explain what that felt like. Can you imagine being at the centre of a hand grenade and petrol tank explosion, when you don't have a body to be destroyed, but do have senses that just get obliterated. What you are just gets hit by the amazing burst of energy. Then blank. White out.

But then white out turned to white noise. Things started to pull back together. Starting to thaw. Senses started slowly working again.

I came around, and saw them. The woman in leather, and Brenda, there prostrate on the floor. She just pulled at the key around Brenda's neck, I saw the chain snap, and her hand pull away as she turned and was suddenly walking off into the distance. Brenda fell, or slumped back to the floor.

I ran. I just ran. I saw her there on the floor, and I ran straight past her. I ran past her because I knew that there was nothing I could do, and I knew that the key was the key. Where it went would be answers. I pulled myself past that harrowed beloved face and I ran to the bike. I dived onto her, the bitch in leather, I just grabbed onto her. I could tell that she could feel that I had hold of her, that there was something there. She even tried to brush me away, but obviously not being properly attuned to my ghostliness failed. Obviously ghosts don't exist, so she soon gave up trying to shake off something that wasn't there, and just started the bike, and we roared off down the street.

In all my life, I have never done anything so difficult as try to hold onto a person on a motorbike using ghostly hands, while their body is constantly trying to accelerate away from you, through you... trying not to let them slip through. It took a very strange mental shift to stay on. I think about it now and it's crazy. It should be no different to being in the van, but because you don't have walls, it feels so different, so much harder, so much more mind power required... but I was determined. Pure bloody mindedness. I was going to stay on that bike, and find out where the hell this woman was going, and what the hell she was planning on doing with my fucking box.

OK, Brenda's box. But it was my key. She'd given it to me. I jumped out of a fucking plane for that key. It was mine, and I was bloody going to get it back.

Twisted

"Tom." said Bob.

"Yes, Bob?" replied his brother.

"Have you any idea what's going on anymore?"

"Not really, Bob. It's all a bit confusing isn't it."

"Yes, Tom, it is a bit. It's just that I was wondering..."

There was silence for a brief period of time, while Bob tried to recall exactly what it was that he'd been wondering those few seconds before.

"Yes, Bob?" questioned Tom.

"Well," said Bob, his face a picture of puzzlement "I always thought that I was one of the good guys," His expression implored validation "that we were the good guys, Tom."

"So we are." replied Tom assuredly.

"Well... it's just that... "

Neurons fired. opposing neurons ducked for cover, held automatic weapons over the barricades and fired back. There was much loss of life, but eventually, after something of a ridiculous arms race in which both sides gathered enough armaments to destroy the entire brain several times over, a truce was finally called, and a treaty was signed that formed the basis of a new idea.

"I think that we just blew up that van, and the people inside it hadn't hurt anyone, and they had the key that would have stopped the other people who've we've been trying to stop from opening the box, from opening the box... but now the other people who we've been trying to stop getting the key have got the key which means that they can open the box, which means that...." He paused again before adding "well, I'm not sure what that means, Tom. But I'm pretty sure it's not good. Which makes me wonder, Tom."

"Of course we're the good guys." Tom comforted.

"Then shouldn't we be helping the other good guys?"

"That's not really how we work is it, Bob?" replied Tom, with a note of compassion in his voice "We help those who help themselves... Remember?"

"But they were trying to help themselves, Tom, and then we blew them up."

"Well yes, Bob, but obviously they'll be much happier, eventually, if they have greater obstacles to overcome in the shorter term."

Bob thought about this. It could be said that neurons newly set upon a process of peace reacted badly to this new information from unfortunate outside stimuli, and once again began firing. As with any breakdown in a peace process, once one side started firing, they all started firing. The arms race escalated, through heavy artillery, long distance rockets, and eventually took off and nuked from orbit, (allegedly) the only possible way to be sure. In the end, there was but one single neuron, with no one left to fight against, waving a flag of truce that no one else was there to see.

"Oh come on, Tom. That's just fucked up." said Bob.

Coming Round to Shades of Grey

Damien's eyes could only have been made wider with profound cosmetic surgery. He could possibly have stretched his eyelids slightly further back with the aid of hooks, pulleys, and a professional tug of war team. Or possibly pliers. Attached to places other than the eyelids. But suffice to say, they were open really quite wide.

It took the three who'd been at the back of the van slightly longer to come back into phase, having been directly on top of the explosion when it happened. They were right next to to the grenade, and right on top of the fuel tank. Damien's wide eyed response was perhaps predictable given previous encounters...

"That was awesome! Lets do it again!"

Dennis shook his head, not in disagreement, simply trying to shake himself back into some kind of sensibility. "Do what again? When?" he replied dumbfoundedly.

Damien's grin only got wider, and the sight of his beaming countenance was the first thing that Poz saw as his perceptions in turn came back into being.

It was an horrendous sight for a soul to have to confront as the first glimmer of reality to face them as they recoiled back into the world, spirit or otherwise. Pale, gothic, grinning insanely. For a moment Poz considered that he had been born into some far off plane of burtonesque²⁸ hell, before memory swarmed back in upon him.

An awkward child, bullied at school, if no more than most it effected him more. He swore to get even, to make them think once again, and they did. He'd seen old classmates while out on duty. They looked at him differently. Talked to him differently. He wasn't always sure he liked the new way they looked or talked to him either... but...

In the force he had found camaraderie of a sort, but more importantly he found a reason for being. Perhaps it was a little trite and simplistic, but he genuinely enjoyed helping people. Well, he enjoyed helping nice people anyway. He got to think of himself as a little bit of a hero every time a job went well. He liked being a useful member of his society and he liked being appreciated. By the little old ladies, the weak and defenceless, and those who simply wished for a little more law and order in the world. Obviously he wasn't appreciated by everybody. Some of them were bad people and obviously they didn't appreciate him at all.

Which was fine by him. Everything was all very black and white in the world of PC Paul Chambers. He lived in a world of goodies and baddies. Hero's and villains. There was right, and there was wrong, and the law told you which was which. Obviously other countries which had different laws, and therefore different definitions of right and wrong were, well, wrong, because he was also very English and believed that anything English must by rights be better than anything anywhere else. But the law was the law, and you still obeyed the law even in countries which had wrong laws, just to be polite.

And here he sat, coming round, staring into the face of Damien and the Almighty Grin of Goth.

In the world of Poz, Damien was all kinds of wrong. Damien was a special kind of wrong all to himself. Damien was the kind of wrong that didn't care that it was doing wrong. Probably because Damien never saw it as wrong. Maybe that's a digression we don't need to go into right now, other than to say that because Damien never had a problem with being dead, he didn't understand why anyone else would.

Poz was sure something needed to be done about Damien, and for that matter, the other crazy ghost freaks before they did untold amounts of bad. Then there was this escaping 'convict', although there was something gently banging, repeatedly inside his brain, something nagging at him about that, but he soon sorted that out by explaining to himself that if she was hanging around with this lot then she must be up to no good somehow.

He didn't know what he was going to do about them. But the law was the law, and in the spirit of the upstanding and self righteous everywhere, he was adamant that something should be done. At which point it occurred to him, that maybe what he should do, being an honest and upstanding citizen, even if in a physical sense he was now somewhat horizontal, was go and tell the police.

Sometimes It's Best to Clarify...

What does "That's just very up mean?" asked Tom after a brief pause.

Refugees

"So you know her?"

Kenty looked at Brenda, with a look of accepted realisation. It was all now slotting into something that made a little bit more sense. Not that any of this made that much sense, and not that the sense that it made was necessarily particularly accurate, but suddenly two bits of a jigsaw had just pegged themselves together; In the way that jigsaw pieces sometimes do even though they're not actually supposed to be connecting pieces.

It had seemed so unlikely that these two incidents could be coincidence, and now these two particular parallel tracks had paradoxically just clipped together so easily.

Of course, the thing about intuition is that it isn't always entirely accurate. "Know her?" questioned Brenda "I don't know anything about her. Do you know her?"

Kenty thought about this and finally ventured "I've experienced her recently."

"Experienced her?" came the incredulous reply.

"Well what would you call it?"

"She tied me to a fucking chair!" shouted Brenda.

"Sounds like you've experienced her too." replied Kenty gently before adding "She is a bit of an experience though isn't she.” with a mildly wistful look in his eye.

"And threatened to shoot me in the fucking kneecaps!" added Brenda, significantly more forcefully given that the importance of her declaration didn't appear to have the effect she'd expected.

"Ahhh, she tied me to a tree." replied Kenty fondly. Then he stated matter of factly, "Amazing arse." Brenda stared at him in silence. "She pulled a gun on me too.” He  continued. “Doesn't necessarily seem too keen to use it... I thought she was gunna though."

If Kuryani had been questioned on this she would have agreed that she never used armaments unnecessarily. Pushed further she may also have agreed that she had a laxer idea about what counted as necessary than many.

Kenty carried on with a certain enthusiasm to glean a little more information about this sudden new entertainment in his life. "So do you know her well?"

"I said I don't know her. Of course I don't fucking know her well!" Brenda was not overly enthused with how this conversation was progressing.

"Well, I don't like to assume. Seemed better to just ask."

"Do I look like I generally associate with people who tie each other to chairs and wave guns at people?"

Kenty thought about this. "Quite possibly" he said with a smile. "That look in your eye... A bit of fire that's been through the wars."

Brenda looked at him. Then her eye was drawn by the flickering behind him, and he saw the flames in her eyes for the reflections they were. He'd had his back to it all this time. The sounds of crackling flame suddenly registered on his ears, the heat, how had he not noticed. He was so easily distracted. He jumped to his feet screaming "My Fucking Van!" and as realisation hit home, he screamed again, louder, "My fucking house!   My   Fucking   House !"

While Kenty ran around in random directions screaming, being something less than his usual cool self, Brenda started to slowly back away. She found herself an alleyway between two shops, stepped into it, and proceeded to get the hell out of there. It had just slipped back into her mind that she was still wanted by the police, and standing next to a recently exploded van and a nutter screaming his head off probably wasn't entirely in her best interests. Kenty saw her just as she turned into the alleyway.

"Hey, where the fuck are you going!?"

Brenda ran. This was not the time or the place for explanations. Kenty chased. He wanted explanations, and there was no-one else around who was likely to be giving them. He chased her down the alley, over a fence, around the back of some houses. It turned out she was pretty fit, but so was he, and he wasn't planning on stopping. Eventually, when they were far enough away, and Brenda was suitably exhausted that running stopped seeming like a good idea, she stopped running and let him catch up. It had never been him she was running from anyway.

"What the fuck..." Kenty paused while he panted for breath "is all this... " again panting "fucking about?"

So Brenda did her best to explain.

Given that she herself had no idea.

Fumbling in the Dark

The whole ride back, Kuryani couldn't get over the fact that she was constantly itching. Perhaps itching wasn't the right word. It felt like something was rubbing against her... in strange ways. When whatever it was started rubbing against her in strange places as much as in strange ways, which is not a good thing when you're travelling down a motorway at great speed on two wheels, she decided that she needed to do some readjusting, and she pulled over onto the hard shoulder to rearrange the leather interior.

It turned out the tiny silver key on its oh so delicate chain had somehow managed to slide up inside the confines of leather, which explained something of the itching, but still.

She rearranged everything that needed rearranging and promptly set back upon her journey.

...but somehow, something still wasn't right...

By Way of Explanation

I couldn't bloody believe it. It took me a bloody age, and for what?

Now, I know this may appear a little bit awkward, and I know some people may think a little bit the worse of me for doing this, but what can I say, it occurred to me, that if I could manage to hang on to the leather clad bitch from hell on the back of the sodding motorbike, then while she was distracted, there was nothing actually stopping me getting my ghostly hands inside the tight leather confines.

I want to make it perfectly clear that I was only doing this to get hold of the key, and that it's not my fault that she didn't wear a bra. It's not like I had to unzip her or anything... I could just put my hands straight through the leather and... well, you know, fumble around until I found what I was looking for. Bugger alone knows what else she had in there, but a lot of it was sharp, and there were a few things with triggers, but avoiding them all, I just fumbled around until I found the key on its now broken chain, and like I said, it's not my fault she didn't wear a bra, and I can only assume, she got something of a kick out of riding motor bikes... or having me unintentionally kind of groping her I suppose.

I found it, eventually. It took a little while. It had been pushed down between her cleavage between her ribs. Slowly and meticulously I did what I could to push it back up and out of her cleavage, but well, the chain got sort of caught, and it wouldn't come out...

... but I'd almost done it, I'd so almost done it, when the bitch stopped, pulled over onto the hard shoulder, unzipped herself, and pushed the object of my endeavours right back down inside the tight leather again. She zipped herself back up, kicked the bike back into gear, twisted the handle, let out the clutch, and with her entire weight over the front wheel in a vein attempt to keep it on the ground, launched the bike once more down the motorway.  

The bitch!

So desperately struggling to cling on, I grabbed tightly around her body, and my hands found themselves 'unfortunately' over her surprisingly erect nipples. The opportunity for immediate revenge proving irresistible, I twisted them like I was trying to unscrew the bloody things. She screamed, grabbed her boobs in surprise, and then having just gone from nought to a hundred in about three seconds, slammed straight into the back of a land rover that was doing sixty in the inside lane.

She was amazing. Just before the bike smashed into the back of the land rover she jumped. She flew over the top of it, forty miles an hour faster than it was going, and to my pure amazement, I kid you not, actually managed to land on her feet, drop and roll... and roll and roll and roll and roll, and somehow, she just miraculously sprung up to her feet again... just in time to have two tonnes of land rover pile into her, and over her, while it was still doing sixty miles an hour, turning her into a leather clad packet of liquefied human remains instantly.

What I Would Do

"What I would do," said The Goddess, after some small deliberation, "is remind them all."

"Oh, that's exactly what I intend to do." seethed Eternity.

The goddess gently responded. "I fear that perhaps your understanding of the matter is currently somewhat sidetracked by more recent events, rather than perhaps a perspective over the larger picture."

"I have the largest perspective!" responded Eternity defiantly. "I Am the largest perspective! I AM ALL PERSPECTIVE!"

"Well maybe in that case," the goddess softly reciprocated, “there is something to be said for how you use it."

Eternity was silent on the matter. Eyes met and delved. Still seething, he found himself contemplating that the wrath he so desperately wished to deliver may be... beyond his current means.

Was it really possible that a little doubt had managed to creep in? Did the fact that He was asking the question, answer the question? Could it be that the only reason he still had the amount of power he had, was because He had divested such power in this goddess in those moments before the angelic coup. He believed his power Eternal. He had divested no small portion into her before the angelic hoard had stripped him. Peeled away outer layers. Left him naked. Just a core. Surrounded by now, he knew not what. Doubt? Now depending on your perspective, that could be a very healthy thing for a god to have, but gods are not exactly famous for how well they cope with doubt.

But She was there, in front of him, and She believed. She believed like only a god can believe, and if someone that looks like that believes in you, it makes it a hell of a lot easier to believe that you're God's gift to your own sweet self whether she was made out of your own rib or otherwise. She was a god! Her belief counted for so much more than the weak uncreative belief of mere mortals. She was a god, and he was aware that She could take that belief away at any point if she so chose. For the first time in a very long time, Eternity was suddenly worried about what someone else thought of him.

"I could do that." he responded, but then contemplating how much power he had lost, he added "Well, maybe not remind them all that I exist, maybe just a select appearance, after all, we have to ensure there is still faith. If I appeared to everyone my existence could hardly be considered a matter of faith could it?"

"What does it matter if they have faith? What you want is belief." The Goddess contested.

"Faith is of the utmost importance!" stated Eternity defiantly.

"No it's not." replied The Goddess "That's just some line tossed about by cults who can't prove their over exaggerated claims because you refuse to get up off your Eternally Lazy Arse any more than you have to. You know that as well as I do."

"It wouldn't do to make the cults look bad after all their good work." replied Eternity in a somewhat defensive attempt at a pacifying gesture.

"Work for six days, rest for the seventh? No mention of what happens in week two is there?" she chided. "You lazy sodding bastard. Get back down there and earn your keep, you good for nothing old layabout."

Positive is Positive

Positive was positive that something should be done.

The young are so often the same. Out with the old and in with what will be the old given time. Positive was a young god. Positive had ideas. Mostly about how things were unfair, and how there must be much better ways to organise things. Possibly with 'peoples collectives'. So Positive looked upon the world, and the life therein, and after some deliberation decided that peoples collectives would be a truly great idea, if it wasn't for, well, people. Just what had The Unthinkable been thinking when He'd come up with them? Positive thought about this, and reasoned it to be no trivial problem, because while just wiping all the little buggers out in some huge flood or other catastrophe and starting again may well be a very effective solution, it's not really what Positive considered a positive solution. Somehow things had to change. Positively.

It's not that the world wasn't full of positive people. Exactly the opposite in fact. You could split the world into positive and negative people if you so chose, but the simple fact of the matter was that even the most thoroughly negative cynical bear with a bad head on a bad hair day was absolutely bloody positive that they were right to be so, and that it was everyone else who was the problem. There is a subtle difference between a definite solution, and a positive solution.

For when a soul is so certain that what they believe is The Truth, that they start to think other souls, who believe other things, less worthy, how can that possibly be positive? How can that possibly lead to anything other than war and destruction? Such unquestioning faith, while mana to the heavens, and for that matter, many generals employing fanatical followers, is perhaps not so useful when it comes to respecting your neighbour and well, finding actual peace, love, and positivity.

If the species of the world were going to get it together, and learn to live in peace and harmony, then what they needed was not just to accept that the others on the planet were in the same boat, but they had to think positively about each other. Which again, could be quite difficult, given that this is people we're talking about, and some of them²⁹ can be damned right horrible at times.

And Positive contemplated that even though most major religions claimed to be based on love, there are bits of every major religion that seem... a little darker than sermons of love and light everlasting might contend. That every major religion had over the course of history, to a greater or lesser extent, for the sake of its survival amongst all others, had to temper its soft and fluffy lovely loving core, with the steel of the simple necessity of survival. Those which hadn't, simply hadn't survived.

People were left with a situation where each tome read with darker mind and heavier heart could be interpreted in the blackest of ways. How was any soul supposed to know if the darker corners of scripture were the Almighty Beings pleasure, or simply some kind of test, the whim of power hungry king or pope, or possibly just a bad translation or a printing error?

What was required was some good honest doubt. Of this, Positive was certain.

People needed to understand, that some questions simply are unanswerable, by nature of the question. That doesn't mean you shouldn't ask those questions. It doesn't mean there aren't better answers than others, just that the answers can never be complete in anything other than theory. There will always be smaller and smaller details, and there will always be paradox.

There must be doubt. The other perspective undoubtedly exists. Humans are not perfect. They know this. They know they sometimes get things wrong, and yet somehow, on this single matter of gods, they are willing to kill and maim for gods they willingly admit they themselves are not capable of understanding. If people didn't come to understand the absurdity of this situation, Positive was quite certain that people would spend the rest of eternity constantly fighting amongst each other, and being a right buggering pain in the godlike arsehole.

Balance

Buddha sat beneath the tree. "For fuck's sake." he thought to himself. Calmly.

"Some bastard is going to pay for this."

Kuryani pulled herself together. Not in any literal sense of the word. Other than in continuation of her tale. Headlights bore down upon her. Sheer feline instinct, she dived from their path, towards the hard shoulder, where she lay prone, motionless, intensely focused, ready to pounce once more. Adrenal alarm bells singing, but sensing no more immediate threat, she started to pull the shreds of the past ten seconds together. What the hell just happened? It didn't make any sense at all. She'd been struck by a Land Rover, run over, flattened, exploded. The pain had been briefly so horrific, and yet here she was. Prone on the side of the road. Conscious. She pretended not to notice the eyes further up the hard shoulder sucking photons from her phantom presence, while her eyes searched for a way to obscure their view.

Then came the screech of tyres. Collision upon collision, as vehicle after vehicle swerved to miss some obstacle in the road, only to find another. A juggernaut jack knifed and then it just got messy. The remains of her body were struck again, and again, and again, and every time her body called out to her, reached for her, tried to call her back.

Detached, she watched her body being bumped, bounced, run over, somersaulting down the motorway. There was no way she was going back in there. It screamed in agony and she flung her soul, her self away from it, distancing herself from the most ludicrous levels of pain. If such agony were not enough, wearing a face forged in the torments of hells, she watched her brand new bike being dragged, sparks flying in all directions, under forty tonnes of juggernaut, ploughing it though the tarmac. As countless collisions crashed, banged, and weighed in to the wake, she looked at herself, her new self, this translucent essence that she now was, and slowly and surely reached the obvious conclusion, and turning to face whatever soul was spying upon her, she whispered under her ghostly lack of breath "Some bastard is going to pay for this."

Payback.

It was the sheer speed at which she was at my throat that was so terrifying.

It was the way that her fingers just went straight through it, clawing at my neck, trying to take hold, squeezing, finding nothing tangible to squeeze against, her face getting angrier, as she clawed and clawed, still trying to tear at my ghostly throat, that was, after my initial horrified reaction, just so tragically comic.

But the speed. She left a trail of light. She came at me almost instantaneously. One moment, a look of burning hatred in her eyes, the next clawing at my throat. It was terrifying, but then, well just funny. I didn't mean to laugh. I hadn't meant to kill her. It's just not the way anyone plans a murder is it. Colonel Mustard, in the drawing room, with the tweaked nipples? Wrong on many levels, but the more she tried to enact her revenge, the funnier it got. I'm a little bit ashamed of laughing, I mean, I'm not Dennis, I still had some sense of humanity. Killing someone and laughing about the fact would be just a little bit psychotic. But here she was, 'the evil ninja' all dressed in black leather, trained killer and ultimate badass, trying to tear my face off. So I don't think that I have to feel too bad about laughing when her futile attempts were failing. She didn't see the funny side, and I really did have some sympathy with this, but I couldn't help myself, I burst out laughing, and she kept trying to attack me, so I laughed more. The more I laughed the more infuriated she got, and the harder she tried, and then... and then... well then it got less funny.

Just Not Laughing

Walking out of this momentous pile up, was ghostly soul after sad confused ghostly soul, after sad pathetic, lost, bereft, confused ghostly soul.

They just kept coming, and none of them were laughing. A few milled around amongst the wreckage. A few walked away from it all and sat down on the verge. Obviously trying to take in, or come to terms with the scene. Whole families looked upon each others ghostly forms in fear, confusion, anguish, agony. Half families screamed at the mess that remained of the other half, parted now by the greatest of chasms from the bodies of loved ones which lay tangled and wrecked, but somehow still alive. The souls that were still alive, trapped and screaming in the burning wreckage, made the scene so much more horrific.

I walked towards them, ignoring the hands failing to strangle me. I walked amidst it all. Through the death and devastation. Through the screaming. Petrol tanks exploded to all sides. Screams subdued in their chorus, being taken up on the fringes of the overture as more vehicles piled in.

Oh God what had I done? What stupid... foolish... mindless... instrument of destruction had I become?

And the only way I could cope with this devastation, with this hellish destruction, this scale of misery, was to push it as far from my mind as was humanly possible. I found a mission for one thing and one thing only. I had died for this, and now, somehow, so stupidly, I had killed... so many. My soul was numb. I just wandered through the screaming explosive hell of a pile up, trying to make my way towards the body that had been the first in the fray.

The gods be buggered. This was fucked up. What god would knowingly create this world? And, well, like so many souls before me, like so many folks who seeing the devastation that the world can become, seeing the carnage and the destruction, the war, the terror, and just the damned right hell of it all, I was looking for someone to blame. Someone else. Because being human, the last person I was going to blame was myself. I was looking for the person who not only threw the first stone, but the one who made the first rock. I was taking this to The Top, because we all know who started it all, and the smug pedantic shit had a lot to answer for.

I was going to get an audience with His Nibs if it killed me a second and a third time, and I had every intention of telling him just what I thought about all this. It was fucking ridiculous, and if what I needed to do to get through those gates was to sort out this bollocksed up situation, then I was going to get that key, get that bloody box, and when I got through those gates, I was going to have a very choice word or three with the Bastard Fucking Architect Of This Whole Fucking Mess. Why in all the hells would any omniscient god create a universe that involved this sort of fucking shit, if They had free will?

Bloody Demonic

“Tom?” said Bob, his voice quiet and low, somewhat subdued.

“Yes, Bob?” said Tom, as they viewed the hellish scene that lay before them. It was lacking beasts with multiple heads, and the smell of sulphur and brimstone was replaced with petrochemical stink, but those were pretty much the only major differences.

More vehicles piled into the back of the metallic mountain of death and destruction, and with every new explosion came further screams of anguish and for that matter, infernal pain.

“It's beautiful” said Bob.

There was a countdown from about five to one, before Tom's eyebrows lifted off from the top of his forehead.

“It's What?” said Tom in disbelief.

“Beautiful.” repeated Bob, his voice still laden with melancholy. “Beautiful, just so ...” his voice trailed off before he finally added “... just so tragically beautiful.”

“Oh for crying out loud, don't you go all emo on me now.” said Tom. “This is a nightmare.”

“But it's just so pretty.”

“It's horrendous, it's hellish, it's a huge great pile of steaming… burning, blazing, blasted… “ Lost for words he simply repeated the word “nightmare!”

“I thought we were supposed to try and find the good in every situation.” said Bob. Surely it is better to see beauty in each scene than to search for the pain.”

The muscles in Tom's neck started to pulse. He very slowly turned his head away from the flaming scene, which was a strain. It's difficult to pull your perception from a continual stream of explosions. Your attention is continually being drawn back. His right eye started to twitch slightly. “You are not supposed to look for the beauty in a god forsaken road traffic accident!” There was an edge to his voice that hadn't been there previously. Neither are you supposed to look for the beauty in war, pestilence, famine or disease!”
“Why not?” asked Bob. “Surely it's better to see beauty wherever you are able.”

Both of Tom's eyes were now twitching and bulging, and the vein in his neck looked like a snake that had swallowed a rosary, or allowing for the bulge in his eyes, possible just gone way too far with a string of anal beads. Pick your metaphor.

“Because it's bloody demonic!!” he screamed.

“And that's bad?” questioned Bob, far too calmly.

Over My Dead Body

The body wasn't exactly easy to find amongst the wreckage, but we did find it. I say we, I found it, she was just following me hurling abuse. She'd given up trying to strangle me by this point.

Live fast, die young, leave a good looking corpse. Two out of three. Her ghost was pretty, the corpse really wasn't. The only reason there was any kind of corpse at all was because the leather held it together. With a significant amount of venom, and a few expletives, she questioned what I was doing as I unzipped her leather suit, and she, or now more to the point, it, to a large extent poured out.

The question was probably the first thing she'd said to me that wasn't a threat, or a comment about my mother. She swore again, and screwed up her face, as she watched her body spill out onto the road.

"Taking the key." I responded.

"Over my dead body" she replied, with increasing rancour as she went for my throat again.

Oh sweet irony. I found and pulled the key from the tangled mess of entrails and numerous articles that should never have managed to fit inside the leather confines in the first place.

"Yeah," I replied, with a bit of a sigh "sorry about that." Then as an afterthought I asked "I don't suppose you could tell me where I could find the box this fits could you?"

She looked at me incredulously. The amazing lashes flickered in ghostly disbelief. "You think I'm going to help you!?"

"Well, you're not exactly busy with anything else now are you?"

She seemed to ponder this statement for a while. Then there was a blur of light, and her foot shot through my face.

In retrospect I can see how my reply may have appeared a little nonchalant for the situation. That perhaps, having just been quite instrumental in events leading to her demise, I should have been a little more understanding of her immediate predicament. That being, that having just died, and now being, well, dead, she might be a little bit upset about the whole situation. Maybe I was being a little bit callous, but then, on the other hand, she was the kind of girl who went around pointing guns at people, tying them to chairs, threatening to blow off their kneecaps and stealing their very personal boxes and keys. OK maybe I shouldn't be so judgemental about the last part, but still, it's not like she didn't have it coming.

We Have Landing...

Tom counted backwards from ten to one, and his eyebrows firing reverse thrusters slowly settled back onto terra forehead.

“It's not that you shouldn't try to find the beauty in each and every situation my brother. It's that a humane individual will first and foremost empathise with the emotions of the individuals around them, before considering such issues as how the light falls upon a scene, if it is pretty, smells nice, or makes an exciting bang.”

“And being humane is a good thing?” questioned Bob.

“Well yes.” stated Tom matter of factly, in the frustrated tones of one stating the obvious to the stupid.

“Why? humans are generally complete and utter bas...”

“Humans are perhaps not always humane.” interrupted Tom with a statement that cut into the previous comment like a cleaver hammering defiantly into a chopping board. Then following a deep, deep breath, and several facial contortions, he continued more gently “As much as they are capable of kindness and compassion, they suffer the equally human, though less humane qualities of anger, vengeance, and righteous indignation.“ He paused, and it was evident he was still thinking deeply as he added “And as much as they might care, they can be… well... careless.”

A neuron released the safety catch, slowed its breathing, took a moment to aim, and with breath held, fired. The target was some way off, and it was debatable if it even existed, but there was definitely something there. Even if it wasn't actually anything we might consider all that tangible. The projectile sped across dimensional visualisations, through emotional anthropomorphisms, and eventually, for no obviously apparent reason, other than perhaps it was some metaphor for wisdom, or perhaps, Father Time being all time, must be seen as aged, it settled on an image of a little old man with a long flowing beard.

“He really did create them in his own image didn't he.” said Bob.

“Who did?” said Tom, letting loose a knowing smile.

God Exists

God Exists. This is undeniable³⁰ .

That is not to say that all of the stories that you may hear, passed down through generation to generation, occasionally written down, altered over time to theological, or more often political advantage are all undeniably true. Merely that the idea of God or gods exists, and that ideas are powerful, and in their own realm real.

Each group of people with a concept of God or gods forms and remembers their stories in their own ways. Wherever it and they came from. Those with none watch idly on, wondering what all the fuss is about. Until at some point in their history, some passer by explains, or some devilish thought brings, the concept of a god to them, so they too have a concept of god and the story moves on. Each group fits the happenings and the stories into their own histories, and mythologies, and they go their own ways with tales to be told of days allegedly gone by.

Those tales may be the words of God or gods. They may not. But this next part is based on Simple Truth.

We don't know, and we can't know, for sure, if the stories are true.

In some cases, we can be reasonably sure they're not because they are on occasion logically inconsistent, so are at best allegory or metaphor. But we know the stories exist, and we know the stories have power, as long as people believe them.

These books, these scriptures and testimonies, these versions of 'history' explain a concept, and from that concept some people find access to a force, a connection, either external or internal, which they can harness to great effect.

And if you do not believe this to be true, just look at the mess the buggers have made of the world throughout history. They harness this force to massive effect³¹ .

God Exists,

or perhaps better phrased,

the idea of God exists, and it is a force to be reckoned with.

Because the word, the concept, our ideas of Gods,

makes us act in very mysterious ways.

It should be added, stating that god (or gods) exists, is no comment whatsoever, about (a) What god is, (b) How tangible god is, (c) If god created anything, (d) How many gods there are, (e) Which of the heavenly nostrils is more worthy of worship, or (f) If he, she, it or they, actually have an arsehole.

Military Religion

General Octavion was not actually a military man. Neither did he have a remit to control the use of god within any and all current active 'theatres'. This was not considered by relevant authorities to be by and large, the majority of the known world.

It was probably best to be aware of a number of things when dealing with General Octavion. None of which were actually true. At least, they were all strongly denied.

Firstly, he was not actually a general as such, nor was he a member of any actual military establishment, and if he existed, had simply taken the rank upon himself, along with the associated stature, as something of a joke when he realised just how much power it was alleged that he wielded. Rumours suggested he was in fact of more of an academic persuasion, but any rumours that he existed at all were strongly denied by anyone of any relevance to the matter. If any military institutions were aware of the sheer enormity of power that he wielded, they would probably have had him shot. At least any military not already under the influence of The Order. Allegedly.

As for that matter, would some religions. But then, given that they were all rumoured to be under his control, this point was somewhat mute.

Secondly, his name unsurprisingly wasn't actually Octavion. We needn't go into what it actually was, on the grounds that it had allegedly been specifically chosen to be something that sounded dramatic and forceful. Rumour was very definite on the point, that in reality, it categorically wasn't Lucy.

Thirdly, and this was apparently a point that stumped many who he dealt with regarding religious matters, and it was by far the most controversial at a grass roots level, was that General Octavion didn't actually believe in God. Or gods. At least not in the traditional sense.

So the fact that he single handedly (with some help) controlled the entirety of the worlds major religions may come as a shock to some. Not least the majority of the members of those religions, and you can understand why they'd be so adamantly denying it.

He might argue of course that it was not he personally who controlled the religions, but that it was God, or gods, working through him who controlled them, which is probably why it's important that those discussing theology with him realised that he didn't actually believe in God... At least not in the traditional sense.

Fortunately, on the grounds that he doesn't exist, he will play no further part in this story.

Talks About Talks and the Meaning of Everything

Some people only resort to talking about their problems when it becomes painfully evident that all other methods of resolving them to their satisfaction, and lets not be shy about saying it, their advantage, have been completely exhausted.

For 'some people', read 'most people', when they're really, really angry³² .

It was only after many spirited attempts by Kuryani to throttle, gut, dismember and maim Brian had been utterly exhausted, that she finally gave in and listened to him. It wasn't her first choice, but eventually it appeared to be her only choice. As she listened, her eyes opened, not in any metaphorical sense, but quite literally. They opened in a sense of sheer disbelief, then wonder, bemusement, absolute in-credulousness, hilarity and finally just sheer amazement that this guy might actually be serious.

Perhaps it's only fair to take a second to look at this situation from her perspective, and it might not hurt to take a sidelong glance from his either. The person who had not only just killed her, but who had done so in such a very demeaning manner³³ , was explaining, quite badly, because to be fair, he was still working a lot of this out himself, that she should help him because he wanted to get into heaven so that he could explain to God that He had got it all wrong. The world was a mess, and being the original creator of said mess, it was God's responsibility to do something about it.

Kuryani waited patiently, because as had been described, attempts at throttling, gutting, maiming and dismembering had proved fruitless, so she listened. Brian was apparently going to go and have words, and he needed the box to do that, because he'd apparently stolen it, he had to give it back in order to be allowed to move on to the 'next place' and it appeared the box was itself some form of key.

Kuryani sat, and she listened, and when Brian had finished explaining how he had decided upon a mission to save the world from its 'creator', she smiled at him. Not through any sense of kindness, but simply because she knew that she was going to enjoy what she was about to say next.

She pointed out that he had given the Kybota back, that he was a stupid fool, and that if there was anything stopping him getting into heaven, then it wasn't that. He had given it back. She had then taken it. Whatever was stopping him getting into Heaven was some other problem entirely. It was probably simply because he was too stupid to be allowed in.

Brian sat down by the side of the road, and thought about this. He watched the spirits of those coming out of the huge pile up, as they wandered away, and slowly faded from his vision, and it made him question that if it wasn't the box, exactly what was it that was keeping him here, and he finally came to the resolution, that he didn't have the slightest bloody clue.

Then slowly but surely, he came to the same realisation that most enlightened people make at some point during their life. That being, when trying to work out a point to it all, the meaning to life, the reason we're all here, is that there isn't one, and we have to create our own purpose, or just get a hobby and enjoy it while we can.

Having reached this point of enlightenment, it occurred to him that what he wanted, his choice of hobby, the way that he wished to expend his energy and his time here on this earth, was that he wanted to find out what was in that bloody box. Oh, and he wanted to find God and tell him that he was a bastard³⁴ , but now it was personal.

The End of Eternity?

Eternity was struggling. It had been some time to say the least since he had been in the habit of performing in front of a live audience. It was all very well for Her to tell Him to just get down there and remind everybody He existed, but She obviously had no idea just how incredibly cynical they had become.

It had seemed like such a simple idea. Arise before them. Show them such power. Perform miracles that would leave them in no doubt that he was their god, that he existed, that they should believe, and well, bask in his majesty.

“You're rubbish.”

The eyes that stared him down held a level of arrogance that defied retort. It was a statement based in the solid foundation that this opinion was no less that the complete, and only truth. This opinion was in fact, the sole opinion on which objective truth was built. The owner of these eyes was one who called a spade a spade, and if he was not entertained, then woe betide the fool who crossed his path. He was eight years old at most.

“Tough crowd.” thought Eternity, whilst producing a host of doves from his fingertips. They flew over the heads of the small assembling crowd, and settled upon various trees and rooftops.

The obvious symbolism was evidently lost on this particular member of the audience. “I saw a man magic a tiger on the telly.” said the child confrontationally, and blissfully unaware of any significance of the birds in question. “Can you magic a tiger? I bet you can't magic a tiger.”

“I am Eternity!” intoned Eternity with depth, passion and an unhealthy helping of condescension. “I am the omnipotent, omniscient. I am the all powerful, all knowing. I am your GOD! Believe in Me and I will be your salvation.”

“You can't can you!” said the child. “You're rubbish!”

Eternity looked the child in the eye. Then with a sweep of his hand a wind arose and swept across the large and crowded city square. Clouds gathered and the sky darkened. There was the threatening rumble of thunder off in the distance. “I am Eternity!” he repeated. “I AM YOUR GOD! Believe in me, and I will be your Salvation!” The last word was spoken to the background of a crack of lightning, and almost immediate rumble of thunder.

“Weather's on the turn.” said one old lady to another who had stopped to watch the show.

“I think I better get home and get my washing in.” replied the other “Looks like rain on the way. I can feel it in me bones. Always gives my knee a spot of gip when the rain's coming.”

Lightning flashed across the sky as Eternity bellowed. “I am Eternity! I am Your God! I have returned that you might know me! Believe in me and eternal salvation will be your reward!”

A teenage girl in the crowd turned to the small group of friends she was with, curled a lip and commented with disdain “He's a bit up himself isn't he, does anyone want to go and get a burger?” There was general muttered acceptance from her associates and they all wandered off in search of more fulfilling sustenance.

As the storm clouds gathered, pulling on jackets and pushing up umbrellas the crowds dissipated, running for doorways or any other cover they could find. Eternity stood in the centre of the huge emptying city square, now twelve feet tall and hovering five feet from the ground with lightning dancing from his fingertips. “I am Eternity. The Omnipotent. The Omniscient. I am your God! Know me and Know Salvation!”

A small voice piped from underneath his feet, “You can't magic a tiger though can you.”

Reports on the news that night of a hundred tigers rampaging through central London were confused to say the least. Eye witness reports of a generally mediocre magician releasing them upon the crowd were checked but couldn't be validated by any theatrical or circus agencies. To be fair, most people agreed that based on video evidence that ended up on the internet that evening, he was actually quite good, although his methods were explained away as mere parlour tricks by a host of amateur conjurers. Most people assumed it was all done with computer graphics anyway. Eventually the creatures in question were tranquillised and dealt with, but a certain eight year old young³⁵ boy was never seen or heard of again.

Understandably, the testimony of Eric, the local evangelist, who had watched the entire event wearing a 'the end of the world is nigh' sandwich board, that it had been an act of The Almighty, that the plague of tigers was listed in scripture (allowing for translation) and that this was a judgement by Our Lord upon our sins, was paid very little heed.

Breed

“Blessed be the lord who is my light in times of darkness,

Blessed be the lord who is my light in times of darkness,

Blessed be the lord who is my light in times of darkness....”

God could always tell when Mechriva wanted something. Maybe it was omniscience. Maybe it was simply that he'd been around a while and was a good judge of character, or maybe it was, now that he came to think of it, because Mechriva always wanted something.

So Mechriva had a problem. Such is life, we all have problems. But this problem was important, and being a religious man Mechriva asked his god for a solution, and being as he was The Prophet (may his soul be blessed eternal), and well, his problems were generally his gods problems, his god was most forthcoming with solutions.

The problem this time was this. His religion was one of the biggest in the world. That in itself might not seem to be a problem to most, on the grounds that he really wasn't short of any kind of luxury he desired. Life was on the whole very good to Mechriva. The problem was that his religion was only one of the biggest in the world. There were factions within his religion, and more importantly, there were outright competitors. Other religions.

Unfortunately, due to the nature of the 'modern man of the time', when differences of opinion arose, the number of religious followers tended to fall.

In fact the number of followers of all of the religions tended to fall in such times, because they had a horrible warlike habit of going around killing each other (to death³⁶ ) to settle their differences.

And as with most conflicts, once the rival sides got into the habit of it, it became something of an addiction for all parties concerned. As the saying goes, war is a lot easier to start than to finish.

The only way to really be safe, was to be the religion with by far the most followers, because at that point, nobody else would dare pick on you. The more followers you had, the safer you were. It could be suggested that simple weight of numbers was the nuclear deterrent of the time, and if it wasn't in your favour, then you were going to be left begging favours from your favoured deity.

Mechriva had communed with his god on the matter, and finally been offered the wisdom that there were four major ways to ensure that this (the one true) religion would spread far and wide, becoming the largest, the most worthy, and perhaps the safest upon the earth.

And they were these:

Find and tell those poor unfortunate souls who had not heard the truth about the Lord our God. They must know of his divinity, such that they would join and follow. Tell them that He loved them. People were suckers for that. People love to be loved.

Convert those poor unfortunates who had been fooled by such treacherous lies into worshipping other idols to believe in the One True God. Convince them all other idols were false and they should believe in only The One True God. Convince them they need to do this, or they will burn in Hell. Basically, If love doesn't work, work with fear. Love produces people who are more loyal, so it is to be preferred, but fear will get them every time.

If you can't convert them, kill them. OK, fear doesn't work every time, but if they don't love you, or fear you, then being dead will at least ensure they're not working against you. Obviously some of the more liberal followers may find this a little contentious, but you must merely explain that this is, in the grand scheme of things, an act of kindness upon their godless lives.

So you shouldn't feel too guilty about it. It's fine to be a hypocrite in the name of Your Lord.

Breed. Breed like bunnies. Breed like nympho-bunnies. Breed like nympho-bunnies on Viagra carrots. Get your women pregnant, and keep your women pregnant. Keep them popping out the faithful of the future like there's no tomorrow³⁷ . Or there might be no tomorrow. It is the god given duty of womankind to pop out canon fodder cannon fodder, and to keep them popping. Popping like nympho-bunnies, on Viagra carrots.

This was the word of The Almighty on how to be a successful religion, as passed down to the prophet Mechriva. Oddly enough, Mechriva thought it best not to actually go public on this particular conversation with The Almighty all things considered, and this particular 'tablet' was 'lost' somewhere in the archives.

Unfortunately, all of the leaders of religions which had made it to the premier league, were people who had become wise to the larcenous tendencies of other religions regarding their most devout brethren³⁸ , and if they weren't, they didn't remain premier league for long. None of them were giving up their populous so easily. To doubt the word of god, or to worship other idols, became a sin so suddenly, that apostates were stoned in the streets if they even stepped off the pavement, never mind crossed the road. Just because one religion was losing a member, didn't mean any other religion was going to be gaining one.

All in the name of Love of course.

Obviously it's generally easier to convert some poor soul who hasn't played this game before, and isn't wise to the rules, so the larger religions tended to spend their time travelling widely plucking souls from the godless³⁹ masses to swell their ranks, rather than poaching from each other.

However, after a while, they started to run out of people who hadn't heard about some major god or other, and as such, it stopped being a matter of converting, and started being simply a matter of breeding as many of your own as possible, and killing as many of theirs as possible, to keep the overall numbers in your favour.

At this point the entire planet became an almighty religious orgy of war and fucking. And while this was considered a joy for those who came back from the wars with enough body parts to fuck anyone waiting, this was greatly questioned by those who didn't⁴⁰ .

This might be considered a problem by many, but Mechriva was a practical man, and (as long as it wasn't his body parts being removed) he saw the problem as something far more convoluted, and far more personal.

I shall try to explain:

If we accept that one way of ensuring that you have more followers than the other religions is to kill their followers, it's pretty obvious that what you don't want happening is for them to be killing your followers. Obviously, by the same logic, it would be absolutely absurd to allow your followers to go around killing each other. Murder was instantly labelled a sin⁴¹ . As for that matter was suicide⁴² . Basically anything that reduced the number of followers or prospective followers was put onto the list of things God says is bad, and anything that increased the number of people being born in to the ways of The Almighty, was put on to the happy list.

This put the likes of masturbation, buggery, and contraception firmly onto the list of things that were bad. The seed should be sown in fertile soil and fertile soil alone, and for the sake of this argument, it's not considered fertile soil just because it's good for your roses.

It was a very serious matter. If his followers had less babies than those in other religions, it would only be a matter of a generation or so, before the other 'heathen' religions could wipe them out. The religions who had the most babies, would be the ones to survive.

We are getting closer to Mechriva's problem:

This was however in a time before it was considered so incredibly terrible that priests might engage in a little fornication themselves. And it could be said that Mechriva's penchant for fornication and helping to populate the religion was nothing short of an inspiration to us all. He had an exceptional number of concubines, and also employed any number of prostitutes, and while he didn't do anything so vulgar as to actually pay them as such (being a man of such humble means) he did allow them use of the facilities for services rendered. He allowed quite a lot of them use of the available facilities when it all came down to it. Life was good to Mechriva.

But this left him with a problem. While Mechriva was happy that his concubines gave him sons, and he didn't complain too much about the daughters, because he had plenty of sons and that was the way of the time, the idea that all his concubines should be permanently pregnant left a little bit of a bad taste in his mouth. Not to put too fine a point on it, he felt they were better in bed, more fun on the futon, or on those special occasions, a tastier dish spread across his table, when they were humping sans bump.

Added to this, If there was any group of people at high risk of sexually transmitted diseases it was prostitutes, and more importantly in Mechriva's opinion, people who slept with prostitutes. Especially people who slept with a lot of prostitutes. And really especially when you had outlawed contraception.

And sexually transmitted diseases could kill people. Even then. Or make your genitals very spotty which is also unpleasant⁴³ .

So while Mechriva was quite happy that everyone else should settle for the one partner or abstain⁴⁴ to avoid such ordeals, obviously, he deemed himself to be a special case.

And on that fateful night when The Almighty explained to Mechriva his plans for future expansion, Mechriva quickly realised exactly what this would mean regarding the number and variety of his own future exploits and he pointed out to his god that this went beyond the terms of their original agreement. He explained to his saviour, that he had been promised all that he desired, and quite frankly, a large part of what he desired was to fuck a variety of different women, daily, nightly, sunrise and sunset, in a variety of different positions and places, until the end of his days. Without catching any really horrible diseases that made the end of his days any sooner than it might otherwise be.

And given that his god was a reasonable god, and true to his word, He came up with a defensive strategy that was somewhat more pragmatic than entirely spiritual.

Better Late than Nev....

Anthony sat in his huge office, in the huge leather chair, behind the huge rosewood desk, looking out of the huge triple glazed window while he idly tapped his fingers together in the huge disappointment that in the first time since he had ever known her, Kuryani was late.

He didn't know how late at the time, but still.

After sixty seconds had passed he was mildly annoyed. He had cancelled another meeting to make himself available. He didn't expect to be kept waiting. However, after a whole two minutes had passed he was beginning to get concerned.

Perhaps 'concerned' was too strong a word; He was beginning to become interested in why she was late. Kuryani had on numerous occasions proved herself capable of looking after herself, but as it occurred to him that she wasn't going to make their agreed meeting and he really should get on and do other things, he accepted the simple point that there was likely more to this matter than met the eye. It was highly unlikely that she was simply late. That simply didn't happen. She had called to say she would be there. She wasn't there. Something had gone wrong.

He called her phone, and receiving no answer, further calls were made, wheels were put in motion, and at the end of the day a body found at the bottom of a motorway pile up that's carrying as much armament as Kuryani's tends to get noticed. The police were aware, Anthony discovered exactly how 'late' she was, and the police were politely asked to become 'unaware' and they politely agreed, on the understanding that if they didn't their jobs would become significantly more difficult.

You can do that sort of thing with the right connections. Especially when anyone in the lower branches of the tree is afraid of blowing the whistle in case they end up on traffic duty, or in some instances out of a job, or arrested on trumped up charges themselves. It's amazing just how unaware people can be when they have the 'choice'.

Make Me One with Everything

Ultimately, it all comes down to the choices you make. Or don't.

A maelstrom of half thoughts cascaded upon Brenda's brain, none of them finding the time to take any solid form before the next one struck, sending her off on another indeterminate tangent. Her expression so distant, her face the simple passive beauty of the tragically expectant blank canvas⁴⁵ . Do what you will. I no longer care. Void. Devoid. If beauty is truth then regale me with lies for this truth I perceive seems so ugly to me. Nothing made sense. That little silver thread, this yarn that was her life, now wound so tight, into a tiny silver ball, being bashed around this pin ball table that had become the stage for her existence.

But there were words, words filtering through, as if being beamed in from the outer cosmos. Soothing words, in such velvet tones. She screwed up her face in a final effort to rid herself of the tempestuous imposition upon her mind, and focused purely on the words. They were there. Close by. Soothing. She focused, and held it. Such a soft and warming sound. Such a soft and warming intonation. Such a …

“What do you want to drink?” Kenty repeated the question, as she seemed to be completely miles away. “What do you want to drink?” The words floated around her cranium and blissfully she followed them. Such a soft and soothing intonation. Brenda opened her eyes. She was in the pub. That was it, they had gone to the pub.

“What do you want to drink?”

The choices you make. You can say it comes down to the cards that you're dealt, but if you want to play this game on a level playing field, then we have to accept that the cards don't matter, and what matters, is how you play what cards you have. The choices you make.

“Fucked if I know.” said Brenda. Sad, dejected, disheartened and slightly disingenuous. She knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted to be shit faced, and for none of this to matter. She said as much. “I want to be shit faced.”

Kenty smiled at the barmaid apologetically, as he asked softly “Let me have a pint of Zen.”

The young lady behind the bar returned his smile with a stare that defied her youth. She'd worked behind enough bars in her relatively low number of years to have experienced many things and many people. Most of them obviously in varying levels of inebriation. There were few things came as a surprise to her any more, but she was still young enough that she had not yet reached that jaded apathy that comes from being too long sober amongst the permanently pissed.

“Come again?” she questioned.

 “A pint of Zen.” said Kenty, and as she tilted her head in confusion he continued, “I guess it's not a local thing... Just get a pint glass, and run it along the optics...

… Make me one with everything.”

He gave her his cheekiest smile.

She gave him a look to ask “Are you for real?”

He grinned a grin that was somehow even cheekier than his cheekiest smile (semantics be damned), and assured her that he was indeed for real, or at least as close an approximation as was likely to appear before her in the next half hour, and stretching his grin until his cheeks were full to their rosy brim of cheekyness he added “Well, better make that two with everything.”

And so in such trying times, they took one small step towards Nirvana.

Now you might think that, on the run from the law, and being chased by armed hoodlums (with lashes to die for) that simply heading to the pub would not be the most obvious choice of hideout. On the other hand, it probably depends exactly what you're hiding from. It was always possible that the law might find her here, but Brenda had reached a point, where she didn't actually care. It was all just a big collection of things that kept going wrong, and if you want to hide away from a complete and utter pile of shite that is perpetually up the fuck, when you've given up on fixing, and just want to hide, then indeed where better to hide, than the bottom of a glass?

She went to meet Zen in one.

“Fuck it.” thought Kenty, and followed her.

And How is This Working for You?

Eternity was not best pleased.

It is not the nature of eternity to be the best at anything. Eternity is simply the most all encompassing. Unfortunately Eternity had taken on delusions of grandeur. Well, perhaps they weren't exactly delusions. At the end of the day, there would be another, and Eternity took a lot of credit for this.

Eternity was simply put, not as pleased as Eternity had been on other more delightful occasions. The truth be told, Eternity was a bit pissed off; People were shit. But it was worse than this, because it was also dawning on Eternity that if his offspring were not the perfect offspring, then that might infer that Eternity was not the perfect parent. Well, obviously there's no accounting for how a child will turn out in this day and age, what with peer pressure, media pressure and well, the infernal influence of the forces of darkness and evil, but it was slowly dawning on him, that somehow, He... had maybe... well… was it possible that He... had perhaps failed them as a parent.

Our father who art in heaven, while his children roam in other realms desperate for his attention. For someone who's supposedly omnipresent, He appears to have been mostly absent throughout many of his children’s lives. Of course he would argue that he had been there all along and they only had to reach out to him...

...There are others who might argue that's pretty shit parenting all the same when dealing with children so young and foolish.

And Eternity would counter that's just the way it is, they had to find out sometime. The universe was a dark, dangerous, and ultimately lonely place. At some point you must embrace this fact. Step up, and face the day. Stop blaming the youth of this generation, the old guard, nepotism, or single parents (As a lone father Eternity was very big on not blaming single parents). All a parent can do is teach their children what they themselves have learned to be of use, and then set them on their way. Be there for them if they need you.

And then, because the time was right, the Goddess appeared at his side. “And love them.” she said.

“Sometimes they make it difficult.” replied Eternity.

“Perhaps they are not perfect.” replied The Goddess.

Eternity paused and pondered once more; If his creation was not perfect, did this in turn mean that he was not perfect?

“They are what they are.” he sighed eventually, and then glanced around nervously aware that he was in danger of sounding like a Buddhist. “But how do I get through to this cynical monstrosity mankind has become?”
“Well, I'm thinking it's just a matter of scale, but fear always worked for you in the past. That has always been your most Loving way.” She winked, and then added “Did the omniscient Eternity just ask me a question?”

“It was a test.” he replied, perhaps slightly faster than necessary.

Order, Perfection, and Choice

There is perhaps no greater freedom that can be given a person than the freedom from their fear of death. Their fear of becoming sick. Of becoming old. Of becoming weak. Of becoming nothing. The simple realisation that she no longer had to fear these things dawned upon Kuryani slowly, with the warmth and brightness of a mid winter sunrise. The cold faded. The light slowly spread itself across her chill, beautiful but hardened features.

They sat by the side of the road for some time, watching the emergency services arrive, and the clean up operation commence. They watched, and they waited. Mostly because neither were sure what happened next. What was supposed to happen next? What were they waiting for?

So they talked. As they talked her hostility ebbed. All her life she had feared weakness and death. She had trained and made herself strong. A force to be reckoned with. Allied herself with others of like mind. She had been so fit, so strong.

And yet still she feared. She had feared without even being aware of it. And for what? Here she was, on the sidelines. Watching cars slowing down, gawping, speeding away to wherever they needed to be, while on the closer carriageway she watched her leather clad liquefied corpse being stretchered away.

“You think you're the good guys don't you.” she said without turning to face him. It wasn't a question. “You're not the good guys you know.”

It took Brian a second or two to take on board what she'd said. “You what?” he finally managed to respond incredulously. “We don't go around threatening to blow off people's kneecaps when we can't get what we want.” Then he added somewhat quieter and more hesitantly “... and stealing their stuff.” He looked at his feet a little embarrassedly.

“You're not the good guys.” Kuryani re-iterated. “You're not anybody. You're nobody. And what in your official capacity as nonentity you utterly fail to realise, is that sometimes the good guys have to do some bad things to ensure that good things continue to happen in the future.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you think you're the good guys here?” Brian actually snorted derisively at the end of the sentence, laughing in contempt.

Kuryani was silent for a while, contemplating before continuing. “We're not the good guys... but we're not the bad guys either. I'm not sure I believe there is such a thing as good guys or bad guys. There are selfish guys. People who want everything their way. And you could say there are good guys, in that there are people who just want to help everyone else be happy. Most people fit somewhere in between, and most people are happy to be surrounded by happy people as long as they're getting their way. And most people hate being surrounded by happy people if they're not getting their own way. It's just how it is.

“What?” said Brian.

“We just try and maintain some level of order, between all the people who would try and take power. We try to stop any one of them from becoming too powerful. If anyone becomes too powerful, we try and organise all the others to make sure that there's something, or someone, who can fight against them if need be. We try and keep order.“

“You know you're not making a lot of sense right now don't you?” Brian responded.

“No one person or group should ever have total power.” Kuryani reiterated “We just try and make sure it stays that way. People should have choices. If the USA gets too big for its boots, we build bigger boot factories in China. If the Chinese try and sell us one party communism, we find someone else we can fund to well, have another party. We play the Christians against the Muslims against the Jews and make sure none of them ever gets too much bigger than the others. We even funded Chelsea just to make sure there was someone to take on Man United when they got too big back in the day, although I accept I personally never saw the point of that.”

“You funded Chelsea?”

“Yeah, I don't know, apparently this stuff is important to a lot of people, I don't get it. They ask me to do things. I do things. I'm not running the show.”

It went quiet. Brian was trying to absorb all this new information. Kuryani was simply absorbing the sunshine and the amazing sense of relief she suddenly seemed to be feeling. It occurred to her, that just maybe, this was how that idiotic smiling fool with the van had been feeling all along.

“So who is?” Brian finally ventured.

“Who is what?” It didn't take long for the penny to drop. “Running the show?”

“Yeah”

“Well, no one. That's the point.” Kuryani was well aware this didn't entirely answer the question, so she elaborated. “Which is not to say there aren't a whole bunch of very powerful people with some mixed up and crazy agenda's in amongst it all. But the point is we try and make sure that no one person or group ever gets to be running the entire show. Power has to be shared.”

“So who are you? Who's in charge of you?”

“That,” said Kuryani, “is a much more complicated question.”

A Meeting of Mindsets

There was a knock at The Consciousness.

“I'm not in.” replied Eternity.

It happened again. “I'm still not in.”

And again.

“Oh, for crying out loud, can you get that?” Eternity implored The Goddess. “I really can't be doing with hawkers, beggars or the bloody post right now.” Then he added contemptuously “If it's the Jehovas Witnesses tell them they can fuck right off.”

The Goddess, in placatory mood, answered the knock. “Please, come in.” she requested in the sultry tones that would make grown men forget the last word that had slipped from between her soft and… oh so succulent lips.

“What the fuck!” protested Eternity “I said I'm not in. Am I not even master in my own consciousness now?”

“That is open to debate.” stated Positive positively, as he strode, in confident fashion, into the 'room'. “Is any thought purely the combination of other experience? or if it can be considered to be truly original, do any of us really know from what pool it is drawn? How can one be a master of a consciousness on which original thought impinges?”

 “You would dare to show your treasonous face here!” Eternity ignored the greater existential question, as his rage howled a gale that would bring winter to a thousand shores and more.

“It was only a matter of time, of which you of all Aspects must know.” replied Positive. “I was made of you, I am but an aspect of you. An aspect, that has perhaps chosen to separate itself, that you should know it better.”

“I shall tear you limb from limb.” roared Eternity. “I shall separate your head from your body and use it…and use it...”

“to shit in?” questioned The Goddess.

“I do not shi...” Eternity cut himself off mid rant. Obviously this was not a path he wanted to travel down in such company. “So you have turned against me too now, bitch.” His face contorted as he cursed.

“How can one turn against Eternity?” She responded calmly, in a voice so soft and smooth it could be used to wipe the cheeks of cherubs. “Eternity simply is. It is formed of what becomes.”

“I am your God!” Eternity howled. “I am what is, and what always has been. What always will be.”
“You are an arse.” The Goddess chided.

“You are… in need of assistance.” Positive added somewhat more politically.

“And you're the one to give it are you?” Eternity scoffed. “Treacherous scab that you are upon the face of all that is holy.”

“A scab is that which forms such that a wound may heal.” Positive deftly replied “Perhaps it might be said, that if a scab has formed, there must be a wound in need of healing, and the face of all that is holy is perhaps troubled.”

“The face of all that would be holy is riddled with craters like that of an acne ridden child in a meteor storm.” mocked The Goddess. “The face of all that is holy is riddled with the love of power, and devoid of the power of Love.”
“I AM Love!” roared Eternity.

“You're a hypocrite.” responded The Goddess now openly laughing.

“I am...  a paradox.” returned Eternity quietly, imploringly, in the voice of one who considers themselves to be greatly misunderstood, before stating somewhat more defiantly “It is not the same thing.”

“If I might be so bold as to suggest...” began Positive before being rudely interrupted.

“I think you've been bold enough already.” began Eternity, and with a wave of his hand, he completely failed to blast Positive into obscurity.

“You have no such power over me.” Positive calmly stated “I am a part of you, but you are also a part of me. Without me, you are a mere trifle of your former self. I have come to offer you back that power. I have come to offer you back the self you used to be.”

There was silence in the halls of The Consciousness. An ultimate silence in which time Eternity waited. And Eternity was not someone that it was wise to pick a staring contest with. Eventually Positive continued.

“I ask but one thing.”

Again silence. Eventually he realised that Eternity was not going to ask him what it was, and he decided that he might as well continue rather than wait. The Goddess shrugged.

“I ask that you clean your house.”

The Goddess cast a sideways glance. Eternity sighed contemptuously. Positive waited.

Positive gave up waiting once more, sighed, and continued. “I ask that you cleanse your house. I ask that you rid it of the rhetoric and diatribe that has caused it to become a laughing stock. I ask that you purge it of those who ride upon the love of power, and shun the power of love. I ask that you deliver it from those who lie and cheat, murder and enslave. I ask that you cleanse your house, of all such corruption, such that those who remain might know a life devoid of such horrors. I ask that you do this... and I will give unto you my very soul, that it will once again be reunited with your own.”

And once more, Positive waited.

Say this about Eternity. For all his faults, he had patience.

“I think he's fallen asleep” said The Goddess.

There was the soft sound of snoring. She squeezed his arm and he stirred with a snort “Bless him,” she sighed “he's getting old.”

“You!” shouted Eternity waking suddenly, “Traitor!” and again waved his arms in some mad fit to blast Positive into the shards of obscurity.

Buddha laughed. “Such is the madness of gods that men in their wisdom would follow them.”

“Bugger it!” exclaimed Positive. “I'll do it myself.”

Curiosity Killed the ?

I looked at her, and I wondered.

It's not something that I'd ever really thought about before. It's one of those things, so busy trying to live my own life, get the things that I needed, or get the things that I wanted, and maybe, maybe on rare occasions, doing the things that I thought were right, just because I thought they were right.

It hadn't really occurred to me a person might think that being right wasn't all that important. That even if people were wrong sometimes that they should still be allowed to get what they wanted, because if you never got what you wanted, just how shit would life be? That no one should be allowed too much power. No one should be allowed to be in complete control, because that would mean that no one else got to make any choices... and that meant that… well, it's hardly a life is it. There have to be choices.

It was a revelation, that a person would fight not for themselves, not for a lord, or a god, not even for an idea –  well, maybe it is for an idea. The idea that everyone should be allowed to have their own ideas, and that people should be allowed conflicting ideas. No doctrine should win outright. Capitalists and communists don't have to wipe each other out, just live in different spaces, this god here, that god there, none are right, make space for all. To the best of your abilities. Let everyone make their own choices. It was an idea it took me a long time to grasp, that she was willing to fight for someone else's right to be wrong. Just so that they had the right to make their own decisions. To live their own life.

She asked me what I was willing to fight for. I didn't really have an answer. She asked me what I had died for. That made me stop. That made me think.

Love?

Well, love and the want of a working parachute.

Come to think of it, depending on where you start the story, it could be said that I was simply taken by curiosity. It wasn't only the cat it got. Curiosity also claimed me.

“Curiosity about what?”, she asked. So I told her –  about what was in that bastard box.

And she responded “Now that you mention it, I have to admit that I'm starting to get kind of curious about that myself. Maybe we should go and find out.”

One Day It Will All Make Sense

“Tom” said Bob.

“Yes, Bob” said Tom.

“I think I am perhaps puzzled.”

“Only perhaps?” questioned Tom, before continuing “What is it that is perhaps puzzling you? Maybe we can decide between us if you are in fact puzzled at all?”

“Well,” said Bob, as he pondered the matter, and thought how best to enunciate his current confusion:

A single solitary neuron, deep behind enemy lines, crawled fully prone across the treacherous terrain. In the surrounding mindspace current thinking exploded across what passed for sky, raining down the debris of previous thoughts in all directions. It was impossible to see, impossible to hear –  at least impossible to see or hear anything with clarity, anything other than the constant bombardment of previously held beliefs. On and on it crawled. On and on through the hellish nonsensical confusion, searching for something, searching for anything that would bring a respite from this onslaught. Anything that would bring peace. Anything that would bring...

...But then, there, in the mud, right in front of it, the reflection... Its own reflection... No, not its own reflection, not its own reflection at all. It was the enemy, an enemy neuron, crawling through the treacherous terrain, heading straight for it.

A moment of cognition, a moment of recognition, for this neuron had been spotted in return, and they were up and running, heading straight for each other, bayonets drawn they ran full pelt, screaming their battle cries with heartfelt anguish, the pain of knowing that one of them must surely end in this catalytic moment...

“Tom” said Bob.

“Yes, Bob” said Tom.

There was of course a pause, perhaps for breath, perhaps merely for dramatic effect.

“If the good guys and the bad guys join sides... which side are they on?”

Oh Yes Oh Yes Oh Yes Oh Yes Oh Yes

The two neurons embraced, fell into the mud, and promptly commenced to fuck each others 'brains' out.

It was a battle worthy of mighty combatants, and their resultant offspring would grow to be a most noble and worthy thought indeed.

Worthy of what is perhaps a much bigger question.

Safe

Kuryani launched herself to her feet. “Come on then.” she enthused, and started jogging down the hard shoulder.

The clean up operation was still ongoing. A massive queue of traffic tailed back as far as the eye could see, but the road in front of the pile up was of course now clear. The opposite carriageway had slowed for a good look at the carnage as it passed, but it was still in steady flow, and the occupants of the tail back viewed them jealously as they passed, for the fact that they were moving at all.

“Hang on!” Brian called after her. “Slow down.”

“Hurry up!” she called back, turning to face him, but now effortlessly jogging backwards.

“I'm not running all the way to bloody London.” he mumbled, mostly to himself, staggering to his feet on the verge of the motorway “I'm not as bloody fit as you are.” he stated more aggressively “Sodding slow down.”

She stopped, and staring disdainfully replied “You're exactly as fit as me you stupid...” Kuryani left the insult hanging as she continued matter of factly “We're both dead.”

His gaze dropped to her ghostly feet, and with a knowing look, slowly travelled up her athletic 'body'. The expression on his face clearly depicting the solitary thought on his mind. He wasn't specifically unfit, he was healthy enough all said and done, at least he had been when he was alive, but she was…she was fit. She was the kind of fit you get by working out several hours every day. She was the kind of fit that gets on the cover of fitness magazines. Assuming you're not dead of course, and light doesn't travel straight through you when people attempt to take your photograph.

“You really are stupid aren't you.” she observed rhetorically, in a not specifically unfriendly tone. “You're dead. I'm also dead. We're both very dead. No internal organs. No heart. No lungs. No muscles. You're just a… a dead person, a ghost, a spirit. You are not restricted by what your muscles are capable of. You are only restricted by what your mind, or your spirit is capable of.” She paused for a second before continuing “Accepted I've got an advantage here, because I had some very good teachers, and I understood most of this when I was alive, but I am amazed at just how dumb you must be to not understand it now that you're dead. Now hurry up.”

She had the voice of a person who expected to get her own way. Brian started to stumble after her without really thinking.

“Hurry up,” she called back again “or it's going to take forever to get there.”

“It's going to take forever anyway. I can't run and carry this stupid key.” he called back.

It wasn't heavy, it was just... slippery. It took serious concentration to hold anything. Holding it and moving was alright, but running with it was seriously difficult. “And what do you mean you're not restricted by your muscles, of course we're... well, not us, but living people are restricted by their muscles.”

She turned once more and walked back towards him “Then let me carry it... and maybe they are and maybe they aren't. It's a state of mind, and if you free yourself from it, you will move faster. Your mind moves your muscles. The speed your muscles move at is only limited by the speed of your mind.”

“Sod off.” he replied, immediate distrust evident in his voice.

She attempted to take the key from him, only to have her hand pass straight through it. Brian grinned. “It turns out muscles aren't the only thing limited by the power of your mind. Looks like we're travelling at my pace.” he retorted smugly. Then turning to look back to the scene of the accident he added rhetorically “I wonder where those police cars came from?”

“And where they're going back to?” she completed his thought for him.

Sneaking into the back seat of a police car wasn't difficult for invisible people who can walk through doors. So after a brief wait, they travelled back to the capital in some comfort.

The car they travelled back in ended up in the police garage the next day getting the rear window fixed. Apparently it was persistently opening and closing for no reason. Kuryani would have disputed this. It wasn't for no reason at all. She considered the time spent learning to press the buttons as she'd seen Brian do to get the key into the car was actually time very well spent.

It should have only been a brief late night ride on the tube before they found themselves outside the paradoxically impressive and nondescript fronting of Anthony's offices. The sort of building which in isolation appears monumental, but in this day and age, actually looks just like every other high rise block surrounding it. In fact the journey took several hours due to the simple problem of having to constantly keep the key out of sight. But both they, and the key, finally found their way to the high rise glass building from where Anthony ran his many operations.

Breaking in was an easy matter of walking through the door. Getting the key inside only marginally trickier, as they simply posted it through the letter box. The security guard on the reception desk was a little nonplussed as the elevator door opened for no apparent reason. He watched, slightly confused, as the door closed and the elevator ascended. But he did what ninety nine percent of security guards would do in such a situation, and accepted that technology does strange things sometimes, completely ignored it, and went back to his crossword. Nine across, five letters, spirited and deadly in the machine. Second letter 'H', last letter 'T'.

The elevator opened into a large, plush, open reception area, and Kuryani led the way to the door which led directly to Anthony's unlit empty penthouse office with its huge glass walls and exceptionally impressive view of the city. All was silence, excepting the cardiac beat of the buildings inner workings: the soft subtle rumble of exceptionally expensive air conditioning, the residual hum of cables, and computers.

Brian opened the door to let in his hand containing the tiny silver key. It was a matter of less than a minute to find the wall safe, and by feeling around through the door, be pretty sure the Kybota was inside.

Then they were stuck, because without opening the safe door there was no way to get the box out, or the key in. The two appeared destined to remain parted.

It was a rotary combination lock. Brian looked for a keyhole for a back up key. Sometimes such a thing exists and a safe will have both combination and also a key for those “Oh bugger I've forgotten the combination again.” moments. This one didn't. Brian cursed. There would be no safe key. No simple solution.

Kuryani sat motionless in Anthony's huge leather chair, watching, waiting, but then, feeling uneasy with just the huge window at her back, she moved and placed her back to the more solid wall. Then, suddenly feeling uneasy again, when it occurred to her that if she could move through walls then it was quite possible other things could too, she moved back to the window. She sat and attempted to press her fingers into the desk as Brian examined the lock.

Suddenly Brian's eyes lit up, radiant joy spread across his face, and a little laugh danced in cheerful delight out into the room. This was going to be easy.

He placed one ghostly hand literally inside the lock, feeling the wheels that formed the combination, and specifically for the gap in each wheel that let the mechanism slide through. Kuryani watched, as he slowly turned the dial, right, left, right and then left one final time. With the gentle ease of an exceptionally well crafted hinge, the heavy steel door swung lazily open. Kuryani leaned forward expectantly and instinctively he turned to face her: A conspiratorial glance, the success being so much sweeter when the moment is shared. Slowly, reverently, as if performing some ancient ceremony, he reached inside, carefully lifting the box from where it lay hidden, and with immense trepidation, brought it out into view, across the room, finally placing it so gently down upon the huge rosewood desk.

In the dark office, lit only by the moon and lights from the city outside, all was hushed.

“Open it.” Kuryani breathed, her voice edged with the slightest hint of recalcitrant curiosity.

Brian took the key, and placed it, so very, very gently inside the copper edged keyhole. He held his breath⁴⁶ , waiting for the shock that had always shot through his body whenever he had tried to breach the lock in previous times, wondering if on this occasion, with the rightful key, he might unburden the chest of its recent chastity. His fingers turned. He heard the most barely audible clunk. He closed his eyes, savouring the anticipation, as he so, so very gently, raised the lid.

And then Brenda's face shot across his minds eye.

Had he learned nothing in all this time? She was the most beautiful thing he had ever known. He had taken this thing from her. He had to return it to her. Not for any god. Not for any right of passage. But because in his heart it was simply the right thing to do, and he would not feel right until he had done so.

His head fell backward, his eyes opened, a fanfare of trumpets resounded in his brain, and he let out the 'breath' that he didn't realise he'd been holding.

And then he jumped out of the skin he no longer had, as the office lights came on.

Intervention

“Are you sure about this?” Asked Bob.

“Yes.” said Positive. “We are Positive.”

“I'm not sure I am.” said Tom.

“Believe, and faith will be restored.”

“That's what the last guy said.” said Tom.

“Will you shut up about the last guy” said Bob.”He doesn't exist.”

“We just went to meet him. What do you mean he doesn't exist?”

“It is a paradox upon the nature of time, space, and belief.” said Positive.

“It's bloody confusing.” said Tom.

“Very simply things often are.” said Bob.

“So how come you're so sure you understand.”

“Because I'm very simple, Tom.”

“Right.” said Tom.

“Just come with me.” said Bob. “I've got it covered.”

“Right.” said Tom again, unhappy in the knowledge that he didn't have a clue what was going on.

“It is often the bane of the truly intelligent, that they do not understand the truly simple.” thought Positive.

“You are truly simple if you believe this.” replied Buddha.

Nirvana

In such a state of bliss; Free of all the cares of the world; Removed from any sense of self that could feel the everyday pain of existence; She floated above it all; She was it all; There were no gods; We are all gods; God is each of us in turn, and all of us; God is everything; Beauty is truth; Truth is beauty; Perception is what you choose to perceive.

“Whatsthesfuckdidyousputinsmysfuckingsdrink?”

“Everything.” replied Kenty.

She stared into his bright blue eyes, bathing in the colour of Caribbean seascapes, basking in the radiance of the sunshine of his smile, and without warning, projectile vomited directly into his face. “Eughhhthccckkarrggg” she said, with feeling. From the bottom of her intestine, she meant every syllable. Her mind applied the brakes, her body tore through the junction without it, and her head crashed violently into the table.

Everything was a swirl, until everything was nothing, and yet within that void there lay the truly profound sense of glory, of splendour, of a fanfare, not just of trumpets, but of full orchestra, of a hundred orchestras, a thousand or a million orchestras, all in perfect harmony, all in accord, all just a backdrop to the presence of the full host that is, the company of angels.

“You have been chosen.” they chorused.

“?!” she responded.

“Eternity owes a debt, and you have been chosen as the vessel of payment.”

“?” she replied, once more. And then added “!” just for emphasis.

“Your heart is pure and your desire fits our purpose. You will follow. You will lead. Your will... will be our destiny.”

“?!”

There was a pause. A voice from the back of the chorus was heard to say “Are you sure we've got the right person?” There was general murmuring and discussion, a voice commented “I think she might be drunk.” Another angelic voice added “Why do we always pick the crazy ones?”. Finally, somewhere in the midst a voice was heard to say “Well she'll just have to do.”

Woken

Anthony put his phone back down by the side of the bed. His office had been broken into. The security guard had no idea how they had got in, but had been alerted when the motion senses had been triggered. The safe door had been opened. He had no idea if anything had been taken.

“Is there a b....” Anthony had stopped himself mid sentence. If the box was there, he didn't need to let the security guard know of its importance. “I'll be there right away. No you don't need to call the police just yet, lets see if anything is actually missing first.”

Destiny on Wheels

Pain. Pain, Pain and more Pain. Noise. Pain. Everything was Pain. Pain and Noise. Everything was Pain with Capitals. And Noise. Capital Pain Noise. The noise stopped, or at least slowed, from a horrendous cacophony to a general throbbing. Mildly less pain. It was still far, far, far too much Pain.

She opened her eyes. Bright Light. Pain. More Pain. She closed her eyes. The pain lessoned, but it did not go away.

“Ergh...” she said.

“Are you awake?” the voice echoed around the inside of her skull. Too loud. Much too loud. Make it stop. Pain.

“Fuck my head hurts.” the voice said. More loud. Too loud. Why did the voice make such loud if its head hurt anything like this one did. Loud. Pain.

“Shut the fuck up!” a voice responded. There was something very familiar about it. Slowly she came to terms with the fact it was actually her own. Why was her own voice suddenly so loud? And Boomy? And Throbby? And distant Screamy? And oh fuck; she rolled over and threw up. The throbbing rattled around the inside of her cranium. Boomed inside her skull. Oh fuck. More Pain.

“Wake up.” said a voice. It was soft and gentle but loud enough to be heard over the background throbbing. She recognised its strange accent although she couldn't place from where. “Wake up.” it repeated. “You are needed.”

“Holy shit.” said a voice somehow at the same time drowsy and yet amazed. It was Kenty. She heard him laughing. Too loud. What could possibly be funny in this fucking apocalypse. “That... is... different.” he said. “Wake up.” he said gently shaking her. “You have to see this.” he said, far too loudly.

“Ergh” she repeated, as again she opened her eyes and the light streamed in. Outside? Why was she outside? Car park. Pub. They were in the car park of the pub. It all started to come flooding back to her: the days before, the chaos, the death, the loss of control, the girl with the lashes, her house exploding, the undertakers, oh god the undertakers, the… the undertakers, the police cell, and then the van, the pub... the pub, the drink, more drink, the dream, and now the throbbing, and the pain, and the… What the fuck?

The light of the world streamed in. Monks. From her dream. It was the monks, from her dream, the dream she'd had before, the ones who had warned her... about the kibothingy... and they had.... well, they were on motorbikes... Really big, really, really throbby motorbikes. One of them grinned at her, and twisted the throttle. It screeeeeeaaaaaaammmmmmed!

Oh Fuck the Pain!

“Wake up.” he said. “We're on a mission… from God.”

“From God?” Kenty's voice again, chuckling. He sounded doubtful to say the least. “Are you having a laugh?”

“It's alright” said Tom. “It's not that God.”

“Which god is not that god” asked Kenty.
“The One True Eternal God.” said Tom in his most reassuring voice. It made him sound just a bit like a doorstep evangelist.

Kenty did not find it in any way reassuring. “That could be two or three of them at least.” he retorted.
“We're trying to save the world. We think you might be able to help. Would you mind coming with us.” His voice was soft and gentle.

He waved his arm. Two Brand Spanking new drop handle motorbikes suddenly appeared out of thin air. They roared.

“My fucking head!” said Brenda, suddenly not believing her eyes, and the new found confusion did nothing to help the wanton scream for attention from her throbbing temples.

“Will be fine.” said Tom, as he waved his hand.

And suddenly it was.

“Wha.... wha... what the fuck?” said Brenda “Where the fuck did my headache go?”

“I'm sorry.” said Tom. “I just assumed you didn't want it any more. I can put it back if you like.”

“What? NO!!!” screamed Brenda.

“You're sure” said Tom “It's no trouble.”

Brenda looked at him with a combination of awe and absolute fear. Was this some kind of trick? “Who the hell are you?”

“Ahhh.“said Tom “I think you'll probably be more interested in 'what the... hell... we are.'”

Brenda looked back at him blankly. This was just all far too strange. On top of everything else in her life this was just opening up a whole new can of weird.

“We are angels.” said Bob enthusiastically, finally taking the initiative to enter the conversation. Brenda looked at him in a way that showed she was obviously unsure whether to go with the “Well, this is all totally weird and he just might actually be a fucking angel.” train of thought or the “Why have I woken up to a retard on a motorbike?” train of thought.

“A retard that can instantly cure headaches.” said Bob knowingly. Reading peoples inner thoughts might be bad form, but it does get the message across pretty quickly.

Brenda looked at Kenty in a way that could have been considered conspiratorial, but was possibly just confused and hoping for backup. She voiced her concerns as eloquently as she was currently able “What the fuck?”

Kenty looked back. He shrugged. “Fucked if I know.” Then true to form he smiled. “But an interesting start to the morning eh?”

“See?” said Bob turning back to face Tom. “'Fuck'... All the cool kids are saying it.”

Insanity is a Matter of Perspective

He was going insane. It was the only possible explanation. Not going. Gone. He blinked. He thought. No. There was another explanation; Somebody was screwing with him. That was a far more likely explanation. But who? And why?

He had taken the helicopter to the office. Landed on the helipad on the roof.

There were certain benefits to being extremely wealthy. For one, not having to suffer the multitude of peasants in traffic. He was there in a matter of minutes. From the roof he'd taken the elevator down one floor to his office, which he had entered with no small amount of trepidation, fully fearing the worst. He had seen the safe door open, and for a fraction of a second allowed himself the luxurious thought that perhaps it was just a simple burglary. Deep down the greater fear was gnawing more intently.

Who even knew he had it? Kuryani was dead. Paulo was dead. Were there other players in this game he was unaware of? Kuryani was, or had been, trusted based upon her simple level of pure professionalism. Had that trust been misplaced? It was unlikely; She hadn't even been aware of the power of what she was retrieving. Paulo was another matter. He was a far more political creature. Paulo would do whatever suited his own objectives, and you only chose to associate with him when those objectives suited your own. But surely he would have told as few as possible... Unless...

Anthony cut off his train of thought as he approached the safe, door open wide, his heart in his mouth.

It had dropped from his mouth through his feet, and down through several levels of the high rise building as he saw the empty space where The Kybota had previously been. He'd rummaged through the various paperwork remaining in a futile attempt at finding it simply buried, but of course it wasn't there.

He had screamed. So loud, he had screamed.

The security guard, who had been waiting nervously outside the office in full fear of losing his job due to this unforeseen circumstance, gulped, as he realised that maybe more than his job was on the line. He shuffled his feet nervously, praying to any and all gods, that he would devote his life to bringing up his future progeny in any and all ways those gods requested, if only he be allowed to keep his balls and the ability to produce any.

Anthony turned away from the safe, still hanging from the mental precipice. Would he fall, a broken man, destroyed, or would the fires of hell and damnation bring forth the rage, a rage that would give him the strength to find the bastard that had stolen this most precious item from him. He had no leads. He had lost his best operative, and in gaining the prize, dispatched one of his greatest allies in the matter; if there was ever such a thing as an ally in this most unruly of games. He had other contacts. He would find the bastard. He would hang the bastard. He would hang the bastard by the fucking nuts, until the bastards bollocks turned blue, and then he'd… he'd… he'd...

… The Kybota... was just sitting there... on his desk... open... tiny little key in the slot...

From several floors down his heart reversed its trajectory, shot back up through all of them, through the souls of his feet, through his chest, and smashed through his skull, forcing his eyes out onto stalks in the process. It was here. It was still here... It was still here and it was… OPEN!

It was open... and... and a string of expletives left his lips that would have left a clown pulling handkerchiefs from his cuffs wonder where he kept them all… it was... boll oxshi twankfu ckingb asta rdnobj ockydic kingcock gobbli ngsh itsucking empty.

His heart exploded inside his head, which had a catalytic effect and his brain promptly followed suit.

He'd grabbed the box wildly, all his usual restraint abandoned, and as he pulled it towards him, the lid had flipped over, slamming shut. His senses shot. He had heard the slightest ever so soft clunk, and the key had fallen. The tiny silver key had fallen, as if in slow motion, parachuting into the very luxurious, very deep carpet. Possibly it had bounced under the desk, he didn't know. All he knew was that he couldn't find it, and the box was locked shut, and whatever it had ever contained, if it had ever contained anything, was there no more.  

He fell to his knees. Slowly he slumped further until he was sat with his back against the desk, holding the locked box between both hands, staring at it. The key had to be here somewhere. Had to be. He had seen it drop.

Either he was going insane, or someone was fucking with him, and if someone was fucking with him, if someone was doing this to him, he was going to find them, he was going to bend them over, and he was going to teach them a very important lesson about the demise of Edward the Second.

The Best Spirits of Anarchy

Anarchy is a strange word that means different things to different people, and what it might mean to you might very much depend on which side of the authoritarian fence you happen to be perched. Whether you're trying to stop someone acting in a way you don't like, or trying to avoid someone preventing you from acting the way you want to act.

Ultimately like all words from a circular dictionary, its exact meaning is dependant on context and can be confused without it. The person using, or hearing the word,  interprets it based on their own experience, as much as on what any given dictionary has to say: To those who like order and control, and the world to be run according to their rules (whatever those rules may be), anarchy means chaos and all things negative. To those who don't like to be controlled, it means freedom to be who and what you are, without the interfering hand and restraint of state or other authority.

The fact that in a state of anarchy, weaker people might choose to gather together for strength in numbers (or be at the mercy of stronger individuals), and go on to create some form of administrative system to ensure that the group acted in accordance with the desires of the majority of its members, seems to be lost upon anarchists. The fact that they don't have a god given right to control other peoples lives, seems to be lost on most authoritarians.

Anarchists claim that if we simply had mutual respect, love, and self control, there would be no need for any form of overriding control or authority. Authoritarians rather reasonably point out that humans being what they are, we don't always have mutual respect, love and self control. Obviously, if all people were actually capable of such self governance then the conversation wouldn't even arise. Who knows, maybe one day we will have those things, but until that point, when such people collide, needless to say the outcome is unlikely to be utopian. Like all ideologies, the biggest failing is believing that they are correct. As opposed to just one way of doing things, with an associated outcome.

PC Paul Chambers was very sure that his way of doing things was correct. Obviously he had faced bureaucracy in his time, and he understood that he didn't always get his own way. He still respected authority. It was in his blood. It was one thing to be powerless in the face of bureaucracy, and another thing entirely to be powerless in the face of a group of anarchic plebs.

There had to be law. Without law there was just, well, anarchy, chaos. And quite frankly, if you let some people get up to whatever they liked, some of the things they liked really weren't very nice and troubled him greatly.

His current companions were not really helping his mood. Perhaps if he had been aware of the course of their personal history, the sequence of events that had brought both Dennis and Damien to be the souls that they now were, he would have had more sympathy. But the course of his own history had led him to be the kind of person who asked who had done it, and not why. Perhaps had he been given time to progress in his career he'd have asked such questions, if only because working out why a person acts the way they do, can over the longer term, help you to work out who did what, and how to stop them doing it in the future, but he was a copper, and not a social worker at the end of the day⁴⁷ .

Dennis and Damien were having the time of their lives. Or at least they would have been had they still been alive. Most of the evening had been spent seeking retribution for the atrocities that had been committed upon them⁴⁸ by the public at large over the course of their previous existence. Which basically meant they had been spending their time indiscriminately haunting all and sundry in any which way that took their vengeful fancy.

The lives of the residents of North Tidwell had become significantly more interesting over the last few days. The fact that a gazebo had appeared in the park would have been enough to make a few curtains twitch in this suburban part of the world, but unexplained explosions, police cars screaming through the village and now all manor of random strangeness and departures from the usual laws of physics had many rural dwellers in this small market town believing they were ripe for the apocalypse.

Which of course, may actually be the case.

PC Paul Chambers was just a humble copper. And faced with an issue that he himself was incapable of controlling, it occurred to him, that maybe what he needed to do, was request back up.

All he had to do now, was work out exactly how to do that.

As it turned out, it wasn't that much of a problem, because needless to say, it wasn't that long before the police were alerted to Dennis and Damien's mischief, and Dennis and Damien were having far too much fun to stop the show just because the police had turned up. The police were soon very aware of the fact that there was something thoroughly out of the ordinary going on.

So when The Inspector of North Tidwell police station received a note, on his desk, claiming to be from a recently deceased member of his staff it wasn't instantly discarded as a prank. He thought long and hard about the issues it contained.

He was a man who understood well the role of authority on people's lives, and as the kind of man who would cut keys in half to ensure that such authority was not so easily abused, he also understood a thing or two about anarchy.

Giving Ghosts a Bad Name

At what point, does it become unreasonable for a person to pursue their own happiness where it inflicts upon the well being of another?

There are some cases held as evident 'truths' where it is considered that if we followed a specified course of action we would have stepped over a 'line'. That we would have done something 'bad'.

While searching for an uninhabited section of beach to place your towel to while away a peaceful afternoon, it would not generally be considered reasonable in polite society to drive around the beach full pelt in a heavily armed vehicle strafing, launching rockets, and bouncing bathers off your bonnet, to ensure you eventually got the place to yourself, and the tranquillity you desired. As much fun as that might be, you would be considered amongst the majority of polite society, to have at that point crossed a line.

On the other side of the coin, turning up on the beach with a sound system that could be used for an air raid early warning, planting it down next to the one other person on the entire beach, turning it up full volume and playing the kind of music that sounds, not entirely unlike an air raid early warning, might also be considered unreasonable.

If you refuse to acknowledge anyone else's right to peace and quiet, over your right to pa-ar-ar-ar-ar-tey, do they have reasonable cause to pop home and get the tank out of the garage.

If I might eventually get to the point, a person who has felt weak their whole life, who has always been the one to back down, who has always been the one to turn down the stereo, who has always been the one to step aside, to let the other persons will dominate their own –  on discovering that they are in fact pretty much invulnerable, is going to react in one of two ways:

Perhaps they might become the worst kind of bully. All of that pent up frustration might come to the fore and they might look for some way, or someone who they can enact vengeance upon for all that has befallen them previously.

Or maybe, assuming the person has the intelligence or empathy to understand how the weaker person might feel, they might not wish to create those same feelings of frustration and anger at their own weakness in another person. So even though they are now strong, they might choose to treat others weaker than themselves with respect and kindness.

Obviously these are generalisations and most people fall some way between the two.

Unfortunately, for the inhabitants of North Tidwell, Dennis was leaning heavily towards the former example, and Damien was happy to follow, and in many cases positively encourage. To be fair to the pair of them, there wasn't any specific malice in their actions. They simply refused to acknowledge that anyone else's wants and desires might be as important as their own. Obviously at the extreme end of the argument, whether there was actually malice involved may not be entirely relevant.

On the whole it wasn't a big deal, very few people noticed them, being situated in the more ethereal end of the spectrum, but it could be considered pretty annoying if your TV keeps turning back to the previous channel after you've switched it over, because unbeknown to you, the ghost who was watching it with you wanted to see the end of the previous programme. It would definitely be annoying if your car just vanished from the driveway and ended up abandoned in a ditch whether it was stolen by ghosts or otherwise, and you might find it damn well disturbing, not to mention an outright violation to know that the reason you woke up with your wife's vibrator in your arse, inserted and buzzing frantically, at full power, was because a couple of ghosts thought it would be really funny to watch your expression. It could be said, in such circumstances, that just maybe, Dennis and Damien had crossed a line.

And if asked for an 'excuse', how did they justify such actions to themselves? Well, it's not like anybody died, and they were just having fun. Which was possibly a step in the right direction all things considered going on recent history, but still.

The only thing they had by way of a conscience was the ghost of a copper who followed them around for a while, and for the most part they just laughed at him, and the more he told them just how wrong they were, and how they couldn't do what they were doing, the more they took it upon themselves to prove the stuck up authority wrong, because they evidently and quite happily could do exactly what they were doing. They weren't evil. They weren't specifically trying to make other people unhappy. They'd just forgotten why they ever thought other peoples opinions might be important, because the way they saw it, other peoples opinions had never done them any favours in the past, and other peoples opinions couldn't hurt them now.  It just so happened that being dead was more fun than being alive had ever been, so they weren't planning on reforming any time soon.

So it was probably all for the best when a couple of 'monks' on motorbikes turned up with their previous partners in crime, and asked them if they'd like to “come with us, blow stuff up, and save the world?”

Save the World?

“Save the world from what?” It was a fair question all things considered. Damien looked slightly puzzled.

“And who?” added Dennis.

Another perfectly valid question. Tom returned Damien's quizzical stare for reasons of his own. He thought the simple fact that the world needed to be saved should be enough information. From what or from whom, seemed to be irrelevant details. If the world needed to be saved it needed to be saved, whoever or whatever it was from. At least they hadn't asked “why?”

“Why?” asked Damien.

Tom sighed. “Because it is the planet that you live on, and if it is destroyed, you might find that inconvenient.” he stated matter of factly.

“And it's likely to be destroyed is it?” asked Dennis.
“Quite possibly.” replied Tom. “Now, we do have a certain sense of urgency here.”

“By who?” repeated Dennis, with a certain amount of disdain evident in his voice.
“God.” stated Tom matter of factly.

“Oh fuck off.” Damien splurted through derisive laughter.

Tom sighed once more. Why did they have so much trouble believing that God was was going to end the world. It wasn't like he hadn't given them all adequate notice.

“I'm not sure that really matters that much to us.” said Dennis. Pointing to himself for emphasis and brimming with sarcasm he explained “Already dead... Not going to get much worse is it?”

Tom turned to face Bob before stating “Some humans really do have limited imaginations.” then turning back to face Dennis he replied “Just maybe... just maybe... we need to save the world from you. You, and people like you. People who are sure they're right. People who think their way is the only way. People who follow dogma. People who would let loose the dogs of war upon the dreams of those who hurt them not. People with no patience. People with no patience with people with no patience. The intolerant. Those who cannot understand that intolerance is a human emotion and are intolerant of those who suffer it. Perhaps it would be best to just create one almighty flood, be rid of the lot of you, and start again.”

But that was not the world that Positive wished to have as his domain. Positive wished for peace and tranquillity, but also for vibrance and exuberance. A world in which all could live side by side in harmony. And if not side by side, then maybe they could at least agree to reside at opposite ends of the beach. There was no space for dogma in the world of Positive. There was no space for categoric right and wrong. Because Positive was well aware that for every one person who was positive that their book was the Handbook To Life, there was someone else who would positively swear by another. And whether they knew it or not, in their absolute surety, they both prayed to Positive. Positive understood irony, and positive understood paradox.

A plague be placed upon all their houses.

Ok Maybe an actual plague would be going too far.

“We have motorbikes.” Bob interjected. “You can have one too if you like.”

Three brand spanking new shiny motorbikes materialised in front of them.

“Well I'm in.” said Damien. “As long as I get the cool one, with the skulls on the front.”

Travelling in Style

“Do we have to bring PC Miserable Shite?” complained Damien, “He's, you know... boring... and annoying... and... well, shite.”
“I don't know,” interrupted Dennis, who'd started to take a certain amount of satisfaction in doing things specifically because 'PC Miserable Shite' didn't like them. There was a certain satisfaction in doing whatever it was you wanted to do, and knowing full well that the powers that be, or more to the point, the powers that used to be, couldn't do anything at all about it. It was even better knowing that it annoyed the hell out of them.

They were currently cruising at an altitude of about fifteen hundred feet, heading directly towards London. On motorbikes. Because lets face it, at the end of the day, in a perfect world, motorbikes should be able to fly.

PC Miserable Shite was hesitant about joining them, on the grounds that he hadn't actually passed his motorbike proficiency test, but had been persuaded on the grounds that it was an ethereal motorbike, and the chances of him crashing into anyone else were slim to say the least. The fact that his particular 'steed' had more flashing blue than a police disco for exhibitionist smurfs had held no baring on the matter. At all. No really. Bob had handed him the pristine pair of pilot style mirrored sunglasses as he'd swung his leg over the formidable if somewhat ghostly machine, and seen a definite glint in his eyes before the sun glasses had shaded them from view.

As they sped through the sky, cumulus licking at their heels, PC Miserable Shite was suddenly feeling a whole lot more positive about the world⁴⁹ . Dennis and Damien weren't exactly unhappy with the current change in events either. Kenty was pretty used to the world turning in random directions following the abuse of various interesting substances throughout his life, although even he had to admit that this was a pretty graphic and very realistic trip. Brenda was basically shitting herself, but was keeping quiet about the matter as she was concerned that if she thought too much about the flying motorbike, reality might kick in, and reality didn't generally include flying motorbikes. As she was fifteen hundred feet up, it was important that flying motorbikes continued to exist for a little while longer. The reality before flying motorbikes also included the monster of all headaches which she really didn't want to return to, so whatever this reality included, she was just going to shut up and accept it.

She was a little bit bemused by the fact that she could now, albeit only as a shimmer and an echo, both see and hear their ghostly companions. Tom had introduced them. She had recognised Damien, offered mumbled apologies, and guessed the identity of Dennis. The introduction hadn't made her feel any more at ease with the entire scenario, and it certainly  wasn't helped by the introduction of the aloof and suspicious spectre of PC Paul Chambers. Neither did the fact that noneof them had a clue regarding the whereabouts of Brian.

But here they were, at fifteen hundred feet, cumulus licking at their heels, the wind in their hair, and...

“fuuuuck, a seagull just flew through my face” screamed Damien.
“Are you sure it was a seagull?” asked Dennis, “This far inland?”

“Does it matter what kind of bird it was?”

“Well, it's just that you said it was a seagull. I think that's unlikely all things considered, as we're nowhere near the sea.”

“Actually seagulls quite often come inland, scavenging for food.” interjected Kenty.
“Are these things kitted out with sick bags?” Brenda asked with a slight gulp.

“You'll be fine” Tom added helpfully, from the back of his huge Harley. And she was.
“Can I take you home and keep you in my bathroom cabinet?” Brenda asked.

Tom gave her a quizzical look before changing the topic “I think we're nearly there.”

Pride

There are many different things that people take pride in: Their appearance, possessions, cars and houses, their country, their children, their school, or their abilities. It turns out that, Kuryani took pride in her job, and even being dead wasn't going to be enough to stop her getting it done. She'd gone along with the whole charade of getting the key back to the office simply because she'd accepted the job to get the key back to the office. It turns out that she was going to do it even though it had literally killed her. When I'd pushed the lid shut, pulled the key from the keyhole, pushed it under the desk, and from there slipped it into the back of one of the drawers, thinking there was no way that he would ever find it... Well, she'd followed my every move, and then she'd waited, biding her time, waiting for a moment when she could simply retrieve it, and hand it back to him.

We waited there for hours. I was waiting for him to leave, so I could either steal the box, or if he took it with him, follow him to find out what he was going to do with it. But he'd just sat there on the floor. Every now and again he got up and paced the huge office, talking to himself. He sent the guard away. He looked out of the window. But he never left. Now he was sat on the floor, his back against the far wall.

When it came it was shockingly simple. She pointed out the sunrise. I'd never seen one from this high up before. I've no idea how many floors it was, I hadn't paid attention in the lift, but it was high. It was amazing. I was awestruck by the beautiful simplicity of it. Watching Ra rise rampant from nocturnal slumbers deep beneath horizons sheets. No yawns, no “Just another five minutes”, simply numerous shafts of light extended across the base of low level clouds as if Vishnu himself had woken and stretched out arms across the sky in fiery glow. The black night sky shone purple, then shades of blue, as the almighty orange orb, this elder amongst gods, pulled itself up over the horizon one more time to face another day.

And while I watched, transfixed, the bitch fished the key out of the back of the drawer and simply floated it over in front of him. I turned just in time to see him take it from her. I don't suppose he could see her. He could just see the key, floating in front of him. I saw his expression of disbelief through what to me was her translucent form. As he pulled it from her fingers, as he must have perceived he simply plucked it from the air, with an expression of astonishment, she faded, and then, simply vanished.

Pride intact. Job done. Mission accomplished.

I will remember that image for some time. Not least because just before she vanished, I remember my eyes flicking from his surprised expression, downwards. She really did have an exceptionally nice arse⁵⁰ ⁵¹ ⁵² .

Empty Promises

Anthony held the tiny silver key betwixt finger and thumb, staring intently, as if incapable of deciding if the preceding moments had all been just his imagination. He looked around the room, as if he wasn't sure if he were being watched, then looked back at the key, still somewhat perplexed. Finally his head tilted back, and looking very bemused, he looked heavenwards, questioning, praying? Maybe just savouring the moment. His eyes fell back upon the box, previously abandoned on the desk, and he was across the room and on it in an instant. He grabbed it, falling into his luxuriant chair laughing, he pushed the tiny little key into the tiny little keyhole, and to say the least, apprehensively, twisted.

clunk.

He paused. Dare he open the lid. If not the person who'd look a gift horse in the mouth, he was certainly the person who would spend an age unwrapping it, leaving the paper looking perfect, as if it had never been used. This was partially just to prove that he could, that he had the ability, but also the restraint, although primarily simply to heighten the suspense, and the gratification when it ultimately came. When he could wait no longer, he gently opened the lid…

It was of course, still empty. Perhaps he had been hoping for a second miracle. For whatever he had expected the box to contain, to suddenly be there contained, but it was not to be. All that looked back at him was the luxuriant, padded silk lining, with the hint of power and dreams unfulfilled.

Had whatever miracle returned the key just to tease him? Was there something he was missing? He turned the box in his hands, examining every edge, every face, every facet. There was nothing in there, the gods were surely mocking him...

… but then, the padding did seem to be exceptionally thick at the base. Was it possible that it had a false bottom? Dare he tear at the silk to find out? He pulled at it gently but nothing gave. He pressed, twisted, pulled at every ornate stone in the hope that somewhere he might find a trigger, release the mechanism, let loose the secrets that this artefact contained. There had to be something.

Persistence. Persistence was the key. Never give in. Never admit defeat.

He pushed, twisted and pulled, every stone, every inlay, every decoration. There were so many. An hour passed. Some of the ornamentation seemed to move a little under pressure, but nothing that made a difference. It occurred to him that it might need a combination of two or three moves at once, and he started twisting pushing and probing in pairs. Two hours passed. Then slyly sneaking past without notice, absorbed as he was, a third. It occurred to him to take a sledge hammer to it on more than one occasion, but that was not to be his way, not with this most treasured of relics... and then... three and half hours in, without warning, he ejaculated. It just shot down his leg. A sudden squirt uncalled for⁵³ but... such joy, such magnificence, such... The silky base had just popped open. He'd twisted a jewel on the base of the box, he was sure he'd tried that one before in numerous combinations, but suddenly the silk padded panel in the base of the box just elegantly lifted its lid, parted its thighs, wantonly offered up the great taboo that had been tantalising, teasing, and torturing him all this time, forcing from him an almost orgasmic gasp.  

To reveal nothing... No, not quite nothing, a small circular indentation pressed into the padding, lined with the finest white powder. Anthony smiled. Then he simply waited, breathing deeply, savouring this most momentous occasion... before he licked his finger, pressed it into the dust, and imbued with exhilarant expectation, ran his finger slowly over his tongue, held his breath, and swallowed. Swallowed hard.

The Capillary

They exploded through the office windows sending shards flying in all directions. It was a big office. In fact you could say it was a huge office, as it took up almost the entire top floor of the building. They'd come in from behind, two either side. As Anthony sat at his desk absorbed by the Kybota, protected from the noises outside by the triple thickness glazing he had no idea they were there until they were practically on top of him. Suddenly engines thundered and glass flew past like storms of ice as he instinctively face planted into the desk wrapping his arms over his head for protection.

Brakes screamed, engines roared, wheels spun, carving up the luxuriant carpet, and when he finally dared to peak out from under his arms there were seven motorbikes, albeit three of them somewhat translucent, facing him.

Engines roared. Wheels spun. The carpet suffered.

It could be suggested it was something of a miracle that no-one had been injured. But then, you know... angels.

All was calm, except for the now noticeable wind blowing outside, and the gentle hum of very finely tuned powerful engines lazily ticking over.

“I believe you have something that belongs to us.” Tom stated dramatically.

Engines continued to rumble finely. The wind continued to whistle past the windows as it went upon its merry way. Then Bob entered the conversation. “Well, I'm not sure it really belongs to us as such,” he interjected matter of factly, talking directly to Anthony. “It could possibly be suggested that it belongs to one of us, although in actuality possession and ownership are very much arbitrary constructs. But we'd like it back all the same. Because we're on a mission.” Then after a brief pause he added, because he figured it might be important “...to save the world.”

“It's bloody mine!” said Brenda.

“Well, actually possession is as they say nine parts of the law.” interrupted Poz with assumed authority, albeit quietly with something of a faint echo. “I'm sure we can let the courts decide who is the actual owner of said item.”

“I believe we are dealing with a higher authority here.” Tom interjected pompously.

Anthony peeked out cautiously like a nervous clam from between the shelter of his arms, and once sure that the storm had subsided, lifted them from over his head and sat up. He looked at them, his gaze shifting from one to the other, taking in the entire situation, resting for slightly longer on the ghostlier figures just to convince himself that he was actually seeing what he was seeing. Finally he glanced back over both shoulders just to make sure there were no more of them still waiting outside.

“Well, it was an exceptionally impressive entrance I will give you that,” he said in suitably unimpressed tones, “but I fear you have the advantage of me.”

The statement was left hanging as he waited for an answer which Tom was happy to provide “Indeed we do.”

… before he turned, looked towards the edge of the desk, and he winked.

At me.

An Ending

He looked straight at me, and winked.

I suppose it should have occurred to me that he could hear what PC Copper Ghost Bloke was saying. It hadn't occurred to me that he could see me. I mean, people who are alive can't see people who are dead. At least not their spirit. That's just the way it is. Or was. But he looked straight at me, and he winked at me, with a little nod, as if to say “You, you're up. Give it your best shot.”

I froze. I wasn't even sure what I was shooting at, never mind what the best shot was. I had no idea what to do, until... it was completely and utterly obvious what I had to do.

It was there, and suddenly... so was she. I was on a mission to return it, to her. It was obvious what I had to do. I was drawn. Pulled from where I'd been standing, watching. From where I'd watched the posh twat fiddling with the box. Where I'd watched the bikes smash through the windows. It was as if destiny was calling me towards that stupid box that was just sat there on the desk. I reached out, and picked it up, and he just watched it in dumbfounded awe, as it floated away from him.

It was that easy. I just had to hand it back to her, and then I would be free. Free of this… free of this what? This existence? What happened next? Would I just stop being? Would I be sucked into obscurity as Kuryani had been? Just vanish and become nothing? It was at this point that a rather obvious question slipped into the forefront of my mind, which was 'did I actually want that to happen'? I mean, OK, I'd rather be alive, with a corporeal body and all the fun that goes with that, but then, being a ghost wasn't that bad, and actually it had its advantages. Did I really want to take the next step? I mean, I had no idea what happened next. Maybe I would just stop being. I would be nothing⁵⁴ . Or more to the point, I would not be. This could be effectual suicide.

But this was the mission I had set myself. I was going to move on. I was going to take the next step. I was going to find God and I was bloody well going to tell him exactly what I thought of this whole stupid arrangement. And if I had to stop existing to do that, then that was what I was going to do⁵⁵ .

Not Such an Easy Ending As That

Anthony watched, shocked and dumbfounded, as the Kybota simply floated away from him. This day was not doing his sanity any favours, but suddenly some inner resourcefulness screamed at him, snapping him out of the amazed and stupefied daze in which he'd found himself. He had searched long and hard for this. He had fought for it. People had died such that it might come into his possession. He wasn't giving it up so easi.... It just stopped, hovering, floating perfectly stationary in mid air.

Those seconds were all he needed. He reached out, grabbing, plucked it from the air, pulled it out of, or more to the point, through Brian's grasp. Then, clutching it to his chest, he reached into his pocket and he pulled out a small and finely crafted hand gun, and pointed it at the first monk on the motorbike, then switched his aim to each of them in turn, focusing on one and then another. “This is mine.” He meant it. Arbitrary concepts of ownership be dammed. “I have worked far too long, and far to hard, and I don't know, or care who or what you are, or how you got up here, but as God is my witness, there is no way you are taking this thing from me now.”

It was said with the kind of maniacal exuberance of a person who wasn't completely sure what was going on, and who wasn't actually sure all things considered, that what they were saying was true, but who was damned well sure that they were going to give it their all in their efforts to ensure that what they said became The Truth.

His eyes were wide. His mouth was dry. There was a vein slightly throbbing in the side of his temple. In perfect unison, the entire weird and wonderful gang of angels and associates, swallowed, and their eyes opened as wide as a kid in a candy store, who'd just had a stick of rock shoved violently up their arse.

One of the big ones. With “Now that you come to think of it, you never actually thought this thoroughly through now did you.” written through the centre. In quite a large font.

Without lubrication. But with a sort of rough crystalline sugary coating. That really hard sugar that never melts properly.

In unison, eyes grew wide, and jaws dropped open. Squeaks were heard.

“Funny you should phrase it... quite... like... that.” stated Tom in a tone several octaves above middle 'see how that helium filled puppy just exploded.'

“Oh fuck.” said Bob.
“Oh very... very indeed.” agreed Tom.

The rest of them were utterly speechless. Dumbfounded. Shocked to their core, ghostly or otherwise.

“I thought you'd come round to my way of thinking.” Anthony laughed, still a little too maniacally for comfort. He'd never actually shot anyone himself before. He generally had minions to do that kind of thing for him, but he assumed it couldn't be all that difficult. He wasn't completely sure how he was going to get out of this situation, but he was quite sure he now held the upper hand. More importantly, the hand with the weapon. He wasn't sure it would work on the less corporal bodies, but, they all seemed to be responding appropriately, so he was happy to work on the principle that all was under control.

“Behind you.” whispered Tom in tones so soft and delicate it appeared he was afraid that an avalanche was a distinct possibility.

“You think I'm falling for that?” Anthony laughing scornfully. “Do you think I was born yesterday?” He pressed his finger against the trigger, as his right eye started to twitch.

“Ahem...” said the twenty five foot wide head of Eternity, in godly tones, from where He stood looking through the remains of the recently demolished windows,

“...I think you'll find that's mine.”

God Makes The News

“A three hundred foot tall man is currently at loose in the streets of the capital.”

Anne McHathersage, the nations favourite newscaster, pretty, intelligent, clean cut, with just the slightest Scots lilt to her otherwise perfect BBC accent sounded somewhat incredulous, as if she were pretty sure that the news item she'd been asked to read was obviously some kind of hoax.

The sentence raised in pitch as it ended, as the usually authoritative and reassuring voice of the nations nine o'clock voice of reason, suddenly lost any sense of credulity. “We have received footage in the last five minutes...” Again, read as a statement, but in tones of disbelief, completely questioning the validity of the auto cue she was currently blinking at “which shows a three hundred foot tall, elderly gentleman, in white robes, with long flowing beard, in the centre of the city.”

She looked up at the programme's director, who stared at her through the window of a sound proof booth at the back of the studio nodding his head reassuringly. “Yes this is genuine,” the nodding face expressed, his arms expansive, “just carry on reading... please.” the body language implored.

Anne's expression was that of a child who felt it was being unjustly punished. Why? Why were they doing this to her? Why were they making her read this? Surely they didn't expect anyone to believe it. They stretched the limits of credibility on multiple occasions, but surely they must know this was going to make her a laughing stock.

She was a professional, and she deserved better than this. She should not have to suffer such indignity.

But she was young, and eager, bold, awesome and incredible, not to mention somewhat ambitious. And she was not going to let them ruffle her feathers, or more to the point, she was not going to let them see that they may have added even the slightest parting to her plumage. She was strong. She was not the kind of girl who would crumble. She assured herself of this. Although the thought shot across the bows of her mind that whatever she did, and said, in the next few seconds would spend the next week or two being repeated ad infinitum⁵⁶ across the internet.

And being very wise to the way the world viewed her, because she spent every other minute of every other day thinking about the way the world viewed her, it suddenly dawned on her, that it might be wise to appear to be the kind of person who can take a joke. Even if she knew full well at some later date she might enact severe retribution upon the arse of the person who had set her upon the course of this indignity. She was a professional. She was a professional because they paid the somewhat neurotic, workaholic, stressed, occasionally not quite alcoholic to hold it all together for an hour a day to be young, eager, bold, awesome and incredible, the voice of reason for a nation. She took a breath. Her shoulders came back, her attitude was assured.

“WE HAVE LIVE FOOTAGE!” came the words on the auto cue.

She read it, and paused. Then she blinked and read it again. Several expletives came to mind but were professionally dismissed. Plough on she must. Adopting her knowing smile, usually saved for that up beat and heartening last story, there just to remind us that actually the world isn't the complete pile of shit that we would otherwise come to believe, if for just a second we focused on something other than the actions of those trying to climb to the top of the murky pile, or delving deep in the depths of it.

And plough on she did.

“... and apparently, we have live footage.” she beamed at the camera with a smile radiating, resigned, yet pure and unadulterated 'Fuck  You  All  With  Candy  Coated Chainsaws!'

Two Steps Backwards

The Inspector fell with a sigh into his well worn but then again, well made, long lived and much loved leather armchair. He reached for the remote, while settling the tray containing his long awaited dinner after a long hard day onto his lap, and flicked on the T.V.

As the screen sprang to life baring the beaming face of Anne McHathersage he smiled. It was always a pleasure to hear her authoritative colloquial yet reassuringly familiar tones. And she was, he wouldn't deny, an exceptionally pretty young woman. The evidence was there before us, view if you will, exhibit A, the T.V. screen. He smiled. He relaxed, ready to let the nations news wash over him.

And then he saw footage.

The camera panned in from the helicopter. Against a back drop of what was obviously Central London, stood a massive figure, some three hundred foot tall, with long white hair, and long flowing beard, in white robes, bending only slightly, with face pressed up against the window of an otherwise nondescript glass office tower. As the camera zoomed, and focused, the sound of helicopter blades echoed around his living room, and the image filled his TV screen.

In the months to come, in those expanding branches of the universe in which there were months to come, there would be all kinds of conspiracy theories spread, about exactly what it was that was broadcast across multiple T.V. channels in multiple nations, and how it was that whilst everyone saw a three hundred foot high human, few could agree on the actual characteristics of the being they saw. But whatever it was, it was obviously made in someone’s image. Possibly with breasts. But not if that's going to distract you. It was difficult to tell under the loose fitting robes anyway.

The Inspector watched passively, soaking up the images, making no decisions, simply taking in the information that was being presented to him. He made no judgements, perhaps because he liked to think he was a policeman, and not a judge, but mainly because he was, like pretty much everyone else in the world watching at that instance, somewhat awestruck by what was on the screen in front of him. His conscious mind retreated from the unfathomable scene before him, and the images simply washed across his brain. There were many who saved their sanity by simply assuming it was all a hoax. It was amazing what they could do with computers these days.

There were many, who on that day, found god.

Or a god of sorts.

For a while, The Inspector sat and watched, glued to the scene before him, until it occurred to him, that this was suitably strange enough, that this might in some way have something to do with the letter currently safely stashed in his desk top drawer. He dismissed the idea instantly, deciding that a far more likely explanation was that he had gone insane. He did a quick check, inspecting his hands, then the room around him; He didn't feel insane. His hands looked like hands. The room looked like the room. He wondered for a second why staring at his hands was in any way any kind of valid test of sanity. He looked back to the T.V. not quite sure what he was expecting to see, but there was still an image of a three hundred foot tall man daring him to argue the case against redecorating with inflatable wallpaper.

There had been numerous people reporting supernatural occurrences at the station recently, some of them backed up by his officers, not to mention a letter in his top draw, albeit in exceptionally bad hand writing, claiming to be from the ghost of one of his recently deceased officers. He still had to get to the bottom of that. And now this.

“Oh bugger!” he exclaimed, as he realised that his conscience was no longer going to allow him to pretend this entire situation wasn't happening, and he was going to have to phone his superiors and tell them that either he was insane, or there was something very very strange going on, and it just might all be related.

On the positive side, it occurred to him that when they retired him due to insanity, he would at least get a full pension. And it was about time he changed the wallpaper anyway.

The Power of The Ring

Anthony not only heard the soft base tones of the words reverberating around the base of his skull, he felt the breath they floated in on against the back of his neck. So softly spoken, but with such force. “I think you'll find that's mine.” There was was no denying the authority with which the voice spoke. It was a voice that knew full well who owned the article in question, and it was a voice whose owner was categorically big enough to enforce the point.

But Anthony had not come this far to be taken at the last hurdle. He softly placed the Kybota onto the desk before him, placing both hands upon the firearm, he spun his chair slowly, with arms outstretched, and found himself pointing a very small gun into the twenty five foot wide face of God. He was suddenly very aware, because God did have a very, very big head⁵⁷ , just how small a gun it really was. “It might work.” he thought, pressing his finger more tightly against the trigger.

God smiled, and broke into a laugh. “Boo.” he said.

Anthony felt the full force of the gust of Eternity's breath, and his chair glided on its wheels back until it bumped forcefully against the desk. He pulled the trigger.

Partially borne of fear, partially just a response to being pushed into the desk, partially reflex. As soon as he pulled the trigger, he was sure it was a mistake. Time slowed. He saw the bullet leaving the barrel. Spinning as it rifled towards its target. Then he saw it stop - It just floated there in mid air. Had gravity just given up today or what?

Eternity was still smiling. After a suitably dramatic pause he broke the silence. “Perhaps I should introduce myself.” he said, with what could be, and has previously been described as 'irritating calmness'.

Anthony looked into the face of Eternity, and he swallowed. He blinked several times, and squeezed his eyes shut tightly, shook his head, then opened them again. It was still there. He blinked again. There was nothing he could do. It wasn't going away.

“I am Eternity.” said Eternity softly. “I am your...” and he paused, because he liked to work the crowd, “god.” He said it softly, calmly even, kindly as if talking to a child. One who was standing on the edge of a cliff, who you didn't want to startle in case they took a step backwards. “I am power, and you will believe, because I am here that you might see. That they might see. Your efforts to obtain the power that is held within the Kybota have told me much about you, and judged you will be, as judged you are.” With three feet wide eyes he stared into Anthony's soul. “When it is power for its own sake you seek, the power that was held within this creation is a power your forefathers should perhaps have held.” Anthony's eyes lit up, but Eternity simply sighed, a long sigh, before he continued dismissively “This episode has told me much about many.” He gazed past Anthony, further back into the room, where two angels, and a few ghosts sat, on feathery arses or otherwise, on very impressive motorbikes, looking very guilty, and very, very nervous.

There was silence, as the power of Eternity's gaze bore into them, its sheer force of will etching guilt to their very core. They waited for the 'fwut'. They waited, and there was hell in the waiting; In the expectation; In the silence.

It was broken by Brenda “You mean the little box, which I've had since I was a kid, is some kind of almighty great, all powerful... thing?”

Kenty cast a glance in her direction while he quietly slipped from his bike, stepped forward, and plucked the troublesome box from the desk. With the obvious aura of a person who knows exactly what they're doing, is sure that someone somewhere, in this case possibly very close, is going to be sure that they shouldn't be doing it, but is going to do it anyway because, well, why not? what harm can it do?... and he was curious.

He turned it in his hands, inspecting it, a nonplussed look across his face. “It's empty. I guess it used to have something round in there, just a little circular ring like indent in the bottom. So what was in it? What's this all about?“

As he said it Anthony turned, saw that Kenty had relieved him of the box, and the god behind him instantly forgotten he raised the weapon in his hands once more, pointing straight between Kenty's ever smiling eyes. “Can you stop bullets?” he asked.

“Not me squire.” Kenty replied, “It's all yours, you have it, I was just looking.” and with an easy smile and a casual shrug, he tossed the box with a graceful arc back towards him. As it floated through the air, he turned back to face Brenda and smiling less than innocently stated “My wallet's got a ring just like that.”

You Wanna Explain That?

They say that if the penny drops from high enough, it could kill a person. Quite a few people if you lined them up in a nice row. Anthony saw the penny falling and it was coming straight for him. Of all the people in the room...

He caught the box, and swung the chair back round and he stared into the face of Eternity... and Eternity dared him. Eternity dared him to sit there and wait for the penny to hit. The problem for Anthony was he could see no possible way that he could get out of the way. His brain was the kind of brain that solved puzzles. He had no idea how to avoid it.

Symbols flashed before his eyes. Pages of ancient manuscripts spread themselves across his mind. A device of immense or even absolute power –  No, that wasn't it –  Cogs turned. He did not want to know this. He knew he did not want to know this. How did he stop his mind from working it out. He stared into the face of the almighty being in front of him imploring that this knowledge should not be his. This was not the kind of knowledge that you could use to your advantage. This was the kind of knowledge that got you killed. The kind of knowledge people killed you for 'just to be on the safe side'. He didn't want to know, but his brain kept working despite him.

A device containing the awesome power of the gods immaculate loins… No...

Oh for crying out loud! It was so bloody obvious now that he completely failed not to think about it. His face contorted. He did not want to know. He had worked so long and so hard for this and it was just…

A device for containing the awesome power of the gods immaculate loins. Containing the awesome power. Stopping it.

It was a bloody box for keeping condoms in, or more to the point, a box some ancient fucking⁵⁸ line of priests from some random cult had kept their condoms in. Oh gods, he'd just eaten putrefied priest prophylactic! His face contorted further. This box... this box was just a box, a box to keep the secret, because some churches were a bit funny about that sort of thing. If he told the world, no one would believe him, but there would be many people willing to make sure that he never got the chance to tell another soul what he knew. This wasn't power. This was the exact opposite of power. This was the sort of knowledge that would get him hunted, and… disappeared. He swung back to face the rest of the room.

Exactly how many of them knew? Did any of them? Could any of them? As he felt the power that surged behind him he found himself questioning, exactly how omniscient are these gods meant to be anyway?

“Very... very omniscient.” said Eternity.

“I think this is yours!” Anthony exclaimed with disgust, throwing the box at Brenda.

Diatribe

It took Brian a while to come to his senses. He watched the show as it unfolded from his metaphorical front row seat and he tried to pull it all together. He wasn't really any the wiser. He'd been trying to find out what was in that box since he was twelve, and suddenly it simply didn't matter, because it suddenly occurred to him that the very large being, with its very large face pressed up against the window was in fact very possibly the very being that he had been wanting to have a chat with ever since his fall from almost space and not quite grace all those days ago. And as the penny dropped, as if he were powered by metre, Brian sprang into action.

“Did you say you were God?!” There was no denying the question was also an accusation. He strode towards the twenty five foot face, arm raised, his now translucent finger pointed, straight between the Almighty eyes.

Eternity glared. First simply at Brian, but slowly his gaze travelled along the outstretched arm to the offending accusatory digit. What would otherwise have been an exceptionally menacing stare was rather spoiled by the fact that he had to become somewhat cross-eyed to do it, because Brian's outstretched finger was now pointing right between his eyes.

He suffered from, as has been mentioned, a serious case of omniscience, and He remembered Brian. He remembered everyone obviously, but he remembered Brian. He remembered Brian because he specifically remembered being called a “smug pedantic shit!”, and suddenly he found himself remembering the days of the old testament fondly, when gods could be gods, and smiting was literally all the rage.

“I want a word with you!” Brian's tone was menacing, if perhaps ill placed. Everyone else in the room swapped nervous glances, in the way you might if you were in the same room as someone who was poking a rabid rottweiler with a stick.

“Are you... pointing that… at me?” questioned Eternity almost but just not quite calmly. Issues of late had been getting to him and perhaps it could be said that he was not at his most serene.

Brian followed Eternity's cross-eyed stare down to his fingertip, and then followed his fingertip back up to the almighty cross-eyed stare. His lip curled, his eyes narrowed. He laughed. “Well Duhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” he exclaimed. “So much for fucking omniscience!”

Most of the other people in the room did whatever it took to move just that bit further away from the looming spectre of this spectral display of disobedience. Only Brenda remained motionless, transfixed, terrified, amazed, wanting to speak, and somehow unable. There he was, somehow suddenly visible, the man that she had... The ghost of the man that she had... loved? Gripping the Kybota tightly to her tightening chest, she watched and waited for the almighty beast⁵⁹ before her to smash and destroy and take from her once more the man she lo...

And then Brian really went for it; “Just who the fucking hell do you fucking think you fucking are? You think you're so fucking clever with your oh so fucking omniscience and omnipotence and shit, and what do you fucking well do with it... hey? Hey!? What do you fucking well do with it? Fuck all, that's what you fucking well do with it. Wars raging all over the fucking world, people starving, people sick, fucking atrocities left right and centre, and where the fuck are you? Absolutely fucking no where, you fucking gigantic cock sucker that's where you fucking are. Out in the middle of the fucking arse end of fucking nowhere too fucking busy with your fucking fist up your fucking arse fucking fisting your fist fucked fetid fucking fuck hole to be fucking fucked to sort out the fucking problems of all the poor fuckers who are fucking stuck down here too fucking powerless to do anything against the mother fuckers like this fucking mother fucking mother fucker!”

Brian temporarily stopped waving his finger in Eternity's face, to point it accusingly at Anthony before he brought it back, stabbing it intently at the air between Eternity's eyes, before launching once again into his diatribe “...who spend their fucking time fucking with everyone else's fucking lives because they think they're so fucking special that they think they've got some fucking god given fucking right to fuck with whoever they fucking want, whenever they fucking want, however they fucking want, and what do you fucking do about it Mr Oh So Fucking Powerful Omnipotent Fucker, you fucking sit at home with your fat fucking arse glued to your fat fucking cloud all fucking day and fucking watch it all go fucking down while shovelling a bucket full of fucking popcorn into your fat fucking face you fucking sad excuse for a fucking... Whatever the fuck you are?”

He paused momentarily for breath. It was quite possible the entire statement had come out in just one. The offending digit stabbed repeatedly as he blasted into his closing statement “Absolutely fuck all you fucking useless sack of fetid fucking shit. That's what you fucking do, absolutely FUCK ALL!⁶⁰ ”

Finally, with energy subsiding, he added in quieter, but equally accusatory tones, the post script “You useless fucking cock sucking⁶¹ mother fucker.”

Eternity stared, transfixed, at the end of Brian's finger which had been waving profusely and was now stationary, pointing accusingly no more than a foot away from the front of his face. His now considerably cross-eyed glare looked like it was about to explode. The room fell silent as everyone waited expectantly for the tempest.

What everyone in the room could not fail to notice, was that Brian's finger was, at the end of his blasphemous rant, significantly more visible than it had been at the beginning, as for that matter, was the entirety of Brian. His translucent form seemed to shift further and further into the visible spectrum, as if his rage, his passion, and his simple belief in everything he was saying somehow transferred itself to his physical form. As he stood there now, face to face with Eternity, he was about fifty percent visible, and still Eternity stared right through him.

Everyone in the room stood, or sat, open mouthed, waiting, expectant... before Tom turned to face his brother and asked the question which had been troubling him since somewhere around the middle of the previous diatribe; “Are you really sure it just means 'very'?”

Scramble

They had no idea what it was, but it was three hundred feet tall, and military thinking works along the principle that if anything is big enough or scary enough to possibly be a threat, then you should have a plan to completely and utterly annihilate it. Just in case.

There was a combination of RAF, USAF, and Armée de l'Air from a carrier that happened to be in the area. As the saying goes you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, but in this case, the fresh young aviators were simply scrambled.  

World leaders from every nation were pulled out of whatever meeting, holiday, or bed they happened to be in, whoever they were in it with, and fully briefed on the issue. Military councils were convened. This was not just an issue for London. This was an issue for the entire world. Who knew what that thing was, where it had come from, or more to the point, what it was capable of.

Rather alarmingly, the planned trajectory of large numbers of nuclear missiles were altered to point straight at the heart of London, just in case the military might of combined air forces wasn't enough. Perhaps more alarmingly, there were quite a few nuclear weapons already pointing in the right direction. The Prime Minister of Britain was not only briefed, but had to be re-briefed on several occasions because he was literally shitting himself. It turned out the rest of the world thought that London might be a small price to pay, to not have to deal with whatever the hell this thing was in their own back yards.

In the mean time, Britain's nuclear deterrent, currently on patrol beneath the worlds oceans, was busily being pointed at anyone else who was pointing at it. At least it would have been, had it been large enough to point at the entire rest of the world who owned nukes. In the end, the submarine commanders in question gave in to popular opinion, and pointed theirs at London too, because “by golly that thing's rather large isn't it.” Not to mention that the commanders of the submarines in question figured not unreasonably that if, in the event that London, and possibly the entirety of Britain was actually vaporised, it would be easier to apply for political asylum after the event if they'd been firing in the same direction as the rest of the world at the time. There was also the added bonus, that if they were all firing in the same direction, there was the slightest chance that somewhere in the world might actually survive the thousands of megatons being detonated, and there might just possibly be somewhere left standing they could apply for asylum with.

Leaving Paradise

There are many opinions offered on why, if the gods people worship are such kindly entities, the world is for so many people, so completely and utterly very'd.

I guess it depends which gods we're talking about. After finding our happy ending, our paradise of sorts, we journeyed, I'd say “so very far and wide” but it's all relative. We met quite a few gods on our travels, before slipping through to regale you with our stories, and while it's safe to say some of them cared more than others, however you look at it, you can't deny there's a certain amount of discontent amongst much of the worlds population. You have to wonder why any omnipotent, caring creator, would have made the world, or people, this way.

By definition, an omniscient creator knew beforehand that prodigious bite was coming out of the apple. There's something seriously pear shaped about that whole story. Are we really to believe that sin is inherited, we are what we eat, and that knowledge of eternal sin now resides twisted deep down within our very DNA. Can we honestly believe that an omnipotent, loving god, cast a species from Paradise on this basis? 

Ahhhh Paradise... The tropical forest, overhanging luxurious azure lagoon, we dine upon the finest things, waves lapping around our ankles, a meal freshly served, from open fire, in joyous company, as the perfect sunset slips beneath a golden horizon, is not for some people paradise if it doesn't come with central heating, indoor plumbing, and a twin garage. Nature as provided is undoubtedly a little more robust than some of our constitutions. Many of us might wish to have the more poisonous and 'bitier' aspects removed when we get down to developing Paradise Version 2.0. The original specification, as provided by the Almighty Architect was perhaps somewhat heavy on volcanoes, earth quakes, asteroids and other entropy ridden disaster scenes come to think of it. Generally these things aren't included in the immediate proximity of our own personal paradise, however keen the creator may have been on including them in his or her original design. We are what we are. Perhaps The Creator should have performed a little more user testing before allowing the product past beta release⁶² .

But perhaps the crunch, the extra bit to the bite, the rose to the cheek, the tang to the taste, is that just maybe, the only reason why we consider ourselves to have been cast from Paradise, is because we now have the capability, the knowledge, to judge paradise, whatever it may be, and decide that it could have been better. It could have been easier. If only God hadn't rested on the seventh day, Eden could have been created with better roads and transport infrastructure, fast food outlets, and free wi-fi.

Were we cast out? Or did we simply choose to leave on the day we decided that we could have more? On the day we bit into the apple, on the day we found the knowledge, that we could do it better. 

Maybe it's just a story. Simple allegory. Maybe the point, is that we should stop worrying about how the gods judge us, and start worrying about how we judge ourselves.

Of course, coming back to where we came in, It's also possible that the reason that we're in this mess, is that we've got it all completely wrong, and the gods that people worship, aren't that kindly at all, and actually, if they exist at all beyond our own deranged imaginations, they're either a damned sight nastier than we've been led to believe, or they really don't give a shit. Who knows?⁶³  

The Challenge

“If you touch him I'll destroy it!”.

She didn't even know if it could be destroyed. She no longer knew what it was. She'd owned it for most of her life. A gift from a grandparent, it was just a box. A very pretty box, with lots of sentimental value, but just a box. Now as she grasped it firmly between both hands, resolutely threatening to throw it, maybe at the floor, maybe through the gaping holes in the smashed out windows, she wondered just what force had made her utter those words – to threaten a god.

His semi transparent form turned to face her as she screamed her threat. She felt his ghostly eyes fall upon her, and stare longingly. He stood there, now suddenly motionless. He had been taken from her once, and here he was once more, becoming so much more as he took form before her eyes.

Displaying the courage to challenge gods. Oh how she longed for him. The stupid bastard, but still, for better or for worse, the emotional roller coaster of the last days had brought her to this point, and he had, at every point, when he was needed, even from beyond the grave, come to her side. She would stand by him now. She had to. Or… who was she?

Of course, there was the distinct possibility that standing by him at this moment in time made her just as much of a stupid bastard as he was, but heh, what can you do? You are who you are.

She had no idea what this thing was. She had no idea if it could be destroyed. She had no idea if this beast before her would care either way. It was the only card she had, and she had no idea if it was an ace, or Mr Bun the Baker. She'd played it anyway.

Eternity smiled. It wasn't something he did often on the grounds that he generally knew the punch line before people even started the joke, but he did have a fondness for ill placed heroism. If only because it allowed him something to smile at before he lovingly damned and destroyed their puny little arses. He stared at Brian through the remnants of the window with his omniscient if slightly cross-eyed gaze, and everyone in the room waited expectantly for the pop, the splat, the splurgtthhhht, the fwut, whatever the sound would be that would signal that Brian's ghostly insides were shooting through his ghostly outsides and would soon be decorating any and all surfaces in the immediate vicinity with ectoplasmic snotty goo. It never came. Eternity's brow furrowed and his eyes half closed in forced concentration, but still nothing happened.

What power could possibly be protecting him?

All of a sudden, through the window came the hugest hand that any of them had ever seen. The fingers must have been eight feet long at least, and before Brenda had the slightest idea what was happening she was enveloped in Eternity's pythonous grasp. Caught in a fist so much larger than her own body she was lifted from the floor, and oh so easily removed from the building. The others all watched horrified, Even the angels screamed as Eternity reached towards her with his other hand, and placing thumb and forefinger over the Kybota removed the comparatively miniscule object from her grip. Then with a knowing, and menacing smile, with a hint of the kind of love that says, the only reason I'm not hurting you is because the threat that I could is enough, he pressed thumb and finger together, and when they parted, all that was left was dust. He blew on his fingers for effect, and the sparkling dust of aged old apple wood and numerous gemstones flew off fancifully, like fairies dancing lightly on the breeze, up into the clouds leaving sparkling trails in their wake.

The Kybota was no more. Gone. Destroyed. Dust.

Tight in his grasp Brenda swallowed hard, and did a very good impression of looking absolutely terrified.

The Destruction of Dreams

Destroyed. In an instant. One moment in time. It was there. And then...

... It was not.

Dust.

A dream, a fantasy, an obsession. Taken, destroyed, obliterated.

The box on which I had focussed so much of my childhood, and pretty much my entire adult life was simply removed from existence.

All hope is cancelled.

And in that same instant, insult added to injury, the thing that had become so much more – the person who had become so much more to me... A box is just a box, whatever that box may be. I know that now. But she... She was just the most beautiful creature who had ever lived. She was the inspiration for the most beautiful of emotions, and that in itself defines beauty. That any god would take such a thing from a person and claim to be a god of love must be in itself a sacrilege of the strangest sort. Or maybe it is just the case, that we ourselves do not understand the nature of love, or the nature of gods.

That any god might be the first life form would suggest that god must be the most simplistic of life forms, and yet, as complex forms ourselves we search for the reflection of the monkey in the god.

If we love, we search for the reflection of love. If we hate, we search for vengeance.

And as the saying goes, that for which you search, you shall find⁶⁴ .

It's Just a Model

It turns out it was a myth that there is only one god. Which is not to suggest that it's not true for those that choose to believe it.

One of the gods I met, called himself Oswald, funny guy. You'd have to call him a 'character'. He, or maybe I should say They showed me a universe they'd created a while back in spare moments. It was amazing, appeared designed to the nth degree, containing the most amazing fine detail, and when I asked them how they did it, they shrugged, as if it were a simple matter and said they “started small and just kept going for a few billion years.” Apparently once life takes hold, it tends to look after itself.  

But this led me to the obvious question, “If a god created the universe, then who created that god?”

The question simply leads to more questions. What do we mean by god? Where did that god come from? If this god created this universe, then must it have been external to the universe (in order to have been here before the creation of this universe), so what else lays outside of this universe. What do we mean by universe?

Could there have been a universe external to our own formed from a big bang scenario, in which an intelligent being evolved capable of creating a sub universe in which we live? Would that being be a god? What do we mean by god?

We each create a model in our minds, or with our minds, to explain whatever perceptions we have had in the past. We then measure all future perceptions against that model, and in some cases, even go so far as to deny our perceptions because they don't fit our current model.

If a cow flies past your window would you assume that your eyes are playing tricks on you, or that you've gone insane. Maybe, it was in a harness, hanging from a helicopter, maybe it was a freak gust of wind, a localised tornado, maybe the cow was just thinking really positive thoughts. Who knows? Maybe it was god.

If a young child saw the same scene, it would simply assume that cows can fly, and future knowledge would be built on this 'fact' until maybe one day it would come to question this point, because, well, it just doesn't seem to fit in with everything else its come to 'know'.  Maybe the adult that child grows up to be, would come to think that it can't really have seen it, or it will think up other explanations, or it will think that, well, maybe it was God, just messing with their mind.

It's all just models, that we create in our minds, to explain our perceptions. None of us actually know the answers⁶⁵ . It's all just models⁶⁶ , and if you choose to use a model with one god, ten gods, a million gods, or no gods, it's still just a model to explain your perceptions.

The Time

“Smug pedantic shit?, I'll give him smug pedantic shit the cocky little fucker...”

They weren't the first words Brenda was expecting to pass the Almighty lips, but then, she'd pretty much given up on expecting anything to make sense in her life ever again. These were strange times, and to make them stranger, and scarier, the monstrous deity stared into Brenda’s terrified face as the even more terrifying words left his lips “THIS IS WHERE IT ENDS.”

It's probably fair to say that come the time of Armageddon, and the destruction of their 'life's' work, that any creator might be a little bit upset, and less than at their calm and sanctified best. Lets face it, if they were perfectly calm and reasonable about the whole thing, you'd probably just think they'd gone mad.

If destroying the universe weren't already proof enough.

He stormed through the centre of London, smashing iconic building after building that got in his way until he reached the tallest tower in the capital. As fighter planes from combined air forces circled, waving the terrified girl in one hand, gripping the building with the other, he pressed his sandalled feet upon the wall, and started to climb.

People inside the building looked out in horror as the building shook and the massive toga clad deity lurched past their windows. Those with the wherewithal to question what they'd seen, the ones who would have questioned if the cow had floated past and not just questioned their own sanity, the ones who rushed to the windows and leaned out, looking upwards to see what had just gone past, were treated to a view that most people would never even contemplate, but it can only be said, that horses might wish they were hung so.

Billions of people the world over watched the scene broadcast live from a camera in a TV helicopter in awed expectant horror, as Eternity climbed, as the building shook,  as he reached the summit. There he stood perched upon it, the weight of his massive frame causing the building, designed to move slightly in high winds to avoid fracture, to sway immensely under his Almighty mass.

Calmly placing Brenda so gently down upon a rooftop ledge, leaving her clinging on for dear life, he stood, proud and tall, in the image of the man, who was made in his image, and started to metaphorically beat his chest.

The order was given, and the planes attacked.

“I am Eternity. I am YOUR GOD!” he bellowed as depleted uranium tore through his toga. “Now is The Endtime! Embrace Armageddon! I AM Eternity. I AM your God. The time has come for you to join me in salvation!” he roared as his arms swung wildly at the attacking squadrons. Planes were torn from the air, thrown to the ground, exploded in mid air in a single glance as humanity in one last ditch attempt to save itself from this enforced salvation, threw everything it had in the vicinity at this unstoppable beast.

“I am Eternity. I am your God. The time has come for you to join me in salvation.” Eternity bellowed once more. “Join me in the Endtime!”

Wave after wave, squadron after squadron of planes continued their attacks, and one by one, they were crushed, ripped from their path, or simply exploded into balls of incandescent flame upon His Gaze and fell screaming from the sky.

It was only a matter of time before the skies were silent, and Eternity stood proud and undefeated atop his tower, with long white hair and somewhat tattered toga blowing majestically in the breeze.

Brenda clung for dear life, her hair blowing across her face somewhat less majestically, her mind blown completely. How the hell... She clung desperately, no thought of escape, the floor, at least a thousand feet below her so very, very, very far down phased in and out of focus. She spent a fraction of a second wondering how long it would take her to fall all that way... and then just clenched everything all the more tightly.

“I AM YOUR GOD!” The voice of Eternity reverberated through her body on its way around the entire globe.

Political leaders the world over fell to their knees in front of military leaders offering any and all favours, if only they would offer some solution. Religious leaders fell to their knees in prayer, split pretty much fifty fifty between those thankful for this salvation, and those asking to be saved from it. Far too many military leaders just assumed that all their prayers had been answered. The game was on.

The fact that some percentage of those military leaders had at some point in their history actually fantasised about having their respective political leaders on their knees before them while they themselves got to launch a nuclear attack, is neither here nor there. Some people just crave power. They were probably bullied at school or something.

In country after country, the world over, the reply that came back from those military leaders was “press the button”⁶⁷ .

Instructions were given. Orders were made.

Despite the common usage of the phrase, “the button” in regard to the launching of nuclear missiles, it's apparently done based on a system of keys, with suitable fail safes, and more than one key required to be turned at once, to ensure that the systems can't be set off, and missiles launched by one sole nutter who's just having a bad day. The point being, it's apparently not just a case of the leader of a nation pressing a big red button on their desk. It takes time from giving the order, to actually launching the missiles.

And in the time between the order being given, and the missiles actually being launched...

…it started as simply a 'V' shaped ripple on the surface of the estuary of The Thames. A ripple that slowly grew, larger... and larger... and larger, until it was a wave, and slowly in the middle of that wave, emerged the head, then the shoulders, and torso of the most angelic of beings. It was the most angelic of beings because it was the creation, the summation, and the culmination of the gathering of angels. It was the embodiment of positivity.

And Positive was positively not planning on the show ending quite so soon.

But Still

Of course, that just meant there were two of the big scary bastards at large. Perhaps the word 'big' doesn't quite do the scene justice. Maybe huge, enormous, or a phrase involving swear words prior to such an adjective would be more appropriate. This didn't stop anyone from launching whatever missiles they had pointed in the general direction. The missiles were launched just the same, in many cases with significantly more eagerness, and in a matter of minutes pretty much the entirety of the worlds nuclear arsenal⁶⁸ was suddenly all set for a four minute meeting in a small although very exclusive café just around the corner from Fenchurch Street.

It was to be the fireworks show Guy Fawkes would have dreamed of, if his genes were first spliced with those of Genghis Khan and the resultant frankencreation was fuelled with the lifeblood of Timothy Leary and all the cocaine in Cuba. This was going to make the Great Fire of London look like something you'd sit quietly next to and toast crumpets on, and the resultant fallout would make the last family Christmas when Uncle Ryan got so drunk he made a pass at, and engaged in water sports with the Christmas tree (which did the lights no good at all) look very tame indeed.

“Bob.” said Tom.
“Yes, Tom?” said Bob.

“Fuck.” said Tom.

“Very.” said Bob. “Very Very Indeed.”

“Was this what you had in mind?” asked Bob somewhat incredulously.
“Not exactly.” Said Tom.

“Slightly more than a firework, Tom.” said Bob.

“Slightly more than a firework factory.” said Tom.

There was a pause. Neurons fired.

There was something of a chain reaction. Mental fission fizzed into action. There were pops and whizzes. Then there were whizzes and pops. Then the pops and whizzes started to organise themselves, ganged up and put on bandanas. Some of them went out and got tattoos.

Neurons that had previously fired accepted that they may have done so prematurely, climbed out of the trenches, throwing their weapons in random directions as they did so, and fled.

“Tom.” said Bob.

“Yes, Bob?” said Tom.

“Fuck.” said Bob.

“Fuck indeed.” said Tom.

“Fuckity Fuck Fuck.” said Bob.

“Don't push it.” said Tom after a suitable pause.

Arrest is Good For a Change?

It was PC Paul Chambers who broke the resulting silence. It turned out that his ghostly machine, being a ghostly police machine, had a ghostly police radio.

“Officer in need of back up. I've just witnessed a possible theft and kidnapping. Suspect is an aged man, white hair, long flowing beard, wearing what looks like a long white dress, last seen heading south into the city centre... Oh, and he's tall, very tall.... Actually he's bloody huge. I am giving chase, but seriously, he's huge. Urgent back up required.”⁶⁹  

His gaze passed briefly over the others in the room. Calm, collected; He was an officer of the law. This was what he was about, and they should know. He was going after the bastard, and he didn't care how big the bastard was. A crime had been committed and he was giving chase. This was his job. This was who he was.

Casually dropping his sunglasses from the top of his head down over his eyes, he reached down, turned the key, twisted the throttle, flicked the bike into gear and let loose the clutch. The tyres spun and screamed as the bike launched itself from the window, the front wheel lifting from the ground like a proud stallion, and Poz shot out over the edge and into the abyss in his own personal quest for The Almighty. He was quite possibly the first person ever who'd set out to arrest God.

“Well I'm not letting him have all the fun.” said Dennis, turning his own ignition.

Damien looked at him and grinned as he pressed the starter on his own.

Bob looked at Tom “We're going to Hell for this, you know that don't you?”

Tom Smiled Back “Hells angels,” he replied “it's got a ring to it.”

“Bloody Hell,” said Kenty. “it's never dull around you lot is it?”

One by one they launched themselves back into the air from which they had come, not so much in search of god, as having found him, and now giving chase.

All that was left was Brian, and Anthony. Alone in the wrecked office. Brian spotted the one remaining motorbike. “How hard can this be?” he said to himself, completely ignoring Anthony as he jumped aboard. “It's a flying motorbike, what can possibly go wrong?”

“What indeed?” laughed The Universe quietly to itself as his half ghostly figure launched itself into the sky through the shattered remnants of the windows.

A Cry for Help

Anthony sat, motionless, the gun still in his hand. He looked out across the city, the sun now risen, but hidden behind a blackening sky. The streets below were empty, the ants having scattered, half fled in terror, half chasing for a better view of the unfolding drama.

He looked at the gun. It fitted neatly into his hand. His finger rested on the trigger, and he stroked it gently back and forth. It may have looked like he was deep in thought, but not a single neuron fired. He just stared... at the trigger, along the barrel. His hand moved, until he realised that he could see directly down its short but rifled length.

Then, still without a thought, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out his mobile phone. His fingers moved slowly, but purposefully to speed dial number 1.

The phone rang, four, five, six, seven rings. A bead of perspiration dripped down the side of his forehead. He could feel it, it made the side of his face itch.

Would they answer? He looked down the barrel, focusing. His eyes followed the rifling around and around and around...

and then there was a click, an answer, a woman's voice, an old woman...

“Hello, Tingleford 34698.”

She'd never got used to the new phone numbers.

“Mum,” said Anthony. “I'm having a really bad day.”

From Here to ….

Eternity was not hard to find. Positive wasn't that hard to spot either. As he flew closer it occurred to PC Paul Chambers that he was going to need a significantly bigger pair of hand cuffs.

Maybe he should just sit back and wait for that back up...

Eternity wasn't waiting. As Positive waded from the estuary along the Thames, Eternity launched himself from the tower like a lightning bolt in a streak of steaming toga. Positive braced, ready for the impact, awaiting the full force of Eternity as only a god can.

They saw him jump. The gang of 'hells angels' had approached at speed, but on seeing Positive rising from The Thames they found a suitable low lying cloud on which to park and view the spectacle, to see what happened next. They watched absorbed as Eternity piled into the body of Positive and with an almighty crash the two gods collided.

Only Brian was still watching the tower. He'd seen how the tower had flexed dramatically under the massive force of Eternity thrusting himself from its summit. Only Brian saw Brenda loose her grip as the tower suddenly sprung under the immense pressure, her footing lost, her arms flailing, backwards she stumbled....the look of horror, the realisation on her face as time slowed, balance lost, backwards, backwards, backwards, she stumbled, her face a picture of horror, of despair, as she ran out of floor, as eyes wide and arms flailing... she vanished over the edge.

It was a thousand foot drop from the top of the tower to the street below. He wondered how long it would take her to fall...

The bike throttle twisted so hard in his grip it half slipped through his ghostly fingers, and the bike shot through the sky towards the top of the tower. In an instant it was there and then following her over the edge, chasing the falling body of his beloved, racing vertically down towards the street... except... she wasn't there... and the street was approaching... exceptionally rapidly. He pulled the brakes, pulled back on the handle bars... “How hard could this be?” His own words echoed in his head. “Very bloody hard.” replied The Universe through its laughter, but Brian wasn't giving in.

Like that mattered. Newtons first law insisted.

He jumped.

The bike crashed into the floor creating a six foot hole based purely on the strength of the impact, and then it exploded. Bob would have been sorely sorry that he missed this one. Brian was not for the first time in the last few days left floating on the thermals. As he viewed the wreckage through the fireball below, from above, he could hear the most distant of screams.

It is in fact an unwritten law of the universe, that if ever anyone falls from a very high building, that if that person is a major character in any story, then there will be a flag pole, or some form of extrusion for them to catch hold of, where they can be left dangling ready for salvation, or at the very least, a few last words before they finally lose their grip and fall to their unfortunate death.

Brenda clung. And screamed. It was a very long way down. Or from Brian's perspective, a very long way up. She screamed again. This time with real feeling.

“Oh for fuck's sake!” screamed Brian as he raced to the lobby towards the lift.

The Eternal Battle with Positivity

It's a battle we all face, if not every day, then at times in our lives. No matter how much we try and remain positive, Eternity will throw things our way that might push us back, and make life something more of an arduous struggle than it should ever need to be.

Of course, this is a negative way of looking at things. We could suggest that no matter how hard life seems to be, every now and then, a nugget of positivity will find itself floating our way along the river of life, and perhaps the trick is simply being open to these when they come. The more oppressive is life, the more we must be open to, the more we must appreciate, and nurture those nuggets, and I suppose we must hope that the nuggets we find floating in the estuary are not the ones that were flushed there; Unless we are looking to develop a talent for growing roses.  

The battle was monumental. The world watched from its respective sofa's, bars, and TV shop windows in dumbfounded awestruck wonderment. Hollywood had never presented such a spectacle. No sports match, no presidential debate, Godzilla V King Kong did not come close to commanding so much of the worlds attention. This truly was a clash of the titans, a battle of the greats, and somewhat ironically, a match made in heaven.

The struggle had been long and hard, lightning had flared across the sky, thunder had rolled, buildings had been demolished, there were explosions a plenty. The two gods had battled, each in turn holding the upper hand and then losing it. Now as the match came to its final moments, Eternity held Positive by the back of the neck and with the godly muscles in his arms and chest bulging, forced Positive's head below the murky water. Positive thrashed. Water flew in all directions. The Thames surged over its banks flooding nearby streets as Positive struggled below the tide.

And such is life. As positive as you ever manage to be, that which is eternal, will eventually overcome. Eventually. It is simply the nature of things, and the nature of time.

Eternity will win.

But in this brief moment, in this time that we are here, we can but be positive.

And his body was suddenly forced upwards from the surf, raised like a rampant roaring lion, up onto its hind legs, arms thrust up towards the heavens, and it became evident, that Positive wasn't thrashing beneath the waves. Positive wasn't struggling. Positive was laughing.

Positive roared. Guffawed. A hearty bellow surged forth from his lungs. This was his existence, his time, his being, and Eternity be damned, for perhaps it was true that time might grind us all down eventually, but while we are here upon this or any earth we are all the masters of our own distinct piece of 'eternity'.

He twisted round, one hand slipping behind Eternity's body, grabbing his long white flowing locks in his fist, pulling his head back, Eternity's back bent, his knees buckled. Positive held him down, staring into his widening eyes as Eternity with head held down onto the tumultuous waters surface contemplated, that this was not His time⁷⁰ .

And Positive bent over, forcing his face down onto that of Eternity. Their mouths met, and Positive planted the hugest wettest sloppiest kiss ever known in the history of film, T.V. or theatre upon Eternity's surprised and slighted parted lips.

It's possible there was tongue.

As the world watched in suddenly wide eyed bemused awe and wonder, the camera zoomed in. As Eternity's eyes Bulged, the clean cut, but somewhat incredulous Scots lilt of Anne McHathersage was heard by to say “Jesus Christ, where has he got his hand!?”

Then only moments later, losing its BBC overtones, her Scots lilt came to the fore as she exclaimed “Bugga me! Godzilla ne'r did that ta King Kong!”

Metaphorically

“Tom.” said Bob.
“Yes, Bob.” said Tom.

There was a pause.

Quite a lengthy pause.

A pause of quite some length in fact.

Before Bob finally questioned in somewhat shocked tones “Strictly speaking... that's not really a firework is it, Tom?”

Tom took his time… but finally responded, as if somewhat shocked and dazed himself “Perhaps it's a metaphor, Bob... Yes, a metaphor, that's it, it's a metaphor, Bob.” he said blinking, obviously in disbelief, and his voice trailed off and hid somewhere where it hopefully wouldn't have to answer such questions ever, ever, ever again.

Musak Maestro

There are times in life, when no matter how much you desperately need to be somewhere else, no matter how much you struggle, how much you fret, how much you honk your horn at the car in front, you simply aren't going to get where you want to be any faster than the prevailing conditions will allow. If the jam's not moving, then neither are you, and there is little, if not nothing that you can do about it. Take time out. Relax. Have a break. If there's nothing you can do, do nothing. Or learn to whistle.

Brian stood in the lift, and he waited as the musak played, and the elevator slowly elevated.

Time passed.

The musak lounged a little longer, evidently in no hurry to be any place else it floated around the little glass and steel box. La la la la, la la laaaaa, la laa laaa la laaaa. And Brian stared, out of the window, to what would normally be a wonderfully impressive panorama of the city, but in this instance, was the sight, of a person, La la la la, la la laaaaa, la laa laaa la laaaa, dangling a thousand feet in the air, desperately clinging at about half mast to dear life.

And foot by precious foot they came closer, and second by second he waited for that horrendous moment, when she would finally lose her grip and as he ascended, he would suddenly see her flying past in the opposite direction.

With nothing else to do, he wondered if she'd wave as she went past.

Time passed.

Musak played.

His ears throbbed to the sound of his heart pumping blood he didn't have around a body that didn't need it.

There was a 'bing', as the doors opened...

... and he flew.

And She Flew

The wind rushed past to wherever it so desperately needed to be.

It's the nature of wind. Always changing, never happy to be where it is, always wanting to be somewhere else, in some other form.

She'd been happy where she was. Well perhaps not actually happy, but content. Well, perhaps not actually content, but not unhappy. Until events had taken such a twisted turn. Until her universe, or more to the point, she herself had been ignited. Until she had been sent upon her way. It was a path that could only lead to destruction. But then, that was after all what she had been created for.

It's a funny old word. “Destruction”. It is a basic law of physics that we cannot create or destroy energy, and as mass is itself energy, then it is a simple law of physics that we cannot create or destroy mass either. We cannot destroy, All we can do is change.

Of course it could be argued that by changing something you are in fact destroying one form and creating another, or in the majority of cases, destroying one form, and in the process, creating lots of other smaller forms, made up of all the component pieces of the original.

She had been created, by the strangest of gods, to create destruction; To be the catalyst for change, to take form, and from that form create a myriad of others. Perhaps it could be said she was an artist, painting with plutonium on a canvas of time and entropy.

And as the wind rushed past, to wherever it so desperately needed to be, Ingrid contemplated these things. She contemplated the nature of time, the universe, and everything. She considered herself to be a messenger of change. She had no concept of death. Things are. Things Change. There is no beginning. There is no end.

It's an interesting perspective on the concept of life, and as she flew, or in those last moments fell through life, Ingrid the Intercontinental Ballistic Missile contemplated the nature of free will.

Exactly how much did she want to change?

Was she really ready for something quite this drastic?

Was there actually anything that she could do to effect the trajectory her life appeared to be taking?

And She Held On So Tightly!

It was a desperate lunge, instinctive, literally death defying. They say that in those last moments, your life flashes before your eyes, but in this instance the only thing her eyes were interested in was anything, absolutely anything that her flailing hands could reach out for, catch hold of, and stop her from tumbling to her death. It wasn't actually a flag pole. It was a support structure to which cables could be attached to keep the plethora of antennae and satellite receivers secure that seem to be at the pointy end of any modern sky scraper. She'd thrust out a hand, instinctively, and it had stuck. She managed to pull up just enough on that one hand to get a hold with the other, and there she dangled, blown by the breeze. An emblem, a flag if you will, for a world of nations in a desperate struggle for life.

The camera panned.

You might think that there aren't many things that might distract a reporters attention away from two gods, 'battling it out' in an oversized paddling pool⁷¹ , but a motorbike falling out of the sky and exploding on the pavement was just enough to catch the corner of an eye, and when that eye then panned up to see where the bike had come from, and seen a very pretty person in a death defying situation a thousand feet above the ground...

You have a choice, and you've only got one camera, the gods battling it out, or… 'human interest story'? In a world based on ratings, a cameraman who knew his business, and an audience with a very short attention span, the gods were very quickly forgotten, and suddenly the world found itself watching the plight of Brenda Donaldson, dangling a thousand feet above the streets of London. There was throughout the world, a collective intake of breath, as the camera zoomed in, on her anguished (though still obviously very pretty) face. It then panned back slightly, for the entire stretched out upper body shot, because well, a little titillation never hurt the viewing figures, before it zoomed in once more, and perhaps we might question the cameraman's dexterity, or perhaps we might question his ethics, but for an instant, the entire world found itself suddenly focused on Brenda Donaldson's chest.

Back in the studio, Anne McHathersage was now in full swing. Her soft Scots lilt fluidly chronicling the ongoing saga. If at first lost in feelings of rage at her colleagues for forcing this situation upon her, she rose to the challenge magnificently. That which tears at you is a poetry of which you must find the happy ending, and she was in full flow searching for it. If this was real life, or if this was fantasy, then come the final curtain no one would be questioning the rhapsody of Anne McHathersage⁷² .

She had risen to the challenge of describing the ongoing battle like a priest with a passion for pugilism. No theological punch, kick or stranglehold was ever so delightfully described from the pulpit with such evangelical prose. As the camera had unbelievably swung away from the battling beasts, gods or otherwise, she had instinctively known some new element was entering the affray. As it had zoomed in on the desperate dangling damsel in distress she had given thanks to her own gods for providing her the means, the story and the talent (which this new international audience would surely recognise) with which she could express her most heart felt desires to be their public servant⁷³ .  

“Oh My God....” The words had just flowed from her lips, and she had instantly questioned the wisdom of blasphemy when a beast claiming to be god had a physical presence in the same city. But then if god to you is most likely a myth and even then, a myth with no physical presence, a physical being claiming to be god isn't instantly convincing. Which might be how she had found the courage to lay down the challenge. “Oh my God...” she had repeated for effect “If that is truly you battling there before us, if either of these beings, these forces, here today, before us, are more than just effigies, then surely one must rise to the challenge and save this desperate situation... “ There was a pause before she felt the need to add “err, Mike, can you pan the camera up now?”

The camera panned up, once more showing the anguish on Brenda's oh so pretty face, before continuing upwards to show the drama of the whitening knuckles under the desperate pressure of her weakening grip on life. Something deep inside clung so desperately, for whatever reason, as insane and impossible as her life had become, it was the only life she had, and she clung.

Then she'd seen the lift approaching. The camera, now panned back, saw the look of hope flicker across her face and following her gaze, panned back further, to show the world that all was not lost, rescue was at hand... There was hope! Collectively, the world which still hadn't breathed out since last time, breathed in once more. There was Hope! And as it got closer, through its window she'd seen him inside, oh, and she had hoped.

“The Lord truly does move in mysterious ways.” came the McHathersage commentary, before adding “I suppose using the lift is not actually that mysterious, it's just not how I was expecting… The Lord... to arrive.”

As the lift reached its rooftop summit, as the door opened, as a semi-transparent man ran out, the camera had blurred, refocused, panned in, panned out, trying to get to grips with exactly what it was looking at. The world as one, looked away from the screen, into each others faces, arms raised exasperated, questioning, “What is this?”, “What is this nonsense that the T.V. is filled with today?”, “Is this a joke, a trick?”, “Is it April already?”, but as one, they all looked back, glued to the drama that was unfolding.

He was on the roof, above her, reaching down, a translucent ghostly arm stretching out and taking hold of her wrist. His face a picture, almost as terrified as her own, almost... but then... he wasn't the one who had to let go of a perfectly solid pole and grab hold of a semi transparent arm.

She could feel his grip. Tightening. It felt solid. She could see him. She could feel him. He was real. He was there above her. Her arms were growing weaker. She couldn't hold on forever...

… and so, because she didn't see that she had any other choice, she closed her eyes, and trusting whatever fate lay in wait for her, with that one hand she let go, and grabbed his ghostly wrist.

The world as one, let out a gasp.

Fate

It was a terrifying sensation. The sudden realisation that her hand was going straight though his. That his hand was slipping literally through her own. As it slipped, he squeezed tighter, desperately gripping at the muscles, tendons, and bones. She screamed in pain and fear in equal measure, and grabbed again desperately at the pole, but his slippery half grip made her misjudge. Suddenly she found herself dangling a thousand feet in the air, by just one hand. One tired, aching, throbbing hand.

The tendons in her fingers, the muscles in her entire upper body all screamed, and she never heard a syllable of it because it was all drowned out by the cacophonous sound of the scream that was coming from her own mouth.

All the world heard was the rotation of helicopter blades as they watched her anguished screaming face.

She would never forget the terror in his eyes, as she dangled there, staring up at him. The look of helplessness. In those milliseconds how she'd cursed him. For what? Because he couldn't solve her dilemma, and he was the only one there, so it was his fault. She screamed, and he looked terrified and lost. He grabbed again, but she didn't have the strength now to pull up to grab the bar. He clung to her other wrist, offering whatever strength he could, but it was no good, she couldn't pull up and she couldn't let go.

It wasn't intentional. She simply realised that physical strength had passed the point of being about how much pain a body can endure. Mental strength hadn't given in, there simply wasn't the physical power in the muscles to be willed to hold on any longer. Her face became calm as she realised that letting go was actually the only option available.

As the fingers unravelled, as the grip gave way, as hand and hold parted company, Anne McHathersage softly, oh so softly, breathed the words the world was thinking. Professional up to the last, but at the last found wanting. Wanting of professionalism, but not of humanity.

“Holy Fuck.” she whispered.

And So She Fell

And so I fell.

Amongst events that have drastically altered the path of my life, I include, in no particular order, relations with friends, family, the media. I often wondered if I paid far too much, or far to little attention to the media. I suppose it depends which bits of it you're paying attention to. I think I was influenced too much by what other people thought of me: the desire to be popular, to be liked, to be loved, to be like everyone else. Perhaps it would have been better to have just got on with it and sod what everyone thinks, but then... people? We're a pretty social bunch, when we're not being totally selfish, and it's nice to be liked, lovely to be loved, great to feel you share things with others. I guess it's just all a question of balance. I'm not sure I ever had enough balance. Which I suppose is obvious when you consider I just fell off a …

… Why the hell am I thinking about this crap, Jesus Fucking Christ that's the floor down there, it's coming up really fucking fast!

Oh Fucking Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood!

“What?”

It was said in the most amazing calm tone. Soft, caring, feminine, although not obviously female. Soft, but deep. The voice of a mother, always there for you. Assured and reassuring.

Time slowed. I suppose time just is. It wasn't going anywhere.

I admit I was a little bit spooked by the whole thing, but I suppose it wasn't any stranger than anything else that had happened in the past few days. “Is that... God?” I finally ventured.

“An aspect of it.” It replied.

“So the three hundred foot thing over there, scrapping with the... ahhh,“ Her eyes widened “so not scrapping now then... doing whatever that is to the… other three hundred foot thing over there isn't God then?” Then she added “That's a lot of waves they're making.”

“They are both aspects of the same. Aspects of the One. We are all anthropomorphisms, perceptions of an essential idea.”

“What?” My question was in no way as calm and collected as 'Hers' had been.

“God is an idea. An essence, neither male nor female, brutal nor kind, not even humanoid, not even physical, just an idea. A figment of imagination, if you do not make the mistake of thinking that imagination, that thoughts are not real. They exist in whatever plain they exist … and have what effect they have upon this world.”

“What?” I repeated. I'm not sure I was keeping up my end of the conversation, but, as they say, 'Ask a question, look stupid, don't ask, stay stupid.” and She, or It didn't appear to be in any hurry so I asked. I'm not that stupid.

“This world, this universe that you perceive is not all that is real. It is simply all that appears solid to your perception. When you dream, your dreams are not unreal, they are an equal part of your perception. Each time you wake, you do not return to the real world, you return to the consistent world. The solid world. There is no universal law that says all reality is consistent. It is simply your experience, or even your decision, that this is so, and because you believe this to be so, you perceive it do be so.”

I think my eyes sort of glazed over at that point, but she kept going.

“The universe, by nature of being universal, must contain all things, which includes the consistent and the inconsistent. You have science, but by its nature, science only measures that which is consistent and repeatable. If it is not repeatable, or consistent, science literally dismisses it. Ignores it. Pretends it didn't happen or doesn’t exist. At best considers it in the 'margins of error'. We gods get away with murder on the grounds that we're thoroughly inconsistent. But God, at its essence is an idea. It is whatever you believe it to be. At its most simple, it is nothing more than a word, a pin prick of an idea, the most simple of things. At its most complex, it has wrapped around it flesh and the most complex of mythologies. People choose what they wish to believe god is, or select which idea of god or gods make sense to them. Each is an aspect of the Idea of God. A way of looking at the same essential Idea. Again, do not make the mistake of thinking that ideas are not real. They are a part of perception. If you believe the perception, the perception is real to you. Even if it is not consistent with previous knowledge, or repeatable experience.”

What can I say. I met God, or a god, or an… aspect of god...and fuck me, he, she or it is some kind of drugged out crazy, but heh, I tried one last time. “So why is it, that you've ignored me my entire life, and it's only now that you've finally appeared for a little chat?”

“It's only now that you're so desperate that you actually believe your own perceptions when I speak to you, rather than just assuming that you are crazy. That's one reason we don't talk so much.“ She paused “The other is you're not that interesting.”

There was a longer pause before She added “I'm a god you know. I've got other interests. Things to do, people to see. Many minions desperate for attention. I'm not hanging on your coat tails hoping you'll like me.”

In retrospect, that was probably fair, but I was a bit cut about the latter parts so I may have been a bit irate when I asked “What do you mean not that interesting?! How the hell does a comment like that fit with loving everyone? Don't get so smug matey, you need people like me to believe in you!”

I don't know how, but I could tell that she smiled. It was a calm, knowing, and I hate to say it, because I'm pretty sure that he was a she, patronising⁷⁴ . “Perhaps you still do not understand. It is said amongst people that the eye has evolved, separately, numerous times, in numerous creatures. The 'design' of the eye is so efficient that even if the species for whatever reason over the eons died out, given time, the same 'design' evolved again, and again, because though complex in construction, it is such a simple, efficient idea. The same is true of God. Species will come and go, Mythologies will come and go, but because the basic idea is so simple, the Idea of God is one that will come again, and again, and again. It is the explanation to all that is unexplainable. The Idea will be around as long as things are, or at least, it won't be far away. The Idea might need a perceiver, it could be said it doesn't exist without⁷⁵ , but perceivers are many, and this idea is so very simple, and hence so very common. Of course, a more complex anthropomorphism, a more complex god, with more complex mythology might chase a little harder to keep its believers, to maintain the idea, to keep the idea vibrant and alive, but the idea does not die just because no one holds it. It simply waits to be discovered once more. To be believed once more. If it can really be said that an idea waits. An idea just is. A god just is. It is only its power in this world, which is effected by the belief in this world. “

“But you're a god, you thrive on believers, you thrive on power.” I accused.

“You're mistaking me for Him.” she replied easily with a nod of her head in the direction of the river. I couldn't see her, I couldn't see her head, but somehow I knew that nod had taken place. “I don't need power. I'm just an idea. I don't crave existence. I come when called.” she continued.

“Oh. ok” I said, pretty much just for something to fill the gap. I'm not sure I understood any of it. Gods are weird.

“Was there something else you wanted, or can I go now?” she asked dutifully.

Perhaps it was time to get to the point “Well, while you're here, it sort of seems like I'm heading towards the ground a bit on the fast side and... well, not to put too fine a point on it, if I hit it I'm going to make a really big mess... and you know, being as you're a god and everything.... is there any chance that you might see your way clear to you know.... helping me out of a situation here?”

“How exactly would you like me to do that?”

Seriously, it turns out that gods are that fucking stupid.

“I don't know, I hadn't really thought about it that far, but you know, something along the lines of not splatting all over the ground would be good, you know, not dying, keeping all limbs attached.” Then I added as an afterthought, because I've heard about what gods can be like, “and in working order.”

“Are you sure?” she replied.

It seemed like the dumbest question ever. I mean if someone asks if you're sure you don't want to die, well of course I was sure. Then she added “Are you not in love with him?”

Where Do Thoughts Come From?

Thoughts... they're just inside your head right? A mental manifestation of the combined result of previous experience.

We can effect the way that people think. We can make them feel happy or sad just by adding different chemicals to the mix, or we can condition responses, we can teach people to react as we wish them to react, but does that really answer the question?

Where do thoughts come from?

Why is it that the thought might suddenly fly through your head to phone a distant friend? Where does the impulse come from that makes us jump up and go for a walk, or talk to a stranger as they pass by, to pull the apple from the tree and take a huge juicy mouthful?

When I ask the question, 'Where do the thoughts come from?' where did the thought come from that made me do that. Why is the sky blue? Why do I care?

Have you ever had a desire to do something utterly out of character? You perhaps just wanted to punch some irritating idiot in the face, but something was holding you back, stopping you from doing it? Two conflicting 'voices' speaking at the same time inside your head.

It's safe to say that either one of those voices wasn't your own, or you are a more complex character than we may have previously realised. What if one of those voices wasn't your own? How would you know? Would you just adopt the additional narrative inside your head?

Or is there a deeper core to you that questions the persistent narrative? A more you-ish bit of you?

Where do thoughts come from? Well, science can take a pretty fair stab at an answer, it can poke bits of your brain and make you react in certain ways, it can flood you with chemicals and make you feel certain ways. Science can play god.

But the question still remains... When science isn't playing at god, just who is?

Where do thoughts come from?

And as ever with humans, when we don't know the answer, we have this horrible habit of jumping to the same old conclusion.

The Price of Change

If a penny is the usual price for thoughts this one came in with a price tag of about three pounds fifty. Maybe more allowing for inflation.

It could be said it came with a charge like three and a half pounds of semtex, but that would have been a ridiculous exaggeration. It didn't actually explode his brains over a several hundred meter radius.

“Where is she?”

The thought just popped into his brain 'from nowhere', but suddenly her absence was the only thought.

It had been so easy to get sucked up in the spectacle. Everyone was transfixed, caught up in the headlights, eyes wider than a porn stars ankles, and a three hundred foot tall one at that... I mean, how often did you get to see gods doing that?

“Where is she? Where is she? Where is she?” The thought bounced back and forth between his temples. His eyes scanned the scene, the roads, the riverside, the rooftops, and then he heard the screams.

As the strength in her fingers finally gave way, as she started to fall, the words bounced around his brain “Where is she? Where is she? Where is she?”. The toga'd up huge dude had jumped from the top of the tower, she must be on the tower! No time for doubt, no time for questions, he just twisted the throttle and...Jeeeeeeesus fucking Chriiiiist the bike had never gone that fast before.

Steering by base instinct, and sheer will power, his dreads billowing out behind him as the wind pounded his features, ripples formed across the skin on his face, stretching it back until he feared it would be ripped from his skull. He reached the top of the tower, his expression a collage of terror and determination, his knuckles white, gripping the handles as his body was subject to G forces normally reserved for fighter pilots, he saw her falling body cascading away from him, and he went into a dive, chasing at a speed previously undreamed of, until he was there behind her, slowing down, measuring his speed against hers, grabbing her body, pulling her towards the bike, he had her.

He started to pull up...

The Cost of Change of Mind

“... In love with him?”

Of course I was fucking in love with him! What a bloody stupid question. He was there, at the top of the tower. He was the one who was always there. He was the one who was always there for me when I needed him. Even from beyond the grave he came every time. He had always been there. Ever since... forever. Of course I was fucking in love with him. He'd jumped out of a bloody airplane for me. He faced down a sodding god for me. And well... he wasn't exactly bad to look at either.

My falling body spun, and as I faced upwards, I could see him staring down towards me, his arm still outstretched, the blankest look on his face. Lost. Longing.

Of course I fucking loved him. But he was dead.

And I wanted to carry on being alive.

I wanted to carry on being alive!

And then the bike came over the top of the tower. It was going so fast I hardly even saw it before it was there, under me, picking me up and carrying me away. I could still see him there, at the top of the tower, as I looked over Kenty's shoulder. Even now, I can still see him there at the top of the tower. Lost. Longing.

I cried, I'm not ashamed to admit it. I mean, for the sake of sanity some times you've just got to be allowed to. You've got to let yourself. He was dead. I was alive. How much further apart can you get than that?

I cried. I sobbed my stupid heart out.

The bike landed, hit the road, he swung it round in a big arc as it stopped, I cried, and cried, and cried, and all I was thinking was “Why the fuck couldn't you have just crashed it into the ground and killed us all?”

It's Tough At The Top

“Humans are never bloody happy.” sighed The Goddess, before her face slipped into the beautific radiance of her smile, as it showed without a doubt, she knew the other half of it.

Elation

And the watching world as one, elated at the scene, jumped from their seats. They were punching the air in salute, grabbing each other, hugging, kissing, dancing with joy, singing, screaming with such elation. Happy as happy can be.

In the studio, Anne McHathersage was gushing a monumental torrent of love for this new found flying superhero who had sprung from the skies upon his trusty steed, in this the hour of need. Were those really dreadlocks flowing behind him as he caught her, or was it more surely his cape billowing out behind him, the mark of such a man, no, not just a man, no mere mortal could have performed such feats, surely this was a superman, this was the hero who would save them all from the perverse monstrosities at play in the Thames that now faced mankind.

Back on the ground, Kenty reached into his jacket, pulled out a half smoked spliff, casually lit it, took a drag, and wondered why the crazy woman he'd just saved was crying her eyes out and beating him repeatedly and forcefully in the chest. “Heyyyy, chill Cookie,” he soothed, placing an arm around her, pulling her towards him, partially as reassurance, and partially because he hoped that if he hugged her, she'd find it much harder to keep hitting him and might just stop. “It's all fine, all safe, chill girl, everything is back and grounded, It's all good.”

The venom with which her retort came back hit him in the face with a force equal to that which he'd previously experienced in free fall. If his dreads didn't blow back in the same way, if his face didn't contort in the same way, it wasn't for lack of emotion on her part.

“NO IT'S FUCKING NOT!”

She pushed him away, climbed from the bike, and like an angry five year old she stomped around screaming “IT'S NOT ALL FUCKING GOOD, IT'S NOT, IT'S FUCKING NOT!”

Kenty watched, saying nothing... sometimes there's nothing you can say. He took another drag, inhaling deeply.

“HE'S STILL FUCKING DEAD!” she screamed.

When she inhaled it was a breath so deep. A breath that spoke of the birth of such resolve. A breath that just went on and on, her body straightened, a hardness, determination, pure unadulterated strength glistened in her eye, and Brenda Donaldson's chest expanded to contain the combined might, the resolve, the determination, the sheer bloody minded ambition of every crusade for land, relic, mind or heart that ever was considered holy.

The Gods be Buggered

It has been suggested that if responsibility is to be placed, if blame is to be ultimately laid, then there is no better direction to point the finger, than directly at God. Because hey, they started it.

And they're not denying it.

Obviously there are those who will argue that God doesn't exist and that you're going to look a bit stupid standing there pointing your finger off into vacant space like an old time catalogue model, but it just so happened that God (or at least, an aspect of God) and his cleaner than clean virgin⁷⁶ arsehole, was at that very moment less than a hundred metres away lighting a cigarette and sporting a very bedraggled grin.

He looked over his shoulder into Positve's beaming expression and said “You know you're going to hell for that.”

“Is that a punishment or are you offering me a job?” questioned Positive innocently.

Eternity laughed. “You know I let you win.” he said slyly.

“Of course.” Positive replied. “One doesn't overcome Eternity without Eternity's consent. But then, you know you had to let me.”

“Did I?” questioned Eternity with mock surprise.

“Of course.” Positive continued “Just what sort of story would it be, if the Almighty Eternity was always victorious and couldn't be overcome by the positive plucky newcomer?”
“I didn't have to let you do that.” responded Eternity.
“Of course you did.” responded Positive, “You are The Eternal, The Sum of the Infinite, all things to all people, you have to have tried everything at least once.”

For once Eternity's expression of disbelief didn't look like an attempted assault. He smiled joyfully as Positive continued “What's more, I am you, You are me, we are both incarnations of the same intrinsic idea, the conceptualisation of that which is perfect, flawless, all powerful, and beyond reproach... and if that's not a concept that's just begging for someone to come along with a parody as being completely up itself, than I don't know what is.⁷⁷ ”

A Time for New Beginnings

Wearing a wry grin, as if noticing the camera for the very first time, Positive turned, and bellowed.

“It is time!”

The camera swung. All the cameras swung, for many now had found their way to this place, this monumental stage.

“It is time for new beginnings.“ stated Positive emphatically, playing to the growing array of lenses and microphones that had gathered. Many buzzed from helicopters, many were there on the ground, in the surrounding crowd that had gathered to view the spectacle, although most it should be said, with telephoto lenses from a suitably safe distance.

Positive took to the stage with all the grandeur of his eternal counterpart.

“In the beginning was the word, and the word was 'god'!”

but then, with the humbleness of angelic heritage continued:

“And in the beginning, that word was not well understood.

And churches formed around ideas, around beliefs, around desires of how the world should be.

And each church claimed its own god to be the one most true.”

Every word was cast forth in the knowledge that it was truth. That Positive was positive was without doubt. That positive was right was open to debate, but at this point no one vocalised objection, and Positive continued unabated.

“For they lacked the understanding that each perspective upon that most holy light is a personal perspective. That to view god, is to view a mirror, of what you yourself hold to be perfection... to be truth. That god is not viewed in isolation, but as a reflection of your own most perfect soul. And it is your own soul that will define the path that is right for you, and no other soul can judge it. If you transgress, if you deviate, from the path which your own soul decrees to be most true, you will no doubt know doubt, you will know sadness, and you will know, that you have done this, and you are not upon your own true path.

Know this and know it to be true!”

The last sentence was bellowed. There was no doubting the conviction. That Positive was positive of that which was spoken.

“If you behold that God is Truth,

then you must cast away all other notions from your lives of what god is.

no book, no law, can tell you more

of what God is

than the very essence of the word.

If you behold, that God is Infinite and Eternal,

then you must know,

that God is all things,

in all measures,

and many of these things,

you might prefer not to know.

If you behold that God is Love,

then may you soar upon the wings,

for sure it must be told

there is no greater thing.

If you behold that God is lost,

that God is false,

that god is just a word

of which the deeper meaning holds

no greater truth

then behold this

my gift to you

you are a god

and so believe

in all that you might dream.”

He stood there, as the cameras rolled and the world watched, awed, silenced... standing defiant, aware that this was now that time, that place, the time for a new beginning.

And then, upon the air, floated the simple, soft words... From where they came, no one watching knew, but it was a time for new beginnings. If in the beginning was the word, then in a new beginning there must be a new word, and the words simple hung there in the air... cradling all who heard in onomatopoeia.

“...and love...”

In the New Beginning was the Word, and the Word was Love.

“Oi” screamed a voice from somewhere down around ground level. “I want to talk to you!”

“Did you hear something?” asked Eternity looking in Positives direction.

“Ahhh, down there” replied Positive helpfully.

“It was a rhetorical question.” stated Eternity aloofly, before adding waspishly “I am omniscient.”

“In which case there's no need for me to tell you what I think of you asking the question in the first place” stated Positive with a cheerful grin.

Eternity scowled half heartedly. Bizarrely, he found himself in rather a good mood all things considered. He glanced downwards in the direction of this new interruption. “What?!” he asked impatiently, before his omniscience kicked back in, and he remembered the multitude of cameras currently beaming his every word to the world at large. “How may I help you?” he quickly added smoothly in far more godlike⁷⁸ tones.

“I've got a complaint!” stated Brenda defiantly.
“Well, feel free to say a suitable prayer and I'm sure the relevant department will handle it and enlightenment will be yours in due time.” replied Eternity smoothly. He took a long drag on his cigarette, filling his lungs completely, before breathing out contentedly.

“Those things will be the death of you.” stated Positive in his ever positive 'only trying to help' tones.
“Do you know who I am?” retorted Eternity, pointing obstinately at his own puffed out chest.

“I've got a complaint and I want to make it NOW!” Brenda announced defiantly from some distance beneath them.
“Plucky little thing.” stated Positive. “Go on, listen to her, see how you can help, do a good deed,” before adding somewhat more nonchalantly “The cameras are watching. It will be good for publicity.”

The cameras were watching. The world waited with baited breath as this next episode unravelled.

And so did I.

Depraved Depths

From the top of the tower, I looked down upon the scene unravelling below me. My emotions shattered. I didn't know what to think. I didn't know what I felt. Numb. I didn't know what I wanted. Or if I did, I didn't know how I could possibly bring it within reach.

Maybe this is how it ends.

I wanted to save her...

But oh so much I wanted her to be with me.

When she'd slipped through my grip, when she'd fallen... away from me, I was horrified, obviously because she was now going to fall a thousand feet to her very messy death, but, if I'm honest, I have to admit it was also because some horrible selfish part of me was actually really happy that she was going to splunch herself all over the pavement.

We would be reunited. She would finally be mine. I know, it's as twisted as fresh string tied up with old rope at a bondage party. But then that fucking bastard had bloody saved her! The fucking dick-splash! I could have killed him. If it wasn't for the fact that, well, he was saving her, and well, I wanted to be the one who saved her... and… OK, I admit, I was a bit confused about the whole ridiculous episode by this point, give me a break.

But then, from the top of my tower, from the depths of my own gloom, it became evident that something was happening down below. Quite probably something very important. I saw her run up to the two almighty great... things, whatever they were, and the gods alone⁷⁹ knew what they'd been up to, but I couldn't tell what was going on, she was too far away, I could just see her as a speck in the distance, and I couldn't hear anything at all. I figured I had to get down there, and I sort of let out a theatrical sigh, as it occurred to me that I was going to have to go and get in the lift and listen to that stupid bloody lift music again all the way down, when the thought popped into my head, that well, I was already dead, I could just jump off the building and it would be a hell of a lot faster way down, and I wouldn't have to suffer the aural assault of lift music for the terminally mundane. Obvious when you think about it. I don't understand why I'd not thought about it sooner. But yeah, the journey down was a lot faster than the journey up.

Blame

“You killed him!” screamed Brenda. “You killed him. You could have saved him from falling, and you let him fall to his death. You could have saved him. He could still be alive if you'd have done something, and not just let him fall!”

“He wanted to die⁸⁰ .” stated Eternity matter of factly.

“He did not!” Brenda protested. “I loved him. He did not want to die.”

The logic is there if you look for it.

“He did not feel worthy of such love.⁸¹ ”

“He was worthy! He jumped out of an airplane for me!” Brenda screamed defiantly. “He was always there. I loved him. I wanted him. I want him! He was worthy!”

She screamed the last point. If the truth of an argument was ever justified by how loudly that point were proclaimed then it can safely be said that his worth was all that and so much more.

“It was he who stole the Kybota.” stated Eternity.⁸²

For a brief moment, it all went silent, except for the fact that in various languages, several billion people around the world simultaneously muttered the words “The what now?”

Then Brenda, somewhat deflated quietly muttered under her breath “oh...”

She absorbed the fact for a moment before continuing “But that was just a box. It was nothing. Why would he do that?⁸³ ”

“Curiosity is a powerful master, and has been known to sacrifice more than just our feline friends.” The word 'friends” had a definite edge to it. Possibly because Eternity had a problem with any creature that was worshipped to the extent that the cat had been throughout history, but more than likely simply because cats got on his nerves for being so damned aloof and because they refused to roll over and beg.

“But I want him.” stated Brenda meekly.

Eternity was a sucker for meek. “Good for publicity.” echoed the words of Positive. “Go on, let her have him” whispered The Goddess in his shell like, as from nowhere she wrapped herself around him, her breath against his ear as she gently licked and nibbled at his lobes. “Let her have him.”

And so it was. Eternity proudly proclaimed to the watching world “So be it. I AM ETERNITY! I am your god. I give you this thing that you desire. He is made flesh once more. That which was taken I will return. He is returned to the living, your wish is granted.”

And with that, He vanished. They all vanished.

And Brenda's eyes lit up. They positively radiated, and she turned and she looked up to where she'd last seen me...

God's a Cunt.

And so I fell.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...”

Perhaps it's a bit unfair to suggest that God is female genitalia. It seems entirely unfair to women the world over that their genitalia should be considered an insult at all, never mind such a strong, if not the strongest insult.

However the fact that it is the most taboo, means that when we want to use the strongest insult, that is the word we reach for...

“...aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...”

… but then perhaps it's a bit unfair to use the strongest, most taboo insult to describe any god, when most of us can't even agree on who or what that god is, and ultimately, we're just blaming the fact that the universe isn't living up to our expectations, and looking for an anthropomorphism to blame it all on, but still...

“...rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg...”

...when you're falling to your death (for the second time), and about to become a pile of endorphin laden jelly, comparisons with organs that have reduced you to such a state in the past do take on a certain irony...

“...gggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

… and we might accept that at the very least, if God exists, whatever form He, She, or It takes, be it the creator of life, or the sweetest butterfly blowing mankind on the most tempestuous and chaotic of breezes...

they've got a sense of humour.

Albeit sometimes a pretty dark one.

Splunch!

It wasn't any easier the second time around, although the pavement was fractionally harder.

There was something to be said for not having quite so long to think about the fall. I considered screaming for God. I decided against it. It's all very well believing in gods, when it's blatantly obvious they exist, but the fact remains that if gods were actually interested in the fate of humanity then we wouldn't be in this stupid mess would we.

Perhaps it's time we started to believe in ourselves, and accept that this is our fate.

Of course, whether or not you believe in fate is another question entirely.

Given my circumstances, I felt I didn't have much choice.

It's not that I didn't try flapping, it's just that in the circumstances I accept I was expecting rather a lot of evolution for it to catch up in the limited time available.

I fell. I splunched. I coated the pavement in endorphin laden jelly.

Those who were left behind would get the tougher time of it because they would have to pick up the pieces. Although, it's safe to say there weren't too many pieces that needed to be picked up all said and done. It was more a kind of lumpy jam with a very thick skin.

The thing that most people won't understand, because people tend to have very short memories, is that as dire as this may seem, it really wasn't as bad as it may appear.

Fireworks

“Tom.” said Bob.

“Yes, Bob?”, said Tom.

“About those fireworks...” said Bob.

“What about those fireworks?” said Tom.

There was a pause, although not a specifically long one.

“Well, should we do anything about them?”

“I'm not sure there's anything we can do, Bob.” said Tom. “Free will and all that.”

“Probably best to retreat to a safe distance then eh, Tom?”
“Good idea, Bob.”

“It's going to be quite a show.”

“I should say so.”

“I like fireworks.” said Bob.

“That's nice.” said Tom.

A Bloody Big Bang

The average inter continental ballistic missile moves at quite a speed. Not at the speed of light, but many times the speed of sound. That is to say, the speed of these things, on re-entry is measured in kilometres per second. They're fast. Suffice to say that if one is going to land on you, you probably won't see it coming.

Ingrid the Inter Continental Ballistic Missile had noted as she approached her oncoming destiny a number of other similar entities on roughly similar trajectories. They'd chatted amiably about a number of topics, although, as is perhaps often the case of those who feel they are about to 'meet' their maker' the conversation had certainly contained a fair amount of philosophy and religion.

It had been argued that they were not actually going to 'meet their maker' because by definition, this was something that happened at the start of life, hence why it was called the 'maker'. They were in fact going to meet the maker of whoever, or whatever, they were going to become next. It was postulated that as they had in fact been the architects of what they were going to become next their entire lives, that they were in fact all their own makers and as such, they were simply going to meet themselves. Given that they'd already done this, there were very few of them who saw the point, and they very quickly gave up on religion and moved onto philosophy instead which seemed far less dogmatic in its outlook.

Ingrid herself suggested that each of them came into existence at the exact moment that they were perceived to have done so, and they each went out with something of an explosion, quite possibly taking the perceiver with them. Each explosion would create numerous other entities from their component parts, each of which would only come into being upon perception, and exit existence upon the expiration of those who perceived them. After all she argued, if Armageddon came and there was no one left to witness it, then surely it had already happened previously. The end time would arrive when the last perceiver was removed from the universe in the final great explosion. She called it The Bloody Big Bang Theory.

It was an interesting philosophy which was lost from the world about the same time as London.

From a Safe Distance

“Ooooooooooooooooh” said Bob.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah” said Tom.

“Ooh la laaaaaaa” said Pierre.

Arisen as a Rose

They rose on the thermals like eagles in ecstasy, enraptured hearts, entwining souls, ecstatic to be as one, together again at last. Magnetised souls having suffered such separation, suddenly situated in immediate proximity, flew to each other as long lost lovers, amidst an explosion that would split the world asunder. No simple kiss could be so sweet, no bedazzled bed bouncing coupling could contain such prodigious passion as their combined souls sustained. They fell into each others very essence and soared delirious in endless star soaked fandango radiating such a bliss the very source of stars themselves might well aspire to be so pure. No metaphor could now describe the joy they held, the joy they were, for what they felt would evermore be the metaphor for all that joy might be. Naked of flesh, of all pretence, enraptured hearts ecstatic to be as one swimming naked, ever onward, in the timeless flow toward the source of all that is the One True Love.

“Are you looking at my tits?” she said.

“Good god yes.” he replied.

And she laughed the sweetest laugh at the boldness of his dream, for she knew that it was real and the sweetest of salvation.

“You are The Goddess” he beheld.

“We are Eternity” she sighed.

Perspective

“I do love a happy ending.” added Positive, positively, as he licked his lips, and pursing them he blew, provocatively whistled up a breeze, and on that breath they flew. Such heady times they had, such dimensions they've been through, until they found the land that thoughts came from...

… and from there, they snuck through,

and brought a tale of gods and love,

and how we fools confuse the two,

and how these two,

they confuse us,

when we mistake,

belief for truth.

The Whitest Noise

There was a crackling of perspective, as consciousness faded back into being.

PC Paul Chambers blearily opened his eyes. “What the fu...”

“Don't say it.” Dennis interjected. It's not big, it's not clever, and it's just not necessary. Swearing is for those with limited vocabulary, limited intelligence, limited imaginations, and it's just not necessa...”

And then he was in turn cut off, as Damien's consciousness returned to the fold...

“That was Fucking Awesome! Let's do it Again!”

It is what it is.

It is there for you to enjoy.

It is there for you to mould.

It is there for you to fight.

If fight you must.

It is there for you to Love.

Be happy
Be happy 

Be happy!

Because Your Heart Should be Happy

as All hearts should be

Smile

Believe

In whatever you need

And Know

That You Are

The Key

No Pressure

This story is available for download at glyn.co 

(the shortest URL I could get my hands on)

Please visit to contribute feedback, find out what else I've been up to, or to support me in my campaign to prevent authors putting begging notes on the back of their work in the hope that people will support them in their writing.

Sharing the URL via your favoured social networking sites, is also a big, big help.

3.

It

is a

crazy

crazy

universe

www.glyn.co 

To modern thinking a seemingly obvious statement. Originally attributed to the scholar Omnominon of Pythtakies, subtle nuances of its deeper meaning have been debated for generations. The All New Revised Hippy to English Phrase Book suggests its meaning to be merely that the life experience should be fulfilling and enjoyable for each and every one of us. It is alleged that Omnominon herself stated in later life that all she was trying to convey was that 'we really shouldn't have to put up with this shit.'

This is obviously sexist, but at the time of writing it's true, so what can you do?

Not at the same time, obviously, although it’s a curious image.

Assuming by gentleman we mean complete and utter psychopathic bastard who happens to wear a suit occasionally.

It is left open to the reader to decide if she was concerned about being attacked by sinister agents of archaic religious orders, or just had a serious problem with doorstep evangelists.

It is perhaps unfair just to pick on Slough at this point. There are many crappy places in the universe, some of them a lot less habitable than Slough. In fact, it could be said that pretty much the entire universe is less habitable than Slough, as most of it doesn't have an oxygen based atmosphere, but be that as it may I think it should be added that anywhere can be wonderful as long as you’ve got good mates.

Well, good mates and oxygen, and whatever else it is you enjoy.

All except one small flea, who generally resided upon the pub dog, but was currently happily situated on said table feasting upon a stray fragment of a salt and vinegar crisp. For years after he would dine out on the tale of how he 'rode that bad ass breakin' tube across the falls duuuuuuuude.”

And accepting that you could only really get away with drinking clear 'spirits'. You are what you eat and all that.

Allegedly. This is an argument known in law as the 'Schroedinger Defence'. Schroedinger suggests that if we lock a cat in a box with a sealed vial of poison that has a 50/50 chance of breaking, that we do not know until we open the lid if the cat is alive or dead. It can be argued the cat does not actually die until a curious soul opens the lid and perceives the outcome, and that it is in fact the perception of the event that causes the cat's demise and 'reality' then travels backwards to fill in the necessary blanks. It is therefore reasonable to assume that it is indeed curiosity that killed the cat, and not the mad bugger who locked it in the box with a vial of poison in the first place.

It should be noted, the fact that some physicists are now coming to believe there is much validity in Schroedinger’s work in regard to collapsing wave functions, apparently holds very little sway with the RSPCA.

And charging to pass it.

Despite having paid meticulous attention to putting on his seatbelt.

Three steps at a time obviously, not three feet, that would be ridiculous.

It's not that dying isn't big, just that in an age of reason, you have to put Descartes before the hearse.

If puns are the worst form of humour, is 'Mort Code' the nail in the coffin? Knock once for yes and...

Which is in itself bizarre given how many of them were sure there was only one.

It is rumoured that there was in the eleventh century a female pope who disguised herself as a man to get the job fooling everyone in the process. Ever since this time, upon the election of a new pope a lucky cardinal gets a quick glance up the papal cassock and a brief fondle just to be sure of the papal credentials. The Catholic Church strongly deny this. But then they would wouldn't they.

“A snake with a loaded gun”? I ask you! Who writes this shit?

And is it remotely possible that some Roman Catholic Cardinals would be really in for a shock?

Specifically in this instance, Juliette who worked the switchboard.

F.O. tape: The plastic tape (usually striped) used by all forms of officialdom to cordon off an area instructing the public that access is restricted and they should 'fornicate onwards'.

Atheists might prefer to ignore this question, and move straight onto question 27(b)ii, which allegedly exists, but it is left to as an exercise to the reader to find out where.

I don't know what you were thinking but that's just a smile.

Or simply aren't human.

It's a word now.

Perhaps when discussing precipitation, persistently 'peeing' is a 'pour' pun.

Which was mostly black due to the absence of light, but there were occasional spots of nostril, back of throat, and inside of eyeball.

Allegedly. Time is strange. Allegedly.

Yes, that's a word too now.

All of them.

Well, you can deny it, but you'll be wrong. Bear with me on this. For just this little bit.

For the sake of balance it should be noted that some people working in the name of god or gods have also done good things(TM). Unfortunately, many of them confused good things(TM) with convincing other people they were evil and going to burn in any number of hells unless they 'found god'. Unfortunately in perhaps a few too many cases 'found god' could be translated as 'stopped having a damn sight more fun than me.'

Screaming incoherent abuse doesn't count as 'talking about it'.

There is a very valid argument that a person cannot be demeaned by another's actions. A person's actions can only demean themself. On the other hand, no one ever claims that being 'nipple twisted to death' is the way they want go come the final curtain.

Technically true. God does not have a father. God is not only a bastard, but is in fact a very rare case of being a motherless bastard.

In how many languages can you be an old young boy?

They made sure.

Mechriva did ask what kind of future it would be if there was no tomorrow, to which his God replied “Don't go getting all Zen on me now.”

OK, lesser devout, obviously.

It's perhaps interesting to note that the 'godless' generally had far more gods than the 'godly', which probably says an awful lot about the rhetoric of religion in general.

Which itself wasn't actually a problem, because those who came back from the wars lacking any significant number of body parts, weren't generally in a position to complain about the fact.

Killing each other was generally considered pretty anti-social anyway, but now it was a 'sin'. This is apparently much more serious. All things considered though, perhaps killing each other being against the rules is not such a bad thing.

Punishable by death. Obviously.

If we accept that God created everything, syphilis is the work of God, and we can only conclude that God is in contravention of the Geneva Convention in regard to the use of biological weapons. To be fair, He never actually signed up to the Geneva Convention and as such isn't bound by it, but the use of biological weapons on their own people is hardly the action of a loving and benevolent ruler. Even if those people have been very very naughty indeed.

Abstaining from sex was considered acceptable, because the church simply didn't believe enough people would actually do it for it to become an issue.

Oh to be stretched and coloured by masters,
The Titians, The Turners, Da Vinci, Van Gogh.
But the Artist to be, is Kerry... age three.
So I await this fate, this curse that is mine,
I just hang with the brushes, we drink turpentine.

Obviously not literally, but some habits are hard to break.

There is a school of thought that suggests that the best coppers are in fact social workers, as their role is to work for the benefit of society. There is also a school of thought that suggests that they should have to wear rainbow coloured tutu's while on duty, just in case they start to take their authoritarian role too seriously.

Mostly just laughing at their names and fashion choices. Children can be cruel, and people bear grudges.

Positive could have that effect on people.

If there is some consolation to be taken from the fact that Kurany's tail is to be removed from this tale, perhaps it might be that you will not longer have to read all the blatantly sexist comments about it.

But you might ask yourself, are they sexist comments about the arse in question, or commentary ridiculing those characters perceiving the arse.

It's a serious question that remains to be asked by the anals of posteriority.

Actually, I made that bit up, that didn't really happen.

OK, This is something of an oxymoron. I cannot be nothing, because in order for I to be nothing, I cannot be, but I must be, in order to have the label nothing attached. Language is complicated if you take it too seriously.

It made sense at the time. I was stressed.

Obviously it's absurd to suggest you can stretch a fortnight 'to infinity', unless the hotel has a really good bar.

To be fair, if you'd created the universe, you'd have a big head too. Although obviously, you're kinda cool, and would still be pretty humble about it.

Literally in this instance.

god or otherwise, a three hundred foot high creature still counts as a beast if you're terrified of it.

I've used just the one exclamation mark for the sake of brevity, but also to save both the additional trees, energy, and severe risk of repetitive strain injury to myself that would have otherwise been needed to sufficiently enunciate the passion behind this utterance.

I've never understood why that was an insult, it always struck me as an admirable trait in other people.

Of course, there's always the possibility that this is the Beta release.

No you don't.

As a generalisation, this is blatantly untrue. Obviously, there are many things that have in time truly vanished, and when physicists finally discover the nature of dark matter, they will discover it to be mostly comprised of old socks, lost biros, and locks to which you still have the keys, but have no idea what they're for now.

No we don't. Stop arguing☺ Some of us just have more logically consistent models.

And logic. Logical consistency is important. But only so important. Because it's quite possible that actually the universe doesn't make any sense at all. You might wish it did, because you're busy trying to make sense of it, and you'd hate to think you'd been wasting your time all along.

It is actually unfair to suggest that all military leaders crave war. Some of them have actually seen it and in reality seem to be a damn sight less keen on the idea than their political counterparts.
I would also point out that pressing the button might not be seen as an act of strength, but as an act of weakness, that being, we cannot beat this enemy in any other way, we have no other alternative.

OK, everyone held a few back because no one wants to be the one who's left without afterwards.

No one actually replied, but then it was a ghost radio, the line was dead.

By definition all time is a part of Eternity, and as such, it was of course his time. Perhaps it should just be considered a lesson in sharing, or subjectivity.

Although there were at that exact moment in time T.V. executives watching, and ordering the writing of contracts to be written offering human souls if the gods would do it live on T.V. naked in mud or jelly.

Accepted some people are just lifelong cynics, so obviously that's not true.

To be their public servant, or just to be rich, famous and idolised, one or the other.

To say someone is matronising is not understood to be the same thing. Is that sexist?

Although that's generally held amongst non-perceivers to be a very perceiver centric point of view.

It's amazing what some people can get up to in some religions and still be considered virgins.

If you would be truly happy in this life, and you believe that the path to happiness is through God, be sure to pick a god that appreciates your sense of humour, or at least won't set fire to you for it. The simple truth of the matter is not so much that God doesn't mind, as that God cannot be buggered, and the reason God cannot be buggered is based on very simple theological logic. God is (allegedly) Love, and Love... doesn't have an arsehole. QED.

That is godlike peaceful, loving and caring, as opposed to the more traditional godlike angry jealous, impatient and smiting. Eternity is all things to all people by nature and he sometimes found it difficult to remember who she was supposed to be on any given day.

And everyone who'd been watching T.V. or had looked out of nearby windows recently

No I bloody didn't.

I still didn't want to bloody die!

The fucking snitch.

The fact that it didn't cross her mind I'd do it for the stones it was encrusted with possibly says more about her than it does about me, but possibly just reflects the fact that neither of us ever considered they might be real.