It was just another Friday. The trilby was in place, the coffee was exacerbating my arrhythmia and the vodka bottle seemed to evaporate per ACT OF THE GODS.
Everything’s good in Hill City (aka Sheffield). The sun shines through my window, in another one of those FREAK events of God, who decides in HIS glory that 8 pm is a great time to have daylight. But who am I, OH LORD, to question your daylight savings time?
Ah, the demerara sugar + fairtrade bullshit coffee + twinnings instant cocoa mix is doing the trick. No more Writer’s Block. No more fear. I am part of a writing surge. No longer does my body control my fingers nor do they obey The Words in my brain. No. It is them, those Tenacious Ten, who have a creative orgy over the keyboard and it’s up to my brain to think of words, to string them along in strange ways, hoping to hit gold.
But no, it’s only blanks that I shoot. The holes in the wall show the endless dart games that end up being the way I vent out my disgrace. The pecan crumbles and grapefruit skins in the floor are a reminder of my growing hernia. My lifestyle determines my deathstyle. Selah.
Will I ever finish this? Who cares? Not me, as I re-read this drivel and only find errors. Mistakes appear like relatives at a funeral. Nonsense prevails. Breaking the fourth wall and stream of consciousness are so horrible, the overused excesses of bad writers.
Even worse when they are self-aware. I’m way beyond postmodernism here. I’ve entered the ugly world of hipster self-awareness, when any structure reference is used to make the work appear to be “brainier”, whereas it’s just a bunch of excuses piled up together.
Mayhaps I need a new career?
The phone rings. I promised to change the current ringtone to something maybe a little more modern. Fads come and go. Can’t peddle Foo Fighters or Eels no more. Biffy Clyro and The National are the new Gods. Praise to them. REPENT.
Oh, the phone. It was Ronnie, my exgirlfriend. It always feels weird talking to an ex, as there are Words that you can’t say any more, phrases you can’t kick around and memories that are best left in a shallow grave in the forest.
Still, The Conversation is enjoyable, if slightly anaemic (my fault, really). Quirky, but enjoyable. Common stuff (family, Fear of The Future, coffee recipes) is discussed thoroughly and after ten minutes, she says goodbye and I continue typing away.
A Friday like this can go on for so long. And yet, you know that all good things come to an end.
It started like a small buzz. A really distant sound. I thought nothing of it, but then it increased and increased until IT BECAME A THUNDER!!!
Ye Gods, it’s the FUCKING RUSSIANS! You maniacs, you did it, you FINALLY DID IT!!!
Oh, no, I’m not crispifried, nor are my boots smouldering in the ground like the dude from Repo Man.
What is it then? Oh, Lo and behold. There it was, flying towards me: a black hornet. Cold, hard MURDER written on the tip of its sting.
A great handwriting, actually.
No warning, no previous dialogue mediated by Jimmy Carter or Bill Clinton. It was ME against Nature. And Nature is a Bitch from Hell.
I dived, duck and rolled. No cover was available, but this Infamous Insect had invaded my private space. My room was mine NO MORE. It was HIS (or hers) and mine.
Where, oh, where is the telethon/charity single to save me? Where is the charity record for my plight?
Then the phone rang again. The black hornet saw it. It acknowledge it. A DAMN INSECT RECOGNISES MOBILE PHONES! WE ARE DOOMED!!
The damn thing crawled toward the mobile, taunting me. I threw a piece of peanut, which clicked the left mouse button (I’m an excellent marksman). THE THUNDEROUS MUSIC of Shiner startled the Hunching Hymenoptera and I made a run for it. Fuck it, no one lives forever.
I snagged the mobile from the desk and then a swift panda roll put me away from harm’s way. Me: 1. Forces of Nature: Zero.
It was Ronnie again. I don’t know if it was The Sound of a Female voice or just being out-awesome’d by me, but the Hornet o’Horrors (TM) did not took kindly and went hellbent on me. I threw myself to a side, with the hornet ripping a bit of my Stewie shirt off.
“What’s that noise? What’s going on?” asked Ronnie in horror while listening to me struggle. I did another panda roll, hurting my collar bone, but I managed to leave the room and lock the door.
I explained to Ronnie that I was under attack. The Reckoning had started and God decided to mess with us with Hornets. Stupid Revelations. Shouldda paid more attention in Catholic school instead of nicking the communion wine and making sangrias with it.
By the way, I’m an awesome cocktail maker. And I don’t charge much.
Anyways, Ronnie sighs and says that there are days when she thanks we are no longer together. Shrug.
“Are you a man or not? Go merc the insect!” she says but I stall. I’m a lover, not a fighter. We talk for a few minutes when my sweet, AMAZING music becomes a horrible, soul-destroying dirge that was a violation of my eardrums.
Bloody wasp went into Youtube and searched for Coldplay’s “Fix you”. I could hear the damn thing, jumping key to key, flaming and trolling other users. What would a wasp tell to other people in Youtube? Would it have more coherence?
“That’s it, you Terrible Tiphiid” I said while rolling a few bits of the Guardian’s sport section. “You will get out of there”.
The volume increased. This WAS A WAR and there WILL BE CASUALTIES. Preferably on Nature’s side.
I kick the door in, Notorious B.I.G. styleeeeee, throwing newspaper balls in the direction of the wasp in very slow motion. The insect deftly avoided the attack and flew to a higher position. Ye gods! From the ceiling that insect could be manager. Director. GOD.
It flew towards me, with MURDER in its multiple eyes. Oh, Lord, what is I gonna do? Will the last time my ex-girlfriend listens to me will be when I’m turned into grated cheese by a flying murder machine? IS THIS IT?
Then, my brain, that blocked up grey matter that hasn’t produced anything for weeks, devised a plan. Quickly I crouched, waiting for the sonufabitch to be in range and then THAT BASTION OF KNOWLEDGE (!), the Torygraph, ehrm, Telegraph, was a Saving Shield, stronger than Captain America’s non-phallic symbol.
Yes, a friday edition of The Telegraph saved my life. Stuck in the middle of Alan Duncan’s horrible mug was the wasp, stinger embedded in His Living-on-Rationness.
I flicked the newspaper off the window. May Jeremy Clarkson’s wig have pity on the horrible insect. I continued to talk to my ex and everything seemed to be smooth sailing.
Until she popped the question, that horrible MOMENT I dreaded all my life: “Say, why do you have Coldplay in your laptop?”
(to be continued)
About the author: The first time Sam drank coffee, he was 5. His aunt was babysitting and let him have 5 cups with whipped cream on top. It’s been going wrong since then.
This writing references:
Books: Any works of Hunter S. Thompson
Films: When the Wind Blows, The Day After, Threads, Planet of the Apes, Repo Man (“Fry cook. Manager. GOD!”)
Music: Shiner – Third Gear Scratch, Metallica – Frantic. Coldplay – any of their shite.