Archive for the ‘Illuminati’ Category

The Complete Works, (so far!)

Hey there, and many thanks for stopping by. On this site you’ll find a collection of my short stories and screenplays for your enjoyment. Please feel free to leave feedback both good and bad – as Plato once said –  the worst thing is to just be ignored!

Even better however, would be if you could find your way to actually purchasing one of my published books using the links below, that way I may continue to dodge bullets and bailiffs with your help. All books are available online, in all reputable books stores, E-books… and no doubt soon, all local Charity Shops.

Hope you find something here to enjoy….

Best Wishes,

Mike   x

.

“SPRINGBOARDS”         – A further collection of original short stories, short scripts and feature screenplays.

51jeEASw5FL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_SX385_SY500_CR,0,0,385,500_SH20_OU02_

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Springboards-Michael-G-Zealey/dp/1291060103/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1369732955&sr=8-2&keywords=michael+zealey

.

“BUM NOTES”          – A collection of eighteen original and diverse short stories:

bum

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1447839889/ref=pd_lpo_k2_dp_sr_1?pf_rd_p=103612307&pf_rd_s=lpo-top-stripe&pf_rd_t=201&pf_rd_i=1447823931&pf_rd_m=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE&pf_rd_r=0G9A7XND7E5NS8XMQ3Z1

.

“DIFFERENT STATES”           – One Man, One Credit Card, One Continent… No Plan. A travelogue from East to West Coast USA.

diffst

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Different-States-Michael-G-Zealey/dp/1447824245/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1366284192&sr=1-3

.

“MOLEHOLE”            – Essays on the Human Condition. The story of one man’s dark and lonely three year journey so far up his own ass that he arrived out his mouth to recount the tale to a deaf world.  (Not suitable for minors or miners.)

miol

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Molehole-Michael-G-Zealey/dp/1447824113/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1332168305&sr=1-1

Thanks awfully x

Advertisements

Late & Lizard

.

When he got home, he drew the curtains and carefully unwrapped the cling film. He could read the bad news immediately, the weed was dry and brittle, left over from the days Moses had his last smoke by the looks of it. No point burning this bush. He consoled himself that at least he wouldn’t need to buy any dried oregano for his pizza for about a year.

‘Fucking expensive herbs though’, the thought managed to slip through his defences and brought him low. It had taken him years to get wound up this tight, a slow tightening of the screw, a squeezing of the sponge till no more moisture could come out. It was a hot and muggy night despite the torrential rain. He wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve. Checking a CD case hidden under the television he checked how much good weed he had left, the news was equally bad: less than three strong joints. That was the remainder of his night fucked then, not that he really needed to get much higher, but he liked the feeling of security knowing there was more available if he wanted it.

Now really feeling the too numerous to remember shots of tequila he’d drank down at the bar less than an hour ago, he stumbled over to his music amp and after a few misjudged lunges managed to plug in his mp3 player to the speakers and pressed play.

Moving back to the counter he fixed himself another shot and poked around in the seeds and twigs of his weed draw. He was suddenly caught by the beauty of the music playing. Music so ecstatic and intricate he was enthralled. He felt he’d somehow travelled ten years into the future and now had an iPod with emotion detector, sensing just what he needed to hear. God it sounded great. What was the tune? He couldn’t place it. He shot back the tequila and checked the iPod. It was out of power. Wow, he must be fucked, he told himself, to have imagined the music. Maybe the weed was alright after all? But remembering he hadn’t even smoked one from this new batch yet, he studied it for a final time. Bah, definitely shit. He couldn’t even bring himself to roll it up. Fuck it, he threw it against the wall, where it fell down slowly against the grease and nicotine like green snowflakes.

Feeling the urgent need to urinate he dragged his miserable bones over to the toilet, his mouth was dehydrated but his bladder spectacularly full. He stood over the bowl and squeezed, shaking out the last drops like the nozzle on a wine box, the alcohol content about the same on this terrible night. Oh god he was sure living at the moment, living like James Bond with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in his London flat, all soft-cocked and edgy, thinking SPECTRE were coming to get him when it was only next-doors’ cat scratching at the window.

Often in the haze of an under-employed stoned afternoon he’d daydream of winning the lottery, but the first thing he’d spend the money on would be the world’s best therapist to follow him around for a month and tell him what he was doing wrong. He just couldn’t work it out for himself. These days he was writing less and less and filling the gaps with a therapy of his own: a trance-like state of inebriation where he could revisit all the important moments of his life and play them out again in his mind, but this time correcting the mistakes like an editor, making the scene work his way. Always living in the past or the future, rarely straight in his present.

Finishing his piss with a self-conscious shake that almost became an absent-minded masturbation, he zoned out and became lost in the thick jungle of his own overly-complicated thoughts, his hand continuing its automatic shaking oblivious. Disconnected, that’s how he felt, God he felt like the projectionist in the cinema of his own life, locked in a small room at the back of his brain, projecting a fake front onto his eye-screen for all to see and fall for. And boy were they falling for it. Everyone he knew watching in the hot-rock burned velvet-crush seats of his auditorium was falling for it, all the while he remained small and locked in the projection room, running out of cigarettes and new films to show.

He gave a cursory glance over to the laptop screen secretly hoping someone may have sent him a message from the dating website he’d left himself logged into before he’d gone out to buy the weed. The screen just showed the edit notes for his new book: ‘Killing the Danger Hours’, he suddenly hated the title, it was more a statement of how he’d been living recently than fitting the story. Closing the file he opened up the dating page hopefully.

‘Of course,’ he cried out loud, eyes rolling to heaven. Nothing. No messages, no likings, no chance.

How small and boring his life had become, how nervous and cautious. How he dreamt of that knock on the door that opened up a world of international espionage and intrigue, cocktails in casinos with an impossibley beautiful woman throwing the dice for him. Broke Bond, Boring Bond, Bad Bond. He felt his head begin to spin again in the washing machine drum of tequila and marijuana that had become his head. Yet just as he needed it most, the laptop beeped the news of a received message. Thank god, he felt, outside interaction at last, finally he wasn’t just doing battle with himself, the continuous judgemental stream of thoughts in his head. For a second he felt his brain like a piston engine, part of a much greater train, always in motion, endlessly pushing forward to the next moment, never satisfied with the present. If only he could pull the brakes. Just be and enjoy the moment.

Her photo looked good, his heart skipped a beat. Just the right level of secret attractiveness and cookie-ness with a certain vulnerability, but reading her profile he groaned.

‘Likes going to the gym, works as a Financier, Possible marriage material, very successful… doesn’t suffer fools…’

He felt his balls physically retreat back up into his pelvis and he felt keenly his cowardice. Next came the inevitable self-justification and back-peddling.

‘Ah who gives a shit? I don’t need success. People just wanted to get rich so they didn’t have to work anymore in soul-destroying jobs, and then use their money for leisure, hanging around getting drunk, getting high, getting loaded.’  Well here he was, except for a couple of hours a week spent writing, he was free and loaded, and on his own terms too. Who needed a job? So long as those meagre writing and dole cheques kept arriving he could just about keep his stoned head above water and backstroke in the toilet bowl of his own private world.

Feeling a little more satisfied that his life-style choices were good, he looked back down at her profile picture. Maybe it would work, maybe he should reply to her message, what harm could it do…? He imagined a perfect future moment tableaux of he and his wife-to-be with their kids in a Tyrolean snow scene by a roaring fire. He tried to hold on to the mental image, being held by her warm and safe whilst outside the snow and wolves wailed down the moonlit mountains. He imagined nestling his face between her chest and being held, hearing her soft heartbeat against his ear, back in the womb, loved, complete. He desperately needed to connect with someone, to feel the inter-connectedness and inter-dependence of living, surrounded as he was on a twenty-four seven basis by concrete and walls, both real and imagined. Deep down he knew that every living thing was connected by a life-energy that flowed through them like string through an eternal necklace of beads. Hell, if you took it down to a molecular level all there was anyway were molecules and space. Most of life was space, so everything that wasn’t space stuck together like candle-light against the greater darkness. These days he was floating in the darkness, some sort of dark matter as yet unexplained. Surely the most sacred thing in the world was to make someone else feel safe and loved? He was doing that for no-one. Putting in nothing, he was getting nothing out. Maybe it was time for a change? Once again he suppressed the unwanted thought with another sip of his tequila. Moving back to the lounge he caught his reflection in the greasy sheen of the cooker shield:

‘Oh get over yourself, you self-absorbed dick…’ he chastised himself and poured his umpteenth shot.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a red neon dot flashing, he saw he’d had another response to his dating emails. Wow, he was on fire tonight. In his drunken and stoned state he instinctively lurched towards the blinking screen. The new photo drove him back to his drink. He leapt back with an instinctual rejection such as a dog gets when its stomach warns him not to eat a dead body. No chance. He went straight over to his make-shift bar area and slammed down a can of lemonade and the tequila bottle onto the counter. Trying to shake his demons he chopped a lemon with increasingly fast and anxious strokes. Mixing all the ingredients necessary for his slammer, he began to imagine himself a Las Vegas barman and almost immediately his previous train of thought vanished like a cloud in a summer sky. Boom, pour, repeat. The third one he changed his mind about and decided to sip. The salt on his hand burned into his flesh as he dug into the ice-bucket. It sizzled like Alien blood through his flesh.

What happened to women when they got to their late thirties? he asked himself as he clicked through page after page of hopeful yet somehow depressed faces. The women still in their twenties had a bloom a blossom and ripeness to them, but they weren’t contacting him, what he was being served up was women who looked like they’d spent the last ten years of their hard living lives on an Icelandic whaling vessel, cracked eyes, so hungry for children and feeling the ticking hand of the clock and wagging metronome of inevitability. Why couldn’t he just find someone like him, he thought, maybe he should change his written profile on the site, imbue it with some stoned honesty: ‘Please take care of me, I’m fucked on every level’.

His eyes were drawn to the oil painting on the wall, his only masterpiece, the only piece of work he’d done that he was proud of, but then the subject had been pretty special too, the only girl he’d ever really been in love with. Lust he could feel at the drop of a hat, but love, that was a totally rarer creature for him, perhaps even extinct he worried. He reached his fingers up to her naked breast and tried to stroke them with a stoned and drunk heavy hand. He could feel the paint smudge under his finger and too late he snapped them away. Without daring to look at the painting he first looked at his hand. A deep red finger print on his index finger and palm where he’d clenched his fist. With heavy eyes he looked up at the painting with the enthusiasm of a scalded dog. Her breast was now a long line down to her open thighs, all definition lost. Ah fuck it, he told himself, it was time to let go anyway, perhaps this was the symbolic act that would help him?

Returning to the laptop he began searching the profiles on the dating website with a new determined energy, reaching for his pouch of tobacco he began to build another joint. His fingers hovered over the keypad, but his train of thought was interrupted by a strong and urgent knock at the door. There it was again, faster, as breathless and needy as a knuckle rapping could be.

He opened it and there she was. Simple as that. In her hand was what looked like the case for a musical instrument. Her hair was bedraggled and clinging to the side of her face, outlining a nervous bone structure. His first instinct was to let her in and dry-off, but the manic look in her eyes and short breaths made him pause.

‘Evening…’ he offered.

She grabbed him by the lapels of his tight shirt, it ripped down the back, his generous belly spilling out. More concerned with his unattractiveness in front of this gorgeous woman, than the pleading look in her eyes as she kept looking over her shoulder, he let her in and ushered her into the living room. The dope was splayed out on the carpet but somehow he knew she wouldn’t care about his indiscretion, seeming to have other things on her mind.

‘What’s eating you then?’ he said, trying in vain to cover up his midriff.

‘They’re after me…’

‘They..?’

‘Them, the men parked across the street. I need to make a phone call, please…’

He just stood there dazed. She pleaded again.

‘…Urgently… Now… Please?’

Rather than acknowledging the panic in her voice his stoned mind focused on her lisp, a ‘the’ sound every time she tried to say her ‘s’. The lisp immediately made him warm to her. She was striking, her strong features accentuated by the cruel rain making her long straight black hair stick to her cheekbones, but the lisp made her somehow seem safe and non-threatening to his ego, it was a weakness that shook hands with his own and relaxed him.

His mind slowly focused on her mouth, it was still asking questions and seemed to curl up in expectation of an answer. He forced himself to focus on the present, this was real, this was happening now. He dragged his psyche up from the basement of his brain, and crashing upwards through floorboards towards the roof he managed to formulate an answer for her. It wasn’t the one she wanted to hear though.

‘Sorry, I don’t have a phone…’

She fell back against her case.

‘What? Everyone’s got a bloody phone?’

He felt a sting of paranoia as if she was questioning the way he’d chosen to live his life.

‘Sure I got a phone. It’s pay as you go, I’ve got no credit…’

She scrunched up her fingers in frustration and let out a small squeak.

‘… you can make emergency service calls though,’ he limply offered holding out the phone as meekly as if it were a Rabbi’s foreskin.

She flapped the arms out on her wet jacket, way too big for her, he thought, and the excess water splashed over the edges of his record collection neatly filed on the bottom shelf.

‘Hey, watch it.’ He found himself involuntarily warning. But she wasn’t listening, he heard a gentle whimpering sound coming from beneath the folds of the oversize jacket. It was then he really studied her countenance. He’d just been wholly too stoned, she wasn’t some femme fatale, but just a frightened human being.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, are you ok? Look, can I fix you a drink? Tea, coffee, some stew?’ He mentally chastised himself for being such a straight prick: ‘Stew?’, what was he turning into, his mother now?

She looked up at him with darting rabbit eyes.

‘Anything stronger?’

‘Tequila.’

She nodded, licking a jewel of rain that had formed in the well of her centre lip. Throwing off the jacket she fell into one of his comfier chairs.

‘Thanks for letting me in, a lot of people wouldn’t. I know how crazy I must sound right now…’

He returned from the galley area just out of her sight holding two glasses, swashing with three fingers of brown liquid. He really studied her as she sat back into the full glare of his table lamp. My God she was gorgeous. Frozen in the light of the lamp like a flash bulb from a camera he saw her as a profile on his dating website. She was perfect. He began projecting onto her everything he wanted her to be. In the time it took her to reach up and take the offered glass he had married her, divorced her, remarried and split again. He felt a sudden sense of self-consciousness, as if someone was looking at the back of his head, turning round there was nothing behind him, but his eyes fell on the oil painting, at eye level straight between the naked open legs of his ex-girlfriend.

Turning away guiltily he handed the shivering girl the glass. ‘Thanks,’ she took it, nodding her appreciation.

‘So what’s going on then?’ he asked.

‘It sounds crazy I know, but I think I’m being followed. I’ve just come from a crazy party. It was a gig, paid gig. Just too fucking weird..’ she tapped the case by her side.

‘What’s in the case?’

‘Ilya’

‘Eh?’

 ‘… Ilya my saxophone. Like Stradivarius’ violins they all have names. This is my grandfather’s. He named it. I’m a musician. Jazz. I’m Phaedra, Phaedra McClean..?’

She held out her hand expectantly but he, feeling so smashed was missing all the social cues. He simply shook his head,

‘I don’t know much about Jazz, I’m a rock n’ roll man.’ His belly fell out of the shirt.

As if seeking to put it beyond any doubt she flicked open the metal clamps and threw open the case. Sure enough, inside was a saxophone. The rain began to lash down against his part-opened window and she stood up, edging towards it nervously, following the curve of the room. He watched spellbound as she pressed her body against the frame and slowly craned her neck to look outside.

‘Damn I think they’re still there. Oh Christ. I don’t think I’m being paranoid, I think they really are still there.’

For the first time his sense of pleasant stoned bewilderment changed to a more fearful feeling. Surely this girl, despite her beauty and vulnerability was shouting at the moon mad? She slammed her hand against the wall and turned off the overhead light. The room plunged into a murky darkness, shadows menacing every edge.

‘Hey,’ he said, starting to feel anxious, ‘You want to tell me what’s going on?’

She slid down to the side of the window and brought her knees up to her chest.

‘I had a gig tonight at this mansion up in Canonbury. You know? Down that road where all the massive Victorian houses are. Soon as we got there I could tell something wasn’t right. They got us to wear blindfolds. The conversations I was hearing were incredible….

‘Go on…’

‘It was like this was a meeting of some dark secret society. You know, like the Illuminati. The real movers and shakers. I mean, you don’t really think politicians control the world? These were the puppet masters. I heard something I shouldn’t, I guess. And now… now they’re threatening to kill me…’

‘What did you hear…?’

She began to scratch her bare arm nervously and repeatedly.

‘You not into Jazz?’ she said, changing the subject.

He looked over at his still silent iPod. ‘Not really… look, you can’t expect me to swallow this horse-shit can you? Not to sound rude, but come on, I can’t just indulge your delusion ’, then under his breath, ‘even if it might give me a chance to jump your bones.’

He went to the bar area to fix another round of drinks, kicking the edge of the table out of sight. Oh thank you god, he thought to himself in that inner private sarcastic almost mocking voice that followed him wherever he went always judging and giving a running commentary on his every action. Thank you god so bloody much, it went. Yet another girl who is gorgeous and clearly insane. His track-record was astounding, he’d had relationships with them all: Ugly but kind, gorgeous but screwed-up, perfect but married, fun-loving but desperate for children, charming but cracked, the list of his complaints was endless, and here again, even though he tried to fight the thought, he knew this woman dripping wet on his living room floor was as crazy as Charles Manson, but with better boobs.

He tried to argue it away in his own mind as he fixed the drinks. ‘Aren’t all great musicians highly strung?’ Maybe she was just going through a crisis moment, maybe most times she was normal. Perhaps if he helped her through this episode she would be grateful and they’d become friends, then maybe something more, maybe…’ his mind drifted off again to the Tyrolean mountainside. He heard that mocking voice inside of him again,  ‘Maybe… or maybe she’s just a fucking fruit-loop?’

He looked round to see her in the foetal position on the floor, rocking gently backwards and forwards on his rug. No, he couldn’t sell it to himself, clearly she was indeed a nutter. He placed a fresh drink next to her and found himself riddled with questions.

‘OK, so if you fled this gathering of the super-powerful in genuine fear of your life, then why did you bother collecting and casing up your sax, surely you’d just run?’

She took out the golden saxophone and adjusted the mouthpiece. Even knowing nothing about musical instruments he could see it was well-looked after and impressive, definitely cared for with love. She put it to her perfectly rounded lips and played a few soulful bars. He was hypnotized, totally enthralled by her siren song. As she played, he built a hundred scenarios of them together in his mind again. Feeling the sudden tightness in his trousers he self-consciously took the joint from his mouth and let it hang nonchalantly over his groin area hiding any free information. Her madness was becoming endearing.

She stopped and shook her head, looking contemplative and a little sad.

‘This is Ilya. My baby. It was my grandfather’s, he’d been a great saxophonist before the war, but after, after being ordered to kill the zombies at Belsen coz medical teams were too far away to help and they were too far gone anyway. Not beyond liberation for the photographers, but beyond salvation for the doctors. He was ordered to shoot them. Innocent Concentration Camp victims. Children, women, shoot on sight.’

She picked up the drink from the carpet, the ice now melted causing a brown overspill on the white rug, taking a long sip she put it back down, then moved it further away from her, a new brown ring visible. Oblivious, she continued her reminiscence.

‘When I was younger I never understood why my grandfather would get so upset watching my brother play zombie war WWII Call of Duty games. I guess he’d had to do it for real.  After the war he never played another note, but still took out the trombone each month to clean it. He respected the instrument and the music, but he’d been like a bird silenced. Did you know that even to this day, like at so many concentration camps, the birds still to don’t sing at Belsen? They just sit in the trees feeling the awful energy of so many souls crying out in agony. This was why I picked up Ilya, my sax, his sax, no way could I leave it in the same room as the architects of the whole conflict.’

He could feel his erection slowly fading away.

‘You don’t mean to tell me that the guys at your gig organised the second world war? Wasn’t that a guy called Hitler? Don’t tell me he was there too? Massive jazz fan?’

With a flash of genuine anger she threw her glass against the opposite wall. Outside a dog barked and dustbin lids rattled.

‘I’m fucking serious. This isn’t a joke. Listen. Every ten years they get together and plan something. Something terrible.’

The glass had narrowly missed his oil painting and he felt his hackles rise. With a mocking tone he sought to needle her.

‘Oh like Lizards yeah dancing round a massive owl in the forest? Isn’t that David Icke? You’re telling me that lizards are ruling the world. Oh come on…’

He felt the weed acutely now and looked into the corner of his room by the book-shelf, instinctively stoned to check that lizards weren’t actually reading his magazines in the dark shadows. Almost childlike he wanted to turn the overhead light back on, but thought better of such a show of weakness. Again she came back angry.

‘Fuck off. I’m not taking the piss here. What? No? Of course they’re not fucking lizards. They’re humans, like us, well, not like us, the fucking DNA master race, living up there in the rarefied air. First Class existence. You have no idea what the truly rich, I mean the truly incredibly fucking rich can do. Only time you see them would be for an instant on your peasant Penny Farthing as they whizz past you in blacked-out Land Rovers and massive white stretch limos. No offence man, but durrrrrr…’ she stuck her folded tongue into her bottom lip and waved her arms.

He hated himself for suddenly feeling stupid but his laptop broke the silence and beeped a warning that it was about to run out of power, a soft red flashing on the screen, replicating the warning light that was currently going off in his own brain. He looked over and saw the dating website fade to black. Whatever her profile she just wasn’t worth it. There was no getting away with it, she was mad. She had to be. Perfect in every physical way, except as mad as a lizard in a tin. He tried to focus his mind on the moment, feeling his interest and energy suddenly wan in the whole night. A weed-induced hunger suddenly gripped him and he fished around in his fridge, allowing himself one quick look out of the window to satisfy himself there was no-one out there.

‘You want some food?’ he offered lacklustre.

 He put the bowl down with a warning. ‘It’s not food for children, ok?’

The bones buried in the rice had a small amount of meat on them curled round the sharpest bones in her mouth. One false swallow and her oesophagus would be scared with the downward swipe of a Stanley knife. Maybe he should actually warn her a bit more explicitly, he thought, what with her obviously deranged state of mind and all. She accepted the food gratefully and dug in ravenously. The first mouthful went down fine, but the second caught a shard of chicken bone and she coughed violently as she felt its passage slice down through soft flesh.

‘Yeah sorry, you’re not in KFC now… I’m not known for my finger-licking chicken. Times are a bit tough at the moment, bit like the meat.’ Was he being too dismissive of her, he wondered, reminding himself that whatever the truth here was a human being in obvious distress. But, oh, he needed her to be telling the truth, he needed something exciting in his life, even something to believe in. He so wanted her to be for real, but deep down beyond the veil of stoned wish-fulfilment and drunken ham-fisted shaping of reality, he knew she was psychotic. And for a man so psychotic with weed that wasn’t an easy observation to make.

‘Hear me out,’ she said, ‘All I heard them talking about was the past forty years, I’ve never been that deep into history, but even I know current affairs news stuff. Think about it, roughly every ten years since 39. Starts with War, then 50 Cold War, 60, Bay of Pigs, Cuba missile crisis, 69 man on the moon, 80, global recession, 90, Berlin Wall collapse of Communism. 0I 9/II Muslim boogie man. 09 Global recession, e, t and bloody c. Every ten years there has to be something to keep the peasants absorbed with worry and feeling grateful for their pitiful lot. The men in grey. The most powerful men, all wearing cheap cologne, as far as I could smell. They hook up and have a party once every ten years and decide the fate of the world. Which country rises, which falls. Whether… I don’t know…Greece gets successful, or is crushed for long-term unknown reasons, whether Muslims will still be the bogeymen, Al Q’ada or the Chinese, which media mogul has got too powerful and needs breaking, the Banking Crisis, Euro Crisis, you get the picture. The rich get richer, and the poor get to clean up their mess.’

She paused to take a long sip of the tequila before continuing, the hatred for the people of whom she spoke clearly visible on her face.

‘No-one knows how they recruit, whether it’s a secret tap on the shoulder at the right conference once a person’s personal wealth has hit five billion dollars. Or whether it’s a nepotistic fucking blood curse, or I don’t know. Maybe they don’t even recruit, maybe they self-replicate, their powerful hate-filled spittle gobbed into a mucus on the floor and it creates a new one of them. Fuck knows. All I heard them discussing was about the founding fathers. how they been around since the first world war when for the first time they realised that their lives would be destroyed by peasants and governments who for the first time had created a world war threatening their comfortable lives. They figured, what’s the point of being the richest guy in the cemetery? They need society to keep working to keep them up where they are, just enough religion, just enough economic fear, just enough perceived enemy. Soviets, Muslims, e, t, and bloody c… take a ticket and spin the wheel, wait for your number to come up as the next public enemy number one.’

She took another spoonful of the chicken and rice, almost immediately gagging as a particularly acute splinter of bone stuck in her windpipe. She jumped up dancing towards the open window in a rictus. He ignored her distress and tried to push further into her story.

‘And you got all this by just listening to them chat?’

She continued the exaggerated flapping of her arms as if having eaten too much chicken she had now turned into one herself and was trying to take off. She banged her chest hard with a fist in an attempt to dislodge the bone, but finding herself in front of the open window she dropped to the ground, looking behind her through the crack. He realised she wasn’t choking but having some sort of attack of anxiety at what she’d seen. From the floor she pointed up to the roof of the building opposite, to something glinting by the housing for the building’s elevator system. He was incredulous:

‘Oh yeah right, let me guess, there’s a sniper on the building opposite? They’ve come to kill you for what you know? Is that a bit of raw chicken on your top or the red dot of a laser rifle…? Ha, pull the other one.’

He watched her continue to writhe on the floor, now even more so than before utterly convinced of her mental ill-health. He reminded himself that his wasn’t feeling too clever at the moment, the effects of the skunk weed still hot-stepping through his neural pathways. She’d taken to using her feet to spin herself round in ever tighter circles. He felt a cruelness in him, he wanted to punish her for being so perfect and yet, once again, so damaged.

‘…Or even better, you’ve been struck by a poison dart and now you’re choking and dying. Am I close?’ Finally he’d had enough of the whole situation. ‘I think it’s time you left. Too weird for me.’

She spat out the bone onto the carpet. ‘No. It’s YOU that’s trying to kill me. What the fuck you feeding me?’

She stood up and carefully placed the saxophone back in its velvet lined case.

‘Maybe I should go. Forget it man. I must’ve been lucky enough to stumble into the world’s most discompassionate man…

‘Uncompassionate…’

‘… uncomp…oh go fuck yourself…I’ll use a fucking payphone.’

She bent down to pick up the case and at that instant they both heard the bullet whistle over her head and embed in the picture on the wall, right into his oil painting, and more than that right between the naked legs of his ex-girlfriend, the genital area revealing a physical rounded hole. In disbelief he went up to the picture and stuck his index figure into the hole, which from where Phaedra was standing looked even more wrong than what had just happened. From between the lips of his ex-girlfriend’s painted pubis a brighter red dot appeared, brighter and more unnatural than the wet blobs of oil paint. The red-dot moved down his arm towards the centre of his back. He turned round to see Phaedra drop the case and point with her index finger this time, mouth wide-open.

Get down’, she screamed. Instinctively he dropped to the floor as the second bullet whizzed over him and into his bookcase with a precise thwap. Wisps of plaster and paper fluttered down and greyed his hair. He crawled on his belly over towards Phaedra, using his elbows as propellers. As they lay there facing each other, he had just enough to time to look into her eyes before the knock at the door, which quickly turned into a scraping sound. In the confused moment of muffled voices and the faint smell of burning paint, he reached out for her hand, as much to comfort himself as her. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was somewhere else, trying to deny reality, but it was no use, finally he was irrevocably in the moment. If only he could snap his Cuban heels together he’d be back in Kansas, or even KFC, anywhere but this present. Two red dots were now scouting around the room like neon flies, searching, searching…

With a sound that reminded him of a tree being felled, his solid wood front door splintered open and in they came…