Elvis wrenched the shackles free of Daisy-Donnie and helped them down.
‘You look…’ he glanced down at Daisy-Donnie’s chest. ‘Different?’
Daisy-Donnie grinned at Elvis, but was distracted by the sphere of energy high in the air.
‘What are they doing to him?’ they asked, looking upwards.
Elvis and The Assassin ran along the gantry from which Donnie had fallen some hours earlier. A size eight ladies shoe lay there, a stain of blood on it.
The skylights exploded with flashes of light and glass showered the two men and the surrounding area.
Dozens of white and black-clad people rappelled down like a French trapeze act. The white were rabid members of The Sisterhood; the black, BSD thugs.
‘Got any bullets? Mine’re gone.’ said Elvis as he ran beside The Assassin.
He caught the box of shells that The Assassin tossed him, and reloaded as he ran.
The Assassin fired two shots at the door at the end of the gantry and they pushed through into another section.
They turned and rushed down some metal stairs and once at the bottom they stood a moment, to allow the new arrivals to depart. As ordered, the white and black members of the opposing groups had other fish to fry.
* * * Read the rest of this entry »
Elvis snorted derision, which got him a pointed look from Freddy.
‘We’re clear,’ called-out the Floor Manager.
‘Right, you fuckin’ bastard,’ said Freddy furiously, stepping closer to The King. ‘Why now? Why’d you bring her here?’
Elvis met Freddy’s gaze and the air fairly crackled between them.
‘I smell a bloody rat you over-popular prick,’ said Freddy. ‘You want me to have you locked up too?’
‘You don’t have the nerve,’ said Elvis calmly. ‘There’d be riots and you know it.’
Freddy’s expression grew more intense again, knowing full-well that Elvis was right.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the assistant carefully, walking to one side of the men. ‘This solves nothing.’
‘He’s on my bloody show,’ Freddy hollered. ‘So he’ll bloody do what he’s told!’
‘Bite me,’ said Elvis, turning contemptuously away.
Freddy fumed at Elvis, then stormed back to his throne, impotent rage boiling within him.
* * *
Another day, another dark corridor, mused Daisy as she was led by the arm towards a metal door.
‘How are your bonds,’ asked Marcus, beneath the guard’s costume.
‘Tight,’ said Daisy, slightly irritated. Her wrists were beginning to itch.
‘You go first,’ said Marcus ‘I’ll loosen them as we go.’
‘Okay.’
‘Just remember,’ said Marcus. ‘Go bananas on my signal.’
‘Which is?’
Marcus considered.
‘I dunno,’ he said, glancing upwards with thought. ‘Bananas?’
‘How the hell are you going to work that into the conversation?’
They stopped by an armour-plated door. Above this was a small camera and a speaker.
‘What,’ barked a voice. The speaker fed back for a moment then stopped.
‘Got a prisoner,’ said Marcus.
‘Good for you,’ said the guard within the facility over the speaker.
The door buzzed and Marcus pushed it open.
* * *
He groaned feeling like his head was the victim of a friendly-fire incident and instinctively felt between his legs.
‘Ewww,’ he exclaimed with Daisy’s voice which had a tone in the lower-levels of revulsion and shook the liquid from her hand, ensuring it was as far away as anatomically possible.
She reached out with her other hand and retrieved paper from the roll and used it to dry the remaining moisture, then grabbed some more to rub the fragments of tissue paper from her hand.
There was a knocking at the door.
‘Not finished,’ she called out.
‘You’re on in thirty,’ said Marcus. ‘You need to shift please. You’ve still got to get dressed.’
Daisy felt a moment of confusion, while she examined her clothing. This gave way to tangental irritation.
‘What are you doing in the ladies,’ she asked pointedly.
‘What?’
‘You’re disturbing the stream of consciousness,’ said Daisy, hinting at something else entirely. ‘Go away. You could be arrested.’
‘What are you on about?’
Daisy sighed, retrieved more paper and used it for its usual purpose.
When she emerged, Marcus was leaning back against the bank of sinks, with a bemused expression on his face.
‘You’re done then,’ he asked with a closed smile.
‘I need to wash my hands,’ she replied and pushed past him quite deliberately to the specific sink which he was standing in front-of.
‘We’re on a bit of a schedule, here.’
‘I need a drink,’ said Daisy, making the only excuse she could.
‘Fine,’ said Marcus, rolling his eyes. ‘Just hurry up.’
* * *
Emerging from the toilets, Daisy was confronted with half a dozen flash-bulbs and at least as many microphones thrust under her face.
‘Hey, get lost you lot,’ said Marcus, pushing forwards. ‘You know the rules. No interviews before the gig.’
Several flash-bulbs were discharged in his face, for which he thanked the particular photographers with a very rock-and-roll punch in the mouth for their trouble.
‘Miss Penfolde,’ began one, and was rounded upon by Marcus.
As he confronted the journalistic hacks, and laid down the law to them, Daisy slipped quietly away to the bar.
‘Gin and tonic, please,’ she said to the barman.
He reached over his shoulder with a practiced motion, retrieved a can of pre-mix and, with a flourish, clicked it open with a special bar-tending tool that looked for all the world to be a miniature crowbar. The can was placed onto the bench before her.
Daisy blinked at it.
‘Is that it?’
‘Yep,’ replied the barman, with a bored tone.
‘So, no bottles of spirit,’ she asked. ‘No top-shelf, bottom-shelf..?’
‘No,’ said the barman. ‘Just mediocrity.’
‘It’s a bit…’ said Daisy at last with a dubious tone and frowning at the yellow, red and silver can which seemed to have been designed by people who communicated by yelling at one-another. ‘Naff.’
‘You have no idea,’ he replied with a shake of his head, then added in a monotone, ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Would-you-like-peanuts-or-chips-with-that?’
Daisy stared. ‘Come again?’
‘We’ve been told we have to ‘suggest-sell’ when making a transaction,’ he replied with clear distaste.
‘What, like in fast-food places.’
He nodded.
He woke with a killer headache and instinctively felt between his legs. He frowned, momentarily confused and felt again.
Oh, this again, he thought.
Daisy opened her eyes. Blinked and frowned.
‘Who’re you?’ she asked the man directly above her. He had a very goofy expression on his face.
There was no reaction, no change to the rhythm, nor a hint that he’d even heard her.
She rolled her eyes and repeated the question.
‘Who…are-’ she said, then exclaimed: ‘ohmygod!’
Marcus was on top of her, having his manly way with her. It was the absent beard and slicked back haircut that had confused her.
It was a pity he’d lost the goatee; it was actually a turn-on and useful in ways other than just looks. Without it he looked like a square-jawed 1960′s secret agent, which had never been her thing.
Her mind raced, trying desperately to work-out where the hell she was. As she glanced from side-to-side she realised the room was decorated in the unmistakable style of the decade of protest; and it wasn’t just cheap knock-offs either.
‘Hnyahhhh…’ gasped Marcus, then collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily. After a moment, he rolled onto his back, and reached across to the bedside table where he picked up the telephone and dialed a number that appeared to feature mostly fives.
‘All done here,’ he said. ‘You can come at any time.’
Nice, thought Daisy. First I’m subjected to the Missionary Position and now I’m brushed-off like cat fur.
He hung-up and picked up a small, flat silver box.
‘Cigarette,’ he asked, offering her one, speaking with perfect the perfect intonation of a BBC announcer. ‘My own blend.’
‘No thanks,’ said Daisy, conscious of her slack Australian accent. She only smoked Menthols anyway.
He reached over and picked up a zippo lighter with an engraved bird on the side.
Daisy slipped from the bed and picked up a robe that had fallen onto the floor. Putting it on, she stepped past the underwear, the shirt, trousers, top, shoes, socks and skirt, and wandered over to the window.
‘You’re a quiet lover,’ he said, exhaling the smoke. ‘Different to other girls.’
That would be because you’re crap, thought Daisy, but ‘hmm’d’ a bemused affirmative. These curtains were amazing and the view beyond was stunning. They were quite high-up. She glanced down and tried to orient herself.
‘Lazenby is Bond,’ she read from a large poster in the distance. ‘Diamonds are Forever.’
Well, that nailed it; definitely a different world. She made a mental note to go see that movie. She’d often wondered how the Bond series would have worked out with a different actor in the part.
‘Why do Australian girls taste different from other girls?’
She opened her eyes and winced from an eye-watering, skull-splitting headache. She felt instinctively between her legs and found something different.
Donnie looked down and saw an empty plate. On a table.
He looked up with a frown.
‘Would sir like to see the wine list,’ asked the waiter.
Donnie fell sideways from his chair, pain the only thing registering through the violent headache exploding through his brain.
‘Ahem,’ said the waiter. To Donnie he sounded like he was yelling through a 6000 watt PA system with the volume set to 11.
‘Please don’t speak so loudly,’ hissed Donnie as he clawed his way upwards again.
‘Terribly sorry sir,’ whispered the waiter, playing along. ‘Would sir wish to see the wine list?’
‘Ooo,’ said Donnie, a grin on his face. He winced from additional movement and while his conscious mind tried desperately to work out which muscles should stop moving, his unconscious formed a rather useful algorithm:
Begin Repeat If MyHeadHurts = true and Booze = true then Drink Booze Until MyHeadHurts =False or LiverGivesOut=True EndDonnie blinked a couple of times, and the logic made sense. He looked up and smiled some more, though not without further pain.
‘I would love to see the list,’ he said in an agonised whisper.
The waiter handed him the document with considerable distaste; it wasn’t becoming to lust after alcohol.
‘Hmm, old and dusty, old and dusty… ‘murmured Donnie. He looked up and addressed the man in another whisper.
‘I’ll have the Chateau Neuf ’35.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said the waiter. ‘And something to eat? Sir.’
Donnie gave him a blank stare.
The waiter coughed an ‘A-hem’; politely pointing out that he was making some kind of point which had hitherto not been noticed by Donnie.
‘Just the booze,’ whispered Donnie, now sure his brain was being pushed out of his ears like mince through a mincer.
‘The Armenian salad is particularly good tonight,’ insisted the waiter.
‘Does it have alcohol in it?’ whispered Donnie, checking his ears. No blood; of course, all that proved was that he was fundamentally brainless.
The waiter looked uncomfortable.
‘I am not aware of this possibility, sir.’ He coughed another ‘a-hem’.
‘Right, off you go then,’ said Donnie, fingering his ears; there had to be something coming out, surely? Other than earwax of course. ‘And bring my plonk forthwith.’
The waiter turned on his heel and stalked off.
Donnie closed his eyes in an effort to reduce the pounding agony he was experiencing, slowly letting the pain migrate from hemisphere to hemisphere and finally coalesce in his upper neck.
A can rattled loudly beside his left ear.
Donnie screamed and fell sideways from the chair, holding his head in his hands in an effort to stop the agony.
‘Would you like to make a donation,’ asked the young man standing beside the now vacant chair. ‘It’s to save endangered sea life.’
‘Only if you stop shouting,’ hissed Donnie. With white spots popping in front of his eyes and the pain back in his cranium, he crawled back onto the chair.
The waiter placed the requested bottle on the table and, in a most contemptuous way, paced off once more without even so much as pouring a sample for Donnie to try.
Not that it mattered of course. Donnie focussed on the bottle while murmuring to himself.
‘MyHeadHurts is true, Booze is true.’ He nodded with a smile. ‘Repeat…’
One of Donnie’s great unsung talents was a total lack of a gag reflex. He synchronised his breathing and guzzled the contents of the bottle in one go.
The man with the can winced slightly at the sound of the last of the expensive wine being sucked from the bottle.
Donnie pulled the empty receptacle away from his mouth. He gasped and sniffed, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Oh,’ he said after another moment, and noticed the pain had dulled substantially; the nuclear bomb tests going on in his skull had been successfully disrupted by a protest flotilla of nearly a liter of a good quality French red.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Donnie with a grin. ‘That feels better.’
image by Rose
He woke with a killer headache and instinctively felt between his legs. He found what he’d needed in the last reality, which was a pity, really.
Daisy opened her eyes and saw stars.
‘What a pretty night,’ she said.
She sat up and looked around. There was a mucky looking river in front of her and a slight breeze in the air, flowing from the river and up the banks. There was something amiss, though. Something not quite right, something missing…
‘Where are you?’ yelled a familiar voice. There was real anger there. ‘You fucking bitch!’
Ah, that was it. She nodded to herself, there being no-one else around to nod at.
Panix was definitely unhappy about something. Perhaps it was as a result of Donnie’s knee-jerk reaction in the last reality. Oh well.
‘When I catch you, I’ll make you pay for what you did to me!’
Yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, blah.
Something tugged at her memory. Oh yes, that kiss! Of course, it only came about because The Assassin had, quite unexpectedly, blown a hole in her chest. Well, Donnie’s chest.
Ugh. She held her head to try to stop it exploding. She had never been able to adequately get her head around the dual-personality dual-gender issues. If she kept thinking about it, she’d need to hunt down a warm bath and a couple of Gin and Tonics to accompany the pain.
She shuddered to think what Donnie would do. Probably something involving video games and pornography. Boys!
Panix screamed again, this time in a particularly blood-curdling fashion. He was really mad. He would also need a good vocal surgeon.
She rolled onto her chest and looked around furtively. The wind picked up and blew cold air up her skirt.
‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, then slapped her hand over her mouth. Bugger!
image by FroggyFrog
He woke with a killer headache and instinctively felt between his legs. He found something familiar, but something was missing …
His eyes flew open and he quickly sat up, ignoring the painful drumming in his head.
He was totally naked and sitting on an opulent four-poster bed in an equally opulent room. But his surroundings were of secondary importance right now.
With a grim sense of irony, he glared at his mutilated crotch and ran his fingers through his hair. His thick, luxurious hair …
“Oh bugger”, he piped, in a soprano that brought tears to his eyes.
This could cause problems …
He reached across the bed for the robe that lay on its edge and draped it over his shoulders. Then he stood up and looked around.
The room would not have been out of place in the court of King Louis. Opulent had been his first impression, and it remained accurate.
Maybe he’d turned up in Graceland? He’d always wanted to meet The King.
Donnie wandered around the room, picking things up and putting them down. He stopped at the dresser and examined the photographs. They featured Donnie in various poses with another man. He peered closer, trying to make out the face.
Colonel Panix.
image by FroggyFrog
She woke with a killer headache and instinctively felt between her legs. She didn’t find what she was looking for, which meant that she could slouch again and perform minor comfort adjustments in public.
Donnie Penfolde opened his eyes.
The room was plain white. There were no doors.
That’s odd, he thought. How did I get in here?
Pushing himself to his feet, Donnie Penfolde fought against a blood rush and the fading memories of an explosion. What he needed now was a smoke.
His hands instinctively flew to his chest and hips and came up empty. Looking down, he saw that he was dressed in a nondescript pair of pyjamas, in a colour that matched the room. A room, he noticed, that was depressingly empty of anything but a stainless-steel urinal and a mattress that had seen better days.
Bloody brilliant, he groaned. Another loony bin.
He shoved a hand through his hair and was moderately relieved to find that his thatch, at least, was intact. He couldn’t abide the thought of being bald. Women had it all wrong. Even castratos could go a long way with a fine head of hair.
Apart from the painful throbbing in his head, Donnie could hear little else. The room must be soundproof, he mused. He wandered over to the nearest wall and ran a hand over its surface.
Nice paint job.
Using the flat of his hand, he smacked at the wall a few times. ‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘Anyone there?’
He didn’t really expect a response, and was therefore mildly surprised when a narrow, rectangular slot appeared in the wall next to his groin.
Hello, hello, he thought. Is that the postman?
Dropping to a crouch, he peered through the slot and found himself eye-to-eye with a pair of beady, bloodshot orbs.
‘Hullo there!’ he chirped. ‘If its a bill, I don’t want it.’
image by FroggyFrog
He woke up with a killer headache and instinctively felt between his legs. He didn’t find what he was looking for, which meant he would have to remember not to answer to the male pronoun.
She opened her eyes.
A set of train tracks lay three feet in front of her. She looked over her shoulder and read the graffiti on the side of a building.
Fight fire with fire and the world burnsShe remembered that slogan from the last time.
Daisy Penfolde stood up and looked around. In the distance in front of her was a bridge. Behind was the sound of an approaching train. It was probably time to get off the tracks.
She examined her clothes as she walked, while simultaneously shortening her steps and forcing herself not to walk with a cro-magnon gait. She was dressed for a night out, and as a result, she was freezing.
Slowly, the memories of the last brief existence flowed back. It was the closest she’d been to death in quite some-time.
The bridge finally presented itself and she climbed carefully down, arriving at the bottom in a what appeared to be a university district. This assumption was reinforced by a large number of semi-literate youth, together with an expansive set of second-hand record and book-shops. The presence of a whopping great sign with ‘University’ on it was also a pretty good indicator that her supposition was correct.
The university building, the one with the sign on it, was the biggest in the district and was topped with the biggest satellite dish she had ever seen.
As she walked past the kids, some of whom she recognised, others she didn’t, a graveyard of Goths presented itself. One winked at her, then pulled a zippo lighter with an engraved symbol on it that looked rather like a bird.
Her mind put the imagery together: goths=coffins, lighter=cigarettes.
Just what she needed.
I’ve been trying for some time to get the category drop-downs to work in the main menu. Oh, you didn’t realise? Yes — there’s a page menu right next to a category menu. Not that it matters to the naked eye — or the clothed one for that matter — they look the same for [...]
