Of Carrion Men

"Throw one at me if you want, hash head. I've got all five senses and I slept last night, that puts me six up on the lot of you."

- Brendan Frye, Brick.

The old bed sagged and gaped, seeming to swallow Tarquin. Sleeping. Deep and dreamless. The silence of the early morning broken periodically by an errant car along the sallow lights of the old cracked Fleet street. In the distance on a hill, a water tower, looming over the houses and hate factories like an obscene giant, desperately observing his horde. The faint smell of moisture in the air, the clouds like shadows in the sky, occasionally catching the glint of the nearby strip malls and hardware mega stores, a fluorescent orgy of light.

In the peaceful din, a figure. It climbs up the railing of apartment fifteen. The figure looks around, quiet, it's black eyes catching the a shine of the hardware sign . The figure leans back over the rail and helps another up. Tarquin. Sleeping. The old lock of the old aluminium framed glass door is unlocked by the figure who was helped up. Tarquin stirs but doesn't wake, years of living in the complex of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street has aclimatised him to noise. It's hard to sleep if there isn't now. The old man underneath him in seven shouting at the television, the junkie couple fucking or fighting or both next to him in fourteen, the single middle aged wierd guy in twelve reminding Tarquin of what he is doomed to become. Two hundred and thirty four constantly breathes and seethes, a honeycombe of sadistic sweat and tears, a monument to apathy and hopelessness and Tarquin, a part of it. His mortgage, his Swedish kitchen, his beige loungeroom, his old aluminium framed glass door opening.

They filter, taking only what necessary, like black wrays silently moving along the sea bed. Lifting what is needed, discarding what isn't. Tarquin. Sleeping. The door of Tarquin's room is slowly opened by a wray. It looks at Tarquin, it's black eyes catching the red hue of the alarm clock radio. The door betrays the wray with a sound and Tarquin's eyes open and trace to the location. The wray stands, cold, icy, still. They stare at eachother, a rich sweat enveloping Tarquin, his palms clammed, his heart skipping. This isn't a dream it's a nightmare. They stare. How long have we being staring at eachother? It feels like forever. The wray is joined by it's companion. They both stare, they all stare. Tarquin remembers where the knife is and takes a breath. One of the wrays shift it's weight to move. Go. In a beat, in what seems like the liminal space between moments he throws the covers towards the wray and moves, his hand catching his father's knife. A war cry, the only thing Tarquin could think to say as the two wrays and he collided. His father's knife finding a stomach, the wray's fists' and bodies finding Tarquin's. His father's knife returning to the same stomach once more and once more and once more. Liquid, thick, warm and dark. A wray screams, his arms reach and strangle Tarquin. A crack. As violent and sudden as it started the fight is over. Tarquin, breathless looks down, a sharp burning in his lung. The other wray runs, leaving Tarquin and it's companion. The companion is still. They both slump to the ground. Tarquin drops his father's knife and touches the cold metal phillips head sticking out of his right lung. Liquid, thick, warm and dark. Tarquin and the wray slump, together, still, both of them leaning on eachother. Tarquin strains to see around him, his eyes bruised and bloody and crying. The taste of iron rich on his tongue.

In apartment fifteen of two hundred and thrity four Fleet street Tarquin struggles to breath, he is tired and wants to sleep. He needs his sleep. He has work in the morning. It's starting to rain. Tarquin struggles to breath and remember why he is on the floor with a motionless wray. The wray isn't stuggling. The wray is still. Tarquin tries to talk but can only manage a gargle of rich, dark blood. Tarquin misses his mother. Tarquin wants his mother. Tarquin lies, sobbing, next to a dead boy in apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street. In a pool of thick, wet blood. Missing his mother. In the dark. In the rain. In the distance, sirens.

By Definition, A Crush Must Hurt 3

"You can't buy a bag of peanuts in this town without some one writing a song about you."
-Charles Foster Kane, Citizen Kane.

The fog. Tarquin has never seen fog like this. Not here. It smothers everything around it and seems to dull his senses. He feels like he just had a moment of clarity and realised that he is indeed mildly retarded. "Just to the left please." Awkward Taxi Driver responds with a confused look onwards through the dark yellow grey blackness of the dense low lying cloud and brought the cab to a gentle stop.Tarquin opens the door of the taxi and steps out onto fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street and slowly pulls away. Thanks.

The key enters. The knob turns. The bag is thrown. Thump. A breath. A deep, inevitable sigh. The light of apartment fifteen of the small fifteen apartment hate factory located on two hundred and thirty floor Fleet street cinched on. A flash indicating a new bulb is needed. Tarquin snaps the switch back to the off position and leant back against the entrance. A breath. He took off his beanie, scrunching it up, the thick synthetic knit against his clammy palm. Tarquin throws it into the kitchen, replying with sound indicating it hit the sink. The old sink. My beanie is probably wet now.

Two hours ago

"Yes" Tarquin replied to the doctor's question. Emotionless and still. Just like the thing in front of him. "We have some forms that you'll have to sign before you leave." Silence. "Do you need me to call you a cab?" Silence. "Is there anyone I can call?" Silence. "Take your time." Silence. Nothing but. It's quiet.

Three hours later

Tarquin sat, in the darkness, against the door, in apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street, in the suburb across the road from the nice one, with a wet beanie and a burnt bulb, in the fog, in the darkness. Struggling to understand where he had just been, what had happened, what he had seen. I better call Dad.

Twenty three hours ago

"When was the last time you saw your brother Mr Dangerfield?" Suited Man asked, his tone empathetic with a barely visible scent of hostility strung through. "I don't know..." Stammered. "Probably at the tea house a couple of weeks ago"
"And what did you see talk to him about?"
"Nothing. We talked about nothing. We only ever talk about that."
"Then why would you go and see him?"
"Because he asked me dammit and he's my brother and when my fucked up brother who I never fucking see calls and asks me for coffee I go okay. Aren't you supposed to already know this stuff? Don't you people have satellites?"
"Mr Dangerfield you'll want to be calming down and helping us find your brother"
A breath. A pause. The careful hum of the light. "I saw him last Tuesday. He called me. Said he wanted to see me. We met at the tea house a block and a half away from me. I gave him some money and I haven't seen or heard from him since. We're not that close."
"How much money did you give him?"
Not enough.

Twenty four hours later

The phone clicked. The dial tone had changed into the faster tone, the one that lets you know you've waited too long to call someone. The tone oscillating and dancing next to Tarquin's ear then clicking silent. Tarquin dropped the phone and stared. The fog was clearing and the sun was showing the first signs of it's triumphant return. Babies cry, Postmen wake up, Bakers get on with it. Tarquin sits. Osric is dead.

To be continued...

...right in the Sipowicz!

"Short term he oughtta settle for getting his head out of his ass."
-Andy Sipowicz, NYPD Blue.

The tea house lay on the corner of Fleet street and Harley. A block and a half down from apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four of the same long street and seemed to be made entirely of wood. The weather boards clothing the portly warren and sealing away the brick foundation from the public. Tarquin was a regular and would always try to act like one even though Chirpy Waitress thought that Tarquin wanted her every time he ordered at the counter. I want her. He felt that the added tension of her knowing that he wanted her and him knowing she knew he wanted her left a particular strain on the waitress/regular customer interaction thus making it difficult for him to relax his anus. When Tarquin got tense, his anus would too. That was the typical Tarquin/anus interaction. Am I tense because my anus is tense or is my anus tense because I'm tense?

How many times did I just think of the word anus just then? Five times? Is that too much? I think there might be something wrong with me.

"Sorry I'm late" the voice broke Tarquin from his worry and sat down opposite him. "Check out that waitress I'd totally tap that huh?" the voice talked at Tarquin as it took off it's coat and scarf. "Does she make you tense your asshole?"
"Shut the fuck up" hissed Tarquin "I wish I'd never fucking told you about that" leaning into the centre of the small table, a mix of ply wood and old milk crates glued and nailed together, a beacon to the theory that anyone label even the shittiest of things trendy. "You are such a cunt. I forgot how much of a cunt you are" Everytime Tarquin would throw the 'C' Word at the other side of the fusion of MDF and old Brownes' crates he would clench his teeth and take it off voice making it seem as though he was both allergic to something and mildly retarded.
"You're doing that allergic retard thing again do you realise this? I can't believe you still do that I thought you grew out of it after the shit I gave you in school?"
Tarquin took a breath and leant back into his chair, it was, like all the other chairs completely unique, the entire tea house looked like it had been requisitioned from countless estate auctions of countless dead little old ladies.

Before Tarquin could retaliate, the voice made a a pre-emptive strike onward "...never mind about that come on now listen I need some help here I met this girl and she seemed real nice but it turned out she was a bit of a junkie and one time you wouldn't believe this one time I was sleeping over at her place and I woke up the next morning and she was gone man like you wouldn't believe this she was totally gone like fucking disappeared but get a load of this like she totally stole my wallet it's fucking unbelievable..." Tarquin lifted his hand to the voice's face "Osric please. How much do you need?"

My anus is tense.

By Definition, A Crush Must Hurt 2

"Everybody's sin is nobody's sin, and everybody's crime is no crime at all."
- Alfred, Kinsey.

The city sprawls mercilessly on. A figure stands on the brink. Haze settles. The sun shows the first signs of it's triumphant return. Babies cry, Postmen wake up, Bakers get on with it. In the Northern district the ugly remnants of last nights party painfully make their way home. The scars of the evening's revelry fresh. Machinery turns on to help clean away the fun had by others. Water falls, heavy, cold, strong.

In apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street the silence is broken only by heavy, deep, clumsy breathing. The one man apartment is dark, a small slice of gold protrudes from the light left on in the toilet, a halo around the edges. Old food on old plates lie sleeping in an old sink, the last of the original kitchen, a beacon in a kitchen owing it's allegiance to the Swedes.

The slumber of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street is sharply disturbed by a fast, authoritative knock at the door. It becomes part of Tarquin's dream, the man with no face looking to the sound and telling Tarquin it's for him. Tarquin, who is clad only in his underwear goes to the door which bubbles and bleeds. The doorknob is frozen but useable. Another knock enters Tarquin's dream and it makes the door angry, it seethes and breathes and growls. A greater knock brings him back to apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street, followed by a voice demanding he get up and open the door. What the fuck? Tarquin looks around and throws off his sheet. Stumbling, still half naked and half asleep he open the door.

"Tarquin Dangerfield?" Suited Man says showing him identification, Tarquin pretends to read it and nods, rubbing his left shoulder for something to do. "Sorry to disturb you Mr Dangerfield, we need to ask you a few questions" Tarquin staggers, he isn't wearing any pants. Where are my pants? "What's this about?"
"Please, if you wouldn't mind coming with us to the station. We need to ask you a few questions concerning Ozzie"
"Osric? Can't you ask him?"
"You're brother is missing Mr Dangerfield. Please come with us and we'll let you know all the details."
Where are my pants?

To be continued...

Bile and Turpentine.

"Oh, as if you had no choice? There's a moment, there's always a moment, "I can do this, I can give into this, or I can resist it", and I don't know when your moment was, but I bet you there was one."
-Alice, Closer.

Tarquin sits in the old car, the windows opaque with condensation. The rain washes outside. The white, stark lights of nearby strip malls and service stations glitter in the distance through the water running down the windshield. Tarquin sits. His eye is enlarged; the surrounding skin red and broken. His nose runs and the eye can't stop weeping. Tarquin tries to touch it but finds out he can't. He squeezes his Ventolin inhaler, hands shaking, empty. "...fuck" he throws the Ventolin inhaler at the windscreen, bouncing and reflecting around the tight confines of the old Ford.
How did this happen?

One and a half hours ago

"I'm just not feeling it, you know?" Blonde Haired Girl said looking blankly at Tarq. He had let his hair grow longer for some reason and as a result his head seemed larger with the added hair of relatively unremarkable colour. This was all Tarquin could think about while Blonde Haired Girl sat and stared at him for a reply. "Great." Tarquin mouth farted. Blonde Haired Girl's eyes mixed in an orgy of uncertainty then settled to meet Tarquin's apathy, after all, that was what first attracted him to her. Blonde Haired Girl leaves the silence leaving Tarquin in his.
Sigh.

An hour ago

He walks, the lights of the nearby strips malls and service stations under lighting the approaching dark clouds, there is still the faint hint that the sun has set only moments ago. Rain in the distance, appearing to evaporate before getting close to the ground it's over. Tropical. Tarquin looks to a sound of a man, yelling. A brief sound underneath that sounded familiarly female. Tarquin looks to see if anyone else is around who can care about it so he doesn't have to. No one. He swallows hard and squeezes his Ventolin.
I need more.

45 minutes ago

The two small men seem to encircle her. One wears jeans, one has a beanie sporting an Aussie Rules team. The other has a tight t-shirt, it has something in Latin on it and faux worn print. Blonde Haired Girl stands, her bag on the sweating bitumen. Blonde Haired Girl is pricked up. Blonde Haired Girl stands, pricked up like a cat. "Do you need some help?" The Two Small Men look to the sound.
Oh no.

10 minutes ago

His keys slip through his red hands. The rain is thick and cold. Tarquin awkwardly bends down, falling onto all fours next to the old Ford. The cool of the bitumen against his palms. Tarquin drools and picks up his keys, the taste of iron and wine on his tongue. The old Ford lets Tarquin in and he slumps to the seat, his wet jumper compressing and releasing it's contents on the back of the old velour seat. After watching him being beaten she said thank you. She offered him a ride. She smiled and said she would call him to make sure he's okay. She thanked him again. Tarquin leaves the silence leaving Emily in hers.

20 minutes later

The door of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street opens and Tarquin throws his bag; an old tattered brown satchel into the cave. Tarquin sits on the couch that folds out into a futon. Tarquin sleeps. Tarquin feels good. Tarquin is a hero.
Tarquin is a hero.

By Definition, A Crush Must Hurt

"You are what you love, not what loves you, I decided that a long time ago."
-Donald Kaufman, Adaptation.

Tarquin puts down his pen to drain the last of the grainy blackness from his cup and wipes the corner of his mouth. "Thanks a lot!" Chirpy Waitress spurts as she steals away the empty. Tarquin smiles, for a split second catches the eyes of Chirpy Waitress. "Thanks a lot" Tarquin replies, immediately wishing he hadn't. Chirpy Waitress pretends to ignore him and walks away. Why do I want to fall in love with every woman that shows me the least bit of attention? Tarquin puts his imitation Moleskine into his bag and begins to leave.

The door of apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street opens and Tarquin throws his bag; an old tattered brown satchel into the cave. The one hundred dollar a week apartment is colder than the outside and feels like another person besides the young Tarquin hasn't stepped into it's austere embrace for some time. He travels to the bathroom, coffee always makes me wee. Tarquin's satchel lay open; his cheap fake notebook lay exposed, the rounded corners resting out, glasses and various painkillers rolling in slow motion under the couch that folds out into a futon.

I may have done something bad. Something I may have underestimated and not fully understood. But now I'm in it and I have no idea where I stand. All I know now is that I am now responsible for some one's misery. It seems I can now scratch that one off the list. The sad truth is, that one may have been scratched off the list a long time ago and I may not have even realised it.

To be continued...

No, I am Spartacus!

My aging computer constantly spirals into the dark, tartan depths of obsolescence and groans as the once mighty machine opens the ever pretentious iTunes. I find my artist of choice amongst my dense Forrest of music and I begin.

I generally write with music, I find it helps me think. Of recent I have found Radiohead's latest album In Rainbows quite fruitful and recommend it to anyone. But it doesn't just help me think but also greatly influences my writing.

That is why I have decided to see if this little experiment will work. It's part to better my writing abilities and part to see if anyone actually reads this poor excuse for a blog (which this with any luck boosts the content and gives the blog more substance than just an excuse for a small angry man to vent his frustrations in a tawdry and pretentious manner.)

Comment on this post with any musical suggestion, I will find it, if I don't have it I will get it and I will write a short story while playing only that piece. I will do this every fortnight, starting with the first suggestion I get. The stories may be fiction or non fiction and with any luck will reflect what music was playing through the old 80's speakers that I rescued from a garage sale when I was 15 years old.

With any luck, it won't be shit. So please, throw some at me, I will choose one at random and begin.

With any luck, it won't be shit.

NOTE: Submit comments by clicking the small link saying comment. I really shouldn't need to put this note but hey, kids these days.