Archive for the ‘Writings’ Category

August 1888, Austria Germany
9 August, 2008

Suddenly, Klara Hitler withdrew from Alois’ Lips and looked at him.  He looked at her through the haze of passion that had broke the vase and table, and paused halfway through taking off his dinner jacket.

“Do you have protection?” She asked, her chest heaving, and her brow furrowed with concern. Alois Hitler couldn’t do anything but stare at her red, moist lips, his brain’s higher functions being almost overriden by messages from other parts of his body.  He drew his gaze away from her moist red lips and looked at her pleadingly.

“Umm..” he said, but in her passion, she interrupted him by kissing him deeply.

“Fuck it,” She said in gasping breath, “What’s the worse that can happen?” and he pulled her towards him and they resumed their way to the bedroom.

The Artefact
8 August, 2008

It was longer from the front than from the back and weighed three times as much when you turned it upside down.  It’s centre of gravity was two feet below its base and walking around it took half an hour if you did it in a clockwise direction.  Description of its shape was best done with inverted commas.

It felt enthusiastic to the touch and smelled faintly of yellow. Sometimes, when no one was around, it would hum the theme to MacGuyver.

Despite being an inaminate ‘cube’ dug out of the crust of a dying Saturnian moon, it was never seen in public without a pair of silver Manolo Blahnik’s.  But most interestingly of all, if your tears were to fall on its surface, nothing would happen at all.

Life as an Insurance Investigator.
6 August, 2008

“So how did the fire start?”

“Viking Burial.”

“….”

“For the cat.”

“you mean longboats on fire off the foreshore? That kind of thing?”

“Yeah, but we just stuck it in a floaty, dowsed it in petrol and pushed it into the pool.  I didnt think floaties would be so flammable.”

“Why did you give a dead cat a viking burial?”

“Obviously because it died in battle.”

“….Right….”

Night at the Casino.
5 August, 2008

The cigar smoke hung heavily in the light over the poker tables, lighting them up like diseased halos in the darkness and making a mockery of the casino’s claim to atmosphere.  It made the Assassin’s fake eye itch terribly. If he was lucky, his rubbing would be misinterpreted as a tell by the other players.

Lord knows he needed the luck.  Five grand down thanks to stupid plays while watching the Spy, that smug two eyed little git in the tuxedo who he was ordered to kill.  The Spy flagged down a passing waitress with barely a raised finger in a way that the Assassin could never do, then whispered something in her ear, making her giggle before she skipped off to get him something alcoholic, expensive and served in a tall glass.  The Assassin waved at her and tried to catch her attention with a polite excuse me. The only person who noticed his attempts was the player next to him, who had got an inadvertent spray of saliva thanks to the steel teeth.

“Shorry,” he said sheepishly, and pretended to study his cards intently.  He folded the next hand, just to make friends.  The Spy won.

The Spy twiddled with his cufflink, turning the small diamond a half circle.  The Assassin held his breath until he was certain that it wouldnt kill him, then folded just to try and get the attention of the waitress. He needed a stiff drink. 

The Spy won. Again. This time with an impressive bluff that got a smattering of applause from an audience that had appeared around the table just to watch him. Smug bastard as he was, he raised a hand to silence the crowds.  Mock modesty. Christ! Who did this guy think he was?  The Waitress finally got the Assassin a drink, but it was the wrong one. Regardless, Assassin decided not to complain  and just smiled with apolite “Shank you” to the waitress.  It didn’t have the effect he wanted. 

He looked across the table.  The Spy winked at him encouragingly in a ‘women, can’t live with em , eh’ kind of way, before turning his attention to a vision in a white dress that had appeared at his shoulder. The Assassin went back to looking at his miserable hand and sipped his Fuzzy Duck.

For not the first time, the Assassin decided that his line of work was not without its perks.