New Year Post, on the outskirts of normal and over the cliff!

Historical archives

Entry 2078: ‘Black Hounds’ mercenary group recruitment speech

Date: 2073 30th December/2074 1st January

Location: Mining Colony 029 Sector 2

Ladies, gentlemen, thieves’ spies and assassins

Mercs, wretches and all that humankind has cast out

The galaxy stands on a knife edge of its own devising my friends, the better of our kind have become a generation of farmers; peace lovers and the ultimate despise… politicians

They hath conquered the stars like a child grabs for toys, not a moment to think how they will keep them when the playground bullies seek to steal, intimidate and threatened an empire that in the grand scheme means nothing, everything and the ultimate prize of greed

Now those perfect creatures that inhabit these empires find the bullies have cast an eye on the belongings of the privileged few, the bullies that have no such concept of honour, mercy or decency

And now that the stars they conquered with such hapless regard are in the cross hairs who do they call to defend them, do they seek their guardians of justice from the ranks of societies best, look within the glimmering waters of decency that flow through the very core of honest men to stand in defence of all that is seen to be good, no

The perfect creatures that inhabit Eden look to the dark hounds of ill regret, so easily scorned by the light filled glory of empirical perfection, the black hounds of hell

I see the Spacers, lost to the bleak expanse of space, unwelcome on the humble rocks that orbit stars for fear their imperfection may stain the image of false respectability, despite the fact it is the Spacers that first explored the expanse into which humanity has poured itself

Harbingers, warriors of bloodlust and anger that sought not to be so, but were forced to be beasts by alien masters, cursed with a temper to challenge the devil to his throne and banned from civilised space

We stand here on the edge of a new year, a black hole of forgiveness to swallow our former sins as we, the black hounds, hells own, are called to defend, fight and take the bullies to places of fear that even the most damned would dare not tread

Now I’m no fool, I am aware of the callous disregard they will give the chapter of history in which us, the unwanted, damned and discarded are heroes of the hour, but I ask you not to join me in the name of peace, happiness or decency

I say we head their call, be the god damn heroes they want and forever more ram it down their throats that they owe us everything and all, and even if god isn’t on our side the devil sure as hell will be laughing with us when we save the day

So this new year, don’t make resolutions or turn a new leaf, join me and the black hounds, save the day and be a fucking hero of the revolution

And if you’re not sold by my little speech, we own part own 320 licensed bars in which you get half price, so when you’re not a fucking hero you can be a drunk during 24/7 happy hour!

Hoo happy hooray

An experiment in typing from my hudl 2

He stood, summoned the hounds with one sweep of his gnarled hand as the other mess of flesh that passed for a hand summoned a force of firey damnation “Be the wheat as the blade cuts it, the man of no position under my rule of force” with a chilling laugher, the darkly cloaked figure that stood before such a monster posing as an excuse of a man looked up, the crueliest smile the only thing that could be seen as he raised his head “what the makes you stand so tall before me wretch?” The monsterously deformed ruler asked, purple energy snaking though the exposed viens of his rough skin.

The cloaked figure spoke softly, almost unheard was his volume that the disfigured ruler leant in to hear “Even the demons have a sense of humour you know” as the hood was removed, the ruggedly handsome hero revealling the truest extent of that sense of humour “remember me” a tone to make the word serious seem lighthearted “or have you forgotten just how much you sacficed, brother” never had a word struck so hard as the ruler double backed, barely able to prevent tripping on his luxurious robe.

The fierey projectile from that force so damning failed to even mark his tortuous vision, the foaming mouths of the vicious hounds receded into a feeble whine as the illusion of impervious strength once so intimidating crumbled into a manic panic “Brother, forgive me my foolishness, such things I did once I now regret so” painfully decending to his knees in a disheveled fashion “may I ask that you cast me in the light of mercy that once you exuded so radiantly” the hooded figure’s cruel smile twisting into a sinister grimice, the only noise audiable been the whines of the once fearsome hounds, not as pathetic however as the broken figure on its aged knees.

The cloaked figure was unmoved by such displays of pitiful weakness, circling his brother as shark would its prey “Mercy, mercy… That once aplied but has long since decended deeper than the pits into which the demon you dealt with now resides” the fireball in the hooded figures hand drawing attention from the blackening eyes “now it is your turn brother” as with obvious relish he opened a vortex so dark it made the pits into which the aging ruler had thrown his enemies seem as bright sparks “may my prison cell be as grand a monument to your failure as a good brother as this kingdom will be fair compensation for the years I rotted in it”.

All the guards outside heard were screams of such subsint sufferring that even the rebels outside the palace gates paused in reverence to what cruelty was been endured.

Macaroni Cheese on Christmas Day

Tis the day, but alas no Macaroni Cheese!

Ghost of a Shadow

“I have a dream”

I must thank Martin Luther King for a cracking opening line!

Ever since Christmas gained its cheap and tacky appeal I’ve had a dream; Macaroni Cheese on Christmas day as I veg out on darkly inspired DVDs to combat the cheerful smiling sop that pollutes the TVs rosy lens. Outside of Dr Who and an anti-festive offering from Film4 I’m not much in the way for caring. The ‘cheap and tacky appeal’ is the jaded adult perspective talking/moaning, such festive hits like ‘It’s all commercialised now’ with the classic ‘It costs so much nowadays’ and finishing the repartee ‘Turn the lights off, it’s carollers’ as you remind everyone that Santa was green before the Coca Cola adverts!

After the years of confetti filled atmospheres and questionable sung carols ringing in your ears, you see the Christmas magic lumber out of the red and green mist like…

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Dear Santa!

Dear Santa

I would like… No, only kidding, last time we played that game we woke up with a couple of blondes, a feather duster and the March Hare was cooking us breakfast, please do tell me if you remember anything more than the word ‘kibble’ from that night although maybe it’s best left forgotten.

The real reason I write is that I have come into possession of a second hand sleigh, one previous owner and the only damage is a slight dent on the left side, I can flog it to you for about the same amount as that bar tab I had to pay off last year.

That was in no way a slight hint that I’m still pissed off you owe me money of course! Every year is the same, ‘I’ll get you the money, honest’ then ‘I was about to pay off the bar bill but…’and guess who had to pay the freakishly big bar tab. I know you’ve never forgiven me after that year when you woke up in the reindeer pen with the muzzle on, me and the Easter Bunny might have gone too far but you know what happens when the Easter Bunny gets on the vodka, Mrs Santa had a laugh to boot.

Anyway, old business aside, I’m pleased to hear Mrs Santa has forgiven you after having to bail you out again, I don’t care if Rudolph can drive the sleigh blindfolded it still counts as drunk driving if you’re over the limit. I’ve been brushing up on my dancing skills, might even be able to hold my own against the March Hare in a jig contest this year, if Barry the Bear doesn’t corner me to talk about pond politics again and bore me to death.

Speaking of death, his robe is clean and ready for return but next time can he use his own machine; the neighbours get a bit freaked out when it’s hanging out to dry and I’m cleaning a scythe, good for cutting vegetables though.

I’ll let you get on with business; I’ll leave my stocking hanging above the radiator so you can leave me that money you owe and have a great Christmas.

Bob Larkin

Poem 2011/12: It’s Christmas time, again!

It’s that time again

Yes it is

Full of present shopping and having to grin

You know it well, that festive cheer

It’s the freakishly cold weather

That makes you ill

And as we enter the early stages

Thrown at us in increasing number

Special offers and seasonal sales

As the traffic around us feels the same

Why the hell does she want that ring?

Why the hell does he want that thing?

That is harder to find than a turkey on Christmas Eve

But as the end game nears and people cheer

The storm of chocolates, mince pies and festive treats

Makes us reach for clothes with elastic waists

We greet our families in Christmas cheer

And after the throng of parties and meals

We have the opportunity to open those special gifts

From close friends and families

And know that no matter the stress we express

It was all worth it just to see that special person smile

And should your wardrobe shrink

Your waist line expand

A wave of New Year diets

With guilt driven gym visits

Will soon put it right

Bob’s Christmas Outing: The Sign said Festive cheer

To anyone familiar with Devil and Damned Territory or The Choice our favourite bar hoping pilot is surprise; in another bar!

The sign said ‘Festive greetings’ in big red letters, the bar said suicide row with the semi-lucid drunks, Bob said nothing as he reluctantly crossed the threshold from harsh fluorescent light into gloom ridden hell. Vivid memories played in his head from the last time he had chosen to haunt this fine drinking establishment, the words ‘memories of times best forgotten’ echoed from the six foot deep hole his common sense now resided in but the words ‘any port in a storm’ echoed louder.

As Bob stepped through the human shaped outline on the floor, there was a sense of treading over his own grave, a burn mark from the charging chamber of a Mk4 Quick-shot blaster reverberated with more emotional chaos than the Mk4 Quick-shot holstered in Bob’s belt, a double barrelled energy pistol strapped to his thigh. Sitting on the bar stool that had so willingly housed him last time “What’s the eggnog got in it?” Bob hazarded a question towards the grim faced barkeep “or shouldn’t I ask” a potentially fatal attempt at humour.

As he headed towards Bob the barkeep’s heavy lurch betrayed his grimly humoured smile “Something you wouldn’t give a dead animal, paint stripper, lab grade alcohol and flavouring 31” oddly sounding delighted at the less than appetising sales pitch “the straight up poison I usually sell is cheaper, no flavouring 31” the grimly humoured smile somehow becoming uglier, Bob considering just what a feat that was.

Being that the disreputable bar was on an unlisted sublevel of the space station explained the barkeeps scruffy appearance, then again the barkeeps appearance miraculously managed to standout as respectable compared the appearance of the other customers. “The straight up poison, I’ll kill my sense of taste before trying ‘flavouring 31’ I think” Bob’s words spoken as damningly as the barkeeps “and whatever passes for food if it’s half decently edible” his inner food critic threatening resignation at the mere notion of it passing Bob’s lips. There were words to describe miserable, horrific, nasty and just plain unforgivable, no such lyrical masterpieces could do the overall atmosphere of the drinking establishment an accurate description.

The barkeep had weirdly taken his time to pour a drink, remove the remains of ‘Christmas Dinner Variation 5’ from a substandard looking rehydrater and of course take Bob’s money before asking the question screaming to be asked, begging to be spoken outside of the two men’s curiosity ridden minds “Why here, this ain’t no holiday destination and even the rats that inhabit this shithole come here to die” eyes darting skyward “a painful death at that” no finer insult had ever been uttered. Bob had been wondering that himself, it didn’t take a high level tech to guess Christmas alone was going to be depressing enough without the charming decor strangling any sense of his remaining positivity, what little withered remains there were.

“I died here” a strangely dead tone for such severe confessions “a lifetime laid to rest with the fated shot of a faithful gun, where better than to celebrate?” Bob’s eyes glazed with a thousand yard stare, the barkeep more than familiar with that distant look. Laughter wasn’t what sprang to mind as a suitable reaction but the barkeep obviously felt it fitting “You’re one fucked up bastard” the twisted laughter dissipating into merry tones “I’ll give you a bottle on the house, anyone that fucked in the head needs it”, Bob displaying the masterful wit for which he was famed, focused onto one fabulously delivered word “language, this is Christmas remember!”.

The two men’s wickedly dark laughter enough even to stir the half lucid drunks into equally frightful displays of amusement!

Bob’s ‘Christmas Dinner Variation 5’ was half picked through, a piece of the strange tasting chewy substance that was apparently turkey lingering in Bob’s mouth, with almost as much stubbornness as the aftertaste from the gelatinous gravy smothering the chewy substance. Then in an inspired flash Bob’s viciously cutting thoughts, spoken into life “Born in a tin can in space, live in a tin can in space and die in a tin can in space” a mournful pause to properly respect the deep logic in process “may as well take a swan dive into festive hell, in a tin can in space!” laying waste to any shred of positivity still hanging on in Bob’s caustic mind.

It was truly in this moment that a wisely reaffirming word needed to be cast, such a phrase as to summon that spark of hope from the depths into which it had sunk, but alas the barkeep’s words were somewhat lacking that message of hope almost as much as his grimly humoured smile “Why should one wallow upon the ill content of life alone” a hand sweeping across the disparaging view of hunched figures in the gloom, the only light showing reflecting off their empty glasses “when you can wallow in that ill content with good natured company?!”.

As much as it felt lacking in Christmas cheer Bob had to admit aloud “Got to say, not the worse Christmas I’ve had!” The barkeep raising his own glass on this occasion, twisted laughter in full riotous swing “A fucking men”, defiantly not the worse Bob had ever had!

The last two days…

Days, weeks, months… Mini breakdowns, stress, depression, anxiety and anything from work issues to financial crap has been murderously smashing against my mental defences, the jagged wall of barbarous design that stands between what’s left of my (attempted) sanity and the horde.

A slow burn panic attack insidiously working its way through my ever desperate resistance is closing as a storm on the horizon, no peace for my increasingly fractured mind as sleep is sacrificed to fraught typing as I construct posts on this blog to vent the backlog of negative emotions, a debt that will not be settled prettily.

Two weeks of perfectly imperfect calm are the reward I lust after, the cleansed landscape after the storm of trepidation, clear landscapes of beautiful emptiness when the stress fuelled horde have immolated themselves in concluding acts of violence for sake of their cause.

Behind the jagged walls everything of importance is locking down the hatches, barricading the doors in expectation of the hellion fury that comes with the hordes inevitable victory over my defences, all but the basic drives of my ghost like humanity are bunkering down.

Survival becomes the defenders chant, survival is about all I’m capable of now.

Sunday 21st… a fateful day… the horde will pour across the last remnants of my rational mind with unkempt ferocity, my body succumbing to the unavoidable side effects of my unstable sleep routines as I will lie fevered and broken, ill health a mere shadow of what will befall me.

Monday 22nd… the hatches open creakingly, cautiously, so that the destruction can be surveyed, doors opening to the first rays of light that the protected inhabitants will have craved for those many days, weeks, months…

Tuesday 23rd … Holiday begins, free breathe leaves my mouth as my eyes open a fresh

Two more days to hold, 48hrs to maintain that barricade before I can blissfully give in

How much will I give?

How much will be sacrificed?

Will I survive?

But even though I know it’ll be worth it a little whisper of creeping doubt utters the words that could yet undo me ‘I hope it’s worth it?’

A comment I posted, a random spark from something deep

The dark arts of a broken psyche are beyond the consideration of a happy mind, fractures deep run through the very chasms of a soul split in two as demons run amok in the subconscious realms.

For some the passing from darkness to light heralds victorious trumpeting in the face of corrupting poison, others dig deeper until the venom that once fuelled their demons becomes the weapon with which they fight.

The deal of a man possessed is by far a more deadlier pact, for with a shake of depressions hand the lesser spectres are cast asunder into the sightless void of the black core that resides between damnation and death, only to see the image of a life stripped back to a more caustic self.

So from the pit I write, no more a being of redemptions light, never to be cast into the void without sight, awaiting the miracle that will bring my sense of hope back to life.