Grilled Cheese

I’ve been lucky. In my 28 years of this life thing, I’ve only ever had to cope with one traumatic death. I’ve had several relatives die, and that wasn’t great but it was okay; most of them had lived a full life and died of old age. It happens. And I didn’t have any huge connection with them beyond the whole blood relation thing.

And then there’s David. I met him at university, and he quickly became one of my best friends. He died suddenly a few years ago while traveling in Asia. Fell into a storm drain and broke his neck. Gone, just like that. We’d been in fairly regular contact throughout his trip. Whenever he had an internet connection he’d touch base with his friends and family, sending photos and witty observations.

It was the day after Christmas when I found out what had happened. His ex-girlfriend – another good friend of mine – sent me a text with the news. That’s the motherfucker with all this technology we have nowadays; you can convey extremely bad news to people without even having to speak to them. Beep beep, your best friend’s dead. I don’t remember the exact wording of the text because it’s buried in an older Nokia phone, but it went something like “Have you heard the news? David has died.”

There was a pause after I read that, where my brain tried to process the information. It immediately tried to reject it as a joke, some sort of prank. Sick though it was, it couldn’t be true, right? But even in those first moments that early assertion was overturned, because I knew his ex-girlfriend wouldn’t joke about something like that. But my brain still couldn’t process it. It demanded more information – immediately. So I tried calling his ex-girlfriend, but she didn’t pick up. She later sent me another text, explaining that she was too emotional to talk about it. In the meantime, my brain was screaming out for something – anything – to help process this news. I tried calling my Mum. I tried calling a few other friends. Nobody answered. I stood in my bedroom, gripping my phone, just staring at my radiator. That was the first time I knew what emotional despair was like.

It’s impotence. Your whole body gets charged up, ready to act, buzzing with the need to do something. Help, somehow, I suppose. But you can’t. You’re half way round the wrong side of the planet and nobody will even talk to you. You are completely isolated.

I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life, but nothing prepares you for sudden loss. There’s not even anything comparable. Relatives dying of old age. It’s not a surprise. Relatives dying of terminal illness. You see it coming. But when someone you’re close to is here one day and gone the next, it’s like a piece of your soul’s been torn out. Eventually you learn to cope, and figure out a way to manage the grief, but in those first few minutes you’re an exposed nerve of raw emotion. It really, really hurts. And it’s not like any pain you’ve ever felt before. There’s no way to get rid of it.

A few years after this incident I joined the Samaritans. They’re widely regarded as a suicide hotline but that’s just one element of the service they provide: support for people in emotional distress or despair. The people who call up are often in a similar state to the one I’ve been describing. I can relate, and it helps me to empathise. There’s a careful line drawn between empathy and sympathy, and it’s the distinction between professional and unprofessional service, but now and again you can’t help crossing over into having emotional reactions to these conversations with strangers. For me, it doesn’t usually kick in until a while after the call. But it still happens: someone’s story will have elements in it that I’m all too familiar with.

I do kind of wish the thought of calling the Samaritans had occurred to me back when I first found out David had died. In that moment, I think it would’ve probably helped me a lot. But that’s a gap I can now help fill for other people who do need someone in the future. All we can offer is an ear, but sometimes all you need is for someone to hear you. No matter what the time is. You don’t have to be completely isolated. Ever.

Sometimes, while searching my email archives for other things, my search parameters will pull up one of David’s emails. Like yesterday, while I was trying to find a grilled cheese sandwich recipe. Somehow my search for “grilled cheese” pulled up one of our email exchanges, including the picture below, and I was reminded of my dear friend David. It still hurts to think about him, but that horrible grief has, over time, turned into a bittersweet feeling that I don’t mind so much now. It makes me happy to remember him, and sad that his life, full of potential, was cut so short.

Here’s to you, David. I miss you, man.

Hidden Amongst Fools

When I was 11 I was, and remain to this day, bad at maths and good at English. I went to a small school that looked after about 80 kids, so our class sizes were pretty small. As such, when it came to aptitude, if you were good at one of these two core subjects you were considered bright, and placed in the “advanced” learning group of the class. So I was wedged into the accelerated learning classes for both English and maths, despite being really quite useless at the latter.

Even worse, everyone else in my group was gifted in both English AND maths. Where I was top of the English class I was bottom in maths. I struggled constantly to keep up with the complex equations (or, at least, equations considered complex to an 11-year-old) and the pace of my classmates. I asked repeatedly to be moved down into the general population; the rest of the class, basically, where maths problems were easy to understand and solve. I was repeatedly turned down by my teachers. They told me I was good at maths, just not the best in the class, and that I should keep at it. Looking back, I think they just wanted to keep things simple: smart kids with smart kids, dumb kids with dumb kids. No middle ground or cross-overs. Nice and straight forward. So began my hatred of maths.

But the advanced learning group I was in had some benefits. We were allowed to leave the chaos of the classroom and study in relative quiet, wherever we pleased, as a group. Without supervision. There were only five of us, and of the five, I was the only child likely to cause mischief. That said, however, it wasn’t me that suggested we started stealing the teacher’s answers book when we left the classroom so we could all cheat our way through the maths problems and spend the rest of our time skiving. But I definitely didn’t balk at the idea either.

So we would take it in turns to steal this magical book when we left the class. Whenever the teacher turned her back, we’d snatch it from the shelf and scurry off to copy its answers to our problem books. Maths, usually the bane of my existence, became a breeze. But while my partners in crime were just happy to finish early and spend time relaxing, I knew this wasn’t a long-term solution. I was bad at maths. There’s no way I could suddenly become good at maths, consistently getting all my answers right every single time, without raising a few eyebrows.

So I deliberately made mistakes. I got some questions wrong even when I had the answers right in front of me, so that when the teacher marked our work, I was still as dumb as she expected me to be. Then she’d hand them back to me for corrections and I’d put the right answers in, having memorised them before-hand. I tried to convince my classmates to do the same because they weren’t perfect at the subject, even if they were all better than me, but they ignored me in favour of “Well Done!” stickers, praise, and easy-living.

Of course, when four out of five kids are suddenly perfect at maths, never making any mistakes, eyebrows were still raised. After a few weeks the teacher twigged. We all got hauled up in front of her and she unleashed that combination of fury and disappointment adults are so good at; just the right mix to instill both fear and guilt in any well-adjusted child. But it wasn’t directed at me. I was exempt, because I had clearly elected not to participate in this rampant cheating going on right in front of me. The teacher must’ve assumed I had decided to take the moral high-ground, without grassing up my classmates. She praised my strength of character and, while the rest of the kids spent the next month writing out lines, I was free to enjoy my recreational time with the rest of the dumb kids.

Emails with John

Original message:

Hi Daniel

We know you’re busy, so we’ll keep this note brief.

If we may, we’d like to introduce you briefly to ELEPHANT LIFESTYLE QUARTERLY (‘L’). In the global Oil & Gas industry, an ‘elephant’ is a term used to mean your oilfield has millions of barrells of output. From the seven year old The Oil and Gas Yearbook (‘TOGY’, established in 25 oil producing countries), Elephant Lifestyle Quarterly is the global top drawer luxury lifestyle publication read by the top 10% of the worlds wealthiest individuals and executives, energy tycoons and billionaires.

Not surprising then that this represents the very top demographic as a potential advertising and marketing vehicle for your organisation. Coupled too with events possibilities including various annual book launches at global venues, industry roundtables and Man of the Year awards, all of which attract a great deal of press attention, L is in the unique position of being able to guarantee exposure within the world’s most fiscally capable audiences, directly and immediately impacting your bottom line.

Should you wish to know more about this exciting opportunity, please do respond indicating your interest and we will be delighted to be in touch by return.

Sincerely,

John

Elephant Lifestyle Quarterly

–

Hi John,

Thank you for your email, I read it with keen interest. Well, the first line about elephant lifestyles, anyway. That had me hooked. Then I read the rest about it being a term for a rich person and to be honest, John, my interest started to wane. I’ve met rich guys, I’m in the business where they’re everywhere around me all the time. And let me tell you, they’re not nearly as interesting or as cool as elephants. Plus, elephants have this thing called empathy; they proved it on the Discovery channel. Then, in the same episode, they proved that most rich people don’t have it. So we now have conclusive proof that elephants are better than rich people.

So it is with great sadness that I must reject your offer on this occasion. I would recommend that you refocus your magazine so that it appeals to elephant-fanciers instead. It would make for a much more fulfilling read, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Kind regards,

Dan.

–

Daniel hi

Thanks for your most entertaining reply! Most elephants I know at the zoo sadly are supported by these ‘rich guys’ unfortunately.

I think you might fit better into one of The Oil & Gas Year Books? – most oil producing countries are covered. Would you like to see a kit?

Best John

–

Hmm, yes, actually. Please send one through. Also, if you have any elephant-related news, please send that through as well.

Thanks,

Dan.

–

Daniel hi

Sure thing… Also attaching TOGY kit here too… Best John

–

John, these prices are comical. We actually have a huge surplus in our marketing budget at the moment, due in part to the strength of the industry in spite of this never-ending recession, but we’re a non-profit organisation so all the money we plough back into the industry, including advertising, has to be justified to our board members. And I don’t know how I would justify, for example, spending €34,500 on a bookmark. Do people even use bookmarks? The last bookmark I owned came free with a subscription to the Beano when I was 10 years old.

I don’t really know what they were thinking; who uses bookmarks to save a page in a comic book? It was quite a beefy bookmark, though, so I used it to swat flies. We lived out in the country so it got plenty of use. I’m not sure the Beano would have approved of that usage, personally, and now that I’m confronted with the possibility that people will use our branded bookmarks as fly-swatters, I’m a little outraged, and it hasn’t even happened yet.

Who reads this yearbook anyway? What’s the distribution? I must confess I’m a bit ignorant as to how widespread this publication may be. Are we talking elephantine businessmen demographics again here? We have quite a high profile already within the oil & gas industries in the UK and Norway, so I’m trying to ascertain if the reach of your publication is worth the exorbitant costs of advertisement.

Thanks,

Dan.

–

Daniel hi

Thanks for your comments. Comical at first glance maybe, although ROI, some find, is a relative argument.

It’s a bookmark attached to the edition itself so it’s in plain view most of the time! You’ll see it when your copy shows up – I’ll see if I can find one which has one attached in my (rather small) store here. Although probably not as impressive as your Beano version (was that where Desperate Dan was? And Gnasher??)

And yes the readership is gargantuan. The way it works is this. When a new country is nominated to have its own Yearbook the government there is approached by TOGY. Meetings occur, the government agrees it a fantastic idea to promote their countries oil deposits to the world, and they issue TOGY with a ‘letter of representation’ which is then forwarded to all of the top energy officials and ministers in said country. Most of these are interviewed for the book, and the industry in the country advertises around this, and also promoted with TOGY events including the launch of the book (to which most of those featured are in attendance eg Sheikhs, energy tycoons, traders etc), Man of the Year Awards, and Industry Roundtables (also released as video with sponsorship around it), plus of course as much ‘corporate backslapping’ as we can safely get away with (!)

On readership, please see the attached. This would complement UK/Norway well, mayhaps the budgetary load could be shared with an affiliate or two, and when used in conjunction with a book launch, Man of the Year Award, or Industry roundtable (for example another country with whom you have interests, and for which the venue launch if oftentimes international – eg Aberdeen) which bring the readership to you and generates an enormous amount of local press coverage, will generate a significant business stream for you from the people who can make this happen directly.

Looking forward to further discussions… John

Ps – was Desperate Dan in Beano or Dandy?

–

John,

I can’t believe you don’t know the difference between the Beano and the Dandy. Dennis the Menace was the Beano’s main character, while Desperate Dan fronted the Dandy. This sort of knowledge should be fundamental to anyone working in the media industry. I’m sorry, but I am deeply unsettled by this revelation. It casts aspersions over your entire publication.

I have actually managed to locate a copy of The Oil & Gas Year book in our office. Your Columbia 2011 edition. I always thought their primary export was cocaine, but it seems they have a booming oil and gas industry too. That must be nice for them. Sort of a fall-back in case the whole cocaine thing doesn’t work out. In any case, I’ve now seen the bookmark you’re talking about. I quite like the ribbon, it looks fancy. And durable. I probably couldn’t chew through it, although Gnasher could probably bite through that like it was mush. Is the ribbon dog-bite resistant? I only ask because typically a high-flying businessman of the elephantine proportions you described previously tend to have pretty, young wives, who love tiny chi-hua-huas and other yappy dogs and I don’t want them chewing off our bookmarks the first chance they get. That’s a sure-fire way to turn a nicely secured bookmark into a fly-swatter, John, and you already know my feelings about that.

Also, when you say your readership is gargantuan, that’s not really a number, is it? I mean, I know gargantuan is just an impressive synonym for “pretty big” but it doesn’t give me any specifics to work with. I see from your media pack that you reach “more than 2,000 key energy decision-makers”, so in this instance does gargantuan mean “more than 2,000”? Because if so, I might start describing our own magazine’s readership as gargantuan, and if anyone questions me I’ll just refer them onto you. Also, if that is roughly your distribution, and your publication exists in 101 countries, that’s around 20 copies per country, which seems really stingy. I’m sure I’m wrong, though. If you could send through specific numbers that’d be really handy.

Finally, I’m inevitably going to have to haggle prices with you. I know, I know. It’s tedious. But we both knew this was coming, because we both have publications and we both sell adverts, so we both know there’s considerable “wiggle room” on pricing. I’m just going to throw this out there and see what you come back with. It’s my attempt to bring your prices down from “insane” to “not so insane”. Sort of like the difference between Harold Shipman and that woman who put a cat in a bin that was all over Youtube last year. A reduction in crazy, if you will. We’ll call it a “not knowing enough about the Dandy” tax. So, I would like you to offer us a 50% discount on your prices. It would really mean a lot to me, John. Especially given the potential for abuse of these bookmarks.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Regards,

Dan.

Cavity

Cavity

When Martin Clemence was shot in the chest, he didn’t die. Nor did he bleed, or feel pain. He did express some small surprise, however, at the gaping hole where most of his torso used to be. The bullet that entered Martin never came out; it shattered his chest, as if it were made of fine porcelain, and then vanished into an abyss that Martin’s body housed.

It wasn’t just a medical phenomenon, it defied the known laws of physics.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Dr Rhodes had said, as you’d expect. “Are you in any pain?”

“No,” Martin replied. “But I’m scared.”

“Don’t be. We’re proffesionals,” replied Dr Rhodes, snapping a plastic glove over his hand, like something out of a movie.

They’d wheeled Martin into the isolation ward of Montycool hospital, and vacated the floor. The Government was on its way, but for now, it was just Martin, Dr Rhodes, and Ed, a professional potholer and personal friend of the Doctor.

“Does this hurt?” asked Dr Rhodes, reaching into Martin’s chest cavity.

“No,” said Martin, so Dr Rhodes went deeper. And deeper. Deeper still, until his arm was in the darkness up to its shoulder.

“Can’t feel a thing, Doc,” Martin whispered.

“What’s it like in there?” Ed asked, eager.

“Nothing,” Dr Rhodes sighed. “There’s nothing here. Absolutely nothing. No heart. No lungs. No vital organs at all. He’s completely hollow. But… really hollow. There’s more space than there should be, it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here,” Ed said with pleasure. “When do I go in?”

“Soon, Ed. It’s going to be a bit of a tight squeeze so we’re going to try and stretch the skin a bit.”

“Don’t do that,” Martin said quickly.

“Stay calm,” said Dr Rhodes.

“Don’t call me Ed,” said Ed.

“But that’s your name,” said Dr Rhodes, puzzled.

“Mm. But see, I reckon a venture like this is going to put me in the news. Possibly even the history books. I don’t want to be known as some guy called Ed. Call me Edgar.”

“Isn’t Ed short for Edward?”

“Call me Edgar.”

“Fine,” said Dr Rhodes, getting impatient. “It’ll be like Edgar Allan Poe. Seems fitting, I suppose.”

“I don’t want Ed crawling inside me,” Martin cried, a frantic edge in his voice. He started to sit up. Dr Rhodes pushed him back down, a hand at his neck.

“Don’t move. Don’t. Move. You shouldn’t even be alive, Martin. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. You just sit tight and let us professionals do our jobs.”

“But Ed’s a professional pot holer,” Martin whined.

“I told you, call me Edgar,” Ed admonished.

For the next hour, Dr Rhodes meticulously worked at stretching the hole in Martin’s chest until it was just big enough for Ed to squeeze through.

Ed had been ready for forty minutes and was anxious to explore this empty space, which should not have been, but was nonetheless, and existing within Martin.

“Let’s do this,” Ed said, clambering over the hospital bed, a thick wire looped into his belt and a flashlight helmet on his head. Martin had gone some way beyond hysteria now, and had to be restrained. His mouth taped shut, his muffled cries reached a heightened pitch as Ed’s boot entered the abyss inside him.

“Shh now,” Dr Rhodes said. “Let us work. It’ll all be over soon.”

Ed was gone for half an hour. When he finally resurfaced, Dr Rhodes was keen to find out exactly what he’d seen.

“Well?” he harassed the professional pot holer as he tried to catch his breath. “Well? What did you see? Ed! What did you see, Ed?”

Ed took a moment to compose him, and then looked Dr Rhodes straight in the eye and said: “When you stare into the abyss… the abyss stares back at you.”

Dr Rhodes was silent for a moment. And then he got angry. “God dammit Ed! That’s a Nietzsche quote, isn’t it? Isn’t it?! That’s what you were doing fiddling about on your iPhone before you got inside Martin, you were looking up abyss quotes!”

“That’s going in the history books! That’s what I said when I came out, you remember that!” shouted Ed. “And it’s Edgar! So you say Edgar said that, you hear? That’s what you tell people Edgar said.”

“The Government is going to be here any minute you blundering fool, and they’re going to want answers. So I’ll ask you again, Edgar: what did you see down there?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“There’s nothing down there. There’s a whole lot of nothing, sure. Nothing as far as the eye can see. But nothing’s in the nothing. It’s just endless nothingyness.”

“Nothing,” Dr Rhodes echoed. He looked at Martin. Martin looked back at him, wide-eyed, like a startled child. “How can a man be full of nothing?”

“The irrationality of a thing is no argument against its existence, rather a condition of it,” Ed said.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Dr Rhodes snapped.

“Just remember I said it,” Ed said.

The intercom fizzled. A voice crackled: “Dr Rhodes, the Government is here to see you.”

“Oh, Christ,” Said Dr Rhodes. He rushed over to the intercom wall mount and pushed a button. “Send them in, Rosie.”

“Okay, just let me do the talking,” Dr Rhodes said. “And no more Nietzsche quotes you lunatic.”

Ed said nothing.

The Government arrived swiftly, a wave of men in black suits. They quickly seized control of the situation. Dr Rhodes and Ed were separated from their patient so fast they didn’t even realise they’d been cut off until it was too late.

A bald man in his fifties took Dr Rhodes and Ed aside, herding them into a empty nurse’s office. He motioned for them to sit. They took their seats around a desk, and the man from the Government spoke.

“My name is Agent Chapman. I’m from the Government,” he said. Dr Rhodes and Ed both nodded. “What you have seen here today does not leave this hospital.”

“But-” Ed started.

“What you’ve seen here today,” Agent Chapman repeated. “Does not leave this hospital. Is that understood, gentlemen?”

Both men nodded again, mute.

Agent Chapman placed a briefcase on the desk and opened it, pulling out a wad of papers. “These documents, which you will both sign, protect this incident under the Official Secrets Act. Failure to comply will result in a swift and harsh response.”

He handed the men their documents, and gave each a pen. He watched them, and waited, until they had signed their secrets over. Dr Rhodes did so willingly. Ed was hesitant.

“I wanted to be in the history books,” he complained, before reluctantly committing his signature to paper.

“Can you tell us what this is all about?” Dr Rhodes asked Agent Chapman.

“I can tell you this much, gentlemen. It isn’t the first we’ve seen, and I suspect it will not be the last. Fortunately this… anomaly… is still contained within it’s host-” Agent Chapman consulted a medical file from his briefcase. “-Martin T. Clemence. Which means this little town of yours stays standing today.”

“You mean there have been cases where the… uh, “anomaly”… has gotten out?” Dr Rhodes asked. “Somehow left its host?”

“Chernobyl,” Agent Chapman replied. “A young man got himself blown up, and… well, the rest is history. Of a kind.”

“What will you do with Martin?” Dr Rhodes asked.

“He’ll be relocated to a secure facility in Alaska. His curious physical properties will be put to good use. Safe disposal of toxic waste, among other things. He is now an endless human landfill. Drop anything inside him and it’ll never be seen again. We’ll stretch him out, at least as much as his body can withstand, and feed a funnel into the anomaly inside him. He’ll live out the rest of his days serving a great cause: helping his fellow man.”

“And when he dies?”

“He’ll be preserved, so that the anomaly remains in containment.”

“Jesus,” Ed muttered.

Agent Chapman looked at him steadily. “Would you prefer the planet became overrun with human waste, perhaps? This is the best waste management solution the world has ever seen.”

“How many men do you have in this place, feeding them waste?” Ed demanded.

“Oh, it’s not just men,” Agent Chapman replied. “Women. Children. Grandmothers. Uncles. Dogs. We had a hamster delivered last week. As you can imagine, its utility is limited. And it’s not just for waste either. We’ve built entire research colonies inside some of these individuals. We’re using the safety of nowhere to test some truly remarkable scientific experiments. There’s even a young boy in Alaska with a cloning facility inside his abdomen, where we’re building copies of him to see if we can create an anomaly within an anomaly. Remarkable stuff.”

“What about us?” asked Dr Rhodes, finally.

“You? You’ll be repurposed. Your life here is over. You now work for the Government, and we’ll be keeping close tabs on you. You’ll help look after Martin. Keep him alive for as long as you can, keep his mind active, tell him jokes, whatever it takes.”

“Hold on a minute, you can’t do that,” Ed said, getting to his feet. “I’ve got a life here, damn you. I’ve got a wife. She’s pregnant! And a daughter, she’s only fifteen.”

“Please sit down,” said Agent Chapman.

“I’m not moving to sodding Alaska, you jumped up little suit! If you think for a second you can just waltz in here, hand me some bullshit papers and-”

Mr Chapman calmly opened his suit jacket, removed a pistol from a concealed pocket, and shot Ed in the head. Dr Rhodes froze. Ed collapsed, his brains repurposed to decorate the walls.

“Any further questions, Doctor?” Agent Chapman asked blandly.

“None,” said Dr Rhodes, stunned, blood spattered on his face.

“Very good. Please remain seated. One of my associates will be with you shortly to induct you to your new life,” Agent Chapman stood. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

And with that, he left the room.

Dr Rhodes stared at the corpse of Ed, the professional pot holer, who had fantasies of making history. He wished he’d never met Martin T. Clemence. Too late for that now, though. Now they’d be spending the rest of their lives together, the caretakers of the gaping abyss in Martin’s chest cavity.

Fifty Shades of Ghey

From: Lauren
Sent: 29 June 2012 13:45
To: Daniel
Subject: FSoG

Isla is reading Fifty Shades of Grey too…

I think pretty much every female I know is reading/has read/intends to read it.

Kind Regards,

Lauren

–

From: Dan
Sent: 29 June 2012 13:46
To: Lauren
Subject: RE: FSoG

Further proof that all women are retards.

I just got Ender’s Game on Amazon. Looks pretty good!

Dan

–

From: Lauren
Sent: 29 June 2012 13:48
To: Daniel
Subject: RE: FSoG

I don’t know what that is.

Kind Regards,

Lauren

–

From: Dan
Sent: 29 June 2012 13:54
To: Lauren
Subject: RE: FSoG

That’s ‘cos you’re too busy reading books written by spastics for spastics. You’ll be able to find it in any decent bookstore, should you ever dare to venture out into the “non-stupid” section, where the words committed to paper haven’t been excreted vaginally in an explosion of unrequited teenage lust.

Dan

–

From: Lauren
Sent: 29 June 2012 13:59
To: Daniel
Subject: RE: FSoG

Ill have you know that  FSoG is an adult book actually.

But I don’t deny that the writing is appalling. (As is the plot, the characters etc…)

Kind Regards,

Lauren

–

From: Dan
Sent: 29 June 2012 14:04
To: Lauren
Subject: RE: FSoG

In that case might I suggest that instead of reading this book, you could do something equally appalling but more productive with your time, like crocheting a nazi flag and selling it on ebay to a racist old lady in America. This way, you can make an old lady happy and earn some money, as opposed to accumulating the disdain of your peers and spending money your husband could be using to pay for the toupee he’ll need in a few years. You can’t pay for goods and services with disdain, you know. Believe me, I’ve tried. It’s not considered valid currency.

Dan

Omniverse

I went to the Omniverse by accident. Walked into what I thought was a Boots store, and there I was, standing at the convolescence point of all existence. And I wasn’t alone, because – naturally – an alternative version of myself from a parallel universe had done the exact same thing as I had.

“Hey,” he said. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“So, let me guess,” I said. “You’re me, except at some point in our lives, we made a decision and you went left while I went right. Right?”

“I suppose. Hey, did you get here through Boots?” he asked, lifting a book off one of the shelves.

“Yeah.”

“Me too. Bit of a head-scratcher, that one. I only came in here to buy a razor.”

“How do we get out?”

“Not sure,” he shrugged. “Never been at the edge of infinity before.”

I nodded. I hadn’t either. The Omniverse is a conceptual amalgamation of every single combination of every single possible universe. For us, it looked like a library. The human brain can’t comprehend the sight of the Omniverse, so it

translates. Here, every shelf was a multiverse, every book a universe within that multiverse, and every page an iteration of each possible universe. I know it sounds far-fetched, but once you’re there, this knowledge is just fundamental. Basic.

My double picked a book off the shelf. “Hey,” he grinned, pulling out a lighter. “If I set fire to this book, think an entire universe will be burned away?”

Already, subtle differences between us were starting to emerge. For example, I wouldn’t have asked that question with the curious, psychopathic excitement my twin did. I also didn’t have a lighter.

“I’m not sure we want to mess around with that. For all you know, that’s your universe – or mine. Do you really want to take that risk?”

He looked at me, as if surprised at my response. “I hadn’t expected you to be such a pussy,” he said, and brought the lighter underneath the book. I snatched the book out of his hands, and he glared at me. “Okay. We won’t burn a universe right now. Let’s do something you want to do, shall we?”

“We should find an exit,” I said. “Get back to Boots – our respective realities. We shouldn’t be here.”

“Okay. Let’s split up!” my twin enthused. “We’ll cover more ground that way.”

I eyed him. His logic was sound but I didn’t like his tone. “I think we should stick together,” I said carefully.

Through grit teeth, he said: “Fine.”

The library was big and labyrinthine, but it was well sign-posted. Once we found a main aisle – a conduit – it was a relatively simple two-hour stroll to the nearest exit. My twin slowed us down a bit, though, because he kept picking up books to cross-reference with the handy cipher-graphs stapled onto the sides of each bookcase. After some deliberation, he seemed to think he could make sense of it all. This excited him to the point of distraction, but I kept him moving. Best to get him out of here as soon as possible before he did any real damage.

The exit was a brightly lit doorway that seemed to lead into a void of dull white space.

“So, this way to Boots?” I asked.

“I hope so,” my twin replied. “I still need that razor.”

I took a step closer to peer into the void and my twin took the opportunity. He pushed me through. There was a load roaring sensation, like gale-force wind blowing past my ears, although I couldn’t feel anything. The next thing I knew I was back in Boots. My twin was nowhere to be seen, of course. Even if he’d stepped through he’d have returned to his own reality. I think. To be honest, I wasn’t really sure. When it comes to this Omniverse stuff I’m no expert.

I bought a razor and headed home. It wasn’t until I got back and switched on the television that I realised I didn’t even need a razor. My twin had all the stubble; I was, as ever, clean-shaven. I looked at the razor with a not inconsiderable degree of concern. What did it mean? Did it mean anything at all?

I tried to concentrate on the tv to take my mind off of it. The news was pretty interesting. Astronomers had picked up some unusual activity at the edge of the observable galaxy. They were calling it some sort of super-massive solar flare, possibly the result of multiple supernovas in relatively close proximity. It was pretty far away, they said. Nothing to worry about, they said.

All I could think about was my twin, the books and that lighter. And his grin.

Inner Logic

Automatons in business suits, swinging black boxes. Sequestering the blueprints of daily life. Contented, free of care, they rejoice in this morning ritual, as they file like drone ant colonies to their office in the sky.

I don’t ask questions; don’t promote demonstrations; don’t look for new consensus; and don’t stray from constitution. If I pierce the complexity I won’t find salvation, just the bald and overt truth of the evil and deception.

There is an inner logic, and we’re taught to stay far from it. It is simple and elegant, but it’s cruel and antithetic. And there’s no effort to reveal it.

Graduated mentors stroll in marbled brick porticos, in sagacious dialogue they despise their average ways. Betraying pomp and discipline, they mould their institution where they practice exclusion on the masses every day.

Decorated warriors drill harmless kids on pavements, simulating tyranny under red alert. Protecting the opulent and staging moral standard, they expect redemption of character and self-growth.

No equality, no opportunity, no tolerance for the progressive alternative.

Antivirus

I wound up having to deal with a really obnoxious antivirus program at work today, because I accidentally visited a website that must’ve had some sort of virus nestling inside it. And all of a sudden a sumo wrestler flies out of my screen screaming “VIRUS DETECTED!” and slams into me, knocking me backwards off my chair and pinning me to the floor. It completely winded me. While I lay on the ground gasping for breath, the sumo distributed his bulk over my prone body, rendering me completely immobile beneath his mass.

“I AM PROTECTING YOU!” he kept shouting at me. It was like having a megaphone held up to your face. “I AM KEEPING YOU SECURE!”

“Help!” I tried to beg, but his epic man-boob smothered my mouth and muffled my cries.

“I AM UNOBTRUSIVE!” yelled the antivirus program. “I HAVE QUARANTINED THE THREAT!”

I couldn’t breathe. My mouth was full of oily sumo man boob. I gagged and writhed underneath him, starting to feel light-headed as I reached out, blindly scrabbling for the power button on the PC. But it was too far. I couldn’t reach it. This is it, I thought, sadly. This is how I’m going to die. The darkness edged in on the periphery of my vision, like the creeping hands of death.

And then, as suddenly as he’d arrived, the sumo vanished back into the screen. A little notification alert popped up: “Cookie tracker found and disabled.”

I got to my feet, unsteady and panting, and groggily returned to my work.

Debby

I was practicing putting on eye make-up for going out dressed as a woman for Halloween. While I was applying mascara to my eyelashes, my hand slipped and I gouged myself in the eye with the brush.

My flatmate later asked me if I’d been crying. “No,” I said quickly, keen to reaffirm my manliness. “I just poked myself in the eye with my mascara brush.”

Masculinity preserved.

If I had a grenade

If I had a grenade, here’s what I’d do: I’d wait until Christmas, until the little shits from across the road from me had enough snow to play with. Then, when they started throwing snowballs at strangers in the street, like the undisciplined little cunts they are, I would strike. I’d envelope the grenade in snow, packing it down so it looked like a snowball. Then I’d pull out the pin and toss it in their general direction.