Tuesday, 15 January 2013

Triangles (Extended cut)

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New reader? Best to start at the beginning my friend.
Click on this link to take you to the start of THE RUSSIAN DOLL STORIES:
    Stop flapping your hands around you silly dildo and sit back down – the room isn’t on fire. It’s your hair, waving in front of your face. Remember who you are - chaos deity or not, being a god comes with a certain obligation, so be dignified. You're Spiderfingers, so for fuck sake relax? Get a grip.
    O.K good, good. Now think of breathing. Count the exhale: one…two…three…four…
   Keep the rhythm steady. 
Imagine your chest rising and falling – let the remembrance of breathing calm you. Good yeah?
    Yes it is, but hold it steady. Simple long gone human mechanics had their use. The idea of them is a worthy substitute so, keep with the counting; eleven…twelve…thirteen…Count in a steady rhythm.
    That’s it.
    Now, stay here. No need for the outside.
    Stay safe - think of triangles.
    Triangles, because they contain the flame of mishap.
    Triangles, because they spawn from logic, mathematics, scientific application – triangles are man’s gift to man. Like a bedtime story, they offer a necessary helmet of lucidity in the crash-bang-wallop randomness of earth time.
    She is the most stable structure in all geometry.
    No man, it doesn’t matter if you’re not certain of this it’s just that for now; face-value-logic is the angel, the lifeboat, the divine mother, the couldn’t-desert-you-no-matter-what-lover yeah? Good.
    And keep the eyes closed as you think of her – nothing out there man. No really, you aint missing shit in the outside world. No familiar sky-blue walls sprayed with the dripping sunburst of dead -
    Triangles, Spiderfingers triangles!
    Inside and floating resplendent in your noggin is that isosceles partner of yours; this lady? She’s gonna see you through, oh yes she is!
    All stories have her. Oh yeah. Just ease up man, and allow your mind to expand elastic-like all over this simple but comfortable realisation because friend, any other thought or physical movement, aint worth the pain. In fact forget the idea of you in the world. The world can exist without the collapsing physical shape of you because remember, you’re just the face of chaos. Just be its little avatar, yes?
    Cool. Keep counting the sides, counting the hard contours of the shape. She’ll help you die with serenity.
    Yeah man, expand on the awareness of triangles and stories whilst it all comes to an end. Think of romantic comedy.
    Now, rom coms, they have the love triangle and this is how pop culture knows her best. However, think about her other disguise: Crime thrillers yeah? How the plot focus is on the murder-victim (one side) the detective charged with solving the case (and that would be your second) and of course, the killer. Three sides/viewpoints locked together man: Triangles – their logic will make it easier for you to ignore the pain in your left shoulder, how the arm beneath it’s been twisted off. Oh, no, no, no, no, you don’t need to look at the dripping stump – you fuck - keep your bloody eyes closed and keep your brain locked on the shape. The shape is your friend. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
    Fucking innate curiosity! Fucking prurience seducing your eyelids open!
    That’s it, that’s the way, be a stupid tool and check out the living room you’re in, take a good fucking look. This place, where your life is ebbing away, it’s long lost its harmony and peace, you really want to open your eyes here? As if you could really take ‘the now’.
    It’ll take you y’know. It really, really will. Just looking out the windows at the fish swimming past is bound to nudge you even closer to the cliff edge of insanity.
    Only fish.
    Nothing to add up. No maths or recall to go through. so trust yourself and –
    All the quietude that a residential congregation area is naturally imbued, all the stillness – it’s gone. Lest the radio be ignited or the flat screen flared, these four walls should be mute and tell no stints of heated exchange or promise of violence.
    But chaos wants to experience everything doesn’t he?
    Look about then. Acknowledge your death scene. I mean how can you deny those mad eye-balls of yours eh? You can’t help the X-rays that pierce through your own eye-lids? You tried though dude and shit, you can only roll your eyes up inside your head for so long before your desire to see is like the proverbial itch.
    Ha! The ‘living’ room.
    Go ahead then, listen to the opera of it, this central bay of the Buchannan residence blaring, trumpeting into your cognition as yes, you rub the recent aggression against your bloodied fingertips - the axe cleft in the right of your armchair; it’s a gaping hole echoing a verse from the operatic skirmish you just starred in. This awareness is what wonder has delivered to you and you want to stop yourself from caressing the damage. But therein lies the rub eh Mr Fingers?
    You only want to.
    Ha! Sated? Excited to see the reddened floorboards, the cracks where hooves of warrior Dilf struck down threatening to thunder through to the basement below? How about that dripping ceiling? Oh and one of your former worshippers has his tusks embedded in the plaster behind the Buchannan family poster. Such a proud moment – the photo-shoot gleaned so many great shots of you – proud Discordians one and all.
    Object Girl,
    Zombie Boy,
    Handy Andy,
    Succubus Steve, hell – even Lilith let her Jehovah hate down a little and shocked us with a smile. She went back to her scowling as soon as you pointed it out, remember? A good family outing. A great photo-shoot. A brilliant poster to make us even stronger is ruined then; desecrated by the torn off tusks of one of your own creations.
    Look, there’s your blood-washed table, the fresh red chunks of flesh pasted all over the everywhere for you alone to inspect. Don’t forget the horror upstairs. You don’t have the power to get out of the chair and see it but then, your imagination is boundless. So many pieces of furniture scored with the hacking signatures of broadsword and spiked mace. Go on then, you stupid fucking dildo, pay witness to them and let the reminiscences pour their staccato savagery back inside you. And it is perfectly alright to chuckle a little at all this debris, how ironic it is - that for once, you smell good. Cackle away but try to command yourself a little control, because well, and you’re coughing up your innards to prove it - anything remotely funny, it hurts so so bad.
    There you slump in Steve’s armchair, dying and joking with your audience.
    Your audience ha! You perform for a grisly post war dichotomy.  The multiple 7ft battle-merchants of your holy land, Po – their mutilated cadavers lie stinking in nearly every room of the house. You would rather focus on the casualties of the enemy eh? Wouldn’t you?
    Should have kept your eyes rolled up then dickhead.
    One of your company, they’re spattered like a bad pancake on the ceiling, a loved one now a mangled mushy heap of a carcass; and look over there at him, that dead team-mate all sprawled out underneath the collapse of the legless diner table, the dinners you’ve had there – such recollections so brutalised by your current line of sight you wish you’d never had them. 
    Close. Your. Eyes.
    Now. NOW.
    Here you die laughing and the death noises erupt from out the back of your psyche to madden you. But ah, you need to follow the gibbering lunacy of those spirit gasps right? Gotta focus the eye of your mind on the one you swore to eternally protect. Look at her and remember how she won’t see you laugh again. Her worship so unique and double – triple edged even. She’ll never know why her powers augmented so much around you, this surrogate daughter/sister of yours now so still. Her face. So serene and floating, Vicky's soul forever buoyant on the universe-spanning-canal of afterlife you've delivered her.
    Safe from the likes of…
…it really is time to force both eye lids down again. Let fall the shutters of your inner vision then, and immerse yourself in the preferred distraction.
    See relationships as polygons, shapes in stories.
    Vicky, yourself and Anthony, yeah that was a strange formation. The past unfolds from out of your head and you decide that singing on the way to the door would have been a much cooler way to answer it:
    Too-da-da-da-tee-da-da-da-day, you could have sung and you could have danced, a confident amble along to answer that front door? Yes, a better way to move and just imagine the swish of your trench-coat, you Fred Astaire, you! Trip that light fantastic and glide through that moment where your life was about to become absolutely riveting - again.  
    ‘Who is it?’ says Vicky from behind you, swivelling away from Facebook. She’s never heard her front door in ages since no one EVER visits.
    ‘A surprise,’ you croon over your shoulder, ‘actually, this surprise comes in a pair.’ And you’re smiling that devil-knows-the-ending grin, gliding dance-like, so musical-star-elegant and towards the shape of people waiting on the other side of the frosted glass.
    Open the door and there they are!
    Greet the D’Angleos, oh and invite them in? Come on, chop chop! You remember the D’ Angelos don’t you? The old couple that you terrorised all those weeks ago? Chop, chop, chop!
    ‘My lord.’ says the grey haired man holding his pork-pie hat to his chest as his knee plummets to the door step in swift and painful reverence.
    ‘Call me Spiderfingers,’ say you tapping your chest; such a blob your S insignia’s become eh? But then, at that moment you thought you could still halt the oozing ripple, that ugly green sludge symptom of Aaronson’s meddling. Ha!
    ‘How are you Anthony?’ You say this patting the old man’s head.
    ‘Blessed.’ He whispers and turns to hold onto the hand of the woman, sitting all bunched up in the wheelchair next to him. She’s sat awkwardly, as if her back hasn’t the strength to straighten out. Her face is heavily bandaged and you can’t wait to give Celia her eyesight back, for it is in the giving that you gods receive.
    ‘Come in, come in.’ you say helping the old man to his feet. And as you wait for Anthony to slowly wheel Celia through the hallway behind you, you notice the silent conversation: Vicky A.K.A Object Girl (You’re so proud you gave her that name) is feeling at her long sleeve gloves.
    ‘No talking in Objectish Vicky, not now we have guests. Ino and Hep are just going to have to wait.’ You outstretch your hand to the people you wish to integrate into your clan.
    ‘Anthony, Celia, this is Object Girl.’ you say pointing to Vicky who smiles as hard as the old couple she’s just met. Look at them. Such a fine potent powerful set of ammo.
    ‘Oh, hello.’ Anthony says doffing his porkpie, ‘Afternoon,’ whispers Celia, her voice hollow and cracked – the croak of a woman creeping into deaths shadow.
    ‘Hi.’ Vicky replies fidgeting with her specs, elevating her pitch an octave too high. She wants to rub her gloves and awaken the voices of her velvet side-kicks.
    You can see she’s clearly afraid of them, Anthony and Celia; these unknowns. The last unexpected guests you brought here they were, well…  
    ‘Never thought heaven would be a place just off the high street.’ jibes Anthony nervously, scanning around. 
    And he should be nervous – you’re about to change his life man. You’re about to warp it unapologetically.
    ‘Mysterious ways old bean, mysterious and winding paths. Please, sit.’ you say as Vicky gains lift-off from the computer chair and rushes over to pincer your arm and shriek, ‘You guys want tea? I want tea. Who’s for tea?’
    Both the D’Angleos nod as Celia seeps out a ‘Black, no sugar.’ requirement. She really was a quiet frail thing.
    ‘Really? Snap!’ lies O.G, pulls you into the kitchen without subtlety. The look on her face says ‘tell-me-everything’.
    You wonder the look on your own but only for the briefest of whiles because there you go, squinting those peepers open. Your one armed predicament has such an easy draw on your attention that retrospective narrative triangles stand no chance at all. 
    Stupid dildo.
    You’re armless side has pulled you back into this battle-varnished room. Your whimpering is sickening. Plan B then.
    The aerial that Vicky gave you is still in your right pocket isn’t it?
    ...And there you go. You're fading and after all your recent martial aggression, you can barely feel any power in you at all, but still - grab at it, fill your mind with the hope that you’ll find a distraction. The incisors of trauma may clamp down harder, but switch off from the sensation man; allow the construct of agony to occupy another universe where you don’t even exist. If the hurting somehow makes it back here, if only a little sting of it trickles back into your brain use that other friend; that ally that has proven far more complex than triangles. See a female hand occupied with the penning of it – such a marvellous invention that she still hasn’t the mental gear to master. For now she must rely on you. See the hand. Be the hand.
    Guide the hand,
    A Matryoshka doll, or Babushka doll, is a Russian nesting doll which is a set of dolls of decreasing size...
…One is placed inside the other. They have themes, such as the Russian royal family, superheroes or, well, anything really. The Spice Girls. Anything. Sure you’ve seen ‘em in your time.
    Oblivious to the mistakes, the gross implications of mental fatigue, Steph had fallen into the fastidious habit of writing down recent trials and tribulations:
    I mean really, he’s only nine years old. If Steph were a nine year old boy, she’d think mummy’s Dictaphone and tapes were toy boats too. Mummy...Mother...Womb.
    She had tussled unsuccessfully and for many a month, grappling with tales of solar gods and the hardship of chaotic tramp idols. Today was no different. But she decided against a well-earned break. Steph decided that in the writing out of the concept, she would ‘solve’ The Russian Doll Stories. His voice - the vibe of Spiderfingers’ speech – THAT perfect version was what made the genre so intriguing.
    She thought.
    She picked up her pen; and she was confident that she knew the piece off by heart playing passenger to the swerve and plough of her writing hand …and when she got to that point where shaving it down or adding to it seemed impossible, Steph read it aloud, over and over, a smile ridging round her oval face, the flow of the words pouring out of her. The writer in her had no desire to scoop a single one back inside:
    ‘Doesn’t take an English teacher to figure out how a Babushka Doll story might go, and that each layer is held together by a common theme. Though one can be forgiven for not knowing the golden rule, if the listener asks a single and particular question correctly, then the narrator is obliged to tell the ‘story within the story’.
    Happily, Steph placed her notepad and pen to their place on the floor beside her bed and straightening up, she stretched her arms to the ceiling. When they came back down so did her mood – her eyes gracing her other writing.
   She eyed it up and down and with a solemnity she had not felt since the test results for Gideon’s Angel Syndrome had proven positive.
    Here lay a faux review of her work - and how Steph hated this creature, the incestuous megalomaniacal monster she had birthed into the world. 
    Steph’s Trust No One Under Twenty was an inaccurate history; a swift fire-lit-city moment had rendered the proses observations myopic – an irony laden critique of ‘the youth’. The biggest nail in this faux reviews coffin was that it was set a year into the future. She did have such high hopes for Golly but like her journalist alter-ego, Steph’s take on youth was woeful in its glaring oversight: Punk wasn’t dead. It was an untameable ideal that had recently been turned into something far beyond the cartoon viciousness of its seventies standard bearers. The modern day version of rebellion wasn’t interested in mere shock.
    Surprised, Steph grabbed at her pen whilst the information seemed to jolt out of the nowhere,
    Punk has put down its musical instruments and has lobotomised itself. When it is seen by the authorities two things happen:
a)   The forces of control don’t know how to react.
b)   This new beast doesn’t even know how it is not to blame for its current existence – education not being something it values; punk can only point its finger at the enemy knowing it doesn’t have the language to state its case. It’s an instinctual mass and if it has the genes of diplomacy, said genes are all most certainly dormant. Punk isn’t that fussed about debate because he knows he won’t get listened to. Punk, he isn’t called that anymore and is instead happy to be granted the attention he's always been happy to wear as a badge. He needs a new name. He has a free telly, game station, wristwatch, car, radio, computer, laptop, oven, mini fridge, new jeans, new pair of trainers, fistful of paper, DVD’s, backpack, bottles of wine, bottles of beer, cases of cider and all of these advertised credentials of the modern identity on the back of some half understood justification.

   Steph all but flew off the mess of her bed towards the wardrobe to throw something on. She had to infuse 002 of Hero-Worship with cadences that addressed the riots. She HAD to. In remembering the violence of the L.A riots she would Google Rodney Kingson? Was that right? Richard Kingly? She wasn't sure that was his name, but she would be cunning. All these ideas crawled around in her skull as she got dressed into a pair of jeans and jumper. She knew the night ahead would be a long crazily inspired one and could almost feel the plastic keys of Milo's present responding to her flightiest and darkest imaginings. And was the rape scene too quick? Implication rather than gross out? Steph had to focus on what needed to be included rather than messing with other pages. She had a deadline. 
    She had an adoring fan-base. Discipline time Steph, discipline. 
    Could she make it to Milo’s office, add the riot parts in AND get hold of Reggie: programmer extraordinaire? She sat back down on the bed thinking about the familiar fear, that Spiderfingers fiery fringe was a redundant idea, thrown in for no good reason at all. She sighed at the practicality of responding to this late night whimsy.
    And then...Her head began to swim through her favourite reviews. She was daring, counter-cultural and knowing. Her 'Spiderfingers - Flight of the Martlett' Novella had been entirely hers; even if she'd been basing the fantasy land on Spiderfingers' Oma kingdom, the story was hers.
    The door opens downstairs...and then you hear it slam as the shower you’re in funnels more warm water down. The rest of the family has arrived. Time to prime the ammo.
    Time for the show.
    Time for Saul 'Zombie Boy' Buchanan and the Ceremony of Knives.

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