Sinister: two shorts, and a side-dish of revenge

[ian]

another bar.  always a bar.  this one has been reinvented in recent months.
they want it to look rustic, so they hang toby jugs from the ceiling.  and
it looks like a pub, in wolverhampton, with toby jugs hanging from the
ceiling.

my friend enters, and strides across the room towards me, moving deftly
between the barstools.  barstools that dream of being sat on, perhaps
suspecting that such a dream, once achieved, would be hollow.


 the sinister list orders a triple brandy from the
barman and instructs him that i will be paying.  i fumble in my pocket and
watch those perfectly-formed ever-moving lips.

'make it quick, ian.  i've got better things to do.  i've got a working
lunch with kirsten
kenyon and i don't have time for this...'

'sorry'..  i suddenly can't remember why i'm here.  i stare at the
pleasingly androgynous face again, watching the lips close and then open,
smiles passing along them like
ghosts over a microphone.

'stop fucking looking at me, and talk.  when i finish my drink, i'm going.
make it
fast'

'err..'  'oh'  'well, i just wanted to tell you about my top ten
favourite -'

the sinister list finishes its brandy, picks up my tequila and throws it in
my
face.  then it steals my cigarettes and departs.

a barmaid passes by, in fishnet stockings and a bow tie.

i kick her in the head.

-------------------------------------------------

sitting in a park in paris, france
reading the news and it sure looks bad
they've never given peace a chance
it was just a dream someone once had


the bench is cold, but the feeling reminds me that
i'm alive.

the clouds are gathering.  the metaphors are flowing thick and fast.
somewhere, i can hear a gathering.  i wonder if its the love brigade, the
hate brigade or the not in my back yard parade.

the sinister list lowers its arse towards the wood, hovvering just an inch
above the slat as if it is concerned about catching something.
my contagious apathy, perhaps.

'cigarette'

'no, thanks.  i'm trying to stop'

'it wasn't an offer, ian.  it was a request.  a command.  give me a
cigarette'

i hand over a packet that has been occupying my pocket.

'ta.  you should get some better clothes.  its cold'

and the list is gone, running towards a gathering in front of me.  or
perhaps away from a gathering behind me.

i stare at the iron monument to impossibility that dominates this city,
pulling my cardigan closer,
wishing i had a cigarette, and wondering if its true that all romantics meet
the same fate some day.
------------------------------------------------------------


a note... someone sent me a note.  and i've been carrying it with me ever
since, waiting for a clue..

'dear ian,

you will never be as good as archel playforth

love and kisses
archel playforth'

if only i could figure out who it was from.  there's no clue on it.  i
decided to see if anyone could help me.  i asked the man who stands in
birmingham centre with a microphone.  he told me i had to renounce my soul
to jesus, and i would find the answer.  so i tried.  there was a pregnant
pause.  and then another pregnant pause.  i waited for someone to say
'okay'.  i'm still waiting.

so i thought i know what i do, i do, i'll phone alix campbell, because she
knows about this sort of thing.....

'hello'

'is that alix campbell?  this is ian.  i'm wondering if-'

'if you call me again, i'll phone the police'

she hung up.  clearly she knows somebody else called ian who is a bit odd.
i tried to ring her back, but a spanish woman called alixita told me lixi
had moved out and wouldn't ever be coming back.

i phoned the operator.  she said she knew who i was, and if i promised to
stop sending her dead animal parts, she would help me.  she told me to look
at the envelope, see if there was a return address

'yes'

'well...?'

'archel playforth's house, archelplayforthworld'

'so... do you know who lives there?'

'errr..................   cam you give me a clue'

'no, i'm asking YOU' .
she sighed.
i could hear her licking her fingers in the background.
i hung up, and sent her a dead squirrel, with its intestines wound around
its neck as a stylish scarf-ette.  all telephone operators like such things,
in my experience.

i asked around my neighbours.

 the lady across the road said she'd seen a lovely, long legged, lolloping
llama licking my letterbox.  i asked her if it she'd seen it delivering
anything and she slapped me, and told me not to be familiar.
finally, success!  the blind woman who lives in a shed on the corner said
she'd seen a strange shuffling sight in a duffle coat, muttering to herself
and trying to remove the long nobule of snot that dripped constantly from
her nose.

there was only one person it could be.  i wondered what a fitting recompense
was, and decided i would catch the offender, and sell her into white
slavery.
i looked in the phone book under 'white slave merchants' but there was only
an recruiting advertisement for burger king.
so i tried the modern interweb.
you know, there are a lot of slaves on the internettoweb.  lots and lots.  i
was amazed.
there were too many to make an educated choice.  i just found one named 'of
human bondage' at www.whipme.com  - they said they specialised in chains and
hard labour.

i chuckled as i called them... the thought of archel playforth - sneaky,
scurrilous, southern get, receiving her just deserts..  i asked them how
much they would give me for the services of a sneaky, scurrilous southern
get, and they said they'd send me a cheque in the post.  i gave them her
address.  they should be arriving there about now.

right about now.

i'm listening to the magnetic fields, flicking through my french porn
collection, ruminating on how clever i am and imagining her face as the boys
turn up to get her.  i hope they work her hard.  i've seen how they make
slaves work.  i've watched nearly all of 'cool hand luke'.  i hope they make
her wear unflattering overalls, build roads and eat lots and lots of eggs
until she ends up looking like paul newman.

sing along, my dears, sing along..

'that's the sound of the sneaky scurrilous southern get
working on the chain ga-a-ang
that's the sound of the sneaky scurrilous southern get
working on the chain
gang'

xx
ian

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