“The hyperreal is a liminal, libidinal, magickal space, the progeny of the technological and the postmodern. It is the seamless fusing of the real and the unreal, the physical and the virtual, the human and the artificial until there is no differentiating where they begin and, indeed, where they end. The snake consumes itself forever. You may find yourself, for different reasons at different times or in different locations, more in tune or involved with the hyperreal world and less with the physical real world. This is to be expected. And also to be encouraged.”
Brooks, A. 1975. On The Barricades, 17 February, Café de Flore, Paris.
“Do not allow what you consume to consume you.”
(2001, June 23) (graffiti). New York Subway car, New York.
“Vita Acies, Acies Vita.”
Caesar, J. 49 B.C. Crossing The Rubicon, 10 January, Rubicon River, Southern Gaul.
“When life feels like nothing matters,
When life is nothing but pain,
Listen now to what I am sayin’,
Just plaster on a fake smile,
And plough through the shit again.”
Beckett, J. (1992). “Fake Smile” [Recorded by The Beckett Brothers]. On Feral Electric Country [EP]. Glasgow, UK, GlasRecords.
I - 01 - Matador
Snow was thick on the ground and swirled around a lone figure.
He was in his late twenties and dressed inappropriately for the weather: black suit, blue shirt, black tie and black shoes. The suit jacket had been removed, the sleeves of the shirt were rolled up and the collar loosened at the neck. The jacket in his left hand was being trailed along the ground, marking a jagged irregular line in the snow.
He fired up a cigarette and jaywalked across the street.
He was taking a drag when a black Moraz sedan roared down the street towards him.
With cigarette still in mouth, he whipped his head round to face the oncoming car.
The driver saw the man and stomped on the brakes. The car fishtailed but the driver managed to correct and hold the car in a straight line.
The speed of the car reduced, the figure dodged backwards and swept his jacket over the hood, bullfighter-style.
Finally, the car slid to a halt. The Driver wound his window down and craned his head back.
“Hey you! Bozo! You trying to get yourself killed?”
Bozo shot the driver a blank expression.
He removed the cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly.
“Yes.”
The driver wound his head back into the car.
“Crazy motherfucker.”
The Car spat snow backwards as it accelerated away, leaving Bozo free to complete his journey to the other side of the street.
Up ahead, he saw an art deco sign advertising the ‘Bar and Grill- Ranchero. The neon had blown out so the sign flashed ‘BrrRr’. He noted the Bearenstein Beers sign hung in the window as he entered.
Inside, the bar and grill was a vision of Mexican kitsch flesh draped over the skeleton of an art deco room.
It was not busy. Apparently, venturing out to a Mexican restaurant in the middle of a snowstorm was not considered advisable.
Bozo scanned the area warily. The few patrons there were, eyed him back suspiciously. He returned a cold stare and they went back to their food and drinks.
Bozo trudged to the bar. Getting there, he pulled up a stool, which metal on chalkboard screeched on the floor, took a seat and hunched over the counter.
He looked up at the late middle-aged barman cleaning glasses. He was rather obviously identified by a name badge reading, ‘TED’.
“Hey? Ted?”
Ted looked dismissively down at the badge.
“Apparently, this makes me more approachable.”
Ted went back to cleaning glasses.
“Well, Ted, I see you do fine food and cocktails. So. I’ll take three cheeseburgers and three margaritas.”
Ted glanced over Bozo’s shoulder as though hunting for other members of Bozo’s party. None being there, he focused on Bozo.
“Thank you.”
Ted twisted and yelled the order through to the serving hatch before flamboyantly creating the cocktails. Moments later, three margaritas were slammed down on the counter. Bozo took one, inspected it then sampled it.
“A regular Tom Cruise.”
Bozo threw the remainder of the first cocktail down his throat. He repeated the process with the other two.
“Jeez, buddy!”
“Call me Bozo, everybody else does.”
“Bad day at the office?”
Bozo ducked the question.
“How are the cheeseburgers coming?”
From the bowels of the kitchen, Bozo heard.
“Order up!”
Ted skated the three cheeseburgers across the counter to Bozo, who crammed them into himself at the speed that he had dispatched the cocktails.
“It’s a race not a sprint, buddy.”
Bozo didn’t respond but took out his cigarettes and prepared to light one. Ted pointed to a sign on the wall.
“Used to be able to.”
“We used to be able to do many things such as marrying cousins but that’s kinda frowned upon these days. I mean, personally, I couldn’t give a monkey’s tail. But my boss don’t want to get sued when I get lung cancer.”
“Tell you what. I’ll do you a deal. Let me tell you about my day, since you asked, should last about the length of this cigarette. I can promise you, you won’t begrudge me one. Hell, you’ll want me to finish the damn pack. But just in case you don’t-”
Bozo slipped an expensive looking, if not actually expensive, watch off his wrist and dropped it onto the counter. Ted stared at it then back at Bozo.
“You can keep it. Hey, it’s a win-win situation. So?-”
He held up the cigarette.
“-can I?”
“Oh, what the hell.”
Bozo lit up.
“Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.”
II - 01 - The Future In Our Hands
The Zentech Industries building was a squatting, sprawling, brutalist example of technology sector architecture, with interior roadways ringing it.
Beyond the roadways, a security fence ringed the perimeter. The manicured lawn made it look like a concrete island amidst a green sea.
A security booth amidst the grass was connected to the entrance driveway by a meagre flagstone path, a control barrier prevented vehicles from just driving at the fence.
Opposite the booth was a heavy-duty sign with expensively designed graphics. It read ‘ZENTECH- The Future In Our Hands’.
-
The security control room for the Zentech building was on the ground floor, accessible from a door behind reception. At one end of the room was a set of lockers. At the other, a bank of monitors.
Lenny, a bearded spiky haired twenty-something was throwing a shirt on, showing off his tattoos. Bill, big-boned, bespectacled and moustachioed, was on a swivel chair with his back to the monitors. Mort, a greying gaunt man was between them. Once Lenny had finished dressing, they were all wearing identical shoes, suits, shirts, ties and ‘Zentech Security’ lapel pins.
“You thought of one yet, Bill?”
“Well…”
“See? Not possible.”
“Give us some time for fuck’s sake. Lenny.”
“Don’t need to.”
“Must be at least one.”
“I promise you, without shadow of a fucking doubt, that security guards have been massively under-represented in the mainstream media. I mean, shit, we don’t usually even live to the end. Think about it. Security guards just minding their own business and then some dick who thought he’d inspire some teenage massacres comes in, all black coats and machine guns. If we do live, then we’re Ben Stiller.”
“Wait up. I got one. Dennis fucking Hopper in True Romance. Now there’s a positive, role-model image of a security guard.”
“He lives in a trailer and gets shot in the fucking head. How much less positive do you want this to get before I slit my own wrists?”
“He gets the best lines though.”
“I am not even going to dignify that. You got Quentin Tarantino writing your fucking lines, chances are he could make Mort sound coherent. And still dude. Bullet in the head.”
Lenny cocked an imaginary gun and feigned shooting himself in the head, snapping his head to the left to imitate the recoil.
“What about Titanic?”
“Are you actually still with us in this Mort. I know it’s all a bit conceptual for you. There are no security guards in Titanic, you dumb fuck.”
“My point exactly. Biggest movie of all time and no security guards.”
“Why on God’s little earth would there be security guards? On a boat? In the nineteen-fucking-twenties?”
“Ship.”
“Boat? Ship? Who gives a fuck? Still not going to be any security guards.”
“What about that floppy haired upper-class toff?”
“Hugh Grant?”
“The valet.”
“The man who cleans out the car?”
“Is there any way possible that you could be dumber?”
“Come on. Leave Mort alone. We will accept your ridiculous proposition. Yeah Mort? But only if you agree never to mention or come close to mentioning this tedious facsimile of a pointless conversation. Ever. Again.”
“But-”
“Ever.”
“Jesus. Alright.”
The door banged open, slamming into the wall, and Wallace sauntered in, exuding confidence.
“They still ragging on you Mort?”
“Well, yeah-”
“Don’t let them phase you. They’re just dumb fucks waiting for a pay-check or cancer, whichever one comes for them first.”
“Why don’t you just fuck off to your own side of the building Wallace?”
“Because, Lenny my dear, then I’d miss out on seeing my beloved Mort.”
Mort shifted uncomfortably while Wallace patted him on the cheek. Lenny and Bill eyeballed him with suspicion.
“Well. See you later, bitches.”
“Not if we can help it”, Bill thought about saying.
“See you later Mort. Bill. Lemony.”
She left as quickly as she had arrived.
“Really, what is her fucking problem?”
“She hates you Lenny because every time you see a woman you come over like some cock obsessed moron.”
“I don’t want to fuck her.”
“You so want to fuck her.”
“I don’t.”
“You so do.”
“What would you know anyway, Mort? You fucking excuse for a doormat of a man.”
“Just because I’m not vulgar does not make me a doormat.”
“No, but being in this shitty job at your age certainly does.”
“Like you got options.”
“I got options. Don’t laugh, I have. I have got options. I’m writing-”
“Jesus. About security guards?”
“Yeah, I’m filling a gap in the market.”
“Only if some flunky exec wants to line a litter tray or needs something to wipe their ass on.”
Bill and Mort couldn’t help cracking up.
“Laugh all you like when I’m cruising down Mulholland, getting my cock sucked and waving as I pass Jack’s place.”
“How much would that cost? Because I heard they don’t operate in transit. Something about their insurance.”
“Shut it hooker boy. I mean someone who gets off on natural power and masculinity.”
“Fuck Lenny, how low in the gutter do they have to be.”
“Shouldn’t someone be watching the monitors?”
“Fuck it, Mort. Like anything ever happened at this corporate whore house.”
III - 01 - Heaven’s Exiles
Somewhere in Nazi occupied Europe, 1943, in a desolate, snow covered field, the burning wreckage of an Allied DeHavilland Mosquito aircraft spiralled steam and plumes of oil rich smoke into the air.
The pilot lurched up into view with all the grace of a re-animated corpse. His face was almost entirely obscured by the flying helmet, goggles and mask. He was clothed in the shredded remains of a flight suit and pristine, thick, black leather flyer’s gloves.
He ripped the mask away from his face, revealing a pencil thin moustache beginning to be enveloped by stubble. He pushed up the goggles onto his head to reveal the wild-eyed stare of a man who was completely in his element. He exuded the sense of immortality that only surviving multiple plane crashes could bestow.
He took in a deep breath and exhaled a cloud of vapour into the night. His face now obscured the plane, whose flames created a renaissance halo, which encircled his face. The broken wings jutted angelically out from above his shoulder blades.
He remembered something important and, with a rising sense of panic, desperately went to his pockets. He relaxed as he pulled a photograph from one of them. He inspected it wistfully and then returned it.
“Parachutes. Schellenbach. Parachutes.”
The pilot turned to see his co-pilot. He was in his early twenties and dressed in the exact same flying gear. He was conventionally handsome, if scrawny, with a fresh face that had rarely seen a razor blade. This was his first plane crash and he was none too thrilled about it.
“Frenchy?”
“Quit calling me ‘Frenchy’, Schellenbach, you son of a bitch. The name is Joe Fry.”
“People call me Shell. Only my father calls me a son of a bitch.”
“Well, they sure as hell don’t go around calling me Frenchy. You can’t just be inventing names for people you barely know.”
“Come on Frenchy, we’ve been flying together for nigh on a month. That makes us almost as close as a couple of fellas can be.”
“Only due to your aggravating habit of getting co-pilots killed. Maybe if you’d tried using the goddamn parachutes, I could still be cleaning out engines and loading munitions as God herself intended.”
“Now Frenchy, as you know, parachutes are strictly for amateurs. And we-”
“-are professionals. It don’t become true just because you keep repeating it.”
“We are professionals. We try and maintain the integrity of the aircraft to the best of our ability.”
“Don’t seem like that old girl has much integrity left. Seems pretty despoiled to me.”
“Anyway, parachutes can only set you up for any number of life- shortening situations: being cut to ribbons by enemy aircraft machine-gun fire for one, having sharpshooting snipers on the ground blowing your head clean off from a mile away for another. And don’t forget, getting yourself impaled on a variety of both sacred and profane buildings or landing through a tree and getting yourself hung. I think you can trust me on this in the interests of both your personal safety, and my standing with your dear mother.”
“You’ve never met my mother. Made, some would say, infinitely more difficult by her untimely death.”
“But should I meet her at the pearly gates, I don’t want it to be while explaining why parachutes are the scourge of the modern battlefield and how they contributed to your bloody dismemberment and demise.”
Shell was clearly pleased with his impeccable logic, Frenchy less so.
“Why don’t you just come out and admit it?”
“Admit what? That I have a profoundly rational fear of falling slowly to the ground?”
“Better than falling quickly to the ground, damnit. Look ‘Shell’, it’s a clear winter’s night.”
Frenchy indicated the night sky.
“We are somewhere in the middle of some goddamn, enemy-occupied, European country. Maybe we’d know which enemy-occupied European country in the good goddamn hell we were in, if you hadn’t let the map get burned up somewhere over Belgium. Don’t you think a parachute might have gotten us just a little further away from that giant goddamn inferno of what used to be an aircraft? Which, may I add, is currently acting as a signal beacon to every goddamn Nazi this side of Berlin. And on the other side too. Hell, there are probably some standing around in Russia asking, ‘javol Fritz, what iz ze bright light over zer?’. I lay odds so good you’d snap your arm off betting on them that given twenty minutes, we’ll be sitting taking tea with some over-friendly Nazi commander. We’ll be in a grey office with a cheap-looking desk. There’ll be some bronze animal that helps him remember a pet he had as a child, and a desktop lamp that, if we’re fortunate, he’ll shine lights in our eyes just for the reason he saw some Jimmy Cagney movies. Before they got banned of course. And on the walls, there’ll be some framed great war photos so he can remind himself he used to be a war hero and, of course, there will be a painting of Adolph-goddamned-Hitler in goddamned lederhosen looking out over the Matterhorn. For a bonus, maybe we’ll get a Mussolini with him dressed as Napoleon. And all of this because of your professional standards and your refusal to use goddamn parachutes.”
“Can’t we just be grateful that we’re alive and free?”
Shell pulled a cigarette out from behind his ear, picked up a burning fragment of aircraft with his gloved hand and lit it. The flame revealed a group of Nazi soldiers directly in front of them. All of them had machine guns trained on Shell and Frenchy.
The right wing on the Mosquito collapsed with a sound of despair, leaving Shell and Frenchy a pair of fallen angels.
Shell and Frenchy dispassionately made note of the Nazis surrounding them and then, without hesitation, resumed their argument.
“Free? We’re surrounded by goddamn Nazis.”
“We’ve been in worse scrapes before.”
“You, maybe.”
Two of the Nazis engaged in a hushed conversation in German.
“Friedrich, we have been here for the past ten minutes. How did they not notice us? Do they realise we could have killed them at any time? What is it they are arguing about?”
“That’s not my fault. If you’d spent less time yakking for a second there, we could easily have made a clean getaway.”
“Well Heinrich, the little one is more concerned about the fact that they should have used parachutes and then they would not have been captured. The large one thinks they should not.”
“No Shell, parachutes! Parachutes would have made it easy for us to make a clean getaway.”
“But we would have machine-gunned them in the air, or our sharp shooters would have blown their heads off from a mile away. And don’t forget the airman on that church steeple. That still gives me nightmares.”
“Right Frenchy, I think we’re going to have to settle this like gentlemen. Queensbury rules.”
“Now? Could we not just have done this before I got in a goddamn plane with you. It’s not a wonder no-one wanted to fly with you.”
“What are they saying now?”
“The big one thinks that if they pretend to fight, they will be able to overpower us. The small one does not realise this is the plan of the big one.”
“But Freidrich, we have guns.”
“I am quite aware of this, Heinrich my friend, but the big one seems more confident than clever. The small one has more cleverness but not so much the confidence.”
“Right. Now!”
Shell feigned an attack on Frenchy and then made a very poor attempt to land a haymaker on Freidrich. But, with two hands, Freidrich simply smacked the body of his machine gun into Shell’s face. Shell staggered back, clutching his nose, which was trickling a thin stream of blood from the left nostril. Frenchy just watched this take place. He was not psychic.
“That was your plan. You should have perhaps tried to give me some goddamn signal. Goddamnit, with strategic skills like that maybe they should put you in charge of liberating France. The war would be over by Christmas.”
“Queensbury rules was the signal. We’ve always used that as a signal.”
“Maybe with one of your ex-co-pilots. You know. The dead ones!”
“They only died because they used-”
“-Parachutes? Like hell they-”
Freidrich addressed the two sparring pilots in public school sounding English.
“Enough of this. Both of you will come with us and you will do so quietly. Because unfortunately, for you my friends, the war is over.”
IV - 01 - London, 1950
The cul-de-sac was lined with semi-detached council houses, they looked newly built with the cheapest of materials. There was a single car parked on the left-hand side of the road. The residents couldn’t understand how they could afford it.
Two young children loitered at the end of the road, waiting for their parents, who were arm in arm, to catch up to them.
A boy of about thirteen with a black eye and short trousers, legged it along the right-hand side of the road. He should probably be in school, but wasn’t.
Turning the corner onto the right-hand side, moving at a brisk purposeful pace, was Gunji Koizumi, GK to his friends who had never quite mastered the art of pronouncing a foreign name. He was 69 years old but youthful and was in a full three-piece suit with a matching hat. The cost of his clothes would probably pay the rent on one of these houses for a month.
As GK rounded the corner, a scrap of a boy crashed into him, almost knocking him off his feet. The boy tumbled to the ground, scraping his knees on the pavement. GK spoke with the memory of a Japanese accent that had been superseded by years of life in England.
“You should watch where you are going, young man.”
“You should get nicked, mister.”
The boy dusted himself down and scarpered.
GK watched the retreating boy, pondering who had caused him such injury.
GK recomposed himself and continued down the street. He checked the house numbers and finally, when he reached house number 12, he stopped.
The house in front of him was well maintained, the garden was immaculate in a way the other gardens weren’t. There was a wooden gate with a bolt. GK slid the bolt, pushed the gate before he turned to shut it behind him. He went to the door and knocked.
A spry elder of ninety years opened it. This slight, unassuming man was Edward William Barton-Wright. He looked like your grandfather and had the same way with a half-remembered story from his youth. He smiled at the gentleman caller.
“Mr Barton-Wright? We communicated by telegram with regard to an interview.”
“Ah the telegram. I would have a telephone but for the cost. Bell was such a cad. Do come in young man and, please, call me Edward.”
Edward’s living room was a mass of tidy clutter. There were framed photographs everywhere. There were also what appeared to be the dismembered remains of a number of electrical devices of unknown providence or usage.
Edward had seated himself in a floral armchair. GK had a notepad and pen and was on the floral sofa opposite. The furniture was clearly too big for the room.
“What was the paper you worked for again? My memory, I’m afraid.”
“No paper. I work at the Budokai and I am in charge of its quarterly newsletter.”
GK flipped open his pad, ready to make notes.
“That would seem to be a combination of the Japanese words ‘bu’ meaning military or martial, ‘do’ meaning the way or code and kwai meaning public building, club or society. So, the society of the martial way would probably be the best way to put it in English. Am I correct? My Japanese is no longer what it once was.”
“You are correct, Sir. I am writing a piece concerning the origins of the martial arts in the United Kingdom. I stumbled upon your name in the British library records.”
“We didn’t call them martial arts in my day, young man. The ‘Art of Antagonism’ is what a gentleman would refer to them as. Anyway, where would you like to start?”
“We could start at the beginning. How did you come to be involved in the ‘Art of Antagonism’ as you call it?”
“Well, Sir, I am a child of the empire. Born in Vepery, Madras in India. My father was a railway engineer, so we moved often. My education came from the finest schools in France and Germany. But this is not really where the story begins, is it? The story begins, as many do, in the taverns of London.”
V - 01 - The End
The past seemed present to him. Bright, grey skies. Snow on the ground and falling. Dead silence. A cat slunk out of the undergrowth and idled up to him. The cat rubbed itself affectionately against his leg and pawed briefly at the laces of the man’s combat boots. It sniffed at the air and, satisfied with whatever its intentions were, padded contentedly away.
He felt impractically dressed for the weather. The zebra print bathrobe hid his modesty, the scarf and a trapper hat kept up a pretence of warmth. He had a thick, biblical beard, wisps of long hair escaped from the confines of the hat.
The ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ mug in his hand spiralled steam. He took a slug of the coffee. He wasn’t the world’s greatest dad. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been a father. The paternity suits had seemed conclusive though.
In front of him, the building that was formally his home, a sprawling, brutally modernist building that used to be made up of slabs of acutely angled concrete and glass, was in ruins. Flames completely engulfed it. Smoke drifted over the swimming pool. He wondered how concrete was able to burn. He had only bought it to spite DiCaprio, it didn’t seem to matter to him so much anymore.
He took more zen mouthfuls of coffee as he watched police flank the pool in a two-step rhythm. They seemed to be in cosplay for a warzone they had never been deployed to. They stopped directly in front of him, the laser sight dots of their weapons flickering across his body like fireflies.
“Hello, boys.”
He said and adjusted his ACRONYM® sunglasses.
Interstitial - 01 - Every Ricky Mongoose Movie Rated - Page 1
BY SUZANNE LINDSAY
Ricky Mongoose has had a vice-like grip on both the box office and the wallets of parents everywhere going as far back as 2008. Based on Rudyard Kipling’s Ricky-Ticky-Tave from ‘The Jungle Book’, the creators took the basic elements from the story and thoroughly reworked them for a modern audience. This reworking was so thorough that all that really managed to survive from Kipling’s story was the fact that Ricky was a mongoose and there was a villainous snake. The seven sequels that followed have only stretched the differences further: differing wildly in terms of plot, characterization, and even genre.
So, whether you’re a die-hard Ricky fan or you’ve been forced to watch these on a loop with the kids, let’s get down to the business of rating all the Ricky Mongoose movies so far.
The Adventures of Ricky Mongoose (2008): Ricky saves the woods where he lives from evil developers while trying not to get eaten by Hawk T. Bird and Blake the Snake. This is entertaining fare aimed squarely at children, although it can be a little cloying at times. Younger children may find the characters of Hawk T Bird and Blake the Snake a little frightening, so parental discretion is advised. ***
The Return of Ricky Mongoose (2010): Ricky and his animal pals once more must fight to save the park, which is under threat once more as wildfires sweep through it. A massive improvement on the first movie as it uses its story to deliver a powerful ecological message. The songs (including the Oscar-winning “That Must Make Me a Mongoose”) are earworms that you’ll struggle to shift. And you won’t want to, I’ve been humming them as I’ve been writing this piece. This is a high-water mark for animated movies, and I can easily see this going on to become a classic of the genre. *****
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