The Briefcase: Day One

The Briefcase:
Day One

 

Mark sat at his local bus-stop, grimy, damp and with shattered glass scattered where a timetable once lived. A terrible place for any human to be at 7am, never mind under the dark grey clouds that blanketed over the town, pissing down rain in a fashion that seemed to be a direct message to Mark. The message of course, was a giant fuck you.

Moving his toes through his wet socks, which were acting as both a towel and plug for the holes in his shoes, Mark let out a long, defeated sigh. The day was a write off and it had barely begun, he hadn't even really started his daily pilgrimage to work. The joys of a nine till five life, getting home to an empty house by seven, dinner at eight and bed by ten. Rinse and repeat.

God he missed her.  Everything was going as planned, the mortgage, the engagement and hell, he was even starting to grow attached to the revolting dog. Seven years gone just like that, what a waste. His brother Matthew assured him that time would heal all, all the clichéd crap that an elder sibling spouts out as wisdom. A self-righteous asshole pretending to give a damn but really using his little brother’s anguish to stroke his own ego.

Mark didn't hate his brother, he just resented him. He was jealous of his sibling’s success, his attractive wife, his lucrative job and his obscenely extravagant house - Mark was currently living in a flat that even squatters would turn their nose up at. Still, in the fallout of the breakout, Mark had discovered with envy that his previously close friends had moved on, matured, grown up, living the life that Mark was inches away from achieving himself. He was lonely and genuinely looked forward for his twice-a-week pint with his brother.

In fact, to Marks distress, his closest acquaintance with a non-relative was his drug dealer. Mark had begun to smoke cannabis more and more to mask his spiralling depressive thoughts, plus it helped him sleep, something he was struggling with increasingly. Petr was a Polish immigrant that was perhaps a little unstable and a tad unpredictable. Mark had met him trying to sell drugs to teenagers at school, it turned out the drugs were just smarties. He would tell his origin tale differently every time, changing details so they were more impressive upon the next hearing, he truly did live in his own little world. But he was reliable to Mark and had the ability to conjure something from nothing, be it money, a badly thought out plan or the herb that Mark bought from him. He was the King Midas of petty crime.

The bus arrived, as was standard, five minutes late. A wave of puddle water crashed onto Mark, the epilogue of the fuck you message from the clouds. He boarded his modern day Charon, paid the driver his obol and sat back in the just-about comfy chair and closed his eyes as the vehicle started its early journey across the tarmacked river to his destination, the Underworld aka Work.

As Mark's eyelids flickered on and off, desperately wanting to escape to sleep, he noticed something sitting alone on the seat to the right of him, a black, leather-bound suitcase. He looked around him, remembering that apart from himself and the driver, the only other passenger was the old aged pensioner that took 16 minutes (he counted) to board. He dismissed the thought that it belonged to her, she could barely hold her head up. He shifted rather suspiciously across to the other seat, the briefcase was surprisingly heavy, as if full of lead and was securely closed. The bizarre thing that stood out to Mark was the lock. Its series of characters on the combinations neither words nor numbers but strange symbols, almost alien.

Mark, overpowered by curiosity, clung to the briefcase for the rest of the journey and, shocking even himself, he proceeded to take it off the bus and with him to work, neglecting to hand it in or even ask the other two people on the bus. For the first time in months, Mark had managed to find something that distracted him from the regrets that plagued him.

KRS 2013

A Dinner With Cain

 

The diner reminded me of Nighthawks or that Frank Sinatra album, you know the one, it's got the blue filter over it. It didn't remind me in an aesthetic or visual way but more the feeling of the place. Like the smell of cigarette ash that stains the air permanently or the shroud of loneliness that drapes over it. My eyes just don't have the blue filter.

The place was deserted, as you'd expect at three in the morning. A tired waitress was working the tables and like the cigarette smell, those bags under her eyes were never going away. She could have been in her mid-forties and the wrinkled leather that was her skin could have been due to years of direct sun, smoking and neglect. On the other hand she could have been in her sixties and just looked like shit after working in here most her life. I heard foreign voices from the kitchen as I made my way towards the back of the diner. At the last booth, right by the window, sat a impeccably dressed, well groomed man. Perhaps for a twist of humorous irony, he held a walking cane.

The man was Cain, son of Adam, first human to be born and of course, the first murderer. Cursed in a befitting way too, marked with eternal life, confined by immortality, trapped in a living purgatory. Still, after countless years wandering the earth, he looked rather pleasant if a bit weary. Like a secretory who can still wear her smile and look presentable to the customer but harbours sad, lonely thoughts deep down. Mascara to cover the tears and all that.

I sat down into the cheap vinyl seats across from the killer. Why is it the first thing I associate with the guy? I'd hardly like to be remembered for things I did thirty years ago, never mind six thousand years. I pulled out my carbonised Ronson and flicked it open to light the dangling cigarette from my mouth. God, do you remember when you could smoke indoors? Now everyone scuttles outside like cockroaches to have a smoke. Some places should know that a guy likes to have a smoke with meal or coffee. I offered him one, he declined.

"Good, they'll kill 'ya" I felt pretty stupid uttering it out loud, it was just a reflex, not a provocation.

He smiled.

The next few hours were a blur, that hazy effect on your memory after a long, intense and above all, enjoyable conversation with somebody. I hate the phrase but time was flying past. We discussed everything I could have possibly thought about and then some more. He spoke about his curse, how he has tried and tried to top himself over the years, though each time he does so, he awakens in a new location. Some seem pretty downright cruel, like at the bottom of the ocean or a top a mountain. God really seemed to have it in for him and I began feeling sympathy for him. He talked about how he at first, rebelled and lived relatively consequence free, how he tried repenting and seeking forgiveness and how eventually, he learned acceptance. He spoke often about his brother but admitted his memory of him was long gone, a scant solace perhaps.

He told me about the people he had met over the years, from the great artists, politicians, scientists to the most evil. The full spectrum. He said he struggled to remember much, his memory the same as anybody else. People forget their own name by about seventy, never mind seven thousand odd years for Christ sake. That seemed to be particularly cruel torture to me, stuck in an infinite loop through the years, the indestructible physical vessel hosting a new mind full of memories every so often. He confessed that I myself would be forgotten about in a nearly insultingly short amount of time.

Soon the sun was making its daily trek across the sky and light filtered in through the dusty blinds. The ashtray was full and the amount of coffee drunk could have awoken the dead. My eyes became heavy under the weight of sleep, propped up by the mountains of coffee indigested. Cain looked fresh and well rested, sipping from his stained glass of apple juice, maintaining eye contact and looking interested, or at least acting interested. I wonder how often he does this, sit down with a stranger and pour out his life story. Thousands of years’ worth of stories compressed and compacted into a few wee short hours over coffee.

The early morning blue collars begin to arrive in the diner, completing their daily pilgrimage. Propped up on the table with my right hand, I frantically try to think of more questions, things I would regret not asking, queries I wish were answered but the fog that fills your mind from a lack of sleep was nearly clouding over my thought process completely. Shit. A silence was creeping into the space where conversation once flowed.

Almost telepathically, Cain told me it was time for him to leave. He thanked me for the dinner and started to make his way to the door a little reluctantly. I no longer thought of him in the way society automatically condemns a murderer, with vile and instant disgust. I felt sympathy for the man. Felt sorry and pity I’ve never mustered up or any other human being. Perhaps ever stranger, I could not help but respect the first killer.

KRS

Juventus FC: Arrivals and Departures

Juventus 2012/2013 season was a relatively successful one for them, securing their second consecutive Serie A championship and finishing runner up in the Coppa Italia, with an underwhelming campaign in Europe being the only real disappointment. This year with the goal of strengthening their position in Europe's elite clubs, Juventus have invested in the areas they have deemed to be lacking. I have a look at how well the new signings will fit into Antonio Conte's system as well as looking at the players that are expendable at  Juventus FC.

New Signings:

Simone Zaza, Aged 23, previous clubs (Sampdoria, Ascoli):

Photo Courtesy - sportinfo.co.rs

A relative unknown, Zaza is a former Sampdoria youth graduate that spent last season out on loan to Serie B side Ascoli due to the lone striker role belonging to (now Internazionale) starlet Mauro Icardi. Zaza managed to net an impressive 18 goals in 35 appearances that did not go unnoticed and was soon acquired by Juventus for a fee of 3.5 million euros before immediately selling 50% of his rights to recently promoted side Sassaolo for 2 million euros, where he will spend the current season. An interesting player where time will tell how he develop, however at aged 23, there is younger and better prospects out on the market and within Juventus youth academy.

Angelo Ogbonna, Aged 25, previous clubs (Torino, Crotone)

Photo Courtesy - juventus.com

Here is a international player you might of wondered who he played for. The answer? Juventus bitter local rivals Torino. Representing the national team is an achievement for any player, to do so in the second tier of your country is even more impressive and speaks volumes about his ability. A natural left footer, Angelo has come on leaps and bounds under Ventura's tenure at Torino, establishing himself as one of the finest centre backs in the country. A sure contender for challenging if not taking fellow international teammate Leonardo Bonucci's role in the three man vanguard. Juventus paid a hefty 13 million euros for his services, perhaps a little pricey given Antonio Conte's fondness for squad rotation. Angelo has two outcomes to his Juventus career:
1. He becomes a valuable asset to the first eleven and develops into Chiellini's successor (or challenger to his spot)
or
2. He becomes a very a expensive squad player

Fernando Llorente, Aged 28, previous clubs (Athletic Bilbao)

Photo Courtesy - soydelaroja.com

An Athletic Bilbao regular since 2004 (and before that playing for their reserve, youth and feeder clubs, he also helped the club reach the 2011 - 2012 Europa League final) and semi-regular for the Spanish national team since 2008, Fernando Llorente was brought to Juventus to strengthen their attack. After nearly a one-in-three goals to games ratio, Llorente is a proven goal scorer, a fact made more impressive with the lack of quality service an elite European club would provide.

Despite a rather personal underwhelming season (five goals in thirty-six official matches) and playing second fiddle to Artiz Aduriz, Llorente arrives without the burden of a price tag looming over him. His proven ability will help supplement or spearhead the attack when needed and is much an improvement over Nicklas Bendtnar and Nicholas Anelka of last season

Carlos Tevez, Aged 29 , previous clubs (Manchester City, Manchester United, Boca Juniors)

Photo courtesy - apurogol.net

Little to no introduction should be needed for Carlos Tevez, a Champions League winner, Olympic gold medallist and with 62 international caps to his name, he is hardly an unknown talent.

After successful stints at every club he is played in, also showing his ability to adapt to different cultures, conquering England with both Manchester clubs after notable periods in Brazil and his native Argentina. Signed for £10 million with £2 million add on's, Tevez is easily the most expensive acquisition by Juventus. (Manchester City are thought to save £27 million by offloading him) and with his recent controversy and reported attitude problems, many are a bit hesitant and reluctant to accept him. A matter not helped by him inheriting Alessandro Del Piero's legendary number 10 shirt. At age 29 and with Tevez himself stating he would like to return to Argentina in the next few years, some will also have doubts about his commitment to the club. If he is fit (and if he enjoys a healthy relationship with Conte) he is a world-class player and top finisher, who is more than capable of delivering more success to Juventus.

Five expendable players:

Paolo De Ceglie, Aged  26, previous clubs (Siena)

Photo Courtesy - vavel.com

Paolo De Ceglie is a product of the youth academy, Paolo first burst onto the scene during the 2006/2007 season during Juventus' brief stint in Serie B. A technically gifted youngster and skilled in the acceleration department, he initially had a promising career ahead of him. Fast forward six years however and after a lengthy spell on the operating table due to a knee ligament injury sustained during a league fixture against rivals AC Milan resulting in a massive dip in form, Paolo found himself used as a rotation player during the scudetto winning season of 2011/2012, usually behind Kwadwo Asamoah and Emanuel Giaccherini in the left back position.  With Federico Peluso being deployed on the flanks at his expense, De Ceglie is very much expendable and despite being a loyal Juventino, it makes sense for him to be taken off the wage bill and reinvested into a more consistent and injury free squad player.

Marco Motta, Aged 27, previous clubs (Udinese, Roma, Atalanta)

Photo courtesy - Catania.theoffside.com

Marco Motta was brought in by manager Luigi Del Neri during the 2010/2011 season due to the expiration of Martin Caceres loan from Barcelona and the departure of veteran Jonathan Zebina. Originally thought as the long term successor to the aging Zdnek Grygera, a string of poor performances failed to justify his price tag of 4 million euros. Not be content on the bench (or stands), Motta has been loaned out to several different club including a hugely disappointing spell at Cesena. After failing to find a new club and having not played for the Old Lady since 2010/2011, Juventus would likely accept any offer the receive and will under no circumstances offer any extensions to his stay in Turin.

Reto Ziegler, Aged 27 , previous clubs (Sampdoria, Tottenham Hotspur)

Photo Courtesy - football365.com

Signed a pre-contract under Luigi Del Neri during the January transfer window of 2010/2011 and joining the 2011/2012 season under Antonio Conte. Ziegler was instantly loaned out to Fenerbache due to being in Contes plans, he has since had loan spells at Locomotive Moscow and again at Fenerbache. Still not in Conte's plans and having not made a single competetive appearance to date, Ziegler is an obvious choice for the exit door. It would wise to offload him while he still has value and to free up the wage bill

Sebastian Giovinco,  Aged 26, previous clubs (Empoli, Parma [both loan spells]) 

Photo Courtesy - bleacherreport.net

Sebastian Giovinco is a product of the Juventus youth academy, first bursting on the scene with fellow youth graduates Claudio Marchiso and Paolo De Ceglie during the 2006/2007 season in Serie B. Giovinco showed raw potential coming on as a substitute for Pavel Nedved and Alessandro Del Piero, even assisting David Trezeuguet with a goal on his debut for the club. Hailed as the natural successor and heir to Del Piero's throne, Giovinco has had spells Empoli and Parma on loan due to not being predominant in coaches Claudio Ranieri and then later Ciro Ferrera.

Juventus purchased back his full contract for 7.5 million euros in 2012/2013 and much was expected of his return because of his success at Parma. However, things did not go to plan for the Italian international, with his form erratic at best and behaviour on the field controversial with him often being accused of simulation and diving. Juventus fans grew frustrated by his lack of goals despite Giovinco having the most minutes of any Juventus player in the goal box, mustering up a mere seven league goals for the eventual champions.

Despite his poor season, Giovinco still commands a high transfer fee and it would be wise to part-exchange or offload him completely to free up funds to bring in another top class player or accommodate the new signings.  Due to the arrival of Carlos Tevez, who plays in a similar position as a trequartista, Giovinco will be hard pressed for game time and will also struggle to win the Juventus faithful.

Mauricio Isla, Aged 25, previous clubs (Udinese) 

Photo courtesy europacalcio.it

Mauricio Isla, full Chilean international with 38 caps to his name, arrived at the Juventus Arena in 2012/2013 from Udinese in a deal that so him and Kwadwo Asamoah arrive at the club for 18.8 million euros, however Juventus only signed 50% of his contracts right for roughly 9.4 million euros. Isla's time at the club started on the operating table where he since spent most of last season, only managing to conjure up 8 senior appearances and failing to produce the form he was on when he departed Udinese. Eyebrows were raised among the fans about why the club would pay 9.4 million for half the rights to an already injured player that would play second fiddle to Stephan Lichsteiner in the right back position.

It would be wise to cash in or get rid of the 50%  of his rights completely due to Simone Padoin being able to play in all the positions that Isla can and  is arguably better. Because he is on a high wage and the difficulty of his contract situation, it was best for all parties if he left and found a permanent club to play for.

KRS 2013

Tails

 

The people’s concept of justice changes more often than the weather. The law is not flexible to situations or circumstances; it is permanent and fixed in place. You can't rise up against it when your perspective changes. Most of them don't have a moral or ethical reason to stage a rebellion, they are simply rats who will cling to the convenience that the mobs bring, take advantage for themselves. Scum.

The city has burned for 16 days and 16 nights, a constant screen of darkness caused by the black smoke strangles the skyline and the rumbling noises of on-going riots can be heard during any time of day. Occasionally a feeble rat routing from battle scuttles past, these men give a negative, cowardly connotation to a rat. They are more like a mouse, mice and rats, the general population devolving into rodents.

When there is no perceived consequence and no reaction to their actions, people degrade and delve into sin at a shockingly quick rate. I've seen them rape at the first chance, loot at a time when material possessions are worthless and scamper and scurry into the shadows and out of sight like the rats they are. I'll be honest that my conscious took a battering during the initial riots, weighing up the price of life against the cost of the crime. Now I barely flinch when pulling the trigger. Pest control. Scum.

A dozen of us officers fall into rank and line, a modern day testudo with plexi-glass replacing the wooden scutum. We march through the decadence and desolation that has plagued the streets. We march through the debris on the roads and we march through the shadows of the alleyways. A physical presence, a physical deterrent.  A long forgotten silence surrounds out without notice, the calm before the storm, the consecutive holding of breaths ripples down the wave of soldiers.

Like ill-disciplined barbarians, they descend towards us in flash. Bouncing off our wall of law like stones against a mountain, their initial line's crude weapons have little to no effect and their lack of tactics shows early, with the most gutless and craven fleeing before danger can even get sight of them. A shower of rocks rain down on us and the first shots ring out down the canyons of the city. The hate and passion in their fury can be seen through their eyes, burning as bright and red as the flames. Poisonousness, painful, possessed.

For the first time in my service, I felt scared. The rats had surrounded us, scuttled to the top of the buildings, enclosing and trapping us like, well, like rats. They outnumbered us badly, quantity against quality, chaos against order. Our superiority severely questioned and now challenged. Makeshift missiles plunge down from above, wounding several and confusing our senses. The first fallen brethren of the night collapses near my feet, a pool of blood rushing out to join the destruction laid ground.

A lumbering metal angel appears in the air, our rotating-blade saviour. Panic seeps through them as relief elevates us. We pack tighter together, reform and hold steady as the helicopter shoots down the ants that have swarmed around us. Victory seems imminent; another battle won in the civil war and morale reaches heights as high the armoured chopper.

Then, in a split second, the winged machine erupts into flames and starts to thrash around helplessly in the air. Confidence drains from our faces and our souls sink to a new record low. Falling, diving, crashing like a stray comet towards the earth, it makes its final decline into a crowd of people, impossible to tell which side they are on. Not that it matters, historically the grim reaper has never cared much for picking sides. There is no right or wrong to death, the victors write history and it is they who will decide who was morally correct.

Spontaneous and instant fear takes over and we are fleeing, ranks destroyed and completely broken mentally. Hopeless hypocrites, we dart towards the shelter of the shadows, too ashamed to look one another in the eye. The pied piper chased out of town by the rats. Scum.

Hellraiser

Clive Barker's 1987 Hellraiser has gone on to be something of a phenomena, spawning eight sequels, a comic book series and a whole lot of merchandise. I've never been interested in the franchise, overlooking it for the likes of Friday the 13th, Nightmare on Elm Street, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre etc. I remember being pretty creepy out by the VHS cover as a kid though.

So impulsively, I have the first three films on DVD (In a very cool puzzle box) and the eighth movie for some reason (Much like the films themselves, I can be a gluten for punishment)  I was pretty certain the franchise would decline as fast as the Saw series (That is to say, right after the first film) and my morbid curiosity wanted to see how bad the series would get. Plus I love me some sequels.

The film starts us in Morocco, where we see a shady motherfucker sell a puzzle box to another shady motherfucker who pays in dirty cash. What an asshole. Shady motherfucker numero two takes the box to a dark room and solves the puzzle box. Four gruesome bondage demon humanoids appear and hooked chains materlise and pierce the dudes skin. Blue light pierce through the window and the room turns into a butchery, the leader of the S&M crew, Pinhead, closes the box and traps the dude in the nightmarish realm. Oh, they also literally rip him apart. Pretty cool opening, intriguing to say the least even if the effects are rather dated, particularly the hooks piercing the flesh. Wonder why the linger on that shot the longest, it is rubbery to say the least.

We flip forward to see a couple looking round the house and we quickly discover that the man (Larry, Andrew Robinson) is the brother of the shady motherfucker who opened the box (Frank, Sean Chapman). We learn that the house is abandoned and had been squatted in by Frank and that Larry and his new wife Julia (Claire Higgins) are moving back in to strengthen their marriage. Through flashbacks we see that Julia and Frank once had an affair. Larry's daughter Kirsty (The smokin' hot Ashley Laurence) declines to move in with the couple due to a dislike of Julia.

Why wear a jacket when you have no skin? It'll be bloody hard to clean.

While fixing up the place, Larry cuts open his hand on a nail and spills blood in the room where Frank had opened the box. The blood is sucked through the floorboards (nice effect btw) and absorbed by a beating heart. Later that night, Julia visits the room and is greeted by a skinless Frank who tells her he can rejuvenate himself if she brings him victims blood. Mind boggling great effects on the emergence of the skinless Frank by the by.

So, Julia starts picking up schmucks to seduce and sacrifice to Frank and soon Kirsty notices, suspects she is having affairs and begins snooping about. She interrupts an attempted murder by Julia and meets skinless Frank, who keeps uttering the line "Come to Daddy" as if trying to up the creepiness. Dude is skinless, don't think he can really up it anymore to be honest. Anyway, she grabs the box and throws it out the window to escape and retrieve it. She passes out and awakes in a pretty rundown hospital where she then solves the puzzlebox, summoning the BDSM gang. If it feels like I'm speeding up through the plot, it's because I am. Kirsty strikes a deal with the group, she can lead them to Frank, the only person to escape the Cenobites and in return they will leave her alone.

Man, those Cenobites are pretty fucking cool. Yeah, yeah Pinhead is cool and all and the female Cenobite is alright, actually rather creepy at times. The real hero is "Chatterer/Chatterbox" This guy has apparently developed a cult following and I get that because he is SUPER FUNKING SWEET. He is memorable and interesting, I want to know this guys history, give him a film! The other Cenobite - Penishead (Butterball apparently, though I'm sticking with Penishead, or Scroty) is pretty laughable, probably the intention to for a gross looking monster rather than a scarier one. Whatever, he gets killed in a stupid as fudge way, a bloody doorway falls on him. A DOORWAY. These unknown trans-dimensional alien gods all have to get sucked back in the puzzlebox by Kirsty but not ole Scroty, the mighty frame of a door is his doom bringer.

You sir, are terrible.

Probably the only thing that is disappointing and a bit of a let down is the ending. Kirsty and her boyfriend (Haven't talked about him because he is unnecessary and for some reason survives. Plus he gets to kiss Ashley Laurence so fuck that guy) burn the puzzlebox and this homeless man who had been randomly popping up in a hilarious manner throughout the movie appears and straight up fucking puts his hand in the flames and retrieves the box. And then, I shit you not, he turns into an undead skeleton dragon beast thing and flies away. The effect is awful and is jarring compared to the rest of the movie. Whatever, it sets up for a sequel nicely.

Anyway this film is a blast. It hasn't aged particularly well in places and can get very silly at times but considering the budget and how original and good the effects are, you can forgive those moments. I have eight more sequels (one is a remake/reboot/thing, woo-fucking-hoo) to plough through and I sense this series declines at a faster rate than the Saw films but I can't wait because much like this film, I'm a glutton for punishment.

Chatterer AND Ashley Laurence - You are welcome

 

 

 

79/100 - "Entertaining throughout, with great effects and intriguing story if somewhat dated"

Heads

Anger. Fear. Anger. Fear. Anger. Fear.

Flames licked the sky with its burning tongue as black ash and smoke consume it whole. Amongst the debris scattered along the roads lies many a body buried under mounds of glass. Shouting, stomping and smashing their way through the city march the mob, the rebels, the people.

The uprising wasn't a spontaneous event; it was the culmination of months of increasing tension creeping into society. Jobs were lost, taxes were hiked up in a time of recession and austerity and the country resembled a corrupted police state, a modern day dystopian future. After one too many unwarranted deaths, the sheep took a stand against the pigs. Now we are deep in a civil war between the people and the state and the streets are the battle zones. And by people, I mean everybody. All ages, all faiths and religions, all skin colours, everyone. You can't sit out the revolution, you are either with us or against us. Fighting against the system or supporting it by staying idle.

They tried to stop it, tried to pre-empt it, tried to subdue to the social unrest. At first through television announcements and propaganda trying to manipulate our minds back into a flaccid state. Then, when that failed, by cutting off communications amongst ourselves, shutting down phone lines and blocking the internet completely. Finally, after that did little to stop it, they took drastic measures of oppression - cutting off water and electricity. Many starved and many died as society plunged anarchy. Chaos emerging to stand up against order.

Anger. Fear. Anger. Fear. Anger. Fear.

We cannot stop and return home, for we no longer have a house to call home. Material possessions no longer of importance, looting is just a release, symbolic of our struggle against the establishment. We set the streets a light to illuminate our fight against conviction and we are never silent, for our voices must be heard and we must always spread the word.

Getting devoured by mob mentality is a fear and burden we all share. Both sides are strife with evil men willing to take advantage of the situation for their own immoral activities. We cannot and must not tolerate them, we are campaigners for justice and must be just amongst us lest we become hypocritical caricatures of ourselves.

We march in our thousands, sprawling through the city like insects with a unified brain, all with the same thought processes and all with the same goal. Gunshots ring out, breaking the monotony of shouted curses and insults. Ahead of us stands a wall of authority, hundreds of tightly packed soilders and police, a steady cliff bracing itself from the oncoming assault of the waves. It only takes a single death to ignite that barbaric passion in us all and soon we are charging at the army, swarming towards them like hornets, united in our rage.

Anger. Fear. Anger. Fear. Anger. Fear.

We collide with the enemy and the scene erupts into a bloody frenzy. Bottles, rocks and makeshift homemade grenades fly from our side, denting the immovable opposing forces frontline. They fire their guns, release their dogs and spray their tear gas. Anybody who gets too close to their wall receives a vicious beating and is soon bludgeoned to death.

Our side storms through the buildings that enclose the warzone, the mountains that suffocate the valleys and begin scaling up towards the top. With an aerial advantage, they rain down projectiles on the enemy, flaming cocktails of death and buckets of the vilest produce known to man. Rotating blades, a flying weapon hovers at the peak of the building and answers in retaliation with bullets. The airborne war machine provides an easy target from below and using scavenged weapons, we focus on bringing it down, which with concentrated effort, proves to be shockingly easy.

The spinning hunk of metal starts to make its final descent towards the earth, like a great dragon being slayed by a mythical hero, it plunges with considerable speed towards its destination and explodes into a scaled down supernova. The enemy scuttles away in reluctant defeat through the streets, the sight of their insurance policy in flames routing them entirely.  

Bloodied and burned, the victors bask in their triumph. Absorbing the post-apocalyptic scenes that now confronted us, the causalities and the sacrifices. Almost reluctantly, we gather and reunite, preparing to continue our march, our never-ending protest.

Anger. Fear. Anger. Fear. Anger. Fear.

The King's Garden

The dandelions danced in a dignified manner as the creeping chickweed contorts itself into a grotesque shape. A high cherry tree looms over the garden in a protective manner, sentient, always listening and always reporting the subject’s actions back to the King.

Light pours in from above and yet there is no sky. No clouds, sun, moon or stars, just a satisfying glow of light to illuminate the garden. Rose sits in the centre, on the pond with her golden feet glistening in the gorgeous blue waters. She looks splendid all in white, her dress as neat as her blonde curls and she sits contently, reading her poem without words.

The Jester, in his patchwork uniform, skips and runs and hops and jumps and leaps and darts and stumbles and prances his way over to Rose, leaving an orderly trail of chaos in his wake.

"Rose, Rose, dressed in clothes. Up and up but you are down. Laugh and laugh but you still frown"

"Oh Jessie, you see that I am not sad. Why must you presume everything must be bad?"

Jessie was not the fool's name, Rose had called him something different each time until she settled on Jessie the Jester, or Jack the Joker. His head rolled around unbound by his neck, his hair dreaded and filthy, his eyes a vacant portal to another realm. Despite his chaotic appearance and maddening behaviour, Rose adored him. He was her only constant companion in the garden.

The lily pads in the pond diligently sail to their destination as the rocks at the bottom accept their fate. From the tallest trees, the leaves synchronize their suicides and fall in time, their corpses building up down below.

"Rose, Rose, where is my nose? I've smelled the rain, but can hear the snows!"

The lunatic flings himself like a ragdoll out of sight and Rose giggles softly.

"How silly." She thought to herself. "And how sad."

A top a twisting tower of ivory that reflected the white light across the land is the King. Taller than any man, a tower himself, with a posture walls would kill for. He looks down at the picturesque garden wrapped in innocence and beauty. The King is in a constant state of mourning, grieving and permanent sorrow was etched into each wrinkle on his skin. All the gold, silk and riches could never subsidies for the allure of his garden.

Its elegance was in its symmetry, its refinement in bloom, home to his delicate daughter, whom only added to its bountiful attractiveness.  He would cry down, shout down, scream down to her but she could never hear. The Jester would hear though, and somehow that made the situation more depressing for the King.

"Rose, Rose, where it goes, nobody knows." The Jester moved with the grace of a wingless wasp in flight and distracted even the old guard tree.

"Jess, you'll make a mess, sit nice and act your best."

The crazed comedian sits with crossed legs motionless as Rose leans over to kiss him on the cheek, a reward for the good behaviour, just as she makes contact on his powdered skin; he springs to his feet like a jittering Jack-in-the-box. Rose fails to contain herself and laughter, giggles and smiles spill out onto the floor.

Like observing ants in an artificial abode, The King watches his garden from above.

Corrupt

 
 

Tom, or Tam to his friends, was in every definition of the word, an average thirty-three year old British man. Married with two children, a steady, if somewhat soul-crushingly repetitive nine till five job and proud owner of a Dapol Flying Scotsman model railway

Tam had never been a greedy man, or a particularly ambitious one at that. Content with being content, the man still had a relatively full head of hair and his waistline had only been creeping out rather than spilling out like a hole in a dam. His humour consisted of recycled dirty jokes from days long gone at school and repeating lines from Top Gear. Tam was a simple man.

So when he inherited more money than he thought was in the Bank of Scotland, Tam's world changed drastically. For a start it was more money than ever possible to count (Five followed by nine zeros) and Tam was a man accustomed to tax rebates and stressing over VAT receipts, a medium of the middle class. Tam might not have earned the money but he might have deserved it. The only thing he was guilty of was looking away when passing the homeless begging.

Money changes people, a man-made concept that corrupts the soul; it's a game changer for anyone. Tam, with hindsight, should have been smart enough to realize this and should have prepared him and his family better. He didn't however and it didn't take long for the rotten and vile syndrome of greed to take control of him.  

Tam wasn't just rich overnight, he was stupidly rich overnight. Rather than spend hours constructing the scenic (and realistic) surroundings for his model train to pass through, he bought a train. Instead of reciting Jeremy Clarkson’s lines, he was having a pint with him. He no longer wore the Primark discount value t-shirts tucked into his Springsteen-esque blue jeans (which were always higher up his waist than should be physically possible). He now wore hand stitched Armani tailored suits and was so heavily doused in cologne, it was impossible to tell if he had a natural scent.

Once, while lodged in the limbo of traffic, Tam slipped a relic of his youth into the cars CD player (a relic within a relic, driven by a relic), the CD, a Pearl Jam record, brought nostalgia filled memories flooding back to Tam and soon he was singing along like a teenager in his parents garage. Seeing the young drivers around him brought a surge of embarrassment on for Tam and he quickly ejected the disc and shuffled on the radio, trying to look well mannered. This brought a great deal of shame on Tam for many years, he never understood the desire and need to conform to standards of strangers, especially when trapped in a tin can on the road. Nowadays, Pearl Jam play private concerts for Tam and the thought of nostalgic memories is just a forgotten memory in itself.

Tam is no longer the suburban British man he once was. Surrounded by hangers on and leeches and spoiled to the core, Thomas no longer dreams and he was never particularly much of a dreamer in the first place. He needs not and wants not, he just gets. He can scarcely remember his three, or was it two, children and his now ex-wife's face has been blurred from his mind by the string of loose woman that consume his life

Tam, or Thomas as he likes to be called now, was in every definition of the word, an average thirty-three year old corrupted man.

Down By The River

 

I should have been more concerned with her blood staining the leather seats yet I could not stop fixating on the smell. That's one thing people neglect to tell you about death, the smell. It's not that rotting smell you would expect either, that comes latter during the stages of decomposing, it's more like a scent. The grim reaper's cologne left lingering long after he has claimed what was his.

I lit my first post-homicide cigarette and made my best effort to make eye contact with her. I still hadn't built up the courage to do so and with nowhere else to look, I fell into a trance staring into the river. The nostalgia tinted memories came flooding back to me in an instant. Memories of being here with her, a time of youth and joy, naked skin glistening in the chilling waters and the feeling of being nervous and excited in unity.

I must have drifted off to sleep because the moment I opened my eyes, I was looking directly at her. She looked oddly content in her eternal slumber, her eyes still open and her mouth pursed in a half gape, half smile. For a split second the image of the two could of resembled a young couples picnic rather than a murder scene. The gunpowder smell that had tainted the air had long since merged with the natural smell of the lonely river. I wanted to stay in this moment for as long as possible. Of course the thought of joining her had occurred to me, but I am cowardly and could load the barrel yet never pull the trigger.

For now, I decided to have another cigarette and bask in this short period of time that had been preserved for me. I have a lifetime to remember, to reminisce or to regret. I could feel her cold stare now for the first time, judging me, begging me, haunting me. I shuddered.

I shifted around uncomfortably, knowing that sooner or later I'd have to move the dreaded body, to touch death directly and hold the tangible residue it left behind. I began to make the effort to open the door and get out the car when I noticed the indistinguishable blue lights coming down the mountain towards our peaceful haven. Prematurely defeated perhaps but my relatively carefree thoughts were relived at the knowledge that I wouldn't have to touch her.

So I sat, had my third consecutive cigarette and waited. Like when you awaken ten minutes before your alarm and doze back, I treasured every second, wishing never to be wakened again. The illuminating blue lights were beginning to wash through the interior of the car and inevitably any moment, the serene moment would be shattered.

So I sat with my baby, down by the river.

KRS

You & Me

Your soul was the sun

And mine was the moon

Your body was a temple

And mine laid in ruin

Your eyes were the light

And mine were the black

You were moving forward

And I was retreating back

Your smile radiated beauty

And yet mine was a frown

Your love lifted you up

And my hate took me down

Your heart as pure as air

And mine as cold as steel

Your mind could not contain evil

And it is all mine could feel

KRS 2013

Isolation

Inspired by battling insomnia and the experiences dealing with it.

I clamped down on my tongue hard and a trickle of life-stream fills my mouth. I know I am alive. I swallow the blood before they notice. They always notice. Any time I act in a manner that displeases them, they release a sleeping agent into my world.

Not that I know who they are. I've never seen them, nor heard them. I sense them though. Watching, always watching. I don't know how long I've been here either. Here being my world, my room, my prison. It's eight by eight, or at least that is the size I've decided on today. The walls, floor and roof are covered with white padding, soft mattress like padding coated with a hard cover. Not quite foam, not quite plastic. There are no windows and the only way to tell the passage of time is that every twelve hours the white confines turn to black and the isolation continues in complete darkness. I tried counting the days this way. I failed.

The cell is soundproofed completely and I don't know if there is an echo. It's maddening to hear your heart beat, the sound of your breath sucking up through your gullet. I can speak out loud and not know whether I heard the sound or I just thought it. The microcosm of my brain is my own dimension to retreat into. Yet I can hear the electric circuits buzzing around in my head forcing me into consciousness.

I don't think I am mad. Perhaps I was for a while but overcame it. Or adjusted to it. Can one really be sane trapped like this? My senses are slowly dying, I can't remember taste, they feed when they put me to sleep. I tried licking and biting myself and still nothing. Touch is fading too, although I feel the beat of my pulse constantly. I once masturbated in front of what I assume is the front of the room, it is the only wall with a difference, it has the nozzle to release the gas. It is an all seeing eye too, I'm sure of it. I did it to see if I could still feel somewhat human, or maybe to show them I could be as crazy as they desired.

I have tried to commit suicide countless times and every time they foil it. I cannot starve myself, nor can I fashion a noose out of the pyjamas they supply. Once I tried biting my veins but alas it was in vain. Death is an escape out of my reach.

Recently, or as recent as I can recall, I have begun staying awake as long as possible. Deriving myself of sleep has caused the hallucinations to become more intense and longer in duration. I don't mind, they usually manifest as blurred shadows or occasionally, a humanoid. I've long forgotten what a human face looks like and the humanoid never has one. Just two dark sockets for eyes over a blank mask. It never speaks but I don't mind, I feel a little less lonely with it in my room.

I believe I have mastered beating their sleep inducing toxin, I can realistically simulate absent consciousness and I am in complete control  of my breathing intake. They will watch me, remove me and clean me up to their satisfaction and I will be awake for it. I've been waiting an eternity in solitude to confront my captors and finally it has arrived. Excitement pours in for the first time in years and I begin to get nervous it shows on my face. I try to keep my expression to a minimum to not amuse them, this mental and physical torture won't break me.

Tonight's the night. I open my eyes outside my penitentiary for the what feels like the first time. I escape confinement and the shackles of my desolation are freed. They will notice quickly and there is a chance I may be punished. I don't care. Freedom from this confinement is the only thing I care about. I can barely contain myself, I can't wait but I must. I clamp down hard on my tongue again to reassure myself. Tonight is the night.

KRS 2013

Django Kill

"If anybody tries and touches that boys coffin, I'll have him shot"

Django Kill aka Django Kill!...If You Live, Shoot! aka Oro Hondo aka Se Sei Vivo Spara is director Giulio Questi's 1967 film debut starring Cuban actor Tomas Milian (Traffic). Technically not a sequel to Sergio Corbucci's 1966 classic Django. It was made with absolutely not connection to the film (It's original title is Se Sei Vivo Spara - If You Live, Shoot!) and is simply a victim of overexcited producers trying to cash in on Django's success. However, I like to think of this as a prequel to the original and for simplicity sake I'll be referring to Tomas Milian's character as Django. (He's called "The Stranger" and is never given a name)

The film opens with Django's hand bursting out of the grave. Read that again. What a fucking awesome way to introduce your main character. Django is found by two native Americans who make him golden bullets from gold Django "died" for. A series of flashbacks detail how Django got to the grave - a robbery and of course, a betrayal. The guides then lead Django into town, a place they have dubbed "The Unhappy Place" and the rest of the film chronicles three factions fighting for the stolen gold with Django in the middle.

Well this can't end well

I'm not going to go into too much detail about the plot. It's not that important in this film, the characters and visuals are. First up, this is a low, low, low budget Spaghetti Western. A construction site doubles for a desert, tire marks are visible for the dolly and they straight up don't finish a torture scene. Django is crucified in a cell and left with various animals, vampire bats, rats and a giant lizard. Obviously they intended for the animals to start eating Django but for what ever reason, they ran out of budget and what we are left with is Django screaming (silently, the audio goes off the rails here) and the animals kind of idly laying about. I swear the big fuck-off lizard just smiles. That is the thing with this film - it is fucking crazy. I mean that in a positive way, it's bizarre, surreal and insane but never pretentious. It is so unique and it's an experience everyone should try at least once.

The towns inhabits are all selfish, cruel, horrible people. There is a scene where Django fills his betrayer full of bullets and when the town discover they are made of gold, they descent upon the still living man and literally pull the bullets out of his body. They hang outsiders and they also scalp one of the Indians. It is a grim, un-easy and pessimistic place. To it's credit, the movie follows the formula for a good Django film: Django = Good, Everyone else = Bad. Despite everyone being an enemy, the main (and best) antagonist is Mr Zorro/Mr Sorrow (the name changes, others do too) played by Roberto Camardiel. He is gloriously over the top and doesn't just chew the scenery, he devours it. He heads a gang of homosexual outlaws dressed in all black. They kidnap the son of the town merchant/saloon owner/bartender and hold him ransom, demanding the father give up his share of the stolen gold. Of course, in this world everyone is a prick so the father doesn't give up his gold and the gang (implied) rape the son. And then the son shoots himself. Folks, welcome to the fucked up world of Django Kill.

Han Solo, C3PO and R2D2 with budget cuts

Tomas Milian's Django/The Stranger is great. Probably my second favourite Django next to Nero. He has great screen presence, some cool one-liners and one badass bandanna/headband. It's obvious one of the Star Wars costume designers enjoyed this because Han Solo is the fucking double of Django. Except Django has golden bullets and Django always shoots first.

The editing has been described as "psychedelic" and well that's one word for it. At times it is directed wonderfully, with shots framed so well even Leone would smile. At other times, there is a rapid fire of half second shots that look like Michael Bay's salvia dreams. Sometimes the shots are just upside down, at one point Django literally rolls up a hill. Questi obviously didn't enjoy westerns and steered this as far away from convention as possible. It's honestly more of a horror or nightmare than a western.

The score by Ivan Vandor is simple but very effective and memorable. It reminds me at times of Django Ultimo Killer's theme, which is very fitting. Also, considering the budget, the ending is fantastic and actually rather impressive.

67/100 - "Django Kill is a fucked up ride but one everyone should try."