Writing Prompt: Two Boys & A Bot

Image property Simon Stålenhag via Geek Art Gallery

A lone police van trundled along a long forgotten dirt road that terminated at the edge of an overgrown field of grass. It broke from the tree line and made its way towards the three figures in the centre. But not a direct course; can't do with the appearance of attack. The office in the passenger seat let out a sigh "I hate fieldwork."
The driver shook his head and gave him a disapproving look while the others in the back attempted to smother their amusement.
"Smith, one more wisecrack out of you and you stay in the station for a month."
Office Smith promptly put his most serious face on; hard eyes; mouth fixed into a tight line.
"That's more like it," uttered the driver as he reached two digits to his headset, "Station this is unit six-upsilon-niner-niner, we have positive visual on subjects. Will attempt retrieval of stolen biped and control module."
The radio retorted with long hiss.
"Dammit, nothing but snake chatter. Control module must have a security blanket over the area. Looks like we're on our own." As determined and convincing as the voice was, the younger officers in the back gave one another nervous glances.
Slowly they exited the vehicle, careful as to not slam the doors or make any sudden moves. The biped stood frozen in a ready state, poised to move at the slightest chance. Three heads all focussed on the new arrivals to their peaceful point on the planet, claw raised as the lead officer approached.
"THAT'S CLOSE ENOUGH," boomed a metallic voice.
"Okay young'un" said the driver as he softly padded the air behind him, signalling the others to stay put, "we wont come any closer. Just want to talk."
The three figures remained motionless, save for the claw that bobbed slightly as the hydraulics pumped.
"My name is Officer Winchester. These here are officers Smith, Wesson, and Colt." He paused briefly to allow the information to sink in. "We've been sent to bring back what was taken, you understand?"
Two heads nodded simultaneously, yet the claw remained pointed towards the unit. The biped glanced almost fearfully at the holstered weapons on the hips of the officers and Officer Winchester shared a thought the rest of his unit most likely had; what the hell has he go to be afraid of?
"Now you need to return what was taken and then we can all get back to what we would normally be doing." Winchester was by far the eldest and most experienced, but even he was attempting to calculate just when this was all going to go south. It was just a matter of time.
"DON'T WANT TO. DON'T LIKE BEING BACK THERE."
"You have to understand, we're just following orders. It's the way of things. Can't just go taking what you want."
Silence. The words were getting through somehow, whether it was the fatigue from being out here so long or not, Winchester felt a spark of understanding.
"BUT THERE WILL BE TROUBLE. MOTHER WILL PUNISH." Now the voice was tinged with anxiety. Two massive feet, multi-jointed operating claw, a good ten feet of solid metal and power, and yet still afraid of Mother.
"THESE ARE MINE NOW."
"Now you know full well that isn't true. Those two things belong back in the factory they came from. Hell one isn't even complete. You're missing a claw there." That's it, thought Winchester, sow the doubt.
The other officers had ever so smoothly spread wider as all attention was fixed on Officer Winchester, no longer a solid target but now four. Should the big one make a move it was better there was one injury, no matter how great, and three guns to counter.
"IT'S BROKEN...THE HAND WON'T MOVE ANY MORE." The last part came in a sulking tone only a child can manage.
"Well there you go then. You just hand them back to us so we can get them all fixed up." Winchester bargained. He testingly took a few steps forward as he spoke and was struck by the odour coming from the machine; burnt almonds. Any machine that hasn't had its tanks renewed regularly starts spitting out the stench. The steps were a bad idea.
"STOP MOVING. I TOLD YOU. NO ONE LISTENS." Anger. Theft or no, this one wasn't processing things properly. "I'LL MAKE THEM LISTEN."
Age, experience, leadership capabilities, none of it makes a difference when a three tonne giant comes at you.
"Oh shit," managed Winchester before his entire body was kicked clear, landing ungracefully behind the van.
"Unit move!" shouted Smith taking his unholstered weapon to hand.
Flashes of light and heat tore through the air, most leaving naught more than scorch marks on the hull of the behemoth. Split seconds of silence opened up between shots and impacts that allowed the broken form of Winchester to utter curses. The scorched earth and now smoking hull was now half lost in a haze of weapon emissions and the now black smoke being pumped into the air by the great machine, it now so drained of fuel it was burning its own tank lining in the sudden burst of movement. Still the two small figures remained unmoving.
"Cease fire, cease fire." Came a disembodied voice, the owner lost among the smoke.
The noise all but diminished save for the hissing of burnt grass. A stray wind began to clear the sight, he aftermath becoming all too clear.
"Colt, check on Winchester, we've got this," ordered Smith.
Winchester lay in a pool of his own fluids, staining the ground with what made him function. "This did not go to plan," his broken voice managed before fading out entirely.
"There was a plan, sir?" Colt teased.
The same disapproving look crossed Winchesters face, though now slightly comical as one eye hung limply from socket.
"Colt? How's the old thing doing back there?" Shouted Smith, one eye still trained on the silhouettes in front of them.
"A lot of damn work to fix him but he just scowled at me so he's probably fine."

One hour later and the field was now swarming with figures tending to the last few fires in the grass and a small unit subduing the thief with inch thick steel cables. Around the back of the van sparks and crackles came from the form of Winchester as a repairman restored his eye and voice.
"That should do you for now, sir. We'll have to sort the rest back at the station but it doesn't seem too serious. Nothing a little R&R and some elbow grease can't fix."
Smith gave a grin "How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Hey doc, you mind taking my visual and audible capabilities away so I don't have to look at this idiot?" Groaned Winchester as he was hauled on to a stretcher. "Smith, report."
"One of the little ones got caught by a stray shot. Plastered its brains in a bunch of hot piles. Big one is being strapped as we speak and the control module is being taken apart in a cleanbox. Can't get inside to see any more; you know how those factory types are with their little portable surgery rooms."
"We lost the biped? Aw that's all I need. Station is going to have us running diagnostics for weeks for that stray shot." Griped the damaged form on the stretcher.
Unit 6u99, or The Gunners as they were known, began seating themselves in the van, Smith now at the wheel in Winchester's absence.
The stoic Wesson suddenly chimed in, "Why did you think he did it? Why take them?"
"Damn thing is a factory-line bot. All it does day in day out is tend to the little ones, moving vats about the place. It'd drive me pretty nuts. Besides, you see the smoke coming out of the thing? Who knows how screwed its processors are after burning that much liner." Suggested the new driver as he fired up the engine.
"The control module is kind of okay," stated Colt, "but the biped? That one's all fleshy and soft. There's no bot parts or anything, just one hundred percent human. Did you see the mess the head left after that stray round? Gross."
The van reversed over the dark oil stain left by their leader and then started back along that forgotten dirt road back to civilization and Mother. Mother would fix the bugs in the big claw unit and things would go back to normal.
And they could always make more humans.

Writing Prompt: Family For Dinner

Let me tell you about the time my brother tried to cook me for dinner.

It was by all accounts a classier affair than the usual cannibal tales you see and hear in movies. No bubbling cauldron here or grand oven in a sweet-smelling house, oh no. There was marinading with rich sauces. Finely chopped vegetables of the highest quality more at home on the plates of the wealthy than in some run of the mill stew. Hannibal Lecter himself would have given a firm nod and glowing smile were he attending the meal. And that's exactly what it was.

A meal.

He didn't want to kill me. No, murder was far too filthy a task for my brother to tarnish his precious time with. He was just curious that's all. I'll admit that even I was interested to know. I mean it is just meat after all. Albeit the meat was me and the me had a life with hopes and dreams and a comfortable but tedious job at a bank. Ha ha, oh yeah that was the funny bit; there's me spending several hours a day surrounded by people's hard earned green and suddenly I'm to be served up with a side salad. Well I thought it was funny. Maybe a little poetic...ironic? Ah who knows, that old song screwed up everyone's perception of irony. Catchy though. I actually got to see the chick in concert once and she--oh shoot I'm getting off topic. Where was I? Oh yeah, my brother didn't get the gag. He was the serious one in the family which worked for him in the long run. Keep a level head all your life and your success becomes big enough to warrant using laser cut titanium steak knives to deftly carve slices of your brother on to exquisite china plates.

POP

Ah, there goes the champagne. Like I said, classy guy my brother, so I picked up one or two habits from him. Now I know what you're thinking 'who has champagne at a regular dinner' but I never went in for the whole wine thing. Waste of a grape if you ask me. No I'd much rather have a beer but champagne makes me feel all floaty in my head. There I go again getting off topic. Terrible habit. Obviously the evening ended with me not being digested beneath a finely tailored suit that hung on the frame of my own brother. There comes a point, as I'm sure you can imagine, when your own mortality suddenly stares you in the face and makes things very clear.

You fight.

Or you die.

I wasn't ready to become meat and even when the thing I was to fight was my own flesh and blood, my family, I fought. When I was trapped, tied up, half submerged in some flavouring, I kept thinking to myself how my brother would look himself in the mirror afterwards. Stare into his own face knowing he had killed and consumed not just another person but someone he had grown up with, shared laughter and love with, arguments and rivalries, hopes and dreams. A life. And do you know what I realised after the whole ordeal was over? After I had survived? Looking at yourself in the mirror is pretty damn easy. But then I had to look at his face first which was more or less the same thing.

Identical twins are funny like that.

So that's my story. I'm sorry if it wasn't told very well, I've never been one for captivating my listeners. It's still a good story though. It has drama and tragedy and tension. Oh and that joke about the money and the salad? You could almost say I...garnished it just right. Ha! See, I'm learning how to tell it better. Practice makes perfect as they say. There's more to it as well but it's the sort of thing that goes in an epilogue of a book. I bet it would even have more flare that way. I might write it one day now that I have the time. My brother really did have a lot of money you know. Not much for taste though, I mean look at this kitchen? Art nouveau belongs anywhere but a kitchen. His kitchen is awful...my kitchen now I suppose.

DING

Aha! That's the oven ready. Perfect timing. I was starting to ramble there at the end. Ooh, you'll like this, watch; just an ordinary double-wide refrigerator right? Wrong, it's the oven! Like it? I modified it myself; my brother was the serious one but I got the creativity. Big meals need big ovens and this one certainly does the trick. It has helped cook all kinds of delicacies for me.
Well thanks for listening, detective. It's very therapeutic of me to get all this off my chest now and then. Clears the mind. You should never eat when you're stressed you know? Now lets get this gag off, don't want it burning up in the oven and spoiling the meat.

"You're insane!"

Now now, detective, that's hardly professional of you. And after I treated you so well; fed you, kept you entertained. Don't ruin it.

"Please don't do this!"

Oh but detective it's already done.

I'm hungry now.

Writing Prompt: The Nightmare With a Clipboard

As part of a writing prompt, the wonderful folk over at io9 put up the below picture. Yours truly decided to give it a whirl. The following story is the result. Enjoy!

Image titled "Nightmare" from Imaginism Studios' Bobby Chiu and Chris Sanders, via The Art of Animation

Given the circumstances, subject 19, or Colin as the boys in admin had begun referring to him, had one of the finer rooms amongst the study group. His bed was plush and akin to that of a cloud, so they were told. A human cloud. One of those white ones that resembled an out of focus lump of brain. Not like the clouds back home thought Devigora the Forsaken One, of the Buckingham Forsaken Ones. Back home they appeared to be composed of an endless black tinged with a poisonous green. Lightning the colour of dry blood would leap across their surfaces followed by a thunder akin to that of a rockslide grinding bones into dust. They were really quite beautiful. Human clouds were so dull and clean it's a wonder they even bothered to look up.
Devigora shifted her clipboard into a more comfortable position.
"Now then, 19, in our last session you showed a remarkable amount of resilience to our spiders program. Even the newer version with the nasal infiltration. The folks upstairs are really quite impressed."
"Muh...spi...ders...muh-nuh," shivered Colin, eyes wide and staring into oblivion.
"Oh, 19. You really do give the best feedback." Devigora beamed, her fangs shining with an otherworldly moonlight.
Frankly in this line of work getting any form of coherent nonsense out of the inane babbling was like getting blood from a stone (not the bleeding rocks of Stav'nuk'gahar, that would be silly). But Colin was actually quite clear and responsive. He even stopped wetting the bed several months earlier. A real trooper this one.
"Now since you're showing such promise it's only right that you get as much of a reward out of this as we do working on yo--with you. I mean we're not monsters!" She looked genuinely  hurt by the very idea. Why, this was important work. The company was responsible for some of the most twisted and depraved thoughts and dreams known to mankind. Waterboarding? Them. Serial killers? Them. Reality TV? Them. If it wasn't for Them certain works in the human world may never have existed. Stephen King would be crunching numbers at a tire dealership. Hannibal Lecter might have been a great ficitonal hero of the medical world. Though that Lovecraft fellow was a complete anomaly and studies are still being undertaken to make sense of it. Common theory suggests he was actually half human, half Nightmare. This also suggests a level of kink amongst his parents that doesn't bear thinking about.
The wyrm beneath Devigora inched forward, hot reeking breath brushing Colin's ear. It was hungry. It's bat-like nose could smell the fear emanating from subject 19 and this stirred it's eight stomachs. Soon to be nine if it moved any closer. That's the problem with smoke-wyrms; the longer they get there more there is to feed.
"Fwuh pff r-reward...?" See? Colin was a pro.
"That's right, 19. If you give us the best you can give from the next stage of programming, we're willing to give you a little vacation. You may even be passed over altogether during your little sojourn and not have to come back at all." This of course was a complete lie. The efficiency and mental anguish department determined that the best subjects, like Colin, eventually put up little blocks that prevented them from experiencing the worst programmes. Or they went mad and gave false data. Humans were very selfish.
"Buh-buh sca...scared...muh-mee," whimpered Colin. He couldn't see Devigora and the wyrm, not really, only feel they were near and think there was something in the furthest reaches of the corner of his eye. He would fall asleep again soon, though he didn't want to. Waking up in his own room again. Fortunately he had begun to remember less and less of what it was that kept him awake in the dark.
Devigora rolled her eyes at the mention of subject 19's mother, then regretted the accompanying head motion. The ethereal wind that kept her hair afloat and gave her the natural grace and beauty renowned amongst the Buckingham Forsaken Ones, occasionally blew strands the wrong way. This phantom breeze had knotted some strands about a horn. Beauty was such a curse.
A shudder from the wyrm signalled that the programme was ready for insertion. It showed promise this new programme. Something to do with maggots and hunger and patriarchal death.
Colin twitched once more then drifted off into not-so-peaceful slumber. Devigora marked some boxes on her clipboard, fidgeting all the while. Smoke-wyrms were fantastic for inspiring terror and delivering news to their riders. But they were terrible office chairs.

FILM REVIEW - Superman: Unbound

The Man of Steel is ready to swoop in and save us all from the fearsome might of summer, what with its inferno heat (boo) and pressure to go outside where people are (hiss). Whether it will be a fresh take on the Last Son of Krypton or just another spandex feature for the masses is entirely up to you, but what is always overlooked are the animated features that DC puts out between it's blockbusters. This release is something to put you in the mood for mislabelling a flying man as a bird or plane (honestly, how bad were those people's eyes!?) and it goes by the name of Superman: Unbound.

Much like DC's previous forays into the animated world that base the plot on either a comic book story arc or that of a graphic novel, Superman: Unbound takes it's foundations from the 5-issue arc titled Superman: Brainiac from 2008. The feature introduces a villain that may not be that well known to the masses since he has never been used in a live action film (though was portrayed amazingly by James Marsters in the TV show Smallville ), that of Brainiac. Ol'Brainy is not your average criminal; not a bald billionaire or an insane clown but that of an alien being intent on collecting all knowledge. Not all that intimidating until it comes to light that he is some kind of super-genius with a spaceship shaped like a giant skull capable of snuffing out stars and a penchant for shrinking down a chosen city into a little bottle. Jokes on him really since stamps are SO much easier to collect.

Starring alongside Supes is Supergirl, the young and brash cousin of the beloved hero. All the powers, not so much on the restraint. When Brainiac sets his sights on our blue marble its up to the Kryptonians to save the day. Superman is up against a very unusual foe in this case; he cannot reason with his foe; the enemy is about on par in power; and shockingly enough he's pretty smart. Or you would hope with a name like Brainiac.

"Five bucks says I can hock-a-loogie on to that yuppie's head."

Superpowered battles is the name of the game and when you throw in some things Superman can't fight with his fists you get a little more depth to a man who essentially punches things really hard. The emotions and personalities are brought to the fore by some fantastically cast actors in the form of Matt Bomer (White Collar) as Superman, Castle alums Stana Katic and Molly Quinn as Lois Lane and Supergirl respectively, and the brilliant John Noble (Fringe) as Brainiac. Throw in the masterful animation DC animated is known for and you have a truly...super, experience. That good it warrants a pun. The climactic battle, while perhaps not on par with the Hollywood blockbusters, is perhaps a fine example of an all out super strength brawl.

Superman: Unbound is a great movie to either warm you up for Man of Steel or to give you the fix if you're still buzzing from the live action reboot. DC animated movies are on a roll (but not a film roll...because they're animated...geddit?) and are spitting out quality film after quality film. Lets just hope a real spacefaring super-brain doesn't see what they're doing and make their way here.

I'm Bored With You Being Bored

I've noticed how little I use the word 'bored' now. It's not something I actively phased out of my vocabulary but I can no longer understand the use of it at the frequency I now hear it among my peers.

Summed up quite nicely in this quote from comedian Louis C K;

“’I’m bored’ is a useless thing to say. You live in a great, big, vast world that you've seen none percent of. And even the inside of your own mind is endless. It goes on forever inwardly. Do you understand? Being the fact that you’re alive is amazing, so you don’t get to be bored.”

There's worse though. If you're in a room waiting for something or you're being dragged around somewhere then it's almost okay to say it. But people saying it while on the internet? This invisible mist of cat pictures and boobs and games where you can shoot water balloons at cats with boobs that surrounds us 24/7? That's unimaginative. There's books; drawing; music; exercise (for those inclined). But no. TOWIE isn't on right now and they've already flicked through that now dog-eared copy of OK magazine.

So I don't get to say "I'm bored" any more. I can say I'm unprepared. Start riding the rails somewhere or be stuck on some other piece of public transport and I'll be inclined to take my Kindle with me. No Kindle? Then I more than likely have my phone, which is basically a full working desktop computer in my pocket (although I might be pleased to see you as well) and that can be used as a fucking Kindle! Got some paper and a pen? Doodle. It sure as hell won't be the Sistine Chapel but that elephant ass you put in the corner sure is funny.

Hell, for years I've wanted to need less sleep so I can do the things I want. There isn't time in the day.

If you ever find yourself without a phone, access to writing tools, or any kind of technology both new and old, then chances are you're in a pretty screwed up situation to begin with and even then you shouldn't be bored with that. If you are then you have serious issues. Big issues. Yes that was a homeless joke.

Stop saying you're bored. You can find something boring but don't be bored. Get bored reading this? Then tough because I just stole those minutes of your life and now I'll live slightly longer. A few minutes more of not being bored.

Goodbye to a Dear Friend

I have sat staring at a blinking cursor for what could be 15 seconds or 15 minutes. I have mulled over opening lines and deleted words and no matter what I write, in an attempt to sound deep or wise, nothing works. So I will do my best to speak plain.

At 4pm today, as I sat in a room of strangers, in a business I don't care for, earning money for men I don't even know, my best friend of 17 years took his last breath. My dog, the best thing in my life, finally succumbed to the passage of time. The puppy that wandered into my house with a ribbon and tag around his neck on Christmas day all those years ago wouldn't be there when I came home ever again.

I have been lucky to rarely experience the death of those dear to me with the maturity of a grown man. But I do not handle death well. I shutdown. Bury everything and become a shadow of my usual self until my mind wanders enough to forget how to feel about it. I can't bring myself to talk about it, so much so that even saying the words is a struggle. So if you'll allow me, I'd like to say what I can now without moving my lips.

That Christmas morning is mostly a haze now; addled by time and a childish attention span. I can't remember what I wore or what time it was or if there was even a doorbell or just a knock. All I remember is being told to get the door and doing so willingly since we always had a big family Christmas. I walked down the hallway, opened the door, and in trots a tiny black and tan Jack Russell terrier with a square present tag tied loosely around his neck in gold ribbon. The first thought to pass through my mind and almost reach my mouth was "When did you get a new dog?". Then there, in gold ink written it the tag it read:

Dear Liam
My name is Josh. Debbie and Richard have taken me away from my mummy and I need somewhere to live. Will you look after me.

He was mine. I became a boy and his dog.

Later that day my father returned from a fake pub outing with another Jack Russell terrier in his arms called Holly. And I loved them more than anything. We spent hours in each others company both at home and at some stables my mother worked at. I learned their mannerisms, their quirks, their individual barks. The way Holly's ears always laid flat to her head making her look forever timid (even though she had the temperament and quickness of a hunter). The way Josh would half howl, half woof at anything that drew his attention then simply make an oof sound when he couldn't be bothered. Holly would bark at any stray leaf or person that passed by the window but Josh would only bark when someone was at the door. More often than not when I was in my room I would rely on their barks and howls to signal either someone at the door or the phone ringing.

Years later we took in another dog, a Border Collie named Sally who had been abused most of her life. Finally amongst a caring family, Sally began to act more like the small dogs that shared her home, often attempting what we affectionately called 'the slow climb' wherein she would inch her way up on to the sofa with her forelegs then in one final push, throw the rest of her weight on to your lap.

They were never trained properly, not in any traditional sense, but I could whistle for their attention and call them to me when needed. For anyone else out there who knows the feeling it's very connecting. Feeling that they can understand you and you them.

Years passed and eventually Sally, the eldest of the three, began to succumb to her age. She had become gradually weaker until eventually one morning she couldn't support herself and we realised it was finally that time. The harshest blow came three weeks later when Holly suddenly took an odd turn and while overnight at the vets, passed away in her sleep. It was unexpected and shook me to my core. I went to the vets with my mother to see her one last time and immediately regretted it; so unprepared for seeing her body that I had to leave the room and resigned myself to sit quietly in the car.

My closest friends know that I feel more for animals than people. Whether that makes me a bad person I don't know and I'll let you be the judge of that. Yet even after losing two of my little pack I still had my dog. My Wa we had taken to calling him after saying Josh-u-wah. My best friend who for a large portion of his life had been on steroids due to an illness that struck while I was at university. The illness gave him constant stomach issues but more often than not the pills gave him renewed energy and life. With an appetite to match. My greedy pig somehow gained a bottomless stomach and always one to sniff out the tiniest crumb he never relented in his quest for another bite.

In the last year time began to catch up with him as he slowly lost most of his sight and some of his hearing. His sense of smell though never wavered and still he found a stray biscuit. He had gotten weaker and now seemed like the old man his coat made him out to be; the tan giving way to white as he went grey with age. I had begun to dread any unexpected phone call from a family member once I moved out. I would hesitantly answer each call expecting a tearful voice on the other side only to be greeted by the cheerful voices of my parents or sisters. I took to making sure I spent time with him whenever I went home with the first thing I did upon walking into the house being to walk right up to his bed, letting him sniff my hand so as not to spook him, then just sit stroking him for a little while. We couldn't play any more but I was content just knowing he was there. Any time I had gone to stay with family he had come with me and after the loss of Holly and Sally he had taken to sleeping on my bed, eventually having his own bed in the room once he was too old to jump up. He was my constant. With his own schedule of of when to eat, when it was bed time and when to wake up. He still slept in my room after I had left.

This past week I was told that he had struggled somewhat, having what appeared to be two fainting attacks. At this point, even after preparing for the worst and knowing that it would soon be time to say goodbye, I froze up. I was torn between seeing him one last time and not wanting to see him struggle to catch his breath. Thankfully after much goading from my family I travelled home to see him one final time. There was no plan to speak of, I simply did what I usually did, let him sniff my hand and stroked him, only this time I sat next to him for seven hours reading. Content that he was there next to me. A good book and the dearest thing in the world to me. Now as I sit here, having finally given in to the tears that have threatened all evening I realise it was perhaps the best seven hours I could hope for.

Goodbye Josh. You were the best thing in my life and I will always miss you.

Finding Ni No (Kuni)

There was once a review here. A game review as it were. A review of the game Ni No Kuni. But times change. Still want to read it? Head over to Bring The Noise for my verdict.

The Gloves Are Off

Know my problem? No not that stockings thing. Or that shoe sniffing bit. My problem is I tend to find most movies entertaining to the point where I generally won't have a bad word to say about them. If I don't enjoy it then I simply think it is okay rather than actually bad. With the exceptions of The Golden Compass and The Last Airbender (geez what train-wrecks they were). The latter of which I still can't bring myself to finish even after 5 separate attempts. The past year though has seen a change in this attitude and it all starts with a crazy billionaire in a cowl.

The Dark Knight is without doubt a rather spectacular piece of cinema, one some friends and I had the pleasure of seeing in IMAX scale of awesome. Heath Ledger (rest well) easily made cinema history with his portrayal of the Clown Prince of Crime, evident by the unimaginative many who tried to imitate him for Halloween. Throw in the new dark and troubled Two-Face and the moving picture was a spectacle of the comic book industry on the silver screen, one that made me walk from the screen room post credits with a look of awe, wonder, and braindead-ness; IMAX TDK having left my brains scattered on the back wall.

That disappearing pencil scene. THAT SCENE!

Time went by. We lost a wonderful actor. The new Joker was no more. Suddenly Christopher Nolan's vision for the ultimate Batman movie trilogy was thrown into turmoil with no real life Caped Crusader to right things. Until Bane.

Bane is a wonderful villain notorious on the page for "breaking the bat" yet a laughing stock on screen thanks to that nipple-suited Batman flick. But maybe this time it would be different. So time went by once more until finally it was released; The Dark Knight Rises. Crowds were wowed. Bane retook his place as a true enemy of the Bat. Hidden energy projects. Betrayals. Secrets revealed. Hostages. A bright flash. A nod to a little bird. Credits roll. The same friends I witnessed the splendour of TDK with emerged from the screen room.

"That was fucking awesome."

"Brilliant. What did you think, Liam?"

Hesitantly, "...I got kinda bored. Almost fell asleep at one point."

Don't get me wrong on this, it is not a bad movie, not by a long shot. It's a good movie. But it just didn't wow me. It didn't draw me in. Had it been on TV it may have a warranted a channel surf and a casual "What else is on?"

How could a film based on a comic book (a favourite medium), on a superhero (a favourite character type), done to a blockbuster standard not have impressed me? A question I still cannot answer. Perhaps I just wasn't in the mood. But it happened again. Only this time the hero wasn't wearing tights and a cape, instead he wore a suit and a licence to kill.

James' ADD was acting up again.

James Bond, in his many movie incarnations, has been watched since I was a kid. The back of my skull has a white scar beneath the curls after a shoving incident by a sister; refusing to give up the remote to a bigger and shark-scared sister during an underwater scene is a bad idea in case you wondered. No one could doubt that 007 has been slowly declining in quality over the past few years. Tomorrow Never Dies was the last great Bond flick in my opinion, with Casino Royale having some great scenes but not wowing me overall. Quantum of Solace (I actually couldn't remember the name of it for a moment) was forgettable at best. Actually forgettable. I have no idea what happens in that movie and I know I've seen it. So Skyfall seemed like it could fix things for me, after all, Q was in it. Fucking Q! Spy nerd and gadget-maker extraordinaire!

People saw it and everyone got all excited and said how amazing it was and how you just had to see it. I saw it. It sucked. Most of the first act was nigh on useless and didn't even register with the shiny-thing part of my brain let alone the part that actually thinks. It wasn't until Javier Bardem sauntered in, being a real Bond villain with intelligence, willpower, and a deformity to rival how we feel the morning after a night on the sauce, that things really got interesting. But even then it was like sitting in traffic; fluctuating between "YAY, were moving!" and "I am gonna cut some fool!" at uneven intervals. The epilogue hits and suddenly, for all of 30 seconds, you're watching a James Bond movie. Credits roll. I annoyed more than one person that night with my pseudo-narration of how sorry I was to have watched it.

There it was, two of the biggest blockbusters within 12 months and I probably had more fun scratching myself in the shower that one time than in the collective hours of watching them. Please understand that the shower in question was incredible and I really had to itch. Plus I like putting that thought into your heads...perverts.

Suddenly there were bad things to be said about movies. Movies that had entertained me yet somehow deserved my verbal thrashing. Why, most of this post is just that. So what had changed? Do I feel the films hadn't done justice to the source material? Had they been over-hyped in the media and my mind? Yet it didn't stop at movies, for books and TV shows were now open to my judgement. A switch in me has flipped and with it the critic, scourge of the creative types, has awoken from his 25 year slumber.

It is a rather freeing thing. For much how a brighter light makes a darker shadow, those things that give me joy are now so much more wonderful with my ire and judgement here to balance the equation.

It is a brave new world, my reading friends.

And I am going love and hate it more than ever.

If These Pages Could Talk

The children's books would be running around outside, watched over by the firm guidance of the How-To section.

Meanwhile the Encyclopaedias would sit on the porch in their rocking chairs, mumbling about the war and 'in their day'.

Hunger Games would be in it's room listening to the Music Biographies with the other young adult novels.

Then once it got dark, the Cooking books would call them all inside for dinner before the Romance novels would do their duties of guiding the children's books to bed, and the Adventure novels would regale them with tales of daring-do before they'd fall fast asleep.

Of course single Aunt Mills & Aunt Boon would be downstairs making sure the YA novels weren't checking out the Softcore section.

Then we'd open the bookshop the next morning and it would all start again.

If all the world's a stage then I think our best storytellers should get to act out their lives too.

Roses Are White!

Be honest, the bests roses ARE white.

JANUARY! Month of...diets. I guess.

Not a lot really happens in January, does it? I mean sure there's New Year's Day but everyone knows that's just an extension of New Year's Eve and not really the start of January. January 2nd is actually the first day of the month. So in essence that poem is wrong and January does not have 31 days and all your forebears are lying to you.

February though! Oh now there is a month. The YEAR truly starts then. Seems to be a lot of birthdays that month, plus we all get paid for the first time since Christmas and suddenly our bank accounts aren't hollow abused things whimpering and recoiling at our very touch.

 For one it is home to 2nd Christmas; affectionately referred to by my loved ones as "Liam's Birthday". But to the uneducated and unenlightened it is shot through the centre by a heart-tipped arrow; I am of course talking about the universally reviled and adored Valentine's Day.

Time was Valentine's Day was as important to me as combing my hair, in that it only happened when someone pointed it out. By my late teenage years, after a rather unsuccessful attempt at university, I had become bitter and resentful of things, none more so than THAT day. But by my mid-twenties I was more adjusted, more mature (okay I still laugh at the word penis but come on! PENIS) and was generally a happier fellow. This brings us to now, a time when Valentine's Day is a day I look forward to. Not as much as 2nd Christmas though.

Because presents.

PRESENTS.

People will hate it because it reminds them they're alone, or because they say it's a lie conjured up by greetings card companies. You know, because Big Card are this sinister force run by overweight men in thousand dollar suits, smoking cigars wrapped in bible pages and drinking scotch chilled by frozen orphan tears. A lie because you should tell people and show them that you love them everyday. To them I say this:

YOU ARE WRONG

Tell'em Lexxy, baby!

We need Valentine's Day for one very good reason and that reason is simple: The affection shown on Valentine's Day means more because it is expected. Much in the same way not receiving anything can hurt more. Of course telling someone you love them everyday is great, but receiving flowers and gifts all the time would cause them to lose all importance. Imagine you could show off your beer belly in public 365 days of the year instead of the usual 312. It just wouldn't be a treat any longer!
It is important. Factor in the the truth about me, that beneath the rippling muscles, chiselled jawline, and flowing curled locks I am in fact a soft, squishy pile of mushy romantic, and Valentine's Day is a time I can make silly gestures and brighten someone's day even more.

How you celebrate the day is entirely up to you and yours though. Be it by going on a trip together, drinking alone, or simply buying flowers and snuggling on the sofa, a gift on the day of love is more than a gift. You don't have to buy a card. I for one hate buying cards for any occasion; they seem kind of pointless when you could do something for someone instead. Unless of course they're these cards.
Yes whether or not that little cherub has hit you with his arrow or if the little fucker was drinking on the job and hit the person next you instead, Valentine's Day is a good day. If you have that special someone (or someones you saucy polygamists) then there's no excuse to not celebrate the day. If you don't have someone to share it with though, well, there's no excuse not to brighten someone's day is there. Love or not.

After all, who doesn't like presents? Because PRESENTS.

2012 Part 2 - 2013: Cusack's Revenge

IT'S BIGGER! (it's not)

IT'S BADDER! (it really isn't)

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IT'S TOO MUCH FOR MR. INCREDIBLE! (...)

See. Goatee. He's evil now.

13 is actually a lucky number in some cultures. Not in ours of course so for all we know the Mayans were right and rather than the world coming to some dramatic end, Western civilization is merely beginning to cease to be while places like China become the new Tom Cruise to our Steven Seagal.
 Sure we had our fun; Eurovision; NASCAR; men pretending to be rivals in a square 'ring' while wearing spandex and enough body butter to induce coronaries in anyone looking too closely. The point is it's all change. Loose change, but change nonetheless. So rather than the cosmos throwing a wad of cash at our collective faces we should actually expect a few stray pennies now and then.

Heavy on the metaphors there. More like metafives, amirirte?


HI INTERNETZ! Check me out. Posting and shit. Why it's as if I wanted to be a writer or something. Yes change is here and it is most certainly not in my pocket, so in order to fix that I need to get working on this success lark. You know the one I'm talking about.

1) Acquire impressive skillset/dick
2) Become famous using impressive skillset/dick
3) Amass vast fortune and wealth/STD collection
4) Make a sex tape/obscene sex tape

Admittedly that checklist may be describing the life and times of Dirk Diggler and I can tell you right now that I do not have the necessary abs to pull off porn (sorry ladies). Can balloon model though. Make of that what you will.

So I'm here. I'm queer, but only in the odd way (sorry gentlemen). And fingers crossed things will flow a little better this year. Like warm butter down a hooker's back.


...still haven't shaken that warm butter addiction. STAY FOXY, WEB PEEPS!