Not to sound like a broken record or anything, but things with my friends are going weird, and I’m honestly not sure why I’m caring. I know there’s always been the politics of inter-weaving friendships, treaties and wars, so I shouldn’t really be surprised that some nations are having talks and closing borders while I stand here and govern my own little island.

But alas, less with metaphors/analogies (I don’t know the difference, never have never will) and more with the real stuff. Signed up for another set of lectures and found something that’s actually interesting! Power’s the name, and secret agendas, manipulation and coercion is its game. Sounds right up my street.

Yeah, I’m bored.

After attending a stiumlating lecture on the effects that neuroligcal damage can have on brain functions, I decide to head over to my friendly neighbourhood library and check out the reccomended books, as those big text books are hard to come by and cost as much as their rarity. I do a few chores first; sort out that gym membership that’s always been bugging me, buy a fresh pack of smokes to wile away the hours with, and have a drink while pouring over one of my birthday gifts – Elroy’s The Black Dahlia. After I am fully satisified and more than a little bit tipsy, I head over to the library to check out the aforementioned book to grab a good dose of intellectualism.

But no!

Every single copy of the book has already been checked out. Today. Not only today, but ten minutes ago. It seems that while I was enjoying the simplicities of life and filling my own needs, others beat me to the punch. Most of the books don’t get returned until next week, and as I refresh the page I see a number slowly increasing with people signing their name to be added to the waiting list. At this rate it’ll be another two months before I get my hands on a copy.

In other news, my love for Modest Mouse has been sufficiently rekindled with open the curtains, let in some skyyyyyy and we’re all screaming CAROLINE reverberating through my skull and down into my heart. I can feel my fingers churning with the anger and dejection coursing through my ears. If I wasn’t so short on time (which I desperately am these days – there’s less and less time to play Halo and hear Mike scream I AM RUNNING THERE’S NO ONE THERE GET THE FLAG) I’d outline a few plots and maybe start a new novel to top the two that I’ve got on the go at the moment. I’ve still got a third book bumping in my head, something that came about after I first felt the deliciously destroying pang of vengeance.

Ah, shit, I’m late.

As I looked out the window onto my balcony, I had the sneaking suspicion that the garden chairs I sit on are of Persian origin. A quick check of the mold tells me that they are, in fact, made by Homebase and that the supernatural levitation can be explained by the gale force winds that caused me to levitate back into my living room. By the time I pick myself up I’ve decided that the wind is an evil bastard.

Like most people, I own a TV. And this TV (in spite of my crippling financial status) has the benefit of a satellite connection where I am connected to over one hundred channels of television goodness. It’s good for after a day of hard work, or even a day doing no work, to sit back and relax with a good hour or two of mindless twaddle. But the wind! Oh the wind has its own plans to disrupt my mission of wasting my brain away, for two weeks ago the bloody wind blew my satellite off course, causing my television to be nonoperational for too long a time. My brother and I coped though. We honed our videogaming skills, we rewatched every single DVD we could find (apart from the bestiality movie that was a fantastic souvenir of mine from Barcelona*), and basically did everything that didn’t include reading a book.

So, for two weeks we were without TV. Numerous blunders with the TV repair men meant that our agonising wait seemed like forever. But lo and behold, they arrive, they fall off the roof twice (this is no joke, there were real dramatics up there), and they fix our TV! It was brilliant! I could waste the day again with a pizza box perched on my lap and the remote glued to my hand as I sequentially flicked through the channels at my disposal.

But the wind had other plans, that devious bastard.

I’m sitting at home, writing a bit and watching Jonathan Ross in the background, and the wind kicks up a fuss outside. I can hear it press against my windows in that pseudo-threatening roar it has, and my TV flickers. For a moment it becomes garbled, but soon returns to normal. I eye it suspiciously, but soon forget about it as Jonathan begins another witty anecdote. He builds up the joke, pauses for the punch line, and the screen garbles for a second before cutting out completely. The screen turns blue (oddly resembling the classic Windows blue screen of death) and “No signal being received” flashes up. I look on in dismay, but the picture returns to normal with Jonathan smiling and the audience laughing at whatever the great joke was.

I return to the show, waiting to laugh from the build up before to come, and sure enough there is another build up. I listen, waiting intently for another wacky story of his, when right at the punchline, it cuts out again.

It’s been doing this for two days now.

Every time I’m watching a funny program, sit-com, or cartoon, the wind blows a gust and cuts the signal out right at the punchline. And it’s ONLY with funny programs. I can watch two solid hours of the Dog Whisperer or some random documentary, and not a single interruption, but as soon as I flip on Robot Chicken or Scrubs, the signal cuts every minute or so.

I hate Scottish weather.

*I use the term bestiality loosely here. It’s forty minutes long, and twenty five of those minutes consist of three men in gimp masks having sex with a really fat woman before said fat woman molests a really, really unattractive dog. I mean, they could have picked any dog, but an unattractive one? Still, it was a good laugh to browse through.

It’s just one of those things isn’t it? Anonymity lets you get away with anything. I used to be anonymous, and yeah it was fun. I could say whatever I wanted to whoever I wanted and fear no repercussions (apart from the occasional underhanded comment to my make-believe self). I don’t know what you write when you’re being anonymous, as I don’t read it, but I bet it’s liberating. A way to really really empty yourself of everything that you’re too afraid to say in real life.

I bring this matter up now because, unlike you, I am not anonymous. People know who I am, and these people can finger wag and tell me off for saying whatever I want, and can in fact judge me for saying it. This means that when I am writing here I have to keep some sort of decorum. I need to keep in character to those who know me and those who think they know me, which is frankly a bit of a pain. It means that I can’t say what I really feel and what I really want as I am perched on the edge of my bed with wet socks and cold feet. If I did say what I wanted, then they would think less of me than I am now.

For example, if I were to write here that I miss you, they would smile and look at me slightly kinder. If I were to write that I think about you almost every minute, that you run rampant throughout my mind with your nimble fingers hanging on to every thought, they would utter an “aww” and think of me of an old romantic. I write that I want your body next to mine, arms wrapped round shoulders on cold nights and noses nuzzling wet foreheads and chins, they let their hearts flutter at the cuteness. I write that your lack of touch drives me crazy at night and I sometimes lay unable to sleep staring at the spot where you should be, and they wonder when I’ll stop being so open. I write that I wake up in the middle of the night grabbing at the sheets wildly until I realise that you’re not actually there, and they avoid me. I write that when I think of your naked body against mine my lungs burn and my heart pounds itself into a bloody pulp, and they pretend they don’t know me. I write that I want you and need you wholly so much that it physically hurts, and they never want to see me again.

But fuck what they think.

After a long arduous day of work I slump into the kitchen and throw a brick of noodles into the largest bowl I have, yet still it is not large enough to fully encompass the slab of dried pasta that will have to suffice for my dinner tonight. Boiling water is poured over it and it softens, but still only enough to half submerge the carbohydrate wonder park. I resign on a not-so-perfect dinner and put it in the microwave, setting the timer for six minutes like a pro. I glance warily at the timer as it counts down one second to the next and decide for a nice breath of fresh nicotine to calm myself from the stresses that plague my life.

So on the balcony I light up and puff away merrily, feeling every cubic millimeter of smoke pervade my lungs and fill me with vigour. I stub it out, return to the kitchen to find a full thirty-five seconds left on the countdown. Intrigued that I could smoke a cigarette in under five minutes, I ponder what else I could do in a restricted amount of time whilst the counter wiled its way to zero and I retrieved my noodles (with an oven glove, of course). But alas! The noodles were not yet fully cooked. I, in my culinary expertise, did not read the instructions properly and had caused a mass of italian noodle water. I look at the packet and stir my noodles before placing them back into the microwave. As I place the bowl back inside and set the timer to one minute, I feel a twinge in my bladder, and my mouth curls into a devious smile. I linger for a moment, like a runner waiting cautiously for the starting gun, and I press the button, and I run.

Down the hall, skid left into the toilet, my belt unbuckles without resistance (for once) and I’m so elated that ohshitFUCK I miss the toilet, redirect myself to the bowl cursing the fact that more time will be spent having to clean up, empty myself, grab toilet roll, wipe up mess, flush, wash hands, wash hands again, run out of the toilet skid right and oh ho ho I still have fourteen seconds left on the timer.

I dance to celebrate.

I retrieve the noodles and once again find with dismay that they are still not fully cooked. So I stir, place them back, set the timer for another minute and press start.

Now I’m challenging myself. Putting my thinking time into the countdown too. I’m a risky fellow you see. Within moments I decide what to do and race around my (small) kitchen, putting plates away, throwing things into the sink, wiping down worktops, moving all the crumbs to the floor with my foot, and returning to the microwave at the exact PING that signifies my noodles are ready.

But no! They are still not cooked.

In, one minute, start.

Run to the hall, swerve right into living room, gather glasses and plates and other assortments to be disposed of, throw them into the sink, run back, fluff pillows, sort couches, run back in with a whole TWENTY SECONDS to spare.

Jonathan Mercer, speed God.

I wait patiently for my noodles to finish and relish the thought of eating them. The microwave PINGS, I pull them out, gawk at the layer of black, burnt noodle on the top layer, and throw it in the bin. All within twelve seconds.

Now, if you need me, I’ll be outside holding a sign that says “Will pee in under one minute for food.”

Ok, that no smoking thing lasted a grand total of… three hours.

Yeah.

Oh look at that. I’ve created a new page thing. Aren’t I special?

Still can’t figure out how to write on it though. I’ll give it a gander later, too tired right now.

I’ve stuck that brilliant-idea-of-a-novel on the shelf for now while I continue working on the one that’s been on the end of my fingertips for almost a year now. It’s going well, if I don’t say so myself. And, I know I’m biased and all, but it is one shit hot piece of writing. I can’t wait until I finish it so I can have a few good friends tear it to shreds with their little red pens.

Not much else to talk about these days. Excluding one incident in recent memory where my head was a permanent feature of my toilet bowl after one too many, my life seems oddly absent of events. Apart from a ton of writing.

My healthy exercise regime is beginning a week today too. It’s going to follow on nicely after my week of abstinence from smoking and alcohol. I don’t know why I’m doing it though. I tell myself that it’s some form of detox while secretly wondering if I just enjoy torturing myself for the fun of it. I mean, come on, a week without cigarettes? I’ll probably die.

I’ve discovered, just now, that writing solidly for five hours on a novel doesn’t make for good blogging afterwards no sir. I need to stop writing for a while so all my built up writing goodness can leak out onto this page. But, then again, I received two beautiful notebooks for Christmas and birthday (a moleskin, and one that’s too pretty for words), and I know I won’t be able to resist writing in them. My plan is doomed to fail from the beginning.

My room’s clean though. So that’s a start.

When will I begin to make sense!?

Noir
A short story by Jonathan Mercer

They threw me into the chair like a sack of potatoes, and my spine cracked off the metal backing. I let out a grunt of pain but the tall one pressed his gun to my cheek, so I shut up, despite him hitting my teeth. He pulled it away and swayed across the room like there was some slow tempo jazz running through his ears, flicking on a light with the barrel of the gun when he reached the other side of the room. The other two just stood there with their hands behind their backs as he moon-walked his way round them. I tried to get myself comfortable, but having your hands cuffed behind your back isn’t too good for sitting down with.

There was a table in front of me and a desk lamp resting on one of the corners closest to the chair across from me. I had to suppress my grin. They were going to shine it right in my face and shout at me. Then, when I refused to give them an answer, they were going to crack it over my jaw. I really had to try to keep my face straight. These guys were amateurs. One too many films and too much access to firearms. Though, now that I thought about it, I had only seen the tall guy pull a piece on me. It was beautiful as hell, sure, but it was only him who had one so far.

“Now!” The tall one began, throwing himself onto the opposite chair so that it almost fell over, but not quite. He sat there for a while, watching me expectantly with those big black eyes of his.

“Now, what?” I asked.

He waved his gun in circles in the air as if his words were hostages and he was telling them to come closer. “You were going to tell us something, I think?”

I shifted position again and felt my back crack as I straightened my spine. It was a good crack though, and I felt miles more comfortable. The cuffs still hurt like hell, but it was a start.

“Really? I don’t remember anything that I was supposed to tell you. Is there something specific in mind? Maybe you can jog my memory.”

I heard the scraping of a chair, I felt his fist bury itself into my gut, and I heard him sit back down again, but I didn’t see him move. How much had I had to drink again? Either I was wasted or this guy moved liked greased lightening.

“Ah,” I coughed, still feeling that fist compress my lungs, “Now I remember. Your boss, whatsisname… Caldonia. Yeah, got some good information on him, something that you and him would really like to know.”

The tall one laughed and shone the silver barrel of his revolver with his sleeve. Damn, it was a pretty gun. “How do you know we’re with Caldonia? We could be with Miles.”

I coughed again. “You a fag?”

This time I saw him, there was a movement, his fist connected with my jaw and his furious face was dragged away before he was sitting down again, his smile losing some of the shine from before. My mouth filled with warm fluid and I leaned to the side and spit out a beautiful blob of blood.

“What makes you think I’m a fag?”

“I never said that, I asked if you were a fag. You’re not with Miles because he only hires white guys, so you’re either with Carter or Caldonia. And guess who only hires toy boys?”

He stayed quiet. The two big guys in the back still didn’t move. I tongued my mouth and felt another loose tooth. This wasn’t my day at all.

“All right, what you got on Caldonia?”

“No no,” I tell him, trying to sit up straight and failing, “get rid of the ugly one first.”

He looked round behind him at his two goons.

“Which one?”

“God, there are two? How much have I had to drink?” I say, focusing in between the two hulks of muscle. This was easier than babysitting my nephew.

“What can you say that they can’t hear?”

“Sensitive stuff. Don’t want one of them to run off to Daddy when I’ve spilled my load. I could end up in trouble.”

“More trouble than you’re in right now?”

I look around at the dank, soundproof room.

“You have a point, but still, this is big stuff.”

He stared right at me for a moment, his thumb itching to pull back the hammer on that sweet, sweet little thing he was holding. Using his gun, he waved them out of the room and kept on looking at me. When the door had closed behind them he slipped a cigarette out his inside pocket and lit it, taking a good long drag. God I wanted one. Screw quitting, this was just the perfect bad day to justify having one.

“Can I have one of those?”

He absentmindedly pulled one out and put it to my mouth, lit it, and threw the matchstick at my face.

“Also, do you mind?” I asked with my cigarette clenched between my teeth. It was a good brand too. Goddamn it was a good brand. I shuffled over and showed him my cuffed wrists. “Kind of hard to smoke with these on.”

I gave him my drunkest look, the one I picked up on my high school prom night when I really wanted to screw that teacher. She took advantage of me, of course, and damn that was a good night. He looked me over a long time, longer than Mrs Sewell did, before standing up.

“No funny business, alright?”

“You’re the man with the gun.”

I let him uncuff me and cuff me again round the front, no struggle and no sign of struggle to alert him. I was just another drunk who had gotten in too deep. He sat back down and I exhaled a long cloud of smoke. Goddamn.

“So, what’s this big secret you know?” He asked. His gun was still in his hand, which was hanging limp by his side. “Something that could get my boss in trouble?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell you what it is. Come closer though, I don’t like saying it out loud.”

Dear God, the fool actually came closer. He leaned in, his face a picture of expectancy. I almost felt sorry for the kid.

“Closer, I really don’t like it.”

And he came closer. I felt less sorry for him now. Every dumbass needs a good kick once in a while to set them straight. I felt sorry for myself though. I hated wasting a good cigarette.

“Your boss…” I said, right to his face, “is an idiot for hiring you.”

And before he could react, I punched him in the eye. My cigarette was resting nicely between my fingers at this point, and embers sparkled over his cheek like fireworks. He yelled and fell backwards onto the floor while I tucked my hands under and flipped the desk over him. Running over the other side of the desk I gave him three swift kicks to the head, and he was out.

I stood poised, ready on my tiptoes for any movement by the door, but this place was soundproofed by professionals, and it seemed that goon 1 and goon 2 remained oblivious to what was happening in the room. I moved the table and took the piece from his hand. I was never an expert on guns, but this thing was a beauty. A true piece of art. I flicked open the chamber to see the rear ends of six glorious bullets mooning me. Perfect.

I walked over to the door and steadied the gun in my hand, using my other cuffed hand to support it. I gave the door three kicks to the middle and one kick at the bottom, making it sound like there was a bit of a scuffle going on in here. As I predicted the two goons burst through the door, running straight into the middle of the room. When they were both clear I kicked the door shut and fired a round straight into the back of goon number 1’s head. He collapsed like a house of cards, but goon 2 had turned and leapt towards me. I fired off three rounds in a panic and he fell on top of me like a large, and now very wet, tree.

By the time the tall guy had come to I had flipped him onto his stomach and handcuffed his hands behind his back before hog tying him with his own necktie. I took a belt of scotch from the flask I found in goon 2’s jacket and blew out a sweet plume of smoke. He just groaned on the floor and I slipped a cigarette into his mouth and lit it.

He spat it out. “I’ll tell you anything. I swear I will.”

“I know you will.” I told him, leaning one knee on his back and pulling one of his fingers until it made a sickening snap. “I’ll make sure of that.”

And so, as pointed out many times in this essay, Scotland’s general health is in a dire state. The current life expectancy for the average man and woman is criminally low, and the only way to have an effect on these statistics is to change Scottish life-style and fix the socio-economic factors that force such a life-style upon it. If the gap between the rich and poor were to be reduced, less people would turn to unhealthy (yet tasty) pleasures in life or would be forced to moving into a home surrounded by air pollution. Or, if all else fails, Scotland can just wait until another plague hits main-land Europe. Soon their life expectancy would go down and make Scotland’s look better, with little to no effort. Except finding rats.

Oh man, I used to be such a smart ass in that class.

I heard a phrase from a good film once. Well, I’ve heard a lot of good phrases from many films amongst which include the whoa my god Serenity and the ever quotable Monty Python, but this one is different in that it’s funny in a oh yeah, this can really affect how I think of things really.

So, if a man calls you a horse, punch him in the nose. If another man calls you a horse you call him a jerk. But if a third man calls you a horse then you’d better go out and buy a saddle.

And god damn, I’m a horse.