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Underground > Creation >

In Which the Author Loses Patience

17:32 / 01.11.02

The Ignoble Fantod
by Edward Gorey

A is for Alex, who perished of measles
B is for Bette, who was savaged by weasels

C is for Clarence, who trod on a mine
D is for Dora, who was lynched from a pine

E is for Ernst, who was shot in the head
F is the Fucking rest, dead dead dead dead.

20:23 / 01.11.02

Burnt by Chuck Palahniuk.
"The average gorilla has sex 4 times a day with a variety of different females. Sitting here now, on a tea-tray balanced precariously over the Hoover Dam, I'm wondering why I didn't take that as my personal target.
I met Steve three years ago. He seemed cool and aloof, but actually he was my brother, and also my father after having an incestuous relationship with my mother. And we spent ages doing wild controversial things, and then I shot him. And some other twists and throw in a bunch of unrelated facts and blah blah fightcakes."

ONLY NICE THINGS

20:52 / 01.11.02

His Mouth Will Taste of Wormwood

by Poppy Z Brite

I first met Alastair at college, and saw in him a brother, and a fellow spirit. In his fine clothes and with his perfect manenrs and bottle of absinthe always to hand, he was a far cry from the flannel-shirted mediocrity of my apparent peers.

We soon moved in together, and soon after that became lovers.

With our cocks. Even though we were both boys. It was really transgressive.

And then we did some other things, which were also really transgressive. Arguably even more transgressive than sex with cocks.

Yes.

08:25 / 02.11.02

Dad and Grandad
by Tony Parsons

I'm sixty-three now. Staring retirement in the face. Where did life go? Where. Did. Life. Go?

Still, I like a shag, even at my age. See that young bird in the office? Can't be more than forty-seven. Body like a thirty-nine-year-old. She's giving me the eye, that one, I swear.

And my lad. Did all the things I wanted to do. And had more drugs. And shagging. More. Shagging.

Son of his own, as well. Reminds me of me, when I was his age, that little 'un. Hope he doesn't make the same mistakes I made. Must be tough, growing up without a mum, as well.

Think I'll go and buy a sports car. And shag that bird in the office. Oh no, the missus has found out. And her dying of cancer, as well.

That was close. Found out I didn't really fancy that bird after all, once I'd give her one. Missus still loves me. And guess what? That bird's only gone and fallen in love with my lad. Bit old for him, but that's love, innit? And at least the little one's got a mother figure, now.

And we're all happy. Might still buy a sport's car, though.

13:27 / 02.11.02

The Two-Hundred and Fifty Ninth: Iron and Chrysanthemums

Feudal Japan. In an isolated country temple, a large assemblage is gathered. There are priests, and prostitutes, ronin, yakuza, peasant farmers, imperial soldiers, ninjas, acrobats, hard guys from the local prison. All sits in silence, eyeing each other suspiciously. A middle-aged bureaucrat, Fukui-san, stands and addresses the crowd. He carries an armload of scrolls and documents—diagrams, inventories, maps, imperial decrees—and turns to face the assemblage.

Fukui-san: Well, this a complex situation...

In the crowd, a man who has been sitting silently suddenly stands up. He is Ogami Itto.

Ogami Itto: Not complicated at all.
Fukui-san: Huh?
Ogami Itto: Assassin! Lone Wolf and Cub! I come for your life!

Ogami Itto kills the entire assemblage.

Fukui-san (dying): But—I'm the one who—hired you...
Ogami Itto: . . .

Ogami Itto leaves the temple, and retrieves his son Daigoro from his hiding place—hanging upside-down by his ankles from the clapper of the temple bell. The baby carriage rolls slowly away. From the highest bough, a cherry blossom falls.

23:56 / 02.11.02

Wait... wait.. the author is a doctor?

Get it?

"Loosing patience/patients?"

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

pointless and uncalled for

11:10 / 03.11.02

In a rough tavern in the town of Darkhollow, Mandor the Sorceror and Gardak the Northern Warrior huddled around the meagre fire in the hearth. Nursing ales they discussed at length the adventures they had endured together and the circumstances that had led to them being here.

Having just returned from the Dungeons of Near Certain Horrendous Death By Large Spikey Traps and Nefarious Monsters they lamented their situation, injured, broke and barely able to keep lodgings.

It was close to the witching hour when the door burst open and let a cold wintery draft in to fill the room with a dark chill as the candles and torches spluttered. A dark silhouette filled the doorway, its capeand robes dripping with rain from teh storm outside.

Gardak jumped to his feet, battleaxe in hand.

"Look sonny," he bellowed, "shut the fucking door will you. It's the dead of winter and some of us want a bit of peace and quiet."

As an after thought he added, "and if you've come with some tale of treasure and adventure you can leave that bollocks at the door as well. I'm done with that shite, I'm off to finish my law degree like I should have done years ago, that's where the real money is."

17:50 / 03.11.02

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was like any other time. It passed.

00:38 / 04.11.02

The Maine Man

by Steven Queen

Jack Ravenport drove through a sleepy Maine surburb in the lazy summer afternoon. While Mrs. Ravenport amused no one in particular with her perpetual trivialities, delivered in that droning voice of hers, he kept on counting the flies and other bugs that were squashed against the front car window. He zoned out for a bit and felt dread - dread at what? He found himself wondering - then realising that their son was unusually quiet he asked if everything was fine. Young Ravenport was fine.

Then a monster appears, preferably one of them and kills almost everyone but of course, the kid being a religous abnormality survives the ordeal. And possibly kills the monster, if there are no planned sequels.

pointless and uncalled for

12:02 / 04.11.02

The Grisham Affair.

In the back end of Louisiana there's.......

Look mate, you know the deal. Some not so good people screw over by some not so bad people. Tommy Lee Jones is definitely in on the deal, as is another River Pheonix-alike from Stand By Me. It'll definitely include chain smoking. Other than that expect at least one tension filled night, some people dying to protect their name and plot holes so big you could drive a Mack through them on the stereotypical Ridley Scott sky filled days that litter this literature.

Good wins in the end of course.

13:51 / 05.11.02

"Frodo, boy, give me the ring." Gandalf peered at the young hobbit through the unnatural gloom. The fires of Virid Astrogoth were casting dancing shows across his preternaturally beautiful face. Defiance was shining in his deep blue eyes, contrasting strongly with the hollow pits of his cheeks. The blade of the Nazgul was still leeching the flesh from his perfect bone structure, the evil of Sauron eating away at his lithe young body even as the whispers of the Evil One wormed their way into his spirit. Fuck, but he was a tasty bit of stuff.

"Is that a cheap come on?" asked Frodo quizzically. "'Cos Sam never bothers to ask first."

So they had hot monkey sex.

With cocks.

"So, what about this?" said Frodo much later, fishing the One Ring out of his foot hair.

"Oh, that old piece of tat," replied the aging sorcerer, "I wouldn't worry. We'll let the nanobots deal with it."

14:06 / 05.11.02

Moby Dick
By Herman Melville

Call me Ishmael. Let me tell you about this time when I got really bored (it happens once in a while) and decided I needed to go to sea. So I met this cannibal and he was all WEEEEEEEEE! with his wooden idol and I thought "WEEEEEEEE! I have a friend with tattoos and cool stuff!". So we went to the sea and boy, did we sing and dance and butchered some whales that went WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! when our harpoons perforated their bodies so that we could steal their oil.

But then there was this bad bad motherfucking whale that our Captain wanted to kill because it had eaten his leg. And one day we found it and it killed everyone and wrecked our ship to pieces.

But I was found and rescued, so WEEE, WEEE, WEEE, YAY ME!

Whisky Priestess

14:35 / 05.11.02

Lolita
by Vladimir Nabokov

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lolita ... Lol - lee - ta ... Three syllables that, even now, threaten to burst my aged heart when I pronounce them. Roll the name over your tongue; the first syllable soft and voluptuous, a sugared lollipop of sound, with all the childish suggestiveness of that treat - the second a sweet yearning keening, crying out for the innocence lost - or worse, guiltily desired. The third spat out like the pip of an apple, short and tart and fresh as a young girl's acerbic kiss...

So, anyway, I married Lolita's mum cos I fancied the daughter. She was thirteen, but I shagged her anyway. Then I shot that Quilty bloke who was porking her, then she grew up a bit and I didn't fancy her any more. I blame my childhood.