Thursday, 13 November 2008

Daniel's Cult of Love, Acceptance and Mindless Obedience!!

Daniel's Cult of Love, Acceptance and Mindless Obedience!!
Join Today! Free Muffins.

Daniel's cult, uhhh, we mean not a cult at all, but family fun centre of joy and peace and blissful happiness, is a wonderful, clean and well established brain 'adjustment' program that gently coaxes 'lost peoples' into the correct and Daniel-centric world view with pleasantly numbing shock therapy and wonderfully long and calmly repetitive films produced just for you the new cult member! You will learn through special brain massaging techniques how much fun mindless obedience to the whim of the leader can be. And also, how to avert your eyes, and agree with everything the great leader thinks and/or does. And the proper way of asking the great leader if he's lost weight as he is looking super spiffy these days. Also you can learn about generally being complacent and complicit with all things Daniel! Yay! Let's all bounce to support our leader, who is more a friend anyways than a leader silly, just a friend who you must always, always mindlessly obey. And with the added bonus of free muffins and occasionally a live penguin dipped in chocolate if you are extra shiny and Daniel loving you can't go wrong.

'Bring me your tired, weary, huddled, sad and dirty masses and let them have muffins. Come unto me and I shall lick the world clean with the thrice cleaved tongue of wisdom, love and cunning transforming, mind altering bright shiny light. Come onto me and let there be bubbles added to water heated to a nice cozy temperature whereby three or four at time can have a lovely soak. I shall unburden you of all your worry, cares and material possessions.'
~ From the book of Daniel, the Nifty

Daniel, or OUR GREAT LEADER, has a smashing compound nestled in a beautiful, clean, picturesque and desolate area unburdened by any roads or human settlements for miles around. It is located in a cozy, safe, happy place protected by an exterior happy zone of protection so bad thoughts can't come in. This is comprised of a 'Peace and Joy' no frolicking mine field for member's protection and several 'Smile and Love' barriers made up of flowers and razor wire. Mainly razor wire. The compound itself is as monolithic as Daniel, our great leader, and has indoor plumbing (new) and padded walls (beige), and, yes, ping-pong!

'Let me, Daniel, rinse your brain of unwanted mental lint. Let me coax the dandruff from your soul hair. Let me eat the pain away with bites of delicious cleansing consumptive pain pleasure, which taste better than Havarti even.'
~Daniel, Great Leader, Spiffy Dresser.

Have you been lost, adrift without hope or joy? Fighting with your loved ones? Frustrated at an empty and cold society? Come into the warm, come feel the slow dance of communal love and squishy togetherness. Come and be loved by Daniel and blindly follow his world views and deep empathy for all cheeses. Find your new family which you will become exactly alike to and therefore close to. You will find acceptance and a belief system involving generosity and peace and the great feeling of having no worries or possessions in your name (they will be in Daniel's so you won't have to worry about them anymore) and unquestioning obedience and servitude to the GREAT LEADER, who happens to be on the lookout for a new wife or three if you play your cards right and are big. Note: The great leader likes his women really, really BIG.

Though the Great Leader has never been photographed due to security concerns and the fact that he believes photographs have the ability to steal sexual energy and can cause early onset male pattern baldness, we assure you he has very excellent and shiny white teeth with no chips or missing bits and hair of a flawless and wavy, if you will, bouncy nature.

Daniel, once a small town muffin baker, came to realize his importance one day in 1982 while eating his weight in uncooked muffin batter. Suddenly the mixing machine he was licking the inside of was touched by aliens from the future. It came to life spinning him around painfully for three consecutive hours before knocking him unconscious whereby he dreamed the aliens from the future came on to him, and blessed him and told him his mission which was to start a community of happy people who give him all their possessions and love him, and completely isolate them from the world. Oh, and to bring forth an abundance of muffins.

'I saw the light. I saw how great I was. And the aliens from the future saw how great I was. I thought, I need to spread the word about how great I am to everyone, let's start a cult, I mean family, let's have fun, let's bake muffins everyone!'
Daniel, The Great Humble Leader

Are you looking for guidance? Are you looking for confidence and something to believe in and a family fun filled experience in dogmatism. Lose yourself in us. All you need to do is sign over all your possessions and worldly goods and you can join up too.

There are NO, repeat, NO mind altering brainwashing drugs in the muffins. They are blueberry muffins. They will just make everything just neado an' wonderful dude… bliss, when the blueberries kick in after 5 to 25 minutes. Trust us, they are gooooooooooood muffins.

Glory of muffins to all!

The Cult of Daniel is not in any way endorsed by or affiliated with The Society for Evil, Debauchery and Kitten Appreciation. However his muffins do kickass.

Thursday, 6 November 2008

Daniel Acting!!!

Look what I just dug up
I just dug this up on youtube. My first acting gig, a haggen dazs commercial shot in Spain.

Tuesday, 4 November 2008

The Society for Evil, Debauchery and Kitten Appreciation Presents: Propaganda, Truth's Not So Pretty Little Sister.

I wrote this today. One of many fun little pieces for my comedy world domination Facebook group. Join it already!!! Toasts to EVIL and BACCHUS!!

The Society for Evil, Debauchery and Kitten Appreciation
Presents: Propaganda, Truth's Not So Pretty Little Sister.

First of all, she is truth's super fucking sex vixen hot little sister.
First of all, she is truth's super fucking sex vixen hot little sister.
First of all, she is truth's super fucking sex vixen hot little sister.
First of all, she is truth's super fucking sex vixen hot little sister.
First of all, she is truth's super fucking sex vixen hot little sister.
First of all, she is truth's super fucking sex vixen hot little sister.
First of all, she is truth's super fucking sex vixen hot little sister.

See, now you think she's hot an' all wonderful and such like. Don't you? Yes, of course you do! Propaganda wins again! Even though she is not so pretty. Oh wait, now I have to start all over again….Shit! I always do that. Oh well, you get the point. Besides, you wouldn't want to date her anyways, right minger and no sense of humour. And don't even think of dating truth. Man, she is hard on the ego!

1) Propaganda Defined, and as a Useful Tool to Control and Influence.

Propaganda, or 'lying' is a brand new technique where you 'bend' the truth in order to get your populace or organization or kitty cat pacified. For example you say: 'Hey Mittens' if you stop clawing out my eyeballs and coughing up furballs all over the brand new rug I will buy you a brand new Porsche'. (Always go with the BIG lie). Mittens at this point will likely hiss at you and saunter away to destroy something else in the house. Propaganda wins. See, the magic is you don't have to buy her a Porsche. Unless you really want to of course. Sometimes kittens are hard to resist. Just watch they don't scratch up the leather seats of the Porsche though. Uhmm, promise them something else, like a cat treat so they won't.

2) Goons and Foot Soldiers

Goons and foot soldiers in dark times are really quite happy with a little propaganda to prop up their deflating egos and perhaps leaking bodies. Basically they like it when you tell them they are NOT going to be slaughtered all up and NOT going to die horrible shrapnel inflicted deaths, or be tortured unremittingly, or at least only maimed on their luckiest day of the year at this rate in the mad conflict or war or whatever you got them stuck in. So you tell them it is sunny out even when it's raining. Tell them they get ice cream after the battle's done. You tell them 'we're winning, like dude, and all the other dude comradios are not dead an' blown to bits, but have been whisked away on all expenses paid trips to the Caribbean where even, yes, the drinks are included and the food is divine. See it is very similar to lying, but when it comes from a bureaucracy it's called propaganda.

And when times/wars are going well, or you are stuck in boring peacetime until you come up with your next mad scheme for world domination propaganda can also help keep the lads in check. Tell them they only get ice cream on the other side, like, once a week at best. Tell them all the enemy's manicurists are second rate and often expect unreasonable tips. Tell them the enemy often are subjected to plagues of zombies and/or small children (ugghhh, small children!). And you can tell them the enemy's washroom facilities are very dirty and often the doors don't lock properly. Then they'll think they never had it so good!

So, in short, propaganda is a fancy word for lying. And propaganda, truth's not so pretty little sister, is your friend. Shit, I mean,
She is truth's super fucking sex vixen hot little sister.
She is truth's super fucking sex vixen hot little sister.
She is truth's super fucking sex vixen hot little sister.
She is truth's super fucking sex vixen hot little sister.

The Evil Management,
A subsidiary of the Cuddles Group.
2 + 2 = 5.

Here is the link if you want to join the revolution.

Tuesday, 26 August 2008

Lost in the Maelstrom (new fic copyright WGA 2008)

Lost in the maelstrom, the whirl and smash of nightlife on overdrive, overspun and overtly overdone, all and at a loss in the highs and lows of the early hours before dawn and day. Streaking lights and speed onrushing, life and laughter through a haze of blood and booze, cigarettes and pills, musicpulse, passion, violence, more booze, more everything, mixed into a system already done in, yet doing more and more always. To stop means to bring on the pain, the end. Revival of the fittest through chemical love. Quite the cocktail and bags full of vice as we spin and laugh, drink-snort-shove-dance and cavort like sprites and fauns and demons and daemons might if we only knew how they do. Someone dry fucking the couch, failing to register his partner has left him, off in another room fucking some blinded out, blessed gone woman, who pants-gurgles-chokes, the door wide for all to see. No one really giving a fuck, about either event, except to maybe snicker and laugh as the highballs go round. People getting coarser, darker, uglier, beauty having a way of dissolving, running away, at the early hours before dawn and day.

Occasionally passing into the bleak of grey haze while the party goes on on top of you, or under you, or moves through and on to some other outpost less sullen, or less reeking of pain and want, sick joy and death, steam and sweating out the booze, some place where the music yet plays and dancing and gyration remain the game. Passing into the grey only to wake up alone except a couple past out fobs and sob bastards on the couch, and have that one last cigarette that forms a chain of never ending one last cigarettes until the cigarettes are all gone, accompanied by wine and whisky until the sun comes up all red and on fire and ready for burning, throbbing vengeance. Powerful fucking sun we need to shut out of our head which don’t like them piercing spears of light like fucking ice picks getting in on behind the eyes and prying, no, not one little bit please and thank you motherfucking very much. Ice and moonlight we want, not this piercing blaze we decry. Time, time to hide under sheets or doors, or anything at hand, and embrace the empty black nothing. Fade.

But then eventually need, need to lose fluids and bodily waste propel and force up, hijacking us and our cotton thick tongued mouth and screaming brain into the facilities and the smeared cracked mirror.

‘Good morning lover.’ ~ to pallid reaper wincing, horror grin. ‘You look great babe. Real first class.’

Tongue yellow and thick, rebellious and mean and not very helpful like at all. We scrape it. Walk back and the pound of surf, wobbling like on a ship struck by turbulent, troubled waters. Lucky not to fall and drown. Three men and a she asleep on the floor. Naked all with newspapers and old torn magazines for blankets. Carpet’s burned and ashes and bottles strewn all over. Ashes on the computer keyboard. Ashes on the printer. Ashes on the table. Rinds of lemon, orange and lime. Debris, wreckage. Like warfare remains. Like a torn battlefield and smelling unwell.

‘Bring out yer dead.’ ~ croaking me lizard sounds.

Coughs and gasps, the she is waking. A cigarette for yours true. Someone has used the painting on the wall of Felix to put out their cigar. Did I do that last night? All a haze of black, a void, the empty black of cold and unforgiving outer space. Remember the car speeding through the night and Nico driving and scaring everyone by going so fast. The rest a mix of pills and booze and smokes and laughs and not so laughs. More of the latter. Also a drink in the face and after this the blackness. Foggily think maybe the now waking she throwing the drink. But she is gathering her clothes and her dignity and slinking outwards as I speak or think rather. Turning at the door and indignant.

'Mother fucker.'

'Nice. Original. Fuck you .'

'Fuck you asshole.' She falls and gets up, manages the door and the bright, bright of late afternoon. Squint. And scratch. Fucking heavy hitter of a night.

Coffee, coughs and drags of thick smoke. More time escapes. Stagger. The swells. The boat is rocking. Gone overboard with excess, this hangover smells like cordite and feels more modern, as in three megaton, and worse. Bring me an apron in which to be sick. We got no more shirts to be sick in here at paradise.

Who are these comatose people? Where is Felix? Did he steal a car last night?

Outside to clear head brings pain. A walk to the shop. Water and Alka Seltzer from there along with two packs of ciggies. Back and salvation seeking.

Christ and magic of druids or whatever the fuck you got that will make me better, make me whole again, make the pain stop and blurriness fade, the pulsing, the sick. Christ don't answer. Nor does Mohammed and Yahweh. No one at home up there or they don't listen to the weak and sinful perhaps. Vodka and voodoo? Oh well, sure.

In the box of cereal hiding place hides the vodka and a bottle of prescription pills. Pills and cigarettes and vodka for breakfast. Why the hell not. Hair of the beast which bit us, approved by the governing council which resides internal in the shaking and terrorstruck brainpan of yours truly this morning.

Throw these assholes out. Gimme some voodoo. Gimme some love lovers.

Pedro has a knife and a rusted bicycle chain. He is blind in one eye, but the wound is old and healed. He has an X over and through one eye, like a dead person in an old fashioned comic strip. He sits in a chair and leers. He smells of stale sex and if you ask him about his lost eye, he smiles and patiently tells a long tale. It's never the same story twice. Pedro is a man of great excess and humour. He is my best friend aside from Felix and I don't trust him farther than I can throw him, and he weighs more than I by half.

'Hey mate, where Felix at yet?'

'Dunno. Last night being somewhat of a blur. He might’ve stolen a car and driven all the fuck up to Canada and Montreal. At least that's what I think I remember him talking about. It is all, my distinguished colleague, rather fucking vague in my recollect.'

Pedro is not keen on telling me about the knife or bicycle chain when I so enquire. Just that they are his props for the evening, his toys, his safety blanket and he likes the chain's feel and it's heft. When I ask he simply grins the kind of grin which makes me uncomfortable and glad I can outrun him if things go awry.

'You know Pedro, you're a bit creeping me out right now. Quit swinging that chain around and who’s the miss?'

Pedro has brought along a girl. She is fucked up on something and he doesn't introduce her. When she asks to borrow his knife Pedro is somewhat reluctant until she whispers what she will do to him later on and he relents. Pedro is a little fucked up too and we are waiting for the red pills to hit. We talk of Montreal for the next while and neither notices much surrounding and outside our own little world which becomes increasingly altered, odd and surreal. Rippled and skewed. Waves of distorted reality hit me like ripples from a pool, moving outward from my centre. My centre is expanding out and into other things. Pedro grins and smashes the chain onto the floor.

Shadows flit and move that I know my brain is creating because of the chemicals fucking with my neurons or whatever. They are insectile and monstrous these shadows, and even though they aren't really real, nevertheless it's not a very good thing to see at all and unease is born. Shivers.

'Pedro. Do yours have red eyes?'

But Pedro is not listening. Pedro has now decided the chain is a better necklace than weapon and lovingly is rubbing it. Watching this makes the shadows recede, as he pets it and takes several tries to place it around his neck. We fail to notice Pedro's girl has cut herself, cut herself on all the tips of her fingers. We should notice when she starts using her cut fingers to paint and write on to the wall behind, but it is some time before we do. Pedro and I agree it is not funny when we do take notice. He makes to regain his knife, but she fights him for it like a wild cat almost gashing him in the struggle and getting considerable blood on him, but he manages to win the day. To me it's as though all the world were under water and slowed down and the blood beats in my ears extra loud. She starts to weep, Pedro's girl, and wants the knife back but we say no, no, no. I go low down on my stomach as the insect mandibles make for to grab me. Self preservation. The shadows excrete mucous or ectoplasm on the walls. Shiver, but it ain't cold. Pedro attempts to clean himself up, the girl up. I am far too occupied with the shiver of winter and with the not getting any of hallucinogenic ectoplasm on me which is dripping from the roof.

'Don't worry Pedro. We'll find you a new girl, one don't get blood all over.' ~ Felix, standing now before us, who has returned home to our shock and delight.

Pedro is a stand up guy and bundles his now seemingly indifferent friend the artist into a cab with orders to the hospital, while an amazingly unbothered Felix fixes us some tequila shots. And just like that problem solved and off she goes, hands wrapped in a couple of towels, looking like a bloodied boxer. We give Felix immense applause and then pats on the back and head and shoulders. Felix pours more with salt and the lemon wedges he gets pre-sliced from his bootleg man. Felix gives us tales of cars speeding down highways and lanes, a stolen car and a hundred flashing copper sirens, and escape and a hooker named Loulou who did grant the desperate and hunted exile asylum for the night and a fuck thrown in for free. We cheer and squirm. But then once more the sides fall out of my head.

By this time the winds that don't exist have blown away the shadow creatures and are battering me from side to side. It is hard to see, hard to walk and even sit, hard to listen through the roar and they two keep asking me not to shout, but it's so loud how will they hear me otherwise. Felix is a grasshopper, Pedro praying mantis meets centipede. Hide in the cushions of the couch from Pedro, while the grasshopper feeds me milkbooze from his teat.

'Grasshopper's are my friend.'

'What? Dude, shut the fuck up.'

Between the grey areas snap out to see Felix on the phone, drinking straight from a bottle of bourbon and spilling much of it down his chest. Felix is normal again, human, if smeared. Pedro is in the tub doing god know's what, splashing and thrashing about.

'I met this real hot lady. I think I'm in love. And she's real, you know, genuine.'

'Gimme the phone.' ~ slirred.

Felix, eyes clouded, hands it over. 'She's beautiful… sounding.'

'Felix! Snap out of it? This is the voice of the computer lady for the service provider machine. She is not really a real lady.'

'She's so beautiful. '

Felix throws up

Again the greys. I am pretty sure Pedro is fucking wrecking the bathroom. Things are crashing. Get the sweats a bit for the last bit, fade in and out like waves of the tide. Eyes close. Snap back. Groggily. Time has advanced. Felix, somewhat recovered, is looking pissed and examining his damaged portrait. Pedro is naked from the waist up, his long hair plastered to his face, smoking a joint, blowing huge plumes of smoke in lazy circles above his reclined head.

'Don't take the red ones. Bad medicine pardners.'

I stick to beer then on, though Pedro swears his red ones are fine and takes another. We get in my car.

'Ain't you, what you call it, intoxicated to drive a motor vehicle?'


'Pedro, I'm not drunk. Are you insane? I've only had twelve pints, and the powder for clarity subtracts six, so I've only really had six.'

'Oh, oh that's okay then. Yar. I'm seeing some funky liquid ooze man, you ought to clean your car more often.'

We take my car, a convertible Volkswagon, on the expressway railed up high as mighty Gods and sing to Sam and Dave and I am driving and faster then normal, but not fast enough to get pulled over as that would be fucking dumb and a foolish way to end the night yet just born. Felix wants to go to Montreal, but I say fuck that and it's my fucking car. We fucking just head west.

'They're freaking me right out compadre. I am seeing ghosts all over and they've been hit by cars, car accidents killed them. I am fucking freaking out, but it's cool at the same time. You see them? The dead people?'

'No, no dead people.'

'No dead people.'

'Shit is freaky man.'

I notice that Felix is loading a revolver and almost hit the partition railing. Pulling off the high way is high on the agenda.

'Woa. I think I need a stiff drink.'

'Nice isn't it? I stole it from a cop.'

Pedro is snoring in the back seat. He stirs as Felix cracks a beer, his booze sense detecting well. Felix hands him one I take a quick sip of too.

'Christ Felix you stole a cop's gun. We gotta get rid of it, they'll fucking kill us.' Exiting the off-ramp and into city streets at speed and swerve. 'This is fucking nuts.'

'Ghosts, there's ghosts of car wrecks and I can see little pixies too. They is pretty little pixies, but theys got needle teeth and theys bites meeeeeeee!'

'Pedro I'm telling you those red pills are no fucking good man.'

Pedro eats another before Felix can grab it out of his hand. His eyes glaze.

'Just drink the beer Pedro and quit on those Reddies.'

But Pedro is again out. Felix recoups his can of beer and throws the empty one at Pedro. He then examines eyes which are rolled up in his head. He shoves him back into the seat, turns.

'Pedro is motherfucking fucked up. How many them he take? Plus the booze and blow?'

Moving onto another lane, almost hitting an oncoming truck, pulling back just in time.

'Dude, you ought to signal.'

'Dude, fuck off. I'm a little vexed right now. You Felix, are the cause of my vexation as you are waving a cop's gun in my convertible. Christ.' Reaching for the cigarettes and lighting one, slowing down. 'Put it down man!'

'Man, relax. You're overreacting. It's…'

'Relax. You not only scare the hell out of me with a loaded gun, but you say it's a cop gun. I think I'll panic now fucking Felix, not relax, thank you.'

'Let's shoot something inanimate. Don't pussy out.'

Turning hard. Felix slides. Passed out Pedro slides along the back seat his face mashing against the glass. This has little impact upon his interiorized brain.

'I will be a pussy outer. I want that gun out of this Volkswagon right fucking now. I am unashamedly no fun on this issue. And put your goddamned seatbelt on. '

The red of traffic lights smear, but that's the booze distorting vision. White lights above like shooting stars.

'You're overreacting. It's not like I'm shooting people with it.'

'Gimme that',

Slowing, struggling for the gun with Felix. It's fair enough with me with one hand on the steering wheel and driving, while he's got one hand occupied, unwilling to drop his just opened beer. We slap each other a bit around and twist and pull on the weapon. I inhale too much smoke and need to swerve again to avoid some good citizens.


The back window blows out. Pedro don't even move while I jump the fucking curb.

'Fuck. My fucking window. You coulda killed Pedro. My window!'

'Fuck. Fucking fuck is right. Shit.'

We drive in silence and make twists and turns and find unlit places to drive into. We need to figure out shit.

'Shit, shit, you shot up my car, with a old fucking cop gun.'

'I didn't mean to. You pulled it.'

'And in my car!'

'So sorry about that.' Felix hesitates. His ears must be ringing as much as mine. He goes even whiter. 'Shit man, I think Pedro's dead.'

'You fucking shot Pedro? In my car!?'

'Not shot, but look. He's not moving. Pull over. I think he's very dead already.'

Standing in a dark alley ears ringing, hands shaking to light a smoke. Felix doing the checking over of Pedro, or what once was Pedro.

'He is so fucking dead and cold.'

'How can he be cold already?'

'I dunno, the night air? Feel him.

'No way. But we got to figure out what to do man.'

I fucking throw the gun as far away as I can after wiping it on a rag.

'Hey man, what you do that for?'

The end.

Saturday, 17 May 2008

Beautiful Guys

This is a link to a comedy short I have two roles in. The director, Michael Penney, just put it up on youtube. Here is the link:

Comments welcome lovely peoples!

Friday, 16 May 2008

Eleven Reasons You Might Want to Re-Think Your Plans for World Domination

This is from my facebook group: The society for Evil, Debauchery and kitten appreciation. If you're into this kind of humour, join the revolution:

1. Your wife/husband is already having counter-revolutionaries over for fondue behind your back while you're in the war room.

2. You have a nagging suspicion that something is wrong with your Art Director's idea to deck out all the soldiers in neon camouflage for the invasion as it's much less drab, but can't figure out why.

3. You have an Art Director.

4. The fact the swimwear and tap contest division is receiving one quarter of your annual world invasion budget and still 'just not getting it right'.

5. Fears of breaking a nail.

6. Your plans have been getting WAY too much input from one of those plastic eight ball predictors.

7. According to a recent poll seven out of ten people on the planet just don't think they'd 'be into' being subjugated and/or enslaved by someone as unattractive and out of shape as you are.

8. Suicide commandos got the memo wrong and are all dead.

9. Your ideological propaganda machine's best slogan is 'Don't Worry, Be Happy... Or We Kill you.'

10. Goon strike.

11. Richard Gere got into the evil gerbil warfare division and you can't make him leave.

Monday, 7 April 2008

A Very Violent Dream

Dream: fucked up and violent and all through the night. Kind of like the movie 'Battle Royale'. You might find it disturbing, I did.

It begins with me and three others. We've been kidnapped and find ourselves strangers in a strange place. We don't know each other. There is myself, a tall black man, and one other. We are on high fenced in land, like a complex of buildings with forest, ponds, fields. There are several buildings about, old, derelict, rotting. We eventually come together us three and move together. No one knows what the fuck is going on. After exploring for a bit we see two men and a woman approaching. Only when they get quite close do we realize they have weapons. One man has a long blade, another a piece of pipe (the woman) and the third has a small knife. They are grinning. One yells 'Run'. We don't know what is going on, are confused. The third of us, kind of out of shape, starts to cry and shout and walks towards them. They yell run and raise their weapons and we all turn and run. The black guy and me are athletic, agile, but the third is closest to them and weak, out of shape. I am shouting to the black guy, 'what the hell is going on? Where are we?' and he doesn't know either. 'Those people are not our friends. We best run, find weapons.' Soon his point is proved as one of them throws his knife and it catches the fat dude in the throat (lots of throat stuff in this dream). He gurgles and falls, dead. They come for us. What follows is a mad chase. We are desperate after watching our fellow get it. They are enjoying themselves. We burst into an abandoned house and I look for a place to hide while the other guy looks for weapons. He is more together than me. Suddenly one of the men grabs and throws me violently into and through a wall. He is huge, comes after me. I get up and run, desperate to escape. I hear fighting in the other room. It is dusty because of all the fallen plaster. I manage to crawl away, run into another room. Here, in an ancient dusty chest of drawers I find a small razor blade type weapon, like two inches long with an attachment that fits on my thumb. I figure this out and put it on. My pursuer finds me, enters. No way out. He smiles, might say something like 'you're mine, or dead'. He comes in and begins beating me up pretty good. I smash into things, break old furniture. Then he grabs he in a bear hug, crushing me. But i get my hands free and I draw the little blade across the throat. Nothing happens. I do it again, and again in horror, and finally i cut through. He falls to his knees, puts hands to his throat, but can't keep in all the blood shooting out of his throat.

I wake up at this point, freaked out by the throat thing. Kitties are all snuggled around me in piece. I go back to sleep.

My fellow 'prey' is backing as the woman with the pipe attacks him. He has found some kind of weapon to defend himself against her. It is clear now that we are in a game of death, and must kill them to live. The leader with the machete is there too. Dude must fend off both of them. I think he is using a wooden chair leg as a club. He connects with the leader and I move from hiding for the woman. leap on her. He hits the leader with the club in the face again and again (out of my vision). The woman is a red head, she is beautiful, full of fury and strong as hell. She hits he several times with the pipe until i pin her arm. I cut her throat in the same way. (Told you this had a lot of throat violence). It is horrible for me to cut the throats. We gather ourselves. We've won. We are too be free. we exit the house. and are in forest/field. My friend has the machete now.

We are walking, waiting to be set free or whatever,,, get a prize?? Three more people enter the scene. Three more killers. One has a three bladed boomerang type weapon. A third person has been added to us. Another has a hand gun. This is when it dawns on us. That we have to keep fighting, more and more people until we die. There is no escape. We run. The new person is a woman. She is small and terrified. I grab her and help her run. She is tiny. I am gonna protect her no matter. We run and they chase. I fall on a log or something and she runs ahead, but I see in front of her the boomerang guy, who throws his weapon (think Krull) and kills the girl that was added to us with a sickening chunk. The one with the gun is shooting at me. We run.

I wake up again, in a sweat. Kitties nuzzled. But I hear someone on the stairs coming up, to get me. It freaks me out. I see shadows convalesce into evil things. I am weired out. I am half asleep. This happens from time to time, this being half asleep and half awake. I think I am awake and seeing ghosts. I dream I am writing this down at the computer desk in hand writing that is illegible, but I can't write readably. (After I got out of the shower this morning I looked for the piece of paper. That is when I realized it was a dream). I also dream I write the premise, of how we are kidnapped and taken into the future where this takes place as the beginning??? Lame, but it's what I dreamed.

I land back in the dream. We are now in a new large complex building and fighting to the death. What follows is myself and the black guy fighting, running, using different weapons. Killing. We keep killing them and more are sent in. These people hunting us are enjoying it. They are not prisoners like us. They are always supremely confident and then supremely shocked they are mortal, they die. It is all in flashes now, fading away. Lots of running. I obtain a revolver and have a shoot out. I never hit anyone. I also get another gun (futuristic) but it doesn't work. Only shoots white paint? I almost die as I am charging forward and shooting a guy doing the same to me, but my gun doesn't work. I cut another throat and the blood this time flies/spurts like crazy as a fountain. Hand to hand violence. I am not sure anymore how it ends. I get beat up a lot.

Anyways, that's my crazy dream.

Tuesday, 18 March 2008


Like a warm wind
Is coming
Dust off your dreams son
Shake off your slumbering hope
And squint into approaching light
Which may be painful
To both the constitution
And the yatterings
Of the mind
Which may boil with unprecedented
Happenings, auguries, deceptions
Boldly stare
Meet visions of truth
Or damnation
Change however unreadable
The helpless caught before it
Pushed into the new horizon
Of havoc and hope
Coming time to wake
Squint and steel
Or flee,
Cut and run away
Hide in the caves
Of the unmalleable
The shelters
Of self preservation
Change comes
My friend
You are warned.

Saturday, 9 February 2008

dream entry

this morning i had a rather odd dream. it follows:
i am with a friend, and perhaps my girlfriend, but i am not sure. we are watching baseball players in uniform trying to catch a fly ball on a city street. then a gust of wind comes and sweeps one of them a few feet into the air. he is gently settled back to the ground and the three players marvel at this. we who are watching stare and smile too. then another gust picks him up and he goes higher into the air. before he can float back down another gust pushes him higher yet. he shouts down to his buddies: 'don't worry, this has happened before. i just need to get to a roof or ledge.' so he continues to float up in gusts until he is level with the roof tops about 8 stories up. his feet reach and strain and finally scrape along the roof edge and he is set down. we are now on the fire escape beneath him, watching. he smiles, safe, but then suddenly a harsh, vicious gust of wind or force, much different and more violent than others, takes him and slams his body into a brick wall.he bounces brutally off this and then is slammed into another wall above the fire escape, then he is flung onto the fire escape below, his head bashing on the metal. as we watch blood drips down from his inert form, splashing in front of me. we hurriedly walk down the stairs to get away. then the fire escape stairs turn into the stone stairs leading from a building we are exiting. from behind me a women calls. she is wearing a nun's habit. we stop and she examines my leg and points to two tiny star shaped marks. she has an authority of medical knowledge about her. i brush her concern off saying i must've been bitten by a bug, but she insists it was no bug and that it is an infection/disease akin to leprosy. i touch it and clear fluid seeps out. she takes a tube and dabs on some clear ointment that will cure it. it fizzes and burns on the wounds.

Monday, 28 January 2008

Blood in the Sky...............Light

So at about 6:30 am I was awakened by a rather excited cat, and the sounds of raccoons chattering. I followed the cat's gaze (who was sitting on the pillow next to me) up. And not a metre away on top of the skylight directly above my bed and my head were two raccoons. The one was sitting on the skylight and seemed to be having a bath, cat style. But he was pretty beat up looking. The other raccoon kept nudging it and stuff and it would cry out when it did. I remember thinking it was odd for them to be out in daylight. I went to get my camera to get a photo, but by the time I got ready the raccoons were moving off. That's when I noticed the one guy had left bloody paw prints all over the outside of the skylight. He'd been in a fight or something and was in bad shape. It was all very surreal watching this from below. They were there for about five minutes. Wish I got a photo.