The BBC is f**king pathetic...

so I'm circulating this...

I find the BBC's apologies over the broadcast of the Bale-gate offensive.

I find them deeply patronising, serving as a mirror of the idiocies of small-minded whiners. I recognise the irony in my comment here.

The man swore. An unedited clip was played. It was an accident. Big f**king deal. Some people can't cope with swearing... that's their problem. It shouldn't be mine. If they're that offended, they can f**k off somewhere where they're never in any danger of hearing offensive language.

Also, surely if the word f**k is enough to tip you over the edge, you've got your priorities...well... f**ked.

People are dying across the world for reasons which could be fixed a lot more easily if we got angry about the right things.

How about the BBC advocating that people save their bile for people like Robert Mugabe? Or perhaps the psychotics on both sides of the Israel/Palestine argument that are hindering the peace process and letting more innocent people die?


People dying day by day, and we're wasting time fretting over a few "bad" words?

Now that really is f**ked up.

Click. Doom

The Greg(o)rian album is coming soon, probably next week, and I'll be posting a download link here. It's heavy.

Also, I wrote a short story last year that a friend of mine may animate.

Check out his animations, they're awesome http://www.newgrounds.com/portal/search/author/lenkobiscuit

Also, I'll be posting more sites/blogs I read and find interesting.

Anyway, here's the short story (no apologies for length...or stealing b3ta.com memes)


This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

Click

Click. The vid-screen flashed. Ads cycling by the roses. It reminded me of how much she hated this place. She hadn’t always hated the city. There was nothing left for her here. There was no her left for here. I craved a cigarette. I guess it was some sort of comfort. A little like breastfeeding. Perhaps it was just the ads by the grave. Taking my grief and warping it. Regurgitated back as an invitation to retail therapy.

Click. No, I had to leave here. I’d wished she’d had a better grave, perhaps if I’d had more money… no. They all had vid-screens. Even death was no escape.

I walked back through town, barely conscious of the shop fronts. Large signs and arrow windows. Vid-screens galore. An orgy of lights, expectations. No shadows existed here. Darkness was forbidden, life just one large bleached white smile. The lie she’d always hated. The lie I always hated. I’d always wanted to promise escape.

So many people had tried before. You can’t escape desire. Desire can’t escape exploitation. No escape. Click. Holiday packages from 490 creds. Click. Even that was never enough.

I wondered when I’d see her next. At least it wouldn’t be on a vid-screen. She knew where to find me. All we needed was a plan. All I needed was a plan. ACME Demolition Services. I’d seen it on an old vid-show once. A show for kids. I don’t remember the name.

Vid-screen words bounced around my head. Instinct clouded by money. Impulse mere drive to purchase. No. This couldn’t be it. There had to be more. Something you just could not market as product. No. Nothing is sacred, as the saying goes. Nothing is safe. Everything sells. Find the right buyer and you’ll profit from anything.

The right buyer needs the right product. From design through implementation, all the way down the supply chain, we need something that works. Click. Mouthwash Drops…the candy that keeps you fresh! Click. I needed something. I wondered about it for a while, standing by a vid-screen that was flashing an ad for a trashy nightspot. I remember thinking…“Can you buy inspiration?” Click. Derek’s Armoury: Guns for sale or rental.
Click. That had to be it.

Find the right product and finding the right buyer is easy.

It’s access that’s the problem. Marketing is simple. Simple doesn’t necessarily mean easy. It is expensive. Click. Corporate banking just a phone call away! Click. They spend about as much selling us stuff as we do buying it. That’s something that had always made her laugh. Irony, she called it. The way they would announce rises in profits as the same time they were laying off employees. Saying one thing and meaning the opposite. We’re doing so well. You’re fired. I never quite understood how it worked. Product. Buyer. Access. Yes, of course, access. That was it. They didn’t care about the irony or whatever else. They just wanted a middleman. Someone to broker the deals. The pimp. That’s all the hard work ever comes down to in the end. My problem was that I couldn’t have one. I couldn’t get anyone else involved. It would be too dangerous.

The city didn’t care for anybody either. Blaring light everywhere. Sometimes it made you wonder how big the generator was. Where it was. Hardly seemed enough space for a power station anywhere. Maybe it was underground, or buried beneath a bunch of vid-screens advertising something like water purification products.

Maybe it was all powered by human greed. Suppose I’ll never know. The other people I saw around the streets were not the wild-eyed masses shown by the vid-screens. It was late, and cold; but the city was never empty. Even so, nobody stood adoring the vid-screens. They all seemed to slide along, barely lifting their feet as they walked. It wasn’t hard to understand. They’d been bludgeoned into submission. Click. Billy’s Farm…Cheap Valium. Click.

Each purchase just one more in the relentless series of events they called a life. Some found solace in the things they didn’t need. Vid-screen things. Some found deep meaning. I don’t know where from, but I guess it showed there were still some souls there. Just glazed over is all. Reflecting ads back at the vid-screens through sad, wanting eyes. The vid-screens remained indifferent. If only they could be taught to be valid, contributing members of society. Fine upstanding citizens. A model community. Utopia for sale. Just need enough credits. Click. Island properties from 2mil Credits! Click. Shit.

I was wrong. There was an escape. Join the machine. Surrender and pretend to be happy. That was my perfect plan. Click. Suits for sale! 50% off! John Tailor’s Superstore! Click. Become the paradigm you seek to destroy. Not infiltration as such. Infiltration implied escape after the fact, and like I said, there is no escape. No sir, I’m afraid that won’t be necessary.

I went to see Derek and he didn’t ask many questions. It was only the money he really cared about. A simple transaction. Quick too. This may be easier than I planned, I thought to myself. After all, many people carried guns these days. It was an ordinary thing to do. “It’s for protection, officer.” No more questions necessary, no more asked. I’d picked a lightweight pistol I’d seen on a vid-screen as I walked into the place. Middle of my price range. Hundred thirty credits. Rainy day money. Too easy almost.

I already had a suit. No need to visit JT’s. I figured I wouldn’t need a badge. A legit one would be too difficult to obtain without questions. A fake one could be spotted. Too much effort anyway. Why waste any more time than you have to? The meeting would be difficult enough to organise anyway. I needed a name. Something reputable. Believable, unlike the dreams they tried to sell. Airbrushed realities. The turd polished bright enough to blind.

Carlton Matheson was the name I chose to go on the fake papers. It sounded businesslike enough. CM Corp. No. CM Industries. No. They didn’t sound right. Too pretentious I think. CM Manufacturing. That would do. A little more unassuming. Inviting fewer questions. All I needed now was a sanction meeting. The fake papers weren’t advertised on vid-screens, but you can find anything if you look in the right places. The less questions asked, the fewer answers given. Less chance of a trace. This couldn’t go wrong. It sounded legit. It looked legit. It had taken me quite a while to save up money for the papers. Worth the wait. It took three weeks. I received a letter informing me I had a business sanction meeting with the head of AdCorp. Click. Business opportunities for Bright Young Minds. Click. Maybe in a few weeks time, there’d be a few different messages on the vid-screens, I thought to myself.

Business survival was dependent on the vid-screen. An ad determines product success. No ad, no access to buyer. Ads are granted if the business idea is sanctioned. The M.D. of AdCorp has executive veto of course. No point taking the long way round. Red tape bound up proposals. That sort of stuff took months to deal with. Big ideas went straight to the top. Big ideas, big money. A big cut for the M.D. on the sly often eased the transition to being sanctioned.

I had my spiel ready. CM Manufacturing is developing a product called the Mind Mirror. A brain chip receiving signals from vid-screens. As a consequence, ads reach deeper, for longer. All anyone would have to do after that is sabotage the vid-screens and change what showed up on them. Of course, he wouldn’t be told about subliminal messaging. That wasn’t part of the business proposal.

It was all bullshit anyway. Not even AdCorp scientists had the required technology. Surely the M.D. would know that. Didn’t matter. It’s only the idea you sell anyway. The M.D. doesn’t care about anything else. Good idea? Other people start talking. Things get done. Bad idea? You may as well have your ass kicked out of the office. You are formally escorted from the premises. They may as well just throw you out of a window. Their world has little time for failure. You’re a success or you’re a rat. That’s how it is. Fail in their world and it is game over, just like the vid-halls when the kids run out of coins.

All this, and I was nervous. Why? You’d think lying would be easy. I already had product, buyer and access. Means, motive and opportunity.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“Mr. Matheson?”
“Carlton, please.”
“I prefer formality, Mr. Matheson. This is a business meeting, not a bar.”
I sat, as directed. Nice office. Plush. Different to the city. Still no shadow, but warm and bright. The light wasn’t cold anymore. The suit I had on was warm too, verging on being uncomfortable. Out in the street, the suit had felt wrong. Uncomfortable but not because of the heat. It just didn’t look right. Didn’t seem to hang the right way. A little too tight. Now it was as though the fibres had relaxed, but I was still tense. I had space to breathe. A lot of space. Almost too much. So relaxing here. I sat back and breathed deep to calm my nerves. I had almost forgotten about the gun. Cold metal on my leg. Awake. Very awake. The tension had slipped. He’d read the proposal.

“Mr. Matheson, you have some interesting ideas.”
“You think so?”“You heard what I said.”
“Worthy of a vid-screen?”
“That, Mr. Matheson, is what we’re about to discuss.”

I looked over. Yes, he was definitely worthy of the hatred coursing through me. I could see what was going to happen. I knew.

“You are planning to sabotage the vid-screens are you not, Mr. Matheson?”I felt in my pocket for the pistol.
“You’re joking sir, surely?”
“Why else would you want direct access to people’s minds?”
“You’ve read the proposal.”
“Yes. You don’t have the technology.”

Plan B. The grants, research funding. I tightened my grip on the gun.

“Mr. Matheson, we don’t have the technology. Nobody does. It’s impossible.”

Fuck it. I took the gun from my pocket.

“What use is technology? You only use it to tighten screws. To press on with your lies.”

He hadn’t seen the gun.
“Matheson. It’s not your real name, is it? These papers are fakes. Excuse me while I call security.”
“Fuck security. People are dying and you don’t care. You’re a fucking murderer.”

He’d seen the gun and he sat down. He wasn’t about to call anybody.

“Mr. Matheson, what I do is not illegal.”
The vid-screen on his desk flickered. Click. Thin Lizard Beer. Tastes wack, but at least it’s not crack, right? Click. Smokey Dokey. The cigarette of choice for nicoteenagers. Click. Big Nob. Whiskey for men with balls. Click.

“And what I do is futile but satisfying.”

Click.

Gateway Part Six

This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

Gateway Part Six - Final Part

Still a wanted criminal. It wasn’t getting any better.

“Come on Kef... It’ll be better now you’re in the city...”

A city is an easy place to disappear. An easy place to disappear if you know where to hide. Bars, offices, wherever, it didn’t matter as long as it was some sort of shelter. Just somewhere to stay for a while, relax. Clear your head, clean up, patch a few wounds.

Kef stood in the first dark doorway he found, trying to remember whether he smoked or not, what the time was and when he last ate or slept. The gun seemed more of a comfort than ever. Four bullets left. It wouldn’t be enough.

“Suspect confirmed.”

Shit, this is it, he thought. He was beginning to wish he’d stolen Argyll’s knife. A nice quiet knife. Don’t need to reload a knife. Knife isn’t much good against a gang of trained killers who have you surrounded. He couldn’t see anyone around. It must just be some sort of radio transmission he was picking up somehow. They must have found Argyll.

Perhaps they’d got Ned too. Maybe they were all dead. From what Kef knew of the Killsquads, they didn’t waste any time. Far worse than the police and Kef already knew plenty about how bad the police were, but he had no idea how many there were to a squad, or how many squads were assigned to an individual.

Kef was tired. Thoughts began to stagnate like the stale smell of rain on concrete. All images were turning slowly to grey. Kef was being swallowed by the city. He had to go, get out, and just go somewhere. He started walking. “Don’t bother looking, Kef,” he told himself. “Just don’t look, don’t get looked at.” Nothing recently had been that simple.

“Suspect fleeing. In pursuit.”

Kef was a little worried. He hadn’t realised he was running. Were these people invisible?

“TWO SIX EIGHT! HALT!”

Kef span round, but it was still a full minute before he saw anyone. Three people holding guns.

Four bullets. He’d manage, if the bullets got through the armour.

“Unless you’re inhumanly fast I wouldn’t bother.”

Shit. It’s over.

Kef threw his gun down.

Shit, shit, shit. This is going to hurt.

“Chad?”

Two flashes.

Gateway Part Five

This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

Gateway Part Five

Kef had been walking for what seemed like several hours, though it was probably closer to twenty minutes.

“Excuse me, sir. City Border Patrol.”

For the second time in a day, Kef was worried that he was about to die. He looked at the man’s badge and saw the name Argyll.

“Do you have clearance to enter the city?”

Kef had the gun deep in his pocket. He was conscious not to fumble for it. Argyll said nothing.

“Where would I get clearance?”

Too easy to give away too much. He was on the floor in seconds. Out of breath, Kef looked up. Argyll was rubbing his fist.

“I’m sorry son, I’ve not done that in a while, but I’m sure you understand.”

It still hurt, no matter how long it’s been, Kef thought, trying to breathe. I deserve this. It’s my own damn stupid fault, he told himself. How could I ever have thought this would be better? No. Kef could not answer that.

That punch was emptiness.

“Come on kid, get up. You need to make it look real.”

Side of the head, near the jaw. Argyll barely flinched.

“Damn it boy, I think you loosened a tooth there... son of a bitch.”

A few seconds more was all Kef would need. I just need to get past him, he said to himself.

“You get clearance from me.”

A few seconds more. Kef was breathing now.

“What?”

“I’ll give you clearance if you tie me up. You have to make it look real. Anyway, I like being tied up.”

It only took a few minutes, even though Kef didn’t want to do it.

“Smart move kid, shooting the radio. Transmitters and all. Ned told me all about it. He told me you were coming. Son of a bitch. All the idiot brothers in the world and he had to be mine.”

Kef had lost all patience for small talk.

“Clearance?”

“Granted.”

Gateway Part Four

This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

“268? How do you plead?”

She had a gun raised. Kef had no idea whether it was loaded or not.

A flash of white light blinded Kef.

What a tragic waste, he thought. No...I’m thinking, that means I’m not dead...

Ned stood over his wife, gun in hand. She was shaking.

“You kill him and we’re both dead.”

The Killsquads, of course. Fear, the great motivator.

Ned threw Kef the gun.

“You need all the help you can get. Go to my room, change your clothes. Head east out into the city. Keep the gun. There are a few more bullets in my bottom drawer.”

Kef didn’t wait for further directions. Making it look like a burglary would make it easier on them. He blew the locks off the handcuffs first, dropping them to the floor, and then made his way to the cabin.

The door wasn’t locked, but Kef kicked it off its hinges anyway.

“Fuck it, this might save their lives.”

Ned’s probably burying the handcuffs, he thought.

“Right, t-shirt and jeans, that’ll do.” Green t-shirt, reasonable fit, tucked into the jeans. It was dark green. Not Kef’s favourite colour, but it was better than nothing. The jeans were reasonably worn, so Kef figured Ned wouldn’t miss them anyway. Hardly the height of fashion...but it made him think of Chad.

Kef found the bullets, reloaded it pistol and stuck the remaining bullets in his pockets. He put the safety on and pocketed the gun. He figured he’d get a knife somewhere in the city.

On his way out, Kef saw a picture-radio. There was a picture of him on it. They weren’t telepaths at all. There was no mystery, no more confusion. It wasn’t the handcuffs that had upset Ned’s wife. It was what the radio had told her. It was still broadcasting the same static image of Kef and screaming details about him. It was too large to take with him, so Kef put a bullet in it.

Ned was at the door as Kef was leaving.

“When you get to the city, go see Argyll. No other name that I know of, just Argyll.”

Kef figured he’d know who to ask. Chad always used to say that.

“Sometimes... you just know.”

Kef finally understood what Chad meant.

Gateway Part Three

This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

Gateway Part Three

Kef woke up with a sore head. He didn’t know where he was and wondered how many bottles of whiskey it’d taken to get this hung-over.

“Chad? Where are you, you dumb bastard?”

No answer.

“Who’s Chad?”

Kef looked up and saw someone new.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What doesn’t matter mister? You lost your friend? That’s pretty serious...”

Kef stood up.

“No.”

He was aware of the ambiguity. Seems the new man hadn’t picked up on it.

“I haven’t seen you around here mister. Are you new? Are you lost?”

Too many questions. Kef fell over and closed his eyes.

“Are you sleeping now mister?”

“What is this, a game-show?”

“What’s a game-show mister?”

“Yeah, okay, you got me. I’m lost. Where am I?”

“You’re in my field.”

“I noticed. Who are you?”

“My name is Ned. I live here.”

Kef got up and started to walk out of the field.

“Wait mister, who are you?”

“I’m Kef, and I’m going home.”

“Where’s home, mister Kef?”

The question stopped him. He was confused. He had no idea how he was going to get home. That and he’d never known someone to be so nice to a trespasser. Perhaps it’s a new universe, he thought. One filled with joy and kindness. Maybe they’ve started completely from scratch, uncorrupted.

Once Kef was off the field he looked around. Seemed like he had arrived on a small farm. He couldn’t see any animals, just a few fields. Blue sky and a small cabin nearby at the corner of the field. It seemed pleasant enough but it wasn’t quite what Kef had been hoping for.

“Hey, Ned! You live alone?”

“No. My wife lives with me. I’ll go get her so you can meet her.”

Ned shambled off over to the cabin. Kef waited where he was and wished he could get rid of the handcuffs. He saw Ned return with a smaller woman by his side.

“GET THAT MAN AWAY FROM HERE!”

“Why? What’s wrong with mister Kef?”

“He’s a criminal. Look, Ned, he’s wearing handcuffs.”

Kef wondered if they had a phone. Hoping they didn’t, he walked toward them.

“I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble, Ned, I’ll go.”

“Where will you go? You don’t know where you’re going. You told me you’re lost.”

“Tell me where to go and I’ll go.”

Ned’s wife spoke again.

“He can’t go anywhere. They’ll kill him.”

Kef was unaware that the police had been planning on killing him.

Extreme conditions demand extreme responses.

“You think they won’t kill you too?”

That seemed to catch her attention. Ned was clearly frightened.

“...it’s him! D-d-destroyer of Worlds!”

Kef was shocked. He knew he’d have to be careful.

“They want me dead, and you’re harbouring a known criminal.”

Ned nodded and hid his face in his hands. His wife spoke.

“You think they’ll kill us? You’re wrong. The police will reward us for turning in a piece of scum like you.”

Kef was running out of ideas. Ned was shaking.

“...but what about the Killsquads?”

Kef knew nothing of the Killsquads.

“Killsquads?”

This was not what Kef expected. He began to think that the legal system had better teleportation devices than they let on. Ned was rocking back and forth.

“They’re going to kill us. Oh God, they’re going to kill us...”

“SHUT UP NED!”

Ned stopped rocking. He’d stopped shaking.

“They will only kill him. He is the destroyer.

That was all she said. No, Kef thought. That cannot be it. Kef was not ready to die.

“No. You can’t let me die.”

“Let a murderer die?”

Kef was confused again. He was stuck on a strange farm with an idiot and a woman who wanted him dead. So much for an easy six months.

“Murderer?”

She looked Kef in the eye, and he could almost taste her anger.

“You strangled him.”

Bitter tang of misplaced hatred. She couldn’t be right. Kef was sure he hadn’t killed 137.