CHILD ABUSE (ABUSE, PART ONE)

“He hurt me mother. He hurt me with what he did and what he said. He really really hurt me.”

“I know that, my love, but while he was hurting you, he was hurting me a lot...a whole lot lot less...”

THE TORTURER, (ABUSE, PART TWO, MOBBING)

Arthur Lovich, but I have them call me Love. Neat, right? Love? Honesty time, Kids! I’m a nobody in this company and I know it but I’ve a reputation to uphold and it isn’t the reputation of a loser, no way. I’m on top of it all, man, and though I’m on the production line everyone knows my name. I’m the centre of it all. I got culture, man. I listen to Queen and play Oblivion on the computer with the kids.

I’m a control freak, or something, a born manipulator and I know this work is all empty and pointless, it’s dead time for me and so, for a bit of fun, a bit of a laugh, I like to feel I’m having an effect. Creating something. Ha! I’m the king of the dead time. It’s power for me, POWER with capital letters, P-O-W-E-R!


Man, I can really make everyone’s life uncomfortable, so I do! I mean, no one respects me, I know that, for god’s sake, no one ever has! No one! What the fuck do I need respect? Fear. Now, there’s as good a tool as anything else and it works like a dream fear does. Three hundred ‘n fifty mugs here and everyone knows my name. Told you that before. They say it under their breaths.

I’m here for life. I got a fixed contract shits! Fulfill all my quotas and nobody steps on my toes or try it on with me or I’ll fuck ‘em right up. They just gotta give me a look. A look‘ll do it, or coming on all friendly like! That‘ll set me off and I’m on their case! Hey, the job’s a bore for christ’s sake. You’ve gotta keep yourself entertained. They laugh too, they gotta laugh! I just love to hear those false laughs. Kind of nervous, sort of too loud or not quite loud enough. These people are just scum, fuck ‘em.

The King of The Dead Time, me and you can’t afford to get all self involved, no way. Don’t get me wrong, man! No excuses. I know exactly what I’m up to. I’m a professional. I screw up all these shits ‘cause it makes me feel like royalty! No, I feel the power. I’m your normal Tom, Dick or Harry, can’t tell me from Adam on the street, not much good at explaining things in words and don’t think I talk like this out there either but, you know, nowadays you just can’t hit nobody but you can have some fun breaking their fuckin’ stupid brains in! Don’t care who I fuck, nobody fucks with me.

THE TORTURER AND THE TORTURED, (ABUSE, PART THREE)

Her name’s Mary. Good damned Christian name that. Mother of God. I go to Church. Sometimes. More action in the old bit of the bible. I can relate to that. Anyways, this Mary came on kind of cute and friendly. Shit, the other guys started to quite like her, come on to her a bit, her being the only girl worth looking at in the section. Man, have we got some ugly bints in here. Well, I wasn’t having any of that. Got to work on her as soon as I clocked on to that. I was dead cheery and all smiles for the lads but pressured the slimy bitch from the start. I was dead jovial for their ears but stuck the knife in in whispers over her shoulder, breathing down her neck.

“Hey, dear! Can’t wait ‘till the end of the week for that piece!” I’d shout over the noise of the machines for everyone to hear! All with my best toothy smile in place. Then I’d lower my voice, “Bitch, biiiiiiiiiiiitch!” Over and over and fucking over again, like mantra, or whatever, in her sweet little ear.

“You gonna burn out bitch..”
“Why don’t you burn, bitch..”
“What you telling me that for bitch..”
“Prick teaser!”
“Using your fingers for the wrong job bitch..”
“Never gonna make it with me here bitch..”
“You’re losing it Bitch..”

Man, I got a whole songbook full of this stuff, all up here in the head department!

Sure enough, she got all nervous and her production fell and so did the pieces I’d pass her and drop so it looked like she’d dropped them and, boy did she look incompetent and the lads saw that and I didn’t even have to speak to her no more but I just pick on her with the lads and the lads don’t talk to her no more either, ‘cause I won’t be having any of that and she can’t fucking hack it no more and sweet little Mary has gone all quite contrary.


Spoke to the foreman, she did. The guy’s a friend of mine. Nobody likes people who talks behind their backs. I told them all that. Explained it in real clear language. So, I’ve got the cow on the slippery slope and we laugh and snigger and comment and give the bitch the finger when Little Mary Quite Contrary is in earshot, and she’s had it. I’ve turned everyone and everything against her. Even the fucking machines!

She eats her sandwiches in the toilet ‘cause I just can’t never let up with the sarky comments and dirty suggestions with the lads. You know the plan! Gotta keep her on edge. Told everyone she was a paranoid bitch out to get ‘em all, and, whether they believe it or not, that’s the way they react ‘cause I’m in control here, baby, and I’ve got a nice warm feeling inside and they’re all shiteating cowards, the cunts. Fuck them all.

And sweet Little Mary Quite Contrary has lost a whole load of weight these months I’ve been working her over and looks much sexier than when I started work on her, the bitch.

“Bitch”, I like that word, just rolls off the tongue like it should be in some Queen song. Rolls off the tongue like poetry!









The “Arthur Lovich” of this three part story is a fictional character.

THE TORTURED, (ABUSE, PART FOUR, THE MOBBED)

I think all these people see through me. I’ve become some kind of ghost or something. I don’t know, but I feel dirty, polluted somehow, but I can’t put it into words, really. They all take any opportunity to niggle me, to take a dig at me and it’s been like this ever since I can’t remember when. I’ve lost my temper sometimes, I’ve snapped, I’ve said things I shouldn’t have, I’ve got angry but mostly I don’t know what I’ve been talking about because everything is so empty and I’m not me anymore. I’ve disappeared, gone.

What have I done to deserve all of this? What did I do to set it all off? What can I tell anybody? My eight hours have twenty four hours worth of minutes in them, weeks worth of minutes in them in a future that is always on top of me so I can’t breathe. I’m suffocating. Am I explaining myself? Can you see what I’m getting at? I know what’s going on, then I think I know what’s going on, and then I’m not sure what’s going on and then I’m lost and then it all starts going round and round and round in my head, over and over and over again and I can’t think straight.

I can’t let everybody down. I’ve got to cause a good impression. Be friendly. It’s impossible because I’m not me anymore, I don’t know who I am anymore. I just can’t get the production done. Eight hours, with all those millions of minutes, is a black hole. A big black aloneness. My hands tremble at the start of the shift and tremble the whole day, the whole week. I’ve got a knot in my stomach I just wish I could unravel. I want to force my hands in there and untie it all but I don’t have the energy. I’m too weak. I’m too tired, worn out.

I’ve tried to talk to them all. I try to smile. I tried to talk to Lovich, but he was so spiteful I nearly cried but I didn’t, because I’m trying so hard not to be pathetic. I try to talk to the other guys but, somehow, he’s turned them against me. They won’t talk to me, but they won’t leave me alone either. Seriously, sometimes I think they’re afraid of him. I don’t know.

I’m suffering from a kind of tunnel vision and tunnel hearing. I don’t understand. They’ve been giving me looks again and laughing at me and passing comments I can’t quite hear, though they have a nasty tone to them. Maybe I’m a bit paranoid. Maybe I’m blowing this up out of all proportion. I don’t think so.


I don’t understand anything. I feel so useless. My thoughts don’t work and my words are less than useless. What can I say to my husband? I can’t. I’ve left it too long to even know where to start to explain. Things have all piled up. He’s, somehow, behind a door and I’ve piled up so much against it it’s impossible to open. Am I explaining myself? I don’t know anymore. Anyway, I don’t want him to worry over me, I’ve got to be strong for my family. I’ve asked some of my best friends about it. You know, I’ve told them bits and pieces, and they’ve been ever so nice and given me some good advice, but what use is good advice if your friends aren’t holding your hands? Nothing. It all evaporates when they let go. Sometimes I can keep it up to the factory gates.

What am I becoming? I’m too scared to go to bed because I can’t sleep and my thoughts won’t leave me alone. A nightmare would be a relief. It would mean I’d slept. I’m so terrified of getting up because I know what I’m in for because my mind's been turning it over and over and over again all through the night. The days have it in for me.

Just another very bad day.

I broke down and knelt and cried in front of my little daughter this evening. She’s not even three yet, but she was just so beautiful I couldn’t control the tears. She cried too, because mummy was crying and I kissed her soft cheek, and that was even more beautiful and her little tears were salty, but kind of sweet too.

I hope my tears weren’t too bitter for her. I love her so much.













The “Arthur Lovich” of this three part story is a fictional character, though far too many men and women of his kind are destroying lives in workplaces everyday, all over the world. Let me extend the accusation and say that far too many men, and, to a lesser degree, women, are doing the same thing to their partners in homes all over the world, torturing, destroying, CONTROLLING.

The man "behind" Arthur Lovich actually used the words "Burn out." He knows exactly what he is doing and is the more dangerous for it. He has investigated all the possibilities.

If you are a victim of mobbing, fight back! Never let it even have the chance to CONTROL you. Denounce the mobber to the company, the unions and find help and get information from associations. Where? Google “mobbing”. Yahoo “mobbing”. Never say “IT’LL GO AWAY IN THE END.” If you ignore it, it never will.

If you see mobbing going on in your workplace, denounce the mobber, or you will be next on the list. Stay quiet and the mobber has you CONTROLLED too. Fight back.

Mary is a fictional character too, and her daughter, husband, mother and father, but there are too many real victims just like them that shouldn’t be having their lives destroyed. Fight back!

TAKE CONTROL BACK FROM THOSE WHO WOULD USE IT AGAINST YOU.

SCREWED, SCREWED UP AND SCREWED DOWN

I am not really interested in what anybody is doing right now, unless they’re doing it to me and mine, and I don’t see that anybody should be at all interested in what I’m doing right now, unless I’m doing it to them and theirs.

That’s what I thought then and, on the face of it, it seems like a reasonable deal.

So? So the holy man just screwed my best friend. Pulling the strings, tried it on quick and secret and with sacred salvation thrown into the bargain with his heavenly orgasm. A life devoted entirely to pleasure results in emptiness, he whispered in his seconds of climax.


He got there first, in the name of some born again something or another, with all the trappings, all the theatre, and act two was his vanishing act.

One hell of an anticlimax, whateverwhichway you look at it, specially for my best friend.

Once upon a time I’d had a similar plan and the opportunity, but my offer came without the strings attached and was rejected, OK, dear, no problem. I understood.

Sometimes pure lust is just too honest and honesty isn’t in the nature of the game.

You get screwed, screwed up and screwed down.

So, what’s the big deal then? Happens every day, right? Right, but you can’t react with extreme reasonableness to extremism, and therein lies a paradox of sorts.

I could've killed him.

PORNOGRAPHY AND COLDER WEATHER GETTING COLDER

Bug Eyed Peter could walk down the street and sow terrible violence and destruction around him every step of the way. He could roam through at least two worlds at the same moments in time and, while in one, the conversation, the gossip, turned on the changes in the weather or who had begun to do you know what with whom, in the other his meat knife would be carving painfully deep red tattoos in young summer suntanned flesh.


Everything he touched lived in these two, or more, worlds. In one everyone begged for pornography, more beautiful suffering and pain, more death and destruction while, in the other the weather was getting colder and the summer suntanned girl caught the university bus or got out of the lift at the fifth chatting to Debbie about Mark totally unaware of what she had just suffered, what they had all just been through or what they were just about to suffer.

Everything Peter touched decayed, but not out there on the street. It all decayed inside his head, in the death chambers and sweet sewers of his imagination. Out there, on the street it was as beautiful as ever.

Everything he touched shrivelled behind his lonely eyes and life became sordid and, gradually, everything and everyone he reached out to really did appear to decay right there in front of his eyes and the passersby in the street began to give him strange sideways looks and avoid direct eye contact and the weather conversations, always brief, became inaudible whispers and the girls kept it down to a dry, very dry and distant “Hello” or “Bye” and that was that.

So, that which was beautiful, but that which he had soiled, was never enough to satisfy the tastes of his fantasies and everything became a terminal disappointment, for his worlds had intertwined far too intimately and Bug Eyed Peter was hurt.

He was hurt and beautiful and lonely in his suffering, his head turned to face some far distant horizon, some far distant tragedy, though the tragedy was inside and he was abandoned and abused and finally forgotten in his solitude.

Thankfully, Bug Eyed Peter was aware of his predicament and snapped out of it one day when he realised that things had to be kept firmly in their places and nothing was more powerful, or beautiful than what was out there before his eyes, no imaginations, no fantasies, no inventions could compare to the bare beauty before his eyes.

“Hey, Pete! What time’s the next bus?” breathed Alba in his ear.
“Just over an hour. Want a coffee?”
“Yeah, why not? You coming or what?”

Peter checked his watch.

“Hurry up then..............do we really have the time?” asked Alba impatiently as she noticed Peter pull the sleeve of his jacket down over his left wrist.

“In reality, no!” he thought to himself.

THE GENE THAT INVENTED GOD (A CONSPIRACY THEORY)

“Doesn’t look much like they do anything other than reproduce.”

“They juggle. They’re professional jugglers!”

“So, sometimes it comes off, sometimes it doesn’t, then?”

“When it works, it really hits home and they make allies and the more acolytes they manufacture the more success they have.”

“Seems to me that it all got a bit out of control when what they stitched together started getting all thoughtful and questioning.”

“They juggle, I told you that before, but, like any good conjuring trick, you just haven’t picked up on how it works, can’t believe how it works”

“We know how it works!”

“That’s what you think! It’s all part of their strategy, keeping it under their very own hats! If you got fellow travellers, keep them tight up close together, all the better to reproduce with, baby!”

“And all the rest?”

“Dead, extinct, all the individuals exterminated. Never had a look in! “G” stumbled on the idea of god and god kept the machinery all oiled up all the better to reproduce to!”

“So genes invented god?”

“No, a situation was engineered in which the meme was useful to them.”

“So, to all intents and purposes, genes invented god?”

“In a manner of speaking! The god system of control was efficient, reproductive. The more you reproduce the more you produce like you, the more fun you have with yourselves!”

“Masturbation! Seems to me that it’s all got a bit out of hand. Too much investigating going on for their purposes now. Too much for their own good!”

“Crass error of interpretation, sunshine! They’re juggling and the god idea was part of the code that’s now obsolete, already built on. To date, the juggling, the shuffling of codes has been painfully slow but now! Now the codes are on the point of short circuiting time”

“But people are beginning to say the machines are not the codes but a product of the codes, right?”

“Yet another crass error, my friend! This is their conspiracy! The codes have engineered a situation in which the very machines they built have become sufficiently well programmed to juggle with the very codes that built them! Voila!”

“Voila what?”

“The cat that chases its tail! A black cat on The Satin Greaseway! Whoa! You think that’s chance?”

“Chance?”

“Evolution! EVOLUTION!”

BLACK CATS ON THE SATIN GREASEWAY

I held Peter’s cold trembling hand while my silver seabirds glided over a silver night time seascape, and when the moon fell just about right, the sea was mercury and the buildings became shimmering jewel studded silver silk, like a New York of the films.

I saw a black diamond sky, a mercury sea. I saw black cats on the satin greaseway.


I held his cold hand, he who spoke so much he had long ago run out of things to say but kept on saying them all the same but, if you couldn’t have thought once, you shouldn’t have thought twice.

You carried it all too far and fell into a profound, empty depression, and you were simply incapable of making beautiful sad works of art out of it all. Tragic art might have saved you.

Nor were you capable of leaving it all alone. Leaving it all alone might have saved you too.

I came to realize that never had there been a glimmer of imagination or understanding behind those dark eyes which always seemed to promise so much, and so you lived in a world where there was no sense and everything was nonsense, no rhyme nor reason, only blind faith and submission.

In our quiet, respectable London suburb the mantis of fear and fever never allowed you to sleep, nor to act or react, not even a fragment, not a line of rhyme or reason. The mantis sowed living room claustrophobia for you. You, curled up, paralyzed on the bed brought down from upstairs, and everything out there rang a bell but nothing made music.


Under a black diamond sky, I watched the silver milk mercury sea, the shimmering jewel studded silk and the moon coin tossed heads and tails, and everything rang a bell for you but nothing made music like the black cats on the satin greaseway could have, like a silver night time seascape could have, like the magic and poetry of reality could have.

I tried to bring it all together for us for so long. I was the heroine who sowed red roses across the divide. Under a black diamond sky, I was the black cat on the satin greaseway.

I was the only jewel in your life.

THE RAW, NAKED TRUTH

I have to admit that I can’t say I can recall everything discussed at the meeting, or afterwards when I caught up with the priests in the deep, plush, subdued luxury of the hotel bar. The snatches of conversation I report here might not be a hundred percent accurate, word for word, but their meaning is.

There had been joyless prayers recited and a hymn sung with a terrible piety and very little enthusiasm or music and the suits were dark grey or black and the faces were ashen and expressionless, the cardinals, bishops, priests and courtiers of The High and Mighty Church of John Doe were waiting on death and waiting on those waiting on death and their release into paradise like buzzards. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Cash on demand.*

The worn out chains of office weighed mightily heavy round each and every dog collared neck.

“Let John Doe be praised.”

“Now let us begin.”

Black briefcases, all the same slightly battered age, at exactly the same moment, spewed reams of officious documents onto dark, polished wooden tables.

“This is war and our highest priority is to manipulate, and so invade, the areas of consciousness still underexploited or unknown to our victims, subjects and potential converts. We must invade and occupy their ignorance.”

“And keep them ignorant.”

“Praise be to John Doe.”

Their words were a colourless litany chanted with the intonation of the dead, or how you might imagine the dead should intonate if they could actually get up and find anything to say, dusty and as dry as ash and they were not meant for my ears.

“Take note, however, that no religions with intelligent or well indoctrinated representatives actually desire to take the reins of earthly power, they stay just out of frame, for they have absolutely no desire to carry on their shoulders a burdensome responsibility for the material failures common to all of us human beings.”

“Let John Doe be praised.”

"John Doe?"

“Let the politicians and libertines, the scientists, let society take on its back and shoulders this burden of material inadequacy and our failures will become theirs alone and we shall control a system of absolute moral authority, have faith.”

Their words were predominantly negative and obsessed with evil and sin and the cooperation one might subscribe to with these evils and sins.

“Have faith? Keep one step aside, in the shadows. We shall be the puppet masters.”

"A door will be opened for our absolute moral truth, a truth above and beyond the laws of man. The door will be open to absolute power.”

“The raw, naked truth! Absolute power!”

“Absolute control. Praise be to John Doe.”

Two hours later I was picturing centuries of popes who all looked like the painter Francis Bacon’s pope innocent X’s demons, liturgies, processions, ceremonials, hierarchies, cathedrals and I smelt the incense and wax and the centuries of submission and blood as I sank into the red velvet armchair in the bar next to a tall sash cord window that looked out onto the main square and framed the renaissance spires of………



My trains of thought were interrupted by The Born Again Priest and his acolytes somewhere over to my right, as he slammed his empty beer glass onto the green leather topped table and exclaimed,

“John Doe be damned! The raw, naked truth. If we can’t screw them all down, ha! Damn them all, we’ll surely screw them all up.”

I felt sick for the future.









*This is a snippet of conversation that I have been unable to place into a definite context or strict timeframe, but which I have the suspicion I caught in the corridors of the hotel sometime late that evening.

“The politicians and libertines, the scientists, society, the John Doeless still insist on paying us for our efforts, can you believe that?”

“It’s a miracle.”

“No, it’s the raw, naked truth.”

“Damn them all, but, mark my words! Keep your hands out for their cash.”

Then I remember them crossing themselves. A lot of that had gone on all day.

“The Word of John Doe.”

"Who?"

This report is dedicated to the Spanish branch of John Doe Ltd, Blázquez, Camino, Cañizares, Rouco and company at the C.E.E., who have launched an all out war against the Spanish government’s introduction in schools, of a subject called “Civic Education”, or “Education for Forming Good Citizens”, (Educación para la Ciudadania).

THE NAKED LADY, A CHILD’S FAIRY TALE

Baby was transfixed by the vision of Naked Lady standing there, hypnotically swaying, slightly, gently, from side to side.

Naked Lady grew and her detail was beauty, her being, ugliness. Fast came decay and then death to Naked Lady and she was gone, but Baby wasn’t.


For the rest of his life Baby intended to live in his voyage into the depths of her colour, the red carpet rolled out, his feet sinking into the luxuriant, warm pile, leading him on to a lush velvet upholstered throne where pure beauty reigned, beauty itself, and that was all he needed and all he needed to know and experience.

Once upon a time, one late, sunny spring afternoon, just as the last diamond drops of a shower were falling, Baby had padded unsteadily off down a damp garden path and, for the most part of those other mortals, the most part of him had never come back.

“Baby Belladonna”, his mother, Lily, lovingly called him thereafter, remembering, each time she uttered the words, the smell of warm, sweet, spring rain bringing a garden to life.


“Vegetable life”, said the most part of those other mortals, even though they knew Lily was within easy earshot and Lily would blush such a deep, pure, rich red at every barb.

Baby Belladonna saw and felt that stab in Lily’s back each and every time and knew just why he should never return, for, each and every time, Baby Belladonna felt hate burn more fiercely in his heart.

Hate instead of beauty, and guilt instead of peace sat on a lush velvet upholstered throne where pure beauty had once reigned.

LOVE IS LIKE THAT

Bug Eyed Peter at twenty one, is acting in his film of love. Roses have thorns, the writing has an embarrassing sentimentality and is bad poetry. The letters, with their foreign stamps and postmarks, are misspelled and written in far too much haste by both of them. Inadequate. The kisses and last caresses of goodbye are left too late and the desperate last minute handholding and looks are interrupted by the jostling to and fro of a multitude of travellers who have no time to think of the wonders in lovers' heads, the wonder in lover’s eyes. The bus station is over crowded and painfully noisy. The bus is in front of him, nineteen fifties design, small windows. The windows of the bus are steamed up. Condensation. Dawn sits in the bench seat over the rear wheel arch and Peter can see a bit of heavy duty tyre, a little cream coloured coachwork cut in half by a sharp curved maroon slash, rather like that old Coke slash, and condensation and a sad hand desperately trying to clear away the droplets, left right, left right, a cold wet wave goodbye, interrupted by grey overcoats under short back and sides haircuts or damp felt hats passing constantly from here to there between him and her. Pushing and jostling him and his emotions.

Ever since that moment, when Peter lost sight of the face of his first love, he lost his capacity to love complete entities, for loving a whole being, and was left with the capacity to love only the parts, not the sum of those parts. So he loved the image of the wet palm on the cold window. He loved the wet palm, left right, left right, loved its helplessness, not the distorted face close behind in shadow that he had guessed to be mouthing a desperate last message.

Actually, if he had made out Dawn's lips in their exaggerated movements, in their panic to shape her last words that afternoon, he would only have been able to love those lips, nothing more. Love them for their hopeless desperation.

Over the years he had loved the skin on Usha’s elbow, the dark down on her forearm. Beautiful, he just had to touch and kiss it, though these days he could never give her a face.

He loved the little fold of golden brown skin at Alba’s armpit, between arm and chest, exposed when she wore a summer top, and its hint of moisture, perfectly gorgeous, but could never give Alba a voice even though she was Spanish and must have had some kind of accent that made her different from the teeming crowds. Bug Eyed Peter thought himself incapable of ever feeling a greater love for anything than the love he felt for that moist angle of golden brown flesh. He just had to touch and kiss it again and again. His lips had to be there caressing its perfect beauty, his nose delighting in the sweet, delicate body scent of fresh cooling sweat.

Then, of course, he loved the fall of Aurora’s hair over her cool freckled cheek.

Then, of course, then came the moment when Peter felt a love so strong that it pushed way back into the shadows of inaccurate memory, into the darkness, into irrelevance, all the love he had lived previously.

He was at work shadowing people, on a typical working day, waiting. The bus station again. Diesel engines rattled, a thousand voices prattled and shouted. It was cold again and crowded and anonymous and smelt of diesel fuel and the damp of mouldy buildings that have never had the opportunity to dry out.

The crowds had their coat collars turned up to protect their necks from an icy late January wind. In fact, there were so many people that, in the end, you never really saw people at all, but bits and pieces of them and their belongings and surroundings.

A scent of acrid sweat follows and proceeds a grey trilby hat, black where rain had dappled it. A pale pigskin briefcase also rain streaked, deep yellow brown streaks, a hand, black hairs on the back of the fingers, clutching a handle. A priest’s dog collar.

Condensation. Someone’s ghost sits in the bench seat over the rear wheel arch and Peter can see a bit of heavy duty tyre, blue black rubber, a little cream coloured coachwork, a curve of maroon, and condensation and a sad hand desperately trying to clear away the droplets from the glass, left right, left right.

A damp, navy blue coat smells of mothballs and wet wool. Deep pink nail varnish, white knuckles wrapped round the dark, curved wooden handle of a lady’s umbrella, a checked design, dull dark blue and dull dark brown.

A hand clutching a rumpled handkerchief to a red, mean looking blue veined drinker’s nose. The sound of the clearing out of mucus and spitting.

The familiar, sweet smell of soiled underwear. The back of a child’s head, curl of black hair running down the centre of a neck, touching, just, a black blazer collar. The white back of cold knees between short trousers and the tops of long, dark grey winter socks.

Bits of faces, bodies, scenery, smells, sounds caught like bits of other people's conversations, relationships, thoughts and dreams, incomplete, disconnected, meaningless, empty.

Then, at the point of coming to realise this, to understand the emptiness, Peter saw something and knew that life would never be the same again, ever. Nothing he had ever seen before had caused him to feel so vital, so alive, so totally in love, as complete as he felt the moment he glimpsed the colour.


Safire blue, perfect, crystal clear, the eye spoke to him, so to speak, because he heard no words, and it told him that it was scared to death and just didn’t know what it was doing there and that it had nothing to do with her, who never saw a thing and so never understood a thing, that it was a slave to her and that it hurt, hurt really badly.

Peter saw into the eye, so still and blue and unblinking, and the eye reached into his for help and there was a connexion and he was in love with that eye which had no name and was never to be free. He was in love with a look that was the epitome of tragedy and it had no name. It all just hurt too much and he felt the overwhelming desire to softly kiss away the pain, again and again, until the kisses drew out tears and tears brought relief.

He blinked, he hesitated, he simply could not react. The eye vanished, never to be seen again, but he was left with the tragedy and an understanding for tragedy and a tenderness in his heart, and he has never lost his tragic self since.

Now, on cold, clear, clean nights of fresh bracing air, Bug Eyed Peter often spends his sleepless time staring at the moon calculating his ethereal triangulations,* acting in his film of lost love and lost opportunities, hoping that other eyes might be doing just the same,- keeping an eye out for him as he keeps an eye out for them.

Love is like that.

*A sailor’s sextant, warm polished orange brass, a sailor’s brass sextant from the nineteenth century. Triangulation, ethereal triangulation. Once calculated, forever calculated. A red moon. The curved line between lunar day and night gives depth and form to craters and the distance between points of reference has to be rescaled. A crimson cloud cuts between this point here and that distant horizon out there. Gold brass red. The sextant smiles at the beauty in little things.

Part of the private detective Harry Frame’s written thoughts, as published in “Backstage”, in the year 2000.

MR CEREBRUM, THE RINGMASTER.

It’s meat market time and all the pretty boys and girls are out to trade. Come and get it. Special offers. Free Flesh. On the counter. On the slab. Stale breath and stale sweat perfume the streets. Urine and diluted wine coloured kebab vomit add their aromas to the sordid atmosphere too. Yellow sodium lights broken glasses shattered bottles strained voices and forced laughter. You’ve got to laugh. The pretty girls squat down between parked cars and the boys lean against the walls, heads supported on their forearms, mouths open, splattering the paving stones, cigarette ends, their shoes and trouser bottoms with it all. Getting down and dirty. The noise, the darkness, the alcohol and drugs, the lights the beats, the great anesthetics. Clock stopped. The ugly become bearable, the beautiful beaten down. Neither the stupid nor the intelligent can be told apart. Clock stopped. No, wait. One minute fifteen seconds of tongues fingers and fumbled sex nicotine flavour in a toilet that hasn’t seen disinfectant in months, condom machine behind the door, various fruit flavours. Smoke.*1 Graffiti scratched in nicotine brown spittle stains. Graffiti like sex done fast and desperate cheap and nasty. Come and get it. Free flesh. Oh, oh yes, the drama of it all. No, time doesn’t pass, there’s nothing to worry about. No future. No growing up. No risk. No battles won or lost. Nothing learnt, just the deafening drone of gossip in shouted noise. Imagination assassinated. Come and get it. Oh yes. Outside, the blonde girl is on all fours in the pools of piss, soaked fag ends spilt drink spittle shattered shards of glass and sawdust, sawdust in her head, hair dragging in it all, but there are real beauties, pearls, dashes of pure colour in a dull monochrome landscape, but you can’t really make them out most of the time in all the rush to be a part of it all, part of this oh, oh so majestic drama. The Ringmaster is there taking notes, big smile all across his face, and the Priest. The girls cry because they’ve lost the plot and life is just all too much and it’s oh, so dramatic and they just can't bear it any longer, can no longer coordinate legs and head and stay vertical, and there’s no sparkle in their eyes, no clean flashes of lightning and no one can wait for next weekend's dramas (Mean Time Between Failures, seven days) so they can stop time once more and be empty again and it’s still only Saturday night and the blonde girl gets dragged home, her arms held over the shoulders of a couple of complaining girlfriends, their trouser bottoms drinking poisonous mush from the street, and the handsome boys are nowhere to be seen, gone like a curl of smoke goes, but their stink lingers on.


Mr Cerebrum, the Ringmaster, is bouncing around the bars taking notes. He does this with a certain malicious glee, politically incorrect cynical humour, a lot of vice and advice and a genuine heartfelt roar of a laugh.

I’ve been shadowing him for a while and I have developed an affinity, a kinship with him. Our eyes met once, outside the ubiquitous groups, so now I can read his mind and see what he sees. A fellow traveller. A man fit to share conversation with us Johnsons.*2

He looks around at the devastation and I read what he thinks and there’s a sparkle in his eyes, a clean flash of lightning,

“They don’t understand that they don't understand because they have no imagination left. I can imagine the possibilities.”

Now, that felt like it was aimed directly at me, and I read on in his thoughts and follow his eyes as he looks across the bar at a blonde, her lights most definitely out,

“If it’s that empty baby, and you don’t fill it, it’ll get filled for you!”



Report compiled by Peter Johnson, 12.53, May 17, 2007, submitted shortly thereafter.





*1 SMOKE

*2 “The Johnson Family” was a turn-of-the-century expression to designate good bums and thieves. It was elaborated into a code of conduct. A Johnson honors his obligations. His word is good and he is a good man to do business with. A Johnson minds his own business. He is not a snoopy self-righteous, trouble-making person. A Johnson will give help when help is needed. He will not stand by while someone is drowning or trapped under a burning car.

William S. Burroughs, foreword to “The Place of Dead Roads”, 1983.

ADOLESCENT FANTASY AND REALITY, THE BORN AGAIN PRIEST

...........metronomic crashing of the elements, the sea............approximating to the general flow of mental noise.............sterile hospital style atmosphere..............

A revelation of her hand. A hand by the hem of a white cotton dress. White cotton on recently forming breasts, tight over her stomach, virgin, unsoiled.

.............Would, could the dress redden?.............furtive glances for other.............earlier recollections on naivety..............

A smell of ether.............I feel the rusted barbed wire fence, the heavy over painted white institutional door that doesn’t invite thoughts of another side...............I see and feel the cold fluorescent light burning on............burning on cold and all that’s left in my mind is the echo of the word please...............Please..............and, again, something, an idea crosses my mind that becomes more pleasurable than the pain of emotion and it could just be that, to watch her tongue turn blue could become far more pleasurable than the possibility of making love.

...........and then turned a small chromed lever. A whine of electricity. The table stretched, pulling the spread-eagled youth tight in his fetters, lifting his back sharply from the worn and heavily grained wood, his naked body presented to perfection for the application of the tortures to follow...........both taut and flexible elements..............rope replacing the gentle touch so that............no guilt need be felt..............in dream realms of attractive pain.............a victim's revenge..............a delicate armour of brain circuits all too easily fused.............


You should have seen me when I was really down. I had tried, but I had failed and it’s a shame. Affection, tenderness, just another wasted tear.

............seems to be waiting for an answer.............concerning the impossibility of being confronted by the power of the unobtainable, the anguish of never gaining the ideal, even any semblance of that ideal for any length of.............

From the far corner of the room where I had taken refuge, crouched, chin on knees, tearing at the cuticles of my fingers, so that traces of blood can be seen rolling down my right hand and wrist, I look vacantly around. I look at the oddly still girl on the bed, cocooned in white, and at the painfully brilliant light bulb that seems to shoot paralyzing darts of light from every tile.

.............destructive power wielded by the desired, by the idol, only being countered by violence and, in the end, only in the destruction of that idol............

Collecting myself, but still seemingly staring into a void, I stand, step over the electrical cables and move over to the white formica topped table covered in silver tools, sit then bury my head in my arms which frame the pale features of my face.

.............beauty and relief, even joy in the painful death of the desired, the new found freedom from guilt..............

Looking now past spread fingers, my eyes appear to focus on the girl. I lift myself from the seat with a barely audible moan and pace the room, hands to my temples. Eventually reaching the bed I caress the girl’s cheek with the back of the fingers on my damaged hand. I then look at these fingers, then at her body then glance back at my stained, opened hands held only a foot in front of my cold grey eyes. They are definitely not empty.

............the spectre of vengeance, the reason for its living............

The white tiled room contains nothing more except a large, heavily built wooden table on whose surface are a multitude of points for securing my guests and the instruments to destroy their weapons,- their desirability and innocence.

............Sweet pretty girls and beautiful boys, terrorists, I drink to you! You’ll never know the reasons why. Carrion! The Crow won’t alight.............or play some lewd cover...............You all play some lewd cover!...............Sad eyes?...................So, anyway, it’ll all happen again.............and again.

Acting on a supposition, I look to the hall, black robed images of desired beings...........

............the idol creates its own destruction, the ideal creates its own destruction, beauty............the black angels of vengeance stand at my shoulders..............

No guilt............The hand of John Doe traces a route with a razor sharp block of ice through my brain. He is my guide. He speaks to me. A warm curtain. Light and time burn on cold. My eyes, no longer emotional, burn on cold, but they are definitely not empty. Obscene conversations containing more truth than a thousand tracts, burn on cold. My hands, that could once have been offering comfort, are ice cold steel. Silent obsessions burn on, ice steel cold. Silence is a weapon.

..............belief in a set of rules, a certain conduct..............

Somewhere, somehow, there is a vast white tiled warehouse situated in the deepest depths of cold. The waiting room. The theatre. The cinema. Everywhere, as far as the eye or the mind can see, are evenly spaced steel posts. Very tall. Each post has a chain of a carefully considered length attached, at the end of which is a steel spiked collar, the spikes pointing inwards. All shiny clean stainless steel. Blue electricity buzzes. In these collars, just unable to reach each other, for contact might mean human warmth, or to sit, as sitting might mean rest, are perfect specimens, beautiful, intelligent boys and girls, naked victims, ultimate carrion. Fierce light is all pervading yet seems to have no obvious source, indeed, it seems to be frozen in.

...............emotion hauls away and waits just beyond grasping............

With a barbed hook and evident relish, I often clear away the carcasses of beauties whose eyes had suddenly registered understanding and could wait no longer, who had understood my motives and, the instant after, run to the end of the chain to drive the spikes deep into their throats.


............with John Doe hissing constantly in my ear............all art, all beauty put to the torch.............

More often than not, I select a guest but wait and gloat while they tear themselves apart or run in a blind panic into the spikes, because what I enjoy most is escorting them to my special room, my studio, where I invite them to participate in my ceremonies and everyone of them knows what happens there because they have to watch, or, if they screw their eyes closed, hear the recordings hour after hour, day after day until their own personal invitation arrives.

...............how those who profess to be in the know don’t all choke on all those adolescent fairy stories about mother and father, I shall just never understand...............so many are prepared to swallow just any old scrap to avoid understanding the truth...............

Replacements are forever available and are brought in, eyes glazed, hands bound behind their backs, feet tied tight together and I feel warmed as I fasten closed the collars around their necks and untie their numb hands and feet, my gratification sought and fulfilled in the destruction of beauty.

.............and I thank you all so very much indeed............my overcoat...............hat...............umbrella, oh yes...............got a bus to catch...............

A CHILDHOOD MEMORY, THE BORN AGAIN PRIEST

Mother would attempt to talk to Father and, to stop the torrent of words he had little or no answer for, he would punch and kick her into a stony silence. If his anger had not totally blinded him to anything other than the bleeding image of Mother, who staunchly refused either to blink or cry, no matter what, then I would get my fair share of abusive language and my fair share of real violence too, and I did, all too often.

So I would shut myself into the cupboard under the stairs at the first sign of conflict, wedged into the far corner from the door where the downward fall of the stairs met the floor, behind the cardboard boxes of Dash washing powder, old abandoned and broken dolls, cleaning products and rags, behind the upright cream coloured Hoover vacuum cleaner that stood guard over me with its blood coloured dust bag and electrical cable wound round hooks on the handle as if it were the weapon of some futuristic robot soldier. There, I would wet myself and be comforted by the warmth and smell and release of urine soaking my clothes and soaking into the bare, wooden floorboards. Damp cotton, damp unvarnished wood and sweet Dash soap powder, me, myself, I.


There was light in this refuge and a brown bakelite switch close at hand, so I could choose light or darkness. More often than not I would choose light and feel comforted fingering the silver heads of the nails that fixed the boards to the timbers beneath, and I travelled beneath. I used to melt between the gaps in the floorboards, down into the dry, cool dust and earth, way down under the timbers below until the floorboards were my sky and the earth became the cooling mattress that soothed my boiling head. Nobody could get at me and the bruises and pains would seem to have been left in the cupboard way up there in a puddle of yellow urine.

Father could do the same too. He could turn himself into wallpaper. He often melted into the walls and woodwork around the house and, once or twice, I actually glimpsed him disappear into the sheets and the yellow foam mattress of his bed too, to escape from the fierce beauty and eloquence of Mother, because she really was both beautiful and eloquent. I knew she was eloquent because I could never understand a word she said and that hurt. I knew she was beautiful because she looked like the pictures of saintly martyrs Father collected.

I hated Mother and her powers. I loathed it that the more she bled the more power she wielded. The more beauty she possessed. The more power she wielded the more Father would get self destructive and remorseful and lose his dignity at every turn. The more ugly he would become.

As my head would cool in the healing dust in my world under the floorboards, my thoughts would inevitably turn to revenge.

The revenge of the victim, cold and calculated, and there would be a lot of death in my head like the death pictures in my father’s magazines hidden at the back of the top shelf of the tall larder in the kitchen. Under two old biscuit tins full of screws and nails and the like.

A lot of death and, at least I was not suffering and that made me feel good because I, me, myself, I was not in pain.

"THE FLAGS OF NATIONS"

John “Jocular” Johnson considered himself to be the last of the Strolling Players, the last in line of a noble tradition of jesters from centuries past and his job was to reveal the truth to the fools who could otherwise accept no criticism.

In fact, he revelled in rubbing their noses in it and, more often than not, got away with his cutting commentaries because those criticized were indeed truly fools of the highest caliber and hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

He managed to take the words right out of their mouths, and turn them round to gag their users, and never once did he suffer for his deeds.

His victims felt stupefied faced with the people they had considered loyal subjects and true believers. Their loyal subjects and true believers had seen a little truth for a change. He was a teacher.

He influenced a lot of people, he left a mark, especially on the kids, because there was no being impartial for John. Laying out choices meant leaving room for the worst abuses of the powerful. There was no respect, but a lot of provocation, he was right out there, right in everyone’s faces, a cruising shark, demonstrating how to question what was taken for granted. John was a true artisan of ideas who lived in a world of words and images all of his own.

He was not comfortable to be with, but always interesting, a man of few friends.

Said he, “React!”

John was an artist of the word but words were ceasing to be enough, for words were easily manipulated and emptied of meaning. So John came up with an idea which he thought of as pure theatre, but theatre that, by its nature, included the audience as an active part of the performance, such an active part that they could never be the same again after a show.

“The Flags of Nations” was the accumulation of ideas that had been swimming around in his head like sharks for years, at least since sailing on a lend-lease ship in the Pacific in nineteen forty three, though, as a younger teenager, he had written to a girl he was rather taken with talking about his early schooldays. A beautiful girl who had lived in another country, a handful of tickets and endless document applications away.

He wrote, with reference to some international crisis trumped up by the brigades of the dark suited,-

“Now they’re toying with patriotic tunes again. Then, as children, we used to colour flags with wax crayons. Wax crayons smelled sweet. Back then it didn’t take very much of a decision to color flags.”

John had had flags on his mind for a very long time. And sharks. Since the Pacific. He identified with them. Sharks spat cold electric fire. Like John.



This is John’s script, discovered in his room in nineteen sixty six.-

“The Flags of Nations.”

In each country where a performance is to be staged twenty large national flags need to be employed. The flags should be ordered in such a way that the first is a flag that belongs to a nation that is relatively friendly and popular to the audience and each successive flag should be of a nation less popular until the nineteenth, which should be the flag of the worst rival or enemy of the nation the performance is held in. The last flag in order should be the flag of the host country.

The performance consists of running up, in silence, each flag in flames, successively until the twentieth flag is burnt high on the flagpole.

The audience reaction should also be filmed and the resulting collage of images distributed to cinemas throughout the host country.

The performance will be a salutary experience for those present, who, in fact, are the true protagonists of the piece.

John Johnson, BMC production line worker, England, 1954.

John “Jocular” Johnson never put his performance on before a public, not enough contacts, did not know how. John had no connections, couldn’t have told you what Fluxus was, or who Joseph Beuys was. Or Samuel Beckett. John was a true artisan of ideas who lived in a world of words and images all of his own, a world he used to influence everyone he could, but, when he brought the flags idea up in conversation, it tended to end in a stony silence. It was way too far ahead of its time. It still is.

He was way ahead of the times, lighting beacons. He was still in love.

John “Jocular” Johnson took his own life in the Lake District of England in the year nineteen sixty six, at the age of forty two, in the same week in May The Velvet Underground went into the studio in Los Angeles to record their first album. They probably saw the same ocean John had fought on over twenty years earlier thinking of a beautiful girl who lived in another country, a conscription document and a war away.

He went out with dignity. His suicide note read,-

Go and light bonfires, I will light bonfires. Do not go and light pyres. No more pyres, I will not light pyres, I will only light beacons.

John Johnson, BMC production line worker, England, 1966.

He was way ahead of the times. He still is. I carry his beacon.

UPSIDE DOWN, INSIDE OUT, BACK TO FRONT

Bug Eyed Peter once told me that he’d had an acquaintance who said that he understood every word he had ever read. My suspicion on hearing this was that it must be a really empty, hollow experience, cold in the extreme. Too heavy on cold, clinical analysis. Peter told me that he, Bug Eyed Peter, never ever understood every word he cast his eyes over, but felt them all intensely, lived what he read. I think his acquaintance had evidently employed the wrong kind of agent.

Shut down the scene and a good agent is already home dry with all the necessary information. Bug Eyed Peter’s agent bears a remarkable resemblance to Peter himself , but you’d be hard pressed to be able to put your finger on any exact detail or reason why. Shut down the scene, close the book and the agent disappears, as does a wisp of smoke from the glowing end of the detective’s cigarette in a memory of a nineteen fifties black and white movie.

It’s Saturday, so early that most normal bored grey humans would unconsciously still consider it Friday, and I’m on a job. A mission. Saturday and there’s been no sleep for me on this job, and nor will there be ‘till it’s over and the book is closed on it all.

I’m well hidden behind a tree that casts a black green shadow that gives me excellent cover. The street light is between me and the direction of my gaze. The two caped nurses who passed through the garden had no idea I was there at all, not even a shiver of an idea. I’m in a London garden square, fenced in by black cast iron spears, all of which gives me the impression that someone planned this to keep the majority of humankind out rather than to keep me trapped in. But I’m not here to speculate, to air my personal observations. I’m an agent out on a job. I’m dead to feelings.

There’s the Post Office Tower over my shoulder somewhere and I can hear the tearing roar of a disintegrating jet turbine, but a characteristic muffled knocking sound (characteristic for an Englishman anyway) of lead counterweights falling as a sash window was lifted, means I’m concentrating on a second floor window. There in the window is framed the shadow of a man called Henry looking out and up into the night sky. He’s a neurosurgeon, brain surgeon my generation would have called him. He’s deep within himself, deep in thought.

None of his Banham locks, tempered steel chains, or alarm systems on the front door have kept me from his bedroom, from observing his wife Rosalind from the other side of the bed to the window, or from standing by Henry’s shoulder, overlapping the both of us, in space and time, watching the fuel fed fire help pinpoint to us the source of the roaring noise. For an instant I was a passenger too. Henry’s thoughts took me there. Here I am sharing Henry’s space, looking out at where I was, where I had been and where I am. As an agent my job is to be a voyeur, transmit what I see, and that is all, and more than enough. I am here and there and these things happen.

However much I might have delighted in handing Joan and Laura’s torturers the instruments used on them in the underground ruins of New York years ago, I didn’t, I remained the observer, the medium for he who sent me to New York in the first place to witness the revolution. It was his job to get all emotional, all excited, not mine. Tipping the cards in Pozzi and Nashe’s favour when I was in Pennsylvania never even crossed my mind, however much it might have helped them out. I was there to live their entrapment not save them from it. It was my job. I had my orders.



Keep Waltzing Matilda and the Sexy Boy apart for their own good? Take the fuses out of the Electric Chairs? Step on Dr Benway’s toes? It just was, is, not my job, I’m part of the furniture, not even that, I’m the spaces between the furniture. I was projected into the scene, I was here and there and these things happened and it is not my job to care at all.

You see, there is a strict rule for us agents;- NO MEDDLING. We are as unobtrusive and as apparently silent as the gaps between the words on the printed page, yet we are here there and everywhere, hard at work. It is for us to report back, which is something we do, if we are employed as we should be, instantaneously, so that our information becomes part of the fabric of the situation. However much we might like to be more than what we are, we are just a medium flowing through existing situations and are strictly forbidden to take a part in the action.

I’ve shadowed The Born Again Priest on what he thinks of as his “mission”, stood over him in the bus, an Albion Valiant, looking over his shoulder at his roadmaps and annotations. I’ve looked over his shoulder, overlapping with him in space and time, while he was taking vengeance on beauty and I’ve heard the pleadings for mercy, but I’ve never crossed the line and never will, for I know that if I ever did Peter would never get the message, because that’s the agent’s ultimate responsibility, to get the message through.

Shut down the scene, close the book and the agent disappears, like the wisp of smoke from the glowing end of the detective’s cigarette in a memory of a nineteen fifties black and white movie. Shut down the scene and the agent disappears, unless he’s meddled.

On a bad, a very bad day he might inadvertently become the action, which means a perfect psychiatric, if not criminal case, because he is then truly visible to all the parties involved. If he’s crossed that line then the switch has clicked on a sudden synaptic collapse and it’s inevitable that there’s no disappearing left to be done. He’ll have taken his employer with him, both employer and employee together, face to face, side by side, back to back, back to front, upside down, hand in hand, best of friends, worst of enemies always together and always in discordance and then there is no turning back. All the bridges are burnt and you had better get in touch with Henry Perowne because it’s definitely too late for any other kind of treatment.













THE MISSION ARCHIVES:-

“Saturday”, Ian McEwan
“Project For a Revolution in New York”, Alain Robbe-Grillet
“The Music of Chance”, Paul Auster
“Street Hassle”, Lou Reed
“Electric Chair”, Andy Warhol
“The Naked Lunch”, William S. Burroughs
“The Born Again Priest”, B. Sherpa

LOVE IN THE THROAT

Objects have a magic, a magic life, not in any supernatural sense, but a magic that resides in the imagination. The imagination is powerful stuff indeed when it lives, which, unfortunately, is a rare situation indeed.

Where has imagination disappeared to? Why are we so scared of getting in any way involved with material things? I’ll tell you why! Our imaginations have suffered, and continue to suffer from, a terrible defeat.

At that confusing stage in life when we begin to live with words and have to swallow the invective of others, the magical universe inside each of us, which also lives inside our favourite things, comes under siege. Objects begin to lose their emotional meaning, the love we had for them dies, because we are taught to strip them of life, cut the umbilical cord of magical symbiosis. They are out of our hands, out of our minds, over there in the dark corner, tarnished, banished, dead. We are made to feel guilty for the universes we soared through in our heads. We are forced to grow up, to follow the grey rules of growing up.

But our things, our objects, should have meaning. We must rediscover the magic, the imagination, burnish it. They must all recover the life we were forced to tear from them.

Take good note! There is a real difference between investing a real object with an imaginary life, which enriches, which is honourable, and investing something imaginary, some John Doe, with real life, which doesn’t and which is not. The defeated are prone to the second activity. They have fallen, captives to be fed and led virtually from cradle to grave.



Evidently happy in some other dimension, Bug Eyed Peter glances around his room at his collection of precious objects. Blue light flickers, Red light burns, flashes off a silver ashtray. No circuits that aren’t in the head needed to bring any of these beauties to life. Beauty. Beautiful. Gleaming metals most of them and it’s easy to see why the gods of objects were quickly exiled to the vaults of a supposedly savage, uncivilised, unthinking past.

It just wouldn’t do to have every Tom, Dick or Harry inventing their own gods for every object they were in love with now would it?

Number plate, silver code, black background, BS 2824. Keys to the golden door. Fire deep in the heart. Love in the throat, tears in the eyes. Chrome silver blue power. Cold wind in the face. Foot hard down. Peter at the wheel.

Blue roadsters roar down Sanctuary Road, a rich throbbing roar that you can not only hear, but feel deep down inside, a rich throbbing roar that grips your gut.

BS 2824. Bug Eyed Peter’s blue roadster roars down Sanctuary Road……

Power you can not only dream, but live. Fire in the blood.

INDEX FOR "THE BORN AGAIN PRIEST" STORIES

CLICK ON THE IMAGE FOR MORE DETAIL.