April 2009 Archives

Noiselessly they moved, creeping through the shadows, keeping close to the wall. Gabriel stopped, slowly extending his arms around them both and drawing them deeper into the shadows. They waited, silencing their breathing. Something was getting closer. Michael closed his eyes, reaching out, breathing through the space, sensing the streets around them. He could see the cops, see the streets, see a child sitting in a doorway, a working girl nervously peering through a cracked bottle-green window, a gentelman's club, the air thick with smoke and the laughter of the gin-plastered, a silent cat watching the streets below, a lone man stumbling in a drunken stupour his legs moving like automated pistons following a homing beacon. But there was something else. Something darker than the sky above. Something so sickening he struggled to keep the bile down. A sound, coming closer...

'Greetings' Gabriel said amiably, extending a hand. The tall traveller at the front bounded his last few steps towards them and after seizing Gabriel's hand began pumping it frantically.
'Terribly nice to meet you' he said, a massive, toothy grin hoving into view. 'My name is Geoffrey'
'Gabriel' said Gabriel, managing to wrest his hand back. 'This is my wife Victoria,' he went on, Victoria noddding politely, 'and this is our, ehm, nephew, Michael'
'Nephew?'
'How wonderful!' said the traveller. 'And what, prey tell, finds you on this road?'
'Going to London?' asked another insanely happy voice from behind. And another: 'Pilgrimage was it?'
'Ehm, well...' Gabriel paused, thinking.

Faster now, faster she moves, the sweat beading on her arms and back, her hands slap together to a bass drum fighting with a snare, a bassline having a drunken punch-up with a guitar hook, a melody caressing a two-step beat. And then it happens: up. Up, up and up, the explosion building between her legs, the heat searing at the skin on her hand, the spiral glowing at the edges, the beat hammering at her, twisting her like a lover, she explodes, time ripping open like a scream, a howling scream coming from her mouth, a smile she can't control. A laugh escapes. Yes. Fucking yes.

'Michael?'
'Yep?'
'Try to keep your wits about you. Be objective and don't let your feelings cloud your judgement. I know how you feel about her, so please try not to fly off the handle'
'I'll try'
'And remember what you're dealing with here'
'Which is what exactly?'
'A complete whack-job'

'So here it is: I've been watching. Now, I gotta be honest with you boys. Speaking plainly, you're a pack of talentless gimps who couldn't hold a tune if your miserable lives depended on it. You're entry into the world of music is about as welcome as a skid-mark on a wedding gown and, let's be honest here, you look like you were dressed by a troupe of blind, retarded circus midgets. As for your songs? Sweet Jeebus, but if I shat into a rusty tuba and handed it to a brain-dead badger I'd get better fucking music. No two ways about it: you guys are a shit sandwich without the bread. But, no matter, I've seen worse. Way worse. So, here's what we're gonna do: we're gonna make you famous. We're gonna make you rich. We're gonna fix it so that the whole world knows your names, where you're from and what sweet, sweet boys you all are. We're gonna fix it so that blue-rinse biddies will dote on you, men will envy you and a relentless, never-ending army of giggling seventeen-year old girls will want to sit on your faces and wiggle. So, whaddya say? Are you in?'