Superman's Secret

 For the copyright holders and hardcore fans, this is a work of absolute fiction not intended to tie in with the DC universe in any way. It was just a little story that came about in my head that I thought would be interesting.

Everybody in Metropolis knew Superman. He was everywhere. You may not have seen him face to face, but you'd have seen him at some point, swooshing through the sky, always ready to help and to fight for truth, justice and the American way.

Everybody knew Superman, and everybody loved him.

No one knew Superman nor loved Superman more than Lois Lane, intrepid reporter at the Daily Planet. Her colleague Clark never thought much of the subject but Lois did, day in and day out. She thought about Superman and marveled at him and wondered where he came from, what he was really like, who he really was.

She had interviewed him, sure. And he had taken her in his arms and flew her across the sky. For the briefest of moments she experienced his world and it exhilarated her beyond comprehension.

And the feeling wasn't unrequited. Superman felt a kinship with her, a connection. Perhaps there was someone on this planet he could finally open up to, tell his secrets, and never be alone again.

One night, as Lois leaned by her balcony, staring at the Metropolis skyline, Superman swooped down gently, his cape flowing in the breeze. Even though Lois had seen him fly a thousand times the sight of it amazed her every time. At that moment, Lois would do anything to be with him, to feel the way he made her feel every day. She thought it would be worth anything.

But not this.

Superman told her, in full confidence, who he really was. He told her how she had been by his side every day but knew him by another name - Clark. He told her without hesitation, assuming she'd understand.

She didn't. After hearing what he had to say Lois made an excuse and entered her apartment.

The next day Clark saw Lois at work. She treated him like she always did, spoke to him like she always had and didn't mention a word about the night before.

That night Superman went to her balcony but she wasn't home. With his super hearing he heard the cries for help as a monorail train derailed and went to the rescue.

There, in the crowd, she saw Lois writing notes as Jimmy snapped away. When Superman came to say hello he expected her to act differently towards him but she was the same as she'd always been. She treated him like she always did, spoke to him like she always had...

...and didn't mention a word about the night before.

Because everybody in Metropolis knew Superman. He was everywhere. But Lois now knew a little more. She had always wanted to be special, but now that she was she wished she could be like everybody else again.

Because everybody thought they knew Superman, and everybody loved him.

The Talking House

Is this poetry? Or a limerick? I don't know. All I know is it rhymes.
Perhaps it's rap.


There once was a poor man left without a home
And all through the country this poor man would roam
For weeks and for days and for hours and hours
This poor man would search for a home
And so he would go, to the hills to and fro
Past the rivers and valleys, through sleet and through snow
This poor man kept looking for days upon end
For a place that this man could call home

But after a while this poor man stopped a-looking
Decided that maybe there's no home for viewing
Perhaps there was no place that suited this man
This poor man who so needed a home

He slept where he could and found some form of comfort
In what he could find for that's all that he wanted
His sights were no longer set ever so high
For this man stopped his search for a home

And that's when he saw an incredible sight
Shone upon him as though from a glorious light
It was there all along but the door never opened
This place that he could call a home

"Hello," said the home and the man was perplexed
"You can talk?" asked the man and the home answered, "yes,
I'm a house that can talk and I've all that you'd
Possibly want in your very own home"

The man was amazed as he stepped on inside
The house was beyond what his mind's eye described
On those nights when he dreamed of a wonderful place
That he one day could call his own home

In the past this poor man had seen this house before
But he never thought that he'd step up to the door
And he never imagined that this very house
Would be somewhere he'd proudly call home

"This is perfect," the man said, his face full of glee,
"Tell me where I should sign, 'cos you're so meant for me!
I shall care for this house like no other and when
Others come I shall show them my home!"

The house said, "Sir, there is no contract to enter,
To sit on this sofa or eat at your leisure
These doors, they will open whenever you wish
But I'm sorry, I can't be your home"

The poor man looked up at the house and he said
"If you can't be my home tell me why have you led
Me inside when I can't even say with all honesty
That you are truly my home?"

The house said, "I'm sorry, I know it's a shame
But this house is now under someone else's name
Though your company's welcome whenever you're here
Even though this house shan't be your home"

The man sat and wondered what option to take
Should he stay even though it would make his heart break
For he'd know even though he'd enjoy all its comforts
This house could never be his home

Or perhaps he should try to continue to find
Somewhere else that would give even more peace of mind
But he couldn't imagine another, more suitable
Place that he could call his home

He thought
And he wondered
And queried
And pondered
He mumbled
And grumbled
And whispered
And hollered
His mind couldn't
Think
No, he couldn't
Process it
Unless he was back
In that house
That talked back
In the house that
Could not be his home

So he went back inside
And his mind came alive
And between all his thoughts
He'd sit down and he'd talk
With the cool talking house
About Wordsworth and Proust
About life and TV
And the 'Rings trilogy
About anything that
He pulled out of a hat
And he'd think in between
Of what man he had been
Searching every which-where
For a place that he'd dare
Call a home but he couldn't
(Or maybe he wouldn't)
And now that he's found
Somewhere safe, solid, sound
That he spends all his time in
He can't help reminding
Himself he's just minding
This house till the owner comes home

And one day he'll again be alone

Malcolm Makes No Choices

Janine held the blade on Malcolm’s neck, her shaking hand causing small slices just above his adams apple. One of her tears dropped on the blade, mixing with the slivers of blood.

“Do you love me?” she trembled. It was the same question she’d been asking since before she pulled the knife out from the kitchen drawer. She repeated again, louder and more determined, the same question again and again,

“Do you love me?”

Malcolm had told her he loved her in the past in numerous occasions. He had said it in so many ways and in an as many languages as he knew. Even now, he knew he could tell her he loved her. Even though he had said it so many times and in so many ways he knew he could think of more ways to tell her those three simple words.

But he had never been asked that question. He had never been asked whether or not he loved her. He had never been asked to make a choice as to whether he did or did not love Janine. That was the problem. A problem he didn’t realize until a few days ago when he discovered something disturbing about himself.

He couldn’t make a choice.

Malcolm first realized what was wrong when he entered his usual restaurant a few days ago. Ordinarily he would have his usual – a roast beef sandwich on white with a side order of fries and a diet coke. He chose this dish a long time ago, when he first entered the restaurant, and liked it so much that he never thought to try anything else.

After a while the waiters realized that he’d always order the same thing that they stopped asking and simply brought him his usual whenever he came in. It became routine. The waiters at the restaurant weren’t going anywhere, it was a family business, and Malcolm never felt the need to eat anywhere else on Wednesdays.

“Hi, there,” asked the waitress, as Malcolm sat down, “can I get your order?”

Malcolm turned, curious. He hadn’t heard those words in a long time. He faced the waitress, a young blonde girl he had never seen before.

“Excuse me?” asked Malcolm.

“What would you like, sir?” she replied.

Malcolm froze inside and simply stared. He had no idea how to answer. He knew he came in to the restaurant to eat, why else would he be there? But he couldn’t answer the question.

“How about if you look at the menu, sir?”

It sounded like a good idea. He flipped the binded laminated pages and everything looked delicious – a vast number of entrees, appetizers, meat dishes and pastas, oven baked goodness and sweet frozen desserts.

But he couldn’t decide.

A beat later another waiter came, someone he recognized.

“Is there a problem?” he asked the waitress. As Malcolm kept flipping through the menu, the waiter told her that Malcolm was a regular.

“I’m sorry about this,” said the waiter to Malcolm, “she’s new.”

“What happened to your sister, Tracy?” asked Malcolm.

“Oh, she went to college. First one in our family to do so.”

“Congratulations,” said Malcolm.

“Thank you. Lisa here just started two days ago.”

The waiter then turned to Lisa and said, “This man here’s been coming to our restaurant for years. He always has the same thing – a roast beef sandwich on white with fries and a diet coke.”

He then turned to Malcolm and asked,” Isn’t that right?”

And Malcolm couldn’t answer.

The waiter waited for a while before asking again, “Would… would you like your usual, sir?”

Malcolm still couldn’t answer.

“Sir? Your usual, sir?”

Malcolm’s lips parted, a faint sound could be heard, as if he was trying his hardest to say something but had forgotten how to speak. The waiter watched, confused, until finally Malcolm said the words.

“I don’t know.”

The waiter turned to the waitress, then back to Malcolm.

“I’ll… I’ll get you your usual, sir.”

The same thing happened throughout the rest of the day, and it bugged Malcolm to no end. When he got into a taxi the driver asked him where he would like to go, and Malcolm couldn’t answer. When a colleague offered to make him a cup of coffee and asked whether he would like it with or without milk he was lost. When the shopkeeper asked him whether he would like a plastic bag for the carton of milk he had bought he felt like he was going to get a migraine. Every single one of these questions he answered with the same thing,

“I don’t know.”

It wasn’t amnesia. That much was certain. When the receptionist at the clients’ office he was visiting asked him who he was and who he was meeting, he answered just fine. When someone asked if he had change for a fifty he gladly obliged. As the day progressed he realized the awful truth.

He couldn’t decide.

It was questions that required decisions and choices that were the problem. He simply couldn’t answer them, he didn’t know how. In short, he didn’t know what he wanted.

He explained all this to his girlfriend, who listened attentively, as she always had. She listened as he told her about how difficult his day was, how it disturbed him, how he couldn’t decide on anything.

“I don’t know what I want anymore, honey,” he said, lying in her arms, “I feel like I don’t know anything.”

Janine gently stroked his hair and said, “it’s ok, Mal… we’ll work it out…”

Her hand through his hair soothed him, and for a moment he thought things would be ok.

“After all,” she said, smiling, “you know you love me, right?”

And Malcolm froze.

The Other Door

[N.B. I haven't written any weird prose here in quite a while. I used to enjoy writing stories in my blogs because it feels like writing with a gun to your head - "make up a story and post it on-line within the next hour or you die". Enjoi. Or not.]

Ruprecht woke up, as he always did, from his comfortable bed with the comfortable sheets in his decently sized bedroom on the first floor of his modest house. The glow of the morning sun could be seen trying to peep through the light blue curtains, playing shadows on the hardwood floor. Ruprecht turned to his clock - 7:15am - which gave him 45 minutes to shower, get dressed and have a light breakfast before going to work.

Work was a job Ruprecht knew he could do, and do well, regardless of what he actually thought of it. The office had what any regular person would need to be an office and the job had what any regular person would need from a job. 9am to 5pm, two weeks leave a year and a Christmas bonus that never strayed between 7%-12.5%. Ruprecht wasn't an air pilot or a deep sea diver or race car driver, but he wasn't stuck in a demeaning job like so many of his friends, forced to endure the inanities of day-to-day stress and strife, office politics and corporate backstabbings. These things did not exist at Ruprecht's workplace. He could honestly say he had no complaints.

But then again, during drinks at the local drinking well on the first weekend of every month, whilst friends of a past life bitched and moaned about the lives they led and praised Ruprecht for being so lucky, Ruprecht only smiled. Smiled and nodded, before ordering another drink.

On the third Thursday of the second month, Ruprecht noticed the door.

It was during his light breakfast, whilst waiting for his toast to pop up from the toaster at 7:45am. He'd always known the door was there, under the stairs next to the kitchen, but he'd never paid it much thought. When he rented the place four years ago (with the option to buy) the house adequately fit everything he needed without resorting to looking for more storage space. Sure, there was some stuff he still kept in a storage house but he was quite sure he could live without those items for now. He'd never had a need to open the door under the stairs, and although he was sure he had no need to open it now, whilst waiting for his toast to pop up from the toaster, he couldn't keep his eyes off the door.

Slowly, Ruprecht walked to the door, perhaps curious, and turned the door handle with his right hand. He delicately opened the door and leaned in to take a peek. It was dark, but Ruprecht could make out the stairwell leading down to what looked like a basement. Above his head he noticed a draw string for a light bulb. He gave it a quick tug, then another - nothing. He was ready to go back to his breakfast when he heard something, a tiny little crackle, coming from the basement.

Ruprecht squinted his eyes and noticed a small glow at the bottom, getting brighter every second. The stairs leading to the basement began to illuminate, step by step, from the very bottom and quickly making its way to the top, building up speed. Although he was surprised by what he saw, a part of him felt that this was all ever so slightly familiar. The lights began to build up more speed as it went up step by precious step, racing up to Ruprecht like a path leading him to somewhere... else. Five steps away and Ruprecht began to wonder what was happening. Four steps away and Ruprecht's curiosity kept him from turning away. Three steps away and the lights began to take on an almost hypnotic quality as they came closer and closer... two steps... one...

POP! At 7:48am, Ruprecht grabbed his toast from the toaster and quickly made his way to work.

For the first time in four years Ruprecht couldn't concentrate at work. His mind wandered between his numerous meetings, his imagination caught up by the mysteries of the door under the stairs. During lunch, between bites of his prawn mayonnaise sandwich on rye and sips of his green tea latte, he thought about the door. During the estimated 45 minutes to an hour spent static in traffic at 5:45pm, he wondered what was behind the door, down the stairs, into the basement.

Ruprecht usually had his dinner in the kitchen with the small television on the counter on, watching re-runs of old BBC comedies which his colleagues never really understood, dining on whatever meal for one he could conjure up on the day. His dinners were usually at 8:00pm and lasted half an hour to 45 minutes.

At 8:32pm, Ruprecht arrived home with take away fried chicken. He did not switch on the television.

At 3:19am he'd had enough. He hopped out from under his comfortable bed with the comfortable sheets in his decently sized bedroom on the first floor of his modest house and made his down the stairs to the kitchen, remnants of friend chicken still scattered over the table next to an empty can of lager. Ruprecht ignored the state of the kitchen and went straight to the door under the stairs and swung the door open.

For a moment he thought he'd lost his moment. Everything remained dark as it was when he first opened the door, except this time it stayed dark. Ruprecht turned to draw string above him and pulled, gently. The light bulb came on and Ruprecht could see all the way till the bottom of the stairs. Nothing. No glow. No sound. No strange light. Just a basement.

Then the light bulb blew.

The familiar tiny crackle was the first thing he noticed before the glow began again, stronger than the morning before. This time, the lights didn't take so long to reach him, quickly making their way up the steps, stopping inches away from Ruprecht's bare feet.

Ruprecht turned to face the kitchen, then back to the stairs. Slowly, he lifted his left foot and gently placed it on the first step and watched as the glow on the step slowly changed color from the point where his foot touched, moving outwards. Slowly, he lifted his right foot and took the next step, and watched as it changed color again. Step by step he went down, watching the changes in lights and colors, vibrant and warm, colors he'd loved as a young man but no self-respecting adult would ever have in their home furnishings or wardrobe. Step by step he went down, faster with every step, till he was practically racing down what felt like an eternity, running faster and faster down the wooden technicolor steps, almost tripping at some points, but not giving a good goddamn till he reached the gl-

At 4:20am, Ruprecht stepped out from the door under the stairs and for the first time, everything looked different.

At 4:45am he sat on his bed and starred at the wooden floor till the sun came up.

At 7:15am he heard the alarm go off and finally, after 27 and a half rings, turned it off.

At 8:07am he made waffles, knowing full well he would be late for work.

At 9:08am he made up an excuse to his team-mate as to why he arrived at the weekly financial report meeting 23 minutes late.

At 2:12pm he told his superior that he wasn't feeling well and took the first sick leave since he'd started work at the company.

At 3:09pm he met up with Arnold and Jacobi, and told them what he saw under the stairs.

He told them of the stairs, the lights and the glow, and the world he discovered underneath. A world where anything could happen. An exciting world, where you had no idea what you'd see or hear or think or feel, a world without security, where the unexpected was to be expected, where foods and flavors and experiences and temperatures were never the same twice and your adrenalin was always on the go. It was a world he knew, had once experienced only fleetingly as a young man, and he'd forgotten how much he'd missed living so recklessly, without a safety net. Take the jump, hope the cord is strong enough and keep your eyes open otherwise it's not worth the bother.

But he didn't enter all the way, merely watched through the window, not daring to take another step.

Arnold was the first to speak.

"Ruprecht," said Arnold, "you've hit the jackpot. You truly have the best of both worlds."

"No, he doesn't," said Jacobi, "he's got to make a choice. I know the world he speaks of, and there are rules."

"What rules?"

"You're first visit is free, but the next time you enter, you have to make a choice. Stay, or never enter again. Those are the rules."

Just then, Ruprecht's phone rang. After seven minutes of uhm-ing and ah-ing, he put the phone down.

"Who was that?" asked Arnold.

"That was my landlord," said Ruprecht, "he reminded me that I still have an option to buy the property."

Ruprecht, Arnold and Jacobi drank their drinks and they changed subject.

At 5:12am it had already been 8 hours and 36 minutes since he'd opened the door under the stairs and sat down in front of it with a five bottles of water, reminded of something a friend of his from another country had told him - "there are so many drinks in the world with so many tastes and flavors and sensations, but in the end you always need water".

Ruprecht had been sat in front of the door for the past 8 hours and 36 minutes drinking the bottles of water, for he did not know if there would be any water under the stairs. There was no guarantee of water. There was no guarantee of anything.

At 5:14am, a floating shrimp came out from under the stairs.

"Are you coming?" asked the shrimp.

"I can't decide," replied Ruprecht.

The shrimp noticed the bottles of water.

"What's with all the water?" asked the shrimp.

"I'm thirsty," replied Ruprecht.

"Answer me this, then," retorted the shrimp, "are you drinking all that water because you're afraid that there may not be any water under the stairs, or are you drinking all that water to remind you, perhaps even convince you, that you can't live in a world where you're never sure that there's water?"

Ruprecht wiped his moist lips with the sleeve of his light gray shirt before looking the shrimp right in the eye and saying, "what do you think?"

And with that, Ruprecht finished the last bottle of water.

Feta Cheese - The Musical

Tell me, sir,
Could you please save
My head, I fear
That my brain waves
Are slowly turning into
Lumps of poo...


(Chorus background: Poo! Poo!)

And I know
That if I spent
A second saving
Up to rent
A great big flat
I would be fat
From vindaloo...


(Chorus background: In the loo...!)

Refrain:

Oh, GLORIOUS! So GLORIOUS! The mountains made of CHEESE!
Oh GLORIOUS! So GLORIOUS! These hills do what they PLEASE!

(Chorus background: You're welcome!)

...I seriously need help. Of the professional kind.

Tigers and Antelopes

Jason had that feeling again. The same one he had in Covent Garden when he first met her. She was just an aquaintance, but it sparked up that feeling.

The first time he experienced it he was fourteen years old. Her name was Sarah. Her hair smelt of danger and she moved the way tigers hunt. He was the equivalent of an antelope at the time, right for the pickings. She pounced and he fell.

But not this time. Now he was conditioned. He wasn't an antelope anymore. He wouldn't be prey. As this new predator stalked him within the shadows of the cocktail party, hiding behind coloumns and guests, her eyes striking him like poisoned darts, he stood and waited, a bait.

Deep inside the left breast pocket of his second hand tweed suit jacket, just above where his heart would be, his stanley knife awaited his call.

"I've seen you before, haven't I?" she said, "Donovan's party at Covent Garden?"

"Yes, you did," he replied.

"I've been watching you," she said, her voice deep and sultry.

"I know," he replied. She talked, he listened, and when the conversation died down he asked her,

"Follow me for a second, will you?"

"Where to?"

"I want to introduce you to someone. Someone very close to my heart."

I just realized the character in this is called Jason, same as the guy in 'The Mark' story I wrote before. And the short script I posted before that. All the main characters in this 'Fiction' section (save for the 'Floppily-Doppily Land' story) are called Jason. Subliminal connection? Maybe. Who the fuck is Jason?

In Floppily-Doppily-Woppily Land...

Since Eddy's been posting demented children's stories, I thought I'd have a go for shits n' giggles.

In Floppily-Doppily-Woppily land
There once was a boy who looked up to a man
Who sat in a bin and would smile with a grin
As he merriedly sipped his St. Broderie's gin

"I like him because of the mess that he's in,"
Said the boy as he talked of the man in the bin,
"He's lost all his money, his wife and his kids
But he's always so merry, a-fondling his tits!"

For the man in the bin had gained weight, quite a bit
From drinking all day and the man would not shit
"For shit is the soul, and the soul must not leave,"
said the man as he licked off the gin on his sleeve,

"There is no event that is reason to grieve,
In that 9 to 5 life I decided to leave
And why should I grieve of the loss of my wife?
The bitch took my money, my kids and my life!

My comics, she took them, my trophies so bright
That I won as a boxer in my final fight
She took them away and ran off with my brother
Since before we were married they'd always been lovers!

But I did once catch them but I did not bother
To bring up the day when I saw my bro smothered
In My wife's own bossom as my labrador
Was mounting her hard as she lay on all fours."

The boy would go often to listen for more
Of these strange anecdotes that the man had in store
But he did not know that the man had a secret
He'd think of the boy, grab his penis, and beat it!

And as the boy's visits became much more frequent
The man kept on thinking, "I love him, I feel it!
But if I did tell him he'd run to the cops
And they'd send me to jail and my bottom will pop!"

The boy kept returning, the man would not stop
His fantasies of the boy rubbing his cock
But deep down the boy had a secret himself
He was not a real boy but a toy from the shelf

Of considerable value, and a man of much wealth
Paid for the dear toy and used Satanist stealth
To give it a soul by a fortified demon
(For argument's sake, the rich man's name was 'Steven')

And Steven said, "boy, you must grab all his semen,
And give it to me, only then we'll be even!
And you can go back as a toy on a shelf"
But the boy did not want to be his former self

"I like my new body, it is of good health
If I had a lisp, I would say, 'my butt smellthhh
of poo, but thathhh cool becauthh I am alive!'
So don't come down here with that ol' semen jive!

So Steven said, "My, by the heads of my wives!
I've never heard such insubordinate cries!
I'll turn you back into the toy you once were
If you don't get the semen, by theft or by lure!"

So the boy went and found the man covered in fur
Which he took from a lady of well-known demure
"I've got me a coat, that'll last me till winter!"
Said the man in the bin, "now I won't need to shiver!"

The boy said, "I know of a way you'll sure quiver"
And with that he knelt and undid the man's zipper
The man blessed his days and awaited his prize
As the semen spewed, hitting the poor toy-boy's eye

Then Steven appeared and his smile was so sly
The man said, "I'm sorry, it was my first time"
And Steven said, "you, who doth live in a bin!
Don't you recognize your own flesh and blood, man of sin?

The man took a sip of his watered down gin
And said, "you're my brother? How long has it been?
What news of my wife, my kids and my trophies?"
And Steven said, "your wife's a slave to God Loki!"

Perturbed and disturbed, the man gave him a poke-y
And said, "don't you mess with me, bro, you don't know me!"
And with that the man changed, his body did grow
His skin turned to brown, and his hair turned afro!

For he was no man turned to bum or hobo
The man was now bigger, and fitter, with flow
"Ey, yo, motherfucker, you fuckin' wit' me?"
He said in ebonics, "don't you know I'm a G?"

He took out his gat, and his 9-mil Uzi
And shot Steven down to the ground easily
So don't ever jack-off an old homeless man
In Floppily-Doppily-Woppily land

This came out MUCH more disturbed than I thought it would. There's something wrong with me...

The Mark

A little piece of fiction I wrote out of boredom on myspace, just to see how my twisted brain works. Completely unplanned, just follow wherever the words may go...

Jason watched the girl lead her mark into the alleyway. This wasn't the first time he'd watched her. Ever since the day they bumped into each other at the deli, he'd followed her. Watched her. Fantasized about her. Perhaps tonight she'd be his one and only. Perhaps not.

She said her name was Natalya. She smiled a rehearsed smile designed to hide any emotion that would betray the mark's erection. The only thing that mattered was that hard-on. Hard-on's made money, no matter what shape or form. Don't think about the past, don't think about home, keep it up, in every sense of the word.

Jason watched Natalya get down on her knees. She gently brushed the dirt below and hitched her skirt up slightly. She wasn't going to dirty that skirt. The night's still young. Jason watched, took a deep breath, and began sharpening the machete.

The mark's name was Gerald. Gerald Hart. Gerald was in advertising, an associate manager, which makes Gerald a busy man, and Gerald simply hasn't the time to court or flirt. He has no time for bars and clubs, the endless game of charades at night. Time is precious to Gerald, and if Gerald doesn't cum within the next ten minutes Gerald will be late for his wife's 38th birthday dinner at La Bernadine, and Gerald's wife is not an understanding woman.

Natalya held all of Gerald's four inches in her manicured hands and said a prayer, the same prayer she'd said dozens of times before, every single time. She moistened her mouth and gave Gerald a little kiss, a little peck, before taking all of Gerald in her mouth.

Jason's heart skipped a beat. Maybe he should just keep watching. Maybe he should at least wait a while longer. He checked the machete. It was sharp enough.

Gerald held onto the grim brick wall and wondered why his wife would only do it that one time.

Natalya tried to get the taste out of her head.

Jason came out of the shadows.

Gerald came.

Natalya swallowed.

Jason ran.

Gerald gasped.

Natalya's eyes caught sight of

Jason lifted the machete above

Gerald's head was gleaming with sweat. He reached for his wallet to pay

Natalya was caught off guard when she saw

Jason lunged his machete into

Gerald's stomach felt warm. Why did it feel warm? And wet. Didn't he cum inside the whore's dirty mouth? That's why his wife wouldn't do it. It's a whore's game, and so he went to one to get done what would've been merely five minutes of saltiness and a starchy after taste. He came in the whore's mouth. Not his stomach. So why was his stomach warm? Why was it wet? He'd never cum that much before. It didn't feel like he'd cum that much before. Cum isn't red. Was the light making the cum look red? Why was-

Jason struck his machete deep into Gerald's heart this time, twisting it as he pierced through his Armani suit, CK shirt and indespensable rib cage. Natalya got to her feet and lit up a cigarette.

"You didn't have to wait until he came," she said, smoke billowing out of her lips.

"They're easier to get once they've popped a load," he replied, pulling the machete out.

Gerald dropped to the ground. He felt someone feel inside his suit. This wasn't a girl. Girl's don't have hands this big. The whore's hands weren't this big.

"Nice wallet," said Jason, admiring the hand made leather.

"How much is in there?"

"About $2,000 in cash, some credit cards..."

Gerald thought about the time. He was late. He was definitely late for his wife's birthday.

"...car keys."

"He came in an Audi. I think he parked it down there." She pointed to the other end of the road. "God, did he ever wash his dick?" she said, spitting out remnants of Gerald's seed onto the gravel.

"Come on, Nat," said Jason, cleaning Gerald's blood off the blade, "let's hit up the deli and get that taste out your mouth. Cream cheese bagels."

Natalya fixed up her skirt and watched the mark breath his last breathe. As they walked away, Gerald's cellphone rang. On the other end of the phone his wife sat at La Bernadine alone, silently wishing her husband would just drop dead.

Jason and Ravi go to Turnmills

INT. FORD ESCORT - NIGHT

A Ford Escort, parked on the side of the road. Inside, JASON and RAVI are sat in the front. It's a chilly September Friday night on the streets of London, outside Turnmills.

JASON, dressed in a shirt, tie and suit jacket, complete with glasses, keeps his eyes on the night club opposite them. It's about three AM, and the clubbers are making their way out.

RAVI, dressed in a hooded top and truckers cap, is playing 'Bounce' on his Nokia phone. He loses, and chucks the phone onto the dashboard.

RAVI
I'm hungry.

JASON
You think I'm not hungry?

RAVI
I wish we could have a cheeseburger. Don't you wish we could have a cheeseburger?

JASON
Shut up, we're supposed to keep our eyes on the job.

RAVI
Yeah, but wouldn't you kill for a cheeseburger right now? Or chips in pitta bread. I could murder some chips. Vinegar. Salt. Ketchup. Mayonnaise.

JASON
I don't see why anyone would pay one pound fifty for what is essentially a big pile of carbohydrate.

RAVI
I'm hungry.

JASON
We're both hungry.

One of the clubbers pops out, staggering slightly.

RAVI
What about that one?

The clubber stops by the side of the building and starts vomiting violently.

RAVI
Alright, maybe not.

A group of girls come out next, giggling.

RAVI
What about them?

JASON
Look at them. They're sixteen if they're a day.

RAVI
Yeah? And?

JASON
Don't you have any morals?

RAVI
Fine. [pause] Mousakka.

JASON
What did you call me?

RAVI
I didn't call you anything, I said 'mousakka', it's a food.

JASON
Stop fixating on food.

RAVI
I'm just hungry that's all.

JASON's eyes are now on a girl who's just popped out of the club. She's smoking a cigarette.

RAVI
I miss a decent meal, is all.

The girl makes a call on her mobile phone. JASON looks mesmerized.

JASON
That one.

JASON exits the car.

RAVI
Like peanut butter. I never liked peanut butter but... [realizing JASON's gone] Oh, bollocks.

EXT. STREET - NIGHT

JASON calmly walks over towards the GIRL. RAVI walks in another direction, towards the back of the building. JASON approaches the GIRL, taking out a cigarette. He approaches her and talks to her with the demeanour of a James Bond-bred cool-as-ice kinda guy [I don't know what I'm trying to describe here. Basically, he approaches her in such a way that it wouldn't cause the girl to run away. Somehow].

JASON
You shouldn't be walking alone at this time of the night.

GIRL
And why not?

JASON
Lots of dangerous people out this time of night.

GIRL
Really? You one of them, 'cos if you are, I best warn you I've got a can of pepper spray in my bag and I don't mind using it.

JASON
No, I'm not one of them, [pointing at cigarette].

The GIRL, hesitantly, lights his cigarette. As JASON takes a puff, RAVI appears from behind with a cloth of chloroform, grabbing the GIRL.

JASON
Ravi, on the other hand, is a vicious little cunt.

The GIRL passes out.

RAVI
How come I never get to be the one to chat them up?

JASON
'Cos you look like a serial rapist.

INT. FORD ESCORT - NIGHT

JASON and RAVI carry the girl into the back seat.

RAVI
I do not look like a serial rapist.

JASON
Yes, you do.

RAVI rolls up the girls sleeve.

RAVI
I fucking well don't!

JASON takes out a black medical bag. He opens it up and pulls out a syringe.

JASON
Look, there's a reason we do things this way.

RAVI takes the syringe and starts taking the GIRL's blood. He repeats this as they talk, filling up a jar.

JASON
I'm good with women. You're good with the more... unsavory aspect.

RAVI
'Unsavory aspect'? I do all the hard work here, mate! You just walk up to them and lull them into a false sense of security.

JASON
I do not. I make the fall easier for them. I'm the calm before the storm.

RAVI
So I'm a storm now, am I?

JASON
How much've we got?

RAVI
Sigh... about a pint and a bit.

JASON
That'll do. We don't want her to wake up dead. Let's put her on that bench there.

RAVI and JASON carry her out, then return to the car. As they drive off, RAVI takes a big gulp from the jar, then passes it to JASON. JASON turns to RAVI, then turns back to the road.

JASON
You've got a bit on your nose.

RAVI
Oh, cheers.

He wipes it, then takes a look in the mirror. There is no reflection.

RAVI
God, being a vampire's shit.