Loss…

15 10 2008

Loss

It hasn’t gone well.  Maybe even it’s over.  The dream in my heart just isn’t there.  The sky above is cold and grey.

Do you have to lose love, to ever feel love again?

Time will tell.





Not quite the goatie I thought I’d grow

8 10 2008

Not quite the goatie I thought would grow...

So I did a spot of personal grooming.  I wanted a new look.  Something suave and dashing.

Facial hair always works.  Makes you look all cool and that.

 

I thought.

 

Matron knows better though.  “All facial hair must be approved and signed for in triplicate” (Actually it’s more than triplicate in reality but whoever says “sign it in septupulet?”).  Is that even a word?  Who knows.

So anyway, that’s too much effort.

I improvised (and bypassed) the rigorous safety precautions and approvals.

 

2 days later…

Suffice to say. it’s not quite the goatie I thought  I’d grow.

 

*sobs*





A grave mistake…

5 10 2008

A grave mistake...

Matron’s a fanatical murderer.  Last week, for example, just to keep up with her insatiable bloodlust, she managed to work her way through an entire agency’s worth of secretary temps.  I needed some creative thinking to persuade the agency to send some more after the 37th failed to hand in her timesheet.  I don’t think my story of there being a giant secretary magnet hovering over the country plucking secretarys from the streets (and that they were at their safest at the institution where we have a strict no giant magnet flight zone in force), was totally convincing.  The promise to Boris of a night with Brad Pitt was a useful bribe that kept the rouse going longer than ordinarrily possible, though.

Still…with murder comes body disposal. 

Luckily for Matron I’m adept with shovels, acid, hungry pigs, DNA alteration and hacking into Police networks to modify their so called “evidence”.  It took me a while to get good at this stuff, so some of my early attempts, circa November 1938, were somewhat shambolic.  Take this for example.  I left a huge clue to all the authorities that I’d buried the fruits of Matron’s foolish behaviour.  At least, that’s what I think I buried there.  It’s been a while.

So I decided to take a peek.  There’s no harm in peeking right?

At first it was all pretty normal.  I excavated through the usual bones, teeth, spoons and amulets of ancient and ungodly power.  Then I found something really intriguing.  It had an eery mysterious glow and it smelt of wasps.  The light danced across its surface and it was dispensing weak lemon drink into a small cup that never seemed to overflow or run dry.  Then it began singing a melody of such enchanting beauty that I was powerless but to lick it furiously. 

A few hours later I was aware that my tongue had swollen to the size of my left foot – which was just as well as my left foot appeared to have gone.  As had my right elbow, though strangely my right hand was right where it should be.

It was ace.

But when I lost awareness of my eyebrows I knew I was sinking into trouble.  But I couldn’t stop licking.  The melody was washing over me in waves of surrealness that compelled me to lick.  I could feel my life ebbing away from me.

 

A pain.

 

A stinging pain at the back of my head.

 

Then nothing.

 

Nothing at all.

 

 

I awoke in my cell.  Matron was there.  And so was all of my body.  In fact, my body had been augmented by a large shovel shaped bump on the back of my head.  Matron explained.  I should never had tried to regain my foolishness by unearthing what I had stowed years before.  Matron, it would seem, had taken appropriate action to free me from my folly and save my life.

But damn.

I had found an eternal source of weak lemon drink and it was cruelly taken from me. 

 

I guess my quest continues…





Playing with radiation…

3 10 2008

White lies

So I was expecting a delivery of radioactive pills.  My vast array of medicinal pills just don’t cut it anymore.  I need to crank up the gigawatts somewhat. 

So I was most wonderfully pleased when I saw Geoffrey the postman crawl up the path towards the institution clutching a small pulsating package under his arm.  Strange, I thought when I was signing for the delivery, Geoffrey was looking decidedly perturbed – he was weak, breathing heavily and appeared to have a few less limbs than he normally does.  Glancing behind him I could see at least three fingers, a buttock and a few clumps of hair on the path.  Still… I had my pills and that’s all that matters.

I slammed the door in his face.

I retired to room 87 for a bit of peace and quiet so I could enjoy my new pills in complete isolation.  Well… almost.  You can learn to block out the wails of Elvis if you’re prepared to stick one of his un-eaten hamburgers in your ears.  Poor chap.  He’s been in here ages.  He’s delusional of course, he claims to have been some big rock and roll star.

Idiot.

I hate him.

The reinforced cardboard packaging was like tissue paper in my hands, and within hours, I had before me the glory and splendour of a most splendid pill indeed.  It pulsated softly at first, then violently as I prodded it repeatedly with a toothpick, then it almost exploded when I played it a bit of YMCA from my hi-fi.  But that’s normal – YMCA is potent stuff.

I spent ages playing with the pill.  I rolled it all over my face.  At least three times I had it up my left nostril, just for fun.  But I couldn’t continue for ever, the expectation mounted and I had to taste its magnificence…

 

At first, nothing.  It was mildly slimy and tasted a bit like Bovril.  I was close to picking out the invoice and phoning up Pills Rn’t Us. 

…But that’s when everything went white and my eyebrows started reciting Shakespeare.  Then I had brief out of body experience where Joan Collins was eating a large pink blancmange in the shape of a Fiat Panda.  I vaguely remember returning to my body whilst she gorged on the passenger airbag.

My mind was glowing.

 

Then Elvis shot me clean through the head with his gun.  He was sat on the toilet and had “apparently” missed himself- the bullet ricocheting off Joan’s blancmange and hitting me squarely between the eyes.

 

Bummer.

 

Dead again.





It was then that I realised the curtains could take the world…

1 10 2008

It was then that I realised the curtains could take the world...

I was in room 25.73

A strange place of blossom, cheese and chintz.

You know when you get that peculiar feeling that your knees are made of steel and your fingers are made of electro-magnets… well that’s how the room made me feel.  Then, almost to the rising crescendo of bohemian rhapsody, my hair stood on end and the curtains did assume their most potent power pose.

I was left dumbstruck, unable to move.

I quivered.

(Not very much obviously since I was unable to move)

…It was then that I realised that the curtains could take the world…





Fighting talk…

29 09 2008

Gas cooker lament

My weak lemon drink is missing.

I don’t understand.

I left my last glass beside ol’ withery the withered, and now… it’s nowhere to be seen.

*sobs*

And now I’m parched.  It’s been 14 minutes and if I don’t get some more soon, I’ll likely have a finger fall off, or worse, an eyelash.  A brief interrogation of ol’ withery was pretty fruitless – I suspect that’s because ol’ withery is just a fairly pathetic clump of celery and as such, hasn’t yet evolved a mouth, let alone opposable digits or a love for daytime TV.

So my attention turned to Muggins McGinty who works as a purveyor of fine weak liquids and old Jenson Interceptors in the orangery.  A suspect of unquestionable certainty.  Yup.  I found Muggins in his usual state, up to his eyeballs in weak pineapple drink – a liquid of such bitter and intense sourness, I can barely stomach seven pints or so.  Muggins began bubbling me a greeting, but I had no time for such pleasantries.  I was swift and precise with my accusations and my verbal onslaught was surely a terrifying ordeal for my victim.  McGinty just bubbled a bit more and then surfaced with a slight phlooump sound.  So much for that.  Exhausted, and sure that I couldn’t repeat my accusational attack, I vaguely remember uttering  a couple of incomprehensible syllables and running for my life.

I guess I’ll have to leave that mystery unsolved for now and simply return to ol’ withery the lush and sated, as apparently Matron now calls him.

 

*sobs*

 

There goes an eyelash.

 

My life is all but over.





He had to die…

26 09 2008

Death bunny

Mr. Snuggles had to die. 

 

To the outsider, Mr. Snuggles might look like an innocent cuddly stuffed toy of almost unbearable cuteness, but he had a dark secret.  Now that he appears to have finally stopped twitching I shall unleash the aforementioned dark secret upon the world. 

…well, if not the world, then at least the first 14 cells of ward B19.

As harsh as the punishment might seem, Mr. Snuggles had it comin’.  Hell yeah.  Whoah.

Crushy neck.

Swingy wingy.

Deathy weathy

Ha ha.

 

Ha.

 

I should explain.

 

I was eating my daily allowance of marzipan when there was a knock against the Kevlar-reinforced security glass window of my cell.  It was Mr. Snuggles.  He was grinning like a maniacal fool.  I saw blood on his delicately woven paws.

It looked like my blood. 

Really.

It was red.  It was a bit gloopy.  Surely that’s no coincidence?

So how did he get my blood on him?

I did a quick search for cuts or critical wounds.

None.

That had to be my blood though.

 

He must have wounded me at some point and then delicately tended me back to full health with my blood kept fresh upon his paws with an ice pack.

Nothing else for it.  I moved like a badger on steroids and he was noosed within 34 minutes of polite debate.

Death to bunny blood spillers!

 

ra.