Salem's Lot

You know him?

Yes I met with him already, he tricked me into the elevator in London, I 

wasn't concentrating. I was off guard.

There are no warheads in those rockets, this I know. You did not need 

to go all that way to ask him, you could have just asked me. What did 

his face look like?

His face was like the moon, all round with no features, it glowed, pale 

green and when he smiled his teeth were translucent. His hair was there 

and it was long, but you could hardly tell that he had hair. He was the 

man who wasn't there.

There were no warheads. But he was the warlord.

He said the same thing. But actually he was pretty disgusted by me. I 

wore sweats and trainers, my hair was a mess, my breathing was 

erratic. I ate with my hands, he had never seen or done that. He was 

from another world. From a world of silver spoons and the Officer's 

mess.

As I got off the train he hid behind a concrete pillar. He made me 

nervous, but I was drawn. I'd come too far, and it was too late to back 

out. A man in blue jeans came up from behind me, he said yes... yes I 

fucking knew you were up to something. He startled me. The concourse 

began to spin. Now I was afraid. And alone. Then he suddenly appeared 

out of nowhere, well from behind the concrete pillar to be more accurate.

He made me a drink but I left it. I couldn't hold the glass I was too 

nervous. I kept thinking about the woman dressed in middle eastern 

garb with the facial tatoo's, like what was she doing here? In the west, 

with that terrified expression?

Did you read the material I gave you?

No, well I read one passage. I could identify, but in reality it was bad 

advice.

If one's different, one's bound to be lonely.

I want to know what passion is, I want to feel something 

strongly. Besides hate.

Stability, darling, isn't nearly so spectacular as instability.

I like being myself, myself and nasty. And sad and catatonic.

You got rid of them didn't you. Yes. that's just like you, Getting rid of 

anything you don't like instead of learning to put up with things.

Can you believe this? Nothing costs enough here. Life costs nothing here.

Do you have a soul? Or do you have immortality? The Huxleyon 

prophecy is that Big Brother does not watch us, by his choice. We watch 

him by ours. 

In the depths of the mind, where madness and instability reign, there 

flows a deep river. The currents twist and turn, carrying with them the 

fragmented pieces of a fractured soul. As the waters rush and swirl, the 

boundaries between reality and delusion blur, leaving those who dare to 

navigate its treacherous waters lost in a labyrinth of their own making. 

Only the bravest souls dare to venture into the depths of their own 

madness, seeking to find the elusive thread that will lead them back to 

sanity. I'm not certain I want to be lead back to reality. I kind

of like it here, with all the mad men.

Is anyone ever really satisfied to be merely themselves? We seem to 

spend a lifetime aspring to be someone else.

And this is the basis of the insanity?

No. 

This is the beginning of the death trip.

Ok. Now mind that street chicken.

Street chicken? That's a fucking pigeon.

Yes that thing. Have you ever been handcuffed?

You mean sexually or by law enforcement?

You on Facebook? I can't find you.

Oh yeah, I put my name in Russian characters so they can't find me. I'll 

add you.

Can you imagine marrying someone without having had sex with them first?

I can't imagine having dinner with someone without having had sex with them first.

The conductors here, get your ticket app on display.

Tickets for New Jersey! Or hell... whatever you like to call it.

Hell is fine.

You wouldn't be an antagonist if you made deals that didn't involve marrying me

I really need to speak to you about something.

So speak. What is it?

The guy in the football stadium, he shook your hand and said what? I can see he is saying something.

You saw me at the stadium? I was dressed in red, I was virtually in a sea of red sequins, I thought I was invisible!'

The cameras found you. What did he say to you?

He told me his name was Franck, he wanted to know where I came from. He wondered what I was doing there. He said why are you English and watching this?

I told him I didn't know, I was sorry I came. I left shortly afterwards, I 

spoke to two uniformed police at one of the exit tunnels, they directed 

me into a waiting car and I went back to the hotel. I ate venison which I 

usually hate, and drank a cold glass of Laurent Perrier Rose, which I also 

don't like. I was doing things as if by clockwork, I didn't want to leave 

the restaurant as I didn't want to go up to my room alone. I was 

fortified after several glasses of champagne to ask the concierge to 

accompany me to my room, which he did. He stayed longer than he 

should.

What did you talk about?

I talked about the tall trees outside of the window, of the people going 

past on bicycles, astonished by the fact they didn't get hit by cars. I was 

saying nothing particular. I ordered aperitifs, some Vodka and freshly 

squeezed orange juice with an ice bucket, oh and some scrambled eggs 

from room service. He sat in the armchair by the window and lit a 

cigarette.

What happened after the cigarette?

He pushed me down on the bed and fucked me.

Okay, but you didn't speak about the man in the navy suit who dropped 

you at the hotel?

No, I didn't. Where is Franck? Where is Franck now?

He died.

He died?

Yes he died. He died not long after the trip. I read it in the newspaper. I was shocked.

So you know what happened then?

Not really.

They found him. He was murdered. Captured. Tied to a park bench, in 

the dead of night and shot. Assailants unknown. Do you know who did 

his?

The man in the restaurant who gave me the venison and champagne?

No, the man who fucked you.

Oh my god, I knew I hated him. But he was kind of attractive.

You are not right in your mind, you know that?

No, I am definately not. And I don't mind either, I don't actually care 

until I see the laughing man. He scares me.

You need to stay away from him.

I can't, he follows me.

We have to go across the river tonight.

But it's dark and cold, there are no boats, the trains have stopped!

We will walk the bridge.

What if they see us?

If they see us, we will fight them.

In the heart of New York City, there was a bridge that spanned across 

the dark, murky waters of the Hudson River.  Legend had it that a 

mysterious man lurked in the shadows beneath the end of the bridge, 

his presence striking fear into the hearts of all who crossed it. Some 

said he was a ghost, others believed he was a deranged hermit seeking 

solitude in the bustling city.

Later that night, they found themselves stranded on the bridge, the rain 

pelting down around them. As they hurried across, they caught a 

glimpse eyes filled with a haunting sadness. And in that 

moment, they realised that the man hiding in the shadows  

was not a monster, but perhaps a lost soul seeking refuge from the harsh realities of the world above. Or was he?

She peered closely at the light flickering 

across his tortured face.

It was her father.

But you are dead, you died  a long time ago!

I am here with you, right here, right now.

Please leave me alone, you tried to kill me! I was your daughter, and 

you tried to kill me!

I was stupid, I am sorry.

No, you are not sorry, and if I let you live, you will do it again.

The French man reached into his pocket and slowly retrieved his gun, 

holding it now in  outstretched arms.

Pull the trigger Frenchy, pull the fucking trigger.

So he did.

The shot rang out into the night. 

How many more before the end?

The man slumped to the ground. She turned and gently kissed the 

french mans soft cheek. He had the most beautiful complexion for a 

middle aged man. 

Frenchy. You know what? I once saw a man on a bike who wasn't there. 

If you marry me, I will save you.

Yes, I will marry you. 

And send you to hell with no extra charge.

You know what?

What.

If you ever leave me, Im coming with you.

23andme so I guess I'm fucked now.

I wouldn't believe you if you told me you were lying

 Do you think the arab is dead?

No, why would they be?

They said they had cancer. So technically they should be dead, right? Like who has terminal cancer for twenty fucking years? What a crock.

Cancer of what? Why would anyone believe a word out of that piece of shit's mouth?

Well we know what a liar they are, so no I don't think they're dead. Probably didn't have cancer, but if they did, you're right. They most certainly carked it by now.  But if they're alive on the othehand they are lying coiled up like a snake in long grass, getting ready to spring as soon as they find us.

I think maybe you're right, but I am not 100 percent certain.

Last contact was when? Over ten years ago?

Something like that. No proof of the shitterling being dead or alive.

If they're dead they are keeping it quiet. Infact a lot of people are keeping it quiet, and that's the problem. It's not possible to keep a lot of people quiet. Keeping one quiet is one too many.  

Perhaps they're in jail or something? Or in the big Dutch Nutella pancake house.

The lawyer says they are alive.

It suits their narrative, the lawyer is a lying bastard as well.  I think they could be in it together, and so it suits the lawyer that the arab is alive, in actual fact if the arab is dead it changes everything. It complicates things.

How so?

There are some legal implications. Not to mention a lot of money. Why do people commit atrocious crimes in the first place?

I have a theory on that, there are only three root causes - Love, sex and money, or all three! Hmmm maybe envy... Greed... but then that comes under the love and money label I guess.

Correct. The lawyer was receiving the cash late at night in Paris, stumbling through the streets in the dark, full of Pastis, shit scared someone would recognize him. He's been shaking people down for a long time. He's looking at 20 years if this shit hits the proverbial. Minimum. 

In his Hermes belt.

He will Epstein himself with that. He may have to. 

Let's hope so, but not quite yet. Something I noticed.. Not 100 percent but I think he's possibly a closet gay too. I have found a mysterious guy who seems to stalk him all over social media,  cloning his media accounts but using his own personal profile photos, and man oh man is he a pretty boy, straight off the Trocadero. I've got a theory that Mr Lawyer was using pretty boy as a salope, and dumped him when his rented by the hour ass  started to become a nuisance. Hence the revenge media posts, which whilst they aren't accusatory or defaming, god no he is dealing with a lawyer, the posts are obviously an irritant, you know, the sand to his Vaseline?

 The pretty boy has been dumped by the family man lawyer.

So where do you think the Arab is? Here in NYC?

No of course not. I think they're in Paris. Hiding in plain sight.

I'm not sure, visa's aren't that easy to obtain. What about the Swiss connection?

It's gone quiet. There was a ping from near a millitary base there which was worrying, but nothing since. Could've been bots.

Hmm. And so now what?

I think we should investigate the Hart Island connection. And plus you owe it to Bobby. He's still on there.

Oh God, please don't.

Come on Frenchie, I'll take over everything that needs to be done today. You take a breather, because I think things are going to get messy. And for a hardline cop, you are as soft as a sac au mierde.

You know what? 

What?

Tu es fou mais je crois que je t'aime.

Yeah, whatever.

In the bustling streets of Paris late at night, the highly respected lawyer who had a penchant for alcohol and a weakness for cocaine and young men, especially after indulging in one too many drinks,  found himself in a seedy alleyway with an unusually beautiful, intelligent rent boy. In a drunken stupor, he convinced the prostitute to help him collect a large sum of money from a wealthy businessman. 

As they made their illicit transaction, the Lawyers excitement released within him a torrential flood of adrenaline.  Now he was unable to resist the temptation of cocaine, and more boys, and  as they both got high on the drug, laughing, and celebrating their ill-gotten gains spread out across the luxurious bed at the  George Cinq, sipping the Cliquot,  soon there was another smooth skinned runaway joining them.   Life was good.

But as the night wore on, his lies began to unravel, and as the stolen money slipped through his fingers like sand, and the paranoia of the cocaine binge descended oupon his head like a dark cold concrete block pounding his brain, he began a desperate attempt to cover his tracks, Mr big shot lawyer abandoned the salopes and fled into the night, leaving behind a trail of lies, promises and shattered dreams of the two young men. 

And as the sun rose over the city of Paris, he found himself alone and panicking, who in the hell sent him the message saying she knew what he was doing and she was about to reveal his secrets? 

A woman? Which fucking woman?

Under the Lilac Tree

 In the quaint town of Provence, there lived a French man named Jacques who had a penchant for indulging in lilac wine. One fateful evening, as he sipped on his favorite vintage, he began to experience vivid hallucinations. 

In his intoxicated state, Jacques believed he was a secret agent on a mission to uncover a government conspiracy.

As the night wore on, Jacques' delusions grew more elaborate and fantastical. He was convinced that he was being pursued by enemy spies and that only he could save the world from impending doom. With a mix of courage and confusion, Jacques embarked on a wild adventure through the villages of Provence, all the while under the influence of the intoxicating lilac wine that fueled his hallucinations. In the end, Jacques woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a newfound appreciation for the power of imagination. So yes, lilac wine is real.

Lilacs are amazingly fragrant, but I couldn't drink myself into a stupor with it's nectar.

I'm going to give you some, to see what memories it evokes. Then you can puke it up. It won't kill you. But it might. Toss the coin.

The car. You are stood looking at it, what can you see? What color is it?

Black.

Any damge? smashed lights, broken or missing fenders?

No, it looks normal.

And yet it was in a head on collision?

Was it?

Yes, according to the driver.

Open the door and look inside. What can you see?

Nothing. I can't distinguish the colour of the interior at all. It could be a 

reddish brown.

Ok. Broken windshield?

No. Nothing. Oh here.. I see something. Inside.

What do you see?

Blood, I see blood.

D'accord.

I'm now standing behind some iron gates. The weather is damp and cloudy yet it's not raining. I look at the door of this huge building, it's a house, gothic,  the door is large and painted black. I'm waiting for someone to answer my knock but they don't come.  I look at my watch and it's three thirteen pm. It's cold but not freezing. I look in my bag for a cigarette, place it between my lips and light it, taking a long hit and exhaling slowly as I look around at my surroundings. The trees have lost their leaves, the concreted path is dark with this morning's rain. There is a tree behind me, I turn to look, still waiting for the door to open. Something catches my eye. Behind the tree there is something. Leaning against the brickwall behind the trunk of the tree.

What is behind the tree?

A white plastic carrier bag. It is stuffed with clothes. Like really stuffed, not with neatly folded clothes, like dirty laundry... It's unclear to me what the clothes are, I think a man's clothing, I see a white shirt on top, maybe some black trousers rolled up underneath, I think there's some shoes. But I instinctively don't want to touch the plastic bag. It feels strange and out of place. I try to think who may have put the bag there.

Go look in the bag. What do you see.

The white shirt is.. Oh.. the white shirt is stained with something dark.It is blood. It is definately blood. Oh my god.

Come, you are going to vomit.

Please stop taking me to these places.

Was there a weapon in the bag? 

Such as?

I dunno, a knife or a hammer, gun perhaps?

No I didn't see.

Did the door get opened?

No. But the man who lived there was living in fear, that's why I would visit him, not frequently, but whenever I would walk past.  He told me that strange things were happening to him. Once when I called to see him he told me a man had been in his garden that night, peering through his windows. He had been very afraid, but didn't call for help. Another time I remember he had black eyes after being attacked in his house, but he wouldn't open up about it. Oh jesus, I'm gonna throw up.. Did something happen to him?

Yeah, he was killed by his son for his inheritance.

Oh my god. How?

Suffocation. 

But the blood?

you heard the term serial killer?

Yes.

Did you know the son?

Not really, I was a little uncomfortable around him, he made me feel 

uneasy so I would usually avoidhim where possible. He's a serial killer?

We think so,  we are closing the net. You feeling better?

I'm feeling that I survived a murderer.  

Not quite.

He's in jail no?

No he isn't, he never got caught, and he's looking for you.

Living by Gaslight and Blue Oranges

 I saw Vittorio last night, which surprised me

Really why?

Because he died a long time ago. He said he had a message for me, but I didn't understand what he was saying so I left. Not before checking out his lacklustre restaurant. It all seemed like a big comedown from his London and Marbella heyday.

Were you wearing fatigues?

No. Why? Why the fuck would I be wearing fatigues? You and your 100 stupid fucking questions!

Because I saw a message on your phone while you were sleeping, it was 

from Jean - Luc in London.

What did it say?

He wants to know if we can shift some firearms from Zurich. Don't sweat it, they're antique. Or so he says.

What? What are we now? Arms dealers?

Hahahaha!

I wonder who's behind this? The Saudi's? 

The hotel in Geneva. The art gallery in St Jame's Place. I am so tired of all this shit, I have been since the Middle East. The hyperbaric chamber crap. Please look at me and tell me what you see?

I see you, as very interesting.

I wondered about you Mr Frenchie,  as you sipped coffee in my kitchen after accidently knocking at my door looking for someone else. Someone else really? How quiet and genteel you were, stirring the sugar and sipping at the hot liquid so discreetly, so politely, so sophisticated. So mysterious. You made me think alright.

What were you thinking?

I was wondering if you were watching me, if you were some sort of agent come to find out who I was. It all seemed very strange. I wondered why you were here in front of me. The fact that you said you thought I was German. 

I did think you were German, possibly Dutch. You don't look English really.

People used to think I was Russian. I would get my menus in Russian when I was at any Restaurant.

Ahh. That equates.

It very well may equate, but it used to irritate me.

You, so easily irritated my tiny fair. Now tell me. Who is the dumpy short legged scruffy dressed woman who used to come here, the one with the fat ass who's sit down air used to stink?

I don't know, she has no background, only lies and a fictional past. I cut her loose because I didn't trust her, why? Sit down air? Jesus... but yeah you're right.

She's the quintessential loose cannon, heroin junkie, ex-hooker - you name it. Think of the junkie mentality, say or do anything to get their next fix. Keep the door closed on her. Keep her fried brained fucked up logic out of our business. She is the enemy. Because above all else, she is jealous.

Or whatever, yes she used to try and gaslight me, convince me I needed therapy with her friend! Can you imagine! Alors!! But aren't we all dealing on a short circuit somewhere? I am, you aren't so tightly wrapped yourself! Are wenot damaged goods?

Yes, but her damage is chemically induced, so it's a short circuit on a whole different level. Investigate it.

Oh I see. Okay. Oh god, I need to go back home at some stage, I can't stay here, I don't like it. I don't like it at all. 

No, me neither. But we have to go back to the cafe.

I'm telling you there is something going on in the back of that cafe. The owner is very suspicious. He looked us both up and down, he thought we were undercover. He was selling food with no food avilable.

What do you think is going on?

The curtain sheilding the back room, he's very guarded over it, doesn't risk you seeing what's behind it when he has to walk through.

What's your opinion?

At first I thought porn, or gambling or an illegal place of worship sheltering a radical hate speech type of Iman. But no. I discounted all of that after what I saw in Barcelona.

What did you see in Barcelona?

A sleeper cell.

In a world where danger lurked around every corner, he knew the risks 

of going undercover as a radical Muslim to bring down a violent extremist 

group. But when he met her - a beautiful and cunning female who 

seemed to see right through his facade - things became even more 

complicated. As their cat-and-mouse game unfolded in the gritty streets 

of New York City, he found himself torn between duty and desire, unable 

to deny the growing feelings he had for the very woman he was 

supposed to be hunting down. With no escape from the web of lies and 

deception they had spun around each other, he realized too late that his 

heart had already been captured by someone who could never truly be 

his.

Cider with Rose

 I was there, looking around, trying to figure out where I was.

Where were you?

On an unfinished road, a dirt track. There was a row of houses at the top, I could just make out the word 'Avenue' in the middle of the row of terraces built into the brickwork in stone, there was a pub called The Sun on the bottom of the hill, the bar area was there, I could see it lit up through the window, but the lounge area had been made into a domestic  kitchen. There was a woman in there, preparing something. 

It was obviously closed and had been remodelled into a HMO, I remember being there so well. I remember the actual night, the people. God I even remember what I was wearing. And a man called Alan. Well he was a very young man, maybe 20. But I was a very young teen. 

What was his significance?

He wanted me to be his girlfriend, but I said I couldn't, I was scared of the girlfriend he had already. She had short mousy hair and greasy skin.  She wore a leather jacket and looked rough. She looked at me through ice cold slitted eyes and told me not to speak to her boyfriend. I was terrified.

What happened next?

I walked back up the hill with them, I had drunk a glass of Cider with blackcurrant juice to disguise the disgusting,to me anyhow, taste.  I felt a little drunk after only one small glass.

I don't think he had anything to do with the body in the bushes.

I don't think so, that was much later. How did you feel when you realised that what you uncovered was a body? And it was how you say? Wrapped?

Yeah, well not really wrapped, kind of covered up. But then I saw the skull and I stared at it for such a very long time as my brain tried to process what it was seeing, I simply couldn't process it. Like when you see a huge snake coming towards you but it takes an age before you can make a sound, you simply freeze. And finally you scream.

It's like a bizarre carnival.

You want to walk back down there someday? Back down that lane? Drink cassis with Cider? Champagne yes, but Cider? Alors..

No, not really. I just get these random thoughts, you know? Like something submerged underwater and the water level suddenly starts to subside, revealing the submerged object. My memories are like that. Sudden and not for any particular reason.There is no trigger.

You remember your rock in the ocean?

That was my safe place, I only swam from underneath it when the tide got high. I could hear people calling my name having seen me walk into the ocean and disappear. They thought I was drowned, but I was inside my rock.

Some things are worse than what we've actually gotten ourselves into.

Are you afraid? I mean like right now.

In the depths of his soul, this quiet, unassuming emotionless French man felt a gripping fear clawing at his chest as he stood on

 the precipice, unsure if he could make that final leap into the unknown 

abyss below with her. 

The world seemed to blur around him, his heart pounding in rhythm with

 the tumultuous emotions swirling within him - a conflicting mixture of

 love and hate for the surreal sensation of falling for her. His mind raced

 with thoughts of regret and longing, each one tearing at him like a

 jagged knife as he grappled with the overwhelming weight of his

 decisions. 

And yet, despite it all, there was an undeniable sense of liberation in

 letting go, in surrendering to fate and trusting in the tenuous thread

 between life and death. The fear whispered its sinister promises in his

 ear, but somewhere deep down, a spark of defiance ignited within him -

 propelling him forward into the unknown with a steely resolve born from

 desperation and determination.

This was pure madness.

She was pure madness.

But it was too late. His watch had stopped. 

We need to take guns.

I can't kill anyone!

Oh, you will my tiny fair. You will.

It's either them or us.