‘Frankenstein2 or The Monster of Main Stream’ is a new novel that is being created using all and only the words from Mary Shelley’s 1831 work, ‘Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus’.
Work in progress...
| MARY SHELLEY FRANKENSTEIN OR THE MODERN PROMETHEUS CHAPTER I I am by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics; and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family. As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a merchant, who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition, and could not bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship, and was deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored the false pride which led his friend to a conduct so little worthy of the affection that united them. He lost no time in endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin the world again through his credit and assistance. Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself; and it was ten months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean street, near the Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes; but it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in the meantime he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a merchant's house. The interval was, consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankling when he had leisure for reflection; and at length it took so fast hold of his mind that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion. His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness; but she saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing, and that there was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an uncommon mould; and her courage rose to support her in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw; and by various means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to support life. Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow overcame her; and she knelt by Beaufort's coffin, weeping bitterly, when my father entered the chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed herself to his care; and after the interment of his friend, he conducted her to Geneva, and placed her under the protection of a relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife. There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection. There was a sense of justice in my father's upright mind, which rendered it necessary that he should approve highly to love strongly. Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the late discovered unworthiness of one beloved, and so was disposed to set a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the doating fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues, and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing her for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace to his behaviour to her. Everything was made to yield to her wishes and her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind, and to surround her with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto constant spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During the two years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after their union they sought the pleasant climate of italy, and the change of scene and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders, as a restorative for her weakened frame. From Italy they visted Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born in Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained for several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very mine of love to bestow them upon me. My mother's tender caresses, and my father's smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding me, are my first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol, and something better--their child, the innocent and helpless creature bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as they fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they owed towards the being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity, and of self control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed but one train of enjoyment to me. For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent disposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a passion--remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been relieved--for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale attracted their notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted my mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock. The four others were dark eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child was thin, and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold, and, despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of sensibility and sweetness, that none could behold her without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp in all her features. The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a German, and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory of Italy – one among the schiavi ognor frementi, who exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim of its weakness. Whether he had died, or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria, was not known. His property was confiscated, his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued with her foster parents, and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles. When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of our villa a child fairer than pictured cherub – a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks, and whose form and motions were lighter than the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them; but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want, when Providence afforded her such powerful protection. They consulted their village priest, and the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents' house – my more than sister the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and my pleasures. Every one loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential attachment with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my pride and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to my home, my mother had said playfully – "I have a pretty present for my Victor – to-morrow he shall have it." And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally, and looked upon Elizabeth as mine – mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on her, I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me – my more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only. Chapter 2
On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave up entirely their wandering life, and fixed themselves in their native country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a _campagne_ on Belrive, the eastern shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a league from the city. We resided principally in the latter, and the lives of my parents were passed in considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd, and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore, to my schoolfellows in general; but I united myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of singular talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger, for its own sake. He was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He composed heroic songs, and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly adventure. He tried to make us act plays, and to enter into masquerades, in which the characters were drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles, of the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidels. No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My parents were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence. We felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to their caprice, but the agents and creators of all the many delights which we enjoyed. When I mingled with other families, I distinctly discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and gratitude assisted the development of filial love. My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some law in my temperature they were turned, not towards childish pursuits, but to an eager desire to learn, and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess that neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments, nor the politics of various states, possessed attractions for me. It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of things, or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or, in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world. Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral relations of things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men, were his theme; and his hope and his dream was to become one among those whose names are recorded in story, as the gallant and adventurous benefactors of our species. The saintly soul of Elizabeth shone like a shrine dedicated lamp in our peaceful home. Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was the living spirit of love to soften and attract: I might have become sullen in my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that she was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And Clerval--could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval?--yet he might not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his generosity--so full of kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to him the real loveliness of beneficence, and made the doing good the end and aim of his soaring ambition. I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before misfortune had tainted my mind, and changed its bright visions of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery: for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion, which afterwards ruled my destiny, I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys. Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire, therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age, we all went on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon: the inclemency of the weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate, and the wonderful facts which he relates, soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind; and, bounding with joy, I communicated my discovery to my father. My father looked carelessly at the title page of my book, and said, "Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash." If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded, and that a modern system of science had been introduced, which possessed much greater powers than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while those of the former were real and practical; under such circumstances, I should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside, and have contented my imagination, warmed as it was, by returning with greater ardour to my former studies. It is even possible that the train of my ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents; and I continued to read with the greatest avidity. When I returned home, my first care was to procure the whole works of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures known to few beside myself. I have described myself as always having been embued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature. In spite of the intense labour and wonderful discoveries of modern philosophers, I always came from my studies discontented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great and unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors in each branch of natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted appeared, even to my boy's apprehensions, as tyros engaged in the same pursuit. The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him, and was acquainted with their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more. He had partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal lineaments were still a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect, anatomise, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes in their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him. I had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed to keep human beings from entering the citadel of nature, and rashly and ignorantly I had repined. But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper and knew more. I took their word for all that they averred, and I became their disciple. It may appear strange that such should arise in the eighteenth century; but while I followed the routine of education in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self taught with regard to my favourite studies. My father was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with a child's blindness, added to a student's thirst for knowledge. Under the guidance of my new preceptors, I entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life; but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention. Wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would attend the discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frame, and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death! Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of which I most eagerly sought; and if my incantations were always unsuccessful, I attributed the failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake than to a want of skill or fidelity in my instructors. And thus for a time I was occupied by exploded systems, mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory theories, and floundering desperately in a very slough of multifarious knowledge, guided by an ardent imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident again changed the current of my ideas. When I was about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It advanced from behind the mountains of Jura; and the thunder burst at once with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribands of wood. I never beheld anything so utterly destroyed. Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of electricity. On this occasion a man of great research in natural philosophy was with us, and, excited by this catastrophe, he entered on the explanation of a theory which he had formed on the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at once new and astonishing to me. All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be known. All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable. By one of those caprices of the mind, which we are perhaps most subject to in early youth, I at once gave up my former occupations; set down natural history and all its progeny as a deformed and abortive creation; and entertained the greatest disdain for a would-be science, which could never even step within the threshold of real knowledge. In this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics, and the branches of study appertaining to that science, as being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy of my consideration. Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if this almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the immediate suggestion of the guardian angel of my life--the last effort made by the spirit of preservation to avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars, and ready to envelope me. Her victory was announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul, which followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting studies. It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with their prosecution, happiness with their disregard. It was a strong effort of the spirit of good; but it was ineffectual. Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible destruction.
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ANNABEL FREARSON FRANKENSTEIN2 OR THE MONSTER OF MAIN STREAM CHAPTER I I am by birth a Genevese and I even bore myself. I am not what you would call a people person. My Play Station console has become my best friend. I also enjoy watching the Discovery Channel. Beyond that my life is pretty.. whatever. I have worked in various branches of various banks. At the moment I am head of credit control at the Abbey National in Slough. I get a rise out of Sex and the City but otherwise do not see much action. I once had a thing with this woman I met through the lonely-hearts pages. She had a great ass but that's about as far as it went. If I had to state a preference, Caprice would be my favourite model. When it comes to music, soft rock really does it for me, especially Queen. Although I do confess to having danced to West Life and Steps at the office party last year. In my youth I listened to Madness, The Human League, Tears for Fears, even Joy Division in my more left-field days. I own a Coupar: four-wheel drive with a sun roof. I only tend to read when I travel; Will Self and that kind of thing. Greece is my preferred destination but any place on the Mediterranean will do. When I was at college I went to Chamounix with a load of friends, but you will hear more about that later. For a thrill I might watch Jaws or Cape Fear – I like the girl in that. Last Thursday, while watching Ground Force with a drink of Sunny Delight, I lost the remote control and the will to live. However, without the courage to kill myself, I have decided to travel back in time and make sure that I am never born in the first place. This is not as simple as it sounds. You see, it turns out that I am adopted. My 'mother' told me this on my 27th birth day when I suggested that she and my 'father' were the cause of my short neck and unfortunate complexion. "You are no progeny of ours, hideous daemon," she shrieked. Apparently they did a trade with a Swiss family while on holiday in the Alps. Suddenly it all fell into place: my fondness for cheese, ability to wear braces, my apparent interest in banks and uncommon head for heights. Not to mention an early feeling for the sublime and picturesque (my art teacher wrote that in my school report. I think she meant that I was good at drawing mountains). What they exchanged me for was for them to know and me to wonder. Well, I am sure as hell going to find out. Perhaps if my real parents had possessed this thing in the first place, they would not have needed me. I may have been a mistake. That would figure. What if they were fond of children, but just hated me? God knows, with hair like mine, who can blame them? So, how on earth am I going to travel back through time, you ask. With a modified vehicle like in 'Back to the Future'? No way, man. Time machines are so gay. I would not be caught dead in something so sad. My method is much more cool than that. Bear with me and all will be revealed. In the meantime, there are a few things that I would like to do before I depart this miserable existence: See England win the World Cup; shake hands with Bill Gates; take Justine Matlock from behind (she works in the Reading branch and is well fit); make a guest appearance in Friends; and deck Adam Manheim (a so-called 'colleague' of mine). By chance, an opportunity to perform the latter presented itself yesterday after a meeting in which Adam had been particularly obnoxious. Sitting there in his new blue suit and shoulder-length hair; it was all I could do to resist taking him out right there and then. What a girl. Just because he has a degree in communication studies. He certainly does not speak my language. No, sir. That night he fell under the 6 o'clock train. Tragic. I did not plan it that way but it turned out simpler than having to beat him up. Crowded station and all that. With the added advantage that I could avoid touching him. What I had not considered was how long it would take them to clean his strewed limbs off the track. I was not going to make it home in time to see Brook Side so I wandered around town in search of other forms of amusement. After a quick half in the Stranger's Rest and a few more in the Beaufort Arms, I fell into the House of Tartary. The name should have given it away really. I had already ordered fish in the basket when the lights went down and the music started. From behind a curtain stepped the most rank drag act I have ever set eyes on. An over-embosomed corpse convulsed across the stage in time to the beat. Its deathlike face quivering under the weight of make-up as she sang along to 'I Will Survive'. No chance, I thought as she started pole dancing. After several ghastly gesticulations she – horror of horrors – made her way into the crowd (if seven or so sad specimens can be called a crowd). Lacey May – for this was her name – staggered across the carpeted floor and rubbed herself up against unguarded victims. I began shifting in my seat. Reluctant to leave my half-eaten meal, I sank lower in my chair. Her chemical scent wafted into my face as she hovered over me, her bosom wantonly thrust before my eyes. Lacey lifted her yellow petticoat, vacillating her unhallowed void above my knees. I thought I was going to throw up. But her ligaments could not take the strain and the horseback riding became an idle thrust. It looked like she might fall on top of me and in a panic I threw her aside and ran into the Ladies.
I interrupted a woman picking a spot in the mirror.
Pulling birds has never been a great strength of mine. Margaret muttered an excuse and made her escape as the sound of clapping died away in the next room.
By now I had had quite a skin full and was happy conversing with any one who would listen. Not that I was making much sense.
My father is a sport fan; not that he plays much himself. However I once saw him wrestle on the floor with a union chief but to this day I do not know if that was over work or a woman. My father is a man of little intellect and slight ability but a whole lot of character. Some people find my father overwhelming; I find him rather dull. He does like dogs but he will not keep them in the house. My father has been known to drink and drive, so far without any serious incidents, although he did very nearly write off a Triumph once after a few too many in The Red Heart. My father will read crime novels, particularly the 'who dun it' variety.
My mother, on the other hand, is mad about the eighteenth century. The houses, the clothes, the furniture, the literature, the art, even the language. When I was a boy it was all, "She doth this, thou hast that, come ye here, thy dinner is ready, thee wretched daemon." Accuracy was not terribly important. I tried to point out to her that it is highly improbable that any one ever actually spoke in such a manner, but she would have nothing of it. My mother was immersed in the historical and there was no dragging her out of it. As a child I would dread bringing friends home lest she would say,
"...I parted her cheeks, pausing to examine her budding rose before gently wiping my finger around the bedewed crevice. She bade my fingers into her pitchy passage and yielded her anatomy with convulsive writhing. I licked like a lap-dog at her musty niche and worked my tongue deep in the dark chimney. As I tasted her savoury delights she softly groaned and begged me to clean out the pig-sty. Disgusted, I drove my aching rudder into her behind and heard a depraved howl as I descended deeper into her dank concealment. We moved in contortions like the beast with two backs. Our rippling undulations cast a monstrous shadow..."
I was none the wiser.
So in the end I just hung out with my cousin Elizabeth, who became like a sister to me inasmuch as I loathed her.
Elizabeth was good at science and poetry; I was not the brightest bear in the woods. Elizabeth was popular with her schoolfellows; I had only one friend, who in fact was blind and who I think did not consider me a companion so much as useful. Elizabeth was beautiful, angelic even. I was too ugly to look at; still am, truth be told. Elizabeth treated me like a science experiment. She made me eat different kinds of earth then listened as I broke wind. She would set fire to my ears when I least expected it. She buried me alive and I was left for five hours, fainting as the grave-worms tasted my eye-balls. Elizabeth told me I could fly and watched me fall from a tree. She held ice to my tongue and gave me a speech impediment, which does recur from time to time.
The effect of this is that every so often, usually when I have had too much ice or sometimes just when I feel cold, my speech becomes frozen on a given word or phrase, rather like a broken record. This happened the other day after work when we were down the Sword and Splendour and I was endeavouring to impress Justine Matlock with talk of my country cottage after way too much chilled white wine.
Feelings, nothing more than feelings,
At home I checked my stars in The News of the World: "Being with some one you love or like is part of having a wonderful end to the week. Being self-employed will allow you to work at your own natural pace. You have never been like your friends. Having your own style of doing things gives you a sense of pride and satisfaction. So you have the New Moon on the 26th..."
So, back to my family. My cousin Elizabeth died in the World Trade Centre. Not during the attack on 11 September, however. That would have been a lot simpler to explain. No, it turns out she fell down the stairs while making out with a woman from Reuss Brothers, a rival firm. We did not even know that Elizabeth was gay; it must have been a career move. The other woman was up for man slaughter but she died when the second tower came down; they found her burnt hands still holding her wallet and keys. So the court case was dropped, which is a shame as I was going to fly over for it. These days I just tell people that Elizabeth, who was like a sister to me, died in the World Trade Centre. For a while I could get laid out of pure sympathy but after a few months no one was interested.
On reflection, I suppose I could go back in time and save Elizabeth from her untimely and miserable death, but where is the joy in that? She would never thank me for it. Besides, strange but true, I have thought about Elizabeth a lot more since her death than when she was alive. After all, she did leave me with a speech deformity to remember her by. And at work they still remind me about the attachment she once sent to me which wiped out the mother board of the main frame system for all the branches in the south east. Fortunately clever Charles Wakefield had done a back up the day before and only a hundred or so accounts were affected and we only received a few complaints. However, since then they have put in a pretty serious fire wall which has somewhat harnessed my on line pleasure pursuits. Pity, my friendship with NightEyes was really starting to blossom. I remember our first encounter; in fact I saved it on to my hard drive.
You are in Life - Spirits of the Deep Forest
At that point Gale Forth, Head of Human Resources, came round, forcing me to reach for my emergency spread sheet. As I stared intently at the sea of figures and calculations before my eyes, my hard on soon began to wilt and the damp patches under my arms started to dry.
Within a few minutes I was ready for the department lead professional development meeting.
My father burst through the doors and charged towards me in a frenzy.
"What the hell do you think you are playing at, you son of a ..." and with that he tried to deck me. My Happy Meal went flying through the air. I fell over with a loud scream and lay on the ground writhing in mock agony then pretend to lose consciousness before his foot lands in my face. A twenty stone creature has taken hold of my father from behind and attempts to crush him against the wall before the old bill arrives. In the meantime a check out girl has forced down me a well known soft drink with a mountain of ice, with the usual effect. I spring to my feet and turn around and around, pointing my fingers like a gun:
"Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up! Hands up!"
Geneva Joy, oh love of my life, she rendered me ardent with her ample anatomy, she assassinated me with her beautiful behind, her assembled loveliness pierced my heart like an arrowy arrow, her accent reminded me of Gale Porter. From the moment Geneva Joy joined my firm as an auditor, I was a beggar in her shadow, enraptured by those great orbs of delight. Her presence hung over me as a bauble of auguries, she inflamed my arteries, how I longed to roll in those boundless blankets of flesh.
While she was engrossed in her bookkeeping, I yearned to taste the bosom berries that strained against the elasticity of her dress and find myself drenched in the climes and curdles of her secret chamber. I passed hours gazing rapturously at her industrious fingers calculating the fluctuating fortunes of our enterprise, as a fiend possessed in the confines of my station. The expedient bustle of her petticoat left me floundering in a sea of carelessness. When ever she summoned me to her celestial hemisphere to chastise the inadequate idleness of my labours, I came bounding like an antelope across the blue carpeted open plan room. By way of enticement I began to apply Oh de Cologne (its name really was ‘Oh’, believe it or not) and lingered doating in the environs of her dominion, as she brooded entrancingly over the books. I assumed a French sounding voice: “Arose say lovely” I expressed under my breath in a murmur of inarticulate delirium; “man rays do shone in the image of your divine beauty.” Geneva Joy, oh, most feminine of females, most bodily of bodies, benefactor of my dreams, or chasms of desire.
As you can imagine, I was heart-broken when she moved to Citadel following conflicting opinions with the powers that be. I could not make out the full sense of the argument but while listening near the door I over heard the words, “fraud .. threat .. extort .. gigantic loss .. infamy .. imprisonment .. doomed .. imbibed .. glutted .. gilded pocket .. mutiny .. brink of incalculable disaster .. hangman .. offals on a stick .. doomed .. Ingolstadt .. indebted .. inquiries .. pittance .. run for the hills .. peasants .. imprecate .. judgment day .. schiavi ognor frementi .. high noon .. Red October .. ignoble, ignominious, ignominy .. doomed .. inexorable .. doomed .. Northern Rock .. print money .. inglorious .. insatiate .. mighty Mahometan .. profane .. invulnerable .. mutability .. Ireland .. plunged .. irreparable .. Lausanne .. opprobrium .. resignation .. mountain of lies .. London .. Margaret .. misled .. misfortune .. Black Monday .. St Moritz .. parties over .. penniless .. penury .. nation outstript .. perdition .. execrated .. unparalleled, unprotected, unrestrained precipitation of stock .. money, money, money .. overtaxed .. doomed .. doomed.” And that, as they say, was that.
Geneva Joy: quitted. Geneva Joy: gone. Geneva Joy: left. Geneva Joy: forsaken. Geneva Joy: abandoned. Geneva Joy: departed. Geneva Joy: relieved. Geneva Joy: relinquished. Geneva Joy: removed. Geneva Joy: resigned. Geneva Joy: sacrificed. Geneva Joy: sailed. Geneva Joy: saluted. Geneva Joy: deserted. Geneva Joy: debarred. Geneva Joy: showed the door. Geneva Joy: absent without leave. Geneva Joy: ceased. Geneva Joy: dispelled. Geneva Joy: dispersed. Geneva Joy: dismissed. Geneva Joy: shunned. Geneva Joy: spurned. Geneva Joy: disowned. Geneva Joy: curbed. Geneva Joy: transported. Geneva Joy: vanquished. Geneva Joy: transmuted. Geneva Joy: withdrawn. Geneva Joy: unbounded. Geneva Joy: eradicated. Geneva Joy: terminated. Geneva Joy: quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted, quitted. I fled into the cold cold rain:
“My misery, my misery, my, my, my miserable, miserable misery, my misery, misery, misery, miserable, miserable, miserable, miserable, miserable misery, my misery, my misery, my misery, my misery, miserable misery, misery, misery, my, my, my, my, my, my, my, my, miserable misery, misery, misery, misery, misery, miserable, miserable, miserable, miserable, miserable, my, my miserable, miserable, miserable, misery, miserable misery, miserable misery, my miserable, my miserable, my miserable, my miserable, misery, misery, my misery, my misery, my misery, my, my, my, my, my, my, my, misery, misery, misery, miserable misery, miserable, miserable, miserable, misery, miserable misery, miserable misery, my misery, my misery, my, my, my miserable, miserable misery, my misery, misery, misery, miserable, miserable misery, my misery, my misery, my misery, my misery, miserable, miserable, miserable, misery, misery, my, my, my, my, my, my, my, my, miserable, miserable, miserable, miserable, miserable, my, my miserable misery, miserable misery, miserable misery, my miserable, my miserable, my miserable, my miserable, miserable misery, miserable misery, miserable misery, miserable misery, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine.”
The heat of the under ground and stifle of overflowing humanity benumbed the agony that had made carnage of my heart, and by the time I reached Wood Green, after a quick flit through The Evening Standard, I was more interested in the fate of two cottagers found dead on the Heath.
And so it was with a cool head that I sought revenge on Ernest Black. Rather than blast him with my repeat action shot gun, I resolved to play him like a Game Boy. Having entered the house unperceived, I became an invisible torturer:
I removed his chair as he sat down; then I turned the heat up too far while he was cooking his food; then I poured water over him during his meal; then I relieved myself into the running water behind him as he bathed; then I cut pieces out of his clothing; then I came in his cottage cheese; then I hung his gold fish (why on earth did a blind man have one?) in a lamp shade; then I painted wild startled eyes on his lids while he slept, and wrote ‘retard’ on his forehead; then I threw up on his guide dog, Snowy; then I set fire to his seat as he indulged in a true crime murder mystery romance; then I performed a number two on his door step; then I placed his details on a gay Face Book group; then I burst my boils on his face flannel; then I dressed up like a vampire with cape and fangs and stood over him, teeth bared around his neck; then I knocked on the window whenever he lay down; then I had him drink blood for breakfast, combined with his milk and oatmeal; then I created large writing on the back of his jacket that said: I HATE CHINKS, DEWS, FROGS, THE WHOLE OF AFRICA, ARABIAN NUTS, GERMANS, GREEKS, ITALIANS, EASTERN EUROPEAN VAGRANTS, BLACK WOMEN, SPANISH MEN, BALMY RUSSIAN FOOT BALL TYRANTS, THE DULL DUTCH, INDIAN BEGGARS, FILTHY TURKS, THAT BLACK AMERICAN LEADER (who the Hell does he think he is??), ASYLUM SEEKING DISEASE SPREADING ORIENTALISTS, MERCENARY ASIATICS, DANCING IRISH FAIRYLAND DRUNKEN LABOURERS, ALL HOMELESS PEOPLE, THEIR DOGS, AND EVERY ONE FROM SCOTLAND TOO..’ I would have continued but I ran out of space; then I ordered in his name the entire winter and summer collections from the Little Woods catalogue; then I consumed a large quantity of roasted vegetables and broke silent wind right next to him; then I made Snowy eat some Ecstasy and set him loose, watching with delight as he became fiendish in his affections and attempted to bestow his passions on all manner of creature and, indeed, inanimate objects: “Down, Snowy! Down, Snowy! Down, Snowy! Down, Snowy! Snowy! Down!” echoed the voice of Ernest for hours, in vain against his unremitting exertions. In the end my laughter gave me away, and Ernest cracked.
The full vicious venom of a victim exploded upon me. Ernest rushed head long towards me – or at least to where he assumed I was – an armada of fury, convulsive with contempt, demoniacal roarings gurgling in his throat. For some reason I decided to indulge him; it was strangely sublime relinquishing myself to a deranged deformity. After all, I did want to die and I was perhaps not really cut out to be a time traveller; my grasp of history was, I freely admit, rather woeful. By the time I had contemplated all of this, Ernest was upon me, arms desperately flying in the wildest revolutions, like a child taking its first swimming lesson. My shrieks encouraged him and, having struggled with me to the ground, he first wrenched my arms from their sockets and then jumped on them until he cracked the bone of one and burst the veins of the other so that blood gushed forth from it like a waterspout. Once my arms were broken I was resistless to the avalanche of violence that he reigned down on my suppliant body. He kicked the living day lights out of me, he crushed me under a chair, and then enjoyed a good stamp on my head. Following which he tore out a clump of my hair with his teeth then, digging his fingers into my eyes, he raised my head and held my face closely over some dogs do, causing me to throw up. Ernest rubbed my cheeks in the unhappy mixture and then I swallowed both under his bidding; I was sick again; and again it was eaten; again this unwholesome repast appeared; again I consumed it; again it refused to stay down; again I embraced it; again I wretched it up; again I returned it to my inmost being; again it expressed itself; this orphan form entered and left me, entered and left me, entered and left me, entered and left me, entered and left me, entered and left me, entered and left me, entered and left me, entered and left me, like the never ceasing tide of an abject sea. Just before I fainted Ernest turned his attentions to my other end and penetrated my behind with a burning candle (like a cruel form of the New Age pile treatment I had spent a good deal of money on three months ago). He took my under carriage to the breakers yard and choked my hard on with one of his ties. I contemplated a Broke Back Mountain moment but Ernest had rather chosen to inflict a series of heavy blows on the back of my knees with selected blunt weapons and generally beat me senseless.
Ernest Black left me black and blue and bloodless. I spent a long time afterwards on life support machines in a fluctuating state of concussion and delirium, marked by incoherent rambling: “alas, poor albatross, there are no seas in Switzerland; and so on”.
The resentment at my misfortunes soon passed, however, for that was how I encountered the filthy nurse, Safie Rose, who was obliged to bestow her full attentions on my agonies.
My unusual undertaking left me uncertain and unadept. I was unpractised in this new but old existence that was unfolding around me. My reverted state found me uneasy, unrelaxed and unjustly unfulfilled. It seemed unfair that I was unable to remember my future. I was unquenched by an unintelligible recollection, unmolested by unfeeling, unplastered by untried consumption, unstained by unbridled union. Unemployed, unqualified, uneducated, I was unworthy of unworthiness.
My body grew unfit, unlike any unfitness I have ever known. My gait was uneven, limbs uncontrollable, arms unwilling and perpetually unfolded.
As I travelled further in reverse I was unsettled by unfavourable undulations that uncovered sensations until now undiscovered. I underwent an unexpected feeling of unprotected unhappiness. Uneasiness unsoftened my heart and I began to undertake unsocial behaviour, acts of unkindness, unwholesome and unaccountable gestures. I was unsympathised, unacquainted to my fellow-creatures. I looked uncouth, my clothing unfitted, no longer uniform but unfortunately unfashioned. I became uncontrollably unlawful and unreservedly unrestrained, an unchained savage.
Life unfinished around me. The world became uncommonly uninteresting as the mountains and valleys began to unfold and unite with the plains. The earth became unearthly. The lakes unlocked and joined with the unbending rivers in an unhappy flood. The land unhallowed by unbelief, untrodden by unnatural beasts, unvisited by an uninterested God.
Flesh and bones now undivided, organs unmingled, my structure unformed. I was
THE END
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