Ace Cavelier: The Monkey's Claw

A screen divided Ace from his cousin in the prison visiting room. His cousin shifted uneasily and talked with feverish nervousness while Ace counted ceiling tiles and smoked his pen. Max was saying;

"They kept on... well, not kept on, but consistently and in a variety of guises made reference to the case as though it were a object of thought; something to be debated and tossed about, but that would be put away at the end of the evening so everyone would sleep soundly. I can't sleep soundly knowing what I've done..."

This last statement was very much an afterthought, though he tried to disguise this by overly-emphasising it. He had killed a man over a reindeer skin coat.

Ace reflected that here his cousin, Max, had done something tangible and real. He had really combated death through executing another; he had performed in his life the ancient rite of vengeance, repeating the human story like a bard round a campfire. Man acquires goods, other man takes goods, man kills man and reclaims reindeer skin coat. It was a story older than time, yet what was Max's defence?

"'Plead insanity' they told me 'you'll get off with life in the loony bin and do pottery every other Tuesday. On Saturday's they take you swimming. All the rest of the time it's a straight jacket and relaxing classics, but that's better than sharing with someone dangerous'; can you believe it? I am someone dangerous!"

"47" said Ace and turned to his cousin. He was a short, dark man. Max had always been short; everyone said so. He had a chippy manner and was extremely selfish. But he had never taken the easy road in his life and had been a good student at school, a hard worker at his office and a dynamo with the ladies. Ace had never been close to him and was visiting now as a favour to his mother. "You aren't insane, Max. You're too short to be insane" Ace had never liked Max and had even been envious of his drive and determination. He took no pleasure in his current predicament, however, and attempted to council him companionably:

"If I were you I'd not have killed the man over something so frivolous. He was taller than you, wasn't he?" Max nodded. Ace sat-up straight and took a long drag from his pen, looking down its length at his cousin before reflecting; "not many people are taller than me."

The guard warned abruptly that visiting hour was over and that everyone "Should get the fuck out before I brain 'em with a club and drag their intestines out with a monkey's claw." He drueled while brandishing the monkey's claw before the line of visitors like a poisoned sacrament at mass.

"What shall I tell my aunt?" Asked Ace as he put on his coat.

"Tell her that the reality of an action is dictated by the force of her belief in it. Tell her my innocence depends as much on her powers of denial as on mine". His mother had excellent powers of denial; she was known for it. Ace looked down at Max's calm face
and knew he'd be free to walk the streets in no time.

"I'm leaving town" he said, turning to the door as the drivel-flecked monkey's claw came back down the room.

Springstein and the Burning Bush

I decided one evening, when my eyes could not settle to read and my hands were too hasty for guitar playing, to walk out to the Heath to keep from going stir-crazy. I often take myself out for these walks, though sometimes I just do a circuit of my local graveyard and return home within an hour of leaving. It was when passing through that graveyard on my way up the long hill towards Hampstead Heath, with wind beating my coat and face with tiny specks of rain, that I was joined by a mysterious traveller.

At first it seemed as though my shadow had just got bigger and more three-dimensional, but when it dawned on me that it had also got a bottle of whisky in its hand and an acoustic guitar hanging behind its back, I realised it was not my shadow at all, but was in fact my old friend Bruce Springstein, whom had visited me some time ago. This realisation was accompanied by an itching sensation under my hat, where the thorns of a rosebush had once torn the skin. Pushing this memory aside, I decided to strike up a conversation.

I must have said something like "Bruce! its been a long time. You look well." when he handed me the whisky and cracked an honest smile, his white teeth finally shattering the illusion, still troubling me, that he was in fact my shadow.

I waited for his response, beyond the communalisation of the whisky, but none was forthcoming. We left the graveyard and started the long trek up West End Lane, crossing a broad A-road and continuing up and up under the lights of the quiet, affluent streets of Hampstead proper.

Bruce was still smiling half-an-hour later at the top of the hill, though he had not uttered a sound. The itching beneath my hat had intensified considerably, but I dared not scratch it out of worry that I might remind Bruce of our last encounter. Instead, I had basked in the robust humanity of his company and taken heart from the bonhomie that one establishes through the sharing of a walk and a bottle.

By the time we reached Hampstead Church, which sits at the top of the hill with its heavy black iron gates, ancient tombs and Gothic architecture, I had accepted Bruce's silence as being one of a man who feels comfortable with the company he has chosen. Perhaps I had even begun to feel as though words would detract from our indisputable bond. Nevertheless, I chose the lit path through this, the second graveyard of my walk, rather than the longer, darker, more atmospheric jaunt down the hill and back up through graves that jut at crazed angles.

I had hoped he wouldn't notice this choice at all, lest he take offence; after all this was the natural path and the other I have only taken once or twice by way of exploration. I looked to him to hand him back the bottle and was shocked to see he had gone. Pausing, I looked around me and could see nothing of him. He had disappeared without a sound, as mysteriously as he had arrived.

After waiting two or three minutes, I shrugged internally and continued on the way to the Heath, glad for the whisky and that the itching under my hat had subsided. Bruce, I thought, must have reached his destination and, not wanting to break the spell between us, had left me with his whisky and his continued silence. His actions seemed to me to be sublime and I walked with a visible skip in my step down the high street, through a little more suburbia and out onto the heathland with its bracing winds and tall grasses. I crossed over the heathland to the treeline beyond.

There is a path I like to follow in the night on Hampstead Heath, where the trees are so thick that it can be almost pitch black; it is a very broad path and there are no low branches to walk into. This particular night the glow of ten million city lights reflecting off the clouds was only slightly in evidence on my path, so much so that I could see my hands before my face but not the ground beneath my feet. The rustling of the summer leaves sometimes sounded like running water, sometimes like a slow giants footsteps, as I passed deeper into the sparse and trampled forest of Hampstead Heath, thinking what to do about a girl (as I always seem to be).

It was then a fire torch come to life by the side of my path, ten foot away from me. By the light of the torch I could see Bruce again, but much changed from the easy going (if reticent) friend of earlier. His face was made up in Native American warpaint, his torso was bare and bleeding from slices made by a knife that I could see tucked into the vine rope tied around his waste. This vine formed a make-shift belt for truss made of what looked like old plastic bags from Sainsbury's. In his right hand was a large bottle of clear liquid; in his left a shaman's stick, capped by the head of Robin Redbreast.

He threw the bottle against a tree and its contents showered evenly over a bush at its base. He began to jab at my ribs with his shaman stick, so I offered him the whisky out of panic. He was pacified momentarily, pouring the whisky into his mouth calmly, before spitting it out onto the bush and letting out a bloodcurdling howl of defiance. I was petrified as he raised his torch and thought that I was going to die by the same hands that wrote Atlantic City; "Everything dies baby/that's a fact/you know that everything that dies/someday comes back" he recited hypnotically, as though reading my mind.

The torch came down, but it was the bush that exploded into a fireball; not I. The thick smell of paraffin invaded the air powerfully, but as soon as the fire had come it was gone, leaving only smouldering twigs and a more intense darkness in its wake.

I turned and ran as hard as I could out from the forest, over the grasses, up the high street, past the church; I ran all the way down the long hill, avoiding the graveyards on the way and didn't stop running until I was safe in my room, choosing to leave the light off and staying away from the window. That night, huddled next to my bed shivering from the run and from the cold, I could hear the wind carrying the sound of the full E-Street band, fronted by the one and only Boss, playing "Hungry Heart" until the sun touched the walls of my room.

Trailor

The problem of attempting to write something of interest or worth is one that has faced me for over a month now. I cannot begin to describe the dread with which I now tap these keys. You will not be surprised to know I have already deleted several paragraphs of low-grade musing and will probably delete several more before I am through with this.

What I have lacked is an idea, you see, of what exactly it is I want to say. The mountain smoulders nicely but it needs some company. Ace got a little close to the bone and eventually had to go - self-parody only being fun when you know, deep down, that there is more to you than some charicature with a ridiculous name. The town of Trouble now knows better than to go messing with any freshly risen mountains, thanks to clowns, acrobats and a ringmaster intent on world domination teaching it differently. What can fill this void? Can I avoid merely re-hashing old ideas; refrying yesterday's gumbo? Surely I have creative verve enough to improve on this thoroughly average collection of tipples?

Cancellation

I was woken up by a ringing telephone. My hangover penetrated my skull mercilessly. My hands felt for the vibrations of the ringing phone in the gloom of reluctant eyelids.

"Good Morning" Somehow my voice sounded bright.

"Good Morning, Flavio mate, how are you?" I recognised the policy-led concern and followed procedure.

"I'm good, good... how can I help you?" I could have said 'just tell me what you want' but it didn't seem to matter.

"Well, pal, I've got some bad news, buddy: You've been cancelled, I'm afraid, my friend" the voice gave me the sense of being patted on the back reassuringly.

"This comes as something of a relief" Came my honest reply, my voice continuing its chirpy song, utterly disembodied from the throb of my head and dulled stabbing pain in my lower abdomen. "So is that it?" I asked.

"Yes, buddy, you're cancelled, hereby and forthwith..." the voice gave a little chuckle.

The situation began to become more clear to me. "But... who will I become?" I asked, guardedly.

"That's not really my problem, buddy" confessed the voice "and perhaps if you'd thought of that before now this wouldn't be happening" he suggested.

I began to ponder the situation a little deeper; "Wait, can you even do this?" I speculated "I am after all a sovereign individual, my psychology the result of my upbringing and genetics and the choices I myself have made throughout my life all mashing together in, errr" I lost my thread and gaped at air. "I'm sorry, its a bit early for this" I concluded, but the voice had already interrupted

"I'm afraid we can, Flav pal; we just think that your current personality, with respect to past facts and possible future changes, would not reflect well on the world. Its not that we think you're worthless, its just that we don't want to invest time in the existence of you per se, when ultimately the kind of success we're looking for seems really very unlikely; sorry pal" I felt numb, which was an improvement on the hangover who's reign of torture on mind and body had ended with a sudden lightness in my heart. Then the walls, that before were simply spinning slightly, began to undulate like the sea and I could feel myself emptying out of rivulets extending from my fingertips and heels; my proboscis and mouth. They were forming pools on my bed covers, contaminated by a darkness that looked like memories and, as they sank away into nothingness, the darkness was left in stains that were gigantic in the morning sun. My mouth made the noise of a tube train squealing to a halt as the cars all crush together.

"That's right, buddy, just let yourself go" coaxed the voice as the phone slipped noiselessly away from my hands and tiny delicate insects crawled from my ears, tickling the earlobe comfortingly as they took off. I enjoyed this sudden concert of sensation that had seemed impossible only seconds before. Running samples of time rusted self-defining irrelevancy trooped before my eyes - an iron toy train with fucked batteries spewing corrosive liquid from its belly became consumed in flames of black, their cold heat paralysing old dreams into waking - I became a vine, then one legged, then I danced naked for the entertainment of hundreds and the sky was swallowing swallowing me whole; the sun seemed to hammer at my face; birds played crazed games on my chest; the whole morning, gleeful in its retribution for my wasting existence, began a song I had heard a thousand times and could never play or sing, though its melody and harmony were so perfect I was calmed and soothed to repose in the nothing that had happened - and Nothing had happened. I was Cancelled.

The Madness of Circ Du Solei

The writing was on the wall the day the circus came to town. In fifteen foot high, pink neon letters, painted in a primative tribal style (not at all in tune with the rustic surroundings or sophistication of Canadian circus act, Circ du Solei) it spelt "trouble" with a capital 'T'. It was while noting the usage of this particular capital that Lapse Dingwall reared in terror at the sight of a mountain exploding from what used to be a building sight about a mile and a half out of town. He had seen some strange folk aound out that way for a while now; strutting Violins, bombastic cigars and unspoken elephants, painfully obvious to all; but this was different. "Mountains don't just come from nothing" Lapse exclaimed to St. Climactus,

"No" replied St. (Barry) Climactus, town hero, "they usually are the result of techtonic plates shifting over the course of millions of years, or perhaps the thawing of massive glaciers, but" his voice dropped to a dramatic whisper "can it be that either has transpired while we were at lunch?"

The Mayor strode to St. Climactus while the room rung with warm applause and said, pinning a meddle on him, "Well done, St. Climactus, you are our hero." Everyone cheered as St. Climactus acknowledged the appreciation with a wave of his hand and a nod of his head. Lapse re-read the word 'Trouble' anxiously. The new name of the town had been approved in order to increase tourism; no-one had used the words 'self-fulfilling prophecy' at that meeting, yet these words were echoing around Lapse's mind like a megaphone in a tin tunnel.

"Come everyone, let us visit the mountain" commanded St. Climactus and the whole town cried 'Hazaar!' and followed in his assured footsteps. Their walk was full of hope and adventure - there was a true sense of wonder in the air. As they passed under the shadow of the mountain the air grew colder; the confidence drained from their step and only st. Climactus maintained the light touch of optimism in his voice as he spoke easilly with the mayor and little Timmy Tylor. He was interupted by a cry;

"HALT!" Three Clowns faced them in the road "Who goes there?" They were Canadian.

Climactus stood with his hands on his hips, his feet spread broadly "It is I, Bartholemew Climactus. What do you know of the mountain?" he asked, taking control. The Clowns whispered in French, then one immitated Climactus' stance while another pushed him over. The third did a ramshakle handstand, falling into the Saint's prone impersonator, who then rasped a death rattle while the other two juggled Yorkshire Terriers. The message was clear enough - Circ du Solei had claimed the mountain for their own. The crowd was taken aback as Climactus stood forward to confront the clowns, only to be pushed into an impossibly small car that the clowns then followed him into.

Out from the car stepped the ringmaster with one hand cocked in his belt-buckle. He addressed the townspeople in a monstrous shout, his fist pumping the air with every other syllable:

"We are the creators of this mountain - we have the power to move worlds - we are superhuman in everyway, we are Circ du Solei" his voice ringing from the crags and caverns of the mountain, his face distorting in rage, his moustache becoming two thin rectangles above a thin lip. "Your hero will be punished, you will be put to work for this Circus and nation after nation will fall into our glorious Sun!"

As the crowd looked around they realised they were surounded by skinny but heavilly muscled girls, bouncing up and down on what looked like elm poles, held by large clowns. Timmy's dog barked and tried to run at one of the clowns, but a bouncing gymnast landed on it hard and the clowns cruelly hosed it with water from lapel flowers. Nobody laughed now; there was no escape for them and there is nothing funny about a wet dog.

Lapse Dingwall stood forward "You've gone mad with power! The mountain is for all of us; not just for your French-Canadian freakshow!" his panic was obvious, but his words were obscured by a howl from the mountain. The sky turned black, electicity licked the air and the earth shook like a train derailing, sending tiny gymnasts spawling and clowns commically colliding face to face as they tried to run in opposite directions. The part of earth the townspeople stood on was solid and steady, but Lapse ran to find his friend Climactus. He peered into the impossibly small car and saw nothing but a plastic seat, a primative steering wheel and a set of stick-on dials.

Lapse pulled away in disbelief, before swinging round to view the previously dominant facist oganisation of the Circ du Solei; gymnasts had become two dimensional, making them limitlessly flexible but invisible from all but one angle; clowns were incapable of performing the simplest task without utter, hopeless frustration (later many would die though grissly but hilarious 'misadventure', while others took jobs in the civil-sevice) and the Ringmaster sat panicing in an endless job interview: "What skills do you have?" his mysterious interlocutors challenged him, whilst he stuttered into eternity.

The townspeople retreated to Trouble where it was safe and they could build a statue for their departed St. Climactus. The mountain lay brooding in the night.

Ace Cavalier: The Magic Carpet

Ace wandered the streets at night, trying to find a place where he may drink in comfort and good company. He wished to feast with his bare hands, ripping some pig or boar or deer to pieces and gorging himself on its freshly dead, hastilly prepared meat at the same time as quaffing large quantities of beer and wine, singing songs about heroes and kings and brave dead men. On reflection, however, he knew no such songs and had never feasted from a kill of his own. The best he could hope for was a pub with a pool table where no one talked.

It was while shaking his head in regret that he noticed the rug: it was lying in a heap, propped up against an ugly looking tree. Obviously some fool had decided it was surplus to their requirements, or was otherwise undesirable. Shunning the tree for its ugliness, Ace investigated the cause of the Rug's apparent rejection. He opened it out under the streetlights and surveyed its impressive expanse, expecting some tears, bloodstains or cat piss stench, but found none of these things. In fact it just looked like a damn nice rug.

Ace rolled it into a coil and heaved it aboard his shoulders, proudly bearing its weight the half mile to his house. He found himself quite unexpectedly flushed with the anticipation of slapping that rug right down and standing on its exciting patterns, curling his toes into its rich depth. His room (dump) however did not offer it any space, so he propped it up and went to sleep, dreaming of quality floor-coverage.

Upon waking he had a cup of tea and planned out manoeuvres; "this will be tricky" he thought. Execution of the plan was challenging but by sustained effort he managed to have bed moved, computer tucked away, table dismantled, speakers reorientated and amp situated in preparation of the money shot: Rug placement commenced with little less than religious zeal, after rug beating had taken place in the street with a ritualism some would doubt possible of an act that Ace had never before performed. Its proportions could not have fitted more perfectly to the contours of his room; its colours brought life to what had been, up to this afternoon, a grim and deathly carpet of corded, grey, worn, filthy, thin material.

Ace spent the next three days vacuuming his beloved rug and ignoring all other pressing concerns, both financial and personal, that might distract from the enterprize of room-centered floor-space improvement. Deep within him something ancient had been satisfied.

Ace Cavalier: The Tragedy of Enlightenment

Ace Cavalier sat on his bed smoking a cigarette. His back was rested on the window where powerful daylight fell in, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. The time ticked beyond two-thirty in the afternoon, yet still he had not dressed beyond the blue flannel dressing gown he wore to the toilet. The hall he traversed in the process was no wider than a doorway; the stains on his gown were indescribable.

Ace considered his options; he could look for a job. He knew the dangers, the pluses and the minuses and so forth. What held him from it was the feeling in the pit of his stomach when considering the prospects of either success or failure. Neither tempted him greatly. He could read, but he never really was the type for books or study and even the Guardian seemed thick and impenetrable at times; the excitement of sudoku had deserted him long before this bright afternoon.

He was a simple man. He needed challenges of a more substantial nature than the marshaling of nine numbers into seemingly endless variation, however tricky it could sometimes be. He needed to fit the purpose of his action into one single word; be it 'revenge' or 'love' or 'glory', yet the world wasn't like that. At least not anymore. No; he had to trace the meanings for his actions down thin and treacherous paths, saying "I have to do X to get Y which will lead to Z in spades which might possibly get me back to A, hopefully."

The worlds of literature and philosophy beckoned from his impressive bookshelf, but he shuddered at all their fine words and laborious endeavor in the transcendant sphere. Spurning the advances of the world beyond, he re-read yesterday's sports pages, worrying that reading at all damaged his eyesight.

Springstein and the Rose bush

It began when I tramped down the stairs early one morning to find Bruce Springstein sat hunched in the corner of my hall, accoustic guitar in lap. He was finnishing a song. I remember the last words clearly:

"And though all the people say
'its a bad name'
I call
my daughter
Hugh"

He sang, dignified and proud, like a 1920's railroad worker laid off in the great depression. I wondered what brought him to my shabby abode. His reply came at some length, consisting of a story I could not follow, in a language I did not understand or recognise. It was strange how I became enrapt in its telling; the shear power of his husky voice continues to haunt me, even to this day.

I gave him a cup of tea and went outside to smell the roses that grow in my garden. No garden in this city is as overgrown or as chaotic as mine, a point I find pride in. But the roses are the sweetest smelling I have ever cupped and raised to my nose. Springstein came outside and ripped the rose bush out of the soil with one great tug. I stood, paralysed with fear and shock as he twisted the stem around my head, eliciting blood that poured down onto my chest and arms, the thorns cruelly ripping through the thin skin that covers my skull. My crown in place, he strolled out into the street wiping my blood from his hands on faded blue levis. He was gone without a word.

I sometimes wonder what could have brought Bruce to my home and what meaning there was in his actions and his story. The rose bush has since started to grow again and most of the scars on my head have healed - almost all are invisible under the hat I now wear. I took a month off work and claimed 'loss of earnings' from the government. I received several thousand pounds.

The Creation of the Oversized Mountain

Towards the back of the room sniggers could be heard. Some wag had made a joke about 'Carnap' and sleeping in your automobile. That was the crowd: they were like that, you understand. Two representatives of the brand new religion stood up and introduced themselves.

"I am Studly Crimes" said the one who was made of wax.

"And I'm 'The Supine Dream'" said the other, a feminine shade of purple. "We'd like to introduce you to Metaphorical Trans-Substanciation." There was shock.

"Yes, you become what, in truth, you already represent" Crimes proadly explained.

"I, as an feminine abstract, have become a woman" the warm but strong shade of purple indicated her own obvious femininity.

"And I, as a candle, became a man. You see, I represent you in your own mind. Many a man has looked at a candle and, perhaps obliquely, identified it with himself. Now that candle has become the man." A murmur ran through the whole place.

"We are the external embodiment of your internal identification motion..." 'The Supine Dream' tried to explain further, though she could sense there was unrest in the air. "Our bodies match the metaphor which, to you, we are...". Her voice faltered. An argument broke out. The crowd became angry and started throwing rotten fruit at 'The Supine Dream'. Studly Crimes bravely shielded her.

"Why do you hate us? What are we but what you have made us?" he despairingly spoke, striking a match from the ground.

The crowd pressed around them like a mine caving-in and their shouts echoed from all six walls of the new hexagonal church. The building shook with their fury. "Its not true!" they seemed to say "You're impossible liers!" The mouths of the crowd widened massively and their foreheads became course and rough, like grannite.

"We're not meant for this world, Crimes; they just won't accept us here" panicked 'The Supine Dream', clutching the candle close and preparing for the inevitable.

"I've always loved you, darling" confessed Studly Crimes, criminal in nature, putting the match to his wick.

The hexagonal church of Metaphorical Trans-Substanciation suddenly fell silent, before a great roar ripped through the air. There was a blinding flash and the church was snapped like a twig by the ferocity of its own creation; its walls never fell to earth.

In its place stood a barren mountain of unchanging stone lit by a bright and bodiless purple flame.