Post by PASTIE on Apr 6, 2008 22:49:56 GMT -1
A far off “thunk” was followed by the onset of a loud humming noise. By the time the white light flickered on, Agent 1970 had already fitted his dark glasses and was scuffing his jackbooted feet through the ruined facades of Corridor 7. In his wake, Agent 1970, previously known as Peter2DC, was pursued by a small gathering of hobbit like Asian Welshmen, stooped and hunched as they dragged shadows out of the dust.
Peter2DC had originally been planted in an earlier corridor as a master of Proboards espionage. He had convinced his fellow inmates that he was actually working for the British government but his hidden truth was that he was sent to monitor a nationwide movement of seditious forces known only to themselves as the Prowlers. These people of darkness prowled varied walks of life, many of them carrying the burdens of professional appointments, but the one thing guaranteed of them all was that they underperformed whatever their role. Without sleep and contaminated by excessive substance misuse, these were the souls keeping their nation wretched as task upon task was left incomplete or shoddily neglected. Ultimately, Proboards were recruited to try to keep these verminous truants under control and who was there better than the agent they called “The Ghost” to suppress them? Skilfully, he would allow them to deceive themselves into a sense of security then heartlessly crush all that they had tried to create.
Today was that day. Retribution, relocation and reincarnation into reincarceration. “The Ghost” almost managed a smile.
In busy silence, the henchmen were already erecting the packing cases. Agent 1970 pulled down the viewing hatch on one. COYS was already inside. Pete’s lip twitched with a downward movement of disgust as he saw that COYS’ face was still fixed into a locked state of perpetual titillation. His entire body remained motionless, only his chest heaved with the repeated sighs of arousal as the rats gnawed at the dry skin between his toes. He slammed the hatch shut.
“Take it”, he muttered in his warm Northern Irish lilt. The Asian Welshmen scurried along and wheeled the case away. All around, the others were still finding more. A puff of pink caught Agent 1970’s eye as he surveyed the rubble. The fluff blew in the breeze, an alien presence amid dust that clagged in the damp as it settled on to the old corridor floor. He dragged the fluff from the shattered brickwork and the rest of a quivering Imp followed. She blinked furiously in the sudden white light and caught her own reflection in the Agent’s dark glasses.
“My work!” she cried and scurried around in the ruins frantically rescuing her collection of card sort activities, PVA glue and carefully created animal labels for the coat hooks.
“No time for that” growled the Californian voice of Agent 1970, “you’re coming with me”. He hauled her by the collar and dragged her toward a recently completed crate.
“Where are the others?” he demanded of her in a voice that mysteriously reminded Imp of a long forgotten trip to New Zealand.
“I won’t tell you” she screamed, “Apart from Si – GfJ’s over there”. Agent 1970 peered over the rim of his glasses as he saw a fine yellow jet spray like a fountain from below the rubble and projectile an arc through the air and splatter all over an ancient sofa that he himself had once donated to the corridor. Furiously, he scrambled through the detritus and found GfJ zipping his fly with one hand and clutching one of Dan’s plants with the other. The Asian Welsh grabbed at his clothing but were fooled by the weight. At the end of the plant at the end of the arm was another arm and at the end of that arm was DanTheRed.
“But I hardly come in here anymore”, he pleaded.
“But of zem you are one” barked the Agent’s Gestapo trained voice. GfJ, Dan and Imp were thrown into the same crate. Within seconds thin wisps of smoke emanated through the cracks in its panel.
The mood was suddenly lightened by a loud hysterical jabbering sound. Agent 1970 spun around to see GB being released from the mounds that had suppressed him. His hysteria was so inane that it was unclear what he was saying. Soon, it became clear that he was actually irate and had the gall to be claiming his human rights.
“To be able to spout a plethora of bollocks is my entitlement!” he screamed, “It is not a privilege!!”. Agent 1970 rushed over and injected a fast acting sedative into GB’s thigh and the henchmen dragged him swiftly to a crate before its effects wore off. He threw in a banana and some pornography as they closed the door, knowing both would grant them all some peace when the drugs’ effects abated.
The Earth shook some more. The Asian Welshmen froze in panic struck dumb by their experiences of Himalayan earthquakes and Rhonda mine collapses.
“Only aftershocks…”. Agent 1970’s soft Edinburgh accent somehow soothed the workers and they returned to their work. Yet the soothing was shattered by howls of anguish so profound that even the Agent’s blood ran momentarily cold. Through the resettling dust, he could just see the terrified whites of an old man’s eyes encircled by the thick wavy hair of an elaborate and neglected beard. A crack had opened up the length of the floor and this part absent maniac was pointing to it and screaming wildly. Some workers rushed to him and dragged him away, his heels scraping lines in the dust and 10p pieces either side of the fresh crack. He was instantly hurled into an isolation crate which was nailed shut without hesitation. The agent permitted himself a gentle tut at the tragedy, that this is what could befall a man who had once been so fine as Sterland.
Hulsey’s scream pierced the route of the old corridor as he made his dash. He had seen the light and waited for his moment. Sterland’s commotion had provided the ideal distraction and he had brushed off the sticky rubble and made his dash. Not only had he seen the light of Corridor 7, but he had sensed light behind a door behind the shape he recognised as Peter2DC. Like a moth to a bulb, he had sensed his moment and charged. With athletic speed and the grace of a swallow he made the door, flung it open and darted inside. The self closure on the door swished shut and the locking mechanism clunked firm on the disguised crate.
“Nooooooo” cried Hulsey, “it isn’t fair”
“You can never leave”, giggled the taunting voice of one of the nearby Asian Welsh.
As the dust settled further and the remnants of the walls of Corridor 7 gently swayed Agent 1970 spied with satisfaction that the number of packaged crates was increasing steadily. Pete the wolf was protesting his innocence but putting up little fight. He was gently whispering to the workers that he wasn’t really a Prowler and that he had only been there in the first place but that it was just that he preferred just to watch. The only concession that he was granted was a crate with a peep hole. Through it, he saw TC trying to escape through a back door. He was captured purely because he couldn’t operate the lock, couldn’t call for help on his mobile phone as he hadn’t figured out how to turn it on yet and he was given the smallest of the crates left. Another taunting voice spat scathingly into his darkness,
“That should cure you of your cave phobia, old man”.
Ade and Shinny were granted a crate together. Ade only came to the corridor to vomit and Shinny only came to clean it up. Their’s was a beautifully balanced relationship and even Agent 1970 hadn’t the heart to separate them. Unlike KK, who had tried to blame the irresponsibility of the corridor on those who drank but insisted that he was clean. With no tolerance of anybody who tried to wriggle clear of their own responsibility, Agent 1970 condemned him to a solitary crate equipped only with a bottle of Tequila.
Mrs H was actually quite happy with her crate. She had been unhappy lying unable to move below the slime covered walls of the collapsed corridor and was incredulous that somehow Chopper had managed to position himself such that his hand went down her top just at the very point of collapse and this crate was, therefore, something of a blessed relief. Whilst it was only small, she could only see potential in it. It had the clear advantage of being low rent and therefore only a small mortgage was required but she honestly believed that with the right colour scheme and some well chosen soft furnishings she could really make something of it. Maybe, one day, she could even upgrade to a bigger crate, one with a roof terrace.
Roaster was also already in his box. He had volunteered for early incarceration when he saw that some of the crates had alcohol in them. He was already on his 8th quaddy voddy and had found a marker pen. The graffiti had seemed the most natural thing to do. The walls were already daubed with his poetry and his words of wisdom.
“I@m gere bscasue I>m fere”, he had written, and
“Lddes Ubuted aee goinh up”
“O hste Nam U”
More alcoholic fumes were traced to the vast pile of empty Domino pizza boxes that had gathered in a particularly dark corner of the old Corridor. Only the upper torso of ArgyleSmurf was visible therein. He was gently dunking the hindquarters of a rat into a garlic and herb dip and munching on it slowly and contentedly, oblivious to the chaos and the carnage that was all around. Smurf’s crate was erected around him as it was deemed easier than trying to move him.
With the floor now comparatively clear, Agent 1970 whistled for the crane to be driven in. Obligingly, POG drove it over the part cleared rubble, rocking and weaving as it went. He blinked obligingly at Agent 1970 with whom he had bargained a deal that he would try hard not to slip into Corridor 8 too frequently in return for this partial liberty and the privilege of a job. The crane rotated and the Asian Welsh unpacked a giant Wale sling made entirely out of an enormous nicotine patch. It took over a hundred of them to roll Gres out of his space in the corridor’s ruins and onto the giant patch. We whimpered a growl of relief as his skin started to absorb the chemicals and he released his thumb from his teeth, spitting out a thumbnail the size of a small canoe. Gently, he was lifted, swaying and rotating, and dropped, still enshrouded in the patch, into an enormous container and the lid was firmly clamped shut with chains.
PASTIE, meanwhile, had been bound and gagged but allowed to watch this from the comfort of the swept up pile of beer cans that had gathered to the side. He watched as his friends, accomplices and those that they had lured in were encased one by one in varying degrees of torment and states of disrepair. At times he had fought furiously to break free, at one point even dropping his map of Exeter (but not his Speckled Hen glass) but the still sore bruises from his fall on the Polsloe Road the week previously prevented him from full movement. He had only given up all hope when he had seen Gres lowered into his case as it was only then that he had realised that all the text messages he had been sending Gres were almost certainly futile. Anyway, it was not yet 3.17am and it was likely that Gres’ phone was turned off.
The last face that PASTIE saw was that of his one time friend, Pete2DC as he followed him across the now scattered shards of Corridor 7. Their eyes met over the top of those sinister dark shades but PASTIE could not discern whether there was remorse or contempt or simply no emotion at all. The ghoulish Italian simply never said a word, and the door was slammed shut.
In the darkness, PASTIE heard the nails being driven in and his eyes adjusted to his new surroundings. A bucket. A place to sit. PASTIE sat and instantly felt the cold wet penetrate the backs of his trousers. The sound of an engine and a sudden movement and PASTIE realised that he was the one cursed to travel with the sofa. As they accelerated and slowed and at times turned corners, the sofa was thrown around the interior of the crate and he was at times pinned by it, occasionally felled and constantly sprayed. The journey seemed to last an eternity.
Eventually, there was a familiar silence. PASTIE stayed completely still, alone in the darkness, moving only to prevent the droplets of urine rolling down into his eyes. Another eternity passed. Eventually, PASTIE tried the door to his crate and found that it swung silently open. He paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but there was nothing. He stepped outside. There were people here. DTR lit a cigarette and the faces were all there in the dark.
Smurf chewed the crust of a pizza. Roaster was already asleep. Sterland rolled coins across the floor, scrutinising them closely as his beard brushed the floor. Mrs H sobbed at the lack of carpet and cushioning. Imp watched GfJ to see what he would do next so that she could tell all the others. Hulsey’s eyes flashed accusingly from side to side forever bitter that he was here again. Ade vomited and Shinny stood by with a bucket. KK and Pete the Wolf huddled together disbelieving that they had allowed this to happen to themselves. TC tried to turn on a calculator, thinking it was his new mobile phone. POG wept shuddering tears that Agent 1970 had betrayed him so shamelessly and somewhere, way up above, Gres banged his head on the ceiling. GB looked thrilled, so overwhelmed by a fresh audience for his plethora of bollocks that he almost didn’t know where to start but nevertheless waved his banana in a manic gesture of excitement.
“Rat?”, asked COYS
“Thanks very much” said PASTIE, accepting a dip from Smurf.
And, out beyond the darkness, Peter2DC bolted shut a heavy metal door to seal them all in. He checked his GPS system was locked on to the map of Bulgaria so that he could find his way home, and bade farewell to the Asian Welsh.
Before he left, he chalked a number on the black, impenetrable door.
Peter2DC had originally been planted in an earlier corridor as a master of Proboards espionage. He had convinced his fellow inmates that he was actually working for the British government but his hidden truth was that he was sent to monitor a nationwide movement of seditious forces known only to themselves as the Prowlers. These people of darkness prowled varied walks of life, many of them carrying the burdens of professional appointments, but the one thing guaranteed of them all was that they underperformed whatever their role. Without sleep and contaminated by excessive substance misuse, these were the souls keeping their nation wretched as task upon task was left incomplete or shoddily neglected. Ultimately, Proboards were recruited to try to keep these verminous truants under control and who was there better than the agent they called “The Ghost” to suppress them? Skilfully, he would allow them to deceive themselves into a sense of security then heartlessly crush all that they had tried to create.
Today was that day. Retribution, relocation and reincarnation into reincarceration. “The Ghost” almost managed a smile.
In busy silence, the henchmen were already erecting the packing cases. Agent 1970 pulled down the viewing hatch on one. COYS was already inside. Pete’s lip twitched with a downward movement of disgust as he saw that COYS’ face was still fixed into a locked state of perpetual titillation. His entire body remained motionless, only his chest heaved with the repeated sighs of arousal as the rats gnawed at the dry skin between his toes. He slammed the hatch shut.
“Take it”, he muttered in his warm Northern Irish lilt. The Asian Welshmen scurried along and wheeled the case away. All around, the others were still finding more. A puff of pink caught Agent 1970’s eye as he surveyed the rubble. The fluff blew in the breeze, an alien presence amid dust that clagged in the damp as it settled on to the old corridor floor. He dragged the fluff from the shattered brickwork and the rest of a quivering Imp followed. She blinked furiously in the sudden white light and caught her own reflection in the Agent’s dark glasses.
“My work!” she cried and scurried around in the ruins frantically rescuing her collection of card sort activities, PVA glue and carefully created animal labels for the coat hooks.
“No time for that” growled the Californian voice of Agent 1970, “you’re coming with me”. He hauled her by the collar and dragged her toward a recently completed crate.
“Where are the others?” he demanded of her in a voice that mysteriously reminded Imp of a long forgotten trip to New Zealand.
“I won’t tell you” she screamed, “Apart from Si – GfJ’s over there”. Agent 1970 peered over the rim of his glasses as he saw a fine yellow jet spray like a fountain from below the rubble and projectile an arc through the air and splatter all over an ancient sofa that he himself had once donated to the corridor. Furiously, he scrambled through the detritus and found GfJ zipping his fly with one hand and clutching one of Dan’s plants with the other. The Asian Welsh grabbed at his clothing but were fooled by the weight. At the end of the plant at the end of the arm was another arm and at the end of that arm was DanTheRed.
“But I hardly come in here anymore”, he pleaded.
“But of zem you are one” barked the Agent’s Gestapo trained voice. GfJ, Dan and Imp were thrown into the same crate. Within seconds thin wisps of smoke emanated through the cracks in its panel.
The mood was suddenly lightened by a loud hysterical jabbering sound. Agent 1970 spun around to see GB being released from the mounds that had suppressed him. His hysteria was so inane that it was unclear what he was saying. Soon, it became clear that he was actually irate and had the gall to be claiming his human rights.
“To be able to spout a plethora of bollocks is my entitlement!” he screamed, “It is not a privilege!!”. Agent 1970 rushed over and injected a fast acting sedative into GB’s thigh and the henchmen dragged him swiftly to a crate before its effects wore off. He threw in a banana and some pornography as they closed the door, knowing both would grant them all some peace when the drugs’ effects abated.
The Earth shook some more. The Asian Welshmen froze in panic struck dumb by their experiences of Himalayan earthquakes and Rhonda mine collapses.
“Only aftershocks…”. Agent 1970’s soft Edinburgh accent somehow soothed the workers and they returned to their work. Yet the soothing was shattered by howls of anguish so profound that even the Agent’s blood ran momentarily cold. Through the resettling dust, he could just see the terrified whites of an old man’s eyes encircled by the thick wavy hair of an elaborate and neglected beard. A crack had opened up the length of the floor and this part absent maniac was pointing to it and screaming wildly. Some workers rushed to him and dragged him away, his heels scraping lines in the dust and 10p pieces either side of the fresh crack. He was instantly hurled into an isolation crate which was nailed shut without hesitation. The agent permitted himself a gentle tut at the tragedy, that this is what could befall a man who had once been so fine as Sterland.
Hulsey’s scream pierced the route of the old corridor as he made his dash. He had seen the light and waited for his moment. Sterland’s commotion had provided the ideal distraction and he had brushed off the sticky rubble and made his dash. Not only had he seen the light of Corridor 7, but he had sensed light behind a door behind the shape he recognised as Peter2DC. Like a moth to a bulb, he had sensed his moment and charged. With athletic speed and the grace of a swallow he made the door, flung it open and darted inside. The self closure on the door swished shut and the locking mechanism clunked firm on the disguised crate.
“Nooooooo” cried Hulsey, “it isn’t fair”
“You can never leave”, giggled the taunting voice of one of the nearby Asian Welsh.
As the dust settled further and the remnants of the walls of Corridor 7 gently swayed Agent 1970 spied with satisfaction that the number of packaged crates was increasing steadily. Pete the wolf was protesting his innocence but putting up little fight. He was gently whispering to the workers that he wasn’t really a Prowler and that he had only been there in the first place but that it was just that he preferred just to watch. The only concession that he was granted was a crate with a peep hole. Through it, he saw TC trying to escape through a back door. He was captured purely because he couldn’t operate the lock, couldn’t call for help on his mobile phone as he hadn’t figured out how to turn it on yet and he was given the smallest of the crates left. Another taunting voice spat scathingly into his darkness,
“That should cure you of your cave phobia, old man”.
Ade and Shinny were granted a crate together. Ade only came to the corridor to vomit and Shinny only came to clean it up. Their’s was a beautifully balanced relationship and even Agent 1970 hadn’t the heart to separate them. Unlike KK, who had tried to blame the irresponsibility of the corridor on those who drank but insisted that he was clean. With no tolerance of anybody who tried to wriggle clear of their own responsibility, Agent 1970 condemned him to a solitary crate equipped only with a bottle of Tequila.
Mrs H was actually quite happy with her crate. She had been unhappy lying unable to move below the slime covered walls of the collapsed corridor and was incredulous that somehow Chopper had managed to position himself such that his hand went down her top just at the very point of collapse and this crate was, therefore, something of a blessed relief. Whilst it was only small, she could only see potential in it. It had the clear advantage of being low rent and therefore only a small mortgage was required but she honestly believed that with the right colour scheme and some well chosen soft furnishings she could really make something of it. Maybe, one day, she could even upgrade to a bigger crate, one with a roof terrace.
Roaster was also already in his box. He had volunteered for early incarceration when he saw that some of the crates had alcohol in them. He was already on his 8th quaddy voddy and had found a marker pen. The graffiti had seemed the most natural thing to do. The walls were already daubed with his poetry and his words of wisdom.
“I@m gere bscasue I>m fere”, he had written, and
“Lddes Ubuted aee goinh up”
“O hste Nam U”
More alcoholic fumes were traced to the vast pile of empty Domino pizza boxes that had gathered in a particularly dark corner of the old Corridor. Only the upper torso of ArgyleSmurf was visible therein. He was gently dunking the hindquarters of a rat into a garlic and herb dip and munching on it slowly and contentedly, oblivious to the chaos and the carnage that was all around. Smurf’s crate was erected around him as it was deemed easier than trying to move him.
With the floor now comparatively clear, Agent 1970 whistled for the crane to be driven in. Obligingly, POG drove it over the part cleared rubble, rocking and weaving as it went. He blinked obligingly at Agent 1970 with whom he had bargained a deal that he would try hard not to slip into Corridor 8 too frequently in return for this partial liberty and the privilege of a job. The crane rotated and the Asian Welsh unpacked a giant Wale sling made entirely out of an enormous nicotine patch. It took over a hundred of them to roll Gres out of his space in the corridor’s ruins and onto the giant patch. We whimpered a growl of relief as his skin started to absorb the chemicals and he released his thumb from his teeth, spitting out a thumbnail the size of a small canoe. Gently, he was lifted, swaying and rotating, and dropped, still enshrouded in the patch, into an enormous container and the lid was firmly clamped shut with chains.
PASTIE, meanwhile, had been bound and gagged but allowed to watch this from the comfort of the swept up pile of beer cans that had gathered to the side. He watched as his friends, accomplices and those that they had lured in were encased one by one in varying degrees of torment and states of disrepair. At times he had fought furiously to break free, at one point even dropping his map of Exeter (but not his Speckled Hen glass) but the still sore bruises from his fall on the Polsloe Road the week previously prevented him from full movement. He had only given up all hope when he had seen Gres lowered into his case as it was only then that he had realised that all the text messages he had been sending Gres were almost certainly futile. Anyway, it was not yet 3.17am and it was likely that Gres’ phone was turned off.
The last face that PASTIE saw was that of his one time friend, Pete2DC as he followed him across the now scattered shards of Corridor 7. Their eyes met over the top of those sinister dark shades but PASTIE could not discern whether there was remorse or contempt or simply no emotion at all. The ghoulish Italian simply never said a word, and the door was slammed shut.
In the darkness, PASTIE heard the nails being driven in and his eyes adjusted to his new surroundings. A bucket. A place to sit. PASTIE sat and instantly felt the cold wet penetrate the backs of his trousers. The sound of an engine and a sudden movement and PASTIE realised that he was the one cursed to travel with the sofa. As they accelerated and slowed and at times turned corners, the sofa was thrown around the interior of the crate and he was at times pinned by it, occasionally felled and constantly sprayed. The journey seemed to last an eternity.
Eventually, there was a familiar silence. PASTIE stayed completely still, alone in the darkness, moving only to prevent the droplets of urine rolling down into his eyes. Another eternity passed. Eventually, PASTIE tried the door to his crate and found that it swung silently open. He paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but there was nothing. He stepped outside. There were people here. DTR lit a cigarette and the faces were all there in the dark.
Smurf chewed the crust of a pizza. Roaster was already asleep. Sterland rolled coins across the floor, scrutinising them closely as his beard brushed the floor. Mrs H sobbed at the lack of carpet and cushioning. Imp watched GfJ to see what he would do next so that she could tell all the others. Hulsey’s eyes flashed accusingly from side to side forever bitter that he was here again. Ade vomited and Shinny stood by with a bucket. KK and Pete the Wolf huddled together disbelieving that they had allowed this to happen to themselves. TC tried to turn on a calculator, thinking it was his new mobile phone. POG wept shuddering tears that Agent 1970 had betrayed him so shamelessly and somewhere, way up above, Gres banged his head on the ceiling. GB looked thrilled, so overwhelmed by a fresh audience for his plethora of bollocks that he almost didn’t know where to start but nevertheless waved his banana in a manic gesture of excitement.
“Rat?”, asked COYS
“Thanks very much” said PASTIE, accepting a dip from Smurf.
And, out beyond the darkness, Peter2DC bolted shut a heavy metal door to seal them all in. He checked his GPS system was locked on to the map of Bulgaria so that he could find his way home, and bade farewell to the Asian Welsh.
Before he left, he chalked a number on the black, impenetrable door.
8.
I'm sure you'll get another if it even comes cose to being as good as previous entries. 
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