‘There has been an overwhelming war like effort to force a needle in every arm and it’s very intentional and it has every government behind it worldwide to accomplish this. Something very bad is happening in the world’ ~ Dr Peter McCullough pic.twitter.com/E3b2P0hDVM
I wonder why… What could it be? The smoking gun just shot out the Pfizer adverse reaction report that Pfizer tried to hide for 75 years : https://t.co/CdIcDjlVguhttps://t.co/zzp7EstOOX
… So I have an extra hour to play with. Pale Glider is the 6th installment of my ‘Ronageddon’ series of stories. If you are at all unfamiliar with any of the previous five…
*Yeah, presented like one of Cade’s missive ‘wiki wavy walls’, Clicky… /smiles sadly… The story is dedicated to him…*
So, without further ado, here is Pale Glider for your entertainment…
*******
Pale Glider
by Roo B. Doo
Molly Darling had a secret friend. It wasn’t so much that her friend was ‘a secret’ but that nobody else could see him. She had caught glimpses of him on and off for years, mostly in her peripheral vision or at a distance, but more recently up close. Molly knew he was ‘a friend’ because when he did appear, he would give a wave and sign greetings to her. In her experience only friends took the time to learn to sign; Molly was deaf not dumb.
She strapped her boots tight and stood up to check her appearance in the full-length mirror in her mum’s bedroom. Pulling down on the fabric of the long, black robe she wore, Molly turned from side to side, paying particular attention to her feet. The bedroom carpet was too thick for a proper rolling test but she was satisfied that the fluorescent pink wheels of her roller skates were not visible below the hem of the robe.
Molly lifted the robe’s hood over her head until her face was hidden, and grabbed the plastic scythe that came as part of the costume from the fancy dress shop.
Perfect, she thought, taking one last look in the mirror. I look just like him.
Molly was sure she would win the prize for best Halloween costume at school that day.
***
God was not happy.
I’m not happy, Big D.
Death was neither happy nor unhappy. It didn’t even concern him that God constantly referred to him as ‘Big D’ when he was barely three-foot-three. “Ma’am?”
God strode around her island office, situated high above the swell of increasingly turbulent souls that filled the God Lobby below. Death smoothly glided alongside her as she paced.
Earlier today the Great Birthing Stork Marge Gerana reported to me that birthrates are down. Worryingly so, and now you’re telling me that death rates are up.
Death could understand why God was agitated; birth and death and somewhere to reside between the two states was God’s one true gift to humanity; what humans decided to do with this gift was left entirely up to them.
“It is a concerning turn of events, Ma’am,” Death agreed.
Both War and Famine are back in circulation, yet Pestilence remains elusive.
God was referring to the curious incident that occurred two years previous, when Satan had trapped a lycanthropic War, vampiric Famine and zombified Pestilence in the back of a London taxi. Halloween 2020 had a full Moon and as the clouds parted that evening, War had laid waste to Famine and Pestilence with bestial ferocity, before eventually succumbing to Pestilence’s toxicity. The only reason Satan had brought Death along that night was, apparently, for the ride.
Inexplicably War then turned up 6 months later as Wanda Warren, an entrepreneurial powerhouse, running a small but growing fitness enterprise. Wanda, however, had no memory of her previous incarnation as War. Not until she saw Death that is, but even then she had no recollection of the events of that fateful Halloween. Famine had only shown up this past Christmas. He turned out to be a Chinese Elvis-impersonating naked chef called XiXi Fat. Again, any knowledge of his former self was entirely lacking until XiXi laid eyes on Death.
Pesto had not yet revealed himself and Death wondered how that was possible considering just how busy he’d been of late. So busy in fact that it had become necessary to expand the workforce of the Grim Reaper Service to keep up.
“Ma’am,” Death said slowly; he had a suggestion but wasn’t sure how God would take it. “I’ve been thinking about this and I wonder if it would be a good idea if we could somehow observe what Old Scratch did with the bodies that night, after he let me out of the taxi.”
God looked at him blankly.
“I believe the Situation Room can travel both in space and time?”
God had created the Situation Room as a means of observing any given situation. It was a cube that allowed its occupants to look out but was completely invisible to anyone on the outside.
Death cleared his throat with a rattle and continued. “If we were able to observe what Satan did with the bodies of War, Famine and Pestilence, then maybe we can figure out where Pesto is.”
God stopped pacing.
Are you suggesting we spy on him?
Death shrugged. “He did hack our systems first.”
This was true; the whole Halloween scampocalypse of 2020 took place during a breach of the Cosmic Consciousness Neural Network. Although it had never been conclusively proven that Satan was behind it, all indicators and circumstantial evidence pointed in his direction. The question of who was to blame for the CCNN breakdown was more akin to the ‘who blew up the Nordstream undersea pipelines?’ mystery rather than ‘who shot JFK?’.
God drummed her fingers on her chin.
The Situation Room isn’t mobile, Big D. It can take us to any given spot but that’s all. The cube itself doesn’t actually move.
“But I can. I could follow Satan and see where he takes the bodies, and with this,” Death said, pulling his work PsyPad from beneath his robe, “you can follow me.”
God was not convinced.
Surely that won’t work if the CCNN isn’t operational.
Death flipped open the cover on his Psypad and tapped on an icon. “Look here, Bluetooth was installed in the tech upgrade you ordered as a result of the breach. It uses short-wave radio, so is independent of the network. We could sync up.”
So, I can track you?
“Indeed, Ma’am, from your PsyPad. I’m given to understand that there is an app for that.”
God was still doubtful.
And what if he sees you following him, Big D? That would cause no end of problems.
“Ma’am, I assure you, only very few see Death coming.”
God narrowed her eyes.
“And I’ll be careful.”
God sighed and cocked her head to one side. She placed her hand on top of Death’s bowed head.
Big D, when did you become so crafty?
“I cannot recall, Ma’am.” Death lifted his head and returned his PsyPad to the folds of his robe. “Eternity is an extremely long time.”
The morning was coldly dank and foggy, muffling Wanda Warren’s footsteps as she pounded her way around Victory park, on a solo run before the start of her first class. Wanda had a lot on her mind and none of it was good. She hoped a good, hard run would help to exorcise the frustration she was feeling from being caught on the twin horns of a dilemma that she didn’t like one little bit. As the Rona pandemic and the accompanying lockdowns of the past couple of years had started to fade from the public’s memory, so had interest and, more importantly, clientele from her outdoor, park-based fitness business, ‘Fighting Fit’. That was horn one.
The second stemmed from her previous existence as the second Horseman of the Apocalypse, War. The threat of nuclear annihilation had ramped up considerably during the course of the year as a major battle for hegemony was being conducted by global superpowers in eastern Europe, and Wanda had had nothing to do with it. As War, she thought she should have at least some involvement in the instigation of World War 3, but here she was, running laps around a park, worrying about her fledgling business being run into the ground. She wondered if her friend XiXi was feeling the same, although by all accounts, Famine was due to hit the big time in 2023.
Eat ze bugs. Loose the thugs. Kill the smugs. Wanda didn’t know where the sudden mantra came from, but it pounded through her mind, in time with her footfalls and the techno music blasting through her earphones.
She decided to stop at the bench by the duck pond for a breather and to stretch any remaining tension from her muscles. She thought of Jimbo Collins, the first client she’d ever lost. To be fair, Jimbo’s departure wasn’t of his own volition, as he’d died right here on the bench eighteen months earlier of a heart attack.
Or so it was claimed but who really knew the actual cause of Jimbo’s death; in the intervening time a whole swathe of fit, young people, from elite athletes to Sunday morning footballers, from across the world had also suddenly died for no apparent reason. Every medical authority in the world was dumbfounded and completely bemused as to the cause of these sudden deaths, but to Wanda, it sounded exactly like something Pestilence might have cooked up. And maybe he did; Pesto was still at large after all.
Wanda lifted her left leg and stretched it out along the back of the bench. She grabbed her ankle and rested her forehead on her knee. Closing her eyes, she stretched and breathed, which was why she didn’t see the loping figures emerge out of the fog from behind her. In fact Wanda’s first indication that she was no longer alone was when a rough hand grabbed her arse.
“What the..!” she yelled and opened her eyes. There were two of them, wearing dirty tracksuits and even dirtier leers on their faces.
“Hey lady. You need fuck?” the grabby one said and moved closer so that he could rub his groin against Wanda’s backside. “This is good position. It will be good. We fuck you hard and you enjoy.”
“Argh!” Wanda pushed the man away. “Get off me! Get the fuck away from me, the pair of you.”
The second man grinned at his accomplice and pulled a knife from his pocket. He showed Wanda the blade. “Lady, play nice or I will cut you.”
Wanda was momentarily shocked but she wasn’t scared. She was more furious with herself for letting her guard down; she’d worked long enough in Victory park to know the dregs that frequented it. These two were new.
Wanda mentally rolled her eyes. Tourists!
“You want to play a game?” she asked coquettishly. With her right hand, she slowly unzipped her tracksuit top to reveal heaving breasts and a flat stomach, all whilst dragging the earphones from her ears. She batted her eyes as she lifted up her left breast with the back of her right hand as she placed the earphones in the inside pocket. Sweat rolled across the top of her boob and trickled down into her cleavage. Wanda was immensely proud of her ‘boys’ as she often referred to her spectacular tits, and their ability to charm the pants off of most men.
The two attackers looked at each other. They couldn’t believe their luck. Grabby licked his lips. “A game? Yes, we play game.”
Wanda stretched sideways, provocatively, sliding her left hand down her leg to her ankle. “Let me guess.” The material of her tracksuit bottoms stretched tautly across her crotch. “I bet you want to play poke her.”
The man holding the knife was confused. “Poker? No, we want to fuck.”
Grabby chuckled. “No, she means ‘poke her’.” He thrust his hips backwards and forwards sharply to demonstrate. “Poke her.”
“Ah yes, I want to poke her.” Knife man turned to Wanda, “I want to poke you.”
“Oh, good, I’m so glad,” Wanda cooed, “’Cos I see your metal…” She abruptly flourished the knife she kept strapped to her calf under her tracksuit, before dropping her leg to the floor and taking a defensive stance. “And raise you chemical.”
The two men stepped back but it was nowhere quick or far enough away to avoid the stream of hot, burning agony Wanda sprayed directly into their eyes from the canister in her right hand. The would be rapists screamed and fell to their knees, covering their faces with their hands. The knife slipped from the assailant’s hand, which Wanda calmly kicked away into the long grass.
She took a deep breath and zipped up her tracksuit top. “God, I love the smell of pepper spray in the morning.”
***
The cloud cover was starting to thin and part on the night of Halloween in 2020. The area around Cleopatra’s Needle on the bank of the river Thames was deserted. Or at least it appeared to be deserted.
This is no good, Big D. It is far too bright from the street lamps. You won’t be able exit the Situation Room without being seen.
God and Death stood in the Situation Room, parked in front of one the sphinxes that flanked the towering Egyptian obelisk.
Death looked up at the sky above. Bright shafts of light from the full Moon were starting to break through the clouds; War would be starting to transform into a werewolf.
“Ma’am, Satan’s taxi will arrive here in approximately one minute and forty seconds. If I go now, I can hide in the shadows behind the bus stop across the road.” Death opened the door and prepared to glide out into the night.
God held him back.
Shouldn’t we synchronise our PsyPads or something?
“We synchronized them before we left,” Death replied, but the hint of nervous excitement in God’s voice was enough to give him pause. “We don’t have to do this, Ma’am. We can just leave if you prefer. Perhaps that would be best.”
God shook her head.
No. I’ll follow you on my Psypad and meet you at the end, wherever that is.
Death nodded. “It is exciting?”
Always. Now go.
Gently, God shoved Death through the door and closed it behind him. She watched him glide away, across the road and disappear behind the large bus stop poster of a Rona sufferer’s frightened face, with the instruction to ‘look into his eyes’. God tutted and wondered, not for the first time, if maybe she should get more involved with humanity; they were rather making a pig’s ear of it on their own.
After a short while, the rumble of an approaching taxi could be heard. God watched as it pulled to a stop just before the obelisk and sat there, engine ticking over. Through its windscreen she could see Satan behind the steering wheel, a fat cigar dangled between his even fatter lips. He appeared to be laughing at someone sitting next to him. Presumably the Death of 2020.
God checked the PsyPad screen for Big D’s position. He was represented by a red dot on a map and he seemed to be on the move already. She watched the red blip travel away up the street, double back and stop again.
What is Big D up to?
The front passenger door opened and the small figure of Death climbed out. The thumping sound of reggae filled the night, as Bob Marley’s voice rang out.
We’re jammin’. To think that jammin’ was a thing of the past. We’re jammin’, and I hope this jam is gonna last…
The music stopped as Death closed the taxi door. He glided toward Cleopatra’s Needle and disappeared. The taxi pulled away from the kerb and motored past the Situation Room, on to who knows where. God caught sight of Big D gliding along behind, his skeletal hands tightly gripping onto a chrome lip above the number plate at the rear of the taxi.
Now all God had to do was to wait and watch the progress of the red blip. The words of the song coming from the taxi played on her mind; it was a catchy tune.
We’re jammin’. Jammin’ Jammin’ Jamm-
God stopped singing and snatched up the PsyPad. She scanned the map and enlarged it with her fingertips. The red blip was gone!
He’s jamming! Oh no!
Somehow Satan knew of their plans and was jamming the signal. Big D was on his own.
Jocasta Darling felt exhausted as she wheeled the pushchair containing her sleeping son through the fog. She was glad he was finally sleeping peacefully; Paul was teething and had kept her up all night. It was his first birthday and Jocasta hoped he wouldn’t be crotchety all day. So far, so good, she thought wearily.
Her daughter held on to the handle of the pushchair, rolling along beside her. Molly’s school had encouraged its students to dress up for Halloween, for a fee of course, and Molly was dressed up as the grim reaper. On the importance of wearing roller skates with the outfit, Jocasta was still in the dark, but Molly had insisted on wearing them. Something about the way her imaginary friend moved or something, Jocasta wasn’t sure. All she knew was that Molly had been made up to receive the roller skates for her birthday and had hardly taken them off her feet since.
They were on their way to feed to ducks before school. It was a ritual Molly and her had started during the Rona lockdowns. The park was usually deserted at that time of the morning, except for the exercisers, especially in the summer months, but the weather was less than enticing today and Jocasta doubted they’d be out in force. She liked to smoke a cigarette whilst Molly fed the ducks and although a sit down and smoke appealed, it was too chilly this morning to be hanging around in the fog.
We’ll just feed the ducks and go, Jocasta decided, as they entered Victory park. She started to tick off all the things she had to do that day on her mental list: Feed ducks, drop Molly at school, shop for party food, cook party food, collect Molly from school, hold party, clean up, take Molly trick or treating, iron and go to bed. Jocasta had a full day ahead of her, as well as the million and one other things she would have to do that didn’t warrant a place on her mental list. No wonder she felt exhausted.
“Can I hold the bread?” Molly signed.
Jocasta stopped and looked down at her daughter. She brush the hood covering Molly’s head back so that could see her face and Molly could see hers; Jocasta was too tired that morning for signing, and Molly was an excellent lipreader.
“It’s very foggy so I want you to stay with me today. Don’t go skating off. Okay?”
Molly nodded. “OK.”
“What about your scythe?” Jocasta pointed to the plastic scythe Molly carried.
“I can carry both,” Molly said aloud.
Jocasta took the bread bag from her shopping bag hooked to the back of the pushchair and passed it to her daughter. “Okay, if you’re sure. Here’s the bread.”
They continued their journey along the empty path, walking and skating until they reached the rise just before the gentle slope down to the duck pond. Suddenly, Molly let go of the pushchair and started to freewheel forward, letting gravity do the work. She quickly disappeared into the fog.
“Molly!” Jocasta shouted before chiding her self – Molly couldn’t hear her. “Oh fuck!” she snapped and chased after her daughter.
Molly’s shrill scream turned Jocasta’s blood to ice. She plunged the pushchair faster through the fog. “Molly!”
Jocasta nearly ran straight into her as she reached the duck pond. Molly was standing stock still, silently pointing. The fog was less thick here so Jocasta could clearly see what Molly was pointing at: two men lay prone on the grass bank of the duck pond, with their heads submerged in the water. Between them knelt the woman who ran the big fitness classes in the park, and she was tightly gripping the back of their necks.
The woman turned her head toward Molly and Jocasta. “It’s okay,” she called. “It’s not what it looks like.”
The fitness lady yanked the men’s heads from the water. They gasped for breath and blinked their eyes. They looked terrified.
She stood up and bounded over to Jocasta and Molly, wiping her wet hands on her thighs. “Hello, I’m Wanda. I’ve seen you three in the park before, haven’t I? I run the Fighting Fit classes.”
Jocasta stood in awe of Wanda. Of course she’d noticed before that Wanda was attractive with a very nice figure, and that she obviously had a lot of energy, but that was from a distance. Jocasta was quite unprepared for how stunningly beautiful Wanda was up close, and how she exuded confidence and an overpowering sense of presence.
“What happened to them?” Jocasta asked feebly. She nodded toward the men, who were rubbing their eyes and frantically splashing water into their faces. “Were you drowning them?”
“No,” Wanda laughed. Her chuckle was deep and throaty. “No, these two fuc-” She looked down at Molly and stopped herself swearing. “These two ruffians attacked me. I was just defending myself.”
Jocasta was both horrified and impressed. “Oh my God, really? What did you do to them?”
Wanda shrugged. “I pepper sprayed them.”
“Isn’t that stuff illegal?”
“Probably.” Wanda shrugged again. “To be fair, one of them pulled a knife on me.”
“No,” Jocasta whispered and pulled Molly closer. “They’re not going to attack us, are they?”
“Doubtful. I have a knife too and they know that.” Wanda called over to the men, “You two know I’ve got a knife, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes,” one of them cried. “Please don’t hurt us more,” the other blubbered.
“And it’s A LOT BIGGER THAN YOURS!” Wanda shouted back. She turned to Jocasta and gave her a dazzling smile. “They’ve learnt their lesson. But that does remind me.”
Wanda bent down and spoke to Molly. “Can I borrow your plastic bag?”
Molly nodded and pulled the bread slices from their plastic wrapping and handed it to Wanda.
“Thanks, I’ll just be a moment.” Wanda disappeared into the fog.
Jocasta didn’t know whether to stay or run away. She felt like they stumbled into a scene from a Dirty Harry movie or an American TV cop show. This was too surreal for a Monday morning, Jocasta thought.
She pulled a packet from her coat pocket and plucked the single cigarette and lighter from inside. “Fuck it,” she said and lit up. She didn’t feel quite so tired anymore.
Wanda quickly returned, swing the plastic bread bag. She held it up as she approached Jocasta and Molly. “Their knife. Can’t leave something like that lying around. You never know who’ll find it.”
“Can I feed the ducks now?” Molly asked.
“Sure,” Wanda said. “One second.”
She stalked in the direction of the two bedraggled men. “RIGHT, you two. Fuck off, right now and DON’T come back. If I ever fucking SEE you nobheads again, I will slice your FUCKING nuts off and roast them. GOT IT?”
The two men scrambled to their feet. “We go, we go. Please, we go.”
Wanda returned to Jocasta and Molly after the men stumbled away crying. “There you go, darling, it’s safe to feed to duckies now,” she told Molly.
Jocasta puffed on her cigarette nervously. “What if they’re hanging around in the fog? I’ve got to get Molly to school.”
“Not if they know what good for them they won’t,” Wanda growled. “I don’t think so, but I’ll escort you through the park, if you like.”
“Yes, thank you.” Jocasta finished her cigarette and stubbed it out with her foot. She bent down and picked up the butt. She saw Wanda looking. “I don’t like to litter.”
The two women stood awkwardly in silence and watched Molly throw chunks of bread to the gathering ducks.
“I’m Jocasta and that’s Molly, my daughter. By the way, please don’t worry about swearing around her – Molly’s deaf.”
“Oh right.”
“Although she can read lips. So out of sight is out of earshot, or so to speak.”
“Actually, I know Death,” Wanda said casually. “He’s a personal friend. He’s not as tall as Molly, but he does kinda glide when he moves. The skates are a nice touch.”
Jocasta didn’t know how to respond; what could she say to that? “Thank you,” she mumbled.
“So…” she felt like she should say something. “Do you also teach self defence classes?” Jocasta asked. “If not, I really think you should.”
Wanda’s face lit up. “Hey, that’s a good idea.” She smiled and nodded her head. “Something for women. Most women struggle to keep up in my fitness classes.”
Jocasta felt oddly pleased at Wanda’s receptiveness to her suggestion. “I’d join. A self defence class, that is. I couldn’t do one of your fitness workouts. They look brutal.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t last two minutes,” Wanda said. “No offence.”
“Oh, none taken,” Jocasta assured Wanda. “I would like to know how to throw somebody though. I’ve always fancied throwing someone to the ground. You know, like judo.”
“Oh really?” Wanda seemed amused. “Got anyone in mind for the floor treatment?”
“Golly, I don’t know.” Jocasta didn’t expect to be put on the spot. “Um, there’s a multitude to choose from. Any of the smugs, I guess.”
Wanda’s eyebrows furrowed and her nostrils flared. “Why did you say smugs?”
Jocasta was taken aback at Wanda’s sudden sharp look and tone. “You know, condescending do-gooders. The ‘do as I say’ brigade. And if you don’t as they tell you, they’ll hound you until you do, smug in the illusion that they’re ‘doing good’. Smugs.” Jocasta stopped herself; she was starting to rant. “I’m sorry, did I offend you?”
Wanda glanced at her watch. “No, not at all, but that’s the second time I’ve heard the word ‘smugs’ today and it’s only eight-thirty in the morning. It’s not a term I’m familiar with.”
“Coincidence?”
Wanda shook her head. “There are two things you need to know in life. One, there’s no such thing as coincidence.”
Molly returned from feeding the ducks. She grabbed the handle of the push chair. “I’m ready to go now.”
Wanda crouched down to speak to Molly directly. “If you let me carry your big stick, you can hold my hand and then me and your mum can wheel you through the park.” Wanda looked up to Jocasta. “Right, mum?”
Jocasta nodded.
“Really fast,” Wanda silently mouthed to Molly, and winked.
Molly suppressed a giggle and passed the scythe to her mum’s new friend. She slipped her hand inside Wanda’s free hand and they walked and rolled into the fog.
“What’s the second thing in life, I need to know,” Jocasta asked breathlessly. Wanda was setting a stiff pace.
“That floor you want to throw the smugs to, that floor is fucking hard. Be careful what you wish for.”
Jocasta decided that on the whole, she couldn’t disagree.
***
Liquid light reflections of traffic lights, street lamps and neon signage flowed along the sides and across the roof of the London black taxi as it sped through the city. It neither stopped nor slowed; every traffic light was green and every road devoid of other vehicles that may have hindered its passage. Even if the streets had not been empty, nobody would have seen the small, black robed figure clinging to the back of the taxi, skitching a ride.
After a while the streets became narrower, less well lit and the roads bumpier and neglected. A large pothole nearly threw Death off, but he managed to maintain his grip. He was very familiar with these streets; he had visited them many times before. Mostly for plague, cholera and TB, but that was in the past. Now it was more stabbings, drug overdoses and suicides requiring his presence, but Death had never toured them before and certainly not like this.
He suddenly had an inkling of where Satan was headed. He hoped it wasn’t where he suspected, but those hopes were soon dashed when the taxi pulled up in front of Death’s least favourite hangout in the city.
“Lapland,” Death sighed. Lapland nightclub had a seedy reputation for loose liquor and even looser elves. It was also Father Christmas’s main residence save for one day a year.
Satan opened the driver’s door and got out of the taxi. He adjusted the seat of his trousers and walked up to the door of the nightclub. He knocked three times.
Death took the opportunity to move to a covered position and glided silently into a darkened shop doorway across the street. He stood in the shadow and watched as the door to Lapland opened and Father Christmas stepped out.
“Brother!” Santa boomed jovially. He took the cigar from his mouth and held his arms out wide. Satan did likewise. “Brother.” They embraced.
Plot twist? Death wondered. So, the conspiracy theorists on spectral media were right along!
The difference in appearance between Santa and Satan was deep and yet superficial: one was white, bearded and a force for good; the other dark, clean shaven and mercilessly evil. But once seen together, the fraternal resemblance of the two was striking and obvious.
The Slay Brothers? Death mused, or Sleigh Brothers. Spectral media trolls will argue about this for years.
He slid his PsyPad from his robe. He wanted to check if God had arrived yet in the Situation Room, but as he opened the cover he realised that the sudden brightness of the screen could draw attention. Death hoped that God was nearby, also watching the fiendish family reunion unfold, and could corroborate what he was seeing.
Death watched as Satan handed the keys to the taxi over to Santa. The brothers embraced once more before Santa got into driver’s seat and drove away. Satan stood and watched the taxi leave, sucking on his cigar. He turned and started to walk slowly up the street, shaking his head and laughing. When he was level with Death’s hiding place, he stopped.
“You can come out now child,” Satan called and flicked his cigar butt in Death’s direction. “Come on now, I know you’re there. What is it she calls you? Big D.”
Death slowly left the shadows and glided onto the road to face Satan. He remained silent.
“That’s a pretty good joke, her calling you Big D. Would be considered downright cruel, by some folks. Worthy only of someone like me.”
A windblown plastic bag rolled between them. Intercity tumbleweed.
“Cat got your tongue?” Satan taunted. “Oh that’s right, you don’t have a tongue. But you do speak, so do you want to ask me?”
This is a trap, Death thought. He remained silent.
“I’ll wait.” Satan reached into his jacket and pulled out a fresh cigar. He rolled it between his fingers and sniffed the length of it. “Don’t you want to know where Pestilence is? I know you’ve been searching for him.”
Finally Death broke his silence. “Did Soda Pops tell you that?”
“Soda Pops? Is that what she calls my brother? Soda Pops?” Satan bit the top of his cigar off and spat it out. “So disrespectful.” He warmed its foot with a lighter. “And what kooky name has she given me?”
“None.”
Satan paused lighting his cigar and stared at Death.
“I’ve only ever heard her refer to you by your pronouns,” Death continued. “He/him. But then I’ve only ever heard you refer to God by hers,” he added.
Satan nodded and lit his cigar. He took several small puffs and let out a cloud of smoke.
Death pulled his PsyPad from his robes and opened it. He tapped the screen and swiped it several times before replacing it. His retractable scythe sprung from the sleeve of his robe, the blade crackled with electricity. “Well then. It’s been nice to catch up, but I really must be going. Work to do.”
Death turned his back on Satan and glided away.
“Hey!” Satan called after him. “Don’t you want to know where Pestilence is, child?”
“No need. I’m sure Pesto will turn up when he’s ready.”
Death disappeared into thin air.
***
He knew we were there. He jammed the signal.
Death watched Satan stare after him through the transparent wall of the Situation Room. “How did you know where to find us, Ma’am?”
Once I realised I couldn’t track you with the PsyPad, I popped back to the God Lobby and got my binoculars. The Shard building has an excellent viewing platform. I could see for miles.
“I hope I distracted Scratch long enough for you to see where Soda Pops went.”
Indeed you did, Big D.
Death watched Satan finally turn away and go into Lapland. “And?”
God sighed.
I now know where Pestilence is.
Death gazed up at God. “Ma’am?”
A single, crystal clear tear ran down God’s cheek.
… And I thought it time for a catch-up, 731 days later…
*******
731 Days Later
By Roo B. Doo
The best thing to come out of the past two years of the Rona pandemic was the shift to working from home. Not my home exactly, but my best friend Lol’s home, as he’d asked me to move in with him to ride out the initial ‘lockdown’. How naïve we all were thinking that sacrificing weeks off work for time on the sofa could ever defeat a virus. At least I didn’t partake in the weekly doorstep pot bashing ritual; that seemed totally medieval to me.
Three weeks ‘to flatten the curve’ inevitably rolled over into six and then nine weeks, and even after we were allowed back to work, restrictions remained. Wave after wave of illness and death were predicted, so that the threat of further lockdowns became endemic and it seemed pointless moving out. Besides, Lol and I rub along together great; we’re like brother and sister but without the fights or incestuous thoughts getting in the way. Even his pampered puss Mr Tibbles now considers me fam.
When the opportunity to work remotely presented itself, I gladly took it. Not that I was afraid of the Rona per se, but the possibility of catching the ‘Stupid’ from my colleagues at F. A. Kontrell has always been a constant fear. Well, from one work colleague in particular – our virtue signalling receptionist Shazza is something of a super-speader when it comes to the ‘Stupid’.
Unfortunately, when I woke up this morning, I discovered the wi-fi was on the fritz; I had to go into the office, breaking my current record of three straight months working from home. Up until now, 2022 was going so well.
“Slava Ukraini!”
Good grief! She’s still wearing a mask? I don’t know why I was surprised; of course Shazza would still be wearing a face-mask. Personally, I was torn on the face-mask issue that had come to dominate so much social interaction during last two years. On the one hand, there was no way the weave of a cloth mask could ever stop an itty-bitty virus passing through it – it’s like using a chain-link fence to stop a mosquito – however, on the other hand, wearing a mask is definitely an improvement for some people. Massively so in Shazza’s case.
“Slava Ukraini!” Shazza repeated, this time with a raised fist. Her face-mask was two-tone: bright blue over gold, like the Ukrainian flag. I wondered how long before the next cause de jour would adorn Shazza’s face. Probably May.
It’s wearing your heart on your sleeve in the new normal, I concluded sadly.
Raising my right forearm, palm outward facing, I smartly snapped my heels together. “Heil Hitler!”
Shazza was shocked. I could tell because one of her chins slipped beneath the bottom edge of her face-mask. “Oh my God, Harry, how could you say that?”
“Say what?” I asked, feigning confusion.
Shazza’s eyes compressed into a glittering squint. “Heil Hitler.”
Sometimes it’s just too easy to wind our airhead receptionist up. “Heil Hitler!” I replied abruptly, this time with a straight arm and accompanying finger moustache.
“Harry!”
The office appeared sparsely populated, so not too many heads poked up at the sound of Shazza’s astonishment. Pammy in Payroll smiled and waved hello. I waved back.
“Aren’t we doing Nazi greetings?” I asked innocently and signed in. “I’m sorry, I thought we were doing Nazi greetings.”
“What are you talking about?” Shazza demanded.
“You do know that Slava Ukraini is neo-Nazi, don’t you?”
Shazza crossed her chunky arms in front of her ample bosom. “No it isn’t,” she replied fiercely.
“Sure it is. You should research it,” I suggested nonchalantly.
Of course Shazza had no idea the month-long war between Russia and Ukraine had actually been going on for a good deal longer; she thinks ‘Crimea’ are the first three words of a Justin Timberlake song. She didn’t move except to furrow her brow and, I assume, purse her thin lips behind the mask: I know that look; best to skedaddle.
“Seriously, you should google it,” I said, moving away from reception. “I’ll be at my desk.”
Shazza mumbled something darkly into her face-mask that I didn’t catch, but no matter. However, whatever she said seemed to greatly amuse her because she cackled loudly as I rounded the corner to my work area.
What the..?!
I stood and stared at dozens of archive boxes surrounding my desk and piled high upon it. A large paper shredding machine stood off to the side, with fat sacks labelled ‘Confidential Waste’ stacked against the wall. Everything was covered in a film of grey dust and ribbons of paper littered the floor.
“I said, you’ll be lucky, Harry,” Shazza laughed from right behind me; for her size, she can be deceptively light on her feet.
“What’s going on?”
“We’re having a clear out.” Shazza couldn’t keep the glee out of her voice at my consternation. “Getting rid of the old crap, you know.”
“And you’re using my desk?”
“Why not? You’ve not been around to use it.”
Shazza had a point – I hadn’t stepped foot inside the place since Christmas – but I didn’t appreciate the total takeover of my work area, nor the snarkiness with which the point was made. “It would have been nice if you’d let me know, just in case I had to come in to work. Like today.”
“Sorry.” Shazza’s apology dripped with insincerity. She was far too happy to be contrite.
Touché, I thought and smirked. I do believe you’ve missed me.
”Apology accepted,” I replied graciously. That was a mistake.
“It is very dusty round here,” Shazza said, wiping a fat finger over the nearest archive box. “I can always lend you a mask.”
Eww. Now she’s getting nasty.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Shazza, but I’d rather lick a tramp than wear one of your masks,” I replied irritably.
Fortunately our sparring was interrupted by the sound of rolling laughter, as the side door to the office opened. The Fat Kontroller stood holding it open for a young woman I didn’t recognise. She shuffled beneath his outstretched arm, intent on not spilling any tea from either of the mugs she was holding.
“Boss,” I called out.
“Harry!” The Fat Kontroller seemed genuinely happy to see me. “The prodigal assistant returns.”
“’Fraid so.” My eyes swept over the mountain of boxes. “Glad you’ve not let my desk go to waste.”
The young woman carrying the tea stopped and smiled shyly. I’m a sucker for doe eyes and this filly had the biggest doe eyes I’ve ever seen. I could feel the wolf in my loins start to salivate.
“This is Lucy,” the Fat Kontroller said, placing his hands on the young woman’s shoulders. “My wife’s niece.”
Oh shit! I hoped he hadn’t spotted the lascivious look on my face.
“Lucy’s been helping us out with the archiving since the leak,” he said, giving those slender shoulders a squeeze.
“That’s right,Uncle Farn,” she said sweetly.
Lucy must have been all of 18 years old and nubile as fuck. She was petite but fully rounded in all the right places. Her thick, blonde hair was feather cut like a 70s rock chick, but coupled with those doe eyes, she could have walked straight out of manga. Or hentai…
“A leak?” I suddenly felt adrift. “What leak?”
Shazza, was still hovering and eager to join the conversation. “The leak from the roof caused by the storms last month. Rainwater got into the store room. I sent out an email.”
Ouch! Shazza is a prolific sender of emails. They’re usually over punctuated and full of inanities, but I do read them all. Eventually.
“Has the leak been fixed?”
“Oh yes,” the Fat Kontroller said, taking one of the mugs of tea from Lucy. “But we had to move the box files out here while the room was drying out. Your desk was the obvious choice, Harry.”
I couldn’t fault his decision; it’s the logical place to put them.
“No problem. I can work from any desk.” I looked around, trying to work out which one would give me the best view of luscious Lucy at work, but not place me in Shazza’s direct line of sight. I could feel her beady eyes boring into me – I’d already disrespected one of her sacred cows and Shazza had a whole herd of them.
“You can set up in my office, if you like,” the Fat Kontroller offered. “I’ll be out here going through the old paper records with Lucy. I’ve become a dab hand with a shredding machine,” he boasted jovially.
“It’s always nice to see you roll your sleeves up, Mr K,” I gently teased. “Thanks, I’ll go and set myself up. Nice to meet you, Lucy.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Perfect! The glass front of the Fat Kontroller’s office would give me a very good view of Lucy in action. I could feel my nipples stiffen in anticipation; it seemed I was destined not to get any work done today after all.
* * *
“Please tell me you didn’t hit on her, Harry,” Lol asked as he refilled my wine glass. “Not your boss’s niece.”
We were sitting in Dionysus, our regular place of respite after a hard day at our respective grindstones. Or rather it used to be before the Rona turned everyone’s lives upside down. It was still our weekend bar of choice, but this was the first week night Lol and I had pitch up there in quite a while. It wasn’t very busy, which suited me just fine. I’d had enough of people for one day.
“No, of course I didn’t. What kind of idiot do you take me for?”
Lol didn’t look convinced; he knows exactly what kind of idiot I can be.
“Really, I didn’t,” I said, taking a surreptitious sip of wine. “I mostly just looked.”
Lol laughed. “Harry, when you say ‘mostly’, I picture a TV reporter describing a riot as ‘mostly peaceful’, whilst stood in front of a building on fire.”
“Yes, but you fancied the pants off that guy. You were glued to his reports.”
“Well, that’s true, but stop deflecting, Miss Egg. Did you go out of your way to talk to Lucy, the young and impressionable niece of your boss?”
I could feel the wine start to course through my veins and flush the day’s tension away. “No. As a matter of fact she approached me.”
“Really? And where was this?”
“In the kitchen. I was making a coffee and she came in to get some god-awful concoction in a Tupperware box from the fridge. It was her lunch. Ugh, it was full of carrots and beans-”
“Stay on target,” Lol interrupted. “What happened?”
I took a gulp of wine. “Nothing, we just chatted. She’s going to Manchester University in September and we talked about that.”
“Our university? Interesting. Did you give her any tips?”
“On how to become a PA? No.” I placed my glass back on the table.
A look of concern crossed Lol’s face. “Harry, what’s up?”
I wondered if I should tell Lol about the epiphany I’d had whilst talking to Lucy. I thought about it as I emptied the last of the wine into our glasses. Oh fuck it. Just tell him.
“Lol, I want to have a baby.”
To his credit, Lol didn’t spit out his mouthful of wine, although I thought for one moment he was going to choke.
“That’s… that’s…that’s…” he stuttered after he’d swallowed his wine.
“Unexpected? Yeah, for me too.”
Lol was speechless, his bottom jaw hung loose.
“Please don’t hate me for what I’m about to say, but you did ask.” I took a large slug of wine. “Whilst Lucy and I chatted, I could see that her bright and shining future in front of her was exactly what I had in front of me once. And I didn’t take it.”
Lol furrowed his brow. “You didn’t want it. You’ve told me before. How does that get to you suddenly wanting to have a baby?”
“Well, that’s the thing. See, as I was telling Lucy about you and our university days and how we’re best friends and that I’d moved in with you at the start of the pandemic.” I paused to check Lol was following along. “She said ‘Lol? He sounds like a laugh’.”
The corners of Lol’s mouth twitched. “I have heard that one before.”
“Well, I hadn’t. In fact, I laughed like a drain when Lucy said it. I think I frightened her.”
Lol shook his head. “But I still don’t understand, Harry. Why would I hate you? I love you.”
“And I love you.” I reached over and placed my hand over his. “Do you realise that today is the two year anniversary of the first lockdown?”
“Is it?”
“Yes, it was on 23rd March 2020, I looked it up. We’ve been living together for two years exactly and they have been the best 731 days of my life. The very best.”
Lol turned his hand over so that he could hold mine. “Me too.”
“And whilst Lucy is gorgeous and vivacious and under different circumstances I could totally plate her, in that moment I knew exactly what I want, like right now want, and that I’ve actually known it for some time.”
I took a deep breath. ”I want to start a family. I want a real baby, Lol, and I really want to make that baby real with you. You would be a fantastic dad. Please don’t hate me.”
Lol stared at me intently before raising an eyebrow. “Is this because you had to go into the office today?”
Now my jaw dropped. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut. Oh, why didn’t I keep my fucking mouth shut?!
Lol barked out a short laugh and stood up. “You never cease to surprise me, Harry,” he said, holding out his hand. “It’s one of your more endearing qualities.”
I let out a sigh of relief; he didn’t say no.
“I am intrigued to hear your views on the mechanics of your suggestion. Shall we go home and talk about it some more?”
I took his hand and stood up. “Well, I was thinking turkey baster, unless of course you prefer-”
Lol shut me up with a kiss. It was tender and surprising and full of love. Lots of love.
Oh my God, I’m having incestuous thoughts. Who knew the new normal would turn out so perverted?
“Yes, let’s go home, Lol. Mr Tibbles will be wondering where we are.”
*/lights up and smokes… Ah, it’s Lennon. Mind you, Lenin works just as well, Clicky, when you consider how much repacked communism is currently being shoved down our throats…*
*Yes, Clicky, it’s a ‘Harry’ story… /flicks ash… set 731 days after the last one… more or less…*
… And whilst I will publish my new story here at the LoL, Dear Reader, I’ll not do that just yet.
Today I’m gonna give you the Afterword, the ‘dead poets page’, where I butcher and mutilate the words of a deceased poet to tell of some wacky occurrence happening in the world at the time of mangling. However, first you will need to re-familiarize yourself with an old song…
*I had so much fucking fun working on this one, Clicky…*
Afterword
by Roo B. Doo
Whilst in exile in Switzerland, shortly before the start of the Russian revolution, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin said:
“There are decades when nothing happens; and there are weeks when decades happen”.
We appear, Dear Reader, to be living through such weeks.
2019 now feels like it occurred at least ten years ago. Pestilence arrived in 2020, closely followed by Death, that has ramped up alarmingly despite the waning Covid pandemic. Then, at the start of this year, War became the main topic of conversation. The demented father of a crack addict installed in the US White House through a ‘fortified’ election keeps threatening to escalate Russia’s military incursion into the Ukraine into World War Three. Broken supply chains and skyrocketing inflation surely mean that Famine can’t be that far off now. Western governments and supranational organisations, such as the World Economic Forum, proclaim that shortly we will ‘have nothing and be happy’, whilst they intend to ‘Build Back Better’. Global corporate media calls anyone in disagreement with this vision a ‘bigot’, whilst waxing lyrical over how nutritious and tasty mealworm is.
All in all, it feels like we’re being gaslit and abused into accepting a dystopian future, one with a lot less of us in it. So it was quite amazing that for most of April and all of May this year, a legal trial was held in Fairfax, Virginia that appeared to be a perfect demonstration of ‘as above, so below’, or Mandlebrot set, if you’re so inclined, for anyone with an internet connection to see it. Every second was televised and millions upon millions of people tuned in to watch the legal teams for two Hollywood millionaire actors battle it out over tawdry allegations of gaslighting, domestic abuse and cancellation. It was glorious.
As I started this afterword with the words of Lenin, I shall finish it with the mutilated words of Lennon, John Lennon to be exact, a dead poet if there ever was one, as I regale you with the ballad of Johnny C Depp II versus Amber Laura Heard*…
The Trial of Johnny & Woko*
Standing in the court in Virginia Accusations of attempts to defame The man that played Jack said, “They gave me the sack All I want is to win back my good name”
Judge, you know it ain’t easy Giving testimony But way things were going Hollywood had crucified me
When Issac took the stand for his friend Johnny Amber’s crazy cat lady lawyer, Elaine Asked how he air kissed Until Issac got pissed And the watching world cried “Are you fuckin’ insane?!”
Judge, you know it ain’t easy What if anything is Amica cream? The way things are goin’ Twitter’s gonna to crucify me
When Johnny testified in his own defense How Amber’s abuse of him never ceased When the housekeeper said, “Your wife’s shat in your bed” I said, “Divorce. I need to get me some peace”
Judge, you know it ain’t easy When your ex is diagnosed Cluster B The way things are goin’ Amber’s still trying to crucify me
“Objection!”, “Hearsay!”, “Leading!” the lawyers cried “Sustained”, “Overruled” replied Judge Azcarate The gallery sat, patiently enwrapped Social media was out of control “Link”
Then Amber got to tell her side of the story Tales of beatings, drug binges and fear Full of sound and fury, she mugged to the jury But couldn’t even shed a fake tear
Judge, you know it ain’t easy When your dog steps on a bee The way things are goin’ Tik-Tok is going to crucify me
After six long weeks the trial finally ended The jury went off to deliberate When they came back, they said “Amber’s a hack Have eight million, Johnny, go celebrate”
Judge, you know it ain’t easy You know how hard it can be Keep our identities secret Don’t let the Press crucify me
The way things are goin’ You know they’ll wanna crucify me
*No, but it was worthy of Bowie, Clicky… /stubs butt… That woman really is the Face of Woke…*
As it happens, John Lennon and David Bowie, both deceased poets, did know each other and collaborated on some songs. Most notably one that could have been written for Amber Heard and gets to the heart of her particular addiction.
& let's not forget the £320 million the UK Government spent on vaccine advertising & the £120,000 vaccine damage payment (tax payer's money) that will apparently be paid out to each of the vaccine injured & families of the deceased 😔@theysayitrare#pfizerdocuments#Pfizer
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