The Evil Antagonists (Prompt Tuesday #64)

San Diego Momma's prompt this week is:

Make up a silly evil scheme. Even better? Dream up an evil antagonist and write a story about the dreadful thing he plans to do.

I'm glad she chose this prompt. It was only yesterday that, having spent half an hour in the post office queue behind a desultory pack of pensioners, I popped in to see an old university pal of mine, a failed physics graduate affectionately known as "Fish". These days Fish lives in his parent's basement, dividing his time equally between watching Ren & Stimpy and messing about with particle physics. After listening to me rant about the post office queue he rummaged around in a cupboard, found what he was looking for and handed it to me.

"What you need, my long-suffering friend, is one of these".

"A pen?"

"It's not a pen you fool, essentially it is a teleportation wand disguised as a pen. I was so fed up of those dithering halfwits you get at ATMs, you know, the time-wasting miscreants that faff about at the ATM for MINUTES, anything over twenty seconds is unacceptable, I had to do something about it. Basically, it is a particle accelerator. Of course, it is far more complex than that, but I won't bore you with the details. You identify your target a bit like the lassoo tool in Photoshop, all the while holding the clicker down. Then you point at the destination and release the clicker. Simple as that. Watch this."

He teleported an empty Fosters can into my groin. Aside from the exquisite discomfort I was in a state of awe, fear, and a desire to be truly evil came over me. "Shall we take this thing into town?" I asked. "Sure," said Fish, "but we can only use this for good." I nodded absent-mindedly, my mind was otherwise engaged, imagining entire post office queues sent to the White House, tailgaters finding themselves floundering in dirty ditches, wasps struck out of the air, yobs struck by a sodden bunch of duraniums..."

As we reached the post office a hideous queue snaked out the door. "Unacceptable," snapped Fish, and carefully circled the queue with his wand. I admired his skill, his effortless grace. He completed the selection with a pirouette, then slowly raised the wand and pointed at the sun. I came to my senses.

"Nooooooooooooo!"

I'll bet you're not this great in bed

I have a hypothetical question for you. A man is rudely awakened by a woman. She claims he has been repeatedly poking her in the eye. In addition she also claims that he stole all the covers, and that when she woke shivering, and tried to get them back, he wrapped them tightly round himself and snapped "It's MY blanket!".

Who is in the wrong?

I say the woman, these are not reasons to ruin a man's sleep. Besides, it is my blanket, and she should have kept her eye out of the way of my finger.

You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.

I was sitting outside at a French café, sampling a local beer and observing the world around me. I pride myself on my observation skills. An astute people-watcher, I like to think I can know volumes about someone the second I see them. A bit of a Sherlock Holmes, I like to think. Remember when Holmes meets Watson for the first time and immediately comes out with "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive." I'm just like that, I like to think.

The two men walked up to the café and stopped to look at the menu. I could immediately tell they were gay, the evidence speaks for itself. Both were tall, clean-shaven, well-dressed, extremely fashionable. Too fashionable. Both in matching jeans, brown leather belts, pointy leather shoes, open-collar shirts. The shirts were finely pressed, perfect fit, identical cut, one wore blue, the other pink. I looked down at my ripped jeans and baby-stained t-shirt in shame.

They sat down at a table and crossed their legs in total synchronisation (right over left). In two swift actions they placed their leather wallets side by side on the table, then placed their mobile phones on top of the wallets. Not that there is anything wrong with this, by the way, it was simply fascinating. Gay, fashionable, synchronised to an extreme and totally comfortable.

And then their girlfriends showed up, one with a baby. I must have been having an off day.

So anyway, a penguin moonwalks into a fish and chip shop...

The fish and chip shop came well recommended. There's nothing I enjoy
more than circling a chippy's lobby like a vulture before masticating
a battered fish.  I love fish.  In some ways I'd like to be a penguin,
especially when I'm sitting on a stuffy train with no elbow room, worn
out by the daily grind and listening to the rumblings of my ravenous
stomach.  Oh to slide about on ice all day eating fish.

On this occasion my wild, abandoned hopes of fatty bliss were kicked
in the groin.  The shop was run by a group of contemptible
adolescents, sulkily going about their business with a clear disdain
for the customers.  Not to worry, I thought, it doesn't necessarily
mean the food is bad. The girl took my order without making any eye
contact, her voice a bored monotonous drone. I suspect that even if a
penguin moonwalked in, chirped merrily and ordered cod and chips, her
reaction would be emotionless.

She had false nails, giant acrylic things that could easily poke out
an eye. I've always felt a bit queasy when served food by a French
manicure, imagining the telltale *crunch* as you bite down on a tasty
piece of Haddock.

And then I noticed she only had nine false nails.  My appetite has
suffered permanent damage and I may never fully recover from the
trauma.  Needless to say I will not be going there again.

Fish anyone?

This is by far the greatest poem ever written and that aside, I'm gonna kick your ass Rubbish

When I was in France Rubbish wrote me a poem. I'm re-posting it here because nobody has ever written me a poem before and certainly not this funny. I've left it unedited, unadulterated and unspellchecked, it wouldn't do to censure the chap would it? (Even if my blog's rating will shoot right up. ) Anyway, while you're reading it I'm off to Wales to kick Rubbish's ass.

A long long time ago
I found a blog written by Mo which made me smile

And I knew if I started one
I could make it lots of fun
And maybe they would laugh for a while

But June became really hard
Challenges coming thick and fast
Wayfaring through the blogs
Was jamming up my cogs

I can't remember if I spat
When I read underline optional rats
Who thinks of all this crap
My brains just turned to shat

So Mo Stoneskins gone to France
He took a train through the tunnel for some romance
Before his wife gives birth to a son called Lance
Singing this is his last chance, yeah this is his last chance

Did he write about token intake
I'm sure it must have been a mistake
I hope so for his sake

And is writing the new rock n roll
Can blogs save your mortal soul
And does economical produce just blow

All the American Moms are in love with Mo
Because he's a Brit and a wordsmith Ho
You all kick off your furs
And dig his funky words

And I was a lonely poker playing ass mug
With a shitty blog and a line in smug
But I knew I was due some luck
The day Mo went on holiday, I started writing

Chorus

For ten days we'll be on our own
I might listen to some Rolling Stones
No will I fuck

The jester will be back really quick
Writing about hamsters and some such shit
Exclusion from his blog really sucks

But whilst the king was on vacation
Rubbish took his following nation
The blog world was stunned
Are all these Brits so fun

And whilst Nikki read Rubbish' rants
She felt a warmth in her pants
Rubbish she thought, insemination any chance
The day Mo went on holiday, I started writing

Chorus

Helter skelter in a summer swelter
Mo holidayed in a fall out shelter
Eight miles high and falling fast

So I've been smoking some grass
Wondering if these words will pass
With his non imperiousness in France

And all the Moms put on their best perfume
Whilst Rubbish wrote the words to the tune
And Mo got up to dance
But he never got a chance

Because Mo came back to take his field
But Rubbish refused to yield
He'd nicked Mo's followers he revealed
The day Mo went on holiday, I started writing

Chorus

And there we were all in one place
A generation raised in cyberspace
With no time for fucking anything

So Mo be nimble Mo be quick
Mo you're in the fucking shit
Because Rubbish has stolen all your friends

And has I read his words of wrath
I wanted to give the bitch a slap
Rubbish must be born in hell
Mo will break his spell

Approaching damnation this very night
Words written for a sacrificial rite
Mo would be laughing with delight
The day Mo went on holiday, I started writing

Chorus

I've read a Moms blog about the blues
So I left a comment for some happy news
But she never answered me

So I searched for some more
Some of them left my head feeling sore
They just weren't that funny

And in the blogs the children scream
The husbands whinge and the women dream
Not a word was spoken
The keyboards were all broken

And the blogger I admire the most
Mo Mad dog Stoneskin cannot post
He's on vacation down by the coast
The day Mo went on holiday, I started writing

Chorus

Disclaimer.
I'm not really trying to nick all Mo's followers, just the pretty ones. All the best.

A Remarkable Exhibition of Slightly-wined Brainwork

Our first night on holiday and I was woken from my deep, Côtes du Rhône-fuelled sleep with a start. Bubba was screaming and my wife was shaking me. "Wake up," she hissed, "help me turn on a light." The room was completely dark, I couldn't see a thing, not the bed posts, not the dark outline of the wardrobe, not even my own hand. Bubba had probably lost her dummy (soother), woken to find she couldn't see anything and totally freaked out. I understand. I'd hate to lose my dummy on a dark night.

My wife was trying to turn on her bedside lamp and (apparently) failing miserably. I reached to find mine, sending books and cash to the floor and narrowly avoiding knocking over a glass of water. I took a sip to restore my equanimity and then focused my attention on the light. Damn that Côtes du Rhône, I thought, as my keys crashed down the back of the table.

A man of settled habits, this kind of nighttime scenario stresses me out no end. I ran my hand down the wire, fumbling in vain for the light switch. Must be one of those "slide-block" switches, I thought, finding the bulb and sliding my hand downwards. Nothing. Damn those modern light-makers.

My wife had given up and was now trying to calm Bubba down from across the room. I still couldn't see anything. A thought came to me, if only I could retrieve my phone from our bag it would provide enough light to find the light switch.

In a remarkable exhibition of slightly-wined brainwork I planned the operation. Walk slowly forward until reaching the door (main light switch not an option as it would further wake the baby). Shuffle to the left until reaching the wardrobe. Inch round the wardrobe until positioned directly in front of its centre. Take a few steps back until reaching our bags.

I was just in the process of inching round the wardrobe when the light came on. My wife had resumed her search and found the light switch.

"Thanks for helping," she snapped^*, as I stood by the wardrobe stark-naked and blinking like a rabbit in headlights. I said nothing, rescued my keys and got back into bed. A man always knows when his efforts are unappreciated. Ultimately the problem with rural France is that there is no light pollution. On the upside, there is Côtes du Rhône.

^{* When I mentioned this in the morning after she didn't remember snapping at me. But if you read about the time she effectively accused me of wearing slippers in bed this will not surprise you!}

At this rate people will think I enjoy killing birds and butterflies but I don't, I'm just unlucky

Bubba Stoneskin has two new tricks. The first of these is to scramble off the changing mat and poo on the carpet. The second is to rip off her sun hat and chuck it out the pushchair when we are not looking. Having just spent an arduous step-retracing exercise to retrieve her sun hat we were now on our way home.

Cruising down a country lane we found ourselves fast approaching three little birds standing in the road. In over ten years of driving I have never hit a bird. Sure, there have been some close misses, but the little twits always get out of the way. I remember the Seinfeld episode where George is driving and a pigeon is sitting in the road. His (George's, not the pigeon's) female companion urges him to stop. "They'll get out of the way," says George, "they always do." The next thing you see is feathers everywhere. They'll get out of the way, I thought.

As we closed in the birds panicked. One flew left, one flew right and the third, in an unprecedented display of feathered stupidity, flew straight at us, hitting the car with a thud.

"Ha!" I laughed. There was a brief silence.

"I cannot believe you just laughed," said my wife.

Truth is I have no idea why I laughed. I attempted to defend the indefensible. Maybe it was the cartoon-like way the bird flew at the car. Maybe it was the comical little thud. But, I explained, I didn't actually find it funny, I was sorry we had hit the little fool, it's not like I'm rebelling against nature, slaughtering birds on the slightest whim. She wasn't buying it so we left the conversation there, discussing pleasanter topics such as the prettiness of the French villages, the joy of driving on French roads, the delights of French wine and the beauty of the French countryside. Anyway, you know when you dig yourself a hole, fall in it, scramble out, forget it is there and then fall in again? A few minutes later a butterfly splatted against the windscreen.

"Ha!" I laughed, "I just killed a butterfly."

There's something wrong with me, I should probably seek help.

Just for the record. I genuinely do not take pleasure from killing birds or butterflies.

Sauerkrauts Make The World Go Round (alternative title: Langoustine in a Beret)

I hope you've missed me. Come on, flatter my ego and tell me you did. I know that Braja, Pseudo, Hit40, Rubbish and G have been beside themselves. Two weeks away from the Blogosphere and I bet I only get a couple of comments, the rest of you will have moved on...

The restaurant was as French as a langoustine in a beret. The chatter, the spotty-backed wooden chairs, the carafes and the fact that every damn diner was smoking like a chimney. The waitress swanned up to our table in a whirlwind of glamour, the perfect picture of French urbanity. She cooed at the baby and then took my wife's order.

"Je voudrais que le moulles marinair, les ailes de raie et une carafe de la Saumer Blanc," said my wife with all the comfort of a girl who paid attention in her French lessons.^*

"Perfect!" exclaimed the waitress, flashing a smile and cooing at the baby. Then she turned to me. Now I don't want to overstate the case - heaven forbid - but nothing bothers the French more than a holidaying sauerkraut who has made no attempt whatsoever to learn their language.

"Hello," I said, and in unfaltering English "I would like the pâté, the steak (medium-rare) and a beer". I never paid attention at school but I felt my English was beyond criticism.

She definitely flinched. After the dizzying heights of my wife's French it is hardly surprising. For a moment I felt like a Victorian schoolboy braced for the paddle. There was no flashing smile and no cooing at the baby.

"And would you like a large or small beer?" she asked in crisp, Frenchified English. Her accent reminded me of the French aristocrats in Blackadder.^** For a brief, sombre moment everything stopped. All you could hear was the flapping of parasols, a couple of Frenchies lighting up and the gentle frumpling sound of me chewing on my lip.

"Large," I replied, "a pint would be perfect."

^{* My own rendition of her French with the help of Google Translater probably does not do it justice.
** If for some godforsaken reason you have not watched Blackadder then you should be shot must do so immediately.}

The restaurant was in Saumer

The Daily Wit

The Daily Wit set us a task to write a story using a (very bizarre) list of words. Time has been short and I wasn't going to attempt it, but over a lunchtime beer I had second thoughts. The required words are in bold. Oh, and I'm on holiday now, I will be MIA for two weeks, please come back and I'll be back on your blogs in two weeks' time.

The room was bare. Well, almost. The body had been removed, a chalk outline marked where it had lain. There was pool of blood on the floor. Beside the pool were a pair of toothpicks, their tips read with blood. On the mantelpiece was a solitary statue of Torquemada and an empty mug.

"What sort of sick low-life would do this?" said Inspector Smith, sniffing the mug.

"Do what?" replied Inspector Jones.

"Kill a man with a pair toothpicks before relaxing with a cup of Ugandan coffee."

Jones glanced out of the window. The bears were still trapped in glue. Bear-glue is a bit like mouse-glue, but stronger. Like its rodent counterpart, bear-glue is designed to hold the victim fast until death. Although clearly frustrated by the glue, which prevented them from moving and was irritating their tootsies, the bears were engaged in a furious debate about micro-lending. The credit-crunch is affecting everyone.

"Revenge?" suggested Jones, with a certain sardonic emphasis. He took a hip-flask out of his jacket pocket and knocked back some Jack Daniels, probably about a fifth.

Smith lit his pipe, assumed his favourite Sherlock pose and then cursed suddenly, a curse so deadly I'm reluctant to repeat it here.

"Neptune's Bathtub!" he swore, "it has to be so simple. I went on a 12 step program once, a course on detective work given by some twit dressed in a stupefying purple suit. He had horrible yellow skin, anyone would think he'd been eating radioactive isotopes or bitten by a tarantula or somethin'. He was a nut-case. One of my colleagues found him in a vacant lot blowing bubbles and pretending to play netball. Anyway it's all about reading between the lines."

"And?"

"There are no bloody lines and I don't have a bloody clue."

If I told you what I do for a living I would have to kill you

I entered the hairdressers in a state of fear and trepidation. I hadn't been in years. Literally. The last 5 years have spent in a sinusoidal wave. Wife shaves my head with clippers. Hair grows for a few months until it becomes a health hazard. Wife despairs and shaves my head again. Hair grows to an obscene length where it could potentially trip people up as I walk down the street. Wife shaves my head again, and so on.

Why break the cycle? Well for starters my wife hates shaving my head. I tend to mess about - like all men do when their partners cut their hair. "Stop that," she'll say, "leave me alone." I also have the job of cleaning up the hair which riles me beyond belief. I'd rather head down the post office on pensions day and wait for hours sweltering in a queue of elderly folk.

The two hairdressers were overweight middle-aged men who thought they were hip and trendy. Basically when it comes down to fashion there are a number of categories.

1) The fashionable.
2) Those who don't give a monkey's. Myself for example.
3) White middle-aged men who think they are it.

The bloke that cut my hair was clad in a tight red t-shirt stretched over his belly, surf shorts and flip-flops. His hair was short on top, but he had a pleated mullet. I thought those were illegal. Dumbass will be furious that I didn't take a photo and Mr Condescending will probably shed a few tears but I didn't get an opportunity. He was a frivolous babbler. Not that I could hear much of what he said, they had some RnB channel playing on an unimaginably large plasma. It nearly made my ears bleed. I did pick up some stories though.

Apparently a guy came in last week, claimed to drive a Porsche Turbo. 269mph, he said. Right, they said. Cliff Richard borrows it from time to time, he said. Right, they said. The engine starts when you do this, he said, splaying out fingers in Star Trek style.

Another guy came in with a mangy old sheepdog. The hairdresser crouched down and petted its head. "Don't go near her," said the owner, "she's a trained killer." "Oh," he replied, and asked about the guy's occupation. "If I told you that I'd have to kill you," he responded with total seriousness.

I love the fact that even though these guys were clearly nutters - they was deadly serious - they still had the awareness to go for haircuts. I think I'll go back there, just for the stories.