Monday, 12 November 2007

WORLD-SPORT: Act 1, scene 1.

[Inside the tepid left ventricle of Prince Walid bin Talal bin Abdul Aziz al-Saud. Pork bellies settle at 83.75. TINTIN, MILOU and DELOYT & TUSH scud around on jetskis coloured catachan green, space wolves grey and scab red, respectively. CLING-FILM is swept with the flux back and forth from the aortic to the mitral valve.]

MILOU: Surely there is no shortage of contention and fraction in this microcosm to begin with? But all that said, I would potentially be interested in signing on, although my own thoughts on most subjects (both literary and political) are almost numbingly defeatist at this stage (plagued by that irksome elf named 'Why bother, you impotent middle-class parasite?').

TINTIN: You should *do it* for the salary. This will work in your favour, e.g. as an excuse - when you are confronted with accusations of belonging to a terrorist organisation you can say you were just doing it for the fanny.

MILOU: It seems a little too tribal, in a 'how many Marxists does it take to change a lightbulb' sort of way. Trying to dispel the spectre of academic irrelevance through force of numbers. We repeat ourselves annually.

TINTIN: Don't worry, take your time. We'd like a kind of hands-on feel. It's important to assume our readership isn't the kind that can keep its ego starved of something to relate to for more than seven words.

CLING-FILM: It is with strange malice that I distort the world.

MILOU: Do delete me if deemed too conspicuously empty of content.

TINTIN: If you do not wish to middle-manage personal reflexions, prodromal life theses, targetless character assassinations etc. into your 'content' as I choose to, if you feel just too squeamish about letting a mutated prismatoid of what is indefensibly *you* trot into the breach, that is ok. We have lots of room for other kinds of focus.

MILOU: Not sure if I believe in the existence of the 'indefensibly *you*', if that term is supposed to indicate more than an amalgam of genetic tendencies and institutionally-inculcated prejudices.

TINTIN: It isn’t.

MILOU: Your enthusiasm is becoming infectious.

TINTIN: I know. I like the idea so much my nose has started to bleed.

DELOYT & TUSH: [whisper aside.] I can only feel inside the logics of this pathology when I’m high. I think this is what happens. I superglue your face to every moment of real-world fatigue. In this escape route out of the reality-principle I jettison immanent cognizance of my own real problems. This liberation is projected and intensified onto you as a black hole for jealousy. It is only the force of my own desire to exit a material field in which you do not operate locally that floods it with your phenomenal influence. But what comes first, fatigue or desire? In either case, I am sorry to have treated you as an alibi for my life, particularly as you never behaved as one during the brief period of our association.

CLING-FILM: [compellingly.] What are 'usufructuary' rights, and how is the concept of usufruct related to the problem of sustainability?

DELOYT & TUSH: I am letting you go. [looking in mirror.] I am a whole human being. I am letting you go. I choose B.

TINTIN: What? A mangled set of bollocks over three pacmen, a snake and a spiked planet? It’s C, blatantly.

MILOU: May I provide a multiple-choice answer?

[Enter via aortic valve ____ proceeded immediately by ____’s temple, the barrel of an Uzi and the hand of the Calpol 6+ kid.]

____: It’s over! Your point’s been made! What about those innocent people out there?

TINTIN: [packing heat.] Step aside.

____: Shoot! Shoot me!

[**&^%-5.98 / -1.37%%%!!!% =$$$ etc.**.]


____: It’s cold.

TINTIN: Insh’ Allah. I did what was necessary and I won’t apologise for it.

MILOU: Is that some kind of a joke?

TINTIN: I don’t see anyone laughing here, General. Well, I mean, apart from that jizzed-on biltong ring vaguely resembling a chocolate krispy kreme [TINTIN gestures towards ____ who writhes on the ground in the two pints of blood already escaped from his kneecaps.], he looks pretty amused.

DELOYTE & TUSH: [to ____. ] How much flexion do you need?

A REED PUMPED TIP TO TIP WITH MDMA: I just…want to be touched.

[oboes sound.]

MILOU: Stand down.

[violins sound.]

MILOU: This is a technology which could produce missiles as well. Stand down.

[French horn sounds.]

MILOU: A possible way to avoid a possible bomb…

____ :[to DELOYTE & TUSH, sputtering.] When we were thirteen we used to lie on the sofabed in the front room shooting the tourists on the piazza beneath with our BB guns. Later we’d take it in turns to masturbate and tell each other stories. It didn’t matter that we were both guys. Back then there was something automatically erotic about the other’s imagination. Each incidental detail became hypersexual, the baseball cap worn backwards by the girl with chin-length peroxide blond hair sitting backwards on the swivel chair smoking a cigarette and looking at me while I apparently felt a plant-like readiness for death, I still think about it sometimes. [Blacks out.]

TINTIN: [to ____. ] God, you’re a jackass.

Fade out


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There was also this scaffolding that TinTin feigned into with Milou-Mous-Co they had this dinosaur cackle pinned out of their stick pads. What else does you remember about that night? Lonely? Who put their hand in a vacuum and got crabs. Did one of you dream about it and change my first comment?