I feel sorry for the masses. They have no idea. They do the nine to five thing or eight to six thing, or whatever it takes to pay the bills. They have no purpose. They just feed the machine. One way or another. Not me. I know my purpose. I have a mission. I'm a man on a mission. I won’t stop. No brakes allowed.
War Journal Entry 5/3
I've been traveling, hitting all the little sideshows and amusement parks. There's more than you think. I almost plugged a pair of mimes last week. Their act was so pathetic they had to be human. You can't fake that kind of crap. You never realize how big this country is until you see from the road. You don't realize how many damn bugs there are either. I could have scrapped them off the windshield using a putty knife. Thick as Mom's mashed potatoes.
I got a tip from one of my contacts. He's a UFO nut who makes a mean pot of chili. He's a news hound. Magazines and newspapers and tapes all over. We don't see eye to eye on many things. His theory about Atlantis being covered by the Gobi Desert is a crock. We both agree there's stuff going on that is kept very low on the general public's radar screen. Through the electronic grapevine, he heard about some farmer who found a crop circle in his field. No big deal right. Only the crop circle was in the shape of a smiley face. You don't see the talking faces on the national news networks broadcasting that little factoid, do you? Stick that in your Big Top Burger and see how it tastes.
War Journal Entry 6/3
I still have nightmares. Sometimes I dream I'm at the dentist. I'm strapped in, hooked up to the laughing gas. As I'm about to go under, I see this chalk skinned, pasty-faced monstrosity reach into my mouth with its four-fingered hand and yank out a rubber chicken. The chicken has my mother's face.
I no longer go to movie theatres. The smell of popcorn sickens me.
War Journal Entry 8/3
The crop circle was a bust. Damn tourists had trampled the area. Nothing to see. The farmer was still charging admission. Five bucks a pop to see stomped on corn stalks. I guess it beats working. He took my money with a gap-toothed smile. A waste of time this trip, except I did pick up a new laser scope at a gun show. Bang. Bang.
War Journal Entry 8/5
A bit of a scare today. I thought I was being followed by one of those damn Mini Cooper cars. Damn things look like toys. Turned out to be some young blond more interested in applying her mascara than chasing my ass. Too bad as she was very pretty. She can tailgate me anytime. Still, you can never be too careful. We know they prefer compact cars.
War Journal Entry 3/5
I haven't had much time to write. I needed to regroup, rethink my mission. Some fucker stole my notebook. Year’s worth of notes in some idiot's hands. He probably just threw it away. A blueprint for survival gone just like that.
But there is a ray of sunshine. I was having breakfast when the notebook was stolen. I went to the bathroom and then… poof. Gone. But my eggs were still there. So was the local newspaper. The headline said a new fast food joint was opening tomorrow. It's going to be the biggest in the area, complete with an indoor/outdoor playground. There's going to be prizes and a costume contest. There's even going to be a parade. They love parades. It's like candy. The occasion doesn't matter. I've seen them at St Patrick’s and Opening Days. They can't resist.
Since Crescent Cove, they are more subtle. They don't display themselves openly. They've gotten better at passing as human. That's why I didn't realize it before. All this time it was staring at me in the face.
I'll be at the opening.
War Journal Entry 4/5
Today is the day. I'm ready. Everything is cataloged, cleaned, and cocked.
To beat your enemy, you have to become your enemy. Crescent Cove haunts me. I will never have a normal life until they are extinct. I know this as I apply the pancake make up. I fluff out the multi colored curls of my wig. I pull on the mismatched golf trousers I picked up at a thrift store. The oversized shoes I'll put on when I'm there. It's humanly impossible to drive wearing them.
I imagine what it will be like, the laser scope targeting the face, one trigger away from making the red nose even redder, white stained crimson.
I hope there is a gaggle of them.
I have a mission. I have a destination.
The Golden Arches. Today and every day after.
Clob
by Michael Stone
This is a story about how I found faith - faith as opposed to belief - and like many stories, it begins with boy meets girl.
With her auburn hair and smooth, pale skin, her rosebud lips and deep expressive eyes, Catherine Hewson could have sat for Titian's 'La Bella' - or perhaps his 'Venus with a Mirror'. She reminds me of Jennifer Aniston before she got too skinny. She is what my father, Leonard Stromboldt senior, calls a 'dolly bird'. He also refers to the music charts as the Hit Parade and his jeans as 'action slacks'. Dad is a model train enthusiast. But I digress.
Catherine is a nurse at St Chad's and I your humble porter. We often see each other in passing. She all trim and neat in her crisp white uniform with her long hair tied back, sensible shoes clicking on the polished floors, me hauling trains of dirty laundry or wheeling some old geezer outside for a surreptitious smoke.
Aye, you know how it is. You're lonely and a pretty girl smiles at you. You begin to compare the smiles she gives other guys with the smile she graces you. Did the raised eyebrows and half-smile she gave to Doctor Murray the ENT specialist rate more than the nodding smile to the Security man who carefully watched her reverse her little Fiat Uno in every morning? And how did the 'Good morning' and accompanying beam she flashed at me compare to the admonishing smirk she invariably posed to Doctor Capdeville, St. Chad's dental surgeon?
I made the mistake of asking Clob.
"You want to get into this bird's knickers?" I drew a sharp breath. "There's more to it than that.
Why do you have to be so base?"
"It's what I am." Clob shifted his weight on the pepper pot and fixed me with a lopsided grin. We were having this 'discussion' in the staff canteen. (It's a very small canteen - just sixteen chairs at four tables.)
"And," I continued, "I know for a fact that she doesn't put it about. She is a nice girl. Decent and respectable."
"Oh, right. You mean frigid. I can see why she appeals to you then. All your hang-ups about sex." His small eyes glinted with pure malice. "Virgin."
Little bastard.
I can't remember precisely how old I was when Clob first put in an appearance, but it would be when I was about fourteen or fifteen. To begin with he was a blue fish with a goggle-mask and a tank on his back full of water. I remember telling Mum about him.
"I see," she said slowly. "And what does he say exactly, this fish?"
Which was also the first question Dad, the family doctor and finally the child psychiatrist asked me. The latter, a Doctor Wilson, was a splendid black guy with a warrior build and a beautiful mellifluous voice. He is the only person I've ever met who actually had leather elbow patches on his tweed sports jacket. I looked into his noble, high-cheekboned face and began the usual question dodging. He indulged me a time before turning to my mother who was sitting beside me in this green wool coat she always wore for important occasions like Sunday worship and hospital appointments. Would she leave just the two of us together? I felt nervous myself, sure, but Mum . . . she looked panic-stricken. It was in that moment I realised something that I - with my childish selfcentredness - had somehow failed to see before. Mum was weighed down with worry. No, more than worried, she was afraid.
"So we can have a nice friendly chat, Mrs Stromboldt. Man to man, so to speak."
She mouthed the words silently. Man to man? A frown formed on her brow.
"But he's just a boy." Then, capitulating in the face of authority, she shuffled out. It made me terribly sad.
When the door clicked behind her, Doctor Wilson moved his chair from behind the desk so he was sitting directly in front of me, our knees almost touching. "Right then, Leonard. Now that
Mum is out of the room, perhaps you can tell me what this is all about." He smiled a friendly smile, the effect being slightly marred by the overhead lights reflecting on his small round glasses.
"Clob," I said helplessly.
"Clob, indeed. You said a moment ago that you can see him right now?"
I nodded.
"And what is he telling you? I want to know. I won't be angry, I promise."
I cleared my throat. "He's- he's- "
"Go on."
"He's wondering if you've got a big . . . wotsit. A big doodah." A hole yawned in front of me; I rushed to fill it with chatter. "Only he says he's heard that your sort, black men, you know, have big-"
He laid a gentle hand on my knee. "Okay, that's okay."
He tipped his head back and addressed the ceiling. "It is perfectly natural for young men to compare themselves, especially when things are beginning to develop. And if a young man was to come to me concerned about the size of his penis, afraid that somehow he didn't measure up, then I would assure him that, although there is wide variation in the size of flaccid penises, most erect penises are of similar size."
"But I didn't mean-" I swallowed the rest of the sentence. In my dealings with adults, especially teachers for some reason, a denial had always seemed to be taken as proof of guilt. I sat very, very still. My cheeks were hot enough to fry an egg.
"That may or may not be of interest to you," he said to the room in general.
I didn't move a muscle.
He flashed me the winning smile again. "Relax, Lenny. Can I call you that? Good. Tell me, have you ever seen anyone else with something like Clob?"
I shook my head.
"And has anyone else ever seen Clob?"
"No." I knew where this was going. "So he's a figment of my imagination and that's why I'm here."
"In our own time. Don't let's jump to conclusions. Let me try something else. Have you ever heard of Sigmund Freud, Lenny? A bit before your time, before mine come to that, but he had a lot to say about people and the way the mind works. Old Sigggy believed that the psychic structure," he held up three fingers, "comprised the super-ego, the ego and the id. The super-ego is your conscience: all those values that you inherit from society and your parents. The id is your basic drives, your instincts for hunger, desire, revenge, pleasure, et cetera. And finally, we have your ego in the middle, the part of the you which strives to balance out the one against the other, the id versus the super-ego."
I frowned with concentration. "You mean like, I might want to do something that I'll enjoy, but if I know it's wrong I won't do it?"
"Because of feeling guilty. That would be one example, yes. Well done, Lenny." He removed his glasses and gave them a cursory polish on his jacket lapel before replacing them. "I'm wondering, Lenny, I'm wondering if Clob is a manifestation of your id? Suppose that you find many of the things you think about, or like to do, make you feel guilty. I'm wondering whether the natural prurience of a young man has become a burden of guilt? If so, might you not find it convenient to disassociate yourself from that voice? Food for thought, Lenny. Food for thought." He clapped me on the knee and looked at the heavy gold watch on his wrist. "We shall talk about this more next Thursday, young man. Let's call your mum back in, shall we?"
He stood and replaced his chair behind the desk.
"What will you be missing in school?"
"Maths," I said.
"We can make it another time, if you want?"
"No thanks. Thursday's fine."
"Hey! Penny for your thoughts, Leo." Clob waved a little piggy trotter.
Doctor Wesley Wilson never did get rid of Clob. He did warn me that the idea was not to dispel Clob but to integrate him, make him a part of my natural thought processes. Much to my shame, I lied to him in the end, telling both him and my parents that Clob was no more. I should be so lucky: two years of therapy and I've still got this abusive little swine following me around more than ten years on.
"I hope you are not ignoring me, Leo."
I know he's out to rile me when he calls me Leo. I hate the way he flips it off his tongue, putting a spin on the word so that it hangs in the air long after it's uttered.
"Thinking about the fridge?"
"She is not frigid," I fumed. The trouble with arguing with a manifestation of your id is that they know every chink in your armour. "She is probably old-fashioned, and that makes a refreshing change these days." I was aware as I said it how crass it sounded.
He pursed his lips and peered over the lip of my tray.
"Didn't know you liked tomato soup?"
He'd derailed me. "Um. I don't."
"Then why, my lionhearted Leo, have you got a steaming great bowl of the stuff in front of you, hmm?"
I braced myself for further ridicule. "I've, um, I've heard Catherine is a vegetarian."
Clob sucked his fat cheeks in? "Eating that stuff will really impress her, yeah?" He made a choking sound and put a trotter to his mouth. "Now I would have thought you'd prefer a girl that likes the taste of meat, if you get my drift."
He licked his snout salaciously.
"You really are a complete bastard, you know."
"I know," he said, and sniggered. He broke off midsnort and said, "Hey. The ice-maiden cometh."
I swallowed hard. If my careful planning came off, Catherine would sit next to me. I knew she didn't like the company of Jason Connelly, a nurse himself, and his two friends who frequented the next table, and that the tables behind me were already full. I tried to look cool.
"Hello. It's Leonard, isn't it? Do you mind if I...?"
Did I mind! "Not at all," I said, and smiled. Clob shot me a warning glance. I relaxed the face muscles. "Well," I said as she sat down to my left. "Well, well."
Clob slapped his forehead and groaned.
I went to spoon some soup up to my mouth. It ran through the tines of the fork I'd picked by mistake. I dabbed at my shirtfront with a paper napkin thinking, Jesus Christ! As I was doing so I glanced at her plate and saw what looked suspiciously like a ham salad.
"So much for that line of seduction, Leo."
I sub-vocalised something extremely rude.
"Hey, come on, Leonard," Clob smiled ruefully, "let's work at this together. I'm sorry I rubbed you up the wrong way." He looked repentant, or as repentant as a little red pig with wraparound shades, horns and a pointed tail can. "She is quite something, isn't she?"
I risked a glance at Catherine. She was daintily folding a lettuce leaf up into a compact parcel. She caught me looking at her as she popped it in her mouth, her stormgrey eyes twinkling as though she could hear my thoughts. Her complexion was like silk. "She certainly is," I said silently. "She certainly is."
A machine-gun laugh came from the next table. Stage whispering, lewd gestures and more guffawing followed it. One of the male nurses was candidly bragging to the others about his bedroom exploits by the look of things. I saw Catherine's eyes flash in annoyance. I caught her eye and tried to make it clear with a shake of the head that I too shared her disgust. I couldn't tell if she got the message.
Clob said mildly, "If you had any balls, Leonard, you'd tell those louts that there was a young lady present."
I kept my head down and cursed inwardly, knowing that what Clob said was true. But I hate to cause a scene, and I knew that the three lads would easily put me in my place if I dared caution them. I can come up with all manner of witty repartee and smouldering put-downs, but only long after the event. Anyway, I'd procrastinated too long - the moment had passed. Maybe next time. I sipped on a spoonful of soup and wished Clob would give me some useful advice.
"Hey! I'm doing my best."
Someone scraped back a chair at the table. "Is there anyone sitting here?"
"Does it look like there's anyone sitting there, you garlic-crunching pillock?" said Clob, a.k.a. Mr Tact.
"Um. No," I said, looking up into the tanned features of Doctor Capdeville. He gave me an easy smile and sat down. I sa
w with dismay that he had a ham salad like Catherine. It seemed terribly important.
"We've had it now, Leonard." Clob tipped his head at Catherine. "I think she's got something on with the frog."
I followed his gesture and, I must confess, I didn't like what I saw. The handsome Xavier Capdeville was clearly garnering all her attention. I took a sip of my soup. It tasted bitter.
There was raucous laughter from the next table again. Jason Connelly made a ring with a thumb and forefinger and collapsed into a fit of giggles. I didn't catch what was said but Catherine was crunching a radish with unnecessary vigour. Doctor Capdeville took the scene in instantly and, carefully putting down his knife and fork, rose from his seat. For a brief moment it looked like Catherine would object but Xavier had raised a placatory hand: I am in charge here, it said. He calmly went to the next table and placed the masterful hand on the shoulder of the nearest nurse. He spoke quietly in his ear, motioned to Catherine and then gently patted the shoulder again. He straightened and returned to his seat. One of the lads, looking supremely embarrassed, gave Catherine an apologetic grin before turning away. You could have heard a pin drop.
Catherine's smile was enigmatic.
"Thank you, Doctor Capdeville."
"Oh please, it's Xavier."
"You've got to hand it to the frog, Leonard. That was slick."
Xavier spoke in his heavily accented English. "The problem with English men is that they have no romance in their soul."
Clob jumped up and paced across the table. "You aren't going to let the French git get away with that are you, Leonard? C'mon, stick up for yourself!"
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