9781910981729 (2 page)

MY SPECIAL GUEST TONIGHT

“Open that mother fucking safe or I’ll blow your mother fucking brains all over this nice carpet!” shrieked the masked gunman as he pressed his gun into the temple of a portly middle-aged female bank clerk. Evidently he’d picked the wrong person to intimidate “Fuck you, asshole!” she screamed and brought her handbag up in a swift and surprisingly powerful arc, clipping the gunman smartly round the head. Falling back stunned, the man inadvertently fired his weapon. The bullet hit the ceiling and ricocheted though one of the bank’s windows straight into the head of an elderly man driving cautiously down the small town’s main street. His head exploded like an overripe tomato and he fell forward onto the steering wheel. The car careered out of control for a hundred metres then veered dramatically left into a graveyard, ploughed through a crowd of mourners and ended up, hood downward, in a newly dug grave, much to the astonishment of a priest who was about to conduct the burial.

The applause was rapturous. The lights went up in the studio and still the audience laughed and applauded. The chat show’s suave and experienced presenter smiled a thin smile and addressed the camera. “And that, ladies and gentleman, was a sneak preview from
Killing Kids for Cash
, the latest work from that enfant terrible of new wave Hollywood,
Tarquin Querrin. It’s his follow up to the massively successful
Lets Torture the Bitch,
which the
New Yorker
memorably described
as ‘A triumph of nihilist deconstruction. Sexual politics with a switchblade, real blood and dark humour. Refreshingly brutal.’
I don’t know what it means Ladies and Gentlemen, but here he is, the hero of the hour, to tell us all about it.”

Tarquin grinned at his interviewer. Christian DeVille had the biggest chat show on the planet and was not to be underestimated. Christian’s reputation as a keen intellect and a merciless interrogator did not faze him. He was basking in the glow of success. Four hit movies in a row. The studio would back him whatever he said as the big bucks he’d created rolled into their back accounts like a tidal wave. He was untouchable. His words and thoughts were valuable and meaningful. Had he not won two Oscars in row? Did not the biggest stars in the business fawn before him to read his profanity littered, pop culture dialogue? The word ‘genius’ had been used on a few occasions. He wouldn’t dispute that. He knew what sold and relished his notoriety.

Christian started to move things along. “I must tell you, Ladies and Gentlemen, Tarquin nearly didn’t make it here tonight. He had a car accident on the way to the studio but being the trooper he is he insisted on coming. Are you sure you’re OK Tarquin?”

“Just fine Christian,” he laughed back. “Just a slight ringing in my ears.” Rapturous applause again exploded throughout the studio.

“Ask not for whom the bells toll Tarquin,” observed Deville dryly, then he started. “Why do you like violence so much?” The question came out like a whiplash.

Surprised by the interviewer’s tone but unfazed, Tarquin relaxed into his well-worn patter. “In a world numbed into boredom, violence is the new intellect; it cleanses and focuses the psyche. And, let’s face it. It can be funny. For example, remember the scene in
Slaughter High
where the cheerleader stabs the principal in the crotch with his own letter opener? It’s got everything. The realisation of teenage angst, a young girl emerges into true womanhood by a positive act of showing a mature man that she’s not to be oppressed, and her comment ‘That’s for my grades,’ is genuinely funny.”

The audience clapped in unbridled enthusiasm as they recalled the now famous scene, a scene made even more memorable because the cheerleader was played by an actress previously famous for her ‘good girl’ roles. She’d done everything to get the part and the credibility that it would give her as a serious actress. Tarquin mentioned this fact to Christian who responded, “Why does that scene make her a serious actress?”

“It’s about empowerment Christian, don’t you see?” replied Tarquin cheerfully, warming to his subject. “In the movie she’s empowered by what she does and, off screen, she’s empowered by the success of what she achieved in the movie. This just shows, as I’ve always said, violence can be a positive force. It just depends on how you look at it.”

“How about from the point of view of the victim?” the interviewer replied almost absent-mindedly. For the first time in many years Tarquin realised he was confronted by someone who was not following the adoration line. He was about to speak when his interrogator asked, “Have you ever experienced real violence Tarquin?” The audience quieted eager to hear the reply. The director was aware that the studio seemed to be getting uncomfortably warm.

“Christian, it’s well documented that I never discuss my private life, my movies talk for me,” he responded with a conviction he didn’t feel. “Ah, I see,” replied the interviewer, stroking his chin thoughtfully and continuing, “So you write about violence because you know it makes you money. And as you’ve never experienced it, you feel that it can be funny?”

Uncomfortable with the line in questioning but still relatively unruffled, Tarquin responded. “I didn’t create violence. Violence is all around us. I merely reflect society and put a humorous twist on it. I’m a mirror if you like, and I give people what they want, that’s why they go to see my movies.”

“Ahh,” murmured Christian. “You deny that your work influences people?”

“Absolutely,” Tarquin responded.

Looking through his notes Christian continued. “It says here that you have said, on the record, that you were influenced by
A Clockwork Orange, The Wild Bunch, Dirty Harry, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Deliverance
…shall I go on?’’

“Yes but that was creatively,” Tarquin responded.

Christian pressed his point. “Your creativity is expressed through the scripts you write, but does it concern you that those who cannot write scripts may manifest these influences in other ways?” The audience was now totally silent.

Tarquin tried to marshal his thoughts. God, it was hot in this studio. “Look, if people get the message that violence is acceptable from these movies then that’s not my fault.” he blustered.

“So you accept the fact that your work can have an affect on others?” snapped Christian. “But you’ll gladly take the money no matter how much damage you cause.” The last comment was a statement.

The auteur made to reply but it was a difficult question to answer, difficult because Deville had got him cornered and he had started to feel decidedly unwell. His head started to pound. The accident must have affected him more than he imagined, “I…I…you know, it’s awfully hot in this studio Christian.”

Christian was solicitousness itself. “Oh Tarquin, I’m so sorry. There’s you not feeling too good and I’m giving you a hard time.”

His head banging, Tarquin fought to keep his eyes in focus as Deville’s calm voice enveloped him. “I didn’t know you didn’t like my movies,” the director mumbled.

Deville’s eyes flashed with purpose. “Oh, but I do, Tarquin, oh but I do. In fact I love them…they’re right up my alley. I select my show’s guests very carefully. It’s not easy to get in front of me but now I’m convinced you had what it took to get my attention…I had to be sure you see?”

Now, definitely feeling extremely sick, Tarquin was aware of dampness on his shirt. He looked down at it, trying to focus. His whole torso was soaked with blood. He made to cry out but no words would come. He tried to move, but his movements were sluggish as if his body was no longer his. In blind panic he looked up. The studio audience was nowhere to be seen. Only Deville remained, studying him from his chair.

“Goodness Tarquin, that accident must have been worse than you thought,” he said, and got up from his chair. He pulled Tarquin up with a surprising strength and started helping him across the now empty studio. Holding onto him for dear life, the director mumbled, “I didn’t think it was that bad at the time.”

“Yes I know,” replied DeVille. “It often happens that way. But don’t you worry, I’m going to make sure you get extra special attention.”

By now they’d reached a door at the far side of the studio. “Here we are,” murmured the interviewer. He opened the door and Tarquin felt a rush of heat and saw flickering flames. DeVille roughly pushed the director through it. “See you shortly,” he said, then gently closed the door and paused briefly to pull a bright silk handkerchief from his pocket.

He bent over and wiped the dust off an inscription in gothic script on the door:
Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.

- The End -

DEITY

When he first found out it had been quite fun. He’d been too young to find it scary or even awesome, such is the capriciousness of youth. Though now elderly, he could still, understandably, recall the exact moment the differences between himself and everyone else manifest themselves. He’d been standing on a school rugby field on his thirteenth birthday.

As a gangly youth he had scowled into the wind, bemoaning the wretched weather, his maths teacher, his raging acne and pretty much everything a pubescent teenager has to contend with. The cold rain lashed down as he shivered and walked miserably over to take his place in the scrum. He growled under his breath, “Stop bloody raining,” and it did…just like that. His mood prevented him from linking his comment to the change in the weather. From his place in the second row of the scrum he pushed and shoved, but the opposition was holding firm. Someone kicked his shin bringing a flash of anger to the surface. “Move!” he shouted, and immediately the opposition’s front line started loosing ground dramatically.

When the ball came loose he broke from the scrum and hung back behind the line of play, willing it to be passed to him. It was. He ran with it for all he was worth. All he could think was, ‘I’m going all the way.’ He knew it. As he ran he felt an empowerment that he’d not known before. Looking toward the rapidly approaching line he saw the imposing hulk of one of his particularly obnoxious classmates. A huge, squat and unattractive individual carrying significantly more weight and less brain cells than him. There was no way he could force himself past this guy. No, he decided in that instant…nobody was going to stop him. As his feeling of empowerment increased he thought, ‘I’m going to hit this guy like an express train and he’s going to go over like a bowling pin,’ which is exactly how it happened. When he’d touched the ball down for the try he turned to see his enraged and bloodied classmate advancing toward him with fire in his eyes and bunched fists. ‘I’m going to knock him out with one punch,’ thought the victorious try scorer and, inevitably, that’s exactly what happened.

In between the trials and tribulations of normal teenage existence he eventually joined the dots and considered the opportunities. All he had to do was to state what he wanted and it happened or he got it. When the inkling of what was going on began to occur to him he started with little things. A good exam result here and there, an instant respite to his acne and increased athletic prowess. By his fourteenth birthday his requests had matured a little, though only a little. Whilst he’d increased his intelligence level and therefore his exam results, he’d also taken delight during a routine physical in stunning the school doctor with the size of his penis. “Never seen anything like it,” the old man had murmured unsteadily in the staff room over coffee.

As he sat in his rocking chair he smiled as he reminisced. The memory put him in a jovial frame of mind. It had taken him until he was eighteen to fully realise that he was a God. Not the God perhaps but certainly a God. “Let there be tea and current buns,” he chuckled and, as he tucked in, he continued his reveries.

The eighteen-year-old God was certainly a very different individual from the pale thirteen year old who had stood on the rugby pitch five years previously. He was now tall, impossibly handsome and rich beyond the dreams of avarice. By the time he’d reached sixteen he was banned from every bookie in the country. Luckily the same constraints were not prevalent in the stock market. His fortune just grew and grew. Nor was he selfish with his requests. Much to his doctor’s dismay his father went from a wheelchair bound asthmatic to a marathon runner almost overnight. To his father’s amazement his mother regained the looks of someone thirty years younger while he’d been out for a game of golf.

Of course he tried to confide in his parents and indeed when he demonstrated a few tricks to prove his point they seemed impressed. Water into wine was always a good one, but bringing back the family cat that they’d all seen run over some years previously was a bad move. His mother became hysterical and his father bit off the end of his pipe. He did the only thing he could under the circumstances. He told them that they were to forget that he’d ever said anything and of course they did. He had the same reaction when he spoke to a priest. In retrospect he thought that the cleric’s hysterical screech of “Get thee behind me Satan,” had been a bit harsh.

So he kept his gifts a secret. His vast multinational holding company grew to the gross domestic product of a first world country. His power and wealth enabled him to bed the most attractive of women though his looks alone would have sufficed. The very few that weren’t impressed were just told to find him irresistible, which they immediately did. He became bored, so he told himself he wasn’t, then immediately he wasn’t bored…until he was again. He’d considered issuing the instruction that he would never be bored again, but he realised that he’d be kidding himself and that his lack of boredom wouldn’t be real. This was the first time that the young God had entertained an even vaguely philosophical thought.

By twenty-one he’d sold his huge empire. He ensconced himself in a sumptuous London apartment and read. He absorbed the great philosophers, the Bible, Buddhist teachings, the Koran…he sought the knowledge of the ages in order to understand what he was. A couple of weeks into his investigation he realised that the study was needless. He simply had to ask for ultimate knowledge and that’s what he would get. So he requested it.

In that moment he was aware, with empirical experience, of the true nature of all things. When the revelation was complete he shakily muttered, “Let there be a bloody large gin and tonic,” and took a big slug of it. Ultimate knowledge can be a heady brew for an immature twenty one year old.

In that nano second he understood that ultimate knowledge was limitless unless of course he chose that it was otherwise, which didn’t really help him much. Nonetheless, what he had experienced of infinity was enough to make him realise it was a big place where anything was possible because that’s what infinity was all about. Infinity, from what he’d found out, included just about everything. Opportunity, distance, time…the whole scheme.

His next request, born out of desperation more than anything, was the only command he’d ever uttered which he didn’t believe would be answered. Respectfully clearing his throat, he demanded God’s presence. A moment later, after an impressive light display, the smoke cleared and he found himself sitting opposite…himself. “No,” he said, “I mean
the
God, not a God.” “Same thing old chap,” his alter ego replied. After a rather fractious discourse his doppelganger vanished, leaving him with the knowledge, in no uncertain terms, that he was God and that was the end of it.

As days go, it was a challenging one for the young man. Learning that he was the creator of all things brought with it a measure of responsibility which he decided to address assiduously. He waved his hand and, at a stroke, rid the world of all known disease and insisted that all guns on the planet would no longer function. Considering that he’d ended a day on a high note, he took to his bed.

Two weeks later most of the Middle East was running rivers of blood with hand-to-hand combat in the streets, as was most of Africa. Old scores were being settled with a vengeance. A month later there was rioting in most of the civilised world as the pharmaceutical companies, hospitals and arms companies laid off vast numbers of staff. Stock markets plummeted and prices skyrocketed. ‘Opps,’ he thought, and immediately changed everything back to the way it had been.

And so it went on. His overnight cure for Aids caused a population explosion and a resultant famine in Africa. His creative command that cars could run on tap water engendered traffic congestion that simply meant that societies ceased to function and whole economies collapsed. So he stopped interfering. He took himself off to a small cottage and lived a normal life and even allowed himself to grow old. Even if one had ultimate understanding, he reasoned, you could never predict the outcome. Naturally he could command an outcome but if he did where would free will and choice be? If he interfered that would make him a dictator and not God. People, he had learned, were not to be manipulated at his will even with the best of intentions, even if he was God. As he rocked on his chair he smiled to himself in the knowledge that he had at last learned wisdom.

- The End -