Monday, 1 September 2008


Afrika bambaataa,
It's transfer dealine day for a few more seconds ... now it's Tuesday. Have United signed Berbatov? Have they? I need to know. Anyway, while I sadly wait up here at 00.13am waiting to find out I thought I'd add some words to the wordalarium. First time in a while I know, but I've been away, ill, busy and rubbish at different times over the last month BUT, on Saturday, I was at a fete thing and a human male told me he had subscribed to this blog! Crazy shitweasel. But it gave me the kick up there arse I needed (cheers Carl) so here is another messy chapter of literals, clumsy sentences and unvarnished wordturds.
Chakka Demus and out
Silence filled the container again. Another puff of air somewhere to his right. Then another. And another. Rhythmic.
Gray felt his gut roll again as the thought struck him like a hammer to the face. A survivor?
As he turned slowly his beam of light illuminated violently painted walls. They spoke of struggle. The hyroglyphics of death. Bloody handprints scrabbled up and down the walls like a children's painting class spun out of hand. But then a flash of diamonds in the darkness. A pair of arrow white eyes looking at him. Gray moved closer but the eyes didn't move. The body didn't move. Yet there was clear life. Those eyes were burning with lucidity, focussed like shotgun barrells on the approaching figure.
Gray's disbelief rendered him momentarilly silent. But then he spoke.
"Are you hurt? Do you need medical help? Medic?"
For the first time the eyes blinked in the light, the body vanishing without their light. Gray aimed the torch. The man was sitting against the wall, huddled up cross legged. Clutching his knees to his chest. He was naked. Drenched in the bloodwater, his hair matted and dark with flecks of flesh, stuck to him like shrapnel. Comprehension and Gray were divorced.
"Can you walk? Can you climb?" he asked, pointing at the ladder.
The man did not move. Those eyes resumed their stare. Gray crouched down, his overcoat heavy as its tails floated on the bloodwater. He held out a hand.
"I won't hurt you. Friend," he said, resting his hand on his hear. "I will help you."
The eyes stared a few seconds longer, it felt like hours, before his lips began to shiver into life.
"H-h-h" he stammered, before releasing a word that sounded like a question. "Hold?"
"Yes, we'll get you out of the hold," said Gray reaching down to take the man by the arms and pick him to his feet. The man stood quickly, his wirey frame unnaturally strong. Gray took him to the bottom of the ladder, where the reflection of a pregnant moon shimmered on the moving blood.
"No! No, no," growled the man, suddenly fierce, flashing back into his corner and pushing his back up tight against the wall. "Nen. Hold. Nen hold, nen hold," he repeated over and over as tears began streaming down his face, running into the blood matted in his chest hair, crimson tears running down a stomach that was ghostly white beneath dried bloodstains.
"Farkas. Hold. Farkas. Hold," he garbled, pointing first at the skylight and then at his chest. "Farkas. Hold. Farkas. Hold."

Random observation at 00.18 on Sept 2, 2008. I thought Mark Hughes had waded into the shit with his mouth open at Man City but he's just pulled a million flowers out of his arse. Did he know about this takeover when he joined? Or has luck just dealt him a whole can of penis polish and a nice big rag?