A Christmas Arsehole

Hello all! I'm delighted to say that this latest piece of writing has been kindly lent to me by Ian Hewett. Please do follow his blog - http://www.dystopianfuchsia.com. I like this piece a lot. It's funny, has a nice little ending and attacks two people I dislike intensely. Enjoy, and happy Christmas!

A Christmas Arsehole

As he marched proudly around his extensive gardens, Ebenezer Edmonds saw the disgusting peasant folk in the putrid village at the foot of the imposing hill. He did not care that they were poor, diseased or miserable; he was used to living the life of a king here in Crinkly Bottom. Opening his heavy oak front door, he slammed it shut behind him, teetering comedy stacks of gold coins scattering noisily to the stone floor.

As he decanted the port, there was a knock at the door. Opening it reluctantly, he was sickened by the sight that greeted him. Carol singers, some of whom were old enough to know better, flanked by snot-nosed guttersnipes. They grabbed Silent Night by the throat, before kicking it mercilessly and finally murdering it. Once the dirge had ceased, a small, dirt-smudged child propped up on a single crutch held out a hat, containing all of 5 pence and a couple of mismatched buttons. Ebenezer scoffed, knocked the hat from his trembling fingers, and reached for his oversized cordless telephone, a keepsake from his Swap Shop days. "Get off of my property," he snarled calmly, "before I call the police." The group trudged away, dejected, and he once more slammed his expensive portal shut behind him.

That night, he made his way to his bedroom, adorned in his antique Victorian dressing gown, clutching his golden oil lamp, reflecting brilliantly in his genuine Rolex. His four-poster bed was a welcome, but lonely sight. Getting comfortable, he was woken by a rustling noise. Shocked, about to press his panic button which would summon twenty armed riot police officers, a small, glowing, bearded figure emerged from behind a curtain. "Who... who are you?" he stuttered to the transparent visitor. The large, obviously fake beard was pulled away, revealing a familiar face. "Jacob? Jacob Beadle?" he winced. "But you're dead!"

"Ahhh," said the spirit. "You thought I was dead! But... well, yes. Yes I am." He coughed, needlessly. "Anyway, I'm just here to tell you that you're going to be visited by three spirits this very night."

"So, another two, then?" asked Ebenezer.

Jacob sighed, and explained further.

"You're no spirit! You're an hallucination! An hallucination in a false beard! You're nought but an out-of-date slurp of milk, or a crumb of undigested cheese, a dream that's most unwelcome!"

"Nah," dismissed the entity, "I'm the real deal. Bad luck."

"But why me? Why are they visiting? Why can't they just leave me alone?"

"Because you're a bastard, Ebenezer. Everybody knows it. My friends are going to be teaching you a lesson, because you sorely bloody need it."

With a pantomimic gust of wind and a flash-bang for added effect, he was gone.

Ebenezer snorted. "Bollocks," he thought, and fell asleep.

Soon enough, he was woken by a chilling breeze. Stood at the foot of his bed was the first of the visitors. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Past," he said.

"You're Mike Smith," replied a bemused Ebenezer.

"Right, enough exposition, I'm here to show you the past, and where you may have gone wrong."

Ebenezer was led outside to a ghostly helicopter. "You do know how to fly this thing?" he asked nervously. The ghost just laughed. Within moments, they were outside the BBC studios, its italicised logo of yore hanging proudly from the building.

"This, Ebenezer, is Christmas Day, 1988." He led him to a festively-decorated studio. "Recognise him?" The ghost indicated a happy-looking man in a very bright woolly jumper, addressing the camera cheerfully.

"That's me! Look how young I am!"

"And happy. Don't forget happy."

"Yes, yes, yes."

"You're voluntarily giving your Christmas morning to broadcast to a nation of adoring children, spreading cheer and joy with every word, something you did for fifteen years."

Ebenezer nodded wanly.

"I will now show you where it all went wrong." With a click of his transparent fingers, the scenery changed. They were suddenly in a replica of his living room, looked upon by a studio audience. "This is 1999, and your, ahem, House Party." A large pink-costumed man Blobby-Blobbied through them harmlessly, and there was Ebenezer, slightly older, but the joy had gone. "This is the very moment you changed. This is the very moment you started hating people."

It was true; Ebenezer could see it in his younger self's eyes. He had made so much money, he wanted to have the time to spend it, and began resenting the people who adored him so. A tear in his eye, he was suddenly back in his bedroom, and the ghost had gone.

Shaken by what he had experienced, he tried to sleep once more, but was interrupted by a second ghost, standing there smugly, trousers pulled up way too far.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," he drawled. "Let me show you the effects of your actions, you horrible little man."

"Where are you taking me, spirit?" moaned Ebenezer, as they descended the hill to the village. "It's cold and I'm tired."

"Shut up," charmed the ghost. The village was ramshackle, and crowds of hooded teenagers surrounded Spar, demanding that innocent passers-by go inside and buy them cigarettes. Finally, they reached a run-down house in the middle of a terrace. "This is the house of the carol-singing child you berated earlier."

Peering through the window, the boy shivered on the threadbare sofa, his mum and dad either side of him, trying to keep warm. "What's that they're watching on the telly?" asked Ebenezer. He squinted.

"That is X Factor," answered the ghost proudly. "Though I failed to get the song to number one, there's still blanket coverage across the airwaves. Since your decision to no longer provide festive cheer on Christmas morning, people have lost hope, and the true meaning of Christmas has gone, clearing the way for people like me to fill the gap." Ebenezer fogged up the window with his icy breath, feeling sorry for the miserable-faced family. "Merry Christmas," chortled the ghost, his chilling laughter echoing, as the surroundings blurred and shifted back to his bedroom once more, leaving him alone again.

As he struggled to sleep once more, a glow filled the room. There, at the foot of his bed, was a hooded figure. "And who might you be?" Silence. "The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, I imagine. Well, there's no need for you. I've learned my lesson."

The silent figure simply beckoned, and Ebenezer felt compelled to obey. Walking edgily towards the spirit, the spectre grabbed his arm, and their surroundings blurred and shifted once more.

Ebenezer found himself stood in a bleak graveyard, silhouettes of crumbling buildings lining the horizon. He could see crashed cars, blinking neon signs fizzling into nothingness against closed shops, shutters rattling in the wind. In the distance, a gang of hooded teenagers were terrorising an old lady. "Where are we? When are we?"

"The future. A future of your creation," growled the ghost at last.

"Me? What did I do?"

"You selfishly stayed away from television for many years, draining the message of Christmas from people's souls. Society has collapsed."

"No! I didn't cause this!" The ghost did not answer, placing a gloved hand on a gravestone. Ebenezer could not make out its epitaph. "Tell me what I must do to change it!" Still no answer. He walked angrily towards the ghost. "Answer me!" Through blurred vision, he finally saw the words on the gravestone:

HERE LIES

LIGHT ENTERTAINMENT

AND EBENEZER EDMONDS

MAY THEY FIND THE PEACE THEY

DEPRIVED OTHERS OF FOR SO

MANY YEARS

He tore the hood away from the figure, revealing a twisted version of his own visage. Ebenezer's mouth dropped wide open, and let loose a deathly scream. His doppelgänger laughed, as he pushed him into the open grave. Landing awkwardly with a sickening thump, the ghost began filling the grave with earth. Ebenezer's scream was muffled and silenced.

He woke with a start, brushing frantically at his hair and immaculate little beard. No earth. Had it all been a dream? It did not matter, for his heart was filled with joy, sickeningly happy at being alive and well. He had a duty.

Running from his house, still in his nightclothes, he saw the hoodies outside Spar, regular as clockwork. "What day is it?"

"It's Christmas, innit, you tosser," came the unbroken-voiced reply.

Ebenezer did a little dance, ran into the shop, and returned with a multi-pack of Benson & Hedges and a large bottle of White Lightning. He gladly gave the cigarettes and alcohol to the under-age hooligans.

"Fanks," said one.

"Fucking twat," said another.

Ebenezer did not care. He danced all the way home; it was time for a comeback. He collected his large cordless brick, and frantically dialled the BBC. Then ITV. Neither were interested. But, he was too happy still to be put off now. He rang Channel 4, and though it was too late to make a programme for Christmas Day, they instantly gave him The Random Box Game to host, and suggested he ring Sky One, to see if they may be interested in giving him a programme for Christmas Day next year.

He paused, and thought about his experiences from the night before. "Sky One?" he said, disappointed at the suggestion. Ah, well. It was a nice idea while it lasted. He hung up the phone, and went back to bed.

Ian Hewett

Roy Keane

I was asked by a friend to write a piece about everyone's least favourite Irish footballer Roy Keane. So I came up with this little composition. It's not great, but I enjoyed writing it as it allowed for some comic flourishes in amongst the angst. Enjoy!


“And the next competitor please.”

The man with the beard stands up, and walks directly to the black chair. No fear. No deviation. He sits, sitting bolt upright in the chair, and fixes his gaze on the presenter.

“And your name, please.”

“Royston Maurice Keane.”

“And your age?”

“None of your business.”

“And your specialist subject please?”

“Royston Maurice Keane.”

“One minute on Roy Keane, starting now...Where was Keane born?”

“Cork.”

“Correct. How many goals did Keane score for Manchester United?”

“It does not matter.”

“Correct. What was Keane's considerd opinion of Mick McCarthy, the colourful Yorkshireman who managed the Republic of Ireland for the 2002 World Cup?”

“A fucking bollocks.”

“Correct. What are the names of Keane's two labradors?”

“Labrador crosses. “Lucky” and “Scarfface.”

“Correct. How many caps did Keane win for his country?”

“Enough.”

“Correct! What is Keane's favourite movie?”

“'Natural Born Killers' when sober. 'PS. I Love You' when drunk.

“What about when he's tipsy?”

“Royston Maurice Keane does not get tipsy.”

“Correct. In a question posed to him in 2005, who did Keane reveal as the greatest player of all time?”

“Royston Maurice Keane.”

“Correct. How many times...” BEEP BEEP BEEP “I've started so I will finish...How many times did Keane win the European Cup?”

“Zero.”

“INCORRECT! Once, in 1999.”

“I didn't fucking play.”

“Thankyou Roy Keane, you scored...7 points!”

He walks back to his seat next to the other contestants. He doesn't know who they are. They look weak. Bottlers. He can smell the fear off of them.

In the General Knowledge round he gets zero points. He does not bother with General Knowledge. General Knowledge is a subject for pussies. For the mentally weak, pretending they are strong-minded by learning random bits of useless crap which no-one needs to know. He does not need to know.

Seven points, officially in last place. But everyone knows he's won. Deep down, they know – the presenter, the contestants, the audience, the sound crew, the producer – they all know.

There is only one winner tonight. Always only the one winner.

ROYSTON MAURICE KEANE.




Patrick Campbell, 2011

Sixteen Nails

After three pieces of fiction by myself, here's the first piece by a guest writer. If you have anything you'd like me to read and put up on here, please do e-mail me - the more the merrier after all, and it saves you readers getting bored of reading my stuff all the time. I asked Daniel to e-mail me this story. He wrote it about 2 years ago now, but it's always stuck in the back of my mind. Dark, sinister, mysterious, worrying...and that's just him. What I love about this story, having read it several times now, is how I don't know what the hell is exactly going on. It's thought-provoking, in that sense, and is genuinely scary at places. Enjoy!

"Julie was my first love. Her curly hair couldn’t make its mind up if it was brown or blonde. She started calling it mousey blonde when she reached puberty. I called it dirty blonde for other reasons. I was eighteen and she was sixteen, just about as socially awkward as me. Her father was a bit worried about her not ever having had any boyfriends yet so he enlisted my help. At the time I was a Saturday boy in his Hardware Store, selling nails one by one because as Mr Hutchings used to say ‘singles mean sale, packs mean bankruptcy.’

I only ever buy anything in packs now, or at least a container or some form of outer protection. I like kicking capitalism in the balls.

But I do owe the old fool something. One day in the autumn, when the leaves were clogging up the drains and the women had dug out their annual headscarves I dragged on my first ever cigar. I started of steadily, one every fortnight, a thing of beauty and pleasure to look forward too. Occasionally I would smoke them when in bed with Julie which was rare as her underwear was glued to her body. Now I smoke them every day. The fumes waft over Julie every day although she doesn’t smell it. She just lies there silently under the floorboards. Dead. Her father unknowing of a family size pack of nails through every major artery.

Five nails in the lower limbs. Terrific screams. Two in the abdomen, the anterior and the posterior. Blood pours. Everywhere. Eyes roll back. The chest takes three. She is dead but still there are nails to be hammered. Just with slightly less vigour. Morals are key to any killing. Another quintet for the upper limbs. I can feel her getting colder. Blue lips but still I have twenty nails and sixteen of those will do for the neck and head. To this day the remaining four live in an old cigar box on my bedside table.

Afterwards my first thought was to reach for a smoke. But since Julie’s father had given me a liking for the finer kind of tobacco a Dorchester could no longer satisfy my needs. A cigar was calling my name. Hurriedly but expertly I dug Julie’s grave. A grave I would later revisit to collect her body. The police assume her dead. I know she’s dead.

This will be my last time. I’m resigned to that. These days no crime can go uncovered, a slightly darker hair that fell from my head seventeen years ago is all they need. When the case is finally re-opened I’m done for. A dormant beast about to stir.

When I woke everything had changed. The room seemed to have taken on a red tint instead of its usual grey. The room even smelt red. A whiff of danger, the scent of gunpowder. This wasn’t a new smell, it was familiar. I knew something was about to blow up. I needed to find my next target.

With the scent completely filling the room and all furniture taking on a darker shade of red every time I glanced around the room, I had completely ignored the urine soaked bed sheets. Something had already exploded in the night. The smell I had mistaken for gunpowder was actually piss. I stunk of piss. However the room was still red, the shade had grew from pillar box red to blood red. This had to be a message, a sign, seventeen years is a long time to go without the thing you love the most. My waterlogged bed had become my war table, my official centre of planning. Where would I find the next girl?

The woods seem to have a certain magnetism for killers. They draw you in. As early as the twelfth century wizards saw them as mythical, magical places which only the best sorcerers gained entry too. These fine wizards would then tell the woods their best spells and bury important manuscripts there for safe keeping, thus giving both woods and forests alike a reputation as beholders of secrets. That they are.

Trees stand tall like figures of importance, all straight, no deformed, inferior one with a hunch on its back. A social community where every tree is equal to another. Woods are not a mirror of real life.

Their isolated state makes them different to anywhere else in the surrounding area. They are places of escape, youngsters still elope off to woods to enjoy certain experiences. Woods are away from everything that is considered normal. Woods are where people change.

 The offshoots of the trees that run into and under the ground remind me very much of Julie’s major arteries, each one pierced with a nail. Were I a true collector I would’ve buried a body under every single tree. Being dead around so much freshly produced oxygen would be cruelty of the highest order.

Like a rabid dog I move over to the corner of the room. In a crouched position, I throw unwanted books over my shoulder. I’m looking for some old photo albums, just to find anyone’s face. My heart punches at my ribcage and I can hear the hollow sound echoing in the room. A picture enters my head of my heart morphing into a fist, clenched tight like the Himalayas trying to stop me from what it knows I’m going to do. We all have good in our hearts, even the worst of people.

Then I see it. Memories start to gather pace and set about an avalanche inside my mind. I think of all the bad things that occurred so I can detest her enough to kill her. God knows I detest the cover of the album. The front cover presents an image of a rose – the official sign of love – on a blue background, it reminds me of a cheap tin of Cadbury’s roses. I remember her giving it to me on some special occasion, which must not have been a huge landmark seeing as I can’t recall it, and being underwhelmed. A set of photos in a book. She always had originality.

Slightly less rabidly than before I walk over to my bed come river, throw the album on the bed and cause a splash. A few droplets of urine fly into the air and land on the skin of my right leg. I don’t do order so I just skip too any page, the hard material of the front cover causes another splash. Staring up at me is a small child and suddenly I feel wrong. I feel the need to cover up, put something on, I feel ashamed of my naked state. I know I may not be considered normal but I have morals, which I consider key.

With the image of the small child in my head it seems to take an age to walk into the bathroom. I feel dirty but not too dirty to wash myself. The clothes in my bath are what the army would call civilian clothing, I’m not a flashy killer. I try to manoeuvre myself into my clothes without exerting too much effort. Still I can’t shake the image of that child out of my head. Feeling sick, I place my arm across my stomach to give me some support in case I wrench. If any sick does come up I’ll be sure to swallow it. Vomiting is a sign of weakness.

Moving back into the bedroom/living area I’m determined to not make eye contact with the picture. Over and over in my head I plan what is going to happen. It goes like this; I’ll walk over, bend just a little and flick the page over without looking. Then I’ll go and kill her. I’d like to piss on her to exorcise the demons of last night. However just like the woods, the photo has a magnetic force. The face is angelic, nothing wrong with this little life, as pure, true and innocent as anything I’ve ever seen. I cannot tell if it’s a boy or a girl. Its cheeks have dimples.

Blunt instruments, I think, something that won’t necessarily pierce but is capable enough to do damage. I know where to easily get hold of a pickaxe, turn it on its head and use the handle. I’m doing a good job of keeping it out of view.

Until the baby starts talking.

“Stop. Look. Listen.”

It begins to repeat itself.

“Stop. Look. Listen.”

Monotonously it sounds out the words over and over again, I notice the blue bib hung around its neck reads the same phrase.

“Stop. Look. Listen.”

Sitting on my bed the baby looks at home in the urine drenched bed. An urge comes across me to bury my face in my own bodily fluid for a good minute or so just to wake myself up out of this nightmarish apparition. Surely that’s what it is, an apparition.

I have a dead child in my room. What will they think of me now?

A dead child talking.

“Stop. Look. Listen.”

“Stop. Look. Listen.”

I forgo the need to cleanse my face in urine in order to let another urge sweep through me, the urge to speak to the baby. I can’t even create the phonetic sounds to start the words though. At this minute in time the baby has more intelligence then me. My second attempt is interrupted.

“Stop. Look. Listen.”

The repetition is beginning to grate on me. I never thought I had it in me to hurt a small child but I admit the thought runs through my mind of what the sound of a blunt instrument on a baby’s head would sound like. An explosion of death, dreams and aspirations breaking like glass. Its parents had hopes for their child.

I look at the bib and listen to the words. Have I stopped? I wonder if this is what I’m meant to do. Stop. Look. Listen.

The baby continues. “Look. Listen.”

I’ve stopped which is a start but what to do now? Approaching the small child is something on which I’m unsure. If it can talk what other unnatural things can it do? I lift my foot up off the tile flooring and dance it around in front of me, wondering if moving a few paces forward is a wise option. It’s certainly a viable option but is it one I won’t regret. My hanging foot dipped into the ethereal world in front of me. A breeze brushes across the space in between my ill fitting jeans and my shoe. I move forward with my eyes solely focused on the baby sitting on the photo album. It disappears. The pages turn and the soft voice the baby previously employed now comes back with the boom of a fully grown adult. The pages stop turning and just like I knew I would, I recognise her face.

“She is already dead.”

The voice is of a man, a man who is angry at me. He’s right she is dead. She has been dead for years. I wore black at the funeral and I cried with the rest of them. It takes a cemetery to bring out the good in someone. My mom was raped and killed by a man who was never found. Her body was discovered in the local woods. My killings were in vengeance. Motives are key. And then I realise, this isn’t an urge to kill again, this is a message – the redness of the room for someone you love, the rose on the album, the small child is me – that the walls are closing in on him. Eventually they’ll close in on me too but him first. I sit and wait in my waterlogged bed for the daily paper bearing good news. I sit and wait for the police bearing bad news."

Daniel Edmonds, 2008

DDWF

I was challenged to write a short story based on the TV programme 'Dragons Den'. I came up with an idea which involved Steve Jobs unsuccessfully pitching the iPhone to the Dragons, but whilst it was fun to write and was okay, I felt my writing was a bit too bland, and unimaginative. So I wrote this instead, which certainly could be called as "out there" or "left field". Does it work? I'm not sure, to be honest. But it was nice to let myself go a bit, and write a bit of nonsense with careless abandon.


“Oh Lord...Peter Jones! PETER JONES! That sick and twisted giant is making his way to ringside, and there's not a damn thing Thumbtacks Theo or Murderous Meaden can do about this King!”

“I don't like the look of this JR!”

“I don't like the look of it one damn bit King. Ladies and gentlemen, these three competitors that are still left have put their bodies on the line – their goddamn flesh, blood and souls on the line for this DDWF Title. It's been a hellacious slobberknocker - what in blue hell do they have left?!”

“He's climbing the cell JR, he's climbing the cell!”

“Peter Jones...that sicko, that 8ft nightmare, the man who put Brutus Bannatyne out of action with that cowardly attack, that vicious assault which left him needing to recuperate...not in hospital, but in one of his exclusive health farms...”

“The Executioner is standing JR!”

“The Executioner Evan Davis...what guts! I don't think he can damn well see straight right now King!”

“No change there then!”

“BIG right hand from Jones, that goddamn son of a bitch. Davis is trying to fight back, fight back with the support of 60,000 people in this arena but OH...THE BIG BOOT!”

“That's just knocked him clean out, JR! If Jones just pins him, he wins the title!”

Peter Jones covers Evan Davis. The referee drops down onto the cage roof alongside them, and begins the count. ONE...TWO...

“One...Two...WEHAVEANEWCHAMPIONNOOOHEKICKEDOUT! DAVIS KICKED OUT!”

“I think that guy has more guts than brains JR! He should have just stayed down! Give this monster the title and don't make him angry!”

Peter Jones stamps on Evan Davis's face, then laughs, a laugh which sends a chill down the spine of every spectactor in the stadium. He turns, menancingly, towards the lifeless body of Deborah Meaden. Picking her up, he then walks over to the edge of the cell, and flings her off the top - her body falling...falling...falling...until with a sickening thud she crashes into the commentary table at ringside. As the crowd simultaneously gasp and cheer, her body lies still. Perfectly still.

“GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY! GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY! HE KILLED HER!”

“Oh...my...God...”

“AS GOD IS MY WITNESS SHE IS BROKEN IN HALF!”

“Oh my God...”

“Somebody get out here. I mean it! I cannot believe....that cage is 16 feet high King! Oh bah Gawd...this freak is completely out of control!”

“I don't think he's finished yet either, JR. He's signalling chokeslam!”

With a demonic grin on his face, Peter Jones lifts Thumbtacks Theo up by his throat, and then slams him down onto the roof the cage.

“Oh for God's sake, this is over. Somebody ring the damn bell – ENOUGH is ENOUGH.”

Peter Jones goes to cover Theo. ONE...TWO...

The lights go out.

“JR? JR you still there?”

“I'm still here King...what the damn hell now?”

The arena has been plunged into darkness, and the only light available comes from a barrage of camera flashes that have suddenly struck up. After what seems like an eternity, the lights go back on. Standing on the roof of the cage, behind a confused Peter Jones, is a man with floppy brown hair.

“What?!”

“FARLEIGH! FARLEIGH! FARLEIGH! BAH GAWD FARLEIGH!”

“Richard Farleigh?! But...but...he was expelled from the DDWF JR?!”

“RICHARD FARLEIGH HAS COME BACK TO SAVE THE DDWF! AND YES INDEED, BAH GAWD BUSINESS JUST PICKED UP KING!”

Enraged, Peter Jones takes an almighty swing at the dimunitive Australian. However, Farleigh ducks, leaving Jones off balance and suddenly vulnerable. Despite the huge height difference, Farleigh goes on the attack. He kicks Jones in the midriff, then jumps up and yanks Jones's head down onto the metal structure.

“SYDNEY STUNNER! SYDNEY STUNNER! SYDNEY STUNNER! MAH GAWD KING FARLEIGH'S GONNA WIN THE TITLE!”

“But...he's expelled JR?! This is insane – he isn't in this match?!”

The referee drops down to his knees as the Australian goes for the pin, and the victory. ONE...TWO...




Patrick Campbell, 2010

The Dolmio Family

All UK readers with a TV should know the Dolmio Family. The family of puppets crop up on adverts trying to flog their pasta sauces under the frankly annoying catchphrase "When's your Dolmio Day?" For this short story, I played with the idea of this innocent looking family secretly being a Mafioso heavyweight organisation, much like the Corleone Family in The Godfather movies. See what you think.

“...and profits are down by 12%. However you spin it, it's been a bad six months. This Grossman figlio di puttana is overtaking us Papa!”

Papa Dolmio took a sip of Strega whilst studying his son closely. It was hopeless, he thought. Carlo could never become the Papa of the household. Not with his temper, and his reluctance to let his head overrule his heart. And over such trivial things! He settled back down into his seat before speaking.

“Carlo...Carlo...my son, you are not thinking. A little competition is no bad thing, especially when its in the form of a famous figure. My child...when we fund every bookmakers in the region, every casino in the country, and we have countless police chiefs in our pockets...finances are not a problem. This is a little problem, no more.”

Carlo exhaled his cigar smoke and looked at his father intensely.

“Let's drop the facade, Papa! Ditch the fuckin' pasta sauce shit, and go underground. We can do it – you know we can, you've just said how we can! Let's get into narcotics! It's a sure-fire quick buck, and we both know that the Ravanelli family are interested in working with us on a deal.”

“That will never happen whilst I am alive, child. A true Sicilian does not engage in such means, regardless of profits. For harming Italianos...Signor Fabrizio is no friend of mine.”

“Papa, our family is a laughing stock. The television adverts, where we pretend to be happy clappy fuckin' goofballs. The fact that we sponsor “This fuckin' Morning”. Does a true Sicilian degrade themselves, constantly, on fuckin' television just to pretend to be legit? Huh? Not narcotics? Fine – but alcohol, tobacco, pornography. Let's make a fuckin' statement Papa – make those bastardos respect our motherfuckin' name!”

Papa Dolmio stood up, gently, but then turned his back on his son. It was a dismissal. After a silent moment that felt like a lifetime, Papa began to speak, slowly and patiently.

“My child, how you mock me. I started with nothing, and now look where we are...I have built the Dolmio empire up to stand strong long after I have departed, whilst never compromising on our name and our good reputation...and this is how you treat me. I shall simply make this Grossman an offer he can't refuse, and that shall be the end of it. Tell Gattuso to get the car – I am ready to go home now.”

But Loyd Grossman refused the offer. Rebuked the Dolmio family, a choice that a man can only make once. Papa Dolmio's second offer came a few weeks later. Grossman had been for a swim, and was drying his torso with a towel when he opened the door. “It's your Dolmio Day, Loyd!” said Gattuso, firing the shotgun before Loyd could react. There was no time to feel fear, or pain. Loyd was thrown back against the door. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

Patrick Campbell, 2010

The Graham Stanier Show

A short story about Graham Stanier, the pyschologist on the British TV programme 'The Jeremy Kyle Show'. Inspiration for the story came from a friend, who was sure he had seen Mr Stanier in a bar in Birmingham, UK.

The meeting hadn't gone well. Again. Graham sighed a little too dramatically, for the fifth time that evening, before dropping his head despondantly to look down into his Rum and Coke. “Silly bastards!” he thought, “I made that show – me, Graham L Stanier! Not that muggy cunt!” The self-loathing and despair was suddenly turning into anger, as it normally did. Whipping his Motorola out of his suit pocket, he selected the contacts list and scrolled down to J in a pique of rage. “It's over Jezza – OVER!” he snarled a little too loudly, causing the attractive young blonde, who had been sitting next to him, to quietly slip away, alarmed. He didn't notice.

'The Graham Stanier Show' had been the pitch, again. But it had fallen flat, again. Even the comparison to Steve Wilkos hadn't worked. “If that bald cunt can escape his mentor” he began,“why can't I? Jerry fucking Springer? Jeremy fucking Kyle! Two fucking peas in a fucking pod, them two. Showmen. Circus ringleaders. Not proper men, no. Not like me and Wilkos” he rambled quietly, a menacing soliloquy that no-one bothered to listen to.

He glanced across to the TV in the corner of the bar, blaring out Sky News as usual. No-one was watching it, as per usual. All that electricity being pumped out, for nothing. For no-one. Wasted. But he wasn't going to go to waste.

Deep down, he knew he had been bitten by the 'fame' bug. He still had his day job, his regulars. But they weren't famous, they weren't showbiz. No bright lights. No glamour. And so, there was only one option left – the last resort. The only possible hope. He took a deep breath, and scrolled down to T.

“Save me, Trisha” he thought, “save me.”

Patrick Campbell, 2010