Sunday, August 21, 2005
Real horrorshow
The moth-shadow was a cranefly (which insect I loathe most in the world - see that post which I can't be bothered to look up to link to right now, oh and this one which I can). It dithered across the wall by the desk and paused upon my camera printer dock, where I performed with the chunky first issue of BANG an act describable in American English as 'smushing'. I smushed him good. A clean shot. No twitching or anything.
After saying a brief prayer and smirking I went downstairs to get some loo roll with which to remove the corpse and wipe the stray leg from the back cover of the magazine, and NOW IT IS NOT THERE. The dog was fast asleep on the bed (which he thinks is his now - oh well) so it wasn't him. It's just like one of those thrillers where the hero is lying gasping in a pile of his own limbs, and when the rotten terrorist scum comes trolling back to finish him off - ahaaaaa, nothing there but a tiny drip of blood as from minor collision with drawing pin, mocking him from the concrete. Terrorist cast about in astonishment, WHUH? flashing across his knotted terrorist brow, whereupon robustly intact hero leg with boot smash him in back of head. Terrorist go down without murmur.
Consequently, tonight each time my hair brushes the back of my neck I will leap out of bed thinking it's dancing vengeful cranefly zombie legs. (I exaggerate, but not very much.) The thing was mangled, two of its legs went - they are sent from Satan to defy God's natural ways and make Him get all wrathy. 'No, no, I made certain that all things must die when (insert the actual physics of it here) bears down upon them in such a manner and with such precision and gusto. How dare this creature defy me - I shall rain down a plague of something on somewhere. Perhaps for the poetic justice of it, a plague of cranefly on north-west England.'
Someone should spend some money researching exactly what composes a cranefly, and then set about making planes out of it, and cars and anything else that you'd like to be able to drop from a great height or crash at high speed and walk out of whistling.
Still, you've got to love the mythology. Or not. I just wish they would all die, even if it means the extinction of several small breeds of songbird (which would only get shot for fun by the French anyway, the fucks). In fact, they only live for two days. Two days. That's if they die of natural causes. Presumably, if you try and kill them, it only makes them stronger and they go on to live for many years and write weepy autobiographies about their struggle to overcome being hit with a copy of BANG, get standing ovations on Letterman, etc.
I'm sure, somehow, this is all my own fault.
After saying a brief prayer and smirking I went downstairs to get some loo roll with which to remove the corpse and wipe the stray leg from the back cover of the magazine, and NOW IT IS NOT THERE. The dog was fast asleep on the bed (which he thinks is his now - oh well) so it wasn't him. It's just like one of those thrillers where the hero is lying gasping in a pile of his own limbs, and when the rotten terrorist scum comes trolling back to finish him off - ahaaaaa, nothing there but a tiny drip of blood as from minor collision with drawing pin, mocking him from the concrete. Terrorist cast about in astonishment, WHUH? flashing across his knotted terrorist brow, whereupon robustly intact hero leg with boot smash him in back of head. Terrorist go down without murmur.
Consequently, tonight each time my hair brushes the back of my neck I will leap out of bed thinking it's dancing vengeful cranefly zombie legs. (I exaggerate, but not very much.) The thing was mangled, two of its legs went - they are sent from Satan to defy God's natural ways and make Him get all wrathy. 'No, no, I made certain that all things must die when (insert the actual physics of it here) bears down upon them in such a manner and with such precision and gusto. How dare this creature defy me - I shall rain down a plague of something on somewhere. Perhaps for the poetic justice of it, a plague of cranefly on north-west England.'
Someone should spend some money researching exactly what composes a cranefly, and then set about making planes out of it, and cars and anything else that you'd like to be able to drop from a great height or crash at high speed and walk out of whistling.
Still, you've got to love the mythology. Or not. I just wish they would all die, even if it means the extinction of several small breeds of songbird (which would only get shot for fun by the French anyway, the fucks). In fact, they only live for two days. Two days. That's if they die of natural causes. Presumably, if you try and kill them, it only makes them stronger and they go on to live for many years and write weepy autobiographies about their struggle to overcome being hit with a copy of BANG, get standing ovations on Letterman, etc.
I'm sure, somehow, this is all my own fault.
