Down the end of lonely street....

I was seventeen and had just started work for Charlotte City Trucks as a driver when I first heard Heartbreak Hotel. As it came over the radio, I was instantly mesmerised by its haunting lyrics and sombre tones and had to pull my truck over to the side of the road to listen to it properly. I was hooked.

I later found out, that the song had been inspired by a suicide note, which simply read:

'I walk a lonely street'

But it was the line in the song 'Do cry away their gloom' that sent a shiver down my spine the most,  and to this day, twenty years later, it still does the same to me.  I have an image in my mind of a lone man sitting on the hotel bed, head held in his hands and his shoulders riding up to his ears. The weeping is a quite an affair. One which is given through a throat that has long had its mouth quenched and is barely fuelled by the blood pumping from the heart. There is no energy, or want to move from that position.It's a solemn moment captured in a lonely time.  All that is missing from the scene is a gun on the sideboard, a sure sign of its impending end.

I guess it has always curios-ed me as I have been rather fortunate in life. Three weeks after starting at the Charlotte City Trucks company, the foremen had a freak accident and as I had my high school diploma, I was put in the office in his place. Three years later, the owner of the company wanted to spend more time with his family. So I took over the day to day running of the firm and in ten years went on to becoming a partner. The fleet in this time expanded from six trucks to twenty six and when the owner retired, I was able to buy out his share and I turned it into one of the largest trucking firms in North Carolina. I also met my wife Julianna and we had two beautiful daughters: Bessie who is sixteen years old and Anna-Marie who is twelve.

As I neared my forties, I became a respected citizen of Charlotte city standing for mayor and though I did not win, I won the respect of my peers and a whole new world  of opportunity was opened up to me.

You could say I was living the American Dream, but one thing always niggled in the back of my mind. That line "Do cry away their gloom". On August 16th 1977 Elvis Presley died and the string of Presley hits filled the airways in tribute.  On my way home that day, driving my Lincoln continental, sure enough Heartbreak hotel came on and I pulled over, feeling the same mesmerising haunting that I heard, the first time I heard it all those years ago.

The very next morning I went into work and sacked our entire accounts department. I then pulled in a favour from the Senator of NC and pulled a major contract which would double our workload. In the afternoon, I went down to our main depot and laid off a third of the truckers and spent the rest of the day at the car dealership where I purchased several Cadillacs with petty cash. I didn't go home that night, instead taking a ride to one of our regional depots where we based some of the drivers, who we wanted out of sight - the kind that not even the post office would employ,  and I purchased a cocktail of drugs.

The next morning, I slipped a small amount of LSD into my daughter Bessie's morning milk and crushed up a small amount of cocaine for my other daughter into the juice bottle she took to school. Over the coming weeks I would slowly increase these dosages. For my wife, I played around with a mix of barbiturates and cocaine depending on how I was feeling.

I continued to spend the petty cash of my company on whims, such as a yacht which I have no idea to where it actually is, a dune buggy which I left at the side of the road , plane tickets for destinations such as Rome which I never used - I was disappointed that it took the IRS so long to cotton on.

The teamsters on the other hand, were straight in on the case with the increased workload and longer hours,the strikes started pretty much straight away. Good old teamsters , though you should have seen the look on their representative's face, when he came into my office and suggested extra security would need to be paid for, to prevent any trouble with the truckers. Naturally, I paid his request there and then - from petty cash.

It was one of those worst kept secrets in that the District Attorney's seventeen year old daughter was something of a whore, but I made sure it became secret no more as, I splashed her with gifts and paraded her around town. I even gave her the use of my American Express and Diners club card without hesitation, and made sure everyone saw us arrive.

It was the charity fundraiser for the local college team that I think i really nailed in the nails for my fall from society - you would be surprised at how well the post ivy league go to  protect their own.  For as in front of the two hundred guests, on the lawn of the DC gardens, I and the little Missy...well I think you can fill in the blanks there.

As my business and social standing began to fail, my family remained surprisingly strong and  it did lead me to question my motives. Another trip to those truckers at the remote stop providing them with photos of my oldest daughter and where she would be, soon speeded up things. I knew my work was done when my wife called me a monster when I returned late in the small hours stinking of perfume and when heard of the news said "the little bitch probably deserved it"

--00--

So now I sit in the most run down hotel room I could find in the entire state. On my way here I paid a bum to beat me up to add to the pain, but alas I am not crying, no matter how much I try. I have been sitting in the same position for four hours now and just can't get any gloom into my mind at all. I feel surprisingly sober after getting half way through my second bottle of bourbon.  I turned on the radio and another Elvis song is playing. How apt I think as You're the Devil In Disguise fills the room.


Done for a Leeds Savage writing task, entitled "Elvis"

The Dead Adventurers Club

I have been pretty hectic the last month with the Leeds Savage Club so there have been no new stories on the DAC since March, but why not check out some of the existing stories ?

There is the DAC map here which shows you where all the stories take place. Click and explore..

Mecha-Brick

For as long as he could remember, Mr. Yamagata had loved to read. From the moment he got up in the morning, to the point where he could no longer keep his eyes open in bed, he could be found with a book in his hand. He frequently borrowed up to thirty books a week from the Osaka Municipal Library, and his house was wall to ceiling with them.

He adored non-fiction just as much as fiction, and whilst early modern contemporary Japanese works were his favourite, he had read a comprehensive range of world literature that was second to none.

There was just one thing. He couldn't write. I am not talking about getting the odd letter wrong or mixing up his sentences, but the very act of putting pen to paper escaped him. He could not make any letters, or even a recognizable shape, with pen, crayon, stick, chalk, pencil, paintbrush, etc. Just big black blobs.

He did, however, have amazing powers of recall, and was able to recite at great length what he had read, complemented by his uncanny knack for cross-referencing. From an early age people around him had noticed this ability, and when he left school, the prestigious Shingai Corporation noticed as well. They normally only took on interns after they had proved they could survive a month on Mount Fuji Hiro with nothing more than a Casio watch, but they made an exception for him. Sadly that job came to an end after only two hours, when a secretary asked him for his signature for the keys to the office.

The only job the young Mr. Yamagata could find back then was at the local brick factory, where he would spend the next thirty years. Now do not get me wrong, reader. You may think this is a tale of woe, but Mr. Yagamata loved working there.

His job was to help load the kiln, which was crowned with two large square brick chimneys. Once the bricks were cooked, he would help unload it. The thing he liked about his job was there was a plenty of waiting around; days sometimes. This gave him ample time for reading. Another thing he loved about his job was that everyone who worked at the factory would come to him for advice (including the board), and this sharing of his knowledge filled him with a joy that made him smile as soon as he woke up each morning. He believed he had truly found his place in the world.

That was until the following events occurred, which happened all too quickly.

The brick factory owner died and his young son, Koji Fung Ming, inherited the business. In the morning, even before the funeral had taken place, the son had sold the company to Abunai! Golf. By late afternoon they had plans drawn for a new golf course, and late in the evening, a sign was posted on the gates to inform the workers they were being sacked to make way for the new golf course.

Mr. Yamagata was heartbroken when he read it in the morning. He felt his entire world had been ripped away from beneath his feet. Not knowing what to do, he sat outside the factory all day, as did some of the others, but by night he was sitting alone. It was then the idea struck him.

I've mentioned that early modern contemporary Japanese was his favourite reading genre, but his favourite book was by a medieval Arabian author by the name of Al-Jazari. The book was called Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices, and coincidentally, that was the very book he had with him that day. He jumped over the locked gates and made his way to the kiln building...

If you had lived in one of the tall towers in the residential district of Fukushima-ku facing west, you would have seen the following happen at sunrise: The two chimney towers of the kiln building suddenly fall over gracefully in a perfect 90° arc. After the dust had settled, you would have then seen the tower rise, again in a perfect 90° arc, but now with the kiln building placed upside down at the top.

In a circle cut in the top, you would have seen Mr. Yamagata, and you would have seen him get a lot bigger as the chimney towers became 'legs' and he began to make his way downtown.

The old kiln used to be ignited by a smaller blast furnace, which Mr. Yamagata had reverse-engineed into a giant flame thrower and mounted on the underside of his creation. Being built of brick, he could aim it in any direction without fear of damaging his machine. His first target was to be the offices of the Abunai! golf company which he reduced to a pile of molten metal and glass. For good measure, he also took out several golf shops along the way.

With that done, he then made his way over to the house of Koji Fung Ming, who in the very short time after his father's death had obtained several flash cars. The Lamborghini, Aston Martin and Bentley were crushed by good old-fashioned stomping. The Ferrari and McLaren were reduced to ash and the Bugatti was scratched all along one side, just enough to make the repair expensive.

He then turned to the house, where he knew the young Koji would be, and gave the door a kick. As the door flew off its hinges, Koji ran from the house and through the legs of the brick Mecha onto his yacht, which was was moored at the back of his home.

Mr. Yamagata took two giant steps (one crushing the house) and positioned himself in front of the yacht. He pressed the button in his cockpit and the flame thrower began boiling the sea, leaving Koji, who was now begging for his life, hopping up and down on his slowly melting boat.

Mr. Yamagata then effectively made his machine do the splits (he made a note to add knees next time) so he could get eye to eye with Koji. He looked hard at him and then tugged at his left eye and stuck out his tongue, a great insult in Japan in case you were wondering. Then he threw a brick at him.

He felt a wonderful sense of liberation upon exacting his revenge. As the sound of helicopters, sirens and tanks approached, Mr. Yamagata and his Mecha began to head out to sea.

"Maybe I will build something with glowing laser eyes next..."



my first non dead adventurers fridayflash which was inspired by the included picture done by fellow Leeds Savage member Steve James

The Men Who Literally Dance The Night Away

In the middle of the Bolivian jungle, is an island surrounded by the sea, where the giant pygmies live. It is there, they literally prance the twilight away.

A highly literate tribe, the Tiki Waki’s who rely on oral tradition, have for as long as anyone can remember, performed the Bola Bola Ritual. Eight nights a week, five hamsters a month without fail, regardless whether it has been raining or not.

The ritual begins when it gets dark and ends when it gets light - not that you, the reader needed that explanation. I am sure you could of gathered that information from the title, though I did once get a letter from a reader in Shropshire, who complained I did not use enough full stops.

It is performed by the eldest members of the youngers of the tribe, who gather on a platform made of  toads and small logs, it is there they then proceed to wave their arms, legs and other bits and pieces till sunrise - not necessarily their own I might add.

Normally, the chief of the tribe JoK O’ Ta, plays the elephant, accompanied by the women of the tribe, who join in by blowing millipedes. You might thing, that the noise would be somewhat basey and clunky, but I found it to be of a most uplifting nature, reminiscent of the gospel song Joshua Fit The Battle of Jericho.
The whole ceremony is of course performed naked. Except for Tjoik, who has a phallic birth mark on his back. Some of the elders feel, that this takes away from the seriousness of the ritual, so instead he is allowed to wear live wombats.

The other males of the tribe, sleep whilst this is going on, otherwise no one would be awake in the day and who would do the stuff that the tribe needed to be done in the day time.

You may think the tribe, perform this ritual,  because they believe that they can control the time between days, but you are wrong. They do it because, they worship the Wiggalloo Bigalloo  a violent gekko like god, who the tribe believe is the creator, of all things, not made by Loric Ghorri.  A pleasant lama type creature, they don't worship, because he is to polite for such praise.

To the western observer, The world of Jok O Ta Tiki Waki’s, with their Wiggalloo Bigallo, Loric Ghorri and Bola Bola’s might seem an alien culture, but having had the pleasure of  helping Tjoik put on his wombats and witnessing these magnificent people. I couldn’t help but feel I was apart of the Quo Vadis


Lengthy explanation behind this one, this was done for a Leeds Savage Club task entitled 'How to Write a blackwood article '

Blackwood’s was a well established literary magazine that ran from 1817 to 1980 (link below).
Blackwood's Magazine

It had contributions from a number of famous writers and was seen by many as an influential standard of literary quality that was unmatched by other publications. It was also, however, seen by some as being overly conservative and somewhat obsessed with certain issues. Edgar Allen Poe once satirized the magazine in the short story ‘How to Write a BlackWood Article’ (link below).
How to Write a BlackWood Article

Inspired by this story, this week’s task is to write an article that the editor of Blackwood’s would consider publishing. Based on the alleged values of the magazine, we have summarized the three editorial guidelines that your article should abide to:

---

1. If you mean 'bread and butter', do not by any means say it outright. You may say anything and everything leading up to and around it. But, If 'bread and butter' be your real meaning, be cautious, and never say it.

2. Every article must include a misquoted French, Latin or Greek saying, such as the use of 'cul - de - sac' in the article 'The Spanish Fly who Never Stopped Dancing' : "I put down my good dancing ability, due to being born with a certain cul-de-sac...."

3. The article must be, objectively and positively, absolute nonsense!

I must apologise

If you are reading this, then my attempt to cross the Channel by giant catapult has failed miserably. I would first like to apologies, if my calculations were slightly off and you have had the poor misfortune of scraping myself off the white cliffs of Dover - a most terrible task I would imagine. Hopefully you have instead, retrieved this off my body as it bobs gently up and down in the English channel.

This postcard was bit of an after thought, for you see, I was so confident in my planning, I did not make any arrangements for in case things went wrong. I also apologies for the saucy nature of the card, but it was the only one I could find at 4am in the streets of Calais. If the image offends you, just imagine the lady is merely leaning over that car bonnet to listen out for some engine trouble. Its unfortunate the wind has caught her dress.

In my right hand inner jacket pocket, you will find my wallet. There should be enough in there to run the following 25 words in the Times obituary section.

"Quentin Pollock, Inventor, Dreamer and transport visionary, passed away attempting to cross the channel by giant catapult. He hopes, he has inspired, and now passes on the gauntlet.

Really Sorry to bother you with this bruden, but you will also find in my wallet, the money for a pint of ale and a pie, I do hope this is satisfactory enough compensation. Once again apologies.

Quentin Pollock


The above was done for a task of the Leeds Writing Group, entitled "A Life on a postcard...."

Breaking News On The Latest Financial Meltdown

The Worlds Stock Market was in financial meltdown this monday morning, after a wave of panic selling which started late friday afternoon, continued to show no signs of stopping. On the trading floor of the Dutch Second Bank, traders who normally execute buy orders, sit by their phones, which have yet to have ring since the crisis started. On the other side, where the sell orders are exectued, it is bedlam as brokers clammer over each other and runners fail to handle the large volume of calls - a scene repeated across investment banks around the globe.

620 Billion has been wiped off the Dow Jones, 74 Billion from the FTSE and they continue to plummet. Looses not seen to this extent since the black monday of 1987, though experts have ruled making direct comparisons as the situation is vastly different.

It will be many days, if not weeks before the full impact of this crash will be felt. The government in response today issued an emergency 50 billion government bond in the hope to turn the tide of selling into buying.Many will question however, is it too little, too late ?

It seems also, we have learnt little from the recent sub prime market crash. As details of the of the current crisis, becomes more apparent:

Historically, the price of treacle has been linked with that of tuppeny rice, with approxiamatley three pounds of Tuppeny rice being worth one pound of treacle. This morning, the price stands at half a pound of tuppeny rice, half pound of treacle.

The cause being the complex financial instrument which is the Weasel. The Weasel was introduced initially as a safeguard investment, in the case of failed rice crop. Many saw an easy profit in these Weasels and they were sold and exchanged across the market without regulation. Some institutes, such as the now collapsed Barkmen Brothers took on so many other peoples weasels, they literarily "popped"

And that is how, when in years to come, when we ask what happened to our pensions and saving, is the only response we can give, as it the way, the money went.



The above was done for an exercise set by the Leeds Writing Group which was to take a verse of a song and write it as a serious bit of journalism. I had in mind a news broadcast when writing this, so its probably a bit comma heavy. If stories in finance are your thing, here is a piece I wrote a looong time ago, entitled Investment Bank Wo's

The Big Attack

11.03 am that is the official time that history will record as the start of the following events. Midday they would note that it was too late to stop it from happening.

Two hours later, out in the Thames estuary the first official sighting was made.

At 2.14pm, the Prime minister appeared on our screens and delivered the warning to the country.
Forty four minutes later and the government was to have been evacuated.
The riots saw that they did not make it.
Five pm when commuters should of been flooding onto the streets, they instead fortified their offices and hid.
The army had their barracades in place by six and seven thousand soldiers would lay down their life over the course of the night.
By seven the ultimatum came: "You have one hour to hand over one billion dollars"
It took over an hour of debate from the emergency goverment before replying "We do not give into mad scientists"
As Night fell over the city, the first of the giant rubber monsters came.
He was called "Glowing Laser Eye Fiend" and starting mowing down the east end of London.
Big Ben didn't get a chance to strike midnight as it was decapitated by "High pitch screaming looks like a wasp type thing".
An hour later, "Big thing with big claws" came along and started ripping up Soho.
The people in Westminister cried for joy when the tanks arrived and then cried in despair as “Glowing laser eye fiend” turned them into a big blob of molten metal and flesh.
At 3.17 am the RAF sent in their best, by 3.23, they were sending in their second best and 3.45 anyone who could fly a plane was being scambled.
The Evil scientist reissued his demand for a second time, this time for two billion dollars and it only took the emergency cabinet a second to respond with "WE DO NOT NEGOTIATE WITH MAD SCIENTISTS".
In the twilight hours, the Japanese arrived and in a back street near Trafalgar Square they began to assemble their secret weapon.
As dawn rose, “50ft Giant Ninja School Girl” was ready and racing to our aide.
“High pitch screaming looks like a wasp thing” was knocked out of the air by a single flying kick, tearing up the turf in Hyde park as it hit the ground.
“Glowing Laser Eye Fiend” put on a good chase for forty minutes across the south London boroughs, but thankfully was bought down by a Skillful thrown Shruiken.
“Big Thing With Big Claws”, didnt even put up a fight and lied down in the middle of Carnaby street like a cat caught with the cream.
 Sadly “50ft Giant Ninja School Girl” didn’t make it in time to stop the evil mad scientist escaping in his rocket, however England was safe once more.
As the nation sat down for elevenses, the country tuned into the radio and heard the new prime minister reitereate joyful and defiantly "We do not negotiate with mad scientists"

This was done as one of the tasks for the Leeds Writing Group. The task was 24 hours, 24 sentences.