My Secret Tunnels, my Secret Bases

I have many fantasies, a secret agent alt-persona, who is always needing to get away in a hurry from the scene of my assassinations and bomb based sabotagings.

Alternatively, I accidentally ran over an oldster on my bicycle, and need to get away in a hurry.

I have various imaginings on how this would work. On one hand I have secret dens in nearby woods, or even little stands of trees in town, amidst unsuspecting houses. After doing my mischiefs, I find my nearest hideout, and my individual heat signature pattern opens it up to me and only me…the doors slide back like a mini Tracey Island, brambles and nettles moving with it.

And then I jump in, and the door slides back as if nothing had happened. IR cameras and ground penetrating radar are scrambled. I am totally safe. I have media, books, and a huge supply of rum. I keep changes of clothing inside, and disguises; a machine can bleach my hair straw blond in 5 seconds – envious ladies? – and change my eyes.

I always pick black-brown and bright blue eyes.

All this in a room the size of a living room. Ultrasonic showers. Body waste teleported out of you to the nearest treatment works.

(Reflecting on this, I realise the sci fi novella “A Plague of Demons” has something similar)

The cycle escape routes are a network of tunnels that just open up in the road, and slide me down into 2 metre wide underground Sustrans routes that link up my secret bases.

One minute I’m being chased by helicopters, the next minute I am gone, cycling deep underground with nightvision goggles on, planning my next daring act of subversion.

Copyright Bloody Mulberry 30.05.14

Daydreams of a Workplace Hanging

This is disturbing, and it is meant to be. Proceed with caution. Tourette boy gets upset when he gets teased!

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When you have not had scalding coffee thrown in your face, you don't know how unlucky you are.

There are these steps at work, mobile gantries stolen from a steampunk Apollo launch. You can move them around by pulling these bent, rusting levers that take the support legs off the ground, and you can push them on wheels where the bearings are oiled knucklebones from a starving child.

Push them into position for the spectacle. Summon the spectators, the old women knitting before the scaffold, the cackling whores. The other staff in others words, they are as good as all those, the collective intelligence thereof. Drawn from large screen football, the only thing that could tear them away, not even the burning of their own children would normally stop them watching.

Prod the fucker up the stairs at sword point while ducking under the flying lumps of shit I wish everyone else would throw at you while thinking the man who deserved them might have been me. Put it out of your mind, Tudor master of ceremonies, the Lords of the Humiliations, the Chamberlain of Suffering.

There is a noose affixed to a criss cross of sprinkler pipes and girders that shake in the rain. It hangs down like guts fallen from the guts of a disembowelment. Yeah get your neck in there, you scrawny fucker. The safety cage at the top has been crudely removed by the cortex-less repair men who's normal function is to bang broken wheels on trolleys so they are even more broken.

Look up there. You see your god up there? I hope so. God lies within that hoop of rope. Push his head in, set the knot behind the mis-shapen inbred right ear. Give him a second to think, give him a gentle lean out over the void to the massed “ooohs” of the crowd as they bang their cans of Relentless together. Then shove hard.

The rope doesn't drop for long. Who wants to break his neck too soon anyway? Legs kick out thrashing, and as intended he shits himself over the loathsome toads from the offices, who lap it up like thirsty dogs and then turn to lick the faces of their frightened Eastern European slave girls. Another parasite climbs up his legs, the length of his body and sucks his eyeballs out saying “I love you, I love you!”

I kick him in the face and send his sprawling into a crowd of secretaries, shit and vomit. This is the best fun I've had in years, and I turned my conscience off especially. I'd best not turn it back on.

Copyright Bloody Mulberry 14.12.13

Tourettes and the Tunnels of Work

I work in a land fit only for escape; fit only for dreams day and night, dirty plastic floors delivering static shocks into the bodies of the otherwise waking dead. Cockroach traps are insectoid death trap christmas decorations in dark corners; sometimes a bird arrives through the lorry doors and can never get out again.

In the middle of is am I, stressed to the thirteens let alone the nines by the awfulness of it all, body flailing sometimes as somekind of electro chemical surge breaks the barriers of restraint and people try and ignore it and I'm not sure what kind of reaction I want. Not laughter. But not studied ignorance, the pretence of not being bothered.

I don't know what my own head is telling me, and I don't know what I'm trying to tell it.

So I head for the maze, the caves, the world in the racking created by creaking unsafe girders racked by the weight of stores and spares and topped by a thick caking of dust. You stand in the main aisle, it's like The Mines of Moria, stretching way into an artificially lit distance.

Within here the mind wanders and people can be hidden from until the crisis passes. Worlds are visited, words are written on invisible paper with invisible ink and stored until you can go home in a slanting rain. Imagine Maximillian from The Black Hole chasing you down here looking to gut you with his propeller fingers; can you find a turn off in time he'll ignore?

Vader may be awaiting next to the floor cleaning machines, and you won't know if he's being good or evil. Cryogenic suspension tubes litter the top of the racking and you wish you can climb in until the job, or more likely the world, ends in a salvo of violet lightning.

Fight the mech warriors, hide from demons of the darkness.  Or just stand there rocking back on your heels and looking at the radio speakers on the ceiling waiting for the escape route to be broadcast.

Here there are no managers, just other worlds far far better.

I'm creating them every minute.

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Copyright Bloody Mulberry 17/10/2012