An Interview

Frank Morgan interviews Socrates Adams- Florou

FM: Please come in, sit down and make yourself comfortable. NOT THAT COMFORTABLE

SAF: I bet you are going to ask me how I am feeling aren't you? If you do it means that you have no respect for me.

FM: How are you feeling today?

SAF: Oh Christ. I am feeling awful. I am sad and tired. I feel terrified.

FM: What makes today special?

SAF: Barack Obama. He is the most special guy around and he makes me feel great. He is the only good thing in my life.

FM: Care for a dance?

SAF: Absolutely not. I hate dancing.

Oh go on then. A quick dance. And by dance I mean sex. And by sex I mean give me forty pounds. And by forty pounds I mean kill me.

FM: I'm sensing you’re in a good mood today, excellent. Tell me your dream . . .

SAF: My dream is that I am slowly but surely becoming a slightly better person. I am being controlled by things other than myself and those things are making me feel better. I rub myself with lard and relax.

FM: Talking of dreams, who is your dream date?

SAF: My dream date is anyone who will let me kiss them.

FM: If you and I were going on a date where would you take me?

SAF: I would let you take me somewhere I think. If you forced me to think of somewhere that I had to take you to I think I would take you to an oriental all you can eat buffet and would eat solidly for half an hour before making my excuses and leaving.

FM: That would be alright I suppose, I mean it would be really awkward but at least we'd get a good meal, that bit would be alright - I guess if we didn't refer to it as a 'date' then it would be better.

If you bought me a drink whilst we were out, what drink would you buy me, and why?

SAF: I would buy you a delicious cocktail. I would buy you a wonderful, flowing, beautifully mixed cocktail with all sorts of pungent and powerful liquors within.

FM: And how would you dispose of my body afterwards?

SAF: I would roast it with a bouquet garni and then feed it to my pet snail.

FM: I feel honoured. Are you having a good time, are you enjoying being interviewed?

SAF: It's the best thing that has happened to me today. It feels like I am being probed pretty hard. It feels good. Are you enjoying interviewing me?

FM: I am enjoying the interview immensely, it is also the best thing that has happened to me today and I've been to the pub.

Using the ‘paint’ application quickly draw the first thing that comes into your mind


SAF:

'Chris'

'Snail'

'Abe'


FM: You are a gifted artist, my favourite is the one called 'Chris'. Is this a portrait of someone called Chris or an imagined Chris?

I assume the snail is your pet snail, who is Abe?

SAF: Thanks. Chris is someone I know. Abe is a monster. The snail is what I wish my pet snail looked like. Abe stalks me in my nightmares.

FM: I can see you have strong, confusing feelings for this Chris (Killen?) character, and by the looks of things he is a bit of a catch.

Abe seems pretty cool.

SAF: It's not Chris Killen - it's another Chris I know. He is a serious catch. Abe is very terrifying.

FM: Cadburys has just released their cheapest chocolate bar to date: the Credit Crunchie. How has the credit crunch affected you?

SAF: I have been totally unaffected by the credit crunch except for the irritation the constant news about it has caused me.

FM: Can you share with me some of your credit crunching tips?

SAF: My best tip to be unaffected by the credit crunch is to completely ignore it.

diabetic undercrackers

I have added a link to Amanda 'the internet ladyboy hobo' Murphy's blog to my list of blogs what are well good. She paid me 94 euros for this which I've already spent on robot prostitutes and beer.

Yes!

Private Dickless

Amanda 'pants' Murphy won the competition I set last week by decoding a secret message I left in a blog post - yay! well done Murphy - The prize was a guest blog post, here is that post, which, btw is top quality, you should read it, definitely, before she cuts you up into small pieces and uses you to feed her dogs . . .



I'm a dick dolly, name of Bachelor Kay Dickles. That's Kay as in short for Katherine as in short for Katherine Margaret Molly Hieronymus Dickles, esquire. I might've taken that too far. X the Hieronymus and the esquire, add a P.I. and that's more like it, bub. I might have been an esquire or bounty hunter if I'd had the muscle or the cock (sure attitude). As it is, I fell into this business the hard way. Making drunken promises I had to keep to friends who found themselves between various and sundry rocks and hard places. Luckily, the friends had cash and could pay me for my services early on, making me a professional sneak and do-gooder.

I'd take a picture of Mary's husband cheating on her with some Haitian hooker or whore, depending. I'd help out Nancy when her deadbeat baby daddy took off and I'd get him back on the grid. Wives and their no-good, cheating, town-skipping, dog-and-pony-gambling, whore-hoarding, toilet-seat-not-down-putting, lipstick collard, limp dick dirty dog husbands; that was my bread and butter to start. Those friends are all out of town and out of commission now. Women who get in tight spots don't often get out, even friends of mine. One after the other, they left to start over in Oregon or Montana or Canada, worse came to worse. I've still got my true friends near at hand: Sherry and Bloody Mary.

You can call me a private eye, A No-Shit-Sherlock, A Trench Coat Mafiosa, A Rockford Philly, Private Dickless, an Op, Sister Mary Shamus, the Grande Dame of Sleuth, a Snooper, Peeper, or Francis Gum Shoe. Just don't call me Veronica Mars unless you want the kind of sock in the face your wife can't darn.

It was the kind of day that made grown men want to run through sprinklers in their business suits when this action doll tracked his mud and female problems into my office. I'd been eyeing the pool in the courtyard of the Coronet Motel. I made my home away from home on El Camino Real, saddled up to a seedy motel that offered not only the occasional dip in the summertime when the pool gate was left unlocked but also access to the kind of clientele who might not want to go to the bulls for their domestic disturbances. The kind of clientele with private dickless needs.

This hombre was not apropos of my regular business. He looked like he had an axe to grind and fancied to use me to grind it. He slammed my office door behind him, tossed a wad of cash my way and asked, "You a dyke?"

"As far as you're concerned I am," I quipped. As soon as I'd said it, I knew it was a lie. This palooka could have me on my back, ankles up, with only a wink and a smile. I'd have to be careful and keep my knees at attention around this slick soldier. The clients who can see I'm a softy tend to pay well up front but a lot less in the end. This number clearly had the cash. He was lousy with lettuce and it was up to me to get as much of it out of him as I could before our dealings were through.

I wished myself luck, palmed the dough, and queried, "What's your beef, sailor?"

Saturday morning

For five seconds I am blissfully unaware of anything but my breathing, I am in-between being asleep and being awake – I am both and neither. This is the calm before the storm.

I wake up.

The first thing I notice is that I am covered in blood

Then the pounding inside my skull and behind my eyes begins, and then, then I hear the ringing in my ears, a deafening squeal that threatens to shatter the few remaining teeth in my mouth

I look around, there is blood everywhere

I feel sick.

The heating hasn’t come on, I am cold and naked. I feel exposed. I stand up and knock an empty wine bottle over.

There is blood everywhere.

I look at myself in the mirror and see a wild eyed man staring back at me. I shudder and recoil, when did I cut all my hair off? When did I get so old?

My foot skids in a half congealed puddle of dark red blood.

This is the end.

broadcasting binary

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syntax error

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/*error*

*system error*/

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end msg.

How can I be ill, again?

I feel like my head has been crushed in a vice, inflated to twice it’s normal size and used as a football in a particularly violent game. I think my eyes have been punched in by an angry middleweight boxer then plucked from my skull and dipped in vinegar. It feels like a dirty rag has been stuffed into my mouth and down my throat. It’s like sawdust has been forced up my nose and rubbed into my punched-in, vinegar soaked eyes.

Every time I sneeze another bone shatters or dislocates. My vertebrae are all out of line, every disk feels slipped, It feels like I’ve been pushed from a moving car then beaten up, frog marched up ten flights of stairs then pushed down them. My ears are so blocked I can’t hear a thing, as if knitting needles have been slowly forced through the drum. When I try and drink some water it’s like swallowing metal filings and glass, that have somehow caught fire.

Apart from that everything is pretty good.

Night Owl – re-edit 7.1.4

This story is one of many re-edits of the original story ‘Night owl’ by Brandon Scott Gorrell, the Alpha version can be found here and the other edits are listed on Brandon’s site.


The screen on my laptop goes black
I knew the power cable had come out. I watched the orange light flashing at me but I didn’t have the energy or the inclination to do anything about it. I’ve already checked my emails about sixty times in the last ten minutes. Refresh, wait, retry. And repeat.
Leaning back I put my finger in the ashtray, I fingered the ashtray.
Tee was round earlier which was weird because it was the first time he’s been here, to the house I mean. He brought a bottle of red wine and some grass. I tried to roll a joint but it went wrong and was really loose and about an inch long. It was nice weed though.
We drank the wine from cheap coloured glasses, you know, the sort you get when you’re having a party, plastic, disposable, and we talked about our friend Ana.
I’m in love with Ana,
I want to shout out of the window “I love you”.
She doesn’t know this, she is unaware. Nobody knows I’m in love.
It’s not true what they say about having to love yourself before you can love someone else. I am definitely in love with Ana, I know this because I just don’t care, she can do what she wants to me, she ignores me and goes out with other people. I will always be there for her to come back to.
This has been going on for two years, we do things together and go on pretend dates. I mean I pretend they are dates, I pretend our brief encounters are dates.
She doesn’t know I’m in love with her. I’ve told her like three times now but only when we’re shit-faced drunk. We always wake up in bed together. Me holding her not the other way round, I’m very aware she never comes to me in the bed, she is never holding me. We always sleep fully clothed and when anyone ever asks she always tells them we are just friends.
I’ve never seen her naked.
I showed her my pubes once, I’d shaved them into a runway stripe like Pamela Anderson, I named it the manzillian. That’s as far as we’ve gone. I’ve never even kissed her.
I can hear someone next door. Banging. Not ‘banging’. Crashing about, rearranging furniture. It’s too late to be doing that.
I climb off the bed. It takes a lot of effort and I’m not sure why I’m standing up. I can tell no one else is in. The house has that feeling, even though it’s not silent, there’s no sign of life.
It’s 11pm.
I check my keys and my wallet are in my pocket and go out the front door, slamming it hard to make sure it shuts properly.
I hate it when people invite you to a party and then tell you it’s in a bar. That’s not a party.
I’m going to a ‘party’.
Ana said she would be there. I text her on the way but get no reply.
I get to the bar and have to stand behind four people who are younger and having more fun than I am. I overhear the bouncer telling them it’s £3.50 to get in tonight, I’m not sure if I want to go in but I find myself digging in my pocket for change.
I don’t want to get stamped but the bouncer insists. So they can tell I’ve paid if I go out and want to come back in again. I tell him I don’t mind paying again but while I’m arguing this point some chick just grabs my hand and stamps me anyway.
I give her a look that says thanks but really sarcastically, a smile with a squint. I look at my hand and the black ink of the stamp spells INSECURE.
The music is loud. A girl hands me a flyer and says something that I don’t hear. The flyer has ‘BSG’ written on it in big letters. I fold it and put it in my back pocket.
I go to the bar and order a bottle of red wine. The girl behind the bar looks at me funny. The music is relentless. I look around and can’t see anyone I know.
A girl bumps into me as I’m paying for the wine on my card, she has a green badge on that says ‘kiss me I’m a rapist’ I want to kiss her then I realise it’s a guy.
I put my coat behind a sofa and sit down. I realise I didn’t pick up a glass. I drink from the bottle.
I take a wander round the bar. There are no girls in here.
I decide to finish the bottle of wine and leave. This takes a lot longer than I thought it would. Half way through I mouth the word ‘unsuccessful’. Somebody touches my arm but I can’t work out who it was.
On the walk home I go into Subway. The guy behind the counter tries to make me get a ‘foot long’. He really tries to get me to have the big sandwich, like too much. I’m too drunk to be hassled.
I wake up the next morning, fully dressed apart from my shoes. The laptop is on the floor. My shoes are on the floor next to the Subway wrapper. I feel like shit.

InPatient

Does it make you feel weird, me watching you? I feel fine about it, and that makes me feel weird. Is that weird?

Did I tell you I lost my phone? What a hassle.

Kenny bit me on my arm last night, do you even know Kenny? I think he gave me hepatitis.

I don’t know what to say, it all feels very one sided. Nothing has happened, since. You know. Nothing has changed.

I should stay a bit longer, maybe watch some TV.

Or set fire to something. I feel obligated to talk.

Why have they left you magazines?

God I always used to love your shoes, does that make me shallow or a bad person? Just because I liked your shoes. I’m sorry I keep referring to you in past tense. can you even hear me?

I read somewhere that once you’ve been out, like this, for a while, in a coma, your muscles start to contract, slowly the muscles get tighter, drawing your arms and legs closer to your body. They call this position the pugilist, because you look like a boxer. How do you feel about that? Did you read about it too?

I’m gonna go now.

It's my birthday . . .

I have pen all over my face
I am wearing my mums dressing gown
I have no front teeth
I said the word 'brains' out loud, 94 times in a row
I have sweetcorn in my eye

It's my birthday, in about 177 days time

Now wash hands

So I go into the staff toilets at the end of the corridor.

I open the door and bang, it hits me right between the peepers. And I mean BANG, seriously.

The bowl, the toilet bowl yeah?

Full of bangers n mash, you know, bangers n mash.

Somebody hasn’t flushed. The toilet roll, that’s the mash, don’t make me spell it out.

The Future is NOW

The supermarket across the road employs one member of staff, a security guard. There are no checkout staff, no shelf stackers, no cleaners and no managers, just a lone security guard who stands by the door looking bored. The shelf stacking and cleaning happens at night and is outsourced to a company called _______. The tills are self service.

But the streets are still filthy, my car won’t start and blood still drips from my nose.

If the future truly is NOW, then where are the robots we were promised?

6ix Sentences

In the words of Lily Allen, 'Oh my god I can't believe it'. Wait, were those her words or Mark Ronson's? Hold on wasn't it a cover version of the Kaiser Chiefs. Whatever. anyway before I start rambling on, my short short story 'I Am a Private Detective’ appears on Six Sentences today:

I am a Private Detective

Please visit, read and (if you feel like hurling abuse) comment.

Thanks

FM

I want to deform

I want to get hair extensions for my face and eat dirt from the pavement.

Today I picked up from the street:

A bottle top
A blue plastic bag
An unidentifiable piece of fruit
7 cigarette butts
A piece of hair
A blood stained tissue
A polystyrene container for food (used)
A stone
A piece of rubber from a car tire
A dead bird
A beer can
A playing card (7 of hearts – remember this card, you will see it again in the next week)


This is all evidence
This is all in the back of my car in a bin bag.

I want a sticker on my arm or my chest that says 'please do not look at me'

It is easy to get confused.

omg wtf srsly

OMG

srsly

mi fliptop computer thingy has like totally broken n stuff - wtf - the man in the store sed it waz a gud one, then he said he'd give me money off if I did sumthin 4 him out the back . . .

so i dunno

y iz it like not wurkin???

he nvr called me eithr

n i can't write this sh1t in a innernet store - in public

i still <3 u tho

x x x x x