Hole Punch Page 11
“You have the right to shut your bleeding cake-hole luv,” said the Sergeant.
He escorted her into the foyer. All sorts of scum were being herded about the place. An albino non-sexual entity held up it's hands. The fingerprints were burnt off.
“You’re not going to get nothing on me now copper,” it smirked smugly to the desk clerk.
The Sergeant pushed the albino’s head against a filing cabinet.
“You stupid shirt-lifting puff, now we have you for every crime without fingerprints,” the Sergeant chuckled. “Come on then buggerlugs, get in the interrogation room, I’m going to enjoy beating all them confessions out of your scum face.”
“What about me NARC!” shouted the girl.
The Sergeant regarded her coolly through his sunglasses.
“You have the right to shut your bleeding cake-hole luv.”
TEMP
Just as my three tabs of acid kick in, a “colleague” starts talking to me next to the coffee machine.
“Have you thought about applying for a permanent position?” he asks. “It’d be good for you to settle down and have some stability.”
“Why would I want to work here forever?” I ask him. “I’m not fooled as easily as the rest of you. You aren't permanent! You don’t even know what permanent means! You don’t even know what temporary means! Stability?! You think you're stable?!”
He awkwardly apologises and walks away. I follow him, my mocha sloshing on my hand as I quicken my pace. I’m not done with him yet.
“What’s wrong?” I laugh, closing in. “Your social pleasantries gone wrong? Is this too real for you?”
At the end of the corridor there's an organisational chart.
“Look at the faces on that chart? Half of them are redundant and some of them are DEAD!”
He walks around the corner, timidly looking over his shoulder.
“Look at them! Your permanence is an illusion! These faces, like your face, are mere integers of the ever mutating organism of the corporate survival machine!”
I kick over a recycling bin and chase him down the corridor.
“You're a flesh and bone paving slab worn down by the shoes of your superiors! Whereas me!”
I grab hold of him and pin him against wall.
“I'm the substance of our ever-changing everything! I'm the decay in your teeth! The spirit you’ll never have! I'm a temp!!”
Strong security guard arms drag me away.
“Read some books before it’s too late! Reality is of a rhizomic structure! Break free of your circuitry illusion!”
* * *
Five minutes later, I'm escorted outside by security. I lean against a wall. I light up a cigarette. Some school children walk towards the office in single file. A gaggle of docile ducklings.
"That's right!" I shout at their teacher. "Feed them to Moloch! Our next generation of slaves! This way into the machine! All hail the Panopticon!”
BROTH
Manteb rubbed his chubby face with nettles and chuckled in agony.
“It’s good nettles isn’t it sir?” said the swamp scout at his front door.
“Oh yes,” smiled the boil cheeked, puss-sored Manteb. “Most stinging.”
Manteb paid the swamp scout a whole envelope of buttons. The swamp scout dragged his massive purse of nettles into Manteb’s kitchen. Manteb poured the nettles into his mixing funnel.
“I’m going to make the prickliest nettle broth on this side of the Blurt Hexagon!”
GENTRIFY
In the trendy upmarket suburb of Shaldon, they are very familiar with gentrification. The quirky and colourful chain bar, Strangest, has rows and rows of barbecue pits which sell culturally appropriated street food.
"Get your JERK chicken and your URBAN street SALAD!" said the pale chef with dreadlocks. "ASSimulate the drowned CITY and DEAD poor people VIBE into your WHITE privileged STOMACHS!"
The people sat around hoo-ha-haing about the greatness of socialism as they chewed on the greased ashes of their friendly, care and share capitalism.
DISRESPECT
Akira Otaro sat with the Plutonian businessman. The Plutonian was a strange humanoid with almond eyes and smooth lilac skin, so soft and delicate.
“I'll show you lots of fun in this town,” said Akira Otaro. “And we'll talk about the final settlement tomorrow.”
The Plutonian accepted Akira Otaro's offer.
Akira Otaro took the Plutonian to a fish and noodle restaurant. Akira offered the Plutonian a glass of wine. The Plutonian refused to drink alcohol.
“It makes our people go crazy,” said the Plutonian.
“Surely that's the point!” scoffed Akira.
After their meal, they went to a Sumo-wrestling match.
“I decide who wins and who loses,” said Akira.
“How?”
“I give them money to win or lose.”
“How do you profit from that?”
Akira indicates the crowd.
“They are making bets on these fights and when they bet on the wrong wrestler I take their money!”
“But what if they all bet on the right wrestler?”
“They never do, not all of them. I always know which wrestler is going to win.”
“How do you know which wrestler is going to win?”
“Because I decide which wrestler will win. I decide who wins and who loses. Haven't you been listening?”
The Plutonian strokes his chin in thought.
“This is not real.”
“What?”
“This is not real. You have nothing to offer the Plutonian Summit except for your dishonesty.”
The Plutonian teleported back to his spaceship.
“Come back here!” shouted Akira at the ceiling. “No one disrespects me!”
DEBT
On television, the sports commentator is excited:
“Look at our brave Collector boys chasing after her! Led by Trevor Jock: the fastest Collector of his generation! Look at her! Thinking she can get away! She doesn't stand a chance and YES! It's happened! They have her on the floor now! Look at her! Trevor Jock kicking her in the ribs! She thought she could outrun debt! Well, we've got news for you BABY! If you owe money you'd better pay it back! Look her now! Shitting and pissing herself! Oh YES! That's good. Shock her with those taser guns! Should have made your payments on time darling! Should have made your payments on time!”
* * *
In a clean, white room, Mr and Mrs Reynolds are signing up to the Angel Trust Debt Repayment Plan.
"That's right," said the salesman, who had his own problems. "Condense your overdue debts into one manageable sum. All you have to do is make your payments on time."
"Please do it quickly," pleaded Mrs Reynolds. “They are waiting for us outside."
“One moment,” said Mr Reynolds. “Tell me your interest rates first.”
“We freeze our interest rates for the first six months at only fourteen percent.”
“Please,” said Mrs Reynolds. “They'll come in here and get us if we take too long.”
“I'm not sure,” said Mr Reynolds.
* * *
The Collector Squad reclaim the old man's house. They put a net on him and his cat and they shock blasted them both into epileptic near-death experiences. Neurones fired in their gyrating, half-dead, debt meat.
The Collector Squad laughed and so did the audience at home.
* * *
Jerusalem is in flames. Black smog obscures the sunlight. A tank shoots at a crowd of student protesters. An airship flew in the sky bearing the banner:
"Trust Angel Trust: Financial Management For You And Your Next Of Kin."
ICONOCLASM
The people who think they are clever sit on the floor of an abandoned warehouse. For one night only the warehouse is a theatre for a counter-cultural performance by the theatre troupe: ICONOCLASM.
On stage, a man wearing a rubber-mask of a politician is bent over the lap of a man wearing a rubber-m
ask of the Queen.
“Bad boy!” shouts the man wearing a rubber-mask of the Queen.
The people who think they are clever smile and clap in collective affirmation of their big, mad ideas.
THE REBEL
On the planet Ukatrax, a Ukatraxi slave had finally had enough. With his big fists and brute strength he smashed a human slaver's head against the wall of the subterranean mine. He tore the legs from another and snapped another in half. He killed many others. It was a massacre.
The Rebel turned to his fellow Ukatraxi slaves.
“Break free of your chains my brothers! Let us escape from our masters!”
The other Ukatraxi slaves cowered in fright and fear. Some were still trying to punch for precious minerals with their bloodied fists.
“This isn’t happening,” they muttered.
“Stand up and fight!” demanded the Rebel.
An old, Ukatraxi patriarch ambled bent toward the Rebel.
“What would we be if we had our freedom?” he asked.
“We would be free if we had our freedom! We wouldn’t be whipped and beaten! We wouldn’t be punching through rock with our fists! We wouldn’t be watching our fathers die and our mothers die and our children die and our friends die at the hands of the humans! Did you not see how I killed a whole group of them on my own? The Ukatraxi are stronger, bigger and braver than the humans! Think of how strong we would be united! Together we can crush them and reclaim our world! Make a Ukatrax for the Ukatraxi!”
A female Ukatraxi stood up.
“The humans took my eggs! I will fight with you!”
She punched the cavern ceiling with her big fist.
“No women allowed!” said the Rebel. “I’m going to punch the Human Empire to dust! On my own if I have to! If I fail then I shall be an inspiration to the next generation! Revolution is possible through Ukatraxi strength!”
* * *
The Rebel punched open the throne room door and stomped towards the Arch-Slime Drylicktius, puppet king of the planet Ukatrax, who lay in his hot tub throne. His hairy maidens ran away with their sponges. The Rebel stomped towards the Arch-Slime. The Arch-Slime turned away from his many televisions to look sloppy-eyed at the Rebel..
“Oh come on mate,” bubbled the Arch-Slime. “You’re interrupting my telly!”
Fat with USB implants, bubbling fart water cloys his skin of wet clay. In his fattened fist he held a television remote control.
“You are nothing but a stooge!” shouted the Rebel, as he pulled the sloppy king out of his bath. “You sold out your species so you can be everything a Ukatraxi shouldn’t be! Using your fists for nothing but self-indulgence! Letting everyone else do the punching for you!”
“So what?” laughed the Arch-Slime. “I’m having a right good time of it!”
The Rebel dropped the Arch-Slime back in his hot tub.
“Useless!” spat the Rebel.
“Have a look at all this telly they gave me.”
On one screen: strange long-necked lizard creatures were tied up in basements and beaten, flayed and turned into handbags. On another screen: handbags on sale for forty-five credits. On another screen: bird creatures stuffing their feathers into sacks made from each others' skin to make pillows. On another screen: pillows being sold for forty-five credits each. On another screen: the Ukatraxi smashing their bloodied fists into the rock, the humans stood behind them whipping the Ukatraxi and laughing.
“We are entertainment to them?!” shouted the Rebel.
“What? The Mining Show? I love that one. The funniest thing about The Mining Show is that the humans have the technology to mine this planet in three hours. It's just that they think it's more fun to do it the slow way, more screams and all that. Much funnier.”
The Rebel wrapped his big hands around the Arch-Slime’s fat neck.
"Every time we punch stone it hurts!"
"Yeah..." gasped the Arch-Slime. “…I know... but you don’t… want to… be put out… out of a… job... do you?"
A human film crew burst into the throne room and pointed their cameras at the Rebel and the Arch-Slime. The Rebel dropped the Arch-Slime back in his tub and turned angrily toward the film crew.
“We're on the telly!” shouted the Arch-Slime.
Human soldiers burst into the throne room. They shot the Rebel.
The film crew gathered around, pointing their cameras at the Rebel as he choked on his juices.
“Look!” shouted the Arch-Slime. “You're on the telly!”
Three days later, the corpse of the Rebel began its tour around the hovels of the Ukatraxi slaves.
"Is that the bad one?" asked a child to his mother. "The one who tried to resist?"
RUGBY
In the town of Rugby, an outsider asks:
"Is there a lot of Rugby going on here?"
A tank-muscled and oyster-headed local points to the horizon:
"There's a lot of Rugby going on out THERE mate!"
JACK'S BACK!
When Jane saw the Cadillac smashed up against the street lamp, she knew it could only mean one thing.
“Jack's back!”
When George heard the clipping of cowboy boots around the corner, he knew it could only mean one thing.
“Jack's back!”
* * *
The thirty to fifty year old kids all danced at their house party that night. They were celebrating New Years Eve. They were on drugs and they pretended to be happy. The sound system stopped and the lights turned on. The thirty to fifty year old kids all looked up, baffled, to fix their eyes on him. He stood there in his cowboy boots, tight jeans, leather jacket and shades. Holding up the plug of the sound system in his rugged hand. His hair slicked back.
“Jack's back bitches!” said Jack.
Before anyone could respond, Jack kicked the sound system to the floor.
“I got an announcement to make!”
Jack clipped over the broken sound system.
“I got some unfinished business round here!”
Mouths gaped open in shock. Is he's back? He can't be? Can he? Is Jack actually back?
Jack chewed on a cocktail stick.
“I got a score to settle at City Hall! Is any one of you punks going to get in my way this time?”
No one said a word.
“What about you?” said Jack, pointing at Phil Marsden.
“No. No. No sir. I mean. I don't-”
“Don't what?”
“I'm not going to stand against you this time sir.”
“This time?” Jack squared up to Phil Marsden. “So you're saying you stood against me last time?”
“No. No. No sir I-”
A second later, Phil Marsden was unconscious on the floor.
“You ingrates better call the police,” said Jack. “By the time I'm done here there's gonna be some serious bodily harm on all your faces. I'll give you all three seconds to get your phones out. ONE! TWO! THREE!”
* * *
It was not going to be a normal day at work for Bertie Borngate. Not just another day of selling house insurance. Bertie had heard about the party. He'd heard that Jack was back. He knew that Jack would be coming to see him.
The door opened and there was Jack: cowboy boots, sunglasses, cocktail stick in his mouth and his hair slicked back. Jack hadn't aged a day.
“Nice to see you Jack,” said Bertie.
“Nice to see you too old pal,” said Jack.
“Hey, do you want a coffee or something?”
“Can't stay long buddy, I got business to settle at City Hall.”
Jack smiled and surveyed the insurance shop.
“Got yourself a steady, little job here.”
“Thanks Jack, it's my own business.”
“Come with me buddy, lets go take down City Hall.”
“I can't Jack, my wife-”
“Come on buddy! It'll be like the old days! Me and you! Butch and Cassidy! Burke and Caffrey! Batman and Robin!”
&n
bsp; “I'm sorry Jack.”
Jack spat on the floor and snarled.
“Well that's loyalty for you.”
Jack clipped aggressively out through the door.
Bertie picked up the phone and called his wife.
“Jack's back, he wants me to help him take down City Hall.”
* * *
At City Hall, in his office, Mayor Lester Green slunk back in his leather chair and looked through an ancient grimoire.
“I'm the Mayor! Since getting rid of Jack, I can do whatever I like!”
His secretary burst through the door.
“Mayor Green!”
“Call me Lester, baby.”
“Jack's back Mayor Green!”
Mayor Lester Green got to his feet and fluttered in panic.
“How?!”
“He's downstairs! He's beating up security! Then he says he's coming up here to beat up you!”
* * *
The meanest of the security men had Jack in a headlock.
"You're finished Jack!" said the security man.
A sledgehammer clunked on the security man's head. He fell to the floor with a fractured skull.
Jack turned around and saw Bertie stood there, holding his sledgehammer, just like in the old days.
“You know what they say Jack,” said Bertie. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
Jack smiled.
"I couldn't do this without you buddy," said Jack.
"Let's beat up the Mayor!"