Hole Punch Read online

  "Did your parents ever lie to you?"

  "Everything I say is said better elsewhere."

  "Did you socialise much this weekend?"

  "After crushing my paradigm identity, I watched it spring back into shape. It forgave and affirmed me. I chose to get on with things. I must follow my fiction."

  LIZ

  “Hello budgies!” said Garry Lavender, stepping into the pet shop.

  “Hello Garry,” said Mrs Wycombe. “Always a flash of colour on you even in winter.”

  Garry smiled and closed his sunflower-patterned umbrella.

  “We've got your usual bag of seed ready,” said Mrs Wycombe. “How are the budgies?”

  “They are transcendent!”

  “Have the new ones settled in okay? How many do you have now?”

  “I have almost as many budgies as there are buildings on this street. I met my first budgie when I was four years old. I may have actually been six. The problem with childhood is that it is distorted. When you live in childhood it is monumental! Mental! But over time: Tiiiiiiiiiiime is streeeeeeeeetched! Haha! I had my first budgie when I was four, five and six.”

  “I know about your first budgie, that was Joey, you've already told me about him.”

  “Sorry I am distracted.”

  Garry was looking at the bird cages; canaries, finches and budgies all chirping away.

  “It doesn't matter how many I save,” said Garry. “There are still so many uncared for budgies.”

  “Don't be sad Garry, you can't look after all the budgies.”

  The budgies jumped from perch to perch and looked at themselves in their mirrors.

  “A spiral to heaven,” said Garry, a tear rolling down his cheek.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where's Liz?” asked Garry.

  “Oh Garry, Liz is with that terrible Graves boy.”

  Garry clenched his teeth. A Thomas Graves clench.

  “I just wish that Liz could meet a nice boy,” said Mrs Wycombe. “She is such a sweet girl.”

  Garry nodded.

  “She likes the animals,” said Garry. “And she is kind to the budgies. Don't judge Thomas Graves too harshly. He is just following his natural instincts. Like a rodent; fat, hairy and stupid.”

  The door of the pet shop opened and in stepped Thomas Graves; short, balding, and middle-aged.

  “Where's Liz!?” said Thomas.

  “I thought she was with you,” said Mrs Wycombe.

  “Shut up bitch!”

  Thomas Graves advanced on Garry Lavender.

  “Where is she Latimer! You've always been after her!”

  Thomas pushed Garry against the bird cages, canaries, finches and budgies screeched in panic.

  “You're a worm Latimer!”

  Garry straightened up and slapped Thomas Graves.

  “LAVENDER! I am Garry Lavender! Not a worm!”

  Mrs Wycombe huddled in the back room and phoned the police.

  “Don't you upset them!” shouted Garry.

  Garry Lavender had Thomas Graves on the floor and was batting him around the head repeatedly.

  “Don't you upset them! Don't you upset me! Don't you upset Liz! Don't you upset Mrs Wycombe! Don't you upset them! Don't you upset me! Don't you upset Liz! Don't you upset Mrs Wycombe!”

  ROMANS 13

  On the sprawling, planet-wide city of Conglomacs, the higher your position of authority the more extensive your lobotomy.

  All police officers on Conglomax had a small area of their ventrolateral cortex removed. The area labelled ‘the social conscience’. Without this burden the law is able to administer justice and feel really good about it.

  * * *

  King Gergex 1411BX was strapped to the throne and surgical drones hacked open his skull. They removed all his inessential skull contents and replaced them with the fastest Human Empire meta-circuits available. A day later, the crown of machinery was removed and implanted into the next monarch, King Arphax 0837AU. Kings never lasted long.

  * * *

  A vast conveyor belt of dead kings rolled through the city squares of Conglomacs. Peasants are encouraged to desecrate the corpses.

  “GET IT OUT OF YOUR SYSTEM!” said the billboards.

  Anyone who desecrated a king's corpse would later be found, tortured and shot.

  * * *

  Pastor Jax Inclements stood in front of the frightened and angry congregation. He opened his mouth and the implant in his throat began its amplified robotic sermon:

  "Everyone must submit to governing authorities. For all authority comes from God, and those in positions of authority have been placed there by God. So anyone who rebels against authority is rebelling against what God has instituted, and they will be punished. For the authorities do not strike fear in people who are doing right, but in those who are doing wrong. Would you like to live without fear of the authorities? Do what is right, and they will honour you. The authorities are God’s servants, sent for your good. But if you are doing wrong, of course you should be afraid, for they have the power to punish you. They are God’s servants, sent for the very purpose of punishing those who do what is wrong. So you must submit to them, not only to avoid punishment, but also to keep a clear conscience."

  ATHEISM

  “Ha ha!” laughed Alan Atheist to his life partner, Anthea. “I’ve got a very intelligent and evidence-based proposition for you.”

  “Oh go on then,” laughed Anthea Atheist as she lounged conventional, trendy and secure on her antique, Peruvian chaise lounge.

  “My proposition is that nothing can be proven without evidence and anything based purely on imagination is a waste of time. A waste of time it is!”

  “Ha ha!” laughed Anthea. “It doesn’t matter that what you said is unoriginal. I will enjoy hearing it said again by you, me and our rational, boring friends for the rest of our lives.”

  * * *

  Fifty years later, Alan Atheist lay in his deathbed.

  “I’m sorry Jesus!” he cried.

  "Weak!" spat Anthea.

  * * *

  Outside the hospital window was the sound of nine hundred and sixty-two million axes grinding with resentment towards their abusive, religious upbringings. Nine hundred and sixty-two million voices:

  "Ha ha! Clever, clever. Ha ha! Scientific method. Ha ha! God Delusion."

  GOD

  I sat with Granddad in the church and we looked at the yellow roses.

  “God is in those flowers,” said Granddad. “God is in everything. That’s why he knows everything.”

  “Is God in yellow?” I asked.

  “God is in everything.”

  “When I look at yellow, how do I know that how you see yellow will be the same as how I see yellow?”

  “We know because it’s yellow.”

  “What I mean is that yellow is the word we both use but how we see yellow might be different. We just have the same word for it.”

  “But it's yellow,” said Granddad. “It's just yellow!”

  “But what I mean is-”

  “It's yellow! That’s all it is! It's yellow!”

  “But-”

  “It's JUST yellow!”

  We'd been waiting for my brother to start singing. He was in the school choir. The community had gathered to see their children sing the Lord's songs.

  My brother stood with the choir, they were all in white robes, they held candles.

  Everyone watched them. They seemed far away and connected to something higher than all of us.

  It was time for his solo performance.

  I felt jealous.

  After the performance, as we all got up from our chairs, Father Willis brought out a box of tinned sweetcorn for the harvest festival.

  COSTERMONGER

  The grizzled, old Costermonger pushed her shopping trolley loaded with probably dead fish and acid-rain sodden potato up the cracked, tarmac road. She passed a sign:

  “YOU ARE NOW ENTERING HOPELESSNESS.<
br />
  POPULATION: EVERYONE”

  “Get your fish and chips!” she screeched on arrival at the shanty town built from broken cars and other rubbish. “Get your fish and chips, just like they used to make them in the good, old days!”

  Starving children ran to the Costermonger, they were pale, green and sick-faced in their clothes of rags and dirt.

  “Form a queue pigs!” ordered the Costermonger as she pulled an AK47 gun from her overcoat.

  There was only one item on her menu. Fish and Chips. The Costermonger slapped a pulsating, but probably dead, radioactive fish on a hub-cap plate. She sloshed it with a squish of potato. Finally, she drizzled the food with a lumpy splat of gravy that looked like cancer.

  The parents of the children ambled out of their car crash homes.

  “I... told... you...” rasped their lipless leader. “Not... to... come... back... here! We... can't... afford... anymore... of... your.... fish... and... chips...”

  He puked a pint of blood.

  The Costermonger aimed her AK47 at him and smiled.

  “Your children can afford it! They can have it on credit! These healthy, young pigs can pay it off working at my fish farm!”

  SMEAR

  The Smear is a statistical smear. Its smudges can be pushed in any direction given enough input. The Smear cannot be erased, it can only be displaced. The Smears numbers flow, communicate and influence. They enforce their existence through symbols of measurement and action.

  No one asks the Smear whether it is happy?

  Does the Smear look as if it cares?

  “I don't give a fig,” said the Smear.

  * * *

  Victor Qubert put down his copy of the Financial Times and resumed work, everyone else was packing up for Xmas so Victor Qubert was going to be left alone in the office to pick up the pieces.

  “It's always this way,” said Victor.

  His manager asked him if he was going home?

  "No," said Victor. "These projections aren't going to project themselves."

  The entire office went dark except for the light above Victor's desk. He got back to work on his figures. Someone needed to sort those numbers out.

  * * *

  Victor went home on Boxing Day. His wife was worried and his children were wondering why Father Christmas hadn't brought any presents this year?

  "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" screamed Victor as he hit his head on the wall repeatedly. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

  His wife said sorry and his children cried.

  "You’re never sorry enough!" screamed Victor. "I work so hard for you! I work so hard for the company but it's never enough! It's never enough! It's never enough!"

  Victor repeatedly hit his head on the wall again.

  His wife pleaded with him to stop and said that she would heat up his Christmas dinner, she had put cling film over it and stored it in the fridge.

  "Screw you!" screamed Victor as he pointed at the bruise on his forehead. "See what you've done to me!?"

  Victor left the house and got in his car. He turned on the radio. It was Christmas music.

  "Screw you!" he shouted at the radio.

  He saw some children kicking a football about, he opened the car window.

  "Screw you!" he shouted.

  He drove past the church, some old loves stood in a gaggle around the Vicar.

  "Screw you!" he shouted.

  He got back to work and reopened his session on System Accounts Processing.

  He cracked his fingers.

  "Right! I'm going to project this business into the next fucking century!"

  * * *

  The Smear feels Victor Qubert pushing and probing the Smear with his fingers; digging deep into the Smears cells and pushing them all nice and hard. The Smears zeros all multiply their formulas with excitement. Victor Qubert is the Smears special friend.

  DROWNED OIL SICK

  Amoeboid Acetabulum drifts unconsciously into the Spinal Illusion Coffee Shop and splodges into a chair next to some other non-substantials.

  They blurt about all the latest news as it screens straight into their implantations.

  “Yeah, I saw that,” said Amoeboid Acetabulum.

  “Yeah, I did too,” said Jellified Ventricle.

  All of them merge together.

  Grease splodged water puddle.

  Drowned oil sick.

  QUESTIONS

  I was taken to a white porcelain room filled with confused children. I noticed a smell of poo and it was because some of the children had pooed themselves. I decided to poo myself when it was my turn.

  “Be normal!” shouted the soil-headed teacher.

  At night, they cleaned the room with a high pressure hose.

  * * *

  During break times we went outside. There was a hill I used to roll down.

  Did I roll down the hill or was I pushed?

  It's hard to remember.

  Time blurs.

  * * *

  After a year, or a month, or two weeks, it is difficult to tell: time blurring and all. I had begun to settle in there. I even realised that I didn’t need to poo myself to fit in.

  I got into trouble when a girl told me to meet her in a cubicle. The cubicle was in the girls' toilets.

  I told her that I wasn't allowed in the girls' toilets.

  She said it would be okay.

  So I stood in the toilet cubicle.

  “There is a boy hiding in a girl’s toilet cubicle,” she told the soil faced teacher.

  The teacher’s soil-head appeared over the cubicle wall.

  “Be normal!”

  * * *

  I remember taking toys apart: pouring wordless questions into self-made cracks. Wordless answers came back, not the ones I wanted, answers based in structure and boundaries.

  TOY CAR

  The baby is born.

  The baby is put in a toy car.

  The baby drives to work.

  CONTROLLED GARDENS

  The summer flowers bloom in the controlled gardens. The gardens are clean. The soil is clean. It's night-time and the stars are clean and the stars are shiny.

  The new house had four bedrooms. Everyone had their own bedroom now. The kids do not need bunk-beds anymore.

  The summer flowers bloom in the controlled gardens. Everyone has their own controlled garden. Everyone is watching everyone else's controlled garden. Everyone is watching for dirt.

  Who has the best garden?

  Where did she get the money for that conservatory?

  How did he afford a new car this year?

  Have you seen that dog?

  If I catch that dog shitting on my controlled garden there will be hell on.

  I'm going to build a hot tub.

  I'm going to build a hot tub in my controlled garden.

  My hot tub will be nice and clean and best.

  * * *

  Terrance Senior was in his controlled garden again.

  It was a modest and middle class controlled garden but with the help of his credit card he'd made it an upper-middle class controlled garden.

  His new hot tub gleamed on its concrete platform. People said it domineered over such a small space. Terrence Senior didn't care. They were just jealous.

  He had worked hard his entire life to get the credit rating to afford that hot tub and it was worth every minus. He loved to submerge his fat body into the bubbling water and play with his giant, rubber duck. He liked that his neighbours could see him sploshing and that they could hear his loud radio.

  His one-eyed, nineteen year old son, Terrance Junior, poked his head out of his bedroom window.

  “Thanks for the invitation!” Junior shouted sarcastically at his father.

  Junior had never tried his father’s hot tub and would have liked to be invited to play.

  Terrance Senior stuck his middle finger up at his son and he sloshed his bulk to the middle of the water. No one was ever going to join him. No one
but his giant, rubber duck.

  Junior closed the window with a slam and shook angrily, his eye twitched. Junior turned on his own radio to block out the noise of his father splashing and enjoying himself. Junior turned to his favourite station: Smooth FM.

  He took a deep breath as the radio played a saxophone solo. He tried to centre his emotions. He needed to calm down. He needed to chill out.

  “I need to chill the fuck out!” said Junior.

  Junior danced in lazy circles under his disco ball. His arms were wrapped around an imaginary woman. She wore a sparkly dress and looked like his mum. He placed his hands on her hips and they swayed romantically.

  Total Eclipse of the Heart started to play:

  “Once upon a time I was falling in love but now I'm only falling apart.”

  He twisted his imaginary woman into a stranglehold. His hands tightened on her neck as he pushed her onto the bed. Squeezing.

  “And there's nothing I can do, a total eclipse of the heart.”

  Why did she always allow this? Why did she do this to him? Why did he do this to her?

  He grunted as his hands groped over her rubbery skin. Junior unzipped his jeans. He reached inside his boxer shorts. He closed his eyes. Junior could still hear his father, outside, splashing in the hot tub with his duck.