Hole Punch Read online

  They all clapped and the DJ put on an old song from the nineties. Rolodex by Alphabet Squid.

  A man inside the speakers sang:

  “Oh Rolodex, baby I wanna get to go to Rex! Oh Rolodex, baby I wanna get to go to mex, haven’t you heard? Yeah? Yeah? Yeah? Yeah? Yeah? Yeah? Yeah? Yeah? Yeah? YEAAAAAAAAAAAH!?”

  Another man in the speakers did something with a keyboard and another man in the speakers did something with a guitar and another man in the speakers did something with some drums and there were probably some other men involved too and there might have been women though probably not as bands were sexist back then.

  “Love you babes!” said Gaz to Sasha.

  “Love you too babes!” said Sasha to Gaz.

  They did a snog and people clapped.

  * * *

  Three hours later, in the smoking area, Trev was slapping Gaz round the back to congratulate Gaz for puking in an outdoor ashtray.

  “Get it out mate,” said Trev. “Better out than in. Makes up for you not having a stag do.”

  Gaz puked up some beer.

  “Why didn’t you have a stag do mate? Last night of freedom mate!”

  Gaz puked up some wedding dinner.

  “You should have had a stag do!”

  Gaz puked up some beer.

  “You being married ain’t going to stop us is it? We’ll still have the odd night out at the strip bars won’t we?”

  Gaz puked up some beer.

  “Won’t we mate? Come on mate? Won’t we?”

  Gaz puked up some beer.

  Trev kicked over the pub bottle recycling bin.

  “Answer me you puking prick!”

  LOVE

  “Can you tell us a love story mother?” chittered the cockroach larvae.

  “I will tell you a love story,” chittered their mother.

  The larvae wriggled in anticipation.

  “Once upon a time, before the Cataclysm, there was humanity.”

  “We know all about them,” chittered the larvae. “What could they have known about love? Have you seen all this stupid wreckage they left behind? Just stupid!”

  Their mother nodded.

  “They were, indeed, stupid and pointless.”

  “Why were the humans so stupid mother?”

  “There are many theories. Some say their problem was greed, some say it was aggression, but I believe their problem was love. Humanity was ugly. Nothing could love a human being. Human beings were naturally selfish. Love was not real but they wanted it. They were always on the search for love and beauty because they were so ugly. Ugly in body, mind and heart. The world they created did nothing but confirm this ugliness. This caused wars and hate and “you are uglier than me” debates. Humanity couldn't be loved. So they were in the grip of their own death instinct. What other option did they have but to die? So they engineered their own suicide. Can you imagine how painful it must be? To despise your own species? To despise yourself? To never feel love.”

  The cockroach larvae wriggled.

  “Mother?” chittered the cockroach larvae. “Do you think this story is biased? Perhaps opinionated? They can't have all hated their own species? Some of them must have felt natural, humble, insect love for each other?”

  “Not possible,” chittered their mother. “Humanity had no grasp on any form of love. They would try to feel love by having children. Not even that worked because they hated their own children. They never said so, but they did. Each generation was a mirror of their own failure and hate. Nothing could justify their ugly existence. They used one another, and they called it love.”

  “We do the same,” chittered the cockroach larvae. “Life is predisposed towards survival and having to deal with the inevitability of death in a world we will never understand. Humans may be uglier and stupider than us, but how are they different from us in regards to love?”

  “Listen to my story! Otherwise I will be very disappointed in you,” chittered their mother.

  The cockroach larvae obeyed. They knew all about parental authority.

  “Love killed them,” chittered their mother. “Each individual human inflicted hate and resentment on every other human. Constant pain, both mental and physical, stretched outward until, eventually, the strain tore apart their civilisation. The strain of love.”

  When the larvae sleep they dream of eating their mother's corpse.

  ROMON

  How long has it been? Five or six years? Actually, it was seven. Seven whole years. That's how long he's known her. He thinks he loves her. He thinks he's always loved her. She loved him too. She loved him in the platonic sense. And now here she was on the floor, her head smashed. Blood and bits on the carpet. He had done this. Seven whole years and this is how it ended. Her head smashed. Blood and bits on her Indian rug. Look how fragile she was. How fragile she is. Has always been. She was only human after all.

  Now she was dead. She wouldn't disappoint him again now. This body. Was it still her? He laughed. Yes it was. Of course it was. This was her.

  “I should have done this sooner,” he said.

  Would it have wasted less time if he'd done this sooner?

  No.

  No it wouldn't.

  The timing had been perfect.

  * * *

  She first became the target for his affections after his ex girlfriend had dumped him.

  He was really fascinated with the way she talked about politics. He'd never even thought about politics before. He even started to go on protests with her.

  Stop poverty.

  Stop racism.

  Don't stop abortions.

  He grew a beard to impress her. The beard helped him to fit in with her crowd of people. He signed all the petitions that she signed and he cared about what they represented.

  She liked that about him.

  She liked that he cared.

  She had a nice arse too.

  * * *

  Seven whole years and this is how it ended. Her head smashed. Blood and bits on the her Indian rug.

  He opened the fridge and reached in and cracked open a beer.

  This is the real him.

  The Real Romon.

  REVENGE

  Acre Drillbit moved all sinewy and taut through the marshlands. He had a machete, rifle, semi-automatic pistol, Swiss Army Knife and a fishing net filled with the severed heads of the tadpoles of his enemy: the CyberToad Footlevac.

  “How many of your spawn must I kill before you crawl out of your sludge!?” shouted Acre Drillbit.

  He spun around shooting his rifle in all directions into the green mist.

  “Come out and face me Footlevac!”

  A stooped old toad emerged from the mist and waved her walking stick in surrender.

  “Stop!” she bubbled in her mucus-soaked voice.

  Acre aimed his rifle at her round, toad head.

  “Where is Footlevac!”

  “He is no longer here. He flew away to a distant shore.”

  Acre pressed his machete against her throat.

  “Where?! Tell me! You monster!”

  Tears welled up in the old toad’s black eyes.

  “You are the monster, not us, how many more have to die before you give up your vendetta?”

  Acre pressed the machete harder into her slimy throat.

  “As many as it takes!”

  STUPID DEAD PEOPLE

  The teenage tough laughed at their graves.

  “Stupid dead people,” he said.

  He shoved a piece of beef pie and some gravy smothered chips into his mouth.

  “You can’t even eat. Stupid dead people.”

  Full of chip shop food, disorientated from the sun, he ambled about the grass.

  “Can’t even walk. Stupid dead people. Can’t even talk. Stupid dead people.”

  He laughed at his clever rhyming and took a swig from his fizzy drink.

  “You ain't got money anymore!”

  He kicked a gravestone hard with his steel
toe capped boot.

  “You can’t do nothing! You ain’t got nothing!”

  He kicked the gravestone again, knocking it over.

  “Oy!” shouted the caretaker, stepping out of the church. “Leave them alone you puff!”

  The teenage tough kicked at the soil of the graves.

  “I’m going to smash in all their stupid dead faces!”

  MINUTES

  Emmett Corcoran flaps a thick document on my desk. I slouch back in my chair and peer over my sunglasses at his passionless form.

  "What is the meaning of this?" he asks, pointing at document.

  "Those are the minutes for your last meeting,” I tell him. “Remember? I told you I would work harder. Am I a real boy now?"

  He opens the document and starts reading out the first page.

  Why does he need to do this? I already know the contents and his terrible tenor is only going to wreck the substance of my prose. What a waste of time this man is. What a waste of man!

  "The morons march through the door and sit down around the chemical scented corporate table. The table is loaded with cakes, crisps and sandwiches, all ready to be shoved into their fat, facile faces. I don't recall any of their names because they aren’t worth remembering. The workers in this office are a stream of blood tainted shit. Emmett and Julie are leading the meeting, they are the only exceptions to my memory block simply because I have to look at them more often, also, they are having an affair. They must have a lot in common, every cancer cell is different but also the same. If you stare at anything long enough it will project an illusion of individuality. Emmett and Julie are cancer cells of their very own malignant tumour!”

  Emmett stops reading and looks at me, arms outspread.

  Does he want an explanation?

  “Listen Emmett, If you want me to explain myself, why don’t you just ask?”

  “Why are you doing this? Why do you keep being so nasty?”

  I shrug and pull my pack of cigarettes from my pocket.

  “Answer my question,” said Emmett (squeakily).

  "This is harassment,” I light up my cigarette. “I worked hard on those minutes. I know that they're only first draft material but I'll tidy them up. I'll make them more streamlined so I can send them to publishers. I could be the next Chuck Palahniuk. I'm not a fan of his work, so I'm setting my target low."

  "Please leave, I've given you enough chances.”

  "I can be more ambitious Emmett, more counter-culture. Maybe I could send a copy to your wife? She'd be interested.”

  “Please leave.”

  “Can I at least upload them to my Dropbox so I can tidy them up at home?"

  "Please, just go," he said.

  I grab the minutes. At least I have a paper copy of my story.

  "I think you need some time off Emmett. Get some perspective. No one here is cheating on his wife except you."

  TROPHY

  His fish eyed, spiritually comatose wife applied her make up.

  "Be a good trophy and wear your new dress tonight," said Alpha Romero. "I don't want Aston Martin's prize to look better than you again."

  CARETAKER

  Leslie looked through the post every morning.

  “Junk! Junk! Junk! Junk! Junk! Junk! Junk! Junk! Junk! Junk!” he used to say, every morning, as he threw the post into the bin.

  Leslie had lived and worked in that hotel for forty-five years as the caretaker.

  “Take care,” he said to the guests. “I am the caretaker and have been for forty-five years. If you ever have a problem with anything, or anyone, then come to me and I’ll sort it out.”

  Leslie would stand at the front steps of the hotel and sweep away at nothing with his broom. On sunny days he wore no top, a pair of Bermuda shorts and aviator sunglasses. His aviator sunglasses meant business.

  It was his job to be suspicious and he would treat every guest with suspicion.

  “I’m onto you,” he said to them. “You'd better not be trying anything dodgy in this hotel.”

  Leslie would pose in the mirror and tense the muscles on his bare chest.

  One night, at six in the evening, he banged on one of the hotel room doors.

  “KEEP IT QUIET IN THERE! KEEP IT QUIET IN THERE! KEEP IT QUIET IN THERE!”

  He didn’t like any disturbances after dark. People had to sleep.

  “I’ll throw you off that balcony if you don't shut up!"

  He threw her off the balcony.

  The police dragged him away,

  “Nobody gets the better of Leslie! I've been caretaker of this hotel for forty-five years!”

  * * *

  At the psychiatric unit he was told that he hadn’t been working at a hotel. Leslie had been an outpatient living in a block of flats.

  On day release from the unit, he walks around clothing shops and imagines he is a security guard. He wears his aviator sunglasses. His aviator sunglasses mean business.

  GITT VS CLANK

  There was nothing left of their civilisation after the Earth Empire invaded. Compression machines pulped their hyper-advanced brains into gooey pills. These were then shipped to the liberal, free-thinking communities on the outer colonies.

  * * *

  "The Earth Empire does nothing but exploit the needy and alienate the alien," said a free-thinker. "No one is considering mutant rights."

  He put a gooey pill into his mouth.

  "I can't believe they get away with ignoring the most vulnerable of us," said a mutant, with sticky pads all over his ascendancy savings.

  "Have you plugged into Gitt's new audio-cube?" asked a girl with a hologram cardigan. "Gitt are my new favourite cultural alternative?"

  "Gitt are such a dead zone," laughed the mutant. "These days it's all about Clank."

  ORDERED

  The thin couple watched me. I could feel their intentions in their glaring eyes. They lived in the room next to mine. The first time they saw me I knew what they wanted. They wanted to inject me into their mainstream.

  I hid from them, like I hid from everyone, but it wasn't long before they pushed open my door and walked into my room. Uninvited, obviously. They looked at my walls, all covered with my notes, my diagrams and my thoughts.

  They shook their heads and tutted.

  “What is all of this?” asked the thin man.

  Should I have told them?

  The thin woman made a compassionate face.

  “Tell us,” she said.

  Should I have told them?

  I don't know if I had any choice. Not really.

  So I told them, I explained myself. Something about their eyes told me it was my only option.

  “This circle here represents where I am now and this line is where I am going. These shapes are the illusions of free will. These pyramids are the fallacy of personality, the fallacy of everything.”

  Their eyes widened, not with shock, but with sympathy.

  They came closer to me as I continued to explain.

  “These notes convey, through non-alphabetical symbols, the exit points in the walls of my prison. It shows what I need to do next in my war against The Way Things Are.”

  The thin man leant forward and put his finger to my lips. The thin woman put her hand on my shoulder.

  “You must come under the fold of Order,” he said.

  The woman put her hand on my other shoulder and squeezed.

  “Order permeates everything,” she said.

  They pressed against me.

  “You cannot rebel against Order,” he said.

  They unbuttoned my shirt.

  “Order folds inwards,” she said.

  Their fingers stroked me.

  “Order blooms outwards,” he said.

  Sitting me down on the bed.

  “Blooming and pulsating Order,” she said.

  Lowering my shirt.

  “Inward and outward,” he said.

  They reached into my trousers.

  “You are not an energy.�
��

  My eyes blurred and their faces merged closer.

  “You are a person,” they said.

  The same person.

  “You are ordered.”

  There was no option now.

  “To Obey.”

  SOCRATES

  Ambrogio was buggered three thousand years (and more) into the future by Socrates.

  It all started when Ambrogio was a student of Socrates in the heart of cool, hipster, ancient Athens. Ambrogio was a desirable, young man seeking a sponsor and tutor. Socrates was the most trendy philosopher in town.

  One quiet night, in the plaza, Ambrogio was alone with Socrates and said he would do anything to have Socrates' edgy, punk knowledge. Socrates chuckled and told Ambrogio that he could only share his knowledge by physically inserting it into Ambrogio.

  Socrates buggered Ambrogio three thousand years (and more) into the future.

  Every thrust made Ambrogio spasm and writhe forward fifty years. Pushing Ambrogio past the people, buildings and events of the future. The fall of Rome, King Arthur, the Crusades, the Renaissance, the Black Death, the Industrial Revolution: all of this with a throbbing Socrates up his anus and a grunting Socrates against his ear.

  * * *

  Sigmund Freud made notes on treating Ambrogio, he describes him as a young man who would “scream and shake like there was something up his bottom.”

  “No more knowledge! No more!” screamed Ambrogio on Freud's settee.

  What Freud didn’t know is that when Ambrogio looked at him, Sigmund’s genial, misogynistic face would morph into the face of the lustful pederast: Socrates.