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Episode 1, "Not Sorry Aboot It" [POLL]
Lights... Cameras.... Action!!! u/Grotesquette struts the runway u/Grotesquette: Welcome to the mainstage of SDRDR Season 6! International style icon Rupertonian, why aren't you working on my new gown?! u/Rupertonian: I'm sorry mistress. I've been busy! u/Grotesquette: Mhm. Winner of AS3, Spencerietta! How's royal life treating you? u/Spencerietta: Pretty good. Just went to Starbisha and ordered a whole pumpkin. :) u/Grotesquette: I bet you did. And winner of S2, whodat! How does it feel to be judging again? u/-_-whodat: Overwhelmed overworked overpaid I'm on top of the world, sittin' pretty on a stack but the static still cracks in my veins. At the bottom of the universe, I'm feeling all the weight. u/Grotesquette: Great to hear! And finally, SDRDR legend, icon, and cryptid u/KatyaIsMyBestFriend! u/KatyaIsMyBestFriend: Who let the dogs out?! I did!!! There were 101 of them in my basement. The feds busted me. Who cares?! u/Grotesquette: Tonight on the mainstage, I challenged my queens to write and perform their own rap tracks to the new hit song, "Not Sorry Aboot It". And tonight on the runway, category is Celebrity Skin! Ladies and Gentlemen, start your engines! And may the best woman... Win! ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Sorry, not sorry Sorry, I'm not so-o-rry Sorry, you won't make me apologise And I'm not sorry aboot it u/ShashaShtan Bow to me, the one and only Swinging in hard, just call me Miley OG fish, wanna come for me? Take it down, you’ll be dead, a zombie Step back, rap attack, BQ is a hoe Grumpy ass clown, Pennywise said Hey Troll All you gays be lazy lazy Crown is mine get crazy crazy! u/Starrrupt Everywhere I look I see a weak cast Everytime I bend, men stop and they crash Everything y’all do, puts you in dead last Everywhere they go, people always talk about this ass It must suck to go home so fucking fast! Ha ha ha, fucking crown me! u/FreeWill310 The name is Freewill All tea, will be spilled THEE shady bitch These reads go in for the kill, They won’t try me Cause i do it brutally Both Ruppi and Grot Will be crowning Free B-Q-B-Q You loud mouth cheap screw Passed around town Call that bussy Loosey-Loo Aassassinate these queens You know that he will B-Q-B-Q Death by free will! u/Swish_17 You got Swishy on the mic, she’s the winner in the house. No no no, all tits, no blouse Hoes think they neat with verses like these... Chile, Swish the only queen who came to compete Fix your looks, They looking real cheap While I sit back and remain on fleek Time to win, y’all can’t catch meeee Bitch, ha, I see you gagging! Sorry, not sorrySorry (Uh-uh), I'm not so-o-rry (Oh no!)Sorry, you won't make me apologiseAnd I'm not sorry aboot it (Aboot it) Suddenly, Maritess slides onto stage on a pair of roller skates. She rams her body into Swish, who goes flying offstage. She then lands into a jump split and begins rapping. u/MaritessTroper Mari needs a Mai Tai Then, I catch a flight to Dubai I'm so skinny they wanna spite-spite They can fight me but it's a nein-nein Miss Micronesia or Miss Alopecia Got "Mixed" up, that's fuel to the flame Shasha, Flopula is your only reign Half loser, Half lucifer, now I'm antigay! u/BtQw3 I ain’t got to beat nobody All these slops gon' quit this hobby See me coming BQ in the top Micro bottom? Get the chop! Chop! Chop! My bullets gonna pop! Shot! Shot! Bout to kill these flops! Bots! Bots! Won’t help, so stop! Oop Kuba's alt just been caught! u/StrawPedro Everybody drops the ball sometimes but I don't Everybody looks a mess at times but I don't All of them weak verses flop but I don't All of them need padded hips but I don't How y'all went home is not my problem Butch Queen, Starrupt be in the bottom Move into your head to flood your basement Slaying these hoes till they all forgotten u/Frandiohh Team PEDO Wait i forgot the R oh nooooo Don’t come a little closer That bulge is getting a lot fatteeeer 911 please come Were gonna send their ass back home u/Micronesiarain You want a kiss? Better pucker your lips BQ took a shot but we saw she missed Fall in line, while I count to 3 This crown belongs to me Shade queen, I’m spillin’ tea Crazy ass bitch, stan Jujubee! Go and check the mirror, what you see? Came to win, that’s a guarantee! u/my-pronouns-are-she Hi I am a female and I go by she, she Despite my gender I can guarantee, tee That I'm the one, I'm not a bust, Looking at these other girls they'll be gone by dust It's me, myself and I, winning all the challenges The others, hella challenged! Sorry (Sorry), not sorry (Hey, hey) Sorry (Sorry), I'm not so-o-rry (Oh no!) Sorry (Sorry), you won't make me apologise And I'm not sorry aboot it (Oh no) Sorry (Sorry), not sorry (Sorry) Sorry (Uh-uh), I'm not so-o-rry (No, oh no) Sorry, you won't make me apologise (Oh no, no) And I'm not sorry aboot it The performance ends and all the girls pose. The judges all erupt in applause for the girls. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ u/Grotesquette: Welcome ladies. Now when I call your name, please step forward.
You are safe. Please step to the back of the stage. Swish sighs with relief, and wobbles offstage. Her knee is slightly injured from the actions of Maritess during the rap challenge. BQ eyes Swish's actions with a smirk, before following her to the back of the stage. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The rest of you represent the tops and bottoms of the week. Now let's begin with the judges' critiques, starting with... u/ShashaShtan! Rupertonian: Shasha Shasha Shasha, as always knocked it right off the bat. You know I was gonna critique you, and I will keep my critique as I have kept it with you in the past. Your verse was incredible. It flowed so well, and told everything about you without you needing to go out of your way to seem like a try hard. It had this cool confidence about it, which shows the winner quality that you carry, even though most people not say it. I enjoyed your performance, there’s no doubt that verses and performance is your strong suit and it showed. Runways, I always expect the best from you but tonight, not my favourite. Very odd choice to pick Jessie J, and that’s already slim pickings when you pick her, but you did what you could, it’s beautiful, but I expect more. Overall, it’s an incredible night for you. whodat: Shasha you impressed me a lot this challenge ! Your verse had a great flow and the lyrics were fun and witty, you definitely ticked every box with the verse. And your runway, I personally enjoyed your runway, I appreciate the less obvious celebrity choice and sleek vibe of the look; however I’m not sure it entirely screamed Jessie J to me. But overall a strong night ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Moving onto u/MaritessTrosper! Grotesquette: I honestly didn't know what to expect of you in this challenge. And holy shit am I pleasantly surprised. When you pushed Swish off of the stage roller derby style just so you could do the jump splits?! Unnecessarily violent and rude? Definitely. Winner energy? Absolutely. Your verse was so well written. You really showed us exactly what kind of queen you are, and I'm absolutely loving it. Keep up the good work. Spencerietta: I’m not gonna lie, I had some mixed feelings about the runway because I know Kacey Musgraves, she’s actually ex-oomf, and she’s definitely had some more elevated looks than the one you chose to replicate tonight. However, it is still a well-presented runway and what I really wanna talk about is the song, because your performance tonight… Wow. You were so campy and fun, I was absolutely dying when you pushed Swish off the stage just to land in that jump split, and in your verse you made sure to hit every single syllable. You clearly know yourself and your brand, and just from one performance, now we do too, which is the key to succeeding in this competition. Incredible work tonight, Maritess ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Up next, u/Frandiohh! whodat: Your verse opened very strong, the first line I found entertaining. However after that it fizzled, both in terms of lyrics and rhythm. And I appreciate that you had a harder verse to work with, but so did starr and she made it work. And on the runway, you looked great but I do think it sadly paled in comparison to micro who pulled off a more unique and personal take on Naomi. Rupertonian: Hi hi, Fran! I know Rita’s a hard choice to do. It’s damn difficult. Rita and Ilona’s both. But, your verse just kinda was, off? That’s the only way I can put it. The verse flowed in an awkward way and I get that it’s hard to do so much with so little, and you did do something with the beginning but it just lost it’s flow at the end. I will commend you for making a boring verse into something slightly more interesting. Your runway, hmm. I see Micro has the same celebrity, and she did in fact do it better by putting her own twist in it. I’m not a fan of the cop out of like, “Oh, I’m dressed, oop I’m naked” it’s a really, almost lazy, way of doing it. It’s beautiful, but you gotta go above and beyond. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Moving onto u/Micronesiarain! Spencerietta: Hello Micro, welcome back from the Lost Season. You and I have gotten to know each other recently but I want to be clear that I am not afraid to go in on you with the judging this season. That being said, I honestly don’t have much to critique here tonight. Your verse was cute and hit each beat, and it’s nice to see that level of confidence heading into the competition. However, the highlight for me was by far your runway. You put the camp in Naomi Campbell with the little nod to the virus and the reveal. Was the second look a little underwhelming? Sure, but you sold it with the presentation. Overall a solid effort from you tonight, Miss Micro. whodat: I think this verse deserves so much credit, it has great rhythm and flows so well and the lyrics are perfect for the challenge: witty and fun. And your runway was such a unique and comedic take that 100% payed off, as underneath the campy first look was an absolutely stunning reveal. You impressed me this week micro! KatyaIsMyBestFriend: I'm so excited to see my dear dorter Micro retu- competing for the first time. And what a premiere that was for you! The runway look was great and a very current idea that matches today's climate. A brainy queen indeed! Your verse was also very impressive especially considering you got Jimbo of all people however I have a personal challenge for you. Try to find a brand and showcase yourself more cause some of the lyrics were a bit basic. You know, you remind me of a young Katyaismybestfriend competing for the first time. I suggest you read my new memoir http://imgur.com/a/teKElL7 so you learn how to manipulate people into thinking you evolved like mama does ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Next up, u/StrawPedro! Rupertonian: Aw, Straw. I have a soft spot for you, because your type of drag is just so incredible. Your runway made me chuckle, and it’s just such a departure from what everyone else is doing in terms of runways, and at the same time not so kitschy to the point where it’s not runway material anymore. I see your type of drag, and your brand and you do that well. Where you slipped up, was the verse. It started off so strong, but then you stumbled towards the end as the syllables and rhymes were off so it came off clunky. Usually, I would give you a pass but since everyone else did so strong I have to nitpick. But, I see you have potential, you just gotta look at the detail. Grotesquette: Tonight unfortunately wasn't a very strong showing from you. Your runway was fun, and I could see what you were going for. But there's a way to execute camp and comedy in a way that it's still elevated and high fashion. For example, your entrance look was really campy and hilarious but still over the top and draggy. Furthermore, your verse was sort of a disappointment. I feel like you didn't plug in a ton of your personality, and it was also clunky and a little strangely phrased. I'm really rooting for you in this competition Pedro, so I hope you take these critiques and apply them if you're to remain here next week. KatyaIsMyBestFriend: Pedro! I really liked you from the promo and was really rooting for you. Sadly the verse was such a disappointment...The syllables didn't match and your jokes were very generic and they didn't really show who you are. The runway I find adorable albeit a bit pedestrian. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Up next, u/my-pronouns-are-she! Spencerietta: Tonight, the overall presentation was a little sloppy for me. You were either adding too many or completely subtracting syllables and that made it difficult to enjoy the actual song and performance. As for the runway, I love love love the concept but I hate hate hate the execution. There’s ways to do kitschy looks like this without it coming across as lazy. You’re clearly a funny girl and I know you have it in you to really wow us, so I’d like to see that next week. Grotesquette: I have to agree with Spencie. Your runway was a lot of fun, but it's a concept that could've been executed more seamlessly. Graphic design doesn't necessarily have to be your passion but the outfit could've matched the concept, and you could've added more to fully take us there. I really wanted to like your verse, and at first I did. But the more I read it, I realized the syllable count was very off compared to the original verse, which is one of the most important parts of a verse challenge. But I know you have what it takes to improve upon these things, so I still have faith in you girl. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Next up, u/Starrrupt! Grotesquette: You came into this competition with unshakable confidence. And after your runway and performance, I am absolutely GOBSMACKED. MARVELOUS DARLING, SIMPLY MARVELOUS. DING DONG!!! This runway is beautiful, editorial, and clearly reads as a specific celebrity. I also like that you pointed out your celebrity is a pig fucker, because... Tea. Your verse is perfect, and gives me all of the winner energy I was looking for tonight. Starr, this was... Major. whodat: You definitely pulled out all the stops this challenge! Being given the verse that I know a lot of people didn’t want yet still managing to perform well is super impressive, and the runway was both campy and pretty. Very strong first challenge for you starr, keep it up! ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Finally, u/FreeWill310! Spencerietta: I’m gonna start with the bad and get to the good. Tonight you fell flat for me on the runway. I want you to look over at Micro; that’s a simple outfit but what elevated it was her presentation. If you’re gonna give us a simple runway, a little edge to the presentation can completely change our opinions on it. However, I can excuse my displeasure with the runway because your verse tonight was so. much. fun. I could just tell you enjoyed yourself while writing it and taking those playful jabs at BQ definitely had me laughing. You said you do it brutally and girl you were right. I’m excited to see what you’ll bring in the competition to come! Rupertonian: Ohhhhhhh Free. You were so close, me saying these critiques genuinely makes me sad. As soon as your verse began, I knew I had my winner. To the point, when I saw your verse, I didn’t even think you had Boa, I thought you had created your own verse. And, that’s what’s incredible. Your reads, jesus christ. Loosey Goosey, took me the fuck out. Your entire verse flowed, and did so well. Aaaaaaand, then the ball was dropped, yikes. Amber Rose, is an icon, obviously. She has so many good looks. But, whyyyy?? Why did you pick this one out of ALL of them? It’s such a bizarre choice. I get that it’s in reference to drag race, but that’s pretty much all that’s good. So please, you really have to up your runways, because that’s the thing that held you back from getting to the end point this challenge. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Grotesquette: Now, based on the judges' critiques, I have made some decisions.
The girls all gasp in shock. Starr and Maritess look at each other in happiness.
That's right, nobody is going home tonight! However... There can only be one winner. Maritess and Starr, you must both lip sync for the first win of the season, and a cash tip of 10,000! Good luck... And don't fuck it up!
"Broadside" PART 1 Broadside - Slang term used for when 2 underground trains temporarily share a tunnel and are travelling at relatively the same speed in the same direction. where passengers from both trains can see each other before the tunnels divide again. Day 1 20th July 2019 "Hello, my name's Angus and I'm an alcoholic '' It's a phrase i had both dreaded and hoped I could mutter. Its over importance was only matched by its overwhelming disappointment. Around the room there was a hapless hurrah, a depleted cheer muttered by those exhausted with hearing the phrase but somehow duty bound to react with the kind of enthusiasm that screamed maximum return with minimum input. It won't seem clear at the moment why but my story begins with Alcoholics Anonymous and interestingly, that is a story within itself. AA is a boon to so many people around the world, but let me tell you how I view it. It's a cult, pure and simple, but that doesn't necessarily mean that it's a bad thing, I mean technically the cell destroying act of radiotherapy is bad for you on some level but AA? Well, that's the chemo of addiction. Imagine a room full of whole cloth,abject failures ( of whom I am one of ) wallowing in their deepest melancholy. Imagine a room filled with everyone's wine drunk aunt, pissed up uncle, the brother they no longer talk to, the sister that is only named as "homewrecker", that friend that ruins the night and the guy barred from every pub. Imagine a space solely occupied with a lifetime of debt and cries of "don’t darken my doorstep again", the amalgamation of beg, borrow and steal, the forlorn, the desperate, those who have hit rock bottom more times than they can count only to find undiscovered countries of pathetic and untapped depravity. A few stories off the top of my head can nail this sentiment to the wall and the adjacent building of personal, vicarious and guilt by association tenfold, a place so removed from last chances that the make a wish foundation wouldn't be seen dead in the same colour clothes as these crestfallen chumps,in fact they’d happily dress exclusively in grey if it wasn't already bagsied and drenched in piteous Ethanol. we sit there united, working, middle and upper class, the local celebs and the most infamous bum, old, young, rich and poor, it's the Marxists dream of rock bottom equality, we congregate together with gutter pride wearing our horror stories as both shameful and shameless badges of office. Take Tina, she was some kind of city executive, something to do with magazine advertisement ( to be honest like most I suspect I selfishly stopped listening after the details stopped resonating with my own sad tale ) , she pulled in 70 grand a year, when she’d take the chair she'd tell the same story that grew less and less fascinating with each bi weekly repeat about how she literally bought a house at the end of the train line because she always fell asleep after a "moody Monday" a "tanky Tuesday" a "wobbly Wednesday" and other such alliterations which I'm sure are specifically, if not unconsciously designed to smooth over the absolute state of our commitment - linguistic enablers was a phrase I once heard and I'm sticking with it. Then on the other side of the spectrum there was Joel. I doubt this guy could even spell his own name, he had the look of someone born into the craft, I'd bet my bottom dollar that he suffers from fetal alcohol syndrome as well as a clever and witty connection to the adult type, guy never stood a chance from day dot but he reminded us, given the opportunity how he quit "outside of the rooms" as well as his main focus seeming to be post death, post achievement, post success or failure ( depending on your outlook ) that at his funeral he would be remembered as a "misunderstood man" I couldn't venture to what he would be misunderstood in as the guy was as dull as dishwater and about as subtle as a Botox injection to the kisser, but then again iI think that's just the bitter failure in me talking, I never could quit outside of the rooms. Then there was Louie, the guy that set his brother's house on fire at age 23 (over £3, which sounds worse than it is given the exchange rate of 1973) he was a gardener, sober 34 Years. I truly respect that man but you don't envy the fact that this is his life now, a life inside the rooms being a martyr and cautionary tale to all first timers, and a permanent fixture to those who didn't learn the 1st, 3rd, 5th or 20th time. There are many, many more in this perpetual deluge of misery, this everlasting ecosystem of slack jaws nodding at every instance that something could relate to your situation because you are so utterly desperate to connect with anything outside of a can or bottle, empty vessels pretending they don't still crave ever full ones , pretending they are here for the newcomers, even some of them pretending that they aren't drunk that very moment. Just like the party system in the novel 1984 the despair takes a life of its own, it transcends the individuals suffering and becomes a self-powering machine. it behaves as a demon that feeds on contempt, doubt, self-loathing and malaise, prodding the damned with a stick named "hope" straight into its own maw. And that's what set me sober, not the talks, not the encouragement and certainly not the "connection" with souls so lost they’d give Davy Jones crew a run for their money but the thought that if I didn't, this would be the rest of my life on the fruitless crew of the SS gasping, and let me tell you mid 90s naysayers, scared straight sometimes works and so I started to make an effort to see things a little clearer, and that's where my story begins. I worked in a somewhat well to do supermarket ( yes that one, and no just because you are a "partner" it doesn't mean you won't be cleaning literal human shit off the floor if a valued older customer decides to recreate the depth charge scene from U571) I ironically work in the Wines and Spirits department as a " specialist" which sure as hell is one way of putting it. I know enough about pairing and hops to make it sounds like I know more than I do which is surprisingly massively helped by dropping casual pronunciations of "Montepulciano" and "Sangiovese" in just a faux middle-class way that I almost sound respectable. weirdly enough working with booze never affected my sobriety beyond not wanting to risk the Friday taste testing, a facsimile designed to give me a wino head start on a Friday afternoon on the payroll. I could have tested the non-alcoholic stuff but I figured it would eventually draw suspicion and trust me fellow pissheads, the idea that that shit is your friend is an illusion that you tell yourself so you can take baby steps back to the hardstuff. It was the journey to work that changed the rest of my life. I don't drive so fate conspired that this particular journey would be 25 minutes on the motorway or 2 hours by train (as well as 50 quid a week) but I figured with a clearer and less muggy morning I could easily afford the journey in terms of time, stress and money. It was a packed train into the city, a packed train out until the point where it gets more residential and both the skyline and the seats start to become more vacant. I always sat at the very head of the train, right next to the driver's door (much to the chagrin of switching drivers on more than one occasion) but it was the quietest spot iI could find if I ever needed a reviving nap on the way in or a sneaky tin on the way home (yes I was that kind of drinker and yes you only realise how bad it is when you see someone else doing it) There I had my first encounter with what I will refer to from now on as " The Broadside ". I didn't realise at the time, but it was actually my sobriety that caused me to see it, but i'll go back a bit as I don't want to get ahead of myself. So there I sat and as the tunnel from the other line merged into mine I saw my train's sister carriage come closer, only to see what was unexpected by all metrics anyone could hazard to guess. There facing me was something so unusual that I literally pinched myself and looked around for someone to confirm, however I was alone and so had seemingly no choice but to drink it all in. There on the opposing train were ten or so Maori warriors. Yes, Maori. That's right, the New Zealand warrior peoples, the ones with the tattoos who do that intimidating and extraordinary war dance where they creep closer and stick out their tongues. I sat transfixed, the train dipped out of the twin tunnel then went back in and lo and behold it was not my imagination, there they were again, full native dress, coral tipped spears ( at least that's what I thought,my knowledge combined of an episode of “deadliest warrior”, the film “once were warriors” and an interview with the guy who played Jango Fett ) they were enchanted with the full on snarling faces and taught muscles, the whole deal. I chanced a nervous wave, but none seemed to see, not even the somewhat saddened elder directly opposite me. the train pulled away again. The final merge came and they all stood solemn and still, a stark contrast to the vibrant displays of pride and masculinity before. Each one paused in their step and looked to their elder who took what looked like a small vial and drank. As one the rest followed suit. The tunnel broke for the last time and it was only the driver bumping my knees at the end of the line that made me realise the last leg of the journey had finished and I'd been frozen speechless these last 15 minutes, such was my shock at this seemingly random display. Late for work, I hurried on down a high street so far from home that even though I'd worked there some months I had already decided that it would be a waste of time to remember any place; bar the shop where I'd got my energy drinks,and that day it only occurred to me on arrival that I’d broken my routine and arrived at for business saccharine free. I told a few people at work what I'd seen, though not really being close with anyone, they couldn't tell if I was taking the piss or not ( one of my introduction jokes was to tell people that Wasps made Chutney so i don't resent their skepticism ) although, one of the more friendly older guys suggested that it was one of those "viral campaigns". I feigned ignorance to what that meant in an effort to make him seem more in touch. What can I say, I try to give a little back after being a provocative - know it all drunken arsehole. But with no answers and a busy saint Patrick's day weekend ahead, I consigned myself to Guinness and Baileys and gingered myself to the pretense of eagerly beating last year's YTD to the managers that thought I was hot shit (not out enough to pay me the maximum for my band though). There was no "Broadside" on the way back and I only thought about it again when I got home and eased myself into the too broken wicker chair that served as our "last come last serve" seat in my shared flat. The 2 other chairs were occupied by Neil and Nicola,2 siblings from Birmingham that I'd known and lived with for a few years, well I knew Neil for 8 or so and his sister had moved in with us after someone had left unexpectedly 3 years ago. Neil and I were easy companions with our own interests and flittered between obsessing over a game that would see us semi colonising each other's rooms for weeks on end, to passing by like ships in the night and occasionally venturing into paranoia as to whether we’d drifted or not. My initial friendship with Nicola had been more rocky, 3 years ago I had been a much more "edgyboi" who would always try to cheekily provoke ( although if there was a litmus test on being a deliberate arsehole I’d have failed at least 50% of the time ) and Nicola had been the oh-so typical blue haired feminist who once accused my positioning of my shampoo bottles as a deliberate attempt to "Intimidate her with my fragile masculinity". However, with the careful refereeing of Neil we’d gone from circling each other growling, to the much more favourable, if not figuratively badly put act of sniffing each other's butts in friendly gesture; although it must be said no such figurative butt sniffing would ever result in anything more than the platonic, lest a drunken fumble (requiring more alcohol than we were capable of affording let alone consuming) result in the worlds most quickly agreed mutual suicide pact. What I mean to say is me and Nicola knew we were different, and so decided to make an effort to be less thorny with each other which resulted in me making the effort to at least try and see her points of view when she regaled me with this weeks "slight on her woman hood" and her reducing her critique of my pushing the envelope to a sigh and an eye roll. Beyond that we were kind of weird besties in a way we would never admit to our respective social groups, and only drunkenly to each other. So, it was when my sibling co-tenants barely looked up from there game of sevens (yes, they play sevens with only two people, must be a genetic deficiency) that I told them what had happened to me this morning, during the "broadside". "Even for you, Angus that's a low one" Nicola said with an air of unimpressed disappointment, I searched Neils face for a reaction but at that moment his cards seemed to be the most interesting thing in the room (although I'm sure he was looking at me just before her utterance ) "Huh" I offered unhelpfully. "Angus, I'm not in the mood today, it's been a long one" she said "Nick, I'm being serious" This went on for a few minutes and a room of three continued to be, minus one voice. After my insistence she finally decided to humour my story, if only to play the "Game". And so she listened as I told my story and insisted that I wasn't messing around. All the while Neils eyes jumped from friend, to cards, to sister, to cards, to both, to a seemingly unique and interesting spot in the corner of the ceiling. As Nicola’s patience thinned and she placed her cards face down ( it had thinned, not snapped, and sibling rivalry prevails even in a 2-person game of sevens) she dramatically heaved herself up, crossed the room to grab the free daily train paper before turning to the second page, mic dropping it on the table in front of me and accompanying it by placing a 5 of diamonds down in one swift motion. "MOARI GROUP OPPOSING SEIZURE OF LAND BY BRITISH CONSULATE COMMIT MASS SUICIDE AFTER FAILED LEGAL BATTLE IN 200-YEAR-OLD CLAUSE" I sat stunned, a tragedy to be sure, but made of cynical stuff it wasn't the red tape fuckerry that got me, it was the fact that all the Maori involved were the same on the Broadside, they had done it in the same way as well, Haka then poison, even the weary chief had the same sad and resigned look in his eyes. Nicola briefly met my gaze with a "happy with your work" look, but after my insistence and sincere assertions she became more concerned for my mental health than anything, even she knew I wouldn't take a joke that far. After a few shocked hours and some much-needed logic we concluded I must have read the free paper and fell asleep, my alcohol withdrawn mind must have dreamt the rest and somewhat hesitant and satisfied I went to bed strangely, with no accompanying dreams. that would be the end of it right? DAY 4 23rd july 2019 It was my 2 days off and let me tell you what they say may be true. When you are filled with the vim and vigor of sobriety that you actually want, it's ten times easier than the resentful sobriety you resign yourself to needing. I drank nothing. no nonalcoholic beer no "Adult soft drink" (get to fuck with that, it tastes like piss and you know it, at least pissy wine gets you drunk). I even had a cheeky toke on one of Neils mates spliffs. It was a blast, even if I did dream of the Maori again ( Although this time they were all playing sevens with me and all insisted that they didn't have the 10 of clubs ). So when I went back to work on the Wednesday with a belly full of actual breakfast that didn't comprise of a Cornershop bacteria ridden Samosa and a bottle of Lucozade, a packed lunch ( I'm scaring myself at this point) and a good attitude I had practically forgotten about Sunday's events. Until the train lurched out of the station prior to the last encounter. And so I sat there with a look that half said "you're such an idiot" and "just to show how stupid this is why don't you stick your tongue out at whatever passenger is on the train?" and so as I tried to relax myself the tunnels merged again. As I stood there with my tongue out, the first thing that stunned me wasn't the business suit which rested on the southside of 15 years out of fashion , nor the tears running down his face, not the even deep sullen eyes of a haunted man. It was the lit cigarette. You see in this country there was a fire at a major station in the 80's that really fucked things up to say the least, a lot of deaths and a much-needed reform on underground safety, but there stood a man on the sister train seemingly looking at nothing, lip quivering and muttering words to himself, a lit yet unsmoked cigarette with an impossibly long droop of ash hanging like the old trick where someone had put a pipe cleaner through it. The trains parted. This proved nothing I told myself. Maybe, the man had been on a bender, spent his money on strippers and his wife had found out. It was only smoking on a train and hardly native tribesman performing a huge political statement. “Relax" I told myself The trains came together again. The cigarette was nowhere to be seen this time, the man seemed to be nonchalantly walking up and down the carriage muttering to himself dragging something. He looked up and laughed to no one, I waved frantically but even when he looked in my direction, he didn't seem to see me. just before the tunnel broke for the second time, he seemed to launch something up, what was it? A rock? No - brown. A stick? No - longer, A rope? The train parted again. I breathed heavily, it's just a madman I told myself, be rational. It's fine, you're overthinking this. Stop panicking. When the trains merge again you'll see it's fine. Get a grip Angus -this is withdrawal. GET. A. GRIP. The trains Broadsided for a final time. I've never believed that bullshit about people involuntarily leaping. "Oooh Janice I practically leapt out of my skin" you'd hear, usually in the Northern accent for some reason. Well I'll lay it down flat, I physically recoiled. He was there, though I could no longer see his face, but I could see his side, then his front and then his side again because he was hanging. Hanging by a rope. A rope tied around his neck. I saw all the gory details: his blue/grey hands, his expensive suit now somehow ill-fitting and cheap by what I could only assume were his spasms, the pool of piss and shit that had vacated his corpse and the drool running down the bottom of his chin. I heard a story once about a man who watched a love one die and all he could really recall was the blonde curls of the stranger who called the ambulance, his mind transfixed on them, and to a degree my mind did the same, a part of my brain focused on the big functional name badge clipped to his breast; it had the initials MctC in bold letters. That's all I saw before I snapped to and pulled the emergency stop by the door, but the other train disappeared as mine soon screeched to a halt. The Police and station staff were not impressed. Improper use of an emergency brake carries a hefty fine. I think the only thing that stopped that firm but fair application was almost certainly the fact that I was freaking out, insisting that I'd seen a man hanging himself, screeching and pleading with genuine concern for a human life over rid their initial ire and for a while, there seemed to be genuine action toward my tale until all trains on that line were most certainly cleared of any " dead businessman". I took a while to calm down, and once the station staff and police were convinced that duty of care didn't seem to cover me being escorted away by medical staff or the constabulary. I was given the benefit of the doubt only after a thorough interview regarding my senses. There was an almost unanimous sucking of air through teeth and eyebrow raising when I said I was newly sober. The kind reserved for contempt given to one you couldn't justifiably prosecute, but one you could certainly be "very ticked off with" there was lots of " this has held up thousands (really? two stops from the end of the line at 2 in the afternoon in the rural outskirts of the city ) and "sir, we could have been attending real issues''. However, the somewhat sympathetic train driver who turned out to be a five year AA chip holder convinced the authorities to let me be, the guy even offered his number to me " If I ever needed to talk", which I only entered as a polite formality before not even bothering to save it to my phone. I'm sober in spite of that place mate, not because of it, don't be the sweeping tide trying to reclaim me back to misery. I called work and explained ( not the alcoholic bit ) and they gave me the day off with the kind of tone that suggested that they were corporately obliged to pretend to give a shit, but that I should " keep them updated so they can best help me". Fuck off mate. I know that no one else is going to work the 8 cages of booze that comes in if you know I'm back tomorrow. I said I'd let them know as soon as. The house was empty when I got home, nothing overly unusual, it wasn't even 5:30, but I hardly noticed as I got to claim the premium seat. i sat there for several minutes taking it all in before it hit me. The name badge- it said Mctc. I searched for an hour before I even got close, turns out you can't just type that into google and expect a result, so I did a little sober deduction. After some trial and error I worked out the "Mc" part was "Mac", as in the Scottish surname. I was tempted to run with that as the actual name, but why would someone abbreviate their own name and present it like a logo? No, the name must be a company name. After searching through a lot, I finally found an image that leaped out, same black lettering same pronounced "M". Bingo. Maybe something sinister was going on. Maybe it was a coverup? should i be incognito? Too late, I’d already typed suicide, results, results.......Jesus Christ....he was staring at me; that same hollow look, yet this time smiling thinly like a man presenting his best self by blag alone. he was thinner than his suit, still hollow eyed and with a balding dome I’d not noticed before. His name was James Bresteed, he was the Vice president of security for McIntyre Copper, he’d been suspected of corporate espionage. I'm no lawyer, but it looks like he’d been involved with giving dialup passwords away so a rival company could access some company files. He’d committed suicide by hanging, it was definitely him. Jesus, almost got away with it by my reckoning ( though who knows how statutes of limitations work in this field). How many years had he gone unsuspected? I mean dial up wasn't a thing since like what? 2006?........oh fuck.....oh Jesus no......no......this cant be right...it’s impossible....but all of a sudden the suit style seemed to fit, dammit, even the haircut confirmed........but its not possible.............it says..............it says James Bresteed died February 17th 2004.....
I work for Styx Taxis, I drive souls to the afterlife...I just picked up a familiar face.
Do something for me, will ya? I want you to think back to when you were a kid, think back to those innocent days when the world was your oyster and you could be anything you wanted. Tell me what was that anything? What was your dream job as a child? Most people will say a football player, an actor, a world-famous musician, maybe even an astronaut. Well, not me. I wanted to be a cab driver. I was obsessed with being a taxi driver, I had toy taxis and a taxi costume including a cabbie hat, I even had a bed that was shaped like a taxi instead of a racecar! I drove my parents crazy with my obsession but I was a kid from Brooklyn growing up in the big city surrounded by yellow cabs, I’m not sure why I loved them so much but ever since my Pops brought my brother Vince and me in a cab to a Net’s game when we were younger I knew what I wanted to do with my life. “Taxies are disgusting, Freddie why the hell do you like them? They smell like liquor and look like Grandma’s wrinkly butt” Vince would say to me, he had a way with words but whatever way that was it wasn’t the right one. Nobody could understand my love of taxis but that was okay they didn’t need to, I loved the thought of driving through the city and meeting new people every single day, sure many taxis were filthy but mine wouldn’t be...or so I thought when I was 8. Vince, however, had much more ambitious goals. “Me? I’m going to play for the Jets. I’ll be the best Tight End the NFL will ever see” Vince was pretty great at football, he even went on to play some college ball but he always reached for the stars with his dreams and that could make failure hurt so much more. I was more realistic in my goals from a young age, I couldn’t kick snow off a rope and I could barely throw a ball from one side of the road to the other, being a taxi driver was a dream but unlike most of all of your dreams when you were all kids, mine was doable. I received my yellow cab certification when I turned 21 making me a lot younger than my co-workers who were usually in their 40s. I worked for over 8 years as a taxi driver and I never once regretted it bar two robberies at gunpoint and a handful of casually racist remarks from tourists or some freshmen on Wall Street who wanted to know if they can say the n-word since their friend in college said he was cool with it. Eventually, though my time as a cab driver came to end...well my driving of the living came to an end anyway. Now I drive souls to the afterlife for the Styx Taxis cab company. Every day I bring multiple souls to the Great Divide where judgement is made against them to decide if they go to Paradise or Damnation. I hear many stories on the clock, people begging to be given another chance or sobbing for forgiveness but I’m just the driver, the car makes the judgement and the car is never wrong. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My day starts like anybody else’s, my alarm goes off at around 6.30 am, I shower, brush my teeth, get my clothes on - usually a pair of black skinny jeans, a loose tee, some Air Force Ones and my Grampa’s brown suede jacket he gave to me in his will - and I will usually grab something to eat from a drive-thru Starbucks once I’m out on the road. My alarm didn’t go off today but thankfully my body jolted me awake before 7, this meant no breakfast and I was behind on at least one passenger though on a good day I could get through three before 8.30, this would hurt my place on the standings but if I worked effectively I could make up the lost points. My first passenger was a Charles Monroe, a 45-year-old stockbroker who died from a coke overdose after partying too much during a promotion party. At least he was a Jets fan. It took me around fifteen minutes to reach him, he was sitting on a bench in his clothes from the night before, if the coke didn’t kill him that hangover would have. I pulled up and the backdoor opened for him. The crossing over process had begun. “Charles Monroe?” I asked knowing damn well I had the right guy. “Yeah...who’s asking. What the hell is going on, why am I stuck here?” he replied while slurring some words. “You’re dead buddy, bit too fond of the charlie there...Charlie. I’m here to pick you up and bring you to your eternal resting place. Get in” I said. The emotions of people when they are told they have died can range from anger to sadness to in some cases jubilation though that is usually due to a sense of smugness that they were right about an afterlife existing. “Fuck off” he shouted at me while spitting at my car, his dirty grey phlegm landing on my passenger side window cleaning some dust off of it, it was safe to say Charlie’s fell into the former category, he was pretty angry. “I’m not fucking dead, I’m fucking invincible” You often got these types of people, usually rich white guys. They genuinely buy the bullshit they were sold about dying peacefully in their bed surrounded by loved ones even though they knew full well that no one loved them. “Nah bro, you are absolutely dead, here look I’ll show you.” As I replied I began to pull some pictures up on my iPad and cast them to the screen attached to my passenger side mirror, as I scrolled through the array of pictures the reality of the situation began to dawn on Mr.Monroe. “See there’s you face down in a pool of your own vomit, there’s you being zipped up in a bodybag, there is your mother Margaret identifying your body at the morgue...ignore that last picture that’s my Greyhound ‘Rufus’ not sure how that got in there” The tough bravado wasted away as Charles fell to the floor and burst into tears, he continued to do that for another few minutes - taking more time off my schedule - before I decided it was time to get a move on. “Look, dude, I know this is a shock for you and all but there is no changing it. It’s science, what's dead is dead. Your energy is being used for something else now so hop in and we will bring you to wherever you are meant to spend eternity. Paradise or Damnation.” He lifted his head to look me in the eyes, his tears caused his deep blue eyes to shine immensely bright in the blistering sunlight. He wiped his tears from his face and took four deep breaths to compose himself. “I’m not going with you, not a chance. I will fight this, I have gotten out of worse situations” he said, his air of invincibility only momentarily shattered. “I can promise you that you haven’t. You better come with me because the second that door shuts it’s over you don’t get second chances.” I responded mostly hoping for him to get in so I could add some points to my tally but also because I knew the punishment of disobedience. “LISTEN BUDDY CLEAN YOUR FUCKING EARS OUT, I’M NOT GOING. END OF STORY,” he screamed back at me. “Close your damn door, see if I care” were the famous last words of the jackass. “Okay, suit yourself” I replied while exhaling loudly, I pressed the large red x button beside the radio and the door slammed shut, once that happened his fate was sealed a lightning bolt shot down from the sky and he slowly dissipated right in front of my eyes, he screamed and begged for help and even tried to bargain with me to get the door open but the door can’t open once it has been closed. There are no second chances. Charles Monroe paid the price of disobedience, his soul was zapped and sent to NULL, a plane of existence outside of all other realms, NULL is an empty grey room with no directions. No up, down, left or right. To meet another soul in NULL is about as unlikely as anything, odds don’t go that high. This is where Mr.Monroe would spend the rest of his eternal life. NULL was quite literally a fate worse than hell. They say all things are binary, they are either a 0 or a 1. They are or they aren’t. NULL was -1. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- That little escapade took even more precious time away from me, when a new passenger request popped up on my screen I accepted in an instant and sped to the pickup point. My second passenger of the day was a Ms.Melina Cortez, a 28-year-old mother of one who had died in a drink-driving incident, the child’s father was not involved if you wanted some good news. When I arrived Melina was sitting on a bench, her knees pointing in and her arms wrapped tightly around herself, she looked scared but also like she knew what had happened to her. “Hey there, Melina. How are you doing? I’m Freddie, I'm your driver today, I’ll be bringing you to the afterlife” I calmly said to her as the backside door opened once more. She did not respond to me, no questions about who I was or what was happening. Nothing, she just stood up with her head down and took her seat in the back of my cab. I decided to take my foot slightly off the pedal for a few moments to slow our trip and allow her time to cope but she wouldn’t have much, she would need to speak or the judgement would be made for her. After five minutes of cruising, I broke the silence. “You know I’ve driven some celebs, I’m legally not allowed say who but fun fact those people who post memes about them all in Paradise are going to be sorely disappointed when they die” She lifted her head and smirked, the best I could ask for given the situation and I had an opening so I continued on. “Listen, Melina, I know it is tough for you but you need to tell your story, your life, your successes and your failures and any transgressions you may have cause it’s your best chance of getting into Paradise” “I know it’s tough but you have t-” “I’m not getting into Paradise,” she said matter of factly cutting me off in the process. “I’ve done horrible things, any God with even a little sense of respect would know not to let me in” “What have you done, Melina?” I asked bewildered by the emotionless tone in her statements. “Oh you know, you got your little screen there with my name on it. I can see it from back here. Just look through my file.” she said while placing her head onto the window and staring out into the abyss. “Actually I don’t know. This file is filled with the bare minimum I need to convince someone I’m not some fraudster. It has your name, the names of family and loved ones, how you died, some miscellaneous pictures and a list of hobbies, sometimes I don’t get anything bar a location. I know how you died but I know little of the circumstances bar the fact it was a drink-driving accident with one car involved so I would guess you were driving, that is bad Melina but no one else was hurt, I’ve seen people survive Damnation for doing a lot worse.” I responded to her factually, another rule of the job. I couldn’t lie to the passengers. “I wasn’t even drunk” she responded before a whistle went off, this whistle was the car notifying me and our passenger that they were telling a lie. The whistle was a sort of smug ‘hih hoo’ sound similar to a phone notification, the smugness of the sound often got under the skin of passengers causing them to blurt out truths or half-truths. “The car says you are lying, Melina. This car has been imbued with the power of an Old One it can tell what is true and what is false.” I ensured her, hoping it would stop any further lying but knowing from past experiences it would not. “Okay, I had a bottle of wine but I’ve driven drunk before it wasn’t the drink that caused the crash. It was the percs...and my rage. I just couldn’t think straight then I saw the tree and knew what had to be done” she replied, this time to no whistle. She killed herself, why? “I’m sure the cops have already rang the bastard and told him about everything that happened, my only regret is not getting to see his face when they tell him. The son of a bitch” “Who are you talking about, Melina? What did you do?” I responded “Jorge, my boyfriend, Marlon’s father. That son of a bitch, he caused it all, when he eventually eats lead from one of those girls’ fathers he for sure as hell won’t be going to Paradise, no need to even question him” she responded. “What did you do to Jorge, Melina? Is he hurt, did you hurt him?” I replied, each response from the woman further bewildering me. “Oh he’s hurting that’s for sure,” she responded before bursting into tears. “The bastard was fucking underage girls!” “I found texts and pictures, oh God so many sick fucking pictures, the stuff he would say to these...these kids, these 14 and 15-year-old girls it would make you sick, they did make me sick. I was sent into a haze, I didn’t know how to react so I just drank and drank glasses of white wine, washing down the percocets with it.” she had stopped crying and was now on her knees leaning forward and pushing her face and hands up on the partition window separating us. “I knew what I had to do, I had to protect myself but most of all I had to protect my son, I couldn’t let that fucking pervert go anywhere near him ever again so I did what needed doing” I had now taken my eyes off the road and turned to look Melina in the eye, her crazed stare transfixed on me, my heart was in my throat as I struggled to ask her the question I felt I already had the answer to. “What needed doing, Melina?” She smiled at me with a wide grin from ear to ear, her blue lips stuck together not allowing her teeth to bare themselves to me. “I took a pillow to my son in his sleep. It didn’t take long and he didn’t fight, he knew deep down that this was for his own good.” I gripped the steering wheel tightly in both hands attempting to hide my anger, signs of emotion behind the wheel of a Styx Cab could see me terminated. I waited for the whistle of the car, I prayed the whistle would come...but it didn’t. I didn’t respond, I couldn’t respond, I needed to relax before I could, her next statement didn’t help. “I protected my son as any mother would”, this time the whistle did sound, a statement too late sadly. “The car disagrees and so do I. You killed your son, you murdered him in his sleep then you drove your car into a tree to save yourself the jail time. You could have turned Jorge in but you didn’t” I responded to her, the words barely dragging themselves out of my mouth through gritted teeth. “Turn him in? You must be joking, he’d get 12 years at best. He’s a 30-year-old man he’d be back on the streets in his early 40s, plenty of time to get back to his sick work...plenty of time to abuse my beautiful boy” she responded, the words she spoke had such conviction, she truly believed she was right no matter what me, the car or anyone else said. “So you murdered your son to protect him from abuse? That makes no sense” I replied my foot pressing down on the gas pedal at full force. “I saved him,” she replied instantaneously before the car let out another loud whistle. “I wouldn’t expect you or this piece of junk to understand that” That was the last we spoke before reaching the gates of the Great Divide, I tipped my hat to Reginald the Gatekeeper and he lifted the barrier to let me through. We drove towards the fork in the road, two large stone doors blocking both paths, the doors had large runic patterns chiselled into them, they both looped and swirled around the stone faces, one pattern gold the other onyx. The door flung open on the car and Melina stepped out, we did not exchange goodbyes. As she walked to the doors the golden runes lit up and the door slowly opened, a warm beam of orange light beamed out from the road and she stepped into it, the door flung shut and her fate was sealed. She was sent to Damnation. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The rest of my day was mostly uneventful, many old people going up or down, mostly down. I did have one interesting passenger named Laney Richards, she had caused her brother to fall from a tree at a young age confining him to a wheelchair for life, she had also gotten involved in the wrong crowd as a teenager and done some pretty minor shit like vandalism and breaking and entering. She bawled her eyes out when we arrived at the doors fully sure her fate was Damnation, them tears stopped unnaturally fast once I took a detour left through the Mariana Forest and out the other side to the tram to Nocturland, a type of purgatory where people can work to gain entry to Paradise. She had made some mistakes but she had mostly learned from them and her brother’s accident was exactly that, an accident. I’m not a betting man but I would be positive she would end up in Paradise sooner rather than later. After a hard day's work, I drove to a McDonald’s to pick up a quick bite to eat and then drove to The Depot so I could clock in my points for the day and update my table standing, I also needed to pick up my paycheck. Once everything was sorted I threw my bag into my locker and grabbed my hat I had left there yesterday, I went to head back out to the car and finish for the day, however, the manager of The Depot, Mr.Anyew stopped me on the way out. “Freddie, just the man I was looking for. We got another lost soul that needs transporting and I know you were complaining about missing out on some points the past while so I thought I’d give it to you especially since it’s on your way...of course, I can just give it to Grigor he’s in the rec room at the moment.” Mentioning Grigor was a low blow, we were both at the top of the rankings and Mr.Anyew knew I wouldn’t say no if Grigor was the second option. “Nah, it’s okay I can do it boss” I responded before putting my hat on and turning to leave. “Great, I just sent the details to your vehicle, enjoy!” I heard the large Eygptian bellow towards me as I walked out the front door. I got to my car and checked the iPad for the details, only a location and a cause of death was given, this was pretty uncommon but it had happened a few times before, sometimes details got lost in the mix but thankfully you only needed a location, so I set off towards the pickup point to collect Mr Died From Gunshot Wounds. The best thing about working for Styx was also the worst, you really never know who you might have to pick up on any given day, they could be interesting or horrible. They could truly be anyone, it is a real double-edged sword and when I arrived at the pickup point I was cut by the sword. “Vince?”
"Broadside" PART 1 Broadside - Slang term used for when 2 underground trains temporarily share a tunnel and are travelling at relatively the same speed in the same direction. where passengers from both trains can see each other before the tunnels divide again. Day 1 20th July 2019 "Hello, my name's Angus and I'm an alcoholic '' It's a phrase i had both dreaded and hoped I could mutter. Its over importance was only matched by its overwhelming disappointment. Around the room there was a hapless hurrah, a depleted cheer muttered by those exhausted with hearing the phrase but somehow duty bound to react with the kind of enthusiasm that screamed maximum return with minimum input. It won't seem clear at the moment why but my story begins with Alcoholics Anonymous and interestingly, that is a story within itself. AA is a boon to so many people around the world, but let me tell you how I view it. It's a cult, pure and simple, but that doesn't necessarily mean that it's a bad thing, I mean technically the cell destroying act of radiotherapy is bad for you on some level but AA? Well, that's the chemo of addiction. Imagine a room full of whole cloth,abject failures ( of whom I am one of ) wallowing in their deepest melancholy. Imagine a room filled with everyone's wine drunk aunt, pissed up uncle, the brother they no longer talk to, the sister that is only named as "homewrecker", that friend that ruins the night and the guy barred from every pub. Imagine a space solely occupied with a lifetime of debt and cries of "don’t darken my doorstep again", the amalgamation of beg, borrow and steal, the forlorn, the desperate, those who have hit rock bottom more times than they can count only to find undiscovered countries of pathetic and untapped depravity. A few stories off the top of my head can nail this sentiment to the wall and the adjacent building of personal, vicarious and guilt by association tenfold, a place so removed from last chances that the make a wish foundation wouldn't be seen dead in the same colour clothes as these crestfallen chumps,in fact they’d happily dress exclusively in grey if it wasn't already bagsied and drenched in piteous Ethanol. we sit there united, working, middle and upper class, the local celebs and the most infamous bum, old, young, rich and poor, it's the Marxists dream of rock bottom equality, we congregate together with gutter pride wearing our horror stories as both shameful and shameless badges of office. Take Tina, she was some kind of city executive, something to do with magazine advertisement ( to be honest like most I suspect I selfishly stopped listening after the details stopped resonating with my own sad tale ) , she pulled in 70 grand a year, when she’d take the chair she'd tell the same story that grew less and less fascinating with each bi weekly repeat about how she literally bought a house at the end of the train line because she always fell asleep after a "moody Monday" a "tanky Tuesday" a "wobbly Wednesday" and other such alliterations which I'm sure are specifically, if not unconsciously designed to smooth over the absolute state of our commitment - linguistic enablers was a phrase I once heard and I'm sticking with it. Then on the other side of the spectrum there was Joel. I doubt this guy could even spell his own name, he had the look of someone born into the craft, I'd bet my bottom dollar that he suffers from fetal alcohol syndrome as well as a clever and witty connection to the adult type, guy never stood a chance from day dot but he reminded us, given the opportunity how he quit "outside of the rooms" as well as his main focus seeming to be post death, post achievement, post success or failure ( depending on your outlook ) that at his funeral he would be remembered as a "misunderstood man" I couldn't venture to what he would be misunderstood in as the guy was as dull as dishwater and about as subtle as a Botox injection to the kisser, but then again iI think that's just the bitter failure in me talking, I never could quit outside of the rooms. Then there was Louie, the guy that set his brother's house on fire at age 23 (over £3, which sounds worse than it is given the exchange rate of 1973) he was a gardener, sober 34 Years. I truly respect that man but you don't envy the fact that this is his life now, a life inside the rooms being a martyr and cautionary tale to all first timers, and a permanent fixture to those who didn't learn the 1st, 3rd, 5th or 20th time. There are many, many more in this perpetual deluge of misery, this everlasting ecosystem of slack jaws nodding at every instance that something could relate to your situation because you are so utterly desperate to connect with anything outside of a can or bottle, empty vessels pretending they don't still crave ever full ones , pretending they are here for the newcomers, even some of them pretending that they aren't drunk that very moment. Just like the party system in the novel 1984 the despair takes a life of its own, it transcends the individuals suffering and becomes a self-powering machine. it behaves as a demon that feeds on contempt, doubt, self-loathing and malaise, prodding the damned with a stick named "hope" straight into its own maw. And that's what set me sober, not the talks, not the encouragement and certainly not the "connection" with souls so lost they’d give Davy Jones crew a run for their money but the thought that if I didn't, this would be the rest of my life on the fruitless crew of the SS gasping, and let me tell you mid 90s naysayers, scared straight sometimes works and so I started to make an effort to see things a little clearer, and that's where my story begins. I worked in a somewhat well to do supermarket ( yes that one, and no just because you are a "partner" it doesn't mean you won't be cleaning literal human shit off the floor if a valued older customer decides to recreate the depth charge scene from U571) I ironically work in the Wines and Spirits department as a " specialist" which sure as hell is one way of putting it. I know enough about pairing and hops to make it sounds like I know more than I do which is surprisingly massively helped by dropping casual pronunciations of "Montepulciano" and "Sangiovese" in just a faux middle-class way that I almost sound respectable. weirdly enough working with booze never affected my sobriety beyond not wanting to risk the Friday taste testing, a facsimile designed to give me a wino head start on a Friday afternoon on the payroll. I could have tested the non-alcoholic stuff but I figured it would eventually draw suspicion and trust me fellow pissheads, the idea that that shit is your friend is an illusion that you tell yourself so you can take baby steps back to the hardstuff. It was the journey to work that changed the rest of my life. I don't drive so fate conspired that this particular journey would be 25 minutes on the motorway or 2 hours by train (as well as 50 quid a week) but I figured with a clearer and less muggy morning I could easily afford the journey in terms of time, stress and money. It was a packed train into the city, a packed train out until the point where it gets more residential and both the skyline and the seats start to become more vacant. I always sat at the very head of the train, right next to the driver's door (much to the chagrin of switching drivers on more than one occasion) but it was the quietest spot iI could find if I ever needed a reviving nap on the way in or a sneaky tin on the way home (yes I was that kind of drinker and yes you only realise how bad it is when you see someone else doing it) There I had my first encounter with what I will refer to from now on as " The Broadside ". I didn't realise at the time, but it was actually my sobriety that caused me to see it, but i'll go back a bit as I don't want to get ahead of myself. So there I sat and as the tunnel from the other line merged into mine I saw my train's sister carriage come closer, only to see what was unexpected by all metrics anyone could hazard to guess. There facing me was something so unusual that I literally pinched myself and looked around for someone to confirm, however I was alone and so had seemingly no choice but to drink it all in. There on the opposing train were ten or so Maori warriors. Yes, Maori. That's right, the New Zealand warrior peoples, the ones with the tattoos who do that intimidating and extraordinary war dance where they creep closer and stick out their tongues. I sat transfixed, the train dipped out of the twin tunnel then went back in and lo and behold it was not my imagination, there they were again, full native dress, coral tipped spears ( at least that's what I thought,my knowledge combined of an episode of “deadliest warrior”, the film “once were warriors” and an interview with the guy who played Jango Fett ) they were enchanted with the full on snarling faces and taught muscles, the whole deal. I chanced a nervous wave, but none seemed to see, not even the somewhat saddened elder directly opposite me. the train pulled away again. The final merge came and they all stood solemn and still, a stark contrast to the vibrant displays of pride and masculinity before. Each one paused in their step and looked to their elder who took what looked like a small vial and drank. As one the rest followed suit. The tunnel broke for the last time and it was only the driver bumping my knees at the end of the line that made me realise the last leg of the journey had finished and I'd been frozen speechless these last 15 minutes, such was my shock at this seemingly random display. Late for work, I hurried on down a high street so far from home that even though I'd worked there some months I had already decided that it would be a waste of time to remember any place; bar the shop where I'd got my energy drinks,and that day it only occurred to me on arrival that I’d broken my routine and arrived at for business saccharine free. I told a few people at work what I'd seen, though not really being close with anyone, they couldn't tell if I was taking the piss or not ( one of my introduction jokes was to tell people that Wasps made Chutney so i don't resent their skepticism ) although, one of the more friendly older guys suggested that it was one of those "viral campaigns". I feigned ignorance to what that meant in an effort to make him seem more in touch. What can I say, I try to give a little back after being a provocative - know it all drunken arsehole. But with no answers and a busy saint Patrick's day weekend ahead, I consigned myself to Guinness and Baileys and gingered myself to the pretense of eagerly beating last year's YTD to the managers that thought I was hot shit (not out enough to pay me the maximum for my band though). There was no "Broadside" on the way back and I only thought about it again when I got home and eased myself into the too broken wicker chair that served as our "last come last serve" seat in my shared flat. The 2 other chairs were occupied by Neil and Nicola,2 siblings from Birmingham that I'd known and lived with for a few years, well I knew Neil for 8 or so and his sister had moved in with us after someone had left unexpectedly 3 years ago. Neil and I were easy companions with our own interests and flittered between obsessing over a game that would see us semi colonising each other's rooms for weeks on end, to passing by like ships in the night and occasionally venturing into paranoia as to whether we’d drifted or not. My initial friendship with Nicola had been more rocky, 3 years ago I had been a much more "edgyboi" who would always try to cheekily provoke ( although if there was a litmus test on being a deliberate arsehole I’d have failed at least 50% of the time ) and Nicola had been the oh-so typical blue haired feminist who once accused my positioning of my shampoo bottles as a deliberate attempt to "Intimidate her with my fragile masculinity". However, with the careful refereeing of Neil we’d gone from circling each other growling, to the much more favourable, if not figuratively badly put act of sniffing each other's butts in friendly gesture; although it must be said no such figurative butt sniffing would ever result in anything more than the platonic, lest a drunken fumble (requiring more alcohol than we were capable of affording let alone consuming) result in the worlds most quickly agreed mutual suicide pact. What I mean to say is me and Nicola knew we were different, and so decided to make an effort to be less thorny with each other which resulted in me making the effort to at least try and see her points of view when she regaled me with this weeks "slight on her woman hood" and her reducing her critique of my pushing the envelope to a sigh and an eye roll. Beyond that we were kind of weird besties in a way we would never admit to our respective social groups, and only drunkenly to each other. So, it was when my sibling co-tenants barely looked up from there game of sevens (yes, they play sevens with only two people, must be a genetic deficiency) that I told them what had happened to me this morning, during the "broadside". "Even for you, Angus that's a low one" Nicola said with an air of unimpressed disappointment, I searched Neils face for a reaction but at that moment his cards seemed to be the most interesting thing in the room (although I'm sure he was looking at me just before her utterance ) "Huh" I offered unhelpfully. "Angus, I'm not in the mood today, it's been a long one" she said "Nick, I'm being serious" This went on for a few minutes and a room of three continued to be, minus one voice. After my insistence she finally decided to humour my story, if only to play the "Game". And so she listened as I told my story and insisted that I wasn't messing around. All the while Neils eyes jumped from friend, to cards, to sister, to cards, to both, to a seemingly unique and interesting spot in the corner of the ceiling. As Nicola’s patience thinned and she placed her cards face down ( it had thinned, not snapped, and sibling rivalry prevails even in a 2-person game of sevens) she dramatically heaved herself up, crossed the room to grab the free daily train paper before turning to the second page, mic dropping it on the table in front of me and accompanying it by placing a 5 of diamonds down in one swift motion. "MOARI GROUP OPPOSING SEIZURE OF LAND BY BRITISH CONSULATE COMMIT MASS SUICIDE AFTER FAILED LEGAL BATTLE IN 200-YEAR-OLD CLAUSE" I sat stunned, a tragedy to be sure, but made of cynical stuff it wasn't the red tape fuckerry that got me, it was the fact that all the Maori involved were the same on the Broadside, they had done it in the same way as well, Haka then poison, even the weary chief had the same sad and resigned look in his eyes. Nicola briefly met my gaze with a "happy with your work" look, but after my insistence and sincere assertions she became more concerned for my mental health than anything, even she knew I wouldn't take a joke that far. After a few shocked hours and some much-needed logic we concluded I must have read the free paper and fell asleep, my alcohol withdrawn mind must have dreamt the rest and somewhat hesitant and satisfied I went to bed strangely, with no accompanying dreams. that would be the end of it right? DAY 4 23rd july 2019 It was my 2 days off and let me tell you what they say may be true. When you are filled with the vim and vigor of sobriety that you actually want, it's ten times easier than the resentful sobriety you resign yourself to needing. I drank nothing. no nonalcoholic beer no "Adult soft drink" (get to fuck with that, it tastes like piss and you know it, at least pissy wine gets you drunk). I even had a cheeky toke on one of Neils mates spliffs. It was a blast, even if I did dream of the Maori again ( Although this time they were all playing sevens with me and all insisted that they didn't have the 10 of clubs ). So when I went back to work on the Wednesday with a belly full of actual breakfast that didn't comprise of a Cornershop bacteria ridden Samosa and a bottle of Lucozade, a packed lunch ( I'm scaring myself at this point) and a good attitude I had practically forgotten about Sunday's events. Until the train lurched out of the station prior to the last encounter. And so I sat there with a look that half said "you're such an idiot" and "just to show how stupid this is why don't you stick your tongue out at whatever passenger is on the train?" and so as I tried to relax myself the tunnels merged again. As I stood there with my tongue out, the first thing that stunned me wasn't the business suit which rested on the southside of 15 years out of fashion , nor the tears running down his face, not the even deep sullen eyes of a haunted man. It was the lit cigarette. You see in this country there was a fire at a major station in the 80's that really fucked things up to say the least, a lot of deaths and a much-needed reform on underground safety, but there stood a man on the sister train seemingly looking at nothing, lip quivering and muttering words to himself, a lit yet unsmoked cigarette with an impossibly long droop of ash hanging like the old trick where someone had put a pipe cleaner through it. The trains parted. This proved nothing I told myself. Maybe, the man had been on a bender, spent his money on strippers and his wife had found out. It was only smoking on a train and hardly native tribesman performing a huge political statement. “Relax" I told myself The trains came together again. The cigarette was nowhere to be seen this time, the man seemed to be nonchalantly walking up and down the carriage muttering to himself dragging something. He looked up and laughed to no one, I waved frantically but even when he looked in my direction, he didn't seem to see me. just before the tunnel broke for the second time, he seemed to launch something up, what was it? A rock? No - brown. A stick? No - longer, A rope? The train parted again. I breathed heavily, it's just a madman I told myself, be rational. It's fine, you're overthinking this. Stop panicking. When the trains merge again you'll see it's fine. Get a grip Angus -this is withdrawal. GET. A. GRIP. The trains Broadsided for a final time. I've never believed that bullshit about people involuntarily leaping. "Oooh Janice I practically leapt out of my skin" you'd hear, usually in the Northern accent for some reason. Well I'll lay it down flat, I physically recoiled. He was there, though I could no longer see his face, but I could see his side, then his front and then his side again because he was hanging. Hanging by a rope. A rope tied around his neck. I saw all the gory details: his blue/grey hands, his expensive suit now somehow ill-fitting and cheap by what I could only assume were his spasms, the pool of piss and shit that had vacated his corpse and the drool running down the bottom of his chin. I heard a story once about a man who watched a love one die and all he could really recall was the blonde curls of the stranger who called the ambulance, his mind transfixed on them, and to a degree my mind did the same, a part of my brain focused on the big functional name badge clipped to his breast; it had the initials MctC in bold letters. That's all I saw before I snapped to and pulled the emergency stop by the door, but the other train disappeared as mine soon screeched to a halt. The Police and station staff were not impressed. Improper use of an emergency brake carries a hefty fine. I think the only thing that stopped that firm but fair application was almost certainly the fact that I was freaking out, insisting that I'd seen a man hanging himself, screeching and pleading with genuine concern for a human life over rid their initial ire and for a while, there seemed to be genuine action toward my tale until all trains on that line were most certainly cleared of any " dead businessman". I took a while to calm down, and once the station staff and police were convinced that duty of care didn't seem to cover me being escorted away by medical staff or the constabulary. I was given the benefit of the doubt only after a thorough interview regarding my senses. There was an almost unanimous sucking of air through teeth and eyebrow raising when I said I was newly sober. The kind reserved for contempt given to one you couldn't justifiably prosecute, but one you could certainly be "very ticked off with" there was lots of " this has held up thousands (really? two stops from the end of the line at 2 in the afternoon in the rural outskirts of the city ) and "sir, we could have been attending real issues''. However, the somewhat sympathetic train driver who turned out to be a five year AA chip holder convinced the authorities to let me be, the guy even offered his number to me " If I ever needed to talk", which I only entered as a polite formality before not even bothering to save it to my phone. I'm sober in spite of that place mate, not because of it, don't be the sweeping tide trying to reclaim me back to misery. I called work and explained ( not the alcoholic bit ) and they gave me the day off with the kind of tone that suggested that they were corporately obliged to pretend to give a shit, but that I should " keep them updated so they can best help me". Fuck off mate. I know that no one else is going to work the 8 cages of booze that comes in if you know I'm back tomorrow. I said I'd let them know as soon as. The house was empty when I got home, nothing overly unusual, it wasn't even 5:30, but I hardly noticed as I got to claim the premium seat. i sat there for several minutes taking it all in before it hit me. The name badge- it said Mctc. I searched for an hour before I even got close, turns out you can't just type that into google and expect a result, so I did a little sober deduction. After some trial and error I worked out the "Mc" part was "Mac", as in the Scottish surname. I was tempted to run with that as the actual name, but why would someone abbreviate their own name and present it like a logo? No, the name must be a company name. After searching through a lot, I finally found an image that leaped out, same black lettering same pronounced "M". Bingo. Maybe something sinister was going on. Maybe it was a coverup? should i be incognito? Too late, I’d already typed suicide, results, results.......Jesus Christ....he was staring at me; that same hollow look, yet this time smiling thinly like a man presenting his best self by blag alone. he was thinner than his suit, still hollow eyed and with a balding dome I’d not noticed before. His name was James Bresteed, he was the Vice president of security for McIntyre Copper, he’d been suspected of corporate espionage. I'm no lawyer, but it looks like he’d been involved with giving dialup passwords away so a rival company could access some company files. He’d committed suicide by hanging, it was definitely him. Jesus, almost got away with it by my reckoning ( though who knows how statutes of limitations work in this field). How many years had he gone unsuspected? I mean dial up wasn't a thing since like what? 2006?........oh fuck.....oh Jesus no......no......this cant be right...it’s impossible....but all of a sudden the suit style seemed to fit, dammit, even the haircut confirmed........but its not possible.............it says..............it says James Bresteed died February 17th 2004.....
"Broadside" PART 1 Broadside - Slang term used for when 2 underground trains temporarily share a tunnel and are travelling at relatively the same speed in the same direction. where passengers from both trains can see each other before the tunnels divide again. Day 1 20th July 2019 "Hello, my name's Angus and I'm an alcoholic '' It's a phrase i had both dreaded and hoped I could mutter. Its over importance was only matched by its overwhelming disappointment. Around the room there was a hapless hurrah, a depleted cheer muttered by those exhausted with hearing the phrase but somehow duty bound to react with the kind of enthusiasm that screamed maximum return with minimum input. It won't seem clear at the moment why but my story begins with Alcoholics Anonymous and interestingly, that is a story within itself. AA is a boon to so many people around the world, but let me tell you how I view it. It's a cult, pure and simple, but that doesn't necessarily mean that it's a bad thing, I mean technically the cell destroying act of radiotherapy is bad for you on some level but AA? Well, that's the chemo of addiction. Imagine a room full of whole cloth,abject failures ( of whom I am one of ) wallowing in their deepest melancholy. Imagine a room filled with everyone's wine drunk aunt, pissed up uncle, the brother they no longer talk to, the sister that is only named as "homewrecker", that friend that ruins the night and the guy barred from every pub. Imagine a space solely occupied with a lifetime of debt and cries of "don’t darken my doorstep again", the amalgamation of beg, borrow and steal, the forlorn, the desperate, those who have hit rock bottom more times than they can count only to find undiscovered countries of pathetic and untapped depravity. A few stories off the top of my head can nail this sentiment to the wall and the adjacent building of personal, vicarious and guilt by association tenfold, a place so removed from last chances that the make a wish foundation wouldn't be seen dead in the same colour clothes as these crestfallen chumps,in fact they’d happily dress exclusively in grey if it wasn't already bagsied and drenched in piteous Ethanol. we sit there united, working, middle and upper class, the local celebs and the most infamous bum, old, young, rich and poor, it's the Marxists dream of rock bottom equality, we congregate together with gutter pride wearing our horror stories as both shameful and shameless badges of office. Take Tina, she was some kind of city executive, something to do with magazine advertisement ( to be honest like most I suspect I selfishly stopped listening after the details stopped resonating with my own sad tale ) , she pulled in 70 grand a year, when she’d take the chair she'd tell the same story that grew less and less fascinating with each bi weekly repeat about how she literally bought a house at the end of the train line because she always fell asleep after a "moody Monday" a "tanky Tuesday" a "wobbly Wednesday" and other such alliterations which I'm sure are specifically, if not unconsciously designed to smooth over the absolute state of our commitment - linguistic enablers was a phrase I once heard and I'm sticking with it. Then on the other side of the spectrum there was Joel. I doubt this guy could even spell his own name, he had the look of someone born into the craft, I'd bet my bottom dollar that he suffers from fetal alcohol syndrome as well as a clever and witty connection to the adult type, guy never stood a chance from day dot but he reminded us, given the opportunity how he quit "outside of the rooms" as well as his main focus seeming to be post death, post achievement, post success or failure ( depending on your outlook ) that at his funeral he would be remembered as a "misunderstood man" I couldn't venture to what he would be misunderstood in as the guy was as dull as dishwater and about as subtle as a Botox injection to the kisser, but then again iI think that's just the bitter failure in me talking, I never could quit outside of the rooms. Then there was Louie, the guy that set his brother's house on fire at age 23 (over £3, which sounds worse than it is given the exchange rate of 1973) he was a gardener, sober 34 Years. I truly respect that man but you don't envy the fact that this is his life now, a life inside the rooms being a martyr and cautionary tale to all first timers, and a permanent fixture to those who didn't learn the 1st, 3rd, 5th or 20th time. There are many, many more in this perpetual deluge of misery, this everlasting ecosystem of slack jaws nodding at every instance that something could relate to your situation because you are so utterly desperate to connect with anything outside of a can or bottle, empty vessels pretending they don't still crave ever full ones , pretending they are here for the newcomers, even some of them pretending that they aren't drunk that very moment. Just like the party system in the novel 1984 the despair takes a life of its own, it transcends the individuals suffering and becomes a self-powering machine. it behaves as a demon that feeds on contempt, doubt, self-loathing and malaise, prodding the damned with a stick named "hope" straight into its own maw. And that's what set me sober, not the talks, not the encouragement and certainly not the "connection" with souls so lost they’d give Davy Jones crew a run for their money but the thought that if I didn't, this would be the rest of my life on the fruitless crew of the SS gasping, and let me tell you mid 90s naysayers, scared straight sometimes works and so I started to make an effort to see things a little clearer, and that's where my story begins. I worked in a somewhat well to do supermarket ( yes that one, and no just because you are a "partner" it doesn't mean you won't be cleaning literal human shit off the floor if a valued older customer decides to recreate the depth charge scene from U571) I ironically work in the Wines and Spirits department as a " specialist" which sure as hell is one way of putting it. I know enough about pairing and hops to make it sounds like I know more than I do which is surprisingly massively helped by dropping casual pronunciations of "Montepulciano" and "Sangiovese" in just a faux middle-class way that I almost sound respectable. weirdly enough working with booze never affected my sobriety beyond not wanting to risk the Friday taste testing, a facsimile designed to give me a wino head start on a Friday afternoon on the payroll. I could have tested the non-alcoholic stuff but I figured it would eventually draw suspicion and trust me fellow pissheads, the idea that that shit is your friend is an illusion that you tell yourself so you can take baby steps back to the hardstuff. It was the journey to work that changed the rest of my life. I don't drive so fate conspired that this particular journey would be 25 minutes on the motorway or 2 hours by train (as well as 50 quid a week) but I figured with a clearer and less muggy morning I could easily afford the journey in terms of time, stress and money. It was a packed train into the city, a packed train out until the point where it gets more residential and both the skyline and the seats start to become more vacant. I always sat at the very head of the train, right next to the driver's door (much to the chagrin of switching drivers on more than one occasion) but it was the quietest spot iI could find if I ever needed a reviving nap on the way in or a sneaky tin on the way home (yes I was that kind of drinker and yes you only realise how bad it is when you see someone else doing it) There I had my first encounter with what I will refer to from now on as " The Broadside ". I didn't realise at the time, but it was actually my sobriety that caused me to see it, but i'll go back a bit as I don't want to get ahead of myself. So there I sat and as the tunnel from the other line merged into mine I saw my train's sister carriage come closer, only to see what was unexpected by all metrics anyone could hazard to guess. There facing me was something so unusual that I literally pinched myself and looked around for someone to confirm, however I was alone and so had seemingly no choice but to drink it all in. There on the opposing train were ten or so Maori warriors. Yes, Maori. That's right, the New Zealand warrior peoples, the ones with the tattoos who do that intimidating and extraordinary war dance where they creep closer and stick out their tongues. I sat transfixed, the train dipped out of the twin tunnel then went back in and lo and behold it was not my imagination, there they were again, full native dress, coral tipped spears ( at least that's what I thought,my knowledge combined of an episode of “deadliest warrior”, the film “once were warriors” and an interview with the guy who played Jango Fett ) they were enchanted with the full on snarling faces and taught muscles, the whole deal. I chanced a nervous wave, but none seemed to see, not even the somewhat saddened elder directly opposite me. the train pulled away again. The final merge came and they all stood solemn and still, a stark contrast to the vibrant displays of pride and masculinity before. Each one paused in their step and looked to their elder who took what looked like a small vial and drank. As one the rest followed suit. The tunnel broke for the last time and it was only the driver bumping my knees at the end of the line that made me realise the last leg of the journey had finished and I'd been frozen speechless these last 15 minutes, such was my shock at this seemingly random display. Late for work, I hurried on down a high street so far from home that even though I'd worked there some months I had already decided that it would be a waste of time to remember any place; bar the shop where I'd got my energy drinks,and that day it only occurred to me on arrival that I’d broken my routine and arrived at for business saccharine free. I told a few people at work what I'd seen, though not really being close with anyone, they couldn't tell if I was taking the piss or not ( one of my introduction jokes was to tell people that Wasps made Chutney so i don't resent their skepticism ) although, one of the more friendly older guys suggested that it was one of those "viral campaigns". I feigned ignorance to what that meant in an effort to make him seem more in touch. What can I say, I try to give a little back after being a provocative - know it all drunken arsehole. But with no answers and a busy saint Patrick's day weekend ahead, I consigned myself to Guinness and Baileys and gingered myself to the pretense of eagerly beating last year's YTD to the managers that thought I was hot shit (not out enough to pay me the maximum for my band though). There was no "Broadside" on the way back and I only thought about it again when I got home and eased myself into the too broken wicker chair that served as our "last come last serve" seat in my shared flat. The 2 other chairs were occupied by Neil and Nicola,2 siblings from Birmingham that I'd known and lived with for a few years, well I knew Neil for 8 or so and his sister had moved in with us after someone had left unexpectedly 3 years ago. Neil and I were easy companions with our own interests and flittered between obsessing over a game that would see us semi colonising each other's rooms for weeks on end, to passing by like ships in the night and occasionally venturing into paranoia as to whether we’d drifted or not. My initial friendship with Nicola had been more rocky, 3 years ago I had been a much more "edgyboi" who would always try to cheekily provoke ( although if there was a litmus test on being a deliberate arsehole I’d have failed at least 50% of the time ) and Nicola had been the oh-so typical blue haired feminist who once accused my positioning of my shampoo bottles as a deliberate attempt to "Intimidate her with my fragile masculinity". However, with the careful refereeing of Neil we’d gone from circling each other growling, to the much more favourable, if not figuratively badly put act of sniffing each other's butts in friendly gesture; although it must be said no such figurative butt sniffing would ever result in anything more than the platonic, lest a drunken fumble (requiring more alcohol than we were capable of affording let alone consuming) result in the worlds most quickly agreed mutual suicide pact. What I mean to say is me and Nicola knew we were different, and so decided to make an effort to be less thorny with each other which resulted in me making the effort to at least try and see her points of view when she regaled me with this weeks "slight on her woman hood" and her reducing her critique of my pushing the envelope to a sigh and an eye roll. Beyond that we were kind of weird besties in a way we would never admit to our respective social groups, and only drunkenly to each other. So, it was when my sibling co-tenants barely looked up from there game of sevens (yes, they play sevens with only two people, must be a genetic deficiency) that I told them what had happened to me this morning, during the "broadside". "Even for you, Angus that's a low one" Nicola said with an air of unimpressed disappointment, I searched Neils face for a reaction but at that moment his cards seemed to be the most interesting thing in the room (although I'm sure he was looking at me just before her utterance ) "Huh" I offered unhelpfully. "Angus, I'm not in the mood today, it's been a long one" she said "Nick, I'm being serious" This went on for a few minutes and a room of three continued to be, minus one voice. After my insistence she finally decided to humour my story, if only to play the "Game". And so she listened as I told my story and insisted that I wasn't messing around. All the while Neils eyes jumped from friend, to cards, to sister, to cards, to both, to a seemingly unique and interesting spot in the corner of the ceiling. As Nicola’s patience thinned and she placed her cards face down ( it had thinned, not snapped, and sibling rivalry prevails even in a 2-person game of sevens) she dramatically heaved herself up, crossed the room to grab the free daily train paper before turning to the second page, mic dropping it on the table in front of me and accompanying it by placing a 5 of diamonds down in one swift motion. "MOARI GROUP OPPOSING SEIZURE OF LAND BY BRITISH CONSULATE COMMIT MASS SUICIDE AFTER FAILED LEGAL BATTLE IN 200-YEAR-OLD CLAUSE" I sat stunned, a tragedy to be sure, but made of cynical stuff it wasn't the red tape fuckerry that got me, it was the fact that all the Maori involved were the same on the Broadside, they had done it in the same way as well, Haka then poison, even the weary chief had the same sad and resigned look in his eyes. Nicola briefly met my gaze with a "happy with your work" look, but after my insistence and sincere assertions she became more concerned for my mental health than anything, even she knew I wouldn't take a joke that far. After a few shocked hours and some much-needed logic we concluded I must have read the free paper and fell asleep, my alcohol withdrawn mind must have dreamt the rest and somewhat hesitant and satisfied I went to bed strangely, with no accompanying dreams. that would be the end of it right? DAY 4 23rd july 2019 It was my 2 days off and let me tell you what they say may be true. When you are filled with the vim and vigor of sobriety that you actually want, it's ten times easier than the resentful sobriety you resign yourself to needing. I drank nothing. no nonalcoholic beer no "Adult soft drink" (get to fuck with that, it tastes like piss and you know it, at least pissy wine gets you drunk). I even had a cheeky toke on one of Neils mates spliffs. It was a blast, even if I did dream of the Maori again ( Although this time they were all playing sevens with me and all insisted that they didn't have the 10 of clubs ). So when I went back to work on the Wednesday with a belly full of actual breakfast that didn't comprise of a Cornershop bacteria ridden Samosa and a bottle of Lucozade, a packed lunch ( I'm scaring myself at this point) and a good attitude I had practically forgotten about Sunday's events. Until the train lurched out of the station prior to the last encounter. And so I sat there with a look that half said "you're such an idiot" and "just to show how stupid this is why don't you stick your tongue out at whatever passenger is on the train?" and so as I tried to relax myself the tunnels merged again. As I stood there with my tongue out, the first thing that stunned me wasn't the business suit which rested on the southside of 15 years out of fashion , nor the tears running down his face, not the even deep sullen eyes of a haunted man. It was the lit cigarette. You see in this country there was a fire at a major station in the 80's that really fucked things up to say the least, a lot of deaths and a much-needed reform on underground safety, but there stood a man on the sister train seemingly looking at nothing, lip quivering and muttering words to himself, a lit yet unsmoked cigarette with an impossibly long droop of ash hanging like the old trick where someone had put a pipe cleaner through it. The trains parted. This proved nothing I told myself. Maybe, the man had been on a bender, spent his money on strippers and his wife had found out. It was only smoking on a train and hardly native tribesman performing a huge political statement. “Relax" I told myself The trains came together again. The cigarette was nowhere to be seen this time, the man seemed to be nonchalantly walking up and down the carriage muttering to himself dragging something. He looked up and laughed to no one, I waved frantically but even when he looked in my direction, he didn't seem to see me. just before the tunnel broke for the second time, he seemed to launch something up, what was it? A rock? No - brown. A stick? No - longer, A rope? The train parted again. I breathed heavily, it's just a madman I told myself, be rational. It's fine, you're overthinking this. Stop panicking. When the trains merge again you'll see it's fine. Get a grip Angus -this is withdrawal. GET. A. GRIP. The trains Broadsided for a final time. I've never believed that bullshit about people involuntarily leaping. "Oooh Janice I practically leapt out of my skin" you'd hear, usually in the Northern accent for some reason. Well I'll lay it down flat, I physically recoiled. He was there, though I could no longer see his face, but I could see his side, then his front and then his side again because he was hanging. Hanging by a rope. A rope tied around his neck. I saw all the gory details: his blue/grey hands, his expensive suit now somehow ill-fitting and cheap by what I could only assume were his spasms, the pool of piss and shit that had vacated his corpse and the drool running down the bottom of his chin. I heard a story once about a man who watched a love one die and all he could really recall was the blonde curls of the stranger who called the ambulance, his mind transfixed on them, and to a degree my mind did the same, a part of my brain focused on the big functional name badge clipped to his breast; it had the initials MctC in bold letters. That's all I saw before I snapped to and pulled the emergency stop by the door, but the other train disappeared as mine soon screeched to a halt. The Police and station staff were not impressed. Improper use of an emergency brake carries a hefty fine. I think the only thing that stopped that firm but fair application was almost certainly the fact that I was freaking out, insisting that I'd seen a man hanging himself, screeching and pleading with genuine concern for a human life over rid their initial ire and for a while, there seemed to be genuine action toward my tale until all trains on that line were most certainly cleared of any " dead businessman". I took a while to calm down, and once the station staff and police were convinced that duty of care didn't seem to cover me being escorted away by medical staff or the constabulary. I was given the benefit of the doubt only after a thorough interview regarding my senses. There was an almost unanimous sucking of air through teeth and eyebrow raising when I said I was newly sober. The kind reserved for contempt given to one you couldn't justifiably prosecute, but one you could certainly be "very ticked off with" there was lots of " this has held up thousands (really? two stops from the end of the line at 2 in the afternoon in the rural outskirts of the city ) and "sir, we could have been attending real issues''. However, the somewhat sympathetic train driver who turned out to be a five year AA chip holder convinced the authorities to let me be, the guy even offered his number to me " If I ever needed to talk", which I only entered as a polite formality before not even bothering to save it to my phone. I'm sober in spite of that place mate, not because of it, don't be the sweeping tide trying to reclaim me back to misery. I called work and explained ( not the alcoholic bit ) and they gave me the day off with the kind of tone that suggested that they were corporately obliged to pretend to give a shit, but that I should " keep them updated so they can best help me". Fuck off mate. I know that no one else is going to work the 8 cages of booze that comes in if you know I'm back tomorrow. I said I'd let them know as soon as. The house was empty when I got home, nothing overly unusual, it wasn't even 5:30, but I hardly noticed as I got to claim the premium seat. i sat there for several minutes taking it all in before it hit me. The name badge- it said Mctc. I searched for an hour before I even got close, turns out you can't just type that into google and expect a result, so I did a little sober deduction. After some trial and error I worked out the "Mc" part was "Mac", as in the Scottish surname. I was tempted to run with that as the actual name, but why would someone abbreviate their own name and present it like a logo? No, the name must be a company name. After searching through a lot, I finally found an image that leaped out, same black lettering same pronounced "M". Bingo. Maybe something sinister was going on. Maybe it was a coverup? should i be incognito? Too late, I’d already typed suicide, results, results.......Jesus Christ....he was staring at me; that same hollow look, yet this time smiling thinly like a man presenting his best self by blag alone. he was thinner than his suit, still hollow eyed and with a balding dome I’d not noticed before. His name was James Bresteed, he was the Vice president of security for McIntyre Copper, he’d been suspected of corporate espionage. I'm no lawyer, but it looks like he’d been involved with giving dialup passwords away so a rival company could access some company files. He’d committed suicide by hanging, it was definitely him. Jesus, almost got away with it by my reckoning ( though who knows how statutes of limitations work in this field). How many years had he gone unsuspected? I mean dial up wasn't a thing since like what? 2006?........oh fuck.....oh Jesus no......no......this cant be right...it’s impossible....but all of a sudden the suit style seemed to fit, dammit, even the haircut confirmed........but its not possible.............it says..............it says James Bresteed died February 17th 2004.....
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