Friday, November 18, 2005

A story, written by thine truly whilst not a little tickled by ale...

(warning... explicit material ahead)

They never caught the rapist, because the girls always died the same night. There had been 15 of them in total, spread out across Japan. There should have been an outcry in the national press, but there wasn't. There should have been thorough police investigations, but there weren't. They should have caught him, but they didn't.

Had the police been more on the ball, they would have realised that all the victims had something in common - they all had a best friend called Yumiko. The fact that the 1st, 5th, 10th and 15th girls were raped in their houses passed the police by. The fact that the 2nd, 4th, 6th and 8th girls were raped in hotels passed the police by. The fact that the rest were each raped in cities containing 6 letters also passed the police by.

On more than one occasion, the police officer in charge of the investigation unknowingly met the rapist. On two occasions, and with no solid reasons to back up his claim, the same police officer made in-house statements claiming that the rapist was someone from a metropolis, and was likely unemployed. Had he an ounce of nouse, he would have realised that the person they were looking for worked for a respectable University, lived in a smallish town and raped the girls unseen, which enabled him to leave and then be first on the scene to comfort the victims.

Friday, November 11, 2005

Breakdown (composed whilst wrecked on a crate of Kirin beer)

The broken man lies in the hospital bed, tubes and monitors reminding him of a film he once saw as a child. The steady pulse of the heart monitor sounds like a voice trying to reach him, but neither voice nor man really wants to be found.

It is light. Pre-dawn. The coldest hour, when the blankets are warmest. Limbs won't move. His mind tells him that if he does, the pain will consume him. He thinks of his past, but only the present surfaces. Somewhere a clock marks off the slow seconds of the day.

How did he get here? Where is he? Who is he? When is this? Thinking hurts his brain, a thin razor paring even when he lies perfectly still. On the table... what? A glass. No, a jar. Liquid, not clear. A little dark. Something in there. Onions in vinegar. The unspoken sentence in his head. It seems to mean something but he can't make the connection.

Beside the jar, something in its shadow. Closing his eyes, he doesn't want to know. Opening his eyes, he doesn't want to be there either.

Pain. Dull. Sharp. Fast. Slow. Hot. So hot.

The shadows on the wall seem to move of their own volition, no moon this night. Images that will never be repeated, not like this, ever again.

Move your arm, someone says. He does, but redness comes. And then he knows everything. My name is Ravishing Rick Rude, and I stole pickled onions from a tittering nan.

Rick closes his eyes and mouths something. Sleep takes all of him.