sabato, aprile 30, 2005

The Dream

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The Dream
By Eddie G.

That’s the thing about dreams. They are the gateway to the subconscious; a portal to the unresolved issues we face. And that disturbs me, seeing as to how I dream of green goats, bouncing midgets and giant radioactive hamsters half the bloody time. After studying the Media for some time now, I’ve begun to wonder whether it is the signifier or the signified that should be considered more perturbing.

But last night’s dream was awkwardly different. There were no goats, no midgets, and certainly no glow-in-the-dark hamsters. Yet, it was disturbing in its own way.

Taverns literally come alive after a certain hour. And that was how the Blue Dragoon was before the Bard had walked in. His reputation had gone on ahead before him, and a hushed silence had filled the building as he took deliberate steps towards an unoccupied table in the corner, sat down, propped his feet up against the table and began to tune his lute. He could hear hushed whispers coming from behind him, and smiled secretly at the attention.

The bartender brought a tankard of finely brewed mead to the table where the Bard was sitting at. Wordlessly, he placed the tankard on the table, collected a piece of silver for his efforts and returned to the bar. The Bard had finished tuning his instrument.

Striking a bold opening on his silver lute, the Bard broke into song.

I knoweth of a lady fair,
With beautiful eyes and soft flowing hair.
And she would chase the shadows away,
She's my hope for yet another day.

The tavern broke into unanimous applause, but the Bard had yet to finish his rendition, and he punished the crowd for their ignorance by making them feel, well, ignorant.

And when she sang her melody sweet.
Made my life so full and complete.
And the wind on her hair it would play,
My hope for yet another day.

While he sang, a young Sorceress had entered the tavern, evidently looking for someone. She didn’t take long to find him, and made her way to the table where the singing Bard was, and sat down. Their gazes locked.

So sing to me of my lady fair,
With beautiful eyes and soft flowing hair.
And let my soul, with true love doth say.
I love my hope for yet another day.

The Bard finished his song with a flourish, all this while not taking his eyes of the young woman. Feeling a pressing need to compensate for the embarrassing false start, the crowded cheered.

“You are late, my love,” said he, after the applauding had died down and the tavern had went back, as if nothing had happened, to its normal bustle.

“I know,” the Sorceress tossed her hair playfully to one side. It drove his hormones wild and she knew it. Her perfume made him dizzy.

“Yet, better late than never.” He reached forward across the table to hold her hand, but the moment they made contact a sharp jolt of electricity coursed painfully through his entire being. Like the forked tongue of a snake, he withdrew his hand.

“What have you done, woman!” cried he.

The Sorceress smiled, her voice now belonged to someone whom I know. “I have put a spell, a curse if you like, on you. You will now learn how to let go.”

“No! NEVER!” the Bard cried. “You can’t do this to me.”

“But I already have,” it was her voice again; I turned in my sleep, frustrated.

The Bard reached forward to grab the woman’s hand again, and was met with the same painful consequence. Reeling backwards, the Bard nearly toppled over in his chair.

“Why have you done this?”

“It’s for the best,” said she, crying and smiling at the same time. “You will learn. You will learn.”

“Will I now?” the Bard bit his lip resolutely and made a grab at her again. Pain flared through his consciousness once more. Each second became more and more unbearable but he held on to her tighter still, his eyes tearing profusely. Finally he released his grip.

“What do you want from me now?” he panted, there was malice in his eyes. Malice oh so strong, oh so passionate.

“The question really is ‘What do you want from me now’,” the Sorceress replied, her sad eyes glued to his.

“What happens if I were to carry on?” he asked.

“You will die. Your life won’t cease, but you will die nonetheless.”

“Then it shall be!” he declared. Leaning across the table, he grabbed her by the hand. Ignoring the pain, he pulled her close, and kissed her, long and hard. A searing flame shot through his head, threatening to melt the very last of his sanity, but he kept his lips firmly locked to hers. The threshold of his complete existence threatened to give way, returning to the cosmos from whence he came. Dust thou art, and dust thou shalt return! He played the last verse of the song in his head once more.

So sing to me of my lady fair,
With beautiful eyes and soft flowing hair.
And let my soul, with true love doth say.
I love my hope for yet another day.

Amidst the melody, the Bard noticed something foreign ringing within his close proximity. In fact, it sounded just like the ringing of a… Nokia 3310?

I turned to face the source of the high-pitched monophonic blare. Leaning forward, I wearily answered the call.


“Hello, can you hear me clearly?” It was my Dad, testing out the limitations of his new internet phone. At this hour?

“Yea, pretty much,” I mumbled hastily, eager to get back to resolve the Bard’s predicament once and for all. I wanted to feel her lips on mine once more.

“Am I too loud then?”

“Nope. You’re just fine,” Come on, sweet Jesus of Nazareth!!!

“Okay. That’s good. So how have you been? How’s school work then?”

NOT NOW, DAMMIT. I’ll write you a 20,000-word essay on how life in Monash has been fucking me up so long as you let me return to my dream. Puh-leeeeez!!!

“Okay, I guess. So far I’ve been coping with the subjects just fine. Nothing too stressful.”

“Do you have money for next month then?”

Oh bugger! Now it’s the whole love or money thing?

“I have enough to last me until the end of this month. Just enough.”

“Okay. I’ll send you the money soon,” he said. “Goodnight.”

“Yea. Goodnight, Dad.” I hung up. I’ll feel guilty about being so curt with Dad in the morning. Now back to that dream!

The green goat bounced merrily across the purple meadows, a fat midget sitting happily on his back.


mercoledì, aprile 27, 2005

Agent Jonny Constant: Part II

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Agent Jonny Constant
Part II: To Listen To Me Whine
By Eddie G.

The young Mutant girl navigated through the dismal alleyways flawlessly, deliberately making several wrong turns in the process to confuse anyone who might have been following. From the way she moved, one could see how easily fragile life was in these parts. One wrong turn, one tiny slip of footing would possibly mean a slow, painful and sometimes comically embarrassing death. And that was if you were lucky.

A brick wall loomed ominously ahead as she neared the end of her perilous run, threatening to impede her progress. But she merely responded by quickening her pace. It was only until she almost looked as if she had planned to charge down the wall when she leapt effortless and rebounded off the side to clear the menacing obstacle. A Kayelian Chomp-Chomp Hibiscus made a grab at her ankles with its tentacles as she landed, but the Mutant was much too agile for it.

Upon reaching a derelict building, she paused to catch her breath, leaning forward against her own knees. Under her arms, the package nestled, completely oblivious of the journey that nearly claimed its bearer’s life. The unassuming paper bag had made stealing it look as though it was an end that could never possibly justify its precarious means. Drawing herself to full height once more, she proceeded to knock on a rickety door.

“Do you have the time?” came a voice from inside.

“To listen to me whine?” the girl replied, quoting the lyrics of an ancient folk song (i.e. the kind of songs that people play and sing when they’ve nothing really better to do) to complete the code. The door squeaked open momentarily for her to pass through before it was closed and bolted securely.

As she walked in, se was greeted by a sea of Mutant faces, most of which belonged to people much older than she was. Many of them had already reached Terminal, some of whom were living testimonies of a doctrine that theorized that Evolution did indeed have a sense of humour. Hurriedly, she brushed aside the possibility that the she could very well end up looking like some of them one day, or worse.

The interior of the room was far less inviting that it was on the outside. It said quite a lot about the general living mannerism of Mutants. “Nonchalance” wouldn’t exactly be the word to describe it, mostly because it was reserved primarily for the Miscellanea. Unlike the latter, many Mutants believed that their lives were in dire need of shaping up, and had made solemn resolutions to do something about it. It had now boiled down to a matter of which “tomorrow” they would choose to get the ball rolling.

The crowd parted obediently as she made her way to the middle of the room, where a primitive looking lamp dangled above a rectangular table. All eyes were glued intently to the package as their faces beheld a common sentiment, albeit in different variations of the concept of “face”. And the sentiment was: we were summoned here whilst in the middle of something important; this had bloody better be worth it!

Naturally, the extent of their disconcertion was directly proportionate to the level of “importance” of their individual “middles of something”

A Mutant sitting at the head of the table rose to his feet.

“Echo!” he said, “thank Heavens you’re safe.”

On the surface, that had sounded genuine enough, but his words had carried more subtle and certainly less amicable undertones, which ran along the lines of “it’s about time, bitch”. And Echo knew this.

“Me or the package,” she responded scornfully. Unlike the other Mutant, she believed very much in the concept of in-your-faceness, – especially when it came to her fist – and wanted nothing more at this given point than to prove it.

“Why, both of course,” the Mutant said smoothly while the undertones went something like, “give me the package already, you damn whore!”

“Fine Tarsis,” she said, throwing it down on the table, “I’m only doing this for the betterment of the Mutant race.”

The Mutant had chuckled.

“So you’re calling me by name now, eh?” said Tarsis with a knowing smile. “Deciding to be more, how shall we say, intimate perhaps?”

He reached forward and stroked Echo’s face, and she reciprocated, only much harder and faster. It was perhaps the first time in her mutation that the two extra fingers had been put to good use.

Tarsis hollered, clutching his cheek where a seven-finger handprint had pervaded. The façade of pomp and formality was dropped like a burning ember.

“You fucking whore!”

“That’s what they do, don’t they?” she shot back, indicating that he wasn’t the only who knew how to play mind games.

“Hey Tarsis,” shouted someone from the crowd, “if you brought us all the way here to watch your little soap opera, at least make it more interesting than the one you dragged us away from!”

The rest murmured in unanimous consent.

[Ed's Note:]
After feedback I received from Part I, I realized that many people have felt that the stories have been a tad too long for one-sitting reading. Hence, I've decided to break my stories down into smaller, bite-sized readings. So we'll be seeing many short episodes instead of sporadic and overwhelmingly lengthy ones. Enjoy! :)

In the blink of an eye:

  • Agent Jonny Constant: Part I
  • domenica, aprile 24, 2005

    The Messiah Complex

    Food for thought from Eddie G.

    Incredible isn't it, the way how "friends", like weeds, sprout out of completely nowhere. Oh I'm not referring to the sudden influx of traffic in my blog by the way (Thanks pple, and keep 'em coming!). What I am referring to though are people whom I already know. People who know me. People who see me almost every other day. And yet, are people who don't give a shit about my existence until I can save their pathetic ones in any possible manner.

    Allow me to explain.

    Back in Junior College days, before assignment due dates, despite knowing bloody well that I NEVER hand in assignments on time, I'd get phone calls from people. These people never call me, not even to ask about the weather. But when they do, one of the two following things might happen. a) They might be liable at some point of the teleconversation to go, "Hey, do you know who Eddie G. is? I need his number. Need to ask him something regarding our assignment." and/or b) They (miraculously) know that it is me they're calling and would go, "Hey Eddie! Done your assignment already?"

    Goody gumdrops, wow! Someone remembers me! Eddie G. the fucking Oracle! At this juncture, picture two ethereal beings, each about a foot high, materializing on either shoulder. One has a pair of wings and carries a clipboard. The other wears red rubber underwear, has a pointed tail and carries a pitchfork of sorts.

    "Well, it does say here that patience is a virtue," says the former, reading off his clipboard.

    "Cuss the motherfucker!" says the one with the pitchfork.

    Hastily shoving both of them under the covers of my bed, I resume my phone call.

    "Um, not really," I would answer. (Assuming that situation b is taking place)

    "What question are you doing?" the caller would ask.

    "Um, Question Three?"

    "Can you do Question Two instead?"

    "Why?" I asked.

    "Because that's what I'm doing! Do lah, then later I copy you can?" came the reply.

    The one with the clipboard gave a yelp and shot out of the room in a sort of way that anyone would have if something sharp (oh say, a pitchfork) had nestled up his ass.

    "Fuck off!" I said, and hung up.

    That problem still exists. And somehow, Itchy and Scratchy here are still vying for shoulder room. No biggie! I've gotten used to them already, just like how my alter ego also has. Only for her, both of them wear red rubber underwear and carry pitchforks. Kinky ;)

    So yes. It's Assignment Deadline Season again. And one can only imagine how frustrating it is, really. Only a week ago, when these mofos went clubbing, for movies or yum cha sessions, I was probably the last person on Planet Earth they'd call. And today, they suddenly remember, "Hey, why don't I call that chap... oh what's his name again... starts with E... you know that one who used to come to college in his Hawaiian shirts... Oh yes! Eddie!".

    "It's better to give than to receive," reminded the one with the clipboard, who seemed to have some problem with sitting of late.

    "Yea. I'd like you to give them a knuckle sandwich," hinted other one, spinning his pitchfork precariously above his head.

    In my younger days, I would have. But over the years, I've learnt that there really is no point in being petty and calculative. It really isn't worth the trouble at all. If we can make a difference in someone's life, no matter how small, who cares if we get remembered for it? Who cares if these mofos do or do not acknowledge you at the end of the day? That didn't stop Mother Theresa, nor did it stop Gandhi.

    Yes, Gandhi I am not, and God certainly forbid that I become a nun like Mother Theresa. But at the end of it all, no matter how many anal probes the one with the clipboard has had, he is still right. And nothing can ever change that. Does it not say in the Good Book "love thy neighbour as you would love thyself"? My alter ego and I call this "The Messiah Complex". Not that anyone would be building me a shrine anytime soon.

    So despite it all, I am still your friend. I am still here for you no matter what. Remind your conscience that before you walk all over me.

    How long will I stay this messianistic? Until I get nailed to a cross I guess.

    sabato, aprile 23, 2005

    The Unfinished Letter

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    The Unfinished Letter
    By Eddie G.

    When I'm with you, and I see your smile
    It hurts me to know that it's not for me
    It's become something that I don't wanna see
    But still I can't forget

    And I wonder if it's worth the while
    To try and be someone I don't wanna be
    It's been riddled with heartache and irony
    Since the day we met

    Do you remember the times we spent and
    All the things we've said?
    Oh I remember clearly, and I wrote them in my head
    And I would give anything to
    Turn back the hands of time
    I'll do it all again for you, and things will be just fine

    It's not easy, but I've got to try
    Letting go before I get too deep
    I've been losing my sanity and losing my sleep;
    My heart still holds that scar

    Every morning when I wake up I
    Remind myself not to look in your eyes
    A million ballads cannot emphasize
    How beautiful they are

    Do you remember the times we spent and
    All the things we've said?
    Oh I remember clearly, and I wrote them in my head
    And I would give anything to
    Turn back the hands of time
    I'll do it all again for you, and things will be just fine

    I'll do it all again for you
    And things will be just fine.

    martedì, aprile 19, 2005

    When Eddie G. is bored...

    Lame Limericks
    By Eddie G.

    There was an advisor called Wright
    Who made fun of his good king one night
    They meant him no harm
    When they chopped his left arm
    So I gather that he'd be all right

    There was an old man named Wong
    Who enjoyed playing golf in his thong
    But he made a wrong swing
    And he hit the wrong thing
    So he won't stay a man for too long

    lunedì, aprile 18, 2005

    The Difference Between Malaysians and Singaporeans

    The Difference Between Malaysians and Singaporeans
    By Eddie G.

    It's not as if you hadn't noticed, but Malaysians and Singaporeans do have quite a bit in common. However, if you do pay attention, you might notice some distinguishing traits that might spell the difference between a true blue Malaysian and a die-hard Singaporean. These are guidelines. No one has to follow them, but generally they do.

    Malaysian: Eats until he throws up

    Singaporean: Eats until he throws up, and then eats some more

    Malaysian: Knows his laws, disobeys them and that's fine

    Singaporean: Knows his laws, disobeys them and gets fined

    Malaysian: Trade Union owned by rich, pretentious bastards who don't know shit about the struggles of the working class

    Singaporean: Trade Union owned by the government

    Malaysian: Cuts a queue, feels guilty, trys to pretend nothing happened

    Singaporean: Cuts a queue, feels guilty, trys to justify his motive ("Actually hor, you know ah, I've been here already for very long, one!")

    Malaysian: Attempts to smuggle drugs and tobacco into Singapore

    Singaporean: Attempts to smuggle chewing gum into Singapore

    Malaysian: Former Prime Minister retires and goes off to enjoy life while calling the shots from behind the scene

    Singaporean: Former Prime Minister retires... oh wait, no he doesn't.

    Malaysian: Builds Twin Towers to symbolize what Malaysia is all about

    Singaporean: Builds Twin Metal-Spiked Balls for the same purpose

    Singaporean: Culprit begs policeman for leniency

    Malaysian: Policeman begs culprit for bribes

    Malaysian: Believes in a one-phantom-one-vote policy

    Singaporean: Lee Kuan Yew votes on behalf of the country

    Singaporean: Allows adult films to be screened so long as patrons are of age and film possesses a certain aesthetic value

    Malaysian: Buy the VCD lah!

    Malaysian: Sings Malaysian National Anthem in Bahasa Malaysia

    Singaporean: Sings Singaporean National Anthem in Bahasa Malaysia

    mercoledì, aprile 13, 2005

    Jeanette Winterson, eat your heart out!

    A Really Lame Fairy Tale
    By Eddie G.

    Once upon a time, there was a Prince. A Prince who was so self-conscious that he would brood enviously over anyone more talented than he was with such seething vengence that even the vegetation in his garden would burn stark dry. While on the outside he seemed amiable, friendly and obliging, deep down inside he was arrogant, brash and condescending. The court advisors, fulfilling the stereotypical syntagm of all court advisors in fairy tales, were not able to find a way to change the Prince's heart.

    Now in the land, there existed three goddesses, who also happened to be sisters, ageless and beautiful. Their names were "Fate", "Chance" and "Destiny". They were so beautiful that many men had wasted their youths furtively trying to catch a mere glimpse of their splendour. But alas, the only ones who succeeded (and there weren't many, mind you) were the ones whom the Sisters had chosen to reveal themselves to.

    Tales of Three Sisters had reached the Prince, who then foolishly made a solemn vow that he too would go on a quest to find the Sisters. He hadn't the faintest of ideas on what he was exactly trying to prove, nor did he know what he would do in the event that he did find them. But since it was all the rave, surely the Prince had to be in it too right?

    It came as no surprise that many court advisors had tried to dissuade the Prince from his foolhardy resolution, but each and every who did all ended up one kidney poorer. But since it was either that or genric unemployment, they chose the lesser of two evils.

    On the night before the Prince's perilous journey, the King had decided to hold a marvelous feast in his honour. Banners of "Farewelle, our Goode and Kinde Prince" were put up all across the Grand Hall, which was in itself a marvel of architectural competence. It was an oval-like room surrounded by tiers of intricate gargoyles carved out of marble. In its midst, a beautiful fountain sat, spraying dazzling jets of waters at regulated intervals. Built into one corner was the orchestral pit, where minstrels strummed on their lutes tirelessly ("Use it or lose it," the Prince had warned them, his eyes fixed intently on their fingers).

    Guests from both far and near had attended to wish the Prince all the very best. At the dinner table, the advisors sat, their meals untouched (the cooks had served kidney), muttering in low voices how the Prince would probably never return.

    More to come... When I feel like it! (Mental note to self: NEVER blog after lunch!!!)

    giovedì, aprile 07, 2005

    Agent Jonny Constant: Part I

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    Agent Jonny Constant
    Part I: In The Beginning
    By Eddie G.

    Our story takes us to the depths of a bustling metropolis in the distant future, known as Kayel City. It was named after the Capitol of a country long forgotten. There were no longer any countries after the Fallout anyway, but rather individual cities that arose with the preference of being self-governed, for the people by the people, auspicium melioris aevi, blah blah blah, yada yada yada, so on and so forth.

    On the up side, individual cities meant that they would be easier to both manage and control. It also meant unwavering loyalty on the citizens' part, most because leaving the City for another had recently knocked off "detonating a bomb with your teeth" from top spot in Riddly's Top 10 List of Messy Suicides.

    On the down side, the leaders of various cities happen to take a very feudalistic view when considering their neighbours (if they should consider them at all). This probably meant that throwing up on the wrong side of the City border could very well spark off another inter-City holocaust.

    Most of Kayel City's trouble came from a fine, island City about 300 kilometres south called "Sg". Petty disputes that were perennially "settled" between both Cities resulted in nuclear warheads becoming so commonplace that the microwave oven shot up to first place in Riddly's Top 10 List of Redundant Home Appliances overnight and had stayed there ever since.

    The City of Sg was nothing more than a mere, insignificant speck on the World Map, meaning that it wouldn't take more than half a warhead to sink it to the bottom of the ocean. But ironically the good thing about being small and insignificant was that Sg was exceedingly hard to target, and even harder to hit. It therefore came as no surprise that whatever ballistic missiles Kayel launched at Sg either landed in the sea or in the Cities further south, making the haze and the smell of clove cigarette smoke passably bearable.

    It wasn't as if the Sgians were spot-on either, but whenever Sgian warheads missed and landed in one of Kayel's many disgruntled neighbours, they would in turn retaliate by bombarding Kayel with warheads of their own, and the message "I believe this belonged to you" would follow shortly after.

    Consequently, the two cities had settled for a truce (which is a probably a nice way of saying "let's not fight until I restock on WMDs and find other 'good' reason to use them on you"), nevertheless the residual gamma radiation did unspeakable things to the populace. Those who were more susceptible to its ravages had begun to take on weird mutations, while a selected few had resisted, attaining superhuman powers in the process. And then there was the majority of Kayel City who were so bloody apathetic and whose genetic structures were so inert that even the fiercest of gamma persecutions could not alter them.

    As a result, a Caste system was formed, prejudicially placing the "Superiors" on top and leaving the "Mutants" at the bottom. The apathetic ones naturally wanted nothing to do with it and were invariably filed under "Miscellaneous". And since the Miscellanea wouldn't even lift a finger to save themselves from their own existential quandaries, nothing was being done about the Mutant predicament of being forced into slavery.

    Jonathan Constantire gave a sigh from behind the newspaper he had been reading. Keeping abreast with the news (or at least what the newspaper decided was "news") was tiresome at best. He paused for effect, and when he was pretty sure that nobody was paying attention, he gave another sigh. This time more emphatically.

    "Yes, what is it Constant?" a voice from the coffee table had said.

    "The Mayor wants to see me again today," replied Constantire without looking up from his paper.

    "As yourself or as Agent Jonny Constant?"

    "Myself of course. Apart from you, nobody else knows that Agent Jonny Constant and Jonathan Constantire are one and the same." The newspaper turned a page.

    "So why are you telling me all this?"

    "I want you to come with me."

    "Hmmph!" the voice from the coffee table had sniffed, "As if I have a bloody say in this whole thing, seeing as to how you carry me around wherever and whenever you should fancy. I swear, if I had a pair of legs, I wouldn't even be on this table. Bloody uncomfortable if you ask me."

    "I thought I'd just be nice and let you know," reasoned Constantire, "at least you have one less excuse for asking 'are we there yet?' every five minutes. It annoys the hell out of me."

    "Umm... do you mind?"

    "Huh, what? Oh yes. Sorry about that." Constantire reached forward and picked up a katana (samurai sword) from the table and shifted it gently to the sofa.

    "Ahh. That's more like it," said the voice, this time from the sofa.

    "Enjoy it while you can, Rausvorne, because after I come out of the shower it's back into your scabbard for you," smirked Constantire as he headed for the bathroom.

    "Hey! Didn't you say you were going to polish me today?" the voice suddenly recalled.

    Constantire looked thoughtful for moment. "Maybe not today," he said eventually, "you'll probably get dirty again."


    In the heart of Kayel City stood a foreboding tower called the Left Half. It was short for the "Left Half of The Kayel City Centre [something] Towers" (names, like buildings, eroded with each turn of the Centuric Hourglass). Unlike its surrounding buildings, the Left Half only sported less than a hundred storeys, and possibly had the least glamourous of futures. Yet, of all the buildings in entire Kayel, it had the most glamourous past. Millennia ago, in a relatively happier Era and when there were still such things as "Countries", there were two such towers standing side by side, connected by a skybridge. It was truly the envy of the World, especially after a certain Country in the West had theirs blown up when a couple of planes crashed misguidedly into them; and all because their pilots had decided to leave their consoles unattended just so that they could go for a nice, long piss.

    And then, about, oh say a few decades back, in a situation best described by the children's song "Ten Green Bottles", one "green bottle" had "accidentally" fallen because a Mayor of the past had idiotically decided to build a missile silo directly underneath it. Initially there was no cause for concern, not until the Sgians - after one too many bottles of refined sewage - had claimed that Kayel should show them a little more Respeckt!

    "Respeckt! eh? I'll show them Respeckt!" declared the Mayor then, and pushed the red button on his console. As the silo doors began to open and the foundations of the Right Half gave way, the entire tower began to lurch sideways slowly, unsteadily, before picking up speed as it toppled headlong towards the ground, taking along with it the Mayor's office, the Mayor, the console with the red button and the skybridge along with a thousand screaming citizens who had woken up early that morning just so that they could be there.

    The City of Jha-Kharte, which was in relative proximity to Sg had laughed at Kayel's predicament. But seeing as to how abysmally aimed the warheads were, they had not laughed for very long.


    "What are you doing, fool?"

    "Trying to find out how to get to my car," muttered Constantire as he stared frustratedly at a massive oaken bookshelf, his sword hanging casually in its scabbard from his shoulder.

    If Rausvorne had any teeth, it would have clicked them in disapproval. Four years ago, a Mutant blacksmith had forged a katana under immense gamma exposure, causing some of the DNA from the smith's hands that was initially on the sword blank to meld into the platinum alloy. Adorned with intricate runes and magnificent engravings, Rausvorne, as it was later named, became the result of months of dedicated, meticulous smithing. Metal atoms and humonoid DNA had rearranged themselves in the intense heat and radiation to give it, literally, a mind of its own. No one could explain how Rausvorne's thoughts were able to vocalize, despite it having no mouth. And no one, especially just after owning it, was composed enough to entertain the idea of finding out.

    "You know, my last owner said I was sharp and edgy."

    "Oh really now?" mumbled Constantire dismissively as he futilely shuffled the books around with increasing agitation.

    "Have you tried 'How To Get Rich Quick by Robin Banks'?"

    Although the katana had no eyes, it possessed limited prescient capabilities, enabling it to foresee the immediate future that is the now, effectively becoming its "sight". Constantire found this exceedingly useful, since it could see about three seconds into future - which was approximately the time it takes a television set, when thrown out the window by an inconsiderate Miscellaneous, to hit him. On the other hand, prescience had its annoying moments too, especially during that week when Rausvorne had undergone an identity crisis and began thinking it was a Magic 8-Ball.

    "Yes I have," Constantire sighed.

    "What about 'Psychiatric Woes by R. Yukrayzi'?"

    Constantire hummed thoughtfully as his fingers reached for the leather bound tome. No sooner had he given it a gentle tug when the entire bookshelf began to whirr as it slowly started to revolve.

    "Am I smart or am I smart?" burbled the katana happily as the half-circle revolution concluded with a click.

    "Yea whatever," Constantire was heard to have said.

    "Dude, did you bring your keys?"

    "Oh bugger!" there was a long, uncomfortable silence, followed by the sound of more volumes being shifted, and then "which book to go back again?"


    A young Mutant tore across the street, having just exited from the Left Half. She was a teenage girl in her early stages of mutation. Already she had grown two extra fingers on either hand, but her final form - or Terminal as it was called - had yet to be determined. In her hands she clutched a yellowish-brown paper bag close to her budding chest while she constantly stole glances behind her as she ran.

    The doors of the Left Half exploded in a massive fireball as two Superiors ran out, with shouts of "THAT'S COMING OUT OF YOUR SALARY, HOMER!" trailing in their wake, in hot pursuit of the girl.

    "No one steals from The Gahmen!" declared one of the Superiors as he hurled another fireball in her general direction.

    "Homer, you idiot! You might damage the package!" hissed the other Superior, on whose jacket a badge that said "Kye" was pinned. "Let me handle this one."

    In a blink of the eye, Kye, who was standing beside Homer a mere split-second ago, now stood before the girl, blocking her progress.

    "Going somewhere?" Kye asked as she made a lunge for the Mutant who had nimbly side-stepped to avoid her. Swivelling around, the young girl lashed out a well-aimed kick at the Superior's shin. And just when contact seemed imminent, she had suddenly found, in the twinkling of an eye, that Kye was holding her foot in a vice-like grip.

    "Let go of me!" she cried.

    "You see, Mutant, resistance is -" but she did not get a chance to finish her sentence because a television set had bounced squarely off her head. The girl looked up to the window above where four Mutants had poked their heads out.

    "Wasn't me," announced a Mutant with two noses, his hands raised, and gave a knowing wink. The other Mutants had begun their whistling and cat-calls on how The Gahmen should go take a hike to Sg.

    Homer was seething now, and was about to lob a fireball into the window when suddenly a car that looked more like a lunchbox on wheels turned in from the bend, slid, skidded, screeched, flipped over three times and landed in a halt, roof-first, on the sidewalk.

    The tall figure of man, dressed in a black trenchcoat, sporting a black leather hat and a pair of outrageous shades crawled out of the window of the upturned lunchbox of a car.

    "Gotta work on your parking, mofo!" the tall figure seemed to complain to himself.

    Homer peered quizzically at the crawling figure with mild apprehension. Where had he seen that character before? Let's see now: lunchbox-like car, black trenchcoat, black hat, act-cool shades and occasional bouts of schizophrenia. Fear gripped him as realization slammed home in the hardest way possible.

    "Jonny Constant!"

    "That's Agent Jonny Constant to you!" said the man as he got to his feet, katana drawn and at the ready.

    "Incoming!" yelled Rausvorne, giving Jonny ample time to roll away just before a jet of flame, courtesy of Homer, roared past the spot where he once had stood.

    "How did you..."

    Agent Constant leapt forward, aiming a slash to decapitate his opponent. He would have succeeded if Homer had not ducked. The Superior countered with a roundhouse to the stomach, and sent Constant doubling in fire and pain.

    "Let's end this now!" cackled Homer as his fists began to glow an unnatural red.

    Constant had to recover quickly if he didn't want to be the official mascot of the Kayelian Inept Fire-eater's Association. And he did, narrowly escaping the second blast by a mere few inches. He skidded dramatically to a halt as he changed his bearings from dodge to advance. Adrenaline went into sheer overdrive as Constant closed in on Homer, feinted right, switched sword hands and impaled the stunned Superior's bladder in a vicious lunge.

    On the 66th Floor of the Left Half, the Mayor of Kayel watched in disconcertion as Homer crumpled lifelessly to the pavement. The Mutant girl had already disappeared behind an alley, but he filed it mentally until "KIV" until further notice. For now, there were more pressing matters at hand. His gaze fell upon one triumphant Agent Jonny Constant as his mouth twisted into a silent snarl. And then he looked at his watch, and his snarl contorted into a product of unthinkable annoyance. What the hell was taking that idiot Jonathan Constantire so damn long?

    In the blink of an eye:

  • Agent Jonny Constant: Part II
  • domenica, aprile 03, 2005

    Gory, Gory Man United

    Gory, Gory Man United
    By Eddie G.

    I don’t usually take much fancy at swearing at cursing at my television set. But for the past two hours, that was how I spent the dwindling of a Saturday night. Of course many questions undoubtedly come to mind, for instance, shouldn’t someone as upwardly mobile as Eddie G. be at some kinda pub in Bangsar getting drunk on a Saturday night? The answer? Yes, he should, but getting drunk needs money. (Well so does swearing and cursing in front of a television set, but at least he’s not paying for it)

    On to the next question then. Why was Eddie G. cursing and swearing at his (or rather his Aunt’s) television set when the only sinful thing it ever did in its 3-year-warrantied life was to air forgivably stupid shows which include, but are not limited to, Gilligans’s Island and Akademi Fantasia? (Okay, maybe the latter isn’t that forgivable).

    The answer will need you to use your imagination for a bit. Firstly, picture a beautiful, lush green field, totally untouched by the ravages of Man (and/or Woman if you ladies would like exercise your equal rights to bring yourselves down to our level) except for the fact an entire stadium had been built around it. Now picture a white rectangle being painted along the perimeter of the field, followed by the setting up of two large nets on either side. Now picture a white spherical implement called “the ball” placed in the middle of the field. Now picture 22 grown men desperately needing rest chasing the white spherical implement. Now picture 67000 over grown men desperately needing exercise watching the 22 grown men. In other planets, their inhabitants would call this “unethical, shameless torture employed by one of our twisted, sadistic deities for their amusement”. On Earth, we call it “sport” and we revere it. Still think we’re the most intelligent race in the Universe?

    Before I digress any further, here’s what’s been eating at me. I spent the past two hours watching a football match. Not just any football match, mind you. I was watching my favourite team – the Red Dickheads, I mean, Devils – in action. Many have questioned my choice of football team in the past (then again, many have questioned my sanity, making the former issue a mere triviality), but one reason why I’m such an ardent supporter of Manchester United is basically because of the plain and simple fact that they play good football. The fact that I’ve been supporting Man U since they won the Treble in 1999 and don’t want to look like a bloody turncoat by supporting another team had never crossed my mind. Honestly!

    So came the preview of the match. Manchester United could do less but win in order to keep their slim Championship hopes alive, thought that wasn’t really much of a concern. The experts sat down and talked about how the match could, should and perhaps even would turn out, and they all said “Manchester United will win this one, no doubt about it”. Perhaps I should have taken the term “experts” with a pinch of salt seeing as to how the real experts were on the pitch warming up instead of making their asses comfortable in some TV studio. Regardless, the winds held Man U in their favour.

    But the winds turned out to be nothing more than hot air when both groups of "experts" failed to make their opponents, Blackburn Rovers, bite the dust. Before the match began, Man U looked solid and fearsome and Blackburn looked vaguely shaky. At the end of the match the Devils had let slip of two precious points towards their already ethereal Premiership title chase before a resolute Blackburn defence.

    In other news, a Thierry Henry hat-trick gave Arse Wanker and his pimps at Highbury a commanding 4-1 win over Norwich City (they’re sponsored by Proton, what did you all expect? A Champions’ League spot?), moving them up to 2nd place and on level points with United. Bugger them.

    As far as I’m concerned, to say that today’s performance by United was a lacklustre one would probably have the same effect as saying that the Niagara Falls can be found somewhere on Earth. I always thought myself naïve to believe that United actually still had a whiff of winning England’s Holy Grail of football, but tonight the realization came full and hard – like a good, heady kick to the genitals.

    So what excuse does Sir Alex Ferguson have this time? No longer can he put the blame on injuries. Although winger Ryan Giggs was taken short earlier in the match, all the other United players, with exception to perhaps Ruud van Nistelrooy, were in tip top condition. Yet, despite fielding a star-studded cast in tonight’s game, United were constantly frustrated by a Blackburn side that cost (monetarily that is) only a mere fraction of theirs to put together.

    Credit where credit’s due, the Rovers did exceptionally well and were kept from going behind by a combination of good saves from custodian Brad Friedel, the woodwork and a timely off-the-line clearance from Pederson in the first half. The second half wasn’t to be any better. United kept losing possession in midfield and their chances were half-hearted at best.

    Having said all that, I have come to the conclusion that Manchester United really deserve NOT to win this season. Despite having lost only twice so far this season so far, they have drawn too many games for my liking. It really is something that’s painful for me to say, especially as a United fan. But the truth does hurt. Better luck next year, Fergie!

    And my advice to Chelski, you “deserve” the title that you extravagantly and effectively paid for. Enjoy it while you can, because number one, everyone gets sick of playing Football Manager 04/05 sooner or later and Roman Abromovich will be no exception, and number two, next year the Premiership Title is going back (and in bubble-wrap I might add) to Old Trafford.