Sunday, 16 January 2011
Thursday, 6 January 2011
Monday, 3 January 2011
“Bring on the contenders!” she calls, her voice demanding and pleasing to the crowd.
On the right, new challengers, Morticia, ready to step up and fight for her right to live. On the left, Lady Lych of Alethdin, her beauty and wisdom pouring from her body, head held high and ready to take the lead.Both bow to the Madam and the crowd goes wild. Baying for blood each chant their favourite to win.
Let the duel begin!
Women wearing sexy waitress costumes, carrying trays of shot glasses with coloured liquid in them, circulate through the crowd outside the town clock tower on New Year’s Eve. One of them stations herself near you. Men drift over, drawn by the woman’s figure.
“What’s this then?” One man asks.
Another man grins. “Sounds like my kind of drink. How much?”
Amused, you watch the byplay as one after another downs the drink.
Everyone cheers and begin to surge towards to the railings, in preparation for the fireworks. The bunny slips away with an empty tray and climbs into a black van with the rest of the waitresses.
As the town clock tolls out the twelve strokes welcoming the New Year into being, the crowd cheers and strangers turn to hug each other. It's obvious to you who has had the new drink, they get more involved with their partners, the lust contagious.There’s a scream. You recognise the first man who took a drink from the waitress. He’s collapsed to the floor, his skin lime green. His trousers bulge and writhe, each movement drawing a shriek of pain. Fascinated, you watch as the cloth tears and a cyclopean head peeps out of the hole on a long neck, swinging and looking at each personaround it. With a hiss and a wriggle the creature pulls itself out of the material, blood flooding out of the wound left behind.
“It’s a trouser snake!” Someone shouts. A titter ripples amongst the crowd.
Sirens blare; police shout, but it’s too late. The crowd are a panicking mass that can’t get away: those who aren’t lying at feet in pools of blood, anyway. Each wriggler feeds on the blood, growing and seeking out more sustenance. The first snake reappears having stripped the flesh from the woman, huge and sluggish. Rearing its ugly head, the snake stares up at you balefully before exploding, goop splattering over your body. The fine mist accompanying the explosion is breathed in by every one around you.
Sunday, 2 January 2011
Tales of a Woman Scorned