John, my hot alley cat of a husband, decided he wished to start having dinner parties in our flat instead of using the café down below (there are the obvious reasons I would rather use the café than my flat, I can pay that motley crew of scrummy baristas to clean up after me).
I thought to myself on this bit for a bit… what need is he needing to fulfil in the having of mates over for nosh parties when they are just going to fuck-off at the end and leave us to clean up after them? The café downstairs has suited quite well for the noshy parties in the past – why the bloody hell does he need to bring them up a six floors? I could, being his lover and a master at the art of manipulation – sorry I meant communication – ask him what the need he is feeling… but instead I chose to make him make me a promise that I will cook all the bloody food his greedy mouth desires and he will clean up the bloody mess… or no sex. None! Not even a whisper of a hint of a spark of a shag if I see one crumb. This, mind you, makes the perfect excuse to get out of having to shag with your lover. So heed my advice – as you should be doing anyway, you filthy buggers… now back to the main part of this side-tracky piece of non-sequatorial rubbish.
Therefore, being a creator, like Jesus or Madonna (the cone titted princess-not Madre de Dios, since I hear she has better things to do with her time – like appearing on crisps) I built us a five-metre by two-metre dining table with bench seating. Painted it black to make it look far poshier than it was (seriously, most of my friends thought the table was well over two thousand quid – total cost, one-hundred-sixty quid).
One day, while residing by the new fireplace in Arnie’s Café (this new one is a lot grander), instead of writing, I was perusing some dozy archaeology mag and came across a brilliant article chronicling a find of over one hundred pristine mosaics, greater than two thousand years old, found in the ancient city of Edessa, just outside what is now the Turkish city of Şanlıurfa (located in southeast Turkey). This astonishing collection of mosaics (not to mention an intensely beautiful city) made the gears in my prissy little head turn… quite fast. I decided to mosaic my dining table.
On the eve of beginning this elephantine project (using 3/8th square marble pieces totalling about fifty-thousand tiles) I was attempting to wind down by watching Terminator 3 – Judgement Day. Why said film? I have quite the fondness for apocalyptic dystopian concept films (plus there is something colossally satisfying in watching the Earth be destroyed… IN ADDITION, Claire Daines is stunningly beautiful in everything she does – no matter how crap the film is!).
That night, I had this dream. The world was about to end and my life depended upon acquiring all the mosaic tiles in existence. I had minutes to find and obtain every single one, while fighting the hordes of desperate blighters. I woke up and realised two things, one – be careful what you imbue your mind with before you drift off into the land of dreams (i.e. watch xtube because at least my dreams would entail shagging on tile), and two – I doubt even God takes his creations this seriously! (case in point – republicans – for which God himself must have been completely off his trolley in the creation of them close-minded fucktards. Oh, and gay republicans – REALLY?)
Betsy was suffering the same conundrum (not being a republican since she is quite smart in not choosing the side of a losing battle). Allow the entire sodding planet to be destroyed by some fucked-up computer company (oh wait, it already has) and some sexless pissed off cyborgs or just pick the first pair of sleazy shoes she could find. Yes, I know the comparison of acquiring the right pair of fuck-me heels to the complete and total annihilation of the planet might not be all that accurate a simile, trust me, it is just that serious. For a girl and her shoes is like a gay man with his dick – separate either of them and you die.
Painfully!
And completely.
Trust me on this one… I am gay… my cock (not the she-fowl that lingers on the corner of the building that I find offering hand-jobs for coffee money, but the one in my hand at this precise moment) is my closest friend. Like Betsy’s obsession with trying on every pair of shoes… well… if you let your mind wonder just a bit, you filthy buggers… the same conclusional comparison ye shall find!
The obnoxious ring-tone of Lauren’s mobile severed Betsy’s painful decision-making reverie.
“Cheers mate… really?… when?… bloody fuck yeah!… no it will have to be tomorrow… thanks!” Lauren’s face turned from patient mother to ecstatic child.
Having her shoe conundrum paused, Betsy turned to Lauren. “You look like won the million quid prise phone call.”
“I just got a brilliant gig in Los Angeles!” Lauren said unable to control her giddiness.
“Spill it!” Betsy aggressively retorted.
“To perform on the soundtrack of the new Campbell Crocodile film!” Lauren blurted out as if this statement was explosive diarhea.
“Fucking Hell Mate!” Betsy hugged her.
“I leave tomorrow morning. They wanted me to leave tonight but like buggering hell would I miss your show!” Laruen, now jumping up and down.
“Well then, we must find the perfect pair of shoes so we have a bit of time for a spot of dinner before the show to toast you!” With that, Betsy grabbed the first pair of black fuck-me pumps she could see and they trotted off to the register.
Hadrian could see Arnie Alligator’s Café a block down the street like a precipice he was unable to turn away from (yes I just ended that sentence with a sodding preposition). Bouquet of flowers in hand, with every step he drew closer to his destiny. Thoughts running ragged through his mind, from, what he would say to Theo, to how could he possibly think (assume?) Theo would even give him the time of day… to (and you know you think this as well) what would Theo be like in bed? Smell like? Would his fur be soft?
“We are one block away Master Hadrian. We could turn left and go back to our lives as if this never happened… or, continue on, gay ahead and find out what destiny has in store for you… the choice is yours.” Friedrich proposed as if narrating a banal documentary.
“For the past block and I have been turning over and over in my head as to why this bunny has me so barmy.” Hadrian replied staring straight ahead at the café.
Twice, the light turned green but the three of them remained as statues on the pavement corner.
“Maybe he’s the one?” Gaston whispered in his ear.
Hadrian just stared at the café.
Why is creation so destructive? Why does the act of giving birth to something cause a multitude of irreparable damages?
Hadrian could just turn left and go back to his life, eventually this idea would fade into the milieu of his day-to-day nursing existence. The ‘idea’ surfacing for that brief moment to permeate our mind with the possibility of something that could have been extraordinary or disastrous. A blank canvas eagerly awaiting the first brush stroke as the painter figures out where to begin.
Do I begin at the corner and slowly work towards the centre? Do I simply pick a random spot and work out from there? How many times will I have to paint over what I have done? Should I spend countless hours drawing out ideas on paper before committing them to canvas or just jump in the water?
To construct a building one must first dig a hole in the ground, thus destroying the landscape. Stones must be quarried or metal melted to form the new material. Thus, destruction breeds creation. On the other hand, is it simply transformation?
How is the heart any different in this equation? We open up, allowing someone to change our landscape in the hopes that this new project will fulfil our needs, our desires, the space next to us in our beds… a welcomed addition to our own personal neighbourhood. A new building brings with it all the prospects of new life… cafés, businesses, parks, the subtle change to our visual eye-line as we are meandering down the street. Possibility of new memories that add colours to our canvas… or fill up space in the shoebox under our beds. Like the postman who fills our post-box with letters and ideas every day… but some days we only find ads, superfluous items that go straight into the recycle bin.
We deliberate repeatedly in our heads of whether to allow this new construction, to let someone change our landscape for better or for worse (hopefully for the better)… what will they bring with them?
Hadrian continually found himself resolved to the same answer; there was something about this bunny. Yes, Richard, his previous lover a few years ago was quite similar to Theo’s experience with Brad Bunny, but to let one bad experience ruin what could potentially be a magnificent masterpiece…
Why do we stop ourselves just at the edge of the precipice of possibility because of past experience? Do we not trust that there are a myriad of outcomes to every choice, or have we resolved ourselves to one answer… creation equals apocalypse.
Our hearts know fear, pain, loss, breaking to the point that hinders our breathing… but it also knows love, light, hope, healing… and throughout all its combined experiences, still keeps beating… still crosses that street with the hope of new creations… new buildings… new stories. It is only our minds that seem to dwell in the past… as if the past is the only answer we allow ourselves to conclude. Yes, two plus two always equals four… and pure blue and pure yellow equal green… but no two situations are pure colour… life is shade after shade of difference. You might get teal, or chartreuse, or you may find yet again the same green colour that just does not go with anything you are wearing (even if it is Gucci).
Do we resign ourselves to green, or trust that life will adjust the mixture just slightly enough to change our perspective that one fraction to see a brighter green, or blue, or maybe, just maybe life will throw that curve ball of red to help us see the royal purple that reminds our hearts of the magnificence of love.
Without looking, Hadrian stepped off the pavement and chose purple.
Mortimer Mouse’s legs were shaking like blades of wheat in the strongest gust of winter’s winds. His eyes constantly distracted by the dancing flickers of light upon every wall in Queen Soultetha’s office. They reminded him of the faeries that would dance to and fro through their garden every summer… continually taunting him with giggles and magic tricks. He would crouch down, hiding in the heather, mischievously awaiting one to cross his path and then as fast as lightening, burst out and catch the faerie. Now this was all fun and games and no faeries were hurt. For all over Blue Hollow there were the most beautiful of faeries. Always willing to grant tiny wishes – a rose here, a sparkle there… for their power has always been the utmost joy and beauty.
The throaty, unforgiving and cruel snigger shattered his reverie. For the note that had once found its home in the pocket of his Oxford shirt, was crumpled within the decrepit hands of the Queen’s. Moreover, it would appear that what was written upon said note was something of great interest to her.
“Finally, I shall have my revenge upon the Rabbit family once and for all.” She slammed her fist into her steel desk as a metallic crack split the air.
As she stood up, Mortimer Mouse never realised how tall or forbidding she truly was. Slowly, she slithered her way around the desk towards the mouse. Lapping up his fear like a dehydrated dog. A wretched smile fractured the severity of her face. “Now, what to do with you?” She seductively asked followed by another snigger.
Theo’s mobile rang and thus fractured his chocolate reverie (which is something none of you buggers should ever do).
Bang out of order, Theo thought to himself as he retrieved his mobile from his shorts pockets. “For fucksake… this had best be important.” He frustratingly said.
Note – one should first take a simple gander at the caller-ID before aggressively answering one’s mobile… only then, should be warranted, one utters a certain form of address.
“Oi, butt pirate!” Betsy replied affrontedly… (yes, yet another made-up variation on an actual word, but sounds like it could be a word, n’est pas?)
“I am in the middle of spiritually melding with the most succulent morsel of chocolate ever conceived. How may I assist you?” Theo and chocolate are like a bitch and her shoes.
“So, by that you mean watching Gregg eating gelato.” Betsy replied knowing she trumped Theo’s snarky remark.
“If you must know, your lover is actually feeding me said gelato. Now that the moment has gone all to cock, what can I do you for?” He replied swallowing the spoonful Gregg had just fed him.
“We need to wrap this up, you manky chocolate slag. Very important developments. Meet me out front in no less than five minutes.” With that, Betsy hung up.
Theo turned to Gregg. “Your girlfriend has informed me, that we have to wrap this up tout de suite.”
“How am I to finish if it’s wrapped up?” Gregg devilishly retorted.
Smiling, Theo replied, “I know. Some important development has occurred and we need to meet them out front in no less than five minutes.” Theo grabbed his shopping basket filled to the brim with many different types of chocolates – from powdered to bar.
The harshness of the afternoon sun burned off any remaining joy Theo was feeling about his chocolate purchase. He told himself that this coming week he shall return to this haven of deliciousness… alone… sans mobile.
“Pray tell this important news that usurps my chocolate.” Theo curtly asked.
“I see your waistline is going to pay for your lack of restraint.” Betsy impolitely snapped back.
“Girls, save the cat-fight for the living room so I can make sure there is enough lube at hand to enjoy watching you two go at it. What is this important news?” Gregg, always the diplomat, countered.
An ease permeated the air, for both Theo and Betsy knew each other far too well and that shoes and chocolate were the two sacred objects neither promised to step between. For mutual annihilation was assured.
“FINE!” In unison, they replied.
Betsy gestured towards Lauren.
She paused, too excited to even believe what she herself was about to spill. “I have a gig… out in L.A… to be the main vocalist… on the new Campbell Crocodile film.” A sentence that began at a normal female pitch, ended with sheer screaming.
Gregg, being the only guy, and excited for Lauren, still did not understand what the fuck is it with birds and exciting news that has to escalate to ear-piercing levels. Every guy thinks this from time to time… but then again, straight men chest-butt while completely rat-arsed on lager from watching footy… then whence the game finish, they find some random bloke on the street and spend the rest of the night hitting-for-six… at least the birds remain stationary, albeit screaming, and no one gets hurts and ends up in hospital… seriously mates… what the fuck is it about footy that makes you want to kick the bloody shite out of some poor, unsuspecting fool? I love me a bit of footy (mainly because I fucking want to shag the lot of them players)… there – sorted. You are all closet poofs and because of some antiquated ‘man’ image, you cannot be yourself and drink too much and hit-for-six random people. Advice – take it or leave it, put your fists away and just bloody shag each other – you’re already drunk so you won’t remember save your sore, blood-filled arses, you’re already inside (where the level of harm is greatly reduced) and … well… it’s quite nice if you ask me… seriously – something with a penis is bound to have a better understanding of what options there are to do with it, than say, someone with an innie.
Trust me on this one!
After about five minutes of scream talking (that, for some reason, is a language only gays and birds can accurately converse in)… the three of them calmed down.
“Are we finished? Now that my ears are bleeding, I find I am a bit peckish. What say we dinner before my sexy girlfriend strips for a room filled with strange salivating men.” Greg offered.
“A bloody romantic this one!” Betsy added and gave Gregg a kiss on the cheek.
Closer and closer the café came into view. The flavourful scent of roasting coffee tickled Hadrian’s cute pink bunny nose while butterflies had found a home within his stomach.
He could hear the barista banging the filter against the rim to excavate the used espresso… the wand steaming the milk (or soy for you fuck-arse vagitarians – but I have to say I am with you on the soy – the deplorable conditions dairy cows are meant to suffer in just so some fucktard consumer can have their milk – well… five seconds of enduring that experience and the entire world would switch to soy).
The quiet din of the café leaking out from the entry like whispered fingers persuading the citizens on the street to have a respite and some interesting conversation…
Before Hadrian realised, the entry door was not one metre in front of him.
“Sod It!” Hadrian said and turned around… away from the café.
“My Arse!” Friedrich replied as he and Gaston reached their arms through Hadrian’s and turned him around and forcefully shoved him through the front door of the café.
A few people looked up at the kerfuffle in the entryway, but turned back to their conversations. This is the Big City after all and not many people bat an eye at the strange things they see on a daily basis.
Hadrian crept up to the counter as a fluffy EMO ferret came into view.
“What can I get for you mate?” He jovially asked.
A nudge from Gaston. “Is Theo working?” He timidly replied.
“Not so hard, was that.” Friedrich whispered into his ear.
“Sorry mate, Theo is off today. Can I leave him a message?” The ferret, in the oddly cheery barista fashion where you can tell they are either new, or ‘really’ love their job, asked.
“Will he be in tonight?” Courage was seeming to find Hadrian, albeit slowly.
“Again, sorry to disappoint but Betsy is performing at the Foxy Box Amateur Night so he won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon.” The ferret replied as he nodded to another customer.
Shot down, Hadrian walked back outside.
“So, he’s friends with a stripper… this just keeps getting better.” Gaston said having a laugh.
Queen Soultetha’s eyes bored into Mortimer Mouse like fire tinged with acid.
“I delivered the message… please, just let me go. I am an insignificant mouse and not a bother to anyone.” He repentantly replied to those frightening eyes.
“True, you are just a mouse…” she turned around, floated over to the clerestory windows of her office and gazed out upon her lands. “A long time ago I was bested by ‘just a mouse’ such as you. Staring up at me with the utmost fear in its eyes. Quite similar to the way you’re looking at me right now… silently pleading in your mind ‘no please don’t turn me into a machine’.” She unapologetically replied… the last bit with a spiteful mocking tone.
“Please, I will never breathe a word of this if you just let me go.” The mouse, shaking in his boots trying desperately not to think of his lover back at home most likely pacing the house sick to death with worry for Mortimer.
She turned around with the most devilish grimace slashed upon her decrepit face. “What a delightful suggestion you just came up with… no word at all.” She replied with vile glee.
She lifted her skeletal hand, pointed her index finger at the mouse’s pleading mouth and breathed the word “silence.”
The mouse screamed.
No sound emitted from him.
Again, he tried to speak.
No sound at all. Not even a squeak.
For Queen Soultetha stripped him of his voice. No more profusions of love to Christopher, his husband. No more singing in the magnificent garden where the faeries would play with him. No more whispers of hope.
Payment for this task… this simple task he agreed to so many years ago, before he met Christopher, was his voice.
With rapturous laughter, Queen Soultetha picked up the soul-gutted mouse and threw him with all her might through the window she had just opened… willing him to land, unharmed, at the doorstep where his anxious lover awaited him… never again being able to hear his lover, Mortimer Mouse’s mellifluous voice.
Therefore, for the sake of fuck-all, I am happily skipping over the dinner part where Theo, Betsy and Gregg congratulate Laruen on her shagtastic gig out in L.A. If you would like, I am more than chuffed to go into explicit detail about how Theo and Betsy adore to gluttonously shoving things in their wanton mouths… but seeing as you yourself do that, I can say, for almost certain, this activity you are quite knowledged on. If not, take that pencil in your hand, shove it in your mouth and chew. Don’t have a pencil? Maybe you have a breast in your hand right now… that will do just fine.
Betsy looked at her watch, in that militaristic way soldiers do when they are on the front lines and the practised manoeuvre mulling around in their heads has been snugly fitted into a certain time frame.
“Blimey, I need to get to the Foxy Box. It’s already sixteen-forty (which for you yanks would translate to blue-table leg you on your clocks… it’s apparent you are unable to count above twelve and thus, simply start over… confusing no?)” She said as she jumped up from the table reaching into her pocket to whip out some dosh.
“This day just flew by. Just think, this morning we were in Book One at the Mince Café and now we are in Book Two… of the same day” Theo said, completely breaking the fourth-wall.
“You best be off my shagadelic stripper!” Gregg said rising up from his seat to give her a hug. “You are going to blow the competition out of the water my love.” He whispered into her soft ear.
She jovially flinched as his breath tickled the soft fur inside her ear. “Right, bitches! I shall see you again in the front row throwing cash-point amounts of dosh at me.” With that, she blew them a kiss and sauntered out of the Mince Café (yes they we back there again since it was in close proximity to Lafayette Square, the Foxy Box and the plot momentum of this story).
“The contest begins at seventeen-hundred. Knowing Betsy, she will either go on first to get it over with or go on last or blast all the competition. She said she would text me with the amount of people performing and where she will be placed. Thus, this gives us either twenty minutes or sixty. Who’s up for a spot of coffee?” Theo asked as he paid the rest of the bill.
“Coffee sounds rather keen, my fuzzy mate.” Laruen answered rising from her chair.
The evening sun was refracted off the windows of the skyscrapers peppered around the Mince district. See, there was a height restriction placed upon the Mince in the beginning but the Gay Bunny Mafia. Five floors was the height limit for anyone who wished to build within the vicinity of the Mince and there were only about seven or eight developers that pushed their building to said limit. The idea was thus – to always have the feeling of openness in the Mince, whether you lived on Fox Street or on the streets near it, your business was on the ground floor or the first floor… never should one feel any oppression from a skyscraper or tall building imposing it’s ideas upon you. The monorail station, of which The Mince was the central hub for all the monorail lines running throughout the Big City, adhered to this limit. It was built about two floors above and over Fox Street at the west end of The Mince. Sculptures dangled from the roof above Fox Street and the main foyer was two floors in height with most walls being made entirely of windows – the braces between the windows were painted this white-silver colour to give the feeling that one is floating while in The Mince station. On the fifth floor there was an exclusive restaurant/bar taking up the entire floor. Again, with respect to the idea of floating, Moroccan style furniture and lights were used. Couches were low to the ground with many many pillows adorning each one. Elaborately designed lanterns hung from the ceiling emitting a warm rusty amber glow – as if a summer’s sunset had been captured in each one.
Theo, Gregg and Lauren meandered down Fox Street towards the café, Theo awaiting a text from Betsy.
“Did she ever tell you what song she was going to perform to?” Lauren asked, enjoying the warm evening summer sun on her fur.
“She gave me a list of five songs but never told me which one. So I guess we will have to be surprised.” Theo replied allowing his gaze to traipse from window to window for stuff he really did not need but the items still gave him ideas.
Greg saw the café up ahead a little over a block away. Thinking to himself how relaxed he was about all of this. Not many people would be ok with their lover stripping for the enjoyment of so many strangers. I think it’s the knowing that they can look but never touch, and honestly Betsy never really saw this as something dirty, or improper… she loves being on stage and to her this was simply performing… and getting paid huge amounts of dosh for it.
The café was getting closer… and closer.
Theo’s phone jingled and he smiled. Turning it over in his hand, he read the text from Betsy aloud. “Competition is cack, will win for sure, going on first, BRING DOSH!” He relayed. “The last part was in capitals.” He added.
He was looking at Gregg when it happened.
The café entry came up upon Theo while he was reading the text from his mobile. As with most people reading from their mobiles, they rarely pay attention to what is in front of them.
While turned towards Gregg, relaying the last part of the text, he walked right into the back of something.
“Oh God, pardon me.” Theo clumsily offered as he looked up.
There, before him, stood the most beautiful sight. Eyes so blue it was as if the deepest oceans welcomed him to their hidden worlds. Ears, floppy and gently wavering in the evening breeze. A smile so endearing ‘twould melt the ice caps in seconds flat.
Theo just stared… dumbfounded.
For fate had played yet another wonderful card.
“Good evening Master Hadrian.” Theo’s cheeks hurt from the smile taking over his face.
“Good evening Theo.” The anxiety in his heart melted away as he lifted the bouquet of flowers and handed them to Theo. “I’m sorry for the other day. I hope we can start anew.” He asked in his thick Scottish accent.
“I would love to, but at this very moment I have somewhere quite important to be.” Theo, in a failed attempt to regain some semblance of power in the situation.
“The Foxy Box?” Hadrian trumped him.
Theo stood there confused and stumped. “How do you know about that?”
“I came here looking for you and the ferret behind the bar told me. I was going to venture there in hopes of seeing you to apologise.” Hadrian added feeling his fur tingle with every moment standing here in front of Theo.
“You were looking for me?” Theo’s cheeks now hurt. His heart was fit to burst.
“There is something about you that I couldn’t get off my mind and I felt awful about the other day. Would you mind terribly if my mates and I join you?” Hadrian asked.
Theo turned to Gregg and Lauren, both with rapturous smiles upon their faces. Nodding furiously the ‘ok’ sign.
Hadrian turned around to see Gaston and Friedrich doing the same.
“Well then, I guess we are all in agreement.” Theo fracturedly uttered.
And with that, Hadrian and Theo not being able to take their eyes off each other, turned and slowly walked back to Fox Street while Gaston and Friedrich introducing themselves to Gregg and Lauren.
And with that, the end of chapter two – plus I REALLLLLLY need to take apart my Pagan-usurped-Christian-holiday tree that I keep putting off. I did a rather bang-on job this year but cannot be bothered to take it down.
And yes, I know it is already the middle of January.