I Got Fired From The LAPD

Lieutenant Compost is doing his routine exercise, tensing and relaxing his entire body, throbbing between our desks.

“Will you give it a rest? You don’t need any more muscles.”

“Officer Gravedale, taking exercise advice from you is like taking dance lessons from a corpse."

I open up the box of floppy disks on my desk and insert it into the machine, slapping the side of it so it starts reading files, drr-drr-dutt. Security footage pulled from Flock cameras, grainy videos of Los Angeles streets where our car had been spotted. When the other officers in our precinct heard our car had been stolen, they started calling me GTA. The orange sky outside was starting to dim, so I started to pack my things up.

“Where you going?”

“My shift’s over.”

“Not tonight. I got a tip off. We’re going on a stakeout.” Compost says. I groan.

“Come on Lieutenant, when do you take it easy? Haven’t you heard of a work life balance?”

“Nothing's balanced. That killer is still out there. He’ll kill again.”

“Haha, way to lay a guilt trip on me there buddy! Jesus.” I say, opening up a filing cabinet and brushing maggots off the files before pulling one out and throwing it to Compost.

“What’s this?” he says, opening it up.

“Clay McClensley, he sells snuff films on the dark web, we pinched him for stealing body parts from a morgue back in March. We should talk to this guy.”

“There’s a hundred psychos in L.A. that sell death tapes, why him?” he says. I pull my monitor round so he can see it.

“Because the guy who stole our car paid him a visit.” I say. I have a small synthesizer on my desk and play an ominous tone whilst slowly rolling the mouse wheel, enlarging the image.

“You found that out and were going to go home?” Compost says. I laugh, sticking a half-smoked cigar in the side of my mouth.

“Like I said Lieutenant. Work life balance.”

 

Our car rolls pulls up across the road from an apartment block, barely visible through the rain. We’re out of uniform for this job, Compost is wearing camo pants and a weighted vest and I’m dressed like Columbo, we brace ourselves against the frigid storm outside as we head to Clay’s apartment. Up a damp staircase, the paint from the walls is shedding away. On his floor someone had stolen the lightbulbs from the fittings, so our flashlights cut through the gloom and to his door. I knock. Movement behind the door.

“Who is it?” we hear, muffled.

“I heard you sell something I want. I got good money for it.” I say. The door opens ajar, a small chain between me and Clay McClensley.

“How much money?” he says. Compost boots the door in, ripping it from the top hinge and throwing Clay against the wall. I look up the empty hallway before stepping in.

The apartment is small, smells vinegary. On the ceiling a black mould has spread from the corner, the spores seemed visible from a few lamps scattered here and there. The floor was littered in porn magazines, empty cans of Coors, pizza boxes, videotapes.

“You selling snuff films again Clay?” I say, lighting a cigar.

“You-you need a warrant. You can’t just come in here.”

“What, so those pricks at the DA’s office can warn you to burn your stash? We know you supply tapes to people in high places.”

“Yeah, so then get the fuck out of here.” Clay says, pointing a finger at me. Compost reaches out and grabs it, making Clay turn towards him. The lieutenant breaks his finger without blinking, looking emptily at the howling face of the man he had hold of.

“Listen to me, we don’t care you’re selling that shit to the Mayor, but you met someone today that we want to talk to.”

“Let go of my finger!” he yells instead, trying to get his index finger out from Compost’s fist.

“Who did you speak to today? He was driving our cruiser.” Compost says, letting go. The man stumbles backwards, clutching at his broken Phalanx, looking round the room for something.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He says. I hold up the photo, pointing at Clay speaking with the man who stole our car.

“You know this guys a serial killer, right? We can get you for assisted homicide if you don’t talk. So just give us a name and we’ll wish you a goodnight.” I say. He looks towards the door. Lieutenant Compost sees a Newton’s Cradle on a dresser, plucking one of the metal balls from it and holding it up for Clay to see. We all look at the metal ball between his thumb and forefinger as he applies pressure to it, making it squish between his fingers as if it were plasticine.

“Catch.” He says, throwing it through the air to Clay, clapping hands round it.

“Okay, okay, I don’t know his name. But I have his address. If I tell you I’m going to need to take off for a while.”

“Sure, you want witness protection?” I say, laughing and winking at Lieutenant Compost.

“Just gimme a hundred bucks.” He says. I root through my wallet.

“I’ve got forty. You want to tell us or should the Lieutenant see if he can pop your eyes?” I say, throwing the filthy money at him. He caves in, giving us an address to the south, a few streets away from the port. As we head there we listen to the police radio, a list of violence happening across the city, delivered as flatly as a weather report.

“You never told me why your partner got sent to the uh…what you call it? Mental hospital.”

“Us cops call it Bedlam. It’s out towards the desert, that’s where they send the police who go crazy. Mostly detectives, but plenty of officers too. Once you go there you don’t tend to come back.”

“The LAPD needs its own dedicated facility?”

“There’s plenty of men that have been made insane by the streets. Last couple of years though, things have got a bit more twisted. You might have think you seen it all, then one day see something so evil it changes the way you see things.” He says. I think on what he said and we drive through the night without speaking again, as the animals do.

 

Compost cuts the engine, letting the car drift silently down the puddled street, rolling to a stop outside a house painted black. Across the road is an empty truck stop, dead weeds, razor wire. Somewhere nearby there is a rhythmic pumping noise, joining the sound of rain falling, though the clouds were beginning to clear so that Mother Moon looked down on us. Compost and I take our guns out, signalling to each other to approach the door to the dark house. The guy inside was a serial killer, setting up mirrors so people watched their own murders. He got access to houses by dressing as a cop. Beyond that, we didn’t know anything about him. I rubbed rain from my forehead and stood opposite Lieutenant Compost, the front door between us. Compost steps, is about to kick the door in, but I bring up a hand to stop, try the handle. Its open. I enter, with Compost close behind, our flashlights click on. We are greeted by dozens of other flashlights clicking on. Compost pulls his gun up, and some of the other figures move, pulling theirs. We’re surrounded by mirrors.

As we walk through the dark house, its a maze made from mirrors. We catch out reflections in the dim, shining flashlights in our eyes as we round a corner, deeper into the labyrinth. It is almost silent save for the sound of distant machinery. The two of us walk through mirrored corridors, find a door. It leads downstairs. A glance between, an unspoken agreement. Carefully we make our way down the stairs and the air smells like copper. We come to a closed door, on this one hangs a mirror that has been shattered. I slowly turn the handle and enter. The room in the basement is big and gray, a sofa and a small table sit across from a huge mirror that takes up a wall. As we go further into the room, I realise it isn’t a mirror, but a window into a perfectly symmetrical room. I go over to the glass and my breath steams against it.

“What do you see?” Compost says. On the other side of the glass, out the door steps a figure. It is a thin man with black hair and black eyes. Compost raises his gun and shoots. The glass catches it. Bulletproof. I watch the man walk over to me, watching me, Compost shoots again, twice. He leans towards the glass, looking at me. I lean closer. There’s a noise behind me, and the man turns, looking past my shoulder. I spin round to see a long, thin blade protruding from Lieutenant Compost’s head. He gurgles. The blade is pulled out then appears again, this time from his chest. The huge cop collapses, and standing behind him is a man in a duck costume. I bring up my pistol, shooting at him as he flees, catching him in the shoulder before he disappears through the door. I rush over to my fallen partner, his eyes rolling in his head, one side of his face droops as if it is made of wax. I grab him, holding on as his eyes become unfocused. I whip round to the mirrored room but the other man has gone, leaving me to cradle the man’s head and we both become wet with blood.

An ambulance. Police cruisers. A helicopter overhead. I watch them take away Lieutenant Compost just as the Chief of Police turns up.

“What in the hell happened here GTA!?”

“We got ambushed. The Duck Killer was there, stabbed Compost with some kind of sword.”

“Why didn’t you call for backup? Get a goddamn warrant?”

“Sir, you’re not listening to me. These serial killers are working together. We need to call a press conference, we need to warn people-“

“Shut your damn mouth officer! We’re not causing a panic.” He says. I look north towards the city, burning.

“With all due respect sir, how can it get any worse? This country is dead, don’t you get it?”

“No, you don’t get it! I don’t care if you think this city’s going to hell, we still need law and order, we still need rules! You’re taken off this case, that’s a goddamn order.” He says.

“Fuck you.” I say. He slaps me. I slap him back.

“Give me your badge and your gun Officer, that will be all.” He says. I look around at the other cops who’ve been watching this and shake my head as I take my gun from its holster and hand it over.

“Whatever, man. You know, when I joined the force, I thought it would be like The Shield. But actually, it’s just like The Wire. And I think we all know The Shield is better. So, fuck all of you.” I say, walking over to the car and reversing away, leaving the crime scene behind like a rotting dream.

I’m in my hotel room as dawn breaks, drunk on tequila, looking at a map of L.A., trying to make sense of it. There were seven active serial killers in the city. What if they were all working together? For what shared purpose? I take a drink from the bottle and sit down heavily in a chair by the window, watching the dawn colour everything red. I might not have a badge or a gun, or even a partner. But that didn’t mean it was over. I light a cigarette, looking at the map of the city catching in the morning light, shining red, red, red. In every end there is a beginning. 

The Vaccine For The Male Loneliness Pandemic

What's the cure for the male loneliness epidemic? Is it improving oneself? Is it a wide social network? Or is it a bullet from a fucking gun? Of course, it is none of these things. The answer is maddeningly simple. Once you find out you’ll smack your head, eyes and mouth open wide, looking around the room for someone to share this eureka moment with, but unfortunately, you are alone. Until we arrive at the answer, we must go back to the beginning. Like trying to read a recipe online, first we must read two thousand words about how we got there. And what that means. And how this changes everything.

I’m sat beneath an oak tree smoking a cigar (Romeo y Julieta), wearing shield sunglasses and a diamond quilted leather jacket. In front of me is a cardboard sign with ‘Men’s influencer’ written on it. Within ten minutes a group of teenage boys have gathered round me, eager to hear what I got to say about being a man, fidgeting, whispering to each other. I silence them with a karate chop in the air.

“I can tell by looking at you all, you’re all virgins. The last time any of you touched a pussy was when you were born. You’re probably waiting til you’re old enough to visit a prostitute, and even then you think you’ll fumble. Well gentlemen, I’m here to sort your shit out. I believe you got what it takes to get what you want. No matter how ugly, stupid or ugly you are, I’m here to give you hope. All your life you’ve been at sea, and I’m a lighthouse, got it?”

“Sir, yes sir!” says one.

“Don’t give me that sir shit. Are you a fucking butler? All people are equal. There’s no hierarchy, it only exists because you want it to.”

“But what about alpha males?”

“Yeah, I’m kinda sigma low key.” Another says.

“That’s not real. Humans aren’t wolves, or monkeys, or anything beside human. Its not even animal psychology, its just astrology for dorks. Our first real experience seeing relationships is in high school, like when the jock gets the cheerleader-”

“That doesn’t really happen anymore.” Calls someone at the back.

“Whatever, a few guys seem to get attention off girls and then people seem to base their whole perception of what women want based on some shit that happened at school. Gimme a fucking break. You going to build a lifelong narrative about yourself based off some awkwardness when you were thirteen?”

“But I’ll never get a girlfriend, I have bad posture!” One wails. Some of the other boys hold onto each other for comfort.

“Any of you guys seen Quantum Leap? With Scott Bakula and Dean Stockwell?” I say. They all shake their heads.

“It’s a show where a guy sort of possesses people’s bodies and he goes on adventures. Anyway, the moral of Quantum Leap is that what we think of our ‘selves’ doesn’t really exist, it can be replaced with Scott Bakula at any moment. Although Bakula tries to play the role of the body he inhabits, he is also Bakula. He’s confident, has good morals, he gets shit done. If I Quantum Leaped into any of your bodies, I could go out and do whatever I want. Nothing would hold me back, you see? Because I don’t have your life experience, I have mine. What I’m saying is, your personality is a narrative construct you have built for yourself, so if you don’t like it, just change it.”

“But how?”

“You need to go to a party and take MDMA.” I say.

“So you take it with girls and they sleep with you?”

“No. That’s kind of date rapey. I mean, you feel different towards other people, as well as yourself. You have to learn to love yourself, so taking some MD helps jumpstart your heart. Besides, it’s difficult to get an erection when you’re off your nut.”

“I’m not a rapist!” the boy calls. I rub the stubble on my head.

“Have you guys heard of rape culture? It’s the idea about gender dynamics, objectification of women, that sort of thing. Anyone? Anyone?”

“Men can get raped too. People don’t even take it seriously.” Says one boy.

“Yeah, I got groomed on Roblox.” Says another.

“Precisely. This affects everyone. A lot of boys first sexual experience will be with someone older than them, particularly marginalised groups who have less social power. Its important we can talk about that, acknowledge it, fight it.” I say. One of the boys stands up.

“I’m sick of being called that! I’m sick of all men being called rapists!”

“Hey buddy. Chill the fuck out. Nobody is calling you a rapist, I’m talking about a cultural expression across society. Men and women both uphold it, from slut shaming to victim blaming to minimising it. How many of you have joked about Diddy Freak Offs or Epstein? You watch Andrew Tate videos after he’s been convicted of human trafficking and rape?” I say

“Look, there’s no shame in doing something, learning, then not doing it. I’m trying to explain something to you to help you and others around you. Wanna know what women value in a man?”

“Muscles.”

“Muscles and a car.”

“Muscles and a car and a mansion.”

“Well. Maybe some. That’s a bit boring though, isn’t it? Its very much based on material things, as if the idea of a man relates to the things he has. Masculinity has been commodified, it’s become a product, you know?”

“So what does a girl want? What a girl needs?” asks one of the boys.

“Safety. They want to be safe with you, that’s it. Are you a safe guy?” I say.

“Like fighting muggers?”

“No, you’re thinking of Batman. I’m thinking more like a guy who won’t shout at her, make her do things, have her back, won’t cheat on her, that kinda thing. Are you strong enough to listen to how she feels?”

“Bro, I go to the gym every day. Course I’m strong.” One says, squeezing his arms.

“Okay, when do you need to use those muscles though? How often would a woman need you to deadlift a 100 kilo barbell rather than say, do the dishes? Cuddle up and watch some movies, you know? You’re trying to interpret what a woman wants through what you think a man should be, you’re performing at being a man because you don’t know.” I say. The boys start talking amongst themselves again, so I do another karate chop in the air to silence them.

“Let me ask you boys a question. What do you think of Sabrina Carpenter?” I say. They laugh.

“She’s mid.”

“Yeah, like, I’m not attracted to her at all.”

“Mid for real.”

“Congratulations. You got shit for brains. Here’s why: sometime a few years ago, a bunch of incels decided to run an internet psyop where they call attractive women ‘mid’. You can see it on reddit, that TrueRateMe page, posting comments below thirst traps saying they ugly, that kinda thing, you guys know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah well it stinks. Trying to lower women’s confidence in themselves with the intention that they will then lower their standards is stupid. Instead of calling women average, you should be complimenting other guys. We need to build our confidence up so it better reflects who we are as people. Rather than spending hours on the internet rating women from one to ten, you should look in the mirror and think, damn. I’m handsome.”

“But I’m not.” Says one.

“Stand up little bro. Stand up for a second.” I say. He obliges.

“I think you’re a good looking guy. Don’t believe me? Try hitting a gay bar.”

“I’m not old enough to drink.”

“Yeah, well I wasn’t finished. Remember when I talked about objectifying women? Do any of you know what that means? Has anyone ever explained that shit to you?” I say. They shake their heads.

“It’s looking at a woman and not seeing her as a person, but seeing her as someone to fuck. You might check out their ass, their chest, imagine yourself fucking them, that kinda thing. I’m not saying don’t ever do that, we’re only human, right? But if you do it to every woman you walk past, talk to, think about, that’s not really seeing them for who they are, you’re thinking of some fuck doll.”

“What’s that got to do with me being ugly?” says the kid standing up.

“My brother, you are objectifying yourself! You are reducing all your brains, experiences, personality, everything, down to looking at yourself in a mirror and thinking you’re too fucked up looking to get a girlfriend. You’re stopping yourself from even talking to women because you have low self-esteem. But that’s only natural if you’re going to compare yourself to Henry Cavill. How about you compare yourself to who you were a day before? A year before? Can’t you see the progress you’ve made?”

“Actually I had a girlfriend before but she dumped me.”

“Good!” I say. He looks as though he’s about to burst into tears, so I do a calming karate chop in the air between us.

“It’s only from mistakes that we ever improve. If you’re too afraid to take a chance, how will you ever learn? Your girlfriend left you, that sucks, but now you know two things. First, you can get a girlfriend. You did it before, you can do it again. Second, your next partner is out there somewhere. You got to practice being in a relationship already, learned from it. All our lives are a series of triumphs and failures, you just gotta get back on that surfboard and hit the next wave, comprendez?”

“B-b-but I loved her.”

“Just because you’re not together now doesn’t take that away. I loved everyone I’ve been out with, I’m glad I got to be with them, each of them were different as I was different at that point in my life. Your last relationship changed you, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And so you are a different person than when you were together! Which means you get to share that with somebody new!” I say, slapping my hand. One of the guys next to him pats the guy on the shoulder. Another kid stands up.

“But how does any of this help us get girlfriends? Look around bro, there’s no girls out here! How we ever going to meet people if they aren’t there?” he says, gesturing. I look around. He’s right. The only other person around is an old fella watching the sermon from afar.

“Thank you. That brings me to my last bit of dating advice. Usually you get stuff once you stop trying so hard. Like Yoda said, if you’re trying to hit it, you gotta quit it.” I say. Many of the boys are exasperated at this wisdom, holding their heads in their hands.

“That advice is dogshit.” Says the kid.

“How many of you punks read?” I ask. A few put their hands up.

“I mean actual books. Not that self help shit, like ‘How To Unf*ck Yourself’, or ‘Billionaire Habit Hacks’ or whatever. I’m talking Dostoevsky. Nabakov. They don’t even have to be Russian, but read some fiction.”

“I read the Horus Heresy books.” Says one of the boys.

“Well, that’s good, that’s a good start. What about Moby Dick though? One Hundred Years Of Solitude? Brave New World? Broaden that palette.”

“What’s the point in reading fiction when I could be improving myself?” calls a boy from the back. I pinch my nose.

“Reading fiction does improve yourself. Increases vocabulary. Insight into the human condition. Something to talk about with others. It’s fun. What do you get from listening to your seventeenth self-help audiobook? Has any of that self-improvement shit actually improved your life at all, or is it just another set of rules from which to judge your failure?” I say. The cigar is finished, I drop it beneath my Airforce One and crush it into the dirt.

“So you’re telling us to read literary fiction and take drugs, and that’ll help us get a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, basically. Listen to me or don’t, whatever. I just want you to live a happy and interesting life, because that’s better than the alternative. Don’t just listen to me though, go out and try new things, talk to strangers, try and be human, think critically. You’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.” I say, shrugging. I get up to leave, though one of the younger boys pulls at the sleeve of my leather jacket.

“Mister, how did you get to know so much?” he says. I kneel down.

“I was once like you are now, and I know that it’s not easy to be calm when you’ve found something going on. But take your time, think a lot, why, think of everything you’ve got. For you will still be here tomorrow but your dreams may not.”

Corporate Wellness Retreat & Spa: The Future Of Mental Health

Mental health is no longer associated with a drooling lunatic in a straitjacket, but something that effects normal people. I met with LinkedIn’s chief Wellness officer to find out more about how we can protect our mental health in these uncertain times.

Jules Juventus is no stranger to mental health issues.

“In 2020 I wasn’t connecting to my colleagues. Being away from the office caused me depression and anxiety. That’s when I really started to understand mental health.” Jules says as we drive a golfcart around the corporate wellness centre. The £60 million investment is part medical facility, part resort, with stressed out Directors coming to relax and ‘take a chill pill’.

When the pandemic lifted, the first thing Jules did was research the impact mental health was having on workers, particularly those at the top. The findings literally shocked him.

“Did you know the global economy is losing trillions of dollars every year to people having time off work? Pre-pandemic, this tended to be around accidents or illnesses. Now, we’re talking about stress, burnout, apathy. Its as if workers don’t see the value in the work they do. That’s why LinkedIn has partnered with the government to develop the wellness centre.”

The golf cart makes a few loops, passing tennis courts, swimming pools and finally ending up at a spa. I ask Jules what people might benefit from by relaxing. He laughs.

“You know the number one cause of stress is not being able to express yourself. Its not very relaxing if your team hasn’t delivered, and a lot of our clients find they just want to talk.”

We go through a corridor and monitor a communication workshop. An actor plays at a middle manager, with Directors and CEOs finally getting a chance to vent their frustration. Currently the CEO of Brewdog, James Watt, was screaming in the actors face and threatening them with physical violence.

“This is healthy?” I ask. Jules laughs again.

“Its part of giving people chance to communicate what we call the shadow side of our personalities. By embracing that side of ourselves, we can start to grow as individuals.”

“How do you do that?”

“All of the people staying here get access to workbooks where they can track their mental health. By measuring emotions on a scale between 1-10, we can track how a client is doing and come up with an action plan to help them get better.”

“What about those who have mental health issues beyond depression and anxiety?” I ask. Jules laughs, looking puzzled momentarily.

“How do you mean?”

“Schizophrenia, psychosis, antisocial personality disorder, haltlose personality disorder, that sort of thing.”

“Well those sound a bit made up to me. The most common expression of all mental health issues is depression and anxiety.” says Jules. I shake my head.

“That’s not really true though, is it?” I say. Jules laughs. “Why do you keep laughing?”

“I just think you’re saying funny things.”

“Like what?”

“You’re questioning things like mental health isn’t somehow connected to depression and anxiety.”

“There’s more to it than just those two things.”

“No there’s not.”

“It is. I can prove it.” I say. Jules laughs, though cuts himself off.

“Go on then.” he says. I nod, opening the door to where James Watt was having a roleplay.

I walk over to the bald man, tapping him on the shoulder. As he turns around I stick a syringe into his neck and push the stopper down.

“What are you doing!?” he yelps, clutching at his neck. The actor stands up, looking concerned. I take a step back and let the drugs take their toll on the brainscape of the multimillionaire. I had concocted the drugs myself, always carrying around a syringe of the substance should I need it. Jules has entered the room and is trying to calm James Watt.

“Don’t worry, you are only experiencing depression and anxiety.” he says, stroking James’ arm to try and calm him.

“I feel funny.” says James, staggering back, he tries to sit on a chair and misses, falling heavily on his arse. I check my watch.

“I have injected you with a cocktail of purified metals. Heavy metal poisoning has shown its capacity to create mania and psychosis in people. You can track the number of serial killers in America to the usage of lead in their pipes.” I explain. I had boiled the metals myself, skimming off the foam of chemicals that most directly correlated to impacting the brain through short circuiting the neural pathways. The very small amount of electrical current in the brain made it the most magnetic part of the body, and so the metals I had injected into the CEO would settle in the folds of his brain like ocean silt.

The effect this had on James was visible quite quickly. His limbs and hands began to spasm and curl up against him, he spluttered a scream out as he folded up onto the floor. His eyes began to roll back into his head and when he spoke, it was meaningless glossolalia. Jules knelt by him.

“Don’t worry, this is just depression and anxiety.” he says, trying to comfort the man as froth began to spill from his lips and nostrils. I kneel down next to them both and began reading from a book about cognitive behavioural therapy. The tremoring man begins to calm, his twisting muscles giving way to a more pliant, almost puddle-like form. I take out another syringe and inject him again.

“What’s that?” says Jules, looking at the syringe I had put into James, not seeing the second syringe in my other hand that went up to his neck.

“This is concentrated autism. I have synthesized it from the brains of hundreds of people exhibiting signs of autistic spectrum disorder. How do you feel now?” I ask. Both men sit up.

“Good.” Jules says. I nod, going over to a bookcase and leaning it over so all of the books fall out.

“Look, there’s one there about deep sea creatures. Do you want that?” I say, kicking one over. James Watt shakes his head. When he tries speaking he just grunts a few times from the back of his throat. I move the books around, finding a comic about Sonic the Hedgehog and throw it as hard as I can at his forehead.

As I leave the facility, I reflect back on my own journey with my brain. I don’t believe I have mental health issues, as that implies the differences in my brain are somehow weaknesses. No. Just as medicine lacks words for when a patient is feeling well, we also lack language for the opposite of mental health disorders. I had a freakishly strong mind, sometimes surprising myself with thoughts that would leap from the waters of my subconscious like winged dolphins.

I slam the car door. I take out another syringe, inject it into an orange then eat the whole thing. It had been interesting seeing the commodification of the treatment of mental health, when it seemed that many causes of mental health issues stemmed from enforced poverty. Transnational companies paying millions to consultants to develop mental wellness platforms for employees. Guided breathing exercises for workers standing next to conveyer belts packed with toxic metals. Team away days where colleagues would throw a blow-up beachball to one another before going back to develop tactical weapons used against unarmed Muslims. The orange is beginning to work. I drive down the road, crossing the white lines, swerving round cars going in opposite directions, the window is down, the music is turned up. I scream until I can taste blood at the back of my throat. Car shoots through tunnels, leaps from bumps in the road. I look in the rearview mirror and see Armitage Shanks has finally rejoined me. We ride out into the night as if we had been ejected from hell for being worse than the devil.

With A Chance Of Meatballs

“Nobody can teach your grandma to suck eggs.”
“I know.” I said. Of course I knew, I tried when I was sixteen. Nevertheless I looked out of the window and let my eyes pour down onto the street, out onto the bay. I pictured myself surfing.
“So what do you want me to do about it?”
“I don't think it's that complex. I'm just looking for some standardized information, I thought this would be the place to find out.”
“But you're asking about something metaphysical. You aren't interested in the administrative districts recognized by law, or the actual geography of architecture.”
“Geoarchitecural analysis.” I corrected him.
“So what is it you want?”
“To know where the edge of the city is. I'm not asking about where the city finishes and outside of the city begins. But the actual edge. To visit the places on the map where the line is appears no different from any other potential point on the line, therefore it seems arbitary.”
“You're suggesting that borders are infinite?”
“What's the point in learning a different language if you don't have any social skills. Comprendez?”
“But you pass through this meridian as you leave the city. You must know what's not Los Angeles, if only for it to be another city, so maybe you should look at where Los Angeles isn't and begin walking until you re-enter the city.”
“Maybe.”
“Well maybe the area where the city is and isn't can be quite a large area. A mile deep ring on the fringes of Los Angeles, a place caught between two states.”
“Maybe if you organised borders to be gradients rather than lines? Different zones...different...vibes.” I noticed he had caught a constrained night dream onto his face via a large cut given in his sleep. Long fingernails.
“If you'd like to do that, you're free to.” he said.
“The thing is though...what's it matter?” I said leaning back.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Why do I care where it is. It doesn't matter.”
“You're the one who wanted to know.”
“Yeah whatever.” I said.

I leave city hall with a buck in my pocket and rash on my hand. I'd already spent the morning deciding on definitions of Los Angeles, California and all I found out was less than I thought I knew. So I decided to walk north. I went through the city and over the hills, eventually reaching city limits. The mountains around me were steep and glowed orange. I continued until there was no trace of anything made and started walking back. The sun was beginning to rise on the Mojave desert and I went back through the scrub and hill, back hot with sweat, red from the sun, and my shoes were rags and my eyes were shot with blood. Each step I took was the end. The cars went past and the trees were small and I want to drink but there was was to go back. Not all of the houses and structures were part of it, but they were a sign. I stood in the road and felt the air move and kept walking back and toward. There was a bit between city and nature. It was like seeing what wasn't there and if you turned or even blinked it'd go so you had to carry on staring to see it change and be real and that's what I did stood on the road looking at where the city was and wasn't til my eyes began to shake.

I revisited a diner on the edge of the city and began to fold the bit of bread they'd given me. Americans put sugar in everything they ate. I see a tall, heavy set man sat on his own in a booth by the window.
"Hello."
"Hey buddy." he says.
"You mind if I sit here?"
"Sure, why not." he says.
"You from New York?"
"Pittsburgh. You from England?"
"Yeah. I'm on holiday. I think you call it 'a vacation'."
"I know what a holiday is fella. So what brings you out here? You look like shit, pardon my French."
"De nada home boy. I've been walking."
"You looked like you walked through the desert."
"Didn't Christ return from the desert?"
"Lots of people did. What about our troops. You saying them mean sons of a bitches are like Jesus Christ I salute ya buddy." he says, biting into his grilled cheese.
"You know, I've been wondering who do I have to blow to get a drink round here. So I came over to you."
"What?"
"I said, will you buy me a drink. I only had enough for this piece of bread."
"Sure. You want a root beer?"
"Thanks." I say. He goes over to the waitress and grabs her by the arm and orders me a beverage as I munch on my bland meal. He comes back to the table. I gladly quaff the beverage before continuing; "You know, people say a lot about Americans. And one of those things is how friendly some of you are."
"No problem buddy. I used to be homeless, I know what it's like. You probably came over here from London hoping to be a big movie star, thinking that the streets were paved with gold. Turns out it's pretty hard after all, huh?"
"You got it."
"A lot of people come over. Be an actor, be a writer, whatever. It's not all it's cracked up to be."
"I met this girl the other day...she was also from England."
"That's what I'm saying." he said, nodding. I thank him again for the root beer and leave the diner, looking out at the city with blurred, fucked up vision. I laugh to myself and hid in the bed of a pickup truck, hiding beneath the dark blue cover sheet. Maybe I'd wake up in Los Vegas or on the beach. Maybe a thousand miles away with no phone or wallet, feasting on the dying around me.

OK Coral

Thousands of miles of bone covered by a coloured skin, slowly turning the bleached whiteness of death. The sky screamed infernally overhead burning deeper and deeper through the ancient reef. It was the time. Unknowing, each mouth kissed the sea, releasing motes out from their stomachs that drifted into the ongoing storm happening beneath the foam. The cells that caught one another began to change, drifting down far from where they began onto a sheet of rock. The polyp grew a mouth and began to grow another, attached by a tiny membrane. And these copies would go on to grow another copy. With identical mouths they snared plankton, reaching upwards on a limestone skeleton towards the shifting sky.

In it's eight thousand year existence, the coral reef could sense that a change was coming. Death. It's life was many orders of magnitude slower than any other animal and so it's death appeared to be relatively quick. Parts of it starved or were broken off, others were above the water, forever caught in the frantic strobing of the star. On it's borders there was a creature making it's way through the crumbling towers, crawling with an affray of spikes. The huge starfish the colour of dusk crept across the reef, pushing their stomachs onto it and taking away a soup of sea water and digested coral. They moved slowly across the outermost layer, leaving nothing behind but blank stone. It gorged itself on mile after mile on an animal that didn't even know it existed.

The reef waited. Over towards where the sun rose it felt a strangeness in the water, a rotating churn. In moments huge areas of the reef were torn away, obliterated by moving air, ripping polyps off bone, tearing them to wet shreds. The crabs and fishes that lived amongst it's structures began to dwindle, living hard lives amongst the barren stone. Black, oily shit was poured over acres of the reef, drowning the mouths beneath an avalanche of waste. But it continued to wait.

On the reef lived a variety of different species of coral, and each species had colonies numbering the billions. They grew over decades, attacking other corals in their territory, capitalising on empty space, slowly exploring the fringe of the reef which itself transformed faster than the coral could manifest it's destiny. In the caves and over the mountains swam sea snakes, slugs, worms, fish, octopuses and turtles. More closely related to hard coral are the gorgonians, fractal sheets of living polyp that stretch into the water like enormous leaves. Similarly the jellyfish float through the water like the ghosts of bells, catching light in thin membranes from the setting star, colouring them crimson. All of this looked the same as it had for many epochs.Empires of colour rose and fell over the centuries, more dramatic and complex than any that could happen on the land. Yet it what was happening on the land that would bring an end to the Cambrian frontier.

Soft five pointed animals climbed into the metallic things across the ocean. They wore their skeletons on the inside, the only signs of hardness were white crescents set in the holes atop their necks. The holes moved up and down, making dry sounds in the air. The metal rays began to soar through the sky with their reflections caught on the brine beneath, on each wing of the things were long, hard tubes with fins coming off of the side and their ends painted in yellow and red. The bigger pieces of metal seemed to grow little clouds around them with a booming noise and from then they moved silently over the water, their echo taking time to catch up. As the moon gyrated on the other side of the planet it pulled the water away, exposing parts of the dead reef up towards the silent metallic things. They passed above, going towards the land, before making elliptical orbits back over the reef in the crystal water. The metal cylinders on each wing was dropped, one, two, three, four, down towards the water. When they hit they made indents into the sea as the surface struggled to keep, yet in they went anyway, plummeting down towards the reef, crashing through the coral and throwing up silt which threw up a brown fog. And nothing happened.

The light rose again. The soft animals wore black skins and plastic around their faces as they travelled through the water, down towards the eight cylinders. Already starfish and crabs had begun to explore the strange new hardness which had fallen from above. The soft animals swam towards each of the things, leaving behind little mounds of plastic before disappearing. And then the bombs went off. An underwater fire bloomed outward, roaring across the coral, shattering it's bones. The entire ocean pressed against this sudden bubble of heat, the water clapping together and then surging upwards, throwing pieces of death in the air. A shockwave continued over the reef eviscerating any soft flesh. The reef disappeared beneath a cloud of blood and sand and when it cleared nothing was left.

The coral did not feel anything. It had lived a long life unknowing anything but itself, it's purpose was simple. It had no choice. It was unaware at the beauty in which it created, the systems of life it supported, even of the corals surrounding it. In the black silence of it's existence it felt a hunger that lasted a thousand years. It wouldn't be able to comprehend the manner in which it's life was ended. But then again, neither could we.

Who Cares About Zombies Anyway

Have you ever wondered to yourself "What would I do if zombies were real?" or maybe even "I would like to kill hundreds of people with the excuse that they are zombies?"

Well wonder no longer! Ex-special forces soldier and entrepeneur Randy Shepard has combined zombies, paintballing, camping and a high ropes course to provide an action-packed weekend for anyone willing to shell out £200 for the privelidge of ambling through the ten acre estate home to 'Zombie Land', Britain's first zombie themed theme park.

"I had the idea whilst watching Dawn Of The Dead. Got me thinking, what would I do in case zombies attacked? Would I be prepared? What would it feel like? After looking round on the web for a while I found out there were a few other folk with the same idea as me. Hell, some had been thinking about it a lot!" says Randy as we drive in the jeep through Zombie Land. I nod. It has crossed my mind as to what I would do if zombies were real, though I admit on a more conceptual level. Randy Shepard had took the teenage fantasy of killing your friends and neighbours and turned it into a money spinner. We enter a forest and stop. I ask him what exactly people are paying for when they arrive at Zombie Land.

"Well, the two hundred gets you into Zombie Land. You bring your own kit, whatever that may be, and try to 'survive' the weekend. We've hired hundreds of actors to wander around in full costume to be zombies. They follow you round, moan a bit, if they catch you, you turn into a zombie. We have a couple of cabins spread out, even a little shopping mall I'm having built up by that hill over there."
"Isn't it dangerous for the actors?"
"Not at all. They have on some body armour, the guns we give visitors are just paintball guns with a little extra oomph if you know what I mean. More splatter effects."
"But what if any of them get punched, stabbed, have their heads cut off, that sort of thing?" I say, looking at the trees around us.
"We don't allow any blades, that's rule numero uno, okay? We have a full medical crew on site in case anyone gets hit with a bit of wood, but to be honest we encourage visitors to run rather than fight." shrugs Randy. He gets out to urinate against a plastic skeleton and we set off again.
"But surely the whole point of the weekend is that you can attack the zombies?"
"Well let me worry about the zombies, why don't you worry about the visitors?" laughs Randy. We are driving towards one of the cabins Randy has built. A few visitors are there at the moment, surrounded by a horde of zombies. I admit, it looks quite realistic! The zombies makeup has been done by Industrial Light and Magic, the studio responsible for bringing Yoda to life and making Jurassic Park a good memory for many children that currently exist. I walk through the moaning zombies and up towards the door.
"Hey! Get in here man!" says a visitor. His face is covered in muck and his clothes filthy. He reaches a hand out through the door and pulls me in before I have chance to respond.

"What are you doing out there? Damn walkers are going to get ya." he says in an American accent.
"I'm doing a story on Zombie Land, I wondered if I could ask you a few questions?"
"Not right now man, we need all the help we can get!" he shouts. A woman runs in.
"They've breached the windows! We gotta get out of here!"
"Quick, help me pull this bookcase!" says the man, running over to a large bookcase and struggling with it. I shake my head and leave through the door again, closing it behind me. One of the zombies mimes biting me and I nod at him, feeling slightly self-conscious.
"Thanks. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about working as a zombie?"
"Urghhh." he moans in a Liverpudlian accent. I make my way back to Randy.
"I hope I didn't spoil the scene for them. They seem pretty in character."
"They love it! Get's the blood pumping. You know, every visitor we've had here so far has come back the week after? I'm thinking of building a hotel just outside the site so people can come from all over the world."
"Aren't you worried that this is just a passing fad? There were serial killers in the eighties, mutants in the nineties, zombies and spooky kids last decade. What if this time around it's giant mummy's or shape-shifters?" I ask.
"Zombies are here to stay man. As it's not just zombies you know? People can feel it. The world's coming to an end."
"People have been thinking the world's going to end for centuries though." I say. The jeep is now driving through the forest. Randy lights a cigar and looks at me through his aviator sunglasses.
"That they have. And people like you will be thinking that we're all talking a load of BS when the world actually does end."
"But look at the amount of times in history it appeared as if the world was ending, yet didn't. The amount of films and books in the last forty or so years about apocalypses is just a continuation of the belief system instilled throughout religions since the first people, that being it's a fascination of the end, of death, and how we come to terms with it. And if possible, survive it. Any post-apocalyptic fiction is the post-modern equivalent of an after life. They are but a series of limbos at varying degrees of a world without technology combined with justifiable violence. I imagine that when anyone talks about the world ending that they believe that they will survive somehow."
"But I am not talking about the end of the world in the sense of a post-apocalyptic fantasy, but the steady downfall of humans through environmental change over the next century. This park's existence, or rather, that of the zombie fantasy is a way of coming to terms with death, I agree. I am not suggesting that people will survive the oncoming apocalypse, quite the opposite. Most visitors don't survive this weekend. It allows them to perceive there own death in a much healthier manner than vague dreams of danger in which they themselves invariably survive." says Randy. The jeep has pulled to a stop in the middle of a field.
"My family is buried here. Somewhere, I'm not sure exactly. But in this field. As are the bones of a hundred other animals that I am distantly related to, all the way back to the dinosaurs. You think the dinosaurs worried about the end of the world? And when it came about, did they hope? Or did they breathe in the ashes?"
"Your family is buried here?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Well...in case the end of the world does happen to be zombies, I want to be the first to kill them." says Randy, pulling back his coat to reveal a pistol tucked into his trousers.
"You know what's better than regular zombies? Voodoo zombies. You should do a theme park based around that." I said, nodding at him as I get back into the jeep and drive away. All the talk about zombies and apocalypses has give me the urge to watch 'The Bridges Of Madison County', or perhaps 'Before Sunrise'. I hadn't yet decided, but I knew that I had both on blu-ray.

Advertising 2.0

You turn on the television. An advert is on. You put the television on mute.
You go on the internet. You see a banner advertising a free ipod if you can shoot three ducks. You ignore it.
You are walking around in a city. You see a perfume advert on the side of a bus. You can't remember what it's for.

Welcome to the modern world. Media has never been so prolific in everything we do. Your fridge can download bread, you can watch films on your trainers and stream music that hasn't been performed directly into your pillow. In theory the advertising revenue from these services should be in the billions, perhaps even the trillions. Yet day by day advertising firms are failing, the men and women who write slogans line the walls of job centres across the country thinking of ways to rebrand themselves. The jingle writers have switched to making dub-rave subtunes. Celebrities offered millions in endorsements quickly falter on their contracts, such as Tiger Woods having sexual intercourse or Brad Pitt having a facelift. The adverts are there but nobody is watching. Some say that advertising as we know it will cease to exist ten years from know. Others have slightly different ideas.

Enter Tukanov Imaging, the brain child of Wanda Bellahyde. Her PR company is just a few years old yet is quickly climbing up as being one of the big hitters in advertising.
"One of our bigger problems came from Mad Men. All of a sudden everyone wanted to be an advertising exec. You'd see all these bright-eyed kids come straight from college willing to do work for free. It fucked up the whole system." she says, drinking from a glass of wine. We are sat in her company headquarters, the London skyline beyond the window is blocked by a slightly larger building. Though at just the right angle you can see through the windows across the road at parts of the cityscape. I ask her what made Tukanov Imaging so successful.
"It's all in the advertising babe. Any five year old can install adblock on his dad's pc, half the people nowadays would rather look at youtube for a funny video than watch a lager advert. It's awful. Well, at least for the other dinosaurs. At Tukanov Imaging we're rebranding branding. We're looking into the future, y'know?" she says, leaning forward slightly. I ask her what that even means.
"Advertising 2.0. Though now I'm saying it out loud I'm wondering why the .0, it's not like there's going to be advertising 2.1 or 2.6 is there? Whatever babe, the point is...well it's people, right? You walk past a restaurant, you see a lot of people inside you think 'Oh, that's a good restaurant.', but it might not be, right? You don't know if the food's good or if the service is nice, you're only going because other people are there. People like conforming. So I'm thinking, what's the biggest window in the world?" she asks me. I think for a minute then say there's probably one in a cathedral somewhere. She shakes her head.
"No. Windows. Y'know, Bill Gates? Those are the biggest windows! And sitting at all those windows are people just like you and me, talking to each other on social media. So what we're offering to users is an interactive advertising opportunity. We pay people to say things for us." she says, leaning back and stretching her arms far apart. I nod in understandment.
"Why spend fifteen million on an advert with Clooney when I can pay one of your friends a dollar to say 'Oh I like this thingy-majig' or 'Hey I just saw the big summer blockbuster it was awesome!'." What she's saying is grounded in hard scientific fact. It has been proven that the number of tweets regarding a film before release is in exact correlation to it's box office success. I ask her if she thinks people would be willing to sell their personalities for such a small price. She laughs loudly.
"You remember that guy in America who had the casino brand tattooed onto his forehead? We organised that. We offered Felix Baumgartner the opportunity to fulfil his lifelong dream of breaking the world sky diving record as long as he would say 'Mmmm, red bull gives me wings.' just before jumping. We brought together Adidas and the United States Army so that every soldier is now required to wear Adidas footwear. Everything is advertising. People are going to be saying it anyway, why shouldn't they get paid for it? And chances are they're going to spend that payment on whatever we're advertising anyway. It's a win-win." she says. I look through the window, then another window and another window, at the London skyline. The sun is setting. I think it a worthy metaphor for something, though I'm not sure for what. I try to speak but for some reason my tongue feels bulbous and disproportioned suddenly. I merely make a sound. She continues anyway.
"We're working on text messaging in the next quarter. After that, who knows, maybe use alternative reality or something. Pay people to say things in real life. Current technology opens up new avenues for potential advertising opportunities as well as new challenges. You speaking my lingo?" I walk over to the window and open it, letting the stale London air enter the room.
"What are you doing?" she remarks incredulously. The wind blows through my hair and at my cheap suit. I turn to her and try to talk again, though all I seem to manage is a strange sort of groaning noise. I run over to her desk and throw her laptop out of the window before running out of the room, clutching at my mouth. I continue groaning as I stand in the lift and walk out through the reception. After walking just a few feet on the pavement I throw back my head and begin to shout.
"I just want to watch a funny advert with a catchphrase that everybody repeats like the one from the compare the market advert or perhaps even the go compare advert. But even those are changing and becoming more ironic, more self aware. Advertising companies know they are just making shit but they think that if they make fun of it it makes it okay! But it is not okay! It is all fucking bullshit and I am sick of it!" I say. By the time I have finished my voice has been reduced to a whisper. I continue walking, thinking about where film posters fit into the advertising landscape. Is a film an advertisement for itself? Are clothes real? Can I rest between the shelves of a supermarket, dreaming of my softs, fearing nothing?

Werewolf Gradient

At which point does a man stop being a man and a werewolf becomes a werewolf?