Wednesday, 26 August 2009

The Heroic Tales of Stinky Part One By William Wren

Stinky

Most of what follows is true. He stuffed his face full of documentaries and shows about politics, of which all that resulted was accumulation of sweat down the middle of his back and a stringy spit that clung to the back of his throat with such determination that he couldn't draw it into his mouth so as to expel it, nor would it swallow away into his stomach, if the explosion within his head was audible to the outside world, horses would run frightened and babies will burst into the type of wail that causes mothers and fathers to loose enough sleep to wish they had remained celibate and sufficed with porn and fantasies, and this was all before midday, and he hadn't even left his bed yet! In fact there was so much dynamite in his head he cold have opened a safe by placing his ear up to it and thinking hard, if not for the fact that his skull was waterlogged and rendering the gunpowder thus impotent. He earnestly believed with a rightly functioning mind he could have produced award winning ideas and interpretations of the world around him, for a person without prospects of any echo of hope he was quite optimistic, a lesser man wouldn't have even bothered to leave his bed at all, but he did with a heroic stumble made it to his toothbrush. A complex of laws and regulations was in governance of his simple life, the first of which he had to obey was the brushing of teeth, this was important in anticipation of the day that he found some kind of skill or comic routine that would impress a young lady, if ever he found himself in a situation that a lady was pointing any attention his way, if ever he found himself in the situation that he were to leave the house, then his teeth would be necessary in progressing toward any fluctuating romance, the fact that his toothbrush accepted to be put inside his mouth at all was quite flattering and encouraged this flickering of hope within him. The tonnage of what he didn't know weighed upon him at every moment, other than when he ventured to imagine taking part in thievery, he felt his experience of robbing charity boxes from shop counters had prepared him for the big job, pinching packets of meat from the chillier at the back of the supermarket due to apathetic staff members varying states of zombie, was thus far his greatest criminal achievement, but Stinky had dreams Stinky had ambitions! All of which eventually sprung leaks and slowly drowned within him, but they kept him quite afloat from reality, which is the best our young hero could hope for. He spat a stringy spit into the sink, it took over a second for the mucus to release its grip on the place of origin, slipping ungracefully under pressure from the tap down the plug hole. Stinky watched with smug triumph over his victory against the phlegm, his battles against his bodily functions were legendary, if anyone had cared to ask, he had anecdotes a plenty of daring deeds performed against hygiene. The mirror then requested his attention.

A strange perception such a contraption provides, it claims to be ever truthful, reflecting whatever challenges it with the aggressive bluntness of reality, but any disclaimer would rightly warn that due to flaws in human psychological ego, such a device can only return the assessment asked of it, thus the deluded see beauty and the disillusioned see ugliness. Stinky never understood this to any academic level and wholeheartedly met in the glass a master of intelligence capable of grasping all elements of humanity that weren't quite working as best as they could and with a little mental tinkering set them off in a disposition of unified celebration and glorification of his achievements. To illustrate his undiscovered exceptional ability of mind he recited his most successful verse;

This very primitive poetry is,
Not so hot so must we live
In such so socio-cryptic times,
When whatnot bureaucrat crits my rhymes!

Stinky had counted at least twenty four rhyming arcs within his creation and believed that if the world would just leave him alone for long enough he could quite possibly- this was the point he decided to leave the sink and divert his glorious attention at the kitchen, which all being in the same room used a lot less effort than alternative housing layouts could expropriate from a young man. In awe of the frying pan Stinky began willing his breakfast to life, the eggs and sausages were first to make an appearance their characterisation at Stinky's discretion, within his directorial vision the mushrooms shall thus enter the scene bathing in the copious oil spluttering with delight with the introduction of the tomato quarters and bacon rashers, then like a pantomime villain the bread pushes its way centre stage mopping up all the fat shining golden with gluttony. Using the utensils like a child on a colouring book Skinky's bravado was award winning, though present for every step of the cooking never could one be so besotted with the results, such desirable results indeed! Oh how glorious those parts of animal tasted! Oh how he scoffed! Oh how he stank!

Taking events with a pinch of philosophy, Stinky's mind returned to him still staring in awe of the empty frying pan and resolved to once again the prospect of beans on toast. Reality simply gets in the way sometimes. There should be some kind of vigourously researched rules about how much influence it should be aloud to impose on us poor creatures.

At twelve-fifteen precisely, he deviated his most deviating plot, such was the extremes of consequence he shivered with a profound glee. Then! The toaster popped out two slices of toasted bread interrupting his plans and ruining any potential memories burdening this young mind, without even the slightest effort he managed to make himself look quite the imbecile, there he was toast laid fourth awaiting a blanket of baked beans which Stinky was unable to provide, the baffled battalion within his brain laid down their arms in dismay, by now his eyebrows had forgotten to express what he really meant to say, this was the age of the straight talking cigarette smoker, and robust facade was unable to disguise the hijinx of the half-wit proposal that every character must face its nemesis;

Stinky must go to the shop.

Considering his eighteen year old riddle he emerged into the outside. Its funny how agoraphobia transforms the prowling lion of the den into scuttling spider exposed, running for a haven rock to hide in, what with all those greedy eyes and beaks swooping in, pecking, using all your arachnid energy and erratic legs to escape, puffing and heart pounding his way through a built up civilisation , dagger eye exasperation, how special a simple stroll is to scuttling Stinky, how unique an adventure. And yet all his anticipation focused friction was amalgamated within ten minuets into the future when he would be in terribly close proximity dangerously close to other people, O the tension of them! The blasted public all infecting his precious little world. Why wont they let him be! My flustered mind cant, I must, but I cant! what if, if someone speaks- worse still- looks at me! Fractured pieces of thought ignited by nonsense sprayed like splinters within his crippled enthusiasm, his only hope was to tremble and feel agitation, fluster and stutter as best he could whilst the queue lets him nearer escape, then with a final exposure of his depleted voice and professionally averted eye contact our hero is out from the hideous place and back in his relative safety of agoraphobic torture. Embarrassment is a hideous beast that the human has been given to master, its the venom fanged python backed into its last strike of wrath, its the moment the speared bull realises the crowds have gathered to cheer his final humiliation and defeat, and if like; bless his socks; Stinky, buying a tin of baked beans and a loaf of bread constitutes a moment of dreaded conflict which one never quite gets the better of, then your pace home is thundered by inward vexation and self ward torment. But there is a cup of tea yearning as reward, and perhaps, after the final hurdle, once shut back inside, it might all have been worth the exhaustive effort.

Its Bloody Martin!

Martin was one of Stinky's "friends", and was lurking like a sinister virus looking for a weak immune system to infect outside Stinky's window, no doubt had Stinky been away much longer, Martin would be inside coiling up playstation leads into carrier bags and smirking his way through draws sniffing out cigarettes and loose change.
"Stinky, you bug-faced-mop-head bastard!" chortled Martian on the approach, "You cooking us breakfast, what you bought fer me ya stinking kaant!"
Stinky cursed him viciously under his breath as that is as far as even his most potent speech ever achieved status. Stinky unlocked the door and they made themselves at home on the sofa come bed come dining table, Martin grabbed a controller, "Fire it up then lad!" he beamed. Stinky fiddled clumsily with disc cases and channel tuning and a barrage of insults. After a matter of impatient moments it was apparent that Martins virtual race was lost and his enthusiasm for computer games had fizzled fast, it was time for Stinky games!
Martian produced a small device fro his inside jacket pocket, "Wanna buy an i-pod?"
"Nah."
"Sum boy gave it me jus now on the bus!" Hardly able to contain his chuckle he continued, "I jus said-Gimme yer walkman- hand he guv it to me! Nob!" He added his ritual cackle that follows almost everything he says, "Skin up Stinky."
"Ive got nuffin"
"Here, its my last one, I cant smoke that one myself, gota sell that one, all my percie's gone see. Ya should've been round earlier- we caned two bags up ni was giving nuff out- bare mash up-trust, you shud come over-ere smell it- potent herbage there- cant get noffin round here that good-trust!"
Stinky didn't need the sales pitch, he threw across a twenty note.
"Yo, Stinky, yea, I gotta shoot, yea - Oi sort us out a fing - for sortin ya out an,"
Stinky plucked a bud from the little polythene bag and placed it in Martins begging hand. Martin left after a few tugs on Stinky's first jazz-cigarette. Stinky got stoned and his beans on toast idea never manifested into reality.

This gave our aspiring intellectual sufficient time to finalise his most recent theories on things which he felt most significant to think about. He called to arms all 12 billion neurones and 50 billion supporting glial cells from the frontal, temporal, occipital and parietal lobes, but the left cerebral hemisphere began to squabble with the right cerebral hemisphere and both were too stubborn to give way to the other and in the meantime the temporal lobe had turned its back upon them both leaving only the cerebellum to make a decision but he wasn't qualified to do much more than send a few twitches over Stinky's body, so it done just that.
He crashed himself awake from the bubble dream, " I am all thoughts and desires and pandemoniac rushing, rebuking regrets and restablishing order, the reorder of disorder, the unsubdued emotional unbalance that I kept silent all of that time, this is a sign-I must reclaim my high!" Thus the substance gives you insecurities and somehow convinces you that it is here to protect you from them, no wonder the youngster had difficulty finding success in the world.

He suspected that the world stretched further than the supermarket which was, in fact not spectacularly super; but bigger than the corner shop and more clinical cynical and crass than the farmers market; which permitted itself membership to the category; he also suspected that at some future time he shall use his wit to somehow advance himself to the regions of the genius alongside those who invent a light bulb or washing machines or those professed at thievery! He had all manner of lateral thoughts springing out of the box under blue skies and wearing hats of many colours, mainly they were dumb but Stinky had the persistence of a bad odour and one day he shall discover such a wit!

His meditations began to crackle and sparkle irritably and he auspiciously concluded; The autistics! They are the new us! Obsessively condemned within a single subject to the point of brilliance with not a shrug of indifference to the banalities of the surrounding human condition - thus prerequisite the integration into the machine: Unsympathetic - Systematic - Pragmatic - Perfect! Finally! Nietzsche's superman! But this was not Stinky's Big idea; the mastodon that he cultivated lovingly like fungus in a petri dish; Super-Stinky! His heart began to profoundly pound; that is as much as a heart can imagine itself pounding profoundly. Board person on Board! He juxtaposed radically. And I shall print it on yellow squares with suction cups attached and all the good people shall display them in the back window of their cars demonstrating their lack of independent thought, but this neither, was the mammoth he was waiting for. Like the flapping of windscreen wipers expectant of rain - this is how he contemplated. His idea would be as significant to the word, maybe more so, than Wittgenstein's recognition that we too easily accept the babies smile as a genuine affection yet the human ability to lie is as learned as the rest of our qualities. His thinking began squeaking across the dry windscreen.

Word must have got round because the scavengers were at the door, "You coming out Stinky?" They knew he wasn't, "C'mon bud, aint sin yer fer time." Not since the last time he bought the dried flower of the narcotic plant.

There were several breeds of scavenger known to stinky, the first was like a loyal Alsatian, they would be in it for the duration of the whole day, sometimes burying their way into ones confidence for up to a whole week before taking their meal, working at the defences granting the illusion of friendship, these came in groups of no more than three to maximise their returns warding off the more unscrupulous. The next uses wolf like intimidation to coerce a young mind to do a job with them, a house-job. You recognise the signals when they hijack you whilst on route to other destinations, laying out thick stories of past battles designed to promote ones self legend and aspirations of the feral young, for a demonstration of this lifestyle choice they will ask for the price of a kitkat wrapper, then by lighting of the foil and inhalation bring about the pukation behind the telephone box - this you have to look forward to upon falling under the influence of this scavenger who demands commitment more than your life is worth. Then we have, as presented at Stinky's door the jackals; blatant shameless exploiters of resources and opportunity, ever in search of the next 20 pee or cigarette, will turn up with recently stolen dvd or console game to win entry into the more challenging trust to steal it back at a later date. It would be expected over the evening that several of Stinky's games would have gone missing, he had no idea of how they initially even became his, like all the lighters he never bought but owned and several porn magazines; some dating back to the 1970s. People seemed to add stuff to his possessions then others would come round and use them and others would take them away. A whole system of item immigration and deportation was happening in country Stinky, and his being there; ruler as it was; had all the authority of a traffic light flashing permanent amber.

Stinky neither let them in not denied them access, both arbitrary concepts to him. All accumulated were in agreement that Stinky's home entertainment had been exhausted of the ability to further entertain this constantly demanding audience, yet they were all bound to the room until the bag was empty. They turned on the television; which to a more cultured taste; as was Stinky's; was filled with but the crass sound of applause and trivial people giving their opinions about nothing in particular; but the decision was democratic and the mob will has little to contribute to matters of taste. They found a programme where they were given the chance to laugh at the impoverished poor of distant lands with flies crawling over their faces and pot bellied skellingtons grasping onto life. "Why don't they stop breeding" was a typical comment, " What would you bring a child into that life for." "What's the point trying to feed them , there's millions of dem, they always living off our charity, let em die" The irony that everyone in the room had only thus far survived on government benefits and were quite likely to contribute as the main source of income for the remainder of their lives, may or may not have been acknowledged but was defiantly there.

Stinky's comprehension of the atmosphere around him was much the same as one who finds themselves in a country of foreign tongues lost within the auditory tangle of sounds and words and confusion, the amount of structural planning involved in distinguishing the familiar from the unfamiliar rhythms and grammar and slang and joviality, over all the linguistic study he had to conceptualise, the conversation structure, narratives and spoken word discourse analysis he had to instigate, made social situations quite exhausting. A writer above outside the situation, a detached voyeur an experiment in invisibility, mute scientist, searching for a way to exist.

Amongst all the colloquial snidery, Stinky put forward a proposition and against all the odds someone in the room heard him. "Oi, Stinky knows a way how to end third world poverty without sending them our money."
"How then?" Was this it?
"Go on Stinky ." The Big one?
"Spit it out ya freak"
"Instead of sending them or money which corrupt officials can furnish themselves with," philosophised the man gazing upon a studious breakthrough, ÔWe shoud send them all of our Shit!"
The room looked at him with the contempt that he even attempted to have an opinion, but Stinky was convalescent of the disgusted gawp, and although all had become once again deaf to him he continued, "Imagine, we could pump tankers of sewage onto their infertile soil- providing the minerals enabling crop to grow!" By the time his thoughts had concluded, the bag had become empty and so had the room.

But clever creature.

Smart old Stinky; one with surplus forethought as he; had hidden one last joint behind the sofa.

7 comments:

C. L. DeMedeiros said...

thank you for stop by
our mind is insatiable
with so much stimulation

it's tiltilating

Carlos

C.J.Duffy said...

Bloody Nora, this is War and Peace on steroids and funny with it!

Brandon said...

Long time no post. Good to see you've been writing still.

Utah Savage said...

I followed you home and found a writer. I'll be back when it isn't 1:30 AM and my mind is a bit sharper to read this piece.

Thanks for visiting me and leaving a comment.

Kuroitenshi or Bonnana King said...

Not related, I wanted to thank you for your comment on my SM notepads.

Dratski! said...

Very good Stinky ! but needs a little editing and it will be brilliant.

mythopolis said...

Really fascinating and loose flow of language. Cool!