SOUNDS

BAZAAR

 

MAGIC

BULLET

 

MAGIC

MOMENTS

 

MUSIC

&

ELSEWHERE

 

THE

U.W.U

NETWORK

 

CONTACT

ZONE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     
 

"Oh I can hear your heart beat!" I start by singing them few words loudly to an improvised tune, changes a bit every day, I'm no Cole Porter, I confess. I stand just to the side of the open grid on the cellar door. I don't want him to see me, but I want him to know I'm there. Briefly, I switch on the drill. It's okay, it's fully charged, it can spare a few seconds to let him dwell on what's coming. I laugh a lot. I like to laugh, I'm a happy kind of guy, what can I say? He doesn't sound so happy in there. Groan, groan, groan, shuffling in his chair. Well, as much as the restraints allow. He'd probably have something to say, but duct tape is kind of good at its job. I suppose it's perspective, yes, perspective, let's call it that. From where he's sitting in there, life probably doesn't look like fairies, unicorns and rainbows. But this side of the cellar door, oh my, the sun is shining brightly in Candyland. Hey, watch this, you'll love this, I do it every day. Watching? First, I thrust my head right up against the open grid, then I shout; "HERE'S JOHNNY!" Oh fuck, he near shits himself every time. I saw it in a movie, some motherfucker goes crazy in a motel, I love that shit. Then I put the key in the door, turn it real slow, push that big heavy fucker open, inch by inch. I'll tease him some about what a bad boy he's been, how he shouldn't have fucked his mother country, how you don't suck on her tit and spit the milk back in her face. Then I give him a reassuring smile, tell him it can all soon be over, all he has to do is give me a few names. Would you believe he called me an evil twisted cunt once? No, not me, I tell him, I'm just doing my job, sir, my country needs people like me while thereís bad guys like you. Work's a bit rich for some folk, I know. But me? I find it cathartic.

 
 

Iíd rather be up there, up in the top floors, enjoying the penthouse views across the city. But heights, oh dear gods, I can feel the muscles in the back of my thighs spasm at the very thought of it. So I have to be down here, on the ground, looking up. The buildings are so tall, they look like they are curling over to look down on you. Itís oppressive, I feel closed in, confined spaces, oh dear gods, the thought of it, I can feel sweat dripping into my eyes, itís stinging. Iíd like someone to tell me everything will be okay, but it would mean leaving the flat. I canít leave the flat. I donít like crowds, I never have, ever since I was a child, never liked crowds. If I were to walk down the steps to the street, people milling everywhere, blah blah blah, that incessant chatter, oh dear gods, the thought of it makes my heart do that thing where it feels like it is skipping a beat and my chest feels light and empty. I donít like it. Are they looking at me out of their windows? Oh dear gods, they are, arenít they? I want to get away from the window, they wonít be able to see me then, but itís quite dark in the middle of the room. Dark, it isnít nice, bad things happen in the dark. I donít mind twilight, I can live with that, but itís not twilight any more, the twilight is long gone, itís dark now. How much longer do I have to stay here? I donít want to be here, but I canít leave, I am terrified of leaving. There is no worse prison than one of your own making, they tell me. Crowd close door. Bang.