magic pockets, stealing milk ·
20 June 04

That would be a great title for the sequel to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

I think someone maybe looking at my screen since about 12 or so people are able to view it! They will steal my idea, no doubt and make a good few millions of dollars, and then they’ll be fucked for another movie. Or they could spoof it, but then if THEY make a sequel, it won’t be as good as my first movie title and then they’ll just flop and say,

“Oh Jin, we’re so sorry! Please help us, we won’t steal you ideas anymore.” And then I’ll slap them with the with eels covered in shit, and they’ll have lines of shit slapped across their face and it’ll be like a train track of shit across their cheeks. And then a train will actually come out of nowhere, or maybe from below and ride across their face, crushing and cutting them into pieces, and the train will rise and go up into the sky like a rocket and keep going. Out of it, a man’s head will pop out with a thumbs up and he’ll shout “Shit happens on these tracks.” And we’ll both laugh together while the almost-dead person dies slowly and their body twitches, with little violent movements.

Stealing milk is every office’s usual drill. Someone buys the milk and everyone else uses it

He stood and looked down upon the ragged looking man, with the long hair, and goatee beard. Dressed in a white robe, which was covered in dirt, it no longer contained the brightness it originally had, now smeared with colour and faeces. He lay his head at the corner of a building, as the people walked by and ignored him. Looking distraught, unhappy and lost, he looked into his hands, and then around him, and back into his hands, and spoke, “Why?” clasping his hands together tightly, closing his eyes, he places his closed hands with the thumbs touching his forehead. It was as though he was trying to awaken from a nightmare he wasn’t expecting to happen.

The hope was for peace, happiness, joy and followers. The hope was for loyalty and agreement, not liberalism and disparity. His impression of the world was overwhelming. It was never like this, back in his day. Thing was easier, things were simpler. You said one thing or the other, and everything was black and white. You either lied or told the truth, or did both. You didn’t mix the lies with the truth. He was far too stupid to understand the complexities of the world. Tears ran down his face, hilariously the tears took with it dirt, leaving a streak of clean skin as it cut through the grease and filth that was covering his face. What looked like a dark tan was the accumulation of crap that he had picked up from car exhausts, dirty water, and all manner of pollutants that could be picked up just by stepping outside of your door, into the mechanical jungle.

A heaving, bursting, heart of metals, plastics, mortar, concrete, and man-made rubbish. It was a jungle of the most dangerous kind. Wild animals from tropical jungles would not survive a chance, not matter how fearful people may become. One they enter their animal, complete with bullbars, the poor, wretched creature has about as much chance as a 7 year old crossing the road to go to school. And once these monsters start killing, they don’t stop until they take everything.

I brought out my camera, and took a picture. He noticed the flash, and looked up to me with the eyes of joy, as though I had just saved him. I frowned at him, and put my camera back in my bag. “Listen, don’t get friendly with me doode, I don’t know you from Jack – I just wanted to take a picture of some beleaguered, down trodden jackass who looked Jesus” His eyes brightened, and his hands unclasped, into hands of receipt.

“Doode, just calm your fucking self down, before I club the fuck out of your skull”

The stance had changed from approaching embrace, to that of reserved expectation. I clenched my fist, just ready to smack him in the nose should he get to close. I considered the possibility of hitting him anyway, just for the fun of it. I hadn’t kicked a drunk old man in years. Not since I found that drunken, homeless guy on the top of a street, built on a hill near where I used to live. My friends and I had nothing to do, so we hung around the streets and came across this tramp. He asked for money, beer or a place to sleep. However, my friends decided to taunt him, swearing at him, calling him names, and picking up small pebbles to be thrown at him. He was being humiliated more than he was already.

Suddenly and evil shiver ran across my back, like the claw-like nails of a demon shearing its nails up and down my spinal cord. I could imagine the demon grinning as she cut into my flesh, digging those large nails deep into my back, slowly. At first the nails would press against the skin on my back, as it was pushed further in, the skin would begin to deepen, and eventually pierce a little – spurting little droplets of blood.

America has called a national alert, and news networks have reported a missile being launched near a pub off Oxford Street.

The demon wouldn’t stop there however, she had plans to stick her fingers in deeper, with more malice, and continued to push the nails inside, until it disappeared into my flesh. She turns her well sharpened nails, clockwise, and then anti clockwise, inwards, and then outwards as I scream in pain. Another nail is stabbed into the lower part of the back of my neck.

She only requires my spine between the two points she has marked. I sense, what feels like, a hundred stab wounds in my back, and hear the crunching, and then the tearing of something being removed from flesh. The spine has gone, and I am limp and folded over like a ragdoll without support. On the floor, my mouth lays open wide, as the blood from my back flows with no intention of stopping until it has completely drained. The demon traces her long, snake like tongue across my spine, licking up any bits blood spattered across it.

Taking the the spine, she lifts her head up to the sky and inserts the spine down her throat – her arms seem to stretch at will, when required, when pain and pleasure are wanted. The spinal cord disappears down her diseased neck, smiling, she removes the spinal cord, dragging it out like a rope out of water. It drips with some ghastly, transparent fluid, with the thickness of stenching slime.

The eyes glisten with malevolence, as I consider the deafening noise around me from the vocal cords of morons who I associated with simply to exist. I grind my teeth, my head pounds against a hammer, my skull is being crushed by anxiety. I look at this tramp, this pitiful man without hope. How could he exist in such a way? What right did he have to exist like this and then to ask for handouts? Without shame, without dignity, without hope, what right does he have to exist? To breathe the same air. To walk the same streets; to make a scene for his own selfish gain. He had no rights, he had no reason to be here, he should be dead.

[zz93]

Tension rises through my body like a dormant volcano, ready to erupt and melt everything in its path. Without discrimination, and without reason other than to carry out routine. There is no purpose, it is nature. I am nature, ready to explode. I take steps forward towards the tramp.

“Are you ok?”
“Ah, I need money. You got any money son?”
“Do I have any money?”
“Yeah money. I need money, some small change – if you some change to spare, please, can I have it? Help me out.”
“You want my spare change? And then what?”
“I need enough for cigarettes, and some alcohol, you know, to keep me warm through the nights”
“Don’t you have anyone to go to? Don’t you have anywhere to live?”
“If I did, would I be in this position? Look if you can’t help me, leave me alone.”

He attempts to rise, but falls back down, hitting his head on the wall.

My comments are straight-laced, without evidence, but with suggestion and pessimism.

“Ah fucking hell. Have you boys got any smokes? I could really do with a smoke.”
“Oh man! This guy stinks!” one of the boys shouts out.
“He’s a fucking tramp, he isn’t going to smell of peaches is he, you dickhead?” I respond.
“Fuck you, do you love him or something?” he replies.
“Do you want me to kick the fuck out of you like I did the last time? I’ll kill you, and your fucking family you piece of shit. I’ll set your house on fire while you sleep, and watch you muthafuckas burn alive. I’ll rape your sister, and molest your mother. YOU DO NOT WANT TO FUCK WITH ME RIGHT NOW.”

The tension was rising, I could feel it within myself, but it was spreading to the others – they could sense I was going off on one of my malevolent tangents, an awareness made them cautious on what was said next. The tramp was still trying to get off his arse, and kept falling over. I sensed the guy wasn’t too happy when I mentioned doing things to his family, but in that moment, I would have done. I was too far gone to stop at anything. I was going off on one my spiels. This happened often in my youth, something I was unable to control, or as too immature to control at the time. He resisted retaliation.

“Look, let’s just leave. This is fucking boring.”
“Wait.” I say defiantly.
“For what? It’s boring.”
“I’m going to do something.” They edge backwards.
“What are you going to do?” They enquire with a deep suspicion.
“I’m going to help this tramp. How much change do you guys have?”

They check their pockets, and I hear the clinging of coins, but they pretend otherwise and say they have nothing. I check my pockets, as the tramp seems to have awoken from his slumber while we argued. “Have you got any change boys?” he asks as though never having seen only 10 minutes ago.

“I’m going to help you tramp. I have some change. Do you want it?”
“Yes, please, thank you so much. God bless you.”
“Do you really want it?”
“Please, I have no money, I need the change. I’ll pay you back.”

The others laugh, but I keep my eyes on the tramp, with a straight face I look at him hard. I listen to his words, as though talking to someone important. I analyse every moment of breath he takes between words, to further surmise his exact intent, his honesty. My brain goes into overdrive, as I disappear momentarily from the world I am in, and fall into a dark, dream world where there is no light, except those from the two eyes that peer at me from beneath the water I stand. I awaken.

Why do you judge me, ‘Mr judge-not-lest-thee-be-judged’?

I throw the change just past arms reach of him across the pavement.

“You bastard!”he shouts.
“Listen you cunt, you want that money, you go get it. If you call me anything, I’ll just pick up the change and walk away.”
“Sorry, I am sorry. But please help me pick up the change.”
“Your change, you pick it up. Or sit there doing nothing.”

He lifts himself up, with great difficulty, moving his aching bones across the pavement on this cold winter night. He picks up a little change, and moves over to get the rest. As he moves over to the remaining change, I tense myself, my eyes fall backwards, my head feels light, and I support my body with my right leg. With my left leg I jump forward, and with my right now free, I jump kick the tramp, “FUCKING DIE!” I scream.

He collapses forward, as I kick him in the back a second time as he goes after the change again. My friends are aghast at what I have done.

“Fuck man, leave him alone.”
“Leave him alone? You want to know what it feels like to hurt someone incapable of defending themselves? You stand there, taunting this tramp bastard, with names, swearing at him, sniggering. You throw stones at him, because he can’t do shit. And you think what I did was bad? YOU FUCKING HYPOCRITICAL MUTHAFUCKAS! You sons of bitches are worse than him, you talk a lot of shit, but you have no balls.”

I stand back at what I have been saying, and wonder where all this rage had arisen from. Who the fuck was this? Where the fuck had all this come from? I felt ill, and angry, and my teeth had turned into something nasty – a softness I wasn’t liking, it was too squidgy. I was feeling confused, frustrated – in conflict with myself, I hated everyone around me, and everyone I knew. Everyone HAD TO DIE. EVERYONE. Not one soul would remain alive, as only the death of everyone would suffice my rage. DIE EVERYONE.

[zz93]

I watched as the poor bastard tries to grab the change for a third time. I grin hysterically, and my eyes have widened, my mind is on fire, my body feels weak and at the same time, in power. My conciousness, however, does not feel my own. It’s as though my awareness of body exists, but the control has been handed over to someone else. I am a robot, a puppet for my master. He’s reached the bottom of the first hill on the street. I grind my teeth, crushing the sensation of softness. I feel sick again, but I now have the strength of the devil himself. I grab my skull in pain, and groan in agony.

I scream, and shout, and roar like a wild animal. I pound my fists against the all until they are bruised, the skin breaking to cause bleeding, the dirt from the bricks polluting my blood. I walk slowly up to the tramp, as he approaches the lower peak of the street on the hill. “Fucking bastard. I hate you. I’ll fucking Kill You! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!” As I utter those words, I put all my strength into my body, as I twist and ground myself, I raise my right leg and push with all my might my foot against the tramps back. He arches forward and tumbles down the hillier part of the street on which we are. He rolls down, head first, and reaches the halfway point before he stops. I can hear him crying, bawling tears of self pity, of hate and anger, or loneliness and hopelessness.

During this, my friends had just watched me. They did not stop me, nor did they attempt to verbally engage in conversation. I look at them, with eyes of hate. I give them a stare, that tells them I am on the verge of self destruction, and I will take anything, and anyone else with me.

“If I go down, you fuckers go with me. You didn’t have the balls to get him, you didn’t have the balls to stop me. You’re just as hopeless in your life as he is. You’ll die naturally, or I kill you. I don’t how much older you are. I’ve had the shit kicked out of me most of life by bigger fuckers. I’ve been in fights where its been eight cunts with planks of wood, against me and my fists. I never walk away from a fight, no matter how high the probability is that I lose. I lose, I win, it makes no difference. Completing it is what matters. Following through. Not acting like a bunch of girls standing there, throwing rocks. If you do something, do it right.”

Magic Pockets should be for everyone and if you check your pockets now, you may find a million pounds or some fluff

There is silence. The only sounds we can hear are the tramp still crying, the traffic at the top of the hill, and people wondering what the fuss was about. They look at me with disdain, with fear, with hatred. They are convinced I am correct about them, but at the same time, they hate for what I have said and what I have done. The irony is, as far as I was concerned, this was complete bullshit. I had done nothing correct, and perhaps was partially right about their cowardice. But I too was a coward.

“So what’s your story?” I ask the Jesus look-alike.
“I existed a long time ago, and I have returned to save my people. But this….I didn’t expect this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I am the Son of God!”
“Really? Are you sure you’re not some deluded schizophrenic with a Jesus complex?”
“I don’t understand…”
“Hmm ok – let’s pretend you are Jesus, for arguments sake. Can you perform miracles?”
“To what end?”
“Well perhaps you can make a believer of me, by performing a miracle. I’m very difficult to convince, and if you can convince me, I will help you to spread the word and regain your reputation as the man.”
“You would do this if I were to perform a miracle?”
“Yes – and besides, even if you don’t trust me, you can’t judge me since you’re holier than thou and you forgive all genuine sinners and so on”
“I see your point. Very well, I shall perform a miracle.”

I start the camera, and set it to record video. He seems unsure as to what it is I am holding, and I am too lazy to even bother explaining. I stand with the camera, waiting for him to perform some miracle. Suffice to say, I am anticipating an anti-climax. He picks up a fly, and says, “I will give this creature life” and blows on it. It jumps up and flies away.

I listen to his words, as though talking to someone important

“Er….well, since you’ve been out of the loop, I should point out, you’ll have to do something better. Others have come after you performing illusions and so called miracles.”
“There are other holy men?”
“Well – I wouldn’t call them holy. Attention seeking whores maybe, but not holy. Holy shit they are crap, yes, but not holy men.”
“Why do you speak with such malice?”
“Why do you judge me, ‘Mr judge-not-lest-thee-be-judged’”
“You have heard of my writings?”
“I have heard the writings of some comedian called Jesus. Anyway, I suggest you act fast – I need to be at the pub soon.”
“Pub?”
“A place of sinning – it’s what most people do. People sin more in one hour today than they probably did collectively in your lifetime. Times have changed Amigo. I hope you have enough love to share, cuz you’re gonna fucking need it.”

He ponders for a moment, and raises his hand in the air palm facing the sky. I wonder if he is calling for rain, waitinf for a bird to shit on his hand, or whether he wants money. So, I spit in his hand.

“What did you do that for?!”
“Shit man, open hand, I need to spit, you need to clean your face. Makes sense.”

[zz93]

He wipes the spittle on his clothing, and picks up crumbs of excrement which have dried on his robe. Again he raises his hand as before, and closes his eyes. I pick my nose while he does his thing, and flick it towards him. I miss intentionally as it falls to the floor. A glow appears within his hand, which starts dull and begins to brighten. People stop and stare.

“It’s a special effect using lighting and personireoptrinoide” I say, and then move on unimpressed by this cheap parlour trick. I record this event, as the light shines, and provide a running commentary on what is being performed before me. My comments are straight-laced, without evidence, but with suggestion and pessimism.

“And Jesus-wannabe is now using some very fancy tricks to make light appear – the fraud isn’t that good. Hell he makes David Copperfield look good.”

I become bored, and I am already running late for the pub. This is far from being a miracle I wanted, or expected.

I need enough for cigarettes, and some alcohol, you know, to keep me warm through the nights

“Listen I’m going.”
“No wait, please, let me convince you.”
“Ok loser.”
“What miracle can I perform that would convince you?”
“Well, it is the 21st century so it needs to be something personal. How about you make the ol’ dragon about a good few inches bigger?”
“Dragons? In this day?”
“Er, I meant what we guys have between our legs…”
“How long is an inch?”
“Just make it as long as whatever you measure a carpet by back in your day, and make it, I dunno 15 of those”

I await his response, and continue recording the footage. He frowns at the idea, but feels he needs a witness, or a believer to spread the word. He closes his eyes, and targets the palm of his hand towards my dragon. I stand patiently, and feel a warmth in my pants. Something is about to erupt, and it feels a little uncomfortable.

“Er…doode, when I asked you to extend to whatever you measured things by….”
“I am concentrating, please bare with me”
“Er doode….there is something a little odd here”
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I feel a rumble, a madness that cannot be controlled. I yell out. He opens his eyes, and says, “done”. I unzip my flies and let the thing out, as it propels itself into the air, stretching and extending into the sky, just barely missing my head and knocking me dead. It continues to grow as the people around me watch in awe, shock and fear.

“Holy crap! Doode, what the fuck did you do?”
“I extended it by 30 of what we measure things by. Are you not happy?”
“Does it look like I’m happy? It’s exiting the fucking atmosphere! What did you measure it by?”
“Camels.” He says calmly.
“CAMELS? What the fuck?! Doode, 30 CAMELS LONG??? SWEET FUCK! CHANGE IT BACK!”

But it’s too late – a national alert has been called, and several satellites have been knocked out of commission by my rising dragon. America has called a national alert, and news networks have reported a missile being launched near a pub off Oxford Street. It’s cold in space, and I can feel the head of the dragon getting a chill, as I sneeze on the Jesus-look-alike.

On the floor, my mouth lays open wide, as the blood from my back flows with no intention of stopping until it has completely drained

“Change it back I tell yer.” as onlooker start taking pictures of the highly developed dragon. I am afraid of a jiss shower that may ensue as I lose control.
“If you want me to, I will”
“Special effects people! Nothing to see here! It’s all special effects.” But they continue to take pictures.

He closes his eyes, and again points his palm towards my crotch area, and shakes his hand in a dramatic manner. A flash appears, and everything is as it was, and everyone watching disappears and continues on their merry way as though there was no incident.

“Now do you believe?”
“Yes, sure I do!”
“Wonderful! So you will help me?”
“No.”
“But you vowed to help me if I performed a miracle!”
“Yes, but I ain’t spreading the word of the devil.”
“I am Jesus of Nazareth, and I have come here to save my people!”
“I am bored, and frustrated by your lack of originality, and your clever hypnosis techniques. Even Jesus wouldn’t be a big enough cunt to fuck up something so simple.”

I throw a 20 pence piece his way, “See you around hippy” I say as I walk away from him. I’m late for the pub, and I have an interesting tale to tell my fellows, after of course a heavy dose green smiles and magic smoke.

If you’re wondering why the title is Magic Pockets, Stealing Milk, then let me explain young child. This morning I thought I had forgotten my card, as I delved into my pockets I could not find my travel card. I took everything out and found nothing. I made my way home partially from the train station as I fumbled my hands in my pockets I discovered and located my travel card! A strange miracle I thought….

Upon, getting on the train, I realised I had some Wrigley’s Extra in my pocket. Once more, I fumbled in my pockets and found nothing. I took everything out, and found nothing. I placed everything back, and, LORD HAVE MERCY! I found the gum! This was twice, but this was not the first time this had occurred. I pondered as to whether this could happened three times in a day, and if so, whether there was any significance to it.

I thought I had forgotten my debit card, which would mean I could not entertain myself with a lunch as I had no money otherwise to hand. Frustrated, I searched like a maniac. I took everything out, and didn’t check for anything, and when I put everything back, I found my card – Sweet LORD! I may now have lunch!

I just wanted to take a picture of some beleaguered, down trodden jackass who looked Jesus

My friend’s, I believe that my coat has magic pockets. If I find a way, I may be able to delve into a different world where by when I dip my hands in my pockets, I am entering the pockets of another and therefore can take whatever I please. And if it’s a different world, and I cant see what I am taking, then it’s like a lucky dip of sorts. Magic Pockets should be for everyone and if you check your pockets now, you may find a million pounds or some fluff. But, I bet that fluff or million pounds was not in your pockets yesterday. Or if it was, it has grown in fluff, or reduced in money. Either way, you’ll always find something new in my pockets.

Stealing milk is every office’s usual drill. Someone buys the milk and everyone else uses it. It’s expected in every office. In this case, I am a risk taker. I heard stories of how everyone buys their own milk, or one for each department. We have our own fridge, but it’s too far at the other end of the office. The one in the kitchen is used by the other department, however, I find that easier to use. Sometimes a guest will visit the offices and they require a tea or coffee with milk. I make the tea or coffee, and then I take the milk from the fridge. I have been close to being caught sometimes as each carton has a name on it. However, I have yet to be caught.

The only concern I have is based on a story once told by a colleague, perhaps to dissuade me from taking someone else’s milk. Someone had laced their milk with salt, as their milk kept being used it before the end of the day. The culprits were caught as they spat their tea out in the bin. They were then asked to pay for all the milk they had “allegedly” taken and were branded thieves.

I also thought of a sequel to Magic Pockets, Stealing Milk, but I’ll leave that for another time. 30 minutes remaining till hell melts…