Out there, is sea
spaghetti. It’s a seaweed that resembles a dark green cooked spaghetti, and can
be eaten as such. It is wild, organic, salty, tangled in the dark depths. It’s
free range.
===
It was revealed to me in a dream-
there is a hole in the ground, deep. It is night time. Stood looking down into
the hole is my father and an associate; a younger man, very tall, in a denim
shirt, who is smoking. My father decides something about the hole, reaches into
his jacket and pulls out a little revolver. He passes the gun to his associate,
who languidly aims the barrel into the hole. That’s when I see what looks
strange for a moment; eight pale emergences, grubs or worms? No- they are
fingertips, just visible over the rim of the hole, the hole must be very
deep, deeper than a man with his arms stretched up high above his head. These
are the fingertips of a man who isn’t using his arms to climb out of the hole,
or dig the hole, but he could’ve been doing that until he saw the gun- those
are the fingertips of a man begging for his life, his hands high above his
head.
===
“Land mate” the ancient creature
gasps. “know what done?” it’s eyes roll above the course of the waves, raking
the sky, settling on Jacques. “know what done á eternity?” A plume of salty,
bloody mist shoots out of its blowhole. A guttural rumble echoes through its
throat. “brothers once, broke now. Eternity- halved! Oh…p…pain!” the creatures
eyes roll fast into its head, as the bulk of its body begins to rise to float dead
on the surface. “know what done- no! no…” a crewman comes besides Jacques with
a marking flag on a harpoon, which he throws at the dead beast. “plenty a’ meat
on that ‘un”, he tells Jacques.
===
Joey Tribiani looks out the floor to ceiling windows. It’s raining at
night in the city; he wears a dressing gown and swirls his brandy in its glass.
His voice drifts from the television, as he plays a vhs of days of our lives,
featuring himself as Dr Drake Ramoray. Lightning illuminates his apartment,
overfilled with expensive sculptures, for an instant. He stares down at the
vehicle filled streets, and utters “I piss on you from a height, and tell you
it’s rain.” He swigs his liquor, turning away. “and you all believe me.”
Under the floorboards Matt le Blanc’s skeleton rests.
===
"Thanks
NHS!" He screams, his finger pulling so hard on the trigger of the assault
rifle his fingernails go paper white, a blitzkrieg of bullets vaporizing the
ward hallway and all in it. Sweat rolls off of him. "Protect the
NHS!" he feverishly yells, smashing office windows in the childrens ward
with the butt of the gun; he realises its out of ammo and drops it in favor of
two pistols, which he shoots without aiming, randomly, at patients, doctors, nurses,
porters... He stops for a moment, screams and moans and alarm bells finally
audible with no gunfire. He whispers, "clap for carers," and pulls
the pin on the grenade, clutching it tightly to his chest.
===
"Oh
goody! You're awake, we can watch Downton Abbey!" He starts doing an
excited little jig. You reel around in confusion. "who- who are
you?!" you demand. He stops to regard you, head cocked, arms by his sides,
smiling. "Me? Why, I'm Delighted!" Sweating and breathless, you look
around. You are surrounded by desert.
===
Kennedy is bored but waves anyway as the motorcade trundles on- and then
stops. Everything stops. Birds hang in the sky. The crowd is frozen in cheer,
the car not moving, even Jackie next to him is glassy, solid, unmoving.
“Hello.” He turns- crouched on the back of the car is Dewey Wilkerson, the
youngest brother from Malcolm in the Middle, portrayed by Erik Per Sullivan.
Though just a young boy, Kennedy is startled silent by an overpowering sense of
omnipotence. “This is already written.” Dewey lifts his left hand in the air,
in front of JFKs face. “I’m sorry. There’s no choice. It’ll make sense in a
century. But-“ he gently touches JFKs forehead, causing it to explode.
Dewey disappears
Time unfreezes
Jackie Kennedy is sprayed with her husband’s, the president’s, brains.
===
You are Fuller from Home Alone. On the night before your family goes to
Paris for Christmas, you drink a Pepsi, knowing that it makes you wet the bed
and that you have to share a bed with Kevin that night. You smile at him across
the room.
You are woken up in the night by a scraggly figure struggling to breathe
in the room. You find your glasses and look. It is Macaulay caulkin aged 28. He
catches his breath, then tells you “this night changes absolutely everything...
every atom... every choice...” he looks hard at you, his unshaven and lined
face a mask, his long blond hair like straw. He inhales and disappears as he
reaches out to your cheek.
Your bed is soaked in piss because you drank a Pepsi earlier.
===
Boris Johnson leans against the wall in the dark and exhales his
cigarette smoke. He lets his head hang back. He's tired. "So, what did you
think?" Quampf looks at him with his one eye. Before Quampf can say
anything, he sneezes out his other liver. He doesn't care, and soon replies
anyway; "QUAMPF!!!!" Johnson smiles. "Thanks buddy. You've been
a great help." "QUAMPF!!!!!" Quampf makes an obscure gesture
with his stubby green arms. "I know. I know."
"QUAMPF!!!!"
===
You
pick the juniper berries off of the prickly twig. ‘Delightful.’ You gently take
your huge hairy form through your Forest home. ‘It is good to be alive’ you
think, and hum an ancient Sasquatch song to yourself. Then you see it- a human!
You’re so excited, it’s been over a century! You clear your throat; you hope
they still speak French. It looks a little rattled... what’s that metal thing
in its paw?
===
you're getting
sick of Eblfetz daemon of the rot crashing at your place, eating all your
cereal and watching cartoons all day. you sit on the sofa and pick up the remote.
"put on Garfield" he says through a mouthful of coco pops, "or
i'll make you Garfield." You sigh, cycling through the channels.
"It's not on" you say. "I-I h-hate M-Mondays" you say.
"L-l-l-l-l-lasa- lasagna" you say.
===
You are walking
on your ancestral lands. It's mid-morning, so the desert sun is building up to
searing, but the occasional rocky shade is cool and clean. "<gentle,
tigre,>" you say to your dog in Diné. You follow the ancient path down
around a rocky carapace, humming a Navajo tune to yourself. The cacti come in
to view, dusty and wind battered. Tigre stiffens, and you notice a few
footprints in the dust. You unshoulder your rifle, and creep further among the
cacti, and finally see him. A white guy with a beard is naked, on a yoga mat,
holding his big toes with his legs stretched wide and his asshole pointed at
the sun. He has a classic 'tribal' design bicep tattoo, and also a tattoo of a
dreamcatcher. He sees you, and says "my dude! Morning! Just gotta absorb
some of that sunlight dude! Gotta sunbathe my perineum!" You think about
shooting him with the rifle but beat him to death with the rifle butt instead.
===
They have him
cornered. "Make him say the shibboleth." One of them steps forward
and unbuckles his holster. "Say 'telephone.'" The man breaks into a
sweat. "te...tell.... teleRAG N' BONE!!!" No sooner has he said it
than the little device is pointed at his head. "please no! don't send me
back to the zone!" But it's too late, they press the button on the
anti-cockney device and send the cockney back to cockneyland.
===
You get home upset and run to your room crying. You bury your Face in
your pillow and think of all the problems that would be solved if only you had
that big Mack truck.
Your mother starts to go upstairs to comfort you, but your father grabs
her arm.
“Leave him ma, leave him to think about that big Mack truck.”
He emerges from
the shore. Tangled in bladderwrack and kelp, covered in whelks and wriggling
things, his moustache green. From his clothes, his hat, we can see that he is a
19th century Italian peasant. The seaside town freezes, as everyone
stares, their mouths agape as he makes his way up the mainstreet.
He sits outside a
restaurant, crosses his legs, and picks up a menu. He studies it, then puts it
down shocked. “Spaghetti… from the land… Land Spaghetti?!”
