Sole trader Christmas party

December 18, 2012 at 5:48 am | Posted in Short Story | 2 Comments
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Graham Christmas Small

You put these parties on and people make a mockery of them …

I work alone from my home office. Running your own business is great, but it can make you a bit paranoid.

Last year was tough and, as my only employee, I really carried the can.

When December came, I felt a party was needed to reward effort and boost morale.


I asked for volunteers to form a committee. Naturally, I was the only one who gave a damn. After squabbling over the budget, I decided not to allow partners.

I couldn’t agree on a venue, so opted to have the party at the office. I did the invite myself, after the printer said he couldn’t be bothered with such a small run.

The name tags didn’t take long either.

The RSVPs came back straight away, with 100% acceptance. I took it as a good omen.

I ordered light beer (someone had to look out for company liability) and a variety of appetisers. Even those horrible spurty asparagus vol-au-vents that burn your mouth.

I sourced a Portaloo in case there was a queue.

Anyone who’s organised a party knows what a time-consuming and thankless task it is. My sole reward for chairing the committee was that I got to choose where I sat.


I’d booked a limo for the night, but was the only one to cough up his share. It cost a fortune, since some idiot got the address wrong.

I arrived late because I didn’t want to be uncool. Even so, the cook, waiter, barman and DJ were the only people present. They seemed to be having a pretty good time.

The smoke, strobes and balloons were disorienting. I put up with it, recalling that I too had been young once. I’d authorised a taxi voucher, so I figured it was safe to have a tipple.

The barman gave me a drink with a funny name. It didn’t taste like beer, wine or orange juice.

The theme was Fun with Fur. I was disappointed when I saw another koala in the bathroom. Whoever it was must have also been upset, since they stayed there all night and wouldn’t talk to me.

The DJ refused to play my request, so I went outside to join the party games. I might be the boss, but I’m not aloof.

The limbo competition was a dead loss and blind man’s bluff took forever, but I won every other event except the three legged race (there were odd numbers).

The dinner was fine, though the Christmas crackers were impossible and some prankster rearranged the name cards. I ordered chicken but got beef and no one would swap. That’s gratitude!

In my speech I thanked everyone for coming. Despite having the best sales figures, I didn’t get a bonus; I’m so tight.

I did a quick change into Santa; I don’t think anyone realised it was me. Kris Kringle was a giveaway, but at least I got what I wanted. I even won the door prize.

The dessert wafers were so small, the waiter put two of them straight on my tongue. I left the party an hour later so as not to cramp my style.

Once I was gone, I really cut loose.

I did a skit taking the piss out of the boss. No one laughed – out of respect I guess. When the DJ played Time Warp and Nutbush City Limits, everyone danced in time.

I fired up the jukebox when the DJ left, but someone chose the same song seven times. I quite like the Nolan Sisters, but I felt for those who didn’t.

I tried a conga line but it didn’t catch on, so I grabbed the company video camera.

I couldn’t find anyone to film except the koala in the bathroom, who also happened to be filming.

When the hired help had gone, I went outside for a ciggie. No one would let me back in and I had to smash a window. The cops came; then the fire brigade.

Some fool had butted out on my tree fern.

At least there were no gate crashers.


Now I always front for work no matter how much I’ve drunk but I almost couldn’t face myself the next morning.

No one offered to help clean up and the only bright moment was when a bunch of thank-you flowers came.

You put these parties on and people make a mockery of them. Next year someone else can organise the damn thing.

Come to think of it, I might even take myself off the guest list!


Brought to you by Imagine Day the book.


Bride Sniping

November 22, 2009 at 6:53 pm | Posted in Short Story | 4 Comments
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Marty did not want to hand in his gun.

Marty cradled the Ruger Sportsman lovingly, Circassian walnut cool against his cheek. In the lush park below, a puff of earth appeared beside the carved fairy tree.

Deidre gathered his grimy jacket around her knees. ‘Jesus Marty, can we go now? You said “one shot” – that’s three! I’m cold, and we’re going to get caught if we stay any longer!’

Counting to ten in Latin, Marty laid his weapon with exaggerated care on its carry sheath and faced his girlfriend. She looked away as he stroked her bra strap, then put her hand over his. Marty slid his fingers around her throat, his voice quiet and measured.

‘You insisted on coming, remember? I explained to you in detail the importance of today’s exercise. You said you understood my pain and would support me during this difficult time. I’m almost finished. You can either stand by me…’

‘Or what?’ Deidre plucked at his iron grip, tears welling.

Marty stilled and his eyes clouded.

She shuddered. ‘OK baby, I’ll support you. I’ll wait. I’m sorry.’

He endorsed her capitulation with one look and returned to the business of the day. Taking a cloth from his bag, he carefully wiped his hands then pressed them to his face, exhaling slowly.

New laws would soon separate him from his beautiful machine. After agonising deliberation, he’d decided not to seal it in his bedroom wall. Though the risk was slim, discovery would mean jail and he wasn’t going back there for anything.

Settling face down into the travel rug, Marty clutched his rifle and peered past the air conditioning units. The barren roof of the office tower was deserted, as it had been since dawn. Deidre curled into a ball between his splayed legs, warming them pleasantly.

He breathed carefully: in while looking away and out with each return to the sight. Gradually his concentration returned, along with the sense of solemnity he desired.


The Fitzroy Gardens are a paradise for brides: rolling meadows, mighty avenues, follies and ponds. Dozens marry there each year. Hundreds more come for photographs. As a consequence, the gardens have become Melbourne’s premier bride sniping ground.

It began during the recession. Intersections filled with menacing youths, smearing car windscreens with jagged rubber devices. Oblivious to protest, they extracted change from red-light maroons, then fled before two-minute tides.

With the traffic-light market quickly cornered, the poor had to seek alternatives. One Saturday, a dishevelled woman approached a regal bride at the end of her photo session.

‘I’ve just taken two dozen behind-the-scenes shots of your lovely party.’ The dishevelled woman produced a film from her battered Pentax.

The bride regarded her sternly. ‘Yes, I saw you. I wondered why you were creeping around in the bushes like that.’

‘They’re yours for twenty bucks.’

An excited bridesmaid scampered up. ‘What’d you get?’

‘Oh, the best man tripping over the Esky; you pinning the broken strap; the chauffeur pinching a champagne. That sort of thing.’

‘And you want twenty?’


The bridesmaid fished a note from her purse and traded it for the roll, which she pressed into her sister’s gloved hand.

‘Present, babe; from me. Who knows? Some of them might be ace. And what’s twenty bucks on your wedding day?’

‘Too right,’ beamed Melbourne’s first bride sniper, before darting away.

The craze spread like wildfire. From Collins Place to the steps of Parliament, photo sessions were plagued. Canny snipers raided opportunity shops for frocks and morning coats. Thus camouflaged, they became the bane of professional photographers.

Police were disempowered after early arrests led to lawsuits from snap-happy relatives (whose only crime was poor dress). Composition went out the window, ruined by strangers in frayed formal clothing – leaping, grinning and holding ancient cameras aloft to capture every Special Moment.


Martin Banff had been a bride sniper. An honours degree in arts had earned him only a brutal factory job. Desperate for a better life, he took a redundancy package and failed miserably in a lawn mowing franchise – flogging his recalcitrant ride-on to death in a hailstorm.

He next tried pizza delivery, only to be savaged by the wolfhound of an incautious pensioner.

Too proud for the dole, Martin decided to use his expensive Canon rather than pawn it. He targeted an early morning wedding in his best suit and was immediately arrested. He was the first victim of bridal party fight-back, in which family friends pointed out unfamiliar faces to hired guards (who checked identities before calling police).

Martin was given the option of prison or a fine. Too ashamed to contact anyone, he chose incarceration.

On his last morning, four assemblies of sweat, tattoos and missing teeth held him down while a fifth went sloppily last. Marty’s atrophied personality shattered. He returned to society with only mismatched shards. And the human immunovirus.

He secured a cleaning job and a paper round. He rented the cheapest flat. He saved. A disinterested member of his father’s shooting club for years, he started honing his skills with the weapon he’d received for his eighteenth birthday.

He grew to understand and respect it. Then he fell in love with its latent power and began polishing it behind bent venetians in a nightly ritual of obeisance.

He picked up a girl at an early opener pub and told her he was infected. She didn’t care. A fragment of his former self insisted on condoms. Each night Marty sat smoking in the shadow of his rusty balcony – watching tar-bound trees and car parts and vowing revenge on those responsible for his heinous prison experience.

But before his ideas could crystallise, Tasmania’s Port Arthur massacre triggered a revolution in gun laws.

Marty had neither the time nor the resources to identify his targets. Morose and irritable, he spent hours with his rifle, bitter that their brief affair was almost over. Like meeting the perfect girl on school holidays and knowing he’d never see her again, Marty decided to make the most of his remaining time.

The Ruger was beautiful. Sleek and compact, its oil sheen was a potent pheromone to the fluttering thing in Marty’s brain. Cool even in summer, the blued steel clove to his face whenever he sighted: at the television, the toaster, a neighbour’s silhouette or the pulsing temple of his sleeping girlfriend.

Each leapt large in the powerful scope, free from fetter and his to dandle without interference.

He did not want to hand in his gun.


Marty took a sick day on the last Friday of the amnesty. Restless and depressed, he hired Lawrence of Arabia, again. For the seventh time he watched Peter O’Toole stagger from Turkish headquarters, beaten and raped almost to death.

Later came Marty’s favourite scene. Mounted on a white stallion, beneath the disapproving glare of Omar Sheriff, Lawrence regarded a fleeing enemy column and screamed with spittle-flecked mouth and wild eyes, ‘No prisoners! No prisoners!’ Unable to resist his passion and conviction, his entire army joined him in massacre.

Marty brooded in the gathering darkness. Lawrence’s tormentors hadn’t been part of the column. Yet his revenge had been absolute. Perhaps the death of any bride would grant Marty the catharsis he craved. One shot, one life – and goodbye to his lovely, lovely Ruger.

The following day was Saturday; the office building he cleaned nightly would be deserted. The roof overlooked the place where he’d been arrested.


Marty pocketed his jeweller’s screwdriver. The scope had taken a knock during the fifteen-flight ascent. Nerves were doubtless interfering as well. After this last adjustment, however, he was confident of accuracy.

He panned to a grove of elms, far from grey suits and gay dresses. Pale leaflets trembled in a gentle breeze.

The possums lay curled together like caterpillars. Marty selected an old, grey male. With a harsh PFFFTT! the bullet rocketed from the Ruger’s silencer. Marty observed the distant impact and the insane scramble of bloodied, sunblind animals. The sight was fine.

The bride was tall with sharp cheekbones and almost horsy teeth. She was handsome rather than beautiful; features to last long after pretty faces had gone to pot. Marty watched her laugh and converse with her entourage.

The rotunda ceremony had been brief; now champagne sparkled. The solid groom stood next to his wife, arm round her waist as if to stop her growing any taller.

Licking his lips, Marty settled his crosshairs over the woman’s heart. Her décolletage rose and fell. Abruptly, she stooped to kiss an elderly man – the father-in-law, if size ran. Marty switched aim to the back of her head. Annoyingly, she then left the rotunda to embrace a knot of friends.

Marty regarded his gun and suppressed a choke of sorrow. Behind him, Deidre snored softly. Sunshine streamed onto his unruly hair, the effect mildly intoxicating. First it heightened his sense of loss. Then, as he basked, it made him feel light-headed; even reckless.

The week had been serious and depressing. Now he was safe in his hiding place. His would be the first crime of its kind in Australia. Surprise guaranteed escape. Could he not have a little fun before consigning the Sportsman to destruction?

With mounting excitement, Marty targeted the groom’s champagne glass. How tempting to take it out first, just to spice things up. He grinned, then gasped as the flute exploded into a cloud of particles. His mouth fell open.

‘What the F*CK?’

He checked the safety, which he’d applied automatically on taking out the possum. He looked at the crowd. There was consternation, but not panic; the groom was uninjured. Had he gripped the glass that tightly? Marty shook his head at the coincidence then rose to his knees and stretched – scanning the horizon to refresh his eye.

Deidre murmured a sleepy protest and pulled a corner of the rug over herself. To his right, Marty noticed a breath of steam drifting from a pipe in the neighbouring roof’s air conditioner. Eyes wide with disbelief, he crouched back into cover and levelled his binoculars at the pipe, just in time to see it withdraw.

He wrenched his gaze back to the wedding party. The bride lay among bent heads, carmine blooming rapidly on her breast.

Stunned, Marty turned to see a dark figure sprinting to the stairwell. Through blinding rage he brought his weapon to bear on the fleeing assassin who had stolen his idea and ruined his revenge. Leading slightly and allowing for the breeze, Marty fired.

And missed.

The round smashed into a louvered window, echoing loudly. The figure dropped, rolled and came up scanning for the source of attack. Marty froze, monitoring his target’s fervent search. From St Vincent’s Hospital came the wail of ambulances.

Concentrating on his opponent’s next move, Marty tried to ignore a strange flicker of light playing over the opposite roof. Then the sun dazzled him and the penny dropped. The scope! Its caps were off! Marty lowered his weapon in panic and the reflection flicked over the face of Bruno De Souza, who immediately fired at the sparkling source.

The bullet slammed into Marty’s cover, releasing a vicious jet of coolant. Deidre sprang in terror from the screaming plume. Bruno saw her vault and was surprised at her sex. Without hesitation he drilled three rounds into her body, cocked his head toward the sirens and reached for the door to safety.

Marty stared aghast at Deidre’s broken form, then took fresh aim. Bruno’s headless corpse tumbled heavily down two flights before slithering to a halt.

The police helicopter descended, wheeling angrily at Marty’s pot shots. Marty knew that Special Operations would be along shortly. He snapped in a fresh clip of ammunition and looked back at the gardens.

A brace of gleaming limousines had just arrived for a shoot.

Two Thieves

September 21, 2009 at 8:01 am | Posted in Short Story | 2 Comments
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Today I learned to be wary of heroin addicts who hum along to Indian devotional music, and doe-eyed temptresses who bemoan the size of their breasts. For today, unless I am gravely mistaken, representatives from these singular demographics ripped off the handicraft shop at which I work.

The day had been quiet and pleasant, until a diminutive humanoid stepped past the caneware. The straps of her mismatched gym wear rode like tendons over her emaciated frame, binding her together.

I was certain I’d seen her before – in a colour-coded dissecting manual. Her eyes were tar-black and crossed. Her jagged teeth jutted. Three meagre sprays of greasy hair sprouted from terry towelling scrunchies; brown, smeared with molybdenum grey.


It talked. I gripped the banister and stared from the mezzanine. Her face twisted up in salutation, her good eye boring into me.

‘Good, thanks.’ Alarm bells shrilled. Druggie! Thief! Flipper! Though the costume was unique, the demeanour was familiar. I recalled previous dealings with the dispossessed and my manager’s insistent advice: ‘You can spot them. They’re over-friendly. They don’t stop talking. They cart you all over the shop until another customer distracts you; then they strike.’

Yet this woman was tiny. And we’d hidden the Thai sword after the terrifying Christmas incident. I was free to watch her every move. So why was my heart racing?




‘Really?’ My wooden words tumbled like blocks. What was she after? Her hands were spiders, scampering lightly and at speed over the stock.

Then she picked out a carved box and held it towards me. ‘Where’sthismade, darl?’

Her face got me. Suddenly, the drug addict was gone. In its place, a pathetically disabled woman, with no friends, no government support and nothing to do all day but seek contact with strangers.

I saw freckles, and echoes of what she once looked like. Privileged and whole, who was I to judge? Flayed with Catholic guilt, I pompously granted her the benefit of the doubt.

I lengthened my answers to her ceaseless questions. She was looking for a present. Pay day (pension day?) was Thursday; she’d come back then. She wanted to find a nice wooden box. Maybe for some tarot cards. What did I think? Did I know the tarot? Where could you buy tarot? Could you get lessons? What about runes; what were they about? Did I know? She didn’t believe in them, but you never knew, did you? Still, a nice box was always nice, wasn’t it? She could get one of those even if she didn’t get the cards, couldn’t she? How big were tarot cards anyway? Oh, so there were different sizes, were there? Should she get some cards first, to make sure they fitted the box?

And so on. I listened and responded as a community service. My good deed. Keeping up with her was draining and I willed her from the shop with all my might.

Finally, she completed her obsessive examination of everything downstairs and mounted the mezzanine. As she passed the register, she threw yet another inquiry over her bony shoulder. It was only after answering that I thought I detected a faint change in her tone.


‘Paul.’ I tasted where the word had been, feeling like it had been plucked from my tongue. I shot back clumsily. ‘What’s yours?’

Again the friendly, lopsided grin. ‘Ronnie.’

Great. So that was the name I’d give to the cops if something went missing? Mistrust raised its hand from the back of my class.

‘Geez, yerdoin the right thing with this jewellery, with the glassanall. Otherwise people’d comeinere an pinch the lot.’

Surely this was proof she was testing the water. I decided to frighten her. ‘Yeah, we get a lot of thieves in here. Once we caught a woman trying to stuff a dress down her underpants. She said she was “trying it on”. Then she stood outside and begged from passers by until she had enough money to buy it.’

‘Geez, I’m surprised ya didn’t call the cops.’

Touché. Slippery bitch. That was it; she was gearing up for a hit. I resolved to stop her.

Then came the humming.

We play music from the countries in which our goods are crafted. I had on my 16th Century Indian chants. On quitting the jewellery cabinet for the clothing racks, Ronnie’s fingering became even more intricate and exaggerated.

She muttered comments, stood on tiptoe, peered intently, nodded to herself and hummed along with the sitar. The sound was awful, her tuneless drone spectacularly out of sync with music she could not possibly have known. Yet she persisted. And it grated.

At last there was nothing left to explore. She approached the counter, her wretched face wreathed in an oily smile. ‘Gottapen, darl?’


‘I juswanna getta few prices down, ferwhen I come back.’

Yeah. Sure. I leaned back to witness the pantomime. It began where she had – the front of the shop. I winced. Christ, she was going to do the grand tour again! This time taking notes!

I had nothing on her. All I could do was watch, wait, and listen to her murder my music. Ten agonising minutes later, three school girls breezed in like a cool change. Ronnie looked up sharply, straight into my eyes. The kids can take what they want, Ronnie, but you shall have nothing! She crouched over a pile of rugs. Her paper bag cleavage sagged open, incongruously large on her wiry frame.

The sheer sadness of the ploy, if it were one, almost made me look away. Then the giggling girls sought my attention. I spun abruptly. Yes they could try on the f*cking sarongs. As I looked back, Ronnie’s scoop-necked leotard slapped back into place.

She stood and turned, her attitude subtly different. I spotted the faint lump between her breasts. The fruit of her labour. My pulse leapt and I swallowed. A thief in the shop! With the goods still on her! Apprehend her this instant! Go!

I stalled, terrified. I hadn’t actually seen the act itself. What if I were wrong? What if it were a… a tumour on her chest? How would I confront her? What were the rules of citizen’s arrest? Would I be able to hold her captive and call the cops? How long would they take? What if she were armed? With a blood-filled syringe? Would the neighbours help? Was her boyfriend outside? Oh Jesus! I can’t do it!’

Ronnie continued her tour of the stock, though with markedly less interest. It was time to get out. I stayed safe behind the register and plied her with a coward’s shower of questions, hoping she’d take fright. But she did not. Talking and humming, she paced herself magnificently, manoeuvring ever so slowly towards the door.

‘Thanks, I’ll seeya Thursday.’

In despair, I tried oblique guilt and answered sweetly. ‘OK Ronnie, see you then. Have a lovely day.’ Even then I stopped short of ‘God be with you.’

My harmless missiles fell at her feet and she slid outside, stopping to examine one last thing. A back scratcher. For a long time, she studiously dragged the bamboo claws across her mottled flesh; luxuriating in her triumph. Or just itchy.

I tore down the stairs. Eight hand-tooled candles stood mute on the shelf. Had there been nine? Would that I had counted them that morning. The size seemed about right for Ronnie’s lump. I mitigated my guilt with the shaky affirmation that she’d taken forty minutes to steal a mere $2.95.

Plodding back to my station, I regarded the fresh-faced school girls. For all I knew, their capacious school bags were stuffed with loot. I assumed a position of vigilance, methodically casting my gaze to every corner of the premises.

The fringed face of a young female materialised suddenly in the street window. She peered intently into the shop, her body shrouded by glancing reflections of afternoon sun. On spotting me, her small mouth dropped open and she squinted. Then she was gone.

Minutes later, she was back. Like a vixen at a bait, she crept tentatively into the shop. Her voice was hushed and secretive. ‘Where’s the… other girl… the dark one?’

‘She’s working tomorrow.’ Immediately I scolded myself for revealing information without reason.

The girl approached my counter and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘She… yelled at me.’ Her blue saucer eyes stared at length past her flaxen fringe. Then she drew back with a solemn nod, as if having imparted a critical truth.

‘Really?’ The warning bells sounded again. But this time my visitor had identified herself. The “other girl” was Rachel, who only ever lost it with thieves and threatening customers. After the debacle with Ronnie, I was in no mood to suffer either. ‘What happened?’

‘She… yelled at me.’

‘So you said. Why was that, do you think?’

The girl shook her head, hands splayed out in patent bewilderment. ‘I don’t know. She just…’

Yelled at you.’

Yes. That’s right. It was awful.’

The voice belonged to Marilyn Monroe. Perhaps the girl was insane? This thought angered me, because it clouded the issue. Could Rachel have misinterpreted her behaviour? I was gripped by uncertainly, bane of the reasonable. ‘Well, the other girl rarely loses her temper, it must have been…’

‘Oh please don’t talk about her! Look at me, I’m… I’m trembling.’

She fled to the clothing racks, patting her chest and hyperventilating. I began to think that eleven bucks an hour was a little lean for this sort of shit. Of course it was a stunt. But what if she were truly deranged? I shut up and watched. She calmed down and began sorting through the designer section.

‘Can I try these on?’

She held three garments aloft. I counted the hangars. Twice. There was no way she was going to make off with one of these.

‘Sure, use the left cubicle.’ The closest to the counter.

She took a long, long time. Customers came and went, receiving indifferent service as I kept my eyes on the girl’s ankles, moving mysteriously below the tattered curtain.

Finally she emerged, wearing the most expensive dress in the shop. It was a stunning, aquamarine creation with a lace up bodice. The sort of thing Tinkerbell would wear to the Hilton. Sequins sparkled from the hem, which cascaded in petals to the floor.

Gaily the girl pirouetted and studied herself in the mirror. ‘I love this dress.’

She looked fantastic. I tried to close the sale. ‘Many have tried, but no one has ever managed to make it fit.’

She slid her hands slowly over her breasts. ‘It’s a pity I’m a bit too big up top, don’t you think?’

I looked at her eyes, immune to her seductive pose. Though light years away from Ronnie in terms of technique, she too was seeking to beguile me, perhaps even turn me to stone. Well, I’d fix her.

‘My girlfriend has the same figure as you. She wears Elle MacPherson Intimates. The effect is stunning in dresses like that.’

A shadow crossed her face and she flattened her lilting voice. ‘Really?’ Abruptly she re-entered the cubicle. And lingered long.

To my astonishment, she returned two dresses to the rack and handed me the third.

‘Do you have Eftpos?’

‘Absolutely.’ I took the card. Sylvia Jeffries. A sale instead of a loss. I’d won. No matter that she’d yielded solely to quell my suspicion until her next attempt. She would find me just as vigilant next time.

The Eftpos machine said ‘damaged card’. I swiped until it took, extracted money from Sylvia Jeffries and wished her the most pleasant of evenings. She took her defeat like a pro.

Now I was humming to Indian music – in the correct key. It was time to close up. I tidied the clothes racks and checked the cubicles.

The empty hangar mocked me with great mirth.

It spoke of an exquisite $215 slip dress, concealed between the twice-counted garments Sylvia Jeffries had carried carefully into her cubicle.

Filigreed plastic speared into my palm as I destroyed the evidence of my second failure. It could have been the schoolgirls, but I think not.

Crazy, Drug-F*cked Thieves:                                     2.

Degree-Qualified Former Personnel Manager:   0.

The Story of Slasher

September 19, 2009 at 10:20 am | Posted in Song | Leave a comment
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Any minor twelve bar blues progression will do, as long as it's fast.

Any minor twelve bar blues progression will do, as long as it's fast.

I’ve got a story, just for you,

about a girl that I once knew,

A girl born under a harvest moon,

in the house of Mars on the cusp of June.

The whole town got a nasty fright,

when Slasher’s birth scream split the night.


She grew up fast on the family farm,

long of leg and strong of arm,

And when her father’s tractor broke,

he harnessed Slasher to the yoke,

And downing raw meat, eggs and beers,

she ploughed those fields for eleven years.


When she turned twelve, as a special treat,

her dad let Slasher cut the meat

Of a cow he’d killed for her birthday,

to celebrate at a party gay,

But as Slasher slowly took the knife,

something snapped, and changed her life.


Deep within an evil streak,

bitter bile began to leak.

Sick of slaving all her life,

she killed her dad, and then his wife.

At the age of twelve, she stood and swore,

unholy faith to blood and gore.


Chorus 1  (fortissimo)

 Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher,

She cut off their heads and shoved them down her neck.


She’d chopped her parents into bits,

because they’d given her the shits.

When she was done, she gave a roar: 

‘I like meat, and I want more!’

So gulping the last pieces down,

she, and her knife, set off for town.


On the way, her pet dog, Stan,

bounded up and licked her hand.

She felled him with a fatal blow

and disemboweled him, top to toe,

While Frank, the postman at the gate,

met with the same grisly fate.


Just out of town there was a shack,

where lived a pensioner named Jack.

He was a gentle, kindly bloke,

who died at Slasher’s second stroke.

And with her hunger barely spent,

into town Slasher went.


She feasted hard, she feasted long,

on limb and brain, heart and schlong.

Then up into the hills she fled,

and in a dark cave made her bed

And once a month, for nine long years,

she fed on grown-ups, kids and beer.


Chorus 1


One night, Mars eclipsed the moon,

and all the good townspeople knew

That with the dawning of the sun,

Slasher would turn twenty-one

And though it caused and awful rift,

they chose among themselves a gift.


A boy with hair as black as night,

complexion fair and body tight

Was stripped and scrubbed with sacred soap,

and tightly bound with golden rope.

Then, creeping with the stealth of mice,

the people left their sacrifice.


On her birthday, Slasher stirred,

and took the boy without a word.

As she prepared herself to feed,

she caught his eye, and felt a need

That hitherto she had not known,

the seeds of love had just been sown.


‘Young boy, will you marry me? 

We’ll live in filth, beside the sea.

I’ll catch people, you’ll catch fish,

and I’ll fulfill your every wish.

And look!  To show you how I’m fond,

I’ve loosened all your golden bonds.’


When he was free the boy stood tall

and grabbed her knife from off the wall.

He plunged it in her beating heart,

and then the blood began to start.

It flowed ’til half past six that night,

when, at the climax of their fight:


Chorus 2  (fortissimo)

Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher, Slasher,

He cut off her head and shoved it down her neck.

Brad is Good at Everything

September 9, 2009 at 3:09 pm | Posted in Song | Leave a comment
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Vengeance: chill before serving.

Vengeance: chill before serving.

Brad is good at everything,

he is a natural athlete.

Alas, not me, I’m unco;

I’m slow and I’ve got flat feet.

With bat and ball and stick and hole,

he’s accurate and lithe.

All I can do is fumble,

take stupid punts and writhe, because

Brad, Brad is good at everything.

Brad, Brad is good at every f*cking thing.

Brad, Brad is good at everything.

Brad is good at everything.

The sports field is Brad’s kingdom,

be it Astroturf or tar.

He rules the skill-based firmament,

his every shot a star.

But harder yet than this

for the mediocre horde,

His prowess transfers seamlessly

from open space to board.

Games of thought and strategy

Brad masters and, you guessed it,

He just beat me at f*cking chess;

my button – Brad has pressed it.

So now he lies trussed at my feet,

my blade poised o’er his heart.

If Brad is good at begging,

he’d better make a start.

Brought to you by The Feisty Empire.

Crazy Comrade

August 30, 2009 at 10:03 am | Posted in Song | Leave a comment
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
The Author on a fact-finding mission, somewhere in Russia.

The Author on a fact-finding mission,
somewhere in Russia.

Contrary to appearances, this is the most complex of all my sung stories. Drawing heavily from the works of Alexander Solzhenitsyn, it is a love song of the most desperate kind, as sung by a prisoner of a dystopian Communist state.

Each line is both an attempt to distil one characteristic of the system and a specific affirmation of love as an all-conquering force.

[Sing with a heavy Russian accent, to the tune of Wild Thing by The Troggs]

Crazy comrade,

You make my sentence appear shorter.

You make everything politically expedient.

Oh crazy comrade.

Crazy comrade, I think I won’t inform my superiors of your subversive activities.

But I may still break under torture.

Come on and share this rotting turnip with me.

I queued for three days to get it. Yeah!

Crazy comrade,

You make salt mine work less arduous.

You make everything less painful.

Oh crazy comrade.

Crazy comrade, I think I can mend your tractor.

But I must travel to Minsk to barter for a fan belt.

Come on and drink this toxic potato liquor with me.

We have twenty minutes to curfew.


[Rock out.]

Brought to you by The Feisty Empire.

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