Welcome to Acerbia; population: π
This is the archive of the many and fabulous adventures of . Like a hard-bitten son of Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius taught to write by William S. Burroughs; continually reincarnated, debated over by intellectuals and literati at cocktail parties the author can't get invited to, the target of scorn and ire from women everywhere, frequently mistaken for a former member of the Warsaw pact, named after the Italian explorer Giuseppe Acerbi, slowly rewriting the Book of Cataclysm, this is postmodern fiction at its most playful and creative.
You Eyeballin' Me?
When we entered Blinky, the Vietnamese Stickleback Standoffish into Pet Showdown 2005 (the domesticated animal staring competition equivalent of Crufts) we had no idea the competition would be so tough!
Preliminary qualification rounds were won against such lightweights as a cageful of Peruvian Middledistance-staring Cavies and a Madagascar Unwavering Tortoise, which tried to outlive Blinky by a few hundred years but the round only lasted the obligatory hour and Blinky won on points. We were then moved into the eliminatory sixteen and Blinky started to really show his talent.
Our first match against a Short-haired Wired Pug lasted as long as it took for steam to start coming out of the pug's ears. It transpired that the owner had injected pure caffeine into the pug's bloodstream and the pug was rigid with a caffeine overdose. It was taken straight to the Taster's Choice Rehab Clinic and the owner was blacklisted from all future events, I recognised him as the cabbie who had diverted me to an illegal pet-fight club the year before.
The next match was against a Norwegian Blue Parrot with lovely plumage and we stood behind Blinky's bowl trying to psyche-out the parrot but its unwavering glassy-eyed stare belied the truth. Not only was it dead and stuffed but also the eyes had been replaced with glass ones; another disqualification. A complaint was filed with the shop the parrot had been bought from in Bolton and the bird was returned to Norway to prevent further pining.
Through dangers untold, and hardships unnumbered Blinky made it through to the final. Few judges had ever seen such a well-trained Vietnamese Stickleback Standoffish and it was rare for their attention to remain focused on anything for so long. I put it down to the sheer variety of pets that had been brought along to the competition this year, there were Saharan Hypnotic Pythons, Homebred Evil-glare Hamsters, Iranian Bug-eyed Cockroaches, Thousand-yard Schnauzers and last year's champion Perspicacious Stu the Seeing Eye Dog who lost out in the semis.
We hadn't been paying close attention to the other contestant for the final, we knew there was something very special about it though and silence descended over the exhibition hall as we placed Blinky's bowl down onto the table. In walked our opponent.
Prunella Watts placed Brookesia, the Cock-eyed Optical Illusion Cameleon, across the table from Blinky and said one word; "win". Within seconds her pet had blended into the tabletop and beads of sweat were apparent on Blinky's brow. This was going to be a tough final...
Word Games
"Four letter word for warning to avoid quackers, first letter is a d"
Duck.
"Spasee'bah tovarisch" she replied and jotted down the remaining letters with my pen, I recognised it as one I'd borrowed from my mother years ago. She put the tip on the cusp of her lip and snuggled pensively back into me.
We had spent the morning in the Saatchi Gallery and would have continued along the banks of the Thames to the Tate Modern but the air was fresh and the skies a vivid blue. London was cool, bright and empty, perfect conditions for lazing outdoors on a bench. Technically I was lazing on the bench and she was lazing atop me.
"Ten letters, Reagan was refused entry to this white house Second last letter is a c if duck is correct"
Casablanca
"Gracias señor" she wrote down casablan a and then added in overlord crossways and latency vertically. She lifted the pen back to her lip and flinched slightly when she realised she'd put the wet ball-point on her lip.
"Did I just put ink on my lip?" she tipped her head back so I could look down into her magical brown eyes and there was a mischievous wrinkle at the corner of her eyes daring me to kiss her. Across the river from us Big Ben gave off a few bongs but I was too wrapped up to notice how many. I craned my neck down and kissed her softly at first, then again immediately afterwards more firmly.
"I should do that more often," she looked back down at the crossword "This young girl mixes medals in distress"
Damsel.
"I thought you said you were crap at cryptic crosswords. Choice to change an indigenous person."
Alternative.
"So it is. I would have got that one if you would stop interfering" another smile and the tip of her nose wrinkled up.
Quince, shadows and fleece were added to the monochrome matrix and the pen returned to the corner of her mouth. The day seemed perfect, I couldn't have asked for anything more. There was an unspoken bond between us.
"Four letters: Tender appearance of the French within?"
Love.
Choose Your Own Adventure
You strike a nuclear match in the darkness and are consumed in the bombardment of radiation. Your glowing corpse will light this darkened chamber for the next 5,000 years. What were you thinking?
Your adventure ends here or here. Your choice.
This post exists only as a continuation of this one
Breakfast Porn
The long thick meaty sausage rubbed back and forth between the cleft of bright red tomato skin, back and forth and back again. The tip dipped into the pool of sauce on the other side coating it in viscuous tart ketchup before it was raised up and slid towards two receptive and pouting lips.
Meanwhile the stainless steel blade of a knife ran over the folds of bacon and towards the fried egg, the tip piercing through the ova membrane and causing a burst of canary-yellow yolk to spurt out onto the plate, coating the nearby toast soldiers who were carefully lined up waiting to be plunged deeply into the depths of the egg, penetrating to the core one after another.
Long curled licks of bacon, drenched in rivulets of fatty sweat, lounged around beside tanned and bloated mounds of hash brown and veritable orgies of curvaceous wild mushrooms, split down the middle. The sausage had by now pushed past the pouty lips and entered deep into the mouth beyond, sliding along the top of the tongue until the teeth bit down and severed the tip with enough force to make you wish you'd chosen cereal.
Young Evil Genius
Growing up with Kevin would have been much easier if his little brother Doug hadn't been such a pain in the neck. Doug loved watching James Bond movies and idolised the bad guys, always plotting and scheming to become one himself, "only successful" was his idea.
Rarely did a day go by that Doug wasn't scheming up some criminal masterplan to take over the world. His ambition far outstripped his ability however as he found out when he held his grandmother to ransom demanding that the superpowers of the world submit to his will. His gran gave him a bourbon cream and some orange juice instead.
Doug built a lair, with a secret hidden entrance that only he knew of but his father told him to put all the cushions back on the sofa and chairs properly when he got home from work that evening. Doug shook his fist at his father and was sent to his room without any dinner.
Kevin and I were kicking a ball around in the park one afternoon when Doug siddled up holding a spindle and cackling wildly that he was going to exterminate us both with his orbital laser platform if we didn't bow down to his superiority. When we looked skywards he had a kite fluttering in the breeze about thirty feet above us with his dad's laser pointer pointing downwards. Kevin suffered mild retina damage and the pointer broke upon "re-entry" during the ensuing scuffle.
Doug refused to give up though and bribed two local kids with jam sandwiches to act as his henchmen. Sean "Metalmouth" Simmons and Duncan "Crusher" Padraig remained Doug's henchmen for about the amount of time it takes a boy to eat a jam sandwich and then went home, leaving Doug's LEGO heist in jeopardy.
Doug finally gave up on the idea of being an evil genius however when he tried to kidnap Jessica Swanson and she gave him a black eye. He now works as a junior chartered accountant. He's married to Jessica. Kevin's working for MI5 as a data analyst. Me? I can't tell you what I do now, or I'd have to kill you.
Unconventional
I can place the blame squarely on the shoulders of my agent. When he booked me in to do some stand-up and warned me that it might well be a tough crowd he neglected to mention that it was the English Heritage Antisocial Society's dinner lecture on use of language and techniques to further sociopathic behaviour.
I tried my best routines and lines but I was invariably met with a barrage of abuse and general hostility, at one point in the evening I was bombarded with mushroom supreme vol-au-vents and a slew of four-letter words that turned the air blue. They came very close to making me cry on stage, despite my best efforts to put the hecklers down; not an easy task when the entire audience is heckling you.
When the dinner lecturer arrived and began his talk I retired to the kitchens and scavenged what I could from the various left-overs and extras, filling up on carpaccio and artichoke à volonté and steadying my nerves with a few sips of brandy the cook begrudgingly provided.
When the lecture finished I was supposed to return to the dining room and provide some after-dinner entertainment with a lighter routine however upon stepping onto the stage once more I saw that everyone at the table had plates piled high with profiteroles but none of them were eating, instead each had a malicious grin plastered across their face.
Only then did I recall what the topic of the lecture had just been.
Abort!
I was walking through the countryside, bedecked in appropriate attire for the outdoors, which is basically one facemask short of a Hazmat suit when I arrived at the bank of a river. There was no immediately obvious way to cross so I stepped forward and into the water, the water immediately came up to my knees.
"Oi! You can't do that! Its illegal!" shouted a nearby famer who was probably just dying for me to get back onto terra firma so he could shout "gerroff my land!" and chew on a stalk of corn.
"This isn't your land!" I shouted back, and then wondered how I would leave the area without returning to either bank of the river.
"No, I mean you can't cross that river! Look down."
I looked down and realised that what I had at first assumed to be pond scum was in fact the unhatched spawnings of the local salmon population. I was attempting to walk through the unhatched ova of an entire generation of baby salmon.
"So? They're just fish eggs. There's nothing illegal about that."
The famer gave a learned glance back and chewed silently on his stalk for a second before delivering the clincher;
"You've obviously never heard of Roe versus Wade."
Fashionista
I swear if I see one more Sienna Miller wannabe with tussled blonde "just out of bed and somehow flawless hair", floaty fake bohemian skirt, pre-worn cowgirl boots, diamante costume jewelery broach, wide studded leather belt, early summer Ibiza fake tan and mooching slob boyfriend I'm going to beat her to within an inch of her life with the Cosmopolitain cover print shoulderbag she's carrying her Chanel bypassed-Audrey-Hepburn-irony sunglasses and copy of Goodbye, Jimmy Choo in.
It doesn't help that London Alternative Fashion Week appears to be happening within spitting distance of my desk somehow...
Literally
"What are you reading?"
She sat down across from me at the one available picnic table in the cobbled courtyard outside our building.
Nothing.
She looked over and then back at me.
"A comicbook?"
Look, I said back sharply, comics are a valid medium for expressing concepts and messages that could not otherwise be conveyed through the limits of written language. Furthermore they explore the deeper aspects of psychological duality and the outward appearance versus true human nature dilemma that many individuals struggle to keep a grasp on in their everyday lives. The torturous moral quandries that superheroes are confronted with are symbolic of our own inner turmoil and the villains simply metaphorical representations of our fears and insecurities.
Through artistic conveyance and an adroit choice of language, these panelled squares can transcend beyond the appearance of colorful distraction and pulp storytelling to genuinely explore some of the fundamental principles of theology, philosophy, and psychology.
"Yes, but... The Powerpuff Girls?"
Countdown
"I'm going to count backwards from ten..."
Do we have to do this?
"Yes, you missed your last appointment and we were making good progress. Now I'm going to count backwards from ten and..."
...and with each number, the closer we get to one I'm going to feel sleepy and sleepier until I fall into a deep hypnotic trance and tell you all about my secret Joan Collins fetish.
"We'll come back to that. Ten"
This never works. I can tell you from experience.
"Nine"
You'll get to about five and I'll still be wide awake and then you might as well give up.
"Eight"
Come to think of it, people usually give up around five. I've never figured out why.
"Seven"
Maybe the utter look of cynicism on my face...
"Six"
Could of course be that I'm constantly trying to sabotage their efforts by simply talking all the way through their gravitas-delivered backwards counting.
"Five"
...
"Four... are you still with me?"
...
"Right. About that Joan Collins fetish..."
Where The Sea Meets The Sky
"Come on out to the coast, you can swim in the ocean and when you get bored we'll barbeque on the beach" she said down a phone, passing through six interchanges and bouncing off one geo-stationary satellite uplink. It didn't really occur to me until a week later as I sat on the plane that I couldn't swim.
Somehow the phase in my life when learning to swim would be an important thing had passed me by and the teenage fatalistic lethargy regarding shark attacks or speedboat pursuits had caught up to me and I no longer saw the point. Was I even happy in water? When was the last time I had been fully submerged?
The ocean was not particularly welcoming. I stood ankle-deep in the surf, with the ocean goading me with the occasional swirl of water up to my shins.
"Come on then bipedal oxygen-breather, come on in and see how you like it. Let me introduce you to my friends Undertow and the Eddies."
I had conquered my fear of drowning very early in my childhood by recklessly throwing myself into the deep end of a pool and being dragged out unconscious. I applied the same sort of sink-or-swim philosophy to most of my phobias except burning alive and small dogs. To this day I live in fear of fire-breathing beagles.
I waded out into the water, when I reached shoulder-depth I turned parallel to the beach and began swimming in a half-hearted breaststroke with occasional lapses into a butterfly crawl hybrid technique that didn't get me very far very fast. I couldn't help but feel that the fish were probably laughing at me. Every so often I would mix up my head movements and breathing and end up with a mouthful of salt water I'd have to stop and splutter out ungraciously.
Eventually the fish got bored and the ocean forgot about me and my muscles felt heavy and swollen and I hauled myself out of the water like a one-man rescue operation gone wrong and trudged along the wet brown sand leaving imprints that would fill with swirling foam. The smoke from the barbeque was trailing in the opposite direction and I started walking backwards to let the wind dry my skin. Closing my eyes I imagined I could hear the sound of waves. Opening them again I remembered why.
We lay on plaid blankets in awkward positions eating burgers from forks and discussed the TV shows we missed, agreeing that Stick Figure Theatre was a sorely missed masterpiece of animation and that the new Ghost In The Shell series was over-rated and the episodes too short. As the day drew to a close we retired to her beach house and I did my best not to think about her in her bathing suit and sarong and get some sleep in the guest bedroom. It was only for a weekend after all.
A Day of Violent Beauty
It started with a message from my sister, notifying me that my eldest cousin on my father's side was getting married. Could I believe it? She'd never have expected him to settle for one girl, what with his career and everything, and he's so young. Would I be going? Chat to me later, bye!
The invitation arrived in the mail a few days later. It had sat in the hallway for a further few days as I wasn't returning home as often as before and spending more and more nights away from the flat I shared with Julia and Gareth, patiently waiting for them to cave in and finally get married. The silver embossed thick paper with pink roses and delicate handwriting gave the contents away immediately.
We invite you to share in our joy as we exchange...
I put the invite to one side and sat quietly on the end of my bed, considering whether I wanted to cry or not. It wasn't my cousin getting married, or weddings in general that had me so worked up, but rather that the event would require seeing my father again, after over a year and a half of politely avoiding him.
Sure enough, a week and a half later I received a single sentence e-mail asking if I'd received the invite. I replied back that I hadn't taken the time to RSVP back yet. I hadn't even checked the date. Another few days and another single-sentence mail saying my aunt has to confirm numbers. Without even thinking I said I couldn't.
It's true though, I can't. I don't have another engagement, its not too expensive to go, I just can't face it. Should it be normal to feel like such a coward in the face of a father I've become disassociated from over time? There was a short period when I was utterly miserable when he helped pick me back up again but I've never really gotten over the abandonment problem from the original divorce.
Why are family matters always so difficult to understand with the brain? Why does the heart meddle so?
Filth and Depravity FM
Next caller, you're on the air.
"Oh, oh God... oh yes... oh God yes... oh yes! oh... oh!... OH!.... Oh God Yes! Oh..."
Yeah, right, gotcha. Anything else you'd like to say?
"Oh God yes! Yes, yes, yes! Oh YES!"
That'll be a 'no' then. Thanks for calling in, I'm sure our listeners appreciated it. Don't go away, we'll be right back after this pause for station identification.
101.69 FM, Porn Radio!
That’s right, you're listening to 101.69 Porn Radio, where its the sounds of porn all day every day seven days a week. I'm your host Max Swellings and this is the Maximum Swellings Show, coming up afterwards will be Big Buns O'Reilly with the weather. In the studio with me are the three girls you, the listeners, voted the sexiest voices of Porn Radio's phone-in orgasm competition; Randy Mannlicher, Lascivious Hood and Mildred Nesbit.
Rowr!
Mildred, first question to you; is Mildred Nesbit your real name or do you just watch very weird porn? I can tell by the change in your expression that it is your real name and you didn't think to change it before coming onto the show. Bad luck there Mildred's parents if you're listening in.
Rumbled!
Yes that's right, you've been rumbled. Would you like to say a few choice expletives before you run crying from the studio? No? Well onto you Lascivious, would you mind reading out some of the words from this board in your sexiest voice please?
"Turnip, scrotum, pantaloons, hernia, fulcrum, anything in German."
No that last part really was meant to be anything you could say in German, but that's okay, you hit three of my buttons right there anyway.
Splut!
Randy, lastly onto you, and just before I give you the chance to use that golden throat of yours which garnered you a record seven thousand votes, putting you head, neck and shoulders above the rest of your competition, can you tell us what its like to be such a withered up old hag in a cardigan and support tights that our listeners have probably been beating off like maniacs to?
"Simply lovely, dear."
And for those of you who still have an erection after that you are sick, sick puppies indeed.
Milf!
I'd go so far as to even add Double-G to that MILF. Lets take some calls. You're live on the Max Swellings show; go ahead.
"Oh, oh God... oh yes... oh God yes..."
Oh not you again.
Black Dog
"No you fool" I squeaked at Reichenbach across the cargo bay "You'll kill us all!"
Warnings of impending doom never sound as serious when someone with a chipmunk voice is delivering them.
"This whole thing is full of leaking helium! It'll explode!"
He swung the gun in my direction but to no effect, I knew that I had nothing to lose by tackling him; we were dead either way. I managed to knock the gun away under some crates out of both our reach. I rolled away from him and lifted a crowbar.
"You should have died at Innominata Falls!" I squeaked at him with as much gravitas as I could muster.
Another day, another confrontation with my nemesis. I had spotted him immediately amongst the other passengers aboard the LZ Vorsprung durch Technik in the dining room. His fake beard hadn't helped cover his appearance or evil twisty moustache. The villainous top hat as well as the way he rubbed his hands together and winked at me from behind the gold-rimmed monocle he still chose to wear had been dead giveaways.
I had chased him through the kitchen and we had broken through the roof of one of the passenger cabins in our struggle and into the capacious cargo hold of the trans-continental zeppelin. Now, once more, we faced off like the old adversaries that we were.
"There are things I should tell you; about what is and what should never be" squeaked Reichenbach menacingly, like a foolhardy mouse claiming cheese from a cat. "You've been my Achilles for so long now, and this will be your last stand."
"Ten years gone we've been fighting this battle of evermore, and its nobody's fault but mine." I let him ramble on, as I feverishly searched the cargo bay, looking for a way to end this once and for all.
"How many more times must we dance this dance before you realise that your time is gonna come? The song remains the same, but this time; no quarter."
Reichenbach drew a long sword from the cane he had managed to carry with him throughout our pursuit and now pointed the silver rapier blade at me across the void. I knew he was faster than I could be with the crowbar and I could only see one way out.
"Reichenbach" I refused to allow the vole-like characteristics of my voice to destroy this moment for me "for ten long years you have been my nemesis and we have fought countless times, but today it ends! Today, I declare myself the eviler of the two of us and shall henceforth be known as the evil one!"
With astonishing speed my hand snatched out and tore the twisty black moustache from Reichenbach's upper lip leaving only a red, flushed portion of hairless skin and I quickly applied it to my own upper lip before giving it a few Machiavellian twiddles.
"Ha, ha!" I squeaked and leapt to one side, tearing through several of the interior balloons filled with helium that kept the zeppelin flying high with the sharp tip of my crowbar. With the gas now leaking out the zeppelin would gradually lose altitude and plunge into the cold north Atlantic. I would now act blithely and with complete disregard for the safety of others around me and out-do Reichenbach at his own game.
Reichenbach stood stock still, realising the predicament I had dropped him in. He would now have to forsake his arrogance and pride and become the humble hero. He put his head in his hands and shook visibly.
"Oh, the humility" he squeaked.
Brown Bagging
I got bored at work this afternoon so I put a brown paper bag over my head. The bag had contained a can of Fanta, a large brown bap filled with a random sandwich filler (its really not important what it was, is it? Oh fine, it was chicken tikka and cheese) and a packet of crinkle-cut flame grilled steak potato chips. They were all delicious but sadly they did not keep me entertained, merely fed. I heard someone standing next to me.
"D, what are you doing?"
I am wearing a bag over my head.
"You're not that hideously malformed and ugly. Take it off."
No.
"You're not doing any work."
No shit Sherlock. The database crashed on Monday and I've been doing admin duties and responding to e-mails since then. I'm bored and I have decided to hone my Jedi powers. Watch it bitch or I'll lightsaber your ass and give you a photon enema.
"Right, I'll get your boss."
My boss showed up a few minutes later.
"David, take the bag off your head."
I'm sorry sir, but I can't do that.
"Why not?"
In an effort to increase efficiency I am attempting to perform my daily duties, in the absence of the core database necessary to my job, through psychokinetic untapped potential.
"Look, we know the database is down and there's nothing that can be done right now. The techs are fixing the problem. Take the bag off."
No.
"I'll get the CEO"
There was some barely audible whispering and my boss spoke again, only this time in a deeper voice.
"Young man, take that bag off your head."
Sod off.
So they left me with a bag on my head. Alone. What kind of sick twisted bastards are they that they'd do such a thing?!
Kobayashi Maru
I stood staring at the glass. The glass stared back.
My distorted reflection seemed to mock me, ballooned out to all sides and stretched grotesquely across the curvature of the glass. I kept my stare locked on a point three inches behind the glass.
The occasional bubble floated up to the surface of the water behind the glass but the movement was as irrelevant to me as a gentle breeze to a freight train. I had purpose, focus, a goal. I would not waver, nor admit defeat.
Sat perfectly still inside the fishbowl was a small aquarian dweller. It barely moved; just the occasional undulation of a fin or two to maintain position directly before my nose. Its beedy eyeballs were locked on my iron-clad gaze.
"Dude, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" Alvin asked; it was his fish. "Don't you realise how dumb this is?"
I wanted to shake my head but it would have made me lose concentration. Instead I lifted a single finger at him as if to shush him.
"But this is a Vietnamese Stickleback Standoffish, they never back down!"
Never. Say. Die.
"Also... I don't know if you're aware of this or not, but fish don't have eyelids."