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.
Rats With Wings
The London Tube system has dozens of outlying stations with open platforms so it isn't entirely uncommon, what with the laws of probability and the inviting warmth of the inside of the trains, for pigeons to occasionally get onto the trains. The doors open, they hop from the platform onto the train, the doors close, the pigeon struts about a bit, the doors open again five stops later and voila, you have a pigeon trapped in the underground.
This wasn't one of those birds though. It hopped off the train at Oxford Circus and instead of fluttering up and into the ceiling of the tunnel it followed the crowd. Up the escalator, obviously not holding the hand rail but it seemed not to need to, it strutted its way out of the station through the Argyll Street exit. I know because I take the same exit.
Instead of taking flight and fluttering off up into the London skies above Nike Town and H&M he proceeded along Oxford Street and took a right at the lights, continuing to toddle along his merry way.
By sheer coincidence he walked all the way to my building and ducked in through the open doorway. The elevator opened and the pigeon hopped inside. I stood next to him and pushed the button for the top floor and the pigeon cooed approvingly.
At the top floor the pigeon headed down the corridor to the fire escape, hopped onto the bar and let the momentum swing the door open and carry him out. "Have a good one" he called back as he started his daily pigeoning.
Tune-up
I was accosted in the street this morning on my way to work. The gentleman in question was looking pretty dapper in his business suit and he did a double take as he passed me in the opposite direction. I was absorbed in my music, so when his hand took hold of my shoulder I was somewhat taken aback.
"I'm so sorry to trouble you" he congenially began, "but I happened to notice that your aura is... well, to be blunt, out of whack."
He seemed genuinely concerned and put down his briefcase before pulling a magnifying glass from his jacket pocket. I noticed that the lens was actually a multi-facetted crystal as he peered through, angling the light expertly.
"Yes, yes I see the problem. Your pleckthorial huperliss is interfering with the stanthon gibb and that's leaving your Mason yarlm with a decidedly greenish tint."
"Is that bad?" I asked, suddenly quite concerned at the direction the conversation was taking and all sense of getting to work on time forgotten.
"Bad? Bad, my dear boy, have you been hearing your own inner monologue recently?"
"Come to think of it... no. I hadn't even noticed it was gone."
He removed a three-pronged tuning fork from his other pocket and tapped the tines with the handle of his crystal magnifying glass.
"Say ahh" he instructed.
"Ahh?"
"No, no, internally."
I said ahh. Damn, the guy was good.
Pointers
I must say that I do appreciate the general advice dispensed by everyday products. When I see bottles of fruit smoothie telling me to keep upright I know that they've conducted exhaustive studies of the effects of drinking smoothie when prone or horizontal and they were probably really messy.
Similarly when I take pharmaceuticals and I see that they want me to keep out of the reach of children I can't tell them how reaffirming it is to have my dislike of being near kids validated like that.
Even my girlfriend's saucy lingerie is looking out for my best interests and must be aware of my utter primal fear of fire when it warns me to keep away from open flame. Okay maribou trimmed babydoll with matching panties, will do, and you have a good one now.
What confuses me though is when I find a sign that says Drink Canada Dry; I don't even know where to begin.
Gluttony
I bet her a pound, one English pound, that she couldn't eat the whole slice of ginger and white chocolate cheesecake by herself after we'd had noodles and Cha Han. She scoffed and started to scoff. Easy at first but the pace began to slow when she reached the halfway point.
Like a tortuous real life interpretation of Xeno's paradox she would cut whatever remained on the plate in half, eat it and then cut what remained in half again. As the relative space in her stomach shrank and her metabolism creaked and groaned in protest all the while her tastebuds sang with the smooth creamy texture and the tart ginger spices.
In an act reminiscant of Monty Python's Mr Creosote she popped the final sliver into her mouth and chewed slowly. I looked down at the plate and she gathered the crumbs up onto the silvery tines of her fork before slipping them past her lips and drawing the fork out clean again. We walked to the Tube slowly, she felt sluggish and sleepy after such a meal but content that she had proven me wrong.
I paid her the pound, as promised, but I have to wonder what sort of monster I am that I would force a woman to eat white chocolate and ginger cheesecake to the point where she was ready to burst.
Blind Leading the Blind
I was in Mickey's, sat at the bar, minding my own business as usual when this slick customer scurried up and propped himself up against the bar beside me. When I say slick, this rat smelled greasy like his fur was coated in Teflon. I suspect if he'd been caught between four paws' worth of razor-sharp claws he'd still have found a way to escape.
"Hey pal. Buddy, pal."
Right off he'd gotten on my bad side. Anyone who calls you 'buddy pal' is just looking for a poke in the squeaker.
"Mi amigo, I gots something for you. You ain't never seen anything like this before."
And the smooth criminal plops a wedge of cheese on the bar.
"Genuine Moon Blue. Had some stowaway friends of mine bring it down on the last shuttle mission then stash it on a transatlantic flight."
I turned to face him and gave him the full reflective glare of my dark glasses.
"Go away" I told him. I could sense his snout quiver and his whiskers twitch as if he was gauging how serious I was and whether it would be worth attempting a harder selling tactic. Instead he scampered off to another part of the bar in search of a less hostile mook.
Mickey the barman came over. "Same again?" and I nodded.
"I never figured you were anti-cheese" he said as he put the thimble of fermented Gruyere juice in front of me. "Guess you're lactose intolerant, eh?"
I sighed and shook my head, taking a heavy swig of the grog. Over in the corner the clock struck one and I felt the missing stump of my tail twinge at the memory of the old bitch's knife. Some vole on the stage picked up a microphone and started a karaoke version of an old Sinatra tune; My Whey. It was time to switch to something stronger.
"Mickey, get me a double For' on the roques."