Indefinite Hiatus

As you may have noticed, this blog has been very quiet as late. I’m not sure if it will be continued, but I hope so, becuase there were a lot of things that I wanted to write about.

Anyway, thanks a bunch to those who read and enjoyed or didn’t, or whatever and most of all, thanks to Emma Watson.

Ta very much, Campbelld.

Shut the Fuck up, J. May! A Loving Tribute

John Mayer-Musician, Internet User, Pigeon Fearer.

Dear J. May, I noticed for some fucking reason, one of your tweets the other day and it was so moronic I just had to write about it. You dick.

‘Crazy storm this afternoon. Took out a lot of stage gear. I can only imagine two pigeons high fiving over a weather machine’

Look, as little as I care about your stage equipment getting destroyed, I am utterly intrigued by your reasoning’s. Oh, I mean, I am utterly intrigued by your reasoning, you fucking douche. I’m not in the habit of trusting you, so you could be lying to us, I suppose. God knows you’ve done it before.

But this tweet presents two problems with your mental health. Actually, three. Well, more, but three I’m going to mention.

One. You believe a big machine controls the weather. Life isn’t an episode of Family Guy, J. May, you dick (thank God for that. My life already has enough unfunny non-sequitors and pointless detours). I know you hate corpations, despite being a corporate and general tool yourself. Is it some kind of misplaced anger over that?

Two. If there is such a big weather machine, why do pigeons control it? Are you implying that there is some kind of pigeon conspiracy, J. May? Are pigeons, fucking pigeons, plotting to take over the world somehow? That they are secretly an advanced race that just pretends to be disease ridden rats with wings? That is seriously fucking nuts J. May and you should just be quiet already.

WE ARE DOOMED! THE PIGEON HORDES DESCEND!

Three. If this advanced flying rodent society has a potentially world destroying weather machine, like some sort of clichéd Bond villain, then they just came out of hiding, played their trump card to do what? Ruin one of your shows? Are you implying that your music is better than HUMANITY, J. May? What an arrogant piece of work you are. Typical of a conceited liar like you J. May, you foul smelling swine. Just, just go away, but before you do, follow Cody on Tumblr, LIKE YOU SAID YOU WOULD!

P.S to any John Mayer fans, or J. Maytriots, I may have offended, I sincerely do not apologise. Go and listen to something that isn’t John Mayer. The Arcade Fire have a new album out. Or maybe Melbourne’s The Cola Wars, or Megan Washington. Besides, it’s J. May’s fault for being a liar. And A Douche.

What a douche-y smile, you turd, J. May.

CONTEXT

All five of my regular reads must be wondering just what the hell I’m talking about. Well, if you click on all the links in this post, you will find an amusing story. Dr Mister Cody, fast becoming my third favourite blogger has a long running and entirely one sided feud with John Mayer. The reason being that when John Mayer joined Tumblr, he said he would follow anyone who followed him and reblogged one of his posts. Cody did so and J. May still hasn’t followed him. J. May is a lying douche.

If you like, start bugging J. May on Tumblr and/or Twitter to follow Cody. If he does it’ll be amazingly awesome.

Oh, what? Emma Watson? Yeah. Enjoy.

Sweet jesus, I am in love with her.

Emma Watson has a Real Twitter

Emma Watson has A Real Twitter

I have previously reported on TNMW that Emma Watson has a Twitter account. Turns out that was complete bollocks, it was simply the most convincing of a number of phoney accounts. Now, I discovered this some time ago, but had not reported on it, perhaps out of laziness, perhaps out of spite, perhaps a little of both. Or maybe a lot of both.

But now we discover that she does in fact, have a Twitter account. A fresh, new, real Twitter account, you guys! And it’s verified this time! It even has the little verified sticker on the corner!

She has been fairly quiet so far, just four tweets since she joined on the 17^th of July, but each one is a gem of wisdom that far surpasses my expectations for Emma Watson’s Twitter account (in that I did not expect her to ever actually get one, so anything meets that critrea.)

TWEET THE FIRST

Hi everyone, this is the real me! I won’t be able to tweet often but I just wanted to say hello. Have a great summer, love Emma x

Did you see that? She said love! With a little x at the end! That means she really loves us! And it’s the real her! She said so! Isn’t this just amazing, boys and girls? No? Ok, fine then, moving on.

TWEET THE SECOND

Thank you for all your lovely (and amusing) messages! It’s official: I have the best fans! I’m loving the London sunshine today, Emma x

She said we’re the best! OMG! You guys! Us! We’re the best? Doesn’t that give you a warm and fuzzy feeling inside, much the same as cookies and milk, or marijuana? And she’s out in the sun. Don’t let it ruin your lovely porcelain skin, Emma Watson. Make sure you keep wearing that hat you have on in your profile picture.

I don't think that hat is all that Sun Smart, Emma Watson.

TWEET THE THIRD

Hello everyone I wanted to let you know that my new facebook page can now be found at www.facebook.com/emmawatson. Talk soon, Emma x

OMFG! There’s a Facebook page as well? That’s crazy. Now I can directly communicate with Emma in two different forums! Are you excited, Emma Watson? I know I’m excited. Also, talk soon? Ok, but I really don’t want to have to explain how I ended up with your phone number, Emma Watson. I mean, I barely dodged the heat on torturing your driver without actually acknowledging it happened. I mean, ummm, I know nothing about this awful crime.

I know this is just for fan communication, but I would like to take this opportunity to put forth a theory I’ve been working on-that famous people have their own, secret, social networking site. Like, I dunno, Facebook platinum. This is undeniable stupid, but I still can’t shake the thought that everyone who is famous and/or wealthy is living in some secret, way more awesome world than the rest of us. Of course, if that was true, then people like Mickey Rourke and Corey Haim would have sold the knowledge for crack money as soon as they fell from grace. OR maybe they had the knowledge erased from their brains, via some sort of Men In Black style neuraliser device. Ok. That’s awesome.

Btw, Microsoft Word, get with times. Facebook is not two words, fool. Stop living in the past. You’re living in the past, Microsoft Word.

TWEET THE FOURTH

Why oh why did I stay up so late on Twitter and Facebook when I knew I had an early start today? Please send me messages to keep me awake! X

Obligatory: I’d like to do lots of things to keep you awake, Emma Watson.

But you know what this means, kids? She actually sat up reading stuff on Facebook and Twitter. It means we actually have a chance of her reading the thngs we write about her. It means I edge ever closer to going to prison. No, officer, I swear, I have no idea how Emma Watson pictures became my background and screensaver. And please, ignore those locks of hair. And the voodoo doll. And the cardboard cut-out. And the statistically significant amount of hard drive space devoted to Emma Watson pictures. Heheh. Hard drive. You know what else is hard? I should go.

Damn. Twitter is boring.

Emma Watson Is Smoking Hot

Emma Watson Is Smoking Hot (I know, we already knew that)

Ok, I recently came across a picture of Emma Watson that just totally blew my mind, from a recent Vanity Fair shoot. And I mean photoshoot, not the annual hunt that Vanity Fair throws every year, where they gather up all of their contracted models who have gained half a kilogram or more and then hunt them down like the fatty, fat-fat failures they are. And oooohhh, women’s body image is a serious issue and one we shouldn’t make fun of and blah-dy blah blah, shut up, I don’t care, I’m still going to make my jokes. No topic is so serious it cannot be the subject of humour.

I mean that. Hell, the Chaser, a very funny Aussie sketch/political humour did this sketch a little while back, that was about children’s cancer. Or more specifically, not giving money to the Make A wish foundation because ‘they’re just going to die anyway’ (actual punchline of actual sketch). That wasn’t funny. But it wasn’t funny cos it had kids dying of cancer in it, the joke just kind of sucked, as well as being very insensitive. A potentially better joke, would have been a kid with cancer who just exploits his condition to get all this awesome stuff, to the point of basically commanding an army of slaves. Bam. Still an insensitive joke, but still, it shows a truth-horrible things don’t always happen to brave, adorable kids who don’t deserve even a hundrendth of the suffering they are going through. Sometimes it happens to little Hitler’s, who force the Make A Wish foundation to begin exterminating a particular ethnic group. Yes, my sense of humour is kind of fucked up, but the fact remains that ANYTHING can be funny from cancer to the sexual assault of toys, (Be warned, link is 4Chan).

Anyhow. This took somewhat of a turn. I should talk about stuff like this more often. I’m positive it doesn’t make me look like an insufferable windbag. Not at all, no sir. OMG, I dropped my monocle.

I found/was sent this picture of Emma Watson. An amazing, incredible picture. It is a picture that made me repeat one of the greats of science when he saw his future wife for the first time. To quote the brilliant Pierre Curie when he first laid eyes on the equally brilliant Marie Sklodowaska, ‘I think my dicks brain just exploded.*’

I don't blame you, Pierre. Also, did I mention that she was fucking brilliant?

I immediately searched for more of these pictures hoping to find a series, indeed a plethora. Instead I found, to my vomit inducing rage, that there were no more. This was all I was going to get. After soothing my temper with some soft jazz, which brought about vomit inducing calm, I stared at this picture for several hours.

Then I went and got a glass of water.

Then I stared at the picture for an undetermined amount of time, during which a wonderful fantasy occurred, in which Emma Watson and I fought dragon and made love on top of clouds, until a  friend called me telling me I just had to meet this girl she knew and how she was perfect for me and I told her to be quiet because I was busy and hung up.

I...uhhh...just...heh...wow...I...ok.

BOOM! BAM! HOLY FUCKING SHIT! SWEET JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH!

I’ll see you kids later. I’ve got, ummm, things to do.

*(Not actual quote, from any reality).

Know Your Enemy

Know Your Enemy

So, fellow Emma lovers, and various others. We have a problem. I mean, we probably have quite a few problems. Our skin conditions. I can’t get my hair to go just so. Global Warming and/or some other disaster will probably mean that we are all forced to live in underground caves, rading rival colonies to survive. The fact that I can’t seem to get Dr. Pepper in Australia.

But, we have an Emma related problem. He is the enemy. He is the rock star. He is the Boyfriend.

He is George Craig.

Now, I recently noticed that Georgy Porgy Pudding Pie has appeared on this blog before. I mean, before I mentioned his pasty face in the last post. In fact, I mocked him, without knowing that he was The Enemy. How’s that for psychically knowing that someone was a dream girl stealing douche?

No wonder the other guy looks pissed. His buddy be all over a sexy woman and he get the wall. MY WOMAN, DAMMIT, you cockbag.

 

That’s right! G to the Eorge was the Camera Fucker from that post I did about Burberry and how they cut off one of Emma Watson’s legs in Photoshop. And he is The Enemy.  I mentioned that he looked kind of like a lesbian. He kinda reminds me of Ellen DeGeneres. Not that is necessarily a bad thing, because you could look like worse lesbians, but no man really wants to look like a lesbian. Although, he might be able to pull girls like Portia De Rossi and that would work out fine until she discovered that thing in your pants.

That could be you in the white jacket, Boy George Craig.

So, what do we know about The Enemy? Well, when we need to find out some information about someone, what do we do?  Kidnap their family and friends and use the mice, the string and the onions on them? Nah, that’s sick. I’ll stick to regular knife and hot coal torture thank you very much. No. They are hard to find, as they are in another country to me. We must resort to that bastion of wholly accurate information, the brain extension that is Wikipedia.

Wikipedia has provided me with precious little information. There are pages about minor video game characters that have more information. See, George Michael Craig, no one who molests people in public bathrooms deserves any of that. But still, Green Day is insisting that I get to know you.

So, My Enemy.  You are younger than me. Born in 1990. Hell, you’re even a couple of months younger than Emma. You see, Emma Watson? He is too immature for you. You should go with someone a little bit older and wiser, who really knows how to bust out jokes that revolve around genitalia. I’m talking about me, Emma Watson, not Dan O’Brien. Although it would be totally awesome if you dated him. That would meet my approval.

You are the lead singer and a guitarist for the Yorkshire band, One Night Only, My Enemy. They are not 100% awful. In fact, Emma Watson recently appeared in a video clip for them. Amazing. You are giving me more Emma than I would usually get, so that is not entirely a terrible thing.

I don’t really know what else to say about The Enemy. I will eventually do terrible things to his face, I assume. It seems inevitable.  We are like Jedi and Sith, doomed to forever oppose each other and battle until one is forever ground to dust.

And that’s the point I get out my dust buster.

I’ve got my eye on you, George Craig. So does Rage Against the Machine.

Also, what’s with the two first names? In the immortal words of Hit Girl, Whadda fuckin’ douche.

Campbell Out!

Emma Watson and the Glastonbury Festival

I recently acquired a whole bunch of pictures of Emma Watson at the popular English music festival Glastonbury. She looks both hot, perhaps unsurprisingly, and ready to rock out. Pictures, pictures, pictures.

Concerts are Thirsty Work

Here she is, Day 1. She looks like any other sexy regular punter. Albeit one who gets to watch Vampire Weekend side of stage. Man, I love that Emma Watson is going to stuff like this, just hanging out like any regular person, listening to music, hanging with friends, taking photo’s,

She's just adorable.

Wearing fake tattoo’s, hanging out with her boyfriend.

Wait. I’m sorry, what? Oh, that’s right. A man, I have threatened to murder, vaguely, shows his face. Well, actually, he is Emma Watson’s new boyfriend, singer in Emo-ish band, One Night Only, George Craig.

Do your shirt up, douche.

Isn’t this just a massive cliché? Actor dating rock star. It won’t last. We all know that Emma and I are destined to be together. It says so, right here, in that sentence I just wrote. Anyway, she looks like she had a good time. I’m sure none of that was Georgy-Porgy’s fault. I’m sure he just brought her down with his good looks and talent and inability to button his own shirt.

Is she doing an Arrested Development wink? You heard it here first: Emma Watson, Arrested Development fan.

 

She had so much fun, she came back the next day, sans Boy George, but with a band new rock chick outfit.

Cut offs? She is a AD fan!

Overdone cut-offs, white, sleevless shirt. Sigh. Printed belt, too much eye makeup and black finger-nails. Sigh. Even’t if she wasn’t Emma Watson, I’d be attracted to girls dressed like her. I am, in fact. I’m a total sucker for the rock chick thing, even if I am entirely intimidated by them. Which is not a healthy thing. But I never claimed to be exactly mentally, well, solid.

I am so excited that Campbell is posting again!

You know who else was at Glastonbury? Prince Charles. As in, notorious old fuddy duddy, horse banger, Prince Charles.

Oh, Charlie. CHAARRLIEEEEEE.

I hardly imagine a place where he would be more out of place. Well, ok, I can think of quite a lot, but this is a family website and I won’t mention them here. No wait, this is not a family website. This is a chronicle of creepiness. Seriously, though, why was Prince Charles at Glastonbury? He is ludricrisly uncool. He is one of the most uncool dudes on the planet. It’s not even like people elect him. If it was Gordon Brown, or some other Brit politician, I could understand them trying to ‘get down with the kids and be hip and totally trendy’, regardless of how ill concieved it would be. But Charles? He must really be a fan of Muse.

I’ll write a proper post soon.

The Battle of KG-Bar

The Battle of KG-Bar

I was inside. I crept down the dark back corridor of the club, silenced pistols raised, two of the dead Russians MP-5’s slung across my back. Inside the bar I could hear muted polka music and quiet voices. There was no need to burst into the club, guns blazing. Half the guys in there were probably just ordinary patrons. Sure, I might be able to get away with killing two or three of them, the bartender, and bouncers that were around, or anyone who looked at me funny, but if I put bullets to any bystanders then I was bound to spend a decent time in the lockup. Besides, I had to get upstairs. That’s where Emma was. If I really wanted to, I could come back and kill those guys later. I found a stairwell, peered through the glass slit in the door. No-one I could see. If I was lucky this would lead to the fire exit for an upstairs lounge. That’s where some of the players would be. Maybe a couple of top henchmen, like, with a knife throwing special ability. Or maybe they could turn invisible. Or maybe I was confusing my life with a video game again. That happened. Fair enough, really.

 I crept up the stairs, intruder rat in the cats basket. Except this rat had teeth, in the form of bullets. And the cat was actually a ton of Russian guys. So, it wasn’t a perfect metaphor. But it was the best I had at the time, dammit!

I heard a door slam above me and I flattened myself against the wall of the stairwell, looking for a fast way out. I could hear a stream of Russian gobbledegook and laughter from the floor above me, to close for me to hide. Instead I bolted upstairs, guns flared out, and emptied half a clip each into the chests of the Russian mobsters who had almost discovered me. They didn’t even see me coming. And why should they? No-one should have been shooting at them inside their own compound. I kicked half-heartedly at one of the bodies, trying not to get blood on my shiny shoes.

“That’s for letting Finland make vodka.”

Now I had to move fast, before they found these bodies. Or the ones in the alley. Or the graffiti that I had been putting up and down the street, ‘Ivan, Go Home.’

I sprinted to the top floor of the building, burst out of the stairwell and towards the room at the end of the corridor. There was a strange absence of bad guys on this floor, but I knew that they would be in the last room there with Emma. I knew the best idea wasn’t to shoulder charge the door and start shooting, but I didn’t really have a ton of options.

I shoulder charged the door and brought my guns up, to see something I hadn’t expected outside of my dreams. Except in my dreams, I was in Soytzen’s place, sitting behind a desk, with Emma Watson straddling me.

He turned as I lowered my guns, a confused simultaneously appearing on both our faces.

“What the fuck?” We both asked at the same time.

The Russian’s confusion was cut short, however, as Emma rolled her eyes, reached forward with her lovely arms, and broke the Russians neck.

“WHAT THE FUCK!?!” I yelled, forgetting all pretence of stealth.

She climbed down off the now limp mob boss and straightened her dress, and began looking around for her jacket.

“SERIOUSLY WHAT THE FUCK? DID YOU JUST KILL HIM?”

“I must say,” she said, putting on her jacket and reapplying mussed lipstick, “I am surprised to see you here, Mr Delaware. I obviously underestimated you.”

“And I was grossly mis-informed about what was going on! Seriously, what the fuck? What the fucking fuck fuckery is going on, for fucks sake?”

“This fellow,” she indicated the unfortunate Soytzen, “was a high profile target of my agency. And I managed to first be captured by him, meet him and seduce him. Which then gave me the opportunity to assassinate him.”

“Ok.” I said, “That makes sense.”

“Really?” she replied, cool ruffled for the first time, “No further questions? No ‘aren’t you a famous actress?’ No, ‘Why me?’”

“Well, I do have those questions,” I admitted, “but frankly, my life is basically a video game as it is, so this wasn’t that unusual. Also, I was yelling a lot just now, and I’m standing in a room with a murdered mob boss and an undercover MI6 agent. There are about to be a shit ton of Russians up in this place. I pressed my beeper when I saw you break Soytzen’s neck, so the rest of my agency will be here to bail us out, but we’re going to have to do a lot of shooting to get out of here. We can have a celebratory explanation and make out session later, when we’ve killed all of those once-commie fucks.”

She nodded curtly, “Fair enough. One of those for me?”

I threw her an MP-5, just as a pair of Russian’s burst through the door. They caught our twin gun fire and went down in twin bloody heaps.

I turned to look at Emma, hair flying, gun blazing.

“That’s pretty much the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

We charged the doors, firing over one another’s shoulders, hot brass pinging off our clothes like hail off pavement. I tagged two large bearded men coming from a side room waving .45’s, while Emma took down another emerging from the stairwell.

“LIFT” I yelled, gesturing towards the end of the hall, as I tossed down my empty MP-5 and drew my pistols. Emma sprinted alongside me, hair flying, plucking a fresh clip off a dead man’s belt as she ran. I laid down a stream of bullets at a group of approaching Ruski’s, yelling anti-Russian puns.

“I’ll be Putin bullets in you!”

“You’ll be more lifeless than Medvedev’s leadership, when I’m done with you.”

"I swear by the hand up my backside, that I am not a puppet leader"

“Hey Ivan! When you see the Devil, tell him he owes me 25 bucks!”

We slid into the lift, the doors sliding shut, Emma hammering the button for the ground floor. Elavator music played. We stood, slowly, the moment instantly turning to elevator awakwardness.

“Have you meet Satan?” I asked, “No, well, you don’t want to meet Satan. Jerk screwed me out of my winnings at our last poker game. Long story.”

Satan: Actually kind of a douche in person.

“I’m not entirely sure whether you are completely sane, Mr. Delaware. I really am not.”

“Please Emma. We’ve seen each other kill people. It’s Campbell. And I might be putting on the crazy. And I might not. And that’s the fun of it.”

The music played, a sweet little tune.

The doors slid open again and we came face to face with a dozen guns of all shapes and sizes.

“Hi boys!” I said brightly, dropping my guns, “This isn’t where I parked my car.”

We were grabbed by the neck and forced to our knees in the middle of the dingy bar. A large Russian man approached, grim faced, wielding a pistol. I grinned at him, glimpsing a pair of familiar figures outside the window.

“So.” He said, “ You think you can escape us? This is very stupid, da?”

I grinned even wider and turned my head slightly towards Emma, “You know what I hate. When the bad guys catch the good guys, they do all this exposition. It’s stupid. Why don’t they just shoot the-“

BLAM

My shoulder caught fire as the Russian fired a round through it.

“AHHHH! WHAT THE FUCK!?”

Emma shook her head, “Why would you say that?”

“BRO! YOU SHOT ME BRO!! HE is not going to like that!”

The Russian sneered, “Who is not going to like that, eh, my main man?”

I grimaced up at him, “My buddy with the rocket launcher.”

I threw myself across Emma as The Cheif’s rocket burst through the window and exploded into the Russian’s back, sending shrapnel and body parts all across the room.

The Cheif and Black Man Johnson burst into the room, guns blazing, cutting down the fleeing Russian’s with impunity.

“Delaware? You still alive?”

“Probably,” I responded, “Apart from the bullet in my shoulder and the shrapnel in my back, I‘m in fine. If you could call me an ambulance, though. That’d be appreciated.”

The Cheif started yelling at Black Man to call an ambulance.

“In fact, I’m in a great position,” I muttered to Emma, underneath me. “Bow chicka, bow-owwwww oh sweet jesus this is painful.”

I rolled off her and sat on the ground, trying to ignore the blood running down my back.

“I’m sorry I got my blood on your jacket, Emma.”

She sighed and took it off, straightening her hair, “Under the circumstances, I forgive you. You’ll find your payment tomorrow. And a bonus or two. It has been wild, Mr Delaware.”

She bent down to give me a kiss on the cheek.

“Perhaps we will cross paths again one day. Goodbye Campbell.”

I watched her pick her way through the rubble and bodies, like a Valkirie of Viking lore, pressed a hand to my cheek and whispered to myself, “Goodbye, Emma Watson.”

Fare the well, my dearest.

An Emma Watson Film Noir Story-Part 6-Dosvedonya, Comrades

Dosvedonya, Comrades

I was back in the Chiefs office, changed into dry clothes and with a mug of cocoa. The Chief stood by the window, staring out into the still pouring rain. He stroked the gun at his waist with the tip of one finger, seemingly unconsciously. He wasn’t the only one there though. We’d gathered up the rest of the Problem Solvers that weren’t in the field. All up, there were six of us. Not enough to take down the Russian Mob, but it would have to do. Nobody killed one of our own and kidnapped a client without some sort of recompense. There was no going to the police; that would destroy our reputation. In this business, we survived on reputation. And killing everyone who had a hand in the death of Legs and capturing Emma Watson, well, that would cement our reputation.

“We’ll spilt into teams,” said The Chief finally. “Two teams of three. Macreedy, Rosen, Amir, you three are going to search those warehouses on the Docks that the Ruski’s operate sometimes. Delaware, you, me and Black Man Johnson will hit up the vodka bars and gambling dens up around 24^th.

“Damn, Son, a brother ain’t got no place in dose white fire watering holes.”

Johnson was the only black guy on our team. He was only, like, a quarter black but he acted like his great-grandpappy had been snatched from deepest, darkest Congo jungle and been worked to death in the cotton-fields. I’d met his father. He’d moved here fifteen years ago from a wealthy family in South Africa with his bride who was whiter than Elin Fucking Nordgren. (That’s a Tiger Woods joke, by the way.)

“Drop the panther act, Luke Cage!” yelled the Chief. “You’re coming along! Bring your Kwanza Bible if it will make you feel better!”

The Chief could be shockingly racist sometimes.

“Now we’re all angry about this. We all want to do some killing. Presumably a lot of it. It is a fantastic stress reliever. But I don’t want anymore of us going down. If you find the Ruski’s, if you find Emma Watson, then don’t try and take them alone. Call back up. And we will rain down the fury of hell upon them. Together.”

—-

I will see you again, my sweet.

I shimmied up a ladder onto the roof of a thrift store with considerably less hip movement than the dance move.

I’d kept a low profile in my search so far, checking upper windows for signs of extra security, the rooves of Russian clubs for snipers, back alleys for my goons than usual. I knew The Chief and Black Man Johnson were doing things their way, but I had mine and with Legs gone it was a lot easier to get up ladders. I know it was harsh, but it was always like, ‘Geez dude, use your feet for once’. Those Russian bastards were going to pay for killing my best friend.

This time I thought I had something though. A bear of man laughing and drinking with some goon types in a top floor window across the street, while a light haired brunette was stiffly seated before them. Prisoner body language. She could have been nobody, but the bear was Soytzen , the man who Emma’s friend had been in debt to. I scanned the side alley beside the building. Four goons. At least two more than usual. That made this the place, The KG-Bar. I was supposed to call for back up when I found her, but hey, fuck that noise. I was gonna kill everyone all by myself. They had shot at me, killed my friends and kidnapped the girl who was paying me and I also really wanted to bang. This was personal. It couldn’t have been more personal if they had, say, broke into my apartment and anally violated me in my sleep. Actually no, that would have been more personal. But still. THIS WAS PRETTY FUCKING PERSONAL.

I flipped a homeless fellow a twenty for his coat, and shrugged the heavy, filthy garment over my long cream jacket, the dark hood squashing down my white fedora. I shuffled down the alley towards the goons, their machine guns ugly bulges beneath their jackets. I needed a distraction. Something bold, something that would utterly grab their attention, but throw their guard down at the same time.

“Stop right now, thank you very much!”

I sung out in a cracked falsetto. There was a round of laughter from the goons. I kept walking forward, singing as I went.

“I need somebody with a human touch,”

I hugged myself, and threw in a stumble as I did, my hands caressing the handles of my silenced nine millimetres in shoulder holsters.

“Hey there you!”

I drunkenly pointed at the Russians and they laughed and made kissy noises.

“Always on the run,”

I was closer now. Sweat was beginning to bead on my forehead. I had to hold it together.

“Gotta slow down baby, gotta have some fun”

I was almost in amongst them now, and they were getting less amused. Now there was Russian curses and gestures to the alleyway mouth, suggesting I get the hell out.

I faux drunkenly began the chorus again.

“Stop right now, thank you very much,”

One of the Russian’s flung back his jacket to show off the gun, but I pretended I hadn’t seen it.

I hugged myself again, gripping my guns tight.

“I need somebody with a human touch,”

With the last word I pulled my guns and fired crossarmed through my coat, catching the two on either side of me in the chest. In the same motion, I brought my guns forward and put bullets into the faces of the men in front of me.

They all hit ground together, with identical bloody thumps.

I shucked my coat.

“Thank you very much.” I whispered.

The Spice Girls Claim yet more lives. Their crimes are endless and bloody.

Writers note: I hope you’ve enoyed this return after a long absence. There are many cool things on the horizen, including an extended post about my visit to the US of A, the Good, The Bad and the Wierd of Emma Watson on Deviant Art, Emma’s trip to Glastonbury music festival, assorted creepiness and of course, coming Friday, the thrilling conclusion to A Film Noir Story. Hope to see ya’ll then!

Missing

In case, ya’ll haven’t noticed, I have not been posting of late. Why, may you ask? You may!

 Well, I’ve been busy travelling and writing other things. I will get back on* That’s Not My Wand in a couple of weeks. In the meantime enjoy my travel blog, Roadpuncher, or my guest post at Kristen Stewart Wants it.

Part 5-Red Motherfucking Dawn-An Emma Watson Film Noir Story

Saad was in a bad way. And there was a very angry Russian with an MP-5 in between me and him. I don’t know why he was so angry. A lot of Russians seem to be angry. All that cold and vodka, I guess.  

“I see you!” the Ruski shouted, spotting my foot lying just outside the bench. “Dasvidania, comrade!”

I took out my .45, sat up over the bench and put a bullet between his eyes.

“You got that right.” I said, coolly, resisting the urge to blow the smoke away from my barrel.

I skittled over to Saad, who was doing his level best to stay alive. I tore off his shirt and pressed it against the wound.

“Don’t worry, pal. I’ll get you out of here. Can’t lose my best informant now can I?”

Saads eyes widened and he mouthed something that might have been ‘Look out!’

I thre myself flat again, and a half dozen more bullets tore into the Vulture’s body. Guess I’ never find out if he did say ‘Look out!’ or not. Probably though, on account of the three more Russians coming through the door, their own guns blazing.

I slid behind the work bench again, jerking my .22 from my groin and popping off a couple of wild shots. Just enough to make them duck their heads, buy me some time.

They found some cover themselves, and one of them, a fellow who was considerably shorter than the other two began barking out orders in Russian. He might have been good at giving out orders, but he was lousy at finding cover. I span out from behind the workbench  and put two .22 bullets into his neck, fountaining blood across the room.

Did you know that fountaining is not a word that is found in the English language? There, now no-one can accuse me of not being educational.

“NOW NO-ONE CAN ACCUSE ME OF NOT BEING EDUCATIONAL!” I yelled, emptying the .22 in the direction of an undoubtedly confused Russian henchman.

I flattened myself behind a pillar, immediately regretting my choice when MP-5 bullets blew away chunks of plaster, showering me in an increasingly bad decision. I dropped to the ground and slithered behind a steel table, flipping it into a shield as I did so.

“Bring it on, you stereotypical fucks!”

One of the Russians tried to flank me, and I dropped to one knee and fired underneath my left arm, the hole in his chest roughly the size of a grapefruit at such short range. Now it was just me and one other guy.

Bullets rattled off the table, sparks and ricochets the main danger. But he was entrenched deep and there was no way I was getting to him easily. I spat off a couple of shots, hoping I might get lucky, but he had a spot I couldn’t reach unless-

CLICK CLICK

He had to reload. I sprinted from my own hiding spot, found an angle on him while he was desperately fumbling for another clip and pulled the trigger.

CLICK CLICK

Oh shit. I was in the same boat. I didn’t have time to think. I just keep running towards him, leapt over the car door he was using for cover and clubbed him in the face with the butt of my gun.

He roared with anger and swiped at me with one bear like hand. I was outmatched and I knew it. I wasn’t a big guy and my hand to hand skills weren’t the best. I could handle myself, but I’d much rather be facing down three thugs with a gun in my hand than one of them up close.

He knocked me backwards into the car door and I swear I felt my ribs crack. I gasped for breath and desperately rolled to one side as a booted foot slammed the floor where my head had been. My hand fumbled along the nearest work bench, grasped something long and metallic and thrust upwards.

The Russian gasped, more an involuntary death rattle than anything else as the TV Antenna pierced his eye and exited the back of his skull. I let him fall and stood up.

“You were a Problem. And you’ve just been solved.” Post-Mortem one-liners were very important.

Emma. Oh shit. I had to save Emma Watson. I sprinted towards the door.

 The rain was pouring from the sky, like god was pissing on us. Maybe that wasn’t just a metaphor. The car lay on its side, burning, flames guttering in the rain. There was no sign of Emma. I drew my 45. and sidled down the stairs keeping an eye out for those that could have done this.  They were almost certainly the Russian’s, but maybe there was some new player I didn’t know about yet. I hear that some Hollywood agents could be pretty aggressive about attracting clients.

I checked my pockets, reassuring myself of the 22 and the handful of bullets I had there. Two spare clips for the pop-gun and enough for at least three full reloads for the hand cannon. It probably wouldn’t last me the day, but hopefully it would be enough to get me and Legs back to headquarters.

Legs. Oh shit.

A wheelchair lay on its side, a few metres away from the car. I dashed towards it, heart in my mouth. Figuratively, that is. Not literally, cos otherwise that would have been a serious medical problem. There was no sign of Legs around the wheelchair. I wiped rain from my face, hair from my eyes and hunched my jacket closer around me, in an already futile gesture to keep dry. There was a dark stain on the wheelchair, diluted by the rain, already washing off. But it was blood, I would recognise it anywhere.

 I’d spilt enough of it not to.

I drew a deep breath. This wasn’t good. Wasn’t good was the understatement of the fucking century. If there were more Russian’s about, I no longer cared. I wanted them to be there so I could bullet rape the guys who hurt Legs, killed Saad and took Emma.

“D…D…Delaware?” came a croaking voice.

I span to see Legs propped up against a piece of jagged metal, a bloody stain on his chest.

“Oh shit, Legs!”

I dashed to his side and knelt down beside him.

“M…M…Mike, you assho, asshole. My Nnnnname is M…M…Mike.”

I stared at the bullet hole in his front, then leant over him to stare at the three in his back.

“Sure, it is, Mike. Sure it is. Godamn it.”

“Am I gonna make it?”

“I don’t know Mike. But I have some bad news for you. I don’t think you’ll ever walk again.”

“FFFFFuuuuuuuu-”

Legs choked his last word, presumably saying friends forever. Yeah, that’s what it was.

I stood straight, hair slicked down from the rain, guns clenched in white knuckled hands. These fuckers were gonna pay. Pay in blood and money, and probably some psychology damage too. When I killed them all, they were really gonna have nightmares about it.

But to do that, I needed back-up. I needed The Chief and the rest of the Problem Solvers. I flipped open my phone and dialled the office number.

“Chief, this might be a teensy weensy understatement, but you’re not going to like this. I know your policy on having clients kidnapped, or partners killed, or needing help, or getting company badges wet, or getting valuable informants killed, but I need your help. I need it big time.”