Monday, December 25, 2006

The Ad | Part II. | NWS

Webmaster's Note: I moved this over to Fiction along with Part I because I need slim down our main page to just poetry.

Please use caution when reading this - this is when the graphic parts take place. I wanted to warn you unless you put the blame on me.

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Wednesday morning arrived, Henson walked to his lecturers with a spring in his step at the usual time of 8am. When 12pm arrived he found himself down Greenway Road, a line of orange trees on the side of the road and a row of houses. He found himself in front of a red brick house with the number 103 hanging, off centred. He shuffled for the key in his pocket and then put the silver key into the key hole, turned it at which the door squealed open - in need of some oil. The foyer was empty, only a black umbrella balanced on the wall, a frame with the words; I will succeed hung crooked on the peeling white wall. He entered the kitchen, a table lay in the centre, a stainless steel sink, a big window behind to let in the garden that was overgrown with weeds. No dishes in the cabinets, no kettle to boil some water for tea. A broom leaned on a wooden door, intrigued he opened it realising that there were steps leading down into blackness. After searching for some sort of light he found a cord and pulled it, which sprayed light over darkness. The creak of the stairs worried him as he slowly made his way down into what he realised was a basement or cellar of some sort.

It was reasonably clean for a basement, though, there was this musty smell that shot down the mouth and released itself all around the lungs. A table stood in the centre of the room, only one small window though lay to the side. Most of the decorations of the room were irrelevant as the table was the main attraction. A large box lay on the table with a glass screen; it was covered in wires in the back which then led in a tangled mess to a power source attached to a central board. Henson scratched his head not knowing if the procedure would be easy, it looked highly complicated. A book lay next to the contraption with the word manual written in black lettering. A chair lay in the corner with wires running out of it and across the floor towards the central board.

If he was to get his 5,000 he would have to make a move on it. He picked up the thick book and read.

There are minimal procedures involved for the successful working of this machine. First flip the red switch on the wall marked A.

Henson looked around, saw a red button which was marked A and flipped it down, immediately a large whirring sound kicked in.

He continued to read. Switch the box on. The switch is found on the front below the screen.

He did this. The screen flickered black and white lines. Next turn the switch on behind the chair.

It was a mess behind there, but eventually he found the switch.

Connect patches to your head, the wires attached with clips fasten to the fingertips, then sit.

It was comical all the wires tangling with one another, the patches wired to God knew where sticking to his temple. His fingers wired up were now turning blue. He sat down and waited. He looked at the screen flickering, the sound of whirring in the background. He closed his eyes slipping back in the easy chair.

Each memory flickered somewhat, at times it was static, though it was a moving representation of another world, a life perhaps that would exist in the penultimate utopia. It was warm a cool breeze whispered across the blue sky marinating with the field of golden wheat. A picnic lunch was shared on a green crescent hill, lovers on a blanket, the red wine bottle empty now. Faces smiled; content to remain silent, to remain in a timeless ecstasy alone with another soul, lost in an instant forever.

Winter was eaten like ice-cream, vanilla snow, a walk through the park, a run through the melting stuff. A snowman melts in the mouth, a fullness of stomach.

“Hello,” a voice called out, she was blonde, shining like an angel, her eyes the colour of a dark green leaf.

“Hi, there,” the man replied, his knees shaking, his cheeks reddening.

She made it known to him what she wanted, by uncovering herself, by pulling back the covers, by the strawberry scented candles, by the soft music filtering through the room. He could hear the snap of the bra, the unbuttoning of his pants, her breath in short little puffs for air running down his neck. It was time for bed.

Memories came and went, new ones, ones were invented. It was over an easy five grand.

The first two weeks went well, he realised at the end of what he now termed a session that he could play back his entire session on the screen, which seemed a little surreal. The thought about why they needed such information never entered his head as long as he got his money.

Now he didn’t know when it started but he realised there were little flickers, little flashes of images that made him shutter. He could be walking over warm, white sand, a blue shimmering sea and then bang, the sea would turn red and blood would cover his toes, and just as suddenly as the image changed everything was normal again. He would be smiling, a blonde haired girl, in a bikini would run to his side. Everything would be wonderful.

“You there…!”

Henson lifted his head off the desk, a little dribble of drool slipped down his chin.
“Yes?” he pointed to himself.

“Sleeping is prohibited in class.” The wizened haired professor shouted.

Eyes darted his direction, a snicker or two, a whisper of voices. Henson straightened himself out, defiantly sitting in his seat for the remainder of the class, still struggling to stay awake.

The little car could only go so fast. It shuddered as it turned a bend, shook as it chugged around the round about and headed off into the fog. The driver with his hands on the wheel peered out into the road. A few vehicles with their burning lights passed the car going the opposite direction; he rubbed his eyes trying to stay awake. He passed a row of houses a disused petrol station, a parked lorry on the side of the road.

Bang!

The car jumped, shook, and then veered off the road hitting a tree. The driver ran out of the vehicle back to where he heard the bang, felt something underneath the tires. A bit of a body was there, on the road, its head intact, though bloody, a little trail of entrails spilling out, it was missing a leg at the socket, perhaps the car had grinded it, chewed it up and spat out into tiny pieces. It had black, curly hair that soaked up the blood, its eyes shut, a fountain of blood spurting out of nostrils. Perhaps it was a boy; it was difficult to make out the size of the body. A moan arrived, a deep groan that bellowed down the road, a few window lights switched on. The driver looked aghast, clutched his ears, and opened his mouth wide as he ran back towards the car, jumped behind the steering wheel, kicked the car into first gear and sped away.

He watched it again. The body lying on the road, he replayed it on the box, shaking at the sight of the blood and guts. No more. It reminded him too much of the newspaper boy. He turned everything off and slowly exited the house. He would go to bed.

He didn’t know how long he slept for but all he knew was he slept. And he should have felt good because he had not slept for days, yet he felt like shit. He made himself a breakfast of fried eggs and toast and washed it down with milk, that he could have sworn was sour. The clock on the wall read 11:30am, suddenly it dawned on him that it was Wednesday and if he was to make his 12 o’clock appointment he would have to hurry. Forgetting such a thing would mean the end of all payments. He ran out the door, flying down the steps out the front door and into the oncoming traffic, trams and lorries nearly hitting him, a little yellow Vespa, with a helmeted passenger swerved out of the way narrowly avoiding him.

He was on time, barely as he opened the door of the house at precisely twelve o’clock, though upon closer thought he realised that he wasn’t told whether the tests were to begin on the hour or he was supposed to arrive no later than that certain time. Upon arrival in the basement and after turning on the light, he was shocked to find the place in disorder. Papers were strewn all over the floor, the manual had pages torn out, the chair was ripped in several places, wires pulled out of sockets and the box lied face down on the floor. He scratched his head, wrinkled his brow, trying to think.

“I did not do this,” he said out loud. “I can remember perfectly well that I left the place in order.” He remembered the other man waiting for the appointment and surmised that perhaps he had also got the job or others who attended the interview were just taking other shifts. After thinking to himself momentarily he started to tidy up the mess so that he could continue on with the tests that he had committed to carry out.

After struggling to find what he deemed was the right place to connect the wires he sat on the chair, wired himself up and continued on with the tests.

It was four o’clock when he turned off the machines and locked the door behind himself.

Now paranoia was starting to set in not that there was any reason to get paranoid, but he thought of the box and how he could replay what he seemed to think were his thoughts, his inner conscious, were they playing it out on some channel, like a reality show? Perhaps the nation were watching him, watching his neurosis, his pattern of brain waves on the box that sat in every house, on a comfy chair.

He realised now, suddenly it dawned on him, eyes were peering out – watching him, commuters coming from work would furtively look away. A little red-head boy eating chocolate ice-cream stared at him not realising the ice-cream was melting, running down his hands, staining his school shirt that his mother so lovingly ironed. He checked the TV guide no reference to such a programme, he checked the Internet for latest crazes – nothing. He checked YouTube to see if his videos were being uploaded there – nothing.

The lecture came, Professor Evans stood in front of the class and said, “Mr. Dockard, you are a failure, you are making your class look bad with your low attendance and bad grades. I do not care what issues you have, family or otherwise, you are here to learn.

Henson stood up, realising he was shaky on his feet and shouted, “Mr. Evan, I do not care about my grades or attendance, in actuality I do not agree with your ideologies, I realise that a vagrant would make more sense than you, and would encourage more classroom growth than you can ever imagine. Why don’t you just shut up, I do not think anyone is interested.” Henson sat back down, after which the professor excused himself and the rest of the class followed suit not really knowing what took place.

He was on the chair again, only this time it was different. He was going on for a reason to enact revenge on someone who he believed destroyed any common sense he had and destroyed him for it. He closed his eyes, smiled and then thought hard.

He listened to the sound of his feet bouncing over the pavement; up ahead a white haired man was running beside an elderly woman. He sped up, and ran alongside the couple. The elderly man saluted him, he did the same, but what followed was a fist which smashed into the man’s face. He was thrown to the ground, the woman stopped running, and rushed over to the man. She gasped; his mouth was swimming in teeth and blood.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She cried as the elderly man moaned.

The assailant swung his foot, cracking the woman’s jaw and swirling her around in the air. The man on the ground fought to stand but he was beaten back down in a torrid of punches and kicks. After beating them senseless he turned around and ran off leaving them groaning in their own blood.

The images were real, brutal footage of a defenceless couple being beaten into the ground. He smiled, at least he could imagine, at least he was not harming anyone. He went home, had a bite to eat and then went to sleep.

What he could see in the box was being translated into his dreams, he dreamt of strangling the professor, of choking him, of sneaking up behind him while he was jogging and killing him. He imagined taking him down into the dark basement and killing him. But it was only a dream so it would never happen.

When he awoke he felt terrible, the light streaming in the window only compounded his headache and made him flee back to his bed only to experience more nightmares. He eventually made his way to class, though he was told to go home as one of his professors had died – brutally attacked while jogging. The funeral would be held the next day.

He arrived at the house sat himself on the chair and imagined what pain would feel like. He sat in front of a table in front of him was a saw, a hammer, and a drill. He picked up the saw tooth saw and drove it into his finger – blood followed. There was a tool box under the table, where he found a clamp he fixed it to the table and then his arm and then proceeded to saw with his free hand. It felt tingly when the blade broke through skin and then arteries – the arm bleeding. The motion of the saw went back and forth as he neared the bone sawing, and screaming all at once, his eyes popping out of his head. Sawing through bone sounded and felt like chalk on a blackboard – screeching through the body like a wailing cat. Not long later he stood agape without an arm, blood dripping out of him, the sawn off arm dangling on the clamp, his mouth wide and agonised.

Enough for one day he was going home.

A week had passed and he felt terrible, he could not sleep, though he could not drag himself out of bed except to use the toilet. He did not eat and his mind keep on thinking, thinking about the jogging professor, thinking about the child that he ran over, thinking about his arm that he so recklessly tore off in his mind. In reality he still had two arms, though he was growing suspicious as to the death of the professor and started to think of what else he had done.

He was in the basement again, on time, a chance to make an easy 5,000. Though this time he got the biggest scare of his life when he turned on the light to find the walls covered in red, his shoes soaking up the blood on the floor. Something else grabbed his attention, next to the box on the table was a hand gun and next to it a piece of paper with his signature.

I Henson Dockard hereby declare that I am the sole owner of the house. I purchased the premises on the 1 Sept 2005 in the presence of a solicitor. All other documents relating to such a matter can be seen upon request.

Sincerely,

Henson Dockard.

He picked up the gun looked at it, the chamber was loaded.

“Mr Dockard!” A voice rang out.

Henson spun around it was coming from outside.

“You’re surrounded, put your hands behind your head!”

Huh, he whispered as he neared the window and saw squad cars parked outside – a contingent of uniformed men with rifles stood in the driveway.

Henson did not understand the urgency of such a matter, he had done nothing wrong, the blood in the basement was not due to him, he never bought the house, the gun was not his, he killed no one.

He turned on the box, put it on replay, he grimaced, the neighbours Mr & Mrs. Devon were on the screen. He had seen them on one or two occasions suspiciously watching him as he entered the house. Now he watched on screen shocked to find that he was dragging them down the basement into the toilet. He stopped watching, ran towards the toilet and opened the door to find both of them slumped over the toilet bowl, bullets through their backs.

“Henson, this is Mr. Finchley, come out of the building! Why don’t you just give yourself up?”

What was Mr. Finchley doing with the police? Henson was doing the tests for him, he was sure Mr. Finchley would understand. He neared the window, opened it and fired a few shots.
Bang, bang!

“Mr Dockard the police know you killed Professor Evans, they know what you did to your neighbours, they know…”

His voice died down.

“Mr Dockard this is the police, if you don’t come out in five minutes we have no other choice than to come in.”

Henson grimaced, looked at the gun and then the chair. Everything was pointing in his direction; no one else could be connected. He swore at himself, cursed his predicament all the while trying to think how he could get out of such a situation. He could think of nothing. He thought of Faust and his pact with the devil, he was in a similar position. Unlike Faust nothing would save him, he could not be redeemed, for whatever it was he did. Salvation was not for him. He walked slowly towards the chair, sat down, wired himself up, and closed his eyes, jamming the trigger into his temple. He thought of lying in a bed of green rolling hills, his sweetheart in his arms, a red bottle of wine intoxicating the both of them, the yellow sun swimming in the cloudy sky.

Bang!

The mess was cleaned up; Henson’s face was on the front page of every newspaper. Psycho Student Goes on Killing Spree, Student Takes His own Life after Three Dead, headlines read. A few days later, an ad was placed in the Mansfield Press.

Requesting the services of certain individuals to test product x
Reply c/o Forster P.O. Box 1892

The test had been a success, now they were looking for new participants.

[end]

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