3/28/2020

Quarentine Challenge Day 3: You Don't Have To Worry

Day 3 of the Quarentine Challenge (I missed Day 2, so will probably go back and do it at the end), it was to start a story with the first line "you don't have to worry because..." This one isn't as neat as my Day 1 piece. I'm really embracing the idea of reading the thing and writing and writing and writing and keep going for an hour without planning. I might change that up and do a detailed plan or think a story through in my head later in the run. But anyway, it's not finished. It's not great. But there's some ideas and jokes in here that I like and that I might come back to

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You don’t have to worry because I’ve been in scrapes far worse than this and look at me, I’m not dead am I? I always get out alive!

The people who I am trapped with however…joking you twat! We’re going to be fine. So the way I see it we’re trapped in a bank vault with no food, no water, no phones – because someone’s kept going off during the training drills! 

I know that was me, I’m somebody. If I’d been talking about your phone I’d have said “some nobody’s phone kept going off during the training drills." Oh now, you’ve interrupted my train of thought. Don’t every interrupt me again. I was so close to getting us out of here. Now I have to start thinking of the whole plan again. Where was I?

I know! I know I’m trapped in a bank vault! We can see we’re both trapped in a bank vault. I didn’t mean geographically where am I, I meant what was I just saying.

Oh, well maybe I did just say that, did I say anything after I said about being trapped in bank vault.

Well, you are a nobody. And I am Daring Brad, bank breaker extradornaire. Famous for it. Well sort of famous. You can’t be too famous for it or they’ll arrest you. But I’m on whatever the equivalent of the Graham Norton show is for people looking to avoid being seen by the general public.

I don’t know who Jimmy Fallon is but I’m guessing it’s not a very funny reference. You just let me do the jokes. I’m going to cut your bits out of this anyway because you’re a nobody. Everybody knows I’m the funniest one in the crew. I’m the funniest and most handsome.

No that wasn’t an example of how funny I am.

Alright. Tell me one good joke you know.

Who’s There?

Robber Who?

Ok, that was pretty funny, but I’m still not putting you in my book.

Yeah, I’m writing a book. Because I’m also the most intelligent, funniest and most handsome one in the group. Shaun’s just called the ‘brains of the operation’ on the grounds that he’s the one who brings the chalk to the meetings.

Of course you can write a book if you’re a criminal. You just have to remember to redact certain details. For example I’m going to spell Shaun’s name the other way to how he spells it.

Well I’m not going to spell your name at all, you’re a nobody.

Now, how do we get ourselves out of here. I’m very good at breaking into banks, not so good at breaking out. But we can find a way. Something must have happened to Alann (with two N’s in case the feds are reading), he’s our engineer, he was supposed to take out the main power generator and back up. Let’s face it gold and money are no use to us in getting out. They can buy us what we like on the outside. Enough gold here for one of those scented candles that comes in a little glass jar.
But but but, people do leave valuables in bank safety deposit vaults like this one. Maybe we can find something that isn’t useless money or useless gold. I've got the codes in this notebook. Here. Quick start opening deposit boxes. How’d we get the codes to every deposit box in the city bank I hear you ask?

I’m talking to the readers now, you’re supposed to be getting busy. The codes? Well that’s where Big Steve comes in and, of course, Little Steve.

I told you kid, I’ll do the jokes, but yes it does indeed sound like the nickname Big Steve would have for his... Although I would point out that it is wildly inappropriate given the circumstances.

Big Steve gives the whole operation an air of respectability. He’s got class. He’s got style. He’s got grace. He’s a winner.

No he’s not a lady. Oh I see. Well it wasn’t a reference to that song, I’m just no good with words. How would you describe big Steve then?

That’s pretty good. Too bad nobody will hear it nobody. Now open those god damn safety deposit boxes.

Big Steve has a certain way about him. He’s well spoken. Well dressed. Nothing but the finest Armani suits. His Pyjama’s even have a tie. He drives the finest cars, eats at restaurants you have to book in advance. Rubs shoulders with the right people. Goes to the theatre, for shows that aren’t adapted from films. In short, Steve has a certain Je ne sais quoi about him.

You didn’t come up with that. You trying to claim ownership of the phrase je ne sais quoi now. I bet you don’t even know what it means. Tell me what it means then.

See told you. Now open those deposit boxes.

Big Steve is our in. He hangs around with the richest people in town. Gets to know them. Gets to know their wives, very well. Gets invited to their houses and their parties. Big Steve is like the advanced guard. Wherever we are going to do the next hit, he’s in town six months before, schmoozing. Big Steve picks the marks. Learns which banks they keep their valuables in and picks the bank we are going to target. But how do we get the codes for the safety deposit boxes? I hear you ask. That’s where Little Steve comes in. Little Steve or Steve Jnr is enrolled in the local school. Little Steve has been to so many of the UKs prestigious private schools that he is probably the real brains of our operations. What this guy doesn’t know about the years 3 to 8 national curriculum is probably not written in Latin. He infiltrates the school and makes friends. His years moving from one private school to another every six months have made him very adept at fitting in and making new friends with private school kids. Not so much with anyone else. Personally I want to smack the little git every time I see him. Imagine not turning up to a meeting because you’ve got fucking polo practice. But shortly after arriving he hands out invitations to a birthday party he’s throwing at the town’s finest restaurant. Someplace that sells Oysters and Lobsters and Scallops and says ‘bruschetta’ when they mean ‘on toast.’ He takes these invites and gives them to the oldest or favourite child of everyone who his dad, Big Steve, has identified as a potential mark. Then after what he laughingly calls a party, he declares “oh such fun, we must do this again Velmoronica! Tell me when is your birthday.” And he memorises all of the birthdays of all of the kids whose parents own these deposit boxes and that is invariably the code we need to get into them. Found anything useful yet?

You don’t mean that the minister of defence owns one of these boxes?

Why would someone else lock photos of the Defence minister in a vault.

Oh wow! These are…yeah, take them. The Sun will give us a lot of money for these. Christ. Whoever owns these must be the most powerful man in the country. I imagine whoever took them probably drinks to forget. But they won’t help us get out of here. Keep looking.

Of course Little Steve very nearly ended up behind bars in juvenile prison himself. Luckily they only caught Ricky. You see where Big Steve was the brains of the operation, Ricky was never sure if he was the arse or the elbow of the operation. One day he came up with a hairbrained scheme to win the lottery. See at the time the lottery was being hosted by Eamon Holmes. So in comes Ricky with a little idea. A very little idea. He sends Little Steve to the school where Eamon Holmes’ children go. He reckons see that most people who do the lottery pick the birthdays of their nearest and dearest and since Eamon Holmes picks the numbers on the show, if he can find out Eamon Holmes’ kids’ birthdays, he can predict what numbers are going to come up. So three months Ricky and Little Steve put into this project. And Ricky wants to win big so he spends £100 on lottery tickets all with the same six numbers – “that’s not how it works mate” was becoming something of a catchphrase for the rest of us – and of course, lost on all of them. He went out that night to drown his sorrows and ended up heading to ITV South Bank studios in quite a state with the plan to drown Eamon Holmes instead. He made it all the way to the studio too! Accidentally exposed himself to Denise Robertson during a commercial break and was arrested while Phil and Holly tried to calm her down.

Found anything?!

You wont believe the stuff that some people leave in safety deposit boxes. Look, this one guy just has all the instruction manuals to everything in his house in case he needs them. A collection of Pokemon cards. Here we’ll take these. These’ll be worth a few bob on ebay. The addresses of all the heads of government in the world and what appears to be a list of codenames. Might just leave that one alone. What’s in this one? What do you suppose these numbers are?

Someone’s locked up all their PIN numbers on a bit of paper including the number for this safety deposit box. A first edition Jane Austin…five pound note. Wait a minute? Wasn’t she on the tenner? Some dodgy people about.

Ok, look, we’ve got to start seriously thinking about getting out of here. Give me that list. Now somewhere in any bank safety deposit box vault, the bank manager will have a box. If we can find that maybe there’ll be some thing in there that we can use…

3/26/2020

Quarantine Challenge Day 1: I Was Lying Before...


By way of introduction: I signed up for a 14-day quarantine writing challenge. The first days of which was to write a thing with the first line "I was lying before, the truth is..." I set myself an hour and just typed and typed for that hour. Here's the result

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I was lying before, the truth is boring isn’t it? The truth is so much more boring. Nothing interesting happened in the truth, there’s no winners when it comes to telling the truth. “Oh well done, you’ve told the most truth, here have a trophy.” If anything history has proven that liars often get further. Now I’m not saying all liars are dicks. That’s not the case. JRR Tolkein wasn’t a dick was he? But then he wasn’t entirely truthful in his writing either. Or maybe he was a dick. Maybe he was one of those people like Churchill who we think was all good because he did a lot of good things but then it turns out he was actually a bit of a dick too. I wonder if he was a dick.
SANDRA, MAKE A NOTE TO FIND OUT IF JRR TOLKEIN WAS A DICK! THANKS LOVE.
I don’t even have a secretary called Sandra. She’s called Lucy.
Not true either. I don’t have a secretary or a PA. And that intercom I pushed…just a tape recorder. But admit it, I seemed more interesting when you thought I had a PA called Sandra. I don’t think I’ve ever even met a Sandra. Not knowingly. I met an Eileen once at the supermarket but she was like 20. I assume she just forgot her name tag that day and had to borrow one from an older colleague. Now that’s interesting. She sounds interesting. What happened there? But it’s not true. Nothing I’ve told you so far really happened.
And if you thought the opening line “I was lying before the truth is…” was gonna make me tell you the truth. You’re wrong! That line just came to me off the top of my head as a good opening, thought it up all by myself while I was out cleaning the Porsche. And you should know, I’m not going to tell you the truth. Not one thing contained in the following text really occurred. It is entirely bullshit.





Hello. You’re still here. That’s interesting isn’t it? Why are you still here? I’ve told you nothing you could possibly read below will be the truth and yet you’re still here. Unless you’re not still here. I kinda hope you stopped reading otherwise when I said “you’re still here” just now that would be true. And now there’s a truth in here. Oh fuck. If you’re still reading it then there must be something true in here. You’d better not be reading it still? Are you? Are you? Go away! Stop reading it! Stop it! You’re making my head hurt!




Right lets assume for a moment that nobody is reading this, but also if you are you need to take a good long look at yourself in the mirror. Go on do it now. I’ll wait.



Done it?

No you haven’t. Now you’ve lied to me and I’ve lied to you and yet we’re all still here. What do you expect to find? What are you hoping for? Are you more interested in lies than the truth? I can do lies. Lies are easy. Erm…I did not just eat all six packs from a six pack of six packs of Jaffa Cakes. See anyone can lie. I actually really like Billy Rae Cyrus. Lie. Easy right? Perhaps you’re hoping that my lies may reveal some truth? Do you now think for example that I am the type of person who would eat six packs from a six pack of six packs of jaffa cakes? I told you I did not do that just now, but I could have done it hours ago, or maybe it was a four pack. Who is to know? I could really like Billy Rae Cyrus for all you know. Unless you’re the one person in the world who loves Billy Rae Cyrus you can’t prove me wrong.
So why are you interested? Why are you interested in reading this if I am not going to tell you the truth? The most frustrating lie any of us have been told is that old one “the truth’s stranger than fiction.” Is it bollocks! I didn’t masturbate through the whole of the Human Centipede trilogy only to see ‘based on a true story’ and that’s the strangest thing I can think of. (Work out which bits of that sentence definitely had to happen to count it as a lie).
Is the truth really stranger than fiction? Sure it’s more confusing but that’s not the same as being stranger?
When I was a girl, we were living in a small house right near the very northern most part of mainland Wales. A small cottage on a farm. You can picture it right – even though, as I say, it definitely wasn’t real? On that farm we had some chickens (ee-eye-ee-eye-oh) and every morning we’d wake up and have eggs for breakfast. Fresh eggs from the farm. I think I was about 6 when I realised that eggs came from a chickens bum, 7 when I realised they weren’t chicken poo and 8 when I realised they had baby chickens inside them (sort of), and so in this tiny Welsh farming village I became the only vegan. This is back before vegans were everywhere. I think understanding the food chain was fine for some of the older farmers but for me growing up it really shocked and sickened me. I vowed from that day that I would never again eat any animal product. My parents were still working the farm of course and this was not a problem. Each to their own I said. I wasn’t going to do anything drastic. You do you mum and dad, I’ll do me. And so I grew up knowing my parents did this for a living. Killing animals. Artificially impregnating animals and taking their milk. And just generally being kinda mean to animals. All the time I ate my kale like a good little girl and complained when we were out of Soya milk. (If I spotted it, I know my mum put cows milk in my tea when she couldn’t be bothered (is tea vegan? I should know but I don’t. Maybe I should have researched it before I started this lie, but I didn’t because when I totally off my own back came up with the idea of writing this, I thought I should disconnect my writing machine from the internet so I did. I haven’t checked Twitter once)).
Since we’re doing bits in brackets here: (would now be a good time to point out that Jaffa Cakes are not vegan? You didn’t spot that. You’re lying too now if you said you did. We’re both lying. What a madcap world this is).
When I grew up, around the age of 13, my parents made another attempt to get me started working on the farm. You know the best form of a lie? Jokes. Jokes are all lies. None of them really happened. Doctor Who never showed up at anyones front door. The chicken had no reason to cross the road. In fact, I began to experiment down on the farm. I set up reasons why a chicken might cross the road and monitored the results. I got some grain. Put it the other side of the main road outside the farm and guess what, it didn’t cross right in front of a truck that ultimately didn’t crush it to death. So maybe grain isn’t why the chicken crossed the road.
Next I set up a to-scale film set and dressed another chicken up like that fella from Pride and Prejudice (obviously I didn’t dunk that chicken in a pond to make it’s shirt wet, almost drowning it, that would be cruel) and got a hen the other side of the main road. Again, no articulated lorry splashed that chickens brains all across the road, and you can rest assured that had any blood landed on my face I wouldn’t have licked it off. So maybe sex appeal wasn’t why chickens crossed the road.
Final chicken experiment, and this is a bit of a weird one, especially for a vegan such as myself. I set up a small frying pan, took some eggs and printed a recipe for an omelette. I wanted to test if the chickens motivations were to save it’s young or if chickens were all bastards who deserved to be made into Thai Green Curry after all. I’m sad to report that on this occasion the chicken did not cross the road. Which is lucky. Because had the chicken in fact crossed the road, it could have knocked a motorcyclist off his bike and sent limbs flying all over the road, which I would have had to dispose of or make into a stew or something and I didn’t want that. My parents would definitely have sensed something was up if my cooking contained meat. I don’t know if I could succeed at pulling that off. “Oh, well as it’s your wedding anniversary, I thought I would do a special dish just for you. Well maybe I’ll just have a little bit…beef actually.” I don’t know if I could have pulled off that innocence. I’m not that much of an actor. (Did you believe I had a secretary at the start? I’m interested).
Now those are the only jokes I would experiment with. I certainly wouldn’t try to, say, get a sheep pregnant with kangaroo DNA to find out what happens if you cross a sheep with a kangaroo? (Actually there’s a thought: that monsters still out there. I wonder if it killed again. If you’re thinking of moving to north Wales don’t get too attached to your cat that’s all I’m saying).
My parents were happy for me to stay at the farm for ever and ever and ever. But I wanted to move on. I went to the big city: Aberystwyth. While there I applied my chicken psychological experiments to a somewhat larger animal. My parents paid for me to have a dedicated team of psychiatrists on which I could experiment in the hope of learning how psychiatrists’ worked. I can tell you this about psychiatrists: 9 in every 17 of them will cross the road for a chicken dressed as Colin Firth. I later retried the idea with a chicken dressed as the fella from Poldark. The results were disappointing but nobody was hurt. The chicken was inhumanely destroyed. NOT with a miniature scythe.
In the end all of my psychiatrists let me go home. Which is odd because I was the one in charge of that situation. How does that work? Why did they let me go? That doesn’t make any sense. Did I eat jaffa cakes? No I didn’t. I didn’t not eat jaffa cakes. I didn’t not not eat vegan jaffa…fuck. Sorry. 

What was the question again?

The most frustrating lie is that truth is stranger than fiction.

The best jokes are all lies.

SANDRA!!

Lies.

I was lying before, the truth is…The psychiatrists DID let me go. But I didn’t want to. That’s how it works. Worked. I didn’t choose to leave. I wanted to stay. I’d made the psychiatrists my friends. In fact one right ugly bloke who worked there chose to spend a long weekend as my guest (if you know what I mean, wink wink nudge nudge) in my non-padded office from which I ran operations. But eventually I was forced to leave against my will. I don’t think the psychiatrists wanted me to stay. My practical experiments with Freud’s more oedipal theories were getting a little boring and mundane for them. They wanted to see my fly the nest, like a chicken motivated by grain or the chance to save it’s young from an omelette. It was easy for some of them to see me go. Others found it harder on account of the fact they had suicided themselves with a scythe that someone else must have left on display in a very obvious place like on top of someone else’s tongue, so they found it hard to see anything. I could barely look them in the eyes because I didn’t take their eyes with me.
From that day, I roamed around Wales but I never once went back to visit the farm where my parents had raised me and fed me unborn baby animals. It never occurred to me how cruel the world was. And how awful the truth can sometimes be. I know for a fact that my parents both lived long and happy lives and as their animals remained forever in their farm, trapped, unable to escape across the land and roam free. I also know that the threshing machine was always kept clean the way my father liked it.


Aaaand now you’re backing away. I told you you should have earlier. I don’t know why. I already told you. Nothing I will reveal about myself here is true. But if you come back tomorrow, I’ll tell you a lovely story about the adult man I have living on the ground floor or upstairs of my house. And maybe, if you’re very lucky, I’ll explain where I got the kangaroo seaman. My story tomorrow will definitely reveal that. I hope my lies haven’t entertained you.

JRR Tolkien was definitely a dick. I hope I offended someone with that bit.

I was lying before, the truth is the most frustrating lie is “this is a lie.”


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Dan Vine                                                                                                                 
Suspect. Charged.




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DCI Richard Stewart
Inverness Constabulary