Also provides children's entertainment.

This was originally printed in a children's magazine called Spellbound and I'd totally forgotten about it until someone contacted me asking for it. But here it is now. If you have small people and think they might like it feel free to copy under CC.

 

 

 

TIMOTHEY THADDEUS BEAUMONT: DEAMONHUNTER (Aged six and three quarters)

 

 

It was an odd scratching sound that made Timothy look under the sink. Of course, mother had been expecting him to clean under there but he never did, it was too damp and cold. The scratching noise had Tim’s curiosity piqued so he made a rare venture into cupboard, one eye closed and the other only half open, brush held at the ready in case a spider tried to jump on his arm.

 They do that.

 It wasn’t a spider under the sink, Tim wasn’t sure what it was.

 At first he thought it might be an escaped monkey. It was about monkey sized but the more he looked, the more it seemed a strange sort of monkey. It had no fur for a start, just brown wrinkled skin like it had stayed in the bath long after mother had told it to get out. It also seemed to have wings, though they weren’t very big, more like little rags suspended from knitting needles on its back. It definitely didn’t have a monkey’s face. In fact it looked more like a turtle, all flat with big round eyes.

 Whatever it was, it was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to eat through a pipe under the sink.

 Tim wondered if turtles had big teeth like this creature did. He didn’t think so.

 “What are you doing?” Asked Tim politely.

 The creature stopped chewing on the pipe and looked at Tim, it made a sort of tutting sound and moved its mouth like Grandpa did when chewing gum.

 “You can see me?” It asked, in a voice similar to his father’s car engine on a cold morning.

 Timothy thought this was an odd question as he wouldn’t be talking to it if it were invisible.

 “Yes.” Said Tim, a little confused.

 “’Appens.” Replied the creature, “children and animals, sometimes they can,” it started to head-butt the pipe quite vigorously.

 “What are you?” Asked Tim rather bemused, he was sure he had never seen a creature like this on television. Tim liked to watch all of the nature programmes, though he liked foxes best.

 “I’m a demon ain’t I?” Said the creature.

 “I thought demons had horns,” replied Tim.

 “Well some of ‘em do, mostly when you get further up the ladder, and a right snooty bunch they are. I’m ‘appy me, minor demons like us get easy jobs like this. No goin’ up against the forces of good for me, no way. Dangerous that is.”

 Tim had no idea what it was talking about but nodded anyway.

 “And what are you?” Asked the demon in a rather impolite manner.

 “I’m a boy.” Answered Timothy. The demons eyes lit up and it dived at Timothy mouth wide open, ivory teeth extending.

 Tim hit it with his brush.

 “What was that for?” Asked the demon rather sulkily from where it had landed amongst the empty paint tins and cleaned out jam jars.

 “You tried to bite me.”

“Of course I did, I’m a demon, that’s what we do and I wasn’t trying to bite you, was trying to eat you, so there! Given me headache now.” Moaned the demon as it resumed futilely bashing its head against the pipe.

 “Sorry,” said Tim. “I’m a boy, we don’t like being bitten or eaten. Why are you banging your head against that pipe?”

 “It’s what we do, ruin people lives. All the numbers went in Jack Scratch’s hat and your fathers came up. I’m here to ruin his plumbing.” Said the demon with an evil grin, although Tim thought the demon was a bit too small to look really evil.

 “What good will that do?” Inquired Tim.

 “Well once I break this pipe, it’ll be gushing out everywhere. Then all it needs is one spark, and boom! Your dead, your mum’s dead, your dads life is ruined. Then the salesdemons move in and we get his soul. Pretty smooth operation eh?” The demon winked and resumed blunting its teeth on the sink pipe.

 Timothy wasn’t entirely sure that water was explosive and had an idea that the demon may be chewing the wrong pipe. He decided it would be foolish to question the forces of darkness and said nothing.

 “What’s your name? I can’t just keep calling you demon.” Asked Timothy whose mother had instilled good manners into him at an early age.

 The demon looked at Tim, “you wouldn’t be able to say my name, it’s a demon word.”

 “I could try,” said Tim who firmly believed that if you ventured nothing, you gained nothing.

 “Well don’t blame me if your tongue falls out when you try to say it.”

 Tim pondered this thought and decided he would try anyway. “What is it then?”

 “Alfred.”

 “Alfred?” Replied Tim sounding rather surprised.

 “You speak demon then? Well that makes things easier,” Alfred was now hanging from the pipe, swinging slightly.

 “You don’t seem to be damaging that much,” pointed out Tim, who always tried to be helpful.

 “No.” Alfred sat down looking rather unhappy. “I was meant to have help, don’t suppose you’ve seen another demon about have you? Looks like me but with antlers. Strong Scottish accent?”

Tim shook his head.

 “Just wait ‘till Bert gets here, real nasty piece of work that one. I’m evil but he’s really evil. Probably eat you, errr?”

 “Tim.” Said Tim.

“Yeah, be rooting around in your entrails as soon as look at you Bert will.” Alfred started happily munching on a stray sock that had been in one of the jam jars. “Tim? That’s a demon name, sure your not a demon?”

 Tim thought about this for a moment, “I don’t think I am.”

 “Didn’t think so, all that ‘orrible smooth skin, get laughed out of hell you would. As I will if I don’t get this job finished. I hate banks.”

 “Banks?” Asked Tim, rather confused with the conversations sudden change of direction.

 

“Yeah, banks. Bane of my life banks are, used to be so easy.”

 “What did?” Tim was by now thoroughly lost.

 “Ruining lives of course, didn’t even have to kill anyone.” A tear of nostalgia rolled down Alfred’s grizzled little face. “See Tim, before banks everyone used to keep their money at home in boxes or underneath the bed. Easy! Wander in, eat the money, life ruined. Job done. Not now, oh no, now everything goes in the bank.” Snorted Alfred disgustedly.

 “Daddy hates banks too.” Said Tim.

“He does?” Alfred’s eyes narrowed in what he fondly imagined was an image of utmost cunning. He started to nonchalantly clean a claw. “So, er, where does your Dad keep his money then?” Alfred chewed on his tail as if nothing important was happening.

 “Oh he keeps it upstairs in a box. Would you like to see?” Said Tim. Alfred bit off the end of his tail in excitement.

 “I’d quite like to see yes. If it’s not too much trouble Tim.”

 Tim took Alfred by the hand and, ignoring the rather clammy feel, led him to the stairs.

 “Er, Tim mate. You wouldn’t mind carrying me up would you? Never been very good with them.” Said Alfred.

 “Don’t they have stairs where you come from?” Asked Tim as he carried the demon upstairs

 “Only in the disabled access areas.” Answered Alfred. “So where’s this box then Timmy?”

 “In my bedroom, through here,” Tim led the deoon into his room.

 “Is this the one?” Alfred pointed to a large box in the corner and smugly thought to himself how angry Scottish Burt would be when he turned up to find the job done.

 “Yes it is.” Said Tim helpfully.” Before Tim could say anymore, the demon ran across the floor and dived into the box, cackling with glee.

 As Alfred fell into the bottom of the box he could barely contain his excitement and only half registered the sound of a key turning. It was at this point that he noticed there was a distinct lack of money in the box, he was about to ask to be let out when a Scottish voice said.

 “Ach, I see you fell for it too laddie!”

Doctor What (TF)?

I have watched a few of this (and the last) series of Doctor Who and, so far, I've enjoyed it but been a bit underwhelmed.

Now that's fine because it's not for me, it is for kids and that's cool. I'm pretty sure I'll enjoy watching it with the boy when he's a bit older. I did -love- it when Christopher Eccleston was the Doctor though. I thought he nailed it and brought a sense of real danger to the role that's been much lacking since. But, a twitter conversation with the always rather 'establishment*' thinker @Ruthlesscult had me thinking of what I'd do if put in charge of Doctor Who's scripting^. And in time honoured tradition I have done a blog post about it without properly thinking anything through.

It also involves a list. DOUBLE WIN.

1)  I would smash the sonic screwdriver with a sonic hammer and then smash that.

Locked in a room? Sonic screwdriver. On a crashing spaceship and can't get into the controls? Sonic screwdriver. Being attacked by evil badgers controlled with space collars? Sonic screwdriver. It's vastly overpowered and an easy get out for scriptwriters. On a more logical 'in world' level as it seems to act on anything electronic then any Dalek or Cyberman invasion should be easily ended with a quick sonic blast.

Smash it. Get rid of it. The Doctor needs nothing but his wits.

And some pants. Obviously.

2) More Daleks.

3)  Stop the Tardis working properly. Oh I know, no more Tardis chases or ending the episode watching a star explode or something. But it's also a get out clause and the writers use it in the same way they use the sonic screwdriver. It is far too reliable.

'But it's sentient cos in ep...'

Shut up. I am not listening.

Instil in the Tardis (again) the sense of the same (unknown-but-not-God) force that seemed to be controlling Sam in Quantum Leap^*. Is the Tardis completely randomly dropping him in places or is there some force behind it? OH LOOK. POTENTIAL STORY ARC.

4)More Daleks.

5) Make him older. The Doctor is not humanity's cool uncle. He is our Dad. Even better, our crazy Grandad.

Would you write in a snogging with your Dad? No. Not before the watershed and serving a long apprenticeship writing plays for Radio 4 you wouldn't. Don't get me wrong, I like Matt Smith. I think he's quirky and enjoy watching him but (and this is a casting error not an acting one) last survivor of a species wiped out in a war throughout all space and time? No. Neither was Tenant.

Eccleston? Yes.

Be quirky, Doctor, oh please, please be quirky, but also be intense and haunted and above all: it doesn't matter how scary the bad guys are you should be scarier. That's why Tom Baker worked.

And I don't care if he's male or female, really don't**. Helen Mirren as the Doctor? Sign me up now. But make the Doctor frighten me.

Make it plain about those companion's, oh he's fond of them, but he would sacrifice them in a second if he needed to. For the greater good and all but he'd still do it. And make him slower, less energetic. Look at the Master, he's chaos, he's energy: the Doctor's trickster God oppsite. The Doctor might be considered chaotic to his own people, but they were basically space fascists.

You want energy, you say? Companions, the flickering lights in the Doctor's long darkness. Make him odd, make him dark, make him frighten us.

6)  More Daleks.

7)  Bring back Gallifrey. Who does the Doctor answer to? Oh no one. He's like a space Littlest Hobo except not a dog*^ and we know he's not actually going to die because his name is on the titles. He's caught in the Superman dilemma. There is, in essence, no real consequence for the Doctor apart from losing one of his favourite amusements.

But if you bring back the Timelords they can reign him in. They can stop him or imprison him. Also, great uniforms but as we all know that's one of the few positives about being a fascist. I bet they make great boots too, though I don't remember seeing any.

8)  More Daleks.

9)  Take more risks. Doctor Who has a massive fan base who will follow it no matter what.

NO MATTER WHAT.

There's a lot of goodwill for you to use up. Two Doctors played by different actors in different time streams? Go for it. The Doctor regenerates as the Master with both sets of memories? CGI our Doctor into old adventures? Ace. I'm making this up on the fly, if you're being paid for it you should be able to BLOW MY TINY MIND. You have all of space and time to play with. Use it.

10)  More Daleks.

You think I've been using this as a bit of a comedy beat don't you? Oh no, my Whovian friend, not in the least.

The killing off of the Dalek race? Just stop it. Are they faintly ridiculous pepperpots gliding in only for a bit of post modern amusement? Maybe, maybe not. I don't think so. They are faceless, they are remorseless, they are the ultimate product of unthinking mechanisation. They are what Hitler would have invented -Panzer Mann- if he'd had the tech. And they scare us. They should scare us more now because of our relentless advancement and reliance on machines.

But Cybermen, Rj!

Oh yes, but they, at least, still look vaguely human. Not so the Daleks.

And 'in world'? The Doctor's civilization died fighting the Daleks. Lets not forget the Timelords were the most advanced civilization ever. One that had control of space and time. But the Daleks are STILL here.

I'd have them everywhere. A universe wide plague. They've lost central command so star systems are being devastated by Dalek on Dalek action as they argue -with weaponry- about who's the purest. Cloning centres spewing out millions of them. Stamp out one lot, another will spring up. They are like wasps.

They are also the antithesis of everything our good Doctor stands for. He's about individuality (within reason, of course) and a largely pacifistic way of sorting stuff out. Daleks? Well, they're not are they?

11)  Oh lastly my own little conceit, why not. Using the galaxy as still infested with Daleks model.

What if the Supreme Dalek survived the time war? What if the the Doctor, after all the killing, the millions, upon billions, upon trillions of deaths on his hands; could not bare to land that final blow. So, instead of killing it. He trapped it. Somewhere he had easy access to because they trusted him.

Somewhere like, oh I don't know, Earth?

And if it got free all the Daleks busy with killing each other would be united and swarm the universe.

Handily, this also gives you a cut off point where the Doctor goes from being trusted by the military (the Pertwee era?) to someone who they don't trust but need.

More importantly, then our Doctor would have a real reason to protect us, wouldn't he?

Feel free to flame me below.

*This is a lie.

**But I'll continue using 'he' because grammar is inherently sexist. Awkward.

 

^*. I know they said/implied it was God but they're American, it's what they do. I choose to ignore it

.

*^OR IS HE? See point 9.

To the editor

I made a mistake. We were in the Chinese ordering takeaway when I opened the paper on the counter without thinking and got a blast of the Daily Mail. It made me sad.  Anyway.


A Letter to the Editor of The Daily Mail.

I write this under extreme duress,
Since I heard about schools handing out free durex
Between that
And single mothers
I must confess
I'm getting rather stressed
My Father didn't fight in the war for this.

On the corner I see kids with hooded heads
We really need some sort of national service.
That's my taxes
funding scroungers
Council housers
And NHS beds
And my Father didn't fight in the war for this.

Those Muslims aren't quite human we should know who they are
Make them wear a crescent
or maybe wear a star
And I really
am not racist
All I want to say is:
My Father didn't fight in the war for this.

Ten Minute Thingy #3

Extreme Sanction.

I can still remember the first time, but that's what they say isn't it? 'You never forget the first time.'

It was for Jenny Blydon. I was thirteen. Ricky Sedge was chasing her on his bike and I was in the field outside the house where Mum and Dad lived right up until they died. I liked Jenny, I wanted to protect her and as she came running up to me, Ricky pedalling like mad behind her as if trying to escape the blurry heat haze that surrounded us, I concentrated.

A sudden build of pressure, a release.

I can still hear that certain, peculiar, silence, as if punching Ricky Sledge from his bike with my mind had insulted nature and the world around me had taken in a breath it could not release. The grass, in a circle thirty feet around me was white, quite dead. The gentle sound of the birds falling from the sky and hitting the ground around me in soft puffs of ash. There was Jenny, pale, beautiful and dead. My footsteps left behind me as I fell towards her like those left on the moon by Neil Armstrong. When I touched poor Jenny's face it crumbled.

I wasn't a stupid kid. I knew that I couldn't let this happen again, not without a really good reason.

It came twenty years later in New York. The Megaton it called itself, a nuclear powered battlesuit four stories high, shrugging off the combined might of the American military and I knew, it was like a voice in my head, 'your time has come,' it said. Put the dishes down, grabbed a  tea-towel and walked out through the restaurant. Once I was out I wrapped the towel around my head in true 'who was that masked hero?' fashion.

I crumpled Megaton like an old coke can.

Ten thousand people turned to ash.

Public enemy number one. Grainy satellite pictures of me, you'll know them. Head muffled in cloth, arms outstretched, a barely perceptible ring around me.

MONSTER.

I drank. I drank, I took drugs, I wandered. So sure that I had found my purpose, my moment and all it had brought was hate and condemnation from the entire world.

But I'm sober now, straight. I'm back in New York, back outside the same restaurant. No need to cover my face. I've found my truth in God.

And purpose.

Allahu Akbar.








Quick Note.
My apologies reader. I flinched. The original version of this has our character saving the Twin Towers from planes and a smaller bodycount. Which I think makes it a stronger piece of writing to be honest. But then there's always the worry, even though not many will probably read this little exercise, is it too crass?

I mean, the implied ending is already crass but it's a necessary shorthand for the way alienation can drive people into extreme behaviour. Or that is what we subconsciously believe anyway. As far as you, the reader know, our chap has returned to New York as a missionary. But in the West, that's not what those two words mean to us (and it was not my original intention as I'm as guilty as anyone). But anyway, Yes. I flinched and I thought I should be truthful about it.

Ten Minute Thingy #2

Same idea s the last one though this took slightly longer to write out. Not sure it's much better for it. Nevertheless here is a, loosely, Christmas themed fifteen minute thingy.

Miracle on Oxford St.

Karim Lee sat on a bench eating sandwiches (cheese and pickle) as neon hoardings strobed out everything he (and the wife and child he did not have) may possibly want for Christmas. When God appeared Karim was staring idly at the row of 40” 3d TV's in the shop window opposite him.

Thud. Went something in the ornamental bush behind Karim.

God didn't look like Karim expected him to look from his knowledge of the Bible (scant). God looked nondescript, boring even. Cheap suit (tan), ratty, uncombed hair (dirty blonde) and eyes like the skies of Karim's childhood holidays. God smoked roll ups, cupping thick fingers around the thin ember to protect it from the blades of icy wind, sucking on them like they were a life support system and the harsh tobacco protected his lungs from the city air.

'You Karim Lee?' God said. Karim didn't know he was speaking to God. (God knew all about Karim Lee because he was God.) 'You work at Enkidutech?'

'I'm Karim,' said Karim, 'but if you're a headhunter I'm not really interested in moving, I like what I'm doing.'

Thud! went a pigeon as it landed on the pavement in front of him and burst like a sausage left in a fridge dumped on a railway embankment by a man who couldn't be bothered making a trip to the tip.

'Headhunter?' said God, he stared up into a sky dirty with cab fumes and filthy language. 'I suppose so. I've come to tell you, Karim,' God tapped him on the chest, 'that you are the chosen one.'

'Sorry?' said Karim who privately wished God would go away and let him eat his sandwiches (ham and onion).

'I should Explain,' said God, 'I'm God.'

'Fuck off,' said Karim, who did not believe in God.

'Think of a number, Karim,' said God and he bent over, stubbing out his rolly on the pavement causing a crazy spiral of cracks that drew a portrait of Margaret Thatcher. 'Twenty-one, thirty-seven, five, twenty-three, pi,' said God with a smile.

'Clever,' said Karim, 'I've seen magicians do that on TV.'

'God stared at him, laughed.

Thud! Thud! Went two sparrows hitting the pavement head first and staying upright like two comical garden ornaments owned by an old lady who hated them but kept them because they amused the grandchildren.

'What an age of miracles we live in, eh, Karim?' said God. Karim laughed, nodded, took a bite of his sandwich (liver and mustard.) 'When you were fourteen you walked past an alley near your house and saw a couple having sex against the wall. You walked past that alley every day at the same time for a year and a half hoping to see them again. You never did.' God gave him a wink, 'that enough for you, Karim?'

Karim, his sandwich (salt and vinegar crisps) held halfway to his mouth, did not know what to say to that.

'I'm sorry, Karim,' said God, 'but you're chosen and you're going to die for our sins,' the television wall showed a crazy montage of wars, disasters and famines. For a moment Karim felt like he was in an eighties rock video. 'Just like they died for our sins' said God. 'Cool huh?'

'Doesn't really sound cool,' said Karim, his sandwich (rhubarb and dolphin) forgotten. 'And if this happens, which I personally doubt, is it going to hurt?'

'Fraid so,' said God, 'part of the deal you see. It's for the greater good though, don't worry about that.'

'And just how will the world know I'm chosen.' said Karim who had always felt it was best to mollify crackpots and really just wanted to finish his sandwiches (cream cheese and chive) in peace.

God leant back against the bench.

Thud!Thud!Thud! Went three more pigeons and a woman walking past told her friend she had blood on her shoes and did she know how much these fucking cost? And she'd been complaining about the fucking vermin for months and she was probably going to sue the fucking Mayor about this.

'A designer virus escaped from a government lab about fifty feet below us. It got out about an hour ago. Half an hour from now everything biological in a strip three miles wide and twelve miles long in the direction of the prevailing wind, which is away from the financial sector, thankfully,' God tapped his nose and gave Karim a wink. 'They will be dead. Everything apart from you, Karim. Your only side effects will be a series of vivid hallucinations.'

'Sorry?' said Karim. 'That sounds like the plot of video game.'

'Doesn't it just,' said God, and then he coughed into a handkerchief. He stared into it with evening grey eyes, carefully folded it and put into his jacket pocket. 'Your mother's from Iran, isn't she, Karim?' said God.

'Yes,' said Karim and he became very still, like an animal caught in the lights of a truck unable to move because its little brain was unable to catch up with the relentless forward march of the world around it.

'Good,' said God, 'that's absolutely perfect,' he said and he started to cry. Two tears of blood made their slow way down his nondescript face.

Thud! Went God's head as he toppled forward onto the pavement.

Ten Minute Thingy

This is a quick thing. I am feeling a bit 'not like doing the current WIP' so distracted myself with this. Allowed myself ten minutes.

The Pledge.

I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man with a brick.

...I want to thank you for electing myself and this government. I won't lie to you, there are hard decisions to be made. But remember, we are all in this together.

I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man with a brick.

Look, John, I'm sorry but with the economy how it is we're having to make cutbacks and you're one of them. I know, you've always been an exemplary employee. Talk to the MD? I'm afraid he's away at the moment, on holiday. Look, don't worry, we'll give you great references. Give my love to Susie, won't you. I really am sorry.

I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man with a brick.

Look, don't cry. It will be fine I'm sure. Fifty isn't over the hill by any means, I'll find something else. Don't worry. It will be fine.

I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man with a brick.

Yes, yes I know the mortgage payment has been late twice, no, no I'll definitely be able to make the next one. Yes, yes, I'll try and catch up but I was wondering about the penalty charge? Maybe you could? Oh, it's automatic? I see. No, I'm sorry.

I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man with a brick.

We've got savings, a couple of bottles of wine won't hurt.

I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man with a brick.

Well go to your fucking mother's then.

I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man with a brick.

Two bottles of extra strong cider please.

I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man with a brick.

No, no bastards, they can't. Look officer, this is my house. No, I won't calm down. This is My. Fucking. House. Stop that, stop it. I'm not a criminal. Why are you cuffing me?

 

I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man with a brick.

No, I don't have any change. Come away from him Jack, he's fitlhy.

I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man with a brick.

I'm sure you used to live here, but if I find you in this area again I'll arrest you.

I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man with a brick.

This is our turf, you dirty old fucker, you can't fucking sleep on our benches, stinking it up. Come back to this park and I'll fucking shoot you in the knee, alright?

I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man with a brick.

I know where they hide their gun.


I am a rat in a bucket. You are a man with a brick.

 

You are all in this together.

The Blue Danube.

Very quick, five minute sketch out of how I would start an Elite novel. If you've played the game it makes more sense.

Zella hadn't seen her father for five years and now she stood on the cold metal flooring of Lave docking bay and looked up at his legacy, the Cobra freighter 'Kali Yuga'. Her Father's letter had promised eight thousand credits but the streaks down the side of the Cobra's left side told of the damage that had been caused to the station when the rookie delivery pilot had brought it in without a docking computer.

Arsehole.

He'd run of course, taken a Python out-system and left her with the bill.

So now she had a hundred credits a ship and a Father 'presumed dead' according to the comm saved to her data cuff. But when she read that, in her mind, she heard 'missing.'

She put her hand up to touch the smooth hull of the ship.

'Hang on Daddy,' she said, 'we're coming.'