Tag Archive: story


LET ME WRITE YOU A STORY 2012

Give me your idea, I’ll write it for you

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Continuing my promise to write a story for anyone who requests it—

 Philip J Mason has commissioned “a tale about a psychic horse”.

Well Phil, you asked for it … You got it.

Click here to open Black Thunder, The Psychic Horse (pdf).  You may want to download the latest version of Adobe Acrobat Reader and view at 100% for best reading.  This can also be downloaded to your e-book.

–db

“The Authentic Donkey Kong”

An Authentic Story by David Brookes

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LOADING PAGE ONE

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The great ape counts to seven: one two three four five six seven.

It is seven storeys high; the wind rips through its coarse brown hair, across the broad leather expanses of his chest and stomach, where the scars remain.  Below is a cacophony of noise that the ape does not understand: clanging metal reverberating from concrete posts and the dull, rough partitions formed between girders.  It is a construction site, a place of creation.

In the creases of the ape’s immense hands, the man-wife’s blood remains.  It encrusts under the ape’s black fingernails.  He picks apart the bloodstuck hairs on his forearms as the man-wife mewls in her torn dress like a baby.

The ape remembers its own baby.  It remembers its mate: slender and dark, sleek-furred and agile.

The whining man-wife had been halfway between asleep and awake during the ascent.  Now her eyes widen to white, frantic globes.  She takes in the grey sky on all sides.  Directly beneath her, the layers and broken beams of the unfinished structure.  And, seven storeys below, the construction site.

She screams.

In agitated response, the great ape bares its yellow fangs.  Its cupped paws beat and beat against its hurting breast.  It slams one fist, then the other, against the brittle girder that supports them both.  The concrete support columns spit out puffs of crumbling mortar with each massive impact: one two three four five six seven.

Enraged, the enormous beast, wrists worn bald by the broken chains it left behind, roars with all the rage and hatred felt throughout its long years of captivity:

[Press the ANGRY APE button on your soundbook now!]

Now turn to p.2 / 7 …

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The mighty bellow resounds through the hollow, unfinished skyscraper.  It drowns out the shrill cry of the captured man-wife.  She crawls as far away from the animal as possible, frail white limbs sore with the bruises implanted there by the ape’s impossible grip.

Somewhere amidst the clamour of manufacture below, and answering cry rises on the wind from across the bay.  It is the Master.

In the mists of memory, like the coiling vapours of the western lowlands, there arise the distinctive faces of the ape’s troop.  Most vividly – black, smooth, glistening with morning due, eyes bright and beautiful, lips pinching the fresh shoots from a trembling branch – its mate.  In her crooked arm, the ape’s tiny son.

And shattering the memory with a single sharp sound, the crack-crack! of the master’s rifle.

Hey kids, turn to p.3 / 7 …!

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LOADING PAGE THREE

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Rage fills the beast’s scarred body.  The Master.  Always moving, always busy, but for those first days when he and the man-wife lay about by the ape’s cage.  But after that: busy – and the third day: busy – and up until the last day of the cycle: busy and frustrated by a week’s fruitless trade, tired of studying its caged and chained pet, weary of dressing it in human clothes like the strip of red cloth he ties frequently about its throat, like a noose – the Master vents his pent-up frustrations on the widower ape.

The great ape counts the days that make up its cyclical torment: one two three four five six seven, and beats the crooked girders with its already split knuckles.

And below, the Master is beginning his ascent.  Another flimsy non-ape.  Another frame for the ape to crush and mangle in its enraged paws.  It is weak and encumbered by fat, and gaudy layers of inhibitive clothing; not at all like the powerful, muscular frame of the determined gorilla.

The enemy approaches:

[Press the JUMPMAN 1 button on your soundbook now!]

[Press the JUMPMAN 2 button on your soundbook now!]

Uh oh!  Turn to p.4 / 7 if you dare!

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LOADING PAGE FOUR

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Stiff hairs bristle on the shoulders of Gorilla Gorilla Gorilla.  Its thick lips pull back from its yellow teeth and long fangs; the black tongue curls back in the maw like a twisting slug.  It bellows again, feeling its own hot breath at the corners of its blood-flecked mouth.  In anger at the approaching Master, the ape once again thunders its split knuckles against the riveted girders.

A noise from behind: wood creaking against wood.  The ape sees the curved edge of a barrel, steel chine-hoops glinting orange in the dusklight.  The fit of rage brings the ape’s arms swinging against the heavy barrel, knocking it sideways.  Thick, black fingers grasp the fallen cask.  Lifting it high over its head, the gorilla roars and hurls the object at the warped slope of mangled beams, where it rumbles over the man-wife’s dropped and forgotten possessions: umbrella, bonnet, bag.  It rebounds from a concrete pillar and caroms out of sight, a rolling weapon racing towards the resourceful Master.

Now turn to p.5 / 7 …

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YOU’VE REACHED THE BONUS PAGE!

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Donkey Kong Classic

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Smash the Monkey -- For Mother Russia(Image via www.Halolz.com – Original artist unknown)


Turn to p.6 / 7 to continue…!

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LOADING PAGE SIX

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The great ape’s barrage does not stop there.  There is little conscious thought in its destruction of the construction site.  The damage is only a product of its frustration and fear, which builds within its scarred breast like a swelling balloon.

It remembers the unbroken cycle of torment; the gruesome scowls of its wrongful Master, whose gloved hands thrust roughly through the bars of the ape’s prison, grasping at tufts of coarse fur and yanking, yanking, or teasing the animal with sharp tools of his trade.

There can be little room for blame in the ape’s conical skull, and yet it has learned to hate the murderer of its family, this bitter man whose motives and innermost thoughts are forever excluded from the ape’s understanding.  It is a smart beast, but not a man.  It can only recognise its suffering and vent its hatred on the people and objects around it.

From somewhere below, the sound of shattering wood.  It comes like a burst of lightning, hard and brief.  The barrel the ape has thrown is no more – it appreciates that much – and so it heaves another down the slope with all its considerable strength.

This barrel does not hit the concrete pillar.  It is thrust aside by a silvery blur somewhere along the girder’s truncated length.  Wood and thick, black oil splatters the wall.

A figure is climbing onto the girder.  The heavy black head of a hammer swings like a pendulum to and fro in the Master’s grasp.  The man-wife, trapped behind the gorilla’s massive bulk, screams for her saviour, whose brows knit in fury above his bright eyes.  His mouth is a down-turned tear of split lip and tousled moustache.  Blood encrusts the hairs of his upper lip from the frantic moments following the ape’s escape.

The Master hefts the hammer atop his shoulder, and speaks from deep in his powerful chest:

[Press the FURIOUS ENEMY button on your soundbook now!]

Whoa!  Turn to p.7 / 7 for the explosive finale…!

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LOADING PAGE SEVEN

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Mortal enemies clash atop the unfinished structure.  The wind tears through the air between and around them, rippling hair and denim, freeze-burning skin of pale white and deep jungle black.  The ape throws down its arms and the Master dodges between them, boots squeaking on the strained iron.  His hammer describes, through the cold evening air, an arc of pain.

The hammer crunches into the ape’s shoulder.  A clavicle splits like a twig and bursts out through the skin.  The shoulder joint becomes a useless pulp of bone and tenderised flesh.  Bellowing resonantly – a bellow heard for miles around – the gorilla is incensed at this act of crippling.  It does not understand how such a small thing can result in such sharp, insistent pain, nor why its limb hangs so heavy and immobilised by its side.

The Master flings his hammer again, causing sparks to ring off the metal platform.  

The ape twists away and hurls all its weight against the sloping platform.  The vibrations throw the Master off his feet; immediately the gorilla takes advantage.  It wraps its great arm around another barrel, the rough pads of its fingertips gripping tightly to the grain of the wood, and heaves it up against its chest.  Its ruined arm dangles pathetically.  Ropes of muscle contort up the length of its body as it hurls the cask–

Splinters of wood and dark splashes of oil, like spilled blood, explode across the wall and gangway.  The Master has avoided the worst of the attack, but spinning shrapnel has caught him against the temple.  Dizzy, he struggles to stand on the inky smears of oil under his boots.  Gloves blackened and slick, he drops his hammer with a whimper.

The ape attacks.  There is enough rage in its tormented body to fuel the ape for days.  The man-wife’s blood tastes fresh on its plump lower lip.  There is precise muscle-memory all through its body: the violent throes of predatory instinct – the chase, the capture, the kill.

With one fist of broken bones, the ape pounds the struggling human body.  The Master’s chest is already a caved-in pulp of red meat and protruding bone.  Life quickly leaves the corpse, but the ape keeps beating, the man-wife’s screams in its ears.  The might fist strikes the grisly bruised face; it strikes him on the ear, on the limbs.  Finally the ape lifts the fresh corpse into the air by its mangled leg and hurls it, dripping and limp, from the seventh floor of the unfinished structure.

Tiny knuckles drum its thigh.  Turning, the ape moves in a position to grab the thrashing frame of the man-wife.  She shrieks in the ape’s ear, a milky white animal squirming amongst the tatters of its bright yet bloody clothing.  The gorilla flings her over the side too, watching her pinkish form disappear into the smog-laced yard far, far below.

There is liberation in revenge.  Even an animal understands this.  There is peace is liberation – but not yet.

With only one working arm, the ape climbs higher.  Step by step, metre by metre by metre:

One two three four five six seven.

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You’ve reached THE END!

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RESTART       Y / N ?

 

So I thought I’d road-test McDonald’s new summer burger, being the glutten for greasy salty fast-food that I am and probably always will be.

As expected, the Summer BBQ Burger was a flat, cardboardy lump of slop.

Almost feel guilty about lovin’ it.

Japanese McDonald's ad

Served in a pristine, sharp-edged card container.  Pop that baby open.  Flaccid streaks of browning lettuce hanging over one side of the bun.  Spilled cheese having congealed against one side.  Smell of hot something

Mmm-mmm-mmm!

Do what most do and pile the cooling tasteless fries into the other side of the open box, right next to the burger.  Easy access.  Slurp of soda-diluted diet coke to prepare the palate for the dessicating onslaught of over-salty potato product.

McDonald’s use worm meat as filler in their patties, because it’s cheaper – and actually more nutritious – than beef. 

True story.

I wonder why the burger joints are slow on the uptake when it comes to fries.  Kentucky Fried Chicken did away with salty fries, for the benefit of their customers (or their image).  They’re nice enough without.  And you can still get free sachets of salt from the counter, or the big ol’ troughs where they sling in their plastic sporks, straws and napkins. 

Probably they even save money by not salting their fries.

Although … thinking about it … there is the risk of having students grabbing handfuls of packets and stowing away with them, back to whatever stacked-plate under-stocked ant-infested kitchen hovel they go to whenever they want to microwave something.

KFC don’t make their food from chickens.  They breed chicken-like mutants, genetically modified to be fat, boneless, featherless, limbless, eyeless, beakless ready-made-to-eat living products.  Occasionally a talon grows internally however and ends up in a 14-piece bucket somewhere in Ohio. 

True story.

My fries, with BBQ sauce.  It comes from taps, now.  There’s probably a reservoir of the stuff underground, some enormous vat of glutinous brown paste prevented from coagulating by a colossal, slow-turning turbine.  You push the lever on the tap and it dribbles out like turd.  You cannot help thinking this as it fills the tiny cardboard cup you’re supplied with in an ice-cream spiral. 

If you’re gonna spew … spew into this.

Can you blame us for returning?  Personally I’m not a fan of the Maccy D’s.  I’m a Burger King man. 

XL Bacon Double Cheeseburger meal, please. 

Grammatically it doesn’t really make sense.  Surely it’s double bacon and cheesebuger?  Or does that imply a double portion of the frazzled bacon-like substance that is usually melted into the Kraft cheese slice they slap on there? 

A meal.  Large.  With proper Coke.  “Fat Coke”.

Oh, we love the Coke.  There’s a Facebook group.

But then, there’s a Facebook group for everything nowadays.

Of course, you don’t get Coke at Burger King.  It’s all Pepsi in that place.

——“I’d like a Coke, please”

——“Is Pepsi okay?”

——“Is Monopoly money okay”?

I'll have the Happy Happy Happy Happy Happy Happy Burger, please

I had to laugh when a Burger King trailer got taken off the telly this week.  It’s fraud!  That’s a fraudulent advertisement!  MISLEADING!  THEY MADE IT SEEM BIGGER AND TASTIER THAN IT REALLY IS!

Seriously, you go to BK and expect a rich, filling, tasty, substantial meal?  Really?

What’s wrong with this picture?

Oh yeah, that’s it … you’re a dumbass.

So that they can claim to use 100% beef in their products, Burger King use cow eyes as well as horn, hoof and tail.  This is more cost effective than using just meat. 

True story.

I did hear that Gordon Whatshisface, that facile TV chef with Tourette’s, absolutely loves the BK.  He drives around in his shiny black car, leans out of the back seat, orders himself a Whopper.  It was in some magazine and last year the Sheffield City Centre outlet (now closed, probably for health reasons) had it copied multiple times and put into placemats, and left on the counters

They’re proud that a TV chef is a lazy, greedy, scum-guzzler like the rest of us.  Self-destructive addicts that we are.  It’s almost like they’re admitting they make shit food. 

“This guy makes good food!  And he eats our food! ”  It’s a noteworthy story because there’s a contrast.  Did this miss this point?  Did it fly by in a flurry of mutant chicken feathers?

Fair enough, I suppose – it can’t be that bad for you.

Plus, didn’t the first thing Tony Stark do upon escaping Afghanistan was get himself a good ol’ American beef burger — from Burger King? 

Fuck it, if it’s good enough for Iron Man, it’s good enough for me.

True story!

— db