Malice

Catharsis. I like that word.

You might be surprised to hear this but I don't actually find empty threats intimidating. So yeah you can smile, go ahead. If you can even call that a smile. It looks like one sure, but I suppose if your words are so deceptive, your body must be an excellent liar too.

That explains a lot.

You are beautiful though, as much as it pains me to say. Not just pretty, or cute. Actually breathtaking. Breath. Another thing you took from me.

Admittedly, if someone were trying to imagine beauty itself, to picture genuine perfection, it would be pretty close to you. You have kind eyes. Had. Those frightened looks you'd feign to make me hold you. Now I see those were false too.

I used to think that mouth was so sweet, so gentle. Little did I know there was a razor blade hidden under that wet, insipid tongue. Fuck knows where that unholy piece of flesh has been. Probably wrapped around some other unholy piece of meat. I don't really want to know. You never were too shy about putting it to work. It was more of a tool for you, like some kind of horrendous serpent searching for prey. Something to sink it's teeth into. Not for sustenance, or survival, or any other almost legitimate reason. Simply for pleasure.

So right now I'd say it's more of a sneer than a smile. A malicious grin say. Malice - I get it now. What kind of a sick joke is that. It cant be your real name. Malice. No that would be too ugly a word for you wouldn't it? Just like rape was too ugly a word for your father. How about molest? Abuse? Any takers? Didn't think so.

No. Those words are too dark aren't they? Dark, bitter and angry.

It wasn't like that...right?

So once again I found myself watching her walk away from me. Most, including her, would have me call after her in an overly dramatic bid for some kind of romantic reconciliation. I would raise my voice just enough to make her stop, my tone would force the eyes of others to fall upon me. Morbid curiosity. The same way people slow down in the hope of catching a glimpse of some mangled corpse. The messy result of an awful accident that's backed up the motorway for miles. That's what it feels like, some huge head on collision in slow motion, so I feel every bone splinter into the surrounding flesh. Every ligament stretched to it's limit, tearing, ripping. All the while being watched by gleeful eyes. Vultures.

If she had her way I'd run over, grab her forcefully by the arms and we'd embrace in an uninspired crescendo of passion. But then I'd be giving in. If the vultures had their way she'd shoot me down there and then. But either would be far too clichéd and far too dull.
She can go fuck her self if she thinks I'm gonna be manipulated that easily. Manipulation. That's a subjective word, you wouldn't think so. But one man's manipulation is another's conversation. Just like love.

One man's love is another man's whore.

What the fuck does love mean anyway? It could mean food the amount I hear it thrown around these days. I need food? No one NEEDS food. Well they do, but they don't need love. They want it. They think they need it because that's what society tells them. It's fear more than anything. Not the companionship, not the security, not the trust, not the affection. The fear that if they don't find love in some shape or form, they'll die all alone, grow fat and fester in front of a television.

Fuck love.

"Damn skippy fuck Love", he seemed genuinely excited for me. "It's about time you got your cock wet. The little fucker needs to take a break from the ball pit and have a little splash around in the pool. You know...with the rest of the kiddies. And that love chick is fair game."
I looked at him puzzled. He didn't seem to understand why.
"Okay firstly I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that analogy, it's a little to Father Mcormick for my liking,” I explained. "And Love ain't that kind of girl, hence the name Love."
I laughed. He did not.
"Who's father Mcormick?" Now he looked puzzled.
By now the train had arrived. If I hadn't seen it pull into the station I'd still have known it was there, simply from the smell of the guy behind me. The ants begin to swarm you see. The train is the signal for every fucker in there to lose whatever grasp they had on anything close to the concept of personal space. The hardest gay-bashing, bald, van-driving apes will spend 40 minutes with their cocks effectively wedged between your arse crack. Simply because there on a train. Some times I suspect they secretly enjoy it. That they hang out on platforms looking for the next strapping young lad to rub up against.

An underground society. "London Underground" to be precise.

The thought always makes me laugh out loud. At which point they move away. Away from the strange guy giggling to himself. No book. No headphones. Just a fervent and somewhat perverted imagination.

Can't say I blame them. I had a similar experience on a bus once. A woman sitting across from me who appeared to have some kind of demon spirit trapped inside her. Every now and then she'd make a bewildering cough/growl/scream noise and seem genuinely terrified by it. As if it hadn't come out of her own mouth. If my body was going all Pazuzu on me like that I'd be bricking it slightly too. I must have only made it worse when I got up and sat at the other end of the bus. She looked like she might need help. Fuck her, that's what exorcists are for.

It brings me back to earth.

The pungent stench of alcohol. Some kind of spirit, not sure which. With each grotesque breath draping itself over my shoulders that stomach churning bile crept further and further up my nostrils, clinging on to the tiny hairs so as to linger there as long as possible. I felt physically sick.

"Either way man, it really is about time you got over Alice." Lucas had moved on. So had the rest of the ants. Clearly my classic peadophilic clergy references were wasted on him.
"Malice" I said, correcting his mistake.
"What?"
"Her name is Malice." I sat next him, opposite a poor excuse of a man, he barely filled his seat. He was very slight. Pretty, but slight. I'm being generous actually, slight is an understatement. He was shockingly thin, so thin he gave the appearance that he'd struggle to stay up right were he not sitting down. I imagine he was probably concentrating very hard trying not to slide clean off his chair.
Lucas had his feet up on the seat in front of him, but it was me who was treated to disapproving looks from the surrounding passengers.
"Not Alice?" He asked. Again he was confused, but this time the blank stare that usually found it's way onto his face at such times had been replaced by a rather menacing frown. His teeth bared a little, like a small dog guarding it's territory, it's bark worse than it's bite. It made sense when I saw he was giving his best "fuck off granny" look to the scowling cadaver standing close by. He had no sympathy for the elderly, as far as he was concerned their problems were theirs and theirs alone. I doubted he'd live long enough to walk a day in their shoes anyway. He probably suspected the same.
I wasn't too fond of older folks either. I say older, I mean pushing seventy odd. They walk around like they can do whatever they want because they're old, as if we owe them something for living that long and prolonging the strain on our ever so solid economy.
"No, Malice" This time I made sure he understood.
"Wow I've always thought it was Alice. Oh well, whatever her name is, she's gone now."
"She's not gone, she lives like ten minutes away, I saw her the other day."
"With Love?"
"Yeah. With Love."
As I said this I noticed the slight pretty man had been listening to our conversation, I didn't mind particularly but he did his best to pretend he hadn't been, which was probably even more annoying. With the mention of Love I realised that he was just her cup of tea. You know the type, guys who just look like they've got something to whine about. Despite probably having rather delightful, stress free, privileged lives. They sit in their rooms crying whilst listening to other effeminate men crying over instruments about how much they cried when there girlfriend's cheated on them.
I suppose it's marginally better than listening to vacuous morons endlessly shouting about how they want to stab the man behind the counter of KFC... or something along those lines. She won't be happy to hear that's how I describe her type. I'm probably just jealous that I don't fall into the category.

Anyway, I suppose I should have started with whole who I am where I've come from thing. But then that would be a little too David Copperfield wouldn't it. Although mentioning David Copperfield in this context is a little cliched in itself now too. And so, I'm guessing, is calling myself on it. Shit. Looks like I'm failing to spin a gripping yarn already.

Failure. My old friend.


We had arrived at our stop but somehow both remained glued to our seats, an incandescent young woman appeared to glide on to the train and float gracefully into the seat previously occupied by the slight and decidedly nosey man. We were captivated, the entire male population of the carriage was captivated. I could feel each hairy monstrosity leaning to get a better view. I couldn't blame them. I was lucky enough to have a front row seat.

She was a remarkable specimen, equipped with all the expected trappings of the fairer sex, yet exceeding all expectations effortlessly.

She exuded youth. Fair skin that became flushed with the faint suggestion of colour at each warm, gentle breath. Sable locks that fell elegantly across soft cheeks. Partially masking bright, seductive eyes that were somehow as dark as her hair, like two obsidian gems nestled in a bed of snow. Her plump red lips looked as if they'd melt at a touch but were parted ever so invitingly, beckoning you to come forth and sink into the hot, wet abyss. They glistened In what until now had seemed like a very dull light. Not for her though, now it was as if heaven itself was shining down upon her. Probably God trying to get a better look at his own handy work. As bad as the rest of us.
I say God's handy work because it's times like these that I doubt evolution, I start to see holes, how can it account for such drastic exceptions. The line of her smooth round jaw, the curve of her mouth, the gentle flick of her nose. Each perfect in its own right. Such a beautiful work of art could only have been crafted, lovingly, at the hands of some higher power.

We were Neanderthals in her presence. A different species.

Granted women in general are a great deal more pleasing to the eye than men, I'm fairly sure that's pretty much an accepted truth. A truth which in itself causes me to question the whole idea slightly. At what point in the process of evolution did nature decide females needed to be more attractive than males. The only theory I can scrape together is that potential mothers are ever so tantalising, in order to make it easier for them to lure men away from their many other distractions, therefore getting their hands on said man's seed, thus allowing them to further the species with sticky offspring. As well as giving those cursed with a Y chromosome a reason not to run about sticking their cocks in each other, which to be honest would be much simpler and much more convenient.

Sleeping with a man is a significantly more achievable task than sleeping with a woman.

However, this theory leads off down a bit of a questionable, not to mention rather Christian right, path. Which isn't what I want at all. It manages to imply that homosexuality is somehow unnatural, which makes absolutely no sense. If it wasn't natural why would it occur? That kind of talk irks me something dreadful. And more often than not it's spouted out of the shitter of some poor fool blindly following what they believe to be the word of God. That's not to say I'm condemning faith. I'm not. Or that I don't believe in God. Because I do. Well...in a way. I believe in some kind of god like figure watching over us. But I don't believe in organised religion or the vengeful bastard they try and sell, sitting up there dying to unleash his wrath and smite the fags. If God created everything, how is it that he hates the gay community so? Why hasn't there been a flash flood during gay pride, or earthquakes in San Fran... Oh... My mistake. I'll stop there, I'm in no position to start criticising, I won't pretend to know a lot about all that business.

I felt for her. Surely she could feel us undressing her with our eyes. Running our dirty hands over the precious treasures hidden beneath her attire.

Dipping. Tasting. Ravishing.

It mustn't be a pleasant experience, being ogled by such lecherous creatures. She seemed so calm though, maybe she was clueless, maybe she had no idea of the sinful acts she'd already committed in our depraved minds. But I knew that wasn't the case. I like to think she enjoyed it. Relished in it.

You can't look like that and not be aware of the effect you have on the opposite sex.

Lucas leaned toward me slightly.
"So?"
I was surprised it had taken him so long. I knew exactly what he was asking. There's a point in the friendships of young men when they no longer need explanations in these matters.
"In a heartbeat. No fucking doubt. You?"
"Yes, Face, Yes, Bag, No, Yes and Maybe...If i was drunk...Actually maybe either way.
I had been so enamoured by her that I had forgotten to consider the rest of what was on show. Scanning the rest of the carriage I identified the three yes', the incandescent girl among them. Found the one referred to as 'bag' hiding behind one of the greasiest fellows I'd ever seen. Probably named Pedro or Paulo, something seemingly exotic but really about as alluring as the hair suffocating between his underwhelming manhood and sweat drenched crack. The type more interested in his own reflection than any potential partner, including 'Bag' herself, who was currently pawing at his chest sickeningly, her attempts at gaining attention falling on deaf ears. It was instantly apparent why she was a bag and not a yes, I won't insult your intelligence by explaining further. The 'face' on the other hand was leaning against the door not too far away, staring vacantly through round hopeful eyes. She had cherub-like features, the beauty of innocence. Purity waiting to be corrupted. Begging even. Again self explanatory. I couldn't figure who the maybe was though.
"Maybe?" I enquired subtly.
"Yeah, most probably." Lucas guided my gaze to our right.
"Oh for fuck sake Luke." The words jumped out of my mouth at a volume I had not intended. I was treated to a second barrage of disapproving looks, and a girl who couldn't have been more than 14 looked over at us curiously. The 'maybe'.
"What? Shit every hole's a goal mate."
"Yeah but they tend to call the match off if there's no grass on the pitch."
"I think I prefer no grass. Less stains init." At this point I couldn't help but laugh.
"Okay, okay. I'm not gonna lie, she is decent. I'll give you that."
Lucas stared blatantly at the extraordinary girl we had by now stayed on two extra stops for. It didn't much matter, we had no particular place to go.
"How old you reckon?" Lucas asked, his eyes still focused heavily on the vision in front of us.
"I don't know... Older."
"Well, yeah, but like how much older?"
"Um, I'd guess about 23, 24. Why?" I didn't see why it was important, clearly age wasn't something he was very concerned with.
"I wanna talk to her, what you think?" He turned and looked me in the eye for the first time in several minutes. I reciprocated the gesture.
"Do I detect a hint of genuine affection?" He never usually asked for my permission.
"What?"
"Why are you asking me?"
"She's fuckin' bangin' mate. Can't you see."
"Yes," I acknowledged the observation with what was more of a chuckle than a yes. Suddenly I doubted his feelings. "I just don't get why you're suddenly asking me."
"Well, I thought...you know...you might want to. I mean come on, you really do need to man up and get over Alice."
I ignored his mistake.
"And getting rejected by some woman who's at least five years older than us and way out of my league is the way to do that then?"
"How do you know she'll reject you?"
"Look at her, and look at me. Do you not notice a bit of a step down? She's like Sainsbury's taste the difference, and I'm some suspicious tin of foreign meat in Lidl." He looked from me, to her, then back again, and smiled.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'd say more Iceland than Lidl," This 'compliment' was accompanied by a manly pat on the shoulder. "You're a strapping young lad. And look, you don't dress like that if you ain't up for it, I bet she'd love to have your meat in her kebab." The funny thing was that he said this with a completely straight face. Somehow, as usual, he failed to see the comedy in it.

Apparently kebab was an everyday term for vagina. I hadn't been informed.

"Whatever, I'd have to be a twat to even think I had a chance." As I said this the woman in question began to rise as the train pulled into the platform. Without warning Lucas also jumped up and followed her towards the door. The two of them were out and on to the platform before I could even get up, I barely managed to squeeze through the closing doors to join them.
It was only once I was standing there, with her walking away from us, that I was able to fully appreciate the delights of what had now, for some reason, become our prey. She didn't walk in a fashion her age warranted, there was an unusual amount of purpose in her steps. Intent. She moved with the air of someone sure of themselves, the grace of an older, more experienced woman. She slipped effortlessly through the crowd, parting the sea of people like a shark attacking a powerful wave. Turning head after head with each firm stride. It was as if no one dared touch her. Treacherous black heels held her a head above the rest of the ants; fishnets crept around her ankles and up long, supple thighs. The rest was hidden by a short charcoal coloured dress that gripped desperately to her frame. Leaving very little to the imagination, accentuating the drastic curve of her hips, the pleasing dip of her waist and the gradual slope up towards her slender neck. In reality there wasn't much to her, but what was there was surprisingly rubenesque for a girl of her size.

Such a body didn't seem capable of accommodating such proportions.

Lucas started after her.
"Would it be very, very lame if I said I thought she might be a bit too much woman for me?" I knew the answer before I even asked.
"Dude," he stopped in his tracks and looked me dead in the eye, a new habit of his, "It would be dreadfully, dreadfully faggy if you said that...So don't." He continued walking.
"Ok. But you do know we are now officially stalking this girl? Isn't that kind of illegal? Or extremely sad at the very least?"
"We're not stalking her. You can't stalk someone you don't know. We're just observing."
"Fuck off, call it what you want. This is stalking."
"God, do you wanna talk to her or not?"
"No! I don't. That's what I said."
"Oh well. You're gonna." With this Lucas smiled and took off in the direction of the young woman, who had just entered WHSmith's.

Filth. Another word you hear a lot, most often describing things of a largely innocent, yet carnal nature. A barely legal girl feigning modesty on the cover of a magazine, acting the part, being the coy little thing she isn't. Nobody forced her to do it, there's still some dignity in what she does. She's not on the top shelf. Yet. So far all she's doing is teasing those who look upon the glossy pages she inhabits.

Gives a whole new meaning to the double page spread.

But that is all it is, teasing, anything more is strictly put upon her. In the minds of those who fall victim to her allure, to the perfection she provides. She's just a canvas, stretched thinly across the imaginations of thousands, each lick of paint thrusting some new fantasy upon her. She provides a service of kinds. She deals in the ideal.

Now I certainly wouldn't call that filth. What I'd call filth is the bile they call gossip. There's no dignity in what they do. The venom they pump out week after week, you'd think people wouldn't have anything to talk about were it not for that awful tripe. Some famous cunt had sex with a less famous cunt, the cunt's had a baby cunt, the cunts then proceeded to eat the little fucker and nobody should give a flying fuck. But they do. God knows what makes them think they have the right to tarnish and sully the names of people without whom they'd all just be jobless pricks. Sitting around wasting their days, concerning themselves with meaningless, trivial bollocks. Which wouldn't be far off what they do now actually. The cunts.

Lucas was easily distracted, and so despite his apparent determination to confront the poor girl, he was in no hurry to do so. Upon entering WHSmith's his attention had quickly been drawn towards one of the shelves, in particular to a young girl on the cover of a magazine.
"No fucking way!" He said frantically, grabbing it and flicking through its pages.
"What?" I asked, craning my neck to get a glimpse at the cover.
Eventually his hands slowed as he stopped on a page. Clearly he had found what he was looking for.
"Look!" This command was loud enough that our target heard and glanced over. She caught my eye, recognising me she held my gaze briefly, then looked away again. I turned back to see Lucas grinning wildly, pointing at the page. My eye followed his finger to the page, it took me a few seconds to realise what I was being shown. Then it clicked.
"Fuck... Off", The words fell out of my mouth, "Your shitting me?"
"No sir. I knew I recognised her."

What we were looking at was a prime example of the aforementioned Filth. Only it wasn't just any girl sprawled coquettishly across a bed, no. It was a girl with a most remarkable face that I was only too familiar with. A face that I had once caressed. Once kissed. Once naively regarded as perfection. The kind that better men than I would be hard pushed to deem anything less than flawless. The kind that could, with very little effort, drive any blue-blooded male wild with desire, or envy, or some other similarly barbaric response.
It took a moment for the image of Malice, which had been quickly and regrettably cemented in my mind, to become entirely real to me. I didn't doubt what I was seeing, knowing her it made perfect sense. But it wasn't exactly easy to see. The supposedly delicate form presented to me now in print format, had only ever been exactly that. Not printed, but presented to me, and me alone. No one else had been made the prey of this particular predator. I guess what I'm struggling to say is that, it wasn't the fact that other men would be able to see her like this.

That thousands of apes would now copy and paste her face onto the blank templates that were their usual, tedious fantasies.

But rather that they were free to do this without the risk of repercussions. All they would see was a seemingly sweet girl, her deceivingly lustful eyes staring back at them indifferently. Her playing innocent, just one of the many acts of the malcontent. Little did they know she'd happily sneer at their underwhelming manhood and ridicule them for ever thinking they might one day lie with her. They would never taste her venom. For them there was no suspicion, no foreboding. They did not have to live with the fear that now lingered in my stomach like some loitering deviant, ever present but always in the peripheral, waiting to claw at my insides whenever it felt the need to remind me of what the fairer sex was capable of. I envied them, yet I felt for them. After all, to me, they were defenceless.
After a while I sensed a lack of volume to my left and looked up to realise Lucas, as he was prone to do, had already moved on. My ambivalent expression clearly being of no concern to him. I placed the magazine back on the shelf, then in a brief moment of madness considered spending the rest of the day buying up all the copies I could find. Telling myself I was doing something selfless, that I was saving them. But what did it really matter? People don't need to be saved. And who am I to think I have any right to impact anyone else's life? It would have been complete and utter self-service. Instead I turned and followed Lucas in the direction of the girl who would no doubt be filing some sort of court order against us by the end of the week.

S. Darko

Completely unnecessary and odd for the sake of being odd. That girl is far too pretty to be in this piece of shit. Full of pointless throwbacks to the old film, relies entirely on its following, constantly referencing back to it yet failing to explain anything. Lacks any vague form of originality, and any relatable let alone likeable characters.

Cinematography is dull and uninspired, lots of slow tracking to sad music that will never match Mad World from Donnie Darko. Performances are tolerable, mainly from the side characters; two leads are nice to look at but not much in the way of acting. Ed Westwick seems to have a large pole wedged up his smug arse the entire time, either that or he was going for cool and managed learning impaired.

Plot has no purpose; a great deal of the film is completely pointless and only serves to add to the eeriness, which isn't there to begin with. There was a lot of potential for this, they could have done something interesting with this universe, well Richard Kelly could have. This guy thought he might be able to, but hasn't. Instead what we get is a predictable, lack lustre excuse for a plot, half of which is basically a loose rehash of the original, but without a quarter of the mystique or compelling characters and themes. And an ending that makes no sense to a viewer unfamiliar with the concepts explored in the first. It would be an anti-climax were the director able to drum up any kind of anticipation. So it's just very a messy finish.

It's one thing to love a film enough to want to work with that intellectual property, it's another thing to butcher it and pretend you've achieved something. Straight to DVD is right. Pointless Self Indulgent Shit.

Victim

Victim

No, tis you who fears the sun as a new summers day creeps in upon the night, and weeps at the thought of wilting flowers and rotting, festering fruit. And I who relishes in the pain of others and grow bestial by the ever twisting grimace on their faces and despair in their eyes. Yes, I who's loins burn as the last glimmer of hope can be seen to die in the eyes of a newly birthed fawn. Do not chide me with your admonishing words and rebuking gaze, as if thou art faultless in this endeavour, a mere victim of my sadistic games. You have brought this upon yourself my child, and before this nights end you will know the true meaning of pleasure, and you will understand how pure lust and hunger can eat away at your soul until it can be quenched only through the most sickening and debauched of acts. You will know my dear, and you will sing to the world my praises. You will thank me for opening your eyes; for until now, everything you have known to be true, just and safe; has simply been a leash.

Alas, tis but a fleeting glance into the lives of my kind, that which cannot conjure anything but the darkest of thoughts, of a most carnal nature. Thoughts that I once knew so well, and which I also in time began to despise and abhor. Yes I craved to be released from them, from the torment they caused within me, for this I do not envy you in the slightest. For those such as your self, who are bound by the invisible chains you call morals, these thoughts can only be a source of unbearable frustration, bating that ravenous beast within us all. An edacious creature that on some subterranean level, claws away at the mind with an over bearing, disdainful hunger.

But not now, not for I, one not so infantile in existence, one who has learnt the futility of such obstacles. I spit at your so called boundaries. I sneer at your pathetic convictions and so called values. Your society that prides itself on its humanity and prosecutes those who embrace their true animalistic nature. It boils the blood within my veins and causes my heart to beat with a choleric venom. Your holier than thou culture evokes the same animosity and antipathy in my soul that i relish in when gorging on the defiled youth and sullied innocence, that are often the result of my 'sodomy binges'. This is because I was taught not to dismiss or demonise these feelings; I learned to do the opposite. I learned to embrace the malice and the contempt, as they are but fuel to the eternal fire burning within the mighty staff, with which I rule over the virgin lands that fall victim to my conquests.

Does this mean I will let you live? No, not If you can call the many frivolous ways in which you have frittered away your days until now, living. Your new existence will bring you joys far greater than even in your wildest fantasies, you could ever have foreseen. Now this may not be clear as I indulge upon the plump, moist fruit of your loins; barely ripe she will make the perfect sacrifice for me, and the ideal first encounter for yourself. Together we will have our way with her until she is spoilt, bruised and bitter to the taste. However then, and only then, will you begin to see a trickle of the radiant light I bathe in each and every glorious day. The same light that shines down upon me, my peers and soon you, as we ravish unexplored lands, plow virgin soils and lay our crimson stain upon the souls of those purer than freshly lain snow.

Forced carnal knowledge, whatever else it may be, is fantastic sport.