Stumbling Upon The Truth

Things have been slow this week.  They updated the 'Wanted' posters outside the pub and the Local Vandal, Timmy spray painted a giant cock on the croquet lawn.  Aside from these trivialities time drifts along surreptitiously, making a mockery of the uninventive.  The rain has forced me indoors and after a stressful encounter with a Robin I have been in no mood for contact.

It was thus I spent the morning stumbling upon many an unnoticed gem on the Interweb.  I was getting my fill of laughter until I stumbled upon something I found shockingly distasteful.  My suspicions of foul play have been silently growing but suddenly before me lay the proof that my ancestral seat had indeed been unduly whipped from beneath my feet.

I read the confession with much interest.  At first taking it to be a fake my reading pace was unhurried.  It wasn't until the facts of my Mother's death sprang out of the page that I knew I was reading the confession of the man that had stolen my fortune and cured me of my parental love.  Archibald Gubbins, Stableboy and genius.  This dastardly fiend and scoundrel has faced me many times from the witness box but alas his deployment of my inherited wealth have given him the upper hand in legal matters.  I have resigned away justice to the banks of memory and keep it locked away.  Now they burst forth in a tide of rage and hate.

With this written and signed confession Archibald has made one fatal mistake and played right into my hands.  A swift sojourn to the library allowed Miss Bubble the opportunity for a good faff while she made the digital physical.  Not three days later and the problem was solved and I had my evidence.

Thus crossing the street to my childhood home I was greeted by Patters the Butler.  The man had nursed me through many a grazed knee and it is to him I owe my victory at the 1972 World Polo Championship.  Currently acting as my dealer he was pleased to admit me into the entrance hall of the splendid Gothic mansion I once called home.

Grinning from the balcony in my grandfather's robe stood Archibald.  The devil, how dare he don the attire of a lord when his existence lay in the stink of the cattle shed.  From across the auditorium we yelled and upon seeing the confession in print he was aghast with violence.

Springing form the balcony he deployed all of his Zorro skills and swiftly snatched the document from my grasp.  The ghastly scene was already playing itself out.  The confession maybe legal and allow me justice but my thirst for blood was insatiable and I wanted my REVENGE!

That fateful night flashed before my eyes.  I was strolling through the garden sharing the air with Agatha when the upstairs terrace was opened to admit my Mother.  We waved, we called and the gestures were reciprocated then out of the illuminated interior a second shadow presented itself.  I knew it to be of Archibald because no one sports such a hump but I was unable to witness a face.  Before confusion could present itself my Mother was falling and hit the fountain with deathly force.  My cries rang out into the night and all that was left was anger.

Now he stood facing me.  The destroyer of my bloodline and thief of my grief.  He was to pay.  I grabbed the nearest weapon to hand that usefully turned out to be motorised rapier and against his quill and ink the battle was already won.  His reluctance to fight was something I had not bargained on.  He fought with a melancholy attitude, as if his life had already reached its end.  My anger could not be contained and amid protests from Patters' I injected my hate into Archibald Gubbins' heart.

He slumped to the floor, blood spilling from his mouth along with his nonsensical chatter.  Finally he drew his last breath and in one incredibly impressive sentence brought about my emotional downfall.  "For you see, I am your brother.  I wished not for this bloodshed.  I was rash, young and hot of head.  My Mother was a simple village groveler and my Father abused his position to abuse her.  I was shunned by the world I was bound to and in my anger I killed your Mother.  It was I who sent you that confession and wish now I had chosen a more suitable initiation for our battle.  I have been waiting here many a year, dying of cancer.  Being kept alive by the thought of repairing a family I have destroyed.  Now I can die free."  It was then that he died free as I would not be tapped for burial costs.

So the rain continues, Timmy spray paints his phallic symbols across my many acres and I dwell in misery here in my study.  Watching the hate flow through this building like the love that once did.  There is no punchline to this story, only a gripping sadness.  That was until Ewan showed up and we had a cracking game of Mouse Trap.

He's Just Rolled A Six, Bastard

That bastard butcher has just rolled a six.  I can see it in his eyes; he thinks he can defeat me.  Well this game isn't over yet.  We both have a lot riding on these roles and I'm sure as fuck not losing.  Not again.  I can't suffer another loss.  One more failure could be the end of me.  There is nothing left for me in this world now except glorious victory or an approaching union with darkness.  My life hangs in the balance and that wonky eyed opponent of mine is on a winning streak.

I should have been more careful.  I should have listened to those around me but I'm addicted.  I fell for it before I had chance to muster resistance and I'm glad.  Even the strong willed are puppets to be overpowered by a desire for exhilaration.  That hit of adrenaline as the cube sputters across the surface is like nothing I've ever felt.  The risk involved is unprecedented in our circles but I'm hooked on danger and that fear of a fatal ending just draws me deeper into this seedy soul killing game.

That is just what it is, a game.  But at this time and in this place we have taken it to another plane.  Created life from the inanimate that will mean sorrow for myself or that freak of nature who interrupts my eye line.  This gentlemen's game we play, oblivious to the aging effects of time and its counterparts that will make legend reality.

I role.  Safe.  I pray, gesticulate all manner of praise and thanks to a god who only seconds before was ready to condemn me.  He takes his turn.  Nonchalantly roles away his fate.  Things are slow now.  The echoes of wood on wood become our reality.  I stare at each bounce, intently wondering where my opponent's fate will fall while he casually diverts his gaze upon the floor and window unable to witness the result existence has bestowed upon him.  There is no more rolling.  Silence.

YES!  Ewan's off to snake town.  Whoooooooo.  What's that?  You've just lost sixty-three spaces.  Boo Hoo!  That twenty pence is almost mine.

Ewan tells me it's just a game, but I can see the disillusionment in his eyes as he slowly winds his counter down that path of retribution and failure. The sadness is quickly enveloping his being, crushing what little spark of life there once was. I sigh and take in the scene.  What are we but insignificant pawns in hell's creation?  Wondering fools taken in by our own desire for feeling.

It is my turn now.  What if I get a one?  The embarrassment, the laughing, mocking of a lost hope.  Even a three could do me in.  I'm so close but still have so many trials ahead of me.  I release the die but the outcome is lost to memory and will forever be a footnote in this thing we call time.






Whose off to snake land now bitch?  How many lost spaces is that? One, two, three, four, five, six...