Look! It Moves! by Adi Tantimedh#74: Answering the Call of Doodie: Blops!

So there’s this game that just came out that’s all shooty-shooty and shit, and it seems to be a big deal…

Cold Warrior looks manly even when taking a shit!

MANLY!

And now, the sixth installment in Bleeding Cool’s first fiction serial by Adi Tantimedh and premier PUNISHER writer Steven Grant.

Debauched London media prat cunt Alan Brond has been well and truly stitched up by his archenemy, the critic Horace Pemfrey – Pemfrey had challenged Brond to a very public gunfight at the exclusive media watering hole The Harpo Club, only for someone to beat Brond to the pleasure of blowing Pemfrey’s brains out and making it look like it was Brond who fired the shotThen Brond is told Pemfrey has played one last cruel joke on him – he’s left Brond his vast fortune as bait for the rest of the Pemfrey brood to come and claim by killing him.  That’s a challenge the depraved Pemfrey family can happily get behind.

On the run from murderous, posh Pemfreys, Brond finds himself the subject of a live-telecast reality show of his plight, thanks to his producer girlfriend Yvonne, and returns to the scene of the original crime, the exclusive media bar The Harpo Club, to look for clues to Pemfrey’s real killer and the architect of Brond’s current plight.  Narrowly surviving a booby-trapped landmine left by the real killer, Brond becomes increasingly paranoid, and the sight of Yvonne tending to his publisher Robespierre Corby’s wounds a little too enthusiastically, Brond resolves to walk away from the London media scene and the reality show once and for all.

But getting out may not be quite so easy…

BROND ON THE RUN

By Adisakdi Tantimedh and Steven Grant

The morning sun had risen high above Soho by then.  I checked my trusty Widowmaker, found it fully loaded, with the extra clips in my pocket.  Just me and a gun and a flash car against the world.  I suddenly realised this would make a better subject for a documentary than the idea of a depraved arts critic on the run from prospective killers.  I immediately got out my mobile phone and called the Head of BBC5.  The hell with Yvonne, I would do my own deal.  The Beeb can buy out Yvonne’s contract with me.  I had been a hit since I lamped Brian Sewell on the Week in Review program last year, and they’d been gagging to have me back.

And that, dear reader, was how BROND ON THE RUN was launched.

It was also at that moment that I realised Lola had been sitting in the backseat of the Jag.

“It’s all for the best, Adam,” she said.  “She would have broken your heart sooner or later.  And do stop pointing that gun at me.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.  Don’t tell me, let me guess.  You planned this all along.”

“Of course,” she shrugged.  “I always knew I had to save you from my sister’s clutches.  You’re really too good for you.  I’d spent years working this out.  Why do you think I became a lawyer with only one client, Horace Pemfrey, while maintaining my poster shop?”

“You’re the one who made him change his will in my favour?”

“You have no idea what I had to do, how often and how much, Adam, and all for love.”

“Love is at best a series of chemical imbalances in the brain at best, a marketing gimmick at worst, Lola.  You just like stalking me.  How do I know you don’t just want me for Pemfrey’s money?”

“Oh, please!” she said.  “I could’ve just had his will changed in my favour, not yours.  No, you’re due for great things, Alan Brond, not least the guaranteed hit your series with the Beeb will become.”

“You’re too good for me, Lola.  I still don’t buy it.”

I pulled back the hammer on the Widowmaker, but Lola merely smiled.

“You know, you still need me to execute Pemfrey’s will.  I’m the only one who has Power of Attorney over Pemfrey’s bank accounts.  Until I transfer them to your name, you’re still going to be a sexy-but-desperate London arts critic with massive debts and the literati gunning for him.”

“You’re forgetting something, sweetheart.  I couldn’t give a toss about money.  I see it only as a means to an end, and I’ve always lived by my wits.  There’s not a freebie in London that I can’t get my grubby hands on.  I live for the cut-and-thrust of the scabrous turn-of-phrase, the vindictiveness of a well-honed celebrity feud, the smell of gunpowder and cordite from a fresh firefight with an overrated author.  I am the epitome of Degree Zero.”

“Ah.” said Lola.  She had seriously misjudged my character.  “Well then, how about a quick shag in the backseat?”

“Done!”

The truth was I’d already been calculating what was needed for my documentary, besides a host of Whitehall magicians for protection when Yvonne and the repugnant Robespierre learned of the new deal.  But that was in the future, and I no longer believed in the future.  What I, and the documentary, needed now was action.  I had already abandoned any pretense towards aesthetic distance and opted to pander to the masses.  My years with Yvonne would serve me well.

And there was Lola as I climbed awkwardly over the Jaguar’s headrest, sprawled across the backseat, her round British face flushed and pulsing after eons of anticipation, darting tongue coquettishly interrupting her virginal schoolgirl smile, pink faux fur car coat now opened and one knee raised up to reveal a state of the art Gore-Tex vaginal insert already glistening, already allowing her acrid juices to seep out while keeping mine totally at bay.  I would’ve expected no less; she had lived her life one step ahead of me, and it had been well known both she and I had been waiting all our lives for this day.  (Another truth not lost on Yvonne.) In this one respect, she had pegged my character exactly.

We crashed together like colliding stars (and, in one sense, we were), all heat and violence: an electric steam that radiated throughout the greater London area.  I couldn’t help but giggle, as every visual euphemism from every tedious nature film I’d ever had inflicted on me flashed through my mind, but that was us, two lions rutting proudly on the ancient African savannah, declaring their dominance over their terrain by fearing nothing including their own consuming passion.  I was pleased to learn Lola shared my own definition of quick, which is to say not quick.  Neither of us differentiated between irony and sex.

It was also necessary to my greater plan.  I had never revealed my own tantric skills even to Yvonne.  There’d never been a need to.  Pemfrey, in our youth, had suspected something, as I’d checked out under his name “The Secret Of The Golden Flower” — a text of Chinese alchemy that, between the lines, taught the reader to sustain intercourse for hours, even days, at a time while withholding fluids, a process that reversed the flow of a man’s energy and supercharged what the Hindis called his chakras — and never returned it.  The humiliation of a library fine had turned out to be almost more that poor Horace could cope with, exacerbated by the jibes he suffered when word got out he had stolen “a sex book.” In intervening years I’d honed my skills on a variety of grateful West End fluff, but it had been some time since I’d put them to use.  I needed them now.  Pemfrey bastards, as I’ve said, were incapable of orgasm, a problem they shared with most American generals and made them mean as hell.  It was a calculated risk, leaving myself open like that (not to mention risking Lola’s life) for nineteen straight hours of shagging (not that she complained), but I bet on the inbred Pemfrey prurience to take hold.  A mortar shell launched from a block away by any one of the bastards would’ve aborted the show, but they were drawn, as I knew they would be, by the psychic radiation of a pleasure they would never know.  Voyeurs by nature, they would be voyeurs unto death, and, as one by one they crept to the car for a look (arriving from all over London at conveniently different times), Lola and I took turns shooting them dead, she using my Widowmaker and I using her customized Sig Sauer 12mm in perfect union.  With each shot we laughed and thrust.

But I’d been wrong.  She was again well ahead of me, having clearly planned the same thing, as after every shot a clean-up crew arrived to remove the body and sanitize the area, so as not to tip off the next Pemfrey to arrive.  Pemfreys were slaves to their compulsions but, aside from the already eliminated “natural” Pemfreys, they were not as a rule stupid.

After nineteen hours we were both slick with sweat.  I roughly calculated the likelihood of more Pemfreys south of Manchester — we had eliminated some 714 of them during our time together — and decided to call it a day.  I had meant to overwhelm her defenses with prolonged pleasure and pry from her in that moment of weakness the answers to my final questions, but Lola’s now unending love scream had taken on a pure Castrati high pitch that was shattering windows for blocks, and, as drool trickled from the corner of her mouth and her eyes rolled up in her head, I suspected her mind was entirely gone.  Relaxing, able to rest now, I finally allowed myself to climax.  The wave shot out of me, hit the Gore-Tex sheath and flooded back, drenching the Jaguar’s floor up to the top of Lola’s stiletto heel with goo.  We flopped together on the back seat, my lioness purring as I stroked inside her thigh, my arms tight around her to possess her entirely.

“Tell me,” I whispered, tonguing behind her ear.  She writhed luxuriously.  “Are you a Pemfrey bastard too?”

“Beats the shit out of me, luv” she said, her voice unexpectedly clear and focused.  “All I know is I’ve never had an orgasm in my life.”

I realized too late it had all been an act.  Pinning me with her sculpted body, rocking with excited laughter once again, she shoved the Widowmaker’s nose under my chin.  “That’s the downside to sleeping with a critic,” she said.  “One of us is always shooting your mouth off.”

She pulled the trigger.

End of Part 6

Shooting the hinges at lookitmoves@gmail.com

I’ve begun the official LOOK!  IT MOVES! twitter feed.  Follow me at http://twitter.com/lookitmoves for thoughts and snark on media and pop culture, stuff for future columns and stuff I may never spend a whole column writing about.

Look! It Moves! © Adisakdi Tantimedh

Brond on the Run © Adisakdi Tantimedh and Steven grant