Haven’t had a lot of time lately, but decided to experiment with the format of the column a little. Now, instead of reading thousands upon thousands of words, you get to watch a wee animated video. With cute animals and stuff.
This week, I consider the ongoing myth of New York City as a squalid Crime Hell.
And now, the third installment in Bleeding Cool’s first fiction serial by Adi Tantimedh and premier PUNISHER writer Steven Grant.
London media wag and all-round arsehole Alan Brond is in a pickle. His archenemy the hated fat critic Horace Pemfrey challenged him to a duel, only to have his head blown off right by a mysterious shooter before Brond squeezed off a shot, making it look like Brond was the one to finish him off. On top of that, Brond is told by Pemfrey’s lawyer Lola, who’s also the stepsister of his cynical producer girlfriend Yvonne, that Pemfrey has played one last dirty trick on him – he’s left Brond his considerable fortune, and that if the rest of the repulsive Pemfrey brood want their hands on the moolah, they’ll have to kill Brond to get it.
Hunted by every one of Pemfrey’s children, both legitimate and illegitimate, Brond finds himself the subject of a new reality show set up by Yvonne, who reckons there’s a franchise in people watching someone as arrogant and hated as him get hunted through the streets of London by a family of heavily-armed posh degenerates.
Before he can even object, the cameras are rolling and the bullets are already flying, and Brond and Yvonne take to the streets with an arsenal of their own…
BROND ON THE RUN
By Adi Tantimedn and Steven Grant
Dear reader, by now, you will be utterly familiar with what happens next, when the pilot of BROND ON THE RUN aired, and the subsequent dissection of the footage in the media… the shredding of the tank’s treads… my heroic sprint from the Jag to lob the grenade into the gun turret… Edith’s undignified scramble from the tank before the explosion… the sudden deluge of cats as they escaped from the undercarriage, free at last from the harsh mistress who kept them for years, a pleasingly surreal tableau that I would be reviewing favourably in the Independent in the weeks to come… my graceful and balletic martial arts fight with Edith while Yvonne coolly looked on… how the fight grew tedious and I ended it with three roundhouse punches to Edith’s face.
“Talk, Edith.” I said, shaking her by the lapels. “That tank and those rounds were MoD ordnance. You’d only get access to them if you have a letter from the Defence Minister. How high up does this go?”
Edith, ever defiant, spat a bloody tooth out at me and gave me the finger.
“Sit and swivel, cocksucker” she screamed. “All that money is rightfully mine!”
“Right, Yvonne!” I said. “Make the old bat cum!”
“No! Noooo! I’m frigid!” cried Edith.
“So what else is new?” sniffed Yvonne.
Yvonne set to work, directing her tantric energy into Edith’s erogenous zones. She stood over the old woman and did it all without touching her. I took the opportunity to step aside and light a cigarette. Being the hero of an action documentary was hard work, and I was glad for a moment’s respite while the crew busied themselves filming Edith’s coital convulsions.
“Damn you and your deviant hearts…” quivered Edith. “Check with your contacts in MI5… if you can handle the truth…”
By then, Yvonne didn’t need to do anymore. Edith was getting off entirely on her own.
“I don’t know about you,” said Yvonne when she was done. “but I could murder a stiff drink. Psychic sex is such thirsty work.”
“Well then,” I declared. “Let’s get a drink at Harpo’s.”
“Are you sure you want to go back there so soon?”
“What better time for it?” I said, mustering the most masterly voice I could as the cameraman was practically shoving his camera up my nose. “Back to the Scene of the Crime. Sniff for clues and all that.”
“Sniff drugs, more like.”
“That, too. I know for a fact the receptionist still has a bag of primo charlie under the table, and I could easily swap her with the reader’s proof of the new Will Self we have in the car.”
Pleased with my decisiveness, I kicked the sound man in the balls as I walked back to the Jag.
“And this time, I’ll drive.”
We left Edith ululating by the double yellow line, the street streaming with cats.
End of Part 3
Luxuriating in… something, I dunno what, at email@example.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
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