From Russia with nub...

I would have laughed at you thiry minutes ago if you had dared inform me that a market existed in the USSR for independent Irish authors specialising in transgressive/surrealist fiction. Alas, such a market does exist, and not only are they interested in the work of such wordsmiths, but they are even willing to help us out by providing lucrative business opportunities! Surely an opportunity not to be missed. I'll just click the link and........

The Ballad of John Thompson.

“The Ballad of John Thompson”

It would be fair to assume that John had been staggering his way down William Street, every day for the better part of two decades. Aged beyond his years, sporting a grey flecked short back and sides, green and orange bomber, stone washed jeans, and weather beaten skin, he gave the impression of one associated with an honourable trade. Not usually worth a second glance or passing interest. Yet in the streets he roamed, taverns he frequented, and turf accountants he endowed with riches, people greeted him with the same stares of pity and wonder. Whether natural selection at play or consequence borne of commissioned sins, John had been scarred by a profound cleft palate for the majority of his adult life.

    Protruding sideways at a forty five degree angle, the only way to do John’s jaw any justice would have been to describe it as the anthropomorphic incarnation of a pelican. His teeth remained and all the muscles, skin and bone one would expect were present and correct. Yet it was clearly visible that the direction of the lower regions of his face had decided to shift dramatically, leaving those around him perplexed as to how the laws of physics had managed to convert such a punt. Beauty, thy name was most certainly not John.  

    Needless to say, although I evidently will anyway, this had an intense effect on the quality of our John’s articulation. Upon sighting John, any innocent passerby could have inevitably expected one of two opening gambits. The ever charming and persuasive;

    “Gee-us a pound forabottleawine”

or alternatively, if John had already accumulated enough collateral to purchase a bottle of Devonshire’s finest tonic wine;

    “Luck-a-luck-a-loo!”

The response in turn, which as expected varied from person to person, would dictate John’s closing remark. Most people, if they had it, just wanted rid of scum like John and would appease the beast in the hope that he would make his way in the opposite direction and torture someone else. People don’t have time to scrape the dregs of society from their shoes and they certainly don’t want the stench following them around as they carry out their holy business.

    Back then a bottle of Buckfast cost no more than a fiver, and was readily available in any of the hundred off-licences bestowed upon Lurgan by “The Seventh Coalition” following the “Battle of Waterloo”. However, I fear a digression coming and we really shouldn’t, because that’s another, entirely fabricated, story of utterly fictitious origins.

    If the answer should be, “No chance.” “awaytefuck” or “Get outta my sight you alkie bastard,” then John’s hand would be forced. The decision would not be his, the ensuing trouble horrific, unsightly and cringe worthy, but never unexpected and always entirely predictable. It is in one such situation that we join John. The dance of the beggar has been carried through; the verdict nay, sentence passed, and John has responded in character, with all the vigour of a champion, yet tellingly, the grace and strength of the Notre Dame Bell-Ringer he so unfortunately resembled.

    John began his physical rebuttal with a circling maneuver, not unlike that of the great Cassius Clay. Side stepping slowly, fixed eye-contact burrowing deep into the soul of his victim, right arm slightly extended, left arm in tight for defence of the mid-section. It is here, though, where our comparison must end. John couldn’t punch his way out a wet paper bag, and was in fact a useless fucker. On this occasion three spides, of approximately fifteen years of age, fancied John to be of more entertainment value wound up than not so. So while John sidestepped in a puma like fashion, they split into a triangular formation, encompassing John from every angle, and free to pounce should they choose.

    The shell suited ringleader struck first with a Nike Air Max to the knee cap of our simmering protagonist.

    “Fuckaway aff,” he cried.

“You shouldn’t have fucked with us, you crippled bastard. You’re in the shit now!” retorted an equally shell suited but much less rotund member of the trio.

     “Leave me alone bais, leave me alone,” John, voice weakened with fear, groaned.

    “Some chance, we’re gonna knock you bollocks in you fruit,” the skinnier of the three continued.

    The spides were now doing the circling, stalking with the natural instinct of the pack animal, and toying with their victim. John himself looked close to tears, protruding jaw housing upturned lips and eyes hiding none of the fear inside. It was the third of the spides to strike next. A thudding right hook to John’s temple knocking him sideways. At this point the skin headed ring leader assaulted from the opposite side, righting John and spinning his equilibrium inside out and upside down. The skinniest of the three jumped at John, sending him crashing to the ground, head meeting concrete, skin breaking, and blood spilling. Devastating kicks came in from all angles. Skinny McSpide threw digs to the head on top, while the leader and his comrade aimed shots to the gut and legs. John could do nothing but cry for help, but with his obvious disability, it certainly wasn’t coherent, or audible above the laughs of his attackers.

   “Yer ma can’t save you now ballbag. Suck it up you big ginny!” taunted the spides, continuing to lay siege to the helpless buffoon.

    Twenty minutes of punishment elapsed. Blood spilled, bones snapped, muscles ached, and swelling began to contort the monstrous figure even further. At this point the third, and thus far silent, member of the group held up his hand.

   “Right, that’s enough. This fucker’s had it!”

Reaching into his baggy trouser pocket, the ginger haired assailant dug deep, to reveal a rusted and twisted Swiss Army Knife.

   “I’m gonna slice him a new arsehole. Hold him against the pavement.”

With a flick of his wrist a blade he produced. Saliva formed near the edges of his mouth while his brain released endorphins, sending his heart racing a million beats per minute.

    The unfortunate bugger had grown hungry for this rush early in his educational career. Feeding off the anger of his superiors, the fear of his inferiors, and the respect of his peers, the high he was about to achieve could no longer be surpassed without the act of grievous bodily harm.

   Sensing the imminent surge of adrenalin, his eyes sharpened, nerves flickered, and nostrils flared. Knife raised high, grin demonic, and victim helpless, the goon swung his arm with all the venom of a python, and strength of a bear.

Wilkomen Dast Un Quinnterland

If you've stumbled upon this piece of land, not far behind the underbelly of the mind's recesses, you would surely not be blamed for turning on your heels. Fear not though friends, for guidance is at hand. Quinnterland is the current residence of wordsmith, poet and general debaucherist Jude Allen Quinn. An advocate of the art and culture of storytelling, Jude believes in the organism of narrative and plans to frequently engage his readers in the development of plot, while occassionally talking in less than the third person. So please, stay a while and dine with us on the sumptuous feast that is human nature.


Ciao,

Jude