View Full Version : Is this worth resurrecting?

Lazarus and the Gimp
22-09-2002, 18:59:03
Or just burying in concrete?

The Crucifixion Muse.

Part 1.

The second violent impact on the door tore the Yale lock out of the frame and left a dishevelled journalist in a trenchcoat falling in from the street to sprawl face-down in the hallway. With a grunt of effort he rolled onto his back and grinned up at the ceiling.
"Honey! I'm homo!" he announced.
"Get out of the fucking doorway, you pissed old twat" slurred the next entrant, emerging from the street outside. "If you've broken anything you're leaving in a wheelchair".
"Ooooh! Who's the genius who lost his keys then?" asked Tarrant, making a half-hearted attempt to claw his way up a radiator. "What did you expect me to do with the door? Reason with it? ". He slumped back onto the bare floorboards, gave a theatrical sigh of exasperation before lapsing into a fit of giggles.
Merrick's attempts to manoueuvre past the sozzled hack were hampered by the narrow, dark hallway, his own drunkeness and the fact that he was dragging a reluctant goat on a length of rope. The goat braced it's neat hooves against the doorframe and started shaking it's head, straining on the leash.
"Get in you little bastard"grunted Merrick before tripping over Tarrant's legs and falling heavily on him.
"AAAAHHHH! Get off me tackle you wanker!". Tarrant jerked his legs up convulsively and started slapping Merrick around the head and shoulders.
"Excuse me, ladies?" Frankie's grinning face appeared around the splintered doorway. "This is obviously a tender moment for you both, but it's still pissing down. Biryani and myself are getting soaked out here."
"Fucking cut it out!" Merrick grabbed Tarrant around the throat with one hand, and used this purchase to lever himself up, ignoring the strangled protests of the abused hack. Still grimly hanging on to the goat's leash he looked back at Frankie and drew a sharp intake of breath.
"Look at my bloody doorframe!"
"What about it? This place is a shithole anyway." Frankie planted his boot against the goat's backside and forcefully shoved it through the doorway. "Should have been condemned years ago. Haven't the neighbours got a petition going to get you evicted?".
Merrick managed to roll off Tarrant and drag himself upright. "They moved out. Had some skag-head squatters move in a couple of months back but they got busted after a local kid OD'd on their gear. What they thought was a 70% Harpic cut tuned out to be pure China White." He swayed and steadied himself against a broken store mannequin. "If I'd known, I'd have bought some in. Switch the light on, will you?".
Tarrant had located the bottom of the stairs and started crawling up them, attracting Merrick's attention. "And you can piss off too. Walk properly, you cripple."
The nervous goat bleated and deposited a small pile of neat black droppings on the floor and Frankie's boot. "Aw, you dirty little bastard!" He wiped his boot off against the skirting boards. "Charlie, why the hell did you want this thing anyway? Should have left it at Cameron's to be curried.".
Merrick slumped back against the wall, knocking the mannequin over onto a pile of old magazines. He took a half-hearted kick at where the mannequin's genitalia weren't before turning his bloodshot stare back onto Frankie. "It might look like a goat to you but it looks like art to me. Biryani the goat's about to go down in history if we can get it up to the studio. Tarrant- get off the stairs, you ponce."
With Merrick hauling on the leash and Frankie pushing from behind, the reluctant goat was forced up the narrow stairway. Two-thirds of the way up Merrick assisted Tarrant up the final few stairs by aiming haphazard kicks at his thighs and buttocks. In the wider landing at the top of the stairs Tarrant finally crawled to one side allowing the others to pass into the studio.
Merrick groped for the lightswitch, knocking over a pile of empty bottles on a shelf. At least one smashed on the floor causing the goat to buck with panic before being nudged onwards by Frankie's knees. "Oh, nice one Charlie. Who does your housekeeping?".
Merrick ignored him and started rummaging in a cupboard "Who's nicked the fucking camcorder?".
"You're going to film the goat? Tried getting that skinny tart who works the old market involved? We could make a fortune." Frankie rubbed the goat behind it's ears. "Would oo like to play with luvverlie lady den?".
"I've had her." Tarrant added as he crawled into the studio. "OW! Shit! There's fucking glass everywhere!".
"Got any drinks in?" Frankie asked, craning his neck round the doorway of the tiny and squalid kitchenette. "God, you really need to clean this place up.". He tied the end of the goat's leash to the doorhandle and disappeared inside.
Merrick's entire upper body was now inside the battered cupboard and he was digging through the contents like a terrier, scattering debris across the grimy lino behind him. Ashtrays, takeaway cartons and newspapers gradually piled up around his feet. A human skull flew past the litter before rolling to halt in front of Tarrant, who now sat nursing a bleeding hand. He picked it up and addressed it enthusiastically. "Kate Moss! Put some weight on, love.". He then placed his lips against the yellow teeth and kissed it. "Mmmwaah!".
Several crashes emanated from the kitchen, puntuated by a squeal of horror. "Urgh! God! Have you seen this bin? It's moving!".
Merrick reversed out of the cupboard with a triumphant cackle, holding a large and expensive video camera, which had been decorated with aboriginal swirls of Tipp-Ex. He clambered to his feet and weaved unsteadily across to the darkness of the opposite corner of the large attic studio where he wrestled a tripod out from behind a battered armchair. Dropping it on the floor by the camera he managed to find the lightswitch and the cruel light of the bare 100 watt bulb lit up the carnage of the studio.
Several broken mannequins were scattered around the floor. Most had been partially dismembered with axe blows, while two had been welded together in a mutilated parody of a sexual embrace, obscenities scrawled over their torsos in lipstick. One of the rutting pair wore a Groucho Marx mask on the back of it's head. The sole intact mannequin was holding it's ankles which were sluttishly positioned above it's ears, and had been wrapped up in chickenwire.
An ancient and balding stag's head was propped up against a wall. It had been spray-painted orange and the points of it's one inbroken antler were shielded by limp pink condoms, hanging slackly from their dusty hosts.
In an untidy pile strewn before the stag was a mound of hardware tools. An axe, several hammers and chisels, a chainsaw and an angle-grinder, tangled in it's own power cable. Further down the walls were piles of photographs, frames, canvasses and VCR cassettes. Long shelves ran the length of the studio walls, filled with empty bottles, candle stubs books and dust. A long-dead spider plant draped forlornly over an overflowing ashtray, while a spider darted for cover behind a pile of old paperbacks.
Frankie emerged squinting from the kitchen, holding a grimy bottle of Campari. "Is this all you've got? How many parties has this been too?". He waved it at the preoccupied Merrick.
"Pass it over here" said Tarrant, throwing the skull back towards the cupboard. It bouced off the door and rolled under a table, a dislodged tooth left perched on top of a yellowing copy of the "Sun". Frankie gently pitched the bottle at Tarrant who caught it clumsily and opened it, smearing dirt and blood over the label. He took a long pull on the bottle, grimaced and spat a fine pink spray over his legs and the floor. "That's fucking rank. Have you got anything other than poof's drinks?".
"There's a pub down the road. Why don't you piss off there?" grunted Merrick as he screwed the camera onto the tripod. "Haven't you got somewhere to go anyway?".
"Yeah. New exhibition opens tonight. Some scouser bint with a multimedia set-up about "the sacred power of the menstrual flow". Sounds disgusting." . He clambered laboriously to his feet and swayed glassey-eyed towards the door.
"You'll never get in looking like that. They do have some standards left and you look like something the cat brought up." Merrick pulled down a large white backdrop. "Where is it?".
Tarrant paused for thought, hugging the bottle. "The Royal Academy." He took another swig, gurning wildly, but kept this one down.
"I take it back. Just try to look like a rent boy and you'll be welcomed with open arms."
"You'll never make it." Frankie walked across to the journo and pushed him back into a nearby armchair. "Best stay here and make up the review tomorrow."
"...usually does the trick." muttered Tarrant and stuffed the bottle inside his coat.
"That's the spirit! Just bang on about tired old feminist sloganeering and how we're all too sophisticated to be impressed by Art College shock tactics. Another review in the bag, another student's exhibition shafted. It'll do her good.".
"No-one reads your crap anyway" added Merrick. "As pissed art reviewer for a fucking "fast moving lifestyle paper for the modern chancer" you're serving up fiction for arseholes who'll flick past your piece looking for the next pair of tits.".
"So you're Mr Popularity, then?" Tarrant leaned forward and focussed on Merrick's skinny and dreadlocked outline. "Bollocks. Another slumming middle-class chancer, looking for scandal. You'd be a has-been even if you'd never started. You're boring. No-one's interested."

Lazarus and the Gimp
22-09-2002, 18:59:44
Merrick paused and pushed his sweaty dreads off his forehead, looking over to the tethered goat. "Biryani" was delicately nibbling at the armrest of Tarrant's seat, pulling out a clump of red horsehair which it chewed on half-heartedly. "Well let's see you write this off as boring. Frankie- drag the table over here and tie the goat to a leg. Chuck my overalls across- this could be messy." . He pulled on the spotless overalls, staggered slightly and grabbed the tripod for support. "Christ, I'm wasted. You got anything?".
"Want some charlie, Charlie?". Frankie giggled and passed a small packet to Merrick, who reeled into the darkness beyond the kitchenette. While Frankie tied the goat to the table a series of loud snorts issued from the bathroom.
Tarrant hauled himself out of the chair and wandered over to the goat which was sniffing at it's rope. He scratched it's ears and surveyed the studio fittings. "You haven't got a vat of formaldehyde hanging around, have you? That's been done before.".
Merrick reappeared, sniffing. "Piss off. This is going to make every paper in the country." He walked over to the backdrop and pulled out a large white dust-cover which he spread flat on the floor directly in front. "Right, bring the goat onto the cloth there" he ordered, wandering back over to the camera. He squinted through the eyepiece and adjusted the zoom, centring on the goat. "Leave the cloth and backdrop as they are- they'll form part of the exhibition.".
"What are you planning?" Frankie asked as he held the end of the leash.
Tarrant waved around at the "exhibits". "Just look at this. Mr Sick Puppy's going to go for a record here. The RSPCA probably won't be happy.".
Merrick switched on the camera. The slight whirring attracted the goat's attention and it's ears flicked towards the camera as it stared through boxy pupils at the tripod. It bleated again. Merrick wandered away from the camera and started to rummage through the pile of hardware. "There's never a chainsaw around when you want one." He started to yank the cable of the angle-grinder free from the other tools, causing hammers and chisels to scatter around him. "This'll do the job.".
"You're not...?! Are you?". Tarrant swallowed hard.
"Think this one through." added Frankie. "Your dry-cleaning bill will be a bastard.".
"Aw, you're as sick as him! You're really going to do the goat? With that?"
Merrick weaved across to a wall-socket and clumsily plugged the angle-grinder in. He hit the switch, hefted the tool with both hands and thumbed the power button. It whirred into life, twisting in his grip as the torque increased. "An exhibition begins." . He tightened his grip on the squirming powertool and stepped towards the tableau. "The creation of the work captured on video for projection to the punters. The soiled backdrop and floor-covering hung on the gallery walls- a Pollock in blood and guts. The overalls can go up too". His nostrils flared and chest expanded under the cocaine stimulus and his once-glassey eyes now gleamed manically. "The mortal remains of Biryani exhibited....but pickled or just left to rot?". He paused, pondering his options.
"Merrick- the ALF will crucify you. They'll picket the gallery. No one in their right mind will stage a show like this.".
"Do it!" Frankie urged "This'll be the biggest news on the scene in years. It'll be infamous!".
Tarrant lurched over and grabbed the collar of Merrick's overall, tugging backwards. Merrick swore and swung the angle-grinder around. It tangled in Tarrant's baggy trenchcoat with a "BRRAAAPP!" of ripping fabric. Tarrant released his grip and threw himself backwards to the floor. The note of the grinder subsided as it wound down to a halt.
Frankie sat up, holding the plug he had pulled from the socket in his dive. Merrick, confused, looked down at the supine writer. Tarrant took a shudding deep breath.
"YOU FUCKING MORON! You trying to kill me? Look at my fucking coat!". The furious Tarrant leapt to his feet and threw himself at Merrick. The two slammed into the wall and slid down it, tearing the backdrop down to cover them. Several dull thuds and frantic curses emanated from this shroud. Frankie walked over, threw it aside and dragged the apopleptic hack off, Tarrant eventually releasing his grip on Merrick's matted dreads. Frankie dumped Tarrant back in his armchair and turned back to Merrick who was nursing a nosebleed.
"Nice one, Charlie. That could have been the first manslaughter exhibited in a major gallery. Does the Turner Prize committee consider snuff movies?".
"Aaahh. Shit!" Merrick checked his teeth gingerly with his tongue. "I forgot I was holding the fucker." . He sniggered. "Hey Tarrant. You could have been immortalised in art there.".
"Disembowelled in art, more like." Tarrant snapped. "You ever start that thing up in my presence again and I'll break your scrawny neck".
"Yeah, OK, OK! I'm sorry, alright? Happy?".
"Fucking delirious.".
"You're a real little bundle of joy, you know? Frankie, why do you bother with him?".
Frankie idly kicked the angle-ginder under the chair. "It's publicity. He still writes, when he hasn't got his face in a pint. Or up some conceptualist's arsehole. Anyway, he's one of my best customers- you up for another "G" to put a smile on your face, Tarrant?".
Tarrant ignored him, looking around the studio to the open door that lead towards the stairs and the shattered front door. "Where's the goat gone?".
Merrick wiped blood away from his lip and paused. "Bollocks." He spat bloodily at the doorway. "It's a homing goat. It'll be in one of Cameron's kebabs this time tomorrow. Feel good about "saving" it then?" He chuckled.
Tarrant sighed, slumped back into the depths of the armchair, then giggled. "Got any of that Campari left?".

Lazarus and the Gimp
22-09-2002, 19:10:07
It needs work. I wrote it about 3 years ago, and I'd now say it's hackneyed in places. The dialogue's stilited too.

But.....I think it's got some good stuff too.

23-09-2002, 14:14:01
Mate, you can write, that's obvious. You seem to know what's wrong wth your own work too. So write more. You can't go wrong now :)

23-09-2002, 14:31:49
Lucky goat!

24-09-2002, 13:53:29
I would like to find out what happens next as well. So yes, worth carrying on with.

24-09-2002, 14:17:56
Lot of potential and very good characters. Definitely worth carrying further.

25-09-2002, 02:15:06