The Momentously Mouthwatering Maximilian Hawker

I dreamt of rats as big as dogs scratching at my skin, they clawed and ripped at my skin causing my flesh to burn.  In desperation I pulled myself from sleep and into the horror of my reality.

The sun blazed in through my bedroom window, waking me me from my deathly slumber and scorching my pale skin which was unused to daylight.  It's not that I'm a vampire, I'm just a miserable bastard who hates going out in the daytime.

I cursed Manson for drawing the curtains so early, and resolved to find and flog him before breakfast.  Throwing back my blankets I rolled from my bed, and landed with a thud on the floor.  I was not a morning person.

Face down on the floor, I looked through the space between the floorboards and could swear I saw a movement.  Rats! I thought.  It was obviously time to call in the ratcatcher again, he came to the Castle of Despair a couple of times a year, to flush out the vermin.  Sometimes I would let him take some of the wasting bodies from the dungeon to use as bait - it was a Quid Pro Quo type of arrangement.

I hauled myself to my feet, and staggered to my the end of my four poster where my bathrobe had been laid by Manson earlier in the morning when he had brought me my obligatory pot of high caffeine coffee and a dozen horse tranquilizers - The breakfast of the Damned.  I rang the bell and sat on the end of my bed waiting for Manson to attend.

It was as I sat there, contemplating my navel, that I heard scratching sounds coming from the floor.  They were louder than normal - 'rats as big as dogs' - it dragged on the wood and thumped and fumbled as if too large to crawl and scuttle through the underworld of the castle.  I stood and followed the sound of the rats, they were over by my dresser.  I waited for their sound again, and when I heard it jumped on the spot, making a loud bang.

'Oi!' came a voice.

Rats don't talk, I thought and jumped once more.

'Stop it!'  came the voice again.  'That's my stomach.'  I jumped again. 'Oof!' the intruder said.

I got down on my knees and tried to see through the gaps in the floorboards, there was an eye, wide and bloodshot, staring up at me.

Our conversation is recorded as follows;

Good grief!  How did you get under the floorboards and who in the blazes are you?

Dear God, man! I can see right up your dressing gown from down here and what you have under there is banned outside of Germany! How did I get here, you say? Why, you only double-locked the portcullis – such lax security positively invites scoundrels in. I am Maximilian Hawker and I am looking for people to preorder my book. I had hoped you might harbour a small group of bibliophiles under your floor as I do, but you disappoint me, sir.

You’ve done what?  You’ve actually written a book?  Tell me all about it.  Break it down for me into words I can understand.

Ah, interested in my novel, eh? Well, you know the Troy of Greek myth? It was, in fact, a real city and it was called Wilusa. When I was younger, I wondered whether the stories surrounding Troy had any basis in historical fact, so I did research. For years. And from my research I have written a completely fresh take on an ancient tale that does away with the myth in favour of documented evidence and archaeological breakthroughs. So, my book is about Troy, but not remotely as you think you know it.

I demand a present from all of my visitors.  All those that do not comply with my demands are thrown into the darkest cell in the dungeon with only the spiders for company.  Tell me what have you brought me today?

You find a stranger under your floorboards and demand a gift of them? What kind of an oddball are you? Never mind.  Okay, a gift… Aha! I offer you the gift of knowledge. In ancient Wilusa (aka ‘Troy’), it was legal to make sweet love to a horse. Truly, these people were passionate in matters equine. There – I have enriched your life.

I am a generous man.  I have something for you also.  I present you with the gift of Trump.  You can say anything and for some reason lots of people will believe you.  You can tell people how brilliant you are and they will worship you for it.  Tell me, how would you use your newfound power for lying?  Would you use it for good, or for mischief?

Your gift trumps mine. Boom, boom! Ahem. Righty-ho then. I have a silver tongue as it is, but if I had that added Donald-stamped assurance then I would be mischievous on a truly petty scale. However, it is tempting to use the power of lying to do good on an industrial level instead.

You’re a superhero.  Really you are.  Unfortunately for you, you have been blessed with the most useless superpower ever.  What is your odd power?  How would you use it to fight crime?

Did you ever see the movie Super? Chubby bloke runs around in a costume hitting petty criminals with various odds and ends either killing them or giving them life-altering injuries all while yelling, ‘Shut up, crime!’ If I could fight crime, I would do it like that. But if you want to push me on a particularly useless superpower, I would have to plump for the gift of being able to imitate a cat. Living in Croydon, we have the infamous Croydon Cat Killer on the loose and he has become notorious in these ‘ere parts. I would wander the streets at night yowling my head off and crouching on all fours to try and attract the bastard. Then I would lamp ‘im!

I used to love Joe 90 when I was a kid.  I liked the idea of a machine that could insert skills and knowledge immediately into your brain without the need for all that learning and endless hours of practice.  It was quite unfortunate that the Matrix nicked the idea to give Keanu Reeves Kung fu skills.  If you could have one skill inserted into your mind and immediately make you an expert in your field what would it be?

I’ll be boring and honest here: I work in frontline children’s social care, so I would want complete knowledge of all social care, housing, immigration and welfare legislation implanted into my brain for easy retrieval for the rest of my career.

There is a desperate lack of water in the world.  Regional water companies have been taken over by fizzy drinks makers.  They offer a choice of different types of drink that will be the only thing that you’ll be able to bathe in.  What type of pop do you fill your tub with?

Tizer. Do you remember the advert for that drink? The crazy dude with his head being opened and Tizer poured inside. If it does that to your head, think what it would feel like on your boll– Ahem!

A fantastic new car race has been introduced, think Wacky Races crossed with the cannonball run.  You have decided to enter in order to get the chance to win the $100m prize.  Tell me about your car?  What modifications would it have to give you an unfair advantage over your rivals?  Will you have a co-pilot?  And most importantly of all, what is your vehicle called?

My car would be called Gary. Gary would basically be the red-and-grey jeep from the original Jurassic Park with an enormous cannon mounted on its roof with the ability to fire explosive livestock at rival vehicles, as this would surely be the most effective means of preventing others from winning; it’s a real bugger to drive an amped up Porsche 944 with a gore-soaked udder caught in your windscreen wipers, dontcha know? And I would be more than happy to have Katie Hopkins as a co-pilot – if I run out of livestock, I’ll send her up into the cannon.

The world hails you as the foremost authority on food and drink.  You have unlimited power in this regard.  Tell me one food that you will consign to the pits of hell never to be eaten by another living soul on this planet, and the food that you would make compulsory and a crime not to eat on a daily basis.

I would consign salad to the pits of hell as I am not a hamster and do not wish to dine as one. If I had to make one food compulsory to eat on a daily basis I would have to choose chicken vindaloo: Armitage Shanks would have to completely rethink toilet design for our entire species.

Stalking is underrated.  You are now on my list.  Where can I find you on the World Wide interweb?  Do you blog?  Insta? Snapchat?  Tweet?  Any other places that I can find you online?

Well, you can preorder my novel ahead of its Autumn/Winter 2017 release over at https://unbound.com/books/breaking-the-foals and if you’re a fan of Twitter you can follow me at @MaxHawker. I do not blog, Insta or Snapchat though as it ain’t my cup o’ tea. Now, if you’re quite done with me, I have other floorboards to infiltrate.

'Er... Sir?'  I was distracted by Manson's voice behind me.  He was stood with a tray carrying my breakfast.

'What is it?'  I snapped.

'I was wondering who you were talking to, My lord.'  Manson looked edgy, he knew it was often a mistake to question me.

'Why the man under the floorboards, stupid.'  I snarled.  'Who else would be under there?  Rats?  Rats as big as dogs?  Do you think me mad?'

'Of course not.'  he murmured.  'The man under the floorboards, I think I might have heard of him.'

I looked down again, the wild staring eye had gone, replaced by darkness.

I jumped to my feet and snatched the tray from him, taking it to my bed an.d throwing the bedclothes over me again.  'Get out, Manson!'  I screamed.  'Leave me to my breakfast!'

Later that day I investigated further this book that he had mentioned, and I would strongly encourage you to do the same.  If only to prove that I hadn't dreamt it all.  Rats as big as dogs.



If you have enjoyed this blog interview and wish to star in your very own episode please get in touch at caraticuspholbrook@gmail.com

You could also do me a huge favour and give your support to my own book  Domini Mortum, which can be found here www.unbound.co.uk/books/domini-mortum

The Ostensibly 'Orrible Oli Jacobs

It had been a long and tiring day, in 'the most terrible place on earth' (Awful Places Weekly Summer edition 2009).  

For some reason, the current batch of ‘guests’ in my cellar were particularly feisty and refusing to submit to treatment which normally would have them begging for their lives.  It was a mystery, and it was quite annoying. 

Normally I love a good mystery, something to ponder over, something to tax the brain a little.  When it came to my guests however, I liked them to be predictable.  If I used my cattle prod on someone hung by their ankle from the ceiling, I expected them to shriek and wail, not grit their teeth and not make a sound.  If tied someone to a rack and tickled them endlessly with feathers, I expected them to laugh and writhe until they sobbed for mercy, not remain expressionless and tell me that they were not ticklish.

This was not because I hated a challenge, I love to work hard on a guest and to finally break them.  But this was different, it was insolence of the highest magnitude, rebellion and mutiny, and I was somewhat stumped as to how to snap this newfound hardiness in my guests.  I blamed society, people were just uncaring and too worldly nowadays.  When I presented them with a glowing brand, which I had heated in the fire until it shone bright orange, and threatened to press it into their foreheads, all they would say was “seen it on YouTube. It don’t scare me.”

Gits.

When I am set a conundrum I tend to pace the long dark corridors of Holbrook Towers.  Pipe in mouth, fluffy slippers on feet, striding thoughtfully.  I was on my third circuit of the second floor landing when I heard a noise come from further down the corridor.  A thumping noise.  I paused for a moment;  Manson the butler was spending a quiet evening in the Iron Maiden as punishment for forgetting my mid morning coffee,  Dahmer, the chef had gone out to ‘fetch’ some dinner ingredients, and my new member of staff, Gein the gardener had left for the day, to do a bit of moonlighting at the local graveyard.  I should have been alone in the castle.  I stood deathly still, waiting for the sound to come again.

Thump.

There it went again, coming from, of all places, my bedroom.

I crept along the landing until I came to my bedroom door, I pressed my ear to the wood.  There was defiantly someone in there.  I pulled a spiked mace from the hands of a suit of armour at the top of the stairs and stood outside the door, mace above my head.  Two deep breaths later I charged, kicking, kicking in the door, screaming at the top of my lungs, and swinging the mace with all the effort that my arms could muster. 

The room was empty.

Had my ears deceived me?  Had the madness, inherent in my family, finally caught up with me?

Thump.

The noise came again.  It was coming from my wardrobe.

‘Who’s there!’  I cried.  ‘I have a weapon.  I have killed before, don’t test me.’

Suddenly there was a muffled thumping and fumbling noise.  The doors rattled.

‘Hello?’ Came a voice.  ‘I’m stuck.  Can you open the doors for me?’

I approached the doors and opened them a crack.  I could just make out a pair of wide frightened eyes, hidden between my winter overcoats.  I slammed the doors again.

‘What are you doing in my wardrobe?’  I asked.

‘I don’t know.’ came the voice. ‘One minute I was sat in a pub, having a little drink.  I got up to go to the gents and found myself stuck in here.  It’s very dark, and I’m frightened.  Where am I?’

‘Well you’re not in Bleedin’ Narnia!’  I cried.  ‘Who are you? Are you another one of those Author types?  Answer me, before I come in there and stove your head in!’

Our conversation, through the door of my favourite wardrobe, was recorded as follows;

Who’s there?  What are you doing in my bedroom?

This isn’t the Belle Vue pub… How much did I drink while tapping out that book?

Ooh, you’ve written a book have you?  Tell me a little about it?  Persuade me to invest in it with your smooth marketing skills.

I have indeed! It is called Deep Down There and is a Horror Comedy about a hole. Well, more horror than comedy… the hole appears in a gated community and begins to drive the residents mad. Mad, I say. MAD! Dark times begin when they start to remove it, and finally investigate it. It’s being published by Unbound (https://unbound.com/books/deep-down-there) and if you like words, you’ll love this. Because it contains many words. So many. With many syllables and all.

Have you brought me a present?  What is it?  Will it be useful to me and make me smile?

Well I am known as the generous sort. You look like the type who likes a good space adventure, so try this big old collection of my Kirk Sandblaster series of books. Think Terry Pratchett & Douglas Adams walked through a wormhole and got gorily, disgustingly, but hilariously combined into one organism. Be aware, though, the series contains instances of space piracy, ice pirates, a planet-wide Hunger Games, and sandwiches. Lots of sandwiches.

I have a gift for you also, for I am in a giving mood.  I give you the gift of the chameleon.  You are able to change your colour, dependant on your surroundings, able to become more or less invisible at will.  What will you do with your new found power?  Where would you go and what mischief would you get up to?

Oh, the possibilities… One would be tempted to use this power for evil, thieving and getting up to all sorts of dark vagabondery. However, I feel at first I’d use it to escape the overall hustle and bustle. Get out of situations where someone is talking to you and you need to suddenly get away would be handy as well. Imagine their faces as you slowly faded from view. I’d also probably raid a till or two. Hey, I never said I would use it wisely all the time…

It’s the end of the world, I tell you!  The stars have aligned, Jupiter is in the ascendency and Nigel Farage still lives and breathes.  According to my charts we have about a week left until Emperor Trump finally snaps and slams his forehead onto the big red button.

Tell me your plans for the final week of earth as we know it?

What?!? That came out of nowhere… I’d probably throw a party, one to end all parties. Invite all my friends and family around, and enjoy one last hurrah. That would be a couple of days, then maybe a day of resolving old feuds, before finally spending the last few days with my wife and pooch, sipping cocktails and seeing in the apocalypse with a bang.

Earth is at the centre of an intergalactic war and, as leader of the planet, it is up to you to throw your hat in the ring and decide whose side we’re on.  The choices are as follows;

The Jhakkar – a large insectoid warlike race, who are intent on total and utter control of the universe.  They enslave all planets that they take over and drain the resources of each world, before using their massive green Boomcannon to reduce it to rubble.  Billions have died at their hands, mercy is seen as a weakness.  They have promised you that, if you side with them and turn the war in their favour, they will provide the earth with the resources needed to eliminate poverty and hunger, make war and violence a thing of the past, (and also give you a palace of your own to live in, with slaves to do your every bidding).

The Floof – A race of small cuddly bear like creatures who are the universe’s one true hope of freedom from the Jhakkar.  They want peace and happiness for the whole of the universe, with free cake for all and jelly beans as the currency.  They offer the earth a seat at the table of governance of the universe if they win, however they do insist that everyone follows their religion (whose beliefs include worshipping the holy hamster of Gnaarthock (blessed be his fur), absolutely no alcohol, enforced meditation for three hours each day, and all reading and writing is the work of the Floof’s version of the devil, The Dark Monkey H’rrrgunth, and as such totally banned and punishable by being cuddled to death).

Choose your side, the fate of the universe is in your hands.

We side with the Jhakkar, obviously. Long term, it just makes sense. Peace and prosperity? Lovely stuff! The Floof are weak-minded fools who utilize their inherent cuteness to sway the thoughts of those present. They are the true evil in this scenario, and should be stopped by any means necessary.

Plus, that palace would be very nice…

Poetry can heal the greatest ill’s.  I have a bunion which irks me, can you cure it with four fantastic lines of rhyme?

Let’s have a close look.

At the rot on your foot.

It’s a really vile wound.

I’m afraid, sir, you’re doomed.

If I look out of my castle window I can see the villagers impaled on spikes all the way down my front drive.  I am indeed a lucky man.  Tell me, if you could look out of your bedroom window on the greatest piece of scenery in the known world what would you see?

There’s a place called Hughenden Park in Wycombe, where at the right angle, you can see fields for miles. I would gaze at that vista for a while, before looking to my right and seeing the combined beaches of Southampton, Bournemouth, and Swansea beckoning to me, along with the soothing crash of waves. Ah…

Hurl yourself forwards to two hundred years in the future.  You have travelled a thousand miles in your search, but finally, in the middle of a remote moor you find it, ‘The last pub in Britain.’  You enter the doors and find it to be empty, no one goes to pubs any more, they are too entranced by their mobile phones and have become immobile at home.  Able only to order take always and scan the interweb for the latest celebrity gossip.  You walk up to the bar and speak to the wizened old crone at the taps.  This is the last bender.  Tell me your plans for the evening in this old relic of the twentieth century?

Let’s be honest, I’ve travelled a long way, so why not start with a swift kick of energy in the form of half a cola, before moving onto the ales. I like them dark, but starting with a stout is a surefire way to kill the palette. So one of those, and onto the likes of golden ales & craft lagers. They’re good for a few hours, but as the bender comes to an end and I’ve talked the ear off the barmaid about all my word-based ideas and general conspiracy theories, I point my finger at the dusty bottle of Bowmore Darkest scotch buried in her shelves, and grab a glass and a small bowl of ice to bring out the flavour. Splendid.

Where are you on the internetty thing?  Where can I find and stalk you?  Do you tweet?  Insta? Snapchat? YouTube? Blog?  Where are you, in heavens name?

Hey, you gave me the chameleon power… But to keep up with my shenanigans, you can find me tweeting as @OliJacobsAuthor (https://twitter.com/OliJacobsAuthor), Open the Book of Faces and find the Oli Jacobs Author Page (https://www.facebook.com/OJBooks/), look over my Instagramic efforts as @olijba (https://www.instagram.com/olijba/), read my works in progress at https://olijacobsauthor.wordpress.com/ and then buy them at https://www.amazon.co.uk/Oli-Jacobs/e/B0086XR1JG/

Oh! And don’t forget to pledge toward Deep Down There, of course. Be rude not to… https://unbound.com/books/deep-down-there

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to find my way out of this bedroom and back to the pub. Wait. Why is the door locked from the outside…?

Our discussion over, I cautiously opened the door.  My fear of the man inside had lessened, but I knew better than to ever fully trust my senses when you discover a man hiding in the your wardrobe.

He gingerly stepped out.  I need not have been so scared, he seemed like quite an amenable chap after all, and I decided to invest in his lovely work.  I would strongly advise you to do the same.

Together we checked the back of my wardrobe and it did indeed lead to a set of pub toilets. 

We shared a drink, Oli and I; him having a beer, me on my normal tipple of Babycham and Special Brew with a twist of lemon.  I left him, somewhere in between his eight and my ninth.  I had wandered to the toilets and suddenly found myself back in my bedroom.

I fumbled my way back through the overcoats, only to find the hard wooden back panel of my wardrobe.  Had I imagined it?  Was it all a fantastical fantasy?

I decided not, as I was perfectly drunk and desperately needed to relieve my bladder.

If you have enjoyed this blog interview and would like to take part yourself, then please contact me at caraticuspholbrook@gmail.com.

I would also ask that you consider supporting my own book Domini Mortum which is availabel to view here www.unbound.co.uk/books/domini-mortum