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
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