Archive for the ‘Jonathan Wood’ Category
Guardian Angel
Thursday, April 1st, 2010
Author’s warning: Some curse words are used in this piece.
People call it “hunger,” but that’s not it. You can live with hunger. Actors, models—they go hungry for years. They’re miserable, but they do it.
Need. That’s the word. Addiction.
*
Tom’s felt sick for two months now. Keeps getting worse. Doctors have a word for it. Something like enema, but without a hosepipe up your ass. Something with his blood. But the doctors don’t know why it’s happening. Stupid goddamn doctors. Take his co-pay and tell him jack and shit.
*
I don’t believe in evil. Not some malevolent force moving through the world. Selfishness. The inability to see another’s point of view. To see the consequences of your actions to anyone but yourself. That I believe in. Tom is selfish.
Killed a man once. Didn’t like the color of his skin, the creed of his politics. It didn’t take much for Tom to pull the trigger.
In many ways, things would be easier if I just killed Tom.
*
Tom never liked New York city. Full of hippies in business suits. Just wrong. But the big doctors are there so he goes, and they take his money, and tell him even less than the goddamn quacks at home. And that’s before the subway gets him turned around and the three skinheads roll him for his wallet in the alleyway.
Time was he could have taken the knife from the kid and jammed it six inches into his eye. Now he can barely get the wallet out. The kids get impatient, get mean, give him a taste of the blade, open his cheek.
And then… what? A man? A blur? A shadow? Just the smack of flesh on flesh and the crack of breaking bones. And then the three skinheads are on the floor and they aren’t moving. And a man. Yes, a man. In front of him. The man reaches out, touches the wound on Tom’s cheek, wipes the blood away. And then he’s gone.
*
I watch Tom leave before I lick the crimson drop from my finger. It’s like a grenade behind the eyes. The world fracturing. Ecstasies and infinity. Addiction. Need. And then, over. So quickly, over. The world back to black and white.
And, yes, it would be easier to just kill Tom. But I need him. Am addicted to him. And so I’ll keep him alive for just a little longer.
Flames Burn Red
Thursday, March 4th, 2010
“Red tape! Red goddamn tape!” And with that, ribbons of red silk burst from Gorman’s fingers and wrap me up tighter than a pair of earrings on Christmas Eve.
See, the thing about battling occult threats to Britain’s shores is that, despite the getting-to-fight-tentacle-monsters-with-a-flaming-sword bits, and the using-knuckle-dusters-that-punch-holes-into-alternate-dimensions bits, it’s still just a job. There are still timesheets, emails about missing staplers, annoying co-workers. Gorman was always an annoying co-worker. And there is the red goddamn tape.
Honestly, half the time something’s eaten most of Essex before I’m even able to get all the signatures I need to get my hands on the flaming sword in the first place.
Must have been worse for Gorman being in accounting. And apparently he really wanted to touch the flaming sword. Got himself fired over it. Submitted everything right but they rejected him anyway. Course they did. He was an accountant. Still, Gorman looked at the form with the big, “rejected” stamp and a gear slipped. Tried to grab the sword out of the safe. Didn’t get far. Course he didn’t. He was an accountant. And they fired him.
Apparently Gorman’s made use of the spare time. Who knows where he found the grimoire. The cape is a little more obviously Halloween gear, but it’s hard to poke fun when a chap breaks into the office and takes you out in under ten seconds.
The air fills with red ribbons. More people are bundled up. I lose sight of him in the blizzard of it. We lie there. I hear crackling in the distance, can smell something burning.
And then I see him. He’s holding the sword in both hands, hacking a path through the jungle of red tape he himself has created. Tape curls back as the flame licks through them. And he smiles like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. The cape suddenly looks a little bit awesome.
Gorman gets to the door. Looks back at us, at the now limp strands of red tape, and the grin stretches wider. He buries the sword in the floor. And he walks away.
Eventually someone finds us, works us free. Someone, some civil servant, looks at me as I stand up and says, “Well, aren’t you going to go after him?” But, honestly, after that example, there’s no way I can be bothered to do the paperwork.