The Old Boys

A continuing and occasional series of short pieces featuring legends who have slipped into an alternative universe. This time - Polanski and Nicholson in Midnight Express.

Polanski dropped change into the drivers hand, thanked him, and watched while the old Ford, smoke belching from the rotten exhaust and the pistons beating through the block, disappeared into the darkness. He checked the smeared screen on the closed circuit TV and saw it was gone three. He sat down in the canvas fishing chair and felt his back twinge.

‘What were you just saying?’ his colleague said.

‘I said, I met Charlie Manson once.’

‘Seriously? Where?’

‘Just walked into my back yard and dipped his feet directly in my pool. Sharon wasn’t there, don’t recall where she was. But he just sat there and started talking. I gave him a beer.’

‘What the fuck for?’

Polanski looked up from where he’d been picking at the skin around his thumbnail. ‘Because it was 1968, that’s why. You aren’t that old, Jack. Don’t you remember all that shit? Free love, my man. What belongs to you belongs to your brothers, all that kind of thing.’

‘I remember. It seems like a lifetime ago.’

‘Not to me. Feels like only days since I last saw her sitting on the porch, sunlight in her hair, smiling as I drove away.’ Polanski looked back down at his hands, made as if to say something more, didn’t. Jack sat watching him for a moment, feeling sorrow for the pain his old friend still carried.

‘She was a beautiful lady, Ro,’ he said. ‘I know you still miss her.’

‘Everyday.’

A nearly new Taurus pulled up at the booth window, the steady throb of a hip-hop bass line coming from the vehicle. Jack pulled himself up from his stool and leant against the counter, his expanding belly pushing into the wood. The driver’s window rolled down and he saw white tattooed skin, wiry muscles, smelt the dope that came from the car. He suddenly felt hungry.

‘Evening fellas,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Ohio. Four bucks.’

The drawling voice on the driver suggested a long session had taken place. ‘Four dollars? That’s robbery, man.’

‘Take it up with the State Governor,’ he replied, giving the trademark grin that had lit the screen for the last forty years. ‘But if you’re driving across the border, I’m gonna need four bucks.’

A general grumble came from the Taurus and then the driver leaned out the window, the harsh sodium lights from the tollbooth making his skin gray, almost translucent. His smoke hazed eyes were a deep pink. ‘What say you just raise the barrier, old man, and let me through,’ he said, revealing gapped and nicotine-stained teeth.

‘Sorry, I can’t do that,’ Jack replied calmly. ‘It’s against the law, and I could lose my job.’

There was a quick movement, and a short, dull knife blade flashed in the drivers hand. ‘Better your job than your eyes, Granddad. Now raise the Goddamn barrier.’

Jack wasn’t shocked at the sudden threat. Work the midnight express for long enough and you saw the spectrum of human behaviour. He didn’t rush, didn’t change his expression, just reached down below the counter and bought the shotgun up and into position in one easy movement. The barrels had long ago been sawn off and the walnut stock fitted comfortably into his hand. He pulled back the cocks with his thumb and with his freehand carefully removed his sunglasses. ‘Four dollars.’ Behind him he heard Polanski sigh.

The knife disappeared, and Jack saw the whites of the drivers eyes, his trembling hands raised. ’Okay man, be cool. Be cool. I was just playin’ with you.’

Jack grinned, kept the gun raised. ‘That’s what I thought. Now pay or be on your way.’

The driver slotted the gear into reverse, his hands tight on the wheel, but before the car moved the passenger peered out the window, stretching across the driver. He was middle-aged, lank hair and equally stoned. ‘Hey, ain’t you the dude used to be in movies?’

Nicholson slid the dark glasses back onto his face. ‘Yeah, used to be. Now I’m just the guy who’s gonna fuck you up if you don’t turn around.’ He paused. ‘Now move.’

The Taurus backed quickly, tyres squealing, virtually spun on it axis and ground gears as it returned to the highway and headed back into Indiana. Jack watched for a few moments before sliding the weapon back into it’s leather holster and returning to his position on the stool. He felt good, felt the adrenaline in his muscles. Polanski looked at him with amusement.

‘What?’ said Jack, knowing full well.

‘Don’t you think you’re getting a little too old for this cowboy act, my friend?’

‘Hey, I’ve still got the moves, Roman. I’m still here.’

Polanski smiled and gave his head a small nod, reached for a well-used pack of cards on the shelf behind him and snapped the deck between his tanned fingers, started dealing. ‘We both are my brother. We both are. Let’s just stay alive long enough to enjoy it…’


(c) 2010 Rich Wilson

The Old Boys

A continuing and occasional series of short pieces featuring legends who have slipped into an alternative universe. This time - Quentin Tarantino in Nativity Massacre…

The child was maybe seven years old, dressed in a sheet with a messy crop of blonde hair and tears dribbling down his flushed cheeks. Other boys and girls stood around him on the bare stage, their eyes wide and their mouths open as the tall man in black paced back and forth, his arms wide and fingers spread as words spat themselves from his mouth at intense volume. Most of the words the children didn’t understand, but a few of the older ones knew they were words they would be punished for saying themselves. Swearing was very wrong.

‘Eleven times I’ve told you to walk across to the door and knock loudly,’ said the man, now standing with his hands on his hips and levelling his cold stare at Charlie, who was now shaking as well as crying. ‘Eleven fucking times! How hard can it be, really? Please, tell me?’

‘I, I, I duh-duh-duh-duh don’t kn-kn-’

‘Let me tell you something, Son, I had a crowd of Chinese extras on set at the Shaw Brothers who could take direction better than you, than all of you, and the only English they knew were the words for money and beer.’ The man stopped and sighed. ‘I assume you all understand what I’m saying?’

None of the children answered, just looked past the man to the sound of the gymnasium door closing, and the relief on many of their faces was obvious as heels clicked across the wooden floor towards them. Charlie ran his sheeted sleeve across his face and left a streak of tears and snot on the cotton. The man span around from his young cast and looked at Mrs Collins. Short and gray, plump verging on heavy, and the head of school drama. And since Miramax had pulled funding and every other studio had rejected his scripts and pitches, his direct superior.

‘Excuse me, Mr Tarantino.’

‘Yes? Can’t you see I’m working?’

‘I apologise. But do you really think this is the right way to approach this? Terrorizing the students in this manner. And I’m not sure some of this material is appropriate.’

‘What? ‘Vision’ isn’t always appropriate, Ma’am, neither is art. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t right.’

‘But I really don’t think the headmaster would approve of-’

‘Of what, exactly?’ Tarantino interrupted, pushing his cap back on his wide forehead.

Mrs Collins swallowed hard before she answered. ‘Of young Charlie Edwards calling the three wise men “motherfuckers”’.

‘Well, do you want to keep this play in the past, Mrs Collins, or make it fit for a modern audience?’

‘I can appreciate certain modern interpretations, Mr Tarantino, such as changing the stable for a drive-in motel, but I must protest over the use of the language.’

‘This is how people on the street talk, Mrs Collins.’

‘Perhaps so, but Joseph promising to penetrate the behind of the Innkeeper-, I mean, Motel Owner’s Mother is rather strong for six-to-nine year olds.’

‘It’s a strong world that we live in. People get fucked in the ass on a daily basis.’

‘Not at this school, Mr Tarantino.’

For a moment there was a standoff as they stared at one and other, their eye contact finally broken when one of the boys broke wind, perhaps with nerves. A small ripple of giggles began until Mrs Edwards silenced them with a practised stare. Tarantino took a step towards her.

‘What do you want?’ he said, his tone more controlled. ‘Tradition? Or cutting edge?’

‘What I want, Mr Tarantino, is for the parents of this establishment to buy a ticket, watch their little darlings, drink a glass of overpriced wine afterward and go home with a warm Christmas glow while the school counts the takings in the hope that we can buy new books next year. If we go down your route, we’ll have the governors rioting in the aisles and civil lawsuits bought upon us before we’ve got time to breathe.’ At this she also took a step forward, until they were almost nose to nose, and spoke in a soft voice. ‘Do we have an understanding?’

‘I’m going for lunch, I don’t need this.’

Mrs Edwards smiled as he strutted towards the doors. ‘I take it we do then? Don’t forget we have a staff meeting at one.’ She stopped, and then almost inaudibly under her breath, and purely for her own amusement, added, ’Motherfucker.’

Quentin Tarantino stepped through the doors and into bright sunlight, washing him in a wave of heat. His car was on the far side of the parking lot and he was already visualising the beer stashed beneath the seat. He started to whistle the melody to The Good, The Bad and The Ugly - that seemed to happen a lot recently. Cowboys liked guns, and a gun seemed like a very attractive prospect these days…

(c) 2010 Rich Wilson

The Old Boys

First in an occasional series of short pieces featuring legends who have slipped into an alternative universe. This week - Bob and Al in Working Blues…

The lights were low, the air heavy with the scent of incense. Smoke appeared like mist in the haze of the lamps. Pacino stretched his neck, heard the cartilage crack. ‘You really need that shit burning?’ he grumbled.

‘Yeah, I do. It helps me get in the zone, and I don’t see it disturbing you.’

‘You used to get in the zone with a pint of scotch. What the fuck happened to you, Bob?’ Pacino winced as he tweezed another hair from his nostril. ‘In fact, what the fuck happened to both of us?’

De Niro shrugged, stared at his aging profile lit by the bulbs around the greasy mirror, could just about remember how good he used to look. ‘A new breed came along my friend. Young and easy, without all the drugs and the baggage. Without the status of legends.’

‘Yeah? Well I liked being a legend,’ Pacino said. ‘What I don’t like is plucking hairs, sniffing your hippy sticks and sitting here in my own sweat.’ He sighed and rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. ‘You heard back from Marty lately?’

‘I leave messages, but he doesn’t return my calls,’ De Niro replied, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. ‘Too interested in that kid DiCaprio these days.’

‘Fucking loser. I’ve seen no talent in that pretty little shit. And as for Scorcese, what the hell has he done recently? I saw Shutter Island, and it was no Goodfellas, let me tell ya.’

De Niro span around on his stool, the heavy woollen leggings he wore crackling with static. ‘Maybe not. But it wasn’t Rocky And Bullwinkle. And correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you grace the screen in Gigli?’

‘Oh, fuck you.’

‘Al, let’s face it, we took some wrong turns, made some bad choices. At least we’re still working.’

Pacino didn’t answer, just ran black panstick around his eyes and struggled his skinny frame into the thick brown vest that matched the leggings worn by his friend. Both of them stood together, and Pacino scooped up the horse head that lay in the corner, it’s empty eye sockets mocking him. In a few moments he knew his own manic stare would be filling those dark holes. He looked at De Niro for a moment, and in unison they picked up the .45’s from the dresser. There was nothing more to say, only actions to be taken.

A knock on the door, and a moment later a young, blonde man pushed his head around the frame. ‘Two minutes and we’re on, Gents,’ he said, his voice high and grating. ‘If we can just-’ He stopped and shook his head. ‘Jesus, how many times do I have to say it. No guns. This is a family pantomime.’

‘Sorry,’ De Niro said, and they both returned the replicas to the dresser. ‘It’s a hard habit to break, y’know. Right, Al?’ Pacino didn’t speak, just kept his eyes toward the floor.

‘Okay, okay,’ said the runner. ‘Just put your bloody hooves on and let’s move.’

Pacino waited until he’d gone and then slipped the horse head over his own, glad that the tears in his eyes were shielded from his colleague. Behind him he felt Bob grab onto his hips, bend over into a ninety-degree angle, and heard his muffled voice telling him to go. At least he had the head tonight, he didn’t think he could handle being the ass, not the way he was feeling. They fumbled their way out of the tiny dressing room and moved up the corridor, hooves beating a slow and sad melody against the tiles as they headed toward the stage…


(c) 2010 Rich Wilson

Sparkline

The idea is to write a piece of work in no more than 100 words. Not only is it nice to throw out snippets of fiction, it's a good way to syphon off some of the brain sludge in between bigger projects. Offering this week - Sleaze Blues.

“Let me tell you something,” said Johnson. “A while ago I took this here guitar down to a crossroads at midnight. I gave up my savings, they didn’t amount to much, and the Devil stood before me and retuned my strings. The moon came out and Satan disappeared. And after that I couldn’t just play the guitar anymore. I could play like a God, like I had an extra set of hands.” The promoter swallowed hard and took a step back. Johnson stared at him. “And you want me to play show tunes? Brother, you can kiss my fucking ass…”

Sparkline: Ideas Under 100 Words

The idea is to write a piece of fiction in no more than 100 words. Warren Ellis calls it Sparkline, and so far I haven't seen a better description for it. And it's a good way to syphon off some of the brain sludge in between bigger projects. This is my latest effort - Octopus's Garden.

She hadn’t seen him in ten years, but that didn’t stop her annual walk down to the front on the twenty-fifth of every June in the hope that he might appear in the surf. His last words had been haunting: “I could drown in your eyes.” Then they had kissed with passion, ignoring the passers-by who watched them with a strange mix of revulsion and envy. He had removed his clothes and walked into the water, and her tears had flowed. In the last decade she’d taken other lovers, but nothing had ever come close to her beautiful, twisted Merman...

10 Thoughts From Navarone

Thinking that having the six pins and the plate pulled out of my ankle would have me back skipping around like Usain Bolt on speed within 24 hours is possibly the most misguided thought I’ve ever had.

Seven episodes of Lost left. Still no idea what’s really going on, and as time progresses, I’m fairly sure the writers don’t either. Still, it was fun while it lasted.

Jimmy Page’s guitar riff on Led Zeppelin’s In My Time Of Dying is pretty much the most perfect thing I’ve ever heard. Watching Page, The Edge and Jack White jam to this classic in It Might Get Loud just brightens my day every single time.



Writing is a frustrating, un-rewarding, depressing and lonely occupation. But when I’m on it, and I mean really on it, nothing makes me happier.

I have an awful lot of man-love for Jason Bourne.

Eating all your Easter Eggs as quickly as possible so you can’t see the mountain of chocolate any more will not stop the guilt. Especially when the cocoa smudges on your shirt are a constant reminder of what a greedy bastard you’ve been.

Why must they now release all the old classics on Blu-Ray? I’m broke, but that HD version of Lucio Fulci’s City Of The Living Dead is a must-have.

My PornStar T-shirt needs to go in the bin, because (a) it’s now so old and I can’t really tell where the holes end and the sleeves start, and (b) it’s blatant false advertising. Ask my wife. It’s more PornHope than PornStar.

I have a dream about taking my family and running away to somewhere remote, idyllic and peaceful, with long days filled with golden sun and nights dreaming beneath the stars. And as I get older, I realise that I must give it my all to make that dream a reality.

Repeatedly watching the trailer for Scott Pilgrim Vs The World will not make the August 6th release date come any faster.



I try and I try, yet still cannot find any Brain Salt on the shelves at Boots. If I could just take a spoon a day… Think how amazing my thought processes would be.

Alternative Futures

2011: War breaks out across all Middle-Eastern Nations
2012: United States and NATO attempt to restore order to chaos. 37,000 innocent Isreali citizens die within the first week.
2013: Al-Qaeda mark the anniversary of the World Trade Center attack by flying a
commercial airliner into the Empire State Building. Rioting ensues across Northern America,
and a state of marshall law is declared.
2014: Following a series of devastating hurricanes across the South, The United States of America returns to a country of civil war not seen since 1865.
2015: World trade and industry ceases. Oil production halts. Telecommunication systems and the internet collapse. During a call for peace and security from the Vatican, the Pope is assassinated before millions, plunging the Catholic church into despair.
2016: Pakistan launches a series of nuclear warheads into India, killing millions. China, now
the global force behind world order, respond with strikes against the Pakistani people. The
Indian continent is devasted and uninhabitable. Water and power cease in Europe. There is a
breakdown of government and basic resources across the First World. Bodies in the street
cause widespread disease. A gathering of seventy million people in Malaysia declare
Osama Bin Laden to be the new messiah.
2017: An Alien Spacecraft lands in the Mojave Desert…

I’ll leave it to you to imagine what happens next. You find me in a somber and blackened mood, but with the exception of the last line I don’t see why the above couldn’t happen. Have you seen the news recently? We’re just a couple of decisions, another earthquake, another rebel faction away from fiction turning to fact…

Department of Shameless Self-Promotion

So my wife has truly put me to shame this weekend. With only 35 weeks to go until she undertakes a complex six hour medical exam which she will only pass with a score of 90% or higher she has thrown herself into revision and study in the way she does everything - total commitment. Our dining table is strewn with medical texts and muscle charts and eye-watering genital descriptions while she has written page after page of detailed notes. She’s been working for hours - good, solid grafting, and I am in no doubt that come the 29th September she will hit the pass mark and become a fully qualified Accredited Clinical Coder, a job that most of you couldn’t even fathom and even less could do. As Thomas Dolby once said, she blinded me with science.

I, on the other hand, have written nothing this weekend except for these words.

And really, it’s not for wanting. I’m just struggling with the whole process. The Lost Weekend is really, genuinely about three-quarters complete. I’ve just thrown myself over the 95,000 word mark and that is a decent novel length, maybe 350 pages in general book-sized terms. I’m not the sort who limit’s a word count - I believe that the story takes itself from beginning to end and however long that takes it how long it is, but I have written a book amount of material and really don’t need to write much more. I know where it’s going, and I’m satisfied we’ll get there…

But, Jesus Christ, the getting there is, just recently, taking some doing.

Writers talk about writing out of love for the work, and I guess that is the main reason for doing it. But most of the time I don’t love writing. I tolerate it at best, and hate it at worst, but the fact of the matter is I can’t not do it. It took me a long time to actually figure out what I wanted to do with my life, but that realisation has bought me a huge amount of frustration and virtually no reward. And no, I’m not talking about reward in a financial sense, because we all know that there is very little money in fiction, especially not for unknowns such as myself. About ten to fifteen years ago there were some huge advances being handed out for first-timers with their dog-eared manuscripts, but too many publishing houses got burnt by handing out three book deals and only receiving one novel, so editors got wise and shut their wallets. And then, of course, J.K.Rowling turned up with her teenage wizard and sucked up most of the money on the planet.

So, no money. Surely then there must be some form of accolade, some form of praise? Don’t bank on it. Most people can’t even be bothered to read what you write, let alone comment on it in a positive/negative fashion. I have two critics in my life who will always tell me the truth when it comes to what I do. The first is my Wife, who I trust absolutely to tell me exactly what she thinks. She’ll do this with every aspect of my life, and I know my fiction is no different. If she thinks it sucks, she’ll tell me, and I thank her for that because every author needs someone who bring them back down to the ground with a bump and let them know they’re just a hack. Hannah is also my ideal reader, and what I mean by that is she is the person I imagine enjoying the story while I’m writing it. If I’m describing a scene, or writing dialogue, it’s her that I hope will enjoy it. The other top critic is my Father, who is always enthusiastic for my work and will always grumble if I’m not doing it right. But pretty much everyone else who reads my stuff? I’m lucky to get a nod of recognition - most of them can’t even be bothered with it (I don’t need to name names but you damn well know who you are). Truth of the matter is that most people haven’t got the time or the inclination to read successful authors with proven track records, so what chance the amateur with dreams of success?

So what does that leave? Not a lot really, because it’s not even a profession or hobby you can share with other people. Writing is a solitary business that alienates you from friends and family for hours at a time, frequently causes headaches and stress, is often frustrating and gives you a permanent crease in your brow. I find myself ignoring the kids, not spending enough quality time with my wife, lying awake in the middle of the night with my imagined conversations running around my head. Not being able to write, just like now, and banging my head in frustration because I want to, I want to, I want to. There is absolutely nothing to recommend it.

But here I am, tapping keys on the laptop again out of some kind of wanting, I guess you would call it an obsession. And I am obsessed, because I have experienced the moments. I don’t know what you call it - muse, mojo, creative juices - but when it happens it’s like the first time you see the ocean on a car journey to the coast, or that first beer after a long day of work under the hot sun, or the first time you kiss someone you care about. If you write for long enough a moment will come. It might be at 2.45am when your back is aching and your eyes are streaming after hours hunched over your screen, but suddenly the words start to flow smoothly, your characters start to breathe independently, and as the writer you’re just along for the ride, surprised at what just happened because the work has taken on a life of it’s own…That for me is what makes it all worthwhile, and I guess that what the love of writing is all about. So now I think I’m going to rub myself up against Hannah (no need to cover your eyes, the pants are staying on), get myself some of her energy, and get back to it. Love or hate, it’s what it is, and it’s what I do.