You might think by the lateness off this post that I don't like deadlines but the truth is I love deadlines! It's that whooshing noise they make as they fly by.




That's a quote from Douglas Adams if you're interested.




Anyway I'm going to start a little differently this week, rather than just cracking on with the story I'm first going to direct you to Neil Gaiman's 8 Rules of Writing, as he was the primary influence in this story.

http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/09/28/neil-gaiman-8-rules-of-writing/







Anywhooooo, now you've read that I shall continue.




Now I think about it its probably more likely I was thrown on the floor of a cell in solitary confinement, as that's where I woke up. I could hear the disant sounds of yelling prisoners, don't know what they where yelling about, probably football, it's what blokes normally yell about when they're in a large group. I don't, I've always preferred solo activities myself. Sorry that's irrelevant, point is, I'm quite a long way from the cells of general population. It was a very dull room, with cold grey walls that stare back at me and a large, imposing, black iron door. The only other thing is a glorified bucket I'm to use as a toilet and a wooden bench with a mattress on it for my bed. Nothing really of note so I take to thinking about how I got here, the faces of all the people who led me here and how selfish and self obsessed people are. I then chuckled to myself at the irony of that remark. I was sitting in a cell selfishly self obsessing about how people being selfish and self obsessed had got me there just in case you missed the irony.

Sorry, underestimating your intelligence again there. That, if I'm honest to myself, is how I actually got here, making the mistake that many intelligent people make, assuming that everyone else is stupid. Oddly, a broken nose, a migraine and the 7 foot square cell I found myself in didn't teach me the error of my ways on that front like they should have. I pull out the deck of cards I swiped from the giant when I knocked him to the ground, and sit and play solitaire. I finish my first game in 3 minutes (I told you I preferred solo activities) so restart, shuffling the cards for a solid fifteen minutes before I do. Truth is, I don't know what to tell you this moment in my life, it's not overly interesting, all I really did was play cards and have brief chats to the guard who brought me my meals three times a day. This being solitary it was another 3 days before I saw anyone who wasn't the guard, so I'll just jump to there.

I was awoken by the yells of a man being dragged down the corridor. He was doing it loudly, which annoyed me at the time because the clock in the corridor said it was in the morning, but more importantly, it annoyed me because I really like my sleep. Only time I'm not getting annoyed at something.

“No, please, you can't lock me in there!” His voice was croakey, he must've been yelling for a while.

“The governor doesn't want you riling up the other prisoners, and you're yelling is doing just that.” The guard clearly doesn't care

“But it's coming for me!”

“oh yeah, the man made of smoke is coming to kill you.”

I got up from the bed and walked to the door. This was either a lead or a nutjob. Either way I was garunteed an interesting conversation. The door of the other mans cell slammed shut but he continued to talk to the guard, despite how indifferent the guard seemed.

“No he wasn't mde of smoke, he came into the room as smoke then turned into a man when he was in my cell. He started to suffocate me, but when my celly turned on the light he'd disapeared. Please if you leave me in here he's gonna kill me!”

The guard had clearly gone. The potential nutter just didn't realise it.

“I'm pretty sure he's gone dude”. I called out from my cell.

“I don't blame him, I think I sound crazy.” There was a clear note of defeat in his voice.

“Don't knock crazy, crazy is Ringo Star being a household name whilst John Bonham is resigned to the realms of pub quiz answers.” I heard him laugh. Good. People are easier to interrogate if they think you're on their side. I continued on. “So this smoke...thing, when it tried to kill you did you notice anything else? Drop in temperature? Strange sounds?”

“Not that I can think of, why?”

“Just asking?”

“Who just asks questions like that?”

“I do!”

“It's an odd thing to ask”

“What can I say, I'm an odd guy. I'm in here because I stopped to gloat. Should've learnt not to do that at my age, so this monster?”

"Is that what we're calling it?"  He replied in an offhand manner.

Yeah. That's definitly what we're going to call it.

It's been a week, and so the story continues,






Jimmy Ryegate was never what you’d call popular, but then you would hardly label him unpopular either. Labels weren’t something you could put on Jimmy without the fear of getting a brick through your window. Jimmy was essentially your average piece of white trash, the sort you see on those mid-morning talk shows with the tag line “Should I get back with the cheat who was the father of my third child?” Only instead of spending his life claiming job seekers and incapacity benefit despite having nothing wrong with him, Jimmy lived in a large estate in Washington with his father and second (or was it third, I can’t remember) step-mother. You see, Jimmy’s full name was James Anthony Ryegate II, son of Sir James Ryegate, owner of a large multinational conglomerate famous for making florescent ink. They did other, less moral, stuff too, stuff involving weapons, pharmaceuticals etc. etc. but that’s not really relevant. I’m only telling you because I thought there was a chance you’d get confused as to how the owner of an ink making company could afford a large estate in the US capital or indeed have three wives to go with the three chins hiding his neck. Anyway back to Jimmy.

On the evening of July 21st, Jimmy was out doing what all white trash twenty five year old boys do. Sitting with equally inbred looking friends drinking cheap boos and talking about “Hitting that!” every time even a moderately attractive woman walked by. He was a large disappointment to his dad, who had built himself up from nothing. From Liverpool council estate to Washington in 23 short years. Jimmy, now past the age his father was when he had established his empire, had no such aspirations. A lonely and unloving child hood with anything he ever asked for had made Jimmy a more dark and dangerous creature than I’d encountered. There were rumours of rape and assault, but nothing ever proven. Money talks when people won’t. Jimmy was content to take whoever and whatever he wanted when he wanted it, with the safe knowledge that his father had made him infallible, and on this particular evening Jimmy was making the most of his infallibility. Jimmy and his chums had, by nine o'clock, stolen a car and sped round the neighbourhood in it terrorising anyone unfortunate enough to be out before driving the car in the pond in the local park. They had then looted an off-licence, during which Jimmy didn't even where a mask, so sure was he of his fathers ability to pay off the right people. The group where enjoying the spoils of this particular venture when they where approached by the most terrifying man they knew: Sir James Ryegate.

“Gentlemen, May I have a word with my son in private?” He spoke surprisingly quietly for a man of his size. Jimmy's friends just looked confused, I don't think anyone's ever called them gentlemen before so they didn't realise Sir James was talking to them.

“He means you twats.” said Jimmy. His friends scampered away like most rats do. “What do you want James?”

“You will call me father or Sir, no-one is allowed to use my Christian name, as you well know.” The quietness in his voice didn't hide the menace very well. His son's sarcasm was equally well hidden.

“Sorry, What do you want...father.” Jimmy's lip was curled, showing the clear revulsion he had for his father. His father suddenly smiled and relaxed. He began pacing around his son, possibly just for dramatic effect, as he began to talk.

“What do I want? That is a very big question James, One I have been asking myself all my life. The honest answer is...actually, I really don't have time for this. I'd love to give you the full speech about power and legacy and all that nonsense but I've never been one for monologuing and, honestly, you just aren't worth it.” And with that James plunged the dagger he'd been so carefully concealing into his sons chest. A light emanated from the gaping wound, a light so bright that James had to turn his eyes away. As the light began to fade the knife grew white hot and Sir James yelled in pain before his body dropped to the ground, completely lifeless. What had previously been Jimmy Ryegate gazed in awe at the body on the ground and then at his own hands. He pulled the knife from his chest and the wound immediately healed over. Jimmy stared emotionless at the knife then spoke in a voice far more refined than what had gone before

“Most interesting.” He said, then disappeared into the dark.

*****

As the gate to the cell block clattered open I asked myself, for about the eighteenth time that hour, what the hell I was doing this for, this is quite clearly one of those situations that's going to involve me being beaten up at some point. I answered my question by repeating Benedict's crimes over and over again in my head; Thirteen counts of bribery, eleven counts of murder, thirty-one counts of conspiracy to murder, eighteen counts of organised crime, twenty-one counts of drug trafficking, twelve counts of people trafficking and three unpaid speeding tickets. Don't know why I was repeating the speeding ticket bit, its not exactly relevant, but I found it comforting for some reason.

As I heard the gate close behind me I gazed around the cell block. It was exactly how I imagined, railed walkways, bridges rising high above the stone floor, cell doors from floor to ceiling, the prisoners a sea of blue jump suits. I was a rarity in here in that I had hair, everyone else seemed to have a shaved head. Most of these people weren't even remotely interested in my arrival but there was one bloke in the middle of the ground floor. He was twice my size in every direction, though looking at that with hindsight I may be exaggerating slightly. He was an unhealthy grey colour and his skin was sagging in odd places in the left side of his face, burn scars maybe?

“Are you looking at me?”

Wow, seven seconds before that cliché turned up. Benedict owed me fifteen quid.

“Only in passing mate” I replied. Why was I being glib with this guy? He looked like he could crush me with one hand! The man stormed up to me so we where face to face, or at least we would've been if he didn't dwarf me so horrendously.

“Perhaps you and me should talk about it in more detail” He had a broad Scottish accent and his voice as a very low baritone.

“Well you are a handsome chap but I don't swing that way” What was I doing? Does my subconscious have a death wish? I pushed passed him, patting him on his huge arm as I did and started to make my way towards the stairs. At that moment I felt a heavy blow to the back of my head, knocking me to the floor and making it impossible for me to focus on anything. My possessions, which I had been carrying (obviously) fell in a crumpled pile on my left. As my vision began to come back, and the man's heavy baritone laughter was ringing in my ears, I reached only for my towel – this guy might have been twice my size but that didn't mean I couldn't take him down, mind over matter and all that. Yes, I'm aware I just made a massive assumption and generalisation in assuming this guy wasn't as smart as he was large, but I was right, so no harm done.

Well...no harm to me anyway.

“Dude you are just a walking gargantuan of cliché's aren't you?” I yelled up from the floor. I stood up, wrapping one end of the towel round my hand as I did. “First we have Travis Bickle and now you're the usual prison thug number 4” I affected his accent, “mummy didn't give me enough hugs as a child so now I can only communicate with senseless violence” I switched back to my own accent “and then the whole imposing thing you got going on where you feel you need to emphasise how tall and heavy you are, well that's just typical over compensation”

Yes, I do have a death-wish, but I'll get back to that.

The enormous man bore down on me in seconds. Just as he was about to reach me, I whipped the towel at his eyes, stunning him, allowing me to drop down and to the left. I shot my leg out tripping the man up sending him tumbling to the ground. I stood up rapidly and delivered a sharp blow to the side of his head with my foot. He was on the floor unconscious. I turned to face the crowd that had gathered around us.

“Anybody else want to take a...”

and that's the last thing I remember saying before I felt two sharp prongs in my back and a shock permeate through me. Its a bit of a blur after that - a series of prison guard uniforms, lights whizzing past, the smell of coffee and, bizarrely, Here we go again by Whitesnake. Then a cold stone floor came up to me hitting me squarely in the face knocking me unconscious.

Hello dear reader...

That was pretentious, I'll start again.

Greetings friend.

No that was patronizing.

I'll just get on with it. It was recently recomended to me that I start a blog, an idea I resisted at first as I have nothing overly worth blogging about and there is nothing more dull than some young upstart blogging about a life where ABSOLUTLY NOTHING HAPPENS. If i wanted that I'd join my other half in watching The Real Housewives of wherever. I'm rambling, point is - I had nothing to blog about, so instead I am going to write a story the way Neil Gaiman wrote his seminal novel American Gods (if you haven't read it go do it now, its fantastic) namely in a somewhat free flowing style with signposts I want to get to, but I'll make up how I get there as I write. I am going to write it in installments, posting each new segment once a week or so. So without any further ado (or rambling) I present A Fool In The Rain.

and yes it is named after a Led Zeppelin song.