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.

A Fool in the Rain 

My eye’s slowly open as I’m awoken by the feeling of heavy, ice cold rain on my face and the sound of Led Zeppelin playing on a radio from somewhere nearby. To say the feeling of the rain is a nice distraction would be massively understating the point. As I sit up in the middle of this cold muddy road I’m becoming more and more aware of that familiar hung-over feeling that I’m sure you know just as well as I do. I don’t mean that morning after, almost kind of nice, hung-over you hear people complaining about when they’re still a little bit drunk, I mean the kind where even talking seems like a painfully arduous task, and that’s saying a lot for a guy like me – love the sound of my own voice, but then, do you want to show me someone who doesn’t?

Looking around, there’s not much here. About 200 yards ahead on the left, there’s a petrol station, it looks cheap. Two derelict cars on bricks rather than wheels are outside it and only one of the pumps seems to be working. I can just picture the guy behind the desk in there - Two Hundred pounds with a ridiculously receding hairline and forty cigarettes a day smoking habit he’s had since he was twelve. Odds are also in favour of him having an unkempt beard and a stained vest. Never understood blokes who have either, when does a guy wake up and think “You know what, I’m going to start looking in-bred and repulsive to all other forms of life today” but I suppose I’m giving them too much credit to suggest there’s actually any thought involved. But I digress, I’m supposed to be describing where I am, really shitty as a narrator aren’t I?

So yeah, on the right about three hundred yards up from hick’s petrol station, as I’m now going to call it, is a bar. One of those straight out of a western ones, probably would still have one of those double two way swinging doors that I can never remember the name of if it wasn’t for all this bloody rain. There’s an eighteen wheeler freight truck parked outside so I’m guessing they’re open for breakfast. Okay, so science of deduction tells me I’m in America somewhere, guessing quite southern, I’m thinking Texas, if I got shot at in the next ten minutes I’ll know I’m right. I want to avoid life threatening stuff for the moment though, had enough of that last few weeks, so I figure I can tell you exactly where I am once I’ve talked to the Hick as I can guarantee you he’ll have the broadest accent you could imagine…actually scratch that, I don’t know you, you might have a very vivid imagination, who am I to judge…so the broadest accent I can imagine. I’m also going to assume it’s a remote area as I’ve been lying unconscious in a road and am still alive to be telling you this. Yes well done you who’s now made the deduction that this is not one of those tales with a “He’s been dead all along!!!” twists at the end that never really make any sense and makes the whole story seem a bit of a cheat.

For those seven of you curious as to what I look like - I’m 34, I’ve got sandy blond hair, grey eyes, pale skin, eight scars (which I’ll get back to later), have a strong English accent (just in case any idiot hadn’t guessed by the language I’m using) am wearing a (now) rain soaked long jacket with a t-shit, faded jeans and equally faded black boots. Also I like long walks in the rain, playing cards and pool, making deals with monsters and… Sorry, I’m digressing again.

So where was I? Oh yeah, just woken up in Hicksville, US. I’m sitting in the middle of a soaking wet road with a splitting head ache and muscles in burning pain from head to toe. I check my watch. It’s 2 in the afternoon according to my watch making it about 9 in the morning where I am now. Looking between the two options presented to me I figure the bar is the best way to go, I can get a drink (not that I need one after being in the rain for probably hours) and something to eat then can hitch a lift to the nearest down from the trucker in there who’s stopped for his breakfast. Once I’ve done that I can…no wait a second…I’ve just realised this is probably making no sense to you. You need context. Told you I was a shitty narrator. I’d tell you everything from the beginning but, that’s not really the story I want to tell so I’ll just skip to when things get relevant to my present situation.

I have an old friend, David Pope, who everyone these days calls Benedict because… well you can guess. I’ve known Benedict since…well I can’t remember exactly when, never felt the need to memorise exact dates, the point is, he’s an old friend, the most trustworthy friend I have. One day I get a phone call, telling me I had to go visit him, because there was a problem he needed my helpful self to come and fix. Now I’m not one to say no to a friend but you see when I said he was the most trustworthy friend I had, it was relative. Benedict was in Black Gate Maximum security prison and had been for the last seven years for 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, and that’s just what they could provide evidence for, I’d be here for three pages listing his suspected crimes. So when Benedict phoned up asking for help with something, I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be moving furniture.

“Thanks for coming” He greeted me with gravelly tones and the warm smile you’d expect from a crime boss and mass murderer when greeting an old friend. If you’re wondering what Benedict looks like, think Edward James Olmos but with his hair gone white and you’re pretty much there. For some reason his dark blue prison jump suit adds to the likeness.

“Hey, a friend calls, I come running. Also I really enjoy the pat downs I get every time I come in here.” I sat down in the chair opposite him horribly aware of all the other felons and felons’ guests watching us. Pretty sure Benedict only gets work related visits.

“You don't change do you, don’t last five seconds into a conversation without sarcasm coming into it.”

I’d try and deny this statement to you but there are some lies that are just too big. Doesn’t stop me denying it to him.

“That’s not true, I only get sarcastic when I see my life flashing before my eyes or when asked stupid questions.” The second half of that statement is true.

“So how’s the wife and kids?” Benedict enquired

“They’re good, still non-existent.” I replied

“Oh, who is it that has the wife?”

“That’d be Carter.”

“Oh, Could’ve sworn it was you.”

“Nope, it’s Carter.”

“Oh right.”

“Yeah.”

“Shall I skip the pleasantries and get to the point.”

“Please god.”

His usually deceptively kindly face quickly turned cold and grave, and he gave me a look that told me that what he was about to tell me was no joking matter

“I fear it is not God that has caused me to ask for your help. I have a problem that I worry falls into your…specialist field.”

“…and what field would that be. I’m a very talented bloke after all.”

He paused for a long while. I’ll admit my attempt about being glib was inappropriate

“The people around me, both convicts and guards, are being killed off one by one.”

“You’re in a high security prison, I’m sure in this room alone I can point out four people who could be doing it.” I indicated to the people around us. The guy behind me shot me a filthy look at my suggestion. I didn’t overly care. Benedict shook his head.

“These murders are brutal, far too brutal for a human. What’s more three of them have taken place whilst the victims where in solitary confinement, no way in and no way out without a key.” I could see where he was going with this, and as much as I didn’t want to agree with Benedict I knew the deduction about to come out of his mouth was probably true.

“I think they’re being killed by something supernatural, and that means you’re the only one who can help me.”

I hate it when people say that.