Pixy VI: Blog

Varna watched the fleet of cargo haulers approach across the landing pad apron. She adjusted the view from the outside camera to follow the vehicles on her slate as she spooned another dollop of breakfast into her mouth. The haulers were unmarked of logo and as soon as they stopped in front of her open cargo hold, personnel leapt out and started to offload shipping crates. She recognised Livabord straight away as he took up position between the haulers and her ship, his head moving between a data slate of his own and the industrious offloading of the unmarked shipping crates.

Some of the crates were stacked to the side of the ramp giving access to her hold, the rest were carried on inside. Her hold was currently mostly empty and looking all the more cavernous for it. She had been instructed that all and any cargo in her hold would be checked, so she had decided the it would be more hassle than it was worth to start acquiring cargo before this particular hire. Besides, technically, they were paying for a mostly empty hold anyway. Easy money for doing absolutely nothing.

Switching the camera feed from outside to inside her hold, another familiar face, Manarax, was directing the placement of equipment cases into the hold as trestle tables were erected at the hold entrance. Varna turned up the sound, but there really wasn't much to hear, as most of the questions seemed to be conveyed by look and the answers returned by the nod of a head or pointed finger. It was strange seeing so much activity carried out without shouts, boasts and insults that seemed a feature of cargo and dock workers everywhere.

An alert chimed on her slate. An-entry request from the hatch between her hold and the stairwell to her personal quarters. Varna changed feeds. A group of women with packing boxes were patiently waiting in front of the hatch. It seemed Livabord was honouring the agreement.. Varna remotely opened the hatch and the sound of footsteps and chatting echoed up the stairwell. Varna still didn't know how she felt about this part. The woman who appeared at the far end of the corridor, appeared to be in her early thirties. The women who followed, appeared to be around the same age, or slightly younger in their very late twenties.

“Hi, Varna.” The woman smiled brightly. The smile was so infectious that Varna found the corners of her own mouth rising in turn.

“Hi.” Varna grudgingly replied.

The woman gently placed the crate she was carrying on the floor. “I'm Caoimhe.”

“That's a pretty name.”

“Awe, thanks.” Caoimhe's smile somehow managed to become wider. “Do you mind if we use your table?”

“No, go ahead.” Varna collected the instruction manuals scattered across the table’s top and piled them onto one of the kitchen area worktops instead. After she placed the last thick tome, Varna slipped her slate into a pocket and removed her mug from its spot on the table, taking a sip.

There was a sharp 'snap' of releasing clasps from the box on the floor and Caoimhe lifted out a sheet of ballistic cloth, which she spread out over the table. She followed the cloth with a mechanical keyboard. “That's Laoise.” She pointed to one of the girls.

Laoise nodded her head, placed her crate down and headed back to the stars.

Caoimhe continued the introductions. “Sadb.”

Sadb placed her crate on the floor and waved. “Hi” she said with a cheerful smile before she followed Laoise back to the top of the stairtwell.

“Hi Varna, I'm Medb.”

“Hi Medb.”

“I love your ship!”

“Umm. Thanks Medb.”

The 'snap' of more clasps being released, echoed around the living area.

“You need a hand Caoimhe?”

“Nah, I'm good, thanks Medb.” Caoimhe removed several screens from their protective foam enclosures and placed them upon the table, along with several piles of cable.

“That's a bit archaic.” Varna observed, pointing at the piles of cable.

“It is, but it's reliable, and reliability is more important to me than being technologically advanced. Is it okay to use your ship’s power? I can run a cable from outside if you prefer?”

“Hi Varna. I'm Caoilfhionn.” Another equipment crate was placed on the floor.

“Uh, hi. Err, no you can use the ship’s power.” Caoimhe looked around for a power socket. “If you need more, one will appear overnight, no doubt.” Caoimhe shot her a confused look, but Varna was looking elsewhere and didn't notice.

The equipment was fairly pilling up on her table and the bustle of activity was unexpectedly starting to grate. Varna rinsed out her breakfast bowl, leaving it upside down next to the sink and retreated to the cockpit, swivelling the seat around so she could keep an eye on the comings and goings down the corridor.

Medb, holding what appeared to be several dress carriers, shouted out down the distance between them. “We can use these empty rooms?”

“Yeah.” Varna grumbled, starting to regret allowing the invasion to her personal space. They sure were bringing up a lot of stuff. Varna swivelled back to her console and activated the main cockpit screen and surfed the outside camera feeds and the camera feeds in her hold. Several men wearing headsets and holding antennas were slowly walking down the length of her cargo bay. A security checkpoint had been created outside the hold doors, but no-one seemed to be manning it or checking the comings and goings.

“Varna?”

Varna turned round. One of the women was standing in the hatchway, holding a bright yellow… thing.

“Yes?”

“I need to fit the breech block on your rifle. Varna placed her almost empty mug in its little holder at the side of her chair and pushed herself upright. The woman, Varna had already forgotten her name, retreated and stopped next to the rifle. Varna easily pulled it off the wall mount and handed it to her.
The woman checked it over in an easy, professional manner.

“Nice piece. What's it like to fire?”

“Umm, not sure, never really fired it.”

“Oh,” The women seemed to be a little crestfallen, as she slipped the yellow thing into Varna's rifle. The device beeped and the woman pulled her slate out and took a picture “Livy - Livabord, my boss, wants proof.” She shrugged apologetically as she handed the rifle back to Varna, who simply nodded, asshe returned her rifle to its wall mount.

“I like your armour. You must get into some scrapes to need that. Custom units are not cheap, I'm told.”

Varna just nodded again.

“Stop shirking Sadb, we still have Kee's shoes to get.”

Sadb caught Varna’s gaze and rolled her eyes.

“This is Control, coms check.” Varna looked over to Caoimhe, who had donned a head set and was currently scribbling on a physical notepad to her side. “Roger that Alpha. I can confirm visual feeds and systems are green. Control out.” Caoimhe looked up from her notepad scribbling “Medb?”

“Yo!”

Caoimhe pointed to the power cable running from the wall, over the floor and up to the table. “Can you pick up a floor matt, when you go down, to cover that cable?”

“Sure! On it!”

“Cheers.”

They had wanted the hatch open to her bridge at all times, but they hadn't said anything about her room, so Varna retreated there and shut the door on all the activity.

*****

Later on in the afternoon, the Anya alerted her to the approach of several freight vehicles. They pulled up alongside her cargo bay and Varna zoomed in. It was the riggers from Murchadh’s opera company. A queue quickly formed at the security point which us now staffed and there seemed to be a lot of angry gesticulating going on. Not her problem. She turned the feed off.

*****

The riggers worked throughout the night and Varna was surprised yet again by how quickly they could transform her hold. Brand new seats, still with their factory protective covers on, were all neatly lined up in front of the newly assembled stage, a complicated lighting rig suspended above it. Behind the neat row of chairs, large circular tables with pristine white table cloths were laid out with symmetrically placed cutlery and plates, all covered by thin gauze dust sheets. A bar had also appeared. Already fully stocked.

Not thinking and out of habit, she opened her door and padded out barefoot, yawing, as she did so. The woman, Varna couldn't remember her name, though Caoimhe had introduced her as her back to back, looked up from the screens on the table.

“Morning Varna.”

“Morning.” Varna thought about turning around and heading back into her room in order to put a ship suit on over her underwear. Discarded it as being pointless now. She poured herself some breakfast and pulled out her prodigious pill box. “Do you want a drink?” Varna asked the woman.

“Sure!”

“What do you want?”

“Whatever’s going that is hot and has enough caffeine to jump start a dead horse.”

Although Varna wasn't sure what a horse was, she could work out the gist of it. “They were busy last night. In the hold.”

“It's amazing the power money has as an incentive.” The woman agreed.

Varna rummaged through her collection of drinks capsules for one of the bitter ones she disliked and set the machine going. After the last drop gurgled out, she passed the mug over to the woman, who eagerly took a sip and shivered as her taste buds complained.

“Oh perfect!” She leaned back and closed her eyes momentarily as she took another appreciative sip.

Varna slipped into one of the fixed seats around the table and carefully moved some of the equipment aside to make some room for her bowl and tablet box. The woman raised a questioning eyebrow as she watched Varna alternate spoonful’s of food with a pill. Varna didn't rise to the questioning look and the woman didn't push it. She left the orange one to last. She hated them. Varna scraped the bowl clean and looked up at the woman.

“What do you do normally?”

“Pretty much this. Just in different places, with different occasions. But still, pretty much this.”

“Oh.”

“It's a bit like yourself, taking stuff from A to B. It doesn't matter what you are carrying, it's pretty much the same thing.”

“I hadn't thought about it like that. But yeah, I suppose being a freighter captain is just the same thing repeated. Where are all the girls?”

“Sleeping. Or at least, they should be. It will be a long night.”

“So, you just watch over everything?”

“Basically. There is another unit doing the same in greater detail. I over watch all the feeds, they focus on each individual feed, bring anything of note to my attention, and I make a decision as to what to do.”

“And take all the blame if something goes wrong?”

The woman smiled ruefully. “See, you already know my job.”

“What's classed as noteworthy?”

“Anything that will mar an otherwise pleasant evening.”

“That covers a lot of things.”

“Oh it does, it does.”

“That's a lot of responsibility for one person.” Varna wasn’t sure that she would like to be in the woman’s place.

“Oh, I'm not alone. I'm just a cog in an experienced machine.”

“Where is Livabord in all this.”

“Oh, he'll be down in the thick of it, showing his face, looking as though he is chewing a wasp,” She caught Varna's confused look. “It's an obnoxious little flying shit. Watching him hating every minute of having to be polite to people he detests. It's absolutely glorious.”

“How does he make decisions, if he is down amongst it.”

The woman paused, obviously choosing her words with care. “The individual with the best grasp of the situation calls the shots.” Varna didn't understand that and it must have been obvious. “We work as a team and understand that sometimes, someone else has the solution to a particular problem. We all,” she paused “have our specialities and defer to those whose experience is the greater.”

“Sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

“Oh it is, it is, if you have the wrong individuals. Thankfully it's Livy's job to put round peg's in round holes. Looks like the musicians are arriving.”

Varna pulled out her slate. Busses were offloading individuals clutching carrying cases possessively. She sighed and stood, collecting her dish and pill box. She washed the dish and put away the pill box, before heading back to her room and donning a shipsuit and her boots. Varna didn't really want to go down, but even she knew that she had certain responsibilities as a captain. Steeling her resolve to cope with the impending unpleasantness that others termed socialising she headed off down the stairwell.

The armoured door opened at her approach and the usual and expected sight of her hold was somewhat obscured by a metal frame holding up a sheet of black cloth a couple of feet out from the hatchway. Varna stepped out and two men sitting on makeshift stools, and hidden or at least hiding, behind the black sheet, looked her way and quickly stood.

“Miss Carlson.”

They didn't salute and even though they wore waiters uniforms, it somehow wouldn't have looked out of place if they had. Varna nodded uncomfortably and spying an overlap in the 'curtain' headed towards it as the two 'waiters' sat back down again. The gap was easily traversed and when she looked back, she saw the other side of the curtain cunningly and effectively painted to look like cargo. Her hold lights were only dimly lit and, bizarrely, twinkling a little, which high up in the upper gloom, made them look like stars. Nothing to do with her and her eyes narrowed in irate perplexment.

The majority of the illumination in her hold was being provided by the additional stage lights that had been brought in. A couple of which, had been positioned on some lattice work that had been erected to either side of the hatch leading to the bridge and her private quarters. The light pointing down, blinded the sight somewhat of those looking in the hatchway's direction and put the area somewhat in shadow, conveniently obscuring the passage of anyone coming or going to her living quarters. It was too convenient to be accidental. More of the lattice work that held the lights above her living quarters entrance, held up the lighting rig above and around the stage. A couple of riggers were currently up there tweaking the beams of light shining down to the shouted instructions of someone she knew by sight, but not by name. Amongst all the shouts, came the somewhat discordant cacophony as the members of the orchestra adjusted their instruments in preparation for the night ahead. The orchestra members themselves were dressed in casual every day attire, every bit as discordant as the notes they were playing.

As usual, Murchadh was standing back, watching them, with a nervous, fraught expression on his face. Not unlike the one her mother had when she watched over her when she was doing something new or potentially dangerous. It was not a pleasant memory to have unintentionally resurfaced.

“Varna my dear!”

She knew what was coming next and even took a couple of steps back to try and avoid it. An act seemingly oblivious to Murchadh as he took the extra steps and wrapped her up in a tight hug.
Varna suffered the unwanted contact as best as she could. Which was not well at all.

“A thing of beauty. Isn't she?” He stated proudly, looking towards the stage, as he finally let her go.

Varna didn't share his enthusiasm, but then she thought the same about her ship which very few people shared, so she let it go.

“You are still not eating enough...” He gently chastised her.

Her brain had several responses ready, along the lines that he obviously ate enough for the pair of them, but she remained quiet. Some of the junior members of the choir were arriving and somewhat rescued her from Murchadh. She didn't overly dislike him. It was more a case that there was too much of him, in all senses of the phrase, for her to cope with for any length of time.

A few loitering riggers, on hand for any last minute hiccups, waved to her. She waved back. Another group of familiar faces appeared, casually sauntering in, all were all similarly laden. A bag over the shoulder, rifle over the other, body armour in one hand, combat helmets in the other. They nonchalantly walked into the darkness of her private hatch. She was a little bit stunned. She wasn't allowed to have a rifle and they looked like they were heading to a war.

It irked her and the fact that it irked her, irked her even more. Someone was speaking to her and she had totally lost the thread of the conversation.

“I'm sorry. I'm needed on the bridge.” Varna stomped her way to the darkened corner. The two men were still there, and again they stood. She ignored them and started to climb the stairs. Her joints protested and not for the first time and doubtless, not the last time, she cursed full planetary gravity.

The girls were all chatting around the table, her table. Her mugs, of her coffee, in their hands. A neat line of body armour, helmets placed on top, adorned the floor, rifles alongside, leaning against the wall with their butts on the deck and the muzzles pointing upwards, lay along one wall of the communal dining / kitchen area.

Varna opened her mouth to let forth her displeasure, then shut her mouth, thoughts unsaid. She walked past them and entered the cockpit, shutting the hatch then opening it again to stop someone from moaning about it being shut, and slumped into her seat. She was full of restless, angry energy and sitting was not helping matters in the slightest. Varna pulled the main monitor forward and accessed the camera's in the living area. There was also the feed for one of her two remotes, which she had named ‘Elaine’ in memory of one of her fellow captives, which was still parked up in the corner of the ceiling, seemingly forgotten by everyone.

All the girls were looking down, apparently studying cards spread out across the table. Varna played around with the camera settings to improve the clarity of the image. The cards almost all featured the picture of a male. Alongside, were neatly printed details. The name of the pictured individual, spouse, if any. Girlfriends, mistress. The companies they controlled. Business enemies. Personal likes and dislikes. Reading the cards felt like an invasion of privacy. Yet it was strangely intriguing to know details of who was in control of the likes of Desail Industries, a major user of independent haulers, especially in the outer rim, where morals were a little more fluid. In public at least.

He was a potential repeat customer, if she were to meet him and use the information she now knew, to strike up a conversation and guide it towards employment opportunities. It felt a little like cheating, though Varna was finding out that scruples were expensive to have in reality. All the nice things in life cost. She had a horrific, continuing, medical expense bill that was testament to the continuation of a good life.

Varna killed the camera feed and brought up a game she was currently enjoying. In it, she controlled and managed a zoo, trying to balance the bills of the animals against the income from visitors. The player could pet the animals and 'dress' them up in costumes. The level of interaction the player had with the animals, having further effects on the happiness of the animals and whether little gift boxes appeared, that when opened, revealed the existence of the young of whatever and you had managed to cross the threshold of some hidden game mechanic. There was a knock on the hatch frame. Damn, she missed not being able to shut and to lock the door. Medb popped her head in.

“Varna, do want a coffee or something?”

“No, I'm good thanks.”

She played for a bit longer and then her slate chimed. Pill time. Varna pushed the screen back, stood and headed into the kitchen area to heat up some pre-packed food. The doctors had been very insistent that the pills needed to be taken with food, otherwise she was going to damage her stomach and digestive system. There was more than enough wrong with her, that she had no desire to add to her ailments.

The conversation round the table muted and changed from the subject and subject of the cards. The cards themselves were quietly collected.

“Sadb, I want you down early, as the minor players arrive. Your operating parameters are as previously discussed.”

“I'll get ready now.”

Caoimhe’s back to back nodded and casually turned to Varna. “Have you a dress looked out?”

Varna thought of her wardrobe filled with robust ship utility suits and comfy nightwear. “I'm going as is.” The women all laughed. Laughter that awkwardly dropped off as they watched Varna's face take on a confused expression. Varna's slate chimed a reminder, which she cancelled and turned back to the shelves above the work top. Behind her the women all looked at each other with various raised eyebrows.

“Can someone give me a hand for a second?” Sadb called out from one of the spare rooms the women had taken over.

“Coming!” Caoilfhionn called out.

“Cheers Kwee.”

The low murmur of conversation re-started, interrupted by a momentary burst of laughter from Sadb in the cabin.

Varna made her meal and dished out her tablets into a little pot. She picked up tablets and meal, made to head back to her cockpit and some semblance of privacy, nearly dropping both when Sadb walked out of the cabin, Caoilfhionn casually following behind. Sadb wore a figure hugging shimmering green dress, low cut over her chest displaying a deep cleavage, upon which rested a simple pendant.

Whilst the hem of the dress stopped at her ankles, the dress was split up both sides, almost to her waist, flashing leg from ankle to thigh with every step she took. Her short brown hair had been transformed into long blonde locks that flowed down to the middle of her back. The wig must have been expensive as it looked so natural. Sadb's bright green eyes matched the colour of the dress. Varna was pretty sure those eyes had been brown, like her hair. Makeup had been skilfully applied to make the most of a plain face, accentuating cheekbones and masking a slightly too large nose. Her lips seemed fuller, more moist. Varna's consciousness turned as green as Sadb's dress. No one else seemed to notice or even care about the transformation. Shuffling meekly past the table, Varna entered her bridge and slumped down into her seat.

One of the screen feeds was showing the communal area, Sadb had her back to the camera, which showed the back of her dress was open down to the small of her back.

Varna changed the feed to hop between her hold and the area outside her hold door. A large tent had been erected which security was using as both a discrete checkpoint and as a cloak room for the arriving guests. Female staff took the cloaks and coats from the arriving guests, slipping them onto hangers with inbuilt protectors which the welcome staff unfurled down as they took the items behind a privacy screen, which hid the rows and rows of hanger rails from the view of the arriving guests. The items, now hidden under their protective covers were hung up and the staff moved back to the access point to collect the next piece of outerwear.

Whilst the men seemed to be almost all in uniform black suits, the women wore every colour discernible to the eye. Many of the older women preferred to choose styles that suited bodies naturally aged or those that had pushed the boundaries of surgery, the younger seemed intent on wearing the least amount decorously possible. Varna was also starting to notice that what the older women lacked in skin elasticity and negligible fat to body weight ratios, they made up for jewellery. Some of which was pretty garish and ostentatious. The feed caught Sadb gliding over the deck of the hold in a gait Varna didn't think was possible, given the height and slenderness of her heels. Varna had tried heels once. In a moment of curiousness when her financial status had become stable. The single walk down the length of the store had been enough to persuade her that heels were not for her and she had purchased a pair of steel composite toed work boots instead.

Sadb had a glass in her hand and was drifting between small clusters of guests like a wraith, pausing to exchange a few words before moving on, looking every bit as though this was her natural domain. Varna watched the steady stream of guests arrive as she spooned her food into her mouth, pausing every now and then to take a tablet.

When Varna went back through to wash her dish and spoon, the living quarters were empty but for Bláthnaid, her name suddenly came to Varna, who was watching her multiple screens intently and quietly murmuring into her throat microphone. Varna washed her dishes and the several mugs that had been stacked up in the sink.

“Now would be a good time to go down to mingle.” Varna looked to Bláthnaid, who simply jerked her head once in the direction of the stairwell.

Do I have to? The thought of going down amongst all those extremely wealthy individuals filled her with terror. In her mind, she had moved amongst them, making connections, tendering contracts. Now the moment had come, her feet wouldn't move.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.” Varna lied. “Just running checklists through my head. You know how it is. Always planning the next day.” What a crock of shit.

Bláthnaid nodded in agreement.

With what seemed to require superhuman strength, Varna managed to pull one foot, then the other off the deck. Her hands were tightly bunched as she made her way down the stairwell, into the bustling throng of her hold. Faces turned in her direction, eyes travelled up and down her form. Faces either smiled in amusement or sneered in scorn.

The little groups of ludicrous wealth seemed impenetrable to the likes of her. Varna inwardly cursed her naivety. How she ever expected to be able to move amongst them.

One of those annoyingly beautiful women, whose role in life seemed to be upon the arm of a ridiculously wealthy man, stopped in front of her and held out one of the two glasses she was holding.

“When you said you were going to wear a shipsuit, we thought you were joking.” She nodded down to the delicate and no doubt expensive glass she was holding out. “It's okay it’s just unfermented fruit juice.” The voice was familiar, the face was not

“Medb?”

Medb smiled. “Come it's time you met our employer. And smile! You are supposed to be having fun remember.”

“I don't belong here.”

“Don't worry about it. Most here don't belong to the human race. Certainly don’t deserve to be.” There was a wry twist to the corner of Medb's mouth. Varna was led towards a dense group, which somehow parted at their approach. Varna suspected that was mostly to do with the speed at which Medb managed to achieve in those heels. A speed that somehow managed to generate its own aura of “I'm not stopping, so be it on your own head.”

At The centre of the group was an old couple, the woman defying the apparent custom of the night, by wearing a modest dress completely devoid of all ornament. She wore no necklace, nor broach and even her ears were home to the simplest, small metal studs. The type young girls wore when their ears were first pierced. Behind them, stood an absolute mountain of man in an ill-fitting suit and wearing, somewhat preposterously, sunglasses. His head was continuously moving. Even to Varna's inexperienced eyes, he was the manifestation of a stereotypical holovid 'body guard'.

“He's just for show.”

Varna glanced to her chaperone whose bright smile had not moved an inch. Medb was obviously an accomplished ventriloquist. Now that she was closer, she spotted a familiar face. Murchadb, looking very smart in his suit.

“Varna my dear! You could have enjoyed yourself and dressed for the occasion!” He stepped closer and lowered his voice as she prepared herself for the undesired physical contact. He hugged her, murmuring in her ear, “If you'd said, we could have supplied you something from the company's wardrobe. You know, if you were, err financially caught unawares...”

Varna stepped back, politely disengaging their contact. “I'm good Murchad, thanks. Technically I'm still working and I may not have the time to change if something needs to be fixed.”

“I suppose, but still..”

“Ah miss Karlson. Your ship is exactly like the holovids!”

That’s because it's the same ship... Varna kept the thought to herself and tried to smile sweetly. Though she had the sneaky suspicion it came out more manic than sweet.

“I like the cargo capacity. I think I might buy forty of them, or better yet. Buy the shipyard.”

The not-a-bodyguard bodyguard, leaned down and quietly spoke in her current employers ear.

A few months ago, I had an idle musing. Nothing serious, just a thought that needed put down and explored. Just ten or so pages should have done it. No need for something fancy like an actual posting in the site. A blog post would do.

Except I miscalculated.

The singular idea I had, didn't fit in the space, nor in the subsequent spaces.

Inevitably, if I carried on, it was going to draw the attention of, and possibly the fiery wrath of, our Glorious Overlords

So I stopped posting, but not writing.

I had a natural break of sorts in mind, as I'm not good with long stories and I get a bit bored of them and need to do something else for a while.

The plan was to reach that point and release. Except that I have made a complete arse of the end bit. I think I am so desperate to get it done, that the quality of the end went through the proverbial floor. That coupled with a 'fedupness' of the story is not making the finishing any easier.

So what I am going to do, is post all three parts together. Part one is the existing idle thought. Part two is a slightly shorter un-posted part, and part three is an exceptionally shorter part that could have been stuck on the end of part two, but since I am not happy with it, I'm posting it by itself, so as to make re-posting that part easier. Which is what I am inevitably going to do when I sort it out in my head.

Part three is mostly the direction I want to go, it's just messy and obviously (even to me) hurried. Yes, there is an argument for not posting it all, but if I can get to the natural break, one way or the other...

Almost a year ago, I asked if anyone wanted to die in a brutal car crash. Because, well why not...

Previous winners ended up in 'The Castle'.

This time, you are not going to die (possibly), but there is a strong chance you may be verbally insulted. The rules are as follows: Supply a (reasonably) printable name and for bonus points, a brief description of you/the character.

In your own time, go!*
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* This is not due to my inability to come up with names/characters. Not in the slightest. Not even a little bit...

I'm not exactly known for my speed in writing chapters, and probably, the winners will actually be dead by the time it gets posted, so in the meantime, here's the prologue of a story being written purely for the shits and giggles...

***** (title, it’s a secret and I’m not telling you…)

Prologue

“Give me a toke…” Nineteen year old Bruce Nelson said as he changed from fifth gear to third as he pushed down hard on the brake pedal of the one litre Ford Fiesta ST (or ‘Ford fucking STI’ as his on/off girlfriend called it), the tyres barely keeping their grip on the road surface as the car followed a line through the corner that would have made any professional driver wince. Bruce took a long drag on the spliff and handed it back as he mashed the accelerator. The rev counter went into the red as the modified silencer screamed out into the surrounding valley, startling everything nearby with the ability to hear.

Climbing up and down the gears as though he was rally driver with the championship at state, Bruce threw his car into every corner with abandon. A rise was coming up that he knew would get some air between the road and the tyres, which had, until his smoky doughnuts in the Asda carpark the previous night, held barely enough tread to be legal.

Eighteen year old William Chandler, Cully to his mates, sat in the front passenger seat, lowered his window and tossed out his empty beer bottle and turned to Nic and George in the back. “Pass me another. Have you fucked Louise up the shitter yet Nic?”

Nicolas Scott Adams, who like Cully, was also eighteen years old and who had been nicknamed NASA by the teachers in school because his head was forever in the clouds, hit the top of a bottle with another, removing both caps. He handed one to Cully. “Aye, made her squeal. Took her real deep. Maybe I should have used some lube, but the bitch knows her place and adopted the position when I told her I wanted some of that fat ass.”

Cully knocked his bottle against Nics. “Way to go my man, show the cunts whose boss, I say.”

“Aye. I pulled out at the end and came over her face. Made the cunt lick and suck me clean. Shit and cum and all.”

The other three cheered and shouted out in chorus, “Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen…”

Then they all cheered again as the Fiesta hurtled over the rise and all their stomachs went light and funny like they were on a rollercoaster. There was a bang and scrape as the lowered springs hit their bump stops and the bottoms of the aftermarket body kit and extra wide wheel arches scrapped against the road surface.

“Take ‘em up the shitter, and there’ll be no screaming litter…” George Allen remarked with every bit of knowledgeable sincerity one would expect of an eighteen-in-four-days year old virgin. For which he was.

“Aye, aint that the Gods truth” Nic agreed, conveniently forgetting the actual truth of the matter, which was that he had tried, only for Louise to immediately push him away and declare that if he wanted to stick his cock in there, he would have to take her dildo in his own hole first. And that thing was a fucking damn monster, so he had backed down instantly. She hadn’t stopped there though, and had proceeded to put her cunt out of bounds as punishment for him even trying anal without her consent in the first place. Wouldn’t even suck him off or give him a hand shandy. Sent him home with blue balls. The bitch.

George lit another joint and passed it around, hoping that none of the other boys asked him about his entirely fictional sexual conquests.

Bruce changed through the gears again in an overly dramatic and needlessly violent manner, because he knew that it looked cool. Made him look cool. He was cool personified, all the local girls wanted him to be their significant other.

The revs were in the red again, he could change up a gear, but that would kills some of the growl coming out the back. Bruce flick his gaze to the speedo. One hundred and eight miles an hour on a Scottish highland ‘B’ road, no fucker around for miles. This was the awesome life. There was plenty of straight left, he could get up to one hundred and fifteen easy. The speedo climbed.

A car appeared in the distance from around the corner. Bruce could tell by the shape of the front, that it was a Volvo 850 estate. Only one person in the area drove a car like that and it was the old bint that lived in the castle. Ninety odd fucking years old and drove everywhere at thirty miles an hour and was a god damn menace to everyone who had places to be. It was Thursday evening, so she would be going to the Women’s Rural Club in the village hall where all the old bastards congregated to moan about Bruce and his pals. Since she would otherwise be engaged, no doubt putting another complaint into Police Scotland and making ‘Speed kills’ posters with the rest of the coffin dodgers, they could pay a visit to her castle and do doughnuts in her courtyard leaving rubber tyre marks everywhere.

She was so apoplectic with rage last time Bruce had done so, that he was surprised that she hadn’t died of a heart-attack. Maybe this time after he had burned some rubber… He glanced down. One hundred and twelve. He was going to fly past her so fucking fast that he was going to knock her false teeth out with the rumble from his exhaust. He smiled at the thought as a roe deer jumped out in front.

“FUCK!!!!” Bruce slammed down hard on the brake to absolutely no effect. The bald tyres didn’t even attempt to try and grip the road as the heavily abused and severely worn brakes made no practical difference to the speed of the Fiesta. There was a massive ‘thump’ as the front of the Fiesta collided with the deer, sending the deer spinning up into the air, legs and back broken, the entire front spoiler following the deer’s airborne trajectory.

The back started to fishtail, Bruce tried to hold onto it, but the passenger rear side clipped the verge ripping off the oversized wheel arch surrounding the rear wheel. Bruce had just enough time to draw in a breath before he hit the Volvo head on.

None of the four boys were wearing seatbelts. As the Fiesta’s engine started making its journey through the body shell, Cully was fired through the windscreen, his spine compressing as his head pushed out the windscreen. Both cars had risen up at the rear, wheels leaving the ground such was the impact. Cully was dead by the time he hit the Volvo’s windshield, pushing it in and colliding with the elderly female driver. The impact was so great, that the bolts holding the driver’s seat in the Volvo sheared and the two corpses were hurled into the boot space to smash through the tailgate to land in the road behind.

The air bag in the Fiesta’s steering wheel deployed, but without the added restraint of a seatbelt, Bruce’s face and chest hit the hot inflated bag. Ribs, jaw, cheekbones and nose broke instantly, and as the bag started to deflate, the engine collided with the dash, pushing the steering wheel into Bruce’s chest. Already broken ribs folded under the impact, the broken ends spearing through vital organs.

George was hurled through the small gap between the head rest and the roof, his head colliding with Bruce’s. The force of the impact popping both heads, the pressure wave of the collision forcing eyes from sockets and cerebrospinal fluid to spurt from ears. A final glancing strike with the buckling remains of the Fiesta’s bonnet sent him up in the air, well over the Volvo, to land and tumble down the road. The rough coating of tar embedded stone, which was common on highland roads to help with traction in winter, ripped off large chunks of flesh and clothing alike.

Nic also was shot forward between headrest and car roof like a clown from a circus cannon. He was still alive when he left the Fiesta. He was still alive when he collided and bounced off the Volvo’s crumpling roof. He was still alive as he continued to travel at speed through the air fifteen meters beyond the broken bodies of the old woman and Cully. He was still alive when he was impaled on a fence post, pushed over from the vertical a few months previous by an itchy highland cow. A highland cow that was currently running away from the sound of the impact with the rest of the herd.

The top of the fence post smashed through Nic’s chest, the barbed wire strands ripping through his body. The post snapped in half with the force of the blow, the body continued to slide along the wire, the barbs ripping chunks off till it came to rest against the next post in the fence.

On the road, the deer feebly twitched as blood ran out from its nose and mouth. A few beats of its heart and then it was still and silent. The cows stopped their panicked run and turned to look to see if they were being chased and attacked. The engines of the two cars were silent but for ‘plinking’ as the metal remains of engines and exhausts cooled.

The Fiesta signalled its intention to turn right, as blood slowly dripped from barbed wire.

Part One...

As the title states. I thought that I would indulge in a little ‘audience participation’. As such, the first four people to reply with story acceptable names are going to die.

Horribly.

What more do you wish out of life….