Words of Mass Destruction

When the webpage changed over from Dirtyfreaks.com to Greatsociety, we added a primitive little forums module. Since then, the forums have been home to a small group of, well, deeply crazy people. Considering that there are only a handful of active members, it’s a surprisingly busy board. By far, the most colorful forum member goes by the handle “monkey,” and he’s been around since the start. When it came time for a week of retrospectives, I asked him if he had anything to say…and the below is the result.



This year marks a decade since the advent of Greatsociety.org, a website devoted to the passion of cult interests and writers’ creative frustrations with a capitalist, pig-dog world: a website that, once discovered by this country manor-dwelling teenager in Northern Ireland, was to become a mainstay of my occupying interests, alongside a modest library of books and encyclopedias.

Having written my first novella at the age of 10 – a sixty page horror story detailing a haunted, sentient house that killed, maimed, and ate my primary/grade school classmates one by one, I had developed an early urge to write…. Aged 11, with the help of a friend called Richard, I saw to it that a series of 24 comic books – all of mature content – had been completed: murder, theft, war, the horrors of life and the tricks of wicked human nature were strongly featured themes.

In grammar school, at the tender age of 13, a series of horrifically graphic, comedy-porno screenplays – once again starring fellow classmates – began to gather a status of mild, cult fame, until fear of being discovered by ‘the man’ and turned over to one of those psychologist witch-doctors led to their destruction. A sad day for the world.

Then, 4 years later, I found Great Society, home to like-minded monsters.

Dubbed, “persistent”, by once-editor Blue in my efforts to become a GS writer, a first-person introspective piece about metaphysical demons finally won over this persnickety harpy. Sadly, however, “IT” has been lost to the annals of time. Later efforts included a piece, entitled “Hoods”, questioning the malevolent nature of hoods (clothing) and the possible role they may have played in world history. It was also featured in Entropy Magazine.

And now…?

I live in Paris, having been kept sane throughout my grammar school and university years by Great Society and fellow GS members’ antics and thought ejaculations, especially in our beautiful, beloved forums. Great Society has been, for most of us, a ‘creative condom’: something into which we can blow the salty, creamy load of our psyche whenever need arises.

Even more importantly, Great Society and fellow members have helped us learn the potency of words in changing not only our humor, our mood, but also in changing how we think and subsequent extrapolation throughout our perceptions of life and self-created realities.

Metro Philosophy

Traveling upon the Parisian Metro, pondering over the nature of our physical existence and the meaning of our lives I wrote this upon my iPhones “Notes” application to email to a stock-broker friend of mine.

“Bodies are changeable, perishable entities, but non-perishable quantities of matter/energy animated and given ‘life’ and cognizance by a singular, divided but still inter-connected consciousness experiencing life through us, our physicality, each of us being physically unique so canadian pharmacy viagra that life experiences may differ, furthering the learning and growth of this meditating consciousness so that said singular, yet divided consciousness may once more re-unite in death before again dividing itself to experience itself and ourselves, through ourselves, in another plane of existence possibly experienced through the conscious physicality of another changeable corpus.”

Whether ‘brain fart’ or a nugget of inspiration, it did at least make myself, and my friend, stop and think about this philosophical proposition.

The power of written word battles ever on against the hypnotism of televised media.

“A cock goes DOWN your throat”

Numerous characters and big personalities have come and gone in the history of Greatsociety.org, some of whom engaged me in logic debates regarding relative physics and failing to understand some basic concepts of relative “ups” and “downs.”

Others have used GS as a stage for their personal meltdowns, often of a psychotic nature: I remember not only the meltdown of SugarCube but also the OLTF apocalypse of an eccentric, Hawaiian resident who sent photos of his genitals to the same lady who erroneously engaged in logic debates with myself. However, in the interest of balanced writing, and libel litigation, ‘Mr. OLTF’ may not have sent said photos to said lady….

There have even been major, existence threatening ruptures amongst the GS clan – namely between Nacho, his fellow front page author “Blue”, and the webmaster, “Yotoc”. Yet nonetheless, the most pure-hearted of us Great Society goblins have kept the page up and running, alive with our unstable mentality, even if mostly within our sexy forums.

And now, for Great Society’s 10th anniversary, I’m returning to the front page to share my thoughts in written word form. Thusly, I feel obliged to provide a sexy, ‘film noir-esque’ short story entitled, “It Slept.”


Part One

A French hippy 60’s bar: incense and Sergeant Pepper are in the air.

The light, airy fusion-jazz from the previous cafe rings yet a while in my ears, the vanilla & caramel macchiato lingers still upon my palette.

Outside, cigars from Cuba sneak their smoke past the doorway to warm themselves, away from frosted night air.

Lady in the corner, wrapped in burgundy, moistened by Bordeaux, the tang of the summer of 1985 upon her lips.

In walks the Red Hair man clad in heavy, woolen grey followed by black of the night, “It’s done,” he says to nobody in particular, removing winter coat and sitting down to order a light, crisp Italian beer.

“Why don’t you drink French beer,” the bartender asks of the Red Hair man, whithering his whuthered accent around the English words.

“When in France.” Red Hair man draws out these words across the audible meter. Nobody in France drinks French beer.

Wine-drinking lady stifles a laugh with suitable onomatopoeia, the Italian beer arrives upon the wooden bar, bartender retreats to polishing glasses.

Scooter screeches along the street outside, leaded petrol scents the air. The burgundy wrapped lady speaks. “Woot you be dooeengz ere’z foreign man?” she addresses Red Hair.

“None of your damned business, lady,” meters the Red Haired voice.

I watch the lady from the back of bar. She uncrosses and recrosses her legs. Twice. Excitement can be smelled upon the air. Tense twitching.

“Eet can noot be zo zerreeuss az zat,” intones the French, burgundy- wrapped lady, reading like Inspector Clouseau, but her pink panther is hidden away.

“I said to mind your own damned business, woman.”

Bartender bristles, air stiffens, “do not talk to ze lady like zat, Monsieur.”

“You can shut your own damn mouth as well, froggie,” The Red Hair man now looms, having grown somewhat, filling out the gloom with his bulk.

I watch the tension spread out across the room, mingling with outside cigar smoke and petrol fumes.

The foreign man finishes his beer and gets up from his bar stool, turning sharply to leave. Bartender frowns, staring after the parting figure, burgundy-wrapped lady uncrosses and recrosses her legs again, and I move from my table at the back of the room.

I’m going to follow the Red Hair man.

Stepping outside from the bar December wind cuts across my coat, brushing through my hair and worrying my skin.

Footsteps sound a short distance to the left, maybe now 50 metres away. Red Hair man walks quickly, so can I, cold wind nudges me onwards through the night.

Another scooter whines past, cutting along the narrow street, jostling the sleeping Parisian tranquility. It’s a red Vespa. If I were to drive a scooter it would be a red Vespa.

Oh ho! Red Vespa slows down and pulls up beside the quick-walking foreigner. Both parties have stopped, seemingly to converse.

I step inside the next doorway on my left. A ninja in the night. A sexy chameleon ninja. Hidden.

I peek out from my hiding place.

Foreign man removes from his grey coat something which resembles an envelope, a large envelope folded over in half, and exchanges this for a smaller rectangle-parcel presented by the Vespa driver.

It is difficult to see in the black night air.

Hot exhaust fumes sparkle, dancing around the two figures illuminated by scant street lighting, and are quickly cooled by hungry winter wind.

Breath frosts in the air, quickly dispelled.

A piercing whine squeals across the street, a sharp revving of Vespa motor disappearing as the driver leaves quickly, cloaked by black.

Red Hair man is already quick-marching away from the rendezvous, eager to find once more respite in warmth away from sucking winter air.

I am going to follow this Red Hair foreign man. Further, onwards.

The city was sleeping but the night slept not.

Part Two

Winding narrow streets,
Pools of shadows clinging to doorways and side alleys,
Sleeping silence of a city at pause.

I am following the Red Hair man.

Fifty steps then left,
Twenty strides then right.

Onwards we travel through the cold Parisian night. Slow breath, quiet thoughts, stealthy like a sleek night cat.

I am a sleek night cat, hunting a large, red-haired mouse wearing a grey winter coat bigger than I am.

Foreign man stops, I duck into another doorway, shoulders pressed hard into the chill wood of somebody’s door. Hold my breath, must hold my breath, it hangs too visibly in this wintry night.

Interminable seconds pass, imagined tick tock tick, three seconds, four seconds, five. The sound of footsteps resumes, traveling away from my hiding place.

I continue to follow the Red Hair man.

Has he seen me or has he not? One must be careful on these dark-skied treks. One wrong move, one mis-timed step can bring ruin to any sleuth.

Check left trouser pocket: garrote wire, right trouser pocket: pre-chloroformed handkerchief. Under left arm is strapped an authentic Luger pistol, looted and passed on by a grandfather many years hence.

Guns prove right by force of might.

That Red Hair man is big.

A distant buzz becomes a whine as another scooter approaches in the darkness of this night.

Not ‘another scooter’ but that same red Vespa passes me from behind.

Driver does sound the horn twice, this night has gained some spice, Red Hair man does turn about and I am forced to rout.

Quickly left, an almost half-jump into the adjoining side alley. I saw a gun in foreign man’s right hand. Dashing as quietly as one can shadows brush my feet, shadows given life by the raw, white moon.

To the right a darkened alcove. I am a stealthy ninja and here I shall await. Garrote wire in my hands held ready for the following winter coat.

I am waiting for the Red Hair man. The moon is waiting for blood.

The city was sleeping but the night slept not.

Part Three

Raw, white moon, hungry for blood. Shadows come to life, awaiting crimson elixir.

I am waiting for the Red Hair man.

My garrote wire is waiting for his neck.

Any moment now his softened footsteps should edge towards me, prickled with caution. I intend to strike before he realizes it’s too late, dead before he hits the floor, gone before his blood feeds the black of the alleyway.

Silence stretches.

No audible approach of Red Hair. Has he taken off his shoes for stealth, has he sped off in another direction to lose the follower?

I await. Motionless, a praying mantis de la nuit. A mantis with garrote wire.

The moon throbs, my veins pulse, my brain hums with readiness. Shadows withdraw from my feet, themselves eager for sleep.

But the Red Hair man does not approach.

Still I wait but the darkness moves not.

The Red Hair man is waiting for me.

Am I trapped in this alleyway, how far does this place stretch away to the right, is the foreign man waiting to my left, hidden by the corner of the buildings?

The moons calls my eyes once more to burn them with its shine.

Peeking out from shadowed alcove, not a soul can be seen neither moving nor stationary, where is that foreign man in his winter coat?

Unholstered now the Luger sits coldly in my right hand, my faithful garrote wire forgotten once more in my left trouser pocket.

I must now search for my target.

I am looking for the Red Hair man and somewhere he is waiting for me.

Will the moon wish me luck?

The city was sleeping but the night slept not.