What’s next for Poindexter?


Interminable update ahoy.

A wise man may once have said something along the lines that persistance is the mother of invention (that’s blatantly wrong, but I’m feeling playful). Or maybe it was the borg…persistance is futile? Anyway, I have ground to an almighty stop with my big piece de resistance.

lemur_faceSo I have begun something else. A darker piece, written in the third person instead of the first person – first person is bloody limiting, if you ask me – I am intending it to be faster-paced, and including all manner of weird magic and a whole pantheon of godlike entities. Influences, in this case, are the Stephen Erikkson novels (partly) and also a bit of Brandon Sanderson. I know, it sounds naff, but…hey ho, it’s summat to do.

I am too old and withered (mentally) to be bothered about the restart. It’s not like I can’t go back to the behemoth at a later date, and in the meantime I am learning, learning, learning. What, precisely, I cannot tell yet. Meh.

So, 7k words into my new venture, and how is it going? Well, I’ll keep it short, but there is a talking lemur in it. I will not go into details in order to preserve you from spoilers. As if…!

 

Scene 5: Finale


Fade in. Then out again. Boom moved a little to the left. “Dammit, Nigel, where did you learn to be so royally useless.” Boom replaced in original position. Sullen indignation of Sound Recordist.

“ACTION”

I sit here, reclining in my fashionable regency chaise longue, wreathed in finest crimplene, swollen with pride. An almost paralytic amount of it, to be precise, and curiously enough measured in gills – a truly archaic unit of measurement.

5352“More wine, dear wife,” I call in my  arrogant yet probably endearing manner.

She sways in like Badgers never had a graceless moment, though her brother Derek has the coordination of a baby elephant with a case of rickets, so I know it to be just plain luck.

“Get your own wine,” she shrieks.

Briefly I ponder the nature of the universe. That a mighty god watches us always begs the question where the f*** was he when I asked her to marry me. Off fishing probably. Or carving figurines of dolphins. Or whatever – for is it not sang, “God Only Knows”, and that is a direct quote, entirely unedited or paraphrased. From the bible and everything. Maybe.

I wasn’t really regretting the decision to abandon Belgium to its fate. And I think we can all say, with total lack of offence, that nobody likes Belgium anyway. Romaine was worth it. The way she walks (erect), the way she talks (orally), her very attitude (spunky).

“CUT! Come on! We’ve talked about this, man. Stick to the script. People died in the congo for this, or something. Just keep it together and leave out the sexual weirdness.” A pause. “Nigel, move that fucking boom, or I will use it to clean your oesophagus. From below. Good. ACTION!”

“Was it worth it?” I ask, doubts assailing me like chickens fired from a cannon into the side of a barn.

She grimaces in a fever of over-acting, throwing herself to the floor before spearing me with a glare and saying, scornfully, “We got the world. Nobody likes Belgium. I can’t believe THE INTERVIEW OF THE CENTURY ended in our world domination, in a quite unbelievable and entirely un-thought-through way.”

“Yeah,” I said. I’d failed Belgium, but married the leader of the earth’s first global tyrannical dictatorship. It was a small price to pay. If only for the fringe benefits. I get free parking and everything. Screw Belgium.

“CUT! Thank Christ we can all go home now.”

Cue embarrassing bloopers reel, featuring the moment on the set of the interview when the interviewer is unwittingly racist, and the time the actor playing Sir Kenneth Badger accidentally shot an urchin in the back.

Fade to a distinctly inspiring void that consumes the universe.

Let there be light.

Fin.

Scene 4: The post-modern face-off


Fade in. The music is maudlin, the colour leeched and the video grainy. Cue our hero, sat in a cafe in Dusseldorf…

The attempt to save Belgium, and by extension the world itself, is underway. It’s only slightly spoiled by the fact I got on the wrong train and ended up in Germany. Damn both my poor knowledge of european languages, and a ticket-agency convinced it knows my destination better than I.

espressoI only just escaped from a trap. Romaine Badger, the erstwhile benefactor of Sir Kenneth’s legacy and vast personal wealth, has her minions seeking me throughout the continent. Only last week I savagely resisted a young Badger’s attempt on my life when he tried to re-enact a scene from The Omen, only to realise that chasing me on a child’s tricycle had only minimal chances of making me fall to my doom over a balcony.

And what’s more, the staff of this cafe insist upon smiling at me in a friendly manner, which is crippling me emotionally. I cannot cope with the kindly and prompt service. I am English, and such efficiency and pleasance makes me suspicious.

I sip at my espresso. I really must find a train to Belgium. I feel waffles and other traditional images of Belgian culture nagging at me. When one is assailed by images of Hercule Poirot, you know you have a job to do.

I look at my vintage timepiece, given to me by the rotted corpse of H G Wells himself, and realise the time is approaching for action. Rising, I note with some alarm that a face I recognise appears around the corner. Romaine Badger herself. The face of a withered deer, an expression that curdled milk aspires to, and armed to the teeth with every manner of projectile weapon.

“______,” she says, calling out to me with her voice like a badly maintained Volkswagon Passat. “Don’t Push it. Don’t push it, or I’ll give you war you won’t believe. Let it go. Let it go!”

A quote from Rambo – First Blood. Damn she’s good. I respond in the only way possible, setting my thighs to inscrutable. I postured up as Romaine Badger approached, and said “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to your enemies, but a great deal more to stand up to your friends.”

She visibly flinched. I’d dug up that Dumbledore quote as if from nowhere. She quailed, turning and running when she saw I was preparing a quote from The Lion King.

She’d be back, armed with better quotes – probably from Rocky or, perhaps, a bland Jennifer Aniston rom-com.

But I’d be ready.

Fade to ineffably ginger and with the words, “To be continued,” written, bizarrely, in Comic Sans font.