Beak instead of Teeth

Well, today's the day; you kinky bucket of clownfish, you. I must once again thank the good people of Raise The Bar for providing me with a suitable barricade from which to fire the lysergic confetti cannon that is Beak instead of Teeth: 

They were even kind enough to place a microphone centre-stage, thus clearly marking out where a performer might stand if they wished to be well-framed and not to challenge their camera's focusing capabilities too steeply. A lot of performers would have heeded this tacit advice. A lot of performers are not Tom Hunt.

Slugs - Live at To Be Frank

Good evening. It's been a while, hasn't it, my oily little whelks? Thought ol' Tom had forgotten you, eh? No such luck, I'm afraid. Just last night I had the distinct pleasure of performing at To Be Frank, a poetry event held in Bath, Somerset. There, I was able to film this eight-minute video of me faffing with my hair. Those of you watching with the sound on will notice I am also reciting my poem, Slugs, to a surprisingly appreciative audience. Enjoy.

My sincere thanks go to all the organisers at To Be Frank Poetry, especially Rhys for his to-camera, documentary-style introduction. The whole team put on a genuinely lovely night in Bath, and all of you should go. I certainly will, assuming they let me back in.

Chapter Six

There could be no hiding it; this much he knew. No more than one could hide blood on one's hands, or hate in one's eyes, or an entire unconscious human body in an otherwise empty walk-in freezer. It was a travesty, plain and simple; beyond all salvage and completely indefensible. He could only keep his head down while the shame sluiced over him in rivulets, counting himself lucky he had not been quite justifiably called out for his behaviour by one of the many innocent bystanders.

"I've gone too far." He muttered grimly to himself. And he was right. The shopping basket in his hand was an absolute train-wreck.

"Cat food, a ham and pineapple frozen pizza, personal lubricant reduced due to the packaging having been tampered with, and... crème de menthe?" He grimaced at the floor as the cashier listed his crimes aloud. They had never done this before.

"I didn't realise there was pineapple. Just the booze, the lube and the cat food, then." He continued to study the scuffed linoleum. "Please."

He leaned against the side of the conveyor and watched the pair of hands in his peripheral vision relieve his basket of its contents. Two electronic bleeps sounded, followed by the sounds of a glass bottle and a plastic tube rolling lazily down the sloped metal sheeting, toward the bags. Nothing followed.

"Funny," came the apparently overly judgemental cashier's voice again; "I wouldn't have pegged you for a... cat person."

Who was this prying muckraker? This minimum-wage inquisitor, as brazen as they were unwelcome? Bristling at the floor, and also at the tremendous indignity of the situation, he arranged his face into its most scathing configuration before bringing it to bear against his interrogator; a curiously familiar man, wearing an eye-patch, a clearly fake moustache, and nothing from the waist down.

"Hello there, sir. Long time no see. Perhaps it's time you and I had a little chat about Lewis."

Chapter Five

23/08/2015 - Brighton, UK

Not a solitary soul graces the beach. A biblical deluge drums upon the steaming roof of the Oldies Wood-Fired Pizza van, inside which Angie rests her cheek on her hand and succumbs to a quiet hopelessness. From within her vibrantly painted fortress she has a commanding view of the seafront, the pier, and all the potential customers there aren't. Her eyes draw slowly closed, and she mutters in a tight little voice, barely above a whisper:

"Fucking British summer."

She knows the colder months will be a struggle. Already the leaves have begun to fall, and what little business there is will soon dry up and wither alongside them.

"Alright Angie! Gorgeous day for it, eh?"

In an instant, her troubles slip and trickle away like a fistful of fine, sun-warmed sand.

"Reuben! What are you doing out? It's vile!"

The young man shakes like a wet dog beneath the canopy of the van. Angie grimaces as flecks of drizzle spray the counter, the cash till, and her face.

"Thank you for that."

Reuben pushes his hair back from his eyes and grins.

"You are welcome. And to answer your question, I am working." He gestures to the camera case around his neck. "You get this certain kind of light during a storm. I wanted some portfolio shots of the beach huts." Angie smiles.

"You are so fucking Brighton it makes me sick."

"Is that right?" Reuben smirks; "And what if I told you that wasn't the only reason I was out here, on this particular beach, on this particular day?" He reaches into his backpack and retrieves a small plastic takeaway container, peeling back the lid to reveal a single, elegantly iced cupcake. Silently, he picks up a tiny candle from beside it and stands it upright in the cake's centre. Then, he fishes in his pocket for a moment before producing a cigarette lighter, with which he carefully lights the wick. Apparently pleased with his efforts, he leans back and slowly pushes the cupcake across the counter toward Angie, who tries and fails to maintain a stony demeanour.

"You are a muppet." She blows out the candle, still trying her best not to smile. "Thank you."

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Meh." She shrugs, "I don't really have enough money to do anything anyway. And I'm supposed to be saving for the thing with mum next year."

"How is she?"

"You know. Ups and downs." Reuben nods.

"It's good you're taking her to see the family."

"Yeah, if I can afford it. At this rate I'll be lucky if I even still have a business by then."

"That bad, is it?"

"It's not great."

"You know," Reuben hesitates, "I could... help, if you like." Angie glances up, mortified.

"God, no. No, don't be silly. I can't have you bailing me out."

"Well then, don't think of it as a bailout;" Reuben quickly responds, "Think of it as an investment. In your business." In the absence of an interruption, he goes on: "Look, I worked a bunch of weddings this summer. I can afford to help out. And I know you're good for the money. You're really good at this. And you work fucking hard. And you should go on the trip. It's important. I want you to be able to go."

The rain hammers down on the canopy. Angie doesn't say anything for a while. She stares at the smoking candle wick on the counter between them, and tries to breathe slowly. She's finally on the cusp of opening her mouth to speak when the silence is interrupted by a high-pitched chirruping sound. Reuben jumps, looking down at his feet.

"Oh, hello! Who's this?"

Angie dabs at her eye with her sleeve and peers over the counter.

"Oh, that's just Kurt. Well, I've been calling him Kurt. He's been hanging out here for days. I reckon he's a stray."

"Kurt? Fucking hell, Ange." Reuben's smirk creeps back across his face. "The nineties are over. You have to let him go."

"Don't ever say that to me. Hey, he likes you," Angie watches the small black cat purr and rub himself against Reuben's legs. He's never even let me touch him." She reaches down, bringing up a pizza box. "Here, give him some of this."

Reuben takes a slice from the box, pulls off a piece from the tip, and bends down to feed it to the cat, who laps hungrily at the slick of grease on the surface.

"And... the rest is for me, right?"

"Yeah. Sure." Angie fixes her eyes on the candle again. "Hey, thanks for coming today, man. Sometimes I'm in this box for so long I forget there's other people out there. You know?" She waits for him to answer. The silence stretches on. "Reuben?"

She looks up to see Reuben leaning against the counter; his face red, his eyes bulging. He drops what's left of the pizza slice to the floor and moves his hand to his throat.

"Reuben!" Angie screams, kicking open the side door of the van. She rounds the corner in time to see him slowly tilt over backwards into the rain. She hauls him from the ground so she can wrap her arms around him, squeezing him from behind with all her strength. She feels him spasm and wretch, but hears no splutter or cough; just the pounding of the rain against the canopy. Even as she squeezes him again and again, his convulsions fade and weaken until finally he softens and lies still.

"No Reuben! Fuck! No, no, come on! Come on! Please, Reuben!" Angie shakes, and squeezes, and cries, but her friend is gone. She pulls him close, in the rain, and lays her head back against the flagstone. Behind her, some twenty feet away, she sees a small black cat stand perfectly still in the pouring rain. The creature watches her for a few moments, and then turns and pads away, into the dark.

Chapter Four

No wild beasts roared or pounced. No fireballs bloomed against the sky. A choir of daemons did strike up a hellish, lurching shanty, but that was to be expected. It was a rough neighbourhood. No, much to his embarrassment, the direst peril to darken his doorstep that night was a small black cat.

Surprisingly undaunted by the sight of a frightened man in a flannel gown wielding a potato masher, the cat padded languorously into the house, snaked around his ankles and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him to throw a furtive glance over his shoulder at the empty doorstep before shivering and following suit.

Inside the house, he was marginally more comfortable; at least physically. The cat had helped itself to a seat at the table, and was eyeing him expectantly.

"Lewis." he read aloud, fingering the engraved pendant attached to its collar. "Who are you, Lewis?" Lewis made no attempt to respond. Turning the pendant over simply revealed the number sixty-three. Sighing, he pulled up a chair and sat beside the creature, which promptly leapt onto his lap and curled up.

The implications of this were diabolical and profound, of that there was no question. Thoughts churned about his head like a sour, anxious butter, while the tiny beast in his lap stretched and began to purr. Firstly, and perhaps most importantly, Lewis belonged to someone, and to that someone he must be returned. However, it had to be said that considering the legion unearthly horrors he had been prepared to confront some five minutes ago, he had been immensely relieved to find a small cat waiting on the other side of his front door. Also, the social media response to the last couple of chapters had been frankly a little lacklustre, and writing a cat into the story could only help matters. Particularly if the cat in question could be persuaded to pose for a photograph.

After a quick photo shoot of which Lewis was at least partially aware, and a perfunctory workout in which Lewis was not involved other than perhaps in an evaluative capacity, it was time to take the lost beast home. Scooping the cat up in his arms, he left the house and turned left, heading up the street in search of number sixty-three. He was stopped dead in his shambling tracks, however, by a sight he knew would alter and entangle the twin trajectories of their lives irreversibly: a body, concealed within a body bag, being wheeled out through a neighbour's front door by ashen-faced paramedics. The front door in question swung and clattered in the chill wind, and bore two cast iron plaques in the shape of a six and a three.

Chapter Three

It had been two nights since his ordeal. Two long, dread nights of shot nerves and dark imaginings; of whisky, wonder and grimmest speculation. They were the kind of nights that seem to lengthen and loom like autumn shadows, that drag like nails on a blackboard, or that snap and backfire like a metaphor pushed too far.

Even in his addled, sleep-deprived state, his inner pedant wrestled with the shame of using the word 'metaphor' when he meant 'simile'.

"It just sounds better," he reasoned, "...and besides, as long as I don't draw unnecessary attention to it with a lengthy explanation, no-one will notice. Not knowing my readership. These are the sort of people still awake, alone, and browsing social media long past midnight, if you could even call them people. Frankly, they will get the literature they deserve." He leaned back in his chair, and almost into the arms of sleep for one delicious moment before starting at an imagined sound and throwing a paranoid glance over one shoulder, towards the door. He knew that, in truth, semantics ought to be the least of his concern right now.

Since the small hours of the morning, he had agonised over how best to describe the encounter on the doorstep. Though the notion of doing so inspired in him an almost unbearable nervous agitation, he knew it was his duty to set the events to paper; no matter how eldritch and harrowing. He had toyed with the idea of saying they were 'indescribable' and leaving it at that, but at length had decided that would make him no better than Lovecraft; a condemnation more bleak and damning than he could bear. Swallowing hard, he resolved to do what must be done, wearily flexing his brittle fingers over the keyboard.

He hadn't time to type a solitary character, though, before his breath caught in his throat, his blood began to pound in his ears, and a hollow, wooden sound echoed starkly through the hall. A tapping, rapping sound, as of some bony appendage, rang upon the front door. He froze, praying it was not real, that the tides of madness had finally swept him under; but to no avail. After a short silence, the knocking came again, as clear as the moon on the water.

He would not be caught off guard again. He slipped like drunken mercury from his chair and slinked into the kitchen, meaning to arm himself before confronting his tormentor. He swiped in a panic at the utensils, coming up first with a ladle. This, he exchanged for salad tongs, before reconsidering and returning to the ladle. In a final act of desperation, he opted for a large potato masher, the business end of which was reassuringly weighted. Deciding this would make a serviceable bludgeoning weapon, he took up the tongs in his off-hand, and crept down the hallway. Slipping the tongs into the pocket of his gown, he reached for the door handle with one trembling hand; the other raised the masher high over his head. For one deep, shuddering breath, he screwed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, they blazed with all the light and fury he could muster, and he threw the door open before him.

Chapter Two

He had made them a promise, he reminded himself as he wiped yesterday's coughed-up lager from the screen. A promise via Facebook status update. The most sacred kind of promise that there is. The people were expecting a story, and a story they would damn well get.

With no small effort, he hauled his squealing frame to its feet. His cold bones railed anew as he set them to pacing the length of the room, in what he naïvely imagined to be a straight line.

"A story," he mumbled, pausing to push the ancient, skin-bound tome of secrets back under the bed with one beslippered foot. "But where to begin?"

With the book safely back in its place, he began his pacing in earnest; casting his eye around for inspiration.

"A good story needs mystery. Intrigue." He stopped dead in his tracks by the mantelpiece; his eyes, so sharp all of a sudden, were locked upon the single framed photograph that rested there. His face a mask of sorrow tinged with guilt, he turned the offending picture to face the wall. "It needs suspense."

A sharp rapping on the door interrupted his reverie. Scowling, he negotiated the minefield of debris littering the territory that lay between the fireplace and the doorway, and threw back the handle to reveal a pizza delivery man dressed in an eye patch, a clearly fake moustache, and nothing from the waist down. Unable to remember having ordered pizza, he seized the steaming box anyway, offered a greasy handful of coins and pocket lint to the man, and shooed him off of the doorstep, impatiently spurning his proffered elaborate handshake and knowing wink. Slamming the door, he drew a slice from the box, and sighed.

"But how am I to be expected to find inspiration in these conditions? Oh, if only anything ever happened in this wretched little backwater!"

For the second time that evening, he found his efforts interrupted by a tapping on the door. In a raging fit of despair, he charged, pizza in hand, to confront the culprit.

"If it's more money you're after, then tough luck! I'm stony broke 'til the premium lager sponsorship funding comes thr..." He trailed off as the door swung open and he gazed out, into the night.

A hot slick of molten cheese slid from the surface of the pizza, onto his foot. He did not move.

Chapter One

Alone in his chamber, he reclined; gathering the blankets about himself. For weeks, autumn had skulked, furtive, in the shadowed corners of the park at dusk like a band of stoned teenagers. Now, though, she waited brazenly in the garden for him, wearing a woolly jumper and a grin, brandishing a cricket bat stained with the crimson portent of hardship to come.

"I shall include a picture," he muttered to himself. "A nice one, of me. People like pictures." He had read that somewhere. He had read that people were more inclined to engage with social media content if it came with an image attached. "People are so stupid," he spat, under his breath; "People are so stupid and awful and it makes me sick to my stomach that I am one. Why do I want them to read my work so badly?" Concluding that, stupid and hateful though people may be, he was the most contemptible of all for so desperately courting their approval; he grimaced and knocked back the remainder of his nightcap. The hand-warmed lager backwash caught in his throat, and he covered his mouth as he spluttered and cursed. With the other hand, he hit 'Post'.

Captain Kamikaze & The Flying Squirrel

Here it is, as promised: The story of Captain Kamikaze & The Flying Squirrel, in full.

                The Captain awaited his butler's response, and while he awaited it, he did two things. One was to think about evil. He thought about evil the way a butcher thinks about steak. The other thing he did was to absent-mindedly swing his legs as they dangled over the edge of his swivel chair. He stopped this abruptly, however, upon realising that as well as not looking very villainous, it might undermine the considerable gravitas he had just accrued by swivelling dramatically around.

                "It's good, sir. Very good. Your most fiendish work to date, I daresay. But perhaps I might make a suggestion?"

                He shifted his weight in the chair and smiled. Milton had never been intimidated by his arch-villain status, but had always been polite enough to pretend. With one hand, he waved the butler on; the other nursed an exquisite brandy glass.

                "Well, sir, the part where you have your nemesis restrained, and you victoriously explain the minutiae of your nefarious scheme to him?" The Captain nodded and leaned forward, stroking his goatee. "I thought perhaps you might... withhold a few of the more sensitive details." The Captain's already furrowed brow somehow furrowed in on itself all over again.

                "I see. Which details did you have in mind?"

                "Well sir, since you ask, I was actually thinking you might withhold almost all of them. Until the plan comes to fruition. Just to be safe, sir."

                "Hmmm." The Captain made a concerted effort to unfurl his brow as he spoke. "Milton, you know I respect your opinion like no other. But there are aspects of the work I do that I am afraid you simply cannot understand. An element of pageantry is expected of a man in my position. One has to observe a certain etiquette." Pleased with his answer, he leaned back; placing his large, black boots on his desk and swirling his brandy. Milton nodded sagely.

                "Of course, sir. Far be it from me to suppose to comprehend the mysterious ways in which a villain moves. Shall I bring in your elevenses, sir?"

                "Thank you Milton, I think that would be best. If it weren't for you, I shouldn't think I'd remember to eat at all." The Captain sighed. "Evil is a demanding mistress."

                "That I understand all too well, sir. Having served your family for three generations, one thing I can attest to is the terrible strain a career in villainy can place on a man." As he spoke, Milton crossed the room and pushed a button, calling the dumbwaiter. A few seconds later, he opened the hatch and removed a silver tray, on which was laid cutlery, a small decanter of brandy, and a plate covered by an elegant cloche. "One must keep one's strength up, and enjoy the small pleasures where one can." As he carried the tray over to the desk, the Captain's eyes were drawn to the cloche. He frowned up at Milton, whose face gave nothing away.

                "You didn't?"

                The butler remained expressionless.

                "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, sir."

                The Captain snatched the silver cover from the plate to reveal a cake of breathtaking beauty; richly dark, majestically risen and topped with icing smooth as untrodden snow, yet black as obsidian.

                "You devil..." he managed under his breath.

                "Coffee and walnut, with a dark chocolate ganache" said the butler in reply. "Still your favourite, I hope?" The Captain appeared to be lost for words. "Happy birthday, sir."

                Snapping from his reverie, the Captain beamed up at his butler.

                "Did you bake it yourself, Milton?" Milton nodded humbly.

                "Last night, sir. You were generous enough to give me the evening off, after all."

                "Oh, Milton. Where on earth would I be without you? It's magnificent. And to think, you managed to keep it a secret from me all morning! You sly dog, I had no idea."

                "Discretion is a man in my line of work's proudest asset, sir." Milton raised an eyebrow. "Besides, a butler hasn't time for talk. He simply devotes himself to the task before him, that his results may speak for themselves." He gestured toward the Captain's glass. "Perhaps sir would care for a top-up?"

                "Yes. Yes, I think that would be best." The Captain's reply was sober and measured, and as he watched Milton pour brandy into the glass in front of him, he pondered the butler's words. They had given him much to ponder. But then, that was to be expected. What kind of self-respecting arch-villain would employ a butler who wasn't both shrewd and insightful? He picked up the glass, and raised it. "Here's to you, Milton. You, your boundless wisdom, and your infinite tact." He tipped his head back and drained the glass.

                "You do me great honour, sir." Milton smiled. "Now, I really must go and see to the prisoner." The Captain silently nodded, and waited until the butler had closed the door behind him before allowing the acrid brown liquid to pour from his wincing mouth back into the glass.

* * *

                "And that, Flying Squirrel, is how you will die."

                Captain Kamikaze had just told the (in his opinion unfortunately named) superhero bound to the chair opposite him his entire master plan. Every detail. He sat back and waited for the elation; for the indulgent satisfaction to engulf him. Instead, he found himself whimsically half-remembering being a small boy, and how one Christmas he had crept, under cover of dusk, from the quiet of his playroom to the towering mantel of the lounge. With trembling hands and many a nervous glance over his shoulder, he had carefully opened every door of his advent calendar. It was the thirtieth of November. He had gorged on the chocolate, each piece more delicious and darkly irresistible than the last, until his face and hands were smeared brown and his belly full. He had felt no joy. The delight he had experienced as he devoured the chocolate had gone along with it, and he was left bilious, guilty, and bereft. His parents had been busy plotting evil in the study, and so it was their young butler who had found him, sticky and ashamed, his legs crossed and his head hung low in the shadow of the fireplace. The man sighed, but said nothing as he took the boy's tacky hand in his own and led him to the washroom, where he drew him a hot bath with bubbles, and then put him to bed. His parents never found out, but he awoke each morning that December feeling regretful. Strange, thought the Captain, that this childhood memory should revisit him in what was supposed to be his moment of glory. Strange, and unfortunate. Still, one had to look on the bright side. The dramatic swivel-around had gone very well.

                "You'll never get away with this, Kamikaze" growled the masked man in the other chair. He played his part well, the Captain thought. He knew Flying Squirrel wasn't the most competent hero in the field, but his patter was decent. He knew the steps.

                "Au contraire, my mammalian friend." The corner of the Captain's mouth twitched. The fact that he didn't really speak French was of great personal embarrassment to him. "You see, I think you'll find that this time, I've covered all the bases. It's game, set, and match."

                "Couple of things right off the bat, Captain." Flying Squirrel delivered his trash talk with practised certainty. "Confused sporting metaphors aside; we're all mammalian. I'm a mammal, you're a mammal, he's a mammal, she's a mammal. We're mammalian." The Captain frowned.

                "Well, then I wasn't wrong." he replied; unsure.

                "No, just redundant." Flying Squirrel fought to conceal his smugness. Heroes are not smug. The Captain scowled, and rose from his chair to walk languorously over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the interrogation room. He gazed out as he spoke.

                "This is all terribly out of character, Flying Squirrel. I'd expect this kind of pedantry from the Grammar Hammer, or Miss Ellipsis, perhaps. Don't you have some nuts to hide?" He smirked. Among villains, smugness is encouraged. Flying Squirrel fixed him with a steely glare, every inch the hero.

                "I have nothing to hide, Kamikaze. Not when I have right on my side."

                The boy had done his homework. Whatever else Captain Kamikaze thought of his prisoner, there was no denying that his banter was impeccable. He had really put the hours in. In fact, at times, it sounded almost too rehearsed.

                "Save it for tomorrow. Those will make wonderful last words. Goodnight, Flying Squirrel."

* * *

                "Milton, you fiend, you've outdone yourself. This icing is evil incarnate!" The Captain reclined in his study with a thick, black slab of birthday cake. He had spent the morning poring meticulously over CCTV footage, and was immensely glad of a break for elevenses.

                "You're too kind sir. It's really just a simple ganache." The butler replied from the doorway. "Busy researching, sir?"

                The Captain groaned and slumped back in his chair.

                "Just come here and look at this. Tell me what you see."

                The monitor was displaying looped footage of Flying Squirrel's attempt to break into the Kamikaze estate. The recording showed him adequately negotiating the perimeter fence and entering the grounds, but then fleeing in apparent terror from a relatively modest contingent of guard dogs. Minutes later, security staff arrived to rescue him from the large stone water feature he had climbed to escape the hounds' snapping jaws. In the video, he appeared to put up only a token resistance, his body language expressing more gratitude than anything else as the henchmen cuffed him and bundled him into the back of a van. Quite a departure, mused the Captain, from the fire-eyed, acid-tongued crusader for justice he had faced off with in the interrogation room last night.

                "Well?" he enquired of his butler. "What do you see?"

                "What I see, sir," Milton sighed; "is a young man very taken with the idea of being a superhero, but who might do well to think about exploring a different avenue of employment entirely."

                "Yes." The Captain nodded slowly. "Tragic, isn't it? All that wasted time." The old butler's brow creased in thought.

                "Oh, I don't know about that, sir. I come from a long line of butlers. When I was a boy, there was never any doubt as to what would be my profession. To tell the truth, sir, I'm a little envious of those free to make their own mistakes." Milton straightened up, stepping away from the monitor. "No, sir, the real tragedy would be if that young man were to grow old and never find the courage to admit to himself that perhaps he got it wrong." He turned to the Captain, eyebrows raised. "Not much danger of that, though, sir; he'll be dead by the end of the day. You do still mean to execute him, sir?" The Captain was slow in realising he had been asked a question. When he replied, his tone was sombre and detached.

                "I... yes. Yes of course, Milton. Later today." Milton frowned.

                "If you don't mind me saying so, sir, you don't seem terribly excited about the idea. You could always postpone the plan if you're having second thoughts? Or cancel it entirely, even?" The Captain scowled.

                "Don't be ridiculous, Milton, of course I couldn't. Flying Squirrel will be executed today. What kind of a villain would reveal his darkest machinations to his nemesis, and then simply change his mind? Why, no kind of villain at all!"

                The butler apologised and went to prepare luncheon. The Captain's words hung in the air long after he had gone.

               

* * *

                Flying Squirrel's head turned with a stiffness symptomatic of a night spent tied to a chair. He winced as he watched the Captain pace around the room. The Captain failed to notice this and continued to pace, oblivious to the very mild torture he was inflicting on his charge.

                "Cut to the chase, Kamikaze. You villains are so indulgent."

                "You surprise me, Flying Squirrel. Are you so eager to die?" The Captain smiled. "A victory like this is to be savoured, like a fine brandy." He lifted his glass as though to take a sip, but thought better of it at the last moment and opted instead to hold it under his nose and inhale the noxious fumes with a self-satisfied expression on his face. "Mmm. A glorious bouquet." He turned and gazed out of the window, his back to the prisoner. In truth, he hadn't been savouring his victory in the slightest. He knew he should be, but he couldn't seem to focus on the task in hand.

                "Spare me the showboating, Captain. Consider it a last request."

                The young hero spoke like a man unafraid of death, but the Captain knew that if he turned to look at him he would see sweat-drenched hair, or a knitted brow, or trembling hands; tell-tale signs of fear. Perhaps, he reasoned, that would help him get into the spirit of things. Plus, if he whirled around quickly enough, his cape might do that sweeping thing he liked. Mustering all the malevolent grandeur at his disposal, he spun around to face his nemesis.

                His eyes came to rest on Flying Squirrel just in time to catch him absent-mindedly swinging his legs as they dangled over the edge of his seat.

                Of course, he stopped rather sheepishly as soon as he realised his captor could see what he was doing. The Captain sighed. He walked slowly across the room, and sat down heavily in the seat opposite the hero. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. 

                "Why do you do it?"

                Flying Squirrel looked blankly at him.

                "Do what?"

                "This. All of it. Why?"

                "Why?" The young hero was perplexed. "Well, obviously I needed to gain access to your estate if I was to stand any chance of foiling your..."

                "Nefarious scheme, yes, I know." the Captain interrupted. "I meant the whole thing. Heroism. Why?"

                "I... to... it falls to me to, to stand up for what's right..." Flying Squirrel faltered, his resolve shaken. The Captain had gone off-script. "People like me, we have to stand up. With great power, comes great..."

                "Yes, yes, I know." The Captain interrupted him for a second time. "It's just... would you say you had 'great power'? I mean, honestly?" Flying Squirrel's mouth fell open. "I don't mean to be rude." the villain added, worried he had hurt the young man's feelings.

                "That's not for me to say." came the solemn reply. "Heroes don't brag."

                "How convenient." The Captain sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. "I just mean... don't you ever wonder if you wouldn't be better off doing something else?"

                Flying Squirrel pursed his lips tightly, and a vein on his forehead began to stand out.

                "You can't get inside my head, Kamikaze. Fighting evil is my destiny."

                The Captain met his gaze, and saw in his defiant young eyes the burden of struggles past, and of struggles to come, and a familiar exhaustion. Grudgingly, he smiled.

                "If you say so." He stood again, crossing the room to stand behind his captive. "You talk a jolly good game, Flying Squirrel, I'll give you that." The hero sat, dumbstruck, as the Captain began to unfasten his restraints. "Now, talk is all well and good, and I wouldn't presume to know the first thing about superheroism. But, I will tell you something that a man who is very, very good at what he does once told me."

* * *

                "I must say, sir, this comes as quite the surprise. Are you not concerned that Flying Squirrel will foil your plans; knowing, as he now does, the fiendish intricacies of your design?"

                The Captain and Milton stood side by side at the study window, through which they could see the bewildered superhero effecting his escape across the grounds. The Captain watched him perform an unnecessary combat roll on the lawn, and then step on his own cape as he stood up, causing him to tumble over backwards.

                "No, not really, Milton." He turned from the window and sat down behind his desk. "Besides, I'm not so sure I'll be going ahead with my nefarious scheme after all." He looked up at his elderly butler's familiar face.

                "I see, sir. And what will you do instead?"

                "I haven't decided yet." The Captain leaned back, his hands behind his head. Milton raised his eyebrows.

                "Well, how terribly exciting. I daresay this calls for a celebration, sir. Shall I fetch you a drink?"

                "A splendid idea, Milton, that would be marvellous." The Captain watched his butler reach across the desk and pick up the brandy decanter. "I think perhaps a nice glass of orange juice. That is, if you wouldn't mind checking the pantry." Milton placed the decanter back down on the desk and smiled.

                "Very good, sir."

Avocados

Firstly, hello and welcome to my latest vanity project. This blog is, ostensibly, a place for me to consolidate my writing work and updates thereof, with a view to showing it off to people and saying "Look! Look at the thing I have done! Say it is good." Sometimes there will be stories. Sometimes there will be poems. Sometimes, there will be incoherent rambling and baseless accusations the likes of which you haven't heard since the year uncle Terry got himself banned from Christmas. You've so much to look forward to, and what's more; this is my first ever post, which means you've gotten in on the ground floor. You lucky little horseshoe crab, you. 

In honour of the occasion, I have decided to give away a poem critics are already calling 'his stupidest yet' and 'a triumph of redundancy'. I just call it 'Avocados'. It's sort of about avocados but not really, and you can watch a hastily recorded video of it featuring a very squeaky table right here:

And if you thought that was all, you're not getting off that lightly, I'm afraid. In continued celebration of a blog I can already see bringing untold entertainment to myself and a small cadre of my own pre-existing friends and family members for days, perhaps even weeks, to come; tomorrow I will be publishing a randomly determined painstakingly selected short story from my recent back catalogue, in full. I know, I know; don't all thank me at once. Feedback is, of course, always welcome. Please feel free to write positive feedback in the comments section, and any constructive criticism you may have to offer on a series of tiny pieces of scrap paper, which you can then insert one-by-one into your nasal cavity until you are dead. Trust me, I will get the message.

Well, that's about all from me for today. Thanks for reading; if anyone needs me I'll be in the bath, trying to wash all of this away.