Jun 23, 2018
No show this am turned into a fun little piece. #helloimdan #danflash #anishinaabe #beaverclan @bollykk (at Sanctuary Tattoos)
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No show this am turned into a fun little piece. #helloimdan #danflash #anishinaabe #beaverclan @bollykk (at Sanctuary Tattoos)
Bears Laid Plans
“WHO’S been sleeping in my bed?”
Goldilox backed into the pod wall with a clatter. The three great, shaggy figures lurched and lumbered towards her, footsteps thumping on the carpeted floor- an unusual choice of décor for a spacecraft, but there wasn’t much about this place that was particularly normal.
“And WHO’s been sitting in my chair?” the middle, smallest figure continued, its face still somehow wreathed in shadow despite the gaudy over-lighting, its long claws extending and retracting with a snicker-snack, snicker-snack. Its voice barely above a hiss to Goldilox’s ears, yet filled with more venom and fury than a hundred screams.
“And WHO’S been eating my porridge, and has finished it all up?”
Goldilox’s mouth filled to choking point with all the things her brain wanted to say: We come in peace, we mean you no harm; we thought this oddly shaped and furnished ship had been abandoned; why am I suddenly gripped with an evolutionary impulse to offer you a marmalade sandwich?- but none of them could get past her dry lips.
“I- I-” Her diplomatic training kicked in. “Yes. It was me. I humbly apologise for any infringement of your privacy or customs. I just-”
“AND- was it delicious?”
“…What?”
The small figure stalked forward until it was mere feet from Goldilox, leaving its two larger brethren blocking the way out. “The porridge. Was it delicious? Did it slip over your tongue like silk? Was the chair soft as marshmallow, the bed like a mother’s embrace? Were they… perfect?”
“…Yes,” Goldilox breathed. It seemed so obvious now, yet it hadn’t even entered her mind until the creature had said it. “Perfect. That’s it. The porridge wasn’t just great, it was the best porridge I’ve ever eaten. That’s why I couldn’t stop myself until it was all gone. And the chair and the bed- it was like they’d been sculpted for me alone. The others were good, but… once I’d tried yours, I couldn’t think of anything else.”
It was true. As she’d explored the ship, she’d repeatedly found three alternatives of the same luxury- and always, while one was perfect, the other two had just one thing about them that seemed to ruin them. One of the chairs was a little too low to stretch her legs comfortably; the largest bed had a spring that dug right into the old laser-sword scar on her right shoulder. As for the porridge, one serving was distinctly too hot, and she had nothing to cool it with, not since the study into the detrimental effects of dairy products on the brain while in hyperspace had led to the banning of certain foodstuffs while off-world, as per Star Corps Directive #1977- In Space: No One Can Here Use Cream.
“Perfect,” the creature was nodding. “That is excellent. The final tests are now complete.” Its fur seemed to be shrinking back into its body, its fingers lengthening, its face twisting about itself. “All data on you has now been gathered. Your family, your career, your life. And now your tastes, your comforts. Everything that you are, we know.”
The creature’s shifting form seemed to be settling into a new shape. The black fur had twisted and tangled, locked itself together, and flushed the unmistakable deep blue of a Star Corps uniform. The head lifted itself up on a rapidly growing neck, a rush of golden hair cascading down its shoulders. It reached out a pale, slim hand and helped Goldilox to her feet, where she stood, staring dumbly into its eyes… her eyes. Her face.
The other Goldilox stared back coldly. Her two associates stepped out from behind her, claws outstretched as they raked the air, hungrily.
“Now we can begin.”
Eight and Blank (80)
New York, 1954.
The boy hung in his harness. Wires clung to his body like hungry eels, pinching at his temples, his wrists, his thighs. The constant, steady pump of energy and information went back and forth, back and forth. The boy did not resist. Not any more.
Two men stood before him. The boy was dimly aware that these were not the usual figures in white coats who usually ran back and forth. These were strangers. The boy felt an odd chill, which he didn’t quite have the capability to classify as fear. He didn’t like strangers. Strangers came from outside the lab. But the lab was all he knew. Outside could not- should not- be as real as the lab. The tiniest of sparks inside his hollow mind denied the reality of Outside. He felt better.
The men were talking.
“The subject is ready?”
“It is, although the specialists recommend waiting another few months.”
“Why?”
“They say a child’s natural curiosity and fairness may cause it to reject the programming. By the age of nine, the brain has a far greater capacity for greed. Paranoia. Cruelty. All the interesting bits.”
“But the programming can be done now?”
“Oh, yes. Aged eight, the subject is almost entirely a blank slate. We can fill it with whatever we wish.”
The first man nodded, and leaned forwards. The boy’s gaze swept dully over the hand on the lapel of the immaculate grey suit, the throat bobbing over the immaculate grey tie, the spectacles flashing on the immaculate grey face.
“And what we wish is something very special indeed, my friend. This subject, and its many siblings, will be the gateway to a new age for mankind. A final, perfect age. One where the strong will wade through the blood of the weak until only one great, global empire remains.”
He stepped back away from the light. Just for a second, the flashing lenses were replaced with two pits of pure darkness. “It doesn’t matter who wins. Whichever banner humanity ends up slaved to, it will be invincible. No matter how many centuries it takes to rebuild, their power will last.”
The other man had silently stood by while he made this speech. Now he spoke, placing his hands upon the bulky, whirring slab of a computer. “The programming is prepared. The orders are ready to be branded into the subject’s subconscious.”
“And this empty vessel will soon be filled with our purpose,” the grey man said, clasping his hands together. Out of the corner of a glazed gaze, the boy saw the other man roll his eyes and turn away. “Sowing chaos and fear throughout the decades, stirring mankind to hatred and hysteria, never even knowing its true mission.” The grey man cocked his head to one side. “My only concern is whether the subject itself is convincing. I mean, does it look real to you? The hair, the face… it seems only half-formed somehow.”
“We can correct the design flaws in future batches. This is only one of thousands. If it fails, there will always be another to take its place.” The second man hit a switch swiftly, before his colleague could open his mouth again. The wires thrummed with new life. The boy jerked like an incompetently controlled puppet. His limbs twitched, his muscles spasmed, as his mind began to fill with hate.
“Do you think we should give it a name?” The grey man said, over the grinding of the machines. “We can hardly call it ‘the subject’ forever.”
“Well, we haven’t set up a family for it yet, sir-” the second man was saying, when suddenly the boy’s head burst with a shard of brilliant pain, like white-hot barbed wire snagging on a nerve ending in his brain. His body went limp in its harness, all muscle functions shutting down.
There was silence in the lab as the two men held their breath, waiting to see if there was any permanent damage. Then, slowly, from the slumped, hanging figure, came the unmistakeable noise of passing gas, loud, raw and rude.
The grey man looked mildly at his colleague, who was clutching the computer for support. “We could always call him… Trump?”
The other man looked at him, his clear astonishment that the grey man had actually told a joke spreading across his face. Then suddenly, his mouth broke into a smirk, then a grin, then finally a spluttering geyser of laughter. The grey man began to laugh too.
Trump hung in his harness, barely alive, barely aware, as the sound of the two men’s laughter rang through the sparse, cold lab, echoing harsh and metallic as it went on, and on, and on. The sound of the future.
Baking Bad
Agent Truelove let the door of the interview room shut softly behind him as he surveyed the pair seated at the table. His young partner, Jack Wise, leant coolly back against the adjacent wall of the cramped, grey space, arms folded. Watching. Waiting.
“Did you really think we wouldn’t notice? Did you really think we were that stupid?” The elderly woman plucked nervously at the cuffs of her flowery blouse. Her male colleague merely gave his silver beard a single stroke and fixed Truelove with that impenetrable blue gaze.
The agent glowered back. “I mean, a cookery show? How much more unsubtle can you get?”
The gimlet stare didn’t falter. “It’s a baking show, actually.”
Truelove slammed his palms down on the table and leant in close. “I don’t care. Point is, we were watching. We’re always watching. Do you really not realise that the secret service keeps the BBC under constant surveillance, waiting for any move it makes to spread the poison of its disgusting left wing bias-”
“I thought it was its disgusting right wing bias?” Agent Wise piped up.
Truelove shot him a glare. “What?”
“I thought it was their terrible right wing bias we were protecting Britain from. You know, always giving the government airtime, acting as if they own the country, that kind of thing.”
The older agent took a step back, scratching his temple. “Is it not their sickening left wing drivel? You can’t move for leftie ‘celebrities’ bleating on about free speech and political correctness and encouraging people to try dangerous things like think for themselves.” His face clouded suddenly. “Whatever! It’s irrelevant right now! What matters is that your vile baking show is somehow brainwashing millions of viewers every week!”
Wise shook his head disgustedly. “In its very title, it claims to speak for all of Great Britain. A dictatorial mentality if ever I heard one.”
The woman smiled. Truelove found himself catapulted back down forty years of memory to summer afternoons on his grandmother’s knee. “I don’t know what you mean, gentlemen. It’s just a bunch of amateur bakers having some charmingly spiffing fun. Harmless.”
“Except for the rubbish ones,” her colleague said, his voice blunt, Northern; his sapphire gaze still locked with Truelove’s.
Truelove reached under the table and pulled out a stack of papers. “So you deny this evidence of your traitorous activities?”
The woman leaned forwards. “Why, those are just our recipes! Some of them I’m jolly proud of, too. Lovely stuff.”
“You admit it!” Truelove snarled. “Your recipes, which you encourage members of the public to try! Innocent taxpayers money, forced from their hands to fund this filth!”
“What do you mean, sir?” said the woman, drawing her bright blazer a little tighter around her.
Truelove grabbed a page at random. “What about this one- fairy cakes?! A blindly obvious attempt to further the BBC’s gay agenda! Encouraging homosexuality in the nation’s children!”
“Oh, is that what it is?” asked Wise. “I thought it was a call to arms to bake homosexuals in a sugary, buttery deathtrap. Y’know, fairy cakes- cakes with fairies in them.”
Truelove’s eye twitched. “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to see that their commie-”
“-Or fascist-”
“-plot ends here and now.”
“But this is ridiculous!” protested the woman. “They’re just recipes! There is no BBC plot!” The man next to her nodded, an infuriating smirk growing behind his beard.
Truelove sneered and selected the paper from the top of the bundle. “Really. So, what do we have here? A recipe for Marble Cake, is it? Or could it be your most devious plan to wreak chaos and destruction?”
The woman sat back, sucking in on her suspiciously perfect teeth. For the first time, the man blinked. Truelove smiled and began to read:
4 Eggs 225g Butter 225g Flour 225g Sugar 50g Polonium-210 2tbsp Cocoa Powder 3tbsp Milk 1 Lemon
“And you thought we wouldn’t notice.”
“Ah…”
“You don’t put lemon in Marble Cake!” Truelove smiled triumphantly. “You use vanilla! So, what, I ask myself, is the lemon for?” From his pocket, the agent produced something yellow. “And then I remembered something John Noakes once said. About invisible ink.”
Slowly, deliberately, he squeezed the lemon over the recipe. As all four of them leaned in to watch, words began to appear between the lines.
“I knew it,” Truelove breathed. “A plot to steal the Elgin Marbles and ship them back to Greece. Just the kind of pro-Europe, foreigner-loving nonsense that could bring this country to its knees.”
“…Or,” suggested Wise, “A cunning double bluff to stir up racist bile and force us into a xenophobia- driven international incident.”
“Whatever it is, the BBC sickens me. Marxist-”
“-Or Nazi-”
“-Scum.”
“Although…” Wise said, frowning a little. “Where did you say you learnt the lemon trick?”
“Er… John Noakes. Must have been an old Blue Peter.”
Wise’s eyes widened. “A BBC programme?”
“Well, yes, but…”
Wise laid a firm hand on Truelove’s shoulder. “I’m going to have to ask you to come with me, sir.”
“What are you playing at, agent?”
“You know the rules, sir. Anyone who learns anything from the BBC is automatically an enemy of our organisation.”
Truelove tried to shrug Wise off, but the younger man held fast. “Don’t struggle, sir. You know our policy on… ‘education.’ I’m afraid it’s off to the reconditioning centre for a corrective dose of Loose Women.”
All but forgotten, the pair of captives waited until Truelove’s pleas for mercy had died away. The woman was discreetly shredding the incriminating recipe. The man shook his head. “People like that will never win. You can tell from their faces- soggy bottoms, the lot of them.”
Macbeth MP
“We will proceed no further in this business!” Macbeth gestured impatiently at his wife as she stalked around the constituency office. She wheeled on him. “And you call yourself a man?” she sneered. “But if we should fail-” “You really think we’re going to fail? With the power of those three great oracles on our side? The Guardian, The Telegraph and The Sun- they all say you should have been elected leader instead of that senile leftie old fool!” Macbeth considered this. Those same papers had correctly predicted that he would move in the last election from the marginal constituency of Glamis to become MP for the safe seat of Cawdor. Maybe they weren’t wrong here, either… He frowned miserably. “But Duncan King’s such a nice bloke, though.” “Nice bloke nothing! He’ll keep us in opposition for decades with his socialist ramblings! He’s completely unelectable!” Macbeth shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Unelectable? What about that huge majority he got in the leadership election?” His wife threw back her head and scoffed, her expensive perm wobbling violently. “Exactly! What a farce that was! Elected by the people! What have the people got to do with elections?” Macbeth reached up to pluck nervously at his red tie, then remembered he had left it off in an effort to seem Cool and With It and other things he hadn’t tried to be since that incident at University when he got cocaine in his ears and ended up deaf for a week. His wife was still talking. She was good at that. His PR people were trying to persuade her to start a vlog. “His Marxist nonsense is taking us further and further away from the other Westminster parties! No-one will take us seriously! No business will want to back us! Whoever heard of a successful left-leaning party in Britain today?” “Well, there’s the SN-” Mrs Macbeth clamped a hand over her husband’s mouth in one jerky motion. “Don’t say it! Don’t say their name! Just call them… The Scottish Party.” She waited until he had nodded obediently before removing her hand. “Let’s face it… for the good of the party, we’ve got to get rid of him. Permanently.”
Macbeth tiptoed through the hallway of his party leader’s house, still not entirely sure how he’d been talked into this. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to be leader. It seemed a lot of hassle, thinking up new ways to make the opposition’s ideas and policies sound sufficiently different when you stole them to use yourself. And there were whole new groups of people you had to think about that you could ignore as a constituency MP. The Poor, for example. No, he had to get a grip! The papers were behind him. The party was behind him. His wife was behind him… The knife was in his hand. He knocked on the office door…
Mrs Macbeth recoiled violently, flattening herself against the wall. She stared at her husband, who was breathing hard and fast, his eyes shining. “He managed to get the knife off me, so I had to smack him over the head with the bust of Lenin. Even then he took a while to go. You wouldn’t expect it, at his age. What do we do with the body?” She brought a spasming hand to her mouth, desperately trying to swallow down the vomit long enough to sob out a reply. “What the hell have to done?” A brief look of confusion flitted across his face. “What you told me to do. We’re rid of him. Permanently.” “You’ve killed him, you mad bastard! I thought you were just going to threaten him with a backbench rebellion, blackmail him into standing down! Not… not… Jesus Christ, you mad bastard…” “…Oh.” Macbeth tried to say more, but found there was nothing more to say. Very slowly, very sheepishly, he put down the bloodied bust…
It was two weeks later. Macbeth was due at his first official shadow cabinet meeting as Leader of the Opposition. The police were still no closer to finding out how Duncan King’s body had ended up wrapped in a carpet somewhere off the M6. That afternoon, he would be meeting with the Prime Minister to discuss greater unity between the parties in the face of a House of Lords rebellion. Life seemed good. If only his wife would stop crying… “On, damned spot. On… on…” she was murmuring to herself as she rocked back and forth on the bathroom floor. Macbeth leant over her, trying to see what she was doing, just as the rose-emblazoned party badge slipped from her nerveless fingers once more. “It won’t stay on,” she was muttering, barely above a whisper. “The spot won’t stay on, and all the perfumes of Arabia just smell of burning buildings. What do Weapons of Mass Destruction smell like? Difficult to smell something that isn’t there. Why won’t my hands stay red?!” Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe it was that Macbeth himself hadn’t been getting as much sleep as he’d pretended. But it seemed that, as his wife bent to pick up the red badge for the umpteenth time, it did seem- impossibly, undeniably- that the skin of her hands, like a blush of cold, was gradually turning a familiar shade of blue…
Precambrian Park
People travelled the length of continents to see it.
Some even managed to make the return journey.
This was nothing new; in this modern age of the new, exciting generation of theme parks, an attraction that didn’t result in at least a few fatalities within its opening week was regarded with the same disinterested eye as a video game without explosions, or a government without a sex scandal. People never thought it would happen to them, for some reason. One of the most dangerous flaws in the human condition is the tendency to go through life seeing oneself as the square-jawed, charismatic leading man, or the glamourous, sassy heroine. In truth, of course, most people are lucky to make it onto the cast list of the universe as “Panicked Bystander #3.” And even in this subversive twist on the genre, some things never change.
The Park achieved its first piece of notoriety during the opening ceremony, when five people, including the mayor, suffocated in the carbon dioxide- rich atmosphere, having failed to pay attention in the safety briefing about their protective suits. Later, there were three more tragically unavoidable accidents in the magma flows of the Hadean Helter-skelter.
But these teething problems were incidental. People came to see what they had always come to see since Prehistoric Recreation had become so popular: Life. And in that, the Park’s designer and creator had surpassed himself.
The hipsters came first, but quickly left when they realised it was popular. Next came the fans of the creator’s earlier work, anxious to be the first to read into whatever deep, hidden meaning he was making about society. After a while, they got bored and went on the Mesoproterozoic Merry-go-round, in the hope that someone would be crushed by a glacier. But gradually the crowds came, came to stare at the blank, featureless landscape before them, and read pamphlets on the microscopic single-celled lifeforms that they knew were there. Somewhere.
Guides would take tours across the barren plains, leading trudging tribes of tourists across dismal rock devoid of grass or trees, giving stirring speeches about how there should be basic multicellular worms somewhere under the surface, but they had probably died weeks ago since scientists didn’t actually know enough about them to keep them alive.
There was even a green screen area where punters could have their photo taken looking up at a superimposed image of a newly formed moon, keeping the industry of novelty postcards for relatives you rarely spoke to alive for another year.
And the public lapped it up; far more than the art lovers or the critics did. The key thing is that if you tell an ordinary member of the public that something is Art, they expect it to be shit: that’s what makes it Art. Once they accept the shitness as a given, it becomes a mildly diverting day out with the kids, with only a minimal risk of death. Plus, of course, you get to rub it in Barry from the office’s face that you’ve been to see some Art.
So millions came, and millions spent their money. The grotty little seaside town where the creator had decided to set up camp found its economy rejuvenated and its name famous worldwide. Everyone was happy, apart from the hipsters, which just made everyone else even happier.
And the creator’s name was held higher than ever. As the survivors staggered out of the Park gates, their starved senses momentarily stunned by the sheer existence of anything at all, they looked back on their day at Precambrian Park, and smiled. Smiles of relief, admittedly; smiles of joy that it was over at last, but smiles nonetheless, and an appreciation and respect for… something or other. They’d work out what later.
Banksy had done it again.
A Welcome Break
The sun beat gently down on another perfect day. For the contented citizens of Peacetown, the air was not too hot, nor too cold, but agreeably warm. Birds soared through a sky that was neither too cloudy, nor too empty, but was instead the epitome of picturesque. The flowers which sprung forth along the side of every road presented a most agreeable assortment of colours and hues that every passer-by could readily concur was “very nice.”
It was a perfect day. Just like the perfect yesterday that had preceded it, and just like the perfect tomorrow that was to come.
“Atchoo!”
Rob B looked over his console in the weather control room at Tom E, from whom the extraordinary noise had erupted. “Blair-sue,” he intoned solemnly.
Tom E tilted his head to one side. “I beg your pardon.”
“It is a saying used by our ancestors, before the Enbrightenment. It is used in response to a-” Rob B’s fingers waggled in mid-air- “‘sneeze,’ such as you have just suffered. I believe it originates from an event when the entire population of a country united to take legal action against a former leader for his corruption, greed and war crimes. The phrase thus means ‘to fight against injustice and misfortune.’ Blair-sue.”
“I bow once more to your historical knowledge,” said Tom pleasantly. “But my current state is no misfortune. Rather, it is a quite fascinating consequence of my Summer Holiday.”
“Ah, yes, of course! Did you have a wonderful time?”
“I did not,” replied Tom. “The whole week was utterly ghastly. A complete dump.”
“You’d recommend it, then?”
“Absolutely! Take the whole family- I guarantee you’ll regret it.”
“I can’t remember when I last took a Summer Holiday- excuse me,” said Rob, turning away from his colleague to deal with the small robot that had just flown up to him with a problem that needed his urgent attention.
Technically, the main duty of the weather control technicians was to press a button at a co-ordinated time when everyone was safely indoors that made it rain fiercely, whereupon everyone would gather at their windows and utter traditional mottos such as ‘Would You Look At That- Typical Summer Shower,’ or ‘Glad I’m Not The Poor Sod Out In That.’ However, studies had shown that such simple work was not conductive to employee job satisfaction. Thus, mistakes and errors were deliberately made in the meteorological programming for the technicians to puzzle over for a time before solving- always caught, of course, before the effects of such faults could be felt in the outside world.
Rob B busied himself at his console for a few moments, before looking back up. “I do apologise,” he said. “You were telling me about your Summer Holiday.”
“Indeed. We went to the town of Scarred Borough, in the north of England. A most engagingly bleak place.” Tom E paused to sneeze again. “We stayed right opposite the National Misery Museum, in fact.”
“That must have been interesting.”
“Not at all. Rows of glass cases either mysteriously empty or so caked with damp it was impossible to see into them. Particularly impressive was the ‘audio tour’, which for no discernible reason was conducted via a huge and obsolete lump of plastic, and whose commentary inexplicably bore no connection to the exhibits in front of us.” Tom sighed deeply at the memory.
“A most intriguing-sounding place. But I’m still interested in how you acquired this sickness of yours. You’ve been sniffing and coughing all morning. I was becoming moderately concerned for you.”
“Blame the weather, my friend! Rain and wind, every day, but somehow always when you least expected it! And the cold- proper, unscheduled cold, rolling off the sea, nothing like the official snowtime during Winterval Week.” Tom waved his arms enthusiastically, then paused, frowning. “Aah… aah... ATCHOO!” Mucus flew from his nose and hit the floor, where it was instantly surrounded by cleaner robots and destroyed in a controlled explosion.
“Surely anywhere by the sea can’t be that bad,” reasoned Rob. “I’ve read about such places in the pre-Enbrightenment days. People used to build castles of sand and go on monkey rides. It sounded most fun.”
“Not the sea in Scarred Borough. I’ve never seen so many shades of grey! At least forty-nine. We went further north in the end to get away from it- ended up going to the War of Independence Visitor Centre.”
“Oh, is that the War of Independence between the English and the Scotlish?” asked Rob B, anxious to show off more of his historical knowledge.
“The very same. Apparently, the English were famous the world over for their misery and bitterness, but the Scotlish felt that their own brand of self-loathing and depression was being overlooked. They wanted a chance to be barely tolerated by the international community on their own merits. So, they went to war, and the whole thing only ended when the Scotlish bred a giant sturgeon to swim up the Thames and devour the English.”
“Such fascinating lives they led pre-Enbrightenment!” marvelled Rob B. “Can you imagine living in such unhappiness that they didn’t even need to go on Summer Holiday to get it?”
Tom E nodded. “Still, the best thing about going on Holiday from the Summer is that it’s always nice to get home. Really very…” He gazed out of the window at the city beyond, searching for the one perfect word that could sum up the eternal summer paradise before him. “…Nice.”
Articulate
“Ug,” said Bug.
“Ug-ug,” agreed his brother Aarp, feelingly.
The two homo sapiens gazed proudly at the drawing painstakingly scrawled by Bug onto the dank cave wall, a rendering in delicate blotches of plant dye and filth of an antelope in graceful flight as a sabre-toothed tiger pursued it over the edge of a cliff.
“Gug!” said Bug, who was named not only for his favourite snack, but also for the way he could blend into the foliage while out hunting.
“Ug,” nodded Aarp, who was named after his flatulence problem.
Bug turned to the shorter, squatter figure in attendance, and gestured at the wall with a hairy arm bristling with muscles and lice. “Urg?”
“Well, I think it’s a particularly powerful commentary on the state of our current world, with some pleasingly abstract touches,” said Tarquin the Neanderthal. “I would worry that perhaps there is a hint of plagiarism from Ig-Pig the Nutsmiter’s early work ‘Tragedy of an Unfaithful Woman’ –although fortunately sans the rather politically incorrect attitudes and thoughts towards female cavepersons- but you really have put your own stamp on it, particularly in the brushwork- er, fingerwork.”
Bug drooled wisely.
“It really does have an inspirational power, an energy. I can instantly tell your intention was to get the viewer to consider the apeman condition, the fleeting nature of life.”
Aarp passed wind and tried to focus on the conversation, having been distracted by the talk of politically incorrect thoughts about female cavepersons, which he thought sounded rather fun.
“But it’s the framing of the piece that says the most. You’ve painted a picture of an antelope in a cave, whereas of course- ha, ha!- antelopes don’t live in caves! Thus, it creates a sense of things being out-of-place, which serves as a powerful metaphor for our transitory way of life! I’m sure you agree?”
Bug contemplated Tarquin’s words, nodded once, then hefted his club and smashed the Neanderthal over the head, cracking open his skull and smacking his brains across the dingy cave, ruining any hope for future palaeontologists to determine that a smaller cranium did not necessarily mean a less complex neurological construction. This, sadly, did not unduly bother Bug, whose chief interests were sex, meat and poo, beating the scientific analysis of his activities and legacy by future generations into a depressing fourth place.
“Uggin,” he told Aarp, and the two of them ambled outside to see if putting their hands into fire would hurt as much as it did the last forty-nine times.
MORAL: Nobody likes a smarty-pants, especially not artists being told about their own work’s ‘deeper meaning.’