ACME — Chapter Three (REDACTED)

Written in Stone (typed in microsoft word)

Lee David Tyrrell

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Push button. His dusted, dated desktop Dell chugged into gear as if governed by churning teams of cogs. Force slow legs stand, shimmy into kitchen. He always avoided the creaking floorboard, but — as his health began to reflect his age — he couldn’t help the strained sinew in his back from moaning its own geriatric protest. Stub fucking toe on old, cracked dog bowl. Water everywhere, cold and shell-shocked feet. An eternally broken digit, fractured under apathy and never healing through incompetence. Even a hamster could learn to avoid hazards more reliably. Quick, inefficient mop; kettle boil. Brown granules bounce off ceramic. Gleefully sweet crystalline sisters rain almost endlessly from above, fuelling a creative fire sputtering its death rattle embers. Stir. Stir. Stir. Hate this part, steam stings palm. Kitchen roll around base of mug. Absorbent landmass, invaded by a murky liquid empire. Caffeine tendrils clawing out, a household Mandelbrot; a metaphor, a symbol.

Take seat, knees hurt. Self-pity, always my downfall. Notice itch in moustache. A flaked corn prisoner scraping at the walls of a hairy cell, its bars sticky; memorial effervescence from previous swills of sugary chemical nectars. Pick it out. Carry on. At least the filth is still mine. Too crusted to eat it again, sip fresh, boiling coffee. A routine. A schedule? No, he adhered to this whirl of squalor too strong for that. A way of life, thoughtless ideology. Hand on mouse, smooth as ever. Roll to Documents, trawl through folders. Georgie B. Ovine, ridiculous name. Sigh. Shake head. Double click. Old computer pauses to load. An entire life’s blood down to a handful of megabytes, sitting dead and pointless in a binary throne. Documents, sorted, filed, dates, seasons, characters. Clicking furiously, quick draw; an old tradition.

Petey Porksworth. No tears yet, large unforgiving weight in chest; tease my stomach. A very real feeling. A very real emotion. A very fictional subject. A very grateful creation, blooming from his earliest animations, squealing obliviously — silently — for the signal of his promised demise.

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Lee David Tyrrell

Fiction writer, mostly attracted to sci-fi and strange, experimental tangents. I’ve also worked as a music journalist for Clash, eGigs, eFestivals & C64 Audio.