Sparky Blake's Diary
By MatFlat
Friday 4th January 2000
Several days after the new Millennium, The apocalypse begins.
It must be at least a hundred and ten in here. Where am I. What is this place.
It is unbearably warm. If I was chasing a rampaging elephant through the
streets of Bombay in mid-September I don't think I'd be this heat struck. My
trainers are gradually becoming part of the floor as they continue to drag
heavy on my already exhausted body. A sweat bead begins to form on my brow and
starts it's journey towards my nose. It feels cool on the intense heat plateau
that is the ridge of my nose. But no. The coolingbead of sweat has run down the
arc of my nose and straight into my eyes.
It was all going wrong. The shades of pastel around me are beginning to merge
together in a retina squirming cacophony of subdued mental institute wall
colourings. Except that the people in this place had a purpose that was not
mental, but was on the verge of something similar. I could hear the masses
around me screaming and moving with deadly accuracy. They moved like ninja's,
but the eastern atmosphere was ruined when they opened their mouths. Ninja's
don't shout. And they don't have cockney accents.
People were moving all around me and I was starting to lose focus of my main
objective. Stand still. Make them move around you, not you around them. The
blurriness I had experienced, due to excess moisture in my eye, was beginning
to wear off. My vision equipment made the necessary compensations for my
surroundings. The colour around me was almost clinical. It reminded me of a
long forgotten trip to a public lavatory, in which the mellow hospital green
walls contradicted the intense smell of bleach that lingered whenever you went
in there. My eyes were burning and my nose tried to escape the intensity of the
odour.
This was not industrial bleach. It was far more potent than that. It was as if
I were trapped inside a tanker sized bottle of an Elizabeth Arden fragrance. I
could taste it on the back of my mouth. I had to seek sanctuary before it all
became to much. I needed to locate a rest area. I locked my focus on a leather
bound life preserver. To my joy there were others like me over there. They were
in bad shape. Slouched forward, reclining at impossible angles with
outstretched legs. Like prisoners of war who had had a good meal. I joined
them. Seeking silent solace in the fact that I was no longer alone in my agony
and pain.
Although over the course of the next ten minutes we would never talk to one
another, we knew exactly what each one of us was going through. Deep down we
understood the emotional fragility of the situation. We were all ready to
crack, but we had to be strong. Think of the children, we all thought in
unison. I was stranded with no place to go. My guide for this expedition had
somehow gotten away from me. The last thing I remember was her leaving to go to
the toilet in a fast food restaurant. Then all the people started to flock upon
me, making it difficult to see their faces. I was lost in a world I didn't
understand. There were people running into corridors and slamming doors. Then
appearing again in different disguises. It was all to much, too soon. I no
longer recognised anyone. They all looked the same. Consumers of a market that
was slowly losing it's grip on normality. This was not shopping. It was a
revamped version of an ancient roman gladiator contest. Only the strongest will
survive and all that. But our chosen weapons were not metallic objects of
destruction, shaped by craftsmen who took a pride in their work. We had been
given handbags made by sweatshop workers in which we kept our tools of
destruction. Such as wallets and purses containing plastic money cards lent to
us by the Emperor Julius Bankus Managerious. Keys that ignited the horse
powered chariots that drove us to the arena to face the madding crowd, and
bomber jackets that replaced the heavy metallic armor that adorned the
gladiator warriors of ancient history. Which instead of making us look strong,
merely mirrored history and made us look like the Pillsbury Dough boy. If you
listen hard enough you can hear the ancient armies of Rome laughing. Really
loud and hard. Well wouldn't you if you saw a guy in a bright yellow puffa
jacket, with gold chains hanging over his Ralph Lauren shirt, attempting to
beat a man eating tiger off with a mobile phone and gold sovereign covered
fingers.
Shopping is now an endurance test on modern man. With the emphasis on the
'man'. No longer are we the strong, barbaric, caveman, capable of lugging
sixteen dead cows over mountainous paths for forty days and forty nights to
feed our families. This is the January Sales. Our location: Laura Ashley. State
of mind: Dazed and confused. We were all in the same boat. The S.S Laura
Ashley. Fully decked out in twee curtain fringes and variations on the pastel
theme. This boat was on a one way voyage to middle age consumer hell. So what
was I doing in here. I was confused and lonely. The other battle weary soldiers
had been led away. Some kicking and screaming. The horror of the situation
began to dawn on me. I no longer wanted to be found. Maybe if I keep still and
low, no-one will notice I'm here. It reminded me of Vietnam. Not that I was
there, but if Platoon is anything to go by then war had been declared and I as
clearly an intruder on the enemies natural territory. It was a ridiculous war.
One which we could never win. I was an innocent casualty of a mindless and
senseless battle. I tried to resort to my natural survival tactics, but the
savage brutality that I had witnessed whilst on patrol in this jungle had given
me cause for concern. I decided it was time to leave.
Blending into the surroundings. Hiding from the predators that lay waiting,
silent, poised for the kill. I inched my way through the pastel bushes and
formica rocks until I could see the way out. There was an intense heat directed
down from opening that sounded like a battalion of Chinook helicopters heading
towards the settlement I was situated in. Were they coming to rescue me, or
would they prevent me from escaping. It was a make or break decision. A split
second to late could mean all the difference. There was an opening in the
pastel jungle. A chance for life. My body was paralyzed with terror. I felt
something holding me back. I couldn't move. I was being turned around. The
force was subtle but enough to make me take notice. Was I being captured. Who's
side was I on. Who's side were they on.
Visions of being chained and gagged. Left alone in the dark for days on end.
The captor constantly talking in a language that I didn't understand. Being
asked to do things that I wouldn't normally do. I would be talked about and
there would be laughter. The captor would go out for hours on end, leave me
without sustenance, bring back others and they would point at me and shout in
there own private language. I felt used. I turned to face my wife.
"Well. What do you think"?
"You look like a million dollars" I said.
It had only just begun.
The End
Copyright MatFlat 2000, All rights reserved
all characters are fictitious in this story and no reference is intended to any
person living or otherwise.
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