Thanks for your kind words!
I need to think this through a bit more but as a draft it seems to be working in some places, which is what I want.
Novel Treatments / Bardimax - Chapter 3 excerpt
I am loitering with intent on an industrial estate. It sounds dreary, but it’s far better than loitering in a tent on an industrial estate. Before me, the ZygniaPharma complex squats in all its tinted glass glory.
What secrets it has seen . . . what secrets it must know even now . . .
I’m here, freezing off my more important appendages, all because the lady loves Milk Tray. No, it’s because Rachel left a voicemail to meet her outside the gates. A peculiar request indeed but, it being Rachel, it must be important.
Yet I am alone, bar the pavement twinkling back at me under the emerald sky. The forecast is for – 5°C, and it must already be below zero because overhead even the pink clouds have disappeared to reveal a night still, a sky tainted only by the wispy vapour trails of dickheads booked on winter holidays to Ibiza. Stranded in the Dracula friendly pre-dawn slot I breathe out lungfuls of moist air, but when this (and my fake handlebar moustache) fail to warm me, I begin to think of all those men, men like Uncle Joe, who flew across the Channel on desolate nights like this in their Lancasters . . . and never returned.
I seem to stand around for ages, but there’s no Rachel. Maybe she, too, stood outside freezing, before deciding to go through Security? Or perhaps she arrived early, didn’t see me and just went in? I consider the possibilities and hang around a bit more, pacing up and down the bleak pavement flags partly to warm me up, but mainly because I remember seeing Starsky and Hutch do it on a stakeout.
I remember the journey.
Uncle Joe dropped me off outside ZP almost an hour ago but it might as well be a decade ago, I feel so old. He drove like an utter granddad, which is truly bizarre as he’s only an uncle. What is it with old people and driving? They drive for 40 years or more yet wake up one day, creak their bones into the car and – Hey Presto! – are instantly useless on the road, as though it’s their first ever day behind the wheel. Perhaps it’s hair colour? Maybe when hair turns white the brain releases a chemical to make you drive like Stevie Wonder in a neck brace?
When Unc drove his Land Rover through the country lanes he changed gears adeptly, used his mirrors from time to time and even kept a safe distance from the vehicles in front. But his incompetent behaviour is one I’ve noted before and the odd thing about old people is, being ancient, you’d think they’d want to reach their destination sooner. They’re nearer to death, so why don’t they drive faster to get there earlier? In case they die en route? ‘Drive according to the road conditions’ says the Highway Code. But of course they never do. You see the car in the distance, the latest Nissan Micra oldsmobile, and when you change up from first gear and catch it up, the bald head or mad tufts of sprouting white catch your eye. And what are they doing? They are driving through a congested urban area doing exactly 28 mph in a 30 mph zone. Fair enough you think; they are law-abiding citizens and have every right to stick to the speed limit in a hazardous area. So you follow them through the urban spaghetti and eventually it fades out and becomes something resembling the countryside (where there are more pigs than people and Satan worship and interbreeding aren’t just headlines in the paper). The land opens up and the speed limit changes from 30 to 60. What does the law-abiding 28 mph old biddy do now? They stay at exactly 28 mph. 28 in a 60! This is why we have road-rage; this is why we have accidents regardless of advanced highway design, speed cameras and sat-nav; this is why there are deaths on the roads despite seat belts, ABS and airbags. The country is not awash with GTI drivers nudging 60 in second gear; it is awash with old duffers who think slow equals safe. Speed does not kill; inappropriate speed does. And the killer inappropriate speed is driving too slowly, not too quickly. The prosecution rests, m’lud . . .
I spot a figure lurking in the shadows. The spectre floats my way. Wow, she’s a hooker! Like leprechauns, fairies and honest politicians, I’ve never seen a real one before. It’s a freezing statue night for business, but she’s wearing the full gear: thigh-high boots; what look like fishnets; a skirt only just covering her bum; and – bizarrely – a pair of shades. She’s seems like a brunette with long hair and also sports a beret in what under the streetlamp orange glow I take to be red. French? Peut-être.
She spots me. Without revealing any intentions she slinks my way. She seems a little confused, as if all dressed up but nowhere to blow.
Nerves dance around my stomach. What if she talks to me? What do I do? What do I say? What do you say to a prostitute?
‘Weather’s nice for the time of year?’
‘Do you come here often?’
‘How much do you charge for an ass-fuck?’
Of course, I’d never ever say this, because I always check the weather forecast before I go out.
She stops in front of me, corkscrews of breath spiralling from her nostrils, black impenetrable sunglasses hiding her emotions. Looking for business in this temperature she must be a brave, brave woman, and when she takes a long drag on a short cigarette I know she is.
I realise the life expectancy of a prostitute in our drug-soaked AIDS-ridden ‘gangsta’ world will never hit 120, but has she not heard of lung cancer?
She looks me up and down. ‘What you after, guv?’ she says, in a Cockney accent. If I was at the (seemingly mandatory) red-bulb-lit brothel, I’d have expected her to follow up this comment with, ‘Get up them apples and let’s have a butchers at your stick of rock, me old china!’ but instead – after a lifetime-silence – she says, ‘What do you want?’
Double cheeseburger and fries is what I want on a frozen night but I don’t tell her because I don’t want to offend the poor girl. She might be a vegetarian.
‘I charge twenty for head,’ she says, before I even think of opening my mouth. ‘Interested?’
Interested? Do bulls orgasm at the sight of red rags? ‘Yes, I’ll give it a go.’
The hooker laughs, why I’m not sure. Is £20 too much? Am I being ripped off? Or does she want a VAT receipt or something?
‘Do you swallow?’
She laughs again. ‘Is that what you like?’ I don’t answer and when the slice of time allocated to my response floats away she doesn’t laugh any more. ‘What do you think of my outfit?’
‘Gorgeous,’ I say, without, it seems, even thinking. At point-blank range her boots are not only thigh-high but black, that shiny black you only seem to find with fetish PVC black thigh-high boots (probably). Her tights are the pukka fishnets and attractive they are too, showing off her shapely legs. Her skirt is also non-existent, just like her bottom, which is tiny, Kylie-like. I retrieve a £20 note from my pocket. ‘About the blowjob?’
For some strange reason she removes her shades. And for some even stranger reason staring back at me is Rachel my PA.
Shit.
Shit raised to the power of shit multiplied by shit an infinite number of shit times. ‘Yeah . . . you, erm, were really convincing. That’s it, you had me fooled, really you did.’ I don’t know if Rachel buys my bluster but for some reason the night no longer feels as desolate. Perhaps it’s because only about four of my eight pints of blood are in my cheeks. Don’t ask where the other four pints are.
‘Shall we go to the party?’ says Rachel, in her normal ‘non-Cockney’ voice.
I nod, because even in sub-zero temperatures Rachel is ladylike enough to overlook my mental instabilities and spare my embarrassment. I also try not to appear like some sex-craved pervert who sleeps with women so infrequently he has erections whenever he uses Google and types ‘fellatio’. Still, it’s worth firing up Google and typing in ‘fellatio’ just to see what comes back. No, wait, I can guess what comes back.
‘It looks like you’re a sex-craved pervert who sleeps with women so infrequently you have erections simply by typing rude words. Office Assistant can help you compose a pornographic wish-list of naughty words to use during work hours for masturbatory purposes. First, tell me how you plan to jack off: watching Baywatch repeats; using a Tony Blair novelty glove puppet; very quickly indeed.’
‘Very quickly indeed.’ Oh dear, was that my voice?
‘Come on!’ says Rachel. ‘Tonight I’m gonna party like it’s 1999!’
‘But it is 1999.’
‘Exactly!’ She grabs my hand and squeezes it like we’re teenage lovers. ‘Time for some real fun.’
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Maud reviewed Version 1 -
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Must have liked the last chapter because I’m back to read this one, although I’ll try to remember it’s not set in New York.
In the first line your play on ‘intent’ and ‘tent’ went right over my head. It’s cute but the reader better be paying attention or, like me, she’ll have to do a couple of retakes. The shot at old drivers hurt, but it was also funny—although a trifle overdone. Sometimes you can try to get to much out of a gag.
I thought having the prostitute be Rachel in disguise worked well, I never saw it coming. Wonder if he really would pay a hooker for a blow-job when he’s out in the freezing cold waiting for someone to go into a party. He must have been very horny.
Thought the way you dealt with the cigarette was funny, but even more importantly it was also clever.
I thought this scene moved along better than the scene with Angela, it seemed to flow better. Will be looking forward to actually getting into the story line which you’ve said involves a global conspiracy. So far both sections have been Matt interacting with women and shooting off one-liners or sexual references. If there is too much of this it might get in the way of moving the story along.
The piece does have some funny lines. Thanks for sharing.
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Blue_Eyes reviewed Version 1 -
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This carries on with the brilliance displayed in the last chapter. Again, I really appreciate the large amounts of dialogue in the piece, as it makes the characters that much more accessible and believable, in my opinion. It is an interesting story all around, and I look forward to reading even more. Keep up the good work, my friend! :)
tstone reviewed Version 1 -
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”...tainted only by the wispy vapour trails of dickheads booked…”—nice.
the paragraph about ‘old drivers’ is very funny. you might, since you’ve got an open narration, go ahead and let the reader know that you’re breaking off on a tangent for a moment, then come back into the narrative.
”...takes a long drag on a short cigarette…”—love it.
I think i’ve read everything you’ve posted here. and i’m liking it. it’s kind of hard to follow along, though, since i’m only seeing excerpts. so i hope this is helping. you’ve got a dark plot going on here, but with enough humor to keep it fun. good job balancing the two.
Pyrasaur reviewed Version 1 -
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The style is very entertaining—I’m a fan of showy comedic narrative like this, and Matt’s rapid-fire, punchy jokes certainly kept me happy. I’m a little baffled at how a style like this will work with the saving-the-general-population-from-evil-pharmeceutical-conspiracy plot, though. I have a hard time imagining this rollicking comedy meshing very well with serious intent for the good of humanity. Or maybe I’m misunderstanding your synopsis? This piece is a comedy, you say, so maybe any synopses you make should have a lighter feel, so as not to mislead the reader. I’d definitely be interested to read on, though, just to see where this is all going.
Awake_At_Last reviewed Version 1 -
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Good show of humor. Sarcasm, as in your depiction of elderly drivers, and puns take away some of the sting of the industrial setting. It might be advisable to reign the talk of elderly-driving habits in a bit, perhaps making it only one paragraph, unless it relates to other parts of the story. I LOVE Rachel’s entrance, and its lead-in. Your gift of humor is very engaging. This piece will work well as a part of a larger piece of fiction.
xtx reviewed Version 1 -
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Overall I feel as if it was trying to be more funny than it actually is, what with the complaints of how old people drive that seemed to me to be a bit overdone and such. Also, despite her sexy clothing, I do not believe that the protagonist would not recognize his friend rachel simply because she was wearing sunglasses. Furthermore, when he says “Weather’s nice for this time of year”, “Do you come here often”, “How much do you charge for an ass-fuck”, I believe that was only in his head, as possible things he might say to her, but this could have been made a little more clear, as it then put into question whether the rest of the dialogue was in his head or actually spoken aloud. And the description of him as a sex-crazed pervert who gets off by typing dirty words doesn’t entirely work. It may be that this is only a portion of a chapter, but it feels incomplete as a chapter in and of itself, leaving me wanting more. This is also a good thing, as it held my interest, and kept my attention. I’m also interested in seeing the significance of setting it in 1999…
VirtualSun reviewed Version 1 -
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Lots of nice irony in this chapter.
I like how the hooker’s “what do you want?” echoes receptionist Angela from the previous chapter. This is the kind of male protagonist I can relate to (i.e. a loser).
Google originated in 1999, so it wasn’t nearly the popular household word it is today. It seems a bit unlikely it’d just pop into his head if he was living in 1999.
The digression about the driving habits of the elderly was a bit long, but quite funny. I think it could be tightened up a bit.
I’m still wondering where the plot is going, but I really am enjoying this novel so far.
NancyAllen reviewed Version 1 -
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The part about the old drivers goes on and on and on and is a little boring. I really couldn’t connect it to anything. Where Rachel acts like a prostitute to fool the narrator is funny. I don’t know what the relationship between is it Greg, and Rachel has been in the past. Is this party they are going to going to move the investigation forward? Not bad writing.
saveusjeebus reviewed Version 1 -
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This is funny and amusing, definitely a bit in the Douglas Adams vein. One thing that I think it is important to avoid is schtick – waxing Seinfeldian about old people driving is going to derail the character narrative, which is the strongest point of the piece. A flashback with some light asides would be appropriate, and still allow you to conserve the best parts of the humor.
Humor wise, I think yours works best in those short, quick fire moments. What many humor writers lack is a sense for story and character, and you have these talents; you should not waste them on long stretches that do little to advance either. For example, I found the part “French? Peut-etre.” to be the funniest part in the entire story, whereas the small rant about googling fellatio was much less amusing. Use your wit to color the story, allow yourself an occasional indulgence, and tell a fun tale
AcidOblivion reviewed Version 1 -
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Well, first off, I’m not going to pretend I’m a grand critiquing genius, because I’m not. This is the opinion of an 18 year old Canadian. Keep it in mind.
First off, the humour in this piece is just outstanding. You had me chuckling to myself as I reviewed the piece.
I’m not sure why, but the line, “Shit raised to the power of shit multiplied by shit an infinite number of shit times”, got to me more then the rest of the excerpt.
One thing I did notice though, was the bit of a rant your character goes on about ancient drivers.
Now, I’m not saying I don’t agree, because I do utterly and absolutely, but the point I’m trying to make is that it is a tad bit off of the main path.
He goes off on a tangent about old people driving 28mph in a 60 zone, and it kind of distracts from the main comedy of the writing.
All in all though, I loved it.
And, if you decided to fully publish it, I’d most likely buy it and give ‘er a read.
Best wishes to you
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