Saturday, September 24, 2005

"VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ? part square" is the fourth episode in the story of a quirky art student and his villainous roommate who wants to destroy the world.

Today's visual inspiration comes from the Chemistry, a Vancouver artist who's been making our streets safer for creative inspiration through the concert posters he's designed around town.


Dempsey stepped into the street with aplomb. He was free for a day to wander the city as the sun warmed his face in the chill of the October day. He free to not give a fuck about anything. He was free to get incredibly stoned. He was free to free others of their rat race routine.

He would get stoned and go laugh at the suits on Georgia Street racing to a power lunch. After that he would make a scarecrow version of a tourist with a Hawaiian shirt and camera slung around its neck and prop it up in front or the mysteriously popular steam clock in Gastown. Finally, he'd paint a perfect copy of the Birth of Venus on a dumpster in a back alley, then he'd...
Or maybe he'd just get stoned.

He headed to Gassy Jack's Whiskers, a local pub that was a mardi gras of drug deals everyday. If you stood by the pool table that meant you were interested in hash and you'd be taken care of by the resident hash dealer. If you wanted mushrooms - when they were in season of course - you'd stand by the hot roasted peanut machine and you'd be served by a scraggly haired South African with a dozen teeth in his head. If you wanted cocaine you'd stare at a beer stained poster on the wall of a crowd of naked people at a nudist beach. They cheered you on as a dealer approached you to take care of your needs. Or if you were simply in need of a dime bag of weed, you'd stand next to an eight by ten of the Queen whose face was coated in a beard of graffiti.

Demsey stepped into the hustle and bustle of Gassy Jack's Whiskers and made a beeline for the Queen.

A heavy set dealer put his pool cue down from his game with the hash dealer and approached Dempsey. After making eye contact he motioned his head in the direction of the toilets and Demspey started to walk in tandem with his steps to the back of the bar.

"Just a dime bag."

"Fifteen bucks."

On the television overhead a decapitated head rolled onto the floor of a sub-arctic station. Spider legs sprouted from its sides and it hobbled away.

The dealer chuckled to himself.

Dempsey put the money into his calloused hand and in turn received his green gift.

The dealer went back to his game of pool and Dempsey walked with some anticipation out the doors of Gassy Jack's Whiskers.
After a couple hoots from his pipe in the parking lot of the pub, Dempsey continued with his walk. He imagined the freedom of others. He saw wings sprouting from the sides of people's heads after which their winged decapitations flew off towards what they wanted most. A feel good John Carpenter movie.

He remembered there was something in his backpack that he wanted to get to his roommate, Cam.

With the sun on his face, he laughed at the image of people's heads taking flight.


Across the city, Cam Poppinton realized that he was missing an essential part to his doomsday machine that would mulitply his virus and send a shower of it across the city.

The city's apocalypse would be behind schedule.

Friday, September 23, 2005

"VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ? - part C" is the third installment of a fast fiction that started on Monday.

Today's segment of the story is based on an illustration by Dave Pauls, an illustrator whose site slices and dices quaint and gothic and then sprinkles them onto a plate of absurdity.

I'd also like to thank Leanne over at beyond robson for the fast fictions' mention.
Props right back at you, Leanne.

But for now swivel back in your chair and enjoy...


Dempsey Mcdougal confronts his soaped up face in the bathroom mirror. A bar of Irish Spring floats in the half-full/half-empty, non-committal sink.

"Well, what do you really have to say to the people of this world ? I mean you can't even keep track of your own crap that's scattered around the house. How do you expect people to care what you have to say when you are in fact a slob. Does your immediate environment not reflect a disorganized mind that couldn't possibly construct anything of intelligent interest ?" he speaks in a deep voice behind the white, soapy beard.

He lowers his face to wash off the white and emerges himself: "There's more fun in mess and more intelligence in mayhem than is dreamt of in your philosophy. And just off the record, since when have you been reporting for Forbes magazine Dad ?"

He soaps up his face: "Oh you know just trying to bring in some extra bucks on the side."

He splashes himself clean-shaven once again.

"Hello, I'm Barbara Mcdougal, reporting for Interview. I was wondering when you were coming home for a visit."

"Well I think with the art world in such a state of flux... I mean DJ Shadow asked why hip hop sucked in 1996 but I think we can ask ourselves why art sucks in 2005. You know, I've got a lot of work to do."

"Hello, Jenny Mcdougal, reporting for Juxtapoz magazine. Will you be working in one main medium or do you think there will be an eclectic mixing of everything in your work this year ? And if you are working in mixed mediums, would you say that art is going against the current trend in popular music to just rock out in rebellion to the mixed monstrosities of electronic music ? Oh and could you get me and my underage friends some coolers at the liquor store ?"

"Maybe yes, maybe no, yes and no."

Dempsey leaves the bathroom to put on some clothes, interviewing himself from the point of view of all sorts of relatives all along the way.

As he's about to step out the front door he sees a small circuit board that obviously belongs to his roommate, Cam Poppington.

"Poor guy, he probably needs that," Demsey says to himself, remembering that Cam had been talking over dinner about some hugely significant plans for the day.

As he zips up his jacket, he closes away the world of questioning relatives and resolves to be of some use and help out his roommate.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

"BEAR AT THE DOOR" is a fast fiction that I hope will find favour in your heart of hearts. It's got a cute little child, sweaty-palmed parents and a guest appearance by a bear, so really what's not to love ?

Today's inspiration comes from Catherine Ryan, an amazingly talented painter who "has been chosen as one of the ten artists to represent HANG at the AAF Contemporary Art Fair in New York, Oct. 27th-30th 2005." Drop by her site to see for yourself what all the hoo-ha is really all about.
Tomorrow I will be back with part three of

But for now enjoy...


"Are those child safe scissors ?"

"What are child safe scissors ?"

"You know, scissors that are..."

"Too blunt to be of any use ?"

They stand in very close range to one another: husband and wife; father and mother, pro and con. They are locked in each others gazes and differences and disbeliefs.

Cindy stands beneath them like a vacationer at a mildly interesting tourist attraction of Statues Engaged in Child Rearing Differences. Her stuffed rabbit is a dirty souvenir from a previous visit.

"After you made me put three sets of training wheels on her bike, I really thought you'd let up a little. You know, trust that her world had finally been made completely safe. But you've actually been getting worse. Worse. Aren't you worried about my safety ?"

"What are you talking about ?" she snarls, her arms akimbo.

"The safety of my sanity."

As they bicker through a litany of child safety issues, Cindy wanders out of the kitchen and into the living room. She opens the giant front door of the house to an overweight black bear.

"So can I come in to play or what ?" he whispers in a low growl, as though his throat were full of stones.

"I'm sorry Mr Bear... I'm sorry Mr Bear..."

"Are you afraid of me ?" he whisper growls.

"I'm afraid of the rocks in your throat. I'm not allowed to bring outside things inside. Anyways I'm not supposed to touch rocks. They have sharp edges. Your voice has sharp edges."

"Okay well... do you have any cookies you could get me from the kitchen ?"

And she closes the door on her one possible friend.

Her parents continue to bicker in the fluorescently lit kitchen.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

"GRANOLA IN THE BARREL OF A GUN" is a fast fiction about a man who fights for peace, hates for love and uses patchouli to alleviate world hunger.

Today's spring-board into fiction has come from Marco Cibola, a talented illustrator whose work "has been recognized in national and international publications such as Applied Arts, American Illustration, Juxtapoz, Color, Bail and Arkitip."

As well as this blog.

Yes, that's right, I'm on a break from the two day roll that I was on with "VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ?", the serializedfast fiction that I started on Monday. Today will be a one-off and then in a day or two I'll go back to "VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ?".

But for now enjoy...


Two children walked down the quiet suburban street gnawing on pepperoni sticks. A "twelve packeroni" stuck out from the open Spiderman backpack of the tubbier boy.

"This could be your grandpa's finger !! Ah I'm a zombie !! Arghhh !!" the larger boy belly-laughed through a mouth full of meat which he chomped up and down and up and down on.

"This is your penis," the slimmer boy joked as he bit down on the tiny remaining stub of meat.

Tubby punched his friend in the stomach.

"That's fucking stupid."

A long shadow suddenly fell across the two of them.

"That's no way to chill with a friend, little dude." A greasy haired hippie in a tie-died shirt and scraggly beard stood over them.

"You're not the boss of me," the Tubby boy shouted, spitting out flecks of pepperoni.

"Oh no, I couldn't be. There are no bosses. But I do speak with the authority of those mountains behind me, I've hiked them many times. The grass over there, that's my tightest bud. You see I'm a fucking vigilante for mother earth."

He pulled up his tie-died shirt to reveal the handle of a gun.

"You stop punching your friend and I want you to return those pepperoni sticks to the store. Trade them in for celery sticks or a hug from the clerk. If you don't I swear to mother earth that I will find you."

And the hippie went to lie down for a nap on the grass as the children ran away, leaving a trail of rolling pepperoni sticks behind. A wake of meaty fear.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

"VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ? - part deux" continues with the story started yesterday. Yes, that's right, for the first time in a year and a half of writing self-contained short-short stories everyday on the web, I have decided to continue with one story.

Yes, it's a way to hook you. Your hearts are fish and my imagination is the lure.

Helping me in this new adventure is Justin Adam who sent me this photo on the weekend:
Justin Adam is a film-maker, a graphic designer, a photographer, and the force behind Toquefest, an independent film and music festival in Vancouver, Canada. Check his shit out.

But for now enjoy part two of "VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ?"


The filth-laden laughter of the evil genius is interrupted by a knock on the bathroom door.

"Hey Cam, are you gonna be in there much longer ? I gotta split in a minute and I just need to brush up on the ol' teeth and I'm not talking about studying." The voice comes loud and clear through the white bathroom door which is adorned with a poster of Salvador Dali on a toilet suspended high in the sky by impossible swirls and loops of plumbing.

"Oh yes I'm so sorry. I'm dismally sorry. I will be out in one shake of a lamb's tail," Cam says, quickly packing all of his lab equipment into a backpack. At the top, he places his prized virus which will destroy civilization as we know it, but for now he has to let his roommate use the facilities.

Cam opens the door.

"I'm sorry I didn't realize that your presence was still present in the apartment. In other words, I was under the false assumption that you were off at school," Cam explains. His teeth are yellow and brown in his mouth, like candies stored for a special occasion.

"No, there are some bullshit orientation classes that I'm not going to waste my time on," Dempsey counter explains. He makes a great show of putting a slug of toothpaste on the bristles of his brush which he shoves into his mouth. As he brushes he explains the importance of brushing daily.

"You know it's these little things that are important. Some men will only say 'I love you' while they're brushing their teeth because that's a time they feel most comfortable. I'm not saying I love you. You're a decent roommate and all but I'm just trying to say that brushing opens people up to different conversational environments."

"Yes I am fully cognizant of the fact that oral hygiene is next to godliness but perhaps my ambitions lie elsewhere," Cam starts to cackle and fill the bathroom with his unholy halitosis.

"You know I don't think there has to be any mention of god or goodness in any of this, I mean you can just..." Dempsey is close to uttered what he's wanted to say everyday over the past two months that they've lived together.

He opens the window to let some fresh air in, a blast of breeze that's recently been filtered clean through the feathers of a migrating bird.

"Have an enlightening day nevertheless. Perhaps you might endeavor to just show up at your institution of higher learning and paint a group portrait all of your classmates with their mouths agog as they are receiving this orientation. That would show true initiative and as long as you were inebriated with spirits you would earn their respect as well as the admiration of your goateed professors," Cam shouts with girlish glee. "But I am off now to try my fortunes with the fruits my own personal education. I must be off." And with a small bow, Cam is out the front door of their apartment, holding his backpack to his side.

"Roommates," Dempsey thinks to himself as he looks out over the view of the city from his bathroom window. He considers a black and white photo of the cloudy sky held up on top of the cityscape.

Monday, September 19, 2005

"VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ?" is a fast fiction based on an image sent to me by Simon Oxley. His site is crammed with great stuff. It's money. It's a briefcase crammed with stacks of hundred dollar bills. Yeah that's what it is.

Today I'm going to introduce a character who may pop up over the next couple of weeks and months following what might be construed as a story line. Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you: Cam Poppington !!


"Hello my little pretty !" Cam Poppington cackles an evil laugh as big as his belly which shakes and bounces under his lab coat. Cam's cackle is not as evil as his breathe which is rancid and cruel enough to blind the tiny eyes of midget school girls riding puppy dogs, but the foul laugh and even fouler odor work in tandem to instill pandemonium in the hearts and nostrils of anyone around him.

An incredibly large virus with the mouth of a clown stares out blank faced at Cam.

"Oh you are cute, aren't you ? Entertaining even. What are you going to do next ? Will you sing a little Britney Spears song ? Will you swim around like a dolphin ? Will the baby versions of you that pop out of your mouth make old grannies giggle ?"

Cam scrunches his face up next to the glass jar: "No one will suspect you of being the most lethal creature this world has ever seen."

The virus blinks unknowingly.

Sunday, September 18, 2005

"DANGO TAKES ON THE WORLD" is a super fast fast fiction based on one of the many awesome illustrations I came across at Jared Chapman's site. There's an updated retro look to some of his illustrations which I find particularly rad.
dango jaredcha


"There are always two ways out of a situation. My way or the stupid way. I want you to hire me as a your own personal bodyguard. My rates are reasonable and you won't even notice I'm there." He smiles at the camera as he holds up his telephone number but this is quickly replaced with a menacing glare. "As I said before, there are always two ways out of a situation."