Man Flu

MAN FLU
(with apologies to The Clash)

DOCTOR YOU'VE GOT TO LET ME KNOW
SHOULD I SNIFF OR SHOULD I BLOW
PLEASE DON'T SAY THAT I'LL BE FINE
AFTER I'VE WAITED ALL THIS TIME
SO YOU'VE GOT TO LET ME KNOW
SHOULD I SNIFF OR SHOULD I BLOW?

IT'S ALWAYS SNEEZE, SNEEZE, SNEEZE
siempre achu, achu, achu
THIS MAN FLU'S GOT ME ON MY KNEES
manflu me tiene arrodillas
MY THROAT IS RED MY TONGUE IS BLACK
tonsillas throbbo pulsa paino
PAINS IN MY CHEST AND DOWN MY BACK
non sympathio cum ma wayo
WELL COME ON AND LET ME KNOW
me tienes que desir
SHOULD I SNIFF OR SHOULD I BLOW?
¿yo me sniffo o me snotto?

SHOULD I SNIFF OR SHOULD I BLOW NOW?
SHOULD I SNIFF OR SHOULD I BLOW NOW?
IF I SNIFF I GET IN TROUBLE
AND WHEN I BLOW I'M SEEING DOUBLE
SO COME ON AND LET ME KNOW

THIS INDECISION'S BUGGING ME
esta undecision me molesta
I'M WALLOWING IN MISERY
mi suffro molto fittu droppo
EXACTLY WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
me ruddy nosa com rudolpho
IS THERE SOMEONE ELSE I COULD SEE?
spouso hoho grandio joko
DOC YOU'VE GOTTA LET ME KNOW
doc me tienes que desir
SHOULD I HOLD BACK OR LET IT FLOW?
¿yo me sniffo o me snotto?

SHOULD I SNIFF OR SHOULD I BLOW NOW?
¿yo me sniffo o me snotto?
IF I SNIFF I GET IN TROUBLE
si me sniffo big peligro
WHEN I BLOW I'M SEEING DOUBLE
si me snotto video doble
SO YOU'VE GOTTA LET ME KNOW
me tienes que desir
SHOULD I SNIFF OR SHOULD I BLOW?
¿yo me sniffo o me snotto?

Dave Carr

Absolute Broke

Empty
Pockets, down and out
The bones of resolution fractured
Or returned to jelly as
In the womb once they were soft

You can’t
Keep looking up when you’re falling
Below the bottom of the pit
You’re like the loose change
Gathered by a tramp

Who, by cruel fate
Wore holes in his tattered jacket
The bowl of a lifetime
Littered with change
Without change

In fortune
If predestination was doomed
From the start
You’ve finally been caught
Now, my son.

Creative Writing: Radio Play

Sometimes You Just Know…

By David Helm



Characters:

Porter. (Volatile, possibly psychotic, almost definitely hopped up on something).
Ray. (Calm, older than the other two. Tries to work through things rationally).
Noble. (Youngest member. A little unsure of himself).
Cop.



Setting:

In Porter’s car, which is parked outside the bank as the three men prepare to carry out the raid.




























(Sounds of a city. Honking of horns, traffic. We hear a car pull to a halt. Hip-hop music- Ice-T’s “You Played Yourself”- blares for a minute, before it is switched off).

Porter: OK. So we know what we’re gonna do here? We clear?
Ray: Yeah. We enter this bank, we stand in the line, all nice and quiet. Then when we get to the head of the queue, we hand them the note and tell them to empty the drawers. Noble empties the vault while you and me keep everyone quiet. Then we tell them to keep their goddamn heads down and we get the hell out.
Porter: You got it. You got that back there?
Noble: (Sounding a little unsure of himself) Yeah…I got it.
Porter: I said, have you got it? You fuck this up and I’ll kill you myself.
Noble: I got it, man! Will you chill out?
Porter: One thing we gotta remember. No real names. That’s why you know me as Porter. That’s why Ray is Ray, and that’s why you’re Noble. OK? I don’t wanna know your real names, where you’re from, your fucking pet’s name. I don’t wanna know anything about you.
Ray: (A little sarcastically) Got it.
Noble: Yeah, I got it. Where’d you come up with these names, dude? I mean, Noble? What’s up with that?
Ray: It’s gotta be a joke. Noble means “of high moral character”- and we’re about to rob a bank. That’s got to be it, right? Right, Porter?
Porter: Huh?
Ray: Forget it. So when do we go in?
Porter: We go in when I say we fucking go in. I’m running this goddamn thing, and don’t you forget it. We don’t do anything before I say. Nothing happens before I say it happens. OK?
Ray: So, are you gonna say that we go ahead or should I just guess when the time is right, huh?
Porter: You got a prior engagement? Quit badgering me. I’m casing the joint.
Noble: How are you gonna case the place from out here? We’re in a car. You can’t even see the entrance! (Sighs) Did you have to plan this thing for so early? I didn’t get breakfast. I get faint if I don’t eat. Look, there’s a McDonald’s over there- I’m gonna go get something. You guys want anything?
Porter: No.
Noble: Ray?
Ray: (Weighing this up for a couple of seconds) Yeah. Get me an Egg McMuffin and a coffee. One of those big ones. (Pause) And an apple turnover.
Noble: You gonna come and give me a hand, then? Only got two.
Ray: Yeah, OK.
Noble: (To Porter) You sure you don’t want anything?
Porter: Yeah. And don’t take too long.

(Two doors slam as Noble and Ray get out of the car)

Porter: Goddamn fucking amateurs. Gotta stay professional for this- and they go for a fucking McDonald’s.

(He snaps the radio on and twirls the dial. Music- Supertramp’s “Breakfast in America”- fills the car)

Porter: Goddamn. I hate this song!

(A brief snatch of several songs as Porter twirls the dial again. Goes on for several minutes. Finally settles on “Money” by Pink Floyd)

Porter: That’s what I’m talkin’ about. (Starts to sing along as he waits) Goddamn- where are those two idiots? They’d better not take too long or I’m going in there.

(Two doors open and then shut as Ray and Noble get back in)

Porter: Could you have left it a bit longer? It’s not like we’re about to do a fucking robbery here, is it?
Noble: (With his mouth full) Sorry, Porter. But I coulda stayed in there all day. You ever been in there when they take a fresh buncha donuts out the fryer? Smells like heaven.
Porter: Uh huh. You do anything that might screw this up again, I’ll fucking send you there. You got that?
Ray: Come on, man- cut the kid a break. It’s his first time. Kid’s nervous. Just like the first time you do anything. You remember your first job? What were you like?
Porter: My first time? (Sighs) It was…Hey wait a minute! What did I say about knowing nothing about ourselves? You get pinched, you could tell the cops anything. I ain’t telling you nothing.
Ray: Nearly slipped up there, Porter.
Porter: Will you shut the fuck up?
Noble: Yo, check it out. Cop comin’ up on my side.
Porter: That fucking pig so much as looks at me in the wrong way, I’m fucking capping his ass.
Ray: Will you chill out? It’s hot enough in here without more hot air coming outta you. Just talk to the officer.
Porter: You don’t tell me what to do, huh? Remember who’s running this thing, OK?
Ray: Shut up and wind your window down.

(Sounds of the window opening. Sounds of the outside come in through the open window)

Cop: Morning, gentlemen. Enjoying your breakfast there, huh?
Noble: Yes, officer. (Nervously) Nice morning, isn’t it?
Cop: Certainly is. But it just so happens that this area’s no stopping. And you seem to have stopped here. You see the problem?
Ray: Absolutely, officer- but we couldn’t see anywhere else, and we didn’t think that we’d be here too long.
Cop: That so? I’ve been watching you for the last half hour- you don’t show any signs of wanting to move on. Maybe I should do something about that, what do you think?
Ray: Sorry about that, officer- look, we’ve finished our breakfast. We’ll be gone by the time you come back down here, OK? Come on- you don’t have to run us in for that, do you? Come on.
Cop: Well- it has been a slow morning… But you guys seem like a nice, responsible bunch of fellows. You got ten minutes. Then I’m coming back and if you’re still here, I’m booking your asses. You got it?

(The window is wound back up)

Porter: If that cop comes back, I’m doing him.
Ray: Did you hear what he said? We got ten minutes or he’s booking us. And that would really fuck up your plans, wouldn’t it? You got a record, right?
Porter: Yeah.
Ray: OK- so let’s do this, huh? ‘Cos I got a record too, and if we get pinched, it won’t make a goddamn bit of difference that we don’t know each other’s names. They’d just run our faces through the database and we’d be screwed. OK? So let’s do the damn thing.
Porter: OK, OK.
Ray: OK- shall we do one more run through it, while you get your shit together? We go in the bank. We go up to the counter. We don’t want people panicking and getting in the way, so no pulling of guns as we go up. Hand them the note. Keep an eye on them and the customers while they get the money. When they hand us the money we leave. We only use force if they refuse. Anyone tries to be a hero, take them out- but only then. Gotta be professional- we kill no one unless it’s absolutely necessary. Got that? We’ve got maybe two minutes to do it if they hit the silent alarm under the desk- so we gotta be smooth. Concentrate on what we gotta do. OK?
Porter: Yeah. But if any spic teller refuses to do what I fucking tell them, they die.
Ray: Did you not listen to what I just said to you? No use of force if we can avoid it. We’re on a time limit, goddammit. What the hell’s wrong with you? Gimme the goddamn pen and I’ll write the note. We’re on a schedule here.
Porter: What pen?
Ray: What the fuck do you mean, what pen? The pen to write the goddamn note. I thought you had the pen.
Porter: Nope.
Ray: Noble, you got it?
Noble: No. I thought you had it.
Ray: Are we saying that we haven’t got anything to write the fucking note?
Porter: You blaming me? You blaming me? ‘Cos if you are I’ll fucking cut you. This was my idea. I come up with the idea, you bring the fucking pen!
Noble: Couldn’t we use a pencil?
Ray: Shut up, kid! (Back to Porter) Your idea? You’re so fucking out of it I’m surprised that you can tie your fucking shoelaces. It’s me who’s kept a cool head here. And you were supposed to bring the goddamn pen!
Noble: Guys! We’re on a schedule here. So we haven’t got a pen. We just gotta come up with an alternative!
Porter: Yeah. We go in, we pull our guns and we tell them to open the drawers. Any muthuhfuckuh gets in my way gets fucking dropped. Just like I wanted to do in the first place.
Ray: You fucking psycho, you’re gonna get us killed…. (Resigned) OK- where are the guns?
Porter: In the trunk. Let’s go.

(Doors open and shut as the three get out of the car. Porter pops the trunk).

Porter: There. OK? One for each of us. Take your pick.
Noble: Um, guys? This may not be the best time to mention this, but I’ve always had kind of a problem asserting authority…you know? I mean, I’ve tried talking to somebody, but-
Ray: Are you saying you can’t do this job because you’re shy?
Noble: (Defensively) Hey, I’m sorry, I just didn’t expect to go in with guns drawn, OK? That wasn’t the plan!
Ray: What did you expect? It’s a goddamn bank robbery, not a goddamn Sunday school meeting.
Noble: You know what? Fuck you. Fuck him, and fuck this job. You can both kiss my ass.

(Footsteps as Noble walks away, fading into the general hustle and bustle of the street)

Porter: That goddamn kid. I’m going after him.
Ray: I’ll get him. You get the guns- I’ll be back. (Under his breath as he walks away) As the cops take you in, you dumb son of a bitch. Ten minutes is up…right about now.
Cop: (As he walks back up) OK, pal, I warned you. I told you this is a no stopping zone, and you haven’t moved. I’m booking you… (He spots the mini-arsenal in the back of the car) What the…? Holy shit! Freeze, you sucker! (Draws his gun. Click of the hammer)
Porter: Hey, wait a minute, there were two other guys here…
Cop: Shut the fuck up and get your goddamn hands in the air!
Ray: (Watching from a distance) Man- sometimes you just know when you’re having a bad day, huh?

(We hear Porter’s continued protests and the cop’s shouting orders at him, and police sirens approaching in the distance as we fade out)

THE END.

Creative Writing Week 4: Character Creation


Music was coming from somewhere in the building. It wasn’t quite loud enough for Creasy to recognise what it was, but just loud enough so he couldn’t ignore it. This did not put him in a good mood as he threw off the sheet and sat up yawning. He got up, and ambling over to the bathroom, hawked and spat into the bowl. His mouth tasted like a running back’s sock after he’d played a whole season in it- not surprising considering the amount of beer he’d put away last night. As he looked into the mirror, he was struck by how haggard he actually looked. Pale, with eyes that had so many red lines etched in them that they resembled a map of the major highways of the United States, and his curly black hair matted and plastered to his forehead. He spat again, trying to clear the taste from his mouth, and stepped into the shower.
Ten minutes later he got out feeling slightly refreshed, drying himself off as he moved back into the hotel room. All things considered, it was one of the better ones that he’d stayed in recently. He dressed quickly, thinking as he did so just how much of a cliché he’d become. He was an ex-cop drifter in his late thirties, living in hotel accommodation, drinking too much. I’m not divorced though, he thought. I never had a wife and daughter killed to make me become a borderline alcoholic- I drink because I like to. My partner wasn’t shot dead on the last week before his retirement- he’s living down in Palm Springs. And I never went to ‘Nam. Maybe I’m not so much of a cliché after all.
He picked his bag up from where he’d thrown it when he checked in and opened it, stuffing the previous night’s shirt on top of the pile of dirty clothes already in there. He was going to need to find a Laundromat at some point, but at that moment all he wanted to do was get out of there, so after taking one final item from the bureau by the bed, he put on his leather jacket and turned to leave the room. He opened the door and stepped out into the hall. The door to the stairs was at the far end, and as he walked toward it he passed the room where the music that had woken him up was coming from. Now he recognised it- Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird”. He scowled and went down the stairs to the lobby. The guy at the desk was asleep, his head lolling. Creasy dropped a couple of $10 bills on the desk in front of him and stepped out of the double doors and into the Texan sunshine. Even at this time- 9 in the morning- the sun was blazing in a cloudless sky. The sun beating down on his head didn’t improve his mood- or his hangover- and neither did the fact that some hump had put a large dent in his bumper, as he discovered when he went to throw his bag onto the back seat. It was the final straw. He leant back against the car and sucked his teeth as he pondered what to do about it. Reaching his decision, he opened his bag, and taking out the item he’d stuffed in there last, he turned and walked back into the hotel, climbing the stairs until he stood outside the door that the music was coming from. He knocked.
“Who is it?” a surly voice said from within.
“Room service,” Creasy answered.
“I didn’t order any goddamn room service…” the voice said, and the door opened. The thickset truck driver stood there, whom Creasy recognised from the bar the previous night, rubbed his eyes blearily as he tried to focus on whoever had knocked on his door.
Creasy pulled the silenced Glock automatic from inside his jacket and shot the truck driver twice in the chest. As the man crumpled back into his room, Creasy quietly shut the door and turned to go back down the hall.
The clerk was still sprawled across the desk when he re-entered the lobby, the bills he’d dropped by the man’s hand still there. Creasy picked up the money, and pressing the tip of the silencer against the receptionist’s temple, shot him though the head. He let the dead man fall back onto the desk- the only difference now being the pool of red spreading out from around his head.
Creasy turned and left the lobby, walking across the forecourt and into the bar and grill adjacent to the hotel. He pushed open the door and walked in. There were only a couple of customers in there- two guys in Stetsons drinking coffee, and the same bartender who’d served him last night. Phil, Creasy remembered.
“Anyone in here dent the bumper of a blue Olds parked out there?” Creasy asked.
One of the guys at the bar turned. “That was me,” he drawled. “You got a problem?”
“That was my car,” Creasy said.
“So sue me,” the jerk replied, and turned back to the bar.
You all just keep making this easier and easier, Creasy thought as he pulled out the Glock. He shot the asshole in the back of the head, and he fell against the bar before crumpling to the floor. The second coffee drinker turned, his mouth open in shock, and Creasy shot him in the left eye. The bartender raised his hands up as if to protect himself, and Creasy put two bullets into his chest, slamming him back into the bottles stacked behind him, which fell and shattered as the bartender slid to the ground.
Creasy put his gun away and walked out of the door. Walking back to his car, he opened the trunk and leaned in.
“Still here?” he asked. The eyes of the man who lay bound and gagged on the floor of the trunk opened wide, and he screamed through his gag, thrashing maniacally as he tried to escape from the space he had been crammed into.
“Good,” Creasy said, smiling, and closing the trunk, he opened the door of his car and got in, pulling out of the motel forecourt and onto the highway, disappearing into the shimmering haze so quickly that “The Drifter”- as the newspapers who had reported his many crimes across America had nicknamed him- might never have been there at all.

The Elective Mute

'We had no choice,
Couldn't stop him talking,
We had to disappear,
For our own survival'.

The nuisance child waited,
In the Respite Home,
On a weekend break,
Which lasted ten years.

He befriended the rocking
Walls of desperation,
Explored each dusty
Corner of confusion,

Before discovering the
Secret of your rage,
The solution to your
Disapproval.

In silence he waited
The return of forgiveness
For all the words
He never should have

Spoken.

Home Is Where I Want To Be

Late Bank Holiday reached its close.
I did not believe he would come for I believed
the lure of a girl in red glasses

was greater than that of a barbecue
in a ho-hum, humdrum back yard.
Everyone had eaten their fill of ribs

grown cold, Chicken ignored had charred
and one miserable mackerel lay on a bed
of chopped fennel and wilted dill. Life was still.

Contemplated packing up but then, I heard
his voice grow louder as he wandered in.
He ate with relish, complimenting cold food.

I loved him for his aplomb, his politesse,
his being here among us on this sultry August night.
Then he played. He sang Johnny B. Goode.

Hey Ya, his repertoire. We clapped and sang.
His little brother played the air guitar.
I thought, ‘this feels like home,’ as we sat
on borrowed chairs and watched a shooting star

The Prisoner

The Prisoner

Can anybody help me please?
I live my life in fear.
I have recurring nightmares of
Being trapped inside IKEA.

I go in for a single bulb,
The sort only they sell,
And claustrophobia soon sets in,
My senses go through hell.

I stand amidst a sea of beds;
I'm spinning as I shout,
"I hate this place! I hate this place!
How do I get out?"

Hordes of frantic shoppers
With yellow shoulder bags;
Men with rimless glasses
Waving Swedish flags.

I dream that I'm surrounded;
Attacked by steel utensils;
Stabbed by shiny kitchen knives
And stubby little pencils.

Flat packs tower around me,
Shelf on shelf on shelf;
A whole lifetime's sentence of
Do it your bloody self.

Just once I made it to the door
And out - "Freedom!" I cried.
But then a giant meatball came
To bring me back inside.

I reached the final checkout;
On a trolley there I lay
In a self assembed coffin,
(A choice of white or grey.)

© Dave Carr