Thursday, 27 September 2012

No Results Found for Ukipalsy

"No Results Found for Ukipalsy"
A post-saturation experiment, by Miles Perhower

PART 1 - "The Toxic Stream"

LEGAL NOTE:
The following documents are NOT to be believed as truth, or even enjoyed, or discussed in any way. The person responsible for this treason has been assessed by the 'authorities', leaving them "critically shocked" by the 'results'. His brain is seventy-eight percent Magnesium and five percent 'Dark Matter'. An absolutely intolerable freak of nature, extremely dangerous and deformed, physically and mentally, but hell-bent on relentless creation...a total nightmare, a turbo-nutter, a sick artist... a true friend.

WENT TO BED AT 2AM - WOKEN UP BY TEXT MESSAGE AT 8:30AM - TEXT MESSAGE FROM THE DOCUMENTER - BAD NEWS - HE HAS NO MONEY AND CAN'T GET HERE - THAT FUCKING CUNT!! - WELL, I NEED HIM TODAY - THE STORY NEEDS IT - GOTTA DO SOME FILMING TOO - THAT LAST MINUTE BAILING OUT SCUMBAG - NO - CALM DOWN, MILES - HE'S A GOOD FRIEND - A PHILANTHROPIST OF SORTS - PHONE UP THE DARK PRINCE OF WOLLESCOTE - OFFER TO PAY FOR THE TAXI FARE - SORTED - HE'S COMING - £18 BLOODY QUID THAT'S COST ME - OH WELL - WE'RE DOING THIS FOR REAL NOW - NO BACKING OUT - TEXT MESSAGE FROM CRASH - HE'S GONNA MEET US OUTSIDE THE TOWN HALL - FUCK - THAT GUY'S INSANE - WHY DID I INVITE HIM ALONG AS WELL? NEED CHARACTERS - RISKS - MUST GET IN THE SHOWER - FEEL BETTER NOW - PUT ON MY GREY SUIT - BLACK SHIRT - UNION FLAG TIE AND BADGE - SHOT OF WHISKEY - PREPARE SMOKES - CUT OUT FLYERS - FIND MY MASK AND SUNGLASSES - GREY DAY - STILL EARLY - GET A PLASTIC FOLDER - FILL WITH BLANK PAPER - GIG POSTERS - FLYERS - LOOK THE PART - TIE MIGHT BE PUSHING IT - WAS GONNA GO IN DRAG - OR AT LEAST WITH EYELINER - £5 A TICKET - ONLY THE "TRAINING DAY" - WATCHED THAT FILM LAST NIGHT - SUBCONSCIOUS?

KNOCK AT THE DOOR - THE DOCUMENTER IS HERE - I LET HIM IN - HE'S ALREADY FILMING - NICE SUIT - NICE FOOTAGE - WE LOOK THE PART - LITTLE CHAT - OUTSIDE FOR A J - KEEP THE MASK ON FOR A WHILE - CHAT IN THE GARDEN - 9:45AM - WARPED INTERVIEW - BACK INSIDE - POURING WHISKEY INTO HIP-FLASK - A FEW MORE SLURPS - FINISH J - OPT OUT OF WEARING THE TIE - TAKE IT WITH ME IN THE FOLDER FOR LATER - GO TO GET MONEY FOR ANOTHER TAXI - TAXI TO TOWN HALL - BACK TO THE HOUSE - PUT THE MASK BACK ON - THE DOCUMENTER FILMS MRS BULL'S EYE - SHE'LL BE WORKING AT THE CONFERENCE ON SATURDAY - ON THE INSIDE - NO NEED FOR TICKETS - £30, FUCK THAT! - RESENT THE £11 PLUS P&P FOR MINE AND SCOTT'S "TRAINING DAY" TICKETS - HE FILMS ME PHONING THE TAXI - STILL GOT THE MASK ON - GOOD - ONLY £8 - MONEY LEFT FOR PINTS - WE'LL NEED IT - I GET A PREMONITION - PREMONITION OF BOREDOM - STALE COLLEGE SEMINAR - CLIQUES - PREPARE STATEMENTS - TEST CRASH - BE THERE IN TEN MINUTES - TAXI'S HERE - LEAVE THE CAMERA NOW - USE THE DOCUMENTER'S PHONE CAM INSTEAD

NERVOUS INSIDE THE TAXI - ON THE WAY THERE NOW - STRANGE TALK - ASIAN TAXI DRIVER - LOOKING AT MY BADGE AND FOLDER - UKIP TICKETS - WITH COMPLIMENTS - SCOTT'S FILMING THROUGH THE WINDOW - SMETHWICK - CLOSER - CLOSER - BEHIND THE LIBRARY - FEELS LIKE A GIG - NO, A MIX BETWEEN THAT AND A FUNERAL - SHOT OF WHISKEY - I FEEL READY - PAY THE MAN - GET OUT - FILM US WALKING OUTSIDE THE TOWN HALL - FINALLY FOUND OUR FRIEND, CRASH - HE'S IN A STATE - SHOUTING - TAKES A MORPHINE TABLET - GETS WORSE - BLACK EYE LOOKS DISGUSTING - HIS ARM IN A SLING - WE NEED TO GET INSIDE - CRASH WANDERS OFF - HE CAN'T HANDLE IT RIGHT NOW - SAYS HE'S GOING TO ANN SUMMERS - THANK CHRIST - ME AND THE DOCUMENTER GO IN - PRIVATE - SIGNS ON DOOR - NO MEMBERS OF PUBLIC ALLOWED - BUT THE TICKETS WERE OPEN TO THE PUBLIC - STRANGE - NOT VERY BUSY - 10:50AM - ODD SETTING - FEELING TIPSY - HIGH - CONFIDENT - SLIGHT PARANOIA - CAN'T LOOK AT SCOTT - STRANGE, OBVIOUSLY STRESSED WOMAN APPROACHES US - WHY ARE YOU HERE? - NAME PLEASE - COOL - CALM - NO PROBLEM - SHOWING REAL INTEREST - NOT WHAT I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE - FIRST SESSION AT 11AM - IN THE MAIN HALL - GRAND VENUE - BIG PIPE ORGAN BEHIND THE STAGE - RELIGIOUS ATMOSPHERE - THERE'S A NUN OVER THERE - FUCK - THAT'S TYPICAL - DON'T LOOK AT SCOTT - LOADS OF EMPTY CHAIRS - FILM CREW AT THE BACK - LOTS OF OLDER MEN - HANDFUL OF MIDDLE-AGED WOMEN - COUPLE OF WEEDY LOOKING YOUTHS IN SUITS - RUNTS - MEAN WELL - GOOD FOR THEM - QUIET NOW - THE STAGE REMINDS ME OF VIC REEVES BIG NIGHT OUT - BALD MAN ON THE LEFT, SITTING AT A DESK - CHRIS ADAMS - LOOKS LIKE SECURITY - WHITE SHIRT - SHORT SLEEVES - TIE - ID CARD AROUND HIS NECK - LOOKS LIKE A BEEFED UP, SLAP-HEAD WOMAN - NAZI POTATO MAN - DJ - LAPTOP ON DESK - PAPERS - GREEN TABLECLOTH ON DESK - FAT GUTTED, GREY HAIRED GUY COMES ON - JAMES MOYIES - LOOKS LIKE A STANDARD OFFICE SLOB - PUSHES HIS GLASSES BACK - TALKS INTO THE MIC ON THE LECTURE STAND - STRONG ACCENT - SCOTTISH - BORING - DULL - BUT HE KEEPS GLANCING AT ME AND SCOTT - POWER-POINT TIME

TOLD TO GET INTO GROUPS - GROUPS OF 7 OR 8 - AWKWARD - AMPLIFYING OUR OUTSIDER-NESS - TRY TO FORGET THE SLIGHT SMELL OF WEED COMING FROM MY POCKET - FULL FLASK OF WHISKEY SLOSHES AROUND - THE SOUND'S SO OBVIOUS - ALL THESE OLD DUDES - AND THIS SLIGHTLY YOUNGER ONE -  A REAL THUG - TOO MANY LANGUAGES, HE SAYS - TOO MANY IN SCHOOLS - 13 DIFFERENT - DISTRACTION - SCOTT KEEPS FUCKING YAWNING, LOUDLY - YAWNING AT BAD GRAPHICS AND SHIT STATS - TELL HIM TO MAKE NOTES - BABY FACED SUIT TURNS AROUND TO SPEAK TO US IN THE EMPTY THEATER - LIKE A CULT - SMUGNESS - "HAVE YOU SIGNED UP TO THE MAILING LIST? HAVE YOU SIGNED UP TO THE MAILING LIST?" HE SAYS - FAST - GEEK FAST IN SUIT - MOLE FACE - FROM STAFFORDSHIRE - TELFORD - BRIDGNORTH - AHHHH - OK - I SEE - SAYS HE'S THE LEADER OF UKIP YOUTH - SORRY - SECRETARY OF UKIP YOUNG INDEPENDENCE SOCIETY - JOHN GILL - 22 YEARS OLD - JESUS - HE IS YOUNG - GOOD FOR THE AVERAGES - MOST ARE FUCKING DAILY EXPRESS READERS - ME AND SCOTT PULL IT OFF - SAYING CRAZY SHIT - "GOT THE CALLING AT TWENTY SEVEN" - BAD JAW ACHE - LAUGHTER PREVENTION BATTLE - JAMES MOYIES DRONING ON - IDEAS SHEETS - PAULINE'S PENS - IS THIS THE ALTERNATIVE? NO THIS IS A FUCKING RIP-OFF - £5 FOR THIS MIND-NUMBING SHIT - WHAT DOES A CHAIRMAN DO? - WHAT DOES A SECRETARY DO? - BLOKES WHISPERING "I'M A CHAIRMAN" - "AREN'T YOU A TREASURER?" - THE DOCUMENTER'S CONTRIBUTIONS ARE TAKEN SERIOUSLY - NOT MINE - I AM IGNORED AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE AFTER POINTING OUT THE "SMALL TOWNS AND VILLAGES" THING TO JOHN GILL - "MAKE SURE EVERYTHING'S LEGAL," SUGGESTS SCOTT - GOOD POINT - THEY LAPPED IT UP - I DECIDE TO GO TO THE TOILET FOR A PISS AND A BIG HIT OF WHISKEY - IN THE CUBICLE - SUCKING BACK ON THE FLASK - SOMEONE ELSE IN HERE - STRAIGHTEN MYSELF UP - GO TO WASH MY HANDS - CHRIS ADAMS IS THERE - BENT OVER THE SINK - IS HE DOING COKE? - OH NO, HE'S RUBBING HIS TROUSERS - SMILING AT ME - THE SOAP DISPENSER EXPLODED ON HIM - I SAY HELLO - I'M ENJOYING IT - SOAKING UP THE ATMOSPHERE - INTRIGUED ETC - HE LOVES IT - WASHING MY HANDS - WHISKEY BREATH - CLOSE ENCOUNTER - BETTER THAN SPEECHES - UNELECTABLE

PART 2 - "The Unlikely Source"

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
How did I get into this nerve-shredding, soul destroying mess? Well? ANSWER YOURSELF, MILES!!! There must be plenty of complicated and mysterious reasons to boot?
In all honesty, everything was happening at a time when I should really have been concentrating on getting the band back on the scene, but I couldn't fight off these kamikaze urges. I had no choice but to INVESTIGATE. It must be possible to track-back? Back-track? Return to the exact POINT OF ORIGIN?
I mean, when did this story actually begin? And why? Tough questions. I think we need to get stuck right into the root of all this madness... get to know the rhythm of the rhizome, so to speak....
Well, that story isn't a pretty one either. It involves an abundance of insanity, embarrassing stereotypes, hallucinated semiotics, sensory exploration, 'wacky' characters, cruel pseudonyms, bad timing, and, at least one politically charged proposition, in a shed.

"Wow, these avocados are fucking ripe," I said, rummaging through a big pile of the things at the busy outdoor market in Digbeth.
"They're too ripe, Miles," Pat told me. "It's going to be rotten guacamole in there, far too many BLACK CHUNKS," he advised, possibly too loudly.
"Bloody hell!" I whispered, sternly. "Watch what you're saying, Patrick!"
"Oh, sorry, I didn't think," Pat said, with only a hint of embarrassment in his voice. He's a good friend; a handsome, long blonde haired boy from Hampshire, with a taste for fine dining, fine women and fine music. He's also a talented painter who seems destined to travel the world, but then again, he could just end up working in "Borders" for the next five years, selling whatever the currently popular celebrity toilet books are - but I doubt it. Actually, I believe he's currently living on a farm in Georgia (the country), killing goats for dinner and having plenty of orgies with the locals.
"A bowl of chillies, please," I said to the man, who then gave me a massive bag full of the little green beasts. I gave him £1 and then happily walked back through the market, out the other end, approaching the stairs that lead up to The Bullring.
"Look at these little beauts," I said, opening up the blue plastic bag to show Pat.
"Nice, they look good, plus, there are loads of 'em," Pat was impressed.
"Let's try one each, just to make sure they're nice and hot," I suggested.
"Okay, but if we start gurning and sweating then we'll have to go and get some coffee!"
"Fine by me, just enjoy the buzz. You can get all the coffee you want, but first I think I'll be needing vodka."
I pulled two dark green chillies out of the bag and gave one to Pat. We both took a bite and almost instantly felt the rush of heat and burn. The tip of my tongue went into a spasm and Pat immediately went red in the face.
"Shit, these are HOT!" I exclaimed, still holding the other end of the chilli in my hand.
"Weallly hot, ah, huhh, splufh," Pat tried to speak, but failed. He threw the uneaten end in a bin as we started to walk up the concrete stairs. Just as we passed St Martin's Church, a middle-aged woman with mousy hair walked in front of us and tried to give us a leaflet about Jesus. We stopped for a moment and then I offered her my half eaten chilli.
"Do you want this?" I politely asked.
"OH NO!" she said, pulling a repulsive face, still holding the Jesus leaflet out.
"Really, it's good, nice and hot," I said as I dropped the remains of the chilli onto the Jesus leaflet in her hand.

After getting coffee, vodka, and inevitably tobacco, me and Pat found ourselves walking aimlessly around The Bull Ring. We decided to go right up to the very top, in a vague attempt to get a feel for the structure of the thing, plus Pat was in need of some new shoes. But the only feelings I had were that of confusion, boredom and despair. The mood was not right for productive shoe shopping, but is it EVER? How can you concentrate in a place that's heaving with flesh and tracksuit covered skeletons that have no apparent soul and seemingly have no sense of awareness beyond the realms of THE MALL. The only connection I felt with them was that my mind actually felt mauled - a tenuous link at best. Still, we were stupid enough to think that going into The Bullring would be somehow bearable.
"Why are we such scum, Pat?" I finally asked, after a long period of silence.
"We're herding animals, Miles," he said, looking down from the third tier, "it's a survival thing, you know? SAFETY FROM PREDATORS!"
Which made so much clear sense to me at the time, but things have got a little cloudy again since then. Anyway, after our 'shopping trip', we were in the mood to let off some steam, so we decided to get on the train at Moor Street and head over to see my old friend, Barry Glowbottom, in Quarry Bank.

By the time we finally arrived at Barry's place we had managed to get through a fair amount of the vodka. Luckily, I was feeling nicely sedated, because the first thing we saw was Barry's weird friend, Crash, a huge, twenty-six year old crazy bastard with a rusty tan who claims to be in the RAF, climbing up the tall metal fence to the right of the house and making a terrible clanging noise.
"What are you doing, Crash?" I shouted.
"Just trying to figure out the best way to get something big and heavy over or under this fucking fence," he replied, distractedly, scrambling and slipping all over the place.
I whispered to Pat in reassurance, "Don't worry about that guy, Patrick, he's friendly enough. We know him," but Pat looked unsure. I can't blame him. Crash was acting pretty strange, banging on the metal panels with his fist and screaming extremely violent obscenities.
I knocked on the front door. Barry eventually opened it. His long, black/grey dead hair flopped over his bloodshot eyes. His shirt was ripped, his shorts were torn and his boots were muddy.
"Miles! It’s nice to see you, mate."
"Good to see you too, man. This is my old friend, Pat, from my Aberystwyth days," and the two of them shook hands. All very pleasant, until we were startled by a frustrated howl...
"OHHHWWFUCKTHIS, I'm going back to play FRONT MISSION ALTERNATIVE in the fucking shed," Crash screamed, as he jumped back over into Barry's garden.
"What's got into Crash, Baz?" I asked.
"He's taken something, not sure what it was, but he's been unable to stop playing 'Front Mission Alternative' in the shed for like... 48 hours. He's also seen a sofa in a skip, just down the road, in 'perfect condition' apparently, that would replace the old battered one in the shed."
"Oh, so that's why he's been messing about on your fence?" Pat had solved the mystery.
"Yeah, he's making plans," said Barry, "but it's not MY fence. It's property of the funeral directors next door, so come on boys, we'd better go and check on him."

As we approached the shed, cautiously avoiding various brambles, nettles and holes in the ground, we saw a big pile of fresh brown mush, which could've been either vomit or diarrhoea, it smelled like both. We then heard a rumbling noise coming from the shed, followed by Crash screaming. It sounded like a scream of pain, at first, but then we heard him laughing and whooping.
"I think he's just completed the final mission," said Barry.
"Thank fuck," I said. "I need to have a nice quiet sit down for a while."
We piled into the shed and sat down on the battered sofas. Crash was now using the laptop, smoking a cigarette and skimming through pages and pages of what appeared to be profiles of scantily clad girls.
"Safe, Crash," I said. "What you up to now?"
"I'm just browsing through some whores," he nonchalantly replied. "I'm trying to work out which ones I've shagged."
"I see, but what about that sofa?" I asked. "Have you given up on getting the new luxury sofa?"
"No, NOT AT ALL, Miles," he said, with slightly menacing tones of panic in his voice. "I saw this bloke chuck it in a skip about twenty minutes ago when I was coming back from the off-licence. It looked in better condition than this rotten old bastard I'm sitting on. I knew I had to finish the mission first, check on my whores, have a cigarette, and wait for the reinforcements to arrive."
"Reinforcements?" Pat asked, nervously.
"That'll be us then," I sighed.
"Come on, CUNTS!" shouted Crash. "We have no time to lose. MY business is done and now we need to get that fucking sofa..."
"The Documenter is on his way," interrupted Barry.
"Good," blurted Crash. "The sick pervert can help us out with this. Anything that prevents him from fantasising about fucking Tulisa's headless corpse with a knife strapped to his dick is a good distraction."
"I don't mind helping out," I said, warily, "but...would you be willing to return the favour?"
"What the fuck do you you mean?" asked Crash.
"Well, I've managed to acquire some tickets for the UKIP 'Training Day' at Birmingham Town Hall, in a couple of weeks time," I said, with Crash and Barry just looking at me, blankly, seriously confused, to say the least. "It starts at around 11am on Thursday 20th September. I'm basically just planning on seriously soaking up the atmosphere...so I'll be able to write about the whole thing...you know...politics..."
"Whoa, wait, wait," Crash interrupted. "Is this something to do with the BNP?"
"No, didn't you hear what Miles said?" Barry blurted. "UKIP!"
"UKIP?" responded Crash. "What kind of fucking name is that for a gang of politicians? I mean, it sounds like a weird sleeping society, or an insomnia charity...or even a fucking mattress outlet!"
"Good point," I said. "I guess, in a strange way, it could be all of those things...but I need some moral support to do this properly, you know, some interesting characters to spark off..."
"Well, as long as it's not the BNP, I guess I'm up for anything," said Crash.
"Why are you so freaked out about the BNP?" asked Pat, surprisingly confidently - considering the fact that he'd been sitting in a state of quiet shock ever since we entered into the realm of the shed.
"Too many queers. Homos. Batty boys. I've seen it first hand," answered Crash. "I decided to go along to one of their meetings a while back, out of boredom, expecting it to be some sort of violent, drunken party. But it was more like one massive blind-date for closet gay skinheads and beer-belly faggots. It was awful. All those searching, lustful glances...and the groping...Jesus Christ, it was a disgrace. I'm up for violence and racism, but violence and racism with a homosexual theme? NO THANKS! I'd rather fuck a Tarantula in the face than stick my cock up a bloke's ass!"
"What about having a Tarantula shoved up your ass?" asked Barry, but Crash ignored him.
"Fucking hell, Crash," I said. "I would never have thought that was the case, especially with the BNP, but now you mention it...." before I could finish my sentence there was a knock on the shed door. It was The Documenter.
"Ah, finally, THE DARK PRINCE OF WOLLESCOTE has arrived," laughed Barry.
"Afternoon, boys," The Documenter greeted. "What's all this about racism and homosexuals? 'American History X' again, is it?"
"Enough of this messing about!" shouted Crash. "You need to stop idling and get yourselves on Sofa-watch duty. I'm not going to be pleased if some other cunt grabs it."
"So what will you be doing while we're standing in the street guarding a skip?" asked Barry.
"Having a nice massive wank-off with these two," Crash said, looking straight at me and Pat.
"Wha.." gasped Pat.
"Come on, lahahads," Crash laughed. "I'm only joking! We'll need to get rid of this old sofa. When The Dark Doc and Baz go off to secure the new one we can haul this rotten old piece of shit outside. There's a chainsaw in the house, and some fire-lighters, so there should be no trouble getting rid of it."
"You've got it all planned out, eh, Crash?" mumbled The Documenter.
"Too fucking right I have. So get going..."
"You know, this is MY shed," said Barry, sullenly.
"I know it is, Baz. But listen, buddy, I really think that you deserve to get a new sofa for the shed, and this is the best chance we've had. You two need to stop fretting and just go and fetch the thing. Leave the old couch to me, it'll be gone before you even get back!"
"What about getting the new one over the fence?" asked Pat.
"That won't be a problem," assured Crash. "I was just finalizing the calculations and performing various 'professional safety checks' before you arrived, REMEMBER?"
"Oh...yeah," Pat replied, less than enthusiastically.

Before we even had time to contemplate what was going on, Crash had cranked the chainsaw and began to viciously attack the old sofa. Me and Pat had wrestled the filthy old thing out of the shed and chucked it into a small clearing in Barry's garden. The noise was horrible, but Crash was just laughing hysterically, screaming - splinters flying - high to low - booming laughter - DIE YOU FUCK - keep our distance - kept our distance - whizzing - high pitch to low thud - stop - reverse - swing - Tobe Hooper - barely audible conversation - did security at Paralympics - saw this group of Arab tourists - young boys - one had his shirt open - pouches strapped to him - pouches in hand - gas bombs? - Dangerous liquid? - had to do his job - chased him down - the boy threw a pouch - it exploded on the floor - wrestled him to the ground - broke both his legs - not intentional - boy was screaming - small crowd gathered - no terrorist - just water balloons - better safe than sorry - government cover-up - pay off - blocked the press - G4S - illusions snapping - still two pieces - Middleton tits - can't give it up - give up the sham - give up the power - admit you're nothing - tough titty - the dumb will win out - so dumb down - at least get a sense of humour - play it down - yes, they're my boobs - all women have them - big deal - I'm committed to my human work - as long as there are cameras there - chainsaw statements - chainsaw state - now get the fire-lighters - prepare for upgrade...

"No results found for Ukipalsy," that's what Google said when I searched the word "Ukipalsy". I thought it made quite a good title for this piece of combined-story-journalism. I then searched "no results found for Ukipalsy" and Google said "No results found for no results found for Ukipalsy," and so on. I could've kept going with it, but I think it's time for me to stop dicking around and ask some more seriously searching questions instead. Questions like; What the hell WAS I doing at the UKIP 'Training Day' at Birmingham Town Hall on that tumultuous Thursday 20th September, 2012 Anno Domini? Fucking hell. It was an irresponsible and thoroughly insane thing to do, especially as I was completely out of my mind on various, powerful stimulants. I mean, what was I hoping to achieve? Well, in all honesty, and with a great sadness in my heart, I can't be totally sure. For some possibly perverted, semi-suicidal reason, I was signing up for everything, showing real enthusiasm, dressed in a suit and wearing both a union flag tie and a union flag pin badge, accompanied by two extremely dangerous psychopaths who were also wearing suits and union flag accessories. We were right on the bloody edge, millimetres away from trouble, but we were also trying to learn - WE WANTED, NEEDED TO BE TRAINED!!!

"FARAGE FOR PM," screamed Crash. His festering black-eye and bright white sling (obtained due to falling face-first from the tall metal fence outside Barry's house and then being crushed by the much sought after sofa, which followed him down onto the concrete floor) were not exactly detracting attention from where we were standing. A few heads turned to look at the three of us in the street. It was about 10:30am. We were huddled together, sharing a joint, preparing ourselves, standing not too far from the entrance to The Town Hall, trying not to draw too much unnecessary attention at this stage and feeling somewhat uncertain of the events that were about to unfold.
"Fucking hell, Crash, please, don't get too excited just yet, we need to get ourselves safely inside first," I whispered, loudly, my voice rattled with stress.
"He'll be fine in a minute, Miles," assured The Documenter. "Just allow him enough time to let off a little bit of steam. He's just taken the morphine tablets so he'll be like a nice subdued toddler by the time we enter the panic room."
The Panic Room. Indeed. It was not going to be an easy-going experience, but we were determined to experience it, regardless of the risks to our physical and mental security. Potentially dangerous situations like that are more-than-likely going to involve serious risks - possible humiliation, embarrassment, arrest, exile, and, almost always, irreparable shame. Luckily, for me, they provide any aspiring writer with some much needed inspiration. But I possibly had too much inspiration on my hands this time, an overwhelming amount of the shit. Still, it's good to get stocked up occasionally with plenty of fuel for the fire and bucket-loads of poison to dip my arrows in.