Suggested Audio Candy:
Bill Conti Going The Distance & The Final Bell
I return this day to the green grass of home, having bucked my malevolent trend and spent the past ten days in, what I now affectionately refer to as, The Land of The Giles. I arrived in his kingdom battered and torn on the inside, having spent the vast majority of the month previous lurking like an urchin in conditions harsh enough to make the burliest yeti tremble. Another week would’ve sealed my fate I’m sure and my shell had begun to drop some rather hefty hints that it could withstand little more of the punishment being dished out. In truth, this whole affair has turned out to be something of a game changer.
I had always intended to use my time in the wild becoming at one with my inner self. What I hadn’t banked on was the seamless transition into hobo which grabbed me by the short and curlies, dragging me into a nearby mulberry bush for a swift round of how’s your asshole? Mother Earth has many tools at her disposal and it’s unfortunate that these didn’t consist of a tube’o’lube or, at the very least, a moods CD to accompany the pummeling my prostate gland took as she went in thorny.
I arrived at his fortified palace mere days away from a scheduled appointment at the pearly gates (yeah, like fuck Keeper’s ever likely to see them). As I was delivered to my fresh coordinates via the English equivalent of Greyhound, I was greeted by a shadowy figure stalking the shadows and advancing on my position with some haste. I squinted, unsure as to whether the grim reaper was having a plain clothes day but, after discerning no steely Scythe glint, I did the math and the blackened apparition was announced as kosher. “G-Giles? ..Sir…Giles? …GIIIIILES” was met with a clutch of earthily transmitted prose. “Aye lad…’tis me…Giles” There was no steed, no Boadecian chariot or vivisecting lance, just a warm Northern smile and spread wings. As I scampered into his burly bear-hug I caught whiff of his cologne (Man by Grrr) recognizing its pungent odor the moment it singed my nostrils. “Aye Keeper…ye smell the gnarly scent of a seasoned man.” It made a most delightful change from the musky aroma of Bum by Nomad, which had been my chosen fragrance for around a month now.
“What big eyes you have” I spluttered bashfully, at which point, his rejoinder was “all the better for watching you with lad.” Despite the fact that Sir Giles looked as though he could turn my entire head into pulp with barely a droplet of perspiration, I felt overwhelmingly safe. He didn’t lift me up where I belong like Debra Winger and proceed to march through a factory filled with seal-clapping fishwives; but it was fairly darned close. Instead he took me for a brisk bevvy in the local Slaughtered Lamb and hurriedly handed me a fistful of plucked body hair. “Quick lad…put this on.” I slid it into my t-shirt, leaving a clasp overhanging my neckline so as to stave off any potential fluff-Nazis. It worked a delight and we sat and chewed the cud like a pair of fresians. He then bundled me into a nearby cab and took me to El Palacios de Giles.
What an ocular treat laid in wait for Keeper. As I wandered inside his den I was greeted first by Pinhead who stood proudly as centerpiece and defender of the realm. Upon suggesting he would “rip my soul apart” Giles alerted me to a multitude of demonic delights strewn across his delightful bachelor pad. Hellraiser cubes, demonic figurines, and a library of exquisite darkness surrounded me, enveloping me in resplendent blackness, and instantly rendering me mute. There was a battle mace for early morning tenderizations and a slew of nude harlots from the Hammer stable to assist in making me feel right at home. It worked, I felt like Charlie in Wonkaland, and my peepers drank it all in with devilish glee. This was indeed an environment conducive with the spot of healing I had in mind and, in Sir Giles, I possessed a gatekeeper worthy of dragging me from my mire, dusting me off and empowering the living shit out of me.
My wayward sleep pattern began to readjust and, over the course of the next ten days, I began to stake claim on my body once more. “Fancy a brew lad?” was verse I grew accustomed to as we spent hours chattering like a manly version of The First Wives Club and my loose cannons finally became fixed into place. I learned many things on my pilgrimage to the Land of The Giles and reclaimed any organization which had eluded me since I commenced my steady decline months back. My brother from a different mother offered the constancy I craved and we got on like a towering inferno.
Ten days on, Keeper is a changed man. Transmogrification has been undertaken and meds taken out of the equation in the process. At 6″2 I overshot the couch and thanked the lord for years of vegetable dodging stunting my growth as fetal positioning was almost necessitated. I’m all for spooning but it is admittedly a far more pleasurizing pursuit when there is one to spoon into; a back to rest your cum-pods against. Sir Giles was not about to enter upon such a tryst so my balls stayed exactly where they were. My time in the Land of The Giles was massively beneficial, I finally started to regain my faith and the pilgrimage provided further proof that, much as hobo mode plays a vital part in my day to day life currently, it’s far more useful as a fond recollection than a chosen way of life. Mother earth had her wicked way with me on numerous and I was ultimately bound for one of life’s little STDs if I’d continued that way for much longer. I have no great desire to spend the remainder of my existence scratching like a flea-ridden mutt so I’d say I made an astute choice by coming here.
Am I cured? Don’t be ridiculous, neither do I have any intention of being fixed. But I did need help, and fast, before something calamitous befell me. The Land of The Giles is a wonderful place; dark and broody but with beams of healing light and a host who, despite looking like he could tear a telephone directory in half with the power of mere suggestion, exhibited compassion and understanding unswervingly throughout my brief stay. Thank you Sir Giles. Thanks for the brews, thanks for the belief you reminded me I have in abundance, thanks for your friendship and brotherhood. I am focused where before it was hazed, uplifted where downtrodden had been trending, and my monster has been fed where it had been woefully undernourished. There is always a reasoning behind my decision-making process. This man is a true gentleman and if he ever needed one of my lungs on loan then I’d have it in a silver serving dish before you could utter the words “Aye lad, ’tis a fine lung you have there.”
There’s sin up north,
Keeper of The Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Revised Edition 2015)
Faustian Flesh Feast
This piece is dedicated to Sir Giles, proprietor of the Land of The Giles, a place where unicorns possess thick blackened members and have their banshee-scream down to pat. Thank you my brother from another mother. This gallery is for you, imagine Morph laying in his pencil-case with one clay hand on his pinewood furnishings and the other on his plasticine member. I don’t really know the benefit of conjuring up such a vista before but anyhoots…here’s some naked flesh. Aye, ’tis of the nude variety lad.