Suggested Audio Chianti:

 

Chris Rea “The Road To Hell”

 

I recently embarked on a very magical voyage. There were no pixies, elves, or hobbits, and neither were there fire-eating dragons or pernicious necromancers hell-bent on world domination but it was still a pilgrimage unlike any other I have ever undertaken. Mine was a quest to find my misplaced self, to reclaim my way after veering off the beaten track and into life’s bramble bushes a little too often. I located a sanctuary and topped my vitality up to 100%, then picked up an additional 25% in armor shards to ensure I had the tools to make it back in tact. Then, and only then, I pottered off whence I came, galvanized and with renewed focus. To top it all off, I also received a Christmas gift unlike any other and it was presented in the form of a piece of literature showcasing the talents of a number of the Grue family. Each did their very best impression of secret Santa and wrote a chapter of verse denoting how precious I have become to them over the past few months. It took them nigh on a month to prepare this festive treasure and it has taken almost as long to read it from top to bottom.

The reason for my tardiness? Could it be that Keeper is actually an ignorant cunt or, to put it in coyote, Ignoramus-Cuntus? Negative, I appreciated the living shit out of my gift and still struggle to adequately convey my immense gratitude for such a thoughtful gesture. The truth, and I’m presuming you can handle the truth, is that I knew back in December about my upcoming journey and, considering I was battling enough demons to sink an ark, I considered the option of devouring during transit to make more sense. Thus, I planned that shit to the very letter and intended to read it from cover to cover as I travelled 300km to my healing station.

However, I wasn’t prepared for what transpired next as, the very moment I took my seat for my nine-hour transit, the Sandman intervened and presumably he had some Rohypnol on hand as I slept through the duration like I had a nipple in my mouth, awaking only to exit the vehicle. Drat, double drat, dagnabbit, why I oughta…none of these admittedly mild expletives so much as skim the custard. I was fuming from the ears, eyes bleeding, and balls receding, as the realization set in that I’d been scuppered by that petulant sandchild. That’s right, not man, CHILD. No man would wrestle you away from destiny in such miserly fashion; that is the exclusive work on one knee-high to a grasshopper and without a single strand of wispy hair on his sack.

My demoralization subsided upon my primary discernment of life surgeon Dr. C. William Giles who provided all the anesthetic I required over the next ten days to get me ship-shape once again. It dawned on me that my opportunity was still at large as the return leg seemed a more fitting time to digest this gargantuan bounty. I had come to terms with the sandchild over the course of my stay and a piece I scribed called Chronicle of Slumber afforded me the chance to let him know, in no uncertain terms, that I had his number. The next time said sandchild arrived, I was prepared for any skullduggery. There was no way he was taking me on his terms, I wanted to be a spectator at my own wake and was damned if this hamper of diced dildos was going to snatch my consciousness from under my very hooves. No siree!

That dusk I decided against being his bitch and instead self-medicated, falling to sleep in my own sweet time and not his. He got the hint, took it on the chin like Debbie in Dallas, and fled to the hills with his tail tucked between his sorry legs. I vaguely remember delivering one last scathing insult as the sandchild scuttled back into the dark recesses and it went something like this: “You perishing fiend. I hope leprosy makes a comeback and blights your joints. In addition, I wish for a passer-by to hoist your soiled breaches up into your sheriff’s badge. You ain’t no sheriff in my town motherfucker!” I know right? You got served sandchild, now go away and grow a pair you festering freak. He did precisely this and I knew then that the battle had been won. The war, however, was still far from over.

I have digressed some, so I shall reel that shizzle back into nizzle and get back to the dizzle. The dizzle of which I speak is that sturdy rack of ribs that I had hoarded like a stingy squirrel since Christmas morning. Grue Family Christmas received its moment on the return journey; I made myself horribly uncomfortable upon commencement and settled in for the duration to read this veritable bible. Now it is decidedly rare that I use the following word and resist doing so unless I am truly flabbergasted but feel there is no time more fitting than the present so here goes… Gad Zukes! This collective piece of literature blew me like a dime-store hooker, minus the lipstick, and I just loved every last guzzle.

How could I possibly shoe-horn into prose how moved I was by this glorious benefaction of love? I was left reeling in the very best way and still haven’t fully recuperated from the joyous clout I received to the chops upon unwrapping my present and soaking in its affectionate prose. The question is: how to do I even think of repaying such kindness? I know you don’t give to receive but feel it only right to return the favor in some small way and let those involved in its conception know just how much this touched my soul. Maybe a bunch of daffodils would suffice? They do say nothing says I love you better than flowers so surely I’d be onto a winner by picking a bouquet and having them delivered to each and every doorstep as a token of my appreciation. The problem is that I believe there are many better ways to express your attachment than that. There’s always sucking their balls but there are two good reasons why I wouldn’t be partaking in gobstoppers at dawn. Firstly, over 75% of the participants were female and, secondly, I don’t make a habit of masticating plums. Instead, I have a cunning plan which I am about to let y’all in on. That’s right, it’s time to sniff Keeper’s cheese.

So when I was a seventeen year-old scamp with hopes and dreams, I scribed this manuscript right? While I was relatively wet behind the ears, I did show early promise and a passion for prose which hadn’t yet sufficiently matured. The Caretaker was a bog-standard slasher featuring a marauding watchman named Forsythe. There were no-frills on these panties as originality was never its strong-suite. So sue me, I like me some good old-fashioned stalk and slash and it seemed the ideal way of paying homage to the films which I had spent my misspent youth in awe of. So what relevance does that have to anything over twenty years on? Well, here’s the kicker Grueheads. I’m bringing that shit back like bell-bottoms. The Caretaker is about to embark on something of a renaissance as I give it the reboot treatment for all you fine people. Its premise will remain basis, no bells, whistles or thistles, just pure eighties style slasher goodness like mama used to bake. He’s a bad mofo let me tell you, takes great pleasure in vivisection, and loves nothing more than a dash of Coitus-Interruptus.

While Forsythe will still be the one wielding the cleaver, the rest of the personnel will be changing. It shall feature a likewise pool of protagonists although, on this occasion, those players will represent each bearer of the Grue Family Christmas sweetener. Many shall perish but this is no reason to feel hard done-by if your windpipes become severed as each death will represent a sincere thank you for dedicating your time to touching my soul. Hard feelings? Come now. I shall be in the fray alongside every one of you and, be assured, my fate is no more secure than anybody else’s. I love nothing more than to have my gizzards wrenched free and used to skip rope with; there will be no free-passes here.

This shall be my contribution and I relish revisiting a piece of writing which holds such a snug spot within my blackened heart’s candy canister. Will it end as another manuscript? Whoa now, hold your horses. It may do, it may not. I’m in no rush on that count and shall simply explore this fiction further and see where it leads us. No curtailment, just one man’s Crimson Quill getting bloody as all hell. The way it should be. Peepers on stalks Grueheads, the blood shall begin to spill very shortly and it’s gonna get decidedly messy. Right then, about that Chianti.

 

Finally the Chianti

 

It is currently September 29th, 2015 and almost two years since the original conception of Nostalgia & Chianti. I regret to inform you that The Caretaker’s return was far more fleeting than envisaged and, to this very day, remains unfinished. I set out with the very best of intentions and even prepared an entrée but, alas, I took too long and a number of those responsible for my glorious gift took my dalliance to heart and buggered off into the sunset. Do I blame them? No actually; I would say they were within their rights to be perturbed as sometimes I even frustrate myself so I can imagine how they felt.

It’s Forsythe I feel sorry for as he deserved his comeback and was all set to rise like the proverbial phoenix and decimate anything with a pulse within a 10km radius. Now he has been consigned to the dusty vaults once more and I know how much it meant to him to have his swan song. Reading this piece back, its motivation became as transparent to me as a jellyfish with Cushing’s syndrome. However, I could never fathom the relevance of the whole Nostalgia & Chianti thing. Ergo, I shall close with a poem incorporating The Caretaker, remembrance, and vino, and consider that sufficient closure.

I understand this may well cause you distress
but I feel so compelled by this shanty
remember that time when we drank to excess
our poison of choice was Chianti

 

You had every intention of wielding that cleaver
and cutting some teens down to size
then two bottles in we both took a breather
and removed our four eyes from the prize

 

By the time we came round not a teen could be found
all promiscuous sex had concluded
your victims all left without making a sound
with not a solitary murder alluded

 

You must be frustrated two decades you waited
to cut to the chase like old days
I know you’ll blame me ’til your appetite’s sated
but I ask that you please reappraise

 

No need to feel numb as your time will still come
one day you’ll be let off that leash
I’ll find some more co-eds all primed to succumb
and I promise much more than pastiche

 

You look far more chipper dare I say a new man
all set to sky-rocket the ante
and I give you my word we’ll get back to the plan
after just one more glass of Chianti

 

Click here to read Caretaker: Prologue