Ten Minute Waltz

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Julie Delpy A Waltz For A Night

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Ever been Speed Dating? It’s Keeper’s desire to whisk us through a quick ten minute jaunt inside my noggin. Forget the cranial fluids sloshing around your ankles and congealing between your toes and instead take two hearty nostrils of the heady concoction I have a brewing. Make yourself comfortable, settle your weary legs and allow me to pour you a refreshment. I have some fine china I have been waiting to bust out and now seems to be as good a time as any other. Shall we waltz…

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My name is Keeper and yes that is a Crimson Quill you see poking forth from my trouser pocket. I use it to scribe, it has mystical properties and I am still learning every day how to harness its power. Fight The Power is my favorite Public Enemy lick; as a boy I would search high and low for any discarded timepieces I could hang around my neck in an attempt at emulating my kingpins.

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I’m an absolute sucker for the Farrelly Brothers’ Kingpin. I am fully aware that Mary has a certain je ne sais pas about her, whilst Lloyd and Harry are beyond legendary; but nothing, and I do mean nothing, is funnier than Big Ern’s top mop attached to Bill Murray’s wonderful face. Speaking of faces, the moment when Roy asks Claudia how he looks and she licks her fingers, sticks down his disheveled comb-over and tells him sincerely “You look good Roy…real sharp” is sheer plutonium.

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The plutonium Wile E Coyote used to fuel his rocket pack would have cost millions to source which poses the question “if he was so loaded, wouldn’t it have been more savvy to take out a hit on Road Runner?” I was one of the fastest runners in my school year but last summer, during the egg and spoon race at my son’s first sports day, I forgot how to place one foot before the other and went down around the halfway mark like a sopping sack of shit. Consequently, the egg made it farther than I did. As I licked my wounds and awkwardly scrambled to my feet I caught glimpse of my proud four year-old. He had a look of pride on his face which spoke three solitary words. “That’s my daddy.”

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My dad spent weeks building me a fort out of lollipops. It had turrets, a fully working drawbridge and housed up to a hundred warriors. I’ve never watched The Warriors…I know right? Let’s not get it twisted however, I haven’t seen Grease either. I never particularly suffered with greasy skin, just the odd random molten pustule. It always fascinated me teasing them to burst and I instantly regretted any hasty popping the little blighters but still got a sick pleasure out of spraying my plasma as though I was Argento.

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Dario Argento is one of my true horror fathers, Suspiria and Inferno gave my nightmares nightmares and Tenebrae effortlessly showed the artistic flair for bloodletting which so many filmmakers have spent their lives attempting to master. I masturbate daily and find this helps to keep your mind in the game. If I’m feeling flummoxed and everything is conspiring against me then it is a rather splendid release valve I find. I find humor in the darkest of places; it’s like a tick to me, an itch that I have to scratch. Take the blood test scene in John Carpenter’s The Thing, truly grotesque and horrific the first, second and third time you view. By the fourth playback it’s like something out of The Three Stooges. I guess on some level that must make me juvenile.

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As a juvenile I managed to get up to all kinds of mischief. Just the regular shit kids get up to at that age; burning down abandoned liquor stores, blowing myself up in the Physics lab, getting caught shoplifting £50 worth of lifted vinyl by a security guard with hands larger than any I had ever seen…you know, the usual mild delinquent tomfoolery. I’ve known two people named Tom in my lifetime but I’ve met a thousand fools. Ignorance is my heftiest bugbear, arrogance leaves me cold and overblown egos really get my goat. The three billy goats gruff were somewhat misinformed when crossing that bridge. If they’d have just taken the alternative route round the woodland then they would have totally bi-passed that grouchy troll.

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Internet trolls are a sorry bunch. Getting their kicks from others’ misery, they have nothing constructive to say and deserve nothing more than to be made examples of. Some great examples of sequels done correctly include Exorcist III, Psycho II and Damien: The Omen II. On the flipside, Xtro didn’t franchise quite so well. This saddens Keeper as Harry Bromley Davenport’s macabre chiller is, without doubt, my guiltiest pleasure. It gives me immense pleasure watching horror films on my own, in a totally singular environment, lights off and sound cranked. I love nothing more than to be utterly defenseless and terrified.

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I used to be terrified of death but, over the years, that fear has turned into intense fascination. One of the most important pathways to traverse in life is how to get your head round the concept of ceasing existence. When my time comes, Keeper fully intends on being ready for whichever eventuality is planned. I never planned to be writing full-time when I started out. It was a form of therapy for me and offered me an escape from all the things happening around me that I didn’t understand.

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I pride myself on understanding others and it is a well documented fact that Keeper is nigh-on impossible to shock. I’ve seen it all…hell, done most of it too. I vowed a long time ago not to judge and never form my opinions based on one-sided rants of others’ indiscretions. Similarly, if I like a film, then I won’t change my opinion based on the popular consensus. We all have voices and there is nothing more invigorating than healthy debate. I always debate whether I have any dancing skills whatsoever. Let’s not get it twisted, I can beat-mix, feel the rhythm and wouldn’t consider myself tone def. But it is interesting that the only time I received plaudits for my dance moves was under the incessant flash of strobe. I’d be horribly exposed if you put me under spotlights and asked my two left feet to dance the waltz.

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I trust you have enjoyed my Ten Minute Waltz. I apologize if I trod on your feet, these clown shoes are just so hard to lift.

Ten minutes of sin,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014

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