The Long Road Home

It was a long drive out through the desert, and Ginger wished Charlie would shut the hell up.
His head stung with the beginnings of a migraine and his free hand, the one that held his third cigarette of the trip, tried in vein to massage his temple. He knocked his spectacles back up his nose and glanced in his rear view at Charlie. The kid was still talking.
"So my dad always used to say like Charlie, you're no good, you'll never make anything of yourself you know?" The boy laughed half-heartedly, the scant hair on his chin kept catching the light. Ginger had kept the interior lights on in the car to keep an eye on him. It was so fucking far out to the spot Fish had prepared, he had no idea why he was the muggins who had to drive the kid out.
"Your dad talked as much as you fucking do Charlie." Ginger snapped. Only a bit further.
"Yeah well you gotta get it from somewhere ain't you? My pop was alright though, he used to say we were a lot alike you know..."
"Fuckin' hell." Ginger sighed.
"What'd your pop tell you eh? Back in merry old England yeah?" Charlie smiled. "With all your like, Margaret Thatcher and stuff."
"The Iron Lady was a bird not to be messed with son, she scared the piss out of me." Ginger said, running his tongue over his teeth.
"Yeah yeah, right, I get it. Yeah man." He fidgeted. Charlie sat up, as best he could with the handcuffs on him, and looked out the window.
"Ginger man....you don't need to go any further. I know what you're trying to say. I told Fish I was fucking sorry. It was all a fucking mistake man, you know?" He laughed, but it was forced, it came from a strange place somewhere near the top of his throat.
"Not much further now son." Ginger said.
Charlie stared forward. He knew that voice. That weird tone Ginger got in his voice sometimes, a strange apathy, toneless. He tried to swallow but couldn't get past the lump in his throat. 
"No man, you don't need to do this. You know? I learnt my lesson and all that." He looked from side to side. He was looking for a way out. Ginger had seen it before.
When the time comes, you think somehow yours will be different. Everyone thinks they're the exception. One last breath of wild luck. Some insane coincidence of situation or collision of events that'll bring you out alive. Ginger saw the look in Charlie's eyes start to change.
"It was an accident. Totally, just an accident man. I didn't mean to even have that shit on me when I left. I'd fucking forgotten about it." Charlie was stressing every few words louder, as if he could punctuate himself clearer. Ginger took a drag on his cigarette and let the smoke drift around his face. Charlie was starting to realize he was just like everyone else you see on the news.
"Ginger...man.... It's not just like that. You know... We're friends right?" He said hopefully, but his eyes were full of panic.
"Here we go." Ginger said after a moment. A little red glimmer in the desert had caught his eye. Finally. When the time comes, you only have so long to realize you aren't going to be the exception like you'd always planned.

Ginger stood out the car without killing the engine. He was a very tall man, and when he turned to open the back door all Charlie could see was some great spectacled gargoyle looming over him. The door was opened.
"Out you come son." Ginger said. He was looking out into the desert. The spot had been marked with a silly little British flag sticking out of the ground. Fish, always the fucking comedian. Charlie stared out into the darkness.
"No Ginger, Not like this man." He started. Ginger took a long drag of his cigarette before staring down at him. His spectacles had caught the moonlight and his eyes looked like two horrid gleaming round orbs.
"Don't make me come and get you. I'm not spending all night pissing about out here." He said. His voice was level, and it scared Charlie to the core. Wiggling across the seat, Charlie backed into the car, his face suddenly red with fear and tears.
"No no Ginger not like this man, not just like that!" He kicked his legs up onto the seat between him and the tall figure, and gave a good kick that struck Ginger hard in the wrist as he began to reach in.
Ginger stood up straight, shaking out his wrist. He bit his cigarette hard between uneven teeth.
"Right, I'm fucking done." He said, teeth clenched to a grim line. His hand shot in again and found purchase around Charlie's calf. Charlie screamed.
His head hit the seat, then the door frame, then the desert floor in quick succession as Ginger pulled him out by one leg and began to drag him. Tears were rolling down the boys face, his arms bent awkwardly behind him, handcuffs held behind a belt loop.
"You know me Ginger! Don't fucking do it man! Don't fucking do it!" He screamed. His voice was hoarse and raw with sobs. Ginger dropped his heel and spun, his old camel skin coat flaring around, throwing dust. A finger with a long yellowed nail jabbed through the darkness.
"I know you're a cunt Charlie! You're a fucking little egotist who talks and fucking talks all day. I'd had it up to here with you before the first bloody day was out. Now find your fucking feet and stop being a little tosser your whole life." Ginger barked, his voice took an edge that made his upper lip curl into a vulpine sneer.
Charlie curled his legs up towards his chest, almost fetally.
"Not here.." He whispered, his voice lost. "I don't deserve this Ginger, not this."
Ginger went into his coat with his free hand.
"I'll do you right fucking here on the floor if you don't get up son." Ginger said down to the boy. His voice leveled out again. The huge silver revolver had appeared and hung limply at his side in silent threat.
Charlie found his feet, he came up awkwardly, his back bent to the side to hold his wrists together. He stumbled forwards after Ginger's looming form towards the point where the tiny plastic British flag stuck out the ground.
"I got money Ginger. I cut you a deal man." Charlie started. "The last one wasn't the first time. I did it three times now. I got a stack hidden somewhere, it's all yours bro. Come on Ginger you'd do it for me wouldn't you? You fucking know me you can't do this here!"
Ginger took his cigarette from his lips to spit into the ground between the two of them.
"Another thing I fucking know about you, you're a lying little cunt Charlie. I don't like being told porkies, son." Ginger gestured with the point of the revolver. "Knees, come on."
Charlie turned to face Ginger, snot seeping down his face. He shook his head slowly.
"You can't just..."
Ginger threw his arms up in anger, the gun hanging from one, a cigarette pointing in the other.
"Shut it! Kneel, you blagging little cunt!" Ginger's foot shot out and knocked Charlie in the back of the knee. He went down to them hard, he cried in pain.
"I didn't meant to. You know it I didn't! We was just talking about it...you know it I didn't mean it.." Charlie's words were running together. Ginger was sick of hearing his voice.
"Yeah I know Charlie. I know mate." He raised his revolver.
"You know what my dad always used to tell me?" He asked, his voice had gone quiet. Charlie gave a snort and shook his head. He was staring down into the freshly dug hole before him.
"Nothing. He never told me nothing." Ginger said finally. Charlie half turned, as if to regard his killer. The revolver cracked once. Charlie's face exploded off the front of his head, and by the time Ginger's eyes had readjusted after the flash, the boy's corpse had pitched forward into the hole and was gone.
Ginger rubbed a fingertip in his ears, bloody gun went off like a cannon but hurt his ears something proper sometimes. His head was really pounding now.
The weapon found its place in his shoulder holster once more. He leaned in to take one quick look in at Charlie. Charlie, Who had stolen three grand worth of methamphetamine from Ginger's employer. Three grand, not worth dying at twenty-two for. At twenty two Ginger had still been in architect classes and eating at the same little pasty shop on the corner every day. Ginger smiled, he wondered where in Vegas he could get a good pasty. Probably no-where of course.

It took Ginger twenty minutes to kick dirt into the whole to sufficiently cover the boys corpse. He looked down into the hole for a moment longer, before heading back to the car.
He took another cigarette out of his waistcoat pocket and lit up. It was a long drive back through the desert, the sun was just starting to gleam over the rocks. Ginger had no one to fucking talk to.

Journal fragment: Lost Highway

Would you believe me if I told you something strange happened tonight?
The desert was darker than normal, the veil was thin. The horizon was lit with fire, getting brighter and louder the whole trip. I pushed on so it wouldn't blind me with its flashes.
Ghost lights followed me closely. Closer than normal. Objects in the the rear view mirror may be closer than they fucking appear.
Cars pass, leering faces look back at me from behind tinted windows. I push on.
I hear a hiss over my right shoulder, but know I can't look back without regretting it. You never can be too careful.
Above all else, she's close tonight. The shadow behind the clouds. Almost heavy in the air. I feel things flickering at the corners of my vision and I know she's there. I glance back at the sky and think I almost managed to catch a glimpse. Outlined by the moon.
I made it out this time.

Movie Review: Prometheus

It's been a while since I found myself honestly lost in science fiction. For a genre of utterly infinite possibility it still manages to be full of stale shite that gets nobody anywhere in terms of wonder or charm.
Prometheus did a good job of charming me. In fact, following my second viewing, it made me look up at the night sky in a little different way.
For those unfamiliar with the premise, in short: Ridley Scott revisits his Alien franchise with a story surrounding the enigmatic Space Jockeys (Great name for a band, no?), a paragon alien race that, amongst many other things, possibly created the Human race. A team of scientists and spacemen aboard the good ship Prometheus travel beyond the stars to search for their gods. As is the usual in those searching for God, what they find is nothing but disappointment and death.

It's a gritty Sci-fi. Touching on the horror genre no way near as strongly as the other entries in the series, but having its fair share of squirm factor body horror. Those seeking the chest bursters and flame throwers that are the staples of the franchise will not be disappointed. The sweeping vistas that are the first visuals the film offers are mesmerizing. It might have been the music, or the impossibly fantastic edge to the world we fly over, but you'll find yourself taken away with it awfully quickly.  This is a world you want to see.

Stunning visuals of Scotland aside, what spellbound me about Prometheus was its existential bent. The concept of a simply biological God greatly upsets some viewers, but was by far the most interesting aspect of the film to me. The obvious standout performance is Michael Fassbender's Android, David. In fact, David is the reason I'm writing this article. David is a mix of characters. Not quite an antagonist, and certainly far too easy to sympathize with to be seen as the villain, yet far too malevolent to be a hero. An android indistinguishable from human, he possesses the darkest of wits and a strange obsession with Peter O'Toole. He is a mix of intentions and emotions that truly break the expectations in the tired old android character that populates most science fiction. David made me consider something. He silently laments his lack of a soul throughout the film, his interactions with other characters constantly falling short of his desires. He is after all, already dealing with his gods. The concept of the soul is so rife in our culture and mythology we take it as granted, that a creature of design, like an android, would be missing something on that basis alone. However, when I see a spider crossing the threshold of my doorway, I crush it beneath my foot without a thought for its purpose as a living creature, for it isn't an intellect. If an entity thinks, converses, and decides for itself like a human, I would consider it an equal...
Speaking of, It's 2012, where the fuck is the robot maid I was looking forward to?

Something you have to love about good stories are the unanswered questions. I find myself arguing over the motives behind the characters weeks afterwards. There is so much untold, so much we simply do not know about the Space Jockeys. They were mysterious before this segment of the franchise, they are possibly moreso now, after we've been teased with a glimpse into their existence. I want to know more. With a single question about the events unfolding within this film, I've sparked hour long debates about evolution, master and slave scenarios, and the concept of man as a beast. The opinions are heated, personal, and inspired by this film. Surely this is the mark of truly great science fiction?