Monthly Archives: May 2014

The Purgatory of Pickled Souls

For ‘World Goth Day’, Eden decided to get very stoned and think about death, all day long. He ideally wanted to buy a coffin to lie in whilst thinking very hard about death, but after he spent two whole hours browsing the internet in a state of extreme excitement, and then had a very bizarre phone conversation with a coffin maker –

(“I want a coffin! It’s for me! I want a purple one!”

“I think that could be arranged – do you have any idea of how…soon, you might be requiring it? Have the doctors given you an estimate?”

“As soon as possible! I’m very excited about this coffin, and I can’t wait to be inside it!

“That…is an unusual outlook, sir, but it’s good to stay positive in such trying times…”)

– sadly his Coffin Quest was utterly vetoed by Samuel, who stated that under his roof, absolutely no one was allowed to sink to such an abominable level of vampiric pretension – there would be no sleeping in coffins. Eden sulked for three days, before leaving the house looking very purposeful. Later on I discovered that he had erected his own personalised gravestone in the living room (“Here lies Eden Grey, IMMORTAL GENIUS, mourned eternally by the world of music!”), and he was lying sprawled out inside a chalk body outline, smoking a joint and looking rather proud of himself. When I asked what he was doing, he shushed me, stating firmly,

“I am thinking about death! Leave me alone!”

Laughing, I turned to go, but he asked,

“Can you bring me a bag of O Positive? And some Oreos? Thinking about death makes me hungry…”

 

 

He was still lying on the floor three hours later, surrounded by the scattered roaches of seven joints, each of which had been memorialised with a chalk outline, and half an Oreo as a makeshift gravestone. Rob dumped himself down on the chesterfield, and asked,

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Thinking,” Eden replied, smiling serenely as he lit his eighth joint. “About death!”

“Why?” Rob asked. “None of us are ever going to die, and the people we kill are just people, so they don’t even matter.”

“I’m already dead,” Eden replied, blowing out a cloud of weed smoke. “I am undead! That means that death is my dominion, and I can think about it as much as I like!”

“God, you’re weird…” Rob muttered, pouring himself a very large glass of Jack Daniels. “You just get weirder and weirder every week. In another century I’m going to have to bury you alive just to shut you up!”

“I am a bit weird,” Eden admitted, beaming at the ceiling. “But I’m quite an endearing variety of weird…”

After a brief silence, he continued,

“I’ve been thinking about souls. I have a soul, obviously, and Kate has a soul, and even you probably have a soul, although it’s all filthy and shit-stained like a soggy old nappy, and people have souls, because I’ve seen their ghosts… But what about other things? Dogs must have souls, because dogs are very important. Cats are horrible, so I don’t even care if they have souls. But what about the really small things? Do spiders have souls? Do cockroaches and fleas have souls? Do fish have souls?”

“Bollock Fish have souls,” Rob stated firmly. “Anything that’s awesome enough to lurk around in rivers, biting people’s bollocks off, has got to have a soul. If I ever die, I’m going to be a Bollock Fish in my next life – I’ve decided.”

“Ah,” said Samuel, smiling as he wandered in with a glass of wine, “Such lofty aspirations! Might I ask what the cemetery of biscuit mutilation is in aid of?”

“He’s thinking about death,” I told him. “Apparently so are the biscuits.”

Black!” Eden hissed gleefully. “They’re black like my soul! Oreos are the Biscuits of Tragedy!”

“Well,” Samuel replied, “On your earlier points, I have never once in eight centuries witnessed the ghost of an insect, or been haunted by a ghoulish trout, so either they have no souls, or their souls are simply too sensible to linger about terrorising the living.”

“The ghost of a mosquito would be awful,” I said. “If it drove you mad for a week, and then you killed it, but it just kept haunting you anyway…”

“Exorcisms would be far more popular,” Samuel agreed, taking a sip of wine.

But,” Eden interjected, waving his joint in the air, “Eggs have souls! And I can prove it!”

“Why the fuck would an egg have a soul?” Rob demanded incredulously. “An egg doesn’t even have a brain!”

Because,” Eden hissed, beaming triumphantly, “Because of flatulence! Eggs make people fart, and when they do, that is the soul of the egg, haunting you!”

Rob burst out laughing, and Eden continued,

“So, cabbages have souls too. And baked beans definitely have souls, which is why they are so famed for their powers of flatulence – there have to be about 250 beans in every tin, which equals a terrifying 250 furious soul-farts! Am I not a genius?”

“So everything that makes you fart has a soul?” Rob asked, grinning. “That is your spiritual test? The basis of your grand philosophy? Eat it, and if it makes you fart, it had a soul?”

“In essence,” Eden agreed. “Farts are souls. Souls are farts. Amen.”

“But, what about all the people we’ve killed? We drank their blood, and it didn’t make us fart, so how do you explain that one, Flatulence Einstein?”

Eden frowned thoughtfully, and lit another joint. After several seconds of intense contemplation, he beamed, and explained,

“We don’t fart, because we only drink their blood! The blood is the life, but the soul is somewhere else! And when they die, their corpse farts, doesn’t it? So that explains it! Their soul escapes – right out of their rectum!”

“Somehow,” Samuel murmured, “I cannot see this religious movement taking off…”

“The road to heaven!” Rob spluttered, “Is a clean colon! Enemas for Jesus! Buttfuck your way to a higher consciousness!”

“But how do you know,” I interrupted, “That you’re farting out the soul of the egg? What if eggs are actually…like…demonic, and they suck out your soul in the form of a fart? So with every fart, you lose a bit of your own soul?”

Samuel sighed despairingly, and began pouring Rob’s Jack Daniels into the dregs of his wine, but Eden blurted out,

“You’re right! That’s why the hideous fat people look so depressed! All the vast, lumbering, rotund wobblers at Tescos, with their terrible farts and their sinister, dead eyes! THEY’VE GOT NO SOULS! THEY’VE GOT NO SOULS LEFT!”

He began frantically snatching up his Oreo gravestones and stuffing them into his mouth, until Rob asked,

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m going on a mission!” he mumbled through a mouthful of Oreo, scrambling to his feet. “I’m going to Tescos to warn them!”

“Warn them about what?” Rob asked, grinning. ““Excuse me, you fat bastard, have you got a minute to listen to my demented spiritual rambling as I try to save your miserable farting soul through the medium of an egg-free diet”? I bet someone stabs you within five seconds!”

“I am the prophet!” Eden howled, shooting out of the room in a rush of air. “I AM THE CHOSEN ONE!”

The door slammed behind him, followed by the revving of an engine and tyres spinning on the gravel as he shot off down the drive, off on his mission of Grave Spiritual Importance.

 

 

Eden returned an hour later, looking rather irritated, with a large rip down the front of his t-shirt, and egg yolk in his hair.

“Get stabbed?” Rob asked, as Eden dumped himself down on the chesterfield and started rolling a joint.

“No,” he stated. “Horrible fat bastard tried to punch me, so I smashed a watermelon over his head. Then the next fat bastard tried to kick me in the balls, so I tossed him into a rack of frozen prawns.” He paused to lick the rizla, before continuing, “So, at that point, I knew they weren’t going to listen to me! They were too far gone! They’d already farted out their souls and been corrupted from within! And so, I moved on to Plan B…”

He lit his joint, and exhaled a cloud of weed smoke, explaining,

“I knew that the baked beans were as good as indestructible, their slippery satanic bodies locked away inside a million tins, so instead I sought out the shelves of eggs, and I started hurling them across the shop! There’s nothing more satisfying than smashing eggs all over Tescos, that palace of debasement!” He beamed at the memory for a moment, and I laughed, picturing a demented figure in black, howling incoherent curses and flinging eggs in every direction like a furious yolky tornado. But then he sighed, and added regretfully, “They called the police, so I had to flee… No one appreciates me…”

I appreciate you,” I told him, and he smiled, passing me the joint.

“I appreciate you,” Samuel agreed, “But not enough to tolerate living with your pompous gravestone for the rest of eternity.”

Eden scowled. “My gravestone is not pompous, it’s all true!”

“People are not supposed to scribe their own eulogy,” Samuel stated, “Due to the mortal – and seemingly, immortal – inclination towards pompous self-aggrandising bilge. One’s eulogy should be the product of one’s memorable actions, written by someone else.”

Eden considered this in sulky silence, before demanding,

“What would you write on my gravestone then? And it had better be nice! Full of compliments!”

Samuel considered for a moment, and replied,

“Here lies Eden Grey, who throughout his life, had a peculiar and doom-laden obsession with socks. From within his decaying remains, a cannabis plant is sure to spring, so take from its bounty and enjoy. He was decidedly odd, but we enjoyed his company nonetheless. Most of the time.”

“You didn’t call me a genius once,” Eden muttered bitterly. “If I die, I want this entire house turned into an exhibition, just like Elvis!”

“The Elvis exhibition is rubbish,” Rob disagreed. “Everyone goes there wanting to see the toilet he died on, most of them hoping to even take a piss in it, for posterity, and that bit’s locked up! What a waste of a brilliant death…”

“What on Earth,” Samuel asked, raising an eyebrow, “Is brilliant about dying on the toilet, or do I not even wish to know?”

“It’s brilliant on so many levels!” Rob replied enthusiastically, waving his glass around. “Elvis was a genius! It’s the ultimate fuck you to the world! And all your fans are gonna get paranoid, wondering if you’ve become a toilet-haunting spirit of defecation! And above all, what about the shit that killed him? I bet someone preserved it. We should dedicate our immortality to tracking down Elvis’s killer shit, so we can put it on the mantelpiece!”

“What happened to your love for the poor man?” Samuel asked disapprovingly. “In the 1960s you were determined to kidnap him and make him immortal, the newest addition to our dysfunctional family!”

“I will always love Elvis,” Rob stated, “Which is exactly why I want to own his killer shit – it’s the ultimate piece of memorabilia! And anyway, it’s all your fault that he’s dead – if you hadn’t stopped me, he would be here with us right now, dancing around in a rhinestone jockstrap and writing brilliant songs with me! The entire tragedy is your fault!”

Before Samuel could reply, I realised that the window was beginning to strobe with flickering blue lights that were getting closer and closer, accompanied by the wail of a police siren.

“How did they find me?!” Eden wailed, snatching up his weed and stuffing it hurriedly underneath the sofa. “I was driving the Lotus! They couldn’t keep up, so how did they find me?!”

“Well,” said Rob, “You probably are in Tesco’s Mentalist Database after all the mental letters you’ve written them. Did you write anything mental while you were there?”

Eden chewed his lip, looking guilty. Finally he admitted,

“I did…sort of…leave them a poem. On the wall… Would you like to hear it?”

“Go on then,” Samuel sighed, “Before this charade begins…”

Eden beamed, taking a swig of Rob’s whiskey and proclaiming,

“Do not put eggs in your shopping cart!

For they’ll steal your soul, turn it into a fart

From baked bean’s smear

Run in fear

Lest Satan pillage your arse!

 

Doom may come in many shapes

Satan lurks amongst the grapes

To preserve thy soul

Plug thy hole

‘gainst eggy spiritual rapes!”

He performed a bow, before adding, “And then I finished it all off with an artistic illustration. It was a work of genius!”

There was now a violent banging coming from the front door, and Samuel stood up, ordering,

“Come with me, all of you, who knows how many of them might be waiting – let us endeavour to mindfuck them before they can hit us with pepper spray!”

As he strode out of the room, I could hear him muttering,

“Here lies Eden Grey, incurable lunatic, blight on the world of poetry, and pain in my backside!”

 

 

Luckily, there were only two policemen, who were quickly mindfucked into submission. They left with the information that the infamous Eden Grey, scribe of the ‘Tesco Letters’, had died in an unfortunate canoeing accident one week ago. As for the episode of spontaneous insanity carried out at a Tesco store tonight, we could give them no clues, except that perhaps a demon possession had occurred, as Eden’s vengeful spirit haunted the egg aisle, preying upon the weak minded…

As the police car disappeared down the drive and Samuel slammed the door, he asked Eden,

“You do understand what this means, don’t you? As far as Tesco are concerned, you are wholly and permanently deceased, and there can be no more deranged letters sent to them by you!”

“I think it’ll just make my letters better,” Eden replied happily. “They’ll take me seriously now that I’m a vengeful wraith! The next time they wrong me, I’m going to drop my gravestone right through their roof!”

He beamed delightedly, and disappeared in a rush of air. I found him lying inside his chalk outline, fastidiously licking an Oreo and beginning another productive session of Thinking About Death.

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