Martin
Individuation, flasher, drag, haiku, puppy blend.
A rivulet of sweat ran from the nape of his neck, zig-zagging around the fine blond hairs on his back, like a drop of water on a pane of glass, it gathered speed as it collected beads of sweat as it traveled down his back.
Martin concentrated on the lights, adjusting his grip on the small, wheel of his super-charged drag racer. It was hot in the airless cabin. The lights changed from Red to Amber, on green he floored it. Tires span, rubber burnt and he rocketed down the drag strip. A professional drag racer, he was in his element.
“What are you doing Martin ?”
The scream shocked him. He looked across at his wife, who, for a moment looked unfamiliar. It was as if a stranger had yelled at him from out of a huge crowd of people. The roaring of his dragster faded from his mind, like a distant dream.
“Why do you always drive like a lunatic? We are in no hurry. My appointment at the hair-dresser isn’t until ten.” She prodded him in the leg. ‘Slow down. We’ll get a ticket.
‘Hmm’. Martin replied. The rivulet of sweat had reached the small of his back. He looked over at his wife again, quickly so as not to catch her gaze. She looked tense. He slowed the aging Toyota to a pedestrian pace and pulled over to the side of the road. He did not brake, instead allowing the car to glide to a halt, like a canoe, approaching a river bank.
I’ll be done in about an hour. Don’t forget to swing by the pet store and pick up some food. And don’t drive like a madman, you’re not a young man anymore, your reactions aren’t what they used to be and we can’t afford a ticket or a repair bill for the car.
Martin sat still and watched as his wife strode away from the car towards the salon.
“Get a move on Mister’ This is a no waiting zone’. The traffic cop tapped on the passenger door. Martin put the car into gear and lurched away.
He began to drive in the general direction of the pet store….
..the route was not clearly marked…but it did not matter…Martin was used to operating covertly with little guidance. He checked the time. 43 minutes until contact. As a member of the Special Boat Squadron, Martin was a specialist in reconnaissance. Having spent eight years in the SAS he had made the move to Poole, in Southern England to commence his training. Now, eleven years on, Martin was one of the most respected members of his unit. He stepped out of his vehicle and made his way quietly to a shaded part of the forest. Beams of sunlight cut through the thick foliage. He began to scan the area for signs of life.
The dry crack of a twig was all that was necessary for Martin to focus his attention to a small gap in the undergrowth. Distance to target was thirty meters. Martin did not move. Insects buzzed around his head, in the oppressive heat. He watched as a young local girl made her way along the pathway, her long hair tied up in a bunch, oblivious to the man hiding in the bushes. Martin rose and strode confidently towards the point where the lady would pass in front of his target.
Her screams cut through the air. “Fucking pervert!” She had spun on her heel, her face a mixture of surprise, anger and shock as the flasher hissed at her from the bushes beside the pathway.
What is this world coming to thought Martin, he stood still and watched the flasher run along the path towards the civic center. The girl muttered something, glanced at Martin and walked past him, pulling her mobile phone out of her jacket pocket as she did so. Perhaps she was going to call the cops thought Martin. He continued along the path, cutting across the park would take him to the pet store and save him the walk along Nathan Road with all the crowds, the hustle and bustle, the constant dodging, the touts and the weary shoppers. Martin hated crowds…
..the waterfall tumbled into the large rocky pool…cool and refreshing Martin sat on a large granite boulder, looking into the frothy water for inspiration…
Water flows
with conviction
a river in my mind
As an English Haiku writer, Martin was not limited by the strict syllable count found in traditional Japanese Haiku, however, he did like to express his Haiku in a single ‘breath’….He looked at the words upon his page and smiled, the waterfall never failed to deliver inspiration. Just two days before his presentation, Martin felt ready. He rose and made his way towards the small building that housed the head of faculty. He was early. Punctuality was a passion and true to form, Martin was three minutes early. The door was open. As he entered the room, he felt a calmness descend upon him, slowly, like a warm blanket….A man rose from behind a counter…It was the professor…
…How can I help you? The voice was deep, with a woody resonate quality…
The pet-store was old. Large racks of accessories, some hand-made out of wood, rose unsteadily towards the ceiling.. There was a lot of wood. The shelf racks were made of wood, the flooring was wooden, large oak rafters criss-crossed the high ceiling. The pet-store was located in what used to be a forgery. Located next to a fast flowing stream, it was one of a just a few listed buildings in Belleville.
Martin like visiting the pet store. He would wander through the aisles, looking at the brightly coloured fish, their vibrant hues in contrast with the monochrome atmosphere of the old store. The store smelt of burnt spices, and grain. The was a hint of mustiness about the place, a pleasant smell that reminded Martin of the smell of an old book. He cast his mind back to his childhood. His nose buried into the yellowed pages of a bible, Martin would sniff the spine as he flicked through the old testament, past all thirty nine books, the history of Israel serving up their stories through Martin’s nose as he made his way to the new testament…he was transported through time and space..
Excuse me sir? Do you need some help?
The voice of God had spoken. Martin looked up and smiled. Yes please, I need to collect some dry food for a puppy. Two large 5 kilo bags.
The tall man, behind the counter swung into action, pushed his way through a bead curtain that marked the entrance to the store room, leaving Martin standing still in front of the long wooden counter.
He looked down at a crossword, that was perched next to a packet of Kent Lights. A receipt book was underneath it. Martin new it was now or never…he could hear the man in the back shuffling bags of dog food..
..His miniature camera was removed quickly from his hip pocket. The light was poor, however HQ would be able to perform their magic with their fancy image processing equipment. He needed evidence of the transfers. He moved with a speed that often surprised his peers. At forty nine, Martin was the oldest at the ‘firm’ Mi6 had looked after him well and retirement was fast approaching.
They say the Internet spawned a growth in prostitution. It also served as a catalyst for ‘hit hungry’ individuals to create spaces in the web, anonymous viral blogs that held host to content that was both inappropriate yet strangely compelling. Happy slapping was one of the first. Youths with mobile phones would target innocent victims in shopping malls, slapping them, recording the incident an publishing on their anonymous blogs. The shock value drove the traffic virally to the website. The more shocking, the more viral it became.
Martin was investigating the latest in a sick series of ‘blend it’ videos, videos that were spreading faster than anything the firm had seen thus far. It had started with two Caucasian males, dressed in white, pseudo lab rats, they would launch into a simple dialog before placing the latest mobile, latest xbox game, whatever, into a large industrial juice blender.
Two weeks ago they set off on a sadistic journey. One that would nauseate Martin time and time again. Puppy Blend had gone viral. The site statistics were phenomenal. It seems strange that people would want to view a puppy being blended but it was happening on a global scale..
Martin took three photos in quick succession, one of the crossword, one of the journal, the other of a small desktop calendar…
“Do you need anything else sir?
No thanks. Matin handed over a crisp twenty dollar bill and left. He had just fifteen minutes before he had to collect his wife from the hair-dresser. He didn’t want to be late.
The cool shade of the tree was a welcome respite from the heat. He placed the bags of puppy food between his legs, stretched out and took in the view. He was tired, weary from carrying the heavy bags…
..they cut into his palms. He tried to ignore the pain and focused instead on reaching the edge of the river.
Are those the last bags? The commander barked at him. He shirt was stained with sweat, dried blood and what looked like clay.
Yes sir, these are the last ones, said Martin, he struggled to get the words out over the noise of battle.
This was to be their last stand. The confederate army was destined to push through as they headed west. Martin looked down at their pitiful attempt at a line of defense. The makeshift barricade was barely high enough to crouch behind. They would be sitting ducks. Martin assumed his position, rifle in one hand, he closed his eyes and thought of home and began to drift off to sleep….
You’re dreaming again aren’t you? There was no mistaking his wife’s piercing voice. Martin snapped out of his dream, aware of a line of spittle that had escape from the side of his lips. He quickly raised an arm and wiped it on his cuff…
Sorry…I was away with the fairies then…
As he rose from his seat a newspaper, torn almost in half blew up against his leg. He shook his leg as he tried to free it but it held firm. He reached down and picked it up. The cover page blew away leaving an interior page with a crossword on it. He stared at it. The area that held the clues was missing, with just the black and white grid in view.
Eight across was the only word filled in. ‘Individuation’. Was scrawled in dark blue biro.
He stood up, took a bag in each hand and made his way towards the waiting jet fighter…His mission was about to start…it was time to find out just who he was.
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Tags: drag, flasher, haiku, individuation, puppy blend
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