JOHNNY RADICAL, IT WAS REALLY NOTHING

The radical one was very tall but had very small feet. He also had a great many powers, none of which he had a clue of how to use. The first power was curiously tied into an almost computer-like ability to empathise with whomever came into contact with his pet dog, Doogie Howser the Fifth. Be they a cold-blooded killer, a collector of erotically charged cacti paintings, the local priest, or just an ordinary meat-butcher, Johnny Radical could make that special connection. He really knew how to make people feel better. Doogie Howser the Fifth certainly brought out the best in him.

J.R became aware of his second great power on that fateful spring night before Doogie Howser the Fifth's untimely demise. This second power was strangely tied into an almost human-like ability to destroy whomever made mention of the words "abject failure." Be they an American president, an ageing pop-star, a young rabbi, or just an ordinary house-wife, Johnny Radical could cut their cheeks with the greatest of ease. He really knew how to make people feel awful. Abject failure certainly brought out the worst in him.

Johnny still isn't aware of his third great power and probably never will be. Only one person knows how to unlock the "mighty three" power hidden behind the radical one's apish forehead. Unfortunately, she's dead. In the unlikely event that she somehow miraculously rises from the earth, Johnny Radical will be freed to use this third power in ways that would help everybody but himself. A strange power for sure, but one which would do him much good. Dead girls rising could certainly bring out the demonic wizard in him.

We could go on but the true nature of this story has yet to be told. Johnny Radical never fully used these powers for any special purpose, rhyme, reason or song. The radical one floated through life, one day to the next, learning nothing, putting up with the same old junk night after night. By not using those powers, he slowly let himself rot away from within. Somewhere on an island situated near the south of Mexico, Radical now sits dying in a tiny old people's home. He still speaks fondly of Doogie Howser the Fifth, still cuts the occasional cheek, still isn't aware of the "magic-three" power which lies behind that apish forehead. In short, Johnny Radical wasted his one and only life. What a pity.

Or maybe, it wasn't?

At night, when he went to bed and rested his head on the grease-stained pillow, J.R dreamt of adventures that could never go without being told. Fantastical visits to the dirty German porn priestesses of Gutterdammenstritenfurter, followed by magical walks along mountainous hills made of ice cream, big boobs, people who always say yes and pink skies. Johnny Radical had seen the future and it was pure bullshit. Glorious, wonderful, semi-meaningless, psychedelically tinged, tooth decayingly painful, partially meaningful bullshit. If you could do it, would ya? Would ya waste this useless, once in a lifetime opportunity to use those special powers hidden deep within for the chance to dream magnificently sweet, porno filled, fucktastic dreams for the rest of all time? Would ya? Would ya? Would ya? Would ya? Would ya? Would ya? Would ya? Would ya?

SOCK

SMOKE

SHINY

CATH...

From a still lake rose the smooth, skin-covered skull of one purple monster. "Hello. My name's Edward. Delighted to meet you all," he roared to the shocked villagers, most of whom were hiding behind trees and bushes. After three hours of bloody battling, thirty-five humans carried the abomination's torn body over mountains to the celebration hall belonging to Master Cwygon. "Well I never," said he. "I do believe this is the first of fifteen such creatures, all of which come in a variety of colours, shapes and sizes. My father always said they were a myth." Drink was drunk, food was eaten and much seed was spilled on that night which legend never forgot.

The next morning, Franklin, the village pharmacist, packed up his belongings in a yellow sack and snuck out of the back door whilst his wife and children slept. "Just imagine the sights and sounds awaiting me outside this village and beyond the church tower at the bottom of the valley. What creatures and ghouls dwell in the city and its streets?" Not being one to read answers in books, he fled on horseback to the shimmering mess of Glockensmound, the region's biggest importer/exporter of shoes, bicycles, steel drums and almonds. Alas, it was all a terrible disappointment. Three years after being promoted to chief waiter in the city's smallest Michelin star restaurant, Franklin disappeared without a trace.

Back in the village, his daughter was now the most respected huntress in the land. Many villagers considered her to have supernatural talents on account of the thirteen monsters she'd brought back silently from the lake. Four black ones, one yellow, another purple one, two orange and five blue. "Witchcraft!" screamed Vicar Morris. "She sold her father to the Devil for this ruinous fame and fortune! I vow to bring him back to this village and expose her truly treacherous nature!"

50 years later and the vicar's rotting, worm-filled corpse lay silently at the bottom of a swamp. Never did he prove the daughter's acts of magic and never did he find, the now presumed dead, Franklin. Indeed, the only winner of this grisly tale was the final, well-fed monster, bright green in colour. He'd devoured the huntress's murderous impulses with a swift snap of his merciful mouth. Never again would she bewitch the villagers with her beautiful flashing lights. Finally, silence. The lonely pharmacist's daughter was dead.

CALL ME DEVIL

Dear Diary,

Another year has passed and yet I feel strangely optimistic about the path that my dreams and ambitions are starting to travel along. Yes, life is such a cruel master. I feel one thing and yet I know another to be true. Why must I suffer with this wretched duality?!?! Talking of masters, my master was born on the fifth of the first month and he is a very cruel master to be sure. He banished me from my home and made me walk the lonely, cursed earth for more than fifty thousand years. Anyway, enough of the past, let's look to the future. My new course is oddly delightful. I hate most of the people on it, and I think most of them hate me too, but I do love to stare at the whiteboard whilst pretending to think. It gives me great joy knowing that my tutor believes me to be much smarter than I really am.

All of this deception has left me feeling somewhat confused, dear Diary. What should I do? Keep pretending to know what I'm talking about or stand up and implode into a small mutant army of red demons who have the power to brainwash willing human flesh and take over your blue planet? I've been pondering this dilemma for quite some time now. I've consulted friends, lovers (too many to mention, too few to cut deep), astrologers, kings, queens, and even the Pope himself. Again, chaos rears its vicious head. Many say keep on pretending, others say let the implosion prevail. I'm just so confused. Is this what I really want????

Anyway, today's class was actually mildly interesting. We learnt about the unconscious and this thing called the paradigm. It was probably all bullshit but I felt I gave one of my best class performances to date. When the tutor asked me to define the difference between dreams and reality, instead of giving a straight forward, human-like answer, I grimaced, nodded my head to the left, pointed to my nose and said "it's each man to their own device, my learned friend." The tutor gave me a knowing look and placed a red handkerchief on his brow. I believe he thinks my IQ is somewhere in the region of 173 to 180. A good day's work! Thanks, dear Diary. I sometimes feel like you're the only one who really listens to me :-(

KENNETH'S ANGER

Boom boom boom! Bang bang bang! Kenneth's wife was at it again; dressing up as Paul McCartney and playing the drums badly during rehearsals for her Wings tribute band's performance at the Royal Dune Inn on Sadavost Street. "Why do they have to bloody do it whilst the match is on?" thought Kenneth to himself. He kicked Russell the dog for a bit of short term anger release. "Bloody Vivian and her crap Wings tribute band" thought Russell the dog. "It's always me who ends up with a sore behind. Life's just not fair! It wouldn't be so bad if she could actually play the drums, or maybe even looked a little bit like Paul McCartney. What a monumental waste of space!" Unfortunately, the next door neighbour's black cat got bitten in a symbolic act of vengeance against Russell's master's wife's awful acts of inhumanity against the glorious songs of McCartney's Wings, especially Mull of Kintyre. Vivian's thin vocals just couldn't handle the majestic complexity of Macca's fruity whine on that one.

"Far have I wandered and much have I seen
Dark distant temples in colours of green
Fast tainted desserts, the sun sets on fire
As he carries me up to the Mall of Kantyre."

The black cat was by now properly miffed at the biting it had received from that drunken lout Kenneth's miserable swine of a dog. "A cat as pure and beautiful as I does not merit such unwanted thuggish behavior from low-life, common, BBC watching filth like that lot next door. They'll rue the day they made my pretty ginger and gold speckled tail bleed!" The cat then began to perform an ancient Egyptian death ritual but gave up after a few minutes when he was lured back indoors by the scintillating smell of Whisker's duck liver and rabbit chunks in gravy. Clearly, a very close call for the World's population there as the death ritual had supposedly been taught to one of the ancient Pharaohs by a lipstick wearing alien who thought he was a god.

Lol.