The Emporium of Disputed Goods.

My job was a simple one. When the fight for the possession of man's worldly goods became too vast for the simplistic minds of the foolish rabble to handle, they would be delivered to me for care, consideration and cataloging  Within those walls I was owner of naught, controller of all. From Golden Geese to Jason's Golden Fleece then from Holy Grail's and Tablet's of Destiny I, Mr Lynx, presided over them all. I knew each with such debased intimacy, I almost repulsed even myself.

Even the fire that lined the dank stone walls were stolen by man, a flickering animal fat scented insult to their godly parents above them. And for what? Each time I passed them I laughed smug with superiority, what fools I had thought those Heroes to be! Blatant acts of blasphemy – exile from paradise – for nothing. No glory, no hope just the inevitable dusty shelf; baubles of my infinite amusement.

Each morning I rose and pushed the trolley of new additions through the eight hexagonal corridors which comprised The Emporium of Disputed Goods, which radiated inward, spiraling down into a final inner sanctum. Each door way I passed I would loosen my tie that little bit more and drew my handkerchief even closer to my nose.

No matter how many times I walked that path, I would never have accustomed myself the the stench of half rotten flesh and formaldehyde. However, no matter how much revulsion rose in my gullet I would press on each day. Like the sacrificial lamb to love I was. Each night I would toast to devotion and each morning I would rise and pray to the beat of desire. The name of my altar was Helen. Her divine light of beauty drew my soul in day after day.

The tribute I had brought her that fateful day was a dagger of exquisite workmanship and frightful beauty but little had a known, it was to be the implement of destruction for my entire world.

I kept Helen apart from the other bodies in the inner sanctum, their frigid blue green and cumbersome frames were no suitable company for her heavenly fragility. I would whip my duster quickly across their forms so I could better spend the remainder of my time laboriously polish and and adorning Helen's prismic coffin with only the most exquisite items that came into my grasp. Each day I would swear in feverish whispers that I would sacrifice anything for her, foolishly pledging myself to her beauty and to serve her always. Each day I would seal the contract by the way of a kiss upon her stone cold lips as I anointed her body with exotic and seductive fragrances. On the lonelier days my touch would linger on.

What a fool I was.

That afternoon in which the path to my downfall was trodden, I was first alerted to the wheels of fate turning the babies that lined the walls of the inner sanctum shook in their formaldehyde. Ghoulishly rattling in their jars 10:1 to every strike to the outer walls. Pulling away and closing the door of my beloved's confine, I had struggled to catch my breath as the strikes grew louder. Drawing a single breath I had hunched my shoulders and looked warily around. And I had listened.

Either they were hitting harder. Or they were getting closer.

I scrambled in my pockets, the delicate blade I had brought for my adored fell from my grasp as the rhythmic rise and fall of the war chant drew closer; crescendoing with the sound of rattling bricks and splintering wood, then decrementing in the high pitched scream of china striking stone. Scrambling with the key to Helen's display case I paused only to look back, wiping the moistness of fear from my eyes as I scrambled for the familiar curse of Helen's gold cast key.

I looked down, spluttering my frustration – had it been so I could see or that she wouldn't see my tears? At that point I hadn't had time to decide – the clatter of fallen armor and the cries of a few unlucky enough to cross paths with a dismounted spear had confirmed to me that they just one doorway away.

From what I recall it was at that point that I knew my demise was at hand, there scrambling hysterically on the floor by Helen's feet. It was just that I had not expected the source of the malicious blow.

I turned my head to the heavens in desperation. Joy ripped through my heart as I saw Helen standing above me. But in one dreadful second I realized how that face could have launched a thousand ships. The angelic contours that had once defined her features were now a contortion of pain and rage, eyes wild in a crazed sneer which drove a lance of dread through my temple, paralyzing me where I knelt. Her chest heaved like Poseidon 's tempest and the delicate knife stood rigid in her cold clasped palm, both watching my and hungering for my flesh.

Each space between the seconds that past became increasingly more dreadful than the last. The speed that the horror rose in my chest was matched only by the blood which pour and the pain that ripped through my body. The delicate tribute I had brought my beloved just that morning sang it's way between my pectoral muscles. As I cried a blood curdling falsetto I was slit from chin to groin. The strike of my heart now thundering to the beat of the war cries of the Trojan and Spartan warriors, splitting open the doors to the inner sanctum.

As her cold fingers peeled back the skin from my chest as a child greedily tears the wrapping from a lovingly prepared gift, questions never to be answered raced through my mind. Had I not cared for her? Had I not provided her with all that a woman should desire? Had I not loved her in the most complete sense both spiritually and physically?

Through the blood and tears I saw her reveling  nay wallowing in ecstasy – my skin slipping across her lips and down her face, coming to rest upon her still having chest. Her face, congealed with blood and madness she turned to me and that sweet voice I had longed to hear, bitterly cried:

“I will not let them take me.”

It was in that instant that I realized that I, in a haze of desire and the blindness of love, had foolishly pledged my self to her and now here she was, to collect her debt. As I began to succumb to the pain infesting the void where my skin had once been, the last image that was seared into my memory was my divine love drenched in my own blood.

I have much time to muse upon that day and the images of Helen that still haunt my mind as I lie here in some vast hall of Greece, some great palace overlooks a vast city. Do not ask me which one for I had never ventured from my Emporium, my haven, not even in my dreams, before that fated day. But even now I am not myself, I am not he, not Mr Lynx, he has not left the Emporium. Helen's ripped and torn skin is bound and crudely sewn around my façade. Her delicate eyelashes surround my eyes which look over the waves crashing just short of the horizon. Although my stitches are ugly with congealed blood and wasting muscle fibre I am surrounded by great beauty. Wreaths and soft blossoms line my cradle playfully scenting the air in an attempt to drown my own stench, exquisite cloths and the finest embroidery drape around the worst of my misshapen limbs. Gifts, tributes possessions... useless. Now I am doomed to lie here, owner of plenty but controller of naught.

It Came From Outer Space.

A busy week in the office often saw itself out, sat in the cellar bar of the Westminster Arms, with Imelda Montague soaking in a glass or three from the speciality wine menu. Switching off however was far from her mind. While Miss Montague worked 9 to 5, Monday to Friday, as a researcher in the houses of parliament, the rest of her waking hours were applied to her full time pastime: people watching. Nothing excited her more than the lives of others, so much so her own social life was comparatively non-existent none-the-less, tracking and documenting the lives of others was to her a natural impulse that could not go unanswered.

From her usual spot, strategically placed in the corner, Imelda could survey most of the room and have an excuse to walk across the space to either the bar or toilets, in any given direction, should someone in particular warrant a closer inspection. Initial assessment consisted of what a chat room troll would term 'a/s/l' (age, sex, locality) then a wider synopsis of their general appearance, clues to their profession, habitual behaviour and relations with others. Ultimately they would be sorted into one of two categories: Person/s of Interest and Importance(which Imelda shortened to P.o.I.I and those who were of no interest (for whom there was no abbreviation).

Stood at the bar, supposedly waiting to get served, next to particular P.o.I.I, Imelda tried her best to look unapproachable and non plussed by the surrounding conversation. Discovery alone would be disastrous but the idea of a human interacting with her on a personal level churned Imelda's innards. The P.o.I.I in question was a highly respected barrister his companions for the evening were no less than five call girls. The women, unassuming to the untrained eye, gave away their true nature to Imelda almost instantly. One had revealed herself by accidentally producing both her personal and work phones, her embarrassment and haste to hide the personal mobile had indicated she was not one of the legal cohort. After all nowadays it really wasn't all that uncommon to have a mobile provided to you by your company and to simultaneous give in to the gravitational pull of the latest handset for your own personal use. Each of them had well tended hair but clearly too well and recently tended for Imelda to believe they each spent the day doing anything as office related as their off the rack suits attempted to suggest. The list of facts to be documented went on, Imelda had the uncanny ability for total recall of each minute detail saving her the trouble of a note pad or dicta-phone.

Typically on arrival home, to her small serviceable apartment, Imelda would spend the late evening and early hours recording details on her computer and managed on only a few hours sleep before she was out again. 'There will be a lot to document this evening.' revelled Imelda internally, but that would be the end of it all. No Samuel Peeps style diary to be left for future generations, no scandal to be broken, no black mail bounty to be paid, no suspicious spouses to be informed, no behaviour to be emulated. Imelda served only to observe, process and document. Unbeknown to Imelda however, tonight would be different.

“So Miss Imelda B Montague stays for another round.” teased the barman, flirtatiously reading the name from her credit card, which had been carelessly left on the bar. Imelda started. Her mouth began to gape, she stood stunned for a second, it had never occurred that someone might become the surveyor and she the subject.

“A glass of Black Estate Chardonnay.” she flustered.

“Large?” questioned the name tagged 'Brad' raising left his eyebrow precisely 0.3 centimetres. This specimen had particularly stretchy skin, Imelda noted, giving the appearance of youth until a bombastic facial movement was deployed causing the skin to wrinkle faster than Egyptian cotton on a restless night.

“175ml with suffice, thank you.” she answered, coolly adding “Brad.” after a short pause, in an attempt to assemble at least a small feeling of superiority.

Imelda edged the corners of her mouth upward nervously, stuffing her card and purse back into her designer satchel. She then bowed as gracefully as 4.6 units would allow back to her corner, her cheeks glowing so hotly they illuminated the floor beneath her. Only when she reached her spot did she realise her last 30 minutes of voyeurism had been wasted. The P.o.I.I she had been tracking was now on the opposite side of the room, leaving her with no subtle path to get within earshot.

Imelda's hastened flight from the barman's advances had spilt the contents of her purse inside the satchel. Existing as being of immaculate order, Imelda set about returning harmony to the chaos slowly expanding inside. Her finger caught on something hard, something foreign and unexpected within the bag. Closing her fingers around it Imelda realised the object had caused and incision on the tip of her left ring finger. On closer inspection a flap at the end of the finger had been opened up, fluid was leaking out down her hand. Ignoring the pulsing sensation, red hot and glowing, Imelda fixed her minds eye upon the object that had caused the damage.

The centimetre long cylindrical tube was a construct of mainly glass with each end capped in moulded silver, to all intensive purposes it resembled your everyday fuse, without the paper wrapping. Inspecting the small surprise Imelda could have sworn a light flickered brightly before burning out but she assured herself it was more likely the bar lights catching its reflective surface. What she couldn't figure was what had caused the object to absorb such heat, a heat so intense it was already causing a red mark to radiate out across her palm.

Downing her wine, to numb the sharp pulsations in her hand Imelda made for the stairs to street level, dropping the now cooling 'fuse' into a compartment designed for lipstick in her bag. A short walk away on Bridge Street was a pharmacy, there was no way she was going to ask that pervert at the bar for help. She knew his sub type classification and that he would most likely see a damsel in distress with an open invitation to her bedroom.

The cool November air hit her as she departed her haunt four hours early, her head already throbbing from a quarter of her usual intake of alcohol. A glance at her Blackberry told her it was 6.37pm sufficient time to reach the shop before closing. Gazing up the street, the night was as pitch as the light pollution would allow, Imelda sited this as the reason she found it so hard to focus on her steps ahead yet the thought that something else was causing her nauseousness nagged her incessantly.

Making her way down Storey's Gate, toward Great George Street, Imelda, for the first time since conscious thought was activated inside of her, failed to notice the people passing by. Adulterers, MI5 agents and secret squatters all passed underneath the radar as she stumbled not knowing if the pounding in her ears was caused by her headache or increasingly heavy foot falls. She was stepping so heavily she swore ten paces back she had actually cracked a paving stone. Imelda assured herself it was most likely just the wine, usually she didn't drink New World, she made a note to never again.

Stopping abruptly at a crossing with every expectation of an emergency vehicle making an appearance, Imelda was surprised to be buffeted by the shoulders of other pedestrians into the road. The lights and sirens were seemingly something only she was experiencing. Having resided in the city her entire life she had grown accustomed to the London air however this evening she felt as if the pea soup of the Victoria era had rolled in with hopes to drown her. Soot and the burning smell of exhaust fumes seemed to cling onto the insides of her nostrils. The acidity of the wine she had drunk began to creep back up her oesophagus as heat began to ripple up her arm and radiate out across her body.

After what seemed a marathon, Great George Street finally became Bridge Street and Imelda, wheezing and drenched in her own bodily fluids, stumbled through the door of Boots. The heater inside the door made her reel, jetting scorching air over her, her skin tightening as the sweat crusted over her pores. Despite moving away from the street the sickly smell of motor oil clung to her sense mixing with the nauseating aroma of TCP and her own body odour.

Stumbling towards the worried cashier, plasters in hand, Imelda tipped the contents of her bag onto the counter, too exhausted to find her purse any other way.

“Oh gosh,” fussed the young cashier, “you don't look too well. Did you know we offer annual flu shots?”

By this point Imelda was hunched over the cash desk gasping in the air, as if it would be any cooler from below. Sweat was now running off her face and dripping onto her leather brogues, surely she was just hallucinating but the droplets seemed to instantly evaporate and there was a suspicious smell in the air, like over cooked beef. Spotting an all in one flu remedy Imelda swung her arm in an attempt to collect a batch. After knocking the majority on the floor she managed to heave a packet onto the desk where the cashier’s voice boomed on, sending well meaning reverberations through Imelda's eye sockets. Advice on dealing with flu rumbled round the inside of Imelda's skull and tripped down her spine as she clumsily mashed her pin number into the key pad.

Collecting her receipt from the babbling assistant Imelda watched as the paper began to turn black with the outline of her hand. She began to ask why this might be but stopped as she looked up to see the young girl crying and clutching at her fingers which appeared to have been blistered.

Imelda turned to leave upon hearing an older staff member asking the cashier

“Amy dear, what is it, what's wrong?”

Having stepped into the store on a bitter evening, Imelda would have sworn she stepped out into Death Valley at high noon. Her vision became overexposed and blurred as she struggled out of her coat, not even this gave her relief as her skin felt like molten latex clinging to her muscles. Tearing into the box of plasters, Imelda noticed her arm up to her elbow was congealed thick with fluid appearing almost black, from her earlier injury. Fumbling with a plaster, she gagged as her arm radiated a salty metallic odour.

Having no luck fitting the plaster from her current position slumped against a wall Imelda pressed on further down Bridge Street. Upon reaching St Stephen's Tavern she practically fell through the door past a group of well dressed construction designers. The sound system was blaring out ELO's hits to drown out the guffawing of the sloan rangers occupying the bar area, only adding to her disorientation. Imelda's legs gave way as she was overcome by the odour of gin and ale, falling to the carpet as her senses began to drown in the cocktail of spilt drinks and the remnants of smoke, soaked into the fabric cira July 2007.

“ ...so I said to Tarquin... Fuck, what is that smell?!” exclaimed a tall architect to his companions who were now roaring with laughter. “No seriously, I mean what is that smell? Smells like a dead body in a burnt out car.” The laughter died down and was replaced but wrinkled noses and repulsed frowns. Their loud and high pitched complaints to the long suffering manager were snuffed by a loud and earth shaking crash from above.

From her position slumped on the floor Imelda was showered with glass shielded partially by the tables and chairs that were being upset around her in the mass panicked exodus from the bar. The rumbling continued shaking light fixtures and lumps of musty smelling plaster down from the celling. Imelda in her half conscious state could smell the alarming odour of melting carpet however she feared this was caused by something much closer to home than the commotion on the upper floor. The impulse to escape was growing duller inside, her head so thick with heat even her nose was burning the air she feebly sucked in. Her limps were increasingly heavy, skin sagged and dripped off of her lead weight bones.

Had she not by this point passed into deepest oblivion Imelda may have found it hard to discern it it were thunder or footsteps descending the staircase. And if she had been functioning correctly she may even of been able to translate the alien conversation reverberating through the atmosphere.

“Really, Quadra, I thought you passed your spacecraft operation with 3 minors. Your parking is terrible!”

“Just shut up Zned. Look there it is. Another fuse blown. Looks innards are liquid, only got the warning signal 5 clicks ago! I thought you passed your reconnaissance engineering module with the highest marks in your pod?”

Zned had no answer, instead just stood in the wreckage of the bar their craft had created.

The clapped out sound system slain out upon its side, jarred into repeat, played back the same tune the lyrics echoing out through the desolate ruins of the St Stephens Tavern.

“I met someone who looks a lot like you

She does the things you do

But she is an IBM”