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This is a continuation of my blogging here at WdC |
| Novel #37 The next novel is the next in the Speculative Humour Cycle and is, in my opinion, the best of the series of stories that make it up. This one is urban fantasy. The idea is slightly confused, but it is the closest to Douglas Adams I have come. Not in the jokes (which are more Australian than British) but in the way I set it up with lots of footnotes as asides. Originally these were in a lot of parentheses, but the one publisher who bothered to respond recommended I put these things into footnotes as “it looks better.” I trusted him… and he was right. The title is actually something I am really happy with, a play on a famous movie: Revelation 2: The Goddess, The Horseman, A Valkyrie And Her Lover. And, yes, this explains everything about the story! The Revelation 2 part was meant to indicate it is a sequel to the last book of the Bible’s New Testament because it is about the end of the world. At almost 47k words, it is also one of the longer in this series of tales. The simple précis of the story is this: The 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse lose one of their own – War. While they are trying to find the new War – well, Strife is looking because the other two sort of can’t – the Hindu gods want to bring about the end of the world their way and send Kali, the goddess of destruction, to achieve this. But a Valkyrie, who wants Ragnarök to be the way the world ends, realises the Norse gods are a little past it, so instead decides to protect the new War and ends up in league with Strife. However, all are mistaken in who they think War is – an Australian barman working in London – but in the end the new War emerges and saves the day anyway. The humour is blatant, relying on word play, a knowledge of world mythology and crudity. I am sure it will offend Catholics, Hindus, neo-pagans, Poms and animal lovers everywhere, but such is life… This is War’s death scene from near the start of the book. The popnotes are where footnotes would appear in the book. Excerpt The man was American, so he didn’t understand a word that was being said by the German crowd. But even he understood that they were not happy with him. The expressions on their faces, their hand and arm gestures, their burning effigies – all of them were reasonably clear indicators of dissatisfaction. But he didn’t care. He did what he was paid to do – attempted murder in a public pace, in front of a crowd of tens of thousands. Of course, the promoters called it “MMA”, but when they hired the man known only as War Machine, what they got was a legalised mugging, bonus controversy and a bucket-load of cash. War Machine stood in the ring beside the referee, with no ring crew (as had been his norm for many years), while at least twenty seconds, helpers, assistants, paramedics, surgeons, priests and undertakers surrounded the red pulpy mass that had once been a fighter known as Jürgen Daskapital, the Dusseldorf Dagger . The fight should have lasted for thirty seconds, tops, but War Machine had refused to go in for the kill, and just toyed with the poor local lad like a cat with a retarded mouse. Eventually, however, the ref had called a halt, mainly so he wouldn’t be charged with being an accessory to murder. This same official tried to lift War Machine’s arm in victory, but was shrugged off so the huge American gentleman could stride around the ring like a peacock on heat. He gave the crowd a distinctly American finger symbol, and then a blatantly provocative Nazi salute, before climbing to the top of the cage and just standing there. He jumped to the ground and immediately two members of the crowd decided to confront him, but he introduced his burly fists to their faces in a series of blows so fast even a really good movie director would have to use super slo-mo filming to capture it adequately. That did it. He fought his way through the crowd and made it to his personal, private locker room before what became known as “ESPN’s Riot of the Month” really took hold. Not that he would have minded. War Machine was more than happy to wade into any altercation. He was even known to create altercations, just to have something to wade into. Sometimes the altercations only had to be in what passed for his mind for him to start wading in. And on this night he would have been more than happy with any of that. The fight itself had been very dissatisfying. He was still full of pent up rage and fury, and the bout just had not been cathartic enough for a full release. Or, as War Machine understood it: “Need more hurt time.” He didn’t even bother to shower – not that hygiene was high on his list of priorities at the best of times – as he threw everything into his pack and forced his sweaty, steroidal body into his crimson motorcycle leathers. He walked through the back door without opening it, past two security guards, who looked like they wanted protection from him, past the other fighters who all looked ready to cry as he approached, and finally outside to where his bright red moped scooter sat in its parking space, its two horse power and 50cc of unbridled fury waiting for him to head out on the highway like the man born to be wild he was. The cars and trucks on this night seemed to keep out of his way which he supposed was good. It meant he could fly like the wind. He pushed the bike to its very limits, clocking in at a jaw-dropping, brain-shaking sixty-eight kilometres an hour , passing old couples towing caravans, heavily laden trucks and farm machinery as if they were all standing still. The blare of an air horn made him jump a little and almost lose control. He turned his head to glare at the miscreant , but was practically blinded by the seventy-two different lights attached to a semi-trailer large enough to carry most of the rider for a Mariah Carey “performance”. Seriously, it was that hugely enormous. The population of Malta could have lived in it . Which made it even stranger when, with balance worthy of an Olympic gymnast, War Machine stood on the seat of his moped and tried to punch the multi-wheeled vehicle out. And, no, there are no surprises in the story yet. His attack went about as well as you’d expect, with the world’s most feared fighter reduced to a red smudge approximately six kilometres long and with the consistency of fresh mud. Oh well. Shit happens. Okay, I also abuse Americans, Malta and quite a few other places in the world as well. I am nothing if not an equal opportunity arsehole. Still, I think this is one of the better things I have written and for those long-time readers of this blog, you will know I do not say that often at all. And all of these are still looking for beta readers! Just sayin’… |
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