My name is Gary Walker, and this is my blog. I'm also the webmaster at www.look4books.co.uk the free promotion site for Independently published authors. My Blog is dedicated to everything that matters, and some things that don't. If you are going to steal stuff that I post on here, would you be so kind as to link your stolen goods back to my blog. Thanks.
Tuesday, 16 October 2012
When Jesus Met Jack
This is a snippet from a Monologue that I will be publishing as an Ebook on Amazon Kindle. There will also be a separate Duologue within the same book.
When Jesus Met Jack
A police interview
room with a large one-way mirror.
Jack is sitting
alone at a desk wearing a straitjacket.
It was a hot, humid day in July. I was in the kitchen
washing my underwear in the sink, when there was a sharp knock on my front
door. This gave me a start, as I rarely have anyone knocking on my door. You
see, I live on the twenty-second floor of a rundown tower block, and the
elevator had been out of action for over a month. I have no friends or
relatives, and I keep myself to myself. So why someone would be banging on my
door was a complete mystery.
I’m not stupid though - I knew that the only way I would get
to the bottom of this mystery was to open my door. Then the doorbell rang. I
had forgotten I even had a doorbell. It played a tune, it reminded me of when I
was a child, and the ice cream van drove down our street.
I dropped my boxer shorts into the sink, yes boxer shorts -
you might not think it to look at me, but I’m very fashion conscious when it
comes to my undergarments.
I then dried my hands on my trousers, rubbing them up and
down furiously. I found that when I rubbed furiously, I not only dried my
hands, but I also dried my trousers. It’s the friction that generates the heat.
My legs felt lovely and warm, so warm that I wanted to lie down. Then the
doorbell rang again. Strange that the first time I had heard the bell I quite
liked it. But this time, I hated it. I wanted to put my head through that
little plastic rectangle, but it was on the other side of the door, so I just
covered my ears with my warm hands - that felt nice.
I wondered why whoever was out there, was still there? Why
would they stand in that dark concrete hallway, ringing my doorbell? It stank
of piss out there. And sick, but mainly piss. Someone pissed through my
letterbox once. Yes, pissed all over my carpet. And do you know what? I bet you
can’t guess. Can you guess? No! I’ll tell you then. When that young man,
because it was a young man, had finished pissing through my letterbox, I opened
my door, and invited him in to my home. He stayed for a month, but then he
started to smell, so he had to leave. In all the time he was in my home he
never once pissed on my floor. I house-trained him. You know like you do a dog.
I can’t have a real dog in the flat, the Council won’t allow it. It doesn’t
bother me though, I hate dogs. Dirty, smelly things that shit, and piss
everywhere. If I had my way I’d kill all the dogs, and their owners. Only
joking. I did have a cat. Just for a day.
Right, I suppose you want to know about Jesus?
After I’d held my warm hands over my ears for a few minutes,
I took them away, and waited quietly in the kitchen. There was no knocking, or
I tip toed out of the kitchen, and stood by the side of my
front door. I then put my eye against the door’s peephole. At first all I could
see was the concrete wall opposite my flat. I looked down the concrete wall
towards the floor, and that’s when I saw Jesus. He was lying down, and he had
his arms spread out, just like he was when he was nailed to the cross. I tried
to look right and left along the corridor as far as I could, to see if there
was anyone else out there.
I could see no one.
I then took off the door chain, and unbolted the locks at
the top and bottom, and removed the wrought iron grill. I turned the latch and
slowly opened the door. I peeped my head round the frame, and peered down both
sides of the corridor. Other than Jesus the whole place was deserted.
I then stepped outside, bent down and quickly grabbed Jesus
by his shoes and dragged him into my flat. He stank. There was vomit on his
face, and on his jacket. He looked a fucking mess. I closed the door and locked
I left Jesus with his head propped up against the front door
and went and made myself a cup of tea. I think I had two chocolate digestive
biscuits with my tea. No, that’s wrong, I had custard creams.
I then heard Jesus moaning, so I went to see what he had to
fucking moan about. His eyes were still shut, but he was saying, ‘fuckers,’
over and over again. Then he said, ‘I forgive you fuckers.’ I made it clear to
him in no uncertain terms that I didn’t allow dirty language like that in my
home. I said to him ‘no dirty language in my home, you dirty man.’
I then poured my hot
tea over his face......
This Monolgue, along with a separate Duologue are now available on Amazon.HERE