The Devil Made Mondays

It's another one of those Mondays: a little too shady to be considered blue.

Needless to say, the weekend was blearily tainted with a strong whiff of paranoia. I think if there'd been any sort of bang out on the street in front of our house or against a window pane, both ES and I would've filled our shorts.

Friday night saw the return of our "peeping tom". Just after midnight, ES woke me, pointing across the street. Lo and behold, there sat someone so encased by the surrounding shadows, his eyes didn't even twinkle in the moonlight. I even thought ES' imagination was running away with her until the gargoyle moved his head. The motion gave him away. Last time I saw something like that, I was filming the biggest Alpha baboon I'd ever come across.

He spotted us and hot-footed it out of there. Our armed response guys have been patrolling since.

Naturally, the first "logical" connection we made was that this internet prowler - let's call him DA for "defrauding asshole" - had followed us home and was now staking the place out to see what next he could misappropriate. The PC term, I believe, is redistribute.

Anyhow, he hasn't been spotted since (I must point out that that definitely doesn't mean he wasn't there - he may very well have just changed his possie).

But his presence has been felt: the constant hesitation when opening curtains; the pulling out of the garage at speeds in excess of landspeed records; the sleepless nights (more so ES than me, but that's probably just because the garden fork under my bed serves me well - think of it as a teddy bear for someone who just needs one more push towards homicide). If he sets foot inside my house, he's going to have to wrap himself in plumbers tape whenever he drinks so he doesn't look like a freaking water fountain.

Chances are though that this is just a plain old coincidence. I think we might be crediting DA with a touch too much intelligence. He's smooth, all right, I'll give him that. But I think he'd forget to breath if he had to masturbate and chew gum at the same time.

And on the note of wankers: isn't it funny how some people just can't seem to get over themselves? To the extent that they're even rude to you over the phone - too ignorant to click that the reason why you're asking them to pass a number over to their boss is because their boss has actually asked you to? (Dumbasses.)

If it wasn't for Trey Parker and Matt Stone, I probably would've posted another short story up here for you today. It's going to have to wait for Wednesday, though, as ES and I still have these two geniuses' work for this evening. "South Park" is an absolute work of art and probably the best rendition of what it's like to be a little boy. More so than "Wonder Years" or any of those other BS "boy-meets-world" shows.

So, sorry to say, the writing's on hold until those DVDs have been watched to death.

But this ordeal's given me a great idea. A Faustian one, even.

What's the one thing you expect high returns for? I'd say, your soul. And selling it might seem like a good idea, depending on the buyer. But there's an issue. It's harder to work on those sort of contracts than it is to work with an attorney.

Why?

Literalism.

Demonology works powerfully on literalism. So if you manage to conjure a demon of some sort and told him to "make my headache go away", he would.

By lobbing off your head.

Technically, that's no breach of contract. It's because you cocked up your request and phrased it incorrectly.

Faust was supposedly a genius, but he cocked his deal up as well. Now, the question is, seeing as though we have all this wisdom (all be they through folklore), what is it that makes a standard, run-of-the-mill Joe Public think he's able to cut a better deal than that?

I know it's a bit of a Clive Barker (the writer, people, not the soccer coach. He didn't need to cut a deal - did you ever see his salary?) preoccupation, so it's going to be tricky ground to tread. It's kind of like challenging Andre Agassi to a tennis game.

Anyway, hold in there and I'll see what I can whip up. Of course, if it's any good, I'll first ship it off to one of the publishers on my list.

On that note: still quiet on the western front. But reading periods haven't even begun for the Extreme Horror piece, that only starts next month; reading hasn't started for "Salvation Road" either. The Scottish dude promised a reply by the end of this month.

And, of course, I'm still working on something for "The Devil's Food", a book coming out soon that examines the terror of realising that you're not at the top of the food chain. That should be fun: so far, I have two exterminators clearing out a vacant hospital building. One's already been turned into a not-so-Happy Meal, and the other's launched himself out of a top floor window. (It starts at the end and then works its way back to that ending.) I kind of like it so far: the word count allows my characters a bit more depth.

Anyway, keep your eyes peeled. Let me know via the "comment" feature whether you want something gory, creepy, gross or more psychological. I'll try write to order.