Heroes and Heroin

"I fucking love heroin, yum yum yum" John Sektor, probably

Hello again friends, Spring has truly sprung has it not? The cherry blossoms are in bloom, the weather is getting warmer and Cecilworth Farthington is talking on his mobular phone communication device.

 

Segues like that are how I won “Best Story Narrator” no years running in the special universe that all us narrators inhabit. I would invite you in but it would turn your entire essence into a blancmange like consistency, so it’s likely better you stay in your mortal dwelling and me mine.

 

So yes, the tale today is a tale of calls, of calls across a network that one cannot see with their eyes! Let us listen in to the call of all calls shall we not?

 

Farthington: Hey! Mike! It’s me, your good and really rich and smart friend Cecilworth!

 

 

Farthington: Farthington!

 

 

Farthington: I totes get it, I know a bucketload of Cecilworths too. Why there’s Cecilworth Barnstormer down at the Polo Club, Cecilworth Covington-Smythe, he works over at the secret bank we all use to hide our money from the quote unquote long noses, if you get my drift. I can’t forget Cecilworth Clutterbuck, he auctions exotic animals for most of us to hunt, mostly tramps if I’m honest, surprised Witness didn’t get scooped out on that one! Then there’s the WILD MAN Cecilworth Bicturd, he spends most of his time ramming ball point pens up his anus – he got a touch of the daft after a game of ruggers you see. We called ourselves the “Farthington – Barnstormer – CovingtondashSmythe – Clutterbuck – Bicturd Gang” and we were the most feared of all of the grammar school gangs!

 

Whatever is said on the other line, Cecilworth is positively sheepish in response.

 

Farthington: I grant you, “The Cecilworth Club” would have been a snappier name for the alliteration alone but alas, the folly of youth! Look, the reason I’m calling is I have a map in front of me but I’m really struggling to find this Parts Unknown place.

 

Cecilworth grunts a series of “uh-huhs” and “ahs” as he scribbles down “it’s not fucking real” across the folded out world map current sitting in front of him.

 

Farthington: Well of course I had a manager to look after these kind of things but then he became dead. Really inconvenient if I’m honest with you. Why didn’t he think of how much of a nuisance it would be for me before he up and went all corpse-y.

 

 

Farthington: Well, I suppose I could get a new one. Let me check the ole world wide web, did you know you can do shopping on there? It’s truly marvelous!

 

Cecilworth cradles his phone between his shoulder and neck as he flips open the laptop sitting atop the desk in front of him. He smashes his fingers across the keyboard, finding himself at the very popular online shopping website that we all know and love, amazon dot com. He navigates to the search bar, types in “Dirk Dickwood” and gleefully smashes enter. The search returns no results.

 

Farthington: It’s no good Mike, there are zero Dirk Dickwoods in stock and Dirk Dickwood, as you are well aware, is my chosen brand of manager and I am a brand loyal man. This is ridiculous, I have Prime! I should be having a Dirk Dickwood delivered in twenty four hours, this is not the kind of service I am looking…

 

Farthington’s trails off as a pop-up advertisement catches his attention, it features a rather gaunt looking gentleman promising a risk free return service on raising those who have shifted from this mortal coil.  

 

Farthington: Oooh, Amazon Primeval… this could be the ticket Mikey Boy! This could be the ticket indeed. Look, I simply must make a purchase from this Morty the Moat Man post haste hencewith henceforth! Talk to you at a point in the future, love you, lots of love, GOODBYE!!!

 

Cecilworth navigates the cursors over to the pop-up and clicks with aplomb.

 

Farthington: Oooh, next day soul delivery, this is the service for me!

 

 

THE NEXT DAY

 

We return to the Farthington Estate where our hero, young master Cecilworth is pacing up and down with nervous excitement, awaiting his internet ordered visitor to arrive. Normally when you have an internet ordered visitor you are 30 minutes away from being featured in a massive news report on blackmail or the recent spree of serial murders. It’s truly the gentleman’s potpourri.

 

Not on this occasion though, Cecilworth wasn’t looking for gratification, he was looking for a mortician called Morty – a Morty the Mortician if you will.

 

Which brings us to right now as Cecilworth awaits his digital delivery. The lights in the Farthington household begin to flicker as thick fog pours in from under the doorway. Cecilworth takes this as a cue and swings the door open. As he does so, he comes eye to chest with a large robed figure who appears to by playing organ music off of an original Zune with a speaker attached. As the slowly stalks his way into the room, he almost trips over the fog machine hidden under his robes.

 

MtM: I have responded to your herald Acolyte Cecilworth, I really appreciate the work. Ever since Susan left…

 

This is clearly the man called Morty, arriving in less than twenty four hours directly from Amazon Primeval. Morty is allowed little time for Susan-Pity as Cecilworth interjects to take over this meeting of the minds.

 

Farthington: Ah! Mr. Moat Man, I’m glad you could swim upon the shores this morning to help me on my quest. I had a friend… well… not so much of a friend, more of an employee and he was serviceable. I learned very recently that it is very difficult to get good help these days so I thought instead of going through the whole rigamarole of “meeting people” and “reading resumes”, you could just revive my old one from the dead. Seems like a much more efficient use of my time than any of this chit chatting to my lessers and pretending I have even a borderline interest in them.

 

Morty gentle slides off his hood from the robe, rolls his eyes back and lifts his arms towards to heavens.

 

MtM: Acolyte Cecilworth, do you understand that if I call upon the dark powers to do this deed as requested, your eternal soul will be blackened beyond salvation?

 

Rapidly becoming disinterested in this exchange, Farthington begins texting on his phone. He doesn’t even make the effort to look up at the man he has hired for this necromancy trade. By the by, the necromancy trade is surprisingly competitive these days, that’s why you have to have a web presence, you are dead in the water without one. Luckily you can revive yourself!

 

Cecilworth: Oh yeah, sure, whatever, make the dead guy undead, thanks!

 

As if from the ether itself, Morty produces a large staff and begins to bang it on the ground. He bangs it once.

 

He bangs it twice…

 

He is just about to lift the staff off the ground for the final bang (I assume the third time would be the final time, I read a wikipedia article about the occult once I will have you know) when the hallway entrance door swings open with a vengeance and in storms an irate looking moustached gentleman.

 

Loud, Angry, Shouty Voiced Man: What the fuck is going on in here? Did someone leave you unsupervised again Cecilworth? I heard about High Octane’s revival and came right over…

 

Farthington(in a deadpanned disinterest): Oh good, Dirk’s alive again. Hooray!

 

Cecilworth barely lifts his arm to wave it in celebration, keeping the phone clutched tightly for the entire semi-pump.

 

Farthington: Okay Moat Man, you are kind of weird and smelly and you look sad, like someone just killed your dog. I can’t go for any of that, soooooo, ummm… piss off. Okay, bye!

 

Cecilworth kicks the hall door open without once looking up from his text message. On his way out of the house, Morty tosses a bedsheet with two eye holes cut out of front over Dirk Dickwood (he had smuggled it in under his robe). Dirk doesn’t seem to be particularly bothered about this situation. Morty grunts “he is your personal spirit beast now, unnngh” as his parting words. Completely unphased at whatever events just unfolded, including now having a bedsheet as a fashion accessory, Dirk’s very visible eyes dart around the room. Not sure what the rest of him is doing, I can only see his fucking eyes now.

 

Dickwood: Which camera are we looking right now? Is it this one? Zoom in me you fucker!

 

All we see in our view is a white sheet flapping up and down wildly, presumably due to Dirk’s wild gesticulations amping himself up for one of his trademark “almost shitting myself in public because I’m so angry” level of interview. He shimmies around under the sheet and his piercing blue eyes poke out from the bedsheet that envelops his body as he stares directly down the camera.

 

Dickwood: For those of you who have forgotten, my name is Dirk FUCKING Dickwood…

 

Farthington: Who is a ghost!

 

Dickwood: What now?

 

Farthington: Your full title is now Dirk Dickwood – who is a ghost.

 

Dickwood: But I’m not a…

 

Dirks loses a bit of momentum in the high energy as Cecilworth scans the cloth-clad manager up and down.

 

Farthington: You look very ethereal to me.

 

Dirk leans in and whispers into Cecilworth’s ear.

 

Dickwood (Gently, quietly, sweetly): Look, can we put the ghost thing to the side for now, I’ve got a lot of energy ready to be used here…

 

Farthington stares up at the ceiling in the same way a confused dog would if you made his ball magically disappear by miming throwing it but in fact, aha, it was a trick, it was actually in your hand the whole time.

 

Farthington: Well, I guess I’m not getting Morty back at this point, I tried to call him back while you were making kissy faces at the camera and it went right to a voicemail for his new album. I suppose if I have to be stuck with a ghost, you are one of the least bad ghost options. Imagine being stuck with Ghost Hitler or even worse, Ghost Darin Zion. Imagine Darin Zion haunting your days, gives ole Cecilworth here the willies. He’d be like all “Rarr, I’m Darin Zion, I’m a human with feeling and emotions” and I’d be all “ha, ha good one Ghost Darin Zion” but I wouldn’t mean it Ghost Dirk, I WOULDN’T MEAN IT!

 

A sharp elbow-shaped section of cloth jabs into Cecilworth’s gut.

 

Dickwood: So… can I do my business?

 

Farthington (gasping for air): Do whatever business you need! I once saw in a movie that if ghosts finish their business on Earth they can truly be free. I hope it can free you too one day my friend – who is a ghost.

 

Dirk turns away from the cameras and huddles up with Cecilworth, you can tell how red is face is getting throw the very narrow eye slits on the bed sheet alone.

 

Dickwood: You don’t have to point out I’m a ghost every single time I speak, you know that right Cecilworth? Please tell me you know that.

 

Cecilworth seems bewildered at this very idea.

 

Farthington: But you are a ghost?

 

Dirk breaks back out of the huddle with his client by muttering “you know what, I’m just going to do the camera thing now…”

 

Dickwood: I have come back to this industry for one reason alone…

 

Cecilworth: To haunt those who have wronged you!

 

Dickwood: Look… just…

 

Dirk lets out a weary sigh, the kind of sigh that just escapes your body after your brain tries to comprehend the idea that Johnny O’Dell thinks wrestling is fake. You know that sort of sad sigh where you question all human life and want it all to burn down? Yeah, that sigh. That’s the sigh we’re talking about.  

 

Dickwood: MAH BOY Cecilworth Farthington may have been away from the ring for the last two years but fuck… look at this man. LOOK AT THIS PERFECT BEING. He is in better form than he has EVER been. While half the fuckwits in this tournament have been struggling in part time employment like the shitehawk waifs and strays that they are, this is a man who has been honing his skills, this is a man who has been preparing, who has been waiting, who has been licking his lips with the utmost delight at the possibility of once more stepping in to a wrestling ring. At the chance to truly wrestlefuck some of the most heinous humans imaginable.

 

Farthington: The Farthington Men have been wrestlefuckers for generations, why my great, great uncle Viscount Farthington of Smuthersberg, he’d go into in the forest with bears and these days the political correct snowflakes would call it beastiality but…

 

Cecilworth drifts off into a world of his own, daydreaming of men of grappling bears. We see Dirk’s hand peek out from under the sheet – a clear form of a clipboard wrapping around the sheet near his facial region area. There are a few mumbles and grumbles.

 

Dickwood: I’m not exactly happy with how this tournament has rolled out. In many ways this bracket is a fucking disgrace. It’s clear that the men who put together the bracket have been infertile for so fucking long that they no longer know what good seeding looks like. I could break into Christopher America’s house right now, wank directly in his face and he still wouldn’t know good fucking seeding.

 

Farthington: Ghosts can still… y’know… win a tug of war?

 

Dickwood: How many fucking times do I need to say that I’m not a ghost? Jesus Christ Cecilworth!

 

Farthington: Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of rude for a ghost?

 

Dickwood: I’M NOT A GHOST.

 

Cecilworth’s head darts about like a dog that’s just been smacked with a rolled up paper due to outburst. He drops his head into his chest and mutters “see, point proven” as Dirk steamrolls on.

 

Dickwood: Not only has MAH BOY been VASTLY, VASTLY undervalued – to get to the finals, to get his hands on the one thing that has eluded him his entire wrestling career, World Championship gold, he will have to go through his closest friends. His friends who up and left to Utah with him, the people he has travelled many, many roads with. To get to the top of the mountain for the first time ever in his career, Lee fucking Best has created a bracket designed to sever friendships. Divide and conquer from day one, is that what we’re trying to play at? Is that the game here? It’s fucking absurd. Not like Madperson Incest Party absurd, more like a moon being made out of cheese level of absurd. One of them is at least believable.

 

Farthington: There’s a lot of interesting theories about the moon…

 

Dirk continues to barrel on.

 

Dickwood: A lot of people have been yapping about how they don’t even care about winning this tournament, that they’re here for the work, that they’re here for the nostalgia. They just want the TV exposure, get their face back around the mediasphere. They are using High Octane’s return as a quick and easy method of letting all their loved ones know they’re still not dead. That is very upsetting to me and my client. If you don’t care about winning, GET THE FUCK OUT. It’s arseingly insane that Lee Best has given so many of these sad sacks a shot at glory and they don’t even give a shit. They don’t even want to be here while MAH BOY has been lusting for this shot at gold for two damn years. He’s finally ready to claim the throne that has eluded him. He is finally ready to unleash the Farthington Family Empire and half the people who signed on the dotted line last month are trying to build interest in their own twee brand of bullshit as opposed to their god damn opponents. It’s a fucking insult, that’s what it is.

 

Through the slits in the sheet, you can see Dirk turn redder and redder.

 

Dickwood: Now, MAH BOY here, he does have one opponent before he has to go to war with some of this closest pals in the industry. A match against the man known as The Lost Stranger. Mr. The Stranger, I know you’ve been on a recent crusade against the females of the grappling arts but what I don’t think you have noticed is that the six fucking foot three specimen standing next to me is very much of the masculine persuasion. You’ve clearly taken the easy path of punching downwards lately so I’m damn sorry that you are about to get mauled. Fuck, Cecilworth may maul you enough you’ll end up in the goddamn Maul of Fame.

 

Farthington: …isn’t that Mike’s move?

 

There is no acknowledgement of this comment.

 

Dickwood: Do you think that donning a mask that looks like a butterfly was so bored by another shitting genders in wrestling argument that it committed inky suicide on your face is going to help you unleash your inner rage? Go right the fuck ahead, spin your arms around the ring like you’re doing the god damn breast stroke because C-Money here, he’s gonna grab that pathetic spindle you call an arm and he’s going to rip it straight off. He is going to issue an Article fucking 50 on your sad sack arm. An arm that only seems to be good for quote unquote slapping a bitch. And even then you’re awful at it. 

 

Farthington: I will help free your arm Mr. Stranger! Your arm deserves sovereignty from the bureaucracy that is the rest of your body.

 

That was a Brexit joke you uncultured American swine.

 

Dickwood: And after the kind soul that is Cecilworth Farthington frees The Stranger, he has the first of his heartbreakers in this tournament…

 

Cecilworth waves Dirk off, yelling “SHUT UP DIRK, HE’S MY FRIEND AND I HAVE THIS COVERED”. Cecilworth sauntered over to a nearby desk and produces a rather fancy dancy briefcase.

 

Farthington: John, I hope you have a television you can see this on because I think you became poor now. I know you don’t want to fight me nor me you! We’re friends, we care deeply for each other and that’s why I have procured this briefcase containing upwards of seventeen pounds of cocaine for you!

 

You can see Dirk scratch his head, weighing up how to break the news.

 

Dickwood: C-Money, I hate to break this to you but I was on the High Octane website this morning and… John is a heroin guy. Heroin is his drug brand.

 

Farthington: Heroin? But… can’t all of this cocaine fit on a spoon too?

 

Dickwood: That’s not how drugs work.

 

Cecilworth opens the briefcase, we don’t get a good look at the contents but he is miming digging an imaginary spoon into the contents as if to see how much of the inside of the case would fit on a single measure. He looks at Dirk, back to the case, back to Dirk and frowns a sad puppy frown.

 

Farthington: So I got my good pal this wonderful gift and now you’re telling me I got the WRONG drug? I was sure it was cocaine! Are you sure it isn’t cocaine? I feel like last time I was speaking to John he fucking loved cocaine. Well, apart from that brief phase where he got addicted to riding Scott Stevens and Ryan McKenna like horses. That was weird. I think he thought they actually were horses? That was probably the cocaine because he loves cocaine!

 

Dirk sadly shakes his head.

 

Dickwood: Cecil, I’m telling you, I looked up his fresh biographical information this morning and he’s a heroin man now. I mean he’s still the same guy you know – apart from the leather pants and the mullet…

 

Farthington: And the heroin…

 

Dickwood: And the heroin.

 

Cecilworth looks at the briefcase in the same way you would an unwanted child.

 

Farthington: Well now how am I supposed to bribe him? I don’t want to be in the ring with him, he’s a health risk. If I try and suplex him, I could destroy all his brittle bones and I’ll feel bad enough that I’ll cover the medical costs. Then the hospital will drugs test him and he’ll go the prison. I can’t do that to my friend! You’re tell me that all I’ve got is a briefcase full of the wrong kind of drug? I mean, Pepsi, Pepsi I could have sprung for but I don’t even know which supermarket stocks heroin.

 

Dickwood: Are you telling me that briefcase is full of…

 

Farthington: The finest coke! And now it’s all for the trash heap! This is very upsetting Dirktrude, I don’t want to fight my good friend John Sektor, even if he is wearing leather pants. Can’t you like float into his house and make some spooky noises to convince him to forfeit the match. That’s what happened in that documentary I saw about the Scrooge guy…

 

Cecilworth’s panic at a poorly purchased gift is interrupted by the buzzing of Cecilworth’s mobular telephonular technology device.

 

Farthington: Hi Sandy! Oh… the tickets… well you see, I errr… well… I had a car and I just… I COULDN’T HELP IT SANDY! THE PAVEMENT LOOKED SO TEMPTING. I promise I’ll fix it, I promise this time I’ll make good. You have my word there will be no more pavements. A Farthington man is a man of honour.

 

Dirk looks over at Cecilworth, there’s a inferno in his eyes. I comment on his eyes a lot because I CAN ONLY SEE HIS FUCKING EYES.

 

Dickwood: The fuck was that?

 

Farthington: Oh, that was Sandy, my Interparole officer. In the last couple of years I’ve had a few parking ticket issues. It started simply enough Dirk, I’d meet up with DA BOYZ and I’d just find the most convenient spot without thought. Now I park wherever, whenever, DAMN THE CONSEQUENCES. Maybe if I had a daughter, she could convince me to live a better parking life. I don’t have a daughter though, Papa Farthington has my penis in a jar until he can trust me to use it correctly.

 

Dickwood: That… that doesn’t seem true.

 

Cecilworth shrugs his shoulders.

 

Farthington: Who can say.

 

Dickwood: So… you have a case worker at Interpol… who contacts you about parking tickets.

 

Cecilworth gleefully nods his head up and down.

 

Farthington: Apparently insulting Christopher America on twitter isn’t registered as “interesting”, “important” or “a worthwhile cause to investigate” – my work visa was blocked due to a bunch of parking violations. She’s helping me fix all that up good and proper.

 

Cecilworth does put finger quotes on all of them words.

 

Farthington: So like, if I totes sort out all these parking tickets, I can get back into the Americas before the Refuelling happens.

 

Dickwood: Well I’m glad that wraps everything up in a nice little box… wait… weren’t you already in America this week? Didn’t you murder a vampire?

 

Farthington: Don’t be silly Dirk, Florida isn’t real. HA HA! What a silly ghost you are, thinking Florida is a real place.

 

Cecilworth swings his arm up in a jovial manner, patting his bedsheeted manager on the back as he smiles up to the sky, posing as if it was a freeze frame from an 80s sitcom. Cecilworth continues to hold the pose for far longer than would be comfortable for anyone to witness as he uses his free hand to feel around his downstairs area. He jams his hand in his trouser pocket, gives an unseen something inside the firmed of squeezes, producing a sudden roaring laugh track.

 

Farthington: That’s Our Cecilworth!

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