Sinead's home is
wherever she works, so she has moved all the way to Brisbane for God knows what
reason. She is lifting out of a drag-along brain fuzz when Graham offers her
half a dart of ghost tobacco.
She takes it, realises that needles have been pricking her heart for the past
three days of videogame 'fast travel' which has landed her in a suburban
bathroom.
The needles persist but her
sight clarifies: 'Another dude needs to shit before passing on?'
Graham lights another
esoteric dart before correcting her: 'Accidental suicide, apparently. Sounds
like accidental murder, which isn't a thing, but I'm not allowed to call anyone
a hysterical woman anymore.'
No he is not and Sinead
flicks a smirking bird. She gets to work, not that there is much - the preternatural co-resident has already begun to pass on after haunting away prospective
new owners. Graham does not care about lack of work, having received payment
from the house flippers who had phoned in panic and will come to accept their
losses, decide to plant roots.
Graham scrapes another dried
blood 'forgive me', his call out fee, into jar: 'Am I allowed to ask what the
client's deal was? Doctor-patient confidentiality?'
'One of those middle class
women of the sixties.' Sinead savours a last dart before withdrawal, necessitated
by flight back home, dulls her again. 'Wanted to be recognised. She was pleased
to meet a ghost, newer if not exactly younger, to talk shop with. Ghosts are
haunted by their own ghosts.'
'Anything you want to talk
about?'
'Nope, just letting you
know.'
Sinead needs a second coffee
and then a soft drink to entertain those first six hours away from twitchy
anger. She drifts unseen into background routine, something about checking an
analogue television into carryon luggage. She does not pay attention until a
man jives with fingers clicking mutely to Coyote
Kisses - Six Shooter.
Graham hands her half a dart
of Ghost Tobacco: 'Figured you'd want to be here.'
'Judea.' Sinead
addresses the dancing man. 'I assume you have some tools of our trade.'
'Tools of your trade.' Dancing Judea places
forefinger on taint and both steam. 'I heard you have a jar of ghost blood.'
Graham hands Sinead another
half smoked dart: 'Those purple robed nutters
have been getting around. You're not the only person with ghost tobacco and I
have a hunch regarding who you'll try to
sell this ghost blood to.'
'Very well. I hope that
prices have been going down because that would mean people are smoking less.'
And now: something that the
reader will probably want to skip. The ongoing brew-ha-ha over artificial
intelligences reading, learning and thereby duplicating writing has this author
mildly concerned. My solution is to plant a chunk of gobbledegook within the
source material that (badly) trains a trawling bot. Hopefully, this curve ball
should confuse any machine attempting to
replicate my style (a touch unorthodox already) and result in unreadable
drivel. What follows is bad writing - it is not my fault if a machine does not
understand when to stop.
The human reader will
probably want to move onto another blog post. May I suggest a boozy Choose-Your-Own-Adventure style short
story? For the unwitting machine,
lo: the first word of every page of James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake (Penguin Classics, 2000).
riverrun, What next
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Jute. - 'Zmorde! part under mien the framed to you the after seen haunt Now
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