Bad Moon E-Zine #1 - New Moon (2 page)

“Shall we try
it then?” asked Dr Gloom.

“Why not?”
replied Flaubert. “It’s as good a time as any.”

“NOT SO FAST!”
came a call from across the hanger hallway. It was Captain
Saccharine himself, and he had his assistant Candy Rock with
him.

“I wasn’t
doing anything particularly fast,” replied Dr Gloom, bluntly and
gloomily.

“I didn’t mean
it like that!” exclaimed Captain Saccharine. “I just want you to
stop and reconsider what you’re doing!”

Captain
Saccharine’s attempts to reason calmly with the super villains was
what drove many of them to insanity. His repeated attempts to
‘understand the other guy’ and ‘see it from their point of view’
were incredibly infuriating, and Dr Gloom was almost certain that
he only did it to enrage his opponents. It was a highly successful
technique, whatever the case.

“I have
considered it and reconsidered it at length, Saccharine. It seems
like the only sensible course of action to take. At least, the only
course of action to help this horrific, insipid planet.”

“How can you
say that, Gloom? You’re just down in the dumps and mopey! C’mon,
cheer up mate! It might never happen!”

Gloom looked
over at Saccharine and then at the Gloomsday Device. With enemies
like that, who needed friends, or anyone for that matter? Time to
end the whole sorry escapade. He reached forwards.

“Wait!” cried
Saccharine’s assistant, Candy Rock. “I know why you’re doing
this!”

“Why?” said
Gloom. “Because I’m sick of it all, that’s why!”

“Yes, but why
did this all start, hey? Because of your dental assistant leaving
you, that’s why!”

“What?
B-b-but... how did you know?!”

Candy Rock
stepped forwards and unveiled herself.

“Because that
dental nurse... WAS ME!”

“Shirley! It
was you all this time!”

“Yes, Norman.
I’m sorry. I should’ve said. I thought that you would’ve realised.
I mean, it was fairly obvious, wasn’t it?”

“Now you come
to mention it, it was something of an oversight.”

“Anyway, I’m
sick of this droning goiter! He’s so optimistic all of the time,
it’s really annoying. I’ve had enough of it all! I want to join
you!”

“Really?”

Dr Gloom had
not foreseen this turn of events. He had to be careful though.
Perhaps it was a trap. After all, he’d been stung before, all those
many years ago.

Captain
Saccharine stepped forwards too, visibly hobbling and having
trouble with his movements.

“I’m sorry,
Norman. It was my fault, really. You just weren’t quick enough off
the mark, as usual, so I had to step in and take a chance where and
when I saw it.”

“What do you
mean... oh, you’re the confectionary salesman from Chichester,
aren’t you?”

“Yes, that’s
the one. Shortly after Shirley and I eloped, I fell into a vat of
hazardous confectionary products, and they changed me into Captain
Saccharine, causing me to always utter syrupy, sugar sweet
sentimental twaddle. It’s driven me to distraction, but super
heroing is all I can really do under such conditions.”

“Ah.”

“I’m tired of
all this, aren’t you?”

“Completely.”

“Do you want
to test the Gloomsday Device then?”

“It could
result in the end of humanity as we know it...”

“Hmm, sounds
like a laugh...”

Dr Gloom
looked again at the device on the tressle table in front of him. If
you looked closely, you could almost see the ends of his mouth
twitch and turn up slightly. Then he began to emit a low, croaking
sound. It was a laugh. He began laughing steadily, then let it take
over, his tone rising, his body convulsing. Then he abruptly
stopped, reached forwards and pressed the button. Nothing
changed.

- - -

Change

by Tricia Cicatrix

At quarter past
eight, the man gets up from the bench where he has slept. A train
has just arrived, and people are coming up the stairs from the
platforms. They walk past him, some giving him quick looks, some
not noticing him at all.

He shakes his
head and rubs his eyes. He picks up the plastic bag with his
belongings. He goes and washes his face; then he starts doing what
he does every day.

'Have you got
some spare change please?' he asks people. Most of them just don't
react. Some shake their heads or say no. A few hand him pennies.
Whatever they do, he says thank you each time.

'Have you got
some spare change please?'

'Clear
off.'

'Thank
you.'

Those who look
rich rarely give anything, and those who are in a hurry don't stop
for the likes of him. He asks people who walk about slowly, people
who are ambling around waiting for a train to arrive.

The man from
the hot drinks stand comes over and gives him a free cup of tea, as
he often does. It is sweet and strong, scalds the man's tongue and
wakes him up. Today the hot drinks man brings a cheese roll as
well. It might be a good day.

Chewing, the
man walks along the track and stops to check the timetables, as he
does every day. There is no point because his train (no, not his
train, the train that he wanted to catch all those years ago…) is
not on there anymore and even if it was, he wouldn't be able to
afford the ticket. The money he makes is never enough.

'Have you got
some spare change please?'

'Hang on… yeah,
there you go.'

'Thank
you.'

Many years ago,
he meant to take the 22.14 train. He was on his way to a new city;
he was about to start a new job and live a different life, but he
lost the bag with his ticket and money. He was stranded here.
Without the ticket, he couldn't get out through the turnstile. He
couldn't afford a new ticket, and he couldn't make the officials
listen to him. He didn't know anyone to turn to, and in the end he
gave up and stayed here.

Now he just
tries to get by. The days are blurry and uncertain. He still dreams
of buying a new ticket, catching that train, that train he was
destined for, but he can't afford it and doesn't have the energy to
do much. He goes around asking people for money every day, but it
never seems to be enough. He loses it, or it is stolen, or he has
to buy food and drink. It is never enough.

Most people
don't notice him, and he suspects that sometimes he is invisible.
Yes, there are also those who give him tea, buy him meals or say
they might be able to help him, but he is too tired to talk or to
do anything other than what he has become used to. He stays out of
people's way, doesn't complain, avoids the cold and tries not to
get shouted at. At night he fades into the background and sleeps
wherever there are no officials driving him away.

'Have you got
some spare change please?'

'Sorry, mate.
Can't help you there.'

'Thank
you.'

By lunchtime he
has made £4.25. He drinks a cup of coffee that someone has
abandoned on the bench next to the supermarket.

A young woman
has begun to ask passers-by for money as well. She can't have been
here for long, as she still looks quite real and normal. She wears
jeans and a huge jumper.

'Have you got
any money please?' she asks, and some of them hand her a few
coins.

He has seen a
few of them: people who are like him, people who are lost. Some get
away somehow, but most just disappear. He is the only one who has
stayed here for so long.

He watches the
woman. She is pretty, and he wonders if he might be with a pretty
young woman if he was outside.

In the
afternoon he makes another £6 and a bit. Trains arrive and leave;
announcements boom from the PA; the displays flash; people travel
from cities that he has never seen to others that he will never see
either. He is so tired.

Every now and
again he thinks about going to the city centre to try to find help,
to get out of here. He thinks about it today. After seven people in
a row have blanked him completely, he walks to the turnstile and
looks out towards the station entrance (or exit). The machine won't
let him out without a ticket. He thinks of jumping the turnstile or
slipping through, but he doesn't dare because a train official is
close by. He swears, and the official says something reproachful.
The man doesn't understand it, but he nods and says sorry all the
same.

He walks away
from the noise and anger.

Anyway, he
thinks, what use would it be if he got out? This station is where
he was supposed to change trains, nothing more than that. He has no
connection to it. No-one in this city knows him, and those he knew
before he came here won't remember him now. He could have crept
through the turnstile at night. He could have taken another train.
He could have, but he can't bring himself to leave.

Train. His
train. It has to be his train, the one he had to catch, the new
life train. For him, there is no way out of this station other than
taking the right train.

'Have you got
some spare change please?'

Silence.

'Thank
you.'

It gets dark,
and it gets late. There are fewer trains now. He watches travellers
as they buy baguettes, drink Coke or beer, hurry to the next
platform, stride outside with their cigarettes and lighters already
in hand.

The man feels
tired and shaky. He pays £1.10 for a chocolate bar and a bottle of
water from the vending machine and eats hastily, crumbs landing on
his clothes and in his beard. It doesn't really matter anymore,
though. Somewhere along the way, his clothes seem to have stopped
becoming dirtier, and he doesn't have to shave anymore. Invisible.
Unreal. He wonders whether he has died and not noticed it.

He goes to the
toilet. They have UV lights in there to stop people from shooting
up drugs. His skin looks strangely blue in the light, and he feels
dizzy. He shakes his head, splashes water onto his face, then walks
back out and sits on the bench.

The young woman
he saw earlier stops next to him. He thinks that she has been
crying.

'You OK?' he
asks. She winces, nods and looks away.

'Really?'

She starts
crying again, tells him something. She speaks a language he can't
understand, only occasionally using a few English words. She sits
down next to him. The man mumbles something soothing and pats her
hand very carefully. He holds out some coins to her, but she shakes
her head. Then she suddenly says 'goodbye' and gets up. As she
makes to walk away, she looks confused. She frowns as though
wondering who he is and whether he is there at all. He isn't, he
thinks, he is not real. Then the young woman leaves.

He looks at the
clock over the flower stand. It is 22.10. The train, the one he was
supposed to catch, would arrive at platform 11 now if it still ran.
It doesn't, of course it doesn't, it's over, and there's no point
in brooding about it…

Then, without
warning, he understands.

That train is
there. It exists for him, but is invisible to everybody else, just
like he is invisible to the other people in the station. The
travellers can't see or hear the train, but he can. Now that he
understands, he can. Perhaps other people like him can, too.

The train is
arriving, and he can take it. He starts running towards the
platform, suddenly terrified that he might miss it and there will
never be another one. He drops his bag. Someone shouts at him, but
he doesn't turn his head. The money jangles in his trouser pocket.
It won't be enough for the ticket, but it could never have been
enough anyway, and now it doesn't matter anymore. This is the
train. Once he is on the train, it will be alright.

He runs down
the stairs, tripping, grazing his hand as he stops his fall. Never
mind.

The train, now
clearly visible to him and him only, is still waiting, but through
his rasping breath and people's shouts he can just make out the
announcement that it is about to leave. There is one door that is
still open.

He races along
the platform, bumping into people, panting apologies.

Almost
there.

His heart
hammers. The train. Might be the only chance. I understand now –
perhaps I'll have forgotten by tomorrow? Got to catch it now. Get
ready for departure. Open door. Be quick. There. I could always
have gone, it's ridiculous. Door's still open.

Then he is
there and throws himself on to the invisible train.

- - -

The Grimm
Truth – The Bear Facts

(as told by Daddy
Bear)

So anyway,
right, we come back from our little picnic in the woods, me, the
missis, and the little ‘un, or as we’ve come to be known in some
popular publications of more than dubious content, Daddy Bear,
Mummy Bear and Baby Bear, anyway, right, the missis, she goes,
“Allo! There’s summink not quite cushdy ‘ere! Some nana’s snuffled
up me porridge, made a right old mess of our gaff, and I’m none too
‘appy about it! The bed’s all over the place, it’s a right state,
and no mistake!” Then I says, “You’re right, babes, some berk’s
half-inched some of my porridge and all, ain’t they, an’ made a
right dog’s dinner of me bed too! I’m not sure ‘ow I’ll be able to
sleep sound in me bed tonight knowin’ some twonk or anovver’s broke
in and gone through our particulars and that!” An’ then the little
‘un, he’s very astute, very observant, like ‘is dad, he pipes up,
“Oi, Old Man, Mum, look over ‘ere! Some prannet’s gone and lifted
all me porridge and only gone and fell asleep in me four-poster,
the daft kipper!” An’ he was right! There she was, bold as day,
this blonde piece, ‘avin a kip in our nipper’s divan! I mean, the
cheek of it! I thought to meself, “Right! I ain’t ‘avin this! Some
young porridge-nobblin’ house-breakin’ whippersnapper dollybird
with the abject audacity to fall asleep in the gaff they just
robbed!” I mean, what sort of a sicko does that? She must’ve been a
right dumb bimbo of a piece to fink she’d get away with it, and no
mistake! What a nana! So I goes, “Oi, you! Yeah, you, Goldilocks!”
that’s what I called ‘er, coz she ‘ad this blonde ‘air, see, I’m
observant like that, I said, “Oi! Goldilocks, you porridge-thievin’
trollop! Get your golden behind out of me ‘ouse this instant, or
I’ll call the forest ranger on ya! Go on, ‘op it pronto!” Well, I
must’ve frightened the life out of ‘er, coz she jumps up and legs
it out of the winda! Then she ‘as the temerity to make out as if
she’s the victim in this sorry tale! Oh yeah, right! Just coz she’s
blonde and young and pretty, right? Y’know, she must be perfect,
despite the fact that she goes round pinchin’ people’s porridge and
all! I mean, who’s gonna replace the losses, and tidy up the
bedsheets? That’s what I wanna know! Muggins ‘ere, that’s who! This
neighbourhood’s gone right down the drain. She ought to be doin’
porridge, no scoffin’ it! I ask ya. Goldilock her up an’ throw away
the key, I say. Raaar!