going to record a draft-video - HOW EXCITING?!

Hey, so it's almost launch time!

Friday will see the launch of the KarloKatastrophe project and for it I have been working hard on several short comedy stories, these are the working titles for the first few:


Kitty Cat Sir Frieda Montard & The Art Of Tripping One's Owner


Steffani Mexicano & The Roomate of Terror


Crackhead-Meth-Dragons & The Pregnancy of Florencia


Seabass Given Law


Fat Times At Kimbryle High


Z-z-zombie Stripper Drag Queen


I look forward to showcasing these, and with any luck you'll have as much fun reading them as I did writing them!
Which one sounds most exciting?

See you on Friday!

Fly On The Wall by David Jones

'Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away...'

Hughes Mearns

The fly did not belong here. The small, darkened apartment was too quiet, too unearthly to accommodate the infrequent buzzing of even the smallest of its kind. A fidgeting black speck upon the landscape of an otherwise pale white windowsill, it stood out in all the ways an intelligent fly would hope not to.
If this specific individual were capable of intelligent reflection (and let us not rule out the possibility), then it may well have found itself marveling, in distasteful confusion, at the strange layout of this particular environment. Dominating the centre of the space lay securely a blue-quilted, heavy set, double bed: whose pillowed top rested with its back to the door. The only door of the room.
Our hypothetically smart fly would by now be using in its mind the word ‘room’ as an irritating but necessary replacement of the word ‘apartment’. Being the proud descendant of an ageless species who are, by tireless experience, no doubt the leading scholars regarding such human settlings, its evolutionary instinct (made stronger off course with each generation of fly) would have screamed that compared to the expected apartment set-up, this was no such establishment! And taking into account a fly’s 30 day lifespan: that’s a lot of generations doin’ a lotta’ screamin’!
You see the word apartment brings to mind the image of numerous separate rooms, usually done with the aid of walls and doors. Perhaps that was once true for this ‘apartment’, until some previous occupant became convinced of another presence and decided to screw over any opportunity for it to hide with the aid of a sledgehammer and multiple well placed swings. If this was the plan, then it worked.
From its position on the window-sill, our fly could view the entire ‘apartment’. With its back to the window, it would first look past the bed to the one door directly ahead of it. Its gaze would then sweep left to take in the most basic of kitchens, shoved up against the farthest corner to make way for a lonely table and chair. Looking right, our inquisitive insect would be sickened by a lack of toilet door (walls, and lack of effort to separate the bog from the rest of this unnerving room), and mortified further by the careless placement of a black leather couch and small bookshelf mere feet away. Were this insect in any way hygienic, the lack of sink, bath or shower would have undoubtedly sent it over the edge.
But the fly could not see. Despite having 2000 lenses in each eye, a fly’s vision consists of the ability to detect and locate movement. And as its current location showed no interest or care towards the concept of movement, the fly was spared the view. Some could argue that in this case, nature was kind.
As a ghostly red light from a neon pub sign across the road filtered through the drapes, the noisy black speck continued to flit here and there across the window sill, punished by the room’s irritated silence.
The fly did not belong here. And it knew it.


Good walking shoes are truly rare phenomena. Providing comfort and protection on even the longest of walks, they also somehow succeed in being the quietest brand of shoes to grace popular shelves.
Tony Havisham eased soundlessly into the apartment, and was struck by the silence of the room. A wave of nostalgia passed through him as always, before he proceeded towards the ‘kitchen’, throwing the wrapped remains of his KFC meal into a bin next to the bed (his careless accuracy being the envy of any young hormonal teenage boy).
His tanned, rough hands fumbled with and opened the drawers within which one would expect to find cutlery or napkins. Instead a vast array of tools and odd-ends greeted his calm gaze: magnifying glass (typical), surveillance gear, profile paper-work, two fake ID’s, etc. The tools of a private ‘private investigator’.
It could be argued that, in some way or another, Tony suited the room. His tanned skin was well matched by a long, flowing, dark-brown winter coat. Resting above our famous walking shoes were black jeans secured with a belt that may well have been plucked from the Wild West, adorned with numerous patterns and carvings. An image that was further emphasized by a ‘cowboyish’ black hat that sat comfortably atop his head, whilst somehow managing to look cool. (Sorry guys, but if you or I were too put it on, the girls would laugh: knowing that we were trying far too hard).
Passers by had often joked that Tony resembled a younger, browner Terry Pratchet. On the off occasions where Tony had overheard such comparisons (more often than the passers by would expect), he had actually spared a chuckle to himself. He admired the author’s wit and style, though in truth, the difference in chosen careers ensured that the two men truly were worlds apart.
Having found what he was after; Tony eased the drawer closed and strode towards the window.
He raised the small lens to his eye, and peered towards the crowd gathered below the sign across the road. For a London pub, it was emptying early. The youths were already smoking, flirting, arguing, and laughing heartily along the pavement outside. A quick scan of each unfocused face suggested his quarry had not yet left the pub, but with all the movement it was hard to tell which ones he had and hadn’t already checked. He leaned closer to the window, unafraid of the possibility of being spotted.
You see, man of the world that he was, Tony was fully aware that any girl dressed like that (and to be honest, they all were) had long since fallen into an incredibly dangerous habit. Though the poorly hidden stares of numerous horny men may have at first flattered them, years of experience meeting creeps and coming to understand the true nature of practically every man had brought them to the conclusion that there was always a perv somewhere and that perv was always staring! So why bother looking for them? After all, the first thing any smart girl learns when out pubbing or clubbing is that the one thing worse than being stared at by a perv, is making eye contact with a perv! They tend to draw their own hopeful conclusions. Then it just gets even worse, and much more awkward! As for the guys, well, I don’t think I need to tell you why our private investigator knew they’d be far too distracted to notice him.
Which, for the sake of their own sanity, is probably a damn good thing! For if they were to look up at his particular window, the combination of red light shined across his face and ‘cowboyish’ hat may well have given them the impression that Terry Pratchet had passed away and returned to torment the unsuspecting generation that his books had once so entertained. Then again, maybe not.
Frustration towards the moving crowd eased when rain began to fall, Tony smiled at the mayhem that inevitably ensued. Tarted up girlfriends who had originally been happy to hang around now began dragging their men towards parked cars, wannabe Edward Cullens who had undoubtedly spent hours on their styled hair now abandoned the tough guy façade in search of shelter before the illusion fell to pieces. . .
One by one, the street emptied, rewarded by Tony’s sigh of thanks. Then, right on cue, they came into view. Though obscured by the rain, Tony could make out the black winter coat, the messy gelled hair, and the arm thrown ‘protectively’ around the blonde girl giggling into his side. As soon as they appeared, Tony was ready to leave. Upon doing so he spotted a small fly sat on the windowsill, looking straight back at him. Or so it appeared. With a fluid motion he eased the window open and guided it out, hoping the rain wouldn’t prove fatal as it disappeared into the night.
Closing the window shut, he returned with deliberate focus to the kitchen drawers to remove one last item. Closing the door behind him, he hoped he would resist the urge to use it. Silence returned instantly.
The room sighed in relief.


Please give your comments and reviews, or reblog if you love this short story as i do.