Written by Skoob1999
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Wednesday, 17 August 2011

image for Miserable (Not To Be Confused With Stephen King's 'Misery') Part 3 Acid Induced Goldfish Hallucinations May Have Helped

The story so far:

Popular novelist, Mike Shuttlecock, author of the 'Miserable Bastard' series of novels, loosely based on his brother Martin's experiences, has endured a serious traffic accident in Wales, and has been taken away from the scene by his number one fan, Blodwyn Glendowr.

And imprisoned in her home as a guest/patient/victim...

Oh, and accused of plagiarism. Or something similar...

Hi, I'm Mike Shuttlecock - brother of that arsehole Martin, and I'm kind of in what could be described as a sticky situation here.

Doesn't look good to be honest. She's going to read the manuscript which I had locked in the case, and she's going to realise that I killed the Shuttlecocks off...

After that, it can only ever get worse.

She's been injecting me with heroin, ostensibly to manage the pain I'm experiencing from about 38 broken bones. Which is why I sometimes lose track of things.

Anyway, I'm dreaming, (I think) that I'm a salesman discussing a mortgage deal with a polar bear over an iceberg, when suddenly, my bedroom prison at Blodwyn's swims sharply into focus.

The polar bear is gone, but Blodwyn's still here, sitting on the end of the bed reading the Shuttlecock 'Miserable Bastard' manuscript, and the woman is chuckling.

I look at her through one eye, half open, and decide that discretion is the better part of valour. I need to assess this situation, and get the hell away from this madwoman at the first available opportunity.

Unfortunately, I am, as they say in Accrington, Lancashire - "Fucked right up." - I can't run, my bones are broken all up to bollocks and back and I'm struggling to even move. The pain is severe. I can only sigh...like a prize dick...

"Yew awake are yew?"

Her voice has the effect on me of a Girls Aloud/Beyonce remix. It really fucking grates.

"Uh..." I groan, not quite sure if I want more heroin or a full English breakfast. Then I see that the blinds are closed, and that it's dark outside.

At least, I think it is.

My attention is captured more by Blodwyn...it's frightening.

She's perched on the end of my bed, reading the manuscript, laughing and banging her heels on the floor...

Her head swivels in my direction. By God, she's frightening. For some reason I think of a homicidal Susan Boyle, all pumped up like the Incredible Hulk. The glint in her eyes could feasibly be either madness or some sort of twisted glee. Whatever it is, I don't want to be around it. This madwoman has the potential to be dangerous, and I'm helpless, my broken body unable to offer up even the feeblest resistance.

I really need to get myself to a hospital somehow, otherwise I could wind up in a wheelchair for the rest of my life, or worse. Okay, Blodwyn may be wearing a nurses's uniform, but I'm not convinced that she's a bona fide nurse - she didn't seem to know much about heroin for a start, other than that using it made her feel good. Or so she thought.

Surely a genuine nurse would be well aware of the perils of heroin, and avoid it like the plague. Blodwyn seemed to know less about it than the average man in the street.

I sit and watch her read the manuscript for a while.

I really need to get out of here.

Before something goes horribly wrong...

"Yew awake Bach?" she asks.

I kind of nod my head in the affirmative.

"This is brill-yant!" she says. "I really likes the part in Rome airport where Martin is standing patiently in line at the check in desk, while that idiot couple in front of them are huffing and puffing because the airline staff won't let 'em take a seven foot bloody tree on the plane. And then when Anne loses her rag and tells them to fold the thing in half and stick it in a suitcase...they try to do it! This yer is hysterical Bach! Brill-yant boyo! Bladdy lit-e-rary genius you are Bach and no mistakin' it!"

But I'm not listening. My heart's sinking faster than a brick ship. What the hell is she going to do when she realises I've killed off the Shuttlecocks? Kill me off? Or just laugh about it?

Somehow I can't imagine the latter scenario.

I have to get out of here. It's essential that I get proper medical attention for my injuries. I'm pretty broken up, but I'm reasonably certain that with the correct treatment, I can pull off an almost 100% recovery.

If I'm forcibly detained here, with bloody stark raving mad Blodwyn, my condition could deteriorate rapidly. I could get gangrene, or some other bloody horrible condition, not to mention being left with bent and twisted bones, like some horrendously buggered up scarecrow.

I have to try to talk my way out of this. Logic dictates that Blodwyn is a bloody nut job, and although I'm not exactly Stephen Hawking in the cerebral premier league, (More like Isle Of Wight fourth division pub league, really.) I should be able to use subtle persuasion, in order to get her to acquiesce with my way of thinking. Shouldn't be too difficult

Piece of cake.

"Erm...Blodwyn..." I begin. It's always better when you want to win somebody over to start off by being gentle, non-aggressive. Subtle persuasion is the name of the game. "There's something, that I think we really need to talk about..."

"Really?" She arches an eyebrow. She looks suspiciously at me. "And what might that be then Bach?"

"Well..." I begin. Tentatively. It's vital not to upset her at this point. "As you can probably see..."

"Yersss?"

"I'm, sort of like, a bit beat up here..."

"Of course yew are Bach - that's why I'm givin' yew thee 'eroin. Yew'll be right as rain before you know it. Probably a little bit twisted up, with the broken bones and stuff, but that doesn't really matter Bach isnit - because yew'll still be able to type out the Shuttlecock stories! It's all bladdy hunky dory boyo isnit! Sorted!"

"No...no it isn't Blodwyn," I sighed. "It's far from being 'sorted.' I'm in pain here. I'm hurting really bad. All over my body. I really need to get to a hospital. If I don't get proper medical attention, I'm really afraid I might die. I have broken bones, and I fear I may have suffered internal injuries."

"I'm dealin' with that Bach..."

"But I could die here Blodwyn! I really could."

She froze.

Her face hardened.

"That's why I'm givin' yew the 'eroin isnit. Yew thick stupid daft bastard Bach isnit!"

"Blodwyn!" I sobbed. "I need to get to a hospital! Now!"

"Well then boyo...yew can feck right off isnit! Yew're stayin yer and that's final! Prick!"

With hindsight, I suppose I could have handled it better.

To be continued...

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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