Charles thanked the old man in the gorcery store and told him how much Marjory would enjoy the lovely chocolates. He’d seen her three times already that day, but hidden so as not to spoil the lovely surprise. Marjory would be twenty four years old, at precisely eight minutes passed seven and he had everything prepared.

At 7pm, the band assembled beneath Marjory’s bedroom window and a truck stacked with party favors crawled stealthily up her driveway. Inside, two hundred and twelve thousand personalised musical balloons quivered. Charles had designed a unique message for each one. At five minutes past seven, a sky writer, flying high enough to be silent, but low enough to be visible in the clear Summer evening, began to inscribe the first line of Marjory’s favorite poem in infinitely delicate vaporised oil. At seven minutes past seven, Charles emerged from his hiding place in the undergrowth, in top hat and tails, checked his watch, waited, checked his watch again and signaled the release of a collage of balloons; that rose to stain the sky like multicolored butterflies. After a few more seconds, Charles signaled the band to set upon a rousing chorus.

It wasn’t long before Marjory’s door opened and she raced into the driveway. In her hand was an angry Taser, and upon her face a mixture of terror and incomprehensible shame.

‘Marjory dear,’ Charles sang, as the band played a march of his own devising.
‘My love for you is like the clear blue sky.’ Behind him, a team of majorettes set to tossing their batons into the air, and twirling around in synchronized elegance.
‘My love for you will never…’
‘Die, Die, Die,’ screamed Marjory, plunging the metal pike of the Taser deep into Charles’s throat and coursing fifty thousand volts through his system.

Charles dropped to the ground like a string-less marionette, a box of handmade chocolates falling with him to the tarmac, where it smacked like the wet thud of his head. The orchestra stopped playing and all was silent save a distant siren.

‘This man,’ Marjory began, her voice cracking, her whole body wracked with sobs.’Has been stalking me for eight years.’ A tuba player put his arm around her shoulder and she began to sob against his broad chest. Looking up, she finished in a whisper, ‘He’s ruined everything, even my birthday.’

In the sky the plane banked out of a steep ‘O’, the sentence done. At Marjory’s feet, Charles’s body gurgled, but remained unconscious. Marjory gazed skyward, up to where the plane has finished its illumination. In the air, the letters hung, stark and terrifying.

‘You do not do, you do not do.’

It’s well known fact that I, Quim La Douche, am drawn, like a fish to a lovely bait, to strong women; and my current interviewee is no exception. Her firm grip on international relations has a hard tug on my loins, and we’re only ten minutes into the interview.

Born Conchita Maria Elvira Gonzalez, Albright’s path to international power brokeress was a strange one. In fact, much of the first forty years of her life were spent in menial servitude, as live in maid to Columbian impresario Pablo Baresco.
“You must have seen a lot of dirty laundry”, I yell above the surf, as our boards crest a thirty footer off Waimea.

Stunning in a neoprene Gucci wet suit, she hits an aerial barrel roll, the feet which burnt cheeky hoof prints into the corridors of power, rooted to her Bilabong, like willows.

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Since starting as a hobby project in 2002, the Suicide Girls have become an internationally recognised brand, the ‘Gilmore Girls’ of Alt porn. With its host of interviews with intellectual iconoclasts, and an active, literate user community, the companies site - Suicidegirls.com - has become what the playboy mansion aspired to be in the mid 60’s - a mecca for the libertine intelligentsia.

Yet while financial success and critical acclaim have embraced the Suicide Girls, rubbing the sweet balm of profit into their tanned and pierced skinnybodies; controversy too has stalked them, like an ugly Greek outside a hip party in Notting Hill, with a zoom lens and a bowie-knife. Allegations that the Suicide Girls corporation has used convincing mannequins in some of their shoots, worse, poorly paid mannequins, have dogged the company. If there was any truth to such rumors, I, Quim La Douche, resolved to find it.

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Hey.

You know you’re kind of cute. Whats your name?

Wait. Don’t tell me. Lets keep it a sexy mystery. Like the things your parents do in the bed.

I’m sorry. I was being gross. I do that sometimes if I’m nervous. Please ignore it. I’m really quite lovely.

If you read this you’re a black.

Ha. I did a joke just there. Actually I’ve nothing against God’s chosen people.

.. That was really pretty what you just did. Kinda wrinkled your nose.

So. Are you em. Seeing anybody?

I’m just asking cause you have this like.. Light.

I sort of want to get to know you better. Don’t worry I’m not a gay or anything. I just believe in being really honest.

You’re blushing! Aww shit.

So. You think we could. Em. Hang out at some stage?

There’s actually this really cool show on in Lemonstreet gallery. My friend’s got a few pieces in.

Well we went to school together.

Sir said I was actually a better drawer. But I never took it seriously.

You know you’ve got really really lovely hands.

Really. I’m not being weird. Your cuticles are like little moons.

I’d love to touch them with my own hands. But they’re so big and ugly.

I have to go.

Look I’m going to have to give you my number.

You don’t have to say anything.

Just don’t call at night. Cause my parents are asleep.

Bye love.

Ever tried necrophilia? You should, its a gas. I know what you’re thinking, ‘Why dig up some dead thing and fucking it? There are better lays with the living’.
Well I’ll tell you, because its great fun and bloody easy. You feel huge, really important. They can’t say or do anything against you, they’re dead, so you just pump away. You can do stuff you could never do with a livin’ - pump ‘em in the ass, the eye, right out there in public. Yeah that’s right, do it in public, right on the Formica table top in your local dinner- its incredible. Plus no one will ever mess with you again after they see you desecrating a corpse just to get off - they know you’re capable of anything.

Lots of love, Richard