Fig-2 - Week 10 – Annika Ström – 9-15 March – Six Lovely People (by AJ Dehany)
SIX LOVELY PEOPLE
In the Silent Disco Diner, someone is murdering the six individuals from the Match.com adverts, one by one. Who has the means, motive, and opportunity? And can Labby, the amateur labrador detective, solve the mystery in time?
My God, it’s full of twats.
The Silent Disco Diner was heaving with bodies. On the mezzanine hipsters bopped silently, while in the annexe the diners conversed uncomfortably. Annie, returning to her seat, hooked her bag under the table, and loud-whispered to her dinner date, “The toilets here, they’re not very clean.”
Lou smirked, and in a loudly ironic voice quipped, “You should try the food.” They lol’d together. “No it’s excellent. I love how they do the prices: 9.5, or 13.5. No pound signs, it’s so digi-modern.”
The 5-minute notification flashed up on their iPhones, and they put down their cutlery. Time to dance.
The silent disco is the worst fucking most unimaginably fucking dreadful and awful cuntnosed place in the entire cunting universe. Impossible to imagine a more solipsistic form of socializing. The cunts who come here pay a fucking fortune and look so smug in their mutual loathing they’re constantly coming in their pants. Twats, they’re twats. Someone should petrol-bomb their silent disco and block the fire exits then set off a silent fucking fire alarm.
As she stood up, Annie gasped, and steadied herself, “It’s so busy I can’t breathe!”
Lou smirked knowingly, “Yes, that’s how you know it’s good. The more unpleasant and packed it is, the better it is.”
The Silent Disco Diner is the hottest and best new joint in the hipsterhood. How it works is like chess-boxing. In chess-boxing, which is a great new sport that mixes the visceral combat of boxing with the intellectual sparring of chess, the combatants alternate a round of boxing with five minutes of chess. In the Silent Disco Diner the diners alternate five minutes of dining with five minutes of silent disco.
This has proven tremendously popular because it gives the diners plenty of time to think of something to say to each other. Conversational longeurs need no longer be attributed to angels passing or the terrible service (and the service is terrible). They are built into the dining experience. It is no wonder that the Silent Disco Diner is the go-to place for match dot com couples, as well as those who have married badly or have just been going out too long to be able to stand talking to each other for longer than 300 seconds. It’s more expensive than having a TV or children, but the food is excellent, and the disco music is bad enough to enhance the dining experience immeasurably either because after 300 seconds of the music you’re desperate to return to your kangaroo flatbread or because it gives both of you something to mutually loathe that isn’t each other.
Meeting people is a piece of piss. You go on the internet, swipe some cunt’s jpeg and tell them to meet you in a pig’s arse tuesday week to have a fucking smug off about who’s the bigger liver-faced cunt. There’s one now on the mezzanine, fucking dancing.
— You dance like a cunt, love!
— Sorry, what? I can’t hear you: silent disco!
— I said: you dance like a cunt!
— You’re welcome!
She didn’t bite. That was a fucking waste of time. Probably a fucking shit-farmer. I’ll keep working the room.
It’s hard to meet people. Thirtysomethings, haunted by the time before the internet, find online dating impossibly contrived, and only approach it out of total desperation, having admitted defeat at life. Whereas to the yoof it’s completely normal. Their experience is noticeably healthier and more successful, unwracked by the thirtysomething’s sense that they might have regressed to a new period of arranged marriages and paying for sex.
The management team behind the Silent Disco Diner know this, and in the Silent Disco Diner, dating couples are encouraged to be completely frank and honest. All of the subtexts of ordinary straitened dating conversations rise to the surface. Sexual, behavioural, and mental problems that usually have to be inferred from a visual interpretation of body language, these are all strenuously in your face.
The encouragement of frankness and honesty is gamely facilitated by one of the more popular cocktails, the Autistic Spectrum. It’s especially popular because it is free, and it is a condition of entry that every diner and dancer has to drink enough of them to make them practically tourette’s. This is great for those diners who lack any imagination or charm and have nothing to say, because it gives them access to all the thoughts that would never arise in banal smalltalk. In the silent disco diner everyone explains every detail of their mind with a pure sense of complete happiness and entitlement. It’s like being Kanye West.
I’m closing in. Those are the six cunts, in three pairs. You’ve seen them in the adverts for match dinner. Six arseholes in search of a fucking enema. I hate them more than it’s possible to hate anything in the universe, yet still they deserve more. Their little mooncups of cuntishness runneth over perpetually until the last albino fart of the cosmos is sodomized with the last spectral ballet shoe made of human cum.
— I love cooking!
— Oh fuck off.
While Annie and Lou were dancing silently on the mezzanine, over on the annexe, Tralee and Angharad had just run out of things to say. Angharad had all evening referred to match dot com as match doh com. She was from Barnet, which is a desirable French-speaking borough in Londres Nords.
Tralee asked “How did you get into match doh com?”
Angharad sipped her cocktail. “Looking for something to get my ex out of my head. I get so depressed. Dating is less depressing. When I think of her I get sad, and when I get sad I think of her.”
Tralee put her glass down. “Maybe what you need isn’t dating but counselling.”
“I’ve tried that. But I just couldn’t get laid. There was one counsellor who I thought I was definitely in with, but she said something about ‘professional standards’ and ‘duty of care’ – complete bullshit.”
Tralee nodded with diligent sympathy. ““Just not that into you” I guess. I hate that phrase. Everyone said that when I was telling them about this person I was dating. He’s just not that into you. I left him voicemails and sent text messages like all the time, and I know he was reading them cos it tells you. He was just too busy to reply, and a bastard. We had such an intense thing, really it was too intense for him.” She paused, then added, “Noone ever has a second pint of strawberry beer.”
Angharad, emboldened by Tralee’s frankness, continued “Sometimes, on week nights and some weekends, I sit outside my ex’s flat. I know they can see me. She’s watching TV but I know she’s glancing outside. They don’t close the curtains until it gets really dark, which is how I know she wants me to see her.”
“We’re buying a house together. Then everything will be fine. Everything will be brilliant.”
“I’m just going to the bathroom,” said Angharad.
“It’s not very clean.” said Tralee.
The first couple is fucking laughing, the cunts. It’s all so fucking hilarious, except while their faces are bent in half with shit-straining at amusement, their eyes are dead and cold, with nothing within their empty holes except sheer desperation. Life has destroyed these people. They have nothing to laugh about. They’re death, just sheer death.
Thelma and Girolamo were absorbed in their conversation, having found a good stretch of solipsism to mine. Thelma drained another cocktail, and exhaled lengthily. “I’m so depressed. I just don’t have the time or resources to run my own campaign. I need expert marketing help such as is offered by constantbumtact.com.”
Girolamo nodded. “Well, you’ve got marketing needs, and they’ve got marketing experts, after all.”
“Yes, they can connect me with a marketing expert in my area!”
“You sure seem like you’ve got the head screwed on. Oh, Thelma, you are a dream!” He narrowed his eyes. “There is some family history of diabetes, dementia, Huntingdon’s Chorea, or schizophrenia?”
“No, just folk dancing!”
They lol’d. Girolamo realized she wasn’t joking. Thelma sat up in her chair. “My parents were hippies before they became investment bankers. They were interested in free love and self-determination for all peoples, but then they had me because when they were having tantric sex during the Thatcher election they forgot to close the door and all the excitement about the creation of the nascent neo-liberal economic project made them pregnant, as well as extremely averse to taxation and human feeling. I plopped out and they decided to form a hedge fund.”
Girolamo felt the sharp slap of recognition. “Si! That happen a lot! My parents were given our Hampstead Mansion and Manors just for having a child during the early days of the Thatcher administration. They become hippies later, but by time I’m a teenager everyone else in the Prep College is enthralled with our “Mummies and Daddies”” — he laughed — “It fitted right into my, what you say, counter-cultural cachet: I make them my BFFs. They’re still very close but they live inside a volcano in an island off the coast of Croatia. They spend most of their time writing letters about what cunts the Serbians are, even though most of their friends are Serbian.”
Thelma felt rhapsodic. “That’s so amazing! They sound great. I love my parents so much but when because when I was born they started a hedge fund it means all I have to my name is six thousand miles of boundary-separating hedges in rural Hertfordshire while loads of my friends in squats have got their blonde dreadlocks to fall back on. They’re literally all on thirty K a year.”
“Oh,” Girolamo’s face fell. “So… you… you don’t have… money?”
“Just six hundred thousand miles of boundary-separating hedges in Hertfordshire.”
He pushed the last remnants of his Irn-Bru squash salad across his plate, so that, with the icing-sugar spinach, it seemed to form a sadface. His own face too had gone sadface. That was because he had turned his head sideways, in an attempt to address whether the bosoms of his dinner companion warranted the pursuance of this date in the light of the lack of family money. The realization dawned on him, like a winky smiley after a lacerating comment on a YouTube comments thread. Gazing into the dimness of the annexe, he noticed a leather bag. Squinting at it, he realized it had Brian Cox’s face.
Annie is a ginger twat and Lou is a nobhead douche. They’re somehow managing to out-cunt each other right now. Even the way they hold their forks is abysmal. They hold them the way Charlie Watts holds his drumsticks, and he’s a cunt too. Fuck, they’ve made the simple act of holding a fork pretentious. Twats.
— I fucking love food.
— I fucking love food too.
— Oh my god we have so fucking much in common.
— What food do you like?
— Just all fucking food.
— Me too!
— I like shit fucking food in a fucking brioche that smells of cuntjuice and dickcheese.
— I like really fucking gross fucking shit food made of death and farts.
— Oh, I love that too.
— You should go to Cunt-hole, they do a fucking horrible fucking pulled chicken.
— I’ve heard of that. Is that where they pull the chicken at your table?
— Yeah they pull its head through its cunt and whack it against its arsehole until it tastes like acne and measles, and then they fucking slather it in applesauce and charge you twenty quid to lick it.
— I’m so glad they pull everything. If they didn’t I would literally die.
— This wine’s piss isn’t it?
— Yeah, it was seven quid a glass.
— We are so awesome.
— Imagine our kids.
Fifteen minutes passed, and Angharad had not returned from the Silent Disco Diner’s edgily not-very-clean lavatories. The 5-minute notifications had come and gone, and Tralee had waited. Had Angharad ducked out on the bill? She looked round at the dancers dancing silently in the Silent Disco Diner. She noticed that the leather bag at the next table looked like someone, but she couldn’t remember who.
— Didn’t you love the Olympics?
— To be honest, I spent the whole time masturbating quite heavily.
— Omygod I do that all the time!
— Me too! Do you think about Tony Soprano?
“Have you ever tried to kill yourself?” asked Lou.
Annie froze. “Three times since September. Four times.”
“What stopped you?”
“The thought I might fuck it up.”
“You’re still here.”
“Yes, I fucked it up.”
Lou looked pensive. “I never thought I’d get to this age. I never thought I’d pay off my student loan. I’ll never pay off my student loan, but you know what I mean. I thought that someone would smuggle a bottle of Evian through customs and then throw it in my eyes on the plane, and I’d literally die.”
Annie resumed, “First time I tried to kill myself by… I didn’t wash my hands after going to the toilet.”
“Fucking hell. And you lived?”
“I scraped through. I was in hospital for weeks. My heart stopped and when they found me passed out on the manky tiles they could only restart it by pouring a whole bottle of hand sanitiser down my throat. It was the toilet attendant that found me. I’d tried to duck out without buying any perfume or lollipops. I was crazy. It was a cry for help really.”
Lou chugged his cocktail, and spluttered, “And the second time?”
“I left facebook. Within hours I was clinically dead. I literally died. I only lived cos my twitter feed was still active, and the push notifications started coming asking me why I’d left facebook. There were hundreds of them. I’d just forgotten to switch them off, and I guess it saved my life.”
“Shit. What was the third time?”
“I ate some pork.”
“It hadn’t been pulled,” Annie gulped.
“Holy shit, if I had pork that hadn’t been pulled I would literally die.” Lou’s fork clattered onto his plate. “Wait. Oh my God. Don’t move.”
“Where are you going?”
“Stay right there.” Lou was on his feet. “Help! Someone, help! Porknotpulled! PorknotPULLED! Her pork – it hasn’t been pulled!”
Annie looked down at her plate. Lou was right. There was the pork, gleaming and unadulterated in slender discs in a mild jus. Unpulled, not pulled or shredded in any way, nor drenched in a fruits-of-the-forest frisson. Tender, and, crucially, partially eaten.
“Oh my God.” Panic rose in her. “Someone hasn’t pulled this pork. I’m -”
Her head slammed down onto the plate.
Lou raved. “Somebody do something! Does anyone have any pork boustrophons?”
The other diners carried on dancing.
“Someone must have some pork boustrophons! Please, help her!”
Then he noticed. His avocado sorrell hadn’t been smashed, as an avocado sorrell in all civilisation should be. He knew at that moment that this was not just some random culinary accident. This was deliberate. Both of their artisanal dinners had been proletarianised. This—
Lou was dead before his body even hit the floor. The beads of light from the mirror ball swept across his prostrate form. In the silent disco, silence fell, the silence of the dead, and of not speaking.
The thing about match.com is that if it actually worked, the business would be fucked. If you actually meet anyone suitable it’s game over for your fucking subscription, so they build into their business model algorithms that most of the ‘matches’ are unsuitable cunts so you have to go back – not so unsuitable that you stop in disgust, but just enough. It knows what you really want but if it gave you that magic person with the fucking unicorn horn and the gold-plated vagina it wouldn’t be able to take the money off you.
The silence was immaculate. Angharad had still not returned, and Tralee was pretty sure her date had done one. As she contemplated making a dash for it herself, an ear-splitting scream split through the immaculate ear of the silent disco, followed by the crash of cutlery being dropped onto the square plates of the diners. A moment of incomprehension, then the door to the not-very-clean unisex toilets cracked off its hinges under the pressure of the distressed Toilet Guy. SHE’S DEAD, he said. DEAD. IT WAS THE TOILET SEAT. THE TOILET SEAT HAD AIDS.
A wave of ‘there but for the grace of god’ wept through the silent disco. Everyone has chanced it at some point or other, but you take the risk sometimes. She, though. A filthy AIDS-ridden toilet seat. In a corner, a silent dancer wept, silently. Only hours before she had… but… At such points the unfairness and contingency of life crystallises into clarity, and you realize just how close you are to an imminent, immanent, and undesired demise. Poor Angharad.
Everything is in place now. I think I’ll have a drink, if they serve anything here that isn’t piss that’s been through a human centipede. This cunt in front of me has got his spectacles on the wrong way round. Twat. The fuck’s he saying.
— Do you not have any real ales or craft beers? I can’t believe this.
— Sir, we have Privilege.
— Thank fuck. Give me four pints of Privilege, wait, do you have any of that… what is it…
— Eight pints of that.
“WAIT”, boomed the labrador. Having heard the sounds of commotion with his enhanced canine sense of hearing and having smelled fear and trembling at some distance thanks to his superior canine sense of smell, Labby the amateur labrador detective had bounced into the Silent Disco Diner, and, having been briskly appraised of the situation, was about to take charge of the proceedings. “WAIT”, he reiterated.
Sufficient waiting having been waited, he continued.
“Very murder! So death. Yes. Profounds, is mystery! Yes. Wow!”
— Hey! So, I just sent you the link!
— Oh great! Is it shit?
— It’s fucking shit mate.
— Fucking THE shit mate.
— Fucking right mate.
— Nice one.
While Labby, the crime-solving labrador, had been ruminating on the case, noone had noticed that on the back table of annexe below the mezzanine of the silent disco, Giralomo had gone silent. One might say, deadly silent.
“Everyone! There’s been another murder! Look!”
The shock of mortality resonated through the room like a massive bell. At length, Labby drew himself up, and moved over to the distended form under the back table. It was Girolamo, dead. “He’s dead,” observed Labby.
A gasp swept through the otherwise silent disco.
“Yes. Many smothered. All the while we were concerned with the tragic death of a beautiful girl from dirty toilet seat, someone fulfilling deathly compulsion. Don’t look! Very horror! Many smothered, smothered by a leather bag made of Brian Cox’s face!”
The dancers stopped dancing and held still, aghast. A leather bag made of Brian Cox’s face!?!?! There was protestation. Brian Cox is a beautiful eyebrow made of spacetime. Brian Cox is a delicious talking forehead. Brian Cox is a sea-cow. Is what they said.
“Look, doge,” said noone, “Who on earth would want to murder the delightful match dot com couples?
“Very mysteries,” said Labby. “So unknow. Listen to me! Thinks! Who is make bag with Brian Cox’s face. Very answer! So mystery! Wow!”
The silent disco diner resounded with the ineffable and profound silence that can only be born of not speaking, a not speaking born of not knowing. As per. Some of the diners tried to resume their dancing. Labby the amateur labrador detective rose on his hind paws. “Nobody must leave! Bar the doors. Many mystery, much solution!”
— What is it you do?
— I’m an artist.
— Oh really what kind of art do you practice?
— Recently I made yogurt from the bacteria in my vagina.
— That sounds interesting.
— It’s not.
— Kinda wish I’d washed my minge this morning.
— I wouldn’t have licked you out anyway.
— I can tell. Your beard would probably have lice babies with my bush anyway.
Another fifteen minutes passed, while Labby the amateur labrador detective continued his investigation. The management had asked the dancers to keep on dancing, to ‘be normal’, and the dancers were quite tired now. Their skin-tight jeans resembled baggy chav sportswear. The boys’ man-buns were unravelling into bad bed hair, and the girls’ bright lippy had spilled down their chins giving them the look of Siberian cannibals mid-feast.
Labby, the crime-solving labrador, brushed with a dry paw his immaculate fringe, and cried out “I have been very fool! Many stupid. Now I see! Such look.” Labby became expansive, “I notice from outset, so profound connection between the victims. Is my business — wow! — is aware of details others overlook. Central fact of the case is this: in the mind of the murderer, the three dead couples were the six — much forgive — six “cunts” from the match dot com adverts.”
The crowd protested. Who on earth would want to murder the six delightful individuals from the match dot com adverts?
Labby waved at the protesting dancers to be silent. “You see, you are missing the central piquant detail of the match dot com dinner advertising posters. The match dot com “cunts” have got to be the worst cunts because it is this that disinhibits you from dating. If it was your Beyoncé or your Puffy on the poster nobody sign up. Perhaps you are a spotty disaster case with all the appeal of the back end of Tracey Emin, or the front end of Tracey Emin. Very cunts on the match dot com posters must be worst examples of humanity, is make you think very hope getting laid.”
There was a long pause.
A really long pause.
A bit too long really.
The gathered fathoms of the silent disco entourage looked toward the forceful amateur labrador detective for some sign. The inscrutable canine was nonchalant as ever.
“But are we safe?” they cried, as it were.
Labby, the inestimable crime-solving labrador, rose to his full height, and, stretching his ears to their full erectitude, intoned “You need not worry now, you are quite safe. Murderer making one crucial, fatal, mistake. In his sanctimonious vitriol against the match dot com couples, so poison himself with hatred. Wow! So hatred! Within the hour, he will be quite dead.”
Labby took up his pipe, and smiled enigmatically with a mixture of pleasure and satisfaction. At that moment the final surviving one of the six individuals from the match dot com advert, Thelma, emerged from the establishedly not very clean unisex toilets.
“Wow! Very survive!” said Labby with joy, “I thought you had been murdered!”
Thelma shivered, and pointed to her legs. “I escaped! I got toxic shock from wearing my knickers for a second day running. I was unconscious for the past hour, then the noise must have… I tore off the pants, and…” Noticing the chaos, she squeaked “What the hell happened?”
Labby chuckled knowingly. “Yes,” he said, “Many yes. Is Doge.”
Love is dead. And you can all fuck off as well.