An invitation into the abyss

This isn’t going to have a happy ending.

If you are seeking escapism in a fantastical tale where handsome heroes defeat overwhelming powers of evil to win untold fortunes, the full-lipped kisses of fair maidens and the unwavering love of tail-wagging puppies; this story is not for you.

I respectfully implore you, please, please do not read on, for this is not a story at all; it is an invitation into the abyss.

You are still here? OK, you are either the fiercely determined type or the stupid; I hope that you are not both, as there are none more dangerous among mankind than ’determined idiots’. Some clever bastard, I forget who, once said: “Never apologise, never explain,” and the scant few people still alive who would claim to know me, might say that I have never given a truly heartfelt ’Sorry’ so there will be no apology for any hurt caused by the horrific images and dark thoughts my words will conjure in your imagination. I only ask your tolerance for the inevitable errors in spelling, grammar and the absence of the comforting certainty of craft you may be used to in the modern professional novel. I do hope the words that follow might serve as an explanation of sorts; we will see, you will be the judge and to be frank; I won’t give a shit, as another clever bastard, again, I forget who, once said: “Opinions are like arseholes. Everybody has one and most of them stink.”

Before writing these pages, I studied several manuals on ‘How To Write Your Life Story,” and I believe that it is customary when composing opening chapters, that I provide sufficient detail to establish a frame of reference, and that it is desirable to impart the mundane minutiae within a “…sensational narrative, that keeps them turning the pages!”. Again, I expect that I may disappoint but I have resolved to seek the help of a professional writer and no doubt subsequent chapters will be the better for it.

This is my first, and thankfully, last testament and I will hopefully be dead by the time you read these words but there are no certainties in life and although I do not expect you to believe me, I have already died three times. Yet, it is my devout desire that my next death will be the infinite oblivion where the ‘paragon of animals’ is rendered back to dust by earnest earthworms, scrupulous woodlice and venerable weevils. That chapter will have to be written by another hand and I will have neither the satisfaction or hollow betrayal of reading ‘The End’.

My name is Alex Talionis and this early spring day is the unwarranted and unhappy occasion of my 100th Birthday. The postman (who isn’t paid enough to meet his contractual obligations with the First Class post nor to affect bonhomie on the doorstep) has already visited the care home and delivered a solitary Birthday card; the inscription reads, “Best Wishes of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II…”, and on the front, a glossy full-colour portrait of the narcissistic, imperialist bitch in all her plundered glory. Of course, I put it in the only appropriate place.

I must postpone writing; the lithium battery on my mobility scooter has recharged and is ready for my 8mph mission down the uneven pavements and cobbled lanes of Broughty Ferry. I will soon place a purple envelope, a spoon, a pair of pliers and a silenced pistol (8 rounds ‘7.65 mm’, muzzle velocity = three hundred metres-per-second) into the pockets of my coat; and although it is not cold outside, I will clothe myself in a thick sheepskin, the essential camouflage one needs to get close enough to lure a hungry wolf from its lair.