#starttitle * youth "Waiting. What else is there to do? She's gone." +"She who?"+youth; she~@-SHE +"Waiting?"+youth; waiting~@-WAITING * Bar Indoor smog roils over the bar. It's late afternoon, not crowded yet, but the murky clouds never seem to lift. Ingrid's lurking somewhere out of sight. A few maudlin topers sigh as their sorrows drink them under the table. +look at the bar+counter +look at the doors+door~-DOORS +look around the room+furnishings +look at the punters+look at customers~@-CURTAINS +look at the smokers+smokers +talk to Ingrid+look at manager~-LARKIN +collect empty glasses+glasses~-LARKIN +inhale smoke+smoke~@-SMOKE * bloke- goons "Who's them?" +"A seminal British radio comedy troupe, starring Peter Sellers, Spike Milligan and Harry Secombe, whose surrealism prefigured Monty Python."+bloke-parrot +"Millwall FC! Huk huk huk! One all!"+bloke- millwall * bloke- millwall He pauses for one gelid moment, then sneers and draws a finger across his throat before he swaggers out. Ooh, you're quaking in your downy calfskin boots. >-BLOKE #divBar * bloke- nothing? He pauses and thinks. You can almost hear the little cogs lagging... "No!" he finally erupts. You wait expectantly for the meaning of life. "I don't have anything better to do." he concludes, like Mozart adding a flourish at the end of a symphony. >-NOTHING #ret * bloke- panther He answers with a hilarious rendition of the Pink Panther theme tune. What a wag. Maybe he's in training for the World's Most Punchable Man contest? He's just ahead of Jerry Springer but slightly behind the current frontrunner, Ariel Sharon. You close your eyes as tightly as you can and try not to weep. When you open them again, he's gone. Not bad. Must remember to try that technique on Ingrid. >-BLOKE #divBar * bloke- Sellers "Who's that?" he asks warily. Perhaps he's confusing him with Peter Tatchell. +"Haven't you seen Dr Strangelove? The one with the atom bomb?"+bloke- trinity +"Inspector Clouseau? In the Pink Panther?"+bloke- panther +"He was in the Goons. The Goons?"+bloke- goons * bloke- trinity "No, but I've got Trinity 3D; Nuclear Carnage on the Playstation. It's bad! Wicked! Evil! Gorier than Tekken or Resident Evil! Specially the bit when you drop the bomb!" You suddenly despair without knowing why. You close your eyes as tightly as you can and try not to weep. When you open them again, he's gone. Not bad. Must remember to try that technique on Ingrid. >-BLOKE #divbloke * bloke- what money? He giggles like a falsetto or, failing that, a eunuch. "One nil!" +"Well, you scored more than Millwall usually do."+bloke- millwall +"Do you have nothing better to do?"+bloke- nothing?~@-NOTHING +"You're Peter Sellers born again."+bloke- Sellers * bloke-parrot Mentioning Python seems to have been a mistake. He answers with a hilarious rendition of the parrot sketch. What a wag. Maybe he's in training for the World's Most Punchable Man contest? He's just ahead of Jerry Springer but slightly behind the current frontrunner, Ariel Sharon. You close your eyes as tightly as you can and try not to weep. When you open them again, he's gone. Not bad. Must remember to try that technique on Ingrid. >-BLOKE #divBar * bloke-please! He looks more than a little bemused. "Ri-ight," he mumbles uncertainly, "you'd better." And out he skulks. Ever get the feeling you've been cheated? >-BLOKE #divBar * counter A sturdy barricade against foaming lunatics. Unfortunately, Ingrid is usually behind the bar with you. You spend at least an hour each day waxing the counter. Not that it's a waste of your time. It's always a joy to buff up the thick engrained patina of lager, whisky and vomit to a reflective finish. #ret * curtains An orfentic shamrock motif is printed on the nylon curtains. >-WINDOWS +pull the curtains+pull curtains~@-CURTAINS +look through the windows+outside windows~@-CURTAINS +pull the curtains+windows~-CURTAINS +look at something less tacky+Bar * door A mercifully plain oasis of clean, austere lines in the turbid dunes of architectural excess. These premises were converted into the Harbour from a former brothel about a decade ago, as Irish culture enjoyed one of its periodic, profitable revivals. The interior designers ran amok with the derisive Oirish Gothic travesty but spared these double doors as a space intentionally left blank. >-DOORS +go outside+Escape~@-LARKIN +stay indoors+Bar +leave the Harbour+leave~-YOUTH * Escape You leap lissom as a salmon over the bar, melt through the ponderous doors, dissolve into nothing in the deep blue air- "I step out for an instant and the clot's skiving again! There's glasses to be collected when yer ready!" -except that you don't. Ingrid's back. >-LARKIN #divBar * frontage Macabre leprechaun gargoyles crown this panegyric to tumid Ossianic ostentation. It doesn't include a garish neon advert, but it might as well do. #ret * furnishings The furniture's much the same it was when you started work here years ago. Even more battered, perhaps. You keep meaning to clean the windows when you have a spare day or two. The bar's besieged by a host of bellicose stools, while the lower tables are hemmed in by the threadbare bench seats. Prosaic double doors impassively survey the fray. +look at the seats+seats +look at the windows+windows~@-CURTAINS +look at the doors+door +look at the curtains+curtains~-CURTAINS +pull the curtains+open curtains~-CURTAINS +return to the bar+Bar * glasses There are no empty glasses. Not one. Suddenly you loathe Ingrid more than ever. #ret * Intro An authentic Irish alehouse, founded and frequented by the first wave of immigrants to these frigid shores. Not literally, natch. From the ersatz traditional furnishings to the rococo Oirish frontage, the Harbour's a sham, one of many retail outlets owned by a major brewery chain. What does the precise history of the premises matter, though? As Ingrid, your supervisor, says; it's all about the ambience, paddy. #divBar * leave You look around and the miasma seems to have cleared, murky clouds replaced by balmy limpid air. Something seems to be mouthing at you. Do you know a corpulent, oleagnious slug? You don't think so. You leap lissom as a salmon over the bar, melt through the ponderous doors, dissolve into nothing in the deep blue air... And, just like that, you're outside. Your nose is bleeding a little, but that's part of the healing process. Caliban is standing on the street corner, lighting a cigarette as he waits for Ariel. You sweep across the pavement to meet him. #win * list customers Two bibbing specimens in particular attract your attention. A fat bloke is jiggling his belly at you. No, not Ingrid, but he does seem to want something. A woman in a baseball cap is leaning on the bar smoking and nursing a pint. That's Tara Moran, who's been in a lot recently. +look at the bloke+bloke +look at the woman+woman +go back to the bar+Bar * list customers 2 Two bibbing specimens in particular attract your attention. A woman in a baseball cap is leaning on the bar smoking and nursing a pint. That's Tara Moran, who's been in a lot lately. A lanky, raw-boned youth slouches across a couch seat, knees folded awkwardly under him. He's not in Tramp Corner but you're not altogether sure that he shouldn't be. +look at the woman+woman +look at the youth+look at youth +go back to the bar+Bar * look at customers For you have known them all already, known them all- sots, dipsos, whores, pimps, students; cautionary reminders of the degenerate turpitude to which humanity can sink. Then, of course, there's Tramp Corner. +look at Tramp Corner+tramps' corner +look at the other customers+list customers~@-BLOKE +look at the other customers+list customers 2~-BLOKE +go back to the bar+Bar * look at his hair He forces a knowing laugh to avert your comment and preserve some shred of dignity. "Must have it cut, I know." >-HAIR #ret * look at eyes >-FLINCH #ret * look at manager Ingrid Utah. A corpulent slug whose tufts of straw-blonde hair undulate like tentacles on his pate. His piggy little eyes, set in swinging rolls of flab, are a dishwater blue. His life can be inferred from his name. Parents oblivious from his christening onwards. The inevitable schoolyard beatings. Embitterment. +talk to Ingrid+talk to manager +look at something less repulsive+Bar * look at youth A mane of tangled hair frames a sallow face. The wan light of afternoon slakes dilated pupils shrouded by tenebrous sockets. He sports a shabby leather trenchcoat and the hangdog look of an incorrigible fatalist. No doubt he's also that most shunned of individuals; a vocal fatalist. Gnawed fingers wrapped around his glass, as if someone might snatch it and drain the last few drops of barley-bree. He twitches and frequently assumes self-consciously knowing or pained expressions. You suspect that he's muttering to himself, but you can't seem to catch him at it. +look at his eyes+look at eyes~@-FLINCH +look at his hair+look at his hair~@-HAIR +"What are you doing?"+youth +"Same again?"+youth leaves~-LAUGH +"Are you planning to drink that?"+youth;laugh~@-LAUGH * manager business "Not as good's it was, but the ninth generation paddy pygmy clans 'll always want their shot of shamrock nostalgia." >-RAISE #divmanager laughing * manager curtains "Open them bloody curtains!" he snarls. "Punters can't see 'emselves drink". #ret * manager himself He slithers off with a cantankerous grunt. #divBar * manager laughing A grisly gurgle retches from the bottom of his throat. The most perturbing aspect of this is the prospect that it could be a laugh. >-LAUGH #divtalk to manager * manager raise Since he seems comparatively affable, you take the opportunity to ask for a wage raise. A stentorian gurgle evinces his hilarity and sends adipose ripples across his protruberant paunch. You beat a hasty retreat as he collapses over the bar in apparent mirth. >-FIT <-RAISE #divBar * open curtains You drag the curtains open, wincing as the hooks grate along the plastic rail. <-CURTAINS #divwindows * outside windows The ebbing light of a cool autumn afternoon glimmers enticingly through the glass, wreathed in meandering whorls of torpid smoke. Sometimes you feel like the miasma enervates you, infects you with its lethargy. +look at the Harbour's frontage+frontage +pull the curtains+pull curtains +go back to the bar+Bar +go outside+Escape * pull curtains Shoddy plastic hooks squeal like wet chalk on a blackboard as you pull the curtains. This hides the soiled windows from view but also darkens the room slightly. The customers fidget and mutter peevishly before huddling together. There. Ambience. That should make the punters more loquacious than the juicy fruits of the exotic loquaci tree. >-CURTAINS #divBar * seats Opulent ain't the word. #ret * smoke Like you could avoid it. The reek of tobacco bothered you once, but you haven't noticed it since the gushing nosebleeds on your first day. If only you'd looked for work earlier in the term you might have found a more salubrious gin-palace in which to earn a crust. Too late now. Juggling college and this succubus boozer leaves you no free time or energy to look for other work. >-SMOKE #ret * smokers Everybody smokes in the Harbour. The women suck resentfully on their cigarettes. The old men glower over their smouldering briars. The young men bum roll-ups off each other between hacking fits. The haggard menagerie lour back at you until you look away. #ret * start j'accuse moi! it were Jamie Murray wot have wrote this moderately interactive adventure for the LOTECHComp 2001 at Suite 101 on Version 1 of the Adventure Gamebook authoring system by Jon Ingold so thanks to Jon, for obvious reasons thanks also to ally.mon, for constructive criticism please note; you do not need to use inventory items in this game feedback lavishly welcomed at acidhouseburglar@hotmail.com +start game+Intro * talk to manager You poke your head through back the door behind the bar. Ingrid drags his bloated, oleagnious carcass to a sudden halt as he notices you. +"How are you, Ingrid?"+manager himself +"How's business?"+manager business~@-LAUGH +"What about a raise, then?"+manager raise~-RAISE +"What do you think of the curtains?"+manager curtains~-CURTAINS +"Ingrid, I'm leaving."+leave~-YOUTH +look at Ingrid+look at manager * title Flotsam by Jamie Murray "O fortunate jetsam, Wreckage on fate's tide! You know why, or at least That there must be a reason, Somewhere..." Ahxo Montambanco "When you have lost your inns, go and drown your empty selves, for you will have lost the last of England." Hilaire Belloc +read the notes+start +skip the notes and start the game+Intro * tramps Matted hair. Unkempt beards. Stained, tattered greatcoats. Here huddle together, muttering to themselves or raving at each other, disturbed only by the occasional intellectual who mistakes them for his fellows. Their foetid stench rankles even in your cicatrized nostrils. #ret * tramps' corner A sham it may be, but nonetheless the Harbour is subject to the ancient law of Irish taverns. No barkeep, no matter how o'erweening, may refuse entry to a tramp. Tramp Corner is the ruse employed by guileful landlords to circumvent this law. +look at the tramps+tramps +talk to the tramps+tramps raving~@-RAVING +go back to the bar+Bar * tramps raving "Humbug humbug sneering comes before a loachy autumn fall!" Quite. >-RAVING #ret * windows Frayed curtains bookend smeared slabs of double-glazed glass. >-WINDOWS +look through the windows+outside windows +pull the curtains+pull curtains +look at the curtains+curtains +look at the other furniture+furnishings +return to the bar+Bar * woman Today Tara seems to be wearing a baseball cap pointing forwards. Inexplicable. She shouldn't look so furrowed, she isn't that old. A cigarette nestles in her hand and intermittantly she purses her lips and blows smoke rings unravelling up to the beams nailed onto the ceiling. The nearest two beams are chipboard; the builders ran out of plywood ones. +"We've seen a lot of you lately."+woman; lately~@-WORK +"Free time?"+woman; work +"Are you alright for money?"+woman; dole~-REDUNDANCY +"How are the boys, Tara?"+woman; family +go back to the bar+Bar * woman; dole They keep sending letters about docking my benefits if I don't attend my retraining scheme. I'm not even on one yet. I should get an office qualification for all the forms I have to fill in. If my boys could eat red tape they'd be a damn sight fatter than they are. >-DOLE +"How are the boys?"+woman; family~@-FAMILY +go back to the bar+Bar * woman; family They're well enough. My youngest's always wanting something; video games, trainers, Nikes. Bought him some Adidas ones, bit cheaper, they looked alright. Came home with his nose all bloody >-FAMILY #ret * woman; lately "I drop in here to miss the afternoon chat shows. See who's about, have a couple of pints, get home in time for the quiz shows." >-WORK #ret * woman; redundancy Knew it was coming when we turned up one morning and they was parked outside the gates with the engine running and the wipers on. Wasn't even raining. Out they get, big coats, shaking like leafs, ask to look around the factory, American accents, like they drank too much whisky and can't talk proper. ID says management consultants. The one with little Lennon specs wants a glass of water, so off I go and get it. He drinks it, makes a face, the others laugh at him. Is it Perrier, he asks. No, I said, it's from the tap. They were carrying on like jackals, or is it hyenas? You know the one I mean. >-REDUNDANCY #ret * woman; work "Laid off last year. Streamlining. Restructuring of the international arm of our operation. All the new jobs want IT experience now. I know more Italian than I do IT, and I only know bonjour." >-REDUNDANCY +"Are you alright for money?"+woman; dole~@-DOLE +"How did it happen?"+woman; redundancy~@-REDUNDANCY +go back to the bar+Bar * youth "Waiting. What else is there to do? She's gone." +"She who?"+youth; she~@SHE +"Waiting?"+youth; waiting~@WAITING * youth leaves His gangling body jolts up. He turns away without a word, heaves open the doors and stalks away. >-YOUTH #divBar * youth; Caliban I'm not real, I never was. I only ever existed in relation to her, an adjunct to her splendour, a willing sidekick crouched in the shadow of the empress. Just one in a lineage of supplicants who approached her to revere and pay homage. Caliban. That was a role I felt able to play. A discarded offering. That's what I am. Use once and destroy. A husk, a hollow snake skin flushed into the sand. >-YOUTH +"Is that it?"+youth; Caliban2 +"Same again?"+youth leaves * youth; Caliban2 He looks up, seeming to see you for the first time. Is that what you wanted to know? he spits in a voice raw with loathing, with the pathetic, flailing fury of a photophobic beetle. "Disappointing, isn't it? A failed romantic with a tragedy complex and a nice line in self-pity? Are you glad you lifted the stone? His gangling body jerks up and pushes the double doors, remembers that they open inwards, seems to lean his whole weight on them, and lurches out. As the doors swing close you see him limp away across the street. Somehow you doubt he'll be back. #divBar * youth; she "She... was like the ragged crescent of the moon on a starless night. Touching her felt like breathing liquid hydrogen. Being touched by her was like being burnt alive by joy, caught out in a monsoon of suns. It... always hurt. Her laughter sounded like a seraphim taking a sledgehammer to church bells." Lester Bangs just saw the Stooges and I don't think he's landing anytime soon. Fearing that he could rave on like this for the rest of your shift, you ask for a more literal description. "She was... kind. Capricious. Astoundingly funny. Intelligent. Sincerely beautiful, in everyone's eyes. As quietly lacerated as anyone, I think. Oh, but what use are words?" Tell that to yourself thirty seconds ago, you grandiloquent little souse. This one manages to be concurrently prolix and brusque. He stares into the lees of his usquebaugh for a while. >-SHE +"What happened?"+youth;scream +"And what about you?"+youth; waiting * youth; waiting "I slept on a friend's sofa for a bit, but I didn't want anyone I knew to see me. Everyone always tries to help. They mean well. Nobody wants to be degraded by the sympathy of friends. Magnanimity, condescension, pity; that's what breaks people. Not cruelty. Cruelty inspires resentment, if you really feel there's someone else to blame. But I'm alive. Life is still life, for beggars and for kings." >-WAITING +"What happened?"+youth;scream * youth;laugh He chokes on a humiliated laugh and mumbles something about cashflow. >-LAUGH #ret * youth;scream "She was there. With him. Holding hands. I just ran- and she laughed. I heard her laughing long after I was out of earshot. Torn inside it came up and I just let go. His ingrate triumph and her humane lies and my utter inadequacy. Screaming and screaming and screaming..." Almost a year ago now. A whole year? More? I suppose I've never been quite the same. I never saw her again." >-SCREAM +"She who?"+youth; she~@-SHE +"But what about you?"+youth; Caliban * bloke Dearie me. This fellow ain't quite Ingrid, but he's getting there. His burgeoning pot belly pokes out underneath his Millwall shirt. The Harbour seems like a magnet for obese freaks. If it was in America you could understand it. "Where's my money?" he bellows at you, apropos of nothing. You have no recollection of ever meeting him before in your life. A swift riposte would seem appropriate. money? +"What money?"+bloke- what money? +"Excuse me, but I think you've mistaken me for someone else."+bloke- what money? +"Just one more day! Please! I'll have it tomorrow! I swear!"+bloke-please! +"Millwall? You little post-ironist, you!"+bloke- millwall +"Oh, get a life. And a wig. And some exercise."+bloke- millwall #endSaveGame