Wizards. I need to meet more wizards!

Image via Wikipedia There were a few tables in the bar with people at them, singles and couples drinking alone, regardless of their company. A thick smog filled the bar, mixing with the depression and fading into the gloom. People talked quietly, huddled over their drinks and their small bowls of peanuts. I sat near the door, an old man recently free. My escape from the wool factory was as dramatic as it was elderly, but I won't bore you with the details. Needless to say, I hope those guards I killed weren't volunteer workers or schoolkids raising money for teddy bears and cookies and heroin, or whatever kids like these days. They probably weren't, they had guns. Good people rarely use guns to herd the elderly.
 The young man opposite me offered a chance for me to reverse my condition, to restore my youth and perhaps thwart the Agency and their sinister care-home. He was a wizard.
 Problem was, I discovered later, my hearing ain't what it used to be. He was a Pinball Wizard, like in that song. We'd just discovered this fact after several minutes of conversation. I know knew why he'd looked so confused by my plan to launch fireballs at our enemies. It also explained why he was wearing bright blue jeans and a white t-shirt tucked into his high waistline. Not mystical at all.
 Still, he was sympathetic. Being a veteran of the pinball hustlings, he understood the dark forces at work and agreed to help me. Unfortunately, he couldn't reverse my aging, nor could he help me infiltrate the Agency care-home again. Unless, of course, it was part of a giant pinball machine, which I doubted.
 A man in khaki approached from the bar. He had a handlebar moustache, broken by a scar down his left cheek, which retreated into his sideboards and head hair, itself hidden under a large hat. He told me he'd been listing to my predicament and had a solution in mind.
 Once again, I'm searching for the Fountain of Youth. Only this time, I'm a really old guy. So I'll probably whine more.

It came back to me

Image via Wikipedia I'd like to say my memories came back in a dramatic fashion, that there was a flash of light and small harps played around me. But it was not so. Instead, I checked the calendar yesterday afternoon, and realised that my memories of being a young man were from 2010. I also realised it was still 2010. Piecing together these two facts, I realised that I had aged rapidly, and remembered everything.
 But the problems aren't over yet. My memories of youth restored, I find it easier to move in my arthritic body, but the shackles of age still bind me. Worse, I'm still trapped within the confines of the hellish old folks home, to be poked, prodded, experimented on and - worst of all - fed pea soup. But I see a chance to escape - tomorrow, we're being taken on an exciting trip to the wool museum. Hopefully, amongst the exhibits and displays of scarves, by the bobbly hats and the terrible Christmas jumpers, I will be able to escape. Being a OAP, I'm mostly made of wool already, so I should be able to blend into my surroundings easily enough. Armed with two stale rolls, a knitting needle and a length of wool (Yes, I'm taking my own wool to the wool museum. I'm old.) I shall fashion weapons and escape. Then I'll come back to this place, and end the nightmare once and for all.

I blinked

In front of me, the TV blared. What was happening? There was something I... had to remember. Were the grand-kids visiting today? No, of course not, I had no grand-kids. It never happened for me, the whole kids thing. My life had blurred past, and the specters of youth haunted me. No specters of middle-age though, strange. Must not remember it, I suppose. Getting old. Keep having a dream, that I'm still a young man, that I'm trapped in this body. But it's only a dream.

 Next to me, Max tried to eat a peanut. Poor Max, known him all my life. He's never been able to eat a peanut.
 Around me, life continues in the home. Well, a sort of life anyway. A life less ordinary, more slow and pee-scented.
 Something I had to do. Can't remember what, can't remember a lot of things. Maybe it'll come to me later, often does. After my programmes.
 Something I had to do...

Elderly men in baths. There, that got your attention

The shackles were beginning to hurt my arms. Shackles should be tight, I suppose, but these were a little too tight, pulling my arms out at the sockets. Then again, I was suspended off the ground by chains, so I don't know what I was expecting. Opposite me, a demonstration of the fate that awaited me, a fate worse than death. Old age.
 Max, seated in a large bath - the sort you can imagine wealthy Victorians preparing in front of a large fire - watched me with an expression of wrinkled confusion. The tortures of this place achieved one aim, the premature aging of the innocent. While Max had been a sprightly youth not one week ago, he now resembled an elderly raisin. His shriveled countenance watched me, possibly hoping I was secretly a game of Countdown or episode of Diagnosis: Murder. But I was neither of these things. In fact, I was a man, about to be subjected to the horrors of old age while I was still in my prime. I was not a Judge Dredd Villain, I was a mostly innocent man!
 In front of me, the sinister man who had lead my capture earlier. Something about his attitude, the authority he commanded, and the colossal badge on his jacket suggested to me that he was in charge of this facility. But for now, he was content - having gloated at me a while - to leave me with Max while he prepared the aging machine.

The wrong sort of Bath

 "Max!" I cried out, hoping to stir him from his incontinence confusion. "MAX!"
 "What? Are you on my lawn? Oh, wait... I remember you... So long ago. We were... young women together?"
 "Close enough! What happened to you?"
 "Not so bad..." He replied sleepily, "Regular pills, TV, and the sponge bathes are nice. Look - I scraped the dry skin off my chest, and with some hairs, I've made a caterpillar."
 Max was right. Moulded from bluey-grey dead skin like a child would mould play-do was a small caterpillar shape. Inserted in the head were two grey head-hairs, resembling some sort of antenna. I pondered whether caterpillars actually had such antenna, but decided to ignore the subject. Dismissing what might have been Max's most disturbing creation, I continued:
 "Very nice. But how can we get out of here?"

Ominously, the door began to open.

Another something is happening, right now.

I was in the inner lair. In it. Inside. Around me, grey passages stretched out ahead, and to my sides. I headed straight on, seeing a map attached to a wall. A giant "you are here" arrow kindly indicated where I was on the map. The corridor to the left would lead to the canteen, apparently. Probably full of people who could raise the alarm, certainly not where I wanted to go. If I continued down the corridor I was on, I would get to the "Prisoner holding and interrogation area". That sounded more promising. The corridor to the right was simply marked "here be dragons". I've tangled with enough dragons to last me a lifetime, so I decided to avoid that corridor.
 I pushed on, going straight ahead, deviating not for the curvature of the corridor floor. Arriving at the end of the corridor, I turned a corner and spotted a doorway. It didn't take much room to spot, being the only thing in the corridor and all. I opened it, finding the job to be somewhat tiring. The reason became clear - the door was in fact hidden on the other side. A magnificent, classic piece, in fact! A fake bookcase! I shut the bookcase behind me and surveyed my surroundings. Seated, snoring peacefully, knitting angrily or attempting to read through eyes that should have died eons ago, were elderly prisoners. They paid me no attention, so I searched the room. Suddenly, I bumped into the leg of a sleeping grandfather. As sweet and dribbly as he was in slumber, as angry and vengeful he was in consciousness. Rising with a yell, he swung a cane at me feebly. Inspired, the other old folk clawed, swiped, pinched and prodded in my direction. Retreating, I was forced into a corner. My hands searched the recesses of my pockets, but to no avail. I was candyless. Not even a picture of children in there. I was trapped.
 Just as I thought the day could get no worse, the doors to the room burst open dramatically. Light streamed into the gloom, illuminating a suited figure. He pointed, and two old men flanking him approached me slowly. Their walking frames rose in unison, pinning me to the wall, rendering escape inoperable. Pulling a hand-knitted beige straightjacked from his suit, the suited guard approached...

Something is still happening

Slipping into the building though an air vent had been easy. Dropping through the ceiling had been easy. Knocking out a guard who was already asleep and stealing his security pass had been easy. This, however, was not easy.

 The door had said "Secret! No entry!", so I'd entered. Seemed the logical choice. Now, however, I was trapped. Two guards, apparently called away for some reason, had taken up posts outside the door, and seemed to have no intention of leaving. They hadn't noticed me, but it was only a matter of time. The logical course, then, would be to keep going into the secret passage. Of course, life is not simple like that.
 The chains creaked, a wave running down their lengths to the wall. The brackets holding them in place gleamed, new I assumed, and therefore secure. Hopefully. Another wave snaked down the chain, leading the eye to the occupant of this fiendish ensnarement. There, restrained in the middle of the corridor, and elderly man. His body rippled and flexed as he moved, his aged grey skin stretched tight over the muscle underneath. Another of the elderly inhabitants of this place who had been cruelly experimented on.
 Searching out the maker of dimly-heard noises, the octogenarian guardian peered at me through his thick glasses. I acted quickly, fearing his reach from within his confinement of loose chains, or that he might alert the guards. Reaching into my pocket, I found some hard candy, which I threw past the aged beast. While he attempted to negotiate the wrapper of a Werther's Original, I sprinted past and headed down the corridor.

Something happens.

Sitting in the early morning sun, itching myself occasionally, but generally staying still, I watched. I'd heard that some mystery surrounded the local nursing home. Old people acting peculiar, even for old people. Strange equipment was taken to and from the place. High staff turnover, and a few disappearances. A huge satellite attached to the roof. Nuclear warheads placed underground as a self-destruct fail-safe. You know, the usual mysterious signs that could only trigger the suspicions of a genius like me.

 Dressing the blind alsatian man in my clothes and sending him to a coffee shop, I managed to doge my suited followers. Camped out near the carehome now, I searched the area with binoculars, looking for any signs. Any clues that Max could be here.

 After about an hour, something happened. A wall near what I understood to be a harmless genetic manipulation room (I understand old people often need such manipulations to jeans) exploded open in a shower of bricks and plaster. A giant figure, 20 feet tall, burst forth on muscular legs. Pulling with him a colossal zimmer frame, the Goliath Grampa made an energetic hobble for the exit. A team of armoured men ran from the hole in the wall, jabbing at him with stun batons or shooting tranquilizer darts. Another group ran from a doorway to cut him off, offering a similar treatment to the geriatric giant. Eventually, the figure collapsed, smashing a small car and a wall on his decent. Lashing him with ropes, the security guards dragged the ancient big person back into the facility.

 I sat back, putting the binoculars down. That, I'll admit, was rather strange. Still, this wouldn't be the first time I had to infultrate a carehome that experimented on the elderly, and it wouldn't be the last.

"Are you number one?"

"What? Currant bun? Speak up."
 Max sat back down in his comfy chair. He'd been held in the village for 3 days now, without rights or reason. He didn't know what this place was, or why he was here, but he felt sure that someone wanted information from him - every day, he would receive both the carrot and stick treatment; rigorous tortures to break his willpower, and sexual thrills from young women to lower his resolve. Awoken early and dressed in a thin robe that exposed his flesh degrading, he would be forced to swallow pill after pill and strip down. Then, he was lured into a bath and bathed by attractive girls dressed in skimpy whites. Afterwords, he was submitted to hours of mind-numbing boredness, forced to watch endless loops of countdown, or make one incomplete jigsaw with the other inmates. All this time, his captors would call him "Mr. Wright", insisting everything was "Mr. Wright's" - "Mr. Wright's pills," "A visit for Mr. Wright," "Mr. Wright's grandchildren" - all part of some diabolical scheme to confuse him, Max was sure.
 But for now, there seemed no escape - the door, heavily guarded by the receptionist, was locked at nights, and a large, burly nurse with fire in her eyes patrolled the floors looking for trouble. Only last week, old Mr. Johnson had passed away in his sleep. Or so they said. Besides, it was Bingo on a Sunday, and Roast beef for dinner.

"So, anyway"...

Max began. "I was on my way back from work, when..."
 It suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea what Max did for a living. When I first met him, he'd sold insurance against giant rat attacks, but I knew that he'd gone out of business soon after. Since then, he'd gone from one job to the next, as hilarious situations required. This time, however, I decided to bite the bullet and just ask what he did.
 "Oh." He replied, "You know Green Meadows? The retirement home?"
I nodded in the affirmative.
 "Well, I read erotic fiction to the old folks there."
I got up and left. It was my home, but I don't care. Behind me, I caught the occasional word. Words like fellatio, sponge-bath, reach-around, bran flakes and purple. Disturbing words. Sick words.
 Passing out my door, I tipped over my emergency petrol. With any luck, the place would burn, and take Max with it.

A touch of reality

Hi, its me. The real me, not that fictional me who gets up to all sorts of crazy high-jinx and the like. I'm shorter and more boring, although I occasionally start fires. I though, since this is a blog, I should trot out some mundane observations about whats going on around me and act as if they're profound. See, I did it there already - looked down on bloggers. What a hypocrite I am. I should be stoned for this. If I was, this would probably be a more exciting read, anyway. But I digress, as I am wont to.
 So, what's in the news this week?
There's been a lot of snow here in Scotland. I've had a foot or so at my house, which is more than usual. Pretty exciting, huh? The weather... Earlier, I watched a pheasant walk across an area we'd cleared, before slipping and face-planting a pile of snow. It was tragic, yet hilarious, like an old person slowly reversing into a midget: His cries of alarm not heard by the deaf octogenarian, his tiny, bobbled head not visible in the mirrors. (Don't worry, he's fine. In fact, they become friends after the incident. Unfortunately, they bond over their white supremacist theories, and the world would have been better off with one more dead midget and imprisoned grandfather)
 A foot of snow... Seems a lot to me. Down in England, they've got less and have ground to a standstill, I hear. Of course, the Scot is quick to seize on this. "Bah!" He shouts, "4 inches? That's nothing. This morning, it came up my ankles! Why, I'll have to snorkel the cat before he goes out to do his business!"
 Yes, we have it far worse than the mockable Englishman, and thus have a right to boast. Of course, there're countries in the world with far more snow, far more of the time, which cope much better, but they don't count. I remember a Canadian friend telling me how, in worse conditions, he nearly cut his arm off with a chainsaw, and was chased by a bear.
 But we have it worse.
 I should probably start a facebook group, they can sum up my emotions far better than I can.

A Theological Tale.

I sat, cross-legged, and watched as the trees around me burned.
"Your garden's on fire." I offered.
"Yes." God replied, "Eden is burning."
He was a lot shorter than you'd imagine. Around the 4-foot mark, I suppose. He cut a dashing figure in his beige suit, black shirt unbuttoned down to his chest. He was sporting a small goatee, and his dark hair was styled stylishly. However, I could see his roots and he was obviously dyeing it.
I cast my glaze across the garden again.
"So... Still annoyed about that "Original Sin' thing?"
"Yes. They were both my children you know. I can't believe people think I'm annoyed about the fruit.
"They really shouldn't have had sex. Allegorical genetics show you're really very inbred."
"Yes," I replied. "That would explain the webbed toes. But you know... It was a long time ago, why not let it go?"
"You forget," God replied. "I'm very old. And old people like to hold on grudges. Even if they don't entirely remember why."
"Yes, they do. And they also like to watch Countdown with a nice cup of tea, don't they? Let's get you inside now."
I led God towards the patio door. One of the staff members met me there.
"Thanks for visiting Mr Jenkins like this. Your little visits are the highlight of his week."
I smiled politely, and looked on as she took God into the TV room. I have no idea who Mr Jenkins is, but I'm glad I could help him. I watched until I was satisfied that God was seated comfortably and nibbling a digestive. Then I went to fetch a fire extinguisher.