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There was an old man, sitting by the fire. A pale rug tucked into his chin, long folds and creases resembling his aged face snaked away into his seat. He rocked slowly, listing to the faint chimes of the wireless, turned to full volume. Outside, a nurse knocked. She waited, then knocked again while entering. She brought a young man behind her, his face gleaming with youthful exuberance.
 "You have a guest Max", she explained
 "Are you my grandson?" Max asked the young man.
 "No," I replied. "Not quite."
I don't know why I said that. I wasn't nearly his grandson, after all. After fussing for a few moments, the nurse left us alone, and I poured Max a drink. He drank it slowly, a few drops trickled down his chin and dropped onto his blanket. As they spread out, the colour returned to the aged knitwear. When I looked back to Max, his youthful countenance looked back at me. He smiled, turning his hand this way and that in front of him.
 "Wow, thanks for that!" He exclaimed. "Are you my grandson?"
My smiled faded away. Throwing the rug over Max's head, I threw him out the window, and jumped after. Bundling him into my waiting van, we fled before the guards could catch us.
 I'll never know why Max was in that place, or what they wanted of him, but I can live with that for now. Behind us, the sirens started and the giant old man burst through the wall again, smashing aside the cars in the car park and ripping up lamp-posts.
 But that wasn't my problem any more. I look to the future now.
 My show's on at nine, for one thing

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.

Life continues in the home.

Well young 'uns, I've settled into life at the home now. Me an' Max like to while away the afternoons with quiz shows, and after a thoroughly boiled dinner, we like to exchange anecdotes with the other residents. We've taken up two pastimes reserved for the elderly as well: making slightly racist statements to anyone we meet, and failing to understand how our statements can be interpreted as racist. Max has really gotten into the whole thing, talking loudly and slowly to anyone who looks foreign, even if they speak better English than him. Still, something is bothering me, something I forgot. Something about... long ago.
 Still, must go. Someone's niece is coming to play the piano for us, and there's Bingo in the evening. It's all go, and I certainly don't wish I was dead.
 Must remember...

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.

There's still no sign of Max...

But I keep seeing shadowy figures from the corner of my eye - black cars parked on street corners, suited men watching me from cafes and smoothie bars, strange fat kids attempting to skateboard even though they clearly lack the skill or dexterity, and so on. Still smarting from my last, tattoo-based encounter with Max's possible abductors, I've decided to cut my loses and look for a replacement cliched foolish sidekick friend.
 (Ah, the old strikethrough trick. Never gets old.)

I took another look across my living room. The assembled cast left something to be desired: a fat alsatian sat on my priceless rug, a family heirloom inherited from my grandmother. On his face, a look that said: "I'm not incontinent. Yet". Attached to the dog by way of a lead was a large, hairy man wearing a pair of dark glasses. Despite the impression he clearly knew he was creating, he appeared quite capable of sight, and was right now devouring a magazine with his eyes. Beside him, a large skinhead in a vest. The third candidate for my replace Max competition appeared to be a pirate. I smiled politely as I caught his eye, and he grinned back, revealing the fact he was also, apparently, a vampire. My smile wained, and I headed back into my office, ready to interview the first applicant.
 I don't really have an office. I was the toilet. I was making them sit in the hall. I just wanted to impress you all, and not let you know I take strange men into my bathroom.

Sitting down (yes, on the toilet. But I threw some drapes over it and put a cushion on the seat to make it homely) I prepared to interview the candidates.

(Image stolen from devepxp)

"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.

I've spent two days looking for Max.

Two days! All I can say with certainty is that he's not being held captive down the back of the sofa, or on the front lawn. With any luck, he's being imprisoned in a camp like the one used in The Prisoner. He won't take that well - Max is, of course, afraid of number designations. As for me, I have a far bigger problem. This morning, I awoke to find myself on a strange medical table set up in my living room. A discarded bottle of chlorine and a handkerchief doused in the stuff confirmed my suspicions I'd been knocked out. Struggling up, I tried to search my body, to see what had happened to me. I confirmed everything was where it should be, but noticed a pain spreading across my shoulder blades and back. Dragging myself to a mirror, I turned this way and that to make out what had happened to me.
 Reading slowly, I read a short paragraph crudely tattooed across my back. Of course, I quickly recognised the description of Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment scrawled across my flesh. On the mirror, there was a note. On the note, a message:
 this is a warning. If you continue you search for the prisoner Max, we will tattoo more than just blurbs to your body.

I was naked, rubbing myself all over.

I was in the shower, you see. This isn't going to be an erotic post, I've only opened with the shower thing so you know why it was Max, still in my house for reasons unknown, as usual, who answered the door and not me. After the first few seconds of continuing my relaxing wash, the thought of Max talking to, well, anyone who could call on me solidified in my head. Rushing from the shower in an cloud of steam and soap, I grabbed a towel and headed for the door.

 Norman checked his Ohmmeter. Yup, he had everything. Swinging happily from the van, clipboard in front of him for a final check of name and address, he headed up the drive to the house. This was his last stop for the day - just get the meter readings, then he was off to France for a long weekend. Whistling happily, he strolled up to the house and rung the doorbell. After a few moments, the door opened a crack to reveal a figure within, peering at Norman with distrust. Norman, undeterred, began.
 "Afternoon Sir, here to read the meter."
The figure within narrowed his eyes.
 "The Agency sent you?"
 "Well, if that's what you want to call them." Norman replied.
 "General X sent you? To bring me back in?"
 "No." Norman replied again. This wasn't normal. "Mr. Patel, for your meter readings."
After a pause, he gestured his tools, and added hopefully, "The electricity?"
 Seeing his toolbelt, Max recoiled in horror.
 "Torture devices!" He yelled, "I told them I quit! QUIT! You'll never make me go back!"

Soap still lathering me, I skidded into the hallway, rushing for the front door. On the doorstep, Max appeared to be garroting an electrician with his belt, while the confused man flailed at him with a screwdriver. As I tried to figure out what to do, a van pulled up on my front lawn, unnoticed by the struggling Max. Two suited, shaded figures emerged and crossed the lawn quickly. Leaning close to Max's ear, one whispered something about being sent by General X. Stabbing Max in the back with a taser, the Man in Black dragged him into the van. The other suit stuffed a wad of notes into the pocket of the electrician.
 "You didn't see anything." He instructed.
With that, he returned to the van, and drove off swiftly. The electrician did likewise. I returned to the shower. It was safe there...