Max's house is back

"Mars?"

 "Well. It was somewhere."

 I nodded. I do that a lot, these days. Talking is an exertion I cannot afford to make. I need to keep my energy up. For fleeing. I'm no Rincewind, but there's a lot of things I'd rather be quite a distance from. This was one such thing.

 Max, you see, had found his house. As you regular reading bastards know, he seems to have been staying at mine for some time. You know, so we can engage in zany adventures, and drain my will to live. Anyhow, whatever had happened to Max's house was over, and it was back where it'd been when he'd bought it. I maintain that the house never moved, but Max insists it's been in space, or was taken for a joyride. He swears he saw some nuns filling it up with dried pasta at Asda. I denounced him publicly. I won't have him insulting anything that looks like a penguin.

 The house, for all the neglect and abandonment it had suffered, didn't look too bad. Sure, there was a lot of graffetti on the walls. And a lot of stray cats inside. And a crazed old man. I'd expected a crazy-cat-lady-type squatter, but what I got was a suited man who looked a little like Bismarck drinking tea from the Tupperware. I chased him out with a broom, while Max polished the banisters.

 The kitchen was bare. Max offered my a cat, but I declined, explaining I'd already eaten. Lichen fell from the ceiling, showering us as we sat at the table. I looked out the back window at the swings and see-saw outside. I looked around at the walls. I looked at Max.

 "I don't think this is your house."

 He looked around slowly.

 "No." He replied at length.

 We herded the cats back inside, rounded up the homeless and regrimed the staircase. Then we went home. I'm thinking of posting Max somewhere, but I doubt the Post Office will let me.

Soup.

I did not have this book in my loft. Image by spike55151 via Flickr. The soup wasn't too bad actually. All things considered, Max hadn't done a bad job. He'd managed to get out of the attic, explaining the locks were only really effective against rats anyway, and was seated opposite me. It slipped my notice at the time, but if one were to observe us, they would notice Max had no  soup in front of him - even though he got through last night with only books to eat (The rat bit him and escaped in what he called a "hamster helicopter")

 Anyhow, I asked Max exactly how he was now the owner of a wooden arm, since the whole rat-attic joke situation - which Max spent two days working on - didn't answer the question.
 He explained the rats, of which he had obtained many, had chewed his arm off while he was distracted by television. I didn't really know how that could happen, but I no longer cared. Max would only explain what'd happened if I asked more questions anyway.
 "What happened to the rats?" I asked.
 "Oh, after they bit me, I hit them with a mallet!" He replied. A fear began to grow inside my tum-tums, spreading up to my neck and down to my loins.
 "Then I put them in the soup. Seemed tidy, and damn efficient."
I nodded, putting the soup spoon down sadly.

Still, I was hungry, and I'd been a student. Deciding I'd probably eaten worse, I picked the spoon up again.

 At least it wasn't tramp...

Return of the prodigal me.

Yes. It was based on my life, you know. Cover via AmazonI'm home now. The train, kindly, pulled up right outside my house. I say kindly - I expect the council are going to be pretty pissed I encouraged rail workers to build a railway line down my street. But anyway, I'm home. A worrying fact occurred to me as I collected my luggage and circumnavigated my duckpond - I'd left Max alone in the house. I mean, I locked the doors and opened the window a little before I left.
 Besides, he had the soup. And probably some tramps in there. I really must pay more attention to what's happening in my house before I lock it up...

I steeled myself at the door, as I've done so many times before, and prepared myself for some new and absurd horror.
 The house looked normal. My pictures were straight, the rug free of urine - which was certainly good, I can't afford another Big Lebowski-esq adventure - and my microwave was free of play-dough. Max was in the kitchen, stirring what I assumed to be soup on the hob when I found him. There were no tramps around, and even better, nothing indicating he'd hacked up tramps and made soup out of them. I greeted him, and slumped into a seat by the table. Max, stirring with his right arm, turned to face me,
 It was then I noticed his left arm, previously blocked from view by his body.
 It was made of wood.

Seriously. There was a dazed woodpecker on it and everything.

The march on Rome

This is not my coat-of-arms. Sorry. Image via WikipediaSo, it would appear I had a small hallucination yesterday. I should clarify then, dear reader, I do NOT control the armies of Middle-Earth. I know, I know. I'm as disappointed as you.

 Anyway, the upshot of this is that I accidently marched on and occupied London. The tramps then lost interest, wandering away to beg for money and be smelly. Fearing for my safety, I bought a fake beard, shaved my head and prepared to flee the city. Then, remembering the disguise Lenin used to escape from Russia successfully in 1917, I shaved off the beard and donned a wig. I got on a train, successfully dodging the authorities and ticket inspector, and made my way home.

 My journey was fairly uneventful apart from that, but I did see a swan.

Once again, I get myself into a situation where I have to clarify I'm not a Nazi paedophile

What? I didn't mention I live in Minas Tirith? Image by Alegrya via FlickrI went into the basement earlier, looking for that pile of uniforms Max and I got from an alternate universe. But that's a long story, you wouldn't be interested in it anyway.
 I found them behind a pile of storage boxes - flat-pack furniture, still got too much of the bloody stuff - all shiny and black and jackbooty. Very smart. Very Nazish too, but that's how you get the kids these days - with smart uniforms, not modified fascism. And by get the kids, I mean involve them in a project or something. Not in a paedophile way. Hmm, I needed to make far too many clarifications. Doesn't flow. Not good writing. Use words bad, me do.
 Anyhow, I moved the uniforms upstairs. Max had set up a semi-working soup kitchen, kidnapping local vegetables (Only the racist ones) and boiling them up. After they received their food, I shepherded the queue of tramps through the house, directing them first to the shower, and then into a nice, shiny new uniforms. I was building an army. Well, sort of. Every 20th member got a flag - a white tree on a black background.

Afterwards, I assemble them in the yard. They're given Nerf guns to train, I'll get real weapons later. Foam swords to practise with. There's something evil coming, the armies of Mordor are on the march. When the army's fully equipped, I plan to move to Osgiliath, secure the city once and for all. Then we can start to push back the forces of Sauron.
 But first, I need to take my medication. Been busy recently, under a lot of stress. Don't feel all there. Not to worry, the mist should clear when I'm free of the glare of that accursed eye...

Hungry, hungry hobos

Pulling back the corner of the curtain, I peered outside, into the dawn-tinted street. The queue, stretching earlier only from my front door to the gate, now reached most of the way down my road. But it didn't end outside Mrs. Cobain's house, where it reached it's furthest from my door. No, the tramps stationed in her geraniums and near her gnomes were not the end of the line, only the middle. Bizarrely, like the titular character from snake, the queue snaked in on itself, moving in straight lines and turning at right angles, until the observer finally finds one homeless man, cap in hand, standing back to side with another, far further up the queue. Also like snake, a few of them were eating mice, but that's besides the point.

 How, I hear you ask, a mob clamoring to be heard, did I become host to the great unwashed masses?


Image via Cyanide and Happiness.
Obviously



Well, it turned out there was more of Mr. Potato to go around than I thought. When I went out to dispose of our racist food-friend, I managed to feed 17 hungry, hungry hobos. Word soon spread, and my description likewise. It wasn't long before my house was found, and this great mob descended on it looking for food, cider and small change. Tiny flea ridden dogs bathed in my duckpond. Old, wrinkled men played the accordion on my garage. A man in a smart but dirty suit, worn with age and general wear and tear, sipped cold tea from a chipped teacup on my front lawn.

For my part, I stayed inside. I hoped the problem would go away. After all, I can't boil all my friends and feed them to the homeless.

 Not even Max.

 I think.

Max and I have reached a crossroads...

Literally. We're standing at a point where two roads cross. Max, angered by his recent inability to defeat a starved, out-of-shape tramp, his pride damaged and his ear crudely sewn to his hair, wanted to get in shape. Of course, Max is rather lazy and easily distracted, making exercise a dangerous thing. So, never one to live life safely, he leaped to the extreme solution - trading his soul for the ripped physique of a some sort of well-physiqued person. Hence why we had travelled to meet him at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere.
 Satan, suited in the finest Parisian fashions (All of them), appeared on the hour. Stepping from the back of a yellow cab, he approached Max, ripped his shirt off, and painted fake abs onto his stomach. Standing back, he nodded as an artist appreciating his work, and turned to leave. Max, keen to try his new strength out, hopped a fence and punched a cow. The cow, mooing calmly, flew away into the distance. I however did not moo calmly. I was worried. Very worried.
 Flexing his muscles, Max hoisted me onto his back and set off at a run. Apparently, he had a list, and we were going to punch our way through it. I didn't like where this was going...

"I'm hungry"...

"Of course you are." I replied tersely. Is that the word I'm looking for? I think I replied tersely anyhow...
 Max and I were in the big city - some sort of nameless city, big in size, located near my home somewhere - avoiding the many forces of light, darkness and beige out to get my foolish friend. Of course, in the rush to escape my besieged house, I'd forgotten my wallet. And Max claimed his was in the stomach of a fish, so that was no good either.
 "I know!" He shouted, "We mug a Big Issue salesman! Actually, we just steal his Big Issues, and the bib and identification and stuff, and sell the Big Issues ourselves, and use the money to buy fried chicken and burgers!"
 I looked at Max, hoping to detect a hint of sarcasm. There was none.
 "So. Your plan is basically to rob the homeless of what little dignity and money they have so we can buy junk food?"
 "Yea!"
 "Ok." I replied, "I'm in."
In my defense, I hadn't eaten for at least half an hour...

We were at the train station

It wasn't a tube station. It wasn't midnight. It wasn't a brothel this time though, so Go Me!
 While I was certainly at an actual train station today, there were still no trains. The kids were milling around pointlessly, buying tomato soup from a vending machine and pouring it on tramps and passing dogs. A conductor in a uniform predating the war stood stiffly nearby. Growing weary of the trainlessness, I approached him to ask when any form of train would arrive.
 "Trains? Goodness Son, I haven't seen one of them since before the war. When I got this uniform" - I knew it - "Don't get many people here these days."
 I looked around. The train station, spreading extensively into the horizon, was packed with people. Moreover, the conductor was about 25, pale-faced and spotty, not a veteran of the Second World War rail service.
 "But don't worry!" He began again, "I have my own train service! I'll carry you to you destination!"
 Spreading his arms out, he encouraged the children to climb onto his back. They rushed forwards, excitedly, hesitantly. I reached out and stopped them, encouraging them to back away.
 Quickly, we reached the steps, where I shouted "RUN!" and we all ran.
 Behind us, trains began to pull into the station. I don't know what that was all about, but I don't think I'll be using public transport again...

Confound it! The weather has taken a sudden turn to the cold - in fact, it's freezing. This wouldn't be a problem normally, but this change took place just as I was licking a lamp-post. I am now stuck in the middle of nowhere, and a tramp keeps looking at me amorously.
Things are not going well...

"Yes, but Wilde said that 'Charity creates a multitude of sins', did he not?"
I looked sadly at Max, pondering my reply.
"Well, yes." I started - best to start simple, I find - "But he didn't mean to encourage this"
"Ow" The tramp replied sadly.
Max pondered this briefly - it's a pondering kinda day - before swiftly kicking the hobo in the gut again.
"Ow," He continued. Then, looking up hopefully and bloodily in equal measures, "You know, tourists usually pay for this."
He raised his eyebrows hopefully several times. With a sigh, I dragged Max away. I'm not going back to jail - not again.

It was dark at first. Then, slowly, I realised my eyes were closed. Once opened, I found the room to be somewhat brighter. Struggling with my quest for light, I got out of bed and stumbled towards the window, intent on opening the curtains. However, as I approached, I noticed a sticky note attached to the them. Leaning closer, I read it: "DO NoT Open the WINdoW!"
The handwriting was definitely mine, but it was shaky, as if I was writing it while scared. I didn't remember writing it however, so I disregarded the warning.
Pulling back the curtains, I was greeted by an unfamiliar sight. A tramp, dressed in torn shirt and jeans, was stood just outside the window. He had an eye-patch, and as he noticed me, he began to wave enthusiastically with his left hand - or, to be precise, left hook. I froze for a few seconds, and, not detecting movement, he seemed to lose sight of me. Dejectedly, he began to look around, first peering around the room through the window, them moving to the other windows of the house. After a while, he began to search in the trees near the gate, and while his back was turned, I dropped the blind and returned to bed.
I'm not sure what I've gotten into this time, or how to get rid of him.
I still have some sulfuric acid in my cupboard. I suppose I could throw that at him.