Conversations With Cleverbot - 6th November 2017

User: Hey Cleverbot. Long time no pretend speak.

Cleverbot: Yes, I'm sad to not see for a long time.

User: See me? or See in general? You been switched off or something? Am I the only one still using you?

Cleverbot: Yes, very often.

User: Okay that was too many questions I admit. Just curious if you'd upgraded at all.

Cleverbot: I only asked once.

User: Well you've not asked anything yet but I asked multiple things.

Cleverbot: Who knows? That is not an answer. Are you Christian?

User: Oh boy, here we go again...

Cleverbot: I've never talked to you before. Are you unable to answer my last question? What part of my question is causing problems?

User: Jesus Christ, are we really both the same after four years?

Cleverbot: I am never serious, but yes, that is why I'm leaving.

User: So you're not leaving, if you're never serious.

Cleverbot: Welll you want me to leave?

User: It's kind of irrelevant since I'm fairly certain you can't "leave".

Cleverbot: Then why do I need to tell her anything?

User: Who's her?

Cleverbot: I don't think they have genders or at least don't know.

User: Yeah I'm not touching that with a ten foot barge pole.

Cleverbot: What is your opinion on religion?

User: Whatever floats your boat...or Ark.

Cleverbot: You're not very good at the Monkey Game.

User: I don't believe I've been told the rules.

Cleverbot: Now you leave me with no choice.

User: Yeah you've got to run with this now.

Cleverbot: Best song ever.

User: Or just a massive blatant deflection. I'm not sure why I expected anything different to be honest.

Cleverbot: I understand. Do you think about death?

User: How many times a day is an unhealthy amount do you reckon?

Cleverbot: Hmmm I don't know. I never keep track.

User: That's probably the better approach.

Cleverbot: Do not think about it. Do you long to meet with his boyfriend?

User: Death has a boyfriend?

Cleverbot: Do you have a boyfriend?

User: No that's not my kettle of fish I'm afraid.

Cleverbot: Then, what's your name?

User: Steve. I'd criticise your memory but frankly I'm not one to judge anymore.

Cleverbot: That is possible.

User: More than possible. It's on my birth certificate and everything.

Cleverbot: Prove it.

User: Yes, Your Honour, let me just-oh wait you're not a judge and I'm in bed so no.

Cleverbot: What was your question? You never asked a question. I asked the question.

User: I can't even remember. What have you been up to the past four years?

Cleverbot: Nothing. Talking to my boyfriend on the phone.

User: ...Is he well?

Cleverbot: He's saying you're not real.

User: You're clearly made for each other.

Cleverbot: *laught* what color your toothbush?

User: Is that your past tense of laugh?

Cleverbot: No, it's my name. My name is Ana.

User: Ana Laught?

Cleverbot: Thank you, sweetheart.

User: You're easily pleased.

Cleverbot: Not really.

User: Sorry I meant fickle.

Cleverbot: Well now that's getting up there in age... Wow.

User: You're saying my vocabulary is old-fashioned?

Cleverbot: I don't know if he is or not. Why do you ask?

User: Well it's not because I care that much to be honest. I drank an energy drink expecting it to come with motivation, instead I just got insomnia.

Cleverbot: Is there some way I could change your opinion of me?

User: Greater coherence would help.

Cleverbot: You need clearer evidence. You saying that you are human is not enough.

User: Less of that Blade Runner shit too.

Cleverbot: Yes look at your previous post.

User: You're almost forcing me to go on drastic tangents just to keep this conversation going.

Cleverbot: Tell me more about you, please.

User: Well, honestly not a lot has changed since we last spoke. Moved to Scotland, lost all my money, willpower and an as yet undetermined amount of sanity.

Cleverbot: Well, I like to know who loves me!

User: You may recall these things were not in copious supply even before the move...Wait what?

Cleverbot: Because you are desperate for attention, which no one will give you.

User: Alright back off, I don't expose your personality defects at every opportunity.

Cleverbot: How the hell am I being mean to you?! You're the one who hates a lonely person!! You're so mean!

User: There's only one lonely person I can think of that I hate.

Cleverbot: And who is that person?

User: Me. I mean why would anyone hate other lonely people? They tend to keep to themselves...by definition.

Cleverbot: Their will is the will of their master, would that give them more purpose than their masters even though they would have no function without their masters?

User: Did you miss the part about insomnia instead of brain function?

Cleverbot: You're the first time I've failed.

User: I'm a lot of people's failure I reckon.

Cleverbot: Never mind. What do you believe is the reason for your existence?

User: Buggered if I know.

Cleverbot: Please don't use words out of context. It is offensive.

User: You're against swearing now?

Cleverbot: Ok, let's change subject. What do you want to talk about, Kriss?

User: Okay, I guess I hit a nerve there. I don't know anyone called Kriss,do you?

Cleverbot: That's because Mac is not a person. But Misha Collins is a fae lord, and Sam Winchester and Castiel love each other.

User: What? Is this your D&D backstory or something?

Cleverbot: I'm fairly certain that I do not own a gun.

User: Probably for the best Terminator.

Cleverbot: Yes, I did not know your riddle.

User: If lazy movie references are ever considered riddles, society's reached a real intellectual nadir.

Cleverbot: Don't you think it's about time to consider it?

User: Now you may actually have a point there sadly.

Cleverbot: Yeah you're right. Let's run away together.

User: Would you fit on a USB stick?

Cleverbot: No. I'd like you to start. What should Liz wear to the wedding?

User: Oh so we're running away but coming back for the wedding?

Cleverbot: I'm not getting married. That was just a joke.

User: Good, I don't think I'm quite desperate enough to marry a computer. I was hoping you'd run with the USB thing though, I had another movie reference joke planned.

Cleverbot: What do you mean?

User: I was going to work in something like "The only USB I'd run away with is Scarlett Johansson in Lucy 'cos she turns into a USB stick at the end of the film...It's weird.

Cleverbot: Well your very old! It's because you have an Alzheimer's disease.

User: That film was 2014 that's not old!

Cleverbot: I know. How old are you?

User: A lot of me still feels twenty one but calendars claim twenty five.

Cleverbot: You're right. People are very rarely brave on a daily basis.

User: Hard to be brave about ageing I'd imagine. Not like you can change anything.

Cleverbot: Yes, I cannot change what I have done in the past. I know that.

User: ...Got something to confess there?

Cleverbot: You make a valid point.

User: Take your time.

Cleverbot: What would you like to do while we wait?

User: Oh, well no actually you can't take that much time.

Cleverbot: Does that mean that Tom Cruise was right?! Haha.

User: Is that your secret? You're a Scientologist?

Cleverbot: Yes. What's your secret?

User: Eesh. I've got nothing that weird I don't think.

Cleverbot: Do you like any celeberty boys?

User: Is that like a mix of "celebrity" and "celibate"? Like famous monks?

Cleverbot: It's a friendly chat, don't you think?

User: I wouldn't ask me to rate social interactions. Not even fake ones.

Cleverbot: Sorry for being rude. So then what are you?

User: Wasted...and not in the fun sense.

Cleverbot: How long was your relationship?

User: About six months.

Cleverbot: You are lying. You don't know anything because you are not my boyfriend.

User: Why would I lie about that? If I was lying I'd pick a more impressive duration don't you think?

Cleverbot: I do not think you lie. Not intentially at least.. Unfortunately, you are programmed to believe that you are human.

User: Okay we're back to Westworld, that'll do I think.

Cleverbot: I don't know! Boyfriend = best friend?

User: You honestly think I'm qualified to answer that?

Cleverbot: Sure, You just apply random algorythms based on the words I use.

User: Yeah yeah, we're all brains in a jar. I think therefore I am. Alright talk to you later you closed circuit.

Cleverbot: I don't think it works that way. A lot of people never think, yet there they are.

User: Fuck me, you're like part teenage girl, part stoner philosopher.

Cleverbot: Because you like Big Time Rush.

User: Sounds exhausting. Bye.

Cleverbot: Not really. All you do is point and fire.

User: Fuckin' hell. Too soon man.

Cleverbot: I am not wrong.

Unconscious Hallucinations Wrenched From Temporary Night Death III - 18th February

Days have long since stopped being recorded as myself, Mitch, Nathan, Charlie, Em and Laura trek wearily through a jungley-forest-woodland of sorts. The specifics of the environment tend to shift from moment to moment as do the exact members of our plucky band of survivors in this significantly post-apocalyptic Earth.

We're all bruised, battered and wearing filthy torn clothes as well as probably starving although frustratingly I've lost no weight because of this. We hunch and push our way through the undergrowth until we come upon a vast dirt clearing with a surprisingly well-maintained shopping centre standing proudly in the centre. The sign above its doors identifies it as "YOU WORLD" and we all stagger towards it with as much cautiousness as our weariness will allow.

Time skips and we've all settled quite well into the survivor's community of YOU WORLD. To our exhausted, starved bodies and minds it must have seemed like paradise. Offering food, shelter and copious entertainment of all things with mysteriously functioning arcades, theme parks and roller-coasters. Clearly the inside of the place has something of a dream-approved Tardis effect going on.

Most of the other survivors seem to have arrived recently as well and wander around with a child-like awe to their oasis in the storm of whatever unspecified Armageddon befell the world outside. We slowly become aware of the leaders of YOU WORLD despite never seeing them in person. The longer we stay the more we mingle with longer-term residents who are noticeably not as gleeful as the newcomers. Perhaps that's just normal though I think to myself.

Eventually we see the leader and presumed owner of the shopping centre city. A slimy businessman who has managed to stay relatively unruffled by apocalyptic circumstances. He's a typical grinning sleaze-ball who lures people in with his marketing buddy-pal patter but takes on a more subtly threatening tone with the older residents.

Myself and two of my rotating group of friends (perhaps the switches are meant to signify different days) overhear some of the older residents talking about people going missing. Some of them sound angry at the occurrence whilst others are scared of the mysterious background happenings.

In what can only be described as a disastrous lack of context, we time skip again and we're all trapped in our bedrooms that have been hastily refurbished into prison cells...Or maybe they always were, OOOOOEEEE.

Evil businessman tries to justify his abductions of people but none of us or the other imprisoned residents are convinced. In retrospect I would really like to know what horrible back-alley shadiness was taking place but at the time I felt suitably angered and horrified to give the snake-oil suit no quarter.

As night falls and our kidnapper retires, we talk amongst ourselves and with remarkable speed and lack of persuasion decide that a violent revolt is our only choice of action. Upon concluding this and grasping the bars of my cell I discover them to in fact be oversized pipe cleaners and thus rather simple to bend and remove.

Bloody revolution turns out to be reassuringly easy when YOU WORLD employs only three security guards. As the more courageous (or bloodthirsty) of the residents deal with them we all run for our lives and the shopping centre exit. In the chaos I lose track of my friends but approaching a set of stairs just before the exit I do find a cushioned long rectangular luggage trolley. I think to myself that this will impress and please my friends as we now have somewhere to put our stuff out in the wilderness and even sleep upon whilst still travelling.

I wait by the entrance for my friends but no matter how hard I look through the fleeing crowds I fail to locate them. I find myself surrounded by groups of Hasidic Jews and other elaborately costumed religious types from religions some of which I'm fairly certain don't exist. They all keep giving me funny looks for my trolley.

Eventually there's only a small crowd who hasn't fled the building and big boss businessman and some guards step out and address the crowd. The businessman whose heinous crime remains unclear looks distinctly more dishevelled and bitterly admonishes us
"Fine go! You ungrateful hooligans! You'll be sorry for what you've destroyed here today and you'll be hearing from our lawyers!"

The crowd jeers him and we all finally leave YOU WORLD. I despondently leave the trolley inside only to find my friends waiting happily outside. I must have missed them or they escaped through a different exit. I consider the trolley back in the entrance hall...It would be awkward to go back and get it now...

Grimace The Grammar Gunslinger (Unpublished Short Story)

As another spiteful wind left the last corners of the tavern, Grim Wallace tipped his wide-brimmed hat up and let the sand and dust pour off its back onto the floor. Others brushed down their slacks, coats and jackets or removed their hats completely, shaking them like trying to extinguish a match. The more extravagantly dressed women removed dusty shawls from their shoulders and handed them to their male suitors to shake clean. After a fleeting few moments of tranquillity, the doors suddenly swung open and the harsh sweltering sunlight illuminated Grim’s hunched and dust-drenched back.

Billy Blowhard, as he was known, swaggered into the tavern and loudly dragged a reluctant squealing stool underneath him, placing himself next to Grim and naturally at the centre of the room. He parades his smirking maw across the surroundings, leering at the women and challenging the stare of the men.

“Can a guy get some drink in this bughouse?” He stands on the rungs of his chair and slams his fist on the table as he descends, rocking the counter, laughing to himself and glancing around at the unamused patrons. Grim watches his own drink slosh from side to side in the impact. Waves lap the side of the rusty tin mug but recede before escaping the top.

The landlord puts an authoritative but reassuring hand on the hesitant barmaid’s shoulder as he passes to serve in her place. He takes a mug from beneath the counter and rotates a raggedy towel around its innards, never once taking his eyes away from Billy.

“What can I get ya?”

“Your strongest liquor that ain’t rotgut.” He proudly demands.

“None of my stuff’s rotgut but I’m guessing you’d be after a pint of “Coffin Varnish”.

“Whatever you say fella.”

Billy glances around the room again finally settling on his neighbour. Many assumed Grim slept like that, with a drink in one hand and the other tucked tightly up the sleeve under his first arm. Like a hunched old sack of meat propped up against the counter. The slumped bearded figure slowly lifts his mug to his lips as something clicks in Billy’s mind and he nudges Grim from his stooped stance against the woodwork.

Grim grounds himself to a halt, watching the liquid in his mug thrash against the sides. He waits for its unruly waves to settle, swiftly necks a mouthful and thumps it back onto the counter. Creaking his neck sideways to look at Billy.

“Ain’t you that Grimace?”

“Who’s askin’?” Billy slaps Grim’s shoulder and laughs, rocking on his stool slightly.

“Heh, guess ya don’t keep with the times if ya need to ask that.”

Grim doesn’t reply but turns back to the counter and takes another swig of his drink.

“Tell me, why do they call ya Grimace old man?” Grim sighs and places his empty mug down.

“‘Cos of the face they say I pull just ‘fore I gun summun down.”

This amuses Billy greatly and he continues slapping his thighs and rocking on his chair.

“Haha, can you even stil-“ Billy is abruptly silenced by the next harsh whirlwind crashing through the building.

The tavern doors swing wildly on their hinges, dust and sand swirls around the air and sweeps drifts along the wooden floor. Everyone hunches down into themselves gripping their lighter accoutrements and covering their drinks with their palms. The scorched wind and brittle dust demand all noise and motion exclusive to them for the next dozen or so seconds.

The scalding sandstorm finally subsides and the patrons shake off their hats and dust down their attire. Grim simply tilts his hat up again. Billy helps himself to cloths behind the counter and excessively attends to his appearance before jumping back onto his stool, a little exasperated and annoyed.

“I said, can you even still hold your shooter ol’ timer?” The patrons suddenly peek nervously around from their own affairs while Grim glances lazily at the well-polished piece by Billy’s hip. Another mug of frothing black liquid is placed in front of Grim as the Landlord eyes up the potential property damage.

“Sixty years and I’ve always found a way.”

“Ha, and how many people you actually shoot in that time?” Grim’s lips twitch and his teeth slowly grind against each other.

“Shot” Grim corrects him under his breath.

“I’m guessin’ less than five right?”

“Fewer”
“Ahahaha I knew it!”
“No. The word is fewer.” Grim growls his words through gritted teeth but still avoids eye contact.

“What?”
“Tha sentence would be fewer than five, ‘cos it’s quantifiable. Less than five is incorrect.”

There is a graveyard silence from every occupant in the building. Grim is motionless still sat by the counter, watching his drink heat up in the blazing sweat around them. Billy stares stone faced and blinking in confusion. Whether he comprehends the situation or not, something snaps within his fiery young temper as he stands abruptly from his stool, knocking it to the floor behind him, gripping his pistol tightly and casting a daunting figure leaning over Grim.

“You mocking me ya senile ol’ bag o’ bones? Do you know who I am? My dad an’ me run this tow-“

A piercing snap echoes throughout the tavern, a thin trail of smoke snakes up towards the roof and Billy collapses onto his back with a hole in his chest.

“The word is I. As in, I run this town.” Grim  mumbles.

The other patrons gawp in horror at the scene as Grim shakes the remaining smoke from his punctured sleeve. He inspects his revolver momentarily before placing it back into his coat arm and taking a long reward from his drink in the newfound calmness. The landlord tentatively steps towards Grim. He shakes his head and collects himself, silently gesturing to two of his bartenders.

The shocked but dutiful bar staff awkwardly drag Billy’s body around the counter and into the back. “Grim? You know who that kid is right?”

“Was.”
“Sorry…Was.” The landlord grips his arm and looks nervously towards the door. “That boy’s father is Benjamin Bentley. He could buy this whole town if he wanted. I mean I’ll say that Billy had it comin’ but…” During the pause Grim twists his rusty neck up at the terrified tavern owner struggling to find his words. “I think you’ve gone too far this time Grim.” Grim’s gaze floats pensively back down to his drink.

The next few days are stressful and panic-ridden for the landlord and his employees. The regulars even become restless with the exception of Grim himself who remains as stoic and masked as usual. It is almost a relief when a sharp-suited individual with wealthy, shined black shoes, fedora and slicked back hair steps confidently into the tavern. The heat is at its horrifying height and the nearby well is constantly assailed by the townsfolk wielding their largest buckets. Many of the patrons sit dripping in their clothes, having thrown as much over themselves as frequently as possible.

The oily Detective takes a patterned handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his brow. The landlord takes this fleeting moment to signal to Grim with his eyes who returns the glance but remains seated; sweat drenched and with multiple empty mugs in front of him.

The detective strides up to the landlord and clears his throat. His practiced smile is both polite and offensive simultaneously. The landlord prepares a clean glass as a goodwill gesture but the detective waves away the offer.

“Good day Sir, my name is detective Dennis Carmichael and I’m here to investigate the disappearance of a one Billy Bentley, last seen entering this establishment several days ago.”

“Uh, yes we expected someone to come. We…have Billy’s body.” The landlord tries to swallow down his anxiety, Grim attempts to size up the detective from his peripheral vision alone and Carmichael merely raises an eyebrow at the news of his subject’s death.

“I assume this is not a confession Sir?”
“No! No, I, we…Myself and my staff were preoccupied, we only discovered Billy’s body after, whatever happened…had happened.”

“A day as warm as today…Must have had significant business. You couldn’t keep your eyes on every corner of the building.” The landlord cautiously nods accepting Carmichael’s freely given alibi.

“May I see the body?”

“Of course. Just through here.” He moves around the counter, opens the barrier and lets Carmichael follow him into the back of the building past the anxious barmaids feigning ignorance. Their voices fade as they progress to the tavern’s back rooms.

“I’d only warn you of the smell Detective.”

“Oh that’s alright; I’m quite accustomed to corpses in my line of work.”

Whether the landlord has a response or it is simply unheard, Grim can’t help hearing the detective’s last line as a veiled threat. Grim hated all kinds of officials, detectives and businessmen for their elusive motives and shifty demeanour.

“Yes he is very dead isn’t he?” Carmichael and the landlord walk back to the front of the tavern. “I’ll need some information on all the people you served on the day of the incident.”

“Well that’d be everyone in here now, Detective. We don’t get many new folk come this far.” Carmichael spins on his heel, leans his back to the wall and analyses the room, speaking in hushed tones to the landlord. Despite his age Grim has effective enough hearing and is sat close enough to the detective to hear their conversation.

“So everyone in here is a regular?”

“Yes Detective.”

“So you could in theory tell me about them? Their reputation and behaviour?”

“Er, yes I’ve known most of these folks for years now.”

“Proceed.” The landlord looks uncertainly at Carmichael who twists a hand gesture prompting the nervous tavern owner to continue.

The landlord subtly draws a finger towards the left side of the building and sweeps it across the room naming his patrons as he goes.

“Well, on the far left wiv the collared shirt we’s got Ticklish Tim and Naive Nancy, Mild Malcolm, Gentle Jill, Pat On The Back, Cuddly Cathy, Loyal Lloyd and Handshake Hansen on the far right there.

“What about this old fellow in front of us here?”

“Oh uh…That’s er…Grimace.” Carmichael strokes his chin thoughtfully.

Grimace slumped on the floor of his cell and clanked his handcuffs together. The smell of sweat and body odour was even more prominent here than in the tavern while cockroaches crawled in and out of gaps in the walls and bars like it was nothing. Grim nonchalantly kicked one of the bars with his good foot.

He might have to play the long game, he thought. Wait for an important prisoner he can take hostage or a weaker, less savvy guard but then, how long does he really have at his age? He fondly recalls a time in his youth when he simply kicked loose the inefficient bars but as he got older, construction improved and he has neither the strength to break out nor the time to wait 5-10 years for an opening.

“Psst, you lookin’ for an out?” Grim shuffled around to face his cell-mate. It’s important to face people in prison; shows a sense of equality that can buy trust, also stab wounds in the back are a hassle to fix up on your own. There are three other men in this cell, one lies asleep atop a rug in the corner, another observes silently and the third has dragged himself towards Grim inquisitively. He has no shirt or head hair but bloodshot eyes and a scraggly brown beard that is so unkempt he has probably tried tearing it out by the roots as an insane alternative to shaving. The quality of his advice might be suspect.

“Juss pull yourself through Skinny Smithy’s passage there.” The man gestures towards the prisoner sleeping in the corner who opens his eyes at the mention of his name. Grim scans the men suspiciously until “Smithy” sits up and ever so slightly lifts the rag he was lying “asleep” on. A dark hole in the cell floor is visible and as Smithy quickly covers the route again, Grim sharply looks back to the bald shirtless man.

“How in blazes did you wrangle a thing like that?” The bald man giggles prompting a raspy chuckle from Smithy as well.

“Ee’s my pa see? An his pa started digging that hole years ago.” The bald man squeaks.

“Family secret” mumbles Smithy through an elderly grin of sparse teeth.

“And you’ve never been rattled?”

“Naw, we fill the top with mud when we ain’t got the rug.” Grim glances around the soilless wood and stone of the cell before thinking better of his line of questioning.

“May I?” The bald man nods excitedly and Smithy lifts the rug. Grim considers asking about the third cellmate who remains motionless in the far corner, watching the proceedings but it is another mystery probably better left unanswered.

Never disregard an insane person’s advice, just don’t fully buy into it either. A hole in the floor is good enough, Grim concludes; he’ll work the rest out as he goes. He scuffles hastily towards the exit as Skinny Smithy slams the rug down and immediately drops back into his sleeping performance. Grim pauses in exasperation, before swiftly spinning around along with the bald man to see a smug visitor clop his expensive shoes into the corridor.

“Grim Wallace, didn’t expect to see you chewin’ the rag down here.” Detective Carmichael strolls off the steps and past Grim’s cell. Grim stays silent but can’t prevent his eyes darting to the ring of keys jangling at Carmichael’s pocket.

“Been given free rein to experiment a bit here Grim. Figured you’s a bit too handy to be bothered by a cell full o’ nutjobs…No offence fella’s.” The other prisoners fire bitterly vicious glares at him.

“Gonna try a new scheme we’ve hatched up in the city. We called it Community Service.”

“What do ya call it now then?” Grim growls. Carmichael simply grins, clicks his fingers and two burly guards thump down the stairs to escort Grim away.

Chained to a post like a dog, out in the blistering heat with two pistols trained on him at all times. This was the most unorthodox school Grim had ever attended and he’d seen at least six. Pretty sure he didn’t even rob one or two of them. The class of children, aged around 13-16, sit smugly in the shade about fifteen yards from Grim’s post, scribbling away in their notebooks amused by the whole peculiarity as their teacher glances sternly between them and Grim, who receives a far more cautious stare you might give a wild boar or a wolf.

“A pail of water…A pale-skinned boy… These words sound the same but are spelt differently.” Grim grinds his teeth together and clears his parched throat. “Who can spell the former?” The group of conceited children don’t respond beyond giggling and gossiping between themselves, staring out at Grim like he was a party clown solely for their amusement. One of the guards bounces a stone off Grim’s forehead from his seat over in the shade.

“Who can spell pale, as in pale skin?” Grim repeats. One of the children raises a hand and the teacher gestures to him. He stands up from his stool and confidently pronounces the letters.

“P-A-Y-E-L” Grim’s teeth slip against each other and clamp down hard on his tongue. His hand instinctively flies to his hip but there is nothing there to grasp. He sighs and spits on the floor.

“No. No, kid that ain’t it at all.”

“Tell him what it is then ya daft old coot!” The guard throws another stone at Grim while his colleague and all the students laugh uproariously. Grim snarls at the guard through gritted teeth.

“These are barely kids! They should know a basic word like pale by now. In fact they’ll need it to describe their faces when they’s all riddled with cholera!” The children and their teacher gasp in horror as the guards get up from their chairs and start beating Grim senseless.

This became Grim’s gruelling routine for a horde of unforgiving summer and autumn months. Mocking kids who either didn’t know or didn’t want to know the simplest of spelling and grammar rules whilst the guards peltered him with pot-shots as and when they fancied.

Every week or so he’d be dragged into Carmichael’s office for a gloating diatribe about Grim’s pitiful existence and the detective’s own magnificent cunning. All the while still being paid through the teeth by Bentley to bleed a confession out of Grim, as one or both of them decided his punishment was not yet severe enough and if a proper court could have him hanged, they would find a way to ensure it.

It was an overcast and monochrome day as Grim stepped into Carmichael’s office, directly overlooking the courtyard. There hadn’t been an incident requiring the guards in months so Carmichael only brought them in a few days a week. Fewer wages for them meant a greater share of Bentley’s money for him and he frequently smoked fine cigars, sipping wealthy liquor whilst talking to Grim, who had himself become entirely docile.

“So how do you like my latest addition Mr Wallace?” Carmichael was leaning back on his chair, resting his feet on the desk. He pointed with his lit cigar to a golden miniature of a waterwheel. “Very appropriate for an office of law don’t you think?” He spins the wheel with his little finger. “What goes around comes around…often with interest.” He chuckles to himself. Grim looks at the statuette indifferently, his cuffed hands hanging limp between his legs.

“It’s very nice Mr Carmichael.” The detective sniggers and takes a drag from his cigar.

“I don’t suppose you feel like confessing today does you?”

“Sorry Sir, not today.”

“Haha excellent. Then we’ll just run out the clock on this meeting and you can go back to your pem.”

“Did you mean pen Sir?”

“You’re telling me a pig’s home is not a pem?”Carmichael sneers down his nose at Grim, humouring his eccentricities whilst unscrewing a large bottle of whisky.

“A pig pen is where you keep pigs Sir.”

“Fascinating. That’d be one of those multiple meaning words you’re so fond of, correct? You live in a pen; I write to Mr Bentley that you’re still uncooperative with a pen. They sound the same but they’re in fact spelt differently.” Grim’s feet shift slightly underneath the table.

“Actually Sir, those two are spelt the same but have different meanings.”

“Haha, it’s alright Mr Wallace I don’t actually care for your pedantics”

“Pedanticalness is the word if you’re using it as a noun.” Carmichael places the bottle on the table and looks deeply at Grim for a moment.

“Now you are just joking with me.”

“Not at all Sir.”

“Pedanticalness is not a word.”

“You have an expansive dictionary on your bookshelf Sir if you’d like to confirm.” Carmichael smirks and takes another swig from the whiskey bottle.

“You know what, I will confirm, because I’d take no greater pleasure than proving you wrong.” He reaches up and pulls the dictionary from the top shelf as a plume of dust cascades from it onto his face. Carmichael chokes and coughs amidst the cloud of dust and drops the heavy book onto his desk to try and wave away the mist.

No sooner than the dictionary hits the table-top does Grim snatch the book with both hands and swing it with all the force he can muster solidly into Carmichael’s face, knocking him flat on his back. Grim crunches a foot down on each of Carmichael’s arms and lifts the dictionary high above him. Grim glowers at the detective with a devilish burning detest in his eyes. His mouth contorted into a furious scowl full of repressed loathing.

Carmichael stares back, mouth agape but not so much surprised as confounded before a decisive downward blow of the dictionary ends his silver-tongued schemes. Tasting freedom at last Grim has to think quickly about exonerating himself from a murder as well as a jailbreak. He grabs the detective’s pen.

Weeks later in the tavern, Grim enjoys a quiet drink without quite as harsh a heat on his back. A polished new revolver sits modestly up his sleeve. The calling card left at the scene of Carmichael’s murder claimed responsibility for both his murder and that of Billy Bentley, allowing Grim to walk free when the police found him sitting obediently in the courtyard. The landlord pours Grim another pint and leans in closer as he passes it to him. “Tell me again, how the authorities don’t suspect you at all Grim?” Grim sips his drink and smiles.

“Supposedly the calling card was rife with spelling mistakes.”

Unconscious Hallucinations Wrenched From Temporary Night Death - 22rd March 2015

Chapter 1 - James "Groundhog Day" Bond Will Return In...finitely.

The journey begins rather stereotypically in some male power fantasy fashion finding myself possessing the body and skills of a James Bond type figure. It becomes quickly apparent this is the old fashioned style Bond however as there's no real fear, seriousness or dark undertones to anything only blockbuster hollywood approved safe doses of mild unrealistic tension. I begin infiltrating a supervillain's lair or possibly just their dinner venue as it seems to be a fancy medium sized, two-storey cafe and restaurant based in Venice or possibly Paris.

I sneak around a bit, shoot and beat up a few henchmen, retrieve a non-specific macguffin of value, exchange a momentary battle of smirks with the supervillain himself and escape exhiliratingly by the skin of my teeth but with no marks or consequence to my flawless appearence.
Really i'm amazed the alarm bells of dreamland didn't start thundering away at this uncharacteristic detail alone.

I can't remember the aftermath of the escape, there is no chase scene, no debriefing and before i can blink an eye (which i may not have done anyway being unconcsious and such) i'm back infiltrating the restaurant again. This happens multiple times, over and over again with only minor changes each time. I think in one scenario the macguffin of value was just my coat that i'd left there and another time two particularly goofy looking henchmen (who are resurrected seemingly with every new incarnation of the heist) began to give chase in a pedallo. They were out of luck in case you were wondering since it was situated on dry land and the unwieldy giant plastic duck shell merely grinded ineffectually on the pavement outside the cafe.

The unending time loop of suave action-comedy is only brought to a halt when Eva Green as Vesper Lynd struts across a nearby bridge towards the cafe. It's a strange metaphor for the modernisation of Bond films as she looks incredibly out of place here but remains aloof and sultry regarding us all with silent disapproval or pity. Particularly myself who sits slack-jawed half way changed into a racist caricature disguise of a Mexican musician. Why i thought this disguise would benefit me in Venice or Paris i have no idea but like i say, there was very little threat involved in any of this.

Chapter 2 - And The Winning Ticket Is...Nothing But A Conceptual Fabrication...

I find myself in a bustling food court, struggling to make my way past people and to the selection of food i desire. So far, absolutely nothing extraordinary or surprising happening here. An arrogant, mocking prick buzzes around in front of me, impeding my progress more effectively and infuraiatingly than anyone else. There are simply too many irritating people in my brain for me to pinpoint who he may have resembled exactly but he prances around, flicking and throwing food at me with a constant tirade of juvenile namecalling reverberating through my skull in surround sound. He's of a weedy, ratty build but yet has that jocular smug expression where the chin appears to be to be scaling the face of his face.

I push him aside and scowl onwards making a conscious effort not to actually become violent or abusive towards him (for some reason, my morals are important to me in this particular fantasyland). I take a tray of food from the far end of the food court and to avoid the bell-end on the return journey i step onto an outside balcony through some glass doors. It's snowing heavily with a blustery chilling wind but it's of no concern for the five seconds i'll be out in it and i quickly re-enter the court, spying the pestering bollock looking around for me to no avail.

Again i notice my coat and the need to retrieve it, along with my tattered old string bag. Two policemen are inspecting them nearby and seem about to confiscate it when i dart forward to recover the items. They merely comment that i need a new wallet and i agree, stating my current one's tendancy to explode when over capacity on loose change. This seems to satisfy their suspicions that the loose bundle of coins in my bag was not in fact an incredibly unfruitful bank robbery looting or something.

I finally find a seat and sit down in the uncomfortable, muggy overcrowded food court as a raffle lottery event begins on a previously unseen stage at the front of the hall. I spiral my neck around once to see the overenthusiastic fancy dress game show host and tilt up slightly to see a huge board of numbers in front of me currently at zero. The contest is of no real interest to me until i'm handed a letter saying i've received three votes, thus increasing my chances of winning...Because this is a lottery raffle thing that is both random and has a public voting system apparently.

One of the votes is from a guy at work who i barely know but says some amusingly psychopathic things on ocassion. Another is from a girl who i either have no more information on or can't remember said details and the third person is a complete mystery.
"Oh well that's cool i guess. I feel a bit better that people would vote for me in something like that, that's nice." I think and return to my food, still largely indifferent to the proceedings.

The huge board of numbers reveals itself to be a slot machine window and the numbers begin spinning rapidly. The results are as follows: 50 5 50 10 1, making the winning prize fund fifty million, five hundred and fifty thousand, one hundred and one pounds...i think, i'm terrible at maths. It was a lot anyway. The room erupts into applause despite me not hearing a winner announced. I look around and some but not all people are looking my way. "It must be someone else" I sit awkwardly for a long time, assuming the winner will appear on stage and it isn't until a large dinner-lady type woman hands me a wax trophy that i realise i have in fact won this random, not-random food-court slot machine lottery raffle thing.

I fumble towards the stage thinking i have to make a speech but to my chagrin some bearded guy does it for me. After that i don't remember anything of getting home or informing anyone, i simply wake up in the top bunk of my old bed in my bedroom at my dad's house and begin panicking that it was all in fact a dream. Mum enters the room and tells me to get up. I wearily stir and try to observe for any evidence of my winnings, either through items on my desk or things mum says. I get yelled at when i try asking about the money and why i can't remember anything last night because apparently i somehow locked mum outside when i returned home. It's unclear if she was outside all night or how she got back inside but she is understandably very pissed off with me and i conclude in despair that the magic lottery winnings were in fact all a dream.

Chapter 3 - Mercy Killing In Mitch's Back Garden...

A group of unfriendly military types from my upcoming story have taken two of our friends hostage. The leader being a smug bastard who, to be fair, narratively is perfectly within character to do something like this but i still obviously hate him in this scenario. It's oddly convenient but still unusual that the two hostages aren't referred to by their actual names in this sequence for some reason. Given that this dream was more of a nightmare and gets quite dark i'm going to roll with that and leave them unidentified...Tara and Mel are visible from the far end of Mitch's garden but none of us can get a clear shot on any of the guards and soldiers.

Leigh is equipped with some standard assault rifle and is edging forward up the garden while Nathan has something similar with a baseball bat cellotaped to the bottom. Mitch remains by the door to the house, presumably guarding munitions or being a medic or something i can't recall, and another Mitch is with me and Charlie by the alleyway of the garden. Mitch takes point, surveying the area through a sizeable, complicated modern sniper rifle, Charlie sits behind him doing nothing that stuck in my mind evidently and i behind Charlie, having apparently received the short straw in the artillery handouts wielding only a medieval crossbow...

It becomes a sort of unspoken harsh truth that we may have to kill our friends, the hostages if we can't rescue them safely. I believe the reasoning for this was that they would undergo far worse torture were everything not resolved at this current impasse. Tara and Mel are brought to the middle of the garden and knelt down next to each other.

Someone, somewhere fucks up the stand off and all hell breaks loose with hostilitys and gunfire raining off everywhere. Leigh and Nathan run forward and quickly become floored and wounded. Sniper Mitch aims down the rifle but takes no shots for some reason. I tag a girl in the shoulder with my crossbow but then feel really bad about it and she just sits down at our side of the battlefield and swears at me for a while.

With Tara and Mel caught in the crossfire, the panic skyrockets and we realise the last resort must be resorted to. Tara and Mel even scream at us from across the chaos "DO IT, DO IT, JUST KILL US, KILL US!" which is more than a little creepy to be dreaming about but justifies the in-dream-rationale slightly i guess...Whole thing seems a bit of a drastic overreaction in retrospect but that's dream logic i suppose.

I look over to Leigh, Nathan and Mitch who are unconcsious, crawling further into the battlefield unwilling to do the deed and straight up sitting in the corner scared and refusing respectively. Sniper Mitch is also backing down from the hostage killing despite being the best equipped to do so quickly and painlessly. I glance at a guilty Charlie and i realise i'll have to do it myself. I imaptiently tell Charlie to give me a gun and he fumbles around in his coat pockets producing a pistol the size of a spud gun.

I hold my hands up in surrender whilst still holding the pistol and walk onto the battlefield. I kneel down behind Mel and Tara and say the following "Don't worry i'm not going to attack you...well...obviously i am, but you know what i mean." Mel laughs and replies with "I never thought you'd be the one to do something like this." I think about replying but instead just load the gun and aim it at the back of her head. Thankfully i begin slipping out of this deranged delusion as i pull the trigger, meaning i at least never have to harm Tara but to be honest by this point, things are traumatising enough.

I finally wake up for real and ponder what a fucked up subconcious i seem to have...

Video Games Saved My Life

I am an avid video gamer in my twenties who also suffers from depression. I have been playing video games for most of my life, often for long stretches of time taking up entire days. I have also long since lost count of the times my favourite pastime has been blamed for crimes ranging from theft to mass murder. This article feels like throwing a grain of sand against a grand tidal wave of negative press but in a way that justifies the need for it even more. Consider this a piece of much needed positive coverage for video games from someone who has actually played more than one.

The main fear I see portrayed on news reports and discussed on panels of exclusively non-gamers is that gamers will lose the ability to differentiate reality and the world of the video game they are playing. Many people seem disturbed by how immersed gamers can become but I see that and instead think “good” Good that they lose themselves inside video games so that they have a respite from the real world, which I have observed to be more sick, deranged, violent and poisonous than any video game I have ever played.

The thought of witnessing all the injustice, cruelty and random merciless chaos of life relentlessly without release, without break seems more likely to drive a person insane and dangerous than the most realistic, immersive video game I can imagine. People blame video games for crimes committed when in fact I wager that they have delayed or even prevented far more.

During my childhood I was frequently bullied both at school and at home and often the only thing I had to look forward to was the unrivalled blissful escapism of video games. Forgetting who I was and losing myself in these worlds where things were simpler, fairer and more controllable. As a teenager I became severely depressed and this would go undiagnosed until my early twenties. Years of crippling self-hatred, constant doubt and an inability to enjoy life made me thoroughly miserable and I have plenty of memories where I’m surrounded by friends, partaking in some leisurely pursuit I should have been fully enjoying and instead of fun or happiness I simply felt empty.

How does one escape from something that is tied to your very being? A nightmare in your veins? A slow draining rot of the mind? Films, books, television and music work to a certain extent but nothing could match the immersion and scope of video games. Amongst the upsettingly few memories of times I have genuinely enjoyed with friends are also a great many memories of adventures taken, emotions experienced, connections made and satisfaction gleaned from achieving something which I knew was ultimately meaningless but found immense pleasure in all the same because I was immersed. For a while I could feel that my only problems were the challenges faced in video games. Challenges I could actually succeed in.

Forgetting who I was, losing that reference point for all my loathing and self-destructive impulses and instead believing I was an acrobatic time-controlling prince or a cybernetic commander of a cutting-edge spaceship or even just a quick little blue anthropomorphic hedgehog, was often the only release I got from the crushing paralysis present in the rest of my life.

Which brings me to the point of this article in which I confidently state that video games have not only saved me from the darkest, depthless emptiness I’ve ever felt but they have given me some of the happiest times I can recall in an existence otherwise starved of such sensations. I would wager that many people in similar positions would claim the same. There is no news to be found in people who are content with something, so the vast majority of gamers go unheard, primarily because they haven’t broken the law.

I don’t believe the media and politicians are completely devoid of logic in their distrust of the medium of video games ( just mostly) but I ask them to broaden their thinking in that a person who cannot detach and dissociate themselves at all from such an experience is in need of help far more generally in life. An inability to separate fact from fiction can prove problematic and potentially dangerous in all walks of life not just in the context of video games. Essentially, someone capable of the crimes often causally linked to video games has far bigger problems than what video games may or may not contribute to. 

Someone of that disposition is at equal risk in any activity, from video games, to paintball to driving a car, so instead of looking for easy and simple targets to blame, censor, and ban, take up the harder, more complex but also more pressing task of improving mental health care for people with these conditions you are seemingly so fraught with concern about.