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Leon: 'Concrete Soil'
Saturday
"Evens" Book Extract #5
[One of a series of extracts from Leon Blackwell’s bestselling autobiography "Evens". The diary of Old Lynn’s most revered psychopath.]
Page 365
My bad deeds have made the national newspapers, with various snippets in the finest tabloids and a lengthy, misinformed article in OK Magazine. Well. I say "article", but the magazine piece was mostly just a collection of photographs that showed the plush, middleclass interior of a mansion owned by one of my latest known victims. The photos were accompanied by a paragraph or two of commentary by Jodie Marsh, saying why she fears she’s next on my hitlist. The mind boggles, it really does.
The self-consciousness of being discussed by absurd people you have no respect for is a beguiling death. Without a word, they try to inflict their pitiful world-views on everyone who’ll listen, but its always inadequate – they wear their empty souls on their dirty sleeves for all to observe. Why, for God's sake?
Commuting home on the bus after being taunted in the High Street by yet another deadhead chav, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like to have punctured his larynx there and then. To open up this idiot’s throat and push my hand in the tight hole while he was still conscious. To see his warm breath piping through the gaping hole in his neck, creating a gentle mist effect as it hits the cold winter air.
Every day of the week I read about have-a-go heroes getting maimed and murdered by these mummy-boy morons. Heroes who were Good Men, often with families, who try to rise up against these evil and idiotic slackjaws who skulk and stalk our streets on a nightly basis. Good Men who stood up for their fellow man, to say "No. I’ve had enough of your bullying and intimidation. It stops here." But it doesn’t.
Nothing at all can be done, it seems, to rid our country of this kind of cretinous creation. May God have mercy on us.
I must try to do something. The Law Courts are worse than useless (actually participatory in the worst cases, I fear). This liberal Government is politics-by-numbers at ludicrous best.
No. Something new must be done. And, as I myself have killed already, I see it as my role to rip out the wretched innards from the fat torsos of society’s pondlife. There is MUCH work to be done…
I will rise up with my thinning hair and eat scum like air.
Something like that.
Leon Blackwell
"Evens" is available from all good bookshops now.
ISBN 1010 2020 1010 0102
£6.99 paperback.
Just Who is 'Unknown Origin'?
A Hacker?
An Automated Rogue Virus?
An Angry Loner?
A Prophet?
The Second Coming?
A Scientology Fundamentalist?
A Prankster?
Just who IS ‘Unknown Origin’?
The mystery started just a few short weeks ago, in the popular Cracktown Community IRC chatroom. While logged-on residents were in the midst of evening conversation, a flash of binary code with jumbled, incoherent sentences suddenly bombarded the chatroom. This obscure invasion automatically caused the chatroom to freeze in response for a time. Not much was initially thought of the strange outburst, until IRC Administrators tried to trace the IP address of the message source. And failed. Rick Male, Systems Cleanser for Quicklime News, explains; "It was very strange. Normally speaking, everyone leaves behind an IP address with every online movement they make. Not this time. The IP address was spoofed (i.e. faked) and the mysterious user, who must have intentionally bombarded the chatroom with their drivel, remains of ‘unknown origin’. Very few people in the world can successfully spoof an IP address. This bloke can."
The chatroom returned to normalcy for a time afterwards, various shut-ins and angry loners visiting the board just as frequently as before. Then, one night, Unknown Origin struck again. This time, a more clearer message was received by the chatroom logs;
"01101stillthereisnohope000111////THE END OF IT ALL///[ I CANNOT PERISH"
What does all this mean? Not much, admittedly. Except when you start to compare these curious chatroom invasions to similar entries found on several other chat nodes and virtual cafes on the internet. Quicklime News can, for the first time, exclusively reveal the hidden messages and pictures that have been sent to the darkest corners of the World Wide Web, all of which are linked by the sender with a familiarly 'spoofed' IP address – a certain ‘Unknown Origin’.
Here’s what was sent unannounced to a BNP chat applet three days ago;
YOURDAEDALUS.J_P_G
-----------38RH4RG347RGT734TG7GQEWER...
The binary code is too long to print here in full, but when you saved the whole message as a file and added the .jpeg extension, a low-res image can be seen;
And here’s another two entries, retrieved from the same racist site 7 hours later;
1. ICARUSWITHOUTCONSCIENCE.J_P_G
--------------------323224545EJFHECBCHBCHWEERJ...
2. LUNAREYE.J_P_G
--------------------329292848SFBEHBSSWUSUDFUUS...
As saved as jpeg files respectively;
1.
2.
An Automated Rogue Virus?
An Angry Loner?
A Prophet?
The Second Coming?
A Scientology Fundamentalist?
A Prankster?
Just who IS ‘Unknown Origin’?
The mystery started just a few short weeks ago, in the popular Cracktown Community IRC chatroom. While logged-on residents were in the midst of evening conversation, a flash of binary code with jumbled, incoherent sentences suddenly bombarded the chatroom. This obscure invasion automatically caused the chatroom to freeze in response for a time. Not much was initially thought of the strange outburst, until IRC Administrators tried to trace the IP address of the message source. And failed. Rick Male, Systems Cleanser for Quicklime News, explains; "It was very strange. Normally speaking, everyone leaves behind an IP address with every online movement they make. Not this time. The IP address was spoofed (i.e. faked) and the mysterious user, who must have intentionally bombarded the chatroom with their drivel, remains of ‘unknown origin’. Very few people in the world can successfully spoof an IP address. This bloke can."
The chatroom returned to normalcy for a time afterwards, various shut-ins and angry loners visiting the board just as frequently as before. Then, one night, Unknown Origin struck again. This time, a more clearer message was received by the chatroom logs;
"01101stillthereisnohope000111////THE END OF IT ALL///[ I CANNOT PERISH"
What does all this mean? Not much, admittedly. Except when you start to compare these curious chatroom invasions to similar entries found on several other chat nodes and virtual cafes on the internet. Quicklime News can, for the first time, exclusively reveal the hidden messages and pictures that have been sent to the darkest corners of the World Wide Web, all of which are linked by the sender with a familiarly 'spoofed' IP address – a certain ‘Unknown Origin’.
Here’s what was sent unannounced to a BNP chat applet three days ago;
YOURDAEDALUS.J_P_G
-----------38RH4RG347RGT734TG7GQEWER...
The binary code is too long to print here in full, but when you saved the whole message as a file and added the .jpeg extension, a low-res image can be seen;
And here’s another two entries, retrieved from the same racist site 7 hours later;
1. ICARUSWITHOUTCONSCIENCE.J_P_G
--------------------323224545EJFHECBCHBCHWEERJ...
2. LUNAREYE.J_P_G
--------------------329292848SFBEHBSSWUSUDFUUS...
As saved as jpeg files respectively;
1.
2.
Further bizarrely encoded messages were found on the following chat applets and nodes;
Zinger’s Celebrity Pedestal forum. Text received;
POORICARUS.J_P_G
----------------3285768457ASACCHWHXSHFJGKFK...
And converted to;
A Coughin’ With A Chav Innit chatroom. Text received;
HIRO.J_P_G
--------------3475868695ASCEFTGUNCABBUXXAA...
And converted to;
The mystery just gets curiouser and curiouser. What is this online series of pictures and pseudo-prophetic babblings actually trying to say? Many are unsure, or plainly indifferent. Some, however, are already posting and discussing their wild theories on the Quicklime IRC Chatroom itself;
"Its God…"
"Its the alien worshippers going nuts after those four Scientology fundamentalists did the bombings in Aberdeen…"
"Its Banksy…"
"Its just a worm virus doing picture-mixes from random thumbnail galleries…"
And so on.
One thing is for sure. No-one has a clue as to who, or what, is sending these messages. Nor what they are trying to say.
Maybe it IS simply all a silly hoax after all. Nothing more than a geeky child in a dank bedroom somewhere, wanting to spread some kind of confusion and distraction for their own amusement. Or maybe it truly is someone trying to warn us all, in this dark and uncertain post-flood era, to not rest on our laurels or assume ‘everything is going to be ok’.
Because maybe, just maybe, everything WON’T be okay.
Polly Blank[home]
Please see the latest issue of Quicklime News for Polly Blank’s already award-winning serial coverage of the ‘Rooftop Running’ craze hitting the region’s youth; "Youngsters, mostly of the 10-19 age bracket, are congregating more and more on the rooftops of the Flooded Zone houses and partially-submerged retail parks, perilously leaping from chimney to chimney and antennae to antennae above the flooded wastelands. Read more about my findings in the next edition of the ONLY local paper you can trust".
Friday
"Evens" Book Extract #4
[One of a series of extracts from Leon Blackwell’s sensational autobiography “Evens”. The diary of Old Lynn’s most revered psychopath.]
Pages 200-201
Displaying the videos on the shelves in the front window I almost collided with the door as it swung open to reveal a small, elderly man in the doorway. Soaked with rain, he shook his long black leather coat a little before stepping into the shop. I could tell straight off that he was obviously a fine specimen of the salivating perv (Salivatus Perviticus – look it up), hovering about the female shoe section like so many before him. What do these people think? That just before they walked into the shop, a busload of college girls dropped off all of their unwanted black stiletto boots and plimsolls, fresh from their dainty little doll-like feet. Would these geezers be so eager to feed their fetish if they knew that the only women that frequent this shop are either elderly, infirm, or obese middle-aged harlots with their screaming, disobedient offspring constantly in tow?
“Hello Leon. How are you?” he muttered, grasping what may have been his penis under his coat. I didn’t have a clue who he was, nor how he knew my name, but it turned out Perviticus was “a friend of the family”. At least according to him that is. He immediately began talking about something to do with “influence, consequence and freedom of choice”. Or some pseudo-brainy bullshit. To tell you the truth, I was more concerned about what he was doing under his coat than what he was mumbling on about. The Cod-philosophical ramblings of a shoe fetishist, attempting to justify his perverted behaviour in public, just like any other moron spouting Sade or Brady to suit their twisted tastes. You see them all the time in the shop, I have to say. Two-a-penny. The sheer amount of lonely old men who buy toddlers’ clothes from us is unbelievable, for instance. You just know that they’re rushing home on the bus afterwards, eager to squeeze themselves into a pair of Barbie knickers.
However, this particular perv seemed slightly different to me. Every time I looked straight into his watery, fish-like eyes as he spoke, it gave me a queasy feeling in my gut. God knows why. I’ve seen enough of these geezers in my time. Perhaps I had seen him someplace else before, I dunno. Anyway, on he continued, mentioning he had no problem with others expressing their own philosophies of life, that he encouraged others to live their lives to the full, etc. etc. Like he was some kind of teacher.
“What is your philosophy, Leon?”, he smiled. “Look mate, we have a policy in this shop. I will have to ask you to leave if you’re gonna cause trouble. I don’t need this crap. Want to buy a My Little Pony annual? It has pictures of young girls in it, if you’re interested – you completely obvious and unoriginal perv.” The man in black grinned like the Cheshire Cat, exposing two rows of yellowed enamel tombstones. I knew what he was up to. Trying to make me commit a terrible mistake again. Rile me up until something happened. So I ignored him and sat back down behind the till, refusing to meet his continuous stare.
Salivatus Perviticus then flinched and exited the shop with lightning speed, the door banging softly in his wake.
As soon as he left the premises, the shop turned a crimson shade of red, the walls breathing and sighing. Cracks in the plaster of the ceiling opened up to betray dark red gore and skin. Pulsing and wriggling. I remember thinking at the time that this was going to get much worse before it gets any better.
Leon Blackwell
“Evens” is available from all good bookshops now.
ISBN 1010 2020 1010 0102
£6.99 paperback.
ISBN 1010 2020 1010 0102
£6.99 paperback.
Calum: 'Down in Devil's Alley'
Ok well, Quicklime News asked me to put sumink down for da blog, and I chose dis. In Cracktown da Drug Pit and Devil’s Alley, nearby, have a loooong history.
Devil’s Alley, named 500 years ago or sumink, is a thin bit of wasteland surrounded by brickwork & silos. You cant see inside it anywhere cept da only entranceway nr Paradise Lane. You cant evn see inside it without a torch – even daytime. Dere’s also big blox of derelict buildings round it & da whole area iz close 2 falling down. No-one iz allowed 2 enter it officially as its so unsafe. I remember when I wus a nippr – running fast as possible past da alley after skool cuz of da stories sed bout it. I wuz told by my gran that dere hav been sightings & hearings of tall blackened devils marching down da darkest part of da alley at nite. Only da dumb wud walk down there wen its dark.
Dere wuz dat kid Simon Qwerty who disappeared 1 nite 4 years ago. Dey found his trousers & shoes inside da entrance of da alleyway. Spooky. It has been sed dat he wuz left dere by sum right bastard, strung up by his wrists near da entrance of da subteraneen tunnel half-way down da alley. Ya see, der’s a lot of talkin bout sacrifices or body parts left for da tall devils at dat very spot. Dey say dat if you offer da tall ones some human meat dey give u a gift so dat u live forever.
Da Drug Pit, which is nearby, is not much better. I often go down dere wit me brethren Liam, A-Jay & Tariq & cane some salvia & a bit of blow of a nite. Not in da place itself – a lot of screams herd from da darkest cornerz of da pit. No way hozay. Never been down dere yet. Also I see some Babylon around 2 much, so don’t hang round dere as much as I used 2. Da drug pit itself is thin section of covered land where dere used to be a seed factory. Bout 200 steps from Devils Alley. Smashed glass, trashed silo innards, wires & bricks all over da place, coverd in puke/piss/shit. Tramps stay no longer than a day in dis area b4 dey fink dey better go elsewhere. Bad feelingz all round.
Anyways, Cracktown Devils Alley. As a part of dis, I wuz paid by da newspaper to rite up bit bout da history of it. Dun that, but I thought I’d giv u geezers some up-2-date tales of what’s been goin on down in da both places, so here we go…
My cousin sez that, wen he wuz on da dragon for 3 years, he often took his works down da Drug Pit & sat on da white ledge to shoot up. Da white ledge is apparently da place that u sit & get stoned & not be forced 2 scream, innit. Like da other poor barstard crackwhores and stoners. So much misery, he sez. But best place to score in Cracktown. Next best place is with da Swaffhamites near da Lilith Woods, but dats a fair drive aways.
ANYWAYs, my cousin sez that 1 nite he & his shooting bud, after gettin high, both found a door in da ground (near back of a Silo) dat took them down under Drug Pit – a sort of tunnel. He went down there after bustin’ da lock – he sez it wuz a real old lock that wuz strong but hadn been open for 100 years or sumink. ANYWAYs, he went down dere an couldn see nufink. Pitch black as a raven. So he turnd his Mobile Centre on & lit da tunnel up wit his user-lite. He swung da camera round da area to see & thats wen he saw it. A bloke wuz just standin dere in da tunnel, breathin real funny but just standin dere wit white starin eyes. My cousin thought it wuz tooo much salvia he took bit earlier. Imaginin it, like. But da bloke wit da white eyes wuz walkin slowly towards my cousin wit da cold breath showing in da air. My cousin took da shot below wit his Ericsson Mobile Centre b4 runnin back up da tunnel & got out da door before his shooting bud came down. Dey slammd da door shut & put bricks on it to stop da white eye man from comin back up to get em. Then dey scarpered. Ran in da nite as fast as dey could.
Here’s da shot my cousin took dat nite…
Devil’s Alley, named 500 years ago or sumink, is a thin bit of wasteland surrounded by brickwork & silos. You cant see inside it anywhere cept da only entranceway nr Paradise Lane. You cant evn see inside it without a torch – even daytime. Dere’s also big blox of derelict buildings round it & da whole area iz close 2 falling down. No-one iz allowed 2 enter it officially as its so unsafe. I remember when I wus a nippr – running fast as possible past da alley after skool cuz of da stories sed bout it. I wuz told by my gran that dere hav been sightings & hearings of tall blackened devils marching down da darkest part of da alley at nite. Only da dumb wud walk down there wen its dark.
Dere wuz dat kid Simon Qwerty who disappeared 1 nite 4 years ago. Dey found his trousers & shoes inside da entrance of da alleyway. Spooky. It has been sed dat he wuz left dere by sum right bastard, strung up by his wrists near da entrance of da subteraneen tunnel half-way down da alley. Ya see, der’s a lot of talkin bout sacrifices or body parts left for da tall devils at dat very spot. Dey say dat if you offer da tall ones some human meat dey give u a gift so dat u live forever.
Da Drug Pit, which is nearby, is not much better. I often go down dere wit me brethren Liam, A-Jay & Tariq & cane some salvia & a bit of blow of a nite. Not in da place itself – a lot of screams herd from da darkest cornerz of da pit. No way hozay. Never been down dere yet. Also I see some Babylon around 2 much, so don’t hang round dere as much as I used 2. Da drug pit itself is thin section of covered land where dere used to be a seed factory. Bout 200 steps from Devils Alley. Smashed glass, trashed silo innards, wires & bricks all over da place, coverd in puke/piss/shit. Tramps stay no longer than a day in dis area b4 dey fink dey better go elsewhere. Bad feelingz all round.
Anyways, Cracktown Devils Alley. As a part of dis, I wuz paid by da newspaper to rite up bit bout da history of it. Dun that, but I thought I’d giv u geezers some up-2-date tales of what’s been goin on down in da both places, so here we go…
My cousin sez that, wen he wuz on da dragon for 3 years, he often took his works down da Drug Pit & sat on da white ledge to shoot up. Da white ledge is apparently da place that u sit & get stoned & not be forced 2 scream, innit. Like da other poor barstard crackwhores and stoners. So much misery, he sez. But best place to score in Cracktown. Next best place is with da Swaffhamites near da Lilith Woods, but dats a fair drive aways.
ANYWAYs, my cousin sez that 1 nite he & his shooting bud, after gettin high, both found a door in da ground (near back of a Silo) dat took them down under Drug Pit – a sort of tunnel. He went down there after bustin’ da lock – he sez it wuz a real old lock that wuz strong but hadn been open for 100 years or sumink. ANYWAYs, he went down dere an couldn see nufink. Pitch black as a raven. So he turnd his Mobile Centre on & lit da tunnel up wit his user-lite. He swung da camera round da area to see & thats wen he saw it. A bloke wuz just standin dere in da tunnel, breathin real funny but just standin dere wit white starin eyes. My cousin thought it wuz tooo much salvia he took bit earlier. Imaginin it, like. But da bloke wit da white eyes wuz walkin slowly towards my cousin wit da cold breath showing in da air. My cousin took da shot below wit his Ericsson Mobile Centre b4 runnin back up da tunnel & got out da door before his shooting bud came down. Dey slammd da door shut & put bricks on it to stop da white eye man from comin back up to get em. Then dey scarpered. Ran in da nite as fast as dey could.
Here’s da shot my cousin took dat nite…
His homey gang still say 2 dis day dat my cousin actually went right underground 2 Devils Alley by dat tunnel & saw a tall devil. Dunno if dat trapdoor is still dere. My cousin quit dragon soon after & nevr went down dere again.
Antother story involves Damon Qwerty, Simon’s bro. Dis is a well-nown story. & my last one 4 dis piece, innit. Damon wuz my age. Probs at school. Abuse. Drugz. All da lot. ANYWAYs, Damon Qwerty was an asshole an tosser of da highest order. Didn pay dealers & shit. Got beaten up at school cuz he wuz a freak. Caught wearin lipstick. Ponce. He wuzn’t a man like me, 4 instance. He went down to Drug Pit 1 nite 2 years ago. He always believed his bro Simon wuz still around – he once claimd 2 hav seen him with da tall devils in da alley but never sed he actually went down dere himself ever b4, nor wot it wuz like down dere. Damon went down to Drug Pit, like I sed, & took loadz of salvia accordin 2 my other cousin who saw im dat nite. After a skinful of Ole Sal, Damon took his torch & staggered out of da pit & stumbled into da Alley nearby, screamin for his bro Simon 2 be given back. Dis wuz around midnite. People saw his torchlite go everywhere & often pointed 2 da skies wid it, so people cud tell he wuz deep down in da alley. Then it all went dark & deadly quiet like. No whimper nor scream cud be herd.
Damon wuz missing for 7 days b4 he wuz seen tumblin out of da Alley & collapsing in Paradise Lane durin a cold dark nite. His trousers & shoes wer gone & his hair had turnd pure white. He nevr spoke of his bro again. In fact, after his stint in hospital, he nevr spoke again period. Damon can, 2 dis day, often be seen sittin/rockin under da Paradise Lane street-lite at nite.
No-one evr speaks 2 him now tho.
Antother story involves Damon Qwerty, Simon’s bro. Dis is a well-nown story. & my last one 4 dis piece, innit. Damon wuz my age. Probs at school. Abuse. Drugz. All da lot. ANYWAYs, Damon Qwerty was an asshole an tosser of da highest order. Didn pay dealers & shit. Got beaten up at school cuz he wuz a freak. Caught wearin lipstick. Ponce. He wuzn’t a man like me, 4 instance. He went down to Drug Pit 1 nite 2 years ago. He always believed his bro Simon wuz still around – he once claimd 2 hav seen him with da tall devils in da alley but never sed he actually went down dere himself ever b4, nor wot it wuz like down dere. Damon went down to Drug Pit, like I sed, & took loadz of salvia accordin 2 my other cousin who saw im dat nite. After a skinful of Ole Sal, Damon took his torch & staggered out of da pit & stumbled into da Alley nearby, screamin for his bro Simon 2 be given back. Dis wuz around midnite. People saw his torchlite go everywhere & often pointed 2 da skies wid it, so people cud tell he wuz deep down in da alley. Then it all went dark & deadly quiet like. No whimper nor scream cud be herd.
Damon wuz missing for 7 days b4 he wuz seen tumblin out of da Alley & collapsing in Paradise Lane durin a cold dark nite. His trousers & shoes wer gone & his hair had turnd pure white. He nevr spoke of his bro again. In fact, after his stint in hospital, he nevr spoke again period. Damon can, 2 dis day, often be seen sittin/rockin under da Paradise Lane street-lite at nite.
No-one evr speaks 2 him now tho.
Some say it wuz 2 much of da Ole Sal dat nite, a pure mix 4 a snow overdose & he wuz in sum kinda coma 4 dat lost week. I say no - I agree wit da rumours. He saw his bro dat nite in da Alley, alrite. But his bro Simon, missin for 3 years by then, had changed. Simon wuz much taller now.
Calum
[Quicklime offices]
[Quicklime offices]
p.s. I went down Drug Pit again 2 days ago & dere wuz nufink but graff & needle trash by da silos. I found no trapdoor & saw no1 around. Will prob go again soon & report back here with wot I see.
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