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It’s a Wrap

Ferret in London

Thirty months ago I set out to write a novel, not really having a clear idea of where to begin. Being the sort of chap who learns best by doing, I threw myself headfirst into the task of producing a framework with major plot points. It took six weeks to create the novel’s back story and the character arcs. The writing commenced shortly afterwards and I proceeded at pace, adhering assiduously to the plan. Two months in, I published some excerpts to this blog and after considering the feedback, realised that what I’d proposed was: a) far too long for a first book; and b) was not going to fly in its current form.

Rather than soldier on, I changed track, rethought the plot and cut the size down, turning one book into two. In the process, I was forced to edit out two of my favourite scenes. That really hurt.

The first draft took nine months nearly full time. I spent roughly 4 days a week, 8 hours a day writing, and 2 days a week reading advice columns, character hints and other writer’s blogs. All very useful stuff and I urge anyone who’s struggling with a first draft to do the same. The ending was all a bit rushed, I needed to get it finished so I could go back to work. So much was missing, so many loose ends untied. That was June 2013.

Steady, cowboy

Two years later and the second draft proper is finished, with the ending now complete. One of the advice columns I read – I can’t remember who said it, or I’d post a link – but paraphrased it goes like this: think of yourself not as an author but a pilot. The audience has climbed aboard your plane, participated in the take off, flown the flight. If you’ve done the catering right, they’re all still aboard (apart from the ones who freaked and parachuted out early on). Now, they’re trusting you the pilot to land the effing plane, so you better not disappoint. In the case of Ferret, the plane has an outbreak of snakes, there’s a pair of armed terrorists aboard, food poisoning has incapacitated the flight crew, the landing gear is jammed and there’s a storm directly ahead. Oh, lordy…

Truth be told, it’s the most fun I’ve had in years. Well, since IBM declared me persona non grata for producing a series of films, with the participation of their top brass, which supposed the firm was run like the mafia. They terminated my contract and tried to impound and incinerate every one of the DVDs. Fortunately, they failed. Anyone who know me knows that every once in a while I have to create some noise and cause trouble. It’s a genetic trait – I blame my father for instilling in his children a healthy disrespect for the establishment and their organs of justice. Company newsletters were my thing for a while. Three times I went too far for the liking of management, collecting one written and one verbal warning. Fidelity Investments took great exception to a piece about tattooing barcodes on the back of their employee’s necks and checking them in and out with a barcode reader, for security purposes. Shortly after that I moved on to short stories published in various magazines, regarding working practices in IT, with names changed to protect the guilty. The guilty may not have spotted themselves, but their co-workers did, which forced me to switch to a series of pen names.

All in the Edit

Ferret ups the ante considerably.

Whilst it is a work of fiction, it takes many real life experiences garnered from hanging about with consultants, working in high finance and on confidential government projects. I’ve not set out to spill any secrets, merely write a tale of how these organisations behave under the covers. Believe me, this is a full-on cage rattler – lord knows, I’ve taken enough time to get there.

I’m now commencing the final edit, which I’m really looking forward to. I know from making movies, that the editing studio is where those six hours of footage become 5 minutes of freaky fun. Hard work looms, but I can’t wait to see what comes out the other end.

Tags: blog, creative writing, fiction, novel, writing, writing tips

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Categories Ferret Files, Uncategorized, Writing Tips

Musical Influences

22 Jun

I’m a big listener of music, always have been and if I need to escape from the world for a while it’s the headphones that I turn to. Judging by the number of people I see on a daily basis wandering around the city, on public transport and even down the gym, I’m not alone in this pastime. With so many people on the planet tuned into their favourite sounds, it will come as no surprise to learn that fictional characters have musical preferences too. Let me put that another way: if you’re writing a character and they DON’T have a favourite tune or band, you’re missing a trick.

Personally, I’m a fan of singer/songwriters with a story to tell (Neil Young, Bob Dylan), symphonic rock (guitars plus keyboards and an orchestra), and plain old guitar driven rock. In years gone by I’ve listened to practically everything from high tempo punk to stoner rock with its gyrating, sludgy bass. Somewhere in-between comes the Seattle sound, led by Nirvana and Pearl Jam.

I find with music that certain songs act as an anchor to certain feelings, and simply playing the right song takes you back to the right head space. Conversely, if you have a favourite song that you used to listen to with an ex, it can be too painful to listen to that track or album for years on end.

Resistance is Futile

The Ferret Files is a mix of high finance meets secret societies meets government conspiracy; the right band to get me in the Ferret headspace is without a doubt Muse. Matt Bellamy of Muse is a musical geek who loves a conspiracy theory, which is just perfect. The other band I listen to a lot is Nightwish, a Finnish female fronted rock act who deserve to bigger internationally than they are. Fantastic live.

In order to tell the story, I’ve chosen a number of characters who each have POV chapters. When writing, it can be tricky to flip between them and get in character. As each of them is a different person, with differing musical tastes, one of the tricks I use is anchor songs.

Ferret’s anchor song is ‘Uprising’ by Muse. Cyrano, his drug dealing tricky best mate’s anchor song is ‘Somebody Put Something in my Drink’ by the Ramones. Marcus, the gay government official is anything by Kylie, but specifically ‘Can’t Get You Out of My Head’. Juliet, Ferret’s posh girl-gone-bad girlfriend has a thing for bad boy rockers, so it’s Guns N Roses for her, ‘You Could Be Mine’. Damien, the confused Account Executive who wants to tread the boards, but daddy would disinherit him – he’s fond of Les Miserables. Flamen Dialis, High Priest of Jupiter – he listens to Pink Floyd.

For me, my character’s differing musical tastes help me to feel the conflict brewing between them, and ultimately it’s conflict and conflict resolution that drives any good story. If everyone listened to the same music and wanted the same thing – well, there’s no point in me picking up a pen.

Cyrano, for instance, with his love of fast tempo punk is never going to get along with Marcus, who’s busy secretly prancing about in feather boas. He’s also going to have a thing or two to say to Ferret about liking safe pop/rock. Ferret & Marcus on the other hand, they get along just fine. Whilst Matt Bellamy of Muse isn’t a true bad boy, he is quite bonkers, so Juliet will live with this while dating Ferret, just as Ferret will live with the odd bit of G’N’R in his life. Cyrano and Juliet: funnily enough, they’re instantly drawn to each other, and such an attraction is never going to sit well with our hero.

Have a great week. And while you’re at it, have a think – what’s your theme song? What single song sums up who you are, your wants and desires? One day you’ll have to make a fabulous entry, and that’s the song that you’ll want playing. By all means, leave a comment and let the world know what it is. In the meantime, never underestimate the power of music to evoke powerful, positive emotions in both you and others.

Tags: #amwriting, blog, creative writing, fiction, paranormal, writing, writing tips

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Categories Writing Tips

Ferret goes to Highgate Cemetery

17 Jun

Here’s a sneak peek at the second illustration for the Ferret Files, courtesy of my good pal Richard Argent over at www.argentart.co.uk.

We were working on this scene, busily rewatching old Hammer Horror films when the sad news of Sir Christopher Lee’s death was announced. I suspect that Ferret & Emily may well be making their way into the world of merchandising…

Tags: artwork, blog, creative writing, detective, fiction, hammer horror, illustrations, novel, paranormal, Sir Christopher Lee, strange tales

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Categories Artwork, Ferret Files, Hammer Horror

Hurrah for Consultants

1 Jun

Firstly, in order to remove any confusion, the consultants referred to in the title of this piece are of the Management variety, and not their more respectable surgical cousins. I’m sure they both share many characteristics – that’s what the comments section is for.

I’ve spent many years working in corporates and the echelons of government, both as a consultant and an employer of consultants, so when I say that the chief characteristic of a great consultant is the ability to charm your pants off, you better believe it. You know you’ve met a mediocre or poor consultant when at the end of a meeting you still have your pants fastened firmly around your waist. The great consultant leaves with two pairs of trousers, and you’re so befuddled you don’t even realise until you get home that you rode the tube in socks and underwear.

With great charm comes a great smile. It’s that smile that acts as an anchor to the feelings you had during the first ever meeting with your new consultant chum, so much so that as soon as you see them, you take your own pants off and hand them over, along with your jacket and wallet. With a wink, the great consultant hands you back your tube pass. The mediocre consultant, meanwhile, is still trying to figure out how the hell the really good guy has a different suit for every day of the month.

Great consultants need great hair. This is more a guideline than a rule, as it’s possible to make it as a baldie, but here’s the inside rip: you have to have a really nice shaped head. One consultant pal of mine had lost a lot of hair, and if he let it grow even for a couple of days, he became invisible in a crowd. Shaved right down, he had the IT factor in bunches. His trick was not so much the collecting of pants, as the collecting of bras and frillies, although truth be told he was so smooth, he undoubtedly had a wardrobe full of client’s pants too.

A great consultant dresses the part. Not over-the-top $10,000 suits like you find in banking circles, all that does is serve to alienate them from the average client . A great consultant working in media dresses down, wearing smart casual. The same great consultant working in advertising wears a nice fashionable suit. The great consultant working in banking comes home with three of four $10,000 suits on their first day in the job, setting them up for the remainder of the week.

Finally, like all consultants, a great consultant speaks a proprietary language comprised of grandiose, highfaluting technical and business terms that sound utterly believable when they purr them out, but somehow manage to turn into utter twaddle when you try to repeat them in the lunch queue. The ability to utter choice phrases as though your very pants depend on them is a confidence thing, something the mediocre consultant can’t grasp and mere mortals swoon over.

I can’t claim to be a great consultant myself, on the grounds that I’m still buying my own trousers after twenty years. But I am good at giving solid advice. FYI – the type of advice not to give is: ‘your dress will look great on me’, even if it’s the truth. During one charm offensive I did once swap clothes with a female client in an office with the shutters down, but that led to all sorts of horrible complications when she left to get coffee and didn’t come back for an hour. She went on to join a top consultancy by the way, and still has my suit to this day. I call her occasionally and ask for it back. She tells me to pop over, which I tried the once. Kindly, she let me keep my tube pass.

Anyway, the point of this article is to say hurrah for consultants. Love them or hate them, the world would be a much more boring place without them. So much so, that I’ve taken all the great consultants I’ve ever met and rolled them up into one character called Ferret. A wayward consultant who’s great at his job but is gagging to become a detective. Let’s call him a detecting consultant. He has a wardrobe full of pants and a collection of frillies. Nothing can possibly go wrong for him. That is, until the day he loses his charm…

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Tags: blog, comedy, consultant, creative writing, detective, ENTERTAINMENT, fiction, paranormal, workplace humor

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Categories Consultancy, Ferret Files

Groundhog Day

31 Jan

So here I am once more, back on the final chapter of the Ferret Files, nineteen months after the last time I was here. Things have moved on – in a good direction, the whole novel feels much better and my characters are much happier with their lot. How do I know? They’ve stopped bitching to me about unfulfilled desires and hanging plot lines.

So what have I learned during the second revision?

1) If you have a novel inside you that’s demanding to see the light of day, write it. Perseverance is key. Set to and don’t stop writing until you’ve finished. No excuses. Really want it. Focus on how great it will feel once you’ve reached that final chapter. Make pictures of the day you write ‘The End’. Chances are you’ll have to reorganize your life and miss out on things you’d otherwise do. Sacrifice is no bad thing. It hardens your resolve.

2) There will be days when you want to tear your hair out, days when you think you’re a dillweed for ever imagining you can write and days when you don’t get started until 8 hours after you planned. On the flip side, there will be days when you feel amazing inside. You’ll have a smile for everyone, especially yourself, over some delicious one-liner, a clever plot twist or a paragraph of narrative that’s good enough for Jehovah. Those are the days that make it all worthwhile. People will think you’re on drugs. Let them.

3) Listen to your characters. They know what they want better than you do. If you push them about, they will fight back. Take heed of what they say, take a deep breath and go with it. You’ll learn things about your characters that you didn’t know and that’ll make you feel on top of the world. See (2). Any good story is the story of characters and how they change over time when faced with issues they didn’t expect to encounter. If you’re ever in doubt about who your characters are, imagine them all at a dinner party. Who forgets to wear a bow tie? Who takes two, just in case? Now lob a grenade in the room and watch them react. This is a metaphor for something unexpected BTW, it doesn’t have to be a real grenade. The point is to take your characters out of the novel, put them in a situation that doesn’t exist in the novel, add some chaos, watch and learn.

4) Not every brilliant idea you have has to be used immediately. If it doesn’t fit, don’t try and cram it in. Some ideas are so good, they’re novels on their own, they need space to develop and breathe. So keep a notebook, jot them down and then leave well alone. Rabbit holes will derail you. and once you’re down one, it’s easy to forget how you got there. Think Alice in Wonderland.

5) If you’re stuck, blog it. Social media is your window to the world. If you have something that’s bothering you in the way of the plot, characters or even technique, write about it, put it down for a day and then think about pressing the publish button before you re-read it. That should get the juices flowing. Now you can re-read. Saying something out aloud is very different to saying it in your head. Often the shock will provide the answer. If not, bash the problem around. I tend to use other writers rather than my friends, just because they’ve not been up to their elbows in words and don’t fully understand what’s going through your head.

6) Write about stuff that interests you. You don’t have to be the world’s foremost expert on brain surgery to have an interest in it. Research is all part of the writing experience, whether you do it before you start, or while you’re going along. If you find brain surgery to be as dull as ditch water, then leave it well alone. Ultimately, you’re no different to anybody else out there. If you choose to write about something that you have no interest in whatsoever, it will show. Excuses will abound and you’ll find it difficult to finish. Overall, you won’t enjoy the writing experience and readers will enjoy the reading experience even less. Being happy is the key to being productive. Writing about things that interest me while listening to music I love – there’s no better feeling. See (2).

7) Read often. The more you read good fiction, the more you learn unconsciously about the writing process and the art of story telling. If you have difficulty with a particular plot point, see how your favorite author deals with it. Ultimately, every story has already been told, but not every combination of words has ever been used to reach the conclusion. Writing and music have a lot in common. There’s only so may notes, yet new songs come out all the time and they still manage to be original. Musicians have their influences, authors too. Read. Digest. Be inspired. Dare to reach for Heaven.

That’s it for today. Now I’m back in the flow, I can’t seem to shut up…

Tags: #amwriting, blog, blogosphere, creative writing, fiction, tips, writing, writing tips

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Categories Writing Tips

Spooky Ferret

28 Jan

Here’s the final Ferret illustration, for now, from my good pal Richard Argent over at Argent Art.

When I set out to write, I wanted to create the novel I’d been waiting 40 odd years to read. At some point, I figured, someone would combine the paranormal, an extinct Nazi drugs program, City of London banksters and financial malfeasance into a coherent story. But no. Still waiting. Lob in a healthy dose of humor, some consultant doublespeak and several years of my own experiences working for the Government on programmes I can’t talk about, and you’ve got the Ferret Files.

Ultimately, I’m no different to anyone else. If I want to read this story, then you do too. And you will. Very soon…

Tags: #amwriting, blog, consultant, detective, fiction, paranormal, writing

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Categories Artwork, Ferret Files

A Bit of Friday Fun

23 Jan

It’s been a while since I finished the first draft of the Ferret Files and started on the second. To be honest, I really had no idea how long it might take, having not written a full length novel before. In the background, I’ve been working with my good pal Richard Argent over at Argent Art to put some Ferret visuals together (Richard is a very talented artist, please check his other stuff out). Firstly, I have a funky new Avatar which I’m very pleased with:

Ferret in London

I should point out that Ferret the Detecting Consultant is a real person, not a cartoon character. He runs a detective agency, this is his logo and it’s what appears on his business cards. Very kindly, he’s agreed to lend it to me, to help promote his story.

Over the next few days I’ll publish some of Richard’s other Ferret illustrations – they’re very good. He’s currently working on a half dozen sketches, drawn in his usual style, as illustrations for the finished novel. I can’t wait to see key scenes of London, populated with my characters, it’s going to rock big time.

Tags: #amediting, #amwriting, Argent Art, artwork, blog, consultant, creative writing, detective, fiction, geek humor, illustrations, paranormal, strange tales

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Categories Artwork, Ferret Files

This is THE END (my friend, the end)

30 May

I recently wrote those two little words that I didn’t think I’d ever see: THE END.

Two weeks later, I realise it’s anything but! It’s simply the beginning of another cycle of hard work, towards creating a complete product. Overall, I’m very happy with where I am, although a couple of key characters did things I hadn’t planned them to do near the end, which made for a few hairy moments. As an author, if you don’t let your characters be themselves and express their flaws, then really you don’t have a body of work. So they did their thing, created chaos and also revealed secrets I was previously unaware of. One reveal has repercussions right the way back to the beginning of the book, which actually gave me a squeal of delight, as it helps to make sense of a pair of earlier scenes.

On the negative side, it’s taken nearly six months to write the Ferret Files. I’d allowed three.

On the plus side, I did a word count and was delighted to come in at 105K – 25k less than I feared.

On the negative side, I’ve now got to go find a paying job.

On the plus side, an old friend who I’d lost contact with resurfaced, and with her a brilliant comic book artist who remains mostly unknown – now onboard for cover duties and illustrations. I’m very excited about working with this guy, his drawings are nuts.

Mostly, what I’ve taken from the experience of writing my first novel is a feeling of great satisfaction. I knew I had the stamina and will to finish, but that’s not the same as actually doing it full time (I tried part time, it didn’t work for me). What’s come out the other end in terms of first draft and story exceeds my expectations. Considering my plan went to hell after three months, that’s good. Yeah?

Neil Young got me started and saw me over the finishing line. Nightwish and The Ramones supplied a lot of fuel in the middle. FYI – I took a break to Berlin last weekend and let hair down at Rammstein. Visited The Ramones museum just off Oranienburger Strasse – if you get the chance, go. It’s a proper rock n roll shrine. Bat for Lashes helped slow things down.

Jim Morrison and the Doors provided the closing song, with ‘The End’.

As long as the influence of all the great music this novel is infused with seeps out in the reading, you’re gonna have fantastic fun with this one. I set out to write the novel I want to read, which no-one else has so far written. And succeeded. The rest is dominoes, all the way to the bookshelves.

A quick brush-up and it’s time to find some readers…

Tags: blog, blogosphere, creative writing, ENTERTAINMENT, fiction, geek, geek humor, investigation, nightwish, novel, paranormal, ramones, urban fiction, writing, writing tips

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Categories Writing Tips

The Petrollica Affair (vii)

9 May

Cowboys

Six thirty on a Saturday morning, the pair stumbled through the ancient oak bound front doors to Bwain’s offices, quite dishevelled and much the worse for wear, desperately trying to remember the combination to the burglar alarm, which they’d argued about all the way from Mayfair, driving the cabbie crazy.

“1-4-6-9-5,” said Bleep.

“1-6-4-9-5,” argued Babyface.

“Where have you two been?” demanded Reg the second Babyface set foot on the premises, causing the duo to jump out of their skins, screaming. “And the answer better not be the strip club I think it is.”

“Petrollica!” stuttered Bleep defensively. “It’s six bloody thirty in the morning Reg, what the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be tucked–up in bed, not trying to scare the living bejesus out of us.”

“That’s none of your business,” retorted Reg, turning crimson. “Babyface…”

“At least let me get my coat off.”

“What’s in those carrier bags?”

“That would be 12 telex boxes,” stated Bleep matter-of-factly.

“You promised me you’d fit them,” said Reg. “This better not be a disaster in the making, because if it is I promise you they’ll be publications.”

“Faulty hardware, Reg. Bad batch,” replied Bleep.

“More naughty than bad,” added Babyface. “So naughty it took us all night to figure it out. I’m going to my desk now, to have a large mug of coffee and a serious sit on my best thinking cushion.”

“Then I’m following you, because if I don’t you’ll be asleep within the minute.”

“Impossible,” slurred Bleep. “Even with a bucketful of Dumbo tranquilisers, I guarantee you there’s no way we’re taking a nap until halfway through tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Go figure.”

Babyface settled down with a super-large mug of filter coffee, which he took time to personally supervise the creation of to his exacting specification, pulled out a bronze and aquamarine Indian thinking cushion, positioned it atop the desk, folded his legs into a full lotus beneath him, uttered the briefest of ‘Ommm’s, and without further ado got down to the serious business of thinking outside the box whilst pumped full of hardcore stimulants.

He reasoned it couldn’t be the software that was broken, as he’d installed a basic copy of Telex Exec, to prove the special modifications weren’t at fault, it couldn’t be the hardware as a quick test of the purported bad batch of boxes in the Bwain test lab while the coffee brewed proved a random pair worked perfectly fine and much as he hated to say so, it couldn’t be Hooverstein either, as a quick test on-site using a length of co-ax cable which they knew to be good didn’t fix the problem with the frakked telex data. As he worked through the possibilities on a mental whiteboard, Reg, like a dose of herpes, popped up at regular intervals to provide motivation by reminding him that the Sunday Sport’s submission deadline was looming ever closer, and the fix window was diminishing accordingly.

While the Babyfaced one sat in silent contemplation, running scenario after scenario through his splendidly wired brain, Bleep made himself useful by dusting off the Support File and reading through the many installation reports, starting at ‘A’, in the hope of finding something that might give them a lead.

“Frak me!” exclaimed Babyface, jumping to attention, with just five minutes left to go. “I think I know what it is. I can’t remember the name of the company, but they deal in inflatables. Based in Rotterdam. Ring any bells?”

“Already been there,” said Bleep, thumbing his way back to the correct set of pages. “I’m on the E’s now, they were back in with the ‘Cs’. Clogplast are your boys. Manufacturers of puncture repair kits for inflatable clogs. That was Denzil the Cradlesnatcher’s patch.”

“And what does the Cradlesnatcher have to say about the install?”

“Nothing unusual that I recall.”

“And in the section on troubleshooting?”

“Here it is. If the telex box starts misbehaving or sending and receiving corrupted messages, make sure the cleaner hasn’t untied it from the radiator.”

“Bingo!”

“Babyface. I don’t understand, what does that mean?”

“It means we go back to Petrollica with 24 lengths of copper wire and hunt down a bloody great big metal radiator and when we find one, we tie the telex boxes to it.”

“With what? Copper wire? Why? My brain hurts, I don’t understand.”

“All will be revealed. In the meantime, as we’re going to have to do something we swore we’d never do – like take the floor up, to disguise the evidence, I suggest we set Reg to work procuring more lead. There’s no point in doing a half job and leaving that monster only half encased, we might as well finish it off properly.”

By Saturday lunchtime the Petrollica installation was running like a dream, totally fixed with all 24 telex boxes purring their little hearts out, the creeping corruption at the flick of a light switch gone, not a single bit of a single byte of data out of place. The monster under the floor was finally done for, turned into a tasty lead sandwich with a supernatural filling. In the space of 24 hours Petrollica had gone from Nightmare Number One to perfection in a nutshell, a technical paradise city. Naturally Reg was delighted, so much so that he offered to take Bleep and Babyface out to the Ritz for a slap-up lunch, feigning disappointment at their refusal, all the while knowing that Babyface had an unbreakable appointment to keep with his father and Bleep had promised his girlfriend he’d go shopping for curtains, upon pain of torture, having already wriggled out of the same appointment several weekends on the trot, citing work issues on both occasions, only to come home ridiculously late and very drunk, either with a pocketful of slot machine tokens or a badly crushed rugby ticket which in his inebriated state he’d found quite impossible to throw away.

“So what was it?” I asked curiously.

“Cowboys,” grinned my pal.

“Cowboys?” replied I. “I always thought Bwain were the biggest cowboys in town.”

“Not this time. What the Cradlesnatcher’s site report failed to mention was the cause of the problem, which Babyface remembered with absolute clarity: there was no Earth rail, the building didn’t have one. Not that uncommon on the continent, but here in the UK, all our sockets have to have an earth rail by law.”

“Except the electricians that did Petrollica were wearing spurs.”

“Exactly. At the time, Babyface reckoned that Hooverstein had eaten the entire circuit, and as I was feeling totally paranoid, I just agreed with him. In retrospect, it all seems a little far-fetched. Cowboy electricians are the obvious answer, I just couldn’t see it at the time. Anyway, once we’d earthed the telex boxes, we still had to earth the PCs. Conveniently, they all had one thing in common: the network. So Babyface took two spare tentacles and tied those to the radiator too. And that as they say was the end of the monster under the floor.”

“Nice,” I said, proposing a toast. “To Babyface van Helsing.”

“To Babyface,” answered Bleep.

“That’s the end of the story?”

“Hell, no. All that tying things down might have put an end to the troubles with the network, but it sure as shit didn’t prepare us for what was coming next.”

“You mean there’s more?”

“Oh, man! You haven’t heard the half of it. It’s gonna cost you mind and cost you big. I suggest we retire to a reputable pizza emporium, where you’ll flash your credit card and in return I’ll tell you what happened next.”

Tags: blog, comedy, computers, creative writing, ENTERTAINMENT, fiction, geek, geek humor, humor, Information Technology, urban fiction, workplace humor

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Categories Information Technology, Petrollica

The Petrollica Affair (vi)

18 Apr

Troubleshooting

“Is it foggy?” I asked Bleep, as he returned from his soiree.

“Why?”

“You’re flying low,” said I, pointing at my friend’s zipper.

“Well spotted, stewardess.” Bleep returned to his seat, leaving his flies untouched. Another cigarette was soon sparked-up; a long drag followed, the exhaled smoke forming a plume of blue grey, a shadow mask around my pal’s face. Contentedly, he took a sip of icy cider.

“Well?”

“I’m thinking what a cracking day it is. We should go to the park and feed baseballs to the ducks.”

“One word: Hooverstein.”

“Shush!” emphasised my friend. “I’ve told you, don’t say its name, not ever.”

“If you don’t hurry up, I’ll say it three times quickly.”

“Mate…”

“I mean it.”

Extracting what happened next required another pair of ciders and a couple of dayglo chasers, which Bleep had acquired a taste for in Belgium. Initially, Petrollica’s Telex Exec (Uber Edition) was only configured for 4 boxes, which according to the official line was to allow the system to properly bed in. Unofficially, Babyface ran into a series of hitches and took a lot longer than expected to hack and splice the code together. Onsite, as Babyface completed the various stages of development, a series of minor engineers delivered extra boxes until eventually the system was half complete. This was when the training was timed to finish and Petrollica started to use their network in anger, putting the ‘putas through their paces. Coincidentally, it was also the point when hardware began to misbehave. Everything was either running slow or performing erratically. Or sparking. One of the printers had a heart attack, coughed-up blood and set fire to a desk. After a series of support visits by the same engineers who had added the extra Telex boxes, everything appeared to settle down again, but there were still a few annoying niggles that kept reoccurring on a daily basis. Much to my pal’s annoyance, Reg soon ran out of patience with the lack of progress and ordered him to sort things out.

Fearing for his safety, Bleep resisted as long as he could, with a string of feeble excuses until Reg could stand it no more and had Ronnie read him the riot act. Realising he had no choice, my pal decided to arm himself against the beast under the floor; hesitantly, he contacted Hoover, intending to ask for a detailed specification for Hooverstein, in order to pinpoint its weaknesses. But the mad washing machine scientist was nowhere to be found. Aristotle and Einstein were just as elusive; according to their lock-up neighbours they’d packed the contents of their offices into a pair of vans and quit town overnight in a cloud of dust, leaving no forwarding address.

Out of options, Bleep was forced to return to Mayfair on his own, under cover of maximum daylight, to fully assess the situation. Petrollica had a massive suite, recently refurbished, on the top two floors of a really prestigious apartment block; from street level it was impossible to tell it was an office, its location being deliberately discrete and almost invisible to the untrained eye.

“Because they were located in an expensive part of town, they attracted some real stunning babes,” reminisced my friend, “all upper class tasty – one pinters the lot of ‘em. Despite the lurking horror under the floor, the visits were really enjoyable.”

“Visits?” I queried.

“Once I discovered the business was run almost entirely by smart tarts with delicious accents, I decided there was no real hurry and did that engineer thing of finding me a favourite and making her feel special. Charlotte was her name, I can still picture her now. Anyway, I soon forgot about Hooverstein and fell in lust instead. Charlie was drop dead gorgeous, with a subtle hint of lilacs and a fabulous set of bristols. It was quite by chance, as I was straddling between floors ogling her suspender lines through a tight black dress, hoping for a glimpse of stocking top as she bent over a photocopier, that I discovered something we’d missed.” Bleep took a jolt of dayglo chaser. “Oh, melons. Nice.”

“So let me get this,” said Babyface perplexed, “every time the photocopier went swoosh, you heard a frak! of indignation from somewhere in Petrollica.”

“Exactly.”

“And then, when your harlot switched the light off in the photocopy room, the fraks became a stream of beefy expletives.”

“Don’t call her that, her name’s Charlotte and she’s lovely. Look, this is obviously a tin and wires problem and I’m really the applications guy,” wriggled my pal. “This is your area, not mine – so it’s over to you.”

“Coincidentally,” said Babyface, switching to serious mode, “Reg has tasked me with installing the final 12 telex boxes this weekend. Unfortunately I’m busy – Father’s having one of his weekend parties and he needs me there in a coordination role. You know what we’ve got to do.”

Bleep choked as a penny dropped. “We?”

“Yes, WE. WE have a window of opportunity on Friday night. If you think you’re going to stitch me up and send me back there alone after dark, think again. We’re the only ones who’ve seen Hooverstein who are still here to tell the tale and this is an omen I do not like. We do this together, because if I go alone and don’t come back, Reg won’t believe a word of it and then he’ll get Ronnie to send you in by yourself, all alone, to face Hooverstein and no matter how much you squeal and shout you won’t get out of it, not without running away. And if you do that, the monster will sense your weakness and one day when your guard is down you’ll feel a tap on the back and before you know it, you’ll vanish under a random floor somewhere in a flurry of tentacles, never to be heard of again.”

“OK,” said Bleep, shaking. Whilst Reg worried him and Ronnie frightened him, he was absolutely terrified by the prospect of facing Hooverstein alone, in the dark, in the buff. “I’ll be there.”

“And make sure you bring crosses and garlic and any silver bullets you might have lying around. Just in case.”

Nine o’clock on a Friday night: while the rest of London was in party mode, winding up for the weekend, Babyface and Bleep headed down to Mayfair. After leaving Bwain’s offices in Victoria, they had a good few bevies for the road and then a smoke, just to be sure they were in the right frame of mind. Upon arrival, they let themselves into the offices, as arranged with the security desk. Once inside, Babyface assembled a makeshift crucifix from a pair of screwdrivers which he bound together with gaffer tape, whilst Bleep produced a garlic string from his toolbox and draped it about his neck. Not being entirely certain as to the heritage of their foe, they took the added precaution of smearing themselves with wolfsbane and then sprinkled holy water in a circle in one of the side rooms, to define a much needed sanctuary space in case of trouble.

Despite his reputation as a space cadet of some merit, Babyface was truly methodical when it came to problem analysis, and before long he had some answers.

“Look at this,” pointed Babyface, wielding the cruci-driver as a pointing device. “I’m running diagnostic Pro, across the network between half a dozen ‘putas I’ve turned into probes. This ‘puta here is the master. On the count of three, flick that light switch on. One, two…”

“Nothing,” noted Bleep.

“And now switch it off again.”

<<Fzzz>>

“See that – it’s a power spike. All of the data on the master scope is frakked and garbled.”

“So it is,” mused Bleep.

“It’s exactly as I suspected: the monster we helped jam under the floor is also the monster in the ceiling when viewed from below. And what’s more, it’s somehow patched itself into the light circuit and is slurping on the electricity supply. Every time a light goes off, it bitches and chews data.”

“Oh, hell. What are we going to do?”

What they did in their excited state was to place a call with Reg, who had a word with Ronnie, who had a word with one of his special mates. Within the hour, a shipment of lead was on its way from the East End, where an unfortunate vicar would no doubt discover to his dismay that come the next serious rainstorm, his church was no longer watertight. Once the ceiling tiles had been removed and the monster encased, it was game over for Hooverstein.

At least that was the theory.

It was two in the morning by the time Bleep and Babyface finished installing the remaining telex boxes, and being half straight, half sober and half hungover, they had a tactical line or two of Babyface’s favourite wake-me-up-before-you-go-go powder. In a blaze of euphoria, heads clacking like a pair of analogue telephone exchanges during a bank raid, the duo proceeded to toast their success with several nips of Welsh whiskey from an aging hip flask that Bleep’s grandma had given him as a present, for use in emergency celebrations, just prior to leaving home.

“We’re brilliant!” exclaimed Bleep, puckering like a squeezed lemon. “None of the other engineers could have pulled this off.”

“Yes we are,” admitted Babyface, taking the flask and a double nip.

“We should pack up and go home.”

“Yes we should. The question is, are we brilliant enough to power up the entire system and give it a thorough test, or do we leave it for the trainers on Monday?”

“Oh, frak. Do we have to?”

“Are we brilliant or are we deluded wasters?”

“Can’t we just be brilliant wasters and leave it at that?”

By six o’clock in the morning, the amphetamines were gone, the flask was empty and Hooverstein was still in its death throes, wounded but refusing to die. No matter what they tried, as soon as they cranked the system up above 50% utilisation, the telex transmission lines became unstable, receiver circuits flaked out and frakked data became the order of the day. They tried holy water, garlic breath, wolfsbane to the tentacles and the Lord’s prayer, forwards, backwards and sideways, all to no avail. In abject frustration, Babyface declared that Hooverstein had destroyed the integrity of the space/time continuum and ruined the telex boxes forever.

Obviously, Reg could never be told the truth and fearing he’d set Ronnie on them if they didn’t have a good story, a faulty batch of hardware was declared, a tried and tested engineer’s explanation for strange goings-on that remains in place to this day.

Bleep retrieved another smoke and seeing it was the last one, crumpled the packet up and threw it as far as he could. “It’s a good job I bought 200 at the airport. Go to the bar and get the lager in, while I search through my bag for the other 180.”