#This lad has given me brain worms | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

glorious-blackout · 5 years ago

Text

Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Part Five

@rock-n-roll-fantasy Still haven’t settled on a more fitting title than ‘Mark Needs A Hug’ (though my brain keeps coming up with The Shining/Hotel California references) but he does get several of those in this chapter if that helps? 😉 Part Six should be up soon as well! 🥰

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

**********************************

Mark wakes to find his face half-smushed against his pillow, limbs heavy and sluggish from sleep as his mind clings to the last remnants of a pleasant dream.

An aura of peace lingers like a warm flame as he recalls the circumstances of his fantasy. He’d been sitting on the floor of a modest living room, clad in pyjamas that were too small for his rapidly growing limbs; too entranced by the shiny electric guitar in his hands to make note of his surroundings. It was the exact model he’d been begging for on a daily basis since spotting it in the window of a music store, and had no doubt been living in his parents’ closet for months as they coyly teased him in the run-up to Christmas. Music was playing from a battered old CD player residing on a stacked bookshelf, and he strummed along despite not having the faintest clue how to play a single chord.

His lack of experience couldn’t have mattered less. Nothing could have broken his contentment in that moment. Not even his mum asking him to “turn the music down, love” so he could pay heed to his other presents had disturbed him from his trance, and Mark had awoken with a pervading sense of peace as the unmistakable melody of The Strokes’ ‘Last Nite’ wormed its way into his brain.

It was one of those dreams that feels more like a long-lost memory than a fiction. One of those subconscious reminders of a simpler past that manages to elicit a smile even when the world at large is falling to pieces. Mark knows this cannot be the case here. He has too many memories of partying his way through the seventies to reconcile those experiences with the notion of being a teenager at the height of The Strokes’ popularity. And yet, the sweet taste of childhood nostalgia is one he appreciates all the same, enough that the thought of waking sends a sharp ache through his heart.

Seeing no obvious reason as to why he shouldn’t slip back into restful slumber, he lets his eyes flutter shut and sighs as he feels his limbs go pliant once more. He can almost taste the sweet embrace of sleep, only for it to be yanked from him once again with a brutal shove. A low whine escapes his throat as a persistent intruder nudges his shoulder, and he swipes a vicious arm in their direction in a wordless protest. His efforts are ultimately feeble, not to mention futile. The nudging continues, now accompanied by the constant repetition of his name, and when his tormenter gives no indication of surrender, Mark is forced to abandon his state of bliss and re-enter the realm of the living.

He squints, bleary-eyed, at the formless blob hovering over him as he lifts his head from the pillow, flattened hair clinging to one cheek as his brain swims in the wake of his rude awakening. It occurs to him that doesn’t remember how he got here. Judging by his position he must have collapsed face-first at some point in the night - still fully-clothed if the wrinkled cotton of his shirt is any indication - but all memories leading up to that point are absent. He only vaguely recalls receiving a call from Murphy in the evening and senses that it must have dragged on far longer than usual, but he would not be able to describe how the call ended even with a gun to his head. Not that it particularly matters. He’s only grateful for the fact that Murphy must have taken pity on him at some point and let him surrender to his all-consuming weariness.

His vision finally clears following several exaggerated blinks, rendering him somewhat relieved when the humanoid blob morphs into the fretful form of Nick. The man is dressed remarkably casually for someone who likes performing in three-piece suits, and his shoulder-length hair hangs lazily around his face. It takes Mark far too long to realise that Nick’s informal apparel is no doubt related to the fact that he has inadvertently given him several days off from his day-job.

“Hey,” Mark croaks, cringing at how utterly wrecked he sounds as he settles his aching back against the wooden headboard.

“Hey yourself,” Nick replies with a breathy chuckle which does little to mask the concern etched on his face. His outstretched hand is still resting on Mark’s shoulder, as though he suspects he’ll drift off into the abyss again if he dares let go. “I were startin’ to think you were out for the count.”

Mark frowns at that, casting his eye to the bedside table in an instinctive search for his phone, only to find that it isn’t there. He spots it lying neglected on the desk by his computer, too far away to bother checking the time. The room is illuminated by a soft yellow glow as the hanging lights do their best impression of the afternoon sun, and beyond the circular window he can see that the spotlights have bathed the hotel in blinding gold.

“How long’ve I been asleep?” he asks, rubbing the lingering exhaustion from his eyes and groaning as every movement sends a dull ache shooting through his muscles. No doubt the question will be impossible to answer, given that even he doesn’t know when he slipped into unconsciousness, but Nick may be able to give an indication of how badly he’s overslept at least.

“Couldn’t tell you,” Nick admits with a shrug, before lifting himself from his crouched position and coming to rest on the edge of the bed, his hand finally leaving Mark’s shoulder. “Jamie came by to check on you about eight hours ago, then Matt popped round at lunch. Doesn’t look like you’ve moved much in the meantime.”

Mark frowns. It isn’t like him to sleep so heavily. Usually a single nudge is enough to have him wide awake and alert. He shivers as he envisions two of his best friends waltzing into his suite without him having any recollection of their presence or even of his sleep being disturbed. He trusts Jamie and Matt implicitly of course, but the notion that he has been so dead to the world makes him feel too vulnerable for comfort. Anyone could have swanned in, and by the sounds of it he wouldn’t have so much as shifted in his sleep.

“How’d you get in?” he asks, trying not to sound suspicious and doing a terrible job of it. He tears his eyes away from Nick’s face in shame and decides that tugging on the duvet will be a better use of his time. The fact that he’d awoken with it wrapped snugly around him strikes him as odd. He doubts he’d had the mental faculties to pull it around himself last night. A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips as he pictures Jamie giving up on his efforts to wake him and proceeding to tuck him in instead; the mental image filling him with a strange sense of longing.

When he braves a glance at Nick’s face, he feels fierce heat return to his cheeks as he takes in the man’s confused - almost hurt – frown, and he inwardly scolds himself for planting that expression there.

“You gave us all keys on our first day, remember?” Nick reminds him, extending a hand into the pocket of his jeans and revealing the offending object, complete with shiny silver keyring in the shape of a bass guitar.

“Oh, right,” Mark says lamely, eyes glued to the set of keys as though seeing them for the first time.

Of course he remembers giving the lads keys to his room. He has copies of all of theirs too, set aside for emergencies. He remembers the painstaking effort it had taken to pick out individualised keyrings, and the delight that lit up his friends’ faces when they received them all those years ago. It just strikes him as odd that the keys have barely seen any use in all that time. They don’t tend to hang out in each other’s suites anymore now that the lads have families of their own, and barring one miserable fortnight where Mark had been holed up with the flu, he’s rarely been in such a state that he’s needed someone to keep a constant vigil over him. If his friends have been driven to this level of fretting, he must truly look horrendous.

When Mark doesn’t say anything else, Nick shoves the set of keys back in his pocket before lifting himself to his feet. Anxiety tugs at Mark’s heart as he half-expects his friend to leave him alone, but it quickly turns to relief when Nick makes his way over to the coffee-machine instead. Good coffee seems like an excellent idea given that for all the sleep he’s had, he still feels utterly bone-weary. At a guess he must have been out for upwards of sixteen hours, yet every muscle fibre in his body is telling him that he won’t be fully sated until he’s been comatose for a week. At least.

He groans as he sits up straighter, shoving the duvet away from him in the process, and he’s forced to bring a hand to his forehead as a persistent throb settles behind his eyes.

“Bad hangover?” Nick asks from his perch by the kitchen counter, the coffee-machine giving off a low rumble as it brings the water to boil. Mark can’t help but laugh at the assumption; it’s certainly a fair guess.

“Surprisingly no,” he admits, lowering his hand and pointedly ignoring the way one of Nick’s eyebrows quirks upwards in subtle disbelief. “Haven’t had a drink in four days, believe it or not.”

“Coulda fooled me!” Nick scoffs, and despite the lightness in his tone, Mark can’t help but flinch. His discomfort must not be very subtle, for Nick’s smile drops instantly and he directs his gaze to the floor as though silently ashamed. “Sorry. It’s just... We’ve been worried about you. Me and the lads. It’s not like you to cancel shows without running it by us first, and whenever one of us tries to check if you’re okay, there’s no answer.”

Nick’s tone isn’t accusatory in the slightest, but Mark still wonders if the guilt unleashed by his words will swallow him whole. It’s true. He hasn’t said a word to his friends since he abandoned them after their last show, and even before that he’d been aloof and stuck inside his own head. He’d cancelled all of their upcoming performances without even notifying his bandmates first; no doubt they’d turned up to rehearsals only to be chased away in bewildered confusion by the orchestra’s conductor. And while Mark has barely checked his phone over the past few days, he has noticed several missed calls and unread texts which hadn’t struck him as particularly urgent at the time.

The others have no idea what’s got him so wound up. They don’t know about Matthew, or the armed guards who came after him, or the cupboard with the flashing red lights in the impossible corridor. For all his thoughts of calling Jamie in the hope that he’ll somehow rationalise those events with logical ease, Mark has neglected that opportunity at every turn.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, unable to bring his gaze to meet Nick’s for fear the shame will kill him. His voice sounds impossibly small and he feels completely unsure of himself in a way that he never has before. Even the self-consciousness that characterised his youth cannot compete with the crushing uncertainty which consumes him now. “Truth be told, I haven’t really been feeling like meself these past few days. Probably needed some sleep if I’m being honest.”

“Well, you certainly got some of that,” Nick jokes with a fond smile, and a surprised laugh breaks free from Mark’s chest as he shrugs in wordless agreement.

The coffee-machine finally halts its racket and Nick sets about preparing them both a simple Americano, having correctly assessed that anything more complicated would likely not be tolerated in Mark’s current state. Mark swings his legs over the side of the bed and briefly closes his eyes as a new wave of pain racks his skull, but he greets Nick with a smile when he settles beside him, gratefully accepting the proffered steaming mug in both hands.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, cradling their mugs and blowing off steam before taking careful sips. Mark’s eyes close in satisfaction at the first taste of coffee – prepared just the way he likes it – and while he doubts it’ll achieve the impossible task of revitalising him, he feels a little more human with every sip.

When his mug is half-empty, Nick takes it upon himself to break the silence with a gentle, “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” Mark admits with a sigh, unable to tell whether he’s being entirely truthful. Telling the whole story is out of the question. He has little desire to leave Nick questioning his sanity, and he doubts he’d be able to explain everything that happened that night in sufficient detail even if he prepared a script beforehand.

Nick isn’t going to let him get away with saying nothing though, judging by the bemused expression on his face.

“Fine. I met someone the other night and he just... freaked me out a little,” Mark attempts eventually. That part is true at the very least. “Haven’t been able to get him out of me head since.”

It’s a lame explanation and he knows it. Even if that wasn’t already obvious, the way Nick’s brow furrows in confusion hammers the point home with all the subtlety of a brick smashing through a car windscreen.

“Did you and he...” Nick starts, before thinking better of it as his face becomes alight with flame.

“What?” Mark asks, only for the insinuation to become clear as day with the spreading blush across Nick’s cheeks. “Oh no, definitely not. It weren’t like that.”

No doubt his current state of mind would be less confusing if he and Matthew had simply stumbled into a drunken mistake, but the man’s looming influence isn’t driven by any romantic inclinations. It strikes Mark as odd how easily Nick had accepted the possibility, though he can’t say he minds. He’d almost prefer the prospect of his aloofness being driven entirely by shallow ‘guy problems’. At least there are plenty of words in the English language to describe dilemmas of the heart. In contrast, the explanation “A stranger presented a rather compelling argument for our existence being nothing more than an elaborate, pointless lie before disappearing into a cupboard which no longer exists” is a little less run-of-the-mill, and that’s before you throw in the notion of a boss who may or may not be the mastermind behind the whole sorry affair.

Huh. Somehow in the midst of his exhaustion, he’d forgotten about Murphy and the smug satisfaction plastered all over his face towards the end of their call.

“Well, whatever happened, he’s clearly left you in a bit of a state,” Nick remarks, oblivious to the turmoil raging within Mark’s head. His voice cuts through the noise and serves as an anchor, returning him to the present, and he can’t quite hide his relief as his mind quietens. “Do you want one of us to have a word with him? Give him a warning shot, perhaps? Matt’s taken up boxing, I’m sure he’d be all for it.”

“Absolutely not!” Mark retorts with a burst of shocked laughter, before descending into a fit of hysterical giggles as Nick indulges in a victorious grin. It doesn’t take long for Nick’s laughter to accompany his own. The prospect of his bandmates collectively ganging up on an unsuspecting Matthew is so ridiculous that the absurdity of it lightens his heart. Though he’s not sure how to explain that if they’re going to beat anyone up, he’d much rather they go after Murphy instead.

“You wouldn’t get the chance anyway. He’s already gone,” Mark clarifies once their laughter has settled. He neglects to mention the unusual circumstances surrounding Matt’s disappearance, settling instead for polishing off his cooling mug of coffee. “And honestly, it weren’t like that. He was a nice guy, all things considered. Just a bit strange. He had a way of getting inside your head and I don’t think he realised he was doing it. Besides, all of this is my fault. I shouldn’t ‘ave let him get to me like that.”

“Right,” Nick says sceptically, no doubt still hoping for something or someone to blame for Mark’s recent state. Mark can sympathise. He imagines he too would be frustrated if he were forced to bear witness to one of his bandmate’s private struggles only to be offered no obvious means of fixing the problem.

“Seriously Nick, I’m okay,” he insists, turning his body to face his friend head-on and suddenly feeling more sober than he has in days. “Or I will be soon enough. I just... I needed some space. Have done for a long time if I’m being honest. I reckon the other night were just the breaking point.”

He aims for flippancy, but watching Nick’s face fall is enough to inform him that he’s missed the target by a country mile. Concern darkens his friend’s kind eyes and sends guilt coiling in the pit of Mark’s stomach. He’d give everything to wash away Nicks worry; to convince him that he isn’t worth the anxiety his friends are wasting on him. He feels responsible enough for dragging them to this blasted rock in the first place, away from their homes and families and ambitions. Lumping further pain upon their shoulders is simply unforgivable.

“You could have just told us that, you know,” Nick says after a while, not unkindly, and Mark feels his heart ache. He does know. No doubt all three of his bandmates would have leapt at the chance to hijack Murphy on the phone and bully him into offering Mark some time off, but he’d never wanted it to come to that. The running of the hotel and the responsibilities associated with it are his to bear alone. The band is a separate entity entirely - something pure and liberating amongst the daily deluge – and dragging his friends into his messes has never been his intention. Not that his efforts have come to much in the end.

“I’d miss a million shows if it meant you were okay,” Nick adds when Mark doesn’t say anything, twisting the knife deeper without intending to. “I’m pretty sure the others would do the same.”

Moisture gathers at the corner of Mark’s eyes but he furiously blinks it away. His face is sticky enough with dried tear-tracks, though he can’t remember where they came from for the life of him. Heaving a sigh, he tears his gaze from Nick’s face and rests his head on the man’s shoulder, closing his eyes in quiet contentment. Nick’s frame stiffens for only a moment, before he wraps an arm around Mark’s shoulder and gives him a gentle squeeze.

This is okay, Mark thinks to himself. Despite the madness of the week, it finally feels as though the lost, fragmented pieces of his identity are coalescing into a coherent whole once again.

“I love you all,” he says without a hint of reservation. “You do know that, right?”

“I dunno,” Nick retorts with a gentle shrug, careful not to shift Mark’s head from its perch. Mark doesn’t need to look at him to sense the gentle, teasing smile on his friend’s face. “You’re usually shitfaced when you say it so I’ve always been doubtful.”

Nick gets a light punch to the side as punishment for his jest, and he laughs before pressing a soft kiss to Mark’s temple.

“We love you too, you daft pillock,” he says, sincerity dripping from his tone like syrup. He hugs Mark closer as though frightened that he’ll slip away if he loosens his hold, and the hand perched on his shoulder starts tracing a path down to his elbow before creeping back up. The action is so soothing that the effects of the coffee instantly vanish, and Mark thinks he could easily drift off again. He wonders if doing so will take him back to that peaceful dream, with the guitar in his hands and a loving family within reach.

They stay like that for a little while; Mark on the cusp of a peaceful doze and Nick doing very little to dissuade him from slipping away. There’s still an unmistakable sense of unease clogging the air – a sense of foreboding that has burrowed its way into every corner of the hotel since Matthew’s disappearance - but Nick’s presence keeps it at bay like a shield warding off demons. No doubt that protection will vanish in the same instant Nick elects to leave, and Mark will be left to fend for himself against unseen monsters lurking in the dark, but for now he can’t remember the last time he was so content.

He almost finds himself lost in the dream again – can feel the sensation of rough guitar strings dancing beneath his fingertips – but he’s pulled away at the last second by the buzzing of a phone. It isn’t his, though even if it was he wouldn’t be inclined to check it. Nick pulls his own device from his pocket and replies to the message as subtly as he can, but the damage has already been done. Mark opens his eyes and makes note of the softer light outside as the spotlights dim to a soft orange glow in an attempt to simulate an evening sunset. Deciding that he’s wasted enough of the day as it is, he finally lifts his head and stretches his weary limbs with a groan.

“You know what you should do?” Nick says, pocketing his phone and taking advantage of his newfound freedom to rise to his feet, giving the impression of towering over Mark even more so than usual.

When Mark’s only response is a half-hearted shrug, he goes on: “You should get yourself out of those clothes and go hop in the shower while I make you a very late breakfast. No, I don’t want to hear any complaints, Turner; you reek and something tells me you haven’t eaten a proper meal in days, so I’m not giving you a choice. You’re going to eat what I make you, then you’re going to get dressed up nice, and then we’re gonna meet the lads at the bar so we can all get properly wankered. Sound like a plan?”

Well, that solves the mystery of the buzzing phone. No doubt one of the others has noticed Nick’s extended absence and is attempting to rescue him, all while trying to put a stop to Mark’s reclusive act in the process. It’s ingenious really, and he can’t fault their line of thinking. Part of him can’t help but be wary of returning to the bar given his last visit is what reduced his mind to a frazzled mess in the first place, but knowing the others will be with him lifts his trepidation somewhat. And now that he dwells on it, Nick’s other suggestions don’t sound half bad either. He can’t remember the last time he ate, and a low growl emanating from his stomach implies that his body isn’t best pleased about his neglectfulness. He can’t even recall when he last changed his clothes with any certainty, let alone took a shower. Perhaps some food and a wash will make him feel alive again, or at the very least make a start to the process of resurrecting him from his zombified state.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a genius?” Mark asks, grinning without restraint as Nick releases a bashful laugh topped off with a modest shrug of his shoulders.

“It’s a burden I must bear,” he concedes, his expression settling into one of fondness before his parental instincts take over. “Seriously though. Shower. Now. The more time you waste, the less time we have to get shitfaced.”

Mark doesn’t need to be told twice.

************************************

The calm before the colossal, world-ending storm lasts all of two hours. Two hours in which Mark manages to wash the sweat and tears from his face under a piping hot shower, before adorning the most casual t-shirt and jeans combo he can find at the bottom of his drawers. Two hours in which Nick thrusts a hastily prepared cheese and ham sarnie into his hands – mocked up from what little food he has in the fridge – and insists that he eats every bite with crossed arms and lips pressed into a stern line. Two hours in which they eventually make their way to the ballroom to meet Jamie and Matt at the bar, where Mark is greeted with a crushing hug from Jamie and an enthusiastic “Welcome back to the land of the living!” from Matt. The latter tops off his greeting with a firm embrace of his own, before ordering the first round of beers with renewed vigour.

For those blissful two hours, Mark feels as though life is finally returning to normal. The burden of responsibility is temporarily lifted from his shoulders, and he lets himself laugh at his friends’ lame jokes as he downs the first pint and swiftly follows it with another. They must resemble a bunch of teenage holidaymakers who have accidentally stumbled into a high-end establishment – their casual attire clashing with the sharp suits and stylish frocks of the waltzing guests – but Mark couldn’t care less.

At one point Jamie turns to him with an unvoiced question resting in gentle blue eyes. Palpable concern radiates from him like heat and for a moment the scrutiny is unbearable, but when Mark responds with a genuine smile, Jamie’s worry melts away in a heartbeat as he follows it up with one of his own. A light buzz takes hold after the third pint and Mark’s aware that he’s done little more than smile like a fool all evening, but he cannot bring himself to care. Those two hours are the happiest he can remember experiencing in a long time. A tiny microcosm of perfection that he wishes he could live within forever.

And then the world shudders.

It begins subtly enough. Little more than a low rumble permeating through the air, barely resonating over Nick and Jamie’s spat as they intensely debate over which of them looks better with long hair. Mark is the only one who takes notice as the rumbling begins to rise in volume; brows furrowing as narrowed eyes scan the ballroom in search of the culprit. Nobody else appears to be alarmed. The guests are mostly in the process of getting royally drunk over a dinner of roast beef or venison, and the waiters continue about their business without a trace of panic.

Only, the sound doesn’t abate with time. With great effort, Mark tries to drown out the surrounding ruckus and closes his eyes to focus solely on the new disturbance. The groan sounds like it’s coming from far away – like a distant car-crash or fireworks display – but the harder he listens, the more it feels like the rumble is creeping towards him from beneath the earth.

“Can you hear that?” he says to no-one in particular, having to raise his voice to be heard over the cacophony of violins and chatter and clinking glasses. Three pairs of eyes turn in his direction – the petty argument momentarily forgotten – but as they listen intently, Mark sees only a growing sense of cluelessness clouding over their features.

“Hear what?” Jamie asks eventually, which strikes Mark as odd, for that persistent groaning has now become so loud that he can practically feel it hammering against his skull.

He draws his gaze to the half-empty pint resting on a coaster before him and watches with detached curiosity as ripples spread across its golden surface. It isn’t just his glass either; the same effect is visible across the entire countertop. It’s little surprise when the faint clattering of glasses joins the growing commotion. Mark looks up towards the bar and sees unopened bottles trembling against each other on the shelves, vibrating in time with the ground which has started to shift uncontrollably. A bottle of scotch topples to the floor with a mighty crash but no-one pays it any heed, and it is soon followed by several priceless bottles of champagne, drenching the floor with booze and fragmented glass.

The low rumble graduates to a deafening roar as the room begins to shudder relentlessly, and Mark lets out a sharp cry before shielding his ears and pulling his head towards his chest. Logic screams at him to get out - to take his friends and run to safety - but whether by fear or something deeper than that, he finds himself immobilised on his chair. It strikes him as odd that nobody else appears to be panicking. The air is alive with the clatter of shattering glass, the rattle of the looming chandelier, the roar of the moon’s underbelly as she protests against those who have desecrated her surface... but not a single scream. No frantic activity or barked orders from level-headed security guards. Not even the chatter which overwhelmed the hall only moments before remains. The room is filled with hundreds of people and yet, as the world trembles around them, they are all as silent as the grave.

Mark included.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t taken a breath since the ground began to shake and his chest burns in protest, but even the simple act of gulping in air feels like a complex task. He clenches his eyes shut as his heart begins to roar in his ears, but doing so offers little relief. If anything, the sudden blackness makes the situation worse. Imagination runs wild; he pictures cracks snaking up the walls and the floor giving way to the rocky depths below. Envisions ivy crawling through those very same cracks and burying the entire building until it resembles an abandoned ruin on Earth. Envisions the curved ceiling giving way and burying him alive beneath several layers of marble and plaster.

He still can’t tell what’s causing the floor to shake with such ferocity. Can the moon experience earthquakes? The thought is so ridiculous that he finds himself giggling hysterically, but what is the alternative? Unless his perception of time has been drastically altered, the quake has gone on far too long to be secondary to an explosion, and the space station is too far away for any launches to be felt as anything more than a minor shudder.

Hours seem to pass. His skull whines in protest as he presses his hands even tighter against his ears, and a single tear spills from the corner of one eye from the effort it takes to keep them clenched shut. His jaw aches as the shudders grind his teeth together and he can feel acid rise in his throat, his gut protesting against a cruel wave of fear. Everyone else remains eerily silent, even his friends who surely wouldn’t have left without him. He knows he could always open his eyes to check on them, but a burst of terror as he comprehends what he’ll find stops him in his tracks. Instead, he simply remains sitting there, curled up like a frightened child, as his surroundings continue to shatter around him.

And then, without warning, the world becomes a brilliant white behind his eyelids and everything stops. The cacophony reaches its abrupt coda as all sound is sucked through a vacuum. Only his shuddering breaths remain, followed by a desperate sob. The whiteness refuses to abate, and for a moment it occurs to him that he may well be dead. That he might be nothing more than a shattered bag of bones, crushed among the ruins of the very hotel he built from scratch. There’d be a certain poetry in that, he thinks, though the persistent cramping of his muscles and the burning in his chest implies that he hasn’t ascended to ghostly status just yet.

It’s impossible to tell if hours or mere seconds pass. The world is so still, so silent, that time loses all meaning and Mark can feel his mind begin to empty, as though the featureless light is consuming him whole. When small details finally do make a reappearance, they do so slowly. He becomes aware of his elbows digging into the hard oak surface of the bar counter. A glass clinks somewhere off in the distance. He becomes painfully aware of the cool sweat on his brow, and his inability to take in a deep breath without his chest hitching with choked hiccoughs.

The silence is finally broken by a single unprovoked chuckle, followed by a muted wave of laughter echoing across the walls. With the flick of an unseen switch, the usual chatter flares up once more and the violins resume their task of reciting an old Tchaikovsky piece, seemingly unaffected by what has just transpired. With a considerable degree of trepidation, Mark tears his hands away from his head and opens his eyes to face a complete wall of booze with no missing bottles in sight. No glass fragments or wet stains litter the floor. No cracks creep up the walls; no ivy sprouts from the ground. The ceiling above remains stubbornly unmarked, and the chandelier glitters as immaculately as it had on the day it was installed. Casting a glance over the assorted faces around him reveals only unaffected smiles, with no trace of fear or even the slightest acknowledgement of the quake that rocked the ballroom only moments before.

Even drawing his attention to his friends brings little clarity. Rather than looking as shellshocked as Mark himself, Nick and Jamie have settled for resuming their debate – this time arguing over who looks best in a ponytail – while Matt grumbles something about not being able to grow his hair without sprouting an afro.

The world has elected to carry on as normal, and yet Mark can’t shake the feeling that everything has irrevocably changed. That the very foundations of the ground he walks on are set to crumble at any moment, taking him down in the process.

It’s impossible to keep his breathing under control, and a weak sob rips from his throat as air escapes in frantic gasps. The sound draws Jamie’s attention back to him, and his eyes widen with fear as he extends a hand to rest on Mark’s shoulder with a careful, “Hey, what’s going on?”

The contact doesn’t help in the slightest. Mark tries to answer but his throat seals shut, turning his words into a low whine, and he settles for shaking his head instead. He needs to get out of here. There isn’t enough oxygen in the ballroom and he can feel the weight of the gathering crowd suffocating him, and before he can think twice, he stumbles to his feet and pushes away from the bar.

That turns out to be a terrible decision. The sudden change in posture has his stomach dropping, and his vision narrows to a fine tunnel before blurring altogether. No doubt the only reason he doesn’t collapse to the floor is because of the hands which appear out of nowhere, holding him upright as his ears drown out a puzzled, “Easy!” followed by a shaky, “Let’s sit you back down mate”. His friends may as well be faceless for all the attention his broken mind grants them.

It feels like his frayed nerves are dangling by a thread; the cool blades of a scissor resting barely a hairs-breadth away, threatening to sever his sanity with an unfeeling snap.

And then the dam breaks.

The buried chest keeping his memories concealed behind a rusted padlock bursts open. Assorted moments in time spill forth from the wreckage, drowning him beneath their weight like the horrors trapped within Pandora’s Box. Only instead of horrors, his mind is suddenly overcome by melancholic nostalgia and untouchable bittersweet memories.

He remembers sitting by the piano as an eight-year-old boy, trying in earnest to play the tunes his dad loved to listen to on his record-player. He remembers sitting in class, drawing his eyes away from the window in silent awe as the profound beauty of John Cooper Clarke’s writing set up camp in his heart. He remembers listening to The Strokes’ debut album with Jamie and Matt before begging his mum for a guitar, followed by the sheer contentment that consumed him as he strummed his new love by the light of a Christmas tree. He remembers countless shows - from shy appearances in small clubs to major headlining slots at massive festivals - and the thrill of terror and excitement that thrummed through his veins before each one. He remembers all of his loves and all of his heartbreak; remembers how the latter had always been overcome by a pervading sense of joy, as he dwelled on how lucky he was to do what he loved with his best friends by his side.

And he remembers the hotel. Remembers excitedly developing the concept and expanding the world and the characters within it. Remembers crafting the model by hand, carving his creation out of cardboard and wiling away the hours as it slowly came together. Remembers the rush of pride when the model was finally complete. Only he had never intended the hotel to be a real place, and he certainly had no inclination to run it.

Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino was always intended to be the setting of an album and nothing more. The fact that he’s currently confined within its walls is nothing short of impossible.

He doesn’t acknowledge that his vision has faded to black until colour slowly creeps back from the fringes. A persistent burn lingers in his chest and it occurs to him that he should probably breathe, but doing so only encourages another sob as hot tears spill down his cheeks. He lets himself be manhandled onto a chair without protest, his limbs reduced to jelly, and even when his eyes offer a glimpse of his worried friends gathered around him, all he can focus on is a section of wall directly ahead. A voice breaks through the roar of blood pounding in his head – a panicked “C’mon Mark, you’re scaring me now!” - but he cannot identify its owner, nor can he bring himself to look at his friends closely enough to see whose lips are moving.

A further memory spills forth from the unlocked chest, prompted by the frantic hands holding him in place. The setting appears to be Bonfire Night, judging by the ecstatic burst of colours lighting up the darkening sky and the acrid smoke wafting from the fire in the local park. They’re gathered in one of the lad’s gardens with a stolen pack of fireworks; far too young to be playing with them on their own, but too swept up in the rebelliousness of it all to care about the inherent risk. Jamie and Matt are chasing him around the garden with sparklers in their hands, mindful of the unlit fireworks planted on the grassy lawn, but his younger self decides to push his luck and edges just a little too close. He doesn’t realise his mistake until he trips and falls, taking his sparkler down with him and inadvertently lighting a fuse.

He clearly recalls the rush of panic and the realisation that he is far too close. All he can do is stare in wide-eyed terror as heat dances along the fuse, threatening to release the firework at any moment and send white-hot sparks of flame in his direction. Before he can brace himself for the exquisite pain however, two pairs of hands grasp his arms and yank him roughly to his feet, dragging him as far back as he can possibly go until he slams against a solid wall. Mere milliseconds later, a burst of sparks erupt from the ground and a high whistle shoots into the air, followed by a stunning explosion of scattered reds and golds.

They remain frozen for what feels like an eternity, until the panicked silence is broken by a high-pitched “Fuck!” on Matt’s part and the release of hysterical laughter on Jamie’s. All he can remember doing himself is staring up at the sky – eyes fixed on the lingering embers of the firework that nearly melted his face off – and noting at the back of his mind that neither Matt nor Jamie have released their crushing hold on him. No doubt they were experiencing the same aftershocks of terror that were gripping his tiny frame.

Eventually Jamie had let go, and he remembers his ten-year-old friend stepping forwards, donned in a navy-blue tracksuit, before turning to the others with a crooked smile and a shaky declaration of, “That were a close one, weren’t it Al?”

A similar form of fearful desperation clings to Jamie now, as he crouches by his side. There’s no relief in his friend’s features this time, only panic and an unmistakable sense of frustration borne of cluelessness. It occurs to him that his inhalations are still coming thick and fast and his head is swimming as he sways in his chair and yet, paradoxically, his mind feels infinitely clearer than it has in years.

“Mark?” Jamie asks cautiously, bringing a warm hand to his cheek in an attempt to anchor him. “Wanna tell us what’s goin’ on?”

The utterance of that name sends a flinch shooting through his body, and before he can even think, a hand shoots out and grabs Jamie by the wrist. The man stills, blue eyes widening as they draw level with a determined gaze, and though he can sense Matt and Nick edging closer, he doesn’t dare break eye contact as he utters his next words.

“Alex,” he hisses, chest heaving with the effort required to voice that old, familiar name. “My name is Alex.”

#Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino #Simulation Theory #Muse #Arctic Monkeys #my fic #writing

11 notes · View notes

southboundhqarchive · 6 years ago

Photo

MEET FINOLA,

FULL NAME › Finola Eileen MacClean AGE › eighteen GENDER › Cis female (She/Her/Hers) FROM › Boot Hill, Arizona RESIDENCE › Trails End Street (Midtown) OCCUPATION › Student at Boot Hill High School, Box Office Attendant at the Continental Moviehouse (Saturdays), Waitress at the Schoolhouse Cafe (Weekday evenings) NOW PLAYING › You Don’t Own Me by Lesley Gore

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger warnings: disappearance of a family member, alcoholism mention

The only perfect girl is a dead girl. That’s what you learned, last-born runt of the litter, growing up in the bedroom of a girl who would be forever cold, young and pretty. In the beginning, they thought Finola was a blessing – Eileen’s soul reincarnate, the Lord’s prayers finally answered. You were given her clothes, her room, even her name, stripped and rebranded like a toy doll bought after the last one’s head was chewed off by the dog. Seven boys, a dead sister, and you who, with your white-blonde hair and cornflower eyes, was merely a walking ghost to your mother, half-the-time soppy with tender kisses, the other half haunted, confining herself to the dark corners of a house too small for eight ragamuffin kids. You were either overwhelmed or underwhelmed, numb or heretic, dealing in extremes like the hand your mother dealt you – either starved of affection or slathered in it. Tennis skirts, nail varnish, a shag rug, a rotten corsage – these were the staple reminders that you were living in a shrine, the room never quite your own, lest you disturb the lingering presence of Eileen. Soon, you began to see it as not a room but rather a prison cell caging you in the imprint of a sister you never met.

At eight years old you first met death, blood on a gingham-print dress, a smear of it over your cheekbone and the pulp of a mangled animal at your feet murdered by the hands of a townhouse boy. “Adam, my precious baby, you get away from that filth,” his Mama would cry from the upstairs balcony – cigar in one hand and a bloody Mary in the other – though whether the filth she referred to was the dead pig or the girl with a sprig of ivy in her hair, you never did find out. White trash. The expression was never far from earshot when the MacCleans were around – eight boisterous lads in battered shoes and tattered clothing and then Finola, like an angel – perhaps because that’s what you had been forced to become. Death resurrected in tired eyes and a tutu.

You kept yourself groomed like a pageant dog – hair always combed with whatever you could find, nails clipped, dresses re-hemmed when the stitches rotted out, feet squished into too-small shoes from a charity store on the outskirts. You made the best of what you had in the hope that standing out from your siblings would prove you existed outside of Eileen. You found attention through other means. You learned the clarinet at nine and how to dance with the grace of a swansong at ten. By twelve you knew that you’d always been destined to be loved. Loved so hard they would want to taste you, bite into the soft plump of your cheek and eat you alive. That was how magnetic you wanted to feel. But mother hamsters eat their own young when penned in together too long, and soon you became too much, too perfect, nothing like Eileen, why can’t you just fit in?

Lying is the most fun you can have without taking your clothes off – and soon ‘Finola’ becomes just something you perform, a character, a toy. The person you became in high school was an artistic fabrication; the bright smiles, soft words, cherry-flavoured lip gloss, all magpie thieved from magazines on how to be a girl. The first time you told a lie, eight years old with silk ribons in your hair, tongue as sharp as a Stanley knife, eyes like a wildfire staring into those of your mother’s, you had felt invincible. After that, it was a downward spiral, lying about the simplest of things, just for the thrill of it. You’d go to buy a paperback book, and upon being asked where you’d been, you’d claim a bike ride, a date, a visit to the rabbits in the next door neighbour’s garden. Little white lies that built up a repertoire of manipulation. Words had the power to make people believe anything you wanted, as long as they were convincing. A mind is like a clock if you get to learn the pieces. Bit by bit, you dismantle the inner workings of the brains that tick around you – how easy it is to change it’s path, how words and their meanings can make a person laugh or cry in an instant. To have the power to control that is to be a God. It’s the power trip you crave wielding pom-poms in your hands; a possessive need for control that a younger you, small and weak, never had as a child. Small lips, smaller smile, a doll clutched in your too-hungry fingers, hard enough to shatter the bones of a real infant.

There were parts of your head you tried to keep hidden, boxed up like coffins, never learned how to deal with things properly. Anger escapes in bursts ; in the thwack of a hockey-stick against skin during a brawl, muttered excuses that your hand slipped. They believe you, of course – you’re nice, you’re loving, you’re sweet. You cut your hair with your mother’s kitchen scissors before the autumn falls, rendering you out of season, unfit for the cold weather that beats against the nape of your neck, where a stick-and-poke marks the star you were born under ; the one only Alison knows about. You slather it in foundation daily, until your hair grows wild again, skirts that float at your knees swapped when the sun sets for others that kiss the cheeks of your bum. Smile. Sit up. Close your legs. Comb your hair. Arch your back. Purse your lips. This was what it was to be a girl half-dead, bras hanging over wooden crucifixes while stone angels watched you climb down the guttering in a too-short skirt. Unlike with mother, you don’t have to beg for affection from the boys. They think you’re cool, stylish, pretty, clever. When they kiss you it tastes like cigarettes and your brother’s aftershave. They say they know Feargas, or that other one, the redhead. That one of your brothers pedalled them acid. Not that dangerous, just a bit of fun. You take it on the tongue like Alice in Wonderland and get drunk on the feeling of being known not as a MacClean but merely as you. And maybe the girl they see you as – this dreamy, far-away thing – has been who you are all along.

Flattery will get you everywhere – so silver-tongued and cupid-mouthed you win affections like they’re poker chips. At school you could whip the girls into a frenzy with a cutting remark or an elaborate dare ; the mere flick of your tongue you could have an army in your ranks. Like a caged hummingbird you’d learned to sing in the dark, and it was time for the world to hear your voice. You’d heard about the girl who lost it to her bike as she tumbled too fast down a hill, heard second-hand how Lily Sanchez’s parents were gone, a free house for the night, bottles of Ouzo and tequila swiped from your mother’s liquor cabinet thinking she wouldn’t know (she always knew) your legs, hardened from pep squad, slut dropping on a kitchen table because the boys thought it would be fun to get the quiet girl drunk. Never had a sip before that night. You learnt who you are like the click of an aluminium can, worms spilling out in that vivid space between angelic and disgusting, something repressed finally coming to fruition when you lose it on the floor of a swimming pool changing room, soggy back, poka-dot nylon pulled down to your ankles. It gets easy to pretend. You hide it behind the sugar-sweet smiles and the butterfly barrettes. Hunger pools in the pit of your stomach like an unborn child. In leather-bound volumes and a circle of stones, you’re Helen of Troy, the girl for whom they’d launch a thousand ships, and Eileen never went to college, never got out of this sad little town.

For the first time in your ghost-like existence, you want things, people, places. You have ambitions that stretch further than the four walls of a glitter-gritted cell, further even than the town boundaries. Bright-eyed and cheer skirted, you’d always known you were more. There was a hunger in you to be something extraordinary, a want so adamant to be imagined and desired that it was almost savage. Part of you wishes that Sonny had done it – flown the nest. It would make it easier for you to break your mother’s heart, but it was never you whom she loved anyway – just a dead girl you half-resembled in the moonlight. So you cash in your chips in piggy banks, stash notes under floorboards, patch up your old jeans when the seams split. Working two part-time jobs juggled with homework, arithmetic scribbled on the backs of napkins as you wait for the coffee beans to roast – it’ll take a fucking miracle to earn enough, but you were raised like a resurrected Lady Lazarus, a girl brought back from the dead. You’re nothing short of miraculous.

❝ if you get hungry enough, they say, you start eating your own heart. ❞

CENSUS,

FACECLAIM › Eliza Scanlen AUTHOR › Nora

#eliza scanlen #rp #rpg #new rp #town rp #{ all. }#{ f. }#{ local. }#{ under twenty. }#{ nora. }

5 notes · View notes

confrontingbabble-on · 8 years ago

Photo

Every religious belief system...is a complete blasphemy...in the eyes of every other religious belief system...and all are a complete blasphemy in the eyes of rational unbelief...

For example, as outlined by Atheist Ireland ...

“Here are the 25 blasphemous quotes that we first published on 1 January 2010, along with the quotation that has caused the Irish police to investigate Stephen Fry.

1. Jesus Christ, when asked if he was the son of God, in Matthew 26:64: “Thou hast said: nevertheless I say unto you, Hereafter shall ye see the Son of man sitting on the right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven.” According to the Christian Bible, the Jewish chief priests and elders and council deemed this statement by Jesus to be blasphemous, and they sentenced Jesus to death for saying it.

2. Jesus Christ, talking to Jews about their God, in John 8:44: “Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him.” This is one of several chapters in the Christian Bible that can give a scriptural foundation to Christian anti-Semitism. The first part of John 8, the story of “whoever is without sin cast the first stone”, was not in the original version, but was added centuries later. The original John 8 is a debate between Jesus and some Jews. In brief, Jesus calls the Jews who disbelieve him sons of the Devil, the Jews try to stone him, and Jesus runs away and hides.

3. Muhammad, quoted in Hadith of Bukhari, Vol 1 Book 8 Hadith 427: “May Allah curse the Jews and Christians for they built the places of worship at the graves of their prophets.” This quote is attributed to Muhammad on his death-bed as a warning to Muslims not to copy this practice of the Jews and Christians. It is one of several passages in the Koran and in Hadith that can give a scriptural foundation to Islamic anti-Semitism, including the assertion in Sura 5:60 that Allah cursed Jews and turned some of them into apes and swine.

4. Mark Twain, describing the Christian Bible in Letters from the Earth, 1909: “Also it has another name – The Word of God. For the Christian thinks every word of it was dictated by God. It is full of interest. It has noble poetry in it; and some clever fables; and some blood-drenched history; and some good morals; and a wealth of obscenity; and upwards of a thousand lies… But you notice that when the Lord God of Heaven and Earth, adored Father of Man, goes to war, there is no limit. He is totally without mercy — he, who is called the Fountain of Mercy. He slays, slays, slays! All the men, all the beasts, all the boys, all the babies; also all the women and all the girls, except those that have not been deflowered. He makes no distinction between innocent and guilty… What the insane Father required was blood and misery; he was indifferent as to who furnished it.” Twain’s book was published posthumously in 1939. His daughter, Clara Clemens, at first objected to it being published, but later changed her mind in 1960 when she believed that public opinion had grown more tolerant of the expression of such ideas. That was half a century before Fianna Fail and the Green Party imposed a new blasphemy law on the people of Ireland.

5. Tom Lehrer, The Vatican Rag, 1963: “Get in line in that processional, step into that small confessional. There, the guy who’s got religion’ll tell you if your sin’s original. If it is, try playing it safer, drink the wine and chew the wafer. Two, four, six, eight, time to transubstantiate!”

6. Randy Newman, God’s Song, 1972: “And the Lord said: I burn down your cities – how blind you must be. I take from you your children, and you say how blessed are we. You all must be crazy to put your faith in me. That’s why I love mankind.”

7. James Kirkup, The Love That Dares to Speak its Name, 1976: “While they prepared the tomb I kept guard over him. His mother and the Magdalen had gone to fetch clean linen to shroud his nakedness. I was alone with him… I laid my lips around the tip of that great cock, the instrument of our salvation, our eternal joy. The shaft, still throbbed, anointed with death’s final ejaculation.” This extract is from a poem that led to the last successful blasphemy prosecution in Britain, when Denis Lemon was given a suspended prison sentence after he published it in the now-defunct magazine Gay News. In 2002, a public reading of the poem, on the steps of St. Martin-in-the-Fields church in Trafalgar Square, failed to lead to any prosecution. In 2008, the British Parliament abolished the common law offences of blasphemy and blasphemous libel.

8. Matthias, son of Deuteronomy of Gath, in Monty Python’s Life of Brian, 1979: “Look, I had a lovely supper, and all I said to my wife was that piece of halibut was good enough for Jehovah.”

9. Rev Ian Paisley MEP to the Pope in the European Parliament, 1988: “I denounce you as the Antichrist.” Paisley’s website describes the Antichrist as being “a liar, the true son of the father of lies, the original liar from the beginning… he will imitate Christ, a diabolical imitation, Satan transformed into an angel of light, which will deceive the world.”

10. Conor Cruise O’Brien, 1989: “In the last century the Arab thinker Jamal al-Afghani wrote: ‘Every Muslim is sick and his only remedy is in the Koran.’ Unfortunately the sickness gets worse the more the remedy is taken.”

11. Frank Zappa, 1989: “If you want to get together in any exclusive situation and have people love you, fine – but to hang all this desperate sociology on the idea of The Cloud-Guy who has The Big Book, who knows if you’ve been bad or good – and cares about any of it – to hang it all on that, folks, is the chimpanzee part of the brain working.”

12. Salman Rushdie, 1990: “The idea of the sacred is quite simply one of the most conservative notions in any culture, because it seeks to turn other ideas – uncertainty, progress, change – into crimes.” In 1989, Ayatollah Khomeini of Iran issued a fatwa ordering Muslims to kill Rushdie because of blasphemous passages in Rushdie’s novel The Satanic Verses.

13. Bjork, 1995: “I do not believe in religion, but if I had to choose one it would be Buddhism. It seems more livable, closer to men… I’ve been reading about reincarnation, and the Buddhists say we come back as animals and they refer to them as lesser beings. Well, animals aren’t lesser beings, they’re just like us. So I say fuck the Buddhists.”

14. Amanda Donohoe on her role in the Ken Russell movie Lair of the White Worm, 1995: “Spitting on Christ was a great deal of fun. I can’t embrace a male god who has persecuted female sexuality throughout the ages, and that persecution still goes on today all over the world.”

15. George Carlin, 1999: “Religion easily has the greatest bullshit story ever told. Think about it. Religion has actually convinced people that there’s an invisible man living in the sky who watches everything you do, every minute of every day. And the invisible man has a special list of ten things he does not want you to do. And if you do any of these ten things, he has a special place, full of fire and smoke and burning and torture and anguish, where he will send you to live and suffer and burn and choke and scream and cry forever and ever ’til the end of time! But He loves you. He loves you, and He needs money! He always needs money! He’s all-powerful, all-perfect, all-knowing, and all-wise, somehow just can’t handle money! Religion takes in billions of dollars, they pay no taxes, and they always need a little more. Now, talk about a good bullshit story. Holy Shit!”

16. Paul Woodfull as Ding Dong Denny O’Reilly, The Ballad of Jaysus Christ, 2000: “He said me ma’s a virgin and sure no one disagreed, Cause they knew a lad who walks on water’s handy with his feet… Jaysus oh Jaysus, as cool as bleedin’ ice, With all the scrubbers in Israel he could not be enticed, Jaysus oh Jaysus, it’s funny you never rode, Cause it’s you I do be shoutin’ for each time I shoot me load.”

17. Jesus Christ, in Jerry Springer The Opera, 2003: “Actually, I’m a bit gay.” In 2005, the Christian Institute tried to bring a prosecution against the BBC for screening Jerry Springer the Opera, but the UK courts refused to issue a summons.

18. Tim Minchin, Ten-foot Cock and a Few Hundred Virgins, 2005: “So you’re gonna live in paradise, With a ten-foot cock and a few hundred virgins, So you’re gonna sacrifice your life, For a shot at the greener grass, And when the Lord comes down with his shiny rod of judgment, He’s gonna kick my heathen ass.”

19. Richard Dawkins in The God Delusion, 2006: “The God of the Old Testament is arguably the most unpleasant character in all fiction: jealous and proud of it; a petty, unjust, unforgiving control-freak; a vindictive, bloodthirsty ethnic cleanser; a misogynistic, homophobic, racist, infanticidal, genocidal, filicidal, pestilential, megalomaniacal, sadomasochistic, capriciously malevolent bully.” In 2007 Turkish publisher Erol Karaaslan was charged with the crime of insulting believers for publishing a Turkish translation of The God Delusion. He was acquitted in 2008, but another charge was brought in 2009. Karaaslan told the court that “it is a right to criticise religions and beliefs as part of the freedom of thought and expression.”

20. Pope Benedict XVI quoting a 14th century Byzantine emperor, 2006: “Show me just what Muhammad brought that was new and there you will find things only evil and inhuman, such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached.” This statement has already led to both outrage and condemnation of the outrage. The Organisation of the Islamic Conference, the world’s largest Muslim body, said it was a “character assassination of the prophet Muhammad”. The Malaysian Prime Minister said that “the Pope must not take lightly the spread of outrage that has been created.” Pakistan’s foreign Ministry spokesperson said that “anyone who describes Islam as a religion as intolerant encourages violence”. The European Commission said that “reactions which are disproportionate and which are tantamount to rejecting freedom of speech are unacceptable.”

21. Christopher Hitchens in God is not Great, 2007: “There is some question as to whether Islam is a separate religion at all… Islam when examined is not much more than a rather obvious and ill-arranged set of plagiarisms, helping itself from earlier books and traditions as occasion appeared to require… It makes immense claims for itself, invokes prostrate submission or ‘surrender’ as a maxim to its adherents, and demands deference and respect from nonbelievers into the bargain. There is nothing—absolutely nothing—in its teachings that can even begin to justify such arrogance and presumption.”

22. Ian O’Doherty, 2009: “(If defamation of religion was illegal) it would be a crime for me to say that the notion of transubstantiation is so ridiculous that even a small child should be able to see the insanity and utter physical impossibility of a piece of bread and some wine somehow taking on corporeal form. It would be a crime for me to say that Islam is a backward desert superstition that has no place in modern, enlightened Europe and it would be a crime to point out that Jewish settlers in Israel who believe they have a God given right to take the land are, frankly, mad. All the above assertions will, no doubt, offend someone or other.”

23. Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O’Connor, 2009: “Whether a person is atheist or any other, there is in fact in my view something not totally human if they leave out the transcendent… we call it God… I think that if you leave that out you are not fully human.” Because atheism is not a religion, the Irish blasphemy law does not protect atheists from abusive and insulting statements about their fundamental beliefs. While atheists are not seeking such protection, we include the statement here to point out that it is discriminatory that this law does not hold all citizens equal.

24. Dermot Ahern, Irish Minister for Justice, introducing his blasphemy law at an Oireachtas Justice Committee meeting, 2009, and referring to comments made about him personally: “They are blasphemous.” Deputy Pat Rabbitte replied: “Given the Minister’s self-image, it could very well be that we are blaspheming,” and Minister Ahern replied: “Deputy Rabbitte says that I am close to the baby Jesus, I am so pure.” So here we have an Irish Justice Minister joking about himself being blasphemed, at a parliamentary Justice Committee discussing his own blasphemy law, that could make his own jokes illegal.

25. As a bonus, Micheal Martin, Irish Minister for Foreign Affairs, opposing attempts by Islamic States to make defamation of religion a crime at UN level, 2009: “We believe that the concept of defamation of religion is not consistent with the promotion and protection of human rights. It can be used to justify arbitrary limitations on, or the denial of, freedom of expression. Indeed, Ireland considers that freedom of expression is a key and inherent element in the manifestation of freedom of thought and conscience and as such is complementary to freedom of religion or belief.” Just months after Minister Martin made this comment, his colleague Dermot Ahern introduced Ireland’s new blasphemy law.

26. Finally, here is the quote that has caused the Irish police to investigate Stephen Fry for blasphemy. Asked by Gay Byrne on RTE what he would say if he was confronted by God, Fry replied: “How dare you create a world in which there is such misery that is not our fault. It’s not right. It’s utterly, utterly evil. Why should I respect a capricious, mean-minded, stupid God who creates a world which is so full of injustice and pain?” Questioned on how he would react if he was locked outside the pearly gates, he responded: “I would say, ‘Bone cancer in children? What’s that about?’ Because the God who created this universe, if it was created by God, is quite clearly a maniac, utter maniac. Totally selfish. We have to spend our life on our knees thanking him? What kind of God would do that?””

https://atheist.ie/2017/05/25-blasphemous-quotes-in-solidarity-with-stephen-fry/

#atheist #agnostic #secular humanist #skeptic #Religion #Christianity #religious insanity

19 notes · View notes