What’s Going On?

Lazarus

“Geordie?”

He’s lying on the couch, sobbing. Great. Did I forget to put the toilet seat down again?

(You’d think that wouldn’t be an issue with two men in the house, wouldn’t you? Well, there you go)

“Geordie, what’s wrong?” I try again, kneeling next to him.

He thrusts a piece of paper at me.

GEORDIE, DARLING, YOUR TIME’S UP. YOU KNOW WHY.

Er. This doesn’t look as though it could have any good interpretations.

“Geordie? Is this a threat of some sort?”

He lifts his head from the couch cushion and wails.

“Only the worst kind!” I make out.

“You mean – someone’s threatening to – kill you?”

Geordie nods and buries his head in the cushion again, sobbing.

Oh dear. Geordie’s melodramatic, but I don’t think he’d descend to sending himself death threats.

I finally get him calmed down enough to talk coherently.

“Darling,” I say carefully, “There’s one thing that’s confusing me a little – you don’t know who sent this, but you know it’s a death threat – does that mean you know what they’re talking about?”

His eyes slide away from my face, and he wrings his hands.

Well, bugger. This isn’t going to be fun, is it?

Geordie

I’m Geordie. Bet you never thought you’d hear from me, hmmm? I’m the walk-on character in Linda’s little death melodrama. God, I’ll give her credit, she sure knows how to die with flair. It’s not something you usually get much practice at, is it?

So, since you never got to know me before, let me give you a chance now. My real name’s John, but no-one’s called me that for years. Except Mum, but she – well, yes. Everyone knows me as Geordie. Why? No good reason, except that in a certain group in a pub in Melbourne, there were two Johns, so they called him Bruce and me Geordie – cos I come from Newcastle. New South Wales, not England, but who cares?

I know I flounce far too much. I pout, and I cry, and I’m so melodramatic that sometimes I make myself sick, darlings… Lazarus calls me a walking stereotype, and I call him a walking stiff, and he says, “Walking stiffy more like, honey!” and… well, let’s say no-one’s feelings get hurt, hmm?

Lazarus is my opposite, my soul mate, and the person who understands me best in the whole world. He knows that I flounce and flame because I like the security of the mask. He knows that I’m truly ditzy, and he helps me keep it together. And he loves me. God knows why.

But this isn’t about me. Well, it is, but it’s about a particular part of me and my life. Like, why someone wants to kill me.

Yes, someone wanting to kill little old me! Somehow I doubt everyone finds that quite as shocking as I do. Especially the person threatening me, I suppose?

So I got home the other night, and there was a letter. Doesn’t sound shocking, huh? But this was handwritten, handstamped, everything that my mother still complains doesn’t exist anymore, that no-one cares enough to write to anyone, especially to her. So it caught my attention, got me all excited, and then – CRASH.

GEORDIE, DARLING, YOUR TIME’S UP. YOU KNOW WHY.

I do? Someone has a lot more faith in my memory than I ever have.

OK. That’s not quite true. I have an awful feeling I know exactly what they’re talking about.

The Score

“Show me the way to go home!” bawled the wolf.

“I’m tired and I wanna go ta bed!” sang Red Riding Hood.

“Phwoar, do ya?” the wolf leered and groped her arse.

“Nah, I just invited my back ta my place fer COFFEE!” Red Riding Hood giggled. God, this man was a twat, and a predictable one.

****

Roger paused in the bedroom doorway and whistled.

“Video camera? I think I hooked me a live one!”

“Well…” purred Rosie, moving closer and putting her hands on his chest, “sometimes I like to watch! Over and over and over again…”

“Oh, do you? Why not just do it over and over and over again instead? Haven’t you found a man with real stamina?”

“No, they always seem to drop out after a round or two…” she pouted cutely, reaching sideways to press a button.

He slid his arms further around her and planted his hands firmly on her arse.

“Weaklings. I’ll show you how a real man does it.”

“Can’t wait!”

He picked her up, threw her on the bed, and started to undress.

“Oi! Leave the mask on, wolfy!”

****

Three hours later, Red Riding Hood rolled onto her back and sighed, exhausted. Roger lay beside her, eyes glazed.

Wolfy hadn’t been lying – he really did have the stamina of an ox. They’d fucked three times before he’d started to flag, and he’d still had the energy to put up a helluva fight.

Red Riding Hood licked a smear of blood from the back of her hand and smiled. She rose, sat on the edge of the bed, and looked at the video camera.

“History always repeats, but there are always variations,” she told it, “once again, the Wolf ate Red Riding Hood… and then Red Riding Hood evened the score.”

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