ABP Episode 05: I want something to think about

[All Seeing Eye]

Discuss

[Luigi]

Kurt: Oh boy, Mark Tyburn, man, he loved his melodramatic names. Arks, Adam, Utopias, New Earth, Better Paradise. I mean, sometimes it felt like working in the Garden of Eden, and sometimes it felt like we were branding a suburban day spa.

docs.google.com/document/d/1-v0A7gi49jOe1yhFV3zD6BI3ZUvS_6-fpm5keHeWeI4/mobilebasic

Nigeldave says “backstabbing judas’” “am i goth?” And alot of familiar lines here



Yaroslav stole my review of everywhere

Read this in scotts


John Tyburn Smith:

Hi there, she is - I'm sure it's her, the Golden Child, the golden egg, the golden idiot. My sister, my half-sister, that's what she would call me. Her half-brother. Little bitch. Look at her now. My God, I hated her. I hated her far more than I ever loved anyone. Simpering little snotty-nosed cow, bouncing on his knee, holding his hand. Belonging in Los Angeles, in the valley, in Montana. Well, I was in St. Andrews. She grew up in sunshine, and I grew up in Scotland with all the other grim, spotty, redheaded depressives. So, what did that become? A grim, spotty, redheaded depressive? She was blonde and bouncy and sweet. I was a ginger, and even my grim, depressed mother could not love me. One of those ugly children you look at and think to yourself, nobody can love that thing. Well, let me tell you, it's true. Nobody could love me. My mother tried, but she was strung out on Smart serotonin embracers and mood adjusters and sleeping aids and waking facilitators and all the other names she gave drugs, and my father didn't even try. He just ran away from me, John Smith, who became John Tyburn Smith again when I began to work for my father when I turned up in Los Angeles, and he pretended to love me. And she, Daisy, everybody loved her so much. They wanted to be her, wanted to remake her, wanted to catch that perfect moment when she was all anyone could want to be, that perfect dream child everyone wanted to be to own the sort of child no sane father would abandon. And look at her now, drifting around in Reno, thick makeup, shaved head, absurd amounts of eyeliner, tattoos, and yet those eyes still shine. And she had that walk, that perfect girl's walk, that walk that I hated and envied, bright eyes, and that friendly trot, all hidden under that goth exterior. She's clearly hiding from someone or something. From me? The Golden Girl, not so golden now, are you, my little princess? Why did I come looking for her? Well, I got that message for her in my inbox, telling me where she was, then I got another. I ignored them, then I felt compelled to see her again.

Why did I ever go looking for my father? Why did I not build my own life, become a man, become a hero, become a true Highlander, a Braveheart, or a Robert de Bruce, instead of another backstabbing, conniving, lowland Scottish git? I'm half Scottish, and the only people I hate more than the Scots are the other half of my wretched genetic cesspool, the English - those two awful dumps racing to hate each other for all eternity, a bit like me and the Bloody Tyburns.

Why am I like this, drawn to these people I also hate, and what do I want from her now? I'm not quite sure. I suppose I want to watch her now, I know she's not dead. I want to surprise her, surprise her so she is honest, and I can see exactly what she knows, and I want to watch her to see if the people who are watching me, or the thing that is watching me, or the shadow that hangs over me, whatever it is, but those beady eyes, I see out of the corner of my eyes a sense but never quite see. I want to see if they also want to watch her too. So, for now, here I'm back in what's left of America, here in Reno, surrounded by its summer ring of the smoldering remnants of fire, mostly demolished by those toxic retardants that burn blue, sitting here and watching.

I always hated Reno, a town for losers, like St. Andrews, people who failed elsewhere, people like me. I failed. I have failed everywhere. I like Los Angeles, Smiley, stupid, pretty people. My God, I miss it. Miss the silly dream that I could be Smiley and stupid and pretty if only I was not Ginger and hideous and a bitter Scottish wanker. I know it, I'm better Scottish cunt, son of an English wanker father, son of an alcoholic mother, an orphan with a half-sister who is right in front of me and does not even think that the nasty idiot sat outside in the residual smog, sipping his dog-shite latte, as her half-brother, her beloved half-brother, who she used to ignore. Yes, my lovely, it's me, invisible JTS, John Tyburn Smith, your freckled friend.

This latte tastes like piss. All the coffee does nowadays, potato milk and Arati beans that will still grow and enough sugar to melt your pancreas to hide those realities. It's America in a glass, sugar plus suffering with a side of lies. But us Scots, we like our suffering with a side of bitterness. That's the difference, my darling Daisy. I am not hiding from the truth. I mean, I'm hiding from the police, but not the truth. I'm ready to die, almost ready, whereas you all trusted up like a fing idiot and no headphones and seemingly no phone and a book, an actual book like a poser. You're hiding from someone or something, maybe from it, or him, or whatever the f it is supposed to be called, that thing our dad and his boys made, and me and Shane tried to sell. But I reckon it is dead, or crashed, or never made it out. Otherwise, why would it, or him, have given us these last 5 years? So, are you hiding from Lassie, me, Daddy? Well, I'm here now, so your little game is over. But my game, my game, is just beginning.