Post by Jules on Jul 27, 2013 8:03:15 GMT -4
Lenny Lansbury stood inside a store filled with comic books. Of course this was a deliberate set-up; trawling through this dork’s library wasn’t really his idea of an afternoon well spent. Making a show of scanning a few articles, Lenny eventually turned to the camera set-up.
“I love looking at some of these old cartoons.”
Lenny had a selection of five that he was debating with himself.
“It takes me right back to when I was nipper. Before the days when I was terrorizing the streets as a teenger, and way before I became slag killer #1. In them innocent days me and my bruvs we’d scratch for the pennies we needed to get the Tube to Camden Town for a day at the Mega City Comics. We was like a porker in a chocolate factory in those days; our eyes darting all over the place, gorging on that smorgasbord of fantasy.”
Lenny smiled himself.
“Love that word smorgasbord; makes me think of an orgy of Swedish tottie – like Victoria Silvstedt on a kebab stick. That’d bang on, bruv. Proper!”
Lenny smirked at the fantasy, then shook his head, snapping himself out of it and back to reality.
“But that’s beside the point, know what I’m saying? Anyway, these comic books were a day when you could pretend you weren’t some fucking runt from the East End with nothing to his name but a heritage of being shit on. Escapism, that was it. Some geezers do drugs, but that’s a mug’s game in my eyes, even back then. Don’t get me wrong, I never turned down a puff if someone was offering, but you wouldn’t catch me sticking no poison in my veins and rotting my brains.”
“You got to have self-respect in this world. Even if you got nothing else, you need to have self-respect, know what I’m saying, bruv?”
Lenny held up to the camera a copy of a Spiderman comic book.
“That’s what this gave us. We’d go down to Mega City Comics as much as anywhere else because they was the only place we knew had a first edition Spiderman. We’d scout for some proper nerd type who’d come in and ask for a gander at that piece ‘cause the slags who ran that joint wouldn’t let a firm of scallies like us within a hundred yards of it. They’d pull it out all gentle like it was the fucking Crown Jewels and we’d nose our way within range to have a proper look.”
Lenny smiled at the memory.
“You know how them skinny little Indians run out of their slums whenever some Bollywood big shot is in town. I saw on that Slumdog film, like a pack of jackals all over a piece of meat. That’s what we was like in them days. We’d stand in awe of Spiderman #1. To tell the truth I never liked Spiderman, I thought that mug was a pussy- too fucking emotional for me, bruv; more of a Dennis The Menace sort of bloke me, know what I’m saying?”
“But that little cartoon was something else. When you’re kid and you jack shit about motors everyone wants a Bentley or Porsche or something smart like an Aston Martin. Not because you understand these are superior works of engineering, but because you see the top face in your neck of the woods- The Guv’nor- driving around in a Bentley and everyone bows to him. It’s power, it’s prestige, it’s a little bit of fucking hope.”
“Me and my childish mates we’d argue back then about who would make the first wedge and buy that bit of gear. When we was ten years old Spiderman #1 was the trophy we all hoped for. Of course things changed, it soon became who would be the first to buy a Jaguar, then it was the first to pop their cherry, who would get to bang Stacey Freeman first, right up to who would be the one to knock out that bully Harry Fisher. I ain’t never had a Jaguar, but let me tell you Stacey Freeman and Harry Fisher had their cherries popped in very different ways by Lenny Lansbury.”
Lenny tossed aside the Spiderman comic.
“I’m getting off topic though, innit? What I’m trying to say is that comic books they have this special kind of power, they can affect people in certain ways. There’s this certain kind of charisma about the super hero that people just love. Just look the hard-on Hollywood’s got for it right now, and why not because it’s making a nice big wedge for all them executives. The pimps and the Colombia drug lords rejoice when they hear Hollywood is making another Batman film, or their regurgitating that toss pot Hugh Jackman.”
“But I like Batman. The heroes with the super powers never interested me much- I found all that a bit far-fetched. Spiderman was a pussy in my eyes, he should have done less thinking and more doing, then that little ginger slut Mary Jane wouldn’t have gone off and banged his best friend. Superman? I kind of resented that alien cunt because he chose to like a right mug when he was a human. Bit like a God mocking us puny human. Twat!”
Lenny picked up a Batman comic, flicked through a few pages.
“Let’s be honest, not only is Batman the nuts because he’s just a bloke who decides he wants to start smashing people up- everyone loves a good vigilante, know what I’m saying? But even the so-called bad guys were bang-on, bruv. Joker- what a fucking ledge! Riddler, Harvey Two-Face, Bane- it’s a right collection mental geezers; a collection of faces you wouldn’t mind having a proper East End knees up with. And who never had a fantasy about banging Catwoman, Batgirl and Poison Ivy all in one sitting.”
“Good and bad never mattered so much in Batman, because they were all fucked up. But it’s never dull, and even Bruce Wayne is a diamond geezer. He’s just a rich fuck-up, so the money adds a bit of gloss. But underneath it all he’s just as wacky as every other cunt in Gotham. He’s only one or two choices away from fully fledged criminality.”
Lenny dropped the Batman comic and turned to face the camera.
“Bruce Wayne’s hero is the pure essence of what a super hero should be- larger than life, transcending the ordinary if you want to get all pretentious about it; but at heart truly human. I ain’t no philosopher or giver of wisdom, but I recognise that in this mad world human beings go after and get behind the big ideas; abstracts that seem to grow larger than our ordinary lives. Stuff like justice, morality, even spiritual sentiments.”
“Whether it’s all just a lot of cobblers can be debated to end of the earth, but humans are an aspirational sort and always will be. So I get why The Emerald Assassin puts on a mask and some noncy suit because it makes him feel bigger and better than what he really is. Underneath it all he’s just some pathetic human being, but inside that campy green costume he is something more.”
“You could argue me and him and are no different. Whoever the guy behind The Emerald Assassin is he’s got his mask to don, to make himself believe in himself; Lenny Lansbury has to become The Guv’nor when school’s out and it’s time for work. The only difference is The Guv’nor is a mindset, a state of mind if you will, whereas The Emerald Assassin is just a game of make-believe.”
“What are the reasons for it though? For Bruce Wayne it’s because he wants to protect his own by hiding his identity. But I think Emerald Assassin is more like Peter Parker: he’s got his little squeeze, but in his own skin he hasn’t got the balls for the job. That little crumpet only gets wet for The Assassin, and like Peter Parker, the boy behind the green mask knows he’ll never shape up. So he plays this nasty little game like a con man who lies his way into the bed, the heart, and ultimately the bank account of sad old women.”
“If The Emerald Assassin is a heroic vision for modern times, then I’m not sure whether it says more about the times or more about the ideal of the hero. What I do know is that it tells me plenty about the boy inside: a coward. I move in a world where appearances mean everything, and how a man carries himself is most of his worth. Just like a learned eye can spot a pervert at a 100 yards, or can spot immediately some slag who will try to do him like a cheap tart, so can cowards be spotted a moment’s glance.”
“What I don’t understand about The Emerald Assassin is that he can look after himself in a tear up. I’ve seen him over the weeks and the boy ain’t no mug; but that yellow streak running down his back dominates him and he’s afraid to face the world. Well I can see right through the costume and into the heart of the man, and I can’t tell you how many wars I’ve won in the eyes, know what I’m saying?”
“Emerald, I see right through you and I see a coward who doesn’t know how to stand on his own two feet, and even though you’ve shown you’ve got a move or two, but in the face of a proper bit of aggro I ain’t sure you got the bottle, bruv. With me what you see is what you get, and that’s an ‘orrible bastard MADE IN HACKNEY. There is no mask, no facade that I hide behind. My heart is on my sleeve, it’s made of stone and it gives these two evil fists the power to break mugs in two. I don’t do psychological theatrics; I go to war and I go to win.”
Guvnor steps out of the comic book shop.
“The heroes of our time ain’t men with costumes or super powers; that’s some fan boys make believe fantasy. In our field the only power is the strength of your will, and mine is as hard as the Moon.”
“This week isn’t a battle for justice or righteousness, it’s the just a good old fashioned battle for survival. Nature’s only truth.”
“I don’t care much for submission wrestling: I don’t hold in regard above or below any other form of combat in our sport. But I appreciate gold. Having been nourished by it for five months I know it’s goodness. A couple of weeks ago was an all-time low when I lost the North American Championship. That belt was as much a part of me as my arms and legs, but I’m not about to sit around and mope.”
“Someone in the office has decided to throw this dog a new bone, and I was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I’ll go after you Emerald because you stand between me and Logan Alexander, and he stands between me and the very thing I want: escape.”
“I got dreams. No, let me correct that: I have nightmares and they involve me ending right back on the streets of Hackney grafting for the life God gave me. I’m not going back to that, and the only way the nightmares stop is if I can winning, I keep smashing, I get gold around my waist and keep the wedge coming.”
“This isn’t personal Emerald, but it will be a riot, have no doubts about that sunshine. Sunday night the world sees that the hero is dead, that this world isn’t about heroes and villains, it’s about the strong and weak- sink or swim- do or die.”
“The Guv’nor, he’s sick and tired of treading water, but he isn’t about to drown.”
“I love looking at some of these old cartoons.”
Lenny had a selection of five that he was debating with himself.
“It takes me right back to when I was nipper. Before the days when I was terrorizing the streets as a teenger, and way before I became slag killer #1. In them innocent days me and my bruvs we’d scratch for the pennies we needed to get the Tube to Camden Town for a day at the Mega City Comics. We was like a porker in a chocolate factory in those days; our eyes darting all over the place, gorging on that smorgasbord of fantasy.”
Lenny smiled himself.
“Love that word smorgasbord; makes me think of an orgy of Swedish tottie – like Victoria Silvstedt on a kebab stick. That’d bang on, bruv. Proper!”
Lenny smirked at the fantasy, then shook his head, snapping himself out of it and back to reality.
“But that’s beside the point, know what I’m saying? Anyway, these comic books were a day when you could pretend you weren’t some fucking runt from the East End with nothing to his name but a heritage of being shit on. Escapism, that was it. Some geezers do drugs, but that’s a mug’s game in my eyes, even back then. Don’t get me wrong, I never turned down a puff if someone was offering, but you wouldn’t catch me sticking no poison in my veins and rotting my brains.”
“You got to have self-respect in this world. Even if you got nothing else, you need to have self-respect, know what I’m saying, bruv?”
Lenny held up to the camera a copy of a Spiderman comic book.
“That’s what this gave us. We’d go down to Mega City Comics as much as anywhere else because they was the only place we knew had a first edition Spiderman. We’d scout for some proper nerd type who’d come in and ask for a gander at that piece ‘cause the slags who ran that joint wouldn’t let a firm of scallies like us within a hundred yards of it. They’d pull it out all gentle like it was the fucking Crown Jewels and we’d nose our way within range to have a proper look.”
Lenny smiled at the memory.
“You know how them skinny little Indians run out of their slums whenever some Bollywood big shot is in town. I saw on that Slumdog film, like a pack of jackals all over a piece of meat. That’s what we was like in them days. We’d stand in awe of Spiderman #1. To tell the truth I never liked Spiderman, I thought that mug was a pussy- too fucking emotional for me, bruv; more of a Dennis The Menace sort of bloke me, know what I’m saying?”
“But that little cartoon was something else. When you’re kid and you jack shit about motors everyone wants a Bentley or Porsche or something smart like an Aston Martin. Not because you understand these are superior works of engineering, but because you see the top face in your neck of the woods- The Guv’nor- driving around in a Bentley and everyone bows to him. It’s power, it’s prestige, it’s a little bit of fucking hope.”
“Me and my childish mates we’d argue back then about who would make the first wedge and buy that bit of gear. When we was ten years old Spiderman #1 was the trophy we all hoped for. Of course things changed, it soon became who would be the first to buy a Jaguar, then it was the first to pop their cherry, who would get to bang Stacey Freeman first, right up to who would be the one to knock out that bully Harry Fisher. I ain’t never had a Jaguar, but let me tell you Stacey Freeman and Harry Fisher had their cherries popped in very different ways by Lenny Lansbury.”
Lenny tossed aside the Spiderman comic.
“I’m getting off topic though, innit? What I’m trying to say is that comic books they have this special kind of power, they can affect people in certain ways. There’s this certain kind of charisma about the super hero that people just love. Just look the hard-on Hollywood’s got for it right now, and why not because it’s making a nice big wedge for all them executives. The pimps and the Colombia drug lords rejoice when they hear Hollywood is making another Batman film, or their regurgitating that toss pot Hugh Jackman.”
“But I like Batman. The heroes with the super powers never interested me much- I found all that a bit far-fetched. Spiderman was a pussy in my eyes, he should have done less thinking and more doing, then that little ginger slut Mary Jane wouldn’t have gone off and banged his best friend. Superman? I kind of resented that alien cunt because he chose to like a right mug when he was a human. Bit like a God mocking us puny human. Twat!”
Lenny picked up a Batman comic, flicked through a few pages.
“Let’s be honest, not only is Batman the nuts because he’s just a bloke who decides he wants to start smashing people up- everyone loves a good vigilante, know what I’m saying? But even the so-called bad guys were bang-on, bruv. Joker- what a fucking ledge! Riddler, Harvey Two-Face, Bane- it’s a right collection mental geezers; a collection of faces you wouldn’t mind having a proper East End knees up with. And who never had a fantasy about banging Catwoman, Batgirl and Poison Ivy all in one sitting.”
“Good and bad never mattered so much in Batman, because they were all fucked up. But it’s never dull, and even Bruce Wayne is a diamond geezer. He’s just a rich fuck-up, so the money adds a bit of gloss. But underneath it all he’s just as wacky as every other cunt in Gotham. He’s only one or two choices away from fully fledged criminality.”
Lenny dropped the Batman comic and turned to face the camera.
“Bruce Wayne’s hero is the pure essence of what a super hero should be- larger than life, transcending the ordinary if you want to get all pretentious about it; but at heart truly human. I ain’t no philosopher or giver of wisdom, but I recognise that in this mad world human beings go after and get behind the big ideas; abstracts that seem to grow larger than our ordinary lives. Stuff like justice, morality, even spiritual sentiments.”
“Whether it’s all just a lot of cobblers can be debated to end of the earth, but humans are an aspirational sort and always will be. So I get why The Emerald Assassin puts on a mask and some noncy suit because it makes him feel bigger and better than what he really is. Underneath it all he’s just some pathetic human being, but inside that campy green costume he is something more.”
“You could argue me and him and are no different. Whoever the guy behind The Emerald Assassin is he’s got his mask to don, to make himself believe in himself; Lenny Lansbury has to become The Guv’nor when school’s out and it’s time for work. The only difference is The Guv’nor is a mindset, a state of mind if you will, whereas The Emerald Assassin is just a game of make-believe.”
“What are the reasons for it though? For Bruce Wayne it’s because he wants to protect his own by hiding his identity. But I think Emerald Assassin is more like Peter Parker: he’s got his little squeeze, but in his own skin he hasn’t got the balls for the job. That little crumpet only gets wet for The Assassin, and like Peter Parker, the boy behind the green mask knows he’ll never shape up. So he plays this nasty little game like a con man who lies his way into the bed, the heart, and ultimately the bank account of sad old women.”
“If The Emerald Assassin is a heroic vision for modern times, then I’m not sure whether it says more about the times or more about the ideal of the hero. What I do know is that it tells me plenty about the boy inside: a coward. I move in a world where appearances mean everything, and how a man carries himself is most of his worth. Just like a learned eye can spot a pervert at a 100 yards, or can spot immediately some slag who will try to do him like a cheap tart, so can cowards be spotted a moment’s glance.”
“What I don’t understand about The Emerald Assassin is that he can look after himself in a tear up. I’ve seen him over the weeks and the boy ain’t no mug; but that yellow streak running down his back dominates him and he’s afraid to face the world. Well I can see right through the costume and into the heart of the man, and I can’t tell you how many wars I’ve won in the eyes, know what I’m saying?”
“Emerald, I see right through you and I see a coward who doesn’t know how to stand on his own two feet, and even though you’ve shown you’ve got a move or two, but in the face of a proper bit of aggro I ain’t sure you got the bottle, bruv. With me what you see is what you get, and that’s an ‘orrible bastard MADE IN HACKNEY. There is no mask, no facade that I hide behind. My heart is on my sleeve, it’s made of stone and it gives these two evil fists the power to break mugs in two. I don’t do psychological theatrics; I go to war and I go to win.”
Guvnor steps out of the comic book shop.
“The heroes of our time ain’t men with costumes or super powers; that’s some fan boys make believe fantasy. In our field the only power is the strength of your will, and mine is as hard as the Moon.”
“This week isn’t a battle for justice or righteousness, it’s the just a good old fashioned battle for survival. Nature’s only truth.”
“I don’t care much for submission wrestling: I don’t hold in regard above or below any other form of combat in our sport. But I appreciate gold. Having been nourished by it for five months I know it’s goodness. A couple of weeks ago was an all-time low when I lost the North American Championship. That belt was as much a part of me as my arms and legs, but I’m not about to sit around and mope.”
“Someone in the office has decided to throw this dog a new bone, and I was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I’ll go after you Emerald because you stand between me and Logan Alexander, and he stands between me and the very thing I want: escape.”
“I got dreams. No, let me correct that: I have nightmares and they involve me ending right back on the streets of Hackney grafting for the life God gave me. I’m not going back to that, and the only way the nightmares stop is if I can winning, I keep smashing, I get gold around my waist and keep the wedge coming.”
“This isn’t personal Emerald, but it will be a riot, have no doubts about that sunshine. Sunday night the world sees that the hero is dead, that this world isn’t about heroes and villains, it’s about the strong and weak- sink or swim- do or die.”
“The Guv’nor, he’s sick and tired of treading water, but he isn’t about to drown.”
