Bloggy McBlogster Short Stories

Quantum Deep: Part 4 – Geordie Racer

Transitioning is a strange process, thought Scotty. He was transitioning for the third time and although each time the sensations were similar, they had each had their own uniqueness depending on the body and situation he was in. People and creatures all feel the world differently and Scotty experienced this as he became them.

As the transition progressed, a feeling like you’re full of static began to fill Scotty. This was a constant. Electrically charged like you’ve been holding onto one of those plasma ball at a science fair for too long. You’re ready to discharge, one big static shock and explode your current everywhere. Thinking this, Scotty had set himself off in a fit of giggles. Explode your current, he though to himself. To most young lads almost any phrase with a double-entendre relating to sex or masturbation is enough to render them useless.

As the giggles passed, Scotty found himself feeling content. He could feel the sun on his back and a warm breeze passing over him. That internet dial up tone was still ringing in his ears but it was subsiding by the second. He could hear the chatter of people passing by. Local chatter, chatter in his own accent. He was transitioning into somewhere he instantly recognised as home, somewhere along the River Tyne.

As Scotty started to awake from his transitional slumber, he became aware he was eating. He didn’t know exactly what he was eating but it best meal damn he’d ever had. His taste buds were alive, buzzing with such strange and complex flavours. Accompanied by textures so obscure and unfathomable, it was like Heston Blumenthal had just nipped over and shat in your mouth.

“Boot!”

Is was an alarm cry. Shrill, the voice scratched through his ear drum like finger nails on a chalk board. It repeated several times, only this time is was cried by a dozen other voices.

“Boot, Boot, Boot!”

There was much commotion around Scotty, and his feeling of contentment shattered into one of confused concern. Scotty finally opened his eyes. Looking around, pigeons in full panic where rapidly taking off.

“Boot!” Screamed one at Scotty, before leaping into the air to take flight.

Looking down at the massive pile of vomit, Scotty put two and two together and realised this was no Michelin star meal. He heaved and instinctively tried to cover his mouth with his hands, only he didn’t have hands. He had wings. Wings which flapped aimlessly as they tried to act upon a command which they could not possibly follow. Looking down, Scotty felt all the air in his lungs leaving his body as he lifted into the sky, moving rapidly away from his chunderous dinner. Not fully synced into his transition, Scotty wondered if he was flying. He was, in fact, on the receiving end of someone’s shoe. Some horrible chav had ran over and booted him into the sky.

“Fuck off ya fucking fucker!” was the articulate delight uttered from this chav’s mouth, as he connected with Scotty’s pigeon form. Scotty was indeed back in Newcastle.

Upon hitting the deck, post shoeing, Scotty had fully transitioned. Pain rattled through his body like he had never experienced. He wanted to run at this lad and knack him, but thought better of it given that he was a pigeon. Instead he focused on trying to get out of here as the chav, was again, walking towards him. The thing was, Scotty didn’t know how to fly. He was moving his wing up and down but nothing was happening. The chav moved closer so Scotty made his wings go up and down faster but nothing happened. Now the chav was within striking distance. Moving his wings as fast as he could, Scotty was panicking. His wings were flapping harder than President Trump’s Pr team at an press conference, but he was going nowhere. The Chav swung his leg.

“Fuck his,” uttered Scotty and legged it as fast as his wee pigeon feet would allow. His head bobbing as it struggled to keep up with legs. The chav, not wanting to be out witted by a pigeon, gave chase. Repeatedly swinging and missing, the chav was getting more irate at the nerve of this pigeon to not just take off and fly away. The chav chased Scotty right up Northumberland street in a scene which wouldn’t look out of place in a Benny Hill skit. It wasn’t until Scotty tried to jump over a Greggs half eaten sausage roll that his wing instinctive took flight and his soared into the sky. The chav cheered, feeling elated that he’d seen off the flying rat. Scotty was just relieved he wasn’t about to shoed to death by some lad in Reebok Classics. I mean, imagine the fucking shame of it, he thought.

Crash landing on top a the Greys Monument on Grainger street, Scotty found himself surrounding by other pigeons who, although briefly startled by his ungrateful landing, quickly fell back to sleep. The pain in his body had rapidly subsided despite it’s dramatic onset. He could feel his body becoming content again, even though his mind was racing. There was a soothing calm washing over him. He wanted to call out to Twiggy, who was unusually absent, but he hadn’t the energy. He couldn’t even be disgusted with himself anymore for eating and enjoying the vomit. This was all in the day and a life of a pigeon. All that mattered was the impending food coma. Satiety had taken over and with it came the bliss of impending slumber; the one that comes with a nice big meal. It mattered not that the meal was a big platter of chunder. It mattered not that the memory of which made Scotty want to vomit up the vomit. It mattered not that the idea of vomiting vomit made Scotty want to tie himself to a brick, chew off his wings and jump into the Tyne. Postprandial somnolence had arrived and Scotty slept like the stuffed pigeon he was.

“Pasty!”

There was a commotion and all the pigeons took flight. Scotty woke with a start. The pigeons had dive bombed a half Greggs chicken bake dropped by a toddler. The toddler was now in tears and being led away by his mother. The pasty was now a pigeon buffet.

“Here, ya birds eating birds, ya dafties!” Scotty shouted down from the Monument. He might as well said tuck in lads, for his cooing fell on deaf ears. The roars of Pasty! Pasty! Pasty! from the pigeons below drowned out his protests. It had, however, attracted the attention of a passing seagull who swooped down, snatched their pasty and buggered off with several other seagulls in hot pursuit.

Twat! Twat! Twat! was the chant now echoing up from the pigeons as they hovered up what crumbs remained of their robbed pasty.

“Where are ya Twigs?!” Scotty screamed out of frustration. The roar come from such a deep place within Scotty that he excreted shit right up the wall behind him. Turning around, much by the surprise of it, he could help but wonder why pigeon shit was white. He even asked himself out loud, but there was no one around to give an answer. The whole top of the monument was streaked white with pigeon shite. This momentary perplexed Scotty for a short while, distracting himself from the current situation. It didn’t last though.

The view from the top of Grey’s monument was beautiful, looking straight down Grey street towards the quayside. The sun was setting over Newcastle city centre. The sky a vibrant pink, bolstered by a generous scattering of clouds. It give the Georgian stone buildings which ran down Grey street an earthly red radiance. At any other time, Scotty might have registered something resembling an emotional appreciation. Yet without Twiggy, he was both alone and confused. The passing majestic nature of his surroundings was indeed lost to him. He had no idea why he was a pigeon nor what he was supposed to do. The sunset could get fucked today.

There comes a time when people hit real lows in their life and for Scotty this was one. At such times, people turn to friends and family but, as a pigeon, there was no one Scotty could turn to. Or so he thought.

Less than half a mile away, the crowds gathered. The same crowds that have gathered there on regular occasions since 1892. Generations of families, friends and strangers in arms came together to support city. Their chanting, their energy, their bond. The unmistakable sound crackled through the night city like a thunder old from old Zeus himself. The calling, electric. It buzzed through Scotty’s pigeon frame and before he knew it he took flight. St James’ Park was calling.

Landing on the roof of the Leazes stand, Scotty forgot about his worries. From kick off to the final whistle he was Scotty again. A supporter of the club, one of the following. It didn’t matter that Newcastle United were shite, and had been for some time under Mike Ashley’s ownership. The fans where there to support. So even when Everton beat Newcastle at home, the club remained united and continued to sing songs in chorus. Granted, their songs mostly called for the manager to be sacked and the for the Cockney owner to fuck off. But the harmony, emotion and resonance of their songs were so beautiful and passionate, it would have had the great Beethoven wanking himself silly, if he wasn’t dead. Scotty even got himself a song sung after him when he flew down and shit on the head of Jordan Pickford in the 93rd minute. He did again ask himself why his shite was white as he scored back onto the roof of the Leazes stand. It’s just an odd colour for shite he thought.

All to quick through, the crowds departed and Scotty was again alone, sat on the top of St James’ Park. The euphoria of belonging departed with the crowd. He was again, just a chunder chomping pigeon without a clue what to do.

Hours passed and before Scotty knew it, it was 2am and bloody baltic. Scotty was contemplating his poor life choices. Thinking back to that sodding football tour and how if he just shut up, he would have been back at the hotel, balls deep in some of America’s finest. He was just getting the pigeon equivalent to a stiffy when a flash caught his eye. Something had lit up the sky and was tearing down to Earth quicker than a diarrhoea ridden superman looking for the netty. Scotty’s wee pigeon eyes followed it down to Earth. It was a meteorite, roaring down from the beyond. Moving quicker than the shit from that stick, it slammed into the ground on the site the Town Moore. The 1000 acre section of common land, unusually sited smack bang in the centre of the city, was tuned into an inferno. It was stone throw away from where Scotty was at St James Park and he felt the blast of heat rush over him.

Arriving on scene moments after, Scotty ears were still ringing. The bang was unlike anything ever heard in the UK. The vibration shook the city as soil, fire and ash erupted into the sky, making it difficult for people to see what had happened. Car and house alarms burst into life. Animals took to the air in fright. Couples woke from their sleep and accused each other of farting. Scotty had instantly took flight to see what was going on. The sky was full of birds giving it six-nowt, fleeing for dear life. He was the only creature travelling towards the impact site.

Scotty braved the chokingly think, sedimented air as he circled around the impact site. The Town Moore had gone from been open grazing land to a cavernous crater. He landed on the remains of a fence situated on at the edge of the Town Moore. The fence had once ran along the Great North Road, separating the Town Moore from a suburb called Jesmond. It now lay contorted and strewn across the road. Scotty took in all the devastation. The trees and shrubs from the Moore’s surrounds were ablaze. The Great North Road behind him had been buried under the erupted earth. Windows in the house and allotments on the far side of the great North Road had all been shattered by the blast. People were cautiously peaking and venturing out their houses thinking the apocalypse had waltzed into town.

“Hello Scotty,” came a startlingly echoey voice from behind him. The voice seems to radiate from within Scotty’s head and bounce around like an excited puppy. It made him so nauseous he almost fell of what remained of the fence.

Starring at Scott was a cow. Big and white with piercing unearthly red eyes. It’s horns not unlike those you’d see on the side of a Viking helmet. Scotty stared back at the cow which remained motionless.

“Ye aleet there Daisy?” Scotty finally mumbled.

Again, the cow remained motionless, blankly staring through Scotty. Scotty began to wonder if it was this cow that had spoken, so looked over the cows frame to see if anyone else was about. All he could witness was the destruction once more. The dust was settling, but through the mist he could see the outlines of more cows. From the silhouettes in the smoke, Scotty could see they weren’t the same types of cow. Those in the distance had no horns and were a bit stockier.

“Do not worry about them Scott,” said the cow following Scotty’s gaze back over himself. “They’re with me… somewhat.”

“Is that ye Twiggy?” Asked Scotty. “I’m not digging this new wardrobe.”

“There’ll be no Twiggy on this Leap Scott.” The Cow was now looking firmly into Scotty’s wee pigeon eyes. “Here, I’ll be your guide, and saviour.”

This cow now held Scotty’s interest. The devastation all around seemed to fade away and Scotty now had that sense of focus and clarity he could normally only find on the football field. All those scattered thoughts which normally polluted his brain had stopped, and he listened. The Cow had commanded his attention and he was powerless to resist.

“I am but a creature, trying to make it though this life,” the cow started. “This life of which I speak is a long one, with many twist and turns. Bestowal and betrayal if you will, the likes of which you are unable to comprehend”. The cow paused and looked at the herd which still lingered in the smokey hilled backdrop of the Town Moore. “Now, we have the power to transition you. And we will, but you must do something for us.”

The cow was now looking over the Great North road, towards a Victorian housing estate in Jesmond, of which Forsyth Road ran down the middle. A larger, chubby man had tentatively appeared from one of the houses, making his way up the street with vigilant steps. The cow was looking at him and Scotty followed his gaze.

“This man walking into view is called James. He may not seem like much, and that’s because ultimately, he is not. However, he has a role to play in something that is of great importance to us.”

“What do ye need me to do?” Scotty asked, almost hypnotised.

The cow fixed his gaze back to Scotty and said, mocking Scotty’s accent “I need ye to shit on the dafty, twice a day, like, for a week”

“Ye want me to shit on him twice a day, for a fuckin’ week?!” Scotty repeated, snapping from his trance.

“Yes,” muttered the cow with a smirk. There was no further explanation.

“Ye some kind of Alien? Some nebby know-it-all mythical powered lad?”

“To you and your race, probably. We arrived before time itself.” Replied the Cow.

“Aleet. I’ll do it, but ya have to send me home,” said Scotty before hastily adding, “and you’ll have to tell us the meaning of life.” Scotty figured it was worth a punt. He’d heard it was the ultimate question. “And diven’t give me some poxy number. It’s not funny and a diven’t get it.”

“No, that’s not what you really want to know,” said the cow with a cryptic smile. “I will give you the answer to a question. The one you’ve been asking yourself a lot lately. I will then send you on, I promise.”

“Eh, what ye on aboot man? What question?

“If you want me, I’ll be in Leazes’ Park,” said the cow walking off.

“What question for fucks sake?!” Scotty raged, but the cow continued to walk away.

“At least tell me what I’m suppose to be doing in this body?” Scotty shouted at the cow.

The cow stopped and turned. “You’re a racing pigeon Scott. So one would assume, racing.”

“Ye use your powers to deduce that?” Scotty asked.

“Just one”, replied the Cow, gesturing to the racing rings on Scotty’s legs. “The power of sight,”

And with that, the strange white cow turned his big horned self and walked towards the waiting herd in the mist. Scotty watched them go, rooted to the fence with a mixture of concrete bewilderment and suspicion. Where the fuck was Twiggy, he wondered.

The following morning Scotty was sitting on a roof terrace, looking up and down Forsyth Road for this lad James. Given he had no idea what was going on in this leap or who he was supposed to be racing, he’d come to the conclusion that this cow was his best chance at getting out of here. If it was lying though, Scotty had decided he’d peck daisy’s lying bastard eyes out.

There was much commotion around the Town Moore that morning. Fire engines, police cordons and news trucks had all gathered on the remains of the Great North Road. Scotty, perched on Forsyth Road, was watching a helicopters circle the smouldering crater. He didn’t get a good enough look at what house this lad James had come from and gone back to. He figured if he sat here long enough, he’d appear.

An hour passed and a door opened on the street below and out scurried James. Scotty vaguely recognised James from the telly, he was a some kind of politician or some other tosspot in politics. Politics had never play a big part in Scotty’s life. Coming from a working class background, Scotty couldn’t really identify with any of this toff tossers who craved the power. He also had the attention span of a demented goldfish, so anything which required the mildest bit of attention, such as a discussion, was lost on him. By the time he returned from his daydream, he’d missed all the points, turned on his Xbox and was 3 hours into Call of Duty.

James was in a hurry. Scotty came to the conclusion he’d slept in as he tracked him all the way to West Jesmond Metro station. Waiting for the Metro, Scotty swooped down on James as he stood, unexpectant. Scotty’s aim was that of a professional football volleying a cross into the back of the net. The splat was so loud that it could have been heard by those on the International space station if it wasn’t for that vacuum. Everyone at the Metro station turned to look.

Watching from a nearby roof, Scotty watched James do what looked like a war dance. The absolute rage was apparent as James whipped of his jacket and examined the white streak of pigeon shite down his back. The white nature of the deification visually cut through James’ black Jacket like the metaphorical knife through butter. Scotty for once didn’t question the white nature of his poo, but instead praised the lord for the beautiful contrast. Happy with his first assault on James, Scotty flew into Newcastle City Centre and brazenly stole a sausage roll from Greggs.

This pattern continued for a week. James tried everything from umbrellas to rain coats to fend off the assaults. Scotty always found a way to get around them, polishing James’ clothes with his arse contents twice a day. On the very last day, James was coming out of west Jesmond Metro station, staring up at the sky looking out for Scotty. Their eyes locked, Scotty was sitting on the Metro station sign outside. There was a quick mental exchange, each referring to each other as a bastard, before James took off with the running. Briefcase over his head, he sped onward home. His overweight, rippling frame was trying its best to sabotage him with each step as his moved, at surprising speed, down the street. Scotty took flight, today was the day he was leaving this body. A week of freezing his arse off on top of buildings, stealing sausage rolls and dodging feet was over. He was ready for something else. Scotty soared high above James, ready with the swoop and poop technique he’d mastered over the week. He was just coming within squirting range when James went down. Fatiguing muscles and a distorted centre of gravity had conspired against him. His body, upset by the demand for both of speed and coordination, had given up. Going down like the slutty titanic in a massage parlour, James face planted the floor whilst his arse and legs remained in the air for a few seconds longer, before joining the rest of him. Scotty put on the air brakes and landed on a tree right above him. It was the easiest one yet. Perched 20 foot directly above James, Scotty let rip and covered James’ head in a way not dissimilar to the way the ice cream man covers your 99 in strawberry sauce.

James was raging. This, twice a day for a week, had sent him over the edge. He launched his briefcase at Scotty with the aim one would expect from a man who dodged sports his whole life. The briefcase didn’t come within a country mile of Scotty. Instead it clouted some pensioner around the back of he head. The pensioner moved like lightening, rounded on James and gave him a good flogging with her umbrella. Scotty, happy in his work, took off to find the cow. Scotty looked back to see James one last time, he could see James was fumbling an apology between beatings. Scotty had seen enough and soared high into the sky, on route to Leazes Park.

The Cow’s didn’t take much finding. Scotty lofted above Leazes Park and saw the herd on a island in the middle of a lake. Not really wondering why, just more concerned about getting out of here, Scotty landed on one of the trees nearby.

Widening his wings in a gesture that said, mission completed, Scotty awaited come kind of congratulations from the cows.

“It’s not your stool that is white,” The horned white cow started, without look up. “It is the uric acid that makes up your urine. Pigeons excrete one and both from the same hole. The dark matter is the faeces, the white paste is your urine.”

“What ye on aboot man?” Scotty said, wondering what kind of thank you this was.

“The question you have asked yourself most. I have answered it, as I said I would.”

“Ye having a Giraffe?’ Asked Scotty. “I wanted to know the meaning of life and when I was getting oota of here!”

“The meaning of life is of little concern to you and your race,” the cow replied, still not looking at Scotty. “It shan’t be around for much longer.”

“Well ye diven’t kna ya arse from ya elbow, bonny lad,” Snorted Scotty. “I’ve just come from the future. The human race is looking fine and curvy in all the right places.”

This caught the cows attention, who for the first time looked up at Scotty and staring into him.

“Now that is interesting, little birdie,” said the cow, now looking back at the heard, who were seemingly oblivious to this conversation.

“So, we done?” asked Scotty.

“Yes. Goodbye little pigeon.”

“Ye sending me home?” Said Scotty hopefully.

“No… Onwards.”

The reply from the Cow was so curt and final that Scotty took a moment to muster up any air from his lungs. When it did come, it failed to sting a coherent insult.

“Ye lying fuck bastard, fuckin’ daft fuckin’ daisy mad cow disease ridden cu…”

And with that, the cow was true to it’s word. Scotty was sent onwards to his next leap, vaporising to the sound of an internet dial up tone. Scotty left the body of the wee geordie racer, leaving it with one seemingly all knowing Cow who was now very confused about its future.

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