Saturday, April 30, 2005


Tag's story.

Tag Henderson was a lanky but ruggedly handsome man. When he could find a pair of trousers to fit, he filled them well. He worked as a tape librarian at Omnicron Post-production in New York. It was the kind of Post-production house where even the bookings staff were tough. Real tough. It was kill or be killed in this crazy place, and Tag sure wasn’t going the way of the great Avid in the sky just yet.
Tag’s days were all starting to blend into one another; was this Wednesday or Thursday? Neither, it was Sunday and Tag was in work by accident. No matter; the ‘phone was ringing incessantly and Tag was close to collapse. As he leapt from shelf to shelf grabbing tapes and non-copyright audio C.D’s from great piles, he heard his Mother’s voice in his ears,
“You’re ace Tag,” and she was right; he was ace. Very Ace.
A burning anger swept over Tag like wave of hot cow shit. He threw all but one tape against the wall with a magnificent roar of anger; today was going to be very different to last three days. Oh yes, very different indeed.

The library door was stiff and heavy. As he thought this Tag smirked to himself,
“Maybe the library and me aren’t so different after all,” and had you been there you’d have laughed.
Tag took the stairs up to the second floor two at a time; his manly gait barely straining at the additional strength and effort it took, which is more than you’d think. The azure blue of the digibeta in his hand stood out against his perfect olive complexion and yet the two were about to work together so well. He almost felt sorry for the freelance editor. Almost.
The long corridor down to Avid 47 (yes, the facility was that enormous) looked like a marathon course most days, but today Tag felt he could sprint it. Four and half seconds later he had, and he felt ready for action, it was time to face up to his old nemesis: Ivor Walsh.
Walsh was like no other man you had met. Dashing and clever, effete yet masculine; he could turn a man or woman’s head without a seconds thought. Even lezzies. He was not going to be an easy opponent, oh no, but Tag had to prove his worth if he was going to get anywhere in this World. Or Omnicron Post-production.

Tag stepped into the Northern Wing of Omnicron Post-production and the thick, course hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. A light wind was coming from a crack behind him. He turned to see what was happening and was greeted by Lyndsey, the North-Wing receptionist, and Georgie the quirky despatch/librarian hybrid. Both were uncommonly beautiful despite both actually being as common as an Irishman’s daughter. Later in the year, Tag was also not a little surprised to find out one of them was still partly a man. Partly. “Hello,” said Tag,
“Hello Tag,” breathed Georgie, quirkily but beautifully.
“Hello Tag,” croaked Lyndsey, taking the pipe out of her mouth, “What are you up to?”
“Up to? Why should I be up to something?”
“You’ve got a look on your face that I haven’t seen since New Years Eve last year. You were up to something then, you’re up to something now”,
“As I remember it, I was up to my elbow last New Years Eve”, quipped Tag brilliantly.
“Ha-ha-ha,” laughed the ‘women’, “you’re brilliant Tag”.
“Yes”, Tag replied.
The ‘women’ wanted him. Tag wanted the ‘women’ (at this point). All that would have to wait… Now it was time for Ivor.

Tag and Walsh had a history. They’d been born on the same day just a matter of minutes and miles apart. 42 miles, but still not treble figures. They’d first rubbed up against one another in Brighton in ’92. ’92 was a gay club that could easily be mistaken for a pub or something. It had been dark and Tag was certainly under the impression that his drink had been spiked that night. Anyway, that’s when they had first met.
Then silence. Such was the image that Tag had left burnt onto Walsh’s retinas that he did all that he could to avoid Tag. Part of his increasingly desperate plan was to work, quite successfully, in Hollywood as an editor on major action films for which he was paid very well. Pathetic.
Now Walsh could no longer avoid Tag; their meeting was going to happen today …was going to happen now.
Tag turned away from the ‘women’. He could feel their cold, probing snake-like eyes scanning up and down his muscular, sculpted frame. They checked out the warm slopes of his calves, the sensual caverns of his knees and his arse as well. One of them pitched a little tent. Georgie let out a little sigh of lust as Tag strode away,
“I’d just like him to touch it,” she said, and she meant it too.
Tag crossed the large atrium that made up the centre of the North-Wing of Omnicron Post-production. Damn! Walsh’s assistant, Poontang, was standing guard outside. What was the best way to deal with this half-man, half-monkey chimera? Stealth? Deception? Subterfuge? Tag considered all of these briefly before deciding on the only course of action that ever works: violence. Pure and simple. Beautiful. Arousing.

Poontang’s head bounced off of the door like a dirty orange hitting a grocer’s floor. Unfortunately for him it was still attached to his body, which was currently on the thick end of a sack full of pain. Tag was making light work of this monkey-man’s taut little frame. As his mammalian arse hit the floor for conceivably the twelfth or eleventh time, Tag started to feel something; something he hadn’t felt since he gave the V’s to a minibus of special kids that cut him up on his Harley: Pity. The monkey-boy was screeching like a trapped biff and he had caused it. He took his foot off of the creatures remaining testicle and squatted down next to him.
“Hey little fella… Hey there. You okay?”,
Poontang looked up at Tag, his warm brown eyes full of what you might call tears, but tears made of blood and a little piss.
“Tag Henderson hurt Poontang”, he murmured,
Tag’s heart twisted in his chest, although not literally,
“Yes. I did.” Tag reached out a hand to the poor little freak and took his hand, “But you’re so weird looking I didn’t think it would matter,”
“You’re probably right,” replied the hairy dwarf.
“Good,” said Tag and finished him off with a nearby telephone receiver.
Poontang’s body lay inert and also not moving. Tag wiped the bits and bobs that had got on his (designer) jeans onto Poontang’s T-shirt and turned toward Avid 47. It had arrived. The time had come to face Ivor Walsh and turn a bad day good. And vice versa.

Tag Henderson’s size 12 (European) flipped the door to Avid 47 off it’s hinges with unseemly ease. Tag’s adrenaline was pumping like a whore’s neck and no shabby MDF portal was going to come between him and his prey.
As the dust in the room settled, Tag made out the magnificent shape of Ivor Walsh bent over the Avid. He stood naked, his lithe body poised and ready to render an effect as only he knew how. Slowly he raised himself to his full height and also stood up. At six foot and eight inches in his stockinged feet, Walsh was a Berlin Wall of a man. It depended on the denier, but you get the drift. Like the Berlin wall, he was about to come down. And out!
Tag surveyed the freelance editor’s body. He liked what he saw, but only as any other heterosexual man would. His magnificent mane of golden hair fell delicately across the broad shelf of his perfect shoulders. His vast chest segued neatly into his trim waist. His long, thick legs sliding down to his neat little ankles. For a moment Tag doubted his own sexuality. For a moment.
“So… you wanna play it that way, do you?” said Tag,
“This is no game, Henderson.” replied Walsh.
“I know.” responded Tag, quick as a flash.
“As long as you do,” was all that Walsh could say.
“Well I do!” was Tag’s playful retort.
“Right then,” came back Walsh’s answer; “Let’s play”.
“But I thought you said…”
“Leave it!”
Tag started to remove his own clothes; if they were going to do this thing, they were going to do it right. Mano a mano. Naked, like in ‘Women in love’.
The two rippling Adoni faced off to each other. Soon only one would be victor. Tag was sure he’d be victor. Walsh too believe himself to be victor. Lyndsey on the other hand had been Victor until the autumn of the year before, when she had become Lyndsey. Walsh lunged at Tag grasping his hair tightly in his huge fist. He flung Tag’s head hard into metal shelving at the back of the room. The metal clang was the only clue Tag had that anything had happened: he was too up for this to let a little thing like pain get in the way. Plus he was still a little high from the P.C.P he’s had that morning.
He came back at Walsh with a punishing kick to the stomach. The great freelance editor buckled and flew backwards across the room. This may be easier than Tag had suspected. He chased Walsh across the room and started pounding punches into the muscles down the sides of his ribcage. I don’t know what they are called, but I do know it’s probably Latin. Walsh was doubled in pain and Tag was sure that he was about o submit when suddenly the great man’s head flew up and cracked Tag square in the face.
Tag wheeled back in shock and found himself on the end of a particularly effective punch on the end of his old chap. The little fella quivered along it’s full twelve inches (European) and Tag collapsed. Through his tears he could see Walsh like a behemoth rising above him. In his hands he held the Avid’s keyboard. The mighty man’s hands swung it up over his head. Had Tag gotten ahead of himself? Was this one step too far? What did Walsh know that he didn’t? Where did he get his hair coloured? All of this flashed through Tag’s enormous brain in the split second before Walsh was to slam the keyboard down upon his perfect, brutishly handsome head.

“Not so fast, Walsh”, came that cracked, pubescent boys voice. Tag looked towards the doorframe to be greeted by the welcome sight of Lyndsey and Georgie. Like a couple of angels they had come to Tag’s rescue. Angels that he wouldn’t mind wearing like gloves, or his own personal gasmask.
“Leave Tag alone you shit!” said Georgie, cleverly. Walsh started to laugh.
“You think you can harm me? I’m the greatest freelance editor that you’ve ever had at Omnicron. You’re just underlings; stones for me to step on until I get to the very top. Ha-ha-ha…” His cold, dead laugh whistled through the afternoon like a thousand aching cold-sores. The ‘women’ held firm.
“There’s no time for that now,” said Tag. “It’s still aching a bit, as well.”
“Sorry Tag,” replied Georgie.
“Well perhaps we ought to make time,” croaked Lyndsey, scratching absent-mindedly at her five O’clock shadow.
“Yeah!” Shouted Georgie.
The girls swung into action with the ferocity of a Deptford housewife. They were as unrelentingly violent as well. Each swung punch and kick after punch and kick at Walsh and he had no answer for it. He cowered and stooped and took step after backward as each new wave of assaults rained down upon him. Eventually, it was all too much: Walsh had been backed into a corner, desperation making him look like a bit of a nob. He turned and in one pretty decent dive, leapt straight through the plate glass window to his almost certain death some way below.
“Wow! You girls can certainly handle yourselves. I’m impressed.” Said Tag.
“You think that’s impressive?” said Georgie, “Wait ‘til you see how we handle you.”
“You girls are full of surprises,” said Tag, standing proud.
“You have no idea…” said Lyndsey.

The End…?

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