Alternate Histories #3: St. Ives

Many of us know and love St Ives as the quaint yet vibrant coastal town in Cornwall, as popular with artists as it is with surfers, an air of excitement as charged defibrillators hum at the top of every hill, and bustling with breathless holidaymakers and curmudgeonly restauranteurs. But it wasn't always like this.

Let's take a look at how this British seaside favourite came into being...

Founded on industrial wasteground following the First World War, this regenerative settlement was an early prototype of the UK's "new town" projects (later to find great success once they moved inland and utilised windowless concrete). As part of the carefully managed brand-identity, chugging trawlers crewed by out of work actors from nearby Penzance would leave the picturesque harbour before first light every morning, returning after 14-hour shifts of harvesting a light tan-coloured silt from the Atlantic Ocean. This was hauled by local orphans to kiln-houses in the narrow streets where it was dried, filtered, and became the base ingredient of a hugely popular powdered milk-substitute, produced and sold by the startup company which gave the town its now-legendary moniker: St Ivel...

Its name - and fame - spread far and wide, and this was an arrangement which worked well for many years until 1975. American actor Charles Bronson made a lucrative offer to assume sponsorship of the locale in promotion for his upcoming action film series, 'St Ives'. The town council understandably leapt at this opportunity, having not read the contract properly and assuming (perhaps not unfairly) that the slick yet gritty heist-thrillers would be filmed on their own Cornish cobbles, garnering great publicity for the community and sightseeing opportunities for visitors.

Alas, this wasn't to be. The film, released in 1976, performed modestly on its own terms but its dour cinematic demeanour attracted no further investment for the planned sequels, while audiences in old Kernow were left baffled by the stateside setting. Bronson withdrew from the town in a fit of pique and moved his production company to the South Devon coast (in the now-former fishing village of Death Wish 4). As well as maps and tourist guides having recently being reprinted at great expense with the town's new name, contractual stipulation also meant it could not be reverted for another 99 years. To add to their woes, the St Ivel company had since been bought by the Coffee Mate corporation, then placed into liquidation when they concluded that the sea-silt tasted disgusting after all.

And so the hamlet limped on with no meaningful name or commercial direction until 1982, when a cosmetics magnate happened to be visiting the area as part of a stag party. He noticed that dragging their nuptially-bound charge across the beach by a whipped donkey led to the lad's skin displaying a ruddy glow, rather than the raw, salt-infused welts his group had initially intended.

Within twelve months, Mr Unilever Saint Ives had established a new spin-off company to reinvigorate the town's fortunes, whereby sand was dredged daily from the sea bed and hauled into town by local orphans where it was mixed with the slurry by-products of the local fudge mills to create a revolutionary and award-winning facial scrub. The town could rejoice once more, their name - not to mention their reputation and complexion - was intact.

And to this very day, as tourists huddle over a pint outside The Sloop Inn in the crook of the harbour and are routinely sandblasted in even the calmest of conditions, they can raise a glass to the saint who saved the town. In fact, he's probably looking down from his reinforced office in the Tregenna Castle Estate watching them!

And so say all of us: Thanks, Saint Ives!

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Bountyhunting: Hard Money For The Professionals.

WARNING: This is a mash-up. It's Star Wars fan-fiction, written in the style of Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting. I absolutely adore both so it comes from a place of genuine love, but be aware that the second of these influences means that the post contains some of the foulest language ever to appear on this blog. If the swearing will be a problem for you, there are lots of far less profane posts right here. For everyone else, strap in...

Photo credit: Electronic Arts.

They centre ay Eisley is really mobbed oot, man. It's too hot fir a green-skinned punter likesay, ken? Some Lothcats thrive in the heat, but the likesay me, ken, we jist cannae handle it. Ah've gottae try tae rehydrate sharpish. The proablem is ah've goat a bit ay a tab situation at maist ay the places here, likes.

Ah pass likes this awnin back fae the street an there's this old gadge slumped in there lookin at aes. He's a right mess and he stinks ay pish and fuck knows what else, bit he's lookin like he kens aes.

— Huv ye goat twenny spare credits son? he asks.
— Ah hannay, man, sorry old timer, ah sais. He disnae react, he jist keeps starin wi a faint smile. An ah feel pure shite cause ah've goat mair than he needs awright, bit no mair than ah need, ken?
— No tae worry son, he grumbles. — Yoo tek it easay, ye're a guid lad Rodes! An that pure rattles aes man, cause aa reputation isnae aw that roond these pairts an it means he dis ken aes.

Ah jist sortay gies im a wave an mooches aff. It wis only twa streets later that ah realised that wis auld Cradossk. Fuck man, ah've done a couple ay jobs wi him back when ah wis stertin oot. Noo ah wannay go back and chat tae the cat likes, bit ah'd be too embarrassed.

Ah spoat some ay ma pack headin intae Chalmun's cantina and figure ah can try ma luck there. As long as the old Wook hissel isnae oan the bar ah should be okay. He's a sound old dude, bit he kens ah'm back oan the spice an he disnae pit up wi that. Ah eywis reckoned he wis overreactin, then the gang telt is maist ay his family goat taken tae that Kessel an died doon the spice mines, man. Ah mean nae wonder he disnae dig it, that's some heavy shite awright. It's okay though, Wuher's oan the bar the day, an he disnae care aboot anythin other than makin sure each punter's spendin money, likesay.

Dengs is hengin oot oan is ain near the bar. A heads over tae um an we hae a chat fir a couple ay minutes aboot shite, likes. Ye ken he's a deeper cat than meets the eye, man, bit he hides it aw behind thae bandages and armour platin. Ah'm sure he shouldnae be in this game, tae much ay a soul tae him fir the killin, bit he keeps oan.

Then Fett comes saunterin in.

— Alright girls? he croons, even though he's talkin tae us.
— Aye, Boab, ah nod. He stops, turns roond and looks us square oan.
— Whit wis that? he whispers.
— Ah sais aye, ah croaks. He's caught aes oaff guard there likes, an ah'm backin' doon noo jist fir bein pleasant, likesay.
— Boab? he goes. I can feel him squintin through the visor, like he's hae'n a shite day and blamin me fir makin it worse.
— BobA, I comes back, hopin ah can play it aff like he jist didnae hear me proper. — Y'awright ma man? If he's no fooled maybe some ay the guys will be. Although ah doubt it.

He jist walks ower tae the table an'the others. Ah could dae withoot this today, man. As he goes closer, Bossk stands up and bellows tae the room.
— Boab!! Get ower here ye shiny heeded cunt, ye! Fett disnae say anythin likes, jist sits doon wi them.

The Bossko's fuckin a psycho, man, pure bad vibes. He's aw — First rule ay the game, ye look efter yir mates! Aye right enough, but what he willnae tell ye is that it disnae apply to him because he hasnae goat any mates. Spent twa years steppin ower every poor bastard tae get intae the guild, then once he's in he acts like he's better than aw ay it. He left IG-88 in fuckin bits oan the flair jist fir gettin in his way that once. He's costin us joabs as a crew, ken?

Bit ah've been over tae Jabba's this mornin, seein if he needs any "ends tyin up" likesay. He eyewis pays well, bit yuv goat tae be careful cause Hutts count in base eight. That means that fir every thoosand credits they say thae'll pay, ye'll actually get eight hunner. Seems like thur bein sneaky cats bit it's likesay a cultural thing, so ye cannae really complain. Besides, if ye work it oot in advance there's nae problem, it's jist complicated likes.

An then like cool, cool karma itself man, ah sees that Nexu cat Solo stretchin oot against thae back wall. Fuckin result. He wis guid pals wi Jabba until jist recently when he lost a load ay the gear he wis carryin. Sais he dumped it cause he wis bein tracked by the Impdicks bit Jabba thinks he might ay jist sold it oan fir hissel. The Hutt disnae even care if the boontay's alive or no. That makes things a shite sight easier awright. His co-pilot's a big bastard, bit ah'm sure ah can shoot faster than either ay them.

Aw the other cats in ma pack huv slinked oaf so its jist me an Solo and a short walk through this bar tae payday. An even if Jabba starts negotiatin doon once ah bring him in, ah can stash everythin Solo's holdin before ah take him there. Fae the way he's lookin ah'd say he's jist finishin up some business. Even better man, he'll have a few advance credits ready tae slide oot ay his poacket as ah'm carryin him oot.

This is it, man. Thae wan. All in, ma ticket tae better times. Goin clean. Retirement oan a quiet moon wi a Naboo princess or a Twi'lek girl, complete wi the head-dress, ken? Aye, goatay be complete wi the head-dress...

Right. Solo's oan his ain. Pit them drinks oan ice, Greedo's goin in...

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Bountyhunting: Kicking Off In Public.

WARNING: This is a mash-up. It's Star Wars fan-fiction, written in the style of Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting. I absolutely adore both so it comes from a place of genuine love, but be aware that the second of these influences means that the post contains some of the foulest language ever to appear on this blog. This one especially. If the swearing will be a problem for you, there are lots of far less profane posts right here. For everyone else, strap in...

Photo credit: ArtFX+

If this disnae stoap bleedin ah'm gonnae chib that cunt masel, mates or no fuckin mates.

Wir in Ackmena's over Espa. Me an Boab. Keepin wir eye oan this radge whae's owin Jabba. Screel or somethin. Speccy shite, no much tae look at but his auld man's an Imp and the smart cunt is flashin his poppy aw over. He's no overdue yit so it's jist surveillance likes, low key. No really ma speciality, bit if any cunt wants tae pay us tae sit oan ma erse fir a bit ah'm gemme. Ah'm at a table wi the gobshite, Boab's at the back ay the alcove by the door, armed tae the fuckin teeth as per. A guid cunt tae huv wi ye.

So the cairds are oan. Sabaac. Wir four hands in - ah'm playin like Lando fuckin Calrissian by the way - an ah'm keepin mah heed doon and tannin the Alderaanian brandy an aw. Screel is gien us evils bit he kin git tae fuck. Ah didnae come here lookin fir bother, bit ah'm the wan wi the Relby V10 under the table and that cunt kin huv the barrel-end in his pus any time he fuckin wanted like.

Then whae comes mincing in bit Rodes. Fuck’s sake, ah kin dae withoot him nippin ma heid. The cunt’s niver oot ay Eisley so ah thought it wid be quiet here, bit if there’s wan cunt whae’s gonnae knock this sideways, it’ll be Rodes. If Screel gets wind ay boonty hunters, it’s aw over. That dappit shite clocks us right aff and strolls over.

— Awright Bossko! Any joabs goin? Every cunt’s lookin now an ah’m oan ma feet before he kin get tae us.

— Keep it doon fir fuck’s sake, wir oan a joab noo! ah hiss at him. Bit it’s nae guid, he’s aff his fuckin box the cunt, and he gies us they big eyes and drawls: — Aw, okay ma man! We’re aw lizards here, right pal?

— Ah’m a fuckin lizard, you’re a worm that’s grown legs, noo sit the fuck doon or get a roond in eh?

— Oan it, Cat-man Bossk! The cunt dis this salute which is probably meant tae be funny, but he’s said ma fuckin name twice already an that’s it. Screel‘s getting oot ay his fuckin chair and swaggerin over tae us. Fuck.

— Bossk? he sais, bit wi his mid-rim accent it comes oot soondin like “Baahsk”. — Yoou’re Baahsk? The boun’y hunter, ri-i-ght? An he sais it aw grinnin like a fuckin erse.

Right then cunt, let’s git ready. At least he didnae bolt fir the door, bit ah kin see Boab shiftin as he tenses up. Ackmena’s at the bar, glaring over fir us tae pack it in. Too late now, darlin.

— Say I’ve heard aboutchoo! the boy slavers. Dae it, ah fuckin dare ye! He turns away an there it is: the left hand goes up tae his face as a distraction while the right pulls oot a vibroblade. Goat ye ya cunt, that’s enough ay a cause fir me.

It’s probably no Screel’s fault he disnae ken how fast a Trando kin move, bit even he looks surprised when ah’m oan the cunt and lampin his face as he goes doon. Ah’ve smashed his skull intae the floor a couple ay times and grabbed the hand wi the blade, the wee shite yelpin like a dug as the bones tear oot through the skin. His other hand is flailin an fir aw ah ken he’s goat a blaster, so ah’ve goat nae choice bit tae keep panellin the cunt. Ah kin see his mates comin over, but.

Screel’s done fir noo, so ah stand and front up tae his minders. Two Noghri and a Barabel. Ah’ll take the big cunt first, same rules apply. He comes over wi his palms oot like he’s tryin tae be pally, like there’s some reptilian code ay honour. Dis he think ah’m fuckin saft?

So ah’m oan that cunt right an aw. A headbutt in the pus tae soften um up, then a boot in the baws tae send’um doon. Wan ay the Noghri sees this an shites it, oaf fir the exit. Boab jist lets him go. Ah’ve crushed the Barabel’s windpipe an ah’m jist roundin oan that other Noghri cunt when ah hear the laddie makin a noise, tryin tae get up as ah slam ma fist intae the side ay his heid and he sinks like a sack ay shite again.

— Bit ay help wid be guid, likes! ah yell, bit Boab’s jist standin there. An ye ken Boab, that cunt’s no shy in a swedge. Then ah’ve goat his comm through oan ma implant, sneerin as fuckin usual.

— Y’do realise that if ye kill Screed, Jabba’ll be efter you fir the poppy he’s owed? Aye, right enough ah suppose. Still, it’s easy tae be a clever cunt when yir standin in the corner wi a bucket oan yir heid.

Then, that Noghri’s goat his fuckin blade between ma ribs - right in there the cunt - bit instead ay finishin the joab he’s jist standin there fuckin shakin, a pool ay pish floodin oot fae under his boots. Then Boab’s right ahind um, pullin away his stun baton.

— Oh, nice ay ye tae fuckin join us! ah tell’im. The Noghri’s oan the floor and ah boot the fucker in the heid as ah bleed ontae’im.

— Are you plannin oan takin this shite back, or d’ye want tae keep advertisin oor presence here? Boab sais. He’s no wrang.

Ah shoulder ma Relby, pick up Screel and drag him ootside, ma other hand oan ma bleedin ribcage. Ah’m lookin tae see where that green shite has goat tae, he’s the cunt whae started this.

Rodes is in the alcove, passed oot oan the fuckin spice. Well it’s time Screech paid his fuckin debts, ah’ll be back fir this cunt later. A big fuckin disappointment tae me that boy, ah kin tell ye…

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Bountyhunting: In Hyperdrive.

WARNING: This is a mash-up. It's Star Wars fan-fiction, written in the style of Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting. I absolutely adore both so it comes from a place of genuine love, but be aware that the second of these influences means that the post contains some of the foulest language ever to appear on this blog. If the swearing will be a problem for you, there are lots of far less profane posts right here. For everyone else, strap in...

Photo credit: Electronic Arts.

Ah do wish ma bandage-faced chum The Deng Heap would just admit he's usin again. It's fuckin obvious tae everyone. When he's snortin the spice he comes up in this rash roond his face. It's fuckin mingin so he wears the bandages tae try an hide that. Daft shite hasnae twigged it just draws more attention tae it. But when he starts wi the full stim-packs - that's when his skin really takes a dive an you're glad ay those wraps jist so ye dinnae have tae look at it.

It disnae help that Dengs is a fuckin liability in that state, an'aw. Nae use havin him on a job when he cannae find his own erse wi both hands. An the fuckin smell. You do NOT want to be stakin out a target when Dengar's incoherent AND sheddin...

We don't need that radge shite cramping our shtyle with the ladiesh, do we Mishter Fett?
No Doctor Jonesh Shenior, we mosht shertainly do not.
Becaushe who do we trusht with our reputation?
Why, no one of courshe.
Not even ourshelvesh?
. . .

Dengs used tae be a fuckin player, man. An a winner an aw. We made a guid team. We still could be, but... well, it's no professional that's aw. Costin the crew money is one thing, dentin the credibility is quite a-fuckin-nother. Ah suppose aw the time ah'm hangin aroond wi they losers everyone can see how fuckin great ah am. No, onwards an upwards as young Boab goes fae strength tae strength.

Bossko's no much fuckin better. He's on a thing for Aldera brandy at the moment, thinks it makes him look classy wi the chickies. Ah mean aye, it's expensive an aw, especially since the place blew up, but that's just a marketin gimmick. They make that pish tae licence on every planet wi a distillery. Might as well drink blue fuckin milk fir aw the street cred it gies ye. No that I'd advise bringin that up wi the cunt, mind you. If Bossk's go one solid quality it's that he'll bring any situation tae a heid before ye've had time tae order a second roond. It's just managin that solid quality that's the problem.

But fuck all that. The sun is shinin, the game is on and I am in hyperdrive, hyper-fuckin-drive. A couple of gigs have just landed fae oor friends in the Empire, an ah've go some guard work on wi Jabba. It's mebbe a little demeanin fir someone as recognisable as masel, then again it's guid fir punters tae see that ah'm connected. It's a decent hourly rate, anyways.

That's no the only reason ah'm daein it, mind. The Hutt's go intel that that radge cunt Solo's back in town, right efter he flushed a load ay Jabba's gear he was carryin when the Imps showed up. So Jabba wants tae go by the dockin bays an have a word - in person likes - an needs a bit ay muscle on standby. Well ah'm happy tae help.

Why the fuck Solo's back here ay all places is beyond me, but ah'm up fir watchin the two ay them tiptoe their way around no slottin one another right aff the bat. Efter aw, Jabba disnae know it was me that put the Star Destroyer Commander ontae the Falcon's cargo, an Solo disnae know it was me that picked up the gear in a stolen shuttle efter he shited it an punched lightspeed. It's probably a good thing the famous Fett visor will be coverin the fuckin grin on ma face. A shiteload ay spice fir free, an plenty ay contacts fir movin it on at premium prices. Ka-fuckin-ching.

It's all business, of course. All product. All cashflow.

But there'sh shtill that voishe, ishn't there Misther Fett? The promishe? The Spishe?
That there ish, Doctor Jonesh, but we're better than that today.
That'sh what we shaid yeshterday...
. . .

An ah get it. Ah've been there, we aw have. Most ay us, anyways.

Spice is the only honest drug. It disnae alter yir consciousness, it expands it. You become a sortay voyeuristic parasite, able tae read everyone's thoughts, fears, dreams. And it is fucking superb. Aw of a sudden ye're connected tae everyone in the room, in the buildin, in the town. An in a town like Eisley, that's quite a fuckin thing. Every pit ay despair, every nefarious deed, every height ay ecstasy, you are THERE, you are bein those people and you are fuckin CONNECTED, man. This must be what the Force feels like.

An then last time, ah did it.

Ma consciousness drifted right out an was drawn tae some Jedi cunt, out past the dunes. An what's worse is, HE KNEW, no like aw the others. It wis like he looked straight back intae me. How the fuck is that auld bastard even alive out there? Then aw of a sudden ah'm ten years old an back in that arena, starin intae mah da's lid. He's gone. Deid. Ah've just watched ma da - ma only fuckin family - get murdered by a fuckin Jedi. Cut doon like a fuckin rag doll. Heid slashed clean off. It's there an then that ah make this vow; that I am goin tae wipe those pious shites OUT, any fuckin way ah can.

An ah think aboot that moment every day when ah put the helmet on, an it disnae go away when ah take it off. Ah dinnae need tae relive it on mah downtime when ah'm off mah box.

An that's why ah'm daein this. Ah am goin tae take every last one ay they cunts down. If ah can make a wedge ay credits along the way then aw the better, but first an foremost it's aw aboot that mission. Because that's it, ah've found fuck all else - nuthin - tae fill this screamin Sarlacc pit in the center ay ma chest, pullin me in like a fuckin black hole...

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.