Talking Têtes

Is there anyone left on the planet who has not heard the name Martha Fugnugget? Psychic, spiritualist, author of the acclaimed Popular Portals column—available to read in this very publication—Martha has cemented her reputation as the world’s leading authority on the occult and the metaphysical.

Her work as a consultant on such films as Mail My Pussy to Jesus, Through the Aperture of the Ass and Digging Up Grandma: The Golden Girls Reunion, have ensured Martha Fugnugget is now a household name. Whilst she is not the subject of this instalment of Talking Têtes, it is almost entirely thanks to her that our film correspondent, Terence Gunboat, was able to secure an interview with the infamous Jarvis Lautrec from beyond the grave—or whatever it is you do with people who have been transformed into a fine mist of meat particles by a rampaging podcaster.

After my brush with The Feckless Hand—an organisation fronted by the late Jarvis Lautrec and his partner in crime, Karpal Marik—I decided it was high time I get a handle on these two and their role in the ever-evolving UK film industry. I had no intention of tracking down Karpal without first knowing what I could expect from such an encounter—our last meeting having begun with my capture at gunpoint by one Cheese McCarthy and having ended with the molecular disassembly of Jarvis at the hands (or head) of Toe Mogan—and so I turned to my esteemed colleague—a woman frequently referred to as “Aleister Crowley in yoga pants”—the marvellous, the mysterious, the magnificent, Martha Fugnugget, for assistance.

Martha and I took some time out from our busy work schedules at the Concrete Octopus offices and headed to the Café in the Crypt in St. Martin-in-the-Fields Church to summon the spirit of Jarvis Lautrec back to the land of the living.

Terence Gunboat: They don't serve booze here, do they?

Martha Fugnugget: No, but I've got us covered.

TG: Martha, you dog. What's in it?

MF: Mostly Powers whisky.

TG: And the rest?

MF: Oh, a bit of this and that—some freebase THC, a grain of octopine, a dash of newt juice.

TG: Just what the doctor ordered. Now, before we begin, would you care to explain a little of your methods to the readers? Obviously our main focus is Jarvis Lautrec, but I'm sure they'd love to have an insight into your abilities.

MF: First, I make contact with the spirit-world using a focus—a focus is an object you use to channel your powers. Some people use medallions, or crystal balls, or mirrors, but the object itself is pretty unimportant—if you have the talent, you can use anything. For instance, I once summoned the spirit of Marilyn Monroe using nothing more than an empty crisp packet, the pull-tab from a can of coke and a second-hand nipple-ring, once belonging to Adrian Chiles.

TG: Right, so you have your focus, then what?

MF: Then we need a spiritual amplifier—that's the quintessential component of a seance, where everyone joins hands. It's a psychic relay that amplifies the signals you're sending into the spirit world. Imagine you're in a crowded club and you're looking for someone—you could walk around, yelling their name, but realistically, you're going to be drowned out by the music, so, instead, you get up on stage, elbow the DJ out of the way and start yelling into the mic—same idea. I actually once did precisely that at Fabric nightclub in order to summon the entire cast of Dirty Dancing—it was a hen-night, you see, and the bride-to-be was adamant she get to dance with the ghost of Patrick Swayze before her wedding.

TG: Thank you, Martha. So, what are you going to be using as a focus today?

MF: I'm going to be using this spoon and possibly this sugar bowl—I'm not sure I'll need it, but it might give me an edge.

TG: Excellent. Well then, shall we?

MF: Take my hands and close your eyes—and keep them closed until I say so, otherwise you'll see some really freaky shit.

TG: Like what?

MF: Like ghosts fucking—turns out dying is a massive turn-on for most people and knowing that nothing you do has consequences anymore tends to bring out the more perverse side of human nature.

Waitress: Sorry to interrupt, but are you two about to conduct a seance?

TG: Er... Yes, as it happens. Is there a problem?

Waitress: No, not at all—we're actually a very popular location for communicating with the dead—the clue's in the name. It's just that we will have to add a £5 surcharge to your bill per spirit summoned. It's company policy—helps keep the café running and some of the money goes towards the events at St. Martin’s.

TG: That's actually quite reasonable. Put us down for one spirit, please.

MF: Better make that two.

TG: Two?

MF: You'll see.

Waitress: Okay, two spirits, two espresso macchiatos, one slice of banana bread and a custard tart, that'll be £18.50—just pop up to the till when you're done and you can pay there.

TG: Thank you.

Waitress: My pleasure.

TG: Right, where were we, Martha?

MF: Take my hands and shut those peepers.

At the behest of my editor, Oscillation Jones—and under pain of being given a poor annual review by the same—I have decided to include limited descriptions in this instalment of Talking Têtes. Know that I only do so under duress and that this should in no way be considered a reflection on my integrity as a dialogue-only journalist.

(Jones, if you’re reading this, I hate you with every fibre of my being.)

(OJ: Glad to see you’re taking my criticism on-board, Terence—we’ll make a journalist of you yet.)

I take Martha’s hands, clammy from the condensation on her hip-flask, and close my eyes.

A sensation, like a mild electrical current, runs through me, a whispering wind seems to blow across my face and I am filled with dread.

Then, the noises begin—the wet squelching of millions of ghostly ghost-dicks, ghost-pussies and, presumably, ghost-anuses. I feel an overwhelming urge to open my eyes and gaze upon the great freak-off in the sky, but I do not—my mind is no fragile thing, to break at the first test of its strength, but I know I would not withstand the sight of such a thing. Only a person with Martha’s psychic acumen can hope to resist such visions with their sanity intact.

MF: We seek an audience with Jarvis Lautrec. Jarvis, are you there?

Spirits: Yeah, he’s here—hey, Jarvis, there’s some bird looking for you.

Jarvis Lautrec: Tell her I’m busy.

Busy doing what, I dared not guess—some mysteries are best left unsolved.

MF: Jarvis Lautrec, put some trousers on and get your transparent arse over here!

JL: Ugh, fine. Jesus.

MF: You can open your eyes now, Terence.

I open my eyes and catch a glimpse of a great roiling vortex as it shrinks to nothing, disappearing in a puff of silvery vapour.

The ghostly form of Jarvis Lautrec now hangs in the air above our table, zipping up his flies.

JL: Martha, right? We worked on Mail My Pussy together, didn’t we? Hey, wait a minute… Is that Terence Gunboat?

TG: You recognise me?

JL: I ought to—your ugly mug was one of the last things I saw before that fuckwit Mogan turned me into human jam.

TG: Right… Er… No hard feelings about that?

JL: Well, I’m not exactly in a position to take revenge, am I?

TG: You could haunt me?

JL: The funny thing about haunting is you think it applies to anyone, but unfortunately for me, it doesn’t—otherwise I’d be haunting the shit out of you right now. You’ve got to have a real grudge with the person you’re haunting. For example, I could absolutely haunt the living bejesus out of Toe Mogan for murdering me, but not you—you were just a witness.

TG: Why don’t you? Haunt Toe Mogan, I mean.

JL: You know, that’s a good question—one worthy of the man himself. I guess it’s because I’m having too much fun in the afterlife—you know, all the sex and drugs and what have you. If I’d known this is what the afterlife actually entailed, I’d have topped myself years ago.

TG: Didn’t you live a pretty freewheeling life anyway?

JL: Sure, but I was constantly stressed out about the possibility of someone killing me—kind of diminishes the experience, you know?

TG: And was that a regular concern of yours?

JL: Was I worried about people killing me, you mean? Sure—you don’t run a proscribed paramilitary organisation like The Feckless Hand without having a few people gunning for you—rival paramilitaries, governments, pissed off celebrities and so on.

TG: Celebrities?

JL: Yeah. For example, that job we were on when Cheese took you hostage—the Eddie Mercury gig? That was at the behest of Mel Gibson. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love Eddie to bits, but when you’ve got Mel Gibson’s PA waving a briefcase full of Peruvian marching powder and gold doubloons under your nose, love gets to play second fiddle. I mean, a man’s got to eat, right? Or, at least, a man’s got to snort copious amounts of yeyo.

TG: So you’re saying by being a gun-for-hire and working for certain celebrities, you made enemies of other celebrities?

JL: Bingo! Get this man a fucking cheesecake! Yes, we made a few enemies in show business. For example, we were once contracted by David Cronenberg to set Jeff Goldblum on fire—not kill him, mind you, just scare the crap out of him. Of course, Karpal and I would’ve gladly burned Jeff to a crisp for an extra ounce of that sweet krokodil David was packing, but sadly, it wasn’t to be.

TG: Why did David Cronenberg want to scare Jeff Goldblum?

JL: Oh, I don’t remember—something about him not returning his calls. You know celebrities, they’re all fruitcakes. Of course, we never actually set Jeff on fire—got interrupted by Eddie and that nutty actor, Art Hurr—let me tell you, that guy’s built like a brick shit-house—always seems to be the way with the crazy ones—weirdly strong—nearly tore my head clean off.

TG: Is that why you attempted to assassinate Art last month?

JL: No, that was unrelated. Christopher Tolkien hired us for that one—something about Art’s portrayal of Fringtomer the Ent and the inclusion of a magic cod-piece in Langzaam Vervagen’s unauthorised stage adaptation of The Silmarillion—I don’t really remember the details.

TG: Forgive me—

JL: Depends what you want to be forgiven for.

TG: —but isn’t Christopher Tolkien dead?

JL: Well yeah, but so am I and that doesn’t seem to be much of a barrier for communication between us, does it?

TG: So he hired you from beyond the grave?

JL: Naturally. Not many people are aware of this, but the Tolkien Estate has a whole necromancy division dedicated to communing with the spirits of deceased Tolkien family members.

TG: Does that extend to J R R himself? I mean, surely it would be beneficial to be in communication with the original author?

JL: Nah, the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn did something with his body—put some magical seal on it or something to stop people like your friend here meddling with his ghost.

MF: I don’t meddle with ghosts, I communicate with them.

JL: That’s not what I’ve heard.

TG: You know, you’ve been very cooperative so far, Jarvis.

JL: Well, yeah, I mean, what have I got to lose? It’s not like there are police up here or anything—may as well be candid, right?

TG: I was hoping you might answer one or two more questions before we let you get back to… whatever it was you were doing before we interrupted you?

JL: Fire away.

TG: Firstly, do you think Karpal Marik would consent to an interview?

JL: Karpal? I mean, he’s a bona fide psychopath—which is why I love the guy—but I don’t see why not. Just be careful when you approach him—make a few obeisances and maintain eye-contact at all times, otherwise you’re liable to wind up with a head full of 12-gauge buckshot.

TG: Secondly, are the rumours about your involvement in the sarin gas attack in Belgrade true?

JL: Yup. All true. In fact, if you’ve heard a rumour about me, it’s almost certainly true.

TG: Even the one about you splicing newt DNA into your own genome in an attempt to gain regenerative powers?

JL: Absolutely. I mean, I didn’t imagine I’d get atomised by a berk with a toe for a head when I did it—there’s no coming back from that, as you can see—but it proved useful on multiple occasions. For instance, I once regrew one of my arms after Ledge Heavy hacked it off with a samurai sword.

MF: Katana.

JL: Bless you.

TG: And finally, I was wondering if you could explain what your role in Mail My Pussy to Jesus actually entailed? I mean, what does a “live action pussy” do?

JL: Ah, now that’s an excellent question—I’m glad you asked. A live action pussy is where—

The sound of sirens drifts to us across the veil of mortality. Jarvis’ ears prick up at the sound—his senses doubtless sharpened during a criminal career spanning at least two decades.

JL: Is that on your end, or mine?

TG: Yours, I think.

Quite suddenly, a spectral squad of armoured police officers toting assault weapons materialises some way behind Jarvis.

JL: Oh fuck! It’s the rozzers!

Jarvis pulls a large handgun from the back of his trousers and takes aim.

Spectral Police Officer: Interpol, Spirit Division! Drop the weapon!

JL: You’ll never take me alive… Wait… I mean, you’ll never take me, full-stop!

TG: Are we safe here, Martha?

MF: Yeah, they’re ghost-guns, after all—they fire ghost-bullets, so they’ll pass straight through us.

As the first ghost-gunshots ring out—zips of silver fog trailing ghostly projectiles as they wing their way across the café, scattering the spirits summoned to other tables—a tall, handsome ghost, dressed head-to-toe in ice-hockey gear, materialises next to Martha.

Handsome Hockey Ghost: Hey sugar, you ready for a night on the town?

MF: Oh, hey, Wayne, good timing. Terence, this is my friend—

Handsome Hockey Ghost: Lover.

MF: —Wayne Gretzky. Wayne, this is my colleague, Terence Gunboat.

The Ghost of Wayne Gretzky: Pleasure.

TG: Nice to meet you, Wayne—I actually have some questions I’d love to ask you.

MF: Sorry, Terence, it’s been great, but we have a reservation at 2 Veneti in forty minutes—perhaps we can sit down with Wayne some other time?

TG: Oh. Of course. You two enjoy yourselves.

TGoWG: Thanks, sport. You have yourself a lovely evening. Shall we, babe?

Martha nods and stands up, pausing only to close the portal to the spirit-world—the ongoing shoot-out between Jarvis Lautrec and the agents of Interpol’s Spirit Division shrinks to a pinhole before disappearing in a puff of vapour.

Wayne Gretzky’s ghost rests an ephemeral arm nonchalantly on Martha’s shoulder and together, the pair leave the café.

Waitress: Hi! Me again. So, here’s the cheesecake you ordered, and I’m afraid we’ve had to add five more spirits to your bill.

TG: Wait, what?

Waitress: The five members of Interpol’s Spirit Division? Don’t worry, we offer a discount for “spiritual hitch-hikers”—ISD agents are 30% off, since they’re so common.

TG: This sort of thing happens a lot, does it?

Waitress: All the time. When we had Nigel Farage in here, he summoned the ghost of Joseph Goebbels for a quick propaganda consultation—had half the division descend on the place. God, it was chaos—the ghost of Falafel Dipthong took a stray ghost-bullet right in his hind-parts, and his son, Magnus, threatened to sue us for spiritual damages.

And so concluded my interview with Jarvis Lautrec. Even in death, the man was an agent provocateur of the highest order and I suspected this would not be the last I heard of his escapades in the spirit-world—despite being outnumbered, outgunned and outmanoeuvred, I was sure he would find a way to elude the grasp of Interpol’s Spirit Division.

Ahead lay the path to an interview with Karpal Marik—a man so dangerous he once appeared in court sealed in a latex vacuum bag. I confess, I was afraid—terrified would not be too strong a word. During my captivity, I chanced to see some of the greater excesses of this man’s depravity and it left my blood cold as any newt’s, but I knew if I was to get to the bottom of the strange developments in the UK film industry, I would have to meet with him sooner or later.

All that remains now is to say I am owed £29.30 from petty cash—there, I’ve put it in writing, Oscillation, you tight bastard.

Terence Gunboat will be back next week with an exclusive interview with Karpal Marik—let us hope he emerges from the experience unscathed!

Martha Fugnugget will return later this month with a new instalment of Popular Portals. She is also available for weddings, hen-nights, stag-dos, baby-showers, birthday parties and funerals—you know where to find her.

The Feckless Hand are still active and are wanted for questioning by several governments, the ICC and Interpol. They would also like us to inform our readers that they too are available for hire at a modest fee—use our promo-code “concreteoctopus10” for 10% off assassinations and kidnappings.