Talking Têtes

After some delay and much prevarication, Concrete Octopus has at last succeeded in securing an interview with one of the world's most dangerous criminal masterminds—and cinema's greatest living pussy wrangler—Karpal Marik.

After several weeks training with the Parachute Regiment, our film correspondent, Terence Gunboat, has been dropped into an undisclosed location in the exotic heartland of South London. There, he is to make contact with Marik for a discussion on such diverse topics as the cinematography of Langzaam Vervagen—with whom he worked earlier this year—the fate of his partner, Jarvis Lautrec, and the murky world of celebrity rivalries.

My first day in the jungle passed in a blur—greenery surrounds me, sweating in the summer heat, a warm fog, like the expiring breath of a cold war dictator, clouds the air. I cannot help but feel as though I am losing part of myself with each step taken through this humid dreamscape. Lush plants, brilliant and toxic flowers, chirring insects with black metallic thoraxes that pulse unerringly to the cycling of purloined lifeblood—it is in this strange place that I am to find Karpal Marik, the greatest wrangler of pussies since Moachim Longtoes passed beyond the veil in 1998, and the sole surviving leader of The Feckless Hand crime syndicate.

On my second day in the jungle I stumbled upon an abandoned bivouac. Sifting through the ashes of a nearby campfire, I discovered my first clue as to the location of the elusive Marik—a partially burnt Kerrygold wrapper and a singed Luke Skywalker lunchbox. Inside the lunchbox I recovered a half-eaten Nutri-Grain bar—which I consumed gratefully, having skipped breakfast the previous day—and a set of instructions printed in ballpoint on a scrap of notepaper.

"Meet me by the rock-garden – KM" the note read.

After several hours of trekking over rough ground, I at last came to Marik's outpost, nestled in a craggy escarpment and surrounded on all sides by a vast array of cacti and succulents, red flowers and bright magenta fruits standing out like bullet wounds in the otherwise desolate landscape—a fitting locale for a man of his reputation. I was greeted at the entrance by Cheese McCarthy—the unwitting subject of a past interview in this very column, a man with whom our culture editor, Oscillation Jones, and I struck up an instant repartee, and my erstwhile kidnapper.

Cheese McCarthy: Terence!

Terence Gunboat: Cheese, my friend, how are you?

CM: Good, good.

TG: Work keeping you busy?

CM: You know it. It's been a hard few weeks since Jarvis snuffed it.

TG: I’m terribly sorry about that—if it's any consolation, I spoke to his ghost a few weeks ago and he seems to be doing well—he's on the run from the ISD, but the afterlife suits him.

CM: Don't worry yourself about that—it's water under the bridge. People in our profession know what they're getting into and Jarvis died like a hero—or a villain, depending on your point of view. So, you're here to interview Karpal, are you?

TG: That's right.

CM: You got your obeisance?

TG: It's all here.

CM: Hmmm... Let's see... Twenty pats of Kerrygold, two widgets of octopine—very nice—and... What's this?

TG: It's a signed copy of Virtually Here: A B-Minus Future In Retrograde by Oscillation Jones—he insisted I bring it with me.

CM: I take it the annual review didn't go so good, huh?

TG: Not in a word, no. He made me write an essay on his interview with Toe Mogan—three thousand words on why his style of journalism is superior to my own. I had to stop myself from copy-pasting the word “cunt” three thousand times and handing it to him. On the plus side though, Oscillation’s off my case until next year, so no more forcing dubious descriptions into my work.

CM: Is that standard practice at Concrete Octopus? Writing essays?

TG: No, it’s just Oscillation on one of his power-trips—eventually, the editors will step in, once he pisses off the wrong person. Woe betide him if he tries anything with John Fuckface, our political correspondent—he’s their pet favourite.

CM: Right, well, you can hold onto the book—Karpal doesn't read poetry. Writes plenty, but absolutely hates reading it.

TG: I didn't know he was a poet.

CM: He doesn't advertise the fact—not like your boss, anyway.

TG: Can you recite any of his work? I'm not sure I want to ask him about it’s not public knowledge, but I'd love to hear a few verses.

CM: Oh sure—he does private recitals for the rest of the Hand every Tuesday. Let's see... How about:

From the hag and hungry goblin,

That into rags would rend ye,

The spirit that stands by the naked man,

In the Book of Moons defend ye,

That of your five sound senses—

TG: Sorry, but isn't that Tom o'Bedlam?

CM: Well, yeah, technically—according to Karpal, he wrote it and then lost it in the dry riser inlet outside the Conoctopticon Industries headquarters on his way to Aldi. The next thing he knows it's always existed and it’s been attributed to some bloke called "Anonymous"—like a reverse Mandela Effect—a Tceffe Alednam, if you will.

(Oscillation Jones: Edgar would love this. Also, I definitely am still on your case, Terence—see me in my office later about your remarks above.)

TG: I see. Perhaps I should ask him about it directly then?

CM: Bad idea—he doesn't like talking about it. I think he was hoping to sell it to the NHS to use as a jingle for their mental health awareness campaign—got a nasty surprise when he met with Matt Hancock, I can tell you, and I'm not just talking about the moist handshake. Very sweaty man, Hancock—like a slug in a monsoon—makes him seem shifty, if you ask me—can’t trust a man that sweats that much. Anyway, shall we?

. . .

Karpal Marik: Who comes before Karpal?

TG: Terence, Terence Gunboat. You spoke with my editors about an interview?

KM: Cheese, did he bring his obeisance?

CM: He did—it's all here.

KM: Bring it to me… Yes... Excellent… Take the Kerrygold to the lair and begin processing it immediately—if we are to corner the erotic optics market, we must ensure our product meets our customer's exacting standards.

CM: And the octopine?

KM: Leave it with me.

CM: All of it? There's two full widgets in there—plenty to go around.

KM: Yes, all of it—I have much need of it in these trying times. Now, Mr Gunboat, was it? You may ask your questions.

TG: Thank you. I was hoping you could tell me a little about your time on Langzaam Vervagen’s Mail My Pussy to Jesus. Was this your first time working with him and Art Hurr? What were your opinions—

KM: Wait, you’re asking me about some bloody film I worked on?

TG: Well, yes—I’m a film correspondent, it’s what I do. What did you think I was going to ask you about?

KM: My demands.

TG: Demands?

KM: Pfft… Cheese!

CM: Yes, your fecklessness?

KM: Bring me my Spas-12.

TG: Wait, wait, wait! There’s no need for that. Tell me about these demands of yours.

KM: Cheese, belay the Spas-12.

CM: Yes, chief.

KM: My demands are simple. Firstly, the mutant known as Toe Mogan is to be brought before me to answer for his crimes against The Feckless Hand. Secondly, we require the services of a necromancer or spirit shaman to be bound to the Hand in perpetuity—as much as it pains me to admit it, I can’t run this show without Jarvis, ghost or not—he used to manage the purchase ledger and I don’t have a mind for numbers—can’t figure out QuickBooks to save my life either, it’s an absolute nightmare—we’ve got contractor invoices piling up downstairs and we can only pretend we haven’t received them so many times before someone takes us to small claims. Thirdly, we want an advert in the new issue of Concrete Octopus—somewhere prominent, not the classified section—and it needs to be nice and big.

TG: Right… And who are you directing these demands to?

KM: Cheese, the Spas-12.

TG: Wait, wait, wait, please, I’m just asking—

KM: Oh, calm down, man. I’m not going to shoot you—yet—I just want to hold her for a while. She’s my favourite gun, you see—belonged to my grandmother. Nani personally shot sixteen of Bachir Gemayel’s bodyguards with old Priscilla here during the Lebanese Civil War—would have killed him with her too if he hadn’t transformed into a bat and flown off before she could reload.

TG: Bachir Gemayel was a vampire?

KM: Don’t be daft—he wasn’t a vampire, he was a skinwalker.

TG: So your grandmother was a freedom fighter?

KM: Nah, nothing like that—she was a mass-murderer. Just so happened on that occasion, the people she was mass-murdering probably deserved it. See, I come from a long line of psychotic maniacs on both sides—it’s something of a family tradition, you might say. You know that Talking Heads song, Psycho Killer? That’s about my uncle, Jaroslav Marik—killed seventy-two people by setting their beds on fire. He and David Byrne were both at the Maryland Institute College of Art—he was the first of our family to get a higher education.

TG: Are you still in contact?

KM: With who? My uncle, or David Byrne?

TG: Either.

KM: Well, my uncle popped his clogs in ‘04 trying to set fire to the Habitat store on Tottenham Court Road—misjudged the amount of kerosene he needed and blew himself to kingdom come. David’s still in contact though—we do odd jobs for him, like dry-cleaning his giant suit and waxing his nose-hair.

TG: That seems quite tame for an organisation of your reputation.

KM: Well, David’s a cool guy—doesn’t have much in the way of internal rage, not like Mel Gibson or David Cronenberg.

TG: Who’s the angriest person you’ve worked for?

KM: Without a doubt it would have to be J K Rowling—never known a person to have so much pent up angst in all my life. We had to break off our contract with her—couldn’t get through a single phone conversation without her screaming her head off at us. Personally, I think it’s the drink and the barbiturates—they really did a number on her. You’d think a children’s author would be more laid back, but that woman has precisely zero chill.

TG: What did she hire you for, if you don’t mind me asking?

KM: Wanted us to kill off the entire cast of the original Harry Potter films—and I mean the entire cast; main characters, secondary characters, even the fucking extras. We ran into difficulties when she seemed to be operating under the assumption Alan Rickman was still alive—refused to believe the guy died years ago.

We told her; Joanne, we know you’re our client and the customer is always right, but Alan’s dead as a doornail and has been for quite some time—I think she gave herself a hernia, she was yelling so hard. “I know he’s alive, the fucking snake—he’s just hiding from me, the ingrate coward, that’s why he won’t answer my calls! He owes his whole career to me!”

Talk about delusional.

TG: So, who am I delivering these demands to?

KM: Your people—just put them in print and the universe will take care of the rest—and by universe, I mean Concrete Octopus Publishing.

TG: Well, I think we can take care of the second two, but the first one might be tricky.

KM: How so?

TG: For one thing—

KM: Bearing in mind, Priscilla here is loaded with my own special shells—half 12-gauge buckshot, half tungsten-carbide drill-bits. At this range, one of these puppies will turn your skull into powdered bonemeal before you can say “Harry Potter is overrated trash”.

TG: Gulp… Right, well, the trouble is, no one knows where Toe Mogan is. There are rumours—that he raced the Shinkansen by foot from Sapporo to Tokyo and won, that he was seen deep-throating the Empire State Building, that he shat out a perfect one-to-one scale replica of the Eiffel Tower in the middle of Oxford Street—but nothing concrete.

KM: In that case, you have one more question.

TG: One more question? What does that mean?

KM: Right, sorry, I forgot to rack Priscilla—I’m always forgetting that—usually Jarvis reminds me.

TG: Oh god… Please no—I’m just a humble journalist.

KM: Come on, don’t be a coward, you get one more question and then it’s off to the great Coach and Horses in the sky—make it a good one.

TG: Okay, okay. Jesus. Right… Oh god, I can’t think of anything!

KM: Come on, I haven’t got all day—just ask the first thing that comes into your head.

TG: Right, fine, fine. What exactly is a pussy wrangler?

KM: Good question. The answer might surprise you. Basically, a pussy wrangler is—

Gardener: Excuse me, but are you lot supposed to be here?

KM: What? Who the fuck are you?

Gardener: I’m one of the groundskeepers here at Kew—are you making a film? That gun of yours is terribly realistic, isn’t it?

KM: That’s because it is real, you doughnut. Anyway, I thought we’d bribed you lot to keep clear—we paid Richmond Council a mint for this hideout and you fuckers are going back on our deal?

Gardener: I’m not with the council.

KM: Well, who are you with then?

Gardener: Interpol! Get on the ground, scum!

KM: Oh fucking hell! Is this your doing, Genesis P-Fucking-Orridge?

TG: Me?! I’ve got nothing to do with this.

Gardener (Interpol Agent): I said get on the ground—that includes you, Gunboat!

TG: Okay, okay, just please nobody shoot me!

KM: Cheese!

CM: Yes boss?

KM: Cheese it—the fucking five-oh have found us!

And so concludes the latest instalment of Talking Têtes. This script was recovered from the rock-garden at Kew by Edgar Roseveare, who happened to be in the area at the time.

We at Concrete Octopus have been informed that Terence Gunboat has been taken in for questioning by Interpol in relation to his involvement with The Feckless Hand crime syndicate, but he should be back with us soon.

According to intercepted Interpol communiques, Karpal Marik and Cheese McCarthy have eluded capture once again and are wanted for crimes against humanity. They are armed and extremely dangerous—under no circumstances should they be approached if sighted, unless you have enough octopine on you to bribe them.

We were subsequently contacted by Karpal and Cheese as part of the deal struck between them and Terence, and they have informed us that two widgets of octopine is enough to guarantee your life for at least eight minutes—after that it’s a widget a minute.

If you have experience in the necromantic arts and are looking for a job, we would love to hear from you—please email us at:

concreteoctopuspublishing@gmail.com

MariLau Industries would like us to remind you that Shutter Butter© is available in all good camera shops around the country—buy now while stocks last!