KKK - Act 1

A woman sits at a table
A man stands, dressed in overalls, trying to wash dirt from his hands.

WOMAN:

I remember the first time I ever met a nigger. I've seen them before of course, on telly and up town, but never really met one, Well, it all happened when we was all on holiday in Tenerife. There was me, Nettie and her friend Gena from the chip shop on Warrant Street. We all went to get away from it all, we had all just finished with our blokes and thought this would be a chance to sort of start afresh. It was going really well at first; we would spend the days on the beach, all in our new Bikini's we bought for the occasion. Well, all apart from Nettie that is, she's still quite self conscious about her weight you see, her bloke used to tell her all the time that she was a right fat bastard. She's the right weight for her height and everything, but he sort of stamped it into her if you know what I mean?

MAN:

I remember the first time I saw her; it was in the Launderette down Brakeland Road. She was just sat there; staring at the machine and watching her knickers go round. At first I thought she was some kind of Dyke or something, since her hair was really short at the time and kind of blotchy where she had tried to bleach it.
After I had put my stuff in the dryer I started getting a bit bored, it was going to take quite a while you see, since it was all my jeans and stuff, and they take ages. It was only me and her in the shop; I'd already looked at all the notices on the wall so I thought I might spark up a conversation to pass the time a bit,
"Jeans eh! Take ages don't they!” I said, but she just looked at me for a second and then went back to her knickers. Well I must admit it wasn't my best line.

WOMAN:

Well, anyway, we used to go clubbing every night, it was great, you'd get all these blokes coming up to you wanting to buy you drinks and stuff. We'd stay there chatting up the Spanish barman till it closed at about four in the morning, then walk home holding each other up, It was on one of these nights that Nettie pulled this bloke, real black he was. It was almost as if the whole world was some kind of Jigsaw, with the pieces all human shaped. Except there was one piece missing and that was him, like some kind of black hole in the middle, He was a right laugh at first, he always had us in stitches. Just a shame about what happened later really.

MAN:

Well I couldn't just sit there and stare into space could I? I mean, I had already smoked half me fags, so I thought I might as well keep trying, but this ice just wasn't ready to break.
"Jeans... Take ages to dry don't they!” well, you never know, she might have been deaf or something.

WOMAN:

It was Tuesday night; we had all been down the Pelican Bar and walked home pissed as usual. This black guy, Paul his name was, he came with us as well, Nettie and him were getting on lovely, gorgeous they were. Me and Gena went to bed as soon as we got back to the Hotel; the room was spinning a bit so we thought we would leave them to it,
I think it was about half three in the morning when I heard Nettie screaming. I woke Gena up and we both went to have a look what was going on. The door was slightly open so we both kind of sneaked in.
Well I couldn't believe it, there was Nettie and this fella Paul on the bed, he was trying to get into her knickers I reckon and she wasn't having none of it. But from the way she was crying I think he was getting it.

MAN:

Result! Sort of anyway, "yeh" she said, "yeh". Well it was a start wasn't it? There I was, putting in loads of effort, giving it all the chat and she just comes out with, "Yeh". Well this is going to be a right gripping conversation this I thought. So I just started giving it all the gob, I mean, if she wasn't talking much then I might as well make up for it eh!

WOMAN:

It sounds strange now, but even though it was Nettie and this fella on the bed, all I could see was me and my ex and what went on afterwards. I couldn't take it any longer, I somehow found myself with a bottle in my hand. It must have been there on the shelf or something, but the next thing I new I was cracking it over this fella's head.
Nettie pushed him off and got up to join us. We all hugged each other, all with tears streaming down our faces. We must have looked a right mess.

MAN:

But then we started having this really good conversation, I was just spilling out loads of stuff I never told anyone before. I mean, she still wasn't that chatty, but she was improving, letting go just a little bit at a time. I was telling her about work and stuff, you know, the sort of stuff me and the lads got up to when the boss wasn't around. And she was going off about her mates Gina and Nettie, what big pals they were and that. Well, time just flew by, until my jeans were finally ready, and her knickers were dry.

WOMAN:

I though I had killed him, I'm going to get done for murder I thought, and spend the rest of my life in one of those foreign prisons you see on telly. But you could see that he was still breathing - kind of funny like but definitely still with it. Well, we could have taken him to hospital there and then I suppose, but what happened then put pay to that idea. Nettie was still really fucked off, in a real state she was. Well, she went to the mirror, and I thought she was just going to fix herself up a bit, do her hair or something, since she picked up her big can of hair spray. But it wasn't for her. She jumped over the bed to where he was, and then started clubbing his head in with this hair spray can. The next thing I knew Gena was over there too, kicking this guy in the face and screaming something about her Gary.
Well, the air was just full of screaming and crying, it was a right nightmare. I couldn't handle it so I screamed at the top of my voice and they both stopped, it all went silent and we looked at this fella Paul on the ground, he wasn't breathing in that funny way any more, in fact... he wasn't breathing at all. We had killed him, and strangely enough I couldn't really give a toss

MAN:

The thing is, we were getting on really well. She seemed like a great lass at the time, someone you could really talk to about stuff, Even though she didn't speak of them, she obviously had her problems, you could see it in her face, but hey! who doesn’t? So I just asked her out, just like that, didn't even think about it at the time.

WOMAN:

Well, we left him there and all slept in my room huddled up in one bed. I felt safe, like when me and my sister used to sleep together when it thundered outside. In the morning we put Paul into Gena's big suitcase thing, we had enough room in our cases to put her stuff, we had kept the space for duty free fags and booze and stuff you see. It took all of us to carry him to town, we were going to leave him in one of the caves we discovered by the beach, there are big holes in there where he could never be found once we drop him in.
We was half way there when we just couldn't carry him any more. We were really knackered, so we stopped off at this cafe for a breather, it seemed a bit odd like, what with having a body in a suitcase an all, but there wasn't a lot we could do.

MAN:

She didn't really seem keen on the idea at first, avoided the question like the plague, but there was just something about her that made me keep trying. I know she had dodgy hair, her chat wasn't up to much and she looked like she needed someone to come along and paint a smile on her face, but, I don't know, maybe I felt sorry for her or something.

WOMAN:

Gena and Nettie went off to the lavvy; they were busting for a piss, so I grabbed a table and guarded the case. I sat there reading me Cosmo; there was an article about female masturbation, quite interesting really. I had just got past the first paragraph and was looking at this diagram of the clitoris when this waiter comes along.

WAITER: Porfavour?

WOMAN:

Porfavour he says. Well I didn't know about the other two but I didn't really want any thing, so I just said "No Thank you" in my slowest clearest voice. But then he says it again…

WAITER: Porfavour?

WOMAN:

…and I suddenly remembered the case which was under the table.

MAN:

So I thought I would tell her my best joke... This plank of wood walks into a bar right and... no, hang on... It was this breeze block that goes into a cafe and... Oh, well, I can’t remember it but she thought it was funny!

WOMAN:

He suspects something I thought, and I started to panic, I tried to keep calm and just said ‘no thank you’ again, hoping this time he would understand.

WAITER: Porfavour?

WOMAN:

…he says, but now he seems to be getting bothered. I could see Nettie and Gena coming out of the lavvy. As soon as they get here we can go but they seemed like a mile away, but he's still there…

WAITER: Porfavour? Porfavour?

WOMAN:

…and I just want him to go away. I started to cry, but tried to hide it so he wouldn't suspect any thing,

WAITER: Porfavour? Porfavour?

WOMAN:

…he carries on and I see Nettie and Gena have started running. I try to wipe my tears with one of them doily things, but he's still there! Porfavour, Porfavour, Porfavour, PORFAVOUR, I mean, what was he going on about, I couldn't understand it really, I mean, there was only the three of us?

Average Beverage

While squaddies suck from squalid cups,

A Copper cups a cappuccino.

But the bosses booze needs leaves to brew,

So its time for tea and tittle-tattle

A copper-camera coffin-dodger,

Quaffs hot coffee in crockery quarts.

The seated sentry shines on the sinful,

Sitting in silence and sipping on soup.

The Stoker Papers

The following documents are a selected few, taken from collected letters and press cuttings currently being stored at the University of Illinois.

According to Prof. P.J. Shelenk, this material was missing from Bram Stoker's original working notes; sold by his widow Florence in 1913. With the rest of Bram's books out of print; royalty payments related to ‘Dracula’ were for many years the only source of income for Florence Stoker. These missing papers were passed on to Florence's accountant and son - Noel Stoker; in whose possession they remained until his death on the 16th of September 1961. In his open safe was a small leather folder, containing among others, the documents you are about to read. Accompanying the documents were letters from Florence to Noel in which it is mentioned that the publishing of these documents could somehow lead to the ruin of Bram's reputation. It is not known how or why this would be the case.

Prof. P.J. Shelenk is currently studying these texts and investigating the real people and events that are within them. The material you are about to read are the texts already researched and authenticated by Shelenk. Other letters and cuttings exist but have yet to be proved valid.

Letter from Mr. James Harker to Ms. M. Murrow posted at Stonehaven, Scotland,1st November 1880

Letter from Melina Murrow to Dr. E Helshing. Posted London 6th November 1880

Letter from Dr. E Helshing to Ms. Melina Murrow, Liverpool 9th November 1880

Article from the London Evening Standard, 11th November 1880

Police notebook and Helshing’s last writings. 13th November 1880

Letter from Mr. James Harker to Ms. M. Murrow posted at Stonehaven, Scotland, 1st November 1880

Dearest Melina,

Every day I spend away from you my love seems like the passing of a century, and it has been 3000 years since I last witnessed your wondrous beauty. My work here has yet to be completed, with no end in sight through the piles of paper, parchment and mouldy books. I keep the demons of madness at bay by soothing myself in long walks; to study a little of the place within which I am imprisoned. The locals are all seemingly charming with always a hearty welcome for this particular stranger. Often I can be seen writing in my journal; sitting on the flowered grassy banks of the river surrounded by lunchtime lovers. You must remind me to thank your Uncle Samuel for the loan of his Ukrainian rug which is always an essential item on my excursions.

Before I am diverted in thought I must relay these recent events to you. It was on one of these many walks of mine that I happened upon a troupe of actors from Eastern Europe performing in the main square - each bestowed with an admirable power of voice. The congregating crowd were hypnotized by their engaging use of word and a gesture, much to my amazement. One such actor was clothed in a green coat striped with brown and a copy of what looked like a bible in one of the pockets. He spoke in a deep vibrant tone, a sound not unlike the wind bashing against my window whilst I write this very text. He seemed to be the controlling force behind the whole performance, drawing on the skills of his cohorts for his own means. The others, although individually skilled, seemed as puppets tied to their master.

The whole event confronted my eyes and ears with a rich array of sights and sounds, sometimes confusing but always a terrible thrill. And yes, terrible is the word I use; for the entire performance space was to end awash with blood.

Swords and weapons of every kind were the props for this deadly theatre, swung with skill and used with abandon. The puppets indulged in acts of self mutilation to cause any man of strength and vigour to swoon with the giddiness of a woman. The square was to be littered with all kinds of severed appendages including genitalia and several objects which should surely remain within the body cavity. Sexual acts of gross indecency caused an uncomfortable silence within the men folk of the village and uproar from the otherwise gentle female population. I was totally engrossed in this show, until the sexual penetration of open wounds became the centre attraction. I'm afraid I had to return to my room at the Inn to recover my resolve. I realise that conveying these events to you would normally be deemed improper; but I trust your intellect and resolve. I know that you would not forgive me for keeping such detail from you. I thankfully viewed the rest of the performance from the window next to my desk.

What followed will repeat forever in my memory when the sun retreats to slumber. I saw clearly through the apple trees surrounding the Inn what was to become the most extreme materialization of audience participation ever viewed by these unbelieving eyes. The assistance of volunteers was requested by the coated master and they were brought to him by his blooded puppets. Pompous ceremony followed: the burning of a small bundle of twigs, a shared meal of forest berries and choreographed kneeling before a small curved dagger balanced upon a short sword forced into a gap between the stones of the square. The volunteers kneeled in a line with eyes closed; watched by the anxious eyes of the building crowd. With unparalleled speed of strike the master slit open the throats of the unfortunate volunteers and gulped down there gushing blood with the voracity of a thirsty traveller. The audience rioted in revolt of the terrible scene only to be struck down by the master’s followers in mid stride, and thus becoming a massive feast for the red marionettes.

The memory of the violent theatre lives on in my thoughts as clearly as my eyes first saw the whole act, and so I write to you with no worries about the integrity of the facts. Whenever darkness surrounds me I see the bloody event projected in the black all encompassing space. I wander through this now ghost town of a village and never encounter another living soul. I yearn for the warmth of civilization, to feel the mass heart of the city beating with vitality; though I stay here surrounded by the empty shells of the once living. I am drawn like a magnet to the square where the long spilt blood has become brown and blistered in the sun. I recall the images that passed before my eyes that terrible day and somehow feel at home amongst these human remains. I feel dead inside. Empty as though my heart no longer beats. I feel nothing; though I still feel for you of course. My thoughts are filled with images of blood and of you my love.
But no! I do now have a purpose in my life; a reason to carry on. I have a direction. Back to you and blood. I shall head back as soon as possible. I will catch the next train to London without fail for my heart now beats in my chest thinking of your name. I ache to see you again and re-enact the whole performance upon your tender skin. I yearn to split that skin and fuck the holes that I make. I want to taste every part of you - lick myself from your spine. I will ejaculate in your veins - mixing myself with you - and I will choke on your blood - feeling it pump down my throat in time to your weakening heart. There’s the train… I can’t write anymore. By the time you read this I will soon be home. Leave the window open.

James Harker.

Letter from Melina Murrow to Dr. E Helshing. Posted London 6th November 1880

Dear Edward,

Though you know not of me, my father Mr. Murrow often spoke of you in great admiration. You are a respected family friend, so when in need of a medical practitioner with whom I can place my total trust I immediately thought of you. I realise you are a busy man, but I am in desperate circumstances and in need of your aid.

I fear for the health of my loved one, who seems to have become incapacitated with some kind of chronic brain fever. My dearest James wrote of his homecoming shortly from Stonehaven, though in what state I am not quite sure. It has been a matter of days since I received his most recent letter and he has, as yet, not returned home. I send with this letter a typewritten reproduction of the last communication from James. The original is in James's usually unreadable scrawl which degenerates into something approximately resembling shorthand towards the end. I am accustomed to reading his scribblings, so for your ease of study I took to translation of the said letter.

Please Dr. Helshing, you will comprehend from this letter why I fear for James and also for myself. Respond soon, fear I worry myself away.

Ms. M Murrow

Letter from Dr. E Helshing to Ms. Melina Murrow, Liverpool 9th November 1880

Dear young Melina

Thank you for writing to me with such praise, I can only trust I live up to such high regard. I knew your father very well. Whatever he lacked in aptitude for the sciences he certainly made up for in his monetary acumen. During many a collective exchange of dialogue and brandy he has frequently spoken of you. I will be more than honoured to help such a lady in any way I can.

I have studied the correspondence from the young Mr. Harker with much concentration. It appears to me as if he is suffering from some kind of hallucinations or delusions. The events that he speaks of are obviously mere fantasy from the mind of a very ill individual. My only fear is for you Melina; for there is no telling what a man in his condition could do. I will keep this letter short and embark for London at once. Your protection is my only purpose.

Dr. E Helshing.

Note from Dr. E Helshing to Mrs. J. Clasten his secretary.

Joy,

I have to depart for important business in London. I have taken my small medical bag and the American’s revolver from the safe. Please re-direct all my patients to the youthful but capable hands of Dr. Seward, my personal address book is in the third drawer of my desk. I will contact you from London.

Edward.

P.S. Miss Alfreton needs more Juniper oil.

Article from the London Evening Standard, 11th November 1880

Lapse in Security at Institution

Cracks in the armour of the respected mental institution on Berry Road have started to show - if this weeks events are of any considerable evidence. Rumours continue to circulate this week over alleged sightings of escaped patients, as reported in our previous issues. The Grenholme Hospital still denies all allegations, with all of its patients signed and accounted for. Today we managed to get an interview with Grenholme's Prof. F Barnet, to make comment on these rumours.

We asked Prof. Barnet if the refuting of these allegations was part of a cover-up attempting to calm the spirited local community.

"We at this establishment have specific and strict procedures concerning escaped residents. We would never cover-up any such events; instead our strategic policy contains several points of order to communicate any such danger to the surrounding area and publications such as yourselves. We have never had need to put these plans into action as our internal tactical approach has always worked perfectly well as prevention for an escape situation. We have had 47 uneventful years at this establishment. We have never had a situation, and we don't have one now, these stories are lies."

We realise the position of the Professor, but you can’t deny the allegations made by so many people. We have registered at this office thirty two such allegations. So many people cannot be wrong, surely?

"I have read all of your reports on the subject this week. All our prisoners are safe and accounted for, and none of them resemble the descriptions that have been published. I can’t help but feel that this is some kind of trick or hoax with the aim of tainting our reputation. This man is not one of our patients, but rest assured that when he is found, he will become one."

Despite the Professor’s reassuring words, a new sighting was reported just before the printing of this publication.

A Mr. T. Welton, the proprietor of ‘Weltons’, the butchers on Craven Street, gave this description.

"I was in the back making a sausage order for Mrs. Denton, so I left young Nettie serving. I had just got washed and prepared when I heard her calling for me, normal at first, as if she had broken the scales again. So I ignored her because she does this about twenty times a day, but then she gets all hysterical like. I rush in, and there's this man trying to steal meat from my display. He's got my Bacon hanging out of his pockets, and when I walks in he's trying to take one of the big carcasses from the window. Well, it was a total nightmare - there's Nettie screaming her head off, and I'm trying to calm her down, while this blokes nicking off with me livelihood. Well, sod this for a laugh I thought. I got one of the customers to take Nettie for me so I could sort him out. He's still tugging frantically at this side of beef when I tried to grab him off it. I grabs him by the collar when he just goes and swings round and slashes at me with one of my own meat hooks. Well, I was a little taken back by this; I'm standing there bleeding from my chest while he's standing there with one of me meat hooks in his fist. I expected to get another one there and then. ‘This is the end of me’ I thought. But then he rams the hook back into the carcass, drops to his knees and starts to lick at the blood coming off me chest. So I just wallops him one and he legs it off down the street. Mad he was. Still, hasn't done business any harm, they all come in now to hear me going on about it."

Mr. Welton is now looking for volunteers willing to form a group to catch this man, though Scotland Yard strongly condemns any such action at this time.

For the latest information, be sure to find it here first.

Police notebook and Helshing’s last writings. 13th November 1880

Police Notebook entry by Sgt. L. Fraiman 287. 13th November 1880


2:13am - As yet, no new evidence in relation to the impending conviction of suspect A. Cannot let this pass by. Will review essential evidence.

1. Eye witness accounts of PC's Winter and Fenton.

2. Doctors report (yet to be completed)

3. God do I wish I had a third. Must get this confession before 3:30 else brain will become numb.

Will endeavour to keep up this act to get confession. He must be relaxed enough to let something slip. Caught in the act by Winter and Fenton. This man must hang.


Pages from Dr. Helshing's Casebook, 13th November 1880.


I am currently at Scotland Yard, after my pre-arranged visit to Miss Melina Murrow's residence. This is the earliest available moment I have had to write. I will try and get this down as quickly as possible so I can still recall the facts as they are, or were, before my memory exaggerates them... as if it could!

I knocked clearly at the front door of the house and waited patiently for a response. Alas I received none. I dared to twist the polished brass handle facing me though the door was observably locked. I was immediately troubled as it was 8:00 pm - just as we had arranged. I looked for some kind of side door or servant’s entrance but found this locked also. I noticed upon the tiled floor, fragments of glass and then saw the broken window. I climbed in through the window, taking care to pull my coat over my hands so as not to damage myself on the jutting glass. I found myself in the kitchen. The stove was lit with pots boiled dry above it and the air was full of a foggy vapour. I stepped steadily through the room until I found myself at the vaguely open door to the study. Sounds were emanating from within so I entered with haste.

The image I saw then I will never forget, though I wish I could. Young Melina was laid on the floor next to an old bureau, virtually naked apart from the shreds of her destroyed clothing wrapped around her neck. Her chest was motionless. I saw the lines of blood, that glinted in the candlelight, like red snakes stroking themselves over her soft white skin. They created a pool in her naval and chased down in fragmenting groups. She was dead. Obviously not the source of the sounds I had heard, but still warm.

From behind the candelabra I made out the figure of a man; he seemed aware of my presence but made no visual attempt to move. As the shadows flickered across his face I could see his eyes staring through me. I looked at her. He must have done this, this wicked crime. If it was possible that I had somehow become accustomed to scenes of murderous death, of someone so beautiful I had not. I felt a rage burn through every vein in my body; a blaze of hot anger ready to explode from a blackened coal. I felt the revolver in my hand and fired all of its contents into that disgusting creature.

I took it upon myself to examine Melina's injuries further. Her slender neck was scratched and cut, the point of release for the stroking snakes. I followed their trail down to her shoulders and to her breasts, the perfect skin spoiled by the occasional bite. Her stomach was covered in either saliva or semen. I took samples to test later. Her sexual organs were bruised and collected with small beads of blood. I examined her internally to find more bruising and tearing. Sergeant Fraiman is in need of me again, I will continue this later.

Fallow

I'm beholding the luxury of dirt

the purity in natures fallen green,

praising the scum from this circle of hurt

downed from a lie of a polythene glean

the rich and living filth will be my god

everything more is cleanly out of reach

this messiah is fresh, whole and un trod

I'll aspire to this, not the bleach you teach

give me the warmth of rotting chlorophyll

sodden with the waste of God's fluffy clouds

aftersun burns the pompous daffodil

poets prime your pens for the unwashed crowds

remember the times when I wrote in blood,

wanting and needing to accumulate?

I now fill my quill with the rushing mud

and scratch this stone with a monsoon of hate

In carbon we trust, is our new decree

when aspirations high - die on the ground

aim for below and the fallen debris

an achievable heaven in this is found.

clothe me entirely in old sensual soil

fossilized and ground in life's gaping skirt

pull my hair down with millennium oil

and smile at the stains of a suffering dirt

Generic Anti-War Protest Song

"Machines and foreign aliens of homo sapiens shape"

Horses around a ring track, they say it's the 'sport of kings'.

Running for their masters gain, fast gold the animal brings.

But men are now the horses and 'attack' the running track.

Killing for their leaders game, and bringing shadows back.

When murder kills a murderer in civilized routine,

differential differences divide a hole between.

The cure for social sicknesses? A nurtured common foe!

Enemies of the united state, a unified state of woe.

Information overloaded with a hidden call to kill.

Our innate instinctual genocide circumvents free will.

A poisoned mass identity; a frayed old puppet string.

A thread of manipulation, pulled by a puppet king.

Inhuman will kill human when dehumanized as ape,

Machines and foreign aliens of homo sapiens shape.

Ideas and ideologies of massive mind control.

So easy killing animals that lack a living soul.

Kings, they love their bloody sport and their gilded foreign fame.

All tedium of monotony, repressed by common game.

Shaken die and counter moves of selfish power battle,

Played by puppet populous and slaughtered human cattle.

CHORUS:

Like chess with hollow pieces carved from the bones of men,

War is the sport of tired kings and age-old presidents.

A game of empty promises that graves fulfill again,

War is the sport of tired kings and age-old presidents.

The Unity of Soil and The Man

Between Normandy shores and sands of Iran

I witness the union between soil and the man

A creature of marriage; from dirt split with figure

the hybridized form of sediment and rigor.

Leather-like lungs line a basket of cages

A chronicle of skin bound in vellum thin pages

your body of work on sienna brown strata

A mummified hero? or geology martyr?

A blood that once flowed marks a still graven bed

The stains of your life dyed a dried Carmine red

Your steel that once killed turns a dull dappled rust

The earth clothes your eyes in blind shades of dust.

That milky dull lens observes opalescence

and carrion flies that flee to your presence

Your incisor smile swerves down at the corners

A sadness unseen by long distance mourners

So were you my brother or were you my daughter?

My friend in defeat? or enemy in slaughter?

Your image erodes to a plain of unknown

Transforming through nature, this man to the stone.