popular friction.

When I write my autobiography, this week could well end the first book entitled My Innocent Youth.
I don't usually do personal posts but I figured that, since a lot of my friends read this blog, I can afford to be a bit indulgent in the name of efficiency.
First big news is that I got that job I wrote about a couple of entries ago. It only goes for a month, but if I don't fuck it up, it could lead to other places. In other words, the Howard government may have won. I can't keep up these dole shinanigans. I want out. Or off. I whatever it is post-dole.
I went back to my hometown this weekend to hang out with my friend. As part of my employment celebrations, I decided to damage the braincells that helped me get the work in the first place: I got utterly shitfaced drunk.
What I can tell you is that I ended up naked and vomiting sweet potato in someone's backyard. You can fill in the rest of the blanks.
All this means that it might be a while before I write again.

Okay, back to the usual kind of post.

As you can probably guess, I have a conflicted relationship with Australian Idol. I watch the show, know the names of contestants and, yes, I have voted on more than one occassion. Unlike the judges, I make no pretence (well, some pretence) that it is about "talent" or "ability." They could just as easily call it 'Wrestling Idol' and I'd get as involved. I enjoy seeing the humiliation and moral acrobatics that go on. Truth be told, Idol is terrible for Australian music. That's no secret.
What you may not know is that part of Idol fandom, like other popular shows, is fan generated content; that's right readers, I've written some Australian Idol fan fiction!

Sunday Idol Sunday.
Chanel stared into the bathroom mirror. She had just had her hair done and was due for make-up. With the show only an hour and a half away, she hoped that she could skip the distracting pep talk by spending time in the loo.
Chanel began to walk to the greenroom and, as her shoes clacked on the lino, she noticed something was amiss. Normally the hall would be filled with production assistants and cameramen filming their “behind the scenes” shots, but it was empty. Even the security guard wasn’t at his usual station at the greenroom door. ‘Maybe there’s something special happening on stage,’ she thought to herself.

The real horror is that Casey won

She walked on to the backstage room, where the pre-show interviews take place, and noticed as she entered that all the chairs had been turned over. Her instincts kicked in and she felt an icy fear in her gut. The stage was a short walk out the door in front of her and theoretically the warm up act should be taking place. She couldn’t hear a thing.
Her first thought was maybe the building had been evacuated while she was taking a slash and she had been overlooked in the confusion. She slowly opened the door that leads to the stage cautiously. There was ten meters of unlit passage before it was possible to get a good view of the stage and audience.

As she eased the door open, she could hear shuffling and screeches, like sneakers rubbing on polished floorboards. As she took a step, the seating came into partial view and she saw a flash of someone running down the aisles, followed by two more people. The rest was empty. Her brow knitted in confusion. If something was wrong, where was the commotion? And where was everyone else?

Without stepping out into the light, she strained to see the left side of the stage without revealing herself. She could see Mark Holden laying flat on his back, with two men she didn’t recognise crouching over him.
She went to call out, when a sweaty hand clapped over her mouth.
“Don’t,” whispered the voice. Chanel recognised it as Casey.
“Wh..?” asked Chanel.
“Look,” said Casey in a hoarse whisper.
Chanel squinted and saw Mark was lying in a pool of black oil. No, not oil. It was dark red. One of the men, with his back to her, turned his head and sniffed the air. Chanel saw his face was chalky white save for an open and bloodied maw.
“People have gone crazy,” said Casey. “Everyone else got out through the fire exit. I was… I was too scared to move,’ she said grabbing Chanel tightly by the wrist.
“Come on,” whispered Chanel. “We’ll get out this way.”

As the two went to turn away from the scene of Mark Holden’s demise, Anthony appeared from their blind spot on the right, clutching his torn throat. In the dark they could see his expression, pleading for help. Without thinking, the two women grabbed his arms and silently dragged him back to the interview room.

Anthony lay on the floor as Casey cradled his head. He struggled to form words, but the rip on his jugular just gurgled. His hand slipped away, his eyes rolled back and he died in Casey’s lap. Chanel stood there, unable to comprehend what was happening.

In the silence, Chanel could hear footsteps coming toward the stage door. She leapt and pushed in the lock not a moment too soon, as the person on the other side began violently thumping on the door, making barely audible grunts.
Suddenly, the corpse of Anthony sat up and swivelled to turn to the youngest of the women, still crouched beside him. He stretched his arms out and grabbed Casey by the throat. Casey shuffled along the floor, trying to pry away from his grasp.
Chanel grabbed a heavy sign advertising Garnier products and brought it down with full force on Anthony’s head. Casey scrambled to her feet and ran to the opposite side of the room, trying to put as much distance as she could between herself and Anthony.

Anthony got to his feet, his head hanging around his chest. His neck was broken, yet he manoeuvred his shoulders in order to face Chanel, his eyes looking upward. Blood was streaming from his eye sockets, nose and his slack jaw.
Anthony took a step toward the Chanel, her face a picture of terror. With her stiletto shoe in hand, Casey drew upon her inner strength and cracked Anthony in the back of the skull, burying the shoe’s spike deep into his brain. Anthony crumpled instantly. Casey stood over the body, bloodied shoe still in her tightly clenched fist.

Chanel slowly drew her gaze upward from Anthony’s body to Casey’s expressionless face. The door leading to the stage was still banging, and served to bring the two back from their shock.

Chanel stuck her head out the door leading to the hallway. Still empty. She turned back to Casey.

“Come on,” said Chanel. “We can get out this way.”

Casey dropped her shoe and kicked off the other. Chanel also removed her impractical but stylish footwear and grabbed Casey by the hand. “We’ll get through this, just stay with me,” Chanel said assuredly. Casey nodded in response.
Hand in hand, with impeccable hair, beautiful dresses and no make-up, the two ran down the hall toward the car park outside, hoping to find security guards or the safety of a vehicle. Unknown to them, outside the Channel 10 studios a thousand of the undead were waiting to feast on their flesh.

The End.