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As a writer, I am naturally drawn towards anything disturbing. Unlike many other writers, though, I tend to avoid supernatural elements. In my opinion, the real world is the most disturbing place of all.
I’m old enough to remember the world as it was before smartphones and social media. For this reason, I am able to recognise, quite clearly, what the smartphone/social media phenomenon really is: a pandemic. Not only do people use their smartphones whilst eating, drinking, walking, driving, and standing at urinals (yes, I have seen people doing this), they are also willing to upload their intimate private lives to these money-making social media platforms—this is not supernatural, this is the real world.
Thanks for the Memory explores a possible consequence of this social media craze. Whilst reading this book, it is my hope that you will gradually be able to recognise how bizarre the relationship between humans and technology is becoming, but above all else, it would be nice to see you have some kind of nightmare or nervous breakdown by the time you finish it.
Hey, don’t be angry at me. Look on the bright side: if you need emergency psychiatric treatment, it will give you something to tweet about. Tragic posts tend to get the most likes and shares, after all.
Reed Blagden is his name
He likes to tell rude jokes
The gags have gained him fame
With lowly drunken folks
One night at home, alone
Relaxing in his flat
He tapped his shiny phone
And opened up an app
The app was NeuroStar
With wires for your brain
It really is quite smart
But frightful, all the same
Old Reed, he sure was game
He gave the app a try
At first, it all seemed lame
Until he felt the pain
Thanks for dropping by. My name’s Reed. Reed Blagden, to be precise. I’m the one who’s going to be telling you this messed-up story. Now, before we start, I’d just like to get a few things straight. Unlike some narrators, I’ve got absolutely no problem when it comes to breaking the fourth wall and speaking directly to you. There will be no separation between the two of us during this peculiar tale, it will be as though we’re sitting next to each other in some bar, chatting about the series of events like two pals. It’s going to be pretty meta, believe me. No, seriously, believe me. I am looking at you right now as you read these words, and if I really wanted to I could reach out from the page and shake your hand.
Luckily for you, I have no desire to do that. It’s not because I’m unfriendly, don’t get me wrong; on the contrary. Most people I meet seem to think I’m friendly enough. Some people even go as far as describing me as chirpy or cheeky, but when they say that they’ve usually just finished watching me tell jokes up on stage.
Where was I? Oh, yes: meta, fourth wall, all that business. I will say what I want to say, and mention what I want to mention, and that includes referencing the book that you’re holding in your hands right now. Don’t believe me? OK, I’ll do it right now: the book you’re holding in your hands is called Thanks for the Memory. You see? I can do that. Hell, I can even go one step further and mention the name of the author, if you like, just so you can see how gutsy I am. I will directly mention the name of that irritating, red-haired, cherub-looking twat of an author called James Flynn.
You can probably sense a little bit of animosity there. Yeah, I won’t deny it. I think he’s a prick. Why? Well, he’s responsible for putting me in this messed-up story. Or trapping me in this messed up story, should I say. He created me with his pen and his keyboard, brought me into being with his mind, and now I’m stuck here like a pathetic slave, destined to narrate this story over and over again for anyone who’s stupid enough to buy this bloody book. I mean, if he’d made the story third person it wouldn’t have been so bad. I could’ve just acted out the scenes, there would’ve been no need for me to get involved with you, the reader. But no, Mr James Flynn, Mr Look at Me I Can Write a Book Aren’t I Great, had to go and make this story a first-person thing, giving me extra work to do. I think he’s an asshole, I think he’s an inconsiderate asshole, and I think he will always be an asshole. Furthermore, if you happen to bump into this tosser on the street, James Flynn the cretin, I urge you to verbally abuse him or, better still, physically attack him in some vicious way.
That was a bit of an aggressive start, wasn’t it? I probably haven’t made a very good impression. Let me put you at ease. I am actually a nice guy, I really am. And I think you’ll probably warm to me by the end of the story. Maybe. Whatever happens, I’ll try my best to be as bright and perky as possible for you. How about that? I can see you’re not a bad person. You just want something good to read. There’s nothing wrong with that.
I live in Mapharno City. You may have heard of it before, you may not have. In case you haven’t, it’s a wild place where strange things happen. It has skyscrapers higher than your local junkie, back alleys dirtier than your local floozy, neon lights brighter than your local rocket scientist, and roads busier than your...oh, you get the idea. It’s an insane city, that’s what I’m trying to say. If you want anything at all, you can find it here: counterfeit clothes, fake jewellery, drugs, women, blah, blah, blah. Corruption is rife among the suits in government, the streets are awash with two-bob plastic gangsters, and you can’t swing a dead cat downtown without it hitting some kind of hustler. Are you getting the picture now? Mapharno City is a zoo, a human zoo, and I’m just another exhibit doing my best to stay afloat and get by.
Mapharno City is both safe and unsafe at the same time. It’s unsafe in the sense that anything can happen and you never know what’s lurking around the corner, but it’s also safe in the sense that if you keep your head down and try to live an honest life, you can probably do so and remain unscathed.
Do I keep my head down, I hear you ask? Well, I have a bit of a surprise for you here. Would you believe me if I told you that I’m a celebrity? Would you believe me if I told you that I, Mr Reed Blagden, am famous? Hey, stop laughing! I’m not joking! Well, that’s not entirely true. That’s basically the reason I’m famous. I’m a well-known comedian on the Mapharno City stand-up comedy circuit. I’ve been on TV, I’ve performed at huge venues, and I’ve had people asking me for autographs outside clubs. Shocking, eh? I’ll give you a minute to digest this information before I continue. It’s quite a bombshell, I realise that.
Now, as an honest man, I will admit that my level of fame has dropped a little over the years; my name doesn’t create the buzz that it used to. However, it’s still fair to say that I’m something of a household name. People of a certain age recognize me on the street, people involved in certain scenes recognize my billboard posters, and I still get fairly regular work. OK, sure, I don’t get big arena bookings anymore, but I still perform at least once a week. Sleazy, backstreet bars usually, if the truth be told, but it’s still work, isn’t it? You know the cheap-looking watering holes you see down alleyways in dodgy areas? The ones with flickering neon signs and punters vomiting outside on the doorstep? That’s where my money comes from. I tell sleazy jokes in even sleazier bars to scrape a living. Comedy is a ruthless business, you know. It’s a serious business, too, ironically. I’m not even forty years old, and it sometimes seems as though the industry has used me and spat me out already.
Hey, take that sad look off your face! I’m not getting the violin out here, or anything like that. My career hasn’t completely gone down the pan. As I say, a lot of people still know who I am and...well, I just need to get myself back up to where I was before, I suppose.
Moreover, being a comedian at any level has its perks. For example, I get to meet all kinds of interesting characters. Working in these bars and clubs over the years, I’ve met countless musicians, singers, drummers, guitarists, pianists, you name it. Stage acts, as well. When I say stage acts, I mainly mean magicians. You tend to see magicians in the slightly more upmarket places, but they’re certainly no strangers to the sleazy places, either. Believe me, I’ve seen more rabbits being pulled out of hats than the great Houdini himself, I’ve seen more card tricks than a Las Vegas casino veteran, and I’m more familiar with smoke and mirrors than a career politician.
Who else do I encounter during my working nights? Let me see...dancers, yeah, that’s it. I see lots of dancers. Flamenco dancers, pole dancers, all that stuff. I meet hypnotists now and again, too. They’re a funny bunch, I tell you. And when I say funny, I mean weird. They get people up on stage, eating onions like they’re apples, and all that malarkey. It’s clever, really, what they do. I consider it to be a form of psychology. Manipulative psychology, sure, but psychology nonetheless. And then, of course, there are the punters. The drinkers, the drunks, the backstreet locals, the lowlifes, the women, the bartenders, the outcasts, the crooks, and...well, look, I’m getting ahead of myself here. You’ll find out about this stuff in due course. You wait and see.
* * *
The story. You want to get into the nuts and bolts of the story, right? Of course you do. Well, the first thing I need to make clear is that the residents of Mapharno City are completely hooked on social media, just like everybody else these days. Glued to their phones, the lot of them. I see it everyday, and it annoys the hell out of me. People looking at their screens whilst walking along the pavement. Tap, tap, tap, scroll, scroll, scroll. People looking at their screens whilst driving. Tap, tap, tap, scroll, scroll, scroll. People looking at their screens whilst paying for things in shops. Tap, tap, tap, scroll, scroll, scroll. You know what? I bet a lot of them tap and scroll whilst taking a dump. In fact, the other day I walked into the toilet in a bar I was performing at, and saw somebody looking at their smartphone whilst pissing into a urinal! Whilst taking a piss! Can you believe that? Can people not even take a two-minute breather from their screens to urinate? Bloody hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if some of them look at their screens whilst on the job with their wives. Pump, pump, pump, tap, tap, tap, scroll, scroll, scroll. Anyway, I digress.
Mapharno City is full of these phone addicts, these screen junkies, and so when a new social media app arrived on the scene a little while back, everyone lapped it up. It revolutionised the world of social media overnight, and took things to a whole new level. This app goes by the name of NeuroStar, and it differs from all the others in the way that it gives users the ability to upload memories onto the site and share them with the world. That doesn’t sound very revolutionary when you first hear it, does it? I mean, everybody uploads memories onto social media, right? Holiday snaps, and that? Well, I’m not talking about that. No, no, no, this is different. NeuroStar takes things one step further, you see, and literally allows users to upload memories. I’m talking straight from the brain, baby. Memories straight from the grey matter. Don’t ask me how they managed to develop this thing, as I’m not really a tech person. I use tech, sure, but I’m old enough to have been raised in the pre-internet era, and so I’m not as tech-savvy as some of these teenage screeners.
Despite being new on the scene, the NeuroStar Corporation received some bad press very quickly, so I resisted downloading the app to my own phone for a while. I don’t know the ins and outs of the whole story, but apparently, the CEO of the whole enterprise is a bit of a shady fucker. He’s one of those big-time businessmen, you know? Millions in the bank, fierce attitude, takes no shit from anyone, chequered past, all that malarky. That’s what I heard, anyway. The press was going on about him for a while after the app hit the market. A history of violent behaviour, one news reporter said, if my memory serves me correctly. That’s the kind of picture they painted of him.
Anyway, I can tell you that if you want to upload a memory onto the NeuroStar platform, you need to do two things: 1. Download the app to your device. 2. Purchase a set of Neurodes from one of the main retailers. What are Neurodes, I hear you ask? They’re part of the NeuroStar package, basically a commercialised, portable, plug-in set of electrodes that stick to your head. The kind of thing you see scientists use on TV when they read people’s brainwaves, and all that stuff. Those sticky patches and wires that make people look like a futuristic Medusa, or something. The NeuroStar Corporation created these affordable packs of electrodes that people can carry around with them, and stick to their heads. Pretty neat, eh? Well, not really. As you’re about to find out.
It was late at night, and I was sitting in my apartment. This was like, I don’t know, about eighteen months ago now. I was a bit tipsy after drinking two or three beers after a tough gig. I bombed pretty hard in this shithole joint over in District 3, told a few clangers that didn’t get any laughs, and I suppose I had to drown my sorrows as soon as I got off the damn stage. What was that joke I told? The one that got zero laughs? Oh, yeah, that’s it: Did you hear about the dyslexic pimp? He bought a warehouse! I mean, come on! That’s a pretty good joke, but it was met with a wall of silence that night. Stand-up comedy is unpredictable like that. Different crowds, different venues, different moods and atmospheres, you never know what punters are going to think of your material. Anyway, my act bombed in this club, and I was sitting indoors later that night in a state of slight inebriation. I was trying to decide whether to have one more beer from my mini-fridge or call it a night and go to bed, when I glanced over at this shelving rack I have on my wall. It was then that I remembered, dear reader, that I’d gone out and bought a set of these stupid Neurodes a few days before. There they were, sitting on one of the shelves, still in the plastic packaging.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’m a hypocrite, right? A moment ago, I was complaining about people who use social media apps, and here I am now telling you that I’d bought a set of NeuroStar Neurodes. Look, don’t get me wrong here, of course I use social media a little bit. It’s almost impossible not to nowadays, isn’t it? But I’m not one of these screen zombies who use apps whilst walking down the street and taking a piss, that’s for sure. So, yes, I purchased the Neurodes. And, yes, I also downloaded the app to my phone. But cut me a little bit of slack, will you?
Besides, there was actually a cunning plan behind my purchase. Remember earlier on, when I said that I need to get myself back up to where I was before? To reignite my fame? Well, when this app began to take off, I saw an opportunity. I saw an opportunity to market myself on this thing in a unique way, an opportunity to upload some comedic material, to reach out and remind people of what I’m capable of. There was method in my madness, in other words.
So there I was, in my apartment. I took these Neurodes down from the shelf, and opened them. The NeuroStar app was already installed on my phone at this point, as I said, and my “Comedian Reed Blagden” profile was all set up, so I decided that this was the time for my first memory upload. Before I started sticking the pads to my head, though, I had to think of something funny to upload. What memory did I have stored in my head that would get people laughing? Or, at the very least, what memory did I have that would shock people? My main aim at this point was to get my name circulating again, so shock value could substitute comedic value if need be. This is the beauty of being a comedian, you see. You don’t have to worry so much about keeping a squeaky-clean image; in fact, if your image is too clean and innocent, it can work against you.
Memories, memories, memories. I was racking my brain for funny memories, dear reader, and I was racking it hard. Lewd memories, outrageous memories, sordid memories, any damn memory at all that would shine a spotlight on me. After ten minutes or so of dithering and fretting, it hit me; it hit me like a bolt from the blue. This saucy memory popped up onto the surface of my brain, rising into my mind like a dislodged bubble from a deep seabed. A grin spread across my stubbled jaw as I contemplated it. This is the one, I thought. This is the one, indeed.
Remember I told you earlier on that I meet a lot of people whilst working in bars? Well, I think I also mentioned that I meet a lot of women, too. Not always, don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to try and paint myself as some kind of Casanova here, but now and again it happens. And so, as I was trying to think of a good memory to upload, I remembered this night where I performed in a shady little place called Bar 5. It’s in District 5, hence the name, and it’s a rotten venue. I put on a great show on the night in question, though, and I told some beautiful one-liners. The audience seemed to like me straight away. Maybe it was because they were all off their tits on wine, sprits and amphetamines, I don’t know, but they certainly warmed to me. Hell, even my cheap, emergency gags got plenty of laughs that night, including this one: What do pussies have in common with the mafia? One slip of the tongue, and you’re in deep shit.
It’s like that sometimes, you know. Not the mafia, I mean performing in clubs. Sometimes the venue is right, the audience is right, the atmosphere is right, you’re in the right mood, and everything just...works.
So there I was, cracking jokes on stage and lapping up the laughter, when I noticed two women sitting in the front row. They were about thirtyish from what I could see, looking up at me through plumes of cigarette smoke. They weren’t stunning, I won’t exaggerate here, but they were pretty damn sexy in a kind of “woman next door” way. They were giggling to each other and looking my way with glints in their eyes, there was no doubt about it. Giving off signals, you know? Playing with their hair and fluttering their eyelashes, all that seductive body language stuff. This kind of thing happens a lot, of course, people giggling and pointing, but this was different. These girls were after something, and old Reed Blagden over here knew exactly what it was!
After the gig was over, I headed over to the bar to grab a drink. Bar 5 has these wooden stools positioned around a circular bar, and I was sat on one of these trying to look cool and composed, but at the same time bobbing my head this way and that, trying to locate these two beauties. It can get quite dingy in Bar 5, and you can’t really see much further than about two metres from where you’re sitting due to the smoke and sweat. For a few minutes, I thought they might’ve left or disappeared, but, low and behold, after I’d downed a few hefty gulps of my beer, the two of them appeared out of the murk like a couple of erotic apparitions, and came striding up to me with silly smirks on their powdered faces.
Up close, I could tell that one of them was quite a bit older than the other, and it was the older one that spoke first:
‘We liked your act. Very funny.’
‘Thank you very much,’ I replied, trying to put on my witty, handsome, nonchalant expression. ‘I’m Reed. What’re your names?’
Now, I felt a bit silly saying this because my name was plastered all over the walls of Bar 5 that night, and they surely must’ve known what my name was. But it’s a kind of routine thing to say, isn’t it? I think I can be forgiven for that.
‘I’m Melinda,’ said the older one.
‘I’m Kat,’ said the younger one.
‘Nice to meet you, girls,’ I smiled.
‘I saw you on TV once,’ said Melinda, with a look on her face that could’ve been star-struck admiration.
‘Oh, yeah? When was that?’
‘A couple of years back. Channel 7, I think. You were performing in a big arena.’
‘I think that might’ve been the Comedy Convention gig,’ I said, still playing it cool.
A couple of seconds then passed with both of them staring at me, and it dawned on me that they thought I was some kind of huge celebrity star, or something. Opportunity knocks, I thought. It was time to take control of the situation, and strike while the iron was hot.
‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked them both.
And so, dear reader, just like that, we got chatting. Then the chatting turned to flirting. Personal space was reduced, and the touching of hands and brushing of shoulders was increased. It was getting a bit steamy at one point, I kid you not. People were beginning to stare; we were actually causing a scene.
Knocking back the last mouthful of my drink, I turned to them and said, ‘Hey, girls, how do you fancy heading over to the Majestic bar with me? It’s getting a bit crowded in here.’
This was a bit of a crafty move on my part, because the Majestic is actually the name of a hotel. It was a subtle way of saying, “Do you want to go to a hotel with me?” You have to play these things clever, though, don’t you?
After a brief glance at each other, they replied in unison, ‘Yeah, OK.’
We walked out of the club, all three of us together, and hailed a taxi. My thoughts consisted of one thing at this point: game on!
At this point in the story, dear reader, I am faced with a slight predicament. I am very aware that you may be the kind of person who would like to hear about everything that happened between me and the two girls that night, with no sordid detail left out. You may be the sort of reader who likes a bit of smut, a bit of literary sleaze, or a bit of linguistic hanky-panky. However, on the other hand, you may be the kind of reader who turns their nose up at such a thing. You may be the kind of reader who would rather I skim over the steamy, explicit details of my threesome encounter.
So, what do I do? Which approach should I take? Should I be a coward and hold back the details, for fear of upsetting you? Or should I be brazen, and hit you with it full force? It’s a tough one, it really is. OK, look, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to describe what happened that night using a level of detail that will put you off ever giving this book to your parents to read, but at the same time I won’t ramp it up to a level in which you’ll feel like you’re reading an excerpt from a black market porn magazine. In short, I’ll give you a bit of sleaze, but I won’t go overboard.
Let’s cut to the hotel room. I was in this room with these two beautiful women, and I could hardly believe my luck. The room wasn’t that big; the bed took up most of the space, but it was suitable for the occasion. Fresh sheets, folded towels, a glass bowl with sweets in the corner, etc. There were also large mirrors on the walls surrounding the bed, which I loved. Come to think of it, it was probably some kind of sex hotel, but that didn’t really sink in at the time. I was too buzzing on nerves and alcohol to fully comprehend the entirety of the situation. I hope you can forgive me for that.
After taking a shower, I lay on the bed with my hands behind my head in a fake relaxed pose, waiting for the two of them to take their shower and get ready. They both got undressed at the end of the bed, and this energy began to run through me. The sheer sensation of being in a room with not one, but two, naked women was doing things to me that I could never describe. There was giggling and whispering behind the bathroom door as they washed together, and then after about ten minutes or so they reappeared, their naked bodies glistening.
Flesh.
So much smooth, buttery flesh, dear reader. That’s what I remember the most. Firm flesh, wobbly flesh, bouncing flesh...it was all there, right on top of me, coming from both sides.
Hair.
Hair seemed to be everywhere. Not body hair, I must say, but the silky dark locks of hair that flowed from their heads as they hovered above me. It tickled my face, it fell to the bedsheets, it clung to the sweat on my abdomen.
Nails.
At various times, I actually felt as though I was being attacked by a couple of cats. Long, sharp, painted, lacquered, manicured nails tickled and scratched my trembling limbs and orifices, embellishing my skin with a network of scarlet lines.
Mirrors.
The mirrors heightened the experience for me in ways you cannot even begin to imagine. I could see my reflection all around me as I bounced around and turned around, grabbing and thrusting into these gorgeous curves. My pumping was presented to me everywhere I looked, reflected from these long, polished mirrors, allowing me to see myself from angles I’d never seen myself from before. Oh, it was bliss. Absolute bliss. Nothing was off limits; I had the time of my life.
Is that enough detail for you? No? Well, I’m sorry. If you want more filth, you’ll have to go and get a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey, or something. And if that was too much detail for you, well...go and grab yourself a copy of Wind in the Willows.
This was the memory that popped into my head, dear reader, as I sat in my apartment with these Neurodes in front of me. This’ll do the trick, I thought. This’ll get the papers talking about me, this’ll get my name back up in flashing lights.
Part of me didn’t even believe that they were going to work. As I sat there, playing with these wires and pads, I just couldn’t quite fathom how my memory of this event could travel through them onto the app. I was cynical, let’s say.
Nevertheless, I followed the instructions to the letter. After sticking the pads to my head—no shaving necessary, which is also impressive—I plugged the Neurodes into the headphone socket of my smartphone, opened up the app, pressed the “upload” button, closed my eyes, and then summoned up the memory of that night in the hotel with as much detail as I could recall.
The instructions make it very clear that you have to visualize your memory as detailed and accurately as possible, in order for the app to be able to produce a clear, watchable video clip from it. This is where those mirrors helped me out.
Remember I told you that there were mirrors on the walls surrounding the bed in the hotel? Well, those mirrors helped me to recall some very clear images of that night, enabling me to produce a very lucid slideshow of events. Furthermore, the mirrors allowed me to be in the NeuroStar video. Let me explain. If it weren’t for those mirrors, my memory of the threesome would’ve been a gonzo-type thing. I mean, everything would’ve been seen through my eyes, resulting in memories and images featuring only the two women. Do you get what I mean? Do you get what I’m saying here? Thanks to the mirrors, I was included in what I saw that night; I was part of the video.
Once done, once I’d strained my brain and exhausted every recollection I had of that lusty night, I opened my eyes and peeled off the annoying little Neurodes.
Then I looked at my phone.
Would you believe me, dear reader, if I told you that everything I was previously thinking about and visualizing was right there, on the screen in front of me? Well, you bloody should do, because it’s true! There it was! Right there! A video clip of me and the girls on the NeuroStar app, ready to upload onto the public timeline.
I pressed upload.
Laughter came out of me immediately afterwards, huge belly laughs as I stared down at the screen, watching my night of sexual antics being displayed for every keyboard warrior to check out.
I think I may have spent another five minutes or so on the app, scrolling down through other people’s memory vids until I got bored. After that, I turned off my phone, brushed my teeth, and went to bed.
Little did I know, I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life.
* * *
Nothing much happened for a while. I got a few bookings at some new clubs in District 7, and immersed myself in my work. I revised my comedic routine, wrote some new jokes, and enjoyed the extra bit of money that these new gigs were bringing in.
It wasn’t until I met up with Luke one afternoon, that everything fell into place. Luke is an old friend of mine who runs a bar called Velvet Lizard over in District 5. He’s a tall man with a bald head, and he’s got these wise eyes that stare out at you as if they know something you don’t. To me, he resembles a taller, trimmer version of Uncle Fester from The Addams Family, and believe me, I point this out to him as much as possible. Old Luke is a bit crafty, and you could call him nosy, too. My other nickname for him is Yellow Pages, because he always seems to know everything about everyone.
‘Well, hello stranger,’ he grinned, as he saw me walking through the door.
‘How ya doin’, Luke?’
After wiping a glass and putting it on a shelf behind him, he gestured for me to sit on a stool right at the end of the bar.
‘Could be better, could be worse. What will it be?’
‘I’ll have a Heineken, I think.’
‘Coming right up, squire.’
There were two or three other people sat at the bar, but they were oblivious to my presence. Heads down towards their screens, they were tapping, tapping, tapping, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling away as though they couldn’t get enough memes and images in front of their eyes. A couple of twenty-somethings were playing pool in the corner, minding their own business, and some electronic pop music was coming out of the overhead speakers.
‘It’s been a while,’ said Luke, placing the drink in front of me.
‘It certainly has. How’s business?’
‘Steady. Got my regulars in here, along with a couple of new bands.’
‘Nice,’ I said, glancing over at the small stage behind me. ‘Any stand-up shows lately?’
Luke nodded. ‘Occasionally.’
I could see it in his eyes that he had something he wanted to bring up, something he wanted to discuss but was slightly hesitant to do so. His powerful jaw was flexing as it often did in these moments, and a micro-grin was visible on his lips.
‘I’ve been quite busy just lately. Done a few gigs over in District 7.’
The grin broadened. ‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Yeah, Bob told me that he’d booked you a couple of times.’
‘Bloody hell, Luke. You know everybody.’
‘I certainly do,’ he said, looking down at the floor.
‘Mr Yellow Pages.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘What’s so funny, then? Why the grin?’
‘Huh, I don’t know, it’s...it’s just such a funny way to get work.’
‘What is?’
Looking up at me again, his head shiny under the bar lights, he said, ‘The video.’
An odd feeling washed over me.
‘Video?’
‘Don’t play dumb with me. You know what I’m talking about.’
Now, you might find this hard to believe, dear reader, but the video I uploaded to NeuroStar simply wasn’t on my mind at this time. The Neurodes had been tucked away in a drawer for some time, and I hadn’t checked the app at all. Hearing Luke mention the video like this had quite an effect on me.
‘Oh, you’ve seen it,’ I mumbled.
‘Who hasn’t?’ shrugged Luke. ‘Very entertaining. Good bit of marketing, too, I must say.’
Things were clicking into place. It suddenly dawned on me that all of my recent bookings over in District 7 had been due to the hype my video had created. The organisers and promoters must’ve watched it, then seen an opportunity. Not that anyone mentioned any of this to me.
‘So it worked,’ I mumbled, more to myself than to Luke.
‘If that was your game plan, my friend, then yes. Those bookings in District 7 happened because of this new video of yours.’
Shameless pride filled my veins. ‘You know me, Luke. Always a businessman.’
‘Where did you meet those two honeys?’ Luke then enquired, leaning closer towards me across the bar.
I gave my old pal the rundown of the story, juicy bits and all, trying my very best to make him as jealous as possible. Then, after answering a dozen questions he had about the fiasco, he told me that my services were required on Saturday.
‘It’d be a pleasure, Luke. It’s been a while since I performed here.’
‘Well, I think I ought to book you while I have the chance. It looks as though you’re in high demand again.’
Luke said this in a playful way, but I could see that there was at least a small part of him that believed it.
‘You better believe it,’ I grinned. Then downed my drink and left.
Things were looking up, so it seemed.
* * *
After that encounter with Luke, I began to check the NeuroStar app everyday. I didn’t upload anything else, I just wanted to see what was happening with the sex video. The day I got back home from Luke’s bar, the video had accumulated over six million views. Six million! I couldn’t believe my eyes! There was me, on the screen, bouncing around with these two lovely women, and just underneath there were these huge numerical figures. Six million views, a similar amount of likes, and untold comments.
My initial assumption about this was that the video was taking off due to my preexisting celebrity status. And, after reading some of the comments, this assumption was confirmed. A lot of the people who’d left a comment were old fans, people who already knew who I was. They were mainly in good humour, with a bit of shock and surprise here and there. Most people saw the video as a kind of joke or prank, although there were a few comments from prudish types who disapproved of the explicit content. I knew nothing about the NeuroStar rules and guidelines at this point, but it was pretty clear to me that they had no problem with videos of this nature being on their platform.
I would later find out why.
Another couple of weeks passed, and the clip showed no sign of slowing down. None at all. The views reached ten million, the likes and shares almost the same, and it was at this point that I realised it had gone viral. A couple of people stopped me on the street. Can you believe that? It was like the good old days, all over again. I was walking down 142 Street one evening, on my way to the convenience store to get a phone top-up voucher and some chocolate, and I heard this voice from over the road.
‘Ten out of ten, pal! Good job! When’s the sequel?’
I turned to see this muggy-looking bloke smiling at me from the other side of the street, with a dumb admiration painted all over his face. I knew at once what he was referring to, so I said, ‘You rent the room, I’ll get the women.’ I’m well accustomed to a bit of heckling, you see. It’s part of my job. The bloke laughed, then wandered off.
A few days later, I travelled over to Central Boulevard to shop for a couple of items. Central Boulevard is a big wide street with loads of hotels and shops and that, and there’s this paved section in the middle where people sit on benches. You get skateboarders there trying to do their tricks, and you see the occasional street performer at weekends. Anyway, I was walking down the main drag, and a group of teenagers recognized me.
‘Whaahheeyy! Bouncing Blagden! It’s you!’
This was the precise moment that I discovered I had a new nickname: Bouncing Blagden. Yes, in case you’re wondering, it was annoying. Hearing that stupid name being shouted at me on the street by a group of gawky teenagers...yes, of course, it was a highly irritating experience. But the thing is, I’m a comedian. I’m a comedian who pokes fun at people for a living, a comedian who has even created a few nicknames for other people during the course of my career, so, as the Americans like to say, I ate humble pie and took it on the chin.
The work kept flowing in, too. There was no doubt now that the extra bookings were due to my internet fame, because organisers were openly stating so. Walking through the doors of Club Flamingo one Friday night, Rog, the owner, stood up from one of the tables and greeted me.
‘Reed! Good to see ya.’
‘Hello, Rog. How are you?’
‘All the better for seeing you. It’s gonna be a full house tonight, pal. Every table’s sold and reserved.’
Rog is an old-school type. He’s got this pathetic comb-over hairstyle, just a few strands of greying hair gelled over his scalp, and these thick glasses. His gravelly smoker’s cough gives him a deep tone, and his confident demeanour gives off the impression that he’s seen it all. I’d never heard him talk like this before, though.
‘Reserved tables?’
‘Just for you, Reed. People are booking tables just for you.’
Looking around Club Flamingo, I could see these little plastic signs all over the place. Little white signs that’d been put on the tables surrounding the elevated stage.
‘Fucking hell, Rog. Since when have people been reserving tables here?’
Smiling over the top of his spectacles, Rog replied, ‘Ever since I started booking star performers. You’re on the rise again, Reed. You need to acknowledge that.’
After a short pause, I replied, ‘Does that mean I should be getting paid more?’
Rog’s bespectacled eyes shot off to the side at this, in avoidance. ‘Err, well, let’s not get too carried away. I mean...’
‘Too carried away? I’m seeing reserved tables, and posters of me all over the walls with the words “Internet Sensation” printed on them!’
This was true, dear reader. I was seeing these posters of me around the club that Rog had plastered up, and the main photo was of me holding a microphone, performing somewhere during my old glory days. And just underneath me, the words “Internet Sensation” had been superimposed. This was something else, it really was.
‘Alright, look,’ croaked Rog, ‘put on a good show tonight, and then we’ll have a chat and discuss your salary.’
‘Deal,’ I said, suppressing a satisfied smile.
Sticking to my promise, I put on a good show that night. Some of my new jokes got the audience roaring and yelling: Who’s the most popular man at a nudist colony? The man who can carry a coffee in both hands, as well as five donuts. And, for the sake of a few old timers I spotted down at the tables, I told an old favourite of mine: How do you get your girlfriend to scream during sex? Phone her, and tell her about it.
Reg was happy with how it went down, and he stuck to his end of the promise: a sizeable pay rise! I was lapping it up, I won’t lie. Lapping up the money, lapping up the attention, and lapping up the sheer excitement of it all. It was like being born again. A born-again comedian!
The cynical part of me was speculating about the possible negatives, though. Mainly concerning the two women in the video, I mean. Had they seen it? Were they embarrassed? Were they enjoying the attention like me? Were they trying to find me? I hadn’t performed at Bar 5 for a while at this point, not since I uploaded the video, and I was kind of avoiding the place for fear of bumping into them. I didn’t know whether they were regulars there, but they definitely weren’t strangers to the place.
On the other hand, part of me was tempted to try and find them. Would they be up for another meet? Another video, even? This was crazy talk, though, wasn’t it? The wild ideas of a dirty, opportunistic, low-life comedian. But still, I hadn’t ruled out the possibility of a second encounter with them. The problem was, though, I didn’t get either of their phone numbers that night. Stupid bastard, I know. You don’t need to tell me. The only thing I had to go on was a vague recollection of one of them mentioning their address, but I couldn’t quite remember it. Was it Lombard Street, or Lombard Walk? Number 43, or 63? Or was that completely wrong? I just couldn’t remember it, mainly due to the alcohol I’d consumed that night.
In short, I didn’t have a clue whether the two girls had seen the video or not, and I didn’t have a clue how they’d react to it if they did. Leaving them alone seemed like the best option, and so that’s exactly what I did.
I now had bigger fish to fry, after all. I was going up in the world.
* * *