Friday, 22 February 2013

Hero Worship (Deleted scenes)

All these images and words have been culled from the recovered laptop of Stephanie Penny Tent.

It has been said that in the first Star Wars Movie (Episode IV: A New Hope) George Lucas had no left over footage, that everything that was on screen was all that remained in the can so to speak. The same can be said of Issue 001 of Hero Worship. O.K, well, there is this:

Below lies the full prologue for issue 002 (Everyone Likes Monsters). It Was a shame to cut it out but the plot needed to match the break-neck pace of 001 (My Skull the Vocal Booth).


I decided to hold back the reveal of Spiderfingers and Rooenn being one and the same. This sort of thing is great for the end of a story, don't you think?

    To the novice, I’m in charge of an innocuous glinting tether; a simple pets halter, but our link is more than this. This indestructible cable is a hoary serpent that trails up to and robes the countenance of my demonic knight.

The Terrorsmith’s identity is censored under my beloved clinking coil and I know it now, I feel it - his sustenance is my own.

I found it hard to take out this part. You have no idea. It had to be done. We join Spiderfingers helping Kurt to load instruments back into the trailer after their jam.

    We’re packing up to leave and it occurs to me that I should tell him about the band we’d call Tyler Durden. I miss being in Colossus. There I go again - It’s John Clay that misses Colossus - I’m Spiderfingers - I was never in a band.
    Driving back to the trailer park, his eyes nailed to the road, Kurt's in a mood. So, I stare out at the L.A shops, all of them closed now. Other businesses however have only just opened.
    I spy middle-aged clientèle that cruise the curbs, these asshole werewolves looking to fuck victims half their age - they sicken me. My hand closes round Rooenn’s chain snaked to my ankle still, and yeah, I’ve been in a billion bad homes, I’ve been used by pimp boyfriends; their drug dependant situations obscured by my filthy paw marks. I put these lambs in PVC, stockings and boob tubes. It was my touch that forced the logic into their heads, that handcuffs are something you keep in your handbag for a paying stranger to chain you up with. It was me that led these lambs here, so oh yeah – I’ve doubled-over, my brown digits kneading the gleaming rings round my left ankle. I’m rubbing Rooenn’s cord so fast that soon, well I just don’t see the sheep do I? 
    I can’t see anybody - I’m elsewhere. Forget the comfortable leather upholstery and the smoothness of the drive back to the trailer park because I’ve chosen to take a ride beside the voice of a generation. My imagination grants us an enthusiastic whoop-on-every-joke studio audience. Cue cameras, lights and lots of psychological action.
I jump a little as I realise that slumber just snatched me under for what, a minute? I am that kid at the grown up party that refuses to go to bed in case I ‘miss something’. As I get up to go lie on his bed I'm lying to myself - as if I'm gonna stay awake for long after my head hits the pillows. All my thoughts are pathetic sinking televisions, stuck firm in sleeps’ thick mire embrace.

This dream sequence was probably one of the hardest chops to make. Even though, Issue 003 (Pets, their Masters and the Chains That Bind Them) was more a grand pause in the pace, these 
twelve pages just had to go.

    ‘I’m a negative creep, I’m a negative creep, I’m a negative creep and I’m stoned...’ I sing this quietly to myself, to keep awake, every now and then scrutinising the dark shape that hums on the wall. But Sid won’t hurt me now will he?
    Here I am on the bed, desperately fending off the muscle memory, willing my eyelids to stay wide, just in case Kurt is ready to open up again. Oh man, I’m losing my fight and I’m only half a god; part of me will always desire sleep. So, I tell myself I’ll only snooze for a moment.
    A ten minute nap...
    I’m standing on the stairs of my childhood home in south Acton and a Rottweiler has lodged its jaws through the front door letter box.
    It’s a mud and tar patched monster, barking wild, desperate to get indoors.
    Somehow the door opens. The beast bounds into my home too loud, and too threatening whilst I stand way too still and much too helpless atop the greying stairs.
    I feel considerably vulnerable in my Optimus Prime P.J’s.
    I’m not just shaking (I hate dogs), I’m bewildered, because loitering just a step away, seemingly invisible to the hellhound is Jimmy Farmer. He’s dressed in that old baseball cap with his raven black hair pouring down his shoulders; long just the way I remember it, his clothes the colour of shadow and night.
    I know this is all a dream right there and then because Jimmy dumped his heavy metal look straight after High School in what, nineteen ninety  something?
    But on this stream, I’m not the oarsman; no matter how much I try to wake, my subconscious has a message for my conscious self and is intent on ferrying me to toward it. Jimmy was good with dogs so why’s he just standing there watching this thing act rabid? There’s drool all over my chest and dog paws cut my flesh as the barks of the canine elicit piss out of my young bladder. Jimmy’s hands are held aloft in a signal that translates as ‘Nothing-to–do-with-me’ as the nightmare worsens; canine teeth, each the size of small fingers bear up close. These incisors pry open the lid of my dark imagination, drawing out a horrific succession of violent vermilion soaked images. In this nightmare my lungs work but they’re plugged with a dense sulphur reek and I’m coughing up black ash wondering, how did the fucking dog get in?
    I desperately hope to remember to cling onto this question for when...
   …When my subconscious has had enough of its wrestling and lets me go.   
    I’m awake, smothered in that naked-in-public feeling and I just know I was sleep-talking, babbling about who-knows-what in front of my hero. Fighting hydras is preferable to this level of mortification because yeah, when you choose to tell sob stories about bad parenting and alienation and overdue circumcision, you’re in control of the tragedy – you get to choose each point of pity and outdo your blonde confessional idol. Kurt and I learnt a long time ago that in the divulgence of misfortune we get to re-inherit power but hey, whatever it is he thinks he’s heard, it can’t be as humiliating as the synopsis I feed him. I offer my psycho-babble from the floor, because in the course of my night-terror, I’ve rolled out of the mother-fucking bed.
    So what do you think it means?’ he asks, halting our vehicular plunge into the murky unknown.
    ‘The dog represents a fix, a dilemma of my own making. See, I must have let the dog in. Jimmy Farmer is synonymous with my notion of trust and loyalty. He was a good pal. My biggest fault is that even now, I’m waiting for someone to solve problems I’ve invited into my life. Even if I know experts on handling any one of my beastly fuck ups, my problems have to be put down by me.’
    I should feel purged as I watch Kurt climb up out of the leather driver’s seat. He’s owed a handshake and a cheer because this blonde-god of mine, such a unique idol, he can listen like no other. Kurt, he sits in a ball, his chin resting on his knee caps. That look Jesus gave Peter when he lied? Kurt’s glare is identical. Yeah, THAT look. There is no way you could talk anyone out of THAT look. But I’m a liar and not only am I aware that he knows it, he knows that I think I deserve him not to let me off the hook. This look he has, this heat vision that rivals the penance stare of Phobos himself, it bores holes. I caress Rooenn’s metal lead still locked tight around my left ankle. It helps that terror itself is here to squeeze the guilt out of me since my god sees beyond the mosaic of indigo’s and violets, the firework of lies I couldn’t distract him with. And his voice, a harmonically atonal gush as calm as sea breeze, this speaking somehow sifts through my faux air of sophistication. His words separate through my defences and settle upon my ravaged soul, that face – no, no, not a face actually – I’ve a ruined island inside of me. My god opens his mouth…
    ‘You need someone to rein you in, he says eying my hand massaging Rooenn’s chain, ‘Boleraam is the dog and John Clay is the human consciousness that’s afraid of it. Let me help you tame the dog,’ says my god.
    Then my almighty leans in for maximum effect, and he nearly whispers the logic, ‘I can be your friend.’

All these pages give an indication of the scope of the project, how it was paramount to deliver a nuanced and well-researched portrayal of Cobain in the modern world. Unfortunately, there is only so much fan service that a story can take. They all had to be deleted from the final piece.y
...I'm...I'm stinking drunk. 
A litany of interesting topics here: Kurt reacting to 21st Century audience apathy/Spiderfingers' racial hang up/Spiderfingers' self-imposesd impotence/How Spiderfingers' 'take' on Kurt is indicative of how he sees himself. Also, deleted scenes that shine some relevance upon John Clay's past concernning his band Colossus.
…To make friends, it’s normally the common interests that act as social glue but after a while, listening to enough Thom Yorke makes me wanna sit outside his house with a gun and a box of sandwiches. Thank god Kurt pops the question:
Tell me about Colossus he says.
Sure I say, you really wanna get me started?
Yeah he says, and seconds later I’m dictating his Google search.…Kurt’s fingers tap the address into the keyboard that stretches along his kneecaps.
 The result of my cyber-surf casts a kaleidoscopic-past over the refuse of this trailer; the copious guitar pedals, dirty underwear, unopened envelopes, drink cartons, all this crap covered in colour.
    I can’t help but grin - all the band pics – well-captured memories but not my own. Each piece of comic book-themed photography belongs to John Clay.
So many onstage superhero poses – we were onto something. Something so wild and vast that I nearly forget.
Sid’s in the room.
A dangerous dog on a leash is still a dangerous dog.
I grant him a smile, a facial token of bravado.
I consider a rule of my physiology:
My godhood means I lack mortal organs,
My mind responds to the idea of alcohol.
Fear being so much easier to handle under the influence.
Self-belief, a tool of indisputable usefulness.
The words worked for the story but unfortunately, the pics by Sarah Edwards didn't quite find a place in the finished work. Great ideas can sometimes pollute the whole.
For the more effective denouement, sparsity and clarity often (in my opinion) go hand in hand. These are the little bits and pieces that threatened such a union, a union the more discerning reader hopefully appreciates.
The words below are just so twisted but just seemed a little too distracting from the thrust of the epilogue. A pity.

Cobain: Manerisims and vocal patterns.
In Heroworship we meet the projection of Kurt Cobain, not the real deal. Interviews therefore proved much better source material than any fantasy real-life meeting could ever afford.

Kurt Cobain, Seattle 1993 Complete Interview