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Old 06-16-2005, 10:10 AM   #101
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ooooh

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Old 06-20-2005, 03:45 AM   #102
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more please...

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Old 06-21-2005, 10:49 AM   #103
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21st June 2005

So what does this mean regarding my other job? Realistically, very little. I hope. I have a constant compulsion to tell this girl everything about me, secrets and all.

We've gone out together a few times, at first just as casual workmates blowing off some steam after work hours. Our first time we went out (and I can actually remember pretty much everything about the night) we went to Aunt Annies - a grungy yet popular - type bar on Dublin Road. We had a few drinks - I stuck to Coke obviously. Heh, she actually pulled me about it.
'How come you don't drink?'
I protested, 'I do drink! Sure you've seen me out with the boys after work totally loaded!'
She looked at me with her incredibly cute little pouty expression (and i never thought I would be the type of guy to describe endearments of others to people) and said, 'Well, you act drunk, i'll give you that.'
I grinned knowingly. 'Ok, you caught me. Can I tell you a secret?'
She nodded.
'The reason I don't drink that much...'
'Ever.'
'Whatever, ...is because I...'
'Yes?'
'...Am training for the Olympics.'

I finished with a resounding broad smile and chuckled. She looked at me curiously, trying to see if I was joking or not. Then she punched me on the arm and smiled herself, 'Liar. I'll find out you know.' She grabbed her drink then we went over to a free table.
'It's true!' I protested, jokingly of course.
She shook her head in mock disappointment, 'I'll just never know when to believe you will I?'

The conversation carried on in that vein for a bit, me with my faux shamefaced attitude and her trying to get me to tell her. Quite good fun if truth be told. I haven't enjoyed a game of mental/ verbal sparring with a woman for quite some time.

We finished up about half 8, (by which time she'd had a few and was slightly tipsy) and walked, no - strolled - up through Queens and Botanic to her house. Then - and i'm truly sorry constant reader, i'm not normally this gushy - we had, as they say in all those romance novels, a 'moment.' I'll not get into specifics, but the word KABLAMMO springs to mind.

By now it was about half 9 (I told you we strolled) and when the point came where it was either a case of 'Do you want to come in?' or 'I'll see you tomorrow.' I was half hoping/ half dreading either one. It turned out to be the latter - and with it a clash of relief and disappointment. I went home, got changed and went out on patrol. Had a great night too, got a round of applause and a proposition from a crowd of girls who were having trouble with a few guys.

So now, here I am in work, trying to actually do work and not think about her and i'm glad when I don't succeed. For the record, I should mention that this is a girl who I met on my first day her almost a year ago and who i thought was cute, and frankly, out of my league, so it's not as though its a case of love at first sight. In fact, in all my time here, I've probably maybe seen her - and that usually just in passing - about once a week, maybe less.

So I should reiterate when I have this compulsion to tell her everything, I actually mean it. One part of me is saying 'No, don't do it! Eejit!' Another part says, 'Go for it me laddo.'

So I don't know. I know I shouldn't, and hopefully this need to tell her will fade somewhat.

I'll keep you posted.

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Old 06-22-2005, 10:58 AM   #104
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22 June 2005

To make matters worse, she beleives (as do others) that I may be involved in some sort of fight club. It's not as though she hasn't seen me without bruises before, but - heh - the one i'm sporting today is rather impressive. Even by my standards. I had a meeting scheduled for 12 with some top brass people, but one look at me this morning when I sloped in was all it took for my boss to give me some 'extremely important' filing to do instead.

When J (which is her first initial - I can't very well keep calling her 'she' or 'her' can I?) saw it she didn't say anything, although I could tell she was rattled. Firstly, its not like she hasn't seen me before with a shiner, and secondly because she she's not the type to go to pieces and get all overly protective of her boyfriend. Which suits me just fine.

Of course, we'll see how what I think of that attitude when I get a cold or flu and 'need' looked after.

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Old 06-29-2005, 11:08 AM   #105
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29th June 2005

I have the unfortunate ability to re-grow my facial hair within a matter of hours. As I said before, for me, five o'clock shadow equates to about half eleven.

This genetic trait, unfortunately, isn't confined to just my face. Hairy chest, arms etc (although, surprisingly I have a smooth back) are what have garnered me the nickname 'Wolverine' through school, university and now, work. As a result, when a guy out of work decided to organise a chest, shoulder and back wax for the good of charity, my name was an obvious addition to the roster of would-be victims.

I protested. At first, it was funny/ bit of banter/ no-way-am-i-doing-that! good natured craic. Gradually though, as I began to realise that they were actually serious, and that I would quite conceivably have to go ahead with it, I became a bit more vehement in my refusal to do it - almost to the point of being downright nasty to co-workers who were trying to persuade me to 'go for it!'

Not all the cajoling, all the pleas and promises, not any threats or asinine guilt trips were going to get me on stage - for that was part and parcel of the deal: get on a stage in front of the entire dept, strip to my waist and let the waxer have at it. Not even J, or the catcalls of 'chicken' or 'wuss' from other guys in the department were going to have any effect on my resolve. I was adamant. In no way, shape, or form was I getting on stage, stripping off in front of everyone.

It wasn't a question of being afraid, nor of being shy or embarrassed. There was one reason as to why I wasn't going up on stage, and if you've been following this diary from the outset, you'll have a fairly good idea of what it is.

In the end though, as it turns out, I didn't have much of a choice. The big day came around (yesterday) and, like the rest of the dept, I was shepherded down to the main foyer of the building where security had constructed a small stage and seating area - with requisite PA system in case no one in the audience could hear the screams of the victims.

There were 5 guys in all who had reluctantly 'volunteered' for the ordeal, and as they went up on stage one by one, I could see the nervousness in their expressions and body language. All in all, the event took about half an hour.

Half an hour of yelps and yells accompanied by constant ripping and tearing noises as overly enthusiastic beauticians went about their work applying and peeling off the wax strips. Finally, as the last one came off, the guys stood up, took a shaky (and very green faced) bow to the audience, who thundered their approval (as did I) through applause, whistles and catcalls.

Just before we were dismissed to go back to work, Neill (the organiser and one of the victims) took the stage. He tapped the mike:
'Hello...? Ah...'
(applause)
'I'd just like to say thanks to everyone for donating money, and to the boys here especially for having the stones to get on stage, and get their upper bodies torn to pieces - I know i'll never laugh at a woman when she mentions waxing her legs again! - ...'
(applause and laughter)
...'But of course, there was one guy who should be up here, if only for the fact that he has the hairiest body in the council...'
(everyone looks at me. 'Boos', and calls of 'Chicken'. 'Wuss!')
'....thats right, he wimped out. Right Marty?'

I gave a thin lipped smile and nodded.

Neill continued, '...Of course, that just wouldn't be fair to the ladies, so we decided, he doesn't have a choice. Right lads, GET HIM!'

Before I knew what was happening, half the guys in the department had grabbed ahold of me and frogmarched me to the stage amid cheers and whoops. The mob, baying for fresh blood.

Sure, I could have struggled, and I probably could have gotten away, and I would have done it too - better to be seen as a coward than for what happened next - but for the fact that someone would have likely gotten badly hurt.

I wrestled half-heartedly, but allowed myself to be led to the chair in the middle of the stage. I felt sick. I knew what was coming. Neill, ever the prankster, gave me shark grin and clapped me on the back.

'Well Marty, you hairy bastard. Ready for this? Don't worry, its not so bad.... after its over!' (applause and laughter)

He frowned mockingly, 'Don't look so green! Even a silver back like you should come out the other side alive!'

I shook my head. I actually felt physically ill. He gestured to the waiting chair and exited stage left. As I walked to the chair, everything seemed to be in slow motion; heightened. I was aware of the crowd murmuring their approval at my sudden 180. I could hear a few whispers of commiseration. My stomach was doing somersaults. I approached the chair somewhat nervously. The beautician standing behind smiled kindly.

'Hi, Marty, is it?' I nodded weakly.
'I'm Laura, pleased to meet you.'
I shook her proffered hand and stood there, my face turning (I imagine) an even more virulent shade of green.

She smiled warmly again, 'Honestly, don't worry about it, it's not that bad, really.'
I shook my head and just stood there.
She gestured toward the chair, 'Go on, sit down, and this'll be over shortly.'

Again, I just stood there, like an empty headed idiot. I could hear titters from the audience. Laura looked at me and raised an eyebrow, an apologetic expression on her face.

Jaw clenched, I sat down, and leaned back. Laura leaned over and said quietly, 'Ok, I’m going to need you to raise your arms til I take your t-shirt off.'

I raised my arms, resigned. I was acutely aware of everyone looking at me. Watching, waiting to see how I would react. Would I yell, would I scream?

The person I was most aware of was J. I caught her eye and grinned weakly. She gave me a thumbs up and winked. 'Nice one.' She mouthed. I shook my head and looked at her sorrowfully. I mouthed back, 'Sorry.' I caught her grin morph into a confused frown, but just then, Laura snatched my t-shirt and pulled it up over my head and for a few seconds, I was cut off from the world…


[I've been the MiB for about 3 years now. In that time, (i.e. during my active periods) I’ve gone out about 6 if not 7 nights a week. I’ve learned martial arts, street-brawling, self defence and any other amount of assorted fighting techniques. These of course, haven’t made me invulnerable, and over the course of the years, I’ve sustained a few injuries, some more serious than others. And some of which leave a more visible mark.

To date, I’ve suffered concussion numerous times, been stabbed, sliced, and battered by knives and/or clubs. I’ve been kicked, punched, and pushed off rooftops. I’ve dislocated my shoulder, I’ve sustained broken bones, and I have borne the brunt of numerous other vicious attacks. I have, in short, become a walking war veteran. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof. In addition to that, three heavy-set guys gave me the kicking of a lifetime last night, and although I emerged victorious, I didn’t exactly get off scot-free…

Currently, my upper torso is riddled with bruising - some fading, some brand new -, scar tissue and other assorted war wounds – back and front. In addition I am, as they say, in peak physical condition. I'm 5'9 and I weigh about 13 and a half stone of solid, lean muscle mass. ]

…The t-shirt came up over my head and I heard the crowd stunned into silence even before they’d begun to cheer. Someone whistled softly. Someone else gasped in a shocked, hushed tone, ‘Jesus Christ!’. Then, the shocked buzzing began. The whispering. The gossip in hushed, almost reverent tones. I could sense Laura behind me pause, as if wondering whether or not to continue. Hesitantly, she began to apply the wax strips and to peel them off. I felt nothing. I heard nothing. I stared straight ahead and ignored what was happening to me and in front of me. I was a Zen master.

The ordeal lasted forever. In front of me was a sea of vague, indistinct faces. I caught the odd gawping expression and the constant droning muttering washed over me in waves. '...the scarring!' '...what does he do...?' '...fight club..' '...poor bastard...' '..must be crazy..'
But for the most part, as time extended into infinity, the world ceased to exist.

After she finished, Laura stepped back without saying anything. The crowd went deathly silent. No-one said anything. I stood up, lifted my t-shirt and walked away, ignoring everyone. No, not everyone. Just before I escaped the podium, I locked eyes with J and saw that she had been crying. And there was something else. On her face was the worst expression of bewilderment, confusion and deep hurt. Her friends and other onlookers pushing for a final glimpse were looking up at me with an expression that was a fascinated sub-species of horror.
I pushed open the fire exit and left the building.

That was yesterday afternoon about half 4. I phoned in sick today. Currently, I have 87 missed calls on my phone, and rising. I don’t know what to do.

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Old 06-29-2005, 01:17 PM   #106
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oh my

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Old 06-29-2005, 04:32 PM   #107
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S***!

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Old 07-14-2005, 06:26 AM   #108
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14th July 2005

'I don't know what to do.'

That wasn't strictly true at the time I said it. I knew exactly what to do, I just hadn't figured on having to lie on such a grand scale. Nor to someone I actually cared for.

Despite popular perception, i'm not an idiot, and I knew that at some point, it was conceivable - if not outright likely - that people would get a glimpse of my naked or semi-naked body. In my naivety I assumed that this discovery would take place in a girl's bedroom, or possibly on the beach if I ever went on holiday. I had a story worked out - plausible and believable, if not exactly portraying me as being a model of sanity...

'Extreme rockclimbing?'
My boss cocked an eyebrow, incredulous.
I nodded once, refusing to meet his eye. Not because I was worried that he would be able to tell I was lying, but because the situation called for a certain shamefaced penitance. A look of, 'Ok, you know its dumb, I know its dumb, but what can you do?' sorrow. If i'd been hamming, I would have clasped my hands together behind my back and drew circles in the ground with my right foot.
He sighed and shook his head, resigned. 'What exactly is extreme rockclimbing?'

Now extreme rockclimbing is something that may or may not exist. Rockclimbing generally consists of two people, a leader and a belayer with accompanying ropes, harnesses and other equipment designed to offer maximum safety within the acceptable inherent risk margin. Extreme rockclimbing (as i've dubbed it) consists of two people going head to head trying to get to the top of a route. No ropes, no safety. You fall, you'll probably die. In addition, the two of you are going head to head. Punches, kicks, grabbing another climber, anything goes.
As I said, it may or may not exist. It exists in a form of climbing called freeclimbing in which the climber is not harnessed to a rope, but rather, the climber just climbs to the top of a route unaided. Most if not all freeclimbers are extremely experienced and know exactly what they are doing, what their body is cabable of. Their approach is methodical and well practiced. And they never go head to head with another climber. To do so is suicide.
That said, my idea for extreme rockclimbing came from a time I was at Ormeau Leisure centre - where there is a pretty decent climbing wall - with a couple of friends. John and I were attempting a few problems on the bouldering wall when all of a sudden, I turned to him and said, race you to the top. The bouldering wall isn't that high, and is surrounded by crash mats, so danger is minimal. We climbed like maniacs, shoving and punching each other and thus, extreme rockclimbing was born. Like I said, i've only ever done this indoors when surrounded by crash mats. Anyone who does this outdoors is a lunatic.

Says the guy who dresses up each night and jumps off rooftops.

At that moment, in my bosses office, I looked suitably chagrined as I began a carefully prepared and rehearsed, long winded speech about the finer points of extreme rockclimbing. He interrupted after about 5 minutes, 'Ok, so you take your life in your hands every weekend, now I know why you come in looking like the dogs dinner on occasion. And where all those scars come from. Why'd you skip out last week?'
I replied (in perfect honesty), 'I was embarassed. And a bit annoyed. I didn't want to take part in the event, I was explicitly clear about that, and being forced to...humiliate myself like that in front of everyone just freaked me out a bit. I think anyone else would have done the same.'

'Fair enough.' my boss acquiesced. 'But, I can't have you coming in all the time looking a mess. Sort it out, or i'll have to let you go.' My boss, a real people person.

'Ok.' I muttered, then slunk back to my desk.

By teatime, the entire department knew about extreme rockclimbing. A few of the guys even wanted to start taking up the sport. 'So thats where all those scars from!'
'Man, we all thought were in, like, a fight club or something!'
'When are you going again, I want to go too!'
'Talk about Frank the tank! If I can get muscles like that i'll do it too!'
I shook my head in (more than a little) annoyance. 'Christ.' I muttered, 'What the hell have I started?' I looked around the canteen, trying to spot J, but she was no-where to be seen. I learned later through one of her friends that she was off sick, and as I walked away her friend positively crowed after me, 'And boy, is she mad at you!'

Later over lunch, conversation veered from Gaelic, to drink, to how nuts is Marty? 'Seriously though', Niall continued, 'Why do you do it?'

I raised my head, looked him in the eye and smirked, magnificent bastard style, 'Scars. Chicks dig scars.'

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Old 07-15-2005, 01:31 PM   #109
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"chicks Dig Scars"??!!!!!!!!

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Old 07-15-2005, 01:39 PM   #110
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Trust me, they do. I've got a nice one on my face, and have been told that they like it.

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Old 09-19-2005, 09:56 AM   #111
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19th September 2005

Worst. Weekend.

Ever.

Lets just say I'm glad for my BUPA coverage. That and the cute nurse from ward 3a.

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Old 09-20-2005, 12:30 AM   #112
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Excellent, so begins the "new season"

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Old 10-11-2005, 02:47 AM   #113
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We need more!

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Old 10-11-2005, 06:32 AM   #114
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11th October 2005

My behaviour would suggest (to the layman) that I am, what is referred to in medical circles, as a manic depressive. At times I feel great, amazing, on top of the world. I feel like i'm in charge of everything; that there's nothing I can't do; that there's nothing wrong.

And there's other times (admittedly more frequent) when I just feel... lost. Not depressed in the conventional sense (been there, done that) just... incomplete. Like there's something missing. Something I should be doing (or not doing?); something that should be a part of my life and which isn't.

The Man in Black to some extent offers me some recompense in the filling of this void, but lately, more often that not, I come back from patrol feeling empty, exhausted and hollow. And as I lie there, waiting for the adrenaline rush to fade so that I can sleep I ask myself, 'what's wrong with me?'

I have a decent job, a girlfriend (sort of), money, a decent place, no real ties to anything or anyone; and I actively help other people in trouble every day. In short, some people would kill to have my life. So why can't I be happy? I see people downtown - happy couples strolling along, not a care in the world. The guy will tickle the girl's cheek, teasing, playfully, and she'll turn, slap him playfully, cheerful, in love. And I envy them. No. More. I - for the briefest of split seconds - I hate them. And their happiness.

Christ. I'm not even depressed. I just feel like... like... I don't exist. Like I don't matter. Empty.

Heh. Sometimes in work, when the party-boy persona facade slips for a bit, people ask me why I look so glum.
'Why so sad Marty? What's up? What's wrong? Why aren't you happy?'
I want to tell them that I would love to happy, that I'd give anything. If I only knew how.

This is going somewhere, I swear.

A couple of weeks ago I found myself in hospital, after a particularly nasty weekend. On the friday, i'd gotten into a bit of a ruckus with a student - big guy, from the country (Tyrone judging by the accent) - who had convinced himself that the girl squealing beside him in terror really did want some of his 'Irish beef' (his words).

Being new to Belfast, (and being roughly the size and shape of a baby orca) he was neither intimidated nor impressed by my appeal to his better nature. (Something i've been trying for a while now - with mixed results. Rather than just jump in, fists flying; I've decided to try and talk sense into people instead. Doesn't exactly work. Usually they'll listen for a few seconds, try and get the drop on me, and end up getting lectured to while lying face down in the gutter.)

The Tyrone porker was a leetle bit smarter than the average perp though. As I remonstrated with him, he appeared to become a little shamefaced at his behaviour. Eye's downcast, he actually mumbled something in the way of an apology to the girl who, seeing that she wasn't going to be his plaything de jour, tore herself from his grasp and ran off. Not before slapping him in the face though. I watched her for a couple of seconds - making sure she got away safely, and as I turned back to the Tyrone ham, I felt a hot icicle plunge into my side. I'd been stabbed.

Ironically, my first thought was, 'not again!' And rather than the measure of panic and fear i'd become accustomed to, I felt an ethereal, unearthly calm. I looked down at my side slowly. Something in my expression, or the utter tranquillity of my countenance must have clicked with the Tyrone guy. Rather than stick around (heh) he looked at my side in horror - as if aware what he'd just done - then ran away. I was on the verge of giving chase, but chasing would have interrupted my momentary equipoise. I was actually happy just standing there, looking at the knife. Happy. At peace. Inner moral or existential crises evaporated in a lake of tranquillity.

I actually walked to the hospital on that wave of happiness. No, not happiness. Not exactly. Contentment.

I made the twenty minute walk with a look on my face like the look of a guy who can't beleive his luck when he sees his blind date. A mixture of awe, surprise and pure disbelief. Not to mention happiness.

Alarm bells should have been ringing in my head, telling me to go home, to patch myself up. And there were a few twinges of inner railing. 'Secret identity!' the voice yelled. 'Secret identity!!'. And yet, the voice was faded, far away. In fact, I could barely hear it.

I walked calmly up to the girl on reception. 'Excuse me.' She looked up at me, momentarily annoyed at being interrupted from her nightly book-a-thon. Like i'd gotten stabbed on purpose just so I could screw up her book reading plans. She waved over to the seats. 'Sit over there, a doctor will be along shortly.'

Surprisingly, I didn't get annoyed. I actually tried to as well, it just didn't happen. (Anger being my primary response when confronted by an attitude like this.) Without looking to see whether or not i'd left, the girl resumed her book. I tried again. 'Excuse me?'

She looked up, not bothering to hide her annoyance now. 'Yes??', she seethed.

'I was wondering if I could see a doctor now, it's rather serious.' I stepped back and indicated my side, now dripping blood, with the knife hilt still sticking out. As she pushed back in her chair, horrified, yet unable to take her eyes of the knife, she reached for the phone and punched in an extension number. I continued, 'Or should I just sit down and wait?'

Scrambling over her notes and other papers on the desk, she pushed a button on her console. A nurse hurried down the corridor towards me and gingerly, almost as though afraid of hurting me, she led me up to an operating theatre. The girl behind the reception desk never took her eyes off me. Caught between the seriousness of the wound and my apparent utter calmness. As I walked past her, we locked eyes. 'That's a good book,' I said, 'I can understand why you wouldn't want to be interrupted.' She shot a look at the nurse who hadn't heard, or at least had pretended not to, and shook her head.

'No, really, I understand, it's really good - especially given the part you're at.' Her head continued shaking, not out of denial, but more out of an attitude of profound disbelief. 'How', she must have wondered, 'can this guy be so calm?'

'By the way,' I spoke softly; although by now I was well past her, but I knew she could hear me; 'Snape kills Dumbledore.' (Ain't I a stinker.) I smiled serenely at her still shaking head, and continued up the corridor, led by the nurse.

As I looked at the nurse, I realised that I recognised her. And just like that, my equanimity had gone.

(to be continued later)

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Old 10-11-2005, 12:29 PM   #115
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(continued)

Of course as luck would have it, just when I recognised her, she got her first good look at me. Her eyes widened in recognition and shock and her mouth gaped. 'You!' she exclaimed. She stopped dead in the coridoor, staring at me.

Rapidly coming to my senses, and all too aware of how awkward the two of us looked standing there, I took her by the elbow and led her into an empty room and shut the door.

I looked carefully into her eyes, 'What do you mean, 'you''? As soon as I recognised her I knew straight away who she was and where i'd seen her from, but then, i've a carefully trained memory. She recognised me, that much was clear, but whether or not she'd remember where from and for what was something I needed to ascertain.

She sat down on the edge of the empty bed, never once looking away from me. 'You're... him.' I leaned in closer, expectant.

'Who do you mean?'

'Him!' she cried, plaintitively. 'Him!! You're him!' She grabbed my arm, as though fearful I would up and disappear. 'You're the Man in Black!!'

I glanced over at the door, then back. 'Louder, sure. They didn't hear you in Poleglass.'

She eeked out an apology, then smiled nervously. 'I always wondered if i'd see you again. After that night...' She trailed off, introspectively, then, as though realising something, 'do you remember who I am?'

I nodded. 'You're the first person who ever said 'thank you' to me. I helped you and your boyfriend out in December a few years back. Two weeks previous to that, i'd helped your friend deal with her psychotic boyfriend.'

She looked at me in awe, 'Wow... You really do remember!' she breathed. She got up slowly, looking at the knife in my side. 'That really needs a doctor but I....' She looked at me questioningly, 'I guess you'd rather not have anyone know you were here?' I nodded. 'Wait here, i'll be back shortly.' She crossed over to the door, and with a final backward glance, I was left alone.

Immediately, I began mentally reprimanding myself. This was the exact reason I avoided going to the hospital straight away. There's always someone who'll recognise either the face or the uniform. In this case both. I looked down at my left side, glaring at the knife. Presently, the nurse came back with bandages and other medical supplies.

'I can't sew this up myself, but I can get you bandaged decently enough. You can come back tomorrow and see a real doctor.' I nodded, masking my surprise at the reversal of our roles. I'd been planning to do just that and, had she not suggested it, would have accepted only a bandaging and nothing else. As she nonchalantly went about her business, she continued talking, 'So what happened to you anyway? You were gone for a while there. Didn't see any Man in black stories on the news for almost a year. Were you on holiday or something?'

I nodded, 'Yeah; something.' Nice one, stoic Joe. She carried on, and I was impressed by her efficient, capable manner. Rather than get flummoxed like most, she dealt with any surprises head on, then got down to the job in hand. She traced the outline of a few of my scars, ocassionally enquiring about them. She didn't seem too put off by my candid answers. Frankly, I just couldn't be arsed lying about them. As they say, every scar has a story begging to be told.

To keep my mind off the work being done (which is sore, no matter how many guys act hard about it) I asked her her name. She looked up from her work a smile on her face;

'Whats yours?' I raised my eyebrows, reproachfully. She tossed her head and giggled, almost sheepishly. 'You don't tell me yours, I won't tell you mine.' I mused over this. Fair enough. She giggled again, 'Alright, I won't tell you my name, but if you must know, I work mostly on ward 3A. I'm sure a smart guy like you can find me if you really want.' She looked straight into my eyes, then slowly resumed her task.

Finally, she finished with her clean-up job, and as I put my top back on and prepared to leave, she said, 'Wait.' I turned round, and she thrust a package into my arms. 'There, enough medical stuff to keep you going for a while. Bandages, disinfectant, the usual Man in Black utility-type gear...'

I looked at the package, gratefully. She had no idea how much this stuff would help. 'Judging by those scars, you must get through a fair amount of this stuff.'

'Won't these be missed?' I asked.

'Probably not. In any case, I usually do inventory, i'll overlook them.'

I nooded, 'Thanks.' As I turned to leave, she spoke again, more quietly, 'Wait.' I turned back, just as she stood up on her toes. Her lips brushed against mine, and she left the room. She looked back one last time, 'Goodbye, my man in black.'

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Old 10-11-2005, 03:13 PM   #116
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Default Re: Diary of a teenage superhero

oh noes

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Old 10-11-2005, 07:31 PM   #117
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Default Re: Diary of a teenage superhero

Nice. Thanks for posting. That kinda kept me on my toes there for a moment.

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Old 10-12-2005, 12:35 AM   #118
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Default Re: Diary of a teenage superhero

god i love this series

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Old 10-13-2005, 09:46 PM   #119
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Default Re: Diary of a teenage superhero

This is going to sound redundant, but is this real or is this a pastiche'?
If it is, link me to a news site or summat. Speaking of, go my Irish fellow.

EDIT: This is Superhobo. Member# 4404421 doesn't have a computer and so uses mine. I forgot I was logged into his account. Feck.

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Old 10-14-2005, 04:13 AM   #120
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This is well-written fan-fiction.

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Old 10-14-2005, 08:41 PM   #121
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Ah.

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Old 10-16-2005, 12:51 PM   #122
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Im not sure if it can be considered a "Fan-Fiction" What story would it be based on?

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Old 10-16-2005, 01:16 PM   #123
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Default Re: Diary of a teenage superhero

id say its just "well written fiction" instead

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Old 10-16-2005, 05:57 PM   #124
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If you were able to so easily correct me then obviously you knew what I meant by what I said.

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Old 10-18-2005, 01:56 AM   #125
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Default Re: Diary of a teenage superhero

good stuff, to bad it isn't real....or is it? Anyone from ireland want to fight crime and get stabbed?

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