bigalcampbell: (deep)
*Six inches tall and trapped in a pickle jar is not how Alastair imagined he would be spending Christmas. From the moment the cloth plunges him into shadow, he feels his anger turn into a sick feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He hurls himself against the glass and screams abuse as loud as he can, but Peter doesn't seem to pay any attention. After a while, the light goes out altogether and Alastair is left alone in the kitchen for the night.

He tries his phone, now a miniature toy replica of itself. No amount of button-pressing will convince it to work. So he reaches up for the lid of the jar, but it's just out of his reach. Even standing on tip-toe on a pile of his own folded-up clothes doesn't help much; it's hard to get purchase in the little air-holes, and anyway, he thinks it might be one of those ones you have to squeeze from the outside.

Alastair gets dressed again and looks about in the darkness, despairing. He wonders if he could use his own momentum to shift the jar off the edge of the sideboard, or even knock it onto its side so it could roll off, letting it smash open on the kitchen floor. He has a go, running at the side and crashing into it as hard as he can, but the base is far too wide to unbalance and if it shifts, it's hardly more than a few millimetres. After another three or four collisions he starts to feel dizzy, but he's just about to strengthen his resolve for another try when a low growling from somewhere far below makes him freeze.*

Hi, Jack...

*Jack gives a short bark and growls again. Alastair retreats to the middle of the jar and sighs. He'd have worn himself out before making it to the edge, anyway. He sinks down against the side and curls up into a ball between the cold glass and the humid air. It sucks to admit defeat. Tired and distressed, he calms himself and eventually drifts off to sleep by imagining all the things he'll do to Mandelson by way of revenge.

The next thing Alastair knows, it's daytime again. He's slipped down onto the floor of the jar and bright light is filtering through the cloth, leaving him dazed and blinking and not a little sore. He struggles upright and glares around, ready to give Peter a piece of his mind.*

10am

Sep. 29th, 2012 08:09 pm
bigalcampbell: (sleepy)
Arghmph.

Oh god it hurts so much. Why does it hurt so much?

*Alastair tries to wrap the duvet around himself for comfort but freezes as the pain in his arms explodes. He opens his eyes, which thankfully aren't quite so stiff and sore, and looks around the bedroom, powerless to move. He knows who is to blame for this, who will he be calling to shout at when he finally regains easy movement in his limbs and face. In the meantime, he needs sympathy.*

Help?
bigalcampbell: (sleepy)
*After a few hours of drifting in and out of consciousness, Alastair comes to his senses and sits up in a strange bed. At once he remembers the main event of last night - the wolf that tried to eat him - but not the details. He doesn't know how he came to be here but it's peaceful enough, and mostly he's grateful to still have all his limbs intact, even if they are aching badly.

Beside the bed he finds a mug of something cold alongside a note from John, explaining where he is and recommending he ask Sally if there's anything he needs. Eyeing the drink, he decides it probably can't hurt and takes a few experimental sips. The pain of his bruises starts to fade and he gulps down the rest gratefully.

So, last night's rescue party was successful on the rescue side of things, at least. But did they catch the wolf? Something's nagging away at the back of Alastair's sedated mind, something about the creature itself. How did he come to be running away from it in the first place..?

He was round Peter's, helping him redecorate. The penny drops. It wasn't a wolf, they said, it was a werewolf. Peter. He mutters to himself.* Fucksake Mandelson, this is extreme even for you. *He looks for and eventually finds his phone; the screen is badly cracked. There is a bank of texts from Fiona, which he ignores. He tries calling first Peter, then John, but neither yields an answer. Instead he hauls himself out of bed and goes to see if Mrs Bercow can be persudaded to make lunch.*
bigalcampbell: (Default)
If I can be as annoying as Clint Eastwood when I'm 82, I'll die a happy man. If I can embarrass some conservatives into the bargain then so much the better.

That and Channel 4's ad-intensive Paralympics coverage aside, today has been less inspiring than an Audience With Tony Benn. It's bad enough for the people who were injured last night without wild exaggerations about massive fucking supersized wolves. That kind of sensationalism is just disrespectful. Twitter: the only thing that could make Silly Season sillier.

*glares at iPad screen, frowns.*

It's actually four fifteen now and I have achieved precisely bugger all.

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