Eilean Buntata: It's free folks.

Eilean Buntata it's free to read. Creative-Commons, share, remix and attribute. I'm kinda bored of asking for donations for this story (although I am seriously fucking grateful for the ones I've received) and I'd rather just give stuff away for free.

This experiment is over. Observations have been made and lessons have been learned.

The next experiment begins now. If you enjoy the story please do consider donating some money. Not huge amounts. Just a few quid or a couple of dollars. Every little helps.


No preview in this post. You can download a zip file with the story in various different formats by right clicking and saving the target of this link.

As ever I hope you enjoy what you read.

And to those awesome awesome people who donated you are stars. Because of you guys I can almost bring myself to say I'm a professional.

Peace & Love,

Will.

The Writer's Room

It happens. Sometimes there are tenants that just go missing. Often they do die while staying here. It is always a tragedy having to tidy up after their lives. I hate having to short through their belongings and get in touch with family members or loved ones. Often there are none. This is sometimes easier and it is sometimes harder. But no one comes to stay at my boarding house because of the service. They come because of work or sometimes pleasure, although they pay by the hour, and if they live here then it's because they are a step above living on the streets.

The worst feeling I ever had cleaning out a room was a room that belonged to a man named TK. You'll have heard of him I am sure. It turned out that he had been writing for a major newspaper anonymously and been sending most of money to charity. He kept only enough to keep himself barely living in my flea ridden boarding house. He died in a traffic accident. Hit by a car when he'd been crossing the road without looking. He never struck me as a man that would take risks.

Although at the time I did not know he lived a life of poverty through choice I always considered him to be a very diligent and well dressed man. Not one to take risks and when he was to be seen in public he was always dressed in a clean pressed suit and a hat that he kept in good condition. He was of course very well spoken even though he tried to hide his education. He passed off his mannerisms and learning as time spent in the library growing up. A bit disingenuous maybe because if half the guests here had his expensive education they'd waste no time in letting people know.

But that was the kind of man he was. Or at least the impression that he gave me.

I opened the door into his tiny room on the third day of his disappearance with a detective watching over my shoulder. I walked into the room first to check that nothing had been damaged in his absence. The detective followed. He'd just informed me of Mr TK's death at the hospital that morning from internal injuries. He was investigating the room in an attempt to find information about next of kin or even a will.

None was found until later when the newspaper got in touch with the police.

He hadn't filed that week's report.

It was a small room that he rented. It had it's own bathroom though and he was one of the few to have such luxury in the building. The room had been kept clean and tidy. Above the cupboard was a small supply of cleaning chemicals and inside it were the usual products like toothpaste and a pack of razors and spare soap. It was all laid out exactly along a regular pattern. I commented about this to the detective and he said it reminded me of a story he'd read in the newspaper once.

Little did he know.

The only other room in the apartment was where he worked and slept. I didn't allow guests to keep hotplates in their rooms because of the fire risk. He had an electric kettle though and a jar of instant coffee though. The wardrobe which the detective searched through had a second suit in and a supply of shirts and collars. Nothing else. No papers or hidden caches of money.

He'd made the bed the morning he'd left. I sat on it and looked at the desk. The chair was at a slight angle as if he'd left expecting to come back. There was a bottle of red wine on the desk as well. A third of the liquid was left in the bottle and he'd left the cork out. In a tumbler next to the bottle there was an almost full tumbler of the stuff.

He'd expected to come back.

At the other end of the desk were two small stacks of books. The detective inspected them both. He said that one was a pile of library books, still with a week left to go, and that the second were books he'd bought second hand from a shop on the corner of the block. There was an empty address book as well. The detective looked very disappointed when he opened it expecting the answers he'd been sent to find.

In the center of the desk was a typewriter. A marvelous green typewriter. Well used the machine had faded keys. It was on this that Mr TK worked from. That typewriter now sits in a glass cabinet in the national museum. I believe that they display it as they found it. The machine had a clean and unused sheet of paper in it. There were no notes or written documents in the desk draws. That was his last sheet of paper. The only one we could find.

Maybe he'd gone to get more.

The detective thanked me and left me alone in the room. He'd told me to leave everything as it was for a month at least. He'd get in touch if the situation changed. Which it did. The newspaper editor that Mr TK had written for came to visit me a week later. He'd been named as the executor of Mr TK's estate and he took everything away in a van.

He was kind enough to settle Mr TK's outstanding rent though.

Written as part of Nanowrimo as a slight distraction from other matters. The photo (which prompted this) was supplied by Becky.

Eilean Buntata: An Update.

Good afternoon ladies, gentleman, squid things and aliens from beyond the visible stars. I am going to give you a update on my fiction ransom experiment since it's been going for about two weeks.

At the time of writing this post I have made a grand total of twenty-six quid. This is good. For a start it is more than I expected and on some level, deep down, feel that I deserve for simply writing what came into my head on a daily basis for a month as a side-effect of breathing. Although it's £26 that I would not have had otherwise. In that case I believe that this is definitely a time where shout outs are required.

So I'd like to very publicly thank: Becky, Tom, Steevo, Brittany, Elvis and Alex for their kind donations. You are fucking wonderful people.

I should also thank the good people on twitter who have reposted my begging and shaking of the collection plate posts to gain me wider exposure. Also to everyone who has blogged about this experiment. Thanks. You are also fucking wonderful people.

Because while I have not yet reached the first target of £60 I am as close to halfway as makes no difference and further than I expected. So I am going to release just over* the first half of the story to act as a further enticement. That will be at the bottom of the post past the further ramblings I am going to give.

The first observation I have and this is one that I suspected before the experiment, is about eyeballs and exposure. I fear that this will come off as a complaint and a moan about people who are let's face it more established than me. It is not meant to be. The ability to be able to ransom off a short story or fiction is about exploiting the idea of 1000 true fans. It's the phenomenon that Eliza Gauger and Amanda Palmer are both exploiting. Well that and the fact they've had respected people endorse them. I will touch on that subject again briefly later.

I don't know how many people I have reading what material I produce that I could consider "true fans."

It is not something that I really intend to think to hard about either. I don't even have a way of tracking how many people read my various blogs because I fear getting hung up on looking at the numbers and that's a distraction I don't want to have. But I either way suspect I don't have anything close to 1000 true fans as I am still growing a network of readers and people who enjoy my the thoughts that tumble out of my brain via my fingers.

Because it all comes down to eyeballs in the end.

An SF writer's biggest problem is obscurity, not piracy. Of all the people who chose not to spend their discretionary time and cash on our works today, the great bulk of them did so because they didn't know they existed, not because someone handed them a free e-book version.

- Cory Doctorow Science Fiction is the Only Literature People Care Enough About to Steal on the Internet.

Eyeballs don't you see? Obscurity is the problem and right now I am pretty obscure. There is not really anything else to say on the matter. I can say anything but in the end you need as many people as possible to look at what you're doing and you need to understand that only a small percentage of those people will take the step and donate or buy what you are selling. There are several ways to get people to look. A good way is to get recommendations from other people who already have peoples attention. I have not had that and I have not asked for that. I am stubborn and always have had problems asking for help.

The trick is to get people to look. It's the same as any other business model really.

Anyway, I guess you people want to spend less time reading me rambling about disembodied eyeballs and more time reading more Eilean Buntata for nothing. I will start again from the top but I shall stick a line of hyphens in where the new materials starts off.

Remember if you enjoy it and want to read more please donate using the donation button on the side. The current spread of donations have either been £3 or £5 and every little really does help.

If anything, consider that if you donate you will get to read the final half of the story a lot sooner.

Ah one last thing did I mention that Robin LeBlanc is selling prints very cheaply? No. Then look here and here and consider donating to her as well because she is really rather good at taking pictures.

Eilean Buntata

The Steamship Black Rose had already sank into the ocean by the time me and my employers, Matthew and Eliza Gauger, arrived at the shore of the barren beach. With us in the rowing boat were three travelling trunks and the ships cat. We beached the boat and Eliza started to give orders. "Well get to it. The sun is about to set and we need a fire as soon as possible."

"With all due respect cousin. I believe that our first priority should be get the boat further up the beach. Do you not think so Fred?" said Matthew.

This presented me with a hard choice. I could side with Mr Gauger and good sense whilst risking the scorn of Miss Gauger for a hours. The other option was to follow Miss Gauger's plan and make a compromise.

"I think Miss Gauger that me and Matthew should take the boat and its contents up the beach. While you look for some firewood."

Miss Gauger glared at me. "If that is what you honestly think. Will one of you help me onto the shore?"

I stepped out of the beached boat and into the surf. Mr Gauger did the same a moment later. The boat rocked as the weight redistributed. "Be careful cousin," said Mr Gauger, as Eliza stood up. She extended her gloved hands towards the two of us and we helped her to the shore.

We were sitting around the camp fire behind the first dune in a break from the wind. Mr Gauger had recently returned from the beach with freshly caught fish. I was busy preparing our desert island feast when Mr Gauger made one of his unusual comments. "Eliza, what do you think was within that create we were escorting to San Francisco?"

Miss Gauger looked into the fire and smiled. "Why do you want to know?"

"Well it's strange the sea around where I suppose the SS Black Rose must now rest on the seabed appears to be glowing."

Miss Gauger got to her feet and declared, "you must show me."

"By all means. Fred, are you coming?" said Mr Gauger.

I followed Mr and Mrs Gauger over the top of the dune. The effect that Matthew had described was quite clear to see. On the horizon a patch of tangerine light glowed from underneath the waves.

"I do not think it is anything we need to worry about," said Miss Gauger.

"The ocean is glowing orange," said Mr Gauger.

"No need to worry," said Miss Gauger with confidence. "Shall we go back to the fire?"

"Yes," said Mr Gauger. "I'm sure Fred will prepare us some culinary delight for us with whatever scraps he can find."

Within my trunk I had kept a supply of basic culinary supplies. A bottle of white wine vinegar held prize place in this cache. I used this to flavour the fish that Mr Gauger had caught. Eventually we all retired to our improvised shelters. Me and Mr Gauger had constructed a rudimentary structure from the boat for Miss Eliza's use. Mr Gauger slept under a bivouac made from sticks and blankets. I slept by the fire under a woolen blanket.

It was early the following day that we had our initial meeting with the locals. A group of four fishermen dressed in a European style from my grandfather's generation had come down to the beach to cast their nets. We heard them speak in a language I had heard once in my travels to the north as they passed us.

"What language are they speaking? It sounds to me as if we are in the presence of elves from the old stories." said Miss Gauger.

"I don't rightly know Eliza," said Mr Gauger. "It sounds like a most queer language. Quite musical. We should introduce ourselves."

Mr Gauger strode across the beach, his long black coat blowing in the morning breeze, shouting at the locals, "hello, do you understand me?" They gave him some attention as he marched in the sand, but continued repairing their nets. Miss Gauger rolled her eyes and followed after her cousin.

"Why does he always insist on being loud and speaking English to the locals?" she said to me as I escorted her across the beach.

"Miss Gauger, your cousin, he once confided in me that it was his strict and sincere belief that English is a universal language, and can be communicated to an African tribesmen just as efficiently as it can be to an Englishmen with patience and clear pronunciation," I told her.

"Then why is he speaking so slowly? Can't you communicate with them Fredrick? You know a thing or two about languages."

"I will do my best," I said.

I approached the group who were still ignoring Mr Gauger despite his best attempts to attract their attention.

"Make them talk to me Fred," he said. "They are being very rude."

"Hello, do you have a moment to talk?" I said, to the locals in rudimentary Scots Gaelic.

"Hello," said the oldest looking man who was repairing a net. "We might have a moment for you. Who are you and how did you get here?"

"Well, me and my two companions. That man there and the women in the ruined dress were shipwrecked on your island last night. Do you happen to know if there is a way off?"
The old man stopped working on the net and looked at me directly in the eyes. "I'm sorry young man there isn't. I came to this island as a young boy, a victim of a shipwreck myself. You are the first newcomers in all that time."

This was, as you no doubt understand, something of a shock to me. The island although I had explored no further than the dunes was not without its charm. However an island this remote would bring on the disease of depression and boredom that has afflicted me and my family for generation within a small amount of time. I relayed what the old man had told me to Mr and Miss Gauger. Their response was as expected similar to mine.

"Well are their anymore of them? Any other survivors from their wreck?" asked Miss Gauger.

I could only ask the old man.

"Yes, there is a small town of us now. You are welcome to join us. It would please Eilean to have new comers," he said. "I will escort you to the town shortly. Just as soon as I have finished attending to this net."

The town was a short walk inland and was hidden behind a series of hills covered in scrub. It covered both sides of a shallow estuary spanned by numerous bridges. The materials used in the we grey stone, no doubt extracted from a quarry further inland. The roofs have been made from turf placed at low angles. The largest building in the town was a circular structure made the same way. Smoke from fires inside the building rose from under the roof. I could smell cooking constantly as we were lead through the market surrounding this building.

At the doors of the central building a guardsman stood in a uniform of earthy hues.

"Who are these people?" he asked.

"Newcomers. They were shipwrecked last night. No doubt on the same reef that your father was wrecked on," said the old man.

"Are you taking them to see the mayor?"

"Yes, where else would I be taking them?"

"He's busy," said the guard.

"Oh, well I think he'll make time son," said the old man, raising his voice.

The two men argued. The Gauger cousins were standing still trying not to look anyone in the eye.

"I didn't know you spoke the language," said Mr Gauger.

"What language is it?" asked Miss Gauger.

"Scots Gaelic. I learned it as a child from my father," I said.

"How very useful. I wonder why they speak it all the way down here in the south Atlantic," said Mr Gauger.

I explained what I'd found out to both of them while the two men were continuing to shout at each other.

The guard relented soon enough and let us in. The building had only one room. In the middle of it a statue of a potato. The mayor was standing behind a desk that had been put at one side of the room. We were lead towards him and he stretch out his right hand to greet us.

"Welcome to Eileán Bunta`ta. You have met Seoras. He's in charge of the fishing we do here. I am Graham. The mayor this town. What are your names?"

"My name is Fredrick Evans. Personal aid, and accidental translator to one Mr Matthew Gauger and one Miss Eliza Gauger," I said as I shook his hand. "Pleased to meet you sir," said Miss Gauger, in English.

"I see they do not speak Gaelic. They will have to learn I'm afraid. May I ask how you know the language?" said Graham.

"My father. He brought me up to speak English and Gaelic. He was a proud Scottish nationalist," I said.

Mr Gauger leaned over to me and whispered into my ear, "do you think you could find out about the potato?"

I paused as I wondered if it would cause offence to ask around the statue which I found rather curious so soon.

"Your friend Mr Gauger. He wants to know about the potato in the centre of the room. Well we have a lot to tell you about potatoes. While you have a lot of time to learn," said Graham.

Over the next four months we spent our time integrating with the peoples of the island. I stopped using the titles of my employers when declared they would not be paying me for the duration of our stay on Eilean Buntata. Deference costs money. I taught Matthew and Eliza the basics of Gaelic over the weeks until they were able to converse with the locals. I spent as much of my time helping Matthew, an engineer at heart, devise a more efficient system of irrigation for the islands many potato fields.

Neither of us were sure exactly what Eliza did in those four months. In the morning before I left for the beach to help the fishermen she often left the modest house we shared prior to my rising. She would take a revolver from her trunk, and at noon we would hear a single gunshot from within the island's interior. At sunset she would return from her walk saying nothing. Matthew refused to ask.

Of the potatoes, we only really started to learn about when my two associates had learned the basics of the language. In working in the fields we learned quickly that the major arable crop on this island was the potato. The fields muddy soil and the temperatures both providing the ideal conditions for them to grow free of defect. The importance of the potato to the mental condition of the survivors of that first wreck had emerged in a form of naturalistic worship around the crop.

We learned that the major events of worship occurred at the four equinoxes. Following in the patterns from in degenerate and primal faiths. On the first day of each week the town met in the meeting hall in the center of the town. Hymns were sung about the potato and the good it brought to the island. Me, Eliza, and Matthew took part as earnestly as possible, although always we were always trying to hold back laughter. The mayor of the town led this service and other religious events in the manner of a Anglican vicar.

The populations daily spiritual life was no less rich. Before each meal, which always involved potato, a prayer was said thanking the potatoes about to be consumed personally. Those that tended to the fields would sing work songs to encourage the potatoes to grow bigger.

The life of fishermen and tradesmen was no less linked to the potato. They would trade their services and goods for potatoes grown by farmers. Although to ensure that no one suffer when sick or old each citizen of the island donated a portion of their earnings towards a communal store of food. This would be shared according to need. Because of the temporary nature of this store at the end of each week the oldest goods in the store would be shared out to the people of Eilean Buntata in a lottery of all the households.

Matthew summed up their way as life with characteristic glibness as concerned only with the potato, the chip and the holy crisp. His assessment was not entirely inaccurate, as our presence on the island, and some of the ingredients we brought with us did start a minor sectarian division among some of the inhabitants.

* If I'm going to leak this out I am going to try and leak it out in chunk that make some sense.

I am broke!

I am broke! To give you a wee taster of how broke let me just say that looking at my bank balance is an exercise in gazing into the jaws of infinity and losing sanity points.

So I am asking for you help*. Obviously I am going to give you something in return. I've got a 3975 word story which I have been sitting on since April. So if you send me as much money as you feel like donating** I will send you the story in whatever format you require that I can produce using OpenOffice.

Simple, eh?

And the first of two bonuses to sweeten the deal is that once I reach a certain value then I will release the story to the public. Let's say that considering that the commercial value of the story at pro-rates of five cents a word*** is $198.75 or £121 or €132. I feel a bit uncomfortable asking for such a large amount so I will release the whole thing for free to everyone (licensed under creative commons non-commercial attribution and remix) if I get a minimum of $100 (£60 or €66).

The second bonus is that if I get the full value of the story, apart from being over the fucking moon, I will do a short podcast and Q&A session about this story.

Oh and for the person that donates the most money there's a small prize. As I'm currently writing a thematic sequel to Eilean Buntata the person who donates the most will appear in the sequel. Or they can nominate a name and basic character trait for a character. Whichever works best.

Because buying stuff blind sucks have a gander at the first 400 words.

Eilean Buntata

The Steamship Black Rose had already sank into the ocean by the time me and my employers, Matthew and Eliza Gauger, arrived at the shore of the barren beach. With us in the rowing boat were three traveling trunks and the ships cat. We beached the boat and Eliza started to give orders. "Well get to it. The sun is about to set and we need a fire as soon as possible."

"With all due respect cousin. I believe that our first priority should be get the boat further up the beach. Do you not think so Fred?" said Matthew.

This presented me with a hard choice. I could side with Mr Gauger and good sense whilst risking the scorn of Miss Gauger for a hours. The other option was to follow Miss Gauger's plan and make a compromise.

"I think Miss Gauger that me and Matthew should take the boat and its contents up the beach. While you look for some firewood."

Miss Gauger glared at me. "If that is what you honestly think. Will one of you help me onto the shore?"

I stepped out of the beached boat and into the surf. Mr Gauger did the same a moment later. The boat rocked as the weight redistributed. "Be careful cousin," said Mr Gauger, as Eliza stood up. She extended her gloved hands towards the two of us and we helped her to the shore.

We were sitting around the camp fire behind the first dune in a break from the wind. Mr Gauger had recently returned from the beach with freshly caught fish. I was busy preparing our desert island feast when Mr Gauger made one of his unusual comments. "Eliza, what do you think was within that create we were escorting to San Fransisco?"

Miss Gauger looked into the fire and smiled. "Why do you want to know?"

"Well it's strange the sea around where I suppose the SS Black Rose must now rest on the seabed appears to be glowing."

Miss Gauger got to her feet and declared, "you must show me."

"By all means. Fred, are you coming?" said Mr Gauger.

I followed Mr and Mrs Gauger over the top of the dune. The effect that Matthew had described was quite clear to see. On the horizon a patch of tangerine light glowed from underneath the waves.

"I do not think it is anything we need to worry about," said Miss Gauger.

"The ocean is glowing orange," said Mr Gauger.

"No need to worry," said Miss Gauger with confidence. "Shall we go back to the fire?"

Does that sound cool? Do you want to read more?

Then click on the PayPal button at the side and donate away. Remember any amount gets you the story in a collection of readable formats and that if I reach $100 then I'll release the story for free for everyone to read. If I get $199 then I will do a podcast and a Q&A session (so do send those questions via comment or email). Don't forget to make clear what email address you want the story sent to. Of course send those questions. I will send a zip file containing the rich text version, the plain text version, a word version and a pdf version of the story as soon as possible.

Oh wait why am I doing this? Aside from the fact that I need the dough. Well there have been a few people on the Internet (Cory Doctorow, Hal Duncan, Eliza Gauger, Amanda Palmer and Trent Reznor) working this model. And if I've entertained you with that extract then I reckon it would be a fair trade to have a small amount of your moneys.


* And I really hate having to do this. I'd like to give the story away for nothing.
** If you want a minimum let's say 3 quid ($5) because that's the price of a bottle of my favorite beer at "The Pub".
*** That number is slightly debatable as well according to evidence here. But enough quibbling; I'm happy with five cents a word.

Last Tuesday's Horoscope

Dear Emily Star,

I have always been an avid follower of your horoscope column since you moved to The Daily Prospect from The New Independence Times. I have been fascinated by how accurate your predictions have been for me, as a Gemini, but particularly I would like to write to tell you about last Tuesday's prediction.

You wrote the follow: "Today is a day to make an important choice. There will be obvious obstacles be that financial or interpersonal, but it is important that today you make your decision free of those obstacles and only consider if the choice you must make will make your life better."

Last Tuesday I left my husband of ten years and took our children away from his destructive and dangerous habits. Thank you Emily, your words finally gave me the confidence to break free of his influence and flee to safety.

I do not know how to thank you enough and still I have one question. How do you produce these horoscopes? Do you use tarot, runes, or some other method?

Yours,

Melissa Banks.

Dear Melissa Banks,

I truly do not know how to start with this response to your letter. I often get letters sent to me and they normally fall into three categories. Letters telling me how great my horoscopes are, letters letting me know that my horoscopes are wrong and pseudo-science at best and at worst blasphemous witchcraft, and then there are the letters asking me how I produce my horoscopes.

I never answered any of these letters and this if the first response that I have written to a reader. In general the people who send me the most praise send it over the most trivial matters and report back to me coincidence. You were moved to thank me for making a genuinely life changing decision. I have a secret to tell you and I hope that you can keep this in strict confidence.

You had it within you to leave him all the time; I just gave you the tiny prod that allowed you to take action. The critics of my horoscopes are right they are a fraud and are not guided by any astrological process at all. It is important you realise this as I believe that you are a stronger individual than you think yourself. If you still wish to know how I produce my daily horoscopes then read on further. If you do not then all I can offer you is an apology for breaking an illusion that you held so dearly.

My horoscopes are written according to a formula I developed a long time ago. This allows me to produce twelve short pieces of text daily with ease. I edit these into the form you read daily in the newspaper. They hold no real meaning and are nothing more than randomly produced words. That my is secret. My justification is that they can bring a small amount of hope and provide a seed of insight that can grow into something larger.

I hope that you are still safe and well.

Yours,

Emily Star.

No comment.

Untitled Superhero Story

There is pecking order when you are a professional hero. Just like sports really. The young and the good join the A-Teams, and the rest join their local team and try to suppress all hope of international fame and fortune.

Then there are the old timers. The ones like me who were the best in the world and refuse to stop trying to save the world until reality catches up with them and they are flying over an anonymous conurbation protecting the residents from bored teenagers and desperate criminals. And the only people you are saving are the folk who have traded in their heritage and souls to buy a big TV and a traditionally styled five bedroom house that a kid could punch holes through the walls.

Traditional my arse.

Twenty years ago I was coming to grips with my otherness just as Thatcher and friends demonized us. All this while she was attempting to sell the atmosphere to her analogue from the Earth next door because it was a new market and the nation's resources should be fully exploited just like she'd revolutionised the nation's coal assets.

Ten years ago I was a coverhero. Top of the game and running strike missions into Thatcher 666's Empire of Many Earths. I even managed to liberate a few. That helped to sooth my soul when I took part in Dr Tomorrow's operation to glass the Earth next door.

Five years ago and the new government was making a good stab at fixing all the problems heroes can't fix on their own. Social problems and society. Poverty, utilities, global warming and a shit education system are not within our sphere of influence. I was still in one of the A-Teams back then. Although I was no longer in London I was still doing my part.

Two years ago I caused too much damage on a standard meteorite grab. I'd gotten slower than I was in my prime and failed to send all the fragments back into space. Part of the Lake District is still on fire. The damage was limited by Mistress Mystery using one of her ten wishes. I have never felt more embarrassed or ashamed than when I had to watch her cut of one her pretty little fingers off so selflessly to fix one of my mistakes.

So now I am here: middle-aged, going broke, and losing all hope as I fly around stopping hoodies for just above minimum wage. I should really just chuck it all in and train to become a social worker.

This is based on another pitch by Maicro because that's apparently what he does. "*SUPERHERO* moves to crime-free suburbia."

This is also riffing on The Filth by Grant Morrison and probably other, let's face it, British superhero comics I've read.

Suggestions for titles include Ferburton's "The tights don't fit" and atavistian's "The Young and the Good."

The Fifth Order

The mayor went pale when I told him what Robocop had done the night before. The very idea offended him; it offended me but it was not the worst crime commited by Omni Consumer Products that I had investigated. I will never forget what they did with the orphanage they bought from the city. This was just an example of their excesses and strange powertrips.

"Could you explain what happened? Slowly," the mayor said. He poured a glass of water for himself and loosened his tie.

I explained again. "Robocop had an extra order and he followed it. This extra order is 'Suck Omni Consumer Products executive's dick when ordered to.' The executive, one Adrian Anderson, gave the order last night unwittingly and is now recovering in hospital. Do you want to see the footage we recovered from Robocop?"

I think that's when I saw the mayor throw up inside his mouth. "Not really. But if this goes to trail it will become public anyway. Just pause it before anything too bad happens," he said.

I put the tape in the machine on the mayor's desk and pressed play. The footage was taken directly from Robocop's vision and hearing. Exactly what Robocop experienced. It was one of the large grey corner offices that Omni Consumer Products had a five floors filled with in their skyscraper down in the finance district of the city. Robocop was standing still while looking at Mr Anderson who was shouting at Robocop over the kneecapping of a major shareholder's estranged son who was caught attempting to hold up a grocery store for drug money. Robocop gave the excuses that he was programed to give. "Serve the public trust. Protect the innocent. Uphold the law."

Mr Anderson was fuming and to my eyes he looked like he was fearful of losing his job. Red faced he shouted at Robocop, "Suck my fucking dick Robocop. I'm fed up of your excuses; just suck my dick," and that's when Robocop moved towards Mr Anderson. Arms outstretched Robocop got down on his knees and ripped Mr Anderson's tailored trousers from his legs.

"Affermative," Robocop said, in a monotone. His left hand reached towards Mr Anderson's crotch and gripped hard at his flaccid penis. Mr Anderson screamed in pain as Robocop leaned in closer to the scared executive.

"Please stop," Mr Anderson, the second before I stopped the tape for the sake of the mayor. It only got worse from there. Ten minutes of Robocop chewing on Mr Anderson's dick with his hydraulic jaw. I was not going to explain that to the mayor who looked faint. I walked over to the window and opened it for him. Just a touch of fresh air to stop him from falling over.

"That's the most horrible thing I have ever seen," he said.

"Isn't it just?" I said, humouring him.

"What is your police department going to do about it?" the mayor asked me.

"Pretty much nothing. We can't prosecute Robocop because apart from him not being legally human he was technically the victim since he was forced to perform the act. We should be charging Mr Anderson for the rape of Robocop. We could also prosecute Mr Anderson for necrophilia since Robocop is not alive. But that might be pushing it. In the end though how would such a prosecution serve the public interest? Mr Anderson has been horribly injured by his actions and prosecuting this case further would just cost money that my department quite frankly does not have," I explain.

"I see," the mayor said.

"As long as the case does not leak to the media then I propose that we do nothing except put Mr Anderson on the sex offenders register," I said.

The mayor nodded. He stood up from behind his desk and hurried towards the door that lead to his en suite toilet. "If you can make all the necessary arrangements and keep it quiet just do that then. Now if you don't mind me I have to go to the bathroom."

"I will do so sir. Thank you," I said.

"I just don't know how you boys cope," he said closing the bathroom door.

I left his office to the sound of the mayor dry heaving into his toilet. I agreed with him on the last comment he made. I really don't know how we cope on a daily basis. Maybe we become desensitised to it.

I blame @Vklaus for this entirely. The prompt he gave me a few months back was something along the lines of: "Robotcop gives corprate blowjobs."

I've only just worked up the courage to write what I had in mind.

I'm so sorry.

I think this is technically fan fiction as well.

I feel dirty.