daniel curser – chapter one

“Hell is grey and has no bottom –
Which reminds me of a joke I heard . . .”
- D. J. Enright, A Faust Book, 1979

In all the realms of possibility, there’s nothing quite so improbable as Daniel Curser.
Not that he was particularly different just to look at. More that he was, situationally speaking, somewhat unlikely to be the central character of any narrative whatsoever.
He was abnormally common in appearance, and highly unsuccessful at his chosen occupation. Indeed, if he could immediately sum his greatest achievement it would no doubt be that he never actually managed to succeed at anything in his life.
It’s unbelievable, I know.
I mean, the whole concept of a man unable to succeed in anything is simply ridiculous. You would argue he must have won something. But not Curser. No. Not even a Kindergarten Art Award for Hand Painting.
I think you might say that it was this singular quality that led to him being noticed in the first place.
Unfortunate for some.
But, I think, not for Daniel Curser.

There he is now.
See?
Running at a frenetic pace, already quite out of breath and he hasn’t even managed to make it halfway up the block yet.
Behind him, two rather mysterious, and if I might add, totally and believably homicidal individuals, scowling and seemingly comfortable with their own advancing pace. I do believe one of them is beginning to grin, such is the ease of their chase.
Poor Mister Curser, clutching desperately to his suitcase which he refuses to let go despite its obvious weight.
I think if they dropped him off a pier right now, he would still cling for dear life to it even though it drags him to the crab-infested depths. No need to chain him to it, I think. Oh no, he’d go willingly rather than abandon his precious cargo.
Do you see, then, why some have taken an interest in him, despite his neverending ability to shock and delight those around him with his truly wonderful example of just how cruel bad luck can be?
Oh dear.
The first goon (I hope he doesn’t take offence on reading this, but I really do think he looks a bit goonish), grabs the back of Mister Curser’s coat and pulls him to the pavement.
Mister Curser whips out a pistol.
Amazing!
Who would have thought he had the courage to even buy one, let alone pull it out from his jacket? There’s no time for us to wonder if he actually loaded it, because the second goon (also very goonish in appearance, but a bit more delicate of frame), simply snatches it from Mister Curser’s hand.
If I were feeling very criticial, I might have recommended Mister Curser had watched a few more action movies in his life. He would have known then that if you carried a gun, it is best to pull it out before you are snatched by two fearsome goons, and not at the point where it becomes a meaningless gesture.
“Up you get, Daniel,” one of the goons says, in a not very unkindly voice. It seems they, too, are well aware of the poor man’s indecent run of bad luck and are trying very hard not to hold it against him.
That’s a bit out of character, I think, so I shall endeavor to not call them goons in the future.
How about, Men of Honour with Street Smarts?
No?
A bit much, I agree.
We’ll just call them members of the criminal element. Or something.
Oh, wait, Daniel’s doing a bit of a dance.
No, that’s struggling.
And he still won’t let go of that suitcase.
“Come on, mate,” the second gentleman (oh, the poetry!) says, trying to tug it free of the white-knuckled grip of a man truly obsessed with that battered old bag. “Let it go or I’ll have to chop off your fingers.”
Curser whimpers in the clutches of that first overlarge mammoth of a man, and attempts to disengage his little finger before giving up and taking hold of the handle with an altogether superhuman and decidedly pointless show of the power of strength during times of high stress and fear.
He then attempts to swing the bag in such a way as to knock the second gentleman in the side of the head, rendering him unconscious.
He would, then, swing it back in a deliciously cunning underarm maneuvre guaranteed to hit just the right and painful point of a man’s anatomy to drive his other captor to his knees, retrieve his pistol from the pavement where the second gentleman would no doubt let it fall, and then make good on his escape.
Or, he would have if these two members of the criminal element weren’t the seasoned veterans they were.
Easily sliding past the swinging bag, the second gentleman sighed and lashed out with his fist in a manner which was both regretful yet forceful – oh, how I do admire the ease with which he executed this move – and thus brought Daniel to his knees.
But, and I challenge you to believe it or not in the same manner that that very creepy old man Jack Palance once told us to do, he still did not let go of his suitcase!
The large mammoth of a man stooped over the sprawled figure of our good friend Mister Curser, and proceeded to give it a tug.
And, again I challenge you to believe, Mister Curser’s fingers steadfastly refused to let go of the battered handle, even though it creaked in protest as though its very hinges cried desperately for mercy.
“It’s no good,” the second gentleman said. “We’ll have to cut off his fingers.”
“Can’t do it here, Ray,” the first Professional (ah! I think I have it now!), said. “Let’s take him to the warehouse. Do it there.”
“There’s nothing in the manual that says we can’t do it here, Staples.”
“I know. But I’d rather not put notches in my knife. It’s my favourite. Let’s take him to the warehouse. We’ve got a good set of bolt-cutters there.”
“Can’t argue your logic, old friend. As usual, it’s perfect.”
“Ta, mate.”
And with that, they lifted up the unconscious form of Daniel Curser and shoved him unceremoniously, but politely, into the boot of their car which was, by some strange coincidence, right next to where they had caught their startled prey.
Like I said, Daniel was extremely unlucky in more ways than one.

We follow them, then, to a warehouse not too far inside the industrial area of Osborne Park which is, though hardly important, located in the wonderfully uninteresting city of Perth.
That’s in Australia. In the western part of it, I believe.
I am told the beaches are quite nice there, although I personally find the excitement of swimming with flesh-eating fish with stomachs three sizes larger than myself to be somewhat disturbing so I’ll leave that to others with more adventuresome spirits.
Staples and Ray, as we now know their names to be, have tied Mister Curser to a simple uncushioned chair and have positioned him in the centre of the warehouse. His two feet are tied, each to a leg. both his hands are tied together against the suitace and his chest. Around this, like some threadbare coccoon, more rope keeps him very tight against the chair. Houdini himself would be hard pressed to escape this one in under an hour.
To be fair, they did search high and low for a cushion for Mister Curser to sit on, so his discomfort when he wakes will be entirely reasonable, but we should spare a thought for his captors who, despite the situation, were doing everything they could to make his time with them more pleasant than it appeared they were. They’d even gone so far as to position him in the very centre of the room because that’s where the air conditioner’s only working duct puffed out the coolest air, thus making it the most comfortable position in the overheated warehouse.
Unfortunately, the sun also shone through a hole in the roof and illuminated Mister Curser’s face in what would prove to be a rather irritating manner for him.
See how even the most kindly gestures from strangers often becomes a source of pain for our troubled young friend?
And, speaking of pain, here comes that mammoth of a Professional, Staples.
He’s carrying a pair of bolt-cutters, a blowtorch, a roll of gaffa tape, and what looks to be the latest copy of FHM.
He’s also chewing on an unlit match in a way only Clint Eastwood fans might appreciate.
Ray, on the other hand, is standing to one side, leaning against a pillar. He is reading from a book, which he calls a manual and supposedly informs him of the many rules and regulations as relating to his current profession as a Professional.
He looks up to see Staples carrying his small bundle, notes the almost childlike eagerness in his partner’s eyes, and makes a tutting sound.
Staples returns the look. “What?”
“The blowtorch, Staples. It’s not in the rules.”
“Neither’s FHM.”
“Yes, but that’s different. You’re putting that to a positive use. The blowtorch, on the other hand, you no doubt intend to use in a manner which might be described as rather painful to the subject.”
“Of course! That’s what blowtorches are for.”
“Unfortunately, a blowtorch is, as defined in the rules, a tool for opening metallic objects, for binding metallic objects, and mutilating the cars of other Professionals during Seasonal Events. Basically, Staples, the boltcutters should be good enough for the job. No need for the blowtorch.”
Staples sighs, and lets the blowtorch fall to the floor. “Sometimes those rules are a pain in the ass, Ray. I never get to use the blowtorch.”
It could be argued at this point, that Mister Curser’s unconsciousness was in itself a piece of good luck for him.
I mean, he didn’t have to listen to the obvious disappointment in Staples’ voice when he dropped the blowtorch. He wouldn’t, then, be aware that this might cause a little friction in Staples’ attitude toward the subject – the subject being, namely, Mister Curser.
He wouldn’t know, then, that Staples might decide to maybe not cut so cleanly through his fingers. Might dawdle, as they say, over a knuckle.
Of course, that would be most inappropriate a thing to think at this stage, I believe. These two gentleman are seasoned individuals, and highly unlikely to hold grudges against someone who didn’t deserve it.
In any case, I’m sure I just heard Daniel Curser groan a little.
Let’s see what he has to say.

“Where am I?”
“In a warehouse, Mister Curser,” Ray told him, in a tone which was firm, yet polite. “And if you’d kindly let go of the suitcase, we’ll forego cutting off your fingers.”
“The pleasure, Ray,” Staples said.
“Sorry, Staples?”
“The pleasure. We’ll forego the pleasure of cutting off your fingers.”
“Thankyou, Staples. I’m sorry for the interruption, Mister Curser. Now, will you let go of the case, or will we have the pleasure of cutting off your fingers?”
Staples lifted the bolt cutters, and showed them very clearly to our frightened friend. “Do say no, Mister Curser. I’ve always wanted to use bolt-cutters on someone’s knuckles.”
Daniel Curser made a meaningless squeak and pulled the suitcase closer to his chest, if it was at all possible given the amount of rope keeping him all snug already.
Ray sighed. “Come on, Daniel. There’s no point us cutting off your fingers. It’s a waste of time, effort, and pain on your behalf. Just let it go. You’re not getting out of this one.”
“It’s mine!” the little man cried, suddenly finding his voice for the first time today.
You know, once, I saw a cat playing with a mouseling. The mouseling (if there is such a term for a small youthful mouse), reared up on its hind legs at one stage and gave the cat a good scratching, all the while screeching at the top of its little voice. An amazing performance, I think, and one which has to be admired.
The cat, of course, was duly impressed, but ate the little mouse anyway.
Afterall, you can’t escape some situations.
At this point, as we watch the clearly frightened little man bound to a chair face up to his captors, refusing to let go of a suitcase he believed was rightfully his, we can wonder if, perhaps, that mouse was reincarnated into the body of a man.
But no, that would be absurd.
There’s no way the Buddhists got it right.
Staples, keeping a good grip on the bolt-cutters, thought so, too.
He stepped up to the shaking man, and cast a quick look to his partner.
Who shrugged.
Grinning, Staples leaned down and positioned the bolt-cutters in a threatening manner around Mister Curser’s middle finger.
“Won’t you reconsider, Mister Curser?” Ray asked.
We should congratulate Ray for being thorough in his undertaking. He was not a violent man by nature, which was why he much preferred to leave such things to his gleeful partner. Ray much preferred common logic, and this display by Mister Curser defied all logic.
It was, in his view, completely futile, and well he might think so.
Curser, the tears streaming down his narrow little face, looked up at his captors and sniffed a little before puffing out his cheeks and saying, in a clear and courageous manner, “It’s mine.”
Staples’ grip on the bolt-cutters grew awfully tight indeed.
“Last chance, Daniel.”
Daniel shook his head ever so slightly, and the blood completely drained from his face. It was as if in expectation of the awful amount of blood which would soon be jetting out all over the warehouse floor, that the it all got together in a middling pool somewhere in his chest and began drawing lots to see which drops would be gushing out first.
Staples looked over at his partner. “Might want to step back, Ray. I know you love that new shirt of yours.”
“Thanks, Staples. Forgot for a moment.”
“Any time, Ray.”
Ray took a few more steps back, and to the side.
Stapled nodded, looked down at Mister Curser’s finger stuck between the bolt-cutter’s efficient beak, and said, “Clear!”
The awful sound we hear is that of the bolt-cutters cutting relentlessly into Mister Curser’s finger. Through skin and bone, and it’s a truly horrible sound indeed, but not quite as horrible as the sound Mister Curser makes.
Halfway between a gasp and a gurgle.
But, and here I challenge you in that same manner as Jack Palance once more, he did not scream!
Mister Curser, life’s singular failure, didn’t scream even a little!
Truly horrifying indeed.
Even Staples, a seasoned veteran of certain acts of viciousness, was somewhat taken aback.
“Did you do it, Staples?” Ray asked.
Staples looked reached down and plucked the severed finger from where it lay in the lap of Mister Curser, who followed the finger with eyes so wide they almost burst. He showed the bloody finger to his partner and frowned. “Right off, Ray. The little bugger didn’t even squeal.”
Ray shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“Bloody disappointing, Ray.”
“Ask him if he’ll let go of the case now.”
Staples leaned down into the pale face of Mister Curser and, in a respectful tone, asked, “Want to let it go now, Daniel?”
Daniel, of course, just shook his head, closed his eyes, choked back the tears, and said, “You’ll have to cut them all, Mister Staples. It’s mine, and I’m not giving it to Fat Charlie. Not until I’m dead.”
Ray stepped forward, and put a gentle hand on our friend’s shoulder. “Doesn’t have to be that way, Daniel. Just hand over the case. I’m sure Fat Charlie’ll see a finger as payment for what you did.”
But Mister Curser, in a truly inspirational act of pointless defiance, gritted his teeth and growled, “Get on with it.”
And Staples, looking a bit disturbed by the willingness of a subject to submit to a traditional finger-cutting, got on with it.

I won’t continue with the absurdity of Mister Curser’s sudden discovery of some hidden well of courage. It was, if I might say, a completely futile well, which could probably have been channeled into an altogether different channel. Such as the Arts. He might well have been successful had he discovered this well of determination at a more appropriate point in his life.
Instead, he chose to discover it in a warehouse in Osborne Park on a humid summer day, tied to a chair while having his fingers bitten off by an emotionless pair of cutters.
We will, return to Mister Curser at the point where Staples is wiping the blood from his hands and changing his shirt. The bolt-cutters lie discarded at Daniel’s feet.
The suitcase is in Ray’s hand now, and is unopened. He pushes the button on his mobile phone, hanging up on the line. He looks decidedly unhappy.
Whatever secrets lie within will no doubt be returned to the one Daniel called Fat Charlie.
“Now what, Ray?”
Ray looked up. “Fat Charlie says to bounce a bullet around inside his head.”
Staples looked down at the moaning figure who seems completely harmless. “Doesn’t seem right. Had to cut all five, Ray. All five. Would’ve been ten, but the little bugger couldn’t reach to grab the handle with his other hand.”
“We’ve got to follow orders, Staples.”
“Still doesn’t seem right.”
You might be thinking now that there’s some hope for Mister Curser. That, perhaps the collective consciences of these two remarkable men might somehow form a bold alliance, and in an act of rebellion might suddenly release Mister Curser from his ropes, where he would, no doubt enact some form of cunning revenge.
That would be the case if this were a Hollywood movie.
Alas, this is real life, and Staples and Ray were Professionals.
“I agree, Staples. What do you want to do about it?”
“I say we do what the manual says we do about Bosses who haven’t got any sense of honour.”
“I agree. But, in the meantime…”
Staples stepped up to the broken body of Mister Curser. “I’m really sorry about this, mate,” the large mammoth of a man said, and I really believe he meant it, too. He put a gun to the back of Daniel’s little head which, if you look at it now, seems so very fragile. Like the shell of a spring roll, or a samosa. Filled with glorious stuff which, when spilled, can’t really be put back into the roll or samose with any degree of success.
Daniel probably never understood what was happening.
His hand had grown numb, I’m sure, some time before, and he was absorbed in some private world of pain.
This, too, could probably be seen as a piece of good luck on his part, because at the point where he knew what was happening was at the point the gun behind his head made a strange clicking noise some few nanoseconds before Daniel’s whole world exploded.

Staples and Ray stood over the body for a few seconds. Not for any kind of satisfaction in the sight of such death, I assure you. They were not so morbid as that.
Staples’ own appreciation for his job came more from the joy he felt upon applying the basic principal of the careful application of the right tool for the right job. I do believe he saw himself more as a tradesman, and not as a bringer of pain, misery, and death.
No doubt, there’ll be a highly interesting moral argument he will present to Saint Peter when the time comes.
“Poor bugger,” Staples said.
“Yeah,” Ray said.
“I hate when Bosses think they can get away with stuff.”
“What stuff, Staples?”
The big Professional shrugged. “Oh, just any stuff.”
“Yeah.”
“Hate it.”

Daniel’s body lay there, oozing on the cement.
I do hate to be so graphic about it all, and I hope you’ll forgive me, but it really is necessary, I assure you.
You must understand that, at this point, Daniel Curser is, and always will be, quite dead indeed.
But, of course, you can never keep a good man down.
Not even one as stupifyingly inept as Mister Daniel Curser.

Tags: daniel curser