Guest Post: Speed Ramblings

Today’s Guest Post is from our Creative Consultant: Timothy Quinn

A snippet of Speed’s Ramblings.

It wasn’t like that.

Wait!

What was it like then?

It was…

What?

What was it?

Fascinating.

Yeah, that’s it.

Makes me sound like a lunatic for saying so out loud, but I was fascinated. And curious? Yeah, curious is a good way to put it.

And not in a morbid way. It was all research and assessment at first. Then the harder stuff kicked in.

I like Langdon, but Sweet Jesus, he can be a pain in the backside when you’re trying to concentrate. Still, I didn’t slap him, smack him, knock him on his backside, or otherwise do him any kind of physical harm, despite wanting to on more than one occasion.

And no, we’re not talking about Papa making fun of me for saying I’d eat Langdon’s book…

Still, there it is.

I’ve been wrong about stuff before, but That Night?

That Night was a whole different level of stress.

Okay, so stress is a good word then.

But there was no time to be afraid.

It was just…

Oh, come on man, you know you have more words than Tony, you can figure out what that all was, surely?

Right?

It was just, what you had to do.

Yeah.

Really?

Yeah, really. It was. I was there. We were there. It was just what had to be done.

And that’s the best I got.

Rossi’s looking at me like I’m two years old.

What?

It’s the truth!

You don’t want to be believe such things can be done, but they were.

Fascinating?

The bomb! What did you think I meant?

And Patrick.

It’s an Irish thing. Don’t worry about it. You’re Italian. It’s fine.

No. Really, it’s fine.

I know this isn’t what he wants me to talk about. He wants me to talk about what happened with that French bitch who thought drugging me for that other French prick was a good idea. He wants me to confess my emotional trauma and get it out of my system. But he’s not my Priest.

I don’t actually have a Priest, per se, but that’s not the point either. He’s not the one I confess to, and that’s that.

So he gets whatever I want to talk about, or fudge my way through, in this rectal probe of a psych session.

That’s all there is to it.

He could at least provide a couch with a pillow, and a glass of water, and that obligatory box of tissues on the coffee table. Not that I’d use it, but that’s irrelevant. Those things are like comforting imagery somehow, for those of us who don’t like saying out loud all the things we’re really thinking.

I used to do that.

It got me locked in the fuckin’ Tower of London.

English people.

Now there’s a sexy topic for the doc here.

Gobshites, for the most part. All of them. Bar a handful I’d just about, maybe, at a pinch, if there no one left on planet Earth, trust with my life.

Okay, so way off topic.

Wait, there was a topic?

Sue me, Doctor Rossi.

I’m not going to spill my heart out like some idiot Millennial.

I met Jung once, did you know that?

And Freud.

Strange guy.

Reminds me of someone…

Still, you think that pretty little French whore was the first person to beat me half to death? Rape me? Abuse me?

She wasn’t even the second.

I’ve lived a long time, doc.

Seriously.

It’s par for the course when you’ve got an accent people despise, and an attitude to match.

You should be luck I can contain at least the accent these days.

Mostly.

Ish…

Like Americans just love the Irish.

Does he note all my eyerolling?

Probably.

Yeah, okay, whatever with that. But it’s true. America doesn’t exactly have a love for the Irish.

No one does, but the Irish. And even then that’s a few car bombs short of being completely valid.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah. Those lovely signs saying ‘No Irish’.

Very welcoming.

You’re welcome for the canal digging, rail laying, and road building by the way.

Yes, I know only about 30% of the Navvies were Irish. What am I, stupid? They were segregated then too, ‘cause God forbid the damn English ditch diggers should have to share a tent with anyone but a fellow Englishman.

Did I mention they were pricks?

Fuckin’ English nobs.

No! No, I wouldn’t go out of my way to hurt one. What d’you think I am?

I might not piss on Buckingham to put the flames out if he caught fire, but we’re not talking about him. Let’s not ever talk about him.

Wait, what was I talking about it?

Langdon? No, done him. Rather have his Mate though, to be honest.

Rome.

Ah, yes, beautiful Rome.

I have a statue by Bernini upstairs, did you know that?

If he was Illuminati I’ll eat the next volume of Langdon’s book. With mayo.

But for all the shit That Night, Rome still stands. The Vatican still stands.

And from time to time it’s Patrick who hears my confessions, doc.

Pretty sure that would make Tony green with envy.

Anyway, he can go with Papa on whatever the hell else our local friendly Symbologist gets his nose stuck into next time. Why? ‘cause it’ll happen sooner or later, that’s why! Langdon can’t let a good conspiracy theory go to waste.

Maybe he’s the one should be on your ‘not a psychiatrist’s couch’ program right now? Just saying.

Are we done yet?

Is he even listening?

Am I speaking out loud?

My butt is aching in this damn chair.

This is the longest hour in the history of hours. And that’s saying a lot after That Night.

Yes, I was aware we could all die. But so too could a lot of other people. Trying to estimate that kind of death toll is impossible. D’you know how many people turn up in Saint Peter’s Square to watch for that smoke every time there’s a Conclave? To pray for a new Pope? To be part of history? How do you even calculate the damage? It would be global. Devastating. Let alone the damage to history itself, to the paintings, books, art.

Yes, of course it’s hard to dwell on, but the damage that we did have was survivable and it’s still being corrected. It’ll probably take a couple more decades, but Rome…

Nope, I’m not going to say ‘wasn’t built in a day’. It would be too trite.

And possibly funny.

And I’m not really known for my humor.

What’s funny is Michelangelo repainting his ceiling. Talk about the ultimate ‘do over’!

Why am I smiling?

Oh, nothing.

Explanations are not always required.

Seriously, they’re not.

Sometimes you totally gotta go with the ferkin’ mystery of life, doc.

And now you got me sounding more Irish.

Jesus.

Are you happy now?

Must be tired.

If I yawn some more, can we be done yet?

If I pay you to tell Papa I did this session, could we be done now?

Obviously I didn’t say that out loud, or I’d’ve gotten the ‘disapproving teacher’ look, like he’s known me my whole life and I’ve had the audacity to spell something wrong on a manuscript in the Monastery.

I’l start all over again, Father, I swear…

…or maybe make it look like one of those snails in armor, doing battle with a little gargoyle.

Apparently I’m smirking again.

What?

Tony’s not the only one who can draw.

I…

…doodle.

Yeah, doodle. It’s totally a thing. Even back then it was a thing. In the margins and shit.

Why?

Okay, so I did say that out loud.

‘cause bored! Bored now! Totally bored! Do you know how long it takes to copy a Gospel by hand? With flourishes, and not make a mistake?

Those stools were actually softer than this damn chair.

We didn’t all get nice school, high school, college experience, university time, friends to bond with and teachers to love for the rest of forever and name your kids after. Some of us got our education with bare feet and a burnin’ ass when the Bishop decided it was fun to beat little boys for being rowdy in the Cloister.

Painful? Schooling is meant to be painful or you don’t learn anything.

Shoes? What about shoes?

Okay, not wearing any.

Don’t if I can help it.

Why?

Socks are for conformists, doc, and shoes are the tools of the oppressor.

He’s laughing now.

Okay…

I’m outta here.

Later, doc.

Much, much later.