The march of the agents

I remember being a child and having my fair share of fear wen it came to the creatures that stalked the twilight hours between the PM teeth brushing and the AM repeat 10 hours later. The gargantuan slime flinging, spittle dripping bogey men was never a concern, they were too fantastical and outlandish to believe in, like the tooth fairy who collects your teeth for 20p a pop. This alone is a bit upsetting, to think that if you gave her all your teeth you would only get £10, which although a fortune to a kid in the 70's would buy around 3 pints and a bag of scampi fries in todays money - which ironically would probably do as scampi fries can be sucked to digestion and require the bear minimum of mastication. The cratures that gave me the fear were the ones with a closer resemblace to what I already knew - the darker isde if humanity, the ghosts of the angry diseased and supernatural stalkers, clad in black moving stealthly through the shadows - the agents of the damned.

Now in adulthood the agents have retured, vile masters of the dark arts, creeping behind closed doors and feeding off the misery, unhappiness and vunerability of the waking world. The agents are back and his name is Ian.

Ian talks to me like I am his first victim, making me feel as if I have turned him into the monster he is, that somehow I am the one to blame and therefore his sins sit squarely on my shoulders. I know there have been others before me as I have heard stories of them, hushly whispered at flower stalls and organic butchers as folk go about thier daily affairs. Ian holds my dreams in his hands and I carry my ass in mine.

Ian is the agent and I am the buyer.

Ian wears a shiny suit. Ian gels his hair.

Ian probably has a friend called Matt.

Ian probably does not like Turtles, rain or ale.