Soap Wars

It is a period . of UNrEst. Revolution Studio struggles valiantly as Empire Television utilises contrived plots and convoluted story~lines in a bid to win the Ratings War.
Young scriptwriter - Luke Warmwater - has won his first victory against Empire. In a desperate move, Revolution pitted Westbenders and Mo’s confrontation with her necrophiliac husband Norris – against the joyous marriage of Beth and Eileen in Empire’s soap The Street. The gamble paid off. Revolution gained the allegiance of millions of viewers who switched channels to see Mo switch off Norris’ walk-in freezer forever.
Empire were furious. The scheduled deployment of their “ultimate” weapon, The Death Story, was brought forward and their chief head-hunter Gareth Wader was despatched to deal with Warmwater.
Warned by Hans Olov an ex-tea-boy colleague freelancing for Empire, Warmwater begins work on a counter-script.

“I know what this looks like, but I know what I’m doing”… (Slonovoyeh Govnoh, 1914).

TUESDAY, 05:30 AM.
‘Sondra screams, as Garty turns blue…the giant rubber band constraining him unbelievably…’
‘Sondra screamfaints simultaneously, banging her head…Garty turns purple, gagging reflexively…the giant bandaconda…’
‘Sondra…!’
Warmwater stubbed his umpteenth cigarette and stared v a c u o u s l y, at the screen. The title, Westbenders, series 4, episode 28, version 73, The ????, proved it, he had a bad case of something/body-or-other’s block ? Three days of discarded drafts lay, scattered. Numerous crumpled and/or torn balls of paper detailing the lives of the fictitious inhabitants, who inhabited the Westbend of London… Twisted, blood-coated staples tarried inertly, long having successfully proved the absolute futility of bare-foot-sorties to the kitchen. And half-empty mugs and socks mouldered everywhere.
“Coffee, sleep and inspiration, that’s what I need, he said to himself.”
He kicked his way through the debris towards the bathroom, his digestive tract apparently unaffected by any mental impediment. He sat. Jean Cooper the show’s producer had been specific - ‘do not kill off any more characters’. A moot point. Any character deaths would have to compete with the nuclear disaster predicted in The Street.
The tempo of the tribal drums intensified, closercloser, pounding feet... he… he… came to… still on the toilet, the beat still resounding. Disorientated he pulled up his trousers and made his way along the corridor.
“Yeah, Yeah…I’m coming…” Still tucking…
…He opened the door < The helmeted, leather clad humanoid dwarfed Luke’s nephew Steven. Steven was five. The figure in black then - little more than a midget.
“Hello, Can I help you?”
“Athuallly…” the muffled - gravel-in-a-pan-like voice wheezed deeply, struggling to remove the helmet…finally breaking free, “Actually…Mrrr Warrrmwaterrr…” the R’s oozed, insidiously from his maw “…it may be I, who can help you. My name is Garrreth Waderrr…” he proffered a hand, “I worrrk for Empirrre. May I come in?”
Wader was slightly balding, fortyish - West Indian. The unscathed motorcycle paraphernalia gleamed, shiny newness or mayhaps the result of hours of meticulous cleaning... His deep - dark eyes glistened with a particular quality - suggestive of the deep, dark depths…submerged deeply beneath the dark surf…
“Mrrr Warrrmwaterrr?” The rolling question and the quizzical (?) look prompted the realisation that he had not responded to the request.
“Oh, yes…Yes please do.” Stepping aside - the little man ingressed, a black blur sweeping past into the literary Somme. Inside Wader filled the room. He began to speak his voice laden with hypnotic menace.
“You are undone.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yourrr trrrouserrrs…” he gestured, “I’ll not Beast arrround the prrroverrrbial Buh, Warrrmwaterrr. Empirrre rrrequirrre yourrr serrrvices. We arrre awarrre of but arrre prrreparrred to overrrlook yourrr involvement with Rrrevolution, theirrr time is nearrrly overrr, soon therrre will BE no morrre Rrrevolution. Yourrr skills will neverrr be fully rrrealised therrre. Join with us - Warrrmwaterrr, follow - yourrr instincts. We can offerrr, a salarrry incrrrease, company carrr, favourrrable holiday terrrms and a thirrrd off at the staff cafeterrria… Saliva spittled‘; ”. ’, uncontrolliabbleyee. “You could starrrt today. Then I will be as merrrry quirrrk! Like chicken with Kevlarrr armourrr.” He smiled as if this last statement meant something.
Luke froze…
It wasn’t supposed to be like this Þ IT. Wader sensing indecisionInstantly seized the opportunity.
“You don’t have to make any decisions now…come overrr and see me at the studio tomorrrrow… Say One O’clock.” Lightning-quick, an appointment card - in his hand. He focused – the dwarf hadn’t moved. “Until tomorrrrow.” He was gone.
… He… he… came to… still on the toilet. Disorientated he pulled his trousers up and made his way along the corridor… to the kitchen…
Caressing the comforting container of caffeine, he kicked a path to his desk, impressed the On Switch - sat. The computer, started screeching,
“Eeeeeeeebwlbwlbwleeeeeeeebwlwbllwb…”
went silent…and then pinged delightedly,
“ping, ping, ping” in a self-congratulatory sort of way. Wader’s card lay, propped on his keyboard, Luke snatched it from its grubby perch, then placed it contemptuously, into “Wuh” section of his organiser. The mail continued to ping,
“ping, ping, ping”, [ad-infinitum]
incessant. He jiggled - the mouse, clicking irreverently although relevantly to release the coded communication. It was from Old Ben Wakenobi, the ageing Korean caretaker at Revolution. It read –
“deatH Story bearing Dantoewn No time. tolosCast nervously. rehearse new script…qare you?…is it ready? Old Tom is Tod! [Ben’s cat]… ‘What \dd/ is it?”
Even accounting for Ben’s propensity for reverting to Deutsch, the email made no esnes. Nevertheless Luke sensed enough sense…and that meant it was sensible to be nervous.

‘Sonja, gulped…gagged and threw up, Bertram contorts violently in the rubbery reptilian’s python-like-coils…of near-death…

WEDNESDAY, 07:45.
The night had passed baHdlee by the time Yah, di Yah, Version 103? ricocheted onto the floor the defunct-ional equine’s flayed flesh had totally desiccated. Luke had rested restlessly. Awakening only when he needed to or when he ceased to sleep, starting with a start as the alarm clock started.
“It’s seven-forty-five-n’-time-to-be-alive-on-eighty-eight-two-eighty-eight-F-H-M…If you found us…enjoy our sound-uz - … Heeres-theeeee-LatestAndGreatestChartToppyWoppying single, by TheeeeeEntire cast of …The Street - Gonna Love all your Faults, Baby…”. Luke punching at the snooze button - knocked the hapless clock/radio, skittering towards the half-fin…, ye ald Ovaltine mug – scattering/splashing its contents.
WEDNESDAY, 07:46.
With the phlegmatic-brown-substance still dripping and dribbling, down the bedside cabinet and other parallel perpendicular surfaces,
Luke performed his ablutions with distinctive care. Even flos/sing his teeth.
WEDNESDAY, 12:48.
The building was not what Luke had expected, instead of… it was housed in a rather quaint side-street. Wader’s actress/model/receptionist cooed Munroe-like
“You must be Luukke…My name is Luucccyy…If there is anything….anything I can dooo?”
Wader appeared, breaking the siren’s song…
“Luke… you’ve arrrrrrived…thank you Lucy. Drrrink? Coffee perrrhaps? Tea? Orrr anything else?” He wink/flicked his eyes at Lucy, or at least it read that way.
“Coffee, thank you.” The inside of Wader’s office was tarnished faithfully, a combination of Laura Ashley products – blended seamlessly into the Habitat, it was cleverly done. Luke wolf-whistled in appreciation.
“Whhit whooo”
Wader responded gleefully…
“The currrtains werrre harrrd to find, I had to rrring a storrre in Rrrotherrrham to orrrderrr them.”
bOsOms were thrust into his face, Lucy turned, he stirred…his coffee with the spoon… her perfume clung, clinging like the early-morning-mist that clings to rocks by the sea.
“Have you considerrred ourrr offerrr?” Wader was sat on an air driven office chair that hissed, lifting or dropping his height accordingly.
“I have.”
“and yourrr decision?”
“Well I’m interested.”
“Good….Hah, Ha Ha Ha Haaaa…”
“I’d like to have a look around though, see the sort of place it is, the sort of people I might be working with…that sort of thing”.
“Good….Hah, Ha Ha?… of courrrse”. He seemed to hisn’shrink simultaneously as the chair hissedandshrunk - lowering him down. Leaping off, dodging the desk, thunderclap fast, Luke found himself being led down a – inside a facility type - corridor that seemed out of place in the… building. Wader, legs pistoning, powered his way through the lush shag. The Door opened - leaving only an empty void in its place, revealing a small balcony Ø overlooking
a large office. The noise was DEAFENING. As if hundreds of voices were suddenly crying out in terror, pre-dictating the radioactive deaths. Luke scrutinised the figures. They all wore novelty headphones. Bugs Bunnies and Mickey Mice competed with the realistic parodies of some never-to-be-monarch. His trousers twitÖched. Wader was trying to attract his attention.
“State of the Arrrt…Voice activated computerrrs…” he gestured expansively “the employees love them…” The room went deathly silent. Wader’s activation of an intercom switch. The eerily-eared figures gazed impassioned towards the dais, Wader shouted
“You like the earrrs rrright!”
The figures continued to gaze glazedly. Wader winked - depressed the Speak button and repeated/repeated the question. Almost in unison the figures responded - diversely.
“Yes/No/They’re alright/Bollocks/I suppose so/and so on/etc”.
Wader waved, the room reverberated once more to the sound of lives being created.
“Impressive”. Luke said. “Impressive”. Luke said. [!!!?]
“It surrre is, most of them don’t know how to TiPe! They rrrecite - the spell-checkerrr does the rrrest”.
“…What…operating…system…do…you…use…? ” The pace back up the corridor was slower than the frenetic descent.
“Macrrrosoft Superrr-serrrverrr…only the best at Empirrre.”
‘Its now or never, Lukey Boy’. It was difficult to tell who spoke, if anybody had spoken at all?
“Mind if I just pop back and have another look? You know just to help me make up my mind”. The question stumped Wader initially, but he recovered quickly.
“No…!? feelfrrree…IWillRrreturnToMyRrroom,RrrejoinMeTherrre.”
Luke turned his back leaving the little man watching his receding back. A backward glance - behind him…Wader had vanished. Above the busy room, once more. Panting. Sweat beading, beadily on his forehead, he pressed the intercom switch. The cacophony ceased. A thousand heads turned upwards, waiting. Waiting. The speak switch remained un-depressed. With a mighty exhalation Luke…shouted
“FORMAT…C…CONFIRM”.
There was a momentary (!) silence as the Macrosoft components processed the request. Then…the room came alive to a suicidal [aaaaarrgchh – or some electronic equivalent rendering of…] sound, deleting files – crunching hard disks. The figures – comatose - remained impassive, unaware of the catastrophic catastrophe occurring under their very ears. Luke scuttled crab-like for the door, his sextupley challenged form impeding any true emulation of the aforementioned crustacean. As he left - the beginnings of comprehension. The beginnings of panic, the omnipotent imaginings in Bits, the digital code disappearing forever…the system was shutting down.
Luke re-entered Wader’s office, ‘I must remain calm…’ he thought. His knees were shaking, Wader would notice…he wasn’t dumb…
“Your knees are shaking.” Luke was right, he [Luke/Wader?] wasn’t dumb.
“I have…I Have…bladder problems…!” He’d said it, it was out, the first thing that came to his head…would Wader see through the ruse? No wet patch! Suspicious!? The alarm would sound soon surely?…He Had two GET OUT! GET OUT!!! “I’ll call…tomorrow. I have to go…” He made for the door - Wader beat him to it.
“Come, don’t be embarrrrassed…I have a Gerrrman Snow White thing going with Lucy…You would be welcome to join us.” The invitation’s intimation was clearly spelled out…he had two GET OUT! GET OUT!!! Desperately, he jigged.
“…W-!…The phone on his desk rang, cutting Wader off, the dwarf was there, answering “… - finger - poised, but. Luke ran. Passed the buxom Lucy, out of the outer door, ran into the street, then ran and ran until he couldn’t run, anymore.
THURSDAY, 15:31and 12 sec’s.
Jean Cooper giggled girlishly as she twirled the script in her hand.
“I know I said ‘do not to kill anymore characters’, but in the light of yesterday’s events… I think this will work? In fact we’re on. Empire will never recover their files. You’re a hero Luke…” She girlishly giggled [unbecoming for the sixty-one year old pre-operative.] Everyone waved and cheered as he left the boardroom. Waving, cheering and other things associated with adulating-praise.
WEDNESDAY [a different one], 19:30.
Revolution screens Garty’s Band at the same time as Empire screens The Best bits from the last thirty years 4 for the third time. Millions of viewers watch Garty’s inflamed veins burst to the echo…echo…echo… echo of the keystrokes of “Revolution-Warmwater’s” keyboard.
Empire is Dead. Long Live Revolution.
Afterword.
Luke goes on to become the most disliked unpleasant-bastard-of-a-scriptwriter ever to roam the set at Revolution’s new studio, earning the unfortunate nickname of That-Unpleasant-Bastard-of-a-Scriptwriter-Warmwater.
Gareth and Lucy moved to Amsterdam and are quite sought after in the amateur celluloid industry.
Old Ben Wakenobi’s life continued to play as small a part in the events as anybody might have expected.
Jean Cooper post-operatively changed his/her name from the French ‘Jean Cooper’, to the English ‘Jean Cooper’ and still runs the company with an artificially soft Iron Fist.

Word Count 2009 including this bit, 1999 without this bit.

Soap Wars

It is a period . of UNrEst. Revolution Studio struggles valiantly as Empire Television utilises contrived plots and convoluted story~lines in a bid to win the Ratings War. Young scriptwriter - Luke Warmwater - has won his first victory against Empire. In a desperate move, Revolution pitted Westbenders and Mo's confrontation with her necrophiliac husband Norris - against the joyous marriage of Beth and Eileen in Empire's soap The Street. The gamble paid off. Revolution gained the allegiance of millions of viewers who switched channels to see Mo switch off Norris' walk-in freezer forever. Empire were furious. The scheduled deployment of their "ultimate" weapon, The Death Story, was brought forward and their chief head-hunter Gareth Wader was despatched to deal with Warmwater. Warned by Hans Olov an ex-tea-boy colleague freelancing for Empire, Warmwater begins work on a counter-script.

"I know what this looks like, but I know what I'm doing"… (Slonovoyeh Govnoh, 1914 - shortly before he was shot).

TUESDAY, 05:30 AM. 'Sondra screams, as Garty turns blue…the giant rubber band constraining him unbelievably…' 'Sondra screamfaints simultaneously, banging her head…Garty turns purple, gagging reflexively…the giant bandaconda…' 'Sondra…!' Warmwater stubbed his umpteenth cigarette and stared v a c u o u s l y, at the screen. The title, Westbenders, series 4, episode 28, version 73, The ????, proved it, he had a bad case of something/body-or-other's block ? Three days of discarded drafts lay, scattered. Numerous crumpled and/or torn balls of paper detailing the lives of the fictitious inhabitants, who inhabited the Westbend of London… Twisted, blood-coated staples tarried inertly, long having successfully proved the absolute futility of bare-foot-sorties to the kitchen. And half-empty mugs and socks mouldered everywhere.

"Coffee, sleep and inspiration, that's what I need, he said to himself." He kicked his way through the debris towards the bathroom, his digestive tract apparently unaffected by any mental impediment. He sat. Jean Cooper the show's producer had been specific - 'do not kill off any more characters'. A moot point. Any character deaths would have to compete with the nuclear disaster predicted in The Street.

The tempo of the tribal drums intensified, closercloser, pounding feet... he… he… came to… still on the toilet, the beat still resounding. Disorientated he pulled up his trousers and made his way along the corridor.

"Yeah, Yeah…I'm coming…" Still tucking… …He opened the door < The helmeted, leather clad humanoid dwarfed Luke's nephew Steven. Steven was five. The figure in black then - little more than a midget.

"Hello, Can I help you?"

"Athuallly…" the muffled - gravel-in-a-pan-like voice wheezed deeply, struggling to remove the helmet…finally breaking free, "Actually…Mrrr Warrrmwaterrr…" the R's oozed, insidiously from his maw "…it may be I, who can help you. My name is Garrreth Waderrr…" he proffered a hand, "I worrrk for Empirrre. May I come in?" Wader was slightly balding, fortyish - West Indian. The unscathed motorcycle paraphernalia gleamed, shiny newness or mayhaps the result of hours of meticulous cleaning... His deep - dark eyes glistened with a particular quality - suggestive of the deep, dark depths…submerged deeply beneath the dark surf…

"Mrrr Warrrmwaterrr?" The rolling question and the quizzical (?) look prompted the realisation that he had not responded to the request.

"Oh, yes…Yes please do." Stepping aside - the little man ingressed, a black blur sweeping past into the literary Somme. Inside Wader filled the room. He began to speak his voice laden with hypnotic menace.

"You are undone."

"I'm sorry?"

"Yourrr trrrouserrrs…" he gestured, "I'll not Beast arrround the prrroverrrbial Buh, Warrrmwaterrr. Empirrre rrrequirrre yourrr serrrvices. We arrre awarrre of but arrre prrreparrred to overrrlook yourrr involvement with Rrrevolution, theirrr time is nearrrly overrr, soon therrre will BE no morrre Rrrevolution. Yourrr skills will neverrr be fully rrrealised therrre. Join with us - Warrrmwaterrr, follow - yourrr instincts. We can offerrr, a salarrry incrrrease, company carrr, favourrrable holiday terrrms and a thirrrd off at the staff cafeterrria… Saliva spittled'; ". ', uncontrolliabbleyee. "You could starrrt today. Then I will be as merrrry quirrrk! Like chicken with Kevlarrr armourrr." He smiled as if this last statement meant something. Luke froze… It wasn't supposed to be like this Þ IT. Wader sensing indecisionInstantly seized the opportunity.

"You don't have to make any decisions now…come overrr and see me at the studio tomorrrrow… Say One O'clock." Lightning-quick, an appointment card - in his hand. He focused - the dwarf hadn't moved.

"Until tomorrrrow." He was gone. … He… he… came to… still on the toilet. Disorientated he pulled his trousers up and made his way along the corridor… to the kitchen… Caressing the comforting container of caffeine, he kicked a path to his desk, impressed the On Switch - sat. The computer, started screeching,

"Eeeeeeeebwlbwlbwleeeeeeeebwlwbllwb…"

went silent…and then pinged delightedly,

"ping, ping, ping" in a self-congratulatory sort of way. Wader's card lay, propped on his keyboard, Luke snatched it from its grubby perch, then placed it contemptuously, into "Wuh" section of his organiser. The mail continued to ping, "ping, ping, ping", [ad-infinitum] incessant. He jiggled - the mouse, clicking irreverently although relevantly to release the coded communication. It was from Old Ben Wakenobi, the ageing Korean caretaker at Revolution. It read

- "deatH Story bearing Dantoewn No time. tolosCast nervously. rehearse new script…qare you?…is it ready? Old Tom is Tod! [Ben's cat]… 'What \dd/ is it?"

Even accounting for Ben's propensity for reverting to Deutsch, the email made no esnes. Nevertheless Luke esnsed enough densed…and that meant it was sensible to be nervous.

'Sonja, gulped…gagged and threw up, Bertram contorts violently in the rubbery reptilian's python-like-coils…of near-death…

WEDNESDAY, 07:45. The night had passed baHdlee by the time Yah, di Yah, Version 103? ricocheted onto the floor the defunct-ional equine's flayed flesh had totally desiccated. Luke had rested restlessly. Awakening only when he needed to or when he ceased to sleep, starting with a start as the alarm clock started.

"It's seven-forty-five-n'-time-to-be-alive-on-eighty-eight-two-eighty-eight-F-H-M…If you found us…enjoy our sound-uz - … Heeres-theeeee-LatestAndGreatestChartToppyWoppying single, by TheeeeeEntire cast of …The Street - Gonna Love all your Faults, Baby…". Luke punching at the snooze button - knocked the hapless clock/radio, skittering towards the half-fin…, ye ald Ovaltine mug - scattering/splashing its contents.

WEDNESDAY, 07:46. With the phlegmatic-brown-substance still dripping and dribbling, down the bedside cabinet and other parallel perpendicular surfaces, Luke performed his ablutions with distinctive care. Even flos/sing his teeth.

WEDNESDAY, 12:48. The building was not what Luke had expected, instead of… it was housed in a rather quaint side-street. Wader's actress/model/receptionist cooed Munroe-like

"You must be Luukke…My name is Luucccyy…If there is anything….anything I can dooo?" Wader appeared, breaking the siren's song…

"Luke… you've arrrrrrived…thank you Lucy. Drrrink? Coffee perrrhaps? Tea? Orrr anything else?" He wink/flicked his eyes at Lucy, or at least it read that way.

"Coffee, thank you."

The inside of Wader's office was tarnished faithfully, a combination of Laura Ashley products - blended seamlessly into the Habitat, it was cleverly done. Luke wolf-whistled in appreciation.

"Whhit whooo"

Wader responded gleefully…

"The currrtains werrre harrrd to find, I had to rrring a storrre in Rrrotherrrham to orrrderrr them."

bOsOms were thrust into his face, Lucy turned, he stirred…his coffee with the spoon… her perfume clung, clinging like the early-morning-mist that clings to rocks by the sea.

"Have you considerrred ourrr offerrr?" Wader was sat on an air driven office chair that hissed, lifting or dropping his height accordingly.

"I have."

"and yourrr decision?"

"Well I'm interested."

"Good….Hah, Ha Ha Ha Haaaa…"

"I'd like to have a look around though, see the sort of place it is, the sort of people I might be working with…that sort of thing".

"Good….Hah, Ha Ha?… of courrrse". He seemed to hisn'shrink simultaneously as the chair hissedandshrunk - lowering him down. Leaping off, dodging the desk, thunderclap fast, Luke found himself being led down a - inside a facility type - corridor that seemed out of place in the… building. Wader, legs pistoning, powered his way through the lush shag. The Door opened - leaving only an empty .................... ....................void in its place, revealing a small balcony overlooking a large ................... ...................................... .........office. The noise was DEAFENING. As if hundreds of voices were suddenly crying out in terror, pre-dictating the radioactive deaths. Luke scrutinised the figures. They all wore novelty headphones. Bugs Bunnies and Mickey Mice competed with the realistic parodies of some never-to-be-monarch. His trousers twitched. Wader was trying to attract his attention.

"State of the Arrrt…Voice activated computerrrs…" he gestured expansively "the employees love them…" The room went deathly silent. Wader's activation of an intercom switch. The eerily-eared figures gazed impassioned towards the dais, Wader shouted

"You like the earrrs rrright!" The figures continued to gaze glazedly. Wader winked - depressed the Speak button and repeated/repeated the question. Almost in unison the figures responded - diversely.

"Yes/No/They're alright/Bollocks/I suppose so/and so on/etc".

Wader waved, the room reverberated once more to the sound of lives being created.

"Impressive". Luke said. "Impressive". Luke said. [!!!?]

"It surrre is, most of them don't know how to TiPe! They rrrecite - the spell-checkerrr does the rrrest".

"…What…operating…system…do…you…use…? " The pace back up the corridor was slower than the frenetic descent.

"Macrrrosoft Superrr-serrrverrr…only the best at Empirrre."

'Its now or never, Lukey Boy'. It was difficult to tell who spoke, if anybody had spoken at all?

"Mind if I just pop back and have another look? You know just to help me make up my mind". The question stumped Wader initially, but he recovered quickly.

"No…!? feelfrrree…IWillRrreturnToMyRrroom,RrrejoinMeTherrre." Luke turned his back leaving the little man watching his receding back. A backward glance - behind him…Wader had vanished. Above the busy room, once more. Panting. Sweat beading, beadily on his forehead, he pressed the intercom switch. The cacophony ceased. A thousand heads turned upwards, waiting. Waiting. The speak switch remained un-depressed. With a mighty exhalation Luke…shouted

"FORMAT…C…CONFIRM". There was a momentary (!) silence as the Macrosoft components processed the request. Then…the room came alive to a suicidal [aaaaarrgchh - or some electronic equivalent rendering of…] sound, deleting files - crunching hard disks. The figures - comatose - remained impassive, unaware of the catastrophic catastrophe occurring under their very ears. Luke scuttled crab-like for the door, his sextupley challenged form impeding any true emulation of the aforementioned crustacean. As he left - the beginnings of comprehension. The beginnings of panic, the omnipotent imaginings in Bits, the digital code disappearing forever…the system was shutting down. Luke re-entered Wader's office, 'I must remain calm…' he thought. His knees were shaking, Wader would notice…he wasn't dumb…

"Your knees are shaking." Luke was right, he [Luke/Wader?] wasn't dumb.

"I have…I Have…bladder problems…!" He'd said it, it was out, the first thing that came to his head…would Wader see through the ruse? No wet patch! Suspicious!? The alarm would sound soon surely?…He Had two GET OUT! GET OUT!!!

"I'll call…tomorrow. I have to go…" He made for the door - Wader beat him to it.

"Come, don't be embarrrrassed…I have a Gerrrman Snow White thing going with Lucy…You would be welcome to join us." The invitation's intimation was clearly spelled out…he had two GET OUT! GET OUT!!! Desperately, he jigged.

"…W-!…The phone on his desk rang, cutting Wader off, the dwarf was there, answering "… - finger - poised, but. Luke ran. Passed the buxom Lucy, out of the outer door, ran into the street, then ran and ran until he couldn't run, anymore.

THURSDAY, 15:31and 12 sec's. Jean Cooper giggled girlishly as she twirled the script in her hand.

"I know I said 'do not to kill anymore characters', but in the light of yesterday's events… I think this will work? In fact we're on. Empire will never recover their files. You're a hero Luke…" She girlishly giggled [unbecoming for the sixty-one year old pre-operative.] Everyone waved and cheered as he left the boardroom. Waving, cheering and other things associated with adulating-praise.

WEDNESDAY [a different one], 19:30. Revolution screens Garty's Band at the same time as Empire screens The Best bits from the last thirty years 4 for the third time. Millions of viewers watch Garty's inflamed veins burst to the echo…echo…echo… echo of the keystrokes of "Revolution-Warmwater's" keyboard. Empire is Dead. Long Live Revolution.

Afterword. Luke goes on to become the most disliked unpleasant-bastard-of-a-scriptwriter ever to roam the set at Revolution's new studio, earning the unfortunate nickname of That-Unpleasant-Bastard-of-a-Scriptwriter Warmwater. Gareth and Lucy moved to Amsterdam and are quite sought after in the amateur celluloid industry. Old Ben Wakenobi's life continued to play as small a part in the events as anybody might have expected. Jean Cooper post-operatively changed his/her name from the French 'Jean Cooper', to the English 'Jean Cooper' and still runs the company with an artificially soft Iron Fist.

An Explantaion on Soap Wars

Soap Wars. In contrast Soap Wars is written in a much more experimental narrative format. I have deliberately ignored the conventions of grammar and punctuation - going so far as to use the: commas, speech marks, inverted commas, colons and semicolons, letter "s p a c i n g", different font sizes, symbols etc - to draw "visual" metaphors with particular words and/or sentences. For example - the juxtaposition of words on adjoining lines to 'play' on the word "parallel", ß "like this", and "what is it Þ Ã? The composition is intended to parody and satirise the style and genre of fiction writing that produced a plethora of "over-dramatic badly written aspirational thrillers". To this purpose I have: juxtaposed metaphors with similes, incorporated onomatopoeic techniques into the sentence structures, used non-existent words to convey phonetic sounds, repeated sentences and stock-phrases, employed blatant and subtle spelling mistakes, used verbs, adverbs and adjectives in improbable combinations, deliberately confused first and third person narrative perspectives, and tried to assign the style and rhythm of the external narration specifically to the character of Luke. The text is full of overtones, undertones and innuendo, and makes assumptions about the reader's prior knowledge of the social and cultural references, for example: Star Wars (George Lucas, 1977), British "Soaps", German porn and Marilyn Munroe. There are technical references, which again assumes that the reader has knowledge of contemporary technologies - [the spelling mistakes and extra letters in the email correspond to the adjacent keys on a computer keyboard]. I have also used similes to administer pathetic fallacy to certain inanimate objects. Whereas the characterisation of the protagonist is intended to overflow into the external narrative [previously mentioned] I have attempted to exclude the other character's rhythms from this influence, particularly the alliterative pronunciations by the character Gareth Wader. The allusion to Star Wars ( ibid.) recurs throughout the narrative, although its figurative importance is minimised. Soap Wars is intended to be accessible as an "unusual" piece of prose fiction, but it also plays on the conventions of literature, which is perhaps only accessible on an academic level. Although the submitted work is a heavily edited version of the original text I feel that the narrative functions equally effectively as a shorter piece, although it does lose some of the blatant "naffness" - which I tried to imbue into the original. The unedited narrative's style - dialogue and description, was deliberately "extremely over-wordy" [although as with television dialogue I have refrained from the use of profanities] in an attempt to caricature the archetypal "struggling TV writer" - elements of this exaggeration are still extant in the submitted work although they are not as prolific. Together I hope that the two contrasting stories demonstrate my awareness and understanding of the codes and conventions of English prose fiction. I have had to consult a glossary of terms (Gill, pp 377-393) in order to identify the correct literary terminology for some of the techniques that I have employed naturally during the composition process. I have been [so far] unable to ascertain [from any source] if my use of inverted comma's and speech marks to delineate 'thought' and "speech" respectively, has been correct - I therefore have been diligently consistent in their application.

It is my hope therefore, dear reader, that my tales of "Confrontation" and "War" have at least entertained you.