Not to dwell too-much on this unusual essay, there is a back-story to the character that spent a few hours in the
Charge Room with the young officer. If I may, I'll post my ongoing research for your inspection.
There are many parts of Bruce's origins that has been lost to time and poor internet service, but I know that the
bones of how the assumed 'time-warrior' came about -and his cohorts, exist in others memories.
It's just finding them.
Bruce.
The middle-aged man that the above tale introduces, came into his current situation because of his curiosity.
The main cause of his transformation was the internet and a comment on a website.
But first, a little about Bruce's background.
In the beginning, Bruce lived in a peaceful cul-de-sac in a small English town with his wife, Cissy. Bruce and Cissy
were childless and their house told anyone passing by that they had resigned themselves to keeping a quaint,
old-world-home of a upper-middle-class couple.
Due to their respective families being fairly wealthy and that Bruce worked at the Ministry for many years,
their retirement had no concerns regarding how to fund their remaining years together.
Fortunately, Cissy's Aunt had also left her a sizeable chunk of inheritance, although the majority of the cat-smelling
woman's wealth that went to fund a charity that cared for misused squirrels was a still a bone of contention with
Cissy's relatives.
But one would suggest Bruce and Cissy were happy. Yes, happy and content with their lot.
Cissy knitted most evenings and her woven garments were often donated to the local church where she also helped
out with jumble sales and polishing the vicar's snuffer.
Occasionally, the prim lady in the calf-length tartan skirt would visit her sister who lived nearby in a larger, more-modern
house. Cissy's sister's name remains unknown, but what is known is that her husband is called Vance.
The reason is due to his future connection with the group in the Ice-Cream Van also mentioned in the above story.
It was during one of these visits that Bruce -sitting alone in the wooden-beamed lounge of his home and not wishing to
view the latest documentary on BBC1, switched on the small computer that Cissy had given him as a gift two Christmas'
ago. Instead of accessing the gardening websites that he usually enjoyed, he found his way to a place that discussed a
far-darker subject.
A place that talked about aliens.
Being hesitant about such 'far-out' material, Bruce read -without commenting of course, the thrusts and parry of a debate
regarding a hand-to-hand combat between a human and a small-grey alien and who would be the victor.
The people on the particular thread seemed young and the quiet man in the checked-shirt and dark-brown tie wondered if
it would be appropriate to interact with folk who seemed to have such gusto for this rather 'silly' idea that aliens existed.
To deliberate about 'little-green-men' tackling humans in a free-for-all was not Bruce's cup of tea and he was about to click
to a web page about protecting Hydrangeas from frost, when he saw an odd comment appear on the discussion page.
Deciding on a plan of getting familiar with the debaters first, he waited for a lull in the chatter and typed his opinion onto the site.
Bruce was surprised how easy he was accepted into the debate and they seemed genuinely happy for him to engage in the
review.
The comment that drew Bruce's attention was a remark that advised that aliens did not like urine to touch their skin and raising
his eyebrows at the words, he delicately asked for further information.
The poster reaffirmed his statement about liquid-waste being material of disdain for species from another planet and so, shaking
his head in humorous disbelief, Bruce switched off the computer.
It was two days later when Bruce took the small water-spray bottle into the ivy-covered shed at the bottom of the garden and tried
out his experiment.
The cat from next-door didn't like it and the dog that sometimes did it's business on Bruce's lawn howled as it ran away from the
dull-orange jet of piss. I would wager that was around the time Bruce began to muse on using the urine-filled spray bottle on
something more substantial. More 'off-worldly'
The weedkiller back-pack came next. The dented container had been purchased four years-ago when Cissy had dabbled with
growing tomatoes from three large grow-bags. To make sure the young shoots had a chance, Bruce would fill up the back-pack
with water from the plastic barrel that sat under one of the drainpipes of the house and then add some of the liquid-feed that his
wife had purchased from a nearby Garden-Centre.
With a few thrusts on the pressure-shaft and armed with nutritious food for the short-green stems, he would liberally spray the mist
across the torn-open polythene sacks and even feed his treasured Hydrangeas with the stuff.
That was four years-ago and the leather-harnessed device had laid forgotten in the shed until now.
If we move on two more days, we would find Bruce struggling to fill the back-pack with urine and after emptying most the half-filled
cans of paint-stripper, two-stroke petrol and turpentine into the metal container, he accepted that the homemade potion would be
as vigorous as anything suggested from the strange website.
Halloween approached unnoticed by the man who now spent most of evenings in the shadows of his garden shed and even though
Cissy believed he was merely clearing the spider web-festooned shelves of the many chemicals that one collects with gardening,
she would sometimes call from the kitchen door and ask if everything was okay.
Bruce's life had always been on a steady course and if a neighbour was asked what they thought of the quietly-spoken man living in
the house with the roses growing over the front-door, the word that I'm sure they would use would be 'regular'.
Regular and reliable, that was Bruce.
But Bruce's manner had changed, he had become surly and rarely spoke during dinner with Cissy.
The man who'd once jumped into a canal in Venice after Cissy had fallen from a gondola and told her during the next week of dealing
with dysentery that he loved her, seemed to be somewhere else, somewhere dark.
His bathing habits had also altered and the woman who could rib-stitch and alter to a medallion knit when needs-must, would sometimes
pick-up an acrid aroma coming from the brooding, distant man that placed his half-eaten meal on the draining board and return to the shed.
On the odd-occasion that Bruce stayed away from the garden, Cissy would discover him hunched over the computer in the corner of the
lounge discussing Lord-knows-what on some website. He'd taken to wearing just a vest and the camouflage-trousers around the house
and again, this hadn't gone unnoticed.
I will not dwell on the two incidents that preceded Bruce's arrest -but to say that he was certain that the child in the Halloween mask was a
creature from another planet and the raid on the local hospital for additional 'supplies' Bruce now looks back on as a genuine mistake.
But there will be always bumps in the road and it was only when the Hospital administration deemed it necessary to complain about Bruce's
late-night intrusion, that fate took the reins of the craggy-man's future and offered a supporting compatriot to Bruce's infatuation.
That ally was somebody Bruce was related to and yet oddly enough, had never actually met. His name is Vance.
..............................
Not wishing to drag this out, but I do have some information on Vance too. Many thanks go out to a certain young man
who was actually as an employee in this character's business.
With a fantastic verve of serious research and with his permission, I salute his doggedness and I'll add it here to if it's okay?
Charge Room with the young officer. If I may, I'll post my ongoing research for your inspection.
There are many parts of Bruce's origins that has been lost to time and poor internet service, but I know that the
bones of how the assumed 'time-warrior' came about -and his cohorts, exist in others memories.
It's just finding them.
Bruce.
The middle-aged man that the above tale introduces, came into his current situation because of his curiosity.
The main cause of his transformation was the internet and a comment on a website.
But first, a little about Bruce's background.
In the beginning, Bruce lived in a peaceful cul-de-sac in a small English town with his wife, Cissy. Bruce and Cissy
were childless and their house told anyone passing by that they had resigned themselves to keeping a quaint,
old-world-home of a upper-middle-class couple.
Due to their respective families being fairly wealthy and that Bruce worked at the Ministry for many years,
their retirement had no concerns regarding how to fund their remaining years together.
Fortunately, Cissy's Aunt had also left her a sizeable chunk of inheritance, although the majority of the cat-smelling
woman's wealth that went to fund a charity that cared for misused squirrels was a still a bone of contention with
Cissy's relatives.
But one would suggest Bruce and Cissy were happy. Yes, happy and content with their lot.
Cissy knitted most evenings and her woven garments were often donated to the local church where she also helped
out with jumble sales and polishing the vicar's snuffer.
Occasionally, the prim lady in the calf-length tartan skirt would visit her sister who lived nearby in a larger, more-modern
house. Cissy's sister's name remains unknown, but what is known is that her husband is called Vance.
The reason is due to his future connection with the group in the Ice-Cream Van also mentioned in the above story.
It was during one of these visits that Bruce -sitting alone in the wooden-beamed lounge of his home and not wishing to
view the latest documentary on BBC1, switched on the small computer that Cissy had given him as a gift two Christmas'
ago. Instead of accessing the gardening websites that he usually enjoyed, he found his way to a place that discussed a
far-darker subject.
A place that talked about aliens.
Being hesitant about such 'far-out' material, Bruce read -without commenting of course, the thrusts and parry of a debate
regarding a hand-to-hand combat between a human and a small-grey alien and who would be the victor.
The people on the particular thread seemed young and the quiet man in the checked-shirt and dark-brown tie wondered if
it would be appropriate to interact with folk who seemed to have such gusto for this rather 'silly' idea that aliens existed.
To deliberate about 'little-green-men' tackling humans in a free-for-all was not Bruce's cup of tea and he was about to click
to a web page about protecting Hydrangeas from frost, when he saw an odd comment appear on the discussion page.
Deciding on a plan of getting familiar with the debaters first, he waited for a lull in the chatter and typed his opinion onto the site.
Bruce was surprised how easy he was accepted into the debate and they seemed genuinely happy for him to engage in the
review.
The comment that drew Bruce's attention was a remark that advised that aliens did not like urine to touch their skin and raising
his eyebrows at the words, he delicately asked for further information.
The poster reaffirmed his statement about liquid-waste being material of disdain for species from another planet and so, shaking
his head in humorous disbelief, Bruce switched off the computer.
It was two days later when Bruce took the small water-spray bottle into the ivy-covered shed at the bottom of the garden and tried
out his experiment.
The cat from next-door didn't like it and the dog that sometimes did it's business on Bruce's lawn howled as it ran away from the
dull-orange jet of piss. I would wager that was around the time Bruce began to muse on using the urine-filled spray bottle on
something more substantial. More 'off-worldly'
The weedkiller back-pack came next. The dented container had been purchased four years-ago when Cissy had dabbled with
growing tomatoes from three large grow-bags. To make sure the young shoots had a chance, Bruce would fill up the back-pack
with water from the plastic barrel that sat under one of the drainpipes of the house and then add some of the liquid-feed that his
wife had purchased from a nearby Garden-Centre.
With a few thrusts on the pressure-shaft and armed with nutritious food for the short-green stems, he would liberally spray the mist
across the torn-open polythene sacks and even feed his treasured Hydrangeas with the stuff.
That was four years-ago and the leather-harnessed device had laid forgotten in the shed until now.
If we move on two more days, we would find Bruce struggling to fill the back-pack with urine and after emptying most the half-filled
cans of paint-stripper, two-stroke petrol and turpentine into the metal container, he accepted that the homemade potion would be
as vigorous as anything suggested from the strange website.
Halloween approached unnoticed by the man who now spent most of evenings in the shadows of his garden shed and even though
Cissy believed he was merely clearing the spider web-festooned shelves of the many chemicals that one collects with gardening,
she would sometimes call from the kitchen door and ask if everything was okay.
Bruce's life had always been on a steady course and if a neighbour was asked what they thought of the quietly-spoken man living in
the house with the roses growing over the front-door, the word that I'm sure they would use would be 'regular'.
Regular and reliable, that was Bruce.
But Bruce's manner had changed, he had become surly and rarely spoke during dinner with Cissy.
The man who'd once jumped into a canal in Venice after Cissy had fallen from a gondola and told her during the next week of dealing
with dysentery that he loved her, seemed to be somewhere else, somewhere dark.
His bathing habits had also altered and the woman who could rib-stitch and alter to a medallion knit when needs-must, would sometimes
pick-up an acrid aroma coming from the brooding, distant man that placed his half-eaten meal on the draining board and return to the shed.
On the odd-occasion that Bruce stayed away from the garden, Cissy would discover him hunched over the computer in the corner of the
lounge discussing Lord-knows-what on some website. He'd taken to wearing just a vest and the camouflage-trousers around the house
and again, this hadn't gone unnoticed.
I will not dwell on the two incidents that preceded Bruce's arrest -but to say that he was certain that the child in the Halloween mask was a
creature from another planet and the raid on the local hospital for additional 'supplies' Bruce now looks back on as a genuine mistake.
But there will be always bumps in the road and it was only when the Hospital administration deemed it necessary to complain about Bruce's
late-night intrusion, that fate took the reins of the craggy-man's future and offered a supporting compatriot to Bruce's infatuation.
That ally was somebody Bruce was related to and yet oddly enough, had never actually met. His name is Vance.
..............................
Not wishing to drag this out, but I do have some information on Vance too. Many thanks go out to a certain young man
who was actually as an employee in this character's business.
With a fantastic verve of serious research and with his permission, I salute his doggedness and I'll add it here to if it's okay?
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.