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The Picture of Deerian Gray - by Oscar Wildebeeste

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  • The Picture of Deerian Gray - by Oscar Wildebeeste

    The studio was filled with the odour of the cat's litter tray, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the the rusty old Vauxhall Astras and broken washing machines of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the by-pass, or the more delicate perfume of the municipal recycling works.

    "It is by far far far far far the bestest thing wot you've ever done, Basil'
    Lord Henry Newburg lounged languidly on the IKEA Louis Quatorze divan, drawing gently through sensuous lips upon a hooching great spliff of finest moroccan resin.

    The object to which he was referring, er, to was the luminescent screen of a knocked-off Imac which stood daintily in the middle of the room, on top of the TV. Upon the cathode tube screen was displayed the portrait of a young man of extraordinary trousers and even more extraordinary personal beauty. Some distance away, diffidently unscrewing the lid of a 1.5 litre bottle of finest Imperial Thunderbird, sat the artist himself, Basil Brush, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused such public excitement (in Wigan, anyway) that questions were asked in the House, leading to the banning of fox-puppet hunting in the Home Counties.

    As the painter looked at the gracious little Gif. he had so skilfully scanned in, a smile of pleasure, or possibly wind, passed across his face. The comely cheeriness of his pulchritudinous pal pictured in the pixels was outradiancified only by the subject of the work, who at that moment sloped languidly into the room.

    'Oh, me bleedin' 'ead....Oh, hello, Lord Henry. Hello Basil. I'm afraid I have a most frightful hangover after Madame Rodriguez' soiree; man, her moonshine cider most definitely outperforms my cellar of paintstrippers and other more noxious solvents'

    'Boom! Boom!' smirked Basil.

    'Don't do that, Baz' winced the young godlet.

    'Hello, Deerian' Lord Henry languidly looked the youth up and down in a frankly slightly pervy way.

    'Oi! Baz! Wot you doin on my computer, you vulpine little shitbag?'. A becoming flush of roseate anger bloomed like a summer dawn over Naples Bay upon Deerian's peachy cheek. He made a little mou of displeasure.

    'Have you got a cow in here somewhere?' asked Basil, pricking up his russet ears.

    'Ooh, that's not bad' smiled the bespectacled Adonis, viewing his chirpy simulacrum upon the glowing screen, 'I like the way them roses fill in the background'.

    'I'm so glad you like it, Deerian' smiled Basil, toothily.

    'I was just saying it is by far far far far far far far far far...far the bestest thing Basil'sssss everrr, errr, done, yeah, thassit' slurred Lord Henry.

    Suddenly, to save too much narrative exposition and excessive description of the Art Nouveau furniture, Deerian Gray clapped his hand to his beauteous brow and swore rather crudely.

    'Oh! Oh! How sad it all is! How wonderful it would be if this beautiful Gif. would grow old, whilst I remain ever young! I would indulge my passion for French actresses and industrial catering boxes of Strongbow without the usual concomitant health risks, and consequently could have a completely filthy time all my life, forever!' He flung himself down on the sofa, sobbing piteously.

    'Oof!' squawked Lord Henry, who had been lying languidly on the chaise longue already.

    When they had sorted themselves out, Basil smiled archly as he picked up his Ormolu i-pod:

    'Yeah, well that's never gonna f*cking happen. Let's get down the pub. I'm frigging well parched after all that scanning!'


    Some untraceable hours and many dubious scenes later, Deerian let himself in to his house with his latchkey (it took him about four hours). Staggering first to the commode in which to perform emesis, he momentarily neglected to refasten his Hawkes of Saville Row trousers and, as they ensnared his ankles, fell back into the studio. From his languid position on the lino, he stared up at the Imac, which still displayed Basil's remarkable Gif.

    For a moment, he was puzzled. I mean, more so than usual. Blearily adjusting his akimbo spectacles, he scrutinised the image with his limpid and beautiful temporarily-strabismic eyes.

    It was true. The image had indeed altered.

    Where that morning had been displayed the countenance of an innocent and unbesmirched Dorsetshire chappie now there appeared a subtly-altered portrait. Deerian marvelled and dragged himself upright by the nearest table-leg.

    The face of the image was undoubtedly still his. But now, where hithertobeforetimes there had been an angelic glow now there appeared a slight distortion of the finely-crafted CGI. The lips curled in a sardonic smirk, whilst one eyebrow arched in mocking regard of the observer.

    'Fuckin' 'ell!' murmured Deerian, 'it's bleedin' 'appened!'

    To be continued, or rather, the obvious sequelae can be imagined...

  • #2
    :clap: :clap: :clap:

    Well played sir. The only thing worse than having your avatar mocked, is not having your avatar mocked. I have nothing to declare but my jpegs! Etcetera. :)

    It was only meant as a temporary measure though... I was just excited to be able to make pictures again. The ink was barely dry when I scanned it!

    Spent today doing very dull website gubbins, but it's looking much nicer now... and there's even a Crash City section for portraits and cartoons and possibly even stories. Lovely.
    "That which does not kill us, makes us stranger." - Trevor Goodchild


    • #3
      *Bows* It was just so begging to happen: a multiverse-literary-reality overlap, I'm bound! :P


      • #4


        • #5
          Perdix, I believe this sequence needs to be folded into "Lurker at the Baker Street Threshold."



          • #6
            Ooh, yes! :P