Angels dancing on the head of a pin. (Edgar)

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Olive strolled along a street of New York City, trying to politely prise her way through the bustling hubbub of tourists and many of the inhabitants with such curt, urban manners. This proved rather difficult since she was used to the ways of the Isle of Wight. Back there you only bumped into a handful of people within a five mile radius of yourself.

Stopping short, Olive spotted the quite proud, prudent letters representing the Museum of Modern Art. She reached into her pockets and managed to pull out a very battered looking packet of Marlboros. Placing one of the cigarettes into her mouth she found her lighter. Smoking, she knew, was a bad habit. Nonetheless she enjoyed it. Probably another thing she inherited from her ever absent father. Her mother, Sandra, detested the fact that Olive smoked. Inhaling and appreciating the first drag she took the time to absorb her alien surroundings. It was truly mind-blowing. Everything she saw was just increased in quantity and proportion. Finishing her cigarette, and checking her pathway to the entrance of the museum was reasonably safe, she entered the building.

An air-conditioned atmosphere hit her abruptly, walking over to the reception to make an enquiry, she spotted a very young, very pretty girl who was conventionally sitting upright.
“Good afternoon, can you tell me where I can find the Edgar Bramson exhibition is, please?"
The girl shifted in her seat to face Olive. Her long, blonde hair was tied in a bun and her make-up appeared immaculate.
“Of course, it's just up those stairs and to the right.” She directed, smiling sweetly.
Olive nodded and walked away. This would not be the first time that she would see some of her father's works. But for some reason being in New York added to the sighting. She slowly trudged up the stairs. Her attitude towards her father changed as often as she photographed. Sometimes she absolutely despised him, detested his flamboyancy and all of his lonely, selfish ways. But then she decided that she loved his creativity and and individuality.

Arriving at the top of the top of the stairs she paused to steady herself against one of the solid, white-washed walls. Her heart raced, she wasn't sure whether it was due to the lack of exercise she did and it being the consequence of having just walked up a flight of stairs or the pure prospect of seeing her father's exhibition.

[Lord Xavier]

Isaiah 53:3, Philippians 3:21, 2 Corinthians 12:7

'Be-ska-ska-bee-ska-ska. Oh my gosh! Holey moley! Mary mother of gaaadzooks!' Arms went spiralling this way and that as the crazed priest went dancing down the road, the pavement whizzing underneath his feet as he screamed out at the New Yorkers. Even the guy covered in cardboard, screaming about Christ's imminent return (as he had been doing for the past fifteen years) stopped to have a good stare, before turning back and throwing confetti.

Let's embitter the passion of religion in this post, folks, can you feel the love flowing through my fingers as they are allowed to dance across this piece of equipment?

Finally reaching the museum, he stopped and twirled around, looking up at the great monolithic beast, screaming 'Heaven almighty! What are we doing here, kids? Gotta get out here, no time, call Indie!' The security guard, on usual occasions like this would have drawn his pistol and fired two shots – one to the head and one to the heart.

The guard, that guard. *narrows eyes and shakes fist* BARROWMAN!

He stared at the priest and smiled politely. 'Afternoon, Mister Bramson.' The priest span around, black costume twisting like a flamenco dress, a maniacal grin plastered across his belly of a mouth. 'That's Father Bramson to you, sonny.' An unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, the priest (lightning fast, like) snapped his petrol lighter across the end of the stick, super fast, nifty tricks, man.

Grumbling a little, feeling his head beginning to calm down, the priest took a few puffs, put his hands to his chest and gently fingered his rosary beads as he made his way into the stupid, pretentious museum of modern art.

A hand shot out to bar his way.

GUARD: No smoking inside. (GUARD points at sign, indicates no smoking permitted inside.)

EDGAR (moving close to the GUARD's face, threatening to burn him with the fag): Listen here, you young fuck. You might have a nice big truncheon and maybe something a little stronger, god knows you have to in this climate, but I'm armed and I'm oh-so-fucking dangerous. Got that, you young fuck?

The guard stands bewildered, blinks and the priest has vanished inside the building. Too late. That cat got away, that cat was too fast for this guard. No more time, running out of time. Huffing 'n' puffing past the reception, the priest was dead-set on making it to the exhibition in bad time.

Stopped in his tracks by the sight of blonde hair, he skidded back around like an ol' Tom cat, slinked back down to reception, swept his shoulder length hair from side to side, winked, said 'Because you're worth it' and fucked off up the stairs.

Cackling could be heard approaching the white washed room, the exhibition room of the mad man. The punters all turned insanely, meerkat eyes open to see what on earth could be approaching, something mad, bad and oh-so very fucking Amsterdam dangerous.

Wheeling around the fountain, and around the corner came the maniac, came the priest, he stood like a superhero, arms on hips, hands on waist? he glared out from behind his inch-thick specs and screamed as loud as he could.

'I AM BECOME A STRANGER UNTO MY BRETHREN, AND AN ALIEN UNTO MY MOTHER'S CHILDREN!'

He stopped, opened his arms out wide in an acceptance, Christ lovin', baby Jesus sort of pose and stared panting, sweating at all of his adoring fans. He laughed a little, then a little more until he keeled over and rocked backwards and forwards, spending a minute or two there until he finally stood up (picking his fag up off the floor) and casually started looking around his exhibition.

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Listening to her heart rate gradually decrease, Olive was sinking into the serenity of her own mind. She lazily opened her eyes, remembering where she was and who she was. Preparing to walk into the exhibition room she heard some sort of commotion appearing in reception. All of a sudden a disorderly outburst of a man started thundering up the flight of stairs. He looked like he'd just escaped from some sort of asylum/children's play.

Dazzled and quite confused Olive floated after this character. This character she soon came to realise was her own father. Who else? The whole room's focus turned to this man, this man who was claiming to be some sort of priest. A genuine priest, someone who is supposed to be virtuous, would not be breaking laws by smoking indoors and almost assaulting people. It's a good job that people expect this sort of unpredictable behaviour from Edgar.

After seeing him collapse to the floor her natural instinct sent her forward to help him. On reaching him she simply said "Jesus Christ." He was a mess, he was an absolute wreck. After realising what she was she doing she instantly regretted it. Her promise to herself, when back in Chester, was that she would not go to New York to get in touch with her father. And here she was provoking that contact. So she simply picked her camera up, which was dangling clumsily around her neck, and CLICK took one simple, statement photograph. After doing so she turned and strolled (as casually as she could) to the first piece of work. She felt like an idiot, like a tourist. It was like Edgar was some sort of attraction, to be gawped at and pointed at. Which was exactly what was happening. After the disturbance most of the people returned to what they were doing. One old dear was attempting to get his autograph, shoving a pen and scraggy piece of paper in his hands. Olive chuckled to herself. It was the least he deserved. He'd always been a crap father. Although, seeing him in this state made her feel ever so slightly melancholy.

Whenever Olive felt like she was in the wrong situation or didn't know what to do then she would always return to her thoughts. Somehow she could lose herself in the labyrinth of her own mind. She looked back upon her short life so far and thought about how her mother never told her about any romantic stories of her parents in New York. Maybe having a father absent in one's life wasn't anything dramatic, but simply something to ponder over. She always liked to imagine herself and what she would be like if things had been different and her father had been present in her existence from birth.

From the point of view of a bystander they'd assume that this young woman was truly involved in the piece of work hanging on the wall but in actual fact she wasn't paying any attention to the art at all.

[Lord Xavier]

Isaiah 53:3, Philippians 3:21, 2 Corinthians 12:7

With adrenalin slipping and sliding out of the veins, arteries and body, pooling onto the floor in an ectoplasmic mess, Edgar took one great and sweeping look around the room. And here, ladies and gents, is what he saw:

- a haauge skylight
- a gigantic piece of his art in the centre of the room
- the walls littered with his maudlin paintings
- old people
- fat people
- old, fat people
- and something with antlers

Also, he heard a joyous outcry to the Lord.

'Praise be upon ye, child,' he muttered, waving his priestly hand at the young girl, the young churchgoer. He stared intently for a second at the back of her legs, disappointed she didn't walk peculiarly. Walking peculiarly had always been a curse for the artist, a slim Igor.

Twitching violently, spasm in the neck, eyes beating, Edgar let out a fur-ball cough and proceeded to move around the room. He had to move around cautiously, of course, you could see the nutter pulling his legs up high then setting them down cautiously, as if navigating his way through a terrible swamp of pain and general misery.

What in fact was happening, oh omniscient writer?

Well, I'll tell you, dear, kind, delicious reader. This man's brain was quite literally capsizing, the entire room was filled with grisly, ghoulish images (all of which were screaming out from the walls). Not only that, though, the floor was completely covered in strange, stupendous iridescent snakes.

Snakes?

Yes, children. Snakes.

You see, that pool of ectoplasmic adrenalin had started to produce these strange creatures and the only one capable of seeing them, or the only one bothered about seeing them, was Edgar Bramson.

'I'll have to talk to the janitor about this. This sort of thing really can't go on, I'm sick to death of finding them everywhere. It isn't even particul-' he cut off and screamed violently as something wretched bumped into him. Robotically, his hand plunged down for his jacket pocket. His hand moved through the air, searching for the jacket pocket. Looked down. Shit. He was wearing a priest robe. He was unarmed. Perhaps he could strangle his attacker with rosary beads.

'Mister Bram-'

'Father.'

'-son, I really am your truly biggest fan. Followed your work for years. Sign this for me, Mister-'

'Father...' his eye twitched a little.

'Bramson. Sir.'

He looked down at the piece of paper the old biddy held out. 'And be lured into your Satanic gang through all façades and tricks of deception and general mumbling of Christ splattered across various landscapes upside down and over the ground where it was consummated that I truly did love the lord Jesus? I think not, you old coot.'

He danced around her, avoiding stepping on any of the snakes and landed beside the young churchgoer. 'Heaven or hell? Up or down? Coming or going? Tea or coffee? Salt or pepper? Chalk or cheese? ... Fuck. I can't stand this place.' He paused, looked at the art work. What do you think of it, then?'

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Disturbed by the onslaught of an Edgar Bramson Olive snapped out of the trance. "Sorry," she shook her head from side to side as if to shake a demon from within her head "Oh, yes, it's very... Well, I have seen quite a few of your exhibitions before and I must say that this is the darkest yet." Olive, pleased with her rambling of an answer, turned to the unfamiliar man and smiled innocently. Staring at him momentarily, trying to absorb every detail of his face. Wondering about the photo she took of him she turned from this painting and walked away. Stuffing her hands in her pockets and stopping at the second painting she realised it was supposed to be a self-portrait. Quite inaccurate, but the basic features were there; the thick black framed glasses, the wild mass of hair. She stood back and tripped on a lead that linked up to a projector which was playing a video of some sort. Olive hated public areas, she was always prone to embarrassment of some form. Tutting at the wire and kicking it to the side she watched a family on the other side of the room.

Olive was and always has been a 'people-watcher'. She could stand there for hours intrigued by the ways of other people, and the way that they interact. The beauty of photography was that she could capture the emotion behind other people.

The family of four were all seated, in height order, on a bench in front of the projector screen.
"Mummy, look at that swan!"
"Yes, Arthur, it's quite a weird looking thing. Don't you think?"
Olive loved all birds, she sat at the other end of the bench to watch with eager interest. The video, on loop, returned to the beginning. It reminded her of the story 'An Ugly Duckling'. The swan wasn't the ordinary animal you would probably imagine but it was still, in her mind, beautiful all the same. The youngest child of the family sat, wide-eyed and open-mouthed with total awe at the faux transformation of man to swan.

Olive got up and continued to wander around the room, occasionally stealing glances at her father on the other side of the room. She was famished and tired. She wanted to go back to her new flat and sleep. Sleep was her life almost, she always welcomed the unconscious thoughts of sleep.

[Lord Xavier]

Isaiah 53:3, Philippians 3:21, 2 Corinthians 12:7

The priest, the artist, the monster stared eagerly at the young woman, the young churchgoer, eagerly awaiting her response, her reaction to this painting of his. He hoped desperately that she was an art student, they were always so flattering, always so pretentious. Nobody seemed to really like him in the room, just like his art and life-style. What an existence, eh, boys?

Squashed a finger against his malformed eyes, studying the movements of the young churchgoer's lips as she formed each syllable. Delicious, delectable, like a fruit, like a peach. Keep back, keep back. Remember what happened last time.

Seconds later, Edgar nodded absently, eyes flashing back across the room, looking to see if the antlers were still visible over the crowd. '...darkest yet.' She was right, everyone was saying it, society always wins. An exhibition dealing and delving into his self-destructive past, self-inflicted self-portraits strewn over mouldy, damp walls. Horrific freak harpies screaming in the centre, the whirr of the projector, cut and edited to show his own personal transformation.

What had turning into a Were-Swan actually achieved?

Very little. It was an embarrassment.

A Were-Swan... of all things.

'Bloody Peruvian witch doctor,' Edgar grumbled menacingly as he watched the blonde churchgoer stroll off to look around.

Copying the oddly familiar-looking churchgoer, the artist studied the next painting: Cancer Caught a Fish Alive. Cute. Dark impressionist painting of himself, smoking away, the forty of fiftieth of the day no doubt. So, in spirit of the occassion, he took one long drag from his cheap cigarette and flicked it at the painting, watching it ping off, leaving a tiny scorch mark on the surface.

With a cracked cackle, he walked towards the projector, great and stinking clouds of smoke rising from his mouth.

Oh, Christ Jesus. Children.

There existed a syndicate of archenemies which was mostly made up of children and silverfish. Edgar hated them all. He leaned in, close to the child, 'Be careful what you say, son. After all, I have to live with that face.' Winking at the mother, the priest carefully stepped away, walking behind the young churchgoer.

'Tell me, pilgrim, Edgar said joyfully (part of the priest etiquette), walking now beside the girl, 'Any juicy confessions you wish to confide in this here Father?' He grinned, a mouth full of horrible, thin teeth, having finished with an even worse attempt at an Irish accent.

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