Putting Reek in Greek (Patreon)

I think the two main reasons I have for rewriting someone else's story is either I want the ending to go in a different direction or I feel the story could be made more believable. With the latter I mean having means of transformations more grounded in the real world, having peoples reactions more believable (all from my point of view of course) and most of all trying to remove coincidences. I want to minimize the number of changes and have them spiral out into as big consequences as possible. Now in this story, where everything is just a sequences of changes, I actually added to them, but I wanted to reduce the surrounding coincidences. You happen to do the thing that would get some guys be targeted for crimes they actually made, and they happened to be part of a larger crime group and the happened to know the club bouncer. To convenient. But one coincidence is fine. Let's make the most out of it. If they traffic drugs, they can probably also traffic medical drugs, so lets use a ton of that in the story. Then have that as a reason for wrecking the future beyond a bad haircut and some ink.

Another thing with doing a rewrite is you actually, really get to know the source material. You need to figure out what everything in the original actually mean. What is a fusey?

(Fusey Bowl cut, "popularized" by Joey Essex)

I want to get timelines in order. How long did he sleep? How long for a haircut and a perm? How fast can you actually tattoo? What are the distances? I pulled up some random Greek resort island on a map, looked at street views, hotel promo shots, vacation photos etc. to see if I can tease out something else to make the story ring true. This story was based on tumblr blogger walkamongyou's What Happens in Malia…, and his response after having read it was “Love how plausible you’ve made it“ which was the goal all along.

Original Story: What Happens in Malia...

It all started because I booked a holiday to Malia. I’m an idiot for doing it, but the flights were cheap and the advert promised it’d be a ‘Great Gay Getaway’… so here I am, sat in a tacky cocktail bar. The flight was delayed, the staff were rude, the hotel was filthy and to top it all of I’ve coincided directly with all the trashiest stag and hen dos known to man. Everyone’s a chav, everyone’s English and worst of all, everyone’s straight as a ruler… definitely nothing to offer a cultured gay man from South London. I’m sat in a bar nursing a Whisky Sour and contemplating just going to bed at 8 pm when they enter.

They’re a classic example of everything that’s wrong with the Brits. They stagger in singing and chanting “OI OI” and “Lads! Lads!”. They’re young, comically sunburnt, with identical chavvy haircuts, short on the sides and long on top. A group of working class boys on a lads’ holiday. One of them’s wearing a t shirt that says ‘On it till we vomit’, another that says ‘Pussy Patrol’ and a couple of them, of course, have football shirts. They’re a ridiculous cliché, drunk and rowdy. One loud-mouthed guy, their leader, is particularly handsome. He’s topless despite this being a public place, revealing a toned, athletic body; he wouldn’t look out of place dancing on a podium in Soho. His hair is dark brown and spikey, he has a diamond stud in both ears and a mischievous expression on his face as he starts chanting ‘Shots! Shots! Shots!’ and soon they’re all joining in. A row of tequila appears from the bar and he cries out “What happens in Malia stays in Malia!”

I don’t want them here. I resent their misogynistic ways and the atmosphere they’ve created. Not to mention I’m having a terrible day, so the London boy in me does the only thing he can think of and seeks out the bouncer, a bald, robust figure in a tight black T shirt stood by the doorway.
“Is there any chance you can get those guys to leave? They’re making people uncomfortable.”
He shakes his head “Sorry, sir, there’s nothing I can do…”
“Are you sure? It’s not fair on everyone else in here”
“Unfortunately, sir, they’ve got just as much of a right to be here as anyone else and they’re not breaking any laws.“
Normally I’d give up, but I’m exhausted, and I feel a lie come to my lips. I even shock myself as I say it.
“But they are breaking the law. I’ve seen them at another bar this evening and they’re dealing drugs.”
He looks at me, the irritable expression gone from his face.
“What did you say?“
“I said they’re drug dealers. They’ve been selling cocaine.”
Suddenly, his expression is deadly serious.
“Thanks for letting me know. You have a good evening now.”

I watch them covertly, with a slight smile as the security guard approaches them. There’s a confrontation, voices are raised, and soon the boys leave. They glare around the bar, even in my direction, before they go and peace returns. I chuckle to myself. What happens in Malia stays in Malia… Stupid chavs.

I go back to the bar stool and finish my cocktail at a leisurely pace, sit for a while and listen to the music they’re playing. At least I think that’s what I do. Everything starts going fuzzier and fuzzier, warmer and hazier, and then…

“Mate, wake up…”
I’m groggy, my head’s pounding and I’ve no idea where I am.
“Wake up, fella!”
I feel a strong pair of hands shaking me, gently at first, and then roughly. My eyes slowly open, but everything’s dark and for a second I’m terrified that I might have gone blind, until a pair of sunglasses is pulled from my face and I’m blinded instead by the bright Malia sun.  Leaning over me is a handsome man; he’s wearing a grey t shirt and a backwards cap, but I recognise him instantly as the topless guy from last night. I panic, try to move but my body doesn’t want to respond and instead I slump to the ground.
“Whoa…whoa…” the man says, catching me in his arms and holding me tight against his broad chest “Thank fuck you’re a skinny bastard.” 

He props me back up on the deck chair I was sleeping on, holding my head upright, his face close to mine. I can smell chewing gum and cigarettes on his breath. I’m sure it’d be erotic if I wasn’t so frightened. "Now, I want you to listen very carefully to me. Blink once if you understand.”
I manage to blink, though it’s an effort.
“Good…Now, it seems like you had your drink spiked. Unlucky for you… But lucky for me. I left you out in the sun for a bit to sober you up but clearly it didn’t work, you’re wankered…” 
He ruffles my hair and my head instantly slumps to the side without him supporting it, so he takes a hold of my temples and pulls me sharply back upright.

“OK, listen to me, you little prick. You tipped off the wrong bouncer last night…He’s a good friend of mine. But don’t you worry yourself…”
He chuckles darkly and stares straight into my eyes. “Don’t look so scared mate. We’re going to be good friends… Now, what’s your name again?”
I try to respond, but can only groan.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that…” He laughs, coughs and then spits on the floor “Well…my name’s Caine, and to be honest, fella, I don’t give a shit what your name is…But what I do give a shit about is that you ruined a proper good night for me and the lads.”
My body tenses at this accusation “No worries though… tonight’s a new night, as they say… and you’re going to make it unforgettable. You’re about to become the newest member of our Lads on Tour group: Gaz. That’s your name, right? Gaz? Blink once if it is…"
I sit there, not responding…my name definitely isn’t Gaz. He grunts and lands a hard slap across my face. 
“I said blink if your name’s Gaz!”
This time, I do blink, twice for good measure.
“Good lad. You’re not as thick as you look. Now, Gaz, let’s get you dressed. We’ve got lots to do today and a big night ahead of us.“

I’m staggering down the street, with Caine supporting me. A lot of passers-by are shaking their head and pointing at us…well, me; to an outside eye he looks like a well-meaning boy helping out his mate who’s had one too many. Nobody would guess he was a straight chav with a perverse sense of justice, propping up a sedated gay man.

But it’s not only this apparent display of friendship that is making people stare. When Caine took me in front of the mirror to dress me, it was clear I’d been out in the sun for a very long time. In fact, he’d applied copious tanning oil to speed up the process; My usual olive skin was a painful, blazing red all aside from a tan line where he’d left a pair of sunglasses on my face and an equally ridiculous set of white lines where he’d dressed me in an old wife beater; I was now modelling what most Brits would call a classic ‘twat tan.’

Worse than that, he’d forced me into someone else’s clothes, still ripe with sweat and alcohol from the night before. The pair of Hawaiian board shorts and flip flops were hardly in keeping with my usual tight chinos and brogues, but the real pièce de resistance of this terrible ensemble was a vomit-stained t shirt that simply read “I HAVE THE DICK SO I MAKE THE RULES” in outlandish red letters. It was the kind of misogynistic fashion choice I’d instantly hate a ‘lad’ for wearing and now here I was proudly modelling it to the world. He’d also applied copious gel to my hair to give me a rough, spiked hairdo, not dissimilar to his and then drenched me with some cheap cologne ‘till I was almost choking on the smell.

So, here I am, looking like the very worst example of a British man abroad. I can’t protest, I can’t even meet the eye of my potential critics, all I can do is stumble forwards as Caine propels me down the street. Suddenly he steers me into a building. As he guides me through the door, I notice the spinning red, blue and white of a barber’s pole.

It’s a Turkish barbers; the two men working there turn around and eye me up and down, barely hiding their disgust. It’s a far cry from the warm welcome I get at the expensive hairdressers who cut my hair in London. The decor is ugly and cheap, with neon lights and linoleum. The two men speak rudely among themselves in another language, ignoring us, until one finally comes forward with a  sigh “You want a haircut?”

Caine places me in the barber’s chair. I notice whatever I’ve been spiked with is starting to wear off as I’m now just about able to support my own head. The barber is behind me, glaring and tutting like I’m an idiot. I see him take in the stains on my t shirt and the slogan on the front as he puts the cape around my neck.
“Are you sure you’re alright, pisshead?”

Caine’s voice comes from behind me. “Yeah man, he’s just taken a lot of shit. You’re a pussy but you’re right as rain ain’t you Gaz mate?” He slaps me hard on the back. It’s agonising on my sunburn but I can barely flinch.

The barber seems appeased, rolling his eyes, and taking another look at the photo Caine is showing him on his phone.
“While we were out Gaz gave me strict orders to get him a fresh cut before we hit the town again today. When he sobers up he’ll be gutted if he isn’t looking his best. He even said he’d pay triple, didn’t you Gaz mate?” he laughs “You stupid stoner bastard.”
The barber nods “OK…for triple, you have a deal.”

I’m sure he’s being deliberately rough as he sets to work, shoving my head from side to side and pressing the clippers tightly against my scalp, totally ignoring my sunburn. Still, now I’m sitting down again the exhaustion really sets in, and before I know it I doze off. When I come to, the barber is holding a mirror up to the back of my head and tapping his foot impatiently.
“Your haircut…sir.”

I see Caine’s reflection appear behind me, smiling broadly, flashing his perfect white teeth, then see my own eyes widen as I take in this new look. Gone is my fashionable London haircut, in it’s place is a modernised fusey bowl cut; the top third of my head is covered, but below that is a harsh line where I’ve been shaved bald. The barber must have done something to the hair he left on my head, as it’s now blow dried to perfection, stupidly voluminous; I look like a giant iced gem, it’s a style I’ve only ever seen on the stupidest chavs and builders trying to copy their favourite stars from The Only Way is Essex.

“Oi oi, Gaz, a perfect lad’s haircut for a night out with the boys!” Caine yells in my ear, then reaches across to shake the barber’s hand “Thanks, I promise Gaz is smiling too, aren’t you mate? Thinking of all the pussy you’ll get with your new do ain’t ya?”  Both men laugh as Caine reaches into his pocket and pulls out what I see is my wallet, cramming a handful of euros into the barber’s hand; he doesn’t only pay him triple, he gives him a tip as well. “Keep the change mate.” 
The barber smiles:
“Right. Well have a good one lads…” then he turns to Caine “Now can you please get your friend out of here, he stinks and it’s not fair on the other customers.”

“I can’t wait to tell the lads how you were too stinky to stay in that Turkish barbers! Classic Gaz! Gaz the Stinker!” Caine howls as he leads me down the pavement, people are staring at us. The sun isn’t so hot now, so it must be early afternoon.

“Now, Gaz, mate, we’ve got one more stop before we’re ready for our special lads’ night. But I want this one to be a surprise, so it’s time for you to have another little sleep…”

Seemingly from nowhere he pulls out a small white tab and forces it into my hands. I try to resist, but in my state I can’t; I only manage to articulate a single word: ‘no’. Gaz gets up close to me and says in a low voice “Take it yourself, or things are going to get very messy for you.” I breath in sharply and push it into my mouth, feeling it melt on my tongue…

I wake up, this time to the sound of buzzing. For a second, I stupidly think I’m in a beehive. I know the drill by now; I try to speak, but no sound comes out. My senses clear and I notice a light crinkling sound and the gentle touch of someone behind me. With horror, I realise exactly where I am; the crinkling sound is clingfilm, the buzz is the sound of an artist at work. He’s taken me to a fucking tattoo parlour. I don’t even have any tattoos…well, correction, I didn’t. I feel a lump in my throat as I dread to think of what Caine has in store for me.

As if on cue, he appears. “Morning you lazy bastard! You’ve woken up just in time; this geeza here has sorted out those tats just like you wanted Gaz!”

I wonder what kind of tattoo artist would serve a client who was unconscious, but I know Caine is a ruthlessly smooth talker and also think back to articles I’d laughed at in the Daily Mail of people who’d had ridiciulous tattoos done on holiday. Now, thanks to Caine, I could add my own name to that illustrious list.

“You guessed it mate, you’ve got some sick new ink. It’s probably easier if I just show you on my phone though…”
With a manic glint in his eye, he slowly scrolls through the photos of the artist’s handiwork in front of my face with careful glee, enjoying how I can’t react, but I still find myself gasping at what he shows me.

My body has been turned into a ridiculous canvas of male clichés; there are British flags and patriotic slogans, roses, poppies and images of football players I don’t even recognise on my arms, legs and chest. But the blazing centrepiece is a huge Celtic print of three letters across my back; a name, not my name, a name bestowed upon me today: ‘GAZ’, underlined with the grammatically incorrect phrase ‘Malia 2017. Lad’s on tour’ 

Caine locks eyes with me in triumph.
“On other guys I’d think this much ink was stupid, but on you, mate, it’s fucking perfect.”

Everything is starting to merge together, perhaps I’m in shock, but Caine has led me back to the cheap holiday apartment where this hellish day began. This time I can feel the tingling, like pins and needles, of movement returning to my body, I’m now able to stand up on my own, and I’m in the middle of a bedroom with Caine in front of me. He’s dressed really nicely in a white linen shirt, breathtakingly handsome. In spite of all that’s happening I can feel my penis bulging in the board shorts he’s put me into.

“Now, mate, today has been tough for you I know…You’ve not been able to control very much that’s happened to you, so I thought it’d be nice if I let you decide something important for yourself.” All I can do is stand there, but he lets that sink in before continuing.

“Now before you say anything, of course you can borrow my snapback” he says, roughly forcing the grey cap backwards onto my head “But since you’ve been so co-operative today, I’m also going to let you decide which footie top it’s going to be for the big night! What do you say, Stinker? Red, or blue?” 

He spins me around forcefully and I gaze up at two football shirts hanging on the wall. Inside I know that they’ve both already been worn by one of my new ‘friends’ the night before. My shoulders slump in defeat and I quietly nod in the direction of the blue one.

He pulls it over my head, it’s stale with dried sweat. “Nice choice, mate. I think the red would have really brung out your sunburn. You really should get some aloe vera on that, you daft twat. No time for that now though, the lads are waiting and it’s taken you all fucking day to get ready.”

 We’re in front of a bar, waiting in a queue. Everyone is dressed nicely, in collared shirts and dresses, and I feel so conspicuous with my cap and sweaty football top. I’ve regained a lot of movement, but everything’s still fuzzy around the edges. “Sorry everyone!” Caine shouts “Gaz here has had five pints too many!”

 As we reach the front of the queue, I recognise the bouncer from the night before. He eyes me up and down coldly, before shaking hands with my torturer. “Alright Caine! Who’s your new mate?”
“This wanker right here is Gaz; but you can just call him Stinker!”
The bouncer laughs  “Hiya Stinker. Shit…I didn’t recognise you. Don’t you look…different.” He leans in and sniffs deeply “Jesus, I can see where you got the name. Look, normally we have a dress code here but just for tonight I’ll let you in if you take off the cap.” Caine helpfully yanks it from my head, at which the bouncer abruptly laughs out loud “In actual fact mate, no worries. Keep it on.”  Caine puts it deftly back on my head, making a show of smoothing my new hairstyle down. The bouncer winks and steps out of the way to let us in. “Poor bastard” I hear him say under his breath.

The bar is classy, expensive and busy. Caine guides me across the room, his hand pressing firmly into the small of my back, over to a group of men who are chatting among themselves… Of course it’s the same group of lads as the day before, my new ‘mates’. “Fellas…you remember Gaz? He’s very sorry about last night and really keen to make it up to you all!” 
They turn, and I feel their eyes on me, taking me in; the tattoos, the outfit, the hair. They’re all dressed nicely, suave and in sharp contrast to the ridiculous figure Caine has shaped me into; there’s a moment of silence before they burst into raucous laughter. 

Soon I’m being shoved from person to person, they’re all shaking my hands, offering me swigs of their pint, clapping me on the back and eager to spend time with their new ‘mate’. One of them squeezes my bicep, asking me if I’m still on the protein shakes and if I watched the match last night. Another asks me if I knew there was a dress code, pointing at my top and loudly shouting “Classic Gaz”. Another pulls me over, asks me what the capital of Thailand is, before slapping me hard in the balls and saying “Bang cock!” 

I’m standing with a  guy called Shaun, who is showing me a top he picked up for me that day that is also ‘Classic Gaz’, a lime green t shirt proudly emblazoned with the words ‘MUFF DIVER’. However, this presentation is cut short by lights flashing from outside in red and blue. There’s the sound of sirens and the music in the club stops abruptly. The boys scatter and I feel a lump of joy in my throat. Somebody must have informed the police; finally my nightmare is over!

Then I notice that Caine is stood by me. He speaks quietly, with control. “Uh oh, mate, looks like our night is finished. The cops are here.”

I turn to face him and the adrenaline combined with the passage of time gives me my speech back at last “You’re going to jail, Caine.”

At this he laughs loudly “You daft, daft cunt. It’s not me going to jail. It’s you.”

I look at him incredulously, my words still slurring “What do you mean?”

“The lads and I tipped them off. They know you’re a dealer.They’ve already found a massive stash in your hotel room”
I stare at him in confusion “What do you mean? I’m not a dealer… there are no drugs in my hotel room…”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, mate.” he says, and winks “Lads on Tour is the name of a big drug cartel out here, of which you have become the latest and most prominent member. You’ve got it emblazoned on your back for fuck’s sake. I also sent some pics to show the police how you’ve been working hard to disguise yourself all day to blow them off the scent, not to mention how you tried to put the blame on us last night.”

I panic, my weight shifts, and Caine raises the palm of his hand in my direction. ”Now, don’t try anything stupid. If you run, or try to hit me, how is that going to look to the cops? You’re in enough trouble as it is.” Then he leans in closer, and says almost in a whisper “You see, Gaz… or whatever the fuck your name is, you might not have known who we were, but when you accused us loudly in public to my old friend Kev, you fucked with the wrong group. Luckily, you also gave me the perfect opportunity to get the heat off my own back and straight onto yours, so you might say we fucked you right back.”

“I’ve been keeping you high all day, so you’re going to test positive for anything they check you for. Your pockets are filled with the stuff; there’s a nice stash sewn into your shirt. Plus, I’ve got a lot of lads, a couple of barbers, a bouncer and a tattoo artist willing to testify that you’re a prolific drug dealer as well as a load of eye witnesses who saw you popping a pill in the streets outside the tattoo parlour.”

I stand there in absolute horror “Caine. You…You framed me…”
“You might say that, but really you brought it on yourself. And don’t you worry, my little scally. With your tats and your new haircut, you’re going to fit right in, in prison. Hope there’s a nice barber in there to keep your trim looking fresh…you could be down for quite some time” 

At this his expression changes “Oh, by the way…that reminds me.” He reaches over and snatches the hat off my head “This is my snapback. Not to worry, though; Connor says you can keep the footie top, he says it suits you better. But, Gaz, I do have one last surprise for you.”

There’s a flash of light, and I realise he’s taken a photo of me on my phone. I didn’t even know he had it… he throws it to the ground, and I impulsively bend to catch it. When I look back up, he’s vanished into the crowd and I quickly glance down at the phone’s screen. There’s a photo of me,  close up, eyes wide with surprise. But that’s not all, and I yell out in horror at what i see. Caine’s parting shot is there, the words are tattooed in indelible, cursive ink right across my forehead, covered only by the snapback I’d been wearing that evening: “GAZ: What happens in Malia, stays in Malia”