All right, here's something I've yet to see for this forum. No, my other stuff's not been forgotten, I wrote this on the fly and it's really a tarting up of the first fan-fiction I ever wrote back in early 2004. I hope you'll accept it all the same.

(Hikari has no involvement in this. This is just me, Scotty.)

STEELSIDE RANGERS
(All-Purpose Technicolor Guardians of the Empire)


Written by Scott D. Harris
Developed from the fan-fiction Angloman © Scott D. Harris 2004-2010
Based on concepts explored in Super Sentai © Toei Company, Ltd. 1975-2010

PROLOGUE: Breakfast with the Queen

From the journal of John S. Donym:

Empire Day, 2112, morning;

When I entered correspondence with Her Majesty Queen-Empress Jane, I quite honestly believed it folly to think she would aid me in my studies, an opinion shared by my classmates at Hartlib. Imagine my surprise when I received a message one month ago inviting me to spend the weekend at Buckingham Palace, conducting interviews with herself and her colleagues. I used the time afforded to me to gather up and memorise as much of my prior research material as possible, though in my excitement I was more capable of the former and incompetent of the latter, and must hope she will not take offence to my carrying a suitcase brimming with all manner of articles and notes about the stories pertaining to the Steelside affairs. In addition to her letter, she sent me a smaller envelope marked with her Royal Seal that I should give to the butler to prove the validity of my claim.

Ah, the black cab is approaching the Palace now. I must sign off here, and will continue my account at a later date.


2112 A.D.

John Donym was overwhelmed by the interior of the vast residence, with its deep red carpets and long corridors lined with noble busts, exotic houseplants and absolutely huge portraits of monarchs through the ages. Each painted visage was grander than the last, dating as far back as the reign of the Plantagenet dynasty, with framed scrolls and historical pages to cover the earlier royal houses. The most recent one portrayed the present monarch’s father and immediate predecessor, King Richard IV (who reigned from 1950 until 2020) and his family. It suddenly struck Donym that while she was well over a hundred-years-old and had reigned for ninety-two of them, Queen Jane did not look a day over sixteen. As he stared into the watercolour girl’s brilliant blue eyes, his train of thought was broken by something pulling on his trouser leg, accompanied by a gurgling sound like a tiny speedboat engine. He glanced down to see a small English bulldog, a pup no more than two or three months old by his estimation. Donym shifted his leg a little but the pup held fast.

“Ajax!” said a woman’s voice. It was husky from an extended lifetime of use, yet clear and well-pronounced with cultured youth. The bulldog stopped growling but did not let go of its prize until two arms reached down and lifted him up. Donym turned his gaze to the face of the real Queen Jane. Her big eyes were a deeper shade of blue and much more pleasant to look at than those of her counterpart in the portrait. Her skin was tanned from travelling. She had a long straight nose and pink lips in the shape of a bow. Her brows were long, thin and dark in contrast to her golden hair, which was held in a chignon. There was a black, heart-shaped Georgian beauty mark on her left cheek that was not in the picture. She was, quite simply, beautiful, though the toned state of her musculature and the old shadow of her eyes betrayed many years of fighting. How could they not, after all? He imagined that the things she saw during her Steelside years had taken their toll on her.

“I apologise for his behaviour,” she said to him. “Ajax doesn’t mean anything he does, he’s just very excitable.”

“I understand,” said the student of history, then he remembered his manners and bowed respectfully. The Queen laughed softly and bade him stand. The way she hugged the little bulldog against her scarlet dress with one arm and stroked his head with her free hand was tender, and Donym deduced from this that she was indeed a good and kind woman. After introductions were made, the Queen remarked, “The other Rangers will join us shortly,” and led him to the Breakfast Room. Like her ensemble, there was red everywhere. So much she almost seemed to blend into the furniture. The carpet was red, so were the curtains which were opened to allow one to see the grounds outside through the huge windows, the chairs, doors and even the table were red. They each took a seat and the Queen had her butler go down to the kitchen to prepare elevenses.

“So, here you are,” she smiled sweetly at Donym, all the while stroking her pet bulldog’s head. “I must say I was surprised you would want to do a report about us. I thought everybody knew about our exploits.”

“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” he replied, “people only know what they’ve seen on television. I want to get the real story from the people that went through it all.” He neglected to tell her that his choice of subject matter was decided in a moment of panic and even he doubted he could get an interview like this, and yet as she said, there he was.

“You sound like one of those investigative journalists, Mr Donym,” said the Queen. “You’d make a good one, I’m sure. So, where would you like to begin?”

“At the beginning, if I may,” he replied, placing a recording device on the table between them, “since you were involved in the project to form the Steelside Rangers since its inception, but before we go any further, Her Majesty, do you still have it? Your Steel Star, I mean?”

“Of course I do,” she tittered, “a good Ranger is always ready should duty call, you know.” She at last stopped stroking the dog to reach into her purse and retrieve a small object which she held out for him to see. It was an eight-pointed star, primarily silver though the tips of the points were glowing with a gentle red hue. Embedded in the centre was a gold coin engraved with a unique insignia combining a circlet crown with something that could easily be either a lightning bolt or the letter, ‘S.’ The final detail was the red crystalline ring that surrounded the coin. If one looked close enough, one would see raw, living energy dancing about in its mesmerising depths. The magic of the Star lay within it, for it was crystallised dragon’s blood, conducting the sweetest and most indestructible energy of all.

Once Donym was able to stop himself from drowning in that crimson optic pool and it had been placed back in the purse, he pressed the, ‘record,’ button on the device.

“Take your time,” he said, “I’d like to get as much detail as possible, please.”

“Yes, quite,” the Queen closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and allowed her memory to open itself to her, thrusting her back to the day her life and the lives of four other teenagers changed forever.

XXX

CHAPTER 1: The Heralds Awaken (1)

2010 A.D.

Ten years had gone by since the Space Race began. With Earthen wars rendered obsolete by the stalemate of imperial growth, the four Great Powers (the British Empire, the Japanese Shogunate, the People’s Empire of Germany and the American Territories) opted to turn their sights on the moon. Plans to establish the first of a certain Dr Henry Gordon Cavendish’s so-called, ‘Astroburg,’ settlements had circulated amidst scientific circles since early 1994*. What they in their intellectual arrogance failed to factor into their plans was mathematics. Not divisions or additions or minuses or pi or any of those other wonderful numerical puzzles, but probability; the probability that in the boundless ocean of the universe, with all its planets and stars and galaxies and nebulas, nobody else was watching Earth with envious eyes.

Indeed they were, though not from beyond the stratosphere but from a complex hidden beneath our very noses, a complex spoken of by many in hushed whispers of conspiracy: the Dulce Base, buried somewhere under the Archuleta Mesa in New Mexico. This was the headquarters of an entire military organisation and at their head was a most high-minded and influential figure. Professor Elias Thaddeus Blackthorn was a tall, dignified man. His skin was very pale and his head was completely devoid of hair, with not a single follicle upon his lofty dome or even a hint of an eyebrow. He had a broad mouth with cruel lips that always appeared to sneer emptily, a proud aquiline nose and long ears, both of which were pierced with three silver rings each along the arch of the cartilage. He wore dark glasses over his eyes and a was clothed in shining black material that had the texture of leather though the light rippled across the surface in waves of dark blues and purples as if it were oil. This man, this veritable mountain of a man, strode with authority between the winding laboratories where agents both Earthling and extra-terrestrial worked hard at their various scientific endeavours.

“We’re very glad you accepted the governor’s position here at Dulce Base, Professor,” said the Reptoid representative who served as his tour guide for the third or fourth time that day. “I would like to introduce you to our most imminent research team, Dr Everett Morris of Edinburgh, Scotland and Dr Hatta Mari Paloma of the planet Tarazed**.”

“This looks very interesting,” said Blackthorn. He spoke English perfectly, though with a tone that may have been Nordic in origin. He delicately lifted a blob of pinkish liquid which was held fast between two translucent slides. Dr Paloma, a woman with erect white feathers in place of hair and glassy, black eyes in her grey skin, explained that she and her partner had secured a pure sample of the AIDS virus and were making breakthrough developments on a cure.

“There are countries where this is still a serious threat,” Dr Morris put in, “like in Africa, for example, from where two-thirds of sufferers originate. Somewhere in the region of 1.4 million die from the virus each year. Think of the lives we could preserve with this.”

“Diplomacy at its finest. Right, sir?” asked the Reptoid. “It’s just like we told the executives. Approach the people of Earth with promises of advancement in the name of interstellar good will, and it will only be a matter of time before they agree to fly our flag.”

“Bring a sample to my office the moment you’re certain of its effectiveness,” said the Professor, ignoring the tour guide’s statement completely. “Keep up the good work Dr Paloma, Dr Morris.” They thanked him and returned to their task. The Reptoid prepared to continue on to the next project, but Blackthorn raised a gloved hand to stop him.

“Please,” he said, “it’s all very fascinating, really, but I’ve had a long journey here and I’d like to just go to my office and gather myself.”

“Of course,” said the tour guide, “you know the way back?”

“I do,” said Blackthorn. “I will call you when I’m ready to continue this conversation.” He turned with a swish of his coat-tails and was gone.

Blackthorn’s office was impossible to find without a map. It was somewhere in the literal spine of the Dulce Base, a great cylindrical room with a high ceiling and panelled walls that could switch between views of the laboratories or satellite-fed images from around the planet at the flip of a switch. The floor consisted of an outer ring and a bridges leading to a central platform where the black wooden desk -- which would be a perfect circle if not for the small gap to enter and exit -- was situated. The rest of the floor was taken up by a deep, turquoise pool where alien fish swam. The Professor sat down in a big swivel chair behind the desk. He took a small tube of fish food and sprinkled it into the pool, watching with serene delight as his pets snapped it up. For a while he sat in peace, listening to beautiful operatic music over the tannoy system, then he called two lieutenants to him. They appeared as if from thin air, materialising in front of him on the outer ring. No sound, no film-like fading effect. One second the space was empty. The next it was filled.

The one standing to his left was Blackthorn’s own bodyguard, Axel Keward, a giant even taller than his employer and built like a modern Heracles. Like the Professor he wore dark glasses to obscure his eyes. His face was strong, with a square chin and a blonde moustache and beard. His hair was shaggy and tied back with a knot of black string. Under his duster coat was a shirt and shin-guards of pearl-coloured armour over combat trousers and brown boots. An ornate green-and-gold sword scabbard hung from his left hip. Dangling from his coat’s sleeves were several silver chains, each tipped with a metal spike.

The one on his right was much smaller. Her name was Anya Dorogoi, and though she was dwarfed by her companion she was equally as dangerous. Her arms and neck, exposed by the sleeveless vinyl jacket she wore were covered by dark tribal tattoos. The core of her attire was a seamless, purple cat-suit and slung diagonally across her hips were two belts, each carrying a holster. Her brown hair was bobbed and her sparkling amber eyes were ringed with kohl. Her high boots had stiletto heels and her gloves were armed with five sharp false claws each.

The lieutenants were silent, awaiting orders from their master, and Blackthorn was quick and to the point. He cared little for the organisation’s intentions of peaceful assimilation. His own agenda was, for the moment anyway, far more simplistic.

“Strike the heart of the British Empire,” he said, “and bring their capital to its knees. Ready my private army and prepare for our invasion. We will not risk refusal of their military resources. We will take them by force. You both understand this, yes?”

“Perfectly, Professor,” replied Anya Dorogoi, who then proceeded to produce a diamond-studded whip from behind her back and snap it taut. Axel Keward said nothing, but nodded his head and rested a huge hand on the pommel of his sword. Blackthorn’s mouth twisted into a spiteful grin, exposing two rows of needle-sharp teeth.

XXX

Alan Miller, who sat in the back of the leading car with a loaded shotgun across his lap, was always aware of the risks that came from his line of work, but why on today of all days did Satan’s herd choose to sling cow-pats across the field of his life? Bad enough they had the Greeks coming up on their bumper, but there was the distinct sound of police sirens just a little further back.

As bullets flew over his head and the heads of his two companions, he heard Mad Mike Nichols in the front passenger seat laugh, “How’s this for a 21ST birthday, Al?” Alan said nothing. The car was going into a dip and he could see the gaping maw of the Blackwall Tunnel opening up ahead of them. The sudden sharp descent had given them a little distance from the Grivas Brothers’ car, though it was not going to last long.

“Stavros is reloading!” barked Ernie Trotter from the driver’s seat in his thick Cockney accent. “Go for him!” Alan turned and primed his shotgun on the windshield of the approaching Opel Combo. He saw Kostas Grivas’ eyes widen as he tried to warn his sibling. The first blast blew away the glass. The second splattered Stavros’ brains all over the seat. Kostas let out an anguished cry and yelled something in Greek. A third man popped out of a hole in the roof of the van. Mad Mike yelped in amazement while Ernie swore loudly because the man was packing a machine gun. The chase entered the tunnel and the sudden change from daylight to the dim amber illumination caused them all to take a second to let their eyes adjust. It was enough of an opening for the third Greek to unleash a stream of bullets, destroying their windshield. One bullet clipped Ernie’s shoulder and another left a hot mark across Mad Mike’s cheek.

“Mike, see if you can blow out his tyres,” said Alan, maintaining calm as he reloaded his weapon, “I’ll cover you. Maybe I can get the midget with the MG4.” He pushed himself up against the back of Terry’s seat and pressed his boots into the rear upholstery, keeping himself steady. His eyes were trained on the third Greek, but his target was keeping his own eyes on Mad Mike, who was already shooting at the van, a job which became all the more difficult when Kostas started zig-zagging all over the tunnel.

“Get down!” Alan shouted. Mad Mike did as he was told just in time to avoid another round. Seconds later, a loud bang was heard as he managed to puncture the front left tyre. Alan fired a shot at the Greek gunner during that moment of disorientation. He missed the man but caught the roof of the van just inches from his hand. The gunner reacted by jolting backwards, unconsciously taking one hand off his weapon, which swung off to the right and exposed his chest. Alan and Mad Mike fired once more as one man, simultaneously destroying the van’s front right tyre and exploding the gunner’s heart. Kostas screamed as he lost control. The vehicle’s shredded front wheels spewed sparks before it turned completely to the right and tipped over on its side, throwing the third Greek’s corpse and weapon out across the tarmac. The police car just behind the van was unable to stop as it impacted on its exposed underside and both went up in a blaze.

Mad Mike, true to his name, laughed in relieved lunacy as they passed out of the Blackwall Tunnel and came up onto the Greenwich Peninsula, just in sight of the Millennium Dome. Ernie was laughing as well, but considerably quieter due to the pain in his shoulder. They dumped and burnt the car, then hid their weapons and quickly took their wounded driver to the nearest public hospital.

“Bloody hellfire,” Alan scowled as he and Mad Mike sat and smoked on a bench outside the hospital while Ernie was being examined, “what was all that about?”

“What else? Dirty beggars wanted a piece of us,” his companion said as if they were discussing the weather.

“Rubbish,” said Alan sharply, “there’s more to it. I know there is.”

“And what are you going to do about it, Poirot?” Mad Mike challenged, drawing himself up to his full height. Alan reciprocated the action, and though much younger in years he was also a lot bigger. Still, he gave the other man credit. Mad Mike did not back down, he had been in their line of work for a long time and met tougher and far uglier men than him. Finally, the older man shook his head and calmly said, “Go home and get some rest, Al. Terry and I will finish the pick-up ourselves.”

“Are you sure?” asked Alan.

“You ever met Ernie’s missus? Trust me, he’s been through worse,” Mad Mike assured him. “Now go on, bugger off and see your family. Oh, and happy birthday, mate.”

“Ta,” Alan replied simply. He did not go straight to the train station. He decided he needed a walk to clear his head and soon found himself with his back to the Cutty Sark, still undergoing restoration work since the inferno of 2007***, and his eyes drawn across the River Thames to the monumental shape of the Millennium Dome. He felt a bit muggy in the head. It made no sense. The Grivases, for all their bluster, never made a move so gutsy as to outright attack them in public. They were mainly small time. Hot dog and ice cream vans, lucrative but nowhere near the top of the underworld food chain.

BOOM!


Alan jumped when the great sound, like that of God’s own gavel, echoed from the direction of the Dome. A column of something was pouring upwards into the sky, pulling the clouds into a white swirl. From where he stood, the something was too solid to be light and yet without substance, a sort of thin smoke that did not quite exist physically as we might have it. Five colours were spiralling around each other -- red, blue, black, yellow and white -- in different densities. The black was the thickest, with the consistency of volcanic smoke. The five colours broke apart in five horizontal streams through the air, then each of those split apart in five different directions of their own, and again and again until the entire sky was a five-hued grid of light against the fat, marshmallow clouds, and descending from the grid were five creatures on rainbow roads. He heard a furious neighing and a fluttering of heavy wings, felt a burning behind his eyes, like gazing through the Sun itself.

Then it was gone. No energy split the sky. No stampede of random animals battered his senses. Alan considered, despite the illogicality of it, that perhaps he was the only one to have seen this phenomenon. The people around him were still going about their own business, and ignoring the elegant obsidian beast trotting its way towards him. Its wings were huddled tight against its torso like a roosting bird’s, its pointed ears twitched, the tip of its sharp horn glinted in the light of the day.

“Well, stone me,” muttered Alan, placing a hand on the side of the creature’s snout, “a blessed unicorn.”

XXX

From the (latest) journal of Elijah R. Bates:

As far as introductory speeches go, “monsters are real,” isn’t too shabby, right? Don’t get me wrong. Loads of things on Earth are weird enough to be considered monsters, but it’s like giving them scientific sounding names makes them less scary. Komodo Dragons (Varanus komodoensis), cassowaries (genus Casuarius) and star-nosed moles (Condylura cristata) are just three examples. Okay, so maybe moles were never scary, but they still look like something H. P. Lovecraft came up with on one of his off-days. Anyway, you’re a new diary so I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m on about. Well, first off, I’m Eli Bates, and I’m the next big thing in film, you know? I’m flatmates with Beth (she’s the next big thing in fine art, I guess). She’s all right but a bit scary. Oh, I’m digressing. You want to know about the monsters. Well…

“You see, this profession is filled to the brim with unrealistic mother-cluckers,” said Eli Bates to his reflection in the wall-mirror, his face a picture of grim severity. “Mother-cluckers who thought their arse would age like wine. If you mean it turns to vinegar, it does. If you mean it gets better with age, it don’t.”

“You’re misquoting it,” remarked his roommate.

“I don’t swear in front of ladies.”

“I call bullshit. Now make yourself scarce, would you? I want to work on my installation project.”

Eli turned from the stand-off against his own visage to stare incredulously at her. Beth was an intriguing person in her own way. She stood before him, all dressed up -- even though she had no plans to go out -- in a pale yellow T-shirt with pointed black lapels, a fashionable plastic belt hung loose around her drainpipe trousers, her multi-coloured hair pulled up in the sort of high ponytail that made him think of a pineapple and eyeliner so thick she looked like she might have been half-panda. A paintbrush was in her hand, dripping fresh fake blood onto a single spot on the carpet, which was stained with who-knew-what. Yes, she was intriguing, in a sense of the term that could easily be substituted with, ‘freakish,’ or, ‘bizarre,’ or more appropriately, ‘a student of art.’ Eli himself never dolled himself up. He stood there in white jogging bottoms and a blue shirt with a faded picture of Rogue Trooper printed on the front. His hair was a curly tangle of sandy hair and his face was unshaven and rough. The contrast between this particular pair was a kind worthy of its own bad sit-com.

“What installation?” he asked. The sparkle in Beth’s eye told him he probably should not have asked. With a dramatic sweep of her arms, splashing more fake blood against the already dirty wall, she made her way over to a makeshift wardrobe which Eli was quite certain he never noticed before. She wrenched open the uneven doors and a bed folded out; or rather it used to be a bed. It was cannibalised extensively into some variety of medieval torture rack. There was barbed wire pinning roses against all four of its legs, spikes jutting out of the inner frame and four iron manacles with chains. The whole piece was grotesquely littered with fake limbs and organs.

“Isn’t it marvellous?” Beth asked, her brown eyes growing wide and glittery. “I had to ask a couple of engineering students to help me put the metal parts together, and believe me they can be pricey when you insist on cash only but it was worth it. This is just the centrepiece, though. I still need to put together the set to go with it, but tell me what you think so far.”

For a long, drawn out moment Eli considered the work laid out before him. His deductive senses picked up every factor permeating the atmosphere around it; the hours of love and effort that likely went into its construction, the striking dissimilitude between the colours meant to draw his eyes to certain spots, the look of wet-eyed hope in the sleep-deprived artist’s eyes, all of those were taken into instant but deeply analytical deliberation, all building up to that oh-so-important response.

“It’s a bit Tracey Emin, isn’t it?”

“Oh, sod off, tubby!” Beth pouted. “And for the love of all that’s sacred put some socks on!” Eli wanted to argue that his build was just generously stocky but the sudden onslaught of negative aura slithering towards him like angry serpents made him rethink.

“I’ll just…leave you to it,” he mumbled to his bare feet.

The student housing complex, known officially as Ratworth Apartments and more conversationally as, ‘the Rat Hole,’ was nestled between the electronics boutique on Horizont Alley and the Wimpy bar on Rigor Mortis Road, which was where the temporarily homeless Eli decided to grab lunch. He took his time, savouring the meal while listening to the pop song playing over the stereo perched behind the counter. He reached the halfway point of his milkshake when Hell broke loose. The sky outside the windows of the burger bar turned dark, and then there was an epileptic series of bright lights. The electrical equipment inside began to quiver and crackle with pearly sparks of runaway energy. Eli stifled a gasp as a beam of it almost took off one of his ears. The strangest part of it, however, was that he was the only one who seemed to notice. The cook was going about his work even as the grill fizzled beneath him, diners being charred to their very bones held conversations. A distant noise, a cross between a roar and a snort, echoed in Eli’s head and a yellow ball, edged like the blade of a circular saw, raced past the restaurant and vanished from view.

It was not until the drink in front of him was replaced by an oily tendril, thus convincing him that he had been slipped some form of hallucinogenic, that Eli condescended to get out of his chair and make a mad dash outside into the abruptly clear midday sunlight. He heard a barking behind him and spun on his heels just a little too elegantly for his own comfort, coming face-to-face with the noblest creature he had ever locked eyes with. The stag was purest snowy white from the tips of its unbreakable antlers to the hooves on the bases of its strong legs. It lowered its heads to lick Eli’s face, and though he had no clue as to what was happening, he responded by stroking its neck.

XXX

“Brigadier!” called the elderly scientist as he crawled through the collapsing laboratory. To his left, a lump of machinery debris shifted aside and the military man who was buried beneath it staggered to his feet.

“I’m fine, Dr Cavendish,” he assured his companion, “it’s more important we find the princess.” Both men scrabbled about in the burnt metal and broken glass. The room was engulfed by a fog of brown-grey dust. The lights above them flickered erratically, making their search all the more difficult. With their sight rendered infirm and their throats and sinuses clogged with the particles in the air -- which was still saturated by the buzzing of disturbed electrical currents -- they were forced to rely on the unearthly heat coming from the middle of the wreckage. Crimson light leaked from beneath a slab of plaster. Cavendish and the Brigadier slipped their fingers beneath the slab, but a force hidden beneath it shoved it away with enough force to shatter it against the inward curving wall.

The men watched awestruck, like they were bowed before Aphrodite rising from the oyster shell, as a girl of just sixteen years stood up. Flames waved from every pore, burning her clothes and eating the oxygen in the laboratory but not harming her body directly, and wire-mesh wings of red light spread from her back. With a wave of her hand she dispelled these eldritch effects, smiled and parted her lips, urging her vocal chords to vibrate with more strength than ever in the past decade.

“I can breathe on my own,” she said, “I’m alive.”

“Princess,” Dr Cavendish choked out, “how do you feel?”

“Why, my dear doctor,” Princess Jane grinned, “I feel bloody fantastic.”

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

*This was not long after the possibility of a water source on the moon of Titan was proposed by astronomers. The first phase, according to Cavendish, would be to colonise Earth’s immediate silver satellite, then based on theories put forth by himself and his contacts at the InterNational Aeronautics And Space Administration (INASA) in America, move on to the planet Mars.

**Tarazed, otherwise known as Gamma Aquilae, is located in the constellation of Aquila.

***The real-life Cutty Sark caught fire on the morning of 21 May 2007. The investigation proved inconclusive, the most popular theories being faulty electrical equipment or a carelessly discarded cigarette of some sort. Restoration work is currently being carried out and the Sark is expected to reopen in Spring of 2011.
CULTURAL REFERENCES:

The scene Eli is misquoting is from Pulp Fiction (1994, dir. Quentin Tarantino), spoken by Ving Rhames’ character to Bruce Willis.

Eli’s comparison of Beth’s work to that of Tracey Emin specifically refers to Emin’s 1999 Tate Gallery installation My Bed.
SOUNDTRACK:

Car chase:
“Shoot to Thrill” performed by AC/DC
(Written by A. Young/M. Young/B. Johnson, produced by R. J. Lange, from the album: Back in Black)

The Wimpy bar disturbance:
“Danger! High Voltage” performed by Electric Six
(Produced by A. Sutton, from the album: Fire)