Tuesday 15 September 2009

That Carlos Ponce



...so I told Aloysius’s story second hand to Micheesha who by the end of it was as incredulous as I was about it all.
- That’s fock’in’ nansense – she said, v.annoyed, like she’d taken a personal affront to what I’d just told her, and that that was my fault.
This happens a lot to me and the likes of Bogdan. You tell someone a tall tale; usually to some dweeby wee scroat, and they get all flustered and reprimand you for trying to pull their leg. One geek, named Carlos Ponce, was particularly annoyed once when I told him my great aunt had a condition where pubes were growing out her scalp and that this was an internationally recognised medical condition called Pubis Headus; using Don King as an example.
- Don’t tell fuckin’ lies to me, Danny Pongo! There’s no way that is a real medical condition. It would’ve been the subject of a million jokes; and I’m sure I would’ve written 500,000 of them. I’m not been taken anymore on one of your joyrides of the imagination. – He fancied himself as a bit of a comedy writer that Carlos Ponce, whose fave song was this:

The story I basically told to Micheesha was prefaced hurriedly by what led up to this strange episode, which is talked about here, here, here, here and here.

When Aloysius entered the city with the madly tall skyscrapers he promptly fell asleep again, hypnotised as he was by the unfathomable heights of those monolith gleaming steel and glass edifices. When he came to he was being wheeled along a corridor that ran along the glass panelled side of a large long laboratory. When he got to the end of the corridor he was abruptly turned left into a small felt padded room with a Formica counter running round the edge. Here there was a man in dark glasses and a dark polyester suit who was standing tapping away at a computer keyboard that was situated at waist level. When this man noticed that Aloysius had entered he turned round and motioned to him to get up out of his wheelchair and to step forward. In a nutshell the man told Aloysius that Greg the Torturer had been tracked for a long time re his Internet usage and that he was building up a regular addiction to child porn. An anonymous message had been sent to Gregory and he was threatened to desist from his pursuit of Aloysius, his pal, and pal's ex or else the proper authorities would be notified.
Aloysius then told me that he and the man in the shades had a long discussion about it and they decided that Gregory the Torturer deserved to die anyway because of his online viewing habits. So the agency the man in the shades worked for sent Gregory another package, which contained a Dyonaskin Leaping Frog, which, when attached to your skin, will rub in a deadly poison. It transpired in their conversation that They had tried to kill Gregory in the past, because of his brutal paramilitary torturing techniques, but the Frog got him in the eye and Gregory survived, which explains the patch. This time they said they’d definitely get him, cos this time they said they were going to pack two Dyonaskin Leaping Frogs and that that would defo do the job.

It was at this point Micheesha cut me off.
- Gregory the Torturer’s not dead – she squealed, unable to take the stream of unbelievableness I’d so far talked on.
- Gregory the Torturer’s alive and well. I saw him buying milk in the Mace this morning. And that eye patch he wears? A fuckin’ frog didn’t jump into his eye. He hit himself up the gub with a pool cue when he was torturin’ some cunt and knocked his eye out.
- Maybe he was a ghost that you saw in the Mace – I timidly offered.
- Fuck’ah – grumbled Micheesha.
...murkier and murkier.

Tuesday 8 September 2009

'mockin's catchin''


Micheesha came over today with my e’s. She walked in with big coconut shell earphones singing Crimson & Clover


- Crimson and Clover durgh-ner-ner-ner-ner-ner/ahhhhhhh/but when she comes walking over/I’ve been waitin to show her/ crimson and clover/ over and over//
She came into my hall and started spinning round and round in little circles like a fuckin eejit. When she stopped she tilted her head right back and then she began bobbing her head, very slightly, like she were having a slo-mo fit. She rolled her eyes back and her mouth, open wide, hung loosely.
It were as if she were going for the spectacular gaunt look the ‘scene girls’ have, like they’ve spooned ketamine into their coffee. She looked like one of those poor-unfortunate Romanian orphans you see every once in a while on the TV news rocking back and forth in their crib.
- Stop that immediately! - I scolded. – it’s like you’re mocking the afflicted when you get on like that. And you know what ma says, ‘Mockin’s catchin’. So watch out!’
- How is the auld cunt? –
- Don’t say that! She’s alright, apart from I think she’s starting to get the menopause.
- Ahh right. So she’s gonna be a even more of a melter for the next 6 months, then?
- Aye – I said.
Micheesha handed over the e’s. They were in a big jiffy bag. I held it up and looked inside it at them all.
- You gonna sell em? – she asked
- Some – I replied – the rest are for me. –
- Well take it easy on em – she advised. – remember last time, you went on a downer for ages. Remember a week into your blue I caught you pissin’ in the sink all over the dinner plates? –
- Aye, but so? What’s one thing got to do with the other? Depressed as you could ever be why would you piss in the sink? I was watchin the boxin. I didn’t wanna miss it. –
- Nah, nah, nah. You were so down you couldn’t tell the sink from the toilet. You were fuckin spasticified, man! –
- Don’t think so. Think your confusin bein depressed with bein blind.
- Nah. Remember the mornin after when you got in an' you told me you’d never take e’s again, then you took oneie ma's ladles and started drinkin outta the fish tank with it?
- How’m I meant to remember that. I was bingoed. Anyway I’ve a story to tell you that Aloysius told me. I can’t really make sense of it, but in tellin you it it might start to become clearer to me... -

Ebeneezer Goode And Me

Today my sister Micheesha telephoned. She told me she had someone with her and she wanted me to speak to them. She put this wee spidey cunt on the line then:

- Ai’ite – he said.
- Hello – I replied.

- Here, Micheesha wants me to tell you what happened to me on Saturday night, mate. I was at a party down on the Pass and this wee girl told me if I licked out her Jack Russell she’d gimmie 50 e’s and a blowjob.
-
Did you do it? – I asked.
- Oooh’aye. –
-
And did she come through for you? –
-
Sorta. She gimmie the e’s alright but the blowjob was a wee bit sore on my cack. She’d just got braces fitted. It felt like I’d stuck my cack in a blender, HowhHowhHowh. -
-
How’d lickin’ the dog’s bollocks work out? –
-
Wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be, believe it or nat.
-
What’d it feel like? What’d it taste like.
-
Felt like fuck all. I just closed me eyes. Felt like I was flickin muh tongue over a big puffy nipple. Tasted like nathin’. –
-
Did the dog come? –
-
Nah mate. I don’t think he liked it to be ‘anist. –
-
Gimmie the phone back, Slug, - said Micheesha who took the phone back off Slug. I held the phone away from my ear in the loud short muffled exchange.
-
Did you hear what he said? – Asked Micheesha.
-
Yes – I said. – so what? –
-
So Slug doesn’t know what to do with ‘em. Asked me if I’d sell ‘em for him. Was wonderin’ if you wanted some thrown your way for you and your weirdo mates.
-
Sure, - I said, before hanging up.

So Micheesha is coming over tomorrow with some e’s. Some for me that I’ll take, and some I’ll sell to my pals. Was never really big on e’s. I mean I took them weekends, nearly every weekend for 6 months, but I wouldn’t go mad like some of the ones I know, like Bogdan or Sweeney, who used to bang up to 15 a night. My limit was 3, then the cotton mouth started to worry me and I’d get it into my head that I’d had one of those mini-strokes. I’d go home then and put on this tune (every time)


and smoke a rocket so as to put the buffers on the come down – prevent breaking up on re-entry. The beginning of the end was one night when my arms began to disappear. They just disappeared into thin air, like a cloaking device had been activated. Cloaking device would be more accurate as a matter of fact. Because my arms didn’t really disappear – become totally invisible. More they went like the Predator and blended into the background. I remember holding both my hands out in front of me and being able to make out the pavement below through this swirly outline of both my forearms, rainbowing madly like a soapsud slick. The end – the final time I took an e in that long regular cycle - came a few weeks later in The Network. It was a club on North Street that stayed open to 6am. You couldn’t get any drink but there was always a U.D.Ah’er (or Womble, depending) standing in the shadows somewhere who’d be slinging e’s like a Burberry clad Pez dispenser with an infinite supply. The night in question I was sold a coupla duds and as soon as I felt that rush when they hit the system I immediately thereafter felt a strange hollow sensation like I’d been drained of all but my basic instincts, not in the Sharon Stone/Michael Douglas way, but like all I was capable of doing was breathing and walking. I left early, getting in a taxi with no plates. The driver wasn’t all there. I asked him to go to the Donegal Road and he ended up taking me on a mystery tour up round Black’s Mountain and all over North Belfast. When I got back he charged me 20quid and made me buy a sachet of ‘Liquid Viagra’ off him for 15quid. He had a lucrative night, the big dangly lipped retard that he was.

And that was that with me and e’s. Course I have indulged the odd night between then and now and I think with this batch I’m gonna have myself a good time too, (and make myself some coin as well!)

Saturday 5 September 2009

Otis's Felching Friend


Today while in the middle of letting the finer points of Aloysius’s story sink in I paid a visit on Otis downstairs to see if I could find out the whereabouts of his da. The knock on the door I give was of the same loudness as that of a cop’s, were that cop to be following up on a witness to a minor crime; I mean, the same lack of urgency that that cop’s knock would have, not like BOOM BOOM BOOM. Otis came to the door and give a quick nearly imperceptible cock of the head, raising his eyebrows quickly too, in that subliminal motion of his that communicates: “What you want?”

So I said --- Where is your da? I haven’t seen him around. Is he in jail or has he got himself a new flat? - Come in – said Otis.

Inside Otis’s flat is very nice. He has a comforting soft-deep blue-sky carpet and nice wallpaper. It is in stark contrast to my flat. I only just this week got the hoover fixed after 6 months of it being banjaxed. My carpet would’ve put you in mind of an Amazonian forest floor. There were beer caps, filters, hairs, stains of: cat piss, red/white wine, blood, vodka, scotch, gin, beer, bong water, etc etc etc, and the freshly shorn skins of arachnids. There were a smell in the place over the head of my filthy carpet. Otis’s flat was filled with the smell of agreeable poi porrit and also a slight hint of the watery vaginal expulsions of a newly broken in young filly.

In his living room on the sofa was a woman of bleach blonde hair and a smooth though noticeable paunch (noticeable for its protruded-ness which was not helped by its being exposed just above the navel by her tight AC/DC boob tube). It was around 4.30pm and she had just passed that point when you hear that click, as Paul Newman so eloquently explains on Cat On A Hot Tin Roof.

I was mildly stoned on some squidgy brown (caramello) that I’d got off that frosted tipped wholesaler of mine and the woman of the bleach blonde hair told me her name. It was Sheila. --- Do you want some sex? – she asked. I took a look at her. She had the jawline of Schwarzenegger and the breath of someone who daily engages in the act of felching.

No thanks – I answered. Wrong end of a bottle of vodka for that, I think

Whatever you like – she replied.

Otis returned with a cup of coffee for me. I told him about my plan for excavating the gold and if his da would help. Otis reminded me of the fact he’d dropped a radiator on his da’s head not so long ago, and gimmie a quick update as to how that was working out, which was mainly that he was braindamaged and couldn’t even tie his own laces never mind set a stick of dynamite. So that was that for the plan, I thought. For the meantime, anyway

Thursday 3 September 2009

Bang Bang Loot Loot

When I was on the phone with mother this afternoon she said something that made me think she had entered the menopause, - or the drying of the lake bed, as she likes to call it. She tells me that she is crying all the time at piddling, daft things. The other day she told me she started crying at a part in Home and Away. Seeing this is the only soap I don’t watch I didn’t know who the characters were she was talking about so I couldn’t empathise. She told me that the other day walking round the supermarket she burst into tears again --- I was walking past all these people and I’d look at an auld doll sizing up her tomatoes or a young family and I thought to myself imagine if there was someone at the door who arbitrarily told people they had no right to enter. – - And that made you cry? – I asked. – Yes – she sobs thinking about it again – it made me cry.

Yesterday morning when Aloysius was halfway through his story I flicked onto the news and saw the price of gold had gone through the roof. I thought about this for a bit then cursed my hesitance when, 9 months ago, I received a telepathic communiqué from Rueben that the economy was going to majorly hit the skids and to buy gold. -–- Paper money will be worthless once again and just like in Germany after WW1 people will be using it to clean their hole and paper their walls.

I didn’t think it would get that bad so didn’t bother following up on the gold tip. Now, like I say I am kicking myself. But, then like a bolt from beyond I recalled a story in the local press from a year or 2 ago that concerned gold that was deep in some caves just over the boarder. If memory serves there were some maneuvers by the devil eyed Peter Robinson to try and claim the territory was part of Northern Ireland and claim the gold for himself. I can imagine the scene. Him and Iris, surely some relation to the mad Pepperami from the ads, fornicating slowly in a pure gold Jacuzzi and afterward scooping each others’ shit out of a gold plated loo and rimming each other with said pungent, oily matter. I can also imagine what the Reverend Ian would’ve had to say about it were he in charge --- True Ulstermen will not take a step into the Free State...for the devil’s loot or anything else! –

Anyway, I got to thinking ‘its one thing owning gold stock – but real physical gold. You’d be the richest man on the street at least. Then I remembered the afternoon I spent drinking with the da (I’ll call him Donny) of Mad Otis downstairs. He had told me he had panned for gold in Norway (as well as being in the French Foreign Legion and a mercenary manning the diamond mines in Africa). I didn’t believe him, but then a week later when he was back up for another drink he produced pictures of him out in the Norwegian wilderness, shotgun at his side panning for gold. Others showed him outside a Norwegian café and another showed a young girl or indeterminate age standing against a bare wall wearing only her bra. That night he told me he used dynamite one time in a cavern in Norway. He was told by the locals not to as it would raise the ire of the local elves. He did it anyway and found no gold but did manage to break his collarbone before leaving town which he put down to those elves.

Donny’s dynamite story got the gears turning in my head. If he had some dynamite expertise then maybe me and him could get a team together to excavate the gold ourselves. To hell with Paisley, Robinson and the rest. I imagined us hauling ounce upon ounce of gold out of the depths saw myself 6months later descending some windy mountain road, wind in my hair, listening to this song booming from the stereo system of my gold car (that could also turn into an eagle if I wanted it to).

I also like to think of this song as the opening theme to a 9/11 centered soap opera. Just listen to the strings at the start and superimpose an image of the planes smashing into the towers.

Beyond The Blue Horizon


The story Aloysius told me was yawning in its scope, like an impressive canyon, and contained features I wouldn’t believe even if the talking clock was telling me it. When he was flown out of Ards in a ‘military helicopter’ he didn’t get more than 10 feet clear of the North Down Coast when a big burley shovel like hand went tight over his mouth from behind and he fell into a deep white chloroform sleep. When he awoke with a sore head he found himself in a massive aircraft hanger where a chrome jeep sat dead and centre of the place, accompanied by what he said looked like 4 Saharan Tribesmen standing by the vehicle.

- they motioned me to come forward. Well the one at the front did anyway, they stood in a diamond formation like they meant to and he was the one standing closest to me. So like I am at the mercy of some sort of telekinetic tractor beam I am drawn toward this quartet and they usher me into the back of their very reflective chrome jeep. The jeep is more than just a flawless chrome sorta colour its like it can blend into the background – like its got a cloaking device – like if The Predator were put in charge of Ford Motors that’s the sorta car that’d come off the production line! --- We drive for miles and I sleep some of it. I don’t know what country I am in but the journey is long and I wake up and fall back to sleep again often. When I wake, every time the scene is different. Sometimes it is raining, typhoon style, other times the sun is splitting the trees. Sometimes we are in the desert, sometimes the countryside, other times we are in the grandest cities; and these times, lying across the back seat of the jeep staring up between the buildings so tall they surely converge somewhere out there beyond the filament’s blue horizon I thought of you and thought ‘Don’t tell me parallel lines can’t converge, Danny Pongo!’ (cos that’s my name).

And those and more specific details I availed of gratefully yesterday afternoon in the Morning Star in order to colour a canvas drunk into existence so to block out the scrawny figure of Kimba sitting there, who I think was starting to entertain the notion I could be her non-lesbian boyfriend. Knowing Aloysius as I knew him though, this was only the prologue.

Wednesday 2 September 2009

Punch The Pigeon

Today in Belfast city centre found me standing outside Marskies up the alley at the side opposite the city hall. Beside me stood Aloysius who was speaking manically, but lucidly nonetheless, in relating his extraordinary story from his time on the run which he’d begun yesterday afternoon in the Morning Star and continued ceaselessly without stopping to eat or even draw breath. Below us at our feet some pigeons milled about – and they were also babbling among themselves. From the end of the alley a man approached – a spide elder by the looks of him (gold chain worn over Rangers FC training sweater and blue faded jeans with Reeboks) who was mumbling to himself which was in stark contrast to the sentients already in the alley in that he was without a companion to blabber to. When he drew up beside us the fat pigeons lifted off, with the most obese struggling to fly away so that he bobbed for a moment or two mid air next to the elder spide’s face, who because of his disturbed nature took great umbrage, and turned and laid a haymaker punch right in the pigeon’s guts.

The decrepit and useless beast fell with a heavy wet plop sounding like a carrier bag full of diarrhea landing on a fat man’s stomach provoking in me the same amount of disgust exactly. At this Aloysius concluded his tale abruptly, saying – lucky I’d reached the end of my tale cos what just happened would’ve cut it short prematurely. With the old man mumbling mumbling mumbling about his fish, horseracing and how one thing makes him lose sight of the other.

Later: what happened to Aloysius when he was on the run

Daddy's Sneezing Up Fingernails? *OMG* Call Uri Gellar

Right. Imagine piss is running out your nose and you’re lactating through your tear ducts. You’ve had a CAT scan, and they’ve run you through so many tests that the whole ordeal has provided the set up for a rollicking good double awn-tawned with the lads down at the rugby club about how many narrow tunnels you’ve slid up.

Finally the consultant sits you down and tells you they can’t find anything and would you be willing to have your case looked at by a group of RV’ers (Remote Viewers). Well if the NHS is treating you the chances of this happening might not be as outlandish as you think and how would you explain that to the Carlsberg swilling humpbacks you frequent the company of; down at the rugby club.

Look here. And for an idea of what Remote Viewing is go here.

Tuesday 1 September 2009

Brainwave In The Morning Star


Earlier Aloysius instructed me to meet him in The Morning Star. I arrived early an ordered a Guinness and took a seat at the bar. Two seats away on my left a phlemic old man sat all shrivelled up hacking away. After gargling with his own bile for a bit he took a deep quick breath and it suddenly felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room in a prolonged explosion. A stream of bile and Smithwicks gushed out of his wrinkly old mouth and splashed across the bar like a vomit wave breaking on a mahogany shore. Kimba arrived just then and immediately on sight of the boke gagged herself and had to run out into the alley to be sick. When she came back in I took a good look at her up and down. She was as usual a fucking site. She had decided to wear her leopard print leotard with a pink ra-ra skirt over it and a pair of lipstick red knee high boots. She wore her green corduroy blazer with her multicoloured ribbon pin badge in the lapel that she’d years ago forgotten the meaning of or what it represented,
- you dress yourself like a blind hooker – I told her
- fuck’ah – she replied. – where’s that fuckin’ space cadet Ali’ishis anyway, fuck’s sake –
- we’re early. He’ll be here in a bit.
- How long you say he kipped for? 6 days. Fuckin’ hell. Is he on the diazies?
- I don’t know – I told her.

While we waited for Aloysius to show, Kimba told me all about her girlfriend the mistress. To illustrate the Mistress’s ‘ferosh’-isness Kimba told me a story about something they did to a guy years ago who used to live across the hall from them. After fully seducing him over a course of weeks they one night invited him into their room. She told me that night her and the Mistress give him the best triangle workout they’d ever given any ‘bitta meat between the baps’ and after a while he couldn’t stay away from the place, just as Mistress had intended. - Then she turned fuckin’ mental on him – Kimba said.
- first it was wee silly things she did to him, like whip his bare bum with rulers and her cat-o-9-tails, gently like, then one night he got him to beat her after handcuffin’ herself to the bedpost. He did this wee gay flick of the wrists to begin with, like just brushed it along her back, and she kept on goin ‘harder, harder’ so he got rough with her and really want for it, and she kept on sayin then ‘right put me down. Start givin me abuse’ and he went through it all, you’re a cunt you eat shit etc and god love him he went though all the insults he could think of which took him all of five seconds then he yelled ‘ YOU’RE LOWER THAN A FROG!’ and both of us, me and mistress cracked up. But that was when he thought he was in control then and mistress made sure of it when she told him afters that he was an accomplished dominant lover. But see the next week, me and mistress did all sorts of things to him. Tied him to the bed and put feags out on him, slapped him about, poured bleach on his skin, shite on him, in his mouth and all, then she put glue down his japs eye and up his arse and she was done with him. We still saw him goin in and out and all but mistress wouldn’t let me talk to him and she didn’t herself.

- That thing you did with him, with the glue, I’ve heard of that bein done on nonces inside – I said pensively before thinking over and over in my head ‘honeytrap, hoenytrap, honeytrap’. A honeytrap where I’d employ violent sexual abuse to illicit information. Then I thought ‘Scientologists’. Then I put my earphones in to drown out Kimba's tripe and listened to this song to calm and focus my mind on hatching a plan.