Diamond In The Back, Sunroof Top, Diggin' The Scene With A Gangster Lean

Party Time, thank fuck, was able to secure himself a crisis loan from the brew today – so this weekend we'll be eating.

I was beginning to think that he was going to eat the cat (not calling him Gore Vidal anymore) so hungry was he. His stomach rumbled all last night, something sounding like the pained moans of a wounded creature echoing through the deep, dark cave it'd crawled away to die in.

When I am hungry like this I swallow my spit a lot. Swallow, swallow swallow. As a child I thought I didn't need to work in school to get a good job cos you didn't need money, really:

 - And what you gonna eat. What food you gonna buy with no money? - Scolded Mother when I began striking from doing homework.

 - I'll eat my own shit if it comes to it. Eat it, Shit it, Eat it, Shit it – Just go and sit somewhere along Castle Street begging till I make up enough coin to get me a Big Mac Meal...and...Eat it, Shit it, Eat it, Shit it...

 - What is WRONG with you, eh? Trembled Mother.

And last night I were thinking, really: was my childhood naivety and general lack of rudimentary biological & toxicological facts really so naïve? Were it really so bad? To eat yer own feces if absolutely starving? Those chicks in 2girls 1cup did it, and them on 'specialised' pornstar wages, they  wouldn't have needed to eat shit cos they were starving, but cos they wanted to get paid – and so if you can eat shit to get paid you can eat shit to eat is what I were turning over in my dried up, nutrient starved brain.

I proposed my ideas to Party Time but he didn't like em at all.

He told me it were beyond savage. That a savage would kill and eat another savage,:

 - Bat somethan b'yand savage eat at awn shat!

 - What about we shoot a few birds outta Mrs Mullberry's trees and eat them?

 - Nah. Ah wall nat eat a crate-ture aff thah ska.

I rolled around holding my belly and nibbling on an orange peel I found up the side of the cooker. Party Time began doing exercises.

 - Ah hav idea, Danny.

 - What?

 - Ah wash tinkin. Wah fatagraft papals' cradat card.

 - How we manage to do that? And why?

 - Ah danna yacht, hah. But aff wah culd, wah have all thah dat-tails wah need tah rap a cant aff jast fram ah sall-fone fatta aff thah frant aff has card, an mammary-rising thah scare-ity nambah an thah bach an rattin thah dan wan his gane!

 - That's not a bad idea Party Time. Not at all is that a bad idea. Cos that's all you need, right? The 'Long Number', the name, valid to – and – from, all what you'll get of the phone-photo of the front of it...and that security number yiv got written down. Then we'll go online and buy up a loada shit. Sell it down in Cash Convertors, what we don't want! Fuckin hell, you big cunt, that's the first brilliantly criminal thing yiv come up with, despite yer gangster leanings. Goddamn! I may be starving, but this deserves a fitting tune, cousin!!! We'll think of HOW we do it when we've something in our bellies and our energy's up!

For One More Forgotten Hero, And A World That Doesn't Care

That night I had two profound thoughts occur to me, and all during Party Time's miasmic meanderings.

The first manifested itself when my attention began flaking, somewhere halfway through the crux of his narrative, and I took a turn down some ecclesiastical near-well-trodden-path and I realised something: That for independent businesses The Troubles were a boon, which is to say, a retail market empty as a nun's cunt was a veritable goldmine for the independent business owner...for there were no multinationals or American franchises wanting to invest over here, worrying employees under their watch were going to get blown to bits...ergo the half-savvy Sammy-Sixpacks, with their eccentrically titled corner shops, had it made!

The second thought, just in the present, I can't seem to recall...but nevertheless, I guess the rest of what happened when Party Time came back is what's really, I mean ostensible as a cancerous membrane, is what really, honest-to-God is on my mind...:

So I got him up into my place and away from that excitable neighbour and got him hunkered down into the lovely deep comfy recesses of my beautiful sofa.

- So tell me the rest, Party Time, - I went.

He was unresponsive as a disassociating child sex abuse victim. His eyes rolled in his head. I sensed there wasn't a threat to his here-and-now wellbeing, or mine, so I sat looking at him for the longest time and his skull took on a likeness of a basic fruit machine, his eyes rolling on and on forever and ever round and round, a formula of meanings, expectations...and possibilities.

He was in the grip of some sort of uber-amphetamine high...and truly there was nothing left to tell of his story between his leaving London and his getting back here, except to say he couldn't remember how he arrived back at mine.

An indeterminate time later he started wigging out. He started to scratch his face violently like that boy in Poltergeist, that Parapsychologist when he's at the bathroom mirror, - and - he also wet hisself.

I showed him the Two Girls One Cup video again and he stilled for a while and adopted this rudimentary dog-like expectant poise, like you're just a second away from throwing the stick.

I went through One Man One Jar, One Man One Horse, Three Men One Hammer...on and on the parade of sick audiovisuals went, and Party Time laughed and laughed like a maniac, laughed and laughed right up till he shot up off his perch, flung hisself halfway across the room and gagged on two sandpapery dry-heaves then boked this heinous green slime all over my lovely big shag-pile rug.

I reacted with massive aural horror and tried to articulate, albeit abstractly, my mortification through the eclectic verbal medium, but all I could muster was this hammy stage-hack job trying to approximate a seizure whilst emitting the noise of a deaf mute infant being dry arsed to bum bleed, - and so was all: - Right! We're goin out for a spin to get yer head cleared!

I drove around. The Newtownards Rd, Albertbridge Rd, up through Ballyhack and down through Stormount. I showed Party Time the building within which the Vaudeville Power lies.

When it seemed he'd calmed down I asked him if he were hungry.

- Ah ahm fackin foam-ished.
- Right then. Let's hit Micky D's!

We detoured roundways to the McDonald's that's across the way from the Dundonald hospital. I always liked this McDonald's the most for its apparent clean appearance. Though, to use an analogy, who knows what sinister trivia lurks in the subtext of the common quiz show standard.

I got Party Time a Big Mac and the cunt wolfed it in two gulps. As soon as the last of it was down his gullet he started going spasmodic on it again and took my butterfly knife out the glove compartment and started acting the Rambo with it.

- Take it easy, Party Time, - I went all softly-softly, bereavement councilor like. - You gotta just relax! - I went.
- Roll-axe?! Ha con ah Roll-axe? Wan fockin Chan-arse Sockrat Pal-ease as ova thah?

I squinted in the direction Party Time were pointing. This tragic looking, prematurely aged, McDonald's middle manager sadsack sort dawdled along in his pretzel frame with all the spring-in-his-step of a new arrival at Auschwitz.

- At as ham! - Declared Party Time like Lawrence of Arabia.

Then Party Time exited the vehicle, butterfly knife in hand, and went running full pelt toward the McDonald's till jockey all in mealymouthed loud babel and threatening bloody death.

In me some perverse humanitarian altruism had me act. I took myself from behind the wheel and chased after the Aryan Poster Boy Party Time, a great facial edifice of concentration writ large as I endevoured with all I had in me to catch up with the maniac. And, just before it was too late, I did...

...Party Time had got within a foot of the McDonald's man before I sweeped him from behind, catching his ankles and taking him down. His big diving board chin hit the ground first, followed not a great deal of time later by the majority of his face, which popped like a bad tamatae covering the immediate surrounding tarmac with his own blood and Crystal acne.

Yet this did not seem to faze him in the slightest, and actually the emotional occurrence that registered on his simian face was one like what 'the squares' faces' go like when a bit of couscous has gone down the wrong way.

He squirmed impatiently, bawling like a colic baby, so's I'd to pound him like there were no tomorrow, till he were knocked out cold, while the McDonald's binman star-jumped sideways; crablike in oldman trots till he were at a safe distance and could relax.

I hauled Party Time over to my motor and got him in the back seat. His nose came apart in three ways and I bust his top lip open at multiple points.

Back at home I took him outta the motor by the ankles and pulled him like a big sack of shite up my drive. Mrs Mulberry and one of her old doll bridge pals watched me and I'm sure I heard the pal go: “Fuck me, he's kilt'm!!!”

So I dug out a set of Kimba's sex handcuffs and handcuffed the big knocked out cunt to the radiator in my living room, where he stayed, sleeping for three and a half days, till he woke up. After which I threw him out.

Cunt's probably a homeless bum now... 

 

The Strange Wonders That Lurked In This World

Last night found me sitting at my grotty kitchen table buttering a piece when here I feel an almighty juddering spasm mid-spine and I fall sideways off the chair and onto the floor just like a big bag of spuds.

I lay there, consumed by agony, my frame jerking like a dog’s hind quarters when it’s taking a squirty shite. Boke the Cat wandered over and stood regarding me this way and that before doing an about turn and pointing his round little shrivelled up anus at me. He stayed like this for such a long time, long enough for me to imagine to myself that it (Boke’s anus) might bear some resemblance to the nostril of Ashanti Elliot-Smith that little girl who’s, like, 8 year old in human years but has the body of an 86 year old - all due to some freak occurrence in Time/Space the very moment she came out her ma’s box, something like a bleeding overlap between dimensions the very moment she appeared, causing her cells to go into super-fastforward like you get on all the new-fangled digital cassette machines, probably.

That girl is a fascination to me though. The things she's got is called Progeria Syndrome. The frame and build of a child, but the withered-ness and calluses of an oul’ cunt. I would like to hear what a nonce would make of that…

Which slaloms me neatly onto the issue of sexual deviancy. In order to try and cheer him up after his ordeal of the other day I made an effort to share with Party Time my penchant for the sexually surreal and disturbing.

After some consideration I decided that what would best give him an insight into the strange wonders that lurked in this world of mine were these two classics below:

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Two Girls One Cup was Top Of The Pops for Party Time. He flapped about like a fish outta water laughing and gagging in insanely sharp snapping alternations while I sat rubbing myself all the while. It’s a favourite of mine, too.

Divine in Pink Flamingos with the dog’s dirt he chundered at. I did similar on first viewing as well. I was 12 and a half when I first saw Pink Flamingos, directed by genius John Waters. I must’ve watched it 1000 times after that. I loved that scene the most. I burnt the tape out stopping and rewinding, stopping and rewinding going back to the point she puts it in her mouth. I started getting into finding out more about the act of eating shit, any shit, human, animal, whatever. When I discovered Salvador Dali ate his own shit I thought, ‘Cool bananas! Dali’s way cool! Should I start eating my own shit too? Will this make me a better painter, seeing I’ve now almost totally given up on the music career (having taped myself doing a woeful improvisational jazz album in the style of ‘Kind Of Blue’ by Miles Davis on my school recorder)’ – but the furthest I went was cleaning my arse with my bare hand one morning before school and boking into Mother’s bidet and all over my nice good shoes.

So while I reminisced on this it all-of-a-sudden dawned on me that Party Time hadn’t told me what he’d done with Kimba. So I turn to ask him, but he’s conked out – but so I let him be for the meantime.