You'll See: That Someone Who Really Cares Is Me

This morning I went round to the local newsagents and bought an Easter Egg for my brekkie. It was one of those teensy child’s sized ones, no bigger than one of Boke the Cat’s shites, so I was a little shocked and surprised to discover these newsagent gangsters were charging £2.99 for it.
- Eat an ovary, ya cunt, - I went and walked out.

My plan had been to break the egg up in a breakfast bowl, marinade with Rice Krispies, add milk, and put in the microwave for 30 seconds. £2.99 put the kibosh on that one.

So I put some of Boke the Cat’s Rabbit & Gravy Wiskas in a sandwich and put it in the toastie maker. It weren’t too bad, but I felt a little guilty after realising I’d ate for my brekkie what were meant to be for Boke’s dinner, and now there were no more Rabbit & Gravy Wiskas left…

So later on that afternoon me and Party Time took a bus out to one of the big forests on the outer reaches of the ‘General Belfast Area’ to go hunting for wildlife. Party Time carried his pellet gun in a sportsbag. It happened that I got a big dose of the heebie-jeebies, picturing a squad of pigs out doing they’re thing and seeing us with that rifle of his. I thought, my brain chattering like teeth in the cold - In light of recent blowings-up by some Provo tribute band I know the pigs’ will have their instincts honed and their safeties off…They see a brute like Party Time running round with a rifle they’re gonna shoot us down dead.

When we got far enough into the forest, further than most go anyway, Party Time took the rifle from his sportsbag, theatrically buffed the barrel with a cloth and checked the sights. Due to my pig-paranoia I told him I’d hang back about 10 foot or so to act as a spotter, but really so's to have space and time to duck or leg-it if a jittery pig were lurking and bullets started to fly.

It turned out to be a productive day. Party Time bagged two squirrels and got a badger right through the brain. The badger we would have in a stew and the squirrels we would feed to Boke the Cat. At one point Party Time had a lovely big old cuckoo lined up in his sights and an odd thing happened. The cuckoo started to sing, and Party Time lowered the rifle, put it back in his sportsbag and said:

- Thot ees enuf killan far taday. It was like that part in the Deer Hunter, when De Niro can’t shoot the deer as his ordeal in ‘Nam has made him a better person. Or something.

We walked though the rain for the rest of the way back, and as Party Time was on a killing high I decided to ask after the whereabouts of Kimba.
- What’d you do with her? – I asked.

- Ah hove sat har frah, Danna. Sha nah yers nah langa! Ah’ve san sam harra shaws an mah day Danna. Thang’s ah wall nat dwoll an. Bat Danna, wath thah evol ah’ve san ah nid ah lattle luvin lite tah shan thru, yah know? – The rain ran off his soft thin hair like a gentle stream moves over reeds. – So ah parfarmed ahn oct aff lav ahn yer beeholf, cas’, cos wah bath nid sam gadnass pat back an are speerts, Danna! Ah laughed har weeth than Halacast Spide. He as thah wan shah whand nah, Danna! –

The rain ran down his Meth pocked and concave face, but it were tears more that ran down mine…

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:

Find more videos like this on ThisIs50.com

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.
 

Clutches Of Sad Remains

Some time late this afternoon Party Time comes in fuckin cock-of-the-walk, half-cut, with Boke the Cat under one arm and the hand of the other stuffed deep in the pocket of his big ugly green duffel coat. In the pocket of his duffel coat is a Jiffy Bag with part of his nostril in it.

 - Ah wont inta ah bor Danna Panga… - he said haltingly welling up while I started to clandestine-like examine the extent of the bit that’d been bit outta his neb. ..-Wat as tha wast thang yo con axe far an ah bor an BowlsFast? Wha? – implored Party Time.

- Hmm, - I went…-Hmm…I suppose, regardless of where you were, be it the Hideout on The Pass or the Northern Whig, I guess the worst thing you could ask for in a bar in Belfast would be…”boy, four year old, with a arsehole Wide Open, this wide…”- I went, stretching my arms out at either side to indicate the massive diameter (or for those assuming from afar, approximating the length of a sperm whale’s cock).

The fool Party Time took a dander down The Pass to The Hideout after all it turns out having already travailed the bars of Belfast one end till the other going from one scummy hole till the next, the bars getting scummier as he went as he endeavoured to evaluate the scumminess of each place in order to establish its suitability for scoring Crystal.

So while he laughed at my ‘four year old boy’ suggestion in increasingly more-powerful bursts of fits-and-starts, (his big bodily granite edifice spasming like a woman experiencing a full-body orgasm), his overall spirit all of a sudden administered a psychic reboot and just like that he curled up like paper held near a flame, his whole person/a did, and he rolled up in the corner of my lovely big faux-leather sofa, the noise of his joints cracking sounding like the crackling of fresh autumn leaves being diligently trod on.

 - Ah bat nah, Danna Panga! Nah! Tha wast ting yah con axe fah in a bor an BowlsFast as fochan Crastal, cas’! – Meaning cousin.

Turned out The Hideout on The Pass were the end of the line as far as City Centre saloon scumminess went. So Party Time went in there like Bronson in Once Upon A Time In The West and starts givin-it-large: Ah Ahm An Mossad! Ah Ahm 33ard Dograh Frahmaison – Tanth Gene-ar-asian AlliminNazi! ---

He’s looking Crystal.

Been all over looking.

Wiggin’ Out!

And finally he wanders into this retrospective alternate dimension, this Quantum Leap anachronism, and asks them if they got some Crystal going, ‘after hours’ so to speak.

When he’s telling me the next part I’ve to join the thing together between his big Party Time bawls:

 - Sah thah bor kab tall me tah waits tall hah moke a fan call. Hah moke thah call ahn hah talls mah hah con sart mah at. Ah wall ladder thah cam an…Far aff tham. Thah jamp mah ahn cack mah ramp had! Cack at had Danna Panga. Cack et ap at mah ease!!!

Party Time quietened for a while and stared up off into space. Indeterminate seconds passed before a spontaneous grand mal dissociative conditioning was triggered, then, savant-like, he launched into the rest of the tale:

 - Thah thags tak mah at thah bak an bat mah abat. Thah hat mah bod, Danna. Thah strap mah naked ahn staff a snah-kah cue ap mah arsh! Ahn wan thah dah thot thah damp mah an a ban – heed fast! –

So I ream through an hour or so of consoling overtures, ensuring him the cunts’ll be done, and then I tell him, in no uncertain terms, that I really don’t think he’s got it in him for a life on the wrong side of the law. The truth of it is he ain’t hard enough, and he ain’t got the street moxie neither.

But, as always, Danny Pongo got a plan…and at least some of what Party Time conceived of I can alchemise………………………………..
                         

Opiate Utopia Is Hotter By The Hour

So I took Party Time up to my Uncle’s to show him what he had to work with in Izzy Hoyland. He wasn’t all that impressed.
Afterward in my motor driving back to mine he said in his foreign accent, - She os fockin ruff, Donny Pongo!
- Don’t worry Party Time, - I said – with that money you got of my laptop we’ll fix her up good as new. Our uncle has told me in her day she was hot stuff. It was when she charging men to plug her did the looks start to fade, -
- It os often thah way, thot wan a beetch starts to sell her snatch* ot os not long till she stort tornin’ into a hard-leg**.
After he explained that to me I said, - That’s right, Party Time. But maybe Izzy Hoyland’s time has come round again, maybe its time we took her outta retirement to spread her flaps once more, -
- Hoah Hoah Hoah Hoah Hoah, - went Party Time, the noise of his big laugh tumbling from his head like rocks down a mountainside.

Back at mine we put on some music (which I won’t be posting as I still don’t know if previous Youtube embeddings caused said videos to be deleted from there [look at last entry]) and had a dance to it. It was Scissor Sisters – Invisible Light…

…fuck it…

After we fed ourself with scraps from last night’s stew me and Party Time went out with his air rifle into the back yard to shoot little birds out of Mrs Mulberry’s lovely big Ficus Tree to feed to Boke the Cat. We got three little birds, dead there in the yard, lovely and still and peaceful with clean dark holes
shot right through their colourful fat little cute feathery chests – all clean kills with no pain – a tribute to Party Time’s marksmanship and uncruel way (with animals anyway). We took them back in and I put them in my blender with a few vitamin tablets and got them all mooshied up while Boke curled and rubbed around my leg, his purrs sounding like a revving muscle car in slo-mo.

Later we took a run up to Sydenham to my sis Micheesha’s house. Since last time we have made up me and her and I have apologised for selling her kids X-mas presents and she has give me the money she owes for the base I sold her.

Micheesha was having a party and some of her unsavoury ‘bitches’ were there. But I ended up having a good night, getting a laugh telling them about when I was a kid
mocking up Children In Need forms and going out of the neighbourhood to get unsuspecting grannies who didn’t know me to sponsor me for a tenner telling them it was going toward paying for the defence fund of a 6yr old girl from Africa up in court for being a witch and facing the death penalty. When I told some of Micheesha’s bitches about all the coin I made this one, dumb as a toaster, figured I’d still be a money bags.

Hawr, Hawr, Hawr

Some way through the early hours, coming down from the e’s, this bitch took a fancy to Party Time and ended up giving me a blowjob in the toilets while she had her finger up his hole caressing his prostate. Suffice to say, result were messy.

Yeh, a good night.

He Said: All Things Pass Into The Night

After I got my money selling all Micheesha’s kids’ presents I took myself to Dundonald Ice Bowl for a skate.

It is something I haven’t done for years, skating. Gliding around there. Figures of 8. Round and round. Wheels within wheels. Not a care in the world. My troubles, with my shoes, left back in the locker room.

When I was done I sat in the grimy cafeteria overlooking the ice rink and ate one of their grey-meat shite-burgers watching this young scamp, 16-21, sail by, his nose in the air, very imperial and apart.

I sipped very slowly on my soda waiting till he were done and when he was I went over to him in the dugout by the rink. He were putting his loafers back on and fixing his hair in the mirror.
- Way you glide along on that ice you’re like a falcon in flight. – I said, right in his ear.
In the mirror’s reflection I could see his cute, tight smile stretch and part revealing by scintillating degrees his beamy white teeth lined up in that sweet young mouth of his like the most beautiful row of marble tombstones.
- That’s novel, - he said. – If I’m your falcon what does that make you…my prey?
- Could take you for a drink and find out?
- Lead the way, young gun…
We sailed about Belfast city centre in my motor looking for a place to park. All the while Shaznie (as he preferred being called) had his hand on my leg telling me all about his life and his beliefs.
- …so that’s why, in 2012 the world won’t come to an end, like tidal waves and beasts rising from the sea and all that shite, no…it’ll be like telepathy and free love and getting high of the heat of the sun, all those good things, dude. All not more than a year away and when it happens….all so beautiful.
- Dunno, babe. Never even that confident about what lies ahead 24 hours from now, never mind a year and a half.
- Ah, but no. It’s written. It’s going to be. We’re due a galactic alignment. This earth. Mother Gaia. We’ll shift dimensions till the 4th dimension. We’re moving into a photon belt. It’ll change our frequency vibrations. It’ll all be so different and beautiful. You can’t imagine!

Even after we’d had a few scoops in town and got back to mine he was still talking this balls so it ended up I’d to stick my fingers up his hole and that soon shut him up.


It turned out he was a good lay. Generous and receptive. Imaginative and yielding sweetly.

Later in he living room over coffee, 3 in the morning, being watched by a put out and confused Boke the Cat, Shaznie asked me about myself. I wasn’t even 3 minutes into those old mistakes and regrets when I break down and give a blow-by-blow account of Kimba and all that pertains to her. And he told me (Shaznie) that I had to put her to bed (figuratively) for myself if no one else.

The kindness (and wisdom) of strangers…

Words And Pictures Simply Can't Describe...

It was a very wet day. The air was wet when I finally emerged onto the street late this afternoon having spent the last 48 hours in hibernation, eating Pot Noodles and snorting a lot of base (but not so much that I seriously depleted my profit margin).

I had also bought two quick little white mice from the nearby pet shop to let Boke the Cat chase round the house.

The little bastard was starving and was so very ruthless in his hungry pursuit of the first mouse. The second, cleverer mouse, went and hid under the big, imposing dark-wood chest of drawers my granny give me and stayed there. But the first mouse? He ran.

From the kitchen I could hear an almighty clattering calamity occurring, and I reckoned the stupid mouse were crawling across the ceiling, his sharp little claws dug into the paint, him hanging on for dear life. Boke meanwhile leaping and bouncing and leaping off every surface in an effort to get high enough to swat the courageous little thing from his safe perch.

Whatever happened, Boke the Cat proudly, and with not a little weary dignity, returned into the living room carrying the limp dead mouse. With great relish he sat eating it in front of the electric fire and when he was done he licked his lips and rolled all over the floor. I noticed as he came past me, strutting officially like he were in a procession of returning war heroes, the face of the captured mouse had this frozen, petrified look about it. Teeth bared, eyes wide, whiskers arched and stiff.

Anyway, I sat watching Boke eat his dinner and I gained a little emotional succour from it. It made me feel horny as a matter of fact: watching him split that mouse, arse to tit, and eating its innards out. It felt like hardcore cunnilingus. I got my dick out and had a wank to it.

Afterwards Boke boked up some of what he ate. He walked ahead of it a little and started scraping the carpet in a backward motion, flicking his paws backward like he were in his litter tray and he were trying to cover it up. I don’t know why cats do this. All the time, if they’ve had an accident, they always think they’re in their litter tray and try and cover it up. They’re stupid that way. When he turned to look at me, to see if I’d seen what he just did, I saw myself reflected in his eye, his fiery yellow eye, my reflection held there like a prehistoric bug in amber.

Words & Pictures simply can’t describe...

I waited till it got dark till I went over to my Sis Micheesha’s house in Sydenham. Round there I could see on the walls the old S.W.T (Sydenham Wine Team) graffiti had reappeared here and there.

I didn’t know what to make of this. At their height in the 80’s/90’s they were mysterious to me. A punk Freemasonry in my eyes. Turns out they were Glentoran supporters all along, but legend had it they carried revolvers and drank cheap port wine upstairs in the McDonalds in town.

I was still ruminating on this when Micheesha came to the door, standing there barring me from getting in her house.
- I haven’t sold none yet, - she said with balls of dry white spittle collected at the corners of her mouth.
- That’s no fuckin good, Micheesha, - I said.
- I know. But there’s no one – I mean.
- Gimmie it straight you fuckin wapped out, fucked up head melter. You’ve fuckin put half of it up your nose haven’t ye?
- no I haven’t. I swear. I promise you. I’ll have all your dough come Saturday. Promise!
- Micheesha, I’m gonna burn down this house, with you, your kids, your dogs, that fuckin halfwit boyfriend –
- Partner!
- That fuckin’ chip sniffer boyfriend, that fuckin gormless ginger walking cheese puff, I stabbed him he’d probably bleed Fanta, ginger cunt. All you. Dead. Burnt to death.
- I’ve got something I can give you. Probably tide you over?
- Better be money?
- I could tell you where Kimba is...

So she were in this park on the Ormeau Road, with all these other hippy cult looking types, all mental deficients by the looks of it.

Then I saw her. She were playing catch with this totally gorgeous looking bloke. She were wearing some sort of facemask similar to Paul Gascoigne’s when he went to Lazio, which was probably to do with the reconstructive surgery she were getting on her melted off face that I caused when I shoved her headfirst into her granny’s fire.

But that boy she were playing catch with were the bees’ knees. An Adonis. This song I thought I’d play when I got home. Then I nearly cried. But I didn’t. Cos I’m a man.

Trying To Make A Pound Out Of 15p

When I arrived home I could’ve nearly cried when I realised that change I dropped at the foot of the Moses’ tramp was all that was between me and the grave, save for bad fortune.

I raided my cupboards looking for something I could throw together for my dinner, but all I could finds, behind an empty box of Weetabix, was a half-a-tube of Jaffa Cakes. I forlornly returned to my living room and sat eating them and watching the news on the tele while trying to feed little corners to Boke the Cat, who turned his nose up at them.

Well then the little cunt could starve. And this situation just wouldn’t do.

So I had to make a pound out of 15p, as a variation on the song, and in order to get this done I went cap in hand to Bosco’s to buy some of his base.

- Danny Pongo, with his tail between his legs. Never thought I’d see the day, - said Bosco, laughing at me.
- Have the cops been here looking for me, Bosco? I asked.
- No. But don’t think I’ll be lying for you when they do show up. I’ll have you on possession with intent to supply if you tell them about me making it up here. Consider it the touts’ M.A.D, or Mutually Assured Destruction.
- I know what M.A.D means, Bosco, - wishing I could do a bit of mutually assured destruction on his hole, then by effect mine, but only so it meant fucking the little cunt up.
- How much you want?
- an ounce.
- on strap?
- yes. Gonna sell it with a 5er mark-up on a 10ers worth. Gotta get some coin together.
- I hear ye, - said the little weasel, casting himself in his own little hard-luck story.

I reckoned My Sis’ Micheesha would take most of it off my hands and the rest I’d sell on in little wraps here and there.

Micheesha’s house as usual was a fucking tip. Dogs’ shit in various sizes, shapes and colours sat like islands amidst a sea of kids’ toys. There was not an inch of carpet you could see.
- Micheesha, fuckin dogs’ shite’ll make your kids go blind if they touch it, - I warned.
- I’m getting a woman in to clean the day, Danny, fuckin’ drap it! What you wan’ anyway?
- Need to shift a bit of base. You interested?
- aye. Show us...

Micheesha’s a very thorough and particular little bitch and has not a crumb of trust for me, Danny Pongo, her little brother. So we racked up a couple of lines me and her so she could test it, and for the following hour and a half I’d to sit and listen to her list a number of grievances she held against every one of her exes, (not a modest number, men and women): the beatings, the rough anals, the thieving, the drug addicts, the alcos, - a compiling of miseries heaped upon miseries reamed off with an autistic’s fastidious attention to memory and a poet’s vividness, all her own terrible memorial from then till now.

After I got fed up with her talking I made my excuses and left, and she hit me with it at the door.
- I’ll get that sold this week. You hold out till then till I get you the dough?
- fuckin’ hell, Micheesha! No! I’m flat broke. Gimmie a score, and I’ll be back for the rest on Wednesday.
- don’t have a fuckin’ score, Danny!
- oh yeah? Well what were you gonna pay the fuckin’ cleaner with then? – I said, snatching her bag of the hall table.
- gimme that back you dirty wee cunt, - she said chasing me down her front path as I turned her purse over in the garden.
- there we go. 20 quid, - I said taking it from the pile of paper and coins. See you Wednesday.
- what am I gonna pay the cleaner with?! Danny? Danny! – she yelled as I walked away.

I Don't Wanna Talk, If It Makes You Feel Sad, And I Understand, You've Come To Shake My Hand

Yesterday morning I received the date for my court appearance on charges which amount to ‘we’re doing you for committing blasphemous vandalism’ really.

Over breakfast of scrambled egg and carrot juice this song was playing on some AM station between stations on a narrow hair’s breadth band width (and the announcer was French):

Somewhere halfway through the track my surroundings were carried off like rickety stage scenery in a twister and I am left with Agnetha standing before me, shimmering in white against a dimensionless black eternity behind her.

She sang the rest of the song majestically and with a pious divineness and every lyric held a paranoid schizophrenic’s significance and logic.

When the song ended the kitchen reappeared and I boked what I’d eaten of my scrambled eggs into my big pint glass of half drunk carrot juice. I held up the mixture and examined it for a minute or two to get my head straight then got up and emptied it into Boke the Cat’s food bowl. I wanted out of the house, to empty my mind of my delusions and worry. So I went round to Kimba’s granny’s to get a fuck off her (off Kimba).

When I got to the Kimba’s granny’s house then I found the front door open a little and the bony grey ankle and the scuffed red leather kitten heel shoe of granny sticking out.

I pushed my way in, forcing granny’s knees up and stepped over her. I noticed she’d a big cut on her head.

From the grand front room I could hear Kimba rhythmically screaming in sexual ecstasy. Between screams were the deep and varied multi-tonal guttural hoorays of a rutting masculine cock. Cock-With-A-Body-Attached (C’Waba).

I went in there and the guy, a big cross-eyed spide, chucks Kimba off him and gets up walking toward me with his hand out to shake it.
- You’re Danny Pongo, You’re Danny Pongo, - he said over and over.

I took his hand, alright. Took it and pulled him toward me and stuck the head in, breaking his nose and knocking him clean out before he even hit the deck.

Kimba lay curled up on the sofa in the foetal position naked and quivering like a pale newborn hatchling. I picked her up and smoothed her out and prying her open took all the strength I had. There was a big old fire going in granny’s big ugly no-taste fireplace and I got her on all fours right in front of it and shoved her in there head first and give her a good boot up the hole for good measure making her bang her head off the back of the fireplace knocking her out too and so I left her lying face down in there, in the fire, getting her face melted off.

And I wasn’t done yet.

I went back into the hall and opened granny’s mouth and took a big shite in it. I got the big black latex dildo Kimba and C’Waba were using and shoved it right up in her old cunt, up between her old stage-curtain-wrinkly labia, which shook as I did so. I took some of the shite that was in granny’s mouth on the end of my fingertips and went back in the front room and rubbed it in C’Waba’s wounds. Then I turned him over and filled his hole up with Poly-Filla that I found in a cupboard under the sink in the kitchen.

On the way out I give granny a good old kick in the cunt sending the black latex dildo right up into her fragile body like a missile from a submarine shoots out into the ocean.

Smiling I walked down the crunchy gravel drive satisfied I’d done a number on those that had betrayed me.

On the way home on the bus I had a wank over Agnetha outta Abba and got a text message from Bogdan,

“Am sik of having no woman. Need 2 squeeze a tit. Have thought of piercing holes in my nibbles so’s someone can blow them up like balloons 2 be like tits. So need u 2 cum over there4.
PS, have u ever been 2 San Francisco? They do this there.”

So I texted back,

“Can’t come over. Busy. Yes I have been 2 ‘cisco, but u know wat Bogdan, I’ve never been 2 me...”

Toasted Skin

The next morning back at my place Kimba put me off my breakfast again by going on about the bit of my jumper that ripped off in Mistress’s hedge.

I became too nervous to eat. My tongue dried and became sandy and I couldn’t swallow the big gobful of pancake I had worked back into my mouth.

I went upstairs and boked into the bath. I decided not to wash it away and let her find it instead. With her gag reflex she’d probably boke too, adding to the gross and noxious pallet. And being depraved as she is as well she’d probably climb in there are get washed in it.

After I cleaned myself up and ate some toothpaste off the end of my dirty yellow fingers I did a bit of Luke Rhinehart dice therapy and give myself the following 6 options:

1. Go round to Bogdan’s

2. Go round to Bosco’s

3. Go for a walk. Which direction would be also decided by the dice.

4. Go buy a suit to go to court in.

5. Go to Whetherspoons to get pissed.

6. Sit here in the bathroom and look for spiders to feed to Boke the cat.

I cupped the dice in my hands loosely like I were holding a newly born bird, then shook it violently like I were trying to kill it. When my wrists got sore I blew on it like they do on ‘Love Boat’ and things like that, then threw it against the wall. It bounced all over the show: off walls, the ceiling then down off the floor again in that same pattern, as it would as it was made out of the same material bouncy balls are. It landed with a splat in the boke. It read: 1 (Go round to Bogdan’s).

I reluctantly took myself into town to Bogdan’s grubby house, then. I had been hoping for 5 (Go to Whetherspoons to get pissed) and took the bouncy dice with me, throwing it up the pavement going along Castle Street making up options in my head as I went along when this auld soak came out of a bar and kicked it up into the guttering of Poundland, so I decided going to Bogdan’s was what I was meant to do.

- Sometimes, when I’ve driving back from a weed hookup, I like to put this track on and imagine I just shot the dealer and am driving away with his loot and his stash. – said Bogdan filling a bong and hitting play on his cassette stereo.
- I never think that – I said.

We both took a hog of the bong and I tried to adjust my poise to fit with the heavy antsy bassline of Biggie Smalls. After I got myself comfortable Bogdan got up of his beanbag and pulled his baggy jeans down. I reared up a little expecting his ¾ erect red cock to flop purposefully, like a falling tree, from his boxers.

- What are you doin, you freak, - I yelled at him over the rap.
- Look at my thighs. I think I got ‘toasted skin’. I read about it in the paper today. I sit with my laptop on my knee all day wanking over porn and reading David Icke. I think I got ‘toasted skin’.

I took a look at his legs and true enough they were red, mottled and spongy at the thigh.

- What am I gonna do? Screamed Bogdan, near tears.
- I can’t hear you over the rap! – I lied.

Then I sat back, closed my eyes and wished another number had come up on the dice.