Sometimes I Can't Deny, Some Days Just Pass Me By

I'm sitting writing this in the central library so's to get out of my house for the afternoon. I usually won't go out in this heat. I don't have any threads to match this weather. I've been lying out on my big faux-leather sofa this last two days in the nip playing with myself, my big fan on the coffee table going hell for leather and keeping me cool. But the fan, my only fan, has gone and packed in and the place is hotter than a nun's cunt at benediction.

I put on my cardigan, bare chested underneath, and my wranglers and went at a slow pace down to the bus stop, my head bowed in mind of the dangerous rays of the sun at my eyes.

On the way I met Mad Otis and his da. His da was rocking the 70's hippy-provo look: long, greasy rat-tail hair and and one of those green canvas army jackets with some European flag on the arm. He wore a beard, that'd obviously been dyed jet black, and smoked a cheroot.

 - Was up the road gettin some lacks for mah doors, – yelled Mad Otis in my face.

 The da went to speak. He spoke like a drunken retarded man. His head slumped one side to the other, like a metronome in slow motion. I noticed the plate in his head, gotten as a result of Mad Otis dropping the radiator on his noggin that time.

 - Nothing against blacks, but did you hear there's an African deli on the Lower Ormeau got busted recently for havin a putrid sheep's carcass in the back and no runnin hot water? Said the da, drawling.

 - Aye! - Went Mad Otis quick and impatiently like he'd been waiting weeks to speak. - Fuckin rattin Vietnamese Crows in their display cobinat an' all, Danny Pongo! Fuckin rattin bastards were smogue'lin em here taped to their legs under their big African man-skirts you see them walkin about in! Fuckin' sellin you dead crows! Crows're the same fockin world over, fuck's sake! I go into Ormeau Park with mah fuckin crossbow and skewer a few of em on mah bolts – fuckin cook you one Pongo, tell you it'll taste the same as any of the ones those African boys got down in that deli of theirs!

 - Maybe you could open yer own deli, Mad Otis? Went I.

 - Might be a business idea in the workings there, Mad Otis, - Went his da. - See though, there's a lotta young people, young men getting sick now, Danny. See when you eat chicken and yer sick the protein travels to yer brain and collects there and makes you sicker.

 - See all the shite they put in the chicken, and all the food as a matter of fact, all the time: additives, colourings, all sortsa chemicals -

 - Correct! - Went Mad Otis cutting me off, the spit flying out his mouth, - To fockin bulk it out and give the livestock more weight an' all!

 - But that's not all, - went I pointing into the sky. - You see those big long streaks across the sky. And you see those whispy fingers coming away from the main body of the streak like ghostly branches? Well them's what you call chemtrails, Mad Otis. They are being sprayed outta private airplanes under the direction of a hydra-headed Luciferian New World Order that work behind the scenes of common times endevouring to control each and every little thing.

 - And this is the way they get started, - went Mad Otis raising his voice. - Spray us with fockin fly spray and get us all sick and weak. Well, they won't take me Danny Pongo! They're not gonna take me!

 Mad Otis's da then leaned in close to me. He was missing many teeth and his tongue was thick with brown gack. He said – Wow!

 But this is only a heavily edited portion of the discourse Mad Otis and his da engaged me in. In reality it lasted exactly 32 minutes.

One bus had passed me in the course of their talking to me but I were too nervous of both of them to cut either one off and go sprinting after it. Luckily they'd cut into a good deal of my waiting time for the next one, so I wasn't waiting too long in the stinking, sticky sun.

I was amazed to discover, when I got off the bus in town, that Belfast had now well and truly entered the 21^st century by acquiring itself 'The City Stink'. I have smelt 'The City Stink' in London, Dublin and Barcelona. It fills yer nose with a cool putrescence. It is most noticeable in the shade. There is every sort of bad odor on the aromatic palette of 'The City Stink'. And now Belshite's got one too.

I saw a lotta sites walking through the heat this afternoon. There were a lot of men, tough nuts, with their soft steroid muscles bulging underneath their latest up-to-date Rangers strips. I saw them only in the middle distance pointing this way and that, up & down, and at each other, heads red and shouting, their (for the most part) shiny bald burnt red heads gleaming like cummy wet bell-ends with a dose of something or other.

I had nowhere to go – just knew I had to get outta the boiling confines of my dirty little hole.

So I dandered up to Bosco's to buy a few e's, cos it were sunny, cos its in the sun, this type of year in fact at a festival down south, that I took my first e listening to Shakedown play this number:

So when I get home I'll stick it on, bang a coupla Bosco's e's and dance round my living room to it in the nip...  

Have Some Courtesy, Have Some Sympathy, And Some Taste

Today found me standing on the corner of Donegal Sq South and Bedford Street looking up into the air. I stood there, perched on the edge of the footpath, assuming a static stubbornness to the tut-tut's of townie ignoramuses rushing by me and against me like a painiced stream round a smooth rock. Up above, in the sky, a plane spewed heavy metals and other assorted poisons upon us all in the form of chemtrails. This plane, one of a fleet of deathbringers sponsored by our Gifted and Malevolent Controllers, I could see through my Batman Telescope (which I carry with me everywhere now). It was painted with much the same material, the blacky silver, the same as the helicopter, and like it, was unmarked.

I cursed my luck at not having some kinda scientifical gidgerie-ma-do that might take a reading of what the air around us is made up with (as these type of machines do exist), but I didn't, so I turned abruptly, body popping round a fattie and a sharp edged skinnie (men) and went off to buy a cheap drink somewhere, the location of which I would determine using the Dice Man theory, and all with the help of my new fangled wooden dice that I found in a skip on my dander into town.

After tossing the thing about inside my pocket 3 consecutive times and finding it came up 6 each go, I pulled it out and saw it said 6 on every face. I was mightily disappointed by this and cursed the fate that brought me a 6 sided dice with 6 on every side. So I decided to just walk along and listen out for someone saying the name of a bar. This bar I would go to. Didn't take long. 

And I went to Lavery's.

Outside I sat with my gin and tonic and rolled a fly wee one-skinner rocket (or SCUD more correctly, in a proportional sense) and sat sipping and puffing, little bits at a time to stretch it out, when a man in a suit sits by me.

This man's name was Tandy.

Tandy's drunk. He's just after quitting his job, and was on his way round to the estate agents to put his house on the market before he decided to call in for a drink to calm his nerves.

He begins to talk to me:

- I came home last week. This day last week... - he says. He has a lovely drinkers' voice, words rolled out like squidgy black hash pronounced in gravelly level inflections, though his diction's no the worse off for it, - ...So I come home last week, and there's my wife on the stairs getting fucked by the milkman.
- That's terrible, - say I.
- Worse than that. The milkman's also my brother.
- Ahh! That's a sick arrangement, there!
- Too right, mate. Too right. Why, me and Sylvia, we'd holiday, Italy, Venice, Vegas. Ha! Every time we'd book a room no higher than the 2^nd floor. Sylvia reckoned one or the both of us might go over the balcony and break our necks if we were any higher up. We liked to drink, us. Holidays the most. Glug, glug glug. Fuck, when we went to Turkey we didn't leave the hotel once for all the screwing and drinking we did...

Tandy was a very handsome man of around 50. His hair gone white prematurely, white as the freshest snow, it was long and kept back with a little butterfly clip, which looked like it were encrusted with shiny, precious things. His face was triangular, and tapered off at his extremely pointed chin that was disguised beautifully by a miniature goatee of gnarly white hair, which, as well as disguising the pointy chin, paradoxically complemented his look exquisitely. His drinkers face was very red, and this, with his white hair, give the impression it'd been snowing on Mars. But more, much more than that, he resembled The Devil.

So I decided to tread carefully as I could but of course could not suppress the most pertinent character flaws...

- It's terrible. A terrible thing to be cheated on. I know how it feels, Tandy. Have been there myself. Recently. But with your brother...? God Save Ireland! You know what that is, on your brother, anyway? Incest Bi-proxy. I mean, he's shoved his dick where his brother's been putting it every other night for the past how many years. The dirty, dirty bastard. He should've gayed you up, his own brother, and been done with it...

On instantly replaying my previous words I was mentally kicking myself when it slapped me square in the face that what I'd said altogether made an already bad and dirty thing now a terrible and filthy thing. The Devil Tandy, throughout, nodded contemplatively, then sighed. I braced myself for his verdict:

- You're right, Daniel. But more than that you have made me see that in this they are much worse than I. Saying that I already knew it. But something about the empathy and understanding of a stranger, a stranger who has experienced similar, somehow is giving me a perspective from a place other than the place I've been lately, which is feeling the victim.
- Glad I could be of service.
- I'm still going to put my house on the market. Gonna take what I make of that and my retirement and fuck off out of this terrible country.
- More power to ye, Tandy. Wish I could do the same.
- You never know, Daniel. You soon might. I owe you a favour now.

He swung his mac on , round the shoulders, hem flying, and headed toward the big gate leading into the entry. Before he went he turned and winked, and I thought again about his resemblance to The Devil. Thought back too to my six sided dice, 6 on every side, and how I'd pulled it thrice, - always: .6, 6, 6...

And so The Devil, he owed me a favour.