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... 

 

What You Want For Nothin'? A Rubber Biscuit?

Another happening occurring in the last fortnight was that Party Time done a bunk for 4 days.

It all started on a Saturday afternoon. I was at home watching a Coronation Street omnibus, and Party Time turns to me and says...

          -  Ah ahm gan to thah shaps.

          - Right, - I went.

And he just didn't come back.

I hadn't noticed until the 4 hour Coronation Street marathon was over. I sat through the credits; right to the end. Someone had told me there's a very blatant subliminal appears somewhere after the 15 second mark. I got onto the floor and onto my belly and shimmied my way over till I was right up under my old shitey set and staring close at the screen.

When I thought I saw it I went to Party Time, - There did you see it? - And when I turned to look to get his reaction, he wasn't there.

I rang him a few times on his mobile as the night went on, but come the next day I coulda give a shit what'd happened to him.

By the fourth day I did begin to get worried. Not so much for his sake as much as for mine. If he turned up dead the police would get involved. For the same reasons I hadn't called them yet to report him missing I now hoped beyond hope he wasn't dead. I crossed both my fingers and put one of those prayers to St Jude in the Belfast Telegraph's classified, St Jude being the saint of lost causes.

Then, the fifth day he came home. I thanked St Jude by saying a prayer, then ruined it at the end by praying for the death of my enemies and loadsa dosh.

I arrived home sometime mid-afternoon having been out delivering a thing for a new pal. I notice the distinctive multicoloured tennis shoes of Party Time sticking out from under my neighbour's car.

  - What you doin under there, Party Time? I asked

  -  Ah ahm axe-spectan far a car bamb. Wah mast gat avah tah Hammasmyth quack fast tah pack app mar praddack!                                               

  -  But, Party Time, - I insisted, - You're back in shitey old Belfast again...you're not in London no more!

At this he pulled himself out from under the neighbour's car. He was all sweaty and I got the impression he'd sprinted all the way from the International Airport, which is a good 4.5 miles, anyway. He got up and dusted himself off. Then a neighbour appeared.

  -  Here! - His big red face squealed. - What you at under my car? You planting a bomb under there, yah big cunt?        
  -  Nahhhh...- drawled Party Time, his eyes rolling in his head.
  -  What's'at? - Went the neighbour cupping his hand under his wee, underdeveloped burns' victim lug, - I don't fuckin speak ape, cunt...Nae what ye at?
  -  Don't worry, - went I, stepping in with the condescension of an archbishop, - he is my cousin, and he  has learning difficulties. Shame on you!

At this the fat bald headed little man hung his head and shuffled his fat arse off in the direction of his neat little house.

I took Party Time inside and sat him down on the couch, and he told me his story.

He had gone round to the shops, as he had said, with the intention of buying a box of smokes and coming straight back home again. At the shops he met this dear old woman, who was buying Miracle Grow for her garden. Party Time convinced her he'd do her garden for 80 quid, and after some arm twisting she agreed.

So he spends the afternoon doing that. The old duck pays him, and he is on his way. Only he is not coming home to me, he is heading to the airport and he is getting the first plane to London.

When in London he meets all his old connections and he spends 3 and a half days smoking Crystal and snaking Filipinos. Before he leaves he has enough wherewithal still though to purchase some reasonable quantity of Crystal to bring back home with him. He is planning to test the market here for it, to put some out there and see what demand is like.

But once again his grand plans are scuppered by a heavy paranoid turn and once again it is the Chinese, he believes, are after him again...only this time not the Triads but the Chinese Secret Police. They are waiting for him to board the flight, he thinks. They are going to lift him then, no doubt.

So he goes into the nearest toilets, locks the cubicle door behind him and shoots what he can up his arm and flushes the rest.

On the plane he's fine. It's when he touched down in Belfast he came up on it. He stepped out onto the concourse, the sun in his face, and felt the euphoria whirlpool in his belly. And after that he can't remember a fucking thing.

   

I Say, Wills Dont You Ever Crave To Appear In The Daily Mail Dressed In Your Mothers Bridal Veil?

Yesterday for the Royal Wedding Party Time had his cohorts round to talk about his latest wheeze, which is, like I said in the previous post, the importation and distribution of Crystal.

The only thing I have said on the issue is that instead of going to the trouble of importing it why not just make it up here. Fuck, the internet says it’s a piece of piss. Chemicals, some tubing, some other chemicals….but no….Party Time says the risks are too great, both in ‘law’ risky, and in ‘could-kill-yourself’ risky, as it is a dangerous game making Crystal. Very Explosive.
- Ah hove san many a few palls keelt in a math-lob act-splosion! – Went Party Time, lamentingly.

I still think importing it is most risky of all, but what do I know. Furthest up the rung on that particular ladder I’ve ever got is selling shit on in bars, grams and ounces, depending on the product.

After they’re done having their ‘sit-down’, as Party Time likes to call it Mafioso-like, we all sit down to watch the Royal Wedding. Luckily we tuned in at just the right time, just as the bony pony Kate emerged from her lovely posh hotel in her nice frock.

She is a bony pony all right.

Some hours later I read this claim by a commenter on Anna Grace’s blog called Valerie and thought back to her bony pony face.

“PS what did you think of the Royal Wedding?

GLUED to that screen, I was! Now I don't know about Wills but you want to watch that Kate. Someone told me the other day she was a notorious prostitute in Tottenham North London and a real one for the crack pipe!”

And I thought, reading this and casting my mind back not an hour or more: I can see that.

Some other thoughts I had regarding the Royal Wedding go thusly:

"as for that royal pair it was discreetly mentioned in the papers over here, they're cousins, distant cousins. man, i got thrown outta a bookies yesterday for asking if they did odds on terrorists attacking the whole thing, and if htey give out different odds on different organizations. but i hope they fucking do, and all hte fawning dickheads they got on the sky news tonight as well, blow em all to kingdom come! she's a sleeket bitch who has been i think placed under some sort of mk ultra like programming - and he is as useful as a paper shower curtain. he is dumb as dirt, and while he was v.sweet sixteen, handsome ways, he has now lost all his hair and his head is in the shape of a peanut. she, though, she's lovely. but now v.skinny. i thought once that if she appears on the money soon as queen it means you can have a wank over your money, yeah, vpretty...saying that by the time she's queen she be old and withered and have a resemblance to an old man's finger."

"god in heaven! I hate em both!!!


i wonder if he has forced her to let him up in the VIP entrance? i bet he has. i reckon this is how they choose their wives, the royal blue blood inbred twats.


just like a perverted Cinderella, wills has to find the right hole that can sustain his enormous reptilian dinosaur cock (as they are all reptilian shape-shifters, the royals) - the exact right fit, for there is a girl out there that will - it has been predestined through dna, and it will most likely be a relative of his!


but really though, they're all, the royals, baby eating, human sacrificing satan worshipping (all for real!) oddballs, y'all!"

And in response to these pictures from here:

"Its not their penises, its diana's nose (harry's got the cloned one) that they keep tied round their leg, and keep with them as a lucky charm....i'm. ABSOLUTELY sure of it Infomainiac!!!!"

Some time through the day I got monumentally bored.

I suggested to Rhonaldo, Billiard, Slug and Party Time we have a circle jerk (wank race) and I open a book on it.

So that’s what we did. Party Time recommended the odds on me were shortest as I had a great cock, but that it had a hair trigger.

- Cant con meek hamshelf cam jooz bah thee site aff hees ahn cack! – Went Party Time.

Slug complained that with the Queen keeping on getting into shot it would put him off, so we placed him as the rank outsider.

The Sky News cut to the balcony and we were off…

Billiard has his great pale belly pulled up out of the way and was going hammer and tongs, his face near as purple as his bell end with all his concentration.

Party Time’s wouldn’t work, and the more frustrated he got the more he pulled and jerked at his big brown trunk. At one point he yanked at it so hard I thought he was gonna rip it off.

Rhonaldo and Slug had a good rhythm going, very boring, and I sat there stroking all my half-a-foot, slowly and smoothly, working up a fat little bead of precum before slathering it all over my helmet’s edge…

And just like that, when the new Royal Pair lean in to share their first kiss as a married couple, I shoot the shit just as their lips meet…right in their fucking faces…

We all laughed and swapped coin…

Beat You RedWhiteBlue As The Flag Stick Your Head In A Bag Till You're Startin To Gag

So in regards the penultimate statement I made last night, in regards the ‘intel apparatus’ mentioned, I learn that unbeknownst to me Party Time has been having pow-wows with spidey wee fuckers in my place when I’ve gone out for the day.

These pow-wows were taken up with discussions planning the loose organization of some sort of network, whereby Party Time would import Crystal from London, and him and this wee band of vicious looking cunts I found sitting round in my living room yesterday afternoon would then distribute it around the place.

It has also transpired that Party Time has been using my phone to call his connections in London who would get stuff sorted that end.

I am in fucking full red alert tonight!!!!!!

Last night, speaking to mother on the phone about Coronation Street, we hear three distinct clicks, like a phone somewhere else in the house were being picked up, put down and picked up again. I just thank my lucky stars she attributed this to the telegraph lines being haunted by those souls who had passed while on the phone, but unfortunately for me I knew the terrible truth of it – the truth of it being it was much more likely to be: Intel/Police/Some other sophisticated gang (doubtful)

This trio collected from god-knows-where by Party Time are for sure the most dangerous looking and weird bunch I’ve ever encountered in this place.

They are Billiard, Slug, and Rhonaldo (not cos he’s Brazilian, but in reference to his prowess on the field of soccer).

Rhonaldo is the youngest at 16 and he sits looking at me his mouth opening and closing opening and closing like a sinister goldfish, he’s chewing his gum, then he blows a big bubble and pops it and Party Time takes the opportunity to break the ice and he tells me what’s happening.

Billiard like his name suggests his entirely in the shape of a Billiard ball. He is early 20’s by the looks of him and is very fat and he breathes heavily every time he shifts.

The last one Slug I have met before many moons ago (he was mentioned on this years ago). He is missing three fingers in total and he told me back then his molester uncle cut them off with pliers. I do remember though subsequently finding out the real story was he got em cut off in prison by bullies and was too ashamed to admit it.

So this was them. Party Time had not yet made up a name for his gang but I’m sure he will, knowing him. No doubt there’ll not be a wall in Belfast safe either with them adding their tag everywhere.

Last night I went out for a pint of milk and I spied a car with two dudes in civvies in it watching me. They’d this big long slender aerial sticking out the back, and the motor had new plates on it, too. I thought I was gonna drop dead from an anxiety fit.

Then last night I had a nightmare about that murderous looking wee cunt, Rhonaldo. His eyes stared into mine, but they’re like an empty TV screen and there’s nothing behind them but wires and cogs and this liquidy faecal matter driven by pistons and coursing through the valves of his mind.

I woke up in a state of panic and have remained that way for the rest of the day.

And I miss Boke the Cat, who, by letting me stroke him, was able to calm me down in times like this…

Here’s what Party Time’s trio would put you in mind of:

God's On Our Side, We Know We're Right, Come To The Light: Say Goodbye To All Your History

I have been all at 6’s and 7’s this last week busying me and Party Time into rustling up the coin so’s we can buy up some provisions, or, what I am calling them: ‘Our Doomsday Supplies’.

Having learnt I’d suffered a bereavement (Boke The Cat’s dead *RIP*) + a massive dive in serotonin levels due to the ingesting of 3 of the strongest e’s I’ve had in years (ergo subsequent comedown being equally powerful) + add into the mix: I learn my sister Micheesha has taken up again with that Stupid Peter, having kicked him out 2 or 3 months back for whipping the children with “electrical cut-offs” he nicked off the building site he works on.

Party Time told me a story the other day about how when he was destitute in London - (thought that’s not where he’s from, for those seeking to whittle down the suspects, so to speak) – and found himself living in some old derelict former funeral home, down and out in the strictest sense, his mental wellbeing decimated by some type of meth induced paranoid psychosis, so much so he’s into believing that the Triads are after him and were, at any minute, going to locate him and haul him off and stub out fag ends on his forehead, or whatever it is the Triads do when you cross them big style.

He filled me in a little on the circumstances that led up to this; dealing Crystal outta a house in (one of those well known run down areas of London) with this Sri Lankan (or Nepalese [can’t remember]) doll, who was his woman, and how something had ensued with them, money or whatever, and she basically either twisted his head or was for real in convincing him she *was* getting the Triads on him (even though I thought they were exclusively a Chinese gang).

So he’s walking the streets of London and finds himself in this derelict funeral home and then, in the telling of this story, he switches to talking about the one’s in the gang he was in, back at where he’s from, that they got this thing, can’t remember, but they got a name for it, its like a string round their neck, with a Clipper Lighter and a pipe strung through, so when they took a notion to have a toke their instruments weren’t more than an inch from their lips. But, the point of him telling me this, he says, is that these were the ones who were really caning it, all the time, and that sort of Crystal using it forms, like, bubbles on the brain, these chemical collections, that cannot be processed by the body, or broken down, so these highly corrosive chemical build-ups eat into the brain, destroying certain parts of it like the areas dealing with short-term memory and pleasure receptors. And that is why, he tells me, when he started hitting it hard due to his paranoia, his face became all collapsed in like an old man on chemo and his teeth are all gone to shit, cos whatever chemicals are used in the manufacture of Crystal, the left-behinds in the body eat you up. But these chemical build-ups don’t only collect in the brain or eat away at your innards; they can be expelled through the pores and sometimes come out like acne.

So Party Time’s there, in this derelict funeral home, where he also finds a coupla other squatters, these Lithuanians, and they got the place all wired up with a TV and microwave etc, proper wee bolthole. For Party Time, though, the Triad heebie-jeebies are rocking him real bad. His face has broken out with this ‘chemical acne’ after the heavy using, this build up of dermatological meth clusters under his skin. So in his desperation, to stave off ‘the fear’, he pops this shit into a square of tin foil and puts it in his pipe, like as a gauze, and smokes it…

…Ahhh!!!

But that ain’t even the half of it. Party Time’s maybe got us some attention from our own intel apparatus here in lovely NI, the Special Branch, but that’ll have to be for another time.

It’s only left for me to say that with this convergence of anxieties, 1 part circumstance of environment, 2 parts consequence, if I were a country I’d be on amber alert with the threat level sliding toward red. The walls are closing in on all fronts, with the micro mirroring the macro…it may all go to shit tomorrow for one and all, and who wants to be left like a spare dick at an orgy…the results are in, and the coin’ll be found to stock the cupboards, steel ourselves against the prevailing winds of discord, keep the rolling news on a loop…and maintain:



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………………………………..
                         

Do You Believe In Monsters? Do You Believe In Demons?

The teddy bear excursion to the club didn’t go well.

In a fit of desperation we sojourned to Thompson’s where we hoped to find a couple of pudgy greasy faced students randy for a three-way (anal, oral, vaginal), - our
little teddy bears, sticky red cocks stiff and primed for carnal engagement with Izzy Hoyland’s yeasty raw-fish snatch.

How we got in past the Tarzan faced bouncers I’ll never know. Party Time was
clucking on ‘Adolph’s Amphetamine’ the crystal methamphetamine and wasn’t two steps inside the heavy oppressives of the Thompson’s hole when he starts helecoptoring round and round the dancefloor his fists balled at the end of his long arms spinning wildly and deadly, big as two sledgehammers, clocking two millies in the way. This gang of head-the-balls appeared from out behind pillars and each other a la Agent Smyth from The Matrix and descended on Party Time. Me standing watching, forehead hedgerowed with wrinkling deep furrows, I slink into the melee around the growing crowd dancing furiously in an encouragement of combat, egging on this strange ape-like man mountain, muscles stuffed into his tight translucent skin like a condom stuffed with walnuts.

This track played and Party Time went on a furious and violent melee attack. I swear if these people had’ve been sick like with cancer or some other sort of wasting disease the power of Party Time’s blows would’ve done more than knocked the taste outta the cunts’ mouths. A Thor like swinging power he would’ve knocked their heads
off their frames like Tiger Woods whacks golf balls off a tee.

I scored an e from one of the spidey yokes taking advantage of the confusion to emerge out of the back quarters to sell his contraband openly. It was a good e and it didn’t take me long coming up on it and enjoying the last few beats of Venetian Snares magnum opus.

After what was an indeterminate time dancing while wrapped up tightly into myself like I do, arms, head, specifically chin curled up in my middle chest, Party Time grabs me round the throat and hauls me off like a sex offender gimp on a promise.

In the alley outside a pair of pigs were scampering toward us, shouting loud questions as they went. Party Time legged it and so did I, and it didn’t take long till I overtook him – my prolonged burst of superhero like speed chemically encouraged by the beezer e.
- This e’s fuckin ace of spades Party Time, - I observed to Party Time.
- I wish I’d hove got wan, - he lamented.

We got as far as Custom House Square before we stopped to catch our breath. In my hallucinogenic, adrenaline soaked perceptions I beheld two opaque versions of us, me and Party Time, running along a few feet behind and when they reached us I noticed very briefly a twisted demonic rendering of our features and before I could fully take this in they turned and disappeared into our persons.

We sat by the old courthouse and I rolled us a couple of smokes. A few rollers came past but we were in the shadows and out of sight. We were silent, but I knew what we were both thinking: We’d have to up our pimp game if we wanted to make some coin.

Murky

I’ve had a month of it. To go into it, the real nitty-gritty, would be too a traumatic thing for me – to draw it all out like I usually do with that verbose purple prose may bring a hallucinatory bent to my remembering of the incidents below – and that, having smoked a joint too, I don’t think I could handle.

- The first thing that sprouts in my remembering - in the here and now – is
that my cousin Party Time is in town. Party Time has arrived from lands afar – a clucker, heavy meth smoker, Party Time’s what he calls himself – no wracking my brains for an alias this time --- He’s called after a hustler in Iceberg Slim’s autobiography, Pimp. He tells me he read it in school and it didn’t so much inspire as convince. Convince him off his natural abilities to pursue a colder, eviler path through life.
- So he’s been kipping on my floor the last 3 weeks. The first week, half of it, he told me I’d to give him my bed! I am 5 foot 4. He nearly six and a half. He
gets in and plunks his bags down and this is the first thing he says: Give me your bed…looming over me like a tree – so I did…and the cunt never rose for 3 and a half days. The fourth day he got up to take a big shite and I stuck a nailboard under the duvet sheet. I hid behind the door and he comes lankily dawdling back, flops down, and while there’s still a millimetre of air between him and my trap – like he has almost pre-cog’d it – his body jack-knifes, spins, lands on the edge of the bed, wounding slightly, and he rolls off.
- He chased me and I ran into the toilet and locked the door behind me. I stayed in there for 4 and a half hours until he kicked the door in. He bounded over like Lou Ferringo, grabbed me by the belt buckle and the scruff of the neck, turned me upside down, and shook me like people empty bins. Then he banged my head a couple of time off the floor, like he was trying to put a hole in it, then took his hands away and left me there, freestanding on my head, then I tilted and fell on my arse and I sat up and couldn’t speak.
- This lasted an hour. Since then I have been getting a numb leg, intermittently. I have been on the phone to mother about this. She tells me that she knew a man got a knock on the head once and got cancer in his leg after. She reminds me of aunt Gildae who bit her tongue then got cancer in her vocal cords and had to speak through that “robot box” ever since.
- Possibly related or not to Party Time’s arrival I have been needing to piss a lot and have been getting dizzy spells. I have been drinking a lot of coffee lately to stay on my wits against Party Time so maybe this is the reason why, but I have got it into my head that I have diabetes.
- Then Party Time stole my laptop and sold it at the Cash Converters in town.
He told me after he wanted to use the money he got to buy components to make up a meth lab in my place. So next time he went out to get smokes I locked him out. He came back a couple of days later with a broken nose and I took pity on him and let him back in with the proviso he follows my rules: That he goes out and makes some coin; that how he’s going to do this is he employs his bad nature and goes and turns out our Uncle’s hooker pal Izzy Hoyland. I ask him if he’s still the money he got off the laptop and he says most of it. I tell him he’ll have to use it to overhaul her as she’s missing two front teeth. He agrees. I get him to agree that with the first bit of coin he makes he can buy me a new laptop. Then it dawns on me he can run his operation out of here and I can charge him rent. I then get starry ideas about setting up sex stings with DUP politicians, with little cameras behind two-way mirrors. My mind then murks on child-sex stings, like in Kincora, and the political-sway potential it would hold – I think: Danny Pongo – Political Blackmailer – but pull back…and know, in this backwater, a prostitute sting would be enough.

As long as Party Time is still here posts will be few and far between. If he sees I’m writing about our operation he may just upend me in some wet cement and keep it that way. His strength is too great for Danny Pongo, and his wisdom too kaleidoscopic.

PS I have been going to earlier posts to listen to the music there, and some videos don’t appear, instead saying – Third Party User Violation. Video Terminated – or words to that effect. So I am wondering: am I the third party who has used the video causing it to be terminated? If so I’m not going to risk posting any more videos, which is why there is not one today.