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.

Gregory's Torture

So Aloysius is away down the country to look after the cats of a pal who’s had to go on the run after getting herself involved with a big drugs man who I’ll name Gregory for the sake of my arms and legs and general well being.

The pal arrived yesterday morning at the streak of dawn in her electric blue Ford Coupe. Appropriately she had this song playing at full blast, (I think she uses it as a sort of shtick):



which woke all the nosy wee weemen and aroused the churning tight-eyed suspicion of the local men who stood with folded arms in their driveway.

I sent Aloysius on his way with a non-fruit hug and told him to stay in touch and that he could rely on me for a gun* if needs be should things gets hairy.

Two hours ago he sent me a text:

Am safe. Hav arvd at loc. took here in chopper that met me at ards airstrip. Cats are w/me. All is fine.

He went on to give an account replete with colours, feelings and lurid metaphor, of how the chopper took off as the sun was coming up and banked southwesterly, skirting over Scrabo Hill. He signed off by saying he felt like an underworld spy.

I am glad Aloysius is safe, but this last hour I have become afraid that Gregory will get wind Aloysius was staying here and decide to come round and use me as a hostage so that Aloysius’s pal will give herself up and face the consequences. Part of me feels that putting my safety before that of a girl is v.un-gentlemanly, but if this pal was giving a drug dealer the run around then who am I to stand in the way of his retribution. No hero me, and anyway, whatever happened to women’s lib and gender equality. Equal in one way, equal in all, including the receiving of beatings.

It will either be for that reason Gregory will batter my door down or he will think I know where she is and torture me so’s I ‘fess up. I was on the phone to an old jailbird pal the other day and he tells me one thing they do to nonces inside is to put superglue up their hole and down their dick through the jap’s eye. Gregory, having learned these torture moves when he was inside (I’m sure he must’ve been), might assault my shitepipe like this then threaten to do the same with my dick. I would tell then - I’d tell lies, detailed and exact, as to the girl’s whereabouts. Anyone who thinks torturing terrorist suspects is a good idea is wrong for definite. I’m sure of that, right this minute, thinking over the prospect of torture upon my own person. Even the thought of it has me already stocking up on fabricated info to trade in to stop Gregory’s torture. Fuck it! I’m going to put the drawers against my front door and make a weapon. I’d do a shiv but I’ve no toothbrush.

*I was promised one ages ago when I ran into some trouble.