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…

It Isn't Right, You'll Never Know - I Am So Sad, Why Did You Go?

What would take people out on a day like this? – Thought I as me and Party Time dandered up the road near to where my house is. Party Time needed some smokes so we stopped at the Centra at the corner of my street and I waited outside while he went in and got them. He started taking some time so I went into the offies two doors up and bought myself a little ¼ of Glen’s vod and sat throwing it into me on the steps of the offies by a couple of old soaks and a gypsy selling a copy of the Big Issue from years ago. Then who passes but Kimba and her new beau. I clock straight of she’s wearing an engagement ring and then take a good look at the job they done on her melted off face and was glad and not a little surprised to see they’d fixed her up pretty good, save for the general Clingfilm sheen she emitted, but that could be easily explained away as over-moisturising or pregnancy glow.

- Here, - I went harassingly, getting up and following – you never told me you were getting hitched? Kimba? Who’s this punk?

The beau turned on me and got in my face. He smelt of expensive cologne and was wearing some dear looking trainers.

  - I should kick your fuck in, what you done to her, cunt, - went this big Tarzan – who turned out to be, after I give him a good shove and took a close look at his face, who it was was the Holocaust Spide I’d karate chopped one time before. He’d certainly filled out the little cunt. He’d gone from Otto Franks to Dolph Lundran since I seen him last.

- Bitch, you never call or write – I went to Kimba – What’s happening, what’ve you taken up with this sucker for?

- Like you were gonna amount to much, Danny Pongo.

- Did I see you playing frizzbe with this one a month or two ago in the Ormeau Park?
- Yeah, that was me. Me and Holocaust Spide met up at a Victims’ Support Group over a year ago. I was still goin with you when I met him. We’d met months before that time you came in and caught us bumming on the floor. He displays more grace and gentlemanliness in a day than you have your whole life Danny Pongo!!!
- Well, I hope you and this brute are very happy together, - said I while Kimba looked on expectantly. Holocaust Spide flexed and clenched his fists. – What, bitch? You think I’m going to shed a tear for you? Fuck, I’d sooner fall on my sword!

I looked away and Holocaust Spide pulled a fly one and smacked me full pelt right at the back end of my jaw. Luckily Party Time had got out of the shop with his smokes and ran at a gallop full force head first into Holocaust Spide and smashed his kisser up real good.

We left Holocaust Spide on his back on the footpath his own teeth strewn about his person like bones’d been thrown. Kimba stood to one side screaming blue murder. I gripped my jaw on the left side and felt it’d come away at two points. Party Time stalked up and down the street scaring grannies and precious mothers out with their children on their late afternoon/early evening constitutionals. Without much fanfare he grabbed Kimba slung her over his shoulder then threw her in the boot of my motor.

I was feeling very sinister as I pulled out with a screech and gunned the shit heap car toward the bridge so I stuck this one in the tape deck.

After a four-hour wait in the hospital I got my jaw wired up by a sexy small-tits nurse. I am sitting now writing this with my feet up on Kimba who is down on all fours before me in a type of ‘human furniture’ sort of programming Party Time has fitted her with after having injected her with something first. I am pumping this track into her skull over and over and over and over…

I Saw Your Eyes And You Touched My Mind

This afternoon in the off licence, standing right at the end of a very long queue, I begin to fantasise about murdering the sad looking frazzle haired old lady way up ahead at the till. I would kill her, I thought, by pouring the bottle of gin she were purchasing down her neck. It wouldn’t be hard. She’d have not much strength in her to begin with, being old and a chronic lush. The only resistance I would get, I thought, would be the involuntary body spasms issuing from her in short and decreasingly less powerful bursts as her lungs filled with London Fog.

To take my mind of my morbid fantasies as they were making me queasy I began to think how hard it would be going back home to Kimba. I would have to crawl grovelling back to her. I hadn’t been back in four days and four nights, leaving her as I did in the garden: legs spread and bleeding out all over a Minnie Mouse beach towel.

I was getting for her in the off licence 6 blue WKDs. They were her favourite tipple, the blue ones, and those along with a copy of Viz would get the ball rolling on me-making-things-up to her.

I walked up my street then with a jaunty zing in my gait and turned into my house, nearly walking right through the front door like a ghost so as not to disrupt for one second the vigour in my rhythm.

And just like that into the front room I went and who should be on the floor getting bummed by a skinny little spide with a star shaved into his step, but Kimba, light of my life.

All around there was lube and on either side of the writhing pair a couple of rubber dongs. In the air hung a smell of chlorine or cum.

The skinny little spide hopped to his feet and went to square up to me. He was terribly skinny. His ribs were sticking out so that I could count every one and I’m positive I could see, through his sickly translucent rice paper skin, his weedy little lungs hanging there in his chest like a granda’s scrotum. He looked like someone just walked outta Belsen and straight onto a porno set.

- Who the fuck are you? Asked the Holocaust Spide, hopping from foot to foot.
- I’m Danny Pongo and this is my house and that is my woman you’re sodomising on the floor. Now get out before I cut your throat!
- Or you’ll do wha’? said the Holocaust Spide, the eternal refrain of him and those like him. - I’ll break your fuckin’ jaw, - he said.
- Oh yeah, - I said. - You’re as hard as my granny’s shite. Now fuck off! - I said, karate chopping him right on his little fishbone ribcage.

The little bastard collected up his shop-bought ripped jeans and his Tommy Hilfiger shirt and his gold chain and ran out the house.

I looked at Kimba. On the TV Neighbours was on.
- I s’pose I deserved that, - I said.
- You did, - she said, in post coital lazy purrs.
- Ok then, well why don’t you get up. That songs on. On Neighbours. Angry Anderson. We’ll have a slow dance -
- I fuckin hate that song. Put Flock Of Seagulls on the record player and NO slow dancing!