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.

A Whore Ain't Nothing But A Trick To A Pimp

Party Time’s plans and moxie in whoring Izzy Hoyland have gone down faster than shit through a greasy funnel. It is our Uncle who has put the kibosh on things - in that way - by the rundown he give us the other night:
-...So that is why you can’t turn her out boys. For one thing, that bitch could keep a jail without a key -
- I hove got thah skills, she wall be undoor my control leek these – retorted Party Time, loudly clicking his bony branch like fingers.


On the way home Party Time pulled his copy of Pimp from the glove box and started to read out loud from it. After a minute I stopped him.
- I’ll read it. I can’t make out a fuckin word from you. Take the wheel and watch the road:

“Believe me, Slim, a pimp is really a whore who’s reversed the game on whores. Slim, be as sweet as the scratch…No sweeter. And always stick a whore for a bundle before you sex her. A whore ain’t nothing but a trick to a pimp….But a good pimp could cut his swipe off and still pimp his ass off. Pimping ain’t no sex game. It’s a skull game.”

Party Time interrupted, nodding and humming sagely in agreement.

It feels most of all that I am riding mute shotgun on Party Time’s little caper. My end is in getting him to rent my place to use as his base of operations . But that is not all. What I got fermenting slowly, in the recesses of both the mind and soul, is a scheme that’s effectiveness lies in its being allowed to grow of its own accord in the cerebral realms – like a good strong alcoholic spirit, its strength lies in its age, - or in this case its scope for furnishing contingencies and seeing the caper from every conceivable angle. To begin with: The concept is blackmail. The target:The johns. First of all, though, and most importantly, teddy bears will not go into the wood without promise of a picnic. At this picnic the only thing in the basket is Izzy Hoyland. So how to get that cat in there without being scratched? With that one thing she knows how to do good: turning a trick.

I told Party Time to drive as I had to think. I rolled a joint and smoked it with my eyes closed. Thinking took a mind cleared of muddle and a mind’s eye relieved of neuronal chatter – a psychotic fog lifted with the aide of my weed. We would go to a club. There we would find those teddy bears. I give Party Time the directions…

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.

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.

I'm So Proud Of Being A Whore, Lay Me Down And Turn Me Out And Gimmie Some More

This morning I rose from my bed with a heart full of jubilation and a sure sense of self possession.

This song was in my head, so I put one of her’s on the turntable: big gobbed, ferocious faced Ms Bassey.

After I took a walk out up the hill to see my uncle.

On the way I met Mad Otis who was walking along whistling a tune.
- Alright Mad Otis. You settled into your new place ok?
- Aye. ‘Part from the fuckin head spastic up above me everything’s fuckin spat on.
- Oh yeh? Who’s the character above you?
- Some fuckin mongo. They all call him Bozo over there. I’ll hear him all the time pacing back and forth above me arguing with himself. Or singin Abba tracks. I saw him the other day at the shaps and I went over to him and said, “here would you keep it down. I can hear every word. You’re makin a fuckin racket.” ...and, here, Danny Pongo, he told me to fuck off!
- Oh my god, Mad Otis. Did he have a death wish or something?
- He was lucky this time. I told him if he fuckin slabbered again I’d tear his fuckin ribcage out and keep him prisoner in it.
- Good for you.
- I’ll stick my fuckin dick down his throat. See if he’s slabberin then.
The thought of this made me alternatively laugh and gag. I walked away from Mad Otis with my hand up to his face like celebrities do with the paps.
- Good bye, Mad Otis. Goodbye, - I spluttered.

The toothless hooker Izzy Hoyland was with my uncle when I arrived at his. He give her some money and she slinked away toward the lifts. I asked her how Fat Sandra was but she ignored me.

I only got sitting down then on his nice soft sofa when he asked me if I wanted to go out for a spin. An hour later we found ourselves spluttering up the Rocky Road (a very steep road, the steepest in Europe I heard) perilously close, in his rickety old rust bucket car, to stalling completely and rolling backward down onto the carriageway that’s full of zooming cars and lorries.

Halfway up the hill uncle reached behind him and took some electrical cord from the back seat. He put his arm out the window with it, let it loose, let it all hang out, all five and a half foot of it, and began to whip the bonnet of the car going: “Yah! Yah!” like he were in Ben Hur or was an old Victorian chariot driver trying to get his horses to go faster.

But we got up and into the Knockbracken Hills and had a zoom around, and when we drove back into the Fourwinds he let it go coming down a hill and his rusty old shit heap car began to shudder under the force of the velocity and I thought it was going to come apart, bits of it breaking off and flying away like a spaceship re-entering the atmosphere. But we survived.

On the way back to his I spotted Izzy Hoyland walking along nursing her balled up fists. Uncle swung over and asked her if she wanted a lift. She did.
I noticed her knuckles were bleeding. – What happened to you? - I asked her.
- Punter started gettin rough. So I fuckin whacked him. He went over, blood pissin from his face before he hit the floor.
- Good for you, I said.
- Good for you, said my uncle. - And you’re just lucky he didn’t whack you one back. You haven’t that many more teeth left to get knocked out.
I looked back then at Izzy Hoyland and she grinned a big dumb wide one and her brown tongue poked out the big hole between the teeth she had left.

You Can't Just Shoot Your Way Out And Go

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