Vicky's Got Her Story About The Mirror And The Cane

A rainy, rainy, rainy day. Never knew so much water could exist in one place as all the water that poured from the heavens this afternoon.

I ran into an old flame today from back when I used to live in a homeless hostel on the Ormeau Road.

She called herself Cuntrash Cloud-Hopper back in them days but now went by her real name of Jemima, now she'd grown up. 

Back then the girl was hot to trot, a real cream-yer-cacks merchant, and it was a lucky fella, we all thought, who would slice her first.

The reason for the luckiness of the cunt that popped Jemima's hostel-cherry was that this cunt, like every other cunt in the place, was probably carrying the clap or some other cringey STD. Ergo the first cunt that got to slice her would probably load her with something half deadly or give her a bushful of fucking lice, fucking sex maggots (got em more often than I can count on me fingers and toes) and after that, yer just gonna have to take yer chances when yer bucking her. Maybe put a sock on as a extra strength prophylactic instead of yer usual jube. And what's the point in that, even with a fox like Cuntrash Cloud-Hopper  aka Jemima? May as well wank into yer soup, fuck's sake.

Back then me and Jemima used to move from house to house between favours owed, soft touches and people we knew well who give out. But shit with me and her was always straight up, everything surface level on a platonic scale, and we were all the better for it. She shared secrets with me that 'that cunt', the one who sliced first slices last, that one, secrets that he'd never even have got wind of.

Some of the stuff she revealed were so disgusting I wished often that it were me bucking her and 'that cunt' doing all the listening. But as it was I just listened. I used to like holding her when she started bawling. I closed my eyes and got my way into thinking she were experiencing a full body orgasm in my arms.

Yeh, Jemima were a hotty, a strange and mystic fox who was always second guessing me in intricate games of wits.

I was just so lucky I was going through a stage in my life when I was dining out on an exclusively homosexual basis. Some time not long after meeting Jemima I got myself a room in a house on University Avenue, where I got to turning tricks for oldmen Freemasons to make ends meet.

It all started one morning with my fat landlord and me tottering in the living room screaming blue murder and fighting the bit out over a quibble with the bill. The rotten old Jabba The Cunt, a man who when he spoke sounded like he were in the throes of heavy salivation, stuck his hand down my trackie bottoms and gripped my plums gently.

- What you say, Mr Pongo? - He went up in my face his breath smelling like he'd wiped a dogs arse with his tongue.
- I say you let me live here rent free I see what I can do fer you.
- On a regular basis?
- Yeh, bub. On a regular basis.

What the Fat Landlord had failed to mention was that this regular homosexual pleasuring did not start and end with him. Soon Freemasons from his lodge were impatiently inquiring after the flexibility of my rapid wanking wrist and the plumpness of my life-raft fat blowjob lips.

One fucking nutjob, who claimed to be from the Lodge on the Park Road, opposite Ormeau Park, Lodge No. 641, claimed his lot, The St Helens Masonic Lodge, mutilated babies and dismembered them and threw their ripped off limbs round themselves just like they were the finest (and latest) silk and lace accessories.

He also claimed, while climaxing in my face one cold December afternoon, that some type of seer from fore-mentioned Lodge was responsible (as was Lodge as a whole) for the killing that poor child Brian McDermott.

I had heard, subsequent to that, that it were some pornographer from the Red Hand Commando who ran a sweet shop on the Ravenhill Road killed the boy. But maybe they were one and the same, the seer and the pornographer?

More later, when I make rearrangements in the remembering dept.  

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…

Words And Pictures Simply Can't Describe...

It was a very wet day. The air was wet when I finally emerged onto the street late this afternoon having spent the last 48 hours in hibernation, eating Pot Noodles and snorting a lot of base (but not so much that I seriously depleted my profit margin).

I had also bought two quick little white mice from the nearby pet shop to let Boke the Cat chase round the house.

The little bastard was starving and was so very ruthless in his hungry pursuit of the first mouse. The second, cleverer mouse, went and hid under the big, imposing dark-wood chest of drawers my granny give me and stayed there. But the first mouse? He ran.

From the kitchen I could hear an almighty clattering calamity occurring, and I reckoned the stupid mouse were crawling across the ceiling, his sharp little claws dug into the paint, him hanging on for dear life. Boke meanwhile leaping and bouncing and leaping off every surface in an effort to get high enough to swat the courageous little thing from his safe perch.

Whatever happened, Boke the Cat proudly, and with not a little weary dignity, returned into the living room carrying the limp dead mouse. With great relish he sat eating it in front of the electric fire and when he was done he licked his lips and rolled all over the floor. I noticed as he came past me, strutting officially like he were in a procession of returning war heroes, the face of the captured mouse had this frozen, petrified look about it. Teeth bared, eyes wide, whiskers arched and stiff.

Anyway, I sat watching Boke eat his dinner and I gained a little emotional succour from it. It made me feel horny as a matter of fact: watching him split that mouse, arse to tit, and eating its innards out. It felt like hardcore cunnilingus. I got my dick out and had a wank to it.

Afterwards Boke boked up some of what he ate. He walked ahead of it a little and started scraping the carpet in a backward motion, flicking his paws backward like he were in his litter tray and he were trying to cover it up. I don’t know why cats do this. All the time, if they’ve had an accident, they always think they’re in their litter tray and try and cover it up. They’re stupid that way. When he turned to look at me, to see if I’d seen what he just did, I saw myself reflected in his eye, his fiery yellow eye, my reflection held there like a prehistoric bug in amber.

Words & Pictures simply can’t describe...

I waited till it got dark till I went over to my Sis Micheesha’s house in Sydenham. Round there I could see on the walls the old S.W.T (Sydenham Wine Team) graffiti had reappeared here and there.

I didn’t know what to make of this. At their height in the 80’s/90’s they were mysterious to me. A punk Freemasonry in my eyes. Turns out they were Glentoran supporters all along, but legend had it they carried revolvers and drank cheap port wine upstairs in the McDonalds in town.

I was still ruminating on this when Micheesha came to the door, standing there barring me from getting in her house.
- I haven’t sold none yet, - she said with balls of dry white spittle collected at the corners of her mouth.
- That’s no fuckin good, Micheesha, - I said.
- I know. But there’s no one – I mean.
- Gimmie it straight you fuckin wapped out, fucked up head melter. You’ve fuckin put half of it up your nose haven’t ye?
- no I haven’t. I swear. I promise you. I’ll have all your dough come Saturday. Promise!
- Micheesha, I’m gonna burn down this house, with you, your kids, your dogs, that fuckin halfwit boyfriend –
- Partner!
- That fuckin’ chip sniffer boyfriend, that fuckin gormless ginger walking cheese puff, I stabbed him he’d probably bleed Fanta, ginger cunt. All you. Dead. Burnt to death.
- I’ve got something I can give you. Probably tide you over?
- Better be money?
- I could tell you where Kimba is...

So she were in this park on the Ormeau Road, with all these other hippy cult looking types, all mental deficients by the looks of it.

Then I saw her. She were playing catch with this totally gorgeous looking bloke. She were wearing some sort of facemask similar to Paul Gascoigne’s when he went to Lazio, which was probably to do with the reconstructive surgery she were getting on her melted off face that I caused when I shoved her headfirst into her granny’s fire.

But that boy she were playing catch with were the bees’ knees. An Adonis. This song I thought I’d play when I got home. Then I nearly cried. But I didn’t. Cos I’m a man.