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.

Now That You Found Yourself Losing Your Mind Are You Here Again?

I left through Mrs Mulberry’s back gate as arranged and ran up to the top of the entry to take a juke round the corner onto the street to look for that peeler. Just as I did he exited my house with Kimba following close behind. She was nodding non-stop and really quick. She smoked her feag right to the cork and lit another one. I stared at her hard, nearly stared a hole though her, and tried to telepathically communicate with her to stop acting so strung out. A look of concern and pity passed over the peeler’s face and when he turned to head back up the street again I noticed that it was unmistakably Pigcop Stevenson who done me for blasphemous vandalism a few weeks back.

I ran a little way back up the entry again and hid behind a wheelie bin. I peeked my head out over the top of the bin to see that he passed. Once he was halfway across the top of the entry he stopped, put his nose in the air, and breathed in deeply. He did it again then shook his head and walked on.

I let a couple of minutes pass then ran round to my house. Kimba was out the back sitting on her arse on the grass with a big Minnie Mouse towel between her spread legs that were placed at a 90degree angle. There were blood all over the towel, over Minnie especially. It was as if Goffy had come up and, with a revolver, blown Micky’s brains out all over her face.
- What’s the matter, you silly cunt? – I asked.
- I’m bleeding out, Danny! I think you may have really done some damage to me. I think you’ve tore my innards out.
- Don’t be darft! The bleedings stopped now. Look. Sayin that it’ll take more than one of your tampons to stem that flow if it comes again. You’d probably need to stick one of your Ugg boots up there.
- There’s nothing else goin up me that’s bigger than a dick, or at most a fist.

She started to cry then.
- I think I might really miss them as well.
- Miss them? Our babies? - I said. – You can’t miss what you never had.
- But I’ve had them forming inside me for so many months and weeks, I feel like I’ve had something removed. Something vital.
- Nah. Wait till your later years. When you got tumours attached to your kidneys like limpets on a rock. Then you’ll put things in perspective.
- That doesn’t make any sense.
- What I mean is tumours on your kidneys are gonna kill you. Children, 3 of em, and all they’ll cost you, you may as well be dead, especially with your prospects. So both things are better removed. The difference between tumours and children is that the host attaches an undue amount of emotional attachment to the latter.
- Here, - I said, - listen to this, - I said putting my I-pod in her ears and putting it onto a track she liked:

Then I said as I turned up the volume for her, - After you listen to that I’ll tell you all about my morning with Mrs Mulberry.

Meeting Mrs Mulberry

As expected, our exploits did not get a mention on BBC Newsline, but Kimba was still mad that I ripped my jumper.
- You’re a fuckin’ dick, Danny Pongo - moaned Kimba. – They’re gonna get your DNA of that. You’ve been inside for fucks sake. They’ve got your DNA on profile.

I felt like I was going to boke. I left, headed toward the bus stop on the main road, when a peeler appeared at the top of the street, coming round the corner. I turned on my heel and pulled my peak cap down over my eyes before remembering the other end of the street was a dead end and I couldn’t go back into my house as I was afraid John Law was going to pay me a visit.

I got to the house on the corner, number 49 with the neat blue numbers painted on the gate. Who lived here was a kind old lady called Mrs Mulberry who stood at her front door all day stroking her cat and staring off into space and who also put her Christmas Tree up in September.

I found an old student card in my wallet and in an officious way opened Mrs Mulberry’s gate and (in the same manner) walked up her short path that was bordered delightfully with colourful and well kept flowers.
- Mrs Mulberry, I’m from The Government, - I said quickly flashing my student card before her faraway eyes. – I’m from the Energy Saving Division and I need to inspect the power source for that Christmas Tree.
- Come in, - she said, bemused.

I went into her small front room. Everything from the carpets to the curtains were stuck in the ‘50s, including a very old fashioned tele where you could pull two slidy doors across to meet in the middle so’s to hide the screen. I reasoned that in the olden days it was considered that you had ‘no class’ if you owned a tele.

I got down on my honkers and looked at the plug for the tree lights for a good minute or so. I nodded my head now and again like I were having a conversation with it and it & I were agreeing on the facts of something. When my knees began to get sore I shot up turned to Mrs Mulberry and said,
- That’ll be all for in here. Now I need to go and check your oil tank.
- I don’t have an oil tank.
- I’ll need to check your grass then. I am from the Energy Saving Division and I need to inspect the back of your property to establish its suitability for a wind farm.
- You could inspect the back of me, check my suitability for a wind farm. The smelly gusts that issue from my mud hole! – said Mrs Mulberry slowly waving her hand in front of her face and pursing her lips in mock disgust.
I stifled a laugh and said, - Maybe in the year 2525, Mrs Mulberry.

Outside I arbitrarily walked round her garden bending down to feel the grass every few steps.
- This house is excellent for a wind farm. Now, Mrs Mulberry, I must get going. Do you mind if I leave through your back gate. Just I saw a dangerous looking dog out on the street earlier and I don’t want to go out the front.
- Of course, son. But if you wouldn’t mind, its, you see I’m very lonely after my husband passed away a few years ago, and I especially miss our dancing. I haven’t had anyone to dance with since he died. If you wouldn’t mind stepping back inside with me here to dance to my favourite record...?

Inside she put this number on her turn table. I took her hand in mine and gently placed the other on her frail bony right buttock. Then, as I began to notice the smell of TCP rising from her old body, we swayed slowly to the music.

I'd Like To Take A Pig Out Here,,,And Shoot Em In Their Muthafuckin Face

Today I decided to go out and do a bit of graffiti-ing, something I haven’t done in yonks. I came across a church on the lower Lisburn Road with a big sign planted out the front which read ‘JESUS SAVES’, so with my permanent marker I wrote underneath ‘BY BEING A TIGHT STINGY CUNT’....when the pigs pulled up on the curb and wound down the window –
- Here son, what do you think you’re doin?
- Expressing myself, I replied with dilettante flippancy.
- Well express yourself to us by explaining yourself. Come here... – The pig stuck his trotter in the air and beckoned me hence with a come hither motion.
- Now tell me, he said. What is the meaning of this. He squinted and read what I’d written. – Funny guy are you? He said.
- Some might say so, I replied.
- I wouldn’t. Graffiti’s one thing. But you’ve grafitti’d in the grounds of a church.
- So what? I retorted. Is this a theocracy we’re living in? I asked him rhetorically. – No don’t bother answering that. You’re bound to be completely at a loss to know what any word over two syllables means. I hear a prerequisite for being a pig these days is to have an IQ under 100. Away and fuck the church –
- What’d you say, you little scumbag?
- I said, ‘Fuck The Church!’ The church has caused more harm and heartache in this country alone than Jesus ever meant for. The Bible, a blueprint for love, has been perverted by man and it is that perversion which has been hardwired into 21st century apes like you. So...Fuck The Church –
- You say that again and I’ll take you in!
- Ok, pig. I’ll go one better on you. Jesus was a cunt. A tight, stingy cunt. That’s why it says everywhere: Jesus Saves ---- The holymen want us to save alright. Save all our money so we can donate it to the church every Sunday for their missionary work (read prostitute kitty).
With that the oinkster got out of his squad car, grabbed me, 180’ed me onto the tarmac, and shoved my face into the dirt. He stuck some cuffs on me and hauled me up, then for good measure (when I told him I hoped all his kids died from cancer of the stomach) shoved me back down, head first into the dirt again and stuck his knee in the small of my back. After he threw me into the backseat I proceeded to shimmy my Wranglers down to my ankles and shite myself. I followed this by pissing myself, and, for the third course, I managed to get my the fingers (being handcuffed and all) down the back of my throat to make myself sick. I boked all over the head of the female pig (the sow) sitting in front of me and left their swine mobile in a right stunk up state.

In the station the desk pig taking my details recognised me from the time I was in a year ago for possession.
- Danny Pongo? This is turning into a habit for you, son.
Right, just a few questions: Suffer from depression, suicidal feelings etc.
- Not till today I didn’t.
- Ok, the greying fat bastard said turning to the arresting officer.
- What’re you charging him with?
- Vandalism and resisting arrest, said the arresting pig, with satisfaction.
- I told him I thought Jesus was a cunt.
The desk pig curled his big red life-raft-fat lips and blew out.
- Officer Stevenson here’s a Free Presbo.
- That’s right, said the aura free pig Stevenson. (The knock on my head I took when he shoved my face in the dirt had rendered my seeing to be hallucinatory – which lasted intermittently, for the totality of half an hour , in which time I witnessed most of the pigs as having either no or very dark aura’s – among other demonic entities which swirled around their person.)
- Well, I said, let me educate you fine upholders of the law. We do not live in a theocracy. A theocracy is a country ruled by religious laws. You cannot charge me with blaspheming.
The two pigs turned their snouts and faced each other. A look of irritation passed over desk pig’s face, while Stevenson’s face smoothed with a look of lustful sadistic imaginings. Then a verse begun itself in my head and I said it, as if I too were possessed of their dark emotions:
- Gentle Jesus/ Meek and Mild/ The PTA have declared he’s a paedophile//
Like the clock on a ticking time bomb hitting zero, Stevenson’s body exploded with religious kinetic-ism and he roughly grabbed me and frogmarched me down the hall and shoved me into an empty cell with a rubber mattress on the floor. Shoeless (so I didn’t hang myself with my shoelaces) I lay back and composed my thoughts.

In the cell next to me some mongo said with monotone loudness:
- God isn’t coming back today. He’s too busy. He won’t be back here for weeks.
I closed my eyes and ruminated on this and considered it a good opening line to a poem or something. I replied:
- I hope he stays away. There’s always an atmosphere when He’s around.
- You’re right, came the voice.

I knew I was right. And I knew I always had a problem with authority. I lay back on the mattress and thought about another run in with an authority of a much greater scope I’ve recently encountered – that of Rupert Murdoch, in a roundabout way.....