What You Want For Nothin'? A Rubber Biscuit?

Another happening occurring in the last fortnight was that Party Time done a bunk for 4 days.

It all started on a Saturday afternoon. I was at home watching a Coronation Street omnibus, and Party Time turns to me and says...

          -  Ah ahm gan to thah shaps.

          - Right, - I went.

And he just didn't come back.

I hadn't noticed until the 4 hour Coronation Street marathon was over. I sat through the credits; right to the end. Someone had told me there's a very blatant subliminal appears somewhere after the 15 second mark. I got onto the floor and onto my belly and shimmied my way over till I was right up under my old shitey set and staring close at the screen.

When I thought I saw it I went to Party Time, - There did you see it? - And when I turned to look to get his reaction, he wasn't there.

I rang him a few times on his mobile as the night went on, but come the next day I coulda give a shit what'd happened to him.

By the fourth day I did begin to get worried. Not so much for his sake as much as for mine. If he turned up dead the police would get involved. For the same reasons I hadn't called them yet to report him missing I now hoped beyond hope he wasn't dead. I crossed both my fingers and put one of those prayers to St Jude in the Belfast Telegraph's classified, St Jude being the saint of lost causes.

Then, the fifth day he came home. I thanked St Jude by saying a prayer, then ruined it at the end by praying for the death of my enemies and loadsa dosh.

I arrived home sometime mid-afternoon having been out delivering a thing for a new pal. I notice the distinctive multicoloured tennis shoes of Party Time sticking out from under my neighbour's car.

  - What you doin under there, Party Time? I asked

  -  Ah ahm axe-spectan far a car bamb. Wah mast gat avah tah Hammasmyth quack fast tah pack app mar praddack!                                               

  -  But, Party Time, - I insisted, - You're back in shitey old Belfast again...you're not in London no more!

At this he pulled himself out from under the neighbour's car. He was all sweaty and I got the impression he'd sprinted all the way from the International Airport, which is a good 4.5 miles, anyway. He got up and dusted himself off. Then a neighbour appeared.

  -  Here! - His big red face squealed. - What you at under my car? You planting a bomb under there, yah big cunt?        
  -  Nahhhh...- drawled Party Time, his eyes rolling in his head.
  -  What's'at? - Went the neighbour cupping his hand under his wee, underdeveloped burns' victim lug, - I don't fuckin speak ape, cunt...Nae what ye at?
  -  Don't worry, - went I, stepping in with the condescension of an archbishop, - he is my cousin, and he  has learning difficulties. Shame on you!

At this the fat bald headed little man hung his head and shuffled his fat arse off in the direction of his neat little house.

I took Party Time inside and sat him down on the couch, and he told me his story.

He had gone round to the shops, as he had said, with the intention of buying a box of smokes and coming straight back home again. At the shops he met this dear old woman, who was buying Miracle Grow for her garden. Party Time convinced her he'd do her garden for 80 quid, and after some arm twisting she agreed.

So he spends the afternoon doing that. The old duck pays him, and he is on his way. Only he is not coming home to me, he is heading to the airport and he is getting the first plane to London.

When in London he meets all his old connections and he spends 3 and a half days smoking Crystal and snaking Filipinos. Before he leaves he has enough wherewithal still though to purchase some reasonable quantity of Crystal to bring back home with him. He is planning to test the market here for it, to put some out there and see what demand is like.

But once again his grand plans are scuppered by a heavy paranoid turn and once again it is the Chinese, he believes, are after him again...only this time not the Triads but the Chinese Secret Police. They are waiting for him to board the flight, he thinks. They are going to lift him then, no doubt.

So he goes into the nearest toilets, locks the cubicle door behind him and shoots what he can up his arm and flushes the rest.

On the plane he's fine. It's when he touched down in Belfast he came up on it. He stepped out onto the concourse, the sun in his face, and felt the euphoria whirlpool in his belly. And after that he can't remember a fucking thing.

   

Boy Bush The Butcher

Aloysius hasn’t been in touch since yesterday evening so I’m to assume he’s safe. There has been no sign of Torturer Gregory the drug dealer either. Nevertheless last night I constructed a makeshift catapult, getting a woman’s stocking I found behind the fridge and nailing it either side of the doorframe at head height. I then selotaped a load of nuts and bolts together to use as a projectile were anyone to burst in unannounced. I reckon I’ll have some time to prepare the catapult, stretching it back and lining up my shot before anyone gets in. it would take a good five minutes of solid hard booting of my door to get it through.

Last night in order to stop being paranoid about Torturing Gregory coming round I trawled the internets looking for something else that would distract my strung out psyche. And fuck a duck – did I find it!

If I were to tell you George W Bush was held on suspicion of mass murder having carried out a Satanic Sacrifice Ritual in a place called Brownsville, Texas would you believe me? No? Yes? Well go here and look then...

Portland Indy Media Centre picks up the story, making the well researched point that the only individual spared the death sentence during W’s tenure as Texas governor, over battered women, pensioners and the mentally disabled, was the notorious and massively prolific Henry Lee Lucas:

'On June 30th of 1998, Henry Lee Lucas, arguably the most prolific and certainly one of the most sadistic serial killers in the annals of crime was scheduled for execution by the state of Texas. Given the advocacy of the death penalty by Governor George W. Bush, things clearly weren't looking good for Henry at that time.....

The very next day ... Lucas became the first ... recipient of Governor Bush's compassionate conservatism. The official rationale for this act of mercy was, apparently ... evidence ... did not support his conviction ... Never mind that many of the 130 death row inmates who did not get special attention prior to their executions had credible claims of innocence that were met with by nothing but scorn and mockery.'

They go on to cite an article from Sherman Skolnick who details Bush Senior’s involvement with Zapata Offshore Oil Company, a tentacle of the CIA, who ran their drugs out of Columbia, funnelling it through Mexico into...Brownsville Texas, which is a stone’s throw over the Mexican boarder. This was principally to fund the Contra’s in beating the reds – an op detailed in Gary Webb’s Dark Alliance that I talked about here. Skolnick goes on to connect the dots between the El Padrino cult, CIA drug mules, mind control and SRA (Saranic Ritual Abuse) all taking place in and around the smuggling routes between Matamoros, Mexico and Brownsville. Here's the start of his article:

'"SUNNYVALE, CA - Telling reporters and critics to 'stick to the issues that matter', Republican presidential candidate George W. Bush declined to answer questions Monday concerning his alleged involvement in a 1984 Brownsville, TX, mass murder, in which 17 people were ritualistically murdered and skinned. 'I will not stoop to discussing that,' said Bush during a campaign stop at a Bay Area software-packaging plant. 'We've got people across this country without health care, a broken educational system, taxes that are way too high, and all you want to talk about is something THAT MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE HAPPENED 16 years ago? I'm sorry, but I find that offensive.' " (Emphasis added).'

So, yeah. Bush butchered 17 people. And yeah, he butchered a million and a half or whatever in his War On Terror (ridiculous as a war on dandruff! says Gore Vidal) indirectly, with orders from on high. Must’ve been that back in the day Boy Bush liked to hone his trade on the factory floor, so to speak.