When I Was A Prophet

Sometimes I get a sense about people. Something to do with their mortality.

Sometimes it is the sheen of their skin.

There was a boy I went to primary school with. One day in PE I noticed his hairless shiny legs. It was like he were made out of plastic.

I said to my friend Bob Rose, - I have a prophecy. That boy (can’t remember his name) will die soon of cancer.

At the start of the P6 term a few years later the boy was nowhere to be seen. On that first day back, in morning assembly, we were told by the headmistress that the boy had died during the summer. – Cancer, - she said with a tear.

The boy was a favourite among the teachers. The headmistress, the dotty sneering old cunt, set up a shrine for him in the front hall and kept it up for 6 months. A teachers’ pet. Would’ve turned out to have been a real good-living bread & butter sort of man.

This alone was reason enough to be happy about him dying. But the main reason I was happy about it was because now I could brag to my friend Bob Rose that I really was a prophet.

This turned out to have consequences. People laughed at me to begin with. Then when I predicted that Deirdre from Coronation Street would get cancer (judging by all the veins popping out on her C3-PO neck), and then she did, my classmates became ultra worshipful.

Kylie did not have a Deirdre neck at this point, but if she had’ve had like she later did, I would have said that she was for the chopping block as well. And I would’ve been right (nearly). And then I would’ve been a god among them.

As it was, the popular clique, the Ruling Elite of the microcosmic society - the playground - feted me wherever I went. I suppose it amounted to them wanting to garner some of my occult knowledge. And I suppose the reason they waned to do that was to extend their control beyond the playground and into the mean streets.

But things for me always have a habit of derailing when they’re chugging along just right, and derail they did. As the group around me grew, some of the less popular children began to beg and scrape at the feet of the playground oligarchy. Being the elite’s quasi high priest I too was granted no end of favours from these vassals. One hot summer’s day, just lazing away on the grass, I felt a great urge to take a piss. I sat up and took a look around and spotted one of them under a tree picking his nose. So I called him over. He had a great head of curls that swayed as he walked. I got up on my feet and told him to get on his knees in front of me and open his mouth. He did as he was told, robotic like an MK ULTRA slave, and I put my soft dick, aching from the need to go so bad, right in his mouth and took a long slow warm piss.
I told him, - Don’t swallow!

When I got done he stood up and waited to be told what to do. His cheeks were stretched out, fat as a space hopper.
- Right, - I said. - Don’t swallow. Run up to the toilets and spit it out.

The slave ran as fast as he could up the hill to the school. I smiled with satisfaction and lay back down in the grass to think about my prophecies.

What happened when he got into the school my pal Bob Rose told me about round at my house a couple of days later after I’d been expelled.
- He ran in trough the side door and down the hall toward the toilets. And you know the way The Head’s office is just before you get to the toilets? well she came out just as he got up to her door, and by this point, some are telling me, the piss was running out the slave’s nose, and The Head just looks down at him, screams the place down asking him what he thinks he’s doing etcetera, and he spits out about a milk bottle’s worth of piss right at her feet and told her everything.

And so I was expelled and I went to a new school and that was the end of that story.

Kimba, in one of her strops, had exiled me to the bedroom for ‘thinking time’ and I was bored. Bored enough to eat my own shite. Bored enough to reminisce for sure.
Listening to this calming track on my Walkman I began to turn over in my mind the implications of this power of prophecy that manifested in me as a young child in primary school, but the boredom I felt led me down one blind alley after another so I give up on it.

I decided the only thing for it then was to have a wank. When it was over I lay a while with the warm wet cum curved along my great fat belly in a perfect line like a scar that hadn’t healed properly. I felt myself nodding off and so collected up from the floor the only book we have in the house (The Bible) ripped out a couple of pages (Proverbs) and wiped myself off with those. And then fell asleep wondering to myself that if you spill upwards can it still be considered a spill?

Reuben And The Jets

This afternoon finds me sitting over Ludo and green tea with my pal Bogdan. I’m gesticulating wildly, telling him all the farout stuff Rueben’s been feeding me with when he switches subject to talk about early wanking accidents. I told him about the time I got caught by my Down’s Syndrome cousin having a wank over that crappy apocalypse movie ‘Warlock’. Then how I fobbed him of by telling him I was having an epileptic fit. I didn’t know but he went up the stairs and called an ambulance and I nearly got done for wasting the time of the emergency services. I remember one of the paramedics remarking, as he left the room ‘It smells like swimming pool chlorine in here,’ what he was probably smelling, I told Bogdan was my spunk wet trousers.
Bogdan told me about the time; the very first time he had a wank. He’d been experimenting for months, and this night he pulled and pulled and wouldn’t give up cos he knew, he told me, there was some payoff, that every time in months previous he knew he was within touching distance of the prize. Then he came. He told me it went all over his hands and over his cacks. The feeling, he told me was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. He didn’t know if it were a good or bad feeling. Then he looked down at all the cum all over him. And – as Bogdan thought there was a flexible bone in a dick, and that he’d broken it – he thought that what came bursting from his Jap’s Eye was bone marrow. He ran down to his social worker mother took her hands in his and exclaimed that bone marrow had run out of his willy. She was very angry and screamed at him, asking him in disbelief if he didn’t know what it was he’d done. The next day she said sorry and bought him a book for boys, as he called it.

Just a note: I posted earlier, in Fact #2 that MJ couldn’t have any kids. Well, it looks like I stole a lead on The Star/Express. When I watched the paper review on Sky earlier I see they both have, on their front page, MJ’s paternity being questioned, with The Star wondering if the children’s real father is actually a mob guy! I’m gonna put myself up for a journalism bog award for that one ;) Rueben is a good source.