Love Me Or Leave Me Baby, Either One You Wanna Do...

I woke up this morning my face stuck in my cornucopias dusty ashtray, a gubful of spent fag butts and red weepy eyes, lids pebbledashed with debris and a mascara of nicotine smudging my lovely big shiny cheeks.

I made a cup of coffee in the kitchen and drank it red hot while watching the mongrel out the back taking a slow and determined trembly shite on the vivid-green springtime grass and I thought to myself, ‘this is the springtime of my dollar and cent,’ meaning, in my hallucinatory and philosophical bent of the morning, that my fortunes would be collapsing around my ears.

Party Time has been AWOL for a week. We parted on contentious terms when I suggested he wasn’t cut out for the pimping game and him retorting that he was more than. Then he kidnapped Kimba.

We kept her prisoner for a couple of days until she escaped, nude, out the bathroom window. Mrs Mulberry was out stroking her cat and nearly dropped dead of a heart attack when she saw her naked person emerge onto the street to run in circles screaming her head off and acting the loon.

- They tried to brainwash me/brainwash me. They tried to brainwash me like before, - she went hysterically, attracting people out of their houses with her shrieks of insanity. I assume she were having some sort of LSD flashback to when her elderly child sacrificing witchy foster parents took her ‘over the rainbow’ .

I stood spying on proceedings from my front room upstairs. Party Time stood at the front door, his muscular arms folded machoesque across his big barrel chest. Even from upstairs I could sense the crackling in the air, his fly mind processing imminent aversion tactics.

Kimba eventually tired herself out and fell half fucked across the bonnet of a car, buck naked and flaked out. Then some roly-poly Sunday morning church-goer from across the street comes the Good Samaritan and goes up to her real slow with a blanket held out at arms length like he’s an adventurous animal hunter approaching a dangerous armadillo, and this blanket of his was some ugly fluffy polyester thing with a classic picture of Gentle Jesus on it surrounded by Disney characters. At this point Party Time moved from pondering to action and went up to the Nice Man.

- Yo! Hampty Dampty! - He went. The Nice Man flinched startled and looked round. Party Time went, - Yo most ceaze and dahsist! Thas skinnie arse on tha caar as a danger crominal! She hos swollowd a danger soicide bumb, she as an agont of ALLAH!!! - Screamed Party Time resembling The Predator, the epic noise of his screaming naming of The Prophet making the birds take flight from the trees and fawns in Indo China look up suddenly from their lakeside supping - no doubt.

Informed of this information the Nice Man turned on his heels and took flight back into his nice little Hansel and Gretel house, screaming to some unseen occupant, probably his equally roly-poly red cheeked wife, to call the minister. Party Time scooped Kimba up and put her over his shoulder. He came back in the house, took my keys of the hall table, then put her in the back seat of my motor. He sped of with a customary wheelspin, and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the pair since…!

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…

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.