Clutches Of Sad Remains

Some time late this afternoon Party Time comes in fuckin cock-of-the-walk, half-cut, with Boke the Cat under one arm and the hand of the other stuffed deep in the pocket of his big ugly green duffel coat. In the pocket of his duffel coat is a Jiffy Bag with part of his nostril in it.

 - Ah wont inta ah bor Danna Panga… - he said haltingly welling up while I started to clandestine-like examine the extent of the bit that’d been bit outta his neb. ..-Wat as tha wast thang yo con axe far an ah bor an BowlsFast? Wha? – implored Party Time.

- Hmm, - I went…-Hmm…I suppose, regardless of where you were, be it the Hideout on The Pass or the Northern Whig, I guess the worst thing you could ask for in a bar in Belfast would be…”boy, four year old, with a arsehole Wide Open, this wide…”- I went, stretching my arms out at either side to indicate the massive diameter (or for those assuming from afar, approximating the length of a sperm whale’s cock).

The fool Party Time took a dander down The Pass to The Hideout after all it turns out having already travailed the bars of Belfast one end till the other going from one scummy hole till the next, the bars getting scummier as he went as he endeavoured to evaluate the scumminess of each place in order to establish its suitability for scoring Crystal.

So while he laughed at my ‘four year old boy’ suggestion in increasingly more-powerful bursts of fits-and-starts, (his big bodily granite edifice spasming like a woman experiencing a full-body orgasm), his overall spirit all of a sudden administered a psychic reboot and just like that he curled up like paper held near a flame, his whole person/a did, and he rolled up in the corner of my lovely big faux-leather sofa, the noise of his joints cracking sounding like the crackling of fresh autumn leaves being diligently trod on.

 - Ah bat nah, Danna Panga! Nah! Tha wast ting yah con axe fah in a bor an BowlsFast as fochan Crastal, cas’! – Meaning cousin.

Turned out The Hideout on The Pass were the end of the line as far as City Centre saloon scumminess went. So Party Time went in there like Bronson in Once Upon A Time In The West and starts givin-it-large: Ah Ahm An Mossad! Ah Ahm 33ard Dograh Frahmaison – Tanth Gene-ar-asian AlliminNazi! ---

He’s looking Crystal.

Been all over looking.

Wiggin’ Out!

And finally he wanders into this retrospective alternate dimension, this Quantum Leap anachronism, and asks them if they got some Crystal going, ‘after hours’ so to speak.

When he’s telling me the next part I’ve to join the thing together between his big Party Time bawls:

 - Sah thah bor kab tall me tah waits tall hah moke a fan call. Hah moke thah call ahn hah talls mah hah con sart mah at. Ah wall ladder thah cam an…Far aff tham. Thah jamp mah ahn cack mah ramp had! Cack at had Danna Panga. Cack et ap at mah ease!!!

Party Time quietened for a while and stared up off into space. Indeterminate seconds passed before a spontaneous grand mal dissociative conditioning was triggered, then, savant-like, he launched into the rest of the tale:

 - Thah thags tak mah at thah bak an bat mah abat. Thah hat mah bod, Danna. Thah strap mah naked ahn staff a snah-kah cue ap mah arsh! Ahn wan thah dah thot thah damp mah an a ban – heed fast! –

So I ream through an hour or so of consoling overtures, ensuring him the cunts’ll be done, and then I tell him, in no uncertain terms, that I really don’t think he’s got it in him for a life on the wrong side of the law. The truth of it is he ain’t hard enough, and he ain’t got the street moxie neither.

But, as always, Danny Pongo got a plan…and at least some of what Party Time conceived of I can alchemise………………………………..