Brilliant Future
an excerpt from Book One
BOOK ONE — Part 1-6
THE BUTCHER’S SAGA
by Frazer/Wilde
The Way To A Pie
1
Just a suburb of town houses. Town houses. A word which is supposed to make cramped, over priced living sound stylish. Like Faux for Fake. There’s a huge drain which runs through the whole suburb like a long snakeline-monster pit, bleeding slime that stinks and metal grills where the growlers come from. As children we used to stamp on their fingers when they tried to escape. When we forced Vernon down there he never came back. We found his baseball cap and some matted gore attached at the foul broken lip of the sewer pit that runs into the creek. His parents stood by where we pushed him down for weeks, calling his name down the grate.
All the grass is dead. From the spilt wine, oil and where the drunks pissed. That’s what happens when it doesn’t rain for months. The branches in the park hang over the benches like strings of spittle. I just walk around the streets on a Saturday morning with my ball and dreams of living like they do on telly. Listening to people plugged into the cartoon channel and looking at garbage as it dies up against the old chainwire fences. Among the soggy boxes sometimes you find bits of shredded underwear and tipped out handbags, broken compacts, swollen address books. Sometimes I feel as though every second of living is just a sand-grain section of some sort of epic experience and then, at other times I feel like I’m locked up here and there’s no way out, and sometimes it’s even worse, coz I wonder if there’s even anywhere worth escaping to anyway.
I walk around the streets of morning on a hung over Saturday which smells like the drain does on a hot Tuesday afternoon and try and make everything seem worthwhile. Thumbing through the yellow pages looking for company, for something that make sense. Shutting most of the image out with slit-closed eyes, trying to remember that TV screens are just a pretend world made up of glass and sparks. Just a picture, and besides, I’m on my way to the bakery for a pie and a can of coke.
The only reason I don’t smoke is coz I can’t afford it, and the only reason I don’t get crazy and start beating on people like Hendrie did the other night is coz I’m undecided as to whether or not it’s appropriate. What are the pro’s of punching someone’s head? And also whether or not appropriate things even actually exist. See that telephone pole? That’s where a cop got bashed to death just over a month ago. It was talk of the town for a whole week. I think it must take real philosophy to beat a cop to death like that. Philosophy is like commitment. A commitment to act on thoughts. Kind of like deciding that not fucking is the way to go coz you’ve decided that god’s a good idea, or deciding not to bash someone who needs it coz you might hurt their feelings. Lets’ face it. If you don’t chain it down and it’s gone when you get back, it’s not yours anymore. And if you did chain it down, but you come back and find it wrapped up against a wall and smashed to bits, then you’ve become the owner of one smashed up piece of shit. And if you stand at the western bridge and look down into the drain there, you’ll see a thousand more fucked up things which’ve lost their owners. And if it rains, or sometimes on a high tide, they’re drifting along like stolen dreams on a filthy green conveyor belt, on their way out of the suburb. On their way to hell on earth, or Mexico or something. And it doesn’t matter shit anyway. Who the fuck cares about anything except me? You know, I should’ve just kicked the shit out of someone as did Hendrie, but more extreme, completely snapped. I could’ve fucked up the whole joint, screaming, bile and vomit busting out of me and I’m gonna beat the hell out of anyone and then gangrape the whole bloody room. Even better, I could just leave, leave the room, the street, the suburb. I could just get up now, without even finishing my beer (I could perhaps throw the beer, or I could take my beer, it’s good beer) and walk straight out that door over there (I could kick the door in, or rip the flyscreen out while muttering vile obscenities) and then I’m gone.
Check out Pony. He’s a fat wasted son of an arsehole, standing out front of his apartment and looking through yellow eyes at the junkmail. Standing glorious in his cream coloured underpants. Perhaps he is somebody’s hell waiting to happen.
—Hey Pony you silly cunt! I shout at the fat piece of shit. The cunt squints at me for a second and just says
—Cuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnt. Real low and slow. Typical Pony shit. I keep kicking the ball along until I get to the shops. Eight shops in all and that’s it. What a suck-hole of a place to live, or shop or visit or die in or anything. The drain always smells ripest here, like it’s just been scraped and’s ready to eat. I’m immune to it really. I only really hate it when I’ve been away or something. I have considered taking some of the drain with me for prolonged absences, in fact the shop to which I am going now sells all kinds of things that I could scoop some of the slime into. Last night I had a dream about the drain. The foul trickle came for me in the night, crept up my legs looking me in the eye it tried to force itself into my mouth. It became almost erotic here I guess, morphing into a very sexy Chinese woman who was taste-eating her own pussy for a huge crowd of ceramic garden gnomes, digging in her fingers and bringing them to her lips and licking them long and slowly. I notice that she was looking at me and that I had become a camera and then these fingers from unseen arms screwed a chrome funnel into the back of the camera and then a flock of birds began to spit into it.
Doesn’t stop me from eating my pie. Sucking up the salty gravy and lumps of fat, standing here in the car park with my ball. Eating a pie, Coke in my other hand. This is a king’s life and I’m thinking things would have to be pretty good to be better than this…and then I am thinking, as I bite into a bit of horse gristle that, nahhhh…its not possible for life to ever get any better, ever. And then this shitty Datsun swings into the carpark with its tyres screeching and hits a shopping trolley which hurtles along sideways on two wheels and smashes through the pane glass front of the bakery where I bought my pie. The shopkeep comes busting out with a baseball bat and a meatcleaver yelling and shaking and proceeds to smash in the rest of the front end of the Datsun that was already busted to crap anyhow. I toss my empty can and pie wrapper into the pile of carnage, its nice to be able to contribute.
2
What keeps us going? Do you suppose that it’s just the pies and all the fucking and fighting that goes on around here? Which bee is the master of his hive, who would dare beat the queen bee to shit? Everyone’s dad is just sitting about sinking piss and ripping the legs off insects. What’s the point, let’s face it. If we ever get out of here, there’s gonna have to be some cash. No cunts round here have much of that stuff. We need a smart plan, and we’re all of us fucked at thinking, so that part doesn’t work. We can’t ask our dads coz they spent it all already on keeping their guts full and their bitches happy. We all end up near the fence on one big lazy grub-curl hip of the drain. Sitting in the shade of a carton of throwdowns, scratching all our great plans down. The world would be freaked if it could see what we’re on about: The cunts we’re gonna bash or kill and cunts we’re gonna steal shit off or whatever. Clear as clingfilm, we might sometimes do stupid things or have a bad idea where we end up with faggot cop bracelets on, but we’re the smartest cunts in this whole place. Peni (that’s his name coz you can’t call what he has a cock) is the smartarse in these parts, an Einstein-type guy who can plan a good heist when the need arises.
We see things different to everyone else. Especially Peni, look at that cunt sitting over there writing all this shit down like its important, he might be smart but he has no idea how to spend his time decent. So we’ve got throwies in the shade and are tossing the empties plop down into the drain guts. Listening to it fart delicious in the afternoon sunshine. That flat fat sound which reminds you that you’re here and everything is fine. Everything is fucked. There’s five of us, and we’ve all of us got our shirts off. Sure, we might be posing a bit as we flex the bottles to our mouths, we might be sucking our guts in the whole time and being hard, but we may also be getting seen by some scrag, or a pack of em and that’s nothing to be farted at. None of us are poofters neither and none of us have ever sucked cock using the usual closet excuse of there being no scrag about.
Scoring cunt is right up there with booze and winning a ruck, and we’ve all five of us got some public cred to uphold. Tonight we are gonna score with whatever moves, and if it doesn’t move we are gonna push it. Wayne is called slops coz if some scrag is pissed and up to doing all of us in a row, we make him wait for soup. Stink and me usually get in first, then it’s up to Peni (who’s the wimpiest little cunt with glasses you’ve ever seen) to fight with Moo-Moo about not copping too much slop. Moo has a distaste for the slops on account of when he was seven his older sister sat on his face and gave him a creampie after fucking her stupid cockhead boyfriend who laughs at Moo to this day. Moo usually bashes Peni at this point and throws him out a window or something. And by the time he gets back, Moo’s finished and it’s Peni’s go anyway. Wayne just accepts that he’s the slop boy. The Janitor, there for the final hose-down. Moo often whimpers about that creampie in his sleep, licking his lips like a faggot.
However, getting a tan in the shade, and getting pissed in the day and watching the drain dance is just the outer layer of all of this. We’re talking about breaking into some cunt’s house and stealing thousands of dollars which Peni says is hidden in the roof. The reason he knows this he says, is coz Peni used to work with the cunt and knows what he does. What he does is be a butcher. Fuck being a butcher. The whole idea of getting a job repulses me. I’m a fuck sight better than that. I don’t have any wanker dreams about being a manager type cunt neither, puffing my guts out walking around saying ‘ at the end of the day’ like some corporate fucken mantra, no fucken way…I’ve got a brilliant future and it’s gonna start very fucken soon. As for why this butcher wanker keeps money up in his ceiling, I’ve no idea. Coz banks round here are getting robbed every day I suppose. That’s a righteous thing to do, but I never want to go there, those pig cunts are just standing around waiting for hard cunts like us to rob banks. It’s too obvious. Wayne reckons it’s a good deal this butchers ceiling, and that’s a bit of a worry, coz the slophead is usually wrong, like the time he reckoned it was cool to take on this gang of homeboy wankers and they near beat us all to death, on account of them all having nunchakus and other faggot kungfu shit in their jackets, but me and Moo give it a nod ahead of not doing anything at all which was our plan b. We’re gonna meet out front of Stink’s house and get pissed for a couple of hours, then we’re gonna walk around for a bit and talk shit, bash some cunts, that sort of thing. Were gonna juice right the fuck up with some primo piss and a few shots of pure meth that we scored off some cunt we bashed on the bridge last weekend, we gonna smash up Peni’s pad abit and try and score with his sister. Then, around midnight we’ll storm the joint and make off with the cash. It’s so simple. Imagine having heaps of cash. We’re gonna rule this dump after tonight.
—I don’t care if I live or die! Moo-Moo says it like he really means it. Like he’s in a movie and he’s scaring people hardcore.
—Fuck up Moo. Says me there.
—Yeah Moo-Moo you fuck! and that’s Peni who says that, so I hit the little cunt in the back of the head and his glasses fall into the dirt. Peni slobbers some shit about fucking us all up later after this score. Stink starts laughing and slips on an empty throwdown bottle at the lip of the drain’s arsehole and then disappears forever beneath the shit and the broken deck-chair-urine. We saw some bubbles sort-of puff up through the slime like Stink was screaming under all the filth…we shoved a few long poles and crap in to let him grab if the clumsy-arse could see past his stupidity. We all agree that it was fucked that he went like that, but agree to carry on in his honour and meet as planned. Let’s face it, he really was nothing but a cunt anyway.
3
Sitting with the boys on the roof of the world here on the water tower. There’s a water ban on coz of the drought, but that doesn’t mean we can’t climb the tower and swim in the drinking water and relax and take over. And before you go on assuming that we piss in the drinking water tank, of course we fucken do you dickhead. This one day Peni almost drowned. Mostly though, that’s coz Bellamy kept grabbing him by the foot and pulling him down to the bottom. We couldn’t let Peni almost totally drown this time, coz it was Stink who used to get off reviving him, and for all we knew Stink was mushed to shit already by the bacteria and slime down that drain. After a hot day and the bullshit that goes along with Stink getting eaten by the drain, we decided that we should go for a swim. It’s totally dark in there except for the little hole where you climb the ladder. From the roof of the tank you can see the suburb and its full 360 degrees of glory. And soon all this glory is going to be ours, if Peni would stop writing all our plans down all the time, that little cunt was sure gonna get us busted with his stupid nerd brain. Fuck probably already has a fucken website set up like those stupid high school massacre guys who got blown to shit before they could claim ownership of what they were trying to take over. What kind of wanker would want to take over a school anyway? Unless they were gonna blow it up, which would have been very cool. You can see the drain every now and then, sneaking up on the town houses from behind like a parallel serpent of the streets. It’s everywhere that drain, snaking like a stream of the cities piss. Looks like there’s a fight going on out front of the Waterloo Hotel, but it always looks like that out front of the Waterloo. It looks like some fat guy is beating on a dozen or more people in the car park with a pool cue and that fat guy looks a hell of a lot like Pony. None of this is unusual. The people he’s bashing if it is Pony are most likely cops or women. He hates them both the same. Pony used to be in the army and once fought in one of those jungle wars.
—Is that Pony down there?
Peni squints for a second.
—What a fat waste of flesh.
—Is it Pony?
—He’s beating up a pack of Sheilas. Bellamy spits over the edge.
—Are they scrags? I enquire.
Moo-Moo laughs.
—Looks like pigs there now…yeah it’s pigs…what cunts. Bellamy said that.
—Not after Pony’s finished with ‘em. They’ll go running home with their sirens dangling between their bloody legs like Christmas lights! Peni says, not making any sense, laughing like a mad-cunt.
Then with his still wet clothes on he almost slipped clean off the roof, so we decide to get down to Stinks and meet as we’d planned.
If that was Pony, it kinda looked to me, as I was climbing down the tank, that one of the long hairs, which coulda been scrags, had run him down with a car. As we reached the bottom of the tank I could hear sirens and tires screaming but we all soon forgot that when Bellamy stood on a broken tally neck and it went straight through his thong and near hacked his whole heel off at the bone. We laughed like drunk scrags for about a month as Bellamy almost died from blood loss. Meeting only involves Slops of course, coz he had to be gay and go home for tea. We had free pies for tea coz we told the Sheila in the pie shop that we’d bash up her ex-boyfriend for her. (However, he’s all right by us and we aren’t going to do anything. And anyhow, the bitch is a scrag and we just wanted the free pies). Peni stole half a carton of coke from the fridge on the way out so we had it made (more or less).
So here’s Me, Bellamy, his foot all bound up like a crash victim, Peni and Moo-Moo standing around on Weak Street waiting for Slop, when these cops turn up in an unmarked Torana and they’ve got Slop coughing and cuffed in the back seat.
—Cunt’s gone’n got hisself arrested! I spit.
—Hasn’t even done nothing yet. Says Moo-Moo swallowing down his stash of pills and speed and pot and washing it all down with a swig of flat hot coke.
The cop’s eyeing Moo now with that right-your-nicked look furrowing his brow. Big cop calls us over to the window and we all go over to the window to check him out.
—Do you pricks know this piece of shit? he barks, eyeing Moo, who I swear is already starting to trip.
Slop looks real sad like the cops have made him suck dick or something.
Bellamy looks at him and laughs right at the window —Nah. Looks like a dickhead you’ve captured.
—What’s he done? He been murderin kids again? I asked.
The cop raised an eyebrow like a stupid kite in the shit parade.
—So you do know him? instantly taking his eyes of Moo, for the first time in minutes. Gives me the pig-eye.
—Nah, that’s a joke, man.
—Well then, it’s confidential. None of your business…haven’t you got homes to go to?
Peni starts tagging the window with a Tosca pen and Moo sets about letting down the rear passenger tire, giggling like a porno queen on coke as she goes down on ol Johnny Holmes. The cops roar away, one tyre flat and a picture of a pig sucking a disembodied dick on the window with Slop still in there and they called us a ‘Pack of feral cunts’, which is a very rude thing for a policeman to say. Not as rude though as the time a fat cunt pig asked me if the scar around my neck was from a coathanger.
We all of us grabbed our balls and waved our spare fists in the air. It seemed the only appropriate thing to do, that and spitting some, fantasy-ing loudly what we would do to those pigs in a fight. After that was over and the heat was gone, we four remaining hard men had a meeting to determine exactly what should be done about the butcher and his ceiling. I was all for it of course, and Peni said he still wanted in, while Moo foamed at the mouth and scratched and shrugged and Bellamy appeared uncertain, until I pointed out that it would be pretty gay and pissweak to back out now. It was agreed then, that the four of us would get the dough and split it evenly. That if the circumstance arose and we had to pop the butcher, or at least waste him, the guy who did the dirty would get a larger cut. All of us proclaimed loudly that each of us would sure like to cut up that butcher anyway, and perhaps even in the cunt’s own shop, for a laugh. We agreed we would hold a mother-fucker of a party and all chip in for the piss and the strippers. We even joked about posting Slop’s bail.
The Butcher’s house is six blocks away. The bastard lives in a pretty good one with a neat but dead garden out front with a couple of gnomes in it. Moo kicked the heads off the gnomes straight away, giggling but somehow ferocious and possessed and then picked up the porcelain body of one of the dead gnomes and smashed Peni with it, breaking his arm in the process. Peni of course screams like a girl at this point and the butcher came crashing out through the front door clutching an enormous meat cleaver. Moo Moo squealed like someone out of Scream 3, his eye balls bulging, blood vessels popping. He had 6 e’s, 2 rocks of pure meth and a 50 bag of killer hydro buds all boiling in his stomach, right this moment. Moo cut across the yard talking dead bushes and part of the fence with him. This is when we split up and agreed to meet back at the water tower, probably telepathically even, coz you weren’t going to make out any words in our squeals.
When I got back to the meeting spot, Moo-Moo was already waiting and he had a bottle of bourbon there clutched.
—Where’d you score that?
—Bought it. He said. He was lying I could tell. He kept rubbing the hardon he had from the e’s.
—Bull-fucken-shit you bought it. Where’s it from?
Then he threw a busted up tin at me which was supposed to be for kids suffering from autopsy or some strange disease like that. So he had bought it! He’s purchased it with money for the spazzos from the Seven.
—Those spazzers live well. I said as Moo handed me the bottle; he still looked well freaked, taking his nightly dose all at once is never cool for Moo. Bellamy came walking up the hill at that moment, back-lit by a universe of stars and street lights.
—Where’s Peen? I took a big gulp and handed him the bottle.
—Got taken away in an ambulance.
We all laughed and laid back in the middle of a summer night. Three kings of the suburbs. More money each, Peni is pretty cool but the cunt wouldn’t stop writing down what we are up to, and as I said, that shit was going to get us busted.
4
It’s all about consistency. Time machining it backwards five or ten years. It’s all the same. Same shitheads, same shit place, same smell. Bellamy moaning on the hill beside me. Moo all covered in vomit, like as if he’s tried to crane his head down to see his feet and then just let fly with a tidal wave of guts. So tripping the sick bastard had been playing in his vomit, looking for any undigested pills and gulping them down again. Sleeping like a baby he is now, mooing softly like a little lost cow. I feel fucken awful. Probably from the grunge I got in my eye at the watertower. The hiss of traffic on the overpass and aeroplanes whirring sickly through the slimy clouds. Feels like a blunt drill bit humping at my temple trying to fuck my brain. I’ve woken in a terrible suburb beneath blinding-white clouds and the stink of drainbowel as it tries to turn over on a broken rib and go back to sleep. I tell Moo-Moo he’s a cunt, waking him with my foot, he looks up and vomits again, bile all over his VB shirt. I tell Bellamy he looks as bad as I feel. They both tell me to get fucked. I kick them both some more, hard, threatening to leave their sleeping poofter arses out here for the homeys to rape.
Which is eventually what I do. I leave them there on the hill and go home for a while to recover, stopping at The Mercury Place on the way for a burger with egg on tick. My mate Mezzmo works there. Mezzmo is a gently hippy girly type with long plaits and big round fag eyes all the scrag seem to get drippy over. Nothing eases the cunt eyes of drunken morning like ripe greasy animal fats. My trashed brain imagined for a second that we had already cut the butcher up and sold him off as primecuts, but that shit has been done by that mad hotdog stand cannibal in New York or some other cesspit like that. Bloated as I went, I examine curious new tags that the kids had put up on the nearby walls and fences overnight. KIM IS A SLUT<SHE DID MY BROTHER. Good to see the youth keep constructively occupied. So good to see the kids out on the streets, poor little bastards, still learning how to scam.
And then when I get back to my place, there was ol Big-Nose sitting on a carton of throwdowns, waiting in the shade of the complex. Nozer is the kind of bloke that you don’t fuck with, even in jest. Judging from the pile of spit between his trainers, he’d been there quite a while. Of course, Nozer had heard all about Stink’s death and about Slop getting arrested, however he hadn’t heard about Pony going psycho in the carpark and commented that he’d seen the cunt this morning…he was once again standing around out front of his place in his dacks. Standard issue evening for Pony then. Noze also didn’t know about Peni’s broken arm, but said it was —The best think that’d happened in the last month. ‘Lil piss-pants needs his fucken head broken. Fucken four-eyed cunt.’
We went out the back of my place to the patio and drank the throwies. The phone didn’t ring coz it’s broken and nobody turned up, which was good coz me and Nozie had some time to catch up and I found out what’s happening at the arse-end of the suburb. He told me about how his crew’d hired a stripper one night when they were bored and had pumped seven litres of hot wax up her arse with a Gerni. Apparently, the bitch died, so they fucked her and then threw her in the drain. That fucking drain was shit useful sometimes. He said the wax was a science experiment and when I asked him what had been learnt, he replied ‘gotta use less wax’. He was very interested about the money in the butcher’s ceiling, so I told him the ins-and-outs and we both agreed that it warranted further investigation. My 10th beer in I started regretting having told Nozer about the butcher gig and that Nozer had told me about the scrag they topped at that party. I started to get edgy and soon Noze notices and begins to fidget about, which is clear sign that you gotta get the fuck away real soon or he’s gonna waste you on account of you knowing to much about his extra-curricular activities. Problem is that this is my house and I am fucking wasted and all I wanna do is sleep. So then I have to start thinking sideways and I soon discover a big fat scoob that I had lifted off moo when he was spewing his guts up. So I whip it out and light it and toke about six times, real fast, so as to distract Nozer from digging about in his fucking tardis pockets that he somehow stashes immense amounts of tools and other shit in, without appearing weighed down. He probably has a chainsaw in there and I don’t want him to pull it out. I once saw him asking a guy in a bar for a hammer, and no-one had a hammer, and he’s walking around looking for his hammer, and the he feels his pockets, the same as you would if you were looking for a coin, and he goes, oh, and pulls out a hammer looking all surprised. So then Noze grabs the j off me and sucks the rest off it down in one toke.
We must’ve passed out on the old banana lounges there on the patio coz all of a sudden the sky went out like a smashed TV and the street lights were starting to twitch and Bellamy was banging on the side window. So I let him inside and we, with Nozie still there, had a discussion about what to do. Noze seemed to have forgotten that he was going to kill me.
—Definitely sort out that fucken butcher’s roof, said Bellamy. We cooked some old noodles that Noze found in the kitchen and set out into the night to scrape together some other rogue clan members for the hit. We got as far as the Waterloo before we found Peni standing there with his arm in a sling, cursing at us about Moo-Moo and how he’s ‘gonna push him into the drain and stick his gnome up his gay arse’. Nozie slapped him in the head and said
—Hello.
To which Peen replied:
—Get fucked, you cunt.
He then re-adjusted his glasses with his free hand and tried to look hard. Then he started to tell us how he tried to fuck a nurse and how he bashed a doctor in the face with a half-filled bedpan. But nobody ever listens to the little cunt, and before long he was just tagging along behind us as we pressed on looking for The Moo. Noze all this while is poking at Peni’s still wet cast, trying to convince him that casts are gay and that he should bust it off and tough out the break like a real fucken tough guy.
A scrag we bumped into by the name of Caroline told us that Moo was up the hill again, but when we asked her for a root she told us to piss off. Noze didn’t take that too kindly and it took all of us to convince him not to ‘convince’ her properly. Sure enough, when we got to the hill, there he was, knowing all along that we’d show up eventually. Peni started shouting some shit at him about the gnome, but Moo-Moo silenced him in an instant with a nice hard kick into his broken arm. Noze was overjoyed, rubbing his fucken giant snoz like a religious statue. Peni then retreated to the shadows to be by himself in the peace and quiet and serenity and tranquillity of the night. This is when Moo-Moo hatched his ingenious plan of entering the butcher’s townhouse from above. Pull up a few roof tiles and the cunt would never know we were there…
We’d be rich as, with minimal stress. The story of my life. Pack of modern genius criminal architects, hard as ancient swords, sharp as the devils horns, ready to be catapulted into the uncertainty of our inevitably brilliant futures.
5
There’s always something interesting going on in the suburb. Always something to see. We agreed that we’d have a shot at Moo-Moos’s great idea tomorrow night so that we had a day to get prepared, thus, we had the entire evening prior to piss away. Firstly, we told Peni to get fucked and not to come back until he’s stopped crying, then we went to the pool hall called —The Realm— where they have all the Chisel songs on the juke box. The cunt’s who own The Realm don’t give a fuck what we do there so long as we’re paying to play pool. So we all chipped in and got a couple of cartons of throwies. One carton we put in the fridge at Bellamy’s, the other we took to The Realm. So we get to The Realm and there’s fucking Peni with Coatsy — just sitting at the bar all casual like the stupid cunt doesn’t have a care on the planet. We all shat ourselves just as soon as we saw Coatsy and seeing this Peni puffed up like one of those fucken toadfish you just gotta hit with a cricketbat at the beach barbeque.
Coasty is very fucking mean, a twister by any account. Right around his neck is a heinous red looking scar that he reportedly received when his mum got crazy with his fetus biting her insides and tried to rip him out with a rusted coathanger. Apparently he has killed five blokes, all of them in the middle of enquiring as to whether this story was true. So Peni, naff as a bitch at us for telling him to fuckoff has gone and enlisted Coatsy as his partner to fucken beat us to the butcher score! Anyway, all of us very nervous and all pissed off at the same time we turn our attention to the pool table over under the airconditoners and near the juke.
Moo-Moo is pool shark supreme, so I just hung back watching Barnsey strutting around with his greasy hair and jeans, while the others got flogged by the Moo-man. Moo is playing his game down tho’ coz if he looks too good Coatsy is just sure to challenge him to a round, and that’s not very cool. However, that’s not the way things turned out. Instead, Nozie took him to the cleaners and before I knew it, we were out on the footpath drinking throwdowns and watching Moo-Moo trying to take it out of Nozer’s ‘cheating cunt-hole’ for beating him. We are all kind of forgetting that Peni is looking completely sick with rage that we have successfully ignored his arse all afternoon. So far as I understand it, Noze didn’t cheat, but then, nobody can beat Moo, so it’s difficult to say. As it turned out, Nozie beat the living shit out of Moo-Moo, so Moo was forced to tell Noze he was lucky and Noze seemed to think that was fair enough. However, just as Me and the limping Bellamy were lifting the angry Moo-Moo back to his feet, the cunts in The Realm must’ve called the cops, coz all of a sudden a slimy paddy wagon drew up and three filthy oinkers jumped out thinking that we’d do as they commanded and without any sort of problem climb into the cage and be arrested. Meanwhile, smelling the blood coming from Moo’s busted lip Coatsy has slaunted heaps closer, and seeing the pigs pricked up caused him to go foaming in some sort of murderous gleeful inferno-rage. They couldn’t’ve come at a better time coz Moo really needed an outlet and he found it in the form of a throwdown which he cracked on the footpath. He used it as a cookie-cutter on the face of the first pig. That pig fell down with its fucking lips and eyes cut out. Just then, with an animal bellow like out of some horror film Coasty comes barging in with a meatcleaver he had picked up fuck-knows where, probably some hell cesspit rotting with bacteria, and hacks it straight in the skull of the barkeep who had been doing his damndest to quiet shit down a bit. The second cop got smashed in the back of the head by Bellamy with a stupid gum dispenser from the doorway, just as the pigs eyes bug out seeing the brains and slime leaking from the barkeep while Coastsy stands there bellowing hell and playing sort-of, in the gore. Gum went everywhere. Noze and I grab a fistful of colour and threw it at the back of the retreating third copper’s head who is screaming like Ned Flanders. The cunt roared away like wet pants in the paddy whilst the other two were just writhing around waiting to be pissed on by Nozie and Moo. They didn’t have to wait long, pissing on cops is a rare favourite and watching Moo piss-blasting the bloody cops face clean with six hours of beer drinking was a glorious thing to witness. An act of considerable merit and Moo, he was laughing
—Harr harr harr, watch me piss on the pigs brains!!! More sirens coming, so I kicked the other cop in the ribs, which mind you is all I had managed to do in the 5 seconds this whole gorefest took, and we all hoofed it over a nearby fence and across the train tracks. Bellamy in all of his genius had along with his mangled bandaged foot trailing, the half a carton of throwdowns with him and so we all sat around after running a mile and a half in the evening heat, calling each other cunts and laughing, for life is little more than what you put into it and we’re heaping it on. Cops are no match for the might and intelligence of us hard local lads. The police should be paying us protection money. Bellamy was doing a strange rant about whether or not the filthy pigger bastards had guns. None of us could remember.
Moo goes —I just wanted to piss on the cunts.
He’s chuckling.
—We shoulda taken the fucken guns! so went Bellamy.
—I pissed on a pigs’ brains! Harr Harr Harr! Moo was in a happy place.
We eventually headed back to Bellamy’s which is right near the train station, so we dragged the carton down there to check out all the posh Sheila’s with their velvety arses all covered up with short skirts and heels pushing their tits up around their ears. Pretty soon though we all start getting a taste for some posh pussy, which is rumoured to powdered and pampered etc., not like the local kitten which can get a tad tangy sometimes. Of course Moo gets an idea about luring a kitten down to the drain and doing her in succession, and you just know that all them posh bitches secretly need their pussies pumped, but we talk him out of it coz none of us really felt up to a rape. We’re sitting around with yesterday’s heat still oozing out of the black stones between the tracks which are steaming slightly where we pissed. We’re waiting for the final trains, maybe some dumb bitch will let us take her to the toilets like they do down in Sydney. Got Moo there pulling his cock out like it’s Christmas, Big Noze trying to follow suit, shouting at some little Asian piece in a light blue dress —Hey scrag! Get a load of this! But when he reached into his dacks, he couldn’t find it, so as he turned back to see if we were watching, he promptly fell over. Bellamy threw up on a family walking up the exit ramp. I’d never before seen someone throwing up whilst laughing and chasing people before that night. The loudest —Blergh!— I’ve ever heard and it went on for the ten seconds which lasted for a week. Me and Noze who was still lying on the platform with his arm in his fly near pissed, shit, vomited, farted, spat, ejaculated and shed our skins with laughter. The father of the family called us a ‘bunch of wild animals’. But I equate wild animals to mean lions, kings of the jungle.
6
Somehow, after all of that, we got home. That’s me and Noze. The others wanted to crash at Moo’s but I fancied reflecting upon our glory, and Moo still looked like he wanted to root, and it wasn’t gonna be me. When I’d finished doing that, Nozie broke into a BMW parked out front of a fancier townhouse and we drove home up every footpath and through every park we could find. Our glory continued as a cop car chased us lights flashing through the garbage cans of a shopping mall but didn’t dare try to jump the drain at the end of a cul-de-sac as we did. They weren’t game for the quick exit from the 1st floor of the multifucking story either, even tho they saw us come down safe on the café patrons below, cushioned us we reckon. The tables and the people finally scraped out from under the car when we hit the freeway south and took out the traffic island on the westexit. It was true Dukes of Hazard stuff, but when we blew the horn, it just went —PAAAAAAAAAARRRRP—-no Dixie joy. I heard Noze scream something about the poofter horn but the undercarriage hitting the railing drowned him out. The cops, left behind, just shaking their heads as we landed on the other side and completely destroyed anything left of the wheel alignment. The cunt wouldn’t even steer straight, so we drove it into a tree, got out and pissed on it then we gave the cops the finger, hopped over a fence and disappeared with a whole bunch of Polaroid’s I found in the glove box and about a hundred and fifty bucks in small notes and change of which we spent sixty on two scrags. One called Teena and one called Janis, they were twins, the older one was Janis…
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