Do you want to read my answers to loads of questions? Check out my Somber Pensive interview with TheGreatOne.
apparently people still occasionally visit my profile page
you can see all these stories at http://earfetish.abortedfoetus.com and they're at the top of the page and separated properly
INTIMIDATED BY A PISSYPANTS DRUNK
"I don't know what you're talking about. Leave me alone."
Kevin's conversation with his friends had just been interrupted by a red-faced drunk. It was the end of a school day and they were chatting idly at the bus stop. They knew this man. He was a well-known local hazard.
Kevin's awkward, spotty baby-face and gangly body sprouted underneath a mop of messy hair, which he hoped would look more badass when he got older. He had just entered the fury of puberty and was full of self-doubt and anxiety. His friends were worse - Kevin was a dweeby weakling but someone even skinner and two girls were all he had to back him up, and they were even more withdrawn, quiet, and lost.
Also at the bus stop was an attractive young mother, holding her daughter with one hand and her baby's pram with the other. The drunk had accused Kevin of 'starting' on this woman, although he hadn't exchanged a single word with her. This disgusting old fart was renowned for starting fights with adolescents with long hair for no reason and they could've guessed trouble was brewing when he came out.
"You heard me, stop starting on that family," he slurred. It was earlier than 4PM and his plans for tomorrow were identical. If he wasn't so vicious and violent he would've been pitiable.
Shouting over his shoulder, a panicky Kevin asked, "Excuse me Miss, but have I said anything to you?"
He was hoping she'd calm the drunk down - his useless friends weren't going to say anything - but she replied, "no," and continued ignoring the situation. It wasn't any of her business. She had her own kids to keep safe; she wasn't going to put herself in danger to protect someone else's. Kevin thought if she had been more vocal she could've diffused it, but maybe the woman was wiser.
"Y'hear that?" Kevin replied."I've not done anything! Chill out, everyone's cool."
"Don't you cheek me," he snarled, obviously unsatisfied with any confrontation that doesn't result in non-consensual violence against someone a third of his age. He smelt quite badly. Kevin noticed he had dark urine stains on his pants.
Kevin's frustrations and fear cracked across his face. He wasn't a good fighter, he wasn't tough, and he was a peaceful, placid pacifist. Maybe it would've been wiser for Kevin to come out all-arms flailing at this point - knock the drunk off his feet, crack his head off the kerb, throw him into the road - but he was never one to make the first move. He'd often tried to argue his way out of violence, which was comparable to arguing Keynesian Economics with a Neanderthal baby, and this time his hand articulation got on the nerves of his opponent.
"If you put your hands in your pockets one more time, I'll kick your fucking head in," the drunk man spat. Kevin removed his hands from his pockets.
"Put your hands in your pockets," the drunk challenged. Kevin was a coward who should've known he was being asked to initiate the fight, but he didn't, and therefore obligingly put his hands in his pockets.
Instantly, the sloppy drunk lunged towards him, arms outstretched, wrapping his gnarled fingers around the young boy's throat, and pressed them against his windpipe, his sunken eyes flaring with ego and misplaced anger and drunken pride, staring into the shocked face of a young teen. Kevin smashed his fists against the man's arms until he let go, and staggered back towards his weedy pussy friends who hadn't so much as complained, let alone helped him. "What the fuck," he gasped, swallowing hard to try and open his gullet. The choking sensation continued, despite his free airways, and a raw, reddened mark bloomed around his neck.
Fortunately, the bus finally pulled up and Kevin got on. The pissypants drunk followed him, smelling like a toilet and moaning bitterly about kids with long hair under his breath, staggering up the aisle, kicking Kevin's schoolbag, and sitting in a scruffy heap behind him. Kevin could feel his raspy breath on his neck, hear his drooling mouth smacking, and smell the bittersweet fumes of toxic alcohol emanating from the gross caricature. He felt fear, apprehension, but also confidence. A tiny spark of testosterone had released itself from his underdeveloped testes and sunk warmly into his brain. He knew the drunk was no real trouble - Kevin had the speed advantage, and he was going to be inches from home anyway - but this vile wreck was still dangerous, and disgusting, and was following him.
The bus pulled to a halt at Kevin's regular stop, and he hauled himself out. The drunk fell after him, using the bars like crutches, swinging down the railings and sprawling out of the door just behind his adversary.
Kevin strode down the road without turning around. The drunk roared, "Eh, you! Come back here and let's sort this out!"
"Fuck off and hide in a kid's playground," Kevin responded weakly, immaturely - it was an ad-lib, I'm sure he could've come up with something funnier if he'd been preparing - and darted around the corner, pressing himself behind his fence until the coast was clear. The drunk meandered along the road, desperately trying to confirm his existence by hunting down and beating up little kids, eventually giving up and smashing his head apart with whiskey outside the off license.
Seven years later, Kevin was thrown out of the Red Lion pub after pummelling the shit out of a surprised-looking red-faced gentleman.
ODE TO LONG HAIR
I have long hair.
I think it's because of my distorted view of the 60s. After viewing show after show of the hippie stereotype, I became convinced that they were all long-haired, carefree, that they sat in parks smoking weed, making daisy-chains, playing the drums, talking in metaphor-peppered riddles about life's most intoxicating questions.
Hippies probably didn't, and neither do I. But we should.
Long hair is the badge of harmless youthful rebellion, of peacefulness and approachability - people feel more inclined to approach the long-haired in the street asking for whereabouts.
It's good that Heavy Metal has cultivated such an image for itself. Gore-splattered albums loved by laid-back party animals, friendly nerds who lost their way. If your music is full of anger, passion, intricacy, soaring moments of bliss and crushing sombre lows, then you can chill out the rest of the time.
Yesterday I walked past a guy with similar hair, wearing a Burzum t-shirt. Feeling we were brothers under the One True God that is Metal, I roared "BURZUM" in a cookie-monster voice and flashed him the devil's horns. He looked briefly surprised and then ignored me. Usually you get a response.
Beethoven would be Cannibal Corpse's lead guitarist if he lived nowadays. Heavy Metal is orchestra music with better drumming. Long hair adds to the spectacle.
In the scary world of jobs and the future - far scarier than any Death Metal song - people might not be so hot on long hair. You're only unemployable once, I say, so you may as well dress the part. My heart bleeds for people who grow up too early; friends and relatives my age who are engaged, who have kids, who buy All Bran instead of Ricicles, who came to university to study and complain about the noise. You've got an assignment in tomorrow? How come you're not awake at 5AM completing it?
When I was in high school, it allegedly looked like a mop, and people who didn't like me much called me 'mophead'. Younger girls who denied fancying me would pull it. In a different setting - some dingy dungeon somewhere - I could've enjoyed it as well; I should try and hook up with 'em.
"When you gonna get your hair cut / boff chopped?" dickheads would whine through their nose regularly. How bizarre. They never enquired about my day, all that concerned them was my hair. If you don't know my name, don't give me your fashion tips. And lose that bogus nasal accent.
I'm never chopping my boff. And fuck your short back and sides, or your dumb spiky tufts; your mum was lying when she said you looked smart. You should embrace your individualism, let it grow from your brain and rain in ringlets down your back; wear your personality on your forehead. What a waste of a life, to be bullied into changing your appearance. Just because of you, it's going to reach my bellybutton. People waste their lives following the herd; it's always the interesting people who are standing at the side, commenting on the symmetry of the buffalo.
"But aren't you conforming to the non-conformists?" people claim. Better them than your mates.
I knew in time my hair would look gorgeous, and when I could put it in a ponytail, it became perfect. It was pulled straight at the top before falling into a mass of ringlets and curls, perfect for rocking out with integrity. Now, I look in the mirror and see a skinny Viking. Maybe I wear it in a ponytail too much.
The guy next door to me also has long hair. He's American, and he actually waited until he was 21 to drink. He's a proper Christian, he has never smoked dope, and I heard him shamelessly confess to being a virgin. Beyond the hair and the underlying nerdness, we're totally different. In the 60s, we'd spend long hours in the kitchen, listening to endless psychedelic music and discussing which political system would bring us closer to communal love, or which was born from love, but social niceties have stopped me from breaching any of our major differences in any meaningful manner.
Hip-hop seems to contain the most cunning linguist stoners nowadays, but I don't like their haircuts.
I put the lighter to my final cigarette and inhale. What a childish habit.
My first drug was spinning until I was dizzy. The second was fire. Fire meant power. An entire element, gripped in a fist. Whenever I pressed the button, my heart jumped. Touch the flame against paper and it accelerated; adrenaline soared through my veins. Breath heavy, palms sticky, I would watch, wide-eyed, as the yellow ate the white.
Light a match, put it in a full box, and turn the box upside-down. The matchheads would glow white-hot, all the phosphorous igniting simultaneously; hisses and huge fireballs decimate the contents. The boxes were surprisingly flame resistant, perfect coffins for thousands of charred wooden bodies.
I was too sensible to be doing this, even at 14. I suppose that was half the joy, and always will be - allowing stupid urges to override your internal monologue. The lighters and matches were a nag, just as real as the urge to eat, shit, drink and fuck; my mind would flash to them when I was bored, and the resulting inferno would satiate the delicious pyromania. I loved controlling the uncontrollable. My behaviours and whereabouts for every moment were stipulated by my parents, but I could do all of this, and get away with it.
I wouldn't regret it so much if I had taken my habits outside. Lighting paper in my bedroom was dumb. Losing control and burning the house down never crossed my mind; now I'm older, the potential for disaster is all I consider. Arson, the firemen would say, and I would say, no, it was me. I was playing with fire.
I stopped doing it at around the same time I started smoking cigarettes, a vice that stuck for years. I like to think that this was slightly less moronic. The fire was even more controlled now, a hot cherry advancing towards my face. The master's scope had extended beyond mere flames, to wanton self-harm, choking down burning fumes and enjoying them. I took this into nature; go to the park, pull a Lambert and Butler to my mouth (the most advertised brand, replaced with roll-ups) and suck the smoke into my lungs. Countless times have my eyes focused on that glowing ember, the smoke trapped in a cigarette paper, funnelled into my mouth.
Individualism. When society hates cigarettes, it doubles their appeal.
It was only when the reality of being in control of my own life sank in that I decided I didn't want to smoke. The fire of youthful rebellion flickers under the wind of imminent employment.
The first time, the nicotine racing through my blood, seeping into my brain, dizzying me, weakening my legs, and I'd lie back and sigh in a crazy haze. It was amazing how easy it was to get away with it. It's different now. Enjoyment moved to satisfaction, and that moved to addiction, and now it's disappointment. I'm done. Fire is the only ember left to be extinguished.
I strolled haplessly into the mouth of McDonald's. I had never intended for this job to take over my life, for it to be my raison d'être. It was just supposed to be pocket money, experience, a stop-gap until greater ideas came to fruition. It was hard to find work, but fast food was always available, and I'd heard they had promotional opportunities.
They showed me the ropes. The pay was bad, but put in extra effort and you might get commission. It didn't take much, they said. Speedy work, a friendly exterior, manage to get a decent ratio of SuperSized orders, and massive promotions are yours for the taking.
We used to come in early. They said it was under the instructions of The Management. The higher-ups in our chain, the Leaders, would herd us into a room. New Recruits would stand up and talk about their aspirations. We would all applaud, and say 'To Ronald' in unison as a means of a salute. It was just a company motto, they said. It was bewildering. Work hard, they said, and you can become management! You can run your own chain, lay back and watch the money roll in!
Staff grinned inanely around you, shook your hand, welcomed you into 'The Family', and you'd spend the rest of the day filling orders.
And we'd work to bleeding fingernails. There were people who'd been on the shop floor for years, always striving to become a Leader, a hype-man; other staff would drop out quickly, disillusioned with the whole mad charade.
I worked at it, though. I found myself buying into it. 'To Ronald' drummed into your head, repeating it in the early morning, going to 'chill out' sessions after work to show your face, going out for pizza with the staff - but I suppose I didn't care. I was going broke. I couldn't afford the heating when I was at home. I'd turned off my fridge, but all it had in it was a half-drank bottle of Pinot Gris. Days when no-one SuperSized, I could barely afford to get to work the next morning. I thought I was playing the odds, I thought they would work in my favour after days of bad luck.
I met a friend there, Greg. He had been a Leader before, but had fallen from grace, and had spent 6 years 'Doing It For Ronald'. He was becoming disillusioned with the franchise, with his job; he thought his talents would be better employed elsewhere. I thought he was pretty hopeless myself, but I suppose he could've sold the Big Issue or something.
After the chill-out session after work, discussing the day's heroes, a few speeches from the best people, and an overall warm congratulations from The Leaders, Greg took me to one side. "I need to show you something," he said, mutinously.
I followed him to the security room. It was locked. He unscrewed the bolt and pulled it open.
Inside were dozens of monitors, mainly observing the kitchen area. Different speakers took up different areas, and Greg demonstrated their use by running to the cooker and saying 'can you hear me?'
I was amazed. We were being spied on!
The blood began to drain from my face. The whole thing began to look like a cult, feel as odd as it did when I first started. I felt brainwashed. Any aspirations I had of becoming The Management died that day.
Greg carefully screwed the bolt back on and closed the door on my previous worldview.
The next day, he was gone. The Leaders wouldn't talk about it.
I had been toiling for 6 months and had gained an element of respect around the broiler. But now the operation felt sinister. I couldn't work here; I couldn't support this manipulative cult. I left the next day and joined a commune.
Two weeks later, I came back with a bunch of hippies. "This organisation is using you to further its own Capitalist agenda," shouted one dreadlocked one in a dirty t-shirt. A barefooted girl in a see-through dress joined in on the chorus. "You've all just been brainwashed into believing in a false reality," she declared, quite brazenly.
"Shut up," I told them. "Guys, you've got to leave this place. They spy on you. They've done something to Greg. It's all a load of bullshit, saying you'll ever reach The Management; you're just going to hang around being a drone or a slimy Leader, perpetuating the same thing all over again. Viva la revolution!"
And the employees rose from their workstations. "Is that true? Are we being spied on?" "Do you do damage to us when we get in your way?"
The most senior Leader rose to his feet. "So you were in cahoots with Greg? I knew you were up to no good. You never accepted Ronald. How dare you damage his name?"
But the staff were mobilised. Armed with spatulas and colanders, they overpowered The Leaders and marched on to McDonald's headquarters.
The Battle of Oak Brook will probably go down as one of the most important in Human history. A civilian uprising, lead by someone retrospectively believe to be a paranoid schizophrenic, attacked the Mcdonald's Headquarters in the sleepy suburb of Oak Brook. Two hundred of their employees threw beef burgers at their windows before the manager approached, seeking calm. At that point, he was beaten to death by the swelling mob, armed with makeshift equipment and protected with pots, pans and sieves.
The after-effects of the battle were tremendous. Toyota closed up shop 2 days later, followed swiftly by Microsoft, ExxonMobil, Fortis and BP. Within 1 week, 378 of the Fortune 500 had shut down, and within a month Wall Street was used as a fruit and veg market. Innovation ground to a halt, and humanity began to retreat back to its present, simpler, nomadic form. IPods are now used as spoons.
"What is the meaning of life?"
Hagar leapt towards the odious voice, slicing his broadsword through the still air, streaking across the night sky like a shooting star. "Canute! How dare ye ponder such questions? Silence your philosophical brain; we have a dragon to slay! Focus!" The tip of his sword trembled at the bare, pale, flustered throat.
And the air warmed around as Canute's face flushed red, and with quivering legs, and with a thud, he had fainted.
"Awaken!" Flecks of Hagar's fury splattered on the dust. "You are no match for the dragon! The armies of Hades could not pass me, yet you - pah! For conquest, strength and power, that is the meaning of life! Coward!"
And Hagar left his partner helpless on the floor. The dragon loomed near, and the fear for this dragon loomed far. A huge monster it was, fangs as long as your arm; roasting fireballs burst from its lungs with every breath. Hagar narrowed his eyes, hissed through his teeth.
The dragon slaying was easy, but deserting his friend was harder. Hagar's chest of steel was but a shield for his butter heart. The women fell for his massive balls but held them for his soul.
No word from Canute since the death of the dragon and guilt played his arteries like a harp. Weeks dragged for years, and, grasping back tears, Hagar threw on his bearskin jacket, shackled up his sword, and left.
The search was fast, as Canute had not moved. He was cold, and quiet, and dead. And Hagar screamed the screams of a thousand agonies at the stars. For his adventures had been in vain; for love for your fellow man had always been his meaning of life.
Hagar threw his sword in the shrubs and became a poet.
I was just at a mate's house smoking three big spliffs of three different strains when we watched a camera version of Step-Brothers on his PC. I paid attention to the first half, and then when they started talking to the psychiatrists, I started to mong out.
As the John Lajoe song goes:
"You start to feel your heart beating really fast,
And you're convinced that you're gonna have a heart attack,
Have you ever been high as fuck?"
This began occurring to me, and I considered how my dad, who has a weak heart, is suffering from far worse and how he's going to die from it, and it made me think about how much I loved everyone, and how I should quit smoking cigarettes because if I died from lung cancer before my mum died I would feel terrible, and I began to get teary-eyed considering how much I love everyone and how weed is awesome, and to be honest that's the first time I've had a 'weed trip' that is solely focused on how much I love everyone, but that might be because I like to keep it as an overriding emotion.
In conclusion, weed is awesome. And I'm more likely to give up smoking cigarettes now. I kinda was thinking that I don't like the taste of them, but I quite fancy one right now. We'll see what happens.
Transcendent experiences occur on the drugs society disallows.
There's a thing called a hypnagogic jerk. It's when you're in the twilight zone between conscious and asleep, and you awaken with a jerk. Everyone gets it, and no-one knows why for sure. It used to happen to me all the time.
I ask people about this. "What were you dreaming of before you woke up? What did you sense?" 'Falling' is the typical answer. Either that or 'nothing at all'. I've asked everyone.
When I was a kid, every night, without fail, I'd have a hypnagogic jerk when I was drifting into the twilight world. My mind becomes vivid. The covers weigh heavily on my chest. Everything is pitch black. And the blackness gets thicker. I start to choke in it. It peels off my eyes and wraps itself over my face, it invades my mind, I can't breathe, I can't think, and I am consumed in the darkness, and just when I think I'm sucked into oblivion, I jerk awake.
Every night. I used to fear it. I would toss and turn, knowing any attempt at sleep would result in meeting this devastating demon, and I'd waste the whole night in a fretful tangle of covers. I'd doze off in class, but it would still get me there, and I'd wake stricken with shock and anguish in the middle of English.
I still slept, of course. I'd be too tired. I'd be determined to. Sometimes it would attack endlessly - 8 solid hours of nightmarish hypnagogic jerks. And when I did get to sleep, I'd awaken after a few hours with another evil meeting. Always the same image. Always the same phantom.
My parents took me to therapists, counsellors, psychiatrists, everyone. No-one could help. They could see a shaken little boy, terrified of sleep, sucking his thumb at 10 and wetting the bed, his face coiled in anguish every night as he curled against the pillows. And as sleep crept in, without fail, he'd jolt awake, his heart pounding its way away from the entity that had enveloped him. No-one could help. Sleep paralysis, they said. My parents gave up. I'd attempt the gruelling ritual of sleep night after night, alone, with the horrors of the night time becoming embedded deeper and deeper in me.
It was only when I learnt to embrace it that I became happy. I stopped worrying when it attacked. This time, I smiled. I let the blackness come into me, my mind accepted it, and we became one. It was always with me. It gave me the strength, power, and courage that I never had. It gave me a will, a philosophy, a desire to really live as I'd always dreamed.
Maybe it won. Maybe I gave up, beaten by an endlessly persistent opponent. Maybe I realised I wanted it. In moments of self-doubt, I can never decide.
It's this that I've been carrying with me all my life. It's never been a burden. It's a release, it's a valve. My guardian angel. It takes everything, my guilt, my shame, my anguish, my love, all my bogus emotions, and sucks it into its endless pit. A black hole, where not even light can escape, tearing my thoughts out and emitting positive background radiation instead.
And it frees me. I can do what I want, without even me to answer to. The liberation is ecstatic. I remember when I came to terms with the horror, beaming from ear to ear as I drifted off into a decent sleep for the first time in forever. It's there whenever I close my eyes, my imaginary friend, but more real than anything else, always guiding me through the night and into sleep. I held it to my heart, and we fused together with beautiful symmetry.
And now I'm here, with only my darkness for company, stuck in solitary confinement for years. We went into a frenzy for a while, didn't we? You've all I've ever had. Everything else has been transient. All the stuff people say life is all about means nothing to me now, and never really did. Just you, darkness, taking me on your epic voyage through life. I knew we'd always be together; I'm even sure you'll guide my way into the afterlife.
You did the first one. I remember. We'd only been together for a few days when you did it. I had never even considered the idea, but your cold fist gripped my mind and killed him. It was messy. We didn't even have anything to do him with. We just jumped on him and I pulverised him with my fists, over and over again. I didn't even feel the pain, but my knuckles were red and bleeding afterwards. His face was crunching, he was long knocked out, but you wanted me to beat his skull into dust, and I wanted to too.
It must have been about 10 minutes later that I finally got off him and ripped up his parking ticket. I felt guilty looking at his dented, swollen skull, but you made me feel proud. You told me to put him in the boot and drop him by the waterfall, so I did. He was still alive, but barely. We watched him fall. You gave me the taste for it. It was easy.
Maybe a lot of people are familiar with you. I know these prison walls are full of them; the guards, too. I think other people know the darkness too, but they're scared of you. They see you. They know you're around every corner, hidden like a panther. You attack them from inside and out, and when you're attacking strongly it's the worst moment of their life. They should just accept you. They should fill their soul with you - they know you'll always be there, waiting for it. It's the only way to lose the fear.
Because I never liked being angry. I never knew what to do. But you showed me. There was always a way. You stopped the pain. Together, we were cold-blooded. We were happier with the bastards gone.
You were very clever. I remember when that waiter made a joke about me, and was surly. You had a plan. We went outside with a straw and a coke bottle and sucked petrol out of someone's car. It was stunningly easy to make a Molotov. And I waited with you, outside, until we saw him getting in his car. The window was down. It was too easy. I wore you as a disguise. We worked beautifully together.
We had fun. It was all fun. It's all I wanted to do in life, since I met you. I could have never done it alone.
Actually, it's your fault we're in here, y'know.
"San Francisco - A man died of internal injuries from sex with a stallion at a ranch used by a bestiality ring, police in the northwestern United States state of Washington said on Monday. The man suffered fatal trauma while being sodomised by a stallion at a stud farm that catered to men who wanted sex with animals, Enumclaw Police Commander Eric Sortland told AFP."
(This news source is amazing; it's got loads of stories like this. lol.)
My son was a fine man. He always made me proud.
His first school sports day, 1992. Egg and spoon race, with golf balls in place of eggs. Kevin there, in his stripy shorts and Ninja Turtles t-shirt, one hand gripping his spoon, making a steady beeline for the finishing post. Dropping his golf ball, again and again; bending down, picking it up, putting it back on the spoon, and patiently continuing his short journey. The other competitors were furlongs ahead, but Kevin didn't seem fazed, immersed in his own world, pleased enough with his own effort. Eventually reaching the end, the last by miles, handing his spoon and golf ball to the headmaster with a careless smile, and sitting back on the grass next to his friends, peering over his knees and chatting away. Not giving a damn about his failure. I know this might sound stupid, but at that moment I could've cried.
And that was always the way he was. Happy with being a loser, which was so admirable. Content in himself. Focused on his own journey through life and reaching his own goals, without concerning himself with impressing anyone else, or with their stifling complaints. Like when I saw his art teacher, who was nagging about how he would never complete any of his work in class time, or his English teacher who told me he'd never finished a story; he'd usually hand in two paragraphs that were mainly crossings-out. It was like he was a perfectionist, but he couldn't give a damn if the world knew.
I never tried to discipline this behaviour out of him. I loved that about him. I had never wanted to raise some insecure conformist as a kid, and here I was with the most confident, content young boy you could ever imagine. It would've felt like sacrilege to have told him to 'get his bloody work done at the class's speed or he'd always fail at education'.
When he was a little older, he fell in love with nature. We used to stroll down the tree-lined streets, go down to the parks, walk through the wood, and he would look around, wide-eyed, commenting on how beautiful the trees were, pointing out birds and talking about their plumage, fishing with a net in the river, throwing his catches back. He really wanted a pet dog, and I didn't allow it - it would have ruined the carpets. But whenever the neighbour's cat came over, he would stroke it and play with it and treat it like it was the best thing ever, and it wasn't long until it was over at our house more than theirs. To be honest, I hated the mangy creature, but Kevin loved it - he'd buy tins of tuna out of his pocket money and he even bought a food tray for it when I told him off for using our breakfast cereal bowls.
He loved the world. He said it was overpowering. He said he used to lie on the grass, arms outstretched, and hug the Earth. He was fascinating. I would adore our walks around nature. Like on that one glorious April afternoon. I was pleased the sun had come out after the showers, and proposed a walk. He jumped at the opportunity. He opened the front door and groaned with joy as the sunlight streamed in. We stepped out, and he was immediately noticing the blossom. I hadn't even noticed. Some people say Spring is the moment of rebirth, but he went on a gripping monologue about how the bees and the frogs had hibernated all winter, bursting out as the first pink leaves landed and rejoicing to live again in the Spring. The pavement was glistening wet and covered with errant earthworms, and he said how he hadn't seen a worm for months, and here were thousands of them, all out at once, throwing a street festival for the subterranean.
I wanted to walk into the woods, but he insisted we sit at a bus stop on the lazy suburban streets and wait. And within 15 minutes, dozens of birds, of all colours and breeds, fell to the ground like a blanket and feasted. The sight was remarkable, unforgettable, after what seemed like decades of winter that there was all this life. I turned to Kevin, concerned that he might be empathising with the worms, but he was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes wide open, brimming with water, desperately trying to sink as much beauty as he could on to his retinas. And then he talked, with deep passion, about how the birds would be taking the worms to feed their chicks, who were resting at the top of the pink-and-white trees that had burst through the concrete, and how next year, the baby chicks would do the same. And I felt so pleased, and so full of hope that Kevin would one day be saying the same things to his baby chicks as he was to me.
It was impossible to know Kevin and not eventually share this deep and gorgeous infatuation.
When he was about 17, he got this new bunch of friends. They used to all go to this ranch, and it wasn't long before they'd got a job there. I'd spent his lifetime bursting with pride for him, and this new job seemed perfect. He wasn't the most athletic or academic kid in the world, but he had character, and he loved nature, and he loved animals too, and a ranch was ideal. He was becoming a real man, confident, deep, passionate, and ruggedly good-looking. I used to think he saw a bit of himself in the cowboys.
Why did I never notice the signs? Like when I'd pick them all up, they'd all be red-faced, out of breath, and they'd be walking funny and bow-legged, and I'd put it all down to horse-riding. In retrospect, I wish I'd never driven them down and collected them. Like, people ask me, "do you not feel let down?" but I only feel let down that he made me an unwilling accessory to his deviancy. I'll always feel partially responsible for his death, solely because of those car journeys.
He started to get a bit of money, and when he was 20 he had his own place near the ranch, with all of his friends. He would still visit me often, take me there, show me his horses, or any new horses they'd gotten, ride them around the dramatic landscapes he was spending his life in, and he'd tell me how happy he was, how perfect his life was. He seemed to be on the up-and-up. He was looking healthy, it all seemed to be going well; my only complaint was that he hadn't found a girlfriend, ever - to be honest, I always thought he just wasn't interested. But we were always really close. I would've liked to have thought he could have told me anything. But I understand.
I remember the day he died. 23 years old, and dead. I got a phone call from the hospital. I don't remember what they said at all. I remember standing in the kitchen, crying, retching over the sink, and sitting on the floor in silence with my head in my hands, the phone swinging back and forth like a pendulum, wailing the 'call ended' tone like the shrieks of the banshee. My brain had suddenly stopped working. This new piece of information seemed to make no sense. I remember repeating it to myself over and over, before the realisation finally hit me, before I sprawled over the linoleum floor, emptied my soul of tears, pounded the world with fists until my hands bled. No words can describe losing your son - my little boy with the deep heart and the carefree smile, so full of life, brimming with confidence, larger than life - he couldn't possibly be dead.
Stricken with misery and choking back tears, I eventually phoned the hospital back. "How did he die," I asked.
"They're still doing autopsy reports. We'll tell you as soon as possible." I hung up believing them, but they were probably just trying to spare a grieving parent's feelings.
When I found out the truth, which was a respectful and agonising length of time following, I didn't care at all. He was still just as perfect. I winced at the details, but it took me no time to realise that he thought it was enjoyable. So he liked to be fucked by horses; big deal. At least he died doing what he loved.
I approached the familiar door and knocked on it. A shapely young girl with curly brown hair answered it. She was expecting me. It only took for us to make eye contact for her to hold me by the chin and pull my lips into hers.
She had fallen on to the bed with me, and we were both kissing and stroking, my hands rubbing up and down her smooth contours, tearing off clothes, liberating her beautiful nakedness; my mouth breathing on and licking her cute pink nipples and massaging those big, shapely bosoms; I was drowning in ecstasy; this stunning topless girl was on top of me, and she was responding with just as much passion.
She ripped my shirt open, sending buttons scattering around the room, and proceeded to undo my pants, freeing my desperate cock.
I ran my fingers between her legs and felt that eager rock, bursting to get out. "Turn over," she commanded, in her delicate, purring French accent, throwing my jeans behind her. I turned around. She pulled her pants down and unleashed her steel dick to the cold air.
With one hand masturbating, she used the other hand to smear butter up and down my arse crack. Then, she took her big, dustbin-lid sized hands, took a large finger, and slid it in and out of my arse, introducing slimy butter to my rectum. The first poke sent a shockwave of tingles up my body - a piercing pain followed by heightening ecstasy - as she tickled my sensitive inner-arsehole, fingernails scraping along my prostrate. I felt my erection spasm with every poke that breached my exterior, every time her slender finger rubbed inside my winking anus.
Without warning, I'd been mounted. She shoved her thick, veiny cock through my anus and into my body. It didn't take long for me to get over the initial pain and to enjoy her glorious penis. It was so fucking hot. I couldn't believe that I was actually getting fucked up the ass by this sexy French bird. She thrusted in and out, every stroke peaking my excitement and the intensity until it spilled, until it felt like I could cum all over her sheets, until I came all over her sheets. She hadn't finished.
She pinned me down, I obligingly bit the pillow as she pushed her massive cock further and further into my tight, dry asshole. Oh my God, my heart realised with a pang. I was full of French tranny dick. A very French pegging. Cursing and muttering with her sexy foreign tongue, her balls slapping against my arsecheeks, her cock sliding in and out of my buttered-up bottom. The penetration was orgasmic for me, me, her dirty, worthless ass-slut - I found it difficult to not roar and scream and shriek with euphoria every time she filled me up.
I felt her dick quivering inside me before she erupted with a sigh and sprayed my insides with litres of ejaculate. I felt every pump, as she gave herself inside of me, her granite hard-on turning to putty inside my sore, tender intestinal walls, and she pulled out and fell asleep spooning me.
I was walking down the street one night, taking my arsenal to the gun amnesty at the police station, when I saw two scruffy cunts mugging an old woman at the bus stop. Fuck that shit, I thought; dirty bastards, world would be better off without them.
"Oi, bellends," I shouted. One of them turned towards me. Before they could react, I pulled out my AK and machine-gunned both their kneecaps. The old woman stood, white as a ghost, frozen to the spot. I walked over to the bloody scene.
"Right, give me your purse," I said to the bruised elderly lady. She handed it over. Must've been too shocked to think, or something. Stupid bitch.
"Now scram," I commanded. She began to hobble away, giving a wide berth to the moaning, crippled muggers. I let her get a few yards away before rushing her and taking her to the ground with a rugby tackle. I heard her chin crack against the unforgiving pavement, and when I stood up, she was out cold.
"And you two," I hissed, pointing at the dirty pikies. They tried to shuffle away, but were in two much pain to move. It became increasingly apparent that one guy's leg had been blown off from the gunfire, and his stump was pissing blood. "Give me your fucking wallets."
They didn't seem in any obliging state, far too preoccupied with their multiple lower body gunshot wounds - pussies - so I pounced on one, pulled out my switchblade, and began sawing through this guy's head, first through his windpipe (to much gurgling) and then through his spine, completely severing his head from his body. The second guy had managed to crawl a short distance in this time, and I marched over to him, put my gun against the back of his neck, and pulled the trigger.
He did a lot of gurgling, too, and blood began coming out of his mouth and filling up his lungs. I looked at this with mild interest. Dirty fucker. He deserves all he gets - they both do.
I went over to the two bodies and fleeced them for cash. I then proceeded to the quietly moaning elderly woman.
"Wake up," I shouted. She moaned slightly louder. I pulled her out of the middle of the road by her arms, towards the pavement.
"Bite the kerb," I said, pulling her face towards it and pressing my AK to the back of her shrivelled head. She bit the kerb.
"Now say goodnight," I snarled, jumping on the dirty fucker's skull.
I waddled to Brian. He had just finished His final hilarious musical number and was busily screaming and moaning on the cross. His hands dribbled congealed blood, His legs were stained with the last shit He'll ever do, He was gasping and choking for air, trying to twist His aching arms away from the punishing lumber, and yank the nails out, but He was in too much agony, too weak, to summon the strength.
His death sentence made me uneasy. Brian didn't deserve to die; He was the most honourable and decent chap you'd ever meet. Far be it from me to overrule Pontius Pilate, and rescue Him, though, much as I'd rather Pilate was pinned up to die rather than my good friend Brian, I was kind of pleased it wasn't me. I'd been following Him for years - I loved Him.
I pulled down His pants and took His holy cock in my hand. It was already reaching semi-on status and it only took a few soft tugs to become rock-solid. I longed to slide it into my anus like we did in the blissful past, sharing intimate and tender moments of casual anal sex in the temples and thanking God for every thrust, but that was a distant memory; and sorrow swarmed into my confused brain when I refreshed it; I'd never get to share such a moment with Him again.
Brian's eyes flickered open and He glanced down at me masturbating Him. "Oh, Judas, thanks so much, oh yes Judas," He moaned softly. I continued to toss Him off, His slippery penis made my hands sticky, His granite erection trembling with anticipation. I started to cry, dark tears welling in my eyes, trying to console myself with Brian's teachings. There is bliss after death, I told myself; there is happiness beyond anything imaginable, but it just seems so unfair that Brian would have to go through a crucifixion to appreciate it. Maybe there was some greater purpose to this, maybe His daddy has a plan; maybe His bodily juices would cleanse all our sins.
"I'm coming," Brian muttered, half to me and half to the Heavens. I put my mouth over His greasy dick and gave it a final suck, before He finally shot His magical seeds of immortality in my mouth. I took His cock out and watched His semen streaking towards me, splattering across my face. I'd accepted His warm love into my heart, and anointed my forehead with His warmer love.
I grabbed a spear propped up next to His cross and shoved it in His side mid-climax. Blood flooded from His wound, draining into the sand, and He died in euphoric homoerotic sexual ecstasy.
I put my hand into your pram and pull out your baby by its neck. It looks stupidly at me, its eyes unfocussed, its shrivelled pumpkin-head still, its body wriggling a little bit underneath. It doesn't seem too bothered by its position; but that might be because it's not breathing particularly well and already realises that crying would be a foolish mistake.
I grab its feet with my free hand and wrench downwards. I feel your baby's skull separate from its neck in a neat internal decapitation, watch it die instantly in my hands as its body springs up again, and then pull down even harder. I want to tear its fucking head off while it's still warm and still twitchy.
I stab it in its throat with my Swiss army knife and tear across it like a piece of rotten fabric. I tug again, ripping through the remaining skin and cartilage, and throw its decapitated body on the floor like a discarded sweet wrapper.
My jeans are already around my ankles, my penis already rock-solid, and it's a very neat fit into your baby's windpipe. Its trachea convulses still, it's brain not dead enough to give up on life, squeezing my bell-end in moist, bloody gasps. I fuck it deep and hard, my cock reaches the top of its face and bursts through into its cranium; I poke its still-living grey matter with my trembling cock.
I turn its head around to look into its vacuous eyes. I want to rip through the top of its skull, my hard-on bursting through and ejaculating like a glorious volcano. Innocent blood drips down my legs from the severed head, me laughing at its stupid toothless naïve grin, ripping its windpipe apart with violent thrusts and turning its insides into mush.
I feel myself coming. It feels totally lifeless now, its brain too oxygen-starved and too cock-penetrated to bother. I fuck it faster and faster and fill its mind with my warm, life-bringing jism, hoping that I've cum all over its memories of you.
I hold it up triumphantly, my sticky semen coagulating with his blood and falling out in lumps of strawberry ice cream. I toss his head next to his body and stamp on it - brain and blood and bones and semen streak over the floor and up my leg - and piss off back home to smoke a fag.