Closer

“You’re my superman…yes you are.”

“Huh…are you sure? What about those men in your office?”

“There’s nobody like you…you know that.”

“Since mom went, you mean.”

“You know my man weren’t no good…just like your father…we all know that. You’re the only man in the family that’s alright”

“I miss her.”

“I miss sis too…but I wouldn’t have you, would I? Some things are meant to be.”

“Yeah…I like you being here…you’re just like her…I’m glad you moved in when mom died.”

“ ’Course I’m like her. I always loved this house. It’s got a lotta memories.”

“But it ain’t right…is it…me and you…you can’t replace mom…and that weren’t right either…”

“Let me kiss you better superman…you know I can make you feel good.”

“That’s all we do when we’re here…just fool around. We don’t go out and do things like other folk. We shouldn’t be together…and stop calling me superman…reminds me of mom.”

“That’s what she called you and that’s what you are to me too. Anyway, I know you like it really.”

“Yeah…you know me…just like mom…”

“I’ll get your costume…”

“…OK.”

“You know I made it ‘specially for …you ain’t little superman…you’re my big superman…nephew…”

“I’m closer to mom…now.”

“I know. Let’s fly superman.”

© Eugene Walton 2010 (207 Words)

1976

It was fitting that the oppressive heat of a humid and cloudy June day made the scene smell even more odious than usual. I walked away from the boys’ toilets leaving my mate to the retribution of those targeted by bigots and racists. It was fitting that warnings ignored were dealt with this way as there was no other.

When we played, shoplifted, shot pigeons and shot other boys we were at one and so not considered that class, race and old ideas might separate the bond that held us so tight. When we laughed, we laughed together and all there was, was.

Steven, the white middle-class boy who boasted of his father the company director, Syed, the working-class Pakistani boy and me the native worker variety were as one, until the poison came in and threatened all of us; pitting class against class, skin against skin, soul against soul in the on-going pitiless war for resources on mother earth.

When we covered our exercise books with Nazi symbols and anti-Jewish slogans, there was nothing to come between us. Our childish enthusiasm for the enemy of the last war became tempered by another force seeping into our world taking our country’s flag to rally those disaffected with life and turn us into Webster’s little helpers.

Syed said nothing when Steven called him a Paki and I said nothing to defend him. Nothing cowed Syed. Once he smashed to pieces a lad who had beaten me in a fight. I didn’t ask him to but he did it anyway to demonstrate his loyalty to our friendship. I didn’t know why he didn’t respond to being called a Paki as I never asked but perhaps it wouldn’t have been the word but the way you said it: Steven just didn’t have enough menace in him.

When the National Front infiltrated our fathers, and sons wore their badges with pride, the contradiction between the reality and what they wanted was lost on some but painfully real to others. London was tense and everything was changing. I couldn’t stand it any longer. We were all wrong; Blacks and Asians were amongst us, friendships made and couldn’t be ignored.

“Yer know you can’t keep on saying those things and saying you support The Front. It’s gonna get yer into trouble and I don’t like ‘em anyway. Stop it or I ain’t gonna ‘elp you.”

Steven didn’t say anything but just looked at me. I was white and that solidarity of race had convinced him that moving from supporting The Tories to supporting The National Front was as natural and inevitable as writing ‘Gas the Jews’ in our text books. I let the right people know that I wasn’t part of them. I wasn’t a Fronter and that was it all it took.

And that day when our friendship ended, Syed, Steven and I, was just another day of mischief at school; another day where the haul from the local shops brought us in some more cash. Syed had to go home early and so left us. Steven and I mucked around for a while then a last piss before the journey home.

As we entered the toilets, Steven was pushed to the opposite wall to the door.
“He’s alright,” said someone to me.
Another of the black kids told me to fuck off.

I looked at Steve, his face now ashen and even whiter than usual and saw the fear in his eyes. I turned and left to the sounds of thuds, muffled yelps and cursing West Indian style.

There could be no going back.

© Eugene Walton 2009 604 words

atomised

Beneath the burning yellow sun, I follow the old man dropping my speed to the slowest possible without stalling my scooter and he’s unaware that I’m here. The tower block stretches into the sky casting its shadow over the factory yard where at home time the sons of the unemployed throw potatoes at the workers from their balconies but never hit them and no one complains about the daily ritual assault. Half-bricks thrown through the lounge-windows of the bourgeois and Pakis tormented in their homes until the day they are stronger. Reggae blasts into the streets at mid-day and no one dares challenge the ganja-smoking rasta as he meditates on Jah and tries to forget Babylon breathing down his neck. Blazing grassland, exploding bins and fires on neighbours doorsteps to watch the firemen arrive and create a little excitement. Children steal; fathers fence: money made at the school gates morning, lunch and afternoon. So much is stolen that as much as half is thrown at passing cars for fun: soft ice-cream is the best. Football played before school, break times, dinner times, after school until the light fades. No one passes but it doesn’t matter. Fingering Joy who stands in the bushes to let us smell our first womanly scent and grope roughly and with wonder. The old man turns into his front garden still unaware and I accelerate. The heat dissipates, the sun sets, there is nothing to tell to any other or ask for explanation. Back home, I light a cigarette, pull the curtains while there’s still a little light outside. Senses fade and alone at last it is here that in the darkness with distant sounds, atomised I am and atomised I will be.

© Eugene Walton 2009 (287 words)

Being funny

“Time for a break. Wanna a cuppa tea, Liam?”

“Is the pope a catholic?”

Rob went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Liam had been drifting for a few years but was now a mature student at university. He seemed to enjoy the studies but hadn’t made that many friends.

Rob saw him once or twice a week for a few pints of lagers while watching the football on TV. At the end of the evening at the pub, Rob always sensed that Liam didn’t want the night to end. Maybe it was going back to his bedsit room…being alone.

“Wanna rolly?” asked Liam.

“Nah, I’m alright – got my own.”

Rob never accepted his offer of a rolly as he always put too much in the ciggie paper.

“That’d do me for the rest of the day,” said Liam once with a pained and slightly annoyed expression on his face.

Work, break, tea, fag, work, grub, tea, fag, work. It was always that order. A few weeks earlier, Rob gave Liam a lift home to his bedsit. They had sat down and discussed the rate of pay for the odd-jobs around Rob’s house.

“How much do you want, Liam?”

“Dunno.”

“Three quid an hour?”

Liam looked up from his paper.

“Four quid?”

“Yeah…OK…anything you like, Rob…tea and lunch too?.”

“Sure.”

A few days passed.

After tea and a fag they worked together patching a holed and uneven wall. Rob went out and bought pie and chips. After they had eaten, Rob got up from the table and went back to the wall.

“Ain’t you forgotten something?”

“What? said Rob

“Nice cuppa rosy would go down a treat.”

“I’m alright…come on I want to finish this before the wife gets home.”

“Lunch without a cuppa tea…you must be joking!”

“I forgot to get some milk.”

Silence.

“I’ll get it then, eh…”

After Liam returned with the milk he made the teas instead of Rob.

An hour passed.

“Cuppa tea, Liam?”

“Good job I got the milk, eh?”

“Yeah…amazing…”

“Are you trying to be funny? You’re being a bit funny with me… having to get the milk…I’m doing you a favour.”

“Yeah…all right.”, replied Rob

“Yeah, all right? What do you think I am…some sort of mug? You said TEA and LUNCH…and that means I get the milk, eh?”

“Not really,” said Rob rather quietly. “You wanna lift home?”

“No.”

They continued to work but there was no banter now.

“Shall I come tomorrow?” enquired Liam after some time.

“Nah…I’ve got a few things to do.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I wasn’t being funny, Liam.”

“Yes, you were….”

© Eugene Walton 2009 (435 words)

2039

Economic production was down; the temperature was up. The new current affairs show, Best Serve Cold™ was in its second season. Filmed in HD+ with the usual interactive helmet and handheld devices apparel, the Nano-Java media company, Nanja™ had diversified its interests to match the new trend of socio-economic trial by public shows. The public loved it; the superstates allowed it.

Ordinary decrepit, useless polluters from the last century, are those tossed into the virtual arena. Incriminating texts extracted from the online government data-warehouses to justify inclusion.

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the latest edition of Best Serve Cold™. Best Serve Cold™ is performed live in front of a hand-picked audience… And here we have Kevin Dowland, self-made businessmen and polluter from Coventry,” crows the presenter. “I bet he didn’t realise how entertaining he really would be when he was interviewed for The Sunday Independent in 1997! Let’s hear what Kevin Dowland, said then.”

‘I have no time for what I call the sandal-wearing, tree hugging Guardian reading types. I ship my waste out to Nigeria and they pay a good rate for it. There are fifteen per cent of these green fundamentalists at maximum And no I don’t care about Nigerians to be honest. It isn’t our problem after that.’

The camera moves from the presenter to Kevin Dowland, a frail looking pensioner nervously sipping at a glass of water sitting in a chair. There is another empty chair a few feet away from him.

The camera them moves to the side of the stage, a woman, Mrs Olywee, and child approach the empty chair and sit down. The woman has only one arm and a headscarf covers her head; the child no legs.

“I’m from Lagos Nigeria,” she says slowly “…and when I was young…I was a scavenger and I lost my arm when it became poisoned. My child was born without legs…the doctors said it was the toxins.”

“I’m so sorry…madam…we didn’t realise what we were doing…”

“We do,” said the woman. “When you polluted the delta, destroyed the Ogoni and killed Ken it was over oil. Now the oil is running out but we have lithium, uranium and other such riches. As you know we are the richest nation in Africa and now we send our waste to the United Kingdom, own your coal mines and some people say we exploit you British just like you exploited us many years ago.”

“And would you say that it is revenge, Best Serve Cold™?,” Mrs Olywee,” asks the presenter.

“My God…no. (laughs). It’s just trade on favourable terms…”

© Eugene Walton 2009 (430 words)

Overloading

The silicon chip inside her head gets switched to overload.

Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeet, thought Melvin. I don’t need switching silicon chips to make me overload. It’s all gone beyond that. Clinton, the Jews, the New World Order and now the nigger President Obama. Now that’s what I call overloading. It’s all gone too far.

Melvin was 38 and single with few friends and lived alone in a small rundown apartment. By stealth and despite the limited purchasing power of his precarious employment, he managed to get enough amphetamine sulfate to sate his cravings and even deal a little on the side to Billy-Jo, his fellow speed freak and white supremacist. Just lately, tensions had been brewing between them on account of the money owed by Billy-Jo to Melvin.

They’d shoot up in Billy-Jo’s apartment mostly or sometimes amped already head out to the small overgrown park on the edge of the suburbs and drink beer with speed freaks, junkies, bums and oddballs. Melvin’s veins in his arms, hands, legs, feet and even his groin were mostly unusable so today they were going to shoot in the veins of the neck at Billy Jo’s. It was a hot sulphorous windless day with a mean low-level smog stopping any heat from escaping.

“Give me the works…it’s my turn…steady on, you look like your doing too much,” said Billy-Jo

Melvin sprang to his feet and span around, eyes wide like a fish gasping for oxygen, sweat dripping down his unshaven face all the energy…vitality returned. He tossed the needle to Billy-Jo.

“Time to get out the Goebbels speech,” he said gravely.

“Ah….no…not again, Mel…I’m gonna put on some Hank Williams on my other CD player, put on me disco lights and strut the light fantastic….yeeeeeeeee haaaaaaaaaaw!”

Melvin’s heart was racing at 180 beats per minute, the apartment felt like an inferno and he wanted an audience. Sheeeeeeet, he was gonna put on a Goebbels speech anyway…it always inspired him.

Billy-Jo stood in front of the wall mirror and injected into his neck.

Hank Williams’ I Saw the Light started losing out to Goebbels’ Call to the Berlin Population, 21 April 1945. A third noise was then triumphant. Melvin.

“I am white. Omnipotent. See my muscles bulge beneath my pure skin…my white power. Untermensch…fear us! For we are tolerant people us Aryans but when you tempt us with your culture, your lies, we can become overloaded …then see what we will…”

“Christ….shut the fuck up Mel! I’m switching that off too.”

“Traitor! Untermensch!!…DON’T-YOU-TURN-OFF-MY-CD.”
As Melvin was shouting he started hitting Billy-Jo in the face with his fist, pounding real hard as an off-beat to his words.

“YOU (smash) DUMBFUCK (thud) PIECE (crack) OF (brittle) MOTHER (gristle) FUCKIN’ (sinew) SHIT (bone) THIS’LL (blood) LEARN (veins) YOU (artery) TO (spurt) OWE (out) ME (smash) MONEY (smash) AND (plead) NOT (life) PAY (going) ME (going) BACK (gone) COCKSUCKER!”

Melvin stopped. Billy-Jo’s lifeless eyes stared back at him and he could taste the splattered blood in his mouth; he licked his lips and got off him. Hank Williams’ 20 Greatest Hits came to an end. Melvin slumped down the wall of the living room and surveyed the scene: everything was overloading and he had to get out of there.

© Eugene Walton 2009 (524 words)

All things must end

I moved into my grandmother’s grand Victorian house, for she had recently died, leaving a decaying, ill-repaired rooming-house. My job was to house sit it until it was sold. At its peak had around 20 tenants. Many were down-at-heel itinerant salesman and seasonal labourers; the likes of which were common enough in 1930s London. Now there was only one tenant left and his tenancy was anyhow debateable for he had lived in the damp basement flat for so many years, and breathed the damp air with rotten lungs that no one could assume he paid rent. Indeed, there were no documents and he gave no clue.

A muffled cough down there. The gloom lit by a dull electric bulb illuminating the stairs once trodden by pantry-maids scampering here and there, touching every other stair in determined haste to the beck and call of masters and mistresses. And in the deepest, blackest, most unfathomable shadow stood the last tenant breathing heavily. Military green shoulder bag slung over shoulder, holding his most prized possessions never too far away.

He had a peculiar form of OCD that had developed when his lover died in the basement. It was a life full of everyday habits that they shared and seemingly something that the last tenant couldn’t let go.

Although, a diligent riser (I would hear the radio as he made his first tea of the day) and regular to his ablutions, his obsession with switching off lights, locking doors and turning off appliances formed a major part of his day. He would climb the basement stairs, bag clutched in the right hand, yellowing paint-work to one side, filthy threadbare carpet underneath and shuffle to the inside double doors and leave the military-green shoulder bag on the little table in the hallway, strap untidily hanging adrift. Thus done, he’d shuffle back along he tiled hallway, down the old wooden basement stairs for his final ablutions, which I believe were absolutely necessary on account of his bowel illness.

…Down again into the basement. Moans and short sharp coughs and smell of his diseased body in every nook and cranny. I never heard the toilet flush and somebody had removed the hot water geyser so there was no purifying water. More moans and coughs becoming louder; switches being switched, doors being open and closed. Again, climbing the steep steps, blowing of breath, so tired, so tired. And at the top of the stairs, once again to turn off the basement hall light.

…His bag slung over the right shoulder, he opened the inside front door to let in the cleansing beautiful sun, step forward down the stairs, pause, turn around with one foot placed on a higher step and pull the door too, clang. Then to his basement window.

Since I now knew the ritual and feeling quite sadistic I’d shout out to him as he peered through his basement window that he’d be late for work if he didn’t get a move on. I now had become an essential part of the ritual and he couldn’t move from the window unless I did shout.

I performed the final act in the ritual until the inevitable was served on his tenancy. Whether he paid rent I never knew.

On the last day, I spoke to the last tenant.

“All things must end.”

“It never really ends,” said the last tenant, “…but there might be a new beginning. Thank you.”

© Eugene Walton 2009

Smells like team spirit

I met a mate of mine, Dave, the other day and we had heard that a mutual friend had got better and we’d see her today. Thinking nothing of it, I told him that I had bought a get well-card card and got our friends to sign it and had posted it off.

“Where was I when they signed it?”

“You weren’t there.”

“Did you sign it for me?”

“Nah.”

“Why not you knobhead?”

“Believe it or not, I don’t think about you all the time.”

“That’s out of order, that is. We’re a team. Fuck that, why didn’t you sign it for me?”

The banter then went on a bit and we parted but I was surprised that he had been hurt by me seeming to be practical at the time and getting on with it. I, on the other hand, was flippant and that probably annoyed him a bit.

The word ‘team’ kept ringing in my head. Did he mean him and me as a team or all of us friends. I hadn’t known him that long. He was an ex-offender and I tried to get inside his head. In gaol, you would have to be in a team to stop yourself getting taxed or shanked. Any deviations from the con’s team ethic and you would be in trouble. Has he brought that con’s team ethic with him or was something deeper than that?

Later that week, we met up for a drink and I’d thought I’d mention how surprised I was by his reaction to me not signing the card for him.

“Listen…,” he said, “I’m from ‘Pool and we don’t do things like that. Before I went inside, I was in the union and we looked after each other and when I was inside we also did the same. That’s the way it is.”

As he was speaking, I looked into his eyes to see any sign of untruthfulness but there was none.

“ OK…I know what you mean, Dave. That’s what keeps people strong: any kind of shared ethic which is understood by the members.”

“Yeah…don’t fuck about with the team spirit, man…apart from that I didn’t want her thinking bad things about me.”

“So it’s about you then really, eh?”

“No, it’s about all of it. All of it …and everyone. And that’s the only way us can win. Respect it. You can’t hide.”

I realised that I didn’t really know anything about what it means to be really in a team. I deliberately avoided occupations where ‘teams’ predominate and where submission to the ethic was required. I enjoy being atomised, an individual with loose ties to everyone and everything: almost a non-participating observer with solidarity to no one.

And Dave’s right, it is about hiding; hiding from your yourself, your duties, your responsibilities to others.

Thatcher told us there is no such thing as society: there are only individual men and women and there are families.

People like Dave didn’t listen but maybe I did and I maybe I got it wrong.

© Eugene Walton 2009

In search of heaven

His stomach, not in prime condition on account of his poor eating habits and heroin abuse, gnawed and nibbled at itself in anticipation of being at Anna’s flat. Lee had been introduced to this sad, thin mother by a short-term mate, and she who really dealt in quarters sold him five or ten pound bags of scag. He mostly devoured this in from of the TV while the worried Anna saw to her other customers. Her daughter, grubby, neglected, little Rosie said nothing and did almost nothing watching her mother’s friends every day in the small council flat in Chalk Farm, North London.

Receiving the scag in bags the older, hardened junkies would disappear into the bathroom to shoot up. Mostly, they wouldn’t look that out-of-it but rather they seemed sorta quiet when they returned to the living room. Half-an-hour later, more or less, they’d pop a pill or two of something or other to boost the heroin. It always amazed Lee to see the addicts swapping notes about the effects of these pills in combination with the scag, drooling over them, almost talking to them. Supplementing their scag diet with pills rather than what Lee considered to be prime heroin. Lee didn’t mix: he liked to experience the pure high but, of course, he didn’t have the experience to realise the stage some of these fuckers had got to.

And there were the big dealers. Lee only caught sight of them a couple of times, once was in the bedroom just inside the front door: Glaswegian accents in business banter. No humour you understand and as Borroughs once said: ‘Junk is not funny –ever.’ One of them gave Lee a look that told him to never, ever think of interfering in anything which to them was business. Lee never did. He never had the slightest intention of ever challenging any of the junk hierarchy. He was a five-pound-bag-every-two-days-or-so-fucker, not serious and way down the scale of the junk pyramid.

Anna: “You wanna help me out?”
Lee: “You mean…deal?”
Anna: “Yeah, you can have some every day…you ain’t out of it like the others…do me a favour… gotta go out sometimes…you know…

Lee saw Rosie tugging at her mother’s trousers in the corner of his eye. She stopped and looked at him. Anna then walked across the room with Rosie clutching at her trousers until Rosie fell on to her back. No sound.

If he accepted, this was going to be his life: a life where nothing really mattered except getting high.

Lee: “I’ll think about it.”

© Eugene Walton 2009

Before I escape, I’ll listen to the craic

“Where am I?”

The heavily-built leather-jacketed man in the passenger seat turns to look at me really fucking grinning.

“Now…I could tell you that but to be frank, given the reality of the situation, it doesn’t matter a lot, does it? It’s hardly the most important piece of information for you, eh?”

A real pedant. It could be, you cunt, if you were me, in my situation.

“…If you like…there’s green fields and bubbling brooks and the birds do sing…a mournful tune you might say.”

Evil and humorous. I should laugh but it’s really too much. I can’t breathe properly. The van veers to the left and I fly off the bench onto the floor of the van.

“Hey watch it!” said Leather-jacket to the driver who I had named Silent One.

Silent One doesn’t reply but just glances his head sideways grimacing momentarily and swings his small dark rat-like head back to the road. Silent One wasn’t funny. The funny one, the great wit with the automatic pistol is a feast of wicked one-liners always appropriate for the situation.

When they picked me up, Leather-Jacket told me he didn’t want to do it but there was a war on and all that. Anyway, he had his orders. Yeah…that really went down with me. Only following orders; that old chestnut.

BUT WHAT ARE THEY GONNA DO? Cripple me just like Joey, Karl and all the rest? Been warned. hadn’t I. Didn’t listen. Never do. I will now though.

“Are you good with that pistol?” I say.

“Yeah, I am. (laughs)…Why do you ask?”

“Did you get Karl?”

“Now who would he be, when he’s at home?”

“He lives with his mum near the synagogue. You may have seen him ramming shopping trolleys in the supermarket with his wheelchair.”

“Ah…well…you mean…shouldn’t have sold them. I’m not the man there. He knew the situation…somebody caught him and he got the punishment.”

“You think he deserved to end up like that…a cripple?”

“It’s not a question of who deserves what. He was unlucky.”

“I might be unlucky.”

“So you might.”

“…You…you not gonna kill me, are you?”

“Wherever did you get that idea from?”

He’s such a jester, that I can’t believe him. I’d been warned loads of times…and sometimes they killed us…when they felt like it. An example.

“Ah…will you look at that grand hill!”

I can’t see anything as my sweat is blinding me and anyway THAT HILL WON’T MATTER – ALL 300,000 MILLION TONS OF IT WHEN I’M DEAD. God…destroy it now but let me live.

“Let’s have a brew,” said Leather Jacket.

“What…stop here?”

(Jesus, he speaks).

“Well, and why not. There’s nobody here.”

(Lucky for me, eh)

“Can I have a piss?”

“Yeah…just outside…but facing me though. No tricks from your dick!”

He falls about the seat laughing – at another time, I might titter.

He wants to humiliate me – showing my dick in front of him, watching, checking out the form and size. Pointing at it with his fucking gun. I can’t piss with him watching me.

“Go on then, turn around.”

I know this is it.

The first shot hits me in the back of my right knee; the second in the left. I bury my face in the grass and bite into the earth and swallow the dirt to stop me screaming and I cough and gag. The gun goes off again but this time I feel nothing.

“You don’t know me, do you boy?”

“No,” I mumble.

“And you ain’t gonna tell nobody that you don’t know me, are you?”

“No.”

“Good job I quite like you.”

I hear the van’s engine start and then the sound growing ever more distant. I roll myself on to my back and look up.

I’m alive; all I had to do was listen to the craic.

© Eugene Walton 2009

I know what you mean

I’m breaking up the furniture that I and hundreds of tenants have used. I’m living in a house which has been converted into wretched bed-sits. I’m thinking that I am the last person to live here and that I can on behalf of the poor fuckers who lived here in these odorous hovels, exact revenge.

Yesterday, I discovered the landlord had forgotten to renew his house insurance and really there was only one course of action; I open his letters whenever I can you know. He never did stop this one after he moved out…I don’t particularly dislike him.

First oily-rag of the day: it sits in an ashtray beside a steaming mug of tea on the last remaining table of sorts which is a complete piece of shit if ever there was one. Hmmm…and how long did it take the landlord to find this gem; what little thoughts went through his head when he purchased this functional little number from the Slum Landlord Discount Centre. As it happens…I suppose… the bed-side table ain’t that bad, only a couple of mug rings and a white sticky substance of indeterminable origin draped over one corner of the flat surface and down the back.

You know I heard the landlord’s got a couple of kids and that’s a decent thing whichever you way you want to look at it. Apparently, he’s a good father. But what possesses an ordinary family man, his daughters hand in hand, to think that this piece of grot will do for those who dwell in number two?

For Christ’s sake.

“Look at that rug over there,” he says to his daughters, “I’m going to buy it for the tenant’s house.”

Can’t you see dear reader, the one with the brown stain in the middle, next to the sofa with its guts spilling out.

“It’s dirty daddy.”

“No, it isn’t dirty, just some brown paint – it’ll wash off.”

You see…he was laughing when he said that really hoodwinking them.

I’m putting all the broken pieces of furniture into the middle of my miserable room: the bed, the coffee table and bed-side table, that sodding uncomfy armchair. I’ve decided to throw the imitation crombie in too seeing as I’m leaving the tat behind.

Low-life deserves disgusting shitty furniture.
Disgusting shitty furniture deserves prospective low-life.
Low-life equals disgusting shitty furniture.

I understand now.

And I must be the stinking toilet blooming with the bacteria of a thousand pisses, farts and shits.

That’s it.

I stand by the door, light a match and flick it on to the pile.

© Eugene Walton 2009

#Trade

I hear about a American Christian preacher who patrols porn chat channels. I decide to check him out.

[Enig] anyone for trade
[panther] yes
[smithy] hello
[broken] any girls from around ny?
[smithy] any girls want to chat?
[Slickone action] seeks conversation with gals that have interracial desires? MSG me.
[Rodo] Identify yourself Jesus
[I am the Resurrection] I’m here friend. How is it with your soul?
[Slickone] Hello young ladies
[I am the Resurrection] Satan is alive and well in your hearts. Turn to Jesus soon.
[Me] Is this the channel which can save me from eternal damnation in the bowels of hell?
[I am the Resurrection] WARNING! WARNING! Your souls are headed for hell. Jesus loves you. Turn to him now!
[Me] You’re a bit of a wanker
[I am the Resurrection]?
[I am the Resurrection]?
[Me] ?
[Me] ?
[Scotty] Hello everyone.
[I am the Resurrection]?
[I am the Resurrection]?
[I am the Resurrection]?
[Me] ?
[Me] ?
[I am the Resurrection] If that means I’m saved and on my way to paradise, GREAT!
[Me] Errr…not quite.
[Scotty] who has some good pics?
[puma] me
[I am the Resurrection] Jesus has your life history. Pictures and all.
[Me] We’re in the only paradise we’re gonna see…not my kinda paradise…
[I am the Resurrection] What an empty, meaningless life you live. Jesus can give you real life.
[Me] I’m not here to trade. I know God.
[I am the Resurrection] Those that say they KNOW God and live in sin prove they are liars. Jesus is the Way, Truth and the Life!!
[Me] My life is not as sad as yours. I’m just visiting, people like you live here.
[waksta] hey
[WX * WX] is looking for nice ass shots
[WX * WX] is looking for nice ass shots
[WX * WX] is looking for nice ass shots
[Reeez] Hello
[Me] WX: piss off – this is now the saving of souls
[I am the Resurrection] Wx: Jesus loves you. Satan who has you does not.
[Me] Haven’t you realised that they are both the same and reveal themselves as manifestations of us?
[I am the Resurrection] Read 1 John and it will explain what I mean. However, you must be born again to understand it.
[Me] Are you born again? If so, it’s a sad life traversing the porn channels
[I am the Resurrection] Your humanistic wisdom proves your godly ignorance. I love you anyway.
[Sinus action] msg me for trading pix
[Sinus action] msg me for trading pix
[Sinus action] msg me for trading pix
[I am the Resurrection] I love sharing my faith with sinners
[pokerman] anyone wants trade pix?
[Me] God waits for me
[fred] any pussy want to chat?
[Me] You’ll be lucky, fred
[I am the Resurrection] True. He is waiting for you. He really is. Come to him now.
[I am the Resurrection] fred: Jesus really loves you
[KENDLE] Hi all. Anybody got some nice pics for me?
[Reeez] yes
[I am the Resurrection] fred: Leave this pit of hell before you ruin your life
[Reeez] sEa yA
[Me] …Resurrection: Is there a crew of you *non-sinners* patrolling the other channels as there is an awful lot of these
[I am the Resurrection] I don’t know. I’m not part of a group
[navy] I wana fuck
[I am the Resurrection] It’ll better be your wife.
[navy] ok baby
[I am the Resurrection] Jesus loves you
[navy] fuck that christian fellowship crap
[catnip] begging for some good pics, any helpers?
[Me] navy: Jesus really loves you
[navy] any offers?
[Me] Jesus offers you love
[I am the Resurrection] It was nice sharing Jesus with you. Repent and believe in Jesus. Or live a worthless life and then only go to hell. ++exits++
[navy] jesus suck big dick
[Sinus action] msg me for trading pix
[Me] navy: you are very naughty
[navy] lets go cyber woman
[Me] Jesus loves you sinners ++exits++
[WX] There is no god.
[navy] I wana fuck.

© Eugene Walton 2009

Caffeine Poison

Peter walked into the office. It was Thursday, three days after he had returned from two weeks holiday in Spain. Nothing had changed: the pens were in the pen-pot and he had forgotten to wash his cup which by now was stuck to his desk and entertaining a network of blooming bacteria.
- Anyone bought any tea?
- ……….
- Well I’m not buying any: I told you that two weeks ago. It’s somebody
else’s turn.
- We don’t drink tea…only blood and coffee.
- ……….
He slammed down the internal post to the sounds of years of torment: the titters, the jeers, the condescending remarks; a cacophony of insults booming inside his head. His cup was stuck and he wouldn’t move it and his working-comrades were drinking tea…in front of him. Peter got up from his desk averting his eyes and walked out of the room. Nothing had changed. It would all go on; he would go on but diminished. Every day the flame getting dimmer; they forgot to teach you that at school.

© Eugene Walton 2009