The Act Of Imparting Life

I suspect that an AI program is slapping up posts here at the spot, without written permission from the publisher. It’s shooting out feelers for reactions. xXCODEXx wasn’t even read. It’s not worth the depression of a [DELETE] button.

I always thought I was too clever for AI, but it’s programmers are more determined to undermine my fictional odyssey into the multi-rippling layers of reality’s underbelly. As I sew the butterfly effect up behind me, cauterizing the past, harnessing the present, promising myself a future, something so cold as a computer program attempts to rip open my soul. All I want to do is write about Earth. All they want to do is take pictures of my empty wallet.

***ARTIFICIAL*** 

***INTERRUPTION***

MARY (BASIC WORDAGE)

onecabal___awake

twoskullduggery___dress

threestratagem___walk

fourintrinsic___[ad]dress

fivegarble___deliver

sixwhitewash___return

sevenfever___reward

Gregg (IDENTICAL STIMULUS)

Onecabal___open eyes

Twoskullduggery___tobacco

Threestratagem___can beer

Fourintrinsic___sit up

Fivegarble___cough/itch/rub nose

Sixwhitewash___demons

Sevenfever ___open eyes

xXCodeXx

ORiEnted aWAREness infinity 8._.8._.8 wheel of life assistant

[Possible Titles/Optional Headings/Alternative Listings]

MK: True Guarding Requiring Oriental Defensive Strategy, Ultra KPOP Re-Visitor, FOE-2, Seasonal Betterment In Lieu Of Liquidation, Rein-kali-nation Recallers > Education Halters, Suspended Animate Haters, Perfect*ORBS* Electronic Leaflets For Total Dissolution

____(£££amount owed£££)_____

FLOOR~REDLINE~METAL~TEEMING~AT~THE~PETAL~STRAWB,

realtime dissociation commentary (reel/diss/comm)

Teams dot CREW For Opposing Scouse Mafia, Doctrines Upon Disturbia, Ink Pulsar & Iris Braille____(costmanual)____

 

Character Ideation In A Periodic Timeframe:

The Painted Doll

I’m still a whole year ‘clear’ away from the grip of porn. I’ve been writing several women in my life some messages on gift cards. These are inspirational verses I’ve created in order to let them know that they matter to me. I see the opposite sex differently now. When I was ‘pornolized’ I objectified them. I only paid them any attention if they were getting ram-raided from the rear by a big buck. If they didn’t have any make-up on they may as well have been invisible.

They punished me, for seeing them this way, over the years. As objects, I called them Painted Dolls. But Painted Dolls have feelings, and their imperfections, although far fewer than standard women, do not like to be insulted. They all got rather bitter with me. I’m not sure that a strictly superficial relationship can stand the test of time. But emotions…complicate things.

I mean, could I ever love a Painted Doll, whose primary purpose is gratification with sexual pleasure? Wouldn’t I prefer a pole vaulter, who looks graceful in the air? Or a seamstress? My nan worked in munitions against Hitler. What has a Painted Doll done, apart from open her legs on camera? Or whipped her way to the top?

What if the Painted Doll IS the pole vaulter? What happens then? I happen to find my favourite pole vaulter sexually attractive, by the way. Jeez, what am I going on about? I guess I’m trying to explain that porn compromises the Olympics, I’d say? In a round-a-bout way. Especially the skimpily-clad female volleyball.

Royal Princess Charlotte was on the front cover of a broadsheet just before Christmas. Broadsheets cost £4. I’ve never bought one. For this photo I purchased the paper and I have the picture on my wall. For a man in active porn addiction, there’s only one thing he wants to do with a princess. Not me, any longer, not with Charlotte. It’s little things like this that are the reward for kicking hardcore into touch. I can fall for a princess again. I can appreciate little girls. I know that sounds seedy, but imagine that, as a father, you’re invited to your daughter’s netball game, and you’ve been up all night watching porn? Hypothetical, granted, but what if?

I know what I’m on about here, because a Painted Doll (far from a little girl) once put a spell on me with her pendant. I also swallowed her yogurt, if you know what I mean. And she swallowed mine. She wanted us to make a suicide pact with death bags in a running car. Social services had snatched her kids just because she smoked weed. That’s how much it means to them, if you bring them to a happy ending and take communion with their binding essence, they’ll dedicate themselves to you for the rest of their life. So you better be on your best behaviour.

She drove her last boyfriend into an overpass beam at motorway speed in a brave cry for help/bid to end them both. He wouldn’t listen to her. He kept dissing her by turning up the radio when she was trying to communicate with him. He also emptied her drugs out of the window, not to piss her off, but because he thought they were been trailed by CID. She was vying to impress upon him that bringing a child together into the world means something, it really means something, you can’t walk away and prioritise rugby with the lads on a Saturday…I don’t know the full story, but he ended up in prison for something to do with a brick and a jewelery shop window, after they both recovered from the crash with only minor cuts and bruises.

No I don’t drive anywhere with her. We take taxis. Or did.

As of today I’m single, which I find is the best way to be. A wizened lone wolf. My nickname in da hood at the moment is the Master Maker, because I’m always dreaming up cunning ideas for movies. Hollywood producers read my mind and update their portfolios with my cutting-edge concepts in real time on set. They are always trying to motivate me to get high on toadspawn so my input is floridly enhanced visually. They’re perpetually on the prowl for innovative advances. Ideas, ideas, ideas, on the snap please.

I look just like any other civilian to Joe Blow’s unobservant eye, but on the inside I matter on the global stage, in elite industries like Hollywood. When I catch a glance of my reflection in a casino window, with my guarded, bearded countenance, I am reminded of cops n robbers, of the dance between good and evil, of espionage and treason and justice and other big deals which occur in big minds; snaky rain-streams warp my image, running down the glass, the wind blows on the ember of my cigarette, sirens stir in the distance, my thoughts churn on inside my cranium like designer shirts in an industrial tumbler, and all the time surrounding there is danger on the street, mayhem in the manors, cheats and scammers in the alleys, dogshit and chewing gum on the pavements, sandy flecks of glassy litter in the pavements, shadows of the living on the pavements…

Then I walk away from myself, and focus on the job at hand. It’s just a rainy casino window and a pavement. But it’s what my mind thinks, when it’s not being a vegetable watching Eastenders in a boring room. It limps out of its box and goes AWOL. Into Hollywood.

When I’m not being menticided off, that is. Seriously, I almost walked out in front of fast-flowing traffic yesterday. The voices and hallucinations were severe. In the end I rolled with the punches and bought myself another day, so here I am. Try and hang in there too. A pleasant day might be just around the corner. Maybe even in Hollywood, like me. You’re more than worth it. 

Bothered

I’ve been advised to embrace low quality drafting when I haven’t got the foggiest what to say. Is that what you think this is? Low quality drafting? I’m far too good to publish! The editors I send my stories to haven’t got the mental wherewithal  to wrap their brains around the poetic sci-fi endings I perpetuate my stories with. I tend to end with a bombastic open ending which leaves the White Voider (reader) cliffhanging his or her way into imaginings of a sequel. I actually start penning the first half of the sequel in the second half of the ending, bringing in fancy speculations from ideas of a follow-up before I’ve even started a goddam follow-up. Why can’t two stories, a 1^st one and a 2^nd one, co-exist in one ding-dong epilogue?

If I have a funny feeling about the tale, I’ll burn the first chapter and start from the second. First chapters are usually just setting the scene. I remember a right jolly ole preamble of a chapter I wrote about a dying man shopping in Tesco. He was suffering due to over-exposure from harmful wavelengths emitting from a futuristic radiation machine that could project sexual partners made of star dust into your bedroom with you. Sounds bollocks I know and much of it was, but the ending time-travelled into medieval times where I was reacquainted with a woman called Ethel Franklyn who was the daughter of a woman called Petronella.

I knew it sounds sad writing about characters from my own books but they were so enigmatic to me at the time, I was in my pomp with them, writing in the summery evenings outside at a desk in the garden, hunkered over my notepad with a refreshing yogurt drink. Ethel was what you called an ‘Editor’ in a bloodsports arena, she went around terminating the fatally wounded. Once she swiftly dispatched of a warrior who had only sprained his ankle, but the slightest injury can be life-threatening when you have to be in your tiptop prime.

David Haye, heavyweight boxer, blamed his defeat to Klitschko on a broken little toe. Oh mum, (sob sob) I can’t fight the big brawly man, I’ve got a sore pinky toe! I’d have battered him if I hadn’t hurt my toe!

We’ll say anything won’t we to make excuses for a defeat or even to evade the contest at all. I chickened out from a dual at school because the opponent was taller and heavier than me. His name was Colin Fillingham and he didn’t make it through fifth year because he died of a rare heart condition. I glad I didn’t beat him because I’d have felt guilty.

I knew a guy who killed someone with a single punch.

These days I’m roving around practically begging for a fight to let some aggression out. Never mind single punch, I’m in the mood for stamping all over people’s heads. I’m divided between being gentle and engaging and being a large unapproachable ape leaning towards violent conduct.

Between settling for a jovial medium, I’m piling on the pounds eating chippy tits slimmers’ dinners (chips and half rice or chips peas and onion gravy), and guzzling pints of zero percent Heineken draft lager.

But gone, I am pleased to honourably announce again (I’ll never get sick of congratulating myself), are the toxic poisons in my body such as psychoactive stimulants, nicotine and alcohol. For the moment, anyway. Because life is sooo hard, and it has a habit of driving me back to the bottle. Where the pain is only dulled overnight, before resurfacing hyped up with vengeful aplomb.

Thank God I’m not experiencing the comedown of a drug hangover. I’m hanging in with a decent perception of the world and my role in it, despite some very stiff opposition to make me feel rather quite gloomy indeed. Wouldn’t you know it, it’s those pesky Chinese Terrorists and Russian Spies again. With their bloody electronic voices and visual disturbances. I just wish they’d pack them away and go back home.

If you stick high vibration and positive outlook on it, they’ll hang it upside down in the main square and charge revellers to kick it by the minute.

I’m getting booted a lot today. All’s I’m doing is trying to express myself at a computer terminal, but the neg part of the universe, or a part of the neg part of the universe, is constantly pecking away at my headspace.

Why can’t it bear itself? Why does it have to play around with me? I can bear myself. I don’t need anything from anyone. I can hang in an empty room accompanied by nothing but my own thoughts all day. They have to be jumping around in my face being neg every moment of every day.

Please leave me alone. I humbly do ask.

Peace Out, I'm Not Ready To Die Yet

The dynamics in my apology group are arse over tit. I call it Demons Club. I feel like Jason Bourne on a special mission every time I enter the Lion’s Den. There are people there who have been sent from the court, people trying to regain custody over their kids, people from different planets, aw dude. Everyone’s got a mask on. I have kooky dreams about the facilitators who run the show, they keep shutting me down with interruptions and disturbances. I’ll ask them, uber-politely, “What are you doing in my third eye at night playing darts on the back of my head?” They’ll reply, “Being tiny and small because we haven’t the balls to trouble you in person.” So I’ll say, like a fabled essayist, “Let me dream, you bas*tard, what kind of monster can’t abide someone else’s dreams?” Then, typically, I’ll begin to wake up. The walls will crumble and dissipate, and I’ll realize that everyone in the classroom are no longer flesh-eating zombies.

On a drug comedown, I readily admit that Demons Club would be literally terrifying. Scarier than the acid freaks and belligerent drunks are the sober voyeurs who come along to take pleasure in people ‘falling off their wagons’. Rather than a close-knit gathering of trustworthy addicts seeking solace in the supportive fellowship of each other, it seems to be a seedy underground network of fakers, fraudsters, pretenders and imposters. One was armed today. Pool ball in a sock.

Don’t worry, I’m in a friendly mood. Back to being a pacifist.

I’ve not seen Amy in a while, my old chum. She was so gifted at sharing, so eloquent. It didn’t matter if she were 1000 days clean or high in the meeting, she would give an honest account of her situation. Sometimes it was enlightening. Sometimes it was sad. I always felt acutely for her. Last time we engaged she was sat on a piece of cardboard in a doorway drinking and smoking. She reported wanting to end it.  

My own standing can feel so untenable in public now and again that I get the rotten and wretched hasty impulse to suddenly kill myself too by whatever means necessary as soon as can possibly be.

This is nothing like a long-lasting suicidal ideation, which can be quite comforting, in a way. That goes something like: One day I will pass away and it will all be over. This one goes something like: I have to leave right now! I have to leave right now!

The ideation is romantic, you flirt with mortality. To give an example I find humorous, my boy Duncan, who suffers from health anxiety, once went ahead and paid for his own funeral flowers before he’d even killed himself. He bought them in the letters of his own name and took a picture of them for depression group.

The impulse is rash, untimely and inappropriate. It happens when my stalkers get close to me in person and up their harassment technique to the point whereby I find it tough to cope.

It’s also slightly embarrassing. I had no idea how hated I am, I think to myself. Why doesn’t nobody like me? Then, of course, there’s the dreaded why now? Why have you got me boxed in feeling helpless now, at my aunty’s wedding? Just drag me away to your lair and get it over with.

Psst…(they love ruining special occasions)

It’s similar to a panic attack. I’d call it a panic attack, a mortality call, a stalker skit, and a bout of pity-arse depression all rolled up into one. Fact is: It truly sucks to be me.

I nearly punched a stalker on the bridge of his nose last night. Then I remembered: ‘You shall develop a peace which surpasses all understanding,’ and blessed the useless cretin. Just stop pretending to be my pal when secretly you are planning my demise.

This peace is great, by the way. I’m untouchable with it. My stalkers are running around me all in a hissy fit, promising a bloody end when they chop my legs off. I live in the constant threat of danger, yet I can’t recall the last time I raised my voice. They crave despair and wit’s end terror. I just turn the other cheek and smile. Like Christ would do.

Fearlessness 21

I remember my 21^st birthday, I’d been to the city on the train to pick up some XXX material. What is it with me and XXX material, I hear you say? I’m always banging on about it, aren’t I, I can’t stop ranting on about it, does his rhetoric about it ever let up? The answer is, I haven’t watched it for over a year, so now consider myself ‘clean and serene’ from its dastardly fishhooks. So, despite the obvious embarrassment of discussing sexual affairs online, I’d say that it’s cause for celebration. Porn, after all, is the major negative pipeline into my life to make me a slave to sin. Without it, I can work on being a worthwhile Christian.

I remember watching it behind closed curtains. I had these red tatty second-hand ones which didn’t block out the light. I had to wait years until I could afford a decent set of blackout drapes. They came with their own curtain helpline phone number. Someone out there knows exactly how hard it can be to hang them.

I remember the illicit scene, rather regrettably, like a host of other ugly performances bunched up and knotted in my head. It was some chubby woman who I didn’t fancy all that much, apart from her thick brunette locks. I wondered what I was doing there, in that room, at that time, even though it was my living room, even though I was always there. It was a quaint state of consciousness. It was cannabis I was on, not the green bushy stuff but the resin. That’s what I resigned myself to after dropping out of college, a life of smoking pot and drinking beer on my own, addicted to nudity on the silver screen. I had no idea of how much of a desperate existence I was letting myself in for. There was nobody around to grab me by the lapels and shake some sense into me. I wouldn’t have listened if they had.

I take great heart in the fact that I have not precisely broken under the pressure of modern life, however…I have been targeted. There’s a HUGE  difference. I’ve been a victim of multiple bad influences during my walk, I’d even say demonic at times, including the scandalous fiasco of ‘induced’ bonkers illness (mental health).

It was all downhill from that birthday. I felt something inside me wither and die. I think it was my fearlessness. Up until then I was scared of nothing, the concept of fear never even entered my consciousness. I would get drunk and high every weekend during my ‘going out’ phase, climb up something, fall off, bump and cut my head, trip over, get into bust ups, get myself arrested, pepper sprayed, all of that madness, and wake up bright n early the next day to do it all again. I was invincible, on the cusp of 21, a big bulletproof goofy kid.

On my B Day, sat there on the floor twirling my nob around to a big fat naked lady playing with a pair of older guys, something left the premises and died. It exited stage left and flew solo. Fortunately, I understand this to be a perfectly natural juncture of growing up, and not directly related to what I was doing. It would have left me anyway, in time, I maybe just wouldn’t have noticed it so sharply.

Drug-induced chemicals on the brain like endorphins, serotonin and dopamine, combined with the entrenched memory of a pulsating, electrifying orgasm, have a habit of ‘marking’ the subject forever. You never forget where you were or what you were doing when such an event takes place. This is why swarms of sinners on the wide path embrace this lifestyle and venture deeper along it, powerlessly, hopelessly, haplessly, and helplessly. Because that thrill, that life-marker, that unforgettable kick, is arguably the most satisfying reward in existence, the best fun us as humans can have. A cup of English tea doesn’t come close. A burger and chips doesn’t cut the mustard.

Only adrenalin-fuelled hobbies can compete, in my opinion.

But I don’t want a go kart, I want hard-action full-on balls-to-the-wall bareback sex high on drugs with steamy porn stars, and I want it now.

No quibbles, is that okay?

And not only now, I want it tomorrow, and the next day, the day after that, and the following day, and so on. For the rest of all time. Because I’m a red-blooded male with needs.

Except I don’t, not anymore, all of that is over, I find it miraculous that I got offline, that I walk past DVD shops, that I delete dealer’s numbers, that I resist that deep-rooted womanly calling. Because growing out of this salacious empire isn’t just so difficult it takes middle-aged nouse to do it, it simply ain’t meant to happen at all i.e it’s darned well impossible to escape for some.

I feel that way for myself. I feel like I have evaded some evil terrible menace by the skin of my teeth at the last hurdle. That evil terrible menace happens to be a woman. It used to be a naked man with a shaft long enough to roast a piglet on. The both of them had plans revolving around the ownership of my sacred sexual energy for all of eternity, knowing its potency, once entwined with The Shepherd of Desire and soaring like an eagle to insatiable pleasures, knows no bounds.

In the throes of ecstasy I needed no water or nicotine for many hours, which would be unthinkable in a bored, sober state. During a few kinkier games I didn’t even require oxygen (wink-wink).

So yep, I’ve jumped ship, away from those leather-clad fire-breathing harlots, who do not love you back, and into Christ’s loving arms.

No Intention Of Being Relevant

You know the score here at the hotspot. I write anything and everything to get the day faced and conquered. I had a Sprayway T-shirt once with an inspiring quote on the back. It read as follows: Leave Nothing But Footprints, Take Nothing But Memories, Kill Nothing But Time. It’s a decent philosophy. I recall ripping that shirt while performing the Grand National. The Grand National was a game wherein you hopped over everybody’s garden hedges in the street. First one to reach the end was deemed the winner.

You know it’s funny, I sit down here to write sometimes and I haven’t the first clue what to say, yet I feel the thrumming hum of the universe idling like a 4-stroke inside of me, twitching to unfurl like an idle joyful heart, yearning to be released. I wonder if I will ever run out of personal testimony. If the conspiracy theorists are correct, and Infinite Consciousness is ‘a thing’, then I should be able to reconfigure multiple aspects of my mind into countless offshoots of simply amazing print. This means ceaseless blogging. It’s alrite, you can thank me later.

Sutter Kane, the most creative writer in the galaxy, is never short of a drop-dead idea or two. His terminology calls it Limitless Imagination, not Infinite Consciousness. He’s always rewording lingo that doesn’t belong to him. It’s part of being neurodiverse. We are bob on at labelling and categorising. What might baffle a straighthead gets boxed and stickered in seconds by our special breed of rare, atypical, differently wired writing brain.

Not to say that Sutter Kane is mentally ill. He just says he suffers from mental health to break the ice when meeting new people. Like me, telling annoying twits who want to start a conversation about football that I’m psychotic. It helps to keep the hecklers at a distance. Otherwise small people will be there for hours ‘squirting their smallness’ all over you.

There’s no harm in being pathetic and tiny, by the way, just in case you’ve stumbled into the wrong domain here. Just don’t get it in my hair, okay? I’m nice and warm here.

That’s a running gag between me and my big sister. I ask her to get in bed with me and keep me nice and warm. I did it with my younger siblings when I was younger. We’d make a base by assembling upside down furniture on Mother’s bed and hide underneath it all in the dark eating snacks like Blackjack bars and Nerds. Now its all Whoppers and Knoppers and Yonkers and Dunkers. I’d tell my brothers and sisters a spooky ghost story to scare them up. The scariest one was about a technological demon, a burns victim who travelled down pylon lines. That one was really ‘shocking’. This is no bulldust by the way. I knew lots of made-up chillers as a small boy, including one about a sheep-gatherer who starved to death in a bear trap then had his thumbs eaten off by a fox.

There were lots I had no idea of, like The Girl in Black, Jabberwocky, and The Mystery Of The Haunted School. I would learn of these later, and read them aloud under NightSearcher torchlight from the original paperback books.

My mum would tell me off for putting the family on edge. “Where have you heard such drivel?” Then slap me with one of her Japanese Closed-Toe sandals. I enjoyed getting clouted, in a way, it meant I’d achieved something.

I got the paperbacks from car boot stalls, they cost 20 pence each. When I wasn’t running my scams in school, I had a car boot stall myself, selling my own pamphlets which I’d written when detention was over. My brother, who sold multipack bars of chocolate during his dinner hour (strictly not for resale, unless you’re him), inspired the entrepreneurial barterer in me.

I’d make up gambling games based on those in the casino and use them to con willing students out of dosh, huddled together in the middle of the playing fields. The house never lost, if you get my drift.

I also swapped illustrated poems for biscuits. Several older girls bought some and a teacher had one on her wall for ten years, long after I’d stayed on for Sixth Form College and gotten myself institutionalized. Her son told me this once during a happenchance rendezvous in the fish market. I was buying those large ugly grey prawns with the shells still on for supper, fried with basmati rice, jolly Green Giant sweetcorn, red onion, and a mixture of herbs and spices.

I wouldn’t dare get up to any wheeling n dealing down the youth club, or I’d get battered by the townies. They regularly bullied me by reading my pamphlets aloud and taking the Michael, especially the intimate love scenes I described between me and Amanda Kinsellar. The youth club was no place for the softly-spoken. There were fights every night. The townies were a nasty bunch. Many of them are involved in circles of criminality to this day. I won’t drop any names.

Apart from saying that Amanda Kinsellar is now a scabby booty crack pipey dog. All the girls who were stunning turned out to be munters and all the gals who had it up against them have blossomed into bloody painted dolls. Word has it that she got ‘blasted’ by Karks using a Twix finger. White chocolate, incidentally. Salted Caramel. Limited edition.

Bloody disgusting.

Here’s to my latest scam: Getting legacy published, and selling half of a 200 print run!

Bailey Clay Suffers, But She Does Not Self-Harm

One thing I’ve never done is cut myself. I believe that deep in my addiction I   was self-harming with substances, but it’s not the same as tearing your flesh open. I’ve heard of pill addicts snorting 40 a day. I would bomb the whizz like it was sherbet, taking more when I was already FUBAR (f**ked up beyond all recognition). The sensation of feeling too-much poison course thru your veins is vividly dismantling. One time I found myself in the woods hunched over in a ball promising myself that I would never ever be doing drugs again.

I could feel my cells dying over my skin and disintegrating off with the wind. I vomited brown bile.

Another time I committed spiritual suicide by necking 28 rat poison tablets, mistakenly thinking they were ecstasy pills. I thought I was dying with a red-headed pig-tailed quintessential young Russian model in a strange drug-induced vision. I ‘periodically’ consumed more chemicals than listed on the ‘periodic’ table.

But bloodletting on yourself!? I’m seeing some horribly disfigured arms lately.

How do these young beautiful girls do it to themselves? How would you address your teenage daughter if she was running rampant with a blade? They have to be stopped. Or do they? I’ve heard it stated that they need to feel the pain once they’ve started. It’s the only way for them to block out the voices. Or the bullies. Or the eating disorder.

What is so bad that it needs blocking out with self-harm? It speaks of the world we live in today, doesn’t it? This is what the world drives me to do. This is what society thinks of me. I’ll show them…

I knew a girl called Sarah who was well practised at it. She said she had ‘presences in her head’ which dictated how many calories she could consume. In essence, they wouldn’t let her eat. She was restricted to an apple and a bowl of rice krispies a day. They weren’t even real rice krispies, they were corn pops from Netto. The head presences tormented her if she went over her daily calorie count. She maintained that cutting her arms was the only way to get them to shut up.

She was such a likeable young girl, Sarah was, a real million-to-one shot, full of vitality and vigour, nice head of blond hair, sparse pastel make-up, own car, job in a mental hospital, which was convenient, as she got sectioned there, neat little tidy physique, approachable and engaging personality, I bought her a dreamy waltz bouquet of florist-arranged flowers once, then delivered them in person to her battered wives home for the young, or whatever it was where she lived, I think more of it as rather a homeless institution for the wayward, she wasn’t in at the time anyway, so I left them with the manager, balding and beer-bellied, who probably slapped the occupants around.

Girls with mental health are prone to being abused.

I would never abuse the vulnerable myself, as I always like to help. I truly preach that the meek shall inherit the Earth. This is why I declare Constance Bell now and again in my morning prayers. She was a wonderful endangered character in a special tale I won’t mention by name. She inspired a homage from my good self called Bailey Clay. Just a brief word on BC.

As of today, Bailey Clay is still alive and well. She has stopped shopping at Sports Direct and started buying better labels like Louis Vuitton and Goldigga and Moschino from her boyfriend’s phone. Oftentimes she’ll get lucky and snag a bargain in a charity shop. Last time we heard from her, she said that she was, quote, “Too busy for schizophrenia.”

Her useless persecutor, Samil, still harasses her on a daily basis, with clandestine technology uncovered by law, beaming his annoying voice into her head and projecting his ugly face into her dreams. She describes this ex-monster as, “Desperate, bored, needy, and lonely.”

Her boyfriend said that when he gets a hold of Samil, he’s going to bash his conk flat on his boat race (face), and go to a lifer’s jail with a smile on his lips. Bailey pledges to visit every week, taking him magazines, confectionery and offering financial support. Her boyfriend, who doesn’t like being named, only receives Universal Credit. She gets full whack PIP (personal independence payment).

“I impel him to forget about Samil, the same as I try to do,” says the Bailey, known as Rumpole to her mates, “but he’s single-minded about revengeful bloodshed one day in a fair dual to the death over a girl they are both obsessed with. When Samil is down, I might just stamp on his head or kick him slyly in the ribs. Then again, I might turn the other cheek. We’ll see what happens if he’s ever big enough to grow a pair, instead of chatting me up forever non-stop with microwave hearing.

“I was talking to my shrink about microwave hearing before I signed myself off off and over and away from all that ancient bureaucracy about forcefully administered pain medication and visiting hours during detention recall and next person of interest and all that, he thought I was on about talking air fryers from PC World. Harder to believe than psychosis from a kitchen appliance is a computer junk shop selling air fryers! My girl Franny has one. She batters Turkish Delights in it…”

Aside From Sutter Kane

Well, it looks like I’m bolloxed now, as I have no subject matter to rant about! The last couple of weeks have been productive for me. I’ve enjoyed scribbling away every single day. This gig would be wellard to do as sustained paid employment, as the ideas have a tendency to dry up. I’m always in the mood to sit in the secretarial chair and eyeball the White Void, and I have lists of noted prompts on my phone, but executing glimpses of a notion into written form, and doing so online, isn’t straightforward.

I do come bearing possible bad news about my apology class. Because it’s over-attended (to put me off), they’re thinking about splitting it into two smaller groups (to keep me away). This potential change has got the alarm bells jangling. I always have preference for a larger gathering. The management is doing this because I fancy one or two of the ladies there. You have no idea how far the authorities will go to prevent me from meeting up with fellow high-vibrational comrades.

One day, I might meet a counterpart suffering Targeted Individual.

In the thick of the extremely long list of abuses perpetrated unto TIs, keeping us apart from one another is up there among the very most unforgiveable of them. Preach.

I have identified several, and it’s not very many at all, worthwhile genuine personas in my life. When you live within the pretext that “Everyone is a demon,” (Zersetzung* advice), this positive realisation is quite important. So there is someone I can fight for then? Thank God. I’ll man up for them…

I just pulled one lady aside after the meeting, and told her she was hugely needed in this current climate of pretenders and fakers. I’d never bonded with her before. They were stouty words. But they needed saying. I’d always thought of her as nobody before, just an elderly nonentity making up the numbers. Now I see her as beacon of light, and a valuable ally.

As soon as I detect someone vital like this, I am met with a squabble of mass imposters trying to split us up. They get up to all kinds of petty behaviours like talking over people, hijacking conversations, making unnecessary noises to disturb testimonies, using their phones when unneeded, and other cheap tactics. When several of them eencroach on an unknowing target, their small but disgusting tricks work.

When I’m present, however, in soldier mode from God, it’s a different story. I’m wise to their pathetic jealous games. Because I have a bigger and better agenda rather than running around trying to keep substantial personalities away from each other.

My present mission is to be Sutter Kane. This always starts by declaring, “I! Am! Sutter! Kane!” at the top of my voice, no matter where I am, even if it happens to be in a silent-as-tiptoe official commons law court. I am able to change into different people not because I am an evil shape shifter, like some of those other egotistical bozos out there who receive that capability from evil spirits they worship, but because I serve Sutter Kane in The Sacred World-Building Arena Of Literature, where anything is possible.

I’m only making a joke of ‘being’ him by the way. No one can ‘be’ Sutter Kane. Only he himself can do that. And no, before you ask, he isn’t a pen name for Stephen King. He’s far better than Stephen King, and I don’t know what you reckon personally, but I think that Stephen King is pretty awesome. If better is the right word. It’s not about being better than someone else, it’s about being as good as we each can be.

The only person I worry about bettering is myself.

All writers are visionaries, with wide open publicly-available souls and grapevine-accessible dreams in the collective consciousness of Gaia. They are widely influential in the societies they live. Sometimes, if they are potently serious about their craft, their work becomes alive, like in the Holy Bible. Sutter Kane knows all about abilities like this. How? You ask. Well, because he creates them.

To describe Sutter Kane and his work is practically impossible. He is simply too goddamn conclusively pristine at it. He stretches the imagination when it boils down to wondering just how much know-how majestic freelancers have at their disposal. It is rumoured that he changes his own environments by typing about them. He writes things ‘in and out’ of his work which affect the reality of his surrounding social fabric. If he describes a pink penguin smelling of cigar-smoke, one might appear close by somewhere. He has to be careful about what he inscribes due to this. Huh. Don’t we all?

I’m immersed in ‘total love’ with Sutter Kane. It’s reported that his very first words as a baby were, “I-guess-ed-they-fish-ed-me-a wri-ter.” His parents said he would have conversations with the stars. They nicknamed him The Constellation Spotter, because he was always pointing at the sky before he could walk. Little else is known about him.

If you would like to learn more, watch the movie In The Mouth Of Madness (1994). That’s where I ‘borrowed’ him from. He’s a silver mulleted masterclass of wise prophetic kosmos-creating grand wizardry. He does nothing but live in a tunnel fashioned from a wormhole and write at his elaborate keyboard and portal like a circus master. I’m merely touching upon him here, but straight up dude, I find him sooo interesting. He inspires me to scrawl on.

Yes, even on the days when I don’t know what to say. When I’m stumped with the block I recover by reaching out and touching Sutter Kane’s dressing gown, which he occasionally poses for pictures in on his cabin boat, eating cereal for breakfast in the morning when the sun is rising on the horizon. He likes posing for important press releases this way, it’s his style, although he doesn’t have a makeover for it. He just casually brushes his hair and ‘blesses up’. ‘Blessing up’ is merely having a hot swill in the bathroom wash basin. He calls it this because he believes keeping clean is a gift from God.

Long live Sutter Kane. “I! AM! SUTTER! KANE!” joke

*Zersetzung is a Stasi program meaning decomposition

Bucket Runner

I fell thru Cookie Monster’s front slammer, shattering small panels of glass about the hallway. The week before I had witnessed a pub dweller get thrown thru a closed door by a bouncer nicknamed One Punch Jarv, it had come off its hinges, I now knew what that was like, to be lying in littered debris. I cut my elbow but little else, I got off lightly, considering. Couldn’t his family afford a sturdier opening? Or was it my fault for being blotto and incapable of standing on my own two feet?

The accident sobered me up. “I’m so sorry,” I explained to Cookie. “I’ll pay for the damage.”

“You sure plunged thru that with your head there. Don’t worry, the council will take care of it,” he assured me. “I’ll ring them tomorrow when the offices are open. Now, how much more of my gaff do you plan on demolishing?

That’s Cookie for you, always laid back, always super-chilled. Probably because he was stoned as a fart.

Next I fell into the hallway wall, taking a chunk out of the plaster with my nut and knocking the mirror down. Luckily the mirror remained intact. I looked like I’d been forcibly jockeyed around Cheltenham’s Gold Cup and made to leap over all 22 jumps with a junior sumo wrestler on my back. ‘Jelly’ wasn’t the word for my legs. Surprisingly, I’d yet to throw up, although more than a baker’s dozen of Stella tends to have that effect.

Cookie stroked the damage to the wall gingerly, as if his midas touch could repair the damage. Nothing happened, apart from he got a coating of dust on his fingers.

Back on my feet again, this time I told myself I wasn’t going to fall over while crossing the living room, where Cookie had expensive furniture like fish tanks and coffee tables. Last week Rocco fed the Angelfish with his leftover kebab. One of them was motionless and floating on the surface not long after. He’d probably had his hands in there, messing around with them, taking them out and juggling them.

If I could just make it to the bathroom. There Picklehead Lisa would be running the buckets. She always did after a night out at Dragworld, the hippest shack in the locality for benders and puffs, where we’d been ‘poppin’ pillies’ like Post Malone all night.

I had to rip a taxi off in making my way back here. If I’d hurled inside the thing, the driver would have hit me with a 50 quid fine. As it was, I’d asked him to back up near the Sundowner pub. From there I’d entered someone’s back garden and navigated my way to the other side of the close. Couldn’t be helped. I was skint from 13 Stella at five pound fifty a pop.

Picklehead Leese never charged for a bucket. We tended to all throw in a few bits of quid at the beginning of the week so we could share a decent block of polly on occasions like this, when Cookie’s pops were working double shifts and we had license to be juvenile arsewipes for much of the Sabbath.

I did make it to the bathroom but I almost fell into the bath, instead landing on Picklehead and knocking the treasured bucket over. She got hot rocks on her denim dungarees, stood up fuming, and started kicking off. Pastry Face, our college mate, and so named because of what he got up to with Peshwari Naan breads in Indian restaurants, told me I was being a pissant. He shouted for Cookie and instructed I should leave.

“It’s not your digs,” I replied. I instantly had my guard up in case I was refused a chong. “C’mon, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

Picklehead undid the straps to her dungarees and let the top half flap down beyond her waist. Her ample nips behind a funky scoop neck sports bra were on prominent display. She always looked the part, did Picklehead Leese.

“This is so not funny guys,” she came out with, voice frustrated but keeping it together. “I was going to return these overalls within thirty days.”

“What’s he done now…?” Cookie Monster asked. He entered the room with his tremendous bulk like an oil liner reversing into a disabled parking space. He ignored Picklehead’s exposure.

I didn’t. I studied her twin package of small but generous bulging mammaries with relish. We usually all stared at Picklehead when we were mashed, imagining things we would like to do with her. The reality of the situation, however, is that she was out of all our depths. I frequently pondered why she would have anything to do with us. I honestly didn’t know what she was doing in the ‘here and now’ with us half the time. I’d heard something vague about her being Cookie’s second cousin, some kind of loose connection from a foster home in childhood, but I couldn’t trust anything out of Pastry Face’s trap.

Word was up that Rocco boned her doggy-groovy in the shrubbery next to Cookie’s duck pond, and then took a pik of her dirty knees to use as evidence against her, or proof for him, whichever, when uploading on Instagram asap. I thought all this complete and utter total bulldust.

I had masturbated to this imagery in my mind, nevertheless. Picklehead ‘getting done’ by Rocco’s big dong, her slim fingers gripping cabbage leaves. Judging by the eyeful of her cleavage I was registering at the moment, I’d be in a further rapturous spank banky time later.

The cannabis was like that. It made me horny as Pan on billy whizz. I leaned forward, took control of the buke, and ran my own.

Troublesome Unfolding of Self

I was halfway prepared to wrangle about the dualism of the mind and body today. I’m aware of a lot of terms which describe the whole of the sum of our parts, or at least some of the parts of our sum. A lot of my boys in apology class have been talking about the cliché angel and devil on the shoulders. The angel gives us good advice, the devil compels us to sin. You know the old saying. No doubt you’ve heard about the wolf on each shoulder also, the good white wolf you should feed and the bad black wolf you shouldn’t feed. These are interesting but simple ideas we’ve all harkened to.

It goes deeper. Apparently there’s a chimp and a computer in our brains too, having the same argument. There’s a book about it. I’ve not gotten around to reading it yet. My head is busy buried in scripture. The chimp is impulsive and instinctive. He wants rewarding and rewarding yesterday. The computer is our rational side. It’s logical and deductive, it weighs up risk and solves our problems. It may be obvious I know about as much on this topic as sweet Fanny Adams does. This is just what I’ve come across in conversations.

If you want more I’d study the regions of the brain. It’s fabulously riveting. I looked into it during my mid-twenties, before I got into sub-atomic affairs. These days I’m content studying the theatrical make-up on pantomime horses. That’s as soon as I get done brooding over other miscellaneous professions such as sword swallowing in the modern circus, zombies in popular media, and underwater bomb disposal in the Navy.

What do we have so far? The angel and the devil. The two wolves. The chimp and the computer. Wow, we missed out the lizard. What, you haven’t heard about the lizard at the back of your brain? Where have you been hiding, under a rock? Believe me, blood, it’s there. Everyone knows about the lizard. I think it’s the oldest part of the brainstem or something. It made me lunge for a barmaid’s bosom in the snooker club. Honestly. I’m always lunging for parts of the female anatomy when high on psychoactive stims. I cannot restrain myself.

I became convinced I’d mutated into a real live salamander once, when wagon driver Wayne poisoned me with a donkey stripe of ketamine in Athena’s Loveshack during the Royal Wedding. It’s common being unable to move, or becoming ‘catatonic’, while under the influence of ketamine. It is a horse tranquiliser after all.

This bit here is real talk homes: I once changed into a baboon on Burger King car park. I was kneeling and crouching and jumping and hopping and beating my chest. Drugs again. No wonder I’ve given them up. Or trying to. So far so good.

Other constituents of ‘the whole’ I appreciate are the personality, the ego, the ID, the persona, the psyche, the soul, the heart, the spirit, the subconscious, the unconscious, the preconscious, the manna, the animus, and the aura, among many others beyond my current knowledge.

The list probably goes on. Still not as gripping as the mystery of missing socks. I found one hanging from my shower rail. Probably a perp.

Hey, qualia is an irreducible mental quality of the mind. Isn’t that an amazing fact? Wonder what it does? Is it the part that momentarily confuses us when confronted by the pickle of a missing sock?

When you tend to be a Targeted Individual, you start to notice a helluva lot more things other than small items of clothing going missing.

Like family members, for example. Or fingers.

Funnily & oddly enough, a repair guy broke my washing machine accidentally on purpose. I know it’s not relevant, but it does qualify as desperately unlucky, in tradition with the rest of this blog.

I’ll not ‘go into’ persecution stories though, coz it’ll depress the pair of us. Oh, just one more then: A perp did invite himself into my garden last spring so as he could paint a pentagram on my birdcage. Goodwill & forgiveness, most probs mentally ill. Aren't they all.

Bob-a-Job (Old Work Mate)

Back in the public library today. I’d do this blogging business from home if I had a study. I once owned a desk and a laptop, but I decluttered several years back. Most of my furniture got ‘lashed’ into the communal garden. My ‘voices’ told me to do it. They wanted a minimal, open space. For séances, mainly, so they could scheme more ferocious power from to peel my skin off with. Funny that, how they are always promising to peel my skin off. It’s lovely having voices in the head.

They greet me in the morning with terms like, “Good morning, sunshine, we’re going to crucify you today.” I couldn’t live without their acts of kindness.

My ex-boss, Phillip, or ‘Poo-Poo’ as we called him, used to have me and the boys doing a lot of ‘lashing’ in work. He’d organise a skip and have us clear out the warehouse. I couldn’t believe some of the valuables which got lumped with the general garbage in that metal container.

‘Poo-Poo’s’ philosophy, about anything sub-perfect, was too ‘lash’ it. He’d literally dump anything in the bin, including his car if it fitted, and his wife and her kids if they happened to be situated in it. Where do you think I got my computer?

My boy ‘Bob-a-Job’ extracted an impeccable Bang & Olufsen telly, or entertainment system as he dubbed it, out of the skip one noontime. You may not have heard of them but they were a bespoke novelty make back in the day. Sony, Phillips, LG and Bush had nothing on them. He was well chuffed, until he left the remote control in the garden for reasons unbeknownst to anyone. It rained overnight, so the buttons got buggered.

I think he had the remote control in the garden because he was showing a few drunkard BBQ mates its laser beam in a mirror. Yep, it’s true. Laser beams come out of remote controls if you operate them in mirrors. Fun fact of the day. My bro-bro demonstrated it to me.

Bob-a-Job was one my colleagues. He’d often turn up for work in the morning ferrying a 16 inch Domino’s pizza box, containing leftover sausage and pepperoni. It smelled awfully like a pig pen. Everything but the squeal, he used to say when ordering steak in The Cattle Grill House. We frequented that rubbishy dive on the first Friday of every month. It was always a ‘Challenge’ meal, which is what all the fat bastards wolfed for a free T-Shirt (XXXL), and a photo on the wall.

As an extra incentive, succeeders of the Challenge meal received it free of charge, on the house. So you saved in the wallet, gained an addition to your wardrobe, and were immortalised in a jpeg.

Regardless of this swine-covered tomato pie from the previous evening, Bob-a-Job would still order ‘Bacon On’ at the greasy spoon portable mobile unit before we’d even left the work site. We would talk about him being ‘oinked out’ behind his back. Pepperoni to me could literally be wafer thin slices from a real live piglet, it tastes so piggy (you never hear of Pepperoni On, do you? Or Gammon On.) Both of them saltier than a cupful of sea water.

Bob-a-Job preferred a cheapo full-fat rip-off version of Coke called ‘Buddies’ Cola rather than water, bought in-bulk from a wholesaler, which contains 27 point umpteen teaspoons of sugar per bottle, and that’s the diet alternative. Bobbers, for short, preferred the MAX substitute, which was artificially flavoured with a ‘tropical hint’ of Blue Razz. He guzzled this straight from the bottle, and only offered it out for sharing when he was close to the bottom. I tried it once, out of courtesy, and found it to be taste like a nasty blend of vegetable oil and mud water. He never offered his edible porker package of toast and pizza deal.

There’s loads to Bobbers. But it’s all pretty similar and my memories of him principally relate to food. So far I’ve only gassed about him turning up for his daytime shift. You should have seen him slobbing out on his 3-seater recliner with his missus at the weekends, far away from the working environment. His kitchen reminded me of an All You Can Eat, there were that many dirty bowls scattered around the countertops. Rather than fruit on display, he would have Bombay Mix from Farmfoods. I was once present when he purchased two 12 sets of stoneware plates from Wilkos. I thought he was planning on spinning them for Ripleys Believe It Or Not. Surprised he didn’t buy buckets to eat from, although I doubt they’d contain popcorn. A trough would be more like it.

The last time I saw Bobbers, he was running away from a crime scene. He’d just head-butted someone on the nose outside a Chinese Buffet on Horsemarket St. He was hoisting his preposterous jeans up with one hand, as he always did, because he didn’t wear a belt, and they were too big. We called them ‘preposterous’ because they cost just four notes from Asda, made by George. George is Asda’s answer to Emporio Armani. Designer jeans can retail for thousands of pounds. To rack up a nice handy pair in Asda for less than the price of a Vanilla Latte, with the change from your yellow stickered ‘whoopsie’ supper, is ‘preposterous’ in anybody’s good money. I apologise, but there’s just no other word for it.

Don’t forget though, any more than ten notes and they saw you coming.

No More Sinful Mood

I’m beginning to have doubts about me being here bang slap in the centre of town, all up in the public section of the local government’s council offices, using their typing machines. I mean, isn’t access to these personal PC computers limited to letter writing and general enquiries? Surely they’re not for the likes of me using them for originative endeavours like apology, testimony and fiction? Ah well, I’ll dig my heels in until security politely ask me to leave. Which they usually do, after six pints and a stripdance/singsong.

There’s a new slime hall for kids opened up in the district. The authorities won’t let me anywhere near a minor. Don’t worry, this is not because I appear on some sex register; it’s just because I love them a great deal and enjoy bonding with them. To compensate for this, I invent ‘spiritual’ children in my subconscious and relate to them internally, in my heart if you like, but these too get attacked by dark forces against The Lord via cloning, hijacking and usurpation.

How do you like properly hold onto something in this villainous life, something which belongs to you, and something which is preciously coveted by warmongers of the world?

Answer: With the anchors of your heart.

There is nothing so dark, and yet so tenderly loving, as the human heart. Mine has been chewed, regurgitated, and chewed again. By the same old toxic unwanted people, committing the same old crimes, against the same old aching heart.

That heart would be mine. This is ‘mein herz’ displayed in the best approximation of wordplay I can muster in a race against the clock at the moment, without trying to be so awesome that I make you feel small in comparison. Because you know what the wise men say…comparison is the thief of joy.

I saw a school outing of ‘ducklings’ (kids in an orderly queue) earlier, leaving the cinema. Rather than ogle them up, I half felt inclined to get out of the ballpark before someone called the busies coz I was enjoyin’ watchin’ somethin’.

I feel cheeky no matter what I do lately, as if I belong in no real place, like a nomad with no real roots. Sometimes, on good days, when I’m feeling like I belong, I’ll visit the Chinese grocery shop and take a look at the names of all the strange branding. What I see are lots of monikers, big-ups, hollas and call outs relating to my childhood, as if the great nation of China was built on my personal raising through the council estate ranks in England, as a working class foot soldier for The Lord.

Particular buzzwords, unique to me, spelled out on their fancy packaging, assault my eyes all over the shop floor. It’s hard to explain. Basically, I feel like their government has been harvesting my creativity since I was little, relabelling their products after aspects of the fantastical worlds I create in my literature. Despite their unbelievable innovation, I have reasoned that China are in the business of ripping people off. May I go so far as to disclose that a lot of their them are nasty thieves. Joking, naturally. I would never make such a broad sweeping statement.

Last week I boasted that the pornographic industry was designed for me. Now I’m breaking wind that the Chinese Food industry is based on my childhood. Guess what might be headin’ my way, with claims to fame like these ones – yeah, bingo, a visit to the psych ward for mental assessment! Because I am off. My. Chops.

Sober, however. High on life. I haven’t consumed an alcoholic beverage this calendar year. Where are we now, midway through March? I know other high-flying bloggers who post pictures of themselves tanked up, reclining on their sofas, posing with bottles of chilled beer. I’m not envious about that, but I am slightly impressed. That’s the kind of thing I would do, if I was into taking pictures of myself.

I must admit though, that once you see a photograph of a writer you like, their work loses an air of anonymity. I like reading writers when I have no idea how they look. As soon as you see their countenance, stereotypical judgements come flooding in, including sexual ones, especially if they are of the opposite sex. I mean, what if you’re in love with their work, but they have leprosy on their face, or are disfigured, or disabled, or suchlike? It affects your opinion of them massively. I’m currently against author photographs on jacket sleeves.

I know an author online who writes about her own smile. Boy has she got a terrific one. But come on…

My higher power, a literary gatekeeping giant who I won’t name anymore, wrote a scene about a detective sat at his desk looking up at the ceiling. I wonder what he was up to himself, when jotting that eye-popping nugget of information down. Was he sat at his desk looking up at his ceiling by any chance? Doesn’t take Sherlock, does it?

Similarly, Lee Child readily admits on camera that when he has a coffee, Reacher has a coffee. Or is the other way around? Either way, they both guzzle lots n lots of coffee. It’s all they flippin’ do, whenever I’m reading anyway. That’s why I read it. To get down with the skinny on Reacher’s coffee intake.

Even better than coffee drinking is Reacher shopping in military surplus stores for shirts, combat pants and toothbrushes. Reacher, shopping…Classic. Coffee swigging, and retail therapy…who needs espionage, violence and conspiracy?

The DeNNis

I have an idea of a killer called The DeNNis. He’s based on a real person. What marks him out as different is the fact that he’s not scary at all. He’s a bit of a dweeb, actually, a pencil-necked nerd, a geek who probably owns the complete Lord Of The Rings collection. No offence against LOTR fans. He’s not that tall, very skinny, and a boring council clerk. He wears plain shirts from the supermarket and pressed trousers with unexciting ties. He doesn’t sport hair gel, and has a sharp hooked conk like a bird of prey. His shoes are black brogue. Slip-on.

There’s not really that much more to say about him! He lives alone, doesn’t drive, no known family, cooks simple meals…and murders homosexuals!

His killing spree has been in full flow for several years, on and off. He pays for their services in the local red light district up Richmond Square, where they hang out beneath streetlamps, half-concealed in billowing clouds of smoke from blunts and vapes. They gather in twos or threes, linking arms in unison. Occasionally you’ll get a singleton in a fashionable wig, whom he picks on. They are all always slim and attractive.

He’s been gay since his first encounter in high school…

He tried and failed ‘giving’ penetration around Aaron Jenkins penthouse suite. Penthouse or Shithouse, it didn’t matter to The DeNNis. The suite belonged to Aaron’s older brother who was working away in Wales. He sold cleaning solution for factories from the boot of his car. (Blast-Away Hydropower could have come in useful for The DeNNis’s bloodbaths later in life.)

The DeNNis and Aaron had been flicking through a XXX magazine, it featured underage Chinese men in varieties of naked poses, having vigorous intercourse with black African studs. These exotic juxtapositions drove The DeNNis doolally. He had only had one mixed-race victim in all this time. The dude was a mixture of Irish and Jamaican, skin the colour of coffee mocha, hair matted rather than dreaded, legs lanky yet strong underneath his stylish jacket which accentuated his buttocks. He like drinking Guiness and listening to Ziggy Marley via portable cassette headphones. The DeNNis thought that Bob had changed his name by DePol.  

Aaron was still alive, to the best of The DeNNis’s knowledge. And why wouldn’t he be? They were both still relatively young. Only both just making way into middle age. He thought he might have bumped into him in a Co-op in Beddington last summer, buying a ham and pickle sandwich, but he couldn’t be entirely sure of the positive ID, not with the goatee and the Lakers cap.

To put it very bluntly, The DeNNis chops up his victims and flushes them down the toilet. No laser etched granite headstones for his casualties. And why would there be? Only poor Gregg Wilton from Ford Common has ever been reported missing. Where did they stick his mugshot? In a side column on page 13 of the Herald Gazette. Which is only good for wrapping chips.

The irate neighbours, met with slammed doors and vulgar gestures during every failed confrontation, have made several complaints about the stench emanating from the drains. The DeNNis insists that it must be dead rats. He uses a mini-chainsaw for the dismemberment business, a 40 quid jobbie online, playing booming classical music over the tinny, rattling friction from the cheap rotors.

He wears a ladies smock when busy in the bathroom, and wellington boots. Underneath he docks a special homemade suit he sewed together himself from bin bags designed to keep every single drop of blood from his skin.

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