She is like a starving lioness, craving the kill, desperate for the taste of blood, the sensation of tearing flesh and the sweet stench of terror from her prey. She needs to feed. She longs to devour and feast. She needs to eat. Her hunger so strong that it hurts, consuming her every waking moment and drenching her dreams. It’s the only thing she can think about. She simply has to feel her teeth sinking into soft, terrified flesh. It’s in her very nature, to choke and kill and devour. She has no choice in the matter. It is who she is and it is what makes her so beautiful.
The best thing about her is that she’s coming round later tonight for what she describes as a barbecue. I’m just a little puzzled, as I don’t have a yard, but I’m sure she knows what she’s talking about, and I can’t wait to find out.
People say that video games are dangerous, that they are too violent and that they corrupt our youth, who then imitate the behaviour they display in games. Now, to a degree, this is true; as a youngster, I spent a lot of time playing PacMan and think it no coincidence that my hobbies seemed to involve running around a great deal and swallowing large amounts of pills and magic fruit. However, this is not the only damage that playing video games can inflict on our fragile psyches, and certainly not the most serious, as I have recently discovered.
After a recent, 73 hour session on GTA (San Andreas, in case you’re wondering) I wandered out, in need of vodka and marijuana and completely forgot that, here in the UK, we drive on the left. I looked the wrong way when crossing the road, and was clobbered by a number 476 bus. Fortunately, I had a cheat code activated and was able to light up the entire bus with an infeasibly large mini-gun.
I have only been able to avoid the subsequent, and comprehensive, police enquiry by laying low and then switching myself off and then on again. Nevertheless, I have returned, high-score intact and an erection for each and every one of you. Be warned, as always, all comments and likes will only inflame my passion for jerking off to your gravatar pics.
Thank you for tuning back in.
So Mickey’s boy, Brad, ‘as come ‘ome all pissed off and upset and cryin’ and shit, know what I mean. ‘parently ‘im an’ ‘is mates was pissing on some homeless cunt while ‘e was asleep, when the cunt gets up an’ smacks one of Brad’s mates right in the kisser an’ scares the shit out of ’em all. Little cunt’s only fuckin’ nine, know what I mean?
Any’ow, they’ve torn up his cardboard fucking castle an’ chucked some bricks at ‘im an’ shit, but Brad’s mate’s proper shook up an’ that.
Nah, don’t get me wrong, I love the fuckin’ ‘omeless, I always buy the Big Issue off that cunt that moves our rock down the Elephant, an’ I’ll chuck a dollar or two at any cunt what begs ‘ard enough. But this shit’s different, its on our own street and I ain’t puttin’ up wiv that, know what I mean?
So, we grab the kids and pay this fuckin’ toilet a visit an ‘teach the cunt a lesson. I learn sumffin’ too. I learn sumffin about ‘omeless people. I learn that they are ‘arder to set on fire than you might fink. Know what I mean?
So, me an’ Mickey are reminiscing about the football, like ‘ow it ain’t what it used to be, back in the day, in the 70s an’ 80’s an’ that. “S’all about fuckin’ money these days.” I say.
“Used to be different.” ‘e agrees.
“Used to be about skill and passion and hatred.” I point out an’ ‘e nods sadly into ‘is lager.
Me an’ Mickey never missed a fuckin’ game an’ never failed to get stuck in. They used to search you at the turnstiles back then, for weapons, an’ that. They never took no notice though, if all you ‘ad was a pocket full of loose change, an’ you can do a lot of damage wiv a 10p coin, if you chuck it right, know what I mean? “You remember that silly cunt ‘oo let me in wiv me darts?” Mickey grins suddenly, an’ we both ‘ave a chuckle.
“Yeah,” I grin, “and that cunt what shouted ‘One ‘undred and fuckin’ eighty!’ when you ‘it that Gooner in the eyeball wiv one” an’ we both ‘ave a right laugh.
“Shame they never ‘ad camera phones back then,” ‘e says, “one to show the grandchildren, that would ‘ave been.”
“Yeah, that was fuckin’ ‘ilarious!” I agree. Neither of us can remember the score that day but we remember the look on that cunt’s face. Coins was the best though, ’cause no cunt could stop you takin’ change into the ground. Mickey come up wiv the idea of sharpenin’ the edges. ‘E was always a clever cunt, even at school.
‘Course now they got CC fuckin’ TV cameras everywhere, and you don’t get to ‘ave no fun at all. We don’t even bovver goin’ these days. All that money’s fuckin’ ruined football, know what I mean?
“Awright! Awright!” I shout, “Its a doorbell, not a fuckin’ juke box!” Some cunt’s in trouble, disturbin’ me when I’m on the Wii, know what I mean? But its Mickey an’ ‘e’s seevvin’ abaht sumffin’.
“Some fuckin’ paedo’ ‘as only just moved in down the the fuckin’ street!” ‘e tells me.
“Who?” I ask, already lookin’ for me Stanley knife.
“That posh cunt at 23.” ‘e says, an’ I’m not surprised, a right snotty cunt ‘e is. Any’ow this can’t be allowed to stand, can’t ‘ave the kiddies round ‘ere put at any risk from some nonce, it ain’t right, so we tool up and pay the cunt a little visit, know what I mean?
Any’ow Mickey’s kickin’ this cunt’s ‘ead around is livin’ room like its a fuckin’ football and ‘e’s David fuckin’ Beckham, an’ ‘is wife’s all like screaming “No! No! He’s a paediatrician! He’s a paediatrician!”
“Well, we fuckin’ know that, you daft bitch.” I tell ‘er, “Why do you fink we’re ‘ere.?”
Now, one fing abaht me, is I can’t fuckin’ stand racists, there ain’t no call for that kind of fing, know what I mean? So we drags this racist cunt outside, an’ ‘e’s all like “I’m not a racist.” an’ “My girlfriend is black.” Now, that don’t make no sense. Just coz a cunt likes a bitta black pussy, don’t mean ‘e ain’t a fuckin’ Nazi, know what I mean? I mean I fucked a Chelsea fan once, don’t mean I’m gonna support ’em, does it? Any’ow Mickey saw ‘im lookin’ funny at our mucker Black Gary, so we know ‘e’s a racist cunt, know what I mean?
So, Mickey widens the cunt’s smile wiv ‘is Stanley knife an’ ‘olds ‘is face down on the kerb while I stamp on ‘is head a bit. I use ‘is phone to call an ambulance an’ me and Mickey get back inside The Duck and Flick Knife for anovver pint, fuckin’ chilly out there, it was. A cunt could catch ‘is deff, defendin’ civil rights sometimes. Know what I mean?
So there’s this writer cunt, OK? Kyle sumffin’, an’ ‘e’s been saying shit abaht me an’ Micky on the fuckin’ internet, on his gay-arsed blog, the cunt. Obviously this can’t be allowed to stand, you know what I mean?
So, I bells Mickey an’ ‘e’s fuckin’ fumin’, right, gettin’ ‘is tools togevver, chargin’ up ‘is nail gun an’ that, so’s we can go rahnd there and teach the cunt a lesson. Then ‘e says, “‘ang on, why don’t we send the girls in?” Now, that’s a right cuntish suggestion, coz our women are way fuckin’ crueller than we are. I mean, I like to jump up and down on a cunt’s face like the best of ’em, but I like to get in an’ out, quick like, do the damage an’ get back down the pub, less chance of gettin’ nicked that way too, know what I mean?
Any’ow Mickey’s gotta point, this writer cunt needs needs shit explaining to ‘im carefully, an’ ‘oo better to do that than the girls? Likeisay, much meaner than us they are. My Trace fuckin’ revels in it, spend fuckin’ hours working on a cunt, that girl can. Once right, she come ‘ome wiv this bloke’s dick in ‘er bag an’ fed it to the dog. Fuckin’ ‘ell, ‘ow we laughed. Sometimes I fink she gets some kinda sexual kick aht of it, an’ I don’t blame ‘er. I mean, I ain’t ‘ad an ‘ard-on for eight years, not since the ‘eart attack an’ them puttin’ me on these beta blockers like. Well, you can’t blame a girl for wantin’ to get ‘er rocks off nah and then can yer, know what I mean?
So I gives ‘er the writer’s address an’ tells ‘er to take her time but to leave the cunt breavin’. She gets ‘er little blow torch ready and some pliers and some fuse wire an’ bells Shaz, Mickey’s bird. Before she ‘eads off I say “‘Ang on, why dontcha take little Whitney wiv yer?” She’s eleven now and it would be good for ‘er to see ‘ow we do business. I mean, I’m a parent, it would be irresponsible not to take an interest in me kid’s education, know what I mean?
Hang on a sec, I will finish this post in a minute. There are people at the door, two women and a young girl.
when i was at school i was a bit of a bully. i didn’t mean to be, i didn’t think i was, but i was. it took a really good friend to show this to me. she was called gabriela and she showed me that i bullied other kids because i was scared. she showed me how weak and pathetic bullies are and she was right.
i would shake in my boots, with fear that i might be like them, that my peers might see my weaknesses. i used admire the people that i tortured, on a daily basis, i punched them in awe of how brave they were. i could never have turned up at school if i had thought i was going to be treated like that. they did though, they never failed to show up. what balls that must have taken. on occasion i would do the decent thing and return the stolen lunch money and feel good about myself. generally though i played along with my own fear and gave into it. i was good academically too. i was even good on the sports field. never naturally athletic but i was a demon on the soccer field. not a goal scorer but a defender. i couldn’t really play but i could stop you playing. the other teams would look at me and just pass the ball, not because i was good or talented but because they were scared of me. i feel so ashamed of myself today for the way i behaved as a youngster. i’m not talking about childhood, i was 16 and 17 when i behaved like that.
i am really lucky. i have had the chance to say sorry and to feel sorry. it still hurts though, to know that i was such a little shit as a kid. i met one of my victims a couple of years ago. he was so cool about it. he is doing really well and has a lovely wife and family. i felt so bad but he was so cool about it.
it has taken me a long time to grow up. after school i became a nasty little hooligan and did some awful things. i discovered politics and used that as an excuse to be a thug. i broke a police woman’s nose once during the poll tax riots once and spent time in jail for it.
today i am still not a pacifist but i hate violence, i understand the damage it does. i mean, fuck with me, or, worse, someone i love, and you can consider your self in deep trouble but i have learnt that violent people are cowards, that violence is a sign of mental weakness, that people who express themselves through their fists and feet are pathetic and puny examples of masculinity. that is all i have to say today.