Sunday Scribbles XIII

In 1996 Bryan Ferry released an album called "18 till I Die". It starts off with a track called "I Want To Be Your Underwear", which is, as the name implies, a tad raunchy. It occurs to me that it was around this time that Chuckles was wittering on to Camilla about his desire to be her tampon. Perhaps there was something in the water.
Nothing to complain about. Three hundred years ago the average royal family (thinking of Chuckles) enjoyed life in draughty and cold homes. They had servants to do their dishes, and cook their meals. They had basic plumbing, and crapped into a long drop dunny. They didn't have hot showers. They parked their backsides onto horsehair stuffed seats in their wheeled transport that could whisk them, bouncing and juddering on rigid axles and spring-leaf suspension at speeds of up to 15 kilometres an hour. 20 kph, if they were ready to kill the horses. It was unusual for them to have all their teeth after the age of 25, and 4 out of 10 of their children died before the age of five. They also carked it by the age of sixty. Their subjects were old men at 30, dead at 40. Women, of course, died younger, many in childbirth. Right now I - on a low income, and in a basic New Zealand home - live far better than they could ever dream of. The most poverty-stricken person in New Zealand lives extraordinarily well compared to the poorest of those times. We're doing all right.
Street signs. I think there's a conspiracy going on, lead by street sign installers. I notice this particularly in Waitakere City, where I rely on the Wises Map to find my way around, but I think it actually holds true everywhere in the world: street signs are installed so as to be rendered invisible or illegible by other signs or vegetation. Their size is carefully calculated as to render them unreadable until you're in the wrong lane to make the turn you need. And there's no consistency in where they're put: they can be on the left, on the right, on the far or near corners. They may be white on blue, white on green, black on yellow, or simply not there. I am going to start taking my camera with me to photopgraph the worst offenders.
This will involve me in learning something technological, of course. I need to figure out how to load pictures from my camera onto my baby 'pooter, and then how to upload them onto this page. Sigh. Challenges.
I've said it before, I'll say it again: When is the new Doctor Who series going to appear on our tele screens?

Have a good week, everyone. Kia kaha.

LISTENING TO: Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young - "Deja Vu". It is still a remarkable album.
READING: "Tyrant", Christopher Cameron. Compelling.
WORD OF THE DAY: Chuckles. What a man.

SHORT STORY.

WARNING: STRONG LANGUAGE AND VIOLENCE.

It Shouldn't Happen to a Dog.


Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Little bastard of a fucking Scotchman. Bastard prick. How the fuck does he dare do that to me? I mean, well, fuck!
Who the fucking fuck does he think he is?
Jack Stack was pissed off. Royally pissed off. This was the third time in god how fucking long has it been seven fucking months the third time jesus fuck!
Jack Stack doesn’t think life’s dealt him a bum hand. I fucking know it know it and if that bitch isn’t home when I get home then.
Well.
Jack Stack’s a man in his mid forties, and he’s handed his wife, oh, yes, slut bitch cow, fucking show her! More hidings than she’s had hot dinners, and that’s not said lightly. She hasn’t had a hot dinner in weeks now, but Jack Stack’s hands have seen a little action, eh boys, bunch you two boys up and thwack thwack bitch is down and she’d better not get up, and fuck does that creep think, firing me, jesus it was only a little nip, a quick snort, it’s not as if anyone was in fucking immediate peril, but the little Scotch prick had seen the flask and opened the cab door and taken the keys and that was that fuck fuck fuck.
Jack Stack knows how to handle these things though, don’t I. Oh yes, I do, and if anyone gets in Jack Stack’s way he’s in fucking trouble tonight.
She’d better be home when I get home, oh yes. I’ll stop for a quick one or two at the Red Lion, a couple of cleansing ales, and if she so much as raises a fucking EYEBROW when I get home she’s fucking for it.
Gidday Stu how’s it going no don’t fucking tell me I don’t want to know, oh yeah, good on you mate a pint’ll be good thanks ta and up yours little cunt always sitting here thinking you’re so much better than me what the fuck do you know you with your bloody bad back bullshit, scoring well on the compo and spending your bloody days here in the pub because not even your Mrs likes you, and who can blame her. Jesus you pong, about time you took a bloody shower, yeah that’s great mate, hit’s the spot perfectly, you know that old bastard McCallister down at Forbe’s Trucking, little shit fired me no more than half an hour ago, said he wouldn’t have drinking on the job. Me, I said, drinking? Then he reached around and grabbed the flask out of me back pocket, that’s assault, right? Could have the little shit up for that, and I told him that was for later and he reckoned he could smell it on me breath well that’s a lie, ‘cause it’s got vodka in it and everyone knows you can’t smell vodka, right. Good oh, yeah I’ll have another, Jesus, take your filth away, smelly little shit, wonder if Gazza’ll turn up here later. He’s always good to have a game or two with on the table. Christ, even if he could play which he can’t I’d still take him for twenty bucks, yeah great good on ya Stu, you’re a mate, eh, man can’t have too many mates, got a smoke oh for fuckin’ CHRIST’S SAKE what do you mean you quit? When that pissy whey-faced bitch in Wellington passed that law saying nyah nyah can’t smoke in the pub anymore, christ if I’d wanted a fucking MUMMY I woulda told fuckin Mona to go to fuckin’ Wellington, jesus, can you see that, fuckin’ Mona Stack prime minister yeah right, Jesus if brains was fuckin dynamite she couldn’t blow her nose.
CHRIST ON A FUCKIN STICK what was that, fuckin cops haring past like their arse was on fire, must be something going on downtown, stupid cunts, never saw a cop I couldn’t take down with one hand tied behind me back, oh yeah smartarse? What do you want to bring that up for, Jesus a man was crook that night, orright, pukin’ me guts out and the sneaky shit, yeah, I’ll take another Stu, good man, that sneaky shit fuckin’ caught me in the guts while I wasn’t looking, eh.
Chucked on his shiny size tens, learn that fucker.
Jack Stack is in his mid-forties. He went to Northridge High School a year behind Henry Talbot. His favourite books are as follows:
1:
2:
3:
4:
5:
6: Book?
7 - well, you get the idea.
Jack Stack dropped out of high school three weeks before he turned 15. He was barely able to read, could make a calculator work to add, subtract, multiply, and divide, although he couldn’t figure out why anyone’d want to be bothered with all that shit. It must be said in his favour that he could take a dead engine, breath on it, and make it go like the clappers. He knew what the spark gap should be on every model of Holden engine made since 1963.
The day he dropped out of school his Mother kicked him out of home. Bitch. He hadn’t spoken to her since. You know, she said to him that afternoon that he could either start paying her some money to make up for everything she’d spent on him and she FUCKING had the bill! She had it all itemised there, every shirt she’d ever bought for him down at the Op Shop, every crumb of food the old bag had ever put on the table. She’d even counted up all the gin he’d swiped off her. Old cunt knew everything, had added it all up, so I just smacked her one and walked out. Never spoken to her since. Or that crummy brood of half-brothers and sisters she’d presented him with, although he saw his fuckin’ sister on TV, doing the bloody news, making a packet, and never thinking of her family, jesus I’m blood, ain’t I?
Bitch.
Yeah, thanks, Stu. Was a million miles away there, eh. Cheers. Christ! Was that another fuckin’ cop car, what the fuck’s goin’ on? Bloody bad when a man can’t have a brew or seven without the bloody law splitting their arses on the road outside.
Yeah, man’d best walk home tonight, eh. Mind you, sold the Kingswood when the fuckers took me license last time, eh. Stupid old prick, whatsisname, said if I was nailed drink driving again then I’d be doing time eh.
Never again. Last time was the shits, eh. Medium security stir down Taupo way, cold as a nun’s cunt, and tghere was this big bastard down there, Andrews? Something like that, reckoned my arse’d make a good home for his warts and all cock.
Eh? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN? Of fuckin’ course I fuckin’ wasn’t taking any of that shit. Beat the snot out of him, I did. Little bastard won’t be making my arse his little corn hole.
Shit.
It hurt, mum. It really fuckin’ hurt, and I didn’t shit for days after the first time.
Eh? Nah, nothin’, eh. Listen, stu, gotta go. I’ll catch up with you next time and shout a round or two, orright? Keep it up, man. Be strong. Nil carborundum illegit, illegit, ah, fuck. Don’t let the bastards grind you down, eh.
Jesus, just thinking about it’s made my arse itch. Better have a piss. Fuckin’ floor’s moving. Must of ad more from me flask that I thought. Here we go, god that fuckin’ smells horrible. Those bloody blue things in the trough. See if I can move one, come on, oh fuck, it splashed onto me fuckin’ trouser leg. Good pants, nicely ironed, took a year of fuckin’ pounding before she got the idea of how I like me pants.
Jack stack is proud of his appearance. About five six. Not tall, but sharp, man. Nice tartan shirt, buttoned to the neck. Always clean shaven, Sleeved rolled down, full-length, buttoned tight, but he can see his watch through the cuff opening. Flat belly, slim hips, he’s a weasel on steroids. Trousers always fresh-pressed, a crease a man could cut butter with. Nice shoes, good shoes, polished to a high shine. And hair brushed straight back, kept in control with Brylcreem.
Getting hard to find Brylcreem these days. But gotta have it. His dad was a flier in the air force. So Mum said, anyway. Brylcreem boys, they called them. Spit and polish, the heroes of the Battle of Britain, yeah, he could see his old man up there in the clouds, throwing his Spitfire through the air, gunning down the fucking stupid krauts, god, fucking krauts, as bad as fucking SCOTSMEN!
Jesus, something’s happening in town, something fucking big. Cop cars and bloody everything going on.
Hey, mister, what’s up? Yeah? Somebody got shot? Bank robbery? Shit. That’s the idea. Man’d be king of the fucking block with a few grand in a sock under the bed. Fucking bitch keeps me poor. Mona. Never was a woman more appropriately named. Always fuckin’ moaning. Took me two years to keep her fucking mouth shut. Except for when I want her to use it, eh. That’s at least something she does well, that thing she does with her tongue, jeez, a man’s getting hard just thinking about it.
How would you go about robbing a fucking bank, then? Man’d be a mug to go strolling in with a fucking gun, anyway. Nah, the fucking cops take a dim view of that, and if a man was caught it’d be straight to Pare, eh. Jesus. Pare. Parefuckingremoremo. With all the fucking mob boys. I’d be bleeding from the arsehole in a minute. Nah, bank robbery’s not my style. Hey hey, I’m a man of the town, eh? Smooth man, sharp man, dancing man. Fucking Mona can’t dance. Says her feet hurt. She shouldn’t a broken them, eh. Stupid cunt. Jesus, some little shit’s shot out the fucking street light. No fucking respect for the law, little bastards. I catch him, he’s fucking toast. Whack! Whack! The boys’ll get into action, teach him good and proper, man fucking needs streetlights. Oh, jesus, ere we are, and the fucking lights aren’t on, bitch is NOT HOME I’LL FUCKING MURDER -
Eh?
Jesus, what the fuck are you doing sneaking up behind a man, coulda given me a fuckin’ heart attack! Just get your scrawny arse infuckingside, I’ll deal with you there. Where the fuck have you been you’re not home ‘til now? Fucking hell, a man needs his fucking meal on the table hot, cooked the moment I fucking get home, what the fuck do you mean, the cops?
Yeah? You saw it? You saw a man get shot? Fucking beauty. Who? Henry Talbot. Talbot. I know that name. Oh yeah, smarmy bastard from school. Fucking stuck up rich cunt. So, he’s dead, eh? Fucking good show. Eh? The fuck you mean he’s not dead? Jesus. And the fucking cops kept you making statements, how many fucking times have I fucking told you, YOU DO NOT FUCKING SPEAK TO THE FUCKING COPS.
Fuck. What’s she fucking told them, don’t you fucking run off, cunt, I don’t fucking care about my dinner, I want to know what you fucking told the cops. Yeah, yeah, uh huh, year, right, fucking lying BITCH! Take that! You fucking told those boys that I fucking hit you, didn’t you? Keep your fucking noise down, you LYING BITCH! CUNT! Jesus, that’s just a little love tap.
Oh, yes, that’s right, yes, that’s right, oh fuck that’s good, yes come on, the zip goes down slowly, you know the way I like it, jesus, be fucking careful, cunt, you wouldn’t want to hurt Mr. Smiley now, would you. Yeah, you take your fucking shirt off, and that little bra I bought you, see, cunt? I do get you good things, yeah, rub your titties against my leg, no, don’t suck so hard, that’s the way. No, fucking don’t1 swing, and smack and she’s down and WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? You’re fucking wearing panties? How many fucking times have I told you that you only fucking wear knickers when you go out, you never, ever wear them at home? Fucking BITCH!
The rage is on him now, full and complete, and he hits her twice, three times, four more, and one for FUCKING LUCK! And she’s down, and my hands are reaching out and tearing at her FUCKING PANTIES, and she’s there, and oh, FUCK! As dry as a fucking dingo’s arsehole, spit, that’s it, spit, and yes I’m in her and I’m in her and I’m in here and I’m in her and I’m in her and I’m in her and what the fuck what the fuck she’s got a kni -
And it’s probing into his throat, and the great artery is sliced through, and her face is baptised in the blood of the bastard, washing the fear away, washing away every terrified moment. And she heaves him off her and out of her and he’s gurgling and whimpering and he’s got blood on his shirt and she catches a double handful of it and she splashed it onto his trousers, last time I iron those, and she falls back and weeps.
While he dies, in terror, and far too quickly.
Her neighbour interrupts her later that night, as she’s digging a man-sized hole in the back yard. “Give you a hand, love?” she asks.
And so, together, they bury Jack Stack. Nobody has noticed his absence nearly eight months later, when Henry comes back to Northridge.
“Good,” thinks Mona. “Good.”