PC Blakelock

By D Udaiyan
© D. Udaiyan 2000


Heading Home?	5
Work?	11
Lunch break… dump break	16
Winding (me) up?	22
The Real Work	25
Cock-Lands	29
The gypo	38
Fun… fun… fun…	42
Wardens… my arse?	49
Shitester’s Lair…	54
Bounce of this… boyeee.	60
Ted’s place	66
The pigs	76
Back Home	80
Just in time for a morning wank?	81
Shower central	85
The slave-run	88
Today’s nightmare	90
The train thing	98
It’s just got all too much…	103
Getting fitted up	108
Back to work we go…	114
Lunch time think time	118
The afternoon stint	124
Homeward bound (and gagged)	132
TFC…	138
The lard master sleeps…	144
Waky waky, rise and whine…	146
Sad loner down the pub	149
City slappers	154
Comedy rape sketch	159
The drugs do work…	166
Wazzaaaah (just chilling out… having a wank…)	174


Introduction
Greetings all. This is my third fictional novel entitled: ‘PC Blakelock… CHOP CHOP CHOP.’ (This is Book-One in my ‘Kill the Bill’ series of novels that I am currently writing and planning.)  
This novel concerns three days in the life of a serial killer who happens to be of Caribbean descent. He is not, however, the stereotypical Black British character that we see so often in films, novels, etc; i.e. a working-class ghettoized, deeply politicized, angry young man. The central character is a middle-class bisexual computer programmer who works in a bank. He also happens to have vague feelings of Black history and politics, which surfaces to the fore at various outbursts and key points in the novel. His sexual and ethnic identities merge as one as the anger at modern British society explodes into two days of carnage, which involves the blowing up of a police station and other political, sexual crimes. He represents a reaction to modern Western ideology, morality and social conditioning and as such is an antihero in a very extreme sense. One might say, he is almost ‘over the top’, over indulgent, over bearing in his philosophy.
This analysis is a study into the very essence of the human psyche. The dark side, if you will, as told by the serial killer himself. A breakdown of the mindset of the Black racist… perhaps? It may be a quite disturbing and (dare I say) funny read, but do not be alarmed by the content. One has to think and write like the killer in order to dissect the inner workings of the madness. I must admit, it was an extremely involving task breaking down the mind of the psychopath, but I hope I have done that task justice.
Extensive research was carried out into the methodology, practice and ideology of my central nameless character. He remains nameless, as a personal label would have detracted from the storyscape. Is it him talking, or is it your inner demons? Who is the real narrator? Do you cheer the antihero, or do you loathe him? These questions will only be answered by the reader, the narrator, yourself. 
This is the first draft of my novel, so there is probably room for improvements and expansion. Unfortunately, due to the extremely sensitive nature of the work, this novel has been pretty much banned by the British literary establishment. No publisher in the UK will touch or even discuss the novel. I have therefore decided to post this to the newsgroups to get some feedback and dialog with the reading masses. To get in touch, in linkage (if you will) with the dynamical diverse societies that exist in Europe, America and the rest of the English speaking world. Your analysis of my work is really important, not just for me, but the greater writing community as a whole. I look forward to hearing from you all. 
Ok, I hope you enjoy the read. If you are a reader interested in the psychological framework I was working from, or a publisher interested in further work, you can contact me by email at d.udaiyan@ntlworld.com . Hope to hear from you all soon.


Heading Home?

Fucking pigs. They just drive me round the fucking bend. Jumped up little fascists in their wanky excuse for a uniform. These cunts don’t have the educational ability, the gumption if you will, to know shit about shit. These people started off in school as racist bullies and graduated to the boys in blue and I mean boys. The so called humans who try to pass off as your average female pig are like Thatcher or any female Tory cunt - you have to act like a bastard in order to be part of the twat crowd… if you know what I mean. Don’t get me started on the coconut boys in blue, black on the outside white on the inside. These are the Uncle Toms of the 21st century.
Why does anyone want to be a pig anyway? You need to sit quietly somewhere and ponder this point (usually when one’s on the third pint). These cunts were obviously abused as kids, had no control over their life of ‘one sexual assault after another’ (yeah baby); and are now taking it out on the dispossessed, the ‘have-nots’ of this world. Stopping any niggers for the hell of it. Why? Because they think they feel superior. Well guess what pig, you’re not! WE GAVE YOU SLAGS A BLOODY GOOD HIDING AT BRIXTON!!! Jesus christ I’m pissed… 
This is the time when I grit my teeth really hard, drawing blood, spasmodic shivering takes over and I simply think: someone’s got to die. Who you ask? Them… anyone worth their salt knows who I’m taking about - and if you don’t know by now you never will. It’s just basic fucking human common sense, doesn’t matter what cuntry you’re in, the same enemies exists. If I’m in Northern Island I’d be in the IRA, in Spain it has to be ETA, Peru: Shining-Path of course, Israel: The one and only PLO… lets hear those wolf whistles… He He He. It’s all about justice and giving the ‘oppressors’ what they deserve: a jolly good spanking. Like on radio this morning - some bombing in Madrid? All the cunts calling for ‘peace’, rallying around with the Prime Fucking minister. These middleclass motherfucker, Spanish Tory scumbags trying to be reasonable… now!?! You had fucking 30 years to be reasonable and stop persecuting the Basques. But now when their putting bombs up your arse you finally decide you want peace… one phrase for you that I feel truly applies in this situation: COCK OFF!! Hey, now we’re on the subject of the fucking Dago bastards… heard that they were getting a tad pissed off at the ‘invasion’ of North African immigrants. Jeesus give me a break, those darky Spaniards are fucking 2 minutes in a microwave from coons themselves. Yeah, just like all those darky racist Arabs... fucking straight up sand niggers if you ask me. Don’t get me started on them…
God I’m drifting now… anyway back to the pigs…They’re even worse than bouncers. Stick them in a dark suit and they think they can run your whole life. These people will never amount to much that’s why killing them will be no drain on the gene pool. A single bullet to the head is what’s required. The Libyans had the right idea, Yvonne Fletcher bang bang bang… He He He.... if I could get away with it of course… Winston Silcott style… Wait a minute, wasn’t he innocent? Hmm…
	‘Sorry what were you saying…’
‘I was just saying what a job the police have to do… especially afta Lawrence inquiry... can’t stop and search any more, crime rocketing in London … nearly mugged the other day you na.’
	Found myself on the N97 talking to some Italian wanker about the state of British crime. (If he had his way we’d all be buttfucking Mussolini. Italian… shitalian more like… just like my cock neighbours - more of them later.) As per usual, when one’s plastered after a ‘good night out?’ you inevitable get into conversation with a twat - usually from some crappy European cuntry. I’m not racist, don’t get me wrong (… well actually), but I’ve never met a bigger bunch of nobheads than your average Euro-cunt. You know who you are: the French (notorious garlic reeking smelly fascists), Italians (plain old perverts), Greeks (arrogant bisexual cunts - the Turks need to take over again and put you back in your ‘kin place), and various others… 
Your average Euro-twat has to be one of the biggest scumfucker on the face off this planet, but at least they’re not quite as bad as the kangaroo shagging Aussies and their soul mates the boring kiwi’s. Whenever I see an Aussie I always think on this one stat: more Abo’s died in Aussie jails than black people did in South African jails, at the height of apartheid… and there’s no ‘abo’s in neighbours’ ...He He He. Yea Aussies, biggest ‘kin racist homophobes in the world, not to mention sheep shaggers.
White America though, is in a fucking different class by far. I wouldn’t even characterise them as humans. I’ll rant about those bastards later I think... just too bored listening to ‘the shit’. He looks like a fucking twat too… the goatie, the slick back hair, the way he eyes out all the birds that come onto the bus and tries to ‘make conversation’ with his arrogant thick shitalian accent. Worst accent in the world (or the best if you actually want to sound like a twat). His clothes are crap as well, you can tell a ‘Euroshit’ a mile off by the multicoloured excuses for rags they put on… Haven’t you ever heard of fucking humility mate… we don’t want to see your fucking arse half way down the street… through thick fog. You’re like a fucking lighthouse pal, announcing to the world: ‘Here I am, kick my pissing teeth in please…’ He He He... Oh God… it’s all getting too much. Anyway, back to polite conversation mode. I’m brilliant at this. If people knew what I was really thinking I’d be fucked (hopefully up the arse… yum yum). 
‘Oh yeah… the state of crime in London is absolutely terrible isn’t it. The police… can’t live with them, can’t live without them.’
‘… sorry?’ Twat. Stroking his facial hair as if he was some sort of fucking philosopher or something. Yeah… he was talking a tad louder now to impress (or just get the attention of) the nighclubby chick who just boarded the night-bus - sad bastard. This guy was making me want to puke, hopefully right over his pathetic arse.

Ok, just been nightclubbing (after getting the old test results). 3 am, not pulled (as per usual). Been driven to go and ‘do’ the local Soho action. Now having to face this nob-head on the way home. If you can call a bedsit in Earl’s Court ‘home’. 
‘... Oh nothing.’ Decided to stroke my semi-stubble in unison with the cunt… showing a bit of gay-boy solidarity with the shitalian philosopher masters of old. 
‘Where are you from by the way?’ What do you want, my whole ‘kin life story now? Do you actually give a dog’s bollocks son? Who the fuck are you anyway? Listen pal, why don’t we just stop the charade; I’ll piss off and you can get down to more sad eyeing up of the party chick. (This bird was your typical 14 year old slapper who just went to a nightclub… shagged a tosser in the toilets no doubt, and is now going home early as she has the morning shift at the checkout tomorrow.) This whole fucking thing is fucked up. 
(Politeness mode on.) ‘… Nowhere special. Anyway, this is my stop… I’ll catch you later… cunt (whisper)’. The drunkard slag gave a grunt and a nod of recognition, didn’t notice my parting remark though… nice. 
Anyway… why is it, that I (me myself and I) always attract the shitty weirdo’s. The care in the community types, crack heads… or the bogus eastern European refugees with their salam walaikum’s… pretending to be Muslims. Just because some blokes don’t shave for a few days they think they can pull that crap off. Expecting me to say ‘Oh here you go brother/sister…’ Arrrggg… give me a break. Must admit though, I do have more time for the average Muslim than most. Probably because they have a greater sense of justice than your average wishy-washy Christian, you know blowing up the old American embassies and stuff. 
Surprising thing really, is that the Islamic world is in such piss poor shape. I mean, their supposed ‘holy-land’ is run by the biggest bunch of corrupt, drunkard gambling womanising bastards the world will ever see. (Hey! They sound like my kind of people... He He He. Fatwa’s are being issued as I speak.) No but seriously, Saudi’s kings, Princes and the rest of the spongers really do need to be ‘taken out’. Yep… If the Muslim world had any guts, these cunts would be blown up in the next car bomb manufactured in Afghanistan. It’s all so obvious it’s insane - and I’m mad for it I am. Yeah… but the thing that really winds me up something chronic is that the Arabs (the so-called Muslim brothers) are well fucking racist against your average ‘non-Arab’ type. You know… the usual thing: ‘people with darker skin’. What’s that all about? The sand niggers should show some solidarity. It’s almost as insane as the brother’s thinking that the devil race is the jews… sheah right… keep taking the acid mate. It’s the whole ‘kin white race that’s the satan kin. He He He. The whole crapping world is screwed up if you ask me.
Ahh well, wandered off again… how did I get here? Can’t remember and frankly don’t care. All I know is that it’s another wasted night, midweek as well. Your basic problem is this mate: there are too many fucking materialists out there, which’s why the only honest bird is a pro - at least you know where you stand. You know exactly what I mean. Spent fucking at least a tenner buying drinks for a girl, then they don’t even get you one when it’s their fucking round. If they’re not prepared to buy a fucking drink (for crying out loud) how do you expect to get a decent shag from these selfish shits. Well… that’s my philosophy anyway. Probably being too harsh, but can’t stand scroungers. 

Tonight’s (last night’s) summary was as follows. Started at about 6 ish after work, had some pints with the lads (not the work tossers, but ‘old friends’ - more on them later, if I can be arsed). Then the sad fuckers had to leave by about 9 ish (wives and families to go to). More wasted lives. This just left me wanting more beer and (by that time in the evening) obviously wanting ‘to pull’. Thus, I went up town, tried it on, crashed and burned, and had to go for the emergency baby-fat build up relief with the French ‘model upstairs’. Promised to meet the cunt later today… But anyway, the circle is complete and I stink of spunk. Time for bed... and another wank… perhaps?


Work?

‘ YOUR LATE AGAIN!’
Sharif the boss… total twat meister. The middle class Indian fuckwit who thinks he’s superior to everyone else. Tried to study to be a doctor or lawyer but soon found out that he’s ‘way too thick by far’. Always the same scenario, went to some crappy pseudo University like Westminster or Hertfordshire (Hatfield Poly for people in the know), then had the usual arranged marriage and now works in a dead end job as a bank manager at 35. I’m going places mate… this is just a stopgap. I’ll be out of here by next year working a proper job, not some nine to five craporama where the pay is pants. Just need the 1 years experience and then I’m contracting out mate. 
So what do I do exactly? Well… ‘IT’… whatever the fuck that is? All I do is maintain the bank’s customer database, which involves little or no work (I’m in my total element here). IT… shIT more like. Anyway, better answer the cunt.
 ‘Oh sorry… the tube wasn’t on time again, so I had to get a bus… yeah I know… silly really.’
‘That’s the third time this month.’ (Calming down a tad more). ‘You really should try to leave more earlier.’ (Patronising tone is in full effect). ‘You’re making me look bad’ (Not too difficult son). ‘You need to pull your socks up.’ (Jesus wept ... and then I clubbed him to death… and raped his corpse - is that going a bit too far?).
Time to palm this wanker off. ‘Yeah sorry, won’t happen again…’ Pulled the sad sorry look that all good bullshitters learn to master at an early age.

Anyhow, This bloke thinks he’s all righteous, with his 4 kids and dotting wife, probably has a white mistress as well… looks the type. There’s always something dodgy about someone who greases their hair back, like an Indian Robert DeNiro. Sorry pal, doesn’t quite work. Doesn’t quite work at all…
Let’s just pause for a minute and describe the inner workings of this twat. He’s got a semi in Southhall, and leads a totally middle of the road existence (can’t emphasise that enough). Like most twats he tries to act like a bigshot businessman. Got an arrogant patronising view of everyone under him (though I wouldn’t want to be under that fat bastard too long). Anyone who’s his superior is treated like his best bottom pal of course. He’s the sort of wanker you’d just want to punch out before he’d opened his big mouth. I really think I’m psychic, I can tell if you’re a cunt in 5 minutes without even hearing the bile issued from your cack hole. Uri Gellar bend your nob out. Twisted spoons? Amateur stuff. Only the truly spiritual adept can suss out the enemy from 50 yards. I mean, even the suit the cunt is wearing spells shite. (To be honest though, anyone in a suit has to be a tad dodgy in my book.) This is the sort of nob-head that still wears his tie in the pub three hours after work has finished, and he drinks half-pints.
Ok, Ok, brief description. I’m sure you’re all dying to hear this. Sharif’s got the cunt suit on, i.e. the banker’s stripy trousers and jacket, the bright yellow patterned tie (just trying to tell you that he too has a personality, honest he does) and the pig issued black shoes (probably polished by his spunk). Pocked-marked face, little round glasses, beer belly, even though he drinks like a girl, and ‘clean shaven’ with 9am shadow. (By the way, shaving is completely unnatural, but don’t get me started on that subject.) Greasy skin that gets even more greased up during the day until it’s a bright sheen by 5pm. Probably uses it as frying oil for the missus to cook up some samosas… Oh! Nearly forgot… he’s balding too. Why is it, that all cunt managers, or humans for that matter who are bald, are complete tossers?!? Probably too much testosterone flowing around their semen filled brains. Pumping out aggression and anal behaviour at every turn (of their cocks). 
But check this out, what really gets me is the strong smell of aftershave, deodorant whatever the fuck it is (probably pheromone spray) to cover up his (dare I say) body odour? Simple solution mate, just have a shower: soap and water, can’t be too difficult to work out… or maybe you just do it to wind us all up. Essence of curry, l’eau de curry powder… not quite sure what it is.

He was born in India/Pakistan/Bradford, which explains a lot. There’s the hint of an ‘accent’ that he tries to cover up with a 30’s BBC, Queen’s English, Radio 4 commentary type voice over… totally fake. Nothing against Indians, it’s just: how can anyone believe in that crappy caste system. The shits who seriously stick to it are in my book: big time uncle toms. What they need to do in India is for all the untouchables to get together (maybe over a few beers) and then indulge in a few ceremonial massacres of the ‘kin Brahmins or whatever they’re called… yep that should do the trick… 
In summary mate, you’re a slimy piece of shit with (icing on the curry cake) the charm of Prince fucking Naseem (princess more like… fucking poof). The guy’s the Sai Baba of the banking world, a complete charlatan.
‘Ok then, go to work.’ As he returned to the shite on his desk (one piece of scribbled paper… which he catches his spunk on), I just wanted to pull the gun out and blow that fuckers head off. Dead, soo dead. You know it. 
Plodded out of the cant’s office, if you can call it an office. Like the anal twat he is, the whole place is fucking spotless; like it’s never been used. No piles of paper, no rubbish, just spic and spam boresville, run of the mill air-conditioned hell. You can tell the mark of the man by the books on the selves. It’s all MBA this and management that. This kant has no idea about culture (not that I’m a cultural fascist or anything, but at least have a novel on the shelf). Think I may have seen one once, a trashy Mills and Boon type bog roll, and that’s that. He also has a few pot plants on the shelf as if he gives a fuck about the environment. (Trying to impress the birds no doubt).
For the homely touch he has a few pictures of his family, including one annoying pic of his little shit of a fat bastard son receiving some school prize (probably for sucking teacher’s nob). Looking at that photo makes me think: like father like son. He’s probably an arrogant, ‘hand’s up in the air first’, packed lunch eating bastard. We’ve all met these cunts at school: ‘Oh... my daddy’s a banker,’ 
‘What?… your dad’s a wanker?… no… you said it, don’t take it back now!?!’ Ahh… happy days. 

Closed the cunt’s door and entered into the open plan nightmare of our office (orifice). Got a rousing reception of ‘WAAARRRGHGHGH!!!’ from my esteemed colleagues (more of them later… I’m too pissed off by far). Mumbled some gibberish and headed back to my desk. It’s a properly used one as well. Slow crappy PC on top (at least it’s not a shitty Mac (fac)), papers stream ‘kin everywhere, bin full of junk mail, shit, traces of Bolivian nasal dust… etc. Some good toilet reading novels in the top draw, you know the type: collected speeches of Malcolm X, story of the Panthers, FHM glorified wank mag, etc. The political shit, though, always gets me riled up during my lunchtime, irritable bowel syndrome, induced dump. Loved to be in America in the 60’s, less talking more shooting. Too black too strong.  Ahh… rambling as usual… back to work I fear, or at least the pretence of doing work… hmm. Surf some porn I think…


Lunch break… dump break

Arrggg… Finished the morning shift… feel like total crap. Drank wa-aay too much last night, and now I’m starting to get ‘the stomach pains’ which inevitably end up in the runs. You know: the sort of sharp stabbing pains in the lower abdomen which builds up during the day, until you eat a packet of crisps at 12, and then you just have to go. Trapped wind a go go. You daren’t fart lest there’s massive follow through, if you know what I mean. Unfortunately for me, I went, but due to the lack of fibre in my diet (as my mum says) it was as hard as rocks. Nearly shat me ring piece off. There’s always one turd that doesn’t want to come out to play. You can feel it half way down your rectum, peeking its tiny head out from your arse. Try to push harder though and it just stays there, clinging on to the sides in sheer terror. When it finally does drop there’s a follow up turd waiting in the wings, and then another and another… The only way this recurring nightmare can be brought to a halt is by making the final sacrifice. You surrender, give up to the wipe so to speak, knowing that you will suffer the consequences of shitting yourself when you ride your bike home as the loose turd breaks free.
For the final insult, as I was squeezing the supposed ‘last man out’, it broke in two leaving me with a 10 minute wipedown. My arse is all haemorrhoided up. Can feel it thought the tissue paper. Lots of bumps and humps around the ring piece. Drops of blood mixed with shit are visible when I glance at the bogroll (ok, just to see how many more wipedowns are needed - and because it turns me on). I eventually have to gob on the bogroll and use the saliva soaked paper to give my arse a thorough, but not quite so painful, cleaning (ethnic cleansing I call it). It’s the final resort I’m afraid (and only used in emergencies when the anal pain gets too much). Now I know what it means to be gay… (wait a minute, I am as fucking bent as a 3 pound Deutchmark). Spent the next five minutes applying some emergency germolene. [Advertising mode on]. Brilliant invention as it’s not just an antiseptic but an anaesthetic as well - usually have it in the back pocket and whip it out when needed… usually to ease my bum hole into touch (of some cunt’s nob).  
The pain is rapidly subsiding as I head off to the canteen. Don’t usually do this for lunch… I prefer to disappear onto ’the common’ for an hours walk and philosophising. This time, however, my long dump cut into my quality time. Did I really spend 40 minutes in the bog?!? No one noticed… He He He… victory is mine.
‘You look a bit rough.’ A shrill girl’s voice spewed out.
Not as rough as you. Sally, from one of the many cashier points, was a right fat slapper. Always trying to get into any bloke’s pants. Desperate. She had big tits but that’s about it really. The rest of her was totally gross. (She’s from Yorkshire as well, which speaks volumes: Yorkshire? Yorkshite more like… or should that be TorkShite?). She had the usual spotty face, full of puss filled white-heads on the lower chin. The sort of spots you don’t want to be near when they inevitably burst: ’It’s raining milk… hang on a mo? That’s not milk?!?’ Quick question… why is it that chunky people are also soo zitty… too much chocolate and lard I fear. 
I don’t know where she buys her clothes from, Oxfam perhaps? Girls can get away with wearing what the fuck they want in the office. It’s a good thing in some respects (for leches like me). Blokes on the other hand are burdened, chained, screwed, to wearing dull personality killing suits. Anyway, in this particular case, she was wearing a crappy V-neck jumper, just so we could all get a peek at her tits. (‘Kin flirt loves the attention but doesn’t realise we take the piss.) She also had a semi-tight skirt on (ok, it would’ve been baggy if she was 3 stones lighter at her normal height/weight ratio thingy). Yes my son, folds within folds within folds I’m afraid. 
Ok… ok… confession time now, I have had a few ‘ones off the wrist’ thinking about getting it on with a fat bird. Being tit fucked, pumping my stiffy into the folds of skin between her belly and minge, bouncing up and down on her waterbed-like body… yeah… yeah… it’s gone all blurry. Anyway, back to fat Sal, personality wise she was dire. Another cunt with a superiority complex. Just because I have standards and pulled away (or should I say squirmed) as she tried to snog me at the Xmas party, she’s now got it in for me. 
‘I said… You look a bit rough.’ Hmm… better answer the bint.
‘Not feeling too well I’m afraid… think I may be cuming down with a cold… arrg.’
‘More drunken shananigans… more like.’ Cunt. Her smile was slowly turning into a snarl.
‘Yeah… whatever… [whisper] (you didn’t get any last night then).’ As usual, the enemy didn’t notice the ‘whisper remark’.

Anyway, I find your best bet is to ignore these sort of people. They have such non-lives that they have to interfere with everyone else’s. Or is it they want to be the center of attention? Either way, ignoring them really winds them up without being overtly nasty (which can be bad if you’re trying to pull her best friend… Rita). Not bad is our Rita, a lot thinner, well, thin really. Not so big tits but you don’t want them too large. It really winds up Sally due to the fact that Rita’s Indian, and fat Sal thinks I’m a tad racist against white people… who me? Don’t mind shagging white birds, but I actually prefer my girls to be black, a lot fitter by far. Well, as part of the whole windup routine I always say things like... ’wow! she’s quite nice’ whenever a black or oriental bit of skirt walks past. It really gets her going. Isn’t reverse racism great… He He He. No… but seriously, black birds may be fit… but boy do they have an attitude problem. They think they’re ‘all that’ but in reality they’re well full of crap. The sort of niggers they eventually attract (with their wide boy cunt personalities) treat them like the shits they are. Fully deserved me thinks.
	Anyway, Sal was sitting next to Rita in the work canteen, so I had to sit opposite them after getting some sort of gunk which passes for lunch in this establishment. [Satan mode on.] 
‘Ahh so how’s it going.’ Eyeing up Rita and trying not to look at Lardy gritting her teeth. 
‘Fine thanks…’ 
Such a sweet smile. I can just imagine myself cuming all over her face. Bits of pubes caught in between her teeth, choking on it… yeah baby, do it… uh… uh…
‘Ah that’s nice…’ Trying not to crack up too much. That’s one of my main problems, whenever I’m talking to a bird I think about all the ways I can get her to swallow; and then reality hits me and I start laughing. Really embarrassing at funerals, job interviews etc… ‘Sorry you dad just died? That’s a real tragedy…’ mustn’t laugh out loud now… arggg. He He He. No but seriously, such of a sweet smile and a pretty fit body as well. Of course most of your Indian/oriental type birds are as fit as shit, pert breasts, slim body with a small arse, cute faces, long hair (won’t go into my hair fetish just yet). Rita was particularly cute, with a pear shaped face, roundish eyes and a faint trace of soft facial hair that Indian girls have (but I don’t mind that - just means she has to scrape the spunk out more thoroughly). Her dress sense is good as well. She mostly wears tight dark tops hugging her body and quite tight skirts. Very nice, not too in your face, but just enough of a hint of sexuality to make the juices flow (well, go into production mode at least). She’s a bit on the small side, 5 foot nothing, but that doesn’t matter when one’s horizontal, or if she’s on her knees sucking my nob. Yeah, put those fleshy lips around it baby.
Ok continuing with the conversation/chat up. ‘You’re looking well… Rita’ Pulled a cheesy smile. My eyes were completely transfixed on hers, but I could just make out Sal pulling a face (like a fat cunt who’s been spurned for the umpteenth time…) 
‘Thank you…’ Her eyes pulled away this time, looking at the puke she was trying not so expertly to gobble down. Doing the old: I’m too shy routine, well at least she’s making an effort. 
‘Erm… by the way… on Monday we’re having a bit of a drinks do’ (did the finger pointing thing) ‘at work… Are you?…’
‘Yes, I can make it…’ (She answered a tad too quickly… can’t be seen to be too desperate now dear…) ’Err, I may be a bit late though…’ Ahh good recovery… cunt.
‘Have you heard the news?’ Fatty butted in to our age of innocence banter (or should that be virgin slag talk). She was trying to suppress a smile, Very suspicious… 
‘The police arrested a black man… Rastafarian I think… well anyway he died in police custody… Hammersmith nick’. It was her turn to do some winding up. I mean, people can be such fake actors when they want to be. She was pulling that childish sad puppy dog (hound more like) face… lips touching the chin… but at the corner I could just make out her chunky lips raising to a smile. I thought I was evil.  
‘Hmm… I don’t think the police are to blame though.’ (What!?!) ‘I mean he probably died of drugs or something. Doesn’t surprise me really, they are mostly criminals aren’t they?’
‘Hmm quite.’ Cunt. As an actor Sal was shite. She was now trying to look genuinely concerned, like most white racists. [Putting on a Yorkshire accent] She’s a Yorkshire women through and through and they don’t like their neighbours too dark down there. It’s basically your typical northern toss monkey mentality, ask Lee Boywer and the rest of those Leeds wankers - they’re going to get there’s big time. Highbury, my friends, are going to give you a great Gunner’s welcome, I guarantee you. By the way, good on the Galatasaray boys for cutting up your nazi fans a treat; I salute you comrades. You must admit it though reader… most Leed’s fan are paid up members of the BNP (Big Noncy Poofs, that is). Come on now… don’t deny it… You know it makes sense. 


Winding (me) up?

After an hour of idle shit-chat, trying to ignore the walrus’s ‘biting commentary’ while at the same time scoring brownie points with young Rita, I decided to go back to work. Or should I say the pretence of work. The trick of mastering the whole job scenario shit, is actually looking like you’re doing stuff without actually doing anything. For instance, staring at the computer monitor with a sort of puzzled look on you face can kill hours with the appropriate keyboard typing at various times. Another good one is to have the dodgy porn page (usually mixed wrestling) up in the background and ‘alt-tabbing’ between that and the fake spreadsheet package. Hey, I’ll tell you about the whole office/orifice layout later; show you how I can get up to the evil that I do. 
By the way, as you’ve probably guessed by now, I seem to have a mad sexual/racial stream of consciousness word association type thingy. Mention office and I think of orifice, mention Sarah Payne and I think: wahay! Now, now child. Don’t worry reader… you’ll get used to it… you sick monkeys.
Anyway, getting back to it… the internet’s a great invention. All types of porno-crap you desire is there, even if you don’t want it. Look up ‘Ford Escort’ (the car that is… don’t ask) and you get 100’s of websites about escorts and hostess bars etc… which of course, one just has to view, only briefly. That’s the main problem though, once you pop, you can’t stop. After perusing the internet for a few years I’m into mixed wrestling and other various bizarre bondage themes: smothering, face sitting, cacrophilia, water-sports, strangulation, ball busting/kicking, girls banging guys, even tickling… There’s loads of Jap sites on the subject (hey, I thought I was the only one, but there’s a whole fucking island full of them?!?) 

Emailed a pro a while back who specialises in mixed wrestling and we’ve agreed to meet up at her exclusive London apartment (come boxing-ring) next week. Should be good stuff. I’m getting a semi-hard on just thinking about it. Only £150 for a half hour’s period of mixing it up: ‘Let’s get ready to rumble!!’ Excellente. The internet is a great work killer though. If it wasn’t there, I’m not sure what I’d do? Fantasise over Sally perhaps? Naaahhh. Anyway, Sharif is non-the wiser because he just doesn’t have a clue. ‘Can you give me an estimate of how long this will take?’ ‘Oh… a few hours…’ (5 minutes work and 2 hours of dossing/tossing about). I should get an Oscar. 
	
After another non-productive day of filth-googling, I’ve decided to go home. I’ve been ‘kin clock watching since 4pm, now it’s 5:15pm and I’m slowly winding it all up. That is, I’ve been stacking my papers together, sharpening pencils, changing the ink cartridges in various pens, adjusting my nuts: which is also a good excuse for having a nano-second stroke. 
Printing out a few documents with some porn interspersed in the pages is always a good thing. Makes it look like you’re taking the office work home - which in a sense you are, if you’re just downloading all day. 
Ahh, I need a waz. (Sorry about that, just slipped out, your Honour.) Anywaz, I think I’ll go out clubbing again tonight. Not the usual type this time, I think I’ll make it more interesting. Clubbing in the literal sense. It’s about time the pigs got another bloody good hiding; and after getting the old test results, I’ve decided that someone’s got to suffer. Well… I’ve actually been quite peeved off generally these last few weeks, ever since I got that rash downstairs. I’ve said too much. Anyway, off for some real work.


The Real Work

Bought a gun early this week. That’s a bit of a shock isn’t it? Or maybe not… Bit of background. Got it from a dodgy geezer in the ‘Rat and Parrot’ (shyeah I know it’s a theme pub and nearly as bad as a wine bar… but there you go). Theme pubs… pile of wank, especially the fake Irish ones. The only true ‘Oirish pubs’ are the sort which have the blokes coming around saying: ‘Money for the boys?’ I always give generously, another nail in the coffin of British imperialism suits me fine. But anyway, back to the pub. This particular one used to be quite nice. Lots of comfy old sofas in which you’d find old shilling coins and scraps of paper with telephone numbers on (lots of fun had with them). You couldn’t quite tell what colour the carpet used to look like, but that just added to the whole decor/ambience. The walls had ancient pictures and photos of people, previous landlords and customers from the past 50 years. The geezers looked almost interesting, the sort of cunts you may have had a conversation with - after a few pints, but then ignore completely if you happen to see them again in the street the next day. 
So, what happened to this nice place? What exactly killed it off? Who destroyed its very soul essence I hear you ask? Answer: basically it was taken over and renamed ‘The rat and Parrot.’ (I thank yew, I thank yew… applause from the back of the auditorium) Arrggg!?! Why exactly did the cunts do this? Well… the place had too much history, too stuffy, too nostalgic, too homey. How can we revamp it for the 90’s? I know, let’s rip-up the carpet, remove the sofas and take down the pictures and replace them with hard wooden varnished floors, school type metallic work chairs and mirrors all over the walls. Let’s also put some high, small circular tables in, with some high seats to get that wine bar feel. OK, the old landlord has to leave and we’ll replace him with a bunch of 20 year old South African Boer wankers who can’t even get a fucking order of a pint and crisps right. Yep, that should do the trick. Oh nearly forgot, price of a pint raises by 70p to £2.80.
	Hardly come down here anymore. All the old clientele have changed to 30 something media types. Some fit birds, mind, but they won’t give you the time of day… way too snobby by far. I prefer the older pub tart/divorcee about 30-40 ish, gets pissed every night and you have a pretty good chance of poking her at the end of the evening. These new birds look good, but they’re always accompanied by their banker (wanker) boyfriends or lesbo pals. By the way, they’re always called Natalie or Ellie, blah blah etc… They all went to some private all girls finishing school and all without a doubt would not dream of having a big black cock rammed up their arse… He He He. Frankly, that’s what they ‘kin need. It’s the cure to their no-life induced social disease called BCB: ‘Being a white middle Class Bitch’, Latin name: Taras Parkas Tomlincumous. The big black mambo inside them will truly be an enlightening experience, I feel. 
OK, back to the story. So there I was in the pub drinking away (as one does when one has no mates) when I hear these two guys ‘larging it up big style’. Talking, so at least 3 tables nearby could listen to their shite (… or to confirm they’re shite). Anyway, the conversation was something to do with noisy neighbours, or an overdue gas bill… loads of bollocks basically.
‘Yeah this is what you should do right… jast go in there mate and kneecap the facker… that’s what I’d do…’. Small little oik with the obligatory East London criminal accent… probably born and brought up in Cheshire. 
‘Listen maan... ya caan’t jast ga daawn eh booyaka them caant’s… patience maaan.’ Big black guy with the accent thicker than most West Indians. Probably born in Portsmouth, went to boarding school in Bracknell and now works as Librarian.
	Anyway, don’t know why I got into the conversation, probably the drink… boredom of the whole situation… football just finishing, not many birds about… 
‘So can you get your hands on guns then?’ That’s the thing about black guys talking about guns, gets everyone nervous, including ‘the brother’. Just like in the 60’s when the Panthers decided it’s every brothers right to bear arms. The pigs, white establishment, powers that be couldn’t stand it and so: ‘some niggers had to die’ - state murder. Well it’s about time the citizens of the state meated-out some justice of their own.
‘Sorry mate?’ White hog-boy looking like Ron Goldman before the stabbing started.
‘Guns… I waaant to buy saaame…’ Putting on a deep drug dealing yardie voice. Giving the cunts a wide-eyed stare, and the trace of the mentalist’s grin. They were beginning to look at tad worried now, is he a pig or is he for real? Is he a dealer? (I did look a bit rough at the time; I was in the pub since work and I had the crappy suit on). ‘… So whaat about it… or are you guys talking out of your ‘kin arse!?!…’ Dribbled a bit when I said arse… nice touch… Well actually I was thinking about bum raping ‘the Hog’  (Squeal like a pig, boy… squeal like a pig!) 
‘Ok mate’, the oik spoke out, ‘550 quid buys you a Luger.’ Puzzled look on the black guy’s face saying: where the fuck are you going to get a Luger from? This nigger’s definitely a librarian. He’s putting on the accent, which we all do at times like this. Makes you sound like you’ve been born and bred in a Jamaican dance hall. The ragga scene, firing your guns in the air, throwing acid in some cunt’s face: whoops, sorry wrong bloke… he’ll be Mr Patchy for the rest of his sad life, unless he gets some plastic surgery in (Jackson style). He He He. This guy was a total pussy boy. The cockney shite’s had a smug look on his face, edgily shifting around in his seat and glancing around now and then like a naughty schoolboy… who’s just cum in his pants… What?!? Don’t tell me you haven’t experienced that, you lying toads.
Ok, back to the plot… if I ever find it. Well… actually, I might as well give you a semi-description before I continue on. Just to paint a fuller picture, and all that sort of stuff. Both of the ‘wide boys’ had some cheap casual tracksuits on, the shiny satin-like poof type. The clones also had the white trainers on (Nike, Adidas, Tesco?) which meant they obviously had no individual personalities (or personalities at all, for that matter). Both of course had the short-cropped skinhead-like haircuts: brushed forwards in the case of the cockney and ridiculously shaved with some cunt’s name in the back (the so-called brother). A couple of earrings all added up to a complete portrait of a pair of twats.
‘Ok then, just tell me where and when?’ The formalities were sorted out, you know the usual back of the bike-shed stuff (in other words, an obscure dock somewhere in East London drawn on a pub napkin, a mobile phone number and a name: Izzy…).


Cock-Lands

Left work early that time (Tuesday), managed to sneak out at around 5 ish by pulling a puzzled look and saying ‘I’ve just got to do something, I’ll be back later’ (I may be some time). Phoned up Izzy on a payphone, (didn’t want the cunt knowing my mobile number) and we agreed to meet in the docklands opposite Blah de Blah street. Love to tell you the exact place but I’m afraid I may get found out. Can’t allow that to happen, unless I enjoy spending the next 10 years getting bum fucked by my cellmate… Hey… that wouldn’t be so bad now, would it?
[Pig mode on] Took a taxi to the said address and waited till the suspect arrived [pig mode off]. 

I’d waited 20 minutes in the rain waiting for some wanker to show up. The docks were a dump, or more to the point a dumping ground of Britain’s illustrious industrial/imperialist past (here here old boy, lets lynch ourselves a pair of fuzzy wuzzies - Telford style). It was full of piles of broken crates, bottles, and the obligatory hobo muttering gibberish to himself. He was probably a highly intelligent philosopher discussing the nature of reality and non-reality… or something like that, but all I could hear was: ‘… gerrof… cunt… ugaghauga…’ some shadow boxing followed by a high pitched scream of, ’… MY COCK MY COCK MY COCK… AARRRGGGggggghhhh.’ The whimpers trailed off into the bottomless cunt of despair as the hobo held his head in his hands and proceeded to have a wank (yep I was talking about his bell end). Hmm… it looked surprisingly small for a white cunt, but I’ll tell you all about that later…
Anyway, it was pissing down with rain, washing the rubbish (crisp packets, needles) through the cracks in the concrete pavement. Could see a few used condoms (Sir Paul) carried away in the stream, probably used by a couple of ‘clients’ getting blow-jobbed by a crack whore (your mum that is). Taken a kitchen knife and a chopper just in case there was no sale (just an exchange of money on my part with the added bonus of a good ‘spanking’). Eventually, an old Ford Cortina pulled up, and an Araby looking bloke got out. 
Bit of a fat bastard… they all are, too much dirty oil money going round in my humble opinion. Give a bunch of low lives a few billion and they start acting like niggers… well sand niggers in this case. Had the slick back hair and designer-stubble goatie (yeah I know… twat). To top it all off he had a naff double-breasted shiny grey spangled suit on. I mean, what is the fucking point?!? Are people just not born with any sense of style? Do wankers get together and plan out how to throw-up their sick fashion statements on the world’s populace. Fucked if I know. OK, you’ve got the picture, cheap looking wheeler dealing Ian ‘Bin Beale type cunt.
‘Hellooo my friend, a small birdy tells me that you want to buy merkshandise…’ (Jesus… straight from the ‘kin kyber pass to your living room.)
‘… errr?… I’m not here to buy drugs mate?’ Arrgg… naïve mode on, should have kept my mouth shut. Just about managed to look like a smart-arsed yuppie… waiting for their first anal rape.
‘Yes I know, we all have our own merkshandise my friend.’ Yep, and you’ve won the DTI’s (Dept. of tossing Irabs) prize for being Mr dodgy of the dodgyrama’s… or should that be Emir dodgy?
‘Ok let’s do it then.’ Trying to look as ‘cracked up’ as possible, to compensate my earlier shiteness - you know the score. Eyes wide open (trying not to blink), head cocked slightly to one side, agitated movement as if one’s dying for a piss. Had the gaunt look as if I’d eaten runny diarrhoeary shite for the last few days (had a Macky Dee burger yesterday which is pretty much the same thing… ‘would you like fries or some slices of BSE arse with that? Have a nice day!’).
Remember, in these situations it’s best to look a bit insane and/or drugged up. I’m not the hardest looking person by any stretch of the imagination (in fact I look like a bank clerk) but if you look a little mental, then no one seems to mess with you. Always works on the tubes. Oh, what’s he going to do next… he’s barking like a dog! Let’s try the next carriage. The funny thing is this though: even the genuinely spacko people don’t sit next to you. If you’re the straightest laced (embroided and cross-stitched) nob-head in the world, the first person to sit/talk/bark/push you under a train or just stab you in the eye (Zeto style) is the local care in the community type. But ‘they’ know and strangely respect their own: the mentalist.
‘Are you ok my friend…’ noticing that I’d just done my insane twitch, ‘Ok no bother, Zaina will you bring the goods.’ A girl of about 12-18 (you can’t tell these days, your honour) came out of the car holding a suitcase. What the fuck’s fat Farooq doing with a bird like this?!? Ok, to be honest she did look about 16 (yeah, I’ve been to the Hippodrome too, when I’m pissed and you do get to be a bit of an expert on such matters). She looked ok as well, they all do when they’re that young. It’s when they get to the mid 20’s-30’s when they start ballooning out. As soon as they drop a sprog it’s game over, unless you’re a supermodel to start off with (then you get to be ‘reasonable’: not too fat, not too thin). Nothing wrong with a fat bird in the right amounts though, as long as your mates don’t find out. 
She (Zaina) was dressed in some tight pussy hugging jeans and had a baggy T-shirt to hide the fact that she was titless, flat, pimple-like in the chest area. A bit zitty round the forehead but she did manage to hide most of it with her hair; good effort all round.
‘Ahh… so… how much for the girl?’ My Coup de Gras.
‘That’s my daughter, my friend.’ A peculiar, pissed off expression crossed his face. The sort of expression in which the whole head goes back a tad, the eyes start rolling around and the eyebrows do a little salsa. The mouth is pursed, expressionless at first and then slowly evolves into a snarl. Not too much of a snarl though, you don’t want to anger the ‘3 pills a day to keep me stable’ man.
‘Shyeah… whatever, how much?’ Waving my hands about as if I didn’t hear, care, or give a shit about what he said; like it’s taken that he’ll be selling up eventually. You probably think I’ve gone to head-case heaven, crowned the mentalist of the new millennium.
‘600 pounds for the gun: Luger, best you can buy - straight from Eastern Europe… untraceable.’ Izzy was beginning to look a bit more wary than usual. I’d also suddenly not become ‘his friend’, oh well… his loss.
‘£600!?! I thought it was only going to be £500?… teyll you wot mate’ [put on the Sauf London accent] ‘… I’ll give you £500 plus another £50 for 10 minutes with the girl…‘
‘What?!?’ The girl, who’s probably done this hundreds of times, was pulling a look of disgust (the one where you lower mouth tries to touch your chin), the virgin look. Virgin my arse, she’s probably had more cock than I’d had hot dinners (maybe not as many hot wanks though). Then again, her slender hands did possess some good wankable bony fingers. The sort that really go far up a cunt while the bonyness adds to that frictional heaven experience (if you’re a girly that is). Anyway I didn’t appreciate that much… so I had to put it on mad time.
‘Caam down, caam down, we don’t have to have full blown sexual relations… she can just suck me off till I cum, Clinton Style. I’ll even try not to cum in her tiny mouth… how’s about that then… eh?’ (Market trader mode to a Tee.) Izzy was beginning to look more panicky. I thought I was being pretty reasonable… but there you go. The girl was exchanging nervous glances with daddy. (I’m the daddy now…) Gave her a quick smile and then stuck my tongue out, wiggled it up and down like a Maori warrior (even tried sticking my eyeballs out of their sockets, as you do). Didn’t bother with the silly dance though. Fucking Kiwi rugby team?… ‘All blacks’ my arse. 
You think I’m crazy? Well… in these cases, if you’re acting mad/hard you have to go the whole hog, otherwise people will just think your talking the talk (like the pub guys). You know it makes sense.
‘Ok… ok… Weary look from Saddam. £520 it is, no sex though.’ I tried to look genuinely disappointed… Actually I was genuinely disappointed, she had a really sweet mouth. As you can tell I’m a bit of a mouth person. I could just imagine it wrapped around my throbbing member, oh… yeah… yeah… Her small hands cupped around my nuts, chin nuzzling, brushing against my pubes… uh… uh, tongue licking and massaging my head… yeah baby do it… While Izzy is sticking his greasy cock up my arse, pumping away… Baby, the pain feels good, hurt me… hurt me (Errmm… stop that now). 
Ahem, sorry about that I appear to have cum all over the laptop (great name that). Quick wipe-down and continue. Done the deal and said my cheery farewells to ‘my friends’ as they sped off in the banger. Wasn’t the last time I’d see these cunts… but more on that when I get to it… 

After all that I got ‘into the mood’, so I started touching myself up, adjusting the ball region if you will. When I’m in the mood, I’m in the mood. A stroker’s got to do what a stroker’s got to do. I was looking for a quiet corner of the docks to have one off the wrist when I decided to give some money to charity, so to speak. 
‘Hello there!’ Parked myself next to the hobo-philosopher who was now relaxing and swigging a whiskey/special-brew/gasoline cocktail from a Tizer bottle (Ok, it could have been just Tizer but you never know). He was an old fellow, about 50ish, thick skanky beard full of insects, lice and other assorted parasites. Naturally, it was matted with spunk. He was crouched in a quieter area of the docks, behind a few crates, which was good in the circumstances. ‘OK… mate, erm… I saw you having a wank half an hour ago…’ 
‘Eh? What’s that sonny? What do you want? He did the mad shuffle, agitated mode on, eyes glancing all over the shop… very good.
‘Erm… I was wondering if you’d, I mean… I’ll give you a tenner if you could… wank me off.’ His face lit up a little, a smile formed between his jungle-like facial hair. There was a mind in there… somewhere. He mumbled 
‘… fucking pervert…’ under his breath, and proceeded to unzip my flies. Victory is mine. I can always spot good material when I see it. One really has to look beyond the physical and to the spiritual side I truly feel, He He He. I stuffed a tenner in his 30 year old unwashed shirt pocket just as he pulled ‘percy’ out.

The thing about being pulled off by a mad homeless person is the erratic unprofessional hand movement that ensues. Basically it’s well jerky (jerkoff). He’s all over the shop, which definitely heightens my enjoyment I can tell you. Nothing quite like sex with a down and out. I prefer crack whores, but one must make do, adapt to each situation. His stubby brown oily fingers (chipfat or spunk?) were really going for it. He’d already pulled the skin right back; which was beginning to hurt like hell when percy became fully erect… Love the pain… love it. The hand was yanking the whole thing like an airplane joystick… in heavy turbulence. Baby this is great… no wonder they call it the cockpit. God this’d been building up for a while… After a few minutes I started doing the queer-boy quivering routine. Time to hit the ejector button…
‘Ahhh… yeah you fucking bastard... do it… ugh… do it… ugh… do it… doooooiiiiittt…  AHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhmmmmm.’
Jesus that was intense. My cock was really sore from the battering. Once it’s shrivelled up and tucked it’s turtle-head back down my pants, things should be back to normal. Yep… panting satisfaction all round. Leaned over towards the hobo as he gave a shrug of acknowledgement. Time for a rest. 
The cunt then started spiteing his life’s story. Mad mode put on hold for a while longer.
‘Used to be a rent boy, in Earl’s court, worked in and around the Coleherne… been a long time… hmm’ Stroking his spunk filled beard like an old fisherman telling us about the time of the ‘shark attack’.
‘Ahh, knew you were an expert,’ (lie)  ‘so… what happened?’
‘Some dirty bastard cut half my dick off during a snuff movie I was in… well didn’t realise it at the time, mind… He He… too high on coke…’
‘Oh! Shit man!’ (I’ll be having a wank about that tonight).
‘Don’t worry son, happened years ago… can still wank with the stub that’s left… lost me livelihood though. The cunts did drop me off at the Chelsea and Westminster… the pigs never did catch them.’
‘ Yeah… always the way… Err… ever considered a sex change?’
‘What?!?’… Like go the whole hog like! Never really thought about it… If anything I can’t afford it… Hmm.’ (Beard stroking once more.) ‘Can I still get it on?’
‘Yep I think so? Apparently they make a cunt out of your remaining stuff… and you can still get turned on… but don’t take my word for it…’
‘Hmm…’ 
‘And it means that you’ll be able to go back to work… which can’t be bad…’ Look of crack whore hope filtered across his shit cacked face. It’s times like this that I think I’m the closest thing on earth to Jesus Christ…
‘Yeah… I would love to be someone’s little girl…’ The cunt had definitely perked up now.
‘Well, I’ll give you my phone number, cum round and I’ll get you kitted out, you can stay at my place, get yourself showered and shaved… yeah baby… you can be my bitch.’ Gave him a peck on his cheek to seal the deal and his future.
‘Ermm… oer… ok then, er… how about tonight then?’
‘Tonight I’m busy, here’s twenty quid, get yourself cleaned up and phone me on Saturday, I’ll sort you out, if you sort me out… Yeah? Ok?’ 

So that’s how I got to know mad George/Georgina; and how our joint snuff movie project got off the ground, but more on that another time.

Ok… back to the present. So there you have it, I bought a handgun and got myself a hand job. Good stuff eh?… Time to go to work me thinks. Wait a minute, nearly forgot… had some calling cards made up as well. Calling cards? What, like the pro’s in phone boxes you mean? ‘Watersports… good O and A level… mature busty blond, new in town? No, no… steady on old chap… I mean like the Chelsea Head-Hunters, the ICF, the Gooners… etc… calling cards you leave after you’ve kicked/cut someone up a treat. My particular catch phase/logo was KTB (Kill The Bill if you must know…). Each card had several messages, which I’ll divulge to you guys later in this pile of trash. Guys you say? I don’t really expect any so called ‘normal birds’ to be reading this… they’ll be pining for their 30 something new girly novelettes that are saturating the market. You know who I mean… Jemima Slaaag, Susie Cockrot… Angie Taarte … and the rest of those tossers with made up names. I’m pretty convinced that it’s just one sweaty publishing exec churning (shitting) it out every 3 months or so. Ok, back to the story… and the next evil chapter.  


The gypo

Anyway (back in the present now…) finished work at around 5:15 pm as usual. As I already said, wasted the last 15 minutes tidying up my desk, stacking papers, rearranging pens and eyeing up Rita. Made a good job of it as well, not being too obvious - like Mr Hannibal Lech and his muff munching escapades. More of the Dangerous Liaison’s furtive glances followed by a quick semi-smile when our eyes met. Nice work. Tried to stop myself getting a full stiffy. There was some action downstairs: Captain Percy trying to poke his head out above the parapet. The whole movement was quickly suppressed by thoughts of the Scottish rugby team: ugly bastards. About as tasty as that other stunner Bill Beaumont, always gets me in the mood, for a dump… He He He. Rugby? As you can tell I’m a footie type of person. Rugby’s for wankers, usually of the middle class queer boy persuasion. Pubic school muthafuckers, working in their cushy bank jobs; and I’m talking merchant banks not the shitty high street jobbies. One of the many good things the boys in the IRA did was bombing the city. Kill a few of those toffs… god I’m getting a stiffy again… no stop that, concentrate on the line out… concentrate on the line out. 
The thing about getting a semi-stiffy is when you do shoot your load it cums out big time… very messy… very messy indeed. To top it all, you think about any and all opportunities to get it out all the time (pro’s, wanks down alleyways… desperate times call for desperate measures). So to stop the whole evening being ruined before I left, I just had a quick waz down the boys (my usual 5.15pm one off the wrist). Best to plan ahead (head?) I think. Well… what good it did… one waz now… then 2 hours down the road the whole kin’ process has to be repeated… and then repeated again… Jesus. Ok, ok… I’m addicted to wanking: king stroker, T-rex tosser, Popey arms… hmm… Olive Oil sucking off Bluto… here we go again.

Anyway, back to the story, I left the office at exactly 5.30. No point in pissing about even if it is for some pussy. Decided to go home and change out of the personality-killing suit. (The going to work and cuming home part is an ordeal in itself… I’ll fully explore that nightmare tomorrow…)

Anyhow… Home… well more of a bedsit really, just next door to a crack house on Warwick road in Earl’s Court. Good area is Earl’s Court. Got a few dealers and pro’s on the main road and a couple of rent boys near to the Coleherne all within walking (wanking) distance. The basic schedule is (barring any fuck-ups): finish at 5.30, get to Earl’s court by 6.30, pick up a pro (7 ish), get smacked around a bit (7.10). Chuck the cunt out and sleep until 8.30, then hit the pubs. Excellente. Didn’t do that today as I’d had my 5.15, but the option was still there if I chose to exercise my right arm of the law… so to speak… He He He. 
Anyway, minding my own business, checking out the usual pro’s and stuff when I saw ‘them’… crossing over the street, heading towards me. Yeah, probably because they can see a sucker in a suit, which could (in an ideal world) be an easy target… who knows eh? Anyway, not got anything against them personally… but still… a cunt’s a cunt wherever you cum from. There were about three of them, all dressed in their multicoloured clothes, with their head covered by ‘the scarves’, carrying three rags which turned out to be babies. One of them looked pretty fit, even with the fluffy padded out uniform, but there you go. One should always see the spiritual side of the person rather than the physical side. After all, it’s the personality that counts… Bollocks… just winding you up reader… The truth is one should always see the potentiality of an ugly cow in the shagability stakes. I can imagine fucking any girl/guy I can think of (even considered having head off John Merrick after watching the elephant man… that was one sweet wank). The catch is this and it applies to everyone, both blokes and birds: ’what would your mates think?’ I mean, you can have the best shag/bondage session in your entire life with some fat/flat cracked up freak called Norma but in the final analysis, when your mates are sinking that last pint of an evening you don’t want to turn up and say: ’Hey! Have you met my girlfriend?’ Followed by you ‘best mate’ saying quietly, whispering faintly under his breath…’ fuck me… it’s a Dalmatian’… Not the done thing really but that doesn’t stop me and my sordid imagination. 
Anyway back to the bird… I just closed my eyes and tried to imagine her naked body… all oiled up smelling of strange exotic spices… and my stale spunk drying, crustating on her face yum… yum… I must play with my willy… I must play with my willy. 

Ok… ok, back to the ramble. I don’t mind giving money, in fact I usually have a few coppers and 10 pence pieces in my back pocket to give to the usual batch of dossers/tossers I meet on the tube/street etc. Sitting on the Piccadilly line between King’s Cross and Earl’s Court has about 3-4 beggars each run. You hardly get them on the other lines (which in my humble opinion are a bit of a joke). Northern line… for fuck’s sake someone sort that pile of shite out: 10 minute delays (wank time for driver), carriages smelling of piss (wait a minute… that’s a tad of a turn on.) 
Ok being serious, if I was your average joe-beggar I wouldn’t be seen dead on the Northern line; even I have principles. And the wankers that travel on it won’t collectively give you a quid for a day’s work… stingy bastards. We all know who they are… the trendy toss monkeys that live in Camden, Tufnell park etc… Yep, the best thing to do when a cunt comes onto the carriage, and starts showing that card saying: Bosnian/Kosovan or any eastern European cuntry you’d like to name, you just wait… patiently, for no one to pay out. Then you get your coppers out (making sure no one sees how much you’re giving) and stare at everyone around you with that look: ‘you should be ashamed of yourself…’ classic. Gets you into all sorts of arguments:
 ‘Why did you give them money?!?… It only encourages them!’ 
‘Maybe I’m just too compassionate…’ or the classic line ‘I believe in giving to people less fortunate then me… where’s all the love gone?’. Very difficult to argue with, and also shows up who the local/immediate Tory nob-head is. You need to keep a track on these people. If there was a hijacking, hostage situation and we had to vote who’d get capped first, it’s best to know who’s who… if you know what I mean.
Anyway, I saw the girls holding out their cards to the local’s (well… most are actually tourists…) as they headed towards me. The cunts knew I had noticed them (so they’d be no pick pocketing tonight mum). I tried hard to keep a straight face as I approached them… with a smirk. As you can tell by now I decided to have some fun. Who can blame me?
‘So… excuse me… ermm… I wus wunderrring if yew‘d lendt me some money… I’m trying to git to Aberdeeeen.’ (Ok, ok… can’t do the accent… but throwing in the Northern town was a genius move if I say so myself.) She (of course I targeted the semi-fit one) looked at me with a quizzical look that morphed into pure anger and a tinge of disbelief, well actually more of a look like: I’ve been begging for the last 10 years, in Paris, Milan, New York… I really don’t have to put up with this shit… I’m a professional mate. She let rip with some Romanian? And marched off. Job well done. Ok, ok I did give 10p to the next sad tart… I’m not too much of a bastard… or am I?    

Fun… fun… fun…

Got home and got changed. Felt a lot better I can tell you. My neck was finally free. The shirt collar was becoming that darkish brown colour, smelt bad also. A quick scrap with a butter knife and then a whiff of Lynx soon sorted it out. (Couldn’t hear the shitalians upstairs, which was good.) Got changed into some beige jeans and a shirt. (Beige jeans you say?… Well they look like trousers so one can get into any place one so desires (if I could afford it and if I wanted to hang around with nob-heads). Ok, ok, I’m not the best-dressed fucker by any stretch of your foreskin-like imagination. I’d rather be in a tank top, tweed jacket with elbow patches (to counteract the carpet burns) and a pair of black trousers (always helps to cover up the piss stains that you perpetrate after a drunkard night about town… doesn’t quite work too well with spunk though…). 
My clothes may well be a tad shite but I do ‘do it’ in style. You always get the usual bunch of sad niggers wearing the Adidas tracksuit, white trainers (how original?) and some gold jewellery. Mate, you look like a 10-year-old kid, you’re crap and you know you are. Anyway, beige jeans are sort of ok… ish. The shirt also helps. If you run out of bog roll you can just wipe your nob on it then tuck it back in. Oh!… What a give away…

	So, I decided to spend the night out sorting out the authorities. They’ve been getting away with so much lately and needed a good spanking. My itinerary for tonight was to do Hammersmith Nick. After that geezer (Rastafaaaari… Jah man) got done in it recently, thought they’d be the perfect target. Was actually going to do the High Street Ken nick… you know, kill two birds with one stone… knock out the cop shop for 6 and take out a few of the local stores and sloane ranger toffs that ‘frequent them’. After second thoughts though, it had to be Hammersmith. Just had to be…
But before I indulged in the darkside I decided I needed a good seeing to by the local pros in Soho. (My 5.15 was beginning to wear off… must’ve been the Romanians). Working girls (or should I say ‘models’) in Soho are the cheapest in London and safest. Of course, I do prefer the streetwalkers in Earl’s Court and King’s Cross, you just can’t beat that crack-whore look, or the skinny heroin slag with the mini skirt. No stockings, just pale shivering legs wrapped around you as you have your trouser down to their ankles, shagging away in a dark damp alleyway or at the bottom of some stairs that lead to an abandoned house. I’m in dirt heaven. The slags in Soho are still pretty good though. Anything goes for about £20 including some dodgy stuff, which I’m getting into more and more. You also have the comfort of a bed and a warm room and no chance of getting busted by the pigs (though that does add to the excitement… doesn’t it?).
	Ok, changed out of the suit as I said. Decided not to have a rest this time, I was already getting the horn big style. Just headed on the tube and went off to Piccadilly Circus… the closest thing to Soho sex central you can find. Walked up a few of the back-streets (as you can tell by now, I’m terrible at remembering names, places… etc…) before I saw my goal. My nirvana… the pinnacle of human civilisation: Raymond’s Revue Bar, with neon lights all over the shop leading me ever onwards. A few dodgy trannies were outside Madame JoJo’s… they were getting me well in the mood… (no no stick to the plan). I nearly went for an ugly skinny old tart who sort of sidled up to me and asked: ‘Do you want some girls…’ Decided against it I’m afraid… too many times I’ve been ripped off by the street hookers in Soho. (Everywhere else they’re sort of ok… just in Soho they get the tourists to hand over the cash and then say ‘…  go to this address where I’ll meet you…’ total bollocks of course. I was tempted though, these are desperate times my friend.)
Anyway, after all that pissing about I’m finally here… ‘French model inside’. The best pros in London are the French, without a doubt, and I’ve tried a few I can tell you. They take their time, have a smile on their face and seem to enjoy their work. Good conversation, massage, maybe a drink afterwards to replenish ones bodily fluids and a see you soon ‘mon cherie’. Not like the ‘so called’ Russian prostitutes (god knows where they dredge these cunts up from). Not a single smile. No emotion. You’d almost think they didn’t want to be there. I’m plugging away and there’s not even any eye contact, and a bored expression! I’m not that bad am I… well actually I am, but they could at least fake it. Or is it most of your Eastern European ex commie types are a bunch of latent nazis? You know, they probably read about black people in a book when they were kids: ‘surely it’s a myth Sasha… ebony skinned men, with extremely long dicks?… no surely you jest?’ Yep, probably can’t stand the pain those Ruskie’s.

	‘Hello love, just go in.’ The door lady. 60ish, plump, still quite do-able even now. Well… I am actually into the older lady. You don’t get all the ballcrap you do with young girls. Older women know their trade and know it well.  
	‘Thanks.’ The room was darkened with a beday and sink in one corner of the room, a dressing table full of vibrators, dildos, and other assorted paraphernalia; and a large double bed as the centrepiece. On the wall was a whip, cat and nine tails and a wooden school cane. Ok, before I go any further I have to tell you (or just reiterate) I’ve been getting into some new shit: bondage, domination, mixed wrestling, anal fucking and the like. Straight sex is getting a bit boring now. I’ve been shagging pro’s ‘normally’ for the last 10 years so I’ve decided that this year will be the year of the experimentalist. 
‘Hello again.’
‘Ahh… hello mon cherie… Long time no see…’ (Bad attempt at sarcasm). Evette, about 45, brunette and still quite fit. She was dressed in the usual PVC cat suit. 
‘… So how are you mon cherie?’ Very sultry Frog accent, nice.
‘Yeah, I’m ok… how are you?’ (Might as well go along with the charade).
‘Fine thanks… do you have a pound for the maid?’
‘Oh… yep…’ I always forget this part… usually have the 20 pound note ready but it’s always the little things that count in life… and death… ‘Here you go’, after rummaging in my 10 year old shitty purse/wallet thing (I’ll tell you about it later). So…  now that the obligatory pleasantries were out the way, we just got down to it…
She took off the old suit and started oiling up her body. Yep, Evette was one of the good guys… even though her old manky worn body was cellulised to hell and back, it was still a fucking big turn on. Especially now that she’s all greased up and ready to go. Her face had that sort of old prossy flatish type features that we all grow to love. Sunken despondent eyes that light up when you pull the cash out. Wrinkled mouth that’s been stretched to breaking point many a time. Hair that’s been seriously over conditioned… with spunk. You get the idea.
I instinctively got my kit off and jumped on the bed face-up and put £20 on the bedside cabinet. 
‘You want me to play?’ She purred.
I nodded. I was getting stiff just thinking about it. This was her usual routine, with a few modifications of my own. I’ve been seeing her for months now and she knows what I like; and does it with a kind motherly look on her face… yeah baby. 
Picture the scene if you will… Me laying face-up, slip-sliding on the bed (by this time my arse was sweating with anticipation). She, all oiled up, kneeling next to me with a big smile on her old tart face. Let’s go to work…
	She firstly started licking my nipples, while her hand made gentle tickling movements all over my body… from my armpits to my nads… and once she got there she’d stay there for a while… just linger a bit. [Cock semi-hard now]. Her hand would then quickly whoosh up my body making me arch my back in ecstasy… fucking great stuff. What was I doing throughout all of this? Sweet fuck all, just enjoying the show from the wall mirrors (to get the whole naked body experience thing) and also looking directly at her while she worked (nice and personal). After about a minute of this joy, she moved on (the pros have got a strict timetable, but they do spend their time wisely and to the max). [Cock nearly raging hard… not quite there yet]. She put on Sir Paul with the deftest of movements… almost instantaneous: WOP, and it’s on.
She then started sucking my nob, wrapping her tongue around my throbbing member while the hand was tweaking my nipples, twisting this way and that. Yeah baby, do it. That extra bit of pain makes all the difference. The sucky sucky action was very slow, very methodical. She’d go down very quick, pulling the foreskin back gently… and the slowly up, teeth sometimes raking percy (love it). Occasionally the tip of her tongue would get up to all sorts of nonsense. When she was clear of the head, her hand that was holding it/me up would do a little tickling tapping motion on my root. The pleasure just never ends. [Cock on full hard bastard mode]. 
Evette (the bitch) started doing some of the old sexual teasing stuff, by going back to the ‘first movement’ of the symphony (of the ho). Yep… she went back to concentrating on Mr nipples, sucking them this time and occasionally biting/nibbling them… greeeeeaaat. She, as an expert, could see I loved the old nipple thing. Her hand was now gliding down to my balls, her index finger stroking the pubic hair of my sac. Her hand went lower still, and she started fingering my arse, moving it backwards and forwards. [Even more fully erect now (if that’s possible) and loving it]. Now and then she would finger me hard, slapping my nuts (with her palm) in the process. God I love the ‘slap an tickle’.
‘Bon?’
‘Yep…’ Panting anticipation building up to over flow now… She took a condom off her finger… must have slipped it on before doing the arse thing… didn’t notice in the rush of it all. 
‘Open wide now, you black bastard!’
Slave boy opened wide as she finger-tipply dumped the cack stained condom into my awaiting mouth… yum, yum… I started chewing on it, absorbing the nutritious shite… the reek alone was getting me ready to explode. She then half straddle me, one leg over my own… the other positioned between my legs. The bitch grabbed my hands, skilfully bending my fingers back, slowly applying the breaking pressure. Yeah, do it… snap them off bitch. I was where I wanted to be, completely helpless and ready to let rip. She held me down in the traditional school girl pin, and then proceeded to knee my bollocks in.
‘Ah… you cunt… arrggh… don’t stop…’ The spunk pressure was at boiling point. Her slender ancient fingers wrapped themselves around my throat, squeezing the life out of me… ‘Ugh… ugh…’. 
‘I’m going to kill you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re going to die you black bastard!’ Yes baby, do it, do it. I then entered her cunt, all dry and rough, her muscles squeezing my dick.
‘I’m cuming… I’M CUMING!!… AHHHHH!’ Eeeeek. All over again… good pros don’t keep you waiting. As soon as I was in, it was game over. The inevitable endless flow of life continues on… well the flow of Mr Cum anyway. 
‘Bon, mon cherie…’ She leaned over and gave me a peck on my cheek. She was lying on top of me, wriggling to get that last dribble of spunk out of me.
 ‘So you are going home now?’
‘Yeah… yeah… (pant)’. Whatever, hmm… it’s always over too soon… bollocks! Maybe I should get myself some Viagra to help my impotent arse. I got up while she handed me some tissue roll. I wiped off and used the sink to wash up. She used the beday to clean her vag, a spray of hot water massaged into her saggy, warty minge. As you can tell: soon as I’ve done the deed, my opinion of her rapidly diminished. She’s just an old slapper… who’s lost the plot on life a bit. Think she used to be a chorus girl or something in ‘gay Pari’. Now she gets by on the old sex for money thing. I’ll probably have a wank over her later tonight at home, but now she just makes me want to puke… dirty cunt.
‘Ok… I’m off now… I’ll see you later.’ (I’m out of here big time). Put on the old gear in record time, no use pissing around.
‘Ok, see you next week?’ Big smile of victory on the tart’s beat up face. I nodded, grinned inanely like a toss-monkey and left... The door lady saw me out and I headed down the street, hot, flustered and ready for a beer.


Wardens… my arse?

So, a bit flustered after the pro incident but nonetheless fine (thanks for inquiring). Decided to walk around a bit and find a good pub to get ‘alkyed up’. Well… getting tanked in Soho can be a tad sad. There are some good queer boy bars where one can get arse banditted up for the night (well at least half an hour in the bogs). But apart from that, a lot of the places are either full of tourist wankers, city cunts, and clubbers - before they hit the clubs (i.e. mild tossers who at the end of the night turn into dancefloor dicks after a pint and an ‘E’). 
So… decided to get myself some arse in the O Bar (O for oral?). Well… I wasn’t actually going to get bummed now, just split my baby fat up the old French tart… but a few hours of eyeing up the boyz can be great fun. Hmm… but the only problem with this sort of situation, is that in the back of your mind (and arse) there’s always the fear of being blown up (instead of off). You know, bombed by a little nazi oik like what’s his face… Cockland? Total dick licker… If you’re going to blow up something you need to get your priorities right… blow up the pigs, Proms, Pavarotti in the park. Don’t go bombing the poofs… I mean, what’s the ‘kin point… where’s the fucking fun in that? You know, you have to enjoy your work; can’t let any screwed up ideology get in the way of the black anarchist movement… consisting of me alone. Well… recruitment should be good after the next few weeks… once I get on the internet newsgroups… spreading the word… the future’s ours… well mine actually. All you shits can drop dead for all I care. Sorry, sorry, spunk frustrated rambling mode again…
	Eeek. All this walking and ranting’s made me miss my fucking turn off. Where ‘kin el’ am I? If I head up this dank alleyway, should hit the main street in a few minutes… errm… I think? (Mr Geography speaks his mind). Soho at night can be like a fucking maze. Yep, even though I may cruise here all the time, I never pay any attention to street names, directions or general shit like that. I just let my dick do the leading. 
Hey! I’m in luck! That shit in the suit (warden type) should know the way to beerdom… (or so I thought). Saw the cunt just round the junction of the alley, putting a ticket on some poor bloke’s car. I don’t mind if they ticket people who deserve it, i.e. Mercedes, Porches etc… but a banged up Nissan Micra, Jesus Christ almighty… what’s the point in that?!?! The poor geezer was running up the street shouting ‘NO!… NO!… I’ve only been parked there for a few minutes!?!‘ 
	Slowly, nonchalantly, strolled up to the situation that was being acted out. The car owner was a fellow brother… 40 ish, not a rich geezer by any stretch of your twisted imagination (well, he was driving: shitty, shitty, bang, bang). Dressed like all the Brixton over 40’s do. You know, clothes straight out of Oxfam… jumper with nothing underneath, worn jeans… and unbranded trainers… not such a bad look, if I say so myself. 
The warden (white guy of course) on the other hand was dressed in the obligatory black uniform of a nazi. About 40 ish too and definitely looked the part of your average total fascist (he had those Himmler glasses and the short ‘brown-shirt’ crop: poking out of his silly hat). Yep, you can tell a pedantic muthafucker a mile off. He (anal) was acting the usual twat role; you know the routine… trying to ignore you… until you blow your top, then it’s: ’I’ve never heard that language in twenty years...’ or ‘I’m being civilised why can’t you?’ Pathetic. Totally pathetic. In this case the toss monkey was saying, ‘… calm down sir, calm down…’ with all the authority that a pig wannabe can muster.
I, at this point, was just opposite the cunts, in a recessed darkened part of the alley… eyeing up the whole justice process at work… nice show if you can afford it. Don’t actually mind traffic wardens too much (I don’t drive… London born and bred…). Yeah, but when some tosser’s turbo is blocking my dad’s drive, then hey: they’re your best mates. Hmm… after the old man’s set of fines for parking after a 3 day jaunt (later… if ever) they reveal themselves to be the true cunts they are. My eyes are wide fucking open… as is my sphincter. 
‘I’m sorry sir… I’m going to have to fine you.’ The cunt looked serious enough, but in this lack of light, ‘night-time’ situation he looked like he was smirking evily. Bastard.
	Old brother Oxfam got back into the death trap and slowly pulled away (after a few half-arsed attempts at reversing). Ahh… pity the poor cunt… pity him. As the warden was putting away his ‘stuff’ (the stupid shop bar code thingy and wank pad) I just thought… aren’t these tossers, like, paid by commission for each bust? I mean… don’t they get a percentage of everything the fucking Tory Council nicks off us… (well you actually). Yep… I think they do. What a great way of making money… the ‘commintern’ gets the leeches to carry out its dirty work for them. Both get the benefits and the only losers… the only one that gets screwed is the nigger. Well warder… simply obeying orders won’t save your white arse this time. A bullet is too good for these cunts, slow painful deaths are the order of the day. Unfortunately, I just don’t have the time. 
Think I’ll go to work now… Left the shadows, silly cant didn’t notice me cumming up behind him (yeah baby). 
BANG BANG. Two bullets… ok… it’s a waste I know, but there you go. Blood was spurting everywhere, followed by some greenish-brown matter oozing out from the gapping hole in the cunt’s head… god this feels good. The tosser crumpled into a heap on the piss-soaked alley pavement. (Colonel office chimp didn’t make a sound.) A good mix was brewing: blood, brain matter? (didn’t think the cunt had any), and alleyway-piss/spunk (I’m sure I could smell some?). Yep, I could brew this at home. You know, design a new personalised ‘cock’-tail. I’d call it: ‘A Niggers WallBanger’. You know it makes sense; all the things we get up to on a wall: piss, mug cunts, fuck some ho’s and of course let rip with the yellow stuff after a couple of pints.
 Anyway, enough talk, more action. So I shot the cunt, my first kill for a while (… well, in the last few years anyway). But more importantly this was the first kill/beating since I made up my calling cards. So what do I leave? Hmm… I know:
KTB
CONGRATULATIONS YOU’VE JUST MET THE DUNBLANE SHOOTING CLUB.
HAVE A NICE DAY!

Ok, ok… this one was a tad tame, the rest of the cards do get better I assure you. Didn’t want to waste some of the good ones on this piece of shit. Well, actually it’s not so much the target, but the pleasure I get it ‘doing it’. Killing this cunt wasn’t really good or bad… it just had to be done. Yeah, for instance, killing, I don’t know, Leo Blair (even though it’s an insignificant little shit) would still merit the best glossy cards I can churn out. I think the best of you would agree.
Anyway, job well done I think. To top it all, nobody took any notice of the gunshots… could’ve just been a car backfiring for all they cared. No one living in the ‘naughties’ gives a shit about anything anymore, which suits me fine. Just gives me the freedom to get on with the job in hand. Taking about ‘in hand’, me thinks it’s nearly wank time… and I’ve just got myself sorted out once, about 10 minutes ago.  (Well, once is never really enough for the true pervert. That’s your mum, that is).

Anyway, basically at times like this one needs a good beer. But not in this area… the place will be swarming with pigs in a few hours (about as efficient as they get). Hmm… I could actually hide the body, then piss of somewhere else not too far away. Can’t be arsed going to a different part of London now, at ‘kin 9.00pm. 
Found a homeless type blanket on a skip next to the alley. Propped the cunt in the recess I was standing in (you know, in the sleeping foetal position type thing). And with fingertips to avoid the piss, I placed the blanket over his whole body. Eh… voila! Homeless person made up in a few minutes. They’ll probably discover the corpse in a few days. Hobo smelling funny in an alley? Most cunt’s attitude is: see no evil, whiff no evil… He He He.    


Shitester’s Lair…

Ok, ok… quietly escaped the scene… went down a few alleyways here and there. Doing the old random walk routine so if the pigs see any footage, they’ll say something like: ‘The suspect was last seen walking down such and such a street… did you spot anything suspicious… if so ring wankstoppers on some 0898 number.’ Of course by this time I’ll be walking down another path… doing the old head bowed routine… no CCD slag’s gonna catch this serial muthafucker. 
	Yeah but anyway… after all that excitement it’s still all-quiet on the beer front. This work is thirsty business I can tell you. Headed off to the bright lights of Leicester Square (probably do the usual wank thing of beering up in the Moon under water). Firstly though, let’s just take in the lights, buskers and the occasional pick-pocket. Yep, the place was completely buzzing with the usual bunch of cunts… They seem to turn up everywhere; gangs of shitalians tourists with: crappy designer dark glasses (it’s the fucking middle of the night tosser), shirts half unbuttoned (revealing gorilla’s-arse hair) and tight (gay boy) trousers. Even if I was in the mood I still wouldn’t go for these shits. 
There was the bunch of homeless saddos; group of them getting methed up just next to the crappy buskers who can play jack shit. You know, all they fucking do is play the ‘bongo drums’ and scream at random (I’m sure they’re swearing in Swahili… or something). But… Jeesus take a look at these particular bongo wanking cunts: white rastafarians… do me a favour son, these shits just make me want to vomit bile (when there’s nothing left… no fucking stone unturned… no taboo left to have your arse wiped on). All of them had a ‘pubic’ education I’ll bet. In a few years they’ll shave up and get that job as a management consultant… wanks… total wanks.
The honkytonk raggamuffins were revelling in their shit (which I could knock up after half an hours pissing about), while one of the hobos was doing an idiotic dance at the centre of the crowd that was forming. (More fucking idiots… they must be pissed, surely?). A couple of Swedish type blond birds were attempting to do a sexy-ish wiggly dance at the front of the semi-circle (semi-wank) crowd. Fucking slaaaag show-offs. Oh dear, oh dear me… homeless cunt has spotted them and now wants to join them in a waltz. Yeah baby that’s it… time for a quick exit you tarts. Nice one hobo… hmm, he doesn’t seem to disgruntled though… he’s started doing a jig now (river dance style)… wait a minute… the whole dance routine is evolving… he’s now trying to do a moonwalk. Wow this is amazing shit, the whole performance has broken into a retro ‘robotics’ routine. This guy can knock spots off any ‘modern dance’ shit… you occasionally see on BBC2. Yep, it doesn’t get any better than this. You can’t really buy this entertainment… even if you tried. 
Hmm… time to move on now to the next show. Just a 5-second walk away and you can hardly hear the bumgo crap. (Hey… I approve of the acoustics… I really do).
‘Welcome Jesus into your life! Jesus is the saviour I tells you… If you don’t believe me you’ll burn in the hellfire of eternal damnation!!’ Faaantastic. Old sailor looking guy on a soap box, beardy, balding - except for wiffs of strangly pubicy white hair popping up here and there. (Sort of reminded me of a smartened up George). He was dressed in a 50’s type cardigan, greyish corduroy trousers and black pig issue shoes with no socks. (I need to find this geezer’s tailor and give him a medal - great stuff.) He’d got a large audience also… all taking the piss of course. There was the obligatory group of northern toss monkeys acting like wankers. (Sounded like they’d come down from Newcastle but then again I couldn’t tell your average northerner from your mum’s hairy vag.) They all looked the tosser part also. Same old look: greased forward hair… blah… blah… blag. All had multicoloured shirts on… hanging out… totally predictable. (I thought, up north, they shove it right up their botties… don’t they?). Anyway, why do I need to bother… you get the picture. One extremely zitty cunt was crying out:
‘Wat do yew nas about abet Jeesus pal.’ (Can’t do the accent).
‘Silence heretic!?!’ Pointing maniacally at the tossers… to a few kid sniggers. Classic… this is just getting too much. 
Some black bitches had just turned up… looked like they’d cum straight out of Sunday school. (Didn’t look the clubbing type - in long dresses that your dad might wear, square black glasses, crucifixes round their scrawny neck, etc.)
‘Naaah maaan… Jeeesus is luuuurve!’ One of the nigger x-tian ho’s started having a go now. She didn’t quite realise yet that ‘preacher-man’ was a tad mental. 
‘Silence Jezebel! I see you enveloped in the pit too!’
‘HA HA HA HA HA… Oh shit!’ Whoops, bollocks, just laughed out loud. It was all getting wa-aa-aaay too much. Anyway, shouldn’t draw attention to myself, silly sod. I embarrassingly moon-walked out of there before mad bloke noticed me. 

	Yeah well enough of this… time for a beer. Walked into the moon under water. As per usual, way too many city cunts in here. (Moon under water? Coon in a slaughter more like). These are the sort of pubs that if I were in the IRA, would be the top of my list to be blown up big style. All the various blends of twats reside here. Fat cunts in suits laughing like their bowels are about to drop, public (pubic) school nonces - lanky bastards with that poofy quiff haircut etc. The birds here, are all your finishing school, middle-class, finger up the cunt tossers… and to top it all up… the icing on the cack-cake (wait for it…) Aussie Bar Staff… wank upon wank… upon wank. If I weren’t going to do the pig shop tonight, this would’ve been the first place ‘up against the wall’. Ordered a pint of naff, pissed down lager… Fosters’ I think, and tried to find a quiet corner. Totally impossible, the place was heaving with muthfuckers… so I just propped myself up against the bar… trying not too look like I wanted to speak to the grinning arsed abohater serving me. Could have sat outside - in most pubs on a nice night like this, that idea sounds quite good; but here in Leicester (Shitester’s) Square… you’d be approached by around 5 Romanian cash rustlers before you’d downed your first pint. So… just maintained the bar front, blocked out all the toss-monkeys and pondered over my first hit. 
	
Yep, all the preparatory work was done and dusted last week. Getting all the equipment in… explosives made up via the Jolly Roger Cookbook… all household ingredients I tells you. Did a few ‘Test runs’ in Hyde Park (Kensington Gardens… or wherever the fuck I was a few nights back.) Think I killed a few ducks, there was a slight mention of it on Newsroom South East: ‘Vandals impale ducklings with 9 inch nails’. Had a good wank over that whole episode. Anyway, anyway… I’ll reveal (revel in) the whole truth later, don’t want to ruin the build up to my first masterpiece. Shit… downed that pint a bit too quickly… my mind’s racing… the body needs beer and it’ll be about 10 minutes before I’ll get served again in this toss hole. Why is life so shite? Well first and fermostly I blame the whites… They’re going to get theirs when the 3rd world takes what’s rightfully ours… and what’s rightfully ours you ask? Well my friends, simply put: it’s revenge. Not justice or anything like that…
‘Another pint?’ Aussie rugger bugger type. 
‘Yeah. Cheers… (tosser).’ He didn’t hear the last bit. I was smiling as well, which gave him the cunt a false sense of security. 
Anyway… yeah… pure and simple revenge. Pure and simple. ‘Ah… cheers…’ That was a bit quick, the beer did have a fucking huge head on it though… Koala wanker. Won’t bother with him now… maybe later. Hmm… ok, revenge. Revenge for what you ask? Well let me tell you… it’s very simple - even a moron like you will be able to grasp this one. Revenge for totally everything. Revenge for setting up the States: for the millions killed in the whole slave trade thing, for the genocide of your Native Americans, for trying to fuck up the revolution in Cuba, for screwing Africa by dumping a whole load of debt on the motherland, for filling the world with arms, AIDS (cunt), and your fascist Westpoint/Sandhurst trained henchmen. Yep… revenge for the whole fucking deal. No wonder we think you’re the fucking devil race… no one else has perpetrated that sort of shit you guys get up to… 6 million yids, bucket loads of Gypos… many an arsefull of bum bandits… setting up OJ for doing that white bitch (pretty fit, mind). I mean, where do I fucking stop. Ok, Ok, that Rwanda: Hutu, Tutsi thing was a tad fucked up, but who fucking started it all. The white man: divide and rule pal… divide and rule… Well I’m going to be doing some ‘divide and rule’ of my own… plant a bomb here and there and let’s see some whities divide on that… limbs… heads (and I’m taking nobs now mate…) and other shit. Imagine that… being sprayed by the insides of someone’s intestines, bowel system… covered in cack… licking it off your body… loving it… shit I’m getting stiff again. No stop it… stop it… must remain calm… got a big do tonight… Shit… downed my pint again too quickly. 
‘Oi!’ Pointing maniacally (like preacher-man) at my pint, and nodding wildly. (Can’t be pissed yet on 2 pints? Must’ve been a long day.)
‘Do you want another one sir…’
No, I want to stick this pint glass up your arse sideways… pussy boy… ‘Yeah… sure…’ [Just keep smiling… just keep smiling]. 


Bounce of this… boyeee

Anyway, after that beer I decided to go to a nightclub. When you’re slightly pissed one seems to gravitate to these things. Just hearing the sound of good uplifting dance music also makes me want to party (not dance mind, just eye people up and generally try to look superior… which I am). Also, after that last pint I chilled out a tad… yeah you know the score… the pig shop can wait till tomorrow maaan… or maybe not. Anyway, don’t know why I did it but I decided to head off to the Wag club (yep total twatism). Not good music at all, just some 80’s revivalist shite. I lived through the 80’s as a teenager, mate, and only wankers used to dance to kagafuckingoogoo. Now it’s all the trend. Give me ‘The Beat’ any day… but that’s another story. 
	Anyway, left the wank under water and headed back into toss central: Leicester square. Noticed lots of fit nubile prepubescent girls about… just gagging for it (I think?)… must’ve been the drink. The bible basher was gone but the white ragga bongo bastards were still in action (inaction?). Just love to shoot these cunts… organise a bongo hunt… catch me some white trash. Hmm… some new acts were now playing… I gravitated to another crowd (tourist cunts) surrounding a ‘Chinky looking fellow’. [Enter Marco Polo mode] He was playing a ruler with one of his pubic hairs stretched from one end to t’other, putting the whole contraption under tension. The said contraption was played like a cello, with a bow made of 1000 rat’s pubes (after the whole stewing process of course). He He He, no but seriously, it sorted sounded nice-ish. Yep chink music isn’t so bad once you get used to it. Very mellow. You just want to enter Bruce Lee, Big Boss, kung fu mode. Hey! Wait just a minute… that isn’t nip music… it’s fucking Oasis’s ‘Wonder Wall’ japped up big time. Totally too fucked up by far… This whole situation is the fuckiest fuck that ever dared to be fucked… up the arse. Don’t mind the sad guitar playing druggies playing ‘that song’ at the dodgy East End station (Woolwich Arsenal springs to mind), but for crying out loud, why is this cunt (or should that be cint?) bothering.    
	Ok, had enough of this to last a lifetime. This sort of shit you couldn’t make up even if you tried son. Anyway, headed off in the general direction of the club… trying not too notice any more of wank stains around me. Jesus wept… it’s started to rain now… the haircut’s going to be all fucked… well more precisely: the old afro’s going to be matted with ‘that spunk look’ for the next few hours. Cunts… the lot of them… 
	Actually, walking in ‘the lair’ when it’s pissing down is pretty good stuff… all the slapper clubbers, with their non-existent clothes on, are getting soaky soaked… and I’m loving it (…well my nob is anyway). It’s only a five-minute stroll, but with this damp feeling spreading, padding it out a bit isn’t so bad. Another thing it does, is clear the streets of all the cunt-crowd. I mean, you’d think they’ve never had a bath the way these turds are scrambling for cover. Yeah, the slightest notice of piss and all the wanky micro-umbrellas shoot up. Is it me? Or are those things totally useless: shelf-life of 3 months max, blowing inside-out every 5 seconds… mumble, mumble, grumble… [I can see the wag from here]. Yep micro-umbrellas… arrgg… I won’t go into the whole sordid incident, but remember this reader: if the rain cums down at any angle you’ll be a wet duck in about 20 seconds. No cover at all; no covering your arses this time. Don’t fucking fight nature… she’ll always fuck you up. [Ahh here we are, about fucking time too.]

So there I was outside the Wag (wank), pissing down with rain, two bouncers (chalky and coal) with me… and there was no one in the queue… surprise surprise you say? Well, that’s what ‘got me’ in the first place. I can’t stand it when you have a club half empty and the bouncers have a queue all around the block just to broadcast to everyone ’Hey… look at how popular this crappy club is.’ Makes me want to puke. Anyhow, this totally threw me when I saw that the club didn’t have scores of kids (cunts) waiting outside. So I went up to one of the bouncers (big black guy with a long black coat on…  the one that bouncers around the world wear), 
‘So, is the club open?’ Yeah, I only asked because it was such a weirdorama type situation to see no single lines of nobs all over the place. The bouncer by the way looked like a straight up nigger… half shaven pubic bum-fluff was scattered patchily over his wide gorilla’s face. He looked like a brutal bully basically… that’s all there is to it.
‘Sorry, I don’t answer stupid questions…’
What!?! What’s this guy’s fucking problem!?! You ask a civil question and what you get back is a load of shite. This is typical bouncer talk… totally typical. That’s why I never have sympathy if a bouncer’s killed in the line of ‘duty’. They fucking deserve it, even that nigger McGowan - not shedding too many tears over that lynched bastard. Yes my friends… this is another dead nigger… soo fucking dead. You my friend are going to define a new standard in deadness. Your existence is about to be terminated big style. Just a shame I didn’t have a noose ready.
‘Sorry, what did you say?’ Picture the scene of all the gangster movies you’ve ever seen… Goodfella’s, Taxi driver (that’s not a gangster movie?) etc. Wasn’t going to shoot him just yet. I’m not a ruthless cold calculating murderer. I just want to have some fun here… exchange some blokist banter if you will…
‘I said I don’t answer stupid questions!’ Ok… ok… I just briefly described this cunt a while back but I don’t think I did that whole thing justice. Anyway, seeing that this cunt had about a minute left to live I might as well expand it out a bit. The tosser was about 6 foot tall, arrogant looking (well, he looked like a twat which is pretty much the same thing in my book). Told you about the attempt at designer stubble, which was patchy at most. Shaven head the norm of course; and the black leather Gestapo style gloves that goes with the territory (easier to clean the blood off). He probably did totally shit at school (not just a tad shite for pig standards)… so his professional qualifications gave him only one option: ‘the bouncer’. Imagine it… too stupid to join the pigs… classic. Why do you think he’d want to join the pigs you ask? Well my friends, bouncers, like pigs all started off as your average school bully… but of course being a nigger the pigs were really out of the question so either it was bouncer’s ville or trying to be the hard Yardie type. Yeah… he probably got one of his many slags pregnant at an early age and needed the cash, if you know what I mean. Well, it more likely shagged one of the 13-year-olds that frequent the clubs… Yeah and she/he gets free entry every time… and I’m talking his arse now. Wouldn’t surprise me if he makes a small weekly packet letting in one of the E-dealers (we’re not talking about internet entrepreneurs now children…). What more can I say really. I’m sure I’ll cum up with more crud later on… Anyway, back to the plot. 
The other twat began to snigger like Victor Maturity. White guy this time… almost the spitting image of the nigger… a bit smaller and stockier though… same shitty skinhead appearance… rough looking fucker as well. Many an illegal boxing match fought and lost by this cunt. Nose was as flat as mine He He He.  Time to enter Goodfella’s mode:
‘So… then…  are you actually saying… I’m stupid?’
‘Listen, I don’t answer stupid questions…’ He had that nonchalant arrogant look about him that just needed to be shot off. 
Quickly pulling the gun out. ‘You are actually calling me stupid aren’t you?’ Quick panicky look by the other bouncer/doorman. The nigger wasn’t fazed too much. He’d probably seen too many fake artists before… or he was an extremely good actor.
‘Come on… you’re not actually goin…’
BANG. Bullet straight to the head.  Wasn’t going to let this tosser piss me about any more. A small red hole appeared in the centre of his forehead… bit of the old greenish brown brain matter mixed with blood started to ooze out. I’m beginning to love that sight. An immortal look of surprise was etched on the cunt’s face. Classic. The other bouncer was beginning to shit his pants… looking round and backing off… never experienced this then eh? People never quite understand the consequences of their actions, that’s why America must be such a great cuntry (in some respects). Piss off a homeless person by saying the usual crap like: ‘why don’t you get a proper job…’ and you’re likely to get knee-capped. (The only problem with my theory is that ‘Americans live there’.) BANG. Shot the other cunt in the bollocks. (Yeah… a bit below the belt but there you go…) A purple glistening object dropped from his pants as he doubled over, all mangled up. Fuck! Shot the cunt right off… I’m getting stiffer by the minute. Booted the ball into the back to the net (his mouth)… he shoots her scores, just like the master Ian Wright. He began to scream like a girl, as he tried to pull the splattered remains of his testicles back into his scrotum… including the bollocky mass in his mouth… very pathetic, very pathetic.  He eventually opened up the next part of the aria with a quiet whimper as he finally passed out. Hmm… I hate it when it doesn’t last. Next time I’ll have to do the old kidnap thing… tie the chosen cunt to the bed and spend a few days on the whole project. Yeah… I’ll use a toothpick as my preferred choice of tool. Anyway stop daydreaming and get back to the present… this cunt’s childbearing days are over and a good thing too. Imagine wankers like that breeding. You see these sort of cunt’s kids in shopping malls all over the cuntry. You know what I mean, you want to slap the kid and the parent. Yes my friends, in two minutes I’ve just enhanced the gene pool no end. 


Ted’s place

Ok… ok… as per usual in the whole London experience thingy, no one actually gave a shit that I’d just taken out a couple of cunts… I just blended into the load of tossers who were walking past… nice work. Hmm… I was actually getting a tad pissed off that I’d never got into the nightclub… but there you go. Can’t win all the battles. Anyway, doing those two cunts got me in the mood for some more action… on the sex front that is. It’s a Thursday night… so where do I go from here… who do I turn to… who’s cock do I swallow next… your dad’s perhaps? Yes that sounds about right. No… seriously, I knew exactly where I was headed. You’re going to love this. 
I decided to piss on out of the Leicester Square scene and take a taxi to the corner of the north end road. Taxi? More like a mini cab. At least you know where you stand with mini cabs… ’Earl’s Court…?’ ‘Yea that’ll be a tenner.’ Fucking simplicity in itself. No pissing about. 
While with black cabs it’s more like 15-20 quid and the nob-heads won’t pick you up in Leicester square unless you’re waiving £50 notes… shits. Yeah, the black cabbed bastard… with their sidekicks the truckers and bum chums farmer pals. The Tory shock (cock) troops eating their fish and chips out of an old copy of the Daily Express. Hmm… weren’t they the cunts who semi-paralysed the cuntry with their fuel embargo thing. Well, anything that brings down that sell out Blair is good in my books. But you just can’t help thinking… I wish the pigs went in there and duffed a few heads in, just like in 84 (the whole miner’s do). Well… then again, that probably wouldn’t happen would it? A bunch of middle class Tories having their ‘little protest’ broken up by the filth… that’ll be the day. Yeah… these cunts are part and parcel of the fucking racist establishment… they don’t touch each others ‘kin mason masturbator arses. 
Anyway, taxis drivers… fucking bastards the world over. Heard that in New York they never pick up a brother - for crying out loud, that’s a straight up nigger move if I say so myself. When I do my states trip there’s going to be a few changes in the land of the brave… or should that be the land of the slave… Yeah… listen up you Yankee bastards, America was built by the blacks and we’re going to take it back big style. The Oklahoma Federal building’s gonna seem like a fucking tea party son… yep the black bastard tea party.
Ok, phoned up a mini-cab firm on the old mobile thing. By the way, need to get a new phone… the one I’ve got is like a fucking walkie-talkie jobbie. Bought it ages ago, one of those pay as you wank deals. It’s served its purpose well, but I can’t help seeing all the city cunts with their ‘tiny enough to stick up their crack’ phones. Me, jealous? Nope… just got a massive chip on my shoulder. What the white’s have, I want double. Only fair really. 
Oke doke, getting back to it, phoned up the Taxi firm (got the number from a crumpled up pro’s card I keep in my top pocket - tell you about it later). This is my usual firm… soho merchants catering for all the dregs up there: pro’s, dealers, psychos... The usual paki git answered:
‘Ello there sar… how can I help you?’
‘Need a taxi to the top of north end road…’
‘No problem boss…’ God I hate cunts who say that! Boss? I’m not your fucking boss, you Uncle Tom sell out, or should that be Uncle Taj?
Anyway, surprise, surprise… wasn’t quite as ‘no problem’ as he made out. The fucker took a whole 15 ‘kin minutes to show his arse. Another tit from Asian’s sub-continent. 
‘Taxi? North End Road?’ Jeez…
‘Yep that’s me…’ Resigned to my fate, I settled into the Leopard skin seated, old 70’s style beat up Merc. Had one of his deity muthafuckers hanging from the mirror. (Fucking four arms I tell you… man some juicy wanks to be had on that front I’m sure). Anyway, very classy get up… The back seat was pretty ‘cleanish’ (after a few pints it didn’t really matter). The floor was littered with pro’s cards, coke dust, squeezy kids toys… (my god, what sort of depraved cunt am I dealing with…) [Ahh… just left the circus and square]. The tosser himself was a mid 30s something balding misfit. Didn’t look like your average late 50’s, twice divorced cabbie who’s probably claiming dole and has his own painting and decorator business. Nope something dodgy about this…
‘Would you like some girls?’
Ahh yes… very good… nicely pimped my son… nicely pimped. ’Erm… no thanks, maybe later.’ [Just into the posh Knightsbridge area.] ’… Why don’t you give me your card? I may take you up on it…’
‘Ok… thought you’d be interested.’ [Semi mid Atlantic fake accent… tosser.] ‘I’m a pretty good judge of character… uh huh?’ Yeah, so am I cunt… so am I. I knew you were a slimy slag of a toad the moment my eyes caught sight of your cunt of a face. He gave me his calling card.
Jason Rajah
Chaipati Taxi Services
Personal Attention Given.
0780 *** *** (Number withheld on request)
Classic stuff… Sorry about the number thing. I’m not protecting that cunt… just can’t let the fuckers get close to me via any other avenues.
	‘Cheers mate… so how long have you done this then?’ Trying desperately to kill the time spent with this nonce.
	‘Only a few years… I…’ [Jeez - here comes the life story] ‘… actually studied economics...’ [Well whoopee for you]. ‘… at the LSE…’ 
	‘What’s that then?’ Nice move. I know what sort of shits go there. All the foreign nobheads, middle class toss monkeys and other assorted shits that didn’t get into Oxbridge. As for me… I went to KCL mate (for a short while). Won’t tell you what I did… too embarrassing by far. Yep, ‘KCL, CL, whatever will be, will be, we piss on the LSE, KCL, CL…’ Good memories (and mammaries). 
	‘Don’t you know? It’s quite a prestigious place to study economics and sociology…’ He was looking really irate: how could I possibly not know what shitty little Uni he went to. [Hmm… just past South Ken]. Anyway, time to wind it up a bit.
	‘Oh… is it part of Cambridge and Oxford then?’
	‘No! It’s part of London University! Where did you study!?!’
	‘Nowhere special… anyway…’ (quickly changing subject) ‘… how come you’re a taxi driver then?’
	‘Well isn’t it obvious…’ (Smiling and calming down a tad) ‘got a first class and everything. You would have thought I’d get a job easily…’ (Not with your humility mate). ‘Yeah, well, applied to all the top banks in the city…’. [Just heading past The Court now]. ‘… and all without fail turned me down… skin not the right colour, if you know what I mean… uh huh?’
	‘… Yeah I know what you mean…’ Life in multicultural Britain doesn’t get any better than this. ‘Life as a pimp can’t be too bad though?’
	‘The hell it is!!… I’m earning twice as much as those city cunts now, Ho Ho Ho.’ Ahh… Always a happy ending. 
‘Ok… we’ve arrived.’ Gave him a tenner and a quid tip. Yep, I’ll be contacting this bloke later… shouldn’t lose contacts like this.
‘Catch you later…’ Grinning like an ape, what a sad existence.
‘Yep, cheery bye.’ Said my farewells and headed off to wankdom. Well… I wasn’t quite there yet… I was actually dropped off at the junction of the north end road and the Old Brompton road. Anyway enough details, just turned the corner (trying to look inconspicuous) and pressed the buzzer to ‘number 305’, all in one swift motion. Brief description of the gig if you will: it looks like a normal shop front, except it’s all blacked out (bit like a porn shop), nothing to see here, until you enter - into a feast of depravity… yum… yum… yum. The door opened and I paid the couple of quid to the tattooed pierced bird at the door, signed my name in the guest book and went down the stairs. Ted’s place, a good old fashioned tranny/transsexual joint. You can get it good and cheap here, He He He. 
	Ok, so what’s it like then, this super dooper club? Well in its essence it’s just a basement: black painted walls (fucking a tad hot on the temperature front), mirrors and posters of muscle boys all over the place (with one or two compromising photos of the clientele dotted around, thankfully none with me in them…). Won’t talk about the bar staff… they’re ok… Ted, big tranny thing and small lesbian pierced blond bit/door girl... that’s all I say about them - don’t want to get sued now... do I? Parked my butt on the high chairs by the bar and ordered myself a bottle of beer. Nice. All that pissing about in and around the Wag really got my blood boiling… just need to lower the whole body temperature, though in this stuffy cesspit of depravity it’s pretty difficult shit.	
I then ‘went to work’… you know, did the old ‘eyeing out’ bit… except in this case you’re gonna be eyed out too… and approached. This ain’t like any old nightclub situation now… where you have to do all the running around. No siree. If you eye up a tranny/transy and he’s/she’s up for it: ‘we’ll both be up for it…’ if you know what I mean. That’s what really pisses me off about ‘normal clubs’… birds are just too lazy by far (too many mind games). If you’re in a gay bar and you want to score… just go out to the nearest alleyway, cemetery, car-park and do your shit. There’s non-of the usual ‘courting crap’ that one has to perpetrate beforehand. Don’t get me wrong… I think you’re average bird’s as filthy as fuck, but if only they’d just go for it… you know, real ‘chick power’ instead of just talking the talk (like those wanker pub guys. Shit! Stream of consciousness on overload; can’t believe I’m still thinking about those stereotypes.). 
Anyway, Hey! What’s this… an old tranny’s wandered over, while I was mind ranting, and sat next to me. Hey-ho that’s a bit quick. In no time (in true porn cinema tradition) his hand started rubbing against ‘me crotch’, bony fingers working their way to my flies and slowly unzipping. Excellente… your average bird can piss off now back to the Victorian age for all I care…
‘Hi there…’ Trying to be as smarmy and cheesy as possible; pulling that grin that only 70’s porn stars can do well.
‘Heeellooo…’ The bird-bloke had an extremely deep posh accent… not faking this time… probably a high-court judge or something. His old wrinkly face was caked in make-up… very well done. Thick red lipstick adorned his eminently blow-jobable mouth, mascara massacred his long eyelashes, he had fake red-splattered fingernail like talons and a massive Marilyn Monroe type wig. She/he looked like a 70-year-old ex-Hollywood actress and I was getting well turned on by the whole show. Her gentle rubbing had got me fully erect in 30 seconds flat… and that is a record in my impotent arsed book. Ok… at this point, traditions and gay-boy etiquette took over and I just got up and headed to the toilet (with Percy fully hard and hanging out of my jeans… but no one gave a shit in this joint). 
Going to the bogs involved walking through the 5 foot square tilled area called the dance floor… dodging a few dregs, fit Thai she-males and a few familiar faces I’d cum over before. The tranny followed behind me, my hand had now lifted up his mini skirt up a little and was now giving his nob a good rub down through his panties. (Extremely seedy I know, but what can one do?) We entered the toilet cubicle carefully avoiding the piss and used condoms in the corner (which I kicked into touch) and closed the door behind us. 
‘Hey… what’s you’re name, by the way?’
‘Ivana…’ He drooled. (What like Ivana Trump or should that be hump?) 
‘What are you called?’ 
‘Ermm… Matthew.’ (Made up name… well actually it’s my traditional, long standing made up persona: Matthew Ebolagne: IT consultant… use it all the time when I pickup birds/blokes etc.). It has fake details (well, his address and telephone number of course) which is useful when you’re stopped on the tube for having no ticket… then you feign not having the £10 fine… so you have to give ‘the authorities’ his details as to where the bill should be sent. I’m surprised no one else does it. Who the fuck is Matthew Ebolagne you ask? Just a cunt I used to go to school with… total toss monkey that needs to die… or at least pay my fines whenever I accrue them … He He He. 
Ok, after the pleasantries were over, we just got down to it. By this time I had parked my butt on the closed toilet seat and he was standing right in front of me (you know what’s going to happen next…) He lifted his skirt up as I pulled his panties down and stuck his throbbing hard nob into my mouth. Very swift motion… no pissing about to have a look at his smegged up dick (I could taste it in my mouth…) This is great shit by the way! Sucking nobs is one of my many specialities. I can give as well as take son. My tongue was tracing an outline of one of his veins, while my chin was nuzzling up against his balls, cheek rubbing up against his stubbly pubic hair. (Frictional heaven here we cum). He started shivering which is usually a good sign that he’s about to cum. I know this feeling well. He may have been an old codger but his grip on the back of my head (my proper one this time) was vice-like. This bastard knew what he wanted, pulling my head left and right to get that side-impact movement of my jaws straight to his nob… good action. I thought the fucker would break my neck (yeah baby). The whole head manipulation thing was pretty good, I may have to use it next time… and then jerk and snap just as I’m cumming. But I digress… [The spasmodic shivering entered chaotic mode]. The slappers long fingernails were raking hair and scalp… very sharp… could almost feel the droplets of blood matting my mane.
‘COME ON…’ he screamed… ‘SUCK MY CUNT… SUCK MY CUNT…’ Jesus that’s a new one. Classic stuff. I was beginning to choke on his hard throbbing member. My throat was building up with saliva… nearly as good as the old blood lubricant thing… but anyway… His wiley old 40’s Hollywood bombshell façade was now twisted into a Vera Batty look… which was getting me hard… [The shivering was totally out of control now…]
’ARGGGGGGGGGGG…baby.’ 
FUgh? GuGhAhagh? It’s always a surprise when this happens. He spurted out as I lapped it up. Swallowing the cum was like drinking oysters, all salty and nourishing. I sucked harder to get every last drop of spunk out of the bastard. He was loving it as my teeth raked his now shrivelled dick. God I’m good. I bet you’re playing with yourself as well. It’s turning me on just thinking about it. You, sticking your fingers up your arse while the other hand is massaging your balls. You love it, LOVE IT!
	Anyway, by this time I was pretty up for it myself… but as his hand went down to give me some palm burns I just said ‘NO!’ (following old Nancy’s example…)
‘S’Ok... I’m fine thanks…’ Hmm… you ponder: why the ‘kin fuck did I do that? Well simply put, if I’d let the cunt jerk me off I’d just piss off home to beddy-byes. (You know, the just spunked all over the shop siesta that all geezers grow to love.) Nope, I needed to be on the ball as I carried out the next big thing; yep you’ve guessed it: The Hammersmith Nick… I thank yew, I thank yew. (Wolf whistles from the back). Yep, you don’t want to be all spunked out when you carry out God’s work. Not the done thing really. Imagine it… all the boys and girls in the INLA getting their juices out and then trying to bomb an army check point. Lethargy mode on overdrive me thinks. The only way I could think that: the whole ‘wank-bomb scenario’ would be useful was for the suicide bomber. You know, as soon as you have one off the wrist, life doesn’t have much of a meaning anymore. All you solitary strokers know what I’m talking about.
Ok, we staggered out of the bogs and noticed some sad balding 50-year-old short arse having a wank outside… listening to us getting off… classic stuff (you couldn’t make this up). I’d probably be him in 20 years time… He He He. We did the old exchange details thing. I gave the tranny cunt my ‘IT consultant card’. Should be quite funny, when the old cunt phones him up… if she/he ever does (they’re all so fickle I tells you…) Anyway, good night’s works all round… though it’s not finished yet. Hmm… maybe I’ll give the old bastard a ring next week and this time I’ll make sure he pumps his load up my arse. Nothing like pain and pleasure to get one in the mood. Left the club and decided to get on to the real job of the night. Killing pigs. 


The pigs
	
Ok, took a taxi (mini-cab) back home… well not directly back to the pad, just on a side street 500 yards away - in case the pigs ever wanted to trace ‘the suspect’ via Mr Taxi firm. Got changed into some old clothes (probably burn these later) and a baseball cap to hide the old ‘slap head’. (The Shitalian neighbours were shagging upstairs again…) Got my makeshift nail bomb out from under the bed. (... Bed? Yep, don’t worry it’s totally safe… I think). Well… bit of background on ‘Bernie the Bomb’ (after all that work I had to name it, and why not after our esteemed ex-MP. Ok, ok... it sort of rhymed.). Got the recipe from the internet, ‘The Jolly Roger Cookbook.’ Good stuff. Tells you all sorts of things (lock-picking, phone phreaking, hacking etc…) but its main use is bomb making. Pipe bombs, nail bombs, napalm, plastic explosives from bleach, touch explosives, dynamite, nitro-glycerine, in fact any sort of explosive for any occasion. So I decided to make a pipe/nail bomb a few weeks prior as you well guessed by now. So what exactly does it consist of then? Well won’t bore you with the details (and I don’t was the law on my arse) but in essence it was just a fertiliser type device. That is, a semi-big metal open cut drum (from an old cooking oil container - yep I was getting into the old chef thing at one stage... got past boiling an egg so there you go). Old copies of the Sun were placed at the bottom (for that just ‘Gotcha’ effect) and shed loads of fertiliser were placed on the pinnacle of my masterpiece. Cotton soaked in petrol (god it’s expensive) was placed on top with loads of nine inch nails on top. Strings of petrol soaked cotton were sticking out… to act as my fuse… (Did a lot of experimenting with timing issues: different lengths and different concentrations… thus the duck incident). Found the obligatory large plastic trash bag to place it in. Then went to one of the local bins and piled loads of cans, rubbish, newspapers and a hint of bin water on top of ‘my baby’ (for that just waste smell that reminds us of the homeless). Excellent camouflage I must admit. Not sure why no one else (of the terrorist persuasion) does this? Whenever you see a suspicious package, you sort of walk up to it to investigate, yeah? But as soon as you catch a whiff of the rotten cabbage you think: Ahh… yes… some hobo’s lunch; instead of calling in the bomb (bum) squad. Anyway, with the whole package carefully camouflaged, I was ready to go. (By the way, some info for any up and coming freedom fighters: always wear gloves when you carry out the whole procedure - makes the pig’s job a tad harder… or alternatively you can burn/cut off the top of your fingers like that cunt in ‘The Usual Suspects’.)
	Annnywaay… so I was in Earl’s Court and needed to get to Hammersmith without anyone tracing me. Could have walked there, but I’m a bit of a lazy bastard (as you probably could have guessed by now); and today’s alcohol intake had left me worse for wear. Hmm… I decided to catch a nightbus (74). Yep, I know I know: they’ve got shed loads of cameras on your average bus and you can just see yourself wanking on ‘crime-watch’ a few weeks later. Decided to take precautions and wear my ancient puffer (poofy?) hooded anorak - that brother muggers and steamers always seem to wear. Put a scarf around the bottom half of my face (one of those Palestinian jobbies I got during my ‘left wing’ phase in the early eighties - Daniella’s got a lot to answer for). But I digress… 
	Ok, back to the story… went to the deserted bus stop opposite the corner where the pros hang out (just so that I could watch the action while I waited… which is usually about half an hour at this time… cunts). But in this case it was only 10 minutes… just enough time to check out a fat black bitch (we’re talking massive now) that kept wandering up and down Earl’s Court road. Maybe another time I’ll get her to sit on my face… He He He. The number 74 pulled up and I got on board. The driver gave me a dodgy look as I was all covered up on such a mild night… Probably thought I was a mugger… though he was safe in his little plastic box thing so he really didn’t give a shit. Gave him the night bus fare (~£2 something I seem to remember) and sat at a first floor window seat near the front. (Didn’t want to sit at the back in case some piss heads boarded and did the usual thing. You know what I mean: the cunts without fail, head to the back of the bus… or go up the stairs - to the back… if you get what I’m saying.) God… drunk mode on and the typing is going waaaay downhill. OK, back on track. The journey itself was a tad uneventful… probably because after all that preparation it was 2.30am… on a Thursday night (all the cunts are safe and sound at home… or still clubbing?) A few drifters were straggling the streets… the usual sight of a couple arguing like nutters… blah blah… I had my mind on other things though… this should be sooo fucking funny. I’m trying not to piss myself laughing out load about it… didn’t want to draw attention to myself again.

	Got off at the Hammersmith stop… and walked to the target area (this whole thing seemed to last only a few minutes, but I’m sure it was longer). The coast was clear, no bobbies on the beat here. There were a few lights inside, which meant there was going to be some hot action later… nice. Planted the bomb on the stairs outside. I should have stuck it in the canteen, more damage that way… but how was I going to blag my way in there, eh? Any suggestions: please email my publisher. So the deed was done and there was going to be some chaos tonight. (I’m beginning to sound like that twat Cockland…) The rest was a bit quick… didn’t want to arouse any more suspicions tonight. Placed my card on a windowsill away from the main ‘bomb blast’ area (i.e. just round the corner)


KTB
CONGRATULATIONS YOU’VE JUST MET THE LOCKERBIE FLYING CLUB!
HAVE A NICE FLIGHT!
Lite the fuse and pegged it out of there. After 1 minute… (and me having a slight heart attack… I’m just too fit by far…)
BOOOOOOOOMMMM!!!!!!!
Followed by loads of car alarms going off, and a few screams... grrrrrreeeeeaaaaaat! That’s for Roger Sylvester, you cunts. Time to make a short sharp exit… I’m out of here. 
And that’s it! Game over man… Game over… I then simply went home (walked most of the way on the adrenaline rush alone). My poor feet were going to ache for the next few weeks, but I didn’t give a shit. I was just on 7th heaven mate… stage 1 is complete… things are definitely looking up. Boys say go… boys say go…


Back Home

Ok… completely and totally knackered now. Even too knackered for a wank. The Shitalians are still fucking at it though… Jeesus… don’t those cunts ever rest? I can hear the bumping, squeaking, moaning. Cunts the lot of them. Anyway, I’m going to sleep in the nod tonight… all that walking, drinking, shagging has got me a bit hot under the collar… Yeah baby I want to be free tonight… and if there’s a few skid marks on the duvet tomorrow, who cares... (or should I say: who gives a shit…). Ok, stop talking and head off to bed. Close my eyes and … ok, ok, I’ll just have one more wank. 


Just in time for a morning wank? 

Jeesus what a wank night… had shed loads of splatters just thinking about the cop shop do. In fact my whole bodies matted with piss and spunk from last night’s bedtime one off the wrist (actually it was more like one off the whole arm the way I was going). So what was the waz all about. Can’t really remember, just fragments (flashbacks more like…). All the bodies spread-eagled, limbless, decapitated (Blakelock style), marrow and bile puddles all over the shop… me bending down, getting out my throbbing rock hard cock and forcing it down the headless stump of a pig, his body twitching in rhythm to my thrusts… Oh god the bloods flowing down again straight to the source… feeding my essence, nourishing it… it’s almost ready to spurt out…
 Anyhow, talking about spurting, I love this sticky, sweaty feeling. Always gets me in the mood for the early morning waz, of which I shall now proceed… (ahem).
	OK, where do I start… let the imagination run riot. Policeman, no policewoman… very fit? No, too boring and mainstream. Really fat, faint hint of a moustache, some warts oozing pus around the mouth… yeah that’s it. A bit of bum fluff around her chin, pock marked face… she’s a bit of a hard bastard and she knows it. [Left had takes on a mind of its own and starts slowly stroking the top part of my foreskin]. (Left hand you say? I only use it to pretend it’s someone else… ok?)
	Anyway this is shaping up to be a classic… What else is there? She’s got massive breasts, hairy breasts… in fact her whole body is like a gorilla’s arse (hirsute lovers here we cum). She’s matted with cheap slappa makeup and my spunk, which is dripping off her open top police uniform (no skirt just the top revealing her hairy mammaries). Now then, what else? She’s interrogating me about the bombing of the cop shop… torturing me … (He He He He). [Left hand now into fully-fledged wank mode: stroke velocity warp (waz) 1].
‘Did you think you could get away with it, you black bastard!?!’ Her mouth is curling up into a thin smirk, depositing tiny amounts of blood red lipstick onto her tache. She’s straddling me, one hand on my throat, gently choking the life out of me, the other hand is shoving a truncheon up my arse (just like Abner Louima). [Right hand now comes into play, takes the hairbrush from the bedside cabinet and gently pushes it up my crack.] ‘Ahh the pain is soo good… do it to me you fucking bitch.’
‘I’m going to kill you nigger!’
Her hand and mine rhythmically impale me at the same time... ‘uh… uh… shove it up me you bitch!’ She’s choking the life out of me… ’ugh… ugh… I can’t breathe…’ Her massive tits brush my face…
‘AHHHHH…ahhhhhhh...’ More spunk to play with. 
That was a tad quick wasn’t it? Well, it always is in the morning. It’s the whole 8 hours build up of spunk thing… needs to explode out… otherwise you’ll have the horn the whole day. Which isn’t such a bad feeling, except walking around fully erect isn’t the socially done thing really. Hey ho there you go… time for a shower me thinks.
	Actually I’ll just lie here for a few minutes, wallow in the spunk… Hey! It’s only 7.58am, 2 minutes before I have to get up (well get up properly that is) and go to the slave factory. Typical that, I’m sure I don’t need a kin’ alarm to wake me. My whole body clock seems to centre around me getting me juices out. He He He, if I didn’t have to go to the ‘cotton fields’ every day I’d be still here having a slow loose one for hours… well at least until 10 when Judy and that other dickhead appear on ITV. Just turn down the sound and enjoy the view a border line boiler spouting her mouth off. 
	Hmm… so what do I do now? Wait… I suppose. These are the sort of wasted minutes that seem to be the best part of living in this crappy existence. There’s just no need to do anything, just sit back and relax… let the mind wander. I should’ve been a Buddhist monk I think. Spending all my hours meditating on higher ideals. Hmm… who am I kidding. The only thing I’d be thinking about is one of my fellow monks… all oiled up… straddling me… licking my earlobes. While I’m sticking my cock up him. Om baby… Om baby… He He He. Ahh… Jeez… I piss myself sometimes, I really do…

Beep Beep Beep… ‘… to have John Stalker on the line later in the show… but first we’re going live to…’
Ahh… the radio alarm’s just cum on. The never ending wank of Talk Sport hits the airwaves, to be heard, digested and vomited up by any sane brother alive. Talk sport? Talk Bollocks more like… What are they ranting about this time? Immigration, how England’s being overrun… how the white race cannot be diluted? (Well these darkies have a different culture you know?) Or is it Simon from wherever, talking about homo’s and how evil they are (he’s probably the biggest queer bastard there is). 
‘… Back to Johnny in Epsom.’ Oh… its horse racing… great! From bollocks to total boredom. Good to firm my arse.
	I actually love listening to talk sport/radio or whatever the fuck its called… for the simple fact that it gives you the ‘low down’ from the enemy (the enemy being white society). Just listening to the wanker broadcasters and fucking ‘first time callers’ winds me up something chronic. Well… it gives me something to plan for the weekend.   
	Ok... ok… the only sound geezer is Tommy (I want to be Black) Boyd, but the less said about that the better… 
‘Back to our main story… 3 members of the police service were killed in a bomb attack today. 5 others are seriously injured…’ (Fucking ‘el, that’s brilliant!) ‘The attack happened early this morning at around 2-3 am… no details concerning who carried out the attack have been release but the police suspect dissident Republican groups… [Ha Ha Ha… it’s all too much]. Damn those real/continuity IRA brothers… they’ll fucking bomb anything. Can’t take any more of this, I’m laughing so hard the back of my head’s hurting… you know the feeling… that just about to have a brain haemorrhage thing. Anyway, turn the shit off and slowly, but surely get out of bed… yep it’s time to get up… 


Shower central

Ahh… there’s nothing like a shower in the morning to remove stale spunk… good stuff. Think I’ll turn on my shower cassette-radio and wake up the shitalians from downstairs with a bit of Public Enemy: ‘It takes a nation of millions to hold us back’. (Bit of background… at school I founded my own group ‘Pubic Enema’: ‘It takes a test-tube with millions to get us going’… never really took off… hmm).  Anyway, pump up the volume boooooyeeee.

 	God this shower is faaaaantastic… Not like the last place: anyone flushing a toilet in the whole street and it’s hot/cold piss heaven. This jobbie, however, is a different kettle of fish (or should that be piss). Yes mate… this is one power shower muthafucker. SCCEESSHHH. Ahh… Water running over my manky lard arsed body… good stuff… especially when I concentrate on the smeg all over my crotch area. Mountains and mountains of blancmange-like material seems to just spring forth from that never ending dimension simply called my baby fat supply. I’m sure my brain’s full of it too…
	Good, ‘the banging’ has started from upstairs. Yeah, well if those cunts weren’t up all night playing their fucking guitars and shagging, then waking up at 7 wouldn’t be such a problem… slags. Yep the shitalians… seem to get everywhere, like little pieces of shit that you find stuck to your bumfluff every other wipedown. After a few days they’ve gone crusty and white… just like dry dog shit (I’ve said too much). He He He. The funny thing is though, is that I used to go out with (shag) a shitalian bird… don’t worry, this was years ago. Daniella Mansetti was her name, may have mentioned her earlier. Bit of a Commie bitch, so of course, to get into her pants I had to join the so-called revolutionary movement. Never met such a bunch of middleclass wank stains in all my life. It was talking shop central in the Revolutionary Communist Party… bomber jacket trendy toss monkeys. The cunt only went out with me because she’d never done a nigger before. She, of course, eventually got bored and started going out with the only other shitalian in the group: Mario (cuntio). Well… these cunts always stick together, don’t they? For a short while I almost convinced myself I was in love… yep, I was a naïve monkey boy in them days. Anyway, live and learn… live and learn. So, I think I’ll pump up the PE a bit more... just enough to hear the ‘bastardos’ flowing. Ahh… classic stuff… the sound of ‘the enemy’ will do your head in muthaaaa fuckersssss…
Ok, back to the shower thing then… as you can tell I love it, I do. All time fantasy: a shower shag… well apart from ye old bondage and ball busting stuff, shower shags are preeety good. Well, actually the best bit is getting a small showerhead (seen some in ‘Do it All’, which is quite appropriate) and using it to clean your insides… enema stylee… very sweet. Just make sure the head’s small enough and you don’t have haemorrhoids that’s all I’m saying. 
Hey… I’ve got time to kill (well 10 minutes), let’s just delve into the real nitty gritty of the shower. I’m more of a shampoo type of guy, never use soap (well only to wash the manky sponge which shall simple be known as my face). I’m what’s technically known as ‘Mr Gorilla’ so shampoo is only thing that works… well semi-scraps the crap off my hairy baboons arse. 
‘Bastado!’ (muffled). 
‘Ahh… music to my ears… just turn it up a little to drown them out…’ Ok, where was I? So… what shampoo do I use, you ask? Well it has to be Head and Shoulders. I’m as flaky as a flake chocolate bar in a tumble dryer… even got some dandruff on my bum fluff that was depositing itself on ye olde pants. (Well I hope it was… it couldn’t have been tiny white flakes of shit, could it? … Or could it…) The whole shower routine starts with the head (no… not my bell end you dirty perv) and slowly works its way downwards, paying particular attention to my nads as well as Mr Smeg. Ever since the silly rash it’s been as itchy as hell. Demonic shenanigans I tell you… Demonic shenanigans. Well, the routine isn’t quite as linearly downwards as you’d think. I always save the best for last. Yep, my arse needs very special attention… from Mr Middle finger. I’m actually surprised how much crap is still up there after a 10-minute wipedown with captain bogroll. No wonder all my boxers are skid marked to hell and back. The Brits are the only cunts who don’t wash their arse, after dumping a pound or two. Next house I move into I’m going to make sure there’s a beday near by… or at least a sink to get some ‘up spray’ to the crack (preferably with some cunts toothbrush handy). Don’t really want to be gobbing on tissue paper before the razorblade wipedown.
Ok, ok, enough of the intimate insight into your prophet’s life, need to get ready for the slave run: the commute. 


The slave-run

Ok, got out of the house by around 8.00am… left the cassette radio on… the cunts can listen to it to the bitter end… give them a bit of an education… (unlike all that sepulchre shite they listen to).  So where do I go from here? Yesterday I didn’t want to bore you with the in’s and out’s of my ‘kin daily nightmare journey but thinking about it… why not? You’ll begin to appreciate how my mind works, what makes me tick, what gets me going, what sets me off… what drives me mad.
	Ok, here goes. Hopefully a few parags will suffice… give you a tiny idea on the sort of tragedy I travel on everyday… (and the cunts I meet on said travels). Work in Clapham Common (no not on the common you slag). Yep… good ol’ Clapham Common… someone has to work there, it just happens to be me (me and my lucky life just keeps getting better and better). The only slight problem is this: I live miles away in Earl’s Court… arrrgg. So literally, how does one do it? Get fucked by Railtrack and the tube. I’ll tell you. Leave the house by around 8 ish (if I’m lucky) and walk to the station (5 minutes in my dreams). Take the lube/tube: district line (too much like the ‘distrust line’ for my liking), get to Embankment (debarkment more like) in 20 minutes and take the hated Northern fucking line (2 minutes if it ever bothers to show up on time). (Ok bit of an aside, but why is it that anything that comes from ‘up north’ or has ‘north’ in it is inherently shit, think about it.) Ok, back to the journey… take the smorthen line down to Waterloo (no I’m not going to take the piss out of this station’s lame excuse for a name), get on ‘the coffin’ and head down to Clapham: 20 minutes if I’m lucky, just making it in for 9… he hopes. Anyway thank god I don’t have to go down to the outland stics like Earlsfield or LeatherGivinginghead, that’s all I can say. 
The only good thing about the train journey is this: I travel away from London, which means I win a coveted seat. Ok, Ok, when the train gets to Waterloo, it takes ages for all the cunts to get off… and when you do manage to get on it stinks to hell and high-water (whatever that phrase means… sounds good though, doesn’t it). Yes massa, the BO smells like farmyard manure… but seeing that all the cuntry folk are on it for about 20 minutes that wouldn’t surprise me now would it? I may get a seat… but boy do I sacrifice my nasal hairs to get it. I can hardly smell my own farts these days due to Mr Nostril being fucked. But that’s the price of being a Londoner my son… ‘Maaaabey its becaaaause I’m a Laaandaner, that I caaaan’t whiff my shaaat.’ Ok, Ok, that’s my journey, a bit laboured really but there you go, or there I go… straight to shitesville UK. 


Today’s nightmare

As I said… only a few minutes to the station from where I ‘live’. The walk thing isn’t too interesting. Just head bowed and full marching orders issued (double time if I’m late, leisurely eyeing out birds if I’m early, which is hardly ever… well there’s plenty of that to do on the tube). But I digress, after walking the walk the nightmare really beings, as I finally arrive at ‘the platform’ (of man’s despair? Is that too melodramatic?).
	As the train (sardine can) pulls up, I see my opening… As a few of the nob-heads leave, there is the coveted prime empty seat and all the cocks around are waiting for someone else to make the first move. Of course in true cunt fashion I’m straight in there my son, to the sound of a few ‘tsks’… nice. Now sit-back and relax. 
Well, well, well… that wasn’t so bad now was it? The whole thing was one fluidic motion (love that phrase)… I was straight in and there… easy peasy, pudding and pie… my son. Ok, ok, what usually happens is this: the Circle Line is out again so all the cunts have to get on the District Line. In this situation, there’s no way you’ll get the first train that cums along… no way in hell. It’s a question of waiting for about 3 trains to pass before you can just about squeeze your arse past the closing doors. Mind the gap? Mind your baps more like… if you’re a girly. The thing you need to watch out for reader is this (don’t say I don’t look after my children now): Never ever, ever stand in front of a Jap before the doors open. (Made this mistake one time). You’ll basically get a fucking big shove in the back as you board. It’s part and parcel of the nip tube system. They even hire cunts to prod your arse into the can (I’m getting turned on…) Well, to cut a long story short, the Bansai bird who tried to push me on board got a face-full of my elbow (footie style). Think I may have broke her cheekbone, though I never did find out… the doors closed before she could get on. He He He. God, I’m a cunt.

	Anyway, back to the present. Fucking hell, Summer/Autumn on the tube never felt so manky. Well… at least it’s not raining. I just love that steaming feeling you get when it’s cold and wet outside, then like a greenhouse in the whole underground system. Nice… not. Anyway… who do we have here? The usual bunch of tossers of course, you know who you are… This time I’m sitting opposite the semi-fit bird with the short miniskirt (probably a PA at some wanky financial institution). The type of naff ‘sultry’ make over that is bound to get your average middle-aged child molesting bank manager ‘hard’. She’s typically sporting the look of a slapper that’s bored, especially with me trying hard not to look down her skirt… as I just ease myself back into my seat… yeah that’s it.
	The big problem about getting a stiffy in a suit is that the fucker seems to poke its head out big time. At least with jeans there’s not much stretch and it serves as a good ‘mambo mask’. The suit though is totally shite for this sort of undercover work. (Ok... ok… it’s probably because I’m not wearing any underpants… need to be free man, especially in the late Summer/Autumn type thing. Hey! I’m out there, I’m totally gone dude, and there’s a trace of spunk near my zipper… eek.) So… that’s why the ‘Metro’ is so handy (hand shandy?). Free newspaper which you can just stick on your lap, pretend to read the ‘and finally stories’ and happily get hard… result. 
	Ok, back to the bitch opposite, quite nice, worth a definite wank in the bogs later at work, but that’s about it. She looks about early 30 ish… the sort of bird that probably looked pretty good at 15-19 ish, but then (as all women do) she’d ballooned out. You can tell by her waistline… very good for childbearing… but not much else. Probably because I’m an extreme bisexual (if it moves… shag it) I like my birds extremely tall and thin - boyish if you must know. If I was good at art, I’d be a gay-boy fashion designer… churning out shit for all those lanky skinny lady boys, you know who you are. Kate Moss: face and body of a 13-year-old lad: titless freak. Look how well she/he’s done then… Hasn’t he done well, eh? Hasn’t he done well, ladies and gentlepervs. I wouldn’t say no to her though (not Kate Moss, the bird opposite… keep up why don’t you!). [Just licked the bottom of my lip while glancing at her…] Ahh… good, eye contact… only a second, but her dirty slapper credentials are assured.
Well enough about the bint, what about the rest of the cunts? I’ll describe them to you. Well there’s the fat muthafucker in the stripped suit (what were you thinking?), greased hair back, probably Greek (anal) or shitalian, definitely works in a tossing finance house you can tell. If he doesn’t he’s desperately trying to look like he is… and guess what… as soon as the shit sits down he’s in there trying to chat up the PA slapper with the usual dose of back chatting banter. Fucking hell, god I can’t stand sharks, especially ones of the greasy chip fat nature, they make me totally want to puke. Words of warning readers: never trust a shark with anything. Money, jobs, these cunts are total sociopaths who get off on ‘their next lay’ and then brag about it afterwards to any sad bloke down the bar. There’re all closet homo’s I tell you, they just don’t realise it yet… but they will… when I’m shoving my juicy nob down their throats. Yeah that’s it boy… choke on it, choke on it… I want to see some EBL (extra blood lubricant). A tad more spunk trickles out, the paper is doing its job well, I commend you Metro my old friend...
	Anyhow, I hate all these fucking suited toss monkeys. I was lucky to get a seat this time, usually the leeches are in before anyone stands up, selfish anals. To fight them you have to become them. So there I was last week when some old city ‘yes man’ was lifting his left bum cheek off the seat. I positioned myself in front of the old girl standing in front of him and ‘gentlemanly’ allowed him to get up and out of ‘said seat’… and then I was in… to a ‘tsk’ from the silly tart. Victory is mine and mine alone. What? Silly bitch, If I’d given my seat up to you I’d be perpetrating 2000 years of female oppression, as well as a healthy dose of ageism. Listen up, a bird is just as strong as a bloke (you go sister); to give up my seat would be telling half the human race that they were disabled spackos. Not me mate, I’m a revolutionary… the stupid bints can stand. Thank god for feminism, where would be my porn collection be without it?

	Anyway, the morning journey isn’t soo bad. At least you don’t get the card carrying Kosovans at this time… or do you? If they are on board, they’re probably not carrying their own cards… if you know what I mean. (If you’re reading this on the underground, check your wallets now.) Anyway, talking about pickpockets… the best, without a doubt is your average East European kid. Saw a couple of young girls, around 8 ish (woof), just picking city tarts handbags just before the tube barriers. (At Leicester Square, of course). I would have said something, but I was in a massive queue to get my ticket. Well… when I mean ‘said something’ I actually mean ‘Good luck to you… kid’. Anything to rip off the business nobs suits me fine and it was fucking great entertainment, if I say so myself. Wouldn’t mind those young things sticking their hands down my trousers I can tell you (now, now child… behave).
	Ok, enough silliness for one morning. I might as well read the paper seeing as my eric has gone down just a tad. 
‘Bomb explodes outside Hammersmith police station - 4 dead’. Oh dear, oh dear, what sort of animal could have do such a terrible thing. Hang on a mo… 4 dead?!? I wish the stats slags would get their figures sorted out… 3, 4, or 5? Well the higher the better mate. ‘The Real IRA are the prime suspects.’ Ha Ha Ha… Jeeez… Typical… totally typical. 
‘The widow of PC WankStain (the name has been changed due to issues of sensitivity for the deceased’s family) was grieving this morning after finding out about her husbands fate.’ Look at that fucking bitch. She looks like that middleclass English teacher we all grew to hate as kids. You know, the school marm bully that always picks on you. You know she’s a nazi but are too young to understand the whole shit scenario. But… at the back of your mind, you secretly want her to give you a good canning for being a naughty nigger. I’ve said too much… Anyway, simple fact of life, anyone who marries a pig has to be mentally defective or a downright fascist sympathiser… or a pig (which encompasses the previous 2 descriptions). 
Anyway… turning to page 4 for more details - trying not to get too much newspaper ink on my fingers (I prefer shit and vaginal juices). Ahh… good, more piccys; as you can tell I prefer comics. A picture tells a 1000 word… can’t be dealing with all that reading stuff… Ok, ‘Also pictured are the parents of WPC Slaaag outside their suburban house in Berkshire.’ Look at those tossers. Typical middle England morons. Mother dearest looks like that sort of old bag that hurls racist abuse to any darkies in the neighbourhood. Daddykins is just the spitting image of a bitter Tory bastard. Well… we know who’s at fault here don’t we readers… It’s their fucking sexual and moral abuse that has lead to their daughter wanting to be a pig. Being serious for just a moment. I keep asking this question: why does a normal person join the police force. Answer: it’s because they’re not normal. The cunts who sign up are either racist bullies or just plain stupid. Bought up by a bunch of fascists for twenty years can do strange things to your psyche. In fact I’d be doing the world a favour by taking out the source. Yeah that’s right, take out the parents. I mean they’re to blame… they’re the source of the evil, aren’t they?
	Anyway, I’m getting totally bored of this. There’s no details at all in this rag-tag journal. For example, what make of bomb (I spent ages on my baby), no mention of my calling card (wasted effort again). It’s all about dissident republican groups and the number of operatives on the mainland malarkey. If you need a scapegoat, blame the Oirish or the Fundies… Anyway, what else is happening in this shitty world of ours. [Turn back a few pages, to page 2].
‘New York police officer shoots Mexican immigrant’. 3 line expose on American justice. Blah… blah… Officer Beefcake… etc… etc… immigrant in custody… gabba… gabba… 40 minutes for the ambulance to arrive… la… la… died in hospital. Typical, at least the pigs over here don’t carry guns all the ‘kin time. Don’t get me wrong, if these morons did have guns they’d be just as bad. I don’t differentiate between pigs from different cuntries. I believe there is a common (‘slagchic’ you might say) link between pigs from the torture dens of Argentina and the death cells of the ‘Hammersmith pig’ shop. Maybe my next trip will be stateside… yep that proposition is definitely wankable. I’ll call it: Revenge for the Rosewood massacre…  think I’ll go to the town of Sumner (if it’s still standing) and even up the score a bit. Black man’s heaven is a white man’s hell… (but a white ho’s paradise?)
Ahh… just reached Victoria, all the tossers get off now for their fucking commute to god knows where. Good… room to actually breathe now, think I’ll just let off a silent fart… just ease my cheeks… yeah that’s it.
	Another fit young thing has just sat opposite. (13 ish… perhaps? I could do 6 months for that… Graham Rix’s stylee…). She’s sporting a violin case (how quaint). There’s definite potential here though: nice face… a few freckles which is pretty cuteish… fit body (room for expansion I think). She could grow a bit more but then again do I give a toss, a slag’s a slag. Think I might just have to head off to the Hippydrome later tonight, to get some of those ‘young guns’ and foreign birds. Ok the ‘hippo-drone’ is a tad shite at the best of times but one has to satisfy one’s carnal perversions some how… (‘A bit young isn’t she?’ If she’s young enough to bleed she’s young enough.’).
Ok enough of that shit, what’s the back page saying this time. ‘Woods romps to another title!’ Jeesus is it me or do I not give a fuck about Tiger (Uncle Tom) Woods. Thinking he’s Gandi… sheah right pal… you’re just another nigger who’s made his millions, is going to marry some blond tit and move in with ‘your mates’ down Beverley Hills. You make me want to puke pal… University of Stanford SLAAAAAAAAAAAG. Ok, remain calm… ‘remain clammy’, the school girl’s noticed me gritting my teeth… breathe now… in through the mouth, out through the nose. (Or is it the other way round?) Calmness and serenity… peace and love… shit! Embankment, time to get off, literally. 

The northern experience was not too much of a hassle this time. Just waited at the platform, the timetable read ‘next train to Kennington - 10 minutes’ (yep totally shit) but then the good old ‘CORRECTION’ came on and it was only 2 minutes. The journey itself wasn’t too memorable (only one stop to Waterloo remember). A couple of black school kids came on with me (about 16, still had to wear the uniforms on etc.). Well I hope they were 16 ish… Kids are getting so fucking massive nowadays. I’m sure it’s that hormone shit they put in the meat. Don’t think you veggies bastards are safe, fruit and veg are about as pesticided up as you can eat. You’ll probably get colon cancer from all that phosphorus deposits you’re munching down each lunchtime… cunts. Don’t get me started on the state of the world’s fishy population… Anyhow, the little nogs were talking like a bunch of home-county boys, all about how they were going to apply to Southampton Uni. or whatever… to do some economics or history fucking degree?!? Listen pals, you’ve got no fucking future here. Even if you get that degree you have to be twice as good as the equivalent white cocksucker to get a job. Doesn’t matter how many qualifications you have… you won’t get work unless either you know someone… or you’re filling up the companies ethnic quota… (In which case you’re treated like dirt and extreeeeemly expendible…) You’re nothing mate and you know it. Just give up and turn to crime while you still can. Anyway, Waterloo beckons. Time for the train thing.


The train thing

Waiting at the platform with the usual losers. Took about 10 minutes to get from the tube doors to this point… pushing past all the city cunts, elevators out of action… plodding up those metal stairs… being behind a cocksucker whose ticket didn’t work (listen when the fucking machine says: ‘seek assistance’, that doesn’t mean: stick your ticket up it 3 or 4 times now does it?… twat). So all in all I’m not a happy bunny. 
Anyway, waiting at the platform… It’s always platform 2 but all the rest of the toss monkeys are still in the station part, looking at the timetable, head cranked upwards and staring, like a bunch of lemurs (or whatever those furry shits are called)… god I hate those arseholes. Ok, the small timetable on the platform has clicked into gear, spun a few times, gone blank, spun some more… and more (jeez)… and rest. Oh, yes… surprise fucking surprise, as per usual, as fate would have it, the inevitable tide of turds, it’s (wait for it…) platform 2. All the nob-heads have quickly rushed to the platform. Total and utter waste of time. They have to wait at least 5 minutes for all the other cocks to get off the train. Jeeeesus, as you can tell I’m getting really peeved at the whole train ritual thingy. Might as well get myself some Lucozade (recovery fluid from last nights drunkard escapades) and to get away from all the cocks. I’ll then plan my seating arrangement (take note readers). Lesson 1, it’s easy to get a seat as this train is leaving London, but I want a seat away from all the cunts. We may share the same journey but the less I have to do with these arses the better. 
They’re the same sort of twats as the tube thing. You know: the fat banker type (of course this time he’s definitely not one, as he’s heading the ‘wrong way’ so to speak), the semi-fit oriental type (fake business look about her… silly slapper), couple of suited old guys (toss monkeys) etc… blah blah.
	Got a seat next to the empty driver’s carriage, in the middle of the train, not at the beginning or end, don’t want to end up like those Paddington victims (1st class wankers). Quite funny really, I always laugh when the nob-heads get their just deserts: Concorde blowing up (fucking Krauts), Marchoness (toffs), and all the 1st class slags who died at Paddington and Hatfield. Railtrack, I salute you for putting 1st class at the front and back of the trains: ‘nice one’. Shit! I’m beginning to sound like that fake tosser: Jamie Oliver. Is it me or is that guy a total charlatan? He probably went to public school, played the violin at an early age, was part of the choir, etc… and now he’s pretending to be some sort of wide boy ‘with the missus’: Jules (god they’re both cunts). Yeah darling… I’m just watching the footie with the rest of the ‘Eton types’. Anyway, back on track, I usually sit next to the driver carriage because I can’t stand it when all the cunts start coming in and out, leaving the doors open when the train’s moving, and generally disturbing my daydreaming. Evil thoughts cannot be interrupted. 
I mean, what exactly are they doing… there’s seats all over the shop. These dumb shits seem to walk between carriages, look around to see if their imaginary mates are there and fuck off to the next carriage. Total and utter dicks in my opinion. You just pray that these toss monkeys won’t sit next to you… Similar sort of situation with the bus thing. I don’t want any cunt sitting next to me, so I always sit on the outside part of the seat and try to look like Joey Deacon… unless of course some fit bird cums down the aisle… He He He. I wish these eco-warriors would just get the point of the whole pubic transport thing… I’m all for the crappy environment but just don’t let me sit next to a shit… that’s all the average bloke wants… no shits. Babes yes… Shits no… Babes yes… Shits no… Love to hear that rallying call at the next Green Peace riot.
	Ahh, Vauxhall station. Time to stretch my legs, got at least 10 mins before I get to work. Oh dear, oh dear… some old codger has got on and he looks like he’s positioning himself to sit directly opposite. TOSSER, he is as well! The whole ‘kin good point about these trains is that if it’s not packed… you can stretch your legs a bit. There should be an unwritten law: never sit opposite someone if there’s a whole carriage free to piss about in. Why didn’t he take the free seat on the other side?!? 
‘Can you move your legs please, I’m trying to sit down.’ Caant! the gall of this muthafucker! I should have set up the ‘old one’ of pouring some Lucozade on the seat opposite and then tell any cunt who attempts to sit there that it’s piss and ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you… I’m doing you a favour mate.’ Ok, nothing for it except to move my feet (can’t kick the shit out on him on the carriage now, can I… or can I?). 
I mean, look at this bloke. [Hmm… the train’s not moved for a while.] Anyway, This guy looks like an old fascist. Nothing against old people really except most are racist, homophobic, sexist nazi cunts who keep harping on about the war and how we’re overrun with darkies. Mate you were fighting on the wrong side. 
Talking about the wrong side, this fellow’s a definite candidate for the Hitler youth… got a greying coarse-hair moustache (what can I say), black NHS glasses (quite), brown suit?!? (do they still make them?), those silly shoes with the tiny hole pattern thing (broguey-bollocks I think?). Yep basically the general attire of a twat. 
This wanker’s definitely trying to wind us up… but as they say: the nigger’s the best at the whole wind up routine. This is our territory man. We rule the roost here. Time for some straight up nigger moves. He’s smiling to himself, getting a sandwich out and has started munching on it. Good victory pal, time for some fun me thinks. I spent the next 2 minutes getting my mouth full of saliva. (Doing the old rolling tongue technique can get your mouth overflowing in no time.) My coughing fit caught him by surprise. Got a wadge of spit right on the sandwich… classic. Continued coughing violently, to his dismay for the next few minutes. Got out the manky handkerchief to add to the overall effect: sweet one.
’Can you cover your mouth please?!?’ The old timer’s patience was rapidly running out.
‘Ahh sorry.’ Time for me to smile now. Tried to cover my mouth up with the tips of my fingers but still managed to get some specks on his face… great. He then got up and moved down the carriage, muttering to himself (some racist comments under his halitosis breath), victory is mine. I should have done the old one of saying in the thick afro accent: ’Yeah just come back from Nigeria, working at the Ebola clinic, maybe I should get checked up?’ Hmm, that’s a tad too extreme though… maybe next time eh? Maybe next time… 
This is like the time a few weeks back when I was queuing for a Macky D and you know what happens: some tosser starts a new queue at the side with them at the front of course. They then barge in and get their order in… cunts. Well while he was waiting for his spicy bean burger (what sort of tosser goes in and gets the veggie option anyway?) I started my joke coughing fit all over his fries. Nice. Gave me a ‘tsk, tut’ look but didn’t say anything. Should never mess with a brother when he’s pissed pal… never.
	Hmm… anyway. Jesus we’ve been at Vauxhall a long time. Some fucker school kids have just got on… Running late I see. Lucky for you so is his shitty train. Anyway school cunts… can’t stand the little (big) shits. I don’t mind the school girls mind, even the youngish ones… they know you want it when you eye them out… dirty slappers. No, it’s the boys that are the biggest twats, greased hair forwards, acne coming out of their arse, the chinny bum-fluff, the sad attempt to look ‘hard’ in school uniform with their shirt out, tie loose or even more bizarrely tucking their ties into their shirt?!? (cock, cock and double cock). Basically sporting an ‘attitude’, which is calling out for a beating. You know, acting the loud fart part. I’m sure I wasn’t this bad at school… was I?
	Anyway, recognition has just sank in. The kids were the usual bunch of cunts who board at this time: the tall skinny, zitty muthafucking tosser who’s ‘the head’ of this particular sad bunch, his blonde slapper of a girlfriend (you know, one of those estate slags that’ll do anything for a tenner) and to complete the ‘gang’: the fat little white runt sidekick (who needs a really good ‘kick’… in his non-existence nuts…). The blonde bit is a bit of a turn on though… carefully position the Metro again. Hmm, the train still hasn’t fucking budged it’s arse. Anyhow, the kid conversation is the usual load of bollocks.
‘Yeah man, so the guy was larging it big style, so I had to beat him up… maan...’ (Snow white trying to sound black, makes me want to laugh if it wasn’t so tragic…). ‘Downed his arse.’ (Jeeez where do you get off home-county boy!?!)
‘Yeah?’ (Fat bloke complies with the usual routine of back slapping or arse licking… whatever fantasy you want really).
‘Had to go to the hossy overnight.’ (Sheah right, you’ll be going to the hossy tonight, arse lover.)
‘DUE TO TECHINCAL DEFFICULTIES, THIS TRAIN WILL BE TERMINATING HERE. ALL CHANGE.’
Argg, eerggg, eeeearrg, I cannot fucking believe it! It’s just one fucking thing after another with this place. You just couldn’t make any of this shit up if you tried!!


It’s just got all too much…

‘Hey lets get a bus.’ The fat one with a big grin all over his shitty face. ‘It’s only one stop anyway, we could walk! Ha Ha… all these other guys are well gutted.’ Fucking one stop muthafuckers. I think I’ll follow them off the train… He He, you know what’s going to happen next folks and don’t worry, I’m not going to waste bullets on these cunts. A simple solution always has a key that unlocks it, if you know what I mean… you’ll see.
	Everyone bundled off the train, with that despondent pissed off look that is etched on every rail travellers face. Nearly lost the shits in the melee at the door… but I kept an eye on them… observing… stalking the prey… noting exactly where they were headed. I followed them slowly, just like the spies of old; every time they glanced back I’d be reading my paper, examining bits of the wall, tying my shoelaces (very sad I know… but I was revelling in the whole scenario). I waited for them to down through the underground tunnel, heading towards the exit, I then speeded up (Shumacher mode on). The lambs didn’t notice a thing. Typical of the school cunt mentality… they lagged behind, doing that shuffle, kicking stones/cans walk that gets you to your destination in the most possible time… suited me just fine. Got my house keys out (big fucker) with lots of grooves and stuff… lock breakers beware. Positioned the two largest keys between my first and fore fingers (hope you’re taking notes reader) and bided my time.
	They headed out of the station and sauntered over to the bus-stop. As they’d taken their time, the bus (with all the other train gits) had already left. Bastard bus drivers. That didn’t bother me too much though. This whole journey had been leading to this point. Since waky waky time, I’ve been feeling a tad peeved; and as the day is slowly winding up… so am I. Just need to unwind a little, get rid of that excess tension. Eventually caught up with the cunts… so it was just me, Mr makeshift temporary stop and the cunty kids. What a party we were going to have…
 	Slouched up to the tall cunt as they waited (in our dreams) for the next bus. I then just waited for the cunt to give me the ‘go-ahead’.
‘What are you staring at?’ 
Bingo! I knew the slag would come good. It’s one of those situations that’s totally predictable. I swear I’m psychic. 
Not very original on his part mind, but there you go. You know, this is the type of cunt who without fail has to ‘impress his mates’ (sad degenerates) all the ‘kin time… and now he’s going to get his ‘large style‘.
BANG. Keys straight into the fucker’s eyes. I swear I could hear the sound of grapes popping.
‘ARRRGG!!’
The saddos around him weren’t too impressed now, I can tell you. I held his head (greasy gel everywhere… good wank lubricant, mind) and pushed the keys in further, blood spurting everywhere (I’ll make you bleed boy… I’ll make you bleed). The silly cunt had already lost consciousness and was letting out a childish gurgling sound. Time for the boots to come flying in.  
THUD, straight into the cunt’s balls. A few stamps to the head wouldn’t go amiss either. The other so-called mate had already pegged it (Ha Ha… you know who your friends are don’t you?). The girly started screaming for help… (not at Vauxhall station girlfriend… and the MI6 wanks are on the other side of the waters… out of sight… out of mind… if they have a mind?).
After the 10th stamp the blood started seeping out through the twat’s ears: mission accomplished. Any experienced thug will tell you: ‘don’t stop hitting till you see the blood in the ears’. Nothing like a healthy dose of brain damage to keep you horny. 
To top it all, the bird fainted! Shall I rape her, children? Shall I? Hmm… too little time my friends, too little time. And God, I’m soo fucking knackered. I need to get in some exercise a tad more. Squat thrusts on this shit’s face have left me on pant overload. 
Look at me though. Jeez, I’m a bloody mess, need to get cleaned up quick smartish. Think it’s probably about time I pegged it out of here myself. Don’t want to spend time with the Old Bill now, do I? Still whatever happens today this can still be classed as ‘a good days work’. Left another calling card on the body.

KTB
CONGRATULATIONS YOU’VE JUST MET THE PC BLAKELOCK HEAD CHOPPING FIRM: IF YOU DON’T LIKE THE WAY WE DO BUSINESS, YOU CAN FUCKING SUE US (for £50,000?).’

Ok, after that good kicking, needed to get a shirt, too much of the cunt’s hepatitisy blood on it… yum, yum. Probably needed a whole new suit, but I’m too much of a tight git to splash out on surplus requirements. I’ll just stew in the lush brain/blood matter until the weekend. (The usual laundry eye-up yummy mummy’s schedule beckons… you know what I mean.) As an aside, a couple of teeth were found in the turn-ups later that night… but more of that stuff later. (I may also tell you about my dentist fetish… or maybe not). 
Anyway, as I was double marching out of there, I decided it was probably best to phone up the office/orifice. Tell them how great BR can really be. He He He. Unfortunately for moi, Sally answered… COCK! Sarcy little bitch gave me some smug remarks, which I can’t be even bothered to recall, you know the type: the ‘trying to be funny sort’ and obviously failing. Not meaning to be sexist or anything, but your average bird is a bit German when it comes to the humour front. Victoria Woods… Victoria Wank more like. Never seen anything so unfunny, except maybe John (semen) Sessions and Lenny Henry in his early Uncle Tom phase. But I digress. So I phoned up the silly sod of ‘a secretary’ and gave her the usual spiel.
‘Yeah the train’s stuck between Vauxhall and Clapham Junction, yeah… it’s not moving… I may be a tad late…’ She didn’t twig the sound of the cars motoring down Vauxhall high street? (Well… I think it’s Vauxhall High street, there’s not a sign to be seen anywhere). Anyway the main point is that: she didn’t have a clue. Then again, she is a bird and as such is genetically stamped as a naïve muthafucker. Ask yourself this question reader: why do you think it’s so easy to be a player? The answer’s simple: too many innocent young things out there… that’s why. Take note girls, blokes learn how to get their way at an early age and part and parcel of that is being a dab hand at bullshitting; and I my friend am the original gangsta-style BS artist.
The bitch bought the bait, hook, line and sinker… ‘Ok… then… I’ll tell Sharif you’ll be late…’
‘Cheers… cunt (whisper), bye now…’ CLICK.
Ok, after buying some time, I might as well use it. Decided to ‘head’ up town and see if I could get some new shirts in. Been ages since I’ve been shopping… I’m all girly excited… [Walked back to platform 2 and proceeded in the long waiting game: 2 minutes on the board… sheah right]. Hmm… I’m still debating whether a new suit would be a good idea… The blood on the black clothe was fully absorbed (nice one) but it did smell a tad stale. Hmm… Anyway, there was no question about getting a new shirt [Ahh… trains arrived already… good stuff…] Yep, me being the great planner that I am, had on the obligatory ‘white work shirt’ which of course now had globules of blood, flesh and shit all over it. I couldn’t pass this up by having ‘cut myself whilst shaving’… I’m not yet a master of the BS. Managed to clean some of it up with gob (tongue rolling) and Mr Hanky, before boarding; but still got a few strange stares from my fellow passengers (arses). Anyway, enough rambling, time to sit back and relax… and maybe think about that young kid… all beat up… body twitching. I’m shoving my nob down his battered ear… literally fucking his brains out… Squelching, I believe it’s called… probably due to the sound FX’s… God, shouldn’t be thinking about this shit. Mr Percy’s clicking into gear… time to reposition the old Metro again I fear.


Getting fitted up

Well here I am in Moss Bros. Is it me, or is that the Moss wankyess name ever? Moss fucking Bros… Jeeez. Anyway, as you can tell, I’ve headed wa-aaay back into town. If you’re going to go on a spending spree, might as well go the whole hog, Oxford Street, Leicester Square and in this case: Covent Garden’s wanksville. The order of the day? Well… a set of red shirts I think, just to hide the blood next time. Always pays to plan ahead I think, or even plan to get ‘head’, which is my national pastime. So there I was or here I am, just perusing the naff, cheapo shirt section when along comes this skinny black queer assistant (you can just tell a mile off… my gaydar was on hyperdrive).
‘Hello… I’m Antonio, may I be of assistance?’
You know king kong? Well this is queen coon. 
‘Hi there, (turn on the charm), I’m looking for a suit and shirt.’ Yep I like them thin. Heroin chic is definitely in… my pants. Very girly face, straightened hair which I like, high cheek bones, very blow jobablemouth…. A tad shorter than me, but that just added to his pre-pubescent look.
‘Yes cum this way sir…’ (He knew I wanted to pump him… you could just tell by that all knowing glint in his eyes… sick monkey boy.) Funny thing about being a bi… you always get the best and worst of both worlds… still never mind eh? The shiny chimp led me to the back of the shop, past all the snappy suits and stuff (yep, I was taking notes). We went round the corner to the shirt section and changing room area… very plush and very discrete. 
‘Alone at last sir?’
	‘Quite…’ God this fucker’s gagging for it… where’s the metro when I need it.
	He was giving me a sexy and suggestive half smile (mouth open, tongue licking his front teeth), that was giving me twinges on the downstairs front. I want my mummy… 
Don’t want to think about that now. My body went straight into the old fitting routine: lift my arms up, chest out, hold in tummy, (twitch from my nob) while he got Mr tape measure out. Thought for a second he was going to measure it but I shouldn’t let my imagination run riot… should I? 
By the way, I love the feeling of someone dressing me. It’s the same with having a hair cut, someone else in charge, touching your body, manipulating it, brushing your cock with his hand… did he just do that? Looked down at the filthy cunt… he just did one of those ‘I’m embarrassed, but not really’ smiles. Whispered in his ear. ‘You can shirt me up in the changing rooms if you want… shirtlifter…’ Stroked his arse as I said it, very tasteful I do believe.  
	So get this, he only fucking actually leads me by the cock (my fingers really… but you get the idea) to the upper changing rooms, making sure the other attendant wasn’t around and Hey! at 9 am the shop was completely empty: resultastic. You’re probably thinking to yourself, ‘Hmm… this is actually reading like a porn flick…’ but I’m only telling you how it was… honest. Ok… ok, you’re giving me a funny look now… But anyway, believe it or not… it’s your call. On the plus side though and on a personal note, after the good kicking I needed to get my baby fat out, there was waahay too much tension by far. You still think I’m shitting you, don’t you?
	Anyway, moving swiftly on, seeing we were in the changing room we hung our clothes up very neatly. (Well, he did the neat thing seeing as it was his job)… ‘Until we were both in the nod...’ (That nearly rhymes… nice). Then we just took a moment to survey each others bods. Not quite sure what he made of my lard arsed belly and bottom, blubber tits and hairy exterior… coupled with a stocky fat-boy frame… but he didn’t seem to mind (he was probably a pretty good actor). As for his skinny gay-boy, bony arsed, flat chested physique… I and Mr Penis definitely approved. Anyhow, got down to business pretty quickly after he went through the sucky sucky stuff. Very good, nearly exploded there and then. I’ve had so many blowjobs I’ve become a bit of a cock sucking connoisseur, and in my ranking (wanking) system this guy was a 7 out of 10 dick licker. Yes, he did the tongue wiggling thing, teeth racking, chin nuzzling… and a bit of middle finger motion on the ball sac and A-hole. Not quite the best though. I’ll tell you about that some other time. 
Anyway, no rest for the wicked. The blood was pounding to the source, so I just had to turn the fucker over and begin pounding his arse with my pounder. Condom you ask? Who cares, we all have to die sometimes. In fact getting pumped full of AIDS by a scraggy disease ridden black slag really turns me on, yeah do it to me… do it. 
[Build up of cum underway]. Uh… yeah… yeah… I mean… we all… uhg… have to dieee sometimes… yeah baby… yeaya… ‘Come on you cunt!’ Uh… Uh… [Left hand starts slapping his scraggy arse]… ‘Come on… COME ON!!… ARRGHHHHH… EUURGHHHH… baby, baby… wow.’ [Pant]. 
As you can tell… came right up his black arse. Looked like I’ve been storing this lot away in ‘the secret compartment’, there was spunk everywhere, dribbling down his skinny botty and legs… all over the changing room curtains… result. Being a homo’s well cool. Turned round straightaway and he twigged that it was his turn to ’fill me up’ which he did quick sharp. 
	While he was pumping me, I entered philosophy mode. (Careful there son… your bumming a tad too hard.) Hmm… the last 10 minutes was just ok… ish… you know… at the end of the day, in the final analysis etc. it was just a run of the mill (Hayley) shag. So even though I was nearly spent, there was a tad more cum to be had I think. [He was now building up to a steady eddie motion… with a few quivers here and there… it’d soon be time]. So what to do next? Who do I turn to in a situation like this? Yes I’d cum… but I wasn’t really satisfied on an emotional or spiritual level. Hmm… I decided to ‘delicately broach’ the subject: ‘Are you in to ball busting?’
‘Sorry (pant) … what’s that?’
‘You know, kick squeeze my bollocks… that sort of stuff…’ His face lit up (dirty bastard). ‘I want you to make me puke all over this floor, sterilise me you cunt.’
‘Yeah Ok… lover boy’ (RESULT). [Slowing down now]. ‘But only if you do it to me as well.’ (DOUBLE RESULT). He pulled his plug out to a popping sound. I could feel some shit, blood and precum dribbling down my legs… great feeling. I love being a dirty girl.
So there we were, fully embraced, snogging, tongues playing with each other’s tonsils, fully emmersed in each others aura… and kneeing each other in the nads… nice. He was really going for it, attacking the left and right balls with gay-boy abandon. (I was a bit swollen that night but that’s the price for pleasure.) I was more steady in my approach, gently kneeing him and slowly building up until I could hear him grunting with pain and satisfaction. He was still stiff, but after a few well-timed and aimed shots I was rapidly catching up. We stopped snogging for a second and gave each other a stare… you know the one: ‘Shit I’m having too much fun here… looks like you are too…’ I suspect our minds had become one in some sort of tantric sex thing. The again it could be that great perverts think alike… who knows…
The dirty cock then took it a tad further and cupped his hand over my mouth and nose. (I was ready to explode and ready to snuff out… yeah baby!). The slag then started wiggling his knee right into my ball sack and whispered sexily, with a smile:  ‘I’m going to kill you.’ (Good touch… in fact, that was the final straw - Jack).
‘AAARRRRGGG… urrggg… urugugua...’ Turned my head to breathe again. [Pant… pants]. He only choked me for a few seconds, but boy… the rush of air felt good. The last drops of cum shot all over his knee, cock, feet and floor; as my tongue took a life of its own and rammed itself down that filthy minx’s mouth. By this stage, he was having to hold me up… stop me collapsing into a squalid heap on the floor, swimming in my own cum, shit and blood. Didn’t care if he’d cum or not, I was done here. God I’m sick and twisted, aren’t I? 
	‘Are you ok?’
	‘Yep [pant] I’m fine… god…’ I’m sore all over. ‘Just help me get ready and stuff…’
	‘Ok boss…’ God! Hate it when tossers say that. I’m too knackered to bother though…
	Well hey ho tiddly po. After spending 10 minutes cleaning myself up (he was pretty good at that too), we did the exchange of phone numbers thing. It was finally time to do what I came here for. 

Bought the red shirts eventually, got two suits as well, yeah treat yourself why not? I mean, this guy can sell as well as fuck. [God my bollocks ache]. Anyway, by this time I decided that it’s probably a good idea to get to work. 9.30 now, should be there by 10 ish… he says. Well, if the trains don’t fuck up again… if you know what I mean. He helped dress me in the new suit and shirt and I was ready to go (ready for some action on the work front). Let’s just backtrack for a moment though… something that needs to be said… take note reader. The good thing about this cunt is: he knows when to speak and when to shut the fuck up. After cumming (me that is), all birds can do is yap on about some shit or another… when all I want to do is sleep or at least turn my brain off. Queen coon knew the score that’s all I’m saying.
Anyway, that’s how I met my mutual ball busting pal Antonio (not his real name). By the way, he joined me and George in the movie making business… but more of that another time. 

So, after all that shit, train journeys back and forth, brisk (pegging) walk, and a quick stint in the bogs… I got to my desk at 10.20 ish, not bad you say, not bad at all… Hmm, note here says that Sharif wants to have a quick word. Hmm…


Back to work we go…

‘YOUR’RE LATE!?!?’ Sharif, stating the obvious as usual.
‘Yeah, the tube had a delay. Train stopped off at Vauxhall didn’t move for an hour. It was really bad… erm… Didn’t you get my message?’
‘NO!’ (cunt almighty). ‘You know, I’m getting sick of your excuses… do you know that?’
I’m getting sick of you ugly face mate, don’t see me complaining… like a Zimbabwean farmer. ‘Errm… I’ll work later tonight… cunt’ - under my breath and still keeping a straight face… good work. He thought he heard it but not quite. Like the time I went to France. [Flashback mode on].
‘Parlay vouz anglaisy?’ To an old froggy dear in a cafe.
‘Non’ Hostile looks was definitely the in thing in Paris, especially to a brother.
‘Ok, Jay voudraz une tee… mutha fucker’. The end part was just loud enough to hear. I was still smiling, pretending I didn’t say what she thought I’d said, if she understood. Well… of course she understood, silly cocksucker. The frogs make a habit of not understanding the ‘world language’ except when you add cunt after every sentence. Had a few run ins with that I can tell you. Anyway, another satisfying victory over the racist frogs: liberty, equality and fraternity - only if you’re a fucking whitie that is. Yeah… many a wan-

‘This simply can’t continue. We have a work ethic here! 9 to 5, not 10 to 6. I expect better!’
You won’t get it… tosser. ‘Yeah sorry.’
‘Are you having problems at home?’ 
Jeeesus. Is he trying to be my best friend now? Time to turn on the stupid psychology he learned from that crappy MBA at the university of East fucking poly. Mate you know it and I know it: you don’t give a dog’s bollocks. ‘Err… no I’m fine, I’ll get back to work then.’ Before I puke all over your fucking battered arse.
‘Ok then. I’ll be noting this down.’
COCK! I smiled as I left. Working in this job requires the mental control of a zen Buddhist: ‘I must not be phased by the motherfucker… I must not be phased by the motherfucker…’ is the mantra of the year… the year of the slag.
Annnyway, trundled off to the piss poor excuse of a desk in the ‘open plan nightmare’. Got greeted by the usual ‘waaarrg’ from the cunt colleagues.
‘So, partying last night?’ Sally, smug grin… needs to be wiped off by a serious anal rape, I fear. God she is such a cunt. Is there anything else to be said on the matter… I think not, except I’ll be ordering some Rhohipnol online today. Less talk more action.
‘No just the trains again I’m afraid… arrgg… He He He.’ Pulled a silly face too, cocksuckers lapped it up, I mean they are used to gargling cum aren’t they? Went into my obligatory rant about BR and the tubes to a few complimentary nods and then got down to the work thing (well the surf the internet for porn thing…). I’m an expert at the ‘alt-tab’ minimise window, you have to be in the open plan craporama. Hey! Next time I’ll divulge the ins and outs of this art form… not just yet though. Oh! In the sitting down and settling in rush I nearly forgot…
	‘Hey Sally! Didn’t you give Sharif the message, I’d be late?’
	‘No… too busy I’m afraid… I can’t cover for you all the time!’
	‘Hmm, whatever…’ Wasn’t going to get into an argument with the cunt… Even though she wanted it…
	‘Maybe you should catch the earlier train?’
	Maybe you should get a facelift? ‘… Ok…’ Pretended to be looking at my piles of papers… basically ignoring the shit. She wouldn’t let it lie though.
	‘That’s been a few times this month… hasn’t it?’
	‘Err… yep, sorry about this…’ (Focusing on my monitor) ‘I’ve got a lot of things to do… love to stay and chat…’ Hey fatso, the conversation ended 20 minutes ago. That soon put her in her place (under my arse). Yes my son… victory is mine and mine alone. She returned to whatever the fuck she was doing (stroking her vag?), while I got onto the real work of surfing for porn. Well, to be honest it was more like surfing for cars. (I’d already spent my juices remember… twice… they’d be a few hours before I’d need to milk myself again). Yep, I’m thinking about getting a car… nice little town runner. Why? Well for starters it’s a lot cheaper than travelling by the crappy train… only about £40 to fill up for a few weeks… I think? While that same £40 will last me one week, if I’m lucky. Petrol may be expensive if you’re a Northern toss monkey on the dole, but for the rest of us it beats Mr Train hands down… and you can indulge in a bit of curb crawling on the weekends. Pick up a few kids and stuff (I’ve said too much). Nope, at the end of the day, trains are too-oo-ooo shit by far.
	Anyway, back to the plot. In summary, apart from the hectic (erotic) early morning stuff, the work thing passed off without incident… this time. The clock (cock) watching started at 11 (back to ye olde school routine… waiting for the lunchtime fag… in both senses). I’d already decided that at around 12 ish I’d slope off (to literally escape) for lunch. Couldn’t stand being in here any longer. There’s only so much boredom one can take in a lifetime. The cunts crowding me ain’t too much better on the interesting front either. They used to be a lot worse though. I’ll tell you about some of those episodes later… depends what mood I’m in. Anyway, pretend to look busy… pretend to look busy… busy bee… busy pee… piss… shit… fuck… 


Lunch time, think time

… bollocks… cocks… cunts… Manning… twats… penis… smeg… Davidson… dicks… Blair… Ahh, lunchtime at last (well it’s 12 ish anyway…). There’s only so much word association wordplay wank that I can muster. Good hour’s work I think. Anyway, time to get out of the orifice and begin to breathe once more. Is it just me or is working in an air-conditioned wall to wall computing fuckory (that will simply be known as the modern office) really bad for ones stress level? Not just stress mind, I’m beginning to get some repetition strain injury type thing happening to my wrist (no… no… it’s not from wanking too much son… I’m being serious this time.) Yep it all started a few weeks back… I was perusing some animal porn (weasels and whippets… great stuff). Well I got into the whole surfing routine… going from page to page… sex act to sex act… window to window… furry muff to furry muff… etc… blah… blah… click, click, dick… I was basically totally hook, line and sinkered; and didn’t really notice that small ache occurring in ‘the mouse wrist.’ So there I was, in bed the next morning trying to have a wank. (Imagine if you will Stephen Hawking trying to have one off the wrist and you’ll begin to understand my predicament). Very bad… very bad indeed. Ok, after all that shit I took the day off (Sharif was well pleased… not), rested the old wrist (started using my left hand for the dirty jobs) and that’s that. So I’ve been taking it even more easy than usual… 
Oh, I can see Sharif getting ready to hassle his work force… Yep, he’s standing up… he’s heading towards the door of his shitty square boxy office partition thing. Time to make my escape for lunch, don’t want to be cornered by this cunt for an hour or so. Anyway, enough ranting for now, just pickup my suit-jacket off the back of the chair and trundle out of here (making no eye contact of course)… First hurdle cleared I think.
Excellent shit… none of the cocks noticed my smooth sharp exit. Just headed past the reception area (2nd hurdle cleared)… and they’re off… Just a brisk walk down the street a few metres… quick right here and I’m out of the line of sight (fire). (Final hurdle cleared… Colin Jackson can eat my dirt). And rest. Freedom from the ghetto and all that stuff. 
Ok, so what now? Well usually break-time centers around strolling around town and finding the cheapo sandwich place. You know the score… the joint that we initially think is quite good… and then we all grow to hate. It’s probably the ‘associated with work’ malarkey. Anyway, after the 5 minutes walk around the back streets of Clapham, I arrived at the greasy spoon sandwich shop. (Won’t reveal it’s name lest I want the pigs to get that much closer to me. But suffice it to say it looks very manky outside… All you Clapham posse/pussy know what rip off rest house I’m talking about.) 
Anyway, today’s feast consisted of ‘royal chicken, ham and cottage cheese’ - it was the only thing vaguely ‘normal’. If I was stupid I could have gone for the Parmesan, asparagus and sausage. Cunts, why can’t these fuckwits just make something simple, like corned beef sandwiches with NOTHING ELSE!!!. Fuck I’d buy bread and butter instead of paying two quid for a piece of wank between 2 slices of white starchy bread. Anyway, enough on the bread front, after buying the sandwich and of course eyeing out the bird behind the counter (bit predictable that) just headed off to the common for a wander.

Ahh… the cuntryside at last, well the closest ‘us townies’ get to it anyway… Walking around like this: munching on shit, breathing in car fumes and pollen, carefully avoiding dog shit and dogs after Mr Sandwich scraps, makes me enter that realm called: philosophical thinker mode. Or what I like to call it: Brain wound Up a NoTch: BUNT thinking. Yep, the cuntryside (and cuntry-folk) do that to me. Now that we’re talking about the shoot nature brigade; that’s one organisation that I’d like to bomb: the ‘kin nazi ‘cuntry alliance’. Anyone living in the stix in my opinion is an inherent fox-raping racist (speak your mind son, don’t hold back now). Went to a farm in Yorkshire years ago for one of those crappy school trips. Straight from the Hackney estate to the estate of some nobby farmer. You should have seen it - the stares me and the brothers got: ‘never seen a black kid before… you yokel/inbreds’. Set me up in good stead that. In fact the whole childhood thing was one racist incident after another. Being born black in Britain is wahay to stressful by far. No wonder so many brothers are in mental hospitals. Don’t think there’s a high proportion of your average mentalist in Africa and Jamaica (then again anyone who thinks that HIV doesn’t cause AIDS is a bit dodgy in my opinion). But seriously though, growing up in the racist white society with splatterings of ‘empire’ can literally drive you mad. Am I mad? Probably… He He He Ha Ha Ho Ho He Hi Hi He He.
The funny thing is this though, been in London for years now and never heard the ‘N’ word. Visited a friend in Kings Lynn, straight to a pub when out comes ‘oi nignog!’ from a bunch of cunts at the bar. You should have seen the bottling he got… nice. One up for Mr Mugabe and co… me thinks. Ok, ok… is it me, or am I the only one who doesn’t give a shit about those white muthafucker farmer thieves? Stealing the land off the black man and ripping it dry for profits. I don’t think you realise how much Black Britain and Stateside support you’re getting comrade Mugabe. It’s about time the whities got a taste of their own medicine. Just throw in a few rapes, pillages and sprinkles of atrocities and we’ll be happy sun people once more. Just like good ol’ boy Sibusiso Madubela… in SA. Killing those white officers… nice move, very nice indeed. Shame you were caught really.
Anyhow, the white ice devil race is on the rack, outnumbered and weak. In reckon in 50-100 years we could wipe them out, if we really spent a bit more effort on it. It’s practically God given mate… the black man’s genes are the strongest and most dominant genes you can buy. If everyone shagged everyone the net result would be a brother: afro hair, super smooth dancing, a penchant for having an enormous dick. You know it makes sense… think about it. So, in summary, there are two prongs of attack (speaks General X): shag the white bitch and down the white arse… simple.
Anyway, moving swiftly on your honour, these lunchtime walks are really good to unwind to, unravel the complexities of the mind, release the enveloping stress that clouds the soul of the adept… eye out some birds in the park, whatever you need really. But anyway…
‘Oi! Mister, can I ask you a question?’ Another bunch of teenagers 14-18 (you can’t really tell these days officer). All dressed in their casuals, trainers, the usual assortment of toss. All congregated around a park bench, how original. What’s going on? Shouldn’t you toss monkeys be at school? Then again, does it matter? Probably not…
‘Yeah… what can I do you for?’ Wandered over to the ‘central’ ringleader (just happened to be a ‘half brother’ if you know what I mean) sitting like a slapper - legs wide-open etc… won’t bore you with semantics…. Big word that. I’ve told you this before, but I can tell a tosser 10 miles away. This was a prime example: tall, lanky, square-jawed poofy prick trying to look hard with the skinhead cut, single-stud earring and a faint hint of bum-fluff around the chin area. He was holding a fag, trying to look 2 years older than he really was. These are the sort of shit bullies we used to fuck up a treat at school. There was one cunt who looked like this in the 3rd year of secondary (not sure what it’s called now in your modern school; year 9-10, 11… I don’t know…) Anyway… bit of a bully, asking for dinner money, bus fares and other shit. One day we (3 victims under my strict guidance of course) got some old cricket bats… followed him home from school and basically gave that cunt the batting of his life. I laid in around 10 fours and a couple of sixes to the shit’s head. Totally fucked him up… think they put him in a mental hospital after that. Apparently, he could only walk, talk and shit (well… stumble, mumble and dribble). He He He. He looked like a total spacko. Bit of a climb-down I know, but what could one do… except laugh. As for me, well… we never grassed each other up, so I got away with it… and the funny thing is this: it happened out of school, so it wasn’t a school problem. It was just washed under the bloody carpet… can’t let the school get a bad rep now can we? Anyway, that was probably my first attempted murder (greeeeat). My only regret is I didn’t rape the twitching vegetable, while I still had the chance. I wanted to and probably would have if the other geezers weren’t around… but there you go. Can’t win all the battles. As for the other 2… well I’ll save that for another day I think. Anyway, stop reminiscing on previous glories, what does this cunt want? 
‘Sorry?’
Complete silence, from ‘the mild bunch’.
‘Did you want something?’ (You tossers). A couple of sniggers here and there. (Oh ha ha, very funny… Mr Maturity and the mature boys strike again). It was the old: ‘let’s make the suit guy look silly’ routine. Turned around just as the full blown laughter erupted from the cunts… and then turned back very quickly and laid a roundhouse kick right in the boss’s face. (Bruce Lee would have been proud.) You should have seen his face pre-impact. The mixture of surprise (what’s going on here then), fear (realising that his square rugby jaw was shattering and he’d be eating out of a straw for the next few years), humility (as the arrogant smirk was wiped clean) and wimpy (hard façade crumbling to cack). I’ll be wanking on that expression tonight, I can tell you… Yep, the sound of his jaw splintering was music to my ears, as was his chorus of argg… errgg... euerg… uggug…  erghh. A pretty good accompaniment all round, I think. Of course, the rest of the little shits scrambled out of there… they always do this… trust me. I moved swiftly away also… there’s nothing like a good lunchtime kicking to set you up for the afternoon. (Two kickings in one day, that’s pretty good going). 
Anyway, all that excitement has left me horny as hell. But it’s coming up to 12.45 ish… should really head back now and try to satisfy my carnal cravings. Besides, the pigs’ll be crawling around here in the next few minutes… maybe… All these school shits nowadays are mobilised to hell and back with these pagers, WAP crap phones, organisers etc… Nope… it’s best to make another hasty exit and head off… ‘Back to work we go’, hi fucking ho?


The afternoon stint

Ok, ok, the afternoon stint. Started with me getting the nose/jaw matter off the old shoes and smartening myself up in the toilets. Quite a contradiction that: dirty bogs, smart wogs. Hmm… never mind. Another thing that needed to be cleaned up was my nigger attitude. You know getting rid of that: ‘I’ve just kicked someone’s head in’ look off my grinning ape-like face. No one likes a black-man with an attitude. Gets the white guys scared… gets the white women horny. But seriously, me coming into work with a big smile on my face is going to attract all the wrong attention, I can guarantee you that. Nope… just keep my head down, serve my time without getting noticed and fuck on off this crappy planet when my time’s up. Yep, it’s time to get serious… but first I have to dump my load (you know… the usual 2pm lard dumping sessh).
	Won’t bore you with the details of this particular dump. I told you all about it last time. This one was pretty uneventful, i.e. straight out the hatch and a 2-minute wipe away. Surprising really, since I did have a few beers before the cuntin cop shop do. Anyway, after all that shit (literally) I trundled off to my desk in the same manner I left it, i.e. head down and keeping a low profile. As I left early, some of my esteemed workshite colleagues were ‘out and about’ having their lunch, so they wouldn’t realise I’d spent around an hour away from Mr Desk. Yep, they are sad monkeys… having a maximum of half an hour for dindins and no fag breaks. (It’s the only time you can legitimately leave this shithole - fucking best incentive to light up I can tell you). Yep, they’re so cuntin conscientious, it makes me want to puke. Don’t they realise that: yes, they may get a promotion/payrise by working harder (if they’re lucky), but I’m afraid they’ll have to keep that level up. Can’t be seen to be slacking off once you’ve got your 50p-pay rise. Them in charge can downsize your arse as easily as my 2pm dump. 
Anyway, anyway, I’m not that much of a slacker, I did do around 10 minutes of paperwork stuff (after parking my butt), and one could say it was a productive afternoon… if you were a tosser that is. Any time spent at ‘work’ is time lost in my opinion. We have only got a limited period on the ‘kin planet. We need to use it wisely instead of pissing it away as we do ‘in the office’.  Christ, just one ‘bank-job’ should do the trick… set me up for a few years of dossing, preferably somewhere in South America, where there’s lots of Brazilian lady boys… Hmm… Hey, at the moment I’m pinning my hopes on the snuff movies business… that should be super fucking cool if that whole enterprise takes off. … I could get into drug dealing and prostitution? Many a brother have fared well at such endeavours… He He He. I mean, you see them all over Brixton in their fuckin’ BMW’s (Black Man’s Willy) larging (and larding?) it up big style. We’ve all seen them, with their stupid white estate ho’s in the passenger seats. Yeah, that’s what makes me totally want to puke, white cunts who want to do the black guy poky poky thing - because they ‘just want to try it out’… silly AIDs giving slappers. They all probably end up marrying that white fucker (probably a plumber or something) down the street or nearest sewer. I mean you can’t take a nigger back home to meet the parents, can you? What would the neighbours think! 
Anyway, talking about silly slappers, time for my afternoon surf… for porn. I’m in the unique position in the office in that I face everyone and no one faces me (or more importantly Mr PC screen faces no one). Thus my afternoon perusal can be viewed with no interruption. I also do the classic thing of deleting my history file. Bit of background, a few years ago there was this complete tosser at work, Frank Oldman. The sort of middle-aged East Londoner who’d be totally at home in nazi Germany. You know the sort: Isle of Dogs, BNP voting Millwall supporter. Used to have hour-long conversations with the resident northern toss monkey (one: Mark Jameson) about immigrants… especially of the Bangladeshi kind. People up north are more friendly? Yep if you’re white and stupid they are. The basic nightmare seating arrangement was me parked next to ‘Alf Garnet’, and ‘Chuby fucking Brown’ sitting opposite. I was in 7th heaven I can tell you. 
‘Yeah, you guys are ok,’ saying to me, ‘it’s the Bangladeshis I don’t like… different cultures… you know what I mean… can’t stand those Muslims… fanatics I tell you… Asylum seekers, why don’t they stay in their own country, we’re hard pressed here as it is… etc…’ the usual wank from a racist trying to justify himself… you get the general picture. This was usually followed up by Mr ‘Up North they do things different’ recanting how he went to India and knows them people inside out. (Yep, did the usual thing of going to the Taj Mahal, a couple of temples here and there, staying in a 5 star hotel… He most definitely knows the inner workings of the Hindu mind I can tell you… likes a curry too…)
	Anyway, to cut a long story short, every time this cock sucker (Oldman) went to lunch, I’d log onto his machine after a careful inspection of his password - think it was something like: DieGandhi58! (the numbers and special characters were put in to make it a bit more secure… but not secure enough…). So, I would just log onto his machine and download all sorts of crap: ‘dog lovers and horse fuckers’, ‘primary school girls suck off big black bastards…’ etc… Of course a few weeks later he was called into Sharif’s office to explain his misdemeanours:
‘So Frank… I need to ask you something…’
‘Yes boss… what’s the problem?’ 
‘Why is your history file and temporary internet directory full of such material?’ 
‘Material… what material!?!’ Followed by a brief portfolio of my downloaded tomfoolery.
‘The police have been called and by the way - you’re fired!’ (Sharif can sound like such a cunt when he tries… which is all the time). You should have heard the ‘What? What’s going on?’ followed by the screams of ‘fucking paki… this is a fucking setup!?!’. Nice one, victory is mine and mine alone.
	Anyhow, last thing I heard (after spending a year in Jail) he was being hounded out of an estate in Portsmouth by some of the resident scum: ‘News of the world’ reading trash… tossers. That’s another thing, those fucking arses who chuck bricks through a sicko’s window, because they were told to by a ‘responsible newspaper…’ If the paper ran an article on Asylum seekers: name and shame, these nazi scum will be out there with the hanging banners’. You know who I mean… the white estate slappers, with their scrawny skinhead kids. Who the father is, is anyone’s guess. We all know these fucks, the moral majority… muthafuckers. 
Now that we’re on the subject of paedophiles and stuff… is it me, or does anyone give a shit about that white bitch Sarah Payne? I mean, they were kicking up a big fuss about that cunt, while in the meantime there’s loads of racist murders and pig killings every other day of the week. We don’t see the papers naming and shaming Nazis and Pigs now do we? We don’t see the filth mobilise like mad after a paki is pushed off a bridge now? Well… it’s all pretty obvious to me: if you’re a white, blond, blue-eyed darling your life is worth 100 Steven Lawrences that’s all I’m saying.
Ok, getting back on track. At the end of the day, Oldman got what was cuming to him… and that’s what counts really. So today’s lesson is: always delete your history file… children (and Gary Glitter).
	So… back to the old internet porn surf. Do I surf USA or UK? Hmm, I actually prefer UK (Londonish), closer to my immediate location, i.e. looking for ‘escorts’ + ‘watersports’ is a tad shite when you get shed loads of addresses in New York. That’s why I always add ‘+UK (London)’, more convenient that way. By the way, I always use the ‘Google’ search engine. It is fucking well fast and always lists the sites with the most hits first. (As I have faith in the perversity of my fellow man, I’m never unsatisfied…)
Ok, what should I indulge in today… got a few hours to waste, and I’m getting the horn rapidly. Ok, let’s see what we get with this, ‘+girls’, ‘+violence’, ‘+murder.’ What?… You’re not shocked are you? Ok, ok… I’ve done all the usual things like ‘sex + bondage’ and I’m just getting well bored with all that stuff. Let’s just experiment shall we. Just go with the flow man. Chill out a bit… Take it easy and smoothly… and let’s see what Mr Google has cum up with:
1.	… psychological effects of domestic abuse… 
2. … two sisters attack pensioner in…
3. C++, Unix hot tips
4. … anal, women, bondage, muscle, fuck, bottom, violence, paralysis…
5. Enid Blyton’s fantasies…
Hmm… number 1 looks a bit boring, the usual psychoanalytical bullshit that the feminazis churn out on a regular basis. If they had pictures and graphic details it would be worth the effort, but no… These cunts know how to make a sexually exciting subject read like the Times supplement. The sad thing is, that it’s at the top of the list (i.e. the site with the most web hits…), tragic really. Anyway, moving swiftly on… I get back to number 2. Not sure what the fuck number 3 is doing there. Probably a computer freak has put some hidden fields in his webpage… to get that extra traffic in… quite funny really. Number 4 is just blatant. It’s the sort if site you click on expecting to see something good, and all that happens is 20 new windows open all leading to some shitty commercial softcore claptrap, asking for an adult ID code. Nope, I wouldn’t touch it if you paid me. Besides, the only way you can get rid of all those popup windows is to reboot I find… or disable that Java stuff in the background… but I hate pissing around with that shit. Many a time I’ve been nearly caught out with a little applet starting up: showing Britney Spears sucking some guys nob, just as Sharif wants me to do some work… my finger on the reboot was like lightening I can tell you. Number 5… I’ll add that to my temporary hidden bookmarks for further perusal and arousal. 
Ok, then, let’s click on number 2. So… what do I have here then… ‘two sisters kill old lady…’- News international site. Ahh yeah… that’s more like it… I love a good ‘real life, women killing’ (men preferably) story. Hey, it’s the natural conclusion to my bondage fetish… to imagine myself being ‘done over’ by a white crack whore. Yep, I’m getting stiffer already, just reposition myself in my seat, spread the old legs a bit… and let’s get it on.  
	‘Two sisters, aged 19 and 17’ (yeah baby…) ‘were found guilty yesterday of battering an 87 year old woman to death’ (yum yum). ‘Jean and Kellie Lyons’ (wow… from their black and white piccies they seem pretty fit - then again most birds are at that age); ‘battered Lilian ‘Rose’ Mackensie’ (she ain’t bad either… do-able, definitely do-able) ‘… and then bragged about it afterwards’. 
‘We’ve just done an old woman’ (Shit… cock… wank… I don’t believe this… I’m already stiff… I’m fucking rock solid mate… this is most definitely: wank central. Just don’t think about it… just don’t think about it…). 
I would absolutely love to be battered by these bunch of slags, throttling me… smothering me with their cunts. Yep, that’s it… Kellie sitting on my face. I can smell her piss and shit seeping though, down to my mouth. I have to swallow it, as I’m gasping for breath… there’s no other way. Her legs are pinning me down… helpless once more… while Jean is putting the boot into my nuts… ‘We’re just doing a nigger… HA HA HA HA.’
God enough of this, this always happens, I settle down for a good 2 hours surf, but I need to have a waz after the first 10 minutes… I’m looking more and more agitated as we speak. Sweat building up… flustered around the collar… body temp exceeding the comfortable factor… Ok, fuck it, I’m off to the bog.

	After the wank - won’t bore you with the details again. Suffice it to say, it was a tad like the last one I described (this morning)… i.e. lots of random bondage imagery, choking myself, slapping my nuts, gurgling… blah… blah… Your probably thinking: that’s sounds a tad loud? How d’ya get away with that in your modern echoey public toilet facility. Well, I’ll tell you… just wait for the urinals to flush, a punter to use the Hoover-sounding hand dryer, a lard arse trying for the 3rd time to flush that loose turd again. All these manmade lav sounds can shield all but the most manic of wanks (i.e. screaming ‘CUM TO ME MOTHER’ at the top of your voice). The funny thing though is this… the toilet music doesn’t happen continuously… it’s beautiful sounds only come on in random dribs and drabs. Thus in order to mask my wank I have to match the randomness. Makes for some interesting ‘long ones’ off the wrist I can tell you… especially if you suspect Sharif being in the cubicle next door… Ha Ha Ha. 

Annnyway, after all that fun (and more many hours surfing for cars) it’s 5 o’clock… just need to do the half hour of clock-watching, eyeing up Rita and its time to go home… fuck Sharif. 


Homeward bound (and gagged)

The return train trip’s semi ok-ish, even though I’m travelling in the right direction this time, i.e. towards London and away from stixville. Basically, it doesn’t get too busy. No sardine can carriages, or body odour sauna’s here pal. Then again, I am leaving at 5.20; anything later and I’m screwed… stuck next to the rest of those tossers, heading back to ‘north London wankdom’. You know the crowd: the Camden town, Tufnell park nob heads… who just ‘luuurv to have picnics on Hamstead Heath’ with their pubic school darlings. We’ve all met these cocks - the ‘dastardly nicks’ of this world (yep that show was full of cunts). 
	Anyhow, got off the train thing at around 6.15 ish… argg. It was running even slower than usual - which was a real surprise (not). Leaves on the line, more like shit on the line. Railtrack trying to gets its safety record to a normal level. In their dreams son, after 18 years of Tory mismanagement and a few years of Labour on the case we’re utterly and totally screwed. Really great for that silly cunt of a Railtrack boss to resign after the Hatfield do. Sorry pal, didn’t quite wash… pretty good publicity stunt though. You must’ve had a whole team of PR pricks on the case. If I was in charge resigning wouldn’t be an option. No son… you’d be charged, condemned and crucified with a good kicking to be sure. You get the message… Anyway enough on the trailways.
Decided I didn’t want to go home just yet. Wandering round Earl’s Court in a suit attracts all the right attention - namely the pros, if you know what I mean. Sauntered around for half and hour, but no one seems to be around… eeek. Is it me or do the pros have a daily work timetable as well? For example, after closing time (11-11.30 ish) there’s no pros around at all. You would have thought they’d get the most money from shit-faced punters like myself at that time; or it could be they don’t want to get smacked around a bit by the yobs. If there’s any smacking to be done its going to be done by her (or him) on my nuts… He He He. Talking about him, even went outside the Coleherne for some male on male action but it was a ‘nothing to see here’ situation. As an aside, the Coleherne boys usually do cum out and punt after the pubs are shut; guys seem to experiment more with a bit of the old homo thing when they’re slightly pissed… We’re all closet bottom bandits you know.
	Anyway, no pros about from 6 till 7… probably because they don’t want to see all the irate workers getting back from the slop-house… to their families and shit. Who can blame them? I wouldn’t shag anyone who had to sit in a smelly rat’s arse of a carriage for an hour or so. Then again, yeah I probably would… tight rat’s arses are a joy in itself… so to speak, but ermm… that’s an entirely different story. [Getting stiffer once more].
	God this sexual frustration is really winding me up! Wandering for half an hour to try to get my baby fat out is really irritating (bit like that rash I had last month). Anyway, what’s this?
‘Hello there, hey you… why don’t you get a proper job - Ja’. Stupid German muthafucker near the station hassling the local homeless bod, with his slapper girlfriend in tow. Love situations like this. I’m very much of a people watcher as you can tell. A narrator on the social fabric that makes up this shitty society we exist in. A people philosopher you might say… Ok, ok, being serious, I’m like everyone else. Just need to get my drama fix for the day to make up for my boring 9-5 lifestyle; watching Eastenders, Brooky, traffic wardens hassling motorists… pissed cunts looking for fights (I’ve got a few stories there I can tell you). Anyway, I know you love reading this shit (you’ve got this far haven’t you, without flushing it down the bog?). So I might as well take a few minutes to describe these tossers in full. I feel as though you, the reader, deserve it. Ok, where do I start, the bloke is your typical kraut: you know, your average jeans, T-shirt wearing, beer-belly hairy-arsed cunt. With a stupid Pat Sharp haircut - i.e. short on the sides, long at the back and spiky on top (yep total and utter… total and utter). Oh! Did I mention he had a tashe, brown bushy muthafucker, just like those queens down the Coleherne. His voice was that annoying deep twaty spiel that only the hun (cun?) can perfect. Of course he was trying to be funny (well as funny as a Himmler can be) to that piss poor excuse of a slapper, which was his girlfriend. (It couldn’t have been his sister, she wasn’t hairy enough… nearly but not quite.)
	Anyway, the bird was your typical Eva Braun type… short’n dumpy, face like a rugby player, the brownish red afro-like haircut. She had a tashe as well, though not as striking as Helmut Kohl there. Of course the bint had the usual slapper clothes on: baggy woollen jumper, those tight trouserish jeans things revealing a bit of ankle that only pro’s and European chicks wear (or the girls that live in the Styx: like Leatherhead, or Hoxton… you know who I mean). 
Yep two prime examples of the master race. Anyway, these fuckers looked like they were having fun at the expense of the local homeless bod. I think his name was James or John… or something like that. He told me his name when I gave him a few shillings… think it was collectively about 12p. (Ok, ok… did the deed when I was drunk as a skunk of course. It’s the only time I feel generous and get into that pissed talkative mood that single women in bars all grow to love.) 
Talking about getting pissed… I need some beer. Didn’t want to hit the pubs though, too many loud city wankers at this time of day. Your best bet at this juncture is to get a bottle at the local bud-bud shop round the corner. Yep… all the Earl’s Court posse (and pussy) know the store I’m talking about. The place where the pros, dealers, punters and undercover pigs hang out like flies around shit. As you can tell, this is my local market and lifesaver for picking up drugs, condoms, toothpaste and other assorted shit. Mr Patel (why are they all called that?) is the geezer in charge. As I walk in I’m greeted by the usual wank.
‘Hello boss!’ (I hate tossers who say that! The broad Yorkshire accent doesn’t really match the face.)
‘Yeah… hello’ [Don’t make eye contact]. I’m not in the mood to have another boring conversation with this tosser… exchanging pleasantries about the weather, traffic… blah… blah… crap. If people have got nothing interesting to say they should shut the fuck up, that’s all I’m saying. Are we social animals? Bollocks to that… if that were the case why is the world topped to the spunk filled brim with toss monkeys, answer me that all you wishy-washy sociology wank stains. 
Anyhow, getting back to it, the shop is typical of the ‘buddin’ variety: narrows corridors (to maximise space) stacked with crap like Omar’s universal window cleaner and curry powder - only £1.45 (looks like it was made in the 70’s in either a Birmingham warehouse, or a sweat-shop in Bangladesh.) The place reeks of spices, detergent and other crap so I was not going to spend any more time here. In fact you could say this is the curry house equivalent of the makeup department at Boots. You know, after about 10 minutes you start to get those brain haemorrhaging headaches and pukey convulsions… as you’re engulfed by the aroma of Channel no 69 with a good dose of Homo Boss for men. How the fuck anyone works there is a ‘kin mystery to me. I mean you must be pretty thick in the whole brain department to spend anytime there. Then again, being exposed to all those chemicals can kill a few brain cells so you have to ask yourself what came first: the dippy perfume assistant or the brain damaged shop floor worker. Hmm… anyway, picked up a bottle of ‘bud’ (how appropriate) from the fridge and paid my 30 pieces and fucked on out of there… to fresh air and freedom. I could definitely feel my nasal hairs relaxing, I can tell you.
	Came out of the pub and saw the German cunts still at it?!?! They wouldn’t let it lie, would they?
‘Hey… hey…’ The German was now doing that annoying poking motion with his index finger on Big Issue’s shoulder. Of course the homeless bod was in total ignore twat mode) ‘Hey! Why don’t you get a job…eh?’
	Ok, had enough of this. Just waited until there was a few more of the commuting crowd walking past and then I could make my move. Easy to get lost in a crowd, especially the London cummuting class… who make a habit of keeping their head down and not getting involved. Tagged behind a few city gents heading off towards the to the station (after they probably had a half in the fake Oirish bar). Slowly got ready for action…
	‘Hey? Can you understand me?’ [5 metres away… could just about make out the red pock-marked ugly mother]. 
‘Do you speak English… Ja?’ [2 metres away, this is going to be sweet].
	‘Hey… Hey you! I’m only…’
SMASH! Right into the fuckers head. Yeah I know, bit of a waste on the beer front, but never mind… this had to be done. The fucker Kraut fell over like a log, blood streaming everywhere (new shirt required perhaps?) A gasp from the female Kaiser, but no screaming, which was good. I just quietly sauntered out of there quick-sharp… blending into my city chums… who turned around for a few seconds and continued walking and talking about their new internet venture… arses. By the time we were a few feet past it was ‘Halp me… Halp me…’ the cunt’s shrill pathetic cries was like music to my ears. (Mr Himler was out cold though… I impress myself sometimes…) As I went round the corner, I glanced back just in time to see the homeless guy go through Adolf’s pockets as Eva Braun was in full panic mode. ‘Phone an ambulance… PLEASE HALP!!’ Classic, this day just keeps getting better and better. 


TFC… 


Ahh… after all that violence I needed something to soak up the adrenaline; and there’s nothing like a good greasy TFC - to absorb the diseased filth, which shall simply be called moi. Quietly sneaked in, to avoid all the fuckwits who were startled by a mad screaming slag outside (wonder who that was?). Even managed to nearly ‘queue jump’ to the front of one till… victory and more victories to cum I fear. 
Hmm… ok then… think I’ll order the usual stomach filler (and constipation bringer): 3 pieces of chicken soaked in diesel oil, a crispy-chicken strip (crispy my arse… well as crispy as a Vietnamese whore’s cunt with chronic herpes scabs. Oh… what a give away.) Ok, continuing on… small fries - well at least they are better than those crusty grass like twigs they do at Burger King. (Is it me, or are the old fries they used to have 10 times better than these new improved thick, chunky, flame-grilled, cardboard ‘chips’; which in my book is a total pile of wank.) 
Anyway, to wash down this junk one has to have the obligatory Coke (Pepsi in this case… Well I hope it is? Probably Sainsbury’s own fizzy caffeine in water. Well, doesn’t really matter drinking piss - when the food’s this bad. As a flushing mechanism it does serve it’s purpose well…). Can’t be dealing with all the other soft drinks though. Tango? Give me a ‘kin break, the only good thing about Tango is the adverts… some fucker must be on shed loads of acid to think up some of those TV masterpieces. Diet Coke… where do I start… the ad with the stupid cunts in the office is a tad sad. Diet coke break? They’d sell a load more if they had a fit oriental bird spraying a diet coke up her arse… while all the geezers are watching… and slowly wanking… each other off… in unison (oh stop that now you sick bastard). Anyhow, the problem with that whole ad scenario is this: who the fuck are Diet Cokes market? Who do they ‘kin want to sell to? Well… it’s pretty simple. You don’t need a business degree to figure this one out. The market sector is your average lard arsed office bird who can’t pull to save her minge from chronic disuse. You know the type, the minger whose only comfort is that manky hairbrush by her bedside cabinet (don’t think we don’t know about that… you slags).
‘Hello… your usual is it sir…?’ The old wanker behind the till grinning like a tosser. In his 50’s, greyish hair, wrinkles like no ones business, T-rex scraggy neck and forehead. Either he’s a millionaire and he does this on the side, or he’s a sad bastard. My money’s on the latter. Think (from the accent) that he’s from some Eastern European cuntry… welcome to capitalism mate. I’ve been ‘dining here’ for the past year, usually after closing time (chucking up time more like); and this has been the remedy. He’s been here since I can remember and guess what? He’s tried to be my best pal after the 3rd time I showed my ugly mug in this joint. We all know the personality trait: He’s basically one of those shits who’s just too friendly by far… to strangers that is. Probably has a wife and family he sexually and physically abuses on a regular basis. Yep, he’s got that: trust me… I’m a cunt faces.
‘Sir? Your usual?’
‘Yeah… that’s right.’ Next time I’ll wait until he’s dished it out and then I’ll change my order to the spicy bean burger or whatever… the old cunts getting too complacent by far. You don’t know me son. Don’t pretend you do. 
Well… it’s my fault really. Should’ve read the signs and gone to the kebab shop for a few nights during the week… so this cunt wouldn’t have recognised me ‘as a regular’ in the early days. Yep… should’ve broken it up a bit. Then again, I don’t really want to get in with those dodgy kebab merchants either. Hey ho… life’s too fucking complicated by far…
Anyway, did the usual thing of not making eye contact with the cunt, just so he wouldn’t strike up a boring conversation; you know: ‘How’s it going… etc… blah blah… do I give a dog’s bollocks?’ I just got the grub and trundled off to the downstairs section. Get away from the cunt crowd.

Hmm… Eating the old TFC is one greasy mess after another. (Just like my wet dreams). It basically gets everywhere, slopping all over the suit, dribbling all over the chin, mankyfying the hands - almost worth unzipping the old flies and getting some lubrication down there. He He He… but anywaz, that stupid hand towel they give you is totally pants, never use them… Well (bit of background) I actually collect them as emergency nob wipes after shagging a dirty pro without a condom… What? Isn’t that a tad risky I hear you ask? Well… ok, ok, I admit it, you’ve probably guessed by now but I’ll tell you anyway… got the old AIDs thing: Arsed injected death sentence. That’s probably why I’ve been soo pissed off these past few days. Found out on Wednesday, after checking up on another sexual misdemeanour. Got a sort of a fungal rash a few months back… did the old clinic thing and they confirmed my worst fears: male thrush, syphilis (in the latter mad stages), genital herpes, Hep C… Mr AIDS and a good old dose of crabby crabby… sweet. No wonder I’ve been feeling a tad queer. Well… I’m actually not too bothered to be honest… means I don’t have to wear a fucking condom (nob-glove more like). Can’t feel anything with those things, then again my cocks been wanked to death at an early age. It’s now about as sensitive as Mike Tyson’s feminine side.

‘Excuse me…’ (Why heeello… fit Japanese looking tart: dolled up as they always are… I fully approve.) ’… Can I borrow some tissues?’
‘Yeah sure…’ Didn’t see her sitting on the opposite table (by herself as well… yum, yum)… too engrossed in ‘the rant’. Need to keep my bird eyeing glasses primed at all times… never know what may turn up. Then again, if I’d been leching for the last half-hour would she have got up and started talking… hmm, probably… the silly slapper. 
‘The grease gets everywhere doesn’t it?’ (I’m talking about my nob grease you cunt). [Keep smiling].
‘Yeah… it does…’ Handed over a few tissues with the tips of my fingers. ‘… thank you’. Was tempted to give her some old spunk stained remnants I keep in my back pocket for emergency wipedowns… but it’d probably not go down too well.
‘You’re welcum…’ [Keep smiling].
She had a tad of an accent, so I decided to continue the conversation with some of the old chat up lines: ‘do you cum here often,’ ‘get your coat love you’ve pulled,’ etc…
‘Ahh… so, erm… how long have you been in London then…’ The silly slag was looking all shy now, she knew I was in full chat up mode. ‘Yeah you’ve sort of got an accent, not your average London type…’ She was now pulling the puzzled foreigner look, i.e. the sort they pull when they think they’re being insulted, or just plain understand jack shit. ‘Hmm… could be wrong though…‘ Did the cheesy smile; that never fails… to make your average bird puke. This wasn’t going down too well… bit like the grub.
‘No… I was born in Toyko, Japan.’ (What? As opposed to Toyko: Dulwich?) ‘I came here 4 years ago to study maths at London, University College…’
‘Ahh that’s nice.’ (What a waste of space… you should be learning: hospitality studies… you know, how to make that Jap tea shit… sucking guys cocks… typical Geisha stuff.) ‘Yeah, that must be pretty difficult…’ Things are beginning to pick up once more.
‘He He… no, it’s not soo bad…’ She did that nip-schoolgirl laugh with her tiny hand covering her mouth… head bobbing up and down; reminding me of those dodgy mange cartoons. The Japs are definitely into their schoolgirls. I may need to go down there one time: Sarah Payne style. Of course I’d definitely have to do a Lucy Blackmore as well (nice name by the way…). Yep, drug a western hostess, videotape her being blowtorched… has to be done… definitely has to. 
‘You may not think I’m from Japan though…  My dad is European, from France… that’s why I don’t look too oriental.’ (Yeah well, your loss…)
‘Ok…’ [Keep smiling baby… you’re hooking this baity bait]. 
‘What about you, where are you from?’ Ahh… very good, time for her to do some work as the conversation dries up to a green puddle of cat’s piss.
‘Me?… I was born here.’ (Unfortunately) ‘… my dad came over from the West Indies in the 60’s…’ (Prior to that, his great grand father was brought over from East Africa as a slave… did a bit of cotton picking until he died… made some cunt in Yorkshire a few million (in the 17th century) and that’s about it. Sorry, don’t have that 1000-year of history thing - I’m descended from Emperor Shito from the 4th century AD bollocks.) ‘Yep… So I’ve lived here all my life…’ Did the old stroking my stubble thing… pondering about life mode on…
‘… Err… I’ve got to go now…’ The cunt was getting ready to leave… need to make my play now.
‘Ok, hey… if you’re bored in London why don’t you give me a ring?’ Gave the bird my card (nearly pulled out the PC Blakelock jobbie… but managed to get the right one out in time… you remember the IT consultant my arse one). Crossed out Ebolagne’s number and put mine down. Didn’t want this masterpiece falling out of my clammy grasp.
So, there you go. She gave me her card as well!?! Jeez… I mean, students who have business cards… give me a fucking break… you should be out there protesting at the state of this fucked up world… not doing the ‘networking’ shit… lurvie. Anyway, I did phone her up later, but I’ll tell you more of that another time. You’re probably getting bored of that phrase now, but I’ve got so much to tell and not enough time to do it in. There’s a time and a place for everything. All will be revealed I promise… well unless I get sent down for penning this journal… getting the old injunction out on my arse… etc… 
Ok, well… that’s how I met dirty Chantelle Nikado… yep, you couldn’t make it up even if you tried. Japanese girls may have the façade of being the doting housewife, but man… are they dirty. I’ll try to hold back for now, get back on track etc… I’ll explode with the full facts and fucks later… you’ll love it I’m sure. How do I know? Well, you must be a sick pervy chimp to be reading this. Bet you have it stuffed inside that C++ manual you’re studying, while commuting to that dead end IT job… just bet your left testicle you are. 


The lard master sleeps… 

So, after all that heavy greased up lard-busting, I decided to have a bit of a lie down; rest the old stomach. That’s why I fully approve of the siesta system. When you’ve downed a few pounds, all the blood rushes to the digestive area to keep the machine ticking over. What happens to the fat bastard then, eh? Well… he needs a good kip. So I wandered off home to catch up with my crap production, so to speak. Didn’t catch any of the usual pros unfortunately. There was one skraggy bit down the road, looking around expectantly… for drugs, money, who knows. On another day she would have merited further investigation, but not now; not after the lard master had filled his tummy to the shitting point. 

Getting back to base was done in the shortest possible time. Treble marching was the order of the day. The first thing I did was examine the old stinky/bloody suit (not the ones I just bought today). I really should get this dry-cleaned… think the last wash was a couple of months back. Holding the trousers to my nose was like smell tasting for the human genome project. I’ll name that whiff in one… jeez, it’s a dried spunk’n shit chromosome. Anyway, bundled the suit into the corner of the room and got ready for my lie down. Didn’t put the comforting pyjamas on. (Yep, some people do still wear them). Nope, instead I just left the boxer shorts on and literally fell into (crashed and burned) into sleep-coma. Well actually… to be truthful, didn’t quite enter snooze mode just yet. I always spend this quality time simply daydreaming… thinking about all sorts of crap (my life basically).
By the way, if I have a wank during the whole sleep thing, that’s ok… I mean, I love the feeling of stale spunk all over my soggy shorts. A bit of piss and shit is pretty good also… Wearing them to work the next day is a liberating experience I can tell you. Two fingers up to society and all the wankers that exist out there. (God, I’m getting turned on just thinking about it.) Hey, but seriously, if I didn’t have to go to ‘kin work everyday I’d really just wallow in my own body fluids: ’spunk, spunk glorious spunk, nothing quite like it to stick down your gob…’ He He He… enough of that now… settle down and let’s have a rest. 
[BANG, SQUELCH, BANG] Ahh… the shitalians are at it again. Thought it was getting a bit too quiet up there. Anyway, no time to wank in unison and solidarity… the day’s been really hectic… (eyes feeling really heavy now). This is like a hypnosis tape. Clear your mind of all sorts of crap… (eyes feeling droopy). Picture yourself floating through the clouds (eyelids shut…). Floating through the clouds… naked and oiled up (jap’s eye open… Oh stop that now). 
… Err… wait a minute? I’d better set the bedside radio/cassette alarm thingy. (Push the red button down.) The last time I forgot to do this I ended up sleeping till midnight… fucked it up big time. I couldn’t get to sleep again until two (that night was one seriously long ‘one off the wrist’ I can tell you). Anyway, the next day I was so fucked up; concentration was well out the window, and my pissed off levels had hit the big time. It’s really so much better to go out to a night-club in the evening, get home at two (completely fucked) and feel shit the next day - at least you’ve accomplished something rather than waste a whole evening being ‘Billy no mates’, or ‘one off the wrist William’. Remember… limited time friends… limited time… [Eyes, brain and sphincter have gone to sleep]. 


Waky waky, rise and whine…

…wha… uhhh… I don’t want to go to school today mummy…
Hey, what time’s it? Jeez… woken up 10 minutes before my alarm’s gone off (as per usual). Is it wank time already? Probably… Remember, my whole body clock is centered around having one off the old wrist and guess what… I’m standing to attention, ready for inspection Sah! Hmm… my main problem though is this: if I wank now I may just go back to sleep. (May? That’s a fucking definite mate…) So what’s the problem then, you ask? Well it’ll screw up my evening that’s all. I mean what is the point of going out if you’ve already split your juice. Come on now… people don’t ‘go out’ just to have a good time. Cunts go out either to eye up birds/blokes and get pissed, or get pissed and eye up birds/blokes. The only place you’d probably go to without doing the ‘eye business’ is the cinema; but how many of you tossers have done the old leching bit out in the foyer… all I reckon. 
	People are such vain cunts, like the sad nobs who wear sunglasses. Yeah, not just all the time like Magenta de Vine (you tosser de Vine more like) but at any day of the week. Let me spend a few minutes giving you an education on the subject of wankerdom. When you buy a pair of sunglasses what is the first thing you do? Do you look outside to see how well the glasses are working, or do you look in the ‘kin mirror to see how fucking super cool you are: like the next deNiro; or if you’re a bird: Marilyn Munroe (Manson?). Anyway, you get the point, people buy sunglasses to look ‘hard’ and that’s it. The only people who are semi-exempt are those blind fucks and those: ‘I’m too sensitive to the light’ wankers which we all love to shine our headlights at. Yeah, another reason they wear dark glasses is to eye out the birds without attracting too much attention. We’re on to you… you slags. Well, I had a stint of wearing them for a while trying to be a gangster… totally and utterly too sad by far. 
CLICK…’Arsenal 2… Liverpool 0… you’re listening to the sound of Talksport… now for the weather.’
‘FOR CRYING OUT LOUD… IT’S FUCKING 8’OCLOCK IN THE EVENING… WHAT SORT OF TOSSPOT WANTS TO KNOW THE WEATHER NOW !?!??!’ Shit I’m shouting… It’s all gone quiet upstairs as the shitalians have stopped shagging… He He He, nice. Oh there they go again, trying to be a bit quieter this time. Anyway, enough of that, time to get up… but first I’ll have a waz (fuck it if I go to sleep or not). This time it’ll be on…
‘The news in brief: Plans to salvage the submarine Kursk have been put on hold for a day. The Russian navy expects to recover up to 120 bodies. The main news is in half an hour…’
Ahh yes… some definitely wankable material. All those fucking Russian sailors drowning. Hey, I call it divine justice for all the fucked up shit they did in Chechnya [hand now rubbing cock]. Yeah… that’s it. All that wank in Afganistan… [semi erect but rising fast]. Cutting all those young Ruskie soldier’s arms and legs off… and their dicks. [Blood pouring to the source, hand speed accelerating]. (Shall I stick the brush up my arse again? No, not this time… just continue with the theme… stick to the program…). I mean does anyone actually give a shit about those death merchants in the Red navy. [Fully erect now and as solid as a rock]. Uh… Uh… drown you cunts [gritting my teeth… spunk building up]. Picture a young sailor, breathing his last… as the water fills his lungs. His mouth is wide open, accepting my nob, eyes of serene terror… Ah… ah… 
‘You fucking KUUUUUNTZ!!!!’ [SPLAT]. Uh… uh… yeah baby…  yeah baby… phew. Wow, that shot right across the bed… that definitely needed to be torpedoed out the hatch, baby.
Ok… ok, might as well get up now. Won’t do the nightclub thing… what’s the point? The navy has already drowned on Mr Cum (He He He). No no, I’ll just have a solitary lone drink in the pub. (I’ll be in my element… if you know what I mean). I’ll take a pad and paper with me as well - going to plan my next bombing (and bumming?). But first I’ll take a shower, get today’s crusty jism off my pubes (I think I’ll need some industrial strength cleaner for this job…). 


Sad loner down the pub

Ok… after the shower (which did it’s job), I decided to go down to the pub for a few beers… by my lonesome, as you already know. Didn’t really want any interruptions so I decided not to go to the usual bar: O’Reilly’s (fake Oirish craporama). I’m actually getting well sick of the place. Why? Because I’m puking to death from over friendly bar staff. Go into a bar a few times and all of a sudden its ‘… would you like your usual [enter lager type beer here], or ‘… so how’s it going?’ You know the score, exactly the same as the TFC muthafucker. Listen tossers, if I wanted to have a conversation with a cunt you’d be the last clown I’d ask. So… decided not to go round the corner, but instead, headed down the Old Brompton road - to the Drayton arms. Only been here twice (a few months apart) so the local Aussie wanker of a barmaid doesn’t recognise me yet - as one of the cunts she’s shagged. Is it me or are all Aussie chicks easy as fuck?  Probably because all the prudes stay at home while all the slappers do the Europe thing. (My motto’s this: if you shag an Aussie, you’re too lazy to wank…) These cunts would never slam an Abo at home I bet… they love mixing the colours when they’re out and about though… doing the wankabout thing.
	Anyway, once I got there I ordered a pint of Stella. Trying to be totally anonymous. If I get these cunts on my case I’d have to start drinking at the Bram Stoker (Stroker)… not the done thing really.
Ahh good… bit of a head, but that’s not so bad. No embarrassing ‘I can’t carry a pint’ spills from this Parkinson sufferer.  Decided to sit outside even though it was about 8.30pm ish. (This Autumn heat wave just doesn’t end. Can’t wait for the inevitable November/December flooding to start. Dampen those cuntryside mothers tempers a tad). Ok, once I settled down, got out the pad and pen - fountain type if you must know. Biro’s are just too shite, at least you’re guaranteed a good write with a fountain pen until all (emphasise all) the ink’s finished. Not like Mr Biro and his amazing half-full Ballpoint that suddenly runs out of balls. But enough on the pen front… shit, my rantings are getting more and more random. I do believe I’m getting drunk on the rage. 
Ok, time to start the planning my next major campaign. With the success of the Pig blast last night I feel I need to go up market now, and do what the boys in the IRA should have done years ago. Strike into the very heart of establishment. Smash the toffs and their cohorts. Have a jolly good cox hunt. (And at the same time, have a bloody good laugh… with maybe some musick thrown in). Yep you’ve got it in one - blow up the ‘Last night of the fucking Proms.’ That would be the sweetest act ever, wouldn’t it? (Sweet one? Sounding more like that fake Jamie Oliver as we speak). Anyway, you know it makes sense… all those toffs singing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’… yeah? If you’re white and rich it is pal. Not too much hope and glory down Brixton on a Saturday night. Then again isn’t Brixton becoming all hip and trendy now with all those white middle class cunts moving in? Just like they fucking ruined Notting Hill and Ladbroke Grove… we need another riot there… give the whites and pigs a ‘bloody good hiding’ in the words of top man Bernie Grant. Well, when I mean top man, I mean top for a Labour MP sell-out. Ok, I don’t really mean top man, just on that occasion he got it right… the rest of the time he was about as good as Bruno at an Uncle Tom denial convention. What’s the other tosspot called… ahh that’s right: Boateng, junior fucking home secretary now… I remember the days when it was: ‘… today Liverpool (or whatever his seat was)… tomorrow (wait for it…) Soweto. Jeeesus Christ all fucking mighty, give me a ‘kin break pal. Now he’s Jack Straw’s PR: Personal Rimmer.
	Anyway, back to the point… blowing up the royal fucking Albert Hall; need a lot of explosives to do this little jobbie, a lot of explosives. (Or according to Mr Jolly Roger: a lot of fertiliser… and a suspicious white van.) Worth splashing out just for the humour value alone I think. Ok, it’ll cost me £500+ for a second hand cheap-no-MOT type van thing (well according to the Exchange and Mart) and another £200+ for the gear… and then I’m away. Only £700 to maybe £1000 (if I’m lucky) for a place in the history books… well the new black history that’ll be written after the inevitable race war kicks off. Should see me in a good light I think… a patriot, a generally good geezer… devil killer? Hey… the whites will tell another story I’m sure. Or am I just doing this so I can have more wank material, of an evening. Maybe… both are sound and valid arguments I feel … my cock… 
	Ok, back to the task in hand. According to the cook book [Ok… for legal reasons I’m unable to supply you with the full info, but I’m sure if you go to Google and type ‘Jolly’ + ‘Roger’ you’re bound for a treat. Anyway, continuing on.] I’ll need heavy heavy Kg of fertiliser (Blah Blah Should do the trick), a detonator made up of tiddly-po and tiddly-pey, connected to an alarm clock. I’ll use the same design as for the Cop shop do. Then I’m sorted. Ok, that’s the bomb… you’re probably thinking: you what? Where’s all the details? Don’t worry, I’ll probably release an uncut directors version later when the heat dies down. I’ll put it in a hidden website somewhere in the ether. Think I’ll hide the actual address in the next instalment… perhaps. 
Anyway, now for the deployment. All I need to do is get the white van (white van man) and we’re away. Been looking at car magazines all last week. There’s some shit out there I can tell you… but there are pretty good deals as well. An old Jag XJ6 for 3 grand (I kid you not). Or how about a Bugatti for 4K… a bit old (probably a replica… but does anyone give a shit). In fact, I may not even buy a van. I could go for one of those Smart cars (only 7K), pack it to the brim with Mr Bomb material and make a grand entrance to the ball. Hmm… then again, everyone stares at a Smart car… too fucking weird by far. I’ll be getting too much attention as I do the drive (and park) by. Nope… this job needs total discretion. Also, it’s 10 times out of my budget (god I’m a tight bastard). Then again, for the humour value alone: ‘Smart fuck’s farts’ would be the Sun headline of the year. Hmm… anyway, I’ll make some enquiries about white (or I could go for black) van type things. Probably next weekish… he says (slacker).
	So, that’s the actual bomb making and storage-delivery processes out of the way… what about the when and the how of the whole thing. Well, first of all, will I ‘get to work’ before or after the spectacle? Hmm… before is your best bet, when all the cunts are queuing outside (just waiting for a good kicking, in my books). If I did it after the show, that would mean I’d have to know when the fucker finished, i.e. how long the pieces (of turds) are. Which would in turn mean, I’d have to actually give a fuck. Not me pal… sounds too much like hard work if you ask me; and on top of that, the cunts can cum out in dribs and drabs after the wank’s finished. Nope… for maximum effect, the start is your best bet, before the toss monkeys have had their fun… bodies everywhere… limbs torn off… (I’m getting stiffer… no let’s keep it serious for a few minutes, don’t want to think about that sort of shit now.)
	So… we’ve got the when, how’s about the where… Well there’s only one place really, the main entrance… right opposite that pile of wank that shall simply be called the Albert memorial. (Well… I think it’s opposite the Ally Hall entrance.) If I had a big enough bomb I’d do both… kill two birds with one stone. Yep, that would be so funny, blowing that pile of cack to rubble. After all the cunts spent god knows how long (and how much) doing it up… instead of doing something useful like… I don’t know, spending it of the NHS or something. [Political mode on]. Hmm… ok, ok, I’m not a politician, and the NHS is totally pants, but if it goes down the pan… then so what? Just another racist institution to fall down the plughole of England’s hairy arse. If all the brothers and sisters just left that piece of shit, went home if you will (that should please the Nazis)… the whole thing would crumble.  Yep, crash and burn baby, crash and burn. No A&E for you my son. But check this one out… how many fucking senior managers are of your coon variety… not a lot I think you’ll find. The whities get the best jobs, while the blacks shovel shit, i.e. the white patients. Now they’re shipping in nurses from the Philippines? That’s not going to save your dumb arses now… Too late for that desperation measured shit. NHS: Nazi Health Service… SEIG HEIL! (Cock fully erect… saluting the last Tory government or should that be Tory mismanagement?) 
What’s that other classic thing the old tory wankers did… oh yeah, grading nurses. He He He divide and rule… divide and rule. Bet you any money whatsoever that most of the ‘high grade nurses’ are of the honky tonk variety, any amount you want. Anyway, NHS falling apart - don’t give a dogs bollocks mate… I’ll be out of here soon. Probably set up shop in Zimbabwe, get myself a few hunting trophies, couple of dead farmers here and there won’t go amiss. Probably get a medal: another one up for Mr Mugabe and Co. Doing some devils… Farakhan style.
	Anyway, back to the point, right outside the fucker is where I’ll put the van full. Should be good, should be good stuff indeed. Ok, so that’s that. Got the how, when and where of the whole deal… might as well concentrate on the beer front now. My mind’s still on fucking overtime though, racing like no one’s business… calm the restless storm… calm the restless storm… [SLURP]. Hey, might as well go in now, getting a bit too dark - and if I can’t see what I’m drinking then I’m not a happy bunny son.


City slappers

Found myself a quiet corner of the pub (or so I thought) near to the ladies bog… nice one. Not a bad hovel this… looks a bit like a wine bar - polished wooden floors, bare uncosy varnished tables and stools, plastic bar staff… you get the picture. Anyway, this pub is pretty good in one respect, i.e. it’s not trying to ape a shite nightclub. You know, the ear drum banging (and bleeding) pubs you get down the King’s road: so fucking loud you can’t hear yourself fart. Nope this has something passing for ‘music’ in the evening’s only, thank god. The provider of this great entertainment is the resident DJ twaty with his ‘blond bits’ hanging about… but apart from that it’s pretty quiet stuff. Well apart from the table of white middleclass ‘city girls’ talking shit on the next table. Jeesus, where did they show up from? They look like your average ‘girl power’ collective, slappers in suits - with a live in boyfriend called Miles. Yep you know, the ‘kin Sloane ranger types. Dyed blond hair, that ‘skiing tan’, the tiny mobiles in a fucking huge handbag… toss monkeys the lot of them. So what are they spite-ing off this time: [Nosy parker mode on]
‘Yeah, well, me and John are thinking of buying… probably in the Cranley Gardens area just up the road actually.’ Fat bint, with the black squarish retro 60’s type glasses on… in a suit that’s two sizes too small, just so she can accentuate her fat tits; pretend to herself that she’s attractive. I pity you John. ’Yes, I’ve been given a pay rise… whoopee’ (half arsed attempt) ‘… so we should be sorted out now for the next few years… pukkah.’ (Everyone’s sounding like that twat Oliver). The other birds are nodding away in unison to this shite-ing spiel.
Anyway, another quick question. Changing the subject slightly… Why is it when birds (and blokes too) talk about work, property or other supposedly ‘serious stuff’ they put on this ‘semi-deep’ boardroom type accent? Followed with some orchestral hand waving. Hmm… probably because their masking their phoniness I suspect - ‘you can tell a fake a mile away’. Most people with an ounce, a smidgen, a spectre of intelligence can. 
‘So did you go to Simone’s party then?’ Young tarty cunt trying to change the subject from boredom to just plain bore… ‘the slumber (girl’s-night-in) do.’ As she said ‘girl’s night in’ she did that annoying thing of representing quotes with her fingers: total tosser. She was pretty fit mind. Bit of a loud suit, pink with black highlights… looked like an overdone cheap Eastern European Escort.
	The third one at the table was the obligatory very ugly, zitty, pus-filled girl thing. Not too fat or thin, but just had that classic doggy look, you know: face like a rugby player. She had some marginally bigish tits (which I predict will become as flabby as Mr Wobbly’s arse once she hits 30). She was nonetheless milking it for all she had by wearing a tight suit (another one): - low cut with a pink blouse/shirt type thing peeking through; with a bit of the top of her chest poking out also. (Badly done… badly done…) She also had some beige girly trousers on, instead of a skirt. Probably because her legs are like tree trunks… her arse looks wide enough from where I’m sitting. (He says… leaning back in his chair).
‘Yeah, I went…’ (spotty chick) ‘… Susan didn’t show up…’ Glaring at the tarty thing. Birds are so competitive aren’t they?
‘Ok… I was with Peter then… went out for a romantic meal…’ Ha Ha… tarty bird knows exactly how to rub it in.
‘What!?!… you traitor, you should have come to the girl’s night in. You don’t want to be pandering to your man… treat them mean, keep them keen. You know the rules…’ Not sure whether she was joking or being serious… maybe a mixture of both? Difficult to tell really… she was grinning so hard I thought her spots might burst. (That could cause a big fucking flood of pus spraying all over the place. [Stiffer once more]). Anyway, either way, you can tell she hasn’t had a shag in months… or even years… Ok, I’d better drink some more beer, if I stare too much they might think I’m a bit weird… which I am. 
‘Yeah well, Peter had booked weeks ago, before I found out about the party, so…’
‘Excuses, excuses…’ Fat bird throwing her weight in… and propping up her glasses with her index finger. (Bet’s that’s seen a lot of action in her fat vag).
‘You didn’t turn up as well Jane! Both of you missed a really good night!’ (I’m sure they didn’t, but keep telling yourself that.) ‘So what were you up to then?’
‘Me and John were looking at places… then we went for a meal… Soraya’s the new Iranian/Persian restaurant… they’re all the rage now!’ God almighty, as if the fat bird didn’t have enough to eat… Hey, John, next time take her to a Sushi joint! 
Ok, just sip a bit more beer… trying not to laugh too much into it. These cunts are making me well thirsty… for a bit of violence.
‘What is wrong with you girls, what about some solidarity here.’ (Must’ve been many years without getting some… I almost pity her…). ‘You girls seem to be under the thumb… its totally pathetic.’
‘It’s not that bad!’ Fat bird lends some more wisdom to this sad conversation. I don’t actually know why I’m listening to this shit. I suppose it’s always fascinating to hear what the ‘fairer sex’ thinks about… if they think at all.
‘Listen up girls… men are weak. Without a women by their side they’re nothing!’ (Give me a break sister!) ‘Look at Peter for example; totally arrogant and in my opinion treats you really badly Susan.’
‘Oh come on… he’s ok once you get to know him!’ You go girl…
‘He still tells you what to do, where to go etc… You should stand up for yourself a bit more!’
‘No… no… we do things together…’ That’s flummoxed the ugly one.
‘Ok… well… anyway, women are superior to men…’ (Eh up?!? How much have you had to drink… cunt.) ’Its born out by the facts… women are cleverer… look at the exam marks every year… girls beat boys hands down.’ [Collective nodding by the birds.] ‘And might I add, women are stronger physically.’ (Hey, I want to try some of the drugs you’re taking.) ‘Women live longer than men for starters…’ (That’s because we do all the hard work around here.) ‘… women give birth… most men would faint at the idea of that!’ (I don’t know… the idea of sticking a water-melon up my arse and shitting it out actually turns me on.) ’…Hey, in fact women don’t even need to have men around anymore… with sperm banks, having a man around isn’t needed.’ (She must be a virgin.) ‘If all the men were to die off tomorrow the human race would still survive…’ (That must be one of your best wet dreams, you feminazi…)
‘Yes quite Tina… I think you need to get out more.’ (Ahh… yes, fat bird cums up trumps… she’s not so bad after all.) ‘… Ok, got to go now… no, I’m not meeting my man, I’ve got an early start tomorrow…’
‘Yeah, I think I’m off also…’ Tarty bird gets up, revealing a bit of leg as she does so… beautiful stuff.
‘Hmm… Ok, catch you guys later, which way are you walking…’
‘We’re walking up the road to the traffic lights… up to the Earl’s Court end’
‘Ahh, I’m off in the opposite direction.’ Hello, what’s this - can’t let this opportunity slip by. ‘So… I’ll see you tomorrow for the meal thing… yep I’ll phone you.’ The other slags were half way out of the door by now, so she was doing those pathetic hand signals that only toffs can master… you know: the finger and thumb at the head to indicate some sort of ‘telephonic device’… too sad by far. She got up to leave. I paused for a few seconds, contemplated the mysteries of life’s inner workings, downed my pint and decided to follow her. This ugly cunt wasn’t going to get away that easily. 


Comedy rape sketch

Ok… followed the silly slapper as she left. She was heading up the Old Brompton road to South Ken. Quite quiet for around 10 ish… She was full into that brisk marching walk that comes naturally to your average office tart. The bint didn’t notice that I was following her. Surprising really, I mean most white birds freak if the see a black cock 10 yards behind them late at night. Many a time when I’m on the same side of the road as the honkybird, she (wait for it) crosses over… as if that would do any good? That must piss off the straight-laced nigger who’s never tried the rape thing. Innocent until proven guilty (or black?). As for me… the rape artist, the MC (minge controller). I’ve only got one thing to say on the whole ‘crossing over the road, avoiding the blackie’ department. What is the fucking problem here, bitches? The most I’m going to do is fucking rape your silly arse… maybe murder you as well… but for crying out loud grow up why don’t you! (Now now… temper temper.)
Ahh brilliantious… she just ducked into the alleyway next to that crappy car shop: Owen whatever his name is… you know ‘luxury cars’ etc… I think I’ll do a job on that place next week. No not blow it up silly… do a break in, nick a car, Ferrari maybe? [Walk faster]. Actually a Ferrari is a tad old hat. All the wankers with any money have them… like all the middle class nobs and dealers in their BMW’s. No, I want something more unique… like a Maclaran or a Massaretti (spelling?). [Speed up my walking]. It’s like, if I got a motor bike I would definitely, I mean definitely not buy a clichéd Harley Davidson: the preferred bike of the traders and financial analysts. It’s coolness rating has definitely plummeted to the 2 out of 10 stakes, because of the sort of twats that ride them. 
[Getting closer now… I’m speeding up, matching her stride for stride… dick is expanding…]. Yep, but anyway, cars and stuff… If I had the money, after the bank job, I’d get a few classy motors: a convertible sports car for the summer (ok, probably a Ferrari), the big fucker prestige model like a Jag (just to go out for long trips and evening do’s… can’t stand being squashed up for any period of time… unless sex is involved.) [I’m a few feet behind her… she must be pissed as a skunk… it’s all too easy… dark alley… no cocks around… me pulling my old friend Mr Gun out…]. I’ll probably get one of those Smart cars as well. As you already know, I quite fancy having a little runabout. (Ok, maybe not to blow up anything in… just to get into some tight parking spots). 
CRUNCH! Hit the cunt with the back of the old Luger… straight into the back of the head department. Yep, quite a heavy gun for a smallish package… good balance though. Then again, this is my first firearm, not really a gun buff yet my friends. Maybe after the car’s bought, I’ll build up my Arsenal (come on you Gooners)… do a Michael Ryan, so to speak. Anyway, she gasped (very girlish) as she crumpled into a rag doll heap onto the pavement. Started moaning like a whore as I started laying in to her with the heavy work boots (yep, even though I’m in IT I still like wearing big black shoe/boot type things… they last years… or at least a few dozen good kickings). Didn’t want to beat the shit out of her completely though, I actually wanted her to be conscious as I filled her up. Call me sick or something, but I like my handiwork to be appreciated. Kept up the kicking rhythm (mainly to the chest and head area… but a few to the old cunt as well… I love that blood lubrication thing) until her groans were just about audible… faint as a whisper… Time to go to work.
Turned the cunt over… I wanted to see the whites of her eyes… Got to it straight away. Pulled the silly beige thing away easily. The pink blouse thing took a lot more pulling and tearing… I was never really that good with foreplay.
‘Please don’t…’ Ahh good, she’s still able to communicate. That’s nice. I find that as long as they know sort of what’s going on you can manipulate them a bit more… As you can tell, I’m an expert on such matters. Well, you’d be wrong. I’ve only really raped in total: 3 girls and a teenage boy. After about the second attempt, though, you get to be not quite an expert, but an accomplished apprentice I’d say. It’ll be years before I get to the heady heights of your Bundys and Dalmers. Anyway, time to throw in some dialog (or should that be diatribe?). 
‘Hush now. This’ll only take a few minutes… white bitch.’ Whispered that into the bloody mangled ear. Tried to put on a sexy spiel to the whole proceedings… pulling a semi-smile, massaging her bloody cunt through her trouser things and giving the ear a good lick. The taste of blood was very stimulating I can tell you. Probably a cannibal in a previous life, munching on Christian missionaries. Hmm… anyway, after the reassurance that it’d be over soon, she became a bit more responsive - the body became limper, more malleable. Should’ve been a psychoanalyst, my manipulation skills are second to none. There was no way this’d last a few minutes. Anyway, decided it was time to undress the lower part of the subhuman gimp. 

[Tear, Pull, TEAR, PULL, RIP…] As you can tell, I’m not really good at the undressing malarkey. It doesn’t help that the cock was wearing those stupid suit trouser things. Such a fucking hassle I can tell you. The silly cunt should, definitely in my book, have worn a skirt. I blame the new fangled designers for creating such rape unfriendly clothing. Christian Dior, Carl Largerfeld… we’re onto you, you queer-boy bum bandits. Anyway, after about 10 minutes of pissing around she was finally naked. Victory is mine.
	Ok, so where do I start? Foreplay… yes I think so. A good blowjob is always nice.
[Smash, Smash, Smash]. Errfg… ahhrhr… uuurhrgrh…. [gurgle]. Got the butt of the gun and proceeded to knock out the cunt’s teeth… didn’t want her to bite Percy off. Then again, her chewing on my nob, teeth slowly clamping down… her sucking on my severed stump… Bobbit style, yeah that’s a real turn on. No, non mon ami, let’s be serious now… can’t take any risks. Be sensible and stick to the task in hand. The safety of my tool is paramount. Took about two minutes to knock all her teeth out - let her have a bit of a rest every 10 seconds to spit them out… didn’t want her to choke on them. The only thing this bitch is choking on is my nob. Hey! and depending on how I’m feeling some shit too. Yep that would be nice.
Forced open her mouth. Quite easy really. Just stuck my fingers into her mouth… feeling her tender scared gums, pushing down on them… her flinching with pain… opening wider to alleviate it… me forcing it more. Once it was open to a satisfactory level, just gave the order: ‘… keep it open now lover… time for some sucky sucky…’ Kissed her on the top of her swollen forehead to relax her. Did it fuck! Her eyes were bulging out of her fucking head, big time. She was sporting those, what the fuck is going on now looks. I mean, she seemed so fucking startled, confused, terrified it was totally unbelievable! This cunt must’ve sucked a guy off before, surely? It looked like (by the whole facial expression thing) that she’d never given head… crazy stuff, I can tell you. 
Anyway, pushed Percy right down the cunt’s gob. [Squelsh… squelsh… squelsh]. Yeah… keep the rhythm going. The pain of Mr Dick rubbing against her broken gums were forcing the silly bint’s mouth open… reducing the friction… reducing my pleasure. Not the done thing really. Clamped my hands around her broken jaw and squeezed down gently, to get the right amount of pressure in. 
[Squelch… squelch… squelch…].
‘Arrg… Eurrgh… Eueurugh…’ [Eyes bulging out wider now… cries getting louder too]. The blood and the last few teeth in there were giving both: good fluidity to the whole motion and that tiny amount of friction that is so important to the whole ambience. 
	I was really stiff now… She was totally gagging on it. Choking on it. I could feel the back of her throat, her tonsils, the sides of her battle worn mouth. [Gasp… choke… uggh]. Tears were tricking down her cheeks, tickling my cock, tickling my nuts (filthy minx). ‘Oh… baby… yes… YES…’ 
AhhHHHHEEHEHHHHHHHH!!!… Jeesus fuck!! I came without sticking it up her. Bollocks!!?!? [Just keep pumping Mr Cum down the throat. Percy was still pulsating… spurting… milking]. But still though, I feel cheated! It was the tears that did it, I swear. Premature ejaculation isn’t part of my general game plan. 
After I released her, she fell onto her side, dribbling blood and spunk all over the pavement.  I love that gurgling childlike sound. But anyway, this simply couldn’t do at all. What’s the point of attempting to rape someone if you don’t get to the Vlad the Impaler finale? Yep, to all you psychologists and psychiatrists out there who thinks rape’s about power: bollocks to that mate. Anyone who believes that shit, hasn’t raped anyone in their entire life… it’s all about sex mate… pure and simple. 
Ok, tried to make amends and gave myself a semi-wank to get myself a tad harder. Worked sort of okish I thought… or maybe not. Lifted her up from her hips, face down away from me as I proceeded to try to stick it up her cunt. Got some of the way, but lost interest. Wa-aay too flabby by far  (for an ugly slag her cunt was remarkably wide - I mean, people’ll shag anything these days). After cuming so quickly there didn’t seem much point really. Even tried her arse to get that extra amount of friction. I’m afraid to say, however, the whole thing was turning into a fucking farce. 
	Jeez… Might as well get some fun in, before I pissed off. Started laying into her, a couple of kicks to her side, some well placed ones to the botty area. Stamped on her head a bit. She was now laying face down, body quivering slightly… the moaning had become a whisper now… god this bird knows how to turn a guy on… she knows all the moves. Anyway, finished the whole deal by placing her face up, spread-eagled. Ordered her to open her mouth… you know, leaned over, almost brushing her cheeks as I faintly told her: ‘Listen bitch, open your fucking mouth and it’ll soon be over…’ I was perfecting the evil sexy whisper thing quite nicely, if I say so myself. She opened her mouth slightly so I kicked her in the cunt, just so she got the subliminal message: ‘A bit wider will do if you don’t mind.’ 
	As her trap hole opened to reveal the bloody mess, I pulled my pants fully to my ankles, squatted down over her and proceeded to dump my load. All that drinking, planning and TFC had done its worst I’m afraid. The first one came out cleanly… didn’t quite hit the target area precisely though. It was a long log so the bottom half went down her hatch, but the top bit drooped over her left cheek. I got some tissues from my jacket pocket and proceeded to mop up the excess crap into her mouth. She was too much in a state to do anything, except start choking on Mr Turd. I didn’t want to kill this cunt, so I had to get her to swallow. (I’d prefer it if she lived through the whole experience… teach her a fucking good lesson in what happens to feminazis in the modern world). Opened her handbag and took out a small brush. (Quite a nice dinky one. Very cute). Anyway, used the end of it to shovel the shit down her, while I massaged her throat… ease the pressure a bit. After a while she started lapping it up… chewing, gulping. I’d totally broken her… no words needed to be said. She knew her job, knew what needed to be done… lest she wanted a good kicking again. After she downed most of it, I squatted above her again (didn’t realise that I’d stored up quite a bit today). The next turd was smallish and popped out quite clearly. I could hear her chewing and swallowing it in a few seconds (result). Unfortunately, the next turdy turd broke up on exit, I’m afraid to say. It was one of those long ones that gravity alone should sort out, but unfortunately is too weak ‘structurally wise’. So the inevitable break up occurs, leaving half a log jammed up the whole back passage department, resulting in another 10-minute wipe down jobbie. Luckily she had quite long hair that’s all I can say. He He He…
	Anyway, I dumped as much as I could after that, some getting on her face, the pavement, blah… blah. I was just basically winding things down. She was as placid as a baby… who’s just been fed. Time to move on… My work here is finished. Oh! Nearly forgot… left my calling card in the slit of her blood-filled minge.
KTB
Congratulations
You’ve been initiated as an honouree member of the Peter Sutcliffe Appreciation Society. 
Take care now!

Ok, ok… another tame one… but I thought it was quite appropriate at the time. (In hindsight I should have produced a Suzi Lamploo, Mr Kippper card) Anyhow, left the cunt to wallow in it, and decided to get something to wash down all of today’s good deeds. 


The drugs do work…

Ahoy, hoy… so how does one top off this extremely productive day? With some extremely mind altering drugs, of course. There’s nothing like a trip out of reality to quicken the weekend. Yep, Saturday tomorrow and a whole day to get up to evil tomfoolery. Though I’ll probably start my satan act late afternoonish… when I wake (and wank) up. He He He. Ok, back to the drugs - same as planning for the campaign, where and how… where and how. 
Where? Well it’s easy, where else except seedy Earl’s Court where the pro’s, dealers and punters find their second home. Ok, wasn’t too interested in the pro’s after dumping my jism (which was a shame as there was probably going to be some of the occasional skinny crack whores around - that I like). Yep, spilt it big time. 
Ok, ok… King’s Cross is probably a better bet; more pro’s, dealers, pigs, muggers… etc… About 10 times more seedy than Earl’s Court, but The Court is a safer bet and I’m not going to get into a ‘kin taxi at this time of night (lazy bastard). Anyway, what about the how? Well, it’s pretty obvious mate, you’ll see. 
	Ok… left the twitching victim in the pool of blood, shit and spunk… and then headed off… Oh fuck it! Turned round and gave her a few more kicks to the side… for good measure. I’m definitely done here. She continued to murmur away quietly to herself. God, she’s a selfish cunt… it’s all take take take. Anyway, got myself relaxed and calmed, and headed back up the Old Brompton road… towards the lights of Earl’s Court. 

Hmm… didn’t realise what a nice night it was actually; too interested before in the stalk N’ hunt and pondering about cars and stuff. Nope… it’s really great out, not too warm or cold (then again, all that rape work has left me a bit flustered). The sky’s quite clearish too… you know the score, a few crappy twinkling stars through those whispery pube-like clouds… or is it pollution? Anyway, who cares… you get the general picture… As for the streets… well they’re pretty clear too. Most of the pissed cunts are already in bed, pissing against an alley wall, or already in a club chatting up an ugly bird… hoping for a shag later. I pity them… if you want it you should take it my son. 
Ok, I’m at the junction of Old Bromy and Earlsy… turn right here to enter the late night matinee of madness… Yep, by now you should know where I’m headed. All the ‘interesting people’ hang out around the corners of the station part of Earl’s Court road. Bit predictable really, but there you go. 

After the knackering, uneventful 5 minute stroll I got down to my destination. Started my scouting expedition for ‘pharmaceutical distributors’. You know, I should be a pig… my deductive skills are like Mr Holmes (not Larry you cunt). Do you know what I mean? It’s all too obvious who the dealers are and aren’t. Namely, any brother by a street corner… Either looking like he’s come from the ‘the west-side’ - with the stupid baseball caps, basketball string vest and baggy (I mean clown baggy) trousers.  Or from Trench town (trying to look like Mr Marley but only achieving a sad Eddie Grant-esque look - what ever did happen to that tosser?). Ok… ok… not all’ve your average nigger by a corner at 11pm is a pimp or dealer… err… well actually… Anyway if they nicked every coal face with the old stop and search routine, riots are going to start… and a few more heads will have to roll… know what I mean?
‘Waaant saam waaaana…’
Evil big looking brother; with a silly goatee - thin and trim (arggg… don’t get me started again). He was of the hip-hop dealing variety with a red bandanna (probably to hide his balding scalp), bright blue tracksuit bottoms and the obligatory basketball (basketcase?) vest… LA Wankers I think. 
‘Erm… do you have any coke or crack mate?’ My pipe was getting a bit lonely and unused in the bedside cabinet drawer. Hadn’t had a puff for a few weeks so why not treat yourself? Being a tad drunk, I proceeded to produce the £20 note from the back pocket (yep there are tossers out there who still carry cash in the place where no pickpocket would ever look). 
‘Hey, hey, hey… not in the street man… follow me…’ He started shuffling off with that crappy homeboy walk most sensible people grow out of at 18. I lagged behind him for a few yards - didn’t really want to be associated with this complete twat. 
Then the fun started. He entered into spasmodic walk mode… going this way and that… nervous twitching, looks here and there (if anything that would attract the attention of the filth). Kept checking to see if I was following him. (Good thing I didn’t give the tosser any money straight up… that’s all I’m saying.) 
I’m actually beginning to believe he’s taking the piss. He was totally going on a bit of a fucking merry-go-round… Jeez. I just turned my mind off and kept up with the pace. 

Hmm… been walking for about five minutes… up past the station, then tosspot looking round,’ …no not here…’ Then back past the station… Crossed over the road… then back again… Jeesus Christ all fucking mighty. Why do I even bother… I don’t know. Who the fuck do you turn to in these sort of situations? I’m at a total loss… like my guide from hell here. 
‘Ok down here…’ Hmm… dingy alleyway leading to a crescent-drive type dead-ends ville street. ‘Yeah… this should do man…’ We both walked halfway down the alley. Wasn’t quite a dead end… 20 metres up the way lead to another street, but apart from that this would make prime rape territory.
‘Ok, then how much for £20… Hey up what’s going on here then?’ Two more biggish type brother muthafuckers were now at the entrance of the alleyway. While Mr Dealer now positioned himself between me and the 20m sprint to safety… which I wasn’t going to do. I’m just too much of a lazy slag. Anyway… classic move, if I say so myself. All the while ‘Mr Cracked-up tour guide’ was trying to find a safe place sell his wares; he was in fact signalling to his ‘boys in the hood rejects’ to set up the old mugging sting. Nice. Well… unfortunately for my pretty friends here they weren’t dealing with your average lower middle class Uncle Tom naïve type nigger. (We’ve all met them… the ones that vote Tory, who think Inkatha were cool because they were the Zulu party… laugh at Bernard Manning jokes… get married to the white bitch as soon as they graduate from sell out school…)
	The junkie journey-man flicked the old knife out (the silly butterfly jobbies… I mean why do these cunts bother…) The other two had now moved into position, doing the old pincer routine… use your ‘kin imagination for Christ’s sake. As an aside (though it doesn’t really matter as they’d be dead in two minutes), the other two tosspots were dressed in the same sort of gear as the main henchman, i.e. Hiphop shell-suited mothers. In a police line-up I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart… like most straight-up niggers they all look the same officer.
‘You know what we want… hand it over…’
‘Yeah…’
‘Ughu…’
A few nods and grunts from his coony cohorts. You can tell these guys had a full and varied education. Probably were expelled at 15… spent a few years in a youth detention centre and now had graduated to the pinnacle of their life’s achievement: shitty street crime. I remember cunts like this at school… we all wanted to give them a good kicking. Ok, did feel a tad sorry when they were picked/bullied on by the naff teachers (white bastards and bitches the lot of them). If you can’t do, then teach… and if you can’t do that, beat the blacks to exert your authority. It just doesn’t get any better than this really.
	‘Come on then… hand it over!’
‘… Hmm, sorry mate, spent my love juices 10 minutes ago… no more spunk left to give… I am willing to accommodate you queer boys though… if you know what I mean…’
Puzzled look for a few seconds from the three little shits, followed by (wait for it): ‘Do the blaaadcaat!’. (HA HA HA… nearly pissed myself; well at least it wasn’t ‘lets get him lads!…’ or ‘it’s every man for himself! Tally Ho! Old Bean!’).
[BANG BANG]. Chuckled as I popped the first henchman boyee right in the temple (Dando style). For a big cunt he did have a remarkably shrilly girly cry: ’AIEEEEeeeee’. Fading into silence. Very poetically done I must admit… I’d give 7/10 for effort alone. The others froze as muggins here slumped backwards onto the pavement. I could almost smell the cack dribbling down their legs. Then they started backing off (not pegging it out of there… which was strange?… probably because I had this wide surreal grin on my baboon like face. Everyone trusts a smiling chimp, don’t they?). 
[BANG] Another shot to the stomach of the other henchman, [BANG] then to the head as he doubled over… Very smoothly done. It was all in one fluidic motion, like my cum that was beginning to build up once more. The last cunt, my guide for the evening had that ‘shit scared’ look now… dropped the knife… and began the old pleading routine:
‘Hey! Calm down… calm down. Here, have the drugs…’ What? Is that a home county accent I detect? Fuck me, estuary English at its very worst. What a total fake merchant. I was going to have some fun with this nigger. 
[BANG] Blew one knee cap off. ‘EEEEEIIII… eeeiii, eiiii…’
‘Painful is it?… Love it, you slaagg, LOVE IT!’ He was on the floor, clutching his knee, rolling about all over the shop.
‘Ugh…ugh…’ Crying like a fucking girl now… I should rape his black arse… if I wasn’t empty. Well… the build-up wasn’t quite as much as I’d expected. I even tried rubbing my cock through the trousers, but no luck I’m afraid… sorry about that. Anyway, there was still fun to be had… Crouched down beside his quivering body, held him firmly with my knee across his chest to stop the rolling motion, pulled the cunt’s head back and whispered evilly in his ear: ’Let’s fuck’ [BANG] Straight into the groin area. (Is this turning you on reader?) 
‘eeieeeeieie…’ His cries were getting fainter now. ‘
‘Come on luurv.’ Started prodding the bloody bollock area with the nub (nob?) of the Luger. ‘Come to daddy.’ 
	[squelch… squelch… squelch…]
	‘Eeei… Eeei… Eeei…’
Same sort of sound effects as the bloody blowjob I got 15 minutes ago. A little volume on the mic mr technician (pushing harder this time).
	[SQUELCH… SQUELCH… SQUELCH…]
	Jeez… Fucker had lost consciousness…’ Cunt Almighty! That’s the second time today I’ve ‘cum too soon’. Something’s definitely amiss here… Do you think a dose of institutional Viagra is the answer? Hmm…
[BANG] Next bullet was to the head (no not his dick again you sicko’s). So, that’s that. The body went limp and silent (a bit like my dick). Time to make another quick exit, I think. Escape would be pretty easy as no one gave a shit about the sound of gunfire and cries for mercy. Then again, we are talking about London here… no busy-body fuckers would be investigating this scene, I can tell you.
Oh! Nearly forgot what I came here for. Searched my dickless dealer’s pockets and… bingo… I knew he’d cum good in the end. Couple of cubes of crack (or Oxo?), some weed and a few 20’s… good day’s work that. Might as well have a look at the other two now. Hmm… collectively £10 between them, and no gear! We all know who the stingy bastard in this crew was don’t we children. 
Sneaked out of the alley, up the street, away from the entrance and away from busy Earl’s Court road. Decided it would be good for a detour… and headed in the opposite direction from home, away from the station and civilisation (snivilisation). Did the old walk with the head down routine so no cop cameras would spot me. Well… I always walk like this, never know when it’ll come in handy. (Take note readers: It was basically a brisk quick march thing, with the cap on and jacket up: suspicious suspect impression… making no eye contact with any cunts of course.) Eventually, arrived home via a long ‘out of the way’, back passage (now… now…) route, 20 minutes later.

	Anyway… here at last. It’s been one fucking long tiring, soggy night I can tell you. At least I do seem to be up on the money front, about £140 up in fact… nice. May use this on some pros tomorrow. Nope, I don’t have any scruples about using drug money. I’m fucking twice as bad… If I do say so myself. Anyway, time for bed. 
	Taking off the old jeans, I discovered something… a couple of the old bitches teeth were still in Mr Turnups (yeah… yeah… I’m still living in the late eighties). A quick inspection of my old bloody suit trousers revealed a matching set of the lanky kid’s molars as well. Ha Ha… classic Blair Witch stuff. 5 teeth in one night, this could be the start of something big… and crunchy. I think a new necklace is the order of the day. Need a few more hits first though. (God, I’m an evil bastard [cock twitches slightly].) Anyhow, I’ll put them in the bedside cabinet-draw for safekeeping… make sure the tooth-fairy doesn’t nick them (fucking teeth stealing imp mothers). 
	Pulled my old crappy glass crack pipe out from the same draw, gave it a quick dust down and blow (job?) to clean off all the excess smeg that’d built up… and I’m ready for some hot (smoking) action. Preparation is everything though, the whole atmos must be set. Turned the lights out except the bedside lamp, giving the place a sort of chill out room effect. Got naked and oiled my body up (need to get comfortable man), using some cheap body oil crap that a pro left here once (another time mate… another time). I was then finally ready for the journey. 
	Filled the pipe with the Oxo cube stuff and lighted up. Propped myself up on the bed and (take note children) simply inhaled (you’re the victim). I took the smoky mass right down to the lung area… burning me… turning me on… dropping me out… chilling me sideways… Smooooooth maaaan.


Wazzaaaah (just chilling out… having a wank…)

CLICK. 
‘Sound of crappy talksport on the air… and now the travel report with Lindsay…’
‘GOD ALL FUCKING MIGHTY… WHY DON’T THOSE FUCKERS JUST DROP DEAD!!!!’… Shit… I’m shouting, that’s a bit bad, too much stress in my life… was I shouting? Did they say ‘crappy talksport’? Walking up from the rem (wanktime) sleep can be quite disconcerting (putting on the nob accent). Do I talk in my sleep… don’t know, no one’s ever mentioned it before, then again I don’t really spend the ‘whole night’ with someone - it’s usually a quick wipe-down on the curtain and piss off down the pub. But anyway, back to the sleep-shouting thing, that would be the ultimate nightmare… with some mates kipping on the floor after a heavy ‘sessh’. At 4.30am they here the shrill cry of ‘No… no… please don’t shove the marmalade up my arse, mummy…’ 
At which point it’s your mate thinking to himself…’ Did I just hear what I thought I heard? Nah can’t be mate… must be dreaming.’ Only to be woken up at 6.30 with the sight of me shoving my cock down his throat… sleep rape… that’ll be my defence… your honour. Should test the courts with the legal precedence, but I’m sure I’d get away with it… I always do.
‘Traffic westbound from junction 31 is slow moving with a 2 mile tail-back.’
Blah… blah… god almighty. Traffic reports are just too boring by far. If we didn’t live in this hectic fucked society, those traffic reporters would be probably selling the Big Issue somewhere (probably in Sunderland or any other dreggy northern city). I mean, of all the naff jobs you can get, traffic reporter has to be the most shite. ‘Hey… let’s take the exiting job of journalism (travel, investigations, danger) and turn it into a pile of wank.’ Whoever thought that job up has to be shot big time. Are there traffic wardens in Jamaica? Probably not… we’re too laid back for that… too laid back by far… which is what I’m like now (hands behind my head, lying in bed, looking at the ceiling, raging hard on… I’ll attend to that later.) Yep, just entered chill out mode… savouring the moment if you will.
God… it’s been a good couple of days. Yeah… yeah… the AIDS thing was a tad fucked up (my botty)… but I’m over it now… I think. It’s focused my mind somewhat… got my arse into gear in more ways than one. Like for instance if (I don’t know) you’ve got a few days left to live… what would the average punter do? Probably waste it pottering around with the folks. Not me pal, I’ll be out there… fucking ho’s, killing pigs and politicians; copious amounts of drugs would also be added to the cocktail. I’d definitely not tell the old dears about it. (By the way… my immediate family are a bunch of sick fucks… I mean, we’re all products of parental care… blame the parents that’s what I say… or in my case… no… another time my friends, don’t want dwell on that too much now…)
‘… Mother of James Bulger has condemned a Judges recommendation that his killers may be released early…’
COCK OFF!! Are they still going on about that shit? What is the ‘kin big deal here? All it is, is a bunch of kids kicking the crap out of another little shit. I did a bit of that myself when I was young. The ‘school bully do’ was the tip of the iceberg mate. Anyway, it’s all got political now. Thomson and Venables should’ve been released years ago. (How do I know their names? Well I never forget prime wank material… He He He…) Yep, free the Bulger two. Free the Bulger two… [hand gently massaging cock]. Oh stop that now! Don’t ruin the atmos. [Hands behind head once more]. Just keep thinking about life and stuff. 
Hang on a mo! It’s Saturday… what the fuck is my alarm doing on. Jeez… in the smoke shesh last night, I completely forgot to turn the fucker off. Anyway… doesn’t matter now. I’d’ve got up around nowish anyhow… for a waz.
 
So… it’s been a good couple of days. The cop shop stunt was the highlight. Can’t believe the silly cunts blamed the Real IRA… insuring it became yesterday’s old news. Hmm… maybe I should use a coded warning next time: ‘Hey! Blaaaadclaaart… this is faaaar baaabylaaan.’ HA HA HA… No… no… it’s all getting too much. Just relax now… in through the nose… out through the mouth…
I tell you what though… the rape comes a close second. Wait a minute, just a quick check… ahh… yes, the teeth are still in the drawer… fucking fairies. Anyway, totally rapetastic… there’s always something sweeter about having sex without paying for it, I feel. Just like meeting old George/Georgina. Ok… ok… it wasn’t free and his technique (and half a dick) may be a tad bad… but I see definite possibilities here. I’m going to get him in on the movie business thing. Once that takes off, I’ll be able to piss on out of the shitty job. Give my fuck you’s to Sharif, fat Sal, maybe not thin Rita… need to make my play on her sometime.
Yeah, anyway… Changing subject slightly. The ceiling is a bit manky… there’s a greeny-brown fungi type mould thing that seems to be growing/evolving in the corner. Every time I look at it, it seems to spread by a few centimetres. Damn damp patch… probably caused by the shitalians upstairs producing copious amounts of spunk and vaginal fluids. Yep, that’s one set of fucks I’d like to handle… without care. Been a tad quiet though, then again it is around 8 ish… ‘kin alarm bastard.
‘… round up of today’s meetings… the 2.30 at Epsom is…’
Arrg… why do I even bother. You know, if I had a radio station I wouldn’t fuck it up as badly as this jobbie. Some twatting, brainless, business exec who’s just completed his Poly masturbatory MBA must’ve thought this strategy up; i.,e. 5 DJs on at the same time (talking to themselves), ads every 2 minutes which last about 5 minutes each, weather and traffic reports coming out of your arse, the main news reported every 10 minutes to remind you how shit the station is, and to top it all off: spend at least 20 minutes discussing today’s racing fixtures. I mean, does anyone give a fuck. (Sport of kings… my arse). If you wanted to know about betting, you’d go down a betting shop… total cocks the lot of them. Almost as stiff a cock as Ivana. [Enter dick enlarging mode]. No… no… it’s not time to wank yet… Anyway, can’t wait for her to phone up Ebola Ebolagne… silly arse. Though I wouldn’t mind giving her a buzz later today… maybe we could meet up for some more golden hollywood mammaries? Actually… Chantelle is probably a better bet… but we’ll see eh?
Hey! Nearly forgot about the traffic warden stint. Probably joint second with the whole rape artistry. Yep… wasting an anal cunt like that was very sweet indeed. Haven’t heard if they’ve discovered his battered arse yet… Hmm…Then again I don’t really spend too much time scouring the papers. The Metro is usually scan read at best, and then used as a dick shield at worst. 
Taking about anality… should’ve kicked the crap out of Mr ‘Can you move your legs please…’ Jeez… what a little shit he was. I’m really angry with myself for letting that one go. The coughing was good… but it could have been so much better… like the German cunt. Could have stayed a while and finished the twat off. Problem is though, both situations were wahay too busy by far… too many cocks on the train to intervene… too many brothers on the street to cheer me on. Yeah well… best to be sensible about this sort of thing. We don’t want the white cunt to bite our big black dicks now, do we?
Ok… enough about that… it’s the weekend. Another week, another step closer to death… or prison… whichever cums first. So, what I have got to look forward to then, apart from not pissing a whole day away at work? Not sure, I could start getting the gear ready for the Albert Hall do… or I could just piss around all day. Think I’ll piss around… sounds a lot more fun.
Hey… there’s a small cobweb up there! Can’t see any spider fucks though. The again, with my wanky eyesight I’m surprised I even noticed it in the first place.
Anyway… I sort of know what’s happening next week. The mixed wrestling meeting (of bodies) should be fun. What else… I’m sure I’m forgetting something… Oh yeah… George/Georgina should be phoning me today. Should be good having a bitch around the place. (Love treating people like the dogs they are). [Cock getting harder again]. Ok… Ok… think about the rugby again. Think about the rugby… Anyway, we’ll see what happens this weekend and next week. See if the pigs can catch up with me… probably not, but there you go. To nick me, the pigs have to be blacker than black (or should that be white?). Well… you get what I mean. Only a wog knows how a wog thinks and operates. Takes a coon to catch a coon. Police sting? Straight up nigger move, if you ask me.
‘Breaking news… Three black men were founded murdered last night in West London. The police are treating it as drug related but are not ruling this out as a racist incidence.’
What? Jeez… classic of all time. 
‘We now go over to Constable Coon-Catcher who was interviewed this morning.’ ‘Yes there was another assault on a young lady.’ (Lady my arse). ‘Which may be related to the same incidence… though we’re keeping our options open at the moment.’ (And your sphincter too mate, by the sound of it).  ‘We also suspect that the shooting last night may be a racially motivated hate crime.’ God, too funny, waaahaay to funny… First it was the Real IRA, now it’s the Nazis. Jesus Christ almighty… Damn! I should have left my calling card on the coal-faces. Give the pig’s something to work on. Help them out a tad. Yep, I’m actually quite a nice guy at heart… when all’s said and done.  
‘One of the victim’s mother spoke to our reporter Mathew ArmadilloFucker… earlier today…’
‘Maa saan is naat a draag dealer… this is aaa raaacist muuurder…’ 
HA HA HA HA HA… oh dear… oh dear… oh deary deary dick. I’ve got that side spitting stitch that come with laughing too much. Ha Ha Ha Ha… Back of my head hurts too. God… Ha He Ho Ha… Stop it now… stop it… 
CLICK. Ahh… turn the fucker off. Can’t take anymore mummy. Can’t take anymore… Calm down… calm down… clam… rest… peace… pee… breathe in… breathe out… relax… Ahhh… Hmm… the sun’s shining through the curtain in that annoying time to walk up way. Jeez… It’s almost wank time… it almost is… 



Here Ends Book One in the ‘Kill the Bill’ Series.