by Chris Flynn
Only problem is consistency of the product. Ben got so many tweakers cookin’ up for him that it ain’t always what you might call top of the line, quality-wise. Some of that glass looks mighty rough to me, though I ain’t no expert. Hold up, scratch that. What the fuck am I talkin’ about? Course I’s an expert. I done become an expert these past few weeks. Don’t have to smoke it or shoot it up to be able to tell when it ain’t good shabu. Colour alone’ll give that away. If that crystal be cloudy, there ain’t no chance of meatballs, son. More’n likely that hit’s gonna have a hard edge that will fuck you up. Sometimes it be more brittle than others too, like it’ll just crumble in yo’ fingers. Don’t know if that’s good or bad but it sure ain’t the same chemical composition as the rock-hard glass that comes in other times.
Shit, it don’t seem to matter none, not to the tweakers, not to the boss man. Could probs sell them ground-up stubbies an’ they’d try an’ smoke it, that’s how fucken desperate some of these 28 Days Later motherfuckers is. I can’t even tell the diff no more between them all. This skinny-ass homeboy with a pinched face an’ eyes like pissholes in the snow come round the other night, lookin’ to score. You done smoked them two points already, son, I goes to him—bra, you gots to ease up on your intake. Motherfucker didn’t have a clue what I was talkin’ about. Thought he was the same hick I done sold to a couple nights earlier, in a different fucken town entirely. I swear he looked exactly the same, right down to his stained Kmart trackie dacks and Billabong tee. Motherfuckers must be gettin’ their fashion advice from crankstyle dot blogspot dot com. Glass runway gettin’ nasty this season.
Only thing keeps me from goin’ insane in the membrane is watchin’ them go through the charade of playin’ Target Ball. Man, that is guaranteed chuckles. They’s so feeble, they can hardly even throw five balls. Embarrassing, but I makes them do it anyway. Gots to keep up appearances, an’ ’sides, it’s the only kicks I got.
Worst part is nights. Ain’t got no TV or music to listen to or nothin’. Time the show closes an’ Ben collects the poke, it be past ten an’ I got diddly squat to do ’cept bunk down on top the cuddly toys an’ stare at the roof. Can’t even go play cards with the other hands and I ain’t allowed visitors. Been tryin’ to work on some flow but the rhymes are dryin’ up now that I’s back on the meds. Denyin’ me the one real pleasure I ever had an’ the situation ain’t about to change anytime soon. Now I’s just stuck here, pissin’ in a bucket in the corner, waitin’ for the dawn to come.
Dawg, you gots to listen to reason over here, ’fore this turns into some kind of Shawshank Redemption situation. Some birds ain’t meant to be caged, an’ if I can’t roam the halls of Hogwarts exchanging pleasantries with my fellow inmates an’ breathin’ some fresh fucken air into these lungs of mine, well, don’t blame me if five years from now you finds a tunnel behind a poster of Nicki Minaj an’ me paintin’ the hull of some old boat three fucken thousand clicks from here, a’ight?
If you really wanted to, Mikey, you could bust out of here pretty easily.
You think I don’t know that, bra?
So why don’t you, then?
You know why, man.
Yeah, but I want to hear you say it.
’Cos I’s part of the family now, a’ight? You happy? You an’ Steph might as well be my moms and pops an’ I be some teenager who got busted smokin’ doobies on the garage roof, an’ now I’s grounded for a month. I am going out of my fucken mind cooped up in here, Ben.
An’ I got caught short the other night an’ had to take a dump in my piss bucket. That be humiliating, dawg. Ain’t no need for that. You got me, a’ight? You got me, an’ I’m workin’ for you now an’ I’m stayin’ on the Kingdom an’ that’s it.
All this emptyin’ my bucket in the mornin’ while you stand over me is positively medieval, homes. This shit has got to be against the Geneva Convention, fo’ sho. Gots me a mind to email the International Court of Human Rights an’ word them up ’bout my case, you feel me?
What I’m concerned about is that restless-leg syndrome of yours.
Medical breakthrough, dawg. Wonders of science. I’s all cured.
Well. Since you’ve been doing what you’re told these past few weeks and there’s not been any incidents, I suppose maybe I could allow you to leave the stall. With a strict perimeter. You’re not to stray beyond the confines of the Kingdom.
Understood, boss. Message received loud and clear. Awesome, that’s awesome. You won’t regret it.
Don’t make me.
So I can go an’ do whatever I want?
Honestly, I don’t really give a fuck anymore, Mikey. I’m too busy to be worrying about you. Do what you fucken like, I don’t care. You know there’ll be consequences if you fuck up.
Mekong Delta off the leash. Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Breakin’ out of this joint, goin’ beyond these four walls, free at last even if Morgan Freeman an’ his buddies all miss me, it don’t matter, I’s back on the road again with the wind in my locks. Well, in a manner of speakin’. The Kingdom ain’t exactly the Pacific Ocean, but she’ll have to do. Plenty to see an’ do right here on the doorstep of Target Ball, after all.
Laydeez an’ gentlemen, brothers an’ sisters, friends an’ enemies, may I reintroduce to you the prince of the rhymin’ couplet, the host with the most, the ambassador of hip-hop bringin’ his quip-pop to the land of the flip-flop, so raise yo’ hands in the air an’ jump, jump, ’cos Mikey Mekong Motherfucking Delta is back in da house.
A’ight, a’ight, tranquilos mi hermanos, let’s take stock of my options here. First up, I needs me a major blow-out. All I gots to do to make that happen is procure me some hooch an’ maybe some mooch, an’ if I’s lucky a little cooch. I can get my drank on sho’ nuff, still gots me one or two peeps who’ll front me the booze, ain’t all unfriendly faces round these parts.
An’ then there’s the matter of a l’il taste of methamphetamine just to get me back on the road to perdition. Can’t skim none from the main supply but alls I have to do is short-change a few of the tweakers. A shard here, a shard there and bam—I gots me just enough for a pipe, an’ that’s all I needs, baby. Can’t be smokin’ too much of that but a taste will fit the bill nicely an’ get me where I wants to be.
After that, who knows, dawg? Maybe the laydeez will come flockin’. I still got game, an’ extraordinary swag, plus the lines of interpersonal an’ maybe even interspecies communication will be fully restored. My flow gonna be scintillatin’.
Open your mouth, Imma dive right in baby. Wrap that raspy tongue around my body till I slip down your throat. Head first, here I go, this be a fantastic voyage into the interior, all I needs is a rowboat an’ a paddle to ride these rapids. Long journey ahead, Cap’n. S’gonna be a couple days ’fore we see light again, an’ the way out ain’t gonna be half as much fun as the way in. Can’t never see the world from inside the skin of another, so this be as close as it gets, honey. Gonna pilot this vessel right through your arterial highways to get me a better look at how the other half lives. Left, right, left, two hundred and seventy degrees. These signposts are in a tawdry state of disrepair, girl. How’s a sailor meant to find your visual cortex? I ain’t no doctor of optometry. Here come the waves, each mightier than the last, an’ we’s surgin’ upwards past the seas of tranquillity, serenity and fecundity, avoid that whirlpool leadin’ to the lake of sorrow an’ we’s home free, adrift in your cornea an’ starin’ out through your windows on the world. Just me an’ my little friends: torpedo number one, let’s call him Tarantula, an’ torpedo number two, let’s call her Dame Helen Mirren. Master of the boat, stand by for launch and fire tubes one and two, they’re in the water, they’re away and brace for impact, brace, brace, brace.
Ba-ba-boom. I’m oozing out of you, baby. Slowly drippin’ from your eyes, encased in a teardrop. Cry me a river and set me free. How ’bout a little poetry to mark the occasion? That’s all hip-hop is, girl. The poetry of the ghetto. Whatchoo mean,
Freo ain’t no ghetto? I beg to differ. Objection, your honour. Sustained, counsellor, and yes, you may approach the bench whenever you damn well please. The only thing ’tween my ’hood an’ chaos was the nine millimetre, or lack thereof. Think I’d of made it this far otherwise? All we had to battle with was blades, slicin’ an’ dicin’, like samurai in miniature ’cept I was Ronin, a sword with no master. Fact I didn’t even have me no sword, so what was I s’posed to do? Hang there till I got filleted? No ma’am, I got out, I got out, all the way to the eff bee eye, Clarice, but I still hear them lambs screamin’.
The silence of the orchestra
between symphonic movements
drowning the hiss of sidewinders
is an agony upon which
I have come to depend.
See what I mean, girl? Take out the beat, turn down the bass an’ all that’s left is a dozen different versions of me vying for attention, all tryin’ to snatch control of the lips an’ tongue like I be a devil, like I needs to be exorcised—no, not exercised, can’t you see the six-pack right there, girl I is ripped like Gosling, like Fassbender, like Butler in 300. This is Sparta, right under my Dockers shirt.
What’s the secret? What’s the formula? Just grind up two tablets of Risperidone, whisk briskly in whisky until stiff, bake in the oven for half an hour an’ then sprinkle four medium-sized shards of crystal methamphetamine on top. Lather in whipped cream. Cherry optional. Consume in entirety. Avoid driving, the use of heavy machinery and the Beatles’ White Album. Side effects may include disorientation, unusually acute orientation, sexual dysfunction, sexual prowess, shyness, the need to talk to every motherfucker in the room, drowsiness, insomnia and the ability to listen to reggae without wanting to perforate your eardrums with a knitting needle.
A’ight, whoa there, horsey. Let’s turn this down a notch for a second an’ concentrate on what is real. That’s the only way out this maze. What do you know for sure, dawg? Nothin’. A’ight, so let’s throw this question open to our senses. What do you see, smell, taste, hear, touch, feel? Probs not reliable data, but it’s all you got till you pop out the other side this motherfucker. All righty then, here goes.
Where am I? Look around, take it in. You are standing outside a trailer just behind sideshow alley. You appear to be peeking through a crack in a curtain hanging in the window of said trailer. The Hirsute Lady is inside, sitting on the edge of her bed, combing her legs.
What’s that smell? Take a deep breath. Popcorn. Balloons. Mangoes.
Bad taste in the mouth? Lick those lips. Salty.
Did you hear that? The teeth of the comb sliding through individual hairs on her legs and back and face. A radio in the distance. A supernova.
Yes, but how do you feel deep inside, Mister Dempster? My apologies, Mister Delta.
Horny. Aroused. Deeply disappointed in my fellow man.
I see, I see. Well, in that case you had best proceed to the main event, and there are few cooches on this earth stranger than that which lies before you. Part the curtains, my good man. Tiptoe forward. Touch.
My, my, what big furry boobies you have, Mrs Wolf. May I comb them for you?
You certainly may, thin dark stranger. And what, might I ask, brings you to this neck of the woods?
I am but a wandering minstrel, m’lady, and perchance I paused in this quiet glade to gather my thoughts, which are legion, whereupon I glimpsed your fair furry form through yonder window.
You seek to soothe the savage beast that lurks within your breast?
I do, m’lady. Might I inquire as to your marital status?
I am betrothed. But my husband has gone forth and shall not return until he has had his fill of opossum.
I see. He, too, is a hairy gentleman of nocturnal appetites?
Not quite. The Leopard Man is his nom de guerre. Claws and whiskers are his weapons. If we are to lie together, we must be swift. Should he return and discover us in flagrante delicto, it would not bode well for thee. Quickly, knave, remove thine Fremantle Dockers shirt. Do it slowly.
Oh, what unexpected delight to witness such musculature. Thou art ripped, much like Gerard Butler in that fine albeit overly stylised fillum 300. Come to me, Spartan, come and forget what ails you between my firm thighs.
I see thou hast not waxed of late, m’lady, indeed perhaps not ever.
Alas, I am the ultimate challenge to and bane of the waxing industry. Does my hypertrichosis disturb thee? I notice thy phallus remains rigid. Prithee, let us not let the engorgement be wasted. Forge deeper into the forest, brave knight. Treasure lies within.
Ah yes, a few firm swipes of my sword should be sufficient to open a path through the hedgerow. Tell me m’lady, what team dost thou barrack for? Move a little to the left, please. And raise your buttocks just a tad—yes, that’s it, verily.
Oh my. I should warn you, young studmuffin, that on occasion a great spout of female joy bursts forth from my lady parts, should you pleasure me just so. It can be an alarming emission for those unaccustomed to witnessing such eruptions. I shall give thee fair warning of its onset. You may want to take a few steps back and prepare thy shield.
Never fear, m’lady, I shall not baulk before thy pleasure fountain. Open thy floodgates and I shall add my own meagre five cubic centilitres of fluid to your gushing cascade.
Now, tell me, your preference of football team?
Oh. Oh. Hmm. Sí, Antonio, dame tu chorizo…I’m sorry, what? My sporting team? Why sir, you make a maiden blush asking such a personal question. Wait, let me get my leg up there—and the other one—oh yes, that’s better. Umm, I suppose if pressed I would admit to a fondness for the West Coast Eagles.
Oh! That was an especially deep thrust. Has this illicit encounter just become a touch more thrilling for you, my lord?
Silence, wench. The Eagles, eh? I’ll show you what the Dockers are going to do to you lot this year. Not literally, of course. We’re not going to enter and ejaculate inside your bodies. That would be gay, and everyone knows one hundred per cent, no doubt whatsoever, that not a single footy player in the game today or in fact ever, anywhere, at any time likes to boff other dudes.
Uhh…what about the photos? I’m sure I saw photos of a knight with his squire’s jousting pole in his mouth.
Mere horseplay. Good-natured banter. That doesn’t count. Besides…
[ENTER, stage left, The Leopard Man, twirling his whiskers in a villainous manner. The fornicating couple is unaware of his presence.]
[ASIDE] And what have we here? Oh ho, that appears to be my wife with her legs over the shoulders of a strapping young lad. Despite his startling resemblance to a clean-shaven Gerard Butler, this will not do! I will step in at an opportune moment to bring this unholy rutting to a halt. I certainly shall. Any moment now. Hold on, just a second, I want to see this. Really? I didn’t even know you could bend it that way. Oof, that looks painful but someone seems to be enjoying it. Wait, I recognise that expression. Here it comes. Shields up. Goggles on. And whoosh! Old Faithful’s got nothing on that geyser. I should congratulate the boy on a job well done. But first, I’m going to kill him.
Oh husband, I did not hear you come in, being as I was otherwise occupied with this hunk o’ spunk. Would you be so kind as to pass me a towel?
Didn’t you put one down? Gah, woman, now I’ll have to scrub the mattress again.
Hey there, Mr uh, Man. Is Leopard your middle name, or what? Please don’t get the wrong idea—this is not what you think. I am but a wandering minstrel who, while passing, saw the lady in distress and rushed to her aid by removing a painful blockage from her cookie jar with an old family recipe of mine. The crisis has been averted! Chillax, dawg. Put yo’ pearl-handled dagger away. That will not be necessary. Hey, watch what you’re doin’ with that, homie. You’ll put some motherfucker’s eye out. Hey. Hey!
Mikey. Hey. Get up—you can’t sleep here.
Wha? Who dat? Where am I?
It’s Leo. Brother, you’re practically undern
eath the dumpster. How can you stand the smell? Does Ben know you’re out here?
Uh yeah, he, uh, he cut the old apron strings. Gave me a set of training wheels.
Looks like you went a bit overboard. Haven’t tied one on in a while, eh?
Naw, yeah, maybes got a bit carried away, huh? Help me up here, I seem to have fallen in some kinda hole. Thanks buddy. Hey, how’s the, umm, missus?
She’s good. Thick, lustrous coat, as always. I’m just heading in to comb her back. You want to come visit? Looks like you could do with a peppermint tea or something. Although it does kinda smell like you pissed yourself. Boy, when you let loose, you really don’t hold back, do you? Go home and get cleaned up. It’s one in the morning, Mikey. The party’s over.
Mercury must be toppin’ forty degrees an’ still they be comin’. I knows they must be used to it an’ all up here but damn, hot damn, this ain’t no kind of way to live. Sideshow alley be packed full of folks in thongs, shorts an’ singlets like they be at the beach. Didn’t nobody in this state get the memo ’bout skin cancer? Slip, slop, slap, throw on a train driver’s hat? I done seen more angry-lookin’ moles today than at the Freo Centrelink. Get those unsightly blotches checked out, homegirls. An’ put a lid on your fucken kid’s dome. He’s only five years old an’ already he look like he been working in one of Gina’s open-cast silver mines. Little fucker got a thousand-yard stare on him from squintin’ ’gainst the sun all day. Clock of a thirty-year-old sniper on a child’s body. Just ain’t right.
Sweaty nut sacks an’ titties a-go-go all up in here. Stink risin’ off this crowd like someone done pissed on a dead fox. Can practically smell the Chlamydia. Four chickadees already slipped me their numbers an’ it ain’t even lunchtime yet. Sad thing is, I threw ’em all away. Cray, huh? Here’s me with a head full of fucked-up fantasies, desperate to bust a nut, an’ I still wouldn’t slip my bookmark in none of these local cookbooks. Man, I wouldn’t even turn down the corner of a page. Ain’t exactly brimmin’ with hotties round here though there was one with a nice rack come through earlier. I’d motorboat her titties, but that’s about my limit, dawg.