Stonedogs

by Craig Marriner

  Me, on daring impulse: ‘A sharp instrument’s often an ideal starting point.’

  And earn a collective giggle; relief sliding like warm treacle.

  Barry: ‘Well, how about we deal with the practicalities when the score’s been made?’

  Amanda: ‘No probs.’

  ‘Follow us then, ladies.’

  Mick steps on it.

  Mick: ‘Where to, Lefty?’

  ‘Head up to … don’t call me that!’

  Mick, ‘puzzled’: ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s not my name!’

  Barry, contradictory: ‘No, no. The correct phrase would be, “Because its not my given name”.’

  Lefty, whining: ‘It’s not my any fucking name!’

  Me: ‘Then why does half of Vegas call you Lefty?’

  ‘They don’t!’

  The three of us in delighted unison: ‘Oh, yes they do!’ We’ve actually rehearsed this; the ‘Lefty’ thing is another of our recurring squabbles.

  Lefty, sulking: ‘Fucking forget it, then.’

  Mick: ‘Where to, Lefty?’

  Silence.

  Barry: ‘Where to, Lefty?

  A sullen grumble: ‘Head toward the ghetto.’

  Me, disgusted: ‘Ahh, for fuck’s sake! It’s after midnight, man!’

  We score from the ghetto often. As does many a white face. Every second house in there shelters a seller … if your credentials are in order. Even then, though, for our ilk, entering the ghetto at night is a fool’s game.

  Lefty, defensive: ‘Don’t worry, I’ll go in.’

  Mick: ‘Considering this is your score, that goes without saying.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  We’re soon passing the multiplex, outside of which a pack of fifteen-odd homeboys are lurking, queuing for strife when the late sessions spill out.

  At the sight of them a charge of fire — and revulsion, I’ll not deny it — goes off inside me: the primal reaction of the hound scenting foxes.

  Or perhaps vice versa.

  And at a stroke, all the shadowy fissures dividing our quartet are filled in and bitumised. They say a need to piss fades real fast when you’re under the crosshairs.

  I hear Barry’s knuckles crackle, fists clenching reflexively.

  Lefty, muttering: ‘You little arsehole motherfuckers.’

  And I have to check myself from reaching for his shoulder.

  Even Mick, the avowed ‘pacifist’ of our band, offers a belligerent sneer.

  Put crudely, we despise these pieces of shit.

  Abominate them.

  They’re the SS to our Partisans; the Roundheads to our Cavaliers; Saladin’s hordes to the Lionheart’s Crusaders.

  Take heed, folk of Gotham: the menace might be fingered before it’s upon thee. Sooties to a number, the age spread runs between ten and eighteen. They sport the uniform of the coca-colonised — baseball caps, NFL tops, plundered designer trainers, anything with a Seppo reference — topped in fake gold chains, chunky finger and earrings, often bandannas (red and white, green and white, blue and white) indicating for which of the ‘real’ gangs they’d one day like to prospect.

  But it’s not just the clothes that finger them as poison. It’s the numbers. These cunts behave so atrociously, have earned so many enemies, they’ll seldom show their faces in town in squads of fewer than twelve.

  And it’s the body language. They might as well have FUCKHEAD stencilled on them in fluoro. The walk is stauncher than Tyson: kicking at signs; drenching shop-fronts in spit and urine; constantly shadow-boxing, shouldering and sparring with one another; sneering at and staring down near anyone who approaches; cracking what to their pea-brains pass as jokes, buffeting the streets with jeering laughter; whistling and ogling at women of all ages, scaring them shitless and loving it.

  Nobody’s likely to hand any Nobel prizes to the people I call mates, but as wild as we may at times act, for near all of us there are certain lines that shall never be crossed.

  For these homie arseholes crossing those lines is a fucking bonding exercise. Morality to them is an encumbrance others choose to carry, an Achilles heel to be targeted.

  When the suit is right, many of this country’s darkies are wont to pluck the trump card from their ethnic minority hand: levelling allegations of racism. And, on occasion, I’m sure the play constitutes more than an unassailable cop-out. But I’m here to announce first hand that this legion of Lawless Brown Youth plaguing our urban streets of a weekend night is without doubt its most tangibly racist fragment.

  You see, it’s a safe bet to say that if I, or any other white male between the ages of thirteen and twenty-five, were to encounter this group — or one of the multitudes similar — beyond the public eye, and sometimes within it, we would be attacked en masse. Extraordinary circumstance aside, it’s as simple as that. That’s not to say that the plus-twenty age group is safe — far from it. I’m simply passing on the secure wager.

  But it’s not that these guys have vendettas against Pakeha — most of them couldn’t even spell Waitangi. They’re just so full of violence and group bravado they zero in on anyone with a manifest difference.

  Something easily articulated.

  Something like skin colour.

  (‘Let’s waaaste the white cunts. They bigger’n us, but there’s only two of ’em. Fuckin’ bawl’eads are all shet, anyway.’)

  I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been set upon by homies. Without provocation. And never in a fair contest.

  Oh, no.

  Their favoured pastime, when running with a good-sized squad, is to surround one or two dudes — sometimes three, on a brave day — a few years above them in social standing — the choicer scalps, guys they wouldn’t look at twice were the odds even — and goad themselves into fighting mood with a barrage of insults. No matter how much diplomacy, patronising, abjection, one employs in an effort to defuse the encounter, the inevitable outcome is a 360-degree fist and boot beleaguerment.

  And brother, let me tell you, you do not want to go down.

  Alone, a lot of them are reasonable people. I know this for fact. But once a group exists, a burning expectation develops for an individual to demonstrate his staunchness. And as soon as one of them makes a move, the others are sure as shit going to rise to it.

  This isn’t to say that they don’t war among themselves. It isn’t difficult for the various factions to identify contrasts enough to get healthy feuds up and running.

  (— ‘’Is bruva’s wif the Rats. Look at those green scarfs. Show those round ’ere, wool yu?’

  — ‘Fuckin’ Boys’ ’Igh faggots. Heights College all the way, beau.’

  — ‘’Member that arsehole from rugby? ’E was playing faw Waikitie when I got sent orf that time.’)

  But should there be a white target market present, these fluctuating blocs are ever amenable to impromptu alliance.

  Often, outside concerts, battles of the bands, talent quests, after-balls, the bigger parties, where revellers spill out and congregate, groups of homies will enter the scene quietly, always on foot, drawn by the scent of plunder. In small, inoffensive knots they orbit the fringes like hyenas at a lion kill, practically ignored, gathering strength as word spreads, more and more trickling in. Groups who may have brawled tooth and nail just a week before relax in the solidarity of a common enemy.

  At last the jokes and taunts grow louder, directed at partygoers. Cigarettes, beers, are cadged with growing belligerence. Advance parties subtly move in, and the gathering at last perceives a foreboding ambience. Behaviour stiffens, and though few are prideless enough to vocalise the shifting balance of power, certain crews begin to disperse, making their excuses with face-saving damage control.

  The enemy running scared, reducing the odds further, the carrion are galvanised.

  Finally, punches are thrown and it’s suddenly on for fair and for foul.

  And if behaviour of this ilk weren’t lamentable enough, of r
ecent years these ‘kids’ have begun demonstrating tendencies even more sinister.

  The axiomatic ‘respect for one’s elders’ has never been a tradition rigidly observed by the X Generation. The homie element, though, has taken this irreverence a step or ten further.

  Age means nothing to them. Utterly nothing. Like creatures of the Serengeti, the single commodity that might win their deference is strength.

  According to the local rag, three old-timers were exiting the RSA last Friday, at about 10.30, while a squad of homie vermin happened to be passing. One of the vets was knocked down, ostensibly by accident. A second of the elderly trio had the effrontery to declare, ‘You lads ought to show a bit more courtesy on the pavements.’

  One of the homies backtracked, approached the protester, and spat directly in his face.

  His friends found this staggeringly funny, and, inspired by the reaction, the homie shoved the vet backwards. ‘’U the fuck do yu think yaw lek-sha-ring, yu old cunt?’

  In token protest, the old digger raised his walking stick … and was smashed squarely in the nose for his troubles. Down he went, his former comrades-in-arms soon joining him, all three attacked and kicked for long seconds.

  Amid breathless giggles, the homies then fled the scene.

  Without even lifting a wallet.

  It would seem that the Fiendish Beast has dug a large, warm lair in many of their hearts.

  Barry, through his teeth: ‘There’s Dusty. Let’s just jump out and hospitalise the little fuck.’

  Said individual is fifteen years and five and a half feet of squeaky voice and malice. A lot of them are bigger, some older also, but perhaps because of his animal cunning, his total ruthlessness — a slant toward acts of violence appalling from a kid his age — Dusty seems to command the obedience of almost all Vegas’s homies. This given, he can quite safely be named the city’s unofficial public enemy numero uno.

  Any one of us — and about 200 of our peers — would part with a lot of cash for the chance of encountering this little hoodlum with a squad of fewer than nine at his back.

  Because it just doesn’t happen.

  Mick, the voice of reason: ‘No one’s getting outta this car unless one of ya’s has a Smith & Wesson down his waistband.’

  I’ve no wish to confront the enemy under these terms anyway. Neither does Lefty. But we’re both happy to have Mick — a man with none of our pretensions — do the backing out for us.

  Barry, however, can’t let the opportunity pass without some manner of engagement, and as we slide past the theatre, all eyes fixed on us — they know the car well — he hangs his head from the window, singing like an Alabama banshee, Luke-style: ‘An’ if dem cotton playnts get rotten …’

  I scramble across Lefty, thrusting my head into the slipstream in nice time to pick up the second line: ‘Den we doan pick very much cotton …’

  Tandem: ‘In dem auuuuuld cotton feelds back home!’

  A fifteen-finger ovation and we’re past, the muff-mobile hard on our arse.

  Barry, passing me a fag: ‘Well, Ah’d jus’ lark t’ congraj’late ya on sum marty farne sangin’ dere, pardner.’

  Me: ‘Dat’s narce a y’ t’ poynt ayeett, friend. An’ let me ’ssure yuu, wun dese days we goan’ lynch dat lil’ asshole.’

  Within five minutes we’re deep in the suburbs. Mick indicates a left turn, nearing the ghetto.

  Mick: ‘Shit.’ He pulls to a halt beside the kerb.

  Me: ‘What’s up, dude?’

  ‘The chicks high-beamed me. Must wanna say something.’

  They pull up along our driver’s side. Some redhead in the back seat (ain’t no stunner, but I’d sure as hell fuck it for practice) addressing me with a smile: ‘What’d you guys say to Dusty and ’em?’

  Nicely fortified, I grin back at her: ‘We said that fine things come to those who wait. What’s your name, anyway?’

  ‘Alice.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll spare you the song.’

  Smiling wider: ‘Thanks.’ Businesslike: ‘We stopped ya’s to find out why we’re heading for the ghetto.’ With a finger, she admonishes me impishly. ‘Didn’t your mummy teach you that it’s dangerous in there?’

  Strangely enough, when I was a kid attending the primary school whose catchment encompasses the ghetto, my mummy used to give me permission to ride my bike down here and play at the houses of my best friends until all hours.

  I decline saying this, though: I fear being painted collaborator.

  ‘Well, what we didn’t realise when we said we’d score for ya’s was that Lefty here was planning on using a house in the ghetto.’

  Stephanie: ‘Who’s “Lefty”?’

  ‘The guy beside me.’

  Lefty: ‘Don’t call me that!’

  Alice, baffled: ‘Why do ya’s call him Lefty?’

  Lefty, frantic: ‘If you fucking tell them, I’ll tell them why you’re called Gator!’

  Alice, to me: ‘Gator, eh? What’s your last name?’

  ‘McPike.’

  Three of them in harmony: ‘You’re Gator McPike?

  Me, eventually: ‘… Ahhhhhh, yeah. Why?’

  Of a sudden Stephanie can’t take her eyes from me either. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. We’ve just heard the stories.’

  Her revelation tears my tongue from its roots. Chicks I’ve never met are telling stories about me … and no cunt saw fit to inform me of this?

  I feel Lefty squinting at me; can’t quite read the look.

  Alice: ‘Some say you’re the Chosen One.’

  Some blonde in the passenger seat, chuckling: ‘Others say you’re the Antichrist.’

  Stephanie: ‘Why do they call you Gator?’ And the flooding rapture of her interest in the source of my nickname over Lefty’s almost has me urinating.

  Speech is still beyond me, but Barry, god bless him, kicks in with pristine timing. ‘Cos when it combs t’drinkin’ and luvin’, he gat the app’tite of a bayou ala-gayda.’

  The whole car laughs, and then Amanda speaks up from the driver’s seat. ‘So who gave you the name originally?’

  Lefty can’t take a second more of this. Blurting: ‘He got the name when he was seven and it wasn’t through any “drinking” or “loving”.’ His eagerness to subvert my spell in the spotlight, however, coaxes an enormous oversight. Namely, in the origins of my nickname, there isn’t an awful lot to take shame in; in the origins of his there most certainly is. ‘On a primary school farm trip he was playing rugby in a field, wasn’t looking where he was going, and sprinted end-on into an open gate. Knocked himself out cold. Ended up in hospital. Ahahaaa!’

  They laugh, but in a ‘with you’ sense.

  Alice: ‘Geez, at least you walked away with a phat nickname.’

  Mick, positioning the stake: ‘Welllll, seeing as you unwarrantedly carried out your threat to reveal the origins of Gator’s name, Lefty, I think it only right that someone enlighten the ladies as to yours.’

  Lefty gulps audibly. Stuttering: ‘N–, n–, no way, man! That’s not fair.’

  Stephanie: ‘Oh, come on, you guys have to tell us now!’

  Barry, clearing his throat, ceremonious: ‘If you’ll allow me the honours, gents.’ Louder: ‘Yeah, it’s like this, girls: a coupla years back …’

  Lefty, reasoning with a toddler: ‘Don’t do this, Barry. Please.’

  Barry ignores him. ‘A couple of years back me and …’

  Lefty, desperate: ‘If you tell them, I’m not going in to score the headfood.’

  Barry turns to him, real slow. ‘Pardon?’

  Lefty, hesitant: ‘Y–, you heard.’

  Calm as a pike-pond: ‘What was that word you gave me before, when I expressed doubt in you? It began with a “g”, I believe.’

  Lefty, fumbling for the aggrievement that occasionally allows him to swim these waters: ‘Yeah, but not with you guys …’

  Barry, open smile: ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t have been listening when you
worked that particular clause into your guarantee.’

  Lefty drops his eye, blushing already.

  Barry: ‘Yeah, like I was saying, ladies …’

  Jason’s family used to live close to our high school. He slept in a bach tacked onto the garage. A good distance from the house as well: a dude could come and go, smoke, toke, drink, without parental obstruction. Sweet crib, too, man: TV, video, sound-system, double bed, carpet, couches, naked bimbos all over the walls.

  I remember my first visit to the joint: Fourth Form, I guess it was. Gator took me round for a coupla ciggies. Only started at the school a week before; hadn’t actually met Jason yet. Inside the room someone had taken a vivid and made a list on the ceiling of a couple of dozen ‘activities’:

  Missionary*************

  Doggy********

  blow-job******

  pearl necklace**

  cunnilingus*******

  tit-suck****************

  finger-fuck********************

  sandwich

  cross-over

  standing*****

  standing doggy****

  shower-fuck***

  analingus***

  threesome*

  orgy

  fist-up

  DVDA

  double bassing********

  DKFT*****

  anal doggy**

  anal missionary*

  tit-fuck******

  lateral*******

  chick on top facing**********

  chick on top away******

  69er********

  hand-job***********

  toe-job***

  chick on top anal

  golden shower*

  ‘Who the fuck lives out here, Gator? Long Dong Silver himself?’

  ‘More to the point, what do you reckon DVDA is?’

  ‘It’s the ultimate in hard-core porn acts, man — double-vaginal double-anal.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘I fucking well am. I read about it in Penthouse once. It’s a position requiring four male contortionists and one very talented lady.’

  ‘I s’pose you know what DKFT is as well, then?’

  ‘I should bloody know: I pioneered the drop-knee-full-teapot.’