Colors: Pink

Convincing Vinnie Not To Kill A Man. He’s a motherfucker. So, what? We all go around, fuck around, and shit around. Of course, we’ll fuck each other up some times, of course. But, I mean. Listen to this. We’re all motherfuckers, alright? Is that a fact, Georgie? Yes. Of course it’s a bloody fact. I mean, don’t you see? Have you listened to a word I’ve said? Mate, if you’ll only listen to this one thing that’ll come out of my mouth, then listen to this. There shouldn’t be any violence, mate. Like I said, we all go out to the world, out of our mother’s womb, right? And we’re thrown out, and we have to mend for ourselves. And we’re just doing what we have to do to fucking survive, right? And these motherfuckers, they’re telling you, do this, and do that. And we do it. We fucking do it, so what? And we’re all doing the same damn thing. I mean, its bloody obvious we’re doing the same damn thing. And, you got this sons of bitches over here, with their purple hair, and their leather, saying: “Well, the hell with this then! I’m different!” Well, you’re not, you bloody asshole. Sure, you’re not wearing any Nike, but you’re still wearing their brands, and buying their products, and fucking acting the way they want you to act. Out there, always, there’ll be some bastard, working to get their products, to you. OK. Right? Alright. So we’re living in this world, you see? Where we all are the same. And we’re all doing our thing. So, why would there be any violence at all, right? We should all just keep our head down, and power through. But that doesn’t happen, does it, mate? No. What happens is that you got this son of a fuck, going around, and screwing every other up. And, like I said, we all do the same stupid things. So, this bastard who screwed you up may very well be you, or me, or whoever, the next day. ‘Cause we’re all motherfuckers. We’re all bastards. And we love it! We fucking love it! And, yeah, so this guy screwed you over. So, what? So fucking what? You wanna kill him. Alright. But when you do, there’s another perfect asshole to take his place on the circle of motherfuckers that is society. It’ll do you no good. Will it feel good? Probably. But its bloody useless. I mean, you might as well kill me, mate. Or yourself for that matter. Because the same thing this bloke has done to you, I’ve done to a thousand other blokes. And you have done to a thousand other blokes. And those blokes have done to a thousand other blokes, and it doesn’t fucking stop, you see? It doesn’t end. We’re on a circle of violence, you see? And everybody is like you. I was like you. I said to myself, this bastard fucked me up. He stole my girlfriend. He took my money. I wanna make him suffer. And I made some motherfuckers suffer, I tell you. You remember Roger, right? Roger Tossler. Of course, you remember him. Well, why’d you think he has a bloody limp now? That’s Georgie written all over his fucking leg. But, listen, when I was done, it was like, all my anger, all my fury— I mean, it was calmed, it was satisfied, but it was still there. It didn’t go away. It just waited for the next motherfucker to come on over. And they did. And it was just this horrible circle of violence, and angriness. Do you wanna be part of that circle, mate? Do you wanna fuel that ring of… of shit, and just see how it turns again, and again. Or do you wanna get your crap together and say— And, say: “Hey! I’m a man! And a fucking man!” Do you wanna bend over, and use your gun, and use that fucking machete you have on your hand, and let those wankers give it to you in the ass, or do you wanna turn around, and say: Screw you. Screw you, and your products. Screw you, and your violence. Screw you, and everything that you represent. I am different. I’m no wanker. I’m no fucking walking advertisement. I’m not a motherfucker. I’m breaking the circle. Screw you, and go to bloody hell.

Pink

Rosie. I met the girl really early on, when I was still a toddler. My mom was friends with her mom, or something like that. It wasn’t that we saw each other every day, or anything like that, but we still saw each other a couple of times every year. I remember she used to be a real fucking bore. You know, one of those kids who just doesn’t wanna do anything. I wanted to play, I wanted to fuck things up, I wanted to bother the grown-ups and shit, and all she said was –listen, all she said was: “My mommy doesn’t let me.” I mean, fuck. The day I don’t let my kids play around with a dog, or just eat mud is the day I fucking kill myself. I mean, what is there to live for? Toys? Barbie dolls? Screw that. Anyways, I’m like eleven, and I’m just playing Nintendo in my house, alright? I’m playing one of those shitty Ronald McDonald games, when all of a sudden someone knocks on the door. And I’m like, bloody hell, everybody’s asleep, its like 2: 30 in the morning. Fuck off, right? But the knocking keeps coming on, and on, and on. And my mother? My mother is in her room with some lucky motherfucker, drunk as hell. So, whatever, right? I turn off the thingy, and go to the door, and open it, and in comes her mother –Rosie’s mother- dragging the girl around, and she’s all bruised up. She has blood all over herself, Rosie is crying (but real soft, like, eh?), and the woman is expressionless. And, I look at Rosie, and she looks at me, and she’s like a year younger than me, but she throws herself to me, and hugs me, and she starts sobbing in my chest, as her mother walks to the couch, and just lies there. You see, she was married to this guy, this huge-ass motherlovin’ idiot of a man, Uncle Tommy, who used to box in this ratty nightclubs for a living. He wanted to go big: Never did. But that night, that particular night, right, he takes it out on her, but it’s the first time, and its brutal. I mean, you should’ve seen it. She was wrecked up. And I could tell that it was gonna be the last time. And you know what the worst part is? Rosie saw the whole thing. She told me. She heard them arguing, because he was drunk, and it was like: “You don’t know what it’s like up in the ring!”, and she was all like: “I know what its like here in the house, waiting for you to come home all bruised up, only to find you drunk with a couple of whores next door! If you don’t like it anymore, if you aren’t any good up there, then that’s that! It’s over! Get a job! A real one.” And at that point, Rosie here’s a thud. Not a real loud one, OK? Just, like, this one that is really soft, almost inaudible, but just sounds awful. Like, the sound of a nose breaking to the power of a fist. In fact, exactly like the sound of a nose breaking to the power of a fist. Well, whatever, they stayed with us a couple of weeks, adn me and Rosie started making out after a few days, just for the fun of it. Uncle Tommy came a’knocking a couple of days later, crying, asking for forgiveness. My mother fucked a couple of guys, and asked them to take care of it. They beat diarrhoea out of his ass, I’m telling you. And he’s a boxer. I mean, he couldn’t be very good. The thing is, after that, I didn’t hear from him again. I heard my mother talking about the guy one day, said she met him in a bar the other night, drinking like a motherfucker, and up deep on the needle. I think she fucked him, but she didn’t really say. What I do know, is that a couple of years later, Rosie was living in fucking Arizona with her mother, and she calls one day, crying. I pick up the phone, and she’s screaming: “He’s dead! He’s dead!” I was like, bitch, who’s dead? “Oh God! Oh God! Tommy’s dead!” I dunno if it was the same Tommy, though. And why was she crying over some fucker who used to beat, and cheat on her? Weird, eh? If it was him, I kinda feel sorry for the bastard. He was a nice guy. Sure, she used to hit her women, but he was alright. Used to buy me candy and shit. Uncle Tommy. Hmm.

But the point of the matter is, OK, the whole golden shit of this story is that I met Rosie a couple of days ago in London. She was buying shit on the supermarket. And I’m telling you, this girl had matured like fucking… I dunno. Like, wine, or something alright? She was the hottest piece of ass I had seen since Gabrielle. And I didn’t recognize her at first, but then she started to look at me, alright, with those green little eyes of her, and it was like: “Whoa, baby.” Sirens started going up, and there was this little man jumping in my head, going berserk, jumping around, screaming: Oh, my God! You used to make out with that broad! You’ve sucked her tongue, Georgie! You’ve sucked her fucking tongue! Tasted her saliva! You touched her when she was nine! Oh, my fucking God! But outside, you know, my face was all tranquil like. Cool as hell. Kinda like John Travolta on Pulp Fiction, during the hit. Cool as goddamn ice. And she keeps staring at me, and this little voice in my head is saying: YouGottaTalkToThatBroadYouGottaHitItAgainYouGottaTalkToThatBroadYouGottaHitItAgainMotherfucker! So, I take a step forward. And she takes a step forward. And I say, real polite like, you know? I say, “Rosie? Rosie McCallister?” And, she just stares at me, and I know she doesn’t recognize me. I know she remembers my face, right? But I’m sure she doesn’t know from where. And I don’t think she wants to remember me. Because, I mean, look at me. I’m a fucking mess. I’m wearing these old ass jeans, and that horrible t-shirt I borrowed from Ruth. The one that says something like: “Bulldyke”, right? And my hair is all long, and dirty, and I haven’t showered, and she’s staring at me, thinking: This bloke. This fucking bloke is disgusting. But finally, like a ray from heaven, it hits her. It all comes back to her. Her prick of a father, her mother all beat up, my mother, making out in the sofa when no-one was home, the Nintendo, eating mud, us as toddlers, pizza nights, that movie freak my mother was dating showing us A Clockwork Orange when we were fucking eight, all the fights, all the games, all the parties, the school, sleeping on the couch, her mother crying, his father drunk, the boxing gloves, the photocopy of the Mona Lisa pasted on my refrigerator, and Georgie. George-Fucking-Davis. And her face lights up, and she smiles to me— but, dude, I’m telling you, its not a regular smile. It’s a really fucked up one. She’s grinning at me, mocking. And its like, she’s wearing this suit, and I can tell she’s in London for business, and all of a sudden it hits me. She’s smiling, because she wants me to know she’s doing better than me, the hot bitch. I mean, I’m part of her past. I’m long gone from her life, she’s anew, and she’s saying, I’m better off like this, thank you very much. And that’s when I know, that’s when I fucking know, I just gotta have sex with her. I just have to do it. And it was going to be tough, I was sure, but it wasn’t… now it wasn’t just sex, you see? Now, it wasn’t just fucking. I was a vendetta. It was personal. And yeah, you’re thinking, well duh, sex is personal, you asshole. But no, man, I’m telling you it was way more personal than sex. I wanted to look at her in the eyes, while I was doing her, and tell her: Georgie. Georgie. Georgie. Georgie. You think you’re better than me? Just because you moved to the States, and went out to the world? Just because you were lucky enough that your mother wasn’t a fucking tramp, and actually worked to pay for your education? You think you’re better than me, just because you managed to get your ass out of poverty, and are now some executive, in some company? I just wanted to say it to her, while I was fucking her, I wanted to say: Well, you’re in for a fucking surprise, babe. Because to me, and for everyone that matters, you’re still that little, teensy bitch from the shittiest place in London.

Conversation No.1: Rose “Rosie” Elizabeth McCallister. I can’t believe it! George Davis, oh God, last time I saw you was… Hell, I don’t even remember— I know! I know… it’s… it’s been years. I can’t believe it’s you! I can’t believe it’s really you! I mean, George Davis… How’ve you been doing, how’re things back in England? The same as it always was… Y’know… Cold… Heh, but weren’t you living in… Weren’t you living in the US, or something--? I am! I am. I’m just here because… Well, you know how it is. With the… With the job, and everything. They tell you, go! And you’re hopping on a plane two days later… I was… I’ve been here for a week, already, I’ve been meaning to call… but I didn’t have the… The number? It’s the same as it always was! I mean, my mother’s still… Still living there, you could’ve gave her a call, and she would’ve told me, you know? Well, yeah, I meant to, I meant to call but.. You know how it is, right? The job is just… Uh! Its overwhelming, you know?

Point Number One (Of 3): Bullshit. It’s a lie. I know it’s a lie. And it’s so painfully bloody obvious for me to tell it’s a lie that it just makes me suspect she wants it know that it’s a lie, you know what I’m saying? It’s that tremble in her voice. It’s her looking around at nothing in particular, as she says the words. It just makes me hear a different thing. Makes me translate. I. Didn’t. Want. To. Call. You. I. Don’t. Even. Remember. You. So, I just smile, and let it pass. I’ll make her remember soon enough.

Well, actually I don’t know… I don’t… I don’t really have a job, you know? Oh, you’re unemployed? Well, not… Don’t say it like, that… Heh. I’m not unemployed, I mean, I earn a living. Oh. Oh, well, doing what?

Point Number Two (Of 3): And bear with me, on this one.

I’m a writer. You’re a… You’re a writer, and… What? In like the paper? Well, I tried that, but… it didn’t really work for me— I mean, I totally rocked on a couple of them articles, but then the deadlines just started to… I felt a little constipated… Constipated, right. I can see what you mean, I mean, sometimes, when I’m working, and the bosses just keep pounding on me to do it right, and it’s just: “Arrgh!” Right! Exactly, “Arrgh!” But, no. No. I’m writing a couple of novels, right now… Oh. Oh, very nice. I like novels. Yeah? Yeah, well they’re not really finished yet, but… they’re coming along quite nicely, and… um… they should be done by the end of the year. Right now, what’s keeping me afloat is a couple of short stories they’re publishing in this little magazine called… um… The Fiddler’s Wife, or something. It’s really… Something underground or something, really crappy, but it pays the rent— No, but I think I’ve heard of it— No, you haven’t… Come on. No, really, I may have seen it on a record store back on the States, or something… What’s it called again? Fiddler’s… Wife. Fiddler’s Wife! That’s the one. That’s the… That’s the one… But, enough about that, what’re you working on, what’re you doing? Well, right now I’m working on this project for my company… I work in advertisement, I’m a junior executive, and I work in the production department… Oh, nice, nice. That’s what you always wanted, right? To travel around the world, see everything? Well. It’s not like I travel a lot, or anything… I’m just here because of this project we’re doing for a couple of… You know, those guys, who always think, like, I’m the costumer, I know best? Right, right. But that is the motto, eh? What? Costumer knows best…? The client! The client knows best. Yes. That is… That is correct, George. And, anyways, they wanted their product to have that exotic English vibe, and I don’t know… I said, hell, I’m from England, right? I could do it. And, yadda yadda yadda, and blah blah blah, I’m on a plane to my hometown. I’m actually with a team of photographers, and we’re doing some touring later, some sightseeing, to scout for locations, and stuff… I leave in a week, so there’s plenty of time to… you know, get together.

Point Number Three (Of 3): Bullshit. She didn’t want to get together, man, she just wants me to hear her say it. Let’s get together. Let’s do something. Well, I can tell you what I can fucking do. I mean, obviously, she doesn’t expect me to call her. I mean, I’m just some bloke she barely remembers, right? And to her, to her I’m, like, thinking the exact same thing. Feeling the same awkwardness that she is. And baby, I’m feeling the awkwardness. I mean, there was nothing I would’ve rather liked that to shove that package of crackers she was stuffing in her cart up her ass, and make a run for it. But this was a mission. I barely do anything, you know? That bullshit about the novels? Hell, you know me. Look at me. Do I look like I fucking have two novels on the works. I have to give them to the publisher in three months… I haven’t even started the motherfuckers, and its my debut. And I know she can tell I’m lying. Fiddler’s Wife. Fiddler’s Fucking Wife. Yeah, right. Last time I was on a magazine, I was butt-naked, and with a profile next to me saying I like big fat black cocks. I have done nothing but staring at the ceiling, and sleeping with prostitutes for the last couple of months, I’m broke, and now this… this opportunity presents itself to me. This opportunity to prove myself again. And hell, I’m going to take. You bet your ass I am. She wants to get together, sure, we’ll fucking get together. So, she asks for my number, and I tell her: “Sure! Let’s do this, man.” But I’m not falling for that one. I take out a pen from my pocket, and hand her the palm of my hand. “You better give me yours,” I say. “My phone’s been funky all week. Been weird.” She tells me: “I dunno if you can reach me, I’m staying in a hotel.” And I say, “I’ll try as hard as I can.” And she does it. She can’t give me a fake number. I mean, first of all, she’s staying at a hotel, so the number isn’t her’s, and I can easily find it in the yellow pages. Second of all, she’s not that big of cunt. I mean, she’s my childhood friend. She owes me this. Sure, she may have changed, but I was still her only friend when we was toddlers. She wouldn’t lie to me, right? And she doesn’t. Thirdly, she doesn’t even expect me to call. (See you around, George. Alright, Rosie. Alright.) But, bitch, you bet your Americanized ass I will.

***

Colors is a novel I'm writing, consisting of four parts: Red, White, Blue, and Violet. Narrated by a different person each. Red is narrated by George "Georgie" Davis, a writer. This is the first couple of chapters, or sections, of his part. His main plot points are Rosie, the two novels he has to write, getting drunk, and bringing reason to his friends.

I hope you enjoyed this. And I would really like some C&C, please. =D

Here's some more. Although this post is essencially a bump. Come on, guys, give me some feedback. I know it's kinda dirty, and the language is filthy, but you can tell me if you don't like it, I mean, I don't care. Please! Anyways, I'm changing the title of Georgie's section to PINK, because I'm using RED for Vinnie, whose theme involves violence.

Enjoy.

Visiting Ruth. Being drunk, you see, it’s the best thing ever. People are always talking about how it’ll kill me, and how it’ll fuck up my life, but I don’t think I’d ever wanna quit. And let’s face it, it’s not like I need to be sober for work, or anything. Take a typewriter, a bottle of the worst piss-shit vodka you’ve ever seen, and a bucket for vomiting and that’s a day in my office. But, hey, kid, let’s get something straight. I don’t do it for the false courage, or anything. I don’t do it ‘cause I’m a pussy, or because I wanna look like I’m fucking tough. Vinnie’s tough. I’m a wimp. I don’t do it because it tastes good. I don’t do it because it keeps me warm at night. I don’t do it because my mother used to do it, or because I got low self-esteem. I do it because everything else is just so fucking boring. I mean, seriously, honestly, it pains me to say it, but all of you are a complete and total bore. Everybody. Walking around with their headphones, listening to the same bloody music as everyone else, looking at girls asses as they walk by, laughing at the hobos asking for money in the street, going to the same bars, and pubs, feeling special because some ugly bitch’s got the hots for you. Every single person in the face of the earth, every place I’ve ever been to, it’s just a fucking bore. And alcohol, you see? Alcohol’s like a miracle drug. It makes you worse, but you don’t feel it. And it’s easy to ingest. And when it hits you, when the wave, and the dizziness hits you in the face like a bucket of cow shit: That’s when the fun starts. Every word you say, every step you take. You gotta do it carefully, right? Don’t fall. Don’t say something stupid. Dun giggle for something you’re thinking about, and don’t say those things you’re thinking about out loud. Control your ingestion. Don’t take too much, but don’t take too little either. And the best part. The absolute, fucking best part of this whole ordeal, is that everybody’s in on it. All of you, the same boring people, doing the same boring things as always, are all part of this little game. And it’s wonderful.

Right now, I’m pretty drunk, if I can say so meself. Didn’t have much to drink, though. A couple of rums ‘n’ Coke, some vodkas, and a couple of beers. But I’m pretty much done for, right about now. John’s our designated driver tonight, and I can tell he is as bored as a fucking I-dun-know-whut. Vinnie’s making out with Ruth, the whore, in the bathroom, and little Tommy –not my uncle- is dancing on the patio. Tommy’s drunkerer than me, but that’s no excuse for what’s right about to happen. Sympathy For The Devil is playing on the radio, and that song makes me fucking horny. Anything by the Stones makes me horny, as a matter of fact. I was kinda thinking that Ruth would be hanging out with one of those hot little lesbian friends she keeps around, when we decided to raid her house, but she was alone, the useless dyke, watching some shitty movie starring Cameron Diaz. Cameron-fucking-Diaz. I’d give it to her in whatever hole it fits in. But, have you seen her, lately, man? I mean, Jesus Christ, how does one girl get that hot, right? I mean, I wasn’t crazy about the brunette hair, but, hell, I don’t care any more. Justin Timerfag is one lucky guy, I’m telling you. And— and it’s not just the body, OK? I mean, yeah, of course she has a great body, but it’s not just that. I’m not gonna bother you saying that she looks smart or something, or that she sounds interesting. I don’t know the girl, like. But she just looks nice. She’s hot. Yeah, she’s hot. But she also looks nice. Pretty. I didn’t know that was possible. I didn’t know you could be smoking hot, and soothing to look at, at the same bloody time. Like, OK. Everybody’s talking about Marilyn Monroe, and how she was a sex symbol, or whatever. And yeah, she was pretty. But she wasn’t hot. OK. I know that sounds distressing, but just gimmie a chance here, OK? Just think about her for minute. Picture her, in your mind. And now take her clothes off. Now, answer me this: does she really look hot naked? I mean, she’s pretty. That’s a given. She’s nice to stare at, that’s also a given. But is she really a sex symbol. Or is she just a pretty girl? She’s chubby. That takes points off the bod. And… Wait. Wait a second.

Ruth just came out of the bathroom. Heh. Now, take this girl for instance. She isn’t nice to look at, or hot. She’s an on-and-off homosexual. Not a bisexual, mind you. It’s just that she has relapses. Oh, this is pathetic. Look at her, pulling her top down, brushing her hair, trying to take our eyes off the huge hickey she has in her fucking neck. Salut, Ruthie! Hey, she’s giving me the finger. Whore— Oh, and there’s Vinnie. What the hell are you doing, Vinnie? Look, look, look, he’s trying to pull her back into the bathroom. Oh, my God. She’s.. She’s Ruth, man. It’s just all kinds of nasty. With her greasy, curly black hair, snorting cocaine every half-an-hour— I mean, I got my vices, I just talked to you about the juice, but c’mon. Cocaine. Snorting that shite… It just fucks you up. And everybody knows it. When Moses came down from Mount Sina-fucking-i, carrying those big-ass scriptures –Commandment Number 14-: “Thou Shan’t Snort That Shite.” It’s like, there’s programs to make the kids never even see it, not ever, and she just listened to those blokes, turned around, and snorted like there’s no tomorrow… Fuck. Tommy just kissed Ruth. Oh, man. Vinnie’s gonna… Vinnies gunna fuck he up! Right? Heh! Right…? Vinnie’s gonna fuck him up. But, you know? Whatever, mate. I’m done with this people. I, seriously, gotta get out of here. No, not here here, I mean the overall here. Finish my novels. Get that pay-check. See the world. I should’ve done it a long time ago, man, I should’ve run, but I didn’t—and I didn’t because I was too much of a pussy. But not anymore, mate. I’m ready. I mean, look at me. Fucking look at me. Lying in the carpet of a dyke I don’t even know, with these people… These people I don’t even fucking like. John is… Johnny’s, reading? Look at that. Johnny’s fucking reading. Tommy is drunk, and dancing like an asshole, and arguing with Vinnie –I mean, what is he? Dumb?- over Ruth? Like, it’s… all of it… it’s just disgusting. Filthy. And now look, Ruth’s fed up, she’s walking away, Tommy is screaming at Vinnie, who’s giving him the I-dare-you,-motherfucker,-push-me,-just-fucking-push-me look, and Tommy does, he pushes him, and now Vinnie is… he is… Oh! Oh, my fucking God!

Conversation No. 2: Robert “Bobbie” Davis. No, you know her, she went to our house one time… Like, to sleep. Remember, that she came from the States, and she stayed with us, and her mother was this hot broad… You were, like, eight. What are you having? Nothing. I don’t have any money— Then I’ll buy you something, George, what do you want? What? What…? Come on… You’re not buying me anything… Why not? I’m your brother, you have to eat— I’ve eaten… No, you haven’t— Bobbie, you dun know what I do, or what I don’t do, and I’m telling you, I’ve fucking eaten. Don’t you want something to… like… Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. Fuck you! What? Fuck you, man. Why are you screaming at me, George? What? You come over here, all dressed, with your little suit, like… Jesus… No. No! And you come here, to talk to me about money, about my fucking job, and you just have to… You just have to… What am I? Am I a fucking beggar? Do you see me with a sign saying that I’m a fucking deaf-mute? No… Eh? Fucking, no, alright? I just thought you… Haven’t eaten in a while? Well, I can mend for me-fucking-self, can’t I? I… Can’t I? Jesus, Bobbie. You really get on my… Handing me food, like. That’s for the fucking birds, man. For the birds. Sorry, alright? Sorry… Just… Let’s just change the subject, OK? Mother says hi. She alright? Hell, I don’t know. I see her once a week, but… I mean, she says she’s clean, right? But I don’t know. The other day… She was, like, sniffing a lot. And I asked her, right? I said, what’s the matter? And she was all, like… Why are you harassing me, why are you bothering me… She was crying, George, she started to cry, and I was all, like… I’m sorry! Look— Look, Ma, I’m sorry. And it was like, you don’t trust me! You don’t trust me! Shit… Shit, is fucking right, George. And what are you doing, man? What are you? Fucking prodigal son? You haven’t seen her in two months! Well, I’ve been working, haven’t I? Oh, come on! Oh… I can see right through you, Georgie, you’ve been hanging out with those asshole friends of yours, pissing all of that advance they gave you on drugs, and alcohol… What? Don’t give me that look, George… What look? That look. The same exact look Mum gave me the other night. I won’t lie to you, alright? Sure I’ve been hitting the bottle pretty hard, and the money is fucking gone, but I am writing, man… I got… I’m doing it, man, I’m really pulling it off. I just need… I just need a couple more months, just a couple more, to really blow it away… OK. OK, I’ll go back, and tell her that… Because… they’re pretty nervous, man. Nina’s nervous. You know how many things she had to pull to get you to even meet with the… with… What? Why are you laughing? Tell me, Rob. What, man? Fucking, what? Tell me. How many things she had to pull?

Point Number One (Of 2): Make him laugh. He’s your brother. And I’ll tell you one thing about brothers, they can always see right through you. You try lying to them, and you’ll end up looking like the biggest asshole in the face of the earth. I mean, with them, there are no lies. You might as well just tell them, I don’t wanna tell you piss-shit about this, because that’s what they’re hearing. But, the truth of the matter is, the real thing, is that in this particular matter… I just got to lie. It’s either that, or giving up. So, if you do lie, if you say fuck it, and lie to your brother, just do little jokes, right after it. Quickly. Swiftly. It’ll divert his attention. And if you can make it personal? Do it.

Yeah, real funny, Georgie. Ha, ha. You laughed— Whatever, the point is that you have got to stop screwing around… I’m not… I’m serious about this, man… George, they know those new chapters you sent them were just old short stories of yours— What? That’s… What? Georgie, you sent the same ones to get the deal, remember? Right. You really have to pull it together… They’re getting fed up with your bullshit— What did you say? They’re fuggin’ words, man! They said that? Don’t get all… Those motherfuckers said that? With those… With those exact same words? Well… No, they didn’t… Well… Don’t… Yes. Yes, they did, alright? But don’t get all— Fucking— Oh, my… I’m writing them a fucking novel of a lifetime, mate, and they’re out there… What? Did Nina said that? Did your cunt of a girlfriend tell you that? What? Come on! Don’t call her… My own brother! Fuck you, man. She gave you the deal! She’s the reason you even got the money, and mister… Let me… You’re under breach of contract, mister. Under breach of…? Under breach of fucking contract…? I’m writing the goddamn books, aren’t I? Or, so you say. Or, so I… I’ll swear to God, Robert, I’ll kick your ass, I swear to God I’ll stand up, and— Are you having something? Eh…? She’s asking if we’re… I said, are you having something? What? No. We’re just… We’re still looking, honey, but we’ll— I’m sorry, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. What the fuck is this? Excuse me, but if you’re not having anything… You’re kind of distressing our other costumers. What? The fucking 60 year old virgin sitting over there? Is there a… Is there some other room I’m not aware of? George, just… I’m sorry but, we are going to get something… We just have to… Can I get some coffee? Fuck coffee, man! Stop being such a wimp. Here, listen, you. You know who I am? I mean, do you even fucking recognize me? I’m George-fucking-Davis. I’m a war hero, I’m a goddamn soldier. I got medals of honour back in my place, like, and I was in fucking Ireland shooting up wankers before you were even born, honey. I fucking fought for this country. I have a bullet, a piece of bloody metal inside me, and scars to prove it, and you’re going to come here, and talk to me about what I can do, and what I can’t fucking do? When I’ve fought for your fucking liberty? When I almost died for tossers like you? Well, fuck that. I’m telling you what’s going to happen, I’m going to drink a cup of fucking coffee, and it’ll be on the house. And I dun want one of those fifty year old cups, that’ve been sitting there all day, I want fresh coffee. The good one. And when I’m done, you’re gonna bring one for me brother. And when he’s done, that’s when we’re gonna fucking leave. Alright? Alright, you cunt? Alright?

Point Number Two (Of 2): Does it work sometimes? Sure. It has worked twice. But you try, don’t you?

Fiona. “Uh, they beat you up badly, eh?” That’s what she says, as soon as she sees me. And I’m like: “Yeah, they fucking punched my face in.” And I know that it’s gonna go terribly. Might as well have crashed at my mother’s. But Fiona is an old friend, and we got history, so when the lights went out in my house, I grabbed my stuff and moved to her house. I didn’t call first, or anything. The truth is, Fiona likes stuff like this. Makes her feel special, you see? She really wants to be liked by everybody, and when an opportunity presents for her to prove her fibre as a friend, she’ll do it. She’ll pull through. But that’s Fiona for you, mate. I dunno if that’s a defect, or even a bad thing. What I do know is that, when the hour of le hour hits, it’ll bite her in the ass. ‘Cause like I said some time before, we’re all motherfuckers. And we’re always looking for an opportunity to fuck someone over. Does it matter that she’s a broad? No, it doesn’t. It’s the same to us. Her money is just as good. And when its either hit the street, or pay the rent, or get a fix, or feel miserable for the rest of the year, we’ll take money from whoever. Better yet is she’s willing, and able. She hangs out with us, you see? We’re filth.

OK. So, here’s the truth, like. Me, and Fiona, we were really hot and heavy for a while, you see? It started out as fooling around, having fun. But she kinda grew on me, and before I knew it, she was talking about moving in with me. I couldn’t have been more happy. I told her, sure, what the hell, let’s do this. But all of a sudden, it’s like, all of my friends, right? They’re telling me:

1. Are you insane?
2. Whut are you, like? Stupid?
3. Pan-Pan-Pa-Paaaaaan. Pan-Pan-Pa-Paaaaaaaan.

And, it’s all happening so fast, and I don’t even know what’s happening. But I don’t wanna get married, man. And I don’t wanna have kids, and become an adult. I’m only thirty-two. That’s like… I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. And overall, like I said, Fiona, she’ll get screwed over some day. She wouldn’t make a good mother. And like, what if someone asks her a favour, right? And she’s, all like: “OK, whatever you want.” And the bloke, he says, like: “Fuck me, please.” I mean, I don’t wanna be the poor motherfucker who gets screwed around. So, I said to myself, I’m Georgie. I’m Georgie Davis.

Fuck that broad.

But that’s another story, like. If you ask me, I think she still has the hots for me. I mean, of course she has the hots for me, everybody has the hots for me, but I mean like… She really still loves me. That creeps me out. Because I really screwed her over. Anyways, so I’m in her house, alright? And my face is all beat up, like, because of the other day in the deli. And, she’s smiling at me, putting some weird-ass jelly on my bruises, as she talks. And she’s, like, “Oh, my God, did you hear about Vincent and Ruth?” So, I just play along, and start laughing, and tell her: “Yeah, man, he’s insane. And he really, I mean, did you see how Tommy ended up? For, crying out loud, the girl’s a lesbian.” And she mutters, so cleverly: “Allegedly.” And then, I talk about how I have no fucking idea of how in the world being a homosexual ended up being so in, seeing as how they were lynching them, not a couple of decades ago. And, see, and this is the same I was explaining to her at the time, I’m no homophobe. But I’m no peensy-weensy either, mate, I mean, I’m eating a burger, in the park, bugging no-one, when all of a sudden I hear these slurping noises. And, like, I don’t know what the fuck they are, so I say, who’s there. And then, off come these couple of muscular faggots, and they’re, like, I’m so sorry, mister, we were just having fun. Well, fuck off. These sorts of things were meant to be taboo, you know? I don’t have a problem with you two fucking each other, but do it some place that… private, like. And, then she says… And listen to this, mate, she says: “But what about dykes?” And I say: “I like ‘em.” And then she goes on about how that’s sexist, and all men are just fucking pansies, who are scared of anything that doesn’t involve sports, cars, or jugs. But, fuck it, I dun care. I’m just waiting around for the inevitable, right? And then it happens, and she asks: “So, are you going to tell me what happened to your fucking face?” So, I do. And it’s wonderful.

Howard’s Den. So, the girl. You know, the waitress, she’s trying to kick me off the diner, and she’s like, you can’t be here, you have to buy something. (Why’d you have to buy something?) I don’t know, that’s the whole point. And my brother, and he’s fine before you ask, he’s like: Yes, alright, I’ll buy something, alright. But, of course, I don’t have any money. I mean, I don’t need money, I travel light. So, I said, listen, I said, missy, listen to me. I won’t buy shit. And I can seat wherever the fuck I want. And the girl starts screaming at me, and she’s saying, this is a private property, this is a private property, and I said… Missus! Look, you utter a single word about something private, or proper again, and that’s when I’ll smack you… And, and you know I don’t smack women around, I mean, I never hit you. Did I hit you? (Never, ever.) Never, fucking, ever. So, the girl shuts up, and let’s me speak. So, I sit down, and look at her. And she looks like a nice girl. Smart, like— and I’m telling you, she wasn’t a nice girl, but she looked the part… So, I say, real polite, like, you know, I start up, and say: Missus. Me, and me’s brother here, we’re just here to eat some pie. We’re talking some business here, and we’re making some noise, that much is true. And, hell, I apologize for that. I mean, I realize that I dropped a couple of F-bombs here and there, but its not like the place was filled up or anything. There were no costumers. So, I look at her, and she’s looking at me. And I continue, and it’s like, I never meant to bother you, right? We’re just doing some talking. If you want, we’ll buy something now, but the problem is that we’re talking, and my brother here, you see, he has a problem with coordination— and, and Fiona, you know this, right? You’ve seen my brother. (Of course, yeah… Pfft… Coordination.) He’s a real smart bloke, but some thing in his brain, doesn’t let him eat and speak at the same time. Weird, huh? So, if we order now, our meal will go cold. And I like my hot apple pie. Don’t you like hot apple pie? (Fuck yeah.) No, no, that’s what I… that’s what I asked her. I went, don’t you like hot apple pie? And the girl, she nods. Real softly. And then, then, she says: I’ll go speak with the manager. And we wait around, and we’re all calmed, and out the door comes this nigger. This huge motherfucker, with a bat in his hand, followed by a couple of fatsoes, who look Itallian. And the girl, she points at me, and says, that’s the one. And then it happens. And it’s real fucking fast, like, I mean, you blinked, and you missed it. The nigger gets the bat and swings it as hard, and as fast as he could, and it’s coming straight towards my face, and I’m thinking, and everything goes slow. And it’s like… This fucker’s gunna take my head off. I gotta do something. Gotta move. Gotta act quick. And I try to move my head, and the next thing I hear is the bat, this big metal bat, flying right besides my face. (Whoa.) I mean, do you see? Do you understand what it is I’m telling you? I was five… No. I was three inches away of having my face blown off by a huge fucking nigger. But my reflexes, right? I got reflexes like one crazy motherfucker. And then, I’m not myself. My animal… My instincts take over, and I’m gone. And, this I don’t know, but my brother, he tells me that I jumped off the table, and grabbed the bat, and then pushed it against the nigger’s nose. Not once. Not twice. But like four fucking times, right? They guy’s in the hospital, like, right now. We can go visit him if you want. Anyways, so now, the nigger is down, and he’s not getting up. And now I’m the one with the bat. And, bam! Fatso number one goes down, knee smashed up. The second one gives me trouble, he headbutts me, you see? Right… Right, here, you see it? (Ugh… Poor baby…) Yeah, but my head is harder. And it’s like, he gives it to me. And I say, yeah, I say: Alright. And go at it. I start pounding my head against his face. Boom, boom, boom. And then he let’s me go, and we’re both a little dizzy. But of course, I’m the tough one. So, I pick up the bat, take aim, steady myself. The fat guys goes: Whut? And, that’s that, and push his nose up his skull. And when it’s done. When I’m done… And my brother is looking at everything, in shock, along comes the waitress, and fucking hits me right in the face with a silver tray. (Ouch.) Ouch is right. And then she does it again. And again. And yet again. Until I grab her hand, and make her drop it, and say: “I still have the bat in my hand, bitch.”

Fuck Me. Yes. I finished my story, uninterrupted, and all was right in the world. It went… It just went great, like. I didn’t stop. The details, I mean, I gave her the details, all one by one, and she was mesmerized. That’s how I know I’m going to be a terrific writer, mate. Because… Because I got the stories in me, you see? I can’t stop. I do it all the time. And she’s, like: “I have to… Oh, my God. I have to say that is impressive, Georgie. That is fucking impressive.” I nod, and smile, and I’m trying my best not to blow it, not to laugh out loud. But I keep it cool. I just crack my knuckles, and say: “That’s what I do.” But it doesn’t end there, she’s really excited, like. It goes on, with the: “I didn’t know you had this in you, Georgie… it’s… I’m just surprised, is all. God in heaven. Can I touch it?” And there’s a pause. Not silence, a pause. Like, less than a second, but there’s no sound. And we look at each other, and we know what’s gonna happen. And, then I nod. And she touches my bruise, and I give her a little moan. Like, she doesn’t know if I like it. And I can tell it freaks her out. Because if it was pain, then she’s fucking hurting me, like, and she doesn’t wanna scare me away. And if it was pleasure, like, am I freak? And she pulls her hand away, and chuckles, real softly. And that’s when it happens. That’s when the silence comes in. And, finally, she says: “Wanna fuck?” And I say to myself: For Old Time’s Sake, Georgie. For fucking Old Time’s Sake.

Conversation No. 3: Fiona Wright. Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, George! Oh, Georgie! You’re such a… You’re such a big boy! Oh, my God! Yeah? Fuck… Uh! Agh… Ugh! Oh, God! Ahhhn! Oh! Nhhh… Ahh… Kiss me… Mhhhm. Ah! Huh. Jesus. Jesus Christ, you’ve gotten better, Fiona… Holy shite, Fiona, you’ve gotten so fucking good… Pfff… Huh… Yeah? You liked it, babe? You liked fucking me? Girl… I don’t know if you took classes, or… Damn… I mean, it was good before but, damn it… Heh, heh… You have a fag, or something, here? I gotta have a smoke. Nope, I don’t do fags… Fuck. Jesus… Mhhm. Your tongue tastes funny. It’s chocolate… I was eating chocolate— Ah… You’ve given me just what I needed, Georgie, I gotta tell you… I was just so stressed with the… with my exams, or… or whatever… You needed a dose of the Georgie-boy, then? What? … You needed a… a… Nothing. Forget it. A dose of fucking Georgie-boy? That’s what you said? No… Ha! Oh, my God, George, you’re so fucking ridiculous… That’s why I’ve always fancied you… Tell you what, I’ll let that fucking slide, but don’t pull that shit ever again, or you’ll be out in the streets… In no time. Oh, you wouldn’t kick me out, you fucking love me. You’ve got the order of them words mixed up… I mean, where else are you gunna get your Georgie-boy dose…? Ugh! Shut up, George. That’s too… Mhm. Oh! Oh, I’m going to get my thingy, stay right here. What thingy? My fucking thingy. What, like your little blanket, or something? You’ve got one of them sleeping rituals you’ve acquired this last couple year? No— “Nnno.” And it’s not like it’s any of your business, anyhow, honey, you’re not sleeping with me. Oh, is that how it is? Fuck, yeah it’s how it is. Well, I think it’s a little too late for that, innit? I’m fucking serious, George, there’s no space. You can sleep in the floor next to if you wanna be close to me, eh? Ha! Right. That’ll happen. Asshole. Whore— Hey, can you bring us a glass of water, eh? Are you breathless, like? Heh. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, woman. I’ll let that one slide.

Don’t Ask. I’m serious. Don’t ask me how I do it. I’d love to tell you that I’m charming, and that I’m swift, and brutal with my woman. That I’ve read every issue of Cosmo there is, that I’ve studied their every move, that I know how they act, that I understand them, but… It’d be bullshite. So, don’t fucking ask. A girl, Joannie was her name, called me a Casanova once. A fucking Casanova. I think she meant it as an insult, but I smiled, and said: “Yeah,” while nodding. Real asshole, like, right? Because to me, it was like a compliment. She was comparing me to the greatest, the most famous womanizer in the history of womanizers. Me. I mean, I’m a fucking writer. It’s not normal. I mean, take Woody Allen. He doesn’t get pussy. That’s what his whole thing is about. And… and Isaac Asimov, like. You think that dork ever got any pussy? Like, ever? Writers don’t get pussy. But then again, I’m not a real one, either. Well, I’m drifting from me point here, OK? Alright. My point is that this bloke— this bloke? I mean, this girl, she was comparing me to Casanova, and I don’t know how I reached that point. And everybody’s asking. Specially when I was first beginning, like, or when they first see me in action, they all ask me. They say, “how does a bloke like you get so lucky?” And that’s what I’m trying to explain to you, that’s the whole point of this conversation: I don’t fucking know.

Howard’s Den Revisited: Pt.1. But that’s not while I’m thinking, as I lied there, in her bed. I wasn’t thinking much about how this thing I had just done, the whole course of action I took since I left my flat, was going to come bite me in the ass. Eventually. I wasn’t even thinking about what exactly Fiona’s thingy was, or how I still had a condom wrapped in my dick, and how I would’ve liked nothing more than to take it off, and fuck Fiona again –maybe in the kitchen, like- but with all-skin, this time. No. What I was thinking about, what I still think about every time I touch my lip, or the scar on me forehead is how I managed to pull the story off so perfectly. Because you know, that didn’t happen at all, right? Nigger with a bat? Couple of fatsoes? Fighting-fucking-waitress? Nuh-Uh. Try again. Game Over. Wrong Answer. What really happened was the following. So, where did I let you off last time?

The Speech. Right. I’ve never even touched a gun in my life, mate. I’ve never even fantasized about going to war, I mean… you hear that about them kids who’re always singing, and dancing, like, about how when they’ll grow up, they’ll both be soldiers? Well, to me, it was just fuck-all, and free for all. War? Fuck war. I wasn’t gonna die for a bunch of wankers. And when I learned about Ireland, I realized that was stupid too. I mean, what the fuck are those tossers doing? Are they idiots? I mean, don’t they realize that it doesn’t matter? I mean, you think that in 15 years… I mean, OK, the English finally have the balls to say, fuck it, this country sucks anyways, and leave the Northerns to handle them fucking selves. Do you think that it’ll be any different? Do you think something will change? Or, if the Northerns win, do you think there will be a difference between independent Ireland, and fucking colonized Ireland? Fuck no. It doesn’t matter who’s governing them, all politicians are fuckers, and the whole human race are motherfuckers, so nothing will ever change. So. Do you really, honestly think I would’ve fought in that country? And that independence shite, that’s like the biggest lie I’ve told repeatedly. The point is that, I have a bullet inside me, that much is true. But I didn’t get it in the war. Some fucker shot me. And he was a fucking copper. But don’t go burning Stations yet, it was an accident. I still got pretty penny for it, and I was living off that until a couple of years ago, when it all run out, but the point is, I do the soldier thing, because it’s sympathetic. You know, free stuff, like. But like I said, does it work sometimes? Sure. It has worked twice. But you try, don’t you? But, like… I mean, there’s a slight chance that something like the following will…

Conversation No. 3: Fiona Wright (Cont’d). Now, what the fuck is that? What does it look like, genius? It looks like fucking cocaine, is what it looks like! Well, it is fucking cocaine. Come on, throw that away, you dumb bitch. Why…? Heh… Mhhm. Tasty. You want a— I’m not fucking kidding around. Throw it away, Fiona! Fucking, why? Because it’s shite. I mean, what the hell are you doing? I can’t believe, I mean, I can’t seriously fucking believe your poisoning your body with that… That… You knew I did cocaine. You’ve always known I did— Does it look like I fucking knew? C’mon, man, toss it away! The hell with that, man, I fucking paid for it… and— and, like, you’ve always known I did cocaine, I’m fucking sure. You’ve seen me do it, you went to Mark’s the other day— Now, who the fuck is Mark? He’s my friend, you know him, the one with the… Mark! You know Mark, he’s Scottish. Mark? The fucking heroine junky, Mark? You’re doing heroine now? No, I’m not doing heroine! What the fuck is your problem! What the fuck is my problem? What the fuck is your problem, Fiona? This shit kills you. So, does cigarettes, and liquor, stupid. Everything does. But not like this shit— I mean, you know who does cocaine, right? You know who’s addicted to this shite? Yes, I know your mother is— Don’t talk about it like it’s a small fucking deal, my mum was screwing guys to get this shit, I mean, it fucking destroyed her, and… But she’s a junky, Georgie, she isn’t— Fuck you! Fuck you for saying that! Saying what? She’s been off it for three years, alright? She’s back on her— Well, good for her, but she’s still a junky. I’m just… I’m just casual, like, I mean, it’s no biggie. No biggie? Yeah, no fucking biggie. God! What is your problem? My problem? You know… Just don’t… Just don’t do it in front of me, mate. It’s my bed.

Point Number One (Of 2): And this is where it gets interesting, like. Because, I’m a nice guy, alright? I mean, you know be my now, you know I’m a good lad, I mean, I steal sometimes, and lie, and fuck around, but overall I’m not the worst motherfucker you’ll ever know. And, like, a few days ago, I told about my Uncle Tommy, and shite, and how he hit his women. Well, I’ve never done that. I’ve never thought about doing that, I learn self-control. But, like, when I think about cocaine, and when I see how all of me friends doing that shite, and how everyday there’s some other tosser sniffing it up, and how it is consuming everybody I know, and then I think about my mother, and what it did to her… I mean, when I was fifteen, my mother started to fucking OD on me, and my brother’s asses, right? And we were with a couple of friends, and it was like, she was vomiting saliva, like fucking Uma Thurman on Pulp Fiction, and we were just staring at her, and then… And this is the part that really gets me, like, you know, we’re dare, scared out of our fucking arses, and this guy comes out of her room, and leaves a bag of this shite in our table, along with some money, and he looks at us, he says: “Call an ambulance, or something, kid.” And that’s that. He was her fucking dealer, and he was screwing her, and then he left. And I was there, with my mother fucking dying on me. So, when I think about cocaine, like, I just get mad. And this fucking whore, I told her, I don’t want her sniffing that shite in front of me, and I told her that, I really fucking stressed that point, but she didn’t listen, she just took that little piece paper, and placed it next to her nose, and just sucked on, like. And it was the most vulgar sound, I’ve ever heard. So, I fucking did, you know? I bitch-slapped her, alright? I fucking did.

What the hell is your problem, George? Fiona, I’m sorry, like, but I told you, I told you not to do it next to me, and— Get the fuck! Get the fucking… Ugh! Shit, you’ve dropped it all over, is fucking getting into my carpet! Fiona, I didn’t mean to hurt you, but, I just dun want you messing your life over that kind of shit, right? And you were just sniffing, and you know how I get around it, like, it reminds so much of my— Just get the fuck out! I’m bleeding, Georgie! I’m fucking bleeding! What the hell are you? Some kind of pussy, who goes around beating the ladies? Get the fuck, man! But, I don’t have anywhere else to go, I mean, my house is— George, you aren’t staying here, you either get out, or I’ll fucking call Vinnie— But, come on, now— I’ll fucking call Vinnie, and he’ll do you in! I swear to fucking God, George! Get out! Get the hell out! Wait, alright! Just let me get my— Get out—! Agh! Let me go! Just be rational, woman! I’m naked! Stop pushing me! Let me go! You’re… You’re so fucking…! Ugh! Ow! Cunt, that fucking hurt! That fucking… Wait! Wait, wait, wait! Get the fuck out!

Point Number Two (Of 2): And, slam. And that’s it.

I’m sorry! Sorry doesn’t cut it, George! Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it, at all. Not now. Not this time! But… But, I didn’t mean it, like— it was… It was my instincts! It was a reaction to the situation! Fucking react better next time then! Well, look, then just gimmie me clothes! Just give us my fucking clothes! Oh, you want your clothes? What are you…? What are you doing, like? You want your bloody clothes—? No! Wait, what the fuck are you doing? Are you throwing them out the window? Are you throwing them down the bloody window? Fiona! Fucking cunt! I’m naked! I’m fucking… I’m fucking butt-naked—! My…! My clothes! Fiona!

Me Clothes. And now, this is a fucked up situation. I’m butt-naked, nothing on me, walking out the street, to the coldness that is bloody London. And my clothes? She threw them out of the fucking window, alright. My jacket, my AXXS jacket, the one I really like, is hanging in that ugly leafless trees that’s next to her building. And I’m not going tree-climbing naked, right? I mean, what if my thingy gets caught in the branches, or something like that. I mean, I’m not insured. And, like… my underwear is… I dunno. Fucking Missing In Action, you know, MI-fucking-A, and all I can found is me jeans, and one of my shoes. So, I’m walking down the street, almost naked, like, you know? And I think, listen, I think: “I’m gonna catch me a fucking pneumonia.” But then I remember, right? Then I remember that I had some money in my back-pocket, so maybe I can buy, like, one of those t-shirts they sell in gas-stations, and shite, those really pacharaca ones. So, I check my pockets, and guess what? Merry Christmas, Georgie, the cunt has taken my goddamn money away. She stole from me, and it just pains me, I mean, it just burns me to think that she’ll waste it all in fucking cocaine. I mean, goddamn it! I was walking down the street, it was four in the morning, I had nowhere to go, and I was gonna die of cold.

So. I saddled up, and did what had to be done. I decided to go to Atty’s. You see, Atticus, that’s his name, he doesn’t hang out with us much. We used to be pretty tight, to tell you the truth, but you see, we’re just wankers. We’re tossers, and motherfuckers. What Atty is, he’s a criminal. He sells drugs, he steals from people, he heard he even killed for money, this one time. Yeah, he’s a criminal, alright, but not a bloody good one. But he still earns a living. And I can say that truthfully. I mean, I love Johnny, with all my heart, and he’s a hard working, but he earns shite. He earns shite. His flat… It’s worse than mine. And Vinnie? Vinnie lives with his mother. I can’t crash at his place, his mother hates me. And besides, he’ll probably beat the shit out of me if he founds out I hit the girl. You see, him and Fiona are pretty tight. But, it’s strictly platonic. I’m not sure to what end, but Vinnie, to Vinnie she’s like a little sister, and to Fiona? To Fiona he’s like a bodyguard, or a fucking girly friend, like. I swear to God, mate, they paint each other nails, and talk gossip. I’m, like, Vinnie! You’re the toughest bloke I know! And he’s like, what? She makes me feel pretty. But, whatever, right? I’m… Look, I like Atticus, right? But… he’s the kind of guy who sells coke to people. It goes against my principles to stay at his place, you know what I’m saying? I mean, it’s like, I just hit a girl for just sniffing that shite next to me, am I gonna turn around, and stay at the house of the guy who provides that cocaine for her, and to a hundred other women just like her? But then I start thinking, like. What other friend do I have? What friend who won’t mind me showing up in the middle of the morning? Who won’t tell me where to go? Ruth? Ruth hates me, and I hate her back? And her little wee lesbian friends, those yuppies living downtown, they think I’m filth. Tommy is probably at Ruth’s. And Alexander’s a wanker ever since he started banging that girl, Faith, who used to be my friend until she started banging that waker, Alexander. No way in hell I’m going over to Puffy’s. I mean, there’s a reason we call him Puffy’s. I don’t wanna distress my mother, and my brother’s probably staying at Nina’s who, I mean, is a whore. Speaking of whores, you know Gabriel? The gigolo wannabe, like, Gabriel? Well, he’s got the AIDS! He’s got the fucking AIDS! And he’s probably up to his nose in the needle, so that’s out of the fucking question. And Brooke’s got the baby to worry about. And it’s Michael’s baby, so we made a conscious group-decision, to never talk to him again until he acknowledges it. And, you know? I’m not in the mood to see Frampton, and handle his useless bantering. And I don’t think he even likes me. So, like, actually, none of them do! And, you see? Do you understand what my life has come to? My last true friend, my last honest to goodness friend, is a well-known criminal. The filthiest filth, I’ve ever laid my eyes on:

Atticus-Bloody-Anansi.

Icaruss wrote:Convincing Vinnie Not To Kill A Man. He’s a motherfucker. So, what? We all go around, fuck around, and shit around. Of course, we’ll fuck each other up some times, of course. But, I mean. Listen to this. We’re all motherfuckers, alright? Is that a fact, Georgie? Yes. Of course it’s a bloody fact. I mean, don’t you see? Have you listened to a word I’ve said? Mate, if you’ll only listen to this one thing that’ll come out of my mouth, then listen to this. There shouldn’t be any violence, mate. Like I said, we all go out to the world, out of our mother’s womb, right? And we’re thrown out, and we have to mend for ourselves. And we’re just doing what we have to do to fucking survive, right? And these motherfuckers, they’re telling you, do this, and do that. And we do it. We fucking do it, so what? And we’re all doing the same damn thing. I mean, its bloody obvious we’re doing the same damn thing. And, you got this sons of bitches over here, with their purple hair, and their leather, saying: “Well, the hell with this then! I’m different!” Well, you’re not, you bloody asshole. Sure, you’re not wearing any Nike, but you’re still wearing their brands, and buying their products, and fucking acting the way they want you to act. Out there, always, there’ll be some bastard, working to get their products, to you. OK. Right? Alright. So we’re living in this world, you see? Where we all are the same. And we’re all doing our thing. So, why would there be any violence at all, right? We should all just keep our head down, and power through. But that doesn’t happen, does it, mate? No. What happens is that you got this son of a fuck, going around, and screwing every other up. And, like I said, we all do the same stupid things. So, this bastard who screwed you up may very well be you, or me, or whoever, the next day. ‘Cause we’re all motherfuckers. We’re all bastards. And we love it! We fucking love it! And, yeah, so this guy screwed you over. So, what? So fucking what? You wanna kill him. Alright. But when you do, there’s another perfect asshole to take his place on the circle of motherfuckers that is society. It’ll do you no good. Will it feel good? Probably. But its bloody useless. I mean, you might as well kill me, mate. Or yourself for that matter. Because the same thing this bloke has done to you, I’ve done to a thousand other blokes. And you have done to a thousand other blokes. And those blokes have done to a thousand other blokes, and it doesn’t fucking stop, you see? It doesn’t end. We’re on a circle of violence, you see? And everybody is like you. I was like you. I said to myself, this bastard fucked me up. He stole my girlfriend. He took my money. I wanna make him suffer. And I made some motherfuckers suffer, I tell you. You remember Roger, right? Roger Tossler. Of course, you remember him. Well, why’d you think he has a bloody limp now? That’s Georgie written all over his fucking leg. But, listen, when I was done, it was like, all my anger, all my fury— I mean, it was calmed, it was satisfied, but it was still there. It didn’t go away. It just waited for the next motherfucker to come on over. And they did. And it was just this horrible circle of violence, and angriness. Do you wanna be part of that circle, mate? Do you wanna fuel that ring of… of shit, and just see how it turns again, and again. Or do you wanna get your crap together and say— And, say: “Hey! I’m a man! And a fucking man!” Do you wanna bend over, and use your gun, and use that fucking machete you have on your hand, and let those wankers give it to you in the ass, or do you wanna turn around, and say: Screw you. Screw you, and your products. Screw you, and your violence. Screw you, and everything that you represent. I am different. I’m no wanker. I’m no fucking walking advertisement. I’m not a motherfucker. I’m breaking the circle. Screw you, and go to bloody hell.

This paragraph is... not relevent or anything at all. Or it might be, but right now it just goes in circles and bores the reader. I mean, we get the point after you say it. You don't have to go on and on and on... otherwise, it reminds me of a textbook I read that never got to the point. Delete it and go to the story.

This I will say about your story: you seem to be in love with your style more than the story. This is good, up to a point. You can weave words together in an interesting way and I like the way it sounds, as if you're telling a story. But you're overdoing it too much. It's almost as if you're flailing your arms like, "Look at me! Look at me!" As if you want to show us how well you can write. And you have a quirky style, but it only goes so far.

First of all, you should really stop using the bold button. I'm not sure what your purpose is, but by bolding the word "Rosie" this implies that the main character is Rose. Which is quite strange, especially when you get to the "suck tongue" part. It already stands out enough just by it being a fragment. Don't be even more confusing.

Next of all, if you even want to CONSIDER publishing this, you have to run it through a spell-checker. Since this is a sort of off-beat work, then you can misspell certain words, but not all. In the second paragraph, there's at least two words misspelled. And that's bad. Because, no matter how foul-mouthed your main character is, "adn" is not "and."

Speaking of publishing, if you want to publish this, you will consider paragraphing it more so. When I put the second paragraph in Word, double-spaced it and put the font in Courier New, which is proper manuscript format, it is three pages long. So that means three pages of your book is one paragraph. I respect your intent of making it a long confusing jumble, as this style is prone to do, but it is not publishable. Just a heads-up.

Another heads-up: you're not in charge of your formating. If you ever want to sell it to the publisher, you're going to have to make it in the boring Courier, double-spaced format and you're probably not going to be able to bold things or play with the font... up front anyway. You might be able to play with it later, once you got the contract, but yep. Your goal should be to make it strong without the weird formating.

Okay... enough of that.

One thing you're going to have to do is change the dialogue format. Experimentation is good, but only when the reader has some idea of what is being done. At the moment, it's too confusing.

Okay. Enough negative stuff.

I thought the style was pretty cool, but as I said, overdone. Like, the constant fucks sort of ruined the gritty feeling since it quicklly became repetitive, but there were still some intense moments in there. Of course, it can be softened a little bit and that would make it feel better, in the end. If that makes you cringe, remember that we don't know what hard is when we don't see soft mixed in, so to give your stuff more depth, you should do that.

You made us give a nice picture of who your character was without pounding us on the head, and I commend you for that. I also like the freestyle way it was written, yet it seemed to be done in a purposeful way instead of rambling (except for the first paragraph).

So the main thing is to cater just a little to the reader (if you're going for publishing, that is) and to give us a little more clarity. Oh, and delete the first paragraph. ^_^;;

Hope that helped! If you have any questions, just ask.