Young Writers Society

What a snake. What a rat. What an absolute bigot. There he comes, criminal record on his tongue, bragging about it to the ladies. As you can tell, it doesn’t take much to get women around here if they lust over sadomasochist scum like this.

Untucked shirt, dead jokes, a junkie for sure. A junkie who wishes to have about 75% of my IQ, he spits on morals and tradition. He changes his shoes everyday, he touches his imaginary replica of a whore west of Main Street, and furthermore tries to get into conversations.

“Hey! Badman! Don’t fuck with me!” He pushes me after saying those words.

”Go home low life. I ain’t got the time alright?” My eyes are fixated on his.

“Oh I see how it is yeah? You afraid of me? Your mum!”

“Spare yourself child; now’s not the time for jokes.” He laughs at my truth.

“Oh yeah? Well you’re not a man till you play a game of mine.”

“Oh really? What is this game called?

“Somalian pirates. It’s well sick! Jay is such a bang out man!”

Now, I’ll tell you something about most people around here: they hate Somalians. Do not ask me- why they just do. Even in primary school people mocked them, and also stating their foreheads were “shiny” and called them “fake refugees”. Somalians get rushed, beaten up, killed, mass murdered if possible because of their nationality. It is growing at such a rate I don’t bother to make a change. I am not a racist. If I was, I would be this “badman” who’s obsessed with attending the annual Slap-A-Somalian Day every July 4th. I never join- I don’t know if it still exists. I hope not.

“Sorry. Somalian pirates? What the fuck?”

“What do you think? It’s an activity. Come on! It’s fun!

“If slapping people because of who they are is fun, then-“

“You shouldn’t be a junkie. You should be a politician!”

“Yeah, thing is, I’m too honest with people.”

“Man, you could be the next Tony Blair.” He then noticed my War Criminal T-shirt, with Blair in clear view. He soon realised how incompetent he really was.

“Um, David Cameron? Joseph Stalin? Adolf Hitler? Boris Johnson! You should be the next Boris Johnson! God, the stuff you could do-“ Upon this insane prediction of imminent lying and frequent recessions I collided my clenched fist right into his dry crispy lips. He looked up, looking for his “crew”. But those speech marks showed sarcasm, so they are not actually there.

He is a poor little boy, trapped in the body of someone my age. Upon this blow to the mouth his eyes well up. He started to whimper, and finally screamed like a pig being gutted in a local farm faraway. The throat of this pig sprayed on the grass and dying, squealing for it’s own species. This “badman” is anything but. He is a newt. A little tadpole yet to develop. Does he even have testicles?

His presence has been known for a long time. The revolts all over town, the resistance and protests against prostitution. I stand in the middle- for I know this business. In fact I am friends with the man himself.

For a low life, buying bitches from all over this town, he had a lot to say. Truth be told he could’ve been a father to me, if my father snorted coke and abused women.

The most interesting aspect of this particular pimp was his ability to communicate with his clients without the use of heroin. He was a very mild mannered man you see, always apologising whenever he had a fit of anger on some unlucky girl who wants to go home. He’s also a master of persuasion- the ventriloquist, so to speak.

His name? He never said. I just call him The Pimp Who Cried Rape. Why? Well, as you’re about to find out, let me tell you why.

First off he is a coward. He runs around like a headless chicken and acts as if his mother didn’t give him an extra sweet. He would scream anything, in this instance his last words were rape. Secondly, he is not the most popular guy when it comes to his clients. His clients were abused by their old master and the arrival of a new one not so long after isn’t exactly what they want. Thirdly, he couldn’t defend himself from any situation including- yep, you guessed it- forced sex, or rape to immature teens making an insult about their mums.

He used to be such a miserable, grumpy and tantrum prone little dick that he pissed off everyone when he became their pimp. Their performances decreased, they stopped using CA, they wanted families. They were blamed on their “appeal” and “use of dirty words”. So, ever since, most of his clients have stuck to hotlines. You’re lucky to even see one of his clients up Main Street, let alone have sex with them as they are probably pissed off.

Understandably people are complex little creatures, even whores are. But the point being is that this guy, though probably the easiest to talk to in the whole world, couldn’t do his job probably. And his clients were pissed.

It was another breezy night as the streetlights faded out over our heads. Here is where mercy was born, where pain was enslaved. I was standing outside in the rain, listening at the slight hint of splashes on the pavement. I have seen this place inside out for too long and I plan to make my actions clear. But not now. I’ll save my words for later. Now I must get some place where I can sleep.

Upon knocking on the door, there was no answer. I knew the place, I’ve been in the pimp’s hideout before, but never was he not in. The door opened to a young lady, about my age, wearing very skimpy clothes with a cigarette in her mouth, signifying forgotten youth.

“Are you here to see him? You want a bed baby?” I can hear a pig squealing.

“Oh, um, if there are any available.” The screams get louder and louder.

“You wanna join in with the fun?” She laughs. She turns to the door. The screams turn into a pathetic sob, much like the anti-Semitic men that stalk the streets every night for freedom. Her eyes give off an innocent, wholesome insight into her madness and her eyes are those of Lucy’s. My time must be up soon, I can’t stay.

“Ok, tell me. I’m curious. What are doing to him up there?”

“PLEASE! NOT AGAIN!” The audible screams turned clear.

“Hah. It’s pretty obvious. He owes us our freedom. We want to love. I am very similar to you, I want to get out. But he has to pay the price.”

“By, um, torturing him? Getting him to do something for you?”

”Nah- we’re fucking him till he bleeds. Then we’ll slash his throat.” Hang on: they are not men. They do not have the organ to screw another.

“So I assume you girls are using a strap-on?”

“God you’re so smart! You should be-“

“I don’t wanna be a politician.” She gives out a mischievous giggle.

“Nice to know someone with truth. You wanna see what’s going on in there?”

“Um, I’d rather not. I have a weak stomach.”

“Not used to the sight of sex?” I had to be honest with her.

“It’s been a while. I mostly have sex with people of your profession.”

“Understandable. The only other alternative is screwing nothing.”

We lock onto each other’s eyes, strangely inked to the idea of someone getting raped in the room opposite us.

“When can I see you? I must talk to you. I have to.”

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, on a train to paradise.”

“But, um, what is your name? So I know?”

“Any thing you want darling.”

“Even Lucy?”

“Yeah, you can call me that.” She smiles at walks back in. I smile at her, in the midst of the pimp yelling “RAPE!” at the top of his lungs before she slashes his throat.

In a surreal moment I was proud of myself, meeting someone of resemblance of the only person I have ever cared about. My dreams of talking to an Asian princess came true, even if it was for that particular moment of time. Her eyes, her skin, her hair. I was in my own paradise.

As I exited I shut the door behind me. Best not disturb women at work.

It’s for the best I start to move around town a bit more. My sights have been set on a pregnant void of nothingness. My eyes are bloody and dazed- the scent of a liar. I had an ora in my youth (if I can describe it as it). My life is now fixated on primary mission: to get my voice heard.

Student council? Nope. Protest? They won’t let me. In fact I’m not even allowed to talk to our leaders or “role models”. It’s like Collectivisation all over again: we were killed and slaughtered over and over again to prove a point which is knife edged and ultimately the outcome of any war: everyone is screwed in the mind.

All the soldiers, all the workers, all the bombers. Every tear is true, except in the eyes of the commanders, so called motivators about 50km away from the scent of death, 50 km away from some innocent bastard dying. 50hm away from true life. They have been living in a dream world, and one which us junkies don’t like.

Narcotics has messed me up. I look like I should belong in a retirement home with the rest of those patriotic, pro-USA fascists. But it has opened my eyes too.

To know that I will die a quick death is a breath of fresh air, seeing how most of us suffer before dying. A bullet in the head will do me just fine.

Some view me as a pervert, a sucker, a madman, a lunatic. This is clearly a stereotype. I am the exception to the rule that junkies are hopeless: I have hope flowing through my veins everyday. Why? Because I have a voice.

But I live in a time of uncertainty. The angelic sense of Lucy’s voice, wholesome and innocent, was never there. I know it’s too late. Running into nothing. It repeats at the wrong time but at the right place.

Politician? No not for me thanks. I am far above that. I could be seen as someone who cuts himself to get ideas across, someone who uses smack as a barrier for his problems. But I am not that at all. I am more than that. I know it in my heart, aching with years of amphetamine obsession and lusts over a new drug every time. I am the anti hero of the class system.

Am I cocky? Am I smart? Am I bragging for the sake of it? Who knows? Don’t ask.

I walk out into the street, off the west of Main Street, on the way to the bus stop where I usually ponder at life in a box full of memoir and superstition. To say I am wrong would be too soon to tell. But I know where I’m going: I’m going to hell.

It’s the old cliché isn’t it? “The devil’s got your number” and all that dramatic crap. All these vague ideas of superstition have riddled my mind for too long now. All those intakes of heroin, my checkups with the doctor, my frequent fits. It has plagued my mind infested with rats and hopes for a better tomorrow. But I know that tomorrow never comes like you want it to- promises are false and so are you.

But I am frightened as I step onto the bus. Will the bus crash? Will I die with a smile on my face? Will an overdose kill me? Who can tell in this world? I can’t.

Don’t ask me: I’m only a junkie. A junkie who’s seen too many things in his time. God life is so ambiguous isn’t it? The very idea of having sex with someone, the whole temptation side of things- why are we curious to screw in the backdrop of death and lust? While group sex is going on, an African child is being denied his right to drink clean water. That says it all doesn’t it?

Society is tricky to comprehend and dodge. All I can pray for is that someone somewhere stands up to this tyrannical reign of ignorance and blood. But that someone isn’t me. I don’t won’t to become a politician. Leave that to the murderers.

It’s time I resurrected my concentration on my use of drugs. I have been off task for some time now- I have to get my grip on life and take it all sideways, or else I risk voting for a political party in this year’s election. Son of a bitch.

I couldn’t possibly think of going away on holiday. I don’t have the money, and besides, there’s nowhere to go. Where I stand in all this is simple: I can get on a train to paradise and move away to find myself a new home. Yes, in fact that is what I am going to do. I am getting the fuck out of this town of derelict billboards and heavy narcotics. I must live my life normally. I have to. Blood will be on my hands if I don’t.

I cannot go on with these train of events, cruising so fast I can barely make it’s movement. Patterns, blue and yellow, cruise in my way as the bus stops off at the old marketplace. Dreams of buying food are shattered now- someone stole my wallet last week. The alleyways lined with trees- those people places- are not for the faint hearted. I have spent too long looking sideways. I must have a straight vision. After all I am living too in a dream world. I have pleasure in finding something horrid quite good. I’m in paradise. I am an unlucky son of a bitch.