SCATTERED FRAGMENTS OF

A WASTED MIND

 

(VARIOUS SHORT WRITINGS OF B)

 

 

Lost and bedraggled between two dreams,

the vegan craves an ice cream

 

THE AWAKENING OF A POTATO WAFFLE

 

Frank, a potato waffle eater, woke up in a new reality one morning, having undergone a startling metamorphosis in the night. Having closed his eyes as a human being the evening prior to this he regained vision to find that his form had been transformed into the very foodstuff that he so much liked to eat. At first he was bewildered with no recognition of the fact. His experience began at birth - from the darkness of the freezer stored cardboard packet, he was born into the first light of a glaring kitchen. As he started to thaw he began to remember his transitory waffle nature. As he was cooked on the grill he started to sweat about where he might be bound. But gradually- out of necessity - he developed faith in reaching a good destiny. This was granted to him in approximately fifteen measured minutes. He found his ultimate happiness and release being rejoined to the cosmos in mushed-up unity with baked beans, toast and soya chunks in his own being's consumption. Whereupon Frank the potato waffle eater woke up as a human again with a new understanding and fearlessness appreciating this human life.

 

SUNNY MOURNING

 

After the midday ritual of waking up with water over face, shave and mug of strong black coffee, Johnny still felt uninspired to do anything more than return to bed. This was a kingsize bed with plenty of room to sprawl in wild bedraggled shapes across since Johnny, for a long time now, had been without a partner. He appreciated his freedom and independence, but grass-is-greener syndrome made him suffer under longing also. One couldn't have one's cake and eat it. Freedom and independence had to be sacrificed for relationships.

He imagined a girl beside him and a coin throw as to who would make breakfast, a bit of discussion as to what they might do that day: "It's nice and sunny. Shall we go to the park?"

"Let's have a drink and smoke on the beach."

The girl, she won on the coin flip, and Johnny gladly went to cook waffles. He watched his imagined self skip off to the kitchen. In actuality, Johnny couldn't be bothered to eat. His imagination returned to a later scene:

Johnny the ghost and the girl were now sat on the beach. They hadn't bothered with the booze or drugs. Just each other's company was good enough. "You cold?" asked Johnny, "Want to wear my top?"

"No, thanks, I'm quite warm. Wanna wear mine?"

Johnny looked at his alarm clock. Half past two. Get it together man, he told himself.

But why did he need to do this? Not much to do today. No writing groups, his food and cannabis shopping done. Johnny didn't even feel like smoking today, so that cut out socialising. His mates all generally liked to get high, and he did too, but it was the same, day in day out, and he craved something new.

Shuffling to the kitchen he envisaged passing his special mate, the part envisaged girl. She was only part envisaged in that she flickered between several girls he'd fancied throughout his twenty nine years life. Johnny found this way of perceiving her far healthier than staying fixed obsessed on just one. Doing that in the past had never done him any favours, and had made it much harder to relate with the actual person in the reality where she was not his girlfriend. "Scuse me hun," he said to the amalgamation of not-to-be-in-reality soulmates, and took a packet of potato waffles out of the freezer.

By the time the waffles were grilled (approximately fifteen minutes later), Johnny was snapping himself out of his romantic daydreaming with a second mug of strong black coffee. Now he was seeing what he had been saved from - his imagined self being yelled at for this and that, and for not doing this and that too. None of these girls seemed so gorgeous now.

All humans were but bags of entrails and excrement, Johnny remembered being enlightened in a Buddhist talk on the subject of attachment once. He sandwiched the potato waffles between two slices of peanut buttered toast and ate his 2.52 pm breakfast, washed down with a third mug of coffee.

He had a good book he would take with him to the park. Sun was still out.

 

REAL FRIENDS REUNITED

 

The year was 2023, according to the computer. How time had flown. Ray had not left his virtual reality projecting booth since making last payment on it back in 2012. He'd spent the past eleven years travelling the world without having to move, or raise the funds one used to need for such travel. He'd experienced it all as good as real even though he knew it wasn't.

He'd been kept going by sustenance pills, orderable via the internet, that were delivered to his home. Today, whilst typing in his order, and noting that the year was 2023, Ray also noticed an advert for the long running website Friends Reunited. It had been more than six years since he had last made contact with any real friends, though he had met a lot of virtual ones around the virtual globe. Most of his old buddies were doing the same thing as he was, and far too busy for reality.

He wondered how his first schoolmate Eddie was getting along. He'd not seen Eddie in twenty years. Eddie Rodriguez, Ray typed into his locator, and an address and videophone number both flashed up instantly. Ray tapped his mouse over the videophone number, and they were connected.

"Eddie Rodriguez," the video image that appeared on the screen confirmed. "Yo Eddie," Ray yelled, "this is Rayver. Whassup?"

"Rayver?" said Eddie, squinting, "No way!"

"Yes way!" said Ray "So how ya doin'?"

"Fine," said Eddie, "I've got a really nice virtual reality wife and two kids. I had to erase the first missus. She did my nut in. How about you then geezer? Are you still raving?"

"Yeah, been 'avin it in Goa, Portugal and Milan over the last couple of days. Thinking of doing a few days chill out in Amsterdam."

"Well let's both download that main coffee shop we visited on our college trip," suggested Eddie, "and catch up in more familiar surrounds."

"Good idea," said Ray, and he cued up The Grasshopper.

Seconds later Ray and Eddie resumed videophone communication from the same Dutch coffee shop but different sides of the same table. "Remember when-?" Ray begun, and they shot the breeze over virtual reality coffee and super skunk reminiscing on the good aspects of the days when it actually took effort to get the things one wanted to partake in.

 

RECOLLECTIONS OF NOW

The year 2000 - what a let-down - no apocalypse, no wild celebration - just another year. 2012 - when it was all supposed to end - did it fook - on and on and on. I never expected to make it past 30, but here I am aged 48 in the year 2023.

A hippy still, and as confused - quite haggard through thirty odd years of substance abuse. The best drugs aren't so readily available anymore - its all crack cocaine and heroin.

I gotta tell you, something freaky happened the other day - I acid flashbacked right back to 1998. I entered my 23 year old body whilst reflecting on an even earlier memory of seeing a kid who'd looked just like I had done at the age of 8 - me seeing this kid when I was 15. Weird to be 48 in the body of a 23 year old thinking about being 15 and seeing a version of you who is 8.

Anyway, I moved on from this and started thinking about drugs. I wonder what percentage of my life has been spent thinking about or consuming drugs. I wished I had been able to tell this young space cadet about all the problems and setbacks he would experience through them. But I think he already knew. No, I know he knew.

I was in my tie dye squat, at this time living in Brighton. My Brighton days were not so bad, better than those in London. Sat in meditation - excellent - a chance to whisper some warnings and guidance from someone who really had been there. The inner voice. Encouraging: Follow your dreams. Be more outgoing. But all this a bit Back To The Futureish - Should I be tampering with what has happened? I questioned.

I decided not to and just floated off in the meditation bubble...

And before I knew it I was back in 2023. Sitting in my armchair, hash pipe in hand. Memories - little slices of time - scattered fragments of a wasted mind. Some things have changed, but not a lot. Is that the voice of a man in his 70s whispering in my ear?

LOSER GOES TO THE SHOP

 

Manoeuvring was awkward. He kept bumping into pedestrians. The high street was deadlier than ever stoned on such lethal skunk. His energy levels wavered. For a while it looked like he might collapse. But he made it to Level 1: the off license. Now he had to remember what everyone back at the squat had asked him to get. (Him having to get it since he had lost the last game.) A certain number of packets of blue Rizla and a certain amount of booze. He counted the handful of coins given to him and stormed his marijuana and video games frazzled brain. (Tick tick tick... He was aware of the offie's impending closing time...) Once he had worked out what he reckoned the order probably was, there still remained the matter of communicating with the straight shop staff... Uh oh! Overload! His head exploded.

 

THE RESPECTFUL NEIGHBOUR

 

The landing reeked of pot, he hoped his neighbours would not complain. They had been quite tolerant about the music. Now it was far too loud. Mack had heard the tekno pounding from seven houses down on walking back here, and it was of the far-too-many-beats-per-minute variety that can be quite traumatic to ears not attuned via the use of drugs like ketamine.

Leave 'em alone for five minutes and they put on this racket. Much longer than ten minutes and they will surely get you evicted, he mental-noted.

Mack had only gone down the shop for a packet of Rizla, and in that time his council flat had been transformed into an 'avin it squat party (by the sound of it). He had been tripping out on some mind bending greenery in the shop, watching tidal waves sweep up and down the old guy serving him's huge forehead. This strong smelling herbal was what the others had let waft all around the building. It was a pleasant aroma, but illegal. He would have to have words.

Or maybe he had stunk the place out himself actually in smoking a joint on leaving his door - the j for the road he'd rolled specifically for walking to the shop... The music was too loud though - he didn't want to upset his neighbours. He would have to have words about that.

"For crying out loud!" Mack cried out loud, bursting into his living room. He found that he had addressed an empty room bar shaking loudspeakers and pumped up midi system. Short term memory loss had made him forget he'd been listening to gabba alone. He proceeded to skin up, then turned the volume higher.

 

JUST VISITING

 

Aha - finally! - after getting lost all round the houses, Justin spotted that he was in Naples Road (number 23 of which his mate Brian had moved to recently). He had spent the best part of an evening trying to find this address. Numbers 22 - 40, he read on the second block along, and he picked up pace stomping towards there. His mind was already sat on Brian's sofa cracking a can and preparing Rizlas. 22, 24- Eh? Where was 23? He had a look upstairs. Nope, up there were flats 26 and 28. This was odd. Well, even. It baffled him anyway. He retreated back down the steps and sparked a cigarette - then spotted numbers 21 - 39 sign posted on the block directly across. Sure enough, he had at last found 23 Naples Road. He inhaled smoke and ran across the road in order to get to it. There was a note waiting for him when he got there, folded and blu tacked to the door - a message and map - the message reading 'Waited several hours. Gone to pub. See you there.' The map looked like even harder work to configure than the one Brian had done him for getting here. Justin sat down outside number 23's door and smoked his cigarette.

 

POST SQUAT PARTY SPANGLING

ON THE LONDON UNDERGROUND

 

Spangled Man was happy - he'd left his mind in Spangleville, and spangled joyously on the tube amid the serious commuters. He didn't give a spangle as to where he was going on this spangled Sunday. A lightbulb appeared above his head, but turned into a psychedelic frog, and hopped away, all around the carriage, gribbeting as it did so. Spangled Man giggled uncontrollably as it landed in one of the sobernesses laps, but the stern city gent was unamused. "Can't you read the sign, boy?" he tutted, "It says No Spangling."

 

THROUGH THE K HOLE

 

He lay on his back, arms out like on the cross, the party spinning into a chaos of fractals. Lying in chewing gum, ash and urine, but oblivious to this. He envisaged a neon clock and its hands stopping. He guessed that this was dying. A goddess hovered above him - he made her out through the smoke. She was talking in an alien language: "Rrrraaghave you gorra light?" An angel. The angel of death. No, of life. He was OK with dying. "A light? Er, yeah." He fumbled in his pockets, but he was fumbling blindly. No joy. Hang on a sec- a moment ago he was dying, and now he was fumbling blindly for a lighter! He shouldn't have allowed himself to become distracted. But the girl was beautiful. "There." He found it eventually and passed it to her. "Thank you," she smiled, and they had eye contact. They shared a lifetime's romance between blinks, then both looked away. Then she was gone. He picked himself up off the floor. She'd nicked his lighter!

 

IN BETWEEN THE YIN AND THE YANG

 

In the mad tie dye sanctuary of Hippyville, Gentle Ben cradled his soul mate Starchild as they looked out upon a golden sunset. "Wow," they said in unison. It had been another good day. The rest of the commune was peaceful and still, the other residents contemplating and meditating. No one wanted to harm anyone here - not mentally or physically.

But soon - alas - the storm arrived - Moonbeam set his sights on Starchild. He realised he was crazy about her whilst sitting in his meditation. I want her, he thought, Sod Gentle Ben, and reciting his dedication he slowly opened his eyes. Gentle was not with her - he had gone for a slash - so Moonbeam made his move. "Starchild," he said to her, "I've watched you from afar, and I think you're a really beautiful person." This was normal conversation for Hippyville so Starchild took it as it was said. In fact she even said, "You're beautiful too."

"I want you," said Moonbeam, getting to the point, "I want to make mad passionate love to you."

Gentle Ben was standing over the urinal for the final trickles, thinking I'm so happy, I wish everyone could be.

"You want sex with me?" Starchild questioned Moonbeam. She couldn't help raising an eyebrow. "Yes," said Moonbeam, "Here and now." He ripped his top off and she took off hers. "What's going on?" asked Gentle Ben, returning from the toilet. Moonbeam grinned - a smug grin asking to be punched out - "Me and Starchild are about to have sex."
"Starchild?" said Gentle, looking at her bemused, but Starchild simply shrugged. "Free love, free sex," Moonbeam continued to grin, "The hippy ideals. You know." Gentle Ben didn't know what to do. Starchild had badly let him down. And as for Moonbeam - he wanted to smash his face in. But it wasn't the hippy thing to do.

Fuk it, he did it anyway, and enjoyed every second of the ten minute beating he gave the bastard. Afterwards he left Starchild to pick up the pieces, telling her "Don't think twice it's alright." He went to smoke a hash pipe to calm himself down. This failed, and he toyed with the idea of converting to skinhead.

 

LOVE IS ROUGH

 

A man grunts loudly and flexes muscle, extending a middle finger to the world. He's bitter yes, but with good reason - he sees that the meek may inherit the earth but only the tough will live to see it. Buddy Calhoon is tough. He is Buddy The Fist. He hears his theme music playing now and makes his way towards the ring. He feeds off the predominantly young and as yet unhurt-by-life audience booing and hissing him. This hatred towards him is where he gets his main energy from. His opponent, The Friendly Gladiator, is quickly flattened - finished off with his trademark knuckle sandwich manoeuvre. And then his theme music starts up again. Backstage, Buddy collects his paycheck and grunts, "See ya next week."

Jumpin' Johosovotz of the tag team The Light Fantastics catches him on his way out - "Nice match Buddy, but apparently the Gladiatior has been hospitalised and will be out of action for months. You could have gone easier on him."

"Life's not easy. Why should I be?" Buddy The Fist retorts, "Now get out of my way before I hospitalise you!"

Out of the complex he heads for the bus station, taking a bus across town to see the object of his affection. The others waiting for the bus all scramble to get on it first. He has to powerslam a few of them. The driver doesn't ask him for a ticket.

His object of affection is a girl so innocent and pure that he'd never even imagine having sexual relations with her from whom he keeps his physical aggression and wrestling a secret and who calls him Sweety. He met her at a stress management course and thinks she is gorgeous, but wouldn't call it love cos he does not believe in that. "Buddy!" she cries on seeing him, "Oh Sweety!"

"What's wrong?" he asks her, detecting something in her tone.

"Well," she says, "I've got a bit of a confession to make - I'm not as pure and innocent as you think..." Buddy The Fist Calhoon raises an eyebrow... "No - I have to tell you this - I'm actually an FWA Wimmins Wrestling champion after taking the title belt from Natasha The Masher in a no holds barred death match this evening." The Fist cannot believe what he is hearing: "The stress management wasn't working so I had to try other things and the most effective of these was smashing the shit out of other women with metal chairs. You see with you for some reason I have managed to stay calm and serene, but generally this world fills me with anger and frustration needing to be released."

"Yeah, I can relate to that," nods Buddy, but his illusion has been shattered. "How have you been coping?" she asks him.

"I'm a wrestler too," he admits.

"What?!" she screams, "Our relationship has not been based on trust! No more - we're finished. I'm ending it!"

"You are? I was about to do that you lying bitch," Calhoon snarls at her. They rip their main clothes off to reveal their wrestling costumes on underneath - and commence battle.

After twenty minutes of battering each other senseless they both realise that what they have here is love, and quit wrestling in arenas to do it only in private.

 

LNLY HRTS

 

Snake's stomach was churning. He had gone and sent her the text message. His last text message, his mobile phone now spent and out of credit. Message Sent flashed. Blinding him. A panic attack. There was no going back in time or ever being able to untext it.

Edna's phone kept bleeping. It was pissing her off. But she kept it on in case the man she currently felt like adoring chose to call. Unfortunately it was only unwanted admirers who had been ringing or texting her lately. She didn't have time for them. She never rang or texted any of them back.

Smoov felt like Da Man with his new Ericsony 1210. He'd already tried phoning da homeys to do the Whassup? thing, but not one of the useless twats had their mobeys switched on. Sod it, if the boyz weren't up for communication or getting stoned tonight, he'd phone or text one of his honeys instead.

"Hello?" This didn't sound like her. "Edna?" Snake said. The phone was slammed down. Shit. He rummaged for thirty pee. He shouldn't have sent that text message. What the fuk had he been thinking of? Consumed by nausea, he dialled her number again. This time he dialled her correct number, and got through to her answer message: Sorry, but the person you are calling is UNAVAILABLE.

Edna was on the phone to her lover. "So whassup hun?" he was aking her. "Oh, the usual," she answered, "Sad wankers phoning and texting to tell me they love me."

"Is that right hun?" said Smoov. He could well believe it. He himself was phoning about a fuk.

An hour later they were fukking in the very bedroom Smoov had been calling from when the moment was ruined by Edna's phone going off. "Aaargh!" screamed Smoov in frustration as he rolled offa her. The phone kept ringing. He reached for it and answered, "Who the fuk's that?"

"Snake," said Snake, not hiding his guttedness that a male was answering the girl he loved's phone. But he thought he recognised the voice. "Snake?" this voice continued, "Is that Snake calling? No way..."

"Is that Smoo-?" began Snake. Mutual connecting...

"Whassup!?!" Smoov and Snake exclaimed simultaneously.

"Oh I'm cool man," laughed Snake, "Long time no hear."

"What are you doing?" asked Smoov, "Fancy getting smashed?"

"Yeah that'd be smashing mate."

Edna let out a long non sexual groan.

 

COSMIC BULLSHIT

 

BS, BS - it was worse than with the 23s (the magick number that he couldn't help notice turning up everywhere) - B kept seeing the two letters together all over the place - suggesting to his addled mind that his destiny was to be with S. Alas this girl S did not even see the boy B. In fact if truth be told she barely noticed him. She did however spot the 23s. So at least they had this in common.

 

THE STRICKEN

 

Melvin's King Kong poster had fallen off the wall. He put it back up again with extra blu tack. Was it the airplanes that had caused The King to fall? Nope, it had been beauty. Melv made a coffee and thought about all the girls that he had loved in his life- the potential soul mates he could have made a good relationship work with had they been willing to meet him half way. In his dreams he had been a God blissfully united with his Goddess, but - like everything, he'd figured out, this was but delusion. No Goddess could be arsed to get involved with him. It seemed they wanted Satan. Girls had told Melvin he was too nice and sweet. Well sod them then, he thought nastily. He took a giant glug from his coffee mug. He had to wake up and stop being such a sap.

 

SCANDINAVIAN GOTHIC

 

Beneath a giant silver kroner moon, a solitary figure trudged through Swedish snow. His man-with-no-name trench coat flapping in the wind, a weighty Viking sword concealed within. The sword reclaimed from Gamla Uppsala, the old town, under cover of night. Now he headed back towards the centre's bright lights and noise. Loki was alive- and inside thirty two year old Andrew Featherstone, a settler from the UK ill prepared for Scandinavia's long hours of darkness. Andy had thought that finding a job would be easy and a nice Swedish chick too. They love the English over there, he'd been told. But after both employers and girls he'd tried to chat up had told him yeah, they'd phone him, and not done, he had resorted to booze - vodka - to excess and the state of having hallucinations. The alienation had worsened by the bottle and he was now utterly deranged, possessed by a Norse warrior. "Murder. Pillage," Loki's voice told him - with Scandy accent, but in Andy's native tongue. "Yess, tha's wharr I'll do," mumbled the sozzled Englisher, drawing the sword and watching the moonlight glint across its blade.

Tonight was New Years Eve and people were revelling in the main part of town. Andy was approaching there from the quieter cobbled streets beyond Uppsala castle. Outside the biggest of Uppsala's three McDonalds branches, Elin Sorensen met her friends Kaisa and Gabrielle. "So which nation are we going to tonight?" she asked them in Svenska, the nations being the local student bars / clubs. "Preferably one without intoxicated old English guys over-trying their luck," said Kaisa, referring to a few nights previously. "Why did you take his number?" Gabrielle asked Elin. "To get him off my back," she answered.

Loki studied his student ID, which he'd had faked in England, and did not recognise the person. Andrew Featherstone. A cyclist startled him, coming up from nowhere. He lashed out with the sword and the bike toppled to the ground. "Nej!" the terrified granny screamed, but the wild eyed Loki said "Ja," and hacked her arm off, laughing demonically. Her fresh blood spilled on the blanket of snow made that patch of it look like strawberry sorbet. He hacked her other arm off for symmetry.

"He wasn't so bad..." mused Elin. "Just weird and desperate," quipped Kaisa. "Why don't you phone him then?" suggested Gabrielle. "You know what, I might just do that," said Elin, and to her friends' amazement, she took out her mobile phone.

Blood was splattering everywhere as Loki stormed the front of Uppsala train station. He murdered indiscriminately. His power soared with each victim that he claimed. "This'll teach 'em," the little that was left of Andy Featherstone thought. Now he was Loki - reborn after a thousand years.

The New Years fireworks exploding in the sky illuminated his twisted face. When the screams of the dying simmered down this face strained to hear a ringing sound. It was coming from one of the pockets in his man-with-no-name coat. He reached inside it and pulled out a flashing mobile phone. Bemused by this, he pressed all of the buttons on it until he heard an incredibly sexy female voice: "Hej Andrew, god new year. This is Elin - you know, from the other night."

"Hej," said Andy, Loki gone - and the massacred out of mind, "I'm glad you phoned. I have been thinking about you. What you up to, it being New Years Eve and everything? You fancy meeting up?"

"Well sure," spoke Elin, "Thats why I'm telephoning." Andy dropped the blooded sword from his fingers but didn't even hear the loud clang when it hit the ground.

"Polis!" yelled police- and a barrage of other words, but the Swedish went over his head. Andy continued to chat to the gorgeous Elin - "Where shall I meet ya?"

He was bundled to the floor and thrown into a van.

"He hung up on me," said Elin, disappointedly, to her friends.

 

SMOKE BEGINS TO CLEAR POST BIG BANG...

 

The dawn of creation was occuring in my brain at the same speed as the cloud of smoke wafting before my eyes, and through that smoke I made out the transformed spirit beings. Their voices hissed, conversing in high speed enthusiasm - their babblings interweaving so as to make the sound of a generator. Visually they had turned lucid, taking on a white light hue, and all were melting - streaming in rhythm with the noise they were making. Each layer of flesh that dripped off was replaced with a new one, so they just carried on dripping without dissolving entirely. I giggled - I'm not sure why - I was either scared or I found it funny. I giggled uncontrollably. I was pleased to be entering The Dreamscape again, even if it did frighten the shit out of me. I had been trying to keep myself solid lately as a result of the fear, but now we were melting again I realised there was no resisting it. There was nothing to fear. There was nothing. This was just as I had feared. My mind had to believe in something. It had to keep replacing layers. My friends, my family, my life - they had to be real. I made them real. I made the ones in the room stop melting. Then Boom! A sudden blast blew up everything. The dawn of creation started occuring in my reforming brain at the same speed as the cloud of smoke wafting before my eyes...

 

Dancing in darkness

Perceiving the light

Blinded by vision

Moth's last word's :

It's so bright

 

 

THE HEALING

 

Dr. Hate loved having me as his patient. He knew that he could wind me up. He did it deliberately - relished pissing me off - worse than those maggots behind their glass at the social also did. How he hadn't been horribly killed yet I couldn't understand. He was fukkin' lucky I was a hippy. He sat judging me in his dazzling white crinkle free GP's coat, making my formerly relaxed hand clench into a tight fist. I imagined pounding the smiley face punching bag I took my stress out upon at home, trying not to imagine Dr. Hate's face there instead of the smiley because that was negative. The white-coat sneered down his nose at me, not bothering to hide his contempt. "Name?" he enquired briskly and when I told him, rooted out a file. He flicked slowly through this, stroking his far reaching from upturned hooter chin, leaving me to gaze around his office at all his other files and a framed photo of his oh so healthy and not in the least bit dysfunctonal family. He referred to a psychiatric report that stated that I was caning loads of drugs including heroin and amphetamines and also drinking ten cans of Special Brew a day. I told him this just was not so, as I had also told him on our last meeting and our meeting before that. He made no verbal response to this, but instead moved on to another page about my police trouble. Fare evasion, possession of cannabis, failure to pay fines etceteras. "So what do you want from me?" he asked, still stroking his chin. "I'd like some help," I ventured "I'm finding it hard to cope." He reached for a pen to write me a prescription.

I hadn't wanted to take Their drugs. I had stopped using the illegal ones of my own accord - all except cannabis (this not really a drug, but a herb, I had reasoned then) which I had carried on smoking like a trooper. This herb I guess is what turned me into a hippy (and what kept me as one), chilling the hot headed me out. Peace and love, maaan. Cannabis was the best medicine I had discovered for keeping my head together. It was only cos I couldn't afford my cannabis habit that I thought I'd also try some of Theirs. In spite of the cannabis I was still having nervous breakdowns far too regularly, so I just thought What the hell. The drug they tried me on was a new one called Zyclops. These were round and grey.

Zyclops made the news ten months after I started taking them, linked to a spate of psychotic incidents - murders, suicides, bouts of random violence. By this time I was addicted to them and needed them more than I had ever done cannabis. I was barely bothering with the wacky backy anymore - I toked on the occasional spliff if I was with my mates to be sociable. I saw dope for what it was: A pacifier - Fuk that. I felt I had a right to be angry. I no longer had any problem with imagining real peoples faces in place of the smiley one (sewn on punchbag) that I unleashed this anger upon. Negative feelings were only natural, I realised. Fuk being a hippy. The only problem was that the negativity didn't feel too good. It was making my depression worse. And rather than sit around and get more and more depressed, or pound away at that punchbag, or try and end it all by carving The End in my wrists, I figured I would start to direct this finally recognised energy (my wraith) towards those people that deserved it.

First person I decided I would confront was that prick Dr. Hate. Although I realised I would have to show some restraint in order to keep the prescriptions running. Unfortunately I forgot this when I saw him face to face and three minutes after entering his office was cleaning his blood off the framed photograph of his oh so healthy and not in the least bit dysfunctional family. Shit, I realised I had commited my first murder. And that I'd not be getting my prescription. Panic stricken I ransacked his desk drawers for the paper he wrote them on. I would have to forge his signature. I grabbed a bundle of blank scripts, and being careful to keep the blood off them, hastily exited out of the window through which I had entered, and right off the scene.

Dr. Kroker was my next GP. He wrote me an additional prescription. Now I had so much Zyclops I figured I might as well take double doses. My memory of my last meeting with Dr. Hate became that of a dream - as had my everyday reality. I sleepstomped through it full of a now self justified burning rage that I was no longer inclined to keep inside of me. If someone pissed me off they would get to know about it. I was like The Incredible Hulk. On crack and PCP. I stopped caring about any ill consequences to myself as a result of any of my outbursts for all that I was perceiving was but a dream. I was lucky with the first few people I killed in that I killed them unwitnessed, but since I didn't care whether I was witnessed or not (it all being a dream), it was inevitable that sooner or later I'd kill someone with others about. I did this at Brighton social after they stopped my Incapacity Benefit. Although the people that witnessed my choking the general manager to death on the main floor all cheered, the police were unsympathetic. They surrounded the building with a SWAT team and I was shot to bits. I was woken from that nightmare by a ticket inspector whose body I had a hell of a lot of trouble flushing down the train's toilet.

Dr. Kroker became concerned that I might have developped drug psychosis from the very drug that he (and Dr. Hate before him) had put me on. As it was, the media was calling for Zyclops to be banned. It had been dubbed The Destruction Drug. (With twenty three major reported incidents and one hundred and seven noted deaths.) But whilst it was still available I needed to be on it, I told old Kroker as I smashed his skull in with his paperweight.

So they got me in the hospital. And on some even madder drugs.

 

HAH!

 

"So do I win the prize - the holy grail?" Zed screamed to the sky, "For I have sussed youse - sussed you all - sussed out the wind up!" It had all been virtual reality entertainment with his perception of himself as the constantly tested star. A comic tragedy untrue man show. An awakening to a great big joke. And it was a cracker. Got, big time, over a long period of illusory time, Zed laughed and laughed and laughed as he and his reality melted.

 

THE DEMISE OF A LOVER IN DENIAL

 

He was straight out of hostel land and residing in an housing estate from Hell. (He was short for Heathcliffe. He had been called He He before He lost his sense of humour). He was more of a drinker now than a smoker of herb. He smoked crack now and again and rocked up or drunk, would go out on the town looking for fights. A one time hippy grown ever more resentful about the lack of peace and love in the world, He had become a product of his environment: was now a reluctant baseball twat. His flowing mane of hair had long been cut so his head could fit beneath his cap and instead of tie dye T Shirts he now only ever wore Gap. He had tried to retain some of the hippy ideals that had taken such a stomping on during his time in the hostels, but most had been stomped out of him through constant testing from the council and fellow disgruntled homeless, not to mention the last girl he had been coupled with cold bloodedly stabbing him through the heart. Oddly enough, more girls were into him now that He was Bad, but He could not muster feelings for them for He was too consumed by his fear and hatred. He lived alone in his council gaff on this Hate Estate in deepest darkest Blackhawk, east Nothgirb.

Whilst his normal persona was that of a beyond caring self destructive monster He occasionally let his guard down and had random flashback transformations into a cosmic light being radiating love. It was kind of a reverse Incredible Hulk scenario. These transformations into an entity that it felt better to be were triggered from experiencing the emotion that his regular self tried to block. In these love states He believed that he was in love with a girl named She(ila) off the estate, but He worried about the self destructive monster he would inevitably return to being hurting her - and him. He had damaged himself originally over love, that was why he rejected it, and carried on destroying himself. He wanted to change - did hope that he would be able to tame the monster - but it raged against the tests and he was tested everywhere. Submitting to love states only made him more vulnerable, he figured. He would always force himself to become tough and emotionless again. He downed an umpteenth pilsner now, and smoked a rock, before heading into town.

Down South West Street's cheap booze meat markets He continued to get drunk, staring out all geezers, and ogling their missuses. He wanted trouble - he was asking for it: "C'mon!!!" - but everybody avoided him.

Like Terry. All Terry could think about was getting home to his bed. His head was spinning. He wasn't gonna pull a bird in this state. "I'm offski," he managed to say, somehow, to his group of similarly smashed mates. They nodded at him but didn't hear a word. They did however hear his screaming a moment later after he collided with a big baseball hatted meathead in his attempt to get out of the place. A drop of drink spilled and the drinker unamused. "Sorry mate," Terry had slurred, to "I'm not your mate pal."

"Well sorry pal," Terry had reiterated. Four chubby fingers and a thumb had clasped themselves around his throat whilst the brute's other hand had come zooming in to impact with his face.

"Leave him alone Heath, he ain't worth it. Heathcliffe, your fist is bleeding."
"Made my fist bleed see that," He snarled at his victim, and Terry received another punch to the head. "Heathcliffe, leave him," cried Terry's saviour, and He paused to smile at the only person on the planet he allowed to call him Heathcliffe. "Let's go," She(ila) said to him, "You can walk me home."

Whilst the dazed Terry found and lost himself wandering around a starry wilderness, He and She said "Goodnight," to the doormen, leaving the premises. He wrapped his arm around her and commented upon the "Beautiful night." He smiled at the gang of youths giving a tourist a kicking across the road and the boys stopped their mugging antics to wave and grin right back. A white dove flew across South West Street, flying with a flock of seagulls. The seagull excrement landing on the pavement formed the shape of a perfect heart. His first impulse was to resist it, but He couldn't help saying, "Sheila, I've got feelings for you." She laughed at this: "Well get over them then honey because I sure ain't for you!" The symbol on the pavement suddenly was shit again.

The kindergarten crew across the road were not grinning and waving as He had originally thought. They were yelling abuse and lobbing bricks, bottles and bits of pavement. She scurried off, her stupid high heels clacking. Dozey bitch, thought He, and baring his teeth, he crossed South West Street into bloody battle.

The next day She visited him in hospital, bringing him grapes. He started healing the moment that he laid eyes on her. "You must like me a little bit to bring me grapes," He said. She kissed his mouth and it was like a geezer Snow White waking up from a long long sleep. The whole ward was filled with dazzling bright light and the sound of the birds chirping outside increased in volume. He was a bird, soaring high above the clouds. She was flying with him - two spirits flying free - amidst many more - til suddenly he forgot how to and hurtled to the ground.

Just prior to his landing splat!, the He gull shat himself on South West Street, last thing he saw a bunch of idiots fighting over nothing. One of them hit his head real hard on the ground. That thug was him.

 

HAPPILY EVER AFTER

 

Just as pondering a long dragged out lonely demise, fate shone on Fred and he was hit by a bus.

 

MOOSE HEAVEN

 

Morgan the moose was most unhappy. A bunch of hunters were after him. He bolted through the forest with the fukkas in tow. All his life he had been trying to avoid these trigger happy lunatics. Now he was fed up of running. He stopped in his tracks and turned around to face his pursuants head on.

Blam! A bullet fired hit him between the eyes, and Morgan the moose saw bright stars. Next thing he knew he was on a spaceship - a giant Noah's ark hovering above the trees - a female moose giving him the eye from behind a couple of deer. Out of the window he saw his fallen body being approached by the hunters. He felt less heavy now - like he was made of light.

So this was the afterlife then - Thank heaven he wasn't being reincarnated as a human. Joy consumed our Morgan and he uttered a thoroughly content "Mooooooehhh!" This old and tired moose had departed the physical plane. He was now being released. The UFO shot up, up, up beyond the clouds.