| Brew City Magazine | ||
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Guidelines About the Magazine Editor-in-Chief:
Managing Editor: Associate Editor:
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Michael Monkhouse
Now was the time.
The moonlight glinted through the blinds and the clock struck three and Eric lay cosily in his bed wishing the fuck now was n't the time. But hell he'd promised himself, he'd promised his latest conquest – there she was now, curled up next to him with her bottom hanging out and her thumb jerked in her mouth – so he had no choice. He had to drag himself outa bed – no, he hadn't bothered to take his clothes off before – scratch his crotch lazily and then reach for the murder weapon. Of course, murder wasn't something to be taken lightly. Neither was the weapon itself, a heaving steaming mess of poison, or Eric's gut or even his conquest's breast. (That was why he chose her in the first place.) It was just – he'd warned them time and time again, he'd spoken to them face to face, he'd sent Emails, he'd even held the offending article out of the window by its heels…
And all to no avail.
So Eric decided to take the law into his own hands, as it were. And that meant no more Mr Nice Guy. Not that Eric ever was Mr Nice Guy really, he was more Mr Beer-Swelling Fag- Dragging Furry-Armpit-Scratching Tossbag. But compared to now…
Okay, so his hands were shaking a little as he pulled on the gloves. This was partly because he was nervy, partly because it was fucking cold, and partly 'cause his mother gave him those gloves last time they spoke and he started to think about her going up and buying them all sweet and innocent and not knowing that now he'd be…
Ah get a grip on yourself you silly soppy bastard, he thought. Let's not get droopy-eyed, let's just pull the old high-heeled boots on – no I'm not a tranny, I just don't wanna leave any incriminating footprints behind – now pull the stockings tight over your head and God what a stink, why did I have to use my ex's undies when – ah stop it. Just creep out slowly before your lady friend wakes up, open the door quickly before your brain wakes up, and stand there silently so no one wakes up. And stop trembling for Christ's sake, why the hellya…? Is it because you're just about to commit cold-blooded murder? Or is it 'cause you are now standing in the middlemost midst of the road like a pervy tran with stockings over its head and what could conceivably be considered a sex aid in its right hand?
Well lemme tell you something Eric. Lemme tell you something right now. You know what this means? It means you're a coward. You're a sad yellow chicken and you can't even keep your word, you wuss. Hell, if you can pull this off – the crime, not your ex's underwear – you know what'll happen?
Well I'll tell you. No more getting rudely awoken at six in the morning and praying to God it'll shut up, then slowly realising it won't fucking shut up till some fucking fucker gets up and feeds it. No more wails and howls and screeches at three in the afternoon just when you're tryna shag your current conquest or, if she's too busy working overtime at the office, yourself.
And best off all, no more stinking and farting and crapping all over the place. God I hate it. I hate it so much , everyone always thinks it's all cute and clever and oh-so-fucking-ad vanced when it's rolling round on the floor throwing up or squelching and screaming – hell I've been doing that for years when I'm pissed but…
Okay. Okay so it's only four years old. And maybe, just maybe I don't really want that on my conscience. It's just I can't take it any more, I can't take the…
Okay so it has cute puppy-dog little eyes and they look all sweetly up at you every time you so much as brush past it and most guys'd love that, sure they would, it'd make 'em feel all loved and cherished and…
And maybe you'll have one yourself some day. After all, you've been going out with Her for about – ooh, three days now, which for a silly cow like that is tantamount to plighting your frigging troth. I mean fuck it, she's already on at you – you know, wouldn't it be nice and it'd be a sign of our love for each other and everyone else has one so why can't…?
For the last fucking time Eric. This is no time to get all sad and wanky over your wife-to-be- or-not-to-be. This is a time for guts – stroke yours now, don't it make you feel good? – a time for guts and courage and manliness. A time to hoist yourself up over that fence and…
He stiffened. There was a police siren in the distance and a thump- thump in his heart and a fucking spike up his bottom. And God it hurt, everything hurt. He eased his way up – that hurt even more – then fell thudding into the garden and the concrete and the dog-turds.
At least I'm safe now, he thought. Safe from the whirling swirling police car flashing by, safe from some random roaming tranny-shagger taking me for a prossie and a ride, and soon – hoorah! – I'll be safe from The Thing too. All I gotta do is stumble to my feet, wipe the dogpoo off my de luxe gloves, creep over to the window and…
My legs've gone to sleep. Bastards. Why do they do this to me? Why do I wake up and scare myself shitless 'cause it's like I just got both my legs cut off? Why do I start gasping and screeching when I'm shagging my girlie and she thinks it's with pleasure when really it's just…?
Stop that now Eric. Just cut it out please. Just creep along the side of the wall – it's crinkling your anorak but never mind, just so long as no one hears and there's no it-was-you-wasn't-it foil for Little Miss Bloody Marple to pick up – now look up, look up and at the window. Yeah that's the way. And that's the one, you know that's the place it lives, shit you can even hear it snoring and rasping and smacking its fat little lips the bastard, and now you can hear its bottom making that funny noise you know and hate so well and now …
Fuck . Now some bastard's come in to check baby's all right. You can hear her smooching and cooing away and you imagine her patting it and mollycoddling it and loving it and not knowing just how much you fucking hate it and hate her and hate everything and…
That's it! That's finally given me the guts I need. There I was just about to chicken out but hearing that silly cow getting all soppy and sloppy, that same silly cow I been complaining to for the last four fucking years, well that just about takes the proverbial biscuit. So I'll just wait now, I'll wait till Mumsiekin's gone out – thaaaat's it you old witch bitch – then quickly, before I got time to start caring again, I'll lob the business through the window –
Swiiiiiiissssh- thump ! –
Eat that you bastard.
Yeah eat that tomorrow morn when Mumsiepies lets you out to play and you're crawling around with your jacksie full of poopoo and your stupid little figure-hugging bodkin sticking and sweating at your hips and your tongue hanging out like you ain't had a bite to eat since the War of the Roses…
Eric straightened up, clapped his hands together and smiled. He knew next door's dog would never bark again.
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