undoubtedly always agree with her that it just might be, and change the topic as fast as I can, save that she might see me faltering.
The ways of W9 lives are reflected in the otherwise preposterous comparisons with the South Bronx.
The five corners.
The five boroughs?
Preposterous.
Henceforth, the tradition of tolerance for the rights of ordinary fucked-up people, a communal tradition that was fought for in the ’70s right on this spot by the one and only Joe Strummer and company, intertwines and combines to make up the disfigured landscape.
Truth is, there’s no shrugging off the fact that these folk are forever condemned to scrape around like lunatics, sucking for dear life on yesterday’s rotten air, cast over hill and vale.
Hanging over W9, Mr. Goldfinger’s Trellick Tower watches as the nuclear sun sets down. This architectural abomination stands creaking, turning a blind eye to Japanese photographers, while at its roots, skulls are caved in and crack rocks are sold to whoever the hell wants, by dealers who freewheel the nearby Grand Union Canal on stolen bicycles.
Meanwhile Gardens is also apparent as it skirts both canal and tower and is the divider and last breathing space before visitors to this hellhole say goodbye to common logic. Forever.
On the canal itself, most are as oblivious to the Canada goose; Gray heron; Mallard; Kestrel; Coot; Moorhen; Black-headed gull; Wren; Robin; Song thrush; White throat; Chiffchaff; Willow warbler; Starling; Greenfinch; Goldfinch; Woodpigeon; Gray wagtail; Dunnock; and Blackbird, as the birds are to them.
Best keep it that way.
Meanwhile.
Gardens.
The underdeveloped.
The youth.
The hood rats and the squeaks.
Hood rats (mainly black), who like any young voluble yet asinine revolutionary, guise themselves and any sign of vulnerability in a uniform of oversize sports clothes; hoods pulled down low over cap even lower, with one hand always down the trouser front. Listen listen listen listen. I do what the fuck I want. Don’t arsk. A gun is a gun and I DO have one. Next to my blade. Live at my mum’s, innit. My sister’s got three kids and she’s younger than me, innit. My dad? Don’t know, mate. Don’t fuckin’ know. Three guys, right. Chase me in my car and I get mashed, innit. Don’t want no fuckin’ hospital though, innit.
Squeaks (mainly white), who like any terrified young revolutionary, guise any sign of vulnerability by wearing a uniform of tight-fitting sportswear which also doubles as a mask for the lack of a soul. Obsessive about their appearance to the point of perfection, their goal is to have you believe that the projection of superiority is indeed true. Nice trainers. Gleaming. I do the right thing by me mum. If you (dirty filthy fucking animal) do anything to hurt any one of my family or their kids, I’ll fuckin’ kill you. I’ll clump you with a fuckin’ hammer. I’ll cut your fuckin’ heart out (after I’ve cleaned the house for me mum and taken me gran up to the hospital). All right? Have you been fuckin’ smokin’?
A community of chagrins and fighters set against a world of cheap booze and even cheaper promises.
Fighters against a war they started.
Fighters for peace.
Secondhand peace.
A community of losers and bruisers.
A community nonetheless.
Life made difficult is practical by default, with little room for the spiritual.
Even less room for the likes of me.
My mobile rings.
“Hello?”
“Johnny.”
“Yes. This is …”
“I fuckin’ know all about you, you cunt. You won’t get away with it this time.”
Then the line goes dead.
I look at the last caller to find the number withheld and flick a somewhat tentative snarl into the eye of my fear.
Loud pangs begin in my temples. My throat tightens, and remembering to breathe, I look around to see where I might fall if I were to pass out. The world begins to swim around me and the deafening sound of an ambulance threatens to pop my right ear. As though a
The ways of W9 lives are reflected in the otherwise preposterous comparisons with the South Bronx.
The five corners.
The five boroughs?
Preposterous.
Henceforth, the tradition of tolerance for the rights of ordinary fucked-up people, a communal tradition that was fought for in the ’70s right on this spot by the one and only Joe Strummer and company, intertwines and combines to make up the disfigured landscape.
Truth is, there’s no shrugging off the fact that these folk are forever condemned to scrape around like lunatics, sucking for dear life on yesterday’s rotten air, cast over hill and vale.
Hanging over W9, Mr. Goldfinger’s Trellick Tower watches as the nuclear sun sets down. This architectural abomination stands creaking, turning a blind eye to Japanese photographers, while at its roots, skulls are caved in and crack rocks are sold to whoever the hell wants, by dealers who freewheel the nearby Grand Union Canal on stolen bicycles.
Meanwhile Gardens is also apparent as it skirts both canal and tower and is the divider and last breathing space before visitors to this hellhole say goodbye to common logic. Forever.
On the canal itself, most are as oblivious to the Canada goose; Gray heron; Mallard; Kestrel; Coot; Moorhen; Black-headed gull; Wren; Robin; Song thrush; White throat; Chiffchaff; Willow warbler; Starling; Greenfinch; Goldfinch; Woodpigeon; Gray wagtail; Dunnock; and Blackbird, as the birds are to them.
Best keep it that way.
Meanwhile.
Gardens.
The underdeveloped.
The youth.
The hood rats and the squeaks.
Hood rats (mainly black), who like any young voluble yet asinine revolutionary, guise themselves and any sign of vulnerability in a uniform of oversize sports clothes; hoods pulled down low over cap even lower, with one hand always down the trouser front. Listen listen listen listen. I do what the fuck I want. Don’t arsk. A gun is a gun and I DO have one. Next to my blade. Live at my mum’s, innit. My sister’s got three kids and she’s younger than me, innit. My dad? Don’t know, mate. Don’t fuckin’ know. Three guys, right. Chase me in my car and I get mashed, innit. Don’t want no fuckin’ hospital though, innit.
Squeaks (mainly white), who like any terrified young revolutionary, guise any sign of vulnerability by wearing a uniform of tight-fitting sportswear which also doubles as a mask for the lack of a soul. Obsessive about their appearance to the point of perfection, their goal is to have you believe that the projection of superiority is indeed true. Nice trainers. Gleaming. I do the right thing by me mum. If you (dirty filthy fucking animal) do anything to hurt any one of my family or their kids, I’ll fuckin’ kill you. I’ll clump you with a fuckin’ hammer. I’ll cut your fuckin’ heart out (after I’ve cleaned the house for me mum and taken me gran up to the hospital). All right? Have you been fuckin’ smokin’?
A community of chagrins and fighters set against a world of cheap booze and even cheaper promises.
Fighters against a war they started.
Fighters for peace.
Secondhand peace.
A community of losers and bruisers.
A community nonetheless.
Life made difficult is practical by default, with little room for the spiritual.
Even less room for the likes of me.
My mobile rings.
“Hello?”
“Johnny.”
“Yes. This is …”
“I fuckin’ know all about you, you cunt. You won’t get away with it this time.”
Then the line goes dead.
I look at the last caller to find the number withheld and flick a somewhat tentative snarl into the eye of my fear.
Loud pangs begin in my temples. My throat tightens, and remembering to breathe, I look around to see where I might fall if I were to pass out. The world begins to swim around me and the deafening sound of an ambulance threatens to pop my right ear. As though a
Similar Books
Learning to Move Forward: Novella #3.5
Cynthia P. O'Neill
Once
Andrew McNeillie
Forced Entry
Stephen Solomita
Forest Kingdom Trilogy 3 - Down Among the Dead Men
Simon R. Green
The Coalition Episodes 1-4
Aria J. Wolfe
The Garden Path
Kitty Burns Florey
From Yesterday
Miriam Epstein
Soul Deep: Dark Souls, Book 2
Anne Hope
Shantaram
Gregory David Roberts