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Sunday, June 15, 2008

Who Needs Any Knees?

Sorry, I got a bit lax at keeping this up to date - wasn't sure if anyone was reading or enjoying it!

The story continues from these previous instalments.




“And you’ve just been where, doing what?” Katherine asked, throwing her cashcard onto the coffee table so Simon could cut lines on the plate.

“Well, I’m getting to that!” David said, rolling up one of the twenty pound notes he’d been paid for his work that evening, hoping this would mean he could get first dibs on the fat line Simon was probably cutting for himself.

“Hotel room.” Simon prompted him, offering him the plate. “Hotel room, fugly man and you getting AIDS, innit?”

“Simon! Give over on being the AIDS superhero for our generation, will you? Like you have the moral high ground on that one, anyway!” David rolled his eyes and snorted coke from the line with the fewest greasy egg stains, leaving the fatter, but tackier line for Simon. He took a moment to tip his head back and shake it from side to side, snorting up every last grain, laughing all the time. “Jesus dude, that’s rough stuff you’ve bought. I think I can smell last July, my nose is so alight now. Right.” He coughed, and could taste the drug on the back of his tongue.

“We went up to his room, in the lift he was all sad and lost-looking, kept sighing and I managed to sneak a look at my watch and I’d already, like, had half an hour with him just for telling him he didn’t really have a face like a stoat’s scrotum but that people were just jealous of his inner qualities. I didn’t really say what they were, I was too distracted by James’ scrote-face.

“So, like, we’re in his room and I realised I shouldn’t have started out with the looks thing because while he’s trying on different clothes and I’m telling him they all look good on him for different reasons, he’s talking to me about how strange it is in Dubai being somewhere that they kill gay people, so I’m all like, ‘Oh, well, you know, in London so many gay people place their sexuality at the centre of their lives, that it’s a total lifestyle package, sex, drugs, holidays in Sitges and would you please take your penis out of my ear?’”

“He stuck his cock in your ear!” Katherine howled, leaving white specks on her smudged lipstick. “That’s so pissing brilliant! Did you charge extra?”

“I think I need to learn some of the etiquette of this job. He’d said to me that he’d hoped his story would have a happy ending, I’d said I thought it probably would if he wanted it enough, then lo and behold, while I’m sat on the edge of his bed, leant forward, deep in thought while he’s playing costumes, suddenly he’s next to me and his cock’s in my ear. Well, ish, anyway.”

“I told you this was a bad idea.” Simon folded his arms and looked across to David, who was still smiling. “We should have gone to leather bars together when I suggested it.”

“What did you do then?” Katherine asked, then stared across to Simon. “You be nice, cock-rot.”

“Funny how you’re the one who still brings that up, fatella,” Simon scowled, “Just ‘cause it’s been a decade since you had any illegal immigrants in your channel tunnel.”

“It actually turned out really well,” David said, a little louder. “After I said I wasn’t here to have sex with him, I made out like it was really flattering but he deserved better. He tried to say I was great, but I thought that he might take some of the money back from me for mutual ego stroking, so I got the topic back to him well quickly, like, and got him to talk all this psycho-anal shit about why he feels the need to have sex for validation and all that shit.”

“Oh?” Katherine seemed interested, while Simon just looked out of the window.

“Well, I just wanted to keep him talking ‘cause we were well over the hour he’d wanted and so, like I said he didn’t need to pay people to fuck him for a sense of approval when he was actually really handsome and successful, how there’s people who would die to be with him because he’s such a nice guy and all that shit. Didn’t tell him that the only people who would want to be with him would be fucking retards with no sense of smell.”

Simon got up and walked to the kitchen. Katherine looked at David and pursed her lips.

“What? Oh, fuck. Yeah, I keep forgetting.” David looked over to the door and listened to the clunking noises from the kitchen. “Anyway. He was starting to get all my daddy never loved me, just paid for my posh school and not a facelift so I thought I’d keep him hooked and nodded a bit more than usual, you know, like they do in those shitty TV shows. I was all, like, thanks, James, I think it’s really good we can share those things, but I really do have to get on. He thought I had other clients, I just wanted to get home knowing I could remember everything to blurt to you and carrot-top, but it worked out well, he paid me shit-loads extra, saying he was sorry for keeping me.”

“I heard that!” Simon called through from the kitchen, petulantly. “Carrots have feelings too, you know! We bleed!”

“Good!” David countered. “So yeah, I got through it without getting AIDS-ed up or taking my cock out, so I guess it’s cool and I maintain the moral high ground over the boy who brings the plague to London via our front room. Plus, he says he’ll call me again in a couple of days, so that’s like much better than the dole!”

“You gonna tell the Income Support team about your new employment?” Simon said, dumping a chipped mug of sweet tea in front of David.

David winked, picking up the mug. “Only have to declare it if you’re sixteen hours or more, I think. But I figure the cunting state’s taken so much from me, I should get an ickle bit back.”

Simon still didn’t look impressed, but honestly didn’t know enough to argue back. “What about National Insurance? It’s not fair. I pay tax and all that, innit?”

“What the fuck is National Insurance for anyway?” Katherine interjected.

“It, um, insures, the nation?” Simon shrugged, taking his seat and nudging David back to his side of the seat.

“Third party, fire or theft,” David continued, “but it doesn’t cover us if we lose the country down the back of the sofa or if we drop it and it breaks. Not sure if it covers manufacturing faults, ‘cause I’m sure we could claim on a few of them.”

“Shut up, David,” Simon said. “Just twatting shut it.”

“Thanks for the tea, Si.” David sat back and nodded towards the TV. Katherine did her duty and soon the three of them were once again lost in makeover heaven.

“What has the state taken from you, Comrade David?” she asked, over the chirpy, maniacal theme music. “Certainly not twenty percent for the last couple of months.”

David thought for a moment, drinking tea and trying to remember the cool things people said at university before his whole brain melted in a haze of drugs.

“They’ve taken away all hope,” he said, earnestly. Katherine sniggered, Simon looked at the television. “All autonomy, all freedom. Life’s so regulated these days a bag of nuts says on it in big letters that it may contain nuts. You’d fucking hope so, innit?”

“You are fucking nuts,” Katherine shook her head, then started picking her split ends.

“I’m not fucking paying tax until they put VAT on ketamine,” David countered, confident that this was a solid argument.

“They do,” Katherine said, rolling her eyes. “Well, when it’s used for cutting babies open and tranquilising horses, there’s VAT on it, but probably not when you buy it in a teensy little bag from a grubby man out the front of a nightclub at ten in the morning on the way back from a milk run, you daft twat. We needed three bumps before we could stomach even a hint of tea with that god awful long-life milk.”

“I should make friends with a vet again,” David thought, “I wonder if there’s any that want an ego massage in exchange for hard fuckin’ drugs.”

Katherine looked at Simon, “You know anything about that, gingivitis boy?”

“Yeah, but not from an ugly cunting twat,” Simon ignored her, glaring over to his ex-boyfriend. “’Sides which, since when were you all that shitting bothered about it? Is this like when you got all worried that Tony Blair might ban taking it up the Gary Glitter?”

“You’re so cute when you talk street, you know that?” David half-punched Simon on the knee. “Well, it’s true, innit? I mean, it’s not like the state is really geared up to do a fucking great deal for cunts like us.”

“What’d you mean?” Simon said, shifting to rub his leg. “When we got fucked up the PPP by red Ken, it meant I got redeployed and I get to spend all my working day sniffing businessmen as they walk past my fucking gate and hoping for a bit of rush hour frottage in the hope it’ll stop my cock from dropping off.”

“Cock. Rot.” Katherine chipped in.

“Fuck the fuck off, you fat fucking fuck. Fuck!”

David shook his head and finished his tea. “Well, anyway, until I see the tax code for my new job, I ain’t paying taxes or telling the dole office, and neither are you.”

“Oh, I should dodge my taxes now?” Katherine lazily shrugged.

“I’m sure there should have been a fucking comma in there somewhere. I’m so fucking shit at conjugating my verbs and shit these fucking days. I blame Lady Marmalade here for that.” David poked at Simon’s foot.

“Fucking go cunt yourself, cuntfuck.”

David looked at Katherine. “By Jove, I think he’s got it, he shall go to the ball!”

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