Oh, and I feel obliged to say, this passage contains a great deal of gratuitous swearing and sexual references. If you are below 18 or are just a bit of a pussy, read on anyway but don't expect a fluffy little fairy tale. [/disclaimer]
“Man, that joint ain’t going to roll itself, you know.”
“I fucking know, lay off. I’m in a bad way today.”
“Pray tell, good sir.” The second man sat back, crinkling the paper between his thumbs and forefingers.
“It’s a long fucking story.”
“I’ve got as long as it takes for you to roll that, spark up and smoke it with me. You reckon you can talk while you skin up?”
“No. I reckon you should fucking do it.”
“I reckon you should just get on with whatever you’re going to do. Tell me a story or roll me a joint, I don’t care which.”
“Okay, well, the other night, right, I’m down at Marley’s-”
“The bar?”
“No, out of the fucking Christmas Carol. Yes, the bar.” He rolled his eyes. Still not the spliff, though. “And I’m sitting there, up at the bar, right, on my own, and this girl comes up sits next to me. You know me, I’m checkin’ her out, and she’s pretty hot.”
“Smokin’ hot?” asked the first man, and he laughed.
“I’ll fucking say. About five-ten, long hair, I’d guess about a D-cup, dressed to kill. And she just comes and sits right next to me, right?”
“Yeah, you said that part.”
“Yeah, I fucking know. Bear with me.”
“When was the last time you finished a sentence without recourse to the gratuitous use of the word fuck?”
“When did you start talking like a dickhead?” The dickhead shrugged, as if to concede a man-point or two. “Anyway, I say hello, we get to chattin’, once thing leads to another and sooner or later we wind up back at my place.”
“I can see where this is heading,” said the dickhead, smirking.
“No you fucking can’t, mate. Trust me on that one.” He shook his head, seeming as though he was trying to rid himself of an image. The dickhead was intrigued.
“So, what, then? Where d’you go from there?”
“Well, as I was sayin’, one thing led to another and we’re heading south, if you’ll pardon the figure o’ speech, and then she gets on top, and I’m thinking ‘Great, this chick knows her shit’, but then she smacks me right across the fucking face!” The dickhead was torn between a desire to burst out laughing at his friend’s misfortune and one to hear the rest of the tale. “So, I’m about to come, right, despite her having just tried to splash my brains across the wall, then she fucking does it again, doe’n’t she? And I’m just lying there with my face starting to bruise up like a fucking peach, and then she goes and rakes her fucking nails down my chest. I’m done by this point, so I pull out and shove her off me, and I’m all like ‘What the fuck was that, bitch?’ and she gets all defensive, saying that that’s just what gets her off. Beating the shit out of unsuspecting people she picks up in bars. Twisted, right?”
“Hardly uncommon, though. There have been some fairly famous proponents of that kind of thing.”
“Yeah, I know, and that’s where this is heading next. I was thinking, right, about sado-masochism and all that shit, bondage, BDSM, all that hurting people for pleasure, and I was wondering about that guy who started it all. The Marquis de Sade.” He put on a deliberately fake and exaggerated French accent to say the unholy name, which did not go unnoticed.
“I don’t think he invented it, you know. Anyway, he’s only half of it. Masochism is named after Leopold von Sacher-Masoch.”
“Yeah, give a shit. Anyway, this guy, de Sade, he was part of a cult, right.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I read it somewhere. Internet, probably.”
“Wikipedia it, make sure.”
“I’m not going to fucking Wikipedia anything right now, am I? I’m still rolling this fucking joint.” They both stared at the little paper in his hands, weed and tobacco combining in glorious combustible form.
“You know what, get the ket out,” said the dickhead. “It’s going to take you all fucking night to skin that up.”
“I fucking love ket,” said the abused one, a dreamy look crossing his face. “I remember one time, right, I took a bunch of ket, some right arsehole told me it was crack, and I was like ‘Yeah, that should give me a good fucking night out’, but then after about two minutes I realise that I’m going to k-hole, and he ain’t exactly sympathetic, if you get what I mean. So I’m, like, determined to build myself the biggest, comfiest k-hole pad you ever saw, and I get all these cushions from all across the room-”
“I thought you were out somewhere?”
“Nah, this was just before we were going out. And I get all these cushions, right, shove ‘em together in this big pile, and I’m just thinking something’s missing, and I go to get myself the quilt out of this guy’s bedroom, which is just across the hall, right, and then the second I go out the door, the k-hole hits me, and I can fucking see my pad, but I can’t fucking move a fucking inch. That was the most…” He seemed to be struggling for an adequate word. “The most tortuous experience of my young life.” He pulled a baggie out of his pocket and chucked it across to his mate. The dickhead poured a bit of the white powder out and began chopping it into four lines with a credit card, in the time-honoured fashion. He made short work of the drugs, and rolled up a five pound note in roughly the time it takes to blink. He had had a lot of practice. He snorted two lines, one up each nostril, and passed the sheet of paper across. His friend hoovered up the other two lines, and dropped the paper, not really caring where it went. They could clean up later.
“Fuck me,” said the dickhead. “That’s some good shit.”
“Hey, I was telling you about my thoughts from the other night, with that fucked up chick who kept smackin’ me about the face.”
“Shit, yeah. What’s up with that?”
“I dunno, she was just a bit mental, I reckon. Anyway, right, this guy de Sade, right, he was in a cult. Or a religious order of some kind, or something like that. And I got to thinking, right, and I figured, right, what if it’s all just a big fat conspiracy theory, right? What if he weren’t in a cult, and he was just some guy who enjoyed beating the shit out of people during sex?”
“I think he was. I’m pretty sure he spent a lot of time in prison.”
“Nah, he was nobility. Lords of the fucking realm don’t do time. But yeah, right, he’s this guy who’s pretty fucked in the head, and he’s on about killing people for pleasure and doing whatever the fuck you want to whoever the fuck you want, and I reckon, the other guys in his cult must have been pretty pissed at him for that.”
“How’d you figure?”
“Well, right, cults are, by nature, underground movements. So, if he’s going on being a famous member and espousing the virtues of this cult, it’s not going to be a cult any more pretty soon, when people find out about it. And then they’ll all be right fucked off at him, because he’s given their little game away.”
“I don’t think he was in a cult.”
“Everyone was in fucking cult in those days. But he’s going around drawing attention to himself by killing virgins and wanking on their faces or whatever, and-” He stopped, distracted by his mate’s sudden laughing fit.
“Wanking on their fucking faces, man! That’s some fucked up shit, boy.” They had a minute’s break or so, which they both spent giggling like idiots.
“So yeah, right, this guy, right,” said the would-be joint-roller, eventually. “This guy, right. He’s raping little girls and getting arrested and shit, and then there’s this other guy somewhere taking all this shit, beating himself up and getting chicks to dig chunks out of him with their nails and getting off to it. What would happen if those two met up, man?”
“They’d probably have a little gay bloodfest, or some shit.”
“Shit man, people are fucked up.” He paused, and looked up at the ceiling. “I lost my train of thought, man. Fuck it.”
“Life’s too short to talk about dead rapist guys.”
Edited by Vortigern, 27 October 2008 - 03:46 AM.
