"Of course", comes the reply.
Well it was just another muggy hot English summer's day. You know the type, mid-June when Royal Ascot is full swing, it happens every ̀normal year. A day when the sweat won't stop dripping from your neck, and your nads are sticking far too much to your thighs for anybody’s liking. Especially not the new shop girl as you re-adjust yourself at the till.
I remember wondering whether the youngsters have an even worse problem. They are all into that back, sack and crack shiz. As if every sweat catching pubic hair, designed specifically to prevent male crotch rot, were like a tick to be removed as quickly as possible.
In my day you would have been called a poof by the elders for going anywhere near anything considered female in nature or design. Using such words as “beauty salon” or “visiting the hygienist” were only acceptable if used in the context of skipping off from the lads to pick up your girl from her job. Using them as the end point to any sort of decision of how to spend the groups or one's money on yourself was plenty enough to raise suspicion about your sexuality and visiting one of those 24-hour a day stand up sunbeds was certainly a no-go. Mainly because they didn't exist back then, when men were still men, and pubes had not been banned by some Californian social dictate.
A tanning session paid for like fizzy pop from a vending machine. What a stupendous idea says the tanned millionaire sitting in his alpine mansion with a visible dark tan line around his neck. We're here, and we're not queer! Available all day and night just for those metrosexuals who think pubic hair is a sin. How different decades shape us, I pondered and then couldn't fail to recall how much the male sperm count had fallen worldwide in recent years wondering if there was any correlation. At first maybe due to the metals in our water, food and vaccinations.
But it got Hotter.
An immune system is something to be distrusted nowadays. No wonder antibiotics are failing to work. Did you know that they kill both GOOD and BAD bacteria? It's a bit like Chemo which is just poison pumped into you in the hope that it kills more cancerous cells than good and your strong enough to survive the process. Brilliant science at its worst. I wonder if the Nazi's came up with that along with Methamphetamines, Methadone, Desomorphine and all the other drugs they pumped into the soldiers on their front line to keep them fighting. The Germans had a literal scorched earth policy, and a crazy Kraut with a flame thrower is not one I'd like to meet out in the woods. There is having a tan and being burned to a crisp as many poor Soviets were during the Eastern Front. I wonder how many succumbed to the Nazi blow torch.
"Please Rob, come on now", the female voice is heard again but not totally believed. Who is she to tell me what to think? However, I do apologise. My mind drifts like that. From one concrete idea to within half a second a random thought that bursts into the scene like Mr Sheen, red velvet coat, spinning a stick and tipping his hat. He is a scene stealer and often prevents one thought from having no real logical link to the first. Sometimes I wish he would go away but he tells me it's because my mind is too full of facts.
I just have too much information and not enough undamaged storage space. I am a library with a huge skip outside full of books that are not required reading now. This of cause ensures memories and facts constantly bounce from my RAM to my ROM. If my head were a computer, that is. If it were a well-designed one of course it would have flash storage memory and none of this would occur. An argument against intelligent design I do believe. What sort of omnipotent creator would design a failed system like this. Not any decent coder I know for sure.
I wonder if Paul my ex-desk sharer was now coding for God. I wonder what the pay would be like. Would you become an Angel on retirement, what does an imaginary God pay Angels anyway?
BANG....the noise shook me to my core. Why are these people so impatient? I thought to myself. Never enough time, never enough time. Sorry! That's me and I can only apologise for my mind. It's been tampered with, I just know it has, a lot. Maybe you did it to me and this is a dream, maybe all of you did it to me. Maybe I am a figment of my own imagination. Fuck knows. You bring me out then send me back in again. Just like a yo-yo, in I go again to fight all the enemies of the state and undoubtedly be labelled and dumped like Lee Harvey Oswald was in front of a Mafia gun for hire once they had no use for him. Patsy, Patsy, oh dance with me Patsy.
All I remember was it was hot, scorching red heat, blistering beams from the sun that you could actually feel bubbling on your body. It was a red crisp day, not a cloud in the pale blue sky, not even a chemtrail to count. Well it's not hot now. Not here in this place. I just cannot seem to remember whether my current situation is a dream or real. It feels real but then you can get lucid dreams, can't you? Lucid dreams that feel just like reality, until you wake that is. Or maybe this is a dream being pumped into me. Some other persons idea of a dream made just for me. It feels like someone has created these scenarios for me to exist within for periods of time they control. One minute I'm here, then I'm there. No gaps in between.
That proves it then doesn't it? That this can't be a real actual physical place. Not if I am constantly dream skipping for you. Carrying out your orders one minute, then back here for some weird psychotic debriefing. You are making me decide which side is real and which is the dream. I don't have a coin to flip unfortunately. I suppose that's why I sometimes let you make the decisions. Just to test you, feel the boundaries, sense something real or false. Sometimes I just let you think your making these decisions for me. Or maybe you are actually making them for me, a triple agent even. A brain bug. Confused? Me too, don't worry, I am sure they will reveal themselves eventually.
It does pain me these things I do for you, the system. I feel like I'm always expecting a 3-man team to burst through the door and extract me with a black bag over my head. As I'm carried away, I can hear them say: "Stop it, you'll ruin the ending", I vaguely remember someone saying that to me recently. Who was it? I wonder if you know. See mind drift again, one point has no straight line to the other.
Apologies. Where was I, oh the heat. I remember the heat; it must have been at least 30C or above and I was guzzling down cold fruit squash as fast as I could. Standing in my lounge, bottle in hand, left hand curtain in the other. Sometimes I would just pour a few drips on my back, just to cool me down a bit. Because it’s hot and getting hotter.
No-one else is here with me to complain. I remember looking from side to side, out of the living room window, to see what was happening on the estate. It's always a fascinating combination of happy drunk, bat fuck crazy and mad. All with the odd sprinkle of paranoia that a next-door neighbour, that you know is in, won't come to their door just because I’m holding a screwdriver in my hand. Some people. Problem estates I think "The Sun" used to call them. I bet if this was 1988 cars would be speeding around the estate all night. Ram-Raiding young tearaways in Sierra Cosworths, wheel spinning, hand brake turning and causing havoc.
I wonder which of the little scrotes in my eyesight right now would be the ones sticking their fingers up at the Police helicopter filming them. I look down to my left as a tattooed dyed blonde lady was just standing there letting her 3 muzzled Pitt Bulls take long lazy dog logs on her neighbour's front lawn. Then again, the neighbour is in his garden washing his car and talking back to the woman as her dogs each drop off their kids at the pool.
Some people, do they know the meaning of manners. Or is it just me not accustomed to the scenario they are playing there. See, no! This can't be reality it's too fucking stupid, Am I, a character on some chess board, that another intelligence is playing or is this shit hole construct really reality? Or is it all just because it's getting hotter? Nah.
All I knew was at that precise meta-physical conundrum that I was contemplating fiercely, that whatever the make-up of this universe, I was still staring, very deeply, straight into a dog's anus. My eyes were transfixed just like an audience member for Jerry Springer, as the dog, ejected brown smelly shit, very, very, slowly, almost an inch a second, onto the freshly cut green grass of this nonchalant neighbour.
No quick log and jog for this dog. No, this beautiful moment I was experiencing although conflicting with my metaphysical queries was amazing to watch. Either an exercise in bolshiness or one in placation. I wondered whether the man would just leave the multiple turds on the grass or whether he would wait until the lady had gone before picking them up himself. What a dilemma. Then I felt the heat rise a degree or two and I could literally hear the first blisters of sun-burnt skin pop n crackle as they snapped on my shoulder.
It was getting hotter and hotter.
Then I decided I wanted to lay out on my back lawn sparkers. I could feel the sweat dripping from my thighs and my eyes felt salty from the sweat that had managed to get in there. As much as I wanted to just instantly become a naturist and lie naked in my garden, I just knew that some twat would make a complaint to housing or the plastic cops. Yes, the normal attitude of most people on this estate. It's okay for them to be late and loud and have fun but anyone else. No, no, no. That is something for an authority to decide. Nothing can drown out the sound of the EastEnders theme tune when I want to listen to it. Are you the authority I wonder? Are you still testing me?
Fingers run through my hair. Mmm that feels nice.
Yes, I then remember refilling my bottle of juice before returning to the window. Not any ordinary window but my very own 80" flat screen 8k UHD 3D TV. Every channel you want as long as it’s a programme called "Neighbours from Hell". Personally, scripted designed and developed for my viewing pleasure. Behind this screen sits just one channel and I bet it's on Channel 5 Star or even worse ITV2. Stuck somewhere awful between the armpit of Jermey Kyle and some moronic fair ground game they have made into a quiz.
Whatever the schedule it was time for meat. Raw meat. 3 fat girls were wobbling along the broken pavements in stretched leggings and crop tops. Their bellies hanging out as if they were super models, and everyone behind them were made perfectly clear what to do and where to do it. One girl had a jaded green arrow on her back pointing downwards to her tight thong strap. I just about make out the words "enter here" barely visible from distance, but it stood out in pale green under her red thong, hanging out as her jeans sat squashed into her thighs perilously hanging off her hips. Well I certainly knew now where I could go for a quick dose and a green bell-end for a week, it was just the thought of having to...
There is a loud slam on the desk. It wasn't just women though, don't you understand? men too. Red, raw, blistered men, So-called "Real men". Those who refrain from washing their hands after going to the toilet, men who only come up to talk to you so they can let one lose and then walk away.
These are fearless men, not for them the terror of a 30C sun, beaming sun-rays onto their blistered hairy backs. These were men who haven't even heard the stupid theory that even such a thing as skin cancer existed. Not for them the embarrassment of their wives shouting from the door "Tom have you remembered to put your sun lotion on" No, they were out showing off their own proud flab, or as some men like to call it "̀relaxed muscle". These men were proud. Beer bellies out. Turn and shout "England Forever". You know flag hanging types who read The Sun and believed it as gospel.
But it still got hotter. Hotter and hotter.
Today was a day to behold for naturists everywhere for today every David Bellamy wannabe was hanging from tall trees, binoculars out, odd camera snap. For today both the red bellied English whale, in both male and female form were in fine shape. Proud and loud and always fucking around. You see as it got hotter people got angrier, kids were already fighting over their place in the queue for the Pervs Ice Cream truck. The imports like myself from the next town over knew him as a certain persons Uncle who was also a nonce. Dirty Dave we called him, and he probably only survived this long due to this certain person and the thoughts from decades ago we still carried of him and what he could do.
We used to ride on the ledge of the back Dirty Dave's van as youngsters. All the way up from the shop where we hung out to the top of Broomhill estates tip. Always seeing how much further we could get before he would notice us, stop and try to chase us away. I also clearly remember a day at six form, before being booted. It was about a year after I had found out Dave was a nonce when he pulled up his van, playing the musical tune at the College. Me being a cocky twat only by-passed the whole queue together, waltzed into the back of his van and started to make my own ice-cream. Dave didn't even try and stop me, a clear sign of what I had always heard about pervs. He did try stuttering some sort of pathetic half apology half threat, but it only made me turn to give him a glare.
On turning back to my creamy cone, not wanting to overfill it of course, and just about to take some flakes to stick into it, was when I noticed the shelf under the ledge he used when taking orders. A ledge stacked high with old torn, well flicked through, porno mags. From that day on I hadn't even wanted to eat a free homemade 99 from the nonce.
When I see him, I always wonder whether he still risks being caught surrounded by kids with his cock out under his white coat and an old copy of Razzle out that they can't see outside, or whether he had moved on to more modern thrills. I wonder whether he took an iPad to work with him with PornHub bookmarked on Japanese Prolapse Porn or whatever the latest weird fetish is, incest porn was so 2019, I am sure they have moved on by now. Whatever his technological choice of pornography, I certainly didn't want to know whether he used the standardised cold ice-cream his company bought for him to serve, or whether he had his own special homemade brand. The risk was 50/50 I reckoned, and therefore not one to lump on to. Pretend cash only for this bet.
Hot Weather must suit her game. I wonder whether she plays as well. "Let's all play, ̀The Reality Game, Nice to see you, to see you, nice...."
"Carry On" comes the voice, she sounds much sterner this time; she is obviously getting bored or maybe just impatient. My scattiness maybe working on her, I can tell she is a clueless blob. A billion trillion atoms all comprising of nothing but, well nothing. Yet she stands here before me as a real touchable item. How can an atom that is mostly space make up solid objects like her, I can never tell. Their eyes are always so still, pupils dilated, fixed on me like a glass mirror burning insects with the Sun’s beam. I relent and return to the other construct, it may sound cuckoo but then so am I and I am still having difficulty telling the difference between the two. Do you know yet? Have you figured out what is going on inside me?
So, I looked up and down the street as mothers dished out coins and little boys pushed each other around the queue for Dirty Dave's truck. How many fathers here would put up with their kids buying from that pervert if only they knew the truth I wondered. But I close the curtains. The OCD in me always making the curves turn inward. Playing about with cotton as the watchers aim their cameras at me sitting in vans watching my window intensely through binoculars.
Spying on me, usually always at night as if they think I can't tell they are there. Sod em, that's what they think about others, so I comply with the neighbourly feel of the yard and jog on. "Mind your own" should be the motto spray painted on the wall at the top of the road, not "Liverpool FC 2020". I bet most people here have never been to Anfield, let alone point it out on a map. Still the men cry and sob when penalties are missed and hug each other as if in a Gay sauna when a game is won. Oh, the drama. So exciting. Not. Do you remember that?
NOT. It was the word of the year back in the early 90's. Let anyone speak their truth, their wisdom, their reality. Then just add the word NOT to the end from the corner of any gathering. Guaranteed to get a laugh 100% of the time, at the time, by us stupid kids who thought it funny. If only I could utter the word now and displace my situation. I do not like these glares. That screen seems like it has one-way glass on it. I bet it has. "So, what happened as it got hotter" says the voice again.
Well it was whilst I was airing my own belly on the window ledge letting the scenery and buffoonery seep in that I suddenly started to notice the change, occur in front of me. It wasn't a good change like duplicitous whores turning into angels or Cougars that stopped bending over in front of me in the local shop letting me see their panty liners through tight trousers. No, it was odd, very strange.
"Go on", her voice speaks again but this time I can feel her breath on my neck. The construct is leaning in towards me. She wants me to think her breath is real, but I could just be a brain in a tank, with electrical stimulation.
Well as I was watching the street these people all started to curl up into a ball as if someone had punched them in the stomach. One by one, their backs started to peel open like soft oranges, the skin curled back at the ends. Their inner selves were opening and before I could recite my ABC's; the whole street lay on the floor as huge whispery, delicate grey like wings revealed themselves from the slits in the estate's farm animal's backs. One by one, just like that day in the summer when every ant in your road seems to grow wings and fly off somewhere, these people all started flapping their wings and leaving the ground.
The blonde lady with the dogs was trying to hold on tight to her 3 leashes but the dogs weren't having it and started racing around the garden in a crazed fashion dragging their airborne master with them. One white Bull Terrier was about a metre off the ground with a turd still halfway out it's arse. I don't know whether he wanted to slice it off or carry on pushing to be honest.
Still it didn't matter to the blonde lady as she had no say in the situation and was soon up above the street house roofs as her dogs started to run riot. I did wonder why my own back hadn't opened and produced wings but then you know me, I am not an ant with wings I am being held here, a prisoner of conscience, confined to a reality you are imprinting in my head. What don't you think I wanted to fly? Take a day off being bored shitless and flap some wings and go visit the family with no traffic jams involved?
"Yes Robert" spoke the voice, "I am sure you would love to fly around like an ant with wings for a day, but unfortunately you have had another episode, do you understand me?"
"What episode, what you jibbering about?", I ask to the controller of my scenario at this current time. What is this VR construct talking about now. Thinks she can bamboozle me with her fancy words and taking at me not to me, I am fluent in three languages don't you know? English, American, and Canadian the disparaging bitch. I can even get Welsh English, Irish English and Scottish, if I get the accent right. It can be hard with a sore throat though. Call me stupid if you want. Of course, I understand what YOU think is happening. Whether it is really is or not, who can tell. I try to stand up and walk up to the glass to test its reflection but find myself wobbly on my feet. I go to put my hand out to steady myself, but they are not there to help me. I am bound up in white. Like a gift-wrapped specimen given to a scientist as a present to practice on.
"Why don't you just stop playing with my mind!" I shout at the room, one woman in a suit and two burly like bouncers with sullen looks on their faces by the door.
"Listen Rob, we have one hour a week to discuss what you want to talk about and all you have given me is gibberish, flying human ants on your estate, you haven't been living in Mychett for months now", or so she says. Well she did, I just heard her say it. Confusion. How can I trust her, who is she, very powerful she must be to have me bound up and delivered to her on a plate like this.
"I can see you are still having episodes and your section order has been.........bladdy bladdy bladdy bladddy...here for another 4 week bladdy bladdy bladdy....on the authority of........."
"I'm not listening to your crap. You have stolen my mind and corrupted my soul." I protest about whatever they are concocting up now, the next trap to keep me here.
I try to run towards the door head out in front of me like a battering ram, I expect a big head shaking knock to occur but instead a flat hard palm slaps my face. One of these agents/bouncers has me in a face lock. I stand there, a perfect 90-degree angle. Perfectly bent over and stuck, bastards.
I hear some more babble from the dream maker behind me and then the word Chlorpromazine as a silver tray desk is pushed forward. The woman looks at me and shakes her head. The evil dream maker is just going to put me back into a false reality again and again until I comply. How can I comply though when what I know is real and just disregarded as a hoax by these Illuminati New World Order Lizard blood drinking kiddy fuckers. "I know the truth" I shout as the white coated lady walks past me.
"You are controlling my thoughts!". I get no reply and the woman whispers something to the man holding my face. All I can hear is the word Largactil and before I know it, I am pants down, face buried in a pillow as someone injects more dream formula into my buttocks. All I can feel is the sore spot on my ass cheek as a barrel of liquid is pushed firmly into my rear. I try to mutter something clever about small cocks and bum holes but before I know it, I am waking up again.
Yes, it is getting hotter.
I am on the estate. This heat is making me sick I swear. I pick up the bottle by the side of my bed and drink almost a litre of lemon squash in one go. Dry mouth syndrome, usually an indication of a previously heavy night on the pop. Who knows I can't remember what I was doing last night anyway so that's a definite sign someone got me pissed. I do my morning stretches and take the 3 S's (Shit, Shave, Shower), regulation activity for any male and especially anyone working for the branch, the code-name for our unit.
Deeply buried inside MI5 since the days of NATO, fake fighting Communists in Italy in Operation Gladio. We have been protecting those who cannot be allowed to make their own decisions. Letting common people vote for Communism is like voting to not have to vote any more. The Red Brigade, the Dulles brothers, I know the CIA are going to be sending me an assignment soon, I just know it. The Reds are on the move and we must protect our oil supplies.
I won't bore you with the menials, you probably wouldn't understand the sacrifices I have already made for my country. I light a cigarette and walk into the lounge of my discreet one-bedroom safe house. I wish they could have placed me somewhere better, somewhere less low key if that was what they were aiming for.
I wonder
what's on TV today as I open the curtains to my window.
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2020 All Rights Reserved - Robert Reid
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