November 27, 2007

O Ruddy Dan.

So, Mickeyboy, whats it to be? Shall I count you as a willing accomplice? I wouldnt like for you to feel harassed, say, or bullied by me. This isnt about forcing anything from you. This is about choices, or praps I should say this is about one choice, because thats all there is. Do you go left? Or do you go right? Are you with me? Or are we parting company, me and your itsy secret?

I want to grind him beneath my soles, I want to crush his illiterate spirit, I want to remove his glib, sordid leer. I nod.

Is that a bona fide acceptance, Eymickey? You gonna go all the way through with this?

Another long nod. I want to pound his whoring greedy gammon face into the wall.

Great stuff, Mickeymyboy! Tuesday – eleven – the shop. Sharpish now Mickey. Off with you.

With that, I am out cold. Alone with my own thoughts, and with his cardboard civilities still getting knocked around in my head. My itsy shitting secret. How he knows is not a question I should worry about, itchy as it is: Ruddy Dan gets to know everything around here sooner or later. No, I just need to work out how to get from under his thumb without disturbing it too much: without him noticing before it's too late.

O Ruddy Dan, I am going to get out from this; and I am going to rub you out, along with my bitsy secret.

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