Threats from Occult Forces

Yesterday was when I had that conversation with Hot Baby Roy about us stopping crack. He was really disappointed and said that he'd been planning some good crack smoking times and he was gonna get me and him initialled pipes but I told him no way hose.

He brought out a few rocks of crack and said it'd be a shame to throw them away. I said okay then, for old times sake.

We sparked up the pipe and had a good old smoke of the crack. We were having a great time, and Hot Baby Roy said: "Wouldn't it be great if it was like this all the time?"

I thought so, but then I thought a bit harder and I saw us in about ten years time, still on the dole, wearing the clothes we were wearing then with not a tooth in our heads. I told him it would break my heart.

He said that I was killing his buzz so he was going to go and see if Hot Baby Roy on crack could have his way with The Raven Princess Spandex. I told him to remember that no-means-no because the last thing we wanted was the cops to show up when we were doing crack.

He rolled his eyes and fucked off.

Five minutes later the door went. I thought he'd forgotten his keys but when I answered it Balkazaler was standing there bearing his fangs.

"I wondered if I'd see you this week I said. You're not getting my fucking vote."

"Shut up you crackheaded fucker. What are you doing smoking that shit again?"

"I'm just having a bit for old times sake, anyway I'm bored, like it's any of your fucking business."

"Listen I'm a powerful daemon! I can see the future and you need a clear head."

"Why? Is this something to do with The Death Owl?"

"Never mind him, this is much bigger than him. You stop smoking that shit or I'll kick your balls up and out your mouth."

"I was quiting anyway after tonight. You're still not getting my vote you peeler tasched fucker."

"You're not registered to vote in East Antrim," he reminded me. Then he walked to the front door, unfurled his horned scaly wings and flew off into the night.

Ice Cold in the Face of the Truffle Shuffle

This morning I was called into the manager's office. Not London Girl's wee cubicle but the big head honcho guy. He's a big English squadie whose face wobbles when he gets angry. He was bloody fuming at me today and his face was getting on lick chunks belly when he does the truffle shuffle.



There, that's his fat fucker face. I sat there like Corey Feldman trying to keep ice cold (like Andre 3000) but big chunks of Truffle Shuffle's spit went all over my face. He also can't say his fs and launches into them like an exhausted hurdler smashing himself and the hurdle into shite as he misjudges the jump or his energy or both. Using this technique Truffle Shuffle can throw his breath in the same way a ventriloquist can throw a dummy.

Anyways it was about my being a bad mawfucka on the phones. I'm not getting the sack but I am on a final warning.

Kissy Boy gave me the thumbs up when I told everyone. Ice Cold.