Monday 2 November 2009

streets

It looked to all intents and purposes the words daubed on the wall had been formed with a finger or some pliable object, the horror of the situation worsened when it became quite evident the chosen media was blood and excrement. Fuck me. I looked round to find solace in the fears and repulsion on the faces of the growing crowd. I needed strength from the weakness of the rest. I only found numbness and confused frowns
“What’s happened?”
A small squeaky voice breaks the muffled rumbles of whispering and confused murmurs.

I turn and look a little down. Fuck me; I’m looking into the pair of thickest lensed glasses I have ever seen. All I could see of the poor fella’s eyes were huge pupils, the size of a teacup saucer. Mustn’t look, isn’t polite, mind you there’s no fucking chance of him feeling embarrassed he wont be able to focus on me at all. Wonder if they are for general wear? Long range or reading? Can he see craters on the moon?
“What’s happened?”
“Darling you really don’t want to look, the police will be here within a minute or two and the whole subway will be closed off and treated as a crime scene with all that tape and stuff”
“Crime scene? I thought the crowds were just appreciating a good street artist?”
“Darling you really must dash along, an awful atrocity has been committed here and the images will stay with you for life, really wish I had as they say, just walked on bye”
He squeezed past me with what I considered to be fucking rudeness. If he hadn’t been so small and hamster like I would of removed his jam jars and dressed him down. Watching his face and body language with a kind of expectation for him to pass out or vomit, I was totally bemused and amazed when he turned with the same placid expression and squeezed himself past me again.
“He was here yesterday, very good isn’t he?”
With that he meandered over to a very gritty typical urban bench. This very action verified he clearly isn’t using his glasses to their full potential, maybe he can see an aphid’s arse, or the pixels on a photograph look like postage stamps. Anyway he is sitting on what looks like a varied array of fast food remains, digested or not I can’t be sure. How on earth does such a small quirky cute little man get by in this greedy cold world? Does he go home and read the National Geographic? Readers Digest? Fur and Feather? Horse and Hound? Cage and Aviary Bird? No no, me thinks he is a connoisseur of maybe amie, the oriental cartoon type of sudo sexual schoolgirl action odd stuff. I really shouldn’t comment on Amie I no fuck all on the subject.

With and astounding loud spontaneous Ohhh and then Arrr from the hundred or so crowd that formed in the sub-way, I turned my imagination away from the odd little hamster sat on the sweet corn and chewing gum to the horror of the mess against the dimly illuminated grey piss stained wall.

Fucking hell, fucking hell fuck me, fuck me. Oh fuck me.
Half an hour earlier I decided after a few minutes of waiting for a window of opportunity to appear so I could cross the fucking road, that it would be best to use the putrid subway. I detest using such tunnels of mans filth, why is it that men seem to see these subterranean passages as a canvas for some unreadable crap Muriel of somewhere to piss. However as I neared the bottom of the steps a large round lady in her late forties came wobbling toward me pale as fuck and clutching her chest with her left hand whilst gripping the handles of her Tesco bag for life in her right.
“Oh love, Oh lovey, don’t look in there, don’t look in there, oh dear, oh my”
“Is she a nutter or something? Why me? I always attract the fruit cakes”
Then as I rounded the odd 70’s small tiled mozaked aerosol ruined wall of the underpass my heart stopped. My breath failed me. My body filled with adrenaline and my throat with bile. Sweat beaded on my brow and every feeling of fear and paranoia that I had ever experienced returned together, in a mix of grotesque paralysing visual trauma.

Lying at the foot of the cold grey wall on the left side of the subway was the remains of a heavily mutilated vagrant. A busker. His guitar lay broken and spent near an old cloth cap that I assumed at the time contained a few copper coins.

His head appeared to be shaped in a convex oval. Maybe he had been stamped on repeatedly, maybe severely batted with a bat. A mound of drying blood bubbles looking alien like moving from his mouth and falling out of formation as the friction of his rough cotton padded lumberjack shirt spoilt their easy slide. His mouth, I think, well it looked as if his mouth was still working, his jaw seemed to mouth a monosyllable every few minutes.

I was transfixed. As my eyes focused in the shadows the true horrors became clear, his entrails had been removed and wrapped around his neck, the stomach had been slit or badly abused as the acidic contents were oozing towards the growing crowd. The already piss stained air took on a new horror as the sweet vomity butchers shop smell started to find nostrils. Close your eyes and remove the inside of a fresh turkey or chicken. Times that by a thousand and eh voila.

His left hand fingers were all pointing in the wrong direction and it actually looked as though his arm had been dislocated at the elbow with incredible force.

There was a specific stench of human shit. An overpowering smell of shit, it moved in and out, swapping precedence with the entrails and blood. And piss. Maybe the piss was already there.

On the wall behind the words

RAPE THE STREETS

And, I was reliably informed by a guy in an orange high Vis waistcoat the letters had been written in shit and blood.
Minutes passed and no one moved closer or left the scene, it was pointless stepping forward to offer medical aid as the guy was clearly mortally wounded. No police though, I would of thought by now the area would be a swarm of self important uniform, not looking forward to the amount of paper work that would be involved for the next few months as the crime was investigated. My only interlude being the guy with telescopes on his eyes.

Then. Well fuck me, straight to the point. The guy jumped up, brushed off a huge amount of entrails and offal shouted Viva the people and legged it up the stairs opposite, guitar and effects still in place.

Shocked. Fucking shocked. Really fucking shocked. Now annoyed and unamused. Fucking twat.

It transpired this event had been going on over the past week or so in various subways, it was a protest against the way the authorities namely the local councils were prepared to treat the local people and reduce their amenities.

A protest. A protest carried out by two people, the guy who lies in the grotesque murder scene, and the guy who prepares the scene then cleans it up later.

A protest about the 2012 London Olympic villiage and the reduction in public services so monies could be saved in case government and lottery funds don’t quite cover the costs incurred. What a load of bollocks. Oh well, I wont forget that in a hurry and I feel sorry for the folk who moved away and are still under the impression the guy was dead.

I turn to look at telescope man, maybe he is a super hero, hey! He might be able to fire a laser from his lenses, scortch the earth, shoot down a baddie. Maybe not.

Huh, he is gone. However seated on a news paper looking rather fucking gorgous is Lucy. Frantically scribbling the descriptions of the scene onto her pukka pad. Oh how cute, a spiral bound lined pad with teddy bears and purple unicorns on the covers. I see her camera’s shutter cover is open so I assume she has been snapping away to enable her to write something in detail later. I think she is in London under some form of comissioned venture to study the impacts of the new olympic builds on the indirect areas and the people’s within. Cant remember who she is comissioned by, sure it was a broard sheet, maybe a Sunday version, one with several magazines inside that rarly contain anything usefull. In a few months I might read about some odd guy in a subway, faining murder to achieve visual impact. He fucking did that.
Do I go over and say hi? Do I follow her and send her impromptu txt,s. she is looking very well. Confident and attractive. Breasts are gorgously begging my elbow in a crowd. I think I choose to enjoy her body over the next few hours. If we can find a busy tube train.

Oh fuck me.

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