THUGLIT Issue Twelve by Leon Marks, Rob Hart, Justin Porter, Mike Miner, Edward Hagelstein, Kevin Garvey, T. Maxim Simmler, J.J. Sinisi Page B
Authors: Leon Marks, Rob Hart, Justin Porter, Mike Miner, Edward Hagelstein, Kevin Garvey, T. Maxim Simmler, J.J. Sinisi
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some of the more bewildering things I did in the next weeks. I was in dire need of cheering up.
I was in dire need of booze, too, so I went into the first pub I could find —a derelict shitter with a beer pump and bottles of cheap schnapps covered in dust. Four brandies and three pints later the world looked better. After two more brandies I figured the hen next to me quite dishy and started to chat her up. Another pint later I reckoned that, come daylight and sobering up, the swanky minge was probably as attractive as a carp with a wig and swayed outside for a quick smoke. The distilled piss was giving me heartburn and it sure wasn't worth the money they charged, so I took a few careful steps to the left and legged it. I ran through the park and past a small churchyard. If I squeezed myself through a hedgerow and crossed the tracks, I could be home in less than ten minutes. My jacket got stuck between two thorny twigs and while I tried to yank it free without causing a pricy tear, I heard a long sigh blending into a high-pitched whine. I squinted into the darkness and made out a medium-sized grey sack wreathing between the rails.
That was how I met Geoff.
I wiped a few ragged, hard leaves from my trousers, fiddled a Chesterfield from the pack and lit it. The sack wriggled and cursed.
"You alright there, mate?" I asked.
" What? Am I what?" he answered in a nasal, verge-of-sobbing vibrato.
" Now I was wondering if you've slipped there, y'know, seeing you flat on your arse on the gravel."
" Please. Go away." He sounded like a weepy five-year-old begging for a slap.
" Can't do that, I'm afraid." I crouched next to him. "It's not that I'm conscience-smitten, I'm so fucking bevvied up, I won't remember a thing. But if I let you kick the bucket here, my karma gets arse-fucked back to pre-evolutionary status and I can't have that."
" Please, go away. Please."
I 've got to admit that the sound of his voice almost made decide to let fate and Northern Rail run their course. The tit wants to top himself? Genius. And quite likely what nature had intended anyway.
" Look, mate. What's wrong with pills? Or a razor straight over the wrists? Maybe a plastic bag over the napper? I get the appeal of lying here—slam, bam, mincemeat, man—but just think for a second about the poor cunt driving the train. Mental crack-up and post-traumatic stress disorder. He hears the whistle of a train, he starts shitting his skivvies and all that's left for him is a life on the dole. That'd be quite the pisser, right?"
He sat up slowly , and in the pale, flavescent light of the street lamps behind us I could make out a puffy, reddish face with a tiny knob of Plasticine for a nose and huge, sticky-out ears. It looked like his brain had satellite reception. Add a pair of pouty fish lips and slicked-back, thinning hair and he eerily resembled a blown-up fetus. Meeting that mug in the mirror every morning might make me suicidal, too.
I stretched out my hand and, though he hesitated a bit, he finally grabbed it and pulled himself up. Of course there was no civil way to bid him adieu now. You save a guy 's life and you're stuck with him for a time. So we took a detour and headed for a round-the-clock kiosk. Well, I was heading, Geoff scuffled behind, soles dragging over the pavement, punctuating every second step with a soggy snuffle. Obviously the time to listen to his sad tale had now come—and assuming it would take some time, I bought two huge cans of Elephant beer and wiggled one in front of his Play-Doh beezer.
" I don't really drink."
Who said never to trust a guy wh o doesn't drink?
" Getting run over by a train may be a bit more hazardous to your health than a brew, pal." I said and took a long draught, while Geoff stared at his can like an alien artifact before nipping some. Immediately his face contorted. It was the strangest sight—his features all seemed to skid and then tighten in the middle as if someone was trying to Hoover up his
I was in dire need of booze, too, so I went into the first pub I could find —a derelict shitter with a beer pump and bottles of cheap schnapps covered in dust. Four brandies and three pints later the world looked better. After two more brandies I figured the hen next to me quite dishy and started to chat her up. Another pint later I reckoned that, come daylight and sobering up, the swanky minge was probably as attractive as a carp with a wig and swayed outside for a quick smoke. The distilled piss was giving me heartburn and it sure wasn't worth the money they charged, so I took a few careful steps to the left and legged it. I ran through the park and past a small churchyard. If I squeezed myself through a hedgerow and crossed the tracks, I could be home in less than ten minutes. My jacket got stuck between two thorny twigs and while I tried to yank it free without causing a pricy tear, I heard a long sigh blending into a high-pitched whine. I squinted into the darkness and made out a medium-sized grey sack wreathing between the rails.
That was how I met Geoff.
I wiped a few ragged, hard leaves from my trousers, fiddled a Chesterfield from the pack and lit it. The sack wriggled and cursed.
"You alright there, mate?" I asked.
" What? Am I what?" he answered in a nasal, verge-of-sobbing vibrato.
" Now I was wondering if you've slipped there, y'know, seeing you flat on your arse on the gravel."
" Please. Go away." He sounded like a weepy five-year-old begging for a slap.
" Can't do that, I'm afraid." I crouched next to him. "It's not that I'm conscience-smitten, I'm so fucking bevvied up, I won't remember a thing. But if I let you kick the bucket here, my karma gets arse-fucked back to pre-evolutionary status and I can't have that."
" Please, go away. Please."
I 've got to admit that the sound of his voice almost made decide to let fate and Northern Rail run their course. The tit wants to top himself? Genius. And quite likely what nature had intended anyway.
" Look, mate. What's wrong with pills? Or a razor straight over the wrists? Maybe a plastic bag over the napper? I get the appeal of lying here—slam, bam, mincemeat, man—but just think for a second about the poor cunt driving the train. Mental crack-up and post-traumatic stress disorder. He hears the whistle of a train, he starts shitting his skivvies and all that's left for him is a life on the dole. That'd be quite the pisser, right?"
He sat up slowly , and in the pale, flavescent light of the street lamps behind us I could make out a puffy, reddish face with a tiny knob of Plasticine for a nose and huge, sticky-out ears. It looked like his brain had satellite reception. Add a pair of pouty fish lips and slicked-back, thinning hair and he eerily resembled a blown-up fetus. Meeting that mug in the mirror every morning might make me suicidal, too.
I stretched out my hand and, though he hesitated a bit, he finally grabbed it and pulled himself up. Of course there was no civil way to bid him adieu now. You save a guy 's life and you're stuck with him for a time. So we took a detour and headed for a round-the-clock kiosk. Well, I was heading, Geoff scuffled behind, soles dragging over the pavement, punctuating every second step with a soggy snuffle. Obviously the time to listen to his sad tale had now come—and assuming it would take some time, I bought two huge cans of Elephant beer and wiggled one in front of his Play-Doh beezer.
" I don't really drink."
Who said never to trust a guy wh o doesn't drink?
" Getting run over by a train may be a bit more hazardous to your health than a brew, pal." I said and took a long draught, while Geoff stared at his can like an alien artifact before nipping some. Immediately his face contorted. It was the strangest sight—his features all seemed to skid and then tighten in the middle as if someone was trying to Hoover up his
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