Short story II

Current mood: chipper
Category: Writing and Poetry


On the count of seven Fine Flying Finn went through the door after have been sitting counting to seven for at least three quarters of an hour

Finally he's on his way to face destiny once more...

The world outside seemed to lack in colour, well, there was enough of grey.

But as his hypo allergic pet Five-legged-lacy, the stick insect, said;

-Hey man, the sky ain't greyed...its fuckin' silver, right...

In her mancunion accent everything sounded just a touch heavier, like you'd put a drumstick through the throat or somethin'...but it made you feel like every word was said with an effort, so it just gotta be true..



So Fine Flying Finn posed for a half second after he said seven, then, as said,

sprung to the door, opened the giant piece of battered wood with green flaky strips of old paint

The gate back and forth to hell or heaven. You never knew which one was on each side..

He clasped his raisin wrinkly eyelids together, just couldn't face the day..

Get yourself together man!

Sort it out! Don't wanna be a fuckin' freak, like those fuckers who's on anti-depressing pills..Cause they can't seem to be able to face the day..


He swallowed some saliva while gathering himself.

Folded up his eyelids, and fought his light sensitive eyes to stare right out, ignoring the bloody tears that exploded like a fountain when daylight hit them.

Hell, shit fuckers...cunt faces...billboard arses...

He kept cursing to himself, making up new ones as he walked along the road to the bus stop...

He felt more stable after a while, creating swear words like; menstruation bitch, lip-sucker-twat and so on. Not at anyone specific, just getting back to shape...

Maybe he'd sell this cure for fear, creating curses, have like, workshops or whatever they're called to learn people how to leave their houses without stuffing their arses full of white little pills, mothers little helpers, shit ones...


He knew 'bout these little fuckers, since the last serious girl he was seeing, four years ago.

Was constantly munching away on something medical, with droopy eyes, she stared at him with nothing shining through, just empty...he used to slap her lightly and shag her like a bull to try to wake her up, finally one day she legged out of the house when he flushed down all her gear down the loo...the whole pillbox...He felt as though he'd been cheated on, by those pills, he just couldn't stand them.


He preferred to curse whole day through to manage being around other people, especially on the fuckin' public transport

What the hell was wrong with people, not only they stared as though their eyeballs would pop out of their bloody heads, they stank like old shit hole as well...

-Wash your fucking ass, use some fucking soap!!

He shouted on the street, when one man passed him with a stench like nothing you felt before, maybe if you'd been stranded somewhere, like Calais, waiting for the ferry to take you over, but constantly missed the boat so you had to sleep on a hard green ergonomically shaped chair, drinking yourself to sleep, for a fortnight, then sticking your hand down your pants for some pleasant scratching, and shockingly getting your secret smell when trying to take another sip of your beer, anyway, it's a good wake up call to get you back on track....

Just like that sinful smell, that made you wanna get a hose and detergent to wash away...

-Man, keep that stench to yourself!

He got on the bus, nodding his head, sticking his chin out in a mean manner,

Like as if he was listening to some house music, although he wasn't, since he had a bit of a phobia for keeping his ears plugged off in public.

You never knew who'd hit you from behind...


Fine Flying Finn got off the bus next to the jobcentre, he was late, and knew he had to get back another day to sign on, he cursed a bit more, but his cure seemed to had worn off by this point, maybe he used it all up?

Like in a computer game, you need to load up for more power, he'd shot his gun empty...

He queued up, and the oldish looking security guy was eyeing him, as he slandered him quietly before speaking

-It's a late signing....well I gotta get a new appointment...

He sorted all his shit out at the jobcentre, fanning his shirt, his upper lip dripping of sweat, licking the salty taste as he left the most horrible building he knew of today

One day, he'd get paid for having such a genius mind, someday, and then he could look back at the man and ask him to brush his shoe with the ugly mop of hair, for a grand...

That's right, he'd fuckin' give the old security guy a grand to brush Fine Flying Finns shoe shiny like his grannies pennies...Cause Fine Flying Finn ain't no cheapskate...

The though made him turn his thin lips upwards, and he felt like the man of his mind.


He bought some fig rolls in the corner shop and stared at the girls queuing in front of him.

Maybe he'd get a girlfriend?

Maybe he'd go out on Saturday and not get shit-faced, just have a few pints and get all smooched up, like say things like; -I read this book, blab la, well whatever, he knew he could charm the pants of any girl if he was just acting an equal part interested, then not interested then shy and then confident, the ladies lust loved that whole lad show...

But just the thought of it made him extremely tired and carsick as he watched the girls in front of him looking so confident and smiling at each others jokes, so he'd just paid for his fig-rolls, and hurried home to Five-legged-lacy and his computer game...


He'd stop along the way to give Tony the tumbler a call; he might be up for something...anything, since Fine Flying Finn couldn't get away from his own private un-satisfying feeling.

Tony the tumbler was clever in a, he loathed the word but it had to be said,

sensitive kind of way...He never butted in on any subject that wasn't alright to be talked 'bout...he waited till the right time to speak and then normally got it right...

Fine Flying Finn hurried his fingers to make the call for salvation of the day...

Though he never ever said a word of appreciation to Tony,

But surely just the company of his was enough, he even bought the fig-rolls, Tony wasn't called the tumbler for nothing, he loved eating..

The idiot tumbler didn't pick up his phone!

Hell, all credit he just gave him for being clever got lost like a fart in the wind...


Fuck FUCK FUCK FUCK fuck...devil shat himself and blamed the sinnerman..

Fine Flying Finn got his head sown on his knees and tried to beat the shit out of the pavement as a repay,

The street cracked one hit after another, his iron-fist was like a sledgehammer, he was great like that, his superpowers made his knuckles grow and his fingernails became like 3inch nails as he cut the barbwire off his face..while struggling to free the fig-rolls from the fat arsed tumbler, dumb-arsed fucker, who...

Then Finns phone rang.

-Alright geezer?...sure, I'm around....

I'm some Fine Flyin' Fucker, he swore to himself and got the crumpled up fig-rolls from the street and put it in his pocket..


It'd been Gorje, or something like that, he was some eastern European refugee character or something, who lived in a squat round the corner,

The Russian had the most fucked up eating habits Finn ever seen..not that he ever put much notice to other creatures diet, except for five-legged-Lucy's of course, well she only ever had leafs really, and reefers..he chuckled a tension too high, cleared his throat and slouched round the back of the alley to get to Gay-Gorjy's place, he only called him that cause he couldn't think of anything else to name him, and he'd never seen him with a bird anyway..

Well, when Gorjy been held arrested for terrorist-plan-suspicion by the coppers,

his alibi apparently had been that he stayed tha particular nite at some bitches house in Hackney.

He'd told Fine Flying Finn all this while he ate some ape-food, well really, it had been catfood, mixed with some sour milk he'd found in Somerfields throw-outs, he'd been scuffing it all down, sour milk running down the side of his mouth all down his beard-patched chin as his jaw chewed away on both Russian accented words and dried pieces of liver, duck feet and what the hell they put in pound-stretchers pet-food.

He'd appreciate the fig-rolls.


Knocked seven times on the wonky door to the squat and some wind-blown smackhead-look-alike opened, empty eyed, mouth half opened, it made him wanna put his fist in there to see if the idiot even fucking notice...

-Yeah?

-Gorje

-Yeah

-Yeah, Gorje, I'm here to see Gorje, mate

-Uh, sure..

That's bloody it, he deserved more in life than standing hanging around some shitty quarter of a door to some half of a house...

Smelling of cat shit and all, he stepped in and walked to the kitchen, where Gorje usually where sitting watching TV, as he where today as well...

-Hey, Fine Fly!

He couldn't even say his name in a proper way, but decided to let it go,

he was a foreigner,

And he'd escape some prison or some bad work or something..



He could relate to that...once Fine Flying Finn had to work in Harrods warehouse, it only lasted a couple of weeks, but it was fucked up, he had to wear some green plaid all button up, and all staff had to walk in a special staff entrance, like sheeps, every hell-made morning...it made him wanna puke his guts up every fucking new day at 8am...so sure, he could relate to Gorje, so what if he called him a fine fly, it had a twang of Curtis Mayfield, yeah, Fine Flying Finn had soul...


He scratched his balls and nodded as he threw the fig-rolls on the table...pretended not to see the intense stare from the smack-head fuckwit that followed him down to the kitchen...

As Gorje was munching away on the sweet fig-rolls, Finn started feeling funny again, like really fucking uncomfortable, itching and almost nauseas as the smell of this rat-like people breeding their body fluids as stinky as they could ever manage...Their flees where running all down his shirt as the walls were woo-wooing at him and the ceiling sank towards his head...he got up and got out without a word.

-Fly, fine Fly?

He heard the Russian shout his made up name after him, almost choking on those bloody fig-rolls, he hoped he would, and that the smack-head squatter would suddenly get on top of Gorje and eat his throat open...as he imagined his last gurgles, he slammed the door after him and started running down the street,


Back to the old flaky door, where his sexy Five-legged-Lacy would be waiting for him, unless she'd been fucking herself with some twig she found, or maybe she could be using

her own leg?


As a man of scientism, he better check it out, why search outwards for some interesting shit, when it's just under your own bleeding nose...

Five giant steps to reach the door, 4 seconds to get keys out and open the lock, a bit more than a second to shut, and before the count of ten, he was safe inside.

It's all 'bout timing, cannot let the manmade world outside rule your life he thought as he fingered his way down some branch in his favourite living creature on earths glass box...

She smiled curiously as she wiggled her stick like body and said with her northern husky voice;

-Alright man, give us a wee winch, so to say welcome home..


'Cause, Home is where your heart is.