Real Strange Vibes Volume 10, Al Calm [kiss me liar novel english .txt] 📗

Though I'd totally watch it if it like actual porn, DVDA all kindsa mad shit, then ITV n E4 would have a real winner I guess.

 

I'm sure me comedown fuckin' me reality drift all up. Totally get it real heavy like proper fuckin' serious, so it real mad people snuffed it, but I don't get it still. It like far out bat guano flu? I think it a control vibe too – what else to keep pushin' people – though like Sweden, I didn't bother lockin' down. Good like gettin' any fine dollarino outta me!

 

I'm a zombie anyway. Took some synthetic shit straight outta China via Dam, made me feel real weird - all cloud like, float way, feel like me feet are fallin' off gotta lotsa pins n needles - man, me fingers slip through me brain. Shit even me can of Stella dissolves in me hand! Where it fuckin' go, keep puttin' shit down anyway, keep fuckin' forgettin' everythin', fuckin' mad!

 

Light another zoot, it a bit of Amnesia, chuff through the haze, as I look for me beer. Shit, where did that other beer go? Zoot gone out, but find another lighter super-quick, like sweet fucking as it a brand new Clipper.

 

Fuck it, me beer had got all warm anyways. Throat still fuckin' kills.

 

All fuckin' holograms, hear Bungle Bob laugh. Got some HPD shit, heard it about it off some thing online. HD? HTID? High Definition? Hardcore Til I Die sure heard of em but not HPD.

 

I drop some more piparzine, as it real cheap, got loads off it at Pets at Home, then I luckily find some wicked little Gold Bars – these are clean as fuck, the wickedest high, leave me door on its latch – fuck all there worth stealin' – sure me niece supposed to bop round, brats in tow, I don't givva shit no more – I'll text I''m out. I've gotta meet Bungle Bob.

 

After nearly blackin' out on shitty bus, scare everyone on there, me mask rolled around me forehead end up lookin' like Karate fuckin' Kid, so I tells it to Bungle Bob, all about fuckin' shut up bullshit, all over been locked up to shit.

What really goin' on? I ask Bungle Bob.

 

Bungle Bob shrugs and says: Fuck knows, Zol, can't be fucked to watch or listen to the news, too many plums chattin' shit - it hurts me fuckin' brain, like really fuckin' hurts - y' get me?

I agree with him, I need to score. Bungle Bob chuckles away, slurps on his whiskey – bottle a day some real a mad habit. He says he drinks more on furlough. Keeps Treasury happy though! We keep gettin' fined by jobsworths, keep tell us to watch news but we're blazin' it at parks, sun or rain. Even Plod don't bother explain shit any more. It all a fuckin' con – welcome to hypocritical Toryland.

Not like can handle these zero hour numbers - you need to be a soldier to handle it long-term, ring people up at a drop of a hat n all, even when I spark up another zoot. Contract should be king, let me chuff in me own time.

Fuck it all nowadays, fries me nerves - real pleased knock all the zero hour shit down - prefer to snore off whole world on Blighty's tax free allowance - definitely got a long wait for UC to go all UBI!

 

Shit Bungle Bob's really piled it on, he's ballooned. Never known a black man to be on the Jimmy Five Bellies diet plan It blatantly as he not doing as many decent pills, he piled on the pounds. Only clocked it. Bungle Bob a jolly fat giant dumplin', proper fatty boom boom, a real sweet sugar Shrek - even see his massive chunky cock through his saggy trackies, he always does it rockin' commando, tells me he saves shitloads of wedge on kippered boxers!

 

Well funny, though Bungle Bob a real legend. He always knows what goes on, even when fuck all meant to be on. I bop up to Bungle Bob, see him n think man, he like a giant now. He always tall, maybe I got a case of the shrinks, me knees always been fucked. It like Bungle suddenly gets much bigger n I'll vanish become small go invisible - whoosh away in a haze of smoke, though the psychedelic warlord got to be Bungle Bob.

Standard Zolly, Bungle Bob tells me. Sparks up a zoot. Chuffs hard, Bungle Bobs says: What a load of shit, Zee, you heard it? Rules on it all, fuck it. I hate it. I got a non-job, me job gone. I'm done. I always thought it a real safe job it fucked.

What can I fuckin' say? Rock n roll it like us? It'll be all cool Bob, look on the bright side bruv - least you can get totally mash up much longer now!

Zol Solar - Trust me, juzz a original sunnyside up fuckhead!

We crack up. We remember Chazz Chucklehead, he got real fried, went from worldwide waster traveller to porno full moon messiah – heard he got crippled in a car park in Croydon. Never see him about nowadays – God, only texted him other day if he had more Flakka. Salford John inside, fuckin' lost it so is Goofy Gaz n whathisface. It sad when people get fined n done every fuckin' time – only want a good time, they're real chilled too when it's cool, they're not naturally angry people.

 

Trollo bells me up out of blue, all raspy: Where in fuck's name are yer, Zollz?

 

What? Trollo?

 

What? Trollo goes all muffled, he chuffin' down blower as usual!

 

I stick me battered burner on speaker, to ask Trollo, Yeh man, where in fuck we meant to be at?

 

Trollo corpses, can hear him proper crackin' up like total full on hysterics. Coughs up a mad viral load of sinus oyster, hear him hock it all out.

 

Trollo, I don't remember shit! I yell down me blower.

 

Zol, you's a fuckhead, you never remember shit!

 

Yeh fuck it – what else gotta remember?

 

Trollo crackin' up with some static on me line, Bungle even laughs between slurps of whiskey. Sure, it true, I kinda been skivvin' a real long time, like real rock n roll hustle, too many shit jobs to mention plus no fuckin' pension – wing n a prayer really, it's all a load of shit anyway. I doubt I'll see it out till seventy. Not like want silver service, but I had it ages back with all this temp zero shit, it started to muck me head up - it kinda already fucked to be honest, but guess it another place, another time.

 

As Trollo chuffs, he says: I'm at Mel's gaff – it all cleared out, four tea bags, scoop of coffee, no sugar though Mel's got two hundred Blue Chiefs left. Lightish blue, not bad, like powdered gee-aitch-bee maybe mixed with bit of two-cee-bee?

 

Yeh, typical though save me some BC's – yeh, they weren't bad. Still same price?

 

Course, bruv, fer you's always!

 

Nice one – oh yeh, Trollo where in fuck was that other rave on? We'll meet you there later - I just met up wiv Bob, man, we're like gonna bop to Welham Green then go on a mosey.

 

Try to get to Moor Park later, you can bop it – some massive gaff between Northwood n Ricky, meant to be all goin' off – even got a port-a-loo!

 

Nice one, Trolly, cheers tippin' us, should be real cool. We'll try to make it, what happened to that warehouse in Clapton?

 

Think it got raided last week, heard fuck all since. See wiv it, gotta know promoter or can't get in – it like all hush, real eighty-eight vibes, I guess. Like a private club. I know him it all cool, he got another one lined up, I'll let you know so be all sweet wimme so don't be late!

 

All cool, it sweet, we won't. I was gonna bell Clive but dude always fuckin' moans about childcare, fuckin' leave brats get on wiv it but he won't! Bungle don't give a fuck.

Bungle nods; yeah man, he shouts through slurps, squirts be a right pain, if it ain't a Shambala don't bother takin' em! Fuckin' headshit fer sure!

 

Cool Trollz, cool, see y'later! I go as I hang up, hear Trollo in a coughin' fit as I hang up. Hope he OK, but then hope we all OK - I ain't gotta Scoob about muvvafuckin' shitty fuckin' bat flu. Ain't stoppin' me ravin' get shitfaced anyway. Stuck with Bungle Bob, he gonna start getting messy. I need to puke, it only way I can come up again. Puke out me guts. I fuckin' hate food anyway – I keep sayin' I only like fuckin' pills. Proper bangin' decent disco biscuits. We got to find Digby Dawood. Digby's got in more research compounds what are still only legal on a technicality. Beats more Chinese paint thinner again, bruv!

Bungle cracks up, he can't stop creasin', laughs like he on nitrous but we hate hippy crack fuckin' with our bangin' pills – these red Teslas don't fuck around. Our eyes poppin' outta our brains!

 

Hear bass, fuckin' love a messy house party. Fuckin' dead when we get there, no fuckers there, we thought it'd be packed. Huge open plan gaff, no fucker about, some teenager in a hoodie asleep on the sofa while the system got tunes on a repeat cycle. Jump up, load of shitty fart music. No wonder no one there. It not like a good time. We think about having a walkabout the gaff, the bedrooms all locked up maybe some orgy shit going on.

 

I try to ring Zippy, it's him who invited us but his mobile goes straight to fuckin' voicemail. Whatta joker! Trust Zippy to rip us up. We go in the kitchen, help ourselves to some drinks, there's much left. It been all cleaned out, fuck all in their fridge.

Looks like we're on the orange squash, Bungle.

Bungle laughs as he sparks a fat zoot, changes the tunes. Sticks on a Warpedcore live Calling the Hardcore mix off Soundcloud. All of a sudden, we feel buzzin' – Bungle takes out his pills counts em; girly-boy teen snores on the giant sofa, looks like they've pissed themselves. Maybe too much pink ket, who fuckin' knows? Anyway, we ain't hangin' here. I book a cab, piggyback their wifi off Bungle's busted phone, using some bird called Jodie's Uber account.

 

We'll see her later, Bungle Bob tells me - Jodie's all cool. Mature lady real intelligence, don't muck about either. I can't even remember her but Bungle says I know her from time ago, from way back when! Bungler Bob even tells he got footage of me eating out Jodie's sloppy pussy as if me life depended on it, but fuck me if I remember too far back.

Bungle slurs at me, Yeh man, bitin' up her pussy flaps, tryin' to stretch em while she pushed your head down. Later she stuck her finger up y'arse n shat all over place, real funny.!

Seriously? I doubt it man, sure I fuckin' known, I like to keep records of all me weird shits. Makes me worry about some fucked guy in U.S.A who farted outta his cock n shot outta his arsehole. Rectal ejaculation, can y' get it? Can anyone really imagine batty cummin'?

 

Bungle Bob cracked up for a while then reminded me that Jodie wants to us to get to some posh gaff near to Moor Park. Gotta keep doin' it as Bungle says lockdown plod lookin' fine people; fine without thinkin' about it all fine folk right off, walkin' n talkin' doin' jack. Plod are a mare, though I don't get any fuckin' lockdown. Costs a bomb in cabs but it not bad here. Bungle still creasin' up as he counts out a coupla hundred pills. Those beauties only fer today!

Yeh, Zol, if we get more, we'll weigh 'em, it a piss take count 'em