Skinhead hair and hollow-eyed stares – three bodies were found in a park, flesh peeled off their faces, fingers removed and a bullet blasted through their teeth to prevent identification. This, at any rate, is what the gossip merchants would have you believe. The truth is rather more prosaic and subsequently less believable for being so: self-defence, skittles, Kings Cross – these words have no business associating with one another.
Bone, blood and brain soak in and stops the Salitter “drying from the earth.” That’s the story, at least. I call bullshit, and I call a spade a spade – this is abandonment, pure and simple. God on a pension plan but somehow still running the show; the best analogy: Berlusconi fucking us all in a cosmic bunga bunga party.
These aren’t people, these are diseased coke-addled denizens on a gossip bender. Tongues wag when the glossy invite hits, but a welcome party hosted by a psychopath is too delicious to resist. Delicious, yes, but not as delicious as the punch – the recipe? some Heaven’s Gate book left by a previous tenant – spiked as it is by good intentions and the milk of human kindness.
A lie isn’t freedom, that’s middle management talk, and if you can’t have freedom for yourself, organise it for six sables, and chalk up another win for the devil in hell. Take it on trust, and on faith and when it all turns to shit if you can still take it on the chin, I’ll take my hat off to you, sir. I am solemn.
Written on Monday, 16 July 2012