Cocaine Trash A Novel

So, I go to the co-op instead and buy meself a packet of strawberry laces. Could have got 3 for a pound but only had 80 p on me. At the till is my cunt of a friend Louis' mother, Angela. She tells me how he's been in bed all week with a really bad, prolonged hangover and cold. 'Hahahahaha,' I think to myself. He mixed his drinks and caught a cold- the plonker. He tried to get me to go out a few days ago, but I didn't because I spent all my money on whisky. So he goes out with some cunts and gets shitfaced. Hahaha, dick head.

My fantasy for Christmas is this. I go down to the sea at night and get pissed on whisky. How fucking great is that? I'll be lying there on the sand, too fucked to care about anything, forgetting my troubles.

SHOOT THAT CUNT NEXT DOOR, SHOOT HIM

So where the fuck am I? I'm in this messy room, on this fucked computer, typing on this keyboard extension. On the floor is a load of shit (metaphorically speaking). There's loads of rotting fruit; a bowl of rice with soy sauce that I couldn't eat because it's so fucking disgusting; a green cup with clementine peel inside; a bottle of soy sauce; a packet of cheesy balls (Tesco brand); 2 empty glasses; and a load of other shit. The 40 something beer bottles have been taken downstairs in an attempt to better myself. Couldn't better myself.

SUPERMARKET

I'm in the great, big mass of a supermarket, in the alcohol section, staring at the huge array of cans and bottles displayed rather attractively on rows of shelves. I skim each can, each bottle, trying to decide which one to buy. I'm finding it difficult to make up my mind. Do I want a bottle or a can? The trouble with cans, though, is that they really can make the beer taste all coarse, and it can really fuck up the experience of a good, inebriating drink.

As I frantically try to make up my mind which drink to buy, I'm getting all these stares from these sententious, sanctimonious cunts who think that they're somehow better than me because they're able to control their alcohol consumption; and they see me as this pathetic alcoholic degenerate, despite the fact that I actually have a fairly presentable appearance- my black leather jacket, sleek with the feel of quality leather; my neat little hair cut, which I happen to think makes me look remarkably like Steve Mcqueen; and my impeccable posture (alcoholics tend to slouch). I don't give a fuck what these monkeys think of me, these judgemental cunts.

Fuck I'm gonna get some good shit- a Heineken, a Hobgoblin, a Newcastle Brown maybe. That's it, I'm settling for one of each as they've got a deal here- 3 for £5 (in your face co-op!). I take advantage of it and put 3 bottles in my black plastic basket. They rattle beautifully as I take the basket over to the checkout.

As usual, it's this skinny pale faced cunt who serves me. He sits there by his till giving me sardonic glances like I'm a weirdo and he's the poor cunt who has to see that weirdo. Yea, well you're the one who works in this shithole ain't cha!

I put the basket up on the counter and get my money out to pay the irritating pale faced cunt.

'Do you need a bag?' he says to me, looking at me like I'm some kind of deranged lunatic on atypical antipsychotics.

'Do I need a bag?' I think. 'Of course I need a fucking bag ya cunt!'

We exchange eye contact for about 10 seconds before I reply. 'Yea, cheers.'

Taking out a plastic bag- and he takes his fucking time the cunt- he puts it on the other end of the counter for me to bag up the bottles. 'And that's £5,' he says to me; 'would you like a receipt?'

Stick that receipt up your arse mate. 'No, that's alright,' I say as I bag up the beer. I give him a small, discreet smile of mockery before swiftly moving towards the exit. 'Fucking little arse bandit,' I think to myself.

LAPTOP FOR SALE

I'm sitting on a bench with a can of Stella Artois in my hand. It's mid summer, but I'm still wearing this zipped up, sweat inducing leather jacket. Man do I feel hot. My forehead is exuding copious amounts of moisture, and I can tell that my febrile face is puffy with a rubicund complexion all over it. There's no way I could be any more subdued right now. I'm like jelly, that's what I'm like, like boneless inflexible matter.

I take the last swig of the can and, chucking it on the ground to my left, lean back in the bench and gaze out despondently in front. Amongst the speeding cars in the backdrop, which look a bit distorted and blurry in my slightly short sighted vision, I notice this parked shiny Mercedes Benz just next to the bicycle sheds opposite the nearby flats. 'Fucking Mercedes Benz,' I say, feeling small involuntary spasms in my cheeks and eyes. I stare at it for about 2 minutes until its silvery, glossy surface is virtually imprinted in my mind. 'A doctor's, a surgeon's, a salesman's, a fucking comedian's,' I start thinking; 'the car of a patent twatface.'

Keeping my gaze fixed on this obviously rich geezer's motor, I get up off the bench and start sauntering leisurely forward over to it. God my cardiovascular health is fucked; I can't even walk a little without it becoming a strenuous, laborious effort. I need to get more fresh air I think, definitely some more air.

I get over to the left side of the car and look about the area to see if there's anybody about. There's usually some cunt lurking somewhere, but I actually see nobody except for the cunts in their cars in the semi-obscured distance, cunts focused on their own sad little existences. I start peering through the windows, observing the car's snazzy leather interior- the gearstick looking like some black man's rigid cock- and then notice something in the right passenger seat. Well what do you know, there's a fucking laptop lying there. 'Stupid fucking cunt,' I think; 'cunt deserves to be robbed.'

I take one last look about the place, an attempted look of furtiveness and stealth on my face, and then, mildly satisfied that there's nobody appearing out of nowhere, hit at the window with my forearm. It's a lousy fucking effort, only a slight shudder in the glass, so I hit at it again. Still, no glass breaks, only an irritating pain in my elbow.

Stepping back from the car, I skim the ground with my sore, dry eyes for any rocks or large stones that I can use to smash that fucking window in; though, to my absolute dismay, I can't see any, not even a lousy fucking pebble about.

My luck soon changes however when I notice a load of rubble, broken toilets, and porcelain sinks to the left of the bicycle sheds sitting there squalidly in heaps of messy plaster dust that float up almost luminously towards the sun. Scratching my head, surprised that I didn't see them before, I walk in a slow gait over to the rubble and look down at a bunch of old, crumbling burgundy coloured bricks. There's a particularly nice sized one next to some old asbestos pipes, so I crouch down, tying not to vomit, or breathe in any of that asbestos shit, and pick it up. 'Will work a treat,' I think, nodding.

Within a few seconds, I'm strolling over to that rich geezer's motor, and I'm chucking that brick hard and forcefully against the window. As the glass shatters in one tumultuous go, the ear piercing and resonating sound of the car's alarm starts blasting out into the area. Fucking hell, that's gonna be a couple of days worth of tinnitus at least, I think, the wax in my ear-canals already building up.

Trying to be as quick as I can, I smash at the glass some more until the window's no more than a serrated, defunct frame of coarseness and then, leaning forward, stick both my arms through into the car. I grab that laptop- it looks likes one of those white snazzy little apple ones- and, after observing it, clasp it possessively between my arm and chest. For some reason, despite the ear piercing noise signifying that I should really get the fuck out of the area A.S.A.P, I just stand there by the car, peering about the place in some kind of strange, altered state of consciousness. There's flickering flashes of lightning in the sky; and there's black halos in my vision that move about like dots in an old, projected film. Fuck, what an eerie fucking feeling.

Once I snap myself out of this freakishly quaint moment in time, I proceed to jog off in the opposite direction, away from the area and over to the nearby subway. I accelerate my speed slightly when I hear the bestial sounds of a dog barking incessantly from inside one of the flats. If there's one thing that always kick-starts my legs, then it's the barks of a vicious, wolf like dog.

Soon I'm outside the subway, and, slowing down, I'm able to start thinking about good things. 'This should get me a nice little sum of money,' I think, envisioning translucent sachets of white cocaine and the nice shapely derrières of Czech Republic escorts. 'Should be able to get at least 200 quid for this; looks relatively new, tip top as a matter of fact. Could really do with a charger, but fuck it, somebody will definitely buy this snazzy little device.'

I descend into the graffiti riddled subway, the shade in the shelter alleviating the puffiness in my face, and head off back home.

SOME NOT GUILTY DREAM

'All I can say is that I am not guilty your honour.' These are the words uttered by me as I adjust my sleek black tie to the top of my white shirt while gazing admiringly at myself in the hall's long 18th century mirror. I take my hands off my tie for a moment and, raising my hands up in the air, do an impression of a cool, poised convict protesting his innocence. 'Not guilty your honour,' I say, laughing raucously. 'Haha, the cunts never gonna get me. Oh no. Never, ever, gonna get me.' With a devilish grin expanding widely on my face, I get back to adjusting my tie and whistle in tuneful leisure.

Once I'm happy with my attire, I walk on into the kitchen where my wife, Angela, is sitting down eating toast. She sits with her feet on the chair, her legs pressed up to her chest, concealing her big, voluptuous breasts, and glances at me as I walk on into the room. She doesn't say anything; she just eats her croissant and sips at the fine black coffee she's drinking from in an elegant 18th century porcelain cup. Man do I love the 18th century. I love the literature; I love the antiques; I love pretty much everything about the 18th century, the only exception: that burdening beast called syphilis.

'Right, give me a kiss,' I say, walking over to my beautiful and glamorous fucking wife. 'But I want a good kiss. I want to feel those pink, plump lips of yours. I want to feel them like I felt them on my cock the other night.'

Reluctantly, as if it's some kind of demeaning chore to her, she puts her crust of toast that she was nibbling on down on her plate and leans forward to kiss her loving husband. She makes sure it's a prolonged, sensuous kiss, and that I get the full benefit of those blow-job friendly lips. Fuck I love those kisses; they sure make me hard straight away, with an abundance of thriving, dominant lust wrecking shameful havoc in my body. She makes sure her warm, lightly sodden tongue slips into my mouth and entwines amorously and steamily with mine. Man, it makes me hard, hard with a capital fucking H.

Withdrawing from her, I gaze at her licentiously. She's a beautiful, big breasted woman with oval shaped sea-green eyes that lay elegantly situated in her optimally structured face. As I watch her sitting there, her long, copper red hair draping over her graceful shoulders, I debate fucking her. I know she wouldn't mind; she always seems up for it; especially in the morning when, like me, she's always stricken with the raging exploit that is horniness.

Deciding to skip it, I walk over to the coffee machine, near the sink, that's just percolated the finest coffee and pour some into one of my 18th century porcelain cups. Taking a large sip, I glance over at Angela, who's still taking dainty, elegant bites of her croissant with her fingers.

'You look beautiful in that shirt, Angela,' I say, embracing the taste of the coffee and the sight of a woman who always makes me feel so fucking libidinous and lasciviously corrupt.

Angela looks up at me, half smiling, and then back down at her slowly diminishing croissant. 'You're gonna wear that in court then?' she says.

'Yea, something black too. Something real fuckin' black.'

Glancing back up at me, Angela draws a pensive expression. 'Aren't you nervous about getting found guilty and going to prison?'

'Fucking nonsense Angela, fucking nonsense,' I say, shaking my head in rebuttal. 'I'm not going to fucking prison; I'm a fuckin' playa Angela. No way am I going to prison; the judge is gonna proclaim me a mother fuckin' prophet by the end of it all. A mother fuckin' prophet I tell ya.'

Angela frowns. 'You know sometimes Darren, I think you drink and snort too much shit, I really do.'

'Ha,' I laugh. 'Not a fucking chance.'

TRUCKIN' WITH COREY

I wake up in bed, at Corey's house. My mind's like a zombie's. Immediately I drink some water in a large coco cola glass. Throat's a bit soar today; sleep wasn't as good as it could have been. I think the grey jeans I've been wearing didn't help: belt (BLACK) was tough. I go downstairs. Corey is sitting on his nice comfy sofa, his laptop on his lap, skimming through his Facebook updates. I head into the kitchen with my glass and pour some Evian water into it. Man I need to cleanse myself a little from all this shit I've been subjecting my body to. I squeeze juice out from a lime into the water, drink some of it, and chop up some garlic Corey's got on his side. I wash it down my throat and close my eyes.

It's a bit later, and I help Corey out in doing his rounds. He gets some E and K from this fat cunt outside Norwich Castle, while I have arguments in my head with strange people- fucking coke's been fucking my head up I tell ya. 'Fuck off,' I constantly tell them and, 'I'm going to have you killed.' Sometimes they even do fuck off.

Corey contemplates going to this place to meet some cunt who occasionally buys stolen shit from me but wants something to eat first. We walk into a small café and walk past cheesecakes and other sweet stuff. Black signs here are advertising fry ups, which they have stopped serving for the day. We look at food in a big glass container. Corey immediately says that he wants whatever the yellow cheesy stuff is (it's macaroni and cheese). When the woman serving asks Corey what he wants with the cheese pasta, Corey replies that he would like peas. I have curry sauce and chicken with carrots and chips.

We get to the drink section. I ask Corey if he wants a Pepsi. He does, so I pour a Pepsi for him (he gets the Pepsi regular cups). I pour out a Pepsi for myself and hear Corey making a remark about Pepsi being bad for fertility. I make a remark about coke being equally as bad.

I pick up the tray with the food on it and carry it over to the till area. 'Please don't drop it,' Corey jokes, noticing my hands shaking a little. It all comes to about £13. I go to sit down, averting my eyes from everybody. Corey is getting the knives and forks. I choose a table at the very back of the restaurant. It is a 4 seat table, but I don't give a fuck. Corey comes over and puts the knives and forks on the tray. He has also brought 2 sachets of ketchup for the chips. We eat up. Corey says his pasta is very cheesy. It looks very crispy from where I'm sitting. I'm sitting with my back to everybody else. The chicken curry is nice. I ask Corey if he would like some; he says maybe later. We talk. I apologise to Corey about my low mood. He tells me to stop being a cunt. I actually take my leather jacket off and reveal my red, hippie like shirt; I feel much better for doing this. We talk about going to an army shop. We exchange bits of our food. I think Corey will particularly like the curry that I'm eating, so I give it to him. We leave. The food has started to make me fucking drowsy.

We cross a road and decide to go into head and the clouds- a shite excuse for a head shop (if you want a real 'head' shop, take a trip to your local pharmacy). We go inside. The staff members have already gotten on my nerves with their fucking false double talk. We look at boxes with engraved cannabis logos on them; tacky little earrings; massive porcelain bongs; and other stuff. I find a clothes section that I inform Corey about. He is astounded by the amount of eccentric clothes that the shop possesses. We look at trousers and shirts. I have £35 on me that is actually Corey's. Corey decides to buy a nice little £21 orange shirt and an orange head band. I graciously decide to pay for the items, telling him that it's 'my treat' (in spite of it being from money Corey has leant me). Corey is overjoyed by my graciousness. When he insists on paying me back, I tell him that it's OK and that I want to buy him these items. Corey finds the attitude of the male staff member who's serving hysterical, as he has to write something down or else 'he might forget it.' I am not convinced with this 'stoner' act either. Total nobhead. We leave, looking at the flyers on the wall.

The army shop is shut, so we decide to go down St. Benedict's Street instead. There is a free art exhibition on, so we go inside. We look about the place. Shite art. Most of it is for sale. I have £10 left on me. I wonder if I can buy Corey something for £10. I get a kind of Déjà vu as I realise that this is a church. I have been to an art exhibition at a church before, I think. There is a nice picture somebody has drawn of Jimi Hendrix, but it's £35. I can't help but find all this art a bit smug. I tell Corey that I think the artists' have big egos. Corey can sense jealousy in my voice; I can too. We decide to go off to Morrison's and then back to Corey's.

NEED A BLACK BOOTY

'I need some black booty,' I say to Corey, feeling aroused, as we walk up Prince of Wales Rd. I've just seen the dirtiest, wildest booty shakin' dance from some black bird at Lace, and let me tell you it was immense. 'What a sight. I tell you Corey, I'd love to enter that smooth, divine arse,' I continue, my hand moving dangerously close to my crotch.

Corey looks at me with frowning eyes. 'You need to get some booty action fast mate,' he says.

'I intend to,' I say. 'God, if only I had a smartphone like you; I could get an escort at this time of hour.'

Putting his hand in his jacket pocket, Corey takes out his sleek, shiny mobile. 'Here, check out one of those punting sites on this, I'm sure you'll find some great piece of booty.'

At the sight of the snazzy little phone, my eyes light up like an igniting, flame-heavy match. 'Cheers mate. I want a black girl with a big, big booty,' I say; 'a fucking big ass booty.'

'There's loads from the Caribbean on punterlink.com, trust me, I've seen em there.'

'I could do me some reggae jeggae action on my cock followed by a straight up bj,' I say, accentuating the last syllable in perfect jocular style.

I start surfing the internet on the phone to find some local escorts. I take a couple of minutes skimming through the various girls until I find one who matches what I'm looking for. 'Ah, here's one,' I say; '19 years old with a massive black ass, perfect.' Licking my lips with an almost gluttonous appetite coming on, I smile smugly. 'Says she's available today; gotta be fake.'

'Let's have a look at this piece of booty,' says Corey, eagerly reclaiming his phone. 'Hope she's as legal as she says she is.'

'Trust me, this girl's legal alright. I mean look at her fucking booty. You wouldn't get a fucking girl under 18 with a booty that fleshed out.'

'She probably is, still, better to be sure.'

'Corey man, I'm so fucking horny that I actually couldn't give a fuck. Man, I fuckin' love black birds; I fuckin' love em.' I feel practically drunk on spirituous lust at the sight of the big black ass girl.