Slasherman
Up his wall - pee
(It's the last thing you'll see...)
From behind his stained net curtains, Slasherman stood to attention - his ageing eyes eager to catch yet another drunken urinator.
The flickering street light three doors along buzzed as the moonlight formed a circular patch on the pavement outside his garden.
Slasherman didn't have long to wait.
For three years, four months and two weeks - ever since the
Pickled Newt had opened - his tatty brick wall had been coated.
The smell was revolting. The sight: worse. So bad in fact, that Slasherman (whose real name is kept anonymous) decided. He had had enough. After countless shouting sprees and window whacks and the deceasement of his remaining hair strands, Slasherman had reached his limit.
- - - -
A middle-aged pony-tailed chap, stumbling like a bear with blistered feet, was the first.
He was a regular. To be exact: a pisshead of the highest order.
On this particular night, twenty minutes after closing time, a huge jet of dark yellow brew painted a piece of modern art against the mortar-crumbling barrier.
The bus - the number 23 to be precise - was, as usual, running late. And, with cheeks as
plump as beef tomatoes, caution flew out of Slasherman's window.
Down his carpet-less stairs he shot, each creak winding him up further. Within ten seconds there was a slash that swept through the darkened breeze with a double-dose of adrenaline.
The barefooted yielder - Slasherman -quickly smothered the pursuing screams with his antique handkerchief as he dragged the swaying belly of beer through his garden gate, into his damp kitchen.
Then - just as forecast - a heavy downpour enveloped the community.
- - - -
The second was a younger guy. Mid-twenties at best.
Like a sunflower in a storm he danced side to side frantically as he plastered the wall with his nozzle.
SWOOP.
SLASH.
Drowned-out scream.
Drag.
The same pattern - this time, perhaps through experience - faster.
- - - -
Next up was an elderly man - probably in his seventies.
The same routine - with increased speed once again.
SWOOP.
SLASH.
Drowned-out scream.
Drag.
Every potential evening, Slasherman would tune in behind his bedroom protectors. With his lights off and his pupils scanning, there was often a lonely wasted figure, waiting. Waiting to be picked like a mushroom.
- - - -
Glass jars - rinsed of their former tenant's stickiness, sat. And, wearing a grin which exposed his yellow teeth and black gums, Slasherman stared in awe.
Carefully written labels, with times and dates and (I presume) "false" names coated the lids; but floating inside diluted ponds of blood were: PENISES.
Severed cocks - as wrinkled as walnuts and shrivelled as prunes. Up and down they bobbed as Slasherman shook each jar vigorously.
This hobby seemed to turn him on. Pleasure like no other appeared to surround his being as his eyes remained fixated on the dismembered willies and their swirly red rapids.
- - - -
The stink! Oh my gosh. The stink - it was ATROCIOUS. No words can explain truly, but rotting flesh in a compost heap is sort of justifiable.
And the poster! Well, more If a squiggled motto on a sheet of A5 taped to his fridge door - where the non-functioning penises were housed when not in use:
SLASH ON MY WALL
SLASH MY SCYTHE GOES.
EACH DAY MY LIBRARY
VOLUME RANGE GROWS!
But this was just the start of it...
Pumpkins! Large and small. Along the mantelpiece as beside the WALL on each bare stair they rested. Every single one was manipulated bizarrely! But these pumpkins didn't have eyes. Or mouths. Nothing of a facial resemblance was etched upon them. Instead...
- - - -
Fingers and toes! Even teeth were plugged randomly into each pumpkin. "Pumpkin heads are dead!" Slasherman said. " But the body remains. Live on does it - free of pains. "
A white candlestick was poked into the crown of every pumpkin - and lit.
But the next part - the following scene, made this one sick Halloween:
Testicles! Loose. Each one prepared. And at them, yes, MY eyeballs glared! For I was there, throughout this whole episode; this entire trip.
A chain of testicles he - Slasherman - wore. Around his skinny neck they hung, threaded carefully onto a frayed shoelace.
And, as 8 p.m. approached, the party; the ritual; the event was (once more) ready to begin.
- - - -
Slasherman slotted his CD into his stereo. Then he cranked up the volume to max.
The sound of distressed elephants and whining cows, mixed with a seriously unusual tribal chant, which was in a language I had never heard, blared out.
Round the living room he danced, the curtains drawn and a purple bulb aiding the atmosphere. Incense sticks (about a hundred) were burning and the scent - choking.
In slow ovals he glided, his eyelids closed and the testicles jigging as his tongue wiggled about like a psychotic snake.
The juice! The syrup-mixture: thick and dark red and bloody awful. Every other oval spin warranted another sip from the wine glass.
I just watched. In horror. "Cock and horror" I named this recreation.
As the days grew, the cocks did too - not liberally.
As well as the living room, up and down the pumpkin-bodied staircase he twirled, sipping the red stuff and exposing his tongue. The candles were a terrible fire hazard; but that was the least of my concerns:
As the penis jars began to own the fridge, it was difficult to make a sandwich. On more than one occasion I remember the cheese being squeezed tight between a curly and fat pair. Droplets of "the red" even splashed onto my sliced beef.
I was becoming fed up, I can tell you.
But, that night, whilst the stereo was hibernating and the willies chilling, I lay in bed. Thinking. Until...
- - - -
Five cans of Special Brew I've glugged. It is 9:44 p.m. Still a prolific boozer.
"Burst bladder" I'm agonising. Sod it. Now I'm letting it free. Ahhhhh! (Urine splash on bottom half of page. Ha!) It flows like the Amazon! Hang on...
"I can't continue," I just mumbled, as the pissing spree did.
My Jason Voorhees hockey mask has made breathing difficult. My face feels uncomfortable: very sweaty.
I don't want to go on like this. The secret's out. No more brotherly hush-hush.
Won't be long...
Laterz.
P.S.
If you find this notebook - don't slash up someone's wall. You never know...