BASEMENT BLUES

Patrice Phannybaahteur’s Fiat Panda was makin some sick noises and smells when I abandoned it in the road outside my crib in Verbier. I hated myself worse than usual for stealin such a nasty craft. I’d spent the content of Phannybaatheur’s wallet on six cans of deodorant (the snortin kind), two litres of Smirnoff and almost twenty tins of Red Bull. I’d driven the wheels of that beige bad boy half way across Switzerland and was in a state of delerium. I had been sick too often to count (the evidence still splattered around the dashboard, over the pedals and down the outside of the door) and was hurtin real bad. All I knew was that I had to get the master tapes to Magnolia Glock, my laptop and a hot shower before headin down to Rome to catch Tiff and Ace.

I fell over the bins as I ran to the door and then I saw it; the 1971 Cevrolet Impala convertible, gleemin hell-red in the drive. I knew Tiff was probably already in the studio, stealin my work whilst no doubt bangin Ace over the mixin desk. It was time to shut that goat fluffer down for the final time. I was angrier than I had imagined possible, worse even that when my uncles used to join me in my Alpine exile and take photos and videos of me trying to find my clothes and warming parts of their old bodies with parts of my boyish form.

I rammed the front door, but my splintered ribs let me down and blood started pouring from my nose and I struggled to catch my breath.

I was slumped on the steps shoutin at the kids who were laughin at me when the door opened and I fell inside. My mother almost collapsed at the sight of me, her only son, lyin in the soil and weeds. But I drew strength from my anger, from what Tiff was doin to Ace, and made down the hall. My mother tried to stop me and dropped the letters that she’d been readin. I noticed that they were all addressed to me, my private correspondence and I hated that devil so badly that I wiped the blood from my nose and tried to rub it in her face. There was no respect in the way she looked at me and even though it was obvious that she had been on the brandy and even though she was practically naked in the middle of the day she seemed determined to stop me gettin to the studio. I wondered how much Tiff had paid her, or what other inducements that horny rat bastard had offered to turn her against me.

We struggled for a very long time and I knocked my old bike over and stamped on it, even though I might have needed it later to make my getaway. By the time I overpowered mother she was cryin and shoutin the Lord’s name and lookin terrified, no doubt realisin that after I finished with Tiff I’d probably be back in jail or rigged to an electric chair for all it mattered to her. When I burst into the studio my eyes were stingin and I could hardly see. My face was wet with blood and other fluid and as I dried my eyes there they all were; Tiff, Ace and, oh God have mercy, my old man!

Tiff had my laptop in his grasp and looked as though he was packin heat. Ace had her hands over her mouth and although my father was reclined on my bed he jumped up when he saw me. His face looked like the tip of a whale’s cock, all fat and bruised and full of murder. He pointed at me, laughin more than the kids outside, more than my uncles ever had, and started makin baby noises and callin me his little boy. Over and over again, sayin I was his baby and just pointin like he didn’t know what to do with his fists. Then my mother arrived and started sayin much the same. I started shoutin at Ace, wantin to know why she never came to me when I called her name like she’d promised. Whale cock was repeatin himself like he was at a funeral callin me a little boy like I was stupid and, when I could take it no more, I said somethin like, “I get down to dry my hair with a little touch of gel, I read all the newspapers but my mother still reads my mail! I won’t wish my life away but tell me if you can, who decides when I’m grown up and I’ve turned into a man?” Now I was really shoutin as I demanded, “Drop the boy, drop the boy! I’m a man, yes I am but they still call me boy. Drop the boy, drop the boy I’m a man, yes I am and I’ll be jumpin for joy when they drop the boy.”

I spotted the keys to the Impala near the bedside lamp, plannin my next move, but had to get it all out in the open. “I’m tired of the boy thing, I’ve got other things to do. I’d like to be in politics, can’t take another visit to the zoo. No more bikes or plastic models and braces on my teeth. I’d like to drive as Dino and live out of my reach. Drop the boy, drop the boy. I’m a man, yes I am but they still call me boy. I’m a man, yes I am and I’ll be jumpin for joy when they drop the boy.”

Then I did what comes natural in times of trouble and started takin that studio apart. I went at the mixin desk with a baseball bat, deafened by my pumpin heart. I did the window, the shelves, my DVD’s and then went for Tiff. Old whale cock came at me sayin don’t do it son, or some redundant shit like that and I went for him with the bat, determined to burst his cock head and Ace was slappin me and my mother was screamin and Tiff joined in, tryin to get that heavy bat off me so he could use it on me.

Tiff’s abnormal weight and the brain carnage of prolonged deodorant abuse was too much and I was on the floor crawlin to the door and then everythin was clear. I threw a lamp at Tiff and as it struck him full in the face I nabbed the keys to the Red Shark and threw myself out of the window. Somehow I had also managed to grab my laptop and I took off in the Impala. I’m now hidin out in the basement of some hotel layin down this heavy shit. The Impala is hidden under some bushes and garbage and I’m gonna have to steal a new mobile tomorrow so I can try to talk to the Samoan; cos I need help, that giant eighty somethin lawyer will know what to do, he’ll help me. He’ll have the answers. I just gotta talk to the guy and then it just might be okay.

It’s cold in this basement. Cold, lonely and hopeless…