That ‘over medicated on chocolate’ feeling that leaves ya skin begging ur nails to plough it. That’s me sitting too still on a train, nothing to do but try and look like a boy. Fingas start finding ways to relieve the strain.
I start wirelessing peoples phones. Readin, as well as fiddlin with their texts. Then, mostly because they’re bog boring I notice when one of them reads “clit”. Takes me a while to scan the carriage, locate the source of the signal. I get a bit of a blow to realise it’s the scruffy lip-piercing type opposite. Nearly had her down as a boy, even me. Good job my radar is better than my gaydar ha har.
Keeping my eyes on her inbox I find quite a few saucies. Her and her girlfriend are obviously in the flurry of a banging smut fest. I get the number she is sending her text heavings to. I forget my brain strain now that I have something worth playing with. Mmmm fuckedupfunworlddotcom. I transfer the number she texted to my home system. From there I can sell on to the sleazy peeps. But that is just the money honey, what really rocks my socks is the muck fuckery I can do with it all.
Back home in Hainault, I prickle to text in but I leave it a couple of weeks to stop any trails. Like I said people getting so clever these days specially dykes. So then I repeat the ‘clit’ message to the girl from the trains girl but rig the screen for no ring back or reply. Repeat the message eight or ten times so as not to be easily ignored, finally adding some crudity about the color of her cum then I leave them alone to burn. I mean who would clue? She gets the same message from a different phone, asks her dykey boi-friend, who denies sending it. Dykey boi-friend meanwhile wonders if her girlie is doing a bit of keypad kink on the side or whether there is someone else out there getting a share of her pear.
In my fond imaginings train girl’s girl is asking herself did her sender send same message to some other doll and can’t keep track. Do the two have ‘a three tree’ that one of them did not know had been planted? Accusations have to fly, my, my, my. I sit back with a fat one. I let my mind go with the freak outing they must be doing with. Climaxing with my hoped for finale breaking up. Like a soothing balm I see them crying into their sheets that love is a lie. Cruelty without beauty.
Later that nite my rock and roll is being well interrupted. I have to turn the sound up on my sonar-mega-drive to drown out the sound of my ego challenged family. “Why” I hear my sister bleat as she bangs on my locked door. “Why do you do this?” she has been banging for nearly half an hour cos I broke up her and her latest boyfriend with a fakey from some Claire.
My mum meanwhile, is calling me on my landline every two, trying to get me to agree to come to the police station with her to clear my name over some net fraud job. Let them arrest me if they can hang on to the evidence long enough. What is her problem with all this “just talk to them” crap?
“Boring” I hiss but they should be grateful.
All great learning comes from encounters with wickedness. All growth is stimulated by distress. Check your brothers Grimm, fairytales teach babies by fear. Takes grit for pearl making and grit don’t grow on trees.
So check it out my system for forcing a little sand into shells, eh ‘the bollox’. Solid sat band with nuclear firewalling for stopping anyone doing to me what I dore doing to them.
People with problems is my personal funstuff. I like to find then track them when the going gets ruf. I’ve got a permanent scanning device setup searching my locality for distress messages. Anything with the word ‘help’ or ‘trouble’ being sent from a mobile within a ten-mile range will show up on my system. For the PC’s I run routine searches for active windows where people are imputing their personal details. Plus the piece resistant, I got and put a web cam in every monitor in the street. Big brother nadda. I can watch whatever their puter can see, hee diddle hee. It hadn’t taken that many calories of brain juice to bring down all their terminals, with a dose of the blank screen thing. Me mum did most of me PR, bragging how I was a whizzy kiddy. Then I get the rep for fixing it double quick for a veery small fee. Everyone trusts a kid, think we ain’t got a sex life is it?
Hey up, here we go. Got one heavy on the line. Coming through. Only down the road, doing her banking, ignoring the dialogue box warning she is open to being read. Clicking without reading, how can they be so pathetic? They simply have to learn. She should know cos I do she ain’t got money to burn. I’ll just drain a couple of ton, some sting but not enough to kill her. She’s lucky it’s me and I know she’s a single parent. If you can’t handle the ricking stop it with the clicking?
Ooh ooohs this gets my arse cheeks twitchin? “Help,” flashes Batman shaped on the wall above my bed. ‘Maiden in distress’, my favourite. Lady locked out late now texting all her mates for aid. I block them receiving. She’ll need to think for herself now not just cry in the rain like some slaughter hungry lambsie.
Her diverted voicemails come through my speakers. High notes, too squeaky, “Pleeese call me back as soon as. Somebody is checking me, should I call the police?”
Ooh err, looks like she’s picked up a wolf.
Starts me tingling inside the crotch of my elbow. Those fake daddy emergency services won’t come, even if she could get through. They just inhibit evolution anyway, stopping red riding hoods from learning how to use her boots. Girls need to learn to nut kick and head butt their own ways to safety.
Fuck, Fuck, Fuck; her phones switches off. Probably batt down. But I can still watch her on the GPRS. I swivel in my chair to set up more monitors, popping a coca in anticipation of needing some up stay power. Now that she’s stopped all her fingering and thumbing, maybe she will get on with the business of saving herself. I track her signal to where she has been sitting for four hours although now it is moving rapidly, seems like she was rescued. Rubbish telly this turns out to be. Gunning it though, somebody is in a worry hurry. Seems to be heading for the motorway, out of town. Makes little sense, how did they know where she was if I was the boss of her signal? I check the car for sat nav or GPRS, get both. I wireless their message box too.
Weird too, full of cryptics. Like this one: ‘BB16 S/S War. Rd. E13 Olt’ Ooh upturns on my drenaline. The second part is the postal code she was texting from. Someone is definitely rocking my dreamboat .
But B19 S/S what is that? Blonde Bird, or Black Bird? 16? S/S, Short Skirt? Is this someone got the same techno as me but using a car to collect web stuck juicies?
I read somewhere that when they asked a hundred rapists what they look for; they said they like to target girls with easy access clothes. Quick in out, gone. I realise that I’m convinced I’ve just witnessed someone whip her away. I turn off the screen on a reflex, fully rotate my chair to watch the proper telly, light the fatty have ready for emergencies. Feel the throat cutting burn start to dissolve my reasoning.
Why should I be bothered if someone else giving her the gritting I started? She was my maiden. I distressed her first. But I was only playing wit her.
Turning the screen off hasn’t a good effect, my itching starts on high vol. I turn on again, sat nav is reading destination secured. I check the map enlarger makes it look like middle of nowhere. Mind goes there, blond, nineteen same as me but pretty I suppose, serve her right then isn’t it? She’ll be pearling any minute.
I hit the standby and get into bed. Blood under my nails, I been scratching up my skin, really need some cream.
This is Maj Ikle‘s first publication in Lockjaw Magazine.