I feel rotten, downtrodden and abused. The day before last, riding a Lime scooter, I smashed headfirst into a parked Renaud. It was a white van – like those that skirt the tree-shaded Boulogne lanes, where chippies lure punters by hanging bandanas on rearviews. When I came to I saw scattered remnants of red brakelight on the kerb and felt like a pig shat in my head. Now this could be bad, I thought, because for all my drunken antics the sponge in my cranium’s usable, and I wanna keep it that way. I hopped back on the death machine and gunned through the 7th district. Test your wits, I reckoned. I tried to remember the long, detailed dream that woke me up startled at seven that morning. All clear – good to go – juicebox running just sound. Winding through the potholes I cast my lightly damaged dome back to the last time this happened. My partner in crime was another Lime gadget – a bike that time. Those two-wheeled traitors can’t handle a boozy dance; sooner or later they’ll have me neutralised.
Let’s give you some context. I’ve been bored lately. I found a place called Johnny’s and it’s really a hellpit – one of those joints where the air’s as strong as the beer past nine. Now for some reason there’s women in there, and a few men of culture. So when I leave Das Lange – a quainter, more refined howff – with a stomach full of kraut and a headful of gassy helles, I tend to saunter into Johnny’s for a couple extra. That night I went too far. After a stretched conversation I had to take a leak but Johnny’s doors were squelched shut – I said goodbye to a group of people and, as soon as they turned a corner, pissed smack down in the middle of a parking spot. A man walking past darted off when he saw my prick. Then I grabbed the scooter and gave that Renaud a makeover. I really think those cars have it in for me.
When I got to the gaff my phone was so fucked I couldn’t lock the scooter. Get this: twenty cranial stitches and a hefty fine to boot. Now that’s a twenty-point plan with a real deterrent – sure beats Blair and the Orange Cunt. Only it didn’t work. My rug’s as tense as the Middle East and there’s a real rocket racket in here. I’ve got half a mind to step on a bike – Johnny’s open till four tonight.
The name’s L.A Righi. You might have read me before: this mag mints the occasional outburst – that is, if there’s a semblance of feel to it. My juicebox deals in grey secretions, hardly coherent, so putting it on a page, it’s a tall order, what with the syntax and all. Sometimes I think a good slap up top might give it more bounce and buck. Where did I go wrong? Same as you: we need the aches, childhood especially – our traps run dry, racing to the end. You hear motherly whimpers, clambering up to your hiding spot; get more booze – run harder and gun that engine.
