They've actually started calling him Jessie around town now! It isn't his real name. You know, that could be the most satisfying part of this whole thing, them using that name. That my own creation, posted online, birthed his righteous real-life discomposure: bliss indeed! Not bad for a blog tagged as fiction… And once again: it's exactly what he deserves—if you haven't already figured. Also, I thought you guys should know I'm not actually living there anymore, in that town—relievingly. But I am still monitoring the situation.
Now, is it any wonder that HE himself eventually ran away? After the panty parade with his kind patronage, a most auspicious occasion, of course, he almost carved out a speck of sympathetic thought - but not from me. His trip: Ten Men's Tour of the World, I call it—was to be a healing sojourn of solace… Although I must admit, I’m in a bit of a state of mental flux as to what an intellect of his calibre should possibly stand to gain from such a journey. He doesn't strike me as one who would take to a backpack most naturally. And it's difficult not to imagine him as being Eeyore-sad, cutting an ignorant and lugubrious figure, and generally disturbing the vibe in whichever European locale he finds himself. I just can't square the image in my mind. It's comical, really!
In Český Krumlov, the ancient water slides over a pebbled river floor, fluting and folding around the silver rocks whilst the morning mist meanders beneath the charmed limpid sky. Meanwhile, Ten Men's eyes don't look on in meek awe because they're as bloody blank and stupid looking as usual. He has no fucking clue where he is or what he's looking at—let alone how to pronounce the name of his location… In a windowless hostel bedroom in Kotor, Montenegro, the springs of a tired single bed robotically grate up and down—for nearly a minute! As Ten Men prods at some semi-literate vagrant whore, whose last remaining yellowing tooth yawns larger over the pathetic scene than do the majestic mountains hanging over the bay outside; his flat little feet flapping away at the end of bed as if he's late for breakfast!
Perhaps somewhat more believable, no? Everything but the bit about Ten Men being in Kotor, I imagine... It's easy to think that by going off you could escape the shame of remaining in that little town, but I know he'll never have the intellectual guile to fully transcend his situation—if such a thing were possible.
Yes, I'm revelling in it. Should I not? I've been saying for years that hate is the appropriate response in the right situation. If you or your loved ones are in physical/mortal danger, then yes: hate away! Channel it, funnel it; allow it to manifest in your retaliatory efforts! If you're inclined to use that trendy word at least… And the rampant schadenfreude which animates these pages? Well, I think you'll find that's all perfectly legal.
And let me tell you, when that old door opened and his missus' peachy rear headed down the stony path to the cold front gate for the very last time, a joyous screensaver I would make of that moment. I sadly couldn't make it that day but would've loved to have been a witness! I am, however, still in contact with her and utterly glad she's seen the light, so to speak. She's called Rebecca—a sparkly, kind, and full-lipped woman. She sort of had a look of Dannii Minogue, especially when we were teenagers. If she gives me any more dirt on this whole epic, regarding him specifically, I'll update you via these pages. For now at least, I'm assured it's over for good.
Now, I wonder, do you think his passport photo resembles the giant portrait on the front of that truck in any way? Has the legend of his special day followed him to some far-off location? I wonder... I know there was a hell of a clean-up operation going on to cleanse the streets of Ten Men's panties after the parade. For months and months you'd see a flash of pink in a bush or near a bin or being ferreted out by one of the town's plethora of yapping mutts. Little decomposing, trophy-esque reminders of his most charitable day. I don't know how widely the event was shared online, but I still daydream on occasion about him popping into some restaurant as far-flung as Phuket with an overzealous proprietor who miraculously recognises him from somewhere online.
‘PINK PANTY BOY, PINK PANTY BOY. OH MY GOD, IT'S PINK PANTY BOY!’ I imagine they'd say.
One does wonder…
So I heard his brother moved out and joined the army… I don't know if that equates to crafting a decent adult where a pernicious bully-in-waiting once stood or if it amounts to a kind of morbid training and armament of a future despot. Thus, the family home of Ten Men stands as empty and infamous as his befuddled expression. Any remaining offspring went with their mother, obviously. No longer will he drawl at the household in that lazy, truncated, tough-guy manner: 'See ya la'er. 'm off out for a bit.' Walking out of the house, severely, looking like he's toting a pair of invisible sheep. In fairness, though I really don't know the style in which he now prefers to dehouse, I would venture to say that it may have lost a hair of its previous gravitas.
No more academic adventures in schoolyard intimidation tactics for Junior—though I'm sure he'll learn by doing. No more passing on the stairs; no more catching a glimpse of another warm body in a different room; no more human reflections by sound or sight; no more heat in the walls from cosy habitation; just a flaky, dying echo of a familial embryo who wisely sloughed Jessie off like a stinking little teratoma. Who will now watch the elm tree grow old and shed its leaves each season? Who will warm the seat of Jessie's sofa in his risible front room? Nobody to disturb the hanging dust or kick up the small, gathering dross about the lonely carpets. Pity.
I ponder if, on his return from wherever, he'll actually be glad when the taxi swings back onto his street and he sees the old place again? I don't imagine him being the least bit sentimental... But, hell, I'm not sure I would come back at all, would you? Still though, Elm Street all dressed up in its splendid pink finery was a good while ago. The debris has all either been cleared or faded away by now. It's not like he had to sit and watch it slowly rot, alone in the house—like peering through the fusty dust soaked blinds at the ginormous pink aftermath of a hen party decomposing just outside the window, but worse, because the hen, his wife, fucked the male stripper the night before the wedding, and now she's making him watch it back in slow motion because she's found out what a truly repugnant little shit he really is… No, I'm sure it's not been like that.
No. I should think not.
It could just be the right time for a fresh start. A new beginning. Richer for the experience! And other sickening platitudes too, eh Jessie? I'm sure your slow ride back up Elm Street won't be jolting in the least. No. Stepping out of the cab, backpack dripping with depressingly tacky souvenirs, eyes back on the ruddy house wherein ignominy never leaves. Through the sorry iron gate and up the sour path. A start, a start, a fresh start indeed! You needn't wrangle your breath before turning the key or peek to one side as the baggage bobs about, fluorescent on the front doorstep, and you remember that this is the first time the neighbours are seeing you in quite some time. They certainly won't be rushing, curtain-bound, to spy through and witness the saddest of sacks, backpack and back. Back to the house where no one remains.
And they won't be doing that, will they, Ten Men? They'll be warmly ensconced in their interiors, wondering which sordid bits from this tale are specifically true, isn't that right? I'd say that's very likely. Very likely that that's what they'll always have in mind whenever they see you in public. Anyway, it will from now on… Because it's actually a huge portion that's true; bigger than you'd think or have a preference for, eh Jess? That IS the truth. Neither do they have to wait for the return of big Jessie from his consolatory trip, because you didn't fucking go anywhere at all, did you? You'd like to escape that claustrophobic little town but you don't have the testicular fortitude, do ya, ya big Jessie?
Thus, you sit, family gone, beige and sullen—without even the muster to go to the local pub. Unsurprising, I suppose. You'd love people to believe that you've travelled the continent and hauled back a truckload of enlightening anecdotes. But you didn't, did you? In fact, cunt-pig, that was me! How else would this story be possible? Even if a meagre stripling of zugunruhe began to germinate in the seat of your intellect, such as it is, you wouldn't have a clue how to confer upon it any sort of tangible agency, would you, Ten-Men-No-Brains? Ah, it's nay bother, ‘ord lad.’ Once Elm Street's real name and address comes out, reaches global acclaim, and an official date of celebration of my own choosing is nominated, the world will be coming to you, bud.
Now, as you know, I've built quite a platform—much of it at your expense. And I am thankful for the growth, just not to you. So many hits have already been garnered. A smorgasbord of commentary too. Most of the enquiries I get predictably concern your true identity—which of course, I'm not going to divulge in these posts. However, if some folks really do plan on spending good money and committing to the various inconveniences of tracking down the infamous site of your ignominy, making the pilgrimage to cast their tributes on the now-famous residence of the semi-literate, semi-literal giant of hilarity in contemporary art that has become yourself, who am I to not absolutely piss myself in glorious acquiescence! Maybe you'll get a plaque or something; wouldn't that be fun?
(And know this, fucker: if you think about retaliating, in real-life, that will only cement your guilt even more. Think about it, if you actually come for me, how much truth will you be lending to this fiction? Ask yourself that, because that's what people will think. Do you really wanna admit to being this guy?)