You've Probably Met Us...

London, UK - a disturbed young man - Wednesday, April 13th, 2005 : goo

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It's a sweaty summer evening in the city and Eadie is restless as usual. Restless and irritable, but nothing out of the ordinary. What you must understand is Eadie MacFarland is a hormonal psycobitch. Fucked up on Tricyclen, but we love her just the same. There are other, more welcome side effects. Naturally, we take full advantage.

My name's Mike and I'm a modern day adventurer. A pioneer, pushing abstract frontiers, pushing brown to school kids, pushing my luck some might say. At least i'm not pushing paper. We don't hold down regular nine-to-fives, Me and Donal and Eadie, that's not us. We're not your next-door neighbours. We're not normal. We're not your fucking cousin Ashram's fuckin' Orthodontist and we don't work at your local Seven Eleven.

You've probably met us. But you'd never know it. We have a penchant for blending into your society. We dress in earth tones and pastel shades, wear our hair in an acceptable style. Cultural camouflage. We are not visually offensive. We are not what we appear to be, but then again, who is? Eadie wears sensible footwear, a slim, yet curvy brunette. Her skin is lightly freckled. She has the most amazing skin, a perfect complexion and the most innocent big brown eyes you ever saw. Not the type of girl you'd expect to indulge in group sex, bondage, fucked up depraved shit you couldn't even imagine. She looks like your fuckin' sister for fucks sake.

But we all have our reasons for living this lifestyle. Donal, well he's just your average stoner, loser, layabout, workshy mofo. He probably started a masters degree in engineering once upon a time. He probably had dreams and aspirations of a wife and two kids, two cars and a fuckin' timeshare in Corfu before reality took hold, before the drugs opened his eyes like matchsticks to the banality of this fucked up shit called life. We're all gonna die, sooner or later. Make a million before breakfast or sit on your arse watchin daytime TV getting mashed, your still gonna be just as dead. Rich people. Successful people. Beautiful people. Gay or straight people. The worms will still eat your face. That's if they don't cremate you. And you know that human bones don't burn right through, they have to be crushed up in a machine afterwards. Rest in pieces.

But the end, hopefully is not too near. Not yet. I had a poor start, a troubled childhood, growing up in the shadow of a manic depressive older brother. It started with self-abuse, cutting, fucked up shit like that. He had no reason to be like that. We had a comfortable middle-class upbringing. I guess some people are just predisposed to mentalism, there brains hard wired into psycho mode. The cutting got steadily worse until he was seventeen when he went away to 'rest for a while'. I've seen my brother Nathan just once in the past ten years, it was two years ago at Mardi Gras. He was waving a fuckin' rainbow flag. He didn't say much, seemed withdrawn, his mind elsewhere "Fuck him" I thought, Jesus, what is he a poof now? He could be dead now for all I know. He probably has AIDS.

I was always gonna turn out this way. It was predestined. Written in the stars. This is my cosmic destiny or some shit. Eadie, I don't know her story, she never really opens up to me. Not in the emotional sense at least.

Eadie was shuffling her bony arse around on the seat. Squirming, grinding it like she does when she's in that mood. Donal knows what I mean. But she wasn't in that mood, that was painfully obvious. Donal looked at me. I looked at Donal. He was poking his pinky finger into a multitude of cigarette burned holes in the back of the seat in front of him. Picking out pieces of foam and flicking them in my direction with the demeanor of a disobedient child. Me and Donal have this whole nonverbal communication thing going on which is a plus when Eadie's got her big grey knickers on. It avoids some of the more painfully explosive mood swings we've become accustomed to. Horny to angry to psycho to bitch-in-heat to psycho again and back to cock-eating-pornstar. Repeat to fade. I don't go in for bloodsports but Donal swears it's a rare delicacy. Eadie is only too happy to oblige. Fuckin' messy if you ask me. Donal's like the brother I never had, but he's still a fuckhead.

Now, I wouldn't say we pimp Eadie, No . It's not like pimping in the traditional sense. Eadie does her own thing. If she were an animal she'd be a house cat. She does what she likes, and god forbid you try to encourage her in any particular direction. And it's certainly not a steady source of income, Eadie is nothing if not unpredictable. Sometimes she turns tricks, sometimes she fucks for free. Fuckin' irritating is what she is. Yet she has a certain charm, if you know what I mean.

She hasn't said a word to me all day, and now as we sit here on the No. 149 bus, on our way home, she looks like she's gonna spontaneously combust. Any moment now her progesterone levels are gonna go into freefall, and shits gonna get fucked up. Donal has noticed this too, he's giving me that look. And the sun's going down, and it's setting orange to purple through th smog as the light fades bit by bit. I read the words written on the windows with copydex fluid,"Donna Sux Cock", and I wonder if Donna wrote that herself. Eadie will be okay soon, we just need to get her home. She'll probably just swing round to horny again. We can handle that. Donal can sort her out. Then I notice Donal flicking his foam bits in the direction of this huge Samoan looking geezer and I punch him on the arm. "Fuck you do that for?"

I ask Eadie if she's ok. She shoots me a look that seems to say "Die Fucker!" and I'm sure I can hear the hormones coursing through her bloodstream. Donal winks at me as if to say "Dude!", and we both shut the fuck up until we reach our stop.

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