:: Article


By 99%

‘My life’s shit.’ Rod Cummins a.k.a. Bovver looked out over his shitty little room and decided that his days as Worksop’s hardest skin-head were going to have to end. He’d spent the last few days kicking the brown shite out of a particularly virulent strain of Oxbridge undergraduate oiks who had come into the North Nottinghamshire Dukeries Gateway town of Worksop wearing their elitist self-confidence on their snot-greased sleeves. The toffs had come on the invitation of the Officer Class Nob Heads at the local Army Officer Academy at Welwhorebeck. He’d gone to the pub where the inbred cack-heads had gone for a session out on the Mansfield Road and given them all a good kicking. It was a class thing. He hated the way the town had changed since the Tories had closed down the pits. Then fucked them over again to save their Banker pals. People round there had lost relatives, money and pride. Everyone drank more slowly than before. Everyone seemed older. So Bovver understood the class thing. These young Tories needed to be given a reminder that some things would not be forgotten in these parts. So he’d really smashed the gits.

Then he’d fucked each one of them up their arses until they had cried like runty squealing pigs in a runty squealing pigs world championship final and made them gobble their own shit. Their snob dollies, all double-barrelled sir names and shaved pubic bushes, up to the country for a shag and a coke, were well impressed by the antics of Bovver. To them he was the super hard working class boot-boy who then entertained them with bedroom athletics their upper middle class boysaps had never even promised to deliver in their wildest, wettest dreams, ever. They hadn’t been in the same city as the ballpark, never mind being in the same ballpark when it came to this type of thunder staff cuny hole action! After ramming them pogo-zonk and out for twenty four hours he’d left them jibbering naked and covered in jizz juice and shite with their own imported dildos plugging their sore and ragged arse-holes moaning that he was their Shag God Daddy-O and they were his smacked up bitches for ever and ever in a mad mental craving and sex sloppy salubrity that sent them insane and jabbering. Bovver knew that the whole lot of them would never forget their visit to Worksop.

‘Think of it as initiation into the rough and tumble of army life you posers,’ Bovver had instructed the wimpering rich kids. Bovver knew that it wasn’t worth pitying these types; within months they’d be in positions of high rank in civvy street making life hell for the working classes. The crap they handed out indirectly was always far crueller and nastier than anything he could deal. Because their violence and cruelty remained indirect and thus invisible they also got to keep to the visible moral high ground. It made Bovver sick to understand how all this worked, but that’s the way things were for Bovver. He knew what he knew, and it all stank like a thirty year old unwashed arse hole.



99% doesn’t like the 1%. She is agitated. She wants her planet back. If there’s going to be art, it had better be a weapon. But she doesn’t do art. She just does writing.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Tuesday, June 12th, 2012.