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Sandro began his career as a rather pretty, but underappreciated floral rug. Unappriciated by the goth types he shared his accomodation with, he spent many years in a cupboard, so as not to offend the goths with his bright colours. After many years he finely cracked and exploded in rage onto aus.culture.gothic where he is determined to offend goths everywhere.
Drunken Old Bastard
I beat up an old man today. I felt bad about it at first, but really started to get into it after a few strokes. Relaxing, satisfying, therapeutic. Afterwards I felt so much better that I couldn't stop whistling some dicky tune. Before I feel the universal condemnation of the moral high ground coming to bear upon me, all I have done, apart from cause minor physical harm to some poor wretch on a train is bring forth the deep seeded jealousy in the heart of every pseudo law abiding citizen, for doing something they wish they had the spine to do.
I doubt there could be an easier target. Natural cowardice makes for uninspiring choices in terms of opponents. The easier the better, the more wretched and dysfunctional lessens the possibility of repercussions. As if the old bastard could crawl to the cops and complain, "Ar de farkein yung cant, 'e het moy, he fargin het moy in mee 'ead, wed 'ees fargen feet", or give anything approximating an accurate description to the police of my appearance, "Uh, e 'ad a head, and two arms an' the like, an' big fucking boots, come on, gizza fucken drink will ya?" What self respecting policeman would deign to help out a person they consider to be lower than the lowest of the low, if anything they'd try to track me down to thank me for my services to the community. The coppers hate the homeless most of all, seeing in them at least a class of people more despised by the general populace than themselves.
Sitting on the train without possibility of escape, I had no choice, I did what needed doing, for which I deserve praise, not condemnation. Some people are exempt from the burden of rational thought, I am not one of them, but this dosser was, and by divine rights the task fell to me to teach him the error of his ways. Chosen, that's what I was. Forced to travel with the rest of the great unwashed on public transport, it is understandable why my usual saintlike patience would be at its limits. Weighed down with bounty purchased from the finest department stores the city has to offer; kitchen appliances, cashmere clothing, a golf club. Luxuries, in all honesty, but my money by its nature must be spent, it is irrelevant what it is spent on. It needs to be set free, out into the wilds of capitalism, circulating through the veins of commerce that keep this grand metropolis alive. I contribute, I make a difference, God damn it.
Keep the train in the loop for too long, underground, stopped in between stations, and people start to turn feral. I am not sure if it is the confined space, feeling the weight of those thousands of tonnes of rock separating us from blue sky, maybe it is the stale air, breathed and rebreathed only by passengers and rats, and the other hideous mutations these depths spawn, whatever it is, you can see the transition on the traveller's feckless faces. From sub moronic boredom, to cheap watch checking irritation, maybe they try to catch another passenger's eye for a feeling of shared experience, "We're in this together", their misery needs company. Loving the pointlessness of conversation with a shmo you'll never see again and wouldn't urinate on if they were on fire and you wanted to stop the hundred dollar bills in their pockets from burning.
Once the illusion of camaraderie rapidly fades, the dirty air breathed by hundreds of lungs catches in the throat, perhaps the lights go out, no one yells or screams (except maybe some unruly scamps, taking opportunity to make merry and victimise the other travellers). The older people start to get worried, they noisily suck out the nervousness from their dentures, maybe the aged tickers give a flutter or two, time to get out the nitroglycerine pills, I say. The little kiddies go berserk, running around screaming louder than they usually do for the delectation of the amassed haters of children. I of course love children, love them, they're the future, you know. You should never forget that, especially when you're beating the life out of them, for their own and society's good, of course. That is my father's legacy.
The air thickens, the heat from the congregation rises and covers your face in balaclava fashion. Time slows, congeals. I breath slowly to stop the rising fear of the dark, fear of the other, fear of the lessers. I shouldn't even be on public transport, it is beneath me, I hope no one I know, no one of importance to society sees me here, like this. It would be the equivalent of crying before my enemies, being caught wearing women's clothing, something my reputation would never be able to recover from.