If you call 10.45am early then I started early.
Others have well and truly jumped ahead of the field and speed 5 glasses ahead of the rest.

A mumble, stumble, mad-rush gamble for the race that stops a nation, a heartbeat, a pace-maker, the rattle of glasses, the choke of a bow-tie, the glimpse of lace, the light petting, the tipsy meditation, the plumbers curse, the spring of a till, the stare of the boss, the sizzle of bovine steroid, all bar-b-cue sauce and char-grilled onions, an under-extended flutter, on the first Tuesday in November.

Non-leaking Welsh hold developing gametes in the oven-womb and in months to come the pressure at heel will cause complaints.

Flick your spent self away over the roast of the day and park yourself on a 3 below-zero plastic ring to blow yesterdays waste to sea.

Mango cheesecake fills the hole a bundy-card couldn't fill with a forgotten half hour.

Saintly does it in the 3.35, race 7, before a packed house, packed grandstand, and before the packed lunch of sugar-cubes and carrots specially wrapped this morning could be consumed, should all go well.

Ho hum.

Float the 20 when and if you can get a free moment to secret a wager, unseen by miniature cameras intent on making porno movies through holes in rooves and walls, windows and doors, front-bums and bum-flaps, cotton-tails and lace.

On the big screen the new Lolita complete with loving Aunt and sleazy Uncle, tutored and tethered by need and shame to a life of moans and groans and well placed tape.

"Shave and pierce, flog and bathe, bleed the brain in drops".

A bucks party crowd of one buck too many and one chicken-wing too few leaves a desk-lamp to illuminate the departed words of undoubted intent on a lounge-room floor.

Bristling under the anger of a waste of money and the resemblance, minus tattoos, to the little woman, he'd thrust hips and filled a willing void with the proof required.

"He is"
"He's not"
"He's that"
"He's not"
"You are"?
"I am"
"Good. So am I"

The two pimpernels of the isthmus Dardanelles fell to fate while the schemer fingered dreams on well kept copies of beauty only skin-deep but arousing.
Transfixed like children at an ant-farm they watched her take control of them. Their tongues dropped onto rough wood and splinters wasting time finding homes untasting and unrecoilable for at least the next half-hour.

Eat and smoke on and stand and observe the ritual that is adolescent voyeurism.

Weeks later the object d'performance-art had tossed and turned as dozens of digits gripped memories for all they were worth.

"Slap my cheek sausage dick" she cried and then stifled with a mouthful of obedience.

Call my name as he stuffs himself home and close your eyes to his face as I soak your hole.

As wagers are cashed a spy sees all and knows of the assassination.









A modern day extravaganza.
An ethereal killer with a sense of humour.
Manson's cries of "No-one is innocent" impregnate the fascists need for a super-race as all and sundry are put to the test.

"Die you double-dipping fare evader. I saw you lie to your mother in the 70s about your attitude toward conception".
Hours later over fries and beers in the car-park revving a fully worked 318 he'd fucked her pregnant, her dope-eyes glaring a red "Yes" in the neon facade of intoxicated love.

The ghost of Ted Bundy repentant and now able to say no to the need to be Babe Ruth to a valley-girl baseball slinks invisibly round the corners of your city pinching unclad arse cheeks with claws of cancerous intention, a grey hunchback in tracksuit and joggers hard up against luck in the minute between a red light for them and a green lit walk for it.

Luminous parlour lips of a specialists doctor variety offer ease with an oral-drain, all on health-care, laid back in a leather chair, with calls for "Suction" and "A little more light over here please", from a nurse more adept at lower hip gyrations than a drunk Gypsy Rose Lee, and then part wetly to allow a tongue of tiki intention to unfurl and flop onto a chin that juts with sexual intensity, chiseled in flesh by a rampant one-eyed sculptor who went by the name of Wang.
Wang had been well schooled in the ancient arts of karate, judo and kudos and saw fit to asperse the caste of well-wishers with his tales of Eastern Comfort, a well known powdered time killer as administered by reclusive Asian generals and delivered via street urchins of various sizes and age to a public unaware of Swiss movement.

The Great Wall had shrunk to the size of a caterpillar train whose spikes were more of a warning than any serious threat of death by impalement, then magnified itself under the delusion of becoming a spectacle to first caress and then encircle all who kissed it's resemblance to a Blarney Stone.

Irving had turned Wang from a simple computer-chip analyst into the vast repertoire of depth that now graced the covers of every magazine from the vastly underrated Hobby Trains Weekly to the spectacularly overrated Sorbent that pretended to be the bulk of the media.
Wang had beat the drum and strummed away to his hearts content over keyboards and bald mice of the hand-held variety until the day a 747 bearing gifts and 2 day unwashed European tourists landed, to be met by insecticide wielding fruit pickers and delicatessen owners obsessed by cornering their slice of the salmonella and blight market.