Eye on Moseley

I woke with that kind of swimmy feeling you get when the marghueritas come quicker than a tenth grader in a bordello. Somehow, I knew that I was in Kings Heath. I could taste something vile in the back of my throat; Kebab residue maybe or Kababish residue, it didn’t matter. There was something wet around my feet tangling the lower part of my legs and there was a draught blowing right up my naked back. That didn’t matter much either. The banana sticking out of my ass was of small concern. What really mattered was the “blonde” next to me on the floor. At least I think it was meant to be blonde. The cheap peroxide shine job was a glowing testament to the talents of Barnet Fayre – nobody ever came out of THAT place with hair that looked like tarnished silver. This was obviously a home done job. It was set off perfectly by the inch thick make-up that she was half wearing – the other half being smeared on what I could see of my shirt screwed up near my right arm. Panic was starting to set in – I could smell cider now, that wasn’t good. No matter how they tried to hide it, Willie’s boys always left behind that aromatic evidence. I knew it would get worse even before I turned my head. My eyes followed her slack, mottled torso towards the end of the couch, past the black pedal-pushers and the glittering boob tube, past the “Fuk the Villa” tattoo on her ass to the obstruction around my legs. Beer and maybe a little piss drenched them but there was no mistaking what they were, and from the single photo next to my feet there was no mistaking who had been wearing them. As I reached for the photo I nudged my “companion”, raising a fart and a mumbled “Gerruzz a bagga chips luv”, as half a pint of Metzy drool spilled onto the cushion beside her. Turning the photo over I saw what I knew would be there: “We have the negatives, Shell Suit boy, stay out of Moseley”. Nice one Willie. Real nice…

As I am writing this the CIA, the FBI, the NSA, the USSS, MI5, MI6, Mossad and The Disney Corporation are all trying to pinpoint my true location.

It was a house just like any other, on a street like all the rest, slap dab in the middle of Normalville, Moseley. Leads come and leads go, some pan out, some fizzle, some fly. You follow them all. See, you never know which is which until you take that first sniff and maybe a little bit more. The loser in front of me looked like he ate maybe three weeks ago, and not an ounce since – you could have kept toast in his chest. His friend, well I don’t think he needed anything except for his stench to sustain him. It was certainly thick enough to taste. Toast Rack was holding out a little white pill, the horse engraved in it quite detailed in its rearing and I knew that if I didn’t take it this particular lead would go drier that an AA meeting in Bournville. Strange the places a meeting in the Goose can take a man and this skinny geeky geezer was one hell of a tour guide to trust with an unnamed, undefined pill – which was just what I was about to do.

I took the pill from his dirty palm, ignoring the crust and the snot on the heel of his hand and without preamble shot it into the back of my neck swallowing reflexively. He smiled a brown-toothed smile and croaked “Oh yeahhh, cool man,” giggling before taking a little red pill himself.
“So,” I started, wanting to get as much information as I could before I started with the hugging and the sighing and the smiling that the pill would probably bring, “where can I find Angry Andy? Can you take me to him now?”
“Sure, man,” he smiled “later. You’re not going anywhere for a bit yet, not once the Conspiracy kicks in”. There was something in the way he said it. Something that said “I’m just going to sit back and enjoy the show”.
“Conspiracy? What was it,” I asked, “some sort of E?”
“Nah, man, better than that, better than all the E and Ketamine and speed you can get all rolled into one. You’re in for a real ride!”
I started to get a little worried at the evil grin on his face.
“What will it do to me,” I asked, hating the whiny, pleading tone of the question even as I said it.
“You know,” he smiled, his face suddenly elongating to accommodate his growing teeth, “a little trippy, a little paranoid – well a lot paranoid actually – but funky; heh, real funky”.
“Wait,” I practically yelped, my voice suddenly sounding like Tinky-Winky on steroids, “I have to know where he is! I have to find Angry Andy you have to tell me where…

…There are mice in the cake shop government mice they feast on the details of our private lives they aren’t very nice they have diodes for eyes their stools are zinc capsules containing raw data for digestion later by mi5 the cat from the shop was found in the lake in the park wearing chains and a house brick with little bruises from mouse grips about his poor neck his owners a wreck he just cant understand why this poor little creature should be murdered but the cat had a secret the thing had discovered that the mice in the shop were not alive but machines but unable to tell it set about trying to rid the shop of the vermin but fell as the unending hordes of spy mice continued to come the grit bin outside the goose don’t look at it twice its a listening device it also emits a pulsing sub bass tone at a pitch undetectable to the human ear this pulse at normal levels simply makes us feel safe unconsciously safe and secure in our actually very dangerous environments at higher levels it is capable of temporarily blinding us popping our livers like a stepped on fish turning police vehicles invisible to unshielded eyes or even causing death it is controlled by the people who live in the basement of slicks ladies fashions by means of radiomicrowaveforms emitted from passing taxis and bounced of the glass window of athola insurance another front without a rear if you catch my drift these waveforms are read by the grit bin at intervals of pointzerozerozerofive of a second and it only takes one man and one grudge to enter the one code to kill us all the one legged man knows all about it hes a lookout hes a stoolie he has radar crutches and a livid camera eye he can spy while he begs while he sleeps he has a remote controlled puppy he can send messages with it to the men below slicks there are antennas on top of moneywise pointed at the sun they send messages to the outsiders keeping them happy keeping them aware so that they don’t come back anymore and scare us all into revolution a thorn to the side of the men in the suits allied with them they wont tell us they exist they cant tell us they don’t in case it angers them a danger they cannot ignore they are listening to see if we know they are there they are there to see if we know they are listening and to see what we know what we truly see of what they show of what they allow if the truth was out if you knew what I know had seen what I’ve seen you could be me could wish you could not had not seen could wish your eyes were walnuts and your ears mushrooms so that you could just prove to them show to them that no you hadn’t couldn’t wouldn’t ever possibly have heard what you shouldn’t that the death camp in kwik save was an innocent store room the disappeared of Moseley had just moved to brighton or london had just got jobs and put suits on that they weren’t lying cold in the reek of their rigor robbed of their vigour by an awl in the spine by poison in wine by a knife in the eye in the dark in an alley and all because they saw what they shouldn’t and heard what they couldn’t and now those stabbers are after me each night I eat a dozen kebabs they make me ill but still they contain an invaluable virus a strain that counters the drugs in the water they give me the strength I need to go on to avoid the stares of their satellites and their omni-mikes and their billboards and grit bins and all the other nasty technological sins they have by the ton in the sky in the ground in the people around you behind you beside you I wish they would leave me alone like before I wish I could die but then they would win and you would be beaten you wouldn’t know who was who if I didn’t tell you if I wasn’t here if I didn’t fill you with a lifesaving fear of all that is out there and all that is hidden of the strangers and dangers on alcester road of the taps on your cell phone of the eye in the tv of the hundreds of agencies trying to kill me of cosmic rays that control what you think why do you think you just did what you did why do you think you just thought what you thought why do you think you don’t believe me that you think that I’m mad or delirious really you know that you know that I’m not but they want you to fear me so you’ll never come near me so then you can’t hear the things I have to tell they do their job so very very well and you are in their pockets you cannot stop it if you are asleep as they want you to be so listen to me now stay away from the TV the radio the microwave oven the mice and the rats and the beggars in the streets stay out of your kitchens eat everything raw and stick to the brightest part of the street if you go out at night if a person approaches you should cross the road avoid making eye contact keep your mouth closed and breathe through your nose to avoid being exposed to their gaseous agents that render you pliable meek and reliable that close off your mind from the light of the truth but most of all you must absolutely wish beyond all else with every mote of your being you must strive to resist the temptation to go on with their charade with their cosy façade strike out for the surface it’s time to…

wake up…

I didn’t know why I came here…. I only knew that I had to get away. And fast. Old Willie wasn’t going to like me muscling in on his turf and I wasn’t about to wait around for his goons to show up and deep six me in a vat of cider. The trail had gone colder than yesterdays coffee and after watching Mr Sai get it with his own scientology booklets I was in the mood for nothing more than a cold bourbon and a hot bath. I didn’t figure I’d see either that night between the questions the Moseley Forum would have for me and the no-show from my dole cheque so I just got into my car and drove. I didn’t care where to, just outa here. Maybe there was a living to be made chasing husbands for houswives in Kings Heath. Maybe not. But I was sure as hell ready to give it a try…

For most people Christmas was a time for rejoicing, a time to swap presents with their loved ones and bask in the warm glow of togetherness. For me Christmas was a time to sneak into Moseley and see if I could find a lead on the missing Jade Chopsticks without falling foul of Willie and his mob or the local cops. To be honest, the latter wasn’t my foremost concern as there are only ever two cops on duty in the tri-state area and they are stuffing themselves full of kebabs and doughnuts from four thirty onwards. Willies mob were another matter. You never knew who was working for him until you got close enough to smell the cheap cider – and by then it was too late. What I needed was a disguise. I got a cab from Kings Heath high street and got him to park right outside Fly Vintage Clothing. I waited until there was a gap in the meandering hippies and scutters milling around outside Kwik-Save and then gave the cabbie a buck to go and buy a Big Issue from the supermarket doorway guy. The Big Issue seller was one of the Cider Gang; everybody knew that. What they didn’t know was that he was also the lookout for the illegal gambling den in back of the store. I had to hope that the grease I’d laid on the cab guy would keep his tongue still while I made my dash into Fly, trusting to a borrowed Stupid Peruvian Hat to hide me for the six foot sprint into the door. Made it. Once inside I kept my back to the window as the pale store clerk roused himself from the “musicians wanted” section of the NME. His body was so thin that he seemed to rattle as he came over and said, “Help you, man?” “I need some new duds, man,” I slurred, hamming it up. “Don’t, like, wrap ‘em or nothing, I’ll change here”. I bought an orange T-shirt with Che Guevara on the front of it, two sizes too small and about long enough for a midget – perfect. Next came a pretentious pork pie hat with a pink feather jauntily stuck in the hatband and a shiny, two-tone overcoat, purple shifting to blue in colour with an embroidered paisley pattern subtly woven into it. Black hipsters followed, skin-tight to the knee and then flaring out from there on down until, at floor level, they could have easily covered a bass drum. I adjusted them to show the requisite amount of pubic hair below the short t-shirt before picking my footwear – a pair of shockingly beige, suede loafers that belonged in an episode of Daktari. The “look” was rounded off nicely with a pair of blue, square lensed shades – the kind that actually make everything brighter to the point where it hurts to look. Total price one hundred and fifty two Mo-Dollars. I paid in cash. Beautiful. But not complete. This was the gamble. Turning to the between-bands-musician I flipped him another twenty and looked around knowingly as I leant closer. “Give me the good stuff”, I whispered. He looked startled at this but, after weighing it up in his head, he decided that I’d used all the right code words and sidled towards the counter with a whispered “Watch the window, man”. I made a show of doing so as he went down behind the counter, coming up seconds later with a velvet-wrapped bundle. “How long these good for?” I asked stroking the contents. “Eight hours a time if you don’t sweat much,” came the reply, “and there’s enough touch up glue included to do a complete reapply.” I put them on, feeling a thrill – a personal triumph – as I checked my look in the mirror. I’d a always suspected that this was the place where the stick-on sideburns found there way into Moseley, but until this very moment I’d had nothing to go on but a hunch. NME bloke was sweating a little now, obviously wanting me gone. “Th-That’s it, man. You look cooler than Cusworth, I swear,” he stammered, and looking in the mirror I had to agree, really. Except about the cool part. This was it then, No way would any of the Cider Gang recognise me now. I was more Moseley than Moseley. It was time to go and punch Willie’s clock. Maybe it really would be a good Christmas this year after all….