Fuckers...pushing buttons...buttons...pushing fuckers
...and they all fall down.
Do you ever feel like rocketing the guy next to you?
When you're on the train and the dude with the silk handkerchief would look so much better with your fist 2.5cm above his jaw and 12° left of his nose.
That's the kind of blow that would send him stumbling, bumbling back, no the least because the unobservant fool wasn't expecting a 20 year old commuter to wallop him.
How many people would you have to four-knuckle tattoo to start a train brawl?
Do you reckon if you decked the busker in midriff as he was mid-riff of "Here comes the sun" doodoo doodoo, for the 71st fucking time today, someone would intervene?
Perhaps something more brutish is in order.
Like wrenching his well-worn fender 76-strat off its strap, sitting snugly on his dirty neck, and raising it above your head like a battle-axe, would surely prompt a shout from the braindead ants scuttling past. The ants carry their briefcases like they're leaves, triple their puny little bodyweight.
No, no.
That would just be characterised as theatrics. The ants would be curious at best, applauding at worst.
What's needed is pure, un-justified, dis-associated violence. That battle-axe needs to come down.
Down.
Down.
Down.
It needs to go from virgin white to once-a-month red.
From chess-playing, corner-sitting classroom sado, to playground strutting, mum-beating bully. Down.
Down.
Down.
Down.
From free trial to paid subscription.
From cycling to work to Uber-every-day to work.
From coke on your birthday to an 8-ball every time the barista remembers your sweaty addict order.
From tube driver to Concorde pilot to Felix fucking Baumgartner jumping from the stratosphere.
up,
up,
Rumour is, he planned to take the balloon up, and never come back. But he took one look at what he thought to be stars and figured out that they were just the fading light of a lit cigarette; hiding behind it, an interstellar hack with two ex-wife's and an asbo from Pluto.
So he fucked it, he came back down.
It was a pretty elaborate suicide jump if you ask me. I prefer starting brawls on trains at about 3pm so my eulogy can make the 5pm announcements.
'The Northern Line is currently experiencing
delays due to a man on the tracks'
Sing it baby!
Oooooosh.
Well, now that battle-axe is down and I've managed to since the bouncy
busker's head clean off with his own whammy-bar.
Wham!
His head rolls down the clinically lit tunnel, attracting more attention than his never-ending, classic-castrating noodling ever did.
BuT StiLl No oNe FucKing HiTs Me!
Time to do it all over again, next stop.
