Chapter 2


I wouldn’t exactly say that I come from the wrong side of the tracks nor could I admit to being abused during childhood; I’m simply just wrong 9 times out of ten. I think it was Christmas when I’d met her. And I know that this sounds terribly corny but I love Christmas time. There are many fond memories that surround that holiday. Drinking too much, stuffing in puddings as if they’re your last, and stuffing holiday broads that drink too much. At least that’s what I’d thought I’d met.

She was beauty; her hair was black, her skin the color of sand, and her red mouth was one that even Santa would want to stuff.  Some pathetic pompous ass just asking for a beat down was chatting her up. Oh you know the lot, he’s charming because he’s a wealthy young American rock star. His hangers-on or entourage are worse than dingle berries. So he was windin’ me up so I’s keep drinking and watching him flash his once braced teeth and trying to grab hot mouth’s ass.

Fuck it. I decided it ought to be me with my hands on hot mouth’s ass and tossed a tumbler at his stupid head.

You’d a thought I shot the president. Blood curdling screams reverberated throughout the once revered stone chapel-turned-tosser-disco. His long as hell fingers rushed to the side of his head, exactly the spot the glass bounced off. The room erupted into mass chaos – men screamed like women and began to take cover, vegans grabbed cheese and stuffed it into their mouths, his female admirers took advantage of the distraction to claw at each other’s weaves; and hot mouth, laughed out loud – I heard it all the way into the bar area from which I stood.

The bar was some ostentatious ice sculpture bullshit – you know, something you’d find at a boring architecture party where overpaid non-geniuses insist on stuffing us with 1970’s design while completely keen to ignore those of us that only wish to see something original. The bloke manning the douche bag ice bar was being coerced by some pencil nosed wank into being some sort of goddamn hero. You could see that the barkeeper wuzin’ havin’ it.

“Oh go on mate, “ I heard myself say, “They look like they could use ya out there, ya know, out on the front lines.” It came out of my mouth like a bad Oliver Stone film.

He almost slipped on the stupid ice bar, deploying out to the “front line” of a drunken sociopath’s strategy for picking up broad. I am not entirely sure when hot mouth had joined me at the bar but there she was insisting, even then, that I pour her a drink. She laid her tiny leopard printed purse atop the ice.

“Vodka please, “ still insisting.

Pouring her vodka, I wished I were her glass. Her bubble gum press on nails held the glass firm and those red stained lips wrapped the rim of the glass eagerly. I only noticed the coppers briefly. Hot mouth on the other hand, slowly spinning around in the clear plastic bar stool, her dark curls bouncing in and out of those black eyes, watched the coppers intently. Cops or no cops, I went ‘round the bar, put my hand up her dress and kissed that mouth. Only slightly did she try to resist but I’d slid my fingers inside her and held her there. Amongst the chaos, her breath came in short bursts and her moaning was all I heard. She grabbed at me desperately, trying to get my zipper open. I let her fumble about when one of the coppers tapped me on my shoulder. Forgetting where I was, I got hold of his wrist and tried to twist his super sized arm behind his back. The big bastard however proved too strong and I now was looking down the barrel of his .45.

“You wanna go you fuck?” He yelled. “You wanna play cowboys and Indians?”

I had no idea what that meant. He strung up the plastic twist ties about my wrists and shoved me face down into the ice.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” He asked hot mouth.

“Officer, I should ask you the same question,” she said.

The cop was silent.

“Please release my husband, this instant!” She was adamant.

“Ma’am, we received a call that potential terrorist activities had happened here tonight around 2200 hours. Please step aside ma’am as you are interfering with police business and perhaps national security.”

“National security? Whoever heard of a ginger haired terrorist? Stop wasting tax payers’ money,” she had pleaded for my release even then.

The fuckin’ pig paid her no attention and dragged my ass out of the party.

“You’re a real gentlemen, huh pal? Carrying on like that in public, you sick fuck, you’re off to jail tonight,” he mocked me making sure to slam me into every wall imaginable.

He stuffed me into the back of the car but not without slamming my head on the car first. Jesus Christ, all of this for a girl. Outside the car the pigs ran their mouths – terrorist towel heads this, fags that, sicko pinko wacko, fuck off; these bastards were a piece of work. I’d simply thrown a glass across a room that happened to land perfectly against the side of a spoiled so-so talented pop star’s temple all so I could slide up into hot mouth’s skirt and they had me cuffed as if I had attacked the queen.

I dreamed in the clank that hot mouth had in fact become my wife. We were just about to have a shag when the fat cop’s nightstick woke me up to the smell of fresh piss and the screams of a craving junky Christmas elf.

“Smith? Ian Smith, you’re free to go,” he tapped his stick impatiently.

In about 4 months, the words, ‘Ian Smith, you’re free to go’ would become a secret prayer or my own Act of Contrition.

“Ian Smith, the charges have been dropped, you’re free to go.”

“Ian Smith, you’re bail’s been paid, you’re free to go.”

“Ian Smith, I guess we’ve got the wrong man, you’re free to go.”

The coppers would release me into the arms of the very person that had me locked up, hot mouth, or Nora. Always with those black and gold sunglasses, she waited in black heels, black dress and a black scarf tied about her hair. Was it my funeral and I hadn’t realized that I was dead? We’d walk hand in hand to the road where then I would hail a cab. Inside we were always silent. She held onto my hand and always laid her head on my shoulder and sobbed gently. As if on cue, she would stop sobbing the moment the cabby drove us onto her road. Somehow I’d get screwed to pay the cab while she walked up to the flat.

The flat was always still and quiet and immaculate. I’d wondered if she had stayed up all night cleaning up after the screaming lies and broken promises. Nora removed her scarf and sunglasses and began cooking my breakfast. I’d cross the white stone tiles in the kitchen, pull open the fridge and serve myself a beer. I’d quietly lift my hand to touch the small band – aid on her cheek, above her eye, over half her mouth, or wherever her skin had come open, but she always stopped me. I’d honor her wish and leave her. Those black eyes burned at my back as I strolled into the living room to catch whatever match was on at 9am.

Her black heels tick tacked against the tile and then the wood floor. She’d hand me my breakfast and vanish to take another shower. She complained that after our violent nights that she never could feel clean. She would shower at least 3 or 4 times the next morning, never speaking to me but always serving me. Nora brought me sandwiches, chips with dip, beer after beer, colas, a clean towel and face cloth but never uttered a word.  What was there to say? I’d fucked up again and again and again she took me back. I wasn’t the type however to try to make it up, I just never knew how. Flowers would be worse than the slap she’d already been given. Jewelry or a new dress, I’d only destroy again. And sorry was a pathetic man’s excuse – my excuse. So I always sat and ate whatever she brought me, and didn’t utter a word.