"Pffffft... man, I'm so bored. Did we smoke all the ***?"

"Nah, there's a couple of blunts' worth left. Help yourself, bro."

"Cheers, dude. You know, for an ashtray, you're not bad company. You love a good smoke, the chicks love you, dudes see you as part of the family, we've got similar tastes in music, although I know you prefer Highway to Hell to Back in Black. Either way, AC/DC are the best band in the universe. I was cleaning you the other day and noticed all the stains and remnants of wild nights from over the years. We've had our adventures, our accidents, you've borne witness to romance, pain, and life-changing events—hell, you've always been there for me. I'm sooo ******.

Where's the ***? Let's rip a couple of bongs. You know I'll always be grateful for our time together, but... alas, our friendship has to end.

Time's catching up with me, and my health comes first, so I'm moving on—moving on to vapes, and knocking getting high on the head."

"You really are ******, aren't you? Get rolling, I'm gasping for a puff."

"Right, yes... two blunts coming up."

"Oi, Echo, how ya doing?"

"Not bad, Frankie. How's tricks with you?"

"Can't complain me ol' son, the car dealership is booming, got myself a hot new bird and I'm minted."

"I'm pleased for you, Frankie, that's fantastic news."

"Yeah, 'ere, haha ha, I heard ya been ******* Fat Bertha. She's a right goer is that one, eh, Echo?"

"Watch how you speak about Bertha."

"Shut up, mate, she's a ****, a fat one at that."

Left Uppercut – Cross – Left Hook – Cross

K.O.

"Now, Eliot, you've been a potato for four months. You've gone through training with hot grills, reconnaissance missions to fish and chips shops, and you even rescued the Potato King from an assassination attempt by a housewife in Luton. You have now been selected to serve King and country by being part of a giant feast in honour of Prince Victor of Bulgaria, the highest-ranking potato in the world. Prepare yourself for the proudest moment of your life. Any questions?"

"Should I wear a jacket?"

She sat rigid, not a flicker of expression.
The girl externally blended into the classroom—just another brushstroke within the painting.

Pupils filled the canvas—part children, part desks. Stood before them was a bespectacled, stern-looking woman, pointing towards a chalk-scrawled blackboard.

A scene so familiar, so normal... yet, internally, the girl was running from bloodthirsty wolves. Her heart thundering at such a pace it seemed it would leap from her chest.
Storms surrounded as she avoided the cracks that were appearing in the disintegrating earth beneath.

Faster, faster, she ran—breathless, panicked, determined to escape.

And then... a bell rang out.

Nearly every brushstroke remained intact.

The girl was now a blur.

"Bertha."

"Yes, gorgeous."

"I've been thinking..."

"Did it hurt?"

"Aha-ha, no, it was easy. Shall we get married this coming Valentine's Day?"

"That's a bit short notice, babe."

"The truth is, it's been booked for a while—St. Peter's Church, 2 p.m. Everything is arranged: we have flowers, invites ready to go, and I've even got you a dress fitting appointment for tomorrow afternoon. All you have to do is say yes."

"Oh, babe... oh, my love..."

"Hey, I didn't mean to be pushy. Oh... I've made you cry. I'm so very sorry, I'll cancel..."

"No, you won't! I'm so happy. Kiss me."

"Is that a yes?"

"Of course it is! YES! YES! YES!"

"I had a dream last night. I dreamt of a life without pain, an existence with no pressure to strive, an acceptance of what had been and what was to come."

"Are you sure it was a dream?"

"No, but I am sure I want to go there again."

"Babe."

"Yes, Bertha."

"I cried earlier at work. I had to be taken off the deli counter."

"Oh, Beautiful, what's the matter?"

"Nothing, that's just it, babe. I cried out of happiness. I've had quite a life, with not much luck, and then I met you and discovered what real love is."

"Oh, Bertha... I feel the same. Hug?"

"Yes, hug."

The phone rang.

"Yes."

"Am I speaking to Agent Nick Moore?"

"Who's asking?"

"This is the Poetic Justice Bureau. We have a job for you. A poet has recently gone missing and is feared dead. Your mission is to find this poet and return him safely to the bureau."

"Understood."

"The poet's name is Roger and he was last seen over a week ago. He is connected to a former employee of the bureau, ex-Agent Echo. Find him, and you’ll find Roger. We're emailing you details of a known associate of his, Jimmy The Silk, a small-time **** dealer in Liverpool. Good luck, Agent Moore."

The line went dead.

Nick made his way to his bedroom, opened the wardrobe door, and there, hanging in all its glory, was a black suit and tie.

After changing into the Bureau attire, he sent for a car to take him to Liverpool.

A Rolls Royce Spectre Coupe pulled up outside Agent Moore's home. The driver's door opened to reveal a striking blonde beauty. "Get in the back," she ordered.

They drove away.

"Agent Moore, I am taking you to the contact's address. You shall ask him about Echo's whereabouts and come straight back to the car. He may try to tempt you with his illegal substances. You must resist."

Nick nodded.

Arriving in Edge Hill, an affluent and beautiful area of Liverpool, the Rolls Royce quietly parked outside Jimmy The Silk's apartment.

The front door had an intercom, which Agent Moore pressed. A disembodied voice came through the speaker.

"Yeah? Who's that?"

"Jimmy, my name is Agent Nick Moore from the Poetic Justice Bureau. I need to speak with you on an urgent matter."

A buzzer sounded, and the door opened.

There, dressed in a *****-stained Liverpool FC top and a pair of boxer shorts, stood Jimmy The Silk.

"You better come in, lad," he said, beckoning Nick into his abode.

"Now, what's it to be? A spliff or a ****? 'Cause I ain't saying **** all to you unless you're on the same wavelength as me."

"Jimmy, I'm working. No thanks."

After a lot of persuasion and the realisation that this would be a dead end unless he complied, Agent Moore joined Jimmy for a round of pipes and spliffs.

Totally off his face and barely in control of his faculties, he attempted to ask questions.

"Jimmy, do you know the whereabouts of Echo? We need him to help us find Roger the poet."

Jimmy slowly lifted his head, then promptly projectile vomited, just missing Nick. Clearing his mouth with a gulp of Special Brew lager, he started to laugh.

"Echo... is Roger. Roger is... Echo."

He then stood up from the sofa and motioned for Nick to follow him. Swinging open his spare bedroom door, there was Echo, sat, frantically tapping away on his phone.

"Echo, the bureau wants me to take you to them. There seems to be some misunderstanding. You are Roger?"

Echo stopped tapping.

"Yes, I am Roger, and I am Echo also. I created Roger to show what poetry I really write and what comes from my soul. I'll come with you, sure."

After a few more spliffs and Jimmy puking up once more, Agent Moore and Echo/Roger stumbled out of the apartment and into the waiting car.

The blonde driver looked at them both in disgust, then drove them to the Bureau's headquarters.

"So, Echo, Agent Moore has been sent all the way to the beautiful suburb of Edge Hill to find you and Roger, and now we find out you faked the whole thing. We are not happy with you at all. You are hereby sentenced to two years hard labour at All Poetry, with no access to Hello Poetry until your sentence is served. Guards, take him down."

Echo looked distraught and close to breaking point as he was led away.

The Chief of the Bureau turned to Nick.

"Agent Moore, you have more than proved your abilities out in the field. Take a break, and we'll be in touch."

"Yes, sir. I'll be ready, anytime, anyplace. I'll be there."

"Doctor, I have a pain in my back passage, but I kind of like it."

"You are sitting on my lap, kindly remove yourself, Mrs Perkins."

"I'm leaving. You've had your chances. I can't argue anymore; it's too much."

"Fine, leave. I won't stop you."

"I've tried so hard with this relationship, and you seem to coast along, not making any effort at all."

"Yeah, well, bye then."

"Can't you see what you are losing? Women like me come along maybe once in a lifetime."

"Close the door behind you."

"And there'll be no turning back. Don't contact me in any way or form. We are done—finito."

"This is getting boring."

"I'll be off now. Goodbye."

"Okay, goodbye."

"Kiss me one last time. I'll allow you that."

"Nah, just leave."

"Am I not attractive? I find you attractive. Oh, heavens, shall we try again? Fresh start?"

"This is crazy."

"Love is crazy. Take me, take me here, right now. Unleash your seed into me."

"Erm... yeah, alright."

"Marmaduke, Marmaduke?"

"Nan, I think he just went out through the cat flap."

"Oh, but it's his tea time, and I've cooked his favourite—fish finger sandwiches."

"Should you be feeding a cat that?"

"Why, yes, he loves it, especially with tomato ketchup."

"Have you taken your pills today?"

"Of course. I had two gobstoppers at 8, then a plate of chips at 11. Marmaduke? Where are you?"

"Nan, have you been using acid again?"

"Yes, dear."

"Mother Superior."

"Yes, Sister Bernadette."

"I think I just **** myself."

"It certainly smells like you have."

"Whatever should I do?"

"What do you think you should do?"

"I have sinned in the house of God. Mother Superior, please guide me
into the right path of redemption."

"Oh, *******."

"Percy, you've been my gardener for twenty years now, and I feel you deserve a special reward."

"Mrs. Perkins, that's very kind. What did you have in mind?"

"Lucy has never been with a man, and I think the time is right for her to start dating."

"But, Mrs. Perkins, Lucy is your pet dog."

"And?"

"Can I bring a friend?"

"Tommy, come here at once!"

"What is it, Mum?"

"Why is there a pair of knickers in your bed?"

"Oh, it was hot last night, so I took them off."

"Aha, fair enough."

Psychopathic brainstorm
flowing through my mind
searching for the answers I'll
never ever find
On the edge of a cliff
Looking down on my life
all I see before me
is the glint of a knife
darkness rips my sinews
light is out of sight
whatever happened to
My once impregnable fight?
car crashed into a policeman
I drove as fast as I could
360 on the wheel
into Blackman's wood
the funeral was so beautiful
children dressed in white
I watched from far away
Yet remained stuck in that night
hours in the public loo
blood dripping down my thighs
evil demon licking lips
fear shuddered in my eyes
therapist destroyed me
gentle little boy
no speech to tell of the living hell
a useful ****** toy
parents showed no mercy
no one seemed to care
left with deep confusion
and a distant, vacant stare
grows into an adult
writes rhymes to ease the pain
silent echoes deafen
Again, again, again..

The old oak creaked.
Many sweethearts had carved
their initials into its flesh over
the years, yet the tree remained
alone.

Once upon a time, it had held
a swing. Children swung to
and fro, laughing in joy.
This pleased the oak no end.

Another time,an escaped prisoner
sought refuge within its thick
boughs. He stayed for days,
avoiding searchlights and sniffer
dogs.Eventually, of course,he was
caught.

The fallow months were the worst.
Winter brought a shedding of the
proud coat of leaves, leaving a bare
skeleton, unattractive in the moonlight,
yet a beacon for the downhearted.

What more could the old oak expect?
Was this life all there was?
Was its existence defined by human
interactions?

All thoughts were then sidetracked
by some rustling within its branches.
A nest of chicks had begun to sing a
sweet lullaby, as the mother flew back
and forth with food for her young.

The old oak creaked,
this time with pleasure.

Bertha stared motionless through the TV.
Thoughts of times past filled her mind...

"Happy birthday, darling! Here you go."
Dad and his appearances. Yep, never fooled me.

He only saw me on my birthdays—normally an hour or two, tops.
A quick ice cream and a gift, then boom, see you next year.

I don't remember Mum and Dad being together; why would I?
I was only a few months old when they split.

Growing up, it was different men all the time coming into the house. Eventually, I came to realize that when they visited, in the next few days that followed, I would be treated to a day out or spoiled rotten with gifts.
Yeah, she was a lady of the night, a Tom, a brass—a *******.

Dad was an ex-client, I found out years later. He died on my 13th birthday—a day I'll never forget.

Mum told me in the morning that Dad had been killed in a car crash.
I didn't know how to feel. I mean, he was just a guy I saw once a year.

That evening, after a cake and a few friends came around for a party, I was alone in the lounge.
There was a tap on the window.
I looked out and saw one of Mum's regular male visitors.

I shouted for Mum. Assuming she was coming, I opened the front door to let him in.

"You're a pretty one," he kept saying to me, complimenting my looks, my dress, my body.

After he violated me, I was once again left alone.

Mum eventually came home; she had popped to the shops, thinking I was here with friends. That's her story—she knew full well they had already left.

They caught the man. He got two years in prison—TWO YEARS. After that, I ate and ate and ate. I craved love and affection but always looked in the wrong places.

Mum died a couple of years ago—drugs, yep.

So, here I am, the last one standing.

Life... oh, what a life.

            -  -  -

Bertha refocused on the TV, releasing a heavy sigh.

She noticed a message flash up on her phone.
It was the boyfriend saying he was on his way round.

Rummaging through her handbag, Bertha grabbed some mascara and lipstick.
A swift makeover followed, then, standing up, she shook herself down and placed a smile upon her face.

The doorbell rang.

"Hello, Babe, you **** *******. Get ya **** in here.."

"Will you be long, dear?"

Naǧí drew heavily on a freshly made blunt.
"I'll be as long as it takes," she shouted.

The bud was good. It was not as potent
as the stuff back home in the States,
but good.

Relaxing on her new throne - a filthy
toilet in a London pub, Naǧí laughed softly.

She had arrived in Blighty a few days
before. A week away from life back
home and a chance to see jolly old England.

"I say, miss, I'm busting for a wee."
Reluctantly, throwing the **** in the pan
she exited the cubicle.

Stood outside was an older lady
in a state of panic, "It's my bladder, dear.."

Naǧí stepped aside to let the desperate
woman pass into the smoke-filled chamber.

Back out into the bar, she ordered a double
whiskey and melted into a barstool.

"Alright, duck? Bertha's the name." said a
rather large, pretty chick on the next stool.

"Hi, I'm Naǧí, just over from the States for
a few days."

Bertha grinned, "A Yank eh? Have a nice day,
y'all, hahaha."

"Yes, good one Bertha. Hey, do you know
where I can score any top-grade ****?"

"I'll ask my fella, here he comes."

Working his way through the busy pub,
full of swinging hipsters and cheery older
folk appeared a handsome fellow, smiling
from ear to ear.

Bertha grabbed him, planting a kiss on his
lips,"This is my babe, he's ******* gorgeous
isn't he?"

The man embraced her, squeezing her
ample *** and licking her face. He then
introduced himself to Naǧí, "Hello there,
the name's Echo, how do you do."

Naǧí and Echo shook hands, while Bertha
threw a jealous glance.

"Babe, Naǧí, here, wants to score some
****. Is your mate Jimmy The Silk, about?"

"Yeah, I think he's at home tonight."

Naǧí pondered for a second, "I could drive us
there? I'm not drunk."

Bertha ummed and arred, then agreed, Echo
did as he was told.

Into Naǧí's hired car they did go.
Arriving at Jimmy's flat in Bethnal Green,
after a quick stop off at a Tesco superstore to
get some chocolate trifles for Bertha, they
knocked at the door.

The door slowly opened, revealing a very
drunk Jimmy The Silk, wearing a beer-stained
Liverpool FC top and a joint stuck to his
bottom lip.

"Echo! You ******* ******, how ya doing?
Bertha, ya beast! Come here and cuddle
Uncle Jimmy."

Bertha embraced Jimmy, kissing him on both
cheeks whilst giggling like a schoolgirl.

Into the flat they all went. Eventually, after
falling over many times, Jimmy weighed out a
four-gram bag of ****.

Naǧí automatically skinned up.By now Echo
and Jimmy had put some music on and were
badly dancing to the Saturday Night Fever
soundtrack.

Everyone settled on the sofa and chairs in
Jimmy's living room, ****** to high heaven.

Naǧí smiled, "You Brits know how to have a
good time, I'm having a ball. Hey, Bertha,
where are those trifles? Let's get munching!"

Bertha looked to the floor, Echo embraced her,
"Bertha, beautiful, love of my life, where are
the chocolate trifles?"

Jimmy piped up, "Yea, c'mon girl, don't be greedy,
well, at least not tonight, eh?
Hahaha, no offence, doll."

Bertha, flicked her hair back, "Erm, I..er..ate
them while you guys were dancing and Naǧí
was making a bifta."

The room fell silent.

Then all at once, they burst out laughing,

Echo hugged her tightly,
"Aww, you naughty dumpling! Jimmy,order a
Chinese takeaway, mate."

They all shared some food together and
indulged in more spliffs and more drinks.

Naǧí drove away the next morning, dropping
Bertha and Echo off at home, after thanking
Jimmy for his hospitality. She left them her
number, promising to let the three amigos
stay anytime they visit the States.

The following week, back home, Naǧí sparked
up a blunt, selected a song, and pressed play:
'Night fever, night fever, we know how to do it...'



                                              THE END