Chapter 2 - Diamond in the Vest

Fast forward a couple of years and a fresh nuisance has emerged in my life, Dwayne – the stepfather. Put it this way, if he were on fire then I would gladly throw a petrol bomb at him. . . have you ever seen someone that from looks alone, you know, you just fucking know, that they drink fully skimmed, red milk, through a straw? This is he.

Dwayne will get a 50-inch, 4K, Samsung TV on a five-year finance deal, paying FIFTY POUNDS OF ENGLISH STERLING a month, so he can feel better about the fact that he’s 5 ft 4. My mother met him on eHarmony and together they have personalities of OJ and ketchup, curdling together to form a fucking travesty of a couple.

This guy is a shithead and on a day-to-day basis he’ll wear a netted Umbro vest, Umbro tracksuit bottoms and Lonsdale sneakers. . . class transcends through his person, the fucking piece of garbage. Dwayne also sports an eyebrow piercing and a sweet tribal tattoo. . . it isn’t even like the tat was a young mistake.

Oh no.

He had it done half a year ago and is proud as hell of it. On multiple occasions I’ve seen him stretch out his arm to showcase his ink, so passers-by take note.

If there’s a statement of his that sums him up then here it is - me and my amigo Koby are stood outside in my garden having a cigarette, chilling and chatting as you do with your homeslice’s. Dwayne steps out onto the patio. “Koby, what are you studying at college?”

“Law.”

Dwayne puffs his menthol roll up and looks at Koby hard in the eyes. “I would have done law at college, but I broke too many.”

Who says shit like that?

Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him?

I bet the law he broke was being publicly breastfed from his mother’s supple bosom in the Waitrose cafeteria, at the tender age of 33. Actually, there’s no way it would have been Waitrose because Dwayne and his possie are too white trash to shop there.

Aldi is a more appropriate stomping ground - which has no cafeteria because it’s for poor people, so he would have been sucking her nips down the bread aisle besides a gluten free tiger loaf.

And to let you all know, his bum-hole isn’t called a bum-hole, it’s a mum-hole.

Why you ask?

Because she wiped it until he was 30

You’re probably thinking, fuck, ‘that’s deep’

Not as deep as she was going into his northern anus. . .

His folks, known as Doris (mum-hole enthusiast) and Hector are also warped freaks. Doris carries round a 1.2kg bag of fruit and if you make the mistake of eye contact then be very prepared for a “Rosy Red Victoria plumb?”

No Doris, take your tainted devil plumbs away from me, nobody buys strawberries on the motorway and nobody wants your smelly roadkill fruit.

How great would it be if Hector put a plumb in Doris’s mouth and securely tied it in place with a shoelace to gag her during sex, but the plumb fell too far down her throat, blocked her airways and suffocated her to death. . . the fruit she was always trying to peddle causing her own demise.

The same as a drug dealer dying from taking an ecstasy pill, that they would normally sell for a score.

It’s a Saturday afternoon and I’m frigging starving so I head for the kitchen. . . seeing as we’re in the 21st century, there must be a couple of Cheestrings in the fridge – a four pack maybe? I’d teabag my alive nan for some Fridge Raiders right about now. But yes, it is the 21st century and no, there isn’t any food present. . . Dwayne does however have an eight pack of Stella’s in the fridge, a 50-gram pouch of tobacco and a cheesy dick that he washes every other day and infiltrates my mother with.

Old people are gross.

In a last-ditch effort, I look on top of the fridge because the skank with a cheesy dick sometimes hides food there, double skank. As suspected, Dwayne has utilised his famous hiding place and to my delight the goods are a personal favourite. . . maple and pecan pastries, now we’re in business.

The fact that I’ll be depleting his stock and pleasuring myself is, well, it’s a great feeling. I rip open the treats and spank them, you’re a bad pair of pastries aren’t you. You were reserved for that midget hobo, that lives inside a house and you’ve chosen me. . . you’re a naughty maple and pecan combo.

MMMMMM pecan.

Nom, nom and a lil’ more nom.

As the last crumb is being swallowed, Dwayne enters the kitchen. “You little prickhead, I was going to eat them later whilst watching Nightrider, where do you get off?”

“Well maybe if you stopped kitting yourself out on Umbro gear and purchased more edibles, then we wouldn’t have this problem you fucking noodle head.”

Dwayne hates it when people disrespect his favourite sportswear brand. “I’ll have you know that Umbro is the brand of champions.”

“It’s the brand of nothing.”

We proceed back and forth for a little while until the situation cools down. But I am not done and decide to take a venture upstairs, seeking greater revenge. There must be something in his drawers.

Nail clippers? No, they won’t do.

A self-help book? I’ll leave that as lord knows that he needs the advice.

This Twix won’t do either as it’s a z-tier chocolate bar.

Fucking Dwayne is a shit cunt of a bloke and has zero top tier accessories, for me to violate.

What’s this? A fitness DVD. ‘Lose weight in just a week with Dion Dublin.’ Fuck off Dion. Ok, I’m sorry, it’s just I don’t want to hear about that silly little drum you invented. Nope, you’re right Dion, it’s not your fault that this northern specimen of the inbred calibre has been plonked into my life.

They say that God tests you with difficult moments for mysterious reasons. I fail to see how this one of those times as I don’t believe in God, but if I did, I’d ask. ‘Why do you always have to be such a twat?’

 And the whole ‘religion’ thing baffles me anyway, as all the shithole, peasant, countries, seem to have a higher percentage of believers. Were God real, then he certainly doesn’t like them, does he?

These peasant people with their ailments and lack of ointments pray to him every day, and what does he do in return? He’s all like, ah yes thank you for worshipping me, in return I shall gift you with famine and aids. . . and if that isn’t enough then how about some malaria sprinkled on top, yes that will do it, malaria for everyone!

Perhaps this is the same as girls liking boys, who talk to them like shit?

Treat em’ mean, keep em’ keen. . . and hungry!

I dunno if it’s Dion Dublin, God or Titus Bramble that bless me with such artefacts. I thank the three of them as my eyes lock onto a trio of inhalers, all of which shall receive contamination that would make Chernobyl seem safe and cleaner than a nun’s cunt. . . if anyone has seen a nun’s cunt that is, for all we know nun’s could have a pussy moustache, or cunt curtains or whatever way you wish to phrase it. 

Hahahahaha, these inhalers will feel my revolution and yes, they will also feel my fury.

I take them one by one and wipe them up, down and around every crevice in my butt-crack. I do a fart on them too for a bonus round. It’s possible that some maple and pecan pastry essence has infused into the plastic. . . take that Dwayne – inhale those ass juices, and as they say, revenge is a dish best served shitty.

Hopefully he catches E. coli and dies. Yeah, that would be sweet. I’d have to get a tear drop tattooed underneath one of my butt cheeks.

Stone cold killer.

The playing field has been levelled and an equilibrium restored, I can now happily move on with my life. . . number 7 in the rules of the earth – should anybody wrong you, make sure you find something that they’ll put into their mouth and place it in your bum for a long weekend. . . violate it so badly, that your Viking ancestors would think you took things too far.

Such feelings of self-gratification are beautiful and when reached, you feel that this new high is the norm – I’m enjoying said feeling until some four-eyed fuck intervenes. Dwayne has a daughter, Clara, I view her as a multi-optical being that occasionally walks past me in the kitchen. . . she may be the spawn of the Umbro-Devil, but I don’t hold it against her.

Clara is gasping for air. “Dad I can’t find my inhaler anywhere, have you seen it?”

“No babe, use one of mine.”

Interesting. . .

She fetches one of his inhalers that is riddled with faecal matter and I’m in limbo, regarding whether I should warn her off. Heroes and villains are made in such moments. . . Should I be the hero that Dwayne’s four-eyed-fuck of a daughter needs?

Or should I be the villain that Dwayne’s intrusion in my life has created?

Merr, what’s done is done. Forces larger than me have decided this one as her fate has been sealed by the poo gods. . . Clara takes the cap off and puts the breathing apparatus to her lips, then pushes down the top and inhales. She does so a second time, feeling the benefit of Salbutamol relaxing the muscles of the airways into her lungs - so that my shit particles can make a swift entry inside and latch onto her kidneys.

“Ah, much better. Thanks daddy.”

Dwayne smiles like a proud father who has just saved his daughter, a daughter completely unaware that the contents of my rectum have now been in and around her mouth.

It is a great shame really.

Clara is a nice girl that’s been indirectly caught up in the war, but there’s always friendly fire in warfare. . . I would later go on to develop asthma.