The Phantom

“Haha, I can’t believe he’s actually brought them to work on a building site.”

“What a fucking queer.”

“I bet he paints his toenails in a UV shade that’s only visible when he’s baking muffins, the gay prick.”

Mike snatches the muffins from my hands, and they begin pelting them at me whilst shouting. . .

Betty Cocker

Betty Cocker

Betty Cocker

Mike is the dickhead ringleader of the group. “You bake whilst wearing pink don’t you boy, we all know what that means. Come over here and give a lil’ rubba’ dubba’ to papa.” They continue the chanting. . .

Betty Cocker

Betty Cocker

Betty Cocker

A cupcake lands on my face. I created you pink frosting now you’re mocking me too. . .

Pow

Another cupcake to the head. That one felt personal. How much can a human take before breaking?

Roughly seven cupcakes.

I charge at Mike and swing a right uppercut. It tastes great. . . doesn’t it, Mike. . . “Mike?”

He’s laid out on the floor unconscious.

“I said it’s weird that the uppercut tastes better than the muffins, aye Mike?”

A few other generic people with generic names try to wake Mike up. Mike is not waking up. Mike hit his head on the gravel during his descent. Mikes a dick but I didn’t want to kill him. Mikes dead and I am off to prison.

8 years.

Wow.

Life’s a bitch and then you go to prison.

We’re woken up each day with classical music. The other inmates hate it, so I play along. This part’s the best. . .

LALALALALALALALALALALALALA

Amazing. Unlike my fellow prisoners. Fuck, are they annoying, blud, blud, blud. You fucking bluddy, blud. New cell mate pending. He’s coming in today. Can’t wait to meet this fucking psychopath and share a spacious seven square meters with him.

His dick will constantly be just a few inches away from my anus, due to the small cell. Does that make me gay?

I hope not.

Here he is. . . a Japanese type human with black hair and a sense of yearning to be accepted by his father. Is there a Japanese person without black hair?

That’s all I can picture in my head, black hair on a Japanese person. I’d love to put some honey roasted ham on a Japanese person; let it ferment for a while then throw the marinated meat in between some tiger bread.

I bow to my new cell mate

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“Sorry, I thought that was how your culture said please don’t rape me.”

“Well yes, that is correct. I will not rape you now.”

“Thank you.”

He clambers up onto his top bunk and I can’t hear a thing. Damn Asian people are light. One could sneakily hop up onto your shoulders and you wouldn’t know a damn thing about it.

One could kamikaze a fighter plane into your submarine in support of the bratwurst. . . it is the superior sausage race!

That’s a point, didn’t Hitler want to wipe out all races other than white?

So why were the Japs Germany’s allies?

They must have really liked them bratwursts with the ketchup and the mustard and the onion, Jesus that’s some good sausage.

God, I bet if me and this guy got into combat things would get mortal, for me. Still can’t believe I killed Mike with one punch, my technique is awful so jokes on him.

Many nights pass and me and my Japanese friend grow closer yada, yada, yada. Imagine a montage of us having pillow fights and rolling around on the floor laughing whilst watching anime.

After completing a Dragon Ball Z marathon, he begins training me for combat.

“Throw a punch.” He instructs.

I throw a punch.

“Weak, try again.”

I throw another.

“You bring shame on your family.”

Jab

“You dishonour your father.” He matter-of-factly adds.

“Well, he had a ponytail.”

“I’m so sorry.” 

Jab

“That was better, use the ponytail. It will be your fuel. Think of how the ponytail makes you feel. You hate that ponytail don’t you.”

Jab Ponytail Jab Ponytail Jab Ponytail Jab FuckI’mHungry

One thing that you are in prison is hungry. I jab through the hungry early days.

The early days mount up and after a few long years I am trained as a ninja warrior. Konnichiwa Motherfucker.

I keeping wondering what my cell mate gets out of teaching me the sacred ways of Japanese combat. If these roles were reversed, would I be so kind?

Doubt it.

Personally, I feel it’s best to keep skills and information to myself, help nobody and view them as lesser because they didn’t watch the same global warming documentary that I did.

I am enlightened and will start a family with Greta Thunberg, then abandon ship once the child reaches 4 months. The planet deserves to suffer alongside Greta and my bastard child.

Daddy couldn’t be around because the increasing global temperature burnt him to death.

Oh yes, I was wondering. “Why are you training me?”

“What the fuck else am I going to do?”

“Fair point.”

I go to leave the cell as it’s lunchtime. Been hungry since 1963. Could do with some of those 60’s McNuggets. Heard the chicken back then was hippie poultry. Ohh imagine those hippie chicks. Not the animals but I mean the free-spirited gals with their wonderful hairy, plaited muffs and liberal vaginal rules.

Vaginal braids for everyone!

3, 2, 1. . . vadge braiding!

I almost reach the food counter but don’t. I do however receive a prison napalm.

Boiling water and sugar thrown straight on my face. Melting, I am melting. “That’s for Mike, Bitch.” Yells the aggressor.

Fucking Mike.

Fucking, fuck, my fucking face. Skin is peeling off my fucking face and slapping against the prison floor in large puddles. It looks repulsive and this should be mercilessly painful, however all facial nerve endings are destroyed so I can’t actually feel anything right now. I continue screaming, nonetheless.

Ahhhh. Fuck. Blackout.

7 days later. . .

I open my eyes. The location you ask?

A hospital bed and yes, there is a hairy middle eastern man-nurse shaving in the room. “Good shave?” I ask.

“Ah yes the lighting in here is fantastic.”

Hard to disagree with that so congrats to my middle eastern brother. “Give it to me straight doc, how bad are we talking here?”

“Don’t freak out, but it’s pretty bad.”

“My mouth is so fucking dry would someone please give me some water.”

“Ah yes here you go.”

He pours me a cup of tap water which I down, feeling more dehydrated. Best to get this over with. “A mirror? Like now please.”

The doc gets up to fetch one.

Fuck, my body severely aches since I haven’t moved in a week. I try to wiggle every toe and can’t even move one. Fucking hell. Life was shit before but at least I had mirrors. They told a story that despite all retardations the face is ok. Slightly above average. Every now and then they’ll be an ok looking female eyeing up these lips, that are too large to be on a white man’s face. . . wonderful self-esteem booster.

Well forget that sister. Put it in a box, lock it away and cry because you’re hideous. You are deformed and will get disabled parking. The disability?

Being an ugly piece of faecal matter who has as much appeal as a sweaty scrotum on a Sunday morning.

The man-nurse brings me a mirror.

Oh my god.

Shit on the head.

Urine on the elbow.

I have stretch marks on my face. The skin is sagging from ear to ear and there’s fucking purple everywhere. I stoke a cheek and the texture is way too rough for a human. My whole life has been spent looking down on those with deformities. . . but how the fuck can I mock people’s oversized birthmarks when I look like a melted candle?

Yep, this fucking stinks of sexual frustration. Even that fatty Marie who I regularly turn down is now above me in the pecking order.

MARIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

It’s a hard knock for me. It’s a hard knock life for me. Not even the brothers would rape my booty. Not even the brothers would rape my booty. It’s a hard knock life.

And that’s where I go, back to prison with the brothers who won’t even look at me in the shower. It’s better to be safe in the water kingdom but a slice of attention would be nice. Not even a hint of rape present.

Eurgh, I’m sad and unrapeable.

“You haven’t moved from your bunk in days.” Says my Japanese friend.

“Have you seen my face?”

“Yes, you’re disgusting.”

“Exactly, who would want to rape me now?”

“Certainly not me.”

I drown my sorrows by hate watching the phantom of the opera. ITV’s Monday night movie.

Oh, we’re both freaks phantom, outcasts forced to drop pianos on people.

I’ve always wanted to learn an instrument but I guess it’s easier to drop one on a person. The closest form of musical rhythm I possess is the monkey that claps symbols together in my head. Well, the thought of learning an instrument was nice, I’ll happily move on with life and forget it was ever a thought.

Imagine if you done all the things in life that you said?

I’d be a fucking UFC fighting, Nobel prize winning, pilot with three dicks that I used to play three piano at the same fucking time. Easier to have no discipline and blame mental health. . . I was going to go for a jog, but a voice in my head told me that I run funny. Friends marathon it is.

My cell mate attempts reassurance. “I know you’re feeling sorry for yourself. But use this as a positive.”

“Oh yes looking like a burnt leather handbag is great.”

“You have the gift of nothing to lose. People care too much about appearance, and it steals focus.”

“Now all I feel is anger.”

“So, use it. Hit me.”

“Fuck off.”

“I said hit me you hideous, abomination of a man.”

In a flash a crack him over the jaw.

He smirks and rubs his Japanese chin. “You have the final attribute.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. . . anger, it’s really added some power.”

Having the skill of a ninja with a hard punch is good and everything, but what the fuck am I going to do in the real world? My sentence is coming to an end. Life is a whole lot easier in jail, minus the prison napalm. “I don’t know what I’m going to do on the outside.” I say to my cellmate.

“I could hook you up.”

I take a moment to ponder this. . . the criminal life is a fast, unpredictable one. Whereas working a 9-5 is boring as fuck and some excitement would go down an absolute treat.

Prison is better than working anyway, so were I to get in trouble and end up back here, then who cares?

No more building sites.

No more call centres.

It’s time to take back control of life. “I’m in.”

“You’ve made me the happiest Japanese person alive, because I’ll get a referral bonus! Go to the Trafalgar Square Sushi Bar, ask for Nimji and say that I sent you.”

Prison give me £43.50 upon exit; I use it to bump the train and go mask shopping. No way am I walking around with this ass on my face. The public would lock me in stocks then throw cabbage at my deformed head. . . and rightly so.

Hopefully Bonnie Blue could find it in her disease riddled heart to still let me be one of the thousand men, to tap that pussy in the same 24 hours.

Bonnie Blue yeah

Boonie Blue

Make thus wish come true

I wish upon my penis, for you

Feeling slightly better about life, I reach and enter the designated fancy dress shop, full of curiosity about my new career in crime. . . “Excuse me sir, where are your ma- never mind. I can see the aisle.” The shop clerk smiles before his eyes widen with shock. His jaw drops and who the fuck can blame him when the walking freak show is in town.

Right let’s fulfil the mission before more people are scared into an early retirement.

Gimp mask?

Too sexual.

A batman mask?

Not sexual enough.

Scream Mask?

Overused.

I need something to fit my face and sense of style. The goal is not to compliment these hideous burns but to hide them. Because who the fuck in their right mind would treat me as a human?  

Bro I’ll be fucking living in this mask, I’ll be fucking wanking in this mask. I can’t think of any other activities but whatever they are, rest assured they will be completed in this mask.

So yes, it has to be ‘the one’.

By hiding my face I’ll find it easier to commit hardcore crime too. Play the character whilst molesting old people – it softens the blow by given them a touch of theatre.

Bravo.

Wow. Magnificent. The phantom. The fucking phantom. In my head I kidnap a strapping young lady and it’s not weird because I narrate the events via song.

I sing to her out of tune. She hates me for it. We always get on each other’s nerves but the love is true.

I said the love is true strapping young lady, isn’t it?

Young lady, please admit that the love is true.

Thank you, that wasn’t so hard. Now get into the horse and carriage please, we’re off out to dinner in the west end.

Can’t wait to own this mask so I take it to the cashier with a sore thumb, that I always pick when I’m nervous. “That will be £33 for the mask.” The cashier tells me.

“33?” I’m taken back by todays mask pricing.

“Yes.”

“That is expensive but seeing that the mask is fabulous you can have £35.”

“Sir that’s 3 tins of tuna.”

“Sorry, that’s prison currency. Here you go mam.”

“That’s better. And I’m keeping the tuna.”

“Fair game cashier, fair game.”

I drop my belongings off at the hostel and would love to blow the place up already. . . it fucking stinks of musky hobo’s who can’t afford to feed their dogs. Poor pooches, they didn’t ask to be living in hostels and begging for leftover kebabs.

I’m pretty hungry and would one hundred percent fight a labrador over a half-eaten donner meat on chips and fuck his shit up.

Shopping list:

Steal some candles for the hostel because the place reeks of A.O (anal odour)

It’s hard to forget the stench of the hostel. I can still fucking smell it. Eurgh, I’d do anything for a few GBPs to get my own place. With this in mind I enthusiastically run to the train station and head for Waterloo. And then it’s the underground, aka the single most fucking confusing place on earth and probably space.

Might just be easier to push someone in front of a train and go straight back to the slammer. 3 square poo meals a day and all the Freeview channels a man could dream of. Fucking sick of loose women.

If I see Lorraine Kelly I’m going to karate chop her in the breasts, as an act of courtship might I add. She’s the one for me and when I discover her address then yes, it’s stalker season.

Now, now Lorraine, my world doesn’t revolve around you my love, I have a meeting with a Japanese criminal to focus my attention on. According to the trainline map my stop is Baker Street.

You are now approaching Baker Street

Gee wilders Lorraine, that was a smooth train ride.

You’re the best Lorraine, you and your sweet knockers. And look at moi L-dawg, going to a sushi joint for business.

So.

Fucking.

Cultured.

Sushi is fucking disgusting. Tastes like cold fish. Warm fish is gross enough. Let that shit cool down and you’ve got yourself sushi.

I arrive at the restaurant that’s tucked inside of a busy London street. The building’s interior has Japanese Calligraphy that I can’t read leading to confusion and an urge to protest against immigrants.

Send them home

Send them home

That’s not the attitude Solgus. You work for the immigrants.

Also, the legends say that it’s mandatory to honour the Japanese culture and eat some fucking raw fish. One of those situations where the sushi comes round on a conveyor belt and you act accordingly. Oh, this one looks ok – a rice-y number held together by dried seaweed. . . mmm that’s disgusting. Stop pretending to like sushi you cultural appropriating bastards.

I catch the eye of a waiter. “Sushi is delicious and anime is ok for adults to watch.”

“Dragon Ball Z is phenomenal with raw fish.”

They walk away without a shred of emotion. Tasks and completion with the Asians, especially those in the sushi game. Makes it easier to accept the skanky free lunch everyday. Because who can turn down a gifted meal in this economy, even if the free food is smelly raw fish.

I go to check my phone but don’t have one, so stare at my hand instead and pretend it’s showing me the Instagram account of a girl with 70k followers. A girl that is shallow and sexy and loves letting Arabs shit on them for 50 grand.

Not mad, just jealous. I’d be the recipient of a fat steamy one for an iPhone 13.

An Asian lady tells me to follow her. She’s wearing one of those cute Chinese dresses with a high neck and small collar. It’s decorated with dragons and is tightly fitted to her slender frame.

My dick is really hard and I walk behind this sexy, exotic gal in a one-way horny train.

She doesn’t view me as a sexual snack, a person with such class doesn’t entertain the help, or so I thought.

This sexy b smiles as she tells me to go into my contacts office. A smile?

A fucking smile?

I smile at every single girl because I want to have sex with them.

She must be a creep too.

YES!

YES!

The office is minimalistic as expected. Stylish framed pictures of deconstructed samurais cover the main wall. Sat behind a huge desk that must have been a cunt to put together, is an old man. Frail but able to strike fear into others. Incapable of inflicting physical harm currently but has a violent history. I look into his eyes. . . nothing.

“Thanks for seeing me.” I tell him.

“To be honest I would never have recruited an outsider. But my son insisted. He told me you were good people.”

“Well, I’ll say it again, thank you.”

“I’ve got a job for you. The Yakuza have been operating in the model train game for decades. Everything was running smoothly, that was until ‘the tail’ showed up.”

“The tail?”

“Legend has it that the man is so deranged he believes himself to be part horse and wears a tail.”

“That sick son of a gun.”

“A car will take you to his shop.” He passes me a samurai sword. “Execute him, and you’re in.”

I bow my master and wait out the front of the sushi parlour. A black Mercedes GLC Coupe pulls up and I hop in.

“Some sushi joint.”

“You think because I am Japanese I like sushi.” Replies the chauffer.

“Do you like Sushi?”

“Love it. Now enough of that fish talk.”

I stop talking fish and think of the task ahead. Accidental murder is my CV, it’s a whole new ball game intentionally killing someone and a tailed man at that?

What powers does he have?

I’m not standing behind him. It’s the first rule of horse play, do not stand behind them or they will think your gay and kick your penis ever so gently. More of a penis tickle than a kick actually because the horse wants you to know he doesn’t need to use his full power to be the alpha.

We’re slowly going through London as you do due to the fucking shit traffic.

Some small talk is needed to settle the nerves and seeing that conversation is banned in this vehicle, I’ll talk to myself.

You’re a fucking turd

No, I’m not

Yes, you are

Fuck you

I am you

Fuck I’m a pussy. . . we arrive at the shop as the target is closing up. I run in there with the machete in hand, murderous intentions in the brain and a belly teetering on the edge of destruction due to the rancid grub I consumed.

The Tail’s back is turned and oh my god. I know this ponytail. My childhood was cursed by its presence.

Pain.

Suffering.

Embarassment.

Years of visual torture.

The memories are flooding my brain.

And come on, who the fuck deems it suitable for a male to rock a ponytail?

In a perfect world such species are executed. In the real world I use my knife to cut off the horror hair style. . . The ponytail pervert falls to his knees, clutching his discarded tail. “No. how could you. It’s exactly been 20 years since my sick bastard of a son chopped off my original tail. Why?”

“You deserved to have it chopped off.”

“And how do you know that Mr Phantom of the Opera Samurai.”

“Because I am your son.”

“So, you’ve come to kill me and the prophecy has come true.”