Cocaine Trash A Novel

Slowly, and deeply exasperated from the wait, I get up off the sofa, smiling rather cockily at my job seeker friend, who's still waiting like a colossal cunt, and walk up to the unattractive fuck-monster job centre employee.

'Sorry for the slight wait, we're running late today,' she says, staring down at some pointless piece of paper on her desk.

'Oh are you?' I think, giving her the evil rundown with my eyes, narrowing them at this perfect opportunity; 'oh fucking are you really bitch?'

I sit down, breathe out, and take my jobsearch out of my right jacket pocket. I courteously hand it out to the woman, but she just stares at it and then at me, with this stupid fucking confused look on her face, like I'm some kind of errant spastic or something.

'Could you read it out for me please?' she says.

'Oh, you are one aren't you bitch, you are a real fucking one aren't you,' I think, the blood in my veins beginning to boil to a dangerous, bubbling level. I want to lean forward and rip her reptilian fucking throat out at this point, maybe fuck her first; nah, I think I'll just rip her fucking throat out.

So, reading the absolutely fucking atrocious handwriting on my jobsearch, which is very nearly illegible I must say, I proceed to state out to this cunt the made up jobs that I've 'applied for' in the last fortnight. Once I've read it all out to her (which took about 10 fucking minutes, maybe longer), she takes the jobsearch from my hands and proceeds to thoroughly observe it with somewhat rapt eyes. 'Any response from any of the employers?' she says to me, handing me back the jobsearch.

'No, unfortunately not,' I say (if I was at all religious, I'd be crossing my fingers like a bitch I tell ya).

Pushing forward a small square slip of paper she says, 'Could you sign here please with the date next to it.' She's not even looking at me as she says this, RUDE FUCKING BITCH!

I sign with the date and then perfunctorily push the paper back to her, staring quite blatantly at the vast amount of freckles that lay scattered all over her fucking repellent face.

She tells me to come back and sign on again in a fortnight; that is if I haven't got a job by then, which, having no real intention to work anyway, I fucking know I won't.

Getting up, I have time to see the name of this bitch written on her name tag. Stacy Crotch, I see she's called, Stacy Crotch.

'Well, Stacy Crotch,' I think as I get up from my seat, gazing at the bitch with a feigned smile, 'I'll see you in a couple of weeks... STACY STINKIN' CROTCH!!'

PUB

There's a bloke sitting opposite me at the next table outside the pub. I'm sat here, a pint of Newcastle Brown in front of me, and I'm staring curiously at this bald plump bloke in his suit. He looks well off; he looks like the sort of bloke who deserves to be robbed.

So what can I tell about this bloke from looking at him? I see that he's unhappy, not my fucking problem, and that he's probably tried every therapy in the book to cure himself of his male patterned, irremediable baldness. He looks like a car salesman to me, or maybe someone who sells phones for a living. He looks like the sort of chap that has a fairly ugly girlfriend but uses escorts on the side to satisfy his voracious sexual needs. I tell you, he looks like a real fuckin' raver man.

I've already decided that I'm gonna rob this cunt of his wallet. I can see it lying on the table next to him on his left as he skims his eyes absorbingly over his mobile phone screen. I think he's making some Facebook update or something (he'll be needing to make another one in a little bit, one that goes like- pissed off, some cunt robbed me).

So, how am I gonna do this? Of course I always pray that cunts like this will just head off to the gents and accidentally leave their wallets there on the table, but unfortunately, and inconveniently, they never do. I think I'll have to go for the, 'Sorry mate for accidentally falling on you and spilling my drink all over you. Accident honest' line. That should work. But do I really want to waste this fine Newcastle Brown over this bald headed, fucking corpulent bastard? Fuck it, it's worth it in the long run of things.

Unrushed, I take a couple more sips of my drink, watching as this bald fuck of a guy stares incessantly at his snazzy little smartphone, and then, at a slow pace, get up off my seat. I always feel a little uneasy at awkward times like these, but never too uneasy (alcohol can certainly do its job in even half a pint of ale at lowering inhibitions to a satisfactory level). Right, here goes. I'm moving over to the cunt, and I'm preparing to nudge him, splash a little of my drink over him, which I'll blame on dodgy balance, and grab that fucking beguiling wallet in the process. I guess the real motivation in having the bollocks to do something like this is to 'just not think about it' and to 'just fucking go for it.' Abiding by those two simple rules has always helped me in carrying out thefts like these. And let me tell you it's a lot fucking easier to do when you've had a little bit to drink.

'Right ya cunt,' I think, getting closer to the unsuspecting geezer, and prudently making sure that my drink is clasped in my left hand. 'You keep your fuckin' eyes down there please.' I'm nearly there now, and the cunt is still looking down at his phone's screen, like he's transfixed in a megapixel heaven. I can now see that he is on Facebook. He's scrolling down his digital newsfeed, reading the same crap that all his townie mates are posting- probably links to the Daily Mail or some similar Tory rimming newspaper. He's totally fucking oblivious as to what's going to happen; and it's kind of exciting to know that. It makes this a more thrilling, rip-roaring execution. I can just imagine him later on, having a good old nag at his girlfriend because she's the only one he can think of to blame for some cunt stealing his wallet. Ha, ha, ha.

The time has come now, and I, not even bothering to think about it, let myself fall to my left towards the guy and nudge the cunt hard. As a rather large splash of my ale splatters over his wool clad shoulder, the guy's face suddenly jerks forward towards the table in massive fucking surprise. He really didn't expect this to happen; this was never a foreseen event at the beginning of his day.

It's at this galvanized moment that I quickly snatch his wallet. Although I do it a little too non-discreetly, I manage to slip it quickly into my left jacket pocket. I'm pretty sure that nobody saw me. I doubt that nobody fucking saw me; they're all sat at their tables, engaged in their own mediocre conversations and totally fucking uninterested in what is going on around them.

As another splash of my drink splatters on the table, the bald bastard looks up at me, a combination of alarm and anger clearly discernible on his chubby little face, and shoves me back belligerently with his hands. It's a surprisingly weak shove for such a hefty looking bloke; almost pathetically amateurish really. 'Fucking clumsy prick. Look where you're going!' he says, his face going all red like a piping hot strawberry tart.

'Sorry mate, sorry,' I say, holding my hands out like a remorseful French geezer. 'Had too many today. Balance a bit fucked today mate. But I'm going now. I shall not be bothering you again mate.'

'Fuck off!' he says, gesturing with a violent nudge of his head, a thick trail of saliva dribbling down his lips.

I'm still holding my hands out, letting him know that I've got the message, when I start moving backwards towards the pub's gate. 'I'm leaving mate, don't worry mate; I'm getting out of here now,' I say, getting closer to the gate. I can see that the geezer's attempting to brush the ale off his shoulder; he looks really fucking pissed off, as if he's enclosed in a thick, carmine tinged bubble of outrage.

I take one last quick glug of the ale before putting the glass down on a table and walking through the gate. Moving hastily down the pavement, I take the wallet out of my pocket and smile with pure unadulterated devilishness. It's a particularly nice looking black wallet, one which looks made from fine crocodile skin, and I know I'll probably be able to get 20 quid just for it alone.

Opening it up, I see a few credit cards, a driver's license with the bald geezer's fat, ugly mug on it, and a national insurance card. It's when I open up the wallet's inside compartment and see a wad of crisp blue notes that I really feel the desire to grin devilishly. There looks to be about 200 quid there in 20s, all neatly tucked together, and they look fucking magnificent I tell you, real glorious like. I take them out and start counting. Well, well, well, there is more than 200, there's fucking 250. It's at moments like these when happiness overpowers any sense of mild shame a person may be feeling. 'Cunt was probably planning on seeing a nice little brunette with that,' I think, the smug smirk still strong on my face. 'Another time mate, another time.'

'God I can get some good coke with this shit,' I think, my nostrils quivering at the sight of the milky blue notes (I almost actually admire the queen for a moment, the tofty fucked up old slag). 'Some good fucking shit.'

I put the wallet back in my pocket and, taking out my shit Nokia mobile, head off leisurely down towards the cathedral.

'Corey mate, how are you? Have you got any more of that shit?'

FILTH AND SMUT

There's nothing better than sitting in front of your television at night with a pint of ale in your hand and the sight of some blonde bombshell riding a guy in some soft-core b-movie; and especially when the guy she's riding is presumably paying for her services. A prolonged, tantalizing sex scene, badly acted and simulated, but you don't care, because it reminds you of the times when these simulated, tacky sex scenes ruled your days of adolescence and wanking; remember late night Channel 5?

I sit on my mouldy, but comfy, sofa with my beer belly bulging out of my t-shirt, and I perceive all these sexual images. Of course there's the tiresome effort of waiting for some sexual material to occur, but it's so frequent that you don't ever have to wait that long. I watch other shit besides these adult b-movies- Babestation's always on- but I really do prefer to watch some trashy soft-core filth instead.

When I'm not watching all this filth and smut, I'm obtaining the cash, in any way I can, to see some dirty, fanciable whore. It sure is hard to find one that is preferable for your tastes. These days they're either stuck up cunts who charge way too much, or they look like they're riddled with infectious diseases. I'm usually very safe, and I like it when escorts are too. This one I usually stick to, Lauren, is as safe as a fucking pharmacy's medicine cabinet. She always uses extra safe Durexes, but don't let that put you off her because, let me tell you, she gives fantastic OWO, probably the best in the whole of East Anglia. She works the cock like she's sucking on some juicy vanilla flavored ice lolly. You could argue that OWO isn't safe, but I have to admit, if you're going to go for protection, then there's really no point in getting a blow, not a decent one anyway.

It's the evening, and I'm at my mate Corey's place. While he's in the living room with some customer there to purchase some of his custom Ecstasy, I'm in his kitchen rooting through his fridge, rooting through all of his enticing alcohol and chemically processed food. I take out a bottle of Heineken and hastily pop the cap open with a bottle opener. The bubbly, opalescent froth spews out of the top at such speed that I have to tilt my head just to catch it in my mouth. It tastes chilled, sparkling, and refreshing, and as I take a few eager mouthfuls I head over to the lounge where Corey's giving it his all with his favourite fucking customer.

'This is great fucking shit; there's not a hope that you'll find this shit at this price anywhere else. £2,000 is a bargain mate, I'm fucking telling you,' says Corey as he sits on his sofa, emitting his sales talk patter on a bald, sweaty Chinese man in a grey t-shirt opposite him.

As I stand there listening, sipping at my cold beer, I see that Corey's sat in the position he always sits in, his arms stretched out at their sides like a complacent emperor; and this place is obviously his own kind of palace... I guess. Continuing to listen, I lap up my beer like I'm catching glimpse of a fine looking Romanian escort with big tits and juicy cerise coloured lips.

'I have to say, this stuff you sell is better than the rest,' says the Chinese man. At the guy's complementary comment, I can see Corey's smug face turn even smugger. 'The smug cunt,' I say to myself, quietly. He knows he's got some of the best gear in this shithole of a city, and the cunt knows that he can fucking sell it.

'You're a favoured customer,' says Corey, placing a large brown parcel on the glass table. The Chinese fella takes it and places a bundle of cash in its place; it looks about 2 grand, maybe more.

Corey just stares at the bundle. He doesn't open it; his eyes are just firmly fixed on it; I can practically see the £ signs in his eyes. 'As soon as you need some more of that, then I'll fucking fix you up with the finest,' he says, his sales talk stronger than ever. Unrushed, they both stand up and shake hands, while I stand there drinking my beer, watching as Corey escorts the Chinese geezer out of the house. He's a short fella, the Chinese guy, borderline dwarf, and I can just imagine him high as fuck on the dancefloor, groping some norfolk slut's arse with oriental gusto.

The front door shuts, and I follow my sly, sneaky friend with my eyes as he walks on back into the lounge. 'Who is the man? Who is the man who talks the talk,' he says to me as I watch him enviously while swigging on my beer. 'Smug cunt,' I'm thinking. 'Smug fucking CUNT.'

'I just sold 2 grand's worth of gear, and he'll be coming back in no time,' Corey says, walking up to me with a thick, flexible wad of notes in his hand. He stands in front of me and flicks his fingers through the bundle. Then, taking out about £300 he looks at me, his eyes peering at me almost apprehensively.

'Now, this is some cash that your generous fucking mate's giving you. Spend it wisely. And try not to spend it all on booze and escorts ay? They're the two biggest killers.'

I look at the cash, and it's like I'm looking at some porn star's tight, exquisitely waxed cunt. Fuck me that cash looks great. I hold my arms out, and as I put my hand on the bunch of notes, Corey grips his hand tightly around my wrist. 'Spend it wisely, ay? Caus I ain't gonna keep helping you out willy nilly, you got me?'

I look up at his eyes, compliantly. 'Bruv man, I always spend it wisely.'

Cut to the sex scene. I treat myself to a nice Russian happy-in-life hooker for £100, and as I fuck her adeptly on all fours I laugh at those words my good friend said to me, 'Spend it wisely.'

'Ha, spend it wisely, I am spending it wisely,' I say, staring at the Russian bird's soft black hair. I pull it, and she starts moaning intensely just to please me. I can feel the flesh on her hips bounce against my slight beer belly, its soft, malleable surface quivering like a convulsive river. 'Oh yea, moan for me baby. Fucking moan for me,' I say as she raises her head up in the air. The bed bounces and bounces, and I feel myself on the verge of sexual climax. I almost wish I wasn't wearing a rubber johnny so that I could shoot a hot load of my fruitful cum right up her tight arsehole, but fuck it, gotta be safe.

Pulling the prostitute up against me, I feel the hot cum gush back against the top of my latex concealed penis with violent, roaring intensity and enjoy, with full appreciation, the 12 second trip through fuck paradise. 'What a feeling,' I'm thinking, the orgasmic exhilaration at its culmination; 'this is so fucking carnal.'

Soon the orgasm plummets to an end, and both I and the prostitute collapse down onto the bed in fatigue. As we both pant, mine more legitimate, I can't help but notice how much of a beast I am in comparison to her. I mean this beautiful Russian goddess lying here with her perfect face, her perfect arsehole; and then there's me, this beast with a hairy pot belly. Fuck, she must think I'm horrific or something. I can certainly tell that she's done porn; I mean her acting skills were fucking impeccable throughout the session.

I'm feeling a little bit bad about myself as I get up off the bed; however, I soon feel better when I think of all the Newcastle Browns I can buy with the cash that my good old pal Corey so generously gave to me. 'Fuck man, I'm gonna get so shitfaced tonight,' I think.

It's later, and I stop by Tesco to stock up on Newcastle Browns. I go a little crazy and get myself some gin too. Why not ay? Why the fuck not? I put the abundance of bottles in a basket; go to the counter to get served by a fat lady; and then head home, loving the wavering sounds of the bottles clanging together inside the bag; only Newcastle Brown clangs like that, ONLY NEWCASTLE FUCKING BROWN.

With fantasies of gin and ale, I walk back home intent on getting shitfaced. 'Man I'm going to get shitfaced!!' I excitedly shout out loud. Then I think of earlier, roughly an hour ago. 'Pretty good blow job; some skilful lips.'

What can I say, I got shitfaced.

I wake up in my flat. The place is cluttered with empty Newcastle Brown bottles, and I think for a brief moment that I've been brought back from the dead. I feel fucked but good at the same time. I don't have that banging, nauseous headache or anything; the only roughness I feel is a little weariness and some minor dehydration. In fact, I think I got off pretty lightly.

I tell you, waking up with a hangover this easy and mild isn't great if you want to curb your alcohol consumption; it only makes you want alcohol even more; and the massive fucking trouble now is that I want to go and get shitfaced again!

I soon find myself at the counter of my local Indian shop with several bottles of Becks. Never been a fan of the stuff, but these are 600 ml bottles, and it's the only decent stuff they have in this shite little store. I'm pissed at how much these Indian cunts are charging for the beer- nearly £4 a bottle- and I can't help but look at the Indian fella of a clerk with mild racial discrimination. 'Comin' over here, stealin' our jobs,' I think, humorously. Haha, what have I become? Some Daily Mail reader? Lol.

I get out of the shop, pissed off about the dirty look that the Indian fella gave me, but feel happy that I am, very shortly, going to be getting pissed lager style. Immediately, as soon as I've opened my front door, I'm popping the lids off all seven bottles and getting them down me throat. I fucking love it; the feeling of pure inebriation - what a great feeling!

I put on my favourite U2 album and proceed to get fucking shitfaced!

Wayhaaay!!

LACE

As I walk up the black carpeted stairs of Lace gentleman club, gazing up at the far wall that glows red from the lights above, I feel the buzz of the moment. I haven't had any coke or anything, but I definitely feel charged and ready for some sluttish Essex girl to rub her tits and cunt in my face. I can hear the music from upstairs and feel mildly nervous from the excitement of what could happen within the next 20 minutes or so; am I going to get a beautiful, lavish blonde girl, or am I going to get a dark, sophisticated brunette with olive skin. Who knows?

I get up the final step and walk over to the counter to pay the £10 fee. Although I've been here quite a few times before, the ambience of the place seems mildly mysterious, and the smell of women's perfume lingering in the air seems more potent than ever. A thin woman with purple glossy lips and black, tied-back hair walks over to me from behind the counter and gives me a half, unenthusiastic smile. I can tell right away that she's not one of the dancers from that simple look of aloofness present on her face. If she was a dancer, it would be extremely unprofessional for her to display even the slightest look of detachment.