No Future Ch. 77

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2107: Psychlone receives a visit from YouTube and Sick Chick
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Part 77 of the 92 part series

Updated 11/01/2022
Created 10/18/2012
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LXXVII
Sick and Sore
Psychlone
2107

If it hadn't been absolutely necessary, Psychlone would never have left Exeter. It was where he'd been to university and where most of his friends lived. But this was exactly what he'd been forced to do when an outbreak of Hen Flu closed down the entire city. His only other alternative was to suffer an indefinite period of effective house arrest in a city now designated as being in quarantine.

It was only because one of his mother's old boyfriends happened to own an apartment in Uxbridge that this was now Psychlone's new home. He'd rarely ever visited London in his life before, but this unremarkable dilapidated suburb near the M40 motorway and serviced by the Metropolitan Line was so far out from the more famous sights of London that it was almost no different from living in an outer suburb of Exeter. But at least it was safe from Hen Flu: a disease whose tortuous path from its origins in Uruguay or Uzbekistan (depending on who you spoke to) was most keenly felt in England's South Western counties.

Once upon a time, this would have been a model estate in the Borough of Hillingdon, but the area was now somewhat tatty and in places derelict. His neighbours were scarcely wealthy, but mostly they had jobs and their homes were well looked after. The area wasn't sufficiently wealthy enough for there to be security guards or an electrified fence, so most people protected their homes behind metal doors secured by countless locks and steel bars. Nevertheless, even these weren't a guaranteed deterrent from the most determined thief as was evident from a nearby house whose windows had been smashed and the front door pulled off its hinges.

Although Psychlone was still wistful about his old haunts in Exeter, there were definite advantages for a professional musician to be living so close to Central London. After he'd fought his way past the beggars gathered about the entrance to the underground station, it took only an hour or two by steam train on the Metropolitan Line to get to the heart of London where he could go to a West End night club and put on live sets for the rich and privileged. He was able to get two or sometimes three bookings a week, mostly on the strength of the monster success of his Eric Esterhazy hit, but he was invariably shattered by the time he caught the early train home the following morning.

Psychlone wasn't the kind of guy who liked to annoy his neighbours so he preferred to wear headphones when he was making music in the evening or at night, but he liked to take them off when he could to allow his ears to recover. This was one such time. It was midday on a Wednesday when his neighbours were at work. As always, the couple who lived downstairs had left for work early dressed in the uniforms of their professions, which were, respectively, psychiatric nurse and supermarket security guard. The street was quiet. No motorised vehicle would venture down a suburban residential road where it was at risk of being car-jacked, so the only sounds anyone could hear other than the occasional clip-clop of a horse-drawn wagon was the stream of percussive electronic music emanating from the windows of Psychlone's small flat. So when the front door knocker was rudely hammered in the hallway below him, Psychlone could scarcely pretend that he wasn't home.

Before he unlatched and unbolted the front door he checked who might be outside through its eyehole. He'd heard plenty of stories about the door being opened by the unwary only to permit a torrent of thieves and mobsters who'd trash the premises and maim anyone foolish enough to offer resistance. However, all Psychlone could see were two girls, one about the same age as him and the other somewhat younger. They were eccentrically dressed: all feathers, leather, rags and tattoos. Their heads were shaved and the younger girl had a gruesome scar across her nose and cheek. On the other hand, eccentric dress was no reliable guide to anything at all. Psychlone's own style of fashion with his long hair shaved short at the temples and a set of clothes assembled from second-hand clothes shops and market stalls in West London could also be considered eccentric. And many of the wealthy young men and women who crowded out the Fat Pig or the Ursus Majoris were also eccentrically dressed although the price tag for their fashionable clothing would bankrupt Psychlone.

"Yes?" he asked the two girls outside the door. "Who are you and what do you want?"

His initial thought was that the girls were collecting for one of the many worthwhile charities that filled the welfare gap no longer bridged by taxation. Although Psychlone paid taxes, the only benefit he was aware of getting was military defence against the potential threat from the neighbouring Republics of Scotland and Wales.

"We're insurance collectors," said the older girl with a curiously mocking smile.

"Insurance collectors?" asked Psychlone sceptically.

"Yeah," said the younger girl in a high-pitched voice that sounded even younger in years than she looked. "What YouTube said. We're insurance collectors."

"You don't look like insurance collectors."

"What are we supposed to look like, eh?" said the younger girl. "You fucking tell us. What makes you think we're not what we say we are, you cunt?"

"Shut it, Sick Chick," said the girl known as YouTube. "The gentleman has a right to harbour doubts. Haven't you, sir? What with all the tricksters and thieves around... It's a wonder anyone can trust anyone, isn't it?"

"It certainly is," said Psychlone who wished now that he'd not opened the door. What had possessed him to do such a thing? "What insurance company do you represent?"

"You what?" said Sick Chick. "What the fuck's an insurance company? What the fuck do they do? You're a cunt, you are."

YouTube slapped Sick Chick smartly across the cheek. "Fucking shut it, Sick," she said sternly. She then addressed Psychlone who was hesitating on the notion of slamming the door on the two uncouth girls. "You just want to know on whose authority we claim to be collecting insurance, don't you?"

"Well yes. What sort of organisation do you belong to?"

"You mean where do we come from, you arsehole?" piped up the irrepressible Sick as she nursed her cheek. "We're Youth Club, we are. Don't you forget it. That's what we are. The fucking Youth Club."

"I don't understand," said Psychlone who'd heard of youth organisations like the Scouts, the Cadets and the Pioneers. Perhaps the Youth Club was something like that.

"I'll explain sir," said YouTube. "As long as Sick Chick here doesn't keep butting in. You'll have to excuse her, sir. She's had a rough life, she has. Most of her childhood she was feral like a cat or a dog. She slept wherever she could and survived by stealing gear and running errands for the bad guys."

"And you're not the bad guys?"

YouTube ignored the question. "When we say we're insurance collectors, we're telling the truth. It's what we do. And we don't ask for much either, sir. For a guy like you, nothing more than a couple of grand..."

"Two thousand pounds!" said Psychlone, alarmed. That was nearly what he earned in a single gig. It was nearly what it cost to travel by train to Exeter and back. "What do I get for two thousand pounds?"

"Two grand a month, sir," said YouTube. "It's not extortionate. It gives you a sense of security. You can sleep soundly in your own bed knowing that both your property and your person are going to be safe from harm. It's surely worth it."

"And what happens if I don't pay two thousand pounds?" Psychlone asked.

"We're fair, sir," said YouTube. "Some people pay rather lower premiums than others. The old people on the estate who're living on their savings: they don't pay so much. It's only reasonable they should pay less. They've got less so they pay less. You've got a nice place here, sir. You've got a good audio system and you dress real smart. So, you'll pay a bit more. That seems real right and proper, doesn't it?"

"I guess so," said Psychlone. "And what happens if I don't pay anything?"

"Then you'll be fucked," shrieked Sick Chick. "You'll be fucked like you've never been fucked before."

"Don't keep butting in, Sick," said YouTube in a reasonable tone. "The gentleman is asking a perfectly legitimate question. What do you get for your two grand a month? What does your non-negotiable monthly premium bring you? Well, as I say: peace of mind."

"I still don't understand."

"Have you ever noticed how many houses in this area have a symbol carved into their front door that looks a bit like a U with a vertical line through it?"

"Well, yes," said Psychlone. "I just thought it was mindless vandalism..."

"It might be vandalism, sir," YouTube admitted. "But it's not mindless. That symbol signifies that the property benefits from the protection of the Youth Club. And for two grand a month we'll carve a symbol like that on your door. Well, another symbol I should say, because I can see that the couple who live in the flat above you already pay their monthly premiums."

"Do I have a choice?" asked Psychlone to whom it belatedly occurred that these two girls represented some kind of protection racket.

"The insurance premiums will protect you against robbery, theft, break-ins and mindless violence from the many gangs that wander the streets of North West London," said YouTube. "You might have heard of the Eyeliners from Hillingdon. You can tell them by their prominent eye makeup: both men and women. They're real bastards, sir. Only the other day they broke into a convent and raped every nun they could find. Then there are the Lords and Ladies of West Drayton..."

"They're real fuckers," said Sick Chick. "It was one of them that knifed me when I was raped a couple of years ago. Right fucking cunts they are."

"There are gangs like the Ox Hands from Langley and the Nutters from Ickenham. They're all ruthless and violent. Given the opportunity, they would ransack and burn every single house on this estate but only after they'd slaughtered each and every one of the tenants. It would be mayhem."

"And the Youth Club?"

"For your very reasonable monthly premium, the Youth Club will not only not bother you in any way, they will guarantee that in the event of one of these vicious gangs entering the borough on a crazed murderous spree you will be defended to the best of our abilities."

"We'll tear the fuckers' eyes out of their heads and strew their guts across the street," elaborated Sick Chick. "I'll take a fucking steel rod and fucking ram it up the arse so they'll know what it's like to be raped before I crush their fucking heads with a fucking boulder."

"...But mostly we'll be acting as a deterrent," said YouTube.

"And if these gangs never venture this far into Uxbridge?"

"Then your safety can't be guaranteed, sir," said YouTube. "You might have noticed the house just a block away that was broken into the other day. The house was assaulted by a gang of youths that pulled off the front door and ran away with all the possessions inside. I can't say what happened to the people who lived there..."

"They were fucked double time," said Sick Chick enthusiastically. "Back and front. It was wicked! But they'll live though. They won't be so fucking late with the fucking insurance payments in future."

"As I say, sir," said YouTube who chose to ignore her companion's remarks. "There is a penalty incurred if you don't pay your premiums promptly."

"I see," said Psychlone thoughtfully.

"I take it that you'll be registering for household insurance then, sir?"

"Registering?"

"That's just figurative, sir. Have you got a couple of grand on you?"

"Not at the moment," admitted Psychlone.

"We're understanding people, sir," said YouTube.

"But only so far, you tight-arsed cunt," chimed in Sick Chick.

"We know that people don't always carry much money on them," YouTube continued. "When do you think you might be able to get the money? Tomorrow perhaps?"

"I think so," said a defeated Psychlone.

"We'll be around some time before it gets dark," said YouTube. "We look forward to a long and happy relationship with you, sir."

"But don't think it means you can fuck me, you lech," said Sick Chick aggressively. "I don't let any cunt inside my twat. Not unless you're gonna pay for it, that is."

"Well thank you for being so understanding, sir," said YouTube as she placed a firm hand on Sick Chick's shoulder and turned about. "We'll see you soon."

"I'm sure you will," said Psychlone who now felt humiliated and sick in the stomach.

So, this was what life in London was really like.

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