I didn't want to open the door but there was something in Verity's face as she stood out on the step that appeared kindly melancholic. When I did unslide the chain and open up, she shoved the Dangerous Dandy into my chest and entered in the same movement. Just as I closed the door I caught Little Dick Tracy, just off right, peering over, his eyes almost managing to bend around the door.

Verity looked at me then down.

“For God sake Tristy!” she said.

I looked down at my Y-fronts, all baggy around the crotch and drooping with the weight of a thousand filthy piss stains. I grabbed a hold of their band and pulled them right up tight under my tits. Then I wandered left, then changed my mind and went right, heading for the kitchen. I only dread to think what I looked like from behind.

For the first time in Months Verity had called me Tristy. In the kitchen she let slip a “darl.” I'm not sure if it was because she had settled on a policy of forgiveness or if my sorry state had brought it out of her. Whatever the cause, it made me cry and fall into her for some human warmth.

“I know I lied,” I sobbed “and there is a sketch that does involve a plant pot and also another with a saw and a leg poking out a window box. I lied about that too and I'm sorry. But it wasn't a plan. It wasn't. Maybe it sparked off ideas, but after the fact, not before... I don't know??? Maybe it played some small part in how it ended, but no more than that. I was scared to tell you. I could see how it would look... that you wouldn't believe me. But John's death came about not through any plan but because I had suffered and suffered and suffered and could take no more. And I never even realised it or saw it coming. I wasn't angry. I wasn't thinking revenge. Nothing like that. On the morning of my 32nd all I had were hopes that John would return... come back to me as he once was. Even with my hand bandaged because of the knife wound I still just wanted my man back... the smallest reason, any reason to forgive him all. But I was also scared. A real deep nauseous fear of what he was then capable of. He'd become evil and dangerous with it. So when he rose, done a fucking Irish jig then came hurtling my way, well, something must've just snapped. I wanted release and never ever to have him come at me again. That's the truth... you've got to believe that.”

Verity pulled away. Not through coldness but I think more she didn't want my grimy underwear touching up against her skirt. A red skirt. One that made her look like the most beautiful woman ever: at least from the ankles to the hips.

“You need a shower,” she said gravely “and a shave... And some fresh pants.” I didn't smile. I didn't nod. I didn't respond at all. I just turned around and wandered off. She had mentioned 'a shower' and the shower was that way.

In the bathroom, staring into the mirror, I veered back in horror at the reflection that confronted me. It was not me looking back, but someone else. Someone who looked like I felt but not how I remembered myself. It was then that I got the idea of cutting my ear off: that's what crazy people who look like me do, I thought.

Taking the scissors from the toothbrush glass I closed the rusty blades in around my ear lobe. Before snapping them closed I squeezed gently, just to test, until I felt a sharp twinge of pain as the bobbly flesh of my lobe got pinched between the blades. I released the pressure. It would be quick, I reasoned, no pain just the sound of the scissors reaching their conclusion. I eyed my reflection one more time then opened the scissors up full. Just as I snapped the blades home I pulled off and whipped the scissors up high instead taking a huge square out my fringe – right in the centre, right down to the bristle.

After that I showered. Standing under the wet, cursing the plastic curtain which was icy cold and clinging constantly to my back like some terrible sin. The dirt was washing off, but only from my skin. I closed my eyes and thought of miles and miles of black.


  1. My nephew has been reciting Oscar Wilde all weekend after reading of your mental and physical degradation. I’ve re-programmed his voice box to Mickey Mouse but that doesn’t stop him:

    Yet each man kills the thing he loves
    By each let this be heard,
    Some do it with a bitter look,
    Some with a flattering word,
    The coward does it with a kiss,
    The brave man with a sword!

    Or a plant pot.

    Yes I think you took the brave way out. You did the world a favour: one less creepy queer (no offence).


    I only knew what hunted thought
    Quickened his step, and why
    He looked upon the garish day
    With such a wistful eye;
    The man had killed the thing he loved
    And so he had to die.

    As Oscar also said:

    No good deed goes unpunished…

  2. I am squirming in my bed.. toes curled in horror ..
    Bad enough the ear.. but it's the Y Fronts !!!
    just too much xx

  3. the shock is making me be restrained!

  4. Ugh...Y-fronts...goddamn...

    Now, don't go all Van Gogh on yourself, Tristram dear. All he painted was flowers. It'll make people suspicious.

  5. Abigail: Oh, you've noticed I'm having a breakdown. I suppose that's something. I don't know. I don't care. The future's shit. They're gonna get me anyway. Little Dick and his team. That's how this'll end. I'm starting to wish I had taken the Drain cleaner option now. X

    Wildernesschic: I wish I was dead! X

    Jim: I wish I was dead! X

    Simon: You've made a good point. But I wish I was dead! X


Tristram's Birthday: Sunday 3rd October

Tristram's Birthday: Sunday 3rd October
Cheap jam sponge or something a little more exciting? How will Mr Spencer celebrate his 32nd year in hell?

Trolley Dash August 2010

Trolley Dash August 2010
Did Tristram accidently pick up a REAL bargain?

Brian the Postboy's gift to John: an ankle bracelet inscribed 'Super Dong'

Brian the Postboy's gift to John: an ankle bracelet inscribed 'Super Dong'
Scrap metal or has John been 'tagged'. Is Tristram Spencer really the only fated man in town?

The Dangerous Dandy by Barbara Cartland

The Dangerous Dandy by Barbara Cartland
Will Tristram finally be brought to account for his love of Babs? And: is 25 years hard labour enough?

An Influx of Pigeons

An Influx of Pigeons
Is there still some hope for the fated Mr Spencer?
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