The car that Little Dick Tracy stepped out off was not a police car and unless shiny mauve silk shirts and overly tight denim jeans are now appropriate police wear he was not on duty either. More incredible still, he was stupendously drunk and had blood or lipstick kissed all over his neck.

Through the frosted glass window I watched as the Inspector failed miserably to locate the drivers side door. He finally gave up, instead pulling a fistfull of notes out his pocket (far more than a taxi ride could ever cost) and bunged them through the passenger window. He stumbled away from the car, gave a strange look up and around as if trying to figure out where the hell he was, then tripped up the curb and fell in through the garden gate and landed in my yard. Still at the window I watched him clawing at the ground, inching himself slowly along. After a while he completely disappeared and just after there was a knock low down on the base of the door. I opened up and the Inspector crawled in.

“Bill, I need the toilet... fuckin 'elp me!”

“Bill???? Er, inspector I think you've come to the wrong house... Do you even know where you are?”

“Jus' fuckin' get me ta toilet ya cunt b'fore me fuckin' guts melt!” he screamed, squinting up at me in completely the wrong direction.

Not wanting Little Dick Tracy squirting 45% proof liquid shit all over my hallway I tried to lift him to his feet, but it was useless. He is only a small man, but he has a gut and his body had gone all floppy, every ounce of flesh and muscle pulling down gravity's way. Finally I gave up trying to raise him and instead pulled him along by the arm. I heaved him into the bathroom and left him laying on the tiles. As I left I pulled the door closed. From inside there were some noises: loose change, a belt buckle and the crashing of the toilet seat. Then there was a long wet fart and then what sounded like Super Saver vegetable soup being slopped out onto a plate. A few ladels later and Little Dick Tracy's voice was whining out once more.

“Bill!!! Bill!!! Will ya git in 'ere an fackin 'elp me! Biiiillll!!!!”

When I opened the bathroom door Little Dick was flopped down on the toilet with his trousers strewn around his ankles. His very average sized cock was resting on the rim of the seat, pissing off over the edge and into his pants.

“Have ya got any fuckin' paper, Bill? I need some fuckin' paper?”

“It's behind you,” I said pointing. Not that he would have seen that.

“Well fuckin' go on then!” he slurred, “fuckin 'elp me!”

Leaning around the inspector I grabbed the roll of cheap pink toilet paper and put it to his hands. Little Dick growled before pushing it furiously away.

“Fuck you Bill!!!” he screamed “I meant go on then.... wipe my arse!!!” With that he let out a horrendous wheezing laugh which sounded like he had bronchitis or something. But it was no joke and suddenly Little Dick was sitting straight up and seemed quite sober. “Wipe my fucking arse Bill or I'll arrest yours!”

I stood shocked my eyes frozen on Little Dick. He seemed more evil than anyone I had ever known. He kept his stare, his eyes not askew nor dazed. “Fucking wipe it!” he screamed one final time “I'm finished!”

With nothing else to do I reluctantly ripped off eight squares of loo paper,double folded them, then held Little Dick's genitals to one side and pushed my hand down under into the dark void between his legs. As soon as Little Dick had got his way the drink was suddenly all over him again and he was rocking about almost falling off the throne as I rubbed the paper between his buttocks.

“Ya fuckin' finished down there yet?” he droned, his head now slung down low and looking off somewhere along the skirting board. “Can I pull me fackin' panties up or wot?”

I didn't answer but flushed the chain.

Little Dick Stood up. A few bits of pink toilet paper were hanging out from his arse. Fighting for balance he pulled his trousers up and still fiddling with his buttons he wandered off unsteadily down the hall. For one awful moment I thought he was going to enter the bedroom, curl up in bed and crash out. But he didn't... though more out of luck than anything else. His drunken legs bandied and when he straightened he was facing the wrong way, and so instead felt his way down the hall into the living room. I tried steadying him but he shook me off and growled: “Get ya filthy fuckin' hands off me Bill or say goodnight to the world!”


Little Dick is in my green armchair. He is trying to squint me into focus.

“Bill? Is that you? You look strange. Bill?”

“It's OK, it's me... Bill,” I said trying to gruff up my voice so as I sounded more like someone called Bill. Little Dick gave a wicked grimace. As if to say 'oh so you're finally ready to play'. Then he said:

“Have ya seen all them pigeons that've drifted in? They're fucking everywhere!”

“Yeah I saw them... I watched them come in. The day toned dark and then there they were.. a beautiful, beautiful sight.”

“Beautiful? Ya losing your fuckin' marbles ain't ya Bill?! Disease is all they'll bring. Fuckin' rats with wings! Like wheelchairs... flying onto the tops of churches, or as some would'av us believe. But I don't believe that crap, nor that it was God coming out in support of Gay Handicap rights. Nah, I know the truth. I know it was you, BILL... dressed up as John, after KILLING him and driving it out and putting it up there. I know. I know it all. I just ain't got the fuckin' evidence.”

“The evidence for what?” I asked shocked “To arrest me?”

“Arrest you? Why wuld I fuckin' arrest you Bill? I'm talking about that shittin' idiot Tristram Spencer. Oh, I've the evidence to arrest him alright, but not to secure a fackin' conviction. If I charged him with murder now he'd only git off with it. Ok, we culd try and beat a fuckin' confession outta him, but that's dodgy business these days, and someone as feeble as that shit's a 'death in custody' waiting to happen. Nah, the heaviest charge I could lay on him right now is 'Obstructing the Cause of Justice'. But the worm'll turn... it always fuckin' does. There's eleven days to Christmas, Bill, and by the 25th Mr Spencer's stagnant arse will be new meat for the prison queens!”

I was confused. Not really scared as for the moment there was nothing to be scared about. But who did Little Dick Tracy really think he was talking to? The mysterious Bill or me? Was he really so wasted that he thought he was at home having a drunken rant? OR, was he knowingly letting me in on what he's got on me?

For now the answers were miles away, as when I shifted my eyes back on Little Dick Tracy they found him slack jawed in the chair, huge animal snores coming up out his nose and mouth and the smell of stale whisky being blown across the room. I stared down at the Inspector, my hate filled gaze finding its way to his neck. It was just crying out to be strangled or sliced open. I looked at the window boxes, then at my hands and then back to Little Dick's neck.

No! That's not what I am.... how simple it would be if only I was.


  1. The plot thickens and is ending soon. I felt a twinge of nostalgia for all your earlier posts.

  2. !!!seriously can not wait for the next post!!!

  3. Lena: Bill is not really a plot line, more a little hint of Little Dick's homelife and how mean he is even there. Yes, it was more like the older posts. I think we badly needed a little bit of humour in amongst Tristrams breakdown. X

    Stacy: yes, it should be interesting. X

  4. Well if he's the smartest the cops have to come up with you should have no problems.

    I can't decide whether I want it to be a happy or sad ending. Maybe something in between.

  5. Of all the things the world could do without, detailed descriptions of Little Dick's drunk shit tops them.

  6. Abigail: Only Tristram Spencer could end up wiping the arse of the inspector investigating the murder one has commited. It's just a life of constant humiliation and I think he knows it.

    The ending... lets just say the penultimate post will be an absolute cliffhanger! X

    Simon: You win comment of the Month for that one, lol. You're absolutely spot on. X

  7. I am trying to comment but the vomit I am holding back thinking of the tissue between the cheeks is preventing me from making a proper one..poor you xx


Tristram's Birthday: Sunday 3rd October

Tristram's Birthday: Sunday 3rd October
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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'

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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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