Topic: The OFFICIAL jonesy triple nine tribute 80s themed crazy arsed party thread.
not...
You reached over with your hand and knocked my Jap over
posted
As you may or may not be aware, It's Jonesy's real life birthday today, I dunno how old he is but taking a wild stab in the dark I'd say probably 31), you probably have a better idea than me. Anyhow by a happy coincedence it's also my 1000th post celebration...
Again Muthafucka...?
W-what...who said that-t-t-t?
It's meee, O. B. in the place 2 B...
N-no n-n-n-n-not h-h-h-here... not here, you don't exist, you don't exist, you don't exist, you don't exist, you don't exist, you don't exist, you don't exist, you don't exist, you don't exist...
Ssssilence you weak minded fooool, I exhist I insist, now let me give you a little flashback...
NO! NOO! NAOOOOOOOOOOOoooooOOOOoOOoOOoOO
Heh! I see you remember well my little non persona friend.... heheheheh, Well guess what I'm here to remind everybody what a horrible little person you really are... remember this?
OH God, no, look it was a joke right, everyone knew that right? r-right?
Oh no everyone did not know it was a joke, in fact some people were rather upset by the whole thing, you see you think you're funny, funnneee guy heyy Mr. Cool, but guess what Mr. FUNNEEE WITH A CAPITAL 'F' YOU AIN'T THAT F'IN FUNNY!!!
.... ...what... what was that?
heheh gone into denial again have we pee pee pants? let's see if this helps...
eh? it looks like a piece of Leg...a piece of Leg.... a p-p-p-p-p-p-piece of L-l-l-l-eg
MR FUNEEEE, DON'T MAKE ME LAUGH NOW STOP TRYING TO MAKE JOKES AND GET ON WITH THE THREAD....
Jonesy, Jonesy will save me, wont you Jonesy?
x
[ 15 July 2003: Message edited by: jonesy999 ]
Jonesy... say something....
x
[ 15 July 2003: Message edited by: jonesy999 ]
. . oh...
. . . . . . . . Well, ladies and gentleman, as I said it's Jonesy's birthday today and I think he's just a little bit more important and a lot funnier than me, I'm making this thread the OFFICIAL Jonesy triple nine tribute 80s themed crazy arsed party thread.
SO, bring in the cases of Black Tower, Pink Lady and Woodpecker cider. Bring in the cans of quattro, TAB and other failed 80's beverages. Bring in the Spangles, bring in the Aniseed balls 2 for 1p!, bring in the 80s for yours and my friend Jonesy who is olde TODAY!!!!
C'MON WHO'S WITH ME!!!!!!!!!!
Not me ****
[ 15 July 2003: Message edited by: Stefanos ]
*AGA DO DO DO*
Yess probably no one would come if it was your party..
Hiya! Here... I brought some pomagne. I know you like it. Hmmm... Nice jacket. Like the way you've rolled the sleeves up. But you still don't look like Don Johnson. *tee hee*. More like Kurt Russell.
Here, Jim couldn't come, but he asked me to give you this.
Oh..hahahaha! I see you've already stocked up on the Thunderbird. Just how many cans of Kestrel are in that pyramid, then?
Lucky for you that I decided to bring along some entertainment instead...
Oh, what a feeling indeed!
Now I don't want to go ruining any surprises but I managed to persuade Molly Ringwald to jump out of a giant cake. Hang on while I move everyone's coats off it first...
Looking forward to the next faaasand, IAN. Have a top birthday, Joanzee.
-------------------- They give you a pen as fat as a modest cock and you're expected to dab it on the page, as though you were mopping the dregs of an afternoon Tommy.
posted
Hey! Alright guys! Cool party! Hey Jonesy, are you OK? Happy birthday! Yeah. Yeah. No, I'm from your English class. I sit at the back. Yeah! That's right. Hey! I brought a can. Wow! I love this song. *performs brief, fluid robotics* Look! I appear to have an extra nip.
Do you like the way I've had my hair done the same way? I had this style then, in - ooh, just about when you got your first long trousers. Nice trousers, by the way, did you get them in a charity shop or something? Oh. They're your fave party pants. Sorry.
Anyway, I've brought you some Dry Martini, for drinking with lemonade, and all the ingredients for Harvey Wallbangers. Shall I rustle up a few?
Who's that guy in trackie bottoms & bare feet? The one who keeps yelling A Thousand? Hi, IAN! Fancy a Wallbanger?
posted
Naw, speak and spell was American Grace, we used to laugh at its gaffs and inability to pronounce the words it was spelling. Shame on you for doubting me.
not...
You reached over with your hand and knocked my Jap over
posted
*tink tink tink SMASH!!***
*ahem*
Ladeez and Genelmen
I'd like to propose a toast
I remember the first time I met jonesy...
I was cycling down to the end of the alley on my Rayleigh Striker, carefully guiding it via a series of back pedal slides and bunny hops around the clumps of white dog poo that littered the pavement. As I approached the end of the alleyway I looked up and saw a figure casually sitting side saddle upon a gleaming red Chopper. My skin tight drainpipe stonewash jeans suddenly seemed just a little bit tighter than usual as my eyes greedily drank in the vision before me.
Trousers: Farah - Burgandy Check Socks: one luminous green, one luminous orange Check Shirt: Grandad style collar Check Tank Top: Pringle - Burgandy Check Tracksuit top: Fila! Check Footware: Red/white and blue suede Jam shoes Check Hair: Mullet with highlights and plaited rat tail Check Jewellery: Gold stud in right ear - Gay Check
He looked up as I back pedaled another long satifying skid, coming to a halt just in front of him. My mind was cartwheeling, i'd never before seen fashion of this calibre in my local neighbourhood. I blushed as his big blue eyes fixed me with a steely gaze, slowly, methodically his wrists twisted ninety degrees until his hands were vertical, he clenched his sovereign clad fingers into two anvil like fists, he tipped his head back without breaking eye contact. Suddenly he thrust his thumbs skyward.
"HEEEEYYYYYYYYY!!!!" he drawled in a flawless impersonation of The Fonz.
Then he swang a stubby leg over the long saddle of his chopper, purposefully pushed the gearstick into third and cycled off, his massive collection of spokey dokes plinking merrily into the setting sun...
posted
London (VO): Fo shizzle bootyliznish, this is L-to the-o-to the-n-to the dee-why! Our summer romances are in full bloom and everybody but everybody’s in love – so here’s a great song from the Four Seasons…
MUSIC: Big girls don’t cry
INT: Black car. Day.
Booby Alice Damage: That was the summer of 1987 when everybody called me Booby and it didn't occur to me to mind. That was before the second summer of love, before the Happy Mondays came, when I couldn’t wait to join the re-enactors and I thought I’d never find a guy as great as my Dad. That was the summer we went to Barney Kovacs’.
EXT: Barney Kovacs’ Mountain Lodge. Day.
Thorn: ...over there in the grass we have little snakes. That can get you down. On the concrete ledges you’ll often see red ants. They don’t agree with me. At night there are mosquitoes and I weep bitter tears. Dance lessons in the gazebo for those of you who don’t dream of death costantl-
VP Damage: Omigaaaaaaaaad! Mum! Mummy! MummymummyMUM! Like, what is that horrible insect? Ewwwwwww. Make it shoo!
Sidney Damage: That’s Thorn, dear. You suckled his tinkie last year.
VP: Mother it was Rophynol.
Sidney: I don’t think you can suckle that hard on Rophy dear. Or do a walking 69.
Ben Damage: This is a tragedy! A tragedy! Oy that I should be so far from kosher fish. My tummy is already burning, Sidney. I told you it would. I told you it would burn.
Booby: Want me to give it a rubby Daddy?
VP: Butt out Booby! I’ll give it a rubby Daddy… just make that, that THING go away.
Thorn: Of course she would hate you, you have amounted to nothing. Nothing. In one year apart you do nothing but get bitten by bugs and threatened by the entertainment staff. She’s right to hate you. In the trees we have monkeys that carry AIDS. Swimming lessons at four…
Enter Barney Kovacs and Rax Kowalski
Kovacs: Benjo!
Ben: Kovacillate!
Kovacs: Boom-bang-a-bing-benny!
Ben: How go things here, Barn? More importantly, how’s the fish?
Kovacs: Ben-diddle-doddle-doo!
Ben: The fish, Barn. How is the fish?
Kovacs: Bee-bye-biddy-bo-ben!
Rax: I sorry. Mister Kovacs not well since… well. Better no say. Mr Kovacs not well. I carry bags!
Ben: Since he broke his nose?
Rax: *gasp*
Kovacs: My FAAACCCCCEEEEEE. My fortune. You know that after the nose went, she left me. Then he left me. Then they did. Then the family across the road. The television flickered more and we had powercuts. We never had powercuts before the nose. My car smelled up in the summer and I started to get erections.
Ben: …
Rax: Stupid man. Follow me quickly stupid man.
INT: Main house. Booby is at the window looking in. Her boobs are pressed against the glass. They look mint.
Kovacs: There are two kinds of help here: pretty guys and guys with broken noses. You want to know why? Because that’s all there is boys. That’s life. Right here in this room. You’re either pretty – like you Ricky, everything you want huh? – or you’re a goddamned broken nosed stiffcock asshole like me and like Tavia. And if you’re a broken nosed stiffcock asshole, stay out of sight. This is a holiday resort for beautiful people. For people like Ben.
Jonesy Castle: And people like me!
Kovacs: Well if it isn’t the entertainment staff! THAT’S MY NOSE YOU GOT THERE JONESY! MY FUCKING NOSE! You stay out of my way Jonesy. You can teach these girls to dance, but don’t you dare kiss with tongues or go fingers. Especially not two fingers.
Rax (putting out paper napkins): You understand Jones? Heh? You stay out lady wendy.
Jonesy: I’m not yours, Rax. This summer I’m going to see a proper wendy. I’m tired of playing pokey with your bacon-wrapped hand!
(Jonesy storms off, knocking over all Rax’ napkins)
-------------------- They give you a pen as fat as a modest cock and you're expected to dab it on the page, as though you were mopping the dregs of an afternoon Tommy. Posts: 1847
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posted
Flick-ah flick-ah flick-ah. She was getting her fringe just right, she was. God but her arms hurt, and the facking cats, scratching at her stockings they were, and her with her arms up with them tongs, but she had to, she had to get it right for Juh-Juh-Juh-Jonesy.
With one last flick of the ends, she was done. The rollers had made it come out nice, and she had managed to get that stain out of the one-shouldered top that said 'Bobbydazzler!' on the front in big white puffy letters. She knew he'd like that. She knew he'd want to see if he could pop the big white puffy letters, pressing them down with his index finger. Them Seventies-style tops were gr9 for that; that's how she'd entrapped that Wrongo, oh, and as for that other one - yeah well, anyway, that were in the past now, and it was all about the Juh, the Big J, as she like to call him in her head, when it was late at night and her Drunkan boyfriend was asleep beside her. Trick and Jones, she'd repeat in her head, liking the way it made her tongue move sharp against the ridged roof of her mouth.
Kicking a poo out of the way, she exited her flat, singing that song by Altered Images. She'd made up a special dance and everything.
posted
Ringo and Deadwood strolled along the quiet suburban street. It was dark by now and the only sound that could be heard was a rhythmic thumping eminating from a house a little further along.
Ringo: Do you think this party's gonna be any good?
Deadwood: I'm not sure to be honest. I suppose in theory it could be pretty good, although theory and practice are seldom the same.
Ringo: So you think it's going to be crap then.
Deadwood: I never said that
Ringo: No but you implied it
Deadwood: I implied nothing
Ringo: You sure about that?
Deadwood: totally
Ringo: Well ok then..... I guess this must be the place. Think we should knock?
Deadwood: Why, the door's open. Nobody'd hear us anyway. Besides, they invited us, it's not as if we're not welcome.
As they approached the door, a figure pushed past and promptly vomited on the step. It was hard to make out who it was but the shape was distinctly female. Instinctively, Ringo stepped over and brushed her hair out of her face. The ends were slick with bile.
Ringo: Hey...you ok?
Uber: *cough* Do I fucking look ok!?
Ringo: Just trying to help
Uber: (straightening up) It's ok, it's not your fault I guess. It's just... well I thought tonight was gonna be special, y'know?
Ringo: er..
Uber: It was all going so well until that cock Bandy showed up. Totally just, like, cut in between me and Jonesy. Started making all these jokes and shit. Even brought some fucking pictures printed out specially for tonight. Spent all day on his computer apparently.
Ringo: So you decided to get pissed instead?
Uber: Nao, you fucking ret, do I look drunk to you?
Ringo: well you did just spill your guts on my shoes...
Uber: heh, and the rest. But no, it wasn't the drink. As I say, Bandy was making these totally lame jokes, and everyone was like 'oh Bandy, you're so funny', especially J
Ringo: Who?
Uber: uh..Jonesy
Ringo: Oh right
Uber: and then things all started to get out of control. Before I knew it, Bandy had undone his belt and presented two of the hairyest, potted white ass cheeks I've ever seen.
Ringo: Oh god, that's horrible
Uber: That's not the worst bit
Ringo: It's not?
Uber: he.... he... he pulled his ass cheeks apart...
Ringo: Fuck that's sick. Look, are you gonna be alright out here, I better go inside and say hi to everyone.
Uber: Yeah, I'll be ok. Thanks Ringo, you're a star.
Uber then flung her arms around Ringo, pressing her chunk covered breasts against his chest, and planted a sicky kiss on his lips. Ringo fought the urge to gag and, amazingly, even forced a smile.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Inside, the house was a scene of utter carnage. Every single ornament had found its way onto the floor, almost every table had been upended and the sofa lay on its back in the middle of the room. Two sprawling bodies lay entwined on the sofa. Ringo couldn't make out who they were and he was pretty sure it would be rude to ask.
A crowd of familiar faces beamed at him, filling the cramped room. One by one, Ringo and Deadwood made their way around the various groups. By the time they had made their way as far as the kitchen, both had memorised their responses to such questions as "how are you" and the ever popular "So what have you been up to lately".
If the front room had been carnage then the kitchen was practically a warzone. An oily layer covered the floor, making strange tie-dye patterns where various exotic liquers and spirits fought to retain their individuality on the linolium. Every surface was covered with piles of glasses, each with at least a third of some un-nameable drink, concocted on the spur of the moment, borne of a lack of mixers or coctail making talent. Each face, although outwardly enthusiastic and happy, told a sad story of hedonism gone too far.
Out of the crowd, a figure crawled through on all fours, struggling for grip on the alcoholic flooring. Four long crawling steps into the room, the figure losts his balance and collapsed prone on his face. It was Jonesy.
Ringo: Fucking hell, man, check out our man Jonesy there!
Deadwood: Woah, looks like too much party juice for him!
Ringo: Shit, he's gonna feel like crap in the morning.
Deadwood: Fucks sake, Ringo, is that all you ever think about?
Ringo: I-I'm sorry?
Deadwood: Consequences, man. Every time we go anywhere, it looks like we might actually have a good time and then you pipe up with "oh we should probably stop drinking so much" or some shit like that.
Ringo: I was just saying..
Deadwood: I know what you were saying, Ringo. I know because I've heard it a million fucking times already. Now shut up and show me your teeth
Ringo: My teeth?
Deadwood: yes, you moron, your fucking teeth
As Ringo opened his lips to show his teeth, Deadwood shoved a whitened finger onto his gums and rubbed hard.
Deadwood: Right, that's a start, now get this up your nose and maybe we can start having a good time.
Ringo: Is that cocaine?
Deadwood: (laughing) Well it best not be fucking baking soda again!
My head has died. Not only has it died, it is swollen to four times its normal size. How will I get through doors? I'll be like a cat whose whiskers have been cut off in a horrendous toddler/scissors accident or a lampshade dog in hot pursuit through the legs of the dining room table (heh, that was funny) - misjudging distances, crashing into door frames, my dead head a battering ram.
"I mean it. Now!"
Christ, I'm in motion. My eyes are working. Woah! Look at this place. Mum's going to have an 'eppy'.
"Jonesy if you're not down here in three seconds!"
I've got to run away from home. They don't understand me anyway. But how? Any minute she'll be up here and I'll be screwed. The window. It's too far to jump. I need some kind of rope. Bed sheets, just like on TV. Too crispy. Wow, they're like wood. I really should cut down on the baby bells before bedtime, those cheese dreams are giving me the gush.
Stop day dreaming, Jonesy lad, you need a fucking rope. Clothes? No no, someone set fire to them all last night during the Terence Trent d'Arby megamix. I've only got what I'm wearing:
G Villas - check, thick laces - check, Izod Lacoste in plum - check, Blue Pringle V neck - missing in action. Good enough. Rope, rope, rope.
"Right! That's it. I'm coming up."
Fuck, rope, fuckrope. Think Jonesylad. Think.
"Open this door!"
That's it. Only you can save me... Stretch Armstrong. OK, old buddy, I'm tying your legs to the wardrobe. Don't snap on me now. This is it, Stretch. Geronimo!
Oof! Made it. Doesn't look like Stretch will ever be the same again, though. You were a true hero my rubbery friend. Now, if I can just get to my Grifter, no one will stand in my -
"Stop right there."
"D-dad."
"Where the hell do you think you're going? And why have you got a pillow stuck to your face?"
"Eh? What? Oh, I didn't know it was there. I thought my head had swollen to three times its normal size."
"Well take it off. What the hell have you stuck it on with anyway? Looks like some kind of carrot glue."
"That'll be vomit."
"Is it yours?"
"Possibly."
"Well you're in big trouble my boy. My car has been driven into the pond, there's urine all over the new three piece and your sister's been murdered and dumped in the green house, right on top of your mother's best tomatoes! Well, what have you got to say for yourself? What was that?"
"I said 'sorry'."
"That's just not good enough."
"Good, because I'm not sorry."
"What?"
"I'm not sorry at all. The 80s themed crazy arsed party was fantastic and I loved every minute of it. It was Hot like Crocket Cool like Tubbs, Sexy ladies, Boys with chubs Farah trousers Borg Elites Big girl's blouses Big girl's teats. We drew circles in the sand and minced like Prince. Put our chubbies in their hands and made them wince. We were Bodie and Doyle and Steve funckin' Austin Legendary like the Fonz, cool like freezers drefrostin'.
I want to put my hands in the air and wave 'em like I just don't care Bambaataa big up to the party people who like to party rock the party. Big up to the thread heads who rocked the 80s theme crazy arsed par-tay and made me birthday smile. "
"You're not still banging on about becoming a rap musician are you? You can forget that my lad. You're going to university to make something of yourself. And besides, that noise you call music will never catch on. Mark my words, this rap won't last five minutes. Now, get inside and help your mother clean the sick off the dog. When you've done that, you can give me a hand in the garden, burying your sister."
posted
Happy Birthday for yesterday, jonesylove. When I saw this thread this morning I was like, Damn, I missed a good party! But now i see that in fact I didn't miss it, I was there but just heinously drunk and forgot. Just like in RL, eh?
posted
A deep snore roused Ringo from his sleep. It was a full 5 seconds before he realised the snore had come from him as a result of something stuck up his nose. He sniffed hard and felt a warm glucose slime slide down his throat. Slumping back into the pillow, Ringos hand instinctively slid down to cradle his balls. He was naked. This only struck him as strange because he was in someone elses room.
Scanning the walls, various male teen pop gods grinned back at him. Bros are a scary sight first thing in the morning. Ringo tried to sit up but couldn't, something had him pinned. His left arm was completely numb and seemed to be trapped under something. Pulling back the sheets revealed a naked female form, laying face down across his arm.
It was a simple magic trick really. The one with the tablecloth. If he pulled hard enough, his arm would pull free and leave his sleeping companion undisturbed. Aproximately half a second before performing this manauvre, he remembered that he had never managed this with a tablecloth before, let alone a human being.
The girl made a loud crash as she landed on the floor. Trying to massage some feeling back into his arm, Ringo leaned over the bed to see who he'd just thrown onto the floor. Two eyes stared back at him, glazed and unblinking, set in a pale white face crusted with saliva and vomit.
A combination of drugs and fear caused him to panic. Was she dead? She certainly fucking looked it. Who the fuck was she anyway? She looked kinda familiar, like she might be related to one of his friends or something, but he couldn't place it. She had no pulse and wasn't breathing. What the fuck was he going to do.
Out of the drug induced haze, a memory tried to take shape in his head. He was talking to someone. No, wait, he wasn't, someone was talking to him. There was a girl there, she was all over him. That's right. There was a girl and she was trying to convince him to go upstairs but he was worried about something. Worried about what though?
In a moment of brilliant terror, the memory suddenly came into focus.
Deadwood: I don't know what you're worried about, mate, what's the worst that could happen?
Ringo: Well, Jonesy could discover me in bed with his sister and cut off my balls
Deadwood: So, just make sure he doesn't find out. Lock the door or something.
Jonesy's sister: Look, I'm going upstairs, if you're not there in five minutes, I'm starting without you.
Deadwood: See, man, she fucking wants you, go for it!
Ringo: What if I fall asleep or something and he comes in in the morning. Or worse still, what if his parents find me!?
Deadwood: (passing Ringo a small unlabelled bottle and a wrap of white powder) Look, just take this and everything will be fine. Trust me, mate, take this shit and you wont sleep for a week. The shit in the bottle, that's poppers, give that a sniff and you'll get the idea. The white powder is MDMA and it's the latest shit on the streets, way better than speed. Just be careful with this shit or you wont get wood for days either, if you know what i mean.
Ringo stuffed the drugs into his loose jean pockets and nervously made his way up the stairs. After that was a blank.
Looking round the floor, the little bottle was broken and the wrap lay screwed up and empty on the floor. If he had fallen asleep, that means he hadn't taken any of it. Perhaps the girl had taken it?
It all started to come together now, a coctail of drink, drugs and sex ahd obviously put too much strain on her heart and she'd died as a result.
This could end up being far worse than Ringo had imagined. Deadwood would remember him going into the room with the girl and several others must have seen him too. He had to move the body and make it look like an unrelated accident. But how, there would be people all over the house.
Ringo spied the key in the lock of the door. Perfect. Quietly, he crept over and unlocked the door, slipped out onto the landing and locked the door again behind him. The house was a state. Things had clearly gotten far worse since he'd gone into the room. Random people lay sprawled on the floor, sleeping noisily. The clock on the wall read 6:42am. This was good as everyone would be asleep, meaning he could move around freely, albeit carefully, without being stopped. It was another 4 hours before Jonesys parents would be home so he had plenty of time to work out a plan.
Ringo found the back door open, and the garden empty. It had been raining the night before so the garden had remained largely unused. Perhaps this would be the place. Nobody would have been out there so in theory, someone could have died and nobody would have seen this happen. But how, though, you couldn't just leave the girl lying in the middle of the garden. An autopsy would quickly reveal how she'd died. He needed to do something that would make it look obvious how she died, and also get rid of most of the evidence. Now in theory, it would simply be her heart that would show evidence of how she died, relying, of course, on the fact she'd had a heart attack. Ringo had the beginnings of a plan in his mind.
The kitchen was much as he'd left it, although the oily slick on the floor had now set into a kind of treacle. This wasn't good. His feet would leave marks in there if he wasn't careful.
Deadwood lay slumped in an armchair in the front room. He still had his shoes on. Carefully lifting his legs, Ringo undid his laces and slid is friends shoes off. They were a bit small but they fit just about.
Luckily it was a fairly domesticated house and Ringo found a large selection of meat knives in the drawer. Any of these would be perfect, but he'd leave fingerprints everywhere if he wasn't careful. Once again, Deadwood would be his saviour. Knowing of his strange sexual tastes, Ringo searched through his jacket and got lucky, finding a pair of latex gloves in the inside pocket. Obviously last night hadn't been his lucky night. But then had it really been lucky for anyone?
With knife in hand, Ringo made his way up the stairs to where the girl was still laying next to the bed. He cringed at the sight of those dead staring eyes and made sure to gently close them before moving her again. Suddenly, he was struck by the tragedy of the situation. He looked around the room, which was obviously hers, and saw the trademarks of a teenage girl who had most things going for her. Certainly no angel but she didn't deserve what had happened to her, nor what was about to happen. Something dripped onto his leg, instantly rousing him from his sorrow. It was then he realised he'd been crying since he came into the room.
Perhaps some music would help. He turned and flicked the stereo on low. The CD from last ights 80's party started playing. It was Ultravox doing Vienna. It seemed tragically fitting, and yet empowering at the same time. He shook himself out of it and tried to dress the girl. He'd always held the opinion that taking off a girls bra was one of the hardest things to do. He now realised that the difficulty of taking it off was nothing by comparison to actually putting one onto a girl. Not that many men could claim ever to have done this, and only a chosen few to a girl who was, in fact, dead. He got there in the end, though.
She was heavier than he imagined. He'd messed around with his mates, carrying them and suchlike, but he'd never realised quite how heavy and difficult to carry a human being really was. Especially down stairs at 7am, trying to avoid sleeping people, and not rouse suspicion. At the bottom of the stairs, he heard a noise like someone breaking wind, followed by one of the worst smells he'd ever smelled. He realised it had actually come from the girl on his shoulders, and vomited on the floor. Something black shot out from by his feet. He'd just been sick on the dog.
She lay on her back in the morning sun in the garden. Even now, with ghastly white skin, sick stained hair, and blue lips, she struck him and incredibly pretty. He was about to commit an act of sacrilege on this beautiful young girl who he'd led into corruption. The urge to survive took over, and told him this was something he had to do if he was to have any hope of freedom.
Raising the kinfe high above his head with two hands, he noted the spot where he was to bring it down, in the centre of her chest, into the heart. The blade jarred harshly on her breastplate. This wasn't going to work. Perhaps slightly to the side and angled slightly, so it went in between the ribs. This time the knife plunged in to the handle. Blood pumped out over his hands, staining his cuffs. Without the beating pressure of the heart, though, it soon slowed to a trickle. Again he plunged the knife in, this time a little higher. And again, and again, until her chest was a gaping red hole and his arms ached.
His mind still wasn't thinking properly. He couldn't leave her out on the grass like this, it was far too cold. He hoisted her up and dragged her over to the greenhouse, depositing her body on top of a sad looking tomato plant. With a bloodstained finger, he traced the words "I'm so sorry" on the window of the greenhouse.
It was over. He could make his escape. The only mode of transport was some shitty old bike leant against the garage. It would have to do. He could probably ride all the way home without being spotted, then it was a case of washing his clothes, burning the gloves and hiding the knife somewhere. Perhaps he could find some new cement to put it into, never to be found. Suffice to say he would never face Jonesy or half his friends again. In one way, he dreaded facing Deadwood, but in another way, he looked forward to the cathartic release of telling someone what had happened. He knew he could trust him.
In his mind, the conversation from the previous evening flashed over and over.
"Fucks sake, Ringo, is that all you ever think about........ consequences..."
It was a damn long night, that night, and an even longer morning after. I never meant for things to get so messy. I mean, who the fuck could have known what was going to happen. It was hardly even my fault now I think back on it, but then it's easy to say that in hindsight, and at the time that was one thing I definitely didn't have the benefit of. I guess I should start at the beginning.
It was the night of Jonesys birthday party. It was going to be some kind of loose 80's based night, with all the usual trimmings. Electropop, bad clothes, all that shit. So, getting into the spirit of it all, I thought it would be a good idea to do sme pictures for the night, to show people. It was great, I had pictures of peoples heads phoo'd onto various 80's album covers, which I'd planned on posting on the net but then realised that, in the spirit of the 80's, that probably wouldn't fit in too well, so I just printed them out and took them along.
When I got there, the party was already pretty much up and running. The place was still pretty tidy though so I guess it couldn't have been too late. I dunno, about 9'ish? Anyway, that's hardly important. I was standing around for a little while as I wanted to congratulate the birthday boy but he was chatting to that uber girl, and she just wouldn't stop, so in the end I just had to cut in. I dunno, I suppose I could have been a bit more mature about things but it's a party isn't it. She started giving me these totally evil looks and shit so I thought I'd lighten the mood by doing the famous 'talking ass of Bandy' routine. That didn't go down too well, and I only got halfway through saying "I'm sorry, uber" with my ass when she stormed out of the house.
Jonesy didn't take it too well either. I heard later that he was trying to get in her pants or something. I don't think he had much of a chance, personally, but he seemed really pissed about it and started shouting at me. Things got a bit nasty and he pushed me. Well I'm not really a man of violence but I do know I can throw a punch when necessary and I thought if I winded him then he'd get the message, so I punched him in the stomach and he went down like a total pussy. Crawled off towards the kitchen or something.
I didn't see him for a while after that but I guess he went and chilled out somewhere because when I saw him again, he was all matey with me and gave me two wraps of some powder shit he said was MDMA. Glad I never took any of the stuff, though. Dunno where he got it from but I gave both wraps to Deadwood. Think he gave one to Ringo. Now I dunno what was in that shit but when I woke up the next morning, Ringo was gone and Deadwood was slumped on the seat.
What can I say, I panicked when I saw him looking so pale. I felt his pulse and he was stone dead! Nobody was awake at the time but I kept thinking that if people found him, they'd blame me for giving him some fucked up drugs. What I did next, I'm not proud of, and I'm sure that had I simply told the truth all along, I wouldn't be sitting in this interview room telling you this now, trying to clear my name.
So anyway, I thought it would be best if I got him out of there and made it look like he'd simply left. Thought I could hide the body in some bushes or something and make it look like an accident. You gotta realise I wasn't thinking straight. I mean, who the fuck thinks straight at half seven in the morning after a long night of partying?
So I try to collect all his stuff together and for some reason can't find his shoes. No matter, he didn't exactly need them. I found the keys to the car in the kitchen. Decided that would be the best thing to use as I could just bundle him into the boot and drive off, come back after going to the shops and everyone would just think I went for bacon. I was pretty fucked, though and wasn't used to automatic gears. Stuck the bloody thing in reverse and the next thing I knew I was in the pond! I tried to get it out for a bit but it just wasn't happening so I got the body out of the boot and carried it down the street to the underpass. You've no idea how nervous I was at this point. Tried to make it look like I was helping him walk off a heavy night. Some old guy asked if he was ok and i was like "yeah, he will be". Was he the one who called you guys? He didn't look convinced and started saying he looked pale and shit. I was a bit rude to him, I'm sorry.
So anyway, I got to the underpass and threw his body into the bushes, then went back to the house. Everyone asked where I had been and where Ringo and Deadwood were. I said I'd just been for a bit of a walk cos I wasn't feeling too good and I had no idea where they were. Said I thought maybe they'd both gone early or something. Then I went home and you guys showed up. I guess that's about all there is to tell about what happened that night. I gather some pretty ill shit went down but I didn't see much of it, I'm afraid. Some girl got stabbed didn't she?
I suppose it all boils down to an accident. Or rather an ill informed practical joke gone too far. I don't think Jonesy even remembers what he did.
When I first saw him, I was in the kitchen speaking to Ringo and Deadwood. They were doing some kind of macho coke thing which I didn't really take much notice of, then in crawls Jonesy. He was in a pretty bad way. I asked if he was ok, and he said that Bandy was being a complete cock and then punched him for no reason. I don't know what got into him that night, really I don't. Jonesy was really pissed off and wanted to get his own back. It just happened I'd brought some crushed laxatives with me and was gonna slip them into someone's drink for a laugh. Well it seemed to be the perfect oportunity so I gave them to Jonesy and told him to put it into Bandy's drink and wait to see what happened. I guess it's not exactly his fault and simply wanted a bit more 'kick' to his revenge. I don't think there was really any malice in it and he certainly didn't want to kill anyone.
Anyway, he wanders off with the powder and I didn't see him again for a few hours. I asked him if he'd done it and he said he'd chopped it in with some coke and a bit of speed. Guess he had an image of Bandy speeding his nuts off, unable to contain his bowels. Thing is, a mix like that can kill someone. I only know this because of my work with chemicals, and it's not like your average bloke would know what it would do.
Thing I don't understand is what happened next. Deadwood turns up dead in the bushes, Ringo disappears and Jonesys sister is stabbed to death without anyone noticing. And what's this shit about missing shoes?
Topic Closed
You tried it, didn't you? 
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