another one for yous guys.
another chapter called "slang" from the greatest book ever, "killing the stars". take a look:
if you say you’re lee marvin, it means you’re hungry.
lee marvin, you know, starvin’? some people use starvin’ marvin instead.
tea leaves mean thieves.
the dog and bone is the phone.
the idea is to combine other words or names that rhyme with the original one.
if i got moby dick after too many pints, you get the idea.
so, there i was, with a little bugs bunny in me skyrocket and i’m lee marvin. the joe baxi was too hard on the budgy, so i weighed my options. it was late out, and i see fuck all else except this chipper that looks open. only an old dear and a young girl in the place. first things first, so i go to the jacks to jimmy riddle, and then up the apples and pears to have a butcher’s hook around. i find what i’m looking for, so i move to the counter, hands still in me skyers, when this old dear lifts up a shotgun, heavy and black, right into me face and tells me to put me hands on the counter. the bottle of water has this look of fright all over her chevy chase, and she yells at her to stop, and the old dear says she saw the way i was looking around. she knew there were a lot of tea leaves about, and i sure as shit looked like one of those fuckin’ punters to her.
a fuckin’ bogey.
ye fuckin’ cunt.
i told her i was hungry and wanted a sandwich. i was on me jack jones.
i pulled out a score and showed her i was planning to pay.
she said i better get the hell out, or i’d be wishing my father had never met my mother.
bollucks, i said.
the sound of the shot gun being cocked by an old woman was almost humorous.
if i hadn’t been scared shitless.
i backed up as far as i could, until me back was against the door frame. i slid myself over to the right and continued the backward shuffle of someone trying to avoid a certain final conclusion, and in a flash i was down the steps and out the door.
running.
running and running.
i didn’t stop until i reached the pub i was meeting mick at.
he was standing outside, waiting. leaning against the brick wall with one leg lifted behind him and resting on the wall, he looked like one of those silhouette stand-ups you buy to put in your yard. those black shadow cut-outs that look like cowboys or little kids.
he smoked his cigarette and looked at me. he looked at me sweating and panting, and he looked at me as i puked into a storm drain.
“moby dick,” he asked.
yeah, moby dick.
i told him he’d never believe what had just happened to me.
we walked in the pub and took a seat at the bar.
gizza roaster.
the bartender held up two fingers in inquiry.
we nodded back.
i asked mick to bum a smoke.
if you say you’re lee marvin, it means you’re hungry.
lee marvin, you know, starvin’? some people use starvin’ marvin instead.
tea leaves mean thieves.
the dog and bone is the phone.
the idea is to combine other words or names that rhyme with the original one.
if i got moby dick after too many pints, you get the idea.
so, there i was, with a little bugs bunny in me skyrocket and i’m lee marvin. the joe baxi was too hard on the budgy, so i weighed my options. it was late out, and i see fuck all else except this chipper that looks open. only an old dear and a young girl in the place. first things first, so i go to the jacks to jimmy riddle, and then up the apples and pears to have a butcher’s hook around. i find what i’m looking for, so i move to the counter, hands still in me skyers, when this old dear lifts up a shotgun, heavy and black, right into me face and tells me to put me hands on the counter. the bottle of water has this look of fright all over her chevy chase, and she yells at her to stop, and the old dear says she saw the way i was looking around. she knew there were a lot of tea leaves about, and i sure as shit looked like one of those fuckin’ punters to her.
a fuckin’ bogey.
ye fuckin’ cunt.
i told her i was hungry and wanted a sandwich. i was on me jack jones.
i pulled out a score and showed her i was planning to pay.
she said i better get the hell out, or i’d be wishing my father had never met my mother.
bollucks, i said.
the sound of the shot gun being cocked by an old woman was almost humorous.
if i hadn’t been scared shitless.
i backed up as far as i could, until me back was against the door frame. i slid myself over to the right and continued the backward shuffle of someone trying to avoid a certain final conclusion, and in a flash i was down the steps and out the door.
running.
running and running.
i didn’t stop until i reached the pub i was meeting mick at.
he was standing outside, waiting. leaning against the brick wall with one leg lifted behind him and resting on the wall, he looked like one of those silhouette stand-ups you buy to put in your yard. those black shadow cut-outs that look like cowboys or little kids.
he smoked his cigarette and looked at me. he looked at me sweating and panting, and he looked at me as i puked into a storm drain.
“moby dick,” he asked.
yeah, moby dick.
i told him he’d never believe what had just happened to me.
we walked in the pub and took a seat at the bar.
gizza roaster.
the bartender held up two fingers in inquiry.
we nodded back.
i asked mick to bum a smoke.