A Man On A Bus

There's a bloke on a bus to the nearest city

He's wearing a shirt, short-sleeved, open-necked and sweaty due to the
heat; a pair of knee- and arse-faded Wranglers; and a pair of Gola
trainers. Gola trainers. Christ, even eight year-old brats wont wear
them but he does, has done for years, because his appearance doesni
matter that much to him basically. He's fuckt if he cares.

He's no materialist. He's slept in a five-bedroomed, two-living-roomed
grand house when flush from a period of selling hash, many
three-bedroomed council houses, all much the same, a tent or two when
times were rough, and a park-bench when times were bad. None really put
him that much up or down.

He thinks he's rich if he's a roof over his head, his stereo and
pirated tapes, and a kettle for his tea. Everything else is a pain in
the arse, a nuisance. Pictures need dusted, ornaments are for wimmin or
faggots, TV's have licences to avoid paying, kids need fed and kept in
clothes and money. Fuck that, he thinks, nae me. No way.

He didna need to pay much to get on the bus, 10p, because he's
disabled. Officially. He's the same illness his old man had. It wisna
really passed on but he's a bigger chance of getting it. Five kids in
the family and the poor cunt on the bus gets it. The old man had ended
up with no legs, the circulation had just slowly packed in, given up.
He'd been given false legs, and his kids would hide them when they were
wee, whilst he was in bed after getting drunk for three days. That
fuckt about bad, fucking terrible, his arms would shake with
rage.
"GIE MA MA FUCKIN LEGS!" he would roar, face purple, near greetin
really. But he was a wee bastard, so wee without his legs and naebody
really gave two shits about him as he got aulder. His wife, she was a
big cunt, bigger and heavier and nasty as cat shite. She'd lash him
with her tongue, vicious, they'd sting like paper cuts. She'd dae the
same to her loon, say he was as useless as his father. That really
fuckt him off. The old man died eventually, broken, alone, and no cunt
was especially sorry

The bloke sits near the back, away from everybody else, especially the
wrinkly old dears with their beige beige beige, moustaches and
mustiness. He can't smoke a fag, ticklers he smokes, because all the
buses are non-smoking now. What a fucking pain in the arse. He's
gasping for a fag as well, and he's fucking irritable when he is, and
smokes dope to relax or just anyway because the drink makes him
aggressive, cuntish, doesni care. He had been drinking all weekend when
he hurt his ex-wife. He could be a thoroughly unpleasant bastard on the
drink, especially vodka, which never stopped him though. He'd drink it
if he wanted.

He reads yesterdays Daily Star, eyes up Melinda Messenger's tits. Of
course he does - a man's a man. (Even if he slaps women about.) He can
go without sex for ages but he's fertile as a fucking rabbit, with five
kids, two legitimate. He had women that would take him in for a few
weeks, months even, if he just asked, turned on the charm: washed and
sober. An effort made.

And the silly weak bitches took him in, fed him, fucked him, were
unaware he thought the sex perfunctory and sometimes revolting. They
went to the pub with him, and would leave with him sharpish (their arms
tightly gripped) if he saw a certain bastard or two. Some cunts he knew
would swap a few months at Peterhead or Perth for the privilege of
taking some of his teeth, braking a rib or two, giving him a fucking
battering. Because this bloke he could be a sleekit cunt when he needed
to get by. He just didna give a fuck about any body but himself.

It was his wife that had left him, not as you could be forgiven for
thinking the other way round.

He'd aye walked the streets with that ridiculous sense of masculine
pride when married. Even after he'd beat up his wife (and this was by
no means that rarely) he could walk the town still fairly erect, even
though everyone in the town knew he was a bastard for doing it - except
the other cunts who did it as well. And there was a fair fucking number
of them. He was actually sorry for it in a way because then it was
remembered what an insignificant little shite he was, just like his
fucking father. It was the drink, though, the drink which made him
evil, a bastard, angry, always angry. He'd came in pissed and broke saw
his wife a good woman who bless her thought she'd found love and he was
off his head with anger and shame his fucking week's wages wasted at
the pub and the fucking bookies those miserable tight-arsed bastards
who fuckt him about continually he was so bad and not worthy she had
seen it tried to comfort him he was beyond it he resisted no! all so
tangential and him always so fuckt about with he just needed to PUNCH
and KICK she was DOWN on the fucking GROUND on the bloody ground she'd
thought sheloved him but he had to KICK the woman a basic soul who had
needed refuge from alcoholic parents oh man he was FUCKT... shhhh his
legs ached the effort oh why oh why oh god she cried it hurt so bad
four months pregnant first child her womb her baby her salty tears
crawled out fuck what could he do now he was tired bastard bookies he
fucking hated it and he was tired so tired and he needed to piss
probably had and she was gone he sat down fell into a stupour oh he
wanted it maybe he'd die just couldna give a fuck christ his legs hurt
always did and always fucking would