Rude Awakenings (Part one of two)

She’s sittin there naked, except fur a pair ay black, haud up stockins an a pair ay stilleto heels; the warm orangey yella hue ay the the settin sun glistenin oan her soft skin. Her luxuriant mousey broon hair covers her tits, just obscurin her nipples as she sits oan the edge ay the huge, rose petal adorned bed.

An ostentatious, grandiose marble fireplace sits in the corner, the remnants ay a fire smoulderin within.

She looks at me wae smoky, sultry eyes. She disnae need tae say anythin; there’s nae need.

She beckons me tae come tae her, playfully flickin her hair oer her shoulder an rollin oan tae her back. Ah glide taewards her, suspended in the air like a ghost floatin through the room.

The room’s expansive an luxuriant wae French doors leadin oot tae a balcony; views ay an unfamiliar cityscape beyond revealed intermittently, when the satin drapes flutter open in the evenin breeze.  

Ah’m directly above her, just takin her in; lettin the majesty ay her imprison ma senses; ah’m beholden tae her; her scent, her radiance - her boady. Slowly ah drift doon gently taewards her, like a snowflake delicately descendin fae the sky.

Ah reach oot tae touch her. . .

‘Daniel! Fur the last time will you get oot ay yer bed an get ready! Ye’ve goat yer giro tae get an it’s gaun oan fur hauf nine.’ ma maw shouts fae the hall just ootside ma room. ‘Ye’d sleep through the Blitz, so ye wid. Up ye get!’ she sais, burstin through the door like the fuckin Gestapo, funnily enough.

Ah sit up straight, bunchin ma covers oer the ragin hard-on ah’ve goat. Fuckin hell man! Casually, ah pull ma pilla roon fae behind ma heid, placin it in oan tap ay the covers an fold ma airms, leanin forward.

Ah suspect ma lack ay subtlety may huv only served tae highlight the issue as ah notice her gaze honin in oan the mound ay fabric ah’ve assembled roon masel. ‘It’s no until twenty tae eleven, whit’s the big panic?’ ah sais, rubbin ma eyes an stretchin ma leg oot tryin tae reach ma troosers.

‘That’s besides the point Daniel. Here!’ she sais, pickin up ma denims an flingin them at me. ‘Ah’m no runnin a hotel here. Get aff yer arse an get ready! You take laziness tae a whole new level, so ye dae.’ she sais.

Gettin up, ah pull them oan sharpish - ma cock noo, thankfully subdued. There’s nothin like a rude awakenin fae yer maw tae temper the boady’s primal conditions. Nae danger. ‘. . . An another thing - look at the state ay this place! Ah’m no your personal bloody skivvy Daniel Coyle.’ she sais, rampin up the aggro. ‘Don’t think ah didnae see that letter ye put in the bin sayin if ye miss another appointment they’re gonae stoap yer money.’  

‘Och. . . don’t start me man, it’s a load ay shite Ma.’ ah sais, waeoot thinkin, recognisin she’s no gonae be receptive tae ma perspective, but ah’m fully committed noo; the flair, as they say, is mine. ‘Since they brought in this Joab Seeker’s Allowance, it’s aw placements an that, no even minimum wage maist ay them. The companies just want tae get folk in oan a trainin placement tae dae aw the donkey work naebody else will touch whilst bein subsidised by the Government fur maist, if no aw, ay yer wages. When yer trainin period’s nearly up they get rid ay ye, tellin the buroo yer nae good. Then they get another Government subsidised trainee in an start the whole scam oer again. The Buroo? They’re no gien a fuck as long as it gets ye aff their books so it looks like they’re actually dain somethin other than bein a collective ay condescendin arseholes, which appears tae be the only abidin prerequisite tae workin fur them. It’s no ma fault.’ ah sais, feelin ah’ve vindicated ma position.

‘Bloody smart arse, eh? It is your bloody fault. It became your fault the minute ye decided tae drap oot ay university tae piss aboot wae yer nae good waster pals.’ she fires right back at me. ‘Everybody needs tae start somewhere, at least if yer workin, yer no wanderin the streets gettin yersel intae trouble. . .’ she sais, openin the windae an gazin oot tae the street ootside as is her wont when she’s gaun aff oan wan. Ah leave her tae it an fuck off oot ay it, oot the door an doon the close. Another rant, ah kin be dain waeoot.

Ah cannae fault her thinkin - she’s right. Ah’d staiyed oan at school, scraped a few Highers the gither an goat two offers fur Uni, optin tae go tae Caley tae dae a degree in Social Sciences. Ah enjoyed the course - opened ma eyes tae a few things, like the disparity between the Bourgeoisie an the Proletariat an how the system is designed tae keep us doon.

They paint a picture, the rulin classes, ay meritocracy an egalitarianism - that there’s nae limit tae whit ye kin achieve if ye put yer mind tae it but really that’s pish. A false consciousness Marx called it. They tell ye it’s a trade aff - yer labour fur a fair wage, except it’s no. The only wans makin any money is they cunts - the owners ay the means ay production - an the rest ay us fight an claw oor waiy tae the table tae see who gets the biggest scraps left oer fae their banquet. It’s a relationship ay exploitation an subjugation. Nae cunt’s really free.

Ye kin chainge employer but the exploitative element ay the relationship remains. It’s a constant. Yer a slave tae the wage.

No me. Ah’m no playin their game. Ah’d learned aw ah needed tae.

The curtains ur drawn when ah get tae Pearcey’s. Ah press the buzzer a few times but there’s nae answer so ah grab a haun fae ay stanes that ur lyin at the side ay the path intae his close an start flingin them up at his windae. It’s aw in the technique.

Ye need tae dae it underairm, at an acute angle, staunin in close tae the waw, so as tae just brush the windae wae them. Just enough fur a wee tap. Staun too far away or attempt another throwin technique other than the wan described an ye run the risk ay puttin the windae in. Ah learned that lesson the hard waiy, lets put it like that.

‘Pearcey!’ ah sais, in that whisperin voice that disnae really drap in volume, people dae when they’re tryin tae be discreet ‘get oot yer scratcher ya fanny!’

There’s still nae response but ah fuckin know he’s in there. He’s naewhere else tae be at ten tae ten oan a Wednesday mornin. Ah’m no gien up yet. ‘PEARCEY!’ ah shout, steppin back so ah kin see, efter havin launched another haun fae ay chuckies at the target area.

A couple ay flairs above, tae the right haun side ay the close, ah windae opens an a cunt wearin some fuckin hideous lookin threadbare, mohair tank top hings oot. ‘HAUW! WHIT’S THE FUCKIN SHOUTIN ABOOT? YE JUST WOKE ME UP THERE!’ he screams doon at me. Oan closer inspection it becomes apparent he’s no wearin a tank top at aw, he’s just a big hairy bastart.

Ma first inclination is tae gie him a mooth fae ay lip fur stickin his beak in, but seein as he resembles the missin link between apes an Homo sapiens, ah think better ay it. ‘SORRY BUDDY, AH’M TRYIN TAE WAKE MA MATE. . . IT’S AN EMERGENCY!’ ah lie.

It appears tae work as he mutters somethin tae himsel an promptly slams the windae shut, fuckin off oot ay it - back tae his wankin chariot, nae doubt.

Ah’ve somethin tae thank the big simian clown fur as Pearcey appears at his windae an opens it, evidently awoken fae his sleep by Donkey Kong’s boomin voice.

His ginger barnet’s wild an unshackled fae the hair gel that usually maintains some sort ay order an his eyes ur puffy an inert. ‘Danny? Whit time is it?’ he sais, the slack jawed cunt.

‘It’s gaun oan fur ten o’cloack. Get oot yer pit ya fuckin deadhead, ah’m gaun tae sign oan.’ ah sais.

Screwin his eyes at me, he shakes his heid, clearly unimpressed wae ma buoyant enthusiasm but gestures wae his fingers that he’ll be two minutes an disappears back behind the curtains.

The sun threatens tae break through a ribbon ay clouds above us, partially visible through the hazy canopy like a white discus suspended in the sky. ‘Ye seen McDade?’ Pearcey sais tae me, walkin oot his close door, his get up egregiously offensive tae ma eyes.

It consists ay a washed oot flourescent green Kappa trackie tap, wae mare pin holes in it than yer average tea bag, an a pair ay maroon joggies.

‘Naw, ah’ve no an ah don’t want tae. That cunt is a loose cannon, he’s gonae come a cropper wan ay these days, so he is. Mark ma words mate.’ ah sais but we baith know this isnae exactly a revelation. A matter ay when, no if.

‘Whit kin ye dae? He is who he is.’ Pearcey sais, an when ye think aboot it whit kin ye dae?

No much except gie him a wide berth. If experience has taught me anythin though, it’s that ye kin only keep that up fur so long. He’s goat an uncanny ability tae worm his waiy back intae yer affections, an a variety ay methods ay pullin it aff. He’s nothin, if no persistent, the fuckin balloon.

Happily, he’s no came near since the incident at the park, he will though. A fuckin certainty.

Pearcey pulls a shabbily assembled joint oot ay his equally shabby troosers an gies it tae me tae spark. Fair play tae the wee cunt. Just whit’s required man, nae danger.