U.V Ray

by Horror Sleaze Trash on March 23, 2011

Ballad of the Suburban Pigsty

Dogmeat was a horrid little fucker with tight, curly grey hair. I mean, I knew he was dog rough, anyone could plainly see he was dog rough but I have no idea why he was known as Dogmeat. But that’s what everyone called him. Dogmeat.

Dogmeat Winstanley. Perhaps it was his real name, I don’t know. He just hung around all the bars in town and that’s how I knew him. He latched onto people and once he’d latched onto you, you couldn’t get rid of him.
The amazing thing was that Dogmeat considered himself some sort of dining table wit, something of a bar-room philosopher. He maintained this rather romantic image of himself in his own mind. It was an overblown opinion. As if the sun was setting behind him and all he saw was his own shadow, elongated and immense. But I can tell you, in reality he was not the engaging and charismatic raconteur he like to think he was.

He was a dirty little bastard, only about five feet two. Although he spent enough time propping up the bars, in conversation Dogmeat Winstanley never actually imparted a single morsel of worth. He referred to his penis as The Governor Erect and made reference to it frequently. I mean, you always hear course talk and crudity in certain bars and other such places, maybe on the factory line or working on the docks. But Dogmeat was in a different league. He was utterly depraved. And he could come out with his spiel at any time, showing no discernment whatsoever. He’d mouth off not just in bars but also in the street. In doctor’s waiting rooms. Shopping malls. Anywhere he pleased. And it did indeed seem to please him greatly. He always sported big, chunky gold chains around his neck and a ring on every finger. Two big gold earrings dangling from his lobes. He didn’t put anything into life and likewise wanted nothing out of it. He chewed tobacco and had one gleaming gold tooth in the middle of his coffee coloured ones.
I’d always been interested in what is perceived as degeneration. The underbelly of society. The society of prostitutes, drinking dens, criminal gangs, artists and anarchists. Those realms that are the secret domain of the proletariat, thriving outside of mainstream society. I saw these degenerate cultures as the engine of free thought. One in the eye for the established order that seeks to bulldoze over us all, to homogenise the landscape.

But Dogmeat didn’t fit into that catagory either. There was neither intelligence nor instinct at work behind his ethics.

I was on a half-packed bus when he stumbled on wearing a black and gold Playboy t-shirt. I looked at the floor, pretending I hadn’t seen him but he clocked me straight away and bounded down the aisle as the bus pulled away, swung around on the hand rail and thumped down heavily in the seat next to me. The rising sun still low in the sky came through the window and glinted off his array of jewellery as if he was kissed by the angels.
“How’s it goin’, Mark-ho.” he rasped.
“Yeah. Not bad.” I acknowledged politely but tried not to meet the gaze of his eyes that were always clouded over through years of drinking.
“Where you watchin’ the game on Saturday, Brother?” he asked.
“What game?”
“What game? Birmingham City, man. We’re at home to Everton.”
“I don’t er… I don’t really watch football.”
“Don’t watch football?” He repeated again, incredulously. There was a few seconds of silence, then he patted the backrest of the seat in front and continued imperviously, “Premier league now, man. We’re gonna struggle to stay up. Mind you, Robbie Savage. He’s your man.”
“Yeah.” I nodded.

He was as far from a sophisticated playboy as you could get. Within a minute of him sitting down the bus passed a blonde in the street. Dogmeat’s head swivelled around, straining on his neck. It didn’t really matter what she was. Any woman under 250lbs would catch Dogmeat’s eye. But I suppose he had to keep his options wide open. Among all the other passengers, I dreaded what was coming:

“Look at the fuckin’ tits on that,” he spat through gritted teeth, his whole body in a state of tension. “I tell you what, I’d cut my tongue out, shove it up her snatch and leave it there furra month!”

These little phrases and variations of phrases were endless. They were like little sound bites that he could interchange. He must lie in bed at night thinking them up. And afterwards he would eye you surreptitiously, reading you for any sign of reaction. He had a whole arsenal of obscenities just waiting to be unleashed in public places, followed by an awful hacking laugh that sounded like an anti-aircraft gun. Ack ack ack ack ack ack.

Dogmeat also spoke in a loud voice and save for a few murmurs here and there the rest of the bus had been rendered silent. Something he remained oblivious to. And in any case, there was nothing Dogmeat liked more than an audience.

“I tell you what, fresh that bird is! Fresh!” He thrust his finger in the air with a corkscrew motion, as if to compound his point. “If I shoved the Governor Erect up her ass and left it there furra month it still wunt come out smelling of shit.”

I couldn’t help but emit an embarrassed laugh. I covered my face with my hand and said, “oh dear.”
This spurred Dogmeat on. He was like one of those annoying wind-up clowns crashing its symbols together. And the reactions of others around him wound his mechanism ever tighter.

“Oh fuck me, yeah, I would,” he persisted, nodding his head profusely, “I’d count every hair on her cunt and count ‘em again to mek sure I…”

A man on the bus about fifty years old, about the same age as Dogmeat, turned around and cut in, holding up a black gloved hand. “Enough!” he snapped. “I don’t want to hear anymore of your filthy talk. There are women and children on this bus, try showing at least a bit of courtesy. Anyone would think you were fifteen. Shut your trap!”

Dogmeat started to laugh. It was a half-stifled laugh; spittle blew through his stained nicotine yellow teeth. He laughed until it developed into a wheezing cough; he ended up hunched over as his face turned through several shades of red and eventually to purple. He hacked up a mouthful of smoker’s phlegm and spat it out onto the floor between his feet.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he turned to me shaking his head, still laughing. “Courtesy, the fella says! I Fuckin’ love it, I do.”

Apparently, Dogmeat had an ex-wife lurking in his past somewhere, with whom he had spawned a son whom he had named Dwight. This really was amazing to me; shocking, in fact. You would never have imagined it possible. I wondered how in the name of god it was feasible that a woman in some bar, any woman in any bar, would peer across a room, overlook every other man in the place in favour of Dogmeat, and proclaim: “that’s the man for me! Now there is a man who’ll make a fine father for my children.”

And thus, I suppose, such lack of discretion and judgement is what gives birth to the next generation of Dogmeat.

It is a fact that ninety-five percent of the human race do not think. They have a limited perception of happiness, a stunted perception of their own potential. All ambition has been wrung out of them. Here’s your McDonalds. Eat that. The football is on TV. Watch that and shut the fuck up. Pay your taxes. Drink Coca-Cola. Life is sweet.

It’s just pigs in shit. And they have no greater aspirations than this. And that’s fine. Placated working class suburbia drip-fed a diet of inconsequential fucking bullshit does not pose a threat. It ensures whole nations of docile underlings. There’ll be no kicking in of doors behind which our over lords sit. Just put your X in the box. Keep your snout in the trough and eat it up. Thank you for your vote.

Mercifully, Dogmeat got off the bus at the next stop, outside the benefits office. Conversations on the bus sparked into life again. Dogmeat had been sucked right into the system, hook line and sinker. Plugged in. Every two weeks, signing on for his intravenous shot of serum. He had no chance. He didn’t fucking want one.

At the train station the masses were making their way to their places of business. I doubted just how much of this work actually really needed to be done so desperately, like our lives depended on it. Why, I wondered, is the group dynamic perpetually upheld as a maxim of greater virtue than that of individual merit?

I expected the announcement over the Tannoy at any moment:

“The trains are running on time today, ladies and gentlemen. Relax. Everything is under control.”

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