The Beautiful People

As Light peers from behind the blackened face of the moon, golden tentacles illuminate the folds of space captured by night.  The sun feels her way along a brisk, cold, flat horizon, lulling the senses into a dreamlike hibernation. Beautiful people stir slightly in blissful sleep, preparing for a quickening to mark the new day as rays of light creep beneath curtain tails draping upon polished floors.  The red sun gaining momentum as time springs her into a cycle of motion and need, whilst day, month and year decide her trajectory.

The city taken hostage by a ravenous and greedy uprising, usurping the fantasies divined from the brief descent into the blackness of sleep. A city braces itself for the onslaught of rats eager to ascend into the important and meaningful events that wait at workstations so the rat master can claim another victory whilst wryly smiling, knowing that it has added another point to gross domestic product. Work stations, yearning to be booted up and screaming to be propelled into a kinetic energy of cogs and chains. The beautiful people of Sydney yawn to the horrid sound of alarms and the clitter clatter of kitchen utensils piercing through sleeps facade.

The early morning air, thick with yesterday’s fossil fuels, layered in a chart of red haze, alerting the inhabitants of Sydney’s surface dwellers once again of the limitations that the day will unravel. Along city streets being washed down from night’s decay, the beautiful people begin to face the dawn and routines set aside from years of programming. The ultra healthy, obsessed with the will to live, run along sidewalks, past resting cafes, restaurants and department stores. The elite, focused and driven think well into the day’s events, planning and scheming on how best to suck in the very latest fashion victim, as they jump into exotic egos, declaring to passersby of the importance driving past them.

“It’s seven o’clock on this beautiful May morning….”

Radios broadcast the latest piece of news and information. Placating the listener with a Guy Sebastian song, or two, to offer solace and distraction from existential problems which await the idle of mind to which the devil playfully frolics through, often in the still air. Beautiful people everywhere rush past. Time ticking away as it straps upon a drum skin. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Panic and anxiety as the strapping of the drum quickens, closer to the time the rat master has defined as day, creating a sense of duty to the rule governed by Tick and Tock, while the mouse counts his stock.

Hidden and kept unseen the night’s creatures meet in hallways and squats to purchase various potions and pills to alleviate the golden, burning glow that day has cruelly inflicted upon the un-dead. Day flipping the coin and announcing to the world that it His turn to enlighten and bind the world into rightness, whilst the sick night creatures take leave from the blinding light of day and seek refuge, indoors away from prying eyes that begin with an early start. Prying eyes winding up the machine, propelling cogs to turn, grinding slowly like a reptile, cold and unfeeling.

Climbing the unlit stairwell Billy felt a certain uneasiness that couldn’t be placed to anything he had done or not done. Somewhat perturbed by the sense of something not being quite right the key began to shake as he strained to see through the semi dark of the landing area. Paranoia is all it is, too many chems and booze thought Billy. Entering the studio, familiarity brought a certain level of calm to wired nerves. Reaching over the small timber desk in the eastern corner of the room adjacent a smallish window looking out onto Penny Lane, Billy found what he was looking for.

Throwing the black box onto the bedspread of his resting nest, located slightly left of centre; Billy in a shift motion headed for the modest kitchen area by the window and switched the Kambrook kettle on.

Walking back to the bed he reached in his pocket and in a singular motion pulled out the packages of zip lock satchels, purchased from dubious characters around the traps of Kings Cross, and fell onto the comfortable bed.

“Okay whats we gots here?” Talking to himself he inspects the packages carefully. Turning each sealed plastic portal over and stewing over the contents as if contemplating a corporate decision to merge two entities.

The Kambrook’s whistle connects Billy back into reality.

“Ah brekkie time eh?”

Getting up, hurrying across the two feet to the kitchen, scurrying to find a clean cup from the limited cupboard space. Choosing a Bart Simpson mug proclaiming to the world to “Get Bent” Billy semi fills the boiling water into the mug and smiles to himself as he muses over Getting Bent.

Placing his arse back on the bed Billy frantically pries open the black box and pulls out a fit from the contents. Picking up the satchel from a row of three, located on the western end of the assembly line, Billy in a well practiced sliding of forefinger and thumb snaps open the zip and lifts the opened package under His nose and sniffs the chemical odour reeking from the Bags contents.

“Fuck this shit stinks!”

“Better be good or else I’ll flog that mother fucker Dave for selling me this shite”

“Okay only one way to find out, hit it home and see what happens. If it gets me outta this hole I’m sinkin into, then I’ll let Dave be but if I’m still here when I take off then I’m gonna mosey on down to Taylor Square and give that faggot a real ride. I’ll shove this fit of shite up his arse so far and give him a real butt plug”. Billy laughs to himself knowing full well that Dave’s gear was always top notch and that unless he somehow conceived an idea to make the fit into a vibrating inflatable device then it would serve as no punishment for the biggest queer servicing the users and low life that frequent and lurk in the seedy corners of night. Filling the fit to 60 units Billy decides to take a risk and do the sporting thing and go for a personal best…. why not thought Billy…Last night was a real fuck…could use a little lift from the woes of last night’s fuck ups. Remeasuring the fit, Billy fills it to 80 cees and squirts the contents into the plastic package….The contents swirling in the oscillation of twirling water, expanding for a brief second before dissolving into an almost residue free mix.

“Damn Daveo, looks like ya might kill me this morning” thinking nothing ventured, nothing gained. Laughing insanely Billy drops a cotton bud into the bag and pulls the cap off the fit, carefully placing the needle into the bag, manoeuvring the tip and cotton filter into the corner of the sattie and leaning the needle directly on the filter. Jacking back the plunger, the beige coloured liquid fills the smallish cylinder….10…20…30..40…Do I? Nah this is insane…Yeah just do it…. Nike can’t be wrong…just do it..”alrighty, here it goes”…50…60….70……78…”just under 80 cees”.

Alrighty…. where’s my tournie…. here it is…just rap it around my upper arm here…thatta way….picking up the fit Billy decides as some mysterious precautionary measure to switch on the AM/FM radio on the Bed stand.

“The beautiful people..the beautiful people…..”

Marilyn Manson’s “the beautiful people” reverberates across the airways directly into the walls of unit 7/154 Penny Lane.

Lifting the fit to a pulsating mainline the needle finds her target on the left arm. Slowly piercing the skin into the life line…prick…”where’s the vein?”…”Come on”…anticipation making Billy edgy….. ”Can’t  fuck up this shot”…have to hit the spot….the G spot beckons…come on!…wait!!…Houston we have a channel…. Suck back…blood…plunge…whack!

The fit protruding from his elbow joint. A profane creation, almost laughable, however not quite so funny as Billy roles his eyes around his head and in a barely audible voice states to himself …“fuck!! That was some powerhouse gear”

The room swims in a light headed haze…. blood vessels, burdened and laden heavy with crystal, constrict under the strain forcing Billy to take large breaths as the rush soars and burns up his arm. Pulsating with his pounding heart, which seems to have been punched with nitrous oxide….

The Radio blares “can’t see the forest for the trees…. can’t smell your own shit on your knees”

The lyrics cause Billy to laugh uncontrollably…a fit of hysterics to match the intense rush somehow soothed into a manageable throbbing of the arteries. By laughter….Laughter the best medicine.

Traces of laughter subside with the announcement of a news break….”argghh!!… Fuck that shit”…Billy recovering from an outburst of emotion is transported back into the realm of reality. Pouncing on the radio, almost knocking it off the plantation pine bed stand, switches it off. Silence. A ticking sound almost inaudible buzzes in his ear, echoing and whispering a reminder of time. Methamphetamine producing the effect of total and finite distortion. A distortion of sense. The senses heightened and tuned in. Each quantum moment, travelling in a state of dullness, slowed by the influx of nor-adrenalin, serotonin and dopamine while the heart races with stress, activated into a false sense of activity. The trickery of subconsciousness jeers and gloats at the numbed spotlight…

Fully recovered from his spate with death Billy begins to fully feel the affects of amphetamine and twitches with a sense to be on the move…Where…How…the questions never enter into the debate of why…just do is the driving force behind the motivation to run….each movement evolving into a tingle between his legs, quivering and aching, Billy’s Cock needing relief from the emotion that lingers between his legs. Lost in fantasy a mobile phone sings his tune. Billy enters a new door in the world he is creating. Awaking to the tune of a digital beetle, evoking the chant of big brother, somewhat pissed at his train of seduction broken by the incessant ringing of a plastic cicada, Billy pulls the infernal beast from his jacket pocket and in an exaggerated state of agitation answers the call of the wild.


“We’ve got some trouble”

‘What the…”

“Just be at the hotel in five. Mechanical failure”

“No worries”

Ending the call, Billy, fully restored back into a state of purpose and direction. Placing his phone back into the womb from which it came, flees the apartment in a not so fit state, but reassured by a sense of calmness that Ritalin would have a ADHD kid screaming and fighting for more meds, closes and locks the door behind him.

Existing the old grimy stained centred glass doors serving as an entrance to the apartment block in Penny Lane, which would leave the beautiful people quivering and shaking in a state of repulsion, Billy wired to the eyeballs glances to his left down the debilitated lane way to find some of the inhabitants which have become somewhat of tribal community, albeit a tribe of misfits that the waves of surface inhabitants would morosely label as so called bums or losers. A label which rightly or wrongly leaves Billy’s eyes moistened by a sense of nostalgia of a time where innocence and wonder left a smile on his now grim and bleak nonchalant face. A fleeting glimpse of a time memoriam filled Billy’s heart with a sense of hope at the suffering human condition which has so formed the vision of Billy’s world over the years as he observes the wretched, bond and huddle together as if sheltering themselves from a pack of wolves but in reality only sheltering themselves from the cool brisk morning air. The nostalgic sense of hope, which crept into Billy’s blackened soul, disappears almost as soon as it enters leaving goose bumps on his flesh for a few brief moments. Shaking his head he soon beckons to his call and refocuses his energy to more heavy thoughts of the task at hand. Mechanical failure meant only one thing as the crooked and croaky voice echoes throughout his conscientious mind. Death. Another overdose recoils and rebounds in Billy’s slightly ringing ears as he curses under his breath at no one in particular, maybe only to himself as if he blamed himself for the misfortune and senselessness which would reveal itself to him once again. An unnerving and unconscious feeling transmitting a chill up his spine. In a submerged unseen and unheard admission that whispers into deaf ears that it may very well be him lying on the floor blue and cold. A vacant lot staring into an empty, black void where only time is left to keep watch.  Billy begins to form a plan of action as he quickens his pace up the narrow back alleys to a nondescript rear portal far from the extravagant external façade of the clubs glamorous exterior pronouncing above the red carpet in pearl white lettering the name “Pearl Palace”.

A heavy set minder guards the rear entrance, which leads into a labyrinth of hallways and rooms which contrast the main attraction of pearl and add as extra revenue to the clubs bosses. These rooms are for the whores to do their business whilst the elitist clientele in a neighbouring building snort cocaine and flirt the night away in egotistical grandeur unaware that they are neighbours to an unsightly vision which mocks them in their intoxicating power mongering. Out of sight, out of mind as they say thought Billy as he contemplated the irony of it all as he leaps the steps and greets the rather menacing looking figure smoking a cigarette dressed in black.

“Hey Bruno…anything new?”

“Same old same old Billy…another one dropped next door”

“fuckin coke heads eh….can’t fuckin handle their drugs….it’s the likes of me..a dirty fuckin speed freak that has to clean up the mess.”

“too right ya scum bag”

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