It's sad when someone you know becomes someone you knew.

I used to know this kid.
But now I knew him. He was with us once, just for an evening. I guess he didn't like what he experienced or something, I'm not sure. Was he scared? Did he find it immoral? He seemed like the sort who would sink a knife in someone with no quarrels, like it wouldn't even cross his mind. Was he an animal?

What happened didn't affect him, nor any one that didn't disserve it, "Aint nothin' but station scum" said another of my friends "We should fucking kill him, I'm a pacifist but this has broken me, and it will follow me till, oh either until I'm 18 or dead, I'm not sure..." I told her to stop talking shit and that I wanted to find out what his motive was. We hardly knew him, to the point of not knowing; what suburb he lived in, who his friends were, if he even had friends, and his real name.

He had informed one of the limbs of the law that we had destroyed a surveillance car of three palms and that we had killed then raped a girl, and boiled her flesh down. I didn't quite understand why he did it. He was just as involved as all of us. He was even excited and confident as it was all happening, initially it was him who had hit the girl. We knew we couldn't just let him do it, she would run, then we would be utterly fucked. So morally we had to execute her. It might not have been moral in most people's eyes, but the way we saw it, or, the way I saw it we knew this guy, and not this girl. So to me, protecting the ones I know, is more important than some woman in a park. I was a pretty adequate night, by the end we were feeling a bit melancholic especially once we realized what had to be done with the body. Taking it through Flinders Street seemed like an almost impossible chore. I was sent off to get a suit case, although I had no money, I told them enough times for them to hear me, but they weren't bothered with such trivial matters. I'm not going to go into detail, but I got one from the lobby of a hotel. and someone had a bag which had a knife in it. The man, the one who told the police, he said he would cut her, because he started it, and after forty five minutes of excruciating boredom. he came out, he had made sure there was no blood I think he had bags for things I don't know I didn't ask.

It was actually relatively simple getting it through, the gates at the station and because it was late, I'm not sure what time, elevenish I think there was a carriage on the end of the train that was empty so the stench didn't bother anyone, we hadn't decide- fuck it his name, as far as we knew was Robo anyway we hadn't decided what to do with it after we lugged it back to -'s house. "If you boil her it gets the fat, and skin and detaches the muscle from the bone" I wanted to know how he knew, but I didn't ask.

-beeep- The train door opened. Four guys who were pretty drunk got on, looked at us and one yelled "punks not dead faggots" then moved carriage, apparently they didn't get time to inhale, or maybe they did and that's why then didn't stay and give us shit. I get that a lot on the train. "Punks suck, cat piss!" a direct quote from a drunk English man, it's beautiful I think. But I hadn't listened to a punk record in a year or so, but it's expected.

I couldn't be bothered with the body, Robo and - did it, there was five of us me, Robo, - and the other () and *. () was anxious since the second Robo hit her. He just got a blanket and slept in the kitchen. * kissed me on the neck and put on "Analphabetapolothology" by "Cap'n Jazz", original pressing on vinyl and said "Ooh I do love you" It was the most beautiful thing I had felt in weeks, but every occasion * can make me feel amazing, she devotes it to me. To me, she is the epitome of beauty, the essence of perfection, every subconscious movement and action is art. We spoke till the end of the records, I put on the Rites Of Spring self titled, again original pressing vinyl, I don't know where - gets them but I'm amazed. * sighed, its every few days that I put the record on, I'm beginning to think she's getting tired of it. I slumped in the couch, and she held me as we fell asleep.

A few weeks later - got a letter, the cursive was impeccable for such a grimy character. He looked like this man I knew called Dennis. He wouldn't shower unless he was visibly unclean. He was kind of was the human representation of a badger. It read "I have no bones to pick with you, but the police do, hers. - Signed Robo". Somewhere along the trip, we asked him why his name was Robo, he said it was because he liked coughing. nothing understood, nothing questioned.

I don't dream.

I have this fantasy where I take a long walk, up a hill. just to kill time, but when I'm there, I find a man, who has hung himself, it's apparent he's been there for a few weeks now, his flesh is quite rotten, and I push him. The position he's chosen to do this is perfect for a rope swing, so he starts swinging like a child fucked up on sugar, gaining height with every push.

But after weeks of decay, the cadaver has began degrading quite sufficiently, and I push him one last time, and the shaft of bone connecting his skull to his spinal column eases apart, and I watch in slight unease as his frame gets torn and isolated on the rocks below.

I never know why I do this, but the next part repeatedly involves me taking his place, there's no blood or maggots or what ever left on the rope, I never imagine it that detailed, but for the most part I get a kick off the rock, which is always less then adequate.

Then I'll have a fantasy, where I find a man who has hung himself on top of a hill.
But the best part is always that I know, that no one will ever know where I am, so no one will ever disturb me, but I'm wrong everytime