Stumbling, twisting and ultimately relenting, the ground walloped Fropzy Frombs smack in the chops. He breathed heavily through his nose and checked his teeth with his tongue.
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"They're still all there," he cheered loudly in betweeb groans. It was more like: 'Thereztill'll theer," but hey, who's recording?
With a helpful hand his lone comrade picked him from the grounds clutches and steadied him from drunken teetering.
"I can read the signs bruvva, I know what you need," he slurred. Fropzy looked up, his eyes looking but not seeing.
"Another BONG!!!." A large funnel equipped with both a three foot plastic hose and a smile was joined to poor Fropzy's mouth and alchole was poured down, forced down in true petrol pump fashion. The intoxication gauge rose steadily as the beer was injected.
"Take your medicine."
Fropzy chopped the remainer as his body fought against the gross consumption rejecting what was surging up within him. He pinched his lips to stop the brown bear from clawing his way out of his flesh bone cage. A few bits of bear escaped but he otherwise was locked in,... for now.
"Now that's what I call holding your liquor," his friend chuckled beside him. The bear growled causing Fropzy to stagnantly splutter and hiccup. Tear ducts welled and his vision was instantly cleared. For a few seconds he was able to register his bearings but then once again they clouded.
"Where the hell are we?" he said gazing at the sky stupidly.
"Look around man, we're in your home town, you know, 'the place of dreams', Lumsden." Fropzy stared blankly at the grass in front of him like a heavily sedated mental patient suffering from dementia. He wiped spittle threads away from his mouth with his shirt cuff. "Well then, why aren't we at the bar?'
"The barman threw you out."
"Why did he do that?" Fropzy called as he collided with Lumsdens old railway station. After all these years the roof support columns were still unrelenting. His friend chuckled at the axiom though he wouldn't have known what one was.
"Why the hell did he kick me out Cooder?" This time a touch of temper tainted the tone of his talk.
"I think you called him a racist paedaphile Fropzy."
"Well he wouldn't give me a beer."
"That's because you spewed up on yourself while you were trying to grope his wife." Fropzy pulled his shirt up to his face and saw with indignant shame that Cooders claim at least in part had been correct. Yes, that was the pie he had had for dinner.
"Watch your step, Fropzy!"
CRUNCH! Fropzy bellyflopped as he went from the old Lumsden railway platform to the gentle jagged gravel bed beyond. The tracks had long since been removed to make way for a large carpark, at least that's what the good people of Lumsden had fervently stressed. Fropzy gradually rose, once again doing his tongue/teeth check and looked back at the one metre train platform from which he had fallen. He casually dusted himself free of the gravel encrusted to his shirt and face.
"Why didn't she take advantage of my sexual advances Cooder? Why?" Fropzy said as he wiped a pie clothen hand across the emerged spittle his mouth betrayed. A brown mincey smear enveloped his face. Cooder laughed, it looked like Fropzy had been rimming someone with spastic diaherrea.
"Perhaps she was looking for someone fun, sober, clean, born of parents with different lineage."
"And where's she going to find that? Invercargill?" Both boys chuckled. Invercargill, home of racism, unemployment and drugs. Invercargill, Southland metropolise. Invercargil, city of water and light. And scum.
"At least we're more dignified then those shitheads." Fropzy said as he spat on the road they were crossing.
"You've still got mince on your chin and cheeks man." Cooder indirectly replied, the irony not escaping him.
"Pooface," he added quickly.
"Oh yeah," Fropzy said as he wiped his forehead, looked at his sleeve and shrugged.
"Over there's the court house, but I dunno whether thats still being used." Fropzy pointed left. "And down there's the old plunket rooms which are now a house." He pointed right.
"What the hell is that?" Cooder stopped abruptly motioning somewhere beside them with the bongs plastic hose.
"What the hell is what?" The dim shoddy streetlights offered no assistance against the dead black sky purged of any glittering life, at least that's the way it looked through drunk eyes.
\"That. That smell." Curiosity drove Cooter nearer. His head pinned back, his nose flaired, tuning in to the powerful stench parading in the air. He turned to Fropzy, face wrenched in disgust.
"Tell me you can smell that." Fropzy, himself a cesspool, swayed his glazed head in the direction Cooter was pointing.
"Oh that." He said catching a whiff that was not his own.
They sidled nearer to a thick untamed hedge offering only wrought
iron gates as a window and for a moment nether spoke taking in the
decaying house with sharp anti- feign shui shapes casting dark siluettes against the lighter backdrop.
"Old Haggins's place," Fropzy breathed quietly.
He stood forcibly hypnotized with both hands clenched around the
gates uprights holding his sway. Cooder's face was still scrunched
yet he too was unable to look away. Weeds, thistles, mounded dirt, all part of this rural garden metropolis.
"Those dark things poking up from the grass are bones." Fropzy said as-a-matter-of-factly, his voice suddenly dry and sober. Cooder let out a low dead whistle.
"Why the hell would someone wanna keep a whole lot of old bones on his lawn?"
"Not keep," Fropzy's eyes not once leaving the partial corpses in his midst and his voice lowered.
"You mean that this guy wants these things in his yard?"
"Like I said he's a collector. He accumulates all sorts of shit." No reply so Fropzy went on.
"Some say he collects dead animals and displays them out the back of his house like still life maniquins, that's what you can probably smell. Others say he collects teeth, fingernails, hair." His head turned slowly but meanfully towards Cooder.
"Anything." Then Fropzy reverted back to his drunk septic self again.
"But that's what they say."
Cooder also seemingly tranced blinked his eyes and was back in the now. A chill passed through him.
"Lets go home."
"No, not before we teach ol' Haggins a lesson." Fropzy's equlibrium went A.W.O.L. To make matters worse his hands were wedged in the pockets of his tight, tight black jeans. He bobbed about like a blind dodgem until he braced himself and thought. Even full of alcohole he knew he didn't have the balls to go through the gates before him. He staggered, now the gates were to the right of him and he saw where he could leave a note.
"That," he foamed and pointed with his foot. "I'll shit in it." Cooter stared dumbfounded.
"Your going to take a ...." His voice died down as soon as he realised Fropzy had already dropped his daks to his ankles and was peddling his feet slowely in half steps penguining to the letterbox. Fropzey opened the back of the letterbox and used the small broken rocks surrounding the staff to launch his canon into the gaping receiver hole. Cooder watched with sickened pleasure as his mate folded his peany through his legs like an ugly women and take his seat on the opening lid. They both smiled. Fropzy tensed himself. HIs bloodshot eyes squinting and his face seizing with pain still grinned.
"Message................" Somewhere inside the brown bear saw an opening and took his chance. Gripping the cage it slid through the meat bars, out and into steamy freedom.
AAAAHHHHHHH! It sounded like a cat giving birth to a cow.
Cooter, the one man audience clapped and let out a few 'yeahs,' while Fropsey cleaned his arse with partially saturated undies. Laughing gleefully he tore them off without removing his trousers and slung them over the hedge. Guffawing he wiped.
"Put the flag up, put the flag up," Cooter cried. Not wanting to disappoint Fropsey flung the letterbox flag up and jumped off lucky not to tear his sack on the tin exit lid. Cooter patted him on the back and tossed his head back still in hysterics.
"That'll learn him Fropzy, way to mail a cable." Cooder clapped his mate on the back and guffawered. "Man, I can't believe you did that, with such perfect aim an all."
"Yeah well, it's not the first time I done it, I'm pretty good, you know, it's my thing."
As he struggled to zip up his fly with his muddied hands his Cooder cradled him and helped him away into Lumsden's moonset leaving only footprints, a surprise and a very angry neighbour.
Fropzey woke the next morning without his usual zest, a thousand nails could not have inflicted any more pain if they had been fired at his face and scrotum. He couldn't remember anything other then the bong and the two beers he had had back at the pub. He clutched his head in a vain attempt to stop the hurt. Moaning softly he gradually opened one eye. It took a sec but he saw the dark shape monopolising the light presented from the cracks in his curtains. Fropzey shut the eye and then opened them both simultaneously. The figure glared at him with disgust.
"Hello Mum," he said timidly.
"Don't you 'Hello Mum' me you fucking revolting little cretin." Frosbey's mouth was agape with verbal constipation.
"But, but, but...."
"Butt, bum, arse, pooer, whatever you want to call it Fropzey Frombs. If you'd learn to keep that hole closed you wouldn't be in the shit you're in now." Mums face swelled and reddened like a baboons bottom with spastic haemorroids.
"Mum, I swear I didn't do nufink," but even as Fropsey's lame vindications meandered he felt the streaky crap alligning his hands. He hesistently pulled them out from underneath his duvet for all to behold.
"It's brown paint Mum." he staggered out and then weakly, "with bits of corn in it."
"Is that so," Mum retorted, her face panged as it showed remarkable restraint. "And I suppose you felt the need to paint these as well?....with brown, corn?" She shoved a gloved hand in front of his face, a pair of soiled, saturated, pink Y-Fronts glittered like topez from the kiss of the morning dew.
"I found these strewn in the front yard, I believe you'll see the name 'Fropzey' underneath that slab of dung." She motioned with her chin but her eyes unblinking, never left her son. Shamed and embarressed, he hung his head in humiliation like a misbehaved puppy. His Mum drew close.
"I went outside to check the mail." Fropzey shied away from her steely gaze as her ice words picked through granite teeth.
"What is it with you shitting in letterboxes? Do you have something wrong with your anus? Do you have something wrong with your head?" Silence answered.
"Get the fuck up out of your bed. Furnish yourself with disinfectant, digging tools and a shit load of apologies. NOW CLEAN!" Mum looked over at the irreverent dishevel tailing the other end of the bed.
"You too, you dirty little faggot." Cooder looked at his reddening chum who inturn looked back at Cooder. If it hadn't been for the others presence, they each would have cried. Mum about turned and marched out of the room.
"Look at these marks," she muttered audibly studying Fropzey's jocks. "I'm going to have to get the potato peeler onto these bastards,"
"Your mum called me a dirty little faggot.?"
"Shut up and keep digging Cooder." Both trowels worked feverishly to exact the packed crap from its tin nest.
"Yuck, what the fuck is this crap?" Cooder asked stupidly and then corrected himself quickly. "I mean it can't be bird poop and it can't be doggydoo and a cat wouldn't be able to produce this much." He absent mindedly scratch the back of his head with his browned trowel. Fropzey retorted with livered exasperation.
"Well it's not fucken flowers is it? It's not sugar, it's not spice, it ain't any of those things is it Cooder? It's faeces Cooder. It's human fucking shit. It's the stuff that comes out your arse when your guts is full." He spooned out a large dollop of excrement into the bucket beside him and shook his head in disbelief.
Although a little hurt by his pals outburst Cooder carried on, "how the hell did we fuck up so bad? I can't believe you mistook your own mailbox for Haggins's. I mean we didn't have that much to drink did we?"
"Well think about it Cooder, I was drunk okay? I admit it, I was fucken pissed. And everything looked the same, look at our letterbox, it looks the same as every other stinking letterbox on the street, I can't help it if I fucked up."
His voice faded slightly as he realized his last sentence hadn't even registered in Cooders lost brain. On his face Fropzey saw one of the strangest, most disillusioned looks that he would ever see. Cooder noiselessly dropped his trowel and continued to stare up through the suns misty rays promising warmth to the dead street.
"What did your mum mean by apologies?" He spoke quietly not even expecting an answer. Fropzey followed Cooters gaze and his jaw dropped open. Up and down the street he could see them, letterboxes each different but startlingly the same. The same because the all had one thing in commom, they each had their flags up.
Henry Haggins opened the door, his lofting emanciated figure crooked down and listened to the two boys. Yes, he received their apology with good grace and nodded and shook his head it when was appropriate and finally shut the door when they left.
Perhaps in future they would think twice about behaving disgustingly towards their fellow human being. Perhaps they would just leave him alone in future. Perhaps even the nasty rumours about him would cease. Perhaps. Turning he loped back into the room he called his den and stared at the vast collection of boxes and jars of various shapes and sizes each with their own small labels; toenails, dead animals, formaldahyde, urine. These were his things, his treasures and staring at them got him hard. In front of him, a freshly cleaned container stood waiting to be filled. He wondered what with and then slowly an idea came to him.
I may be stupid but at least I'm not handsome.