Silent Streets and Savage Singletons

The streets of suburbia were quiet tonight, I muse just as silently as smoke blew into my eye. I took the cigarette out and watched the quiet roads of what could've been a town just about anywhere. Any quiet town. Give it time, the noise will come. Closing time at the pubs soon. It would be a dangerous hour on the streets this night. That's when the savages are let loose like caged animals preparing to jump the school-children if they...just...get...to...close.

And then they'll attack. In their hazy, alcohol-addled mind they're wrestling kings. Hulk Hogan in his prime, before age authlessly cut him down. They are The Rock before he sold his ass to the bastard parasites who inhabit air-conditioned offices on the back lots of Hollywood. And maybe the weaker pack animals will consider them Stone Cold Steve Austin before he faded into obscurity. Hell, even I barely remember him except on lunchboxes. And I don't even like wrestling, but these poor saps, who are of course all men, they enjoy seeing other men in close contact. Maybe, I wonder, there was something to be read in that.

I hear the sound. The pubs must be turfing out the shameless reprobates onto an unsuspecting streets.I check my watch. Can't see it in this darkness. And the damn cigarette isn't bright enough. Hell, might as well smoke it instead. No good as a torch, I feel. Does anything else seem to have two purposes but only one? Fire extinguishers, maybe. Sure, great snow, you'd think. But you'd be wrong. Although they'd make a damn good weapon in a zombie movie. Those decaying fuckers... But what if the streets now were filled with the walking dead? Was that the sound I can still hear. Closer now. Voices. The clatter of shoes. When there's no room in Hell, the dead will walk on Earth. Shit, someone ought to tell them this is Hell. Sick, depraved, utterly twisted. I could see them now, in the distance.

Girls who drank too much, stumbling to find their way home. So close now I could see the make-up smeared on once smooth skin. In twenty years maybe they'd regret it. After they've got four kids, three different dad's and a face scarred from the brillo pad one frustrated boyfriend will take to it. Shit, only a matter of time. She'd tell some poor bastard who only went out for a drink that she was up the junction and... Hell, would she do an 'Up the Junction', Ken Loach-style? No, more money if she keeps it. Another dirty child in a harsh and crowded world, earning his mother £30 a week, on top of the cash made from pimping her sweet ass out in the local bars. Only a matter of time...

Everything's quiet again. And the cigarette has come to a depressing end. Might as well smoke a J instead. They last longer. Is suburbia ready for that? The sweet smell of marijuana floating on the breeze. Some old hippies may recognise the scent. Would they follow its trail to me? 'Hey, man, I got a light, man...'

Enough of this. Finish the whiskey and fall asleep, a wasted night. Hell, it's damn well better than being out on the streets of that creepy, disgusting suburbia.