Cesspits for Comfort

Billy Beefcake's bando

For those in possession of a crack pipe and a cold can of strong brew befitting a Brit in calculated crisis, strung out on apathy and done in by big wigs, there was but one place left to conquer. A glorified hospital ward with shit for wallpaper and a toilet in every room. A gentrified strip in an otherwise deprived playground where the only games played were between fascist retailers and the voluntarily oppressed, clamouring for custom and trading shreds of dignity at a prodigious level. A squat in disguise. A clubhouse for the clinically depressed. This place was all these things and more. It was heaven to anyone who feared they'd be turned away at the pearly gates. It was hell to anyone who cared to wash their cock and balls. This was a revolving door hanging off the hinges, home to anybody brave enough to venture beyond the first level clean enough to fool the postman. Inhabitants – First time, second, third – on and on and on... Generation after generation. A cause could probably be found. It's just that nobody cared enough to go looking.

Have you seen him?

This place stank of generic disregard. The math checks out, it all adds up. This was the place. The time, however, required far too much lucidity to recall. The haze obscures the clock. The clock had ceased to tick and tock well before the current crop of users and abusers had their first taste of squalid soup. Above all, it was a place to be.

It was the place to be.