Paul "Bomber" Doran
I met Paul through a mutual friend, an Australian doctor with a taste for live autopsies named Mundungo. In the autumn of 1972, which we both spent down under, many evenings and nights were spent drinking wine on the beautiful beaches. Paul began to mention to me that he was worried about the doctor, saying that his appearance had become pale and ghastly over the space of a few weeks and that he feared he may be ill. One night he had far too much wine to drink and we helped walk him home. As he drunkenly scrambled for the keys in his old, brown overcoat, we noticed a light on in his cellar. "You silly old bastard Mundungo," I said as I went over to look in out of some bizarre natural curiosity. As I bent over I could see five bodies bound and split open on the geezers work tables. They were all young men and I even feared that some of them were still alive, twitching and turning in pain, hopefully not aware that the doctor had their chests and stomachs wrenched open (and with several parts missing, from what it looked like) I looked up as Paul still held the old man to his feet, and in the reflection of the light and the half moon, I could see that it was not the sweet red wine that stained his teeth but blood. From his pocket he hadn't taken a set of keys, but a scalpel. "Bomber, check yourself!" I shouted urgently. Paul threw the old man backwards, he twisted and stumbled down the step before his door and landed with the instrument stuck upright into where his heart should have been. Bomber and I have been best friends ever since.
Twisted Bastard from the Old Block
I knew Twisted Bastard since I was two years old. I can't remember much about that, but I have pictures that show one day whilst we were in the car he climbed on top of me and took chunks out of my face with his new teeth. They didn't leave any scars though, and after spending just ten years, or our entire childhood if you will, together we went our different ways. He played football, had friends whilst I played Metal Gear Solid and didn't, but we were both happy. The next time I talked to him was in his back garden on the day of his 20th birthday, not really a big event as according to our society turning twenty and the death of your teenage years is nothing compared being able to drink at 18 or being able to go to America to drink at 21. We drank deep and laughed about those 10 years that slipped away, he reminded me that a bearded psychopath once held me up with a knife outside his house whilst he ran to get my father and I remind him about a bald drunk tried to make us take our trousers off in the woods to which we ran away laughing. Twisted Bastard had always been twisted because, as early as we could both remember, he was abandoned by a mother who loved him but who loved her red wine more. After what felt like another decade of silence passed we began to talk about more current events. I'd been away with my new friends, who also liked Metal Gear Solid, to Madrid where we'd spent all our money and watched every match in the World Cup. He'd been with his friends to Amsterdam and took a lot of heroin. He told me about one night when he was having an especially 'good skag' and went to a brothel, to which my stomach lurched in pain, this was something I didn't want to know. Then he went on to describe his disgust when, after paying 50 euro, they brought out 'a black one.' My stomach done a black flip, as he tried to go further into the gory details I told him I had to leave, there was something important, I didn't know what it was but I had go back down the road to my house and I probably wouldn't be back. I don't think he thought much of it.
I met Paul through a mutual friend, an Australian doctor with a taste for live autopsies named Mundungo. In the autumn of 1972, which we both spent down under, many evenings and nights were spent drinking wine on the beautiful beaches. Paul began to mention to me that he was worried about the doctor, saying that his appearance had become pale and ghastly over the space of a few weeks and that he feared he may be ill. One night he had far too much wine to drink and we helped walk him home. As he drunkenly scrambled for the keys in his old, brown overcoat, we noticed a light on in his cellar. "You silly old bastard Mundungo," I said as I went over to look in out of some bizarre natural curiosity. As I bent over I could see five bodies bound and split open on the geezers work tables. They were all young men and I even feared that some of them were still alive, twitching and turning in pain, hopefully not aware that the doctor had their chests and stomachs wrenched open (and with several parts missing, from what it looked like) I looked up as Paul still held the old man to his feet, and in the reflection of the light and the half moon, I could see that it was not the sweet red wine that stained his teeth but blood. From his pocket he hadn't taken a set of keys, but a scalpel. "Bomber, check yourself!" I shouted urgently. Paul threw the old man backwards, he twisted and stumbled down the step before his door and landed with the instrument stuck upright into where his heart should have been. Bomber and I have been best friends ever since.
Twisted Bastard from the Old Block
I knew Twisted Bastard since I was two years old. I can't remember much about that, but I have pictures that show one day whilst we were in the car he climbed on top of me and took chunks out of my face with his new teeth. They didn't leave any scars though, and after spending just ten years, or our entire childhood if you will, together we went our different ways. He played football, had friends whilst I played Metal Gear Solid and didn't, but we were both happy. The next time I talked to him was in his back garden on the day of his 20th birthday, not really a big event as according to our society turning twenty and the death of your teenage years is nothing compared being able to drink at 18 or being able to go to America to drink at 21. We drank deep and laughed about those 10 years that slipped away, he reminded me that a bearded psychopath once held me up with a knife outside his house whilst he ran to get my father and I remind him about a bald drunk tried to make us take our trousers off in the woods to which we ran away laughing. Twisted Bastard had always been twisted because, as early as we could both remember, he was abandoned by a mother who loved him but who loved her red wine more. After what felt like another decade of silence passed we began to talk about more current events. I'd been away with my new friends, who also liked Metal Gear Solid, to Madrid where we'd spent all our money and watched every match in the World Cup. He'd been with his friends to Amsterdam and took a lot of heroin. He told me about one night when he was having an especially 'good skag' and went to a brothel, to which my stomach lurched in pain, this was something I didn't want to know. Then he went on to describe his disgust when, after paying 50 euro, they brought out 'a black one.' My stomach done a black flip, as he tried to go further into the gory details I told him I had to leave, there was something important, I didn't know what it was but I had go back down the road to my house and I probably wouldn't be back. I don't think he thought much of it.
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