I wrap my uncle Colin’s gun up in my Chelsea towel, put it in my bag and place it in my wardrobe and lie on my bed with my heart still beating. In the ceiling I see an image of myself walking down the stairs with the gun in my hand and bursting into the kitchen and putting a bullet through both of their fucking heads; watching the glasses of red wine smash against the glass table as they fall from their limp hands. If they whistle that fucking song again! I know what they are getting at! How could they think that I am fucking gay? Me! Fucking idiots! I am no fucking dirty bastard shirt lifting shit stabber for fucks sake!
I take some deep breaths and the will to see my parent’s heads hanging from their shoulders subsides slightly and I set about on five sets of twenty press-ups, followed by five sets of twenty sit-ups and then watch my form in the long mirror as I curl my thirty kilogram dumb bells. Front and side on, watching my biceps extend and contract; the thick blue veins drawing to the surface of my flesh. I examine my chest in detail and marvel at the hair now shooting through only three weeks into the programme. There is definite thicker hair coming through on my face also and even though the acne seems to be spreading across my shoulders it is a small price to pay. I’m looking pretty buff, the guns have gained two inches and I’ve just about made the four pack. I can’t wait for tomorrows next hit.
I do five sets of twenty sit-ups and concentrate on the burn in my abs; feel the muscles becoming more defined. I run my fingers over my stomach and shoot my chest and side triceps pose in the mirror before throwing on my shorts and vest and heading out to see whether I can break the fifteen minutes two miler to the park and back.
I’m off down the path controlling my breaths. No fucking weakness here man. No fucking weakness. That is all I hold in my head as I race through the shit black evening – my strength; to be stronger. I cross the road to cut in between a couple of dumb spooks, laughing to myself at how their jeans hang around their knees and fall all on their huge day glow trainers; tongues all snarling up their shins. I smash in between them, send them spinning round shouting.
– Wassup blud.
I want to show them some blood but have a time to beat and so start to hit the ground hard imagining their dirty jungle bunny faces pressed up against the glass of a burning building: flames all lapping at their filthy black skin, and me smiling in the road, waving the petrol can.
I check my watch and I am forty eight seconds to the good as I pass the park where I see Abby and her gang of sluts from school playing on the park. All too fucking dumb to go and get jobs now that they have finished school and so hang around waiting for someone to put their cock inside of them and give them the babies that will get them the house and the cash from the social. I think of all the shit that they gave me in school - about my ears and my hair; about my teeth and my fucking little feet and how they said that my cock must be dead small as well and always asked to see it. And now look at them, checking me out as I run by; wishing that they could take back all those fucking years and have a piece of me inside them – pin dick – I’ll fucking show them.
I glance towards them and check my form; swing my arms that bit faster; make my legs work that bit harder; keep my position centered from the trunk; chin high; back straight; the slight lean forward – all the while picturing that gang of fucking slags mutilated on the science lab floor; bits and pieces of body everywhere, like a fucking human jigsaw man; legs and arms and torsos and they could all pretty much fit anyone of them because they’re all virtually the fucking same right down to the fucking hairstyle; then me, placing the chainsaw on Mr. Beaver’s desk and using my camera to take pictures for Zoo or Nuts magazine just like they always dreamed of; writing slags across their foreheads with the blood that has gushed from the incisions I have made between their legs.
I make it to the end of the street and power at full sprint for the last four hundred yards and hit the garden gate just after fourteen minutes, knocking thirty six seconds off my PB. I drink a bottle of mineral water and a recovery shake while the bath runs.
I bathe and eat two tins of tuna whilst watching the documentary American Skinheads. I struggle to concentrate and find my thoughts wandering all the time – thinking about work tomorrow; getting on the bus with all them fucking Poles and Sand Niggers; dealing with Tony fucking look at me mother fucker aren’t I fucking gorgeous Lawson all day and how on Friday he done me good in the canteen making out that I had eyed up his cock when we were in the toilets; and he’s fucking hovering above his plate of spaghetti asking if I want a piece of his ass and all I have to do is ask, and everyone around the table is laughing, even the fucking nappy wearing fucks opposite; and he comes over and asks if I want a kiss and bends over in to my face and I am looking at the fork in my hand and all I want to do is to push it in to his face over and over again and watch the blood spray across the canteen fucking soaking everything and everyone in sight and me leaping forth asking who else wants a fucking kiss off me and then his lips press in to my cheek and I pull away but his hand goes to my cock and I jump to my feet and he starts telling everyone that I’ve got a hard on but I fucking well didn’t the lying bastard.
I roll on to my back and turn the TV off. I think about the meet next weekend; Uncle Charlie’s gun – I want to get it out and hold it but don’t. I think about how much longer it will take until the gear arrives and the number of possibilities of how I will use it. The limitless possibilities of what I could do with a bag of nails and some manure!
It takes me fucking ages to get my hair right this morning. I have to re-wash it and apply a second helping of wax before it begins to co-operate and I end up having to run to Pigs Lane so I don’t miss the bus. I sit in my usual place checking myself as best as I can in the reflection of the window as we drive along the Moorcroft estate and down to High Rise to pick up the nappy headed scum and then on to Sloane’s for the Poles. My hair still doesn’t feel right and I pat at it and dampen my fingers and rub them across the bristles above my ears – time I did something about it.
There are two seats left on the bus as we pull away from Sloane’s’ but suddenly the bus comes to a halt and the door slides open and a new boy gets on – typical fucking student you can tell a mile off – with his long black locks and ripped jeans and his little fucking man bag thing. I make myself big in my seat but he’s not seen the other seat and says alright and squeezes on next to me the little fucking two weaker and off back to Uni faggot. I move to the window and look out as he tries to strike up some form of conversation. I look to the school as we pass and think about the old days – the best days of your life apparently. Yeah fucking dead right. And then I think about the bus I am on and once again wonder how the fuck I ended up here with all the scum of this over populated shit-hole.
Twenty minutes into my shift and I am sat in the far cubicle in the toilets drawing a picture of a dick on the wall above the toilet roll holder. I add a spray of spunk and some pubes on the balls before leaving. I sit at my truck and draw a picture on my pick list of Tracey naked with her legs wide open and a devils head coming from her cunt – as I begin to add flames I watch her leave the office and head back through the warehouse to the reception.
I pick a few tins of paint and roof felt and sit at the loading bay watching the wind drag the trees in all directions, wondering whether Debbie Reynolds still goes out with Wayne Wilkins. I remember how that flash bastard worked his way through all the school slags before they were legal tender. How he’d show up after school in his flash cars and fancy clothes and speed away with a different girl every week. How good looking he was. I bet he’s got a big dick and a hairy chest and none of this fucking acne or frizz in his hair. I don’t know what he ever saw in any of those stupid bitches – he always seemed more intelligent than that. I still think about that leather jacket he used to wear and how cool it made him look and decide that I am going to buy one just like that.
I turn around and Collins has got me by the shirt and asks why I am not working and the old fucker calls me boy. I get back to work – fucking boy – I’ll show that cunt who’s a fucking boy. You’re day will come you old coffin dodger. I quite like the idea of slitting the throat of his wife and children and then removing their flesh and nailing them up on the walls of his office ready for his Monday morning entrance. I think back to last week when I watched his two boys playing in the front garden of his house whilst Mrs. Collins jet washed the drive and how easy it would have been for me to have destroyed his entire life in a matter of seconds.
I go for dinner and eat organic chicken in soda and linseed bread and an apple, a pear and an orange. I look around at the shit the rest of these fucks put into their bodies and wonder how any of them can even breathe and how it is that they all have better fucking skin than me. I look after myself better than any of these pigs and still the inside of my face continues to ooze puss. It is getting much worse and I can feel some of the spots throbbing and growing as I look out of the canteen window. I make my way to the toilets and lock myself in the cubicle and take out my small mirror and examine the fresh yellow heads that have grown since this morning. I squeeze them and watch the gunk spread across my fingers and my face. I examine the three boils on my neck and run my finger across them gently and think perhaps I should stop taking the steroids and then they may go away.
The afternoon drags like always, not even three good pick sheets help brighten my mood. I get to thinking about my exams and how I wrote fuck all over my English paper and spread snot across where my name was meant to go, and how Mrs. Cooper called my parents in to school when she had marked my assignment entitled Nigger go home, and how they had to sit and listen as she read out my theory of evolution. I told them all that they laughed at Darwin and gazed at their blank little faces. They said I shouldn’t use words like nigger. Mrs. Cooper asked what I wanted to do when I left school and I remember how badly I wanted to answer truthfully – how I wanted to tell her that the only thing I want to do is to rape her with a baseball bat and then put her in a box and bury her; listening as she pounds on the coffin; screaming for me to let her go and me reminding her that she always said I would turn out bad; the screams fading as I shovel the dirt over the box beneath the howling moonlight.
I go straight to the gym after work and meet Neil and we work shoulders and chest. I bench-press five reps of one hundred and sixty pounds for the first time ever and know that the steroids must be kicking in proper now. Neil gives me a manly hug as I get to my feet victorious – our chests press against each other; our arms clasped on each others backs. I spot him as he does his usual destruction on the three hundred pounds. I watch his chest inflate; can see his nipples through his damp vest and the flesh of his belly where it rides up. I look at the hair around his belly button and how it thickens and spreads down into his shorts. I watch him as he showers with occasional glances from behind my towel – telling him I’m going for a run later and so won’t bother cleaning up yet. The dimples of his arse cheeks; the cut of his calf's; how tight his thighs are; the spread of his back.
Neil’s girlfriend Shelley picks us up when were done. She’s all over the top made up with thick foundation and eye shadow; her dark hair curled up rock solid with hair spray and her perfume filling the car. I see her hand wander on to Neil’s thigh as we drive to my house – her fingers moving closer and closer to his big cock.
I pay them pair of idiots no attention as I walk through the kitchen and make my way upstairs (although the scent of burning meat gets my nose twitching). I lock my door and put on the Screwdriver album I bought last week, cranking up the volume to ‘Put them on the boat’. I have pictures in my head of rounding up all the filthy fucking blacks and Paki cunts and Poles and Jews and Russians and sending them out to sea to die but then I think about Neil’s girlfriend – how she is probably sucking his cock now in a lay-by somewhere. His dick becoming hard in her hands. Her tongue flicking over the tip of his throbbing head and down his shaft. I grab my dick between my thumb and two fingers and feel the heat of it. I can see her pulling hard on his cock, harder and faster, harder and faster and I push my finger up my arse as I wank myself faster and faster until I come. FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I put a knife in my bag this morning as I leave for work and when everyone else are doing their crosswords and talking weekenders I sit eating my sandwich with my hand in my bag; my fingers rolling up and down the cold sharp steel edge of the blade; imagining how it would feel to sink it in to somebody’s chest; how the crack would sound as it cuts through the bone and what the squirt of blood would feel like as it splashes across my face.
I look up from my tuna and see that Nicola has sat next me; I can smell the cigarette smoke on her breath she is that close. I shuffle away slightly and she asks me how I am doing. When I don’t answer, she asks how come I always sit on my own and tells me that I could always sit at her table. I mumble that I’m fine where I am and then feel her hand fall onto my thigh. I know that my face is red because my cheeks are burning but I don’t know what to do and can see her friends looking over and laughing and all I want to do is to pull the knife out of my bag and saw through her wrist and shove her bloody hand into her own mouth.
- I am having a party on Friday if you fancy coming.
I manage to look at her in the face and she is smiling with those fat red lips that I often imagine cutting from her ugly little face and then I look at her hand on my thigh which she quickly removes.
- You could bring someone, perhaps a friend from that gym you go in town.
- Yeah maybe. I stand up sliding my hand carefully from my bag.
She mumbles the address but I don’t take it in as there is no way on earth I will be going to her party – watching all these fucks sit round smoking dope and swigging cider and talking shite until the early hours of the morning – in fact the only way you’d get me near is if I had fifty pounds of explosives strapped under my coat. I think about this for the rest of the afternoon and don’t get anywhere near my quota but couldn’t give a fuck – I've had it with this place.
I have got an email waiting when I get home confirming the rally on Saturday will go ahead as originally planned. The police have managed to have the football game postponed until the Sunday which is a bit of a blow because they are the crowd we were hoping to get our message to. Instead we will have shoppers, housewives and teenagers to contend with but what the hell, it will be nice seeing the crew again and the added bonus is that He is going to show up at the meet in the Snakes where we are going to celebrate the latest two seats we have just won in the Euro elections.
I celebrate this news by removing a 200mg vial of Testosterone Cypionate which I proceed to inject in to my thigh with a fresh needle from the pack of twenty Neil gave me last week, when he had lectured me on the importance for cleanliness and hygiene and not re-using needles, like I was some sort of kid who didn’t know anything about cycles and stacking and HIV and shit. I wrap the needle in tissue and place it in the side compartment of my bag which I will rid of in the bin in the gym after. I couple this hit with an Oxymetholone tablet and mix up my maxi-muscle protein shake which I down in one. I make a recovery shake and place it in my bag with my gym stuff and head out.
Neil doesn’t show which pisses me off big time as I was geared up for a real hard session and so I spend thirty minutes on legs and do some dead lifts watching in the huge mirrors at how thick my neck is beginning to look. I drink my shake as I change in to my tracksuit and spend a few minutes squeezing the boils on my neck but there is no sign of them giving anything yet.
A new lad comes in who must be about thirty and nine stone wet through. He says alright and asks about my workout but I leave and mumble faggot at him as I close the door. I go to Argos on the way home and buy some clippers which I will use later to shave my head – get rid of this fucking frizzy mess once and for all – show it off on Saturday at the rally. I still can’t believe He is actually coming down to give a speech; it’s going to be fucking crazy man – finally getting to meet the man; shaking that hand of His; discussing the project with him; the fight; showing him that I’m ready and willing to be one of His soldiers.
I shave my hair after tea, smiling softly to myself as the clods of frizz fall to my feet. I shower and rinse off the blood where I have knocked the heads off all of the spots that I didn’t even know where on my head. I spend some time and examine my new look in the mirror in my bedroom, comparing various reflections and positions; noticing how large all my features now seem but also at how fucking mean I look. I pull some faces, screwing my face up as though I am hitting someone with a bat; gritting my teeth like I am giving it to some cunt big time; biting my tongue as I stamp on the cunt’s face. Fucking dead right. I go through to the kitchen so that they see my new look. She shouts what have you done and he just shakes his stupid fucking head. I laugh and sip from the milk carton just to wind them up even more.
I make the nine twenty train and get into Derby at five to eleven where my brothers Sean and Steve are waiting to greet me. They smile and run their hands across my head, we exchange some pretend blows as we leave the station and head for Roy’s place for lashings of caffeine. Steve is explaining that there is a chance things could turn ugly today and asking if I’m prepared for that. I tell him I’m fucking hoping for it and we all laugh, turning at some fucking jungle bunny that jigs past us. Sean tells me about the band that are playing at the gig tonight, tells me he’s got their CD and it’s the dogs.
Doyle comes into the café in full uniform and wishes us the best from the boys in blue, says to give the mother-fuckers hell. Then the moment I have been waiting for – the entrance of the big man. We all stand and salute accordingly as he makes his way to the far side of the room to start as he always starts by telling us about his dream; his vision. It is the first time I have ever heard it live in person and I can feel the hairs on my neck standing on end as he insists that we will make this great nation great again; a new England; a new world; jobs for the Brits; no more Poles; no more blacks. I continue to listen as his voice booms through the room and to the cheering and clapping that resonates every time he pauses for breath. He clasps his right fist in his left hand and I do likewise to reassure him of my loyalties; my solidarity; to tell him where I belong; that this is my cause. I lock my arms around Steve and another man they call Slow; they grip me back and it feels so special that we are together and we will fight for each other and die for each other if needed – we are one and we will stop at no cost to restore this country to how it should be – our fucking country.
- We will rid this great land of the vile rats that have come onto this beautiful majestic shoreline, the big man declares and we all shout in agreement.
- To Zog!
- To revolution.
- To England.
- To Great Britain.
- There ain’t no black in the Union Jack! There ain’t no black in the Union Jack!
Slow grabs my face and forces it in to his. His stubble burns my cheeks but it feels fucking fantastic because he is my brother and I feel like I could cry because I am that fucking happy and when he finally lets go of my head I leap onto the table and rip open my shirt and beat my fist against the tattoo. Soon there are over thirty men doing the same; semi naked; tattooed; shaven headed brothers; united; and I can’t help thinking that there is no other place in the world I wish to be. Everything I want is here in this room and we are going to make it happen.
Things have settled down and we are all clock watching; waiting for the call. Jeff is going on about some family of Asians who are being re-housed in his street; Tommy about the Poles who have taken all the tanker driving jobs because they will work all fucking hours for less pay. I’m just trying to keep the air coming in to my lungs.
At last the bastard phone rings and Roy answers it. He hands it over to the big man. I watch his mouth move around the bottom of his face and the lines around his eyes roll in all kinds of directions but hear only the air I drag into my lungs. I see his shoulders dip and rise and he twists away from my gaze but I can still just about make out the line of his thick jaw from the side and the dark patch of stubble running towards his ears. He puts the phone down and turns and looks at us all with two big wet eyes and holds out his huge hands and tells us that it’s off. Chairs shuffle; we stand throwing questions at him.
- What the fuck is going on?
- We’re too close what with taking those two seats in the Euros. He says he doesn’t want any bad press. People are listening to the politics and he doesn’t want us screwing it up.
I can’t believe what the fuck I am hearing and want to scream out that this is bullshit! But everybody seems to be taking it. What the fuck are you all about? Steve and Slow say something about going on an all-dayer and Sean mumbles about the concert tonight. But this is not what we have fucking come here for. I want fucking action man. I am a soldier. I need some fucking air and so start to make my way out of the café. I can hear Steve calling after me but I don’t turn around – I just carry on through the door and out in to the blinding brightness and on down the street.
A soft rain starts to fall – soft like all them fucking Muppets I have left behind planning their all day drinking session. No wonder that this country is in the mess it is when that is the best form of opposition we can muster. I carry on down the street and notice a dirty fucking nappy headed bastard bouncing down the street like he fucking owns it. Then I spot the pale blue eyed dumb as fuck blonde at his side, hanging off his curry stinking shoulder. I just wish Steve and Slow were here now and we could do something about it. I wish I could do something about it but I am stuck to the spot, unable to act; unable to charge over there and throw my fist into his face; knock him to the floor and stamp on his ugly fucking face until it is unrecognizable; pulling out my knife and cutting his cock and balls off and shoving them into his mouth. But as they pass by me I can see from behind the soft tears in my eyes that they are actually fucking smiling at me.
Back home I go through various methods of bomb making that I find on the Internet but they all seem a bit too elaborate and laborious until I come across the details for the nail bomb and the different takes on it. I quite like the idea of seeing the look on their fucking faces as I open my jacket to reveal that thing fucking strapped to my chest; being the fucking hero; dying for the fucking cause; the martyr.
I skip through a handful of front related sites but the forums are all full of thick as fuck knob heads with no idea of history or geography – all the same; penning blatant abuse that they heard somebody else say in work or down the pub but with no argument to back it up. None of them have actually studied the facts or read the books and done the research. I bet none of them even know what Mien Kampf is; probably think ZOG is some puppet off a kids show. Anyway, fuck all that! If I get a move on I can still meet Nick at the gym and so I go for my kit and it’s fucking well gone. I feel a sickness run up through my gut and throb in my throat; struggling for breath with the thought that they have got my gear and now I’m going to have to face their fucking shit. I claw at my clothes in the blind hope that I have put my bag further back in the cupboard and then shake the wardrobe and rock it until the thing tips over onto my bed. I kick the side of the wardrobe hard and stamp harder and harder until the wood breaks beneath my feet. I run to the bookcase and rip it off the wall and then begin to punch holes in the bedroom door screaming FUCK!!!!!!! Feeling the skin tear around my knuckles FUCK!!!!! FUCK!!!!!! I fall onto the floor and can feel tears starting to well up in the back of my head so I get to my feet, pick up my gym bag and leave the house like nothing has just happened.
I work harder at the gym than ever. I manage fifty dead lifts with three hundred pounds, which is pretty damn fucking hard considering the lack of steroids pumping through my body. I notice that it is getting dark outside and realise that I have been in the gym for nearly three hours now and although I am feeling pretty tired I am pumped to fuck. I check the guns in the long mirrors; how my traps now rise from my shoulders; the fat stretch of my triceps.
I sit in the sauna for a while hoping that the heat will get rid of some of this puss in my face until some fat cunt comes in bollock naked and starts shaving his head and flicking the stubble on the floor. I keep catching glimpses of him looking at the boils on my neck beneath the thick hair that coats his body, spreading down his shoulders, his back and across his arse cheeks. I see him looking at me again, seems to smile at my hairless body and acne ridden face and I swear to God he shakes his fucking head. I notice the way his foreskin sticks out from his cock and wonder whether it disappears when he gets a hard on and wonder how it looks erect. I notice how he keeps looking at it and I can feel myself reddening but I can’t get up because it must be the heat or something but I have a throbbing hard on and the more that I think about it the harder it gets.
Fat-so gets up and throws water on the hot rocks and the steam screams around his belly; I notice how his balls hang below his arse as he bends over. I think about grabbing them and pushing his fat fucking head down on the boiling rocks – listening to his flesh sizzle; watching his lips melt into the steam. He sits back down and asks me how my workout went and I tell him good, say I have been here for three and a half hours. He asks if I fancy going for a drink when were done but I tell him I have to get home to me bird.
If I had anywhere else to go I would go there. But I don’t. And so I go home. Go to face the music; them pair of stupid fucks; their questions and ignorance. I can’t wait until I don’t have to face their shit anymore. On the way home I notice an old teacher of mine Mr. Lyle. He is stumbling on the opposite side of the road, singing to himself obviously pissed. I want to cross over and push him up against the wall and bash the fuckers head in until there is nothing but slop in my hand, his skull mashed into the red brick and his brain trickling down to the pavement. He looks right at me and doesn’t even fucking recognise me. Five years the cunt taught me for and he doesn’t even recognise me; doesn’t even know who I am.
I turn around and start to follow him. I watch as he slips in to the road and falls against a car. I think how easy it would be now to get him. To drag him down the side of these houses and stamp on the fucker until he stops breathing, beat the living shit out of him. He bumps through the gate and into the park and I am just binding my time now, ready to strike at the right moment. My fists are clenched and my teeth are so tight in my mouth. I am close to him now, so close that I can hear how out of breath he is; can smell the beer on the fucking loser; could kick out my leg and trip him over if I wanted. I look around and see how quiet it is and realise how fucking easy this is going to be. I call out Sir a couple of times and hang on the moment.
He turns around and I look into his bony white face imagining how that long fucking Jewish nose will look like when I smash my fist into it.
He asks if he fucking well knows me!
That’s it, he’s fucking had it. I step closer to him and feel my hands coming up to lock themselves around his veiny fucking throat. Then she appears, calling his name; some little skinny blonde piece of about fucking twelve, calling out Sandy. He turns away from me, turns his fucking back on me and I stand there staring at the back of his head wanting to smash it open with a brick. He walks away and I watch as the little girl throws her arms around him and they walk off through the park. I sit on the bench for a moment looking at the fat pigeons shitting everywhere and think about how that cunt used to always say that school was the best days of your life and it makes me want to scream.
They are waiting when I arrive as I fucking well knew they would be. The pair of them smoking with half empty glasses of wine in the kitchen as I walk in. I am beckoned. I see the vials and needles on the table and he asks what they are. I tell the soft fucker in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t understand and then demand to know what gives them the fucking right to go snooping through my stuff. He says that I should try him. I am looking at the frying pan on the draining board and want to grab it and swing it towards his ugly, bloated and lined face and then plunge my needles into his bulging eyes. Then she starts with how they just want to help me and how they can see that I am not happy and how I am cutting them out of my life and they don’t know who I am anymore. I just stand there looking at the thick drawn out veins of her neck and think how easily I could just slice my knife through them and watch the bitch bleed to death at my feet. Then she fucking well says it. She just had to didn’t she? For fucks sake.
- I am not fucking gay! I feel my teeth could snap in my mouth they are clenched so tightly together. I turn and leave and head for my bedroom. I sit on the edge of my bed looking out of the window into the night sky. As I look at its blackness I struggle to make any sense of all of this. Of your world. Of your motives; your decisions. I can’t even begin to try to envisage where I could ever fit in and wonder if I even want to anymore. As tears begin to roll down my cheeks I feel like somebody is sitting on my head.

It is Tuesday and three days until my seventeenth birthday and I have finally made my mind up; finally decided. Most of the kids round here have had wild parties or have been away to celebrate theirs. Last year for my sixteenth I spent the entire night sat alone behind the fire station, having told them pair I was having a party at Glen’s house and they were not invited. At least I won’t have that to worry about this year.
Work is work. I don’t make my targets and I don’t talk to anyone all day. I can’t stop thinking about that fucker Mr Lyle from school and how he used to make me read out loud knowing full well how bad my stutter used to be – the fuck. Seeing him earlier today has got me thinking about sweet revenge once again. I decide to turn my attention away from all those idiots in work and back to those bastards in school that made my life such a fucking misery for all those years.
Later, I lie on my bed going over the list of people I am going to make sure I put a bullet in, in what order and then work out how many bullets I will need. I want to tell them all; I want to say that I am going to shoot you all on Friday but I can’t. I look at their faces and picture the bullet entering their heads and their dead bodies collapsing to the floor. I have four cartridges with six bullets. I’ll probably start in the back room with Tommy and then pick off a couple of the Poles as I make my way towards the offices where I will do Keith, Ballsy and then kick the boss man's door open and just stand there and listen to him beg for his life as I wave the gun into his face. Then I will hunt her down – that fucking bitch – let’s see how she feels with the blood all pumped to her face. Then off to that fucking school. That bastard Lyle. Mr and Mrs fucking Shields. And then on from there. On and on until they gun me down. Then it will be all about the papers and the news - my fucking name in the headlines for once. No fucker will ever forget about Steven Gray!
I am feeling really tired and think about the steroid bust. I try a run but end up walking after about a mile, not seeing the fucking point in it anymore. There is a young girl in the park that I recognise from School. She is pushing a little pink lump of baby in the swing making faces and noises at it. I watch her and think about the life that the poor thing has ahead of it and think that I should do everyone a favour and go and put it out of it’s misery now, before it’s too late – just hold my hand over it's mouth until it turns blue and stops breathing. Peaceful. Then maybe wrap the chains of the swing around the mother’s throat and choke the life out of her also for being so selfish that she could consider bringing someone else into this fucking world.
I walk home and notice the birds in the trees; the flowers; the way the clouds move above me; the sun; the buildings and the fields. I watch people shuffle along the street like fucking zombies. Nothing stands out as meaning anything or as having any substance, it is all just there, around me, doing nothing.
I take a bath at home and wonder whether I should write a letter to explain everything – to make them think it is all their fault.
I take the gun from the towel in the bag from behind the wardrobe and rub the yellow dust cloth up and down its shaft. I lose myself in some dream for a while where pictures of fat men in saunas; dead teachers; newspaper headlines; funerals; all dance through my head. She bangs on the door and asks if I want any tea but I don’t answer, I just roll the gun back up in the towel and place it back behind the wardrobe. I turn the television on and lie on my bed flicking aimlessly through the countless channels of shit.


Two days to go. Seventeen years old. This is the first thought that enters my head as I wake: One more bastard day. I go downstairs and have breakfast and leave for work before they wake up all the while thinking how easy it would be to just go into their room whilst they are sleeping and press pillows over both of their heads; or better still, barricade their bedroom door closed and set fire to the house, listening from the street as they scream, burning to death.
I take my seat on the bus and look around at all the same old sorry faces and wonder whether they would feel any happier knowing that they have only got to get out of bed once more. Nobody seems to be talking but I can hear their voices, whispering every time I look away. I notice that Tracey is looking at me; looking at the fresh bank of spots that have appeared on my left cheek. I start thinking about what I could do to her if we were left alone in a room. How I could tie her hands and feet together and gag her. I would strip her naked and slice into her fat tits with my knife and cut out the flesh, leaving just the skin dangling there, dripping with blood, demanding to know who she’s going to point them at now. Then I would slide my knife up her cunt and just keep driving it deeper and deeper until I was up to my elbow and she passes out from the pain.
She stands and comes and sits next to me and I can hear her friends laughing from the other side of the bus. I feel her tit brush against my arm as she sits down and I want to jump to my feet and smash her face against the bus window. She smiles at me and asks if I have thought about coming to the party. I stare straight ahead feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. She puts her hand on my thigh and I can feel her fingers creeping towards my dick as she keeps saying how much she would like to see me at the party. I can hear more laughter now and one of the Poles shouts something about getting a light off my face and then the bus stops and I jump to my feet and run to the door and scream at the driver to open the door. I jump from the laughing bus and run across the road and into the wood with every bone in my body howling. I continue to run until I find myself kicking a large tree with tears rolling down my face. I take my knife from my bag and begin stabbing the tree, over and over again.
- You fucking want some!
- You fucking bitch!
- You like that you fucking slag!
I sit down with my head in my hands and make Tracey number one on my list. She will be the first to fucking die.
I spend the rest of the afternoon at the gym. Nick comes in but he’s with Steve and so doesn’t even bother coming over. He’s so fucking different when he’s not on his own. I sit in the Jacuzzi for a while and think about how it is like my mind with all the bubbles constantly roaring to the surface. Only you can switch this thing off. I grab a protein shake when I’m changed and sit and watch that big old black bitch Serena Williams grunting her way to some bastard final again. I look at the poor little blonde girl she is molesting and think about how much more evolved she is than that fucking monkey opposite her.
I lock myself in my room at home and spend the night thinking about the different ways I am going to shoot all them fuckers and whether to put the gun in my mouth or against my head when I take my own life at the end of it all.

I miss the bus this morning on purpose and find myself walking through the old woods towards school, the way that I walked for all those years. I am thinking about the various teachers and how much I hated them all, and the kids; the fucking bullies like Mike Taylor sticking his cock in my face, rubbing it on my lips that time, every one crying with laughter as he kneeled on my chest and placed his ball sack over my mouth. Or the time that they stripped me and threw me in the pond at Bakers woods. Everyone laughing because I was the only one who didn’t have any pubes. I cross the bridge thinking about how the teachers never ever done anything to stop the abuse and even joined in the constant humiliation themselves.
I spend the day watching them all come and go; walking around the grounds of the school; working out my entry and exit procedures. I point the gun at various kids as they gather in the playground, feeling the overwhelming sense of power of having my finger on the trigger and their lives in my sight.

I am standing in the bedroom pointing the gun at the mirror, picturing that stupid fucking face of his; imagining him weeping like a whore; putting his hands together and praying that I might let him live. I think back to how he used to just sit there and do his fucking crossword whilst they threw pens at me or wiped snot on my work. Queer. Spotty. Spacco! How he giggled to himself when Susan Smith said she wanted to cut the spots off my face with a cheese grater. The time he threw a book at me and pushed me against the wall. And the time he shook me for falling asleep and he shook me so hard that I burst into tears in the middle of class – all them fuckers laughing!
Well it’s going to be him crying his beady little eyes out in front of everyone now as I hold the gun to his bald fucking head!
I remember the time when I spilt yoghurt on my trousers and Katie McQueen told everyone it was come and that she had seen me masturbating to a gay porn mag in the woods. All these memories just won’t go away! All of these horrible fucking pictures that just constantly repeat in my mind every fucking hour of the day:
Michael McCain pissing on my new shoes. Elvin Shore setting fire to my tie. They just won’t go away. Kelly Carmichael telling everyone I was stalking her and had been taking photos of her sunbathing. Steve and Terry – stripping me naked. Everyone laughing at my tiny little dick. All of them constantly fucking laughing! Wiping their ball sacks on my face! Well I’ll be the one who has the last laugh.
I put the gun away and sit on the edge of the bed and go through the list of all of those fuckers who have made my life not worth living.
When it is dark I leave for the gym. I work legs but spend most of the time watching Lee lift the free weights or hanging around the changing rooms drinking protein shakes. A handful of guys come and go and I watch them change and shower wishing that I were them. I masturbate in the toilet when no-one is around and then punch the wall round the back of the gym until my knuckles start to bleed.

So today is the day. Finally here. Big old seventeen. I take a triple dose of the steroids I managed to get Neil to part with last night, and spend a good hour on the bells mainly working biceps and triceps but throwing in some squats to break it up. All the while I watch the rain beating against the window and the sky continues to lighten with the sun coming up. I dress and take the gun, checking the barrel and place it in my bag wrapped in the Chelsea towel. I pass through the kitchen and notice the card on the table. I take the gun and aim it at the card with my finger delicately resting on the trigger. I want to shoot it so badly but don’t want to waste the bullet and put the gun back in my bag.
I leave the house and walk to school alone. Just like I did every day for the last two years of my school life – only today there is nobody kicking lumps of dirt at me or covering me in spit or pulling my pants down to laugh at my bald little dick. I walk past the shop where they all used to hang out. All of them fucking cool kids who had the right clothes and the right hair styles, smoking and calling me names. I walk along the busway and arrive at the school gates just as it stops raining.