roman-á-clef

Wriggling around, two fingers deep in my back end like some teenage boy unsure what he should be tugging at inside his girlfriend__ nether region I wrestled a fifty free.

Propping up a seat at the bar we devour chicken wings like life does dreams

It hadn__ always been this way, that__ a cliché, but it is a cliché for a reason. It__ not like anyone starts a relationship with nothing to say to the other person. No-one wants to feel like a complete stranger and live together because it__ easier than trying to remember who owns the copy of Almost Famous _ which was mine by the way.

With the windows in his top of the range Audi firmly in place we slowly baked ourselves and chatted over why my hatred of golf was wrong, what made a good antihero and why Paul McCartney should just fuck off.

He looked along the line of children, exhibits A to C of his existence and heirs to the twisted throne of his corrupt genetics.

So you__e the little smart ass from Poleglass.__ wanted to point out he sounded like Dr. Seuss but bit my lip and remembered the warning the old lady gave me.

It was a sacrifice worthy of her and dreams are made to be killed.

He was a shadow of the man that once intimidated us out of our home, a shell of a human being, a fragment of a father.