Joolz Denby

Spook

Bored.
Bored.
Bored.
BORED.
B.O.R.E.D.

I am bored. I am BORED. I am so fucking bored I could scream my fucking head off. Bang, plop, there on the floor all floppy gloopy red and nasty and a big fountain of red spuming up from my neck-hole like the fountain in from of the magistrate’s court in Town. That’d be a laugh, well, it’d make me laugh; seeing Her come in like she does all busy-body bustling about that fat arse waggling like a bumble-bee, stinking of whatever crapo perfume she currently likes. Kenzo or something, something soooooooo designer in a fucked-up wonky bottle with a plastic flower stuck in it. Smells like drain cleaner, makes me fucking sneeze but oh, how She loves it; ‘mmmmm, so classy’. My fucking mother. Her. She. Mo-ther, Mummy, Mum, Mam, Mommykins etc etc etc the ignorant, idle, stoo-pid B.I.T.C.H. Her, classy? Oh, yeah, right, like She’d even know what classy was, the lardy cow.

Any-way, mustn’t grumble I suppose, She could be worse though I’m not sure how. At least She’s gratifyingly shit-scared of me, as well She might be, not that She actually knows anything about me personally, or should I say, privately, but the droids (as I prefer to call the mass of the General Public) do sense a Master when they come across them. Must be some caveman thing, a DNA Neanderthal hangover from the days when there were Natural Born Chiefs with proper charisma and power and all the pitiful fur-clad Uggs and Uggettes knew it and were suitably servile, instead of like now, when they think a sad, suck-up hypocritical fuck like Gordon Slackjaw Brown is a leader and they think they actually get to, like, elect him or something when every thinking person—duh, me—knows it’s all a fucking fix.

But let’s, like, cut to the chase. I am BORED-di-BORED-oh which is why, dear ‘Biggest Fan’, ‘Biggest Ever Fan’, ‘Your Biggest Most Adoring Fan’ and all the other sweet little names you call yourself in that mountain of love-notes you have filled my inbox with, I am replying to you. Yes indeedy-do, you did get through to wonderful me from our favourite cyber playground. You have quite won my heart, BF, with your wheedling ways. Heh heh heh. Lucky, lucky you. So here I am, you Biggest Fan you and

Hold on a minute I’ve gotta shut the fucking bedroom door—I can hear my dear Mother downstairs pushing the dirt around, what She calls cleaning. Drives me mad and she’s got the fucking stereo on full blast playing that dog-eyed whinging creepo James Fuckhead Blunt—you’re beeeeeeeyooooootiiiiiful—he wouldn’t be after five fucking minutes with me and my trusty box-cutter, believe you me. Ah—God fuck bastard shit—I can’t smell the Smell, I can’t and I’ve told Her a thousand times, more, that if you don’t use bleach it’s not clean, it’s still crawling with germs. She always makes her ohmigodgivemestrength face and heaves a big sigh that sets those colossal tits wobbling like a tsunami and I have to look away because I have this, like, flash in my mind of them exploding in great gobbets of yellow fat and it all pouring out until She collapses, just an empty skin, on the dirty lino. Now, that would definitely one hundred percent make me laugh

Righto, door shut n’ locked; lock n’ load, here we go.

I know some people—and by that of course I mean, duh, Susan from next door—or what was it she said the other day? Oh yes, call me Soo, Dave, and then she spelt it out, letter by letter. S.O.O. Essdoubleoh. Soo! Soo! I nearly choked. Soo-ee, I thought, nearly cracking up, you know, soo-eee, like they call for pigs in the States, like in Deliverance. How very true. Anyway, some people, some droids, meaning, yeah, Susan, or The Sow as I’ll call her from now on, yeah, (heh heh heh), droids like The Sow say She isn’t fat, just—what is it they always trot out—oh, right, curvy, She’s curvy, womanly. Such bollocks. Fat. She’s fat. FAT. Geddit? Puke.

The Sow weighs about a ton herself, must be a size sixteen at least; she goes with Her to WeightWatchers so they can have sob-ins with all the other sad fucking porkers. Always goes on and on about how slim I am, like it’s a sort of miracle. Yeah, right. How do you do it, Dave (cheeky cunt, I never said she could call me ‘Dave’, or speak to me at all, come to that), she always grunts, giving me the big eyes and fluttering her sticky, blobby eyelashes in what she thinks is a flirty way. Naturally, when I finally manage to control my nausea at the sight and smell of her, I don’t say a dicky-bird. But the fact is, Sow, I just keep my head out of the bloody trough. I eat what I need to eat, that’s all. That’s all any sane person should do, not run around stuffing their holes with shit like MacDonald’s and all that foul crap like biscuits and sweets and butter which then, oh surprise surprise, they can’t get rid of. All food is just shit-in-the-making, after all. You’re just eating shit. You’ve got to control your physical self, not let it run wild stuffing itself and shagging and getting pissed and all that filthy rubbish.

I don’t drink either. Or take drugs. They all go ranting on about that, too, like it was a crime not to want to get e’d-up or coked or plain old red-faced and slobbery from lager then make a complete twat of yourself at some stupid club or whatever. Jesus! Have they smelt themselves? I mean, like, ever? The foul stench of beer-burps, fags and B.O? Do they think that’s cool? Those hideous mouths, not to mention down below - Jesus. Just a reeking hell of decay, farts, piss, arseholes and that gross smell of alcohol that oozes from their skins when their livers can’t take anymore abuse. God. Yuck. Gotta go wash my hands.

That’s better, I hate sweaty palms. Right, so yeah; they get really yattery about my not getting pissed up like them. Like it’s some sort of gang or something, like if you’re not like them, don’t want to be like them, you’re wrong in the head. Oh, OK, like, I’m wrong in the head; I think not, as it goes.

I’m fine.

I am, I’m fine. OK, sure, I’ve got my little problems, even someone like me has those, but nothing, you know, major. Not like them. Not like Her.

After all, I am the Spook, Biggest Fan, as you so very well know.

You know, I am actually talking to you, isn’t that nice? Not chit-chatting in a general kind of hi-there-thanks-for-your-interest-in-my-blog-@-Kurtensboyz.com kind of way like I normally do to the lame-brains who send me rubbish but I’m addressing you personally. I don’t mind admitting I liked your messages. I liked your tone. I felt we might have some rapport, as they say. I can see you reading this you know; proper see you - you think not? Heh heh heh. Think again. There’s a power in words, more than you know. Once you read what I’ve written here, like you are doing, I’m in your mind forever; you’ll never be rid of me, I’ll never leave you, I’ll be like an imprint in your brain cells, permanent. It’s to do with the act of seeing what I’ve put down, allowing something of my power to slide into you through your eyes, to wriggle down into you where it’ll lodge like a parasite; only a good parasite because it’s better for you to have even that tiny particle of what I am than never to have had the chance. Even reflected glory is better than no glory, right? Yeah, I thought so.

In fact, this is exciting, don’t you think? I’m going to call you my Disciple, I think—Biggest Fan is a tad gushy. Isn’t this cool? You’re my Disciple. Yeah—you’re my Student. Now that’s really happening, that is, really good. I like that, it’s, you know, as if we were together, right? Really proper together, like as if we were—oh man, sorry, but that’s got me going, that really has, I can feel the heat of it, it’s so beautiful, that thought, the thought of you and me together; oh, yeah, it’s so—because you wouldn’t be able to get rid of me, would you? You can’t, can you? Not now I’m in your head—it’s too late, because I am, I’m in your head, I’m—oh, too much, really . . . Sorry, it’s such a turn-on, I’m going to stop for a minute and take care of myself. Why don’t you, too—go on, who’ll know, let’s jack off together—how cool?

Man, oh man, wasn’t that good? I came like a fountain, I really did. Nearly hit my chin. Bet you did too, didn’t you? My Disciple. Well, hey, it was my pleasure, call it a little welcome gift from the Spookster. I hope you’re all cleaned up? I wouldn’t want to think of any Disciple of mine being less than hygienic. A word to the wise here, be easy with the old Domestos - I know, I know, there’s nothing like bleach to do the job, but you don’t have to go crazy with it. Dilute, dilute, dilute is my motto, especially when it comes to personal care. You only need a twenty-to-one solution, really, trust me. I know when you first get with the clean-thing, it’s a temptation to slosh stuff around neat and just breathe in that pure smell but we all know where that leads and we don’t want to go there again, do we? Yes, even the Spook made that error, in the dim and distant when I was Just Plain Dave, not the Glittering Spookling I am today. So, hey, forgive yourself, move on. I forgive you; just learn, Disciple, learn from your mistakes like I did.

Phew, I’m positively knackered; but at least I’m not bored, not now I’ve got you. I’m glad I decided to reply to you, yes, glad—and I’m not ashamed to say it. You know, when I ripped off that bitch’s bag and found this lap-top in it, I was going to sell it straight off, but now, I’m well pleased I didn’t. This is so much fun. Yeah, and at least the bitch was good for something—because sad to say, she was a dead loss in other areas. I seriously thought I’d have to go through the whole palaver again right off just to get the Feeling under control; she was such a disappointment, like, really. But there we are, that’s what comes from doing stuff on the spur of the moment. But this ‘puter—way cool. I can stash it under the floor in my hidey-hole and She’ll never find it - because I know She tries to go through my stuff when I’m not in my room, the nosey slag, but fortunately she ‘can’t do that Internet stuff’ (how thick?) so she can’t look at my big ‘puter either, read my blog or track my little surfing trips. But better safe than, is my motto, so welcome to Spookyville, little flip-top Apple buddy. And you, welcome very muchly, my new and spanky-fresh dearly beloved Disciple.

Tell you what, Disciple mine, let’s start as we mean to go on; let’s have Lesson Number One in your disciplehood. The Spooky Commandments. The Law Of Spook.

1) Don’t do anything in the wet-work line without due care and preparation; even if the Object looks tempting and all seems OK, you haven’t prepared, and preparation is everything.

Case in point; Briefcase Bitch. The former owner of this cute AppleMac.

Now, to the untrained eye (yours) the Object was perfect - an easy location, very secluded, no CCTV, no-one around, dark. The BB, as we’ll call the Briefcase Bitch Object for convenience, was careless - yeah, yeah, I know they always are, but none the less—and full of itself as it stomped along in its wonderfully stupid high heels to its pathetic little fake-jeep in the far end of Sainsbury’s car park by the shrubbery that lets onto the wasteground behind the Business Park. No doubt, it worked there, slaving it’s plastic-nailed fingers to the bone in some IT company no-one gives a rat’s arse about. It had so much perfume on you could have tracked it by the stink; and when will they ever learn not to mix the chemical pong of cheap deodorant with the fake-sweet crud they will insist on spraying themselves with? What a mess. Typical. So anyhow, you’d think, yeah, you’d think it was perfect. The Object, our BB, was the kind of thing that makes my mouth water—yours too, no doubt, if you’d admit it, which you can now we’re One. Our Object was self-important, smug, neurotic, weak; a real all-men-are-bastards-is-my-bum-big-in-this stereotypical getting a bit long in the tooth ‘girl’. Girl—oh pul-lease, it must have been thirty if it was a day. It was bleating on to itself under its breath like they do as it fumbled with its keys and tripped over its shopping bags which were—as they fucking always are because Objects are such herd animals—full of frozen low-fat dinners, big blocks of greasy comfort chocolate and bottles of cheap sour white wine they drink because they fancy themselves a bit Sex In The City. But they’re not, are they? Not that those gross Sex In The City Slappers are all that, far from it. No, the BB was in fact just another fat, ugly, sweaty office cow like all the rest—mascara running, lipstick chewed off, orange foundation crusting in the sides of her snuffly nostrils, hair stinking of cigs, moustache unbleached, bristly pubes half grown back from her sexy Brazilian, and red marks scored into her bulginess from her too-tight scratchy bra and filthy thong. Just another Next-suited and Stylo-stiletto’d flesh-bag full of shit and gloop with a rotten-tuna stinking tangled mess of flesh down below that no-one in their right mind would want to put their penis into and fuck. Which is why I always come on their faces; why would you want to use the Other Thing? Yukkety yuk yuk. Anyway, sex, or lack of it, is why the Objects are always so neurotic and careless. They drink and smoke and stuff their holes with food to take their minds off their hopeless, sexless lives and get weepy and frustrated at the drop of a hat—or their keys—which makes them perfect, careless, Objects.

All is just fucking A-OK, you’d think. Well, you’d be wrong—and I was, so learn, my dear Disciple, learn.

Now, what I should have done, under these circumstances is just had a Practice; gone through all the procedures but not taken the Object to the next level—not had any actual contact with this particular Object at all but used the opportunity to improve my skills, right? Yes, right. A dry run, you could say, a dress rehearsal, because you can never get enough practice; practice does indeed make perfect and though your Spook is as nearly perfect as he could be, he’s not - no, nor ever will be, sad to say—completely perfect because if he were, he’d be God and he’s not. I’m not and I don’t pretend to be, like some I could mention; but that’s Americans for you, all gob. But more of that, and him, later.

But anyway, I was tempted, and I fell. But without the preparation it was all a bit drab, tell the truth. I didn’t know anything about this Object, I hadn’t reccy’d its living quarters, snooped its workplace, observed it for a bit, really got to know its habits. So when I took it down, it was all a bit anonymous, a bit of a one night stand kind of thing; cheap n’tawdry. Oh, there was the quick thrill of it struggling and gurgling and of course I got off, but I’m not one of those pervert types who can only get off by squatting on the Object chewing on it or whatever as it goes up a level, or by shagging it every which way but Sunday after its gone. That’s pathetic and my capacity for enjoyment is pretty broad, as we know, don’t we, my Disciple (I’m still tingling!). Sure, I certainly enjoyed opening it up to see what it was made of, I mean, I would, wouldn’t I? Like She says ad fucking infinitum, waste not want not. But in the end, to tell the truth, I was just messing around with my kit to pass the time. I couldn’t feel that enthusiastic.

In fact I was so bored, I set the scene up to look like it’d been done by someone the BB knew; made it look all neat and proper, shut its legs, covered its face with its jacket, the works. It was so realistic I almost cried, seeing as how in this playacting I was the grief-torn loverboy whose animal passions got away from me when I saw how hot n’ sexy the BB was as she titty-teetered across the car-park. Boo-hoo. Had this pretty little fantasy been true, I reckon I’d have got manslaughter due to the balance of my mind being disturbed, do a little time, out again a reformed character. I can see the judge’s face now, sympathy written all over it; oh those teasing bitches, how they lead a chap on, old boy. Next.

So, after I had my fun doing the décor as it were, it was off with the old plassy boilersuit and gloves combo, everything all rolled up neat as a pin into the backpack and it’s me biking off like any straight stiff out for his obsessive-cycling-nerd-got-up-in-luminous-bloody-Lycra training session. Well, it does keep you fit.

That’s the way it got wrote up in the papers, though, as if done by someone it knew: Bet the coppers lurve the papers, yeah? The papers have got it all sorted: Body Found On Wasteground - Shocking Murder! The body of secretary Janine Watson, 28, was found this morning by a man walking his dog on the thickly wooded waste ground by Ravenscliffe branch of Sainsbury’s supermarket today. Police say Janine, an attractive brunette known for her bubbly, outgoing personality, was brutally killed sometime last night by an unknown assailant. Sources close to the scene say vivacious party-girl Janine might well have known her killer due to the way her body was found . . .’ Etc. Etc.

Should have been a winner.

But it wasn’t.

Because I hadn’t prepared. See? Not being prepped robbed the whole thing of real meaning, made it just a jerk-off. This is a skilled occupation, not a bit of a bloody hobby. I am a craftsman, and so will you be eventually, now you have the brilliant opportunity of working with me. I know you might feel a bit out of it at first—how can you ever live up to the Master and all that, but don’t you worry, you’re my first and my favourite Disciple and I’ll be patient, as long as I know you’re doing your best, bless you.

Ah, I feel positively loving towards you, Disciple, positively fatherly. Do you love your new Daddy, Disciple mine? Do you love him like a good boy loves his Daddy? Would you do anything for Daddy? Well, of course you would, you’ve said as much often enough, but sadly, my glorious, enormous dick will probably never be yours to blow. Probably. Still, fingers crossed, eh? You never know what Santa might bring a good boy this Christmas.

But isn’t this cool? Hmmm? Yeah, I think so too. I only wish we could actually work together once or twice before you go off on your own, make your own way in the World, as it were. But there we are, not possible. Probably this is for the best because I wouldn’t want to influence your style too heavily in a Beatles-and-Oasis kind of way, I really do want you to do your own thing. Hmmm, makes me feel warm again just thinking of what you could achieve with my guidance though, it makes me want to

Bollocks, She’s outside the fucking door with the fucking, fucking, fuckbastard hoover, shit. Gotta go for a bit.

***********************************************

OK, just picked up your last message – so, your Mother gets on your nerves too, does she? It’s a common problem, I’ve found. They grunt us out of their twats then it’s nothing but pay back ever after, the greedy whorebags.

What gets to me is how She goes on and fucking on. Like, talk? Yap yap yap yap fucking yap. It puts me in mind of that Yank fella who did his mum and shoved her voicebox down the garbage disposal thing in their sink. He’s got all my sympathy and no mistake. I just had the same old, same old for, like, what, hours. Well, at least an hour. Always the same shit:

1) When will I get a proper job?
2) Why am I so secretive?
3) I treat the house like a hotel.
4) What am I doing all day and night on that computer?
5) People feel sorry for Her having a son like me.
6) She did her best for me, it wasn’t easy being a single mum.
7) I don’t love Her.
8) I’m ungrateful, lazy and only care about myself.
9) I was such a lovely kiddie how could I turn out like this.
10) Am I gay, not that She would mind, She just wants to know because people talk.
11) Say something, David, don’t just sit there looking at Her like that.
12) Oh, I’m heartless - heartless and cruel.

Then there’s a lot of eye-watering and heavey-titted snotting and I come back to my Spooky lair before she flings her blubbery arms round me and goes for the fucking hug stuff.

I’ve had enough of that, thank you, and being half-suffocated in Her stinking wobbly titties while She makes Herself feel better by having a self-indulgent uncontrolled crying-fit and getting eye-dribbles and germ-riddled mucus all over my lovely clean face does not make up for shit stuff happening. It so does fucking not, as it goes.

But anyhow, all this dicking around disturbed my chain of thoughts and it’s been a couple of days, Little D, since I’ve been able to continue our cosy little chat.

In the meantime, the BB has become something of a celeb. Oh yes, there was more to Miss BB than I’d ever have imagined, the naughty cow. The Plodski have only hauled in the boyfriend as prime suspect after some forensics put him ‘at the scene’! Duh? Not when I was there, matey. A fuck-up at the Lab, I fear, heh heh heh.

Anyway, the Boyfriend is something of a swinger, a bit of a provincial, pervey flog-em and fuck’em merchant and the BB—get this—was (The Sun) an S&M raver with a wardrobe full of kinky PVC gear and a collection of sex-toys hidden in her bachelor-girl flat’. Well, who’d have thought it, as my Nan used to say.

I am amused, Disciple, but am I shocked or even surprised? No. I am not. Nothing shocks or surprises me and I mean nothing. Though frankly (and I’ll always be frank with you, D) I wouldn’t have thought the BB had it in it to get strapped up in Latex and attend ‘wild sex parties’ . It was well porky, really, and the thought of all that rippling lard trussed up in rubber with a vibrator stuck up its wobbly arse and a dick in its slack pussy while the Boyfriend got his cock sucked by a leather-vixen in the comfort of some suburban Barratt home just heaving with hideous perves and pervettes doing their spanky-spanky hanky-panky to the soundtrack of a porno on the DVD, makes my eyes water—with laughter. Naughty, naughty people. Naughty. Naughty little wankers.

But you see my point about preparation, here. What fun I’ve missed by accident and by jumping the gun. It’s heartbreaking, it really is. I can see it all now—or I can imagine it.

Because here’s Lesson Number Two.

How To Do It Properly!

A) Pick a target.

This takes time and dedication. It’s not as easy as it might seem, my Disciple. I think, from my experience, you can easily go after twenty targets before you hit a winner so it’s a pretty full time occupation. But then, once you’ve got a taste for it, you won’t want to be doing anything else, trust me.

Trust me. Ha. That brings back memories, I must say. But I digress, as Old Wingnut, my former English teacher used to say as he stood with the late afternoon sun streaming through the class room windows turning his bat-lugs to wings of fire. Haven’t thought about him for years. I wonder how the old bastard is? Dead, probably. He used to call me ‘The Professor’. He’d ask a question—to which of course, I’d know the answer because unlike the rest of the mangy inbreds I was schooled with, I wasn’t terminally thick—and I’d raise my beautiful paw. Ah, he’d say, The Professor. Like we were equals; not sarky, but amused; we’d exchange glances, if you know what I mean. It was as if it were just him and me - which in a way, was true. He said I’d go far with English, as far as I liked or wanted to. He told Her that, too, but brain-dead cunt that She is, She just snuffled and gawped at him as if he were nuts. Jase was with her, I remember. It was some kind of end-of-year gala thing. Jase took to calling me The Professor after that, for a while. Before She made him leave, the rotten bitch.

But I am not going to talk about Jase yet. No I’m not. You’ll have to wait for that, my sweet little Disciple.

So, let’s get on.

B) So, you’ve selected a target that shall we say, rings your bell, ding-a-ling. Tall, short, blonde, brunette, pregnant, whatever. Single is best; childless is better. Living alone is perfect. Boyfriends don’t count, by the way, as long as they’re not live-in. Myself, I prefer the Business Bitch, as we’ve discussed, because I do love to see their condescending, Miss Priss faces crumble into abject grovelling when I reveal to them their Fate—but hey hey hey—don’t let my personal preferences influence you at all. You gotta find your own Way, yeah? Right then. Now, gather your equipment, your kit. This should be:

Night camo. Black tracksuit or similar (black denim jeans, plain black long-sleeve T-shirt, not with anything on it like a band name—you don’t want some passing droid to clock you wearing the latest Cradle Of Filth or whatever tour shirt and remember it later, after all), black woolly-type hat or cap, thin black gloves. Black shoes of a very common design (nothing distinctive in the sole pattern line). In winter, a black coat. BUT—try to make this stuff look natural, like you’d normally wear it, not like a bloody disguise. If you’re into light coloured clothing at present, start phasing very slowly towards darker colours so it doesn’t look odd when finally, all your stuff is dark. Don’t for fuck’s sake wear black shades at night, it looks wank and people remember. You’ve got to look anonymous, forgettable. Not like the bloody Dark Avenger.
Note book for CODED notes. Only ever take notes in code. Make one up yourself; sure, if the coppers got hold of it they’d break any code you might devise, but this isn’t for the coppers, it’s for casual snoopers, like your blood-family, flatmates or whatever. Never forget, if the coppers get hold of you, it’s curtains anyway. Lying to them does no good so we’re not in this to make mistakes and get nabbed—that’s a given from the get-go. If they take you in, and your lawyers tell you there’s no get-out possible, spit in their piggly-wiggly faces and tell them every little detail until they puke; serve them right. They are, along with the rest of the droids, the Enemy. Anyway, to get on with the lesson in hand. I just write my notes as if I were writing about something else, something innocuous. For example: If I’d done my obs (duh) of the Briefcase Bitch properly, they’d might gone something like this:

Fri. 12th: good sighting of the Common Blackbird (BB, see?). Usual nesting routine. Foraged at length in usual haunt then returned to nest seemingly exhausted and fed. Mate not in evidence.

Now, this kind of thing is easy enough, but you have to remember what your key elements are, such as; ‘usual haunt’ = Sainsbury’s. ‘Nest’ = its house. Get it? You’d just look like a great big nerdy bird watcher – all anorak and Adam’s Apple, no threat to man nor beast. Heh heh heh. Or lol, as the text-twats would have it.

Of course, my own real actual code isn’t a bird-watching one, obviously, I’m, like, just giving you an example, D. You could do something involving—oh—numbers or something, or substituting one letter for another, I mean, there’s loads of different ways to do it. It’s whatever floats your boat, y’know? Me, I couldn’t be arsed with all the fancy stuff, not like that Yank for instance, he does Elaborate with a capital E, he does, takes pride in it, fancied himself a right covert operative. I bet he wore night goggles to go for a piss after he, like, bivouacked in his fucking camo pattern jimmy-jams and had his freeze-dried Navy Seal-style cocoa or whatever quasi-military bollocks he was on with at the time. Honest, Baby D., to be perfectly fucking frank—and I know I can be with you, my dear Disciple, he does my head in sometimes with all that gung-ho Duke Nuke-em bollocks. I mean, why not just sign up and go off some rag-heads in I-rack if you’re going to do that Barmy Army twaddle. But he can’t, can he? Can’t join The Brave Boys Out There because—heh heh heh—he’s in the fucking clink, in the slammer, in the House Of Correction. Or the House Of Pain, right? Right? Yeah, too fucking right. Got caught, didn’t he? On the bloody job, up to his elbows in Red Sauce with guts wrapped round his neck like a college scarf, cock in the appropriate—or truth to tell, the inappropriate—orifice and bingo! Enter The Pigs. Bang to rights, Mighty D., literally caught red-handed. Oh dear, what a pity, never mind.

Now, I hope, I sincerely hope, Little D., that it’s a lesson to you. The Yank will never, ever leave his own personal home-from-home which in his case, is an Armageddon-proof looney-bin for the terminally homicidal somewhere in Texas. And why will he be waltzing with the fuck-heads and the seriously screw-loose brigade for all eternity? Because he lost control, D., and forgot all his prep work. He saw an Object, in this case, his little sister coming out of the shower all pre-pubescent nymphetteishly naughty naked nude and gagging for it and he Lost Control. Therefore, Disciple Mine, he paid the fucking price. As will we all if we do not pay heed to the Spooky Code and keep our feelings, however natural, under strict control. Saying that, of course, in regard to the Yank’s fall from grace, I personally would have loooooved a cute little sibette to, heh-heh-heh, um, play with—not that She’d have squeezed out another Spookling after what I did to Her insides, apparently, the selfish bitch. Yawn. I hate all that gynae stuff, don’t you? I prefer to think I just appeared one day, fully formed and fabulous, just as I am. A thing of beauty and a Boy forever.

But anyway—control, control, control—oh, hmmm, yeah, how I like the sound, the feeling of that bee-yoo-ti-ful word, the word of words, the King Word of my literary empire, the Holy Grail of Il Spookissimo, the Spook-Maister, Der Spookenfuerher. And it’s your Goal too, now, my darling D. You must discipline (hmm, love that one, too) yourself to achieve near-complete control, as I have done. As I said to the Yank only the other week - via the wonderful world of penpalism of course, I’ve never pressed his actual flesh, you understand. Ours is a virtual friendship, like you and I enjoy in a master-pupil kind of way, natch - except I have to, Jeez, put an actual pen to your actual paper with him. Now, I don’t say you and I we’re – duh – mates or anything. That would be inappropriate. Anyhow, the Yank - like minds, you know. Enthusiasts enjoying a cosy chat about our favourite pastime. Some build Notre Dame out of matchsticks, me and the Yank talk about, well, his Keepers think we talk about books. Books! Yeah, as if – but still, we do, I suppose, in a way. That’s our code – books. One day I’ll explain it to you—maybe put you in touch with the poor bugger, he’s got nothing but time, he might like a little acolyte to tutor, it would help him while away a few dull hours. Still, I must suppress a giggle, D., when he tells me his Keepers think it’s very beneficial for him to have a pen-pal in the U of K. Helps him ‘normalise’. What—like they’re ever going to let the poor boy out after he took down seven objects before the age of sweet sixteen (and never been kissed, apparently, except by his mommy, in ways and places that mommy dearest should have thought twice about—really, it’s so pathetic getting your own baby-boychick to double-fuck you nightly with a couple of big black dildoes from age eight and then moan and complain when he turns out a little off-centre—but mothers, you couldn’t invent ‘em. No, the Yankee Doodle Dandy is staying right where he is.

But not us, eh, my Precious? We’re out and about and that’s how we like it.

Don’t we, hmmm?

Anyway, I do indeed digress. Back to Spook-school for you, you naughty truant, you. Code—now, me, I use a simple yet elegant system, I just—oh—aha! Naughty, naughty D! You wicked little tempter! You nearly had me going then – I nearly spilled the proverbial beans! My, you are coming on! But not far enough to trick the Spooky-Spook! Tut-tut—go and stand in the cyber-corner, you bad boy. Then write out; ‘I must not disrespect The Spook’ a million times and no cut-n’-pastes either. Still, I can’t be mad at you for long, you’re too clever, too

Fuck, gotta go, I can hear the elephantine thud of Her plodding up the fucking

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Phew! She nearly caught me that time – did the old nip-into-the-bathroom-and-flush-then-come-into-my-room-double-quick-trick. But I’m pretty wise to that old chestnut. She and Miss Arse-Fuck Soo want to go to Sainsbury’s but they’re ‘scared’ because of what happened to the BB, so She wanted me to go with them—I laughed myself sick, really, I was gipping in the wastebin after She huffed off going on about how The Po-lice had said no young woman was safe until this ‘monster’ (heh heh double heh) was caught. No young woman? What do they think they are? Can they really think any bloke in his right mind would look at them twice, the ridiculous bitches? Do they never look in the fucking mirror? The Sow was got up in a – get this D. —cheap pink velour shortie-top lo-rise tracksuit from the catalogue with a heart in diamante on her quivering tit and you could see her foul shit-smeared thong underwear poking out of her vast arsecrack. What does she think she’s doing? Being sexy? A piss-drunk deaf dumb and blind man with no sense of smell would turn her down, on the grounds she might crush him to death with her bulk during the unspeakable act. It would serve them right if they did get ripped. It would be their just fucking desserts. I only wish that I could watch the knife go in and the guts spill out I really do, I really really—I’d do it myself, I would, I would, I’d but I can’t I can’t I

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OK, OK. I’m OK now, Dearest D. You see the volcanic depths, heh heh, that boil within the exquisitely cool exterior of your glacial Spook. Indeed you do. Pressed send accidentally there, not yet being fully used to the delicate keyboard of this nifty machine. Bit of an error. Still, your sympathetic response to my momentary blurt fairly cheered my Spooky heart.

I’m just sorry we can’t meet up as you’d like, I am indeedy, Beautiful Disciple Mine. My cock aches for a bit of lip-smacking manly attention from a well-scrubbed blondy such as yourself—nice pic, BTW. Very nice indeed. That outfit, what there was of it, you naughty boy—almost as if you read my mind in regard to my, shall we say, personal tastes. Do a bit of modelling, do you? A bit of artistic posing? Well, why not? We’ve all got our livings to make. A boy like you—well, it’s understandable some would find you very, very moreish. Not, you understand, that I’m a queer. Jase might have taught me the joys of man-boy love when he was living here, but as he always said, it don’t make us queer, we just prefer the clean, decent company of our own kind rather than the nauseating cattle women are. They’re just fucking breeders, my little Professor, Jase used to say, put on earth to make more Men. That was Jase all over though, D., he knew a fellow-spirit when he saw one—I might have been a kiddie but he saw my potential. So don’t imagine I’m a pouf, a nancy-boy, a fudge-packer, far from it, I’m all Man, despite my youth. Well, I say ‘youth’—I suppose nineteen is getting on a bit these days—but like all kurtensboyz I don’t intend living past twenty-five anyway. Why would you? Live fast, die young, go out in a proper fucking conflagration, I say. Yeah? You up for that, D.,? Still, at your age, my little teen-idol, you’ve a while to think about it.

Any-fucking-way, in answer to your question it has gone a teensey bit quiet on the Briefcase Bitch front. No dirty media for a few days—the Piggies did put out a statement that they were ‘following up a lead’ but that’s bullshit as we both know. They’ve got no idea whodunit and they certainly can’t tie it to me, they’ve got no forensics, no witnesses, no fucking nothing. Proper nothing. I know that because I know how to do my job properly. If they ever come for me—stop your sobbin’ Little D, they won’t, why would they? – I’ll keep schtum. Not a word. Let them sweat. If they find my stuff or my blogs I’ll just say it was all a fantasy. Just a pleasant daydream. Let them fucking prove it was

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Transcript No. 14. Entered in evidence in the trial of Regina v David Gareth Fielding, March 19th, 2007.

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‘Teen Monster Caught In Internet Sting’ The Sun
‘Teenage Killer Replied To Police Emails’ The Guardian
‘Spook’s Mum Tells All Exclusive’ The Tattler
‘I Was Virgin Killer Spook’s Girlfriend – Soo Bailey Speaks’ The News Of The World.
‘Teenage Internet Murder Ring Uncovered’ The Times
‘End This Internet Outrage – The Government Must Act Now’ The Telegraph
‘Spook Case Dismissed – Monster Back On Streets’ The Independent
‘Judge Says Illegal Entrapment in Spook Case’ The Clarion
‘My Life As A Teen Monster – Spook Book Bestseller Worldwide’ Mirror On Sunday Magazine.
‘An Elegant And Disturbing Read’ – My Life As A Teen Monster by David ‘Spook’ Fielding (HarperCollins). Reviewed by Saffron Hunt-Travers for The Sunday Observer.
‘Spook Wins Booker Shock’ The Daily Mail