THE EYE OF HORUS
THE EYE OF HORUS
What the fuck am I doing here with these fucking degenerates? This was supposed to be a new start. A job down the south of England land, picking apples, hops, spuds - anything. Anything that will take my mind of booze, thieving, gambling and the pain of another failed relationship attempt. Yet here I am with the ugliest man in the world and a fucking crazy hippychick who’s looking for more things to throw at a bunch of passing schoolkids, laughing like a fucking maniac. It could only happen to me. Christ I need a drink.
‘Thwee cood alth thwine on herrrrr’ says ugly puss.
‘Yous can if you want but I've got a book’ I reply, suddenly realising with a shudder of horror that I had actually understood what he just said. This is getting serious. Not only am I camping in a wood with Bonnie and Mrs Hyde with no job and no money, it appears that I am now able to communicate with the fuckers. I decide there and then to slip away when we get to town and find an off-licence, which hopefully sells the biggest, cheapest, strongest bottle of wine available to man.
I leave them in the social security office and head off to seek out the aforementioned cheap rate purveyor of licensed beverages. This proves to be a piece of piss. I could hear the wails from way up the street.
‘OOOOO WHOO BOOO HOOOO OOOO JESUS MOTHER JESUS MOTHER MARY MOTHER OF CHRIST WHOOOO’
A small crowd has gathered to witness the spectacle of a down and out old Scotsman who is actually crying, not over spilt milk, no not that. He has just dropped [and smashed] a bottle of whisky on the road and is stood, staring at the disaster vainly attempting to summon some corrective divine intervention. More importantly, there’s a carry out shop at the other side of the road, which just has to be within my price range. I walk in, make my selection and hand over the necessary small denomination coinage in silence, not that I’m ashamed of my accent, it just seems to me that a Scottish brogue might just prevent me from obtaining the desired purchase, considering the street performance outside. The old boot of course insists on counting every last copper, occasionally looking up so I can witness the disdain on her sour puss. All this is expected, so I just smile until she hands over the paper wrapped bottle of nectar, which is so huge she has difficulty lifting it.
‘Nice wan cheers hen.’ - I say in my best Glaswegian. She looks like she’s going to explode.
When the old guy outside hears me laughing he looks across with pure hatred in his eyes.
WHAT THE FUCK ` R YOO LAUGHIN AT YE FUCKIN ENGLISH BASTARD he shouts over.
YOO YE DAFT CUNT I bellow back and point to the smashed bottle SEE THAT THATS WHIT YE GET FUR BEING A PAPIST AULD SHITE
I can still hear the insults and threats when I’m along the next road but they’re fading, aye fading fast, along with any amusement and satisfaction I am still harbouring….. After all I’ve other fish to fry.
Roughly an hour later I am in the land. It’s been a while and it feels good. On the canal two swans go sailing by, looking majestic and serene. Fowl roast for the Queen. I consider trying to stone one of them to death. Not that they are guilty of any crime but so the song can soothe my tormented soul. Ha ha I am definitely kidding myself on here, not only would the vicious, thick-necked, hissing bastard of a beast survive any half arsed drunken attack on my part but its death throws are bound to consist of a haunting, blood curdling screech. Why should they be any different?
This wine is sickly sweet, sticks in my throat, gives me the heartburn and it’s got an unhealthy looking deposit of sediment floating around the bottom - just right. I feel the need to smoke, its always the way with me, alcohol makes me crave nicotine. So I bum a fag of this old guy whose out walking his dog along the towpath. He takes pity on me and hands over his packet telling me to keep what’s left as he’s just going to the shop to get some more and am I OK for matches. I of course am in possession of the obligatory beggar’s lighter so he just nods and tells me to take care. Good advice.
Along the way there’s a young guy fishing and it looks like he’s in luck - his rod is twitching and bending so that its obvious he’s hooked into something big. ‘Hold on mate’ I shout over I`ll give ya a hand with that, got a net?’
‘Yeah its there behind me’, and he points.
I wait at the canal's edge with the net expecting a large bream or carp to break the surface but we are both sickened to see the ugly snake-like head of a bastard fucking eel looming out of the murky water. I scoop it right up and soon its twisting and writhing on the bank with a steel barbed hook glinting where its eye should be. Whoosh I get a flash of wicked inspiration. The young guy is well pissed-off, as well he might be. ‘Do the business for me willya mate I can't stand to go near it - they give me the creeps,’ he says.
‘Sure man, sure, I take it you don't want to keep it.’
‘You`re not joking there mate, not a fucking chance of me touching that.’
I know what he means I remember when I was a kid I pulled one out of a burn back up in Scotland - what a fright I`d got, and the funny thing is is that they are really, really difficult to kill. I was swinging it full pelt smashing its head onto a boulder and no fucking way would the fucker die. I ended up hacking its head off and still its body was winding away - freaky stuff. I can’t help grinning with anticipation.
Back at the tents Mrs Hyde is busy cooking. She greets me amiably enough but I’ve a feeling she hates my guts. Ouch, I`m hurt. She asks me to go into her tent and bring over the veggies as she’s stirring the pot. At least I think that’s what it was. ‘Yeah sure but I've got to go for a piss first.’ So I go behind some bushes relieve myself and hang up the plastic bag. I go into their tent, get the spuds and carrots and steal her Discman. I tell her I`ve got to get back to town. She nods and asks me if I`ll be back to eat. ‘Yeah sure, sure I will, wouldn’t miss it, no, no, I wouldn’t, not for the world, the fucking world.’
She's looking at me funny like. I just smile and fuck off.
Wonder where John Merrick is? not that I want to see him or anything its just that I might have to go round a few pubs to get this sold and the bastard likes his pint. Mind you he wouldn't dare say anything and I`m too fired up on the collapso for it to make any difference anyway. I come across a boozer with a few choppers parked up outside. Nice bikes.
‘Ow much ya wanting Jock? the biggest one asks me. The Discman`s getting passed round a crew of three bikers.
‘Thirty quid,’ I say starting the banter. Of course we both know I`ll take twenty but you've got to play the game.
‘I`ll give ya twenny five if ya throw in the CD’, says the guy who looks like Lemmy.
I take it back off him to check out the sounds and grin to myself. It’s a Lynyrd Skynyrd album with a dreadful twenty minute live version of that piss-awful, annoying cunt of a song ‘Freebird’ on it.
Its funny how bars are the same when you’re on your own. No matter the country, town or even the décor. That’s because all you’re really interested in is the drink and if you`re lucky the barman is a grumpy bastard who doesn’t try and engage in any conversation. Looks like I’ve hit the jackpot here then. Which suits me just fine until I start to get a bit boozy and maudlin over Suzy. I scan the bar: the three bikers are sitting together getting worked up about a Japanese/American/Italian bike argument, give that a miss; a bunch of students with two copies of the latest VIZ taking turns trying to outdo each other by reading aloud the funniest joke, no chance; three old guys with a heap of bookies slips in front of them studying form, grim; two underage teenchicks who look like they’ve fallen into a make-up demo stall, jailbait; a couple of young guys with football tops I don’t recognise playing pool, don’t think so; and a lonely looking middle- aged barfly type half pished and coolly returning my gaze, why not?
Why not indeed. I dump down two bottles of Special Brew by means of introduction and ask if she minds if I join her - which of course she doesn’t. She looks younger than she did from the bar but is still probably prematurely aged from the bum hand she’d been dealt at birth and forced to play most of her sad life. Naturally enough her name is Jean.
‘Just call me Jock’ I say ‘everyone else down here does.’
She starts to laugh and bursts out with ‘I beeelonngg tae Glaesgie dear ooold Glaesgie toon.’
I am cringing but I laugh along with her and say ‘Where on earth did you learn to sing like that?’ which she realises is a joke and so starts to laugh even more. This might not turn out to be so bad after all.
Out in the car park she’s lying over the bonnet of an abandoned motor with her blouse undone and her bra shoved up over her tits. I’ve got my head under her skirt and am pulling down her knickers with my teeth, getting the first whiff of unwashed fanny in the process. With one leg free I pull her apart and get down to business. Her snatch is one of the blackest, bushiest I`ve ever come across so it takes me a while to part the coarse urine an`juice encrusted mass with my tongue so`s I can get to work on her clit. Bingo. I am licking, flicking, sucking, kissing that pulsating little fleshblob like my life depends on it and my cock goes so hard you`d have thought I`d been in jail for ten years. On and on and I`m just starting to wonder if she`s drank too many callies when her thighs start to grip my head, soon she’s shouting at the top of the voice OH OH MY GOD …I`M GOING TO COME…….. I`M GOINGGG…. TOOO ………COMMMMMMMMMME……. OOOOOOOOOHHH…….AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGH and her arse starts to do a snake dance on the dented metal. I pull my head out from under her skirt and gulp in some much needed fresh air.
WHOA OH HO MUFF THE MAGIC DRAGON HE LIVES BY THE SEA…..OFF OFF… CAHMON REF GOING DOWN ONA OLD SLAG… OFF OFF…fuck, the two pool players have been spectating at the pub back door.... ARGYLE CHA CHA CHA ARGYLE CHA CHA CHA............
Mmmmmmm Plymouth Argyle supporters... no wonder I didn't recognise the strip.
I’m staggering through the pitch black wood growling like a wounded grizzly, totally lost of course but no giving a flying fuck. I consider crawling under some undergrowth and crashing out when I spy the distant glow of Mrs Hydes woodfire - but alas no yellow ribbons. All is not yet lost though, there may be a blanket on the ground. That’ll be fucking right, a bed of nails maybe. A flashing image of Mrs. Hyde welcoming me onto a kip of spikes wearing the funky gear of a Bangkok dominatrix creases me up and so I have to prise open another bottle of Special Brew, in order that the moment be savoured.
.........I can hear him. He's out in that wood. He's there. Laughing a mad laugh. That's him coming through. Complicated and beautiful. Wait a minute ‘beautiful’.Yeah fucking beautiful. I’m going to sit on his dick. Too fucking right. Just once.Horus will once again walk this earth. Not that simple though. He's deep. So fucking deep he's gonna drown himself. And dangerous. Dangerous like a terrorist. Oh sometimes I sneak a glimpse into these eyes when he's off on one. That thousand yard stare. His disturbance is total. He's either going to kill some-one or some-one will kill him. Don’t think it would matter either way. At least not to him. Jail or the morgue. He's easy. Wonder what does matter to him? There must be something. Its not as if he's exactly communicative. I could try and find out. Maybe tonight. No don't want to push it too far. Not tonight. I know what I want to push tonight. Me. Onto him. Squelch Ha ha. Where's that whale-song tape?...........
Jesus I knew she’s a bit loopy, what with throwing stones at kids and that, but I never took her for a cat killer. Wonder if she’s roasting them in a wooden cage - like we used to. Whatever the method its obviously not quick. What a fucking demented racket.
.........More broom on the fire. It’s a narcotic. But the soup. That’s nothing short of dynamite. Wild mushroom - seps, yellow chanterelle, liberty cap and fly agaric…mmmm really WILD. Time to light the incense. He`ll be here soon ! The whales are calling him. Time for some incantation. .......'Shoa oawa shoa omma shoa oawa shoa omma……..'
Before I hit the camp I sneak round to where I`ve left the eel hanging up in a plastic bag of water. I slit a hole in their tent with my flick-knife and feed it through. Night night.
Just through these last bushes, Christ talk about reek, my fucking eyes are stinging like fuck so it takes a while before the fireside entertainment pulls into focus and its not just because of the smoke and the blurring effect of strong booze- I also have to contend with the bizarre nature of the scene before me. Which is indeed….. erm well…. Bizarre.
Get this - Mrs. Hyde is dancing round the fire ringing out little chimes with the discs in her fingers, chanting some fucking nonsense, she's got her face all painted with berry juice, a hat of what looks like a bunch of thorns and weeds stuck on her head, she's wearing a long white smock with a yellow crinkly sun emblazoned on front, moon on back, bangles are rattling from her wrists and ankles, there's incense burning in empty coconut shells, a large symbolic eye made up of wee white stones is emblazoned on the grass…oh and there's a ghetto blaster blasting out the latest cat torture hit.
'Sit here and have some soup,' she says to me and points to a log by the fire, which sounds just fine by me as I'm pretty pished, cold and knackered by the long haul through the wood - time to re-charge. I sit down in silence not through any cynical contempt but because I am genuinely stunned. She hands me a bowl. 'Drink this' she says, 'soon you will understand, I am trying to invoke the Egyptian God Horus and I may need your help later in the ceremony.’
'I'm game,' I slur at her, 'one condition, you change that tape - I kicked that gig years ago.' She smiles [I think] and soon we're listening to bells, gongs, chimes and wailing banshees. That’s better.
My face is starting to feel all hot and the drunkenness is being transcended by a kind of anxiety, this though is also changing and suddenly everything seems to feel so clear. The music from the machine becomes visible, I can see it, its hitting me in large waves -physically. I can hear the colour of the fire - the reds sounding at a lower bassoon pitch than the yellows and greens which are skipping between clarinet and horn. I close my eyes and hold my head in my hands but this only serves to exemplify the experience. Oh oh there's no easy way out of this shit thats for sure. Not sure if I want out though. I definitely want up. Got to get up. I scramble up the nearest tree and reach the highest thinnest branches with suprising ease. I am wailing at the moon and rattling the tree like some kind of primitive primate that has long since ceased to clamber through the flora of this green and pleasant land. The faces of God are fleeting across the night sky and I become one with the universe. Its as if I have entered another world, one which I somehow knew or rather hoped had always existed but which until now had remained elusive or forbidden. I feel both fascinated and full of dread.
After what could have been a lifetime or a few short minutes the hallucinogenic visions and feelings are reducing in intensity and I become aware that I'm being summoned from below. I climb down and am met by Mrs Hyde who is now totally naked. She`s smiling but doesn't say anything just takes my hand and leads me to the white eye where she strips off my clothes and lays me down.
I notice the weird symbols she's painted on her massive pendulous tits as she bounces up and down on top of my throbbing, ringed cock. Surprisingly she’s tight, really tight, her walls and lips gripping me like a hungry, fleshy clam. Yoga eh, I take it all back, its essential exercise for the sexually voracious. She throws back her head and stretches out her arms with her fingers pointing skywards and starts to howl like an Apache war brave. I feel glad she's put this cock-ringthing on me `cause the state my heads in I would definitely have wilted by now - but I'm wondering if you can come wearing them, the pressure is building up, yeah the sap is definitely rising. Sweat is lashing of me and I can hear myself pant like a straining husky. Its going to take more than a fucking ring to stem the flow of this particular gushing tide and as I spurt and squirt deep inside her she's bellowing into the moonlit night HORUS COME TO ME.
I wake to a Alsatian`s stinking dog breath as it laps away at my face. Just what you need when you`ve had one of the craziest days ever. Still at least its only got one head! The owner lets out a shriek as I stumble out from beneath the bush.
‘Morning,’ I offer by way of introduction but she ignores this and calls on her dog which is jumping up on me hopefully. Her calling is beginning to sound more and more desperate as the dog totally ignores her so I grab it by its collar and take it over so`s that she can harness it and make good her escape. I start to laugh loudly causing her to step up the pace into a half run looking anxiously over her shoulder in fear of being pursued. Funny woman.
‘What the fuck was in that soup?’ I say to Mrs Hydes huge arse.
‘Oh your back,’ says she, straightening up from lighting the fire. ‘Secret recipe,’ she grins ‘good nights sleep?’
‘As well as can be expected,’ I sit down and open my last bottle of Carlsberg ‘apart from the eariwig crawling around my inflamed anus.’
‘Well I had to empty my bowels through the night and it wasn't so much a shite as my arse being sick.’
‘Hehehehe,’ she goes, like a Shakespearean hag.
‘You wouldn't think it was so funny if it was you that had a blood orange for an arsehole.
‘Maybe I have,’ she says undoing her belt ‘fancy taking a look.’
‘ Eh! do I fuu..’
‘Heeeeheeeeeheeeee gotcha, fuck me Jock lighten up I was only joking.’
‘Hilarious,’ I say taking a long pull on my warm beer. ‘What are you in such a good mood about any way? elephant man disappeared for good?’
‘Sshhhh don’t call him that, he`s sleeping.. working late at a Chinese restaurant last night.’
‘Eh that dirty bastard, which one? my guts want to know.’
She makes a face and pushes me over playfully.
‘Hey watch the beer.’
‘Never mind the beer I`ve got something to show you.’
‘As long as its not your dunghole.’
She goes over to her tent and brings a knotted towel. ‘Check this out, its amazing,’ she says undoing the knot to reveal the eel’s corpse. I of course feign ignorance.
‘Where did that come from?’
‘It was in my tent alive Jock, fucking alive! it was moving around my sleeping bag.
Then she fucking grabs me by the fucking face and stares at me . Aye fucking stares. At me. Its as if I`m privileged to witness the keen excitement that’s so obviously taken her over.
'It’s a sign Jocky boy it’s a sign!'
'Fuck off,' I goes, 'a fucking dead eel is a fucking sign, WHAT FUCKING SIGN?
‘From Horus,’she spits out ‘don’t you see, don’t you see?’
‘Eh, no I don’t, I’m afraid I don’t see. An eel god. Thats a new one on me.’
‘No, no, Horus is the sun god represented by the falcon, or a falcon headed man, his eyes are the sun and the moon. He embarked on an eighty year conflict with Seth in order to avenge his murdered father Osiris, a fight which cost him one of his eyes- the moon. LOOK THIS EEL HAS ONLY ONE EYE.’
This fucking nonsense is getting to me. I haven’t the heart to tell her. ‘So where is this feather-head then? Eh? Where’s fucking Honus or Horus whatever you want to call the fucker. Where is the great long lost god so that I can worship at his fucking feet. Oh sorry claws. Hahahaha.’
‘He`s here,’ she replys with a slow deliberate calmness and starts to caress her belly.
‘ Haha that`ll go down well with the C.S.A...Name of father.......Horus Occupation.. Ancient Egyptian Deity
I feel my hand grip the knife handle concealed in the secret pocket and I run my finger over the blade catch. The thought of plunging the four inches of razor sharp steel into this policeman’s spotty neck is making me shake with excitement. Got to keep it under control though. Can't have this half-wit thinking I'm scared.
‘What’s that you say officer? Someone jumping out scaring an old woman? Trying to steal a dog? Sounds serious to me. As you can see,’ and I jerk my thumb at my full backpack, ‘I’m on the road, though I did notice some hippy types camped up in the woods about a mile back- likely candidates if ever I saw them.’
He continues to eye me with TV detective suspicion but makes off in the direction of what will undoubtedly be an exciting, aggressive encounter with a bunch of dirty, fucking hippy shower of scum who need a lesson in respect for decent people and the law of the land. And isn't he just the man to thrash it into them. Well after first calling for some back-up.You can’t be too careful, these new -age traveller anarchist types can turn a bit nasty. So they say.
A grin comes over me as I wave at the goons in the patrol car, but they hardly notice, they are much too pre-occupied with their battle preparations. And this time there’ll be no fucking commie bastard journos taking pictures of pregnant woman being clubbed from horseback or running slanderous police brutality stories.
It didn't look like a crow. There was something about its posture and quick alert movements that set it apart from that scavenging genus of vermin. No this was a bird of prey, a hawk or something. The carcass was not the usual run of the mill rabbit or hedgehog either - for a start it was alive. Just. It was a kitten trying to drag its useless broken back-end along to safety. The bird flew onto a fencepost as I approached and the kitten let out a pathetic high pitched squeal. It was in a bad way with blood steaming down its cheek.
It’s skull split open with a crack as I staved it in with a lump of wood, the bird remained silent just the eerie squelching noise as it feasted on the eyeball jelly disturbing the emptiness of the moment.