Ally Macabre they call me. Fucking hilarious. I’m the bad guy. You think I don’t know that? I see it in your eyes. In most people’s eyes. It’s that “let’s keep this as short as we can” look. Think I care? You don’t sell to your friends. Give me your money and fuck off, and if you’d be so kind please come back every Friday for the rest of your life and spend all of your money on my shit.
Yes I have friends. Real friends. It’s easier for you to think that I go home at night and crawl under a rock. The truth is the less you know about me the better. I killed a man once. I might even kill you. Don’t fucking cross me. Everything you think about me is exactly what I want you to think.
There’s so many guys, and they are all guys, who say “hey I’m your pal! I’m your best friend! Yeah you’ll love this crap that usually costs your back teeth but have it for sawdust because we’re all mates.” I’m not your mate. Treat me well and we’ll get on. Treat me shite and I’ll ruin your fucking life. Everybody knows me. I know everyone. And even if I don’t know everyone I know someone who does. Ripples in a pond.
You probably don’t remember how we met. I do. I’ve got it all written down. Sometimes late at night I watch the firelight, thinking of how I met you, I met her, I met her brother, I met his friends. It’s all in notebooks. Actual written notebooks. Paper, man. Don’t trust computers. If you need me send out the Batsignal. I’m waiting for your call, I really am. Fucking tenterhooks.
So the next time you see me, probably by accident, it’s not an accident. I’m always around. It takes great care and planning to always be there. No need to say hello, to talk shit.
Get straight to the point. How much you after?
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