Piss Takers

by Matt Triewly



Bored already - the time is 10:37 - and I can hear voices downstairs and outside. The main voice I can make out is that of a bossy teacher. I can also discern the voices of young children. It reminds me of being that age. Education it's called. But the bulk of so-called learning is about indoctrination. Be a good, hard-working, tax-paying, law-abiding citizen. Don't challenge the status quo. Don't ask difficult questions of the parasitical useless elite and their government. That's what it's all about really. One day it will all break down. How long can the leeches keep sucking blood from the host before it weakens and dies? How long? How long before financial collapse? How long before anarchy? Piss takers. Yep, never mind ethnicity, religion, class, gender, sexual orientation, the world, to me, consists only of two types of people: those that take the piss and those that don't take the piss. Which are you? Which am I? It's not always easy to work out the difference but I reckon I've pretty well sussed out the major piss takers in society. I may even, much to my disgust now, have voted for them in the past too. But they're not the only ones. I understand it all now. But probably too late now in my case to make a difference. I could have been a prize piss taker myself - if you can't beat 'em, join 'em - but I'm fifty-eight now... or maybe I can have a last hurrah. Money. Gratification of my desires. Base desires - the best kind of desires. Two fingers to the piss takers. Two fingers to myself. What to do? I'm going to think about that for a bit. For a bit.

I can hear the birds tweeting outside. It's going to be a nice day. Blue sky. Warm. Clear air.


"Do you have any seats here? I want to sit down. In the sun," she says with an upper class and an old-fashioned schoolteacher-ish attitude. Perhaps she was once a schoolteacher a long time ago. She's late seventies or early eighties and dressed all in white. Short sleeves. Like a lady cricketer. She is tall and lean. Wispy white hair. Her thin pale arms have flesh like parchment and are covered in liver spots and red blotches. Nice. Close to me she smells a bit like ham past its sell-by-date. Just going off. A lot of old people do to me. I hope I don't get like her.

I guide her to the exit and show her where she can sit down.

"I'm afraid it's in the shade. But there is a bench further down in the sun," I say pleasantly and helpfully.

She ignores me and then says again as though she is addressing a servant, "Where is the beach?"

No please or thank you.

"You need to take the right-hand fork in the drive and go through the gate," I inform her.

She says nothing and I think: You rude and arrogant old bitch. Fuck off!

I turn and go back inside despising and hating her. She needs someone to slap her face hard.

I smile and greet the next customer. Yeah, keep smiling. Don't let the bastards grind you down. Funny thing is I'm actually a bastard myself. My parents weren't married. I don't remember my father. But I remember some of the kids at school mocking me for a being a bastard. Maybe that's where I've got my chip on the shoulder from. Maybe that's why I've got no confidence. Anxious. Nervous. Maybe that's an excuse. Maybe. Took me a while before I could say the word 'bastard'. Kind of liberating when I did...

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