The House of Writers Read Online Free
Author: M.J. Nicholls
ill-fitting stilettos; in a swimming pool catching bloodied bandages in nets and rescuing infant rotters from drowning; in a homeless shelter, fending off inebriated attacks and tempting invitations to have vigorous tramp-sex in their rooms. When the homeless shelters closed down under a new government initiative (the homeless were to perform a town-wide sanitation service in exchange for a night sleeping in corridors and doorways) I too was among the jobless masses and to remain there for longer than I had conceived after graduating from my English Literature degree.
The Bulldog Brethren (TBB) had won the 2039 English elections and set about implementing their “policies,” the first of which was to drive out the remaining immigrant population and the un-and under-white elements polluting British professions. To cope with these hopeless times, I fell in with a band of nihilists who introduced me to the pleasures of heroin and cocaine, and I became an addict within two weeks. We hung around in disused office blocks listening to Peter, Paul and Mary, inserting ourselves into the 1960s counterculture in a doomed attempt to imagine what such carefree living might have been like—contriving pleasure-visions of riding pink clouds into portals of infinite love and understanding ... ending up in viscous fogs being attacked by Alsatians and wolves while TBB leader Neil Himes blustered us to death with his threats of people with tanned complexions working in British curry houses.
To fund the habit, I took a position in their Intelligent Persecution Unit, performing acts of abuse on long-settled immigrants to “suggest” a return to their own countries (in most cases, “their own countries” meant nations in which their grandparents hadn’t been born or lived). I was instructed to poke them in public (a repetitive torture technique designed to irritate them on trains or buses or in queues or lifts), to have loud conversations with strangers about how brilliant Britain is doing without its immigrant population, or onto more disgusting behaviour such as posting (British) shit through letterboxes. I had taken up heroin to escape the state of the nation—TBB had created mass unemployment due to culling various industries and opening up sweatshops on the Isle of Man to replace most of the low-skilled work available. My generation had no hope of finding work. I ended up having to perform these disgusting duties in order to receive my unemployment benefits.
I spearheaded a resistance campaign, compiling leaflets on what the immigrant population had done to drag England from the economic marshes, and what the absence of immigrants was going to mean for the future of the nation. TBB, noting the increasing drug problem, decided to replace state benefits with state-supplied heroin (6-MAM content diluted—about as effective as snorting talcum powder). I was in the position of being homeless, under the thumb of the government’s useless smack that still provided enough for a minor kick but left one gasping for more, and performing their dirty work. TBB had bred a generation of obedient ratlike drones willing to persecute immigrants for their latest fix. Things turned violent (as was TBB’s intention) and soon there were murders and witch-hunts from crazed junkies dying to get their veins on diluted heroin. I decided it was better to burgle homes and beat up white people to get my hands on money, with which I could attend a rehabilitation programme. These were run underground, since the TBB didn’t want the youth population to recover from heroin while it kept things under control and proved profitable.
I soon recovered from this and headed into ScotCall to take my chances at The House.
A Better Life
I
U PON completing
Kurious Kat Learns About Industrial Waste Dumping
and
Erectile Dysfunction: A Pop-up Book,
I elected to leave The House and head for the sea. I had a notion that there might be a better life for me somewhere out
The Bulldog Brethren (TBB) had won the 2039 English elections and set about implementing their “policies,” the first of which was to drive out the remaining immigrant population and the un-and under-white elements polluting British professions. To cope with these hopeless times, I fell in with a band of nihilists who introduced me to the pleasures of heroin and cocaine, and I became an addict within two weeks. We hung around in disused office blocks listening to Peter, Paul and Mary, inserting ourselves into the 1960s counterculture in a doomed attempt to imagine what such carefree living might have been like—contriving pleasure-visions of riding pink clouds into portals of infinite love and understanding ... ending up in viscous fogs being attacked by Alsatians and wolves while TBB leader Neil Himes blustered us to death with his threats of people with tanned complexions working in British curry houses.
To fund the habit, I took a position in their Intelligent Persecution Unit, performing acts of abuse on long-settled immigrants to “suggest” a return to their own countries (in most cases, “their own countries” meant nations in which their grandparents hadn’t been born or lived). I was instructed to poke them in public (a repetitive torture technique designed to irritate them on trains or buses or in queues or lifts), to have loud conversations with strangers about how brilliant Britain is doing without its immigrant population, or onto more disgusting behaviour such as posting (British) shit through letterboxes. I had taken up heroin to escape the state of the nation—TBB had created mass unemployment due to culling various industries and opening up sweatshops on the Isle of Man to replace most of the low-skilled work available. My generation had no hope of finding work. I ended up having to perform these disgusting duties in order to receive my unemployment benefits.
I spearheaded a resistance campaign, compiling leaflets on what the immigrant population had done to drag England from the economic marshes, and what the absence of immigrants was going to mean for the future of the nation. TBB, noting the increasing drug problem, decided to replace state benefits with state-supplied heroin (6-MAM content diluted—about as effective as snorting talcum powder). I was in the position of being homeless, under the thumb of the government’s useless smack that still provided enough for a minor kick but left one gasping for more, and performing their dirty work. TBB had bred a generation of obedient ratlike drones willing to persecute immigrants for their latest fix. Things turned violent (as was TBB’s intention) and soon there were murders and witch-hunts from crazed junkies dying to get their veins on diluted heroin. I decided it was better to burgle homes and beat up white people to get my hands on money, with which I could attend a rehabilitation programme. These were run underground, since the TBB didn’t want the youth population to recover from heroin while it kept things under control and proved profitable.
I soon recovered from this and headed into ScotCall to take my chances at The House.
A Better Life
I
U PON completing
Kurious Kat Learns About Industrial Waste Dumping
and
Erectile Dysfunction: A Pop-up Book,
I elected to leave The House and head for the sea. I had a notion that there might be a better life for me somewhere out
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