I had writer's block for many many months, I was telling my writer friend Frank Russel.
The Gropamine Diaries were going nowhere, I said, 'and Gartland had put a curse on it, saying it wouldn't proceed unless he put his magic hands on it 'and sanctified it.'
But when the muse came knocking I let him in for a cup of tea.
He did sanctify it.
Eric and his wife, who I have no idea what her real name is, caved in.
'I'm the owner of this household and internet connection.'
Mistake one, he left his real name with the sales representative.
I had pirated his internet connection four times, no law against it.
It cost me money.
But every time I had his connection cut off, I knew it got him worked up.
'Try it one more time, cocksucker,' said Eric, after the second time I did it,' and you'll be walking down that street faster than you can say Jack Robinson.'
Eric, don't threaten me.
Look what happened to Lee Kwan Fucking Yew?
Yes, I did him over by the law.
And there's a good chance I'll do you over by the law.
I left a turd under their red carpet.
I put away their cooking pots, with my piss inside them.
I had pissed all over the place, making sure I shook my cock over the red carpet.
I paid up my $150 for electricity and left that place, for good.
I always pay my bills, even excessive ones.
I bought myself some time.
'Not really,' said Eric, who texted me,' come and pick up your junk.'
That meant for me to come and pick up my junk if I paid the water bill.
'It comes at $1000 for six weeks,' wrote Eric.
He must have a magical water meter too.
The Bayswater Council was very interested in Eric's granny flat, which I told them was just a glorified shed with a red carpet.
'We rely upon the rent,' said Eric.
What he meant to say was he relied also on the added income generated by electricity.
I had trashed his Malvin Star.
The back wheel was fucked.
And I had no intention of repairing it.
I trashed the toilet seat.
I took it off and played aim for the toilet every time I took a shit.
I took a few shits in the dodgy shower that at any time threatened to collapse in on itself and turn into a sinkhole.
The granny flat was soiled by me.
The chink who watered her garden around the granny flat would have noticed how her plants were dying.
I had pissed on most of her veggie patch.
And the council shut down Eric's cottage industry.
'Fucked if I'm going to pay you a fee to make my granny flat compliant,' said Eric when they visited him.
And that was the end of his scam.
Another knock on the door from the taxation department followed by another knock from Social Security, Eric and his mail-order bride were fucked.
I played my part well.
