Bongo once said, ‘You don’t know who I am.’
Didn’t Faith say the same?
Threats and more.
Wish those niggers would return to where they came from.
I admit I’m being moody.
Moving in this room was a backup plan.
It’s time.
I’ll tell Trang.
‘He keeps on slamming the door.’
‘But I already told him to do it quietly.’
I know, and you also told him ten times to move back to his old room but he didn’t.
He’s a sly and calculating nigger.
I don’t think he was a refugee.
The guy from Sri Lanka wasn’t either.
The last tenant even told me he had fake documents made up.
Australia truly is the promised land.
Bongo is slowly driving me crazy.
The ignorant pygmy fuck keeps on slamming his door.
Bongo is a cunt.
A dumb cunt.
‘You don’t know who I am.’
I know who you are.
You are a fake refugee and a lazy cunt.
‘I’m in Australia for work.’
Well why didn’t you feel in the application form I gave you for roadying?
Because he’s fucking lazy.
That’s my Duromine rant.
I haven’t finished with Faith.
I fantasized putting the knife to her.
I have a screwdriver handy in my room.
I’ll fucking stab Bongo if he tries to stab me.
He’s a refugee who was a militant who has killed many people.
That’s what they do.
It all begins with the slamming of the door.
Africans are backward people.
He is the stupidest fuck I’ve ever met.
And Faith is holding on to her meal ticket.
‘Keep your nose out of other people’s business.’
So then why the fuck did you say you were Congo when you are from Kenya?
‘I’ve learnt not to trust people, they’ll use the information against me.’
Exactly.
I got on the Department of Border Control website and tipped them off that an over stayer was staying here with me.
They haven’t acted upon the two tip offs.
Useless fucks.
It was either report her or eventually be driven crazy when anything could happen.
I bet Faith tortured kittens for fun back in Kenya.
Don’t let Bongo intimidate you.
‘You ask anyone who I am.’
I don’t need to.
I saw you at the Muslim grocery store handing over cash to that dodgy Afghan.
You are a drug dealer.
How else can you support Faith on the low income of welfare support?
In the early days, Bongo would have his friends around.
Five black Africans would congregate outside Trang’s house like it was the fucking ghetto.
Not a good look at all.
The area is not a good look.
And the three surrounding suburbs is an even worse look.
The Africans have congregated around these suburbs making it their paradise.
Safety in numbers, hay?
That’s how they work.
It was no accident the Faith turned up here.
She wouldn’t turn up, say in Bayswater.
Just not enough niggers there to hoodwink.
She hoodwinked Bongo.
I was there when it happened.
I was an accomplice.
I helped in keeping her hidden from Trang.
I should have just toll the landlady that Bongo had sneaked in someone.
But I didn’t.
I thought I was doing the right and humane thing.
First mistake, Africans aren’t very grateful.
They’ll take as much as they can and that doesn’t mean they owe you anything.
If anything, what it means, they have more right to fuck you over.
The bigger the fuck over, the better, in their primitive tribal eyes.
In the early days I got to know Bongo.
He was agreeable, polite and happy.
Faith, if that’s her real name, dragged him down to the gutters.
He was now banished from the Garden of Eden and he didn’t even get to fuck her.
Bongo has intimidated me.
He was brilliant about it.
It couldn’t have worked any better.
First, he got respect, yes, I fear him, secondly, it looked great in front of Faith.
He’s quite good at knocking on doors, loudly.
So is Faith.
These primitives are better without doors.
Faith loves knocking loud on my door.
Now Bongo is making a habit of it.
They want me out.
Oldest trick in the book, knocking loud on door until the person staying inside that room either goes crazy and insane, or moves out.
I moved out.
Another secret weapon of the Africans was singing.
Faith could do it all day and night.
I don’t wear ear plugs anymore.
I don’t need to wear them.
I don’t wear noise filtering headsets.
I don’t need to wear noise filtering headsets.
Faith and Bongo should get married.
And return to Africa.
Have kids.
Embrace their culture.
Be among their own.
And stop fucking terrorising white people.
In time they’ll take over Australia and race out the white man.
Like they did in South Africa.
It’s their way.
They have the nastiness for it too.
I crave for a peace and quiet place.
The Nepalese was referred to me by another Indian, Kewal.
For a year I had to listen to this cunt sing, talk, and fuck around.
He was a lazy ass too.
‘He’s your best friend.’
Now what the fuck does Congo Bongo mean by that.
He won’t ever tell me.
He’s incapable.
It’s just creepy the way he says that.
Could I just clap both hands around his ears, or spit on him or kick him in the balls or put a bullet between his eyes.
‘He’s your best friend.’
You fucking retard .
It’s confirmed.
He’s a guy who got raced out of his last place for not doing the cleaning.
He’s just like you, but a brown lazy nigger.
He’s just like Faith, who is a black dirty nigger.
How the fuck did you get into Australia, begs the question.
Fuck Australia has low standards.
They got into Australia by lying.
The dirty bitch cooks at 10.15 pm.
Is this some kind of I’m an ‘Adult African’ kind of thing.
She did that when I started work for Lawrence Tan.
I was in this room.
She banged and kept me awake.
Then the nigger, Congo Bongo started dragging a big steal case from his room and into the kitchen.
Then I moved back to my old room.
I did tell Faith to be quiet after 10 pm.
No, she didn’t listen and kept on banging.
I hate her.
I always will hate her.
Wish the nigger gets deported back to Kenya.
I thought niggers were dumb and agreeable.
No, they are dirty filthy arrogant and nigger fuckers.
Well, she had fucked over Bongo.
And for that I am grateful.
She’s not all bad.
‘I’m paying rent,’ she told me.
Bongo said she wasn’t.
Bongo said she’d pay him back.
She even wrote it on a piece of paper.
That was good enough for the dumb ass.
Faith is a pathological liar.
Don’t trust a nigger, said my neighbor.
‘They are cunning.’
Faith is a dirty ugly slut.
You know she’ll never buy anything for the house, like bleach ect.
She’s a dirty little mole.
‘You don’t know who I am.’
Yes, I do, a dirty nigger with a black face you keep on trying to erase with potato starch.
I can hear the dog a few rooms down.
I fucking hate him too.
He has three bikes near the gate.
I bump into them all the time.
I’ll tell Trang, then Trang will tell him to move them, which he will, then the next day they will be back in the way, near the gate.
What a fucking dirty dog.
I call Rosie often from District 1, designated by the State as Nigger Free Zone. Hadn't things changed from the 80s when the local aborigines were banned from entering the city of Perth? Now the Noongah can live it up big in District 2, where the clubs, whore house and drug dealers can be found.
'So what's the update,' she asks.
I remember my 20s working as a waiter at this sort of high-class restaurant in the big city I was living in.
I was at my prime.
The gays called me ‘The Body.’
Rosie’s eyebrows arch.
Isn’t’ that what they called Elle Mc Pherson, the famous 90’s Australian swim wear model, asked Rosie.
Well there you go.
I was called the body.
And boy didn’t I like to fucking flaunt it?
These days I try and hide it, camouflage or just deny I’m even fat.
‘Get back to the story,’ said Rosie.
Sorry, a slight detour.
Blame it on the bguromine.
Been fighting psychosis the last few weeks.
Nearly took me down.
‘What do you mean, nearly took you down?’ asked Rosie, who always thought I was crazy from the first day I met her.
‘And if you weren’t crazy, I would never have invited you into my home.’
How’s that for an endorsement?
The manager of this five-star restaurant was in his late forties.
He had love handles.
You could see them spreading out under his starched white shirt.
He had a balding head.
And he was a creep.
A faggot who wanted to fuck my ass.
‘Sydney is famous for that,’ said Rosie.
It was I said, and I had a few gay fans to who wanted to fuck The Body.
‘I bet you tried to sell your ass too?’
Rosie, decorum please.
He used to make wise cracks.
‘I bet you’re got a tight ass under those baggy black pants.’
Then he’d pat my ass.
He was the manager and could get away with shit like that.
It was before PC crept into the workplace.
I played it up to keep my job and the creep got his money’s worth by the occasional grope.
It’s how things worked in hospitality back then.
