Chapter One:
Breaking The Fourth Wall
This shamblic, fairy-dust like bonger-esque rambling, hysterically stuck up and presumptious, Volvo product-placing author note of the latest blasphemy to insult our freakishly devoted Wendo club house was getting the standard screening test tonight.
If it was genre-plotzing cracker, it went in in the Keep pile.
If it was a stinker, it got used as kindling to warm use when the draughty, spooky but lasts-legs kind of decrepit-looking clubshack that would soon mean the A. would either have to do another of our four-strong mini-flash mob send up of our beloved god's inspired way with words when we needed club funding and we, in typically offbeat afternative where we all mooted but ripped the piss out of Twitard in typical manner of Tallaght boonie street mongrel-style squade of way too- American-nized hips and squares, would soon be kicking around upgrade spots.
The abandoned, sprawling metropolis, suitable Fallout Megaton looking beaute of a humgunoloid twelve acre abandoned squatter skaghead toilet site that was a huge twelve acre industrial part of of a survialistica's Fallout-nursed wet dream of decrepitness, having been abandoned close to a hundred odd years ago.
No-one wanted it as it was believed to be haunted due to the squealing pig noises we'd often catch on the calmer nights that gave it a La Veyan, hellish mythos vibe that was really just a bunch of hardcore scene-fag Satantist doing horrible things to piglets in a bid to envoke the half-inflated dark lord of yesterday.
I regulary took to smacking any stupidly clown-faced little faux-faggy, Harry Potter reading numpty with my massive collector's edition bible of The Necromicron-it weigh like a cinderblock of epic, wrapped in an astonishling beautiful black leather effect Evil Dead-envoking motif with a little golden stencil of cuddly Chtulthlu Squid Guardian on the front.
I bashed around many a non-commited quasi non-conformist with that fucking brick of a book.
I gave one particulary sheep-minded, uncommited-to-his-creed Goth who I regularly caught in my school's computer lab fapping through his pockets to PEREZ FUCKING HILTON of all people, a concussion.
If it was David Hasslehoff then he'd earn creepy-yet-awesome points, even more for Tom Selleck but Perez fucking Hilton? At least Paris has the whole amazing Amber Sweet Sweet Redemption that made her a sparkly ditz of a living Paragon in my eyes and thus respectable fap material.
But.
Perez.
Fucking.
Hilton.
I got a ten day suspension and no recess for six months, which was pointless considering I went to my secular school just enough times not to alert my god-modding granny to my mitching before bunking at the first available opertunity to go paintballing with my motley gang of assholes.
I belted that uncommited, poser Goth fucktard Perez fapping needs-to-die-in-a-fire red flag to my Hulking Nerd Rage, baiting-and-bashing him into a concusion so intense his empty skull nearly cleaved in two.
Now and forever more in the Learn Together American-style Allied Athiest Alliance-approved secular school I went to because I'm like an all knowing and shamelessly lampooning the fact, Irish-American Juno McGuff sort who was known as Tank Girl around town not so much that I looked exactly like her following the Metapod sparkle explosion at sixteen from useless, bland lump to sparkly Butterfree and I floated like a rainbow mohawkian valkyrie of cool, strutting like Mike fucking Jagger down the halls with my basjy-book-of-poser-pwn under my arm and my box of sniper paraphanalia in the other.
I was a untouchable, smug-ass, pure as pissed-on snow badass motherfucking child of a Teg Nugent type proud, NRA card carrying member of the elite Mentalist Mafia.
I am a legend in my own mind.
Adopting Wendonese for our giggity lingity, the gang of childhood friends (and first boyfriend come friend for lifer) I rolled with lived a sort of nerdy nomadic mini-tribe, compact little clusterbomb sort of existence where we were more comfortable amongst our nerdy uber-geeky compatriots than the majority of smacked up "zombies" that gave Tallaght it's much meligned but accurate and hileriously tongue-in-cheek typical Irish self-depreciating wit of constant war-zones in the summer sort of analogies.
They all had us shitting Zhu Zhu hamsters with braws of unrepented, unrestrained geek-snorting laughter, for we were nothing if easily amused out in the arsehole of No Man's Land with fuck all to do with ourselfs but pool our monies and roster weekly, dirty grubby evil pidgen squipping with awesome-sauce Aersoft rifles.
We found ourself effortlessly falling into a silly little pun-o-riffoc tongue-in-cheek zombie survivalist reanactment club.
That's how we rick-rolled for whilst we all knew we were so aching cliched, stereotypical little quirky outcasts from a perfect if -in places actually rather scenic in tiny microcrasming sort of little flowering pretty daises that inexplicably at times rose up from fetid, festering lumps of crumbling, repugnant cow shit- sort of way.
But when did we ever give a clusterfuck about anything but our own litte obsessions, quirks and what have you?
We were everything culty, great, slocky, offbeat, quirky, kitzy and a whole galaxy of deep, cutting cliches that held no resonance for we didn't care-we were having the time of our our lives shooting seven shades of stick cornsyrupy hand-made, ingeniusly re-usable waste-no-want not refillable quibbies that I, after slaving with babysitting disgustingly scummy Jacintas and cheese-toothed but not in an awesomely familiar, brotherly way like Simon's eternally reassuringly unique yet slightly iffy Guinness Marmite and cheesey Chikatee puff breath.
Not that great-in-a Romaro context kind that was so fucking disgusting it put me right off my choco-milky Frosties when I tried to yank my eyes away from the brainless, so screamingly obvious druggie shellsuited scumbag zombie Jacintas that shuffled around in a drolling, dead-eyed look that, to paraphase my latest obsessions of Lovecraft and David Gaider- Gatoraiding:
Their gaits were lumbering and stupidly, comicly Perez Hilton grade fucking retarded yet they were hair-trigger half-skagged out crazed, warningly grim-faced lunacy provokers that could all be summed up as:
I am Smackhead Princess Stabbity! Shuckity shuck shuck! I'ma pawn yer vintage Caseo watchie-talkie fer geeeeeeeeeeee-eeeeeaaaaaar!
But then they'd see I was well connected in what was actually a well thought out safety quirk on the heroin-infused hell-mouth that Tallaght had slid into during a horrific criminal oddysesy in the Eighties that, like with most large districts, there was always a low grade level of crime in every corner of the word but this...fuck, this shit was real.
Pure grade A marading, snarling, crazed shambling corpse army of skagspawn that more than once got too fucking close to our comandeered abandoned rickshaw of a tiny, craggy-but-charming abandoned tatcher-cottage that was on it's way out, but whilst we never all brought our more valueble swag out, we were nothing not innately stubborn little basterds, devoted to the nerd-gasmic Grey Warden-like cause and would squib them right into the killzone of a horrific, local spook story of a place that made the Deep Roads look like Lego Disneyland.
It was a hell unto itself and yet so achingly, heartbreakingly awesome, for if you listened closely on a disquieting, frightening silent boonie sticks of nowhere flat town kind of starless, moonless night and turned south facing into the gauping festering scar on the landscape that was the Hellmouth over a high spiking ridge of basalt ridging rock that had broken through the jungle-weed ,clashingly vivid green grasses against the fetid sludge, it was like Boonie Town itself recoiled in horror at it.
Dublin-or indeed all over Ireland-was full of mythical prose in the air, of horror stories, haunting shrieking breezes that especially rattled the cheese musk off my pally-wally ex-boyfriend-come-friend-for-life Marmaduke's breath, with regards to turning him into a jibbering mess of cheesy, quivering souflee of a pansy-ass!
The man was so achingly aligned with our Fantasy Slayer Glauntlet Xander Harris it was frightening amongst itself but CheeseWiz was such a bullshitting little mouthflapper sissy girl Remington forfeit-dancing stone cold, grade fucking A:
Big. Girls. Blouse.
At the best of times in the howling winter, Simon "Alistair " Teagan would act with edgy, almost jonsingly skaghead-like, jerky movements, shoring up what ever cracks he found in the crumbling plaster walls of our club-house with the quirky baby-sized pots of Playdoh he'd magically whip out from the No-Where Dimension when he though he was alone and he'd be like a big man-baby at Christmas, derping out over undying love for the pudgy squiddiness seconded only to his eternal undying, inter-species-erotic flavored love of our unofficial Pug mascot:
My antrofied living Paragon soulmate that was my Homer J Simpson pugg-wuggy Guetamalen Insanity Pepper life partner despite still being a six-month year old puppy, life partner in crime and mischief.
The Play-Doh also had the handy use of plugging up the whistle holes because Simonstair was deadly afraid of banshees and was so horrified by the thought of them that he couldn't even go near a bag of Banshee Bones-super-mega retro Irish kitschy Eighties bone-shaped cheesey poof alternative yokes that had this incredibly unnatural but gorgeous orangy fallout-dust coloured powery cheesy stuff that I tripped Banana Bunch balls over.
Some Bahnhammertime epic childhood Halloween prank sent him loopy-doop 'cause he was a big kid at heart being one himself with having been raised by his Bristol-ex-pat little manchild of a father Declan.
Deco the Bruce Campbell Ginger Doppleganger Man Ghost Bus Conductor, I shit you not if I might wax Roddy Doyle!
Deco never fully revealed the whole shebang about what happed to make his son Simonstair Marmadukie Cheesewizzy Teagan so spooked he couldn't even stand to be near me when I ripped the shit out of him at every chance I got with Rizla papers and one of our four-strong team's little combat plasticy combs in a snarky my-ex-girlfriend-mate-for-life-is-a-total-asshat-kind of way.
Even kazooes freaked him and it was the source of such epic piss taking that one day, he's had enough and in his typically awesome half Bristolian fusion Tallaght accent of strangely fitting English-dudebro meets Dubby rascal lilt,he had an atomic Alistair-flavored hissy.
He was a Steve Valentine-voiced manchild- which is exactly why, aged fifteen and a bit, I owned the first box he ever came in- and it was perfect for him because that's exactly how he was when he wasn'y about to poop a Cornish Game Hen over my merciless little sisterly-ribbing which culminated, not long after I was freaking out over the Dragon Age Awakening thing that he'd had enough and, being a camping fantic yelled, in his often incredibly overly sensitive pure, Bristollian high pitched baby wail tone that was so fucking hilerious it only made me terrorize him even worse!
The Banshee thing had culminated one great night when we were on a camping trip to the Wicklow Mountain borderlands with Bahnhammer and his awesome girl-after-my-own-Kraut-snitzelling heart German Pandora of awesome with her Rammstein guitarist, bone shredding covers that fused Courtney Love with Dani Filth and she purposely, being privy to the whole hilerious pisstake, regularly utilized her astonishingly epic glass-shatteringly high shriek to royally freak out the crowned douche prince of Tallagh-den!
He burst into tears, crying into his Marmamite and sobbed out in pure quarter ex-pat Bristollian fusion accent that was like an even sissier Alistair voice that nearly killed me with choking asthma fits of helpless, atomic gut-grabbing hysterics made all the more surreal given the fact we'd all been dressed up as our favourite characters in perfectly crochetted splintmail that the unbelievably otaku-ish camping trip organised my our own little nutty DCU Eirtakon Harajuku girl butter- nutter Japanese dynamo we stuck to like crazy glue and whom was a language geek who'd run out of brain space for basic English out of astonishly jaw-droppingly learning seven diferent lanuages fluently in exactly one month of placement at DCU's world-famously great Lingo Lab- had organiseded in honor of the midnight release of Dragon Age: Awakening.
We named her Push, short for one of the greatest silly chop-socky ninja assasin movies Lazerdisc titles ever:
Ruthless Daisy Pushinuppi, for her immigent Japanese parents gave her the sillier-still delightly unknowningly unPC European name of Daisy-Root MaChinky.
She giggled insanely at a dog-botheringly high tone over EVERYTHING and went into overdrive at Simonstair's crying fit that was epicly hysterical.
"I hate you!.You're a fucktard, Chester Benington-ly Dumbo Eared little slaphead fucker baldy ass demonic woman sent from the Deep Roads to break my cheese-clogged heart, mock my love of manly-ass meatspead and get me so worked up I set off the dogs of the HOLE itseeeeeeeeeeeelf!"
He regularly, at least once an hour worried dogs!
His voice went crazy high pitched when he was pushed hard enough-which didn't take much, all things considered!
"Fuck you, Unsexy Lex!" His boyfriend petname for me that never left him even when the magic died after all of five seconds...
"I'm going to my awesome jungle-net camo-print King o' motherfucking Ferelden tent and I'm going cry into my squishys because you're such a meeeeeeaaaaannnniiiiiiie! Bwaaaahahhhhh!"
He would be pushing the twenty two mark at the beginning of my kids-in-America-adventure...
Myself, Push and our rolly polly Nintendo fanboi Nicky Snowden completed the four-pod trinity of Aersofting nutters, rounding off the derp-train, and he was an absolute fucking nutter slaughterhouse moonlighting, Unber-Realism Gore Bag punting deviant comrade in arms of the big chicken subnucular sissy failing Bawwwwwstair we mercilessly poked and proded until he cried and flipped out so bizzaro-worldly brillantly.
Myself and, Sick Nick were like brother and sister-as he so called himself, all bad ass-like cause his Gore Bags had lamb placenta and actual animal viscera in them-the real deal!- and he loved the the fact he was regarded in our small little commutity as an untouchable crazy, sick-in-the head mad-man who was like the Daveth of our little group- cheeky, mischieveous and in a total bro-mance with Girl Jocks Simon with the cosmic lovefest fact that they were straight-gays and touchy feely in that special way that blokes only got when they were karmaticly twined.
Nick and Simon were the same age, lived in a spacey manor house that Simon Sissypants shared with him their entire lives as their mothers were BFFs and they had the electric cosmic kind of bromate relationship that was utterly Turk and J.D (guess who's who!), one that I creamed myself silly over on an every-six-seconds way, right up to the tip of my lurid, ever-changing in colour pink liberity spiked monolithic shrines to my endlessly sadisticly evil, tortureous brain.
Our Go Go Yubari of the group full, gorgeously Tenchi-bimboesque mad thing Push's full Japanese name (out of what feels like millions but we all call her some varient of Push) was the beautiful geisha-inspiring daydream provoking Mihoshi Kaziyi and it was her all over-skatty brained and typically crazed tiny Japanese girl, which was her theme song happily enough as we tripped wasabi balls over our trans-contentially fantastic love of Weebl and Bob.
Our name, changed after a vote, simultanious honoured one of the greatest contempto-time-fap eighties-style spandextered new school un-PC hair metal bands ever created and the local name for the Mordor on our doorstep.
We were now the ridiciulously awesome "Hole Patrol".
Steel Panter and survivalist fangasmers a go-go!
B-e-a-uuuuuutiful!
Push was hopelessly but adorably sparse on English but she was fluent in my fantasy native tongue of German honed by my undying love of Till Clusterfuck of Panzerfist Mayhem Laudemann and we had our own secret little chit-chats that regularly put the shits up Simon and Nick, largely because it's just a heavy metal blunt-tastic language and we sound like we were plotting things (not far off from truthfullness!) before their illiterate backs.
And so, in our typically lulzy "Roast The Fail" on cold, shivery wet Friday evenings, we shot the shit to bits in a little Quiet Man-er of an ancient zoning hazard of a cottage in which the craggy look to it only added to it's intrigue and chingwag chats about who'd been the Scoobie to beat in nonsensical imaginative fights.
We'd guffaw ourselves silly in the old clubhouse of Nefarious Wendoderping Basterdz.
Tonight was shaping up to be a lion-eats-lamber type session and we all pooped Zhu Zhus over the silly and superflously long as fuck Maruding Moronic Myerlurka Nazila Failus smug as a shit-eattened Hutzian looking poobah of a shovel faced derpy textbook mythical, morbid obese American "epicly Bama Llama" looking sister of Mary bleedin' Harney but even this melted, congealing lump of lulzy sparklefail-lardiness could even make Ireland's much maligned pact-with-Donut Devil shambolic mess of an international punchline that was our Health Minester who was poster child for Pizza The Hutzia body shapes look like Megan friggin' Fox.
Before the club, we'd met at whoever's roustered place and we used to bullshit and laugh about how in the heck did she managed to linger on her Oreo-carved lard throne of gluttony and hilerously visually irony in having a putty mouldaloid Hutzian in a lurid pink, visable-from-space eye-bleeding neon monstrosity of her trade mart mau-mau tents we all knew she wore for t'was only her fat, empty head that the media photographed.
Even so, her American double Nazi Fail of some chancer tryna' reinvent a gloriously break-neck whizzing sparkley in all the right ways pinwheel firecracker of a cult genre that to our slavishly biased heads decreed a genre cleanser be staged and we lighter-fueled to death a little mushy green ephedgy made of a vate of congealing Playdoh Simon always seemed to conjour up from mid-air, the big man-child!
To stay in shambolic flash-mobber power doing wonders for our epic clubhouse Aersofting enstuiastes called what else but the A. or to be formal- Aersoft Squibalicious Squad, in honor of our collective worships of Joss " The Grand Wendo" Wendon of Firefly and our gospel on deliciously sardonic, black humour contempo-vamps, the immortally Wendo-tastic complete super-uber Stupidly Expensive Delexuo Win Edition with the memorbialla treasure trove of a beaute of a Slayer chest-a piratey looking antiqued chest full of awesome that made me shit a hamster with happy Zhu-Zhu shuffle dancing down the halls of my massive farmland barn house home when it had come a week early with reliable old Fedex
Super-childish and lameass I derped out, but it was classic, never-gets-old silly squishy lumps of retrograde joviality in this merry band of loveable, snarky assholes.
When we ripped something, we really went to town on it and the Sparklepifail Diaries provided no end of epic piss-taking rip of a slew of lulzy, pun-tastic authoress' notes contains stupidly large amounts of pre- "movie" Epiccy Failius Mid-Lifian Crisis ClusterfuckWank levels of epic fail and it was with glee over the horrifed tweenie pleb masses that we regularly took to shooting seven shades of cornstarch squips into them when we'd bait them with as many Breaking The Genre books to huck onto a Wickerman meets Myerlucky weird as fish-brained effedgy and my own mind-lingo Ye Olde Derpy Assburgeria Insomniac Neuralgia Pain Brain Aneryism Speak brought on largely by the fact I've written an opus-sporfle-hentai 100 plus fucking pages on a barely broken 72 hour non-stop derp train of insomnia once thanks to quite literally and punnily 'writing' in pain of the head-trip inducing agonizing dental skull-fuck that is ongoing, creeping Zevran Backstab Surprize Prickly Caged Dicked Unlubed Sparkle Elf Spirited Sodemizing Buttsexins stabbity stabbities of face-melting bone-siezing pain that's turned me utterly Zhu Zhu Hamster shitting insane and whilst normally I write trippy stuff when I'm hairline-deep in a vat of liquid cross-border Northern Lalaland imported British-made Uber Strenght Hardass Certified Neurophen which is the only thing that helps the Ziggy-frific lumbering muscle-golem arms going supernova on a pulsating, throbbing watermellon that is the perfect mephaporic embodiment of my pounding, pulsing skull...