Billy Harte threw himself against the bedroom wall of his ugly terraced home in Fishbourne Road East, as he writhed in mental agony.
Fatso had done it again. He'd failed. Failure was all his life had ever been. It was a plethora of failures. First, he had failed with his ugly crooked nose sidekick to steal that loot from Homebase in July, as he'd ended up being prosecuted, as the retard should've realised he would've been. And secondly he'd come to a state in his life where stealing was necessary to keep his finances afloat.
Why hadn't he made more of an effort in school? Why hadn't he listened then to the warnings of his special needs team, who he now realised in hindsight were correct about the position he'd been in if he didn't aim to do well in GCSE year?
Now Billy had to pay the consequences. He was an academic failure, a commercial failure, a criminal failure, a father failure (as he would be doing time and not seeing his offspring), and a weightwatchers failure to loot – uh, boot.
Billy opened his fat gob and a moan escaped his lips at the parody of his life. As he closed his gob, his face took on its normal appearance, facially he was one of those people that looked like he was going to burp all the time.
He remembered the conversation well. Martin Roberts, his crooked-nosed retard, another failure, had agreed to the idea. It had taken some convincing by Billy for Martin to escort him to Homebase that fateful 28th June, when Billy then proceeded to load two pallets of stock into their van without paying. Police were called to the scene. Billy, although not drunk, made the drunkard decision to try and escape. He was too fat to escape, and was easily apprehended.
The twenty-eight year old had been sentenced by Brighton Magistrates' Court to 18 weeks in prison, not his first conviction. He'd also been disqualified from driving for 18 months and ordered to pay £130 in compensation. The fatso would have to rely on family to pay that debt – he counted on them for pretty much everything else in his worthless life, including his home.
He'd had a shot at being a success at eleven when he'd been confirmed entry to Bishop Luffa. Fortunately for the taxpayers, Billy had been absent most of the time (so nobody had to write notes for the dyslexic twat), but unfortunately for Fatty, his prosperity in life had depended on doing well in his exams, which he'd flunked, like everything else.
"EVERYTHING!" raged Billy Harte, "why does everything in my life have to suck?!". He threw his head against the wall, bruising his skull. He yelped in pain as a random beer bottle fell and whacked him in the face. He was nostalgically reminded of how he'd thrown tennis balls at little boys' faces during his (limited) time at Bishop Luffa. He'd felt edgy doing so, preying on the young. Of course, he'd never have done it to anyone bigger than him because he didn't have any balls (except the ones he threw at little kids).
Although nobody realised it, this was actually not just a grasp for edgy glory, but a sexual vent for Billy. He thrived on the idea of having his balls in the faces of younger men whilst appearing edgy, but was too proud to reveal his true sexuality. Hence THROWing balls instead.
In fact, the attempted loot at Homebase was a sexual vent in itself. Billy had thought of testifying this when he appeared at Brighton Magistrates' Court (which was broadcast remotely, due to the coronavirus pandemic), hoping for a lighter sentence, but Fatty's pride was too great. He had nothing in his worthless existence to take pride in – not even his appearance, as both he and his offspring resembled the whackjob lovechild of Fat Tony and Shrek the ogre.
Martin Roberts, Billy Harte's sidekick, was two years younger than Billy. Billy had a secret infatuation for him, so he'd deliberately chosen Martin for this deed, which was done not just because Billy needed the money, and had no life skills to raise it in other ways – well, there was baking, which being a closet gay he was good at, but that was more so he could shove pork pies into his fat deadpan mug.
No, Billy was still hellbent on trying to be an edgelord, and just wanted to impress Martin.
He'd imagined them riding home in the van happily, successfully having taken the goods… why couldn't it have been a happy ending? Billy thought. They'd be blasting out Taylor Swift and Nicki Minaj on the radio and eventually, after much laughs and manly flaunting of flabby arms, Billy would pull in to a deserted forest and they'd make love into the night in their van, Billy's tiny willy in Martin's shnozz.
Ah, but to dream, he thought.
Billy Sharted as he went to bed.
To be continued.