Length: 5-10k words
Notes: A Nathan Barley/RPS crossover fic in three chapters.
Shoreditch Doppelgängers by The Lizard
Studying himself in the bathroom mirror, Jones surveys the fresh array of marks and bites on his body. A large group of dark finger-tipped sized bruises cover his legs, back, neck, shoulders and chest. Two long scratches run either side of his shoulder blades. He touches them and they smart a little. He likes that they still hurt a bit. He is used to the sadistic pleasure Dan enjoys inflicting on him, but tonight something was different. When he had screamed out their agreed safe-word, Dan appeared not to hear his muffled cries, continuing to push him face-down into the bedcovers, biting and thrusting inside him in a frenzied way, animalistic. Then his lover suddenly withdrew, got up and left the room, walking out of the house, without a word.
Jones faces the mirror and presses one of the marks on his chest with a fingertip, watching his skin temporarily change to a white pallor, then the dark purple return. He notices that the bruises are positioned in pairs, as though he was bitten by a creature with two large front teeth. Weird.
The mirror steams up as the bath fills to the brim. Realising the urgency of preventing a flood, Jones quickly turns his attention from his wounds to the taps, running the cold water at full force. Stepping cautiously into the bath, he eases himself down and draws his legs up to his chest, gently sponging the marks on his thighs. The cold water tap drips, breaking the silence. Jones loses himself in his thoughts.
Why did Dan suddenly leave like that? Where was he now? Would he return?
Dan Ashcroft restlessly paces the dimly-lit street, generously handing out tormented looks to passing strangers through his dark, unruly mop of hair. His breathing is shallow and rapid. His throat tightens as he grows increasingly thirsty by the second. He shakes feverishly, and his shirt sticks to his back. Inhaling deeply on a cigarette, he slowly releases the smoke, watching it escape in blue trails from his nostrils. The metallic taste in his mouth will not go away. He punches a poster-covered wooden hoarding in frustration. A rat scurries out in fright, disappearing across the pavement into the road. Dan is tempted to chase it and pick it up, to take a bite. He resists, remembering the sickness that affected him the last time he tried rat for supper.
Dan feels himself grow weaker and he starts to feel dizzy. He crouches in the dark doorway of a disused shop on Redchurch Street, raises his trembling hands to his unshaven face and tightly closes his eyes, hoping to awaken from the nightmare before it begins. He considers the horror that he almost inflicted on his lover, the marks he left on Jones’ body. He was aware that he had left the house suddenly, without explanation, and that Jones was probably wondering what was going on with him. But how could he explain this?
“I am not THIS THING!” Dan spits out the words and curses the universe for damning him to this twisted eternal Hell. A splitting headache spreads slowly across his skull. He knows he cannot postpone the inevitable. To not feed will mean certain death.
Stumbling out of the club onto the pavement, Julian Barratt exhales loudly in relief and pats his jacket pockets. He finds a lighter and a pack of cigarettes and, pausing to push back his tousled brown hair, he cups his hand around a cigarette and lights it. Something tickles his top lip. He checks his moustache with a thumb and forefinger and extracts a piece of fluff, flicking it away. Inhaling more nicotine, he takes a moment to enjoy the night air and some personal space.
The Old Blue Last was a little too crowded for his comfort. His friends’ band had just finished their set and they had gone down really well. Julian was pleased that they were building up a fan base at last, and if it meant exploiting the Mighty Boosh name a little bit, what the hell? And there was a free bar for guests. There were people in the club he wanted to see, some faces he vaguely recognised from other Boosh-related events, some he simply wanted to avoid. He had given them the silent treatment that sent out the message, ‘Don’t you even think about talking to me’. Before he’d had a chance to embarrass himself with some of his ‘dad dancing’, Julian’s girlfriend had thrown him one of those looks that suggested to him that he had probably drunk too much and should get some air – quickly.
Julian takes a stroll along Great Eastern Street, humming to himself. Nobody will miss him for a little while. He likes to wander around like this. Solitude will keep him company. That and his full bladder. “Shit, I need to piss.”
Jones sprays himself liberally with Lynx Africa aftershave and pulls on a clean t-shirt. Grabbing one of Dan’s jackets, he wraps himself up against the cold night air, grabs his keys and leaves the house. He plans on trying three places to find Dan – the Sugar Ape offices, The Nailgun Arms, or the Old Blue Last. He knows in his gut that something is up. “It will be alright, I’ll make it all better when I find you.”
Dan needs to find a stray, drunken Idiot and he needs to find them quickly. The urgency to feed drives him across Shoreditch High Street, and down Rivington Street. He almost vomits at the sound of the vacuous Idiot babbling from several streets away ………perhaps Cargo will surrender one of its retarded clientele? Dan lurks in the shadows of the Comedy Café, watching, waiting. A well-dressed, middle-aged couple passes by, but they aren’t Idiots. He can only kill Idiots. It’s the only thing that eases his conscience, helps him accept this……..condition. He ducks down low and prowls in the shadows of parked vehicles, advancing quickly towards the junction with Great Eastern Street. The swift, silent movements of a killer on a hunt.
Julian finds a dark, deserted, piss-smelling alley between two buildings and unzips his fly, cigarette still dangling from his lips. A hot jet of urine hits the ground. “Sheer relief.” He hears an empty bottle rattle on the ground behind him. He decides this is probably a rat. Julian shakes off the excess liquid and re-fastens his trousers, turning to walk back to the club. He is stunned by a sudden sharp blow to his back. Julian falls awkwardly to the ground, attempting to steady himself with his arms, but he goes down heavily and is winded.
A tall man pounces on his back, pinning him to the ground. The man grips his head in one hand, wrenching it back. Julian kicks and punches but the man is too strong for him, even though he appears to be of equal build. He hears the sound of ripping cotton as his shirt and jacket are torn open at the right shoulder. He feels the man’s unshaven chin brush roughly against the skin of his neck, breath reeking of nicotine and vodka. “There’s no fucking way I’m getting raped by a tramp.” Julian struggles with all his might to turn round and face the vagrant. A passing car headlamp partially illuminates his attacker’s face, the eyes hidden by a wild mess of dark hair. Julian notices the light glinting off the tramp’s large pointed teeth. “Don’t kill me! I have so much to give!” He panics, whimpers for his life, then he passes out.
His victim’s face is momentarily illuminated by the headlights of a passing car. In those few seconds, Dan sees an almost mirror-image himself lying on the ground, the eyes tightly closed, shaven and sobbing. He can hear his twin’s heart pounding hard, his breathing is short and rapid. He can taste his fear. His doppelgänger whimpers pathetically and then passes out.
The car passes and the alley is plunged once again into pitch blackness. Dan cradles the man in his arms, fighting the hunger pangs that increase in their gravity. Dan’s mind reels with the incomprehensible nature of this parallel situation, the temptation to tear into this look-alike’s flesh bearing down on him. Quickly, he must consider what might happen if he feeds from this man. Was this guy an Idiot? Would he be killing himself? When this man dies, will he himself cease to exist? And how would he explain the discovery of a dead body that looked exactly like him?
Suddenly he hears footsteps approaching. Jones is a hundred yards away but he can smell him. He never liked Lynx aftershave but he is too afraid to tell him, in case he hurt Jones’ feelings. Jones mustn’t catch him here. Dan gently lays his doppelgänger on the ground before fleeing into the shadows. He must feed on the very next live creature that crosses his path, even if it is the local barber’s ropey old cat. Then he would have to hunker down somewhere dark. That disused shop he passed earlier on Redchurch Street was a pretty safe bet. He would return to the House of Jones tomorrow night and explain everything, make it all good. Dan climbs the fence at the end of the alleyway and vanishes into the night.
Jones wanders along Great Eastern Street, worrying deeply about Dan. He was nowhere to be found at the Sugar Ape offices, The Nailgun Arms, or the Old Blue Last. Suddenly Jones sees a familiar-looking figure staggering out of a dark alleyway, just up ahead. He calls out to the man, who stops and looks in his direction. Jones hurries towards him and greets the man warmly but he is confused about the way Dan looks. And he reeks of piss and alcohol. How the hell did he get drunk so quickly? And when did he have time to shave? Jones puts an arm around his friend and asks him if he is OK. The Dan-a-like rubs his head with one hand and says he thinks he was attacked. He seems frightened and dizzy. Jones rubs his back and tells him things will be OK, that he’ll look after him. Then the two men walk to the safety of Jones squat.
Julian Barratt wakes up in a strange room in a double bed that is not his. He sits up and puts a hand to his forehead. His head pounds and his mouth feels incredibly dry. Sunlight peeps through a crack in the grey curtains. The walls of the room are covered with egg boxes that have been painted black. Julian looks down at the floor and sees his clothes strewn across the carpet. He can hear a shower running. His cigarettes sit on the bedside cabinet next to a bottle of Lynx Africa aftershave. He reaches for the cigarette packet and opens it – it is empty. Falling back on to the pillow, Julian tries to remember what happened the night before. “Just how much Stella did I drink? And where the fuck am I?”
A vaguely familiar-looking man enters the bedroom. He is bollock-naked and covered in bruises. Julian struggles to place him in his memory. This guy smiles broadly at him and then sits on the bed, reaching out towards him. Julian looks back at him, confused, and pulls up the bed sheets to cover himself. “Do I know you?” The familiar-looking man talks to him as if they spent the night together, as if they are lovers. He learns that he had a bad knock on the head, last night, and that he probably has short-term memory loss. But this guy tells him that his name is Jones, that his own name is Dan Ashcroft, and that they live here. “Dan Ashcroft? Sounds like a right cleft.”
Jones leans forward and kisses him, just missing his lips so that he actually kisses his moustache. He brushes a large scar on Julian’s right shoulder with his fingertips, commenting that he’s never noticed it before. Julian jerks himself away from Jones, who gets up, giggling. Jones says he likes this new look, and that he never did like the rash Dan’s unshaven chin left on his buttocks anyway. Jones grabs the aftershave can and sprays it liberally over his chest, turning away from Julian.
Julian notices the scratches and bite marks on Jones’ back. “My god, did I do that?” Julian grips the sheets tightly, staring at a digital clock made out of a cut-out of Jones face. Jones speaks softly to him, climbing into the bed.
“Want to yank my chain again, Big Boy?”
Dan Ashcroft wakes up suddenly and momentarily panics, wondering where the hell he is. Dust fills his nostrils and he sits up, coughing and sneezing. A street lamp shines through the cracks in the boards at the window of the disused shop. Dan throws off the filthy blanket that has been covering him, then stands up, unsteady and a little faint. His bleary eyes gradually become accustomed to his surroundings. He pats at the pockets in his jeans and extracts a crumpled packet of cigarettes. Taking one out and lighting it, he realises that it is probably 24 hours or more since he ran out on his lover, and that he should probably get back to the squat and let Jones know that he is OK.
Dan glances down and sees the limp, fly-covered remains of an urban fox lying at his feet: a sharp reminder of the previous evening’s events. I’ll have to do better than this tonight. From past experience, he knows that if he kills and feeds from an adult human being, he can go at least three days without having to feed again. Suppress the bloodlust Tonight, it has to be an Idiot killing. Dan reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves a handful of fliers from the prime “feeding grounds” of Hoxditch. Dan notices that there’s a media event tonight at the Tea Room. Bingo. He flicks away the cigarette end and pulls his shirt up to his face, blowing his nose and wiping his teeth. Studying the marks left on his shirt, a mixture of blood, plaque and dirt, he realises he probably stinks like a rancid skunk and that he should take a bath as soon as he gets back to the squat. He pushes his hands through his hair, then forces himself through a gap between the hoardings at the front of the shop out into the darkness, the unquenchable thirst for Idiot blood driving him toward Hoxton Street.
Julian Barratt shifts uncomfortably on the buckled sofa as a deafening cacophony of sounds pulsates about the shabby lounge. He stares wild-eyed at the carpet and chain-smokes, not quite sure if he is losing his mind. His forehead throbs. He still has no memory of who he is, or what happened to him the previous evening. He feels like an automaton, as though he is living in a parallel universe. The vague familiarity of Jones continues to gnaw at him but he just can’t place him. If he can recall how he knows this tone-deaf speed-freak, he might find a way out of this enforced sexual slavery.
Fear forces him to stay. Julian is afraid of what Jones might do to him if he tries to make a run for it. Earlier in the day, when Julian had suggested they have a break from fucking and that he leave the house to get some air, Jones had leapt on top of him, pinning him to the mattress and vowing never to let him out of his sight again. Julian feels extremely anxious and scared. He has not seen an anal piercing before and was slightly disturbed at the effect a gentle tug on it had on Jones. Is this really my life? Do me and this Jones guy do that kind of thing all the time?
He searches his jacket pockets for his mobile phone and wallet but the items are missing. He assumes Jones has taken them and hidden them from him. Julian decides that, as long as he goes along with this Dan Ashcroft masquerade for a little while, at some point he will get his belongings back and will recall exactly who he is and where he is supposed to be. Then I’ll be out of that door faster than a jazz-funk riff.
Julian knows one thing for certain: if he has to listen to this goddamned awful racket for much longer, he won’t be able to account for his actions. It was almost midnight now and this Jones maniac had been creating a din for four hours solid. For fuck’s sake! Is this guy mentally ill? The icecream is probably in the fucking freezer! As Jones poses the question about icecream for the seventeenth time, Julian screams inside and wonders if Jones has an unhealthy fixation with frozen milk-based products. He lights another cigarette and nervously chews his thumbnail.
Jones looks across at the man on the sofa as he mixes together some more harsh beats. He thinks about the phenomenal sex he and Dan have had over the last 24 hours. It had been like the early days of their relationship, when he’d had to show Dan how to be more gentle and how he liked to be turned on. He grins widely at Julian and shouts into the microphone. I love you, Dan! I love you, Dan! AAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!
Dan releases the Idiot from his deadly embrace. The sound of his heartbeat overwhelms him, crashing in his ears, as he struggles not to pass out, tries to regulate his breathing. He supports the floppy, lifeless body of the Idiot with one arm, as he stumbles and falls back into the shadows under the canal bridge. The frenzied feed has taken his energy for a moment: he must wait for it to return, for the nourishment to revitalise him. The fresh blood courses strongly through his veins, hot and sweet and he feels his senses sharpen. He realises how weak he had become from lack of human blood: it must have been four days since he last fed, not three.
Under dark cover of the bridge, Dan ties three concrete blocks to the dead Idiot and gently slides the body into the canal. He watches it for a few moments as it sinks beneath the murky water and disappears beneath. He feels nothing, his conscience clear. Dan turns and begins walking back towards Hoxditch, lighting a cigarette and exhaling long and hard. Dan feels invigorated and renewed. His groin stirs. He thinks about Jones’ guiche.
Dan decides that he will head straight back to the squat. On the way there, he will get Jones a gift, as well as some supplies from the 7-11 on the corner of Commercial Street. He might even get some more of that fucking awful Lynx Africa body spray Jones likes so much. It’s a small price to pay for a whole lot of Jones cock, and some hot rough make-up sex. He grins wolfishly, fangs slowly retracting, then pulls up his jacket collar and quickens his step towards the late-night supermarket.
The bedroom is in semi-darkness. It reeks of beer and sweaty vigorous sex. Julian wonders how much bumming an arse can take before it starts to implode. He watches Jones lean backwards on to the bed, then lifts Jones’ legs up straight, parting them, one either side of his head. Spitting liberally on the palm of his right hand, he lubricates Jones anus and pushes his fingers inside, like Jones showed him earlier. Jones, writhing, his wrists cuffed together, groans loudly, calling him “Dan”. Julian moves Jones closer, supporting his legs with his shoulders now, and pushes the head of his penis into him.
Drunk and thrusting mechanically inside Jones, Julian closes his eyes and attempts to give his actions a rational explanation. He imagines they are two soldiers away from home, missing their wives. Thinking this way helps him stay hard but he can’t reach orgasm. Jones bucks his hips and moans loudly as his warm cum spurts across Julian’s chest. Julian withdraws his cock and looks down at the spunk dribbling down his torso, his lip curling in disgust. Oblivious, Jones leans forward on all fours and buries his head between Julian’s thighs, placing his mouth around his semi-erect cock, scratching his fingernails around Julian’s stomach. Despite his feelings of self-loathing, Julian surrenders to Jones’ impeccable sucking technique, relaxing and letting out a quiet moan as Jones expertly tongues him. All mouths are the same…
Dan places his key in the lock and quietly opens the front door, carefully stepping into the hallway, placing the heavy carrier bags on to the carpet. He closes the door gently and listens intently for signs of life. The house is dark and quiet but his vampire senses tell him that Jones is home. He can smell faint traces of him in the air, as well as something or somebody else….Dan frowns, moving silently and swiftly through the kitchen to the lounge. No sign of his lover. Hang on, what’s this? He finds an ashtray full of cigarette ends – not his brand. He takes one of the dog ends between his finger tips and inspects it, sniffing, flicking his tongue across the filter.
Dan drops the butt and grips his head with both hands as he is violently seized by a flashback to the events of last night – the face of his doppleganger looming large in his mind. Dan’s brain reels as he realises his twin is here, in the house, and that he is quite probably upstairs with Jones. Bloodlust rises as he snarls with hatred and heads towards the stairs. I’ll fucking kill him.
Julian leans back on the bed, eyes closed, mouth open, his hands gripping Jones’ head. His hips thrust rapidly, balls about to explode, his buttocks clench, building towards orgasm as Jones moves his mouth back and forth along Julian’s throbbing cock.
As he climaxes, Julian feels a hand roughly gripping his throat, closing on it tightly. He feels Jones momentarily bite his penis as it is wrenched awkwardly from his mouth. He gasps for air. The unseen man’s grasp is stronger than anything he has known before, pinning him to the bed as he flails about pathetically. He is thrown across the room forcefully, his back smashing against the far bedroom wall. He feels a sharp pain at the back of his head and then……darkness.
Jones screams and stares in horror at Julian’s naked body sprawled inert on the bedroom carpet. A pool of blood spreads beneath the back of Julian’s head. He raises his cuffed hands to his forehead, sobbing, deeply confused.
Dan!? How…? What the fuck have you done?!
Jones stares open-mouthed in horror at the doppelgängers body, bloodied and sprawled on the bedroom carpet. Dan Ashcroft stands, breathing heavily, attempting to regain his composure, glaring down at the crumpled body of Julian Barratt. Dan can feel the warmth of his twin’s body slowly fading, his cells dying, his life-blood ebbing away. How the fuck did this cunt get here?
Jones plays visual tennis with the faces of the two men, trying to take it in: identical twins, and yet somehow…not. How was this possible?
Dan spins round to face Jones, his expression dark, his eyes blazing: “You filthy, fucking SLUT! He growls and lunges towards Jones, grabbing him by one of his cuffed wrists. Jones cries out, terrified as Dan lifts him as easily as rag doll and hurls him backwards on to the unmade bed. Jones raises his knees to his chest and hides his face with his hands, forming a ball, crying in fear: But I thought he was you, Dan! I thought he was YOU!
Dan springs on to the bed and stands over him, shaggy hair framing his contorted demonic face, snarling in anger and self-loathing: THIS IS ME, JONES! THIS IS ME! He grabs Jones by the shoulders, forcing his arms down, bringing his face close to Jones own, bearing his large pointed teeth between bristly lips: How could you ever love this THING, this MONSTER?
Jones begs Dan not to hurt him. Dan shoves him roughly back onto the bed. Jones scurries from the bed to the floor and quietly sobs in a darkened corner of the room.
Dan moves fast. He leaps over to Julian, crouches and lifts the man in his arms. Julian’s bloodied hair sticks momentarily to the carpet. Dan lays him on the end of the bed and clumsily wraps him in a bed sheet. He picks up the wrapped body and heads out of the bedroom door, casting a look back at Jones. Their eyes briefly meet in the semi-light. Jones eyes are wide in terror and fear. Dan lowers his gaze, his face in shadow, and leaves the house with his macabre package.
Dan lowers the dead body of Julian Barratt into the canal. He stands and watches Julian’s face sink beneath the dark waters of the canal, the body turning as it is pulled down by the concrete blocks, swallowed by the murky depths. He continues to watch the waters lapping against the canal bank, feeling something inside him shrivel. He shrugs off this sensation and tells himself that Julian Barratt was just another Idiot.
He remains standing by the canal for a moment, but senses a couple walking in his direction. He ducks into the shadow of the canal bridge and waits for them to pass before pulling his coat tight and heading slowly back to the House of Jones. He knows he must talk to Jones, try to explain, but has no idea what to say or where to start.
Jones is curled up on the bed, still cuffed and naked, sleeping. Dan gently sits on the bed behind him and places a hand above Jones shoulder, just above his skin, not quite touching him. He can feel the warmth of Jones body as he hovers his hand above his neck, sensing his pulse, the sound of his heart, his blood pumping around it. He whispers: Jones. Wake up.
Jones awakes with a start and is frozen with fear and confusion, leaning away from Dan. Dan gently tells him that it’s OK, that he’s not going to hurt him. Jones looks at him in a way that he has never seen before – he stutters: What the hell happened to you, Dan?
Jones shivers slightly and rubs his wrists where the cuffs have left a mark. Dan has been talking in a low voice for half an hour. Dan sits at the end of the bed, his broad back turned towards Jones, his head in his hands. Jones listens but is not sure that any of it makes sense. He tells himself that this is all some kind of sick joke and that everything will come right by morning. He slowly crawls across the bed towards Dan and places his head on his shoulder, pushing his hair aside, nuzzling into his neck, breathing in his musk: Please don’t leave me again, Dan.
Dan feels shame. He tries to explain, he wants to tell Jones everything. But he knows it makes no sense. He turns his head to meet Jones and kisses him softly on the forehead, moist-lipped. Jones lifts his face and kisses Dan on the mouth, pushing deeper into the embrace. Jones tongue moves around Dan’s mouth, exploring the large pointed teeth. He breaks the kiss and gazes into Dan’s eyes, smiling.
Dan understands completely.
The smell of sweat and sex fills the bedroom. As Dan presses his mouth to Jones neck, he closes his eyes. His warm breath tickles against Jones skin as the two men tangle together across the crumpled sheets. Jones grabs at Dan’s back, pinching it, pushing his throbbing groin into Dan’s hips, moaning in anticipation. He wraps his legs around Dan’s waist. Dan pushes him down flat against the bed sheets, breathing heavily, gazing at him through a mop of unruly hair, then leans forward and brings his sharp teeth in contact with Jones erect nipples, biting quite hard. Jones arches his back, chest rising, grasping Dan’s head in his hands, making a fist and thumping the mattress in a gesture of pleasure and pain. Dan bears his fangs fully and drags them down Jones chest, down to his belly, marking the skin with two long bright red track marks, continuing down to the hairline below his belly button. Jones inhales sharply and winces, crying out for more.
Dan flicks his tongue around the head of Jones erect cock. Jones grips Dan’s hair tightly, almost tearing it from his scalp. Dan reaches up and tightly grasps Jones hands by the wrists, holding Jones arms down by his sides. He shifts his weight and pins Jones legs flat by kneeling on them. Jones twists and writhes but Dan restricts his movements. Jones relishes this and it heightens his pleasure, his cock twitching. Dan buries his unshaven chin between Jones thighs, nibbling at his balls, locating his guiche and tugging gently at the chain with his teeth.
Jones groans and begs Dan to fuck him. As Jones pleads, bucking and writhing at his touch, Dan grows dizzy. He struggles against the urge to rip Jones apart completely, the bloodlust calling him to kill indiscriminately. Reason slips away as the familiar metallic taste rises in his throat. He releases the piercing and he sits up, kneeling, surveying Jones like fresh prey. Twisting his mouth into a sinister smile, he forces Jones thighs apart, grips the base of his throbbing cock and lunges downward, swallowing as much as he can.
The blood and cum scorches against Dan’s throat in a hot jet as his teeth tear through Jones sinews. Dan sucks and gulps hungrily as Jones fights against Dan’s stronghold, tears flowing down his cheeks, wanting to die, wanting to scream, his mouth forming a large silent O. Jones fingers tear into the bed-sheets, his body bucks against the intense pain and pleasure of Dan’s frenzied feeding.
Dan watches Jones body slowing in its rising and twisting as he takes him closer to death. Dan knows he must stop, but the viscous liquid tastes so good…so good.
Dan stands alone on the roof of Spitalfields church and surveys the East London cityscape. The night air blows around him as he smokes and silently contemplates the smells and sounds going on below. Bangladeshi voices and the smell of curry float up from Brick Lane. Smart-suited businessmen hurrying from the bars of Bishopsgate towards Liverpool Street station. The rumble of train carriages departing from the platforms. The diesel-engine whir of black cabs. The drunken laughter, glasses breaking, the inebriated yells of late-night revelers, the passing of a passenger jet…all building to a deafening cacophony. He clamps his hands to his ears and screws up his eyes, trying to block out the sounds, but his vampire senses are too sharp, too keen.
He could throw himself off this roof right now and end this. A row of teeth show through his beard as he laughs at the futility of his thought. He curses at the stars, then disappears into the shadow of the steeple, his mind turned towards Old Street and a new club night for Idiots. A new feeding ground.