Answers to an interrogatory

 

You say you want a testament not a confession. Well fuck you. If it’s a testament give me a keyboard and I’ll type it out but never sign it. It stays anonymous. You think I’m some young dumbfuck with a ball for a brain? Don’t ask for a testament and stick me on oral. Oral’s fed to voice patterning. Voice patterning smears my DNA over every fucking word I preach. You’re not getting a testament out of me. Testa-fucking-testicle. You’re not getting a confession either. I’ve nothing to confess.

 

Steven? He’s a fucking mutant. You say you’re keeping me in this holding tank to keep me safe from Steven? You say he’s got loose? He’s out to get me? Let me out and we’ll see who gets who. Sneeze on him and he cries for his mummy. If Steven’s a problem let me loose. I’ll sort him.

 

Don’t son me. Don’t lay Steven on me. There’s nothing mutant about my sperm. Test it. My sperm swims straight. Steven happened after I shot my sperm. It was a twin thing, ripping the egg apart. One part turned out a girl and the other turned out girlie. A girl with a prick and an available ass. Don’t lay Steven on me. I donated the sperm. That’s all I’m liable for.

 

Don’t lay that one on me either. It’s you that fucked Paul. He was a decent lad. On top form. Then you got him. You warped him. He was meat when you finished with him. Who cares what you scraped out of a piece of meat. Who cares what your fucking analysts worked out in their stupid fucking labs. You fucked Paul. Fucked his brain and left him limp. That was sick. So sick. Maybe I fucked a slab of meat. Maybe I did. So fucking what.

 

That brown wanker pal of Steven’s led him on. I like timber, I love timber, I know timber. When we had timber we had wisdom. We knew the dangers of niggers in woodpiles. You want to know what fucked up the world, go scrape the brown skin off that little wanker and investigate his junk DNA. You’re all too fucking correct to crawl back down the midden of history and face the truth. We had Y chromosomes by the fucking bucketful before brown wankers got into the country. Letting brown wankers in like that, it’s like the Antichrist sneezing out snot, it’s just shooting out virus. A burst of virus slam in your face. Aids started in monkeys, black men ate monkeys, you rolled out a fucking red carpet at the airports and showered those monkey blacks with money, our fucking money, and now we’re fucked. The virus is in. You want a confession, you get that little brown wanker fucker Malik pal of Steven’s to spill. I should have got him. He should be dead.

 

You’re like that woman you got in here. ‘Do you think it was right to use your daughter for bait?’ she kept on, spinning maggots on a line like I’m pike enough to bite. Karen’s a whore. She was gasping for it. I was protecting her. ‘How many do you think you could have saved?’ you ask me now? As if I was going to run through the flames, pick Steven’s pack of fuckbuddies up in my arms and carry them safe to their mummies. Well what about you, you fuckers? You were there. You were waiting. You filmed it all for fuck sake. You picked me up. Whose fucking side are you on? We’re samesiders, you and me. You know it. Urban scum’s on one side, you and me on the other. Pick your nose, you stupid fucking imp, pick your fucking ass, but don’t pick a fight with me.

 

Testament? You want a father’s testament about Steven? Steven’s a lying little prick. Words from his mouth are like pus from a boil. He’s a fucking invert. Take what was good when I was a kid and turn it inside out, hang it from some butcher hook and let it fester, and you know what you’ve got? Steven fucking no son of mine Bender.