A soft drink: made with twenty per cent fruit concentrate and oil based colours from the art shop in the precinct, poured down necks in hot summer gardens straight out of the plastic jug (“we don’t want any breakages now boys…”; “break off out of here, ma, you’re embarrassing me!”): passed between muddy-fingered boys: red-cheeked and blood-knuckled, the kids by the towering sweetcorn in which you can run and you can hide and which the late summer drifts straight into, staying out past six o’clock for a telling off later in a thunderstorm, and your fat boy’s back got sunburned today – bare-chested in the back garden with big raindrops crashing into your skull – mother cut your hair last week – “nice haircut today” – and the kids to the south of Troll Bridge won’t be fucking with us any more… it stains the bedsheets on its way out and with a glassful of ZANG inside me (about 250ml recommended serving allowance) it is like the days on the yellow bicycle whose ridiculous oversized frame was too much for a kid like me – “hey kid, you never even heard of a comb?” – when a girl called H.S. from the street around the corner had a reputation for being a nice girl to talk to and after two years or so I thought I’d give it a try and I talked to her and it was nice, the rumour grinder was mincing up the truth for the food plate of the world and one day she tried to kiss me, it felt like a funny age, like eleven years; I thought it was a mistake but then it happened again and in that exuberant youthful naïve misunderstanding – guffaws all round, the fat blushing red-top! – I ran away; to look back now it seems hard to budge the vision in my eyes of the teary little unopened and hairless cavern between her legs – like a new pot of pickled gherkin – the dimly lit highway into the sweetness of her soul that I was too young to want to see, and too silly to drive on in to, and I wonder if she still holds it now beneath her cotton girls pants like she hasn’t grown at all, or left her bike or the disused railway line linking the villages of the south, and wants not to talk all night but just to have a dirty party with no sweets and no genetically activated fruit beverage just a long and furious love?
*
A street slang neologism: achtung! The masturbation! Oh goodness the terribility of the awful scenario! The knuckles are cracked or cracking like a professional yo-yo expert ready to demonstrate to a small crowd in an even smaller toy shop the wild stunts of his youth and his father’s youth before him – “and here ladies and gentlemen you may yelp as I ‘walk the dog’, yes, ‘walk the dog’… no no my love I’m not walking a real dog here in a toy shop am I, that’d be a crazy stunt for even me: Daring Pete, UK’s sixteenth most renowned Yo-Yo Tactician! Yo-yo tricks is one thing my dear, dog shit on a wipe clean linoleum flooring system with Lego to the left and dolls in aisle four is another entirely, ha ha! No it’s a trick I’m performing is all, it just eventually looks a little like walking a dog on a lead on a fine May morning. Let me demonstrate… (to the imaginary band with the imaginary snare drum) ready maestro… (Daring Pete provides a primitive soggy drum-roll from his own mouth to prepare the bored crowd of three for his dog walking yo-yo trick. One of them is unable to escape, suffering seeming entire body paralysis). And here it… (the suspense hangs before it can plummet)… IS! (The yo-yo wobbles and wiggles on its string and finally ceases all motion before it reaches anywhere even near the ground. An indifferent hush). All right, all right… (Daring Pete reddens, looks the yo-yo deep). You fucking thing! (The toy is thrown into the glass cabinet containing battery robots and tin soldiers). Fucking show me up, you fuck!” – and the cloth is laid with the covering of full stomach for optimum sperm protection. Zip, the fly screams! Rhythmic pumps of glands in the sad mid-morning light, up to down, slow to fast, watching a-giggle the foreskin playing over the tip like a bear climbing a short tree more to kill time than for any fun, and the movement doesn’t feel good anymore, nothing does after this many times, it’s all a bicep-test for the ejaculation and the spunk mountain when it becomes a worthwhile sport – “Welcome to sports day you old bastard! The boys by the track jack off for a trophy… loser? Gobble the juice up!” – and as it all builds up the nightmare builds with it…
KNOCK-KNOCK: “Son?”: oh shit it’s the door right in the middle of my…
“Fuck I mean, yeah?”
“I’m… I’m coming in.”
“Nah, fucking nah mum.” The door is open and mum is on the bed, sitting on its edge in a pleated ill-shit brown knee length… doesn’t look half bad for a woman her age maybe but hell look I can’t stop it my arm’s got locked into the motion and I’m damn well going for it all the way frantic as you like while my fucking mum’s watching on…
“You think I can’t ever smell it, son, when I’m down in the kitchen? Today it was too much – right over the tomato soup and the roast potatoes. It was there, refusing to be extracted by the extractor fan. And I couldn’t not come up here and have a… go.”
Weird woman that mother, oh god, I’m so clo-ose. A race of ecstasy miniatures crawled to the hole in the very tip of the length and they jump out together toward the cloth I laid out previous and I can feel the heat all on my chest even through the cotton and there’s mum…
“You know son, I use balls. Special balls. You know? Special… vagina balls.”
And she’s guzzling it up faster than I can pump it out, like a virgin cocktail man in a darkened queer bar, licking the sperm up with one hand on her tits, and I’m just yelping uncontrollably…
“What a ZANG, I really deeply felt like that ZANG, ah such a fucking ZANG, ZANG, ZANG, ZANGGGGGGGGGGG!”
*
A Japanese cartoon character: “No one will ever defeat you, mighty ZANG, for the pure of heart shall never face conventional destruction! Take this, the ancient Sword of Defiance… and this, the contemporary Firearm of Incomprehensible Power! With this bounty you will forever prevail against the feared Bastard From The Mountain.”
Close up on ZANG’S face.
The background freezes.
“Good Oracle Nymph of the village bakery, I prostrate myself in thought at your symbolic feet! With these dangerous weapons in my knapsack, and with such love in my soul, the evils of the Bastard can never destroy the peace loving people of my beloved native village, from which I was so cruelly separated by a wicked alien plague in my formative years, found floating and forgotten as a baby on the River of Local Supremacy by my sensei and saviour, who taught me of my fate and heritage, and prepared me for the day that he knew would one day come: today. It is now this heritage which I must defend from the debauchery which sweeps the valley! My life has led to this moment… I shall finally destroy the Mountain of Evil.”
A mountain looms in focus in the background.
Lightning stereotypes its peak.
A distant cackle is heard.
“Only I, ZANG, can save the village and, ultimately, the world!”
Phallic tentacles dominate!
Hundreds of rounds of the Firearm of Incomprehensible Power are unloaded into the sky in jubilation!
The sky darkens!
Close-ups… long shots… theme tunes!
“ZANG! ZANG! ZANG!
ZANG will beat the evil!
Born of a pure mother,
And a semi-pure father,
Made ZANG himself pure, too;
Today he fights
For the purity of others
And largely succeeds in his quests
Because of the purity in himself
And while ZANG is fond of the ladies
It is only in the context of a meaningful relationship
Built of respect
It’s so good to respect the world!
ZANG!”
*
A medium to bad rock ‘n’ roll band: ZANG are bottom of the bill and flop after one long guitar solo… no saxophones… no groupies… the road manager got laid, but it was by his wife, and three years before the ZANG gig happened. It was a synthesizer doom outfit gone wrong.
I
Sure
Feel
Like
Zang!
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