Bleak is about a slacker, a drug addict, murder, stupidity and horrific racist misconceptions and ugly humor.


2. A couple of dicks

"You're good at that" Pierce observed as John finished tying up the bags. It had taken about an hour to do it right. There was fourteen bags in total, each reeked of bleach and burnt flesh. Pierce had calmed down, he had read through his comic and tracked the others in the series, it was a pulpy detective film.

"Well i have seen enough CSI and busted enough murderers to know how to do this." He sat back looking at his work, wondering whether or not the pride he feels is right or wrong to acknowledge.

"So what do we do now?"

"Well, i cut of the arms and legs, and in turn segmented those, that what these twelve bags are. The other one here is his head, this" he pointed to a really big bag. "Has his body in."

"So we dump them in different places? Won't they be traced?"

"I filled that bathtub with bleach and burnt them until they don’t look human." He replied grimly.

"Well." Pierce said. "Ok."

"You ok."

"Kinda just dawned on me i killed a guy. Like before i was kinda hyped up on the adrenaline, and coke, lots of coke, and a bit of crack and im still semi drunk. But now, i mean Christ, that's the sixteenth person I've shot. Third I've killed." He tried to count sixteen on his hands then got frustrated about lacking the need number of digits to do so.

"Well he did come in and beat you up. I mean im not condoning what you did, but like let's face it, the fat bastard had it coming."

"I don’t know man." Pierce runs a hand through his hair. "Am i a bad person?"

"Yes. But you're still my friend." John said smiling. Pierce couldn't help but crack a smile in return. "Now come on, i have to be back at work soon."

"Did i interrupt anything?" Pierce asked slipping on his dressing gown; an ugly pick think with multicoloured flowers placed at random, as a bitchy gay man may say, 'it was so loud that you couldn't hear the conversation.' And then his partner would say either 'ooh snap' or like his finger and place it on his buttock and make a sizzling sound effect.

"Just a stabbing, nothing interesting." John shrugged. "Why can't there be a serial killer or something, i would love that at least then we wouldn’t have to hassle black people. Then we could go for Lithuanians, Russians, Ukrainians, Mormons" Pierce nodded in agreement.

"Racial stereotyping still employed i take it?"

"Yeah, someone robs a Dixie Chicken, fucking blacks, someone stabs a guy, blacks, someone commits fraud, blacks, a car is stolen, the chief just says it's some black guy, i cringe whenever that racist asshole speaks, but, someone robs a taco bell-"

"Let me guess, blacks?"

"No retard, Mexicans, why would a black guy rob tacobell?"

Pierce nodded his hands a bit jittery, he drank from a juice box he spied under the coffee table. "Who do you end up arresting then?"

"Blacks. Only the odd Mexican, sometimes" John leant in and beckoned Pierce to do the same. "We get something really messed up."

"What." Pierce whispered.

"We get someone who is both black and Mexican and something else of Slavic descent."

"Fuck, the holy trinity."

"Yeah man, but arresting minorities gets old."

"You are so lucky i am not the kind of person to judge, because if i was i would say that was all pretty goddamn racist."

"Racist?" He sounded appalled at the notion. "What the H, E double hockey sticks-"

"H, E double hockey sticks? What the hell does that mean?"

"Hell." John replied bluntly.

"The place where bad people go when they die." Pierce replied with exasperation.

"No dipshit i meant HELL! I just didn't want to say it for Christ fucking sake you know how to drag swears out of a guy. I have to fucking pray now, shit!" He didn't sound like a holy man but John had been raised catholic and with that came the very strict, very regimented and kinda uncomfortable run ins with priest, and repressed or not memories are memories, not that the Pope cares, but that's unfair. After all we know that in the bible god clearly states 'why fuck women when you have altar boys' i think it is book Oedipus 6:9.

"I thought you gave up on catholic guilt."

"Well after what i saw the lord do to you i can't really afford to ignore him."

"What's wrong with me?" Pierce stood up and looked in the mirror then back to John. "Im fucking beautiful." There was no hint of joke in his voice. John rubbed is temples again and seriously considered that last line of coke on the table, maybe then he could drown out the bullshit coming out of Pierces gobshite mouth.

"Your shirt is inside out and you have a drug problem, you smell like damp paper and you are a sarcastic son of a gun."


"So, you are going to hell."

"What about you, you pick on minorities for a living."

"I never said i enjoyed it."

"How can you not, busting minorities never gets old."

"Now who's being racist."

"It was a joke."

"Wow, my sides are splitting, i am laughing so hard my kidneys will fail and drop out of my ass from all of the hilarity, you have shown me the light i will now gyrate towards it, laughing will i do so, as god embraces me and i prolapsed out of my eyes."

"How is that possible?"

"More possible than your goddamn jokes being funny."

"Well, you are not coming to my birthday party."

"Your birthday party was three months ago."

"Were you at the party?"

"No i wasn't invited."

"And you wonder why!"

"Okay, common, if we're going to do this now we need to get going. I'll drive you throw him out piece by piece when i tell you to."

"Sure, but can we detour after to Millie road."

"Fine, why might i ask?"

"It's where my dealer lives."

John looked at him, in the face. Trying to see if the realisation would hit is coked up chum who was walking backwards to the table ready to knock down the final line. "Im dressed in my police uniform, covered in blood you idiot."

"So stay in the car."

"Well get fucking shot."

"Well, you might, i won't."

"That does nothing to make me feel any more secure about this." He put his hands on his hips, and maybe he would look more dignified if flesh, bone, blood and maybe a little mucus on his shirt.

"Just wear something of mine, i have some chequered shirts. Then when you get back just say you spilled coffee pout on your spares uniform, bam! Were done."

"I really hate you." John said as he put on a soup stained shirt. "You could at least do some washing up or something."

"I sold my washing machine." He said with a look on his face that suggested John should have known this, that John shouldn’t have had to mention washing.

John smelled the pits of the shirt, rank as he suspected, ripe, like wine it had had time to ferment. "Yes, of course, sold the washing machine. Get ready; put a coat on, it's cold outside."


Cop cars had changed for Pierce. First they were a toy he liked to play with, he would be about six or seven, and he would move them around the floor. Then he turned twenty-two and found himself on the force, his first day, then by twenty eight he found it all slipping away from him, now at thirty one his mind set hasn't changed, he has the same snarky, quick fire way of speaking, smart ass personality.

Of course, if you look deep enough. Pierce would say you would have to get balls deep, but if you did get that deep. You would see that Pierce's sense of humour covers something far darker. Most people suffer this. People who make you laugh often have something rotting inside of them, releasing toxic gasses, slowly inflating this person's stomach, and they repress it until they can't take it, and the skin in side is about to stretch open and explode. About this time they open their mouths and out pours a projectile vomit of crap you neither care about but can't not listen to.

Pierce has something in his gut that is overdue an explosion. But like all good head cases, he represses it and it will manifest itself as a fetish for law and order UK and fancy Belgium biscuits that cost too much money. Well, either that or serial killing. It's a fifty-fifty shot.

On the radio they are discussing communism. John loves 'intelligent radio' Pierce is listening but not really understanding half of the words, not through any lack of intelligence, just because in his mind he is playing comfortably numb by pink Floyd.

Suddenly without warning he starts speaking rapidly, in little burst like a machine gun. "You know communism. Its big in china. Chinas got like fifty billion people or some shit hasn't it?" – he didn't give John a chance to correct him – "And so half the population is gay, so then you have like thirty eight billion Chinese guys who are gay." – John didn't even bother trying to tell him his maths was terrible – "So then what do we have? What is the result of this? A shit load of Asians with sore knees"

John swerved with a sudden burst of laughter. "Sore knees?"

"Yeah man. Think man, we could do it." They are out of the main town and going towards the county side out skirts. The beach to the left of them still, the icy blue vista somewhat impressive. It made Pierces drug addled babbling not so difficult to listen to.

"Do what?" John asked.

"Bring knee pads to the Chinese. We make them and market them with like a panda that talks, and he will be like: Harro, i am panda, re rike sucking cock in china, or reah, ruv it." He pulled his eye lids and John had to pull to the side of the road to stop laughing. "Re need knee pad, because orrerise re dishonour famery"

John snorted. "That is...well...shit..."

"The only problem is that the knee pads would be made in china, and then why would they buy it, if they make it, see John the Chinese have all ready fucked us over on this. Before we even get our fucking foot in the door they have their knee pads, next they will be selling them to us, forcing us to turn gay to use their products, what if they did it, got rid of animal testers and it was just a line of guys noshing off a Chinese guy with a clip board going 'or res rerry good, nah i cum orrer your face, you move on, i give you five dorrahs" He snapped his fingers. "Just like that we have to start a rebellion, it'll be like terminator, except more sexy, well except for Sarah Connor i would hit that, unless she was a machine, because then it might hurt, that other terminator in the third one, boy oh boy was she a fine piece of ass. She wouldn’t need knee pads, her knees are all liquid metal and shit so all you need there is a crash helmet."

"Crash helmet?" John couldn't hide his amusement.

"Yes dipshit, a crash helmet."

"Why would she need one?"

"Not for her, for me"


"She's a fucking machine, you don’t let a machine made by skynet near your junk unless you are a retard."

"I think you should go on the back seat and sleep or something."

"Good idea." He tried to jump through the gap of their seats, hit his head then tried to drag himself through, john pushed him in and in less than thirty seconds he had passed out. He moved in his sleep in the same fashion as a dog would.

After driving for a good twenty minutes – the park was three hours away, they had to go out of their way so they weren't in the initial area of here the bodies were found – Pierce regained consciousness.

"How you feeling."



"Yeah like not quite as good as i could be. Im king jong-il good not Obama good."

"Well King jong-il is dead?"

"That's why im not Obama good."

"What is Obama good?"

"Like King Jong-il good but alive."

"You are still high."

"How observant of you buddy." He slurred.

"Just shut up were nearly there."

Renback park was a place that you could go and not only get mugged, but sold back your stuff in the same day. Gangs love it. Drug dealers love it. And the police use it to pick up the odd criminal as they make their rounds. Or if the chief starts bitching about how little arrests have gone down that week, they send a riot van down and pick up a couple dozen from there. It's like a buffet of felons, you have the robbers, people wanted for drug dealing, violent crimes such as murder, the odd creeper who does things like sniff women's underwear, and best of all they always have compromising evidence on them; Women's underwear in their pockets being a prime example.

Pierce was not only well known in the Renback but he was one of the best customers. Back when all he smoked was pot he would go and arrest his drug dealers rivals for a discount. Looking back it really didn't say much for him as a person, the fact his brand of justice depended on who would give him the cheapest high was disturbing.

Passed all the initial trees and the loiterers and into the centre of the park was where the drop offs were going to happen. They stopped near an abandoned shed that probably used to have equipment in it had probably been stolen long ago.

John stopped the car. He nodded to Pierce, who stared blankly in return. "Drop of one of the bags."

"Oh, ok, sure." Pierce got out and grabbed what he assumed was a leg. He aimed at a tree and gave his best throw. It fell short of the tree and landed by a bush. Pierce stood and watched as a fox peered out from the bush and slowly and cautiously took the plastic bag back i with it. He wasn't sure if he was high or this was happening. He strolled back to the car wordlessly thinking about the fox. Its flaming fur, its eyes darting round, the blood thirsty looking its pupils.

After that it was pretty much rinse and repeat. Drop of body parts in obscure parts of the park, hope that the fox eat its way through all of them. When it came to the head however Pierce wanted to do something special. John was stood next to him by the fence to a farm that was in the far northern end of the park.

"Come on man this is wrong." He pleaded. "It's really disturbing."

"No" Pierce said as he made his final adjustments. "It is perfect." He stood back and admired his handy work. Before them both stood a scare crow with a very real, blistered, scarred to shit head with a bullet hole through its fore head and brains dripping onto its shoulders still. "It needs a sign saying here lies captain baseball bat."

"Why would you even do that?"

"What?! He's dead isn't he, what's he going to do, become sentient and come back in the night and kill me?"

"No, but his friends might."

"What do you mean?"

"Well if they find him, and they recognise him."

"That's a big fucking if"

"Well, if they do, they will know it was you. Just take it off and throw it in the river."

"No it took too long wedging him on there to just rip it off, if you want to, you do it."

"Im not touching that i already burnt it to shit i don’t want to see that fucking ugly face for a long time."

"Any way, what crow will fucking go here now?"

"That's the kind of shit they eat."

"Well then it was irresponsible to put a farm here."

"Christ you have serious problems."

"No i don’t, it's like in the god father when they leave the horses head there."

"It's nothing like that."

"Well no, it is, you cock."

"That's your argument?"

"Do you not have a rebuttal?"

"I have something you ass hole."

The small squabble continued for a few more minutes before they got back into the car and drove back.

"We still need to see my dealer." Pierce piped up.

"Were does he live."

"On the strip, by the beach, big house. Looks over the pier."

"Wait, Knarker owns that. Are you saying that-?"

"Tyrone Knarker is my dealer yeah."

"Ex-rapper now millionaire playboy, sells you drugs, the man who had six hit singles and owns loads of real-estate, sells you coke."

"Not all the time, sometimes he is out of town."

"You buy drugs from him."

"Yes, come one catch up, i buy drugs from him."

"Why does he sell drugs."

"He misses the whole old hustler thing. Like having street cred and shit. The reason i personally do, is because he gives me a good price, and he won't beat my ass when i don’t pay, because, well, he has more money than the whole of this shitty town."

"Why doesn't he break your legs when you miss payments?"

"Four years ago when i used to smoke pot i stopped him getting busted, pinned it on some other guy but."

"You're the guy who got Morgan Freeman arrested?!"

"Yep." He said looking proud.

"Fuck you man. No one arrests Morgan Freeman."

"He didn't spend time in jail! But if he did he would have been a prison bitch, his voice is enough to make a group of burly hard up mass murders to go to town on his black ass, like bam." – He claps his hands together over and over again – "And he will be all like 'Im Morgan Freeman, can you use some lube?'."

"Your disgusting."

Tyrone lives in a big house, or as Pierce referred to it on several occasions 'a really big fucking monster cock of a house' he earned it from a very good career of both being a professional criminal, and also being a successful rapper, his songs including 'down like a bitch' and 'hoes got tits' and everyone's favourite 'Drugs plus pussy makes fun time Featuring Whitney Houston (before she died).' John changes the radio station and 'fall back down' by Rancid began to play, Pierce sang along, messing up all of the words.

The strip up to the house was at least a mile long; the town was essentially a line with buildings on the edges around it with a very big beach. There are even talks of a Jersey Shore type of TV show bought here. However instead of muscular men and loose women, it would less chic, kinda disturbing, more nudity but not the pleasant kind, hooker fights, Alligator bothering and shark baiting are some of the activities that would take place. Even more disturbing it would have been good TV; the rest of the country would be down here joining in with the stupid shenanigans.  

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