Serene suburban Sundays, Spring Street.

Seven Spring Street, Serena Smith slumbers serenely, snores slightly. Simon stirs,

snuffles, still sleeps.

Next-door, naughty nightied Norma Norris nuzzles naked Norman; nudge-nudge!

Serena stirs, stretches; Simon still sleeps, shifts slightly.

Serena slipper-steps sideways silently, soaks, showers, sings sadly, softly; Sunday

sunshine shines strongly.

Brown-brick bungalowed Bertie Brannigan breakfasts, belligerent, blue-faced. “Bloody

bins banging, beagles barking; blasted brats! Bugger!”

Simon Smith stirs, stretches, shits, showers, shaves, slips-on shorts, slacks, socks,

shoes, soccer-shirt, slams screen, strolls somewhere. Serena sighs.

Serena’s siblings smile sadly, shrug sympathetically, simultaneously; Sarah says

Simon’s selfishly shitty.

Jennifer Jones jogs jauntily, jugs jiggling.

Sleazy Simon Smith stares steadily, smirks salaciously.

Churchbells chime, churchgoing children cycle, chattering cheerfully.

Roundy Reverend Robinson rests, rubs rope, resumes rapid ringing.

Sally Sanderson slips-on simple sexy silk skirt; she’s seeing Simon secretly. She shines

shoes, slaps suncream, sends Sally-Sue Sunday-schoolwards. Simon slips-in side-gate

silently, scratching slightly suspicious sore.

Mandy Morris makes mojitos, mixing Morgan, muddler-mashing mint. Mmmmm!

Serena suspects Sally sometimes; she sniffles, smiles sadly. Still, Saturday she’ll shag

Sandra’s sexy Spanish schoolteacher Silvio. Sod Simon!

Bong, bong, bloody bells! Belligerent Bertie Brannigan breaks, bashes bin-banging boys,

brutally batters Brenda. Brenda’s badly bruised, bewildered.

Down Dingly-dell, David Dawson destroys daisies, dandelions, digs double drills;

dreaming damsons, dill, dates, dewberries.

Alfie Anderson’s allotment’s amazing; all artichokes, avacados, asparagus and

aubergines. Awesome!

Patrick Parkinson peruses papers; “piffle, poppycock! Petrina, pour port, please!”

Petrina Parkinson pours perfectly; Patrick’s pretty pleased, pats Petrina’s puppies’ pelts

playfully.

Mandy mutters, makes more Morgan-mix mojitos.

Passing patrolling policeman plods, peers; presses pager.

Bullhorn blares, Brenda’s bleeding, bawling; Bertie blusters.

Angled against Alfie Anderson’s Austin Allegro, Andy asks again, angrily.

“Sandra, still staying? Sure?”

Sandra sulks, sobs.

Andy ambles away awkwardly.

Serena’s step-daughter Sandra stumbles, stilletoed, short-skirted, slams screen. She’ll

stay, surely; suburban Spring Street simply suits Sandra Smith, strangely

Update "Hey Jude"

Hey, Jude!

Whassup, Jude?

Simon figures I’m flush but I’m singin dumb'. I got it, thirty big ones hidden about my person; he don't need to know that.

'So', he says, 'Jaycee’s dead. You nailed him good.'

'He had it comin.'

'So, whassup, Jude?'

‘Nothin''.

'C'mon Jude, ya needed us to finger him for the hit. Ya owe us, man.'

I figure, splits equals less for me; I'm sittin' pretty with the dough hid in my pants. Ok, they was all in on it, but I takes the rap, potentially. This hit has my dabs all over it; I gotta be compensated.

'Rocky' Pete's actin' tough, but rumour says he's gonna set up his own show; he's already talking to the Italians. Screw Pete.

Screw hairy John and his three hippy mates, ditto. I hear they got a book deal; they don't need a split of my freakin' dosh. I ain't got their education, just my wits.

Andy's actin friendly. 'Cmon, Jude, we had a deal, man. Pay up!'

'No joy’, I says. 'He didn't come across.'

Big Phil's getting angry.

'You tryin' to cut us out, hah?.'

'No way,' I says. 'When I gets it, you'll get it. But not a straight split. I takes the rap if this goes bad; nobody can pin nothin' on you guys.'

Pete puts a hand on Phil's arm.

'I got no problem with him getting extra. But he ain't cutting us out.'

I figures there's no future for me around here no more. I gets up from the table.

'Excuse me, I’m goin’ to the bathroom.'

I'm out the side door and down the street real quick, runnin' like a centurion. I ain't goin' back, never.

With this much dough I can get away, get lost, start my own business or somethin', or my name ain't Judas Iscariot.

Give a sucker an even break

‘Suck, bitch!’
Reluctantly I take it in my mouth, ignoring the too-familiar smell and taste, and begin to suck. The stones on the pavement hurt my knees; he stands, looking down at me, glancing around, watching for police.

Suck, suck, suck.
The faster I do this, the sooner it’s over.

Suck, suck, suck.
This was not in my ambition when I came to this country; I had dreamed of nice work, in a fashion shop maybe; not this, not this illegal and immoral business on this dark wet city street.

Suck, suck, suck.
My parents would be so ashamed if they saw me now. This wasn’t what they had in mind for their daughter; nobody would want their child to do this work. I try not to think of what I am doing; I just think of the money I am making.

Suck, suck, suck.
Back home I was educated; my teacher told me I could be anything I wanted to be, so I came here. Look at me now, I hate myself.

Suck, suck, suck, suck, suck, suck.
I lose concentration and suddenly my mouth is full; I retch and spit, trying to get rid of the awful taste. He laughs.

‘Keep your mind on your work, bitch.’
I quickly stick the end into the container. It spurts out like it’s never going to stop, a fountain! He grunts in satisfaction when he sees how much comes out.

Tonight I have done really well; I’m making lots of money for sure. Maybe it is better than begging, but I still don’t like it.

He pries the fuel cap from the next car, feeds in the siphon; he is king of the fuel thieves. I get back on my knees; take the tube in my mouth.

Suck suck, suck suck.