Writer's Note: Sweet and Piggy contains several vulgar and possibly offensive words and phrases. I have chosen to include this material, (rather than reduce it by using awkward euphemism), not out of a desire to shock or offend, nor in reference to a particular writing genre'. But because the words and phrases form part of a vocabulary used by certain people from a working or lower middle class background. While regretting any offence this may cause, I trust this note has contextualised the use of such vulgarity, thereby explaining its inclusion.
Sweet Thing usually spends some time in the mirror popping blackheads in his nose, but staring at his reflection this morning is just too much to ask. His face is littered in small sores. Scabs he cannot help but pick. In the pre-dawn light he sits on his mound of dirt overlooking the Yarra river with a paw up around his face. Absently picking at his face. Wondering where the next hit will come from as the buzz from the blast he"s just had hits his brain. Sweet has a pair of Piggy"s panties and one of her black stilettos" beside him. He was wearing them a minute ago until a stranger strolled up and asked for sex. Sweet had experienced something resembling embarrassment then said to the man:
"Fuck off, or I"ll stab you in the chest".
The memory of IT is like a quick left jab to the head. A friend had walked up to Sweet in a bar, and he was crying. The shock of seeing his friend"s bloodied face, combined with a heavy smoke of hash, sent Sweet"s face ash white. Piggy said later that Sweet"s face had turned ash-white. A bouncer had bottled Sweet"s friend. He felt the night club rumble in his throat. People danced and lights flashed. The club was in Sweet"s mind. Every piece of furniture. Every shameless leg hanging over a chair. The entire drunk and drugged out club converged inside his brain.
"Go on...", a voice said.
"Do it now".
*
Sweet Thing sits on his mound of dirt overlooking the Yarra river at 5.00 am, speed and coke pulsing through his veins. Wanting to get off the gear but also wanting to perform an autoerotic act. Nobody loves him, so how can he love himself ? Even the strange man who had quickly disappeared upon the threat of violence had only wanted to stuff his cock in Sweet"s mouth, offer him a handkerchief, then leave.
In a drug induced haze with the pleasure zone in his head on the point of seizure, Sweet wondered why people treated one another in such miserable ways. He hadn"t finished this thought before his pants were off and Piggy"s burgundy panties were up around his thighs. As the light improved Sweet suspected the strange freak he had pissed-off might return and try and rape him in the grass. But the threat of ultra-violence was usually enough to deter the most persistent queen. Then it was off with his shirt and on with Piggy"s matching bra. A rolled up sock for each breast. (He had selected the socks for the Mickey Mouse insignia sewn into the ankles). Realising he had lost one of Piggy"s stilettos" he decided to slip the other pump on anyway. And there he sat, with his red raw cock throbbing in his hand, pulling it back and forth without the slightest chance of achieving an erection.
Among the dirty pictures and feelings of despair, one thought remained. Sweet felt naked without Piggy"s lost stiletto. Each time the coke and speed pushed him onto the next big thrill, the thought of wearing one pump instead of two, threw Sweet. So he put his pornographic magazine to one side, opened the blue velvet bag he carried his tools in, and set up a hit right there in the grass. As the sun came over the hill he got up off his arse and trundled across an open plain toward a football field. No good trying to walk in one stiletto, so he slipped the pump from his foot and cradled it in his arms. Had to find the other pump, he thought, in order to have a proper wank. But after searching the grounds for half an hour the two sizes too small crotch of Piggy"s panties had cut into his scrotum. And anyway, the coke and speed from the previous hit was wearing off as Sweet became suspicious of a seagull staring at him for a second longer than it should have been. Even the local bird life was out to get him.
As the gear wore off the pleasure zone projected its grasp through the exterior of Sweet"s skull, pleading for one more blast before promising to give the gear away. Sweet returned to his mound of dirt overlooking the Yarra river and sat down on the wet grass. With the return of the cravings came the memory of standing at the bar in that nightclub, his face ash white. Piggy had said later that Sweet"s face had turned ash white. He had watched and listened as the hashish in his brain forced that nightclub into his ear and out his nose. Sweet had snorted that club out of his nose as he raced from the shadows, picked up a glass, and threw a roundhouse right. The glass broke in the forehead of another man, and Sweet could not escape the memory of this foul deed. (Except when injecting himself with half a gram of coke and speed). But the buzz received was as brief as the time taken to commit the act. Sweet realised he had glassed the wrong man, instead of the bouncer who had bottled his friend, and two fingers of Sweet"s right hand were cut to the bone and hanging from bits of skin.
O yes, Sweet wants it bad alright. He sits on his mound of dirt with bandaged fingers encircling his forever flaccid dick. His other hand claws at the hard bits on his face. He wants to be loved but there is nobody left in the world to love a person who cannot love himself. Love breeds love, Sweet thinks, for his mind is not completely perforated. Love breeds love and hate breeds hate. In a general way a person can divide the population of the world into two categories. Of course, Sweet thinks, there are numerous subtle differences, but when all is said and done and the gear is on its way to the pleasure zone in the brain, life is simple. There are those that love and those that hate and poor old Sweet"s mind has become mashed potata on a plate. Sweet hates everybody. Including the junkie he has become. More an act of survival than a narcissistic desire. And it is this self loathing that might just keep him alive. If he is lucky.
Sweet gathers up his clothes and gets changed then off he goes in search of diamond studded Copenhagen the Doctor of the Drains. Yet Copenhagen has been hard to find for the last few days and all his customers are howling in a corner of their rooms.
Sweet picks Piggy up and down to Abbotsford they drive. Outside Copenhagen"s palace with its peep hole in the door Piggy taps and waits then taps again and waits some more. The door opens and Piggy"s hair comes out in clumps as The Man invites them in. Then its down to business on the kitchen table. Copenhagen drops three one ounce bags infront of them and before you can say Jack Rabbit, Piggy has a fit in her arm. Copenhagen orders Piggy into the toilet. A pillar of the community, he doesn"t want any of that shit going on in his house.
"Fuckin' junkies", he says.
"Ya can"t trust 'em".
Sweet agrees.
"You' re right alright, they' re cunts those fuckin' junkies".
Copenhagen admires Sweet"s admission before slipping under his eyelids and reflecting upon the porno he will watch later that night.
Piggy is back inside the kitchen in a minute waving her hand before her mouth as the taste rushes through her throat, then hits a lobe. Sweet is dying for a blast but feeling a little shy in front of Copenhagen. They"ve just had a conversation about transfusing Sweet"s blood into milk cartons and replacing it with Copenhagen"s. At a price of course. Especially since Copenhagen had read about the process in a three dollar copy of Life magazine.
"Ya can"t trust those fuckin' Commie bastards", says Copenhagen, for no apparent reason.
Sweet agrees. Too readily this time.
"Yeah", he says, aching for a blast.
"Better red than dead".
And Piggy"s cheeks flare as she looses her bowels in the kitchen and a fart tears out her arse.
"Right", says Copenhagen.
"Three grand on the dot next week or you' re both fuckin' dead".
Sweet thinks Copenhagen is joking, but Piggy is counting out the days in the foreground of her mind. The risk sends her head into a spin as Copenhagen"s face disappears behind the front door of his palace. Sweet and Piggy get into their car and off they go. Sweet is desperate to get home and whack the needle in his vein.
And Sweet wants to hold Piggy, he really does. But he cannot bring himself to do so until he"s got the gear in his head. As they swerve through the streets of Collingwood in Piggy"s yellow Mazda Capella Sweet remembers wanting to hold his mother. He sees his mother many years before within the recess of his drug fucked brain. The blue dress his mother wore stood out like colour on a pavement wet with rain. It was the month of May and Sweet watched his mother getting dressed inside her bedroom. He saw her in his mind as she fastened a suspender to her stocking. Sweet ran into the room and threw his arms around her thighs. His mother"s blue doughnut shaped hat fell from her head. She jumped halfway onto the bed then fell back on her knees and scratched a hole in the stocking on her leg. Sweet"s mother hit the roof and slapped him hard. Harder than she had ever slapped her son before. Sweet ran from the room and hid the pain in a pillow. And this child promised he would never love again. He would hate he would despise he would not compromise and he would steal his mother"s blue doughnut shaped hat and hide it in the shed.
Piggy"s yellow Mazda Capella pulls up outside their rented house in Keele St. They do not lock the doors for nobody is going to steal the car when Piggy is dealing with Copenhagen, the czar of inner-suburbia. Then it"s into the living room and powder on the silver spoon. Sweet hits first, but he has problems hitting the old artery, Sweet does. So he asks Piggy to give him a blast and she does and he GOES and soon the two of them are in bed. The sheets are woken from the dead and they fuck as if their lives depend on it. Sweet wants it bad but Piggy wants it worse. They are so desperate for love all they can do is abuse one another. In their drug induced states they commit every sin their calcified brains allow for. Suffice it to say Piggy"s dressed in leather lingerie and crotchless panties lying horizontal on the bed. Three fingers embedded in her glory box. Submitting to Sweet Thing"s ridiculous commands as he kneels between her legs and stares into her guadalcanal. O yes, Sweet wants it bad as he yanks his flaccid prick from left to right. While his brain is involved in some strange theory concerning his mother"s lost love. The love he never received from his mother is lost inside Piggy"s belly. Sweet demands she find that love and drag it out.
And these are the ways of the drug dreams when the speed and coke backs up in your toke. You don"t know who you are. You could be riding in a car along a beach while a rat like Copenhagen holds a gun against your head. And fluff, your life is gone in a fluff. Copenhagen"s henchmen do not dump your body in a drain. They leave your corpse beside a road for everybody to see. But Sweet and Piggy aren"t dead yet. In out of the bedroom after four hours of gynaecology. Out into the livingroom and have another blast. Then back into the bedroom for another bout before the two of them fall asleep in a scree stinking pile of tumescent flesh and body gush. Then it"s sleep per chance per dream until the morning passes, the afternoon arrives and still our two heroes have not returned from dream a dream land. Once they do, the animals creep back and devour them.
Then it"s into the toilet for Sweet where he usually spends some time in the mirror popping blackheads in his nose. But his mother is hard to find this morning and his father does not want to know... The only solution is: have another blast with Piggy, return to studies of crazy gynaecology, then sleep wake hit fuck and do it all over again until eighteen months has passed and Sweet is falling through a ceiling inside a dream. His father waits, ready to catch him as he falls, but drops his arms and Sweet crashes to the ground. The soft ground containing Copenhagen"s death box and its O so many entrances with one death chute at the rear. If only Sweet could find his mother. If only Piggy could find her father. But neither can, so they continue searching for love in one another. Pressing their fingers into the disfigurement. Sucking strands of love from each other"s brain.
Right in the middle of crazy gynaecology there"s a knock at the door. Sweet opens up to find Copenhagen with a 38 in his hand. He wants his three grand, but Sweet and Piggy have whacked the gear up.
"One death chute at the rear...", says Copenhagen, the barrel of his 38 sticking in Piggy"s mouth.
"One week for the money or one death chute at the rear".
As Copenhagen leaves he turns and says to his bull headed mate:
"Hey, I' ve given them something to look forward too".
Sweet and Piggy get Copenhagen"s money, but they have to rip off Skavinski Skava, who is well known for his machinegun. A week later they're back at Copenhagen"s palace. More gear on credit, and on it goes... While still later Sweet sits on his mound of dirt overlooking the Yarra river, a paw up around his face. Absently picking at his face... Wondering if his mother loves him...
"It"s a strange thing..."
Sweet says to himself as he goes in search of diamond studded Copenhagen the Doctor of the Drains. But better squeeze the blackheads in his nose first. Better perform the old gynaecological act with Piggy...
"Better do something..."
Sweet mutters, as the bad hit in his brain sends him spinning in search of love. But no love is forthcoming. Sweet should kill off the love he has for Piggy. Love gone bad is a death fuck inside his brain and he will not die with his boots on.
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