The Rooms. 1.0.

OSSIFIED DEBRIS

“It’s trending Unc,” Piers is fiddling with a tar black strand of floppy fringe, squeezing and twirling it around chipped black nail polished fingertips, “we’re most probably gonna get a deal but…fuck it, Badger says we should just take the pub, Soundcloud three tunes then link it to Bandcamp and cut out the fucking middle-men. Like…” I do wish he’d refrain from addressing me as ‘Unc’.
“You know Unc, we’re doing a live P.A. at Dungeon 24-O on Weds. Midnight. You should rock up dude, be well sick.” Piers is the unhappy result of a fervid one-nighter in Lausanne involving my youngest Sis, Julia and some bearded Austrian ‘DJ’ by the name of ‘Tech-Konig-Banger’ or ‘TKB’ if you please. Julia singularly ignored my advice to get the growth Dyson’d out of her and took it to term and so Piers ‘TKB’ is now sitting opposite me in Nando’s fussing with his hair, Peri-Peri Wings untouched. “Gis ya phone.” I shake my head. “Come on!” I shake my head. It’s not that I’m precious about my mobile it’s just that the sooner we’re out of here the better for all and I do not want to give my spotty, lanky, nephew any more one-sided conversational ammo. “What? Think I’ll take the piss?” That’s exactly what I think. A not unattractive waitress walks past. “Bang-Tidy.” states Piers. I have to concur. Piers ceases his tacky tonsulary and leans forward. “I saw you checking her tits man.” He winks. If Nando’s will insist on employing aesthetically pleasing young women and ordering them to wear constrictive black T-Shirts, where exactly is one supposed to look?
“ ‘Ossified Debris’ by…Ossified Debris. I’m gonna buy Mummy an island. Jamaica. Not Jamaica, obvs, but a small island off the coast. She raised me on Bob.” God, he’s ugly. I never saw a pic of his biological, only going on the sketches and watercolours that Julia produced in-between getting fingered on the banks of Lake Leman and even then, lilies were being gilded, I shouldn’t wonder but God, he is ugly. “Check this shit.” Piers is groping in the muff-pouch of his three-sizes-too-big charcoal hoody. He produces a sheet of A3. “Properly Old-School. Ya get me?” He flings the sheet in front of my empty plate. I peer down. A group of Islamic State fighters are holding their Kalashnikovs sky-ward and yelling. It appears the image has been cut from a newspaper, badly. Some of the heads are missing; I doubt Piers would see the irony. “Look at the flags Unc.” The black Jihadist banners are still intact but the white centre circle has been replaced by a cruddily drawn monolith, more like a skittle if anything. The white Arabic script above has been replaced by the legend, in Gothic Type: ‘Ossified Debris’. “Fucking provocative shit, yeah?” Piers has started to twist and writhe his black fringe. “Awesome.” There are no details on the paper. I motion for a member of staff, preferably the waitress. “Know exactly what you’re thinking Unc but Badger’s got it sorted: No fucking details, offend the Muzzies, all goes off, goes fucking viral, bods all link it with the tag on twitter, Sex fucking Pistols Mark II but, obvs, well better.” I’m waving an arm like I’m on deck in a squall. The waitress is depositing a bowl of nachos to my far right. She spots me.
“Emily Maitlis.” I stop waving and turn.”You’re feeling her Unc.” Many times you ugly, lanky, spotty twerp. Many times. Often in a horse-drawn in Montmartre. “This is totally on Newsnight dude which means Emily Maitlis on me, live, which means well on you, ‘cos you’ll have to drive me to the studio. I get to number 1, not that I give a shit, yeah, you get to spank Maitlis. Bang-Tidy.”
The waitress is fast approaching as is the image of Emily; a four-poster; a set of cuffs; black seamed stockings; velvet corset, knee-high black spike heeled boots. “Dead in the gutter like Capitalism…Facebook Faceache a Global Schism. Devil’s Jism!” The waitress reaches us.
“Death for you, death for me, all I see is Ossified Debris!” God he’s ugly. “Check that dope shit baitch!” The waitress ignores Piers. I put it on the plastic. Outside the wind is snapping. I turn the collar of my jacket up. On the walk to the car Piers is describing in elaborate detail what he’d do to Paris Hilton; “She’s a Milf but still fit-as.” Somewhere in a piss-soaked Viennese alley, some itching crack-bag is templating my nephew’s future. I’m happy when we pull away.

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