I know that this is a bad time to start a story. I always get distracted. The thing is I'm having trouble with my other stories because I can't really identify with the culture. I have to do a lot of research before writing which puts limitations on where I want to move the plot. So, for a change, I've written a story that's set in my country so that I can write it a lot easier. It's dark, it's gritty, it's raw and has a lot of London slang in it, so it may be hard to read. But, from what I've written so far, I have big plans for it. I'm still working on my other stories, but this one is just a chance for me to take a bit of a break from trying to appeal to international readers.

So. here it is.

Die Musik von den Wölfen

Music's part of the culture here. If it wasn't played all the time you'd hear nothing but sirens and shouting. It kind of paints the place. Everything's grey without it. I mean, I don't have the same taste as everyone else, but music is music. Genre doesn't matter if it sounds nice. I don't even mind rap sometimes so long as it's not some amateur's sample tape where he raps about pussy and money that he thinks he has but doesn't.

My Mum and Dad were punks in the eighties. I've got a picture of her when she was my age in my room. She had half her head shaved and the other side was all spiked up and red. I took a lot of her old CDs with me when we left. Stuff like the Sex Pistols, the Clash, the Police. Pink Floyd's my favourite I think. Well, it's just a couple of their songs really. It's the kind of music you listen to and think 'yeah, these guys get me'. Makes me want to smash things and climb walls. When you get into it you feel like you could do anything and you don't give a fuck about what happens because of it. You can give that cunt that stole your trainers a punch to the fucking throat, and wank off on the desk of the dick teacher that called you a yob. It's music like that that makes you remember that rules aren't set in stone. They're made by old men sitting at desks who just make assumptions and don't know what the world is really like. They think that everyone has goodness and obedience in them. Well, what about us rotten apples? We must've just fallen to the bottom of the basket. But we're still there, and if you're not careful we'll ruin the whole batch.

I'm only sixteen now, but give it a few years and I'm gonna have my hold on the world. I've got music in me, too. I'm gonna make my generation into the new anarchists, and we're going to wreck the world more than anyone else. Me and my pack are gonna cause carnage once I sink my claws in deep enough. I can't wait. Smashing in a few car windows on other days doesn't do it for me anymore. I want riots and orgies. I've even thought of some good scars to get. I want one going right across my forehead so it looks like I could just peel it back and show my brain to everyone. Or maybe one going down my neck. A good scar can have a million stories to it. Either that or I want my face tattooed to look like a wolf or something. That way I could make my bitch bark when I fuck them from the back. And I'll howl when I cum. Of course I'll play a bit of Ozzie while I'm doing it. Maybe if they get into it enough they'll let me bite them.

I always hated doing it in his bed. I would've even preferred the back garden. It always made me stink of flowers. His wife uses some fancy floral fabric softener or something, but it keeps rubbing off on me. I'd been wearing the same top for four days though, so when I pulled it on I felt a lot better having my stink back on me.

"Don't you want to stay for dinner or something? Jen isn't back until late."

"Nah. I've got shit to do."

Yeah. I planned to have a spliff and stare at my ceiling for the rest of the night. Still a hell of a lot more exciting than listening to him. He was a fucking bore with a cock half the size of his fucking mouth. Bender always tried talking to me like I gave a shit about what he had to say.

"What was it I said? £90?"

"Yeah. Just put it in my pocket. I'm getting a drink."

He paid well though. He didn't used to, but I got wise and realised how desperate he was to keep this up. I mean, I'm of age now, but I wasn't when he gave me the first offer. That's got to mean something. Maybe he's too scared to find another boy. He jumped around the subject with me for ages before he actually did anything. He'd text me these weird, vague messages and asked me to do odd jobs for him so he could feel me up in private. He's just lucky he picked someone that doesn't give a shit. Anyone else and he'd be having his arse hammered by a butch Jane in a jail cell. I bet he just doesn't want to have to go through all that hassle again, so he pays what I say. And I'm not complaining.

Walking down his stairs just reminded me of everything I hated in our society. Domesticity, complacency, tradition, social expectation. He had a wife and three kids that he didn't care about but kept so he could hide his lust for young boys. He let her do the decorating because there's a certain tick list for every family home that needs fulfilling. Floral curtains, a tv as big as you can afford to be the kids' second mother and everything's got to be colourful because psychology states that a child growing up in a blank space grows up to lack creativity and may develop a social disorder. That's why mum let me help paint the flat when I was young. I think the Rolling Stones would have a good idea what I wanted to do to this place. We'd be the best collaboration of interior designers.

I nicked a beer from his fridge; one of the posh types in a glass bottle. He couldn't really stop me. He'd be a hypocrite if he did and I'd call him out for it. Too young to drink but old enough to sell my body? That's a bit perverse. I'm too young to wreck my body, but old enough to let others do it for me. See what I mean when I say that the rule makers don't understand the world? Us young prostitutes deserve a drink now and then after all our hard work keeping the family men from blowing their brains out when they're overloaded with pent up sexual frustration.

I downed half of it in one go. Selling your self respect is thirsty work after all. I could hear him getting dressed upstairs so I made sure to finish the rest quickly before he came down. He came in wearing his suit, even the tie, and handed me my jeans with the money in the pocket. I put them on without really saying anything and felt him watching me. He spotted my empty beer on the counter and went to the cupboard.

"I have more than just beer, you know. I've got some gin if you want it."

"Yeah, alright."

He pulled out a half empty bottle and a couple of glasses. I jumped up to sit on the counter next to him when he started pouring. He filled one glass half way and the other right to the brim. I took the full one before he could give me the other and he sighed, not bothering to pour any more into his own.

"Cheers."

He raised his glass to me and I ignored him. I filled my mouth with as much liquor as I could fit and swallowed it in two gulps. I think he was a bit surprised that I didn't cough or anything after it. Maybe he thought this was my first time having a proper drink. I felt him looking at me again when I finished my drink and hopped of the counter, ready to rush out the door before he could ask me to spoon him or something. I let him do it once, and afterwards he had the nerve to try and kiss me. I would've punched him if he hadn't paid me extra afterwards.

"Thanks for the drink."

I mumbled and nudged him with my shoulder when I walked by. I liked treating him mean. It made me feel powerful. He'd still call me again no matter how cruel I was to him. Sometimes I even thought of tagging one of the walls for his wife to see.
'John's cock likes me better. Love Matthew age 16'
She'd throw a fucking fit I bet. It'd be funny to watch. And then his little baby girls would walk in and ask him what a cock was. Or maybe I could just take a piss on his bed and mark my territory. Of course I'd rob him for all he had before I did any of that, otherwise who else was going to buy me a new guitar?

I didn't bother tying up my shoes. I just tucked the laces into my socks and left, more than ready to get the fuck out of there now that I had my allowance. It was dark and cold like it always was. I don't know why people would come to London on holiday. It's fucking miserable as far as I've seen. I'd be happy if it burned to the ground. At least then it might get a bit warmer.

I walked over to my bike that was chained up to his porch. The old woman across the street was looking out her window at me again. She probably knew what was going on but didn't fancy making a fuss by reporting it. Instead she'd just gossip about it with her husband who was equally indifferent. If someone asked her why she didn't tell the police she'd probably act all fucking naive, saying that she thought I was his nephew or something. Yeah...a nephew that came round for an hour or so every week after dark and made sure to leave before his wife came back. Old people just act stupid for sympathy.

I put on my head phones and tucked my mp3 into my zipped up hoodie. 'King of Pain' came on from where I'd left off, just when the drum kicks in, and I swung my leg over the bike seat. The old bat was still watching. The curtain she'd pulled half across her didn't do as good a job at hiding her as she thought, stupid bitch. I pulled my hood half across my face so my mouth only showed and I gave her what I could of a smile, just to take the piss. She jumped away from the window when I did and I was left laughing to myself when I finally cycled off home.

That's the preview. I hope it got some of you interested

Bed. Of. Nails. And. Sandpaper

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