Something a bit different. This just came to me. Not sure where from, but come it did, and you know how it is with ideas.

Hope you guys enjoy!

Disclaimers: Mighty Boosh and all characters belong to Julian Barratt and Noel Fielding.

Ultraviolet

Look at this. Look at me. Peeping Tom, over by the bar. Wasted. Or pretending to be.

Look at me, I'm waving, can you see me? Yoohoo! Yoo-hoo!

Look at me, look at you, disco lights the pair of us. Look at how much you shine, like the flashes that streak through the air in this tiny, sweaty, disgusting, lovely club. Ultraviolet light.

Look at me, look at me – why aren't you looking at me?

You're too busy with someone else, a man, or is it a woman? Can't tell, don't care.

Look at me, Peeping Tom, drink down my top, over here, by the bar – yoohoo! I'm waving! Can you see me waving? Look at me, Peeping Tom, watching their hands down your back, watching how your mouths cup and clasp and tremble. Watching your eyelashes, very long against your cheekbones, shiver slightly as you blink eyes-closed.

You're busy, very busy, hands all down their back and under their shirt and into their jeans, each finger like a streak of light, each finger like one of our knives, stab, stab, stab, stab, stab – moan.

Stab, stab, stab, into me.

Look at me, I'm at the bar, did you know? Did you know I'm watching? As you toss your head back, shake your blonde hair out, I'm watching. Did you know?

Oh, of course you don't know. I don't need anyone, I'm not anyone's bitch. That what I always say, isn't it?

"You fancy him."

"I do not!"

"You do."

"Shut up, you bitch, or I'll slap you!"

"Just cos you fancy him."

"I do not fucking fancy him! I'm not his bitch, I'm not anyone's bitch!"

"Didn't say you were. He could be your bitch, I guess; he's thin enough."

"Maybe that I wouldn't mind."

"Told you, you fancy him. Here, let's have a fag..."

Look at me, Peeping Tom, at the bar, prisoner at the bar, do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? See, Your Honour, I know, think, worry, know I'm in love with this other woman and she cheats.

She cheats and she isn't cheating because she's not mine, but yet she is, is, is because she's my friend and I want her to be with me. She's mine in my head, Your Honour, Your Honour... look at me, Peeping Tom, as he or she kisses your delicate chin.

I knew I loved you very early on. Realised that time that guy came at me after the gig, you remember it? He came at me, and he was one of those typical wankers – "'Ey love, you all right? Show us yer tits then..." I got my knife out and was ready to stab him up, but I'd had a few – more than a few – and he somehow snatched it off me. He pinned me against the wall and then he got his hand all up under my skirt, and I thought to myself, "Fuck, this time you're for it" – and then I saw that flash of light.

The flash came from the strobe lights glinting off your knife that you pushed up against his neck, ever so calm, and you said, "What's going on here, then?"

He left us alone pretty quick.

You looked at me when he'd gone, and when I looked up I could see you were worried. I mean, I'd have been worried – I must have looked a right fucking mess, all hunched against the wall with my skirt up round my waist and my leggings half down where he'd been tugging them. You bent over me and your breath tickled my cheek and smelled of vodka and mingled with the cheap rose perfume you had and you said, "You okay?"

I nodded and trembled and spat on the ground, furious with that wanker and also still feeling his hands on me, in between my thighs, horrible, horrible.

You pulled me up in the dark at the end of the club where no-one could see and stroked my hair and kissed me on the cheek. That kiss. Ultraviolet light. That was when I knew.

Look at me. Look at me. Ultraviolet light. On my face, on your face, everywhere. The strobe lights are piercing shots of blue, pink, green, right through my stomach. Oh, I feel them, and oh they burn, and you burn.

You've got eyes like ultraviolet lights, you do. Your eyes are almost violet.

Look at me.

You've got eyes like ultraviolet lights. Your eyes are almost violent. Oh, I feel them, let me feel, they burn.

Look at me.

You're a whore.

Look at you, sucking on lips, hands in trousers, stroking whatever you find down there; you don't care. You don't care and that's what sticks in my chest, my throat, everywhere. I could have you; it's not like my body's in the way.

I'm not anyone's bitch. You remember that time I told you about, in the club, with that bastard and his girlfriend? I was sixteen or seventeen. This girl was in tears, absolutely heartbroken cos, from what I heard at least, a friend had seen this boyfriend she was with going round with another woman and hugging her and kissing her and stuff. She kept saying to him, "Just tell me you didn't do it, just tell me" – and the fucking bastard wouldn't. He couldn't admit he'd done it; he wasn't even strong enough to lie about it. He just kept dodging the question and the poor girl was getting more and more upset, and eventually she grabbed hold of him, pretty desperate, and he shoved her off really hard against the bar and raised his hand like he was going to punch her. So I got my flick knife out and ran between them and stuck it up in his face and said, "You lay a finger on her and I'll stab you up."

He was very shocked and very drunk I think; he kind of staggered away. The girl stood still a few moments, then she got up off the bar, said a nervous "Thank you" to me, and helped him away. After all that, after all he'd done, she helped him away.

She helped him away, and I knew she'd stay with him forever and he'd never love her.

Why would you want that? Why would anyone want that? That's what I thought; it's what I still think. So I was never anyone's bitch, never anyone's whore, never anyone's anything: I was mine.

And then I met you. Ultraviolet light.

Look at me.

You fucking bitch, you slag, get your hands off that man, woman, thing and just look at me.

I'm shaking. I feel like I'm shaking you. Look at me. Look at me! For God's sake, look at me! Let me get my hands on your razor-sharp skin, under your shirts, your skirts. Please, please, I could make you blossom and spark.

You're in the corner properly now, writhing. Don't want to think. Don't want to know.

You bitch, I'll fucking stab you up. Look at me.

No, I'm the bitch. Stupid fucking ugly bitch. I'm not anyone's bitch.

Look at me, over by the bar, Peeping Tom, sick, wasted, stupid. Living on dreams.

"Don't you think, Paris smells different from London?"

"Guess..."

You, spread out on a sheet that looks bloody through the drawn red curtains that just let the lights in, lights from the Red Light District. You're dyed the colour yourself, body slender and scarlet. No duvet. You twist one leg over the other, elegant.

"I think it smells different. Like, heavier."

"Heavier?"

You shift again. I see the flat pale landscape of your shape, curve of your hips, gentle risings of breasts, and your hair out round your head on the pillow. I see a bead of sweat run down your neck, into the dip by your collar bone. God, you're beautiful. Sitting on the floor by the bed in leggings and bra with joint in hand, I feel like I'm worshipping you.

"Yeah."

"In' that just cos of the weed?"

"No..." You stretch one arm like you know what you're doing to me. Ultraviolet light. You blink. You seem slower, darker, lustier. Lady in rouge.

"It's not the weed. It's... the heat, and the perfume French women wear, and the way everyone's looking for sex. That's what I reckon." You turn your head towards the window, the red curtains, like you can see through them. I almost run my finger over your hair to feel the individual strands, one by one by one, under my nerves.

"You're too fuckin' deep sometimes, you know that?"

You laugh, soft English chuckle.

"You don't agree?"

"Not that. Just I can't be fucked to think about it."

"Fair enough." You wipe your neck, find more sweat. "Damn, it's hot." You look at me. "Give us a smoke, then..."

You look at me.

Will you look at me?

You've got eyes like ultraviolet lights. Your eyes are almost violent. They burn.

Oh God, I love you. Can't you see? Look at me, prisoner at the bar, fool in love, I love you! In Paris I wanted to praise your body and violate it and in violating it make it something beautiful, risen again like Jesus or something.

I can see you, head over shoulder, in the corner, mouth open. Bet your lipstick's smeared. Like you're a fucking prostitute. Leggings torn open to shag. But your blonde hair still looks like a halo in this light. Ultraviolet light.

I'll never forget that image. How she helped him away. She put her arms round his body, right round it, and I knew she'd stay with him and never be happy. Don't ask me how, I just did.

Guess I'm just like her, or maybe worse. He kissed her, screwed her, brought her shitty flowers, made her think he cared about her. Maybe he even did in a small-minded way.

You lean on me. You have to, I'm shorter.

"My walking stick."

"Shut up, bitch, I'm not your fucking walking stick."

"You love being my walking stick..."

Oh God, God damn it, damn you, I love you. Is that not enough? I can't say it, you know me, I can't say anything except stuff to scare people. Do I scare you?

Don't be scared. Little one, little girl, beautiful girl; don't be scared of me, ultraviolet. Don't be scared. Don't turn away, don't close your eyes. Let me stroke your head, let me kiss you, let me calm you from the nightmares. I love you.

Look at me.

Look at me.

At the bar, with the vodka.

Prisoner at the bar.

Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

Fuck off you bitch, how the hell am I meant to do that when I can't even tell my best friend I love her?

I'm as bad as that girl in the bar. I'm as bad as those two guys.

"Hey, you'd better not be hoping to get off with the little fairy tonight."

"And why not?"

"His friend will kick your head in."

"I'd like to see him fuckin' try!"

"So would I. You'd slash him to pieces, like always. But don't you agree? His friend... didn't you see the way they checked each other out?"

"They did?"

"Uh-huh. Watch them tonight. Bet they do it again."

And they did. You were right. Stolen glances, stolen hearts.

Look at me. Wasted. Wasted girl. Wasted heart.

Look at me, look at you, disco lights, the pair of us. A pair of disco lights, two of a kind, peas in a pod, whatever the fuck else people say. Whoever else we're with, we light up and they don't.

She was wearing blue jeans and a pink t-shirt and a little beret thingy, and she let him lean his head on her shoulder and she helped him out of the bar and off down the road, and I knew she'd stay with him and love him and he wouldn't love her back. It must have been in the way she held him so tight, the way he half leaned, half tried to pull away. I just knew.

"How about a bit more blue?"

You hold my chin, two long fingers on my face so I shake with bliss, look in my eyes, stick your tongue just between your lips, bring crumbly sultry make-up and put it on for me. I wonder if you wonder why I'm not slapping you off, but it's cos I like you touching me, ultraviolet light.

The strobe lights are piercing shots of blue, pink, green, right through my stomach.

Another drink.

Look at me.

You're in the corner. I can almost hear you gasp, pant, moan. But all there is really is the thunder of the beats from the music. Get me out of here. Peeping Tom. Prisoner at the bar. Fool in love. Wasted girl, wasted heart.

"I love Paris. Don't you?"

"Yeah."

We're too poor to afford two beds. At four in the morning when I finally show I'm tired you let me in with you and your body feels like living silk. When I hold you, you flow under my arms, muscles sliding over one another. You put your head against mine and breathe warmly in my hair.

"I still think it smells different."

"Mm." Cuddle against your chest. "Maybe."

"Going to sleep?"

"No."

You put your arms round me closer, sweaty and sweet.

"Mm, love ya..."

Freeze.

Breathe.

Was half asleep.

Didn't mean to speak.

Then, you shift.

"All heart really, aren't you?" you say.

I say nothing.

You chuckle again, fondly, softly, dreamily. "Sleep tight, you psycho bitch..."

Look at this. Look at me.

I'm waving, I'm waving. Yoohoo! Yoo-hoo!

See you look up, over that person's shoulder. Shadows on your cheeks from your skull. Even your bones are beautiful, made of disco lights. Ultraviolet light.

Oh, fuck's sake. Look at me. Peeping Tom. Prisoner. Wasted girl. Wasted heart.

Not entirely sure that all got across exactly what I wanted it to, but I still thought it was all right. So anyway. If you guys liked this, I'm thinking of doing another electro girls fic, a much sweeter one, cos there's this beautiful Bjork song that really reminds me of them... but anyway.

Thanks for reading!

violence x