Bleeding Seamonster

Bleeding Seamonster

Trixie moves in first, plays it perfectly; she says: “where’s Gee Street?” So, the poor bastard pulls his map’s app up and Max can see he is susceptible.

She collared the man, stepping out the lift at the top of the concourse. She plays dumb, gets him to really spell it all out to her. Subtlety, I tell them: Trix has that in abundance. 

The man has his kid in a pram and some cockerpoo too, sniffing about and pawing at Trix; she indulges it since she loves dogs but mostly so to prime it for Max.

Max finally clocks he is laden, then spies that glorious timepiece. He slips watches like he sweats WD40, but he does not know them from a candy-bracelet without Trix. 

The pram rolls midway between the lift and barriers, nice and slow. It is like Trixie is rolling the damn thing, total control. She has Max in her sights and moves on to ‘Gee Street.’

Then it is Max with all the scars across his face, all cockney: blah-blah-blah. He goes eye-to-eye with the man, really tries hypnotizing him with these crazy eyes he has. 

No, no, no: how many times am I telling this kid? I say: “subtlety Max; just take it easy, why don’t you.” The kid is thick as pig-shit, which is why we always say it: never let Max talk.

Look at Trix: she gets the man with the pram; prime in anyone’s eye. She clocked the Rolex too, plays damsel-distressed and is gone. 

She smiles tight-lipped, since she knows that broken-tooth is distinguishing but swishes her ass as she goes, so to take the bastard’s eye: she still has something.

She says Seamonster for Seamaster still but knows them by the tick. Seamonster she says: you smell the Weston-Super-Mare on her; salt-sea-and-sewage, my little pirate. 

“You’re a regular horologist, aren’t you Trix”: I said once, and felt the weight of her at my temple. All she was hearing was whore and bang. That was when she was fresh off the train from Bristol. 

It gave me butterflies for her, flapping all over my innards and not long after she was touching up this fat-cat’s whiskers, which sent us wild with the jealousy, so I told her about my office. 

What did it was how she was holding his face: I was spitting feathers; you could see how horny he was, and he did this move so to grind up to her. 

It was like I drank ethanol all over, sparked-up and flamed in the pit of me; like I sparked every-last-motherfucker, then shanked my own heart: knuckles bleeding, dripping down my wrists.

She clocked him from the cash-machine starry-eyed, stumbling: all of it textbook though; Houdinied the wallet right out the bastard’s pocket while she did the reach-around. 

Then she leaves him there stranded in an ocean-of-suits and she is moving all sassy toward me, clacking this gum in the side of her mouth and I could have sworn she had this red-lipstick on. 

She held herself to me next, slipped the watch on me, all sleight-of-hand: a bleeding Seamonster, she says; I was smitten. It was back when her clothes were still clean and she moved quick.

She was right tight to me, pressed up so that her nipples were sweet midget-gems at my chest; I was purring, and all the hate fluttered out my skin with the butterflies before my eyes: pure magic.

She has these audacious eyes, sea-green and whispering of themselves, and she was chewing gum, so that she was all spearmint-smelling and for weeks we slept in that office I knew. 

That is when she told us of her little Naomi and her plan; she cannot sleep for thinking of it though and is insomniac-guaranteed until she has her back in her arms.

We got these old sleeping-bags from the god-botherers, zipped them together and made a fort with the packing-boxes and polystyrene balls so she did actually sleep in fits, clinging on to us.

There were no blinds, so we woke to sun streaming through the fort each morning, pigeons cooing and views across the whole of London, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, everything; it was paradise.

We had the Seamaster-money in all, so it was grapes and beers and all the Golden Virgina you could smoke; we even had flowers blooming from the sink: she loved that.

The thing about Trix though is she goes cold and when I found her letters it was like she hated us; they were wet from rain and drying, and I barely glanced at them, but she got so fierce, so I said: 

You never send them anyways. 

Oi cahn’t, she says and: it’s none o’yer goddamn business.

That is when I got mad, but I never hurt her, and I told her about my Danny and Louise and how I would cut my balls off just for visitation. 

So, we added them all into the plan and a dog and it is happening, I swear it. But then we came back one time and there was men taking boxes in and all our stuff was splayed out across the street. 

Not long after the Seamaster-money was spent and we had to get serious about welfare and I smelled her this one time and she stank as bad as everyone of us, but Trix is mine: my little pirate.

Trix is skinny all over but for her belly and her jacket bulges like the Michelin-man since she keeps all little Naomi’s letters in her sleeves; she got it off the god-botherers, god-bless-them.

Welfare say we are on a list for a place of our own now with Trix being pregnant and all but how long is a piece of string and winter is here: it is Baltic.

Trix says this bump is a Christmas miracle what with her being a virgin and all, which is exactly the sass that got us hooked in the first place, god-bless-her.