Thursday, 13 February 2014

GASP ft. Half Man Half Debauchery - The Spilling of the Wine.

A track GASP and I did a few years ago, produced by Conz. I've got the 2nd and 4th verses. It was a genuine honour to feature on GASP's first solo album.

Tuesday, 11 September 2012

Who Dares Wins

(A short story)

     Halloween this year was the best. Me and my pal Mark had been planning it for ages. Since we made up after he said sorry for not swapping me Aston Villa's Gary Shaw so's I could complete the Panini '82 sticker album. I completed it anyway. My big brother got me Gary Shaw. Our costumes were practically real SAS uniforms. I got the SAS annual for my birthday so we knew exactly what we needed - black combat trousers, black army jumpers, black balaclavas, black ammunition belts, black backpacks (for our sweeties) and black paratrooper boots, although they don't make them in kids sizes so we just borrowed some of my big brothers old Doc Martens which were still far too big. We were doing bob-a-jobs for months to get the money for everything. We even made a bazooka out of an old drainpipe and got climbing rope for Mark to wear it over his shoulder, and I had a belt of grenades over mine. That's what we decided, Mark got the rockets, I got the grenades, all made out of fireworks. Well, the rockets were just normal rockets but the grenades were real grenades because we got loads of bangers and split them open then put them back together with ten bangers worth of gunpowder in each one, wrapped in tin foil and sealed with that white papery-tape my dad uses to not paint over the edges when he's decorating the house. We had five grenades and two whole packets of rockets so twenty rockets. We didn't pay for them ourselves, though. My big brother promised to get us the fireworks if we managed to get our own uniforms.   
     We got ready and went to show my big brother. Him and his pal Skeesh were out the front fixing their scooters again. They're always fixing their scooters. He said we looked cool but told us we shouldn't have dressed as SAS men because we're Catholic so we don't like the SAS, but that it was too late now and the Iranian Embassy siege was pretty cool anyway. Pretty cool anyway? It was the best thing ever! I tried to ask why Catholics don't like the SAS but he wasn't even listening, he just started going on at us saying we shouldn't go out on Bonfire Night either because Guy Fawkes was a Catholic like us and we shouldn't burn the Guy, but then Skeesh started saying Guy Fawkes wasn't like us because he hated Scottish people, so then my big brother and Skeesh started arguing and we just left them to it. Me and Mark still don't know how being a Catholic means you don't like the SAS, or why Guy Fawkes hated Scottish people, but there's no way we're missing Bonfire Night. My big brother's off his head if he thinks we're not going to set fire to stuff on Bonfire Night, Bonfire Night's amazing. Although it wont be as good as this Halloween was, it was even better than the time me and Mark broke into the old Town Hall and found all those boxes of light bulbs, then went to school the next day and told the boys. We all put on our camouflage gear and went back that night then split up into two armies, hid all over the Town Hall and ambushed each other in the dark, using the light bulbs as grenades. It was like a real war with proper explosions and everything. Nowhere near as good as this Halloween was, though. It was ace, and because we had balaclavas on we could chap any door and people just thought we were their grandsons. We got pure tons of sweets. We were out til dead late without even having to fire off hardly any shots. Although a couple of people didn't answer their doors so we blew up their letter boxes and opened fire on their windows. This old guy came out one of the houses and chased us so he was definitely in and totally deserved it.
     Anyway, we were on our way back to our den next to the old pigeon coops to get stuck in to our sweets when we turned a corner and one of the skinheads was leaning against the wall across the street. It was either Steelie or his clatty pal Neil Fullerton. It's dead confusing because everyone says Neil Fullerton's the one with the Nazi thing drawn on his forehead and Steelie's the one with NF written on his but that doesn't make sense because why would Steelie have his pal's initials tattooed on his forehead, so we figured it must be the other way around.
"Here, ya wee fannies, happy Halloween is it, aye? Gie's yer sweets or I'll kick yer heads in." He's much older than us so it wasn't fair. We could've just legged it and got my big brother to batter him but SAS men don't run. 
"Nut, fuck off ya dildo!" Mark's pretty tough so he wasn't scared even though we're only in primary five and everyone knows Steelie got expelled from the academy for punching a teacher.
"Wee man, you're dead." He started walking over, wobbling from side to side like he was drunk, then he just ran at us and grabbed Mark so I jumped in and started kicking him in the shins. We both set about him but he was just laughing, then he grabbed our bags off us so I got out my Zippo.
"The Iranian Embassy siege, Mark!"
"Aye, save the hostages!" Steelie was looking through my bag while I loaded Mark's bazooka and he took aim.
"Here, Steelie, ya fuckin' tampon!" He looked up just as the rocket toar out. Fuck-ye! Point-blank right in the face, it was amazing! He went pure arse-over-tit then decked it a dulyin, so I lit two grenades, stuck them down the front of his denims, grabbed our bags and ran.
"Who dares wins, ya fuckin' pokey bum wank!" Then all we heard was this massive explosion and him screaming his head off! It was hilarious, we could hardly run for laughing!
     That was two nights ago. This morning my big brother asked if I knew anything about what's in the paper. He said Neil Fullerton's in hospital with no balls and one eye, and that some old granny saw two masked men running away, and that the police suspect it might be something to do with Irish paratrooper military groups because Neil Fullerton's dad's in jail for something to do with a UVF or something. So, aye, too right me and Mark are joining the SAS when we grow up.
    

The End.


Copyright Roddy Smith 2013.

Thursday, 12 July 2012

Reach

(Flash fiction)

Time thawed and the ageing process gained pace making it harder for me to catch up. From my mothers flimsy pedestal, looking back at the thirty-six years of failure following my every step. Things were better when I was still numb. Or before I'd tried. Before the chronic insomnia and all of its friends: The horrifying anxiety; the lockjaw and its two cracked molars; the perpetual sores on my feet which, in protest, have refused to heel; the physical weakness and the inability to harbour a clear thought. All this in slow motion. Everything, two-dimensional. All so silent that the world doesn't notice. Nor will it. Time wont blink an eye, and the tide wont flinch. No fight or faith left in me. So the world does end in 2012. Ready to dance the jig. Never was much of a dancer. One last move, one last step - probably the most courageous of my life. My life. A failed career. A failed marriage, if you could even call it that; having it constantly flaunted before me, right in my face. Right around the corner and I'm supposed to just smile. Patronised by a firm handshake. Even something as simple as eating food, then later taking a shit, completely underlines how pointless everything is. It's fine. No one will notice. Tug the rope hard. Make sure it's tight, strong, don't fuck this up. Not this. Even you can do this right. Do it. Just kick the stool away...
Fuck! God! No! Help! Grab the rope! Help! This cant be..! Isn't right..! The rope... No... The radiator... Get your foot to it... Reach for it... Reach... Fuck... Please... Reach... God... Cant reach... Cant... Reach... Reach... Reach.

The End.


Copyright Roddy Smith 2014.

Friday, 8 June 2012

The Brimston Lottery

 (A short story) 

For Kate...


     Almost thirteen years had passed since Brimston Town had been discovered under Glasgow, and mild mannered Neil was sat at his desk, miserable, but trying to look busy when the lottery programme started. Its announcements seized everything, confiscated every screen, window, ceiling, pair of spectacles, entrance and exit with transmissions, projections and holograms. Every loudspeaker, telephone and hearing aid was adopted and adapted, even the town statues and gargoyles became animated, taking on the roll of its host - the old and wise, if somewhat elusive town Mayor, Mr. Nicholas Dickens - and with entry being mandatory, the lottery could not be avoided. Even those asleep were woken with a mild burn.  
     The programme itself was a mockery of fantasy, and the people of Brimston had only recently began to question - on account of the people of Glasgow - how it was possible for it to be so perfectly tailored to every single individual simultaneously, but still remain primarily the same. Even if a large group of people watched the same screen, the Mayor would address each person by name as though they were the only one watching. 
"Yes, Mr. Raeside! Could today be the luckiest day of your life so far? Let's hope so because we both know you could use a bit of luck after that incident in the park yesterday, right?" Neil hadn't told anyone about 'that incident in the park yesterday' where his leg had been violated by a massive stray doberman while he tried to eat his banana. "Let's find out as we play this month's lotto!"  
Every single soul in Brimston watched with white knuckles as the numbers were read aloud. 
"And this months numbers are, drum-roll, please... 2, 9, 11, 7, 6..." Neil went dizzy. "And the final number is... 3!"  
"Bollocks."  
"Neil Raeside, you are this month's lottery winner! Everybody, let's all come together and congratulate Mr. Raeside for a spectacular choice of numbers! What a lucky guy! Fantastic! Mr. Raeside, your loved ones need never worry again, isn't that just spectacular? Neil Reaside you have until six minutes and six seconds past six o'clock this evening to comply."  
With elbows on knees and head in hands, Neil despaired as his entire office briefly gathered around to congratulate him, feigning joy and smiling through their teeth as they did. A moment later he was alone again, listening to his suddenly not-so-miserable co-workers muttering under their breath as they glanced over, and with only half an hour until lunch break, Neil had no idea what he was going to say to Kate, who without a shadow of doubt definitely knew he'd won. After all, there was no avoiding the lottery. He was sat hunched, kneading his brow, almost in tears when his phone rang. It was Kate. He answered but didn't speak. 
"Neil, mate, it's alright, don't worry yourself." 
"It's not alright, Kate. It's totally fucked." 
"Yeah, that's what I thought but what the hell. Fuck it. D'you reckon you can pull a sickie for the rest of the day?" 
"I could probably get away with that today, yeah. I did win the lottery." 
"Exactly! We'll get a carry out, head up the mountain, get pissed and everything'll be fine. Sound good?" 
"I suppose." 
"Right then, I'll get you outside your office in, say, what, half an hour?" 
"I suppose." 
"Sorted, then. In a bit!" 
Neil was in shock and grateful for it. Being numbed let him see his situation from a distance, like looking at a bright light through a blacked-out window, he knew it was there but it didn't seem so. And as though he'd held his breath without first taking one, the passing half-hour was a single moment drawn out. Then he was outside.  
"Alright!" There were few people in Brimston unaffected by the lack of what the locals had recently come to know as sunlight. Kate was one of them. 
"Not really, no." 
"Aw, come on, there's no need to look so glum, we've got a massive carry-out!" Kate was holding a carrier bag full of beer in each hand. Neil took a bag and they began clunking their way through the business district towards the town centre. 
                                         Andy Paterson
     The streets were almost empty on account of it being considered respectful to remain indoors when a lottery winner was collecting the prize, and the few people they did pass looked uncomfortable to be near them. Some gave a smile or a nod or even both, but not once was there a smile in anyones eyes other than Kate's. The further they walked, the more barren the streets became. 
"We might as well get cracking with these, there's no fucker about to bust us. Here." Kate handed Neil a bottle opener. 
"Cheers." Said Neil. 
"Fuck me, it talks! Get it down your neck, you'll feel better about things." 
      Brimston town centre was a daunting place when quiet, in that it never truly was. Regardless of how devoid of movement it might become, its silence bounced off every wall, most of which stretched all the way to the roof where the darkness of the city was rarely breached. The buildings were tightly packed, and many had been derelict for longer than anyone knew, pre-dating the town records. They stood now, reinforced, only as support for the Brimston town canopy, lifeless until the lottery required what gargoyles remained. 
     They passed through Stygian Square at the heart of town. It was laden with massive columns and pillars that reached up out of sight, some were man made as buttresses, others formed naturally from dripstones. There were dozens of huge effigies, either sculpted and mounted on slabs or just carved where selenite crystals had formed, gleaming all-but see-through white and shining like an ice sculpture but dry to the touch. Neil and Kate were walking open-mouthed, taking in the magnificence of a place normally bustling, never seen in such loneliness, when suddenly they jumped with fright as every single surrounding statue came to life all at once, congratulating them. Both of them. As a pair, not as individuals. It was the first time either of them had ever seen any statue move other than when the lottery was being announced, and they were addressed collectively. 
"What?" Said Kate, baffled. "Neil, are we celebrities? We fucking are, we're famous! Woohoo!" She held her half-empty beer in the air for a second, then dropped it back by her side and continued, "No, wait... celebrities are knobs," prompting Neil to laugh aloud. He stood looking at one of the statues as it jeered him on, then threw his beer bottle at it, smashing it across the face. Mid-sentence it went silent, assuming its normal posture. "That's more like it, mate, lets get pissed!" They carried on, walking and drinking, enjoying more merriment with every emptied bottle, and before too long they were at the edge of town, outside the very last pub, The Brimston Cavern Tavern. They weren't going to go in on account of Kate's being barred for lewd behavior, but they both needed the toilet so they snuck in, used the facilities and left.
"Full of bloody tourists anyway." Said Neil, and with the city behind them, they marched into the forest. 
     The forest was a large, dark hollow left behind by the long dried up Loch Dis, dense with thousands of huge, dead tree roots which hung down from the blackness above, some pierced the lake bed where only a glimmer of light was reflected, having splintered through from above the mountain beyond, where the breach of Brimston and Glasgow was. They walked carefully and in silence until the light began to greet them in tall, thin beams, and the forest finally opened up to the foot of Mt. Apollyon. The mountain was massive, looming menacingly with the godly glow of sunlight from the world above which shone through the hole in Brimston's roof, hanging directly over the mountaintop just as a halo would hang, shimmering, above an angel. They stepped out into the dazzling flood of daylight and began their ascent.       
“Wow, it's really bright... and I'm staggering about all over the shop here. You know that way when hills just seem to develop all around you?” Said Neil.
"We're on a hill, you twat."
"Yeah, I know, but I think my stupor's making it a bit more hilly than it actually is."
"Neil, mate, it's a bloody mountain. There's no such thing as 'more hilly'."
"Is a volcano still called a mountain?"
"Fuck knows, it's a bastard either way. Let's stop for a bit." They sat and looked out at the stillness of the forest. To the right of it, away in the distance, they could make out the fires of the Brimston Industrial Estate.
"After the last eruption, when the barrier broke, they called us the Eighth Wonder of the World. The real Atlantis. Then they got to know us." Said Neil.  
"Twats. Having said that, I think I’m generally quite an honest person. You know, when I’m not telling lies."
"You are, Kate. You're the best person I know. If you weren't you wouldn't be with me now."
"I suppose, yeah. Come on, let's drink the rest of these at the top."
“You know, apparently everyone up there says drink's a depressant.” 
“Ha! Only when you’re sober.”
     The cliff-face grew so jagged that the radiance of the sun was shattered over it, then so sheer with overhang that they found themselves back in their familiar shade and had to circle the slope on a narrowing ledge, spiraling the dark, scraggy, towering height until the ridge at their feet became barely passable faltering rubble. Side-stepping with their backs to the cliff, they eventually found a pitch-black cranny and followed it up, single file, into the mountain.
"You got a match?" Said Kate.
"Why, you going to fart?"
"Ha! Aye, right in your face, you twat. I cant see a bloody thing."
"Me neither, I don't like carrots."
"Hold on... Yeah, I think there's light ahead." The tunnel mellowed and broadened to walkable rough-rock as they ebbed towards the light. They were awkwardly stumbling, giggling and swearing at how ridiculous climbing a mountain was drunk, when they were suddenly completely side-swiped with awe, finding themselves again in sunlight, but now surrounded by lush, overgrown grass, flowers and foliage. "What the fuck..?" 
"I honestly have no idea. I've never seen anything like it. Never even heard of anything like this."
"It's ace!" The garden was completely still, like a larger-than-life three-dimensional photograph all of their own, and as they strolled through the soft expanse, ushering the only movement, they inspired thousands of seeds, leaves and petals of all colours to fall and float gently around them. They continued up the easy gradient, elated, all the way to the volcano's mouth at the far side of Brimston town, where they stood and looked up out through the breach at the grey/blue sky above which seemed a lot lower than they had expected.
"It's moving. Is it supposed to do that?" Said Neil.
"I don't think so. Maybe, though."
"Do you think things would've been better if we'd been able to move up there?" 
"Nah, there's supposed to be people up there haven't brushed their teeth in so long, when they open their mouth all you get's white noise." 
"Yeah, and thugs that don't know the difference between a paedophile and a Paediatrician. And I hear their licensing laws are just ridiculous." Neil looked down to his feet then at the mouth of the volcano in front of them. "I'm just so sorry Kate. I haven't got the words."
"I know mate. Look at it this way, if I'd won it'd still be us two standing here."
"You think? I'm not sure I meet the required standards."
"Don't sell yourself short, Neil. You're awesome. And anyway, I've lived my half-life to the full." At that moment they both felt something gently soak their skin, and saw it was tiny pellets of water falling from the sky. "What is it?"
"I don't know."
"It's amazing!" Kate looked at Neil, the sunshine above put to shame by her eyes. She stepped forward, peering over the edge of the volcano at the molten inferno rising below, then turned her back on it, downed the rest of her beer, smiled her broadest smile, and cool as stone carved into beauty, she lent back and let herself fall, appeasing Mt. Apollyon's hunger, ensuring it would not need to erupt. 

                                 Jon Horner



The End


Copyright Roddy Smith 2013.

Thursday, 19 April 2012

Hopes and Dreams

(A short story)

     Mark never used to sleep at night, he’d just lie, staring at the inside of his eyelids. He'd maybe doze a little but never found a decent nights sleep unless induced by alcohol or sleeping tablets, and he would then always have his nightmare. It was the same nightmare he'd been having since he was a boy, hanging upside down above a massive pit of fire which filled his line of vision, and with one hand he’d be holding onto his mother, keeping her from falling, and with the other, he’d be holding his younger brother. All he was aware of was his terrified family looking up at him, the fire beneath them, and the choice he had to make - he could save either his mother or his brother, not both. He doesn't remember ever choosing.

     That night Mark had quite a good sleep, comparatively, but as always he'd woken up before his alarm at the end of what could hardly be called a nightmare after twenty-something years. He got up, went through to the kitchen, flicked on the kettle, went to the toilet and drifted straight into his normal morning back-of-the-mind wonderings of how to kill himself without shocking his family too much. A list of ticked boxes ran through his head, potential user-friendly suicides that were written off as undoable.          
     Overdosing was no good as in a lot of cases the person survived, woke up in a hospital bed surrounded by loved ones, would then repent only to be told by doctors that there was nothing they could do, and that his or her organs would shut down one by one causing perhaps the most agonising pain for the remainder of that person's life, while his or her family sat watching. 
     He looked himself in the mirror as he washed his hands, and he could practically see his still unfocused mind struggling to work, hear the cogs grinding, attempting to find a gear. The monotony of his pre-work mind-set was at least governed by autopilot and at a distance. 
     Cutting his wrists was out of the question, too. Not because of the mess it would make as such, but the mental scar that mess would leave on whoever was unfortunate enough to find him. 
     He opened his bedroom curtains up to a beautiful, if somewhat daunting view, and stood looking out over the streets. Everything was a bright, matt of grey/blue from the way the light filled the sky before the sun had quite reached the horizon. Not a single person anywhere, not a cloud, everything stood still. It all looked much deeper than usual, the entire scheme, every building, even the high rises in the distance seemed to be without a single shadow yet entirely in shade, and as he stood looking out, he was struck by a sudden feeling that something was very different about that morning. 
     He glanced around his room then out the window, as if trying to find what it was that had changed, but nothing was out of the ordinary. Something felt different but nothing was, nothing he could put his finger on, not yet anyway. He just stood there for a moment, almost stunned by the sensation but with no idea where it had come from, then as quickly as it had hit him he shook it off and reverted back to his dulled, fuzzy state, further considering the possibility of a untroublesome death.
     Making it look accidental was another option, though, again, very messy. He'd thought about throwing himself in front of the subway, until discovering that a lot of railway deaths weren't instant and that a person would often become tangled at the hip, the lower half having twisted one way while the uper body went the other, and it wasn't until a person was physically untangled that he or she finally reached the end of what would definitely be a horrific death. 
     His phone began vibrating on his bedside table, and as he wondered who it could be at such an hour, he thought about how fitting an end it would be for him to be found hanging, having heard that when a man hangs, he cums. He wasn't sure if it were true, but wasn't about to risk being found dead with a hard-on and a sack full of semen running down his leg. He smiled to himself, just one final insult, he thought as he picked up his phone to see the word HOME flashing on the screen. 
"Hello?" His face sank, hearing his mothers voice, alien as it sounded through her screams. 
"Mark, Mark come quick, it’s your brother, Mark, it's Rory… he’s dead! He’s dead! Come quick, Mark, Rory’s dead!”

     Mark can remember the floor hitting his knees as the room began to spin. He can remember not noticing the bedroom wall against his face, not until his mother’s voice cut its way back into the forefront of his mind and pulled him to his feet. He can remember getting dressed, the door slamming behind him, and how different everything seemed outside, how three dimensional, how both light and dark it all looked. He can remember every detail, every stone, every broken slab of pavement blurring past as one foot kept unsteadily appearing in front of the other. He can remember the faint sound of his mother’s screams, drowned out by his own heartbeat as he ran toward the door. He can remember how the cracked paint on the door frame chipped off as his key fought its way through the lock. He can remember the sound of his mother’s pleas burst through, filling everything as the door swung open. He can remember tripping up the stairs, seeing his mother holding his little brother’s almost naked, blue body, soaking wet on the bathroom floor with an empty packet of Zopiclone sleeping tablets and a telephone lying beside them. He can remember being on the floor, slapping his brothers face, screaming at him. He can remember being surprised at how cold, how firm his brother felt. He can remember feeling that none of this was real, just as he can remember feeling utterly useless as he watched his mother fall apart before his eyes. 
     Mark can remember the first conscious thought he had after seeing his brother Rory’s dead body, after the ambulance had left, after he had emptied out the bath. 'Beat me to it', he thought. He can remember that, but he doesn't remember ever choosing. Mark never had his nightmare again.

The End


Copyright Roddy Smith 2013.

Friday, 23 March 2012

Hard Knock Life

(Flash fiction)   

    Smothered between stale, moist thighs, an afflicted, idiotic penis and an unclean fold of haemorrhoids, Neil's bollock suffered in existence, hanging in his sad sack alone and impoverished. His twin had been the lucky one. He'd been removed after an adolescent Neil had attempted some acrobatic manoeuvre which was intended to involve a skateboard and a hand-railing, but had in fact only involved a hand-railing and a previous brush with the law alongside the privileged son of the Doctor whose responsibility it would become to decide whether or not the offending bollock - which had receded to the much sunnier setting of Neil's stomach - should or should not be dethroned.
     He spent his days suffocating, numbed by soiled, mossy pants, soaking in the overdeveloped, reanimated refuse of Neil's rotting innards and various putrefactive stages of his own product. His surrounding scrotum was fortified by layer upon layer of the festering bodily discharges of strangers, as well as a residuum left by the unidentified seepage that sometimes bubbled from the all-but sealed-shut cavity that was Neil's buckled anus, staining its rear a filthy burnt-orange and punctuated only by a surgical scar. Indeed, it had for a time seemed that the only auspicious element of Neil's bollock's entire region was the once thriving population of parasitical organisms, but they, too, were stricken with plague and only a sluggish, mutated few remained.
     The Pluto abandoned on the outskirts of the circulatory system, Neil's bollock was depressed. Thankfully, however, he usually found himself knackered to a witless docility, blind to self awareness.
     Low vibrations ushered him towards a state of vague consciousness - Neil was in conversation. He had actual, real-life company. The muffled reverberating continued for some time at varying frequencies until, quite suddenly, it stopped. Neil's bollock sensed that Neil's retarded penis had perked up. Shortly thereafter he felt something caress his surrounding sack, gently ushering him about it, signifying that Neil was almost certainly about to partake in all manner of sexual atrocities. Then, as if out of nowhere... Serenity. He found himself aired, enlivened by the relief of nudity - an unwelcome quickening, for here, Neil's bollock knew, opened the gates of Hell. Wide awake and smashing against an unknown provocateur's swollen, outwardly hung prolapsed rectum, he began to charge all of his new found vigour to the conjuring of fictions and prayer; that Neil might not be too intoxicated, that this hell might not last too long. 
     Suicidal despair was partially doused by determined delusion - bathing in beautiful blue lagoons, swimming with dolphins, basking in meadows of unequivocal splendour - all of this took undiluted focus. The whole while it hammered at the wall of his figment - unyielding reality. He was squashed, bitten, chewed, stretched, kicked, clamped, stabbed, burnt and trampled on throughout this most hideous stop-start exchange of pathogens, until, finally, he got the order. Neil's gullible penis had been hard at work. Concentrating with clarity, purpose and accuracy was easy to him as he only had one thought - go - which he was either thinking or not thinking.
     It was time. One last agonising push. It was, after all, up to him to finish the job, to put this horrible affair behind him. He forced, squeezed, crushed, imploded himself as blood vessels burst all around leaving him shrivelled, utterly unable to reflate, and producing nothing more than a drip. Then it was over. He watched Neil's moronic penis wilt as his own cognisance dissolved, freeing him from the excruciating, acute distress of absoluteness.

The End




Copyright Roddy Smith 2014.