This is an excerpt from the Evil Robot novel – click here for more evil robot
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Any’d finally shut up f’once’n they crossed the harbour bridge, gazing outta th’car in silence as the angles shifted and standing powerless, the buildings sailed past one another. It was a weirded out buzz. Town was like a dead body ay, no electricity, no power, no heart, no soul ay – jiss fucked up. All y’could hear were these fucked up generators everywhere going – Brrrrrrrroh’n whenever the power went again you’d hear everyone in the shops’n all around you go, like, “Ohhr!” Like – blues, shitty one, whatta shitty one that we live in such a eat-arse country, forgot tp pay the power, like where I used to stay. At night everything was shut mainly’n’t was silent-as, dark’n dead but for the noises, with heaps a’pigs cruising round, patrolling only the wasted youth’n the burnt cunts left. It was a weird buzz, th’whole of town jiss like a whole big back alley, kinda like – system failure I reckon, shut down, goodnight kiwi. Cuoz when there’s nothing there, when what used to be there is gone . . . then fukn dark ways fill the darkness ay . . . pretty outovit ay, buzzy shit . . . Like, fuck, we built us this bad-ass fukn skytower’n now don’t even got the shit t’fuckn make it go’n shit. Jiss sticks up out sittin on it’s own and makes everyone go – fuck! Like when y’jiss got a wicked new vest or cap or some shit’n y’realise how shitty it makes the rest of your gears look . . . but it’s always there . . . y’know . . . whenever y’cruising’n shit . . .
In the weirdness the tape was jiss going -
“Is he fockin dead?” What the fock yoo mean “izzy fockn dead?”, gardd?
- fock you think?
The nigger layin’ there with his fockn . . . all types of fokn blahrd cummin outtis fockin . . .
- “izzy – izzy – izzy dead?”
- yoh wuhssup gard. iss the gard, gard. wurdisbarn, yoh, wassup, i’m ready to fokn lay . . – i’m ready to get busy, yo, wuhssup . . .
wassup, yoh . . .
-
Are we out or what?
Iss the gard, gard. Fock that . . .
Are we out . . . ?
- a problem, man? . . .
-
Who took the tape . . . ?
Ohr fuckn again’n again, fuckn played out orreddy! fuckin sick of it! Jiss reminds me of all them shitty parties we been to, puke’n cigarette butts on the concrete floor, tagging on the walls, faces in the dark, smashing over some smart cunts, spewing up, fucking some fat bitch in the bush out th’backyard, pigs show up, bottles start flying, cunts is getting dragged off jiss like – yoh jiss fuck that buzz –
“Thuggie bro – gotta cue that shit, bro,” I went, reaching out.
“FUARKN’ WOTTAFUCKSARP!” Screeched Any. “We love that shit, dog! – It’sa fuckn Sevent Chamber, bro! – Let it fuckn be, sarn!”
Ohr fukn, shit’s played out orredy! Fuckn dicks! How we gunna fukn walk int’school tomorrow like we the ones with fukn clout, we the ma’fuckers holdin’t down’n shit when we listenin t’played out old shit’n ain’t even got a fuckin’ hook-up? Or, fukn – fukn . . . shit?
