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Py is coming in tonight.   We haven’t ripped it up together for, what? – at least a couple of decades.   Can’t bloody wait to see him…

No, dickhead – I don’t know what Py stands for.   I’ve never asked and he’s never shared.   What do you care?   Py isn’t the sort of person you ask about things, all right?   He tells you stuff.   And he shows you stuff.   And he takes you right to the edge, fucking about with sanity, despising humanity, raising hell.   Seriously.   Raising hell.   Fuck, I’m excited.

Py is beyond awesome.   There aren’t enough curse word superlatives in the world for this guy.   He would fucking eat Edward for breakfast, Lestat for lunch, Vlad for dinner and then start his killing spree.   He’s taught me more than anyone I’ve met, got me into more trouble that anyone I know, and dances with the devil in the pale moonlight like no-one else could dream of doing in their best nightmares.   The dude is a legend.   Fucking vamp celebrity.   For real.

Just a few hours of daylight.   I’ve got The Cure blaring so loud the neighbours (the “we’re too good for this street” shitheads next door who like to collect designer furniture and debt) came and knocked earlier, but I ignored them.   Fuckwits.   I’ve already trashed the wardrobe for something worth wearing, stapled up the plastic in “Eddie’s room” in case we get takeaway for later, and stocked up on gore fest films to gloat and chill out over when dawn breaks up the party.   The Cat has eaten the tin of tuna I bought it from the supermarket on the way home, and is now sitting on a speaker licking its paws and grinning while it watches me pace and fidget.   Sadistic little bastard.   At least sitting down to write is keeping me still for a minute.   What the hell am I going to do for the next couple of hours?   Shit.

Maybe I’ll go visit the neighbours…




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