Growing up in Galway was tough. Coming from an east side ghetto, running with a gang was not an option, it was mandatory if you wanted to stay alive. I had no choice: to protect myself, I joined the Jets at the age of twelve. The Jets were the baddest motherfuckers east of the river Corrib. For my initiation I had to dance to the death against a contingent of our sworn enemies, the Sharks. After six years of ballet and two of tap, my feet were as nimble as a cobbler's fingers, my thighs could crack walnuts, and my lad was like a long thick piece of lead pipe that could crack your backbone with a single thrust. I mortally killed three Sharks fatally to death that very day. I was welcomed into the Jet gang with open, waving arms, and spent the next several years raising hell on the streets of Galway, challenging both Sharks and innocent pedestrians alike to dance-offs, the likes of which had never been seen outside of a Michael Jackson video.
Trouble arose when, in my late teens, I fell in love with the sister of the leader of the Sharks, Mariah. Mariah was a blow-in from Cavan, and was better known by the rather unlikely name "Skullfuck". Mariah, or Skullfuck as she liked to be called, lost an eye as a child (unfortunate) but turned it to her advantage in her teens by giving a very special kind of head to select gentlemen. I was one of those gentlemen.
We met at a challenge dance attack between the Sharks and the Jets. We were thrown together, everyone around us expecting us to dance one another to death (I had my razor-heeled tap-boots with the Cuban soles on). Audible gasps, shocked sighs and hefty drawn breaths emanated from the stunned crowd as they watched us, not killing one other by booglejive, but instead falling in love.
Skullfuck, though, was already engaged to be married to Beano, a right vicious Shark cunt from the west side. Couple this with the fact that Skullfuck, or Mariah, as she preferred to be called, was the sister of Bernie O'Toole, the leader of my arch-enemies, the feckin Sharks, and you can see the difficulties Skullfuck and I had to overcome.
Bernie and meself decided to sort our shite out once and for all, so we met in the GPO one night, for a dance on neutral territory. I brought along Jif, my best friend and the soundest cunt you could hope to meet. Feet like the wind, he had. His speciality was the hucklebuck.
The whole evening, Jif and Bernie were at each other's throats, feet tapping menacingly. Just as we were getting up to leave, Bernie leapt at Jif, his right leg extended. Too late, I watched the diamond-honed spur of Bernie's gold-plated dance-boot slice through Jif's gomey gangly neck, instantly severing jugular and carotid. I grabbed for Jif's head, but it came off in my hands. In a fit of rage and grief, I bashed Bernie to death with Jif's head, then did a legger.
Skullfuck, or Mariah as I'm now ashamed to admit I liked to call her, hadn't a clue what had happened, but Beano found out about Bernie quick smart. The snake went and told her that I'd killed Bernie using Jif's head, but luckily she believed me when I said it was an accident. That was a turning point in
the musical our lives together. We decided there and then that we were going to get the fuck out of Galway and move to the Gaza Strip, where it was safer.
Little did I know that Beano was after me, and he had sharpened his rhinestone dance glove in preparation for murdering me stone dead. I told Skullfuck I'd meet her down at Ceannt Station, and we'd get out of this dog-forsaken hep-hole that very day. First I had to go and take care of a little bidness.
Waltzing myself down Shop Street, I came face to face with Rita McGrath, Skullfuck's best friend. Oh Kav! she cried, it's Mariah! They've killed her!
Destroyed by grief and despondency, I skipped jauntily to Beano's house. I had no reason to live now my beloved Skullfucker was gone. Visions of my jism dripping from her hollowed-out eye socket flashed before me, and completely overcome with despair, I flung myself at the mercy of Beano. My last memory is of the moonlight glinting off Beano's rhinestone glove as he raised his arm aloft, swinging down and dealing me my death-dance.
That's right, I was killed. I'm a ghost-writer. Woooooooooooooo!
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