The King's Dick

I'm heading down for a coffee at this cafe called The King's Dick

It’s a good name for a cafe, isn’t it?

The King’s Dick.

If I ever see a place called John’s Cafe, I know it’s not gonna be good. Cafes have to have weird fucking names. If it’s called Gobknobbers, I know it’s gonna be good. 

I generally don’t buy coffee out. I drink long black cocks at home instead cos a coffee in Melbourne these days is eight fucking dollars. 

But I ran out today. I reckon a mouse has been getting into my sack. I thought I saw one scooting around the house before. And the fucker was fast—far too fast for a mouse. It's the fucking caffeine, that fuck.

So I’ve ordered, and I’m waiting now, and I’m scrolling to see if NATO has become a real boy yet and entered talks with Russia, but it’s like waiting for Santa Claus to start his OnlyFans, so I sigh and close my phone.

And there’s this homeless bastard muttering to himself.

He’s always outside the King’s Dick. He’s got fucking well-washed blonde hair, too, like Fabio, and it pisses me off cos I think if he can afford Head and Shoulders, surely he can afford two thousand bucks a month for a tiny room in a bedsit with a horse-titted landlady called Rita, right? Damn, he could even suck Rita’s horse tits and get a discount. That’s just how things work in Australia.

Anyway, it’s a nice cool day. The sky is fucking blue. It feels like I could drink it like one of those cold blue slurpies from Seven-Eleven that make young people infertile and give them cancer of the mammalian forebrain.

A tiny Ginger Bird appears on the fence next to me. It’s the most beautiful bird I’ve ever seen, with these perfect tiny white claws and a sexy beak. 

“Don’t forget you are supposed to write about me today, FTB,” says the Ginger Bird. 

I haven’t eaten yet, so the bird’s voice makes me feel weak.

“How the fuck could I forget you, G-Bird?” I say, stroking her tiny chest. I feel like Snow White and that I might just break into song, but I don’t. 

“The thing is, G-Bird, you are the most beautiful thing in this world. I don't remember ever seeing anything as beautiful as you. So I can’t just write about you. I’d need to invent a whole new language like that bastard Junior Tolkien.”

“Fine,” she says. She lands on the crown of my head and digs her luminous white claws into my seventh chakra, and white nectar releases into the channels of my body, mixing with my blood.

“Who the fuck are you talking to, you fucking nutter?” says Homeless Fabio. 

“Erm, I’m just on the phone,” I say. 

“No, you’re not,” he growls. “ You’re talking to that fucking bird. You don’t even have an earpiece in.”

He’s got me, that blonde fuck.

“Fine, well, who the fuck were you talking to before then?” I lash back at him. 

He sniffs and scratches this great black mole on his face. 

“Meself,” he says. 

I admire his authenticity.

I shouldn’t have made up the phone thing. I should have just told him about Ginger Bird. It’s another sign of these samsaric concrete Nikes I’m walking round in. I can’t be at peace with the way things are cos I have a fucking agenda. I don’t want people to think I’m crazy. 

“You are fucking crazy,” says the craziest fuck in this street.

Can he hear my thoughts?

“Course I can, you fuck,” he says. “So can everyone, actually, if they worked on their listening skills.”

I reach down a hand to him. 

“My name’s Frank,” I say. 

“My name is Frank, too,” he says. “Though I won’t shake your hand. Cos mine’s covered in marmalade.”

Why is his hand covered in marmalade? 

“I cover my penis in marmalade every morning,” he says. “But that French sugar-free stuff cos it’s got more rind and its less sticky cos it’s sweetened with pectin. The phallus is very porous, Mr Bird. It’s like a damn sponge, so the orange goes straight into the bloodstream like the energetic pussy juice during a long slow fuck. It’s the best way to get vitamin C. Stops you getting sick, doesn’t it?”

“I’m some kind of writer,” I say. It’s a weird thing to say. And it’s some kind of stress reaction to his orangey kink. “Can I ask how you became homeless?”

“Well, it’s a fucking interesting story, Mr Bird,” he says. “Very fucking interesting.” 

Okay. 

He takes a breath and wipes his marmalade hands on his jacket.

“I was a writer like you once,” he says. “And everything was going swimmingly. I had a wife, a girlfriend, and a dog, and I published a few books, too. And then it all went fucking wrong.”

“What was it?” I ask. “Alcohol? Drugs? Depression?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bird,” he says. “Do you think someone with hair this good could be addicted to drugs? It was Riverdance.”

Riverdance? 

“Yeah, ya know, that Irish dancing show. It’s all that cunt Michael Flatley’s damn fault.”

How so?

“Well, look, my wife and I became obsessed, and we started watching it every night as foreplay for sex. We were young and agile back then. We’d watch the show, and she’d go fucking red when Flatley took his shirt off and started flapping around in leather pants. That’s when I knew she was good to go. We’d fuck every night like epileptic Irish rabbits. After a while, we started naturally picking up the routines, so every night, we would dance. And Irish dancing is hard work, Mr Bird, so we’d get fucking fitter and fitter. I could fuck my wife harder and faster and harder and faster until eventually, she thought she was getting fucked by the invisible man because I was thrusting so quickly.”

“Well, that sounds fantastic,” I say. “I must admit I have a bit of a semi now.”

“Good to hear,” says Fabio. “But this story goes dark, my friend. I ended up with a badly bruised cock from having it flap around during the Irish dancing routine. I googled it and found out that Flatley gaffer tapes his cock to his leg. I guess that's what happens when you are self-taught. It’s always better to have a professional mentor. Do you know what I mean?”

“I do,” I say. “So what happened next?”

“Well, we knew Riverdance so well. But then that cunt Flatley went and broke away and made Lord of the Dance. Have you seen that, Mr Bird? It’s the sequel to Riverdance, but made independently by Flatley.”

“Yes, I’ve seen that,” I say. “It’s fantastic, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes. It's too good, actually. So, having seen it, you will know that after some Irish coffee, it can get the adrenaline really flowing. One night I’d had five Irish coffees, which is too many for anyone. And I got so excited during the finale that I punched my wife’s teeth right out. She was in a coma for eight months, Frank. And everyone thought I’d just fucking punched her for no reason. So they arrested me. But I’m not one to complain. In prison, you have to find your place. So, I started teaching Irish dancing. Then, one day, this greasy animal called HardBalls got excited and kicked me in the junk so hard that my testicle ascended into my pineal gland. I suppose it’s some kind of karma. And he hadn't even had any Irish coffee. Suddenly, I could see about six thousand dimensions. I perceived the Dharmakaya directly and had a four-thousand-year discussion with the guru Shanshek. Hence why, I can read thoughts, Mr Bird. But of course, it’s hard to live a regular life when you are busy liberating beings all day. So, I ended up on the streets. And gradually, my powers diminished, and I ended up depressed.”

“Coffee for Frank,” says the woman at the King’s Dick window. I take my almond latte. “Do you want this?” I say to Frank, and he happily accepts my offering.

“So, have you sought out any help then?” I ask.

“I met this alternative counsellor who sent me to Fart Camp,” he says.

I think he’s joking, but he has the same serious expression.

I looked it up later, in case you're wondering if it’s real. The link is in my bio.

“It’s where they teach you to fart on demand,” he tells me. “Then you stand in a circle with all these other guys, tell a traumatic story from your life and fart it out. When you are new to Fart Camp, you lose it laughing, especially when someone shits their trousers, which happens often. And that laughter is quite cathartic for beginners. But after a while, you get used to it. You can tell the seasoned guys. They just clap and pat you on the back. I also lost a lot of weight. Letting off burns calories. Anyway, I aced Fart Camp. I got Top Ass, beating this guy Ice Boy to it, and they asked me and my rear to come back as instructors. But I couldn’t do that. I had to get back to my wife. Eventually, she woke up and didn’t remember me anyway. She married this Irish guy called Colin Farrell. You know, the actor. Apparently, he has a fetish for women with false teeth. So now I just sit here watching and helping where I can.” 

“Wow, it’s an amazing story,” I say. “So would you say Fart Camp is the main reason you healed yourself?”

“Well, I can’t tell you that,” he says. “Because the first rule of Fart Camp is that you don’t talk about Fart Camp. And the second rule of Fart Camp is—”

“But you just told me about it,” I say.

“Please don’t fucking interrupt,” he says. “The second rule of Fart Camp is, don’t look anyone in the eye while off-gassing.”

He nods and looks up at the sky and makes some kind of gesture like the Hunger Games symbol, but with two knuckles together like an ass.

“Do you still write, Frank?” I ask.

“Yes, I do, Frank,” he says. “Have a look.”

He hands me a pair of surprisingly clean white underpants. 

And scrawled on the back of them, it says,

I’m heading down for a coffee at this place called the King’s Dick.

It's a good name for a cafe, isn’t it?

The King’s Dick.

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