Loyalist Feuding, IRA Disarming, What Difference Does It Make? - Part Two

Part Two - An Unexpected Optimism

Sat by the window as the train leaves Ballymena station and trundles on towards Belfast Central, if a fella's got his eyes proper tuned, he can see a cancerous past spread its legs and give birth to a writhing, squealing infant future. Somewheres along that glorious stretch the water breaks, the belly trembles, the offspring crawls out squinting at the sun and the parent chokes on its own bile.

The boarded-window estates, the flags been hanging for decades, the murals and the scrawling cross the walls, they all get fewer and further between, till next thing a man knows it's the shimmering Royal Mail building to the right, the motorways stacked one on top the other, the high-rises, the reek of commerce.

A cluster-bomb of contrasting emotions. Elation upon entering the City, coupled with intense hatred for the soulless banshee fuckers who let the estates out there end up in such a pitiful condition in the first place. A man gets to thinking bout how he can sympathize with the fellas headed out this way last weekend with nothing more than a sketchy map and a couple pistols.

32 armored-van robberies in Northern Ireland this year already, the radio lass announced a while back, and then it's The Rakes;

"22 grand job… in the city!"

Thank fuck the train service terminates at Great Victoria Street, otherwise a man would be forced for to watch the whole affair reach its ghastly conclusion; that kid who crawled out the guts thirty miles ago, it grows up embittered and spiteful and shitting and puking cross the country till it collapses fourteen miles south a Dublin.

But right here, right in the center of Belfast City, the kid's just reached its teens. It's optimistic, it's got ideals, you can smell it amongst the skaters sat outside City Hall, you can see it reflected in the puddles outside The Kremlin.

Couple miles away Stormont Castle grinds and groans and every now and again a sound-bite slips out the cracks, words like "Decommission" and "Disband" and "Progress", shit dripping out a withered, dying arsehole, and reporters crawling out Strangford Lough on hands and knees fighting for a fistful.

Roomfuls of shuffling hell-spawn renegades arriving by police escort, spending the day babbling irrelevant cock into each other's ears, and The Belfast Telegraph bounding from the newsstands with talk of Adams Says "Perhaps", Falls Down Comatose In Pool Of Noxious Semen.

Who produced this semen? Pray god it wasn't a Unionist!

Article Author: Duke De Mondo

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