Wildlife by Joe Stretch

shopping street. Bass notes in his brain, encouraging his feet. To move. To move. Janek is walking to the groove. The other humans join him. Crotches circle and thrust. Cars begin to bounce on the jammed road. It is cool. Some leap as high as five feet in the air. People shut their mouths and allow their heads to nod to the N-Prang beat. Janek thinks of Life. So funny to imagine happiness. Such a rare and brilliant thing, when you sense it coming.

8
    Allow me. Allow me. I’m fucking glad that Asa Gunn’s retired. Why? Because I’ve never seen such a muscular mountain of Godshit in all my life. He’s a twat. But he’s right. El Rogerio says, every celebrity is flammable. Strike the match.
    SUBMIT.
    ROGER HART LEAVES his computer and goes to the door of his flat. He’d listened while the postman knocked. Through the screams of his recorded message he’d heard the postman slating him to the girl who lives opposite. He’d heard her take the piss out of his taste in music, too. Simple bitch. He’s never met her. Never wants to. Why don’t young people see the beauty of musicals? People think musicals are cheesy. People are cheesy, thinks Roger. Musicals are cool.
    Roger opens his door slowly and silently. He reaches out for the parcel and pulls it inside as quick as he can. He unwraps it in a crouching position by the door. He’s excited.Quick movements cause his spectacles to slide down his nose until they cling precariously to its moistening tip.
    Roger Hart is worried about his health. His left foot appears to be turning black and his anus hurts. He’s worried about his inability to sleep, too. The readers of his blog are growing suspicious. A fan recently deduced that El Rogerio couldn’t have slept for more than five minutes in the previous eighty hours, judging by the frequency of his posts. The fan went on to accuse El Rogerio of being more than one person. Of being, in essence, a business. Keen to refute such claims and keen to understand certain deteriorations in his health, Roger has ordered sleeping pills, an anal cream and a stethoscope from an online pharmacy. He lays out the purchases on his bed and returns to his computer.
    Allow me. Allow me. To those of you who accuse me of deceit, I pity you. El Rogerio does not sleep because El Rogerio doesn’t have time. Sleeping is for you. Enjoy it. I am wide awake. If I catch any of you doubting dipshits in Wow-Bang on Thursday I’ll murder you. I have the weapons. If you doubt me, I’ll just shoot you. You will be searching the graveyards of Wow-Bang for your buried body while the rest of us party. Wise up. Allow El Rogerio. Allow me.
    SUBMIT.
    On the computer screen, a pop-up pops up. FINALLY, FROM AMONG US, A DICKHEAD WILL RISE. ARMED WITH OUR FUTURE!
    â€˜. . . hiccup . . .’
    Returning to the bed, Roger uses the stethoscope to look for his heartbeat. He pulls up his red-and-black-checkedshirt and places the cold circular head in between his ribs. It’s there. I’m pleased. I still have a heartbeat. Although I have to admit that it sounds seriously faint. And where is that whirring coming from?
    His stomach. The whirring is coming from Roger’s stomach. It becomes amplified when he guides the head of the stethoscope down onto his belly. My stomach is making the same noise as an electric fan, or the spinning wheel of a crashed bike. I’m worried. Roger’s worried. He undoes his belt and holds the stethoscope over his appendix. As a child he lived in fear of a burst appendix. There was something about that part of the body that seemed charged with energy. Too much energy. Roger dreads his body’s middle bursting. He listens to his appendix. He presses the stethoscope hard against the area of skin situated north-west from his ponging dick: silence, blood. He hears the distant beating of his heart and the whirring of his stomach. Running blood. The peaceful noise