On Saturdays, to make eighty bucks, I haul couches, tables, tallboys from the black warehouses of Woolston to the red brick castles of Ilam. The homeowners leave us a code to open their gate, leave their front door unlocked, confident, assured that being upper middle class puts them in a bubble.
Nah, Richy-Rich: you ain’t safe in no bubble. Ain’t you read The Time Machine? Morlocks come up from the underground and take a bite of privilege every now and again. Keep up, eh.
The Time MachineI fill my pockets with Ritalin from the mayor’s kids, borrow some cologne from that smiley cunt who does the breakfast show on the radio, stock up on Clearasil for Mona. One homeowner collects hard out Smythson of Bond Street suitcases. I chuck ‘em into the bushes, collect ‘em later. Another homeowner co
