Apocalypse Now Now Read Free

the school is the Nice Time Kids, led by self-styled warlord Anwar Davids. They’re dangerous, organised and the prime suppliers of drugs. Their management style is kind of like the Third Reich – big, cruel and requiring absolute loyalty of their members.
    The other dog in the pit is the Form, led by Denton de Jaager. They run a business of fake doctors’ certificates, parental permission slips and leaked exam papers. They’re more like al-Qaeda – a networked, guerrilla-style militia that blends into the general school populace.
    The problem is that the Sprawl isn’t big enough for both of them. Over the past year the tension has escalated and now they are snapping at each other’s throats, with nothing but the Spider standing between them. Because knives are so cheap and easily available, both gangs carry them. I know Anwar has access to guns too and I wonder how long it will be before Westridge has its debut drive-by shooting. Kyle calls high school a zero-sum game. It’s like
Highlander
, there can be only one (in this case gangs, rather than sword-wielding immortals with mullets).
    It’s not the gutting of students that worries me though. We have a unique selling proposition, a great democratic product that, along with soccer, is the world’s favourite spectator sport. Yes, I’m talking about porn.
    You’d think that in the digital age a pornography vendor would be as out of date as a crusty old guy in tie-dye selling LPs at a flea market. But like that old hippy there is a method to our madness. We don’t sell a product. We sell an experience.
    You’re looking for Ron ‘The Hedgehog’ Jeremy’s first skin flick? The original
Debbie Does Dallas
? You’ve come to the right place, we can get them to you by the end of the day. We’re the Cinema Nouveau of the porn world. We deal in the Altman of anal and the Coen Brothers of the cumshot. In a better world we’d be part of Westridge’s cultural committee.
    One student getting stabbed would be inconvenient. A gang war could be the death knell for our business. Lockers would be searched, pupils would be questioned, parents would be summoned, and there are just too many trails leading to us. So I have no choice but to intervene.
    The school bell rings and we shuffle into the school hall for our first assembly of the term.
    ‘Did you tell anyone?’ I whisper to Kyle as we troop into the hall, kids around us jostling and yapping like dogs reacquainting themselves with the pack.
    ‘About your necrophilia?’ he replies. ‘Never, the secret will go with me to the grave. After which you can do with me what you will.’
    ‘My dreams, you tool. Did you tell anyone about my dreams?’
    ‘Oh captain, my captain. Do you question my loyalty?’
    ‘Cut the crap. Did you tell anyone or not?’
    ‘I am your faithful confidant. I would never reveal your sweaty, intimate secrets. They could use thumbscrews, they could use hair shirts, they could –’
    ‘OK, asshole, I get the point,’ I snap.
    ‘Are they still … you know?’ He taps his temple.
    I nod. ‘They’re getting worse I think. Pretty much every night now.’
    ‘What does the head-shrinker say?’
    Dr Basson is the psychiatrist my parents send me to to help me ‘work out issues’. He’s a weird old guy who’s done all kinds of tests on me; intelligence tests, empathy tests, are-you-a-psycho? tests, even crackpot tests that seem like he’s checking for ESP. As far as I can tell my parents are wasting a fortune on the society-sanctioned witchcraft that is the psychology profession.
    ‘He says that they’re my psyche’s way of dealing with stress.’
    ‘Maybe you should take it easy,’ Kyle says.
    ‘Sure, I’ll take it easy. How does being expelled, with no source of income except the money your parents give you, sound?’
    ‘Fucking terrible,’ he says with a grimace.
    ‘Then don’t tell me to take it easy,’ I reply.
    We slump into our seats in the hall and watch as the Form walk