Fuck, my crotch gets itchy. I narrowed my eyes and watched as the children in the distance tried to burn each other with cigarette ends. They’d argue about the fathers of their babies and generally be little shits. As they began to approach me, I stopped scratching my crotch incase they reported me to the authorities, like they did that time when they found me asleep in the middle of the road, and then I’d safely stop the traffic to let them cross without getting their legs broken or their faces smashed in. The people in the cars would always stare at my large ginger beard and what I assumed must have been my very attractive arsehole, the perverts. The gentlemen were envious and the ladies were repelled, you know, that sort of rot. After my display of intense masculine supremacy, I’d stand back over the road and lean on the wall and scratch my crotch some more. I’d been up since six fucking fifteen, and I was in the mood to scratch my fucking goddamn crotch if I pissing wanted to.
Crazy Jean down the road would sing to the kids as they’d cross over on her turf, and she’d have a chat with the parents aswell. Her attitude generally appalled me, I thought it was much more appropriate to mumble obscenities as the parents led their kids across the road- you know, to show them that I was some sort of human too, with hatred towards the kiddies, just like the rest of humanity. Plus I didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself- I’d had a spot of bother down at the last job where I’d put my beer inside a bottle labelled ‘apple juice’ and then some fucking kid came over and downed the whole lot of it, and ended up pissing up the wall of the supermarket pharmacy. It was fucking hilarious, though I thought it was better after that to just keep it in the beer can and keep it in my pocket, and swig it occasionally to let the kids know whats-what. The government seemed to agree.
Following my morning shift I’d go sit in the chippy for about 6 hours to get myself smelling like a greasy whore, like Dad used to before he took Mum up the stairs for some of the old in and out. Soon though it was time to get back to work, to get the kids to cross back over the road to go safely home. Jean would be back down the road singing, and some kids would bring her cake and stuff, I believe in an attempt to get her to shut her fucking arse-face. They’d never bring me anything, but I instead commanded their respect by terrorising small dogs and whacking their siblings accidentally in the face with my stop sign. The kids were silent out of admiration and the Mums held very tightly onto their kid’s hands, trying to use them as some kind of bait to entice me in and make me pull them into my delicious man-cavity, also known as my mouth. I’d never take much interest though, I was married to the job more than anything, and whenever there was an interval where there were no children to cross for a few minutes, I’d lean on the wall and scratch my fucking crotch. Fuck, my crotch gets itchy.