Alistair Schit

In a decidedly real part of the city of London were the common site of workhouses. While I shall not assign a definitive background to our title character, it is possible his mother was in the employ of one of these places. His father might have been a traveling circus clown, which would account for the boy's large and cumbersome feet, but again, I make not up shit when I need not. For whatever account he came to be, Alistair Schit was a street urchin, born free in the manner that sucks.

The first years of his life were spent in an orphanage, all residents marching in single-file lines as if from a Pink Floyd video, piling under-nourishing gruel into their bowls, and tater tots on Fridays. None of the boys was successfully fed in this fashion, always going to bed hungry to face the next day in the style of slow dying. It was Alistair who, encouraged by the other boys, brought the attention to the orphanage director, Mr. Hannigan.

"Hey, jackass," inquired Alistair, "what's up with this gruel? You pocketing the money you're supposed to be using to feed us?"

"Why, you scamp!" rattled Mr. Hannigan. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"I ain't saying nothing," professed Alistair. "Just give me more—more, bitch! Hustle that fat ass. I'm hungry. We're all hungry, eatin' this K-Mart gruel shit."

Hannigan was outraged, mostly by the K-Mart insult, and Alistair was thrown into a dank and small room not entirely unlike debtors' prison, which I've really been to. Have you ever been to debtors' prison, dear reader? Oh, lord, it is merciless! At night time your fellow cell boarder will try to have sex with your backside, regardless of whether or not you enjoy homosexual intercourse. The guards will walk right past your cell and pretend not to see anything, no matter how you attempt to again the attention with shouting or tearful crying.

None of these things, however, happened to Alistair in his small room, all alone. He might have sang a song, if that's your pleasure, but probably mostly he touched himself in an illicit fashion I will not detail. But at some point, he ungirded the protective casing on a window. Did I mention there was a window? Indeed there was, even if I didn't. For that's how Alistair escaped from the orphanage and took to the streets. And if you think the orphanage personnel went about trying to find Alistair and bring him back, oh, are you wrong, brother. They gave not a shit.

The next few days past in a condensed narrative manner for Alistair. He was cold, tired, hungry, and spent most of them crying. A lot like his days spent at the orphanage, but lacking the savage beatings that at least allowed you to set your watch to correct time. In the days he gathered food from the refuse bin behind the local sperm bank; at night times he slept in a horse pen, where he also snacked. Truly life looked very dim for Alistair, so morbid and downcast many readers might have slashed their own wrists by this time for merciful release.

All those terrible times passed until the day Alistair met Art Danger, a fellow runaway orphan who earned a healthy living picking the pockets of passing strangers and well-to-do men. In truth, Art Danger picked the very pocket of your author, and my main interest in telling this entire story is to find the scamp and get my earnings back. He was 4'6", black hair, unkempt face and clothing, a ridiculous stove-pipe hat, and gold bling-bling around his neck. Any information leading to his arrest and conviction, and the return of my wallet, is subject to a small reward.

For more of this great story, buy Dick Charleston's
Alistair Schit

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