Date: Mon, 11 Aug 2003 13:37:20 -0700 From: anon196600@hushmail.com Subject: "DJ Shorty" parts 1-3 (gay -> adult-youth) This story contains fictional descriptions of sexual acts and behaviour. If this kind of content offends you, or you are under 18 or 21 years of age (depending on your juristiction) please do not read any further. Oh, and I can't write, so paragraphs are tiny and new chapters begin every time my head starts to hurt. Which is why I called them parts, not chapters. Capiche? You may wish to listen to I'm Dead by Millenium Nova while reading this - I kid you not. If you have any comments or suggestions please let me know - anon196600@hushmail.com. Thanks! -- Ronnie - ----------------------- DJ SHORTY Part 1 - School's Out - ----------------------- Sam rushed up the stairs to his room, dumped his bag and jacket on the floor and lept onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. "Summer.." he whispered to himself. "No more wanky teachers, crap classes or bullshit bullies." He laughed at that last one. As he said it he focused on the poster stuck to his ceiling - a Scratch Perverts poster from a live gig in London in '99. He stared at the blurred hands hovering over the mixer. It was his inspiration, his one goal, to be able to play his decks in front of a huge crowd with flawless beats flowing from his fingers. Sam got up and walked over to the desk in his room. There were some school books perched teasingly on the desk. "Fuck off.." he muttered as he brushed them aside, allowing him full access to his pride and joy. There, placed squarely on the table, was a battered old Technics 1210 and a Technics mixer. His mother said it was old junk, his father would have said it had nothing to do with school, and all his friends laughed because he only had one turntable. "You can't mix with one you donut." Chris had muttered to him when he first got the gear. But to him it was fantastic. He plugged in the mixer and powered the deck up. He pulled out one of seventeen records he had managed to scrounge from here and there, placed it neatly on the platter and brought the needle down. His hand slowly pushed and dragged the vinyl under the needle so he could get the feel of it. He knew when he got it just right, when his brain came up with a sound and his hand just made it happen. He was reaching it now, could hear the slow scratching becoming more... "SAM! DINNER'S READY!" "Bugger," he said, slamming down his headphones. He closed his eyes, reminded himself it was the summer, and trotted down the stairs with a faint grin on his face. Later that evening, after watching a Quantum Leap re-run for the third time, he went back up to his room to practice his "rabbiting" - a particularly good sound when done properly and in time. He heard a song once where someone managed to create an entire bassline simply by rabbiting. It sounded good. He slipped his headphones on and began moving the vinyl again, getting into a rhythm naturally without rushing it. He felt one come to him and his hand complied, moving the record back and forth in time to his own rhytm. His right hand moved over to the kill switch on the mixer, and he began cutting the scratching in and out in time with the beat. A smile spread over his face as he twitched his hand to bring in double-time sounds, and then he imagined himself turning that flourish into a rabbit. Move his hand... "SAM! HELP ME MOVE SOME OF THESE BOXES WILL YA?" He giggled to himself and put down the headphones, more through relief. He liked it when he got it right, but this was a tricky manouver. It wasn't his fault he couldn't pull it off tonight. Maybe tomorrow, nothing else to do. With that thought in mind he trotted down the stairs again to grab some boxes to unpack from the garage. As he was moving the boxes to the living room, his mother's room and his room, his mother began one of those one-sided conversations that meant sense only to her and her concerns. "Now remember that we don't know anyone in this neighbourhood yet and they may not all be as friendly as us. I don't want you talking to any strangers, you hear? It's important hon, because I read something in the paper about that before and I really couldn't imagine.. are you listening to me?" "Yes mum," Sam replied, "I won't talk to strangers." "Good, not even kids. Well maybe around your own age if they seem nice, you're a good judge of character Sam. Oh I love you." And with that she put her box down and threw her arms around Sam, who hung awkwardly in her grasp. "I know you're nearly 13 now, but I can't help but want to protect you. You're still my baby." She planted a kiss on his cheek, after which he picked up the nearest box and near-enough ran to it's destination. - ---------------------------------- DJ SHORTY Part 2 - In Search of Friendship - ---------------------------------- Sam was resting his elbows on his window ledge, switching focus between the perfectly-trimmed street that lay infront of him and his glum reflection staring straight back. He knew no one in this area, he only moved in yesterday. Now what? He could be content doing his own thing, but without anyone to share it with? That sucks. He considered going over to a neighbour and knocking on the door, but his mum wouldn't like it and he didn't know what to say when they answered. He could make friends at his new school but that was 8 weeks away. Maybe he could plant his speakers in on the front lawn and play to the neighbourhood and see who came out? He started to laugh, but then his mind started to race. He lept up to crash through one of the storage boxes on the floor. "The best way of getting heard is on the radio... so if I can get a radio station on the go..." he mumbled, flicking through the pages of some magazine his Uncle had bought him thinking it might be vaguely interested. It wasn't, until now. Sam finally found what he was looking for - a small FM transmitter that could be used to broadcast sound to radio sets. He read through the article, carefully digesting each word and trying to understand what it meant. The last paragraph explained that a big aerial can be used to get a better transmitter. He fell back into his chair, completely phased by the article. How was he supposed to build that? It was a massive picture of loads of symbols connected up, with serial numbers next to them. He couldn't exactly buy them from WalMart and plug them into a box. So he read the article again from start to finish, trying to find a clue of what to do next. The last paragraph explained that a big aerial can be used to get a better transmitter. Then it clicked. He can just walk round the streets looking for someone with a big aerial on the house. He folded the magazine and thrust it into his back pocket, grabbed his keys from the desk, took one last look at his unmanagable hair and considerably ugly face, and headed for the door in search of a big aerial... - --------------- DJ SHORTY Part 3 - Norm - --------------- Norm got up from his little shed in the garden and slowly trundled to the back of the house, scratching his beer belly. He coughed slightly through his flowing beard and pondered the cold can of cider he was about to get from the fridge before returning to the shack. His large frame moved awkwardly as he blew out a cloud of smoke from his roll-up through another small cough. He reached into the fridge, popped the can and drank a fair amount in his first draft. Then the doorbell rang. He turned to face it and contemplated it for a while, sipping his cold cider. The last time the doorbell rang it was the police to tell him his wife had died. No wait, he'd had a new phone book delivered since, but it was too early for that again. He slowly trundled to the front door through another cloud of smoke. The shadow cast through the glass was short, which meant it was either a lost child or a tiny bible-basher. He laughed heartily at the thought of their tiny bibles and squeeky voices and dragged open the large wooden frame. His face slackened again when he saw the boy standing on his doorstep. He felt feelings well up inside him that he hadn't felt in years, a love for a small boy that couldn't really be described. He wasn't sure if other people got it, but he knew if he said anything he'd be in trouble. He must be early teens, his immaculate blond hair swaying in the wind, his angelic face, his t-shirt pressed neatly against his chest and the smooth legs protruding from his cargo shorts. His eyes rested on the boy's shoes as he shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. Norm looked up again and muttered something about helping the boy. Sam was glad the man looked so friendly opening the door, but it looked like he wasn't expecting a stranger. He knew he picked the right house - - a massive aerial was spread across the front lawn, standing proudly on the corner of a residential block of houses. He carefully made his request to the man. Norm wasn't entirely sure what to say. This young gorgeous boy had just rung his doorbell, asking him to help start a pirate radio station. Of course, amateur radio had been his hobby for donkeys years with the shack full of it. But his house had been devoid of people for the last year and he liked it that way. "I can pay you sir, if you want." Sam said, trying to draw some words from the old man's mouth. "Um, no, 'course not. No, it's not that," He coughed again and sipped from his can of cider. "What's yer name Shorty?" "Sam. I've just moved in down the road and I wanted to..." "I don't want yer life story son, jus' yer name." he said, leaning against the door. "Say, why you wanna go messin' round with ancient stuff like this?" "It's not ancent!" Sam said, surprised. "I want to start a radio station." "Aah the plot thickens," he says, finishing his can and crushing it with his beefy palms. "I'm Norm. Come in lad, we'll sit down and talk." Norm turns to the kitchen, potters to the fridge, grabs another can and lurches back to the shack with his new young friend in tow. He pulls out a deck chair from under his desk and lays it out amongst the floor of trodden-down cans and fag butts, motioning Sam to take a seat. "Now then Shorty," "Sam." "...Shorty, what is it you need help with?" Four and a half hours later, Sam walked back home in the dark with a shiny new FM transmitter, a small battery, a microphone and an old man's phone number in case anything went wrong. He went through in his head everything he had to do to set it up and keep it running. Four and a half hours later, Norm wired up an extension to the shack and plugged in his dusty unused telephone. He moved around the house, cleaning dust and cobwebs, picking up torn envelopes and cans and rubbing stains from the wallpaper. To be continued...