Date: Mon, 03 Dec 2018 11:32:26 +0000 From: Bogan Subject: Former Street Rat 05 For the safety of everyone involved (especially me), everything I am going to say is false, made up, and delusional. DONATE to NIFTY. If you can afford it, please donate to nifty. We all like this site and we don't want it to go away. I hadn't meant this to be so autobiographical. I really just meant to kinda write a guide to what it was like to be a street rat. At least from my perspective. Give some sort of advice to how it was. If you want to use any of this stuff to write your own story, go ahead. Just 2 things tho. 1) If I happen to write a story about this, than you better not try to sue me. I won't be tried for plagiarism for my own fucking memories 2) If you do write a story using anything from here, please let me know. I would really like to read it. Thanks. ********************************** Petey was a thief. He was a pick pocket and an opportunist. His specialty was the underground and rush hour was most profitable. But if he saw a bag in a car or an opening in a building, he took it. Petey was a thief. And a good one. We all needed to put money into the pot. But the how and where was left up to each of us. Some of us pan handled. Some of us did "jobs." But everyone hustled at some point or other. Even Petey. But he was brilliant at what he did. I only ever remember one time when he really fucked up. He showed up bleeding pretty badly. So we took him to A&E. That happened sometimes. There were times that I also, came close to dying. One time I did. The staff at the hospital told me that while I was in A&E, my heart had stopped beating and my lungs had stopped breathing. But they brought me back. I was uncomfortable with theft. The way that I saw it was, if I was hustling at least I was renting out something that was mine to give. But I couldn't fault any street rat for stealing from any mainstreamer. See, adults were supposed to take care of us. And they failed. We were just taking what we needed to survive. For fucks sake, none of us were becoming millionaires. The police treated us like vermin. And so did most everyone else. They were disgusted with us for doing drugs or drinking alcohol. Never stopping to find out why we really did. Speaking with moral superiority and then in the shadow of their church, they'd fuck a 14 yo boy and piss in his mouth. Fuck `em all. We didn't go to missions. Maybe it was different in other regions or countries. But I didn't know one street rat who would go to those fuckers. The missions wouldn't feed you unless you listened to a sermon. They'd preach hellfire and damnation and wave their book of myths at you. Fucking christians. I'd rather have a cock piss up my ass than listen to fairy tales about their sky-god. There was this one organisation, tho. And there were rumours about the origin of their name. That it was founded by a stripper who successfully got off the streets and became rich. Or that it was named after a stripper who was horribly brutalised and murdered. They were kinda like a roving clinic. They fed you. And gave you clothes. And socks! And they had doctors and nurses. They'd draw your blood and swab your cheeks and piss slit and bum hole. And if you needed it, gave you some antibiotics. They weren't preachy or hypocritical. But I do remember getting really agitated this one time. The doctor asked me how my willy got scarred up. It was none of her fucking business. But for the most part they were decent. And then they moved on to another city. But you'd see them back in another couple'a months. Bogan