What hasn’t this man done?

A regular column for Evil Magazine by

Mr Knucks

When they asked me to write a column for this rag, I told them the only type of columnist I’d been was a fifth one. But they said, no, come on you’re big on this self-improvement lark and the writing exercise’ll be good for you. So I said, what the f**k am I sposed to write about then? And they said, well, you’ve had such a long and varied career, why don’t you write about all the stuff you *haven’t* done? So I said that’s going to make for a short series.

See, thing about me is I’m like that song, wotsitcalled – f**k knows, Google it – Van Morrison done, “I’ve been a poet, a prophet, a thingy, a priest” and all that magumbo. Except with me, it’s like “I’ve been a pirate, a bouncer, a soldier, and a whole heap of other things besides.” But before anyone goes calling me a Jack Of All Trades, you’d better know that whatever I do, I aim to be the best at what I do. So when I was a soldier, I made General and when I was a bouncer I sent so many geezers packing from the club I used to have the place and all the ladies to myself. I was that good. And that was back in the days before I had these detachable cybernetic limbs, so if I was in the bouncing game today, I’d have even more chicks hanging off me. They dig limbs with that kind of reach, if you know what I mean.

Which reminds me of a line my mate Doomy once said to me when I told him about my exploits with the fairer sex. “Fairer sex?” he says. “They used to take every other guy but me behind the grav-bike sheds. What the f**k’s fair about that?” But that’s just me digressing and perhaps illustrative (good word – all those crosswords I do paying off, see) of my rambling style, which the editors of this rag said would help fill up a regular column no time.

So anyway, yeah, Master Of All Trades, more like it, thanks very much. Remember that. Also remember that I’m typing this one hand, dictating from the other side of the room while I encourage a prisoner to assist me with a few inquiries. Extracting information is like squeezing juice out of a lemon, I always say. And you’re left wondering what to do with the pulp.

So, right. That’s me. Not your ordinary thug. Been there, seen it, done it. But this article’s sposed to be about what I haven’t done and I’ve had a think or two, and today the best I can come up with is Ice Cream Salesman.

I have not done that. Not because I couldn’t. I mean swanning around in one of those dinky little spaceships with the side window and those stupid chimes that resonate throughout a given hemisphere whenever you show up in orbit. Stop me and buy one yadda yadda, want a flake with that? See, nothing to it. But, honestly, f**k that for a game of soldiers, right? Where’s the job satisfaction – apart from when some snotty nosed oik comes begging for a lolly you haven’t got in stock, gives you some lip and you have to knock the kid’s nose into his frontal lobe. But, like, how often’s that going to come up? Nah, not for me.

So, in summation, Ice Cream Salesman. Yeah, Mr Knucks – me – hasn’t done that. Big f**king deal.

Next time I’ll see if I can think of something else. To be fair there’s probably one or two in that Van Morrison effort I haven’t had a go at, but that’s not to say I will.

Also, I can tell you this much. Before next time, I am gonna find whichever son-of-a-b*tch editor’s been censoring my f**king language and stick his f**king head in an oven, basted and wrapped in foil, eyes front so he can watch his body being stuffed in the tumble f**king dryer.

Keep it real, people. See ya next time.

Read more of Mr Knucks’ endearing ways in Evil UnLtd(TM)


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