Tardy Reynolds

Tardy Reynolds (born in 2033).

Tardy Reynolds never liked himself as a child. Not surprising, since his parents detested him from the moment he was born. They’d hoped for a girl and were set on naming her after the oil made by the body that allows shit to pop out of the arse with ease; Malina. Bum-oil. That would have been her name.
Alas, ‘Tardy’ was the closest to ‘retard’ that they could get without raising alarm-bells to social services. Plenty of Tardys were being born at this time; nice little earners for the bleary-eyed adults who found looting the system their only job.
Colleges specialising in teaching jobless layabouts how to maximise social security ‘earnings’ and stay unemployed for long periods had popped up across the country, attaching cut-price human rights degrees for those who wished to go the whole way.
Being hard-nosed junkies, his loveless parents were too lazy to attend college, choosing to concentrate solely on little Tardy. They quickly renamed him ‘The Unseen’ and locked him away in his room. That was the way they liked him, in the background somewhere, preferably not screaming. Tardy graduated with flying colours (mostly red, with purple blotches) in Absolutely Silence on his first birthday, when he received a length of chicken-wire stapled over his breeze-block cot and egg-boxes Gripfilled to the walls to soundproof the room. How else could they enjoy the heroin? A hit just wasn’t the same with Tardy screaming in his bedroom.
They didn’t have the strength to beat him unless they were out of smack, which wasn’t often, and so he lived quite alone on corn flakes, sugar and long-life milk, which was sometimes diluted with a little whiskey to keep him quiet.
His parents loved him for one thing; his child benefit, which furnished them with two extra grams of heroin a month.
When Tardy was five, his parents caught wind of how extra money was made available for children with special needs and quickly trained him to shiver and nod his head for when the social worker came to see him.
‘That’s it, son, dribble a bit and throw yer ‘ead back while you’re at it.’ Tardy obliged, happy to do the right thing by his dad, his mum using her mirroring skills by nodding and twitching spasmodically.
Diagnosed with an ailment chosen from a big, yellow book by the mildly deranged social worker (who settled on ‘Van Bommell’s Eenymeenymineymo Syndrome’), they started to receive enough money for five more grams of heroin a month.
At fourteen, refreshed by the joys of puberty, a friendless, acne-faced, dirt-encrusted, mad-eyed Tardy fancied himself as a pimp and asked two of his classmates, the Tatton twins, to be his ‘bitches’.
‘Yo, bitches. I could get you fifty quid a pop for a little shimmy-shimmy,’ he’d said with a sly smile in the playground, pretending to smoke a cigar (with a Bic) like his favourite Afrodelic TV star in the hit series, ‘Deathquest’, screened at breakfast-time on weekdays.
The twins reported him to the head and he was asked to leave.
Tardy worshipped black rap artists like Born2Vile8, HereKittyKitty, Takeaway Blood and I8U so much that he begun to sorely wish he’d been born black.
It should be noted that by this time, 2047, ‘black’ was a word that caused riots nationwide, seen as pure racism. Whites were generally killed (by blacks) or imprisoned for measly two-week stretches (by the authorities) when uttering the word.
Tardy understood that getting in with the blacks was his passport to freedom and independence, especially in view of the fact that the government had given up on their own.
It seemed to Tardy that nothing, but nothing, got the blacks down. They laughed at authority and got away with murder, which was exactly what Tardy wanted to do with his life.
When he witnessed the killing of the Dorland brothers by the Afrodelic Peaceposse, who’d soaked the otherwise feared brothers in petrol, handcuffed them, thrown them into a wheelie-bin and set them alight in the middle of the lawn on the estate for all to behold, Tardy knew there was only one way out of the estate, and that was to lose all sense of fear and join the Afrodelic Peaceposse.
As the entire police force had been found guilty of fraudulent misrepresentation and bewildering laziness, each imprisoned for ten life sentences, the crime went unsolved, but it served its purpose as a fearless warning to the petty little white crews.
Wheelie-bin-burnings became de rigeur around estates and anti-white reforms were finally passed in parliament to put an end to the terrible costs of racism. Members of the BNP had been herded and hanged in an exclusive ITV news special some years ago, when the word ‘black’ was changed to ‘nice’ in all media.
Unwanted dogs, cats, babies and dealers wailed and crackled as they burnt in front of the cobwebbed closed circuit cameras above.
The Afrodelic Peaceposse was so respected by the time Tardy was fifteen that even his parents looked down when they went out for fags, booze, tin-foil and lemons.
On his sixteenth birthday, they threw Tardy and his things out of the flat and rented his room to a local dealer because, due to his coming of age, his benefits were stopped and they needed to make do.
Tardy went to live behind TescoAsdaSainsburysMorrisons’s next to the recycling zone with the homeless junkies and teenage drug-students, who whiled away the nights discussing how to procure a better life from the system without going to benefits college.
Here, amongst the wrecked caravans and cars, he learnt that the best way out of homelessness was to commit a crime such as murder and get into prison (which was seen as a white man’s mecca for laughter, freedom and merriment). Prison food was excellent, drugs were of a very high quality and cells were lovingly renovated by eminent Italian interior decorators.
Tardy knew, as all the kids did, that they couldn’t stay banged up forever, though. Only the police achieved life sentences. Everyone else had to find their own way after their prison holiday. As people were only allowed one prison sentence during their lives, a long stretch was sought by all.
On being set free, the idea was to stay in a ‘wet house’, where he’d keep his nose clean (committing only little bits of crime like mugging, shoplifting, burglary, rape, etc.) and wait a while to be given a flat on grounds of ‘inherent irresponsibility’.
Under the Afrodelic Peaceposse, the newly celebrated lawlessness calmed things down and peace began to be enjoyed by all on the estates; the authorities were happy (being with the Normal People, who lived beyond the wall), while the former crooks and those they fed were delighted with much cheaper drugs, snider than snide clothing, smuggled synthetic tobacco and swiped supermarket food.
A new bill rolled out by the government, to effectively make the underclass as human as flies, was praised by all as an act of pure genius.
One day, Tardy saw a gang of Holy Asianistas outside a takeaway. They looked mean and nasty and had girls flirting around them.
The Holy Asianistas, in an alliance with and under the watchful eye of the Afrodelic Peaceposse, had gained an agreement with the whites that forfeited all criminal activity in exchange for free beer, cider, vodka, skunk and nappies. The whites, tired of shoplifting, skunk-growing and supermarket-theft, could now drink, smoke and throw nappies at their babies without paying a thing, which, when they looked deep into their hearts, was all they’d ever wanted.
There, outside the takeaway, the Holy Asianistas’ voices weren’t as deep or half as menacing as the Afrodelics’, but they spat with precision and laughed like hyenas as white people passing.
And so an idea to become black, or nice, came into his head.
Tardy had noticed that the sunbed-salon was doing sizzling deals and he was on first-name terms with Shayla, who ran it (mostly as a front for the Afrodelics’ sex workers).
In no time at all, Tardy engineered a great deal. So long as he took charge of the salon for three afternoons a week and turned a blind eye to the ‘ladies’ who entertained in the back rooms, he could have as many sunbed-sessions as he liked.
After a month, in which his spots became crusty, lifeless craters and his face seemed to pulsate in redness, his facial skin hardened enough to take on the tan, and he became a pale shade of nice.
Being an all-over tan, it worked in summer as well as winter, and he found that he could pass as a Holy Asianista without people even batting eyelids.
At first, the Holy Asianistas and the Afrodelics laughed at him, so, one night, outside that very same takeaway, he downed two five-litre barrels of White Twat as a statement of brotherhood, and pummelled a stranger, who’d stopped to ask directions, leaving him for dead.
Running off from the rest of the posse, who stood over the bloodied man to pensively inspect the aftermath of violence (it was so much better to see it in real-life than on rotten.com), Tardy smelt success.
Prison would surely be his if only the man could die.
The man answered Tardy’s prayers in hospital later that night and, when news spread that Tardy had been responsible for the crime, he was cordially invited to make his way to prison.
Although Tardy received eight years at the low-security farmstead in Lancashire (a former park-and-ride site) set in twenty acres of stunning countryside, he knew he’d be out in four with good behaviour. The games complex was good for late nights up and the gym was a great place to let off steam, but Tardy wanted more than that from prison, so he started to read again, preferring the many gangster novels and bloodcurdling crime thrillers on offer in the library.
With no stomach for drugs, Tardy started to save money by offering his services to the prison, helping to produce GM carrots and lavender for TescoAsdaSainsburysMorrisons to aid his discharge fund.
After a year, though, he was diagnosed with advanced facial cancer. The operation left him with a face like the Elephant Man, but Tardy didn’t mind so much after his psychiatrist urged the hospital to further darken his appearance after divulging his earnest wish to be nice. ‘It would aid his recovery immeasurably,’ they were informed by the eminent shrink.
When he left prison, Tardy was as good as nice. Having been accepted into a Belgravian wet house, he befriended Charles, a notorious killer of Afrodelic descent who’d been responsible for a few petty little murders some years ago.
Together, they bullied old people on the streets and robbed state workers on the tubes and buses for fun.
With his earnings and the money he’d saved from his holiday in prison, he was advised by his newly appointed financial manager to open up three or four bank accounts under different names in order to claim more benefit.
Tardy quickly saved enough money to buy a flat from the council, under strict new measures to ‘defend equality and encourage honesty’, so he did that and rented it out to a group of sex workers made up of childless (and therefore homeless) white teenaged girls from the surrounding area, employing Charles to pimp them for a share of the profits.
He’d have set up a skunk factory in the flat, but demand for skunk had bottomed out by then. The brains of smokers fried far quicker than those of drinkers and robbers, so the government made the alcohol stronger to bolster the whites’ quest for oblivion.
Compared to skunk, Tardy was quick to realise that young, vulnerable, female human beings were much easier to sell, cheaper to maintain and far more profitable than skunk and drink put together. It was pure economics.
As weeks turned into months, the council, delighted with Tardy’s amazing transformation, offered him a rented flat in a new ‘affordable housing’ development for his good behaviour, and so he moved out of the wet-house. Charles was also given a flat on the same estate.
Together, like brothers, they merrily went about their business, and diversified into money-lending. One of the girls had shown flair in pimping, and had been beaten too often to be saleable, so she was offered a percentage of the profits to hold the girls hostage.
In the money-lending game, non-payment was a good way of letting off steam. Sometimes, female borrowers, or attractive male teenagers, were offered the tantalising deal of becoming sex workers for the hardworking lads in order to pay them back.
With plenty of money in all of his bank accounts, Tardy decided to go back to visit his parents to show them how well he’d done, but they laughed as soon as they saw him, calling him every name under the sun.
‘Look at you!’ his Dad said, pointing at him. ‘You’re nice.’
They even called him ‘The Unseen’, which was a big mistake because two days later they were the ones who disappeared, burnt to a cinder in a wheelie-bin.
With the slate wiped, Tardy felt like a new man. The authorities, who had thought it best to place him on the maximum amount of incapacity benefit and always seemed to miss or cancel their check-up appointments with him, were extremely happy with Tardy’s progress. He had, as they put it in a letter to him, ‘turned himself around admirably and could not be recognised as the boy first encountered’.
One thing he’d always wanted to do was expand the pimping game, so, with Charles’ help, Tardy started to befriend and give drugs to local teenaged girls until such a time as he and Charles could start bullying them. Once they were addicted, their visits to the lads’ flats became purposeful. A queue of haggard, old, tired, disease-riddled men waited their turn in the living rooms, wet-wipes in hand, while Tardy or Charles held sway at the bedroom doors with Tasers.
When one of the girls was beaten to death during a particularly good payer’s sex-session, her body was placed in various bags and despatched to a few wheelie-bins in various beauty-spots.
Her parents hadn’t noticed her disappearance until the authorities came to visit months later.
‘Does that mean the benefit’s gonna stop?’ was their only question.
After a few years, Tardy’s faithful financial advisor suggested he request the purchase of his flat, and with the consent of the pleased council, he went ahead and did so. They were so pleased with him that they let him have it for free.
Tired of the area, still only twenty-two, he then put the flat on the market, sold the other flat and moved to Spain.
Tardy stayed in Spain to start a family and lived like a king in Marbella with his three wives, seventy-three children and six bull terriers.
Now well into his fifties, he’s concerned that the Spanish authorities have cut his children’s benefit and is angry that he will be forced to return to the UK to attend benefits college with his ten oldest children.
Once his children have killed enough people to go to prison, he reckons that it should take another three years to realise enough profit to return to Spain, where he hopes to enjoy a happy retirement.