YEAR TWENTY FOUR: B K Lyn Da Planet.

Collecting a satisfactory amount of splinters from the hardwood floor at Damian and Finn's place, plus tolerance levels of couch surfing allowance being breeched, it was time to get my slacker metrogypsy junk out their home. Brooklyn was the next destination.

Must repent for a sin of omission. Obliterated the space occupied by the third roomie in that wonderful apartment playland. Peter. I wear my geek freak officer stripes with pride. Peter was a four star general freak. His geek shaolin was mythical. The House Of Peter shamed all other's kung-fu.

He had a photographic encyclopaedic catalogue of Mac OS, jazz musician and pornstar vital statistics firmly entrenched in his alien cyborg brain. When fixing all of NYC Stinko's Mac and network issues he never used a mouse. His fingers, in an instinct ballet, floated around the keypads, sending out commands in exquisite machine symbiotic efficiency. Sitting next to him figuring out a computer problem, you would hear his lips barely keeping up with the neurons in his brain firing out the solution. It was astounding. He was also an accomplished jazz guitarist. Hobnobbed with most of the modern popular musicians of the time. Two notes and he could successfully tell you the song, who wrote it, all the musicians on the recording, and the date it was pressed into wax. He knew the maiden names of every chick to spread pussy lips apart on video. He was the oracle of fuckfilms. He could list in chronological order every double penetration scene since the early Eighties. All you could do was stare at him and wonder what science lab he escaped from.

Suppressed Southern twang. He gleefully developed his own catch phrases. He would always greet people with "Chow duche!". Refused to explain the origin. Called Damian "Double Dunk". Whenever he said something weirdly poignant or twisted funny, he'd end the sentence with a baritone throat squish, sounded sorta like "Queeish!".

He was also sexually rabid. His perfect world would be lined in exposed titties. Belying his enormous intelligence, yet exposing his suspended childhood ego, he would hoot and holler whenever a implanted boob flashed on the channel surf. Always pleading "C'mon man, go back, check out them titties, queeish!".

He found a girl who was more than willing to satisfy his inexhaustible appetite. They didn't give a shit who was around to feel their aftershocks either. Nailing her up against his bedroom wall keeping Finn awake, spanking her wet ass in the shower louder than the television, taking her aside in the office and having her grab her ankles. He dragged his watch through a pool of spunk he deposited on the carpet of the home office after pulling out her supple ass, refused to clean it off. We all went way past voyueristic curiosity and outright amazement, to sheer comedic observance of his perpetual raging hardon.

Once, while installing firewire underneath the self service computer stations, a chick sat down unawares in front of him and spread eagle. No panties. He told us "I could smell her sweet ambrosia dancing and glistening in the cool moonlight". Probably wanked it right then and there.

So, now Brooklyn.

Everyone mentioned so far was a fellow victim in the Stinko's wars. No reason to break tradition. Moved to Greenpoint and shared a bedroom with Marc, who was living in an offspring of Long Island's apartment. Sean. Both managerial types from Stinko's.

Sean really fucking annoyed me. Wallstreet fratjock weasily type. I was living there on his good graces, so I restrained my ire cannons. Hockey was way too important in his life. Played on two roller hockey teams. Was adamant about ensuring he had a cable package that would allow him to watch every single Islanders game. He would literally walk in the door, shed off his work armour, make a beeline for you, snatch the remote from your hands, push you off the couch, and turn on the Islanders game. He also only bought video games that had hockey themes, and was equally fevered about wrestling control of the entertainment center to advance the status of his virtual Islanders.

Marc, or Scabies, was a skinny out of control drunk and nihilist with long black hair that ladies could seemingly not help but sacrifice themselves on his unwashed cock. His yellowing sock slicing toe talons would have been enough for me not to schlob his knob if I was a chick. Way too many of you ladies looking for abuse. I would admonish those looking for degradation too, but then I'd never get to cream on your faces again.

Greenpoint was an interesting hood back then. Mixture of Polish and Puerto Rican inhabitants. Seemed to uneasily share the space. Kielbasa and other prepared pork products shop right next to a Boriqua appliance salvage storefront. And oh christ did those Polish girls develop young. Extremely bold and curvacious teens offering up the panties to me and mine. Luckily, I am stronger than all that. Those cookies were almost too sweet not to dunk in milk though.

The G train was my only access to transportation, and my nemesis. The Greenpoint Avenue Station was a scary Escape From New York dilapidated filmset. Menacing cracks in the walls seeping a viscous water. Gangs of charcoal rats fighting with each other on the tracks. Constant odor of unappetising cheese curd. Uninterrupted thought of "please let this fucking train show up".

The hood was fairly rundown. We didn't even have electrical lines running in our bathroom. Had to shower with whatever residual light spilled in from the kitchen. Mad cheap rent though.

Sean eventually moved out and then Marc and I had to bail. I actually just moved into the apartment nextdoor with Scott and Mario. Yeah, you guessed it, more Stinkonites. Another couple of weirdos from my past. Alas, weirdos that will have to be left for the next installment of the Ages Of Spanky.

Don't be a fool, stay in school.