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Who's Who in London Hooligans - Viggo de Morte

Viggo's Journal

Not everything is a tragedy. Or maybe, not every tragedy happens on a grand scale? It’s just life. Not much sense in getting upset over things. Shit happens. Or it doesn’t. And that seems to be all there is to it. But that can’t be true. Or, if it is, I can’t accept it.

My life has not been a tragedy. Hard maybe, but not tragedy. Immigrant kid, family from Denmark, grew up on the streets. Da ran interference for one of the local gangs and taught me to follow him from an early age. I took to it naturally and was almost full grown before I even thought about other ways of doing things, other ways of living. By the time I had begun to wonder about other ways, I was so far up the chain that there was no backing out. And then I got to be the leader. Easy to advance when you work in a profession where people tend to get killed or disappear all of a sudden.

Yeah, I did the rent boy thing. No way to be on this side of the law and avoid it. But I never did it much and it never got to me one way or the other. Just another aspect to the trade I was learning. And as I advanced, the expectation to do it just went away.

I’m good at this, leading the gang. Or, rather, I used to be good at it. Would still be good at it if only I cared, which I just don’t and that is a bit of a problem. I know just about everyone. The only person out there who might actually know more about where all the bodies are buried is Wormtongue, good old Brad. And he can have all his little secrets. I don’t want them anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I ever wanted them.

I wish I could put my finger on what’s wrong these days. The gang is fine, but things may be a bit tricky for a while. Elijah will do a great job. It’s me who’s at odds. And I wish to hell I knew why.

So, yeah, I’ve stepped down. Handed it all over to Elijah.


That boy is about the only thing that makes me remember that I am alive these days.

I’ve gathered in lots of boys over the years. Sent them out to work the rent trade. Taught them to steal and lie and cheat. Made them warriors. Made damn sure they understood loyalty. The ones who didn’t learn that lesson never got a second chance.

But none of them hold a candle to Elijah. Tough as nails for all his slight build. If I had been thinking clearly, I never would have handed everything over to him. Too young, too small, too inexperienced. Too sensitive, though he would stick a knife in my gullet if he heard me say that. But it was the right thing to do. I’ve been amazed at the tenacity with which he has taken the reins. I know it is a lot to ask of him. And I know he will give me all of him until there is virtually nothing left of himself just to prove that my faith in him wasn’t wrong.

How do I let him know that all he has to do to make me proud of him is live and be strong and happy? And how could I want this for him and then turn over the gang to him? I think my mind really is going. I’ve put him in so much danger. Why did I ever think I was doing him a good turn? I know what this life is like. If I want out of it so desperately why the bloody hell did I turn right around and mire this beautiful soul more deeply into it?

So now things may be worse. I can’t leave, can’t abandon him. But I’m not protecting him the way I could if I had my place at the head of the gang.

This is only one more mess I have made of this joke I call my life. So I hang around, trying to minimize the damage. Not knowing if I am just making things worse. And with my days, I hunt for something. It would help if I knew what it was I was hunting.

I’ve been reading a lot. Things are happening. The world is becoming fascinating with all the work the scientists are doing. And the philosophers. Writers and playwrights. That Wilde fellow is getting a lot of talk these days. I’ve seen a couple of his plays performed. He’s good.

I’ve taken up painting again. Elijah is so supportive it makes me feel guilty if I don’t work some almost every day. He tries to play it tough but the breeding slips through and he actually can talk about art, when he allows himself to.

I wonder what my life would have been like with his advantages. Odd that we can come from such different places and end up sitting on the curb together, passing the bitter back and forth, waiting for the days events to seek us out and let us know how our little corner of the world is faring. And on those moments, as the day is ending and Elijah is safe by my side, laughing and plotting, I can shake off the melancholy and just enjoy the taste of the ale as it slides down my throat.

Oh, what else is there to say. Bean. Yeah, there’s always Bean and there is always something to say about him. This thing between us has been going on for years and almost every day of those years I have sworn I was through with him. He is a right bastard and there is no one in all of England who would argue the point. But…I swear he is the best fuck in all of London.

And, if I will allow myself to be weak enough to admit it, a friend.

Yeah, he’s a troll, but he’s my troll. Mon petit troll.
Elijah and Bean. My heart belongs to a changeling and a troll. No wonder my head is so fucked up these days.