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House Hunting. Human Trafficking.

The next step in my adventure was to move out of my aunt’s house and to find a place of my own. A place where I could rest my throbbing head. A safe haven where I could play with my willy and not get arrested. It didn’t look like a playground. There wasn’t even that many children there.


I had a look on Craigslist and checked out the rates of rent in Boston. It turned out I didn’t really have enough money to survive in America after all. A few drunken nights in Ireland armed with the card of death (more commonly known as an ATM card) had left me slightly in the red. When I have my ATM card and ten to twenty pints in my belly, I get this feeling that there will be no tomorrow and no future responsibilities. The only course of action a drunken Toole can take in response to the upcoming doomsday, is to empty his bank account and buy drinks for any stranger that blinks in his direction, because he’s such a legend. Idiot.

I didn’t really want to live indoors anyway. I would be the drunken Bear Grylls of the streets, eating people’s pets by night and sleeping under fat people by day. I would be one with the land. Living as our saviour, Optimus Prime, had intended. Until the other homeless people would find me and rape me.

I managed to find a few places after I ‘connected’ with a couple of hundred russian models who lived in my area and wanted to have sex with me. I avoided any houses that wanted cat lovers (sick bastards), banned the use of toilet paper, or any houses that insisted on naked communal cleaning. I rang some numbers to organise viewings. I used the phone calls to weed out any weirdos and to fool people into thinking that I’m a decent human being.

The first house I viewed was listed as an international house. Avoid any international house like it’s a horny old nun and you just bought a new sexy priest uniform, with matching communion holsters and rubber crucifix. Renting this house would be close to contracting polio. But this strain of polio would be so bad that it would also cause you to make terrible fashion decisions. You’re wheeling yourself down the street when suddenly you realise, you’re wearing brown loafers with black socks! Bam! Disabled and unfashionable!

The woman who answered the door had just finished murdering a close relative and ushered me inside. She quickly shut and padlocked the door behind me. The lady of the house introduced me to her pony-tailed husband, who sported a Free Fritzel not his family t-shirt, stained with an assortment of bodily fluids. As we talked about the house and the living arrangements, I looked around for the radiator they would eventually chain me to. Unfortunately, in an attempt to remain polite, I asked them if anyone else lived in the house.

HUGO! WE HAVE A SACRFI… A GUEST!

screamed the mother towards a darkened room at the back of the house.

Enter 6ft 7″ Hugo ready and waiting for his next human meal. Hugo was obviously the muscle in their human trafficking operation. After I shook the yeti’s paw, I quickly made my excuses and headed for the door. They insisted I stay for dinner. I insisted I wanted no part in eating the children from the neighbourhood and went on my way. After a few hours of viewing houses I arrived at a place that sounded promising. There were four American lads living in the house who all seemed laid back and more importantly, enjoyed a good old family wrestle after work. The lifeblood of a happy home.

Tony and Conor greeted me at the door. I would be taking Roy’s room who was frantically packing his things into his car outside. The two lads assured me that the only reason Roy was moving out was because of work. Roy sped off before I could meet him. My other room-mate, Ismael, a medical student, lived in the basement and kept to himself and his experiments. The only rule in the house was to never go into the basement. It was such a relief to find a nice place after nearly being fed to Hugo at the international house. I paid my rent, signed on the dotted line and moved in that very day.

Bullet dodged.

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