Musings From The Shitter Volume Fourteen

100%


Disclaimer:
 This ain’t some polished story to sip with your morning coffee.
It’s raw blood, smoke, and broken teeth — half truth, half fever dream.
Light a smoke, hold on tight, and decide what’s real before it’s too late.
The Koro Lounge tore down the Foxton Straight, twenty minutes out of Feilding...a rolling cage of smoke, noise, and desperate souls.
Shotgun sat the meat pack hustler, king of the soundtrack to impending madness.
In the back, the joint roller worked like a bomb defuser...every flick precise, every inch deadly.
Abdul sat silent, eyes wide, absorbing the chaos like a ghost drifting through a storm.
Then the smoke parted. Clarity hit...sharp, brutal, unforgiving.
Life laid bare, raw and bleeding.
That’s when you burn.
100% fun.
 Not safe. Not clean.
The wild moments you never saw coming...naked, unfiltered, real.
The call came...last-minute gig, easy to refuse, safer to hide.
But no is for ghosts. Yes is the beast that rips you open.
Do you know what’s coming? No. And that’s the point.
The gig exploded...noise like a war zone, guitars screaming, drums pounding like a maniac’s heartbeat.
In the chaos, a strange stillness...the eye of madness.
Fun wasn’t in the fire; it was in the ashes.
That jitter in your gut? Fuel, not fear.
Levin’s sun hit like a spotlight from some angry god.
I grabbed it...needed to feel alive. Not hiding, but burning.
The game...fists, fury, scars.
Score? Meaningless.
100% fun.
I watched the meat pack hustler nutmeg a player...smooth, precise, like rolling the perfect joint on the edge of oblivion.
I stopped.
Laughed.
Cheered.
Forgot I was in it.
Didn’t ask for the ball.
Wanted the moment to last.
The ref...fresh from Colombia, lost in this mad circus.
His English cracked, better than my Spanish...meaning nothing here.
100% fun.
 Met him in the carpark, walking with his son — two strangers searching for sense in the chaos.
On the way home, the Koro Lounge packed tight, they pulled up beside us.
Unseen, unheard, the backseat whispered, “Hey, it’s the guy.”
I turned.
There they were.
Waving, smiling...beacons in the dark.
Maybe happy. Maybe just knowing I needed to see them alive.
Proof we’re still here.
Still chasing that impossible 100% fun.

Home before curfew...some self-imposed, a goddamn illusion of control drawn with trembling hands; others shackled by real bars and rules that snap like jaws.
The clock ticking like a time bomb strapped to your back, reminding you freedom’s just a cruel joke for the lucky few.
But real fun?
That bastard laughs in the face of curfews and cuffs.
It’s stolen like a cigarette behind the bike shed, ripped from the jaws of the mundane and the safe.
And sweet Jesus, does it burn better when it’s forbidden.

100% fun.
 It’s not a feeling. It’s a fucking commitment.
You don’t drift into it...you dive, headfirst, teeth bared, screaming at the moon.
You say yes when your gut says no. You light the match with shaking hands.
You burn for it.
Because 100% doesn’t happen by accident.
It demands blood. And sweat. And the kind of reckless abandon that makes decent people nervous.
It’s the full plunge...no safety net, no second guessing.
You get 100% fun only when you decide to take it.
Grab it by the throat. Ride it until it bucks.
And even then, it might kill you.
But hell...that’s the deal.
You want to feel it all?
Then you better be ready to lose a little skin.
Because 100% fun isn’t for tourists.
It’s for lunatics, drifters, and anyone brave enough to say:
Fuck it. I’m in.

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