Humpty: Titty Watcher

Copyright © 2024 by Ricky Browne

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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He shrugged slightly to the left of his breezy summer jacket. Just keep it cool, keep it edgy, and sweet, he thought. Before checking in his pocket to ensure he brought the pumpkin-spice-flavoured condoms. Edgy, he thought. Really edgy. He edgily waited for Mary-Lou Sunshine to come around the corner and see him sitting with his summer jacket. Sweet, he thought.

That moment Jason Needlekirk came from the bushes, “Hi Humpty.” “Hey, Jason Needlekirk, comic books are shit, so don’t talk about them around the other guys if I’m around because my uncle reads comics and he’s a man-child, couldn’t get laid if his mum was a leghorn!” Needlekirk sighed, “Humpty, comics aren’t just kid’s books, they’re rich stories and one guy shoots lightning bolts out his hands!” “Out his hands, wow, that is edgy. Anyway, keep out of the bushes ya perv.” “Will do, Humpty. Love your summer jacket, very edgy, catch ya, Humpty!” Then Needlekirk walked back into the bushes.

Mary Lou came skipping around the corner while sipping on a 600 mil Pepsi with the label ripped off the bottle of Pepsi she was sipping on. “Nice summer jacket boiiiii!” “Hey, Girrrrrl!” “Humpty, are you coming onto me?” “Mary Lou, cool your roasters, I ain’t some titty watcher, I don’t watch titties.” “You seem like a titty watcher to me, Humpty. You probs brought a franger.” “What’s a franger? I didn’t bring no franger.” “Franger is ocker slang for a willy sock. You know a condom!” “This Ocker bloke sounds like a cock-rocket, what’s he your boyfriend?” “Don’t be like that, Humpty. I like titty watchers and you can’t tell me you’re not some jacked-up titty watcher!” “Yeah, I spose!” “But I only brought condoms in case your mum said to use protection from AIDS, and Hep C and that other one with the pus and the scabs”

Mary Lou was sitting outside the coffee plaza deli cafe shop next to Humpty at this stage. Humpty slowly slid his shoe over until it touched the side of Mary Lou’s shoe. A flood of chemicals rushed through both their bodies. She then pressed her shoe tight up against his Reebok Pumps. Humpty started uncontrollably convulsing as Mary Lou looked on in startled disbelief. Then Humpty yanked his chair backward and sat up straight before explaining. “I need to go to the dunny. Be back.”

Humpty came back a minute later saying that he turned the tap on too fast and got water all over his pants. Then he sat back down. Humpty slowly slid his shoe over until it touched the side of Mary Lou’s shoe. A flood of chemicals rushed through both their bodies. She then pressed her shoe tight up against his Reebok Pump. Humpty started uncontrollably convulsing as Mary Lou looked on in startled disbelief. Then Humpty yanked his chair backward and sat up straight before explaining. “I need to go to the dunny again. Be back.”

Humpty came back and sat down, “I’ve got Bali-belly!” “When did you go to Bali?” “Never why?” “Because you said you got Bali-belly.” “Oh, do you need to go to Bali to get Bali-belly? I must have a different type of belly. Anyway, did you know that peeling labels off your drinks means you’re sexually frustrated!” “Who told you that?” “My brother’s dad.” “Isn’t your brother’s dad your dad?” “Na ‘cause he’s just my half-brother. That’s why he’s black!” “Oh, I wondered that. Anyway, I’m not sexually frustrated. I watch ‘50 Shades’ and get off when mum gets too drunk and falls asleep in the bath.” “Isn’t it dangerous to fall asleep in the bath?” “Na, I go in and top up the hot water!”

They shared a long white frappa cappa flippa dippa thick-shake, two straws in the one glass. “Did you know it’s illegal to use straws these days?” said Humpty. “That’s just a conspiracy made up by ‘Big Science’ to get people to trust turtles. Do you really think turtles put straws up their noses? No, ‘Big Science’ puts them up there! ‘Big Science’ is in league with ‘Big Nature’. They bit the apple! its common knowledge.” Humpy takes a sip on the long white frappa cappa flippa dippa thick-shake, then proclaims, “You sure do know a lot, Mary Lou! You should become a psychic and read people’s palms for money. People need to know how they’re going to die so they can put their affairs in order.” “Yeah, but that stuff takes years of learning and ancient wisdom, and you have to be chosen by God. And I kicked my dog when he shit on my copy of New Idea, the one with Meghan Markle and Prince Harry, so God’s probably not going to choose me for access to mystical powers. Anyway, God’s an arsehole. Kids in Africa get less than a dollar a day for the tuck shop, and pies probably cost around $2.80. It’s a tragedy, Humpty.”

They talked and talked and talked. About the budget deficit. How you can cover the moon with your thumb. How you can tell a midget by their stubby fingers. How 5G is going to make all the birds fly the wrong way. How women are becoming more respected and powerful due to climate change melting the ice caps, releasing hydrocarbons into the atmosphere. Which in turn is depleting the ozone layer allowing the feminine spectrum of light to penetrate the atmosphere making women more powerful and respected by men who are becoming more understanding because of more levels of feminine Vitamin D!”

Then Humpty stopped talking, his shoulders slumped. He put his head down and put his hands up to his face. “What’s wrong Humpty?” Said Mary Lou, “Is it your Bali-belly?” “No.” Said Humpty. “I was thinking about how you said I was some sort of jacked-up titty watcher. You know what, Mary Lou? I asked you out because you’re always talking about cocks and stuff, so I just wanted to lift your shirt and look at your bra. But talking to you now, I’ve realised you’re not some sort of dumb bitch that’s asking for a good banging. You’re so much more than that! You’ve opened my eyes to women’s rights. I’m part of the problem!” Then Humpty took the pumpkin spice condoms out of his pocket and threw them on the ground. I am a titty watcher, a jacked-up titty watcher! But you make me a better man, Mary Lou. Mary Lou, will you marry me?”

“Settle down Humpty, I’m polyamorous. I’m here because you are a jacked-up titty watcher and that’s what I love about you. Your right arm’s far more well-defined and bulkier than your left. You look like a soldier crab, you big hunk. Would you like me to pull you off under the table?” She uttered as she slipped a finger into his mouth. Humpty started uncontrollably convulsing as Mary Lou looked on in startled disbelief. Then Humpty yanked his chair backward and sat up straight, exclaiming, “I have to go! I’m serious Mary Lou, I’m a changed man, you deserve better than some jacked-up titty watcher, I love you Mary Lou Sunshine!” He yelled as he rushed off.

Mary Lou sat there in a fluster. Then she calmed herself and whispered under her breath, “Maybe I do deserve better than some jacked-up titty watcher.” Then she looked down and noticed Humpty had left his summer jacket hanging on the back of the chair where he was sitting before he had rushed off. Curious, she thought. Maybe he left some clues to the mystery of why Humpty ran off in his pockets. In one pocket she found a printout that laid out how to stimulate the female G spot. And in the other pocket, she was surprised to find 50 to 100 little cut-outs of female vaginas including flaps and pubic hair of different colours, open vaginas, shaved vaginas, you name it. They were all cut out from dirty magazines. Curiouser and curiouser, she thought, these might be the clues to solving the unsolved mystery of why Humpty had run off before getting a free handy.

As Mary was sitting there going down different rabbit holes in her mind, trying to piece together all the clues about why Humpty ran off before receiving one of her patented hand jobs under the table. Jason Needlekirk came out from behind the bushes. “Oh hi, Jason Needledick, what’s your favourite superhero?” “Well, if you’re interested in a strong female character you can’t go past ‘Washer Woman’, she can get stains out of anything, and she has these huge titties and wears outfits so tight that when she bends down to put in another load, you can see what she had for breakfast! But that’s beside the point. Don’t call me Needledick, I have girth, serious real manly girth!” “Sorry, Jason, you’re right about everything. I know when I was in year four I needed to go to the toilet, but the teacher wouldn’t let me, so I ended up shitting my pants. After that everyone called me stinky. That’s why I changed schools. That’s terrible, Mary Lou. That probably explains the way you act the way you do. Do you want to hug gorgeous?” “Back off Needledick!, And keep out of the bushes, ya perv.” “No, you’re right. Sorry, Mary Lou, maybe another time when you’re feeling more vulnerable.” He said bye and walked back into the bushes.

Mary Lou drank the last of their long white frappa cappa flippa dippa thick-shake. She hopped up and started walking home. She soon noticed that she was soaked. She giggled and said, “Humpty, no one had got me that wet without giving me a tickle.” Maybe it is love. Maybe marrying Humpty wouldn’t be such a bad idea, shed been around, and maybe it was time to settle down and be a one-man woman. Pumpkin-spiced condoms, she chuckled, very edgy. She walked all the way home in Humpty’s summer jacket. These things are great, she thought, protection from the sun, but light, airy and breathable enough to keep you cool even in the toughest conditions.

Humpty sprinted all the way home, not looking back, like he was being chased by a big green monster. That green monster was his conscience mulling over the fact that he always called women bitches and hoes in the past. He made a decision there and then not to listen to any more gangster rap.

When he got home, his dad, that wasn’t his real dad, was sitting with his half-brother who was black and this guy they called Dapper Dippy. Dapper Dippy had good street skills like no other. He knew raps and break-dance and had a pit bull named ‘Killer T’ who was said to have mangled three drug dealers that didn’t pay their dues to the ‘Knife Gang’. Dapper Dippy was the knife gang’s third-highest member, so you could say he was pretty tall, but not Shawn Bradley or Hakeem Olajuwon tall. He was called Dapper Dippy because he was always dressed well and his last name was Dippiodomanicoco.

Loud music was playing, it was the song ‘Take a bitch from behind’ by the group ‘Killers in the hood’. It was one of Humpty’s favourites. He went and turned it off. “Why’d ya do that?” Said his stepdad. “Because it’s disrespectful to women.” Said Humpty. All three of the blokes at the table started chuckling. “Disrespectful to women!” said his black half-brother in a retarded voice. It turned into full-blown laughter. His black half-brother kept repeating the same line, “Disrespectful to women!” Dapper Dippy was struggling to breathe at this stage, and his dad was slapping the table. Humpty yelled over the top of the laughter, “You’re all a bunch of chauvinist pigs!” which just made them all crack up even more. Dapper Dippy had turned purple and was holding his side, while his stepdad continued to bang on the table laughing uncontrollably. His black half-brother said in his retarded voice, “You guys are all a bunch of saxophonists!” The raucous laughter continued. Humpty threw up his middle finger and cut a B-Line for his bedroom.

He woke up three hours later having dreamt about the three guys at the table staring and pointing at him, all yelling, “titty watcher, titty watcher!” He rubbed his eyes and lay there wondering why Dapper Dippy had been over at their house. He hadn’t seen him since his mum’s funeral.

Hey lay on his bed, he could still hear laughing through the wall. He heard one of them shout “fag.” Followed by more laughter. He started to sob before his mind turned to Mary Lou. A short moment later, he started beating off to the fantasy of her lifting up her shirt and showing her bra. He imagined her in a range of bras all the time repeating the words in his head. You’re a jacked-up titty watcher, you’re a jacked-up titty watcher! He soon blew his load into a jar he kept under the bed. He’d only been filling the jar for two months but had already filled it three-quarters full. He soon drifted off to sleep.

His black half-brother walked in. “hey dickhead, how’d you go with Mary Lou? Did you get your end in boiiiii?” “It’s not like that man, she’s different!” “How do you know?” said his black half-brother. “Well, put it this way, I had a wank and still wanted to be around her afterwards” “Woo, little brova’s got feeeeelings!” “Alright tough guy, don’t you think you’ve been shitty arseing me enough today, that shit out there gave me bad dreams!” “Chill bro, we were just havin’ a laugh, it broke the tension from some serious shit! I get you anyway bro, you’re growin’ up, Humpty. We aren’t like the old generation. They’re all titty watchers. Times have changed, and you are too.” “Thanks, bro, what was the tension? Why was Dapper Dippy here?

“Dapper had heard you’d been spittin’ sweet rhymes with some of the knife gang’s younger members and their kids. They want to recruit you to the gang so they can have the best team for the big rap contest.” “Oh fuckitty, I don’t wanna join no knife gang, what did dad say?” “He bought you a year until you finish high school!” “Brought them how?” “He offered Dapper and his gang $4000. It was all the money he had.” “Fuck, fuck, fuck! What was I thinking, spittin’ sweet raps around those clunk heads, fuck, fuckitty, fuck.” “Calm down dad’s got a plan!” Just then his step-dad yells, “dinners on fuckers!”

Chapter 2: The Shit List

Humpty sat at the dinner table stirring his mashed potatoes like they were a puddle of regrets. His stepdad slapped a sausage on his plate so hard a little splatter of gravy hit his chin. “Eat up, titty watcher. Got school tomorrow. Gotta get those grades up or you’ll be cleaning foreskins for the army medics.”

“I’m not a titty watcher anymore,” Humpty mumbled into his mash. “I’ve changed.”

His half-brother chuckled. “You’re still keeping cum in a jar under your bed, aren’t ya?”

Humpty stabbed the sausage. “It’s for research.”

“You’re not getting into science, bro. You got a C-minus in Year 9 Bio and thought mitochondria was a type of pasta.”

Humpty didn’t reply. He just stared blankly at the brown water pretending to be gravy, thinking about Mary Lou’s voice and how it made him twitch like an undercooked sausage on a BBQ.

After dinner, he went to his room and pulled out the list he kept folded in his sock drawer: The Shit List.

People Who’ve Fucked Me Over:

1. The Year 8 teacher who told him to “grow up and stop calling his own hand his girlfriend”
2. Jason Needlekirk for always coming out of bushes
3. Mum—for dying
4. Mary Lou—for making him feel like a man and then asking if he wanted a handy
5. His stepdad—for replacing Dad and bringing home coleslaw that looked like toe jam

He scratched out number 4. Mary Lou didn’t fuck him over. She just confused him in a way that made his pants tight and his chest soft. Which made no sense. You shouldn’t be hard and soft at the same time.

Next morning at school, Humpty walked through the gates like a man with a mission. He wore his Reebok Pumps and carried the energy of a guy who almost got jerked off under a table but instead discovered feminism.

First period was Health & Human Development. Mr. Fingerstone was talking about boundaries in relationships.

“If someone says stop,” Fingerstone said, “you stop. If someone says they’re polyamorous, you don’t cry and run away. You discuss expectations like mature adults.”

Humpty’s ears turned red. “Is this about me?” he asked out loud.

“No, Humpty,” said Mr. Fingerstone, clearly lying. “This is about the class. Not your failed milkshake date and the questionable collage of vaginas found in your summer jacket.”

The whole class snorted. Someone behind him whispered “jacked-up titty watcher,” and another kid said, “Oi Humpty, how’s the jar goin’? Hit the litre mark yet?”

Humpty sighed. Then he turned around and whispered, “I’m saving it to fertilise my garden.”

They shut up. Respect.

After class, Mary Lou was at his locker.

“Hey Humpty,” she said like nothing had happened. “Nice wet pants yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m just emotional.”

“You left your jacket behind. I found your ‘research’. Very National Geographic meets Hustler. Is that what you think about when I talk about Meghan Markle?”

He scratched his head. “Not all the time. Sometimes I think about you in a power suit negotiating a peace deal between North Korea and the Wiggles.”

She smiled. “You’re sweet, in a kind of mentally unstable, emotionally constipated way.”

They stared at each other. Then she leaned in close, like real close, like-a-duck’s-beak-tickling-your-cheek close.

“I have a date this weekend,” she said.

“With who?” His stomach clenched.

“With myself,” she smirked. “I’m gonna stay home, eat Nutri-Grain straight from the box, and watch re-runs of Border Security. Wanna come?”

“I’ll bring the milk,” he said.

Chapter 3: Border Insecurity

Saturday night arrived like a forgotten leftover: cold, weird-smelling, but still technically edible.

Humpty stood outside Mary Lou’s house holding a 2-litre bottle of milk and a semi-stale packet of LCM bars. He’d forgotten how to knock properly, so he just sort of banged the door with his elbow while mumbling, “It’s the milkman… and he delivers.”

Mary Lou opened the door wearing a ripped Mambo shirt and leggings that said “BAD VIBES ONLY” across the ass.

“Hope you like skim,” Humpty said, holding up the milk like it was a peace offering between nations.

“Only if it’s ethically sourced,” she said, yanking him inside like she was abducting a weatherman. The inside of her place smelled like burnt popcorn and teenage rebellion. Posters of Avril Lavigne and Che Guevara hung next to each other like unlikely roommates.

They sat on the couch watching Border Security. A guy on screen was being interrogated for trying to smuggle five jars of pickled onions into the country.

“What kind of psycho needs five jars of onions?” Mary Lou asked.

“Someone who cries easily and wants to make it look intentional,” said Humpty, with surprising insight.

They shared an LCM bar. Humpty bit first, then Mary Lou chewed the soggy remainder. It was weirdly intimate in the way that sharing bubble gum might be—gross, but kind of sweet if you’re the right type of messed up.

“So,” she said. “What’s your plan?”

“With what?”

“With life. You know, future shit. Or are you just gonna jack off into jars until you die?”

Humpty didn’t answer straight away. He was watching a sniffer dog on TV go nuts over a lady’s suitcase. Probably cocaine, or salami.

“I wanna write rap lyrics that teach people about emotional growth. Like… if Tupac went to therapy.”

Mary Lou raised her eyebrows. “You know that’s the best idea you’ve ever had?”

“Seriously?”

“No. But it’s better than your idea to start a fashion label called ‘Bro-cho Marx’ where every shirt has your face on it and a fake moustache.”

He grinned. “Hey, those samples sold two units. One to me and one to my nan.”

They laughed. The kind of laugh that lingers a little too long, until the silence afterwards feels suspicious.

“You ever think we’re just characters in someone’s weird book?” she asked suddenly.

Humpty blinked. “Like someone’s writing our conversations for shock value and heart?”

“Yeah, like we’re just edgy enough to be artsy, but grounded enough that no one calls it satire.”

Humpty leaned back. “That would mean my cum jar is canon.”

She giggled. “And my dog-kicking confession is probably setting up a redemption arc.”

They stared at the screen again. Some lady was crying because they’d confiscated her dried mangoes.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Humpty finally said. “Every time I think I’m better, I do something dumb. Or horny. Or both.”

“Everyone’s dumb and horny,” she said, “some people are just better at hiding it. I like that you’re not.”

He looked at her, soft. Like a bloke seeing a good kebab after a hard night out.

She looked back, eyes not quite serious. “You wanna kiss me, don’t you?”

“Only if I can leave my socks on,” he said.

They kissed. It tasted like dry cereal and unresolved trauma.

Chapter 4: Knives, Lies, and Sticky Situations

Humpty woke up Sunday morning still wearing his socks and a thin layer of Mary Lou’s lip gloss. His Reebok Pumps were by the couch, looking like they’d witnessed something inappropriate but were too polite to speak up.

Mary Lou was in the kitchen, slapping Vegemite on toast like it had insulted her nan.

He rubbed his eyes. “Did we…?”

“Relax, Romeo. It was just a kiss. And maybe a bit of light spooning. Nothing your little cum jar can’t handle.”

“Good. I’m not ready to be a father.”

She handed him toast. “You ever think about the future?”

“You asked me that yesterday.”

“Yeah, well now it’s today. Things change. Wars start over smaller things than a half-chub and a frappa cappa flippa dippa thick-shake.”

Before Humpty could reply, there was a knock on the door. Not the polite kind—this was the knock of someone who didn’t believe in second warnings.

Mary Lou opened the door to reveal a guy wearing three tracksuits and an eyebrow piercing that looked infected.

It was Milo the Knife, assistant to Dapper Dippy and self-declared “Logistics Manager” for the Knife Gang.

“Oi Humpty,” Milo said, chewing gum like it owed him rent. “Time to pay your dues, ya poet-laureate motherfucker.”

“I’m not joining the gang,” Humpty said, voice already cracking like a teenage nut allergy.

Milo stepped inside without asking. “Don’t be a dicktickler, Humpty. The big rap battle is next Friday. Dapper’s put money on you. Four grand. That’s, like, real cash—not crypto, not Afterpay. Money. You bail, someone gets cut.”

Mary Lou raised an eyebrow. “You threatening him in front of a feminist?”

Milo blinked. “What?”

“Just checking. ‘Cause if you are, I’m gonna need you to get the fuck out before I grab the claw hammer under the sink.”

Milo chuckled. “I like you. You’re like a sexy tradie with unresolved dad issues.”

Mary Lou stepped forward. “I once broke a guy’s pinky for telling me I had ‘nice elbows.’ You want to try me?”

Milo backed up slightly. “Alright, alright. Message delivered. But Humpty—if you ain’t there Friday night, Dapper says he’s gonna feed your cum jar to Killer T.”

Milo disappeared out the door like a fart in a wind tunnel.

Humpty slumped onto the couch. “Shit. I don’t even have any bars written.”

“Then you better write,” said Mary Lou, sitting beside him. “You want to be a new man? You gotta show them. Words change people.”

“Even knife guys?”

“Especially knife guys. You think they joined a gang for the snacks? No. They joined because no one ever listened.”

Humpty nodded slowly. “You’d make a good cult leader.”

“Thanks. I practice my TED Talk in the mirror every night.”

That night, Humpty sat on his bed with a Bic pen, a stolen exercise book from Mary Lou’s brother’s schoolbag, and a leftover sausage roll.

He scrawled across the page:

They call me titty watcher,

But now I’m a thought-catcher,

Rippin’ truths from the void,

Like your mum’s old rattan recliner.

I’m not a gangster—I’m a dream-ankler,

Tripping hopes with syllables,

Spitting facts in front of lads who

Think feelings make you killable.

Knife in the sock,

But heart in the pen—

And I’m bleeding ink

Till I make boys men.

He paused.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was his.

He folded the page and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Not the one full of vagina clippings. The other one. The one for dreams.

Chapter 5: Rhyme or Die

Friday night came like a pub fight after last call—unwanted, loud, and carrying the scent of stale vape juice and poor decisions.

The venue was an abandoned squash court behind the laundromat. They called it The Box, mostly because there was only one working lightbulb and the acoustics made even a cough sound aggressive.

Humpty walked in with Mary Lou by his side. She wore combat boots and a “FREE BRITNEY” crop top. Humpty wore his summer jacket and Reebok Pumps, freshly wiped down with baby wipes and false confidence.

The place was packed. Knife Gang members stood around in Adidas tracksuits, half of them holding energy drinks like trophies of modern warfare. Dapper Dippy was there too—leaning against the wall, arms folded, wearing a velvet blazer and no shirt. His chain read “R.E.S.P.E.C.K.”

He spotted Humpty. “Oi, Titty Watcher. You came.”

“I got bars,” Humpty said.

“I hope they’re good. ‘Cause if they’re not, you’ll be leaving here in a colostomy bag.”

Mary Lou kissed Humpty on the cheek. “Do it for the women. Do it for the cum jar. Do it for the redemption arc.”

The host of the night was a guy known as Slim Citrus, so named because he only ate oranges and had a vitamin C deficiency that made his teeth wiggle when he talked.

“Alright, alright, alright!” Slim Citrus announced. “Tonight we got a special match-up. Humpty, the soft-serve philosopher versus C4, the gang’s top rhymer and a guy who once dissed his own dad so hard the man legally changed his surname.”

C4 stepped up. He was tatted, ripped, and wearing sunnies at night. His first bar hit like a meth truck:

“You look like a soy-boy who cries after cumming,

I spit like a Glock, you just hum like you’re humming.

Your rhymes are trash, your jacket’s whack,

And your whole vibe screams ‘repressed snack!’”

The crowd exploded like someone’d set fire to a bag of Doritos.

It was Humpty’s turn. He stepped forward. Heart in his throat. Pen in his soul.

He cleared his throat.

“Call me a titty watcher, I won’t deny—

But now I watch for depth in a woman’s eye.

You spit tough bars but you cry when you nut,

I evolve with each line while you’re stuck in a rut.

You’re all knives, chains, and hollow threats,

But I know gangsters who cry and still pay their debts.

Yeah, I kept a cum jar—judge me if you must,

But at least I don’t fake strength just to earn some crust.

I’m not a killer, I’m a builder of peace,

Spitting bars that give broken minds a release.

So bring your threats, your gang, your flair,

But I bring truth—and that shit’s rare.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

Mary Lou screamed, “That’s my man!”

One of the Knife Gang yelled, “He rhymed nut with rut! That’s poetry, bro!”

Even Dapper Dippy clapped, slow and sarcastic, but with a glimmer of respect in his gold-flecked eyes.

C4 just nodded. “Alright. Not bad, soft serve.”

Slim Citrus took the mic, teeth jiggling. “And the winner is… Humpty the Reformist!”

The crowd roared.

A small chant started in the back: “TITTY WATCHER! TITTY WATCHER! TITTY WATCHER!” But this time it wasn’t mocking—it was celebratory. They were reclaiming it. Titty-watcher as folk hero. As poet. As slightly gross but increasingly woke champion of rhyme.

Humpty smiled. For once, the name didn’t sting. He high-fived Mary Lou and gave C4 a respectful nod.

C4 nodded back. “You ever wanna spar again, you come find me.”

“Only if it’s emotional sparring,” Humpty said. “Or karaoke.”

They all laughed.

Even Dapper.

Even the pit bull, Killer T, wagged his tail once.

Chapter 6: Fame, Girth, and Emotional Turbulence

By Monday morning, Humpty was a legend.

Someone had uploaded his rap battle to YouTube. The title was:

“Titty Watcher DESTROYS Knife Gang Rhyme Lord with Feminist Bars (Must Watch!)”

Within 48 hours it had over 17,000 views. Half the comments were “based.” The other half were “cringe.” Which, as far as internet fame goes, was basically an Oscar.

At school, people who used to call him “Pimple Dick” were now nodding at him in the hallway like he was a war vet.

Even the principal shook his hand and said, “Your use of rhyme to challenge gang norms was bold, subversive, and deeply inappropriate for the school uniform code. Please remove the summer jacket.”

But Humpty couldn’t. It was part of him now. Like a skin graft made out of polyester and cum-stained history.

At lunch, Mary Lou sat with him under the gum tree near the canteen.

“You’re blowing up, Humpty,” she said, sipping on a juice box like she was ironically twelve. “Everyone’s talking about you. You’re like a cross between a feminist rapper and a cautionary tale.”

“Feels weird,” he said. “Like I still don’t know who I am. Like I’ve grown… but I still smell like Lynx Africa and low expectations.”

Mary Lou leaned in. “You ever think maybe you are changing? Like for real? Not just surface-level character development for the sake of plot pacing.”

“I mean… I threw out the cum jar.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I tipped it into the garden. Gave it back to the earth. The cycle of life.”

Mary Lou held up her juice box. “To growth.”

They clinked juice boxes like dysfunctional champagne flutes.

That afternoon, a guy named Trent “No Nips” Finlay from local community radio called him.

“Yo, this is Trenches of Thought on 99.7 FM,” Trent said. “We’d love to have you on air. Talk about masculinity, poetry, and the fluidity of teenage labels like ‘titty watcher.’ You in?”

Humpty agreed.

He showed up the next day wearing the jacket, a shirt that said “FEELINGS ARE HARD BUT SO AM I,” and a backpack full of scribbled lyrics and a backup banana.

Trent was 42, had bleached dreadlocks, and wore mismatched Crocs. “Let’s dive deep,” he said, like a pervert at a therapy pool.

The interview started tame. What inspired your bars? How did the Knife Gang take your win? Do you actually watch titties?

But then Trent leaned in. “You say you’ve changed. But is that sustainable? Or is this just a phase? Like emo fringe haircuts or pretending you like jazz?”

Humpty paused.

Mary Lou’s face popped into his mind. That time she asked if he wanted a handy under the table. The LCM bar. The frappa cappa flippa dippa thick-shake. The juice box toast to growth.

Then his cum jar flashed in his head. Followed by Dapper Dippy’s laugh. Then his black half-brother’s voice:

“Woo, little brova’s got feeeeelings!”

He took a breath.

“I used to think being a man meant keeping everything in. Now I think it means letting stuff out—emotions, not just jizz. I’m still messed up. But I’m trying. And maybe trying’s enough to start.”

Trent blinked.

“…Holy shit. That was beautiful. You wanna host your own segment on Thursday nights?”

“Only if we can call it Rhymes & Regret.”

“Deal.”

Humpty walked home that night with the sun behind him like a cheap cinematic metaphor. He felt… something. Not quite whole. Not quite healed. But a little more real.

As he got to his front gate, Mary Lou was waiting there.

“Thought you might need help writing your first show,” she said.

He smiled.

“Yeah,” he replied. “But also… maybe just hang out. Maybe not talk about cum jars for a bit.”

She linked her arm through his. “Deal. But only if we can kiss like we’re both emotionally confused and pretending it’s ironic.”

He laughed. “The only way I know how.”

Chapter 7: Bush Talk and Emotional Debts

School the next week was a blur. Kids asked for selfies. The PE teacher quoted Humpty’s rap during roll call. One Year 7 tried to sell a bootleg t-shirt that said “BUILD PEACE, NOT JIZZ.”

Humpty wanted to enjoy it, but the fame sat weird in his guts. Like when you eat half a lasagna and start feeling philosophical.

Mary Lou noticed.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said one afternoon, lying flat on her back under the monkey bars, chewing on a red snake like it owed her rent. “You’ve only made two dick jokes today. That’s low for you.”

Humpty was sitting beside her, fiddling with a dead grass stalk. “I feel like… I got what I wanted. Respect. Relevance. A purpose. But it doesn’t feel like mine.”

Mary Lou rolled onto her side. “That’s called imposter syndrome. Or Catholic guilt. Same symptoms.”

“I keep thinking about the Knife Gang,” he admitted. “Like, did I just embarrass them? Or worse—humiliate them in front of people they needed to impress?”

“Humpty, you didn’t stab anyone. You rhymed about emotions. They should’ve sent you a fruit basket.”

He smirked. “Yeah. Maybe with a card that says ‘To our favourite disappointment, stay woke – Knife Gang xx’”

Mary Lou leaned in, serious now. “You don’t owe them anything. You did what you had to. And maybe… maybe you owe yourself a bit of peace too.”

He nodded. Then they both turned as the bushes rustled. Again.

Jason Needlekirk emerged, eating a Chomp bar and wearing a tank top that said “Don’t Ask Me About My Podcast”.

“Hey Humpty. Mary Lou. Heard the new radio show. Not bad. Your metaphor about emotional constipation was… surprisingly visual.”

Humpty blinked. “Were you in the bushes the whole time?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But sometimes you hear the truth better when there’s leaves in your ears.”

Mary Lou rolled her eyes. “Jason, what do you want?”

“I came to say something important.” He stepped forward dramatically. “I think I’ve been a dick. Hiding in bushes, objectifying comic characters, making weird eye contact during awkward moments. That’s on me.”

Silence.

Then Mary Lou said, “It’s fine. You’re like a fart—annoying, ever-present, but sometimes oddly comforting.”

Humpty added, “You’re like emotional filler material. But in a good way.”

Jason beamed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” He handed them a crumpled note. “Also, there’s this.”

Mary Lou opened it.

It was a flyer.

“Rhyme or Die: The Knife Gang’s Final Battle”

Friday Night. No Rules. No Mercy. No Cops.

At the bottom:

“Special Invitation: HUMPTY”

Mary Lou’s face dropped. “Is this… what I think it is?”

Jason nodded solemnly. “They want a rematch. But not with words this time. I heard Dapper’s planning something bigger. Something that ends reputations. And possibly a few kneecaps.”

Humpty stood still, the breeze barely catching the edge of his summer jacket.

The world had been soft for a while. Juice boxes. Feelings. Poetry.

But maybe softness always invites sharp edges.

Maybe Friday would decide which version of Humpty lived on.

The rapper?

The reformer?

The jacked-up titty watcher reborn?

Chapter 8: Brothers, Barriers & Backyard Training

Thursday afternoon, Humpty sat in the backyard staring at the old trampoline frame his stepdad had converted into a makeshift punching bag holder. It swung in the wind, creaking like a sad jungle gym that had seen too many childhood betrayals.

His half-brother, Trayvon—nicknamed T-Bone, Dark Humpty, and occasionally Biceps Christ—stood nearby, skipping rope like he was training for a fight that might end in tears or glory.

“You’re not gonna win this one with rhymes,” T-Bone said. “You know that, right?”

Humpty nodded.

“They’re coming for your reputation now. Maybe your knees too. If Dapper’s there, he won’t just want to embarrass you. He’ll want to take away your voice. That’s how gang logic works.”

“I know.”

“You ready to lose everything to prove a point about feelings?”

Humpty shrugged. “I dunno. But I can’t go back. I can’t pretend I’m just another dumb dude cracking jokes and hoarding porn paper dolls.”

T-Bone stopped skipping.

“You think I don’t feel shit?” he said. “I feel everything, bro. I just lift weights over it.”

He walked over and handed Humpty a folded sheet of paper.

“What’s this?” Humpty asked.

“My verse. I wrote it last night. For your radio show. Never showed anyone. But you’re not just my little bro anymore. You’re the only one I know who’s got the balls to feel shit out loud.”

Humpty unfolded the page and read:

“I grew up mean ‘cause I had no map,

My heart’s a house with a welcome mat,

But no one knocks, they just break in,

So I trained my fists and thickened my skin.

I’m scared too, just better at hiding—

My demons dress up like mates who ride in.

You’re weird, Humpty, but you lead with your soul,

So keep rapping truth. I’ll cover patrol.”

Humpty looked up. “This is good.”

T-Bone smirked. “I know.”

Then they did something they hadn’t done in years: they hugged. Not a bro-hug. Not a back-patting half-shuffle. A real one. The kind that says I see you without saying a word.

That night, Humpty sat at his desk.

He opened the drawer. The cum jar was gone. Replaced by a fresh notebook and a pair of clean undies. Mary Lou had been here. Probably swapped them out when he wasn’t looking. A weird, gentle gesture. Her love language was small trespasses and occasional acts of sabotage.

He opened the notebook and wrote:

“Final battle tomorrow.

This isn’t about bars anymore.

It’s about proving that evolution doesn’t need to be loud. It can just be real.

And sometimes the bravest thing you can do…

is stay soft in a world that wants you hard.”

He closed the book.

Took one deep breath.

And said, “Let’s finish this.”

Chapter 9: The Showdown at The Cuts

The warehouse was called The Cuts.

It used to be a butcher’s cold store, now converted into an underground venue for rap battles, unsanctioned MMA fights, and once, a silent disco that ended in three concussions and a broken glow stick.

Friday night, Humpty stood outside with Mary Lou, T-Bone, and Jason Needlekirk, who’d insisted on coming “for emotional backup and possible legal testimony.”

Mary Lou lit a ciggie and handed it to Humpty. “For nerves.”

“I don’t smoke,” he said.

“It’s not lit,” she replied. “It’s just something to hold so your hands don’t tremble like a wank addict at a nunnery.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

Inside, the crowd was already throbbing. Neon lights buzzed overhead like wasps with a synth fetish. The Knife Gang was lined up on one side—Dapper Dippy in the centre, shirtless again, glistening like a Greek statue dipped in olive oil and crime.

Slim Citrus took the mic. His teeth looked even looser this time, possibly from a scuffle with a kombucha bottle.

“Ladies and degenerates,” he said. “Tonight we got the Reckoning of the Rhyme. Old wounds. New truths. And potentially some minor stabbing. Let’s goooo!”

Dapper Dippy stepped up first.

He didn’t rap.

He just stared at Humpty, then said, “You embarrassed us. Made us look like sad clowns in front of internet nobodies. That’s not how we work.”

Then he pointed at Humpty’s chest. “So tonight, we end this. You win, you walk. No threats, no beef, no follow-up drive-bys. But if I win…” He smirked. “You hand over your radio slot. And your rep.”

Humpty looked over at Mary Lou.

She shrugged. “No pressure, baby.”

Slim Citrus counted them in.

Dapper dropped bars like lead bricks:

“You soft little poet, wrapped in denial,

Acting deep ‘cause you got no style.

You think rhymes fix trauma? You clown.

But words don’t mean shit when the knives come down.

I built this gang from cuts and grit,

You built your fame on feminist tit.

So drop the act, and hand me your mic,

Before I gut your feelings with a rusty spike.”

The crowd roared. Some people barked. One guy in a Pikachu hoodie screamed “EMOTIONAL MURDER!”

Then Humpty stepped forward.

And said nothing.

He just breathed.

Then:

“You think my growth makes me weak?

That soft boys break when the real ones speak?

But I was raised in the noise—

Stepdads, porn mags, fake tough boys.

I used to think love was a trap,

Till Mary Lou said, ‘Sit down, unwrap.’

You built this gang from fear and steel,

I built mine on being fucking real.

I kept a cum jar, yeah, that’s the truth—

But at least I didn’t fake my youth.

I hurt. I heal. I cry. I nut.

But I walk forward with my soul uncut.

So swing your bars, swing your fists—

But I got friends and a radio list.

And even if I lose this crowd,

I’ll still be proud—

‘Cause I made softness loud.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

The Knife Gang stood frozen. Not defeated—just… shifted.

One of them, a dude named Kenny who always wore sunglasses inside, took off his shades. His eyes were wet.

Jason Needlekirk cried openly and offered tissues to strangers.

Even Dapper Dippy stood still.

Then he clapped.

Once.

Twice.

“Damn,” he said. “You’re not who I thought you were.”

Humpty exhaled. “Neither am I.”

Dapper stepped forward. Hand outstretched.

Humpty shook it.

The crowd erupted.

Slim Citrus tried to climb onto a milk crate but fell, knocking his tooth loose completely.

And just like that, the battle was over.

Chapter 10: Peace, Pump-Ups, and Public Broadcasting

Two weeks after the showdown at The Cuts, Humpty sat behind the mic at 99.7FM, the little community radio station sandwiched between a vape shop and a tax accountant who was definitely laundering money.

He adjusted his headphones and took a sip of warm ginger tea—not because he liked it, but because Mary Lou said it helped with “emotional throat blockage.”

Tonight’s episode of Rhymes & Regret was about vulnerability hangovers—the weird feeling you get after telling too much truth and wondering if you should’ve just kept your mouth shut and made a fart joke instead.

Humpty read a poem. It wasn’t about titties. Or rap. Or even trauma. It was about Mary Lou:

“She makes me better,

Not by fixing me—

But by sitting nearby

While I fix myself.”

He let the silence hang. Then he said, “This is your boy Humpty. Still learning. Still leaking feelings. Still confused by bras but trying not to objectify the women in them. Peace.”

He clicked the mic off.

Mary Lou was waiting outside in the car, parked crooked in the disabled bay. She had a meat pie in her lap and an unread text from her ex on her phone. She didn’t mention either.

“You sounded hot,” she said.

“Thanks. I read a poem about you.”

“Was it the one where you compare me to a German shepherd with anxiety?”

“No. But I still like that one.”

She handed him half the pie.

“I think I love you,” Humpty said, matter-of-fact.

Mary Lou looked out the window.

“Humpty,” she said softly, “I like that you didn’t say it because you were horny.”

“I mean, I am,” he said. “But that’s not the reason.”

She smiled. “Okay. I think I love you too. But not in a fireworks way. More like a slowly unfurling beanbag of emotional trust.”

“I like beanbags,” he said.

Back home, T-Bone was bench pressing two milk crates filled with bricks. Their stepdad was sitting on the porch with a beer and a blank look.

“Radio went well?” he asked without looking up.

“Yeah.”

“Still crying on air like a little bitch?”

“Sometimes.”

“Good.”

Then the stepdad grinned, just barely. A weird, sad grin. Like a man who’d missed the boat but was proud his kid had learned how to swim.

That night, Humpty lay in bed.

No cum jar.

No shame.

Just a crumpled lyric notebook, an unfinished LCM bar, and a weird sense of peace.

He didn’t know what would come next.

University? More radio? A public slap from someone who misread his poem?

But for the first time ever, he didn’t feel like a joke.

He felt like a person.

A weird, soft, jacked-up former titty watcher with a summer jacket and a purpose.

And that, he figured, was enough.

THE END