The motherfuckin' escape of that Brazilian boa constrictor got Harry into some deep shit, the longest fucking punishment he'd ever had to endure. By the time they let the poor bastard out of his cupboard, summer break was in full swing and that dumbass Dudley had already wrecked his new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane like a blind pilot, and on his virgin ride on that racing bike, plowed down poor old Mrs. Figg while she hobbled across Privet Drive with her goddamn crutches.

Harry was thrilled that school was dunzo, but he still couldn't dodge Dudley's dumbass crew, who crashed the pad daily like clockwork. Those fuckwits, Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon, were thick as bricks and plain fucking stupid, but Dudley held the crown as king of the dipshits. They were all too happy to join him in his favorite pastime: Huntin' Harry like he was goddamn prey.

That's why Harry snuck out of the house every chance he got, wandering around like a lost puppy, daydreaming about September and freedom. Once secondary school kicked off, he'd finally break free from Dudley's sweaty grip. Everybody's fate was sealed: Dudley and Piers were going to Smeltings, Uncle Vernon's snobby-ass private school, while Harry, the public school pleb, was set for Stonewall High.

"They love givin' newbies a swirly at Stonewall," Dudley jeered, grinning like a damn hyena. "Wanna go upstairs and practice gettin' your head soaked in shit?"

"Nah mate," Harry shot back, "I wouldn't wanna make the toilet sick by shoving your disgusting mug down it." Then he bolted before Dudley's slow ass could process the burn.

Come July, Aunt Petunia whisked Dudley off to London to snag his Smeltings gear, ditching Harry with old lady Figg. Surprisingly, Mrs. Figg wasn't as insufferable this time 'round—seemed like bustin' her leg tripping over fluffball had soured her love for the furballs just a smidge. She even let Harry gawk at the tube and forced some dusty, ancient chocolate cake down his gullet.

Later that night, Dudley strutted around the living room like a peacock, decked out in that horrendously ugly Smeltings uniform: maroon tailcoats, obnoxiously bright-orange knickerbockers, and flat-ass straw boater hats. Those little shits also carried around these gnarly-lookin' sticks perfect for wailing on each other when the teachers' backs were turned. Supposedly, this was to prep 'em for the big, bad world.

Eyeing Dudley in those laughable knickerbockers, even grumpy ol' Uncle Vernon admitted it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia bawled like a goddamn baby, claiming she could hardly recognize her own "ickle Dudleykins" lookin' so dashing and grown-up. Harry didn't even dare open his gob. He was pretty sure he'd already cracked a couple of ribs from choking down snorts of laughter.

The fuckin' kitchen reeked somethin' fierce the next morning when Harry shuffled his ass in for breakfast. This godawful stench seemed to waft from a big-ass metal tub in the sink. He got a glimpse at the tub, filled with what appeared to be filthy rags doing the backstroke in gray slop.

"What in Satan's butthole is this?" Harry asked Aunt Petunia, nauseated. Her lips clenched up tighter than a constipated asshole, as they always did if he dared ask a question.

"Your fuckin' new school uniform," she said, deadpan.

Harry eyed the tub again, dubious.

"Christ," he muttered, "didn't know I was signin' up for Dumpster Diving 101."

"Don't be a smartass," Aunt Petunia snarked back. "I'm dyein' some of Dudley's mothballed shit gray for ya. It'll look like everyone else's once I've whittled away my last shred of dignity."

Harry had his doubts, but kept his trap shut. He plopped down at the table, prayin' to whatever higher power that on his first day at Stonewall High, his janky uniform wouldn't put off the scent of a homeless man's taint.

Dudley stomped in, Uncle Vernon in tow, both wrinkling their noses at the stink Guantanamo Bay-style torture goin' on in the kitchen. Uncle Vernon draped himself in the comforting embrace of his newspaper, while Dudley wielded his Smelting stick like it was his dick.

The mail slot clicked, lettin' in the day's junk mail. "Play fetch, Dudley," ordered Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

"Make Harry do it," Dudley whined like a bitch in heat.

"Fiiine. Harry! The mail beckons!"

"Kindly tell Dudley to stick it up his ass," Harry retorted, dodging a swing from Dudley's Smelting stick before prancing off to fetch the mail. Three items awaited: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sis, a brown envelope that reeked of a bill, and lo and behold...a fuckin' letter for our boy Harry.

Before him lay the unforeseen miracle: an honest-to-God letter addressed to Mr. H. Potter himself. Without another thought, he unfolded his first piece of correspondence, only to have it snatched from his grasp by that greasy paws of Uncle Vernon.

He stormed back to the kitchen, pissed as a wet cat, while Uncle Vernon read the letter, posessed by the blinding rage of a thousand traffic jams. Aunt Petunia took a gander, choking like she'd deepthroated an eggplant. The adults were shook.

"I wanna read it!" Dudley moaned like a needy lover.

"The fuck you will," roared Harry, "It's mine, ya leech."

But Uncle Vernon banished 'em both from the kitchen, clutching that sweet epistle like his life depended on it.

"Give me my goddamn letter!" Harry bellowed as war commenced.

"Fuckin' gimme that!" Dudley demanded like an insufferable little bitch.

"Outta here, you twats!" Uncle Vernon roared, grabbing both Harry and Dudley like a meaty-handed banshee, hurling them into the corridor and slamming the kitchen door shut. An angry-as-fuck silent battle for keyhole eavesdropping privileges ensued; Dudley triumphed, so Harry, glasses askew and hanging by one ear, pancaked himself on the floor like a thirsty ho, straining to hear any hint of Aunt Petunia's quivering nonsense.

"Vernon," she whispered like a guilty slut, "check the fuckin' address—how in Satan's taint did they clock where he wanks? You think they've got their eyes on us?"

"Could be watchin' us like some skeevy peeping Toms," Uncle Vernon rumbled, clearly losing his fuckin' marbles.

"But what the fuck do we do, Vernon? Should we scribble a nasty reply, tell 'em we ain't up for this shit?"

Uncle Vernon's ratty-ass shoes scuffled in the kitchen like a neurotic tap dancer. "No," he finally declared, "we'll pretend like it never happened. Ghost their asses. Yeah, that's the move... we'll carry on like nothin's wrong..."

"But," Aunt Petunia protested from her weak-ass position amongst the quivering milktoasts in the household.

"I ain't lettin' that diseased street cat in, Petunia! When we took him in, didn't we swear an oath in blood not to let him send our lives straight to Hell?"

That evening, Uncle Vernon did some creepy-ass shit he'd never done before; he squeezed his bulging carcass into Harry's cupboard like a horny prowler.

"Where the fuck's my letter?" Harry spat. "Who's got the balls to write to me?"

"No one. They fucked up the address," Uncle Vernon snarled. "I fuckin' torched it."

"Liar," retorted Harry, pissed as a wasp, "it fuckin' had my musty cupboard on it."

"SILENCE!" bellowed Uncle Vernon, almost blowing off the roof. Harry could only hope his uncle's fat lips would save him from a visit by a demon-clown bitch.

"Er...yeah, Harry...about that cupboard. Your aunt and I think you're getting too big for it...we reckon it's time you moved your ass to Dudley's spare bedroom."

"Why?" Harry questioned his clueless captor.

"Don't you fuckin' question me!" snarled Uncle Vernon. "Get your ratty belongings up there, now!"

The Dursleys' four-bedroom abode boasted: one hole for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one guest room fit for annoying relatives, one grease pit for piggy Dudley, and the cursed land where Dudley stashed his toy graveyard. It took Harry one trip to haul his meager life savings from a rat's nest to a dumpster-mansion. Surrounded by the kingdom of Dudley's defiled shit, Harry stretched out on the bedspread. Everything in here looked like it'd been ruthlessly pounded into submission by a horny malfunctioning robot.

Below, Dudley wailed like a suckling banshee. "I don't want that dickhead in there... I need that room... kick him out!"

Harry breathed a sigh, kicking back onto the bed, reflecting on the cruel twist of fate. Just yesterday, he'd have blown a stranger for a chance to lounge in this dust-ridden palace; today, he'd rather be trapped in his hellish cupboard with a golden ticket to salvation than marooned upstairs without it.

The next day at breakfast, a storm of silence reigned. Dudley's tantrums had left him with a face like a slapped ass, while Harry mulled over the previous day's postal roulette. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia shot each other paranoid, worried glances like they were plannin' each other's murders.

As Uncle Vernon brewed some half-assed goodwill toward Harry, he forced Dudley to fetch the mail from the hall. It was only a matter of time before Dudley's cacophony of destruction returned in the form of deafening shouts: "There's another fuckin' one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Shit-Stain, 4 Privet Drive—'"

Like a skittish chihuahua on crack, Uncle Vernon charged down the hallway, with Harry hot on his heels. Wrestling Dudley to the ground for that sweet, sweet letter turned into a WWE super-slam extravaganza, all while Harry choked the life out of Uncle Vernon like a territorial mongoose riding a sweaty python.

Finally, after getting their asses handed to 'em and dishing out some gnarly pain in return, Uncle Vernon resurfaced, gasping like a beached fish, clutching Harry's precious letter in his clammy mitts.

"To your fuckin' cupboard — I mean, your bedroom!" he wheezed like a dying dickhead. "Dudley — just fuck off!" Using all the authority such a weak, milquetoast bitch could muster.

Harry paced around his fuckin' new room like a horny dog in heat. Someone knew he crawled out of his godforsaken cupboard, and they seemed to know the cocksucker hadn't received his first goddamn letter. Surely, that meant they'd try again, right? And this time, he'd make damn sure they didn't fuck it up. He had a plan, and it was slicker than greased cat shit.

The Frankensteined alarm clock blared at six o'clock the next balls-achingly early morning. Harry shut that fucker up and bumbled into his clothes, quieter than a gagged bondage masochist. He had to avoid waking the soul-sucking Dursleys. Creeping downstairs in the blacker-than-an-evil-goat's-anus dark, he decided to ambush the postman around the corner of Privet Drive like a stealthy little stalker, snatching those precious letters for Number Four before they even knew what hit 'em. His heart bashed around his chest like an aggressive dominatrix working overtime as he tiptoed through the pitch-black hallway to the front door—

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" Harry yelped, leaping into the air like a panicky fawn as he felt something large and undeniably squashy beneath his foot — something alive and very much not cricket.

Lights flicked on upstairs, exposing the taint of suburban evil: the squashy thing was none other than his Uncle Vernon's face, glowering up at him with the fury of a demon scorned.

That dickwad uncle of his had been lying in wait, a camouflaged landmine, sprawled like a semi-deflated parade balloon at the foot of the front door—clearly cosplaying a doormat in some desperate bid to ensure Harry couldn't commit the heretic act of mail theft. The rotund tyrant screamed bloody murder at Harry for an eternity, then ordered him to make some goddamn tea.

By the time Harry's miserable ass shuffled back, the mail had staged a full-on assault, landing in the ample lap of one Uncle Vernon. Harry clocked three of those bad boys, penned in sexy green ink.

"I want—" he croaked, but the human bulldozer, Uncle Vernon, tore those sacred documents to shreds, dancing like the mad destroyer of worlds before Harry's very eyes.

Uncle Vernon took a sick day, barricading himself like a terrified hermit at home, and proceeded to nail the bejeezus out of the mail slot.

"See," he rationally explained to Aunt Petunia, drooling nails like some chainsaw-wielding maniac, "if those fuckers can't deliver their bullshit letters, they'll buckle under and give up like the pussies they are."

Aunt Petunia responded skeptically, suggesting, "I'm not sure that fuckery will work, Vernon."

Leaning in, Vernon snarled with the bristling intensity of a coked-out raccoon, "These people's minds have reached peak batshit, Petunia! They're not like you and me." And like a father bear setting up his cub's crib, he dedicated himself to the only two things that really mattered: family home security and singing "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" in a wildly off-key soprano.

On fuckin' Saturday, shit really hit the fan. Twenty-four goddamn letters for Harry snuck their way into the house, all sexy and rolled up, stashed inside the two dozen eggs that their confused-as-fuck milkman handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window like a hush-hush drug deal. While Uncle Vernon dialed up a storm, jerking off the phone, talking trash to the post office and dairy, Aunt Petunia went all Tonya Harding on the letters in her food processor.

"Who's got such a hard-on for you that they're blowin' up our spot?" Dudley asked Harry, jaw on the floor.

On Sunday morning, that fat sack of dicks, Uncle Vernon, sat his ass down at the breakfast table lookin' like Death herself, but grinnin' like a maniac.

"No post on Sundays," he reminded those poor bastards cheerfully, slathering marmalade on his paper. "Now we can avoid those fuckin' letters a bit longer—"

Suddenly, some demon spawn whizzed down the kitchen chimney, smackin' the son of a bitch in the back of the head. Like holy fucking rainfall, thirty or forty letters shot from the hearth like rounds of demonic birdshot. Harry rocketed up like a human trampoline, snatchin' for a letter, while the Dursleys crawled for cover like pathetic worms.


Uncle Vernon latched onto Harry like a sweaty kraken, chuckin' him into the hall. Once Aunt Petunia and Dudley scurried out like rats, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut, barricading them from the letter-pocalypse still raging inside the room.

"That's the last straw," said Uncle Vernon, tryin' to keep his shit together but yanking out his mustache like a psycho waterfall. "Pack your bags. We're pissin' off. No arguments!"

He looked like a grizzly bear ridin' the crimson wave, so no one fucked with him. They busted through the fortifications and piled into the car, racin' toward God-knows-where. Dudley bawled in the back, naggin' like an insufferable itch, because Daddy dearest slapped him for tryin' to shove his video games and shit into his bag instead of the bare essentials.

The shitshow on wheels didn't stop all day. They skipped every exit, no one dared to mention food or take a piss break. Desperation reeked every time Uncle Vernon mashed the accelerator in a last-ditch attempt to escape whatever manic bullshit he had in his crosshairs.

Their journey took a nosedive at some shady-ass motel in the darkest shadows of suburbia. Harry and Dudley's sweaty, sleep-deprived asses were bunked together while the Dursleys raved on in their adult orgy room next door.

Exhausted and starving, the motley crew choked down some moldy-ass cornflakes and cold-as-fuck canned tomatoes for breakfast. Picking through the rancid leftovers, the hotel hag shuffled up, wavin' a letter in Harry's face.

"Is one o' you blokes Mr. H. Potter? 'Cause they dropped a fuckload of these bad boys at the front desk," she said, flyin' the letter with perverse pride.

Harry dove for it, but Uncle Vernon swatted his reachin' paw away. Greedy bastard.

"I'll take 'em," Uncle Vernon snarled, getting up and followin' the dark omen out of the room.

"Wouldn't it be better just to go the fuck home, dear?" Aunt Petunia suggested

timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to get the goddamn hint. Nobody knew what the shit this crazy bastard was searchin' for. He drove them into the middle of a fucking forest, got out, scoped the scene, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went

again like a pack of nuts. The same clusterfuck happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across

a suspension bridge, and on top of a goddamn parking garage.

"Daddy's gone fuckin' nuts, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia, her face pale as a cumshot. Uncle Vernon had parked the shitwagon at the coast, locked them all inside the

car so they couldn't escape, and fuckin' vanished like a ghost.

Rain started to pour down like someone trippin' on bath salts. Dudley, that whiny bitch, sniveled. "It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a fuckin' television."

Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday — and

you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of

goddamn TV — then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday. His birthdays were never exactly a blowjob at a party — last year, the Dursleys had given him a

coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old, crusty socks. Still, you weren't eleven

every day.

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling like a fuckin' pervert at a peep show. He was also carrying a long,

thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he'd bought.

"Found a perfect shithole!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!"

It was colder than a corpse's cunt outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointin' at a miserable shithole, looking like a constipated pelican on a rock. There was clearly no TV in there.

"Better get your asses movin'," he said, motioning to an old rowboat. It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks

and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After enduring this cold fuckery, they

reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon led the way to the

broken-down house.

The place was a fuckin' horror show; it smelled like a some serious seaweed orgies, the wind

whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp as fuck

and empty. There were only two shitty rooms.

Uncle Vernon pulled out his pathetic rations: a bag of chips each and four

sad, limp bananas. He tried to start a fire, but the empty chip bags just smoked and

shriveled up like they were addicts.

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" Uncle Vernon said cheerfully, the sick bastard.

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a

chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately agreed,

though the thought didn't cheer him up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the

high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy

windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy-ass blankets in the second room and

made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa, like white trash royalty. She and Uncle Vernon went

off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of floor

he could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket, freezing his balls off.

The storm raged harder and harder as the night went on. Harry

couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned like a jackhammer in bed. Dudley's snores were drowned by the low rolls

of thunder that started near midnight. Dudley's watch, which

dangled over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven

in ten minutes' time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if

the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the

roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did. Four minutes

to go. The sea was slapping hard on the rock, and (three minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Two minutes - was the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds...twenty…ten…

nine — maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him — three…two…one…


The whole fucking shack shivered and Harry bolted upright, staring at the door.

Someone was outside, knocking on the door like they were summoning Satan.