Keeper vs. Bieber

Suggested Audio Candy:


[1] Sugar Bear “Don’t Scandalize Mine”

[2] Elton John “Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting”

[3] LL Cool J “Mama Said Knock You Out”





noun – a long-standing rival; an arch-enemy


I like to think of myself as a peaceful soul. Little fazes me, few people irk my chain and there are fewer still whom I wish to pummel to a pulp. Violence leaves me cold and I would always look to settle any dispute with intellect over brawn. However, to any rule there must always be an exception. Justin Drew Bieber is that exception. That’s right Grueheads; you have found my kryptonite. This little snot gland is culpable of the most heinous crime imaginable; sneaking behind my eyelids. That shit is prohibited for Swedish milk maids and Rodney Dangerfield; no place for a twenty year old pube with a quiff. So why then to do I wake up each night in soiled bed linen, screaming from every orifice? Why is my subconscious violated in such a nefarious manner each time the sandman whisks me away? How the hell did I end up with this jank wafer sprawled across my mental desktop? And another thing; pull down those jockeys son, that can’t be good for your testicles. One day, after they drop some, you’ll thank me. It may seem like I’m acting out of turn here but really I just want to help you. Dagnabbit, I’ve even written you a song.


Little man running free
Being all that he can be
Striving hard to win our hearts
Been known to sing been known to dance

Tiny nut sack sprouting hair
Give it time boy don’t despair
All good things to those who wait
I know you have much on your plate

I’m sure Anne Frank would love your work
and teenage girls adore your twerk
but what about the rest of us
who just can’t fathom all this fuss


Compare yourself to Kurt Cobain
and I shall ask you to abstain
you’re just a Bieber after all
and have no right to make that call

I possess socks older than you son
Allow me to strangle you with one
Don’t try and stuff it down your pants
It may slide down your leg as you dance

I’ll make it swift I’ll make it painless
The tip of my shit kicker in your anus
A punch to your face is no real disgrace
and there just seems no more fitting a place


You see Justin, you should be feeling downright privileged as I don’t waste my vitriol on just anyone. It’s a particularly vile offender that feels my wrath and you just happen to fit the bill. So now, with God as my witness (and he has bought ringside seats for this shit), it is time for you to take your medicine. What I am proposing is a fair fight; no low blows and I shall attempt not to continue pounding your pale white ass after the bell chimes although no promises there. By the end, one of us will become acquainted with the canvas and the other will be crowned ‘the man’. I must warn you in advance, I’ve seen Rocky IV a handful of times and my shit is tighter than an amphibian’s anus in midwinter. However, I haven’t invested all this time into intensive training because I’m under any illusion that you pose an actual threat; rather that I wish to have the fight sewn up within the first round and plan on kneeding your pulp for my own sick amusement long after the crowds have dispersed. Is it anything personal? Alright, you’ve got me there. But you made it that way the moment you took your fleeting success for granted. Sorry kid but the truth is that I’ve been looking forward to this all week.


Five minutes left until our grand showdown and already I can discern the Beliebers making their presence felt. They had better get it out of their system sharp as I have reserved tickets for the Grueheads and they share my disdain. If you really want to point the finger then look no further than Gayle Frank; she hooked this up and has been my personal trainer…my Mickey. I know how much this means to her; we shook hands on it whilst synchronizing our bucket lists. If I release my foot from the gas pedal then I will incur her rage so it is in my best interests to make this convincing. Fret not Justin; I have woven an intricate wicker basket to catch your milk teeth. I’ll give them a brush after the fight and have them back in your skull before you can lick your gums. Tooth decay is no joke boy; you think Jim Carrey got where he is without a dash of fluoride? As for any permanent damage that ensues; well I’m afraid them’s the brakes kid. Maybe next time you’re pissing in your grandmother’s flower pot for shits and giggles and there’s blood in your urine, you’ll think of the repercussions of your actions. Speaking of which; I think the time has come for you to take the blue corner.


“Ladies and gentlemen, Beliebers and Grueheads. It’s time for tonight’s main event. There have been skirmishes, bloody battles, and grudge matches but never before have the stakes been so high. Tonight you are in for a treat; a rumble in the jungle that will be remembered for decades to come. That’s right, your children’s children will be showing their children this shit long after our final bell has chimed. This promises to be the ultimate match-up. In the blue corner, weighing in at around 50lb wringing wet and wearing what appears to be a pair of Calvin Klein jockeys with a ripe banana stuffed down the front is Justin ‘The Beaver’ Bieber”


The auditorium is filled with a mixture of cheers and jeers. It’s no less than I had expected; I’m fully aware of the fanbase and that taste cannot be always accounted for. The beliebers seem to be under the misguided illusion that their hero is about to emerge victorious but that’s not what Keeper has planned whatsoever. A couple of years ago he may have gotten away with being placed over my knee and given the warm palm of exactitude but not now. As he is no longer a minor, it would no longer be wrong to pound him repeatedly until he resembles modelling clay. Consider this his initiation into manhood, he’ll thank Keeper when he’s older.


“And in the red corner, weighing in at around 180lbs and wearing a pair of grey boxer shorts purchased from Anne Frank’s gift shop in Auschwitz, is The Keeper of The Crimson Quill”


That’s more like it; rapturous applause all around me as I make my ringside walk and milk the crowd’s adulation further. However, the very moment I slide between the ropes, my game face goes on. There will be no taunting or belittling beforehand; until the bell chimes he will be afforded the very same respect that any other challenger would. He appears to be deep in his pre-match pep talk and hasn’t yet exchanged even a customary glance. That suits me; by the end of this fight he will know exactly who Keeper is and will spend the rest of his sorry existence desperately trying to forget.


Finally he turns around to face me and I offer a warm smile to help put him at ease. Of course, Justin sees this as my first sign of weakness and begins bounding about the canvas like he owns the place. I’m happy just lulling him into a false sense of security ; that way when I spread his septum across his face he’ll look that much more shattered. It’s not only about the win on this occasion; what’s more important is to break the lad’s spirit first. I plan to engage in a little banter once we have touched gloves and give him every opportunity to explain his actions but there’s not a word he could utter which will turn the tide in his favor.

“Ladies and gentlemen Round One”



It is customary to circle one another in the center of the ring while you both find your reach so I take this opportunity to introduce myself formally.

“Hello Justin”


Bad move. A kind greeting could have bought him further chance to talk but his insipid attempt to come across as street instead earns him a right hook straight to the left temple.


“Dear boy that is no way to make a formal introduction. I would suggest that you adopt a different stance for the remainder of this one-sided mauling”

“Oh I’m so sorry. How the devil are you?”

Sarcasm earns Justin a second hook, this time to the opposing temple, just to even things up some.

“I’m peachy thanks Justin. You see, you’re no longer a minor which means I am within my rights to do this”


Another jab, this time splitting his bottom lip.

“I don’t get it. What did I ever do to you anyway? I’m just using my talent to inspire people. Give the Beliebers somebody to bank upon, to aspire to becoming”

“Therein lies my concern Justin”

My quick left-right combination makes contact beautifully.

“You see, one of you may be just about sufferable but the world isn’t ready for a million Justins. You’ve seen Gremlins right?”

“Oh is that the new Kayne lick?”

No Justin. It isn’t. It’s a Joe Dante film from 1985 starring Zach Galligan and Phoebe Cates about a harmless little Gizmo with a quiff…do you know what? Fuck it, you don’t deserve to know”


My first haymaker has Beiber rocked backed on his heels and his legs begin to bow as though ready to capitulate at any given moment. It seems too early to consign him to the trash heap and, besides, there is so much more I wish to learn. That’s where ropes come in handy; I weave his spindly arms and legs in red and blue gossamer to ensure we can continue our exchange.

“When I get out of this I’m going to have my boys shank you up”

“Oh how delightful Justin, you have your very own elves. I’m not sure what shanking is but I’m sure it’ll be a lot of fun”

“Not for you it won’t bitch”

“You see this is what I’m talking about Justin. Right now you are in a most precarious position and about to be soundly ass-whooped in full view of all your precious Beliebers. If you asked for a swift and merciful finish then I would supply such as I don’t wish you to take the walk of shame in front of your most rabid followers. Instead you insist on acting the hard man, despite the fact that you clearly couldn’t box your way out of an embryo sac”

“I’m just an artist like any other, only better looking, a better dancer, more hot, have better hair, last longer in the sack, and have the voice of an angel. Whaddup with that?”

“Whaddup? I’ll tell you whaddup. You’re none of those things Justin. Sorry to burst your pimple but you just ain’t special. Tell you what, keep doing what you’re doing, cut your tracks, tour the world if I care but just do it a little more gracefully will you? I’d say that should do it”

“Fuck you honky”

“Justin you’re white too!!!”


I am beginning to see that this is getting me nowhere fast. Poor Bieber is too far gone for retrieval; destined to leave his little asshole status behind as he becomes a full-grown asshole, marries an asshole wife, has a bunch of asshole children, maybe even an asshole dog, grows old into a senior citizen asshole and then, as he prepares to be shat out, suddenly contemplates all the mistakes he has made in his life and feels an absolute asshole. Me pounding him to a bloody pulp isn’t likely to prove anything other than I’m an interminable bully. Do I really want his blood on my hands?

“Hey! Shithead. Wotcha got to say huh?”

Thank you Justin for answering my previous question. This time I aim three blows to his kidney and his grip on the ropes relinquishes, sending Bieber straight to the canvas where he lays hunched in agony.


“Get up Justin. There’s still much learning afoot”

3, 4

“Would you like a hand? Is that it? Feeling a tad winded there Justin?”



He’s on his feet. Credit where it’s due, he’s shown a little mettle. For that, I stand back and allow him to recompose momentarily.

“You’re a pussy Keeper”

That should be quite long enough. A flurry of blows to the chin and he’s straight back in the danger zone.

“That didn’t hurt”

Flurry number two, working this time on his badly-swollen left eye. With a little good fortune it will close up completely or, better yet, implode in its cavity. Okay so he would have to change his goals from becoming the next MJ to the next Stevie Wonder but with that angelic choir boy voice I’m sure he could carve out a niche.

“I’m still standing motherfucker”


I have to admit I’m rather impressed with his continued resolve. Many wouldn’t have risen from the canvas the first time but, for as much as I want to pulverize him, I almost want to pat him on his back. Damn my good heart; casting my eye over a good thousand of his faithful cretins, all truly horrified by witnessing their messiah succumb, I just can’t bring myself to deliver that knockout blow although I’m convinced he will assist me in changing my mind.

“I grew up in the hood you know”

“That’s just great Justin. I too had a duffle coat. Now tell me why I shouldn’t pulverize you”

“Because my music can stop world wars”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I have a vision of tens of thousands of embittered Zulus all preparing to attack and avenge their forefathers. Just as they are reaching the barricade and about to wreck havoc, Baby Baby pumps out through loud speaker. The Zulus, all soundly discombobulated, shake hands, apologize for any inconvenience caused and return to the hills, all better people than when they arrived. Can you see that Justin?”

“I don’t know what you’re even talking about. What are Zulus?”


“I rest my case”

This time I put my full force behind my blow and it knocks several of his teeth from their gums. He is punch drunk and lunging wildly at the air, desperate to land even one solid blow to show he’s in the fight too. Little is he aware that I had a childhood playing Frogger and, if I can guide an edgy toad across a busy intersection without calamity, then dodging his toothless attacks is practically effortless.


Saved by the bell. I let him have one round, just to save a little face in front of his Beliebers. However, I have no intention of letting this one go to scorecard. As much as I am itching to finish this now, he has shown enough spirit to ensure another three minutes under the spotlight. To make things more interesting, for Round 2 I don’t plan on laying a single punch. I want to see the best he has, allow his belief to grow a little before knocking it straight back out of him.

“Round Two”


“Your turn Bieber. Show me wotcha got”

“Excuse me”

“Give it to me Justin. I won’t retaliate or even raise a glove in defense. You got three minutes of free punches, make them count buddy boy. If you can do that I’ll even buy you a Happy Meal”

“Alright Keeper. here it comes”

His bony knuckles clench into a fist and he throws something my way. It’s a jab, straight to the end of my hooter and followed with a swift one-two to both cheeks. My first consideration is that I have had my face caressed by a vole as none of them land with any sort of conviction.

“Is that all that you’ve got boy?”

“Nah. Just a warning”

“Of what?

“That you shouldn’t take me lightly. When you look at me, what do you see?”



“I don’t get it. Anyway, people love to cast judgements and not a single one of them actually know me. Did you know I do work for charity?”

“I heard that yes. That’s very commendable PR. I’m sure at some point you’ll visit a third world country also just to give them something to beliebe in”

“So what makes me such a bad person in your books?”


“In life Justin, some things just are. Eddie Murphy and Steve Martin will never be as funny as they were twenty years ago, sharks will never be able to swim backwards, and you will always be a turd. It’s far better to just accept the inevitable, folk will respect you more that way”

“So tell me Keeper. If I’m such a waste of oxygen, why have I had so many platinum records?”

“I can only imagine your grandmother won the lotto”


“No. It’s because I make killer R&B”

“Now hold on lad. Firstly, there is no such term as killer R&B. Secondly, the shit you produce makes me vomit through my nostrils and occasionally eye sockets”

“It’ll grow on you after a few listens”

“I can assure you it won’t. If anything, the more I listen to it, the more I just want to ventilate your face”

“People didn’t understand Kurt Cobain either”

“There it is. I’ve been waiting for that comparison. You see yourself as a modern day Cobain I hear”

“There are similarities yes”

“What fucking similarities? That you have a penis? Gilbert Gottfried has one of those too but I don’t see you comparing yourself to him”


“Gilbert who?”

“Exactly. You’re totally oblivious. When any of your records sells the same quantities as Nevermind, maybe you can stake such a ridiculous claim but until then I would say you’re more of a modern day Macaulay Culkin. Name one solitary song by Nirvana”

“How You Remind Me”


“That’s fucking Nickleback. You see what I’m saying here? You really should do your homework before making such an audacious claim”

“I know he shot himself right?”

“Yes, apparently to make way for you. The rock God of the new millennium”

“Do you think he would have been a belieber?”

“No I’m fairly assured he would have been jacked up on scag before he joined your exclusive club. Speaking of which, how’s Anne Frank?”

“I was misquoted”

“Were you also misquoted when you pissed in your grandmother’s flower pot and posted it on YouTube?”


“We all make mistakes”

“Indeed we do, often rather glaring ones. But none quite as consistently as you Justin”

“Then why not just beat me up. I’m just a kid compared to you, fuck my shit up if I anger you that much”

“No can do I’m afraid. Not until Round Three anyway. I pledged myself to give you this round”

“Well I’m going to make you sorry you did”

Here he comes again with a right hook which only serves to fracture his wrist.


Wasted. I gave him his chance and he frittered it; now to put this little jizz streak to bed once and for all.

“Round Three”


“I apologize in advance Justin. You see, as insightful as it may have been chewing the fat with you, I have grown somewhat weary. I’ve offered you ample opportunities to redeem yourself but you squandered every last one of them. Now I must destroy you like Drago”

“I know that one. That’s the dude who did the duet with Rihanna ain’t it?”


“Not even. It’s the dude who is going to tear you limb from bloody limb and take a loose shit in your rib cage”

I commence once more but this time landing punches doesn’t seem punishment enough. Instead, I reach for his left arm, swiftly pluck it from its joint and discard it. Before he can deliver his falsetto scream, I turn my attention to his right arm and repeat the process, leaving him with two gory stumps. If nothing else, maybe he can enter into a career as a Foosball player. However, my work is still far from over. Much in the same way as one must remove a zombie’s head before it will stop advancing, one must remove Justin Bieber’s vocal chords before he will cease grating on your nerves. I grab his tongue and commence to tug harshly, until which time as it dislodges in my palm. Still, the punishment doesn’t seem severe enough so I use his callously sheared licker to tie his boots together, sending him headlong into the canvas and shattering those last few stubborn molars in the process.



“Sandra Bullock made Gravity son. It got her off the hook for now. What have you done of note? Nothing, except bring on a migraine and provide grating soundtrack for a thousand teenage pregnancies. It just had to be you”

I reach down and grab another handful of skin to manipulate. This time I have his testicles in my palm and they appear to resemble a couple of diminutive flesh pebbles that have just washed ashore.

“Well nobody is going to miss these”

“No. Not the balls”


“Can’t have you running about with a loaded weapon can we?”

With an almighty yank I remove his license to pro-create and can’t resist hoisting them high for all his Beliebers to witness. Beneath my foot, Justin continues to writhe, desperately attempting to slither back into his corner. But I’m not done with him just yet. There’s a full minute left in the round and I want to supply the baying Grueheads with exactly what they showed up in numbers for. I take a look at his lanky legs and decide they too must go. Alternatively I could leave them be and watch him attempt to break into dance without any arms to steady himself but that just wouldn’t be punishment enough for his crimes. I snap them both off at the knee and throw them into his adoring crowd, where one disillusioned young belle commences to fashion it into a lanyard while the other is pulled apart by famished fans.

Time for a pensive moment. He has no discernible limbs and has had his tongue removed, yet still I feel aggravated by his presence. Maybe he’s like Sampson and all of his strength is woven into his hair. A quick scalping shall alleviate my concern so I facilitate such using merely my nails.


“Not so pretty now are you? Where was Anne Frank when you needed her eh?”

No tongue so his garbled response means even less to me than it would normally. I guess that this would be the point where I put Justin out of his misery. Continued suffering just seems a little cruel, even when decimating one’s nemesis.

“Justin. The time is nigh son. I feel as though I have gotten a few things off my chest and now I shall let you be”

With that, I kick him twice in his ribs as a parting shot and return to my corner before the bell chimes.



“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. By way of total annihilation in the third, I give you your new champion…The Keeper of The Crimson Quill”


I milk a little adulation as I know that’s what Rocky would have done. The Beliebers turned out to be a fickle following as even they are chanting my name now. Do I feel a little mean? Maybe just a smidgen. But he had it coming and at least I left him alive which is more than would have been the case had the Insane Clown Posse been in town.


He can still make something of himself, maybe a bright future lays ahead as a paperweight. However, I am under absolutely no illusion that one less Bieber on the circuit opens it up for a handful of wannabees. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for those little dick-squirts as they sprout. For the time being at least the billboard top 100 should be an altogether more welcoming place. Smells like teen spirit to Keeper.


Click here to read To Kill a Queen






  1. Laughing from start to finish. You ARE the Rocky of our Grue’dom. My ultimate ‘Rock em Sock em’ hero.
    As Rocky’s Mickey says, “you’re gonna eat light’nin, and you’re gonna crap thunder.” You did that!
    Thank you, Keeper! Your talent for running with a concept and making magic will never, ever cease to amaze and enthrall me.
    You are our word-wrangling, Heavy Weight Champion of the world.
    So honoured and I cannot express my gratitude to you for doing this for me.
    Much love
    Gayle xxoo

    1. My Mickey, you prepared me well for this bout. You told me I was a bum when I needed to hear it and lifted me up where I belonged. Now I have the belt and I owe this success to you. Thank you Gayle for being my Mickey.
      Much love

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