Hypnagogia

There it goes. Yapping once, twice, three times. Some kind of hellhound serenading tonight's full moon whilst I lay in my bed wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling and waiting for sleep to drag me into an oblivion of dreams. I consider shutting the window to give myself some peace but know that I am in a stage of sleeplessness between consciousness and the land of nod. I'm in some kind of limbo. I'm paralysed. My senses are too sharp to sleep but I'm too tired to move. I'm trapped. I wait, and listen to the barks, to the growls, to the cries of desperate pain. I have no idea what the noise is, but it is continuously flooding through my window and it is relentless. It's starting to feel like torture.

Beneath my bed something felt unnatural; it creaked, shuddered violently and burst into life. I clung to the sheets, I clung to the mattress, and I clung on to anything that was in arms' reach. I was shitting my pants. The bed was moving uncontrollably and I had no idea why. The legs thumped hard against the cold, wooden floorboards as the thing started to lift into the air. I had no idea what was happening and I was trying not to lose my nerve completely. I exhaled deeply in a vain attempt to extinguish my panic. I couldn’t get a grip – on neither my emotions nor the bed beneath me.  If only I didn't bite my nails I would have something to dig into the mattress. I was scared. I was having reruns of horrible Hollywood horror movies running through my mind and none of them were any good and none of them were supplying any answers. The bed was moving by itself. Nothing else in my room was moving, it was just the bed. I was sober too, so I couldn't blame it on the drink and stretch a leg out, lay it on the floor and stop the world from spinning around me. It was alive and it was moving. I felt it, I heard it. I could even sense its pulse. This couldn't be real. I had to wake up. I had to challenge this nightmare. It erupted. My bed erupted upwards, towards the ceiling and bolted like a frightened colt, fleeing a venom filled cobra, and darted towards the window. My bed, which on so many nights had been my sanctuary was now inexplicably out of control.  The covers would be my only protection. I'd duck beneath them and find safety. I'd revert to a child and pretend to be mining some precious material before the mine would collapse, turning me into a martyr and leave a beautiful girl behind to mourn my loss. If I believed that, then I really was stuck in the world of dreams. I lifted my head above the covers and saw the window explode into fragments of diamonds as the bed hovered in the sky above the street. The moon was bright and full and gloating. The clouds cowered out of sight. The night was beautiful and my sheets were grubby. I inhaled hard on the clear night air and tried to fall back to sleep.

And then it tilted downwards. Like a cold, heartless killer - calm in the act and dangerously patient - the nose of the machine I floated on aimed directly at the ground and, shooting to kill, the thing plummeted. Surely I was done. It was the final chapter. Here'd be the story that might take up an inch or two of the local newspaper if anybody cared or even if it had just been a quiet week. Down, down it went. I expected to snap out of it. To jerk, twist and panic and find myself in between the sheets with my heart tapping on the inside of my chest as though it was begging to be let out and finally set free. It had decided that it could take no more suffering. There'd be sweat, too.  It would be gathered on my forehead and my temples. It would be gathered on my palms and the soles of my feet. Maybe even beneath my arms, too. My eyes would part and absorb the familiarity of my walls, but it never came. Down, down I went instead. Wind in my hair, stomach in my mouth, testicles six feet above me, still in the air from where I was falling. The ground grew and swelled. The pavement was spinning towards my face. I should open my eyes. Where was the jolted jump and return to safety? Down, down, down I continued.

Then it happened. The lights came on. I was safe. I peeled my eyes open prepared for the row of small spotlights of my bedroom ceiling staring back at me, but was fully aware I shut them all off before I crawled into my resting place. It must be morning, with the light coming in through the window. My curtains are thick and always closed tight. Nothing gets through them. I stared ahead and saw nothing but light. My peripheral vision was hazy - grey turning to black. The harder I stared the brighter and more focussed the light became. Soon there'd be nothing but light as it approached me. I had tunnel-vision. Now was the time to wake up. Pinch me, punch me, even fuck me, but this couldn't be it, not like this. A light at the end of the tunnel? Bullshit. I wanted a desperate, eternal emptiness. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to wake up.

$10 Funeral

My brother is in jail for public indecency and statutory rape, my sister is now dead and I am drunk. I'm staring at my suit, spread out lifelessly on my bed and I am trying my hardest to think straight. It's the only suit I own and it's stained, it's torn and it doesn't fit. At least it's black; it does have that going for it. I cannot afford to go out and buy a new one but there is a chance I might be able to get enough money together for it to be dry-cleaned. The rips I can deal with myself, somehow. Maybe I should go visit my Grandparents. It's been a while and now seems like as good a time as any. After all, there is the impending funeral and my Grandmother is a deft hand at sewing.

I knock four times before I get a response. They're expecting me but they can't hear me. I know because from the front porch I can hear the vacuum cleaner. The piece of shit. It sounds worse than a screaming child in a supermarket, but my Grandmother swears by it. She's a loyal creature and she hates change. She hates a lot of things. She's a hard creature to impress and if you do, she'll stand by you forever. Regardless. Stepping into the living-room, I look at the piece of shit, asleep on the floor. It's held together by a tangled, knotted tape-measure. I've got to give it to her, my Grandmother is creative; she can find a use for anything in her sewing basket and she adamantly refuses to give up on that piece of shit vacuum cleaner. Such a stubborn creature, if she wasn't such a hard-nosed bitch at times, she would be quite beautiful. She's old, I should be more respectful towards her, but she does make it hard. I thought highly of her handiwork, that'll have to do. She sits me down in a dusty old rocking chair and insists on getting me some coffee. Black, no sugar.

The coffee is vile. It tastes like hot water with a hint of coffee. So I secretly add a nip when they're not looking. It's not hard to pick my moment. My Grandmother is constantly pottering about in the kitchen and my Grandfather refuses to take his eyes off the television set. He barely acknowledged my entrance. Not that I really care; since my mother died we have had very little to say to each other. For some reason I think he blames me for her demise. He doesn't want me in his house. My Grandmother doesn't mind me being here and what she says, goes. Tough shit, Grandpa. In truth, my Grandmother only tolerates me because she respects how long I did stick around for my mother; I think she sympathises because she knew about a lot that went on in that house. Also, I'm family; she won't turn her back on family, irrespective of the intensity of hatred she harbours. Most importantly, I’m paying for the funeral. (Please don’t ask me how). I take another sip from my cup. With my beautiful addition, it now tastes like hot, watered-down bourbon with a hint of coffee. Even with the whiskey it didn't taste any good, but it was definitely an improvement. I could happily have another.

I look over at my Grandfather, who is deeply absorbed into a shamanic, trance-like fixation upon the flickering lights and rumbling sounds of the television screen. He’s skinny and fragile. He looks weak. I’m not sure his legs will be strong enough to carry him upstairs and I’m fairly confident that he wouldn’t want them to take him that far away from his precious television set. I wonder if he actually sleeps downstairs, in the armchair with the T.V. on. I hate to think where he pisses. He scowls at the screen and changes the channel. It’s a rerun of some kind of old detective show. He turns the volume up.

My Grandmother shuffled back into the room. She had a plate of stale biscuits set out neatly on her best crockery and her finest smile spread across her face. I felt terrible.
"It's lovely to see you, it's been too long. Can I get you a biscuit?"
She put on such a brave face. She was stoic. I was stoic. It was as though my sister's death and her funeral meant nothing to either of us. There was nothing left between us, so we pushed that behind us and got onto the reason for my visit.
"Gram, can I ask you a favour?"
"Of course"
She was too sweet.
"My onl...The sui...You see..."
I didn't know where or how to begin. I felt lousy. This woman hated my guts, but would clearly do anything for me and I had turned up out of nowhere just to ask her a favour and then disappear again. I had to ignore the guilt. Families are fucked up beasts; there's just too much politics involved. I was here so that I could look good for my sister and I had to remember that.
"It's to do with the funeral. It's not a big thing; it's just the suit I was hoping to wear for it. I have a bit of a hole in it and I wanted to get it fixed and it turns out I don't have anything at home that I can use to fix it. I was wondering if you ha..."
"Oh, sure honey, just bring it round and I'll see what I can do. I'll fix it up a treat. Make you look perfect for our..."
She choked back a tear. I needed to get out of there, it was proving too much for me and the supply of bad coffee had run dry. I didn't feel bold enough to drink straight from my concealed hit flask and so I decided it was best to get out of there before I disappointed my family further. I couldn't handle giving them another reason for hating me by openly drinking in front of them at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday.
"Thanks, Gram! I'll give you a call and bring it round soon. Thanks. I really appreciate this."
With that I made my excuses, thanked her for the coffee and made my departure. I doubt my Grandfather even noticed I had left.

*             *             *

I wish I could say it was a freak accident, but it wasn't; she had it coming. She decided to fuck a horse and it split her open. Well that's a lie. But she did get kicked in the chest by an over-excited horse and it destroyed her. Goodbye Kathy Slim. It was nice to know you. A real delight. Who would've guessed the clean-cut, tea-total veterinarian-in-training would kick the bucket before her unemployed, degenerate, alcoholic, older brother? Life is a fucked up beast and just like politics, it's never fair. Good things just aren't meant to happen to anyone in our family and the worst things happen to those who are good people, trying to do the right thing. Maybe the bottom of the bottle is the safest place for me to be. Maybe I should kill a hooker tonight then maybe I'd live forever. Shit, I haven't eaten anything in days. I guess that's the only upside of this tragedy, I'm too sad to care that my fridge is empty. One last can of beer and half a bottle of gin will have to do me for tonight. That orange juice is probably out of date, but it'll work as a mixer. One thing's for sure, I can't feel any worse tomorrow than I do now.

*             *             *

The silence in the room was burning my eyes and tearing at my gut. In my spot on the pew, I could feel my hands beginning to tremble. I thought my entire body was going to collapse in on itself in a series of violent convulsions. I kept my head bowed and found solace in my feet. I withdrew into my own little world where only my toes and I existed and I was safe. Best of all, I was finally starting to feel numb. Maybe there was hope for me yet.

The heat was getting too much. The room was dimly lit and only a few beams of sunlight seemed to pass through, showing the dust dance in the air. I could feel the beads of sweat starting to gather at my temples by my hair line. Every now and then one would slip down my spine and even a few rolled across my cheeks. But, for all my sadness and immeasurable misery, my eyes remained dry. I lifted my chin to get a view that wasn't of my toes in my shoes and stared to the front, at the minister. Behind him lay Kathy. The centre of attention. Nothing but love for her today. She lay there peacefully. We were all burning in this heat and she couldn't feel a thing. I envied her for that.

Lifting my eyes up out of my stupor and scanning the glum faces I searched longingly for that of my brother's. I couldn't seem to see him anywhere. I had made all the necessary arrangements with the prison and he was expected. Where are you Joe? Where are you? Kathy was the best thing to happen to us; c'mon Joe, you should be here by now.

Our Grandmother showed. I was unsurprised to see her dressed elegantly in black, standing alone at the back. She didn't acknowledge me, and left as soon as she could. I knew my Grandfather was still seated in front of his television set. I imagine he would be watching the horses. He always did. He was the man responsible for introducing my father to it. That's how they bonded. That's how he got my Grandfather's consent when asking for my mother's hand in marriage and I guess it's where Kathy got her - eventually fatal - love for equestrianism from.

The rain was starting to fall outside. It reminded me of a line of a book I once borrowed off of Kathy. "Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on". My sister lent me a lot of books when we were younger and a lot of them now blur into one. I'm pretty sure it was the Great Gatsby. Or it could've been The Grapes of Wrath but I can't say for certain. I doubt it matters. I'm not entirely convinced I understand the relevance of remembering that quote at this exact moment, or if it is any consolation. I'd tell myself I should start to read more, like I used to. Maybe go through Kathy's collection and pick out my favourites to read over and over again, and donate the rest to charity. It's a nice thought, but I know it'll never happen. I remember reading one that used to belong to an old drunk. There were crazy scribblings in the margin. "We agree" or "We disagree, how disappointing" made regular appearances. I finally gave up when I saw the word 'SATAN' etched in large, bright red capital letters. I erased it as best I could and, with it, the legacy of another drunk was gone forever. Thinking about those old, dog-eared second-hand books did make me realise one thing for certain. I was going to miss that little sister of mine. I will never have another. Not that I'd want to. She was irreplaceable.

*             *             *

I still remember the day I moved out. She cried her eyes out. She begged me to stay. She was still too young to understand the reasons for me leaving and I felt bad that I couldn't sit down and tell her. I couldn't tell anyone. She had it all right. She wasn't treated the same way I was and my mother didn't need me around, so I could get out. I'd taken to the drink to dull my memories and didn't want them to be around that. Above all, I really didn't want to be around my step-father. If I stayed under the same roof as him any longer I would've killed the bastard. I couldn't put my mother through that. I couldn't put Kathy through it either. It would have destroyed them. So I just slipped out the front door and into the world. Sixteen and struggling at school. I had £58 in my pocket and no place to go. Kathy gave me an extra 12 that she had been saving and I was on my way. I placed a kiss on her forehead, hugged her tight and left. I promised myself I'd send her something in the post. Six months passed before I sent my first letter. It was two years before I saw her face again. Our mother's funeral.

Then there was the evening she decided she wanted to be a veterinarian. Our step-father decided that it would be a good idea to lay down some poison to rid the mice that had made a home in our house, and on one of the nights he was out drinking, or gambling or screwing whatever piece of cheap trash that peaked his sexual interest, Kathy found the little one that slept beneath her bed that she had befriended, crawling across the kitchen floor and desperately struggling for air. The poison had taken its toll and the tiny creature no longer stood a chance. It was suffering. I was left with no choice and with a heavy heart I took the scurrying fiend out into the garden and ended it with a shovel. I buried it beneath the apple tree as Kathy read him his rites and we went inside. I held her for an hour as she sobbed violently into my shoulder, swearing to never allow another bad thing happen to any living being ever again. That little girl was ten and remained true to her word until her last day. What a fucking angel.

*             *             *

Stepping out of the little church hall and into the fresh air, I couldn't help but be hit by the smell of the damp left by the rain that was cutting through the heat of the day. It left the air cool and it was more than welcome. I was in a place of overbearing humidity. Physically comfortable and, now, emotionally melancholy, I walked out into the light and back to my hole.

I was nearly there and nearly home. There it stood, the dilapidated building that housed the apartment which was the corner of this world in which I habituated and fended for survival within. Looking sadder than I currently felt, the building was two-storeys high and L-shaped. Walking into the courtyard that rested in the heart of the triangle that the building formed, my flat sat on the upper floor of the wing on the right. The grass out front was patchy and the hedges were long dead and resembled skeletons - made of twigs - guarding a depressed palace. The brickwork was once a bright red but now dirtied from pollution and cracked, whilst the paint around the window-frames was white and chipped and peeling away. My front door was last in the line and although it had no door number attached, you could still see the outline of the ‘12’ embedded into the blue paintwork from where it used to hang before it was unjustly stolen. It had hardly been a crime worth reporting, but one of many in the area. The door had its own private set of black iron stairs leading up to it. Or maybe they were steel. Who knew? It was the only thing the flat had going for it. It was nice to have a balcony, but so did everyone else. So that was no big deal. That private staircase was the clincher when I moved in all those years ago.

There was a time when I would casually hurdle these steps two at a time. Not today. I couldn't face them. I could barely lift my feet high enough to take the first one, but I needed to get home and so I dragged my heels behind me as high as I could to get me to my bed. The metal clunked and echoed as my boot heels hit the floor of each step. It was a familiar sound. It was the sound that I was nearly home. It was a noise that had often terrorised my bladder. It was a sound that had too frequently triggered an uncontrollable desire to urinate before I would have any chance of making it inside. It would come out of nowhere. I'd rush to the door and fumble in my pockets and desperately try to find my keys, only to pull them out to see a bundle in front of me that is too large for words - so many keys left that I no longer use - but I'd try to separate them anyway and panic further as I'd get the ones I needed but by this point I'd be shaking as I'd aim them at the door knowing I'm not there yet but so close and struggling to hold on, and I'd scratch the precious key across the lock in desperation without being quite able to get them inside. I never failed to make it. I guess lady luck was always on my side. Fortunately she was back and this evening my bladder had enough respect not to play such games and allowed me to enter my home with ease.

Closing my apartment door behind me, I noticed the red light of my answering machine flashing a solitary "1". That was uncommon. Nobody ever rang me. It was rare enough that I often wondered why I even had the contraption attached to my telephone. Then I remembered. It was a gift from an old girlfriend who became tired and pissed at me never answering the phone. She had a point. Not that I ever returned the messages. It was no wonder why we didn't stay together long. I should throw that thing out. Bad memories. The phone could go with it. I hated them both and just wanted to be left alone. I'd listen to the message first.

"Hello, Mr Slim? It's Duncan Barnaby here. We spoke the other day about your brother, Joe, being given a day release to attend a funeral." I couldn't help but wonder why he was being so informal. It seemed strange, but I let the message play on. "Well, Mr. Slim, I'm reluctant to tell you that Joe will be unable to attend the funeral. There was an incident. We recommend you contacting us immediately. I expect to hear from you soon." The line went dead before being followed by the usual dull tone of the answering machine that always came at the end of messages.

I didn't need to contact them to know what happened. I knew Joe all too well. It'd all got too much for him. There was no doubt he had done himself in, it was just a matter of how. At least I was now prepared for a funeral. I had everything I needed. I could say goodbye and mourn his end properly. I cracked open a bottle and slumped into my chair. I noticed a large candle was burning. God knows how long it had been going for and God knows how it hadn't somehow managed to burn the house down. I blew it out and watched the trail of smoke rise and dance before my eyes and allowed the scent to fill my nose. I closed my eyes and wished that I knew how to cry. There was only supposed to be one funeral; it's been a bad, bad day.

White Line Fever

I had accumulated gambling debts that I had no way of repaying and when the debt-collector came to break my legs, I broke his neck. At least I think I broke it - I can't be too sure. I had knocked him down and I had knocked him out. I don't know how I managed it, but it was a desperate moment and I had no choice. I was a rat with its back to the wall, snarling its teeth in a fight to the end with a rabid fox and I came out alive. I didn't know if he survived the blows or not, but I wasn't planning on sticking around to find out if he had died. I got scared and I fled. I packed up my things and I took to the road.

Dylan had taught me that if you want to hide a tree, you should hide it in a forest where nobody would find it. Maybe I should hide in a casino. All the local croupiers knew my face and knew my name and ultimately would know I was on the lam from my creditors, so that wouldn't work. I'd spent my entire life running from one thing or another, so maybe the road was the place for me to be. I'd make sure I'd never be found.

I can't tell you how much time has passed or even where I've ended up. I might have even lost my mind. I've been on the road for so long now that they've all blurred into one. Like the way the lines in the middle of the road blur into one as you're driving. White line fever was driving me insane. It was punishing me for my sins. There was very little money left in my pocket and I had just blown the last of it on coffee, which was burnt and luke-warm. If I had a little more I could've bought myself a sandwich or a slice of cake or something, anything solid, and then maybe I'd feel satisfied right now. Oh well. Such is life on the road, life on the run. I need to get from A to B. A is no home for me now and I still have no idea where B is, but that's exactly where I'm heading and I'm going to get there someday.

Well, now I was outside and hungry, licking the film of stale coffee off my teeth and staring hopefully to the horizon at the end of the road with the casual breeze in the air pushing my hair around like an adolescent bully. My thumb was erect but directionless. If I got a lift I didn't care where it took me, it just needed to get me out of here. Wherever here actually was. I was now definitely in the middle of nowhere but at least it wasn't the middle of the night and dark. It was getting there though. It was that eerie period between sun-down and moonrise. There were no planets overhead and no stars keeping an eye on whatever shit we got up to down here. The roadside cafe's light was on. Purple, triangular and neon with a coffee cup in the middle. It was a horrid sight but it provided a good leaning post. Soon my lift would come. My stomach growled.

Leaning against my post with the thumb out, waiting, waiting, my mind started to drift into the depths and shallows and through the ripples and waves of my ever flowing stream of imagination as it meandered to the abyss of the ocean. If I were a cowboy I wouldn't need to be here; I could climb on top of a horse and just ride into the Sun. If only. All the horses were gone and couldn't be ridden. There are now too many dogs to feed and broken vases to be glued. I could hitch a ride in a car, with a family inside and they'd welcome me in to join them on their trip to the nearest aquarium they could find, or they could spray my face with the dust and debris that their car wheels spat out as they passed by. Another embryo would take its place on the horizon and eventually grow up to become a vehicle. A truck. A truck would do, with its mysterious bounty of treasure for its cargo as the family car disappears forever with the cowboy and the horses. I wave the truck down and I'm allowed on board.

The driver was large and breathing heavily. He wore a dirty, green trucker's cap and a droopy moustache, which provided shelter for the heavily chewed toothpick hanging from his mouth. The cab smelled of stale sweat and the leather seats were cracked, with patches of duct-tape holding in their stuffing and keeping them alive. He had a strangely sinister looking Jesus statue hanging from his rear-view mirror by its ankle.

As I settled in my seat in the cab, I heard the door lock behind me. The trucker looked into my face with his lonely, longing eyes and whispered "Yo' mighty purty."

"Shit."

He reached for my thigh and squeezed tight and I knew from now on I'd be running on adrenaline and instinct. I thrust my forearm upwards into the flat of his chin and pulled my leg free of his grip. Seeing him reach for the handle of the gun beneath his chair, I pulled the knife concealed in my boot and thrust it thrice into his side. Steel on bone, steel on bone, steel in flesh. Bingo. It slid right between the ribs. The blade pierced meat, flesh and organs. He screamed like a sinful dog fleeing Hell with its tail set on fire by Satan's breath. I raised my free hand high and brought it down as hard as I could on his temple to silence the wails. I pounded his skull repeatedly and his head flopped back and forth on the hinge of his neck like a fish on shore fighting for life whilst the fisherman takes his proud photographs. Near his ribcage, the blood stain had formed and was growing rapidly, turning his chequered shirt a dirty mauve. It didn't take long at all before his eyes glazed over and he was gone. This time I was certain.

Not again. I had to think. I couldn't leave him here in the truck and get out, back in front of the roadside cafe and hitch another ride. Someone would notice. I'd get clocked. I was already on the run and couldn't hang around. I'd have to move him somehow and drive the truck out of here myself. If only I knew how. There had to be a way. Run or drive. I could do neither.

The Farming of Wasps

Wasps; nature's way of making us look like dickheads.
Though it could be worse
than the wasp.
Condom - used - pulled from dog's mouth
found out back
in your yard.
Or taking a shovel to mouse
on death's door
a baby, not yet grown
crawling languidly across the kitchen floor.
     He cried
in pain
                She cried
watching.
                              He died.

Returning the shovel to shed
I couldn't fight it
though I felt it
I had done the right thing
    but I still felt a dickhead.
      Such things that I do
        I'll always own up to.
As for the used condom...

...

No comment.

Ol' Cousin Ike

The Houston sun was high and hot. The air was thick and humid. With no electricity to power the air-conditioning it was hard to breathe, let alone move. Having exhausted our back-catalogue of card games and tricks, and with only 4 strings left on the only acoustic guitar available to us, there was now very little to do to pass the time other than to sit on the back porch, sipping warm, unrefrigerated beer and listen to whatever station the battery-powered radio was capable of picking up.

We found the news and the message was the same and repeated frequently. "There is no looting in Texas". As the hours wore by, I could feel the sweat form beneath my hair and my bladder grow large and hard; I faded in and out of sleep as my ears grew numb to the message. "Stores are robbed every day, sometimes at gunpoint. These are called robberies. If it happens after a hurricane, during a city-wide power cut, it is still a robbery and not looting". They stressed, "There is no looting in Texas!"

I'm still not sure how well the message sank in, or if everybody believed it. On the other side of the road, in four-foot tall letters, spray painted on the shutters of the, temporarily closed, tattoo parlour were the words: "YOU LOOT, WE SHOOT!". I guess that's why nobody went looting in Texas.

When Nature Calls, Hang Up.

It was just another one of those nights. One of the good ones. Coming out of a club, drunk, with a pretty girl on my arm. I'd like to pretend they happened more often, but in truth they don't, but that is besides the point. Covered in a thin film of sweat from drinking too much and trying to dance in a massively overpopulated space, the warm, late-summer air was doing very little to cool me down. I wanted to get home as quickly as possible, preferably with the pretty-girl-in-tow.

I wanted to move on, she wanted to stay. Or at least wait. She had a friend still inside and wanted to make sure she was okay and had a way of getting home that wouldn't see her molested or regaining consciousness in a gutter by the side of the road at 6 o'clock in the morning when the milkman made his route past her. She was a good friend. But it left me in a dilemma as I really needed to get moving. Nature called.

As much as I love booze, at times it is not my friend. Taking more effect on my body than on my mind, I could feel it pressing down on my bladder and making an overly desperate attempt to escape. An unwanted bid for freedom by my body's unwanted fluid. Now was not a good time. I had to let it loose and I didn't want to lose the girl. There was no way I was going to sit with this feeling on a bus back to wherever we were going to end up and I sure as hell didn't want to be waiting - hopping from one foot to the other - for her friend to finally come out of the club. Life would be so much easier if I was just allowed back in to the club to drain. The bouncers were having none of it. They had worked far too hard to get anyone and everyone out in the first place that they weren't going to jump at the idea of undoing that by letting anyone back inside. I had to be the dirtbag. I had to find a private place in public.

My first question was "where to go?" The club spilled out into a trash-filled, dirty, little side-street and usually that would be enough. It would be a haven for the deed I would need to bestow upon the world. It wouldn't be a problem, either; it rained enough around here to wash the streets clean of any binge-drinkers' bile and filth. Being a side street wasn't enough though. There were the masses. The runts and the fuckwits. Drunk with no place to go. Just hanging here, there and everyfuckingwhere they could lay their feet to save themselves from having to go home. Some too drunk to leave. Some too desperate. Well, I needed to wade through this bunch of pricks, scenesters and wannabes and find myself a place to let rip. Every little alley and sub-road that led off this back-street was full. Kids chatting. Kids copulating. Kids dragging on weed and kids vomiting. There was no place left for me. No place except one road. One little diversion from the party. One little route to privacy. I'd nip down there. Nip down my flies. Let all hell break loose and then find the pretty girl again, in time for her friend to arise. Simple.

Little did I realise that where I was pointing was in fact the entrance to the car park of a nearby police station. It was dark, how was I supposed to know that's what it was? Where were the signs? In my ignorance, I didn't react to the car pulling slowly down the backstreet. I merely turned my back a little to try to save myself a little dignity. It wasn't until I took a startled double-take that I realised the nature of the mechanical beast bearing down upon my call of nature. The lights on top were a dead giveaway and triggered my deadly panic in the dead of this night. I tried to stop myself midstream but knew that was no good. I could at least hobble away and try to drain the last of it as I escaped. There'd be the masses back around the corner. I could disappear amongst them. The beer was cold tonight and plentiful. It had taken its toll completely on my bladder and at this moment it was relentless. I couldn't stop. It wouldn't stop. I felt the firm hand on my shoulder that would spin me around. I tried desperately to hold it in. It wouldn't stop. It would never stop. It splashed - it poured - freely on to the shoes of the, at first unimpressed but now irate, police officer's shoes. At this point I realised it would take a lot of charm and sweet-talk to get me out of this one. It was time to bid the pretty girl goodnight.

Heads or Tails

The little French restaurant was small and dimly lit, with candles flickering passionately on every table. A man and a woman sat alone at one of only two tables that were occupied on this quiet, bitterly cold winter's night. Despite the romantic setting, they were clearly not a couple. There were no signs that they were deeply in love. She was in her mid thirties, had a slender figure and remarkably cold, hard eyes that were framed by wavy blonde hair and exceptionally pretty facial features. Sitting cross-legged and constantly teasing her wedding ring with her thumb, she looked nervous and agitated. He, however, looked calm and serene. Sitting directly opposite her and leaning casually back on his chair, he looked almost bored. He referred to himself as the Doc, but didn't look like any kind of conventional doctor. He was tall, wide and oafish. Dressed in a finely tailored suit, his stubble-covered cheeks made him look unkempt and scruffy. They spoke in hushed tones.

"Heads or tails?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Heads or tails? Call it. I need to know where to shoot the fucker!"
"I don't care where you shoot him; I just want the cheating bastard dead."
"Don't worry, lady, he'll die. I just want a little fun first. So please, do me the favour and kindly call it. Heads, I shoot this pretty boy in the face. See how charming he is then. Tails and I shoot him in the heart. That'll teach him for loving too much. Or not loving right. Whatever it is."
"Look, sorry to spoil your fun 'n' all, but I'm not paying you to play games; I'm paying you to kill my husband. I don't care how you get it done, just make sure you do it right."
"Okay, okay, fine lady. I'll make the call myself. One last thing though; do you want me to cut his balls off?"
"What?"
"Y'know, cut off his manhood. Give you his prick as a sorta trophy to celebrate your riddance of the two-timing lover boy."
"No! No games, no trophies. What am I meant to do with his little cock now? I don't want this to be traced back to me in any way."
"So leave his prick in one piece?"
"Hmmmm, if you think it’s necessary, just don’t return it to me after."
"So I cut it off?"
"Yeah, cut it off. Start with that. Make the cunt suffer. Just make sure he dies at the end of it. Now, here, take your money. You'll get the rest when I'm a rich widow, as we agreed."
"If you know what's good for you, I will."
"Don't threaten me."
"Whatever lady, are we through? I've got bills to pay and kids to feed. Marriages to save."
"Yeah, go. Just make sure he dies."
"Always do, lady. Oh, one last thing; got a coin I can borra?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, enough with the coins!"

Reaching into her handbag she pulled out a piece of shrapnel and tossed it onto the table, landing head-side up.

"I'm tired of looking at your face and hearing about you prattle on about fucking coins! Just do what I'm paying you to do and..."

She broke off, realising that she was speaking far too loudly in a public place for this kind of subject matter.

"Cool it lady, cool it. The coin doesn't matter now. I can see ol' Queenie's face and that'll do for me. We're golden. The coin's been good to me. I'll be on my way. Like I said, bills to pay and kids to feed. Marriages to save, and yours is first."