It suddenly dawned on him that he was bored.  It was alllllllll the same.  He’d seen it alllllll before. It just could not get better than this.  Nothing would ever really surprise him anymore. It was over.  Without turning his head, he barked at the dog to shut up.

He had an okay job, one that didn’t earn enough so that he could actually feel grateful for his quality of life but, nodding to himself bitterly, it would do.  He had a loving partner.  He was too lazy to make any changes now, anyway, and risk starting all over again on his own.  Who’d pick him up now?  They said life began at 30.  He was 33 and more interested in leaving this life, as opposed to enjoying it.

Why didn’t anyone warn him about this?  Why did his parents fill him with aspirations?

He put his feet up on the polished coffee table.  He could feel the plastic legs pressing into the carpet with the weight of his own.  He sighed, and resigned himself to the fact that the only thing he’d be enjoying from now would be food, TV, games and alcohol.  Enjoying in the most meagre sense.

He decided firmly it was time to relent and have kids.

He also realised it was time to slap his parents.  And then himself, for he knew that to tell his children the truth about life would rob them of happiness completely.  He couldn’t break the chain.  He would keep them in a bubble as long as he could, let them live a lie, living in hope, chasing dreams of an impossible job, with an impossible wife and incredible holidays.  He supposed he had to thank his parents.

So that was it.  Time to join the fold.  Become a regular.   Still… there must be something else… something else that life could offer, something he could do before he became another meandering shell that lived only to support his kids dreams. Something out of the ordinary… something more than a bit different, something extreme, that he’d be able to look back on, smile and think – yes, I actually did it.

Wait!

Ah!

There it was.

The idea shone in the middle of his mind like a bright shiny thing in the dark.

He decided.

He would definitely kill all the jews.

Adolf rested the tip of his brush against the top of his lip, the hairs almost meshing with his moustache.  He’d make something of this life yet.  Standing up, it briefly occured to him that all this could be a sign of a mid life crisis, but he dismissed the crazy notion and continued to pack away his materials.

-No, I’m not doing it!

-I know what you’re thinking, you think I’m going to hate you-

-No!

-I tell you what, just get close enough for a kiss, you don’t have to kiss her.

-She’s your wife, you do it!

-That’s the whole point, she’s my wife, I can’t tell her… these things.  If you had a wife, I’d do it for you.

-No thanks, I’d do it myself!  She’s your wife… you share everything, you can tell her anything!

-You don’t know much about marriage, do you.

-Not the kind of marriage you seem to be in!  Just tell her the truth!

-Oh right, so you want me to go right up to her and say: “Darling, your breath smells of mouldy dates.”

-Yes!  She’s your wife, she needs to hear it from you, not a friend.

-You don’t know much about marriage, do you.

-Whatever!

-Alright… well how about if you have sex with her.

-What?  No!

-I need someone to tell her to trim her pubic hairs.  They’re a bit, you know,

-I don’t want to know!

-a bit like a shrubbery.  I’d prefer if it was… pruned.

-For the last time – I’m her friend, you’re her husband.  You tell her.

-I see.

-Good.

-You don’t want to tell her that her breath smells like barbequed racoon.  Fine.  How about if you put a mask on and robbed her?  Then you could tell her and she wouldn’t know it was you.

-I’m not listening to you anymore!  Lalalala…

-Alright!  Alright!

-Enough.  Yes?

-Ok.

-Good.

-You could sneak in at night, when we’re asleep, and whisper it to her.  You can stroke her hair, I don’t mind.

Crisps, twiglets, cocktail sausages, coke, fanta, beer, J.D., vodka, orange juice… hmmm what else?  Shit.

Martin quickly ran his finger across the top of his lip to catch the leakage from his nose.  He needed to blow into a tissue, but just couldn’t be arsed.

What else?  Girls were coming, single girls, so there would be a good ratio.  He wouldn’t get any complaints about sausage fests, or whatever excuses people came up with these days to ditch a party.

For those who weren’t bothered with girls, there was the ps3, and not to be sexist, there was Rock Band.  He made sure to hide all the fighting and football games (at least until all the girls had left).

He had the mac ready with a fat catalogue of the latest tunes.  Of what he imagined everyone would like.  He had left youtube open as a backup.  He was going to be a good host.

However, there was something missing.  Parties were fine to go to, but nightmares to organise.  It was like staging a play, you put in all the hard work, but it only takes one selfish but obviously successful guy to say this is shit, and everyone just leaves.

How to keep people in?  How to make people remember it was great, that they had a great time?  Dancing? Snogging?  Drunken fun?… oh that was it.  A guarantee of fun. Crazy fun. Fast, blood pumping, whooping fun. There was only one way:

Drugs.

He could feel the mucus drop to the top of his lip.  He sniffed it back up, but his sinuses were at their limit.  It was time to spit or swallow, or, er, just blow.

In the bathroom, as he blew into some bog roll, he looked into the mirror.  Wiping away the flecks of what-the-fuck-I-don’t-know, he checked his pupils.  They seemed okay, of regular size, in a kind of hazy way.  Not quite of Cheshire cat proportions.

Meow meow.  He waved a paw at himself, and paused.  He had the opportunity to… be a lot of things… but most importantly – the host with the most.  A peddler of smiles and good times, without charge.  With a swift wipe of his nasal passages, he scrumbled up the tissue and walked out, not bothering to get a fresh one, keeping the used one in his hand.

Back in the living room, he reflected.  Coming up.  Coming down.  But there was no come down, he was fine, he thought.  A bit spaced out, a bit tired, but that’s normal after rockin’ it a full night with no sleep.  Christ, he needed sleep.  No!  Gotta keep on rockin’.  Not old yet.  Not tired yet.  Not really.

A bit of burn; everyone crashing, socks missing, wallets down the back of the sofa.  Would they remember it as a time, that time, a time to recall as an expression rather than words, something like… fuckin’ A?  How they would look back on it, knowing they were having a great time only ‘coz they were high?  Waking up Saturday afternoon, zoned out.  Not hungry, dehydrated, full of regrets… nah, they didn’t think deep enough about that stuff, did they?  Weed made you think, not the other stuff.

Wasn’t it?  His head wasn’t clear enough, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint which drugs did what, not to mention the blame for his current condition.

And then if he only bought a bit, they’d be sore for more.  If he bought a lot, then they’d just have to finish it all.  And if he had any left after that, then he’d have to do it all himself.  Crap, I don’t need this shit everyday, he thought.  Just for the party.  Just to make it good, just to guarantee…

He looked into the mirror.  He felt shitty, just not in a physical way, he convinced himself.  What, he wasn’t good enough without a boost?  Couldn’t he be interesting or lively or witty?  Yes, but he still had to force everyone to match.  How the fuck was he supposed to do that?  What the fuck man.  What the fuck.  He was surrounded by introverted losers.  Or just introverts.

He picked up the phone.  Wait.  There wouldn’t be any paranoia at the party, as this was a legal drug, at least it still was, who knew what would happen tomorrow?  Probably some kids would die from god knows what, the papers would blame, and as usual, it all gets shut down, prices go up… and it becomes that much more special.  The thrill of illegal drugs.  Dammit!  There was too much to consider!

A double take.  No, he wasn’t tripping, that was the sound of a synthesised siren – it was coming from the phone.  He placed the receiver back down.

Alcohol would be enough.

He pictured his mate tottering around, swearing uncontrollably and throwing up in the sink.

He felt his left hand fidget, reaching into his pocket.  There it is.  He rubbed the plastic of the bag between his fingertips and pulled it out, towards the light, counting the grains of powder, sizing it up in his mind as a line across the cover of a vinyl.  It wasn’t coke but it felt like… like he could afford a proper class A substance, for once.  Perhaps he should just get more of this until it  became illegal and then, well, whatever – it was a good party while it lasted.  Yeah.  He sniffed.

He picked up the phone but the number of the guy was on his mobile.  He dropped the tissue onto the table and picked up his mobile to get the number.  He added 141 to make sure he wasn’t traceable.  He knew he was contradicting himself on the legality issue but fuck it, better safe then sorry…

As the phone on the other end began to ring, his fingers skimmed the table surface, wandering into the discarded tissue.  Balancing the phone between his shoulder and cheek, he peeled back the folds of tissue and peered inside.

There, in the middle, somehow floating amongst the soaking yellowish mucus.  He blinked, then zoomed in to double check.  There.  A miniscule, yet proudly significant, dark speck of blood.

Shit.

Suddenly it struck him – a flashback to the Friday night before:

“Don’t you darling me, what do I look like to you, a fucking pink princess?”

Jenny was his friend.  A good mate, and pretty damn cool, for a lesbian.  He did a double take as he realised he was thinking that way, the way that she obviously hated, but hadn’t actually let him know, until that night.  He didn’t want to upset her again… but now… how was he supposed to greet her?

Just say hello?  Well that was a bit gay, wasn’t it.  He bit his tongue.  This was going to be difficult.

Jenny stopped to chat with Mark from accounts.  She smiled, you could see it in her eyes, she fucking hated him.  Jenny was awesome!  He’d hate to be hated like that.  Think, dammit, think!

Er, hello mate?  Mate?  But that would imply that Jenny was a guy.  She’d take it as if he was implying she was butch.  Lesbians must hate that.  She was a bit butch, but, shit, it’s not like she was a body builder.  He wondered how lesbian body builders greeted each other in the gym:

Hello mate!

Hello chum!

Hello Jenny!  You’re looking rather German today, loving it, ja, loving it!

Jarvis pawed the side of his face.  This wasn’t helping.  She had started to walk again.  He ducked back behind the partition.

Good morning – too posh.

Hello friend – too eccentric.

Hello Jenny - too formal!

‘Ello guv – where was she from anyway?  Not worth the risk!  And winking was fa——-r out of the question while a little nod was just… not friendly.  How about pretending to be on the phone, then widening his eyes, raising his eyebrows, smiling and giving a quick wave of the hand?  Notbadbutshe’scomingrightnowohshit

- Alright there Jarvis?  Spacing out again?

- Er, uh, hi there Jen, how’s you.. going?

- Good.  Did you get that guy’s number?

- What?  Guy??

Jenny winked at him and started to walk away.  People were watching.  He stood up with a jerk.

- Oi!  What do you mean??  I didn’t get any guy’s number, I’m not gay, you freaking body builder!

Turning back, Jenny poked her tongue out and gave him the finger, with a grin.

- Bye Jarvis, see you for lunch!

- I’m not bloody gay, alright?

Looking around, he gulped.

- Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  Haha, bye Jen, my jolly gay pal, byebye…  God I love gays.

He sat down and pretended to make a call, swivelling his chair around, staring into the unreflecting fabric of the blue partition.

Joe: I’ve had an idea
Larry: (PAUSE) Oh?

Joe rolls his eyes.

Joe: (PAUSE) Yeah.   We’re going to open a ninety nine cents shop.

Larry: Oh…  Oh!  (PAUSE) Oh….

Joe: A shop where everything costs ninety nine cents.

Larry: Wow, that’s cheap, Joe!  I’d go there!

Joe: We don’t need to go there, we’ll be running it!

Larry: Yeah… yeah!  We’ll run it, and it’ll get real busy, and we’ll make loads of money, and then… we’ll run into it with the car and loot the place, and start shooting, and then…

Joe slaps Larry around the back of the head

Joe: No, you idiot!  It’s time to go straight… I’m getting too old for this jazz.

Larry: But… oh… oh…  (PAUSE) oh!  We’re going to get a cut of the business right!

Joe: Of course we’re-

Joe gives up trying to explain that part and moves on

Joe: Everything is ninety nine cents.  The schmucks come into the store, and they find some stuff, like that expensive shampoo that the ladies like, for ninety nine cents, and they get all happy, right?  Are you with me here?

Larry nods, pretending that he understands.

Joe: And then they figure, since I’m here, I’ll buy something else for ninety nine cents, as I’m making a killing here, right?  So they pick up some toothpaste, or some toys or whatever.  Now here’s the scam – most of the items in the store actually cost less than ninety nine cents.  I know a guy who “finds” lots of goods from China.  So you see, the customers think they’re making a killing, but it’s actually them who are getting slaughtered, left right and centre.  It’s genius, I tell ya, genius!

Larry: Yeah, you’re a genius, Joe, a genuine genius!  You know, I really wanna try that shampoo!

He had to deal with that certain pest every week. He so hated this day, Tuesday nights were full of anxiety and Thursday nights were.. not particularly that much better.

Then one day, the pest stopped coming.

Karl suddenly found Wednesdays quite relaxing and even.. a little boring.

Thinking about the week, Karl had no choice but to make a subconscious decision to forever more hate Tuesdays.

Only an hour before he was due to present his paper to the UN, Edison was poisoned, stabbed, and shot in the head. His work was rubbished, deleted and burned.

The world continued as normal, and uneducated people continued to spend money on shit, never bothering to vote, still scared of man made ghosts.

The economy flourished.

Be attentive, pretend to listen.

Show you care.

Be confident, and tell the truth about your sexual urges.

You will get laid.

At the cafe

Karl: … I see. (LOOKING PENSIVE)… Go on.
Treya: … What do you mean? That’s it.
Karl: Oh. Er… Well that was very interesting.
Treya: My family dying in an earthquake was ‘interesting’, was it?
Karl: Ah, no, no it wasn’t. I mean-
Treya: Were you even listening?
Karl: Of course I was listening! Listen, I care about you.
Treya: Go fuck yourself.
Karl: Oh yeah? Well… Would you like to watch?

You know when somebody is staring at you. She looked up… and held his gaze. An alarm bell rang silently in his head, with red lights flashing, dimly. Only something bad can come of this – but there was no answer to this foreboding voice in his head. He reached out his hand, palm up, open. She did nothing, for the longest second known he had ever known. Still too late, their fingertips only managed to brush, but looking back, a smile was exchanged. She reached the top of the escalator, feeling reassured, happier, and continued her way home with a far lighter step.

Harold put down the magazine and felt so motivated, his hairy palms started to sweat. He would have pushed past the old granny in front but considered the fact that fate would probably make sure that she would be related to the girl he would undoubtedly meet. He was on his way. However, at the foot of the escalators, he noticed that a) it was packed b) everyone was looking down or at the adverts and c) he was going up, not down like in the story. He convinced himself this wouldn’t matter.

Looking up, a mass of grey and black shoulders faced him. He had to keep his resolve. Never give up, never.

And there she was, coming over the top of the horizon, a strawberry blonde in a blue boob tube and golden leggings. He stared hard and projected his resolve in her direction.

I’m looking at you. I’m looking… look at me. Look at me!

Look at me!!

You can often sense when somebody is checking you out. She looked up at him! …and swiftly away. He continued to stare. The only other option was defeat. She never looked back. Down she went and disappeared into the shadows.

He almost fell over the escalator as he came off, still looking back.

Deviating from his destination, he stopped into a pub. Over his fourth pint, he concluded to himself:

Oh, then suddenly you know
You’re never going home
You’re never you’re never you’re never you’re never you’re never you’re never
You’re never going home.
Not Ulysses, baby.
No, la la la la whooo whoohoo

He had to keep a glass of water by the bed.

The sound of the Nightingale
was anything but a lullaby.

He had developed sensitivity to light,
and would wake up at the smallest morning sunray-
a tiring wake up call.

He bought an eye mask
and foam ear plugs,
finally able to cut himself off from the world.

He was able to sleep.

He didn’t hear his alarm in the morning.

When he awoke,
he stretched,
and knocked over the glass of water.