I wake up and still feel the trazodone from yesterday, that acrid taste one gets in the mouth. Combined with yesterday’s drinks it’s like I’ve been sucking on used tampons. It didn’t affect my performance though, the charlie saw to that. Funny how it makes some people all limp but but sends my dick into overdrive.
The waitress stretches beside me. “You were mumbling in your sleep.”
“Probably quoting Chaucer again,” I say. “You know how it is with us intellectuals.”
“Uh… no. You were going on about power lines and a barf.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, absolutely. You kept repeating it.”
This is interesting. I was either talking about cocaine, or about the Power Nine and a Half. Which reminds me to check my pockets. There’s a sigh of relief when I find I still have some blow waiting for me, but also that agonizing feeling in my gut when I see it won’t last the day, not with my superior inhalation skills.
The waitress puts a hand on my back. “I thought we’d try again,” she says. “You know, after last night.”
“It was great, wasn’t it? I’ve always had the magic touch.”
“No, honey. The only thing magical about your touch was that you didn’t blind me while trying to caress my breasts.”
“I already told you, I had something in my eye.”
“And then you finished before it was even in.”
“That’s just your word against mine.”
“You didn’t even bother wiping it off the sheets. You just fell asleep in a pool of your own cum.”
“It’s good for one’s skin. Haven’t you ever read the Internet?”
“We can try again now that you’re sober.”
This is getting ridiculous. “I was sober last night. You think the meager amount of drinks I had gets me drunk?”
“You pissed your pants before getting them off.”
“Now that’s just hearsay.”
“God, I hate men.”
“Then you should avoid them.”
“I’m trying, sweetie. I really am, but you fuckers are all over the place.”
“Do you want my OnlyFans?” I ask, but she’s already out the door and thank god for that. I don’t know if I shared my Peruvian flake with her last night, but I certainly am not doing so today. It’s a good thing I made her leave. I wasn’t even that interested in her, but I could see Rowen was, that lecherous bastard.
Typical Brit woman though. Give her your all, and she barely acknowledges your effort. Lucky for her I wrote my OnlyFans down on a square of toilet paper and stuffed it in her bag while she was still recovering from my ravaging. Probably too embarrassed to be around me because of her mediocre performance last night, so embarrassed she might not subscribe to my OnlyFans. At least we split the cost for this hotel room, but I did end up leaving her a little tip at the bar, so in the grand scheme of things she owes me money.
No skin off my teeth though, because it’s another notch on the belt for me, and I have The Good Book with me. What does it say about such a situation?
I bust out my well-worn copy of The Beta Man’s Guide to the Way of the Alpha and turn to page 15xXxXx, where a diagram in the shape of a phallus points me to page 16xXxXz, so I cautiously (but bravely!) turn the page. There it is, clear as day printed in Comic Sans to soothe the eyes:
“Thou shalt not be affected by the moods of vixens.”
I suppose she was kind of a vixen. One of those overfed ones who get their extra nourishment by stealing sandwiches out the baskets of kind, generous, and hard-working picnickers such as myself. With my eyes shut I repeat the line a few times, letting the words seep into my brain. When I open my eyes it’s pretty damn evident I did nothing wrong and I’m ready to proceed with my day.
If I didn’t see Rowen eyeing her so much I would never have gotten her number after he left. That scrawny bugger never had any pull with women anyway. It all starts with a simple smile cast in the wench’s direction that may or may not be directed at them (page 2xXxXx, first paragraph, highlighted). Always keep the strumpet guessing (page 43xXxXx). Acknowledge the hussy but don’t overdo it (38xXxXx). Treat thineself before treating the bimbo (a personal favorite, 81xXxXx), something I take to heart when I check the minibar and am relieved to see we didn’t polish it all off the night before. I help myself to two small bottles of J&B and cut a line.
The blow brings me back to myself. Once more a human, I wish things hadn’t ended on a sour note with the waitress. Could have been some free drinks in the future, extra bar snacks too if I kept playing my cards right. Of course, with Desmond’s plan I won’t have to keep pinching pennies and racking up debt for a bit of powder here and there.
I do another line knowing I can control the habit after yesterday’s willpower while with Rowen. It wasn’t easy meeting him while craving charlie but I had to seem subdued. No sense being overeager and too chatty when making the pitch, lure them in like the pond scum they are.
Scum. What better word to describe someone like Rowen? Telling people I was banging Marissa, my step-mom. Selling me his guitar cheaply as a way to mock my salary back then. And my black-bordered Serrated Angel and Unlaminated Ancestral Delete All mysteriously disappearing. I know I sold those cards, but thinking it was him is the only thing that makes sense.
I look in the mirror and flex, admiring my physique. We were all skinny nerds back then, but the real men among us moved on. Progressed. Defined themselves, defined their bodies.
Rowen, still stuck on the cigs and as lazy as ever, continues to look like he’d be mistaken for a woman from behind. How many decades has he had long hair for now? I was disappointed to see that like me he is not bald because it would suit him. A loser losing his hair.
The blow has hit me hard after my recent abstinence and I look over the documents Desmond sent. I can’t help but smirk again when I see Rowen’s CV.
“Facilitated visitors to governmental educational institutions…”
Fuck’s sake, the dick was a low-life library assistant. Eternal bullshit with that one.
When I look at the picture of his wife I can’t help but frown. She’s plump because of his fat fetish but has a great face. Naturally thick eyebrows, that fresh-out-of-the-package look. How he tricked her into being with him I’ll never know. Probably gave her the herpes and she felt eternally bound to him from it.
Smack the herpes right out a cunt.
This is great coke, but I can’t let my mind wander too much. I whip out the list Desmond sent me and start reading it. Make sure to use proxies when visiting the guy’s site, don’t tell anyone, untraceable SIM cards – god this is boring. Instead I send him a text letting him know Rowen is interested, something I forget to do yesterday. He replies immediately with “Great. I’ll let The Pope know.” I shoot him a text back confirming that I can fill Rowen in on everything, and he says he’ll mail me about it in an hour. That gives me time pick up some more nose powder for the next meeting because if I’m not high around Rowen the next time I’ll end up murdering someone.
Another bottle out of the minibar and straight down the hatch. I’m just getting the trazodone taste out my mouth with the swill when my proper phone rings. I recognize the name immediately because it is one I don’t like.
“Good… day, Ben.”
“Yes, Damien.” Yes?
“I can hear you are not at home, Damien. Catching Covid for the, what is it now? Fifth time? Must be very lenient on your immune system at this point.”
“I’m at the chemist’s,” I say, rather convincingly as I conveniently sniff from the charlie. “Bit of a touch-up for the sinuses and back on the clock tomorrow.” Clock your noggin with my fist you stuck-up twat.
“You were supposed to call, Damien. We can’t guess at the severity of your… illness.”
It doesn’t help that my boss, Ben, does not believe in sick days. Or rather, he believes in them but doesn’t believe people should be taking them on a weekly basis.
“I’d like to remind you that we hired you as the sole caretaker on our payroll to avoid the problems we were having with external cleaning companies. We even provided you with a desk in an office at your request because of your arguments for equality, which were rather compelling at the time. You presented yourself as a professional of the highest order, but you’ve either been absent or rather ineffective at your job. People have been wondering why they have to get toilet paper from the storage themselves for the washroom.”
“I told you all this already, some cunt’s been stealing the toilet paper as soon as I put fresh rolls in the shitter.” Of course I’ve been taking them home with me. These nosebleeds have been getting out of hand. “Like I’ve always said, toilet paper’s a poor replacement for tampons, but someone needs to drill it into the heads of those crazy bints, and it won’t be me. You don’t pay me enough to give pep talks to my moronic colleagues.” Why is this coke stuck to this dresser? What furniture polish do these places use, bleedin’ spray glue?
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“This is what I mean. These mood swings between somewhat pleasant and rather nasty have some questioning your activities outside the workplace.”
“Mood swings are symptom of Delta-Iota-Omega, the variant I currently have. Everyone and their blimmin’ rabid effin’ dog knows this.”
“Uh, yes. Quite. Well, do get better. We’ll talk when you get back, which, if I’ve heard correctly, is tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it. Productivity is nature’s solution to her ailments.” Ben mutters something I assume to be a goodbye before hanging up. Yes, productivity is what keeps me on track and no two shakes about it. I immediately dial Diane, an occasional lover who wants nothing more than to be my personal secretary. She believes I’m a successful stockbroker because I told her I was one repeatedly until she believed it, and I almost did as well.
“Good morning, Damien.” So it is morning.
“I am in the process of having a busy brunch so I’ll make it brief,” I say, knowing she is hanging onto my every word. Besides my stockbroker stories it was my accent that got her into the sack the first time. “I need you to call that Aid for AIDS place or whatever. Good lord, Diane, calm down. Not for us, why would you think that? What I need is for you to call on behalf of Crypto-M Industries. Crypto-M, M for Mandalorian, or Mongolian if you prefer. Yes, that’s right. ‘Crypt’ as in ‘Tales from’ and not Superman’s planet. You’re really on top of things this morning, Diane, which is why I knew I could rely on you for this. Yes! Crypto-M! You know, that organization – ah, you’ve seen them advertise in the papers as well. Hard to miss, isn’t it? Real in-your-face advertising, like ‘fuck you, look at me because I’m invading your fucking feed’ advertising, really putting that American know-how to good use.”
Bloomin’ onions this woman can talk. While she blabs on about the good they’re doing the world I snort another bump off my fingernail, admiring the shape of it. Whenever anyone asks why the nail is so long I say guitar picking but only if it’s a lady worth a shag. If not it’s always stubborn earwax removal as the real Chinese in China do. Amazing what a convo starter a lengthy nail on a man can be, so I was quite surprised to see all of Rowen’s fingernails are a bit long. Must be for picking his dingleberries, the filthy little bugger.
“Right, yes, that’s right,” I agree, the blow allowing me to match Diane’s enthusiasm. “I am glad to see we feel the same way. Unfortunately I’m currently breaking stocks with someone because I’m a stockbroker, a someone who is afflicted with the terrible disease and who is in complete denial. Yes, that’s right, it is common. No shame in having the HIV these days, should be a badge of honor if you ask me. Most people are like that though, ashamed and bloody careless for it. Even during biblical times you’d have your lepers with their decomposing penises falling off piece by piece, the remaining parts spouting sores and dribbling pus and spewing gore and shit, and what would those leprous basards do? They’d sit there on their rotting bums and deny the living shit out of having leprosy. What’s that? Too early in the morning? What time is it exactly? Oh, okay. No, my phone is set to a different timezone, you know what the jet setter lifestyle is like. Hmm, right. I’m sure you can imagine.”
I polish off another small bottle of whiskey before continuing.
“Now, being the amazing man I am I want nothing more for this AIDS-ridden bloke to get the help he so clearly deserves, but I don’t dare chance having my name associated with it in case he takes it the wrong away. You know how sensitive the deadly ill can be about such issues.”
I listen to her talk about a “rather dear” friend who was the same. I certainly hope this plague rat wasn’t too dear with you, dear, especially before we met. But as luck would have it she is talking about a female friend. Must have been a junkie on the needle like Rowen was. Talk to him and he’ll tell you I was on it as well, but I only ever snorted the stuff. I had high standards even back then.
I interrupt Diane by reminding her about my busy brunch. Always make them think you’re in some important meeting when eating, such are the sacrifices you make to grease the cogs of the societal machine.
“So you can call them on my behalf then, obviously by not mentioning me and making it seem entirely on behalf of Crypto-M,” I confirm. “It’ll be our little secret, Diane, just like Señor Strap-On that likes visiting my Secret Chocolate Tunnel. Yes, that’s right. Ben Dawson. It’s fine for them to refer to him as Benny. The strictest intervention possible. Being in such denial means he does not believe he is passing it on to others while he has loads of unprotected sex with them. And it has to be on a Monday, write this down, a Monday at approximately one o’clock when he is alone in his office.” Alone in his weekly admin meeting with five others from the board of directors.
“You’re a star, Diane. What would the Milky Way do without you? Of course, of course. Coffee and cake should be the least you expect in payment from me. Perhaps we can find a way to burn the calories afterwards, ha ha. Of course you can bring Señor with you. By the way, have you thought about that investment scheme I mentioned to you? What? Your mother said no? Yes, yes. The inheritance thing. God, what a broken record she is. Remember what I said. Better to inherit the rewards of your investment, Diane. Talk to her again. Five thousand quid is a drop in the ocean if you really think about it. I know you do, but she has to think the same. Right. Well, brunch beckons. Oh, I don’t know. Lobster and caviar and shit as usual. Yes, okay. Toodles.”
Another line and some more whiskey and I’m in the bog taking a dump. My thoughts of picking up more blow are stopped dead in their tracks when I start pissing misty white liquid. There’s a slight burn to it, more cinnamon-ish than habanero-esque. Discharge as viscous and golden like an Arabian Nuts Drop of Butthoney seeps out once I’m done. What should have been a dump with the Chariots of Fire soundtrack blasting away in stereo has turned into one with Requiem In D Minor on repeat. All I can do is shake my head in dismay. What use are antibiotics if they refuse to do their jobs? If they were humans they’d be deadbeats on the dole. I promise myself that next time I’m getting the fucking things from a real doctor.
Insult to injury, the poo decides to join teams with my penile discharge by being slimy and hard to wipe. Thanks, Tesco Special Reserve Whisky!
Take that back, you cunt! It stood you in good stead last night and you know it.
And then I see it. The shaggy-haired twat, smiling at me all goofy like, mockingly. I slowly pull up my trousers, forsaking the wipe, and steel myself.
You’re going down, toerag. Going down to fucking Adios Town.
I pounce on the mop, swinging it around the bathroom while throttling it. The damn thing puts up one hell of a fight, but a few haymakers to its handle and I’m in control.
“You gloating piece of motherfucking shit! I’ll end you, I’ll fucking end you! Once and for all!”
I get the mop in a headlock and bite into the mass of yarn it parades around as hair before I switch positions to a kimura and snap the motherfucker in two. I pin the severed son of a bitch to the bathroom floor, reveling in its pain, before throwing the pieces in the shower stall.
“Fucking piss on you if I didn’t just make tinkles you… you… you bane of my existence.”
I need to go over to the Canadian and get more fucking coke to calm down. These mops and pails and buckets and sponges and cleaning chemical agents are all over the bladdy place. Always staring, always smirking, always mocking. They know I’m above them and like to let me know it. I’ll show you cunts, I’ll show the fucking lot of you.
Right, get more charlie and contact Rowen after I hear back from Desmond. Ben Dawson can eat a bag of wet dicks because I’m quitting that job with all its mops and forever dirty floors. The job with all the condescending looks from myself every time I look in the mirror. From now on it’s onwards and upwards, but first downwards to the stupid country of Sweden.
There’s a splinter in my hand from the mop melee and I manage to pull it out with my teeth. It’s while washing my hands that I am reminded of my purity.
“You’re a good person with a great heart and a magnificent brain,” I tell myself. “You have the best interests of all at heart.” It’s become like a mantra to me, but ever since quitting the drugs that turn you to mush I do it to keep me on the straight and narrow.
Compassion. Benevolence. Integrity. Me.
You just have to do good when you can in this world. Let bygones be bygones and all that shit. That is what I took away from rehab. As well as the books they had lying around from previous inpatients because books were easy to sell at 2nd-hand bookstores back then.
I’m reminded of the rehab meetings we were forced to attend. There I learned gratitude because with all the cigarette smoke in the air and the overworked coffee machine you couldn’t smell the other participants. You learned to be thankful for the little things like that because those crack addicts and hygiene were anathema to one another.
That was my takeaway from the place besides the new contacts I made for drugs. They’d spew these Narc Anon nuggets of wisdom like “Forgive yourself before you forgive others” but I had nothing to forgive myself for so couldn’t get around to the forgiving others part. It’s why Rowen is still on my shitlist, sometimes above mops, sometimes below them, but always hovering in their vicinity. Thinking about it he is basically a mop. Scrawny, all manners of shit in his hair, dull to talk to, sexually unappealing, and at his best when his head’s dunked in water, preferably toilet water.
I’m racking up lines before I hit up The Canadian for more of the devil’s dandruff when I notice the hole in my sweater.
Motherfucking mop got a shot in.
Once you get involved with cleaning materials you can expect everything to fall apart at the seams. Luckily my targeted ads are for the more classy male, stylish motherfuckers like myself. It doesn’t take long scrolling though my social media before one invades the feed.
“A vibrant pattern lends positive vibes to this stylish streetwise sweater.”
I click on the ad and get redirected to a page which has a link to their website. I don’t bother clicking on any of their products as I see the prices are exorbitant and that’s good enough for my increasingly high standards. A quick scroll down and I have their email address.
Buckle up, bitches, because we’re going on a linen ride.
“Dear Morrison Wear,
I am one of the proprietors of Sheldon’s Shoes in Salisbury, England. We are currently expanding our operations in the south west of England to include menswear for the discerning gentleman, particularly trousers, jerseys, and blazers. I would be interested in having your products, particularly your sweaters, sold in our new venture.
As I have never seen your products available for sale in our area, I have been unable to try them out personally but have been suitably impressed by what looks to be high-quality materials and manufacturing on your website. Would it be possible to obtain a sample or two of a sweater, medium, in a fashionable yet somewhat neutral color? Or should I say, colour?
Best Regards
Terrance Buckwheat
PO Box xXxXx
Salisbury”
Mental addendum: If you send sweaters with holes not meant for arms or necks I’ll have your blimmin’ guts for garters.
The hotel room is getting claustrophobic and it’s time to head out. They’re still serving breakfast downstairs and I help myself to generous portions of sausage, ham, and cheese, most of which I surreptitiously wrap in serviettes and stash in my bag. I drink a coffee while checking out the reception for any tail but it’s a hirsute bloke with a neck of clashing chest and beard hairs indistinguishable from another manning the desk. There is no time to wait for a change of guard so I grudgingly settle the bill before making my exit.
I step into a gust of wind outside the hotel. Leaning against the wall is a beggar resembling a Redevised Segway Troll who attracts my attention.
“Having a good day, mate?”
“Actually, no. But fuck you for asking.”
“Sorry, what?”
“No, I’m in a rush. Thank you for asking.” South African accent wins again. That twat would blame tinnitus or some other bogus bullshit but it was my post-colonial pronunciation that did it for sure. Can scream bladdy murder at these cunts and they wouldn’t understand you. So much for them speaking their own language.