Too Dead for Dreaming

The living room smells like stale cigarettes and fresh vomit. There are roaches crawling in and out of the worn out motels set up in the corners of the room, ants all over neglected day-old food on the coffee table. Nothing attempts to venture near the used rubbers strewn everywhere. Better repellants than anything else we’ve got lying around.

Ryan, unemployed arsehole that he is, is sitting in front of the telly, pants off, shirt off, no service required. What a wanker.

—We have rubbish bins, mate, I say in greeting, nudging my head towards the floor.

—You forget to throw them away. Fits of passion, innit? ‘Sides, Danny, my spunk’s in them rubbers. Not rubbish at all. The dozy fucker winks at me.

I drop down next to him on the sofa, wishing I hadn’t blown last week’s paycheque; I could be out buying over-priced drinks and getting blown by a blonde at some club. Instead I’m stuck watching re-runs of 60s Doctor Who with the flatmate I hate the most. Not that the other one, Joe, is much better.

—Oy, you’ve got blood on your forehead. You dyin’ or sommat?

—We’re all dying.

Ryan scoffs, —aye, but you faster than me, mate. You need to get that checked out.

—You need to get a job, but you don’t hear me telling you what to do.

—Come on, Danny, it looks serious. What happened?

Like he fucking cares.

—Some bird slammed a bottle over my head last night at some party.

—Top, he says. What’d you do to her? Did you fuck her sister in front of her? Ryan’s got a shit-eating grin plastered on his face; bloody bastard is actually impressed. Sick.

—Didn’t even know her. Got a spliff?

xxx

—Top o’ the fucking morning, Ben says when I walk into work. He has an open bottle of Bailey’s in his hand, and he hands it over to me as I reach the counter. His eyes are already fuzzy with morning intoxication. Gotta love his priorities.

I take a quick swig, then a longer one. I’m too sober for work today. I’m too sober when I’m sober. I hand it back, half empty.

—Is Sam coming in today? I need to fucking deck him.

Ben shrugs as he sorts out vinyls and CD cases, taking sips from his bottle. —I heard he’s looking for a new source for his gear. Hey, I’ve been looking for this album.

I glance over his shoulder. —Everyone and their mothers own Shout at the Devil.

—Everyone and their mothers don’t listen to it as much as I do. I need to replace my copy. He sticks it in his back pocket, grins, and goes back to work.

The advantage of working in a record store: free shit. Always.

I hate my job less than I hate my flat and flatmates. The store is always full of pricks and snobs who think they know better. Yeah, right, sure. Anyway, I’d rather make music than sell someone else’s. But it pays for my drugs and ain’t that just musical inspiration?

—Why a new source? His gear is pretty decent.

—Says the idiot who saw Jesus in a living room. Nah, too many of his clients are having bad trips. Bad for business, he says. Although I’m sure he appreciated that girl clocking you. He laughs.

—He thinks I’m after Ren. Insecurities, man.

—Well, Ren is…Ren. Tell me you wouldn't give it another go with her. I would. His grin is lascivious.

—No, she’s like a stepsister you shagged before your parents got remarried. She’s a mate. Besides, you’ve got a girlfriend.

—Like that’s stopped me before. Got my sights on that one chick. Fucking hot.

—Wait, who? I ask as I re-stack some shitty albums.

—That girl who smashed the bottle on you. She was fit. Bonkers, but busty and sexy as fuck. Tall, too. Her legs went on for miles.

I turn to stare at Ben, smirking. —What are you doing this weekend, Bruce?

—Dunno yet, why?

—Because we’re gonna find this girl. I’m calling dibs.

—I fucking saw her first!

—Yeah, well, she smashed glass over my head, so she owes me. She’s mine.