M8…seriously?

He dug, dug, dug deep. Deep into a pit in his stomach. Deep into the thing that made him dig. And he came up and bubble filled his veins and a parade of clowns danced before his minds eye and his neighbours all stood around and clapped and the bottle was always full and the bottle was an imaginary object.

He dug deep.

And the thunder drew closer as his throat dried up; rivulets of whiskey passing like stange people at a funeral. Or an orchid in a sewer. Ghosts threw confetti of lice and smiled and the chimps in cages and the sticks of rock and the scratch away parking permits. They were busy, in heart, with the weather over a dried up continent; millions of beautiful eyes praying for rain. In the concrete dwellings of the west, a drum was beating out the last march. There was only ever one. And it was final. Beautiful, in its way. But always final.

She slipped him a note. A long sionara. He loaded up on green Vodka and pretended he couldn’t read the words. The hostesses were beautiful. He wanted them all; in the toilets, anywhere. Like a flu deadend tongue loaded with chillie; having it all and feeling nothing.

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