This tale was written almost exclusively with the aid of artistic license, which I am fully qualified to do since I bested creativity's mortal incarnation in unarmed combat while adlibbing a short story about an 8-foot tall albino honey badger who worked as a receptionist at my local dentist's. I met with more success in one of these ventures than the other. It will hopefully serve as an adequate apology for all the social boundaries, copywrite agreements and basic human rights I'm fairly certain I violated and also help me reconstruct the evening in question. Just to give me an idea of how many lawsuits I can expect in the post.
Me: Soooo... you'll probably want an explanation for all this, won't you?
Laura: You could say that, I admit, I am full of questions right now. What in God's name are those for example?
I follow her swaying finger towards two jars of mayonaisse both filled with clear liquid and crudely labelled: 'Policeman's Tears'.
Me: Is that it? You're looking so upset because of some civil servant's bodily fluids?
Laura: Why don't you look somewhere other than the door behind me? I should add, escape is impossible.
I did so. With some effort, I craned my neck to get a good grasp of my surroundings. First, it was pretty clear I was in our kitchen, and that I was naked, lying on what looked like a bed of coffee beans I must have spread over the floor. Damn, I thought, guess an Espresso's out of the question then. There was a strangely-familiar looking bicycle in the corner, both wheels hopelessly warped and from the looks of the washing machine, I imagine I'd attempted to make pasta in it.
I hazarded a second glance down my front, taking care to keep my legs crossed, I was in no position to expose myself to my own genitalia this early in the morning with no hope of coffee. Also, its fucking cold in my kitchen. On second glance, it would seem that I'd daubed 'Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here' on my sumo-grade stomach, and somehow managed to misspell 'Ye'.
M: OK, I admit, this looks bad, but at least give me a chance to explain myself.
L: I'm all ears.
M: My memory's a little hazy - meth hazy, know what I mean?
L: ...
M: It went something like this: The afternoon started innocently enough, I was on my back from my weekly cockfight, feeling a little down (my boy Potential Chow Mein lost to the fucking Colonel again).
L: I'm assuming that's the chicken you bought because you lost your alarm clock in the shower.
M: I was trying to save time in the mornings.
L: When was the last time you were even conscious in the am?
M: Hey its a problem all students just have to deal with, that's what all those protests were about, remember?
L: Those were against an increase in fees not lectures that began earlier than 3pm.
M: I thought everyone else's signs were a little off-topic. You going to keep interrupting?
L: Please, continue.
M: So I was trotting home when, for reasons that are still unclear to me, I managed to enter myself into a martini drinking competition with three oil barons. I confess to having a roaring good time with the chaps even though the martini was more likely some high proof brand of washing up liquid and the barons almost certainly homeless but hey, its an unforgiving business these days. Don't remember exactly who won, I think we ran out of olives and just called it a tie. So then I rode home ready to settle in for my usual 4pm post-cockfight nap...
L: Rode home?
M: Sure.
L: On a bike?
M: Pretty certain it wasn't an elephant, those things are a nightmare to park.
L: I'm equally certain you don't own a bike. Where'd you get it?
M: Not...really....sure.
L: That's alright I think I can clear that up, Neil called me this morning you know.
M: Ah, this isn't going anywhere good is it?
L: You remember Neil?
M: He the one that looks like a vaguely intellectual vagrant?
L: Remember talking to him yesterday? I'm not surprised honestly, talking would be a pretty inaccurate description of what you did. Screaming something about the letter Y not being an acceptable vowel and stealing his bike would be more like it.
M: Ah. Well that clear's that up, anything else?
L: Is there anything left to clear up you mean? Literally? As in the house? Because the answer to that would just be everything.
M: No the other one, fixing with words not, you know, hoovers.
L: I think a dump truck would be more use at this point, or maybe explosives but yes that one, how did you get into my room (which was locked by the way) to steal paint and do that for example?
She pointed to the wall behind her, which I had failed to notice was taken up by crudely drawn letters in various colours. Once they stopped swimming before my eyes I made out: 'TO DO BEFORE I DIE HORRIBLY IN AN OIL WRESTLING FIGHT WITH 30 PORNSTARS AS PER MY ONE REQUEST OF GOD: PAY BACK HUNGRY HANK AND (crossed out) WIN A KNIFE FIGHT WITH JUSTIN BEIBER'.
M: He favours the Khat Man'bhak style, you know.
So there you have it, I sure I don't need to explain the moral of the story here folks, never, under any circumstances, purchase a cockerel with one eye and a game leg assuming such defects would heighten its killer instincts to superavian levels. IT IS FOLLY. Also, don't drink and write damning personal anecdotes that are applicable in court, instead of essays.
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