I want to write a novel...or something.
Crazy people run. They're scared. Nagged by something that frankly, isn't there. I pulled him aside.
"Why you shaking?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Ants."
I continued sweeping the kitchen floor. Clacks kept shaking. He got up and left. He limped out, nervous limp. The slam wasn't there. There was no intentional drama in the exit. I saw him run past the window. Sprinting. The sprinting slowed to a run to a jog. The jog lasted until he was out of sight.
Crazy Clacks. Probably high. I tried it once. I saw him leave a spliff half smoked in his ash tray. I had a puff. It took a while for it to hit. He was normal then. I was too. I craved it. Everything. Normality. A normal flatmate.
Jaba walked in. His head was still bandaged from the fight the previous evening. "Shut up."
"You owe me."
"Crap."
"Plus interest."
"I'll fish you out some day man. Just leave it. It's too loud. Turn down the fricking music."
Jaba dropped on the couch and passed out. I don't know what woke him up in the first place.
The doorbell gave a rendition of the William Tell Overture. I opened the door just as Jaba let out a string of expletives.
"Is this the residence of James Clark?" The officialdom. The uniform.
"What's he done?"
"Shut the door you bastard."
"James Clark was involved in a road accident."
"Um."
"Would you be able to give us details of his next of kin?"
"How bad was it? What's happened?"
"James Clark was hit by a car. He's not well. Ambulance officers stabilised him. He's undergoing surgery at the moment. Do you have details of his next of kin?"
"I'll just have a look." I rummaged through the phone numbers near the phone. We had an old telephone on the bench. Not connnected, just there as a gimmick. I handed the officer a phone number.
A couple of hours drifted by. Neither Jaba nor me considered going to the hospital. Jaba still wasn't conscious. William Tell went off again. This time the cops weren't as sensitive. "We have a warrant to search here."
"What's happened?"
Jaba never woke up while the cops were there.
"Why you shaking?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Ants."
I continued sweeping the kitchen floor. Clacks kept shaking. He got up and left. He limped out, nervous limp. The slam wasn't there. There was no intentional drama in the exit. I saw him run past the window. Sprinting. The sprinting slowed to a run to a jog. The jog lasted until he was out of sight.
Crazy Clacks. Probably high. I tried it once. I saw him leave a spliff half smoked in his ash tray. I had a puff. It took a while for it to hit. He was normal then. I was too. I craved it. Everything. Normality. A normal flatmate.
Jaba walked in. His head was still bandaged from the fight the previous evening. "Shut up."
"You owe me."
"Crap."
"Plus interest."
"I'll fish you out some day man. Just leave it. It's too loud. Turn down the fricking music."
Jaba dropped on the couch and passed out. I don't know what woke him up in the first place.
The doorbell gave a rendition of the William Tell Overture. I opened the door just as Jaba let out a string of expletives.
"Is this the residence of James Clark?" The officialdom. The uniform.
"What's he done?"
"Shut the door you bastard."
"James Clark was involved in a road accident."
"Um."
"Would you be able to give us details of his next of kin?"
"How bad was it? What's happened?"
"James Clark was hit by a car. He's not well. Ambulance officers stabilised him. He's undergoing surgery at the moment. Do you have details of his next of kin?"
"I'll just have a look." I rummaged through the phone numbers near the phone. We had an old telephone on the bench. Not connnected, just there as a gimmick. I handed the officer a phone number.
A couple of hours drifted by. Neither Jaba nor me considered going to the hospital. Jaba still wasn't conscious. William Tell went off again. This time the cops weren't as sensitive. "We have a warrant to search here."
"What's happened?"
Jaba never woke up while the cops were there.
posted by BSJ-rom at 10:27 pm
1 Comments:
Very cool (also, very reminiscent of John Birmingham's style in He Died with a Felafel in His Hand)
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