I Kick Arse On A Saturday Night


Three green, one white, two green, one white, three green again, one white, one green, one white, three green. This is the seemingly random sequence of colours in the tiles, on the floor, in the toilet, in the bathroom, in the pub that I drank too much in. It took only a couple of minutes to empty my stomach of sushi and beer, but it seems to be taking much longer to gather the strength to get up off the floor. Concentrating on small details seems to help me not dry-reach.
“Luke”, whispers a voice from outside of the stall.
I recognize it as belonging to Dave, this guy I vaguely know, who I’ve been half-heartedly avoiding all night. He’s a nice guy, but he’s one of those dudes that likes to get all deep and meaningful about his band, which often ends with him raging about how shitty “The Industry” is and how hard working bands never get a fucking break, etc.
“Dave?” I mumble, “How did you know I was in here?”
“Your legs are coming out under the door.”
He is right. Fucker.
“It’s ok,” I say, getting up and trying to sound sober all at once. “I just had to be sick a little bit.”
I open the door and roll out, trying to politely walk past him.
“Hey, I’m heading home in a minute, if you want a lift.”
It sounded fine to me. After all, getting a taxi when you’re a drunk male who’s by himself is a bit like getting the DJ to go out with you. Not impossible, but you’d better be pretty well dressed. Getting into his car turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life. When we were halfway home, he told me he wanted to take me past his house first, to listen to his band’s newest demo.
“I don’t know, man, I think I’m about to pass out. Probably won’t be much of a good critic.”
“Nah, bullshit,” he said, “When you’ve had a few is the only time to listen to music.”
My mind had begun to threaten me with automatic shutdown, if I didn’t get immediately to a bed. I closed my eyes, hoping to ease the pressure building on my eyes, but trying so hard to stay awake, lest this man drive me into a dark alley and sodomize me relentlessly. Yes, I knew him, but not all that well. He already seemed a little unstable. Rest the eyes, but stay awake. That’s all I have to do. Have strength.
I woke up just as we pulled into Dave’s driveway. Fuck, I thought. My resolve really is quite piss-poor. We went inside and before I had even wiped my feet, his band’s demo was in the CD player and blaring loud enough to cause tinnitus. I slowly shambled in and fell into the vinyl couch, which complained at me with a loud squeaking moan. The next twenty minutes are a blur of “Check out this bit”’s and “Here comes the bass part”‘s.
It sounded as though Dave and his band were still a little too emotionally connected to Metallica, a problem that a lot of guitar players in their late twenties seemed to have. Then he hit me with the extreme nature of his lyrics.
He said, “Have you ever read H.P. Lovecraft?”
I felt sure I must be imagining things. He didn’t really just say that, did he? I erupted into a coughing fit, just to mask the riotous laughter that had nearly rampaged from my mouth.
“Heh, cigarettes will kill you.” I joked.
“Lovecraft’s wrote about parallel dimensions.” he said, not even noticing me. Then he pulled out a crack pipe. “Lovecraft believed that other dimensions existed side by side with our own and that there were weak spots in the fabric of space and time that could let demons into our dimension from some other, hellish existence.” He begun torching the pipe with a lighter, drawing in his own hellfire.
It had become way too surreal in here for me. In Dave’s CD I noticed the lyric “Demon of time, why do you haunt me?” I was going to throw up. I excused myself and made for the toilet. Once in there, I sat on the bowl and tried to sober myself, so I could make a convincing argument about how I can just walk home from here. The fact that I had no idea where we were didn’t matter. I couldn’t handle this any more. I got up, flushed the clean water, so as to make him think I had actually used it, then went about the task of finding the bathroom so I could splash some water on my face.
I opened the door to the left of the toilet and found myself staring into a bedroom. A bedroom plastered with posters of Pearl Jam and Nirvana. A bedroom which was beginning to fill with morning light. A bedroom in which a young blonde boy, no more than twelve years old was lying on the bed, bound with dull silver electrical tape, completely naked and smudged with dirt. Judging by the smell, it was feces.
“Holy shit.” I squeaked, suddenly far too sober to be able to handle this, yet too shocked to be able to process it. I heard Dave move in his squeaky vinyl couch.
“Oh, hey,” he said, rising very quickly. “Don’t go in there yet!”
“What the fuck is this?” I stammered.
“Okay,” he said, “You know I was telling you about dimensions?”
“What the fuck is this?” I repeated, my voice rising in pitch.
“I found that. It was trying to kill me.” Dave’s voice was far too calm, too rational. Almost jokey.
“It’s a kid!” I half screamed.
“No, man. That’s what it wants you to see. It blinds you, you know? Blinds you to the truth. That thing’s a fuckin’ demon.”
“Dave,” I said. “You gotta let him loose. What if someone finds him? You’ll go to gaol.”
Dave’s legal status was not truthfully what I was concerned about, but I thought if I reasoned with him, maybe I could get him to let the kid and, more importantly me, go without gutting us and trying to turn us into clothing.
“We can’t let it go,” he said. “It’ll kill us. Man, I thought you’d get it. I thought you’d be able to see that little fucker for what it is.”
Panicking, I struck out. My fists missed their targets (Dave’s head), but I had put so much weight behind them that I fell forward onto him, knocking both of us to the ground like drunken lovers.
When I looked up I saw that Dave’s head had landed dead on the edge of the skirting board at the point where it folded rather sharply around a corner. Blood pooled out from behind his head and I jumped up faster then I knew I could move.
I went into the bedroom and looked around for something to cut the tape with. The boy looked at me blankly. There was nothing sharp around, so I leaned over and bit at the tape, the stench of shit flaming up my nostrils and making me heave.
The tape gave way easily and his hands fell free, dropping to the bed, before stretching out, impossibly long and rising, grabbing me by the shoulders, pulling me down into the kid’s expanding mouth, which had already grown large enough to engulf my entire head. I noticed its teeth were a dull silver, just like electrical tape that bound him and before I knew it, they were closing down over my neck.

3 Responses to “I Kick Arse On A Saturday Night”

  1. wonker Says:

    Interesting blog, I’ll try and spread the word.

  2. Yana Says:

    I love your work

  3. ljuke Says:

    Well, thank you people. Will try to post something new soon.

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