Drunken Battle Scars.

DRUNKEN BATTLE SCARS.


By D. Jonas Laurence



Come home, drunk, stagger into bed.
Wake up, got a broken finger, twisted knee, herpes.
Get out of bed, ankle’s sprained; fall to the ground in a heap.
Whole day wasted with a hangover. Drank too much whiskey. Again.
Two days later I’m fine again.
Go out again.
Drink beer and whiskey again.
Two nights later, come home, falling into gardens on the street, tripping over parked bicycles, puking on parked BMWs.
Somehow make it in to bed.
Somehow fall asleep.
Wake up, got cigarette burns on my chest, ligament damage to my hip, got a maggot burrowing into my upper lip. Smell bad. Got leprosy. Got the bird flu.
Two days later I’m okay again.
Go out once more.
Drink beer and whiskey and crude oil and rocket fuel.
Seventeen nights later, come home, naked, ass-raped and bleeding, nose bitten off in a street fight (nose was found and placed in my shirt pocket, but I have lost my shirt), skull fractured when I fell from a children’s playground swing, hepatitis, haemorrhaging pancreas, kidney stones, sun spots, grey hair, impotency, malnutrition,…
Somehow fall to sleep.
Wake up in a puddle of blood.
Teeth knocked out. Shat myself. Puked myself. Pissed myself. Spermed myself. Ear-waxed myself. Snotted myself. Pused myself. Sweated myself. Drooled myself. Not in a sound state of mind.
Half a day wasted with a hangover.
Watch pornography and sport and action movies starring Bruce Willis.
Go out the next night.
Go for one beer with a friend.
Find myself, six in the morning, drinking vodka with a Bulgarian transvestite, I can’t remember when I lost my friend, he could be anywhere, I could be anywhere, but I’m not…I’m here with the transvestite.
And am I just drunk or is he/she starting to look good?
And am I just drunk or am I rubbing his/her leg?
And am I just drunk or does he/she have her hand down my pants? Playing with my balls?
Twenty-two hours later, come home, decapitated, with the AIDS virus, acne, completely bald, fingers missing lost in a card game somewhere with some Ukranian gangsters, nose bunged up with cocaine, liver stolen and sold on the internet, big toenail ripped and just hanging on.
And so I waste a week. Call in sick. Stay in bed. Dream of Elle McPherson nude and with various things plugged up her. Masturbate so much that I wear all the skin off my pecker, until veins hang from it like pieces of red wool from a fat knitting needle.
I’m in a bad way.
But the next week I’m fine again.
So I go out to watch a band but drink fourteen thousand litres of beer and can’t remember who they even were and then I find myself in a brothel in Amsterdam which is strange because I don’t live in Holland and I am being whipped by a fat, balding, middle-aged American business man, and I’m tied up on a bed and I am naked and so is he but he is wearing a Zorro mask and screaming “Ariba! Ariba! Andale! Andale!” and it’s quite disturbing to find yourself in these positions, so I don’t say anything (because I have a gimp ball in my mouth) and wait for him to finish, which he does by shitting on my chest, pays me five hundred dollars and leaves.
So I go out drinking whiskey with the five hundred dollars, just to get the taste out of my mouth (and what that taste is you don’t want to know) and I find myself a week later on a Russian cargo ship breaking through ice towards the North Pole and I am playing Russian Roulette for two thousand dollars and a kilo of heroin.
Unfortunately, I lose…


THE END.