My Brilliant Career

The sweat from my elbows was drying under my tongue. I was in a bar. A woman (you know, one of those things with tits) was trying to think in the corner with a man who was trying to let her. High-rise filth sat lonely on a stool. I hoped he'd stay lonely for the rest of his life and I retched in my wallet so I wouldn't have to pay.

I mixed bourbon with scotch, and vice versa, and drank it from a beer mug. Most of it spilt down my neck and settled onto my crotch, but the effect was still shattering and comforting. I laughed and reached for my flask of whiskey which had dollops of freeze-dried whipped cream floating in it like snow. I blacked out.

I came to in a public toilet with vomit in my ears. Someone with a brain was screaming something at me but I couldn't hear him. I felt like groping him until I realised he wasn't a woman. I pushed him aside and made my way back into the bar. Someone was sitting on my stool. He rose from his stolen seat as I approached and began mumbling something about art. Art. What a crock. I took another long sip of bile and blacked out.

When I regained myself, I was in bed with the fat barmaid and dripping maple syrup on her thighs. She was unconscious. I tried to recall something, but couldn't and made tracks. Her fat dog buried its head in my groin as I navigated passed the junk in her garden and left an embarrassing stain that looked as if I had just returned from a liberated bookshop. I smashed my empty bottle of piss on its head and made faster tracks.

I threw up continually as I walked, so I bought another bottle and tried to dilute it somewhat — though I still had to let it go every few minutes. When at last it stopped, I made my way back to the bottle shop and bought a casket of whiskey for the journey home. At my front door, I decided I needed to make up for the latest drunk slip in my record, so I went to another bar in search of better looking stands.

She offered me some crap and I took it. She looked better this way. She thought I was an angel I thought she was a native wearing tribal gear and speaking in tongues. We got along famously. She offered me some different crap and I took it. Now she looked like an angel. We spent the night this way.

I spent the next day with bricks in my skull and sawdust in my eyes, and I spent it, despite my condition, looking for the worst bars that I could hang out in when it was darker. I found one and started early. The barmaid wasn't too fat this time, but she was disgustingly flat, so I left. I found a better one in the next street with a better looking barmaid and cheaper liquor. I went into the toilets after a while and really felt like pissing straight onto the walls. I did. I left the toilets and really felt like pissing on the barmaid.

This time it was a man behind the bar and he looked foul. He looker fouler when he handed me the glass, and fouler still when he refilled it. I hated his guts. I hated the stuff around his guts more. He looked and sounded like an advertising executive who'd lost his job but was certain he would soon get back on his feet. I wished him well; I didn't want to see him again. I went to the toilet and pissed on the walls, the floor and, accidentally, the bowl. I replenished my liver with my flask and did a runner. After that ordeal, I needed some cunt.

And then back to work on Monday.