I'm telling this story for someone else,
because I doubt he'll ever post it here himself. I won't second-guess his motivation as I've never known his name, the man, his character, his face. What I do know for certain, and this is all one needs to know for the purpose of this tale, is that at some point towards the end of the year two thousand, in the wet and windy wee small hours of the morning, he climbed into the cab of a laden dump-truck, kicked the engine in and pulled off into the night somewhat the worse for wear with drink.

The protagonist of the piece, one Nameless Bob, looked into a shop window, smooth, dark, reflective, admiring his own reflection. He leaned slightly, and laughed to himself. It was around five am, and he was pilled off his tits. He mocked his own grinning face with his hands Big Fish, Little Fish, Card-Board-Box

Nameless Bob had a journey to undertake, a quest. He had to navigate his way from the club he had been to back to his place of residence, a hostelry where he lived and worked with a certain cs1ca, in the shadow of centrepoint, opposite soho. It was walking distance, around half an hour, but he was now in chinatown. This was not the way home. He was meandering, but at least he wasn't lost. He drifted through chinatown, all arches and strange phoneboxes, windows full of dead, skinned things. He reached an arterial road and turned right. He thought it was right. Was it left? Maybe. Right seemed good. He continued right.

He stopped suddenly and flipped his head back. He wanted to see the stars. For a second he looked skyward, disappointed by light pollution. He felt himself jolt as he was struck from behind. He grabbed a sign to steady himself as he fell forward.

"Watch were you are going, mither fickeur" cursed the stomping, surly frenchman as he barged past. I love you, stomping, surly frenchman, thought Nameless Bob. He looked at himself in the nearest window. His reflection grinned back. Big Fish, Little Fish, Card-Board-Box.

Nameless Bob ambled down the street. He stumbled off the kerb and walked a short way in the road. He hopped back onto the pavement. The frenchman stomped and surled up ahead, now a distant silhouette. Follow him, he knows where he's going. Ahead was the intersection of two main roads. The frenchman approached it, and looking left stomped out into the street.

Nameless Bob turned his head to track the frenchman as he ragdolled through the air. The dump truck skidded into vision from right to left, its wheels locked, spray arcing backwards from the damp road. The frenchman hit the road and his head exploded, to quote Nameless Bob, 'like a watermelon'.

The truck had stopped. The driver dropped from the door and landed awkwardly, as he was worse for wear with drink. As Nameless Bob arrived on the scene the driver fell to his knees. 'What have I done?', he screamed, 'what have I done?'.

Nameless Bob glanced between the driver and the frenchman and back. He pointed.

"Well, mate, I think you've just killed that bloke".
The driver looked at him and cried some more drunken tears.

Nameless Bob realised that he knew the way home. He crossed the road and walked away. The man stayed sobbing on his knees. Soon there were sirens.

Big Fish, Little Fish, Card-Board-Box.


On a serious note, kids, remember that drugs are bad, and that if you drink and drive you are a massive cunt.
(cs1ca, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 21:33, 1 reply)

Wonderfully told.
*clicks*
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 23 Dec 2011, 12:32, closed)