:::==Slippery Fiction==:::
The Arrival Of The Gunslinger
We had to get stoned.
I hadn’t smoked in twenty years, but he was right.
The creativity was gone.
Rana rolled up a massive one.
She put on some Bob Marley, and by the time it got round to me the second time, the whole circle was singing Kum By Ya — even the Capitalists.
I took a massive drag on the horrific thing, sucking deep before letting out a lung-purifying cough.
A piece of glossy golden flem launched from my mouth, somersaulting in slow motion across the room and landing in Brenda’s throat as she was laughing.
She just about choked to death.
The weed had slowed everyone’s perception, so we all knew it happened.
Sting was laughing his cock off, but Scabby Andrew was telling everyone
‘It’s just not on’ as usual.
I played good host while the team sat around the whiteboard, trying to come up with ideas.
Before long, they were playing Almond Jenga.
I tried to cook up some eggs for everyone, but standing in the queue at Seven-Eleven, I knew something had gone terribly wrong.
‘Can I help you?’ the attendant asked.
I didn’t know. I was just standing there with my frying pan.
Seven eleven was only a six-minute walk from my house. I made it back for the second joint, but the crew were no closer to coming up with a plan.
I took another few big huffs and stuck a frozen pizza in the oven to keep it simple.
“Let’s watch 2001: A Space Odyssey for inspiration”, suggested Scabby Andrew.
“Oh, how fucking original,” Count Lunchmore interrupted. “Are you going to suggest we all watch The Wall aswell? How fucking psychedelic, MAN.”
Sting sensed trouble. He knew The Count was getting feisty.
“Look, everyone,” Sting said. “I think the weed is getting us off track. We need to come up with a plan.”
I ordered pizza cos everyone seemed hungry, and before you know it, we’re all ripping apart pizza like a pack of ravenous Italian Lions.
A good 2/3rds of the way through a Spicy Barbecue Chicken with a stuffed crust, Sting randomly goes, “Can anyone smell burning?”
“Probably the smoke in the barbecue sauce,” I told him in a voice like Marco Pierre White, and everyone seemed to agree.
Over the next ten murtados, a definite blue smoke gathered in the air, and the distinct hum of four McCain oven pizzas being burned alive loitered. Still, it took the deranged blaring of the damn smoke alarm before anyone took any action.
Fuckers were on fire. And I don’t mean that in a good way.
It was hard to fathom how pizzas were on fire in the oven while we were eating takeaway pizzas.
Everyone looked at each other with crumpled eyes when the excitement wore off.
“What was the objective again?” asked Scabby Andrew.
No one, including The Count, could answer.
“I know,” said Keith, standing in the shadow of the doorway like some mysterious gunslinger.
Nobody knew when he got there. We only knew that if Keith was in the house,
all bets were off.
