Heroin

His heart beats fast. He stares at the ceiling in the dark; wide awake. He is worried about what might happen. What will they say? How will they react? He wakes before She does. He walks to the sink and bends over to vomit. Nothing comes out as his stomach is empty. Several times his throat lurches. He spits to clear the taste of bile from his throat and looks in the mirror.

He needs his fix. It will give him the strength to get through this. That powerful feeling that he can overcome anything. That calm, strengthening fury. Maybe if he takes a bigger dose this time the effect it will last longer. Today he embraces his addiction. Who cares if they know?

The Bravest Man in the Universe

He is feeling the heart burn. Junior and the Wife think nothing of his comments that he has eaten too much.

Junior gets up and goes home. The Wife goes to bed.

He takes a shower in hot water to wash away the sweat. He wakes her up and informs her that he needs to go. Now.

"Should I call Jr.?"

"No, it's nothing. Don't... bother them. It's 2 a.m."

She supports him down the road. He is struggling. Taxis go by, red, red, Green! She flags but it does not stop. "Hey!" he grunts at the taxi. It's all he can articulate. Her fear continues to rise even though, finally, a cab stops.

As they alight, he tells her, "Please call them."

Glorified G

He had written to both of time several times. It does not make sense that he has had such easy access to a shotgun since he was 13. How could they discuss so much about the economy and mention nothing of this? How many innocents have died due to the economy? Is it many compared to Columbine or Colorado? How much has the NRA contributed to their campaigns?

He just doesn't get it. What does he have to do to get their attention? An idea strikes him. It is perverse and extreme but it might just work.

Has it worked?

Satellite of Love (Danny Saber Remix)

He is excited that at this very latitude and longitude, but 36 storeys below, there are probably 20 people squeezed into the same space that they have all to themselves up here. There is no background noise from traffic here. There are no prams to make way for. There is not another soul in sight. Every album he plays hits the spot. Even Ms Jovovich's screeching does not irritate them.

You Haven't Done Nothin'

He admits, indeed, it's a valid accusation. He can but try to explain where it went wrong.


So many decks.
So much better at PowerPoint.
So many discussions.
So much cross-pollination of ideas.
So much travelling.
So many, many lies.


So little knowledge gained.
So little satisfaction.

Pilate

He wakes at his usual time but lingers a little before getting out of bed. He drags his feet to the kitchen and drinks from the full glass of water, as he is told to. During breakfast they discuss the plan for dinner. Since he has a work call, she suggests they eat in; she volunteers to buy something to cook on the way home. He nods, but requests that they eat fish.

He gives her a peck on the cheek and leaves for work. His day, which had begun the night before, is filled with fruitless and countless meetings, discussions and 'brainstorms'.

"More like drain-storms ha ha", he chuckles.

What?

On the way home is when he remembers their morning conversation. As a thank you for the hearty meal that awaits him at home, he buys a small bouquet of flowers.

Glasgow Megasnake

"And here we go - there's the bell for the final lap! But still no one's making a move. The three leaders are keeping pace with each other, literally neck and neck."

In his first race back from retirement, he's somehow managed to keep pace with the front two for the past 31 laps. Now he clings to the inner edge of lane 2 as they go round the bend. He's ready to overtake them on a clear path.

"Here they come into the back straight, and Mr Coe starts his move. Is it too early? Those calves of his must be in some pain!"

He glides past the leading duo and drifts back into lane 1. He can hear the two of them panting, sucking air like a Hoover. Now he is in the final bend. As he enters it he looks to his left and sees them falling away behind him.  Their arms are pumping violently, but their heads are lolling from side to side. A sure sign of tiredness. It motivates him tremendously.

"Mr Coe enters the final 100 in the lead looking very good. They're not going to catch him today."

He can go faster. All the frustration and fury from years of not winning build to a deafening roar in his head. He hears and sees nothing in the stadium except his lane leading to the finish line. His feet are pounding the ground rhythmically,  pulling the track from in front of him and kicking it far behind.

The crowd erupts when he breasts the tape. He beats his chest and screams, "Me! Me!". The camera circles him, capturing his intoxicated state.