Michael

by Hewligan

We weren't drunk when the old man walked in, but we were headed that way with considerable dedication. He grabbed a drink from the bar and sat down at a table near us. Not that I was paying him much attention.

Someone had decided we were going to play lewd fairy tales. Basically we were rewriting fairy tales to drag every ounce of sexual innuendo out of them that we possibly could. It seemed a lot funnier when I was a few beers down.

Rich was doing 'Little Red Riding Hood' - an easy target, if ever I saw one. It just came down to emphasising exactly how much she enjoyed being eaten by the wolf.

Still, at least he managed to break the world record for the most uses of the word 'frothy' in a single sentence.

Fuck this, I decided, and went for a slash.

It was on my way back that I first really noticed him. He was sitting there, in his grubby mac, watching us from beneath a mop of uncontrollable grey hair. I don't know what he was drinking, but it came in a shot glass and it looked fucking potent.

I sat down next to Dave and nudged him. "Think the old purve over there fancies you."

"Nah, it's probably you, the way you were wiggling your arse on the way to the pisser."

"Yeah? Then he should have followed me in then, the daft old purve."

"Was that a pun?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

On whether you'll be impressed, or rip my head off and gob down my throat."

"In that case it probably wasn't."

"Nope."

As usual, Karen was looking way too sober for our company. It wasn't that she wasn't drinking, she could just really hold it, y'know? Last guy tried to get her drunk probably fucking bankrupted himself.. At that particular point she was glaring at me. Again.

"Is all that really necessary?"

I turned to Dave. "I think it's necessary. What do you think?"

"I'm sure you think it's necessary."

I turned back to Karen. "He's sure I think it's necessary."

She sighed and turned to find a conversation with someone less morally reprehensible. Ah, if only she knew the true depths of my love for her.

The old guy still seemed to be watching us. I waved to him. He didn't wave back, he just kept on staring. Or, at least, it seemed like he was staring. The hair hanging over his face partially masked his eyes. Gave me the creeps.

Fuck him, I thought, and returned to a very important drink I had waiting for me. Dave got up to return his beer from whence it came.

There were more stories. Mostly I was so pissed stories. It was that kind of night.

"I turned up to this chem lab, like, totally pissed. Y'know how chromic acid eats through paper? Turns out it does the same thing to jeans. I was just, like, standing there, screaming, 'it's fucking alien blood! They're after my fucking face!'"

"Yeah? Who'd want your fucking face?"

"Aliens of course. They aint fussy."

The old man seemed to be shifting closer to us, listening. I could feel his eyes on me. Which was somewhat ironic, considering I could no longer feel my cheeks.

That was how I knew I was sufficiently drunk. I probably shouldn't drink any more when it gets to this stage. Of course, someone had filled my glass from the jug on the table. I shrugged and drank anyway.

"Okay, y'know the fountain? I mean, like, everyone goes jumping around in it when they're drunk, but I was trying to do the fucking breaststroke!"

"Hey, yeah, I remember that. You looked like a beached whale."

"Well why didn't you try to refloat me, you bastard?"

"I'm only one man."

"Maybe not even that."

The group around me had gotten large enough that the conversation was fragmenting into groups. It was harder and harder to follow one line of thought; one story. Someone's shouting about alien blood. I've heard that one before.

Have I ever seen...? A movie? Yeah. I ask for a repeat, and it's Reservoir Dogs.

I say yes, and have something resembling a conversation about the cop getting his ear cut off.

As soon as I can, I head off to the toilets, trying to look steady as I walk past the bouncers. The old man doesn't follow me, but I'm sure he watches me leave. Some fucking idiot's puked in the sink. A couple of guys are standing there, discussing what he had for lunch.

"Nah, it must be tomato skins. Whenever you chuck there's always tomato skin in it. It's like this biological law."

They have stronger stomachs than me. I get the fuck out of there as fast as I can.

Back again. The conversation still seems to be going through exactly the same

patterns, that I still can't follow.

I go to the bar and ask for water. The barman grins as he hands it to me.

It seems like there's a pattern in everything. Chaos is just when the patterns within patterns are too complex to follow. There are patterns to drunken conversation, I just can't see them. I remember a friend telling me about trying to use fourier analysis to discover the pattern in the colour of ties a lecturer wore. He couldn't find the pattern, but he was fucking sure it was there. I wonder if he knows about discrete fourier analysis. I wonder if I do. It's all fucking maths, anyway.

"I turned up to this test so pissed I could hardly fucking see. It wasn't like I thought I was going to pass, anyway. The best part is that I actually beat some people who spent the day studying."

"Did it improve your mark?"

"Yeah, 'cos if I'd been sober I wouldn't've turned up in the first place."

Time seems so fucking fucked. I swear it was 9:30 a minute ago, but now my watch says 9:15. Who needs linear time, anyway?

Of course, non-linear time would make it much trickier to catch a bus.

Someone tells me that it's too early for me to be this drunk, but I just point out that it's okay because time is running backwards. They don't believe me when I insist that because of this I am, in fact, perfectly sober.

There's no water left in my glass now, so I suck on the ice-cubes. I'm already too cold. Instead of stopping, though, I just get my jacket out of my bag.

There was pattern to the old man's movements. He was getting closer.

I checked my watch. It was still Thursday, and time appeared to be moving forward again. That would probably turn out to be a useful thing to know. Busses work much better in linear time. Anyway, I remember what happened to The Cat on the backwards world.

There's a hand on my shoulder. That's odd, because I swear there wasn't one there a minute ago. It's wrinkled to fuck and back, so it can't be mine. The last joints missing from the index finger. I count my own hands and they're still on the ends of my arms, where they belong. All this leaves only one possible conclusion: the hand belongs to someone else. I turn around, intending to give it back to its owner.

It turns out that he's standing right behind me. I'm not even surprised that it's the old man. At least I manage to resist the urge to say "Hello, old man." Instead, I say, "Howdy," as I look glazedly up at him. It's funny, but I still can't make out his eyes properly. Maybe it's just that huge nose getting in the way.

"Could I tell a story?" he says.

"Well that would all depend on who the fuck you are," I say.

He pauses, then: "You can call me Michael."

"Oh." I turn back to the table. "That clears everything up. He's Michael."

"No, I said you can call me Michael."

"Whatever."

"Anyway, my story."

"Go right ahead."

"Very well. My story is about a father and his two sons."

"Oh, goody."

"The father claimed that he loved both of his sons, but it always seemed like he preferred the younger one. Anyway, the father had a birthday coming up, and the sons went out to buy him presents."

"This story sounds decidedly familiar."

"I'm sure. Anyway, the elder brother bought a basket of fruit for the father, while the younger brother got him thick, juicy steaks.

"They both gave the gifts to their father at his birthday party. As usual, he preferred the younger brothers present, and practically ignored his first-born son. Ignored him for the whole day. Again.

"After the party, the two brothers started arguing. And the arguing led to fighting. And the fighting led to death. The older brother killed the younger. Shocked and scared, he ran and hid.

"It did him no good. The police found him and arrested him. He was taken to court. By some cruel misfortune, the father was also the judge. The judge was filled with anger and grief, and found the elder son guilty before even hearing any of the evidence."

"Yeah?" I push back my hair and ask: "What did he get?"

Michael smiles. "He got life."