It was late, closing to mid-night. But Lawrence didn't give a flying fuck. He was piss-drunk out of his mind. A wasted dude like him had no chronological concerns. Lying on his massive sofa with passed out naked chicks, joint in one hand and a Corona in the other, he was the happiest motherfucker on earth.
Lawrence was throwing some random party. House-warming, New Years, Christmas or whatever. Lawrence forgot what day it was. It probably wasn't one of the three. But it did not matter. You don't need an excuse to snort coke and have sex. The world could end tomorrow; ashes to ashes and blah blah blah, we could all fucking die. Lawrence celebrated today just because it was Thursday.
The music was ear-splitting and loud as hell. In that massive din, you couldn't even hear your own fucking voice. It you weren't a loose definition of sober, you won't even know if you were talking at all . But nobody gave a shit about conversation anyway. All were wasted. It was just sex and drugs and whatever debauchery that crept into their decrepit minds.
In the center of all this sin, was Lawrence. Lawrence the uncrowned King. Lawrence was the son of one of the richest basterds around; the sole heir of an entire empire. His house was grand as Heaven; he had more money than God.
Lawrence loved his money. And not just for money's sake. The side effects of wealth are awesome too. Money buys you a fuckload of positive attributes. Everybody found you handsome. You shat gold and you farted rainbows. You didn't even show up for your test. But hell, you're the smartest kid in class.
"Born of love and cast in light. Don't you know we cannot die?"
Lawrence smiled a smug little smile. He finished the beer in his hand and took deep drags of his joint. Lawrence was tired from fucking and high as Selassie. Without relaxing his smile at all, Lawrence's eyelids fell like curtains and his head spun into oblivion.
Monday, November 9, 2009
A Midsummer Night's Dream, Literally. Part 1.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Drive.
Michelle drove fast. The streetlamps became a blur; their individual lights mixed into a continuous stream of illumination.
Michelle's eyes were locked on the road. She not only stared, she stalked it. Driving was the only thing on her mind. There was no aim expect to drive; no purpose expect to speed. Nothing else mattered. There was traffic on the road, but expect for her own, Michelle saw no cars.
Tears into wine; rubber onto asphalt. She drove on.
Michelle's radio was turned on. In the background, a country singer was crooning away. His deep baritone voice belting out a sordid tale.
"You've painted me his picture with words you couldn't speak And I've seen his reflection in a memory on your cheek..."
Behind the singer and Michelle were a half dozen police cars. Their blaring sirens and the country song mashed together to form a bizarre mix-tape. It was like a symphony of chaos.
"Pull over ma'am!" shouted the one among the many, "This is the police! Pull over!"
But Michelle took no heed. Her hands and feet floated around the car like clockwork. Michelle pushed the car far into the boundaries of limit. Its tires assaulting the road, Michelle raced towards oblivion.
There was a road block up front. It was a sea of blue, white and flashing red; an impenetrable curtain of steel.
Michelle stepped on the accelerator hard. She ditched the cars in pursuit. Their sirens were a little more than whispers. Michelle knew only the road. The country singer faded into the background. She griped the wheel hard; she eyed the road block like a hawk; her pupils were dilated.
She showed no signs of stopping.
Picture: Don't walk, Dante by Stuart Gibson.
Country song lyrics by the late Conway Twitty.
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