KatzenJammer - Creative Writing

The awakening was rude for sure. =The sleep could have been fitful but for the boot planted firmly upon my spine. Being woken from slumber by pain was an odd sensation, it negated the usual feeling of the mind and body warm up of the regular riser and cut straight into alertness, which in turn only adds to the confusion. This sudden switch from off to on, a crude and inefficient means to rousing, inevitably leads to a morning of moodiness, providing that it was morning. These things had to be discovered.

The brain is a tender fiend, with the consistency of a soft-boiled egg. It threatens to burn out when suddenly bombarded with so many stimuli. The pain, the fuzzy recollection of yesterday's ghost, the feel of cold saliva pooled upon the ridge of my chin, and the smell of fire invaded my nostrils. As means of revenge my brain plopped a tiny crisp white card in front of my eyes, this just happened to be the 'fact of the day'.
It read: 'An aneurysm is often accompanied with the internal stench of burning. This is the short circuiting of synapses.'

"Sweet Jesus," I recall wailing. "My head's going to burst! That smell, that smell!" As a side note I couldn't help but smirk, knowing that my brain, the little pink teaser housed in my skull certainly deserved to burn. It offered the treats to feel, taste, touch and so on and yet whispered behind it all, 'it's not enough, it's not enough, you need more, more, more.'

"What the hell is that?" The voice belonged to the foot, which in turn belonged to a burly gent in a blue blazer and brown slacks. The foot also had a finger, which pointed down to the rug before me and what lay upon the rug. It was a pile of smouldering ashes that caused the smell of smoke. What had once been red with life and warmth now lay as a pitiful and fragile shell of retired violence. It was possible it had once been a newspaper of some kind. I was happy to discover it was not my brain coughing out smoke signals after all.

"Did you set a fire here?"

"Just for warmth," I replied, taking up a position on my knees as a sign of subservience. "Just a campfire huddle."

"Here?" The menace radiated from the man's prickly eyebrows.

"Is there a better place?" I asked, almost choking on my own lies. It was lies, it would all be lies, I had no choice but to lie until I'd slotted the jigsaw puzzle pieces of who, what, why and where firmly into place. The question was would he realise that?

"I had hoped to invite a few people," I continued. "And initiate some form of social gathering, songs, drink and the joys they drag with them. People need points to get on and off the train of friendship, congregate at the station inebriate and just jump on board buddy boy, we all ride together."

He wasn't buying the smile and why should he? Sold like the corpse of a rusty skinned car chassis, only a fool would purchase goods that came with a pre-signed death certificate. My smile had never been a point of attraction: whilst smiling a woman had once called me cancerous. Whilst smiling I had garnered many a fiery glare from the fellow mourners at my brother's funeral.

"Sir, are you aware you're in a hallway to a hotel?"
I appreciated gaining an answer to an unknown and planned on telling him so. But the wrinkles on his brow read like the headlines of a tabloid, harsh and bold type that stated 'I am not a happy bunny wunny.'

"Are you drunk?" He asked me, a chunk of his head flesh slit open to show a row of browning piranha teeth.

"I hope so, I have been drinking."

"What?" The tone had been borrowed from a cloth-cap wearing judge.

I felt laboured by the tussle between my ears between good ideas and bad ideas. The slickness of the drink had fuddled the part of my brain known as the 'mum-spot', the part which always knew best. Therefore what came forth from my mouth could only have been termed verbal vomit.

"The shop keep had the shifty eyes of the shadow hopper. Dressed all in black he was fit for dwelling in corners and darkened alley ways. It was supposed to be a bottle of rum, but the top may have been jimmied open and the contents watered. The runner of my local used to boast about such an act he said it promoted growth. I told him 'God damn I'm not drinking greenery'. He didn't get it."

"Are you a bum?"

"Only as much as the next salesman, sir" I replied. Titles could breed familiarity; the first foot fall on the journey to 'them'. People given a title not only respected the sense of civility but would also tend to respond according to the tag taped round their toe.

"Then what are you?" Words of a metaphysical nature were not suited here, be simple and honest but falsely so. Lies were true if you believed them.

"I checked in last night late. I'm here on business, the convention at the town hall to be precise. I'm the figurehead in the advertising department for 'Lawson's Kitchen Care and Table-ware Limited'. We're promoting a new form of tap, heat sensitive."

"Yeah?" Slowly I gained belief; soon his tongue would tickle my palm from remaining grains of sugar.

"Sure thing, I wanted a little tipple to drown the drama, it's my first time on a plinth. The prospect is mighty frightening." My clothes may have suggested otherwise, I was not daubed in the battle armour of a regular 'Door to door' and hoped he'd take my drab attire as fatigues for cavorting with comfort. "My addled mind had me missing the obvious; I forgot my key on my jaunt out to the liquor store. I would have found help but for the stink of booze and dishevelled appearance. I'll be candid, it's a touch embarrassing. My wallet's behind the door, I'll pay for the rug and any inconvenience."

The man sighed and yet nodded, showing the exasperation of reliance. His actions stated he didn't want to help but his face suggested he had to, he no doubt expected a few more under the table compliments to sweeten the deal.

"I'll go get the master key, then maybe we can sort out this trouble here, the damages may be sizeable."

"As is my wallet sir," I added. "I'll be sure to show my gratitude in green."

He nodded again, satisfied and walked off down the hall. No doubt there would be some sort of alternative route for escape, these haunts having many routes of retreat for the rats to scurry down. Once again I had to concede, this was yet another sleepover I had to avoid in the future.