by Mithun Mukherjee
Neon red. Fat colour to use as bulbs in a pub.
Two losers like us in the seediest of pubs, hoping to get laid.
Laid. Such a fuckin’ Word!
The music is like a steam engine from two centuries ago, starting up and thumping inside my head.
“We will do everything together”.
Except we can’t.
“Who’s in there? I gotta go!”
‘Buzz off...find another room!’
The guy goes away leaving Will to what he is doing inside the four by three capsule. I can only imagine.
And hope I get a turn too.
“Hey, that your friend inside with Martha?”
The guy doesn’t look like he is gonna slug me. Or want a turn.
“Thought I would tell you...cuz’ you look like a nice guy.”
I see his lips move but hear the whump whump whump of the bass and the sound of a breaking bottle come out of his mouth. You could blow up a nuke here and get away with it.
“Whaa?” I try again. Not that it would be critically important or anything. A Mars settlement disclosure or a Microsoft social networking platform announcement were the last things you could expect here.
‘I was saying’...he screams, trying to rise above the mock-industrial clatter, ‘that she is not Martha!’
A hand slaps right above my head, emerging out of the red fog inside the toilet. Will, you Titanic-esque bastard.
“Who is she then?” I scream back.
“A He!” he corrects,