Fiction is real if it exists in someone's mind...

Greetings,

Below is something that I wrote off the top of my head while listening to Jim Morrison's beautiful American Prayer. God it's a good album. Lately I can't stop listening to the soundtrack to The Virgin Suicides either. Anywho, I don't know where I'm going with this but if I continue it expect to see it posted here sometime.

Peace

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Cadbury sparked up the withered joint. He was a habitual pot smoker for no other reason than he was bored with life. What was there to be excited about anyway? School? Work? Girls? Fuck off. Maybe girls were a slight distraction from the dreariness of everyday life but in Cadbury’s experience they always seemed like too much trouble, the good ones anyway. Was it really that hard to find someone with a similar taste in music, movies and books who owned a pair of breasts? Quite frankly, yes.
 
The beans crackled and crunched as Bill shuffled about, trying to get comfortable on the bag. The beanbag itself was covered in stains. Liquor, milk, spit, vomit, urine, cum. Bill didn’t mind, it was his beanbag. He gladly accepted the spliff from Cad as he brushed the dirty blonde hair from his thin, good-looking face. He took a long, slow drag before inhaling it into his lungs and exploding with splutters and coughs of phlegm and saliva. “Cough to get off man” Cad laughed into his face. Bill wiped his mouth on a seemingly clean corner of the bag and held out the soggy joint. Cad’s skinny fingers tenderly clasped the poorly-rolled stub. “Fuck off Cad, you’ve already had a bang. It’s my fuckin turn”. Pillow’s real name wasn’t Pillow. That’s just what Cad and Bill called him because he was soft down below. Pillow’s real name was Leonard, which Cad and Bill thought was camp enough anyway. Pillow was of a stature that wouldn’t be taken lightly by any stranger. He was big and he was tall, the kind of character that people kept well away from on any occasion. The poor bastard Pillow was born naturally mean. He had a face that crumpled when he smiled. His eyebrows would point down towards his nose and instead of a smile it looked more like some sadistic psychopathic grin. The other two lads had known Pillow since they were five years old. No one your own age is scary when you’re five.
 
“Alright Pil, keep your shirt on” Cad replied as he passed the weed on after taking a sharp toke. “I paid for the fucking weed’ complained Pillow “why the fuck do I get the bloody sloppy roach?”
 
“Now Pil, you’ve got to understand. There are several factors that go into who gets the first puff. Who rolled it, who’s house are we choofing in, who’s the best looking. Those kind of things”
 
“Piss off Bill” Pillow managed in between fits of coughing. “Ya dickhead”. “Now Pil, if you’re really that upset about things I’ve already suggested that you invest in a proper bong.” Bill suggested. He lay his head back against the bag. In his hightened state he could feel the individual beans of the bag pressing into the back of his scalp. Cadbury got up from the bed and walked over to the massive stereo Bill had sitting in his room. Apparently a cousin of Bill’s had gotten hold of some dodgy speakers and sold them to his for next to nothing. Cadbury had to admit that they were bloody good. He cranked the sound as Pete Townshend started cracking out windmills. Cadbury began to air guitar along with the song.
 
Pillow leant back against the hard door and watched his two dickhead friends. The boys had been drinking since lunch that day, shortly after Bill’s parents had left to go on holidays. They had started with beer, then bourbon, then rum, and finally some colourful stuff. Pillow didn’t know what it was called. The day had drifted through accompanied by the emotions of Jim Morrision, Neil Young, Zeppelin, Jeff Beck, Pink Floyd. Merging together as the boys drifted into inebriation. Pillow felt his stomach gurgle. It wasn’t happy. He could feel his bile bubbling to the bottom of his throat. Pillow had to laugh as he watched Cadbury, eyes tightly closed, as he strummed his invisible guitar. Bill, on another mindscape, as his head worked into the beanbag. Pillow tried to swallow the vomit back down into his stomach. It was no use, he could feel it coming. The impending rot as he opened his mouth and vomited the filth into the clothes basket sitting next to him. The room swirled around him. Cadbury and Bill were laughing. “Pillow you fucking softcock”. Empty blackness. Spinning. Goodnight.