“Lifessa fuchkn jdoke,” said the man clutching the bottle of tonic wine. He had a bruise on his face like the map of some undiscovered country. It was dark and multi-hued, purple, yellow, red, oil on a wet road. One of his eyes was toad-swollen and closed.
“D'ye hearr me?” he shouted but no one replied. A pigeon pecked at a wrapper. A bus passed, it’s hydraulics hissing at the pedestrians.
“Yer all fuchkn slaves!” he wiped his mouth on his cuff and staggered forward. “Go home and feather your… fuchkn nests! Yer all up to your debt in eyeballs!”
Then he roared a guttural sentence without any verbs or nouns before pirouetting on one heel and onto the flat of his head. The bottle clinked twice down the street before it smashed.
I thought nothing of it until my friend told me a story one night when we were drinking. His cousin and a mutual friend were fishing out on the coast when a car pulled up on the pier. The engine stopped and a guy stepped out. He sparked up a cigarette and stood there staring out at the sea and sky. He didn’t pace up and down or even look at them, he just stood there staring into the distance silently smoking. Then he got back in, started the ignition and put his foot to the floor. The car revved and in a split second tore off the pier and flumped, belly-flopped into the sea. Within seconds the whole thing had tilted and the taillights were disappearing into the depths. They dropped their rods and ran over. Great fists of bubbles were coming to the surface. They looked at each other. Silence. The driver burst to the surface, wrestling with the waves.
"Jesus boys, it's fucking freezing" I believe he said.