Mitchell's Mustard Blog

January 17, 2011

The Morning After

Filed under: My Work — mitchellsmustard @ 8:04 pm

Trixie . . . . Pixie  . . . . err . . . . Jessie, oh fuck it I don’t remember her name but the service she provided was well worth the money from what I remember, I’m sure she threw her card on the side before she left but I’m afraid to move. My brain feels like I tried to wash it in the sink with a scouring pad and my face like I tried to chew on a wrecking ball, when I have the energy the first thing I’m going to do is stick my middle finger up at the light creeping in through the crack in the curtains . . . . . . Fuck you Mother Nature!!

I don’t know what motel I’m in because after a while the rooms all look the same, same colour, same furnishings and same fucking shitty pictures of trees or hills that look like they have been painted by a bored 5 year old but I knew this room was a little different because I’m used to waking up and being the only one in between the four walls. Slowly lifting myself up to a pathetic seated position I notice a bundle of limbs in the corner on the floor, only enough limbs for one person but that’s one person to many. Looking around to make sure there wasn’t another surprise body anywhere else on the floor I pick up my packet of cigarettes and shook it to check for weight, adding my lighter was ample enough to wake someone up. On the count of three I launched the packet and got a bull’s-eye head shot, I was quite impressed with the throw I nearly forgot why I was throwing it in the first place but an eerie grunting sound from the limbs brought me back to the situation. It was a good feeling to know the body was alive because that would have been a fucked up situation to explain to the police. “Yeah that’s my story officer . . . . I can’t remember anything about last night, I don’t know how I got here and I have no clue who the dead body is at the bottom of my bed” I think that would be a sentence in the making but pulling a positive from the situation a prison cell hasn’t got shitty art on the wall.

The lump in the corner started to move and groan like a cow stuck in barbed wire, this male lump was a big heavily tattooed hells angel looking bruiser. He was as big as a bear, if he was a bear he would have been a grizzly. I started to wish he was dead because I had a slight feeling of fear that he might eat me for breakfast of maybe empty a load in me before he left. He turned and looked at me and I bet my face was priceless, stumbling to his feet I realised that he was even bigger than I originally thought. Standing about 6’5 and the width of the door way he stepped towards me. “Dude what a night, arrgh man I’m so late for work”. I was so surprised I just nodded my head.  “I better make a move man, keep it real” he said then disappeared out of the door. After a long chesty exhale I hoped I would never see that man again.

Getting up and out of this motel had to be the best idea so with slow small movements I edged my legs off the side of the bed, I felt like if I moved to quickly there was a chance my head may roll off my shoulders and bounce under the bed and I really don’t want to see what’s under there just in case of another surprise. Whilst moving I noticed the skin on the bottom of my back felt tight and sticky, god knows what I could have laid in but I wasn’t about to rub my hand in it to find out. Stumbling to my feet I notice I’m stark naked and I suddenly remember the women from last night; suddenly it dawned on me . . . . . . What the fuck have I done? Shuffling to the bathroom like an 80’s zombie minus the dribble I headed straight for the mirror. Like a slap in the face with a spoon my brain was kind enough to let me know that the light in the bathroom was bright, holding onto the sink and staring at a reflection I didn’t recognise . . . . . . Fuck I’m in trouble.

I’ve only ever had a couple of black eyes and always counted down the days for them to go because they just don’t suit me, it looks like I’m back to day one. I turned round to look at what was stuck to my back, cling film . . . . What the fuck. The panic rose in my throat and I was sick all over the sink and floor, I hate tattoos. With bated breath I peeled the cling film from my back to reveal a fist size tattoo of a rainbow on my lower back; I’ve got a rainbow fucking tramp stamp. If that oaf of a man was still in the room I would have punched him in the face just because he had tattoos, he must have made me get it because I fucking hate tattoos . . . . . . Ohh I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.

I need to get out of here, fully clothed and stepping out the door the smell of life outside made me feel sick. As soon as I looked around the car park outside it wasn’t just my car that I recognised, with ultimate disbelief I was only a 10 minute drive from my house. Those 10 minutes where the longest and most uncomfortable 10 minutes I’ve ever experienced, sat as far forward as possible so my new rainbow didn’t stick to my tee-shirt, keeping an eye out for police because I was having trouble directing my body let alone a car and trying not to be sick on my lap or out the window.

Stumbling up the garden path nervously juggling my keys in my hand, I stop at the door and before I put the key in the lock all I can think is . . . . . . . How am I going to explain this to the wife?

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