And what was normal in the moonlight by the morning seems, insane

Hey. :) Writing a fantasy short-story is taking a bit longer than I expected, so I thought I'd post something else more in my usual vein in the meantime. 'Cause, ya know. Everybody's so keen to read my weird little outbursts of creativity. =p Anyway, hope you enjoy it.

The Tragicomic Nature of Sunday Mornings

So anyway Old Marty comes strolling through, swingin’ his black bowler hat around his index finger like he’s a goddamn beatnik jazz player or some such thing, whistling a merry tune all full of wit and mirth and self-fulfilment. The bastard flashes me a broad grin, a little too broad so that I know he’s been at our whiskey again. He addresses me and stares out the window.

“I’m tellin’ ya Will, I’m tellin’ ya”. That big smile’s still slapped on there. He sighs.

“What exactly are you telling me, Martin. What exactly are you fucking telling me.”

Old Marty pauses and turns to look at me, a little stunned, then laughs a rich Manhattan laugh, designed to broadcast some sort of social prosperity.

“What I’m telling you, William, is that this weekend has provided a veritable plethora of epiphanies for us both to feast our precocious young minds upon!” Old Marty looks at me importantly and with a glimmer in his eye. I amuse myself wondering whether he fancies himself a modern day prophet, a kind of urban Christ? A Mohammed à la mode? An edgy Ganesha?

Marty slaps me out of my thought loop. Literally. I look up, disgruntled, but unable to fully stifle that little itch of hope that maybe he’ll say something interesting, so I respectfully stay silent. He crouches down and fixes me a sugary stare. I bet he loves the attention. Artists…

“Are ya sittin’ comfortably there Billy-boy? Then I’ll begin.” He smirks. “By the way, you’d better get that powder offa the coffee table, man. An associate of mine is visiting this afternoon.”

Associate? Fucking associate on a Sunday afternoon. I stash the drugs and he carries on talking as the horrible objective sunlight begins to investigate and judge the squalor of our home.

“Well Will, what I realised last night was that emotional pain and angst are primarily a product of our own thought processes rather than any genuine grievance in the external world, right? Right, ya follow me? So say something that is guaranteed to get your goat, to really piss you off, Will, happens in life, like say I dunno your girl’s gettin’ with ya best friend okay, now obviously this is a set back sure, but it’s nothin’ compared you’re gonna be, you’re gonna be interpreting it, okay? You’re gonna be thinkin’ some goddamn nonsense such as it is a personal indictment of my character when it’s no such thing and-”

Marty’s stopped talking now because I’ve got to my feet. He goes thin-lipped.

“Sorry Will. Am I boring you here man?”

“Shut up Marty just shut up. Didja… shit Marty, didja” I notice him struggling to comprehend me and think that it must be the incoherence of dawn setting in, along with a healthy dose of the Jack Daniels.

“Didja sleep with Joanne? Is that what you’re trying to say Marty? All this philosophical speculation crap. You just tryna soften the blow, detach me from my pain or whatever you psycho-babbler, bohemian motherfuckers call it? Huh? HUH?”

Old Marty stares at me agog, mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish having mathematics explained to it, or something.

“Will…” he croaks. “Jesus Will, no… c’mon buddy 3 years we’ve lived in this shit-heap together and you still think I’d bang your chick? I was just, I was like genuinely trying to explain something I had my mind wrapped around I, I dunno dude, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I upset ya.” He holds his bowler hat solemnly by his midriff now, defensive, as if he’s at a funeral. Little snakes of doubt creep round the back of my skull. I get the powder back out and rack up a line while Marty looks on with his big blue eyes.

I sniff it up and say dramatically “Well who is your goddamn associate that is coming over later then Marty? You answer me that.”

Marty shifts his weight uneasily and those little snakes disappear as hot rage washes over me.

“Alright Will, alright. It’s Joanne, its Joanne. But listen man I can expl-” but he never finishes his sentence because I smack him viciously in the mouth and run him out of the house while he talks up a storm about kicking my arse, I’m out of control, et cetera.

I pick up the phone, my hands shaking with the sheer bloody self-righteousness of it all. “Joanne, Joanne Joanne. Talk to me. Tell me something.”

Her distinctive and delightful giggle transfers tinnily into my ear.

“Hey sweetie. You’re up early! I hope you got some sleep last night mister, because me and Marty were gonna come over today and surprise you, well I guess it’s not a surprise now but we’ve got you the best early birthday present ever, you’ll love it I promise…”