31st May 2022
He lifted his head groggily from the wooden table, his saliva forming a tight seal between cheek and wood, which made an unpleasant sucking noise
as it was forcibily parted.
He looked around. Sunlight was beaming into what appeared to be a homely little kitchen. And also directly into his eyes. “Jesus..”, he scrabbled on the table and his hand closed over something that felt like sunglasses. He put them on and the world fell into blessed shade. His head felt like both Donald Trump and Kim Jong Il had declared war on it and fired their entire stack of nukes, timed to land perfectly when he opened his eyes..
As his eyes gradually came into focus, he noticed an empty bottle on the table. “Galiano? You bastard..” What was he even THINKING, drinking that? He raised his hand rub his bald head, an automatic reaction that was barely noticed. What wasn’t barely noticed was the fact that 1) his hand was covered in gauze, the rough feel of the cotton scraping and abrasive against his shaved ha..2) he had no hair. What the actual hell??
He leapt up in panic, wondering what happened to him. His legs then buckled and he fell to the floor as the second wave of the Axis of Orange’s hangover missiles struck home and detonated. “Fucking why?!?!” he wondered aloud, sobbing..
He pushed himself up onto all fours, panting. Both hands were covered in gauze. What had happened? Had he become a drunken burns victim? WHAT? Ignoring the pain as he rose, he unsteadily got to his feet. Bad move. A stomach contents worth of Galiano made an exit onto the stone-tiled floor. “FUCK” he spat. Urgh, and now it was all over the bandages covering his fac…his face. He bolted for the toilet. Only to realise, he had no idea where the toilet was. Tears came to his eyes. He didn’t know if it was the situation or the stench of vomit on the bandages that was causing it.
Suddenly, he felt a vibration on his leg and strains of ‘Het Wilhelmus’ filled his ears. The Dutch national anthem? But, what? He fumbled the phone out of his pocket, but couldn’t answer the call, the gauze preventing the touchscreen from activating. The unknown number kept ringing and ringing. In frustration, he yelled “I just want to answer the fucking phone, Jesus”. With that, the phone answered in it’s reassuring robotic voice “Answering Call. Speaker.”
“Hello?”, a accented voice thundered out of the phone. What was that voice? He knew that voice. He dredged up a memory from the shards of glass that made up his brain currently..
“Of course it’s The Zlatan, you oaf” he thundered
“What..I mean, why, I mean, what is this??” Panic mixed with some relief in his voice
“I knew you’d drink the whole bottle. I mean, I left it for a celebratory drink, but I bet you’ve drunk it all. And I’m guessing you’ve chucked your guts up and are getting weepy that you have no idea what’s going on”
“What? No, no, not at all..”
“The bathroom is on the first door on the left. I’ll call back in an hour” and with that, Zlatan hung up
He opened the bathroom door. As the neon light flared and caused him to blink, he saw a pair of long-bladed scissors, some painkillers and a glass of water next to the wash basin. Fucking Zlatan, he already set this up, he cursed. He set to work, cutting the gauze on his hands, and then the stinking bandages on his face before throwing the whole mess in the bin. Before he looked in the mirror, however, he dumped
the painkillers into the glass and drank deeply. Codeine, he mused, that’ll help. His eyes travelled up to the mirror.
He screamed. WHO THE F**K WAS THAT STARING AT HIM??
And as if that was the sign his brain needed, his memories begain to flood back…