It doesn’t seem to matter because when there’s a knock on the door, you open it.
You looked through the door and saw four cheap plastic chairs make up the furnishing of the room. The distant of the chug of a train and the whirr of traffic could be heard in the distance as a huge beam of sunlight and dust pierced the shield of darkness as each chair inhabited by familiar faces just looked at each other cautiously.
“So…”
“So?”
“Who’s going to go first?”
“Why don’t you?”
“No. You.”
“Make me?”
“Make me!”
“Relax guys…”
“How about you fucking relax, ?”
“Shut your fucking mouth!”
“QUUUUUIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETTTTT!”
And it had reached its crescendo. Finally, one of the people stood up from his chair, walking into the middle, the air whistling like a Nerf Vortex Mega Howler sailing through the air as the man’s loose skin flapped around. He cleared his throat before speaking in a very thick and heavy southern drawl.
“My confession is… I love to tickle dicks. I just love to. I mean, you may find it ironic considering I like to call people all the time but when I say stuff like ‘I will shit down your neck you stupid ’ I’m actually giving the secret call for you to allow me to tickle your dick. I mean, one time I beat this guy called Eli James and I got a good handful and gave it a good tug but he sort of brushed me off and I’ve been losing self-esteem rapidly ever since. The truth is, I have been struggling with limp dick for the past couple of years and my wife’s open casket funeral was the last time I’ve ever gotten past a semi…”
“That’s fucking disgusting.”
“No, no. Not my dead wife that was a front to my addiction. I’m talking about when I grabbed my grandson’s member firmly in the right hand and squeezed. Jesus, I haven’t felt that euphoric since shower time in Vietnam. I used to accidentally let the soap slip between my fingertips and break against the semen-stained, wet concrete below just so I could give Private Percy a reach-a-tickle.”
The man licks his crusty lips.
“That’s the real reason I signed up to wrestling. I slowly worked my way up from counting Federweight pins and just getting down on hands and knees just… ~manly grunt~ …staring and thinking of the day I could get my hands on them. Unfortunately years of doing it has forced crustations in my palms and my days of dick tickling escapades may finally come to a head. I’m worried, you know? If my gaping manpussy is anything show I’m way past my menopause and my feelings are running out so this Shove-It may be the last chance I get to allow my grubby hands to feast upon the sweet, succulent-“
“I think that’s enough.”
The man’s eyes wander to the shoelaces of his combat boots.
“Sorry.”
The man returns to his seat and the chair makes a terrifying scrape against the ground as another person stands up, this time a well-dressed young man approaches the middle of the circle.
“Uh, hey. I have a different kind of addiction. You see, unlike the other guy, this one I simply cannot escape. They are everywhere. In the corridor. In the street. In the gay strip club I regularly attend with my spic tag team partner and most worryingly of all they are implanted into my mind like a sunspot. I eat, breathe, smell, cum, inhale…
Memes.”
Stifled laughter emerges from the small group.
“Get a fucking life kid.”
“Jesus…”
“That has to be the most incompetent string of words I have ever heard emerge from someone’s lips.”
“W-wait! You haven’t let me explain myself! These memes, they aren’t of a sexual nature. I save all my sex drive for my boyfriend, the current Xtreme champion! I show enough self-restraint and control unlike that old fuck over there. I don’t tickle dicks without consent. I grip my computer mouse tightly and type into the magic Google search engine…
9GAG!
I scroll through the thousands upon thousands of memes and I cry as I know that this emotion cannot be comprehended by any casual Facebook meme viewer. I am a Meme Machine. Without memes I would simply not exist.”
The second talker looked incredibly drained, with the entire colour sucked out of his face. He retreats and slumps back into his chair. A third man stands up and walks into the centre, an absolutely disgusting aroma surrounding him causing everyone to gag at the smell.
“My addiction is something different. You see, from the very first day, this addiction has become apparent. This isn’t some grand reveal or some shit. This is literally ‘some shit’. I am addicted to shit. I have received operations to have several ribs removed just so when I squat down and drop the Cosby kids off at the pool, I can bend forward and watch myself unleash one of life’s many treasures.
And what I do with that shit varies. I may throw it on a title. I may use it as hair conditioner. I may even give it to someone as a birthday present.”
“What the fuck.”
“That fucking takes the cake.”
“You like to… watch, did you say?”
“A-and sometimes I like to stick my tongue out-“
“Did I ask for any details?”
“02319321000010100101010”
“I ddddddddidn’t. On the contrary, they may tttthhiiinnkkk-“
The man’s jaw breaks off and grows a pair of legs. It sprints and charges at the window, smashing through and escaping to the other side. The four chairs with the men sitting on them slide into the middle where a buffet table appears, packed with delightful cupcakes, delicious treats and cups of tea singing happy birthday despite it not being anyone’s birthday. Each man (while you were paying attention to the cups of tea) now is wearing a brightly coloured hat and is playing musical chairs despite there not being any music. Each man has now forgotten their addictions despite them being just that – addictions.
The game of musical chairs turns violent and begins to escalate into an all-out brawl with chairs and food flying everywhere. The party has been spoiled. The tickler of dicks and meme lover are having a fist brawl while the shit watcher tries to gain the upper hand using whatever underhanded tactics he can. Then they all die.
That’s not what’s meant to happen? Who is messing with the story?
I never mentioned a fourth man, but that is all that remains as he slides out from underneath the wreckage of the collapsed building. All kinds of emergency services are on scene as several people come to aid the man who merely brushes them off and continues to walk on, down the street. Behind him is a huge fiery inferno with smoke ascending into the heavens as he pays no attention, he finally stops and digs into his pocket for a packet of straits, lighting one up and smoking it.
“I always win.” Says Tush. Says I. Says We. “I’m addicted to winning.”
Despite having none of the four men to tell it to, he continues.
“My addiction is something incredibly disturbing because no matter how many planes crash into my tower, it doesn’t fall. No matter how many waves brush against my sandcastle, it doesn’t crumble and no matter how many times I repeat no matter how many, you just believe it is down to emphasis and not the fact I am running out of synonyms. I have a talent. I may hide it behind the Wigan accent and a swear word every sentence but I have a knack for winning and I haven’t not won a match since I’ve come back. So how did I do it? I changed who I was. Something you three should do.”
He breathes in the smoke and exhales.
“I understand though. There’s got to be a key somewhere to understanding how other people think. I wish I could empathise with a flawed way of conducting myself but it doesn’t work. I just have to continue to know that every match I go into I will get something out of.”
He turns around and stares at the blaze.
“You’ll all end up like that at some point. You’ll all run your course.”
He collapses.
“You’ll probably thank me for enlightening you.”
He closes his eyes.
“You probably won’t be there in the morning.”
I woke up after quite possibly the strangest dream I’ve ever had to the smell of something burning.
“Ike?”
I rolled over onto my shoulder, not wanting to escape the comfortable confines of my duvet cover. After waiting for nearly a minute with no reply, I throw off the sheets and get out of bed, stepping over a dead woman I killed shortly after sex last night and walking up to the window. I pull the blinds to the side and all I see is a thick cloud of black smoke in the garden.
“What the fuck?”
I slam through my bedroom door and leap down the stairs in my underwear, sliding across the kitchen floor before managing to leave the house into the garden where I see Ike pouring gasoline against a huge pile of burning sticks and other sorts of… hey… is that…?
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!”
I grab my hair in bewilderment as I see that Ike is proceeding to burn all my Wigan FC memorabilia and limited edition Japanese Gator masks. He is also burning my large supply of date rape drugs which is pretty fucking annoying. Nah, actually that’s an understatement.
“ALL OF MY STUFF!?!?!”
“You sir, you no pay me price, you no let me feature big part in promo, you bad man! You kill prostitute!”
“My… my signed Roberto Martinez book…”
“You have no post single promo! You lazy! You no win matches!”
I fall onto my knees.
“The BLUE Gator mask filled with the kush I used to sell him…”
“And most important! You no listen!”
Now. Hold on a second. Tush, the Lounge Lizard, the Intercontinental Champion of the XWF was letting his life be ruined by a barely hit puberty Japanese sweatshop kid. That’s slightly unusual isn’t it?
I look up to the smirk of this stupid cockweasle gook and it reignites a fire within me. It really does. I slowly rise to my feet and approach Ike, his facial expression slowly turning from a boy in control to a boy who finally realises that no one BUT the Lounge Lizard is in control.
“I’m going to be eating a Tush signature tonight. Slit-eyed surprise.”
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