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I was close to death....

“What wrong with you? Your left eye is watering and you sound like your head’s full of cement?”


“I have a cold.”


“Is it the Plague?”


“No, it’s a head-cold.”


“How do you know it’s not the Plague?”


“Because it’s a fucken head-cold.”


“Have you tested yourself?”


“Fuck off and leave me alone. I’m dying. Pleased don’t abandon me.”


“I’m going to need to unpack that entire contradiction you just mumbled. Abandon you?”


“Yes. Like an old shoe that’s been tossed into the gutter…”


“Why would I abandon you?”


“Because I am weak, and not currently able to defend you from rapists and murderers.”


“Fuck, cunt.”


“‘Fuck, cunt’?”


“Yes. Fuck, cunt.”


“Please don’t abandon me. I am close to death. Hold my hand as I slip from this world…”


“Don’t fucken touch me. You’re diseased. You’re like one of those filthy bin-chickens covered in germs and filth.”


“Where are you going? Please don’t cast me aside…”


“I’m going to make you a cup of tea. I’m not going to cast you aside. I can beat the shit out of you, though. Because you are weak at the moment.”


“That would be cruel and dishonourable.”


“Oh well. How’d you get sick?”


“I think it was at Jack Miller’s Bucks Night.”


“Were you and your mates hugging and kissing?”


“No. I was running outside every few minutes. In a T-shirt.”


“Why? For the love of God, why were you doing that?”


“I was herding the girls.”


“Fuck, cunt. You were chasing naked stripper bitches around the car-park?”


“No, no. I was just trying to find them.”


“Were they hiding somewhere?”


“No, I was worried they’d be late, and the crowd would turn on me and rend me because I’d promised them naked stripper bitches and there were no naked stripper bitches.”


“But there were naked stripper bitches?”


“Ultimately, yes.”


“You just had to run around after them in a T-shirt?”

“It’s complicated.”


“Sounds easy. Dickhead runs around freezing car-park in T-shirt looking for strippers that are not lost and gets a cold as a result.”


“Please don’t leave me to die alone.”


“I won’t leave alone.”


“Please don’t abandon me.”


“Like an old shoe in the gutter?”


“Yes, on a road that leads to the tip…”


“Just blow your nose, for fuck’s sake.”


“I can’t. It’s all impacted and won’t move.”


“Blow harder.”


“My brain will explode. I need meth. Get me some meth.”


“Meth? Oh, you mean Sudafed? Why can’t you go and get that?”


“Because those Fascist molls at the chemist look at me like I’m some kind of feral junkie.”


“So you want them to look at me like that?”


“They won’t look at you like that. You look respectable. I have tattoos that feed their prejudices.”


“Fair point. I’ll make you a cup of tea and then I’ll go into town.”


“Please don’t abandon me.”


“I will return. I promise.”


“With the meth?”


“Yes, with the meth.”


“I love you so much.”


“Don’t fucken touch me.”

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Boris Mihailovic

Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.

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