Pearson Lloyd

I had a dream about Sasha and Jenna, and then Stoya joined in too, I think. One of them had a hairy cooch. We were going at it on this huge canopy bed when a black Doberman about the size of a pony came barging in. It stopped in front of the bed, growling and barking, but you could only tell that from the way it was moving its head, ’cause otherwise everything was totally on mute. I pretended not to notice it, but then I started freaking out that it would bite my ass, so I tried to get away. I jumped out the window into the dark and fell into a pool full of tar, but I still couldn’t shake that fucking dog. Plus, no matter how hard I thrashed, I couldn’t make it out of the pool. I was scared shitless, like hardcore, and when I was out of air, I jolted awake. My sheets were soaking wet and I was gasping like I’d just run a marathon. I kicked off my blankets, blinked for a couple seconds in the dark, then turned on the light. I couldn’t fall back asleep. I flipped through channels until dawn. I watched a bondage porn flick, a Chuck Norris thriller, and a documentary about Churchill.

I got a failing grade in math yesterday. The third one this semester. We were going over how to calculate the volumes of spheres, which of course made me think of Ducky’s mom’s gigantic tits, so I couldn’t memorize anything he said. And of course, that dickwad Lázár saw I was spaced out, so he called on me to work out a problem. I went up to the board hella chill ’cause I had no chance anyway, thinking we’d get it over with quickly, but the bastard fucked with me for about ten minutes before he slapped a big fat F in the grade book. If I had to choose which of my friends’ mothers to bang, it would definitely be Ducky’s mom. She got her jugs pumped full of silicone and now they’re bigger than the globe in geography class. She even got cocksucking lips to match. I’m not into MILFs, but you gotta admit, she’s the best mami I know in the category.

I don’t look at the clock. I know what time it is. I pull the blanket over my head. My mom’ll be in to wake me any minute. I clamber out of bed, get dressed, and unpack my backpack. I don’t care about my class schedule. I toss in the leftover weed, half a pack of King Size cigarette paper, and lay a few textbooks on top to hide them.

Like hell I’m going to school today.

I stand at the edge of the pool. The razor-sharp floodlights slash the water’s reflection. The shadows of the waves are outlined on the white tiles at the bottom of the pool. Like a network of neurons. Computer graphics. The echoing pool area is an illuminated cave of stalactites. Blurred sounds. Splashing. Coach’s whistle. Shouting. I pull on my silicone swim cap. It slides on easy. Mom didn’t forget to baby powder it. I collect saliva in my mouth and spit into the goggles. The dehumidifying foil is worth jack shit. I suck off my cold saliva and spit on the starting block. I spit in the goggles again, lick it off, suck it out, and spit into the overflow drain. I tie, untie, then tie my swimsuit again. Procrastinating. I adjust my dick. I squat down, stick my foot in the water, then splash myself and jump into the pool. Everything goes quiet except for the cold, bubbling sound. There’s a bunch of us in the water, yet it feels like I’m alone.

Warm-up is a 400-metre round of freestyle. Then we do a 10x200-metre medley. Two minutes and forty seconds for each round. I position myself behind Ducky, tailgating. He pulls me along. If you manage to gauge the distance and rhythm right, it’s like being towed along by a ski lift. At the last turn, I push away from the wall so that I can see the distance between us. I’ve saved my strength, and I can easily overtake him at the end. I slow down for the last few metres, but make sure he doesn’t get ahead of me. By the time he arrives, I take a few deep breaths, not gasping anymore, and stare blankly at Coach Bandi, who’s holding a stopwatch, shouting times. I want Ducky to see me. I want the break between laps to end quick. But as I get moving again, I know the break wasn’t long enough.

Coach Bandi blows his whistle. I repeat the game on the next 200 metres. Ducky’s getting tired, which hypes me up even more. I can feel how easy it is to beat him. We end up in a spiral. He gets frustrated because he can’t keep up the tempo and I get energized watching him tense up. But never underestimate Ducky. Not anybody else, either, but especially not Ducky. Even if he’s in a losing position, he can launch his auxiliary rocket engine if he snaps. We smash against the wall. I only gave him a couple tenths of a second advantage this time. I’ve still got reserves, but I’m getting tired too. 3x200 metres left to go. He almost catches up with me on the last round. We come crashing in almost simultaneously. Coach tells us equal time, but I know I smashed him by at least five-tenths of a second.

I hang onto the rope. It cuts into my armpits, but I only feel it if I actually pay attention to it. Sometimes the sharp pain of the plastic jutting into muscle feels good. It jerks me back into reality. It doesn’t let me slump into that sticky exhaustion you feel after pushing yourself through a hard round. I take off my goggles. Ducky clutches the edge of the pool, looking blasé. There’s no use trying to pretend the swim was easy. I know he’s run himself ragged. The colour of his face gives him away. I float while holding onto the rope and act like I didn’t even notice that we swam together. I piss in the water. I was expecting practice to be more laid-back, ’cause the junior nationals are right around the corner. Coach probably knows what he wants. He’s the one with the qualifications, after all. The chicks finish too. They haven’t even stopped for real yet and Coach is already giving them hell. They get all offended and whine about something, I can’t hear what, but I couldn’t care less. They float slowly over to the ladder, climb out of the pool, and sit down on the bench, making faces. Zoli-boy goes over to them. I climb out of the water and jump around on one foot by the side of the pool. Right foot first, then left foot, to shake the water out of my ears. I wonder how the Paralympians do it. I mean the ones without legs. I’ll bet they get ear infections a lot more often than we do. I head over to the bench. Zoli-boy is still trying to hit on Niki, but she’s ignoring him. That dumbass. Giving him advice is like talking to a wall.

Ducky hasn’t gotten out of the pool. He pushes his goggles up over his forehead, spits, and sloshes the big, green glob of phlegm towards the gutter, then climbs out and heads towards the bench. When he arrives, he whispers something into the new girl’s ear that makes her giggle furiously. If Ducky’s spewing jokes, there’s at least one chick nearby who’s game. The new chick recently transferred from another club. She’s hoping to fit in, I guess, that’s why she’s trying so hard. Ducky sits down beside her and starts coming on to her. I can see that Niki wants to join them but there’s no more space because Viki’s sitting on Ducky’s other side. Ducky leans over to the new girl and whispers something in her ear. An icy frown replaces her smile and she pulls away a little. Ducky turns to Viki and starts stroking her thigh. Zoli-boy’s staring at Niki, who’s pouting and getting more annoyed by the second, watching what Ducky and her little sister are up to. Ducky knows this perfectly well, too. His hand slides further up Viki’s leg. Then he reaches under her bathing suit and starts to finger her. The thing that makes Niki lose her shit the most is when Ducky’s getting it on with Viki. Like now. She can only stand it for about a minute. She jumps up from the bench and heads for the locker room. Ducky pretends not to notice, his hand moving in an even rhythm, and while he’s whispering something to Viki, he catches Zoli-boy’s eye and winks at him, making the dumbass pop up and head downstairs to the locker room too. Now it’s only Ducky, Viki, the new chick, and me left on the bench. The new chick’s got a streamlined figure. They usually ban big-chested girls from competitive sports. There’s too much resistance. She’s got a pretty cute face. Suddenly, I can’t figure out which porn star she reminds me of. I look at her feet. A light pink drop of water slides down her calf.

“Did you cut yourself?” I ask.

“Huh?”

She looks at me, all weirded out. Her tone is confident, but I know she’s about to break down.

“Did you cut yourself?” I repeat.

She doesn’t understand. I point to her leg. She looks down. A drop of blood drips from the bench onto the tiles. She finally gets it. She jumps up and smudges the blood with her towel. The lifeguard moseys past us along the edge of the pool. His flip-flops slap against the tile in the same rhythm that Ducky fingers Viki.

“Plug yourself up next time,” Ducky grins.

Viki’s chest heaves, her face flushed, eyes closed. Her legs shake.

“Asshole!” the new chick says, then wraps the towel around her waist and rushes off towards the locker room. Ducky and I glance at each other. He signals for me to get lost. I growl at him to blow me, then go down to the showers and stand under the hot spray. I take off my swimsuit. I’m alone, but I don’t jerk off. Then as I’m standing under the shower with the hot water gushing down on me, I think of the new chick’s bloody pussy. I turn towards the wall and run cold water onto my dick. I don’t wanna scald it. After about two minutes, I turn the tap off and towel down. There’s only a few people left hanging around in the lobby. Everyone’s fucked off to school. A few water polo faggots snort and laugh on the other side of the locker row. I only catch a few words: with my elbow… I almost fucking drowned… I pulled the little dipshit down… cocksucking judge… I punched him in the face.

Buoy walks towards me in the hall in his underpants, a ripped t-shirt, and worn out flip-flops. He’s holding a wrinkled comic. He’s totally obsessed with manga.

“You going to school?”

“Nah,” I say. “We’re going over to Ducky’s.”

“Wait for me, willya?”

“Okay,” I say, as Buoy schleps into the bathroom.

Ducky always tells Buoy if we skip school. Buoy can get us doctor’s notes when we’re absent. Ducky gives Buoy drugs half price as payback. His uncle’s a doctor, like his father, but they’ve got some hard feelings between them. And I guess Buoy’s uncle is like, the less his nephew goes to school, the dumber he’ll be. The rest of us profit on the deal ’cause Buoy can get so many doctor’s notes we barely have the chance to skip enough days to use them up. Nobody at school cares where we are, as long as we’re officially excused. This semester we’ve been at cancer screenings five times, but our homeroom teacher probably wouldn’t notice even if the slip said we were at a gynaecology exam. The point is to keep friendly with Buoy, otherwise he’ll jack up the prices.

Ducky turns the corner at the end of the hall. As he passes the bathroom, he switches off the light. Buoy groans heavily and roars.

“Turn the… fucking… lights… back on!”

Ducky walks on. I hear the shower start and Ducky singing. He’s got a good voice. He even got into chorus. Certainly plenty of chicks to bone there.

Half an hour later, we’re standing in the lobby waiting for Ducky. Grumpy old people wander around giving us dirty looks, but we don’t give a shit. I never want to get old and bitter. Who knows, maybe all they need is a good fuck.

“Viki?” Buoy asks.

“What about her?” I return the ask.

“She coming?” Buoy asks.

“You want her to?” I ask back.

“We should talk her into it,” Buoy says, his eyes gleaming.

“Talk to Ducky about it,” I suggest.

“He needs the doctor’s note,” Buoy says thoughtfully.

“Then he won’t mess with you.”

“You think he’ll let us bang her?” he asks.

“If she was yours, would you?” I ask.

Buoy thinks about this and doesn’t say anything. There’s only the sound of the cash register clanking in the background.

“I rest my case,” I say.

Niki and two friends of hers approach from the locker room wearing identical pink tops. Niki fiddles with the wire of her pink earbuds. The other two girls are texting. Their phones are also pink. Even the look in their eyes is pink. When they notice us, Niki pretends to be surprised. They walk over to us. I mean, it’s not like there’s any other way to get out of the place.

“I thought you guys already left,” she says.

The other two girls quietly caress their phones. They even painted their nails pink. One of them chews gum. She blows a bubble. It bursts. She pulls the pink gum back into her mouth with her tongue.

“Nope, we’re still here,” I say, but nobody laughs.

“We’re not going to school,” Buoy says.

Letting him talk was a mistake.

“What’re you gonna do?” Niki asks.

I’m about to start bullshitting so she’ll let down her guard, but Buoy beats me to it.

“We’re gonna party a little at Ducky’s,” he blurts out.

“That’s cool,” Niki says, and looks at me.

She’s mad and doesn’t understand why I didn’t tell her. She’s always gotta know about stuff like that. Wants to look well informed in front of her squad.

“C’mon, we’ll chill,” Buoy winks.

“Okay,” the girls answer in chorus.

“Where’s Ducky?” Niki asks.

“He’s coming in a minute,” I say.

“Sweet,” Niki says, and sits down.

I’m not happy she’s coming.

“Can you get us a doctor’s note?” Niki asks.

“We’ll figure it out,” Buoy grins.

Ducky arrives in five minutes. He looks over the crew and doesn’t say anything.

“Niki’s coming too, okay?” Buoy pipes up. “And the chicks,” he adds.

Ducky says nothing. He just heads towards the exit and we follow.

“C’mon,” Buoy says to the chicks.

“Did Viki leave already?” I ask.

Niki turns to me in alarm and says:

“She’s got a history test.”

A second later Viki pops out of the locker room and says, “Let’s go.”

We start off on foot, but Ducky gets bored fast and calls a cab. He cuts a deal with the cabbie to let five of us ride. He doesn’t give a shit that, counting Niki’s two pink sidekicks, there’s exactly seven of us. We managed to shake off Zoli-boy. I don’t really mind. He can be really annoying these days, what with him and Ducky at each other’s throats all the time. The chicks get all bitchy, but Ducky tells them to shut it. They know where he lives, they can find their way if they want. They get all offended of course and storm off without saying goodbye. Ducky sits grinning in the front seat, while the four of us squeeze in on the back seat. Viki takes one for the team and sits in my lap, so I seize the chance and finger her. Buoy tries his luck with Niki, but she’s not biting ’cause she’s with Team Ducky. The cabbie’s staring at Viki and me getting it on, and he almost sails through a red light, then forgets to yield at an intersection. Ten minutes later we park in front of the gate, so I gotta finish up the puppet show even though Viki hasn’t come yet, I don’t think. We all pitch in, pay, and get out.

Ducky and his fam live in a huge, bulky three-storey mansion up on the hill right beside a nature reserve. Some trendy architect from Budapest designed it, but I think it looks totally like a collapsed Imperial Walker. They had to chop down a couple acres of ancient cedars for the place to fit comfortably and to make sure the trees wouldn’t obstruct the 360° panorama. The local hiking society made a small fuss, but Ducky’s old man arranged for their permit to be revoked, so that shut them up pretty fast. The garage is the size of an airplane hangar, and the first storey sun terrace is as big as a tennis court. There’s a four-lane, 25-metre pool in the garden. The ground floor’s got a gym, another pool, a hot tub, a sauna, an infra-sauna, a salt cabin, a cryosauna, and four turbo tanning beds. One time, some hip-hop group wanted to use the place to shoot a video. Poor bastards walked up here from the hood but the security guards must’ve told them to fuck off. It’s no wonder Ducky’s old man didn’t let those baboons in. The lion’s-head knocker on the front door is worth more than the digs those losers crawled out from.

We trudge up the walkway from the gate to the house. No need to shit yourself about guard dogs. Ducky opens the door with a chip card and we burst into the foyer behind him. His mom’s standing in the kitchen. Kleó, the Persian cat, is on the counter beside her, lapping milk from a bowl, but when it notices us, it jumps down onto the marble floor and darts behind the wine-coloured leather couch. A Havanese stands in front of the kitchen counter yapping sharply, spit flying from its mouth. Doesn’t like guests. Ducky’s family hasn’t had proper dogs ever since their two Argentine mastiffs, Castor and Pollux, tore the dog trainer to shreds. Dude was in the hospital for a month, even though he was wearing protective gear. They should have put those beasts down, but Ducky’s father rigged it so they were only offed on paper. He didn’t want to lose out on his investment. Pedigreed killing machines like that cost a pretty penny. Ducky said that some hairy Serbian dude who organizes dogfights bought the mastiffs and got filthy rich off them.

Ducky’s mom isn’t fazed by half the school popping in during class hours. She doesn’t ask questions. Maybe she doesn’t even know that it’s a weekday. She downs a suspiciously pale glass of OJ and smiles.

“Hello, ma’am,” we say in chorus.

Jesus fuck, she’s got herself some really huge tits. I can’t take my eyes off them. I’m completely mesmerised for a couple of seconds, and when I look up, I see Ducky’s mom watching me. She’s not mad and just smiles at me, looking like she’s baked. That’s when I notice that the others have already cut out. They got into the elevator and are headed up to the second storey. I’m all alone with the MILF.

“How ’bout you, Gergő?” she asks, when it dawns on her that I’ve forgotten to move along. I don’t tell her that’s not my name. We just stand there in silence for a couple seconds, and when Ducky’s mom gets that I’m probably not gonna answer, she continues, “Aren’t you going upstairs too?”

“Sure, ma’am,” I grin, trying to suck up to her.

“Don’t you dare call me ma’am again or I’ll get real mad.”

She’s flirting with me. She must be really smashed already, even though it’s barely nine.

“I’m sorry,” I say with a remorseful look.

“How’s your mother?” she asks.

What’s this got to do with anything? I don’t ask about her mother, but I answer politely all the same. Anyway, maybe it’s not even my mom she’s asking about.

“Fine, thank you,” I answer.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”

“She doesn’t leave the house much.”

“I understand,” Ducky’s mom nods, but there’s no way she understands. “Please give her my regards.”

“Okay,” I nod, and then continue staring like an idiot, like someone still waiting for something. The size of those hooters, shit, man. I look up. Ducky’s mom is staring fixedly into my eyes. It’s not threatening, but more like she’s racking her brain, thinking about what to do. Finally, she says with a smile, “Go on now, get upstairs and play.”

“They can wait,” I shrug confidently, and my eyes slide back down to her breasts.

Sure, I like playing Xbox, but I’d rather press those nipples than the controller.

“We’ll talk some more next time,” Ducky’s mom says with a significant overtone, and all I can think of is how I’d like to tie her to the bed, or to something else.

“Okay,” I say, and Ducky’s mom spreads her lips, slathered with lipstick, into a smile, lowering her gaze. She’s definitely eyeballing my prick. I start sweating. If she stares like that for long, I’m gonna get a boner. “Bye, ma’am,” I say deliberately. Maybe she’ll get the drift, but I can tell this isn’t the time, so I go up to the second storey instead to find the others.

I stand awkwardly at the top of the stairs for a minute, ’cause suddenly I’m not sure where Ducky’s room is, but then I hear Buoy’s snort and I start down the hall. As I step in through the door, Ducky’s firing up the hookah his folks got him last summer in Tunisia, and pressing the phone to his shoulder as he yaps on about something. The room’s about the size of our whole pad, but since there’s no walls inside, it seems much bigger.

I sit on the couch and put my feet up on the table, but Ducky snaps at me to stop being such a douche and take off my shoes. I don’t feel like getting all worked up about shit like that, so I throw them off and start flipping through one of the furniture catalogues. I try to identify the stuff in the room. I put my feet up on a simple, yet refined Pearson Lloyd “Edge” coffee table with a sunken table top. For only 1500 euros. This Pearson guy really must know something. No wonder Ducky’s so touchy about this shitty table. I turn the page. Here’s a “Leitmotif” pendant chandelier. Only 650 smackeroos. Why not get two while we’re at it? The Pendant Chandelier will liven up your home or serve as the perfect style accessory. Its colour and form make it the central feature of any room. What utter bullshit. If you put it in the middle, what else could the central feature be? Of course, a single lamp isn’t enough in a room this big. I noticed they tacked up a “Leitmotif Bebop” spotlight too. Maybe it’ll help drive out the incredible gloom that fills this house. Actually, the one they’ve got here is the version for cheapskates. They basically got it for free at 300 euros a pop. The “Leitmotif” brand’s “Bebop” light is a modern as fuck, unique, authentic piece of design. With its unique form and colour, it is bound to be the central feature of any home or office. Well fuck me, another central feature. I also find the five-person “Woody Maxi” sofa that we’re resting our asses on. The starting price is five grand. Though I can’t feel it, the catalogue says that the great care in the choice of materials and the precision of detailed craftsmanship guarantees that each product is of superb quality for your complete comfort: from the structure to the cushioning, the seating surface and the armrest design, all the way down to the fabrics that give the sofa its true shine. Then I find out more important details, like that the sofa’s frame is made from pine, overlaid with Technoform, and that the remaining components are fashioned from cellulose-reinforced wood, while the proper support for the backrest is maintained by propylene and latex straps, which of course makes me think of S&M porn. The backrest cushioning and the seating surface are constructed from non-warping foam rubber, and I’m thinking, yeah, that’s why it’s so lit to get high and chill on this couch. Ducky’s parents also immediately ordered five ottomans, heightening the sofa’s comfort factor, but which mostly remind me of five, rock-hard, women’s asses. Ducky left that catalogue out on the table for a reason. He might as well have left the price tag on the furniture. The only thing I couldn’t find was the glass cabinet where he keeps his medals and trophies. They could easily have furnished the entire Museum of Natural History for what that thing cost. These furniture-store clowns really know how to lay on the bullshit, but I guess anyone gullible enough to take the bait deserves to be ripped off.

Buoy messes with the TV. Viki’s lounging on a deckchair out on the terrace under two enormous palm trees and petting her phone. The terrace is a scene right out of California. Even the plants are right on the money. Niki’s nowhere to be found. I guess she went to the bathroom or lagged behind and then got lost too.

Ducky presses his phone to his ear, staring into space, and then says:

“Yeah, that’d be sweet, nigga.” Someone yaps something on the other end. Ducky listens for a while, then answers, “Dafuq do I know, nigga? Bring a kilo.” He’s quiet again. “That’s too much,” he says. “Whatever, just move your ass. We’re at my place.” He lets go of his phone and it slides between the couch cushions. He pulls out a storm-proof lighter from the bottom of the coffee table and starts firing up the coals. It’s still early, not a problem if we get baked, we’ll come out of it by the time afternoon practice rolls around, and if not, we’ll just have to train high. If that happens, you just gotta make sure you don’t freak out and think you’ll drown, ’cause then you really can drown. I shuffle over to the cocktail cabinet and pour myself a glass of OJ. Meanwhile, Buoy manages to turn the stereo on. Ducky left it set to the radio function turned up full blast, so when Buoy finds the ON switch, Rihanna starts screeching Russian Roulette, I think. The chick’s annoying as fuck but I’d tap her ass all the same. Too bad she’s into black dudes with huge schlongs. When she starts howling at full volume, I spill my orange juice, and Ducky is so startled he knocks over the bong. We quickly stomp out the burning bits of coal, but the carpet gets scorched in some places all the same. I don’t quite understand what Ducky’s yelling ’cause Buoy can’t seem to turn the fucking volume down, no matter how he waves the remote around. Just to be on the safe side, Ducky pours the leftover water from the hookah’s vase onto the carpet. A thin wisp of smoke rises up from the thick, green fluff. Buoy yanks the stereo’s cord out from the wall socket.

Ducky stares at the carpet. His voice trembles with exasperation.

“Goddamnit, fucking hell.”

For a while everyone lays low, not wanting to get Ducky even more wound up, or maybe they’re getting bored of his non-stop drama-queen show.

“Shit, Buoy, I almost shat myself,” I say, breaking the silence.

“You should’ve turned the fucking volume down, for fuck’s sake!” Ducky shouts.

“Yeah, before you turn the stereo off, motherfucker,” Buoy retorts.

Ducky keeps on swearing, then asks Buoy to help him pull one of the leather armchairs over the burned spot on the carpet. He refills the hookah with mineral water—I guess he doesn’t feel like making the trip to the bathroom—and stuffs the pipe with grass.

“Just chill, all of you, okay?” he looks at us pointedly. “I don’t wanna burn the house down.”

He starts to fire up the coals. The burbling sound of the pipe soothes me. I close my eyes, as if I were underwater. I like using a pipe. The smoke doesn’t scratch my throat. We sit down next to him on the couch and wait for him to pass the hose. It’s the third round and we’re sunk down real low into the smooth, cool leather when there’s a shriek and clatter of something breaking in the bathroom. I totally forgot Niki’s here too. Ducky and I glance at each other, then he gets up and walks to the bathroom, to bang Niki, I assume, because he sure isn’t sweeping up shards of glass. Buoy and I pass the hose between us quietly for a while, then he asks what we should watch. Ducky’s got an incredible collection of European Championship, World Championship, and Olympic races. And porn. He’s got the porn arranged into categories so he can easily find the film that best suits his mood. Sorted according to skin and hair colour, breast size, hentai, bukkake, animal, anal fisting, puking, piss and shit, Satan’s nectar, pre-teen, teen, MILF, BDSM, DP, TP, A2M, and a few fake snuffs. Several hundred DVDs. You could watch non-stop for two weeks without repeating a single one. We set a group record during a long weekend in February when his parents took off to Rio de Janeiro. We told our folks we’d be at a three-day race, and we moved in with Ducky. We had films running for seventy-two hours straight, and still we only managed to see forty of the fifteen hundred. One dude who was with us stayed so stiff that even though we dumped a wheelbarrow’s worth of crushed ice on it, we still had to take him to the ER. Buoy waits patiently, but when I don’t answer him, he starts flipping through the menu. He’s at animal double anal fisting when Niki shrieks in the bathroom again, but as far as I can see, no one except me hears her. I get up and walk out onto the terrace to Viki. She’s still under the palm trees, caressing her phone. As I close the door behind me, she looks up for a moment, then back at the phone.

“Texting?” I ask, but I know it sounds like some lame line Zoli-boy would use. I shouldn’t hang out with him so much.

Viki drops the phone into her lap.

“Are you hella baked?” she asks.

“Not really,” I say in a slushy tone.

I’m salivating as I look at Viki. Ducky added something extra to the weed, or just got the baggies mixed up. Most of the time I haven’t got the slightest idea what we’re smoking. As long as it gets us high, I don’t give a rat’s ass. We stare at each other hard. Nothing happens. I imagine her in different clothes, without clothes, with my dick in her mouth, then suddenly I’m freaking out. What if she can see what I’m thinking? It’s a little windy, but otherwise everything’s calm. Still, I don’t dare move closer to Viki. I freeze up, and my palms start sweating. I raise my eyes. Viki’s naked, or that’s what I’m seeing anyway. I stare at her breasts, and then she gets up from the deckchair and starts towards me, but as my eyes slide from her breasts to her face, I recoil. It’s Buoy’s head grinning at me on Viki’s perfect body.

“Fuck,” I grunt, and then I probably ask something else, because when I come to my senses, Viki says:

“No, we’re not dating.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

“Crêpes?” I ask.

She raises her eyebrows.

“Pizza?”

“I hate pizza,” she says.

“Kebab? Lahmachun? Adana?”

“I don’t like Turkish food.”

“Hamburgers?”

“Stop it already.”

“What?”

“With the foods.”

“Okay,” I nod, and shut up.

I could tear into a Texas burger or two right now. We don’t say anything for a while, until Viki breaks the silence.

“I don’t want to go out with you.”

“No one would know,” I coax.

“I don’t want to date anyone,” she says.

I smell honey and almonds. Viki’s body wash. Her pussy must taste like almonds. I’m salivating again. Viki’s talking to me. I’m not paying attention, can’t hear what she’s saying. I look at her. She smiles all sassy. Or maybe that’s just her default smile. She walks over to the terrace railing. She steps up onto it and looks out over the city. It was built on seven hills, like Rome. I move towards her, but it takes hours till I reach her. As if the soles of my feet were smeared with glue. Finally, I stop beside her. I watch the clouds. One of them looks like a big asshole, and there’s two hairy cunts too. Airbuses, contrails. It’d be great to be on one of those planes, never mind where it’s going. There’s a park in the distance named after a dead mayor, and a boulevard lined with trees named after a different dead mayor. From up here, the city seems like it’s got no people living in it. You can even see the pool from the terrace. You can see everything from this terrace. I think of the opening scene from Apocalypse Now, when the Americans dump napalm on the jungle. The wind tousles Viki’s hair. I turn towards the glass door to check if the others can see us. Buoy’s sitting on the carpet, running his hand along the fuzz and staring at the wall. Or actually, the wall with the TV on it. He puckers his lips, his eyes bulging. Viki steps down onto the terrace floor and leans onto the railing. I haven’t uttered a sound in a hundred years. I have no words.

“You don’t wanna fuck, either?” I ask.

I’m hoarse. Viki doesn’t say anything. She’s standing at the railing as if she were grafted to it. She messes with her phone. The warm wind drifts in between the palm tree’s sharp leaves.

“You wanna come in?” I ask, but Viki doesn’t answer.

I start towards the terrace door, but stop short after a few paces and turn back. A strange tingle runs along my spine. Drops of sweat trickle down my back. I swallow hard. Maybe Viki knows everything. I freak out that she knows everything and wants to turn us in. I don’t wanna rot in prison. I don’t want them to push me down onto a toilet-brush handle. I’m afraid to leave Viki alone. I walk back and over to the railing.

“You wanna come in?” I ask.

“In a minute,” Viki says, but I can tell she’s annoyed.

“I’m going inside,” I say.

“I’d like to make a phone call.”

“Okay,” and now I really don’t want to leave her unattended.

“I’d like to talk in private.” She’s getting more annoyed by the second.

“But you’ll come in after, right? It’s pretty chilly out.”

Viki looks at me and raises her eyebrows.

“Are you running a fever?” she asks.

I pat my forehead.

“I don’t know,” I say.

Viki steps away from the railing, stops beside me, and places her hand on my forehead. My dick starts to tingle.

“You don’t have a fever,” she says.

I breathe in her scent. If she doesn’t get us busted, I’ll ask her one more time if she wants to fuck.

“Cool,” I say, but I still don’t leave.

I stare at Viki. She stares at me. Then she turns away and continues messing with her phone. I step slowly towards the door. Maybe I can eavesdrop and hear who she’s talking to. I squat down to tie my shoelaces. I’m not wearing shoes. I squat for a little while. A pigeon lands on the railing at the same moment Viki speaks into the phone. That damn bird is flapping so loud I can’t hear a thing. I’m gonna execute that pigeon. Meanwhile, I get to the terrace door, stop, and look inside. I see myself in the glass, and Buoy inside, as he stares, entranced, at Ducky’s TV, which is the size of a ping-pong table.

I found it in a different catalogue. LG 84LM960V CINEMA SCREEN 3D SMART LED. They give you seven pairs of 3D glasses to go with it, but there’s only four left. We sat on the others and they broke. 79.4kg, with stand. Screen diagonal: 213cm. It cost almost 20,000 euros, not counting the extras. Buoy swings the Magic Remote Voice back and forth. It’s a movement-sensor remote control with voice recognition. The movement-sensor control allows for menu selection by simple point-and-click. At this very moment, Buoy is carrying out complex commands simply and quickly while searching the sub-folders of Ducky’s porn collection. For example: switching films by waving his hand. But only Ducky can use the voice control, and he’s mostly yelling about how, for twenty grand, this piece of shit should follow commands the first time he says them. I slide the door open and glance back at Viki. I don’t remember what I was freaking about before. There’s just this vague memory of flipping out. I step into the room. I stare at the TV. I can’t figure out how many people are acting in the scene and what exactly they’re doing, but then I finally get that the dude in the costume is really a Doberman. The dog yips sharply because it isn’t getting the white thing that looks like an artificial bone, but which, it turns out in the next scene, is actually a gigantic dildo. I tell Buoy to turn the volume down, then sit down on the couch and close my eyes. A second later, the doorbell rings. It’s a Mozart, Vivaldi, or Bach tune. This is the first time I’ve heard classical music stoned. My old man really used to dig those retro tunes. He was always setting his ringtone to stuff like that. Weird sounds filter out of the bathroom, like someone neighing or grunting, and then a couple of seconds later Ducky storms out wearing only a t-shirt. He’s got a boner.

“Hey!” I shout at him, which makes him stop short and turn around.

“What?”

I gesture that he’s got no underwear on. He looks down at his dick, then before I can tell him that the head of his cock is bloody, he cuts across the room without a word and thumps down the stairs. The door to the bathroom is open a crack. I see Niki in the mirror. Her lipstick’s smeared, her mascara’s running. She brushes her short brown hair moodily. She seems sad, though maybe she’s just being snotty. When she notices me staring, she pushes the bathroom door closed with her foot.

The sound of a familiar voice filters in from the hallway, and a second later Mishy, Ducky’s cousin, steps into the room. He’s a Rastaman in khaki Bermudas, a Che Guevara t-shirt, and shades. The only thing missing is “I Sell Drugs” tattooed on his forehead. There’s three letters under the Comandante's image: MAO. He’s got a bunch of t-shirts like that. Lenin’s face with CASTRO written underneath. HITLER and STALIN. KIM JONG-IL and KIM JONG-UN. KIM JONG-UN and DENNIS RODMAN.

“It was the best fuck I ever had on coke,” Mishy explains, then, after a pause for suspense, he continues, “I told the chick I’d pay her in services rendered; that I’d fuck her if she blows me.”

He punches Ducky in the shoulder, laughing like a hyena, while his cousin stares at him blankly. Meanwhile, Buoy’s entire nervous system is glued to the TV. He’s even drooling as the trashy porn chick bobs her mouth on the Doberman’s sharp, pink rod. I can’t stand it anymore. I lean back on the couch holding the hookah’s hose. As I turn my head to the side, Niki stares out from the bathroom.

“That one yours, bro?” Mishy asks Ducky while grinning like crazy at Niki.

“Yeah,” Ducky answers.

“I’ll do her later, okay?”

“Do her,” Ducky nods.

Niki slams the door. Mishy wrinkles his forehead and looks at his cousin.

“Where’s the shit, nigga?” Ducky asks.

“Take it easy, Ducky,” Mishy says coolly. “What’s the big rush? We got time, ain’t we? Fuckin’ A!”

“Sure we got time, just gimme the shit, motherfucker,” Ducky urges.

“I was thinking we’d smoke a spliff first, then we can get down to business.”

“Well I was thinking you hand over the goods, I pay, and then you haul your ass out.”

“Sure, bro, sure.” It’s pretty hard to get Mishy revved up. He’s Rastaman to the core. All he cares about is chicks and keeping the business lively. “Here’s your shit,” he says, reaching into his pocket and taking out a baggie.

“Cool.”

“Lean back and relax, bro. Your Uncle Mishy’s here to take care of all your needs.”

“Maybe you wanna blow him too?” Buoy barks over his shoulder.

“I’m gonna kick that faggot’s ass,” Mishy grins.

“You ain’t kicking nobody’s ass, Rasta-fairy,” Buoy says, chill as fuck. “Peace, man.”

“Tell your little friend to show some respect,” Mishy yaps, but his smile’s not genuine anymore.

“Knock it off, Buoy,” Ducky says, trying to dial down the tension.

Buoy yawns and turns back to the TV.

Mishy reaches into his pocket again, rummages around for a while, looking like he’s gonna jerk off, but then he pulls out another baggie. Last year, he was just a small-time dealer, but then they busted a couple of the homies he sold with and the dude he bought from. Like when your commander goes down on the front. But moving a few rungs further up the ladder didn’t make him any less of a dickhead. Ducky thinks it’s bullshit, but lots of people still say it was Mishy who ratted out his friends. Well, I don’t know. This one time, someone told me about his first deal. He was delivering stuff to a couple of cockfaced English dudes. They were working at the bus depot, fixing up rusty old water-transport tanks with some high-tech sand-blowing technique and getting their dicks hoovered every night by Ukrainian sluts at the truck stop. Back then, there were so many Ukrainian chicks doing business by Highway 8 that the limeys thought they were in Russia. One of Mishy’s pals interpreted for the dudes and sent out the wire that they need some stuff. Mishy got hold of 2 Gs of dry weed, cut it with some black wormwood, grabbed the few tabs of E he had lying around, then borrowed his granny’s junky old car so he wouldn’t have to roll out to the depot on the bus. The English guys felt so sorry for him they even tipped him.

We sit around the table. Mishy’s telling his stories, but somehow the mood is off. We’re way too faded already. Viki comes in, Mishy gives her the once-over, as if he’s never seen her before, then turns to Ducky and says:

“Can I do her, bro?”

“Later,” Ducky nods.

“Thanks,” Mishy says.

If there’s such a thing as eye-fucking, that’s what he’s doing right now.

“C’mon,” Ducky says, then stands and heads out.

His old man made him promise never to sleep in the same room as where he keeps his cash. I follow them, even though I can barely get up from the couch. Rooms open to the right and left from the hallway. Ducky steps inside one of them and tells us to wait for him outside. He’ll call us when we can come in. I stare at the wall behind Mishy’s head. I bet he thinks I’m looking at him. He even asks me what I’m staring at. I tell him it’s that fucking bigass spider that’s sliding down from the ceiling, which makes Mishy jump and thrash.

“Motherfucker!” he says when he spots it.

He slaps it dead with his palm and wipes it on the wall. Ducky tells us to come in. This must be a kind of study. There’s a shoebox without a lid on the table. A couple of fifty-euro notes dangle out.

“How much?”

Mishy, like some waiter, starts to rattle off the items, then, after a bit of quick mental addition, he declares the grand total:

“That’ll be one-eighty, for the homie hook-up.”

“That’s too much.”

“It’s the price.”

“Still too much.”

“That’s still how much it costs.”

“You get one-fifty.”

“Okay.” Mishy agrees right away.

Ducky doesn’t notice that he agreed without protest. While he counts the cash, Mishy flaps the baggie. It’s got the works: weed, pills, acid, blow.

“Well, what do you guys wanna sample?” he asks.

“This one!” Ducky grins, then takes the baggie from Mishy, removes a dirty-white pill, and pops it in his mouth.

“Here, nigga,” he says, and presses one into my hand.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Ducky says, then turns towards Mishy and asks, “What’s this?”

“My own creation.”

“That’s bitchin’, nigga,” Ducky says. Then he turns towards me. “Fuck, man, swallow it already!”

You swallow it—my dick, that is—I think to myself, then take the pill from him and toss it in my mouth.

“Haul ass now,” Ducky says, gesturing towards the door.

As we head out, he quickly puts the box away. I cough when I reach the door and spit the pill into my hand. OD-ing on Mishy’s designer shit isn’t how I wanna check out.

Ducky’s the last one to leave the room. He closes the door and locks it, sticking the key in his pocket.

“I’m taking a whiz,” I say, and start in the other direction.

I seem to recall that the bathroom is this way. I get lost in a matter of seconds. I don’t know what else to do but peek behind every door. I can’t find the bathroom, but I do find a bedroom where everything is red and black. The curtains, the canopy bed, the shiny silk bedspread, and the walls. I walk in. There’s photos on the bedside table. Ducky grinning with his parents in front of the Eiffel Tower. At the Pyramids of Giza. Outside the Sydney Opera House. And of course on top of the Empire State Building. I walk around. I look in the closet. I spot a pair of latex pants, but as I grope them, I realize that they’re just plain black leather pants. Then I see a whip, but when I take a closer look, it turns out to be just a leather belt. On one of the shelves I find a massive white vibrator, the same kind they used in the doggie porn. And a black one, too. I hear someone coming. I imagine Ducky’s mom finding me, tying me to the bed, and punishing me. I hold my breath. I hear the sound of a vacuum. There’s no way Ducky’s mom is cleaning. I peek out. The maid pulls the appliance back and forth. I wait until she’s hidden by the canopy curtain. I’m about to leave when she turns the vacuum off. She sits down on the bed and pulls open the night-table drawer. She takes something out and pockets it, then looks around, stands, and turns the vacuum back on. Somebody should call the cops. On the way back to Ducky’s room, I find the bathroom. I knock. There’s nobody inside. I go in and almost piss in the bidet, but I see the toilet at the last moment. Ducky’s mom pops into my head. Lipstick spread thick on her lips, lying on the red canopy bed in latex, or in a red babydoll, whip in hand. I step over to the sink and splash cold water on my face, then go back to the others. Mishy’s explaining something really loudly. You can hear it all the way out in the hall, and when I step in, I see he’s flexing in the middle of the room with no shirt on, waving something around, but I can’t see what it is because he’s at the wrong angle, and panting as he says, “thrilling as fuck, nigga,” which makes the others laugh really hard. Only Viki and Niki seem a bit pale. They sit pressed close to each other on the couch. Nobody notices me come back.

“This, motherfucker, is a 9mm Desert Eagle,” Mishy explains. “Like in the movie Bluff,” he adds.

I finally get that this retard’s got a gun. At first, I think that if Viki decides to snitch at least we’ll have something to kidnap the chicks with, and then we’ll fuckin’ barricade ourselves on the upper floor. There’s drinks and grub enough to last three months, there’s Wi-Fi, fuck everything else.

“In your dreams, pal,” Buoy mumbles. “That’s a water pistol,” he adds, grinning, which launches Ducky into a fit of screaming laughter and knee-slapping. There’s even tears in his eyes from the laughing. Mishy’s not a black-belt Rasta yet, so he gets kinda annoyed. But, like, it’s really fuckin’ stupid to get him riled up while he’s still got that piece.

“The boss gave it to me,” Mishy insists, then goes off on some bullshit story about how Norris realized that you can take a hit of drugs, but you can also hit it big in cash, so he decided to tap into the drug business, but Mishy’s boss told him to take a hike, so Norris threatened to murder him, his fucking dealers and his motherfucking family, and that’s why they had to score these Glocks. That’s how Mishy ends his story. If he’s not bullshitting, then we’re all pretty fucked. I don’t know where we’ll get our shit if they take him out. I walk over to the fridge, get a bottle of club soda, twist the cap off, and take a swig. It feels like I swallowed a hedgehog. I want to put the bottle down, but I can’t let go of it. My brain starts whirling about polar bears and global warming. Ducky’s voice brings me back to reality.

“And what’re you gonna do if he attacks you? Spray your water gun in his face?”

“If you spray someone in the face with this, homeboy, your digs’ll need a new paint job,” Mishy retorts.

I try to join in the conversation. I try to say that “a layer of wallpaper would work much better,” but my mind keeps whirling, and nobody can hear what I’m thinking.

“Yeah, the damp will make the paint peel,” Buoy grunts.

It seems he didn’t freak out too much about the situation. He’s just sitting there, his hair a mess, stroking Viki’s thigh.

Kleó, the family cat, strolls into the room. It mews softly. Must want some grub.

“Y’all can suck my dick!” Mishy’s getting more revved up by the minute. “Let’s go out to the woods!” he says. “I’ll show you what it can do.” And he pulls out the magazine, empties the bullets—a metallic clinking, like bells chiming—then pushes the piece into Ducky’s hand. “Take it, motherfucker!”

“Okay, nigga, you convinced me.” Ducky yields, then aims at Buoy. Buoy’s game: he cringes and shields his face with his hands, begging for his life.

“Don’t do this, man! Don’t kill me, goddamnit!”

“Shut the fuck up, you prick! Gimme the cash or I’ll redecorate the room with your brain!”

Ducky shouts at the top of his lungs, then roars with laughter. But just as suddenly as he started screeching, he stops again. He looks straight at Buoy and keeps pointing the gun at him. Buoy seems to have lost his sense of humour too.

“Stop pointing that fucking piece at me.”

The smile fades from his face.

“What’re you freaking out for? It’s not loaded,” Ducky reassures him.

“Yeah, don’t shit yourself,” Mishy adds. Now it’s his turn to grin.

“Quit pointing it at me anyway,” Buoy bitches.

“Admit it, you’re scared shitless,” Ducky says.

“Fuck, man, I’m scared shitless.” Ducky lowers the gun, and Buoy goes on: “Give it here.”

Ducky hands the gun to Buoy, and now it’s Buoy pointing it at Ducky. Of course Ducky just keeps on grinning. But by now the chicks are getting really fucking pale. Neither’s says anything for about five minutes. Niki’s biting her nails, and Viki’s clutching a glass full of red-coloured whatever.

“So, how does it feel, huh?” Buoy asks.

“It’s scary as fuck,” Ducky snorts. “Nobody’s ever pointed an empty pistol at me.”

Buoy leans closer and presses the muzzle of the gun to Ducky’s temple. I want to tell them that there’s a bullet left in the barrel, but my mouth is too dry. I take another swig of water. Then I stare at the ice in Viki’s glass. The cubes swirl like in a slow-motion shot. Sometimes they dip under then resurface from the whirlpools. I don’t dare take my eyes off them.

“How do you cock it?” Buoy asks.

“It’s cocked,” Mishy answers.

The cat starts meowing again. Buoy points the gun at it, and Kleó darts over to the girls and rubs against Viki’s legs. It’s pretty far from me, but I can hear it purring.

“Quit scaring my mom’s cat,” Ducky warms Buoy. Kleó seems to understand and starts meowing louder. “She doesn’t know the gun’s not loaded.”

“Right,” Buoy grins, and pulls the trigger.

I never thought a pistol could be so fucking loud. I think I’ve gone deaf. I’m sure my eardrum’s busted. A spray of blood douses the room. Clumps of fur fly all over the place. Niki screams and Viki drops a glass full of strawberry juice onto the carpet.

“Holy fuckin’ shit!” Buoy grunts palely.

“I told you it was the real thing,” Mishy remarks, smugly.

“Goddamn fucking hell!” Ducky bellows. “It’s bloody as fuck. My mom’s gonna have a heart attack when she sees this.” I can’t decide if he’s talking about the carpet or the cat. “We gotta get rid of it.”

“Do you have stain remover?” Mishy asks.

“I’m talking about the cat, you dumbass.” Ducky looks at him, annoyed.

“Let’s put it on the cactus,” Buoys pipes up, and gestures towards the enormous cactus standing in the corner. We all turn towards it simultaneously.

“Have you lost your fuckin’ mind?” Ducky seems at a loss.

“Let’s bury it in the garden,” I suggest.

“I’ll get a garbage bag,” Ducky nods.

“And a broom,” Buoy says. “And a dustpan.”

“You’re gonna clean it up,” Ducky growls at him.

“I’m not the one who left the bullet in the barrel, asshole.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“You got a maid, don’t ya?” Buoy persists.

“How much do you think I’d have to pay for her to clear away my mother’s cat?”

Kleó starts meowing desperately. She tries to crawl, but she’s missing her two front legs, and a chunk from her side. We look at each other.

“Fuckin’ hell, it’s still alive,” Mishy says.

“I can hear it,” Ducky says, and turns towards Buoy. “Give me the gun.”

Buoy presses the pistol in his hand, then realizes what’s going on and asks:

“What’re you gonna do?”

Ducky doesn’t say a word. He steps over to the cat writhing on the floor and bashes it on the head two or three times with the grip. The tiny skull cracks. Warm brain splatters on my leg. Buoy stands frozen. The smile fades from Mishy’s face. Niki pukes on the Pearson Lloyd table. The blood drains from Viki’s face and she reels off the couch.

After I manage to talk Ducky out of stuffing Kleó down the garbage disposal, it takes half an hour to dump the corpse. Ducky leaves the room and comes back a couple minutes later with a black garbage bag and a dustpan. He kicks the dead cat onto the shovel and tips it into the bag. He scoops the bits of brain and slivers of skull off the carpet and scrapes them from the leather upholstery with a spoon.

“Let’s go,” he says. “We’ll bury it in the yard.”

The girls don’t wanna come. Mishy makes a phone call. He pretends to watch us. Finally, three of us go: me with Ducky and Buoy. I thought we were alone in the house, but in the living room we bump into Ducky’s old lady and her personal trainer. He’s a real stud, like he just walked off the pages of GQ. He’s sitting in a sleeveless shirt and shorts on one of the bar stools with a newspaper and a glass of OJ in front of him on the counter. He’s feeling right at home. He doesn’t even look up when we come in. Even Ducky’s surprised that his mom’s home.

“Did you hear that big bang?” the MILF asks, but before Ducky can answer, I say:

“Buoy killed Mishy.”

Ducky’s mom’s eyes open wide.

“FPS,” Ducky explains.

“A video game with shooting,” the personal trainer explains helpfully.

“Oh, right,” Ducky’s mother waves, as if she knows what we’re talking about. “You shouldn’t play those silly games so much,” she adds.

“Sure, sure,” Ducky waves her off.

Meanwhile, I’m freaking out about the cat coming back to life and starting to meow in the garbage bag.

“What do you want with the garbage?” Ducky’s mom asks. “The maid will take care of it.”

“Something rotted and it fucking stank up my room.”

“Watch your language, son,” his mother scolds. She’s showing off for us.

“Aw, get off my back, Ma,” Ducky says, and heads towards the hallway.

I almost get left behind, but Buoy finally takes my arm and pulls me along.

“Have you seen my little Kleó?” Ducky’s mom calls after us. “She hasn’t finished her breakfast yet.”

Ducky doesn’t answer. He just keeps walking, the black bag rustling in his hand. The force of his stride makes the dead cat accidentally slap against the hall cabinet. Mama’s little Kleó definitely isn’t finishing her yummy breakfast milk.

“Who was that dude? Your old lady’s personal trainer?” I ask, as we walk among the pruned cedar bushes.

We’re looking for a spot where the security cameras can’t see us, so we can dump little Kleó in peace.

“That’s my older brother, you retard,” Ducky replies.

“I didn’t even know you had a brother,” Buoy remarks.

“He studies in America. He just dropped by for the weekend,” Ducky explains. “He’s a cocksucker,” he adds.

We keep walking for a while, then Ducky stops and says:

“This is fine,” and drops the bag. “Buoy, the shovel.”

“I didn’t bring a fucking shovel. You didn’t tell me we needed one,” Buoy says defensively.

“What did you think, we’d dig a hole with our hands, like Mexicans?” Ducky rages at him.

“I don’t even know where you guys keep it,” Buoy replies, offended.

Finally, we decide that since it was Buoy who offed the cat, the least he can do is go back for the shovel. Ducky explains to him where the tool shed is. I’d bet hella money that Buoy will get lost.

Half an hour later, we’re back on the Woody Maxi couch, and while I puff on the hookah, I’m wondering whether we managed to arrange the turf grass well enough, but I reassure myself: no one besides the gardener and a couple of moles are gonna notice if there’s a little mound on the lawn. We pretty much cleaned up the room, too. We sip mineral water. Drops of sweat slide down my forehead. I pick the soil from under my nails and think how lucky we are not to have dug someone up when we buried that miserable cat. There’s only a few spots in the garden that the security cameras can’t see. And Ducky’s pop gets into arguments pretty regularly with his business partners, who then disappear without a trace. Ducky examines the carpet. He seems satisfied with the result. The carpet cleaner was effective. The chicks are still a little pale, but at least Niki hasn’t bawled in the last five minutes. I’m thinking about where Zoli-boy could be and about asking Ducky why the two of them are fucking with each other all the time, but by the time I organize my thoughts, Mishy’s started some shitty cat story, which I’ve heard from at least ten other people, in ten different versions. Easy for that dickhead to flap his tongue when he wasn’t the one who had to bury Kleó. The story’s about how this dude’s cat dies. He buries it in the yard, but then the neighbour’s dog climbs under the fence at night, digs up kitty, and takes it home. When the neighbour sees the shredded corpse in his garden, he freaks out, thinking it was his dog that chewed up the cat, so he quickly fixes the fur—washes it with dog shampoo, combs it out—and tosses it back over into his neighbour’s yard. When the owner finds the cat with its fur all shiny, he’s got no fucking clue what’s going on. He turns the cat over in his hands for a while, but no matter how he looks at it, he’s gotta admit: this really is his pet. Finally, he buries it again, but the next night the dog climbs under the fence again, digs up the carcass, and takes it home. Of course, when the dog’s owner finds it, he panics. He bathes the cat, combs out its fur, and flings it back into his neighbour’s yard. The following day, the two guys bump into each other on the street, start talking, and the cat owner tells the other dude how stunned he is ’cause his pet died and it’s no use burying it. Every morning it lies there in the garden, squeaky clean. Only Mishy’s laughing.

“I’ll fire up the sauna,” Ducky says, and gets up from the couch.

We gotta start detoxing. Try-outs are next week.