Played Your Eyes 2: Tracking Shot

‘So, Banks, do you wake up every morning looking like you tried to fuck a porcupine?’
‘Did I invite you in? I seriously doubt it – I gave up on poisonous cunts the day I dropped out of my mother and she walked away from me.’
‘You know you have an appointment today, yes? With the head of ARMY?’
‘Yeah, I’d heard something along those lines. Some stuck up bint gave me a phone call and told me I need to get myself detoxed.’
‘So you – ‘
‘So I went and got seriously fucked up, yes. Why? Because I haven’t written anything of worth in a long time and I was hoping that if I took enough drugs you all just might evaporate. But of course I am still held by the rules of some arcane contract that dredges me up out of the shitter every time they need some dispensible turd to go and stir up the other shit that floats around the bowl they call England.’
‘Yeah – okay – so how much detox juice am I going to have to pump you full of before you approach being somewhat more human?’
‘Are you sure you want to do that? I’m a bastard when I’m intoxicated, but I am way worse when I have sobered up – especially if you enforce rapid cold turkey.’
She looked at him – seriously, was this some kind of joke? A puke covered addict who according to the column inches he had managed to rack up since his spectacular implosion had barely been given the time of day by a single editor on even the smallest newspaper. She had to babysit this narcissistic no-mark prick while he jacked every known narcotic in the book into his veins? Was this just some kind of colossal fuck you to ARMY? It seemed kind of pathetic and low that this was all they could muster – here’s your big story so we’re sending you the worst journalist in the country to cover it. What did it say about what they thought of her? Asa Blumen one time hope of female journalists in the industry having to mollycoddle this fuckwit.
Banks leaned himself just close enough to the edge of the bed so he could puke on the floor. He began scrabbling inside the bag that was next to him on the bed and fished out a handful of ampoules of some dark scarlet drug.
‘Are you not worried you’ll OD?’
‘No, I have the constitution of cornfed cheerleader, and all that after I’ve been more fucked up than a funk band and an after party.’
Asa hit the speed-dial for Hunt Parser her editor.
‘Hunt – this is Asa Blumen; I have a question for you, sir, with all due respect, is this assignment some kind of fucking joke?’
‘Oh yes, Asa, of course it is. But the thing is you aren’t in on the joke, and you won’t be. You’re there to do a job – except if you ever call me again and use the tone you just used you’ll be writing the obituaries of diseased parrots and three-legged dogs from now until you retire. I can find some pimply intern who will be more than happy to shepherd our resident junky fuck-up around for minimum wage. Yes, you’re a babysitter, but you’re a very expensive one – so please quit your whining and do what you have to do to het him ready.’

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: