Charlie doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him. It was the summer of ‘03 that he was prescribed the holiest of holy prescriptions: 100 D5’s per month, but Charlie was always prescribed 3 bottles at a time. The doctors figured it’d save him multiple trips to the practice, and it wasn’t like dexies had any recreational value right?
Fast forward a few years and Charlie has as much chill as Pilbara esky with no ice. He zooms around social occasions like a dexamphetamine’d fueled blowfly and could talk the pastry clean off a pie. Still, everyone tolerates his intensity as he has that little bottle of fuck-yeah.
On the weekend Charlie charges over to a mate's BBQ and dodges the spread like a migrant at a Vegemite party. Come to think of it, no one has ever really seen him eat, but that doesn't mean his jaw isn't moving. A mate decides to try his luck, "couldn't grab a couple of dexies could I, mate?"
Oh, shit, old speedy Smeagol's demeanour changes. Someone is after his precioussssssssss. Not wanting to depart with any, he makes an offer you want to refuse, but don't - “2 for $8 mate”. Outrageous.
Charlie knows it's pay to play, and if his mate's don't want to be as useless as Clive Waterhouse at a motivational speaking course, they'll come to his market and buy his magic beans. Having made a tidy profit he brings out a dinner plate and proceeds to go full WA and snort chalk like Mr Squiggle at Blackboard's bucks party.
Now wired, Charlie proceeds to commandeer the discussion around the glass outdoor setting and enthusiastically offers an opinion on every single topic under the sun - only ever really pausing to pound his 25th dart for the night.
How can a pack of ciggies and a carton of beer be bad for you when you are feeling this good, right? A thought that will haunt him as he runs over it again and again while battling to slay the demon of a good nights rest yet again.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Have your say