My roommate, Scatman, rips the front door off its hinges as he comes charging in the room. Monstrously fat. Pupils dilated. Pants unzipped. Half his hair missing. And, as always, he reeks of shit. I’m in the corner snorting BBs, the pain of each tiny ball shooting through my nasal cavity is like a bit of heaven. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up with a belly full of copper.
Scatman grabs the remote control and frantically presses all the buttons. “We gotta,” he begins. “We gotta watch the fuckin’ game. The Assholes are playin’ the Date Rapists.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about but turn to look at the huge screen TV. It’s bigger than the wall. We’ve had to have the house modified.
On the television … I don’t even know what I’m looking at. There is a lot of wood and frantic people screaming. They look like monsters. Toned guys in costumes are throwing a ball around and sweating. Some of them are snorting cocaine off a bench. Others are being led away by the police. I get scared. Worried. I think, maybe, the apocalypse has finally come. Scatman is already asleep. I nail the door back into the frame, not worrying about the hinges, pick up the phone and call a help line. I don’t even know which help line it is. I just know they’re offering and I think, maybe, I need it.
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