Funhouse
by Bill Robertson
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Iggy Pop, alcohol and relationship trouble make for an explosive combination.
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The beer slides down my throat, cool and smooth like liquid glass. It travels all the way down into my guts where it sparks a momentary fire. I stretch out a hand and give the volume dial a twist. Iggy and the Stooges rumble through the speakers. The sound is full of low-slung gutter punk menace like a gang sidling down the street daring you to take them on.
Then Iggy’s voice goes from a low croon to a howling scream.
First drink in over three years and it feels good, better than good, it feels fantastic. I’d bought a ten pack from the shop on the corner, cheap and cheerful, nothing fancy. Two more swigs and it’s gone. My head buzzes pleasantly with the potent mixture of music and alcohol.
A hiss-clink, another beer opens. The Stooges have launched into T.V. Eye and I can feel the music thrumming through my body in harmony with the alcohol. I feel more alive than I have for days. The drink is filling a hole in the core of my being that has been there since Carrie walked out.
I could still stop at this point. I could put the beer down and climb back on the water wagon. But the fire is burning now. Like a previously dormant volcano, neurons deep in my brain have flared into violent life; the first molecules of alcohol have entered my bloodstream, coursing through my body. The need is there again. ‘Here’s to you, you fucking bitch,’ I announce to the empty room before slugging back another mouthful. I spark up a Marlboro and inhale the smoke deep into my lungs as the water wagon disappears over the horizon for the last time.
My skin feels flushed, glowing with inner heat. The buzzing in my head is louder now zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzziiiiiiiiinnnnnnnggggg like a bluebottle trapped in a jar. Round and round it goes. I turn the music up louder; filling the room with ferocious noise. Guitars sneer and snarl, spitting notes into the air like electric machine guns, the drums pound out thunderclaps and snare cracks of doom, and above it all Iggy, ageless god of self-destruction, yelps and screams above the sonic assault like a crazed general directing his shock troops. I’m following him willingly into the abyss. More than half the beer is gone and I’m starting to think about some stronger stuff to keep that buzz going. Fuck it, I should just go out, hit the town and really go for it.
I grab my keys and another beer for the road. I leave the music playing. As the door closes, Iggy sends out a final message: ‘All night, ‘till I blow …away. I feel alright, I feel alright…’
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Iggy Pop, alcohol and relationship trouble make for an explosive combination.
_____________________________________________________________________
The beer slides down my throat, cool and smooth like liquid glass. It travels all the way down into my guts where it sparks a momentary fire. I stretch out a hand and give the volume dial a twist. Iggy and the Stooges rumble through the speakers. The sound is full of low-slung gutter punk menace like a gang sidling down the street daring you to take them on.
Then Iggy’s voice goes from a low croon to a howling scream.
First drink in over three years and it feels good, better than good, it feels fantastic. I’d bought a ten pack from the shop on the corner, cheap and cheerful, nothing fancy. Two more swigs and it’s gone. My head buzzes pleasantly with the potent mixture of music and alcohol.
A hiss-clink, another beer opens. The Stooges have launched into T.V. Eye and I can feel the music thrumming through my body in harmony with the alcohol. I feel more alive than I have for days. The drink is filling a hole in the core of my being that has been there since Carrie walked out.
I could still stop at this point. I could put the beer down and climb back on the water wagon. But the fire is burning now. Like a previously dormant volcano, neurons deep in my brain have flared into violent life; the first molecules of alcohol have entered my bloodstream, coursing through my body. The need is there again. ‘Here’s to you, you fucking bitch,’ I announce to the empty room before slugging back another mouthful. I spark up a Marlboro and inhale the smoke deep into my lungs as the water wagon disappears over the horizon for the last time.
My skin feels flushed, glowing with inner heat. The buzzing in my head is louder now zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzziiiiiiiiinnnnnnnggggg like a bluebottle trapped in a jar. Round and round it goes. I turn the music up louder; filling the room with ferocious noise. Guitars sneer and snarl, spitting notes into the air like electric machine guns, the drums pound out thunderclaps and snare cracks of doom, and above it all Iggy, ageless god of self-destruction, yelps and screams above the sonic assault like a crazed general directing his shock troops. I’m following him willingly into the abyss. More than half the beer is gone and I’m starting to think about some stronger stuff to keep that buzz going. Fuck it, I should just go out, hit the town and really go for it.
I grab my keys and another beer for the road. I leave the music playing. As the door closes, Iggy sends out a final message: ‘All night, ‘till I blow …away. I feel alright, I feel alright…’
About the Author
Born in Perth and now living just outside Aberdeen, Bill Robertson has created a large body of work showcasing a tendency towards the darker side of life and stories which leave an indelible impression on the reader long after the final word is read.
An active member of Aberdeen’s Lemon Tree Writer’s Group, Bill’s work has appeared in Journeys, an anthology of work from the group, and most recently in a chapbook, Himself by the Seaside. He has performed some of his stories as part of the Word and New Words festivals and other events around the north-east. He has also self published two e-books: Reindeer Dust, a short Christmas story, and When the Revolution Comes, a collection of linked short stories concerning an uprising in a fictional eastern European country. A number of his stories have featured on the website http://www.shortbreadstories.co.uk, where he has been chosen as the featured Friday story a number of times and has won a number of competitions with his short stories and flash fiction pieces.
If you would like to hear an interview with Bill and listen to him read some of his work, please go to this link to hear Bill’s appearance on Mearns FM's Smith on Sunday show. You can also keep up to date with Bill’s work by visiting http://www.billrobertson55.wordpress.com, where he often shares work in progress as well as finished stories.
An active member of Aberdeen’s Lemon Tree Writer’s Group, Bill’s work has appeared in Journeys, an anthology of work from the group, and most recently in a chapbook, Himself by the Seaside. He has performed some of his stories as part of the Word and New Words festivals and other events around the north-east. He has also self published two e-books: Reindeer Dust, a short Christmas story, and When the Revolution Comes, a collection of linked short stories concerning an uprising in a fictional eastern European country. A number of his stories have featured on the website http://www.shortbreadstories.co.uk, where he has been chosen as the featured Friday story a number of times and has won a number of competitions with his short stories and flash fiction pieces.
If you would like to hear an interview with Bill and listen to him read some of his work, please go to this link to hear Bill’s appearance on Mearns FM's Smith on Sunday show. You can also keep up to date with Bill’s work by visiting http://www.billrobertson55.wordpress.com, where he often shares work in progress as well as finished stories.