Kevin

hahahahaha, that is too funny! But enough about me, and my hilarious nature, this is about you. Yes, you, the stupid one pointing at their own chest in a feeble gesture of surprise. I've been silent. Now I'm typing words for you to read. So let's not get off on the wrong foot again, idiot.

I kid, I kid. You're alright. Well, not you, obviously.

I was, some many months ago, assured of a muse while spending time in fair Scotland. Until now, I have not taken the chance to transfer some of my writing at that time to the world wide webbings. Job done, muse.. And so here I go.

It's been the best part of a year since last I partook in a proper spate of putting text to internet parchment, so welcome me back as your better. I've lived, not much. I've loved, yet less. I've imbibed, to a detrimental degree. To this end, I shall paint you a word-filled picture, dear reader. We're going through the rabbit, whole (ah the glories of a poorly punctuated sentence overheard).

As my final day employed by Assembly (in Edinburgh for the Fringe as I were) dawned, a task needed to be undertaken in our abode. Paudie was in the process of frying up the remaining contents of the fridge for breakfast, when I strode through the door, returning home from a late night of film viewership (I'm just that crazy, kids) at 10am. Inspired as I was by his actions to clear any lingering signs of our residence before vacating, I got to work. Inspecting the dwindling supplies left to my name, I knew what had to be done.

I unwrapped the Twirl, as may a suicidal man de-holster his revolver, and took aim at my mouth. I pulled the trigger, and allowed the sweet, sweet sugar to infiltrate my bloodstream. I cracked open the two bottles of beer. My liver cried out in horror and defiance. So, I drowned the bastard, once more!

All told, between that month long Edinburgh binge of alcoholic annihilation and somewhat ill-timed chocolate, and the succeeding Dublin Fringe upon my return, I managed to rack up an impressively debauched 44 days of consecutive drinking. Heck, I gave that liver 26 spoiled years of rest. Now it would earn its keep! Yet, I'll leave further details of such aspects for another day.

I've had the pleasure, this past year, of getting to know a truly unusual group of specimens. Mostly a fine bunch of fools and ne'er-do-wells combined with the occasional jaunty soul of upward mobility. Yet for now, one such character ambles lamely to mind. News of his impending return to my scope has filled me with dread as to what my future, temporarily entwined once more with his, shall bring. Yet, at the same time, his idiocy brought me such joy in hindsight that my trepidation is almost outweighed by the anticipation. Allow me to introduce you to a man more akin to myth, such was the degree of his duncery. For the purpose of mystery, I shall leave him nameless. Some of you may already know of his deeds. Others may need be warned.

The human equivalent of safety scissors- dull, blunt and handled primarily by school children. I'd see him more as a necrophile than a common or garden variety rapist. Post mortem, consent is, in his mind, implied. Also, I figure that, for him, sex shares similar politics to that of vampirism- once invited in, you're free to return at your leisure. A man-giant to whom the simplest of tasks took on a scale of such epic, sweeping grandeur that, come his re-introduction to my life, I shall affix a suitable soundtrack to accompany all his actions. Suffice to say, it will be the stuff of legend. When last our paths did cross, what brought him to such regard in my eyes? I shall continue....

This poor fellow took on, in my thoughts, the mantle of Lenny from Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men". A man so bereft of intellect and self awareness, that his giant frame seemed to transform him into an almost tragic figure. Left to direct him, there were times when I literally had to catch his attention with some manner of shiny object (a set of keys usually did the trick nicely) to break him free from his relentless cycle of inane conversation, astounding stupidity and open-mouthed drooling. Attempts to pass him off in order for others to cater to his special needs, resulted in me having to regain said people's favour through the purchase of chocolate (a life's theme it would seem). A sort who tried desperately to remember the title of a Robert Zemeckis film he had once seen, in order to tell us of its hilarity. Several fruitlessly wild gesticulations from our loquacious ogre led to no greater enlightenment. What is this film of which you attempt to speak?

"Mr Box of Chocolates!" he triumphantly erupted, breaking a moment of rare silence in his company.

Oh sweet mother of all things too poetic to be ironic, this dear child had been attempting to elaborate upon the supposed stupidity of noted membrane misfirer, Forest Gump. It was hard to take in the beauty of this moment's appropriateness. Laughter was, unsurprisingly, difficult to stifle for all present. Thankfully, he joined us in our guffaws, unsure of why, yet uncaring to ask. He basked in the simple joy of laughter without reason, as may an infant treated to the supposed aural delight of flatulence.

There came a time when I lost this mountain of child-like simplicity in adult form in the confines of a cinema. Having implored him to stay put while I limped (limbo injury numero uno) upstairs to check on a matter, I returned to find him invisible. Was he inside the screen? Nope. I asked a member of staff had they seen, for want of a better description, a planet-sized retard.

"He may have lumbered off in that direction" he theorised, while gesturing toward the elevators.

Shouldn't be too hard to catch up with the shuffling Frankenstein's Moron I thought. If only I knew how, much as Hoffman's "Rain Man" was a master of numerals, this "Lenny" was a savant when it came to ghosting away from relentless pursuers. Had he followed me above? Apparently not. I thought I glimpsed his balding cranium descend the elevators before me. I hopped as quickly as my hobbled knee would allow and chased down a shadow. To the bottom floor. Nowhere to be seen. I asked around amongst individuals who had encountered my Sasquatch in the past. In between chews of their hard earned chocolate apologies, they assured me that he had not lowered himself to this floor. I ventured deeper into the labyrinth in the hope of locating my quarry. Then a radio crackled into life on my waistband.

"That problem you had a minute or two ago- he's here." spoke a jaded voice, clearly all too familiar with the bother of his proximity.

To the top floor!

I approached my mountain as may a fretful parent, reunited with their beloved source of unrelenting insolence. At first I was overcome with brief relief. Then it came time to lay down the law, lest this happen again.

"Where did you go!?....No, I looked there. Just....listen, don't wander off like that again. I didn't know where you'd gone! Now, wait here for a second while I talk to someone, then we'll get you out of here and home."

I turned my back on him.

I rotated back less than a minute later, in time to watch his shining scalp descend from view, as he rode the escalator down to his next adventure.

"I don't care anymore. He shall more than likely drown in a toilet."

And so I happily assumed, until forewarned that once more he would make his shambling presence felt mere weeks from now.

He may kill us all.