N) Chapter 13

13.

Thom Holliday worked in insurance sales for a small company that was
gradually being throttled out of business by its larger and nastier
competitors. Thom had a medium-sized desk in a medium-sized office, and
a chair that swivelled 275 degrees around but no further. He had
recently had to sack his secretary because the company could no longer
afford to pay her. He had sat her down in his office and handed her a
box of chocolates with an attached note. Then he had watched rather
uncomfortably as the poor girl began to cry. He had left for an early
lunch and did not re-enter his office until he was sure she was gone.
Now he had even more paperwork to do, and it was taking its toll
heavily on his good health and his vanishing youth.

He had an average sized frame for a young man, but his distended belly
spoke of years of heavy beer drinking, and his clothes hung on his
awkward shape with quiet contempt. His hair was shaved close to his
head so that his growing baldness was as undetectable as possible, but
his wife amongst others had noticed nevertheless. For her it only
furthered her distrust of science. Bald men are supposed to be virile,
she said to him at least three times a week. They had a young baby,
named Russell. Thom felt no connection and wondered.

On this particular day, whilst his former friends Lance Felwood and
Richard Querulous fretted about supernatural death conspiracies, Thom
Holliday was busy shuffling paper back and forth between his 'done' and
'to do' piles, quite unsure of the distinction anymore. He had studied
History at university and remembered one fact from all his years there.
It was said General Franco had two folders on his desk, one marked
'problems time will solve' and the other 'problems time has solved.'
His favourite task, it was said, was to transfer papers from one folder
to the other. Thom felt he was now paying bitterly for following the
same policy in his own life.

He was extremely gratified then, when the phone rang and he answered
it to find his old friend Lance Felwood at the other end of the
line.

'Hello Thom! It's me, Lance! Long time no speak!'

'Hey Lancey boy, Lancey my man!' Thom replied, feeling himself slip
back into a mid-pubescent patois.

'What would you say if I told you it was Richard's - you remember
Richard right?'

'Richard, yeah! Richey my man, how's he doing!?'

'Fine fine. What would you say if I told you it was Richa-Richey's
last night on earth?'

'I'd say-' Thom swivelled his chair around the full 275, 'Let's make
it a night to remember bud.'

'You sure your wife will let you out?' Lance jibed, chuckling to
himself.

There was an unexpected pause before Thom replied softly, 'I'll leave
her a note.'

By early evening Richard had discharged himself from hospital, against
his doctor's recommendations, and he and Lance were sitting in a quiet
pub in the city centre, nervously sipping cheap lager and waiting for
the arrival of the self -styled 'god of parties.'

'We-e-e-ell! Lancey and Richey boy! As I live and breathe!' bellowed
Thom Holliday, announcing his presence to the world (or at least, the
inhabitants of that particular public house.)

'What's this we're on eh, shandy?' He continued in a needlessly loud
voice whilst sitting down and inspecting Lance and Richard's drinks
'You big girls!'

'Nice to see you too Thom!' Richard replied, doing his best to be
enthusiastic whilst surveying Thom's tired-looking form and noticing
the bloated football size belly that bulged out of his old friend's
bright orange shirt.

'Nice to see your taste in clothes hasn't improved' Lance
ribbed.

'Nice to see your taste in boyfriends hasn't either bud!' Thom
retorted after a brief pause in which he thought he might be able to
think of something cleverer to say.

'He's not my boyfriend' Richard chipped in quickly, 'and I'm not
gay?'
'Shall I er?get the next round in?' Thom suggested after an awkward
few moments.

'I've?not really finished-' started Richard tremulously.

'Best drink up then bud, tonight's gonna be big!' Thom cut in, before
standing up and heading towards the bar.

'Busch, busch, busch' He said on his return whilst placing three more
pints of cheap lager on the table. 'Right, what's the plan then?'

'The plan?' Lance queried, looking at Richard with a worried
expression. 'We kind of thought you'd have a?plan.'

'Right of course,' Thom replied quickly, forgetting himself
momentarily, 'Of course I have a plan. Of course?'

A further awkward few moments ensued. The God of Parties began to
sense that his disciples were doubting, and knew he had to respond
quickly to restore their faith.

'Right?I suggest?we?stay here for a few drinks, get ourselves ready
for the big night ahead! ' He paused, face contorted with the effort
thought caused him, 'Then we?head on to a club, get ourselves in the
mood and then, busch busch busch?we head down to the red light
district.' He arched his left eyebrow triumphantly. Richard exhaled
audibly, and Thom was assured that this last part of his plan had been
daring enough to assuage any lingering doubts his friends had about his
credentials. 'See, I still keep it real buds!'

Richard grimaced a little, and began to remember why he had not spoken
to this man in over a year.

'Drink up buds! Pleas-ure! Don't mind if I do!'
Richard and Lance furrowed their brows in unison. They had forgotten
his many odious catchphrases, but very quickly their repressed memories
were returning with all the physical symptoms of nausea that that
entailed.
Nevertheless, their commitment to 'fun' and 'partying' now sealed by
Richard's supposed imminent death, they had no choice but to follow
their messiah of merrymaking, even if it mean to the very gates of
hell.

'Come on ladies, let's get drinking! Busch!' Thom barraged, taking in
several large mouthfuls of lager and trying not to look at his own
bloated gut.

'So, Thom, how's work?' asked Lance matter-of-factly.

'Great, I'm earning shitloads! Pleas-ure!'

'Still got the old catchphrases then I see.'

'Some things never change,' Richard contributed, marvelling at Thom
Holliday's seemingly complete resistance to maturity.

'You know me. I'll never grow old bud,' replied Thom with all the mock
confidence he could amass. This was the first time he had actually had
a night out with people he liked for nearly a year, and despite all his
forced frolicsomeness he was actually happy to be there. He despised
his workmates, mainly because they despised him. He was enjoying
himself in the company of Lance and Richard, and would have been very
comfortable just to stay in that particular pub drinking and exchanging
long-forgotten catchphrases until he fell unconscious. However, he had
an image to keep up, and bleary-eyed and pasty-faced as he might
already be, he was determined to put on a good show for his 'lads' and
give them a great night out like he had always done in the past.

By the time they had finished in the pub they had each drunk five
pints, and though Thom was completely unaffected by this indulgence
Richard was already treading a drunken mood ar?te between gleeful
hysteria and maudlin morbidity. Lance was, as usual, doing his best to
behave in sensible, sober manner, but his unsteadiness and general
propensity to make uncomfortably honest statements about whatever he
saw or heard or merely thought about betrayed his intoxicated state.
Thom allowed his mask of joviality to slip a little, confident that his
two friends were fast approaching the kind of state of mind where they
would no longer notice, or if they did notice, would certainly not
remember.
It was around nine o'clock when they made their way into their first
club. It was Richard's choice, he wanted somewhere he could 'rock' like
he had always told himself he had at university. 'I want to relive my
wild youth!' He had exclaimed to Thom Holliday with an odd mix of irony
and sincerity.

'Wild youth! Took us about three months to get you to drink anything
bud'

'And then you mostly threw up again. I remember you with a big string
of drool dripping from your mouth, falling over all the time as we led
you out of that club that time' Lance chipped in, before lapsing into a
fit of quite unmerited giggling.

'I found you hiding in the toilets covered in sick as I remember,' Thom
said, continuing the story. 'Those were the days?'
'Yeah?.' Lance and Richard concurred in nostalgic unison.
Walking straight up to the bar at 'rock club' the Mad House, Thom
ordered a round of drinks without requesting what either of his two
tipsy charges desired. They were under his control now, and without any
hint of remorse he led them down the treacherous tequila trail and into
catacombs of cocktails and a subterranea of shooters, with his ultimate
goal being the dark abysm of absinthe.

Interspersed between the drinking were occasional bouts of dancing. Or
at least, what these three asinine amigos had always considered to be
dancing. Their efforts actually looked closer to severe epileptic fits
or the death throes of poisoned flamingos. They flailed their arms
around with great gusto whilst mostly forgetting to move their legs at
all. When they did remember their lower limbs they only ever managed to
move one at a time, and even then with terrible awkwardness. They were
nevertheless enjoying themselves vastly until the DJ made an awfully
bad choice of song. Richard's runaway limbs stopped moving and his
giddiness evaporated entirely as he heard the opening chords of The
Polyps' 'Nightmares of you' pounding into his ears like a horribly
mutilated Beatles B-side that could not even be sold on Ebay. 'I hate
this!' He screamed against the impossible tide of sound waves, before
storming towards the exit in a terrible funk. Lance had not realised
what the song actually was (in truth he had not realised what any of
the songs played that night were) but had he known his reaction would
have been somewhat similar. Noticing his friend's departure Thom
grabbed hold of Lance and headed to intercept Richard, but was too late
to do so, he had already left and thus ensured that they would all be
moving on somewhere else.

'What are we leaving for?' Thom asked as soon as they got outside,
grabbing Richard's shoulder.

'THAT WAS THE FUCKING POLYPS!' Richard shouted, evidently entering an
'angry' phase of drunkenness.

'So?'

'That was the Polyps?' Lance asked needlessly.

'Yes'

'Crap, I almost liked them for a minute there. That's horrible.'

'Hold on buds, what's wrong with these Polyps people, they sounded ok
to me?'

'We went to school with one of them,' Lance provided whilst Richard
swore at thin air in disgust.

'So?'

'The keyboardist. He was a real bastard. Bullied a lot of
people.'

'Tell him about the time he tied that little kid to the lamppost and
beat the shit of him,' Richard interrupted.

'He tied this kid to a lamppost and beat the shit out of him' Lance
repeated.

'And that's not all, no no no no! Fuck, the fucking thug hit some other
boy in the face with a cricket bat, tried to set fire to the whole
fucking place and was really fucking horrible to everyone. He was
violent, horrible, cruel-'

'Busch busch busch, and now he's famous' Thom shrugged
nonchalantly.

'This world is just so fucked up,' Richard whined, 'I'm dying and that
guy from the Polyps is famous!'

'You're dying?'

'He might be dying Thom, he might not be' answered Lance all too
matter-of-factly for Richard's liking, 'There seems to be a book that
is writing itself and it's currently writing the last seven days of
Richard's life. Or at least it would be if it hadn't been burned in a
fire in a secret room in the library along with hundreds of other
similar books and the third part of the Bible.'

'You two still can't handle your drink then?' Thom replied, somewhat
confused, 'Come on' he sighed, allowing his jovial facial expression to
slide a little into 'exhausted' (which was how he truly felt.) 'Let's
get going to another club. My choice this time, somewhere with some
women who are actually attractive.'

They got moving, with Thom leading them through the crowded Saturday
night streets towards a club with more mainstream musical
sensibilities. It was slow going, with Richard stumbling over and
swearing and Lance giggling and muttering unintelligibly, it was all
Thom could do for much of the time to prevent them getting involved
with fights with other drunks who assumed that either the cursing or
the giggling (or possibly both) were aimed at them. Thom looked at his
watch, it was ten o'clock and if it was not for the fact that his wife
would be there too, he would much prefer to be in bed. Sunday was a
precious day for him, it was the last bastion before the beginning of
another working week, he really didn't want it ruined by a mammoth
hangover or a horrible quarrel with his other half. The latter would be
almost impossible to avoid given the circumstances however. He sighed
to himself and decided internally that he might as well go for broke
now, Sunday would be an awful day for sure, but at least Saturday night
could be one to remember.

'Where the fucking fuck are we going Thom eh eh?' Richard articulated
slowly whilst repeatedly pointing at his friend accusingly.

'Are you losing your hair?' Lance asked innocently.

'No - no I'm not losing my hair?Listen you buds' Thom said, trying to
regain some of his previous momentum, 'We're going to a new club, but
I'm not really in the mood to queue so we'll just to have to keep
searching a bit longer.'

'I thought you were supposed to be a party animal?' Richard
interrogated, 'Party god? Messiah of merrymaking? Jesus of joviality?
The Buddha of beer-drinking and Allah of ale, the divine?.' Richard
trailed off and rested his head against Thom's shoulder, dribbling over
his shirt.

'We'd best get you two some more booze,' said Thom, unable to conceal
his sighs.

Before long they found a club with no queue outside. This was
undoubtedly a bad sign, but Thom was past the point of caring, his
friends were dangerously close to entering a downward spiral which
could only end in unconsciousness, and he needed to get them some more
alcohol quickly. The fact that the bouncers let both Lance and Richard
in whilst the former was babbling about drainage systems and the latter
was yawning and wiping drool from his mouth every two seconds should
have aroused Thom's suspicions further. But he ignored his instincts on
this occasion.

Sitting down in the practically empty club whilst a well-oiled male
stripogram danced for a group of hen party goers in their fifties, Thom
quickly realised his gamble had not paid off. The music was awful, the
drinks were expensive, and the women were old enough to be any of the
three friends' mothers. This was most definitely not a good
thing.

'Thissrubbish' Richard slurred, jabbing Thom in the sternum with his
index finger, 'Rubbishsrubbishsrubbishs'

'Rubbish' Lance concurred, shaking his head wistfully, 'And that woman
keeps looking at me. Why are we here?'

'Exsactly,Exsactly!' Richard said in reply, jabbing Lance now in turn,
'Why?'

'Ow, fuck off' Lance cried, grabbing Richard's finger with his right
hand and receiving a vicious slap to the head from his friend in
return.

'Okay, let's finish these drinks and leave then. And stop fighting you
two. Unless you want to get thrown out.'

'Y'know, thersh wass a time, my friend, when your sole aim sole aim, of
an evening wass to get thrown out of a club, you usesh to be crazy,
Thom, fucking Holliday' Richard said bitterly, turning his violent
attentions away from Lance 'What fucking happened to you?'

'I grew up you twat. It happens.' Thom took a deep draught of beer and
turned away.

'Not for me it ain't, am dyin' young, tomorrow!' Richard gloated.

'Probably for the best?let's get going, come on. If you want to do
something wild buds, let's get going then.' Thom got up and headed
towards the exit, expecting Lance and Richard to follow quickly in his
wake. They did of course, without a moment's hesitation.
Launching his company into the heart of the red light district, Thom
Holliday began to feel that once more that he was young and intrepid,
leading his two relatively innocent friends into an adventure they
would probably talk about for years to come, and they would once more
hail him as a living legend. At this stage even a drinker of the
calibre of Thom Holliday was rapidly losing his critical
faculties.

The three stumbled down a narrow street, Thom eyeing up the
prostitutes, Lance looking diligently at his shoes and blushing, and
Richard fighting hard now to keep his stomach from taking up arms
against him and expelling his liquid indulgences. He kept on burping
and making odd croaking noises every few minutes, but neither Lance nor
Thom were really paying attention. Suddenly the party halted, Thom had
been approached by what he considered to be destiny itself. A girl in
her twenties, dressed in less fabric than would be required for a very
small tea cosy, stopped Thom and began a routine sales patter in a
strong cockney accent that made Richard violently want to criticise her
pronunciation. Luckily he was far too busy keeping his digestive system
from slipping into reverse. Thom leered at the girl's prominent
cleavage with absolutely no shame. Lance meanwhile tried very hard to
keep staring at his shoes, but snatched the occasional furtive glance
in the girl's direction nevertheless.

'Listen buds,' Thom began, drawing his compadres near after finishing
his conversation with the girl, 'How do you two funsters fancy a strip
club eh?'

'Will she be there? I mean just wondering?'

'I'm not, I'm not going to be ssick.'

'Fine fine. C'mon. It's just a little bit further on over there. Down
some steps and, busch busch busch, she said.'

Onwards the trio went, Thom in pretty much a direct line and his two
more worse for wear friends zigzagging awkwardly behind him. All their
suspicions should have been aroused, and if they had possessed any
sense they would have turned back, when they found the woman greeting
them at the bottom of the steps leading to the strip club resembled a
horribly aged version of the girl who had originally told them about
the place. The fact that they entered having paid absolutely no money
up front should also have told them something was amiss. Sadly, they
were past the point of sense, and now fickle fate would fast have its
way with them.

They entered a dirty looking basement with only one other door. An old
sofa was positioned a few metres away facing this other entrance, and
behind it in the far corner was a makeshift bar laden with bottles and
a small fridge full of beer cans. The only other item of furnishing in
the room being a shaven-headed man the size of a morbidly obese grizzly
bear in a suit, and with exactly the same attitude.
Richard gulped, the sick feeling was getting very hard to keep at
bay.

'Good evening gentlemen,' the knucklehead began with hard-won
gentility. 'Please, let me show you to your seats.'

'Show' was not quite the right word here, thought Lance, as the
man-mountain transported each of the intrepid three onto the sofa
merely by staring intently and motioning with his monstrous paws.

'What would you all like to drink?' inquired their colossal
compere.

'Beer' Thom Holliday bellowed, grinning.

'Ssame' Richard followed, trying desperately to act normal.

'Ermm?I'm fine for drinks. Thanks all the same.'

The giant furrowed his considerable brow in consternation at Lance and
stepped in a little closer, 'Are you sure?'

'Actually? beer would be fine thanks.'

Lance watched with deep concern as the suit and tie titan thudded over
to the fridge, drew out three cans of cheap lager and handed one to him
and his two friends without even so much as a glass, or a beer mat. Or
a table for that matter.

'She'll be on in a few minutes. Enjoy.' Announced the lumbering
leviathan, dropping a creased-looking catalogue onto Richard's lap and
moving off to stand in the doorway of the exit.

'What the hell are we doing here?' Lance whispered, leaning
across a drooping Richard and imploring directly to Thom
Holliday.

'You said you wanted a wild night didn't you?' Thom replied without
remorse.

'Yes, but not like this! This is really really dodgy!' Lance continued
through gritted teeth.

'Yes, but-'

'And what the hell is this?' Lance moaned, picking up the catalogue
from Richard's lap and thumbing through a selection of extremely
expensive videos and sex toys.

'You should get something for your boyfriend bud' replied Thom, a wide
grin splitting his face.

Suddenly they noticed the sound of the other door opening. They turned
to see a tired, haggard looking young woman in jeans and t-shirt enter.
Thom found it hard to conceal his disappointment, and Lance, petrified,
found it impossible to conceal his shame and repulsion, as the girl
carried out her brief 'act.' She danced around lazily to a complete
absence of music, before pulling off her t-shirt and throwing it at
Richard in a bored fashion. It landed on his head, where it stayed.
Next she languorously pulled off her jeans, prompting a large amount of
loose change to clatter noisily to the floor. She swore quietly at this
but carried on until her underwear was draped onto the lap of a by now
bright red and horrified Lance Felwood. She then carefully picked up
her change and left via the door she had entered
through.

'Is that it?' asked Thom in disappointment.

'Shhh!' hushed Lance, conscious that Goliath was within earshot.

'What happened?' asked Richard drowsily, removing the t-shirt from his
face.

'If you want to buy the costume. That'll cost extra,' announced the
glowering gorilla behind them, 'Please wait a moment whilst we draw up
your bill.'

'Fuck' Lance whispered as quietly as he could considering the
circumstances 'What the hell do we do now?'

'Well we don't pay.' Thom Holiday replied matter-of-factly, 'That was
rubbish.'

'Well you tell him that, you try!'

'Fine, fine,' Thom stood up and approached the behemoth of bouncers
with a totally misplaced air of confidence. 'Excuse me bud,' he began
politely, 'But we don't feel as if that show was really worth paying
for.' He quickly began to regret his cockiness.

'I don't give a shit' responded Bigfoot, 'Here's the bill. This shows
what you got, and what you owe.' He pressed a piece of scrap paper hard
into Thom Holliday's left hand.

'That seems quite reasonable,' Thom replied, inspecting the makeshift
bill and backing off towards his friends.

'So it's okay then?' Lance sighed.

'Not really,' Thom whispered, showing him the bill and pointing
at the ?900 total.

'What the hell? Who charges ten pounds each for beer? And a hundred
for the costume?'

'A hundred pounds? I can't pay that!' moaned Richard, the thought of
losing money clearing his head.

'Not one hundred Rich, nine hundred' Lance corrected.

Richard vomited.

'Hey, what the fuck are you playing at? You fucking?' bellowed the big
unfriendly giant. 'Right, that's gonna cost you!'

'Oh god oh god oh god oh god' Thom Holliday wailed, 'Oh fucking
god'

A moment or two later and they received a new bill, this time
totalling ?1500. Now however the Charles Atlas of Hell's lower circle
was not content to wait. He towered over the three cringing forms on
the sofa and demanded payment immediately. It took several minutes
before one of the unlucky trio managed to build up the confidence to
speak.

'I'm afraid we don't actually have that money?on us.' Ventured Lance
timidly.

Their gargantuan gaoler stood fuming for a few moments, slamming his
left fist into his right hand in a stereotypically menacing gesture
that nevertheless prompted Thom Holliday to lose control of his bladder
slightly.

'Right,' he started a moment or two later whilst dragging Lance to his
feet and holding him inches away from his monstrous face, 'You go get
the money and come back with it. Or your two friends here are going to
fucking die tonight.'

'Rightio'

'Now don't be long,' he continued, letting Lance go and pushing him
towards the door.

'Only?' Lance began, turning to face his captor and cowering, 'I can
only draw out a maximum of two-hundred a day.'

'I don't fucking believe this!' Bellowed the terrible troll, 'You come
in 'ere, you use our services. You drink our beer, and you don't want
to fucking pay for it.'

'It's-it's-I mean we-we-we-want to er?pay but-'

'I tell you what you do son. You take your cards and all your friend's
fucking cards, and you draw out half of what you owe me, and the other
half, you pay back to me within one month, or I start breaking a lot of
legs.'

'Fine, fine, fine' Lance stammered as Richard and Thom searched
hurriedly for their wallets and handed them, shaking, to Lance.

'NOW GO!' Bellowed their monstrous tormentor, sending Lance scurrying
out of the exit and into the blissful freedom of the outside world.
'You two better hope he comes back,' threatened the demonic doorman ,
smashing his fists together with intent.

Richard sat in a deathlike stupor, covered in his own sick, whilst
Thom Holliday crossed and uncrossed his legs repeatedly, murmuring
every swear word he could think of and desperately trying to remember
the Lord's prayer. They waited, they waited and they hoped, but time
quickly began to ebb away. First ten minutes, then fifteen, and before
they knew it half-an-hour with still no sign of Lance. Richard and Thom
Holliday huddled together on the sofa. Thom began to weep
openly and whisper 'I'm too young to die this way.'

'Some friend he is,' jeered their gigantic jailer with deep malice.
'He's sold you down the river he has, left you for fucking dead.'

It was then Richard noticed the time. Clearing away the dried sick
from his watch, he saw midnight had just that moment passed away. A new
day had dawned, if accounts were to be believed, Richard's final day.
Suddenly the murderous ogre pulled Richard up by his collar and held
him high above the ground with homicidal abandon. Thom simply sobbed
and did not even try to help, having given up the fight completely.
Richard kicked his legs wildly against his cruel captor but to no
avail. He had wanted one last night of pleasure, one evening of excess
to make up for years of conservatism, but as the steroid-pumped fiend
holding him drew back his boulder-sized fist and prepared to crunch his
face into a new variety of pat?, all Richard could do was inwardly
bemoan the irony that it was this very longing for a last shot at life
that would be his death.