It is three o’clock in the morning and I am not sleeping. I am sat in a kitchen surrounded by monsters and there is no escape. There is a thudding, throbbing noise aching through my skull and it only intensifies when I try to ignore it. The table is covered in shit. There are empty bottles, crushed cans, spilt drink and maybe vomit all over it, and what they don’t cover, slumped arms do. Everyone is breathing too loud and I can’t hear my thoughts. My thoughts can’t hear me either I don’t think. A packet of crisps are opening and they defecate their cheesy intoxication under my nose, and I don’t know if I want to eat them or throw them out the window.
I try to leave the kitchen but I can’t. My legs aren’t working and the bassline isn’t easing off and my head is starting to hurt. The crisps aren’t being eaten anymore, they’re on the table and a fist is pounding them to oblivion, and tiny particles of processed cheese on tiny particles of fried potato are buzzing around the room. Some of them land in a powder in a beer bong. The monsters are waking up, some loafing around the room and some rubbing their bulging stomachs and some reaching for more drinks. One adds a crushed can of beer into the cheese-infected beer bong and shakes it until the overflowing froth has a rotten cheddar fragrance. Another is sick in the tube and funnel and they shake it so much I can’t even tell the difference anymore.
The monsters start slamming their fists in unison, and I’m sure I’m about to wake from this fucking nightmare, because that is the unspoken beauty of a nightmare, that you’re privileged with the honour of leaving it whenever you want. The slamming fists are probably my hungover head, or maybe it’s someone knocking on my door to check if I’m alive, or maybe it’s a pair of barely clothed twins rocking on top of my delicate bed. The slamming fists are hitting the table louder and louder and I want them to stop, but they don’t. The monsters chant in unison, screeching indecipherables until they reach numbers. They count numbers in the wrong order and now I know I’m dreaming, because in no sane world could I be surrounded by so much awfulness and then have my OCD assaulted. A monster grabs the vitriolic beer bong and they’re not cleaning it, they’re putting it in their mouth, and you can almost see the particles of sick and cheese and froth and stagnant warm beer racing to be at the front, to be one with this monster.
The monsters are still counting down and the pulpy liquid is disappearing and the monster isn’t letting up, it’s indulging itself with more and more of this poisonous gluttony and the others goad it on to keep going. I spit a little bile on the table and a monster pats me on the back whilst exhaling all over me. I can smell a fusion of fermented grape with fried potato, but if that fusion was then aged a decade and mixed with body odour. I spit a little more bile on the table.
Now the monsters are all getting up, and they’re all drinking these vile bottles and cheering and chanting and incanting and praying and slobbering and texting and waving their arms without direction and stamping their feet on the insulting floor. A pot of yoghurt is all over the floor and they’re rolling in it, they’re licking it up, and I piss in my pants because it’s getting too much for me. The throbbing is getting louder and I’m wondering if someone isn’t really slapping me in the face, or tapping the side of my head to see what might pour out if they crack it open. I am not feeling well and these monsters seem to love me the worse I get.
One by one the monsters are dropping, they can’t keep up this anarchy forever. Perhaps this isn’t the nightmare I feared, there might yet be salvation if I can just stay awake longer than them. The piss in my pants is soaking onto the seat I sit on, and I can feel the piss around my arse, warming it with the affection of a tired whore. Outside there are eggs pelting the window and more monsters, different monsters, are dancing on the roof. These monsters are even less friendly, and they don’t seem to want to pat me on the back as my piss drips to the floor. They open the window and snarl at me and the thudding is almost overcoming me now, and I know there has to be a way for me to make it end.
I’m sure this is a nightmare. But I don’t believe it is anymore, because the salvation of a nightmare is waking from it, and I don’t think I can. I’m either dead or being punished until I wish I am, but the latter can’t be right because if it were true I’d still be dead by now. This thudding is haemorrhaging the blood in my brain and I can’t see straight any more, and I’m laying in a pool of my bile and what I hope is rum. The monsters faces are contorting into weird shapes. Some monsters are still violating the kitchen and ingesting every fluid they can find, but some monsters are turning into flashing lights. Some monsters are now wearing fluorescent jackets and some have oxygen masks.
I’m daydreaming or entering a coma, because there are no paramedics coming to save me from this gathering of volatile hormones and erect assholes. I lift my head from the sodden table, feel my legs to check they’re still warm and wet and then shit myself. If this is a nightmare I can’t wake from, I’ll aim for a peaceful coma.