So, they sent the cops on us. The fucking cops. I know, several days of partying might ignite a couple of loose matches here and there. But the cops? Fuck you. First they ring once. If it were the cops they would say so. Twenty two seconds. Ring twice. The one with the higher moral ground of us opens the fucking door.
It was also so awful. Fucking Italian cops can just enter your place and search around with inquisitive eyes and fake interest. Like they’re gonna bust some twenty year olds with a truckload of cocaine, three accounts of murder and a raped kid. Instead they find several poorly dressed idiots, hearts beating, suspense curdling, panties wetting. A bit.
Two fucking pigs. In they come. IDs they demand. Turn the volume down a couple of notches they suggest. You don’t wanna see us here again they mutter. Like if it fucking means something to me. I came here to party, so just let me kill a couple of neurones, scream a couple of songs and shuffle a couple of chairs around while I intoxicate myself.
There’s a tall pig and a not so tall one. The taller does all the talking, the shorter one does all the nodding. You understand Italian? Not so much. Keep it down from 11PM. Let’s try to be civilised over here. We produce the IDs. We are civilised. What do you Study? Math. They look around and repeat themselves. Yes, we will keep quiet. Yes, we will pretend we’re listening to your piggy snouts. Yes, your boots look great.
They seem to be bored of offering peace-keeping-advice and we pretend to be satiated with promises of well behaving. Then, they’re about to leave. They’re this close to closing the door. And then this other idiot appears. He sees two slender figures cladded in the unequivocal blue with a red stripe down their flanks, and this idiot just fucking freezes. Like he just saw god. Or Elvis Presley. Or me fucking his mom. He freezes and some of us move our heads in a get-the-fuck-out-of-here manner. You know. Diagonally from lower left to upper right. In a dismissive manner. Trying to hide it from the cops, trying to get a fucking message across.
But this stupefied piece of meat is pegged to the floor and just stands there like his grey pijamas are gonna somehow blend him into the not so pearly white walls. This awful matching light grey sweatpants and sweater. Like the Autism Army left behind their uniform and he was just around there to pick it up. Yes I live here as well. ID? Yes. The only Italian in the fucking house.
They ask several questions I don’t understand, and I start wondering when I get to resume my drinking. I’m not getting drunk today. Oh no. Getting-drunk-with-beer days are over. Today I just drink because I have to.
After a couple of minutes or centuries they leave. We retell the story between us like we won the world cup and we all go back to our rooms to forget what just happened and to numb our mind with some bullshit activity; like writing what just fucking happened.
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