by Haydn Wilks
“Pussy-oh!” Dave shouts as you pick the cards up.
You shuffle through them, see you’ve got a decent set: a 2, two 3s, three 4s (which are shit), a 7 (which gives you the option of being a bit of a bastard at some point), two Kings, and a Joker – fuck you, Dave.
It’s Emilia’s go. She looks at her three up-turned cards: 7, Ace, Queen. “I can play anything now, right? Can I play a seven at any time?”
“It’s got to be in order,” Branston says.
“Sorry Rhys,” Emilia says to you, laying down the 7.
“No bother,” you say, looking at your good set of cards, wondering if you should use the 7, and send it right back to Emilia. She can easily beat it. You could play a high card, and fuck over fatty instead. You decide to help Emilia out. 7.
“Oh! Arsehole!” she shouts, putting a Queen on it.
You blush, frown; she doesn’t understand! You were trying to help her!
Dave plays a 10, burning the middle cards, then another 10, another 10, no up-turned cards left. “The man’s on fire!” Dave laughs, tapping each of his down-turned cards in turn. He flips the one on the left; it’s an 8.
Anna frets with the mass of cards she’s holding, before putting down two 8s.
Branston looks at his up-turned cards, an Ace and a 3. “Can you beat an Ace?” he asks fatty.
“No.”
“I’ll be nice then.” He plays the 3.
“Fuck.” Fatty picks the middle cards up. What’s her name? You’re not sure it’s been mentioned.
“You couldn’t beat an eight?” Branston asks.
“No,” she says, rolling off a sock.
“Both of them!” Dave reminds her.
Her pudgy face crumples in on itself as she fiddles to unfasten her second shoe, worried she’ll be the first one naked. And no-one wants to have to look at that.
You ditch the three 4s and have a decent hand left: 2, two 3s, two Kings, and that Joker. That one’s for you, Dave.
Emilia easily beats your 4s with an Ace.
Dave has two down-turned cards to beat the Ace with. “Pressure’s on now,” he says, tapping the left and right card. He flips the right one; it’s a fucking Ace! Dave leaps up, going mental.
Wanker.
Anna – or was it Alice? – frets, four cards in-hand. She plays a 2.
Branston plays an Ace.
Fatty looks like she’s about to have a nervous breakdown.
“You’ve got a three!” Anna/Alice/whatever yells.
“Thank God,” fatty says, laying it on the Ace.
3’s invisible; the Ace is yours to beat. You consider Emilia; she’s got three down-turned cards, which could be anything, good or bad. You try and help her out as best you can and play a 2.
She flips the card on the right: 9.
“Here we go, all or nowt,” Dave says, before flipping his last card over: 9.
“Yes! It’s a fucking nine!” he shouts, leaping up and down, cheering and whooping. He pulls his jeans off in his frenzy. “Here are, I’ll keep in the spirit of things.”
You look at the Joker in your hand and smirk. Fuck you, Dave.
Dave heads over to the laptop and replaces the Pitbull-heavy shitmix with even worse music: Justin Bieber.
Anna Whatever plays a 9: “I’ve only got two left now!”
In your hand, yeah.
Branston’s on to his three down-turned cards. He flips the middle one: it’s a Queen.
Fatty screams. She picks up the mound in the middle and removes a sock.
“Both socks!” Dave shouts, bottle of Glenn’s in his hand, ready to pour some more awful drinks out. “Same as shoes.”
Fatty looks like she might cry if this all goes much further, sniffling as she rolls her second sock off.
“Whose go is it?” Branston asks.
“Hey, soft lad, wake up!” Dave shouts.
Fuck you, Dave. You play the Joker. “You’re nominated, Dave. Get your cock out.”
“I’m out of the game already!” Dave protests. “I won, you can’t nominate—fuck it.” He yanks his boxers down to his ankles, steps one foot out of them, and uses the other to kick them straight into your face. The girls and Branston are in hysterics as you toss boxers across the room to Branston’s bed. Dave marches about a bit, bollock naked, drops and does some press-ups, then carries on pouring drinks out, bollocks dangling, as everyone but you chuckles at his antics. You’ve never seen him naked before and you’re disturbed to see how big his cock is. I’m a grower, not a shower, you remind yourself, but there’s no good that’ll do you in this situation, unless it descends into a full-on orgy, which you suppose it might do.
Emilia has two down-turned cards left and can play anything. She flips the one on the left: it’s a King.
“Fuck!” Anna shouts, picking the pile of cards up.
She’s got the Joker now. You worry what she’ll do with it as she takes her socks off.
Branston flips her final card; a 5, not that it matters. “Alright,” he says, standing up, “I’m out, but in the spirit of things…” He starts undressing, pulling his polo shirt over his head, unbuttoning his jeans.
“Yes, that’s the spirit, lad!” Dave shouts.
You’re worried where this is all heading.
Branston gets down to his boxers and hops over to fatty, who’s fretting over the massive pile of cards she’s been lumbered with.
“Here, let me help you with these,” Branston says, sitting down beside her. He looks at you, grins, then whispers something in her ear.
She plays an Ace.
You’re holding two 4s and two 3s. You look at Emilia’s last over-turned card; there’s nothing you can do to help her. You sigh, decide to keep one 3 back for an emergency, and place a 3 on top of fatty’s Ace.
Emilia flips her last card; it’s a Jack. She picks the cards up and takes her shoes off.
You stare at her bare toenails with concern; no socks means she’ll be naked a round quicker than the rest of them.
“What happens now?” Emilia says, having two cards in the hand and none remaining in front of her.
“Get rid of them and you’re out,” Branston says.
Almost there.
Dave’s fucking about with the laptop. Bruno Mars & Calvin Harris comes on, “Uptown Funk”. Dave starts swaying and back and forth and singing, loud and obnoxious, bollocks bouncing about as he dances.
Everyone but you seems to find it hysterical.
Anna plays a 5. Fatty puts down three 6s.
You’re holding a 3 and two Kings; there are two up-turned Jacks in front of you. You look at Emilia; in your drunkenness, you can’t remember if she’s able to beat a King. You play a 3. She plays a Jack.
“I’ve still got a Joker,” Anna laughs, playing a King.
“You’re not meant to say!” Dave shouts from the laptop. “And that best be going on one of the girls, this is looking like turning into a right sausage-fest.”
Branston whispers into Fatty’s ear; she plays two Aces.
You pick the cards up and roll your socks off.
“Bloody hell, soft lad,” Dave shouts. “You ashamed of your body or something?”
“Go on, mate!” Branston laughs. “Show some skin, for fuck’s sake! This is well boring!”
The girls are looking at you expectantly, and you can feel that playing the game the way you’re supposed to be playing it isn’t going to cut it – you have to stoop to the same level as the inebriated court jesters if you’re ever to become the king. So you pull your T-shirt off over your head, and get a few claps and ‘wa-hey’s for the effort.
Emilia plays a 5 and Anna follows with a 6, while you shuffle the cards in your hand into order: you’re holding two Aces, three Kings, a Jack, three 6s, a 5, and a 3. Fatty plays three 8s. You look at Emilia, trying to remember what the two cards in her hand are. You fail. You play a Jack. She plays a 3. Anna smirks and lays down the Joker. “Oh yeah! Branston, get your knob out!”
“With pleasure!” He leaps up and whips the boxers off, then Dave runs over and tackles him, and the two roll on the bed and wrestle with each other, stark narked, as the girls squeal with glee, Emilia included, her eyes widening at the spectacle. There’s a storm brewing inside you. If either of those cunts try wrestling me, I’ll pin them down and fucking rape them.
“So what do I play?” Fatty shouts at Branston, once Dave’s released him.
“Anything!”
She plays three 4s.
“No, wait, you’ve got beat the Jack,” you say. “Joker’s invisible.”
“Ah, soft lad,” Dave says, mocking you.
“Oh, soft lad,” Branston repeats.
They kept saying it, over and over, growing more effeminate each time, until you give up and let her play her fucking 4s, and contemplate whether to stick a 5 or three 6s on top of it. Someone else will be picking them up soon, you reason, getting rid of the three 6s.
Emilia plays a 3. She’s out! You smile. Your smile fades as she stands up and goes and sits next to naked Dave on the bed. She lifts a glass for him to pour another vodka/whiskey/Coke shitmix.
Anna’s on to her three up-turned cards: Jack, Queen, Ace. She plays the Jack. Branston whispers with Fatty. She plays a Queen. You look at Anna’s Queen and Ace, then at the 3, 5, three Kings and two Aces you’re holding: she can beat anything you throw at her. You play the three Kings. Anna drops an Ace. She’s ecstatic. Branston has Fatty play a 3. You smirk. Now you’re fucked. You play your two Aces.
“Bastard,” Anna says, picking the cards up, unbuttoning her blouse.
You stare as it comes off, revealing all the smooth light-brown flesh beneath, offset by the black of her bra. Dave and Branston cheer. You feel your cock rise against the inside of your jeans. You try to control it, but then you think about the strong possibility of it coming out at any moment, and bigness looking better, but then you consider the reaction they’ll all have to you having a full-on erection. You glug back some of your shitty drink and concentrate on draining the blood back out of it.
Fatty plays a 5, and you play the same, noticing how Dave’s positioning himself at the side of Emilia on the bed, and how his arm’s moved behind her.
“Fuck, I’ve got so many cards!” Anna moans. She counts them and gets to sixteen before giving up. She flubs them all together and they shoot out of her hands. She falls back laughing. “Oh fucking hell, I’ll definitely be getting my tits out at this rate.”
“And your gash!” Dave shouts.
The greedy fucker’s trying for all of them.
Anna gets control of herself and her cards and plays three 6s.
“Go on Dave,” Branston shouts, “I’ve seen enough cock and balls for one night.”
“There’s more where that came from,” Anna squeals. “I’ve got the joker again!”
Shit.
Fatty plays three 9s, leaving just two cards in her hands. You play a 3. Anna shuffles her mound of cards for a while, before remembering what she said all of five seconds ago, and putting the Joker down. You stand up and take your jeans down, and Emilia doesn’t even look at you doing it, chatting with Dave on the bed, and the other girls don’t seem particularly interested either, chatting amongst themselves. You look at Branston, who’s busy putting some more shit music on the laptop. You sit back down in your boxers.
Fatty plays two 2s as the gravity of the situation you’re in becomes apparent. You play two Jacks, leaving you with your three down-turned cards. If one of them’s bad, your cock’s out.
“I don’t even care anymore,” Anna says, putting two Jacks on top of your two, “I’ve got so many bloody cards…”
“Wait, four Jacks,” Branston says, cock and balls swaying as he walks over from the laptop, “you can burn them.”
“What?”
Branston kicks the four Jacks across the carpet. “Four of the same in a row, get rid of them.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Branston sits down next to Anna. “Here, play these.” Branston takes two 4s from her hand and puts them in the middle.
“So them other cards are gone now?” Anna asks.
“Yeah.”
“Aw, you got rid of the Joker!”
Branston looks at you and grins. “I don’t think you’ll be needing it.”
Fatty has a 10, a King, and a Jack on top. She reaches for the King.
“Wait!” Branston shouts. He darts across the rug, balls dangling beneath him, then sits beside fatty and grabs her 10, pushes the cards in the middle aside, sticks the King down and grins in your direction: “It’s on you now, Rhys.”
You have three down-turned cards to beat a King with. Fail, and your boxers are off. You pick the card in the middle: 3! Invisible! You’re saved! And all Fatty’s packing on top now is a 2; you’ll be free to play anything.
Anna plays three Kings. “Does that burn the deck?” she asks Branston.
“Yeah.”
Dave’s edging in ever-closer to Emilia on the bed. This has to end soon.
Anna puts a 4 down. Fatty plays her two. You flip the right card; 9. One to go.
“I don’t even care anymore,” Anna announces, playing a Queen. “I’m definitely losing.”
Fatty turns her last card over; a Joker.
“Get ‘em off, Rhys!” Branston shouts, leaping up.
“Hey, don’t you want Brianna to get her tits out?” Dave shouts from the bed.
Brianna. That’s her name.
“Nope,” Fatty says, smiling at you expectantly. “Get your cock out!”
You sigh, stand, and tug your boxers down. The girls squeal and clap, except Emilia, who’s averting her eyes, talking with Dave.
“You know what, I don’t feel like playing anymore,” Fatty says to Brianna.
“Yeah, me neither actually.”
The girls stand up.
“Shall we head home?” Brianna asks Emilia.
Emilia avoids looking at you as she stands: “Yeah.”
“Oh, come off it!” Dave shouts. “A game’s a game! You can’t stop in the middle of it!”
The girls make their excuses as they gather their socks up from the floor. They’re out the door within minutes, then you’re left alone in the flat with Branston and Dave, all three of you starkers.
“Fancying streaking home, soft lad?” Dave suggests.
“Absolutely not,” you say, putting your boxers back on.
“That were fun, weren’t it?” Dave says, as you walk back through town.
No, it wasn’t.
“Shame Brianna didn’t get her tits out though, I thought that would’ve been a dead cert. That Emilia bird’s nice and all.”
Stay the fuck away from her.
“You want to make a move fast there, soft lad. Else you’ll be spending the next year the same way you’ve spent the last one, wanking off alone. Something up, soft lad? You’re quiet.”
“Yeah. No. I’m just drunk.”
“A right barrel of laughs you are. You reckon they’d be game for playing strip shithead again some time? Maybe we can rig the deck or summat.”
Never again. “I don’t know. I’ll ask Emilia.”
“Yeah, well, let me know next time you’re meeting her. Have her bring Brianna along and all. Double-date.”
Fuck you and everything you stand for.
You don’t get home until gone 2 and you wake up late, your alarm having been sounding out from your phone for twenty-odd minutes. You shower, wishing you could scrub the memory of the night before away, Emilia’s averted gaze, her apparent lack of desire to look at your exposed penis. Kill yourself, you repeat, mantra-like, as you brush your teeth, make ham sandwiches, head out the door. Kill yourself, you repeat, as you light the day’s first cigarette. Kill yourself, as you walk past the Magic Roundabout, down Atlantic Wharf. Kill yourself, as you enter the call centre, three minutes late, Barney in the middle of his speech, some guff about plate-spinning. Kill yourself, as you strap your
headset on and click on Callex. Kill yourself, over dialtone. Kill yourself, through the calls. Kill yourself, during 11 o’clock fag break.
“What’d you get up to last night, sicko?” Jake asks.
Your reddened face and dour demeanour scream of hangover.
Kill yourself.
You say ‘nothing’, but Jake forces you to offer up at something. “A few drinks at Welsh Club with my housemate.” You leave it at that.
Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself.
Then you remember something; Saturday. Chipping Sodbury.
Do unto others first.
The thought echoes through your mind, at home, alone, in front of the computer screen; at work, alone, in front of the computer screen; home to office, screen to screen, small-talk to small-talk, mind wandering, no Whatsapps from Emilia, then you’re on the train, heading toward destiny: Chipping Sodbury.
You watch Wales become England out the train window, hilly forest beyond a river to ploughed fields across it, wondering if you’re making the right choice. What the fuck are you doing? What the fuck are you actually doing? And who the fuck are you that’s doing it? You tell you it’s not you that’s doing it; you’re just a natural reaction, part of the ebb and flow, the oceans, the stars, the billions of arranged molecules, the planet the size of Mars pinging into us billions of years ago and splitting the moon off, its gravity keeping the core warm enough to allow life to exist upon the surface, and that mad miracle dances through your mind as the Verve swell up in your earphones: The Verve – Bittersweet Symphony. You’re a billion different people from each day to the next. You can change; change your mind. You are this perfect crystallised thing, this dagger, into the heart of popular culture, like Brit Pop. A billion different people from each day to the next. That kind of cultural impact; millions of records sold. Globally. At any point on Earth, someone somewhere must be listening to one of your records. Talking about you. You exist everywhere at once. You’ve gone viral. You’ve become internet. Destroyer of worlds. You can change. But why would you want to? What other choice is there? Choose life. Choose life. Choose passive acceptance of mass surveillance, so long as you get points every time you swipe your Nectar card. Choose passive acceptance of endless war in the East, all our bombs descending upon it. Keeps the military busy; gives the country something to do. Something to keep the wolves from the door. Keep ourselves fighting fit. Needs big in-plusses of money, a country of this size. Call centres aren’t cutting it. 3D printing’s coming soon, and there’ll be garages set up in every town and city on the sly, banging out Bond cars for ten grand a pop, whole economies’ll collapse, Germany, with BMW, and whoever else is making cars, all of them, bottom falls out, what then? Climate change. China/USA. Trump. Chickens are coming home to roost for Merry Old England. For Chipping Sodbury. That’s what you are: you’re a fucking chicken. You think about the poultry blood that mingled with your own. All the factory hens you’ve chowed down on: all the Rustler Chicken Flats, Zingers, McChick-Filets, Popcorn Poultry, all the mashed-up deceased egg-layers whose odds and ends have filled you when you’ve opted for a Nugget Extreme. And what alternatives exist? What other choice is there? Go vegetarian, vegan, die of protein deficiency. Go caveman diet to recover. Cheeseburgers. Cheeseburgers are worst. The juicy delicious encapsulation of mid-capitalism’s plump excess. Take a cow, fuck it with a bull, snatch its calves away, milk it till its teats are raw, put a bolt-gun in the back of its head, let the milk curdle, meat-grinder, cheeseburger. You’re the solution to the problem. Make these cunts so fucking sick of fucking excess that’ll they’ll gouge their own eyeballs out rather than look at the headlines you’re producing. The mad obscenities the rags’ll try and blame on Muslims, on mild-mannered middle-aged sick fucks with wonton desire, on all the other bogey-men. You’re better than that. You’re as bad as it gets. You’re the fucking devil himself. You smile and gaze out the window as Muse – Plug In Baby fills your ears, zoning out on practicalities. The exact course of action you’re going to take when you get there. What exactly it is you’re hoping to accomplish – some kind of vitality, some elixir, squeezed from the young… You shake your head. Madness. Madness. But it’s too late. You’re on the train. It’s gone too far.
