This story carries a green warning, don't read and eat.
Rhys groaned. He desperately needed the
loo, but he knew any movement might kill him. He groaned again. It was no use;
he’d have to move. He hauled himself up, his head flopping around like someone
had wrung his neck. He stood still for a moment deciding whether or not he was
going to vomit and a wrecking ball came crashing through his skull.
One step,
two steps,
reassess, he felt he could make it. Three
steps, four steps, his stomach flipped. Deep breath, deep breath. The
demolition ball was swinging around again. He managed to get to the loo just in
time to get his head down the pan and throw up what looked like the remains of
a hastily eaten pizza while simultaneously wetting himself.
Wetting yourself in your normal clothes is
one thing, but wetting yourself when you are dressed as a giant bottle of beer
is another. Rhys heaved up the last of the pizza and beer and flushed the
toilet. He then tried to pull the foam costume over his head, smearing his own
wee all over his skin.
Pizza? he thought to himself as he stood
under the shower. He couldn’t remember eating pizza. The thought of it made his
woozy all over again. He fixed his stare at the shower curtain and told himself
he wasn’t going to be sick. Then, he bent double and heaved into the bath tub. How
much fucking pizza?
When he stood up he realised the water was
hurting his hands. Why? He looked at the skin on his fingers and saw red blotches
- blisters. What on earth?
Looking at his memories of last night was
like peering through a dirty, shattered window. He could make out bits and
pieces. He’d been playing drinking games at Mike and Suzanna’s with Batman, and
then tried to get off with Harry Potter, until her pirate boyfriend had come
over and marked his territory. He vaguely remembered dancing in the club with Lucy
but she wasn’t in costume, and he had no memory of getting from Mike’s to the
club or getting home.
Despite being clean and dry, cleaning up
the mess in the toilet, and putting the costume in the washing machine, he
could still smell pizza and the wrecking ball was still doing its thing.
He sat on the sofa, pecking at his tea;
maybe Facebook would shed some light on how the evening went. His phone was
nearly out of battery, but he didn’t want to move to find the charger. He
scrolled down Facebook, one hundred generic happy new year messages and then he
saw his face. It was not exactly how he expected to see it. It was a not taken
on a mate’s camera phone, or by the club’s photographer but by a security
camera. It wasn’t on Mike’s timeline or Suzanne’s but on a link shared by the
local newspaper. No one said great night last night Rhys, the headline read.
‘Man dressed as beer bottle wanted for
alleged Pizza theft.’
Before Rhys could read the rest of the
story, his phone died.
In case you are wondering, that was a real Headline from the barry and District News Website.
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