“GO ON!! ILL FUCKING HAVE YEA! ILL FUCKING DECK YEAH”

“Will some one please call the police”, Helen turned to the crowd in the pub, by which time had all backed away in stunned silence. “Barry has finally lost it.”

Steven, an old mate of mine, was caressing the wound on the back of his head from where he ‘d received the fat end of a pool cue, staring blankly at the blood clotting up the felt of billiard table.

“ILL BUST YEA, ILL FUCKING BUST YEA.”

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Fucking. It’s all I could see through all the smoke. Fucking. A mound of flesh and limbs writhing and surging with ecstasy. It was the smell that burnt my nostrils. Out of the haze I could make out a huge rock of hash, maybe a few meters high. Once in a while a scrawny ginger one would break from the pack and hack large chunks off the rock, grind them in a pepper shaker, and rejoin the group again. Kevy looked at me from the stage. He was playing his Steve Vai solo to a backing track for probably the 30th time now. He looked like a human tea bag in his vest, the self proclaimed hob goblin of rock scraped in his chest. I blacked out….