Two Men Walk Into A Bar

S.W.A.L.K.

Dear Mam,

Thanks for the sweater, it was nice even though orange isn't really my colour. I'm sorry I haven't written to you in a while. I would have, only I've been a bit busy.

... You know how there's this joke that goes “two men walk into a bar”?

Yeah. It was a bit like that, except that these blokes had guns, and I sort of managed to, I dunno, piss them off a bit.

Mam, before you go spare, it's not as if I did it on purpose. Here I was, out with the mates after watching footy at Tony's place – remember Tony, Mam? You said, “that brat'd sell his own granny if it'd do him good,” and I said, “no, Mam, he's all right,” but as it turns out, you were more right than me, 'cos he did try that once, only no-one'd buy Granny Costello 'cos she's a bloody hag, and the only thing she's ever been good for is the life insurance, (Tony's words, Mam, not mine) – and sort of having a good time, really, when aforementioned fellows walked into the pub. With guns and suits and fancy black shoes that you could use for mirrors, practically. They looked like they'd walked straight out of The Godfather or something.

“Hey fellows,” said Tony, 'cos he's a bloody idiot when he's drunk, and anyway he can't hold his liquor for nothing. Then he went on and tried to sell them something – I forget what exactly, but it was probably expensive and illegal in just about every state of America.

Anyway, for some reason the Men in Black didn't seem to like this much. I can sort of relate, 'cos Tony is what you'd call a Salesman drunk. (Yeah, Mam, he actually gets worse when he's pissed.)

Then one of the blokes grabbed him and said, “come out with us for a bit, we have much to discuss.”

I dunno, Mam, when someone who looks like a part of the Mafia asks you to 'come out with them', it seems like a good idea to back off. And possibly get yourself a gun. Unfortunately, Tony was too drunk for common sense and not drunk enough not to see the possibility of Business With Money In It and was more than ready to agree. I'm a good mate, Mam, so I looked the bloke – the one who was holding Tony, I mean – in the eye and said, “look, man, back off!” sort of like Bruce Willis might have said it back when he was actually good.

“Yeah,” PC crowed – PC's my other mate, you remember him, right?

And then the other fellow – the one who wasn't grabbing Tony, I mean – gave me a look. I swear I nearly ran screaming out the door right then and there, Mam. It was the sort of look you get in nightmares. Possibly Hell.

“We want to talk to your friend,” he said, only it was more like, “Fee fahnt to tahk to your frent.” I reckon he was foreign.

“I'll be all right,” Tony told me, all happy-like 'cos he was going to make a sale. (Well, he thought so, didn't he?)

“You're not going to talk to Tony or nothing,” I hissed. It was an impressive sort of hiss, really. PC blinked, giggling like a thirteen-year-old, and started quoting the lyrics from Money, Money, Money by ABBA under his breath, like he thought it fit the situation or something. We ignored him. Most people ignore PC when he's drunk – it's painful unless you've had at least three beers already.

“Ignore him,” said Tony, meaning me and not PC, “he doesn't know what he's talking about, seriously.”

“Tony,” I said, feeling sort of panicked, “them's going to molest you or shoot your sorry arse, man!”

And then one of the blokes – the foreign one – grabbed me, too.

I made a sound like a cat in a meat grinder. Quite possibly I was swearing, too, but I reckon it was well deserved, considering the situation.

And I thought, well, this exacerbates things a bit. (That's one of PC's Posh Words, Mam – it means “to make things worse.”)

Then the Men in Black took me and Tony out into the back alley – they left PC in the pub, 'cos bringing him along would have been sort of a waste of time and effort for everyone involved – and started interrogating Tony about his product. Only they referred to it as a “Product”, and probably thought it was drugs or something.

Yeah, about that – turns out it was some sort of laundry detergent or something. I dunno, 'cos I was a bit distracted at the time. Anyway, the bottom line is, the Men in Black were not amused. To show us how extremely unamused they were, they made us stand against the wall. And then they shot us.

Don't panic, Mam, I got better.

It was morning when I came back to my senses. Tony was laying on top of me, and we'd been dumped behind a couple of garbage cans. My clothes – as well as me, really, and Tony, and just about the entire alley – smelled like Tony's laundry detergent. They still sort of do, actually. (By the way ... have you got anything that could help against that? Any helpful cleaning tips you'd care to share with your beloved son?)

... I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm sort of dead. I mean, I walk around like usual so I'm not dead dead, but I'm definitely dead, because you can't survive for six hours in a back alley with a bullet wound in your –

So, yeah. I'm dead. It's not all it's cracked up to be, Mam, I still have to work and pay the bills and shower in the morning and all. I was expecting a bit more ... I dunno, glitter, maybe. It's not as if things have changed, or at least it's not as if they've changed very much.

I mean. I've gotten fond of eating things made from intestines – there's nothing more disturbing than discovering that you'd like to eat someone's brain rather than the usual bacon crisps on a Saturday night, Mam, believe me – and also I've become fascinated by IKEA, but, other than that, the life after death is exactly like the life before it.

Only, well, if you ever wanted grandchildren, you're probably going to be disappointed.

I love you, Mam, and I'm sorry again that it's been so long since the last letter, but as you see the excuse is pretty valid.

Love,

Chris

PS. PC is wondering if he can bring a date for the Christmas Party.

---

Notes: Technically backstory to Undead Alive, but I doubt that Topher'll ever show up around there. (Some punctuational errors are sort of deliberate, FYI.) I wrote this in a Creative Writing class. Notice how that isn't "for a Creative Writing class"? Yeah. That's probably good, seeing as I was probably supposed to write in Norwegian. It was sort of disorganised, the whole class - it was a part of the Mental Health day at our school, and we didn't have a teacher. xp Afterwards, I went to a lecture about bullying, and it was so emotionally powerful that I almost cried, so it was all good.

This is chock full of references to things, btw, and now my head is full of "two men walk into a bar..." jokes. As for UA and HB, I'm working on them, seriously.