Tuesday, 21 June 2011

Chapter Three

The cat's rough tongue caressed her eyeball, pulling skin from flesh, flesh from bone. The cat seemed surprised as Natasha's broken eyelid flickered open and her peepers rolled back to face the world. Angry and a little confused cat leapt down from the table and out of the room. Back to the dried food and dreams of human meat, in the game of cat Top Trumps human meat spanks Kitty Cat.

Waking up was hard to do. The delete key pressed against her eyeball, squeezing goo into the workings of the elderly computer. Soon it would commune with the crumbs of a thousand slices of toast and form an army to charge the inner workings of the machine.

Lemsip and Whiskey? She should have googled it first. But it had seemed so appropriate. Ironic death, death to interject a rye smile in between the tumultuous tears of the parade of bereft but beautiful mourners. Unfortunately it turned out to be rubbish at killing, but good at making you seem more blitzed than a child star by their fourth album. This must be how Joey Lawrence felt every morning.

The stereo was blaring and the TV was on as feeling came back. She leaped up to make the music go away, the hidden Kylie album was playing, she never played the Kylie album unless…...

Nausea kicked in as she looked around the flat - something had gone on here, something bad. Her kitchen had been ravaged by the cake monster - every saucepan she owned was filled with congealing crap. Crumbs coated the floor.

Her telly blared in the corner, a vacuous Z lister interviewing an emaciated stripling who had found fame through the internet. Her computer was on as well and it screamed at her angrily that she had 595 new emails to read. 595 emails? How had that happened? Only her mum, Pizza Hut and the Viagra guy ever emailed her.

Natasha loathed the internet more than she loathed fancy dress parties, posters of puppies and middle aged women who wore clothing with Disney's Winnie the Pooh on it.

She pulled herself dizzily up and stumbled to the sink in order to lose some of the stomach sludge that was drowning her innards. The TV continued to blare - the pointless pop tart's latest offering. It sounded like Phil Spector beating one of his children with a shoe and then eating it.

She shut the laptop in disgust and threw a book at the television. Only cunts got famous on the internet.

There was a knock at the door.

1 comment:

  1. I agree with the theory that only cunts get famous on the internet ... look at Justin Beiber.
    Tis' very good!