Mechanical Advantage

So there I was, round Marty's, in that ridiculously short dressing gown, eating smokey bacon crisps and drinking enormous cocktails of immense potency with him and robobint. I have to say, it's all a bit of a blur from then on. Since that evening, certain painful memories inflict themselves upon me at random intervals - neurological kindling which rise up and tear at me like jagged blades of obsidian rock breaking the surface of a dark tumultuous sea, treacherously clawing at the helpless hull of my frangible sanity in an irresistible black tempest of nauseating giddiness.

I remember the dancing first. Me, awkwardly pogoing around with my legs tight together and one hand clamped over my tackle, stultified in my terpsichorean expression by that absurdly brief gown. Marty, half crouching with his bony rear sticking out and frantically hand jiving and doing the 'mash potato', visibly enervated by his frenetically flapping forearms. And her... her, slowly contorting and writhing in an overtly erotic grind, gyrating blithely around a virtual pole, sinking to a full splits position and back up again with seemingly no effort from her powerful, piston-like pegs.

It was then that Marty yelled out "Trikestrike, sexitrikestrike!"

His girlfriend awoke from her writhing rhythmic reverie, left the room and returned with three tiny tricycles hanging from her vast arms. One was red, one was blue and one was green.

"Time to toke trike-like" Marty said, taking out an enormous spliff from behind the bar.

"I... I don't normally tend to..." I began.

Marty put an arm around my shoulders, supporting his weight and slumping forward to conspiratorially whisper to me. "If we're doin' 'Badge', I wanna know you're a Marty kinda guy. Are you? Are you a Marty kinda guy? 'Cos I'm beginning to have my doubts about you..."

Of course, I took that fat doobie and I got on the miniature tricycle. You knew I would. What little self-respect remained was effectively dealt with that night. What vestigial trace of artistic integrity that ever was, was thus forever erased that fateful hazy eve. I straddled that tiny trike in my tiny gown and I rode it. I rode it for all I was worth, like the worthless trike-truckler I'd become. I rode it round and round, the squeaky wheels sounding out loudly like the tormented trappings of my distrained mind, my shoulders hunched over the little handlebars and my white legs pumping away, my knees bent up right next to my ears, my bollocks flapping loosely in the breeze of the speed, my eyes pricked with tears of shame. Faster and faster I pedalled, the tiny frame of the tricycle bending and groaning from the unreasonable forces I applied to it, all the while Marty singing "Hava, hava nagila..." and his girlfriend clapping in time with those huge hands of hers - each beat sounding like the violent report of a concussion grenade.

Faster I pedalled. Firmer I gritted my teeth down on that joint. Wilder my distended knackers bobbled about. Deeper into the abyss of permanent psychological trauma I descended, until... in an insensate haze of alcohol and weed fuelled mania, I clipped one of the wheels over the edge of the jacuzzi and into the churning water I fell. Marty screamed in delight and he, immediately followed by his girlfriend, both jumped in with me.

The details become sketchy again. I remember the three of us reclining in the bubbling tub, our respective gowns cast aside. I remember Marty's curly hair completely fuzzed up by the moisture so it looked like a giant round microphone cover and his big retro glasses all steamed over. I remember snorting lines off of the glistening, adamantine abs of his broad. I remember Marty sticking to the coco coladas while his girlfriend and I swapped swigs from an iced vodka bottle. Yes! The vodka bottle - I remember now. It was the same brand as Sandy poured into his soup in that restaurant. I asked Marty about Sandy - if he was okay after the clown attack.

"He's okay, he's okay" Marty said. "Oy, that big schmuck - I tell you, you gotta know how to treat the writers. Carrot or stick, carrot or stick, stick or carraagghht! I don't schlep around with the carrot or stick - enough already! I make the carrot into the stick. I hit them with the freakin' carrot, yeah - ha ha - I beat 'em up good wit' the stick made outta carrot!" And he started laughing manically in that high-pitched nasal way of his.

He stopped abruptly. "Waittah minute..." he drawled, "did you pick up Sandy's plot book that day?"

"Plot book?"

"Yeah, yeah, his plot book. He ain't not'in' wit'out his plot book. He said he ain't got it but I figured you got it, right? Sandy can't do 'Badge' wit' no book."

"But we can still use my story lines in the meantime, can't we?" I asked.

"No book, no 'Badge'." Marty took another swig of his rum-laced mucus-juice then started screaming out laughing again. "Hit 'em wit' the carrot, yeah - hit 'em wit' the freakin' carrot!"

Then he leapt up out of the jacuzzi with surprising swiftness and, completely naked but for the froth of the bath, ran to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city, hitting it with a fearsome slap. There he stood spread-eagle, legs wide apart, arms lifted in a victorious stance: "I'm Marty Parmy," he yelled to the lights below, "I'm Marty Parmy - I'm the Parmy - I hit 'em good with my carraaghht! I hi..." his voice trailed. He teetered for a moment, then slowly fell backwards, slumping to the floor, leaving a starfish pattern of suds against the window.

The last thing I remember, as Marty lay unconscious, is his girlfriend in the jacuzzi, pointing sternly for me to leave, me shamefully climbing out of the bath, acutely aware of her critical gaze surveying my exposed form as I rummaged for my sodden silk gown, forbidden to collect my clothes from the bathroom, forced to traipse the streets that night with only that inadequate gown and my wits.

But the plot book. I need to get hold of Sandy's book or all is lost with 'Badge'. I'm just going to have to face Sandy again after the clown incident.