31st October 2008
As I exited the Naxxar residence there was a full moon set to a Milky Way backdrop that seemed to occupy the whole night sky. I had a smile on my face as I stepped out into the crisp, fresh night air that seemed to flow into your lungs with ease with every breath you took, but it was smell of 10 grams of Amsterdam-grade Skunk in my back-pocket, tickling my nostril hairs, that was putting a spring into my step.
A little unsteady on my feet from the two joints I’d just smoked, I tackled the now familiar staircase that looked like an optical illusion with a confident stride, but still managed to fall down the cunt, as always. Only in Malta would they design a marble-effect staircase that severely narrows to a point as you descend.
As I got into the car I went through my usual ‘after scoring’ driving ritual: checking over each shoulder, looking all around me and into adjacent parked cars, and once I was sure it was safe, I whipped out the mighty bag of God’s herb and stashed it in a little cubby-hole that sits just behind the hand-brake – within easy reach should the filth decide they’d like a word with me on the journey home.
A ‘hazy’ 5-mile drive home from Naxxar is quite an ordeal and almost always fraught with anxiety and paranoia about anyone and everything, depending upon weed consumption. Wondering whether the car behind me is following me and my weed-addled brain not allowing me to consider that this is the only road out of Naxxar. Frantically braking every few metres as I try to discern the road from the fog of light ahead caused by oncoming traffic blinding my bloodshot and already half-closed eyes. Apart from the cunt behind tail-gating me all the way to San Gwann, blinding me in the rear-view mirror with his main beams, the journey home was largely uneventful. Arriving outside my house I turned off the engine, stepped out of the car and recoiled in fear and horror.
There were monsters, she-devils, vampires, witches, werewolves and ghouls everywhere, and curiously the Incredible Hulk. They had blood-soaked faces, ghastly scars, with skin whiter than an Irish girls arse. Some had donned capes and pointed hats and some were brandishing Tridents. These were no ordinary monsters, she-devils, vampires, witches, werewolves and ghouls, and a curious Incredible Hulk, with blood-soaked faces, ghastly scars, skin whiter than an Irish girls arse, wearing capes and pointed hats and brandishing tridents, I thought to myself; these were midget monsters, she-devils, vampires, witches, werewolves and ghouls, and a curious Incredible Hulk, with blood-soaked faces, ghastly scars, skin whiter than an Irish girls arse, wearing capes and pointed hats and brandishing tridents.
They were the midget army of everyone’s worst nightmares and were being shepherded door-to-door by human drones – the beast-masters – presumably to feast on the poor occupant’s brain. Why tonight, I had no idea, but I knew I needed to get into the house quick, lest my brain be feasted upon by a miniature Incredible Hulk. Luckily their lust for brain matter was focused on two houses next-door, so with my head down I charged to door not daring to make eye-contact with the beasts or their beast-masters.
I seemed to float up the normally troublesome staircase outside my house like Neo, with my key seemingly to guiding itself into the keyhole with deft precision. I was home. I was safe. I breathed a sigh of relief and went to my room where I was bare-arsed in seconds and into my favourite smoking trousers, with my trusty smoking t-shirt replacing the branded polo shirt of my gaming company employer. Reaching to the back of the wardrobe shelves, right to the back-edge of the top shelf and arcing my hand over, I pull out my smoking box from the secret ledge between the shelf and the top of the wardrobe. It was then I realised…
I dropped to my knees, sobbing uncontrollably and cursing my short-term memory as it dawned on me that I’d left my weed in the car. With midget monsters outside and three sheets to the wind, I knew I didn’t have the courage and wherewithal to go outside and face the beasts and to look the demonic beast-master drones in the eye and tell them there would be no treats for the Pagan damned tonight.
For the following hour there was all manner of miniature monsters outside with the beast-masters in toe, scratching at the doors, shrieking their god-awful shrieks and taking it in turns to ring my doorbell in an attempt to lure me out and feast on my brain.
There would be no gratuitously strong joints for Clive that night, or at least until the beasts and the beast-masters went home.