The Hangover
It was early on a Wednesday morning, Mac pulled himself up off the couch, half-disorientated and reeking of booze. Empty cans of Guinness strewn all over the floor with dribbles of vomit traipsing down his plaid shirt. Awkwardly making his way over to the kitchen sink, bare-footed and making no effort to avoid the wreckage of the previous night he filled himself a pint of water and venomously grabbed the paracetamol box from the top shelf.
âFuck itâ, he barked, the paracetamol box was empty and Macâs headache was worsening. He peered over his hideous hook nose to the fridge and plundered his way over, forcibly swinging it open and grabbing some slices of ham and scoffing them down. He trundled back to the couch and sat upright staring at the smashed wedding photo on the wall, a state of agitation took over as Mac let out a big sigh and rubbed his hands coarsely through his greasy and unkempt hair. Unable to settle he grabbed his keys and phone, put on his boots and made for the back door, managing to collide with both sides of the door frame on his exit.
Outside, the weather was much like how Mac was feeling - miserable and gloomy. He shuffled through his pockets for the keys to open his battered looking Mitsubishi Pajero, his hands shaking from the night before, after a few second he eventually maneuvered the keys out only to drop them into a puddle of water at his feet.
âYa fuckinnnâ bashtard, yaâ roared Mac who took into a fit of rage and furiously kicked the front tyre on the driverâs side of his vehicle. Eventually composing himself, he picked up the keys, opened the door and laboriously dragged himself into the driverâs seat. He put the keys in the ignition and started the vehicle, turning the wipers on and bleakly pausing to take in the depressing state of the weather outside. Looking forlorn and in need of inspiration, he put his head back on the headrest and then leaned forward, resting his head on the steering wheel.
Finally wakening himself from his unenthusiastic slumber, Mac sprung up and turned his radio on, punching the number 1 button on his car radio, it was Newstalk and it was Ivan Yates. âShuhpose I better get on with soâ Mac said purposefully to himself. He backed his jeep up, over the kerb and in on the garden and turned it for the road.
Still agonising over a terrible booming pain in his head, Mac pulled up at the service station, ignorantly abandoning his car in the only available disabled parking spot. He swung his door wide open and stumbled out of the vehicle, bringing a load of ketchup sachets with him, one lodged in his arse crack which was on full display above his stained dark blue Wrangler jeans.
Cloddishly approaching the pretty lady at the till, he reached down and picked up two packs of Tayto Salt and Vinegar crisps and threw them on the counter to which the young lady pleasantly smiled.
âHi Mac, anything else I can get ya?â asked the lady
âPack a panadolâ mumbles Mac as the ladyâs face winces, taken aback at the smell of his savage bad breath.The lady rummages in the shelves behind her and picks out a packet.
âWill these do, Mac?â the lady says while presenting Mac with the package in her hand.
Mac bluntly looks at her with a half-docile, half-disdainful expression on his face and after an awkward few seconds of silence nods his head in approval. He hands over his money and takes his purchases from the counter deciding not to engage in the pleasantries offered by the cashier after the exchange.
Turning his back and walking out, he lets a squeaky, high-pitched fart just before exiting the shop, the lady, unseen to Mac just ruefully shakes her head and whispers âDear Godâ.
