#oneaday, Day 10: Wordplay

[Before we start and descend headlong into depravity, let me give those of you who don’t follow me on Twitter a bit of context. I asked for a word to blog about. I was immediately bombarded with lots of them. So I’ve decided to attempt to insert all of them into a piece of creative writing that makes at least some degree of sense.

I have hyperlinked each word used to the original tweet that mentioned it.

Given the nature of the words that have been incoming while I’m writing this, the following piece of prose may not be suitable for anyone those under the age of the age of majority in the region where you are reading this. Also, hearty apologies to any Jamaican readers and ting.]

Feena awoke, sat up groggily, brushed the hair out of her face and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. She blinked a few times and looked around her, mouth hanging slightly open, as she tried to recall exactly what had transpired.

Last night had been filled with silliness, for sure. There had been copious drinking and outrageous dancing at the pub, much to the delight of the elderly regulars. The girls had picked the pub specifically because it was a place that wouldn’t be filled with the sort of Ben Sherman-wearing, aftershave-drenched creep that tended to latch on to a group of pretty girls and proceed to harass then throughout the course of the evening. The old men had come out with a few cheeky wolf-whistles and saucy comments, but it was all good-natured and the girls had enjoyed themselves.

She swung her legs down off the bed and let her bare feet drop to the wooden floor, wincing slightly at how cold it was. Evidently she’d forgotten to put the heating on when she’d got in, which wasn’t surprising. She shivered a little, but stood up, intending to make for the kitchen and make herself a nice hot pot of coffee.

The pub hadn’t been the end of the night, of course. Feena couldn’t remember who had suggested moving on to the nightclub, but she sincerely hoped it wasn’t her, considering the things that were flooding back into her mind, faster and faster now.

The club, Jokers, was a regular student haunt and seemed to constantly have a background scent of stale flatulence. This was partly due to the fact that the toilets were pretty much constantly out of order, though that didn’t stop people pissing, shitting and vomiting into them, the fragrant effluvia occasionally spilling out of the toilet block into the laughably-named “beer garden” and, on one memorable occasion, onto the dance floor.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if Jokers served normal drinks, thought Feena. Jokers was the only place in the city you could get a can of Clamweiser, though. And by the time people were drunk enough to end up in Jokers, they were drunk enough to consume a beverage made of a mixture of gassy American beer and clam juice. She shuddered as she remembered the last memory she had of the night: the fetid stench of the drink being poured into the glass in front of her.

She retched slightly at the thought. It was markedly worse than the previous Most Disgusting Experience of her life, the time where as a teen she had caught her brother at the tail-end of an apparently-epic masturbation session, his computer screen filled with boobies, dripping cock clenched in his hand while their mother’s bra’s clasp pinged open and fell off his chest. She shivered; it was an image which would have been enormously amusing had it not been quite so horrifying.

She rummaged around in the fridge blindly, the light stinging her hungover eyes, and finally withdrew two slices of bread. A piece of toast will sort me right out, she thought. She popped the two slices into the toaster and pressed the lever down.

Suddenly, there was a noise. It sounded like a toilet flushing. Feena froze in her tracks. Was there someone else here?

The answer to her question came in short measure, as a Jamaican man with long dreadlocks wandered into her kitchen, naked as the day he was born, and gave her a polite nod.

“I use de last of ye bumbaclot,” he said, gesturing towards her bathroom and scratching his testicles nonchalantly. “Hoap ye don’ mind.”

Feena blinked, but said nothing. All was silent for a moment. Then, as if finding the silence unbearable, the toaster flung the two hot, crisp pieces of bread high into the air. They seemed to spin in slow motion, rising to the zenith of their flight before gravity took hold and they accelerated inexorably towards the floor, where they plopped unceremoniously, immediately forgotten.

“Did you…” Feena stammered, not sure what she wanted to ask this strange naked man who was now looking at her quizzically. “Did you… Did we…?”

“What?” he asked, smiling slightly.

“Did you… Did you invade my coochie snorcher?” she babbled. She didn’t know why her brain had chosen that particular moment to resurrect a euphemism she hadn’t uttered aloud for at least ten years, but she figured this situation couldn’t get any more embarrassing.

The man chuckled.

“No,” he said. “Some ras-clart try to start dis ting in de club. Saw him off too, noat before me mandible were dislocated, though. Ye help me oot, done fix me up good and ting, Miss Nursey, an’ ye let me sleep here.”

“Oh,” said Feena, still a little bewildered by the whole situation.

“Ye want ye’ toast?” asked the man, picking up the discarded slices from the floor, a thin dusting of brown crumbs remaining on the tiles.

“No,” said Feena absently. “No, I think I just want to go back to bed.”