The Art of Scarpering

Warning: Foul language and sexual connotations. And a fair amount of Kiwi lingo, feel free to ask for translations. ^,^

Harsh midday light, suddenly streaming onto my face. I try to roll further under the baby grand to escape but a voice, shrieking like a thousand angle grinders, demands our attention.

“What the HELL? Who are… what is…”

Mystery voice is so uptight that she can’t even finish her sentences. That’s totally my cue to bail before this place shakes worse than Christchurch. Aww. Too soon? Oh god my head. These swift turns of wit aren’t mixing well with the half bottle of Jimmies I scuppered last night.

“Shut up Kintz. Can’t a man nurse his hangover is peace?”

“I go to my parents for three nights. THREE FUCKING NIGHTS. And you throw a fucking party. Who is going to clean this up? I’m not, I’ve had it up to here.”

Groggily rolling out from my refuge, I  belch my hullo to the lovely pins of Maree Kintz. The usually lovely missus of our apparently over generous host. She looks less than impressed to slap eyes on my mug, obviously I must look a bit worse for the wear. A hard night on it will do that to a man.

“Aight Marque?”

“Aight. Stockies tonight. Best head off.”

And with that subtle apology for scarpering, leaving Todd in the dog box, I dash out the door into the overbearing Napier morning. Gotta pound those three blocks home and sober up some before Gran calls. I swear that woman could smell alcohol in cough syrup from the 18 yard. It’s a little chilly for lunch time, must be a breeze wafting around my alcohol blanket.

A lady walking with her kids gives me a look of horror as I round the corner, pulling them away and placing herself between us. I can feel her eyes boring into my throbbing brain while I walk and idly wonder what sort of sharpie art our caring friends adorned me with after I passed out.  Plenty of time to check the damage once I get home.

A ginger kid on a scooter comes flying out a couple of driveways up. Obviously whatever I’ve got is pretty bad coz he screams and flies inside. Maybe I should clean up some. So I hock into my palm before rubbing my forehead (nothing), left cheek (still nothing) and the right (clear). Must need scrubbing. T-shirt will do.

Grabbing the hem I… catch nothing.

Guess I’m still trollied, can’t even grab my own bloody t-shirt without looking.

I look down
“FUCK! OH shit oh”
I’m starkers. Totally buff. Completely. Oh shit, that’s why that lady was so filthy at me. What if she calls the pigs?

I dive over the low fence, into a deep green bush. The crushed leaves smell sweetly lemony. But they’re not big enough to cover anything for the dash home. I spot a couple of huge leaves on the end of red stalks and pull ’em up. They’ll do.

I slink out of the bush, trying to cover everything as best I can, and fly home. If only I had legs like this during the footy! I can hear the phone ringing, it’s harpy’s scream cheering me along the home straight that is my drive way. I hurtle through the door, catching the phone on the last ring.

“Hi Gran. Sorry I took a bit, was in the shower.”

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