DAY 23
Justin tells his mother, uncle, sister and cousins he will not be seeing them any time soon. He could have, of course; walks to the park, garden meet ups, sneaky pop-ins at the house were all very possible. But he became so fed up of his four walls, living alone, his groundhog-day, that he prescribed himself a strict diet of dick heads. His bubble was carefully composed exclusively of them. He accepts a long-ignored Facebook friend request from Dave Ackroyd, who he has not spoken to since year 9 science class, who he hated back then. ‘Wot u bin on wi m8?’ pops up in the chat box and Justin engages in dialogue darker than a Ouija board natter. He sifts through village idiot grandmothers who write ‘all lives matter’ on the comment pages of articles in the local newspaper and reaches out to Vera, a stand out example wHo USeS A FRitinEng (sic) aRRaY of CaPS and LOweRcASe. Also in his bubble is Chris, a 34-year old mechanic he befriended in the supermarket after Justin saw him point and snigger at a trans person.
Justin made this decision knowing fine well he would come out in hives and hyperventilate from unmanageable rage in their insufferable company. But it means that returning home, closing the door, stepping into the silence and darkness of his hall and dragging the chain across the catch is a euphoric ride better than any orgasm he could ever hope to have. Home sweet home never felt so apt. Tomorrow, he is meeting in the local park with Wiggzi, who spends a lot of his time watching paedophile vigilante group videos on the internet and is keen to tell Justin he suspects his neighbour is a ‘nonce.’
***
Sam has been suffering irrational bouts of self-loathing. With 12 years of experience of presenting the local news weather forecasts in his trademark fruity shirts, carefully curating his facial hair to tease his locked down fans, who occasionally ask him for a photograph, he cannot imagine doing anything else for a living. Yet he leaves work this morning, without a coat and gets drenched by a near-monsoon he did not warn of. Turning on his heel, back he thunders back into studio reception, snatches the visitor sign in form from the hand of a new intern and writes out his soggy resignation with such force, the pen breaks and draws blood. He collapses and has to be sat with upon regaining consciousness until the ambulance arrives.
Hulkamania is in mortal danger. The Undertaker scoops up the only man to wear a skullet and Fu-Manchu moustache and still be cool, drills him into the canvas, head first. Hogan springs straight to his feet, shakes his head, points at the dead man and mouths ‘YOU!’ Various mullets and vivacious perms bob up and down behind the guardrail and Paul Bearer, The Undertaker’s scheming manager is hysterical, screeching at the camera. Now Hogan unloads with a series of rights and all hell breaks loose as Ric Flair marches down to ringside in his turquoise, glittery robe, the words ‘Nature Boy’ across the back. The colour-commentators have come completely unglued. Chrissy takes another greedy swig of chardonnay straight from the bottle and palms in another handful of Thorntons chocolates without even looking, or caring which is which. Who gives a fuck about mass death and economic collapse anyway?