Post by Scott Syren on Jun 29, 2012 20:00:24 GMT -6
A flashback in grayscale. A dream? A memory? Maybe a drug-induced hallucination? After all, this is the mind of one Scott Syren, a man who has never met a mind-altering chemical that didn't agree with him. Yet there is something very real and very urgent about the tropical, black-and-white world laid out before us.
He hovers above his own body. A ragged, sea-soaked shell of himself sprawled out on a sandy shore. Debris from a wreck of some sort, maybe a boat, is scattered around him. He does not move. For all intents and purposes, he is no more than another piece of meaningless wreckage that has floated pointlessly onto the shore.
Entire days force themselves through a minute-shaped hole in this dream world where time is irrelevant. A young boy walks along the shore and stops to poke at Scott Syren's motionless body with a stick--that seems uncalled for. Nobody else comes.
Not until the fifth day.
It appears to be a woman at first. Upon closer inspection, it is definitely not. It is a long-haired man wearing nothing more than a purple bikini to cover up a mismatched pair of lumpy, scarred fake tits that were almost certainly implanted in some third-world country.
The tropical transvestite pulls Scott Syren's body away from the water, dragging it several yards into the forest where a home of sorts has been fashioned out of cardboard boxes. But this is no rescue mission. The transvestite had only meant to suck on a dead man's dick--a rather macabre hobby indeed, but then we all have our demons--when he notices, against all odds, that the so-called corpse still draws breath.
More days pass in seconds as the transvestite nurses Scott Syren back to health with roots, shellfish, fresh water and rum. When he is finally strong enough to speak, it is a question.
“Who am I?”
The transvestite is momentarily stunned. He had prepared for any number of scenarios: confusion, denial, violence, even curiosity, even the when, where, and how? But not “who am I?”
So he replies honestly, “I don't know. I found you washed up on the beach and I thought you were dead. You're on St. Thomas. This is an abandoned, undeveloped lot in the northeast quarter of the island. There is an airport on the other side of the island. There are boats, grocery stores, doctors, a pharmacy... it's not as bad as it looks from here.”
Syren accepts this, and even seems to smile slightly as the situation is described. “Drink,” he says, further testing his raw, sun-dried vocal chords.
The transvestite hands him a hollowed-out coconut filled with water. “My name is Berta,” he offers, but if Syren hears or cares, he doesn't show it.
Syren takes a sip, swishes the water around his mouth, spits it out and says, “No water. Rum.”
Berta stares at the man as he takes long pulls from a half-gallon bottle of cheap rum. Now that he is a man instead of a half-corpse, there is something about him that seems almost familiar. The new life behind those eyes transports Berta to a different time, several years ago, watching television with his son. Watching... watching what? This man drinking rum in his cardboard shack is no actor. He's built like... like an athlete? A football player? More like a thug. Built for violence and not much else.
“You're Scott Syren,” Berta blurts out suddenly.
Syren's eyes go wide and he freezes mid-drink. “Scott Syren...” he tries the name out on his own lips and slowly begins to smile. “That's right. I'm Scott Syren and I'm a... I'm a...”
“A wrestler,” Berta offers.
Syren breaks out in a fit of mad laughter. “A wrestler! Yes... I remember wrestling... and what... what exactly is wrestling?”
And then it begins to rain. Syren frowns as Berta's face fades into the gray mist. The rain is warm and foul-smelling. Syren tries to yell out. The memory is suddenly wrong; desynchronized; it didn't rain that day.
Color rushes back into the world and Scott Syren wakes up on a hotel bed. Berta's cock is a couple feet away from his face, spraying warm piss all over him.
“What the fuck?!” Syren roars.
Berta shakes his dick and tucks it back under his paisley skirt. “You wouldn't wake up,” Berta explains.
“So you pissed on my face?!”
Berta shrugs. “Standard escalation procedures. First there was the alarm clock, when you are obviously immune to. Then I punched you in the cock like thirty times, but you still didn't wake up. I only pissed on you after the teabagging had no effect. Jeez, Scott, I'm not an animal.”
“Whatever,” grumbles Syren, rolling out of bed. He runs his hands through his hair to wring some of the tranny piss out. “Don't look at my morning wood.”
“Well hurry up and get dressed. We have a big day.”
Syren groans as he pulls on a pair of aggressively-bedazzled black skinny jeans. He has finally changed his pants. “Tell me again why I agreed to do this...”
“Because you're a good friend?” offers Berta.
“No, that's not it. Probably because I was fucking wasted when you asked me.” He scans the room for any loose booze or drugs and finds a couple of pills on the floor--he doesn't remember what they are, but they look delicious--and a few swallows left in the bottom of a pint of Canadian Hunter.
“Don't get too fucked up too early,” Berta warns.
Syren responds with a look of pure hatred. He chews up his medicine and washes it down with the last swallow of whiskey. “Don't tell me how to get fucked up,” he warns.
“Okay, get fucked up. But just chill out. This will be fun, I promise. We've been doing everything you want to do since we landed on the mainland. All I asked for was one day where I get to call the shots. I'm pretty sure you can do that much for me, the man who rescued you and nursed you back to health when you washed up on a deserted beach three years ago; the man who helped you get your memory back.”
“First of all, you didn't rescue me. You salvaged what you thought was a corpse because you love to suck dead guys' cocks for whatever reason, and hey that's cool, and I'm glad you helped me not to be dead and shit, but let's not re-write history here. And as for my memory, I still remember almost nothing. The wrestling moves, how to drive a car, how to jerk off, that shit all came back to me easily... remembering who I am... things that I've done... trying to figure out why everybody looks at me like they fucking hate me... that's another matter. And now that I'm back here... now that I have access to all the old videotape and all the old articles and shit... I don't know if I even want to know. If the person I am is really as big of a piece of shit as everybody seems to think, maybe it's better not to remember at all...”
“Fair enough. But fuck all that shit today, all right? You promised me I could call the shots today. So let's go visit my family, pal.”
Syren had been on his way to the door of the hotel room obligingly, but now stops dead in his tracks. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“So let's?”
“After that.”
“Pal?”
“Before that.”
“Visit my?”
Syren reaches down and thwacks Berta hard in the nutsack. “Don't play games with me. What the fuck are you talking about, family and shit? You're a woman with a huge dick and you were living alone in a stack of cardboard boxes before I came along.”
Berta is wincing from the pain of the sack-thwap, but he grins through the pain. “You think I was always like this? I just hatched from an egg wearing a purple bikini in the middle of the woods on a Caribbean island?”
"Well, that's kind of what I thought, yes."
“Yeah, dickhead, I have a family. Or what's left of a family. An ex-wife. A son.” The beginnings of tears are forming in Berta's eyes as he mentions his son.
“This is going to fucking suck. I can't even imagine what a huge fuck-up your son must be.”
* * * * *
Syren and Berta walk up a shitty, suburban sidewalk towards a shitty, suburban one-story. Shitty suburban voices can be heard drifting out through the shitty, suburban screen door.
“Yes!!! Bacon!!!” yells a boy's voice.
A tired woman's voice responds, “Get out of the fucking fridge you little peice of shit! I need that bacon to make BLT dip for your uncle's funeral!”
“What the fuck mom. Why don't you ever make BLT dip for me?!”
“Please, Scoot, let's not do this today.”
“Maybe I should just die. Maybe then you'd make me some BLT dip.”
“Scoot, that's enough. Seriously.”
“Your son's name is Scoot?!” whispers Scott Syren as they eavesdrop on the front patio. He giggles hysterically under his breath.
“I named him after my favorite wrestler,” admits Berta.
“Really? Who is your...” Scott's voice trails off into nothingness as he realizes that the only friend he's had in the last three years--in fact, the only friend he ever remembers having aside from a vague recollection of shenanigans and beatdowns with Curt Canon--is a closet Scoot Time fan. “Oh my god, I think I'm going to be sick.”
“What the heck is your problem, pal? Scoot Time is cool!”
Syren wipes tears of laughter out of his eyes. “I am so close to burning your house down and murdering your family right now, I don't even know how to express how much I suddenly hate you.”
“Well, just remember it's my day to call the shots, and I choose that you maybe don't murder my family, 'kay, pal?”
A haggard bitch of a woman comes to the door although they haven't knocked or rung the bell yet. She has graying hair and tits down to her thighs. She was maybe pretty once... but then again, probably not. “Can I help you?” she says, not recognizing Berta.
Berta smiles, but also looks like he's about to throw up. “Daddy's home!” his voice comes out as a squeak.
“Oh Jesus fucking glory be to shitcunting Satan,” says the woman, recognizing the mustached creep as her former lover.
“This is going well,” says Syren in an effort to relieve the tension, “I'm Scott Syren and I would like to burn your house down, but your transvestite ex-husband wouldn't let me.”
Everyone stares at each other for a while, which is made extra creepy by the fact that Syren is slowly getting a boner. It's not really his fault; it's the way those fucking skinny jeans ride his taint so pleasingly.
* * * * *
Things have calmed down by dinner time. Young Scoot is happy to have his, um, “father” back home.
“So,” says Syren--he is still having a shitty time--"How is school going, Scoot?”
“I fucking hate school!” shrieks the little red-headed fuck of a child. “AND I HATE YOU AND WISH TO SEE YOU FEEL THE EVIL WITHIN ME!”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” asks Syren, unimpressed.
"I WISH TO SEEEEEEE YOU FEEEEEEL THE EVIL WITHIN MEEEEEE!!!" Scoot hisses retardedly.
“He's quoting his favorite wrestler, Dangerous Dan,” explains the dumpy mother. Syren can see her trying to rub Berta's cock under the table with her meaty cankle. Berta is obviously not comfortable with that, but he remains silent. In fact, he has been silent almost the entire time they've been in the house, making things extra awkward for Syren, though, judging by their stupid white trash grins, the woman and Scoot don't seem to mind.
"That's great," says Syren. "Truly fantastic. Where the fuck did you find these people, Berta? Am I being Punk'd? And, you, who is your favorite wrestler, m'lady?"
"The favorite wrestler of all free-thinkin' women!" proclaims the simpleton, "Alexis Prodgee!"
"I believe her name is Alexis Prodigy," corrects Syren.
"That's what I said, Prodgee! And I know you gotta fight with her and all, and I know yer Benji's best friend and all--"
"Wait, who the fuck is Benji?!"
Berta looks down at his plate, ashamed.
"But Alexis Prodgee is gonna fight for all us women, and she's gonna whoop you, Mister Scott Syren, 'cause somebody wearin' a bikini and bein' serious about shit at the same time is what women need right now!"
Syren laughs. "Alexis Prodigy thinks fighting a mediocre female wrestler with her tits bouncing all over the place is going to be a distraction for professional motherfuckers like me and Curt Canon... and all the while she herself is distracted with the all-important issue of whether people are taking her seriously or not. Whether or not people actually believe she is a hero to all sluts, or just another self-absored ho trying to hang ten on a popularity wave. Well FUCK THAT. Now do you have any drugs here or what the fuck kind of sick place is this?"
Berta scoops the last spoonful of mediocre mashed potatoes into his mouth. He stands up with his off-brand tupperware cup full of iced tea, as if to make a speech. He clears his throat and adjusts the bulge of his cock under his miniskirt.
“Well,” he begins, with a slight tremble in his voice. “I want to thank you both for welcoming me into your home, as well as my new friend, Scott Syren.”
The woman and Scoot smile stupidly.
“I would also like to advise,” continues Berta, gaining more confidence, “that you both go to the free clinic tomorrow. You see, when you were in the kitchen preparing this delicious meal of frozen fishsticks, I bled and shot jizz into each of your drinks.”
Syren spits a mix of rum and iced tea--and apparently blood and cum???--across the table and begins to gag. The woman and Scoot stare at each other looking stupid and shocked.
“Not yours, Scott,” says Berta.
“You fuckpenis, you made me waste a swallow of rum.”
“Sorry. SO anyway, I think me and Scott will be leaving now, and like I was saying, thanks for the shitty meal, thanks for reminding me why I left, and I hope you go to the free clinic and get checked for AIDS tomorrow... that is, if you survive the explosion. Come on, Scott.”
Syren wastes no time getting up to follow Berta out the door. “Thanks for a lovely evening,” he mumbles.
As they walk back out to the car, the house explodes behind them like a sick action movie and they simultaneously put on sunglasses and walk slow-motion away from the fiery inferno 'cuz of how they're fucking awesome.
“That was sick,” says Syren. “I'm so glad I didn't burn your house down; the explosion was way better. I totally misunderestimated you.”
“Thanks, pal. I'm glad you had fun. Now we both have no past.”
Syren smiles. “You realize that had absolutely nothing to do with anything though, and I'm probably fucked on Sunday, right?”
“Yep.”
“'Kay, Just checking.”
He hovers above his own body. A ragged, sea-soaked shell of himself sprawled out on a sandy shore. Debris from a wreck of some sort, maybe a boat, is scattered around him. He does not move. For all intents and purposes, he is no more than another piece of meaningless wreckage that has floated pointlessly onto the shore.
Entire days force themselves through a minute-shaped hole in this dream world where time is irrelevant. A young boy walks along the shore and stops to poke at Scott Syren's motionless body with a stick--that seems uncalled for. Nobody else comes.
Not until the fifth day.
It appears to be a woman at first. Upon closer inspection, it is definitely not. It is a long-haired man wearing nothing more than a purple bikini to cover up a mismatched pair of lumpy, scarred fake tits that were almost certainly implanted in some third-world country.
The tropical transvestite pulls Scott Syren's body away from the water, dragging it several yards into the forest where a home of sorts has been fashioned out of cardboard boxes. But this is no rescue mission. The transvestite had only meant to suck on a dead man's dick--a rather macabre hobby indeed, but then we all have our demons--when he notices, against all odds, that the so-called corpse still draws breath.
More days pass in seconds as the transvestite nurses Scott Syren back to health with roots, shellfish, fresh water and rum. When he is finally strong enough to speak, it is a question.
“Who am I?”
The transvestite is momentarily stunned. He had prepared for any number of scenarios: confusion, denial, violence, even curiosity, even the when, where, and how? But not “who am I?”
So he replies honestly, “I don't know. I found you washed up on the beach and I thought you were dead. You're on St. Thomas. This is an abandoned, undeveloped lot in the northeast quarter of the island. There is an airport on the other side of the island. There are boats, grocery stores, doctors, a pharmacy... it's not as bad as it looks from here.”
Syren accepts this, and even seems to smile slightly as the situation is described. “Drink,” he says, further testing his raw, sun-dried vocal chords.
The transvestite hands him a hollowed-out coconut filled with water. “My name is Berta,” he offers, but if Syren hears or cares, he doesn't show it.
Syren takes a sip, swishes the water around his mouth, spits it out and says, “No water. Rum.”
Berta stares at the man as he takes long pulls from a half-gallon bottle of cheap rum. Now that he is a man instead of a half-corpse, there is something about him that seems almost familiar. The new life behind those eyes transports Berta to a different time, several years ago, watching television with his son. Watching... watching what? This man drinking rum in his cardboard shack is no actor. He's built like... like an athlete? A football player? More like a thug. Built for violence and not much else.
“You're Scott Syren,” Berta blurts out suddenly.
Syren's eyes go wide and he freezes mid-drink. “Scott Syren...” he tries the name out on his own lips and slowly begins to smile. “That's right. I'm Scott Syren and I'm a... I'm a...”
“A wrestler,” Berta offers.
Syren breaks out in a fit of mad laughter. “A wrestler! Yes... I remember wrestling... and what... what exactly is wrestling?”
And then it begins to rain. Syren frowns as Berta's face fades into the gray mist. The rain is warm and foul-smelling. Syren tries to yell out. The memory is suddenly wrong; desynchronized; it didn't rain that day.
Color rushes back into the world and Scott Syren wakes up on a hotel bed. Berta's cock is a couple feet away from his face, spraying warm piss all over him.
“What the fuck?!” Syren roars.
Berta shakes his dick and tucks it back under his paisley skirt. “You wouldn't wake up,” Berta explains.
“So you pissed on my face?!”
Berta shrugs. “Standard escalation procedures. First there was the alarm clock, when you are obviously immune to. Then I punched you in the cock like thirty times, but you still didn't wake up. I only pissed on you after the teabagging had no effect. Jeez, Scott, I'm not an animal.”
“Whatever,” grumbles Syren, rolling out of bed. He runs his hands through his hair to wring some of the tranny piss out. “Don't look at my morning wood.”
“Well hurry up and get dressed. We have a big day.”
Syren groans as he pulls on a pair of aggressively-bedazzled black skinny jeans. He has finally changed his pants. “Tell me again why I agreed to do this...”
“Because you're a good friend?” offers Berta.
“No, that's not it. Probably because I was fucking wasted when you asked me.” He scans the room for any loose booze or drugs and finds a couple of pills on the floor--he doesn't remember what they are, but they look delicious--and a few swallows left in the bottom of a pint of Canadian Hunter.
“Don't get too fucked up too early,” Berta warns.
Syren responds with a look of pure hatred. He chews up his medicine and washes it down with the last swallow of whiskey. “Don't tell me how to get fucked up,” he warns.
“Okay, get fucked up. But just chill out. This will be fun, I promise. We've been doing everything you want to do since we landed on the mainland. All I asked for was one day where I get to call the shots. I'm pretty sure you can do that much for me, the man who rescued you and nursed you back to health when you washed up on a deserted beach three years ago; the man who helped you get your memory back.”
“First of all, you didn't rescue me. You salvaged what you thought was a corpse because you love to suck dead guys' cocks for whatever reason, and hey that's cool, and I'm glad you helped me not to be dead and shit, but let's not re-write history here. And as for my memory, I still remember almost nothing. The wrestling moves, how to drive a car, how to jerk off, that shit all came back to me easily... remembering who I am... things that I've done... trying to figure out why everybody looks at me like they fucking hate me... that's another matter. And now that I'm back here... now that I have access to all the old videotape and all the old articles and shit... I don't know if I even want to know. If the person I am is really as big of a piece of shit as everybody seems to think, maybe it's better not to remember at all...”
“Fair enough. But fuck all that shit today, all right? You promised me I could call the shots today. So let's go visit my family, pal.”
Syren had been on his way to the door of the hotel room obligingly, but now stops dead in his tracks. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“So let's?”
“After that.”
“Pal?”
“Before that.”
“Visit my?”
Syren reaches down and thwacks Berta hard in the nutsack. “Don't play games with me. What the fuck are you talking about, family and shit? You're a woman with a huge dick and you were living alone in a stack of cardboard boxes before I came along.”
Berta is wincing from the pain of the sack-thwap, but he grins through the pain. “You think I was always like this? I just hatched from an egg wearing a purple bikini in the middle of the woods on a Caribbean island?”
"Well, that's kind of what I thought, yes."
“Yeah, dickhead, I have a family. Or what's left of a family. An ex-wife. A son.” The beginnings of tears are forming in Berta's eyes as he mentions his son.
“This is going to fucking suck. I can't even imagine what a huge fuck-up your son must be.”
* * * * *
Syren and Berta walk up a shitty, suburban sidewalk towards a shitty, suburban one-story. Shitty suburban voices can be heard drifting out through the shitty, suburban screen door.
“Yes!!! Bacon!!!” yells a boy's voice.
A tired woman's voice responds, “Get out of the fucking fridge you little peice of shit! I need that bacon to make BLT dip for your uncle's funeral!”
“What the fuck mom. Why don't you ever make BLT dip for me?!”
“Please, Scoot, let's not do this today.”
“Maybe I should just die. Maybe then you'd make me some BLT dip.”
“Scoot, that's enough. Seriously.”
“Your son's name is Scoot?!” whispers Scott Syren as they eavesdrop on the front patio. He giggles hysterically under his breath.
“I named him after my favorite wrestler,” admits Berta.
“Really? Who is your...” Scott's voice trails off into nothingness as he realizes that the only friend he's had in the last three years--in fact, the only friend he ever remembers having aside from a vague recollection of shenanigans and beatdowns with Curt Canon--is a closet Scoot Time fan. “Oh my god, I think I'm going to be sick.”
“What the heck is your problem, pal? Scoot Time is cool!”
Syren wipes tears of laughter out of his eyes. “I am so close to burning your house down and murdering your family right now, I don't even know how to express how much I suddenly hate you.”
“Well, just remember it's my day to call the shots, and I choose that you maybe don't murder my family, 'kay, pal?”
A haggard bitch of a woman comes to the door although they haven't knocked or rung the bell yet. She has graying hair and tits down to her thighs. She was maybe pretty once... but then again, probably not. “Can I help you?” she says, not recognizing Berta.
Berta smiles, but also looks like he's about to throw up. “Daddy's home!” his voice comes out as a squeak.
“Oh Jesus fucking glory be to shitcunting Satan,” says the woman, recognizing the mustached creep as her former lover.
“This is going well,” says Syren in an effort to relieve the tension, “I'm Scott Syren and I would like to burn your house down, but your transvestite ex-husband wouldn't let me.”
Everyone stares at each other for a while, which is made extra creepy by the fact that Syren is slowly getting a boner. It's not really his fault; it's the way those fucking skinny jeans ride his taint so pleasingly.
* * * * *
Things have calmed down by dinner time. Young Scoot is happy to have his, um, “father” back home.
“So,” says Syren--he is still having a shitty time--"How is school going, Scoot?”
“I fucking hate school!” shrieks the little red-headed fuck of a child. “AND I HATE YOU AND WISH TO SEE YOU FEEL THE EVIL WITHIN ME!”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” asks Syren, unimpressed.
"I WISH TO SEEEEEEE YOU FEEEEEEL THE EVIL WITHIN MEEEEEE!!!" Scoot hisses retardedly.
“He's quoting his favorite wrestler, Dangerous Dan,” explains the dumpy mother. Syren can see her trying to rub Berta's cock under the table with her meaty cankle. Berta is obviously not comfortable with that, but he remains silent. In fact, he has been silent almost the entire time they've been in the house, making things extra awkward for Syren, though, judging by their stupid white trash grins, the woman and Scoot don't seem to mind.
"That's great," says Syren. "Truly fantastic. Where the fuck did you find these people, Berta? Am I being Punk'd? And, you, who is your favorite wrestler, m'lady?"
"The favorite wrestler of all free-thinkin' women!" proclaims the simpleton, "Alexis Prodgee!"
"I believe her name is Alexis Prodigy," corrects Syren.
"That's what I said, Prodgee! And I know you gotta fight with her and all, and I know yer Benji's best friend and all--"
"Wait, who the fuck is Benji?!"
Berta looks down at his plate, ashamed.
"But Alexis Prodgee is gonna fight for all us women, and she's gonna whoop you, Mister Scott Syren, 'cause somebody wearin' a bikini and bein' serious about shit at the same time is what women need right now!"
Syren laughs. "Alexis Prodigy thinks fighting a mediocre female wrestler with her tits bouncing all over the place is going to be a distraction for professional motherfuckers like me and Curt Canon... and all the while she herself is distracted with the all-important issue of whether people are taking her seriously or not. Whether or not people actually believe she is a hero to all sluts, or just another self-absored ho trying to hang ten on a popularity wave. Well FUCK THAT. Now do you have any drugs here or what the fuck kind of sick place is this?"
Berta scoops the last spoonful of mediocre mashed potatoes into his mouth. He stands up with his off-brand tupperware cup full of iced tea, as if to make a speech. He clears his throat and adjusts the bulge of his cock under his miniskirt.
“Well,” he begins, with a slight tremble in his voice. “I want to thank you both for welcoming me into your home, as well as my new friend, Scott Syren.”
The woman and Scoot smile stupidly.
“I would also like to advise,” continues Berta, gaining more confidence, “that you both go to the free clinic tomorrow. You see, when you were in the kitchen preparing this delicious meal of frozen fishsticks, I bled and shot jizz into each of your drinks.”
Syren spits a mix of rum and iced tea--and apparently blood and cum???--across the table and begins to gag. The woman and Scoot stare at each other looking stupid and shocked.
“Not yours, Scott,” says Berta.
“You fuckpenis, you made me waste a swallow of rum.”
“Sorry. SO anyway, I think me and Scott will be leaving now, and like I was saying, thanks for the shitty meal, thanks for reminding me why I left, and I hope you go to the free clinic and get checked for AIDS tomorrow... that is, if you survive the explosion. Come on, Scott.”
Syren wastes no time getting up to follow Berta out the door. “Thanks for a lovely evening,” he mumbles.
As they walk back out to the car, the house explodes behind them like a sick action movie and they simultaneously put on sunglasses and walk slow-motion away from the fiery inferno 'cuz of how they're fucking awesome.
“That was sick,” says Syren. “I'm so glad I didn't burn your house down; the explosion was way better. I totally misunderestimated you.”
“Thanks, pal. I'm glad you had fun. Now we both have no past.”
Syren smiles. “You realize that had absolutely nothing to do with anything though, and I'm probably fucked on Sunday, right?”
“Yep.”
“'Kay, Just checking.”