13 Feb 2007


My name’s Turquoise Malibu.

If I hadn’t got up that day, like I’d intended, it would never have happened, but some time during the early hours the effects of the booze and cigarettes must have worn off and I was wide awake. No amount of sheep were going to get me back to sleep again so I hit the refrigerator by way of a cold shower to find the usual empty space. My stomach was rolling around and desperately in need of stabilization so I threw on my pink fox fur and staggered down to the corner deli.

Well I’m sure not dim and I can certainly tell the time, but me and my watch must have parted company either accidentally or feloniously during the big bourbon haze that was most of yesterday. So I’m standing outside Banje’s Bagels at five in the morning wondering where the hell I’m gonna get a New York Skyscraper to shovel in on top of the booze when all hell lets loose around me.

Believe me, squealing tyres, police sirens and a load of high decibel yelling are absolutely not a cure for an abused liver. The need to hang on to something that wasn’t spinning became extremely pressing which is why, I guess, they invented parking meters. Having attached myself to one reasonably securely, I managed to get my head into a position where I could at least winch it round a few inches either way, although the next problem, focussing, took a while longer.

Why in God’s name were all these people suddenly in the street? At least five front doors were being remodelled by police enforcers while what seemed like a whole army looked on. Number eight gave first, followed swiftly by number twelve and then the rest of them, bang, bang, bang, and in the blink of an eye (although it probably took me longer to blink than you might imagine) every single person had disappeared off the street and into the houses.

A thick silence descended on the street, creeping around looking for the action. I have to say I’ve had some hangovers in my time, and I know I may have hallucinated more than once or twice, but I’m sure I didn’t just dream all of that.

A weird hissing noise from somewhere nearby began to ripple the soup that was my brain and I looked round to see Banje standing just inside the door of his shop frantically psssting at me.

‘WHAT?’ Oh oh – bad mistake. Yelling is no cure for the sort of state that I was in, believe me. The parking meter came in handy again.

When things had steadied down a bit I turned back to Banje, who was still making strange signs and noises at me, and said again, a little less stridently, ‘What in God’s name’s up with you?’ It was only then that I noticed the dark shapes moving behind him.

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