It was a dark and stormy night. It was 11 in the morning. It was 20 years into the future. It was the LOST island. I cant remember now. Right, lets take it from the top.
It was 7 in the morning when my carcass was thrown out of the bus. I dusted m'self off, and squinted against the sun. I was under a great big flyover. A hulking, unbelievable thing, looming over the landscape like some ominous leviathan, antediluvian and dangerous. Hackles were duly raised. The place was deserted. Fucking empty. A signboard stood on the shoulder of the road, pristine, white. An obscenity against nature. "Welcome to Vashi" it proclaimed. I bared my teeth at it. This was no time for inanities. I felt like a cat had shat on my brain, and then wiped its arse on my tongue. I crawled into a ditch, tugging at my knapsack, and curled up, foetal. I was never a morning person.
Flash cut to a seedy hotel somewhere in Bombay. Its 11 am. The autowallah i've hired has brought me to the "Hotel Krishna : Working toilets, comfortable beds, TV service". That's the name of the place. The whole chimichanga. I stagger into the reception area, consisting of a large desk crammed into the corridor of the third floor. The first and second floors of the building house offices, a dentist, and a veterinarian, in that order. Im still wondering whether "TV" service is short for television or transvestite, (knowing Bombay, its probably both) when I notice the cabron at the desk. Short, greasy, Gujarati gentleman. (In India, where you come from is always an adjective, simultaneously insulting and descriptive, in equal measure) He pushes the register towards me, and I sign the first name that comes to mind. Spartacus Kousis. Yes, that's right. I'm Spartacus! He yawns, hands me a key, room number 11, and slumps back in his chair.
The room is relatively clean, the rats seem amicable enough, and the cockroaches have their turf safely in one corner, under the air conditioner. Which doesnt work. I dont need it anyway, Bombay is humid, and the ceiling fan works just fine. There are no trannies in evidence, but I check the attached loo, just in case. You can never be too sure about these things. I hang up my jacket on the lone chair, which looks like it will collapse under the weight of the leather, and switch on the television. Its "Fear and Loathing.." on some local tv station. Its a fine movie so I lie down on the bed. I get up off the bed. My back feels like its being needled. Repeatedly. I look at the bed, and i can see a fresh bloodstain. This is not good. Had I been stabbed sometime in the night? Was it even my blood? I put a hand to my back, where it hurts, and yes, it's my blood all right. But very little. On screen, Johnny Depp has just consumed some adrenochrome, and he says the weasels are closing in. He's looking right at me when he says this. I lock the door. This is scary shit. I dont want any weasels in my room. Reptiles arent welcome either.
I get to the loo, and take my shirt off. I twist my head around to look at my back in the mirror. There's a patch of dark blood on my back. Down from the middle of my back to my waist. I feel like the ferrets are closing in on the weasels. And I can feel their beady eyes. Fuckers. Damn those ferrets. I grab a towel, wet it, and wipe at my back. The blood comes off, but the dark patch stays. Those bastard ferrets are getting closer. It feels like they're clawing at my throat, which has gone dry. What the fuck IS this on my back? I take another towel from the rack near the washbasin, this is the small towel you're supposed to wipe your hands with. I wet this one too, and swipe it over the stain. All the blood is gone now. Some of the black 'stain' wipes off with it. The ferrets are fornicating with the weasels now. They're screeching and clawing and there's the smell of blood in the air. I can taste iron, and bile, at the back of my throat. I literally rub my eyes and stare at the mirror for some time. Then I wash my face, wipe my back down with some toilet paper (both towels are bloody and useless at this point) and head back into the room. I rummage in my bag for my pipe, fill the bowl with the last of my stash, and light up. Its time to reflect.
Meanwhile, Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo are racing down a runway, chasing a plane. The weasels must be after them, hell for leather. I cant follow whats happening on screen. I cant remember what happened last night, before I boarded that bus. The ferrets must have caught up with me after all, i guess, 'cos apparently i have a great big conchetumare of a tattoo on my back. And it wasnt there yesterday. And the fucker is still bleeding.
I hate Bombay already.