I woke up soaked in cold sweat unsure of where I was.

My slumber I had spent strolling the halls of a Victorian debtor's prison where the squalid stench of stale piss and misery permeated every pore, so thick you could taste it. A bony blackened hand stuck through the bars, grabbed my wrist, and yanked me over. A bottle of gin was placed in my other hand and a gaunt grim face loomed over me. A mouth opened, like a casket, seeping the foul stench of death.

"You'll see these cell walls from the inside yet, my boy. You mark my words."

It was all very unsettling, it called for some breakfast beers. My head was pounding and I hadn't much recollection of the night before.

I skulked around the isles of the shop, almost tripping over some squealing toddler-shaped little torpedoes who were launching themselves around the corner, wishing I could kick the snotty little bastards. But then again, I could never stand the caterwauling that always seemed to follow. Six special brews and a sausage roll would sort me right out. I'd still be a miserable cunt but I wouldn't really care. I discreetly sequestered a few of the cans into my pockets and skulked off to wage war on the self-checkout machine. You could swear at those. Last time I swore at a cashier I was sent out without breakfast. They proved my point. A bunch of spotty, sour-faced, teenaged, incompetent, fucking twats. Hormonally imbalanced wankers.

After breakfast, and an ample dessert of whiskey and gin, I staggered into town.

Next thing I knew, I found myself in a pool of blood and vomit, handcuffed to a wheelie bin, with an inflatable fucking dolphin.

Bitching, bastarding, bollocking, buggering, brother of God! How the fuck did I get there?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I was faced with the more immediate matter of divorcing that motherfucking wheelie bin and aiming my vomit well clear of my general person. Not that it made much fucking difference at that point. Christ, my head hurt. Fuck it all to hell and back, I was going to snooze a few hours, those newspapers in that bin looked oddly cozy.

When I came to, I was in a cell oddly reminiscent of the debtors’ prison. The walls were whiter and there were no bars, but it was definitely some sort of cell. Half a handcuff was still around my wrist. I seemed to be half soaked as if I'd been hosed down.

Some sort of flap opened after a while and a voice boomed at me. "Awake are we, mister...?" The pause seems to indicate that that was a question. "arsewipe'' I croakily informed him. "Mind telling me where the hell I am?" "Police station. You're charged with drunk and disorderly behaviour, attempted assault, theft of an inflatable dolphin and a pair of handcuffs, and disruption of the peace." He told me flatly. "You have the right to remain silent, however..." "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it on TV." "You just be careful there now, mister 'R. Swipe'. No smoking on these premises!" he boomed, as I attempted to light a half sodden cigarette I had plucked out of my hair.

What in the sodding fuck had I done now?

By the time those blue coated fucking cunts finally hauled me out of the drunk tank I was already half delirious, half humming, half mumbling my way through It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue. The nicotine withdrawals had me in a cold sweat.

They repeated the charges and said I was there for questioning. “You seem to know a lot more about it than I fucking do”, I snapped. “What in the hell does ‘attempted assault’ mean, anyway?”

They did know a lot more about it than I did. As it turned out I had gate-crashed a fetishist’s pool party, downed two bottles of vodka, tried to punch someone, fallen over (breaking my own fucking nose in the process), made off with an inflatable dolphin and, you’ve guessed it, a pair of fucking handcuffs. I had handcuffed myself to the nearest council wheelie bin screaming “FREAK RIGHTS, FREAKS DESERVE FUCKING RIGHTS!” at the top of my fucking lungs.

Maybe I’m a serious contender for the fucking activist of the year award as well as a Darwin.

Now I’m in prison cause I couldn’t pay the fucking fine. I’m smoking tobacco infused with my own pubes so it lasts longer. I need a fucking drink.

End of Part One.
By Severin Vilder.