The next morning, I woke up with a mind like Swiss cheese. The day before seemed like one big gelatinous mish-mash of a memory rather than a twenty-four-hour period of continuous events. I remembered bits and pieces and important details. I need to take care of the weed room in Studebaker's because Roger will be away next week, Ippy Dink is always late, my dog hates me because I washed my hands of his castration and I'm probably still in love with Patty but haven't been able to feel emotions like love because I've experienced a tragic event. That much I was aware of. I had fallen asleep in my clothes and felt disgusting on top of everything else. I sat up out of bed and studied my room which was a mess and considered cleaning it. I didn't want to, but it was necessary to keep the parental units from attempting to clean it themselves and discovering any of the various things that were for my eyes only. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. There was knock on the door and my father let himself in. I felt sorry for my father. I didn't resent my parents at all. I couldn't blame any of my behaviour on them. They were good people and didn't raise me to do things the way I did them. They gave me the freedom to make decisions on my own and since last year I've certainly made decisions that they wouldn't approve of. I respected my parents because they didn't pretend to understand what I was going through. They had never known anybody who had committed suicide, let alone a best friend and gave me space to work shit out. I couldn't say the same for other people's parents. I recall one particular idiot who tried to relate to me that they understood what was going through because they were my age when Kurt Cobain died.

Perhaps my folks gave me too much space, but it wasn't their fault that I chose to do the things I did. I never regretted anything I did per say, but I sometimes felt ashamed that I didn't feel like I was capable of being the type of son they wanted. I had been the type of moral, good person they raised me to be for my whole life and assumed things would work out for me. I would marry Patty and Skeeter would be my best friend forever. Those things weren't to be, and I was done playing life with a fifty-two-card deck. I wanted a few jokers up my sleeve

"Hey Doug….." He began. Studying the room as if it were a crime scene but being too polite to say anything.

"Hey Dad, what's up?" I asked not really wanting an answer but being too polite not to respond.

" Judy's coming over later and we were just wondering if you're going to be here for dinner. I know it's Saturday night so maybe you have plans or something….." My father really didn't know what to do with me. He was asking me to attend a family dinner with the same level of formality as if he were asking a stranger to move their parked car because it was blocking his driveway or asking his boss for a raise.

" No, it's ok. I'll be here. What time is she coming?" I interrupted him because my hangover made it very difficult to concentrate on any one person speaking for longer that five seconds.

"….Oh. That's good! Well, I think she'll be here at four and dinner will be at about six." My dad seemed genuinely pleased that I had chosen to stay in. Like I was doing him a massive favour or something.

" Cool. See you then." I said to him as if he were a guy I was arranging to buy second-hand car from via text message. He smiled, nodded at me and took another look at the state of the room before attempting to leave. " Dad" I said suddenly calling him back. My dad spun around quick as a flash.

" Yes Doug!" He replied unable to conceal his optimism that this could be some kind of breakthrough moment where I would start crying and begin the slow transformation back into the old Doug.

" Ummmm, what time is now?"

" Oh, …..it's two-thirty Doug." He said somewhat disappointedly.

" Oh ok, cool thanks." I nodded at him and began to search for an aspirin on my nightstand. My father nodded politely and attempted to leave again. "Dad, wait." He spun around again. He was all ears but clearly a little more cautious about getting his hopes up this time.

" Yes, buddy?"

" Ummm…. what day is it?

My mom absolutely freaked out because my dad had forgotten to get grape soda. It was Judy's favourite and rather than allow my father to be berated for the remainder of the year I offered to go to the store and buy some. I also needed the walk to clear my head from the numerous substances from the day before. I wrapped up in a coat because it was starting to get cold at that time of year and set off. It's was bright but cloudy. There was no blue in the sky, there was just whiteness but not a single distinguishable cloud. It was as if god had draped a giant white sheet over the sky. I noted that it had certainly become chillier as I turned the corner and got far enough away from the house to be able to light up a smoke. The first one of the day after the night before was always the worst cigarette because it seemed to summon back up the remnants of the chemicals that had been ingested. I soldiered on recalling that I was lucky I wasn't Roger, who had probably snorted his own weight in cocaine and was probably feeling like death right now or could even possibly actually be dead. I considered the fact that Roger could possibly die soon. As insensitive as it may sound, I couldn't see myself being as depressed as when Skeeter died if Roger kicked the bucket due to his own recklessness. Roger was a candidate to die of a drug overdose, a drug/drink fuelled car crash or be killed in some sort of altercation. No one would be surprised. The least of all me. I took comfort in the fact that the feeling was probably mutual. If something happened to me on one of our excursions into madness, I couldn't see Roger joining the fucking church and staying in on Friday evenings to shave his overweight girlfriend's legs.

That's just the way it was. We were both fully aware of how high the stakes were. If you get bad cocaine, you die. If you do too much cocaine, you die. You get into a fight with someone, you might lose, you might die. If you get too drunk and crash your car, you might die or be maimed. Every time we rolled the dice, we knew there was a chance that we could get snake eyes. It really pissed me off when I had to sit through any kind of tv show or presentation at school that tried to be educational about drugs and alcohol. There always seemed to be some idiot saying something along the lines of " I didn't think it would happen to me" or " I didn't know how much danger I was in." I was always aware of how much danger I was in. That was the fun part. Drugs and alcohol are fun because they're risky. You take a risk and you have a good time because you buzz on the thrill of getting away with it. I couldn't stand people like that because I saw them as liars. They rolled dice in the exact same game as me. The only difference between them and I is that they ran out of luck and now they wanted to pretend they never understood what was at stake. Like a bad gambler who loses everything and then tries to blame it on the house.

I pondered this and other such nonsense until my train of thought was interrupted by half-full milkshake landing in-front of me and exploding on the sidewalk. It splattered my shoes but I was otherwise unscathed. Whoever had thrown it had done so just as turned the corner to approach the store, which was about fifteen meters away. Looking up, I heard laughing and saw a gang of about ten guys hanging around outside the store. The old Doug probably would have been afraid. He probably would have been with Skeeter and Porkchop and ran away or something. But I wasn't the old Doug. So, I just stepped over that shit and slowly and coolly began walking towards them.

I studied the group of Neanderthals before me. There were mostly my age and I recognised most of them from hanging around Liverdale. They had obviously just blown in to cause trouble and I was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or at least, that's what I thought before I saw who was with them. Boomer Bledsoe. If his green hair and off-colour skin didn't give him away his now unmistakable eye-patch did. He looked a scummy urban pirate. Before Skeeter croaked it and stole his thunder Boomer had been the talk of Bluffington to Bloatsburg for what down between him and Roger. The rumour was that Roger had caught him looking at a chick he was fucking and cut his eye out. Roger's version of events was different. Boomer's brother ripped Roger off for drugs and refused to pay him back. Him and Boomer got into it and in the process a knife was involved and Boomer lost his eye. Boomer's version of events is that Roger was angry because Boomer fucked his mom and Roger jumped out of his car and blinded him in the middle of night before running away like a coward. My opinion, is that there were elements of truth in all three versions but no one was telling the truth in its entirety. However, three things were certainly true. Number one: Roger did that to Boomer's face. Number two: There was shitloads of cocaine/alcohol involved. Number three: Boomer never fucked Roger's mom. She was a whore but she had standards.

Another Milkshake came flying and whizzed past the side of my head before exploding behind me. The kid who threw the second one kind of looked like Ned Cauphee, but of course it couldn't be him because everyone knew that he had died from solvent abuse two years ago. Boomer had it in for Roger and they knew we hung out together. I didn't feel afraid as I approached them. Just nervous. Because I knew this situation was going to get a lot worse before it got any better. Boomer was leaning against the wall as he pulled on a smoke with a wicked smile on his face. His goons giggled and shouted animal noises in anticipation of some action. We stared at each other and I saw a twisted smugness in his eyes knowing full-well that he had the upper-hand. One versus 10 was no contest. Suddenly, he ran right towards me. I braced myself try hit him as hard as I could before I was inevitably on the ground being kicked to death by ten guys. If I got at least one good shot in I could cut my losses. It was simple mathematics. I was never going to come out of it well, but I might as well hurt the little fucker as much as could while I had the chance.

He stopped just short in front of me and we were eyeball to eyeball. I wasn't shook and had been a millimetre away from clocking him. He blew a billowing cloud of cheap cigarette smoke in my face as his cronies laughed and jeered. That cocky twisted smile ever-present written across his face. We stared each other down until finally said:

" Boo!"

The other members of his crew howled with laughter and egged him on:

" Fuck 'em up Boom Boom!"

" Who is this bitch? Man get out of here!"

" It's that whack-ass Doug Funnie motherfucker. Fuck his ass up!"

"¿Qué quiere, este maricón?"

" Yo, He's tight with that Roger motherfucker. Fuck 'em up bro."

Boomer laughed in my face. Clearly loving the support from his crew. He knew I was fucked and wanted to draw things out like a wild animal playing with its prey. I didn't give him the satisfaction of showing any fear or even moving a muscle and remained intently staring him down. I smiled back at him.

" Am I supposed to be afraid?" I asked slightly taking the wind out of his sails.

" Wow, I bet you think you got a lotta balls for Roger's bitch." He replied blowing smoke in face again.

" That's cute Boomer. You're the expert on balls so why don't you tell me."

" Woah, where did you get a big mouth from? Sucking Roger's dick?"

" The only one sucking dicks around here is your mom at truckstops for vodka money you fucking at-risk-case." I was deadpan in my delivery and I heard some smothered laughter around me.

" You a fuckin' comedian now?"

" Don't call me Funnie for nothing. You supposed to be a tough guy?"

" Ha! And you? Think you're a big man because you hang with Clotz? We have that bitch on the run. He knows we're looking for his ass and when we find him, it's game fucking over for him and his little bitch too."

" Good for you. You might lose the other fucking eye."

" Ahh, you mean this!?" He lifted up the flap and revealed the disfigured mound of scarred flesh where his eye had been. He shoved it into side of my head before stepping back, turning his head spitting on the ground.

" Your boy likes to do shit on the hit and run. But next time I hit him. He won't be running anymore." He quickly fished a switchblade out of his pocket and flicked it open. He walked back up to me and pointed it inches away from the pupil of my eye. He smiled showing his back teeth and said

" You know what they say. An eye for an eye."