Booted feet protruding from beneath the blanket to rest on his pillow, Vyvyan snarled contentedly and sleep insulted no one in particular. He was the least troubled of the four by the day's arguments and his dreams pleasantly reflected this happy fact.
Listen, from where you are, you can hear their dreams …
"Two pints and a curry," Vyvyan announced, slapping the tenner he'd mugged himself for earlier that afternoon down on the bar counter. Waiting for the predictably slow service, he gave his stool a quick spin, surveying the other occupants of The Kebab Stick.
An acne-marked face, wearing an inane grin crowned with spiky hair not dissimilar to his own, suddenly popped into view.
"Vyvyan! It's you! Hit me on the head, go on, right here."
This kind of greeting was not unusual to the punk; he was somewhat a local celebrity. People came from far and wide to be bopped on the head or twotted in the face with a frying pan by him, savouring his touch as devoted disciples had savoured the touch of their Saviour thousands of years ago. It was not a bad form of amusement, quite amusing really, and it gave the orange-haired one plenty of scope to try out new tricks.
He had one such trick in mind now. "One moment please," he informed, holding up a silencing hand, waiting for his curry to arrive. When it did so he picked it up and smashed it down on the wannabe-punk's head.
"Thanks, Vyv." Came the groggy gratitude as the youth crumpled to the floor. The inhabitants broke into spontaneous applause and a few fans came forwards, eager for the same treatment. Vyvyan happily obliged.
When the fuss had died down and another curry had been ordered on the house, Vyvyan got down to the serious business of demolishing his comestibles. He thought to himself about his new-found fame as he did so. Alongside it, he had also managed to acquire himself the perfect occupation – an ambulance driver. When he could be bothered to show up, he was always entranced anew with the fact that he was being paid, actually paid, to break speed limits and gawp at unfortunate victims of home improvement accidents. Once he had even been able to steal the leg off of someone who had been involved in a particularly nasty argument with his Christmas turkey over what exactly constitutes the term 'clinically dead'. On the whole, life was perfect.
Something was annoying him though and he wasn't quite sure what it was. Annoyed, he smashed his pint glass against the back of his neighbour's head, barely registering the muzzy 'thanks'. Was that as fun as it should have been? A quick bit of introspection told him that no, it wasn't, something was missing.
He lifted up the head of his semi-conscious neighbour by the ear and yelled "You're very very boring!" into it with gusto, then waited. No, nothing, he was left almost cold, which wasn't right at all. He needed something new to do, that was all, something interesting. Maybe a trip to the hospital? Or he could invent a new potion…
Musing upon these possibilities, he took his leave of The Kebab Stick, hitting a few willing (and some unwilling) victims over the head with a pool cue on his way out and only pausing to kick the entrance door off its hinges. The pub's publicity (no pun intended) would be increased that way, he was really doing them a brilliant service.
He made a brief call in at the brothel next door to see how Special Patrol Group was getting along. He was informed that 'sir' would be home in a couple of days and please could his tab be paid off by the end of the week. It looked like Vyvyan had the afternoon to himself then.
The afternoon constitutional the punk embarked upon seemed rather aimless, in that he was not aiming at walking anywhere: he had no where to be. Everywhere he looked he seemed to see fans – people dressed exactly like him. There was a time when he had been one of a kind and now it made him rather uncomfortable to see so many clones that he hadn't created through potions kept in Coke cans wandering around. Sinking despondently into his own thoughts, he was startled out of them to see what he believed to be… could it be… a hippy?!
Of course! That's what he was missing! A hippy! There was no joy in the world that compared to smashing a plate over the head of a depressed hippy, unless you counted setting fire to a pretentious anarchist girly virgin's bed then riding it like a sled down the stairs that is. Feeling a fresh surge of adrenaline he gave chase as the hippy disappeared down the mouth of an alleyway.
Deciding that the element of surprise would be the most fun (for him), he slipped into the alleyway and followed his prey as silently as was possible in massive Kicker boots. Miraculously, he managed not the attract the attention of the hippy, even when he forgot to look where he was going and tumbled head first over a pile of dustbin can lids… highly unsociable to leave them lying around in an alley where people need to sneak up unheard on other people.
When the excitement grew too much for Vyvyan to bear, he launched his attack, grabbing the hippy from behind and knocking him over the head with a dustbin lid – now not so unsociable after all.
"Hahaha!" He crowed triumphantly as the hippy stumbled, head reeling. Playfully, he tugged on his prey's hair, planning to throw him through the nearest window… but the entire head of hair came off in his hands. With an exclamation of intrigued surprise he threw it down to the grimy cobblestones (it was a very upmarket alleyway) and stamped it to death.
"Bit of politics there…" Came a woozy, uncertain voice, making Vyvyan look up. He saw with a pang of disappointment that what he had attacked wasn't a hippy at all; it was just Ben Elton in a wig.
"Piss of," he snarled sulkily, clunking Mr. Ben Elton over the head with his fist and stalking off.
His owlish glasses askew, the poor man crumpled to the ground with a final groggy murmur of "My name's Ben Elton… good night…"
Going along on his merry way, Vyvyan paid no more heed to this brief encounter as he had already forgotten all about it, just as he had forgotten all about the last ten minute of his life – the alcohol had started to take effect. Entertaining the warm, fuzzy glow that drinking had nestled within him; he located his precious car, slipped in comfortably behind the wheel and drove off into the sunset.
"Get out of my way, you bastards!"
And here the dream doth endeth...
A cockerel crowed somewhere off in the distance (impressing the talent scout enough to hand over the Kellogg's Cornflakes contract), waking Vyvyan from his slumbers. The night's very structurally important dream already forgotten, he sat up in bed and bemoaned his poor old aching back in a very loud voice so that everyone else would be forced to wake up. That done, he went to shake the grit from his sheets outside his door before stamping downstairs to demand breakfast off of anyone who happened to be down there.