James: 'We have to be careful, quiet and slow.'
'But I'm already sobering up.' Frank complains for you. 'Hangovers
are for morning.'
'It is morning. Technically.'
'Yeah, nah, there's no sunlight.'
Chris' uncle's place used to have a backyard. According
to your new compatriots' nostalgia, it was great for pacing away hangovers and
peeing. The backyard has since been sacrificed to that most inscrutable of
secular gods: subdivision.
The driveway running alongside the initial house is
gravel but this gives way to patches of reddish dirt or knee-height weeds. A
house sits in the middle of the new block. Frank and yourself squat at
driveway's end before proceeding with trespass. James stays behind, head poking
over rear fence and ready to give alarm in form of bird call.
Your objective is the far corner in your sights. Frank
leads in crouched sneak. A patio light flicks on and a 'goola goola goola' sings. Frank throws himself down flat and you
imitate, squashing weeds.
'I think that was just a magpie.' You whisper when the
light turns off. 'Unless James can warble real good.'
'That's even worse.'
'How is that worse?'
'When magpies sing, that means it's time to go to bed.'
You blindly follow Frank's crawling - the sound of
rustled weeds and his own languageless complaints. You arrive in the corner,
where a short chilli bush has survived the subdivision. Frank pockets two small
red chillies and hands you another two.
Your retreat is hasty, ignoring the patio light. James
meets you at the front door's safety and takes one of the chillies from Frank.
He uses palm to mash it into the door's lock. From lock outwards, the brass
door handle burns away, the hole widening with a thin bright-orange rim. You
are not sure whether to pocket your chillies or scatter them far away.
'Damage is done.' James, triumphant with door's opening. 'So let's use as much magic as possible before Chris gets here.'
You garnish with:
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