Theme Park at its Darkest

45

“Fuck it,” said Pat, under his breath. The point didn’t really worry him. Last time they had played it had been about competition but today, for Pat, the game was about catharsis. Continue reading →

44

Wally and Johnny were standing in the alley when Pat got back. Wally was dressed in full lycra; white, orange and lime. A racing bike with a matching colour scheme leaned against the brickwork beside him.

“You look like a fucking radioactive boiled egg,” said Pat.

“Gee, Pat, tell us what you really think. Don’t hold back now.” Continue reading →

43

“So you stayed in hospital until you recovered, and literally walked out the doors and got on a plane to Australia?” Continue reading →

42

“Patrick. Good afternoon.” Pat’s psychiatrist stood in the doorway wearing a white shirt, a black skirt and black, patent-leather pumps. The doorknob she rested her hand on was the same colour as the gold bracelet on her wrist. “Would you like to come through?” Continue reading →

43

“The things you’re talking about, your weight and your body hair, they’re superficial things,” said Dr Helen.

“You sound like somebody’s mum,” said Pat. “Maybe they don’t ‘really’ matter,” He supplied quotation marks with his fore-and index fingers, “But they’d sure as hell matter to a tight, blonde, fat-chested English backpacker-come-barmaid like that.” Continue reading →

41

Pat began to replay Wally’s speech in his head. He lingered over the nuances of Wally’s performance, slowly shaping and altering them to the kind of performance he would have given. Continue reading →

40

“Watch where you’re going,” Pat growled. The man didn’t reply, nor did he turn around. He simply lifted a hand and extended a finger in the universally recognised gesture for ‘fuck you’. Continue reading →

39

After the meeting, Pat had the rest of the day to do whatever, but the idea of nothing pressing made him feel fat and lazy. Continue reading →