The Tale of The Live Chameleons
4. Short Stories
Malvin walked towards his flat his bag of goodies. His Rizla, his assorted sweets and crisps his Special Curry and Fried Rice. In a way he was happy that was until he opened up the main door and entered the dark and damp hallway. Fungus grew on the ceiling and no one knows what grows on that carpet, all sticky and wet. He remembered how much he hated this place. He made his way quickly to his flat. On opening the door he went into the kitchen and put his curry and rice onto a plate and walked and ate his way into the living room. He looked at his watch. Five past Five. If he wanted he could go out for an hour or so, down to Lacey’s for a pint, if he wanted. He sat down and ate his food.
After eating Malvin switched on his pc and sat down on the couch as began making a joint. He only smoked the best weeds and hashish. None of this cheap low grade rubbish for Malvin full off all sorts of rubbish plastic and stuff. It’d been on tv with the man from a university, he was telling Shaz, he forget his name, but he was from a university and it was on tv so that must count for something.
He joined the fine cigarette papers with a delicate quickness, licking, joining, tearing, licking, blowing then covering the cone shape he’d made with tobacco and finally he placed small buds of fresh organic Belladonna marijuana in a handheld grinder and ground the buds to powder sprinkling this onto the half made joint. Picking it up he rolled, flicked and like a magician turned the pile of tobacco, weed and paper into a large cone similar to a parsnip.
Malvin lit the end of the parsnipand inhaled and smiled, he was back at his, he had no where to go, nothing to do, but smoke and write. He went to the computer.
Opening a file called The Tale a word processing document opened. This was Malvin’s story.
The Tale of The Live Chameleon by Malvin L Chotes – (Part 1)
Smashed and dashed, The Chameleon reflected on the vision of the vision in the hanging mirror on the barf-room wall.
The night after the day after the night before and yet he still felt dead. Opposite, a most odd sight, an early cadaver mocked him. Pulled tongues at him no less. As he did samewise, a dry, frothy clapper flap hummed.
Like the last strip of tripe hanging in a butcher’s window, it tasted as foul as it looked.
Never again, he lied.
Alive (in an approximate way) he shuffled to the lavatory. Stood waiting. A burst of burning, smelling pish spat out in a jet from his other, more private chameleon. The red hot relief a welcome distraction from the poisoned pain that continued and continued to permeate his frame. But soon it returned. As the stink of hurt crept back through every fibre of his matter so to did the heated shame and guilt of a half remembered nightmare. He peered down into mess of the toilet bowl, closed his eyes and wished; then prayed to wake. Opening them all he saw still was the shit and spew of his bog. Oh my God he thought, shaking inside and out. I’ve killed her.
Malvin read it through. Not bad he thought, got a lot more to write obviously, all the important bits, all the juicy bits. But it’s only the start. More to come. Much more. He looked at his watch, five thirty five. Can’t phone Sharon until after Coronation Street, whenever that finishes, might as well crack on with the story…