Flash Fiction: The Wrong Address

This is one I wrote years ago, I just found it and also cheese…I was not sober when I wrote it and also was going through a phase of…something. Yes. It does not make complete sense but I haven’t finished Ronel and Eric part 2, and it was this or a poom about dreams. 

The poom isn’t too shabby though so maybe tomorrow…

The Wrong Address


The author must insist that it is important to write things down.

One small mistake, one wrong door, and you will die.

Open elevator doors greet our two affable male archetypes. They enter followed by an Unfortunate Extra, who bravely contradicts his allotted place with his garb; a mockery of yuppie-types; garish blue work shirt, pinstripe-pastiche trousers and a deliberately undone tie of a design that suggests its natural habitat is that of a forty-something-father-of-four who wears large, rimmed glasses and refuses to keep up with the times. Carrying a cardboard box of unknown destination, he begs our attention as he eclipses the relatively mundane, relatively statement-less costumes of our heroes.

The lift ascends, Yuppie Mocktail completely unaware of Hero #2’s quivering lip that calculably stutters, “This is my first time having sex with a man…will it be painful?”

“Do you just have to make it as awkward as possible for this guy?” replies Hero #1 with unconvincing nonchalance. The Mocktail exits at floor six, flat out refusing to take further part in this pretentious and lurid tale of homoerotic love. Between the short journey from floor number six to floor number eight, Hero #1 cannot help but wonder if his response detracted from the potential absurdity of the prior encounter, or if he was justified in his reflexive retort…

But nonetheless Infectious chortling steps into Mike’s Studio Apartment and Hero #2 is vindicated. Mike’s Studio Apartment is characterised by an abundance of discarded clothing, coke cans, and Random Artsy Paraphernalia. These all conspire to present the dark image that greets our heroes of the unlit apartment, one of confusing outlines and jagged images, highlighted by the hesitating city lights that stream through the voyeur-encouraging floor-to-ceiling windows that surround Mike’s Fucking Glass Cage. Neither Hero #1 or Hero #2 are named Mike, and so there is an understandable nervousness that accompanies #1’s shaking fingers as he fondles the immediate wall space for a light switch. It is not of any discernible advantage that Hero #2’s unceasing cackling contributes to an overall “eerie” (as the newspapers would describe The Apartment on tomorrow’s front page) ambiance.

Click. Overpriced inefficient studio spotlights flick on…to reveal a ludicrously messy, unkempt apartment…and what might be the veritable El Dorado of discarded needles.

Click. The sound of a pistol being cocked seems to blare out from some kind of custom ordered 5.1 surround sound speaker system, emerging somewhere on our heroes immediate…left. They say that the bullet that kills you is silent, as it reaches your heart before the bang reaches you ears…unless of course the shooter misses…repeatedly. Misses in your kneecaps.

“OH GOD! OH GOD NO!” screams a de-kneed Hero#1, as the hellish pain from the movement of his shattered joints lance through his writhing body, the pieces of his friend’s exploding skull choking back further screams…

Tomorrow the newspapers will lament the passing of two anonymous young wits, and somewhere, a media mogul chuckles; his readership doubling since his point man happened to be the junkie’s neighbour. Clouds reflect off a gleaming steel fortress in which he strokes the shaved head of his secretary, who gently sucks off his tiny penis, for the third time that day.