Men Behaving Badly.

INT: Gary’s flat.

Gary. Hello Tony. Sit down.

Tony: Alright mate? What’s going on?

Gary: It is not good, Tony. I am impotent. I will never have children.

Tony: Oh.

Gary: Dorothy has left me. She now thinks of me as a hollow, spent twig. A ruptured dinghy. A broken, crippled donkey. The doctors said I have the virility of a damp sock.

Tony: Did they use that exact term?

Gary: No.

Tony: I’m sure it will be alright.

Gary: No. It will not. I will never have kids. The process of age has turned my laddish antics into a hollow, empty memory. Drinking beer with you and making terrible jokes about arses will not matter. Will not matter when my pale, listless stump is beating with futile belief at a woman’s vagina, without ability to penetrate, procreate, or continue.

Tony: Oh.

Gary: And you. You are old now too. You are more dented tree bark than man. Look at you. Your liason with Debs turned you into a maniac, a desperate, jittering fuck. And now. Like me. Your mid-nineties beer swilling demeanour replaced by a thousand mile stare. Like a man staring into a mushroom cloud. You are nothing, Tony. Nothing. We are nothing.

Tony: Erm…

Gary: Oh, and I have to evict you.

Tony: Heh heh.

Gary: I am not joking. I have not had rent from you for fifteen fucking years. You have been joking in a way to distract it, but the jokes, like you, have had their day. You are leaving. Your stuff is in bin bags on the lawn.

Tony: But…

Gary: Go Tony. Go to die. Go to die, alone, as I will die here, alone. Because we are all….alone. Essentially. And inevitably. Now fuck off.


About neilstilwell

Abseiling into trouble, a sewer rat staring at the stars. Disgusting. You can assist my search for the one ring by buying a Kindle version of this diary from here. It has some other stuff in it, and a dreadful cover.
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