"Fredom"

“You wanna do something fun?” 

Mitch glared over a man and his tattoo on top of the forehead saying “fredom”. 

“Shoot, mate.” He raised a glass of orangey-purple stuff and downed it in one go.

20 hours later....

Nearby car's alarm rang like a thousand megaphones tied to his ears. With one honking at an intersection and another one bloating away with its bloody sirens on.

Mitch eyes flipped open and he inhaled like a whole soul would be coming back to his body. Rolling off a mattress his back ached and his foot flopped onto a soggy carpet making him jump and curse.

 The hangover was bad enough without the headache, yet another can of beer was a miracle cure to an illness that was never meant to be there.

The sun was way past the horizon with all the commuters long gone to their cubicles. Mitch glared over the blinds into an intersection, a shadow off a palm tree and a cactus covered the window in the front garden. He covered his swollen, red inflamed eyes and snarled, rubbed his nose and blew some white powder stuff off his fingers. 

“Yesterday we killed it, mate!” A man with long greasy hair and a beard just as bad slugged out of a nearby room. Mitch got spooked by him and his dangling thingy. The man grabbed and pulled up his underwear off a door, they had more holes than a fishing net. He only wore one slipper and sipped cheap beer from a can.

 Mitch narrowed his eyes and stared at the man, questions swarmed his head. Who is this man? He felt like he knew him, but from where? Why is he naked? Better not to know, he thought. Where the hell is he? The street looked familiar; he would always get stuck at this intersection on his way to the bank, the red light on the top traffic light never worked and the green lasted for less than a second. 

“Where am I?”

“You know, mate, as I said, we killed it!” He nodded and stumbled close to Mitch, wrapping his hand around him. His breath stank worse than he did, his long hair glued itself to his shirt and left an oily stain. “You were the beast! Never saw anyone riding that well!” 

“Riding what?” Mitch shook his head, pain in his eyes surged from within and he had to close them for a bit. 

“What happened yesterday?” Mitch inserted fingers in his eye sockets and rubbed for a long while, leaving his eyes more red than they were. Upon opening them he pulled on a thread of green shorts with palm trees on them and a pink shirt with a stain on it. “What are these clothes I'm wearing? And…” He stared at the mans tattoo of “fredom” on his forehead and shook his head. 

“Yo, mate, don't worry! All is good aaight? We got a bit tipsy, we had some trains going on” he ran his finger over his nose. “And we had a bloody good time and then you killed it innit?” He grinned, half the teeth were missing, then he stumbled and fell in a chair, his hands fell to his sides and his head leaned back. The can of beer spilled an ran down between planks, Mitch hunched over to pick it up, it was nearly empty.

“Wait what? I used cocaine? No way! That can't be true.” The lingering headache just pounded his temples with an extra oomph. Mitch placed his head in his hands and dropped on the carpet, its uncomforting stickiness soaked beneath him. “What the hell? Where is my suit? I knew I should have never drank, I freaking knew it! And what the hell is this guy? Is he dead?” He didn't move, Mitch didn't want to wake him, waiting for him to move might be a tragedy to happen. He thought about calling the ambulance, but where is his phone? To hell with it, he better not see it now. The man snorted, Mitch let out a sigh of relief, knowing he's not dead yet, though he smells like he was for a long time. 

Mitch slapped a man over his cheeks. “Hey! Wake up!”

A flimsy hand with a tightening grip wrapped his neck, shoving him backwards till he hit a wall. Another bloodshot eyes, probably as bad as his, stared him down with one slightly miss adjusting to the left. Mitch's heart started racing, trying to grab anything around him he felt a massive lack of any furniture in the room.

 Suddenly the grip eased and he managed to push the man away. 

“Oh, crap dude, sorry ‘bout that.” The man shook his head. “It happens when I'm freaked out, I get umm….aggressive you know?” 

Mitch hugged the wall and jolted down towards any door in a room, yet he just stranded himself in a lone corner. He looked around himself, his clothes again, the mostly naked man. Apart from the soggy carpet, a chair and poorly laid mattress the room was empty. His trousers laid half way under the mattress on the floor, same as his shoes, the Armani sign was tainted with blood, he raced towards them. His breaths deepened and his heart was beating his chest like it never has in a long time, or never since...since the yesterday's morning. 

“Dude? Much? You aaight?” The man tried to stretch his hand towards Mitch, then he glared down at himself. “Oh, hold the phone, I will get some clothes, sorry mate.” He rushed out of the room. 

Mitch pulled the pants on, pulling a rosy shirt away, it was stained with blood, and he wasn't sure if it was his. Hoping that it was not his, a mirror would have been handy now. He brushed his palms over his head and squeezed some spots, no severe pain - no injury. Pants had some weight around the pockets, might be the damn phone. He pulled a wallet with all the credit cards inside and twenty euros in cash. He kept digging in and pulled a car key with a Mercedes sign on it. No phone though. He dropped on the mattress and let out a long sigh. 

“Yo, sorry, mate, for my...well...umm...I don't get many guests here.”

“I wonder why ‘mate’.” Mitch thought.

The man came back with skinny jeans, a baseball cap covering the tattoo and...his bloody jacket. 

“Hey, umm...that's mine.” Mitch pointed at the man. “And who are you anyway?” 

“Yo, mate, don't pull that on me yeah? You gifted this to me yesterday, you said I'm your best friend!” 

Mitch shook his head, the headache is still there and as strong as it was before. Throat dry as a desert and back hurting almost as bad as his heart. “Friend? Your friend? That's new, I would gladly get my jacket back though, ugh.”

“Sorry...I...I don't remember…”

“Oh….’kay...I'm Rick, nice to meet you!” He stretched his hand towards him, a gleaming Rolex hung on it, same as the one his father left for him when he passed away. 

“Did I give you that watch too?” Mitch ignored the man's hand, he stood up, his back ached again and he let out a groan. 

“Oh...you can have it back, no big deal, I kept it safe for you.” He begun to pull a pin on the watch yet not releasing the strap. "You were throwing stuff round like a madman, you threw your phone to a river, was a god damn good phone that one. Wanted to save at least somethin' you know?" Mitch came close and helped him to pull it the other way and took the watch, then slid it down the pocket of his trousers. “River, ey? That makes sense.”

“So…” 

“So…” 

“So…can you tell me what happened yesterday?” 

“Ahh...well...Where do I start?” The man scratched his head, he leaned on a wall and glared behind him. “You want a glass of water? Got a chair in another room, can talk more there if you wish.” 

“Yes please.” 

This room was not as shallow. The two leather chairs had more stains on them than his shirt, especially the red one. Mitch shoe crunched on a broken glass of a coffee table while trying to poke an old antenna sticking behind an even older tv. A neatly stacked collection of bongs on a shelf pulled his attention, or the half way ripped wallpaper, he wasn't sure.

Paper wrappers scattered over the floor and loads of tissues reminded him of his brothers room, not a place he enjoyed being at.

Mitch compared the stains on both the chairs and chose to go for the black one. “The less you know, the happier you are…” He thought to himself. 

“Well…” Rick sipped his water, placing a chipped glass on the edge of the coffee table. “I met you at the ‘Blazing Zombooka’ club, you said you needed a drink, all of them. You cried all night about your girlfriend cheating on you and your boss being a scumbag.” He sipped more water. “You cried about how you are a slave to the system and have no freedom in your life or something like that…” 

Mitch sat silent as a graveyard, Rick kept talking but his mind drifted away. The two pills of paracetamol that came with water did kill the headache now and it was as good relief as he can expect today.

Maria, that...bitch of a whore. Five years down the drain, he never saw it coming, he thought. The new perfumes she brought home every now and then, new jewelry, saying she can afford to spoil herself with that new raise...Should have known...Should have known...Mitch rolled his thumbs, staring at the pieces of broken glass, scattered on yet another soggy carpet. She did it at our...my home. He bit his lip, it hurt, it was more swollen than he thought it was. 

"...and so you talked most of the time, I'm not much of a talker, you know?" Rick pulled his head back to spill a few drops in his eyes, he blinked quit a lot and shook his head.

“Yeah, okay, what happened next?” 

“We had a few beers, I stopped counting after we had like...six pints I think.” 

“Six? I had six pints of beer? I couldn't do two before…”

“Then you started blabbering about wanting to kill yourself, so I suggested something stronger, that one always cheers people up...a molten Molotov with an extra shot of vodka. That is like...you know, pure alcohol, 100% mate, some go blind from that shit.” 

“Right…then what? Where did the cocaine part come in?” Mitch shook his head. “Well, what's done is done, guess I just passed out and he brought me to his place...if it's even his place.” 

“Brooo, you are loaded with cash! You bought whole stock from the first dealer we found, you're crazy, mate.” He slapped his skinny knee. The grin on his face, barely shinning through his beard felt rather unsettling.

“Huh...Okay.” Mitch clenched his teeth, he never used drugs, never wanted to, they are an epitome of evil, same as alcohol, but at least that's legal! 

“What happened next?"

“Well…” Rick stared through a window, two police cars with sirens zipped past the intersection. His tongue started twisting and he was biting it in quite an odd way. 

“Well what?” 

“Well...He...you...I...I...joked about having fun doing something fun...and...suggested getting the bastard that cheated with your...wife...girlfriend…” Rick stopped, he had a few deep breaths and looked at Mitch, he had brown eyes just like he did. His Adams apple went up and down as he had a few hard, dry swallows. 

“Come on man, what happened?” Mitch swung his hands open, he tried to stand but his back pinned him down, he stayed, staring at Rick. 

“I...had a .38 pistol for self defense you know and you…” 

“No fucking way, you don't want to say that…'' Mitch's eyes popped open like a door, he shot up from the chair, the headache that was gone for a few moments? Back and it brought friends. His hands ran down his head. “He's freaking bullshiting, he is, I could not have done it, no way, me? No!” 

“Did I shoot him?” He turned to Rick, his eyes turned away, besides the one already being turned, he popped his cheeks and let out a deep, long breath. 

“Yes, you popped them both…” 

“B...both?” 

“The girl you called Maria and Richard, the bloke she slept with…” 

Mitch's skin went pale, more pale than it already was, he dropped on the floor, his eyes looked as if his soul left his body again and he just stared back at the broken pieces of glass beneath the coffee table. “Richard...that's my boss...I…I…”

"Where are the bodies?" Voice calm as a summers breeze.

"Dumped them with the Merc, you kept the finger of the bitch, want to see it?" He pulled a severed finger with a glistering nine thousand ring wrapped around it.

"God damn!" Mitch covered his mouth, his stomach turned and twisted, the nearby window was the closest place for him to throw up and he went straight for it. All of the intestines squeezed themselves up, yet all came out was acids or well... the beer.

"You could not take it off so you took the whole finger, mate." Rick stashed it back in his pocket and sipped his water.

“Wha...w...what now?” Mitch belief of it being just a bad dream suddenly became a very real nightmare. The headache formed in an unending zing and his back just went pure suicide switch mode.

“Now?” Rick stood up and looked through the blinds. “ We ditched your merc with the phone and the bodies in the river. But they caught your trail, had to lose 'em. And now we run, if they find you though...oooh boy, you will never leave the block. Like... Ever.” He picked a booger out of his nose and placed it on his tongue, chewing it. “You cried about being free, mission accomplished, innit?” 

Mitch looked at Rick, he took off his hat to fan himself. The tattoo on his forehead stuck out like a sore thumb. He noticed the .38 near the tv. Just a few steps away. "Freedom you say..." He slouched next to it and took it with his trembling hands. His heart raced so loud it could almost wake the neighbors, if there were any. His mind silent as a grave, he just stared at the gun, two bullets missing, one push away to...

“Yo, mate, what are you doing?” Rick rocketed towards Mitch.

Mitch dragged the pipe near his temple. “Freedom, you moron, it's spelled with double e.” A bang aided through a small house with his blood splatting over the wall. Not even a moment later, the body merged with the dust and with all the broken pieces.