Paul Tristram.

by Horror Sleaze Trash on June 14, 2012

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who now lives on the Southern coast of Britain, has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.


Dave sat in his armchair looking about his living room, it was

one o’clock in the afternoon but Dave had his blinds down, which

gave the effect of it being evening.

The walls were a dirty council white, yellowing towards the ceiling,

where the ghosts of a million cigarettes had left their filthy marks

whilst floating, trapped and dying in his tomb of a room.

He scanned the shadowed walls for battle scars and found plenty,

rips and tears in the wallpaper beneath the dirty paint where he had

thrown countless empty bottles and cans.

Stains of all depth and dark colouration, blood from when he punched

the walls in unison with his crazy, desperate roaring, puke and bile

from the mess he had made of his stomach with alcohol.

Dave’s eyes were drawn to the window by a dull clicking sound,

he had locked himself out a couple of drunken nights before

and had put one of the windows through with his elbow, there

were four small panes of glass in the window and he had chosen

the bottom right again and had somehow managed to cover it up

with sellotape and cardboard from a beer box the next terror

stricken morning.

There was a dark square behind the blinds where the light could not

penetrate the cardboard, leaving a upside down L shape of dim

light coming through the blinds where the remaining three panes

of glass still sat.

Dave listened to the dull clicking of the cardboard and reached

down to the top of his jeans on the right hand side, without

consciously thinking about it, he was checking to see if the chain

was still there, it was.

The chain was a thick dog choker chain that he had fastened to

a belt hoop in his jeans, from where it swung around to his back

pocket where he kept his house keys.

This chain was the culprit for the broken window, he had bathed

that day and changed into his only other pair of jeans leaving the

chain still attached to his dirty pair.

He shifted his eyes down to the floor below the window, there lay

broken glass, puke sludge and what looked like a decomposing

brain but it wasn’t it was merely a wet ball-shaped newspaper

fucking with him, so he lifted his gaze away from it.

Dave liked to wake up this way, slowly, looking around bit by

bit, to see what new little disgusting thing he might have added

to his dying little house whilst he was crazily stumbling about in a

drunken stupor the night before.

Dave leaned forward gingerly and saw to his surprise and delight

the tops of one opened upright can and three unopened cans upon

the floor next to his feet.

He reached forward very quickly and as his fingers closed around

the opened can a mouthful of bile shot up from his stomach, he

turned his head to the left and spat the bile out onto the floorboards.

Dave sat back and shook the can gently, it was half full, he

lifted the Special Brew to his mouth and swallowed the lot,

wincing when he had finished but knowing that the first flat,

warm taste of the day was always the worst one.

He threw the empty can across the room, then reached into

his shirt pocket and pulled out his tobacco pouch and lighter,

made a roll-up, lit it up and exhaled with a cough.

He then realized that he needed to piss, so wobbly he stood

up, saying loudly to himself as he did so,

“You can’t drink and not piss!”

He walked into the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks.

There in the middle of the kitchen floor was a witch’s broom,

“Where the fucking hell did you come from?”

He exclaimed.

But the broom just lay there, silently.

“Abra Fucking Cadabra, clean the house and fetch some beer!”

He yelled, chuckling insanely and making himself giddy as he

did so.

But still the broom just lay there, silently.

Later I’ll have to stick you in the coal bunker with those two

different coloured road cones I found on the kitchen floor, on

two separate occasions last week, the garden gnome from the

week before and the empty calor gas bottle from the week

before that, he thought to himself.

It was a bit like living with a cat, but instead of waking up and

finding dead mice, birds and the like as presents from a cat,

Dave found these crazy objects as presents from his very much

pissed-up self to his sober self.

Dave reached the kitchen sink, bent down in front of it and

picked up a 2 litre milk carton which was half full (or half

empty, depending on how you look at it?) of piss, off the floor.

He pulled out his cock and touched something tender, Ouch! he

thought to himself looking down, there he saw a small round burn,

then he remembered that a few afternoons ago he had dropped a

roll-up out of his mouth whilst pissing and it had bounced off the

top of his cock, exploding like a little firework.

“Fucking thing looks like it’s turning septic!”

He mumbled to himself in disgust at his cock.

He let the first blast of piss rush from his cock into the milk carton

with force.

“Fucking Hell!” he almost yelled.

The first piss in the morning was always the worst, he could feel

his whole urinary tract burning inside him, as soon as this happened

he would start to get a aching in his pancreas and then the dull

pressure in the middle of his chest.

He finished pissing and zipped up with his right hand, pouring the

now full milk carton of piss into the sink before him, watching as

some of it bounced ceiling wards and covered the piles of dirty

dishes upon the work top next to the sink with little goblets of yellow


He put the now empty milk cartoon back down upon the floor and

thought to himself

‘I’ll have to get a new one later, I’ve been using that fuckers for weeks now!’

as he turned and faced the kitchen again.

His stairs came down into kitchen on the back wall and he looked and

smiled at the carpet, it was a crazy patterned Axminster expensive pub

carpet, him and a few mates had drunkenly pulled it out of a rubbish skip

outside the Conservative club in town one night.

They were doing up the club and were throwing it out but now it was safe

at Dave’s house, he loved it, his own proper pub carpet, you could still

smell the beer on it if you put your face close enough and he had awoken

laying on it on several occasions.

He had thrown a amphetamine and beer carpet laying party a few months

ago, and they had managed to make all the pieces fit together perfect, there

was enough for the stairs, the upstairs hallway and the bedroom, the only

fuck-up was that his mate Banjo had caved in one of the skirting boards in

the bedroom with a hammer and chisel, trying to get a bit of carpet under it,

pissed right up, but eh, these things happen right.

It was then that he noticed something white and shiny laying upon the

fifth stair up, he squinted but still could not make out what it was, so

he walked slowly over, he peered and gasped, it was two teeth stuck


He frantically reached up and into his own mouth, searching but all his

teeth were still there, he checked them three or four more times but they

were always still there.

He tried to remember last night but couldn’t, he’d been blacking-out for

days now, but he was pretty sure that no one had been here but himself,

where the fuck had they come from?

He looked at the knuckles on both his hands, they were scuffed, raw and

scabby but that told him nothing for they were always like that, he was

always punching walls and other assorted surfaces, including the floor.

‘I must have killed someone, Jesus Fucking Christ!’

he thought to himself in a panic and grabbing hold of the banister he

rushed upstairs, gagging and wretching as he did so, in search of the


He went into the bathroom first, nothing, then into the bedroom, still

nothing, He went back down stairs on shaky legs almost falling twice

thinking aloud to himself,

“The only other place is the cupboard under the stairs!”

He opened the door and peered in but there was nothing in there

except 3 rubbish bin liners of empty cans, a sweeping brush and a shovel,

he walked back to the bottom of the stairs and tried to think but his mind

was blank of everything except panic.

‘So there’s no body, at least not in the house’

he thought to himself trying to calm down

‘The only evidence here are those fucking teeth, Christ there’s not even

any fresh blood about the place just old stuff, the only fucking evidence

are those teeth and the police might turn up any second and he still didn’t

know what he had actually done?’

As he thought about the 24 hours in the police cell with no alcohol he

nearly vomited and started to shake so violently that his eyes rolled back

in his head, he had to grasp onto the banister and turn his head to the left

and hold on with all his might and ride and fight the coming fit.

It subsided and echoed away slowly.

When he was back, more or less to himself, he reached for the teeth

picked them up, put them into his mouth and swallowed them, without

even pausing, they scraped against his throat going down and he gagged,

then felt them rocket back up into his mouth riding a wave of bile and

bang against his own teeth, quickly he swallowed again and this time

the teeth and bile sunk down to his stomach.

‘Well, that’s the evidence gone, thank fuck for that!’ he thought to himself.

Still shaking but feeling a bit relieved he zigzagged across the kitchen,

Nearly falling sideways over the witches broom, to the living room

and over to the three unopened cans of beer, steadied himself, then

bent down slowly and picked them up, turned and returned unsteadily

to the kitchen.

He went to the work top next to the sink and pushed a pile of dirty dishes

over to make a bit of space, he then reached for a pen off the windowsill

and pulled one of the cans free from its plastic handcuff.

Placing the can on its side, in one fluid motion, he stabbed the pen into

the can, close to the bottom, brought the hole up to his mouth,

straightened it and pulled open the ring-pull on top.

He felt the warm sticky Special Brew gush into his mouth and swallowed

like a drowning man, whilst performing the art of shot-gunning and close

to emptying the can, he wretched, dropped the almost empty can and

reached for a dirty pint glass covered in fresh little goblets of urine and

leaning over the sink puked up as much as he could into the glass and

over his hand which held it.

After a moment or two he raised the glass to his mouth with a look of

defiance and gulped it all down, dropping the empty glass into the sink

where it shattered to pieces.

Grasping the sink with both hands he clenched his teeth together and held

on tight.

‘Three or four minutes, if I can just keep it down for three or four minutes!’

he thought to himself wincing with a tear running down his face from

the intensity of the wretching.

After a few minutes the alcohol explosion happened inside his brain and

he knew that he had to lay down; he also knew he had to do it with no

sudden movements.

He walked gingerly to the living room and then slowly over to the settee

and as gently as he could laid himself down and once there started to sigh

and breathe erratically, gulping and gasping the stale air of the room.

After around ten minutes or so he drifted off to sleep for an hour and

jumped himself awake with a start, there was a noise underneath him?

He had his body up off the settee except for his hands at the top and

his feet at the bottom and he was looking at the middle cushion

underneath himself where the noise was coming from, he stared

confused, trying to pull his senses together and realized it was a ringing

sound, it was his mobile phone under the cushion, it must have fallen

there out of his pocket while he slept.

He reached under the cushion, retrieved it and answered it with a,


“Hey baby, it’s Molly, so you’re still alive then, you mad bastard!”

Molly was a prostitute from town; she came around once in awhile

and drank with Dave, she felt sorry for him and liked his company,

when he wasn’t suicidal or smashing everything up, he liked her too,

there was no sex just companionship besides he couldn’t get it up

anymore and she was mainlining and disease ridden.

“Hi Molly, how’s tricks, I haven’t seen you for a couple of weeks?”

He inquired.

“You daft bastard!” she replied.

“I was around last night but you were in another one of your comas

again, you left the door unlocked, you’ll get murdered one of these

days, Christ remember that time I found you laying half in and half

out of your door?

The fucking milkman was stepping over you!”

“Oh yeah.” Replied Dave blushing and smiling into the phone all at

the same time.

“Anyways.” She continued

“I’m in the Plough Boy pub, I was coming to see you but I farted at the

bus stop and followed through with orange liquid, it’s happening all the

time recently, it must be all the vodka and orange I’m drinking, I had to

come in here and clean up in the ladies, fucking binned my knickers,

they were nice ones too.”

Dave burst out laughing but what she next said stopped his mirth.

“Listen baby, have you seen my teeth?”

“Teeth?” he asked nervously

“Yeah, my fucking teeth, my two top front ones, that big black steroid

pimp fucker knocked them out a couple of years ago, grabbed me by

the hair and smashed my face against the bathroom sink, I had to have

new ones put in, with little clasps, they’ve been loose for about a week

after Mandy slapped me over that £10 bag.

Anyway I knew I had them when I came to yours last night because

I gave the taxi driver a blow job for the fare and I still had them in then.

I went upstairs at yours to throw up, Christ I hope I haven’t puked them

down your toilet?”

“It’s ok, I’ve got them safe.” Interjected Dave

“I’ve only just swallowed them!”

“Fucking swallowed them, what’s the matter with you, what the fuck

possessed you to do that, you lunatic?”

she cried.

“I thought I’d killed someone, I was getting rid of the evidence,

I panicked!”, he explained.

“Fucking panicked, right I’m gonna ring a taxi and come round and

wait for them to come out, I’ll bring a couple of 8 packs with me,

but whatever you do don’t fucking shit until I get there, ok!”

she demanded.

“Ok!” answered Dave as he threw the phone down onto the floor.

As he lay there waiting for her he wondered if you could catch hepatitis

from swallowing teeth, he chuckled loudly and insanely to himself,

then feeling slightly better physically and about things in general,

he rose slowly and walked to the kitchen and the remaining two cans

of Special Brew waiting there like ignored lovers and smiled.

© Paul Tristram 2012

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