Weekend at Vidu's: A Dead Drunk Short by Richard Johnson

 
    Weekend At Vidu’s…
A Dead Drunk Short
     
    An obnoxious
ringtone blaring an old Steely Dan song woke Vidu up from a booze-induced
slumber. Rubbing his eyes, he checked his pockets for his car keys, wallet and
cell phone. This was a ritual many drunks perform the morning after a wild
bender, and one the sketchy purveyor of used cars did often. Check, check, and
check. That was a positive.
    In a bit of a
haze, the Sri Lankan native tried to recall what happened the night before at
his friend’s insane bachelor party. There was the massive amount of liquor, the
girl that randomly bitch slapped him for absolutely no reason, the giant cup of
soda thrown into his face by a bike rider, the waitress that wanted to “fuck
his balls out,” and more drinking. Much, much more drinking. Vidu’s head
throbbed and he vaguely remembered his “friend” Trent pissing on his shoes in
the bathroom of a seedy strip club. All in all, it had been an awesome night.
    The morning
was turning out to be decidedly less awesome, however, and as his stomach
roiled, Vidu bolted from his friend Charlie’s couch and headed for the
bathroom, knocking over empty and not-so-empty beer bottles along the way. Most
of his puke made it into the toilet, but there was some definite spillage.
    “I can’t
believe how many Cheetos we ate at four in the morning,” Vidu said with his
thick accent while searching under the sink for some cleaning solution.
    Trent, the
other inhabitant of the crappy Chicago apartment, peeked over Vidu’s shoulder
with narrowed eyes and a curled lip. “Those were nachos, you dumb bastard.
Seriously, how long have you been in this country? You’re like a tanned Forest
Gump without the retard strength.”
    “Long enough
to impregnate your mother,” Vidu replied while scrubbing away at the floor with
bleach and a paper towel. Nobody had cleaned the linoleum in some time, and
layer upon layer of grime lifted off with the fresh vomit.
    “If somebody
has to fuck my mom, might as well be a guy with a micro-dick like you. She
probably wouldn’t even notice.”
    “Who’s
talking about dicks in there?” somebody called out from the living room.
    Trent ignored
his friend, nicknamed Gay Mike for obvious reasons, and walked to the kitchen
wearing only a pair of tighty whiteys that didn’t have much white left in them.
The sight was made even more charming by the amount of body hair sprouting in
every direction from the police officer’s voluminous body. He grabbed a
Gatorade from the fridge and then pushed around takeout containers as he tried
to find something edible for lunch. Trent had to go to work soon even though he
was still technically drunk and it was his day off. But some kind of rioting was
going on, and the chief made it quite clear that saying no was not an option.
    Vidu flushed
the toilet and followed Trent into the kitchen with a determined look on his
face. “I want my forty dollars back, by the way. After all, the stripper never
showed up here last night. I paid for titties. Where are the titties you had
promised?”
    “I’ll have to
get it to you later. I gave the whore-wrangler money up front,” Trent said and
subconsciously rubbed his nose. This was a clue as to where the money actually
went, but knowing Trent, it wouldn’t take a detective to figure that out.
    “This is
unacceptable. You never end up paying me back,” Vidu said, his voice rising and
his hands clenched.
    “Ah, do you
want some lotion for the butthurt?” Trent said.
    “I’ll take
your lotion and shove it where—”
    “Apu, we’ve
gone over this several times, but let me reiterate,” Trent said. “You couldn’t
fight your way out of a wet vagina, so you’d best simmer down. I said I’d pay
you back, now fucking drop it.” Trent shoved his head inside the fridge and the
hairy sight he left behind was a clear and gross indication that the discussion
was over.
    Disappointed
in the outcome but realizing he had no leverage over