Caramel Brown

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Imagine, for sport, Dave Gahan in 1981, guiche barking, cheek half on a stool, and crumpling an unpaid bar tab while muttering quasi-sensically toward the barmaid about some lad Martin, and aye fuck him if he does actually turn up because well Dave is well gone.

Our Dave, a David, really, as he stands up and shakes away, has had enough. He is fed the fuck up with resignation owed an old rare stone too large to sling and an ironclad off its right dock.

So he visits a friend, the friend leaves, the friend shows back up, and for a minute the CC does burn alright. Snooker’s on, rugby, take your pick, doesn’t really matter. Better all of it than weak piss at a shit pub.

He wakes. The iron lady is not sunk, nor he. He wonders why the stone stays immutable.

There’s a note in the post from dearest Martin handwritten on a familiar tab. “Sorry to have missed you Dave-o. Fancy we try another drink this evening?”


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