wanted another Satan Post, who am I to deny a man on his birthday. Strap yourselves in...
Satan is sometimes purty!
Murder, accident or otherwise...
Who the hell knows, they're all possible, but the hardly surprising fact remains, Brian is dead.
I actually didn't think it would take this long, I've known him for seven years and he always played the game of life a little loose and hard. I probably wanted him dead on several occasions myself. Not that it's an unusual reaction to someone like Brian. Don’t worry, the feeling was mutual I'm sure, doesn't mean we didn't have our moments.
The first day I met Brian he was a fat, naked, sweating, unconscious mass lying next to a pair of khaki shorts on the red carpet of our luxury apartment complex foyer. There's always a moment when confronted with a sight like that where you honestly don't know what to do, ignore it, check his pulse, throw up, call an ambulance, nah, I'd seen him dropping empty vodka bottles in a bin out by the rose garden most mornings and with the fairly safe assumption he was maggoted I did the only thing a rational young musician (which I was at the time) could do. I pulled his front door shut, the dead bolt gave a nice resounding click, and then I stole his shorts.
Stop judging me! I had a 'new' second-hand 16mm film camera upstairs and my balcony looked onto his courtyard. As I lit my first cigarette and waited for Brian to appear I mused on the fact that my new film 'fat, naked, sweating, drunk man breaking into own flat' was definitely the funniest thing I was ever going to film, certainly worthy of my new hobby. As it played out he appeared 15 minutes later accompanied by the raised voice of another neighbour and disappeared through his patio door so quickly that I didn't even have the chance to get the camera up to speed. What kind of drunk leaves his back door ope... oh never mind.
The story could have ended there, and when drunk enough I'd proudly recount the time I stole a guys shorts and locked him out of his flat, but then I'd have never met Brian. As much as you can live without someone like Brian they have the uncanny ability to teach life’s most valuable lessons. Probably the most important being how to make more money in a single night, any night, than most of you will earn in a month. That night I was due for my first lesson.
I'd been out and come back again, flaming Sambucas and trying my hardest to play keep up with a Jazz band that was well above my league - trust me, blue flaming, liquorice flavoured elderberry juice is no excuse for pulling out an octave short during a flute solo, no-one will notice except the guys and girls you're playing with but it's their shit you have to cop later in the night - so, there I was feeling a little drunk and dejected, and sitting on my balcony smoking cigarettes while slowly getting into a state that my friends would later call 'Horse' drunk, when I noticed a fair amount of noise coming from Brian's flat. At first I thought it was the TV until I hear Brian yell, "I don't have your fucking money because I lost my fucking wallet", followed by the sound of a crash and Brian, now dressed, making an appearance into his courtyard via a closed glass door.
Now I don't know about you, but when confronted with something like this there's a moment when you honestly don't know what to do, ignore it, call the police, get your camera, or throw up because YOU stole HIS fucking wallet. I lurched inside to where his shorts were lying across the back of a dining room chair, thrust my hand into the back pocket, fuck, I open his wallet, fuck, quickly count the huge stack of notes, fuck, five large... yes, that's right, I stole FIVE THOUSAND fucking dollars from a fat, naked, sweating, unconscious mass.
I was out of the flat and pounding at his door before I even realised what I was doing. Oh shit, what was I going to say? Ummm, how about, OH SHIT! Half a second before I turned to walk away the door opened. "What the fuck do you want?". I don't know if it was because this guy was all of five feet or the huge amount of alcohol in my system or maybe a strange combination of both but I simply said "I want to smoke a fucking cigarette on my balcony without listening to this dipshit plead for his life" the guy looked me up and down "And?". Bloody good question. Not one that I was really expecting. Then a polite voice that I hardly recognised as my own said "And... well... and how much does it cost me to make you go away?". I had five thousand dollars in my pocket and I wasn't afraid to use it. So I paid the guys their 5 grand and in return, after three very large gentlemen and the midget had left, Brian gave me his watch and said he'd pay me back the following day.
Which he did, there was NO way I was about to explain to a drunk with rough friends that I'd stolen his pants, I'm not stupid, well, OK, stupid and drunk enough to put myself in the middle of a scary situation but not so dumb as to let them know it was my fault... and anyway five grand to a struggling Musician is almost enough to cover your monthly beer bill. That afternoon was the first time I got drunk with Brian, where I found out that he was 'sort of' in the film business and the first time he told me that if I ever touched his watch again he'd bury me alive and dance on my grave.
Well, not surprisingly, he got there first. Here's a photo of not-so-fat-Brian on the set of one of my films, it's the way I saw him most.
* Obviously that was some time ago now.
We had the reading of his Will yesterday*, all I got was this
... and a note saying "I never could dance".
RIP you dipshit! So what was the best gift you ever got from a dead guy? or you could just leave a comment or question.