Mad as a Hatstand

By Hewligan

It’s been one of those nights. Between the drink and the lack of sleep, everything’s turning into a big, grey blur. It’s hard to remember where I’ve been. I do know where I am, just barely. I’m about halfway across the harbour bridge, sitting in the passenger seat of Mad Eric’s car. Dave is lying across the back seat. He’s been giggling like a maniac for the last hour. I forget why. Mad Eric’s eyes are locked on the road ahead of us.

Suddenly, Dave stops giggling. He spins into a sitting position and stares at the dashboard until his eyes focus.

“Aren’t we going a little fast?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“And by ‘a little,’ I mean, in that cool, casual sort of way, a mother fucker of a lot.”

“Yes. Apparently we are trying to outrun the dragon with the head of Jenny Shipley that is chasing us.”

“Ah. And where are we going when we outrun this vile beast?”

“Your place. Eric’s going to rewire your video recorder.”

“Why, if I may be so bold, is he going to do that?”

“So that Eric can play one of his Star Trek videos backwards. Apparently, and I use this word again with what I feel is good reason, if you watch the final episode of the third season of The Next Generation backwards, there is a secret message from Gene Roddenberry.”

Dave lies back down on the seat. “Have we been drinking?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I’d hate to think we were doing this sober.”