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Rick - no Darlene - wakes.




At least it felt like waking - kind of, in an absence of higher thought sort of way. He hauls himself upright and shuffles to the door, wobbling a bit on the six-inch heels. There was something he wanted.


“Braiiiiins,” he says in gurgling moan. A disco-orientated hand reaches for the door and misses.



He tries again and this time the doorknob comes off in his hand. So does a finger as he ploughs his fist through the wood, but he barely notices that. A great strip of red sequined tulle rips off on the splinters, yet he carries on. He doesn’t care any longer.


He doesn’t notice the unnatural silence of Madam JoJo’s after a wild Friday night. The place where he first came out to ‘YMCA’ doesn’t interest him now. The pink glitter and the tasty boys are gone.


He shambles over to his boyfriend’s corpse still twitching on the stage. “Briaaan,” he moans and steps over him. He’s dead now. His brain wouldn’t be tasty.


His shoe snags in the carpet. “Braiiiins.”


He topples.


He doesn’t see either barrel of the shotgun before it discharges or the bullet as it removes his head.


Because he’s always felt like a zombie in the morning.



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