SmackDown: MadMike's Revenge!

Round 3, Dudecore: Déjà Vu - @AngusEcrivain

Déjà Vu

by AngusEcrivain

You smile. Nickelback are playing on the radio. It's that song, Rockstar. Not your favourite by any stretch but you don't give a shit. Nickelback are the best band in the world and any chance you get to listen to those notes, riffs and sweet, dulcet tones is all good as far as you're concerned.

You crank the volume and put a light to a cigarette, drawing upon it a couple of times before you take a swig from the mug beside you.

The coffee's hot, sweet and milky. Just how you like it.

"My Grandma's sitting at home right now watching Jerry Springer," you mutter. There is no one there to hear you speak but you don't let a silly, insignificant thing like that stop you. "Fuck her though. Fuck her and fuck Jerry Springer."

You wake up some time later. From where you're sitting you can't see a clock and your phone is not within reach so you've no idea exactly how long you've been asleep. It's dark out though, you can see that through the window. Nickelback aren't playing on the radio anymore, either. In fact nothing's playing on the radio apart from static but even that cuts out a few seconds later.

You sit there in silence for a moment or two until it dawns upon you it actually is silent. Odd, really. You don't live in the middle of a city but you do live on a council estate in Maidstone. Noises should be prevalent: next door's TV and the brat of a kid on the other side yelling and stomping her feet because her mum's too busy giving head to whichever bloke she sees on Wednesdays to pay any attention to her, or sirens as the fuzz give chase to a group of kids who've been throwing eggs off the bridge over the dual carriageway or going around the estate letting the air out of car tyres because what else are they going to do?

After remaining stationary in the unnerving silence for a little longer you decide it's time to find out what's going on, or at least make some kind of effort to try to do so.

You light another cigarette, pocket the packet and get to your feet.

The lights are fucked. You play with the switch an unnecessary amount, despite the fact you know that if they were going to work they'd have done so the first time you flicked the switch to the correct position. It's what they do in movies though, probably because movie producers think everyone is stupid. Either that or they're stupid and think people won't notice their actors look like fucking retards.

What is it they say? you silently ponder. The definition of insanity is repeating the same thing and expecting a different result, or some shit.

Heading to the back door you stop at the fridge and open it. Momentarily you forget it stands to reason that if the main lights are fucked the fridge light and all other electrical appliances and items are fucked, too, and it surprises you when the interior is not illuminated.

That fact dawns on you quickly enough though and you reach for the full cream milk.

A face stares out of the fridge at you. Long and sullen, almost anguished. You stumble backwards, spilling milk everywhere, and hit the back of your head upon the oven door.

Again you wake up some time later, only this time you do not do so of your own volition.

You realise you're wet, and not from milk.

Your head throbs like a bastard and it's a struggle to open your eyes but you do so regardless to see your best mate standing over you with a jug, one that you presume formerly housed the water that's all over you.