Prelude - part 3

Pi trudged into the room. It smelt of dampness, of loneliness and of shortlived love affairs. The wallpaper was shabby but clung to the walls enough for it to stay there, the bed low and uneven. He shuffled his mushroom feet across the tatty carpet, parked his meagre belongings on the floor and rested his fungal body on the matress. Drawing breath, he looked at the torrents of water dribbling down the exposed glass of the smallish window.

Opening his bag, he drew out a packet of cigarettes from which his extracted a pungent half-smoked tab-end which he deposited in his mouth. For some reason, a vision of the obstinate woman whom he had just crossed verbal swords with suddenly flashed into his mind. He shuddered, loosening the odd spore, and lit what remained of his cigarette. After a few unsatisfying puffs, he rummaged about his bag once more, quickly locating a near-full bottle of vodka (this was not difficult as Pi now travelled with little clothing - three days worth of clothing could last Pi about two weeks, much to the annoyance to those who passed mearby). He unscrewed the lid, put the bottle's mouth to his lips and sipped. Then he sipped once more and rapidly moved to a swig before settling on a more frantic glugging action. In no more than twenty-five minutes, what was once a nearly-full bottle of vodka was now a totally-empty bottle of vodka.

Pi stood and swaggered/staggered towards the dressing table. Planting himself firmly and chaotically on the seat in front of it, he gazed at his reflection in the vanity mirror. How had it come to this, he pondered, but all too quickly he remembered. Luckily, the amount of vodka in his system made this recollection brief... he was distracted by a cockroach scuttling across the floor and soon began to think back to the old days. Thoughts of Karine Carrot and Jacques Pomme de Terre filled his mind. Thoughts of the happy days before they had all been translated into English when Pi Le Champignon would battle nobly for the world. It was never the same after the move to go global: Kerry Carrot and Jack the Potato lacked the gravitas, the style and the poise...

Suddenly, Pi realised it was dark outside. How lon had he been sitting here? An hour? Two? Several? There was no clock and no way of knowing. He stood, or at least tried and shambled across to the bed. He thought once more of the woman below, flopped onto the matress and drifted effortlessly into a deep, deep, alcohol-fuelled sleep. That he was fully clothed, still wet and in a room fully lit by electric light bulbs did not seem to bother him. For now he was tired and his little mushroom body needed its rest.