Tom set me up good proper once. He sent a Glaswegian midget he knew to hassle me in a pub after I told him I'd taken some acid.
The little fucker give sharp downward tug on my sleeve and in a high pitched squeaky voice that sounded like he’d swallowed a helium balloon, said, “Zacarias, you handsome bastard, good to see ye pal,” like he'd known me my whole life.
I freaked, standing there rooted to spot, staring nonplussed slack-jawed down at tiny fucker.
How did he know my name? I didn’t know him. I didn’t know midgets at all, not even Scottish ones.
It was too much for acid-soaked mind to cope. My red eyes burned with confusion. That disproportionately large head, foul facial features, twisted acid metamorphosis, a large steaming radish one minute and back again.
And he just wouldn’t leave me alone. Keep insisting we were pals.
The scene got way out of hand. I panicked, wanted midget fucker away from me, as far as possible. He refused, kept insisting I knew him.
Customers’ drinks were spilt. Awful big fuss. Lots of big gentlemen surrounded me shouting how could I be so cruel to a little fella. It was terrifying. The landlord politely requested I fuck off.
Tom took me home to safety, He actually wet his trousers he was laughing so hard. I swore I'd get him back, but still haven't got round to it.
I mean, how will I top that?
