The Depeche Mode Cowboy

Holy crap, folks. I'm on a roll.

Please feel free to send hate-mail to Vennessah for the following:

Once upon a time I finally moved out of Kevin's flat. George, Heather and I moved into a quite nice little 3 bedroom pre-fab. Being the female, Heather somehow got the master bedroom with the attached bathroom. I bet she wishes she hadn't.

On a night not unlike this one, not unlike any evening, we had a party. The keg stood in a bath of ice outside the front door; chips and barbeque were available... all was well.

That is, until he came.

I don't know where the Depeche Mode Cowboy came from, but he was a friend of someone's. After the sun had set we crammed into my bedroom to smoke a little pot. DMC followed us, and told us a story about how he had been sent to California to avoid the drugs that were causing him troubles. Apparently his folks in Houston thought it best to send him to California to avoid drugs. That bears repeating.

So we passed the pipe around, and DMC took a hit the first few times. Near the end of his "rippin' shit up and come hell or high water" story, he was turning ghost white and his hands shook. We should have known better, but it was funny. Plus, this was the DMC, straight out'a Houston. Arrested for white drugs, sent to live with we pions for his own benefit. Surely he could keep it together?

Here's where the account grows hazy. I was not around to check on him, so it all comes second-hand. But the continuing story has been faithfully reproduced by all involved.

DMC somehow found himself in Heather's bathroom. Ostensibly, I'm sure, to take a shit. But it must have been some kind of defa-fucking-cation. As nearly as we can piece together, somewhere in the middle of the bowl-sit, he decided that he needed to puke. Gripping the Poo-Bear shower curtain, he gave it all he could - and ripped the curtain right off the rings. But not to be outdone by mere legend, he shit all over the floor at the same time.

I imagine a garden sprinkler, with his stomach as the fulcrum. Spinning, spewing shit and vomit in a roughly circular pattern all over the bathroom. The plastic curtain shedding the ejectorate onto the floor. More spinning, more mess.

After some time, DMC tried to help the situation. He grabbed all of Heather's hand towels out of the sink cupboard and smeared his chunks'n'crap onto the walls. Not satisfied with this, he fed the used towels into the toilet and repeatedly flushed until it overflowed, spilling human waste into Heather's room.

I never heard the rest of the story - I was laughing too hard. Sometimes I wonder what ever became of the Depeche Mode Cowboy. Karma would have it that he cleans a gas-station bathroom every night. Whatever.

For some reason, Heather decided to move shortly after the incident. I'd like to throw it in her face, but I'm not sure if DMC was her friend, either. Ya know, sometimes people just show up. We should have kept some kind of register - to this day, no one claims to know where this guy came from.

Damn transients.