Dylan Yates | Mike goes ‘in utero’ on the job at hand
Looking into the mirror Mike decided he only had one shot at completing this interview. It had to go well, at ALL costs. At 52 years he was perhaps a little too old for this sort of shenanigans, but no-one could convince him of that at this point.
Languid and forlorn looking, Mike was one of those with a weasely-demeanour, rat brow, thick spectacles, and Louis Theroux nose. Yes, that’s right, a Louis Theroux.
By day he watched back to back episodes of HIGNFY and drew pictures of the spiked Louis Vuittons. There’s a lot to be said about the comparisons between Louis Vuitton and Mike. Anyway, back to matters. He was here on a date with a select committee from the Stothard House Benefits Association. Namely, he was here on the premise of acquiring accommodation.
Strolling along his designated route, he stopped by the basketball courts to analyse the situation. A fat, blonde monkey-like youth was eying him suspiciously while aiming a slingshot in his direction. Should he pass, Mike thought, or take the bait?
Deciding that a quick burst of pace could turn his stroll into a trot that in this instance might prove to be the desired approach to the pressing danger, he did so. The blonde lad looked churlishly into the ground and seemed to think better of any slingshot ideas. ‘Victory,’ Mike thought gleefully. He meandered on across to the foot of the house where the committee was due to start proceedings. Gulping, he stepped tentatively to the front door and with a hand balled into a fist, rapped softly.
The committee was a bunch of mainly young looking men and women, some twirling jazz cigarettes, some with spiked Louis Vuittons, some with absolutely no idea whatsoever how to dress, and some who looked like they’d forgotten what the practical use for clothes even is.
Some Louis Armstrong played gently in the background and half-full bottles of wine lit the interior with bohemian warmth. The first thing about the room that struck Mike (there were a few things to visibly strike him on that initial entrance) was how un-decided everyone appeared to be. Bearing in mind he had to convince these people to let him live with them, their apathetic state didn’t seem the perfect situe in which to conduct an appeal.
One chap, for example, was sat passed out on a white Lamé-faced sofa, in the back of the room. With a Donald Glover mask over his private Ryan’s. Mike was alarmed, but didn’t let a trace of it leak into his face (quietly humming eE´‰‰E´e´to himself was enough).
Swallowing, he introduced himself to the glowering room.
“Hi everybody, my name’s Mike.”
A particularly shifty looking girl with Philomena arms invited Mike to sit down. She was wearing a low-cut purple blouse that Mike got a cheeky look down the top of as he did so and was very pleased with what was glimpsed. Little Mike smiled with him.
The scene was lavishly painted. The man facing Mike was wearing black Gazelle frames and a stare colder than December. The first question rocked Mikey a little.
“Why are you wearing a suit?”
Mike thought for a moment, looking around for a clue, a chink in their armour perhaps. Well, anything!
“Come on you little turd, think” said Mike, to himself, but in such a fashion (ie, aloud) that the comment looked like it was directed to the room at large.
That was it: They had him by the Jim Jarmusch’s. What was it to be?
He eyed the room nervously, salivating to the point of dog-like excitement. Why were they all watching him so fervently?
Exclaiming a wail of terror, Mike leapt out of his seat and pounded a hefty retreat back out the hole in the wall from whence he had entered.
That was interview one out of the way, next stop, Fort Chompingdale.