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Posted Wed Oct 28, 2015 | 256 Words | Tagged story zoltar chav

Photo from Tumblr

Read the introduction here –

Turning over the card it read, “Future is grand m8″.

What kind of fucking fortune is that? Out of anger you kick the machine and leave the shop. Fucking useless crap. The anger almost boiling out of nothing.

Feeling the anger on the way home you stop off to the off-license, something you never do. You leave the shop with a number of cans of lager and a pack of fags and a light.

You light your first fag and instantly feel more relaxed and make it home without the anger boiling much. Downing your second can of lager you realise you’re not feeling right and you remember the stupid card you got from the shop.

You try and burn the stupid fucking thing, but it just doesn’t burn. You try and rip it or anything, surely it’s just a piece of shitty card. It doesn’t budge. Instead you give up and throw it on your desk.

You don’t really remember much in the morning, but almost on auto-pilot you get ready. Ready for what? You don’t remember but the clothes just feel fucking wrong. You pull them off and throw them in the bin and then pull on your trackies.

Did you have any trackies yesterday? Who the fuck knows, it’s all you wear isn’t it? After a headache striking you just smirk, pulling on your nikes and then getting a text from a mate. Gonna be a good fuckin day today.

Fags = Cigarettes for any international readers