I was working away up high, wiring a monkey arm to receive its flamethrower, pondering the imminent and calculated destruction of something so worth. It reminded me of the K-Foundation burning one million smackers. Proper English money too, not these filthy septic tokens.
A gentleman appeared below me and started talking to someone. I looked down, and his friendly face seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. A while later, he looked up and said that he recognised me. I hesitated, hoping that my memory would yank back his name so that I could respond. My memory had other ideas. It has very clear rules about not producing the goods while I need them, but then thrusts them forward while I am shopping for fruit, or thwarting bank robberies.
“I met you at that party.”
Come on memory, what’s his name?
“You know?”
Remember damn you, remember.
“We shared that hooker.”
What the? I don’t remember any rock star parties with hand-me-down ladies-of-the-night.
“You know, we smoked that hookah together?”
Ah. I recall. But even though he told me his name again, my memory is still refusing to share his name with me.