Conversation · Cuno's Dad

Silence... Only heat emanates from the sleeping body.

He wouldn't be too thrilled to learn you stole his stash. It was the last thing keeping him functional.

"Hey, are you really Cuno's father?"

The light from the window is weak, but it seems like he is. His wild, unwashed mane bears a familiar ginger tone. Even the hair on his chest is coppery.

Don't forget his face: the bloated and reddened cheeks, the bulbous nose... This would be Cuno after 30 years of substance abuse, if he drank too.

The sight you're beholding right now is probably the reason he doesn't.

There's still plenty to be scared of here. Just not what you thought.

"Doesn't look like you're going to fuck anyone up any time soon, little man."

No response. A pair of half-open bug eyes is staring back at you from the dark, empty and frozen. It's clear that the person behind them is not awake.

Nocturnal lagophthalmos. The likelihood of falling asleep with partially open eyelids rises after stimulant use and heavy drinking.

His half-open eyes give him the look of a dead man. But he is in there... and not enjoying himself.

Suddenly the man starts growling. Three words manage to escape his mouth, along with a strong stench of alcohol: 'Fucking... kipt... f****ts...'

Somewhere, just out of earshot, a glass bottle explodes. A man's voice shouts "You fucking kids!" And then the screech of sneakers pounding the pavement, a girl's voice yelling "Got him!" and a painfully shrill laugh piercing the air...

"I can't believe it, Cuno's dad can't be a loser! It must be someone else."

"I was expecting something... scarier."

Don't forget his face: the bloated and reddened cheeks, the bulbous nose... This would be Cuno after 30 years of alcohol and substance abuse.

A bundle of clothes heaped on the bed. A stained parka, some towels and a duvet. Some socks even.

In the dark it looks like a nest.

Slowly reach out your hand.

Something underneath there is breathing.

It doesn't give a shit that you're a cop! Stop your hand now or you're gonna die!

It's not too late, no one's going to blame you for backing out. You don't have to do this. Just get out.

Fuck this, I'm out. [Leave.]

Keep extending your hand towards the pile.

Your hand touches a greasy duvet, covered in cigarette burns and ketchup stains. You hear a growl. There is something alive underneath it.

It's deep, in suffering somehow.

Pull the blanket off.

You see a 60-year-old fat red-headed man passed out from large amounts of alcohol. And god knows what else. The smell of shit rises from his mouth.

You don't have to take him down. He's already down.

Nothing to see here then. [Leave.]

"Hold up, lieutenant. Look at that pile of clothes."

"Mhmh..." The lieutenant has covered his nose.