The Afterparty

[Fellow Hoodlum]

He slipped in and out of conscienceness, things flicking round his mind like a rolodex
on speed. Nothing was making much sense anymore. His penchant for loud music on
when flying caused a swirl of lyrics in his head ... The cuervo gold, the fine columbian.
Make tonight a wonderful thing ... That made sense, and so bl**dy apt.
"Pass that 'kin bottle mate." Did he say that out loud ? Though he could think of nothing
wonderful at the moment.
Time lines moved back and forwards. Stupid things rattled off the sides of his skull, all
those things still to be done and undone. So much to do, so little time. God what a mess.
Just make some sense please. Merciful sleep took him at last.
Somebody yanked the pull cord and his mind lit up again. Who was he, The real name
long forgotten in time, replaced with that one word moniker. His first ship had the serial
number 1911A1 and some joker had pointed out the relavance. Some long forgotten
arms designer and manufacturer from Earth. Could have been much worse.
Click. Darkness returned.

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Some say he is a proud member of: "The most paranoid group of people in the Community."