“Copeland looks drunk.” I said.
Miles was off babbling to Annette as we hauled amps and guitar in through the back doors of the van. Dik came up and joined us.
“Fuck my old boots, if I didn’t know better I’d say old Miles was a bit squiffy.”
“He is.” Miki said.
“But I thought he didn’t drink and that.”
“I bought him a drink. By way of apologizing for what he thinks was bad attitude and worse driving.” Miki said. “Told me he very occasionally enjoyed a beer. Just the one mind. We had quite a chat.”
“A beer? One beer?” I asked.
“Yeah, well, I might have slipped something into it.” Miki said. “’ere Miles,” he yelled. “You mind backing us out. This is a bit steep for me.”
Miles peeled himself away from Annette and swaggered (well, weaved) over. “Sure. Lemme show ya how iss done.”
“I’ll guide you out.” Miki said and ran up the ramp to the street.
We all clambered into the van, me in the front passenger seat – I was told this was on account of my excessively long legs but I knew the truth, it was because front seat passengers had the highest mortality rate in car crashes. Anyway, I climbed into the death seat, Miles next to me at the wheel.
“You sure you’re alright to do this Miles?” I asked.
“Sure.” His grin was as big as a corn field, a very crooked corn field.
He started the engine, gunned it a couple of times, put her in reverse, opened his door to lean out and follow Miki’s directions, and promptly fell out of the truck.
The truck continued backwards at 3 mph to a soundtrack of hysterical laughter. Miki vaulted into the driver’s seat swung the van backwards into the traffic and accelerated off down the road, aimed only very approximately at the hotel.
Causes Luke James Supports
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