It's official. I've hit rock bottom.
It’s a typical Saturday afternoon. I’m carrying my bag of alcohol through the Sainsbury’s car park. The air is filled with noises of children crying and stressed mothers. I got into my car and began to drive off when my phone began to ring. The missus, this’ll be fun.
“Where are you?” She’s as welcoming as always.
“On my way home now, why?”
“I need wine.”
“You could have at least told me before I set off”.
“Is that a no?” I hate this game she plays; it’s like being married to The Riddler. I sigh loud enough for her to hear.
“What wine do you want?” I ask, turning the car around.
And for the second time I’m carrying a bag of alcohol to my car, it’s different this time though. This one’s not for me and the football has already started. I get in my car and begin to drive off.
I’ve got the radio on and the road to myself, not a car in sight. Except for this black car that’s coming up behind me. And fast. I keep my eye on the road, expecting it to be just some rowdy teenagers. And then it happens, the car hits my rear bumper with force and I go spinning off of the side of the road into the field, my head cracking the steering wheel.
I’m barely conscious as I hear voices coming from behind me.
“Are you sure that’s him? How do we know we’ve got the right guy?” A deep, raspy male voice asks.
I hear a slap. “Because I’ve said it’s him, alright? Now grab him, put a ‘clava on him and throw him in the boot.”
My door flies open and I feel myself getting pulled out of my car, my hands get cuffed and something thrown over my face before getting thrown in the boot of these goons car. I don’t know where I’ll end up, but I’ve got a feeling this isn’t going to be nice.