Cider plays games with his crotch.
Cider rushes to the hopsital. His clothes are bleeding, or it could possibly be his skin.
He's unsure of how to handle the situation.
"I CAN'T FEEL MY NECK"
He shouts loudly to his reflection. Alone. In his house. Staring into his mirror. For the hundredth time that day.
"Ciiiiderrrrrrrrrr....have you been......drinkinginginging ing ng g g?"
Soft voice smoothes his mind and reverberates against his skull walls. Angel baby. In reality it is obnoxious. Cider shakes his head side to side and whinnies. He shows his teeth and his gums flare up and flap back and forth.
"Trish, that bitch." he thinks. "I'll fuckin' slit that bitch!"
He imagines her tied down to a bed in Bingos garage amongst cans of paint and toxic chemicals. Cider licks his upper lip. It makes the sound of potato salad being stirred up. The kind with extra mayo. Gross.
He snaps out of it.
He shakes his head again.
Trish is a bitch, it's true, I know for a fact; but Cider is getting excited about it. He thinks of writing her a song. He combs his mane and smooths his eyebrows, still staring at himself in the mirror.
"Mmmmmmmmm baby girl mmmmmmmmm Mamma Mamma smooth skinnnnnnnnnnnnn...."
Cider shakes his head again because he's thinking,
"what the fuck am I thinking?!"
The phone rings and startles him so that he jumps nearly three feet in the air, and when he lands a lit candle falls off the glass table in front of his mirror, and his high pile carpet catches fire, and it's synthetic so it smells like a chemical explosion, and Cider inhales deep in hopes he might get high.
The phone still rings. He picks it up, stomping out the fire with his hoove, but keeping his nose real low to the ground to sniff the fumes.
Fucking Bingo.
"Cider man, what's up? Trish told me you called earlier."
"Finally" sniff sniff
Cider passes out. Bingo hangs up.
