Lovely people I said.
'How do you know?' asked my Fijian doctor who worked out of a clinic that only employed Indian doctors.
I said I attended a Fiji Independence Day about a decade ago.
The receptionist who booked me in last week totally forgot about my Duromine rant.
But I had a backup story.
Always have a backup story.
That's what Gartland told me, anyways.
He's been on the disability pension, 'for most of my life,' he said.
It all started as a 21-year-old.
'It was my first and the last interview with the shrink,' he reminisces over Thai skunk, 'didn't shave for a week, didn't bathe for a month, and wore clothes that were soaked in my own cum from months of masturbating, fueled by high-grade speed, which I snorted, then drank a bottle of Jim Beam and had a few bucket bongs, worked like a charm, they signed me off immediately. Allowed me to travel the world and fuck every ladyboy in every port.'
This is how you get on a disability pension.
'I should know,' said Gartland,' worked for me, finely thank you very much.'
*'Keep the focus on Gartland, don't dilute it with minor characters. You have struck a rich vein, mine the fucker until it's dried up.' -- Jack Russel, my writing coach.
