By Michael Carter (c) 2003/2012
For the third time in as many nights, when Redmond Casey slipped into bed and clicked on his radio, he got “Crazy” by Patsy Cline. The damn song was plaguing him, haunting him; a country-and-western nightmare from which there was no escape.
He’d tried different stations, sure. Tried pressing the random button on his station selector, but sure enough, for the last three nights, there she’d been, singing her heart out one more time, never tired of loving whoever the hell it was she loved, and of complaining about it.
“Damn woman.”, thought Redmond, and buried his head in his pillow.
The radio was still whispering when Redmond woke, but it was a pop song, sounded quite eighties. No more bloody Patsy Cline. Redmond sniffed, coughed, and reached an unsteady hand for his cigarettes. He found his lighter just pushed under the bed where he’d left it, and the ashtray, that at one time had been a hubcap from a Volkswagen, by its side. He lit up and inhaled, tuned his ears in properly to the radio, and coughed his guts up, dropping his cigarette in the process and burning a smart little hole in his quilt-cover.
“You Drive Me Crazy” was almost at an end, at that part of the song where the chorus repeats itself over and over again, ad nauseum. Redmond recovered himself a little and forced a small grin. Co-incidence. Blimey, it’s weird though. No, he thought, it’s crazy! He grinned again at his little joke then briefly considered the band; “Fine Young Cannibals”; perhaps if they really were cannibals they could feed on each other so that they wouldn’t produce any more patent pop pap. Perhaps they could gobble down Patsy Cline while they were at it.