Resurrection

Chapter 4 : Animal House of Wax

Relief can be the great catalyst for pain and the inspiration for the endurance to withstand anything. People could argue that it can also prolong pain as it gives the host an unwarranted sense of hope, like the cancer patient given a relapse week of good health to say goodbye to their loved ones; right before they plunge back into a world of pain and indignity.

I used to argue that anyone could withstand hell with resilience and team work; this would become a work mantra firmly in line with 80s throwbacks such as "you don't have to be crazy to work here: but it helps".

A man meets with Lucifer to discuss the option of three rooms to spend eternity.

"I'll pick this room for eternity." Offers Gary the lawyer.

"Are you sure? The floor is covered in shit." enquires Lucifer.

"Yes but you can drink tea."

"Okay. Your choice. Hop in."

The man takes his seat just as a demon gives him an order:

"Okay your annual tea break's over, time to get upside down in the shit again."

The five minutes of relief in my own upside hell could best be symbolised by a house party; a weeknight ruse to make us feel sociable again. Before we were thrown in the affable effluence of our lives, we'd take a much needed tea break.

House parties were the great priority of my other flatmates. At this stage in the game allow me to introduce Lizzy and Suresh: A pair of fellow Aussies that were instantly likeable, hardworking and also enduring a hellish shit stain of a work-life. They would take great joy in hosting parties, which was their sure-fire way to survive. Both young and good looking, they were very much an old married couple trapped in younger bodies. Suresh started to greet guests by first commenting on the dismal state of affairs that was the Australian Cricket team and by waving a platter of gastronomic delights in their face. Lizzy would fuss over the ladies, engaging in girl talk while also stopping to give Suresh a look of death if he even looked like letting out silent but violent eruptions of gas.

My Hungarian housemate was, on the other hand, the lowest archetype of bottom-feeder. The oxygen thief known as Czaba was one leader in a tribe of scum and villainy as he offered an entourage of douchebags that resembled the Cantina bar in a galaxy not so far away. He was always trying to work angles, borrow money, mooch off everybody and would be mysteriously lurking around other wallets. His miserly ways extended into his overall cleanliness, as he refused to clean anything: including himself. He was equipped with an acerbic Hungarian accent that seemed to resemble a young Bela Lugosi's Impression of Count Dracula; Csaba would spew out a desire for online gambling, Calvin Klein aftershave, Girls Gone Wild DVDs and the back catalogue of Abercrombie and Finch.

He had an assortment of post Bohemian gypsy friends: they were the first ones to raid the liquor but the last ones to strike up any conversation with others outside of their caravan of triumph. They failed to make more than a slight impression of annoyance from most; we were all hoping they would soon get bored and hop on the next train to London to pick more affluent marks.

The only one to stand out in this wolf-pack was Czaba's infamous sidekick: the beloved Lazlo. Lazlo had an overly grotesque physique that had the slightest tinge of crack addict mixed with a gothic sense of Euro trash douchery. He nonetheless displayed a quirky charm, with a speed of eloquent insults that would make Bernard Black seem dim. He could be seen as the smiling assassin, with only the mild stages of gingivitis forming behind his trickster grin. He was quick to brush back a lock of cornrows as he thrust out his hand in a form of greeting I knew only too well. With a quick crush of my hand, followed by a reassuring pat on the shoulder to urge his integrity, he began his sales pitch.