“Good morning.” The shopkeeper said and it sounded like he was driving nails through my head. The hangover I was feeling was legendary, it felt like tiny gnomes were pitched in my head with hammer and nail, hammering into the inside of my skull. I almost collapsed right there at the shop in broad daylight.

  “Good morning.” I whispered, unable to utter anything audibly enough.

  “GOOD MORNING.” The shopkeeper screamed again. Forcing me to close my eyes and stumble backwards. What was wrong with this imbecile? Was he those men who got off on causing pain? The bastard. Standing there behind the counter with that fucking mustache that looked like a ferret had aborted some furry zygote over his upper lip.

  I waved away his greetings as if words were tangible and found my place leaning on his kiosk. With a shaky breath I said, “Good morning.” In the loudest voice I could master which barely came out as a wheeze.

  “How can I help you this morning, customer?” He sounded so pleased with himself. As if he’d gone and studied hospitality at Harvard thinking it was a medicine related course due to the word ‘hospital.’ And upon finding out it wasn’t a hospital related thing he took it in good stride and completed his degree. Went and did a masters then got a loan to start his stupid shop.

  “I’d like some pain killers.” I said.

  “Okay, we have panadol, kaluma and mara moja. We also have deep heat, diclofenac and ibuprofen.” He started listing names as if he ran a chemist. For the first time I wondered why I hadn’t gone to the chemist, probably because walking was so hard. Every teeter to each foot would send my brain bashing towards the side of my skull.

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  “I’ll take the panadol.” I said. But instead of handing me the damn Panadol, the shopkeeper just stared at me.

  “What’s wrong my friend?” He ventured. I wanted the damn pills, that’s what I found wrong, the fact he wasn’t handing them to me.

  “I’m hangovered.” I said.

  “For how long have you been hangovered?” Christ. The bastard was actually interrogating me. What did he mean by his question? Is there actually a way to measure how long someone’s been hangover? What did he expect me to say?

  Rage got the better part of me.” Oh let me see, I’ve been hangovered for the past nine years, yeap, every morning I wake up with severe pain in my head, everything tastes like sawdust and I get stomach cramps. I don’t even drink to get hangovered, you see, my grandfather pissed of a witch and now all his descendants wake up hangovered. Give me the panadol.” The sarcasm siphoned most of my strength but the look on the shopkeeper’s face was wonderful. That smug all-knowing look had been replaced by that blank look someone holds as they slowly realize they are being ridiculed in some way.

  “You have an attitude.” The shopkeeper said. “Or you think because you’ve studied a lot means you’re better than everyone?”

  “Who told you I’ve studied a lot? Just because I wear glasses you think I’m Einstein or something?”

  The shopkeeper suddenly lunged at me through the hole of his kiosk and I had to take a hurried step back. “Who are you calling Einstein?” The Shopkeeper yelled, basically frothing at the mouth. “Who are you calling an Einstein?” For the love of God! The man thought the name of a German scientist was an insult!

  “Just give me the damn panadol!” I was basically pleading at this point.

  “Fuck you!” The shopkeeper screamed. “Fuck you and your Einstein!”

  “The panadol.”

  “Get out of here! You failure! You’re a failure!”

  The hangover made me feel like I was dying and now this jackass was making me feel like dying wasn’t so bad a thing. I sighed and stumbled away, shifting my position so as not to take direct sunlight into my eyes. I ended up doing this weird crab walk with my head bowed.

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