stories from the city; damon albarn

31- the comedian

Hans Erlich sat in his London penthouse, overlooking the city through the giant glass windows, traffic still raging and all. He was smoking a cigarette, more like sucking on it, his other hand resting on his hip.

He placed his cig down in the ashtray and then placed his hat down on the coffee table, running a hand through his hair before shutting the curtains and sitting down.

God. He hadn't been here in a few years.

Sure, it was cleaned weekly by his cleaning crew, and he had hired some decorator to come make up the place for him.

But it was still the same.

The books on his shelves, the clothes in his closet, the photos in the frames.

Although they were all turned down, facing down. He was sure his manager had stopped by and flipped at someone for not doing it sooner.

To be quite frank, Hans was waiting for his junk to kick in. He'd shot up about twenty minutes ago and was waiting for the high. Something about being back in London was nauseating to him. He'd avoided it for so long and now he was back.

And boy it was taking a toll on him.

Normally, he'd never shoot up alone. But he'd lost his friends in this city a long time ago.

And he could tell that Damon Albarn was a fucking junkie too, from the minute they met, he could tell.

But he had no interest in shooting up with someone his sister found to be a companion occasionally. That felt incestuous. That was behavior that Kendal would exhibit. His twin was up for the challenge with anyone.

Ugh.

But yet, Hans was the one all alone tonight.

The air felt too crisp, too moist, and he slip his leather jacket off, staring up at the paneled ceiling.

This place was too fucking fancy.

He didn't like it. It reminded him of his childhood home. Which was probably why he'd bought it in the first place, as he'd bought the penthouse when he was still with his family.

He just wanted somewhere more private to shoot up. It was funny how things stayed the same.

Hans could also tell that he was off to a bad start and that this wouldn't be a peaceful high. He could tell that he'd be questioning himself all night, as well as the decisions he'd made.

Fuck.

He ran his hands over his face, and then sat back up, picking up the photo book that was sitting on the coffee table, running through the photos.

It felt weird, sort of like a nightmare.

There were photos of his siblings as teens, all lined up backstage at their fathers show. Photos of horseback riding, planes, guitars. Hans with school friends. Hans with celebrities. Hans with Kendal.

He slammed the book shut, growing irritated and nearly tossing it across the room.

Half of those had been taken by his sister.

Stumbling over to the bedroom, Hans leaned against the doorway before dashing for his bed, tossing himself onto it and crawling towards his nightstand.

The air in here was fresh, he felt like he could breath.

But he desperately wanted to talk, it was the same feeling he had when he did a comedy show, or had his show. He loved getting to talk, or express his feelings verbally.

So he looked at the phone anxiously, trying to think of who would be willing to humor him in the states, or even here in the UK.

Shakily, he reached for the phone, picking it up and dialing his manager's number.