PAINTINGS BY DAVE STEWART
Sweat dripped out of every pore, reflecting the lustre of the plastic beads draped over his cotton shirt. His eyes looked through me as he mouthed the word: “THUNDER!”
There was a brief pause, with some crackling distortion coming from Brad’s stereo, and once again, although stronger this time, “THUNDER!”
Things were getting serious now. I didn’t know what was going to happen, although somewhere in his deeply intoxicated brain he knew exactly what he was going to do.
A fresh can of Old Style Pilsner came hurtling at me from across the fire pit, and although I saw it, I didn’t have time to react. He reveled in my slow reflexes, and was always the one who lit me up like a christmas tree during street hockey. I was angry, and even worse, I was sober….sober enough to feel the pain of the unopened pilsner that just hit my head.
With the kind of rhythmic timing that Angus Young would have applauded, Hackett looked at me and said, YOU’VE BEEN….THUNDERSTRUCK.