“Maybe you should lay of the drugs for a while.”
“I haven’t touched anything for months.”
“Oh yeah?” laughed Ralph, “Old ‘Dead Head’ Ned, stone sober? Pull the other one!”

Ned winced at his nick-name and faked a smile as he took his turn at the sink,
“All right...” he lied, “You got me. But when you get to my age, you’ll find good sex and rock’n’roll are hard to find.”
“Rubbish!” scoffed Ralph, “Inside, you’re as young as the rest of us!”
“Yeah?” said Ned, “Try telling that to my doctor.”

Ralph rolled his eyes and pushed open the door, flooding the bathroom with the busy sounds of the bar,
“Well,” he said, “My mates are waiting, so I’d better go before they send out a search party. Catch you later?”
“Yeah,” sighed Ned, “Catch ya later...”

Ralph waved a peace-sign goodbye and Ned turned to face the mirror. From beneath the scratchy surface, a gormless, old hippy stared back at him disapprovingly, narrowing his glazed, smoke-stained eyes. Over forty years of free love, free drugs, and tireless political activism had been cruel to his face, sucking it dry like an abandoned party balloon. His long locks, once blonde, shiny, and full-bodied, were now limp, thin and grey as old lint. Even his T-shirt was worn and hackneyed: ‘Make love not war’; he was a joke and he knew it.

All content copyright © The Paranoid Writer 1840-2004, so there.