“Jimmy, I haven’t seen you in, God how long has it been?”

“You were here yesterday Donald. You obviously just got too drunk to remember.” I say filled with an overwhelming sense of revulsion. “Have you come to borrow more money?”

“Jesus Jimmy, let a man sit down and sober up a bit before you go asking shit like that.” He says, throws his disgusting coat on the floor, takes my seat behind the computer. “What is this?” He says with a sneer and points at my monitor.

“DayZ, Donald. Same as yesterday.”

“Right. Its all coming back to me now.” He says, as he alt tabs, checks his e-mail and whips out his phone.

“Do you mind Donald, I was kinda in the middle of something.” I point at the chair, make an expression of mild loathing.

“Shh! Christ, Jimmy.” He points at the phone, followed by saying “My man!” into the phone. “You know what I want, right?” Pause. “No, not that.” Pause. “NO, guess again.” Pause. “Fucking hell Brad! How many times do we need to go through this? I call you every fucking day!” Pause. “Bingo!” Donald looks at me and mouths the word ‘finally’. “Give me a shout when you’re nearby.” He hangs up, turns to me; his playful look replaced by one a scalding parent would give their child when they misbehave. “So, what was that offer? Something about some money?”

Ten minutes later, Donald’s phone vibrates. He looks at it, shakes with glee.

“Jimmy, money.” He says holds out his hand on route to the door. I reluctantly give him a twenty, I’m sure I’ll get it back. Eventually. Donald snatches the bill, barely a thank you, and storms off. About twenty minutes later, Donald returns, totally wired, in his mind sneakily doing coke of the back of his hand.

“Really Donald? This again?”

“Lighten up, it’s just a little something to take the edge off.” He says while grinding his teeth.

“Yes, you seem very relaxed Donald, was there a Thai masseuse in your dealer’s car by any chance?”

“Haha, very funny.” He says, more grinding. “So, what is the point of this game?”

“It’s a zombie survival game. You spawn somewhere along the coast and have to make your way inlands, while dodging zombies and other players until you have the gear to handle them. It’s all very tense Donald. Not that you would understand.” I look over my shoulder, Donald rocks back and forth in his chair, clenches his jaw and rolls back his eyes.

“It sounds like a waste of time.” Just as those words leave his lips, another player walks up behind me, and cracks my skull open with a hatchet. The screen abruptly goes black spelling nothing but the words ‘you are dead’. Donald burst out laughing. “See, waste of time.” He says manically.

“Sadly the game is filled with people who suffer from an extreme anxiety disorder, that paralyzes them with fear at the mere notion of actually using the in game chat function, and causes their right hand to click spastically until whatever is stood in front of them has died.” I sigh.

“You mean like you, Jimmy?”

“Eat a dick, Donald. When was the last time you spoke to anyone other than your dealer, or me?”

“I spoke to the masseuse.” Donald winks. “Told her, politely mind you, to stop what she was doing, as she was basically just mashing my balls into the worn leather seats of dealer’s cheap, second hand BMW. Made the whole transaction very uncomfortable.” He does another bump.

While we talk, I gear up another three times, each time getting shot, maimed or punched. Just as I was about to give up, I find a Makarov and several clips, amongst other things.

“I found a gun, and some ammo.” After relaying this information to Donald, someone walks up to me, says he’s friendly.

“Shoot him!” Donald screams, his eyes bloodshot and bulging.

“Have you not been listening to me? Plus, he sounds twelve. I can’t with any…”

“Do it!” Donald urges, his knuckles white, rocking back and forth in his seat. “No! Wait!” Donald screams. I turn to him; hope rather fruitlessly, he somehow gained a conscience in the last few seconds. “Tell him you fucked his mother last night, and then shoot him in the face!”

Ah Donald, so predictable.