I don't know his real name, or care to really. Most times I bump into him at the recording studio my buddies run or occasionally at our local rock bar...well, I say 'bump', but I usually smell the bugger before I see him. Meths is skinny as hell and dresses like a stereotypical metal hipster edgelord (resembles a marionette with a xylophone for a torso wrapped in a stained, saggy plaid shirt and over-sized wallet chain) with a scruffy neckbeard and a face like a smacked arse. None of these things, however, are what makes this runty little shitbox stand out from the other runty little shitboxes that frequent the corners of rock bars like stubborn klinkers of poo on an autist's bum. No no my gentle readers, what sets Meths apart physically is his hair.
My GOD, his hair.
It's past shoulder length, dark and perpetually drenched in grease (think kebab shop floor and you're halfway there). Where it doesn't hang in lank, ratty strands it clumps in big misshapen perma-dreads that look like giant old cat turds. Touching it would probably leave a nasty stain that not even Barry Scott could rescue, not to mention the SMELL. Legend has it that Meths' nasty barnet is the source of his sour, hamster-cagey, ball-sweaty aroma, but none have dared to get close enough to prove it. He looks like a tramp, and has occasionally been mistaken for one. Seriously.
Meths is, without a doubt, one of the most miserable people I have ever met. It's like Eeyore, if Eeyore decided to become a full-on nihilist, turn into a smelly gay loveshy, stop bathing, write terrible 2edgy4me poetry and generally was more of an inappropriate arsewipe. He'd maybe lose the pink bow, too. I'm pretty sure he puts most of it on for effect, and likes to portray himself as a 'tortured soul' who's 'sticking it to the man' because he can't stick it UP the man (he claims to be gay, but is sad because he can't get no bum lovins. In one of the 'gay capitals' of England. Winner.) I don't know how people can stand to be around him, maybe it's out of pity or something.
This guy has a habit of showing up at parties, band practices, gigs, you name it, but nobody ever seems to know who invited him. He's very much a hanger-onner, latching onto the more popular people in the metal scene down here and putting on his Eeyore Extreme front to shill his awful emo poetry/ song lyrics. He WILL bring down the mood wherever he goes; like a smelly, greasy Dyson sucking the happiness out of our helpless little faces, he is the KING of insta-bummer.
A few times I've seen him slumped over a bar nursing a watered down spirit of some kind in a sticky glass, mumbling to himself. One such time, when I didn't know him that well, I made the fatal mistake of asking him what was up.
"Hey Meths, why the long face?"
He looked at me, his brow heavy with cheap booze and forced misery.
"Mmmbl...just...lamenting."
Feeling a little awkward, I tried to lighten the mood a bit.
"Hey now, can't be all that bad, eh?"
Shouldn't have said that, Chanbob. His eyes blazed furiously as he swiped over his glass, spilling the contents all over the bar, as he whirled on me with the flourishing, rehearsed drama of a theatre actor and the grace of a Team America puppet.
"NO, you don't understand, MAN! It's HUMANS! Stupid naked apes with their FLAT PINK STUPID FACES AND FORWARDS FACING EEEEYEEES!"
He went on like this for some time before the Mister quietly trundled me away to the cool side of the bar, and one of the bar staff had to all but pimp-slap the little pissbag to shut him up. He left shortly afterwards.
