Black Sunday - Fiction - Part 2 of about 5

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This is a monologue. You need to imagine an Aussie standing in front of you telling you a story. The photo has nothing to do with the story. Black Sunday - part 2 But things really started going pear-shaped when my workmates found out Karen was away and invited themselves round for pizzas and a quiet drink. I wasn’t very keen ‘cause I’ve been there before. Last time I had to repaint the kitchen ceiling to get rid of the tomato sauce stains. But this time I was very responsible. I set up some chairs and a table and a big Esky, even some paper plates, outside in front of the garage so we won’t need to go into the house. About six of my mates turned up on Saturday night, including Ivan. He'd only come out from Russia about six months ago. I think he was a bit homesick really. He’s very quiet, keeps pretty much to himself. So we’re trying to make him feel at home and Robbo says it’s a Russian custom to toast each other, scull the drink then throw the stubby over your shoulder. I don’t think Ivan really understands but he nods and smiles. By now we’re all sufficiently under the weather for it to sound like a great idea so we start chucking the empties over our shoulders. The fact that they’re smashing into a thousand pieces on the driveway escapes our notice at the time. Next morning I let the dog out and go back to bed. I thought an extra hour or two in bed would do my head good. Then I’d start cleaning up before Karen got home around 4.00 o'clock in the arvo. Next thing I know a wet tongue is rasping the stubble off my chin. I’m pushing his paws off the bed when I see blood on my hand. I can’t understand this but then I realise it’s Arnie’s paw that’s bleeding. He’s got a bit of glass in it. I’m out of bed in a flash. There’s a line of bloody footprints from the kitchen, over the cream carpet in the lounge and through to the bedroom. Thank God it’s only one paw and he takes big strides. Small comfort under the circumstances.