There is always time for a party with Billy Asbo

Billy Asbo had been lost for a solid ten minutes. Tower blocks all looked the same, and in the dim, flickering corridor lights, the door numbers were more like abstract art than any kind of guidance. He was supposed to meet up with Nemo and the rest of the band, but now it seemed like he was stuck in the labyrinthine guts of Old London Town.

He could hear muffled voices behind some doors, but the walls of the old block were so thick that it was impossible to tell which floor the noise came from. Every door had the same battered look—peeling paint, layers of rust around the locks, and barely legible flat numbers.

And then, as if fate had stepped in with a drunken smile, he saw it: flat 23B, the one with the faintest pulse of bass thudding through the wall. He grinned.

“Found you,” he muttered to himself, pressing the button for the doorbell.

Nothing happened. He tried again.

A small screen above the door flickered to life. A distorted face appeared, grinning like it had won the lottery. A robotic voice chimed: “Silent Disco Only. Gov-Fed safe. Come in, shut up, enjoy.”

Billy shrugged, his curiosity piqued, and pushed the door open. Inside, the faint lights were replaced by a chaotic glow of cheap neon strips that flickered in and out of sync with the music. Cans of beer, bottles of wine, and suspiciously greasy takeaway boxes littered every available surface. Despite the mess, the atmosphere was alive—people swayed in silent rhythm, heads bobbing to beats only they could hear through their oversized headphones. A DJ in the corner was vigorously moving vinyl decks like his life depended on it.

“Well, this is something,” Billy thought, stepping over a pile of beer cans with a grin. The scent of stale beer, cheap cologne, and the faint whiff of sweat filled the room. Gov-Fed’s ban on music had led to these strange, underground parties—people trying to cling to whatever freedom they had left, even if it was just swaying in silence to a track no one else could hear.

Billy made his way through the crowd, exchanging nods and winks with the young women who eyed him, even though none could hear a thing he said. His reputation preceded him; he was, after all, the rhythm guitarist of Last Ghosts, London’s most notorious band.

He was just about to crack open another beer when he spotted the only empty seat in the room: a sagging, half-broken couch where a tall, thin bloke in a gold tracksuit lay slumped, unconscious.

“Looks like someone went a bit hard,” Billy muttered, half to himself as he made his way over. He sat down gingerly, careful not to knock over the empty bottles stacked precariously on the armrest. He glanced at the guy beside him. Messy hair tied up in a sad little ponytail, acne-splattered cheeks, and an unmistakable look of someone who had no idea where he was anymore.

“You alright, mate?” Billy poked the guy in the ribs, just to check.

Suddenly, the unconscious teenager jolted awake with a start, his eyes wide, mouth open in a grotesque parody of a grin.

“AAAAAARGH!” he shouted, despite the entire silent disco premise. Several people turned, pulling off their headphones in alarm.

“Whoa, whoa!” Billy raised his hands, a look of concern crossing his face as he scooted away from the gold-clad maniac.

Without warning, the alarmed youth, who looked like he hadn’t had a proper meal in months—leaned forward and, in an act that defied the laws of decency and basic biology, spewed a wave of sick right across his shiny, gold tracksuit.

“Bloody hell!” Billy recoiled, leaping off the couch as the young urchin continued to cough up whatever liquid diet he’d been on.

The room went silent—well, the closest thing to silent in a silent disco. A few people nervously took off their headphones, wondering what kind of scene was unfolding.

Billy stood there, eyes wide with disbelief, as the man stared down at his own puke-stained tracksuit. And then, just when Billy thought it couldn’t get worse, the puke splattered kid who had been silent this whole time—scooped a handful of his own sick, looked around as if for approval, and proceeded to slurp it back into his mouth like some kind of deranged anteater.

The horror on Billy’s face was mirrored by several others in the room. A girl nearby gagged. A bloke in the corner whispered, “Is this performance art?”

“Mate…” Billy’s voice cracked. “You’ve ruined that tracksuit.”

The young man blinked, as if he were coming to terms with reality for the first time, then glanced down at the mess. His eyes went wide.

“Ahhh, not again!” he moaned, standing up with a wobble.

Billy had just about enough. He reached for his jacket, ready to bolt, when the guy grabbed the collar of his tracksuit and, with an alarming level of efficiency, peeled it off in one smooth motion, revealing an identical, pristine gold tracksuit underneath.

“See? No problem!” The man smiled, slapping his belly proudly. “I throw up all the time! Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a bit of self-cleaning’.”

Billy froze. “You… what?”

“I’m Manic Malcolm, mate, and They don’t call me ‘Manic’ for nuffin’. Always ready for round two!” He gave a lopsided grin, though his teeth were still streaked with traces of sick. Without waiting for a response, Malcolm swayed on his feet, mumbled something about “getting’ back to the beats,” and then collapsed back onto the couch, his eyes rolling up into his head as he passed out cold again.

Billy stood there, stunned, trying to process what he’d just witnessed. The party seemed to have come to a stop—every eye was on him and Malcolm.

“Well, that’s me done.” Billy finally managed, backing toward the door. “You lot… have fun with him, yeah?”

With one last look of disbelief, Billy slipped out of the flat, back into the relative calm of the dingy corridor. He leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath.

“Gov-Fed might be bad, but that… that was worse.” He wiped his forehead, shaking his head and then disappeared into the darkness.