A few of my friends were riding the train from Perth to Warwick station a couple weeks ago, somewhere around 2AM on a Friday (well, a Saturday if you want to get picky about it). The usual post–party crowd were aboard, the usual drunks and toothless hippies (I was probably at work, gimme a break), and one sick–feeling passenger made it all worth repeating here. This guy (let’s call him Charlie, since only he knows who he really is), obviously having had one too many out on the town that night, sidled up to the security officers onboard and asked politely if there was anywhere he could throw up.
“Hey, umm… hnnn… is there anywhere… mhmm… anywhere I can spew on here?”
“Uh, no. Sorry mate. You’ll have to wait until we reach Warwick. We’ll be there in a couple of minutes, hold on.”
Charlie returned to his seat, breathing deeply and sweating profusely — his eyes wide with fear. Having been told he just couldn’t do it anywhere on the train, he pulled open the collar of his shirt, put his face inside, and puked his guts up. Withdrawing his face for a second (and looking mighty proud of himself), he smiled at the other passengers before retreating to the confines of his shirt… to vomit a little more.
Feeling better, Chuck removed his shirt; balling it up in his hands to contain the puke and, to a lesser degree, the stench. The train arrived at Warwick train station, where Charlie alighted the train, and the guard patted him on the back.
“Good job, mate. You did good.”
Shirtless and standing out in the winter air, Charlie felt a cold breeze that bristled the hair on the back of his neck. With that, he pulled his shirt back on and started to walk home.