fiction - how near how far?

Marc and I had formed our alt-rock country band about a year ago. so far all we had accomplished was renting a loft and recording ourselves screwing around with a slide guitar when we were melting on e. It served as a useful place to crash when our various significant others had chucked us out of apartments and short term relationships. we diddled around with expensive instruments we bought at auctions... we fucked up the vintage 8 track recorder we stole from a drug dealer who went to jail. instead of boxing up his stuff we ended up jacking most of it to sell for the actual storage space and even then we heavily pilfered his budding recording studio.
i stabbed a finger into one of the record buttons. occasionally the red light would sparkle and you could hack something out. today it wasn't working, no matter how many times i jammed the red button in. what was i expecting? it's not like I paid for it or anything. what a fucking idiot. i can't believe he had all this gear. i'm sure i never saw him turn it on, save for when some bitch fingered around the knobs and paid attention to it. like that makes up for robbing the guy, but... well, there wasn't much remorse available for the situation. he had gotten fucked up in jail and he mysteriously hadn't needed it in the group home. i saw him out on a fucking day trip a few months ago and he was clearly dumbed down a few bars. poor fucks' brain had swelled out of the holes bashed out of his skull... and i'm assuming that cleaves quite a few iq points out of a man.
why am I hung up on that? marcus had fallen on the floor laughing when i told him i saw the guy hobbling around like a drooping puppet. he didn't know that i had still been paying for the storage unit long since he had ignored the letters from the bill collection agency. he didn't know I wanted to throw up after seeing him and thinking about how we had totally fucked him over... and the fact that i immediately felt relieved seeing that he wasn't going to come kill us for stealing it. not anything about him being, well, fucked up retarded...just that I could scratch one thing off the list to feel guilty about.
i let my guitar slide off my lap and my head bopped off the couch arm. i think i'm allergic to the stupid shag rug Marcus dragged in from a garage sale. i think my lips are tingling from the joint that's been burned out for god knows how long. where's my coffee? fuck. all the way over by the door. and it's come to this. too stoned and old and fucking lazy to go get another addiction mere seconds away.
my cell whirred on the table again. "fuck you. i don't know who you are, but fuck you." I stretched out and hoisted myself from the disgusing rug. the phone buzzed again and i threw my hands up to try and will it to fuck off. I walked past the circular window and popped my head through the curtains. disgusting sunlight. i blinked and lolled the dead joint around my lips. i leaned forward to bring a lighter up to my face when there was a plink up against the glass.
"jesus! what the fuck was that?"
I could hear a muffled scream. hands pressed up against the window I strained to look straight down into the alley. Marcus was down there with a stack of equipment. he was screaming and holding a phone up to his ear. clearly the source of the cell calls.
step lively before he throws the phone through the window. that thing is a bitch to get repaired let me tell you. and it was a selling feature you know. i wanted this place for the window. no matter that I never opened the curtains, but it looked so swanky from outside. i thought about what i could get to put up against the window but Marcus was at the door glaring.
"Fucking hell! you cock sucking paranoid freak... i've been calling you for the past 20 minutes trying to get in before someone fucking ROBS me out here."
"Oh eat shit Marcus Wellby. A) get a fucking key and chain it around your neck and b) when was the last time you actually saw me answer the phone?"
"Let me in. Get those lights out there before we get stabbed for them."
I scoffed, but still took a good look around before I picked the stuff up. we may be retarded spend thrifts and rent this place as a retreat from reality but it was still cheap and in a bad neighbourhood. i missed having a dog around to keep people at bay.
"Ok why are you bringing this shit here if you're going to be uptight about people stealing them?"
"Just for tonight. I have to sleep here..."
"Ya, well I'm sleeping here too cock so get used to it.?" I plopped the lights down on the fouton and tried to ignore the waft of dust that came off the cover.
Marcus slid onto the floor and let the camera bag slip off his shoulder.
"Give me that thing."
"It made my lips tingle."
"You're high, breathing is going to make you tingle."
"That fucking 8 track recorder never works for me."
Sigh. "Here." He jammed a finger in and did a little shake of the recorder. The light blipped on but he was already plugging in a guitar to play. I laid on the couch behind him and reached for an old Playboy from the 60's that was wedged behind a pillow. I settled into an interesting story how to hook up my hi-fi record turn tables before I would enivitably get bored and flip to the pictures. I don't think either of us were in the mood to talk about why we were spending the night here.