He Died With a Felafel In His Hand

We found him on a bean bag with his chin resting on the top button of a favourite flannelette shirt. He'd worn the shirt when we'd interviewed him for the empty room a week or so before. We really took this guy in desperation. He wasn't A-list, didn't have a microwave or anything like that, and now both he and the felafel roll were cold. Our first dead housemate. At least we'd got some bond money off him... A seemingly unresolvable love triangle between three people who are doomed to chase each other through hell in a never-ending, unrequited, daisy-chain of desire...