Vibing Up The Party Girl

Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a short story with a beginning and middle and an end inside of 30 minutes.  Here is what I came up with.  I hope you like it.

Impossible to tell for sure.

She was drunkplus:  a term he had devised for local scenesters who seasoned their drunken nights out with illicit narcotics (Ecstasy, Demerol, mushrooms.)  The lingo began to ferment – ‘ferment’ might be too organic a word – after dozens of viewings of A Clockwork Orange.

She was happy drunk:  giddy and bouncing gently next to him on the couch.  Her pupils were dramatically different in size.  He could recall going to Stupid Dance Party and conversing with a pal whose pupils were so dilated that the black lights in the club caused his eyes to radiate a milky glow.  She wasn’t like that.  She was different.

She didn’t seem to care.  He would often attend parties simply to see how long it would take before someone asked him to leave.  Black and gray camo pants.  Combat boots.  Myra Hindley t-shirt (from England!)  Shaved head.  A cigar.  If the bad trip look didn’t ward people off, immediately, he’d start in with the far-right politics rap.  Bitching people out for not reading Soldier Of Fortune.  Bragging about sleeping in his custom bombproof van.  Owning a Heckler & Koch.

She listened and she talked.  She wore loose, oversized jeans, Docs and a Beastie Boys Check Your Head shirt.  When she softly landed on the couch, he tried to set the mood with some anti-Semitic comments about the rappers depicted on her garment.  She told him to fuck off;  she found the whole libertarian/lone nut posture boring.

She was the first.  The only people who’d ever said anything like that to him, prior, were his psychologist (who had escaped from Treblinka) and his aunt (who had won a Pulitzer Prize) – the only two beings on Earth he’d admit to possessing intelligence equal to his own.  Both of them had ceased contact with him, years ago.  Nowadays, the best he could hope for would be that someone with brains would wander into Starbucks and start up a conversation.

She was wrong.  Why the fuck was she hanging around with these assholes?  She could talk about Spengler and Darby Crash and Michael Gira.  She’d wafted in and out of various private schools in the Chicago suburbs;  her parents belonged to some atheistic quasi-cult that worshipped ‘reason’ and ‘rationality’ above all else.

She was perfect.

He returned to his parents’ basement, that very evening, and wrote her a letter.  He incorporated quotes from Anton Lavey and Charles Manson.  When that letter failed to elicit a response, he wrote essentially a duplicate effort and posted that one.

He never heard from her, again.  He did find out that she was dating a hockey player from Brown University, though.

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