Disco Queen From Miami

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. I wrote this one a few years ago.  I hope you like it.

She wore super tight black jeans and these enormous silver sandals that looked like they were made of vinyl from beanbag chairs. Those probably belonged to her mother, The Disco Queen from Miami. Back in the 70s, Mom had once appeared on The Sonny & Cher Show.

She hurried up and got blind drunk, throwing back tequila shots, one right after the other. Everybody watched and she worked the room like she was undergoing some transformation – the drinks were magic potions or something concocted in a secret laboratory. She played it up.  She crossed her eyes and clutched her throat and fanned the inside of her mouth like it was on fire.

She tied her shirt up around her middle and danced around, grinding her ass against the bar, knocking shit over. For the rest of the night, she spoke in this exaggerated, hiccup of a voice, spitting out obnoxious redneck inflections. Betty Boop meets Calamity Jane. She stood way too close to people and picked fights with girlfriends she had known since freshman year.

She sneaked up to men, dug her fingernails into their backs and scratched, like she was trying to tear up their shirts. “Where do you like it, honey? Where do you like it, sugar? You’re just gonna have to tell me. Am I close? Here? To the right? To the left? Right? Left? More to the right? More to the left? How about up here, behind the neck? I’ll scratch your neck. I bet you like it up behind the neck. Bonus Bonus”.

This shit went on all night. A test of will. Who would break character first?

The next day, she was fine. No mention of the previous night. It was like she hadn’t even been there.

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