nobody said it was a good game.
But we were bored and anxious. It was pissing down rain outside of Maxâs Kansas City. Ceaseless sheets of fat, warm drops that triggered a blink reflex every time they hit your face. It felt like God was spitting right in your eye every couple of seconds, and the only dry space, right under the awning, was already full of big shots and hot girls showing cleavage.
The bouncers called who got those spots, so there we were: standing in heavenâs urine stream, killing time until the doors opened.
Randall had stopped coughing from the blow and went back to talking to Gray Greg, the ashen-faced junkie who sold dope to kids in line at shows.
âIâm not saying itâs right, Iâm just saying he talks, you know, like people, so if you had to have sex withââ
Randall wasnât looking at me. I held up my pointer finger as nonchalantly as possible.
Nothing.
âI donât understand,â Gray Greg was protesting, still awkwardly holding out a bag of dope that Randall wouldnât take.
I flipped up my middle finger.
âI mean itâs like you have something in common, right? You could at least affirm it was consensualââ
I clenched my fist and went to raise the third finger.
âNo, I guess I wouldnât want to hear him speak.â Gray Greg was shaking his head, little flecks of dry skin grating off of his face like dandruff.
I managed the slightest twitch of my ring finger before Randall spun like a tornado and struck me square in the solar plexus.
âSo what youâre saying, then, is that you like to fuck dogs because they canât talk back,â Randall finished, without missing a beat.
Greg threw up his hands and walked away. Off to find easier marks.
I doubled over, gagging on my own lack of air, and waited for the stars to pass. When they did, I saw Randall grinning at me in the side mirror of the station wagon he was leaning on.
God damn it. Leave it to Randall to turn a nice game of punch exchange into some tactical fucking exercise.
I nodded concession to him and looked for something else to occupy my time. The parasites had latched on to us again tonight. We had invited them over to the apartment a few times this week, because they usually chipped in for beer money. They had taken that as some sort of official approval, and now we couldnât get rid of them. We tried telling them to fuck off; they didnât listen. We were all out of ideas.
Thing 1 and Thing 2 were playing a game with string laced between their fingers. They were trying to teach Wash, who was studying it like an electron microscope. Safety Pins had secured a spot under the awning, where she stood with studied disinterest, just like the rest of the cleavage girls. We tried to use her as an excuse to take some space in the dry, but one look at my busted-up face and sideways nose, and the bouncers jostled us back into the rain.
The parasites were all laughing at something. I didnât feel like busting into their nervous little circle. I needed something else to doâsomething productive and enlightening.
I settled for ogling the cleavage girls and making faces at them when they caught me. One or two seemed to be into it. A stunning redhead, her pale skin practically glinting in the streetlight, waggled her tongue at me in exchange. Most just rolled their eyes and cut off eye contact.
It was to be expected. Richard Hell was playing tonight, and girls went crazy for the bastard. He looked like Bob Dylanâs plague-stricken younger brother. He moved like he was always in a bathrobe: all lazy and aloof. Hell had that whole malnourished-nihilist thing going for him. That always brings out the stunners. I did okay for my part: A certain kind of girl was actually drawn to the just-got-hit-by-a-truck look that I carefully nurtured. But when Richard Hell opens a show, itâs a Salvation Army runway show out front. Models in precisely
But we were bored and anxious. It was pissing down rain outside of Maxâs Kansas City. Ceaseless sheets of fat, warm drops that triggered a blink reflex every time they hit your face. It felt like God was spitting right in your eye every couple of seconds, and the only dry space, right under the awning, was already full of big shots and hot girls showing cleavage.
The bouncers called who got those spots, so there we were: standing in heavenâs urine stream, killing time until the doors opened.
Randall had stopped coughing from the blow and went back to talking to Gray Greg, the ashen-faced junkie who sold dope to kids in line at shows.
âIâm not saying itâs right, Iâm just saying he talks, you know, like people, so if you had to have sex withââ
Randall wasnât looking at me. I held up my pointer finger as nonchalantly as possible.
Nothing.
âI donât understand,â Gray Greg was protesting, still awkwardly holding out a bag of dope that Randall wouldnât take.
I flipped up my middle finger.
âI mean itâs like you have something in common, right? You could at least affirm it was consensualââ
I clenched my fist and went to raise the third finger.
âNo, I guess I wouldnât want to hear him speak.â Gray Greg was shaking his head, little flecks of dry skin grating off of his face like dandruff.
I managed the slightest twitch of my ring finger before Randall spun like a tornado and struck me square in the solar plexus.
âSo what youâre saying, then, is that you like to fuck dogs because they canât talk back,â Randall finished, without missing a beat.
Greg threw up his hands and walked away. Off to find easier marks.
I doubled over, gagging on my own lack of air, and waited for the stars to pass. When they did, I saw Randall grinning at me in the side mirror of the station wagon he was leaning on.
God damn it. Leave it to Randall to turn a nice game of punch exchange into some tactical fucking exercise.
I nodded concession to him and looked for something else to occupy my time. The parasites had latched on to us again tonight. We had invited them over to the apartment a few times this week, because they usually chipped in for beer money. They had taken that as some sort of official approval, and now we couldnât get rid of them. We tried telling them to fuck off; they didnât listen. We were all out of ideas.
Thing 1 and Thing 2 were playing a game with string laced between their fingers. They were trying to teach Wash, who was studying it like an electron microscope. Safety Pins had secured a spot under the awning, where she stood with studied disinterest, just like the rest of the cleavage girls. We tried to use her as an excuse to take some space in the dry, but one look at my busted-up face and sideways nose, and the bouncers jostled us back into the rain.
The parasites were all laughing at something. I didnât feel like busting into their nervous little circle. I needed something else to doâsomething productive and enlightening.
I settled for ogling the cleavage girls and making faces at them when they caught me. One or two seemed to be into it. A stunning redhead, her pale skin practically glinting in the streetlight, waggled her tongue at me in exchange. Most just rolled their eyes and cut off eye contact.
It was to be expected. Richard Hell was playing tonight, and girls went crazy for the bastard. He looked like Bob Dylanâs plague-stricken younger brother. He moved like he was always in a bathrobe: all lazy and aloof. Hell had that whole malnourished-nihilist thing going for him. That always brings out the stunners. I did okay for my part: A certain kind of girl was actually drawn to the just-got-hit-by-a-truck look that I carefully nurtured. But when Richard Hell opens a show, itâs a Salvation Army runway show out front. Models in precisely
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