"Go on," louder, and as if shaken from their shock they moved, herding out the door, careful to keep their distance from Nakota as they might skirt a living fire. They stood, I felt their stares, and wearily I said, "Go on, go home," like a cop at the scene of some exceptionally lurid crime, nothing to see anymore, folks, move along. "Get out," Nakota snarled, at her, at all of them, not bothering to look as she lit a cigarette and threw the lighter at me too. Someone turned the music down Ashlee offered, small voice, to get me something to wipe off with. "You win again, fuckface," and she skimmed the video at me, hard square Frisbee with amazing force and it struck me so near the eye, my warding hand useless and the sudden bright plop of fluid onto my skin, circular jelly mixed with the dimmer color of my blood. Ignoring them, her gaze on me, one hand closing the door, the other holding the black plastic of the video. The others, Medusa-like she scared them silent.
Nothing bad will-Īnd the door, when had it opened, who could hear in that caldron of noise, and she, in night-damp Club 22-wear, my relief at her presence completely evaporated by the look in her eyes. You left her with the video before, I argued, nothing happened, nothing will happen now. It was not so much ridiculous as scary, it got to me after only a very little while, and Randy too: he left and left me there, stranded in my growing island of pained drunken silence and beer-can armor, and still the gnaw, Nakota, where are you? Destructive force with a chip on her shoulder. It showed in their eager deference: my choice of music, my choice of chair, my choice opinions, at this point unexpressed beyond a few dispirited grunts respectful their offers, even, to get me another beer. They approved the music, as boisterously approved Randy, who did not return the favor or even comments directed at him, saying once to me, under cover of their chatter back and forth, their theories too silly to remember past the second spoken, "Guess you're their Malcolm now/'ĭull negating headshake, but we both knew he was right. Whooping in the hall, some weird Chilean wine, two.bottles apiece, apparently we were all going to have a party. And Randy putting on some extremely loud thrash music. We drank them all up, but, drunk, my worry undimmed, I spun my silent fantasies of what Nakota might be doing with that video, The Funhole Part One, what remorseless mischief she might be making and me unable to fathom, much less put a stop to it. Out to lunch, " shaking his head, "they're out to lunch all right. My carelessness, how vengefully would it come home to roost? Stop it, I thought. And nobody goes with him, everybody just sits around waiting for you to come back-"Īh, God. "Dingbats, right," emphatic nod, "They all start arguing and Malcolm just blows up and says, You're all crazy and I'm out of here. "So Shrike says, everybody fuck off, I'll do it myself. So Doris says, Cool off, Nicholas is really onto something important here and it won't do any good to piss him off, he's the only one who knows, he has the answers blah blah blah, all this shit like you're some kind of guru, you know?"
Anyway Shrike was busy throwing her fit when I got here and Doris says, Doris's the one who kind of looks like Malcolm, right? Right. "It's Doris who should be pissed," I said. "I wasn't here for part one, but I guess Shrike blew some kind of gasket when you wouldn't let her make her video-" That takes some telling," but he smiled as he said it and some of the stick went out of my spine.
0 kommentar(er)
