Drop 88: At the Club

The club was filled with the standard mixture of idiots, clowns, douches and cunts, and the empty tarts they score with: kielbasas in dresses, with little piggy feet stuffed into stilettos; long, lithe, fish-faced deer with perfect hair and upturned noses; amazons with enormous faces and crooked mouths: frightful broken dolls in makeup, with desiccated souls strewn about haphazardly in there somewhere.

The horrible sound of enthusiastic alcoholic amusement loudly permeated the place like death stench in a basement and you could barely fight through the matted tangle of cologne. I usually avoid such fetid urban swamps, where people shout ‘Shots!’ and request songs by Tiao Cruz, featuring some or other Lil’ somebody, bottles of champagne come with sparklers, and women fall off tables; but a friend, Carl, who is far less cynical, and I must add, obviously has far worse taste in bars (probably in all things, now that I think of it) tricked me into meeting him there. Maybe, I have to admit, he can’t really be a friend—how many really are, right? By the way, his pants were way too tight, and seeing the contours of his ass so well-defined was disturbing.

‘Johnny should be here any minute,’ Carl said.

‘OK.’

‘Interesting dude, right?’

‘I hardly know him.’

‘That guy has a past. Make no mistake about it.’

‘What are you saying, that he wasn’t born this very second?’

‘You’re such a joker! Anyway, we’re going to be roommates. I’m moving into his place – the awesome one on West 4th. Isn’t that wonderful?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘I do, I was just–’

‘So why did you ask?’

A mid-life crisis with a toupee asked a sad sack has been for the time as I walked away and bought a 15 dollar mojito, which, of course, was shit. I stood alone, looking around the joint, wishing I owned a disappearing wand. A girl pulled up beside me at the bar.

‘How do you do it?’ I asked

‘What?’

‘Manage to look so hot and pointless at the same time?’

Her ‘Fuck off’ was worth something, but God knows what, the economy being what it is, and all.

Johnny was there when I got back. He was wearing those brown rubber type shoes that look like chocolates. For the rest, he seemed to have perfected a style one could only call Gypsy Chic. His lips, naturally traced with a thin purple border, made his face both harsh and unappealing, like a sad old transvestite nobody finds charming or amusing anymore. What was I going to say to this buffoon? To all these utter tools? I’d have to spend my entire salary on booze just to get by. So I did the gentlemanly thing and left, before the familiar disillusionment grew into full-blown dejection.

I was home in thirty minutes. Zoidberg and Bender met me at the door, riding a tsunami of love that knocked me over. I sat there, petting and playing with them for a good five minutes, and by the time I got up, I had nothing in me but gladness.

By E.M. Vireo

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About EM Vireo
flooding the world with fiction

7 Responses to Drop 88: At the Club

  1. MCL says:

    Awesome piece, and damn funny, keep that excellent brain on the edge

  2. One of your funniest, EM. Nice change of voice from your normal stuff too with the narrator’s relentless negativity. Do you think you could keep him going in a longer piece or do you think he’s only worth a short? I hope he has some things he likes otherwise he could be a bit of a downer to hang around with

    • EM Vireo says:

      Thanks. I guess I could keep it going in a longer piece, but as you said, it might become a drag. Would be good to counterpoint with stuff he liked, maybe some quirky stuff too – kind of an entertaining schizoid character.

  3. The dry humor is great. Liked the end; how many times have I felt like in the wrong place, no, make that a bar with a sour atmosphere…

  4. legionwriter says:

    Oh man – I love the “kielbasas in dresses” reference. And as an aficionado of the killer run-on sentence, I tip my hat to paragraph two. Well done, sir. Well done indeed.

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