A Sordid Affair of Cock-Stunted Scoundrels
"You're all going to Hell!" Parker shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.
No one paid him any mind, so he continued.
"I mean it. You'd better listen up, because Jesus would like to have a word with all of you! You're all going to burn hotter and faster than that blasphemous doll you've built. God doesn't take kindly to deviants or drug addicts or," he paused for a gulp of hot, salty air. "P-Premarital relations," he managed. "And you two, over there! The two guys kissing each other! Don't think I - and God - don't see you!"
The gentlemen gave him a quick glance and, upon not finding him to their liking, resumed their examination of one another's tonsils. Parker frowned and crossed his arms across his chest, kicking the toe of his shoe against the top of the produce crate on which he stood. Mali, still suckling at the neon straw protruding from her glowing drink, danced and swayed around him, convinced she could see the wind.
"You really shouldn't be doing that," Parker scolded.
"Come off it, Parker," Mali retorted. "Lighten up, you'll live longer."
"I don't care about how long I live," Parker huffed. "I care about getting into Heaven when I die." Again, Parker swallowed hard. "And I care about you getting into Heaven."
"Not much chance of that," Mali said, dropping her drink and flashing her chest to a wandering group of grey-haired lesbians striding by. The ladies applauded the show, one drooling slightly and another coming to her rescue with a tissue. Mali laughed, winked, and resumed her wild dancing.
Parker was appalled.
"Don't you get it?" he demanded, descending the crate with unsteady feet. "God cares about you. I-I care about you. But what you're doing - giving in to these sinful temptations, drinking of the serpent's teat, flashing your... your b-breasts to those daughters of Gomorrah - well, Mali, it doesn't make Jesus love you any less, but it's certainly not helping matters!"
Mali stopped dancing and turned to face Parker. "I know what you're after." She grinned devilishly, her round face licked by firelight.
"You do?" Parker asked, taken aback. Silently, he cursed Gordon for letting loose his most entrusted secret, then cursed himself for cursing, only to then find himself quite confused.
"Uh-huh," Mali said. With the same fervor she had delivered upon the aging lesbians, she again gripped the seam of her shirt and tugged it under her chin, exposing her chest to Parker.
Wild-eyed, Parker threw his hands over his eyes, screamed, and bolted into the crowd.
Mali watched him go, confusion and a hint of disappointment reading in her face.
"He's an odd one, he is," came Gordon's unmistakable twang from behind.
Mali turned and squealed happily, nearly tackling Gordon in a hug.
"Might want to put the ladies away," Gordon said, his voice slightly robotic. He didn't look Mali in the eye.
Mali looked down at herself and realized her shirt's hem was still resting on the tops of her breasts. She quickly pulled it down to her waist and laughed.
Gordon nodded, but continued to stare straight ahead into nothingness.
"Gordon, what are you on?"
"Acid, Mali. I have eaten acid this evening."
"Oh," Mali said. She waited a moment, letting the silence insist that Gordon explain how he'd happened upon his party gifts. Gordon, in his numb state, didn't take the hint. "Well, have you seen Jamie? Or Joe and Casey?"
"I have seen them," Gordon said, nodding again. "I have seen everything. I have seen the wind and the music and the burning future of all mankind."
"Oh," Mali said again. "Neat."
I have seen a man who dressed himself in women's clothes. I have seen a woman give birth to a serpent. I have seen children playing in the memories of their grandfathers, though pushing a tire with a stick will only lead you to the end of the road. Not one of whom was any stranger than the man I see over there.
Mechanically, he lifted an arm to indicate a middle-aged man seated perhaps thirty yards away with his back to them. Mali followed his gesture, but decided to wait for an explanation.
This man, whose name is actually Roger Lenin, will tell you his name is David. David, who is really Roger Lenin, works as a contractor for his brother-in-law. He rises with the sun, placing blankets and pillows in their appropriate locations and angles once having crawled from bed, and puts himself together in the early light of dawn. He showers, scrubbing each of his armpits over half a dozen times with lavender and vanilla body wash - though he, like most men, will spend more time washing his balls than any other part of his anatomy. He will then shave, meticulously careful not to nick the underside of his chin, for it is what he considers the most painful place for a cut.
He brushes his teeth until his gums are raw and bloody.
"Must get the dirty out. Must get the dirty out," he says to himself through foam and fluid.
He will proceed from his wash room, barefoot and smelling of oxidants, and make his way to his armoire, from which he will select just the right shade of beige for his tie. His underroo's are always fresh, crisp, and clean, as are his socks. His wardrobe of collared shirts is definitively osseous. He only owns three pairs of solid black Dockers, which he rotates throughout the week and hopes no one ever notices. He laces his shoes always the same, first the right and then the left. Before he leaves his home, he consumes half a banana and two cups of coffee. He always, always, always tells his houseplant to mind its manners that day.
This morning, Roger Lenin - who calls himself David - forgot to brush his teeth.
He murdered his brother-in-law, and his sister, and their two, smiling babies, before driving his VW Golf as far as his gas tank would allow him, which explains how he ended up here.
Mali shrank into Gordon's side, clutching his arm like both a weapon and a shield. "Do you mean it, Gordon? Did that man really kill people?"
Gordon laughed, though it came out stilted and lifeless. "No, Mali. I told you, I'm on acid."
"Oh," she sighed with relief.
"Parker's in love with you."