Tuesday, October 14, 2008

No, No, Notorious

Despite commanding shouts to push onward until daybreak, Erowid's "fucktwat" driver found around 3am that he could drive no further through the black, unlit expanse of northern Arizona. Disagreements, foamingly worded through hefty gulps of tanqueray, swarmed the anterior compartment of the limousine. Eventually, the sole voice of sobriety won out, and the troupe - plus the Hollywood bigshot and his weak-eyed driver - pulled into the poorly-lit lot of a lonely motel. The owner, a toothless veteran who appeared to have spent his golden years in the desert sands than in the comfort of his shanty, eyed them carefully - Casey especially - before agreeing to sell them three rooms for the night.

Upon unloading their belongings, Jamie suggested they continue the festivities in his room, much to the protest of his driver. Casey politely declined, citing the tumultuous nature of her liver after half a bottle of cranberry vodka, as did Joe, who simply said he was done for the night. Gordon, Mali, and Parker (who was innumerable sheets to the wind after discovering the divine benevolence of Jamie's platinum-plated beer bong) hastily agreed with a triumphant cheer, and the lot returned to Jamie's room to drink.

"You guys are all right," Jamie slurred, draping an arm around the shoulders of Gordon to his left and Mali to his right. Across the room, Jamie's driver was diligently following the stumbling Parker with the tiny metal trash can, convinced the boy would inevitably wreak havoc upon the stained, paisley carpet.

"Y'aint so rough yerself, mate," Gordon said through a grin. He and Mali toasted their new pal, after which Mali burst into a furious fit of giggles, spilling her vodka across the bed, which only caused her to laugh harder. Parker leapt toward the bed, nearly knocking his companions right off, and began slurping the liquid straight off the sheets.

"I think your little fundie-buddy has had enough," Jamie's driver commented, pursing his lips with disapproval.

"The hell he has!" Gordon and Jamie chimed in unison. Mali couldn't stand it and fell from her seated position, curling on the floor and cackling with drunken grandeur. Gordon passed Parker his own bottle, which Parker happily accepted with a goofy nod before downing with earnest. Gordon rose to his feet, steadied himself in preparation of spanning the three feet to the dresser, and fell on his face with his first step. Mali only laughed harder.

Jamie climbed to a wavering stand on the withered bed, the curls of his hair scraping the water-damaged ceiling. "I am king!" he shouted.

"You are king!" Parker agreed from somewhere on the floor.

"King!" Mali concurred.

"I am king!" Jamie shouted again. "I am the new British Empire, you skeeze-laden bitches, for the sun never sets on all I have created! I am the American dream, you cockthirsty gypsies, for I have made manifest all and more that as a child I could have ever conceived! I am the God to which the Church of Bohemians pray, you enthusiasts-of-ass-to-mouth, for I am He who is I Am! The Savior and the Lamb of the Hollywood fatherfuckers! Singlehandedly, I have saved the movie biz, the silver screen - because my other hand is busy playing with my gargantuan cock - but do I ask for thanks? No! Do I demand admittance to the Oscar after-party? No! Those cum-sampling fags could learn a thing or two from me, you know? I am excellence! I am success! Fetal-ticklers, I am everything you wish you were! I am king!"

"That's what you are, motherfucker," Gordon happily shouted.

"I... I am..." Jamie gulped loudly, the color draining from his face. "I'm going to puke!"

"Oh, no," his driver muttered.

In all his glory from his perch above the room, Jamie nodded and saluted his reflection in the wall-mounted mirror, then let loose the fury of all his innards, spraying the walls and the bed with a night's worth of drink. It wasn't long before his guests followed suit, forcing his driver to flee the room with a handkerchief pressed to his nose and mouth.

An hour later and with the rose-tinted hints of dawn appearing on the eastern horizon, Gordon and Mali slunk across the parking lot, cradling their stomachs and the barely-conscious Parker between them. 

"I think I drank too much," Mali lamented, wincing as she spoke.

"Don't say 'drink' or 'drank', please," Gordon muttered, wincing as well.

Mali nodded. "I can leave Parker with you, my room's just over there."

"None of that, now - I said I'd walk you to your door and I'd be remiss were I proven a liar," Gordon insisted.

They shuffled under the shared wake of their semi-conscious comrade, his feet dragging on the cracked pavement beneath them. After an eternity of arduous strides, they were greeted by a curious sight: the door of Mali and Casey's room was slightly ajar.

"Casey?" Mali whispered, concern thick in her voice. She shrugged Parker off her shoulder and Gordon caught him, holding him in a half-embrace while Parker dreamily gazed up at the early morning sky, drunk out of his poor, feeble mind. Mali breathed deeply and prepared herself, then gave the door a mighty shove.

The blue luminescence of a humming bug zapper flooded the dark hotel room, revealing a very startled - and very nude - Joe hastily climbing off Casey, slipping on a discarded bottle of gin and crashing to the floor as he did. Casey hurriedly gripped the comforter and pulled it to her chin before shouting "GET OUT!"

Mali immediately grabbed the doorknob and slammed the door shut. She turned and braced her back against it, her face red and her eyes wide. She exchanged a look of incredulous amusement with Gordon. Parker simply shook his head.

"Sinners," he half-huffed, half-slurred.

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