Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
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Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Anti Rape Spree (Three)



“Steve, we got a problem.”

I was still hallucinating. Although my peak was over and the overwhelming orgasmic body buzz had settled from earthquakes to tremors, the colors were still far too bright. Wet looking trails of light slithered across my sight like neon caterpillars from an old arcade game.

Four years between acid trips didn’t cause me any problems. Using high grade mind altering substances has proven to be like riding a bicycle: once you have the skill, you keep it. Some people wig out, lose their grip on reality, and become mental vegetables. Others, like myself, react positively and love the stuff. I consider dosing to be a condensed vacation. I always emerge feeling clean and refreshed, my accumulated stresses incinerated.

Still, this was no time for me to engage in crisis management. Unfortunately, I was the go-to guy.

“Okay Steve, listen up. I know you’re fucked up but I need your attention now. Some guy is a grabbing girls by the lakeside campsites. The campground security guys already know, but since this is my party, they’ve deferred to me. I can’t leave the front here, so I need you to go sort it out. Marv’s guys are watching him, and they’re waiting for you there.”

A steroid case decked out in a buzzcut, a wifebeater, and chinos was surrounded by the campground guys. The meathead seemed confused, unsure why several biker types were standing around asking “You gonna be cool or what, man?” over and over. In his mind, he’d done nothing wrong. He kept trying to leave the circle, but couldn’t get through the bikers. His captors were taking no action to remove him, just keeping him in one place, waiting for me to get there. His confusion and hostility were rising rapidly.

I jumped in, deciding a personal approach might yield better results than looming intimidation. The bikers allowed me access, trading smirks and glances with each other that said “This oughtta be good. How long until the punches fly, you think?”

“What’s your name, man?”

“Matt. What the fuck is with these guys?”

“I’m Steve. We’ve had complaints that you grabbed somebody. Some girl.”

“Naw man, I just, I mean, I’m…”

“Yeah?”

“I got here late, okay? All my friends are sleeping right now. I can’t…”

He seemed more lost and confused than dangerous to me, though I kept mindful of his cannon arms. He could break my jaw easily, and to forget that would be very, very dumb.

I turned to the guards and whispered to one. “Keep an eye on us, but I’m gonna take him to the main stage, see if he calms down and enjoys the music. I don’t think he’ll be a problem if we just let him cool off.”

“Your call man.”

A half hour later Matt and I were near the main stage, talking about parties, smoking a joint. I asked him about drugs, and he confessed to taking ecstasy.

“So you’re rolling?”

“Yeah, it’s crazy. I’ve never taken ex before. It’s like… I don’t know.”

“Wanna hit this joint?”

“Okay. Never smoked weed before, either.”

“Really? How old are you?”

“Twenty-five, why?”

“Just curious. I’m twenty-seven. So what happened with your friends?”

“They got here yesterday. They’re all asleep, and I bought these pills for us but they wouldn’t wake up, so I took them all.”

A rookie to drug use tossed back several pills at once? A guy with a testosterone problem? No wonder he'd been flipping out. A girl walked by. Matt stared at her, then jogged up behind her. I followed, hoping like hell he knew her and wasn't just dogging after strangers.

“Hi, who are you?”

“Uh, Cheryl. You?”

Matt just stared at her. This made me nervous. I introduced him. “Cheryl, this is Matt.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

One of the security guys tapped me on the shoulder. “Make up your mind, man, we’re not following this guy around all night.”

“He seems okay. See?” The biker looked at the joint I was holding. I pinched it out and pocketed it before repeating myself. “See?” We turned around to look. Matt was now dancing in the main stage crowd, punching around like he was in a mosh pit. People gave him a wide berth.

“You sure? I think he’s gonna be trouble.”

I thought about this, watching Matt's violent lunging dancing, seeing him pause occasionally to yell into one girl or another’s ear.

“You’re right. Let’s get him out of here.”

The security bikers converged on the crowd, but between the darkness, the flashing neon colored strobes, and the sweaty mass of ravers, we lost him.

“Where is he, man?”

I answered. "I... I don’t see him.”

The security bikers waited with arms crossed, stern expressions, and impatience. I searched around the stage area until I finally found Matt standing by the entrance to the women’s showers. Just as I approached, he grabbed a pretty brunette by the arm as she exited the showers and tried to walk off.

“Hey, what the fuck! Let go!”

“What’s up, baby?”

“Let fucking go of me!”

“I’m just trying to make new friends. No need to be a bitch.”

I interceded. “Matt, what’s up man? I lost you.”

“Look man, I don’t wanna be your fucking friend, okay? Fuck off.” He shoved me away.

Our exchange gave the brunette an opportunity to slink away, which thankfully she did. I left Matt at the shower entrance and raced back to my biker mob.

“Guys, he’s over by the women’s showers harassing women. Take him out.”

We all ran back there. Once again, he was gone. We all stood around looking stupid, listening for women’s screams from inside the showers or off in the forest. All the bikers kept looking to me, angry, yelling “Where?” over the loud music. Finally, I saw him. He was up the main stage mosh dancing, dangerously close to bumping the turntables. The DJ looked pissed off and scared and was looking around for help.

“Guys, there he is, up there!” I pointed.

The bikers asked him nicely to get off the stage. He complied.

“We’re gonna have to ask you to leave.” They quickly and deftly pulled Matt’s arms behind his back and locked their elbows in his, one biker on each side of him. Backed by several others, they marched him a mile to the main gate, a golf cart following, illuminating the whole sorry march. I trudged behind Matt but in front of the cart, terrified that Matt would look back, see me, and silently decide to sneak back later to torque my head off my neck.

Ravers stared at my parade, gawking, smoking their cigarettes. I kept my head held high, letting my security lanyard sway across my chest. I was safe. So was the party. I did good.

With the bright glare of headlights backlighting our expelling squad, my acid trip began to breathe back to life. Bizarre squares of light and dark blinked in and out of existence, superimposing crossword puzzle grids atop everything I saw. I felt dizzy and desperate for a few swigs of alcohol to settle my nerves. A confiscated bottle of Johnny Walker Black was stashed at the front desk. I thought about it, visualizing it, my carrot on a string.

Finally, we reached the edge of the property. Sheriffs were waiting for us. I excused myself and left the dirtiest of work to the professionals.

No more undercover peacemaking bullshit next time. On that future day, I’ll simply say “get him out of here” and go about my merry way.

I went back to the front gate, grabbed the scotch, and shared my mediocre story.

3:31 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm

5 Comments:

September 27, 2006 12:19 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hump.

 
September 27, 2006 9:32 AM, Anonymous andy said...

Somehow in my head that story ended with the two of you spooning.

Huh.

 
October 02, 2006 11:33 PM, Blogger Lostinspace said...

but that's the thing...your stories are never mediocre. :) i expect a book from you. and personally signed for me.

 
October 09, 2006 2:00 PM, Blogger You've Got What I Need... said...

Bottle, did his friends ever woke up? Hello to you too. I agree that you must do something with your fiction.

 
October 10, 2006 12:22 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Maybe you should stop trying to fuck wrobel and get some more words "written" down you cunt.

 

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