The trio delicately clambered out of Neil’s car.

Cascading neon chevrons somnambulated them down into the sidewalk; at the bottom of the stair was a door that offered them an entrance to the Duat_ (twat?) that churned underneath the shopping center. Tyrone read the door, it probably said something like Cumshitter’s or a witty similarity to that; now push it open.

Big lappers of little ponds don’t have to pay the meager cover in a sub rosa establishment such as this, and more important neither do their guests, Lori and her taggers strolled into a tickling wheat field of greetings. Tyrone saw what to him was the thing that made him frame his mind at enjoyment, to his left, half a length the bar away, on the wall above the poolers, was an animal skull, ibexian in nature, only it was six-pointed, a six-horned goat skull in the billiard room!_ Tyrone began to ease.

Woo! Mah baybee gurls!

A longhaired blonde was getting up from a booth, he proceeded to hug and grope and cackle, and the girls were all kisses. Tyrone was looking at the bar and next he knew he was being hauled by the collar into the trois, now he received hugs and kisses and soft breasts pushing on him from both sides. His wax smile that had melted was now shown in reverse play.

“Tyrone, this is Ziggy. We love him.”

The fair skinned socialite sized Tyrone. Two men, grinning into each other.

“Ooh girls, he’s cute! Is he a strait-boy?”

Tyrone then found himself being called “SUPERHOT” and one of the girls kept putting her wet lips on his neck; his face would not keep composure. You know I’ve always wanted to meet a guy named Ziggy, so I could call him Zigarette.

They laughed. Really for Tyrone it was nothing, he had plenty of game to spare. He heard bitter grunting in the background disputing that the man with butterscotch locks was not self-named.

Ziggy put his mitt, his distinctively strong mitt, on Tyrone’s peck and felt for tone. Tyrone, though fairly slender, felt no need to tighten.

I like this one. I’ll be back.

Then off to mingle went Zig.

Tyrone was making his way to the bar. My goodness! he felt all caught up in (with a lisp) a mansoon! The bum rush of hags and horny men were relentless, these girls seemed to make everybody aroused, they were beautiful, like stepping into a magazine. Tyrone heard one girl call Cassie a cock because she never returns her calls; and he could only catch the pregnant hiatuses of Lori’s voice, a speech tone that he found himself planning to duet after a few drinks.

He found a hole, no stool, but there was a place to stand and order. Tyrone’s eyes had nothing but kindness when he became the object of attention for all of these gentlemen at the bar, outside this world he was probably average, but shrouded in the darkness of this male-on-male fiasco, he was younger, a little more hip, a little more clever, and here he was looked at with stupid (i.e. testosterone) bedroom invitation. Miss Congeniality was on the clichi construction site.

There was no bartender. Apparently, it was the barkeep’s birthday and the chemical milkshake that he had jostled together in his belly had taken a celebrative turn towards non-participation, he lay on a few chairs rowed side by side and was not to be taunted.

Eventually someone served him his vodka tonic, which he did not pay for, not because of the befuddled control-juggling that was happening, no, he had noticed without great difficulty a truly refined man calling out to pay, not long after, another terrific human would claim his next. What an outstanding place! That is if you can elegantly situate the ol’ wink and stare. The psychotic, desperate stares.

Tyrone understood what his two new girlfriends saw in this bistro of whiskeysemen, here, they were rockstars. From Tyrone’s objective angle, because he had shared downtime in company, they were really absorbing the attention, no matter how much they shrugged it, he could see how their faces lit with false purpose.

Now that this campy troupe had asked all of their questions and Tyrone had rubbed the backs of all their suggestions, he seized a lapse and rested his forehead in his palms and pulled the brim down on some contemplative hat in a hope that they would desist; how many tonics was this? He poised the stirring straw in his fingertips, he tapped the inside rim of his glass in five equidistant points, tracing an invisible pentangle that hovered above his mix. (an old fascination, now a dull undertone); so many suicides.

Girlskin on his arm removed his attention, here was Cassie with her naturally puffy lips and eyes that helixed his buzz, she was molding his hand in hers, he allowed his chin to drop so that he may voyeur her seemingly brittle, candy-like fingers.

These are Oxycontin.

Two sunny yellow pills, smaller than aspirin, were pressed into his palm as she let the words float from her and into Tyrone.

Tyrone paused too long, snatched up in his drug wonderworld, an idiotic grin.

Here!

She pecked the blonde pellets from his heart-line and crammed them in his mouth and Tyrone said oh shit from around her intruding fingers.

Then Cassie was reeled away to a back of the bar table that was curtained by the crowd. People are being pushed out of chairs, a younger boy at a table close to the bar is rolling a joint, and a disturbance of breaking glass makes Tyrone turn belly to the bar again. He allowed a fake paranoia to panic his mind, this is an absolute freak show!- but the place was fogged with desperation, as though at anytime the Hey Rube! call would bring a townsmob kicking and carving with halberds to dig out this cancer of junky homosexuality.

(…pills.)

His eyes snagged in a drowsy blink and he was undertowed by bourbon custard waves that sent him spelunking down a hole with invisible jelly dildo walls.

Become the chaos.

He had to align himself.

Do not resist the debaucherist ocean of the pleasure consciousness, catch yourself with the signals being broadcast, genitally embrace the warm flow of your tranquil impetus. The two tablets were bookends phasing in and out with his pulse, closing on his head, his brain, and then at last zipping together in the middle of his balance.

Ahh…

Tyrone looks up, much better, he thinks he can make it to the pisser now.

Traveling into the heavy of bodies, the thickness of flesh gripping him in this collective personal space that is at once calm and erotic, triceps squeezing into a dimension of men’s nippled chests and touch responsive backs. Tyrone rests his head on a stranger’s shoulder as he waits to get by. The tiny trip did linger.

In the bathroom he urinates and stares (yes… pills…)… he listens to whales rape and paraphilic squids laugh at the free show from this underwater crypt.

Lori was skirting the mjlie of drinkers when Tyrone paced from the bathroom, intent upon his poise. He approached her and she cruised by him, then she turned, catching him in the beaming of her face.

Tyrone!

They enclosed.

Her turtle bean eyes exited him with their smiling hunger.

Oh my God! That name is so black!

Lori felt a growth against her thigh, modesty made Tyrone shift so it would not mature beside her in feverish swelling violation and make all of his words creak with sleaze, and Lori resisted reaching down to palm it. Then Tyrone mentioned the racial stereotypical anatomy that would have to accompany his name and she giggled from the corner of her mouth and pulled his pelvis tight to hers.

Vision has to focus past Lori’s powerful aura, drawn by a familiarity. Tyrone sees Cassie fending off the persistencies of a Moor whose speech is unusually tight-assed upper class; as if the world needs more ‘white is right’ attitude in its small minded, pasty bag of shit.

Motherfucking cookie…was all Tyrone could think.

Tyrone slurred as Lori began looking around, not listening; he was searching the decorative Christmas lights for vowel sounds when she gripped his hand and led as he tippy-toed partially blind to a crescent booth of which half the occupants had drained out of and onto the floor, dripping through the sewage grate.

The booth was adrift upon an ocean of dick jokes, with Tyrone swaying port and back into Lori, his steadfast mast, his Dramamine. My spigot of gnad nectar! The dick-loogie pitching machine! Yes, Tyrone was also quite the card.

Tyrone dimly noticed that he had not seen Lori tic, and he was dimly disappointed.

At this low level of motor skill and even with the doughy condition of his brain, Tyrone could still spot an interloper. It was as if the guy had walked out from the mirror behind the bar; Tyrone had sensed his deliberately slow movement, a person attempting to inspire drama within themself, theatrical blocking. The husky gentleman with the holiday smile that no one was saying hello to, Tyrone was skeptical of him for about the time it took for Lori to gulp down her drink in a swallow or two, then denounced this thief of color and light and returned to what was important to him: Lori.

l across Lori’s features, Good girl… lobs out from his mind and he reaches to bunch up her hair in his hand and then touch her at her temple, and then as he brings his hand to the base of himself to pinch off and trap the blood, he notices something un…Oh shit!! A millisecond of dread slaps his eyes to see that the hoarse knuckles, the slightly furred fingers, belong to Ziggy. Tyrone arches his back and puts a hand to Ziggy’s shoulder but Zig hunches forward taking his hand from Tyrone’s thigh and embracing him from behind his arching spine, a dreg mutt fighting for the spoiled scraps the butcher had thrown out; yes, Ziggy is tensed and quite uncaring in his pleasures. Tyrone resolves and cradles him at the ear, tender. Lori voices her presence and circles Tyrone’s scrotum with the meat of her thumb; he holds her in, a slug trying to pull out of his drunken nose dive, his mouth searching for its bit as he lifts her breasts spasmolytic, shaking, sensing his moment comin.

Every blot of Tyrone was deposited and so consumed by Ziggy. Ziggy stands, tasting the inside of his mouth and making mmm sounds and wiping his hand on Tyrone’s black chinos. Tyrone catches the glint on Ziggy’s necklace, a small sliver anchor in place of where one normally would find a crucifix. Fumbling dumb, trying to get his pants on, Tyrone forgets everything as Lori begins to help him and he sinks, generously lubricated, into the snatch of narcosis.

In a single movement, Tyrone wakes, raises himself up, sees the girls walking away, realizes he’s in the car, opens the back door and calls after them. Cassie and Lori are up, very awake, and they run back to Tyrone chuckling and cooing to him. I’ve got to get the fuck out of this town… Tyrone was peering around trying to make sense of his location as these two perky girls teetered him and walked him into the consecutive club.

Tyrone shifted back into awareness. The steadily bouncing throb, omniscient and collapsing, a warding telling him not to open his eyes, but he did. Kids, only noticeably younger than Tyrone by their clothing, were a mess all over the dance floor; the beat was at that frequency, that tempo that instigates nosebleeds, insanity.

He heard more Amazonian bird laughter coming somewhere from Cassie, he took his eyes off his forearm and saw she had some young boy cornered, shirt up, finishing a face on his chest penned in green magic-marker and utilizing one of the teenager’s nipples as an eye. The warbled sketch against the pale, ribbed skin with its one dark brown iris was considerably disturbing to Tyrone, despite the boy’s sexually wiggling pelvis.

The flashes snapped the dancers into frames of claymation; Tyrone’s closer inspection revealed they were not gyrating from some youthful artistic emotion, no, they were all twitching at the victim’s end of a mass gallows, their kicking feet were not touching the floor, they were strapped to the rafters. Throeing. Boogiein. Tyrone shut his eyes and found his head suddenly smacked hard onto the table, he opened his eyes and saw a chalky and hacked residue, he reached to smear a finger through it, then absence scooped out his mind.

– The End –