Apologies for the intermission. That won't happen again.

Here is a piece of very brief fiction written on a dare. Please, give me more challenges; they help me stretch myself.

And I hope no one is offended by any language; if so, I give thee my deepest condolences.

"Short Story #1"

“I swear to Christ, I’ve got no fucking idea why I was passed out in that bathroom!” It’s true; I really didn’t have a fucking idea as to why I was passed out in that bathroom. My captors/fascist pricks/blue-suited jerk-offs/police officers wouldn’t accept the veracity of this claim, however, and decided to take me to a holding cell where a really very nice man decided to perform numerous drug tests (I failed the opiates test, of all things) and cavity searches (I’m positive the two following the initial anal investigation were more for his personal pleasure rather than to uphold any notion of justice). I was released on bail several hours later, sentenced to 100 hours of community service, and let off the hook. There is a certain convenience, I must confess, in being related, however distantly, to the assistant to the city’s attorney general. In the ensuing months I have gathered the scraps and bits and pieces of that day’s story.

As with all things, it begins with Echo and the Bunnymen. They were playing here in Seattle at the Paramount on a…it might have been a Tuesday, possibly a Thursday. No, it was a Tuesday. 29^th of March, if I recollect clearly. I was going. Here’s what occurred prior to that. I woke up late (so says my roommate) and went out for a smoke and a bagel. I don’t have the money to go buying breakfast, but it was a Tuesday (or Thursday) and these are historically bad days, so I figured there was no danger in one more mistake. It was chilly, windy, and lighting a cig was hard. The bagels were as big as flying saucers (no shittin’ ya, ya know?), but all that was left as far as selection were the poppy seed bagels. Whatever. Two of them, a coffee, a couple of smokes, a pretty French girl. What more does a man need? The French chick was some ‘lost foreigner’ named Amelie who wanted some direction around her new city (she moved because her father wanted her away from Paris’ bad influences). She found new ones, fortunately, and invited me to a little get together later that day. What’s the harm, I said?

I went back to my apartment. I freshened up, flipped through my old college textbooks (philosophy as a major? I really was a loony young man) for fun, and generally just went about my business. At about four, I arrived at the meeting spot where I was meeting that Parisian lass. Outside a bookstore. I went in and skimmed the rows filled with communist screeds next to five-dollar pop thrillers. There’s something appropriate in that. I guess the fact that the books of Marx were dusty and the trash novels almost gone from the shelf shows which system really works. Amelie showed up around four-fifteen and took me upstairs; her friends were also the friends (twenty-somethings) of the proprietors.

I was introduced to everyone (“This is Charlie” in a jaunty Academie lilt). They were hedonists and revolutionaries, all of ‘em, and they were all very impressed with themselves. But bad morals are no matter when the spirit is good and the spirits are classy. One of the Dionysians, Phillip, was versed in mixing drinks, so everyone was able to pretend they were sophisticated. “God, I’m sophisticated.” No one appreciated the Fitzgerald reference, but these things happen. Heaven forbid they be versed on their nation’s literature (Amelie being the exception, for obvious reasons).

At about seven, I decided to leave the ‘salon’ and go ahead to the Paramount. I felt woozy. It turns out that one of the pseudo-smart spoil sports slipped MDMA in my drink. I could feel what everyone else was feeling. As it turned out, alcohol and ecstacy don’t mix well, at least not for me (I don’t hang around ‘that’ scene, so I am unfamiliar with the effects of the intermingling; I metabolize alcohol in a weird way, so that might have something to do with it). By the time as was at the venue, I needed to vomit. I was aiming for the toilet. I hit some meathead’s shoes. A pummeling later, I am lights out. And you know the rest.

What the hell was a jock doing at an Echo and the Bunnymen concert?