a high-spirited gathering.
'Hi,' he replied. 'Did what hurt?'
'The pins. They're real, huh?'
'A little,' he admitted. 'You're the first to recognize their validity.'
'I figured it out when I saw that.' She nodded her head in the direction of his pocket and the end of the box cutter that protruded from within. He shoved it farther inside, hiding it and looked back to the girl. She looked him in the eyes. 'I have one just like it,' she said, her eyes then darting off to the crowd and back to him. 'Do you do it often? I mean, I just do it when it all gets too much.'
'Every day,' he replied, suddenly understanding. It wouldn't matter much now, he thought. He inched up his right clown sleeve. There were a myriad of cuts at various points of healing. The latest one was still dark red and slightly oozing. The girl nodded.
'I suppose it's nice to know I'm not alone. Still. Sometimes I wish it would all go away. Sometimes, I wish I was someone else. Anyone else.'
'We are who we are,' he replied, edging over to sit next to her on the stairs. 'Never be ashamed of who you are. It won't make any difference anyway.' She reminded him far too much of himself.
'Life is never what you expect it to be, huh?' She glanced over at him, one corner of her mouth lifting in a sort of half-smirk.
He nodded. No time like the present. He might as well begin the evening's activities. He wasn't sure why, but he leaned over and whispered into her ear and then stood, observing her expression. It took a few seconds, but then her eyes widened for only a split second. Her neutral expression rapidly overcame her shock at his words. She glanced out at the small crowd again, making her decision. She stood from the stairs. Even standing on the bottom step she was a couple of inches shorter than Red.
'It was nice to meet you,' she said. She stared at him for a moment longer, as if burning his face into her memory. He could accept that. She nodded her comprehension and said, 'Have a nice night.' She then made her way through the guests and left through the front door. Red watched her through a window as she disappeared into the night and thought about what was to come. Time to get to work. He scanned the crowd for the Playboy bunny.
'Have you seen Misty?' Priss asked one of the other girls. She thought her name was LaDonna or something ethnic like that. The girl shook her head, and then turned to dance with Thad, who was clumsier than usual and dressed as a barbarian. Same damned costume every year, she thought.
No imagination.
Priss perused the room as she meandered through the party people and found no sign of Misty. She must have been in the toilet. Hopefully, her friend wasn't in there puking her guts out. Priss smiled at the thought that Misty might have finally overdone it. That girl was always too much in control, even for Priss. Priss liked to be in control, too; however there was always a time and place to relax and let your hair down. Yet, the one area she paid particular attention to was her associations. Priss liked to maintain a level playing field of friends. She'd learned her lesson as far back as middle school. But, she didn't want to dredge up those old memories. Now was the time to enjoy life. She headed for the front door to grab another beer.
Two down and one to go. Drastic Red's smile painfully widened, thin rivulets of blood seeping out of the pin holes and slowly making their way down to his chin. He moved to the kitchen entryway as he watched Priss step out onto the porch. Time to dirty this game up a little, he thought. As the current song ended, he reached over to the stereo and switched out Priss'
MP3 player for the one he kept in his pockets of goodies. The mood all changed as Rammstein growled out in German against the heavy backbeat and vicious guitars.
Priss had just closed the front door and taken a slow swig of her beer when the music changed dramatically. This was not on her playlist. It was angry and foreign and she wondered who the hell put this crap on.
Nevertheless, the dozen or so remaining guests were jumping up and down in rhythm with the angry beat. She stomped toward the stereo. This was unacceptable. As she closed on the stereo, someone closed in on her.
Suddenly, she was staring into the face of one scary ass clown.
Priss had never liked clowns. They freaked her out. All that weird makeup to make them look happier than everyone else just came across as arrogant and threatening to her. This guy had taken it to the extreme. The red, curved diamond shapes over his eyes set against the stark white face gave the impression of blood, and when she saw the safety pins pushed through his cheeks to hold his grin in place she felt a little nauseated.
The clown reached out and steadied her with strong hands. One of his eyes was a dark violet, the other a pale blue. It reminded her of...
'You don't like the music?' Red asked her. She stood wide-eyed, staring at him in wonder and revulsion and, perhaps, a bit of recognition.
'Not my style,' she managed to respond.
Without another word, he swept her into a twirling, jolting dance. As he swung her this way and that, the crowd parted for their angry ballet. He couldn't help but notice how soft her skin was, how beautiful she was after all these years. He would have been aroused if it weren't for the fact that she still had not recognized him. Forget the makeup. There were several other clues. Perhaps she was just too drunk. Only one way to find out, he thought.
He increased their swaying and swinging and twirling. He watched as she tried to speak, to tell him to stop; however, as she opened her mouth, her eyes widened and she clamped it shut again. He ignored the first heave or two, waiting until he was certain there was no turning back. Then he let her go, aiming his release of her in the direction of the bathroom. Priss made a beeline for it.
The world was a menagerie of fireworks, drum beats and horrible sounds as Priss could not stop the violent retching. She tried to keep her hair back and out of the way of her projectile expulsions, but her coordination had evaporated with the onset of anatomical crisis.
She flushed the toilet and was about to stand when it came over her once more and she hit her knees on the tile, screaming in liquid anguish into the bowl. Her body shook with the effort and tears streamed down her face.
She would never drink like this again. Ever. And, she would sure as shit kick out that asshole clown once she regained control of herself.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of spilling her guts, Priss managed to make it to the sink, splashing cold water over her face. She was trying to clean her hair with water and a washcloth as she heard the music shift again to another angry metal type song. She was going to kill that clown, whoever he was. Why was he here? She didn't remember inviting him. Still, there was something familiar about him. And, those eyes. No, she thought. That’s just your imagination.
She finished cleaning herself up and stood facing the mirror. Her hair was a mess, now mostly wet from the efforts to remove the vomit. She reached into a drawer and retrieved a small elastic band, wrapping her wet hair back into a ponytail. It would have to do for now. She adjusted her coconut bra and hula skirt, then turned and exited the bathroom.
Red waited as Priss took in the scene. He had spent his time well this evening. Thad and Misty had been secured away in the washroom off of the kitchen, safe and sound while he quietly spread the rumor that one of the neighbors had called the police. Drunken people are so very gullible, he thought. He kindly escorted most of them to the door himself, leaving only the extremely zonked out young boy in what looked to be a Cirque du Soleil outfit.
Now, the three guests of honor were sitting, facing the stereo, Indian-style with their wrists bound to their ankles with thick zip ties. Their mouths had been stuffed with silk scarves and duct-taped to prevent any arguments.
