Deconstructing Ashley (Parts 26 - 35)

By Superlush (with some illustrations by Captain Dunsel)

Continued from Parts 19 - 25

Part 26

As she slowly, slowly, oh-so-slowly, with steady, greedy gulps, worked on draining her glass of beer so that she could have another one and continue to celebrate her victory over Andrew’s attempt to trick her into leaving before she was all the way filled up, Ashley realized that she could no longer feel her tongue at all anymore. It was like having no tongue at all. Which was kind of cool, actually. It made sense also—she told herself. Her tongue was just so well attuned to her needs, so good with monkeys like she was, that it knew what to do: disappear so she could fill up on beer easier. 

Maybe her tongue wasn’t so stupid after all—she thought, feeling almost guilty for having doubted it. Maybe it was just.... posing... as stupid, just like she was. It was her tongue, after all.So it would stand to reason and logic and stuff that it would…. do stuff like her... because it was hers. Right?

Because it’s the principle of the thing.

The principle of which thing, exactly?—her frontal lobe asked snidely, debilitated by THC and alcohol though it was.

The monkey-tongue... pose... thing. Obviously. 

Her frontal lobe grudgingly accepted this answer because it had become distracted by the realization of something else: the fact that having no tongue, while in certain ways cool, actually meant disaster when it came to chugging down ice cold IPA. Without a tongue she was unable to feel how much liquid was in her mouth and the inevitable result was that her mouth became overfilled. The excess was spilling out of her mouth and streaming down her chin and onto her cleavage. An icy, foamy rain.

Shock flashed through her. “Oh... shid, dude,” she gasped, clunking her glass down hard on the table. She shot Andrew a hapless, low-lidded smirk. He was looking at her with the kind of bemused smile that Raymond often gave her when she got super stoned out of her mind and said something stupid or dropped the lighter down her cleavage or tripped over her own feet. The recognition made her all the more attracted to Andrew, who was saying:

“You okay there?”

“Shid, dude...” She patted heavily at her cleavage with a napkin that she found close at hand. “I jussss’... I jus’ fuggin’ zpilled my beer on myself." She smiled, looking up at Andrew as she patted her firm cleavage. "I zpilled id all over...” She back looked down at herself, trying to ascertain the damage to her top. It looked okay. Soaked with beer, but okay. Maybe this wasn’t as embarrassing as it... was.

“Yep. You sure did,” Andrew took a sip of his beer and glanced back over at where the waiters had been. They were now gone. He was relieved, but knew there was probably still trouble brewing. Ashley was drawing a lot of attention. They needed to move on. Every moment they stayed here was a risk that didn’t need to be taken. “You just got a little hasty there. No worries. Happens to me all the time,” he lied. “Look, don’t you think we should be go—?”

“Really?!” Ashley cried, reacting to his admission that he too spilled beer on himself. “Noway.” She tried to imagine Andrew spilling beer all down the front of himself. It didn’t seem likely: he was always so... careful. “Yer susha liar,” she giggled, “bu’ yer sweed, though... so... (giggle!)... so thangsh.” She kept wiping her cleavage with heavy brushing motions; her bleary, slitted eyes seeking Andrew’s. “I’m a to’all friggin’... friggin’ ligh’weigh’. Tha’ssa prah’lum, dude.”

“The problem?”

She swatted the air playfully with her napkin, nowhere in the vicinity of Andrew. “Yah! See! Zee wha’ I mean, dude? I can’n even... friggin’ talg!” She giggled hard, enjoying the fuzzy throbbing that was everywhere. “I’m a stoner dude. Gimmie a bong an’ I’ll, li’g, smoge you the fug unner the tab’l, bu’... bu’...” She glanced down at her pint glass: even after spilling it there was still a bit left. “... bu’ algahol... algahol’z a whoooole diff’ren’ story.”

“Well... I don’t know if ‘lightweight’ would be how I would describe you...” Andrew paused and took a moment to just smile at her. She smiled back.

“Really?”

“Really.” A giddy sense of immense satisfaction was welling up in Andrew, more powerful than anything he had ever experienced. Trouble or no trouble, he was without a doubt zeroing in on lucky bastard Raymond’s girl. She had gone from untouchable and aloof to lustily hanging on his every word. Everything was going perfectly; couldn’t be better, really, and the more he thought about it the more he felt justified in what he was doing. Raymond always got everything. Ever since high school. He had been the small town dealer who knew everyone, was friends with everyone, got all the hottest chicks to come over for ‘slumber parties,’ and Andrew had been stuck perpetually in the role of loyal sidekick who wagged a good-natured finger at his wilder friend. But fuck that—Andrew thought as Ashley began wiping her cleavage again even though the beer had been pretty thoroughly dried, her smile never leaving her face—it’s time for a little payback. It’s Andrew’s turn to get what he wants. And what better way was there to do both those things at once than by seducing Raymond’s latest pothead girlfriend? Okay, so, there were probably better ways, but none would be as satisfying. This was Ashley MacPherson, after all (sweet, heavenly Ashley MacPherson).

“Hmmm, you know what?” he asked casually, quickly deciding that if she wanted to stay and drink more beer, why should he try to rush her? What, was he crazy? Why not let her drink as much as she wanted? Give her even more excuses to do so than he already had. “I just thought of something. You know what one of the stupidest things that monkeys do is?”

Ashley’s ears pricked up. “Yah,” she stated stupidly. “Wha’ id... is?” She blinked off to one side, then smirked and rephrased: “I mean... wha’ is id... (giggle!)...”

“They ontologize their problems.” He waited for the inevitable uncomprehending look...

It came.

After looking uncomprehendingly at Andrew for a moment, Ashley blinked off to the side again, probing the blur for clarity. “Uuuh... On... Onna… gize?” 

Fuck—she thought, blearily—this is some more of Andrew’s smarty literal theory stuff. Derrida stuff. That stuff was awesome, she knew, but... it was really hard to follow.

She directed all her efforts to trying to focus on what Andrew was saying. “Um... ogah. Wazz tha’ mean?”

“Exactly,” said Andrew, brandishing his winning smile like a blunt instrument (he wasn’t sure if she would be able to see it otherwise), “that’s what I like about you, Ash. You’re not afraid to ask questions.” She smiled happily at the compliment. “But so, ontologize is just a fancy, philosophy word that you’ve probably never heard of.” She nodded. “Right. So, what I mean is that monkey’s... well, they tend to think that their problems are unchangeable, natural, or, in the opposite direction, they tend to think that something natural is a problem when its not.”

“They do?” Ashley realized that she had started dabbing absentmindedly at her cleavage again. Over and over in the same spot. It felt good. She stopped herself. Wasn’t there some kind of monkey-principle against touching your boobs too much? Yes, yes there definitely was. But then again... maybe she was onta-gizing a problem—whatever that meant exactly. Maybe... maybe monkey-principles themselves were onta-gized... or something. Maybe monkey-principles were one of the stupid things that monkeys did. It certainly seemed stupid not to be able to touch your boobs whenever you wanted. But... the monkey-principles might just be posing as stupid? Like her. Or... or were they really, actually stupid? With a shake of her head she decided to let it go. Toward the Andrew-blur opposite her she directed her best attempt at a solemn, thoughtful expression. “In both... um... drug’shuns? Ad once?” She furrowed her brow, trying to think about how something could go in two direction at once. “Whoa.” This literal theory stuff was totally amazing.

Andrew laughed at what to him was clearly a bleary, half-comprehending stare. “Okay, you’re right; it is kind of complicated but check it out. Let’s take an example… You…”

“Me?” Ashley gaped. How was she involved in onta-gizzling whatever?

“Yeah. You. You just called yourself a lightweight, right?”

“I… I’m a ligh’weigh’?”

“You said that, didn’t you?”

Ashley thought about it. It took a moment, but finally she nodded slowly, “Yah, I thingk I... guezz I di’ say tha’… (giggle!). Ogay... Yah... I to’lly said tha’... Cuz… li’g... cuz iss true. Righ’?” It occurred to her that she might have used the wrong word. Lightweight, right? Lightweight was the word that meant... can’t drink very much. Right? Everything was so fuzzy.

“Well, not exactly,” Andrew explained. “See, you’ve ontologized the problem by making it into a universal statement. You make it sound like you’re just naturally a lightweight. Like there’s nothing you can do about it. Like it’s something that you can’t change.”

Ashley frowned. “You mean… I’m nah naturally... ligh’... (giggle!) ligh’weigh’did?”

“Of course not, being a lightweight is just a matter of alcohol tolerance…”

“Of... tall... tall‘rince?” It was hard to say that word without a tongue.

“Right. See, I have a beer or two every day so my tolerance is pretty high. I’m not drinking them to get drunk, I just have a few to relax and reduce stress—”

“Yah! Fug bein’ stressed,” Ashley interrupted, grinning. That she understood.

“Um, yeah... Exactly. But so, I didn’t always have high tolerance. It’s not like I was born that way. I had to build it up over time. And now, since I’ve built it up, I can drink quite a few beers before I… How’d you put it? About Halloween?”

She stared at him blankly. “I ‘unno.”

“Before I get shithoused, that’s it. You see what I’m saying?” Andrew wondered if she could see anything, right now. She’d gone through more beer on an empty stomach than he had ever seen. Her eyes were as glassy as a pond. “By ontologizing your lightweightedness you’re selling yourself short. You’re not maximizing your market-potential, as you Marketing majors might say, right?”

Ashley had dropped the crumpled napkin onto the table, but her hand had drifted back to her tanned flesh and was gently tracing the crevice between her breasts as she mulled over what Andrew had just said. Of course, what he had said hadn’t exactly make sense to her. Is he trying to outsmarty me?—she wondered. Me? The smarty Cheshire-cat-monkey? She giggled. Not a chance.

“Um, yah, marget-p’entenshul,” she slurred valiantly, “Sure. Bu’... but...” She so had him on this one. She arched a cunning eyebrow at the blur, “bu’ li’g, I’ve had a cuh’bull beerz, or more, preddy offin already. I mean, I jring ‘em... nah li’g... ehvery day,” she added hastily, “bu’… preddy offin. Zo... zo how come my… my tall’ence… (ahem) tall’rence isn’n as good as yers?” Once she got it all out she sat back with a smug smile. She couldn’t wait to see the blurry, oh-shit, out-smartied look on Andrew’s face.

“Isn’t as high.” Andrew corrected her.

“Huh?” Ashley blinked. “Nah’s... high?” The gears of her mind spun. He wants to get high? For real? Awesome! Her clit sang and her hand slipped into her lap without her even being aware of it: she was focused entirely on Andrew, marvelling at Andrew who had a baggie of Kush and a pipe in his car and who was totally a pothead-monkey just like her. She instantly already saw herself nuzzling her way into his lap in the car, while he here-ya-go-monkey’d her full of smoke; she could even slip into one of those sexy new dresses she had in the trunk, just to showcase herself in the smoke. He’d take out his camera-phone and... Awesome, awesome, awesome! 

“Yeah, not as high,” Andrew repeated.

“You…um…” Her voice dropped to a whisper and she glanced over her shoulder (though all she saw was a shifting crowd-blur), before she leaned forward conspiratorially, hooded eyes sparkling along their slitted middles, “You wanna ge’ high?” The hand in her lap pressed down slightly. The pressure on her clit made her lip curl when she said: “Iss... issat wha’jew want? Dude,” she breathed, “I’m soooo down. I’m so to’lly down.”

Andrew threw back his head and laughed. Oh, Ashley! Ashley, Ashley! “What?" he said incredulously, "No, I meant your tolerance isn’t as high. Isn’t as high as mine. I was correcting you because we were talking about drinking beer raising tolerance and you said...”

Ashley face fell. “Oh,” she covered her mouth with both hands. “Shorry, shorry, shorry (giggle!)… I… (giggle!) I toooolly missunnerstood you. I missunnerstood. I’m shorry... I... I...” With all her last reserves of willpower she resisted saying that she just really, really wanted to smoke another bowl. “You gotta rememmer, dude,” she said instead, giving the air a sloppy swat, “I fergot my brain at home, ‘memmer?”

“What? Is it in your phone?” Andrew joked.

She giggled hard, even though it wasn’t very funny and she knew it: the thing was, giggling hard at dumb things boys said was, in Ashley’s experience, the best and easiest way to flirt with them. Especially when you’re getting really drunk and can’t keep track of who exactly has the upper hand. So she played along, “Yah, ih’sss to’lly in my phone. I keep my brain’n my phone.” She twirled a finger around the side of her head to indicate her lack of brain, keeping her other hand in her lap. “I’m all jus’ li’g... ‘duuuuh, le’ss smoge a bowl.’ (giggle!)... Bu’ ... um, yah... I ‘unno. So... uh... …” What were they talking about? Tolerance! Yes! “So, yah, bu’ so I wan’ high tall’rince too. To’lly. To’lly high.” She giggled again, then realized that her hand was between her legs and jerked it back up to the table. “How come my high tall’rince issn’n as... issn’n as high’ss yers?” Ha!—she thought—back on track! Not so drunk after all. She took a quick sip of her beer. “Mmm.” It tasted as good as ever.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Andrew said jovially. “You’re already doing it. The secret to raising your tolerance is just to drink more. Your tolerance goes up the more you drink. You said you don’t drink everyday, well there’s your problem. I do.” He could hardly believe what he was saying: never in his wildest dreams had he have ever imagined actually saying something so blatantly ridiculous to a girl. Dear God, let alone to Ashley MacPherson! But, she wanted to drink more. There was her excuse. “You see?” he added. “It’s totally simple really. You just have to stop ontologizing your problem and take action. Stick with it and... you know... Shit, I mean, if you put half as much work into it as you do into your tan, then you’ll have twice my tolerance in no time.”

“Really?” So she had been onta-gizing—Ashley thought with a slight frown. Of course! It was so clear... Sort of.

“Sure. Try it out and you’ll see.”

“Try it? Now?”

You can just fill up on beer!

“Now’s as good a time as any, right? Besides, what’ve you got to lose, right? You’re just reducing stress, right?”

“Ohmygawd,” Ashley gushed. She was reducing stress, for that studying thing she had to mind-over-monkey for! “Yer righ’, dude. Yer so friggin’ righ’.”

Oooh, in your face, monkey! Mind over you! 

She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of this before! Alcohol was perfect for reducing stress! And since the higher her tolerance was, the more she could drink, and the more she drank the less stress she had to deal with... she’d be getting A’s and stuff like crazy.

Niiiiiiiiice. 

To Ashley it seemed clear that if she wanted to keep up appearances and prevent Andrew from noticing that he had outsmarted her then she would need to say something really smart right now. So she turned her attention to the task with bleary determination. Her beer-filled mind raced frantically for a moment, then she sternly slurred, “An’… an’ tha’s why when you mix’em,” she jabbed an equally stern finger at Andrew’s blurry face, “it'sssa real way to… to... uh… to fuggin’... Yah... uh... ya know wha' I mean, righ'?”

“Well put.” Andrew quipped.

Ashley furrowed her brow and beamed at the same time, unable to believe she had pulled that off.

Gingerly, since she knew that if she started slopping beer all over the place again it wouldn’t be good, Ashley picked up her glass and held it high.

She held it there a moment, grinning at Andrew; even as drunk as she was she remembered to arch her back to push her boobs out flirtatiously. At the edges of her blurred vision she was starting to notice a slight curving spin, faint but persistent. She ignored it.

“Are you making a toast?” Andrew asked, after she had held her beer up in silence for a bit longer than she had intented.

“Uh... yes... Here’s... here’s ta you, An’rew.”

“Well thank you I—”

“An’!” She held up a finger., silencing him “An’... here’s ta mixin’ pot an’ algahol. Cuz tha’s good shid.”

“Here, here.” Andrew agreed.

“Fug yah,” Ashley agreed, smiling at Andrew so hard that her cheeks ached distantly. “An’! One more.... (giggle!)... An’ here’s ta lih’rull theory. Lih’rareel... lih’ll... (giggle!)... liddle theory. There.”

“Yeah, here’s to it.”

They both drank deeply. And as they drank a small troop of waiters, all trying to look busily compelled to walk alongside table 15 for some reason, passed by, one after the other, each gawking at Ashley. Andrew wondered what that was about. 

When Ashley lowered her glass she discovered, much to her surprise, that it was empty.

“Whoa,” she said, looking down into the glass, at the little film of bubbles on the very bottom, “tha’ wasn’n very mush beer, huh?”

“Nope,” Andrew replied. “Just a pint. Another?”

“Fug yah! Fill me up, dude,” she giggled, and held out her glass, eyes sparkling. “Tol’rence here I fuggin’ come!”

As he refilled her glass and she watched the wonderful heaven-liquid pour like a foamy waterfall, Ashley wondered, in what seemed to her to be a glorious moment of smartyness, if havinghigh alcohol tolerance and getting high were really as unconnected as they appeared. She doubted it.

And she was determined to figure out the connection.

“Shall we go deeper?” Like that nice clothes lady had said.

“Yah... we shall go deeper an’ deeper,” she murmured to herself.

“What was that?” Andrew had finished filling her glass and was now refilling his own, but only halfway.

“Oh... nothin’...” Ashley said with a sly grin, reaching for her glass. “Nothin’ at all.”

She imagined herself with twice Andrew’s tolerance: and almost squealed with joy. She’d be unstoppable! Cancun would be a breeze, her paper would write itself twice as easily (since she’d be twice as not-stressed out, because she’d be twice as drunk, obviously), and her high would be twice as hardcore (since she’d be mixing pot with twice as much alcohol), all while her pose remained as stylish and sexy as ever.

Part 27

Kelly had blundered her way back to the dorms; and though anyone watching would not have been able to tell, she had been walking on sunshine. Her shuffling footsteps—each foot lifted and then gingerly placed squarely and carefully ahead of the other, as she watched heavy-liddedly for bumps in the sidewalk, or approaching pedestrians, the way a driver of country roads watches out for deer—had been accompanied by the golden knowledge that she had just fucked Raymond. That she had finally done it. Finally done him.

And the fact that it had taken her months to muster up the nerve only made it all the more golden.

Now, safe on the couch of her dorm, having stripped off her hoodie so she could lounge comfortably in her bra and jeans, she carefully pondered her gallon zip-lock bag filled with beautiful, fat buds.

The top of the bag was open and waves of delicious, skunky aroma were wafting up into her face, making her mouth water. With laborious strokes of her stoned gaze she examined the neat Sharpie script on the side.

‘Pink Widow.’ It read.

“Puuuh’ink Wheh’doh,” she said aloud, slowly, as if she were uttering a magical incantation.

She thought of what Raymond had said to her back at his place: ‘guess it’ll have to be you who gets that high…’

She smiled, and sniffed the aroma. Raymond always said the coolest stuff, didn’t he? And he always had the best weed. He was the kind of guy she dreamed of. She giggled stupidly, continuing to sniff the weed. As her giggles died down, but not her sniffing, she replayed the scene of her sly seduction of Raymond. She hadn’t been able to believe it was happening, even as she had been fumbling with the lighter to hit that bong while Raymond’s hands caressed her and his cock slipped in...

“Whoa...” she gulped, pressing a hand to her crotch for a moment and smirking. The memory of that bong and those hands was turning her on.

With a long, slow, stoned blink Kelly pulled her mind away from the memory and tried to reorient to her surroundings.

In an ashtray on the couch beside her smoldered the remains of a blunt she had rolled first thing upon stumbling through the door of her dorm. A little further over on the couch, curled up in a fetal ball, was her roommate Claire, who was too stoned off the Pink Widow to even look up at the TV-screen where Legend was playing, muted.

Legend was Kelly’s favorite movie of all time, so as she lifted her slitted eyes from her wealth of buds toward the screen, she was prepared for totally cool Ridley Scott epicness. But they didn’t make it to the screen, she got distracted on the way and found herself blinking quizzically at the blinking red light of her laptop’s webcam. Her laptop was sitting on the coffee table right in front of her.

The red light meant... that... it was recording, didn’t it?

Oh... right—she thought with a stoned giggle. I’m still recording my vlog update.

She licked her lips. “Ummm... So, uh… Yeah... Ummm...” She tried to pick up where she had left off. “…so I guess I… Ummm...” She giggled. Well... this was kind of embarrassing! Try as she might, she couldn’t remember what all she had already said. She couldn’t remember if she had told all her Youtube channel subscribers that she had fucked Raymond, which was really all she wanted to tell them today. She couldn’t even remember if she had said anything yet. 

Kelly had been keeping a video diary on Youtube for the last six months. Every few days she would post a new video of herself smoking a blunt or doing a few bong-rips and laboriously explained through the smog in her head what was going on in her life. It was fun. Originally it had been meant as a way to keep herself on track, stay accountable to her high school friends, scattered as they were around the country at different colleges: but, by now it simply served as a record of how high she got. It had been almost over three months since she had talked about anything other than buying weed, what was the best weed, how much weed she had smoked, how much weed she was about to smoke, when she was getting more weed, and, more often than not, how cool and hot she thought her dealer was. The comments she got on her video posts were always very supportive: many of them were from people she had never heard of, some of them even encouraged her to smoke more weed, which she found pretty funny. Most of her friends from high school were stoners too, so they chimed in every so often with a: ‘Dude we gots to pack a bowl soon,’ or, ‘OMG girl, that hit was fat as fukk!.’ Those always made her smile. Last week she had announced her plan to seduce Raymond, her beloved, ultra-hot, dealer, to Youtube. She had planned to do it during her next buy, but when the time had come he had gotten an important call and pushed her gently out of his apartment so he could take it, leaving her horny and frustrated. She had then vowed to smoke up all of the weed she had just purchased and make another try. ‘Go get him, girl!’ someone calling themselves Ilovestonerbitches420 had posted. And... she had.

So...

The red light blinked at Kelly impishly, rubbing her nose in her own stoned daze where all thinking was lost.

She reached a numbish hand over and delicately plucked the blunt from the ashtray. It was mostly smoked, she noticed. She and Claire had been celebrating her seduction. Holding the blunt to her mouth and puffing on it hard to kindle the cherry, Kelly smiled as she showed that red light who was boss. It was her. She was the boss. The stoned boss of her own… stuff.

Put that in your blunt and smoke it, stupid red light—she thought.

Gushing smoke from her mouth, she tried again to remember what she had already said to the camera. She might have already told it everything. But, then again, she could also have just started recording and not yet said anything…

She couldn’t remember.

The webcam display on her laptop screen showed her, low-slung eyes peeking out from behind her bangs, puffing out smoke like a pro. She giggled around the smoke. Look at how cool I look—she thought.

She held the last of her hit for a moment, feeling the rising wave of an even deeper depth of high floating down on her, then blew out a thick cloud of smoke. “Oh! Fuck. Uh….” she blinked stupidly when she had emptied her lungs. “I… uh… Fuck.”

She realized she would need to redo the video.

“Fuck... this. I’m… I’m gonna… gonna redo this… fuckin’... thing. Fuck.”

With that she sat forward and began carefully manipulating the touchpad of her laptop to move the mouse, while at the same time holding the blunt back up to her lips for another hit with her other hand; the mouse skittered wildly across the screen. “Dammid,” she mumbled around the blunt.

Claire didn’t lift her head. “Ohmygawd Kelly! ... (giggle!)... You... are hilar’ss. For real. You’ve already redo’d tha’… (giggle!)… redone... tha’ like… like… (giggle!) fuckin’... a hundred times already.”

“I have?” Kelly frowned, holding in her hit, feeling herself getting higher and higher. She didn’t remember that at all.

Claire kept giggling in her fetal position. “Yer, like, sooooo stoned, Kelly. Yeah, like… (giggle!)... like... (giggle!)... you did it, like, sooo many times. You... jus’ like... like, ramble about… about how you ‘finally’ fucked your fuck-dealer (giggle!)…” Even Kelly had to giggle at that one. Fuck-dealer. “I... I mean, yer drug-dealer… obviously… I mean... fucking Raymond, obviously… But... (giggle!) yeah... cuz you say he’s soooo cute and you’ve been sooooo wanting his, like…dick for, like, years…(giggle!)...” Claire had to stop talking, the giggles were shaking so hard she could barely breath.

Kelly was giggling too. Hard. Mouth open. Smoke pouring out. “Shuddup,” she managed to get out, sinking back. She lifted the blunt yet again, sucked in a hit, then plumed forth another gust of smoke toward the TV.

Tom Cruise was looking bewildered as an elf with a violin danced by the fire. Even though it was Kelly’s favorite movie, she couldn’t remember what happened next.

Kelly sat forward again and managed to get the mouse under control and got the webcam ready again. She clicked record. “Uh... Hey… It’s… it’s me... Kelly… uuuhhhh… Kelly’s me.” She waved.  “I’m jus’… uh…” She looked down at the blunt in her hand.

Oh yeah. She smiled wide. “Jus’ smokin’ this fuckin’... blunt… Chillin’ with Claire…”

She lifted the blunt again. She promised herself that she would get this post right no matter how long it took. The only problem was it was really hard to concentrate with Claire giggling herself silly a foot away.

“Shhhh!” she pushed at Claire’s butt.

Part 28

“Gee Mr. Bigelow,” Todd said, trying to sound as incredulous as he could, “You really think they… uh... that they smoked marijuana in here?”

“Are you kidding?” Mr. Bigelow’s beady eyes searched Todd’s face. “You’re kidding right? Can’t you smell that?”

“Smell what?” Todd sniffed the air. “Uh… I don’t … smell…” The air was saturated with the stink of pot smoke. He shrugged. “I guess I smell something. Shitty incense, maybe?”

“Come on, kid, don’t play me for a fool. I know what pot smells like. Plus, take a look at this…”

Todd followed Mr. Bigelow into the apartment, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. What had Ashley done?

In the living room Mr. Bigelow pointed smugly at the coffee table, the surface of which was almost entirely covered with baggies of weed.

“See? It’s like a goddamn hash-bar in here.”

“So?” Upon seeing the stash spread out for the whole world to see, plain as day, Todd decided that the best course of action was to play dumb. He kept his face placid, but inside he was seething at Ashley’s stupidity. How could you wander off with the door open and a table covered with your entire stash? How? “So what?”

“So what? The lease specifically states no illegal substances on the premises.”

Todd noticed with interest that Mr. Bigelow didn’t seem very angry. He seemed mildly annoyed, but not that angry. Could this be their lucky day?

“Did you know this was going on, kid? Huh?”

“Did I? Know about the pot? Sure…”

“Now look, kid,” Mr. Bigelow wandered over to the coffee table. He leaned down and picked up a bag. Sniffing it, he continued: “I’m not a bad guy… I’ve got my vices. We all do, right?”

“Uh… sure.”

“Sure we do. But… let’s be honest here, shall we?”

“Okay,” Todd said nervously.

“This is obviously not for personal use.” Mr. Bigelow laughed, making his oversized stomach shake. “Not on your life, kid. No way is this for personal use. Can you imagine how stoned-out someone would have to be to have this much pot for personal use? Why… they’d have to be… Cheech and Chong rolled into one.” His belly shook again.

Todd smiled, thinking of Ashley. A fair characterization really. Granted, she hadn’t always been such a pothead. When he’d first met her she smoked only semi-frequently, kept her grades up, and hid all her weed in a locked diary with a hole cut into the papers, took every precaution to avoid detection. A far cry from the Cheech and Chong rolled into one who had wandered off and left the apartment door open.

“You think this is funny, kid?” Mr. Bigelow advanced on Todd, shaking the bag of weed at him, the super-sweet stench flowing out from it made Todd momentarily wonder what strain was in there. “This is for dealing. Pure and simple. Clear as daylight. I’m no fool. You kids’re dealing this stuff… ain’tcha?”

Todd shrugged. “Well… I’m not.”

“Ah, I get it.” The apartment manager was standing so close to Todd now that his belly was almost touching Todd’s folded arms. “You let the girls do the work, eh? Can’t say I blame ya, kid. Those two are… quite the lookers, ain’t they? Probably get a good number of customers who come around just to stare at ‘em. Am I right?”

Todd wasn’t sure what was happening. He was sober enough to know that if Mr. Bigelow was going to call the police he would have done so already. So what was his game?

“What’re you driving at, Mr. B?” Todd asked, not realizing that by answering Mr. Bigelow’s accusation with a question he was, in essence, answering it in the affirmative.

“I knew it,” Mr. Bigelow breathed. He looked down at the bag in his hand, then cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the table of weed. When he looked back there was a greedy twinkle in his beady eyes. “Look kid, I’m not a bad guy…”

“So you’ve said,” Todd snapped. He was suddenly feeling more powerful, now that he was sure the cops were not going to be called. “Look dude, back up a bit, alright? You’re crowding me.”

“Sorry,” Mr. Bigelow strode back to the table. Poking at the pile, he said: “I’m not a bad guy, so I’m going to let you kids off easy. I’m going to take…” He found, at random, a rather large bag marked ‘Trainwreck’, “this bag here… for my personal use.” He flashed a guilty glance at Todd. “Hey, my old lady loves this stuff, get me? I’m not a judgemental guy.” Tucking the bag into the pocket of his slacks, he ambled back toward Todd. “So this here,” he patted his pocket, “for my old lady, and… let’s say…” He mentally ran through all the crime-drama shows he watched on a regular basis, trying to think of the right blackmail terms. “… let’s say… 20% of your profits weekly. Sounds fair, don’t it? 20% or I turn you kids in.”

Realizing what was happening in a flash Todd rushed to clear things up: “Mr. B, you’ve got this all wrong, we’re-”

“Shut up, kid. This ain’t a matter of negotiations. This ain’t a tenant’s union meeting, alright?” Mr. Bigelow smirked at his own joke, then stabbed a finger at Todd for emphasis. “You kids bring me 20% of your profits weekly…” He paused. “A minimum of…” He surveyed the weed. “let’s say a minimum of four hundred dollars (you guys probably make that much in a day, right?). Or else I make a call that’ll make things hard for you kids… Very hard. What with finals week coming up and all.”

"But..."

"Shut up, kid. It's called blackmail. Get me?"

Todd pursed his lips. God damn it Ashley, he thought.

Part 29

Meanwhile, Ashley was having the time of her life with Andrew at Quincy’s. She was so happy that she couldn’t think straight; so happy that her Cheshire cat smile might as well have been chiseled from stone—it wasn’t going anywhere: not when she was this happy. Not when her plan was going so well.

Of course, she was too drunk to realize that usually being happy didn’t make her unable to think straight. Instead she thought—as she smiled at Andrew, while he smiled back—in a slow loop, about how the buzzing, loopy mental space nestled in between her ears was the nicest, most funnest, most hella awesome place to be… ever. And it was all because of mixing pot and alcohol, and because of listening to Andrew Olmsted, who was probably the smartest, cutest monkey-boy she’d ever met. Ever. Well, maybe not ever ever, but kind of ever.

Then her thoughts started to loop around and around another idea: one that said that if indeed there was a connection between getting really high and having really high alcohol tolerance, it was certainly at the deepest level. The monkey level. Because on the surface of things (the same stupid surface where it seemed like smoking pot and drinking beer in order to write a good paper was a really bad idea) it didn’t really make any sense. But she knew better. Or… well… Andrew knew better... and that then meant... that she did too.

Actually, it was the perfect division of labor, really—she thought, arching an eyebrow; trying to smartly implement economics in some small way, just to show she was smart like that. Andrew did the thinking, and she got to enjoy the benefits of that thinking. Like drinking. Everyone was better off. If it hadn’t been for Andrew... Why, she’d probably still be staring at the TV back in her apartment, lost in a stoned stupor. Nothing would have gotten done. But now... Now she was being productive and stuff.

“What’re you thinking about, Ash?” asked Andrew, watching her mildly.

He’s so sweet!—thought Ashley, her loopy brain melting with fondness for her cute benefactor.

“Whadda you thingk I’m thingin’ bow’?” she tried to flirt. “You thingk I’m thingin’ bow’ somethin’?”

“Well,” Andrew’s mildness never faltered, “you had a very thoughtful look on your face.”

Ashley giggled. “Did I?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Yah, I guess I di’, huh?” She nodded, hoping to look thoughtful about being so thoughtful. “I... I guess I waz jus’ thingin’... about… how… li’g… abou’a quesh’in I was thingkin’ bow’…”

“A question?” Andrew spread his hands in a gesture of openness. “Okay. Shoot.”

Ashley blinked her hooded eyes (which meant she moved her eyelids an inch to close them and then an inch back to their now standard three-quarters-mast position). Confusion buzzed in her loopy brain.

While she sat, gazing stupidly at Andrew from under her low lids, trying to figure out what was going on, she noticed Andrew’s eyes kept dipping downward, to her chest.

Was he talking about her tits again?

She looked down at them. To see. They looked good. Big. Hot. Lethal. She giggled happily. But then she looked up at Andrew with her brow furrowed and said:

“Huh?” with a look of open-mouthed concern on her face… Because although she was hot and smart, she was also very confused.

Andrew steepled his fingers. “I said, ‘shoot’. You know… Ask your question.”

It clicked. “Oh! (giggle!)… K… Um… Yah, ogah.” Everything had clicked into place, and for a brief moment all was clear and she knew what to do. “Uh... yah so, li’g… my quesh’on is… uh… was...” What was it again? Oh, right. Deep-level connection of tolerances. “Does... havin’ high tall’rence for algahol… uh…” She weighed her words carefully. She knew she couldn’t let Andrew know that she was having a hard time thinking. It was important to maintain appearances, to keep up poses. Everything in life is poses. Exactly. That was one of the keys to being productive, right? Right. Andrew thought she was a thoughtful and smart monkey-girl with big tits who could smoke pot like a champ (even if she was prone to a little ontagizing, now and then), and she needed to keep it that way. Because otherwise he might stop helping her... For some reason. “Uh…. Lessee... I... uh...” It occurred to her that she was not only unclear on what she was about to say next, but also on exactly what her pose was. If poses were so important, shouldn’t she be able to have a clear idea of what it was she was posing as? Posing as a monkey-girl who had smoked herself retarded but who was actually smart underneath it all was fine and dandy, but what was her motivation? Why was she doing what she did when she did it? And why was she ontagizing her problems; undermining her own tolerance and killing her good paper? Plus, now she was drunk, so how did that get added into the pose? Or… did it?

Andrew had crossed his arms while she followed this laborious train of thought through to its inconclusive end. “This must be quite the question,” he said wryly. He had resolved to let her take as long as it took. Let her sweat a little.

Smiling gamely, and resolving to stick to her guns, Ashley decided that it was important to maintain the pose that she was posing even if she didn’t know precisely what it was. Because... Because it was the monkey-principle of the thing. The monkey-pose principle. And monkey-principles were important. Weren’t they?

So, then... What would a monkey-girl of style with big tits, a pose to uphold and tolerance to build, do right now?

Her eyes fell to her pint of beer.

She giggled. Of course! “Uh… Ogah, so… um... Yah...” she tried to cover for the drink she was about to take. Gingerly, she picked up her beer and held it ready, waiting for the perfect moment to take the perfect drink. “So, basi’ggly my... my quesh’n is... li’g... isn’n id, li’g…connegted somehow…”

“Wait,” Andrew interjected, “isn’t what connected somehow...?”

“Algahol tol’erence,” she clarified. “Isn’n algahol tol’rence connegted to... uh… to…”

“To what?”

Ashley stared at Andrew’s blurriness, trying to think. Her loopy mind had gone blank again. Shit. “To wha’?” she asked, cautiously, “I... I mean, uuuh... I'll... I’ll tell you ta wha’…” Or would she? Blankness surrounded her. “Uhhh...”

Now’s the time! She lifted her glass and took a long draught. The beer tasted wonderful. “Mmma!” she gasped when she clunked the glass back to the table, confident that she had soothed some of Andrew’s doubts about her intelligence.

But... oddly, her thoughts were no clearer, so she flopped back against the backrest, jiggling her tits in their familiar half-restrained dance, knowing this would distract him a bit, and let herself slouch down languidly, as if she were in total control of everything and cared so little about what was going on that she could just slouch down and relax. Of course, actually she was playing for time; trying to remember what she had been thinking. Posing.

Uh... you can go ahead and, like, remember... at any time—she told her brain.

Andrew continued to wait patiently.

For a few moments there was only loopy emptiness in Ashley’s head. Then it struck her:

“Oh yah! (giggle!) ...ta getting really high? Isn’n there’a connegtion between high algahol tall’rence an’ getting’ high?” She set her face in what she hoped was the perfect expression for the carrying on of her pose: quizzical, interested, a slight lift to her chin, lips parted by intelligent thoughtfulness. She was so at one with her pose right then that her clit glowed.

Rebecca: “Poses are hot...”

Andrew chuckled slightly. He couldn’t help himself. He felt lightheaded, and not from the meager amount of beer he had consumed. It was pure elation. Smug self-satisfaction: Ashley was thoroughly within his grasp now—he was sure of it. It was obvious. It was glorious. Just look at her expression—he thought. Just look at that ridiculous expression.

“You know what? You’re right,” he said, trying to sound impressed without laughing again. “There is a connection. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before but… Wow, you’re totally right.”

Ashley beamed and kicked her legs out under the table like a little girl. “Oh yah? I knew it!”

“Oh, there’s definitely a connection. And it’s a big one.”

“Big?” Ashley bit her lower lip, quivering with anticipation. “Wha’… wha’ is id?” She couldn’t keep the eagerness out of her face, nor could she keep the hand of gravity from pulling her down into an even deeper slouch. The tabletop was now in line with her chin and she was looking up at the blurry Andrew across from her like he was a giant. “You... you shou’ tell me wha’d tha’ conn’eshin is…” She told him earnestly. “I wanna know. I… I li’g connegtions. The bigger tha’ bedder!” She giggled at that last statement, biting her lower lip again. “Tha’ soundz kinna bad, I know. Bu’... iz true.”

“Oh, sure it is. I know you like connections. That’s totally monkey of you, for sure,” soothed Andrew. “But so, check it out: it’s straight biology. So, you know how smoking pot inhibits your body’s ability to—”

“Whoa, whoa! Wha’ a secon’d, mongey-boy,” Ashley interrupted with an upward pointed finger and a self-satisfied lift of her eyebrows. The tabletop was now in line with her nose; her knees were almost touching Andrew’s. “I thaw’ tha’... tha’ algahol mahg’s id so you… Um. Mahg’s you so yer… uninhi’bidah.” Stupid monkey-tongue. She licked her lips and tried again: “Uninheh’bid…” Once again: “Unhibeded… (giggle!)… Gawd! My stupid tongue. Id won’ worg.”

“Uninhibited?” Andrew suggested.

“Yah, tha’s tha’ word,” she slurred happily. Andrew knew everything! “Well, doesn’n id?”

“Um, yes, yes it does. Alcohol makes you uninhibited, but we’re talking about smoking pot, remember? Different thing.”

“Oh… Oh righ’… Oh shid!” Ashley had nearly slid under the table entirely. Giggling, she scooted herself back up a good ten inches or so, glancing around to see who had seen.

If it hadn’t all been a blur to her she would have seen the occupants of the table next to them looking their way, as well as the tall dark-haired waiter standing at that table, whose name-tag said ‘Alex’. He was clicking his pen in and out, barely blinking.

“Right. We on the same page now?” Andrew asked.

She nodded.

“Okay, so smoking pot inhibits your body’s ability to recognize that it’s had…” Andrew paused, he had been about to say ‘too much alcohol.’ He quickly rephrased… “… a bunch of alcohol. It actually kind of tricks your body into handling it. So, in effect, it helps you drink more alcohol than you normally could, thus…”

“Thus…” gloated Ashley, slapping her hand down on the table, “thus you kin’ jrink more, so you kin’ ge’ even higher fuggin’ tall’rence to the algahol! Righ’?” She was glowing with pride: she had this stuff down!

Next to them, Alex mumbled, “Uh, so... Our specials today are... uh... uh...” without looking away from Ashley.

Ashley squirmed with delight. Andrew might know everything, but she wasn’t so bad herself! Even when she was retarded stoned and all uninhibited from the golden IPA, she could still function. Which, she realized, meant basically she already had higher tolerance. Right? This biology stuff was already working on her! Well, only in theory, she cautioned herself, pursing her lips seriously, thoughtfully.

Theory is hot. Monkeys like theory.

“Right, exactly right,” Andrew was saying. He sat back and shrugged, as if he were resting his case, directing his charming smile at Ashley’s beer-reddened face, which was sinking back toward the level of the tabletop again. “But, needless to say, the higher you get...” He lifted a hand, held flat, above his head. Ashley’s bleary eyes followed it up, then they closed and she giggled. “...the more you can drink, and the more you can drink the less stressed you’ll be. And,” Andrew smirked, almost proud of how shameless this next move was, “we’re right back at yet another reason why your economics paper is going to be a cinch. Isn’t that crazy how it all connects?” Ashley nodded stupidly, grinning wide. “So, what do you say? Shall I top you off?” He picked up the pitcher.

“Ooo, luggy, luggy me,” Ashley sassed. She meant it as flirty sarcasm, but she instantly realized that, flirty or not, it was also totally true.

Today was her lucky day.

Even in her semi-conscious state, swimming in a sea of beer, numb throbbing, clitoral glowing, and looping thoughts, Ashley knew that Andrew was right about how this was all for her paper. She was mixing pot and alcohol to get stoned and drunk (just like monkey-girls loved to do), following the theory, and it was all part of her mission. Her mission to reduce her stress to zero; to melt away the obstacles that stood between her hella smart thoughts about economics and her unwritten economics paper so she could write the best damn paper possible… by Friday. She had plenty of time.

But first, she had to sit up. As she clambered back upright, her eyes focused on her beer. The bubbles were going crazy and Andrew was setting the pitcher back down. She bent forward to look at it close. She watched it until the bubbles disappated.

 

“Whoa... this’s full again,” she breathed finally, excited by the prospect of drinking more.

“Yes... lucky you.” Andrew chuckled wickedly. He had been looking on at Ashley’s entranced staring at the bubbles with his feeling of elation growing.

To Ashley it sounded like he was merrily expressing his own cuteness and the total awesomeness of the beer he had poured.

“Luggy me,” she repeated, nodding. Then, with a giggle and a careful grip, she lifted the glass and proceeded to gulp down a couple of tasty swallows.  

There was a deepening hollowness to Ashley’s thoughts, as the alcohol swarmed through her bloodstream, mingling with the THC and the remnants of the dropper-cocktail: it was as if the center of her thinking was sliding down into blankness, leaving only the edges, the outlines of complete thoughts. Ideas came floating up to her awareness from out of the hollow center. Ideas like:

Monkey-girls of style like their titties sucked…

“I was poppin’ out, huh?"

“Take a picture! Take a picture!”

She smiled. She had definitely been popping out. And—she thought with a tug of self-awareness—she would be popping out again here any minute if she wasn’t careful. She tugged at the neckline of her halter-top with her free hand. After all, that's what titties that were all big like hers did, right? Pop out? Of course—the self-awareness imploded under the smiling force of her pulsing clit—maybe she wanted to pop out. Maybe she wanted to have her tits out. Bouncing free. Maybe it was appropriately monkey of her to want such things. Probably was.

“Just wait ‘til I post that video on Facebook tonight,” Andrew was saying. He gestured with his phone. "I'll call it 'Lucky Ashley.'"

“Mmm,” Ashley licked beer from her lips and set down the glass. “wha’s the video gonna do?”

“Showcase your luck.” Andrew said brightly. He couldn’t help staring her tits as he said this.

“Show’gahs?” Ashley beamed happily: ‘showcase’ made her sound famous, didn’t it? “Ya thingk?”

"Of course."

"Of cour'sh," she repeated. What she needed (wanted) to do was showcase her tits: that was the ticket! That was the monkey-ticket. Theoretically speaking, anyway.

“So,” Andrew said, giving the pitcher between them a flick of his finger. It pinged softly. There was about an inch of foam in the bottom. “this pitcher’s done.”

Ashley noticed with vague arousal that the hollowness in her head was still thirsty. “No’s not.”

“That’s just foam,” Andrew protested. He wanted to get her out of this public place. The sooner the better. They had been here too long already. “That doesn’t count.”

“Loog dude,” Ashley admonished in her thickening slur, “if thurz algahol in there then ih fuggin’coundz alright?”

Andrew shrugged. “Okay.”

“Don’ worry,” Ashley picked up her glass and reached across the table to pat Andrew’s hand comfortingly, “we’ll be able ta gu’tha car an’ smoge more inna minute, okay? Jus’... jus’ calm down, An’rew Jeez. Yer susha podhead.” She rolled her eyes mockingly, giggled, then dipped her nose into her glass because she needed to hurry and drink so they could go smoke more pot… Just a dozen more hits girl. Come on! Additionally, she needed to drink more to fill up. After all, she hadn’t eaten today.

“You’re calling me a pothead? That’s hilarious.”

“Yah,” she lowered her glass. She had a dot of foam on her nose. “Wha’ever, dude. Yer the one who came to my place this morning... li’g... to’lly needing an eighth of weed.” She couldn’t tell if she was flirting, or actually mounting an argument against Andrew. “You jus’ li’g... you jus’ need ta chill out, K? Jrink yer beer. An’... an’... an’ then we kin’ toh’ahly smoge anodder bowl.” Her hooded eyes sparkled. “Maybe a couple’ve ‘em. You’d li’g tha’, huh? Af'er all, we don' wanna le' yer... yer aa'th go to wayss, righ’?”

“Nope. My eighth was purchased to be smoked. Waste not, want not. The more the better, that's my motto.”

“Yah..." Ashley liked the sound of that 'more the better' bit. "...tha’ more tha’… tha’ bedder (giggle!)… Egsactly! Yes! Tha's awe'sum!” She looked at her beer. The more the better, indeed! “Duuude, I jus’ got the besss idea! (giggle!) Lemme… Gimmie a secon’… I’mma… I’mma chug this…” Seeing Andrew’s arched eyebrow she laughed: “Don’ loogit me lig tha’, An’rew. I know wha’ I’m doin’, K? If I chug id’ll go fasser!” she pointed helpfully at the beer so he would know what she was drinking. “An’ thad’ll… thad’ll… thad'll mage id so we kin’ then smoge weed together... li’g... sooner an’ stuff. Plus... dude... I gah my paper ta thingk abou’, alrigh’? I’m si’l nad filled up wit algahol yet..." She followed up this admonishment with a dopey little smirk. Her pose was totally secure. Andrew now knew exactly where she stood and how smart she really was, didn’t he? Forcing down the fact that this didn’t actually make any sense, Ashley rushed to add finish with something really smart. "We can’d all jus’ keep onta’logigizing our problems, ya know. Some’f us are tryin’ to build tol’rence."

“I see.” Andrew shook his head and wondered what kind of a monster he had unleashed here. He imagined her spouting off about ontologizing and monkeys to Raymond tomorrow. But he also smiled: whatever monster it was, if it looked like Ashley, who cared? Raymond might even thank him.

Ashley steadied herself with the table, furrowed her brow at her beer and readying herself for the chug.

This was going to be so hot! Chugging was like... like smoking a bong-load. A really, really huge... huge...

"Here ya go, monkey: the more the better."

“Do whatever you want, Ash,” she heard Andrew say, “I won’t stop you.”

“I’m gunna,” she slurred solemnly.

Part 30

Ashley dipped her face into the beery goodness for a long chug, this time trying to make sure to not overfill her mouth; letting her missing tongue perform its drinking duties. It performed quite well, considering how drunk it was.

One swallow, two swallows, three, four, five, six. “Mmm,” she said around the glass.

“Uh, Ash? Maybe you should cool it a little…”

Seventh swallow, eighth swallow…

When she returned the mostly empty glass to the table, beery goodness was dribbling off her chin. She didn’t notice. Her chin was numb.

Beer’s hella awesome. Monkey-girl’s of style drink beer. It all fit, didn't it?

“Oh, Ash… uh…” Andrew wiped at his own mouth pointedly, “You’ve got a little… a little beer…”

Ashley wasn’t listening. She was being crushed by a new wave of intoxication. She slumped back and peered, slack-faced, mouth agape, at her glass of beer. She was slouched down so far it was practically at eye-level. The bubbles were flying up, up, and up. On the move. To the top. Over and over. Such energy, she was thinking. Such speed. How cool. Beer’s hella energetic. She flicked a glance up at Andrew. She wondered, floating up out of the hollow, ifhe ever onta-gized anything. Or was it only monkey-girls of style who did that?

“Ashley? Can you hear me?”

With the last of her sensitivity Ashley felt saliva, which had been pooling in her mouth as she sat thinking without swallowing, now welling up on her bottom lip, about to drip. “(slurp)” She sucked it back and swallowed. She looked up at Andrew to see if he had noticed. He was looking right at her.  

Smiling, she looked back at him, forgetting what she had been thinking about because now she thinking about Andrew. He kind of looks like Raymond, she thought, licking her lips. Her lips were very numb, but her tongue was very moist, also numb but she could still somehow feel the slippery moisture. It felt good to lick her numb lips with her moist, numb tongue. Her thoughts returned to Andrew, who was saying: “Ashley, I was thinking: after we finish this pitcher we should go out to Woodfoot Park. You know the spot, right? North of town a few miles? No one would bother us there, you know? So we could smoke that bowl… check out the sunset. Sound good?”

Ashley nodded, smoking pot sounded awesome. Very awesome.

“Where’eh’fur,” she slurred.

Andrew had hair in the same shaggy, skater style as Raymond, his eyes were… well… not brown like Raymond’s, but he did have eyes. Like Raymond. She giggled. And he was cute. Just like Raymond. She realized that she was attracted to Andrew… also just like Raymond. She did not realize that she hadn’t thought of Raymond once for almost an hour.

Remembering that the beer in front of her was the only obstacle between her and smoking a bowl she hauled herself up and leaned forward to take a few slurps out of the glass, taking them the way a child drinks hot cocoa: lean forward, place lips on edge of glass, suck. Not having to touch the glass was very gratifying. It made her want a straw. Drinking from a straw was hot. Because you had to suck on it. Monkey’s liked to suck on things. Thinking about sucking made her uncontrollably aware of her mouth, numb though it was. Her gaze flitted, as loose and flighty as a bird shot with a tranquilizer dart, down to her fingers, clutching the edge of the table. She arched an eyebrow.

“Yeah, it’s a cool spot,” Andrew was saying, eyes on her breasts, knowing she didn’t care, wondering if she was finally hammered enough to let him touch them. Surely she was.

Ashley’s eyes were downcast: she was staring at her fingers. She wanted those fingers in her mouth. Monkeys liked to suck on things. Fingers were things. She smiled. Without further consideration she lifted her right hand and slid her pointer and middle fingers easily into her mouth and then closed her numb lips around them. The instant she started sucking she couldn’t believe she hadn’t been doing this all day: it felt awesome. “Mm!” And though it wouldn’t help her paper get started, so what? It was the principle of the thing. Right? Monkey-principles? Right? How could it be wrong to do what, as a good little monkey-girl, she wanted to do?

“Mmmm.” Her eyes closed.

“Ashley?” Andrew asked, boner aching in his pants. Are you fucking kidding me?—he thought hungrily.

An idea occurred to him and he pulled out his cell and pointed its camera at her and hit record. Why not?—he asked himself. Aubrey flashed into his mind briefly, then disappeared, pushed away by the image on the display. Ashley was so freaking sexy it made his groin shiver. Besides, Aubrey was probably so pissed at him by now that she would never speak to him again. And would Aubrey do this? No way.

On the cell-display Ashley was lolling backward, her back arching into a backwards question mark, enjoying herself immensely. “Mmm, mmm, mmm!” In the slits of her eyes only the whites for visible. Her free hand disappeared under the table. And then… a few seconds after the hand disappeared…

“MMMM! Oh shi’!” She gasped around her fingers as her other fingers pressed firmly against the pleasure-button of her clit. Just fill up on beer… the more the better. 

Yes—she thought. Yes, yes, please!

Andrew pushed the camera-phone forward, close enough to see the shine of the sweat on Ashley’s brow. This was too good to be true, he thought. This had to be a dream. A magnificent dream. “Hey, Ashley…” He reached across the table with his free hand and tapped a fork against her beer glass.

(ding, ding, ding!)

Monkey-boy’s watching you! Promptly both of Ashley’s hands ceased their respective activities and were clasped innocently on the table, while her slitted eyes looked around her in stupid sweeps of the room. She wasn’t sure why she had felt the need to stop. Didn’t it make perfect sense that monkey-boys would like to watch her? Of course it did. But… somehow… The last holdout of self-control in her frontal lobe fought mightily against the thick, suffocatingly wonderful alcohol and THC that clogged her blood. Stick to your monkey-principles, it said desperately. What monkey-principles? Any of them!

“Um... Hi,” she breathed at the Andrew-blur. Her smile was the naughty smirk of a schoolgirl fully aware that she had been caught with her hands in the cookie-jar, but not sorry in the least. She flipped her hair over her shoulder.

“… find something you like down there?” He teased, still recording.

“Um… I…” Noticing the camera-phone pointed at her, Ashley giggled. “Hey! Yer recordin’ again! (giggle!) Hiiii Faceboog!” Her frontal lobe spasmed almost painfully: What are you saying?—it cried.

I’m so good with monkeys.

She smiled. It was true.

Just drink more… the more the better…

Right. She picked up her glass of beer and started glugging away. It was so easy being a monkey-girl of style. So freakin’ easy.

Andrew recorded her until she had gulped away the rest of the glass, then he ended the video capture and set his phone down. He now had the videographic evidence to back up his memory: in case tomorrow his good sense refused to believe that any of this had actually gone down.

Ashley, feeling very proud and very full of beer and certainly well on her way to having the highest tolerance of any monkey-girl of style ever… banged her empty glass down on the table and wiped spilled beer from her numb chin. “Ah! Shid’chah tha’ wazzz good.”

“Nice chug,” Andrew complimented her.

She smiled wide. What a sweetie!

“Thang’z,” she demurred, then belched loudly.

They both laughed.

Ashley’s vision swam. Her eyes watered. She burped again. She was getting drunker. She could feel it. It felt… It felt so monkey it wasn’t even funny.

Then she looked down into her empty glass.

“Heeey,” she leered into it, then up at the blur where she knew Andrew was, “I’mmudda beer, An’rew.” She punctuated the statement with a loud hiccup: “(HIC!)”

“Ah yes, the hiccups are back and you’re out of beer? Horror of horrors.” Andrew chuckled.

Using both hands she shoved her glass toward the Andrew-blur, it slid across the table and almost off the table.

“Fill’r up!” She hiccupped hard.

It’ll fill you right up.

Andrew picked up the pitcher. “Very well. Foam it is.”

Part 31

Sunny shuffled purposefully along the hall, eyes roving across the visual marvels offered up by angular planes, textured surfaces, light fixtures, and carpet colorings all around her. A spacey smile hung on her lips.

There was a gnawingly empty feeling in her gut, like a black hole—one of the downsides to a strong mushroom trip. The pot she and Todd had smoked earlier had helped, but that high was waning. She needed something to shrink the black hole.

Maybe Gina has some pot at her place—Sunny thought. She smiled. What was she retarded? Of course Gina had pot. She's Gina.

The next thing she knew she knocking on Gina’s apartment door. Gina (a beautiful blonde girl covered in tattoos, today wearing overalls and a tank-top) answered the door, smilingly invited her in, and said: “Dude, I just got Wizard of Oz on Blu-Ray, want to watch it and smoke some Oxycontin?”

This was not a standard greeting: the Oxy was a recent addition to her drug repertoire, though one whose part was growing fast. But Sunny smiled, and saying: “Sure,” allowed her body to slink across the room and slide onto Gina’s couch.

Next to her was Gina’s roommate, a mousy freshman in glasses who everyone called Glenda (after The Good Witch) but that was not her real name (Sunny could never recall her real name).

Finding the couch under her to be strange and puffy, Sunny lifted her knees to her chest and hugged them tight, then looked around the room with bewildered but rapt interest.

Glenda was shrinking back nervously from her.

“It’s funny you showed up just now… I was, like, totally going to call you,” said Gina. “I was just telling Glenda about that first time we smoked DMT in high school… It was fucking crazy,” she said to Glenda.

Glenda nodded, wide-eyed.

Sunny’s gaze, having examined the room very carefully, finally came round to Glenda and zeroed in on her face. Sunny lay her head down on her knees and stared at Glenda intently. Glenda’s face looked oddly proportioned, like an oversized mask and it was sliding backwards at the edges, like a watercolor painting. And yet, at the same time, it was completely and vividly in focus; sharp. It was funny, Sunny thought, how you could look at someone’s face tons of times and not notice how odd it looked.

Odd was the wrong word…

“You look… cool.” Sunny told Glenda in a small voice, smiling a little smile. It was the right thing to say, Sunny was certain. It was the truth.

“Um, thanks? Gina? She’s tripped the fuck out isn’t she?” Sunny scared the shit out of Glenda, whose real name was Melody, and she usually hid in her room when Sunny was over; which wasn’t that hard, since she was taking 20 credits this quarter. As a roommate, Gina was nice enough, but as Melody’s mother had put it when they had moved her stuff in at the beginning of the year (they’d found the apartment advertised on Craigslist): ‘that girl is a little not right.’ Mom didn’t know the half of it—Melody thought. All the weird boys, crazy friends with even crazier drugs, loud sex at all hours of the day and night, all the arguments and shouting matches with jilted lovers: the girl was a whirlwind. And as far as Glenda could tell Sunny was twice as crazy.

“Duh,” Gina laughed. “She’s always tripped out. Aren’t you Sunny? What’re you on?”

Melody tried to ignore Sunny’s intense stare and watched Gina gather together a little pile of supplies: a small metal pipe, a lighter, an orange pill bottle, a square of tin-foil. “Huh? Sunny? What’re you on, girl?”

Melody folded her arms. Unable to keep her eyes away she let them dart back and forth between the two girls. Sunny’s eyes hadn’t left her.

“Shrooms,” Sunny said in a dreamy voice, making her statement sound like a question. “I ate a… a whole… lot of… shrooms?”

“Of course you did. She likes shrooms, what can I say? But… yeah, so… I guess it’s not totally true, like, that’s she’s, like, tripped out all the time… Not really,” Gina continued, pulling a baggie of weed from the pocket of her overalls. She waved it at Sunny, “Check it, girl. I got some of that good shit from Raymond, like you got.”

Sunny didn’t look over. She was examining the grain of Glenda’s hair: it was a fine, fine, silky hair, like a spider’s web.

“Sunny’s actually one of the smartest girls I know. Did you know she gets straight A’s?”

Melody shook her head.

“It’s true. Ever since high-school she’s been on the fucking honor roll. It’s fucking crazy, I swear. She actually studies on shrooms, dude. Freshman year here… I kid you not… she ate shrooms every fucking day.”

“Yeah…” Sunny smiled at Glenda. That was true. So true. “Do you know... that... you’re kind of… spidery…” She laughed.

Melody forced herself to glance over at Sunny and discovered that her pupils were as big as dinner plates: they were terrifying. She jerked her gaze away as quickly as she could. “Aren’t you, um… roommates with… with… uh…. Ashley?” Her heart beat madly in her chest. She wasn’t cut out for the company of drugged-up psychos. The safety of her room called to her. “Ashley MacPherson?” Afraid to look into Sunny’s huge-pupiled eyes, she addressed her questions to the wall.

Sunny laughed. She hugged her legs tighter, peering sideways at Glenda, eyes glittering. Glenda was sliding vividly in place “You…” She reached out a single finger, pointing like E.T. “You… look like… that… that woman… that TV-woman… Gina?” she called, without looking away from Glenda, “You know the woman? ... That I mean...”

Melody pulled out her cell-phone. With shaking fingers she texted her friend John: OMFG THAT CRAZY CHICK SUNNY IS HERE RITE NOW! HELP!

“Tina Fey,” Gina offered. She had loaded the bowl of the metal pipe with weed and was wrapping a handful of white pills from the pill bottle in the tin-foil. “That’s who you’re thinking of.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah….” Sunny said in a monotone, “Tina Fey, Tina Fey, Tina Fey…” She smiled. “Spider Tina Fey.”

“And yes,” Gina looked around, “Shit,” she muttered, “I need something to break these up… Whoops, hold on…” she padded into the kitchen and returned with a frying pan. “This’ll work.” Pressing it on the tin-foil, she returned to what she had been about to say: “Yes… uh… What was I saying? Oh yeah… yes, she is Ashley’s roommate.”

“Oh… cool,” said Melody, “She’s in my… my…” She couldn’t help but stare as Sunny’s attention finally wandered from her face and onto the couch between them. Sunny ran her finger along the faux-leather in a straight line, a few inches over from a seam. Melody looked up from the finger and was horrified to see the wide smile on Sunny’s face. The finger traced the same route again and again.

“Your what?” asked Gina, who was now pouring out the chunky white powder from the tin-foil and pulling out a razor.

“What? Oh, Ashley’s in my Economics class and I was hoping she could… I don’t know… give me a hand with my final paper. She seems pretty smart. I already have twenty pages written, but… you know… it would be cool if she could look it over.” Talking about class made Melody feel better. “I’m kind of stuck for my conclusion.” To emphasize her case she added: “It’s due on Friday.”

“Ashley? Smart?” Gina snickered, her eyes, permanently low-lidded from years of drug-use, were fixed on the delicate task of chopping up Oxycontin. “I don’t know about that. Why is she in a freshman Econ class if she’s so smart?”

“Oh,” Melody hadn’t thought of that. She just saw the way Ashley sauntered around and was so confident and she just sort of assumed… That and she was so well-developed: like a starlet.

“Hot, but not smart,” Gina was saying.

“Well, still. I think I'll still she what she says.”

Sunny struggled to think. “Ashley’s… working… today… on her paper… today… I think... today…” Sunny mused, head still sideways. She was vaguely wondering what that problem at the apartment had been about. She had heard Mr. Bigelow’s voice. Todd was taking care of it. Maybe Ashley had needed help on her paper and Mr. B had… exceptional proofreading skills?

“Um… cool… Well, maybe I can go talk to her later.” Melody felt relieved.

“Don’t count on getting her to make any sense,” said Gina. “The last time I talked to her she couldn’t even hold a conversation she was so blazed. She just kept mumbling about how much she liked that show ‘Jersey Shore’, can you believe that? That fucking dumb-ass show?” She had finished breaking up the pills and, with the care of a cook mixing a fine sauce she poured the fine powder over the bowl on top of the weed. “Sweet,” she muttered, smiling down at the white bowl. “You guys want to take a fucking guess on, like… how fucking much Oxy costs these days? I had to get these from that Andrew Omar, guy. Raymond’s friend. That’s not his real last name, but… whatever… something with an ‘O’. Anyway, the point is this shit cost me big time.” Her face turned eager. “Okay, who wants to get fucked up?”

Sunny laughed. She was back to staring at the spider-Tina-Fey-girl’s face.

“Gina,” Melody whined, throwing a nervous glance over at Sunny, “she won't stop staring at me.”

Gina stepping between them. “Don’t worry, she’s fine. You just look like of like Tina Fey, that’s all. Here…” She plopped down between them and flashed a big smile at both girls. “Now I’m between you two, so you can’t stare at each other. Sunny… that means you.” She reached over and tapped Sunny’s nose, as if she were a kitten. “You hear me Sunny?”

Sunny giggled and waved Gina’s finger away.

“You ready, girls?” Gina asked, holding up the pipe. She looked from side to side at them as if they were about to all three jump off a cliff.

Melody, who had never smoked pills before, had never even smoked weed before, shifted with discomfort. “I don’t know. Does it get you really messed up?”

“Oh you have no idea. It’s great,” said Gina, laughing a little as she spoke, her voice betraying a hunger that scared Melody even more than anything that Gina might have actually said.

Sunny, who had smoked pills many times before, couldn’t think a single reason not to smoke some. It would make her forget all about the black-hole in her gut and would push this trip through the looking glass.

Gina handed the pipe and lighter to Sunny. “You can have firsties, Sunny.”

“I’m g-g-gonna… uh… get some… something to eat…” Melody stammered, getting to her feet and making a beeline for the fridge.

Sunny held the pipe and lighter, lifting her head and looking around dazedly. The metal of the pipe felt greasy and warm from Gina’s hand. Following sheer mindless muscle-memory Sunny lifted the pipe, flicked the lighter, and sucked the flame down onto the white bowl. The white powder crackled and bubbled a little, sinking into the weed which by then was also alight. The hit Sunny pulled into her lungs was big. Very big. The chemical taste of the Oxy made her tremble with anticipation. Oxy was hella awesome.

“Mmm, nice.” Gina said, watching her friend.

Gina and Melody’s apartment was a two bedroom, not a three bedroom like Ashley’s and Sunny’s so it was smaller; the kitchen was separated from the living room by a counter. Melody stared over it, fridge open, as Sunny, tripped-out of her mind though she was, grunted and held in the smoke.

When the hit finally exploded out of Sunny, she instantly went limp. A switch had been flipped in her brain and it no longer cared about muscular control. She coughed weakly, automatically. Melody put a hand to her mouth, anxious. For a single moment she wondered if Sunny had died.

Sunny gasped as her visuals from the mushrooms blossomed into large, sinking patterns that seemed to be getting larger and smaller at the same time. She sank into the couch: the body-high increasing astronomically. “Uuuh, shit…” she groaned, grinning. Then the grin was gone.

“Oh shit!” Gina crowed, laughing. “See that?” She pointed at Sunny’s face, which was as slack as dough. “That’s the good shit. Here, my hit.”

Melody watched with a panicky feeling rising in her as Gina eagerly seized the pipe and lighter and began sucking the flame eagerly into the bowl.

“You… you guys are crazy,” she whispered.

“Here,” Gina held out the pipe and lighter, holding her hit. She waved it in Melody’s direction.

Melody looked at Sunny, whose arms and legs had unfolded like uncoiling wire and were now hanging loose and useless.

“I’m fine, seriously,” Glenda cried. “I forgot. I have to call my parents. I…”

There was a knock at the door.

“…I hear someone at the door,” she observed, bounding to her feet, “It’s... uh... probably John. Nice to see you, Sunny. Bye!” With that she fled to the door.

Gina watched her go, blowing out her hit. “Whatever. More for us. Right Sunny?”

Sunny was reaching a hand out directly in front of her face, trying to touch the swirling pattern-space of the thin air.

“Right.” Gina chuckled and took another hit from the pipe, already feeling the warm coils of the Oxy wrapping around her like a soft, soft emptiness.

At the door, Melody gasped when she opened it and saw a strange boy.

“Uh, hi…” she said.

“Hi, I’m Todd… um… Sunny’s boyfriend? Is she here?”

“Yeah, she’s here. She’s… she’s… uh…” Melody realized she was trying to think of an excuse to cover up Sunny’s smoking drugs. Why was she doing that? What did she owe Sunny? Besides her boyfriend probably smokes drugs too. “She’s smoking Oxycontin with Gina!” she blurted out.

Todd arched an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Great. Just what I need.” He pushed past her gently. “Honey? You’ll never guess how much of a dick Mr. B is.”

“Heeeeey... ihzzzzz Taaaahd,” Gina drawled when he came in. She had managed to take three more hits to herself, and the coils were tightening. “Heeeeeey. Werrrrr (giggle!)… werrrr wassshin’ Wiiizzz’ffff Ozzz….” She passed the pipe to Sunny, who took it with care.

“Wizard of Oz?” Todd looked at the TV. It was dark. “Looks more like you two are smoking painkillers and watching the world go round.”

Sunny flicked the lighter and sucked in the flame.

“Haaa ha. Nooo….” Gina had nothing more to say in her defense. She reached over and pulled the pipe out of Sunny’s mouth mid-hit and sucked the cherried nugget of melted Oxy and condensed weed in the bowl to a rosy glow. “Mmm.”

“Sunny? What the hell?” Todd sighed, coming over to the couch.

Sunny waved her hand limply. “Heeey huhney,” she smiled. Deep in the recesses of her mind, she was aware that Todd had been doing something important that she should ask about, but she had no clue what it was. The pattern-space-world was distorting like a burning Polaroid all around her. Now was no time for trying to remember anything.

“Sunny, we’ve got to talk,” Todd was saying.

“Talg?” Sunny whined. She lifted her hands as if she were offering him something, but they were empty. She gestured with them, meaninglessly. “Wherezz tha’ spiiiider woman?” she quavered.

“What the fuck? Spider woman? Girl… Come on…”

Gina laughed hoarsely, peering up at Todd, the pipe in one hand, lighter in the other. “Ddoooonnn’ beeee maaaad aaaad heeeer Taaahd… Ahhh forcccced heeeer taaaa smoge zizzzz stuff’v meee. She’zzz (giggle!)… she’zzz innahsent.”

“Innocent?” Todd sighed again. How the hell were they going to come up with four hundred dollars by next week? “Look, honey, Ashley’s fucked us, alright? Actually, Mr. B’s fucked us, but it’s Ashley’s fault.”

Sunny and Gina looked at each other slowly, slitted eyes twinkling, and then they both burst out laughing.

Part 32

“Foam it is,” Andrew said lifting the pitcher and holding it up. “Look’s like we’re almost finished with this puppy, maybe after you finish this off we can—”

“Zas nah a puppy,” Ashley cooed, feeling wonderful, feeling her thirsty hollow-brain aching for more. Crazy monkey… Can’t keep her away from the beer. She giggled. Someone had said that to… someone else… sometime… recently. The thing of the matter was, though… that... The heaviness of her head intruded on her thoughts, tugging her face toward the tabletop. It was heavier than ever. It was ridiculous. Who could have a head this heavy?—she wondered. What purpose could there possibly be for such a head?

Head…

Well… She smiled… Her mouth was in it. That was something.

“Be that as it may, we’re almost finished.” Noticing her head dipping and being pulled heavily back up every few seconds, Andrew decided to keep the beer out of her hands for a moment… “You know,” he said, stalling for time, “in the spirit of your… marketing major I was thinking that if you were to get your MTV reality show, like we talked about…”

Ashley cooed wordlessly with enthusiasm for this idea. Single thoughts bubbled out of the hollow in her brain like single-file balloons: MTV was awesome. Party. Sunshine. Weed. Beer. Tan. Nice chug.

One more hit, girl…

“… you'd have to give it a catchy title, right? So check it out: my vote is that you should call it something like: ‘The Adventures of Smashley.’ What do you think?” He grinned into her flushed face. “Sounds like a hit right?”

Ashley exploded with laughter, nodding.

Smashley. It was funny because it was like her name. And because she was smashed. A hiccup rocked her backwards. She felt like a jack-in-the-box, waving back and forth on a spring. Andrew was so smart and cute. She was sure that he knew all about the spring. The jack-in-the-box… Or was it a jack-o’-lantern? Or was it a head? With a mouth in it? No, no, it was Smashely… The Adventures of Smashley. Her. Well, not really her. But still her. For marketing. “Wow,” she managed to say, “yer, li’g… hella good’ad mahr’din’ stuff, huh?”

“I guess I am.”

She giggled. “Maybe ihzzhowd be (HIC!)… you wi’ tha’ mar’ahnin’ major, huh? (giggle!) You cou' taggit ofer fer me (giggle!)... so Ay' kin' focuzz mah 'tenzzzin on geddin' high'zz fug, righ'?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Andrew replied as if she had just made a serious suggestion, “I think I’ll stick with Comparative Literature. But don't let that stop you from getting high as fuck. I know that's your minor and it's very important that you get your education.”

“Compuhr’a lid’ah’cher?” Ashley blinked. It hadn’t occurred to her that Andrew had a real major. Did cute guys even need majors?

Andrew chuckled. “Something like that. Pronunciation’s off a bit, but...”

“Tha’s (HUP!)… (giggle!)… tha’zza kinna weird mazzhur, huh?”

“Not as weird as Marketing. Anyway, if the deal goes down... for the Smashley show... I’ll totally be your manager, how about that?”

“Yay!” Ashley bounced. Andrew was going to be her manager!

Andrew eased into gentle sincerity. “You know what, Ash? I’m really glad we got to spend this day together.”

Ashley beamed, then was rocked forward and back like a jack-in-the-box by a hiccup. “Yah, Ay’ know, huh?” Her heart went out to him: what a sweet monkey-boy he was. He was so nice. So perfectly… Andrew. “We, lig… never hang oud, lig… at all… Lig… ever, huh?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. We just don’t ever hang out… just the two of us. I mean, I always knew you were fine as hell…”

Ashley’s heart melted.

“…but I had no idea you were… so cool.”

Ashley’s heart evaporated.

“And actually, I have to say, Ashley—”

When she heard her name, she blurted out the first thing that came into her head: “Zzmashey! (giggle!)” cutting him off. After which she was left blinking stupidly, unsure as to why exactly she had said it, hoping Andrew would understand for her.

“Yes… yes… my apologizes. It is Smashley isn’t it?”

“Zmashey,” Ashley repeated stupidly. She didn’t know if she was joking around or not. Everything was confusing. Happy and throbbing and pleasant and wonderful… but confusing. She was smiling as hard as she could, hoping she could play off this whole situation as flirting… or something. Anything.

“(HUP!)”

Hold the pose… Hold the pose…

“Right… But so… Smashley… I was just going to say that I’m actually pretty impressed.” He motioned toward the pitcher. “I don’t know a lot of girls who could go head-to-head with me on two pitchers of IPA…”

“Head’ah head…(HUP!)… Isn’n tha’ called kizzing?” Ashley giggled hard. She was so funny.

“Uh, sometimes, yes, I guess it is called kissing. Head to head, I get it.”

Ashley hiccupped again. “Yah?” Once the quivering of her boobs died down, she realized she had no idea what she (or he) was talking about. “Tha’s cool.” She burped loudly. “Uh-oh! (giggle!)… ‘Scusse me… Hey… wha’… wha’ time’zzid?” Wasn’t there something she was supposed to be doing today?

“Never mind that, let’s focus on this beer for now.” Andrew soothed her, checking his watch.

It was 3:55.

“Tha’s fine by me, mu’fugger,” Ashley enthused. "Pour, bissh!"

An idea struck him. 4:20. He needed a story to tell Raymond that would explain why he let Ashley smoke more, despite having promised him that he would keep her away from weed. He could just tell him that Ashley had insisted on smoking more pot for 4:20 (he could already see himself shaking his head and shrugging, saying, ‘you know how she gets, dude,’ and Raymond nodding sympathetically). It was perfect.

“So…” He lifted the pitcher, “…without further ado,” and refilled her glass, then his, finishing off its contents. “There we go. Gone, baby, gone.”

Her glass was less than half-full of foam.

Ashley stared at the glass of bubbly golden foam in front of her for a moment.

Those are pretty bubbles—she thought dimly.

“(HIC!)”

“My sentiments exactly,” joked Andrew.

Ashley nodded, not listening. She gingerly slurped some foam.

The more the better! 

My sentiments exactly—she thought, as she slurped and looked at Andrew, visually fondling his cuteness, imagining his slobbery mouth sucking on her, imagining her slobbery mouth sucking on him.

She was pretty sure she was in love with Andrew.

Part 33

Andrew was desperately formulating his next move. There was no way around the fact that he had overdone it with the beer: Ashley was way too far gone at this point. Pretty soon, as she slithered deeper and deeper into her stupor, he wouldn’t even be able to get her to lift her head, let alone lift her skirt. And the prospect of pathetically humping her passed-out body made his skin crawl. But still, there she was, practically asking him to seize those melons of hers and squeeze… There was no doubt she dug that kind of thing: she did it to herself, stoned out of her mind mid-morning with the doors unlocked. He would just have to kick things up a notch. He was in for a penny, time to go in for a pound. Which meant what, exactly? Which means, I’ll need to perk her up—he thought—but how? Coffee would be useless here, he knew; it would take something stronger: much stronger. He ran down a mental inventory of the ‘medicine bag’ he kept under his seat in the car, feeling like Hunter S. Thompson in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (which wasn’t far from the reason why he had it in the first place: he loved that movie). The medicine bag held his traveling stash of drugs. It contained another vial of the synthetic opium mixture, a whole bottle of horse tranquilizers he had traded some guy in the dorms for his copy of Assassin’s Creed II hoping to sell them, a tab of acid from who knew when, a handful of random pills, and—he smiled—a whole pack of ‘fast acting’ 30mg Dextroamphetamine tablets that he had almost forgotten about. He had gotten the Dex in case he needed to get sped up during finals week Fall quarter, but he hadn’t needed them after all and had intended to sell them. They were just sitting there. They were perfect. He would just have to move quickly.

“Seems like you’re holding up pretty well,” he told Ashley, who was just slurping away the last of her foam.

“Uuuuuh,” Ashley blinked at him blearily, a pouty, drunken look of confusion on her face. She had no idea how to respond. She clunked her empty glass down and tried to sit up straight, thrust out her boobs and look thoughtful or something.

Out went her boobs. She could feel them strain against the fabric of her shirt.

Nice.

Now, act like you’re appraising the situation—she told herself through the loopy haze. Impress him with your smart analysis of how wasted you are. Show him that you don’t onta...logimmy..gize, or whatever that stupid theory-word was.

“Ay’m…” The only problem was she wasn’t sure how to do that. “Ay’m (URK!)…” The hiccup rocked her, jiggling her boobs pleasantly. “... Ay’m shluurrin’ hella bah, huh?” she slurred badly, letting the room spin. Spinny style… She giggled. Slurry style. Titty style. Smashley’s smarty analysis … “(HUCK!)” The more the better.

“Slurring? Not really. I can’t tell,” Andrew soothed.

“Ruuuuuuully?” The word seemed to take forever to come out. “(HUP!)” She giggled at herself, hoping that her hiccups came off as flirty and cute.

“Well, maybe a little.”

“...(HUCK!)... Whoa.”

Ashley gazed fondly at Andrew’s blurry face. God, he’s cute as fuck, huh? Him and that waiter, huh? … “(HUP!)” ... Only after she stopped gazing at Andrew did Ashley discover that she had a drip of saliva hanging off her lip. She slurped it back and wiped her mouth. … “(HUP!)” ... Her lips were numb. She wanted to kiss them back to sensitivity, using Andrew’s blurry face.

Her clit hummed eagerly.

“(HICCUP!)”

She glanced at Andrew to see if he had noticed the drip. She couldn’t tell. Best to just confront it head on—she thought. “Gaad,” she cried melodramatically, slapping the table and grinning wide, “Ay’ keep (HIC!)... almozz… fuggin’…” She emphatically gestured with a hand, “fuggin’droh’lin’ on my (HICCUP!)... myzelf (giggle!)...” She wiped her numb mouth again.

Her expression turned puzzled.

“Iss... iss’ad... (HUCK!) normal? Fer… fer tha’ tall’rence... Ay’ mean… Tha' (HUCK!)... tha’ tall'rence tha' Ay' have? Tha' high tall'rence?” She frownd. “Shouldn’n tha’ tall’rence help wi’ tha’?”

Andrew shrugged, “Sure it’s normal. Tolerance affects everybody differently.”

She giggled, hiccuped, then giggled again. “Oh yah? Well, ih affegss me all dribbly.”

Dribbly titty-monkey… 

Her clit hummed harder. Why was that hot?

“Yes, yes… I can see that.” Andrew saw the waiter passing by and waved. “Can we get the check here?”

“You got it,” the waiter replied.

“You(HUP!)... you ga’d id.” Ashley repeated, smiling stupidly.

She tried to run things over in her mind. What was going on again? She was confused and very drunk and hopelessly in love with Andrew, that was what was going on. Oh yeah. Andrew.... “(HUP!)”... Andrew. He had gone from one of the many guys that she used to tease—dance with for fifteen seconds at a party, shake her ass against them and then twirl away, giving them a peck on the cheek when she left, throwing a requisite glance over her shoulder in order to flash a we-both-know-you-want-me look as she sidled away—to someone who impressed her so incredibly... “(HUP!)”... that she couldn’t even stand it; someone who had watched as she had cupped and teased her boobs this morning; someone who seemed so kissable and cute that she wanted to take her clothes off... “(HICCUP!)”... He had bought her clothes, occupied her fantasizes, smoked her out, fed her beer, taught her about all kinds of cool stuff. And he was even impressed with her.

He was perfect.

“(HUP!)”

Raymond had yet again disappeared entirely from Ashley’s mind.

“Look,” Andrew said cagily, stretching, “I need to run out the car, Ash, okay? I… uh… forgot my wallet.”

“Yaaaah,” Ashley nodded sympathetically, “thaaaa’ happenzz ta me, li’g, allah (HUP!) time. Ay’ jus’... fuggin’... ge’ zo fuggin’(HIP!) zzztoned... (HIP!) tha’ Ay’ then Ay’ ge’  li’g... really,really ztoned...(HUP!) an’ then Ay’ ferrrrged… li’g… abou’ all kindzz’aa (HIP!) everythin’… (giggle!)… Gaad, deez higgups are(HIP!) are oudda control, huh?”

Andrew chuckled. “Right. Exactly. So... I'll grab my wallet and then we can get up out of here.”

Ashley opened her mouth to respond, then paused. Her face fell and she pursed her lips together into a hard line. A contained hiccup rocked her silently. The satellite of her brain was fumbling through the submarine readouts from her body. It was all so distant, so fuzzy and throbbing. And then the message came through loud and clear: her bladder was full. Very full. “Oooooh shiiiiiid,” she mumbled.

With a grunt of effort she started struggling to pull herself out from the booth. Her tits rolling under her halter-top.

“Um. What’s up, Ash?”

“Ay’ gottaaa…(UCK!) gotta go’a... (HIP!) li’l guurlz(HURK!)... guurlz-room,” she mumbled.

“Oh okay, I’ll be here when you get back.”

“Ogah... (HIP!)”

Finally managing to disentangle herself from the booth Ashley lurched wildly, her eyebrows thrust upwards in befuddled surprise as her arms flailed for support. Was it always this hard to walk?

Hello?—sassed her beer-embattled frontal lobe—Girl, this is what happens when you fill up completely on IPA: you’re trashed.

She took two heavy footfalls to the right...

“(HUP!)”

Then two to the left...

“(HIC-UP!)”

...trying to keep herself from toppling headlong to the floor.

“Hey, watch yourself,” said the guy at the table next to them, the one who had been keeping an eye on her off and on for the last hour. His date, smirking, lifted her iPhone to film Ashley’s drunken stumbling. “This is going on Youtube,” she said.

Half the restaurant couldn’t help staring at this big-titted coed who had drunk herself into oblivion in the early afternoon. There were a lot of shaking heads and whispers.

Giggling because she couldn’t walk for shit Ashley noticed that her skirt was cinched up around her waist again, her white Brazilian cut panties, which exposed most of her ass anyway, were publicly displayed.

Monkey-principles!—shrieked what remained functioning in her frontal lobe.

“(HUP!)... Oooh fuggin’... (HIP!) fug, dude... (giggle!)...”

It occurred to her that even Kendra hadn’t been this bad. Even Kendra had been able to keep her skirt down. The thought made her clit simmer like a kettle on high heat, even as she jerked down her skirt with an automatic clutch-and-pull of her numb right hand Her left arm she held out for balance, the hand hanging limp at the wrist.

“Oooh fug,” she slurred again, seeing blurry faces all around her, staring, pointing.

This is bad, this is really bad... “(HIP!)” She tried to smile at the faces, tried to act cool and casual and cat-like, tried to walk gracefully across the room, but her legs had disappeared like her tongue and all the rest. They moved automatically, controlled by some reflexive, deep monkey-level of her beer-stuffed nervous system, making her totter like a sailor on a rolling sea.

The biggest problem was that she didn’t know which direction to go.

She stumbled stupidly in a sort of circle, looking around in a daze.

“(HIP!)”

She heard Andrew’s voice over her shoulder.

“You okay, Ash? You’re not going to fall?”

She nodded and waved her hand.

“Ay’m (HULP!)... Ay’m fine, Ay’m fine…” she slurred, smiling up at a tall dark-haired waiter who was trying to rush a huge tray of food to a table on the other side of the room and gawk at her at the same time. It wasn’t the faux-hawk waiter though. Pity.

“(HIP!)”

Then, ignoring her fast and furious hiccups, and pretty confident that she was at least facing the right direction, she set off stumbling with long, loose strides and erratic course, in the general direction of the bathroom.

As she did she realized that, despite everything, despite all Andrew’s help, she was still a little bit stressed out. Her heart was pounding. The stress was lingering in the background persistently, like an annoying little pea on a plate that you just couldn’t stab with your fork. If Ashley hadn’t been so drunk she might have seen that the stress she was sensing was actually the embarrassed remains of her dignity, holed up and hemmed in her frontal lobe and hemmed in on all sides by numb throbbing abandon; instead of seeing this, however, Ashley found herself wondering if Andrew would be up for another pitcher of IPA when she got back. Just... one more... “(HIP!)” Maybe they could try another kind of IPA? Maybe there was another one that was even tastier? She was still kind of thirsty. “(HIP!)” And surely another pitcher would wash away all the remaining stress. There certainly would be no harm in trying.

“(HICCUP!)”

It was 4:05 in the afternoon and Ashley MacPherson was probably drunker than she had ever been in her young life. And she was loving it.

With all the faces turned toward her in the restaurant, she slowly, hazily became aware that she was the center of attention. It was almost like she was on TV, like these… these monkey-people were watching her on TV. It was almost like she was famous. Sort of—she thought, an exaggerated expression of amusement coming to her face—don’t get all carried away, you’re not really famous.

Just… sort of famous.

But, it was still hot though.

“(HIP!)” Her tits bounced. She grinned.

“What’s wrong with that lady, Mommy?” asked a little girl with pigtails who was about six years old and seated on a highchair next to her mother at a booth along Ashley’s path. “She’s just drunk, honey,” came the reply, “Like the mouse in the Great Mouse Detective, remember?” “The one who falls in the bubbly drink?” “And gets eaten up by the mean cat, that’s right. Getting drunk is very bad.”

Ashley heard none of this. She was too busy trying to follow Andrew’s advice from earlier: ‘one foot in front of the other.’ It was hard. First one… then the other… Everything kept tilting and spinning and her balance kept veering one way and then the next. And whoever had had the bright idea of putting all these tables all over the place was a real idiot… they were totally hard to avoid. Especially when you couldn't feel your legs or see very well or walk straight.

Stupid tables...

Very quickly she realized that she was totally lost in this place. It was just a big blurry swirl of staring faces and clinking glasses and people eating and drinking. She came to shambling halt in the middle of the restaurant and looked around, squinting, mouth open, trying to orient herself.

Where was this fucking bathroom again?

She didn’t know.

She couldn’t tell.

In a flash she remembered how, one time, her freshman year, she had gotten really wasted at a frat party and had blundered off into the night in search of her dorm, with no idea where she was... How had she solved the problem that time? It was easy: she had asked directions. Two nice dorky guys on their way back from a late night D&D tournament had informed her that she was only three blocks down from Hillman House.

The key, it seemed, was to be good with monkeys...

Purely by accident she spotted a booth filled with girls about her age. Perfect! She staggered over toward them. They would help!

It was Aubrey’s table. She and her friends had already been watching Ashley’s rubber-legged progress (or lack thereof) across the room and now, as she came straight toward their table, they stared at her like she was a leper; a mixture of pity and disgust in their eyes. By this time Ashley, and a vicious attack on every aspect of her being, had been the off-and-on topic of conversation at these girls’ table for the last half an hour. Aubrey had consistently taken the lead.

“Oh… my… god. Can you believe she’s coming over here?” muttered a girl named Trisha, who shared Aubrey’s creative writing seminar.

“I can’t believe she can keep those things in her top,” Aubrey growled. The girls tittered.

Letting all her drunk muscles not necessary for walking (and ‘necessary’ had become a very loose term) swing however gravity wanted them to swing, Ashley squinted hard at the girls. They looked nice. She tried to marshal her forces to figure out how to ask for directions. Asking for directions was something she did all the time, especially when she was baked off her ass on campus and couldn’t find her way around (which was pretty often). So, this would be easy! One of them, a cute girl with short dark hair, was glaring at her fiercely. Ashley blearily wondered why that was, but didn’t waste time worrying about it. She had more pressing business:

“Hiii…” she found herself trying to speak in her breathy Marilyn Monroe voice; which didn’t make any sense, she knew, because she wasn’t trying to flirt with these girls… But… maybe she was? “Ay’m Azzazzhley(HUP!)…” The hiccup rocked her tits up hard. “Whoa,” she glanced down bashfully, “‘Zcush me, Ay’ kinna gah tha’ (HICCUP!)... (giggle!) higgupzz, huh?… (giggle!)…" Giggling was a good way to show them that, even though she was wasted as fuck and could barely stand, she was totally cool and in control. "Higgu’zz… are fuggin’ crah’zzy, huh? (HUP!) (giggle!)… Yah… Bu’ sooo… uuuuh… (giggle!) wheh’sh wayzz tha’(HICCUP!)...” That hiccup made her take two fast steps to the right in order to prevent an off-balance collapse. “Whoa...” She let her Cheshire smile spread onto her face and directed it democratically at the center of the girls’ table. “Whoa. Umm, bu’zoo, uh... wheh’sh wayzz tha’ (HUCK!) tha’… (giggle!)…. Gawd! (giggle!)… Ay’ kan’d talg! Wherezz tha’ bahroom?”(

The girls laughed and whispered to each other. Finally one of them pointed. “It’s that way.”

“Cool,” Ashley purred, noticing with surging pride that all of the girls at this table had smaller tits than hers. Inferior-titted monkey-girls... “Thangzz you guyzz. Uh... ogah... tha’ way... (HUP!)... (giggle!)... Cool...” She followed the girl’s finger with her droopy eyes, swayed backwards, stumbling a few steps to catch her balance, and then weaved off in that direction, smiling a self-satisfied smile.

I’m so good with monkeys... So friggin’ good.

As Aubrey watched the tanked-off-her-ass, leggy, busty, brunette slut who had Andrew Olmsted all googly-eyed, stagger off she felt such sickening hatred that she had to close her eyes and take a drink of her stout to wash it away. She flashed a furious look toward Andrew, who was not looking at her; his eyes were locked on the tanked brunette’s big, bubble ass, staggering toward the bathroom.

“Don’t take it personally, Aubrey,” her friend Vivian said, laying a reassuring hand on Aubrey’s. “Guys are just assholes.”

Aubrey nodded and took another gulp of her beer, unable to resist watching that fat, hypnotic ass, too. How did a girl get such an hourglass figure? It was unreal. Like a pinup from the ‘60s. It had to be genetics. You couldn’t work out to get something like that. It was pure bone structure.

Feeling horribly stupid for ever having thought that Andrew was cool and cute, Aubrey folded her arms and scowled. “I’d like to pull every fuckin’ slutty-ass hair from that bitches empty head,” she growled.

The other girls all looked at each other nervously.

Part 34

Andrew stared after Ashley, fully aware that he was not the only one doing so.

Best day, ever—he was thinking, basking in the self-satisfied glow of being associated with a very hot girl. Usually he was always playing second fiddle to Raymond. Dinners out and trips to bars and parties were filled with little touches, nibbles, kisses, arms slung round the shoulder, and all the other ways a boyfriend has of showing a roomful of people that she was his girl. To not have Raymond here, to be the one, by default, who got associated with her was exhilarating. Even if she was making a fool of herself.

“You hate to see her go, but you love to watch her leave. Am I right?”

“Excuse me?” Andrew pulled his eyes away from Ashley’s ass as it lurched to and fro under her skirt, and found a smiling man in a charcoal suit, around forty-years old with graying temples, standing next to the table. His gaze was directed toward Ashley’s round ass as well.

“Oh… right.” Andrew shrugged, “You know how it is, man. Chick like that…”

“Sure, sure, I know how it is.”

“Yeah right, whatever. Who’re you?” The alcohol coursing through Andrew’s system made politeness the last thing on his mind. And the nonchemical high of being in the company of as foxy a chick as Ashley made him feel like he was king of the world.

“Don Feingold. Manager.” The man said, sticking out his hand.

Andrew shook it. “Andrew Olmsted. Thirsty customer. This about the check?” he asked with a wan smile.

“In a way,” said Don. His service industry smile was so big and fake it made their waiter’s look like training wheels next to off-road tires, “Our policy here at Quincy’s is to make sure that if at any point we feel that we may have… inadvertently overserved anyone, such as is clearly the case with the… young lady you’re with,” The smile got even bigger, if that was possible, “we just need to make sure that they won’t be doing any driving. We’re all for having a good time. But if someone drives… that’s how DUIs happen, and that’s how we get in trouble here. We want to make sure this is fun spot for you kids to hang out at and we can’t do that if…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get you,” Andrew said, “no one wants you to get in trouble. And… uh… don’t worry, she’s done most of the drinking and I’ll be doing the driving.”

“Good enough for me. Thanks for coming in today, son.”

“It’s Andrew.”

“Andrew,” Don nodded. “Thanks.”

With that he disappeared, and when Andrew looked down, the check was on the table. Sneaky bastard, isn’t he?—he thought, glancing at Don’s receding back. He removed his credit card and laid it on the little tray.

Next thing’s next—he thought, slipping out of the booth.

He wasted no time. Walking briskly to the door, ignoring the stares he got from other tables, he mumbled, “Gotta get my wallet,” to the hostess and ducked out. Once in his car he retrieved from under the seat the little leather shaving kit that he used as his medicine-bag. He found the Dex and popped out four capsules from the carton. Slipping them into the pocket of his jeans he ducked back into Quincy’s.

He went into the bar and, pulling out cash, ordered a Coke, thinking it would make as good a vehicle for the Dex as anything. The bartender, a silver-haired but thin and pretty-faced woman who must have been pushing fifty, gave him a funny look as she filled the glass.

“You sure that’s all you want? Just a Coke?”

“Yeah, I’m sure, just… uh… Why?”

“Well, because… I couldn’t help but notice that you’re the guy from that table over there…” She pointed. Andrew didn’t need to look: he knew what she meant. “I’ve gotta say, your girl’s quite the little hellion.” She looked down at the Coke. “I think we both know that a Long Island Iced Tea is more her style, don’t you think?”

Andrew’s mouth dropped open. “Er… Oh… uh… Nah… she’s… she’s cool, ma’am. Thanks anyway.”

“Suit yourself,” the bartender lady chuckled, smiling, “she’d thank you, I’m sure.”

Andrew looked at her. There was a sparkle to her eyes and a breezy straightforwardness to her smile that was soothing. A perfect bartender's smile. Motherly and yet, at the same time, distantly sexual, but all in the most nonthreatening way imaginable.

He nodded, “You know what? You’re right. She will thank me. What would you recommend? No Long Island Ice Teas though, I think that’d be a little much. What else do you have up your sleeve?”

“Alright. For a girl like that…” She gave him a wink. “I always say you can never go wrong with a Horny Girlscout.”

“What the hell is that? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Its equal parts coffee liqueur and peppermint schnapps. If you were a gal who liked to drink, you’d have heard of it.” She winked again, “And if you hadn’t… you’d wish you had. Usually it’s served as a shot, but I serve it in a highball glass as a cocktail.”

“Fair enough. Make one up for me… Uh, for her.”

“Good choice.”

“Man, you are the coolest bartender I think I’ve ever met,” Andrew blurted out.

She shrugged, handing him the drink. “One Horny Girlscout. That’ll be fifteen bucks.”

“Ouch.” Andrew thumbed through is wallet. “Here’s twenty. Keep the change.”

“Thanks.”

“I give you props for the upsell, too.”

She waved a hand. “I just see what I see… Don't have too much fun tonight, kid.”

Coolest bartender ever.

A moment later Andrew made his way back to the booth, carrying the drink, wondering if he was going too far with this cocktail. After all, she was blasted already. But, on the other hand, the Dex would level her out.

Ashley was not back from the bathroom yet, so he set the tumbler next to her less than half full pint of IPA and without looking around because he knew that would only make him look suspicious he removed three of the Dex capsules, carefully opened them one at a time and poured the powder into the Horny Girlscout. He stirred it with his finger briefly. Only after sitting back down did he look around.

Aubrey was staring right at him.

His heart nearly stopped as their eyes locked.

Part 35

Ashley’s bare feet (her shoes having been left on the floor beneath the table) thumped in an irregular pattern as she followed the blurry hall toward the bathroom. She recognized the hall. She’d come down this hall before. She was sure of it. Came down it fast and fucked up and horny as hell, looking for some privacy to diddle herself silly.

But this time was different...

The pressure in her bladder was tremendous with those three pints of IPA in her. She lay a hand on her belly and found it distended out, like there was a balloon in her guts. Which, basically there kind of was...

A balloon of beer...

“(HIC!)” The hiccup jarred her sideways and reverberated down the hall.

And besides... wasn’t it four pints? Even five? Ashley licked her lips. She couldn’t remember anymore. It didn’t seem that important.

“(HIC!)”

Not that important... in the grand scheme of things. The monkey scheme. The deep-level truth scheme of drunken monkey-girls with big-tits who have to pee hella bad because they filled up on beer for reasons they were too high to understand except to be sure that they were hella good reasons. What was important, at that level, was that she was somehow numb and shimmering at the same time, and the shimmers felt as good as the private massages she used to get when she visited her dad. Her brain was hollowed out and functioning purely reactively. She felt terrific. And she knew she was a 10. Showcased like a… like a style… Like Kendra.That was all extremely important, not to mention it made it totally hard to walk a straight line.

“(HUP!)”

Even with her balance horribly off she could still feel the pleasant cat-like movements of her hips, ass, and tits, just like before. But unlike before her whole body was being jarred every few moments as she reeled off of one wall and promptly found herself banging into the opposite one, giggling like an idiot the whole time. To be perfectly honest, it felt good to be a staggering cat-monkey. Every time she struck a wall and rebounded it jostled her tits around pleasantly and her vision clouded, and for that brief moment she felt like she was floating in empty space. Then her weight would redistribute to her other foot and she would start the inevitable stagger toward the other wall. It was actually pretty awesome.

“(HUP!)”

When she finally got to the end of the hall and shoved the bathroom door open and lurched through it with all the cat-like grace of a malfunctioning robot, she immediately noticed three things:

1) the cold tile underfoot forced her to realize in a dim flash that she wasn’t wearing her shoes anymore. This realization made her grin. 2) the bathroom was not empty like it had been before: there were six or so girls clustered around the mirror, waiting for stalls, and so on, all of whom had just turned to stare at Ashley; 3) although some of the girls were inferiorly titted, some of them were not, one in particular had bigger tits even than Ashley did.

The grin slid off her face and she stumbled sideways, clutching and pulling her skirt involuntarily, unable to tell that it was now pulled down too far, so her panties peeked out along the top and the crack and curve of her ass stuck out behind. Her stumbling ended when her shoulder struck a wall. She leaned against it, squinting blearily around her, trying to figure out what to do.

“(HUP!)” This time the reverberation was deafening.

“Wow, someone’s had a rough day,” one of the girls joked.

Ashley made an unsteady beeline for the mirror over at the sinks (the same one in which she had caught herself without panties before, although that seemed like a distant memory even if it had only been a few hours ago), hoping to look nonchalant and ready to check her make-up or something. She had to press up quite close to several of the girls to get to it. “Essus me,” she slurred. “Zorry...” A shift of balance caused her fall forward slightly, smooshing her big boobs against the back of some girl. “Zzzorry, zorry,” she mumbled. “(HUP!)”

Once she was at the mirror she seized a sink tight to keep from falling sideways into the wall, and peered, mouth agape, at her reflection. Just a stylish monkey-girl checking her make-up, that was all.

After a moment’s appraisal of her reflection she realized that she no longer looked like Marilyn Monroe. She looked like one of those paparazzi-snapped, scandal-causing pictures of a celebrity at the tail-end of making a complete drunken fool of herself. A Lindsey Lohan. A Terra Reid. She wanted to smile, but was too drunk. Her face just wanted to hang slack. So she let it.

   

A Kendra Wilkinson, except even drunker. Even hotter... Yeah, Kendra hadn’t been this drunk, had she?

“(HUP!)” In the mirror, her reflection’s tits jumped on her chest, her neck snapped back, her footing shifting.

The girls around her were talking, tittering.

Keeping her steady grip on the sink, Ashley turned her head so she could peer stupidly at the girls around her. They were looking at her. Their words were garbled by a loud buzzing in her head.

I’m... really fucking drunk. The thought floated up into her awareness, and then floated away again.

“(HURK!)” Another jump of her tits, snap back of her head, shift of her weight.

“Ay’m nah wearin’ shoezz," she slurred to the girls around her matter-of-factly, like a child pointing out something someone might have missed. “(HIC!)”

“Aww, you lost your shoes?” one of them asked.

Ashley nodded stupidly, gripping the sink. Her bleary slit-eyes fell on that girl with the biggest boobs ever and she felt suddenly and horribly nervous. Those boobs were huge. She was in awe.

“Yeerr boobzz’rrrr(HIC!) fuggin’ bigg’zz fug,” she slurred seriously. That’s when she noticed that she was starting to drool again and had to slurp the saliva back. God—she thought—watch out. Remember: tolerance affects everyone differently.

Dribbly monkey-mouth...

Yeah. Exactly. You had to be careful.

A roar of laughter had gone up following her observation.

“Ay’gaaahpee,” Ashley drawled, hardly enunciating at all anymore.

I don’t have to enunciate—she thought—because I’m really drunk. Who ever heard of a drunk who could enunciate?

With a hiccup she tottered away from the sink, toward the bathroom stalls.

“Believe me, honey, that’s why we’re all here,” someone said. More laughter echoed through the bathroom.

When Ashley finally found to an empty stall, she guided herself in with both hands, then, without bothering to close the door, yanked her skirt up and her panties down, turned her back to the wall and let herself fall backwards towards the toilet.

There was an oddly elongated moment wherein she wondered what the hell was happening, then there was a jolt of dull pain in her butt and lower back as she discovered that she had either missed the toilet or slid off of it. Either way she was crumpled on the ground next to the toilet with her panties around her ankles.

“Ooooh shiiid, duuude,” she cried from the ground, legs and arms waving in clumsy half-attempts to collect herself and get up. “Ay’... Ay’ faaaalled...”

She knew she needed to pretend that this was all part of her pose… that she had fallen on purpose. She forced a fake-sounding laugh out of her lips: it was all she could think of to do. Surely everyone would be fooled. Who in their right mind would actually fall down beside a toilet with her panties around her ankles?

“You need some help in there?” Two girls appeared at the door of the stall. One was that biggest titted one.

“(HIC!)” The stall, the toilet, and the helpful girls were all spinning. Ashley closed one eye, but that didn’t help, so she closed them both. She wished she were back at the booth with Andrew, drinking IPA and smoking weed and talking about monkey theories of tolerance and cool stuff like that...

“Aaaay’ faaaalled,” she slurred mindlessly, letting herself go limp and sprawl out a little on the cold tile, pouting.

“No shoes and falling on your ass?” The biggest titted girl sauntered into the stall and leaned down to look Ashley in the face, her huge tits dangling, barely contained by a low-cut dress with a flower pattern on it. She was blonde, wearing too much mascara and was shrouded in perfume. “It’s only Monday, girl, you need to save this kind of spunk for the weekends, alright?”

“Hold on,” the other girl said, giggling, “my iPhone…”

Ashley smiled up at the girl’s huge boobs. “Aaaay’... (HIC!)… Aaaay’ve gawdduuhdahpuurpur [I’ve got to write a paper]…” Ashley tried to explain.

She had a mission. She was just being a good monkey-girl and she, for one, was not going to stand idly by while her problems were onta-gized all out of proportion by... whoever.

Sometimes you just had to say no. No more. And so… yes please… more IPA.

The more the better…

Right. Of course.

“Damn, she’s toasted,” said the other girl, holding up her iPhone, recording. “Hey! Hey, drunkie! What’s your name? What’s your name so I can post this on Youtube!”

Ashley waved a hand out toward the girls, rolling slightly from side to side on the cold tile floor. “Hiiii!”

“Leave off, Erin,” the bigger-titted girl said with a flip of her hair. “Come on, honey,” the turned back to Ashley, “Let’s get you on the toilet before you piss all over.”

Ashley realized in a flash that she was lying in front of these two girls with her panties around her ankles and her skirt hiked up around her beltline. Her legs were splayed open: showcasing her vagina. Her clit spasmed happily. This was great. Or... Her frontal lobe quivered in vain... Or was it? She didn't know. “Shiiiid, Ay’m... Ay’m zzoorry,” she slurred, just in case it wasn’t. “Ay’m zzzaarry.”

“Sure you are, honey.”

Then something else dawned on Ashley, shining into her dazed head like a beam of sunlight through a storm: “Heeeey. Yeezz! Yezz! My fuggin’ higgupzzz’rrr gone, dude! Haha! Yaaaay!” She clapped her hands and threw back her head with her mouth open.

“Happy days are here again,” biggest tits said, as she turned to her friend and she point at the iPhone. “Stop fucking around and help me get her on the toilet.”

“Okay, okay... Fine.”

They lifted her, trying to work with her weak, flopping attempts to help, and finally managed to set her on the toilet.

“There. Now do your business and never say that strangers haven’t done anything for you,” said the biggest-titted blonde. She sauntered backwards a few steps to take in Ashley’s bent-forward posture, then sighed. “Look… uh… Miss? I wouldn’t lean down like that… you’ll just puke on yourself for sure. You know, cuz of gravity.” The other girl laughed.

Ashley was peeing, grinning at her tanned thighs. It felt really good. She didn’t know how she had held on this long.

 

“Fuck.” Biggest-titted girl stepped back into the stall and pushed Ashley upright and held her shoulders back. “Alright, here… Try to sit up straight…”

 

 “Aaaay’ liiiiii’g zzzitting,” Ashley burbled. Saliva was starting to dribble down her chin. “Aaaay’ liiiii’g…” She was throbbing happily; spinning happily.

“I can see what you like, honey. You like to drink.”

“Aaaay’ li’gg ta jriiing IPA!” Ashley laughed hoarsely. “Izz gah more algahol ‘an mozzt... hopp’ey’dee’er, or... or zom’thin’... Azz’g Ann’rew bo’ id.”

Now that Ashley was safely upright, the blonde helped her put her arms against either side of the stall. “There,” she said, “Now, remember: don’t lean forward. You’ll want to lean forward, but don’t… it’ll just make the spins worse. K?”

Ashley nodded. This girl was awesome. So smart. So great.

“You like to drink.”

Yeah, I do.

As she turned to go, the girl looked back. An evil smirk came to her face. She couldn’t help herself. “Listen. IPA? That’s a dude-drink, honey. A real woman drinks liquor.”

“Ligger?” Ashley furrowed her brow.

“Oh, you are so mean,” the other girl said as the two of them walked away.

“Me? I’m not one recording her with my freakin’ phone.”

As the voices receded and then disappeared entirely, Ahley sat, holding herself upright with both hands out against the walls of the stall, swaying slightly, resisting the powerful urge to hang her head down between her knees, drool dribbling onto her thighs.

A real woman drinks liquor?

What about a monkey-girl of style? Did she really drink liquor too? It seemed logical.

Until this point, the awareness of her economics paper had been hovering somewhere in the back of Ashley’s mind, maybe holed up in that tiny remaining ball of stress, maybe maintaining itself in her thoughts thin but uniform like a layer of oil on the surface of a pond; but now it was gone. And in its place was a pure, dumb belief in the absolute rightness and perfection of the moment, the warm throbbing present, the delicious immediacy of deep intoxication. To Ashley, it seemed like all she needed.

 

That... and liquor.

Continued...