By Superlush (with some illustrations by Captain Dunsel)
The kitchen was right ahead of her.
You... can... so do... this, she thought.
The next thing she thought was: Raymond sold me... grade A, top-shelf, crazy-good pot.
That much... was certain.
Totally certain.
Behind her, the living room was thick with the smoke from her victory
blunt and the subsequent bong bowl that had seemed like a good idea to
load once the blunt had been finished.
Wasn't it what her vlog followers would have wanted?
That, too, was totally certain.
Besides, she couldn’t muster up much concern for anything right then. She was too... silly-puttied.
After what seemed like ages, her tingling bare feet touched the cold linoleum. She had reached the kitchen!
Then she paused and stared down at her feet, at the floor, trying to remember what she was doing in the kitchen.
There had to be... something.
Maybe?
It took her a little while, but she finally got it:
She had decided to celebrate the completion and successful posting of
that pesky Youtube vlog post, hadn’t she? Yeah, she had. It had seemed
crucial. After all that hard work, those false starts, that wasted time, those huge hits
off the blunt with Claire giggling at her, celebratory munchies were definitely in order.
Besides... she was starving.
On a whim, she shuffled over to the kitchen sink and stared down into it through her slitted eyes, examining the dirty dishes in it with stoned
detachment.
No munchies in there. Not anymore.
That much was certain.
Grinning, she turned away. Toward the fridge. And the grin slipped away
as she realized that sometime during that last bong bowl, maybe it had
been during that second-to-last hit (which had been so big it made her
cough until she nearly threw up), she had tipped herself straight up over
the edge of fadedness and sent herself reeling into a freefall toward
completely blitzed: essentially, she was now so high that her mind was
phasing in and out of reality at semi-regular intervals. She realized
this because even though she had been standing next to the sink grinning
stupidly at the fridge, now... an instant later... her grin slipping
away... she was at the fridge with its door open and was peering inside as a blast of
frigid air hit the bare skin of her upper body (she was still only
wearing her bra).
But she had no memory of crossing the kitchen...
“Whoa-ho…” She drew back from the cold, smiling again: she hadn’t been able to achieve
this level of high in awhile. Time-jump high. “Jeez… dude... Fuck...”
Steeling herself, she began the task of surveying the odd topography of
containers and condiments spread out before her in the fridge. She had
just enough time to say, “Whooooa,” and then her mind phased out again,
leaving her standing in the cold air, staring stupidly. No one home.
Then she was back. It was like little power flickers: the lights would
go down quickly and then come right back: except that during that little
interval, time kept passing.
What did a girl have to do around here to just get some munchies out of
the fridge without getting attacked by cold air?—she wondered dimly,
licking her lips. What was in that glass pan with the tin foil covering
it? Chicken? Pot brownies? Pot brownies would be soooo good.
Back out: Her gaze dropped to her feet, until...
Back in: Bewildered, she lifted her head a little, squinting her slitted
eyes and trying think. The array of food and beverages before her had
turned into a strange hieroglyphic that she knew she could almost decode
but couldn’t...
She reached in slowly and drew back the tin-foil on the pan, revealing
thoroughly gnawed chicken bones. “Oooooh,” Kelly gaped, eyebrows
skyhigh. “Fuck, dude. Di’ I... eat that... chicken?”
And what had happened to the pot brownies? Seriously... Did Claire...?
The lights went down again: and when they came back up she was wheezing a
laugh from her smoke-battered lungs and turning away from the fridge to
stare at the floor for a moment, as if the floor contained the secrets
to the hieroglyphs of the fridge. The question on her mind, echoing
through it like a yodeler in the Alps, was:
Where the fuck’s the pot brownies?
Mac’n’Cheese! she realized in a slow flash...
Down went the lights.
Kelly knew in the back of her stretched out mind that she should light
some incense or something... Turn on the fans, at least. Air the place
out. Knew that the smell of the pot would permeate the entire floor of
her dorm and that it would waft out the windows and turn heads outside
on the sidewalk. Knew that someone might even call the campus police,
like that one time. But... fuck it, right? If she liked the sweet,
pungent smell of Pink Widow, if it reminded her of Raymond, sweet,
awesome, wonderful Raymond, that was was her business, right? And if
other people had a problem with it... they could just... whatever... do
something else. Fuck them. Weed was awesome. That was all there was to
it.
Back up: “Kiiiiitchen?” Kelly asked the empty
kitchen, peering slit-eyed at the familiar sight. Why was she in the kitchen?
She had spent many a
good, stoned hour in this kitchen, she mused, looking around with her
mouth hanging open. It seemed like just the other day Claire had made
those pot brownies... Or had it been Mac’n’Cheese? Cooking with Claire
was always the best, too, because there were inevitably bunches of
knife-hits. They’d trade off hitting the knives and stirring whatever
needed stirring and they’d get...
Her slitted eyes fell on the pair of black-tipped knives still on the stove…
Maybe a few knife-hits right now? That Pink Widow would probably murder her via a knife hit… That’d be awesome.
Back out... The fridge door, no longer held open, slowly swung shut.
When it snapped closed it phased her back in and made her jump.
“Ho shit,” she muttered, glancing back at the closed door.
Kitchens sure could be wild, woolly places for a stoner, couldn’t they?
With a nod of her head aimed at no one but herself, Kelly decided not to
worry about kitchens or why she had been looking in the fridge: the
thing to do was load another bowl and finish Legend instead. It was a pretty cool movie... Probably her favorite ever... And she had all that awesome pot from Raymond.
The Pink Widow...
The thought of Raymond made Kelly feel happy… and a little horny, too.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait...” she giggled. “I gotta eat.”
She was hungry. That’s what was up. That’s what was certain.
She was about to reopen the fridge when she blinked... and found herself
shuffling back into the living room. She blinked again and was seated
on the couch.
“Nice,” she breathed, looking around slowly at the smoke-filled room and
nodding. The couch was a good spot to be. Comfy. Her bong was nearby.
The bag of Pink Widow as on the table in front of her. So much weed.
Within seconds she had grabbed her cell and, as she hit the preset pizza
place number, reached out her free hand for the giant bag of Pink
Widow. Once she had it she set it in her lap and grinned down at it.
“Pizza Palace,” said a girls voice on the other end of the phone after a
few rings. “Are you calling about our Mega Mozzarella Special?” The
girl sounded bored.
Kelly, tearing a big hunk of sticky green bud off from one of the
biggest nugs she had ever seen, said, “Uuuuh... sure.” Sounded tasty.
“Okay, great. How many do you want?”
“Niiiiice.” Kelly was leaning forward, sniffing at the huge bud on her
lap. Its aroma was so powerful it overwhelmed her silly-putty brain for a
minute, to the point that she forgot she was on the phone. “Oooo, fuck yeah,” she cooed.
“What was that?” the girl’s voice came as a shock.
“Oh, uh...” Realizing dimly what was happening, and that the girl could
hear her, Kelly giggled and said: “Uhh... nothin’, nothin’... I mean...
Um... Wha’s in the...” What was the Special called? She couldn’t
remember, so she shifted her question, mid-question: “How much I owe
you... How... I mean... Would I owe... you... fur the... or’er? Fur the
special... the special or’er?” She gingerly set the big bud down on the
table, and then set about cramming the weed she had torn off into the
bowl of her ready-at-hand bong.
There was a confused pause on the other end of the line. Then, “You’re
asking how much the special costs? It’s twelve fifty if you just want
one order.”
“Sweet. Tha’ssa good deal. In ya go,” Kelly told the hunk of bud as it
went in tight, pressed down by her fingers. “In ya go, Pink Weh-doh,”
she said in a rhythmic cadence, as if she were rapping. “Yo, yo... Pink
Weh’doh.”
She giggled.
“Hello?” said the girl on the phone. She was starting to sound annoyed.
Kelly dragged her mind back to the task at hand. The task on the phone.
The phone in her hand. That was held up to her ear. The task at... ear.
Grinning stupidly she lazied back deep into the couch and closed her
eyes to try and concentrate. “Uuuum... yeah, yeah, yeah,” she insisted.
“Tha’s.... uh... Tha’s... Wait... How... how many or’ers is it...
like... possible to or’er? Fur me?”
The Pizza Palace girl was now definitely irritated. “You can order as a
many as you want,” she said crisply. “For yourself or whoever. Whatever
number you pick I put into the computer and we make it for you.”
“Whoa,” Kelly giggled stupidly. That was cool. “Nice... ummmm... Lemme... lemme ge’ three orders. No... (giggle!).... No, no... gimmie... uh... four. Yeah.”
Maybe that was a bit excessive, but fuck it: she was hungry as fuck.
“Four?” the girl sounded shocked.
“Yeah,” Kelly blithely pushed on with her foolish choice, not wanting to
appear too stoned by sounding indecisive. “An’... an’ a pizza. Yeah. Gimmie a pizza, too.”
“Okay, look... Maybe you don’t... Each order of the special is two
medium pizzas, two boxes of cheesy-platters, and a ten-piece box of deep
fried mozzarella sticks.”
Kelly nodded. That would be so much food! It was an even better deal
than she had thought. Awesome! “Sweeeeet,” she drawled. “Tha’ sounds
soooo fuckin’ good. So... uh... lemme ge’ three of those... uuuuh...
An’... an’ a large pizza wit’... wit’ extra cheese... An’... an’
mushrooms... an’ sausage... an’... uh... peppers. Yeah.” Kelly’s stomach
growled. “Uh, make it... uh... two of those. Kin’ I ged... two’f ‘em?”
“Um, okay,” the girl sounded like she was done with this call, “let me get this straight: that’s three Mega Mozzarella Specials and two
large pizzas with extra cheese, mushrooms, sausage, and peppers.
That’ll be a hundred and ten dollars and forty-seven cents. What’s the
name?”
Kelly’s mind had phased out again while she listened to the pizza-girl’s
boring recap and instead of answering she was now staring down at the
bong in her hands, unsure what she was doing.
It was certain that she certainly didn’t know...
Back in, came her mind, and... it clicked: Oh... right... she was getting higher... Sweet.
“Niiiice...” She poked curiously at the full bowl. It was very full.
Well packed. Like the one Raymond had loaded her. She smiled down at it,
revelling in the similarity between that bowl and this one. Weren’t all bowls
astoundingly similar? They all did the same thing. From the dawn of
time... or, rather, the dawn of weed, obviously, down to the present
day: bowls of weed always just were there, waiting to get smoked... It
was crazy. “Yer gonna ge’ me soooo fuckin’ faded, dude,” she mumbled, speaking to the bong. To the bowl.
“Fuck yeah I am,” the bowl seemed to say back.
“Hello?” A girl’s voice asked in Kelly’s ear. Kelly frowned. “Hello? Name? I need a name and an address for delivery? Hello?”
Who was talking? Kelly giggled and looked around for her lighter. When
she found it she directed a casual smirk around her at the empty room.
She couldn’t help saying it just once more, stretching out the words to
express the depths of fadedness into which she was going to plunge: “…
sooooooo faaaaaaded,” until she reached the end of the ‘ed’ and started
to giggle at herself.
“Hello? Are you there?”
Kelly realized, in a familiar realization, like she had realized
something similar before, that she was still holding her phone to her
ear, ordering pizzas.
“Oh... shit...” She sat forward, as if that would help. “My... my bad,
dude. My bad,” she apologized to the phone. To the irritated girl on the
other end of the phone. The pizza girl. “I... I...” She didn’t know
what to say. She hoped the girl would explain things to her again: she
knew that it had already been explained to her once, but... she needed a
primer. “Hey... uh, okay, soooo... Wha’s... wha’s up?”
“I need a name.”
“Fur tha’pizza?”
“Yes! For the pizza.”
“Oh... okay... Uh... This’s Kelly... uh...” She almost blanked on the
last name, but it came to her in a flash. She grinned. “... Kelly
Bernheart. I live... uuuuh...” Her address, on the other hand... that was tougher.
“Okay thanks,” the girl rushed right along, “I have your info right
here, Kelly. You’re on our frequent caller list. It’ll be there in about
thirty to forty minutes.”
“Whoa.... awesome. Uh... thanks. Dude, I wan’ you to know, dude...
that... like... you’ve seriously been a really, really, like, helpful...
help fur me, an’ stuff...”
The girl had already hung up.
Once Kelly realized this, she lay back on the couch and giggled hard at
how much of fool she had just made of herself there. Ordering pizzas was
hard. Too bad it was such a necessary thing to do. Pizzas were so necessary when you were this high.
She kept giggling until she blinked and discovered that she was leaning
forward and her mouth was pressing down tight to the bong and she needed
her breath to be going in and not out.
Then the giggles stopped.
Smoking pot is so awesome—Kelly thought, observing the timeless process with stoned detachment:
-Spark (...of the lighter).
-Flame (...dipped into the bowl).
-Suck, suck, suck, suck (...the flame down).
-Note the fullness of the chamber (...with a tingle of pride).
-Blow out a breath to prepare (....anticipation building).
-Pull the carb and suck, suck, suck, suck, suck, and suck some more (...so the lovely rich smoke comes rushing in deep, deep, deep, deep).
“Mmmph,” she choked, struggling to hold in the huge hit she had just taken.
Just then, her cell, which she had dropped onto the couch next to her, rang, filling the room with Sublime, her ring-tone:
“I smoke two joints in the morning—I smoke two joints at night—I smoke
two joints in the afternoon—it makes me feel alright—I smoke two joints
in time of-”
Thinking it might be the Pizza Palace girl calling back to get more
instructions, Kelly grabbed it up and accepted the call without even
looking to see what the caller ID said. “Hellow?”
she answered, fighting to hold in her hit. The pressure in her lungs
was intense: they were filled to the max; smoke seeped out her nose and
mouth despite her best efforts.
“Kelly Louise Bernheart, is that you?”
As Kelly sank back, higher than ever, her heart sank too: it was her
mother. She had been ducking her mother’s calls for almost two weeks
now, trying to avoid the inevitable conversation about her grades, her
constant unexplained requests for large sums of money, her post on
Facebook from about two weeks ago which had said that she had been to
Planned Parenthood and gotten on birth control, and, above all, her
general lack of interest in anything.
Talking to Moms was like… talking to God, Kelly thought. You had to be ready. You had to be prepared.
And she wasn’t prepared.
Feeling dim (it was really all she was capable of at the moment)
resentment for being forced to abandon her hit midstream, as it were,
Kelly turned her head to side. She managed to get out a tight-voiced, “Hi Mom…” before she let the smoke ooze out of her...
…then pushed out the rest with a quick coughing fit.
Damn, she thought, that was a big-ass hit.
“Kelly?” Her mother’s voice said sharply. “Are you alright? Kelly? What’s the matter?”
“Nothin’…” Kelly said between coughs. “‘m fine.” Then, when her coughing
died down: “Nothin’ Mom… Fuck. I’m… fuckin’ fine. Gawd. Yer so… li’g…
Yer so...” She couldn’t think of how to end that sentence.
“Well, you don’t sound fine. Your father and I are worried about you.
And since you never return my calls,” the unmistakable tone of miffed
mother made Kelly roll her eyes underneath her heavy lids, “I called
Jenny…” (Jenny had been Kelly’s best friend from middle school, who now
went to the JFK School Of Government in Boston; they had grown apart in
high school but kept in intermittent contact) “… and she told me that
you’re not returning her calls either. Is something going on that I
should know about?”
“Moooooom,” Kelly whined, regressing under the weight of her high to the strategies of a six-year old.
“Mom what?”
What followed was an agonizingly difficult conversation: everything
Kelly heard her mother say would immediately float away and she would be
left trying to answer questions she had completely forgotten, fumbling
stupidly for clichés that might lend the appearance of her having
understood the question. Her mother, though angry, was calm and patient
with her utterly ripped daughter (whose drug habit was known to her, but
kept in the same unacknowledged category of knowledge as the literal
impossibility of certain Church doctrines: out of sight, out of mind).
The conversation was agonizing, but doable by the standard of at least
being able to respond when her mother said something; but then, Kelly,
lost and resentful as her mother launched into a lecture on being more
responsible with her money, decided to take another hit.
Fuck it.
-Spark.
-Flame.
-Suck, suck, suck, suck, suck…
“What’s that noise?” Her mother snapped sharply when the bubbling of the bong rose to a frenzied pitch.
-Chamber full.
-Breathe out.
“Kelly? Hello? Are you listening to me?”
“Mmm,” Kelly grunted into the bong.
-Pull carb.
-Suck, suck, suck, suck, suck.
“Kelly?”
“Mmmph!” Smoke crested out of her nose as Kelly, phone pressed between
ear and shoulder, felt her lungs filled with smoke and gave no answer.
God Mom, she thought, stop bugging me for two seconds so I can finish…
this... finish what I’m doing. God!
When she blew out the hit, Kelly’s brain not only phased out but
completely reset, like a computer program returned to presets. She knew
she was talking to her mother. Knew she was really, really high. Knew
she was smoking Pink Window. But everything they had been talking about,
what little she had understood, slid away like a greased pig down a
chute.
And the only thing she wanted to talk about as she lay back with a
dreamy smile and her eyes completely closed was: “Hey… Mom?” Her voice
was the sultry meow of a just-between-us-girls playfulness, “I, like,
met this, like… cotally tool… I … (giggle!) I mean... to’lly… … li’g… … to’lly cool, li’g… guy…. He’s jus’ li’g… he’s li’g… so fuckin’… I dunno… So cool. Ya know?”
Her mother sighed. “A guy?” The mother-as-friend mode, developed in high
school to stay close, clicked on. “That’s nice, sweetheart. What’s his
name?”
“Raaaymonnn’,” Kelly pronounced the name as if it were a magical
incantation. “Bu’ li’g... yeah…. he’s soooo nice. Li’g... fer real... (giggle!)...”
Pausing open-mouthed, Kelly found herself remembering, a blissed-out
unconscious kind of remembering, Raymond’s cock as she stood over him on
his chair (God damn, that had been a sexy move!). Lowering herself down
onto it…
Seriousness reared its head in the form of her mother’s tone, jerking
Kelly’s hazy mind back to the present: “So, I suppose that’s why you’re
on birth control now? Your father nearly flipped his lid when he heard
you went to Planned Parenthood.” She had already said this earlier, but
she could tell Kelly didn’t remember. “You know how we feel about that
kind of thing, young lady.”
Kelly surged with happiness as the foggy memory of Raymond kept floating
around in her mind’s eye. How could she be serious when... Raymond’s
smile... Raymond’s weed.... Raymond’s dick... were all around? She
grinned. Raymond was so great. “Hey Mom,” she giggled, “you wou’n’n…
even… to’lly … li’g not even... li’g... you wou’n’n fuckin’ believe… his dick, Mom, li’g... seriously. It’s... huuuuge.”
Kelly couldn’t believe what she had just said. Her body was sinking into
the couch, her head was endlessly sinking into her shoulders—this Pink
Window was sooooo good. I guess it'll have to be me who gets that high. While I ride Raymond and smoke the fuck up...
There was a shocked pause on the other end of the line. “I’m... going to pretend that I didn’t hear that, young lady.”
“Ohshid!” Kelly covered her mouth and giggled and giggled. Once she started, she couldn’t stop. It was just so funny. Her Mom was so pissed!
A few minutes later, after the giggles died down and her mother told her
that she and her father would be coming to visit soon (which Kelly
missed because she was distracted by Tim Curry’s devil character on the
TV), her mother finally said: “Well… I’m… I’m glad you found a nice boy
that you like, honey,” trying to end on a positive.
Kelly giggled, thinking how Mom and Dad’s heads would explode if they
knew Raymond was her drug-dealer. Thinking this brought her to within a
hairs-breadth of blurting it out, stupidly, stondedly; but she held her
tongue.
“And,” Mom continued, “I know that kids these days do a lot of that…
casual… hook-up sex stuff, but honey, if you really like this boy you
should make sure you make him yours.”
“Mah’m mine?” Kelly could barely think through the heavy high pushing on
her from above. Her head could only sink, not think. She giggled. She
could barely lift her head or open her mouth. She wanted another hit:
there was no way that huge bowl was cashed yet. There was probably
around three or four more hits in there. Big hits.
“Yes, it’s the only responsible thing to do. You need to call him up and
tell him how you feel and tell him that you want him to be your
boyfriend.”
“My buuuh’frien’?” The word was fun to say. She said it again, more carefully: "Boooyfrrr-end," then giggled with her eyes closed.
“Yes," her mother sighed. "You remember those, don’t you?”
“Yeah…” Kelly thought about it (sort of), the exasperation in her
mother’s tone lost on her. How could she forget boyfriends? Boyfriends were, like... the best. The greatest. She should make Raymond her boyfriend, shouldn’t
she? So what if he already had one. Kelly—should be Raymond’s girlfriend. Kelly. Fucking... her. “Thang’s Mom. I luhf you,” she sang
happily, glad after all to have picked up the phone.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I love you, too sweetheart.”
Kelly ended the call with a careful push of a button and then stared,
heavy-lidded, at her phone, trying to figure out what to do next.
It was very important to do the right thing here, wasn't it?
That much... was totally and completely certain.
Part 37
“Oh no. No, no, I don’t smoke weed.”
Raymond arched an eyebrow at the buxom young woman sitting across the
room from his armchair with her long legs crossed demurely under a
mid-length tailored skirt. It, as well as her tight-around-the-waist
suit jacket, was dark gray, giving her the appearance of a businesswoman
from a movie. She wore her blonde hair up in a tight bun but her face
was immaculately made-up. She was a contradiction. She had the face of a
babe, with big lips and eyes, but was dressed so seriously it belied
the fact that she…
“It’s true, she doesn’t,” said K-Snap, who was seated next to the
blonde, his arm slipped intimately around her tiny waist. K-Snap’s real
name was Keith. While she sat prim and proper, legs crossed and arms
carefully placed in her lap, K-Snap was slouched down with his legs
spread out like he was trying to take up as much area as possible. He
wore the oversized jeans and Roca-Wear hoodie of a wannabe thug who
watched too many Eminem videos, which was the case. His hair was in
cornrows held tight with a do-rag. He had the face of a weasel, and, as
Raymond well knew, had the disposition of one too.
“I find that hard to believe,” Raymond said. He glanced down at the five
pounds of weed, tightly compacted into one pound bricks and wrapped in
cellophane, that he had placed end-to-end in a duffel bag. He hadn’t
expected K-Snap until next week, but even a weasel can sell all his
product so fast that he needs an early re-up. And after the awkward
ordeal of Mac and his usualy up-sell presentations, Raymond was actually
sort of glad to see him.
K-Snap was not one of Raymond’s flunkies, though they had worked
together a little freshman year. He was an independent contractor of
sorts; now one that Raymond wished would go away. Raymond had the good
relationship with Pedro, who had the best weed, and so K-Snap bought
Pedro’s weed through Raymond. Because of their previous partnership
Raymond gave him a break on the mark-up and everyone was happy.
Basically. But like any business arrangement where someone holds all the
cards and doles out what they wish to someone else, that someone else
very quickly begins to feel they could be doing a whole lot better if
they held the cards. In fact, although K-Snap didn’t want Raymond to
know, but Raymond knew anyway, he had been doubling and even tripling up
on his supplies for a year now, moving almost as much weight as Raymond
did. Raymond knew what this meant—it meant K-Snap had his eyes on
Raymond’s position. The tension between them was palpable.
“I find that hard to believe,” he said again.
“Why, do I look like an idiot?” The blonde replied acidly.
“Whoa!” K-Snap laughed. “Knives out in here. Oh shit.”
“Not at all,” Raymond said, zipping up the duffel, “its just that you’re
dating K-Snap here… K-Snap smokes weed… he sells weed. Is it really so
unreasonable to assume that you smoke it? Its sort of like a gardener’s
wife not smelling the flowers.”
“Only if you think all girls who would date someone like Keith must be in it for the free weed,” came the still acid reply.
“Well, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time.” Raymond chuckled. “I could tell you stories about this guy…”
“Hey man, leave off…” K-Snap protested.
The music on the stereo was Wu-Tang Clan (K-Snap had loaded it first
thing upon arrival without pause) and now, to cover over what was
happening, K-Snap started rapping along, nodding his head emphatically:
“The niggah don’t get mad, I got mad style of my own, and its shown when
my hands grip the chrome microphone, verbally I… Shit dog, I love this
song!”
“Hmm,” the blonde’s large blue eyes, sparkling with intelligence, gave
Raymond a pointed, considering, look. “Honey?” She turned inclusively to
K-Snap, “don’t I know his girlfriend? Isn’t he dating… Ashley? Ashley
Macpherson, isn’t it? She was the one we saw over at the Shell station
the other day…” She turned back to Raymond, fixing him with a withering
gaze, “…the one who tried to push her way through a door that was
marked…” Her eyes flashed coldly, reminding Raymond of Justin, “…‘pull’?
She tried about six times, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, that was her,” said K-Snap. To Raymond, “Ash was out of her mind, dude. You should have seen her. Blown. Just blown.”
Raymond shrugged. “Yeah Ashley can be a bit of space-cookie. What’s your point?”
The blonde’s smile made him feel like he was two inches tall, but her
eyes had warmed. “My point is just that I’ve seen what pot does to
girls. Your… girlfriend is a fine example. Just don’t delude yourself
into thinking that all girls want to end up like that.”
“Okay now,” Raymond laughed, “Ashley might go a little overboard
sometimes… which is easy to do, I know K-Snap can vouch for me on that
one, but she has many fine and interesting qualities.”
“Name one,” the blonde challenged, smiling.
“She’s great in bed,” he replied without missing a beat.
K-Snap slapped his thigh, grinning.
The blonde nodded, “I see. And if that’s the extent of it, then I rest my case.”
“What’re you in pre-law?” Raymond teased.
“Actually, bro, she is…” said K-Snap. “Funny shit, right? I study criminology, my girl studies lawyerology.”
“That’s law, sweetheart,” the blonde said, with a twinkle in her eye.
“Well, well,” Raymond let his eyes linger on her legs. They were very
nice legs. Did it make sense that her being a lawyer was kind of a
turn-on? “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” she replied, sitting forward and extending her hand, “Jennifer. Jennifer Huxley.”
“Nice to meet you Jennifer.” They shook hands. “K-Snap, you’ve surprised me yet again.”
Just then Raymond’s phone vibrated in his pocket. “Whoops.” He pulled it out. “Who could this…?”
Kelly—said the caller ID.
He pursed his lips and couldn’t help remembering her standing over him,
looking down over her tits with that hungry look. It was a look that ran
a bit deeper than could be satisfied with just a single fuck, he
realized.
He sighed. Fuck.
“You going to take that, bro?” asked K-Snap, smiling; sensing something was wrong; sensing a possible advantage.
Part 38
-Flame (...dipped into the bowl).
-Suck, suck, suck, suck (...the flame down).
-Note the fullness of the chamber (...with a tingle of pride).
-Blow out a breath to prepare (....anticipation building).
-Pull the carb and suck, suck, suck, suck, suck, and suck some more (...so the lovely rich smoke comes rushing in deep, deep, deep, deep).
-Flame.
-Suck, suck, suck, suck, suck…
-Breathe out.
-Suck, suck, suck, suck, suck.
Ashley held the stupid smirk that came so easily to her flushed, beer-numbed face, and continued to hold it as she jerked open the bathroom door and lurched out into the spinning hall that led back to the restaurant where she knew Andrew was waiting for her, maybe waiting with more IPA. That’d be awesome... She continued to hold the smirk as she skittered along the righthand wall of the hallway like a long-legged cat-monkey-girl with a big round ass for a tail who had mad tolerance but not much balance; then continued to hold it as she weaved into the middle of the hallway, swaying and trying to walk straight, trying and failing; then interrupted her rubbery-legged weaving to stab out a numb hand and lean against the lefthand wall, telling herself that this would be just the thing to catch her balance. A monkey-girl needed to accept the help of helpful walls once in awhile, right? Why not? One reason why not was that she couldn’t wait to get back to the table, couldn’t wait to plop down across from Andrew, look him square in his cute face and tell him what she wanted... Liquor. She couldn’t wait to see his shocked expression. “I had no idea you were so monkey,” he’d probably say, looking at her tits with his mouth open.
Her, speaking with great care because she was stoned and her mouth was cold from an ice cream sandwich: “I reeeeee’lly like sucking stuff. Like, for real. Id feels... hella good...
like... to... like... suck on stuff, ya know?” / Raymond’s friends all started laughing /
Raymond: “Jesus babe, shut up, will you? You sound like… “ / Her,
indignant and giggling uncontrollably: “I am to’lly serious, guys. Id
feels good! What? I’m just sayin’...” / Raymond: “Ah, come on Ash,
don’t… don’t…” / Raymond’s friends kept laughing / Andrew, emerging
from the undifferentiated mass of Ray’s friends: “Hey Ray, why don’t you
let Ashley do what she wants? She’s a grown woman. It’s like we were
talking about the other day: desire-tense only, right?” / Ashley, trying
to get serious, but still giggling (liking being called a grown woman):
“You see honey? They don’ min’ (giggle!) … Desire... Wait. Desire
what?” Raymond: Oh I know they don’t mind, that’s the problem. (to
Andrew) And don’t even fucking start with your postmodernist
intellectual crap, it’ll just encourage her.” Her, good-naturedly giving
Ray a shove: “Shut up, Ray, I’mma grown woman! Righ, Andrew?” Andrew
had just looked at her.
“Groh’n... woman,” Ashley mumbled, fondling her tits roughly.
“De’zeyer... tihzzz [desire tits]… oooonnnly...” The unique monkey-twist she
had given to Andrew’s words made her smile. Andrew was super smart, but
she... she was super monkey.
Ideas, engineered with giddy, drunken glee by her clit, bubbled up and hopped around her mind like kids on a playground…
1. She wanted to suck on a bong. Bad. (A pipe, or bong, or something like that would do fine.)
2. Andrew… Andrew had weed… Andrew was right over there at the table... (He had a pipe)
3. She wanted Andrew to suck on her tits. Really bad. While she sucked
on a bong. And drank liquor. (Yes… liquor was for monkey-girls of style
with big tits for sucking.)
“Mmmm,” she moaned and tweaked her exposed nipple, finding it hardened to a knot of sensation.
Another idea bubbled into her head, making her arch an eyebrow.
4. She wanted to suck her own tits.
She giggled, sliding her hands easily under both of the tits in
question. Of course! It was so simple. So monkey. Why couldn’t a
well-endowed monkey-girl such as herself take matters into her own… into
her own mouth? And she was sure that Andrew would approve. How could he
not? Monkey-boy that he was?
In her current state Ashley might very well have pulled her tits out
right then and there and given it a try without a second thought, had it
not been for something totally unexpected...
A young girl, seven or eight years old, came walking purposefully down
the hall toward Ashley, eyes bright. She was wearing a yellow sun-dress
and had long blond hair that hung in cascades of ringlets that bounced
around her cherub-like face as she walked with the happy, half-skipping
steps that only children can pull off naturally. Although Ashley didn’t
recognize her, it was the same girl who had asked her mother about
Ashley back in the restaurant. Skipping along, the girl didn’t seem to
notice Ashley leaning there against the wall with her hands cupping her
boobs, until she was quite close, then she slowed for a moment, fearful
of the stranger. It looked like she might bolt back the way she had
come. But then she steeled herself and trotted forward. “Hi!” she
chirped, smiling innocently as she looked up at Ashley, “My name’s
Erica, what’s yours?”
Ashley didn’t know whether to laugh or... what, but all four of her
clit’s bubbly ideas were thrown into instant disarray as she fought to
focus her bleary eyes on the little girl; they skittering weakly around
her brain, first in the front and then quickly fading to the back. She
released her tits and let her hands fall limply to her sides, then, as
if hoping that a second look might reveal the little girl to be some
kind of optical illusion, she squinted her eyes hard and peered down
intently at little Erica, who remained as solid as ever, smiling
innocently now with her little hands on her hips.
She wanted to push off from the wall and stand up straight and tall like
an authority figure, but was afraid that she wouldn’t be able to stand.
How embarrassing would it be to fall on your ass in front of a little
girl?
It’s... a little... a tiny little monkey-girl—she thought.… I used to be little like that.
She remembered being that age and spinning around and around in her
backyard until she collapsed, giggling, unable to stand. It had been one
of her favorite pastimes. But there was no need to fall on her face,
giggling and spinning, now. Not with this little girl watching.
“Ay’... Ay’ falled...”
Erica was giggling at her, “You’re silly! Come on, what’s your name, silly?”
For a moment all Ashley could think of was a loopy jumble of spinning,
tits, bongs, liquor, Andrew and red carpet strobe-lit with camera
flashes… Her name? Finally she managed to get to the correct answer:
“Azz’ee… (giggle!) …” Her tongue was nowhere to be found.
“That’s a weird name. Uh oh! Your shirt’s not on all the way.” Erica
pointed helpfully. “See?” She smiled. “My brother says girls aren’t
supposed to let that happen. It’s naughty.”
“Oh… (giggle)… Uh… Oh yah… Whoopz.” Ashley tugged her top up so
that it covered her nipple again. “Thangsh... uh... li’l girl." The
little girl was right! She was the silly monkey.
Silly like a... a foxy titty-monkey.
Erica nodded and gave Ashley a final sunny smile. “Well… it was nice to
meet you, Assy,” she chirped and with that, trotted on by and pushed her
way into the bathroom.
Ashley giggled alone in the hall for a moment, hearing the clink of
dishes and the murmur of voices on the other side of the wall. What a
cute, smart little monkey-girl—she thought to herself, woozily laying
both hands flat onto the wall in preparation to push off and head back.
She couldn’t help thinking that someday little Erica would learn all
about the wonderful things that Ashley knew about. Someday little Erica
would be in college getting ripped as fuck, sucking on monkey-boys with
monkey-boys sucking on her... and it would be wonderful.
A knot of people appeared down at the end of the hall, chatting amongst themselves, coming towards her.
Ashley heard one of them say: “Yeah, I know, I cannot even fucking believe that dude had the balls to… Oh man, lookit.”
She shoved off from the wall and stumbled past them, holding her most
perfect low-lidded, serious expression that told the world that she was
drunk but focused on getting where she was going: a look she had
mastered freshman year. And... where was she going? In search of Andrew.
And liquor!—she thought excitedly, as she exited the hall and blundered
on toward the resturant.
Liquor and sucking and spinning and the sexy grown desire-tense... (whatever that was).
Unbeknownst to her, but not unnoticed by all who observed her, each
long, sloppy stride that took her closer to Andrew, inexorably forced
her skirt up bit by bit, slowly exposing her white, Brazilian-cut
panties.
What a great day!—Ashley was thinking merrily as she staggered passed the hostess, who looked her up and down and shook her head.
Part 39
Ashley saw faces looking at her, could practically feel the eyes that
were roving up and down her, knew they were lingering on the parts of
her that were hot.
Monkeys are watching you…
Yeah… Monkeys like to watch me.
Monkey’s like to watch famous monkey-girls with big tits and tan bodies and high tolerance.
Yes. Yes they did. And it was hot. Good thing Andrew had bought her this
sexy outfit! A little cherry bomb of happiness went off in her head at
the thought of all her new clothes. All those new outfits! So awesome!
So, so awesome!
Of course, even as awesome as this new dress was—Ashley thought with a
smirk as she blearily avoided a table that she hadn’t been able to see
until the last second—she mostly couldn’t wait to take it off... with
Andrew.
Andrew, who had been anxiously avoiding looking at Aubrey for the last
three minutes, pretending to text someone the whole time since their
eyes had locked, looked up just then and saw Ashley coming toward him
like a walking (well, staggering) dream. At the moment he looked up she
was in the middle of staggering sideways to avoid a table whose
occupants were smiling good-naturedly. His breath caught in his throat
at the sight of her and his plan shrank to a narrow point of
impossibility, an improbable future, an insurmountable cliff-face
dooming him to failure by sheer, passive power. He set down his phone
and stared, forgetting all about Aubrey. Ashley was, for the time being,
the cliff at the center of his world. And he knew he could scale this
cliff.
As she walked Ashley caught her hip against the corner of a chair as she
attempted to round a table full of frat-boys. They gawked at her like
tourists at a famous monument.
“Um... ’scush me buhyzz,” she mumbled, smiling.
Careful… Careful, she thought. Hold the pose… Hold the pose…
She squinted around for a moment, swaying, then saw Andrew, waved excitedly and then headed for him.
Even as her bare feet thumped along numbly with the grace of tanned
stilts, Ashley’s mind’s eye was envisioning just how she would handle
Andrew when she got back to the booth. She remembered that he wanted to
leave, and although she wanted to leave too (and thereby smoke more pot
and maybe even get to take off her dress if she was lucky), she also
needed some liquor…
The idea of liquor had entered and filled her hollow brain. It was an
emblem of pure grown womanly monkey-purpose. It was absolutely
imperative that she get some; even though, like the pose that she had to
keep up whether or not she knew what it was, she didn’t quite
understand why it was imperative. Whatever the reason, she knew
that in order to get it she had to be cool, hella cool, hella stylish
monkey-girl, so that Andrew would to let them stay long enough for
liquor. This would require all of her flirtatious, manipulative
bombshell skills. Such that remained anyway. She had milked boys for
free drinks before at parties, but this... this was different. It was
tough to out-smarty Andrew. He was always one step ahead.
She smiled as she planned/watched a spontaneous script play out in her mind’s eye as she neared the booth:
(imaginary) ASHLEY (sidling up to the booth, wiggling her ass,
forcing together her big tits into deep cleavage, soaking up imaginary
ANDREW’s lustful gaze): Hey Andrew! (Haaaappy Biiiiirthday Mister
President) I know you, like, want to get going an’ stuff, but before
that we should totally have some, like, liquor. Doesn’t that sound, just like, hella
awesome? We'll stay for a few more minutes… have some liquor… and then... then we
can go and smoke some of that pot you have…
ANDREW: That's some good fucking pot.
ASHLEY: Hell yah, dude. And maybe... (giggle!) if you’re a good little
monkey-boy (giggle!), I’ll let you drip some of that yummy-stuff on the
bowl so we can get just, like, totally fucking faded. I’ll even let you green the
bowl cuz I'm good with monkeys like that…
ANDREW (licking his lips and mentally undressing her): Oh god, Ashley! I
want your bombshell titties in my mouth, right now! Don't make me wait! Oh please! Just let
me suck on them right now, right here. Fuck all the watching monkeys!
ASHLEY (tossing her hair and lifting a dramatic hand to say ‘stop!’):
Oh my god, Andrew, you’re such a fucking beast (giggle). I love it. But
let’s have the liquor first, K? Liquor before titties… Liquor then
titties! (She would throw back her head at this point, like Marilyn
Monroe, and laugh gracefully.)
Andrew (nodding because he could see how smart and hot she was):
“Okay, you’re right. Waiter! Bring this beautiful young monkey-girl a
bottle of your best liquor!”
WAITER (leaning in with a bottle of vodka): “Here ya go, monkey…”
Ashley’s blood migrated south along its familiar route. Yes! That was how to do it!—she thought.
Then she was at the booth, staring down at Andrew.
The first thing Andrew noticed when he looked up at Ashley swaying there
in front of him, was that he could see a triangle of white at her
crotch, below the line of the bottom of her skirt and between the tanned
flesh of her thighs. Oh… my… fucking… God—he thought, eyes gliding down
her long legs and then back up to the white triangle, then up along the
curve of her hips to her bulging chest and then to her rectangular eyes
sparkling with drunken intensity. He felt like he was in Fast Times At
Ridgemont High: gaping at Phoebe Cates. Difference was—he told
himself—that scene wasn’t real, it was just dude’s fantasy while he
rubbed one out. Ashley is very real. And things are about to get good.
He glanced at her drugged cocktail. Very good. But then, pulled by
inextricable logic, he cast a glance across the restaurant at Aubrey,
hoping she and her friends had gone. No such luck. Aubrey was staring
directly at Ashley with hate in her eyes. Andrew sighed. This could also
get bad. Very bad.
“Heeeey An’roo…” Ashley said, attempting to follow her script. But it was all
loopy, she couldn't keep track of where she was in it: “Aaay’ know tha’choo... wanna sug on my… (giggle!)...” Whoops! Back up. Back up. “Ay’
mean… uuuuh..." At the booth next to theirs, a man was ogling her and his date was punching his arm. Ashley smiled. Focus! "Aaay’… Ay’ know you wanna go to… uuuuh…” She trailed off, her
heart melting, because there, on the table, was a second glass next to her beer glass.
Liquor! It had to be! Andrew must have ordered it for her! He had known! His powers of perception were beyond
measure! What a sweetie! What an incomprehensibly amazing sweetie! She
let out a squeal of joy. “Doesh tha’ve ligger in id?” she pointed and bounced so that her boobs went crazy under her top. "Doessid, doessid, doesssid!?"
“Um, that drink?" Andrew blinked. "It sure does… Look Ash, we need to hurry I don’t…”
“You… ‘rrre fuggin’ ahmazzzing, dude.” Ashley enthused,
placing her hands on her heart, just as she had when her best friend in
middle school had given her a friendship bracelet, “You know tha',
righ’?”
“I… I am?” Andrew shrugged. “I mean... Don’t mention it.”
Part 40
Ashley’s clit simmered happily as she looked out of her hollow, heavy
head with even heavier lids at Andrew’s shaggy-haired cuteness seated
across from her. Everything was perfect in every way. She felt
wonderful.
However, there was the small matter that, ever since her arrival
back at the booth, things had been going somewhat wrong. Not
super-wrong. Just… wrong. Upon confirming that the drink had liquor in it Andrew had gestured for her to take a seat,
but she had quickly decided that she was way too drunk to sit down. All
it took was one bubbling memory-moment of recalling the debacle in the bathroom stall to
get her to realize that the best course of action was for her to sprawl sideways
into the booth and then clamber upright, thereby effectively bypassing
the risky act of sitting. It had seemed very logical at the time... How
was she supposed to know that the force of her sprawl would carry her beneath
the table somehow, so that she ended up rolling on the floor under the
table with her skirt around her waist, giggling like an idiot because it
was the only thing she could think of to show the spinny world that,
despite all appearances, she was in control? She couldn’t have known.
But that’s what happened. And then, after Andrew helped her back onto her seat and
told her to get a hold of herself (to which she replied, in the deepest
of flirty slurs, that she had already been holding herself earlier, several times,
but she had had to stop, and wasn't that silly?) she slumped down across from him, purring
wordlessly as the room spun and her tits heaved pleasantly and she
bathed in the drunken throbbing; only after all that did she remember her
drink. Her real woman monkey-girl liquor drink that Andrew had smartly known to order just when she needed it? Before she needed it! Andrew had helpfully
suggested that she finish off her beer first (waste not want not), which had been a very good idea and she had been more than game
(in fact she had immediately seized the glass and loudly declared her intention to “chug
the shit out of this beer”—which came out as “chuggaashishadis’eer!”), but
good idea or not when she went to chug it she misjudged the distance
between her wide open mouth and the lip of the pint glass and discovered
subsequently that not only was all the beer gone but that she
had spilled it all down the front of herself, completely soaking herself... again. Worse than the first time. Clearly too drunk to drink, nipples standing out from the cold
and with foam on her cleavage as a vivid reminder of what could happen
if trusted to even this simple task, and with full knowledge that
liquor was probably a bad idea (but not at the monkey-level, of
course), she had willfully (and in full demonstration of her tolerance,
she was certain) demanded a straw in order to prevent another accident
from occurring with her liquor drink. A straw had been procured for her
and she had jammed it into her drink like a flag into an undiscovered
country. Andrew had said something about 4:20 approaching and that they
had better get going soon and she had giggled and giggled and Andrew had
said something about quieting down and she had giggled harder than
ever. And then she was leaning forward to suck on the straw, lips
reaching eagerly for it, and it poked her hard on the cheek, but it was
okay because she was so numb. Then, by combining what for her seemed
like the simultaneously tricky and effortless actions of seizing and
steadying the straw with her right hand and lifting the glass up closer
to her mouth with her left hand, she was able to get her mouth around
the straw and start sucking and sucking and sucking. The drink had
tasted like the sweetest of candy. The candy of high heaven. It went
down easier than the beer. She wanted more of it. She tried to tell
Andrew so, but in keeping with the plague of misfortune that was
befalling her, the words came out all garbled and she was reduced to
giggling again, slapping the table and leaning sideways until she nearly fell back under the table.
Of course, these were all only minor problems. They hardly
interfered with the wonderfulness. In fact, even these problems were
wonderful, in a way, because, as a monkey-girl of style, she was sure
that she had given them all a certain stylish elegance, a sexy,
big-titted pose-of-some-kind that just made her more famouser… which
meant: hella awesomer.
Across from her, Andrew had observed all of these misfortunes play out in front of him,
all to the tune of Ashley’s giggles, all accompanied by the dance of her
breasts (now once again beer-soaked), with bemused awe. Though he
racked his brain, he could not remember ever being in the company of
such a beautiful female who was so completely trashed. The closest would
have been the senior kegger back in high school when his
then-girlfriend Chelsea had, on a dare, downed a pint of peach schnapps
to pre-party and they had ended up, before sunset, having sex in her dad's tent so intensely that the tent, which hadn't been properly put up anyway,
had fallen down around them and the last thing he remembered of it was the cold,
wet plastic of the tent enveloping them as Chelsea refused to quit
riding him like a peach-scented cowgirl. If my luck holds—he thought,
watching Ashley poke her face on the straw and start giggling stupidly,
tits nearly shaking out of her top—I’m pretty sure I can top that night.
So when Ashley made her incoherent request, he waved a good-natured hand
and pretended to answer her as if he had understood what she had said:
“Yeah, totally. I completely agree. That’s a great point, Ash. You
really have a way with words.”
Ashley giggled, a hand held up to cover her flushed face as she jerked
and bounced with mirth. He was making fun of her, wasn’t he?—she thought
dimly, happily. That was... funny!
Andrew sighed, eying her. He was momentarily seeing her seated in
Raymond's apartment, holding a blunt. Raymond's familiar hand on her
knee. He couldn't stop himself from saying what instantly came to mind:
“Hey Ash? Don’t you ever... feel like you’re always getting shut out of
the best things in life? Not that you don’t get good things, really,” he
added. “Just that… that the best things are being systematically
withheld.” He was talking about himself, of course. Himself and
Raymond. “It’s like... when you’re a kid and your Mom gives you cookies,
but you know that she just made fresh ones and she’s only given you one
of the old ones to finish them off before they go stale. A cookie’s a
cookie, right? But, I don’t know... A cookie fresh from the oven... ”
Andrew wasn’t sure why he was saying this to her now… Probably because
he knew Ashley was too far gone to really listen. It felt good to say
it, even in such a euphemistic way. “I don’t know if you’ve ever felt
that way... but I have. Story of my life, really. Good shit, but… just…
not the best.”
Raymond’s smiling, winking, lucky face danced before Andrew: Raymond at
13 with a new BMX bike when Andrew had one from the pawn shop; Raymond
at 16 with a brand new Lexus when Andrew had a Toyota Tercel; Raymond at
18 with two stoned foxes on his arm when Andrew was stuck with a girl
who ‘just wanted to be friends’; Raymond at 20 in the hot tub with a
gaggle of girls and bongs while Andrew... and so on.
“Actually, I’m sure you’re used to the best,” he said, shaking his head
as if waking from a dream. Ashley was staring blankly at him. He laughed
lightly. “Oh, don’t worry about it, Ashley, it’s just—”
“Smazzey!” Ashley corrected him with a spastic giggle, before she ducked
down to wrap her lips around her straw and suck up some more
candy-liquor. It was nearly all gone. Then she smacked her lips and
leaned hard on her elbows, slurring: “Tha’ss my name, ‘memmer?
‘Memmer!!?”
Andrew held up his hands. “Whoops. Right, right. Of course. Smashley. As
in, the adventures of…” He glanced at his phone again. Well, they had
definitely missed 4:20. But there was no need to tell her that. “Hey,”
he lied, “we can still make 4:20 if we hurry.” He was getting nervous
about Aubrey and what she had seen him do. The best things in life were
sitting right across from him. Waiting for him. They had been in this
restaurant for way too long. Mission accomplished, Ashley was blasted,
and now they needed to get the fuck out of here before Aubrey fucked
everything up.
Ashley reared back upright, tits waving. “Foh’twunny?”
4:20 is when you get as high as you can… The more the better…
She looked down in a daze at her glass. Her eyes were crossing. The
liquor was swirling into her system fast, joining the alcoholic ranks,
popping her thought-bubbles even before they had a chance to really
appear. Liquor… She wanted… Pot… Had to make it to 4:20… Hurry… She had
to make it to 4:20… Important… But… But how…? Her mouth opened and
closed. It was all so confusing and perfect and… “Y’eewanna no’wuudd I
li’ggabow’ foh’twunny?” she slurred, crosseyed and slumping forward
toward Andrew, her breasts pressing down firmly on the tabletop.
A line of drool slithered from her chin.
Andrew winced. “Oh shit, Ash… you’re… uh… dribbling a little... uh, on yourself. Watch out.”
“Huh? Wazzit? Wazzzz...?” Ashley looked down at her tits, trying to
uncross her eyes, failing, the drool waving like a rope. She thought
maybe he was talking about them again. “Ay’ve guuhdruh’bally tay’urnss
bommzzell ti’zzz li’g mongeh’ss, huh?” She giggled at her incoherent
sentence. Sooo drunk. Fortunately for her, Andrew was smart enough to decode her stylishly drunken attempts at making sense. Sooo posey-style monkey-tits... Yeah, exactly. Andrew was hella smart: she, on the other hand, had no idea what was going on.
Aren’t you... supposed to be doing... something? Something important? Wasn't there a list?
Her mind stumbled to another thought: “Heeeey! Aaay’veel... [I feel..]” She slapped the
table hard, rattling the silverware and drawing some raised eyebrows at
nearby tables. “... Ay’veel li’g… li’g Ay’m, fuggin’… twulf’zz old an' shid,
duw’d! Beevor sdrezz efen fuggin' ‘zizzed… Thazz’uh tall’urnss, huh? [I feel
like I’m, like, twelve years old… before stress even existed. That’s the
tolerance, huh?] Righ’? Izz'n tha' how'd wuurgzz?”
Andrew shook his head, unable to believe his eyes. “I don’t know what
you’re saying, Ashley, but you need to wipe your mouth. You’re seriously
drooling.”
She nodded and giggled as it clicked. Wipe your monkey-mouth.
“Ooooh, oggaaah (giggle!)...” She did and found it slimy. “Ooooh… Duuuude... (giggle!) …Ay’mmmm... Ay’maall driiiibby azz fug…”
Tolerance affects everyone dribbly, right?… It was true.
“Thizz’zzoooo awezzum!” She looked back down at her drink, feeling great and wanting to keep it going, keep it coming. She wanted to have this drink served up for breakfast, lunch and dinner, seven days a fucking weed. Cancun would not be complete without this drink by the bucketful. “Wha’zz dizz
jring call?" she asked. "Di’jew… di’jew tell me tha’ name’f dizz jring ah’rea’y?
Name’f zizz awezumm fuggin’ jring? Aaay’ don’… don’ ‘memmer id(giggle!)…. Mussafurgahdindidroffa tahbba mah hea’ [I must have forgotten it right off the top of my head]."
“The drink? What’s it called?” Andrew laughed. “No, I don’t think I told you, actually.
It’s called a Horny Girlscout. It comes very highly recommended. The
bartender here is cool as hell.”
Ashley mouth opened and closed some more, as she tried to tally the name onto a big buzzy blackboard in the back of her mind, so she would remember it later. Tomorrow. Although tomorrow seemed like a lifetime away. “Issa Hoory… uuuh... (giggle!)… a
Hoory Guuu’lsoow?” Her tongue thumped around the inside of her monkey-mouth with all the finesse of a
dead fish. She pointed her slitted eyes straight ahead to stare at Andrew. He's so cute
and blurry—she thought.
More drool started dripping out of her mouth. It
felt good to not have to swallow; she'd have to remember that for later, tan on the Cancun beach, hot as fuck. Wait... How had Andrew known she was so
horny?—she wondered dimly. He ordered me a... a horny… horny monkey-girl? Girlscout? A fleeting
mental image bubbled into her mind of herself, naked and hitting a bong,
with two horns emerging from the sides of her forehead like a demonic pinup, Cancun bustling around her. Horny Smashley. She giggled hard and sagged forward like a waterlogged flower.
Liquor was so awesome. It was better than she had remembered from parties past. Way better.
“That's right.” Andrew was watching Ashley's drool descend like a thin, viscose waterfall
until it connected to the tabletop. Jesus, he thought, I’m getting this
Dex into her just in time, she’s completely fucked up. Should be
kicking in any time now. He flicked a nervous look over at Aubrey. The
waiter was at her booth, talking to the girls. Aubrey was rooting
through her purse. What was she up to? She saw him looking over and,
with a tight-lipped smile, gave him a finger-wiggling wave. His heart
sank into his shoes. What did that mean?
He turned back to Ashley and found her hanging over her mostly empty glass, smiling and drooling unapologetically. “Eyzzzzcoobzzz,” she slurred. Ice cubes.
“Yep, ice cubes.” Andrew sighed. He was caught between wanting to haul
Ashley to her feet and drag her out of her right now and waiting for the
Dex to kick in. He paused, indecision clawing at him.
Just then their waiter ambled over, eyes on the check and credit card.
“How was everything?” he asked smoothly, picking up the check. Noticing
Ashley’s Horny Girlscout he flashed his service-industry grin again:
“Whoops, looks like she popped into the bar, eh? Do I need to add that
to the check?”
“Don’t worry, I paid cash for it,” Andrew said quickly.
Andrew saw the waiter’s eyes widen when he saw that Ashley was drooling.
The waiter’s gaze flicked down to her cleavage and then over to Andrew.
“Well, well, well,” the waiter muttered.
Turning her head sideways so her right ear pointed at the table, Ashley
peered over and up at the waiter and smiled at him; drool dripping.
“Ooooh… izzz you!” she cried with great enthusiasm when she noticed his presence. She hoped he was here to suck her tits, like in her fantasies.
“Um, you’ll have to excuse my friend,” Andrew said cordially, “she’s
fine. Don’t worry she won’t be driving. I already got the lecture from
your boss. Mr. What’s His Name.”
“Thizzzzz’sizzzah fuggin'... Hurrrny Guhss-gowd…sgoud… mongey jrink,” Ashley informed the waiter, like a
child showing its favorite toy to a family friend, indicating her
cocktail with a heavy thrust of her numb hand. Her hand struck the glass hard and
knocked it over, spilling ice cubes across the table. “Aaay’ don’ jring'id juzz
cuzz Aaay’ wanna—” The rest of what came out of Ashley’s mouth was
unintelligible slurring. Even she had no idea what she was saying:
Something about horny monkey-girls, liquor, 4:20, and tits that led to
higher tolerance.
The waiter cut her off midway through, since it was clear that she probably would go on for awhile if allowed to, and asked Andrew if he should bring some coffee. "Perk her up a little?" Andrew declined.
“She’ll be fine,” Andrew snapped impatiently. “Just take care of
the check, alright man? And hurry up. My friend here’s fading fast. Need
to get her home.”
“Home to that paper, right?” the waiter practically snickered.
“That’s right. Important paper to write.”
“Porren pahber reeeyed,” Ashley mumbled, repeating the words but unable to connect them to meaning.
Seeing the waiter’s blurry face had jogged her memory and by now her previous
fantasy was forcing its way back into her mind’s eye. She was so drunk
that she felt like the spinning was going to spin her straight off into
space. But she knew that her pony would catch her drunk ass if that
happened and take her to a bong or something, which left her free to
hold onto the table like it was life-preserver and grapple numbly with
the morality of her drunken monkey-impulses.
At the same time, something strange was happening inside her. Something
she had never felt before. Her blood was pumping faster and faster. The
buzzing in her ears growing louder. Her hollow brain was starting to hum
with energy and a weird kind of clarity was washing in. She wanted to
tug out her tits and pull Andrew over the top of the table and invite
the waiter to sit next to her and let them both go to town on her… In
every possible way. Starting with her tits. It would be wonderful and
sexy posing at its most monkey and toleranced. But she couldn’t do that.
Not here. She just couldn’t. Why not? She couldn’t think of the reason.
But, it didn’t matter if there was no reason: it was the principle of
the thing: the monkey-principle.
With sluggish willpower she forced the fantasy out of her mind. Stupid
monkey-principles—she thought bitterly, then pulled herself upright and
waved a finger at the waiter, an expression of pure bewildered
bafflement on her slit-eyed face: “Heeey…” she slurred, furrowing her brow at him, “duh you
bah’leef’n mmmongey priss’pals?” She had to know. Now, if only she knew who exactly this was she was asking. “Cuzzzz Aaay’ wanna—”
“Shhh, Ash, that’s enough.” Andrew interrupted her. “She just
gets kind of carried away is all,” he reassured the waiter, who was
looking at Ashley with evident shock. “Once she gets going it’s just… you
know... she just goes overboard.”
The waiter chuckled nervously. “Look, if there’s nothing else… I’m just
going to run this card and be right back…” He hurried off, but not
before taking one more hard look at Ashley’s rack, which was straining
tightly against her top, looking like it was about to explode out in a
wardrobe malfunction of epic proportions. On his way he nearly ran into
three other waiters who were watching from across the room in awe.
“Goddamn Alex,” he muttered to one as he passed, “pick your goddamn jaw up off the
floor why don’t you?”
“Man, I dig this place, but the service is slow as hell,” Andrew
growled, glaring around at the roomful of people. Everyone seemed to be
looking at them. “How long did we just wait for that dude to come get my
card? Too long. Dude’s not getting shit for a tip.”
Ashley nodded, even with her heavy head hanging forward over the table.
She hoped that by nodding she could fool Andrew into believing that she
understood what was going on. She had won a battle for the sovereign
right of monkey-principles over monkey-desires, but couldn’t help
feeling sorely disappointed.
Disappointed and immobilized.
And strange.
She sat, swaying slightly, stomach churning, mouth open, eyes crossing
and uncrossing, as the waiter returned with the receipt, his eyes
drinking her in with as much gusto as she had sucked down her
liquor-candy-drink; she smiled as Andrew signed the receipt, smiled as
he asked her if she was ready to get going, smiled as he repeated
himself. Things were happening in her hollow brain, in her shimmery
throbbing body. Very, very nice things. The buzzing in her ears was so
intense that it was a massive swarm of bees, the throbbing and the
shimmering were zigzagging around across her skin and the hum of energy
in her head had coalesced into a pulsing core, burning like a sun, in
the center of her head. She noticed it most in her eyes. They were
beginning to dart from side to side, anytime they looked over, or down,
or up, they went there with lightening speed; the blurriness was
lessening; colors were brightening, as if her vision were a iPhoto
display and the contrast was getting upped; sensations tickled like
spider webs on her ultra-sensitive skin in amongst the zigzagging
throbbing/shimmering; hollow though it was, her mind started to race,
powered by the energetic core:
Liquorshouldgotothemonkey-girlslikemebecausetheexplainingofthegirlsofthetheoriesbathroomfallingandsmokinghellahellaweedwithponiesfantasystarsandmoreponiesandmonkeysthebettermonkeyssuckingfamousmonkeysthebettertittyweedmonkeyswhoontagizenononodon’tontagizeneverneverneverontagiejustsucksucksuck!
“Whooooaaaaa,” she breathed, shaking her head to try and clear it. It didn’t
clear. It kept racing on and on and on. She furrowed her brow and looked
at Andrew with a bewildered little arch of her eyebrows and looked
around her and saw only monkeys, of various shapes all eating and
walking and laughing and talking…
“Izzzza fuggin’ zoo’n’nere,” she slurred, then burst out into a semi-hysterical laughing fit with her head in her hands.
Though she was in no way cognizant of it, Ashley's body chemistry was being pulled
vigorously in two directions at once: the alcohol was dragging her into
unconsciousness but the amphetamine was buoying her toward liveliness.
The resulting limbo made her brain feel like it was being kneaded by an
electric gauntlet. It was highly pleasant. So pleasant that for a moment
she entirely forgot about her muscles… What followed was a brief, weightless
moment, with the hyper-world sort of brushing past her, and then…
Andrew pursed his lips as Ashley, an epic grin on her face, crumpled
forward like an ill-balanced doll; her head stricking the tabletop with a
loud (clunk!) and her pint glass toppling, pushed over by her forward
surging boobs. The last bit of foam spilled out on the table.
“Oh man. Ash, are you alright?”
Stars were exploding inside Ashley’s hollow, electric head, and for a
moment she wondered how she had ended up in outer space, then giggled at
herself for being so stupid. Where things had been loopy and confused
before, everything was now crystal clear: You’re not in outer space,
stupid; you’re drinking IPA and liquor with Andrew because you want to
smoke more pot with him and relax because you want an A on your paper so you’re
getting as high as you can and as high tolerance as you can because it's all
connected to papers. Remember, remember, remember? She remembered, and
smiled because it was great to remember things. I totally have this remembering
things stuff down—her electric brain sang. She was drooling onto the
tabletop. Remembering came at the price of swallowing.
Best... study-day... ever…
Part 41
“Ashley? Ashley?” The voice seemed to come from far away, emerging
through the wall of buzzing in her ears like an object pushing through a
sheet of falling water.
Who’s Ashley?
Ashley’s me.
Who… who’s calling?
It’s Andrew—Andrew—Andrew. I love Andrew.
How wonderful.
In Ashley’s mind, Andrew’s mouth opened wide for her nipple for the
thousandth time: from slow motion to fast and back in a surreal stutter…
while in the real world her nipples were hard and sensitive and her own
mouth was open and drooling onto the hard tabletop as everything spun
around her.
“Oooo…”
She drew up her head slightly; it was as heavy as a pitcher of IPA.
Heavier. Her thoughts had slowed to a manageable crawl again, though she
was still loopy. I really filled myself to the brim with that beer, didn’t I? she thought, lowering her heavy head back to the tabletop. Yah…
I did, huh? But only so… only so that I could complete my monkey-mission and suck more… more weed and…
and liquor and stuff for my paper and stuff… cuz its my mission, my stylish
mission, my plan… for my paper. My paper’s important… Economics and
Chapter whatever-it-was and all that and it’s as important as Cancun if not
importanter! What’s my paper about again? You roll weed in papers,
maybe I could get one of those roller things like at Dad’s and get a
paper, write a paper, whatever… No, no... not that kind of paper. A paper for class. For class,
for class… for Economics class. Not for weed. But they’re probably
connected… like everything else… I’ll have to ask Andrew about how
they’re connected. Her mind raced along these loopy paths while stars snowed
across her vision, even with her eyes tightly closed. Uncontrollable
lines of thought were spasming out of the hollow in her head and through her
mind like jacked-up parades of jack-in-the-boxes interjecting past her
slower thoughts like a stutter of fast to slow fantasy-images: they
followed their own logic, and no matter how stuttery they were, they
flowed as smooth as exhaled lungfuls of smoke. I can’t believe I used
to be paranoid about stuff. Ever since I came to college I've been paranoid and holding back and sneaking around and... and... and... and I’ll never be paranoid again! Fuck being
paranoid! Or stressed! Or not here-ya-go-monkey-style showcased on MTV
or whatever. For style. Cuz it’s all symbolic of the monkey-style that all the
monkey’s want. That’s why you have to… to… to stay full of IPA and chug
faster and write papers cuz otherwise… you’re just a… a stupid monkey
without tolerance… and an onta-gizer of problems… and that’s the
stupidest thing you can do and Andrew-Andrew, Oooooh! Fuck! I looooove Andrew. She grinned, her cheek pressed hard against the table. Andrew’s
nice and sweet and smart and cute and he wants to suck on me… Me! The
drinky titty-monkey… Which is only natural cuz I’m a 10 monkey-girl of
style!
“Hey, Ashley? Anybody home?” Andrew’s voice had gotten more forceful. He really wanted to talk to her, didn’t he?
“Yaaaah?” she drawled for an answer, realizing that her head was lifting
again slightly. She must be trying to look up at Andrew. Since there was no way she could lift it right now she
let it thunk back down to the tabletop. It was more restful there on the
tabletop, with the hard surface supporting her. She realized slowly
that she had her face in a puddle of drool. The realization made her
giggle.
Fuck swallowing… Swallowing’s stupid… Swallowing’s not part of the mission, bitch…
Her thoughts vibrated with crazy electricity without achieving any kind
of real clarity. Had she just lied?—she wondered, bemused. Maybe. Maybe
not. She wasn’t sure. Maybe nobody was home after all… Maybe
somebody’s just posing as being at home when really they’re on the couch
watching TV getting high as fuck and masturbating with their tits
popping out, did that count as being home? Maybe delicious Purple Kush
and Trainwreck and all that were being sucked out of bongs by
electric-headed big-titted monkey-Marilyn Monroe’s with the help of cute
guys.
That would be hot.
She giggled helplessly as more possibilities than she ever thought
possible raced through her head, whipped into a frenzy by the Dex.
Accompanying her babbling interior monologue was a rollicking montage of
images and fantasies: wild, unbelievable fantasies escalated by the
drugs into ultra-vivid scenarios that played out at high speed like
movies on fast-forward (but she hung on every detail). She saw herself
in her earlier red carpet fantasy sucking a cock that was spurting
candy-liquor down her throat; saw herself falling to her hands and knees
on the red carpet with reporters and that little-girl Erica standing
around her, clapping and laughing; saw herself squeezing into a pink
suede dress so she could smoke a bowl out of a big pink bong named Titty
while a raging surf of IPA crashed around her and she called out for
the biggest straw ever; saw herself popping out of a push-up bra as she
soared on her dream-pony with a huge bag of pot slung over her shoulder
like a stony Santa Claus, heading for the open door of a limousine with
Andrew inside, naked, smiling and waving.
As Ashley saw herself on a TV game show, swilling candy-liquor and
falling on her ass for the cameras, she heard Andrew’s voice in the real
world again: “Oh man. Hey Ash, lookit the time,” it said. “We need to
get going if want to make 4:20 and—”
“Excuse me, Andrew?” A second voice. A girl’s voice that Ashley didn’t recognize.
Who’s that?—Ashley wondered, prying her attention away from the clapping
in-studio audience of the game-show in her mind. She forced herself up
onto her elbows and used her splayed out numb hands for leverage so she
could twist her head to the side and peer over and up at the newcomer
with her mouth wide open and her eyes fighting to open and focus and not
roll back into her head. “Whozz tha’?” she slurred. Silvery threads of
saliva connected the side of her face to a the puddle of her drool on
the table.
Finally her eyes focused. Somewhat. The newcomer looked like a blurry
Natalie Portman. Natalie Portman in a blizzard of shimmering stars.
“Whozzz? Whoozz tha’mmay bug’?” Ashley took a moment to giggle at herself: that
question didn’t even make any sense, stupid! Yeah, but I’m really drunk
and stuff though… still drunk for more and more the better… or
whatever. So it’s okay. When you’re this Andrew-liquored up and
4:20-hungry you don’t even have to swallow or make sense or…
She heard Andrew’s voice say: “Oh… uh… Hey Aubrey, what’s up?”
Aubrey? Ashley wondered how come even though she wasn’t in outer space
there were still stars everywhere. And Aubrey was a funny name. That
too. In her head, she contemplated the snowing stars with a knowing look
on her face as she turned to the MTV camera to explain her personal
theory for why astronauts should smoke hella pot. In the real world her
face was slack and her mouth open, her chin shiny with saliva.
“You know what’s up you bastard…” Aubrey’s voice snapped.
“Wherezz… wherezzz'tha starzz come from?” Ashley asked the blurry newcomer in an almost plaintive slur. The newcomer had to know. “Du-du-dah you know
whur they... from?” In her head she was being handed a huge blunt by
that little girl Erica, who was saying: ‘my big brother says you should
smoke this blunt all up and then visit him in the bathroom, he’ll help
you write your paper’ and she was saying: ‘Oh shit yah. Cool. Lemme,
lemme ge’ ready,’ and pulling her tits out.
The newcomer furrowed her brow and stared at Ashley
Ashley smiled up at her.
Aubrey seems nice—she thought.
Andrew’s voice, nervous sounding: “Um, what stars, Ashley? The stars in the sky or the stars on the screen?”
Ashley chortled and shook her head rapidly, breaking off the drool-lines, “No, no, no, no… zillyzillymongee-boy… (giggle!)…”
If she had been on Andrew’s side of the table she would have grabbed
his head and shook it and tousled his cute shaggy hair as hard as she
could. “Tha’ starz’n mah head!”
“Ah.”
Ashley’s head sagged downward. “Ay’mmm all… zzzilly zzztarry… (giggle!)… zzzzah'rry dahrry... (giggle!) Bu’ Ay’m naaah ssstrezzzzed ad all…” She needed to emphasize this, she thought. “Nod sssstrezzed… fug sssstrezzed, dude… Fuggin’… yah!” she shouted at the tabletop. “Ay’m naaaah sssstrezzed ad all an’ Ay’m jusss’ all starzzzz…”
‘Take me to the silly stars where there’s no stress,’ she was whispering
into the ear of her dream-pony, who’s wise eyes twinkled. ‘I’ll take
you to them,’ it replied in Andrew’s voice, ‘Hold on tight and chug
this…’ She giggled: that was so like Andrew.
“Look Andrew,” Aubrey’s voice was so angry it made Ashley giggle. “I need to talk to you and your… friend, okay?”
Ashley didn’t care about talking to friends, nor did she care that no
one was answering her question: she liked the stars and she could go to
them if she chugged this… She looked around blearily for something to
chug. Found nothing. She hoped she would do a good job chugging and
impress her dream-pony. No, no—she thought with a giddy clitoral
shudder—that’s not real… that’s a dream… a dream-pony fantasy dream…
“Ay’… Ay’ jranggg’aaa whole lod,” she slurred happily, addressing the tabletop while drool dripped from her numb monkey-mouth. Good monkey-mouth. “An’… an’…”
“Um, do you mind?” Andrew was saying sharply to Aubrey. “I’m kind of...”
“…aaaan’Ay’feel fuggin’ ahzzum!” Ashley directing the last word
at the newcomer, the core of energy burning in her head making it
imperative that she express herself at the top of her lungs. The
newcomer had to know.
“You like to drink.”
Did the newcomer know that already? “Aaaay’ rully rully... ley'gga jring," she said matter-of-factly, smiling as wide as she could.
“…in the middle of something here,” Andrew finished.
Ashley wiped at her mouth. Saliva smeared. Whoops! Dribbly! Surely
Andrew knew that she liked to dribbly-drink?—she mused. Of course he
did: he had supplied the candy-liquor. In her head: ‘Drink of the
candy-liquor my sweet,’ her dream-pony-Andrew was saying, ‘drink of its
candy like a real monkey-girl of liquor would.’ Her fantasy-self nodded
enthusiastically and lifted a pitcher full of candy-liquor to her lips
to drink it, spilling some of it on her tits like a silly monkey:
'Whoops!' she cried, laughing. 'It's okay, I'll just suck it off," came
the loopy reply.
In the bustling confusion of her head she gently, numbly, laid a hand
between her legs, brushing her fingers gently against her clit. “Ooooh,”
she gurgled. That's nice.
“Yeah, I can see what you’re in the middle of,” Aubrey snapped, “That’s
kind of the point. I just wanted to tell you that I saw what you did.”
She turned to Ashley, “I don’t know who you are, but you should know
that your friend here…” She pointed at Andrew. “…is not very nice. He
put things in your drink.”
“Aaay’ lig’ahjring!” Ashley retorted, almost petulantly.
“No, he put things in your drink.”
Ashley furrowed her brow, fingers rubbing her clit gently, secretly, under the table. “Oh… uuuuh…” Things in my drink?
Even as out of it as she was, the accusation triggered Ashley's old
party-defenses that she had learned in high school: date-rape was real,
it happened every day, you could be next. She tried to remember
if she had placed a napkin over her candy-drink before she had gone to
the bathroom. She couldn’t remember. Then it clicked: No, no, she hadn’t
even had the candy-drink when she went to the bathroom. No napkin. But
no drink. So she was fine. No problem. “Aaay’ donnee’dah nahp’kin,” she
informed the tabletop, hoping the
newcomer-whose-name-seemed-to-be-Aubrey would hear it too and have her
Natalie Portman fears put to rest. In her head she shouted: ‘Ay’ needa
nah’pkin ta ress’onna my cann’y!’ up at the gathered frat-boy reporters
who were crowding around her splayed out naked body. One of them handed
her a large Horny Girlscout in a milk glass.
“Look… uh… I don’t think there’s any need to get hasty here,” Andrew was saying.
Ashley swung her snowy, hyper-sensitive gaze toward him and she saw that
he was blushing, casting anxious looks at her. Her heart went out to
him. Poor sweety! Soooo cute!
“Those are pretty serious claims, Aubrey,” he continued.
“Noooo, no. Isss ogah An’rew, iss ogah…” Ashley soothed. Her gaze landed on
one of his hands that he had on the table between them and she pulled
her rubbing hand out from between her legs to stretch it out,
empathetically, thoughtfully, numbly, to paw at his. Poor, poor, poor sweety-monkey-boy… “noboh’zz ge’n hay’ssee… (giggle!)…” She realized she would have to attempt that word again: “Hays-dee,” she struggled, “haahzzee… (giggle!)…
Righ’?” she turned to Aubrey brightly. Aubrey’s face was a blur;
obscured by snow. “Yer nah bein’ hay’zzee, righ’? Yer juss… juss ressin’
onna… onna groun’, huh?” You’re not making seeeeeense! Hold the poooose, girl! You’ve got to... hold on. “Wu-we’all
can’d have… thingzz’n our jringsss,” she informed Aubrey seriously, as
if Aubrey had forgotten this most important of facts. Then she put her
head down on the table.
(thunk!)
Andrew started mumbling something about the whole thing being misread. “It’s not what it looks like,” he said.
Andrew’s such a smarty compared to all us retarded stoned pothead-monkeys, Ashley thought, resting on the tabletop. He’ll have this worked out in no time, probably. Then... I can out-smarty him again... She couldn't wait.
“Fuck misreading,” Aubrey’s voice dripped with malice, “this isn’t the
fucking Literary Theory test, Andrew. I saw what I saw and you know it.”
Her voice shifted, she had turned toward Ashley, “Maybe you’re someone
who likes this kind of thing or something, I don’t know… but I just
thought you should know, assuming you didn’t already, that he put pills in your drink. I saw him do it while you were in the bathroom.”
“That’s not true, Ashley, don’t believe her,” Andrew said calmly.
Ashley pulled herself upright and looked at Andrew again. She saw him looking
at her, waiting for her to speak. She licked her lips… and said the
first thing that came to mind: “Inna bafroom... Ay’… Ay’ fell on mah
azzz. It wazzzoooo fuggin' funny…” she smiled, a foolish smile to accompany a
slightly embarrassing but also kind of hot admission. “Ay’ wazz jusss’
all li’g…” She rolled her eyes back into her head and pantomimed
toppling backwards, flailing her limbs wildly. “Ay’ falled doooown! Ay'
falled doooown!” She wanted to continue the story but couldn’t because
she couldn't organize her thoughts. She grasped after them like slippery
electric straws as they raced away.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” said Aubrey. “How fucked up are you?”
Part 42
Ashley laughed. Not at what Aubrey had said, but at her own story about
falling on her ass in the bathroom. That had been pretty funny, right? Andrew
and the Aubrey-newcomer didn’t laugh, however. They seemed dead
serious. Why didn’t they understand how funny it was? She tried to think, but
all that came to mind was a looping fantasy image of herself, naked,
riding her dream-pony towards the stars, smoking a bowl out of Lucifer,
then falling off the pony, big breasts being pulled skyward by gravity as
she sailed down through empty space, still hitting the bong… Why
couldn’t that be happening?—she wondered, pouting a little. Why didn’t the
dream come true? She sagged forward, then pushed herself upwards a bit.
“Du-du-do… you dream?” she asked Aubrey in desperation, completely lost. She was starting to drool yet again.
“What?”
“Ay’ dreammm alla time, dude… (giggle!) … Isss hod… Ay’ dream tha’ Ay’m—”
“Listen, you dumb slut,” snapped Aubrey, cutting her off, grabbing her
by the shoulders and shaking her, “He, Andrew, him, right there, put pills in your drink while you were in the bathroom. Don’t you care? He drugged you.”
Ashley looked helplessly from the newcomer-girl angry Natalie Portman
face to Andrew and back. Andrew looked calm; no longer anxious. He
seemed sure of himself again. She loved him for it. But… what about…
about the…? She blinked stupidly, distracted for a moment by her
shimmering skin. She felt really good. She tried to focus on the matter
at hand. She pulled out of Aubrey’s hands and reached for her drink. Pills in your drink…
She picked it up and looked in at the few remaining melting ice cubes.
She didn’t see any pills. “Pillz?” she slurred. “He pu’ pillz….” Drool
dripping fast from her mouth, she lifted her gaze to Andrew again. “Dud
you…?” She fumbled past the image of her gravity-pulled breasts and her
own face stuck to the bong, trying to find an appropriate phrase to
express how she felt. She found none and her hollow brain skipped
backwards: “Um… Soooo… do… do you dream ‘bow’ compahr’tive liderture?” Good one Ashley! Smart! “Or... or jusss pillzz?”
Aubrey rolled her eyes and stamped her foot. “Jeez, you’re a wreck.
Look, I’m done here. I’m done.” She rounded on Andrew: “I hope you enjoy
her. Asshole.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Andrew was holding up his hands, doing
his best to look puzzled. “I still think you’ve misunderstood this whole
thing, Aubrey. Those weren’t pills, they were vitamin packets… Ashley
was feeling sick, I thought it would be a nice gesture to…”
“Ay’ dream ‘bow geddin’ rully stoned with ponies,”
Ashley slurred seriously to the grand scheme of things, which happened
in the direction of Andrew. She wondered if she had really meant to say
‘stoned at parties’… probably… But... I’m drunk as shit, how am I supposed to say what I really mean? Or whatever…
Her face fell and she wondered why she was holding her drink. The glass
was empty, but she tried to take a drink out of it anyway, thinking that
maybe there was a little liquor left in the bottom. Besides, it was
better than trying to talk and make sense.
Little melty ice cubes attacked her face and fell down her cleavage. “Oh
shid!” She giggled and plunged a hand down the front of her top after
them. Stupid ice cubes! I knew they’d be trouble. Once her hand
was between her tits, however, it found no ice cubes, only firm, very
warm, slightly damp delicious titflesh. “Oooh, oooh yah,” she groaned
and looked over to see if that Aubrey-girl wanted to grab a handful—she
was a monkey-girl too, after all. That’d be hot. Her heart
pounded. Her saliva dribbled out of her mouth unnoticed. The electric
gauntlet gave her a squeeze and erotic-voltage shivered down her spine
to her clit. But the Aubrey-girl was gone.
Tit in hand Ashley gaped out at the blurry restaurant; a waiter passed by with a tray of food, staring over at her.
“Aaay’… Aaay’ don’… Whazzzz… goin’ on? Aaay’candellommmore… [I can’t tell no more]… …” You like to drink, you’re a titty-monkey of style, it’s almost 4:20… What else you need to know?
True.
And...
Her breast felt really, really good. It was big.
Andrew, meanwhile, was watching Aubrey gather up her friends, his heart
racing almost as fast as Ashley’s. He had dodged a bullet on that one,
for sure. The Dex had definitely hit Ashley (fast-acting, indeed) giving
her the boost necessary to keep her awake, if not in one piece
mentally. He still couldn’t believe that his worst nightmare had
actually happened, he had been called out on drugging Ashley’s drink. It
had been like something from a bad ‘80s movie. And yet... Ashley,
instead of getting pissed and yelling at him and getting up and leaving
(as he knew she would have earlier today, or yesterday, or any other
time) had just let it roll of her back. She didn’t give a fuck. The contrast
between this incident and the one a few hours back at the clothing shop
was encouraging. Hell, it was beyond encouraging. We have officially
achieved lift-off, he thought—now I just have to get her the fuck out of
here.
He looked back at Ashley and discovered that she had pulled her left tit
completely out of her top and was squeezing it outward with both hands,
face contorting with pleasure. “Ohmahgaaa’,” she was moaning, her nipple
hardening to an epic point. "Fuuuuck."
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up there Smashley,” he laughed, hurriedly
getting to his feet and sliding around next to her in the booth. “Come
on, let’s get the fuck out of here, alright? Put your… uh… Let’s put
your boob away and go smoke some pot. Huh? That sound like fun?”
Ashley’s hooded eyes tracked stupidly over to him.
Smoke? Pot?
“Smoge?” she murmured. “Um, yaaaah. Yaaaah, Aaaay’ wanna smoge. Furrr suuure, duuude.”
When their eyes met—his sparkling with adrenaline, hers glazed and dead
as marbles but filled with sizzling passion—she beamed and released her
tit so she could seize him in an embrace, “Heeey, izzz you,” she cooed,
“Heeeey you… aharrr we gonna ssssmoge onnasaahruurzz [smoke on the
star]? Bringah poh’ee aan’na camaa [Bring a pony and a camera] … …”
“Um, okay, that doesn’t make any sense, so... Let’s… uh… okay,
here...” Andrew awkwardly managed to grapple her tit back into her top.
Its mass felt like pure buoyant euphoria in his hand and his cock sprang
instantly to attention. “Holy shit,” he muttered. He couldn’t have
imagined the feeling of that breast before actually feeling it. It was
incredible.
Ashley hung on him like a painting on a wall, mumbling nonsense, grinning ear-to-ear.
After he was sure he had her boob safely back into her shirt he
carefully pried himself free of her embrace and stepped out from the
booth.
A quick glance around showed him that they were the center of attention.
The absolute center. Their waiter was standing across the room with
flock of other waiters, busboys and even a dishwasher or two, all
alongside the manager, all watching silently. The hostess had her head
poked around the corner. And it seemed like every eye in the place was
trained on him.
He shrugged and gave the room a crooked smile, feeling a little like Bob
Hope, or someone. Then he turned back to the table and tugged Ashley
out of the booth, discovering with a grunt that she was mostly dead
weight. He slung an arm down to support her at the small of her back and
another at the nape of her neck.
“Ash? Ash, can you walk?”
“Aaay’mmm ffffiiiine,” she slurred, pulling away from him, staggering.
Her skirt was once again around her waist, white panties displayed for
all to see. “Aaaay’mmm to’lly fine, dude.”
“You aren’t fine, you’re trashed. Pull your skirt down, okay?”
Murmuring went through the restaurant. No one’s food held any interest for them. A few camera-phones were being lifted up.
Ashley staggered toward a table with two guys in polo shirts, pulling
her skirt down roughly, grinning wickedly, mumbling something about
showcasing herself and then stumbling forward, heading blindly for their
table. The Dex's energy was convincing her that she could control her
numb limbs with ease. “Whurrr’re we ad?” she asked nobody in particular,
mindlessly reaching a hand for a tit, finding it, squeezing it. “Mmm,
shid.”
Monkey’s are watching… Kendra’s got nothin’… Nothin’s better than watching your style…
“Whoops, hold up…” Andrew slipped a guiding hand around her waist and steered her around the table.
“Auuur we gonnna sssmoge’aaah bowl now?” Ashley asked stupidly, too
loudly, fixing him with a belligerent glare; the glare came at the
expense of her legs and she was soon staggering against him hard, nearly
falling. “You saaa’,” she managed to whine before she had to
grab onto the fabric of his shirt to keep from biffing it face-first to
the floor. "Whoooa..."
“We’ll see, we’ll see” Andrew soothed, nodding at the table of frat-boys she had bumped into previously as they passed it.
“You need a hand with her, bro?” One of them asked; a vulturine look on his face.
“Nah man, I got it, I got it. I’m good.”
“Oooohmmmygaaaa’,” Ashley slurred to Andrew. She needed to make sure all
the staring faces knew that even though she was too drunk to be
bothered by them, she was aware of her monkey-principles: “my sgirrd
isss, li’g, all fuggin’ sssshord, huh?” Her face turned eager and all
thought about monkey-principles vanished: “Kun’… kun’ we ge’ssummore…
more…” What was the word? “...more’f those Hor’nee Gurrrshcoudzzz, too, An’roo? Pleeeash?”
In her head she was falling through space again, weightless and free,
struggling to drink from a pitcher of Horny Girlscout—pure bliss
embodied.
The frat-boys laughed as Andrew guided her straight out the door and
down the street while she grinned happily, knowing that the answer to
every question would be an emphatic, erotic ‘yes’ because Andrew was so
nice and smart and he knew that she needed more to drink.
The more the better…
The hand not needed for clutching Andrew’s side reached up for her tit again.
Hot!
Part 43
Once Andrew had deposited Ashley in the passenger seat of his car and
got in beside her, he took a deep breath and wiped sweat from his brow.
Jesus Christ what an incredible day. To think that this morning he had
just planned to get high, watch a movie, maybe rub one out, and maybe
start that take-home test… Thank God he’d decided to buy from Ashley
instead of waiting for Raymond. Apparently miracles can happen. He
started the car and drove away from the curb, a fear kindling deep down
inside him that Aubrey would call the cops or something; best to get as
far away from here as possible. He looked over at Ashley. He saw the way
the lowering sunlight, streaming in from the west, touched the outline
of her profile, a glowing radiance on her eyelids, on the planes of her
cheeks. He smiled and thought that this was the proper illumination for
someone so beautiful. She turned her head toward him slowly, and the
light because an edge around the disheveled mess of her hair. And she
smiled at him in a way she had never smiled at him before, an intimate
greeting. He smiled back and knew he was almost to the top of the cliff.
“Aaay’mmm rull jrung, huh?” She asked him gravely. Before he could
answer she threw her hands out dramatically, as if delivering the
emotional climax of a poorly written play: “Ay’ ‘unno know whaaa’ssaa
madder wi’ me, dude! Izz jusss… fuggin’... li’g… Fug, dude. Ya know? Ay’…” A little giggle bubbled out of her. “Ay’ jussss’… ligga jring... an' smoge... an' fuggin'... jring more... an'...” “You like to drink.” “an’ tha’ more Ay’ jring..." "You like to drink." "...tha’ more Ay’ juss wanna…” Her hands flung wide open. “…jring more! (giggle!)... Jussss... tha’ more’ah bedder, ya know?” Her face showed a touch of concern all of a sudden. “Issad normal?”
“Is it normal?” Andrew laughed, zooming toward the freeway, pushing the speed-limit. “Are you kidding? Of course it is.”
She smiled and nodded. “Alrigh’. Cool.”
“Yeah…” He glanced at her again, taking in her sun-accented profile: the
curve of her bosom was like the all-encompassing bounty of the earth;
its gravity holding his eyes. “And look…” He jerked his eyes back to the
road. Not this again, he thought. Eyes front. “Sorry about that scene
back there,” he said gently, “That was this girl from my Literary Theory
class. Aubrey. I thought she was cool, but… apparently she’s a bit of a
psycho. You never can tell about some people.”
“Fuggin’… craaazzzy mongees,” Ashley mumbled. She brushed at her nipples
lightly with her numb hands, unable to resist. “Oh!” The yummy
sensation belied her numbness.
“Right,” continued Andrew. “I think she… I don’ know. I think she has a
crush on me or something. She’s always giving me these looks, you know?
Stopping and talking to me all the time; laughing at every stupid thing I
say. So… uh… don’t take it personally, you know? She’s just jealous of
you or something. Even though that’s ridiculous, of course.” He gave her
a crooked smile. “Isn’t that ridiculous, Ash?”
“Shezz jealoush?” Ashley’s hollow energy-center was gushing
buzzing wonderfulness; the Dex was still pushing her higher and higher,
flying her up and up and up to the stars. But her mind had quieted down;
her fantasies bubbling softly in the back of her brain; the high
migrating to the purely physical. “Why’s tha’ ridiculous?” She couldn’t
believe she had enunciated that last word so perfectly. But she had. Tolerance, bitch! It
was true: tolerance was a wonderful thing. Andrew had taught her that.
She turned her head toward him and lifted her slitted eyes, and after a
brief struggle to focus them, met his.
The sexual tension which had been heating between them all day, boiled
over at that moment. “Ay’d be jealoush too,” she whispered breathily.
She wanted to say, ‘please, please, please suck on me,’ but held herself
in check, not sure why, only knowing that it was the principle of
thing.
A lump in his throat, Andrew looked back at the road. “Uh... so… what I
was saying though was… uh… that she must have been really jealous to lie
like that.”
Ashley nodded, feeling a strange trembling calm coming over her. “Yah… uh… Wai’… wha’d she lie ‘bow?”
“Oh, remember? Some stupid thing about me putting pills in your drink,”
Andrew said, nervously waving a hand to dismiss it. He cleared his
throat and signaled to turn onto the on-ramp. They were third in line,
stopped at a light.
Traffic moved sluggishly by around them.
Ashley sat in silence, thinking with great difficulty, staring down at her tits. Pills in your drink… “He, Andrew, him, put pills in your drink. Don’t you care?" "Stupid slut!" "Stupid slut!" "Stupid slut!"
After playing and replaying this dozens of times, Ashley frowned and
lifted her head a little to look over at Andrew, who was watching her
breathlessly. “You… you pu’ pillzz innna my jring?” Her eyes crossed
again and she was looking at two Andrews. That looks cool, she thought.
“No, no, I didn’t, I swear,” Andrew protested, but Ashley wasn’t listening anymore.
Pills in your drink. She turned this piece of information around
and around; spinning it in the hollow, washing it in electric
shimmering. It looked pretty good. Her mind looped around the idea: Pills
in your drink (To the tune of “My Humps”: I’m gon’ gon’ gon’ put pills
in ya drink, pills in ya drink, pills in ya drink!) Here are some more
pills in your drink for ya monkey… Couple more? Her dream-pony flew a figure eight and then hover overhead. There ya go!
Her hands sought the pillowy comfort of her tits, fondling them gently again.
Andrew pretended not to see, watched the light, waited for it turn green. “Longest fucking light, ever,” he muttered.
Ashley was thinking—So… if… if… like…Andrew put pills in my drink… and…. then I…. drank the drink. “You like to drink.” Yeah, and I drank the drink because I like to drink… And the pills… Here ya go, monkey… made me feel… “Ay’ feel ahzzum!”…
like that, like this, like everything… The spacey grin of a star-happy
Cheshire cat came to her lips. Then—she thought—clearly then the logical
conclusion… the smart monkey-connection… was that pills... The more the better! ...were awesome.
Put more pills in my drink… please.
Her thought-loop completed and she gave a happy cry and clapped her
hands just as the light turned green and Andrew gunned the motor.
“What is it?” he asked, worriedly, as they zoomed along the on-ramp to cruising speed.
“Aaay’ thingk Aaay’ li’g pillz, dude! (giggle!)…” Ashley pulsed
with joy. She made her fingers dance lazily in the air in front of her
face as she slumped down in her seat happily, noticing the way the image
stuttered snowily; then noticed the way the diameter of her ass slid
sexily along the seat. She turned to Andrew, smiling below slitted eyes:
“Nesss time… gimmie more pillzz, K?”
“What? A-a-are you serious?” Andrew was merging into freeway traffic,
throwing skeptical glances her way inbetween glances at his blind spot.
“But I didn’t even give you any… uh… I mean... Uh… okay, you know… uh… I
didn’t know how many you wanted so I just…”
The sensitivity of Ashley’s body-surface was zooming in the span of
seconds from her energy core to the edges of her awareness and back
again: she was peaking on the Dex.
It’s the electric gauntlet squeezing me—she thought. Squeezing me like I’m a big titty. Which
reminded her that her hands were squeezing her titties tight. She
gasped, her heart pounding. Something occurred to her: “Do ya thiiiingk
thaaa’ssa pillz’ll boozz’d my ti’ss?” she asked seriously.
Wait!—she giggled. I just totally misspoke! I said ‘tits’!
Andrew’s mouth opened and closed. “I’m not sure I—”
“Ay’ mean!” Ashley cried, laughing, putting her head in her hands for a moment. “Ay’ mean boozz my tallerance! (giggle!)…
Shorry… Aaay’m all fugged up, dude. Aaay’m shorry!” Saying ‘fucked up’
made her blood migrate south. “Ooo,” she slumped further in the seat,
resisting the urge to throw her hands between her legs.
Why resist? You’ve already done it a bunch of times today. Right?
“I understand completely,” said Andrew, giving her a kindly glance.
“That IPA went to my head a little too. Happens to the best of us.”
“Rully?” Ashley giggled.
“Really. And yeah, I’ll bet pills do boost tolerance. How could they not, right?”
She looked down and saw a silvery string of her saliva linking her chin to her cleavage. She frowned.
“Gawd… loogit me. (giggle!).. Loo-loogit… An’rew, loogit…” Andrew looked and then swerved a little to correct his path. “…loog’ss li’g somebah’dizza
drubbly li’l mong’ee, huh?” Ashley slurred happily. “Aaay’… Aaay’
‘ohnoh if Ay’ shou’ ge’ any higher tall’enced, An’rew… (giggle!)…”
she confided in him, “Ay’m ah’ready a... a... a pre’y druhbbly… li’l…
fuggin’… Uuuh…” She hands had decided of their own accord to find her
clit. They pressed and twiddled. “Uuuhh… Ooooh shid, dude.”
“Holy shit.” Andrew gawked then looked ahead, gawked then looked ahead. “Ashley… uh… you’re… you’re masturbating.”
“Rully?” She bit her lip, rubbing. She slid lower in the seat. “Uh oh… (giggle!)…”
“Look, as your manager,” he flashed a smile, to himself more than her,
“I advise you to take a few resin hits off this pipe while you
masturbate. You seem a little stressed.”
“Do Aaay’?…(mm!)… Do aaay’ zeem… (oh!)… ssstrezzed? (giggle!)…” That’s weird, she thought, I don’t feel stressed. Maybe you can’t tell anymore. You are pretty numb. Listen to Andrew. “Rezzzin
hids? I looooove rezzin hids!” She managed to slow her fingers, then
stop them. She turned her head to look out the window for a moment at
the whizzing world. What was Andrew talking about? Her manager? Oh
right—Smashley’s manager. Her manager. She giggled. Andrew was funny.
“Yah… ogay. Shid yah.”
“We’ll load a real bowl when we get to Woodfoot, but there’s tons of
resin in this pipe.” Andrew had retrieved the Sherlock and held it out
to her. “Here.”
“Here ya go, monkey.”
“Yah.” She took the pipe and lighter from him, not sure where it had
come from, stupidly thinking that maybe he had it with him the whole
time at the bar and hadn’t told her. She was briefly angry with him.
Then, remembering that she had a pipe and lighter in her hands her body
trembled with anticipation and she sparked the lighter and dipped it
into the bowl. She took a long hit. The resin crackled and popped inside
the bowl and started glowing a fierce red. The smoke the resin gave off
was thin and sour tasting at first, but it quickly became thicker.
It felt so good to suck in the flame and know it was going to get her high.
Never again will I go so long without smoking pot!—she vowed, feeling
herself getting wet. So wet. She could feel the smoke filling her lungs.
She vowed to fill them completely full. The more the better!
Andrew noticed an SUV racing alongside them driven by a burly man in a Red Sox cap looking over at Ashley.
Andrew chuckled, a little nervously, “Hey, Ash, why don’t you lean down a
little while you take...” What was the use?—he thought. “Ah, fuck it.”
He gave the driver a sardonic thumbs-up, then accelerated.
Ashley just ignored him, she was too busy sucking as hard as she could,
cheeks caved in, eyes crossed to watch the flame as it slipped down,
down, down the pipe-hole. She could distantly feel the heated glass of
the pipe burning her fingers. She ignored it as easily as she ignored
Andrew.
When she had taken her fill she held it for as long as she could, then
blew it out. She noted with clitoral glowing pride that being drunk and
on pills made it possible to take in even more smoke than ever before
without coughing. As her hit gushed forth like a thick geyser aimed at
the windshield she felt herself getting higher already.
Tolerance totally fucking rocks!
“How’s that?” Andrew asked, trying not to look over at the people in the
surrounding cars who he was sure were all staring at his beautiful
passenger toking up next to him.
“Umm, preddy fuggin’… auhzum,” Ashley drawled right before she sparked the lighter again to take another hit.
One more hit, girl! Come on!
Andrew turned on the radio and took Exit 188, toward Woodfoot. The song could not have been more ironic. “U and Dat…” by E-40.
“Girl, I been shakin’, stickin’ and movin’ tryin to get yoooooou and that booty, tryin’ to get to yooooou and that booty…”
Ashley giggled, holding the smoke of her hit tight.
“… tryin’ to get to yooooou an’ that booty, tryin’ to get to yooooou an’ that booty…”
The song might as well be about her! she realized. Her ass and lower
back twitched weakly beneath her, trying to move to the beat.
“Girl, I been shakin’ and actin’ a donkey tryin’ to get to yooooooou and
that monkey. Tryin’ to get to yooooou an’ that monkey, tryin’ to get to
yoooooou an’ that monkey…”
Me is that booty-monkey, that’s cool… Ashley nodded her head along to the beat, pipe to her lips.
A fantasy involving a huge dance club full of hot monkey-boys rubbing up
on her and buying her drinks, ending with her dancing on the bar like
that movie Coyote Ugly she had seen in middle school, falling off the
bar and becoming a naked, boy-fondled bartender, ran through her hollow
head in a stream, with the song as its soundtrack.
After a few more thick hits of resin-smoke she tried to set the sizzling
hot pipe and lighter down on the dash but they fell promptly to the
floor.
“Whoopsss,” she grinned down at them… only then noticing that she was
barefoot. “Oh!” She exploded with stoned laughter, a hand covering her
face.
“Ooooh, yo ass is right,” E-40 was rapping, “I ain’t tryin’ ta let that
pass me tonight/I’ma put my bid in and tell you somethin’ slick/Whisper
in your ear while I’m holdin’ my dick…”
“What is it?” Andrew asked, turning down the radio.
“Looggit!”
Silly silly silly booty-titty-monkey-girl of style and dribbles!
She slumped down in the seat, let her head loll sideways and held up her
bare feet. The high from the resin had softened the electric gauntlet,
but made the shimmering of her body amp up wildly. “Mmmmmmmmm.” It felt
good.
“Oh, I see. You forgot your shoes. My bad, I should have grabbed ‘em."
“Ummm… ogah,” she whispered, smiling hard, not sure what he was talking
about. She could feel her tits. They were bulges of sensation amid a
vague swirling of shimmery numbness. Her hands were soon encircling
these globes, coaxing out the sensations. “Oooo,” she sighed, rubbing,
before pushing downward, between her legs. Wasn’t she supposed to be
masturbating? Wasn’t that why she had taken all those resin hits?
Part 44
Midway to the dorms Raymond stopped to dispose of his phone.
He was next to the soccer fields and at this time of day the whole place
teemed with grinning, grunting teams. Soccer players smoked a lot of
pot and Raymond knew a number of the faces out there. But no one waved.
He laughed quietly to himself and watched them for a minute.
When he knocked on Kelly’s door he almost laughed aloud when he heard
her approaching: her steps wer slow and shuffling, like she was barely
lifting herfeet off the floo. He could smell fresh pot smoke seeping
from under the door. It filled the hallway with the pungent,
unmistakable odor, as persistent as the smell of good cooking. And these
were good signs: if all went according to the plan he had laid out for
himself up on the walk over, he would have Pedro’s coke sold very soon.
Faster than you could say... Desire-tense.
Part 48
