What kind of question is that?

24 05 2008

So I woke up a few minutes ago, dizzy, disoriented, and terribly thirsty. I may have exhausted myself earlier while running–I got lost in some neighborhood and probably ran an extra two miles as a result–and my brain is still pretty fried. So, being thirsty and half-asleep, I decide to walk up to the main office, underneath which they have a Gatorade machine. 

On the way there, I pass a building with three girls and one guy sitting out on the balcony. 

“Hey,” calls the fatter one of the four. It was a pretty close competition, in that respect.

“Hi,” I mumble in response.

“What are you doing up so late?” You know, as if they knew my regular sleeping habits, and were surprised at this unexpected burst of insomnia.

“I’m thirsty!” I yell as I walk past. 

“We’ve got bottled water!” echoes the reply from behind me. Ugh. Two things I find quite distasteful, especially when I first wake up: fat girls and bottled water. If God had wanted me to fuck around with a bunch of fat girls, he would not have made fresh water so readily available in lakes, streams and rivers.

I arrive at the Gatorade machine to find it unplugged. 

“Fuck,” I say, attempting to reason with the machine. “You goddamned lazy communist cocksucker–why did come all the way down here for this?”

Suddenly, there is a noise behind me at the door. 

“Hey!” comes the fatty chorus. “We wanted to make sure you didn’t get raped.” Giggles from the girls, and a mean ugly look from the guy. Apparently, even in the cities Texans tend to look down on potential cattle rustlers.

The three globs are apparently in the throes of a fairly heavy MDMA trip–owl-like pupils, sweat pouring out of every available open gland, teeth grinding, eyes rolling in pleasure. I can spot a person on an X trip a long way off, not that it would be hard to see this crowd at a distance. The girls’ male companion seems to be more or less sober–or else he’s used to the drug and doesn’t “roll” quite as hard.

“Um, no, no rape here,” I mutter, still trying to finagle the fucking machine, which is still obstinately unplugged. 

“Not yet, anyway!” a wild cackle bursts forth. 

“So,” begins the second-fattest, a brunette through the sickening squelch of grinding molars. “You want to come over and chill? We’re lonely and no one else is awake.”

Ouch. The poor little fucker with them seems not to take this personally, but I know he must feel like shit. He’s got the perfect scenario to become the fourth wheel of a fatty fuck-bus, but here they are more or less propositioning me in the dirty apartment laundry room. 

“No, I’ve got a girlfriend. I don’t think she’d like that.” Yeah, and she also might not take to being thrashed in the kidneys with a tire iron.

“She doesn’t have to know. She’s still asleep, right?”

Jesus Christ. I’m being bullied into sex by a clutch of profusely sweating BBWs who are fried out on a drug that turns your corpus colossum into jelly.

“No, thanks. I don’t do shit like that,” I say firmly, while making a selection of Minute Maid Lemonade. 

“Oh come on,” pleads blonde fatty number two. “We’ll give you a tab.”

Yeah, I think. That’s exactly what I need. One hit of ecstasy and I’ll be railing these three tubs like fucking Peter North until someone finally drags me off of the jiggling, moaning mess twelve hours later. Probably the guy, too. Poor bastard. Best not to consider that one.

“I don’t fuck around with that shit anymore,” I say, becoming agitated. “It fries your brain, and besides, I wouldn’t even be able to get anywhere if I took one.”

Blank identical expressions on their faces. I knew what they had to be thinking: here’s some half-asleep white dude who just automatically assumes that they’re asking him to take a tab with them so that he’ll go light speed pornstar and impair their ability to walk for a couple days. The brunette, the leader of this sweat-drenched daisy chain, speaks up:

“What, you think we’re going to fuck you?” The effort at righteous indignation is undermined by her friends’ panicked expressions, and the look of pure hate on the face of the poor “guy friend”. “Please. We were just trying to be nice.”

Okay, I think. That helps me considerably.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you guys.” I push through the crowd with obvious impatience. 

The bitchy comeback hangs in the air behind me like a filthy banner, the pointed rejection palpable, until one of the other fatties says: 

“Can we at least see it?”

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