On The Lam

Up, over the first fence. Chain link, about 3 or 4 feet tall. Heart pounding, face on fire and blood in my ears. THUD. My sneakers hit the ground. THUD THUD THUD THUD. Run….run faster. Remember Speed Camp. Coordinate alternating arm-swings with opposite leg-strides for top speed. Lean forward, drive your knees to your chest. Turn on the jets, hit the gas, GO.

Sounds over my left shoulder, I look. Just a second. Make sure I’m safe. Flashes of blue and red cascade across the darkened faces of neighboring houses. Big Brian Townsend, the defensive end, lags behind. His massive frame heaves as he pants, but he races on. Over my right shoulder now: a gaggle of girls, heels in hand, running through the wet grass of the backyard towards the chain link. The bass cuts off, the music is caput. Shadows cut across the illuminated backdoor entryway as kids pour out. Abandon ship! Large silhouettes with boots and Billy clubs and tasers and guns and glittering shields of Authority emerge in hot pursuit.

“Hey….HEY! YOU KIDS GET BACK HERE. IF YOU COME BACK, YOU’LL BE IN LESS TROUBLE. THOSE OF YOU WHO DON’T…”

The second fence looms ahead, a wood fence, taller than the chain link. The cross beam is on the other side; this side is flat and hopeless. This yard is barren. No grass. No trees. Just dirt and a rusty railroad spike hammered into the ground and anchoring a taught steel chain holding back a snarling pit bull with tense knotted muscles and slobbery teeth in black gums and a mangy coat. He pulls and pulls and pulls at the chain and it gives and gives and gives ever so slightly to each mighty tug.

A scream, high and piercing, melts into sobbing, and finally settles in a state of theatric whimpers. The girls. Busted. Big Brian Townsend’s now in the backyard desert wasteland with me, running towards the fence.

“WOOF! WOOF WOOF WOOF!!! WOOF!”

“Oh shit!”

Big Brian, now aware of the dog, approaches the fence. The dog pulls and pulls and pulls, and that railroad spike, being as old and rusty and unreliable as it is, continues to give and give and give. I back up, appraise, no other options, and go. Go. Charging forward, I take the leap of faith. My hands catch the top of the fence. Millions of rotten splintery teeth gouge at my palm. A plank breaks.

“There are more kids over here!”

Heave ho!, lifting myself up and over. Another plank breaks, but just the top. I’m on the other side, standing on the cross-beam. Watching Big Brian. He tries to jump the fence like me; his weight breaks a plank and he falls backwards into the dirt and weeds. But he’s up in a second, and tries again with the same result. He’s too heavy. Too much protein and strength conditioning or something. The dog is really goin at it now, like REALLY. With one last mighty tug he unearths the spike. The pigs in their navy blue are at the chain link, one is already over. Both animals converge on Big Brian, but at the last second the dog veers towards the officer and blindsides him. He’s got a hold of the man’s arm, really gnawing and throwing his head to and fro. The officer is screaming for help. I drop from the fence into a green pasture of a yard. A tree or two. A bird feeder. Benches and a BBQ grill. There’s even flowers.

The mess on the other side continues. I want to help everyone. I want that dog off the man. I want Big Brian safe in the green pasture yard. I mostly want to save my own skin. An explosion of dust and splinters and nails and timber erupts from the fence and Big Brian surges through the hole with his head tucked and shoulder forward like a battering ram. Through the hole 2 cops beat the pit bull’s brains onto the dirt with their billy clubs. Brian and I look at each other, grin, and fly like bats off into the night.

An Early Beginning to Summer Break

The AC hummed on full blast. I sat criss-cross applesauce on the black and blue tiles of my homeroom, goose bumps covering my little legs. I shivered, and my entire body trembled as if I was the only one in the room experiencing an earthquake. Out the window and in the school parking lot the teacher’s economic sedans had taken on a distorted quality under the clear blue sky. Another class was outside for recess, swinging on the creaky set and running through the jungle gym. The twinkling of their light-up Power Ranger shoes looked like Ferris wheels as their legs churned up the yellow ladder to the blue slide.

I sat there, watching from the floor and rolling a red toy fire truck back and forth, accelerating and reversing. My tiny mouth emulated the oOoOooOhhhhhhhhhs and AaAaAahhhhhs of the screaming siren. I looked outside again, and then to my teacher. I caught her bespectacled eye, and pointed hesitantly to the playground. She shook her head, and her wattle waved like an agitated turkey. I clenched my fists, and felt a revving anxiety build steam within my chest. I stood, and rolled my truck into a block castle meticulously constructed by a pair of pony-taled girls wearing overalls. Then, into a block tower belonging to a peer named Tyler. Their sour screwfaces shot me dirty glances encrusted in slime and hate. My nose scrunched up. The wafting smell of chocolate chip cookies and home fishhooked itself into my nostril, pulling my attention to my teacher as her ancient voice warbled a delicate, “Snack time, children! It is time to clean up your toys and replace them where you found them. After that, we can have some cookies and juice.”

Tyler had already cleaned up the remains of his tower, putting them side-by-side in the toy bin. Tyler was a good boy. I ignored my teacher, as I had already made a serious commitment to putting out all the fires in the classroom. I continued my accelerate-reverse game, and the oOoOoOOhhhing and AaAaAaAaAahhhhhhhing. A shadow covered the truck for a moment, and I looked up to find Tyler standing over me with a smirk on his face. “Play time is OVER!” he taunted as he jerked the fire truck away from my hands. Salty tears welled up in my eyes and ran down my rosy check into my mouth. I hated his voice; it sounded like swishy pants and nails on a chalkboard. I hated it. I jumped onto his back as he turned away from me, and sunk my teeth into the fleshy blade of his shoulder. It tasted soapy, like detergent. Cotton fibers came from the shirt as I pulled my head back. A wail pierced the room, and he began to cry too. Vindicated, I let go and began to walk to my seat where cookies and apple juice awaited me. The teacher rushed over, having seen this occur, and grabbed me by the forearm with her leathery hands. She marched me down the dim hall towards the principal’s office; anger could be traced in the many lines of her face; her skin drooped like a bloodhound’s. “You’re in so much trouble!” she muttered murderously under her catnip breath.

An idea forced itself into my head, and consumed me. I had to get out of trouble, but how? How? I looked at my free forearm – the one not shackled in my teacher’s bony grip – brought it to my mouth, and bit. It tasted of desperate sweat. I had bit hard enough to actually draw blood. In the confines of the principal’s office my motives were questioned. Why did you bite Tyler? Why did you bite yourself? My only answer was simple: “Tyler bit me first! Look at my arm!” They shook their heads, and talked amongst themselves. Too low for me to hear, but I felt as if I was at the doctor’s awaiting test results, or a guilty defendant about to face sentencing. This continued on until my mother arrived. Her hair was all over the place, she was sweating, and her face bore the same look as my teacher and principal. The verdict was announced: Expelled from pre-school on the last day. My mom’s grip on my hand was ferocious and white-knuckled as we exited the building and walked towards our car. She was yelling at me, spittle raining down, but I ignored it. I turned my face to the summer sun, let its rays warm my skin, and smiled.

Just a Cup

Oh! What it’s like to be filled up! Up, UP!, to my brim, my smooth lip that brushes against your dry and prickly pair. I pour my contentment into you! Oh, what a thing! Perhaps I’m bubbling sappy and sugary and empty calories, but, then again, and again, and again, you need me

Not me, exactly….

No matter, no matter at all! It’s what’s inside that counts, right? But where does that leave me? On occasion I have a heart of gold, of pulp, of substance, and of nourishment. Sometimes I’m filled with a blackness that’s just pure dripping energy and blood surging through your eyelids and sinus-choking cigarette smoke. Sometimes I’m a taste of clarity, plain and simple. It depends on you, you, you.

Not me, exactly….

Ours is a relationship for the ages; give and take; the push/pull; the friends with benefits dynamo; the mutual thirst for the coalescence of our perspiration on a warped and blurry summer’s day; the inching icy winter evenings spent lapping wet mouths…

You need me….

You think of me as a cheap trinket, a conglomeration of who gives a hoot…yet you treat my family with delicacy, venerability, Love. The way you run the pad of your pointed down the dewy translucent spine of my brother… my soul stagnates in emptiness. So, fine. Fine. Drop me, lush. Knock me down, souse. Over, and over, and over. My longevity, my long game; this is what you crave. Or, a long slow sip of me –from me, rather.

You need me….

You need me, but you toss me headfirst into the moist and rank rot with the other riff raff. Do you need them too? Do you? No, you don’t. You use them for sheer convenience, like you use me. You don’t need them. You could hold your sustenance in the palm of your hand; feed your soul with your fingers….but the mess. You use them like you use me. You lazy, inconsiderate ingrate… no matter. You don’t need them, but you need me. My essence cannot simply be grasped by your kind, but by harnessing me, exercising my intrinsic purpose, you use me, and I love it.

And I love you.

Of Key Light and Rock Climbing

Make love to the Stone...

What is Known? - Unknow

Climbing? Climb on!

Drinking?... Drink on,

Drink it in! --- For

Mighty oaks from little acorns grow.

When half-high,

-If progress plateaus -

And the cracks begin to show

Do not cast your eyes below!

Surrender yourself to the Stone.

What you’ve known – unknow

Making slippery love to the Stone,

Tracing sweat with talcum bone

Finger the crevice…feel it moan

Feel it give - to you,

Give back (sweet and gentle)

Feel it live –through you

Feel alive, your burden’s belayed

Throw your hands past your eyes

Pull yourself past the brink ---Drink it in!

One Man above all he's known,

The lonely king atop his throne

Having made Love to the slippery stone

Indian Summer

A short drop and a long stop. It took me five minutes to find my ringing phone that morning, and thirty seconds to discover my best friend Chris Masar had taken his life. Chris' mom called, called again, then left a text message instructing me to call her back ASAP. I did. “Chris is dead, he hung himself in the tree out back,” she sobbed into the phone, screaming at times. I couldn't take it, I ended the call. I sat down. Comprehension was beyond my reach. My ribcage had been pried apart and life set about devouring my heart and soul. Pain, depression, anger...they ravenously gnawed on my shattered self. Disbelief shot down my spine, so I grabbed my keys and left my house.

I cried while I sped towards Chris' home. I wish there were windshield wipers for your eyes. I could hardly see the road. Regardless, I flossed recklessly through the mid-day traffic and arrived in his cul-de-sac in record time, only to be smacked in the face by my prior unwillingness to accept what I now witnessed. There was a fire engine, two police cruisers, and an ambulance pulled up to the curb, and a stretcher was being wheeled out from the backyard. A white cloth was draped over it.

Demolition. Existential implosion. My world shrunk to a pinhole focused on that stretcher. I parked and ran, ran to my friend. Mothers and children stood in a semi-circle around the driveway, rubbing their red and puffy eyes; most of the dads were still at work. The man next door, a stay-at-home father from what I understood, solemnly smoked a cigarette before flicking the remaining half into the street. Kids too young to fully grasp the gravity of what had happened gathered around an officer, begging him for plastic badges and stickers and baseball cards. I didn't care about any of this. I had to get to Chris.

I pushed through the crowd and raced up the driveway to Chris' mother as she escorted the stretcher and the paramedics towards the ambulance. His younger brother and sister stood at the front door of the house. Their wails tore me apart as I came nearer. I had never heard cries of such profound pain before, and they cut deep, deep down. An officer tried to block me from my path, but Chris' mom gave me her blessing to approach. Drops of pure sorrow rolled down the smile lines of her face.

“Can I?...” I asked, motioning towards Chris.

Some paramedic butted in, “Ma'am, we suggest that you don't for....” but she dismissed the man mid-sentence with a glare. He backed up, and left me to my grief. I fingered the edge of the cloth. Was this a dream? How could this be real? I pulled back the corner, and stared down at my comrade, amigo, partner in crime, brother. Bile and acid gurgled in the pit of my stomach. There he lay; a rough abrasion ringed blood around his neck. Brown eyes - eyes that saw once expressed more positive emotion than can ever hope to be conveyed through writing - bulged lifelessly from their sockets. His lips were blue and huge and grotesquely juxtaposed against a cherry-red face.

I collapsed, and rested my head on his chest. I put my ear to his heart. I don't know what I was hoping for. Something, anything. A prank, perhaps. Chris would wake up any second now and scare me, “BOO, gotcha!” There was nothing. I grabbed Chris' hand and squeezed. His hand was still warm, but his fingers were limp. I couldn't hold back anymore. My best friend, my brother... a deluge of tears erupted from deep within. I wept for minutes, it could have been hours for all I cared, until the squeal of tires against pavement roused me. I raised my head in time to see my other best friend, Forrest Williams, whip around the corner in his silver Infiniti.

He turned off the engine, then surged through the crowd towards us. Forrest fell to the ground next to me, enveloping Christopher in his arms. He cried, but without tears, as if he was dry heaving. His mouth silently mouthed the feelings he couldn't put into words. I hugged him, hugged him harder than I ever have, but the gesture felt meaningless and empty. Our best friend was dead. Gone forever, never to realize the limitless potential he had possessed. Chris' mom and siblings joined us in the embrace. Together we watched as Chris was loaded like some worthless couch on it's way to the dump into the back of the ambulance. It drove off down the street, sirens piercing the air. For the first (and only) time that summer thunder clapped, lightning streaked across the sky, and the clouds opened up as torrential rain plummeted to the ground. For the first time ever I knew what it was to be numb without Novocaine.

Centennial

Peace signs, dreadlocks
hippie flips at Red Rocks
but Death knocks,
Death stalks,
lips zipped to hip shit
we all know how Death mocks.
White suburbanites, trite lives
and fast cars
Shiftless kids scared shitless,
snortin up a couple xannie bars.
Centen actuality, vice turns to
addiction just to drown out reality...
Fuck a mega-church mentality!
Tithing to your preacher
while the hypocrite hides
his sexuality
These sheeple and these lemmings
act so hive-mindedly, jumpin to
their deaths just to follow others blindly.

Paper Wings

With paper wings Icarus
disobeyed Daedalus;
contraptions and doo-dads
flaunting the explicit intent
to soar sky high.

On that craftsman's
workbench lay self discipline;
overlooked by Icarus in his
mad dash for flight...
its absence, perhaps, his fall.

To fly was to be free, a
world on its own!
Grounded life
ain't so shabby, though;
at least it's stable.

To fly forever is
just the illusion of freedom;
to never fly is the
illusion of stability,
a hollow life.

With paper wings Icarus
came to know life and death;
and to think, self-discipline
had lay there on the work
bench all along.

Season of Life

The world is a delicate and new entity;

an earth slowly awakening from frozen slumber

shrugging off the frosty shawl of winter

exposing a once barren land renewed of it's youth.

Spring air is perfume so intoxicating

and sweet that one can't blame hummingbirds or

bumblebees for their lusty pursuit of budding

cherry blossoms and tulips.

Colorado night skies are a little more heavy now

long missed humidity soaks the Front Range while

the oncoming explosion of life, a fragrant scent and

bristling chill, whistles in the wind.

It's my twentieth visit from the season of life

and I meet it with strong emotion, for life is

sweet and constant until a comma, a pause,

a single breath ends what we know.

When will that breath steal me away

from this life? How many more seasons

will I be given? How could I know?

Why would I want to?

All I know is just as surely as Spring came

it will leave once again, giving way to that season

of nostalgia and eventually fading into a

crisp Colorado Autumn.

The world sleeps, regrouping once a again

in the hollow depth of Winter before starting Spring

anew, continuing a cycle that offers to add another year

to my tally for the simple price of living.

So I'll live; life was the only gift ever really given to any of us

and I'll live, confident that comma, that pause,

that last rebel breath knows where to find me

when the final grain has fallen from my hourglass.

When that time comes I'll greet death like an old friend

and walk with the Reaper to the snowy edge of the Winter,

through the forest of the unknown's foggy haze

and into an unfamiliar world to meet another season of life.

Where did you go?

Where did you go?
A simple shell abandoned,
Your soul's schism from it's home,
sent into the dark unknown.
Answers are like opinions:
everybody has one and they're
all probably wrong, yet I'm
still searching.

Because of this, I cannot relegate
him to the past tense. He is not a was,
but an is, an idea perhaps, a concept
I've clung to since. None of this makes
sense, but emotion never seems to
piece itself together into a coherent
statement of eloquence. Where words
fail, I feel.

I would think that I'd feel IT, though,
as a loved one's tugged
from his mortal throne, and yet,
alas, it was not so. Curiously
I still feel HIM, like the soft blow of
the wind against my skin, like the
glow of the sun. Because I'm feeling I know
that the healing has begun.

If Life...

If life was a masterpiece, he was the artist,

and his personality, the paint that adheres

to the canvas of our memory.

For who but Wilson could have created a mosaic

that will be imprinted in my mind for the span

of my lifetime?

If life was an ocean, he was the captain,

guiding us through the darkest of hours with

constant reassurances and natural Southern poise.

For who but Wilson could have calmed stormy seas

with a smile that exposed a shining soul on fire

with a deep and abiding love of life?

If life was a classroom, he was the teacher,

a man who was always there, an unwavering light

exuding happiness and care.

For who but Wilson could have helped me rediscover

the kindergartner inside through his playful

antics and child-like curiosity?

If life was a garden, he was the gardener,

tending to his loved ones with unexpected

intensity, watering each of his relationships passionately.

For who but Wilson could have brought so

many bulbs into full bloom in the midst of

a cold winter?

And if life wasn't life, he would still be here,

but life remains life, that much is clear.

Every day gets harder, comprehending that you're gone

May you rest forever, Willy, in the peaceful waters of Roatan.

AHDRS 3 Dirty Rotten Scoundrels

The music bumped. The lights were dimmed, everyone was still dancing. I felt silly, liquor surging through my veins and all. A strobe light flashed, surreal. I'm at a social gathering, yet I'm acting anti-social? Fuck that, time to integrate. I whipped out my sack, everyone around me gasped, then I whipped out the mushrooms I'd been saving. Not the mushroom tip, just the shrooms.

“Ashley, let's make this party a classic night....”

She nodded. I liked that, she didn't have to talk all the damn time like some other girls. We went upstairs to the kitchen, the whole house was starting to smell like shit. Feces, vomit, piss, whatever. A quick glance over of the fridge scored us a gallon of Orange Juice to catalyze our trip. It's a vitamin C thing, you wouldn't get it cause I certainly don't. It's science.

The caps went down pretty easily; the stems, not so much. My mouth was numbed out, and I felt a body high rolling in like storm clouds over the Rockies. I got a tooth pick for Ash and I, and we got all the remnants out of the spaces between our teeth. In my opinion that shit is the number one detractor from mushrooms, besides shroom booms (horrible gas your body produces after digesting the shrooms). It's disgusting, but so is liquor. No one drinks because they like the taste of liquor, they drink because they have to!

We sat on the counters and talked, waiting for the drug to take effect. Once it did, we went back to the basement which was, by all means, completely changed. Can you say Alice down the rabbit hole? I wasn't scared, the flashing lights and roaring music soothed me. I felt as if I was one with the party. Ashley and I danced until we were one tangle of arms and legs and costumes. It was the costumes that freaked me out. Some kids faces looked hollow and dug out, other smiling faces were comically exaggerated. The room was breathing.

This went on for another thirty minutes. Beer in hand, I danced like an idiot. I could actually see the sound waves from the music vibrating through the air. When I was too tucked to continue dancing Ashley and I made small talk with the other guests. The boys were all playing beer pong now, except James. Earlier I had seen him take Kelly by the hand and walk her upstairs. We all know what that means.

Party, party, party. Get fucked up, get more fucked up. It all becomes so repetitive after a while. Partying is no way to constantly live your life. Constant bowls are no way to live your life. Drinking to excess...no way to live your life. I was on my podium, waxing philosophical to anyone who would listen. It was probably annoying a lot of people, because suddenly I had no friends. Not literally, but people were going out of their way to escape my rant. Don't give a fuck, never have, never will. I cracked another beer, drained it, and I asked Ashley if she'd like to go upstairs and get some water. I pocketed two more beers, took her by the hand, and lead her upstairs. You know what that means. Winkey face goes here... you know the drill.

The nurse slut who had been cashed on the couch was now lying on the floor. She'd thrown up, I could kinda smell it, probably had smelled it earlier in the kitchen while eating the mushrooms, but it didn't matter now. My focus was concentrating on a singular goal: DON'T FUCK UP. The mantra echoes in my mind which had apparently packed up and left planet Earth without so much as a “sayanora, sucker!”

Walls... breathing. Heart... pounding. Fingers.... lookin like some Tim Burton shit? I could no longer smell the stench, just perfume. I could tell I had reached my peak. At least I think I did. My insides felt like a calm sea, gently thrusting benevolent waters into the beach, before retreating back into my core. This may seem like the beginning of a weird water/sex metaphor, and it is. Almost. It's a drug metaphor, and be grateful you get that far, you tease of a reader. This isn't that kind of story.

Of course, bad luck befalls everyone. Some people may seem like they have everything, but that's superficial. Only that person knows their own trials and tribulations. But it certainly seemed like bad luck loves company, and I'm the best. Why did karma have to seek retribution on all the party goers? I do not know. I do know that she strikes hard, and has horrible timing.

Ashley and I were drinking the two beers and sitting in the chic-fuck room. We were laughing, kissing, enjoying the trip. Some kids left, some kids arrived. We cracked peanut gallery jokes about their costumes, whispered not-so-quietly to each other through cupped hands. I hated the room. I looked around, spit on the carpet, and thought about burning it down. But I didn't.

Coming off the peak sometimes is uncomfortable, but mine wasn't. After another thirty minutes of fucked up ecstasy I was finally experiencing some sobriety. Not much, just a little glimpse of sanity through the window shades to my soul. Ashley hadn't ate that much, I did, yet I was amused by the short trip.

Ashley was more sober than I, “How are you feeling? That was fun but how long were we gone?”

I checked my phone, the background was still twisted into an obscene vortex of color. “Shit, we were gone for almost an hour and a half! Let's go back down...”

But that's when I heard a scream. Or a moan. I couldn't tell what it was. Somebody having sex? Someone dying? Ashley had turned pasty, she heard it too. We looked at each other for a lingering second, a nice contrast to the whirlpool that was the last hour.

“You go downstairs and have fun, I'll go see what's going on upstairs, OK? I'll be back,” I promised. She looked concerned, but nodded and returned to the basement.

What was going on? I could smell again, and it was stanky! Ascending the stairs was like walking into an abandoned meat-packing facility. A feeling in my stomach gripped me, and I began a second peak in my trip. I had to catch my breath as the world around me began to break down again. I called for Tiffany, and then for James. No answers. I stumbled past a side room and heard moaning from inside. Typical.

I looked at myself in a hall mirror. No lights were on, but I became entranced by my own dark silhouette. I raised an arm, but my shadow did not. I danced, I jerked around like a gumpy epileptic Micheal Jackson, I made faces in the mirror, but no matter what action I performed in that lonely hallway my silhouette just stood in place. Maybe I was going crazy, but I shrugged it off, brushed my shoulders with my hand, and fixed my pumpkin hat. I grinned at myself. I'm just fucked up. I think I saw it grin back seconds later, or smirk, but maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. Maybe I'm just fucked up.

I went to the master room in search of Tiffany. The door was ajar, I heard muffled moaning. Not the sex type. I turned on the lights, only to find that no one was in the room. But the sounds continued, now noticeably from the bathroom where I left Jon the Bunny. I walked into the room, and peaked my head through the door.

Blood. Everywhere, on the mirrors, walls, the door itself. The mirror had small red hand prints, the fingers trailing to the floor. I looked down. A mass of bloody white fur was hunched over something, snarling and moaning.

“Hey Jon, are you OK?” I tapped him on his shoulder, and he turned. At that instance I shit my soul out of my pumpkin costume. The “something” he was hunched over was Tiffany. Parts of her cheek, arm, and neck had been ripped away. By teeth. I focused on Jon. His teeth. He was enthusiastically chewing on a bloody strip of flesh.

His eyes....they were all pupil. No color. His skin was pasty, but not scared pasty. You could see his green and blue veins bulge from beneath. His costumed was soaked in blood, and he smelled dirty and rotten. He made eye contact. For the longest second of the night I stared into those hollow pupils, and I saw a flash movement in them. He lashed out at me. I slammed the door shut, and pressed my back into it at the same moment. I could hear howls and his teeth mashing behind the closed door. “Please just let me be fucked up!” I prayed over and over. I called Frank from my phone, but there was no answer. “HORRIBLE timing, bro,” I said as I desperately searched the room for a weapon. I pushed with all my strength against the door and smiled for the click of the door coming home to its frame.

Jon, what was Jon, was pounding on the door, hard. Real hard. I figured that whatever he had become he probably didn't possess enough brainpower to work the handle. They had a fireplace in the room, and I found a fire poker with some other fire tools. I picked it up, it had decent balance to it. The handle end was awkward in my hand, but the pokey end looked sharp enough. The room was still rhythmically breathing the scene in, and a tear rolled down my cheek. I fell to my knees, and put my face in my free hand. “I HOPE I'M JUST FUCKED UP!” I screamed. This is just a bad trip.

A snarl brought me back to reality. I looked up. Jon had opened the door, and stood before me heaving in and out. Hungry. He jumped, arms reaching for me. I fell backwards and drove the fire poker up with my eyes closed. I waited, waited to be eaten by this dirty rotten scoundrel. Nothing. I cracked my eyes, and saw that the poker was now firmly lodged into the forehead of Jon. His eyes were still fixed on me, but he was done fighting. His breathing had stopped. I kicked him off of me and dropped the poker. I began to sob. Blood covered my hands, my costume too. Smeared with blood, I rose.

I hurried over to the bathroom and picked up Tiffany's head. I checked her pulse, but it was gone. No more blood gushed from her wounds. I set her back down on the blood-soaked tile. I turned to leave, but stopped. I heard wheezing. I checked Tiffany again, and she was breathing. I was overjoyed! Until I checked her pupils. Dilated like Jon's. I closed the toilet, and sat down on the back of the seat which happened to be the only clean seat in the restroom. I waited.

As I sat there I began to think again. I was still tripping, this is unreal. It's not happening. This is real life, not a Robert Rodriguez movie. There's no such thing, there's no such thing. I felt like a child: helpless, vulnerable, scared. As you get older you outgrow your fear of the dark, fear of the boogieman. You outgrow these fears because you come to accept they aren't real. That was the route I was trying to take. Will this whole mess out of existence. If I don't believe, then how could it be real? Tiffany's breathing persisted, and although it was raspy her breathes came faster and faster. She smelled so foul, but it could have been the restroom itself. I waited.

Five minutes passed. Her eyes began to blink rapidly. I stood up and rushed to Jon's body. I dislodged the poker from his head by leveraging it with my foot. It had been four inches deep. I returned, positioned myself over Tiffany and held the fire poker above her head. Without warning she began seizuring. I jumped back, and waited. Tiffany's whole body stopped moving and contorted as if she was having a full body spasm. Her eyes stopped fluttering and focused on me. She roared, and I winced as I rammed the poker through her skull. I finished her off with a twist inside the skull. With two hands I pulled it out. I closed my friend's eyes. It hadn't even been more than a couple hours ago that she had been flirting with me, trying to get in my pants. Now she was dead.

My other friends flashed before my eyes. What about them? Were they safe? Fire poker in hand, I bolted into the hall. I turned the lights on, and halted. There was blood all over the hall. The door to the guestroom James and Kelly had occupied was especially splattered. Hand prints were smeared all over the doorknob. More blood lead down the stairs. Nike footprints. It was James, God, why didn't I see the door earlier? I had to see what was in the room.

My first knock pushed the door open. I hadn't noticed it wasn't closed. Light from the hall filled the room forcing the stench out into the hall. I got a waft, and gagged. Something from within snarled. I flipped the light by the door and cautiously tip-toed in.

Whatever was inside would not shut up. It snarled and growled and moaned and shrieked. The bedroom was a typical guestroom apart from the pools of sticky blood and the stank of shit and piss and death. It looked empty, but I knew better. I've seen a million zombie movies, folks, and momma didn't raise no fool. Zombie James and Zombie Kelly were in here. I raised the poker, keeping my guard up, and stepped around the bed.

There lay Kelly, pale and moaning, at the tail end of a growing pile of what looked like her own entrails. One of her arms had been gnawed to a stub halfway past her elbow, the other greedily tore handfuls of her intestine apart before shoveling them into her mashing mouth. The mushrooms did nothing to help me comprehend the situation at hand. I felt like my legs and torso had become the trunk of a tree. My feet stayed firmly rooted in place. Kelly continued to engorge herself on her guts, and I became nauseous as I watched flesh and bone exit her mutilated intestines only to be eaten again.

She stopped for a second, and sniffed the air. I tensed up, and tightened my grip on the poker. Kelly sniffed for a second longer. She violently whipped her head to look at me, blood and bile covering her face like some macabre bar-b-Que sauce after ribs. A supernatural scream of rage erupted from her desecrated mouth, and I ran. I ran into the hall, scared for my fucking life, and the half-being that had been Kelly rapidly crawled after me, roaring and snarling.

I tried to close the door on her too, but one of her arms jammed the doorway. It wriggle and writhed and clawed at me with an animalistic desire. I slammed the door, teary eyed. I opened the door and slammed it on that arm so many times that by the end the arm was only attached to the shoulder by a single tendon, yet she shrieked and moaned on. Once more, and it was severed. I opened the door. Kelly lay there, smelling like shit, and freaking out like a suburban housewife getting off Xanax. I raised the poker, and brought it down with stoic determination. She moved, so the iron shaft impaled her neck releasing a gush of stanky blood. The end was embedded in the wood floor between two planks. She gnashed her teeth and spit at me. Scared shitless, I locked the door from the inside and left Kelly's reanimated corpse staked to the ground.

AHDRS Pt 2 An Escalation of Events

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I sat there holding the bag of shrooms awkwardly in front of Ashley. I answered my phone, exchanged a few brief words, and hung up. She looked at me eagerly, but I, not so much. I pocketed the shrooms. I looked at Rampy, who was simultaneously kissing both Candace and Sara at the same time. Without skipping a beat he formed a fist, I looked at it, to Ashley, and back at it. I tentatively pounded, and Rampy giggled a little. The girls did too. Skanks. I strolled over to the minibar, poured a rather large Grey Goose and Cranberry. Rampy needed some privacy right now. I gestured for Ashley to join me, and I lead her by the hand into the hall.

“I have to check on my friend real quick. This will only take a second, but a few of my friends just got here too and I have to go meet them upstairs. Come with me.”

She looked at me and coyly asked, “Where's the bathroom?”

“Well, how convenient that you asked,” I sang as I skipped down the hall to the bathroom. “My friend was passed out in here the last time I saw him, and he wasn't going anywhere. He passed out standing up with his dick in his hand. How funny is that?”

She laughed and followed me to the end of the hall. I knocked. Slappy didn't answer. I put an ear to wood. I could hear violent retching and the toilet water splashing, but nothing else, even when I called for him. I tried to open it, but it was locked. The lock was the type that needed a key, not just a little screwdriver to open. I knocked harder, and Ashley did too. We both hollered his name, asked if he was OK, but Slappy wouldn't answer. Just throw up, or shit, but regardless what it was the stench drifted through the cracks in the door and stank up the hallway. I couldn't handle the stench. It made me want to throw up, too.

“Come one, Ashley, let's go upstairs and meet my friends. Slappy's fucked up, and he's not goin anywhere. I feel bad for the guy, he sounds really sick, but this wreaks.”

“He sounded pretty bad, but he's probably just embarrassed. It's OK, some kids can't handle themselves as well as others.”

She followed me out the door at the end of the hall, and we waded through the crowd of ever increasing kids. I couldn't even count them all, and I barely knew any. James was still on the table, and I wondered how one could play that many games of pong with out getting bored. Oh wait, ego masturbation. Some people just have to prove themselves to everyone. Kelly was updating her facebook via her phone. Rampy and the girls danced in the darkened corner that many of the other couples had congregated in. I saw Joker leading cow girl slut into the hall where the super fucking cool room, bathroom, and a few guest rooms were located. I guess they got kicked out of upstairs. Weirdos.

Hiking up the stairs seemed like it would suck at first, I was drunk by now, but I strode up the steps with relative ease. Ashley gracefully followed suit. We opened the door into the kitchen, and I noted the Hitler mustache, added cock and balls, unibrow, and other scrawls on the passed out nurse slut. I asked Ashley if she wanted to add something to the growing mural, and she drew a smiley face out of a cock and balls.

I heard some voices from the family potpourri room, and recognized Frank's booming voice. I heard Tiffany, too. She sounded like she was crying. Sobbing, actually, and loudly. Ashley and I tip-toed around the corner, where I was surprised to see Frank consoling Tiffany, but they weren't alone. My friends Danky, Mike, and the foreign exchange student that was living with Frank, Salvatore, had arrived. They were dressed as the Three Stooges, Larry, Moe, and Curly. We walked up to them, I introduced Ashley to the boys, and I asked Tiffany why she was crying. Her cakey makeup was ruined, and her eyeliner streaked down her face. You could tell she was really, really upset.

“It's my new boyfriend, Jon, the bunny. Do you remember him? You were right, he's really sick. I found him outside and he threw up blood. I don't know what to do! I took him up to my parents room to rest, but he's still throwing up. He won't stop. I just don't know what to do...Aaron can you help him? Please? You're really smart, you know what to do, right?”

She hugged me, that same awkward hug, and I glanced over her shoulder at Ashley. Tiffany sobbed into my orange pumpkin shirt, let go, and started using her tears to smooth out the creases in her skirt. I felt really bad for her, not really for her boyfriend, but for her. I think it's because she was so excited to show this kid off to her friends, but now he's making her look like an ass.

I put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Hey, hey, hey, don't cry! I'll go check up on him with Frank and the guys, isn't that right?”

I put on my best serious face. It's not that serious, but they got the message. Van Halen and the Stooges nodded, and Ashley followed us as we made our way up the huge staircase. The top level of the house was as massive as the other two. Tiffany had directed us to the third room on the left, and we entered into the master bedroom. Bunny boy was lying on the bed, there was a trash can moved up next to him. Towels were on the floor, water bottles on the bed. You could tell she had tried her best to take care of him. That same stench from earlier, from the kitchen, it permeated the whole room. Salvatore gagged, and ran out. “I don't like....I don't like...ugh! Gross Americans..... He never learn to drink?” Danky and Mike were disgusted as well. Danky looked pale, paler than me! Ghost status, sheet status, the albino stooge. I looked at everyone, and told them to go down to the basement study. The bong was there, I'd take care of this and meet them there. We could smoke some bowls, I mean, the night was still young. It was only 9; I explained to them that this kid, Jon, had just cashed out and he was fine. His breathing was regular, anyways. They left, and Ashley stayed. "No use in you staying too unless you can put those witch powers to use," I teased. She dove straight into my eyes, and we stared at eachother. Sexual tension, who doesn't love it? I told her to leave, no woman should have to stomach this stench, she did, and I approached the bed.

This kid was FUCKED up. Just entering his general vicinity gave me a buzz, it wreaked. I figured it was a combination of that couple from earlier along with the vomit. He'd already filled the trash can. I took it to the bathroom, dumped it in the toilet, washed the can out, and brought it back to him. I talked to him, asking questions about how he felt, but I think he was passed out. His breath was rank, but at least it wasn't labored. Maybe he was just passed out? He needed sleep if he was this drunk. Jesus H Christ, that smell! Fish and vomit and shit and body odor and rotten food. His skin was pasty with a green tint, and I could see blue veins popping up on his face and neck. For some reason Slappy came to mind, and I decided to check on him too. I exited the room and gave Jon some privacy.

On the main floor I encountered Tiff again, filled her in on Jon, and promised her I'd regulate the party if she wanted to keep him company. She thanked me, tried to kiss me, but her breath was awful too. Had she tried to make out with Jon? I turned my face and took it on the cheek, then tried to hustle back to the party. She stopped me. “Aaron, if I find out you've been smoking weed in my Dad's study like last time I'm going to kill you! He was soooooo mad last time!” I smiled, winked, then turned and headed towards the basement.

The number of kids here had swollen close to 75 or 80, but everyone was behaving. I hardly recognized anyone, damn costumes. I spotted a girl wearing a nun's habit. She was playing beer pong against James and Kelly, but she was doing really well. Surprisingly well. James was down to his last cup, but had only made two. I laughed to myself, not because he was losing, but because he was losing to the only girl who hadn't transformed herself into a total skank for Halloween. It was truly a sight to see: A girl with morals in a sea of midriffs, cleavage, and ass beating an alcoholic athlete at his own game.

I asked James if he'd seen Slappy or Rampy. He pointed at the corner.He refused to break his concentration, took a shot, and missed.

“FUCK! Romeo's over there...”

Rampy was still there, doing the same thing he had been. Sara was humping his leg. Is that dancing? Slut. The other was licking his face. He looked at me, his pupils were dinner plates and he grinned. I thumbs upped him, and asked Candace if the shnozzberries really tasted like shnozzberries. She stared at me with eyes that were almost black, confused. Clearly she didn't get the reference. I turned to James and interrupted Kelly, who was complaining about the liquor selection.

“Shut the fuck up Kelly, just drink. After a while does it even matter? Pull your panties out your ass, girl." I addressed James: "So have you seen Slap dick?” I told him what happened in the bathroom.

“What do you expect,” he joked, “No, not since we smoked.”

This worried me, and I went to go see if he was OK. I opened the hallway door, and sneaked inside. I staggered down the hall, feeling the effect of all that liquor I'd drank. I passed the study, smelled burning herb, and heard my friends teasing Ashley. They're good kids, really good friends. I got to the bathroom door, and tried it. This time it was open, but Slappy had left. The floor was covered in piss and vomit and blood and shit. “What did this fool drink? Acetone? Cologne? Fucking Listerine?” I thought to myself. The stench, the stench. Well, now I gotta go find Slappy. I couldn't live with myself if one of my best friends died from alcohol poisoning, especially if I could have done something about it. “He probably went somewhere to pass out. One of the bedrooms. I'll check there first. Worst case scenario is he wondered outside. No, no, he wouldn't do that. God, what the fuck did he drink?”

I strode back down to the study, informed the Ashley and the homies about Slappy's disappearance, and began my search. It didn't take long to find him. I followed the smell, rotten molecules fish-hooked my nose and painfully dragged me to two doors, side by side. One was locked, but I heard moaning and a rocking bed frame. Joker and cow girl slut. The other was open. I strolled in, found Slappy on the bed, and rolled him over. There was red vomit, blood, all over the floor and the white satin sheets.

With urgency I shouted,“Slappy....SLAPPY! Are you ok, man? Do you need to go to the hospital? Dude, you're throwing up blood.”

He looked at me, and whispered, “No, I drank cherry vodka with that bunny kid. It was red. I just need some rest and privacy.”

“Are you sure? Dude, it smells awful in here and the bathroom. What's up?”

“Dude....Aaron......dude. I'm just really gassy and nauseous. Could you bring me a trash can and leave me alone?”

I didn't feel comfortable leaving him, but he insisted over and over, so I got him a trashcan. He barfed into it, and I rubbed his back. My mom used to do that when I had stomach infections. I don't get stomach infections anymore. Alcoholic genocide, remember? Anyways, it always made me feel better. Slappy didn't say anything as he violently yurked and yurked. Finally, he told me to leave, he passionately begged me to leave. He said he was embarrassed, and that he had never been this sick from drinking before.

“I think it's probably just food poisoning...I had some sushi before this. Just go. Just go.”

He sounded more sober than he was when he left the study. Maybe he was alright and the chronic just had me feelin paranoid. I looked back at the vomit on the floor, and turned on the light. Slappy moaned, and covered his face with a pillow. It looked like blood to me. But who am I to say that? Slappy was probably right. I wished him luck, and closed the door. I stopped for a moment, and tried to remember what Slappy, Frank, and I ate for dinner. I thought it was Chipotle. I shrugged. The couple next door were going at it still. Their sex sounded crazy, the cow girl slut was wailing like a banshee. I pounded on the door a bunch of times to fuck around with them. They briefly stopped, but after 10 seconds they started again. These two were gumps, for sure.

Another group of guys entered into the hall. It was the Village People freaks.

“Hey, you guys aren't supposed to be in here. Tiffany's rules. Sorry.” I declared. I told Tiff I'd help her out, and I will.

“Sorry man, sorry, we're just looking for a place to blaze...” replied the cop. The others nodded their heads.

“We don't want to be smoking out in that main room...”

“Or outside...”

"Or upstairs..."

“Yeah, and who are you to be telling us what to do? You're back here too, asshole. You're costume's fucking stupid, B-T-W”

I glared at the construction worker, the piece of shit who had spoke up last. I was drunk and testy, my fists clenched and unclenched. Deep breaths, in and out, it helped me calm myself down. No need for violence tonight.

“These 3 rooms are occupied, and the shitter's a mess. Otherwise, you can smoke in the last guest bedroom. Don't make a mess.”

They thanked me, and walked past. My nose couldn't pick up the smell of reefer, so I figured they must be going to the room to blaze some weak dro, or gang bang each other. The construction worker passed me last. I grabbed his vest, and yanked him close to my face. He looked like a rat. Pointy nose, beady eyes, and he smelled rotten. He was smaller than me, and his friends were already in the room. I could hurt him if I wanted to.

“The hostess gave me permission to regulate. You gotta problem, well so do I. Shut the fuck up, and stop acting like hot shit or else you're gonna find yourself on your ass. Got it?”

He shook his head and I let go, “Only girls and fags use internet abbreviations in conversational speech, shit head”

He scurried away into the last guest room like the rodent he was, and I reentered the super-cool man cave. As I came in, everybody looked up with their glazed eyes redder than the devil's dick. That's what I wanted. That's where I wanted to be right now. Cloud nine, nirvana. Ashley looked baked, Frank looked cashed, Danky looked bombed, Mike looked cooked, and Salvatore, well Salvatore looked absolutely hilarious. All he could do was grin at me. His English wasn't that good yet, but his mannerisms and body language were so funny!

“Was that your first time smoking weed, Salvatore?” I asked.

He grinned. “No. Dos, my second time. I, uh, I like smoke the pot.” He fell backwards cracking up, rubbing his chest with his hands and snorting after each laugh. Everyone else started to giggle too. I swooped up the bong, grabbed my sack from the table, and loaded a big rip for myself. Consider it “catch up”. I torched the bowl and inhaled slowly, constantly. The smoke curled and twisted in the main chamber, percolating through the dirty bong water. For a second I had an “oh shit” moment as I saw how much the bong had filled up with smoke. It was yellow, I knew I was toast. Yellow bong smoke is harsh, filled with THC, and the total fucker of all weed smoke. I pulled the bowl like a pin on a grenade and air rushed through the bong, forcing the prior contents into my lungs. I cleared it, breathed a breath of fresh air, and held my breath. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi....all the way to ten. Exhale. Instant retardation. I felt prettay, prettay gumpy. Forrest gumpy. “Special”.

I swear to dog, I fucking coughed up a lung. I had to spit into the trash can. The rip was harsh, but don't blame me! I yam what I yam, a monster, animal, beast. For some reason the stoners on the couch thought this was hilarious. Mike almost cried, his body convulsed in laughter. I flipped them off, “What, never taken a big hit before? Fuckers.” I coughed more, and walked to the mini-bar. I poured another Grey Goose with Cranberry.

“Aaron, when are we going to eat those mushrooms?”

I looked at Ashley, drank a gulp of my drink, and coughed. My eyes were tearing up.

“Ummmm, hold on.” More coughs, I had to spit again.

“Well, it's only what, 9:45? The party is just starting. Let's wait till 10:30 or 11 unless you want to eat your half now.”

"No, that's fine...we'll nom on them later." I smiled at her, because who the hell says 'nom' instead of eat? It's kinda quirky and endearing. She's a cutie.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” interjected Frank, “Where'd you get shrooms from?”

“I smoked Rampy up, and he gave them to me...”

“Fucker!” he spat, “He showed me them and I tried to buy them off him. Fucker. I don't know where he got them, but they're the blue caps. The blue caps always have a shit ton of spores. Those are the best.” His brow creased and he frowned. “Will you share them with me?”

“Uh, yeah dog, you can definitely have some. The more the merrier, you know. That shit. Hey did anyone see Rampy with those two juniors?” I chuckled, “Those freaks have been hanging off him all night. They're trippin balls, on another plane of existence right now or something.”

Mike looked at Ashley, and blurted, “You're really hot, did you know I'm an underwear model? Internationally famous! Wanna go have a lovely time with me? Fuck that pumpkin bitch! I'll treat you like a woman.” He smirked at me and I punched him in the arm.

“OW! You fag, you didn't have to beat on me! This body is worth more than your life!” He rubbed his nipples, what a weirdo, right folks?

“Have some manners, Mike.” I retorted. “Don't be a goon to a girl you hardly know.”

Ashley got up, walked behind me, and started massaging my shoulders. I don't know why, I must have hit the right note there. Salvatore got up too, and joined her. We both gave him a weirded out look, but he didn't get it until Danky pulled his jacket and told him that he was being strange. Salvatore looked confused, but stopped and asked, "You no like?"

"Just let Ashley do it, in America we aren't so touchy touchy."

"Oh," he replied, "Excusey, excusey." He started to wonder around and inspect the awesome room we were in.

“Ah, the metal heavy music. This is the music I like, the metal heavy type. Fast guitar, yes?” He got to the book shelf, and started pulling books out. He'd thumb through one for a second, but he couldn't read the English so he'd put them back. He wasn't putting them back where he'd taken them out, though, and was making a mess. Danky made himself a strong drink from Tiff's dad's liquor, and sat down.

“Bowl?” He pulled his own weed, and we loaded half each. I felt pretty anti-social. I was hanging out with my friends and this sexy witch, but we were barricaded in a room in a hall that no one was even supposed to be in. If Tiffany came down she'd probably get mad and kick me out. Wouldn't be the first time, but hey, why risk it? As we finished the bowl I suggested we rejoin the party and go drink. “It's Halloween mothafuckas, let's get weird, wacky, crazy, let's go HAM.”

Salvatore looked at me while pulling out more books from the shelf, “I love ham.”

“Sal, it's an expression that means hard as a m....” I didn't get to finish my sentence. No one talked. Sal backed up from the suitcase, and pointed to a leather bound book. It wouldn't come out all the way, just far enough to where it was at a 45 degree angle in comparison to the bookshelf.

I made a pushing motion, and suggested that Sal try pushing the bookcase in. He didn't understand, and pulled. Nothing happened. Mike got up and tried pushing it. It gave. My jaw dropped, hit the floor, and stayed there. Down for the count. I glanced at my friends, who were all experiencing the same reaction. Stunned silence blanketed the room, and we could hear the party music again. I could hear my freakin' heart beat. I looked at Frank, who looked at Sal, who looked at Mike, who looked at Danky, who looked at Ashley, who looked at me. What. The. Fuck.

Frank finally spoke up, “Ummmm, Aaron? What...exactly does Tiffany's dad do for a living?”

I couldn't speak, I just stared ahead. Frank snapped his fingers in front of my eyes, his hands smelled like weed. I shook my head. I just couldn't believe this.

“Uh, I think he's a lawyer. I mean, I thought he was a lawyer. Um...I don't, I don't know what to say. What the fuck?”

“He's no fucking lawyer, dude. Do you see this shit?”

When Mike had pushed the bookcase something spectacular and crazy and a little scary happened. The whole bookcase had spun 180 degrees, revealing a hidden backside. The books were gone, replaced with a SHIT ton of guns. Pistols, silencers, and clips were on the left. Shotguns hung from racks in the middle, with boxes of shot resting on a shelf beneath them. There were assault rifles on the right. Banana Clips. Bandoleers. Grenades. Different knifes, gleaming in the overhead light of the man-cave. A machete, brass knuckles, and more guns. Holy shit. What the fuck. My thoughts flashed to Tiffany. I stood up, ran to the gun rack, and turned it back around so the books faced out again.

I surveyed my friends, all of whom had turned pasty. No one said a word. They just sat. My state of insobriety was making it hard to process this whole thing. What the fuck? Who has that many guns in their house, better yet, who HIDES that many guns in a house? Maybe he's a terrorist, yeah, Tiffany's dad is a terrorist. Idiot. A spy? Maybe, that's more likely. A mercenary? Another probability. My heart dropped into my stomach. Mafia? A hitman? Shit.

“Not a word about this, to anyone.” I was dead serious. “I don't know why these guns are here, but it can't be good for us to know. NOT ONE WORD. Mike, got it?”

He nodded, no one said anything. Grenades, really? A machete? This wasn't some run of the mill gun locker. This was some real shit, realer than real.

No one else said anything, no one needed to. We agreed that it wouldn't be discussed, hid the bong under the desk for later, and left. Immediately. I went to check on Slappy again, but he wasn't in the room anymore. It still wreaked, there was still vomit everywhere and somehow it had got on the walls too, but it seemed like he got a majority into the bucket I brought him. Still red, another 'what the fuck moment' for me. The ground was damp, and I noticed a trail of liquid leading from the room next door where the village people were. It was quiet in their room, and the door was locked. Maybe he tried to make it to the bathroom to pee or something and failed miserably.

“Weird,” I thought, and then followed my friends out of the hall, taking Ashley's hand in mine. He must be smoking with them to feel better. Normally hangovers don't come this quickly, they only surface for me the morning after, but I shrugged it off.

Everyone's bodies are different, you know.