Bat Out of Hell

by Bernadette Franklin

  I could imagine so many ways a Tarzan trend could sour in a hurry. “But will the attending men be lazy rich men or frequent flyers of the gym?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  I whimpered. “Can I go home now?”

  “Oh, no. Absolutely not, Shirley. The fun has just begun.”

  For some reason, I doubted even heaven could help me at this point. All I could do was surrender and hope for the best.

  “I am the idiot ruling over all idiots,” I announced, eyeballing the bottle of sparkling wine taunting me from its bucket of ice. The alcohol would take the edge off of dealing with Manhattan traffic on Halloween. A ridiculous number of limousines added to the typical New York congestion. Pointing at the window, I waited for Clarissa to figure out the problem.

  “They’re probably all headed to the same place we are.”

  “It might be faster to walk.”

  Clarissa snorted and lifted her leg to show off her pointy stilettos. “In these shoes?”

  My shoes weren’t much better. “We could take them off and walk barefoot.”

  “In Manhattan on Halloween? You need to have your head examined. Also, you’re full of complaints tonight. We’re going to a party. It won’t kill you to have some fun, I promise.”

  “I think we have dramatically different opinions on what counts as fun, Clarissa. I’ve heard about rich people parties. They’re excessive, and everyone judges everyone else by who they’re with, how much money they make, who they talk to, or who they’ve screwed. By bringing me to this party, you will be ranked as the lowest of the low. Then, since that’s bad enough, the pecking order is also based on how much money one has to spend on things. You’re more like the ruling class on that one, but my presence still dumps you to the back of the pack. Prove I’m wrong. I’m going to be on the absolute last rung because you’re probably the only person crazy enough to bring your destitute Jersey friend to a Manhattan penthouse party.” Being surly all night long would ruin everyone’s fun, mine most of all, so I drew in a deep, cleansing breath. “My Prada might haunt you from its grave. I’m just warning you this is probable.”

  “You don’t even believe in ghosts, witches, or anything that might classify as supernatural.”

  “I do for tonight only.”

  “I can work with that as long as you aren’t haunting me from your grave. I don’t want you to die.”

  “The Prada is probably coming for me first, so you’re going to get a double dose of hauntings.”

  “That does not sound like a good way to go. I’m too beautiful to be murdered by the vengeful ghosts of my friend and her dress.”

  “But at least you’d be haunted by a Prada? You could be haunted by a floating white sheet.”

  “As I have standards, I’m forced to agree with you. You’re nervous. It’s just a party, Shirley.”

  “Lee. Please. Spare me from the indignity of calling me Shirley to people. Lee. Just Lee. And text your mother that she’s to call me Lee. Then, once this is over, the crazy rich people attending the party won’t be able to find me.”

  “All they’d have to do to find you is ask us for your address.”

  “You could refuse to tell them. And anyway, there’s no ‘them.’ No one would actually be interested in finding me after this party.”

  “I beg to differ. You’re a hot witch, you have a badass hat, and those crystals on your belt were a stroke of genius. You even have a little fake bat on your shoulder.”

  “That’s my witch’s familiar. His name is Booh.”

  “Booh?”

  “Bat out of hell. Booh. He’s my spirit animal, as I’d like to run like a bat out of hell right now. I do not belong among a bunch of rich people at a costume party.”

  “Your spirit animal is made of felt.”

  “I never said Booh was a good spirit animal.”

  “Do the other bats have names?”

  “No. They’re so poorly made their spirits fled to the next life to avoid the shame of being attached to my costume. Only Booh’s spirit survived the ordeal of his creation.”

  “He’s made of felt. He doesn’t have a soul.”

  “This is why you will be haunted by my Prada and Booh, the Bat.”

  “Bat out of Hell, the Bat?”

  “When you say it like that, my choice of names for my spirit animal is truly unfortunate.”

  Clarissa cracked up laughing. “I think you’re going to be weirder than every other attendee combined. I’m not even sure my mother at her worst can top you and your Booh.”

  “Go big or go home, and if I’m going to do this, I may as well embrace the insanity. But I’m not responsible for what I’ll do if some lecher makes passes at me.”

  “Some lecher will definitely make passes at you, Shirley.”

  “Lee, please. Please, Clarissa. I’m begging you. Tonight, call me Lee.”

  “But I don’t want my best girlfriend to be my best boyfriend. I don’t want to introduce possible boyfriends to my other boyfriend.”

  “You can have male friends without dating them.”

  “You’re not a man. We’ve established this. My mother is very disappointed you’re not a man, too. Or that we’re not lesbians.”

  “I do like men too much when they’re not assholes. We’ll just have to tell your mother we’re sorry we haven’t succumbed to her plans to transform us into lesbians and marry us off.”

  “We could adopt you. Then she could have you as a daughter. That would make her happy.”

  “She would have to sign a co-parenting agreement with my mother.” After a moment of consideration, I realized my mother would probably agree to such a thing. “Don’t actually suggest that to your mother. My mother would. Yours would leave the party to make sure it was done immediately. I’ve met your mother. She doesn’t let anything sit long.”

  “Procrastination leads to nothing but trouble in her world.”

  “Her world is also inhabited by egotistical male asshole producers and actors who are paid better than she is despite her having to work harder than they do.” I shook my head. “When was the last time she got paid at least equal to her male co-lead?”

  “We do not ask that question in my household. That path leads directly to hell and divine punishment. It’s been a while.”

  “By a while, you mean never.”

  “I really do.”

  “Imagine if your mother was fairly paid compared to her male co-leads.”

  “She’d take over the world and have more money than sense.”

  “She already has more money than sense, Clarissa.”

  My friend laughed. “Harsh but true. I know you’re nervous about the party but try to relax. You’ll have a great time, I promise.”

  Alarms went off in my head; Clarissa didn’t make promises unless she meant them, and when she made promises, it meant she had plans to make certain things went her way. “What have you done?”

  “Me? I haven’t done anything. My mother? My mother has done a lot of interesting things I think are hilarious. Didn’t I tell you? She’s on a mission to marry us off. She’s tired of having single children, and she’s adopted you.”

  “She most certainly has not!”

  “She really has. It’s too late to run. You’re just going to have to deal with my mother’s matchmaking ways because there’s no way I’m going down alone.”

  I needed a new life, an escape plan, and a cabin deep in the woods where nobody would ever find me. “I should have known this was a trap.”

  “You’ll survive. I hope. But if a lecher tries anything, shame the fucker.”

  “Shame the fucker? Don’t you mean knee him in the nuts?”

  “That could work, but I find humiliation discourages them long term. Pain rarely does more than piss them off.”

  “How does one shame a lecher?”

  “Just tell him his father had better skills in the sack and you should take lessons before trying anything, or ask some hot g
uy for a kiss to protect you from an unwanted lecher.”

  “I’m not sexually assaulting a stranger.”

  “It’s not sexual assault if you ask first and he agrees.”

  Why had I bothered trying to talk sense into a woman wearing an inflatable t-rex costume? I gave up, shook my head, and said, “Fine. If an unwanted lecher tries to get in my face, I’ll request permission to sexually assault some hot guy. But will there be any hot single guys present?”

  “There’ll be plenty. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble figuring out who they are. Wedding rings are mandatory, so just check the finger. And if someone is taken but not engaged or married yet, they have to wear a red string. These are strict no-cheating parties, and it’s open hunting season on any creep who tries.”

  “And if the lecher is married?”

  “Let me know, and I’ll tip off the organizers of all the parties. Cheaters are kicked out.”

  “That is the coolest party rule I have ever heard. Why is it in place?”

  “There are kids present, that’s why.”

  “Good reason. Keep the cheating private, huh?”

  “Exactly.”

  Chapter Two

  Traffic in Manhattan sucked, but by some miracle, we reached the condominium complex hosting the party, which towered overhead. The line of limos convinced me I didn’t belong at the party, but with so many vehicles clogging the street, I gave up hope of escape.

  The crazy woman wearing an inflatable t-rex costume would hunt me down and humiliate me further.

  Resigned to my fate, I grabbed the bottle of sparkling wine, popped it open, and split it between the flutes.

  There was barely enough in it for half a glass each.

  “This is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen,” I announced, holding up the pair of flutes.

  “They’re props, not fortification for the party. You don’t need any alcohol, anyway. It’s just a few hours.”

  “Just a few hours in the shredded ruins of my Prada. My dress will haunt me, I’ll be cursed, and entropy will forever follow in my wake.”

  “I don’t think shredding a dress will lead to deterioration wherever you go.”

  “Chaos, then. I’ll be cursed to forever have bad luck.”

  “It’s a dress. It can’t curse you.”

  “You say that now, but you just wait until tomorrow. Mark my words, bad shit will start to happen. I’ll go to work and all hell will break loose.”

  “All hell is going to break loose because you work retail and November is coming, and November sucks. After November is December, and December is your personal hell.”

  “I need a new job, but I have no applicable life skills, and I’m too damned poor to go to college. The student loans would kill me.”

  “I can help you figure something out if you want.”

  “Does it involve handouts?”

  “No, it would involve you interviewing for positions that don’t require college degrees but do require hard workers willing to learn on the job. I need good people, and degrees aren’t everything nowadays. Employers are starting to figure that out. My dad’s place is starting to pick people up without the right degrees and train them from scratch because they get better workers for cheaper that way.”

  “I don’t want to be cheaper, Clarissa. I’m tired of being cheaper.”

  “While cheaper to start with, the banks do tend to promote those who do well, and if you need a degree to qualify, some places are footing the bill without interest because they want good employees. Come on, just trust me for once.”

  “The last time I trusted you, I shredded my Prada. Now I have to look out for lechers and might sexually assault a hot guy while trying to escape a lecher.”

  “The Prada incident is all on you, but the rest is sadly accurate.”

  “I’m not sure I want to sexually assault a hot guy even with his permission. It’s the whole escaping from a lecher part of the equation I’m not a fan of.”

  “I definitely dislike that part of the equation, too, but sometimes you meet a really nice hot guy in the process. There are a few I wouldn’t mind locking lips with here should an opportunity allow.”

  “Can I settle for asking for one to pretend to be my boyfriend long enough for the lecher to fuck off and die?”

  “You forgot about the red string rule.”

  “I could ask him to ask me to be his girlfriend in front of the lecher. It’s for the sake of escape, right? Any decent single man would play along, right?”

  The limo pulled up in front of the doors, and Clarissa needed the driver’s help to escape the vehicle. I managed even with carrying both champagne flutes, and I handed her glass over so I wouldn’t look like a slutty, alcoholic witch. Well, not exactly slutty. For a Prada, it did a rather good job of covering everything of importance.

  To make her entrance spectacular, Clarissa pranced towards the doors, holding her flute as high as her t-rex costume would allow. I already regretted everything and, shaking my head, I followed in her wake.

  The sparkling wine went down fast, and I longed to smash the empty flute over my friend’s head. Without knowing if I held a cheap flute or a fortune in crystal in my hand, I held onto it rather than dumping it into the nearest trash can. Clarissa waged war with the door, pulling when she should have been pushing. To play to her costume choice, she roared.

  I took her flute and tossed it back. “If I have to put up with this, I’m drinking your wine.”

  “Considering I’m working hard to embarrass you, this is fair.”

  “You’re succeeding.”

  “I know. It’s great.” Clarissa roared again and plowed through the door, her heels clicking on the marble. She struck a pose. Her next roar came out more like a pterodactyl screech.

  I loved my friend, but I really wanted to murder her.

  All she needed was for someone to drop a banner from the ceiling.

  “I’ve never been so humiliated in my life.” A wretched number of hot men around my age dressed as cowboys, vampires, and as warned, Tarzan, waited for the elevator. The Tarzans had gone the loincloth route, and some of them were so skimpy I made sure to keep my gaze chest high.

  “It will get so much worse. So much worse. Just wait until my mother starts introducing you to the Tarzans.”

  “Speedos have more coverage,” I grumbled.

  “I’m going to roleplay Godzilla. Follow and watch me work magic.”

  “Does your magic involve confirming you’re insane? If so, you’ve already cast your spell.”

  “Rude!”

  “Honest.”

  “Still rude.”

  “Still honest.”

  “What do you have against Godzilla?”

  “Nothing. Godzilla isn’t a t-rex, Godzilla is far cooler than you ever will be, and you couldn’t do Godzilla’s roar justice even if you tried.” I realized my mistake the instant the words left my mouth. After such a blatant challenge, Clarissa would spend the rest of the night trying to prove she could match Godzilla’s roar.

  My lunatic friend marched for the crowd waiting for the elevators. “Behold! I am Godzilla, Queen of the Monsters! Make way for my most imperial majesty.”

  I bowed my head, heaved a sigh, and lifted my hands to rub my temples. “You’re a menace.”

  The crowd laughed, and just as I expected, exactly no one made way for Clarissa, Queen of the Idiots. I’d have to make use of her title at every opportunity. On the other hand, I liked that she enjoyed herself, but she’d pay for making her enjoyment come at my expense.

  Revenge would be mine, and when it came, I’d laugh so hard I’d make myself cry.

  Clarissa roared again and stomped her heels on the marble. The clicks undermined her pitiful attempts to intimidate the crowd with her vicious dinosaur act. My shoulders shook from the effort of containing my laughter. “You’re hopeless, Clarissa.”

  “No, I’m Godzilla, Queen of the Monsters.”

  “You’re a t-rex suffer
ing from a midlife crisis.”

  “Rude!”

  “Honest.”

  “This again?”

  “Queens aren’t supposed to be so sensitive to the commentary of peasants. If you’d like to wait for the elevator, go for it, Little Miss T-Rex, but I’m going to take the stairs, and I don’t care how many flights it is. The real dinosaur here is the slow ass elevators.” To escape the madness, I headed for the stairwell, which was marked with a helpful sign.

  As I refused to carry two flutes up a bazillion steps, and I’d lost my ability to care about the damned glasses, I tossed them into the nearest trashcan. If Clarissa wanted them, she’d have to dig them out, but she could afford to replace them. And if she couldn’t, well, she shouldn’t have brought them to a Halloween party as part of her costume in the first place.

  Maybe if I told myself enough times, I wouldn’t feel too guilty over throwing out her property.

  To my dismay, several of the vampires, one of the cowboys, and an unfortunate number of the Tarzans thought death by stairwell was a good idea and followed me.

  In good news, while tattered, my Prada would preserve my dignity and bar any unwanted men from getting a look at my panties—as would the biker shorts I wore to prevent thigh chafing. They’d have to live with the disappointment. I didn’t bother holding the door, as I figured a bunch of testosterone-poisoned males could handle the task on their own.

  I estimated I had at least twenty stories to climb, and I refused to accept defeat. I would not surrender, go quietly into the night, or stop until I reached the top floor. Seizing the rail, I climbed.

  And climbed. And climbed. And climbed. After four stories, I acknowledged my idiocy rivaled Clarissa’s, and that I would have to dub myself Shirley, Empress of the Idiots. Clarissa could be my princess. We’d make a most excellent pair of ruling idiots.

  After ten stories, one of the Tarzans did a rather impressive pterodactyl screech. I halted, turned, and admired as a rather fit man my age dramatically fell to his knees on the step while imitating a death scene from Hamlet. He dragged it on for a solid five minutes, and when he finally played dead on the steps, I joined the other stair climbers in giving him a round of applause. “If you’re not an actor, you should be. I haven’t seen that much drama since the lobby.”