The Bride Stripped Bare

by Rob Bliss

  The guys laughed as they watched my struggle, then had themselves a bit more of a switchblade tip each. Paco put the knife in his pocket and started lugging down sandbags, stacking them onto Gord’s outstretched arms.

  “Hey, coke boy,” Paco called. “You don’t get the prize without working for it. Get back here.”

  He loaded up my arms too, then took a couple bags himself—what little he could carry with a grasp still on the gun. We all formed a line, heading back through the cave tunnel toward the stairs. But Gord stopped before the stairs, took a right, and vanished into a dark alcove. I stopped, not knowing where to go, Paco behind me.

  “Hang on,” Gord’s voice echoed back. “Where’s the fucking light, Paco?”

  “You’re too fucking coked up—it’s right over your head, reach up.”

  A bulb clicked on. Gord stood on the base of a small wooden elevator that sat in a shaft of stone. A control panel of buttons hung from a cable over the frame of the elevator, linked to a small grey electrical box.

  The bulb dangled from a wire stretched across the open top frame of the elevator, dangling and swaying. Gord tucked his bags of coke into a corner of the elevator, stacking them neatly, then stepped out.

  “Fill ’er up, buddy,” he said, slapping me on the back.

  I lined my bags next to his, and stepped out, following him back to the cavern. I wanted to ask a thousand questions, but not while on Paco’s property. So I kept quiet and followed Gord’s lead. Once the elevator was filled, Paco stayed below to work the buttons while Gord and I went back up to the main house, and outside. Gord was speed-walking. I followed closely as we headed behind the house to an outhouse tucked a little ways into the trees. The shithouse’s door was boarded shut. With two hands, Gord heaved and tipped it over onto its back, the base of the entire outhouse on hinges, to reveal the mouth of the stone shaft beneath.

  “Okay, let ’er up,” Gord called, voice echoing down to Paco.

  Once the elevator rose to ground level, Gord and I carried all the bags in several trips from the outhouse, traversing the junkyard lawn, and stacked the bags into the back of his truck. He took out a folded tarp first and set it aside.

  “So, Gordy…” I began to say.

  “Not yet. Okay? Wait until we’re on the road.”

  I shut up and we kept filling the truck. Paco never came up from underground. Once the elevator was empty, Gord called down the shaft, and we returned to the cave to meet the elevator below. We filled it up again. Continued doing this until Gord’s truck was full. Paco rose up with the elevator on the last trip. Gord slammed the tailgate closed and I helped him tie the tarp across the bed.

  Gord said to Paco, “Thank you, my friend. I’ll see you at the wedding. Wear a tux.”

  Paco, gun still in hand, said, “Fuck your tux.”

  They did a secret handshake of some kind. I stood still, not daring to put out my hand, but thinking that if I didn’t, that too would offend Paco.

  His eyes bulged at me. “Well, get in the fucking truck and piss off, asshole.”

  Great guy, that Paco.

  I stepped up into the passenger seat and tightened my seat belt. Looking nowhere, my face taut until we were bouncing down the rutted road, then off it to smooth, level dirt.

  “So, Gord…” I repeated.

  He laughed. “Remember, you didn’t see nothing.”

  “Okay.” I glanced over my shoulder through the back windshield, the tarp rippling in the wind, dust smoking behind the truck. “So…you like coke, hunh?”

  Gord laughed, punched my arm. “Dude, this is my wedding. The greatest party of my life. No way in hell I’m going to be sober for it. Nobody else is either. Everybody’s getting stoned. That means you too. How’re you feeling, buddy?”

  I noticed that I had a hand gripped on the door handle. “I feel pretty fucked up.”

  “You ever done coke?”

  “Uh, yeah, once in my second year of college,” I admitted. “Guy I knew had some. But it was just a thin line. Not a fucking switchblade.” I started licking my gums compulsively, my entire mouth feeling like rubber. Gord laughed.

  “You’re my best man. I will not let you have a shitty time! No watching movies. We are the movie, motherfucker!”

  I was jittery and paranoid for the whole ride back, my nose felt thick, and I was twitchy as hell. Then absolute panic hit.

  “Fuck, Gord—we got a truck full of coke! What if we get stopped?”

  He blew a raspberry. “Don’t worry about it. We’re in the boonies. I’ve got connections everywhere. It’s good to know—and definitely to be marrying—Venus. I told you, buddy, she doesn’t just rock my world—she’s a fucking earthquake! A tsunami! No one fucks with her or anyone who knows her. Hell, if some hick cop I don’t know tries to stop me, I’ll either throw him a bag of coke and invite him to the party…or I’ll blow his fucking head off!”

  He reached under his seat and pulled out a .357 Magnum. His window was rolled down, so he shot a thin tree and blew its trunk half away.

  Then he raised the barrel pointed up and blew a hole in his truck roof.

  I screamed, ducked, covered my head, and convulsed in my seat. Realized that it was not a good idea to be in a truck with a coked-up driver with a massive gun in hand, laughing like the devil at nothing.

  “It’s okay, Venus’ll buy me another one!”

  — | — | —

  Chapter 4

  Incredibly, we made it safely back to Gord’s apartment, parked the truck in his parking space at the back of the building, barely hidden from neighbors. We got out of the truck and my head was twisting in every direction, paranoid and coked up.

  “Uh, Gord…is the, uh…” I muttered, pointing at the tarp.

  “Oh yeah, thanks, almost forgot.” Gord dipped a hand under the tarp, pulled out a bag, held it like a football.

  “Uh…no, I meant, is it safe here?” I asked, eyes flicking across every window I could see, looking for eyes looking back at us.

  “Oh yeah, it’s fine, no one will take it. You want to unload it, ’cuz I don’t. We’ll have people from the wedding do that.”

  I followed him into the apartment, still trying to fathom how no one would steal even one sandbag from the truck. Was a small town really that trustworthy?

  He dropped the coke bag onto his coffee table.

  “Help yourself. Got plenty more where that came from, as you saw,” he laughed, heading into the kitchen.

  I stared at the sandbag. My mind spun, thinking a thousand paranoid thoughts. I kept rubbing my face and scratching my neck and didn’t realize I was doing it.

  Gord came back in with a tall bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses.

  “Drink,” he said as he sat on the sofa and poured. “I don’t want you sober or not stoned the whole time you’re here. Got it?”

  I couldn’t sit down. Gulped the Jack where I stood to swish out my numb mouth, barely feeling the burn. Then I started to pace.

  “Shit, Gord, what about your parents?”

  “What about them? If they wanna get high, that’s cool.”

  “No, I mean…I’m coked up. So are you. And I think it’s obvious.”

  He laughed and patted the sofa cushion beside him. I sat, hands squeezing my empty glass. Gord scooted closer to me on the couch, put a tight arm around my shoulders, said with mock seriousness. “Shit, you’re right. What will mommy and daddy think? Maybe I should put some coke in dad’s Harvey Wallbanger and in mom’s Singapore Sling at the reception.”

  “I’m serious. Are you gonna be stoned during the ceremony?”

  “I better be.”

  “What about Venus?”

  “She better be, too. Hell, the priest better be, or we’ll get one who knows how to party.”

  He took his arm from around me, so I stood and kept pacing, glancing out windows, trying to see the truck, waiting for a ton of cop cars to pull up.

  “Stop goddamn worrying about everything, Chris. You�
��re being a pussy. No offense, but I think that college has shriveled up your balls. I’m gonna help you grow a pair over the next few days. You’re gonna be a dangerous motherfucker, baby! We all are!”

  He howled, then brought out two large pieces of mirror and a pack of razor blades from a drawer in the coffee table. Opened the sandbag and started portioning out thick lines for both of us on each mirror.

  “Oh, fuck no, man,” I sputtered. “I’m already gone. I’m gonna O.D. if I keep going.”

  “Oh shit, right, you’re a newbie. Let me get you something.”

  He did a quick line, then stomped into his bedroom. Came back with a large oval black pill, something a horse would chew.

  “Pop it in, let Jack wash it down. It’ll help you keep up.”

  “What is it?”

  Gord refilled my drink. “It’s a drug condom. It’ll keep you safe while you get fucked. Trust me.”

  I trusted him after staring at the pill for about two minutes. Put it on the back of my tongue, washed it down, felt it slither down my throat then sit like lead in my stomach. Then I felt almost sober. The effect of the coke had almost washed away.

  “Do more coke,” he instructed.

  For some reason, I did. I wanted to. Bigger and bigger lines, cutting them myself. Felt a buzz each time, but not as much as I should have felt. My head felt clear. I could concentrate and focus, was calm, my hands steady, and my mouth felt normal.

  “I think it’s working,” I said.

  “Good for what ails you, son. God, what time is it? Fuck. I think we’re gonna be late for my bachelor party.”

  “Where is it? A strip club or something?”

  He laughed and slapped my back. “Or something.” He stood and searched around for his cell phone, found it under a couch cushion. I snorted more coke and felt alert and happy. Felt alive. “Shit,” he said, “had it on vibrate.” Pacing, he checked through his text messages, then made a call. Said into the phone, “Hey, fucker, I had it on vibrate. We’re here, me and Chris. Chris. My best man. Yeah, he’s cool—his face is in the snow right now and he’s got a Black Betty bouncing in his belly. Hell yeah! You picking us up? Okay, get here when you get here.” He dropped back onto the couch, put the cell face-up on the coffee table, and cut another thick line.

  “Where’re we going?” I asked, waiting for him to fill his nose.

  He squeezed his nostrils a few times and sniffed compulsively. “The brother of the bride is coming to get us. Poppy. He’s fucking awesome, you’re gonna love him, dude. We are gonna have a fucking blast!”

  I looked at the split-open sandbag. “Do we bring this?”

  He howled out a laugh, looking at my face, tears breaking from his eyes. Grabbed my head and shook it. “You’re getting into it, ain’t ya? Hot damn—atta boy! Have some more. Don’t worry, Poppy’s catering tonight’s party. Our stash is for the wedding.”

  “Where’s it going to be?”

  “Venus’ place, the big-ass mansion.”

  I glanced around at his apartment. “Why do you live here—no offense—when your fiancée lives in a mansion?”

  “Her idea, a family tradition or something. We can’t live together until we’re hitched. Hell, I’ve spent half of my life in shithole apartments. If this is the last one I’m ever in before I move into a mansion, I’ll keep with my bride’s traditions, no problem.”

  All the other questions I once thought to ask were now gone. I could only think about the coke and the party coming up. Nothing else was important. I wondered for a second why anything other than coke and partying was ever important. Gord had broken me of my bookworm, geeky self, and my balls were finally growing.

  ««—»»

  Poppy was about five feet tall, had straight black hair down to his ribs, wore a long black trench coat that draped just above his red Doc Martin boots. He wore circular blue sunglasses, which he never took off, night or day, I would eventually learn. They had rubber or leather shades on either side that sealed to his temples, so I couldn’t even see his eyes looking at them from the sides. His fingers were heavy with thick rings, pewter and silver and gold, some with jewels—skulls and devil’s heads. He clasped my hand and one-arm hugged me, called me brother, was the opposite of Paco.

  Before we headed out, we sat at the coffee table and Poppy filled his nose, asked me how my flight was, asked Gord about the wedding supplies.

  “Truck’s full.”

  “Fucking sweet,” Poppy said, nodding. “I’m stocked too. Fuckin’ Paco.”

  Gord chuckled. “Fuckin’ Paco.”

  “You don’t like him?” I asked Poppy.

  “Fuck no. He’s just the supply for our demand. Fucker needs an attitude adjustment. He holds his goddamn shotgun like it’s his dick. Compensating for what he doesn’t have.”

  We laughed. I was glad I wasn’t alone in hating Paco. Poppy was on my side. I needed to stick close to him in case Paco was ever again in my vicinity.

  “Is he going to be at the bachelor party?”

  “He better not,” Poppy said.

  “He might be,” Gord added.

  “I’ll shove that gun up his ass,” Poppy said, forming a white line on Gord’s mirror, “but I think he’d like it.”

  I looked at Poppy’s glasses…opaque blue. Couldn’t see even a hint of his eyes through them. I wondered if he was partially blind, but I didn’t ask. He didn’t move like a blind man.

  “So, what’s happening at the party?” I asked.

  “What usually happens at a bachelor party,” Gord laughed, smacking my forehead. “Booze and pussy!”

  “And more!” Poppy cheered.

  “Oh, hell ya, a lot more!” Gord winked at me.

  “We going to a strip club?” I asked again.

  Poppy and Gord laughed, high-fived each other. Poppy clicked open a jeweled skull ring, a hollow cup. He dug it into the coke, filled it, snapped it shut.

  “A kind of strip club,” Gord vaguely explained.

  “Don’t worry, my new brother,” Poppy said to me after he licked clean the jewel of his ring. “You will not be disappointed tonight, that I assure you.”

  For the next fifteen minutes we all snorted and drank, and I wished I had a pop-up ring like Poppy’s, and I told him so. He and Gord laughed, with me and at me. I had snorted more coke since we had gotten back to Gord’s apartment than I had in a lifetime, and I felt very, very good.

  Then we all got into Poppy’s black, jacked-up truck with the tinted windows. He cranked hardcore Norwegian death metal—some band named ‘Gorgoroth’—as we drove through the sleepy streets of the quaint little town.

  — | — | —

  Chapter 5

  I don’t remember how far out of town we went, or how long it took, but we eventually pulled into a roadhouse that was surrounded by swamp. I had no idea there was swamp land in Washington State, but the mosquitoes that attacked my face and neck and hands proved we were back in nature.

  Inhaling the thick stench of swamp gas, I followed Gord and Poppy up the porch steps of the roadhouse. Laughter and screams and blaring music poured from the walls. All the windows were bricked or boarded up, and the only sign, reading simply “Roadhouse” in hackneyed smears of flaking paint, hung above the porch.

  Poppy opened the door and noise crashed over us. We passed two bouncers, each with a large amount of metal piercing their tattooed faces. They slapped Gord on the back to congratulate him on getting married. Multicolored lights shot around the dark room, showing flashes of flesh—semi-naked and naked women dancing on tables as men howled up at them. The men looked like a cross between a motorcycle gang and survivors of the Apocalypse.

  Beards cinched by rows of elastic bands, pierced ears punctured by wooden and steel dowels, tribal tattoos on faces and bald heads, a man with a golden metal ring tight around his neck, muscle shirts, and a helluva lot of leather.

  I followed in the slow slipstream of Gord, who could barely take a step through the crowd without be
ing hugged, slapped, given a shooter, a beer, a pill of some kind. Girls flocked to his side to kiss his cheek and let him put his hand on their asses and elsewhere. I saw it all from the back. Gord was finally able to breathe once we reached a horseshoe-shaped booth against a wall deep in the room.

  A mounted grizzly head hung over the booth, and Gord took his seat beneath it. Poppy was on his left and I sat on his right. We never paid for a drink, or anything else, all night.

  Must’ve been the cocaine—the Black Betty wearing away—but I remember the night only in flashes. Too drugged up to recall all the people I met or how they may have been important to Gord. He introduced me as an old friend and his best man, and I was lavished with attention almost as much as he was. I felt like royalty, though many of the people I met scared the hell out of me. Others tempted the hell out of me. I recall a man with two thick purple scars up either nostril which I couldn’t take my eyes off. I blinked and he was gone. In his place was a gorgeous black girl wearing a glittering gold bra. She lifted it up to her neck and I saw a superfluous nipple beside her right nipple. Whether she pulled my head down or I dived in, I don’t know, but I sucked on the third nipple. It fed me milk that tasted of salt and iron. The liquid may have been blood, actually. There were a lot of flashing lights dyeing the color of everything and everyone. The girl happily said “Thanks, baby, you can suck mama’s nipple any time.” I do remember that. And I somewhat recall that, at one point, a drop of milk glittering with gold flakes hung from the nipple and I was about to suck it off, but then a strobe light blinded me, and the drop fell. I saw it hit the back of my hand and turn into an anemone. I yelled and snapped it off.

  I doubted whether or not that black horse pill was saving me or making things worse.

  I think, but can’t be sure, that at one point during the night, with Gord lost in the crowd, I had my pants pulled to my knees and at least one girl under the table. I stretched my arms along the cushioned leather back of the booth and felt like a king. I don’t remember if I ejaculated or not, but it felt great and lasted for hours. I was getting a secret blow-job in a crowded room! (Well, maybe not so secret.) My drab college life was far behind me.