“Then later tonight,” Madison says.
Emerald stops swaying and her eyes light up. “Wow, you’re not one to beat around the bush.”
She say bush? Screw it, being a sleaze is fun, I won’t get hurt.
Madison grins. “Yes and no.”
The song concludes and Emerald collects her tips, the majority of which came from Madison, whose generous offerings lie scattered across the stage. Emerald takes her time scooping up the bills, all the while smiling at Madison. Then she winks, hurries off the stage, and the next girl takes over.
Madison quietly says, “Let’s go back to the table.”
“Why?” I ask, loud and clear.
On stage is the girl who was performing when we first arrived.
“Not here.” Madison yanks me off my seat.
Across the club, we return to our table.
“So why?” I ask. “I thought you liked watching. She looks pretty good.”
“Not all of them, silly. She has fake . . . you know. A gigantic chest doesn’t automatically make a girl sexy.”
“Fake what?” I ask, the shock pushing my voice loud enough that curious club-goers look to our table.
Madison pulls me near and speaks privately. “Breasts, you ’tard. You know, sacks of goo in her chest. That’s icky. They feel funny.”
How very odd. Why would a woman do that to herself? Well, explains how the melons defy gravity. Is that sexy? I don’t know, but I wouldn’t say no if she asked me to touch them. They’re not that icky.
“Wait here,” Madison says. “I’ll be right back.” She gets up to leave but turns back. “Oh, and if the waitress comes by, order me another drink, and get whatever feels right for you.” She hurries away.
I’m stuck here anyhow, my legs feel like rubber. Sitting will do just fine. Whatever feels right? I don’t know, this drunk thing is difficult, maybe I should take it easy and have a soda. To hell with that, real men drink beer. The waitress stops by and I order another round.
Sitting alone for a spell, I sip my beer and enjoy the band, which continues playing upbeat, energetic tunes. Beer, women, and good music. What more could you ask for? Aw, crap, I just reminded myself again. I could ask to keep all this. Boy, the goons would really have something to say about this joint. Here we have devil worship, certain to be wiped out in the name of social purity.
Madison returns with our new friend in her clutches. “Emerald wants to join us. Okay with you?”
Duh. Like I want her to go away. Why does she even ask?
“Hell yeah!” I announce to the whole place. “Two gorgeous women? What more could you—”
No, I’m not going to say it, I’m not even going to think it. Now’s the time to enjoy life. I’ll have fun tonight, and worry about my problems tomorrow.
I think the beer said that.
* * *
Beer is a funny thing. It has a mind of its own, the beer mind, that overpowers the regular mind. Or is that my own mind being drunk? I can’t tell, and really, don’t care so much. Beer and related beverages have additional effects, obscuring all good sense, leading a person to believe they are invincible. But some drunks believe too much, falling prey to their twisted imagination, and end up doing something really stupid, like standing in front of a speeding truck as though it would simply bounce off of them. That’s not a good drunk. Well, unless it’s a beer truck, that’s different.
Madison calls for my attention, which is flying all over the room about now.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, and leaves Emerald at the table.
Now where is she going?
Emerald is a beautiful girl as her name suggests, a brilliant gemstone. But her name is not Emerald. Huh? Where did that come from? That’s the beer talking, right? Emerald, or whatever her name is—stop it! Anyway, she gazes at me and says, “Madison tells me you want to play.”
“Play?” I say, my mouth suddenly operational. “I was thinking more like you and me getting it on animal-style while you go down on Madison.”
I can’t believe it. Did I just say that out loud? It’s that fucking beer. Oh hell, it doesn’t matter. She’ll probably be impressed by my sexual confidence, appearing as a real man. Did I actually just think that? That’s totally lame.
“Ooo, I like the sound of that,” she says. “So you like me?”
Now what have I gotten myself into? She deserves a reply, but possessed by a demon of blunt sincerity . . .
“Yes, I like you very much,” I say, off to a respectable start. “In fact, I lust to tongue your sweet honey lollipop, and fill you with my creamy delight, over and over, until you’re gushing with ecstasy.”
Don’t tell me that just fell out of my mouth.
Madison returns and slips in cozy next to Emerald. “Have you two gotten to know each other?”
“Oh yes, we have,” Emerald says, gushing already, probably wet between the thighs by now. “He’s awesome. He says all the right things, and he’s so handsome.”
Is she on drugs? Maybe the beer altered what she really said. Yeah, something about a turd pretending to be Prince Charming.
“Then you’re ready to play,” Madison says. “And you, Adam?”
“I should be popping a boner any second now.”
That should do it for today’s quota of colorful references to sex. I’m slipping from reality, which is no longer all that real, more like we’re on a merry-go-round, since the room started spinning. The beer mind may be good at being sleazy, but it’s lousy at focus. Madison now has a twin, and both are tugging on my arm, though they seem to be floating past, and keep leaping back to float past again.
“All righty then,” she says. “Finish your drink. Jerry’s on the way.”
One swift gulp and the beer is gone, followed by a boisterous belch. Boy, they probably thought that was manly. No, they giggled, maybe. Hard to tell, they won’t sit still.
I struggle up and escort my dates, not one, but two women, well, maybe four, could be eight, not quite sure. Anyway, the entire orgy, over to my place to strip naked and . . .
Whoa—the floor doesn’t seem completely flat, rather a bit slanted. This makes it nearly impossible to stand up straight, since every time I do, I immediately fall to one side.
Madison holds tight and guides me toward the exit.
The damn wall leaps out and smacks me!
What’s the deal? Walls don’t usually do that, why now? No fair. The whole place wants to turn round and round.
The waitress approaches as we near the exit. She has a few duplicates following her as well. They all stop to look at me, their every motion synchronized.
I slur, “Hiya, cutie, wanna come too? Orgy over at my place.”
My final lecherous proposal doesn’t seem to work. Maybe I didn’t add the proper smile. Or delivered it to the wrong one, there might be six of her. They all respond, but none of them appears interested in the offer.
“Looks like Mister Happy is done. No more permagrin.”
They all laugh, and I go stumbling out the door.
* * *
Jerry and his trusty taxi are waiting just outside. Madison hauls me toward the open back door.
“Wait!” I cry. Something bad is about to happen, and I don’t think Jerry would appreciate it in the backseat of his taxi.
I stagger to the curb, drop to my knees, and hurl the contents of my stomach into the gutter. One violent purge, followed by a few tremors, leaves my lips coated with yuck. My tongue strains to collect the slimy remnants and spit out the nasty flavor. Oh, this is gross. Matt was right about me and the gutter—my mind’s in it now, along with my stomach, and maybe a few other organs.
From behind, Madison tugs on my shoulder. “Honey, you okay?”
I can’t answer, but I can think—do I look okay? What is okay? I can’t let her see me like this, I must look terrible. She wouldn’t want to kiss me now.
“Let’s go, baby,” she says. “I’ll take care of you.”
&
nbsp; Yeah, that’s better, I need to be taken care of. I’m completely out of control, barfing, falling over, a genuine drunk. I am not okay, that much is painfully obvious by now.
Madison resumes her struggle, wrestling me into the backseat where Emerald is waiting. I’m a lead weight, more than she can manage. She’ll have to, I’m nearly incapable of functioning at this point. Next thing I know, I find myself slumped in the backseat between the girls.
“Take us home,” Madison says to Jerry.
He turns around, eyes wide. “Like I said, you’re one lucky dude.”
Lucky? What, once you vomit, you win the drinking game? Dork. Good thing I can’t talk right now, or I’d call him that and end up in a fight to top it all off. He’d kick my ass anyway. I wouldn’t know which of the four of him to punch.
Madison brings her lips close to my ear. “We’re going home, honey. You’ll be okay. This is Tina, by the way. I thought you should know her real name, since we’re going to get personal.”
“I thought her name was Emerald.”
The few remaining words squeeze past the yuck coating my lips, which I thought by now had sealed my mouth shut. Better than another purge blasting it open. Either way, those may be my last words for a while. I’m slipping from reality.
“That’s my stage name,” Tina says. “You know, to keep the weirdos away. You guys are cool, you can know my real name.”
Weirdos? A great description for me in this condition. Strange, I was right. Was it me? Or the beer mind? Or my regular mind, is it still there? Hello, are you there? Was it you? How did we know her name wasn’t Emerald? How?
What an odd thing. I call to my mind, but it doesn’t supply an answer. Instead, it gives a completely different response.
“Go to sleep, you are done.”
I promptly comply, passing out cold.
Chapter 5
The thrust, the power, roaring between my thighs, of all the bikes I’ve ever owned, this ride is my favorite. A splendid machine, perfectly tuned, its maximum potential is realized. My skill as a mechanic is evident this fine day. The clever tweaks aimed at boosting the engine’s output have produced outstanding results. The motorcycle purrs, the exhaust mellow, until twisting the throttle and launching my rocket along the winding route, so much force unleashed, I can barely hang on to the beast.
The afternoon is bright and clear, perfect weather for a motorcycle ride in the mountains. The air is thin at this high altitude, but cruising at intense speed slowed only by the winding turns, the oncoming stream tears at my face and fills my lungs. I am well protected in a sturdy leather jacket, and my hands are sheathed in a pair of riding gloves. They are quite snug, yet offer exceptional freedom of movement, allowing me to keep this roaring monster under control.
Past the road’s edge and far below, a grandiose valley stretches across the land. On the opposite side, the winding route follows every contour of the mountain, wrapping around then bending out, and again the oncoming road curls around the next ridge.
The mountainside is blanketed by tall pines that reach for the sky. Trees are an amazing example of life. They must be infinitely wise, having amassed a fortune of knowledge as they stand rooted in one spot, slowly inching upward while bearing witness to every event occurring in their presence. They might even recall events eons ago, a countless number of our lifetimes. If only they could talk and share their thoughts, what tales we might learn.
Soaring through the next turn, I marvel at this nimble machine. I spent all of yesterday working on it, and today the bike performs flawlessly, a potent machine purring between my thighs. The results are so pleasing, I have extended my journey, pushing deeper into the rugged slopes. Through every turn along the winding route, the heated rubber clings to the road like glue.
Streaming past, the rush of oncoming air rumbles, and somehow, it sounds like a whisper.
“Slow down.”
That’s just the wind, and besides, this bike can handle any turn I throw it into. I twist the throttle, lean the bike far, and stick to the centerline. The curving roadway slips from view beyond the next ridge. When the road straightens out, I glance down at the speedometer. Nice, we made it through that one at eighty-five. This bike is awesome.
I look up—to see a woman in the road. A woman of such beauty she may be a goddess, casting a disapproving glare as if provoked and commanding time to crawl.
I swerve to miss her and dump the bike. Foot pegs carve asphalt showering sparks, and the road grinds away one boot’s smoking sole. I cling to the handgrips, hanging on for dear life, as her intent stare tracks my perilous journey past.
The bike is heading for the shoulder, the valley side, and no guardrail. Too fast, letting go won’t work. I’m committed to this course either way. My heart drops into my stomach. No, the bike will right itself and get up. It has to. Please, no.
The road is only so wide, and I have found its edge, only to leave it behind. There is nothing left. Nothing left but sky.
The bike rips from my grasp and spins flat, flinging away like a boomerang, leaving me to plummet and slam into the mountainside. The blow is bone crushing, but death is delayed, saved for the ultimate impact waiting farther below. I bounce away and soon return, crashing into the mountain and tumbling past rocky outcrops.
There is no hope of surviving, but I must try. It’s not over till it’s over. I claw at bushes streaming past, branches, anything, there must be something. My outstretched hand hooks on an exposed root, I seize hold, and like a slender thread unwinding, it rips from the soil and halts my descent in a stiff jerk. I dangle over certain death, straining to catch my breath.
“Help!”
Someone must hear.
“Please, someone, help me!”
There is no reply. I am doomed. In a short time, I will lose hold and fall to my death. Terror fills my last moments alive.
No, I do not agree. I will not succumb to the fear of death and let it take my life. I will not. I will talk to my savior. The root has come from a tree. A tree that can save me.
“Lend me your will to survive.”
“That hurt, you know.”
“Who said that?” I ask, as the slimy root inches through my grasp.
“Who did you decide to talk to?” the voice asks.
Higher up the mountainside, there are only trees. But one has a face. A face? The face of a grumpy old man.
“Didn’t hear me?” the tree says. “I asked who you decided to talk to.”
The wooden mouth moves, the tree is talking. How can this be?
“Are you talking to me?”
“You’re talking to me, aren’t you? So I get to talk back, right?”
“But you’re a tree. Trees don’t talk.”
“How often have you decided you could talk to a tree?”
What is this, a logic tree?
“Never, I’d have to admit. This would be the first time.”
“Then what’s so surprising? If this is the first time, which means you’ve never tried it before, how do you know a tree wouldn’t respond?”
It is a logic tree. Did I miss something? Okay, this is totally weird, but my grip is slipping, nearing the end of this fragile tether, and I want to live. Any chance will do, no matter how crazy.
“Can you help me?” I ask.
“I can only help you if you help yourself.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
“What kind of answer would you like?”
The tree avoids the question with another question. Yes, one of those tricky, logical types.
“I want you to answer yes, and get me out of this mess, that’s the answer I want.”
“Very well.”
Like a giant whip, the root comes to life and flings me to the sky. When I crash down, I’m back on the road, right where I started. How is this possible? And where is the woman responsible for this brush with death? She has vanished.
Now another tree has the face, the same face.
“Is that better?” the tree asks.
“I guess, but I don’t understand. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for your help, but I’m awfully confused.”
“What is confusing you?”
“How any of this is possible.”
“Take a look,” the tree says. A branch creaks, and like an arm, it points over the cliff.
I creep toward the edge and crane my neck to look. That’s a long way down. Far below, my motorcycle is smashed to pieces splattered across the land. The sight brings me terrible sadness, a wonderful machine I had worked all day to perfect, now it’s trash at the bottom of a ravine. What a waste. I’m grief-stricken over the loss of my bike, it was my favorite.
“What do you see?” the tree asks.
“My bike, mangled beyond repair. I’ll never be able to fix it. The thing’s ruined.”
“Look again.”
“All right, but I’m sure it’s still there.”
Looks about the same, and sure enough, the twisted heap of metal that once was my bike hasn’t gone anywhere. But there’s more.
I’m down there.
My body is at the bottom, mangled beyond repair, bloody and broken, surely dead. But I’m standing right here. How is this possible? The truth hits and I’m grief-stricken over the loss of my body, it was my favorite.
“Have you learned anything?” the tree asks.
I look down at the ravine. “Bodies and bikes don’t like cliffs, that’s for sure.”
“Good,” the tree says, and the wooden mouth smiles. The tree appears satisfied and says no more.
Satisfied? Who cares if any tree is satisfied?
“What the hell is going on?” I ask.
The tree creaks, leaning toward me, and brows of bark squeeze tighter. “Talk of Hell is dangerous. Wouldn’t want to go there, you know.”
That’s it, all I can stand of people telling me about Hell and how I’m going there. I have an answer for this tree, sure to blow its mind. Does it have a mind? It must—it talks.
“Listen here, Woody, I want to go there. That’s right, I want to go to Hell. And you know what happens when I get there? I’m tearing it down. I’m going to take it apart, that’s what’ll happen. That place will cease to exist when I’m done. I’ve had it with this shit!”
Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 Page 16
