Last weekend, most of the guest posters were over at Jeff’s old place, drinking way to much and bemoaning the fact that they had to leave soon.  I tried to point out that moving takes days to weeks to fully accomplish, and that Jeff still has that screenplay to write, and that we still haven’t driven the site stats completely into the gutter, not through lack of trying, mind you, but more due to the fact that there are many loyal readers who refuse to give up and that train wrecks are often fun to watch, coupled with the fact that being as how we have so many guest posters who will refresh the site every minute to see if they got a new comment (guilty as charged here) the numbers will still have some support, but they wanted to wallow, so I gave it up and watched them without saying anything more.

I was nursing a whiskey when the little guy loudly proclaimed that he was “sick of this crap” and would start “busting heads.” I’ve been around long enough to know where this was going, so I immediately got his attention and suggested we go out somewhere. He was hesitant until I told him about a place I know where the drinks are cheap and always doubles (at least).  That perked him up enough to get him out of the house.

Once we arrived he immediately wanted a drink.  I tried to steer him toward the name-brand liquor which, while costing more at the time of consumption, costs much less the day after.  He said that he had to watch his money, because his income consists mainly of a piece of the ad revenue from the PW site, and since the stats have tanked, so has his chunk of the take.  I explained that I know the bartender and that I could have us drinking all night for cheap, he would have none of it, being on one of his “Marlboro ‘Dillo” kicks (you know, “a ‘dillo alone in the world,” no help needed or asked for).  He ended up drinking rail liquor, which probably goes for something like $4 a fifth.  Yikes.

After two of those he started to loosen up.  He was watching the stage, where the “girls” were lip-synching dance tunes.  He suggested that he could do much better, and he would “show those slackers how to dance.” When I told him that he would have to dress up like a female to get on the stage, he told me to forget it. 

One drink later and he started dancing on the pool table.  The fact that he could, indeed, dance much better than just about anyone on stage meant that he soon gathered a crowd.  He whirled like a maniac, and strutted as if the “littler dillo” was dragging on the felt.  People began handing him dollar bills, which he used to buy more booze.  I lost count of how many drinks he had, but he was feeling pretty good.  When a few of the “girls” suggested that they could help him earn even more money on the stage, he said okay.

I don’t know what goes on in the dressing room at that place, and I don’t want to know.  The only thing I’ve been told is that duct tape figures prominently in their transformation.  He came out on stage wearing a leather bustier and a black leather skirt.  He had fishnet stockings and high-heels.  They put on a fast dance tune and he went crazy.  The crowd loved it, and lined up to tip him.  He danced provacatively at the head of the stage and people shoved money under his clothes.  When the others were on stage, he took alternated between drinking more and tipping whichever performer he thought was “trying hard.” I lost track of him for a while in the crowd, but eventually I was told by security that he had passed out in the corner and that I had to take him home.

When he woke the next day, the only sounds he was making were moans, He popped ibuprofen as if it were red pills found behind the sofa cushions.  He was mildly surprised about what he was wearing, but he mumbled something about “this isn’t the first time this has happened” and stumbled into the bathroom.

I heard him say, “What the… ,” then the sound of tearing duct tape, immediately followed by a high-pitched scream that woke everyone in the house.