In this installment of "Apocalypse Party" by Sean Gilbert, difficult questions are asked and answered and argued about, such as which section of a human centipede would you rather be?
Here's a taste:
“You are out of your mind!” I told Alicia. “It’s obvious that C would be better!”
“I thought you said A was better!” she contradicted.
“Everyone knows A is best! That’s not in question. Beyond that it’s just a matter of whether you’d rather be B or C.”
“Then it’s definitely B!” Alicia insisted.
“You’re insane. B gets it on both ends. That’s the worst of all!”
“But at least B gets to dish it out!”
“At least that way you’re not a total victim. You get to shit in someone else’s mouth.”
“Why would you want to shit in someone’s mouth?”
“I’m just saying, if someone’s shitting in my mouth...”
“You’re terrible,” I declared piously. I have no tolerance for mouth-shitters.
Every now and then there’s a drunk guy so unbelievably obnoxious it’s kind of endearing. That night it wasn’t me. I’m a sweetheart on my worst night compared to Stefan.
He was a four foot German who approached our table inexplicably and was just as inexplicably pissed off at the whole of existence. All attempts at conversation ended in bile.
He looked confused and disheveled. We were so amused at the idea of him that we didn’t even notice that his right hand was covered in dried blood.
Considering he chose to stand in such close proximity with no stated purpose, I decided to extend a greeting.
He moved between me and Dane to sit on a stool near Charlotte. His surly countenance softened somewhat at the sight of her.
“Vhat’s up vith you?” he asked of her instead of answering me. “I am Stefan.”
“Where are you from?” she humored him. The novelty of any new experience is enough to make it acceptable to the inebriated.
“Vhere ze fuck do you sink I’m from?” he said sharply.
“Doucheland?” Tracy asked. He had a distinct German accent.
“Deutschland!” he corrected her, which was unnecessary since the mispronunciation had been deliberate.
“Whatever,” said Tracy, unfazed at the admonishment.
Dane decided to try his hand, asking Stefan: “Did you come here for SCAD?”
The little man snorted indignantly.
“Do I look like a fucking art student?” he complained.
“Yes,” I told him. He absolutely did.
“Do you like it here?” Charlotte asked him, at this point making conversation out of pure fascination.
“No, I fucking hate it here!” he barked angrily, as if all questions were infuriating.
“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” I asked him with annoyance. I meant it in every applicable way.
“I don’t fucking know!” he admitted.
“Well, how’d you get here?” I pressed him.
“How did you get here, asshole?” was his curt rejoinder.
Without asking, Stefan took a cigarette from the pack of Kools and used my lighter to light it. Scowling at the flavor, he examined the pack with disgust.
“I hate fucking Kools!” he spat out with rage.
“Sorry, Stefan,” I said insincerely, “they were out of Marlboros.”
“I hate fucking Marlboros too!”
He took offense at this even though we never offered him a cigarette at all. He was beside himself with anger at the prospect of settling, and banged his tiny fist on the table in defiance.
We took no offense, mostly because we couldn’t stop laughing. Stefan was a treasure, an unexplainable force of nature. Like an angry little gnome sent to entertain us with his ire.
The conversation tapered off, and after introductions were made Stefan couldn’t remember anyone’s name so he decided to call every-one Ross. Except me. Me he continued to call Asshole.
Direct download: ApocalypseParty02.mp3
-- posted at: 11:47am EST