Burn Down The Night (8 page)

Locked!

Saved!
She lets go of my
arm and bangs on the door.

"Hey! We wanna use
the room! Finish up in there!"

A muffled shout
comes back through the door.

I start creeping
away, on tiptoe, backing away ever so softly. Somebody runs into me, pushes me forward and I
collide with Gail's back. She thinks I'm trying to give her a hug and she puts an arm around my
neck and gives me an affectionate squeeze. Almost swallow my tongue.

The bedroom door
opens up. A fat guy and a thin guy hurry out. The fat guy is dressed in a Sears and Roe­buck
plaid shirt, Montgomery Ward plaid slacks, and has hickeys all over his neck. He's also dead
drunk and limping bow-legged. He comes out first, stumbles past muttering something that sounds
like
"Incrediburble!"

The thin one,
smelling like a brewery vat, staggers uncertainly in the doorway. Has to lean against the door
frame to keep from diving forward on his nose. He's got a long-haired wig hanging at a crazy
angle on his head. He stares at us, eyes barely focusing, and steps sideways through the door,
stretching the fabric of his dress with his knees.

He turns his ankle
and falls, high spike heels strik­ing out like rattlesnake fangs.

Sharp pain in my
knee as his heels catch me.

The guy shakes his
head, wig slips even farther.

"How simply silly
of me," he says, adjusting the falsies under his dress with one unsteady hand. He puts his other
hand out to me.

"Would you help me
up, young man?"

Weird-looking guy
from another planet. Got lipstick on his nose and one false eyelash hanging free at one end. Half
of his face needs a shave and he's got a tattoo on his right cheek, the words "Lovechild" in old
En­glish script.

I haven't got
anything else to do except get raped so I reach out one hand and drag him to his feet. He falls
all over me, trying to put his arms around my neck, forcing Gail to let go. This guy smells like
Saturday night under the bleachers at a Fire Island football game.

"Thanks, darling."
Tries to straighten his dress by jerking on the crotch of it. Doesn't much.

He's still
blocking the doorway. Gail's impatient.

"You're a dear,"
says the guy. "And so strong." He runs his hand up and down my chest.

"He's not
interested," Gail says, pushing him rough­ly away from me. He bangs back into the door frame,
cracking his head against the wall. His wig slips down over his forehead and he has to reach up
and push it back so he can see.

He draws himself
up straight, absolutely furious.

"Up yours,
honey!"

He marches up to
her, puts his hands on his hips, and thrusts his pelvis out in what is meant to be a se­ductive
gesture. He runs his eyes up and down her body, moving his head from side to side as each
incred­ible slope of her appears before his eyes.

He looks back at
me, I suppose wondering what the hell I could possibly see in her. Looks at me, looks back at
her, then looks back at me and says, "Well, lover boy, if you're strong enough to mount the human
el­ephant here, you're probably so hot I'd have to pay you for it."

He's staring at my
crotch. "You'd have to be hung like a moose to get through the first layer of fat."

"Get out of the
way, you... faggot!" says Gail, really pissed off.

He reaches out and
grabs one of her skyscraper breasts, pinching it to see if it's real. He bounces the end of it in
his fingers. "Honey, you've either got a camel sitting on your chest or you pulled into a gas
station to get air in your tires and got it in the wrong place."

Gail slams his
hand away, karate style. She screams at him, kung fu style. Stepping into him, she knees him in
the crotch, redneck style, and clips him in the jaw, lumberjack style, as he folds up in a
genitals-prob­ably-crushed style.

He smashes back
against the wall. She karate chops him twice, slamming him violently against the wall.

He doesn't know
what hit him. He slides down the wall slowly, bony knees pushing up the dress until it splits.
Almost in slow motion, he slips over sideways, out cold and not knowing how lucky he
is.

Gail, the fattest
SS trooper in the world, doesn't even look at him. "Lousy fag," she says and drags me into the
bedroom. Like a fool, I was so busy watching the fight I forgot to escape. I want to cry. How do
I get into these things?

Gail starts to
shut the door and lock it when a hand reaches through the door and grabs her by one big breast,
giving her a big squeeze. Stunned, she backs away from the door and Morrison pushes his way into
the room.

I'm looking
around, trying to find a window I can dive out of.

Morrison's got a
can of beer in one hand. "Heeeeey! What's happening?" He looks like a wild horse.

Gail's touching
her breast where Morrison has squeezed her. She's got a dangerous look in her eyes. She's hotter
than a cracked radiator at Death Valley. Don't know what Morrison's thinking. I know Gail is
thinking threesies. Me, I am thinking windowsies and dive-outsies.

Morrison hands her
the can of beer, kisses her on the cheek and winks at me. Gail lights up like Las
Vegas.

"Hey, pretty lady!
You strong enough to get it on with me and my partner?" Morrison motions toward me. I am trying
to crawl out the window. Too screwed up to get my leg over the windowsill. Now I know what
Morrison's thinking. Obviously he isn't.

Is he out of his
frigging mind?

Yes.

He is.

Gail drinks some
of the beer, sloppily, getting foam all over her face. She hands the beer back and, using both
hands, begins tearing her shirt off. Huge mountains of her begin appearing in the air, polluting
the environment with their amplified grossness.

Do I have the
desire to stay and put the pork to the Magic Mountain? Insane!

Am I out of my
frigging mind?

No.

I
isn't.

If I cannot raise
myself over the windowsill, I shall lower the window! I shall dig a tunnel with my bare hands
through the floor! I will crawl through an electrical outlet! I am gonna get the fuck out of
there is what I am gonna do!

I fall down by the
window, one leg half out, and crack my head on a wicker chair. Morrison comes over and picks me
up.

"Don't panic! Save
your engines. The situation is under control," he whispers to me as he helps me up.

Hell with him! I
lean over the windowsill and start to crawl out. Morrison grabs me and pulls me back
in.

He stands me up. I
shake my head. Feel something warm on my neck. Cut it against the chair. I stand there, brain
fried, but not that fried. Don't think I could ever get that fried. "I don't wanna... uh! Let me
out of here!"

Morrison restrains
me, digs his elbow in my side, shuts me up.

Gail's excited,
all tangled up in her shirt, a ring on her finger caught in a hole in the material.

Morrison winks at
me again. Makes a be-cool mo­tion at me with one hand and moves over toward her. He puts his
hands on her arms. "Take the beer can. Finish it off," says Morrison, holding the beer can for
her between two fingers.

"Drink up and let
me get that button for you," says Morrison.

The whale lady is
so thrilled she's almost giving birth to babies. Obediently, she tilts the beer can back and
belts down half of it. Sloppy bitch. Some of it runs down her face.

When she puts her
head down, Morrison's finished with the buttons and is pulling her shirt out of her pants. He
seems intent on what he's doing. Me, I figure he's a sickie and I'm making for the door and the
hell with him.

A joke is a joke.
But no sense going for the laugh of the century.

I'm at the door
when Morrison turns and looks at me. "Hey, man, trust me. It's cool." Again the sly wink. "Come
and give me a hand." He's having a hell of a time getting the shirt out of her pants past her
fat.

I pause, the
bedroom door unlocked and my hand on the doorknob. What the hell is he up to? I let the lock fall
back into place. Well, shit, I can always run in a couple of seconds.

"This beer tastes
weird. Tastes funny." Gail stares at the can, cross-eyed. Her face looks like a sinking
ship.

"Finish that beer,
foxy lady, and we'll get down. Get it on!" says Morrison, face red as he tugs on her pants. He
can't get his fingers down inside to reach the button above the zipper. She's just too frigging
fat.

"Help me," says
Morrison, struggling with the pants.

"You're frigging
crazy! You're out of your mind! I wouldn't... I couldn't... I..."

Well, shit, I go
over and start pushing on her stomach so he can get his hand down far enough to reach her top
jean button.

Gail staggers back
against the bedpost as I shove her stomach in. She's got a real strange expression on her
face.

"Finish that beer,
girl," says Morrison, sweating from the exertion. Christ, she's fat!

The button comes
undone like a dam breaking and fat spills out like an Indian attack.

"I..." Gail
staggers, almost falls forward on her face. "I feeeeeeeeel... straaaap... stranmp...
straaaaaaaaaaange."

She weaves in
front of us like a punch-drunk fighter on Nembutol.

"Hey! What's
happening here?" I ask, staring at her. Morrison yanks and the zipper comes down, liberat­ing
another mountain of flesh. Even her pubic hair is fat.

Gail stumbles
forward. "Hoooooooornyyyyyy!" she says, bellowing like a pitchforked cow and raising her arms,
trying to grab us. She misses us by about four yards. She doesn't look too healthy. She looks
like somebody who just lost a sledgehammer fight.

"What's wrong with
her?" I ask, moving back to get out of her way. She seems in danger of falling over on me and
breaking my bones.

Morrison is
pushing on her chest, pushing her back against the bed. The bedpost groans under her
weight.

Jim holds up one
hand. "Downs." He spreads his fingers, numbering them. "A handful of them in the can of beer.
She's just entered Phenobarbsuburbia!"

"What are we
taking her clothes off for? You're not really gonna... gonna..." It's too horrible to even
mention.

Morrison
straightens up, puts his hands on his hips and gives me an unreadable stare. "Didn't you hear
this beautiful specimen of blushing girlhood proclaim she was horny?"

"You're out of
your frigging mind!"

Gail lurches
forward. Morrison grabs her by two or three tons of one of her breasts and pushes her back
against the bedpost again. She tries to grab his arm but he brushes her love-starved hands
away.

"Help me get these
frigging pants off."

Gail's slobbering
all over herself, staring wildly around the room.

"Hoooooooooooorrrrnnnyyy!"
she says, in case we forgot.

I sigh. How do I
get myself into these things?

"Like to help you
out but I just can't get involved," I say. "See, I've got the clap and crabs and syph and
hemorrhoids and shingles and tonsillitis and and... and hangnail." I shake my head, being
definite about it. "I'm pregnant too."

"Help me with her
pants, you pregnant asshole! This is gonna be the event of the century!" Morrison's getting
pissed at me.

Like the fool that
I am, I get on one side of her and get hold of her pants. Morrison's on the other
side.

"If I were a time
traveler," I mutter, "I'd skip this century altogether. This time zone is too exciting for
me."

"Ready? Now!" says
Morrison.

We yank
simultaneously, me harder than him. Guess I don't know my own strength. Gail throws her arms out
like an executed peasant. Slobbering something incomprehensible while her pants ride at half
mast, she tilts toward me. Realizing the danger too late, I can't get out from under. She falls
over on me and breaks every bone in my body.

Ever have a meteor
with breasts fall on you? How to become one-dimensional in one easy lesson.

I try to say
something, try to attract Morrison's at­tention. I got five tons on my windpipe and all I can do
is gasp.

He reaches under,
grabs one leg and yanks me out from under her. My tongue is five foot long and my chest is
sixteen inches thinner.

I just lay there
beside her. Moaning.

"Somebody bury me.
I just died with my boots on."

I get dragged to
my feet and stagger around like a gut-shot gunfighter trying to steal a scene in a B
movie.

"Help me get her
on the bed." Morrison's pulled her pants off already, is now trying to lift her up onto the bed.
Like trying to raise the
Titanic.

I get hold of one
of her arms, Morrison grabs the oth­er one and we somehow heave her up on the bed. At least the
top half of her. She's so heavy we have to throw her in sections. Finally we get her all the way
on the bed. She keeps making feeble grabs at us, keeps mumbling, "Horny horny horny."