The Party
The party was in full swing, the music throbbing, the lights pulsing, the drinks flowing and the guests all having a fabulous time when I got there.
It was being held at the best, most in demand address in all of
You probably know who the hosts are, too—Brian and Justin.
OK, actually, it was Justin’s idea to have the party. After he heard how many rumors and stories were being circulated about them he thought it would be a good idea to just have everyone over and finally—finally!—set the record straight. As it were.
The damn things were all over the net. Damn. OK, It was funny for a while, but really—enough is enough, OK?
Slightly reluctantly, Brian agreed. It wasn’t that he gave a rat’s ass about what was written about him, of course, but he was always up for a party.
Me ? I wasn’t even going to show up after the last few weeks. I mean, I’m OK with someone not liking a story—honest to shit I have no problem with that, but—hey—did I really need that dead rat in my mailbox or the “Simon’s a closet hetero” bumper stickers that I’ve been seeing all over town?
I decided, after some prompting from some friends to just take the high road, so, putting on my best party dress, I made my normal fabulously fashionable late entrance.
The whole gang was there. You know, the usual suspects.
The first one to greet me—after the boys, of course—was Sun. I always liked this girl, I’ve got to tell you right up front. I mean, anyone who can picture the boys raising six kids has more balls that I do. She handed me a drink, a tequila sunrise, I think, and we headed off to the corner where a few of the others were holding court.
The whole gang was there, well a good number of them, anyway. Cindy said
“Hey”, raised her glass and we clinked rims—we started that
a while ago at some party or other, don’t ask me how but it’s a
tradition now. It wouldn’t be a party without it. She was wearing that
kimono thing she’d just bought over on
Going around the circle I caught everyone’s eye—some friendlier than others. Hey, so I killed them a few times. The boys never complained, did they? I swear, some of these kids just have to get over themselves, if you know what I mean.
Jeez Louise.
Cheryl handed up the popcorn bowl—that girl just knows my weaknesses, you know. That was sort of sweet of her to save me some. Next was Karla. Now there’s a girl after my own heart. Anyone who gives Brian testicular cancer is alright in my book. Of course I would have had to kill him, but that’s me. She went for the full recovery.
Yeah, yeah—whatever.
Different strokes and all that. I’ll grant that it worked, but a nice death scene always just sets me up for the whole week, y’know?
Elsa Rose was there, mother henning her chicks. She’s good at it, so I’m OK with that. Besides, she writes some nice stuff.
Well, you know who always shows up at these things, damn they’ll go anywhere for a free meal—Gia, Brian O, that new guy, and one of my favorite’s, Motha Funky Bat. I just love that name. I mean, even if she didn’t know a noun from a verb, I’d love her just for the name.
And the bitch can write, too.
Maybe I’ll kill her.
So, they were all talking about this and that, pointing out Justin’s new paintings which were hanging around and Brian’s new office décor—pretty bland IMO, but who cares what I think? Besides, am I the only one who’s wondering how he’s going to get those stains out of the couch?
He really should think about getting some darker upholstery.
I gotta tell you, though, I was kind of cheesed off at the way Ethan and Paul were going at one another over by the big screen TV. I mean, c’mon, guys, get a room, OK?
So we’re all trying to ignore them and Max comes in, takes one look at Brian O, smirks, crooks a finger and the duet is now a quartet.
Jeez…guys, please. At least keep the noise down, OK? We’re trying to talk over here.
So, I’d gotten there a little late and judging from the empty plates lying around. I’d missed dinner. Damn, from the scrapings it looked like it had been good, too.
That’s when Emmett came on over apologizing that he hadn’t ordered enough food—who knew how much writer’s could eat?— but not to worry. He’d spoken to Brian—OK, he called him the Asshole—and he had agreed to get enough pizza to go around and it should be here in like no time.
Thank God! I mean, I hadn’t eaten all day and it takes energy to commit murder and mayhem, you know?
Well, the girls were going on and on about the usual stuff, you know, the same conversation spinning out over and over again—should we bring back the Chinrat? Maybe Gus needs another sib, should Justin be the father? What about that whole stupid Lesbo story line and is there any way on God’s green earth to fix that—you know the same conversation we always have. Oh, and Deb and the cop…is that yak material, a sop to the hets out there or might we start to like it at some point?
Excuse me; I think my eyes are glazing over here. You guys all know how I feel about this stuff—just kill them. That’s what works for me. Always has, always will.
So I said something like that out loud and Cindy and Cheryl started an argument about whether or not I was really the Antichrist and I decided that now was as good a time as any to get in some one on one face time with the boys.
I got up, wandered over to the kitchen and found myself in the middle of a sandwich. You know, when you’re as short as I am, Brian is one tall drink of water and little Justin isn’t as small as they make him out to be, if you know what I mean. I tell you, it’s a good thing I know their ticklish spots or that could have gotten awkward.
So, we’re chatting along and they’re telling me that they really don’t mind all the stories. In fact they print them out to hard copies and read them to each other in bed—sometimes they even give them dramatic readings with their friends.
I was getting a mental picture of Em dressed in widow’s weeds for one of the numerous funerals that had been written and sort of starting to think the Jackie Kennedy pillbox look was really the right one for him when Starema came over looking a little green around the gills.
Looking slightly panicked, she made a hell of a beeline for the bathroom, hotfooting it in that direction.
The guys and I all just sort of shrugged and went right on discussing
what a prick Vance was and just what the Hell was that accent he was trying
to do? I mean, what was that— English? Larchmont Lockjaw?
So the pizza arrives, thank God, I was starving and the guys and I split a nice pepperoni with extra cheese. That was when Brian told me the whole no carbs rule after seven was bullshit and he ate any damn thing he wanted whenever he wanted.
Yeah, I figured. I just really get pissed at people who eat and eat and are still skinny—like my Japanese friend, Yuko? Miss Size Four Bitch, as I call her? Good thing we’ve been friends for thirty years or I’d have to kill her.
So we’re getting into the pizza and Brian is saying that it’s too bad they don’t give Cynthia more to do because she’s really pretty hot and I’m suggesting that maybe she could hook up with Daphne—Justin really liked that idea, by the way—when Mikey (just gag me now) walks over with that kicked puppy look and says that there might be a problem.
I’m thinking— yeah, you’re whining again. I may kill you.
He’s babbling on something about there being a line for the bathroom and Brian says, “Like yeah—they’re girls, there’s always a line for the ladies room, bitch” and gets back to his ‘za. OK, so Mikey stomps off, finally, and we get back to Cyn/Daph ideas.
Next it’s Em trying to catch Brian’s attention and he has his Steel Magnolia face on—and he’s looking sort of concerned, too. Like when Ted was busted for being the Porn King.
Whoa, was that the funniest thing you’d seen in a month of Sundays?
So, he’s saying how he’s really, really sorry and he didn’t mean for it to happen and his grandmother back in Bugfuck, Mississippi always told him to remember to put the mayo in the fridge but he was just so busy he forgot and he’s really sorry, but maybe we should call an ambulance or two.
Say, wha?
Then he sorta whispered “Salmonella poisoning, sweetie. I’m really sorry.” Y’know, he looked really sorry. Em is such a sweetheart. I just love that guy. Maybe I won’t kill him.
Oh, man, talk about your pukefest.
Within ten minutes the whole place was heaving.
And I hate it when even the dog yaks, let me tell you.
Justin gets up on the coffee table, gets everyone’s attention—except for Ethan and Brian O who are now in the bathroom and ignoring the people pounding on the door—and asks for a show of hands of who ate the shrimp salad.
Uh-oh.
Everyone except him, Brian and yours truly had the stuff—mounds of it, in fact. It turns out Justin and I share the same allergy to shellfish and Bri just wasn’t in the mood tonight.
Man, that’s a first, when you think about it.
Well, it wasn’t pretty. In fact it made all the papers the next day. The place was swarming with health inspectors, cops, coroners, funeral directors—you name it, they were there.
The final body count?
You’re gonna hate this—it even made me mist up a bit and Em was a real mess—no one survived.
The boys, Em and I were the only ones still standing a week later.
Yup—Mikey had a plateful, too.
So there we were at the Liberty Diner about two weeks later—after it reopened after Horvath pulled some strings for them at the Health Department—and that’s when Brian told me that I owe it to them, to the memories of the other, Hell, I owed it to the world!
I had to keep writing and stomping out soppy sentiment wherever I saw it. If I had to kill a few people to do—Hell, it’s for the greater good.
Damnit—I’ll do it!