It's gory up there.
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It knew it was hopeless to try and explain to Doncaster why I had just asked her out with a pile of shit, but, just like I said at the beginning, this was all destiny. There was also the problem that Mr. Orange Eyes was standing outside with a huge smile on his face and I really needed to do something about that. I perceived a deeper, more sinister definition for a plasma-terrorist when I realized that orange-boy had not only punched me, stolen my shoes, and shrunk my favorite polo shirt; he had also ruined my chances with Doncaster.
“Um, Colquite!” I yelled, turning away from Doncaster and appreciating her stunned silence, as I hadn’t responded to her impossible question.
“You mean shithead?” he yelled back, popping up from behind a potted plant.
“Yep!”
“Well, he’s not--”
“No! This is serious!” I said, trying to yell quieter since the whole office was probably feeling assaulted unreasonably. As it turned out, the assault was entirely reasonable and they just weren’t really prepared to understand how reasonable it was. Colquite kicked the potted plant and then walked up to me, grabbing the front of my stupid shirt and dragged me into the empty lobby. Or, more accurately, the supposedly empty lobby.
“Let go, shithead!” I said, trying to disentangle myself as he walked slowly toward the main, automatic sliding door. Which wasn’t actually automatic anymore because someone had misunderstood what “sliding” meant and had tried to slide down the building on a sled, causing the administration to discontinue the use of sliding doors.
“Don’t call me that,” he said calmly. But he let go. I glared at him and tried to straighten my shirt; of course I just made whatever damage had been caused, very much worse. “You look like an--”
“Alright, but there’s someone outside who wants to drag my brain out of my nose and I don’t think--”
“You have an extra brain in your nose?” he asked curiously, looking at me like he might be able to locate the extra brain. But the question intrigued me. What if I did have an extra brain in my nose? What if that was why they were after me? It really didn’t make things anymore complicated but it did make them a little less…likely. Shit.
“Okay, stop. Listen.”
“Okay, you’re an asshole,” said Colquite. He then doubled over and began to laugh like he had made a joke. He had not made a joke, so I hit him in the face with my knee and he stopped laughing. “Damn you!” he cried, kicking me in the shin viciously. I shouted and tackled him, hitting his head on the non-automatic door and then trying to pin his arms. I failed and he threw me back, jumping on top of me and shouting words that I was sure had never, could never and would never exist. After a few more minutes of pretending that Colquite hadn’t completely owned the hell out of me, the lobby door opened and we both scrambled to out feet, trying to look like we hadn’t been doing what we had been doing. People reached their own conclusions.
“Hello,” I said, using the back of my hand to rub the blood off my mouth. It was Doncaster; I was humiliated.
“Are you…okay?” she asked, looking from my ripped shirt and bleeding lip to Colquite’s slightly blackened eye and bloodstained jacket.
“Oh yeah, totally,” I returned, knowing my demise was upon me. “Completely okay. Wonderful, actually. Amazing. How about you?”
Colquite snickered and she ignored him. “Um… Well, you said something about going out and then--”
“Damn, yeah, sorry about that. I saw--there was--nevermind,” I finished, forcing myself to yawn so as to trick her into thinking that I wasn’t about to break my own arm with embarrassment. “So, how about tonight? Like around--”
“Actually, I just wanted to tell you that I don’t date bastards. Even if they’re cute.” And then she turned and left the room, slamming the door behind her. There was a cheap silence that Colquite purposefully facilitated, just so he could jump and down with glee while I suffered alone. Goddamn it all. I attempted to comfort myself with the fact that she thought I was cute, but it completely didn’t work and all I could remember was that she thought I was a bastard. Not even a cool bastard. Just a bastard.
“Even if they’re cute!” shouted Colquite suddenly, laughing so loudly that I thought the door might crash open again just from the force of his voice.
“SHUT UP!” I screamed, throwing myself at him and flinging him against the help desk that was unoccupied. There was another short tussle where I found myself trapped under the stupid desk with bruised ribs and Colquite standing over me, still laughing. Before I could fail at attacking him again, I heard the non-automatic door open and Colquite immediately stopped laughing.
“Hey, you seen a man with no shoes around here?” asked a voice. I could see his shoes. They were dirty. And they were mine.
Colquite seemed to find himself without words. A few seconds went by and I tried to kick him without being seen. It didn’t work. As in, I didn’t manage to kick him, but neither was I seen. “Definitely not,” said Colquite; so firm in his tone that I was certain plasma-terrorist knew he was lying.
“Definitely?” he asked slowly. “You mean the guy you were beating the shit out of a few minutes ago was never here? And who was that hottie who he was talking to? Hold on, I’ll be right back. Wait there.” And then he exited the room in search of Doncaster.
“That kid had orange eyes,” stated Colquite blankly, breaking the silence. Swearing generously, I dragged myself from under the desk and grabbed his jacket, pulling him out of the building. “And he was wearing your shoes!” he shouted, allowing me to direct him to his car.
I dug in his jacket pocket and found his keys. Shoving them into his hand, I screamed, completely panicked, “Drive the fucking car!” He obeyed, climbing into the front seat and screeching out of the parking lot before I had gotten my door shut.
The car was silent as we drove decidedly in no direction in particular. After I had a minute to collect the panic that had come crashing out of my dirty ears, I realized that Colquite had forgotten where he lived. “You forgot where you live,” I said, staring at his hands clutching steering wheel rigidly.
“I forgot where I live,” he repeated, his face screwed into an expression that I would rather not describe. And then he jumped. “I mean--I mean--what? No, I know exactly where. Where I live. Fuck off.” He did a quick U-turn and I stared at my bare feet, picturing my shoes on that hell-kid. What a stupid thing to have to suffer. Someone that you hate wearing your shoes. Damn.
“So, I’m allowed to call you a shithead forever since you didn’t believe me,” I said as we tried to park somewhere that no one had ever tried to park before. “Um, that’s a tree.” The bumper fell off.
“I know what a tree looks like,” he said. “And who said I believed you?”
“You saw the kid and--”
“So? I saw a stupid kid who--” But before he could tell me I was stupid liar for the hundredth time, a red truck came out of nowhere and I then it was gone and my head hurt very badly. I guessed that I must have blinked and my eyes had decided to stay shut because then I opened them without having closed them in the first place. “Nope, it was all real,” I heard Colquite say drowsily. But I didn’t know what he was talking about and I didn’t care.
“I like your apartment,” I said, looking around and recognizing the garishly painted everything. No, I had been in his car. Yeah, and then a truck had--great. Colquite was on the floor, staring at the ceiling. And there were two people in the kitchen. They were laughing and slamming cupboards. They were laughing. They were slamming cupboards. I sat up.
“Hey, Staples,” said Colquite, beginning to sit up, “I think I’ve come to believe most everything that you told me, and probably more. Probably more than you even told me. I think there’s more to tell, really.” I slumped farther down in my chair, afraid the banging and laughing would stop or slow down; it didn’t.
“Dude, shut up,” I said, sliding out of the chair down to my stupid, still half-unconscious friend. “Do I look severely damaged to you?” I asked, feeling my face.
“No,” answered Colquite, not looking at me.
“Thanks. Let’s go.” I dragged him to his feet and he swayed. When I grabbed his jacket to hold him up, I glanced into the kitchen and found the orange-boy sitting on the counter. In front of him stood a man of indiscernible backround. He could have been a British Jew or a Canadian Mexican or a Slippered Old Lady Yankee. No, he was definitely a man. Not much old lady about him. But he hunched a little and there was stubble on his chin and his head. It looked like his head could grow a better beard than his face. Oh, and they were both staring at me.
“Do you like your shirt better now?” asked the boy, hopping off the counter. “I don’t.” And then he laughed.
“You stole my shoes,” I said, letting go of Colquite and listening to him crash to earth.
“I’m wearin’ ‘em,” he said proudly, lifting up his right foot. But he wasn’t wearing shoes at all and my shoes were on my own feet.
“No, you’re not,” I said. The boy just smiled.
“It’s because Gore got lazy, that’s why. He didn’t want to bother chasing you, so he only got the shoes for a day.” It was the British Jew who had spoken. But he really didn’t sound British or Jewish; more Spanish Greenlander. But wait, they just wanted my shoes? They knocked me out to get my shoes? And then hit me with a huge red truck? No. It was more complicated than that, I was sure.
“Wait, wait. All you wanted was my shoes?” I said. Gore laughed and leaned against the wall. The Spanish Greenlander said nothing. “Okay, what are you? Egyptian cretins? salad dressing? terrorists?” I glanced over at Colquite and found him looking comfortable on the dirty carpet. It was his apartment after all.
“Yes,” began the Egyptian Cretin, “that makes sense. But no, your shoes were only an extra little reward for an extra little fucker like Gore.”
Gore made an ugly face and spit in Colquite’s hair. I wrinkled my nose. “How about you don’t do that?” I said.
“How about I do? How about I turn you into fucked up weirdo? Oh, wait, you already are one.” And then Gore laughed. And he laughed a lot. I didn’t say anything, just a little concerned that he might actually succeed at something that he incorrectly believed had already been succeeded at.
“Anyway, besides all that, since I’m sure you want to know what’s going on--I’m not going to tell you,” he said, looking bored.
There was another prolonged silence. Out of how many prolonged silences at had encountered that day, this one was by leagues, the shittiest. Sure, I had had to endure an exceptionally humiliating silence in front of something that I wanted--Doncaster--but my life hadn’t really been threatened that time. Well, you know, I’m not sure about that. Depending on how you define “life”, I could argue that my life--the one worth living--was threatened when Doncaster despised me with a passion. Because it was. It still is.
But this silence was pretty damn bad.
“Fuck it, I’m leaving,” I said, bending down and dragging Colquite to his feet. “We’re leaving, dude. Stand up.”
“I’m standing up. You just broke my neck trying to--what the hell is dripping down my face?”
I didn’t want to answer that. Both plasma-terrorists didn’t even fake an attempt to stifle their laughter. Well, okay, I didn’t either.
“It’s cool that you think you can just leave, but you can’t,” said Gore.
“I can.”
“Well, you can’t, shithead,” he said.
“That’s him,” I said, pointing at Colquite, who was actually looking like he might vomit felt out of one of his eyes--that’s how fuzzy everything was.
“You’re him,” said Gore. But then Egyptian Cretin ended the conversation with words that I didn’t really like very much at all.
“Remember that day you fell asleep and woke up in a stolen car?” I nodded. So? I woke up in a stolen car. What’s the big deal? Actually it was a big deal and I didn‘t like being reminded of it. It was such a big deal that I almost forgot what color Egyptian Cretin was wearing. Red, he was wearing red. “It never happened. Well, it did. But you weren’t asleep.”
That didn’t sound good.
havent given this rating for bout three weeks
