Somehow they all got invited to a party.
Well, Manny Furious had gotten invited to a party, by some people at work. And somehow, he had managed to get El Crow, Pedolo, Lone Wolf and Fat Milo all into the same party without the cops or a hazmat unit being called.
There was something to be said about the way each man had been dressed. Furious wore a straw fedora like something a sell-out, elevator jazz musician might wear, and a white Hawaiian shirt with orange flowers, and light blue “skinny” chinos. While not anyone’s definition of “dapper” there was a strategy behind the ensemble. He picked the shirt because it emphasized the parts of his physique he liked best—namely his shoulders, chest and back. And he picked the thin-fitting pants thinking doing so might underscore the curvature of his ass. He wore the hat because he’s a fucking dork.
Fat Milo, on the other hand, was truly dapper. He wore a classic black suit, with a classic black tie and a pair of black Ray-Bans. Everything was tailored. He had a white handkerchief that stuck out like a pet mouse barely hidden in the suit jacket. Remnants of his musk-scented cologne settled all throughout the house party, often confusing Furious and the others, letting them thing they had smelled him nearby, when he was actually nowhere to be found.
Lone Wolf wore a torn Korn t-shirt, cargo shorts with paint on them and a page-boy hat.
Pedolo wore 15-year-old JNCO jeans and a Sailor Moon t-shirt.
El Crow had on a light blue Legend of Zelda baseball t-shirt and jeans.
While preparing for the party at El Crow’s one bedroom house, Fat Milo had made fun of El Crow’s gettup, and El Crow had responded by throwing down a wager. El Crow had bet Fat Milo that he, El Crow, would meet someone at the party and end the evening at her place, and that he, Fat Milo, would leave the party with two empty arms.
“It takes an Alpha to support the weight of a woman on his arms,” El Crow insisted. “And even though you’re fat, you’ve got Beta arms. Even if for some stupid reason a dame would want to leave the party with you, she’d soon realize you were incapable of providing what she needed.”
It should be noted that Fat Milo is referred to as such because he used to be notably underweight, is now, currently, slightly overweight, and not because he is currently notably overweight, which he isn’t. And that El Crow visibly outweighs Fat Milo by almost 100 pounds.
Meanwhile, for the first two hours after arriving at the party, which was being held in some Doctor’s Spanish-style rancher, Fat Milo, El Crow and the others had spent the entire time huddled together in some lonely corner of the living room, trying to convince themselves that the party and all its attendants were lame.
Finally, the faintest of tickles fluttered in the deepest recesses of El Crow’s mind, and for the briefest of moments he began to realize that he was the lame one, and he was overcome with a kind of inarticulate, inconsolable anxiety. So he took a step away from the huddle of outcasts and said, “Fuck this. I have a bet to win,” referring to the wager he had made with Fat Milo.
He slammed his empty Bud Light can on the table and walked up to the nearest blonde he could find. She was in the middle of a conversation of some sort with two other women—all of them drinking some kind of green and blue radioactive mist out of tall glasses– but El Crow didn’t seem to notice or mind. He just jumped right in and interrupted.
“Pardon me,” he said, speaking only to the blonde. “Have you ever heard of the Tunguska Blast of 1908? It was a massive explosion above the skies of Siberia. It destroyed 830 square miles of forest. Some people say it was a comet that exploded before it hit the ground, but the author slash philosopher slash prophet Artemis Magnussen has incontrovertible evidence that it was the work of a cross-dimensional death ray being activated by a rogue group of insectoids trying to exert their superior technological firepower over the Terran Overlords here on Earth.”
The blonde girl stared at him severely, as though he were a comet of cringe that was on the verge of exploding all through the party, and she was hoping he would do so before hitting the ground.
El Crow, waited an awkward moment, cleared his throat and continued: “Anyhow, even the power of that cross-dimensional death-ray couldn’t match the heat you’re producing tonight.”
Now, it is an acknowledged fact that one of the symptoms of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder—in fact, the most merciful of symptoms—is the loss of memory of traumatic events. And so, what happened after El Crow uttered those most shudder-inducing of words is lost to History for all of time, for the Central Nervous Systems of everyone involved in the incident, and everyone who witnessed it, took pity on the collective, and the memory of the trauma has been collectively wiped from the memories of everyone within a six-block radius.