Waxing Poetic's Bikini Line

I woke with a groan. Evil toy monkeys pounded their cymbals incessantly inside my skull, a throbbing cuuush cuuush cuuush. I stumbled over a body beside my desk. The bile rose in my throat. I choked the warm acid down with difficulty. There was another body in the vestibule, the front door stood open. The floor was sticky and wet. Gnats and flies buzzed around reddish brown pools. There was a smear of blood near the door. I realized my shirt was splattered, my right arm stiff with dried and coagulated blood.

I looked out the door. A body lie in the angle of the porch and the house, a girl. Her long brown hair blew gently in the breeze. I felt nauseous again. I stumbled into the living room. There were at least four bodies there. Pink Floyd played softly on the stereo. A tall, good looking boy lie in his boxers, his hair matted and stuck to his head, body akimbo where he fell.

I weaved my way to the corner. This was too much, the horror too great. I needed relief, instead I found an even worse sight. The keg floated empty in the tepid water. I needed the hair of the truck that had run me over -- badly.

Man, what a party. The fraternity was set up as an 18 hole miniature golf course. Each hole stocked with plastic cups with graduated marks. A different libation themed the hole. Get a five on hole number three? Drink five marks of the red Everclear punch. A three on number one? Drink three shots of bourbon. That six on number nine = a whole glass of beer. You had to finish your "score" before you could move on. The nineteenth hole clubhouse served up more booze, dancing and food.

I vaguely remembered falling down the stairs and ripping the skin on my elbow, bloodying my shirt and arm. Someone had vomited the red punch all over the entrance hallway. I think I was still a little drunk.

My friend Daryl lay slumped at a table, cigarette burning in the ashtray. "Kill me", he said. I made us coffee and put bread down to toast. I went back to my room to get a couple of cans of Strohs -- the true Breakfast of Champions. "What time is the game?" he croaked. "Are you taking some beer?" It was Saturday, time to start really partying.

It happened. Ask Otter -- he was there.