“Don’t Make a Scene”

No profanity and only implied violence, but it is a Halloweekend Tale, so the frights are quite spooooooooky. 

Music optional (click photo):

Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung

I rise with all the grace and speed of a heavy-headed turtle, as I search out the apparatus The Chordettes hit, Mr. Sandman, plays upon. 

Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung 

A boxy radio alarm clock is placed on the end table adjacent to me. Glowing blue numbers inform me that the time is 6:19 am.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream (bung, bung, bung, bung)

Early morning light burns my eyes, and I silently chide myself that the windows are still without blinds. 

Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen (bung, bung, bung, bung)

Year-round, southern California sunshine is great, except when you find yourself awake around six-in-the-morning with no chance of going back to bed. Thanks, circadian clock.

Give him two lips like roses and clover (bung, bung, bung, bung)

I hardly sleep downstairs, but when I do it’s usually because….Am I hungover? I wonder, as I scoot my body along the couch until I’m within arm’s reach of the alarm clock.

Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over

I grab the alarm clock and pluck it off the small table.

Sandman, I’m so alone (bung, bung, bung, bung)

I press the CANCEL button. 

Don’t have nobody to call my own (bung, bung, bung, bung)

I press the CANCEL button again.

Please turn on your magic beam

I press the CANCEL button again, and again, and again, in rapid-fire.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

I press down and hold the CANCEL button.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a drea-

Mr. Sandman, bring me a drea-

Mr. Sandman, bring me a drea-

Mr. Sandman, bring me a drea-

I remove my finger and stare at the alarm.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a drea-

Mr. Sandman, bring me a drea-

I try to scream but the only sound to escape my lips is a scratchy, hollow sound, as I throw the radio alarm clock as far away from me as I can, which is, thankfully, with enough force to dislodge the plug from the wall and silence it completely.

I peel myself from the couch. My legs are rubber the moment they touch carpet, and I nearly keel over. I grip the armrest with both hands, trying desperately to wake up. Forced knocks reverberate against the front door, capturing my attention. “Just a minute.” I want to shout, but it comes out hoarse and just above a whisper. I remove my hands from the armrest, finding myself stable enough to stumble over to the door. “Who’s there?” I call out, groggily making my way to the door, and that’s when his voice hits me like pelting rain. 

“Who’s there?” His shrill, mechanical voice rises an octave, followed by sadistically-gleeful laughter and heavy-handed knocking.

I freeze, only a few feet away from the front door. My heart is beating so loud and so fast, and I find myself paralyzed with fear as I stare at the rectangular glass panel he presses his face against. His lip curls inhumanly, and his eyes dance with sadism.

“TITS.” His voice slowly distorts from a high-pitched, ear-splitting sound to something coarse and unpleasant. “TIIIIIII-IIIIITTTS,” his voice calls out.

“Huh? Wha?” I say, blinking, and taking in my surroundings. The dance floor is crowded with more women than men. A few dance with a drink in hand. I watch one of these individuals spill their cocktail all over the ground, and my eyes roll automatically out of annoyance from having danced on too many disgustingly-sticky dance floors. A woman dancing in a skimpy white dress and tiara fills my vision. She is surrounded by a small group of women that dance so well to the music that my eyes can’t be the only eyes noticing them. “Lani?” I mumble, hopeful for the familiarity.

“Over here, Tits.” He snaps his fingers in my face, and I can hear the unmistakable sharpness from annoyance in his voice. I turn my eyes onto the person sitting next to me. “You.” The words fall from my lips unexpectedly.

“Can’t get enough of El Rando, eh, babe?” He winks and slides a shot glass in front of me. “Thought you could handle another round.”

I stare at the glass. Flecks of gold dance inside liquid. “Is that Goldschlager?” I question. I can feel my stomach churning in protest.

“They’ve all been Goldschlager.” He chuckles, and that’s when my eyes take in six empty shot glasses on the table.

“Did we each shoot three glasses of Goldschlager?” I ask him, apprehension lining my voice. His laughter smacks me across the face, or maybe it’s his warm breath that reeks of hard liquor. I blink, desperately trying to tune into what he’s saying. 

“Eh…yeah?” He laughs obnoxiously again. “You were there, Tits. Are you blacking out on me, babe?” He studies me intently. 

My eyelids close and then open suddenly, but when I focus, I notice that the shot glass with Goldschlager is now empty, which brings the total of eight empty shot glasses on the table. I peel my face from his shoulder, wondering how long I’ve been resting against him. I feel movement against my upper thigh and look down. His wrist is within view, but not his hand, which is somewhere under my dress. I can feel fingertips graze my skin as his hand slowly materializes. Fear and uncertainty are apparent on my face, and he tries to subdue my doubts with his cool tone.

“You know you owed me for all those shots, Tits.” He sniffs his fingertips and smiles at me pleasantly. “Yum,” he says, making my skin crawl. His face looks thoughtful and arrogant as he speaks, “Besides, I did ask if I could finger you, so don’t be like one of those bitches that fakes about being sexually assaulted.” 

“What?” I question, not entirely following the conversation.

His lips curl cynically as the words slide smoothly off his tongue, “How many times do I have to tell ya, Tits? I’m Randy.” 

His hand slides over my arm and he draws me closer and whispers, “Did you know that Randy isn’t only a name? It means horny…and, yeah, Tits. I’m horny. Whatta ya say you and I bounce?”

“Uh-uh-uh!” I stutter, unable to form words.

Mr. Selfie doesn’t give me a chance to respond. He slides from the booth and pulls me along with him. “Don’t make a scene,” he warns. His eyes are molten greens and browns as he stares down at me. “And don’t even think about screaming.” His eyes flicker like lightning, and the corner of one side of his mouth curls up into a minacious smile. “Don’t worry, Tits, you can scream…when we’re alone.” He uses his body to push me along, through the crowd, as he secures my right wrist behind my back with his hand. 

I desperately scan the crowd for someone I know. Lani? Amber? Hell, I’ll even settle for Anita! Someone who can save me. But I don’t see anyone, and realize that I’m on my own. “Ugh! LET GO OF ME!” I twist and pull, trying to free myself from his grasp, but find him squeezing my wrist so tight it feels like the bone is about to crack, and he bends my arm back at an angle that makes me flinch and cry out in pain.

“I warned you, Tits.” he spits, securing his other arm around my torso, and shouting over the crowd, grinning down at me with all the familiarity of someone that knows me personally and intimately to fool the crowd, “I can’t wait either, babe. Let’s get back to our room.” He unhands my torso once in a while to high-five some stranger who radiates the same bro-attitude as him. 

I jump. I kick him. I struggle against him. 

“Sorry, my chick’s drunk!” he throws around grins like they’re free shirts being propelled from a T-shirt launcher at a concert. “She’s drunk.” Annoyed eyes glance at me, believing him. 

“I’M NOT DRUNK!” I thrash around, getting irritated. Frustrated. 

He laughs obscenely at my desperation, “SHE’S SO DRUNK!” He yells over the crowd. “So drunk.” He smiles sickeningly-sweetly until the crowd begins to thin, and only a trickle of people remain. We move through double doors and leave behind the club. 

With no one giving us more than a bored glance, we make it out of the club and into the backseat of an awaiting car. He pushes me inside and I automatically scoot to the door opposite and pull the handle but it’s locked, and there are no buttons that look like they unlock the door. I pull the handle again in desperation, until I’ve tugged on it so many times that I’ve lost count.

His laughter assaults my ears as he says simply, “Childlocks, Tits. You won’t be exiting.” 

He scoots over to me, closing the door behind him. His hand plants itself comfortably on my upper thigh, as I cringe. “You like this?” He asks, staring intently into my eyes. I shake my head no, but he doesn’t remove his hand from my leg, so I pull my leg away, knocking off his hand. His eyes narrow with malice, and he sucks his teeth. His fist collides with the headrest in front of him, and he knocks it a few times, grabbing the attention of the driver. He keeps his eyes planted on me as he instructs the driver, “Drive and mind your fucking business. Got me?” 

“Yes, Sir!” He pipes up. 

I sigh internally, like the club-goers, the driver won’t be saving me either. I force myself to take comfort in the fact that my predator is good looking, and if the situation was different, from his looks alone I’d be interested in sleeping with him. 

“Turn on the radio.” Mr. Selfie demands.

I stare out the window at the bright, flashing lights from The Strip. They look alive while I feel dead. 

The cheery-upbeat intro bounces throughout the car, Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung

I close my eyes as tears slide down my face.

Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung-Bung

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

My eyes shoot open, and the light hits so hard that I instantly have a headache. I peel my face from upholstery, and blink at the soft, familiar couch cushion below me. 

Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG

Give him two lips like roses and clover

I look over my shoulder from the source of the sound. It’s my front door back in San Diego.

Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over

“Whuuu?” I stare at the door, dumbfounded. I haven’t lived here in several years.

Sandman, I’m so alone

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG

Don’t have nobody to call my own

I remove myself from the couch and stumble to the door. “Who’s there?” I call out, but my voice is raspy and I don’t think whoever’s knocking heard me because I hear it again.

Please turn on your magic beam

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

“WHO’S THERE?” I shout, afraid I’ve strained my voice to the point that I might not be audible for a while.

Mr. Sandman (yes) bring us a dream

“Who’s there?” He mocks, before his cynical laughter peals and invades my body like an unwelcome guest.

Give him a pair of eyes with a “come-hither” gleam

I stop dead as his face materializes, smashed up against the door’s glass plate. 

Give him a lonely heart like Pagliacci. 

His eyes light up with something primal and evil.

And lots of wavy hair like Liberace

I take a few steps back and go to turn around and run away, but somehow he’s right in front of me, and I careen into him unknowingly. His laughter bites like winter’s breath.

Mr. Sandman, someone to hold (someone to hold)

“I got inside, Tits.” He says, proudly.

Would be so peachy before we’re too old

And I can do nothing but scream. 

So please turn on your magic beam

Mr. Sandman, bring us, please, please, please

Mr. Sandman, bring us a dream

**************************************************************

Initially, when I wrote this short story, it was meant to fall into an AU with characters and situations that occurred in The Bachelorette Party 3.02, but, because the season of giving is nearing, I thought I would give you (my reader) an option. You can choose to keep the story as intended, OR you can choose this as an (Alternate) Ending for DJ’s Story. I DO plan on having another Alternate Ending for DJ’s Story, something a little more FINAL shall we say…Because, like an orgasm, why have only one when you can have multiple? And, while I HAVE been busy writing new material, I am afraid it is nowhere near complete at this time…

SO 

I will leave you with a small taste of what I have been working on…. Bon appetit! 

WARNINGS AND ALL THAT SHIT: Profanity (yes). Violence (yes, but not severe). Sex (Uh…nope, just mostly-naked men chatting). Will there be questions? Yes. Will there be answers? Sorry, not at this time. But to help with a potential confusing aspect, I did not wish to reveal a character, so they are referenced as ______ in the preview 😀

Don Lothario jumps to his feet and growls.

Vlad hisses, but doesn’t change into his Dark Form, instead he stares in the direction of Don Lothario’s penis and remarks, “Vhy do you have a tiny baby’s dick?”

Surprised and outraged by Vlad’s choice of insult, Don Lothario brags, “Nine-inches, Bitch! Bigger than that little razor-dick of yours.”

Vlad looks down at his penis and then back over at Don Lothario’s. “No,” he shakes his head negatively. “I have a Brätvurst and you have a Vienna sausage.” 

Don Lothario’s rage begins to taper, “What are you going on about?” he demands.

“There is no vay that cut-off-pinkie-finger of a dick is 9-inches.”

Don Lothario looks down at his penis and then onto the solemn expression Vlad wears; the all-knowing expression of one who is not only telling the truth, but wouldn’t need a ruler to determine whose penis is bigger in a contest. Don Lothario mashes a finger against the button of a multi-line phone. Background noise distorts momentarily until the older woman’s voice sweetly replies, “Yeeeeeeees?”

Don Lothario roars, “BRING ME THE SPELLCASTER!” causing the woman to suddenly move the phone’s earpiece away from the side of her head. Hesitantly, she returns the phone against her ear and near her mouth, “Yes, Sir. Which Spellcaster?”

Don Lothario snarls as his lips form the word, “Goth.” He grabs the wide phone, pulls wildly, snapping the wire from the wall, and throws the machine against the opposite wall, its faceplate comes unhinged and flaps as the entire thing falls to the floor near Vlad’s bare feet.

“Where do you think you’re going, Vlad?” Don Lothario questions, his fury like a sharp knife against Vlad’s jugular.

“I vas feeling peckish. Vut do you mortals call it? The munchies. I vas looking for snacks.”

Don Lothario’s brow wrinkles, “Thafuk, Vlad! Do you think I’m running a vampire daycare? I don’t have plasma pouches in my fucking office!”

Vlad shrugs. “Human food will suffice.”

Don Lothario’s eyes widen in perplexity as he barks, “The cabinet! There’s snacks in the cabinet. Make your-fucking-self at home why don’tcha?!”

“Thank you. I plan to.” 

Don Lothario plops his body into the oversized leather armchair he resided in earlier. His eyes shoot open as the smell of something acidic and acrid hits his nostrils. “Goth!” he grinds out. Both of his hands ball into fists and he slams them against the armrests. 

There, naked and hunched into a slowly unraveling flesh-ball, is Mortimer Goth wearing an uncertain grin that widens his surprised-eyes. “Uh. Lothario? Is that you?” He asks, blinking and then rubbing his adjusting-eyes.

Don Lothario jumps from his seat, strides to Mortimer in three rapid steps, cups a hand, stuffs Mortimer’s neck inside his gripped-palm, and slams Mortimer’s backside against the wall, making the wall rattle and resonate.

“The fuck did you do to my dick, Mort?” Don shouts, spraying spittle against Mortimer’s cheek, which causes Mortimer to wince, and then chuckle at Don Lothario’s small predicament. 

“I don’t see what you’re talking about.” Mort boldly jokes.

Don Lothario presses his forearm against Mortimer’s neck, causing Mortimer’s eyes to widen in terror and his arms to flail about in an attempt to break free from Don Lothario’s hold.

“How did you do it?”  ________ wonders aloud.

“Magic.”

Don Lothario growls and sneers at Mortimer before releasing his hold against the Spellcaster.

________ raises an eyebrow, “Magic? But how?”

Mortimer leans against the wall, channeling his inner James Dean in Rebel Without A Cause, as he used to practice this signature wall-lean in the mirror when he was a teenager, hoping it would be considered enticing to the female student body, but all he discovered was that he was a pretty wallflower. “It’s a simple spell that makes anyone viewing his…uhhh…” Mortimer pauses, uncertain which word to use to describe Don Lothario’s tool without being vulgar, but also without pissing Don Lothario off more than he already has, so he settles for the meekest term he can think of, “his private region. Anyone viewing it would only see the smallest and least appetizing of… privates.” Mortimer tries to prevent himself from smiling at his proud accomplishment, but a corner of his mouth twitches and points upward.

*************************************************

And if you made it all the way to this point, enjoy some Scream-inspired Simmy photos & Happy Halloween!