calculation is null

I tapped his trunk; the syrup was stale.
2001-07-24 04:29:08 (UTC)

Pancakes, tequila, and baseball bats. V.

Right. Dinner was fine. Laam twisted his ankle during a
pick-up game, so he sat sideways at the table, one leg up on the
chair next to him with an ice pack on his foot.

Dork. Eh.

So. Keith was beligerent, and the rest of us, save Marisa,
who was just sort of confused as she's not really an
official Slimie, the rest of us were not feeling the vibe.

"Why the fuck do I-" Keith stumbled a bit, dropping his
cup, and spilling his drink, tequila, in a beautiful amber
sheet, into Rocco's lap. He seemed not to notice as he
steered back onto his tirade.

"Why the fuck do I put up with this shit? Huh? Tell me! Why
the fuck do I put up with all you assholes?"

"Keith, what's happened?" I asked.

"Fuck you, Nick! Fuck you! Fuck! You!" He sat down with a
bump and a slump on the porch railing. Rocco, his pants and
shirt sopping with foul-smelling booze, sat patiently.
Patient Rocco, sitting sopping smelling of egg. Rocco's

We were all quiet for a bit. Neet stretched her fingers to
touch my palm; I was sweating, both from the leather and
anxiety, but she rested her fingertips there. Seb stroked a
bare patch of my back.

"We love you, man." Laam. His long, just burning butter
hair shifted in clumps in the slight breeze. "We love you."

keithman." A white noise of cautious mumbles shrugged
against Keith's ears.

Another tense, terse bout of not sure whether to stay or go
or talk or scream. After a moment, though, Keith -was-
sure. In the retelling, the next has become jumbled. But I
remember it as Keith lunging for the space behind Laam's
chair and pulling out with a baseball bat, with which he
jumped-slash-fell over the railing and commenced to pound
on Rocco's car. Neet screamed and Marisa screamed and Laam
screamed. Rocco dove from a sitting position in his chair
off the porch and onto Keith's back. Seb ran down the steps
to assist Rocco. I, not quite sure what to make of anything
but certainly not one to scream, sipped at my tequila.
Keith continued to rain his frustration's fury into the
body of Rocco's car. Rocco and Seb, both fairly well built,
gave a good go, but Keith's alcohol steroided muscles
pumped through their grasps. My tequila tasted good, and
the masses were buzzing to the noise like so much open bar,
so I blocked the door with my beautiful body.

Rocco decided that the hold tactic wasn't working, so he
ran back a few feet and then ran back those few feet,
hurling his body, in a tackle reminiscent, he said later,
of his glory days in high school football, into Keith's
flailing body, knocking him off his feet and onto the

Fuck shit get off me what the fuck keith don't touch my car
get off me rocco.

You get it. A little more scuffling, another sip of tequila
for me, swearing amongst ourselves, and Keith, nuclear to
the nth degree, slamming his car door and shredding his
transmission system, screeching from the house.

Five in the morning, and an ooze of nest-haired and sweat
stained fantasy fetish ball revellers leaked from Mart's
house in the dark, blue-green dim of dawn. My tequila
refill and I slouched on a smooshed cushion couch, easing
into the morning. Laam wandered in and dropped next to me,
his head rolling onto my shoulder.


"Straight up."

We laughed, bellies like jelly, shaking and close to tears,
at our ragtagness, my head pushing his head into my upper
arm. Neet, Seb, Rocco, and Mart came in from the porch to
our laughing.

"Shit! That's gonna be fucking expensive to fix!" Rocco was
angry. But not really. Rocco doesn't get angry.

"Bill his ass for it!" said Neet. "No fucking way he'd get
the fuck away with that with me!" She plopped in a heaving
sigh on my unflanked side and closed her eyes. Rocco, his
patch of wet crotch, and a grouping of cuts on his arms,
sat next to Neet. Mart layed at our feet, and Seb layed,
with a gentle jump, across our laps. I was still laughing,
to myself, like the wind before it actually blows laughs,
and Neet felt it. Then Rocco. Then Mart. Within seconds,
our tired, damp, bleeding, drunk pile was doubled and
tripled and quadrupled over in gales of laughter. We'd
known this was coming; we'd joked in pairs about Keith
rampaging one day, killing us all in massive party murder
spree. We'd seen the coke and tasted his bile and loved him
still, but we knew this was coming. So we laughed. It
tapered off later, like the movies, one person stopping,
half chuckling and stopping again. And then the next. And
then someone sighs and coughs and clears their throat. On
my shoulder, I felt a warm wet. Laam had loved him
most: "Keith and I have the gayest straight guy
relationship you'll ever see!" And so he cried. A bit. A

"I'm fucking hungrier than a dry douche rag!" said Neet.
I stared at her from the corners of my eyes.

"Oh, fuck you, Niko. You got pancake mix, Martha?"

"Yeah. I think Liz has some."

"Pancakes on me then." Neet rolled Seb onto the floor. Oof!
Marching into the kitchen and turning to glare at our
fucked up asses, "So come help me, bitches!"

I drank some more tequila in the kitchen, while Neet and
Rocco played chefs. I think we concocted evil things that
morning, but it all tasted good: we added cups and cups of
Slime to that fucking batter.

My parents and I are cool these days. My brother and my
sisters could use some funk, but they're not bad. But
they're not my family. These folks, the Stanford Slimies,
are nuclear. Eh. I doubt Pat Robertson'll be stepping up to
call us a nuclear family anytime soon, but fuck him.

Seb and I are going to watch "Platoon" now.

Check it.

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