AT RISE: A closed door with a peep-hole, the front door, faces the audience from SR. At SL, an open door gives a peek into an unkempt bedroom. A sliding glass door UCS looks out onto trees. Roy sits on a browbeaten couch SL watching TV and smoking. There’s a knock on the door. Roy gets up to answer. Justin’s standing there holding a box from the cookie company.

JUSTIN: Dude! Guess what!

ROY: You don’t check your machine do you?

JUSTIN: What?

ROY: I left you a message like at five.

JUSTIN: Oh. So there’s no Tuesday night tonight.

ROY: That would be the case, yes.

JUSTIN: Oh. Sorry, dude.

ROY: Oh, it’s no problem. Not a problem at all.

JUSTIN: Oh, well. Check this out. [Justin opens the box]

ROY: I know you didn’t make some little old lady at the mall write ‘Hail Satan’ on a giant cookie for you.

JUSTIN: Hell, yeah! I paid the bitch, so she’d better write what I goddamn well fucking want. Made her do a pentagram, too.

ROY: Dude. That’s crazy.

JUSTIN: Hell, yeah!

ROY: Justin. You rock.

There’s something entirely obscene, leftist, and entirely improper about a passel of warm bodies tossed casually about your apartment on a Tuesday night, singing along to the Smiths, buzzing to Port and Indian snackage. What positively bourgeois communistic sadists would deign to hold some form of elitist gathering every Tuesday evening?

We are sad, sad men, to be pitied.

The only thing missing, besides a couple of close friends, most of whom I called while drunk – on cheap, bitter wine and velvety Port – were some cloves, which along with the drinking, I have given up for lent. Thanksfully, lent is almost done, so I will finally be able to give into my more primal urges on a regular basis, without the backslider’s attendant guilt.

I’m so depressed at breaking my Easter vows, that I drink even more, a foul, vicious psychological cycle leaving me grinning madly, collapsed in a chair on a porch beneath a beautiful moon and a cool Spring breeze.

And then there was the Smiths. Loudly. We sang. Roy danced. I was jelloed out, wherever I managed to come to rest. Forget the other excellent music, the wonderful discussions with “people who actually think for themselves”; we can all stop pretending now. This wasn’t Church. This was Heaven, and the Smiths were the chorus of Angels.

I briefly wondered about the rest of the Angels. Staring out at the fragrant Woodlands night, I wondered where they were, what they were doing, and just thinking about them made me smile. I was Grand. Magnanimous. Damn Skippy. And that obnoxious grin, something pagan and entirely un-protestant, is still painted across my face.

Sad, sad men indeed.

There are reasons we hang out with Justin. First, he rocks. Second… we only need the one.

SCENE 1: Light overflows from the streetlamps onto the patio outside Numbers. A small cluster of friends stands CS talking a few feet from the door into the club SR. Music sneaks out of the club in waves as people walk in and out.

We’re talking to Tiffany. You always talk to Tiffany, because, well… She’s hot. So I guess, you always look at Tiffany, but I always talk to her as well because she’s really sweet and you can see the person staring out from those eyes (an intelligence afraid of spiting her good looks).

But for most of you, you’d talk to Tiffany because she’s hot.

So we’re talking to Tiffany: club pleasantries. Work. The weather. Cock rings. Denise was there, so cock rings are unavoidable. Justin is there, too. Talking to Tiffany (see above). So is Kasey.

Tall, stocky male enters from club door SR. A cursory glance around the patio, and he spies Tiffany. Wanting to talk to her, he moseys over towards our little enclave.

TALL, STOCKY MALE: (interrupting current conversation) Hey… blahblah blah —

JUSTIN: Shut the fuck up. You talk too much.

The Sisters First and Last and Always is still one of the greatest albums I own. It’s been too long since I laid it out on the stereo and drowned away the day’s grunge.

So… Sunday. I had lunch with Zombie and Katy and their Pops. Leah was there, sitting at the family table, and Thad and Stacie went along and sat with me at the cast-offs table. Good food. Airport Haven.

Afterwards, Zombie, Leah, Katy and I went to see Amelie. I know I’ve already seen it, but it was still fantastic. I love that movie. Better than the Sisters.

After the movie I hung out with ‘Auli’i again. Saw Katy briefly while I was waiting outside Kinsolving. A small! maimed bat occupied us for a bit, and then we rented Dr. Strangelove and Naked Lunch.

Dr. Strangelove was cool, and all of a sudden I get a lot of inside jokes and references I pretended to laugh at previously. We watched Naked Lunch back at Kinsolving because lame-o friends had to go to sleep early. Adult bastards.

Monday, hung with Stacie very brielfy, but we were both headed about and busy. ‘Auli’i‘s ride was still a little AWOL, so I gave her a lift to San Antonio. We took 290 to 281, which was much more scenic than the typical I35 concrete luge.

Finally straggled to the apartment Monday night, had a couple of cloves, some wine and relaxed. What a weekend.

Tuesday of course was TNHON. Danielle and Brandon came. Brandon’s having issues with his printer. Sucky, but Plug’ll be out soon. Danielle was charming as always. Justin played us some Polka death metal that was actually very catchy. Renee was funny. Melissa! Melissa was there! With a TON of various flaovored alcohol! It was very cool seeing her again. We will miss her. Justin’s friend brought pizza. It was fun and good as it always is.

Wednesday was work and then hang-time with JUSTINE. We drove to Popeye’s in my car. She hadn’t ridden in it yet. We played Orange Blossom really loudly. It was cool. Ritual. I had the chance to talk to her about some things that have been weighing on me lately, things I just can’t talk to other people about. She just listened, and everything was okay.

Then, in what my be the greatest thing I have ever done, I went to the bookstore and bought the I Ching and Tao te ching. They’re awesome. I’ve decided to do a hexagram every morning, to give me something to kind of focus on, a theme for the day.

I slept seven hours, which is pretty good considering my tendencies and woke feeling refreshed. Today’s Hexagram focuses on family. I am energized, physically as well as spiritually.

As vespers closed and the horns called the mullets in, Zombie stumbled drunkenly down the rocky path. ‘Auli’i and I laughed. He weaved. He stumbled. He tried to talk. To our left to sentries from the tribe of Chaos emerged from a tent. One was a man and one was a woman. We weren’t sure which.

Taz was the King of the Mullet Men. I am sure of it. He had the biggest mullet. You should’ve seen the size of the mullet on that one. That’s a man’s mullet: big, puffy. It says “I am a mullet man!”.

Briefly I considered scalping him. What a trophy his mullet would’ve made draped on the floor in front of my hearth. It’s been too long since I lay on a soft mullet-skin rug.

Taz, no doubt attracted to the activity near Zombie’s car approached. “Well met. I am TAZ of Chaos. And who might you be.”

I expected to hear Katy yell “Arrrgh, matey”, but no doubt, her awe of his mullet silenced her as much as it had us. We were speechless.

The rustling in the bushes was ‘Auli’i returning from the hillside. Taz’s senses, razor sharp, encountered a female he had not previously accosted. “I hear a girl rustling there in the bushes.”

‘Auli’i, likewise entranced with the size of his mullet said nothing. “That’s our friend Bob. He’s coming back from taking a piss.”

In a deep voice: “Hey.”

Taz, slighted by the night and his mead was stunned. His mullet had never mis-guessed the gender of another being (The mullet men’s amazing talent at determining the genders of others has evolved over centuries to help mullet men and mullet women discern which among them is male and which is female. God knows, I encountered a multitudinous number of mullet peoples who I mistakenly assumed were men, when in fact they were women. I think. Imagine having to date in that pool. Are those boobs or moobs. Is that a penis, or a severe lack of personal hygiene.)

Taz, slighted by the night and his mead, was stunned. His mullet had never mis-guessed the gender of another being: “I’m sorry good sir. It is dark, and I have been drinking.”

In a deep voice: “S’okay.”

We left him there and stumbled down the uneven lane. Zombie was drunk. He couldn’t see. That’s normal. He would literally stumble into a tree he’d been eyeing warily for a good 10 feet, or he would walk right into a tree he hadn’t seen for a good 10 feet. At one point, bent on walking over to an alleged lake, he marched off the trail and walked over every bush, shrub, and small tree in his path. ‘Auli’i and I, sighted, and not drunk held in our laughter and walked around the underbrush.

Eventually, Zombie came to the barbed wire fence he’d been approaching for a long while. He stopped. Bent really close. “Is this a fence?” Yes. It was a fence. It had been a fence for the last five minutes worth of underbrush crossing. It would be a fence later. Yes. It was a fence. And you will probably not climb it, you drunk git. Thank you. We will laugh now. So we did. “Fuckers. Why didn’t you tell me there was a fence there? I almost ran into it.” Surveying the swath of destruction Zombie’s stumble had laid across the field, this was just too rich.

Zombie, drunk, belligerent, led us back to camp. The horns had long ago called the mullets home, so the roads were quiet. We made it back to the tent. Zombie immediately fell inside asleep. We wanted one last cigarette, so we sat outside.

Next: The Camp of the Mullet King, TAZ.