CHUBBY
Stripcreator Regular
Member Rated:

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When I awoke, my head felt like Barry Bonds had been using it for batting practice. My mouth was drier than a Steven Wright monologue in a Mormon church in the Dry Tortugas.
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I lit up a cigarette. I started coughing like Morton Downey, Jr. playing "Camille" at the Hollywood Bowl during a smog alert. Then I remembered I didn't smoke. I tried to remember last night.
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Oh, yeah. The Stripcreator's Ball. Everybody was there. Usually, on days like this, I have to do two things-- remember where I left my car, and return the one I took. But today I had other questions.
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| Where am I? Who am I? Where are my pants? | |
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The Ball. I had left with someone I met there. A Stripcreator regular. But who? The sudden flashbacks attacking my mind kept distracting me. I tried to concentrate.
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| I don't think these pants are mine, but I guess they'll have to do. | |
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A brief burst of violence... I'm running from a police siren...I've lost something important... a woman's voice trying to tell me something I need to know...
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The fresh cuts and scratches I started finding all over my body were too small to account for the amount of blood staining my hands and forearms. It had obviously belonged to someone else at one time.
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| There's only one person who can help me figure this out. I'd better go see him. | |
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But the more I thought about going to see Brad, the more frightened and confused I became.
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| Wait... was that Brad's voice I heard? Why did it sound so shrill and frantic? | |
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Canada was a helluva trip anyway, so I made myself a good Irish coffee and slowly started to remember bits and pieces of the SC ball...
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| Brad WAS there! I remember him doing the Watusi with the punchbowl on his head! | |
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A smile crept up as I started to remember what Chubby and Externalization were doing...
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| I have to write this stuff down, nobody's going to believe me! Are these stains on my hands from the wine punch? | |
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The dreams that were swiftly coming into my head didn't seem real...
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There was a Scottish bloke there wearing some sort of a skirt... A bald man leering at anything in a skirt...
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Some strange man walking around with a beer in one hand and... no pants?!
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| My name is Boorite and I approve of this recollection. | |
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Then, like the flicking of a switch, memories of that night began to flood my mind. SC regulars, both young and old, getting "down", knowmsayin'?
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I remember it getting crazy around the time Little Kitty grabbed a hockey stick and started swinging it wildly, not unlike a psychopathic Tiger Woods on crack.
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| WE WANT HOCKEY! WE WANT HOCKEY! | |
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Some guests didn't seem to mind the carnage though.
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| Dude, look at all the blood! | |
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| Man, this is almost as good as that GWAR concert when they killed EVERYONE in the audience except us! | |
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--- "We're fighting for this woman's honor, which is probably more than she ever did." Groucho Marx
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