I had started the evening sober as a pope, but after an indeterminate amount of both time and liquor, I was in a seedy little dive, the kind that Momma always warned you about, watching two Asian gentlemen play backgammon while the smoke from their unfiltered Camels hung heavy in the air like smog over LA. But we were a long way from LA.
I tipped back a glass of what I had been assured was a Tanqueray and tonic, but which tasted more like a toilet brush. The room swam before my eyes, filled with strange figures who seemed to be pointing and laughing at me, or maybe that was just the walls. Chong, or maybe Wong, swore, Cantonese, Haka, or some garbled Mandarin; I spoke none of them, so I slurred a request for translation.
"He said Xian is a goatfucking testicle-licker," said a low growl. "Then he asked what the hell this bitch is doing on the table." I looked around, but could locate neither the speaker nor the spoken-of bitch. Then I wondered what had happened to my bra, and slapped possibly-Wong. How dare he call me that?
Things became a bit blurry after that, although I believe I may have danced until they threw me out in the street. I never did find my clothes.
I'm supremely sorry I don't have more energy to write more, because I think this is a terrific picture. But while I did have a few days of lower-impact, I had to spend them doing things other than Flashing my Fiction. Like writing other blog posts, and catching up on emails, and doing other work, and errands, and masturbating a lot. Not necessarily in that order either, I'm afraid.
I'm not a great lover of gonzo; I've never read all of Fear and Loathing, and what I did read didn't really stick with me. But for some reason what started out straightforward became rather stylized as I wrote, to the point where it seemed a bit, just a bit, gonzo, so I went with it. I wish it were sexier, but you go where it takes you.
I also deeply, deeply wish that I could call someone a goatfucking testicle-licker in some language other than English. If anyone out there speaks another language and knows some wonderful insult of that nature, please, I'm begging you, share it. Even if I already know it (and I do know a few insults in other languages) others may not. Think of it as cultural exchange. I'm looking pointedly in a few people's directions, but anyone may chime in.
Short discussion this week, so you must all troop over to Panser's lair and read all the other wonderfulness. Or submit some wonderfulness of your own. It's not too late. Last week, I couldn't even post mine until Friday afternoon. How long does 220 words really take?
9 comments:
Oh that's good! I really liked the "smog over L.A." bit, very nice turn of phrase :)
How long does 220 words take? Forever, in my case. I continue to do these little exercises because they FORCE me to write tautly. I prefer much longer lengths, but it's good practice for me to get in the really short stuff once in a while.
Loved this piece and it didn't feel at all "gonzo" to me. That is to say, it made perfect sense (I found a lot of Thompson's work impenetrable) and made for interesting reading, as with most of your stuff. :)
Happy FFF!
-- PB
The first-person approach works well here. I love the last line and her safe exit from what I thought would be a terrible ending (for her, not the writing).
One will suffice this week knowing that you had other things to do with your hands.
@ewoman88: I felt like that line was a bit cheap at first and almost deleted it. Clearly I was right to leave it in :)
@PB: Okay, so 220 words takes a long time. I'm just trying to get people to consider that hey, they might still write one even if it's Friday. And I take it as a compliment that you don't think it was terribly gonzo; I don't think it's terribly gonzo either, mostly because I don't really understand what gonzo is.
@Advizor: If she'd hadn't made at least a semi-safe exit, how could she write about it later ;)
Gosh I hope you never tasted toilet brush...
I'm trying to think of a french translation for a testicle licker. Better not go there I think! :)
As usual, I always enjoy your FFF.
I enjoys the "smog over L.A." bit too.
Set the scene for me.
Nice take on it, and I was surprised.
I find it interesting that you went with the 1st person approach to this pic too, although your focal point was different. Reminded me of "why am I in a handbasket, and where am I going?"
Good stuff.
I love that you told the story from her prospective. Very
funny too.
@France: Oh please, please, pretty please, go there. You were one of those I was looking at pointedly in the comments actually; I speak such poor French that I wouldn't have the first idea. I'd wind up ordering bad wine or discussing the moral imperatives of Sartre without realizing it. So please, if not testicle-licker, something suitably similar ;)
@pocket rockettz: Then I'm glad it worked for you, and clearly my subconscious steered me right when it made me keep it in :)
@Word: I wake up nearly every morning wondering why I'm in that particular handbasket, but I never had such a wonderfully pithy way of expressing it until you said that. Nor do I usually have any good reason for wondering, certainly not as good as our intrepid heroine ;)
@Katia: She was the only one looking at the audience, so it seemed natural.
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