I punch his fist with my face. Kick one of his cheap pleather moccasins with my stomach. Give his hands a heavy shove with my shoulder and watch as in slow motion; with a quiet finesse, with limbs splayed, I break the concrete floor’s fall with a cold smack of cheek against cement.
Teeth chomp down on tongue and tongue begins to cry crimson, flooding my mouth with Ribena colored tears.
I spit. Saliva and blood. Put my hands beneath me to push myself up off the ground. And then, as if someone has just pressed the unmute button on the remote for the party’s ginormous TV set, a rush of sounds assault my ears.
The one sound that perks my ears up like a dog’s however, is that of my name being shouted. Over and over again. I turn my head in the direction the shouting is coming from and my vision is suddenly filled with blue and white stripes.
Oh shit.
It seems as if Flounder isn’t such a small fish after all.
Once again, as if in slow motion, I watch, as not-so-small-flounder draws back his leg, like a football striker readying himself for a goal scoring kick. My head in this case, being the football.
I let my hands slide out from underneath me and, as the saying goes, hit the deck.
But the kick never comes. Because out of the blue not-so-small-flounder is side swiped and tackled to the ground. It takes me a second to realize by whom. But when I do I’m not at all surprised. Who else could it have been but Richie? The bloody bastard. Always got your back.
And then I’m surrounded. Hands gripping me, lifting me to my feet, half carrying, half dragging me towards the stairs. I’m too dazed to fight or shout or argue and just try my best to put my feet under me so that I don’t appear too much of a doddering fool. As we hit the stairs I manage to and shove away the hands that are gripping me.
The hands leave me and my friends allow me to begin the journey down without too much coddling.
“Dude, what the fuck was that about?”
That’s Collin.
“I poured gin and tonic down his girlfriend’s blouse.” I say, dabbing at my tongue with the neck of my tee.
“What the fuck man?”
That’s Jude.
“Why?”
And Moses.
“Because she’s a snootynosedjudgmentalbitch.”
We hit the first landing.
My friends exchange glances.
“Muthafucka you’re high.”
“Not anymore fuckwad, that asshole punched me in the face.”
Just then there’s the thundering of footsteps on the stairs above us. We all stop and turn. I feel myself tense, preparing myself for a second assault. But there’s no reason to worry, it’s just Richie. A little worse for wear maybe but Richie nonetheless.
Richie is sweaty and a little out of breath. A little frazzled. A complete 180 from his usual cool demeanor.
When he sees us he stops.
“Dude, you fucked up.”
That’s meant for me of course.
“What happened?”
Richie aims an index finger upwards while rubbing at his left eye.
“We’re banned from the party, for starters.”
Moses gestures.
“What happened to your eye?”
“Brian’s little friend punched me in the eye.” Richie answers still rubbing at it. “I mean, who punches you in the fucking eye?”
I let out a dog yelp of a laugh. I can’t help it. It’s kind of funny.
“Dude, and you’re laughing?” Richie shakes his head. “You’re not serious.”
“He’s still high.” Collin remarks.
“I’m not high.” I throw back defensively.
“Guys, guys, guys…”
That’s Jude.
“Since we obviously can’t go back up can we at least head back down? It’s just one, we should find some where else to go.”
“Any ideas?”
Collin suggests Mr. Slims or The Punch Bowl. It doesn’t really matter which one though. They’re right next to each other and both are about a 3-minute walk from our current position. Sure we had a history of tabletop dancing at both places but hey, whatever right?
“Fine. Then let’s go.” Richie says and ushers us down the rest of the stairs and out into the parking lot.
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