7

The radio flies down from the second floor towards Roy's head while he dances like a jackass to the same music that everyone else is dancing to. The radio misses him by a few feet. Looking up, Dan is standing there, shaking with anger and panic.

"Fuck you, Roy!" Dan yells, "Stay away from Brigette!" Apparently, his Witch Sticking got him in some trouble, and even worse, with one of his best friends. I'm not surprised. No one is off limits when it comes to the Stick.

"Dude... What?" Roy asks Dan. I wouldn't be surprised if Roy doesn't remember doing what he's accused of.

"Dan, you broke the radio!" Five or six people yell out just barely out of sync and pissed about the lack of music. Looking straight forward, Dan projectile vomits so far that some splashes against the bay window showing him a barely lit view. With Dan still shaking, two guys from the adjacent town mentioned earlier grab Dan by both of his shirt's shoulders and throw him down the staircase. He hits the wall that's right before the stairs turn the corner, tossing a little more spent booze onto the window there. He stops his roll. Before Dan can get up, these two big fuckers grab him and drag him out the front door.

"Fuck you..." Dan tries utter as he's being tossed onto the ground just off the deck. Kicks fly towards his stomach while he's down on all fours. I feel bad for just standing there, watching. I mean, here's a person that's supposed to be one of my best friends getting the shit beaten out of him, and I do nothing. But oh well. He really doesn't deserve to be physically hurt. Maybe by Roy, but not from these two losers. One holds Dan in a Full Nelson while the other gut punches him.

About five seconds later, Jeff (Dan's cousin, if you'll remember) runs out and clocks the Full Nelson-er in the jaw, causing him to release Dan and fall to the ground. The other douche takes a swing at Jeff, but misses while Jeff catches him with an upper cut.

Everyone is whooping and hollering for one side or the other, but no one else makes a violent move. Jeff bows to everyone watching; a condescending action, but a deserved one also. The assholes that jumped Dan get up, holler a bunch of threats, and drive off. No one cares.

8

About an hour passes since the fight. Dan had a bruised stomach with a matching ego. He left with Brigette to go to her house. The lucky fucker... despite getting his ass handed to him, he's still going to get some actual good ass handed to him.

And here I sit at the bar of The Beaver Den, beer in hand, smoking a clove cigarette (where the Hell did that come from?!), talking to total strangers. The guy I started talking to looks like a Gregory Peck with Downs Syndrome. The girl is a cross between Judy Garland and Julia Roberts, if that makes any sense...

"Well, Leo," the guy says, "just keep your chin up. Tiffany should realize what a fucking great dude you are." Booze has a wonderful effect that makes strangers love you and vice-versa.

"Yeah," says the chick, "You're cute. I mean, you're no Spencer (Hills... kill me), but you're okay."

"You guys," I can't stop smoking the clove, which is about burning my lips at this point, "Tiffany is... more than okay. She's more than ever!" I realize that 'more than ever' doesn't make sense in this context, but don't care. I spit out the clove and light a regular smoke as soon as the clove leaves my mouth.

"Dude... Leo!" the guy yells like he's out of breath, "Everything. Will. Be. Alright."

"I know. She's just so fine and what-not." I say back. I eye the bottom floor of The Den, looking for Tiffany. She disappeared after we were together. Maybe she left. Maybe she left with someone else. Sometimes I hate my thoughts.

"Who the fuck!" a voice is heard from upstairs along with footsteps towards the staircase.

"Oh, fuck... here she comes," the guy says in a whisper towards his womanly counterpart. And from atop the staircase appear those amazing legs, followed by hips sharp like razors, followed by a torso curved so beautifully that it made you believe in God, followed by a beautiful round face containing sharp blue eyes, followed by hair red like leaves in fall.

"Is somebody talking about Tiffany?" Watching her mouth move is like looking at Aphrodities' tits.

"Hey, what's up?" I ask, squinting at the lights that seem to back-light her curves.

"Leo... Why are you guys talking about me? Leave me alone." Ouch. My heart.

"Tiffany, would you like to go out with me sometime. Sober, even?" Asking this question after 15-some-odd beers still makes my heart beat fast.

"Ugh... come outside with me, Leo." This reply lets me know to prepare for the worst.

9

Tiffany amazes in the moon light. Her eye color responds well to the lack of abundant light by glowing themselves. Her hair reflects ideas of the Heaven I felt earlier.

"Leo, I'm sorry. I don't feel like we would make a good couple."

"Didn't you feel anything earlier?" I ask. "I felt electricity. Why didn't you feel the same?"

"Because you don't give off the same voltage." I hate when people think of clever comparisons to things I've said.

"Well, so you don't like me... Fuck you." I tell Tiffany. This makes her soft, delicate lips pout and tremble a little.

"It's not that I don't like you... It's that I don't want to date you," she confides, trying to throw water on the bridges I'm covering with lighter fluid.

"Why not? Am I too fat? Am I too ugly?" My insecurity is starting to show. The match is lit.

"No! You're just not the kind of guy I would date." She's right. Her boyfriends up to this point have been asshole jocks. The type of douche you're surprised hasn't hit her. The same guys along the line of those that beat up Dan.

"I'm sorry I'm not an asshole!" I shout, thinking that would shut her up. 'Boom!' goes the bridge

"Oh, but you so fucking are!" Tiffany shot back. And she was right. The second those words left her mouth, I knew that she was right. Leave it to The Beaver to show how wrong I am.

"I'm sorry..." I tried to amend.

"Shut up and give me a cigarette," she said with eyes that shined like tears were too afraid to dive from the ducts.

I took two out of my pack and handed one to her. The last two, signifying the night's end. I lit one for me, then the one I gave to her.

10

The world is filled with sadists. The assholes stuck in early morning traffic that complain so heavily want to be there. The assholes that beat the hell out of irrationally upset drunks prove that they want to be hated. The self-loathing cynical losers that do nothing but tear people when they get rejected, even though all of us want to be sad. What stops us from leaving? What stops us from giving in and shooting up our respective circles? What stops us from adventuring outward?

Humanity is full of fright. Especially when it comes to leaving what you know. Even when what you know is the opposite of what you want.

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