Author's Note: This is a work in progress that I update on occasion just so I have an easy way of showing other people how far I'm coming with my story. In short, that means I'm making shit up as I go along. Most of this story has been entirely done on the fly. As such, plot holes, grammar, and spelling fuckups abound in this story. If you notice something, point it out to me and I'll fix it as soon as I can. Thanks, guys.

Intro Composed on a Napkin Shit, how the fuck do I introduce this? I need a first line that doesn't sound either like a simpleton or pretentious bastard wrote it. First lines are critical, they are a segue into the entire rest of the book, and if the author biffs on them it leaves the reader with a bad taste in his mouth and-

Shit, never mind at least it's out of the way now. I've established myself as a bumbling idiot, so my work is done here.

Good evening, my name is- Wait, scratch that, I don't want to tell you what my name is. It gives that whole aura of mystique like Terentino movie characters that are only referred to as colors or by annoying beeping noises.

Call me whatever you like, chances are I'll probably respond to it.

Pressing onward, I'm a second year English major at a forgettable state university. You don't need to know, because it truly doesn't matter. All colleges are basically the same animal. You have your group of slack- jawed, bleary-eyed youths getting their first taste of real freedom. You have your group of people that dress like they're attending a grunge revival. You have your group of girls that wear those delightful short exercise shorts even in the winter. You have your Greek organizations that seem to function on the forgotten laws of high school social politics. You'll see the hottest women you'll ever see in your life, and their butt- ugly gorgon for a friend that always follows them around everywhere they go.

You'll get your first real taste of alcohol poisoning (if you're not sweating, you haven't drank nearly enough yet). Religious organizations will try courting your fancy with things like candy and pancake dinners (I had a friend turn Mormon for a box of Wanka bars). Caffeine will surge through your veins like an unholy curse from above. You'll find love, disgust, righteous indignation, stress, joy, alcohol, drugs, and loud music decided to get together and have a huge orgy.

This is your standard college.

So, we come to it again. Where to start? Where to begin? Should I start with the day I met that glorious female version of myself? Should I begin by introducing the hellish darkness from beyond the cosmos, Nyragralotep? The creepy-eyed bunny?

Wait, I know exactly where to begin. He's the reason all the events I'm going to relate unfolded the way they did. He came to me one fall day half- starved but as lurid and animated as ever. I'll give him his own chapter, he deserves it.

Balbott

Balbott was a communist.

Balbott also happened to be a member of the rather large squirrel population on campus. Lord knows how he managed to come by a communist manifesto on his own, but he stuck to it. You'd see him around campus occasionally, standing on a picnic bench in his red beret. He preached to a group of largely-uninterested squirrels and chipmunks about the valor in gathering enough nuts for all and the equal distribution of said nuts.

As far as I can tell, the small woodland creature community rejected his ideas. Over time, Balbott saw that there would be no equal distribution of food; most of all no one would equally distribute any to him.

Balbott grew hungrier and hungrier, before finally picking up the courage to go on a raiding mission of sorts. "To show the capitalist pigdogs the contempt of the working man," he said. He planned on securing a large cache of food, then standing over it proudly waving his homemade flag and singing his national anthem.

He probably picked the wrong pigdog to raid from, however, Preston "Huge Nuts" Gringo. Preston was hands-down the most hardcore member the squirrel community had to offer.

For example, most squirrels, while trying to get food from humans, run around in tiny circles, scamper and chitter. They get a response of "Oh how adorable" from the humans, and then get fed.

Not Preston. One day a professor was walking back from class carrying a tuna sandwich in his hand. I'd like to think that being assaulted by an ululating gray squirrel before being beaten with a rusty tire iron was the farthest thing from his mind at the time. It didn't change the fact that as the professor lay cold and unconscious, Preston cutely scampered up onto his stomach, spit in his face, and made off with the professor's sandwich.

Preston was a crazy son of a bitch.

So as you can imagine, when Balbott demanded Preston give up all of his food for the good of the republic, Balbott ended up with a severe ass- beating.

I was around to witness this. What from a distance looked like the amusing playfulness of small rodents, upon closer inspection, was up close, something more sinister.

I got there just as Preston flicked out his tiny switchblade. He hovered over Balbott, "I'm gonna cut you, ese. Cut you good, cut you deep," he said.

Preston noticed my shadow falling over him. He never finished the deal with Balbott, instead he simply held me at knifepoint for my wallet before scampering off into some bushes.

That was my first encounter with the squirrel, Balbott. I kneeled over him to see if he was all right. The half-conscious pinko glared at me before struggling to his feet with as much nationalistic pride he could muster and darting up the side of a tree.

On the ground in front of me, was Balbott's tiny beret. In his haste to save his pride, he left it behind. I picked it up, and gave it a glance before stuffing it into my pocket and heading for class.

Writing Class

Sweet, suffering Joan of Arc at a barbeque do I hate writing class. Don't get me wrong, writing is my passion. I love writing like I love porn, a good shower, and a drifter girl that'll blow you for a quarter. However, when you stuck me in a class with a group of bizarre, self-gratifying, counter-culture poofters who take themselves way too seriously, writing becomes something like a personal hell to me.

This class, or as I like to call it, "Misanthropy Hobby Kit 101" met twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Every week, we'd write something to be part of a larger project and bring it into class for a peer review session. I'll delve more into that little den of torture shortly. In the meantime, let me tell you about the class' professor.

Dr. Schwein Burnstalker was in many ways, the ideal English professor. In that his middle name could've been "Corduroy," he got excited about James Joyce in ways that would get most people arrested, and he was batshit insane.

His hobby and his passion was poetry; more specifically the poetry of Walt Whitman. Let me ask you something. How many of you studied Whitman in school and actually found yourself enjoying it? Raise your hand please.

Yeah that's what I thought.

You know, I try seeing the value in everything. There's nothing in the world I fear more than the possibility that I could be willfully ignorant. But let me say this now, if the last known copy of Whitman's works were on fire, I wouldn't do myself the trouble to try and piss the flames out. I hate the man in ways the English language cannot even describe.

How a narcissistic, creepy, male chauvinist looney toon like Whitman can be hailed as one of the greatest poets of all time boggles my mind to no end. He shits words across the paper without regard to form, spelling, punctuation, comprehension, or even simple pleasure. If the man should be noted for anything, it should be his skill at bullshitting intellectuals into declaring him one of America's greatest writers.

My professor was one of those who was taken in by this. He opened every class by reading a different passage from Whitman. He said this was to inspire us. Dr. Burnstalker would sit with his reading glasses on 3/4ths of the way down his nose, reading Whitman in a whispery, gritty voice. "Bedside lamp tables have I runneth with thee, sweetest peppershaker letmetellyouthis, In Summation, up is down," he quoted.

Then, with a fluid movement, Burnstalker would rip his spectacles off his face, shoot a practiced look at us, and quietly say, "Whoa." That along with grading was the professor's only input to the class. He'd sit in the corner in his light-brown jacket and turtleneck and stare at us while we critiqued each other's writing. Every so often, he'd pretend that he heard something he liked. At these moments, he'd close his eyes, smile, and nod slowly.

God was up there somewhere, laughing at me.

During this particular class, we were reading the final drafts of our "memoir" papers. The purpose of this project was to put a narrative light on an event or memory we have of our past. I had a paper I wrote about band camp. It was decent, it was trite, it was filler, but I was happy with it. I happened to be the last person on the list to read that day. I sat and nervously made corrections to my paper while my classmates read their works.

The first up was Samayntha. She spelled her name like that to show how much of an individual she was. You know, in case all the surgical steel she had sticking out of her face and a haircut that would put Flock of Seagulls to shame didn't do the job. She introduced herself the first day of class in this way: "Um, hey, or something. My name's Samayntha. That's spelled with a 'y.' Some things about me, I'm a vegetarian and a Wiccan, so that's going to separate me from you."

I ran that memory over in my head as Ms. Originality began to read her paper. She started it off with, "I was staring at the girl in the mirror, but I did not recognize her." My cliché detector immediately sounded a klaxon alarm in my head. I didn't pay attention to her paper through the rest of her recitation. I thanked the powers-that-be for my cliché detector that has saved me from horrible pieces of 'creativity' so many times.

Time swam and eventually passed on. Before I knew it, Samayntha was finished reading her paper. She also seemed to be sobbing into her hands. I must have missed something in her reading that would cause her to do this. Something about her cat (or was it her grandmother?) dying; I don't know, I wasn't paying much attention.

The professor walked up behind her and set a hand on her shoulder. His expression looked as if someone carved a maudlin face on a mannequin. "Class, let's all thank Sarah for sharing this heartfelt story with us," he said.

In response the class droned out a monotone, "Thank you Sarah."

She looked up at Burnstalker with tears in her eyes, "But my name's not-"

"OK class, the professor continued, "Who is next to read?"

The next paper was another tear-jerker. At some point during the introduction the girl reading it said "You just don't understand."

Far off in the depths of my mind I heard the "arooga" of the klaxon, and found myself transfixed by the stitch work of Balbott's tiny beret for the duration of the reading.

When this reader, along with the third, fourth, and fifth, were all moved to bitter tears by their own work, I began to wonder if anything was wrong. Not necessarily with them, I thought I had a good bead on why they were so messed up; but with me instead.

I mean, if a pretty good chunk of our class is in eternally suffering because of tragic experience and I'm not, what the hell did I miss out on? There I was, writing because I thought it was a fun way to pass the time, when really the entire point of the exercise was to vainly try to silence the screaming of inner demons. Where were my inner demons? Why do I have to miss out on all the somberness?

To tell you the truth, I was depressed. I felt moved. I tried writing a few verses just to show the horrible reality of living just how upset I was with it:

I am so sad. My life is so bad I sit and I cry, boohoo Who's fault is it? YOU!

It didn't seem to be working out so well. No amount of fooling around with slant-rhyme could get "boohoo" and "yours" to rhyme. I scribbled the poem out of my margin with a pen and drew a picture of a happy stick-kitty instead.

Thankfully, the class was over before I actually had to read my paper. I knew this because Burnstalker stopped himself in mid-sentence, wordlessly turned around, and left the room without so much as saying "see ya."

Burnstalker may have been a soulless automaton, but at least he cut to the chase. I respected him for that. I weaved my way through the students who were hugging and consoling one another's grief and left the building.

The sun beamed. They sky roared a wonderful "Hello!" at me. I was out of writing class; I could finally feel that someone wasn't fucking my brain any longer! My life was my own again! It was Friday! Joy!

I started walking back to my dorm room. I took long, deliberate strides. I practically forced the ground away from me with every step I took. Every step was an obstacle and I was heroically pushing it away.

I always thought that this would make a great theme in my writing, but could never find any way to use it.

The Dorm

My dorm number was 999, inversion of the beast. I opened the door and surveyed the madness that lay within. Papers were scattered everywhere. A pile of dirty laundry lurked evilly in the corner, daring me to spend over three dollars to wash it. On my refrigerator, a couple dirty forks sat soaking in a cup of stagnant water. Over time, the forks would spawn microbial life forms that would evolve and worship me as their creator. Then I'd finally get those minions I've always been dreaming of. The cup was a work in progress so to speak.

My roommate was nowhere in sight. Once he found a girlfriend, I had the room to myself. I assumed he stopped in occasionally to get clothes and things. I never saw him do this, however. I always pictured him as a stealth ninja, or Santa. He sneaks into the room in the dead of night, and leaves only bodies and the fresh scent of pine in his wake.

To tell the truth, I'm hard-pressed to describe what the guy actually looks like.

I sat down at my computer and tried editing my band camp paper a little more. I wanted to make it fit in with the class. I tried my hardest to tie it in with some noble battle with cancer, or losing my innocence too early, or coming to terms with any latent homosexuality I may have.

Nope, nothing worked; I was too normal to be different like everyone else.

I caught a faint glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. I heard the closet door open and close quickly. Then another movement darted back out the door. My roommate had come and gone again.

I had about three hours before my next class. It was prime nap-taking time. I crashed on my love seat, pulled a blanket over me and was away in dream land in mere seconds.

Did you ever have those dreams that you never want to end? I was having one of those. In my dream, I was an X-man. My mutant power was that I could change the trajectory of moving objects with my mind. I was a watered-down Jean Grey, but I was still having a pretty good time.

I was doing battle with Apocolypse, kicking his ass too. Now maybe the big blue fucker would stop over-narrating himself so much. I was strong. I was powerful. I was happy.

I was. being shaken by something..

I opened my eyes to find Balbott standing on my chest. He was staring down at me with a dictator's glare that I knew he had practiced in front of a mirror. "You have something of mine, capitalist slave-driver," he squeaked.

"You're a communist," I replied. "Your beret belongs to the masses. The masses decided that I should possess the beret."

Balbott glowered at me for a moment before launching into a vicious streak of swear words. Did you ever hear somebody do this in a foreign language? Did you think it was funny? Imagine that, only in squirrel. It took everything I had not to die laughing.

A group of students passed my room and noticed the commotion. One, a girl named Gretchen whom I had my eye on for a few weeks, stopped in to see what all the fuss was about. She watched Balbott rant; she seemed slightly amused by it.

Once I realized the cute girl from down the hall had stopped into my miserably unkempt room, I jumped up from the couch to frantically tidy up a bit, flinging Balbott off my chest. A flurry of curse words came from the garbage can where he landed.

"Hey Gretchen, sorry my room looks like hell. What's up? How's school going for you? Did you get the desk job yet? How's your assho- er, boyfriend you're dating? What'd you do this weekend?" At some point, my brain caught up with my mouth, clubbed it, and told it to shut the fuck up.

"Um, hi. I haven't been up to too much. My boyfriend's fine. Who's your little friend here?"

A tiny voice came from the trashcan, "I'm going to gut you while you sleep you piece of monkey-"

"Ah, that's my friend Balbott." I knew his name because he had it stitched with gilt thread on his beret. I lifted the angry communist out of the trash can and held him.

Gretchen melted. "Awww! He's so adorable!" Gretchen tried to pet him.

Balbott shrank back into my hand. "Madam, you belittle me!"

"Let her," I hissed.

Balbott obliged. Gretchen ran her finger across the back of his head. "Well, I have to get to class," she said, "Good bye, cutie." My heart jumped, and then I realized she was talking about Balbott, not me.

I set Balbott down. "Wow that was great,"I said, "Thank you."

Balbott swiped his beret from my pocket. "Harrumph, she clearly wasn't interested in you, loser. What the hell happened to your room?"

"Well thanks all the same," I said. "Would you like to stay here for a couple days?"

"Ha! I was going to whether you wanted me to or not," and with that, he scampered off and buried himself under my pile of dirty clothing.

Friday Night

Ah, Friday, most magical of days, Bliss is thy name.

My Fridays always followed a strictly-set pattern: classes, nap, pizza, booze, booze, booze, videogames, movies, and booze. It's nice to have traditions; it gives you something to look forward to.

Like the fraternity I'm in, it's pleasant to know I can go there and hang out with my friends there over the weekend. Shut up, I know what you people are thinking. "He spends the first few pages ripping on people who identify with groups then tells us he joined one himself!? A fraternity no less?!"

Well there is a method to my thinking; I'll break it down into several steps for you. The first: Fuck you. You can't decide what I do with my free time any more than I can control the people who try to convince me that Radiohead is the greatest band that ever lived. I happen to identify with a group of people in a fraternity. We hang out, we have fun, we do things for the community, and we put everything on our resume once we graduate.

Secondly, I'm not saying that all groups are evil. Everyone is in some group whether they'll admit it to you or not. The creepy kid with the black lipstick, a copy of the Necromonicon, and the angsty livejournal is just as guilty of this as I am. He'll argue against me on this point. He'll bring up some horseshit he told himself all through highschool, that fraternities, sports, and a normal social life are all tools of the evil social elite. He's wrong. He's propagating a stereotype that's been outdated for quite some time now. In return, I'll say one about him: He's a loveless bastard who's never going to get any. When he hits forty, he'll look at his painted face in the mirror and realize what a complete and utter tool he is. During this time, I'll be hanging out with the same group of friends I've always had, trading stories over a pitcher of beer while laughing like hell.

You know, enjoying myself.

Social groupings vary in their levels of retardation. I'll be the first to recognize the idiocy present in mine. What I'm really saying is, if I'm a member of a group, and can still manage to think for myself (unlike our gothy friend here who masturbates while crying) I'm better off than I would be if I weren't in a group at all. Every human being is just about as stupid as the next one, you might as well enjoy yourself while you stink up the planet.

One final note, I don't consider myself superior to any other person on this planet. The fact that I can see what's going on in people's heads through the slanted hawk-eyes of a cynic makes me no better or no worse than any other person. So in summation, livejournal boy, wherever you may be, continue writing about those angst rock bands no one else has ever heard of in your weblog TeArZofPaYne666, I won't stop you.

Know this, however: I'm laughing at you from afar.

OK, I'm off my soapbox. Time to continue the narrative.

I'm not sure how I went from drinking a beer with my pizza to playing high- stakes poker in a frat house with a Columbian drug lord, a six year old with a peg leg, and a bear smoking marijuana, but there I was. I blame the liquor, mostly.

After losing the money in my wallet, my car, and my college loans, I decided to fold and wander back to the party. That threat about the drug lord burning down my home and killing everyone I held dear was just macho talk. It had to be.

In my drunken haze, I found myself unconsciously overjoyed that Balbott found me. Not so much that I liked Balbott, but rather that his inherent cuteness lured Gretchen into my room. I wonder if I could take advantage of him again in this way. Gretchen was hands-down the most physically and intellectually delicious girl I have ever met.

What are my reasons for thinking this? Why does it matter to you? In regards to this narrative she only exists to push my story onward. I'll be damned if I give this any excuse to turn into a romantic comedy. Fuck romantic comedies. She matters to me because I want her to. That's all you need to know. And, after you read this paragraph, aren't you glad it's this way? Did you really want to listen to me rehash the same old love scenario you've seen ad naseum? I didn't think so. You see, I have your interests in mind too, dearest reader.

Apparently, I had stopped to ponder these things while I was in the middle of conversation with someone else. A girl, a little shorter than I am, was blissfully talking about something. I'm not sure what it was, but she was using wild hand movements to illustrate it. "So what do you think?" she asked.

"I think made-to-order dinners are the most wonderful thing on the planet next to frottage with the elderly and crime scene photos."

"Wait what's that? I didn't quite catch it? Anyways, my friend thought it was the stupidest thing ever!"

"Oh really, ever? Worse than the Berlin Wall, even?"

She continued. Man, I wish I could have been talking to Gretchen just then. I remembered a few days before; I had seen her playing videogames with some guy down the hall. Videogames! And what's more, she actually seemed to be enjoying herself! It took me everything I had to stop myself from dropping on one knee and proposing to her right then and there.

"And then it crammed its ovipositor down my throat, laid its eggs in my chest, and I've been living on borrowed time ever since," the girl said.

I may have missed something interesting. No matter, Mr. Beer was getting very shallow. He needed a replacement. I went off to find one for him.

All at once I noticed something changed in the general atmosphere of the party. It wasn't that the girl I had been talking to moments before now had an alien fledgling springing from her stomach. It was something else, it felt far more sinister. It seemed like a shadow fell over the entire party.

Nyrgrathalotep, The Elder God of the Crawling Darkness entered the party amidst a spewing geyser of beer foam.

Floating by his right side was a case of Evil Eye beer. A brew outlawed in twenty states for being the most hellish and caustic substance known to barley.

The Unspeakable One didn't enter as much as steamed into the party, three sheets into the wind already; he looked for some poor freshman to menace with his presence.

Tendrils of darkness radiated out from him, covering all of the walls and floors with inky blackness.

The entity from beyond the cosmos floated toward me. He looked as if someone took a pair of scissors and cut a whole in the fabric of reality. He didn't really seem to have much of a substance at all. He was vaguely shaped like a human, and in the middle of his empty face was a pair of burning green eyes. Other than that, he was a walking shadow.

He began to speak to me. His voice was whispery and sounded like it was coming from a very long ways off. "i am the crawling elder god of darkness. i am the haunter of men's nightmares. i am he that cannot be named."

"Your name's Nyrgrathalotep, you live with that creepy kid in the dorm next to me," I pointed out. "Could you beer me? I seem to be out."

"sure thing, bro. but be ye forewarned, this is evil eye brew from beyond the kosmos. cthulhu and baphomet drink this shit. you should have seen them last week, they were so fucked up." A beer floated from Nyrgrathalotep's case and into my hand.

"chugging contest?" he suggested.

"Sure why not? On the count of three, go. One. two. three!"

Nyrgrathalotep's can upended itself in midair. The beer poured out of it and disappeared into the void that was the elder god. The can crushed, seemingly by itself, then threw itself at the head of the nearest person.

"woo!," boasted the Evil One. "i am awesome! where's the bitches at?" The void that was Nyrgrathalotep vanished in a plume of green flame. I was left alone with a half-drank can of Evil Eye in my hand.

I had one of those moments, where it's like you're standing beside yourself. You see where you are, and what you're doing. You become totally self-aware. It was one of those moments where you can take your finger, point, and say, "Here I am! I am utterly and completely conscious of everything that is going on around me. The present has become a fluid substance through which I can move indefinitely. I am ultimately in control of my life as of right now!"

I blacked out.

I woke up on the sidewalk of the frat house at noon the next morning. I had a headache that felt like someone shoved a Q-tip in my brain, and someone had scrawled "NYRGRATHALOTEP ROOLZ!" across my forehead with a black magic marker.

The Morning After

"Urgnh," I moaned as I tried pulling myself to my feet.

I tried to stand but my body would have none of it. My liver especially seemed to be pissed off. "You move me again, and I'll scream 'rape,' asshole," it said.

I opened my eyes, but they recoiled in horror. Why did it have to be so bright out?

The ground also seemed to be doing a delightful little lurching number. I spend several minutes trying to convince it to stop before finally pulling myself to my feet and staggering off in the direction of my dorm.

I walked back home by way of the park. It was fall, but it wasn't quite cold out yet. The walk was actually a little refreshing. I only stopped to dry heave twice.

As I walked in the dorm, I began to feel extremely sick. The world twisted sickeningly before my eyes. I politely asked God to kill me. "I must've done something to inspire your wrath, Lord," I said, "Smite me now!"

I paused, waiting for a lightening bolt.

"Please?"

Heavenly justice aside, I managed to reach room 999 without collapsing in a heap of misery. But the second I stepped in side however, I was on the floor quivering like a baby who saw his mother doinking Santa Claus.

In my swoon, I fell on the pile of dirty laundry where Balbott was sleeping. He was initially indignant and pissed at me. He left for a few minutes and came back with a funnel. He stuck it in my mouth. "Coffee's on the way, buddy," he said, "We're going to get through this."

Ah coffee, sweet, black, inky, incensing, devil-liquid from heaven, I owe my life to thee. Lovely, bitter, black coffee was being funneled into my throat. Aside from the hellish burning feeling, I was beginning to feel pretty damn good.

After a few minutes, I sat up again. "Wow, thanks Balbott!" I said.

A tiny voice came from under the pile of dirty laundry. "Think nothing of it. Get me some breakfast, damnit."

The Horror in the Mailbox

Once I realized the world stopped spinning around my head so much, I decided to head down to the dining hall for some breakfast. I found that my entire body craved a greasy, bland ham and cheese omelet. I seemed to be the one of the only people in the cafeteria that day. It was just me, and the grill cook.

Most colleges hire students to do a lot of the work around campus. The same was true with ours except in the case of the school cafeteria. Most of the people they hired were pretty cool; a couple of them freaked me out though.

One of these was Max. Max was a bald, six-foot man weighing in easily over three hundred pounds of raw muscle. The man was an ogre. Word had it that he took breaks from the grill to go shoot pure testosterone into his neck in the bathroom. While these rumors were never proven, they make one wonder.

I walked in on him while he was in the middle of a conversation with himself. He was scraping his spatula viciously against the surface of the grill, it was making a shrill grinding noise. "Fuckin' cigar-rolling bambi- fucks. I'll make 'em all pay."

"Hi," I said, "May I have a ham and cheese omelet, please?"

The grill cook looked at me, both eyes were blood-red. I looked like he had been scratching his face with something, it was all raw. "It's all PEACHES you stupid shit!" he bellowed at me. His veins were popping out of his neck.

I decided that it would be an ideal time to skip breakfast. I slowly backed away from the cook and ran back to my dorm. On my way in, I decided to stop and check my mail. Maybe my parents sent me more money.

There was no money in the mailbox, just a letter written on the school's stationary. It was a mid-semester progress report. It was sent from my old friend, Burnstalker. "Well what does the crazy old bastard have to say?" I wondered.

I opened it and scanned through the letter. A lot of it was hand-written. I felt like I was reading a desperate communiqué from someone jacked up on stackers with nubs where his hands should be. The handwriting looked worse than a six-year-old's.

Here's about as much as I could decipher:

"Dear Valued Student, I write to you to inform you that this week marks the halfway point in our great (something that looked like it was written in crayon). Attached below is a copy of your grade transcript for my class thus far, call me if you have any questions. Maybe I'll pick up the phone.

Sincerely, Dr. B."

There wasn't any sort of grade transcript attached to my letter. There was only a big, bold, ugly, curvy, "C."

I found myself about as angry as the grill cook I had seen earlier. I suppressed the urge to scream a bloody roar of rage that would cause the entire dormitory to collapse in on itself. I managed to calm myself down enough to read on. "Dr. B" had scribbled in a little note to me. I was touched he even remembered who I was.

"I am sorry both for you, and for your talent that you are only pulling a 'C' so far. I felt, (garbled handwriting) that you didn't open yourself up in class as much as you could have. I really enjoy your papers, but they lack a greater meaning. Try being more like Sarah. Be yourself! - B."

I wonder if he took the time to actually read what he wrote to me. I wondered if my writing sucked more than I thought it did. I wondered if this class could cause my GPA to drop enough to make me ineligible for my hefty scholarship I got from the university. I wondered if I stood on the roof of my dorm with a rifle, how many students I could pick off before the police came and took me away.

I walked up the stairs to my room taking long strides as I went. The entire way up, I kept repeating the mantra that was keeping me from going Hiroshima. "God damnit, god damnit, god damnit, god damnit." I clenched my fists, and grit my teeth; grinding them back and forth. A group of passing freshmen pressed themselves against the wall as I passed, I heard them whisper timidly to one another.

Burnstalker, that Café Latte drinking, sitar-adoring, turtleneck wearing motherfucker. I was so pissed off at him, I was breathing smoke.

"Fine," I thought, "If he wants me to 'open up' then I'm fucking opening the floodgates."

I opened the door, flinging the letter down, and seated myself in front of my laptop. Balbott peeked his head out from under one of my shirts. "Breakfast?" he asked, sleepily."

"Nope."

"When?"

"Not now, I'm getting ready to leave the heftiest manuscript I will ever type on his desk." I began to imitate Dr. Burnstalkers' raspy whisper of a voice, "He wants me to 'open up like Samayntha' I'll leave him the biggest phonebook of my personal life for him to grade. Ha!"

"What are you going to write about?"

That question had not occurred to me. Whereas forcing Burnstalker to grade 200 pages of filibustering from me appealed to my sense of humor, I had no idea what to write about. The thought about leaving a curse-ridden rant on his desk seemed amusing, but I remembered I was originally pissed about pulling a 'C'. I wanted a chance to bring my grade up while needling Burnstalker in the process. I decided to just type random sentences until an idea struck me, then I'd run with it.

Balbott the Communist Squirrel frowned at me as I started writing my novel. "Literature is a frivolous evil of the ruling class to keep the workers enslaved," he squeaked. "Well, I said, "Senseless projects which bring about an inferiority complex and suicidal depression are what separate us from the animals. What should my story be about?"

Balbott perched himself on an armchair, flipping through the Politics section of the newspaper with a hideous look of distaste on his face. "How about a novel where everyone ends up getting what they deserve?"

What a great idea. The local coffee shop being set on fire, all those moody black-wearing beatnicks scattering from it, feeling, leaving their bongo drums and shitty poetry behind. The football players on campus being forced to actually read a book. The shrieks of the annoying sorority sisters splitting the sky like a knife as gigantic killer robots hunted them down; I had to say, this idea appealed to me. Maybe I could make it work. It had to be a personal narrative, could I find some way of poking fun at my fellow students while still keeping it in between the lines?

Maybe. I'd have to watch my levels of bitter sarcasm. It's not that I hate anyone, people just amuse me so goddamn much, and my sense of humor is black as coal. It doesn't matter, if anyone accused me of being a misanthrope, I'd just make up some bullshit story about a torturous past of pain and misery. Why not? It works for everyone else.

Marty and the Proposition

At that moment, as if the universe felt my sudden flicker of goodwill, a guy I know from down the hall, Marty stopped by. Marty was a cool kid, just a little uptight. His mother put him through a rigorous upbringing of 12 years of Catholic school. We were starting to break him, open him up to the world, but our progress was very slow.

We all got plastered one night a few months ago. Marty was definitely the heart and soul of the evening. Somehow we got on the topic of faith. Marty delivered a brilliant speech concerning the book of Genesis that I will remember until the day I die.

"You see," Marty said, "People shouldn't be fighting about the whole creationism versus science thing. First of all, it doesn't matter. We're here, that's all that matters, I don't give a rat's ass whether it happened because someone pointed or whether I congealed over a million years or so. But let me ask you this, what sounds more godlike? An old man who sounds like Tom Brokaw sitting behind a podium suggesting the earth be made, then -pop- it is?"

"Fuck no, my God works with class. He'd sit back, setting a bunch of Hydrogen molecules to stew and gather for a few billion years, then at exactly the right second, FUCKING KAPOW MAN! Everything bursts into flames! My God would watch in a fucking Jacuzzi while huge balls of rock and gas flew screaming into the night to form planets. Then, after a while he arranges a lightening bolt to strike a puddle of organic goop at exactly the right second. KAPOW! LIFE! Then, after it was all done, he'd sit back, lit up a cigarette and say, 'Fuck am I awesome or what?"

I shook Marty's hand after that and told him that if he ever needed anything, that he could come to me. "I am indebted to you for that little oration, Marty."

Back to the present past. "Hey, could you do me a favor?" Marty asked.

"Sure man, what do you need?"

Marty scratched the back of his head, nervously. "Do you know the two girls on the first floor, Karen and Gretchen?"

Mmmmm. Sweet, delicious Gretchen. I could build an altar to your likeness and worship it all day long.

"Not too well, why?"

"Well, I have a bit of a crush on-"

As much as I liked Marty, so help me if he said 'Gretchen' I was going to club him with something heavy and blunt.

He concluded".Karen. The only thing is, I only barely know her, and I think it would be a little creepy if I just asked her on a date out of the blue. I was hoping you wouldn't mind asking them both out on a double date with us."

Finally! My window of opportunity was open! Fate had stopped raping me for the day! Cruel Karma took a lunch break and Satan said, "OK fellas let's leave the poor bastard alone for a little bit."

"I'm fine with it," I said, "But doesn't Gretchen have a boyfriend?"

"Nah, they broke up just yesterday. Something about him dorking a waitress at the Burger Bin."

It turns out, if you just wait long enough, Providence fights some of your battles for you. Here all this time, I had been praying for a chance to come to Gretchen's rescue like a night in shining armor. I pictured it about a million times, me saving her from her meathead testosterone bag of a boyfriend. I didn't have to now; I saved myself getting the living shit kicked out of me in the process. Joy.

"Sure thing, I'll ask the two later today."

Marty brightened, "Hey, Thanks!"

"No, thank you."

I had a 'C' and a bone to pick with an articulately-clad yuppie, but now I had hope, I had something to push on for. It was nice to have things to look forward to. The circle-jerk between parties, writing, and class was starting to get a bit boring.

Agitation, 150 Assholes, and Sociology Class

How to ask? How could I ask? I was so excited and nervous at the same time I was vibrating like a tuning fork. I needed something to calm my nerves and the pot of coffee I drank earlier was not doing the trick. I decided to put it off for Monday.

I had a lot of time to think about how to approach Karen and Gretchen without seeming like a creep. Luckily, I had a lot of class time that I would have spent sleeping otherwise. I was supposed to be in my Sociology lecture in ten minutes.

I loved the prof for that class. Never before have I had a teacher like him. One day he sat in a lecture hall of 300 students and told this story: "I used to work as a healthcare claims reporter for GM. One day, I got called to interview someone. I came to his house around ten in the morning and found a party had been going on there that was continued from the night before. They had a bong in the corner, and a few whippits, but it was a bit early for me."

One of the girls in the front row raised her hand. "What's a whippit?" she asked.

"Meet me after class," said the professor. What a cool guy.

The problem with lectures however, is that you're in a room filled with 300 people. Out of that three hundred, a good one hundred and fifty could be raging assholes. Let me break this 150 down into easily-manageable groups for you so you can shoot them on sight for me should you meet one.

The Ditzy Bitch and her 30 Socialite Friends: I'm absolutely certain you've run into this creature a few times. Perhaps you share my pain. This is the girl who comes to class, not to learn, not to take notes, and certainly not to pass tests, but rather to socialize with thirty of her excessive makeup wearing clone friends. You can notice these people without even seeing them. That shrill shriek of giggling and "OH MY GODS!" coming from the back of the room? Yeah that's them.

For some reason, these girls don't realize that you don't have to come to class if you don't want to. You could just as easily torment people anywhere else on campus. However, they always seem to choose to talk about that hot guy at the Olive Garden in my fucking classes.

Once, I turned around and politely asked that they not be so loud when discussing how they were going to, "Like, totally skip, for like, a pizza roll! Teeheheheheehehehehe!" Instead of wising up and taking their inane discussion of American Idol and cosmetics outside, they instead wrote me this crudely penciled, profanity-ridden accusation of my lack of a social life:

"U [sic] Fucking nerd! Y [sic] do u [sic] care if we tak [sic] about our fuckn [sic] lives or not? Is it becuz [sic] ur [sic] just jealus [sic] that we have lives and u [sic] r [sic] just a pathetic nerdboy? Fuck u [sic] Ha! Ha! Ha!"

As you can clearly see, I was arguing with one of the great debaters of our modern age. I backed off and found another seat in class and let some other poor sap deal with them. I should've stayed where I was, as a couple of them ended up dropping out of school because they got knocked up in a frathouse. Fate has a sense of humor.

My move to find peace in the lecture hall was in vain. I found myself seated right in front of a notorious Dweedle. You may find yourself wondering just what a Dweedle is. I guarantee you know at least a few.

Dweedles are perpetually skinny. I mean, an Ethiopian would look at these people and say, "Holy fuck, dude, eat a sandwich or something! Please!" Dweedles have buzz cuts, making them appear like gaunt old men at the age of 19. Dweedles sound like they breathe through a hole in their neck, a raspy, mucous-ridden whine emits from their gullet every time they inhale. They smell like a moldy basement and always sit behind you in class.

Because they sit behind you, Dweedles will always ask you questions about the course. Never mind that Dweedles attend class every single day, they can't think for themselves and will always be probing you for information. "What did the professor just say? What are you reading; is that homework? When's the test? What did you put down for question 21? What course is this? Why are you glaring at me like that? Who is the father of Sociology? Why are you banging your head against the desk until a puddle of blood forms on it?"

See, I told you that you knew a few.

You never see Dweedles before or after class, only during. This is strange, because logic tells us that they have to have a home of some sort. My theory is that they live in boiler rooms of old utility buildings. They spawn on damp mattresses in the dark. That would explain why their eyes look like huge incandescent baseballs.

I think I'm missing a group of assholes.

Right! The Pissy Nontraditional Students.

I'm treading on very shaky ground as I approach this subject. Though I think I alienated a good third of my audience by now, I might as well go hog wild.

There are a lot of good things to be said for people who have the resolve to return to college for continuing education. I heartily support these people. I'm all for anything that will cut down on the amount of uneducated people, especially in the idiot-ridden hellhole that is Northern Appalachia.

However, if a few of you nontrads are reading this right now, would you kindly repeat the following mantra with me: "I am not special for going to class when I'm forty years old. I am not special because a kid was squeezed out of my loins. Nobody cares about my daughter's ballet recital; least of all the professor who's trying to lecture while I'm telling him how adorable little Suzy looked dressed up as a Pretty Pony Princess. I will not expose my ignorance in class by whining about how I couldn't understand a piece of literature as tepid as Kafka's Metamorphosis. The students will not respect nor even enjoy my filibustering in the classroom; no one is impressed with my knowledge of three-cent words like "intermediary." I will complete the same amount of homework as everyone else, whether I am a single mother, normal college student, or Orantanga, Queen of Red Mars."

Holy fuck, does that feel good to get off my chest! Too often did I have to sit and feel my guts grind whenever the sociology professor brought up a subject dealing even remotely with child-rearing. Immediately, umpteen hands would shoot up into the air. Their owners, older women with T-shirts on that said such cute sayings as "World's Dopest Mother." They would then give their opinions on the subject that would invariably take up a good half of the class time. It seemed like they were saying, "Wait! This comment applies to ovaries! I have a used pair of ovaries! My opinions are more important than any other non-breeder here! Oh! Oh! Call on me! I wish to regale you with tales about my noble motherhood that no one else in Earth's six billion year history has every dealt with before! Oh! Oh! Oh!"

Fate, for some reason, was once again on my side for the duration of class time. The professor wasn't interrupted once, and I could almost hear myself think. What was even better, the professor was showing us an episode of "The Osbournes" as an example of how a dysfunctional family acts. Instead of watching one of the greatest rock gods of all time teeter around his house, drooling on himself, I decided to prepare my attack for Karen and Gretchen.

I needed to decide where we could go. I pulled out my wallet and opened it. There was only one thing in it, the world's smallest hobo. He screamed hoarsely at me when light hit his face. I closed the wallet back up and stuck it in my pocket. I'd have to hit a bank up soon. I had about ten dollars.

I was bomb broke, which limited my options for a place to go. The date would have to take place at the dollar budget theater. I just hoped the street people that are normally having sex in the back of it wouldn't be there when we showed up.

And after that, what? Where could I possibly go to eat with only eight dollars for two people?

A voice came from behind me, "-Wheeze- Hey, when's our paper do this week? -Gurgle-"

I didn't turn around, "Wednesday, I think. Why?"

"-Gag- -Gurgle- What's it on?"

"Pick a social taboo and research it."

"-Smack- -Glug- What's that?"

"Didn't you read the chapter?"

"-Pant- We have a book for this class?"

"Do you just want me to do the paper for you?"

"Could you? -Gollum- That'd be great!"

"I'll do it for twenty bucks."

"-Chortle- -Blop- -Grungle- -Grangsgageernearalalalaala-"

"You still with me, bud?"

"wheeeeeeeeeeeze"

"A twenty dollar bill has a pretty picture of a man named Andrew Jackson on it. You can find it in a thing called a wallet, that's probably in your back pocket. If it's not there, why don't you try checking the note your mother pinned to your chest?"

There was a long pause.

"-Glrubmpa- Ah, here you go." A twenty dollar bill was passed to me. There seemed to be a thin layer of slimy film coating it. No matter.

"I'll have your paper ready by Wednesday."

"-pugla- Paper?"

I had money. I had a little extra work to do, but I could go out the next weekend. Kickass.

The Setup

I got back to my dorm room and knocked the paper up for the Dweedle in a little over an hour. I felt good about myself. True, I charged him for my services, but this would probably be the only good grade the kid would ever get in that class. What's more, the professor wouldn't notice anything out of the ordinary about that fact, either. Not with 200 kids in the lecture. Hell, I was doing him a favor.

"Note to self," I thought, "Do this for beer in the future."

I had a good plan worked out too. I'll ask the two girls if they wanted to see some cutesy Disney film at the dollar theater. "White Anglo Saxon Cartoons Sing Mind-Numbing Songs of Glee and Go On Shitty Adventures ID #JKR156888945B-zeta" I think the title of the movie was.

After that, we could go out to a nice restaurant. Not steakhouse quality, but at least better than a buffet line in some rathole of a diner. So far things were going well, I just had to get the girls' OK on it. Then I'd run over the whole thing with Marty, give him some deep breathing exercises so he didn't hyperventilate to death, and then I'd be set.

Oh, I suppose that comment was unfair to Marty. I was just as scared as he was. What if they said no?

Holy shit, what if they said yes? I hadn't worked everything out that far yet. I'm an incredible chore to hang around for extended periods of time. I would have to do my best to not disgust them or scare them off. I made a mental note to myself not to tell any dead baby jokes during the car ride.

That would mean I'd actually have to think of some worthwhile conversation. What was it that girls my age were interested in again? My Little Ponies wasn't it?

It had been a few months since I actually had a girlfriend. I was long overdue for some sort of date. I decided to pull myself together so I wouldn't turn into one of those fat men you see in the trench coats. The ones you see at high school volleyball games even though they don't know anyone on the team. I remembered how they stood, staring and panting at the girls as they played.

Goo. It was time to stop fucking stalling and ask them.

I walked down the stairs trying to rehearse in my head how I'd pitch the question to her. I'd think of something.

As I approached Gretchen's room on the first floor, I saw her boyfriend. "Ex-boyfriend," I corrected myself, allowing myself a little giggle at the poor bastard's expense. He was standing a few doors down from her room, staring directly at her door. Obviously, he had a few separation issues. So he was a one of those creepy stalker ex-boyfriends, eh?

I love these kinds of people; they amuse me so damn much! Let me tell you, I've adored my fair share of unattainable women in my life, but I have never liked someone so much to stand outside of their place of residence and just stare like a goon. That's just me though. Maybe it's one of my character flaws. I've been called a heartless asshole in the past before. Maybe a pair of binoculars and deep breathy phone calls at four in the morning are the best way to say "I love you, baby." I'd have to try it out later.

I stopped at Gretchen's door. I was just about to knock when I felt two big, meaty, bone grinding fists grip me by the shoulders and spin me around. Our love stricken friend was scowling at yours truly, mere inches away from his face. His face was contorted in a way that would have struck me to the floor in fits of laughter had he not been squeezing my shoulders in that delightfully hellish fashion.

He spoke. The thing could speak! The skill may have been new to him, because he slurred all of his words together in one deep throated mess. "Whatareyoudoinroundmyfuckinbitchesdormroomyoumotherfucker."

"Sorry," I said, "I left my Macho to English Dictionary back in my room. Could you repeat that again, a bit slower maybe?"

He would have hit me had his RA not been turning down the hallway at that exact second. He let go and I gleefully scuttled into Gretchen's now-open door with the warm, gooey knowledge that I just pulled a fast one on death. Score one for the wormy guy!

Karen greeted me at the door. "I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner. I saw him giving you a hard time and was just about to pull you inside. Sorry that happened. That fucking dick has been standing out there all day."

"Yeah, well it says a lot for persistence doesn't it?"

Gretchen was seated on the bed, leaning over her guitar that she had been playing before I arrived. "Is he still out there?" she asked.

"Yes," Karen and I replied at once.

"Oh really?" She smiled at me. "Check this out."

Gretchen opened the door just a crack and peeked her head out at her ex. Her voice was dripping with honey. "Darling, I've been thinking about us lately and," she paused.

"Whutbabyanythingyouwantidoforyouanythingyouneedpleasetakemebackbabyiwontdoy ouwrongagainpleasegimmeanotherchancehoneybee."

Her voice changed slightly. It was strange and hard to describe. It's the kind of voice you'd expect to hear write before someone says "I have with me a warrant," or "Sorry chief, the child's yours," or "What the hell have you been doing with my cousin!?"

"Oh yeah," she said very slowly, "you're the ASSHOLE who picked up that tramp at the restaurant! Go to hell!" And then she slammed the door, giggling. "I love the stupid," she said to herself.

Good God, did I want her.

Karen rolled her eyes. "If you'd stop doing that he'd leave us alone."

"But he's just so much fun this way!"

My mouth was slightly agape. I knew I came down there for something, I just couldn't remember what it was anymore. Karen and Gretchen turned and looked at me simultaneously. Somewhere deep within me, I knew I was going to fuck this up.

"So what's up?" asked Karen.

My brain struggled to find an idea, got one, fumbled it, crawled on its hands and knees looking for it like a contact lens, found something, picked it up, realized it wasn't the idea it was looking for but rather the keys to an old Ford Festiva, panicked, quickly prayed to whatever deity that happened to be listening at the time, and decided to pull out one of the tried-and-true conversation starters it kept on file for just such an occasion.

"So how're your classes going?" I asked neither of them in particular.

In Retrospect

How I managed to do it, I'll never know. But I did and that's all that mattered. They seemed to enjoy the idea and we scheduled the movie for 9p.m. that Friday. That's about all I can remember from the encounter. Reader, I'd give you a play-by-play of how I brilliantly managed to drag that little mission out of the shitter, but I honestly blacked out. I guess I threw myself into bare-bones auto-pilot figuring I could do much better if I wasn't thinking so much.

No matter what, it worked! It fucking worked! Two poor girls were duped into thinking I and my sheltered friend Marty were interesting enough to spend a valuable Friday evening with! Those poor deluded fools!

Perhaps I was too hard on them and myself. I did recall what my last girlfriend's parting words with me were: "You interest me on no conceivable level. God knows I've tried, but hell. I can't explain it, I'm going to hit on your best friend now. Bye, loser." What a peach that girl was.

After I got that out of the way, I hung around and actually had a pretty decent conversation with both of the girls. I learned some pretty interesting history on Gretchen's room.

Gretchen loved her dorm room on the first floor. She had a nice view of the common lawn with all of its trees, grass, and flowers. Ivy crawled up the sides of her window and birds sang to her at night.

She had just one problem with all of this.

The rabbit.

She'd see it whenever she casually glanced out her window. It would stare at her with eyes as big as saucers. It had no expression; it just stared at her unwaveringly.

She started drawing the blinds ever since the day she was changing clothes to go to a party and heard the "chi-click" of a camera shutter and the soft padding of tiny feet bouncing away in the grass.

I originally doubted this. It just seemed too weird to be true. I asked Gretchen if she'd mind if I took a peek through the blinds. I wanted to see it for myself.

"Sure," she said, "Just let me get out of the way of the window. I don't want to see that thing staring at me."

Gretchen hid herself in a corner and I opened the blinds to take a quick look outside. I scanned the lawn but did not see anything unusual. I was about to turn back to the girls and tell them that there wasn't anything out there when something under a park bench about one hundred yards away caught my eye.

Sure enough, there it was. I was surprised I could see it at all from that distance, the whites of its humongous eyes gave it away.

I stared at it.

It stared right back.

My eyes began to water.

The rabbit never blinked. It opened its expressionless mouth and took a deep breath, never taking its eyes off of mine.

I closed the blinds and turned back to the girls. "Holy cow, that's spooky."

Now I was back on the third floor, safe from the rabbit's empty stare. I sat down to start my hideously long narrative to Dr. Burnstalker. I had a great idea for what to give him. "This will really blow him out of the water," I thought.

I go into a comatose state when I write. I'm not conscious of anything that's going on around me. I just write, get coffee, listen to shitty techno music, write, drink more coffee, write, change the occasional CD, drink coffee, and write.

I must have been a good three thousand words into the narrative by now. It was getting dark outside. I was due to get myself some dinner soon. I'd talk to Marty afterward and fill him in on the girls.

I yawned and stretched a bit, staring at my empty coffee mug slightly disappointed. My dormitory forbids coffee makers on the grounds that they are a fire hazard. I was oh-so-happy with this. God knows how many times my parent's house was consumed in a roaring inferno because I decided to make myself a pot of dark Columbian blend. I was grateful the school was once again looking out for me.

Because of this life saving rule, I had to drink coffee that was sold in tiny single-serving teabags. Did you ever drink this stuff? It's the most hateful concoction known to man. It's like drinking a big steaming mug of troll piss.

Since my dorm also forbids personal microwaves, I had to use the common one in the basement. Every time I needed coffee, I marched down the stairs to where the sixty year old contraption sat brooding in the corner. I had to chase away some kids who were mutating flies in it for kicks. After putting on a lead apron and protective goggles, I nuked my shitty coffee and went back upstairs to work.

I was getting ready to save my progress when I heard a gentle tapping at my window. I turned around from my computer and faced the huge, white, staring eyes of the rabbit.

We stared at one another briefly. It felt like his gaze was boring a hole through my head. How the hell did he get up to my third floor window? He was sitting perched on the ledge outside of my window, unmoving and expressionless as ever.

I was about to get up and close my blinds. The rabbit once again opened his expressionless mouth and breathed slowly on the window pane, leaving a large foggy mark. Without taking his eyes off me, he lifted one of his tufted paws and began to write on the glass.

"R."

This was really starting to scare me.

"E"

"D"

"R"

I was beginning to wonder if I was seeing things. Maybe the microwave left a little bit of fallout in my troll's piss coffee.

"U"

"M"

Well, my mind was certainly made up about what to do. I walked over to the window and flung it open outward with all of my force. The rabbit still never took its eyes off of mine. It struggled to maintain its balance before falling end over end to the ground below. I heard the snapping of twigs and branches as it landed in a bush three floors below my windowsill.

That was that.

I walked to the cafeteria, avoiding the grill cook while I was there. I walked back to my room, ate my food in silence while writing a bit more. I was pretty happy with my progress so far.

After I was done for the night, I decided to pay Marty a visit. I told him about our plans. The little guy was so ecstatic. I managed to pry his arms from around me eventually and returned to my dorm.

I tried finding Balbott, but he was nowhere in sight. I searched my pile of perpetually unwashed clothing, but could turn up no sign of him. I popped "The Lost Boys" into my DVD player and was about forty-five minutes into it before passing out on my couch.

I couldn't have been certain, but I thought I heard breathing outside my window just as I was falling asleep.

I'll Do One Better than Dante

I had a reoccurring dream that had been going on for a few weeks. Almost every night, it was the same. I stood outside of a house with an invitation to a girls only sleepover in my hand. As you can imagine, I was very excited about this.

I stood outside the door to the house where this was taking place. Sounds of giggling came out of the second floor window. My heart rejoiced as I walked up to the front door, but someone was blocking my way. Nyarglathahotep answered the door. As usual, his voice sounded like it was coming from very far away.

"sorry, i can't let you upstairs, but do you want a swig of this shit?" A bottle was floating in his tendrils.

"Eh, no thanks. Could you please let me upstairs?"

"no can do."

And then from the upstairs window a girls voice came, Gretchen's. "Teehee! Who wants to have a pillow fight?"

"wow man, i feel really sorry for you."

I wasn't going to be able to get through the front door. I'd try going around the left side of the house, maybe there was a backdoor there. Then I could enter through that, and bouncing girls in pajamas hitting each other with pillows would be my reward.

Dr. Burnstalker was standing, blocking my way. He was locked in a passionate embrace with the shade of Walt Whitman. "Walt," said Burnstalker, "I envy your skill, let me pay homage by imitating you." He then launched into verse, "Master teacup I remember when we flew across dawns of existential. mermaids. supped. Ohgreatestof."

Walt Whitman looked emotional. "Garble fink Nargle doo!" he said to Burnstalker.

"Walt!" said Burnstalker, exasperated, "That was so touching!"

"Hello," I said, "Would you mind letting me pass? There's a party I'm invited to in there, and an alcoholic Elder God is guarding the front door."

Burnstalker looked at me distastefully, upset that I was interrupting his moment. "I will let you pass, but first let me hear you recite one of this Great Master's poems." He indicated Whitman by looking passionately into his eyes.

"Eat me. I can't stand Whitman."

"Braggart!" shrieked Burnstalker, "Then you shall not pass!"

I decided to leave those two to whatever they were up to and try my luck around the right hand side of the house. There was a voice from the upstairs window again, "This movie just makes me so upset that my boyfriend and I broke up. Could you hold me, Sally?"

I broke into a dead sprint and rounded the right hand side of the house.

There was a long line of people blocking my path. They were in a perfect line, each member sat blankly staring at the head of the person who stood in front of him. I immediately recognized them as Genos.

What are Genos? Genos are a cult that originated in our campus. Their cult held only one belief, that gray was supreme and color was evil. The followed a vague belief system titled "the Gray Path" in the hopes that when they reached enlightenment, they would be enveloped in a bland, gray light.

Genos all dressed alike. They wore gray T-shirts, gray slacks, and gray tennis shoes. All of their heads were shaved. There was not a scrap of actual color on them. Color, they said, was an evil known as Prismaticism. For worship, Genos stood in line, staring blankly ahead. However, they would turn around and preach to whoever walked past.

"Excuse me," I said, tapping the Geno at the head of the line on the shoulder, "I was wondering if you could possibly let me around to the back of this house."

The Geno slowly turned and stared blankly at me. "I am sorry, Prismatic brother, but only those enlightened to the Gray Path may pass this way."

"Please guys," I pleaded, "There's a lot of scantily-clad women in there who are waiting for me to show up."

The Geno may have frowned slightly, but that could have just been my imagination. "Brother, Sex is a frivolous evil of the Prism. We renounce sex as it reeks of color."

"How do you people procreate then?"

"Petri dishes and turkey basters."

"Please let me pass."

"Join the Gray Light, brother.

"Ugh, nevermind. Have a nice day."

"Have a day," the Geno corrected me.

I walked through the front yard and out to the street. I sat on a curb, cursing my dumb luck. I noticed a figure that was standing in the night, just outside the streetlights.

"There is a way into the party," the nondescript shadowy figure said to me. "But it lies through very hard roads, and runs through very horrible places."

"Who are you?" I asked.

The figure stepped into the light. He was wearing a pair of faded, ripped blue jeans and old, battered shoes. A flannel shirt was tied around his waist. He was wearing a black shirt with a yellow smiley face on it. The shirt was peppered with holes. The smiley face's smile was a squiggly yellow line. It had x's for eyes. The man's chin was scraggly as if he hadn't shaved in a couple days. Long, stringy blond hair fell around his shoulders and hung in his eyes.

"Holy shit!" I said, recognizing him immediately. "Are you then that greatest of grunge rockers? That poet of alienation? The smasher of guitars? The doer of a ton of fine chyna? Are you that Kurt Cobain?"

"Hi," Kurt said, lighting a cigarette. "As I was saying, the trail we are about to take will lead us through some pretty rough areas, but it will take us right behind that house that you wish to enter. I can take you that far, but cannot lead you any further."

"Why?" I asked, "Aren't you worthy enough?"

"No, there's an unlocked door back there. I'm not going to hold your hand the entire way through this. You're the one who wants to get to breasts, not me."

"Hey, Kurt," I said, haltingly, "I just wanted you to know, that all of my friends and I were really torn up when we heard about your suicide. You meant a lot to us."

There was a really long, uncomfortable pause.

"Suicide?" Kurt asked, honestly confused.

I coughed.

Kurt wrinkled up his brow. "I think," he paused, "that we had better get going. We have, um, a lot of Hell to go through if you want to get to the party."

We turned around, away from the house and started walking.

Dante Subchapter One

A bus pulled up in front of us, the door hissed open and a thick steam spilled out onto the ground. Nyarglathahotep was driving, he was taking a swig from a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

"Weren't you just inside the house?" I asked as I boarded.

Nyarglathahotep's eyes burned a deeper, fierier green. "I am the void of all that is destruction and chaos in the universe. I am everywhere, and no where at the same time. I use this to be an omnipresent entity looming at the edge of every man's life."

He paused to add, "I can also use my omnipresence to get boldly fucked up whenever I wish. I am currently drinking in fifty-two bars across thirty inhabited solar systems. As we speak, four of me are starring in a low- budget porno being filmed just off one of the stars in Orion's belt."

The bus was put into gear and I felt it lurch ahead. We were cruising along at a steady clip until we started nearing the gates of Hell, then we got stuck in a huge traffic jam. I should have seen that coming.

A large flashing neon sign attempted to direct traffic into eternal damnation. "Future Denizens of Upper Hell keep left." As we slowly progressed, I read a bunch of badly-scrawled signs stuck along the side of the road into hell. Each sign had a single word written in red across it.

"You"

"Are"

"Really"

"Fucked"

"Now"

Kurt was reading the signs with a slightly disappointed expression on his face. "Man," he said, "This is really bumming me out. Do you want to take a hit of this? I've been saving it for just such an occasion."

Normally I would have turned him down. But how often would I ever get the chance to do this with a famous deceased rockstar? I accepted, though after we finished the trip seemed to turn into a huge blur in my memory.

At this point the Elder God had slumped over the wheel of the bus in a drunken stupor. We rolled over the smaller vehicles on our way into Hell. To any souls still encased in their crushed cars outside of Route 666, I'd like to take this time to apologize to you. Please understand that it wasn't my fault but rather the filthy drunk driving our bus.

We eventually rolled to a stop in Hell's massive parking lot. Kurt and I quietly excused ourselves from the bus as Nyarglathahotep lay passed out in a puddle of lime-green drool. As we exited the bus, we heard its doors hiss with steam and close behind us. I turned to wave goodbye to the driver, but was blinded when the bus soundlessly disappeared in a plume of flame.

I had arrived in Hell.

Subchapter Two: A Romp Through Eternal Damnation

How do you picture Hell in your mind's eye? Is it a bottomless pit? A vast field of burning sulfur and lava? An empty space of infinite blackness?

You couldn't be further off. Hell is a vast strip mall. It's perpetually the hottest day of the summer there, and the humidity is so high you are covered in a wet, sticky film seconds after you step out of your car and into the parking lot.

The damned are all separated according to their sins in self-contained stores on the strip mall. Brutal neon signs told us about the tortures contained within: "Everything Feces" caught my eye. There was also a loud booming noise where certain sinners were condemned to spend the rest of eternity in a room filled with loud subwoofers. As Kurt and I walked down the strip, another store sign "Boiling Lemon Juice and the Paper Cut Hut," stood out.

"So where do you stay down here?" I asked Kurt.

"I'm in the Lobby of Virtuous Pagans," he replied. "There's a few old Greek scholars and shit in there, but mostly it's full of dead rock stars. We have some great times in there, Hendrix and I."

We paid a visit to the Lobby. There was a huge party going on in there, which seemed slightly ironic being that we were in Hell and all. I guess it's possible to have a good time anywhere you want.

Kurt left my side for a bit and took a seat in the corner, brooding and looking slightly melancholy. I went around and talked to some of my favorite dead people. Most of the Ramones were down there, as well as Jimmy Hendrix, Layne Stayley, Brad Nowell, and most of Eddie Vedder (he's been halfway dead for some time now).

In addition to a bunch of dead rockers, there were also a few porn stars down there. I ran into the shades of both Bambi Woods and Bettie Page. They hanging off of either side of Nyarglathalhotep, who, true to his multi- dimensional nature, was also at the party having a few hundred drinks.

I was enjoying myself for a couple hours when Kurt Cobain came up and tapped me on the shoulder. "Social gatherings bore me, are you ready to leave yet? We still have a lot of crap to see before we're done."

"Actually," I said, "I think I've seen all I want of Hell. I'd much rather like it if you just dropped me off at the slumber party."

"But that flies in the face of the divine plan that. Ah hell, I don't care any more than you do. Let's find the damn bus."

We walked outside where the bus sat enshrouded in a red mist. The Elder God was still slumped over the wheel in a puddle of his own drool.

Kurt kicked the void sitting in the driver's seat, a strange thing to watch as his foot seemed to disappear into Nyarglathalhotep's void. "Wake up, damnit. I want to get this over with and go back home."

"Pleesh, fish mizzle mazzle," slurred the drunken god and the bus shifted into gear and pulled out of Hell.

Subchapter Three: Wrapping This Shit Up as Fast as I Can

I've long ago parted ways with anything that seemed like a story line. Stay with me as long as you can and I promise I'll try not to disappoint you too much.

The bus roared into the voids that are the gulfs between the differing dimensions of the afterlife. Kurt Cobain sat in the first seat with his head cocked in his hand. With a bored tone he told me what parts of hell we were passing.

"That's the circle for liars, flatterers, cat-fuckers, star wars fanboys- god can't this bus go any faster?"

"Workin' on it," said Nyarglathalhotep.

The bus gunned it and I soon couldn't make out any more of Hell's scenery. There wasn't much to see; surprisingly, Hell is quite boring. Watching people suffer is only entertaining for so long. I mean, I'm sure a hardcore misanthrope, DMV clerk, or a cop would get a huge kick out of it, but Hell is mostly a one-trick pony.

Stars and unnamable shapes swirled and puked themselves in front of the window. We were bridging the gulf between Heaven and Hell. All of the flotsam of eternity was passing by the bus at nearly the speed of light. Outside of my window, I could faintly make out the body of Jimmy Hoffa floating by. Well I'll be damned I thought.

"See that blue-green speck up ahead?" asked Kurt. "That's the planet that contains the oldest civilization in the known multiverse. It's inhabitants are so artistically advanced their birthday cards are more moving than all of our love songs combined. They spend every moment in a sublime daze, everyone loves one another there, there is no war. There-"

There was a splat as the blue-green speck flattened itself against the window of the bus. Nyarglathalhotep swore and switched on the wiper blades.

Kurt settled back into his seat and muttered, "I hate my job."

We sped on into the void. After what seemed like hours, we approached a blinding white light that grew brighter and more annoying every second.

Kurt continued, "Here we are approaching Heaven, population thirty-five. We'd get out but the people up here are really creepy. Smug "I'm-not-in- eternal-suffering" jerks."

Heaven had some curious scenery to it. I'm not quite sure how to describe what I saw. Did you ever go on the ride at Disney World, "Small World?" Yeah, it's like that. Lots of sugary-sweet, cherub-faced things dancing around singing high-pitched, simplistic, catchy songs.

"It's a world of suffering, a world of woe/ but about that ickiness we wouldn't know/ It's a thing that you learn / that we laugh while you burn/ it's a swell afterlife after all"

Kurt and I both shuddered; on cue it seemed.

Heaven, being roughly the size of a Wal-Mart, didn't take long to travel across. We rounded the turn to head back to the party.

"You see," said Kurt, "We're going so fast, we're actually going to time- travel. We should be getting to the party at the exact moment you leave. Maybe even with a couple hours to spare; time enough for you to scrub off some of that godawful cologne you're wearing."

I smiled, "Great Scott!"

Nyarglathalhotep chortled. "You win the pop-culture contest! Bwahaha!" He turned around to face me, not paying attention to where he was going at all. "You know, I've made this trip about six hundred times, and not once had I even thought about 'Back to the-"

-KATHWUMP-

We had hit something. Something large.

The doors of the bus hissed as our driver opened them to inspect the cause of the noise. He drifted out of the doors and stood on a cloudbank at the very edge of heaven. All around my window, cherubs, pixies, and puffballs with big blue eyes floated; unicorns pranced, teddy bears danced, and little children with overly-rosy cheeks sang an endless song of "la la la la la la la la la la."

This place oozed and stank of cute.

The elder god drifted to the front of the bus. There was a few seconds of quiet before we heard an exasperated "Fucking Nun-piss!" come from Nyarglathalhotep.

Kurt and I got up and rushed out of the bus to see what caused this outburst.

There was also a great interest among the cuter inhabitants of heaven concerning what we hit. Teddy bears, ponies, puppies, anthropomorphic bunnies, and sentient clouds of purple glitter closed in around the bus in a giant ring. I was starting to get very, very nervous.

Kurt was annoyed more than anything. He was pacing around the bus with purpose. "What are we out here for what did your crappy driving cause us to- "

Kurt's mouth was slightly agape.

"Holy shit."

Our driver, in his carelessness, had embedded a rather large unicorn in the grill of the bus. It was very almost dead.

The ring of cute things pressed closer among us.

Kurt talked very carefully, not making any sudden moves. "I think," he said, "that we had better get back in the bus. Now."

As we slowly edged our way toward the safety of the bus, Nyarglathalhotep produced a crowbar from his void and began prying the unicorn off the grill. There were several horrified gasps among the gathered crowd.

What the Hell Was I Thinking?

After what seemed like an eternity, the bus roared into the backyard of the house. True to his word, Kurt had dropped me off right before I left. As I stepped out of the bus, I stared up at the second-story window, overjoyed, exasperated.

Confused.

I turned around and asked Kurt the question that my readers were no doubt asking themselves pages and pages ago.

"What the hell was all that about?"

"I can't help ya there, son. You're the person who's actually read the Divine Comedy, not me. But in the original, Dante wanted to get to his own kickass party, but shit was standing in his way. Instead of doing what he should have, which was murdering the three beasts with a pickaxe, he took the long way around. He instead chose the path of hardship and ultimately learned more and experienced more than he would have had everything been given to him on a silver platter."

The doors closed and the bus vanished in a whiff of green smoke.

I felt as if I had just been let in on some big secret, but I just couldn't figure it out. I set off in the direction of the door, hearing the girls' voices. I was going to enjoy this.

Rude Awakening

Somewhere in the room, Balbott was screaming.

"Where did that rabbit come from! Holy cow!"

There was a loud crash, and then the slam of a door as Balbott stood with his back pressed against it. He was panting heavily.

"Where have you been?" I asked, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

"I've been out doing some things for the movement," said Balbott, "You know, getting some balls rolling, planning on the re-education of Preston." Balbott cracked his tiny knuckles and muttered, "Re-education with a block of wood with a nail sticking through the end of it-"

He continued, "And I came back here to find some creepy-eyed rabbit staring at me right outside of your door. We stared at each other for a while, when I couldn't take it anymore, I blinked. When I opened my eyes again, the little freak was three centimeters away from my face, literally breathing down my neck. I lost my composure and ran in here as fast as I could, knocking over your draft glass when I hit the desk."

He stared at the shards of what was once my favorite drinking glass, "Sorry about that."

I stared at the floor, "I really loved that glass."

"Don't get too angry with me," said Balbott, "I did you a huge favor earlier today."

"Really, and what might that have been?"

"I knew you were planning on finally getting the chutzpah to ask that Gretchen girl out. Now that she's dumped that brick-shitting meathead your chances of getting her were much greater."

"Wait, 'were much greater'? What does that mean?"

"Do you know that kid down her hallway? The one with the frosted blonde hair and who always looks like he's wearing eyeliner?

"Yeah, that's Julian, the metrosexual he-bitch."

"Well I saw the little chooch doing this sympathetic 'friend' spiel around Gretchen. You know the deal, 'Aw, it's alright, you can cry on my shoulder. Let it all out, baby. I'm sympathetic and unthreatening because I'm more of a female than you are. You know what? I always wondered what it would be like to be as close to you as he was blah blah blah.' He was trying to woo her with estrogen, man."

"No!"

"Yes! Well when I went by, I saw this guy singing some weak John Mayer bullshit while Gretchen played her guitar. Things were going too well for this guy, so I ran into the room and did a little coitus interruptus before things got too out of hand."

"What did you do?"

"Girls, I've found, are suckers for small cute furry things. I simply ran in there and acted like an adorable squirrel. Her attention was averted from Julian and centered on me. After a while, Julian got frustrated that a living beanie baby was getting more attention than he was, and he went back to his room."

"And the fact that she thinks you're my pet-"

"Exactly, my presence got Karen and Gretchen talking about the date with you and Marty later this week. When I left them they were discussing the good qualities that both you and Marty have. I think they're actually excited to be going."

"I love you, do you know that?"

"I'm just showing my gratitude for you feeding and housing me. If I see Julian around her room in his turtleneck and pre-faded Abercrombie and Fitch jeans, I'll do the same thing."

"Wow, I'm beginning to think that this could actually work."

"Yeah, just don't screw it up after everything I've done for you."