In this wild, outrageous, sexy thrill-ride of a novel, a young man is kidnapped by his dream woman for a violent night of sex, crime, madness, and terror. This culminates in an explosive finale of tragic murder ripped straight from today's headlines! C'mon! Hop in! The ride's just getting started...
It was the pounding down force of the music that seemed
to rock them all to a sort of religious ecstasy. Wasn't it, after all, the tribal drumbeats of certain native African witch doctors that were supposed to call forth the spirits from beyond? He wasn't sure; he could hardly see now why it even mattered.
There were an assortment of skinny young girls here; all clad in the same regulation black, scuffed jeans, worn gray at the seems by the endless moving of the material up shapely, skinny young hips. It was a real gasser to look at.
Tanner was so drunk he could barely stand up. He kept walking around the room, minutes passing by in the firmament of time, making the late evening into the early morning. He passed some drunken man who was busily rubbing the crotch of a hopeful amour. In the kitchen, the guitar player was having a heartfelt conversation about beating up some of his classmates at a young age. Tanner sincerely hoped he didn't, tonight, decide to demonstrate his technique upon the weaker ones assembled.
The air was heavy with the smoke of cannabis, marijuana, dank...call it what you will. He took a regulation puff. He needed to make these people feel calm.
It was a communal thing amongst grass smokers to pass a little...but don't bogue the joint, and for gods sake don't fink on anybody's weed. It was beyond the pale of what could be considered proper etiquette to do such a thing.
Tanner was what a generous person might call "socially inept". It is never a good idea for the socially inept to be intoxicated in a room full of testy egos all vying for the attention of young ladies of loose virtue. It is never a good idea...but Tanner rarely had good ideas.
More often than not, he had trouble. When he had tagged along to this affair, he was, it assumed, still sober enough to maintain his social composure in front of the assembled. He had assumed that, at least. Unfortunately, it was failing to be true.
Already, he had bumped the swelling breast of the bustiest
maiden at the party. It had been completely unintentional, but I was the fact that, while it was happening, he had been too astounded to even move. Hell, he was sure he didn't even vibrate for a moment.
The tit in question had been kept snugly in a rayon boustiere affair that must have dated from at least 1970, but his bare hand (or the back of it at least) had swept down the curving slope of that unseen breast, to the pugnacious erection of the nipple in question. The breast that that nipple was attached to belonged to a body that was little, well-proportioned, and gabbing drunkenly with a great, imbecilic oaf of a man that must have been the boyfriend. Tanner, before he even knew it, was being verbally assaulted by a series of harsh, barking voices calling him a plethora of nasty, suggestive names.
"You f**king asshole, why dontcha---"
Her gapey little face suddenly shot into a million particulates of infinitesimal disgust. Her bonehead boyfriend leaned over, and slurred, "Hey dickface, do you want to meet me outside?"
Tanner turned drunkenly, and suddenly a group of several anonymous strangers seemed to stumble between them, cutting Tanner off from almost certain death. But it would not last.
A young guy in a tie came ambling into the room. He had blood all over the front of his shirt. Suddenly, Tanner Benjamin felt an icy jab in his ribs. A great explosion of pain sent sparkles flying across his field of vision. He had been sucker-punched, and had been too drunk to see it coming. He fell backward into a loping retreat, past drunken sweaty faces, past bony female faces adverting displeasure at the young body hurling itself through space and across the living room floor to the battered screen door that promised a mode of escape from Big Authoritative Jock Boyfriend.
Outside, some wilted teenage co-ed was busy throwing up dorm food onto the otherwise nice white driveway. Fresh air hit him like a soothing balm, and he took one deep, shuddering
breath to still himself. You could probably hear the music inside several blocks away.
He walked, or rather, stumbled off the porch, past the assembled friends of the puking girl, and ambled out into the darkness of the yard. Suddenly, behind him loomed the Darth Vader visage of his assailant; a massive, quarterback-style silhouette that was making it's confused way outside to finish the job it had begun. Tanner realized he would have to hustle away from this ogre quickly, lest the scent of blood arouse the rest of the pack.
He began to try and disappear down the sidewalk, weaving in and out between people coming from, and going to, the party. The ogre simply stood on the porch, following him in the darkness with drunken eyes, and holding out one meaty fist, saying:
"Yeah, that's right little boy, you better run. Know you'll get your ass kicked. Messing with my girl..."
He shouted in short, declarative bursts of bully lingo, but at least, Tanner sighed, he was going to let Tanner go. Then, the icing on the cake. The one event of the evening that, somehow, made everything, seem a little bit better.
The fast approach of the lighted squad car. The party was over, for all of those who hadn't been sucker-punched, at least.