Entry #674779, added on 11-05-09 @ 11:32 pm EST
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| actually the beginning of chapter 2: 1842 words | Entry #674779 |
Chapter Two
The day’s events could only be topped by a really fantastic after-party, which was scheduled to take place that night at Zachary Stanley’s suite. Yes, Zachary Stanley lived in not a house but a suite, the penthouse suite of the most expensive executive living complex in town. It was so expensive that residents were not allowed to have kids or pets, unless they were the Stanleys. The Stanley Suite included a designated elevator, a pool terrace, the largest screen TV money could buy, and loft-style upper area perfect for entertaining, with a bar and a stage. Zachary Stanley had the school’s most successful rock band scheduled to rock the house that night, with a professional DJ for between sets.
Braden had never stopped to ponder the effects his prank might have on numbers at Zachary’s party, as some potential attendees may wind up grounded. Braden, smooth-talker that he was, never got grounded.
After dinner, Braden changed into his best pair of pre-worn, pre-faded jeans, and his best plain black t-shirt with a burgundy vest over top. As he was tying his denim Converses, he called out his goodbyes to his parents.
Mr. James appeared in the front hall. “Where are you going?”
Still stooped, Braden looked up at his dad. “Party. Today was the last day of school, ever.”
His mother got in on the parenting. “Where is the party, Braden?”
Braden grinned. “At the Stanleys’. Don’t worry, it’s chaperoned. All the domestic help will be there.”
Mr. James folded his arms and nodded his head. “Sure. Well, if you feel like, you know, things are getting at all out of, you know, control, and you… if you don’t feel you can drive home, give us a call. Don’t worry about-“
Braden cut his dad off. “It’s a dry party, Dad. Believe it or not, the class of 2010 are not a bunch of alcoholics like you and mom were when you were my age.” He grinned again to show his parents he was only messing with them.
Both parents grinned back, his mother a little more hesitantly. She was always a bit less trusting than his dad was.
“Well,” Mr. James said, “have fun then. But stay in touch, if you need anything.” Mr. James was a large man with a needly voice; he looked imposing until he opened his mouth. Mr. James had worked hard all his life to be likable despite his auditory shortcomings.
Mrs. James was the ultimate trophy wife. Mr. James still proudly displayed her at company events, social outings, and generally around town. Despite her age and having gone through natural child-birth, Mrs. James was a veritable Madonna, the pop-music star, not the virgin mother. Every now and then she tried her hand at parenting, and this was one of those times, as her only begotten son celebrated his successful completion of grade school.
“No booze, no sex; don’t do nothin crazy, honey.”
Braden kissed his mom on her powdery cheek and dropped into the garage for his truck. He had certainly acquired the best traits from both his parents: his mom’s awesome looks and charisma, and his dad’s great physique and super-intelligence.
Braden drove downtown to join with his adoring fans at the Stanley Suite.
Josh and Matt were already there. Josh was on a black-leather sofa, sipping rum and coke out of a Big Gulp cup and trying to choose between two of his favourite vixens to make out with. Matt was banging his head to the sweet sounds of Bobble-Head Jesus and ignoring the three hopefuls who were trying to create the last opportunity to become his one and only high-school girlfriend.
A pretty hired-helper offered to take Braden’s vest, which he declined, and young hispanic gentleman offered him tidbits off a silver platter.
Braden decided to locate his host before joining Matt in moshing.
He found Zachary in party-central, the kitchen, doing sourpuss shots with a bunch of other rich guys and girls. Braden’s family had heaps of money, but they were not as rich as the Stanleys, obviously.
“Braden, dude, what’s happenin?” Zachary drawled, extending his fist. Braden punched it and then took the purplish-pink girly shot that one of the others offered him.
“Looks like everything’s under control,” he said. He looked deep into the eyes of the neatly polished rich girl next to him and said, “How about you, babe. You under control?”
The girl’s giggling indicated that she wasn’t, and everyone raised their little glasses of chemical swill, clinked, and shot. Sourpuss always impressed Braden as being closely akin to melted Sour Skittles dissolved in battery acid. He puckered his lips, said “Agh,” and went back to the music-appreciation area.
Bobble-Head Jesus were just gearing up in their first set. They did mostly cover work, in the vein of Marilyn Manson, plus a few of their own songs, including the song they were just starting with a squeal of guitar and an pounding of Reg, the lead singer’s, palm on his mic.
At an almost indecipherable pace, Reg leaned into his mic and shouted “Gay marriage gra-nola mother killer ab-duction!” four times, with nasty guitar riffs between to drive the lyrics home.
Matt and Braden banged their heads and made the metal sign. They would never, EVER listen to death metal if it wasn’t being performed by Reg. Neither would anyone else in the room. Reg didn’t really mean it though. Oh, his lips were painted black, and he was wearing studded leather pants, jacket, biker-gloves, and perhaps socks; Reg had two-foot long hair dyed coal-black and permed snowboard-straight, and had tattooed ‘love’ and ‘hate’ across his knuckles in grade nine, but Reg didn't really mean it. Reg was going to be an attorney.
After a couple more songs, Reg and his bandmates decided to give their fingers a rest, and came down to join the other revelers on the floor, while the DJ took over. The DJ started his set with some of the closest things to heavy metal he could find, namely Red Hot Chili Peppers followed by Cavo, but then someone assured him that it wasn’t a metal party and someone else requested Britney Spears, so he relaxed into a nice set of cheerful sexy dance music.
“Dude!” Braden shouted over the thump of bass and whine of Britney, “That was awesome! You guys rock!”
Reg, silent as always off stage, nodded his appreciation and set off in search of a beverage. The rest of the band followed him.
Matt said, “I love those blokes.”
“Yeah,” Braden said. “Remember the Guitar-Hero competition at the mall last year?”
Matt laughed. “Yeah, dude, I’d been taking lessons for like four years and thought I’d be pretty good at it, but Chan kicked my ass all the way to freakin Disneyland!”
“Maybe you should challenge him to a re-match,” Braden said. “Now that they have like Guitar-Hero Beatles or whatever.”
“Beatles are awesome, dude; I love the Beatles!” Matt said. “Don’t be dissin the Beatles.”
Braden said in his best London accent, “Oh, right, I forgot we were talking about your home-boys. So very sorry, won’t happen again, jolly good, righty-ho.”
Matt smirked. “Nice. When have I ever said ‘jolly good’ or ‘righty-ho’? Fruitcake.”
“You’re the fruitcake,” Braden said.
Reg and the band came back bearing beers.
Reg came up to Braden and said, “Nice work at school today, dude.”
Braden smiled and took all the credit, then said, “It wouldn’ta happened without the faithful assistance of my fellow students.” He waved his arms around the throng of Cascada-loving dancers, some of whom nodded in his direction.
Reg said, “Some retard in the kitchen said we should put you on the mic.”
Braden was surprised. He supposed they wanted him to do a speech or something, but that was a weird thing to do at a party, even a nerdy dry party like this one.
“What for?” he asked.
A group of proponents of this idea had followed Reg and were crowding around now, being bounced into by the dancers but not disarmed. Reg said, “Whatever you want. Know any songs?”
Braden looked at Matt and Matt looked back at him, eyebrows raised. Braden knew lots of songs. He was renowned for singing along, but he usually changed the lyrics to suit his dirty imagination.
Braden said “They want me to grace the event with a song, do they?” Braden knew no fear. He could do anything and everyone would love it. He could go up on stage accompanied by Reg’s band, pull down his pants and fart ‘You are my Sunshine’, and everyone would love it. And he had refitted several popular songs with new, dirty lyrics of his own invention. That was sure to be a crowd-pleaser.
“I’ll have to consult with my cohorts,” he said, and turned to Matt. “Suggestions?”
Matt turned his eyes to the ceiling, perhaps looking for divine support. “Well,” he mused. “You could give them your rendition of Lady Gaga.”
“Yes,” Braden agreed, stroking his chin. “Which do you think they’d prefer, ‘Just Pants’ or ‘Pile-o’-crappy’?”
“Or,” said Matt, “How about Rihanna’s ‘Please Don’t Stop the Oral’?”
“Hmm,” Braden pondered. “I think they would enjoy my latest creation, Britney Spears’ ‘3’.”
“Oh, yes, quite,” Matt said. They punched it out and Braden turned to Chan and David, of Bobble-Head Jesus, to make sure they could do something resembling the music to ‘3’.
A few minutes later, Bobble-Head Jesus was back on stage, introducing Braden in his debut as Britney Spears.
David started off with a tap tap tap on the edge of the snare.
“One, two, three, I can count, look at me,” Braden sang in his best bubbly-cute voice. The crowd went wild.
“I can shake my ass and my big boo-bies!” Braden wiggled his hips and massaged air-boobes in front of his chest.
“One, two, three, I’m as clever as can be,
I can’t really sing but I sure am a uh!”
To the undeniable adoration of his peers, Braden did the first verse again and then undulated to Chan’s amazing guitar solo.
“Go buy my record
It isn’t any good
But don’t you love it
I knew you – would.
Go buy my record
It pretty much sucks
But don’t you love me
Come on let’s – (high hat)
A-a-a-are, you, dumb
As dumb as me, I’m counting
A-a-a-are, you, dumb,
As dumb as me, I’m counting…
One, two, three, I can count, look at me,
I can shake my ass and my big boo-bies!
One, two, um… I’m thinking, let me be,
What comes after two, now let me see…”
There wasn’t any more to Braden’s version of the song, but it was so well received that he did the entire thing two more times, with Reg backing him up the last time, and the crowd especially liked it when Reg, Braden, and some of the others who had jumped up on stage to join did a grind-line during Chan’s third impressive guitar solo of the song. |
© Copyright 2009 katt (UN: kattbee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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