Through my stream of underground contacts, I procured an invite to the holiday party of the year. Got the invitation delivered by a whey-faced courier with sunglasses and a cloak over his head; for some reason he didn't like being in the daylight. Anyway, the invitation, ivory-inlaid and flowing with ichor (it's always ichor with these guys) directed me to a location where I would receive further instructions. So, it was on with my rented tux, and off to the party!
The location was a Chuck E. Cheese, of course. They're a primary conduit for the evil ley-lines. Don't believe me? Fifty cents for Galaga and Ms. Pac Man? Their idea. And by the way, those aren't costumes.
I went to the service elevator and pressed the basement button twice, then once more, holding the invite to the camera concealed in the mouse face in the control board, and that took me down to the underground level. After that, it's a quick wormhole to the party. Of course, they require a biometric scan at this point, but fortunately, thanks to
eBay, I had a vial of former
Secretary of the Interior James Watt's vitreous, and that was plenty.
The succubus at the onyx doorway took my invitation and did the usual security check and soul smear. I got past that thanks to a special operation from a part-time surgeon/druid I knew from college days. He also fixed me up with alabaster siguls within my impacted wisdom teeth which provide sufficient protection from evil on this plane. The operation is surprisingly cheap, but it costs another fifty grand to avoid them going through the urethra. I'd rather not talk about that.
Since I didn't have a diamond-studded cumberbund, they gave me a loaner, somewhat dingy, but sparkling with cut diamonds (only conflict diamonds, of course).
So, glistening with ethereal energy and with my soul check in hand, I was off to mingle!
---
Inside the great hall, I was immediately offered a complimentary cohiba, and was invited to light it over the pyre, fueled with oil-covered baby seals rolled in euro notes. I declined. I'm not much of a cigar smoker.
The party was rolling, with the dance floor lit by crystal chandeliers and the occasional vortex of evil. Toby Keith was doing a rockabilly version of Jingle Bells that had my toes a-tappin despite myself. Ann Coulter, drink in hand, was swiveling in paroxysms that recalled the great Elaine Benes. Rumsfeld was in the bag as well, grabbing onto Ron Silver and yelling that tanks blow up, dammit, they do. Cthulhu was holding mistletoe in one of its tentacles, but couldn't find any takers. And I was disappointed to find Mandy Moore there, but I think she was just networking. At any rate, she was uncomfortably fielding off Zell Miller, who was trying to get her to join him in absinthe shooters.
I got myself a Grey Goose and cranberry at the bar and went to the appetizers; I'm a sucker for party food. The blue whale sushi was a little too fresh for my taste, but I couldn't resist the mini-sized passenger pigeon quesadillas. They taste like chicken, for what it's worth.
I sat down to enjoy the show and was joined by a minion who was drinking bone marrow-flavored egg nog. Or it could've been plain egg nog. It had something in it, though, his eyes were half-lidded. Both lobes.
"Man, it was a bitch to get here," he muttered. "The line was halfway down the circle. And everyone was pushing, shoving, and Hitler was babycrying that he wasn't invited, what am I, party planner central?"
"I hear you, my...thing."
"So, how did you get in?"
Fortunately, I had a cover story.
"Oh, I'm a member of a local board of education."
"That got you in?"
"From Texas."
"Oh. How's it going?"
"Great. We're going to get bloodletting into the 2006 editions."
"Excellent! How about geocentrism?"
"Well, we know that's already true, right?"
He liked that one, unfortunately, he choked on his drink and when he spat it out he burned the tablecloth, so I politely took my leave and tried the dance floor. Well, since I dance exactly like Eddie Murphy's imitation of white people except with more self-awareness, this didn't last long.
So, I sat on the sidelines and relaxed. It was an hour until dinner, anyway.
---
I had polished off my second generous Grey Goose and cranberry, which was a good thing, since my mouth began to throb as the siguls worked overtime. That could only mean one thing: the keynote speech.
The guest of honor received a standing ovation, with loud applause from the people and mushy claps from the tentacled guests. His bald head gleamed in the spotlight, exceeded only by his brilliant grin.
"Well," he said with a smile, "I haven't received a reception like that since the last stockholder meeting." Obligatory laughter followed.
"It's been a good year for us all, and I want to thank everyone for coming, especially those of you with actual purple hearts."
"I won't be long, since dinner's being served, I just want to thank you all for your support this year. It was rough, but in the end, we managed to show everyone exactly what it means to be in charge. You all deserve a round of applause."
This brought on a round, with hearty whoops and a jet of flame from the dragon in the rear.
"Now, I want everyone to dig in, and don't worry, we're not serving waffles! Thank you."
The crowd roared its approval.
"He has to keep it short," the bartender muttered. "The vortices interfere with his pacemaker."
Well, that was a relief, because another five minutes and I would have to skip dinner. I asked for a glass of ice and sucked on the cubes for a bit as the ache faded.
Everyone else was tearing into dinner, and for some people that was literal. The main dish looked to rich for me (veal stuffed with foie gras and caviar, garnished with euro notes), so I stuck to a couple of the unicorn croquettes. They weren't bad, thanks to the apple-pomegranite sauce. Side dish was green beans almondine. I guess they wanted to keep something traditional.
The main dessert was disappointing, too. Baked Alaska. No, really, a chunk of Alsakan wilderness baked. I went to the ice cream bar instead. It would've been better if Rush Limbaugh wasn't hogging the line, trying to work his golden mortar and pestle while loading up on Rocky Road.
"Oh, why couldn't we get Ben and Jerry," he groaned. "Their Oatmeal Cookie Crunch made me want to vote for Lieberman..."
Kind of a letdown, really. I stuck with a last cup of coffee instead.
---
As I was walking back to the bar with my weasel coffee, I saw the minion sitting alone. He was smoking a laudanum cigarette and looking morose. I sidled up next to him. "Why so glum? Don't like the music?"
It snorted. "I can hear individual quark-antiquark annhilations. They scream. Next to that, even 'Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer' is palatable. Cigarette?"
"Um, human. Anything that's not immediately lethal?"
He offered a Dunhill mild, and I jumped on that. Those were my favorite smokes in college. Until my left tonsil fell out.
"Forgot to introduce myself. Designation's Vleggnurff."
"I'm Sean," I said. "Sean Randolph." I took the alias from a story I wrote ten years ago about a rock band: Sean Randolph's Sect of Insanity. That band name was the best thing about it.
"From Texas, right?"
"Yep. Actually, I moved there after college. I was born and raised in New Jersey."
"Oh, that explains your accent. And your smell."
"Sorry. Sure it's not Limbaugh?"
"Nah, he smells like spoiled prosciutto. Listen, Sean..." Vleggnurff twisted his head around and motioned me to come closer. I did, despite the fact I could feel skin cells rotting. He lit my smoke with his thumb.
"You're young for this crowd, so some advice. Don't get cocky." He leaned back and exhaled a plume of toxic smoke out of the side of his mouth. Ann Coulter passed through it and dropped like a stone.
"What do you mean?"
"I've seen this before. These things come in cycles. I remember Carter. We had to put a solar panel on Limbo."
"Hey, look, we won! Might as well enjoy it."
"These people don't know how fleeting it'll be. Last time I saw this? BOOM! Next thing you know, it's the Age of Enlightenment. That was a mess. We had to invent the plague just to get competitive."
He swallowed his cigarette stub and stared at me with his black-rimmed eyes.
"Mark my words. This won't last."
I drained my coffee and thanked him for the smoke.
Then I got the hell out of there.
When I warped back, the pain hit me like a sledgehammer and I barely made it out to the parking lot before I projectile vomited my mythical meat. Fortunately, it was at a Chuck E. Cheese, so nobody noticed. Every nerve in my body was on fire. Spiritual hangovers are the worst. Even worse than Jagermeister.
I staggered back into my car, looking forward to a weekend of bed rest, green tea and the book of Deuteronomy.
Remembering and taking comfort in the party's last words.
This won't last.
Happy holidays, everyone.