The suburban reception hall was filled with drunken gorillas waddling around on their hindquarters, using their meaty arms to help balance the motions of uneven heel-toe movements. At one time, many decades ago, the place was a swinging haven devoted to festive newlyweds, gorging themselves on average quality food and moderate amounts of alcohol before de-flowering each other with unbridled love later on in the evening. Back then, the place had color and pizazz - the kind of pizazz often seen within the decor of an arcade or jungle gym geared toward children. Vibrant hues. Wafting aromas. Stimulating sounds of a whiz-bang evening like no other.
The walls were yellowed now, and the wallpaper curled up like scrolls of old parchment. The reception hall was a relic, a hollow shell of its past with a fanciful name on the sign out front that tried to lure unknowing dolts. D'Andreas Banquets and Receptions.
The colors on the sign had diminished with age as well. It looked more like the advertisement for a 24 hour diner where all the dregs collected after midnight, scavenging their pockets for a few extra bucks to grab a slice of pie and a stale coffee. It was the kind of joint where forgotten souls went to die.
And so it was, D'Andreas found itself littered with smug goons wearing striped collared shirts, trudging around like old men with back problems. Neanderthals, all of them. They couldn't even shave the stubble off their chin without breaching the skin, lacerating it with nicks and slashes, the sign of any uncivilized, cultivated man, so they didn't bother to shave. They didn't have to in this atmosphere. Either way, their female companions clung to their arms in shiny dresses and wet hair, shimmering mermaids in a town full of deceased, red-eyed dopes dreaming of escaping to Hollywood some day. The place where the bright lights were. The place of fashion, of gourmet food, and of high society living. The place where dreams came true.
Dying crows heightened the sense of death through the karaoke machine as the suburban apes took turns passing a mic around at the front of the room. Occasionally, a woman would wrap her tender fingers around it and lighten the pitch with a love melody from an era long dead, one in which the populace trusted its government and aspired to create the suburban dream that now decays in a declining economy - in this very room.
In the midst of this cemetery, a young, awkward man sat alone and watched. He was the runt of the pack, a short, skinny creature that appeared to people as a starving rat, scavenging for scraps, be it tattered and broken women or leftover booze. He was last in line to hit the open bar, and as all the good alcohol was taken, sufficed himself with a toxic concoction doused with soda. His only hope was that the high fructose corn syrup acid overpower the battery acid.
Ratso clapped as the chorus of dying crows belting out Queen came to an end, and the host took center stage. A stocky brute with a poet's goatee on his chin waved all the others to be seated. Nervously tugging at his K-Mart tee, the fake poet cleared his throat and began speaking with a dialect he heard on television.
"Bro-sephs, you all know why you're here. You're here because I couldn't get my money back after Taylor totally nailed 'nother dude and broke up our engagement," the host said. "First off, I wanna say 'thank you' to all of you who TOTALLY showed up. Awesome, bros. Seriously. Second, I want to say that even though Taylor's a total skank bitch whore, we're all gonna have an awesome time tonight drinking all this booze, doin' karaoke, and livin' the dream! Please, if you will, totally raise your glasses with me. Let's all take a drink together."
The patrons all raised their glasses. Ratso raised his, sitting alone at his own table near the back. Something shattered behind the sniveling weasel, and he turned his head to the doorway to see Taylor. It was the best-dressed she'd ever been. Her rather large chest was pushed up, wrapped in a lovely, night sky-inspired dress. A make-up gun had been fired upon her face, and her brown hair jabbed in all directions in gelled curls. Taylor's hair emulated the style of Doc Emmett Brown's from Back to the Future, appearing as if she had jammed a finger into an electrical socket only moments ago.
"To my un-wedding today, and to totally dodging a bullet!" the host crooned. "That was some crazy, Matrix shit right there!" He chuckled like a gleeful little boy at recess, sipping down his rum and coke as a follow-through. His cultists all downed theirs and cheered in response.
Before Ratso could catch up, something weird caught his attention. Taylor was stumbling, walking on unbalanced, shaky legs in uneven strides. It wasn't her high heels, as she had gotten used to wearing them for work ages ago. It was something else - some weird aura that permeated the air around her like a thick fog.
A jittery hand reached into a small purse dangling from Taylor's left shoulder. Fingers wrapped around something, and Ratso thought he could see the butt of a handgun jutting out. Would she do something like that? She had always been crazy, relinquishing herself in denial about ever even cheating on the would-be groom in the first place, even though it was well-documented and seen publicly. But a gun? Or was Ratso hallucinating? Would she kill to defend her honor?
A paint chip dropped from the ceiling and landed in his drink, sinking under that bubbling soda. He was too busy watching Taylor, however. She was still stumbling forward, moving like a clumsy predator in jungle foliage, eyes dead-set on the host, who stood at the mic giggling and making small talk with his guests.
Ratso thought of all the good times he had with the man in charge, Johnny Boy, all of the memories that seized his brain with goodness. From a young age, the two had been a pair of rogues, cruising the town on bicycles and causing all sorts of public mayhem. They stole things, broke things, and mowed lawns together to go buy candy and cards at the gas station. In their teens, they would scout out girls together at the mall, and Johnny Boy would sell the ladies on his MTV-induced brand of salesmanship, ditching Ratso to take them home and hold make out sessions on the basement. Sometimes more than one girl would be invited, or so the rumors went.
Everybody loved Johnny Boy. That's why they were here. He made them laugh, wooed them with his elegant tastes, and helped give them the only lifestyle they knew of. Decay.
More paint fell from the ceiling, this time dropping on Ratso's head. He ignored it, his eyes still fixated on Taylor. As she kept walking forward, ignored by the others, her hand hidden in the purse began to rise out a little more - revealing what definitely was a revolver.
Filled with rage at either the thought of his friend dead or Taylor being so bold as to get the drop on him, Ratso leaped up from his solitary table and rushed forward, running past the crowded tables to center stage, where Johnny Boy kept smiling and babbling on in his drunken state. Those red eyes of the host's caught the commotion, jumping from the skinny intruder to the ex-fiancee stumbling down the middle of the room.
"Bro, what's going on? I was telling an awesome story about us picking up babes at the mall," Johnny said.
A single gunshot cut the sound in the room, bringing about a forced peace the only way weapons could. Ratso collapsed to the floor, a slug lodged somewhere in his chest. Blood pooled between the stripes on his shirt, and he lie there staring up at the ceiling. Swinging gracefully in the stagnant air like snow, some more paint fell upon him.
"Bro?"
There was a commotion. Ratso could hear noise and catch movement in his peripherals, but his ears were tuned out, as if he were locked into a different radio channel. Staring straight up, he watched the ceiling morph from its deathly piss-color to a pristine white. The more immaculate the ceiling appeared, the less heavy his chest felt, and the less pain that jolted through his nervous system.
Rather than sitting up, he floated up in a manner of speaking. The air around him felt thin, and gravity seemed to be of no consequence. Surveying the scene, Ratso realized he was in the same hall, only it was empty and in its prime. The colors were bright. Flowers sitting on tables were festive and alluring, and the bar looked recently built, gleaming with fresh bottles and no longer caked with mold.
"Am I dead?" he asked aloud to no one in particular. If he was, death felt great. It was calming. Soothing. The feeling of walking out of a hot shower with a clean body.
"This must be Heaven."
Thinking about standing up, Ratso floated to his feet gently, hovering just above the carpeting. He looked down to see his New Balance shoes just hanging there an inch above what he perceived as ground, completely stable as if he were standing on some sort of invisible shield or glass. The idea of a glass of whiskey, on ice, popped into his mind. Within seconds, it manifested itself in his hands.
"Whoa. It's just like in the movies."
Jamming his eyes shut, he thought hard about a brunette with a perfect figure, the ideal, balanced body in a tight, red velvet dress. She would be his height and always smiling, her eyes never betraying any emotion other than love. Absolute love. Love crossed over into the boundaries of hero worship.
Just like Johnny Boy's girls.
Ratso fluttered his eyes open. There was no beautiful model in front of him.
"Is T and A against the rules or something?" he asked aloud, looking about the ceiling for any sign of a way to communicate with the authority here.
"You're not in Heaven," a raspy voice called. FEAR was now the new word of the day. "You're not even dead."
Suddenly, the room was crowded. Beings in silver suits sat at the tables, staring at him with big, gray heads and gargantuan, half-moon eyes that glimmered like oil under the light. They had small mouths and tiny noses, and they spoke not a word - just stared.
"What is this?" Ratso asked. He could feel his heartbeat thudding violently, sending shockwaves through his nerves.
The silver-suited beings pointed toward center stage. The human looked, and there stood a thin, scaly, bipedal creature nearly 8 feet tall. It had human features like two eyes, a mouth, a nose, and a human-shaped body, but it's skin was all wrong. There was a weird power to the beast too, as if it could hypnotize a person just with its blank stare.
The alligator man smiled faintly, partially revealing a row of jagged teeth. "Your world is dying, but you're not welcome here."
In the center of a circle composed of drunken gorillas, a whiskey glass shattered against the floor back in the dingy, dilapidated D'Andreas. The beasts would scratch their heads and go back to drinking, celebrating the un-wedding. Out of sight, out of mind.
Three months later, they would all celebrate a real wedding - the union of Johnny Boy and Taylor. This time, the party would be in another room with just as decrepit wallpaper.
