Crack Attack: A Collection of One-Shots and Other Disturbing Shit

Classic Noochonomics

"Nice place you got here." Rob looks at me dubiously as I hold up the three gallons of chocolate milk and the fresh bottle of Kahlua alcomahols I bought just for this special occasion. Ungrateful bastard. He bows weakly and steps aside to let me into his brand, spanking new house. I could get used to this place. It's small enough to be cozy but big enough that I could sit in the same room as Mitch and not smell his rank fucking feet. "How much did you pay for it?"

"Just... You know, a leg, a couple of fingers, and ten liters of blood. It's not too bad."

"I'm not talking about Preston, dude." His eyebrows shoot up and he makes his not-impressed face and turns to shut the door behind me. I glance around at the perfectly arranged little living room and the pile of empty boxes stacked up by the door to the garage. It's too neat and clean in here. What can I fuck with today?

"The kitchen is this way, Mat. Don't get any bright ideas." I smile and follow him, watching in satisfaction as he checks behind himself three times to see if I'm still coming. He really doesn't trust me, does he? This guy's going to have a nervous breakdown by the time he's thirty if he doesn't chillax a little and smell the roses. For being the Flower King, he's really uptight. Although, that might be just how he likes it.

"Who? Me?" I ask as innocently as I can and he turns and rolls his eyes where I can see him. These guys always think the worst of me, like I drove all the way over here to trash his house. I just came to have a little fun with my good friends and throw Poofless – I mean, Rob – a house warming party. There was no reason for Preston to fly up here for two weeks to help him move in. Three or four days, maybe, but not two weeks. We all know it's just a matter of time before Preston gets a visa and moves his sweet little booty in here permanently with his best boyfriend, whether or not these two are willing to admit they ship it. Truth is not a democracy.

"Rob, did you get the...? Oh, for fudge sakes! What's this thing doin' here?" Preston plasters on his just-a-yoke face like he's steeling himself for the ensuing banter, but I can tell he doesn't want me here. He thinks I'll try to steal his subWoofer. It's not my fault he doesn't know how to use the knobs to turn the volume up.

"This thing brought you two lovebirds a sweet combo gift, but because you're a noob, now there's more for me. You can drink that shitty cheap rum he stockpiles like a rodent." I point up at the huge conga line of half-empty bottles lining the top of the cabinets that will probably still be there when Preston dies of a red-meat-and-cheese-grease-induced heart attack.

"It isn't shitty," Rob protests as he goes over to the fridge to look for something. Nice tight blue capris there, dude. That's quite a view from over here. Preston sees me looking and he doesn't look amused.

"S-uuuuure. Have you ever seen me drink it?"

"No."

"So it's shitty." He tilts his head down and looks up at me with his lips pursed together before he starts digging around in the bottom drawer again.

"Just because you won't drink it doesn't make it shitty. That just means you're a picky ass like Jerome." He finally pulls out a black plastic tray with bright red hamburger patties in it and he starts grabbing little produce bags out of the crisper. Leave it to the Flower King to smear salad and other healthy shit all over a hamburger. What does he think I am, a bunny? It looks like the aftermath of my mom's dog attacking Big Foot's cage, with lettuce and onions and tomatoes and peppers and cucumbers next to ground up, unidentifiable meat. Who the fuck puts cucumbers on hamburgers besides Mitch the health nut? These two can eat a solid Death Cup if they want, but I'm just here for the good tidbits, like in every other facet of my life.

"I'll cook if you chop all that crap up," Preston volunteers, like him cooking chunks of meat makes him manly. He might as well drop the act and stop making a fool of himself. If he was any more of a try-hard in front of Rob, he'd be too stiff to sit down. But this gives me the perfect opportunity to pull off my plan.

"I'll get the drinks." They both study me for a second to see if I'm being serious before Rob nods uncertainly. I hold the gallons of milk up and twirl them next to my face so he'll stop trying to stare into my soul.

"The cups are in the cabinet behind you. I'm watching you, Mat." I shrug and take the jug of chocolate milk and the bottle of Kahlua into the dining room and set them down on the table. This is going to be fun. He still complains about me using all of his wine glasses way back when he moved into his last apartment. Let's see him gripe about this. I start looking through the cupboards and carefully grab three glass cups and head into the dining room where his eyes can't follow me anymore. We'll see you watch me, Rob. No one can 'watch' me, especially when they're rubbing buns with their pseudo-boyfriend in the kitchen.

----

"Nooch, what the fuck is this?" Rob walks through the doorway with two plates of green shit in his hands and he just stops and stares at the table in front of him. It's like he can't believe his eyes.

"I told you I would get the drinks. So I got the drinks. You get first pick because it's your party." His eyes blankly scan the table and take in the collection of odds and ends full of the delightful mixture of chocolate milk and slightly bitter alcohol. He stares at the glass candle holders and the mini menorah and the assortment of spoons holding only a few drops each, and the skillets and the coffee pot and the wok that hold an impressive amount of creamy, sugary goodness. Preston nudges him out of the way with a plate of plain burger patties in one hand and a bag of buns in the other, and he makes it halfway to the table before he looks up to see what Rob was staring at. I fill up the ladle in my hand with milk from the wok and take it over to Preston like it's a peace offering. He looks at me like he's never seen anything like me before, then he leans over and starts lapping at the milk like a cat. Maybe this guy isn't so bad after all.

"Mat... Why would you...? What the fuck is this supposed to be?" Heh. Rob's voice is like two octaves higher. Good surprise, huh? It's like Alice in Wonderland, white rabbit and all.

"It's a work of art, Robert," Preston adds as he sets the plate of hamburgers down next to the plugged-in crock pot full of milky hot chocolate and pulls the chair out to sit down. I set the slobbery ladle down on the end of the table next to the full-size plates and saucers and beckon for Rob to sit across from him between the blender and the teaspoons so they won't play handsie during dinner. He just stares at me with his mouth pressed into a long, straight line and a light red flush coloring his forehead and ears. He's so impressed he doesn't know what to say. It isn't every day you get to see Rob lose his temper. I sit at the uncluttered head of the table and raise the single wine glass toward him in a toast while Preston examines the two carefully placed drops of milk on each of the butter knives and starts taking pictures for Instagram. I take a sip from my glass and Rob finally sighs and comes to sit down next to me.

"God damn it."

"Classic Noochonomics, boys. This is why you go to college."