Author Games: Red Room

Task One: St. Judas

Swaggy Pete

"LISTEN, LISTEN, I saw this dude in the Olive Garden right by the Pizza Hut. You're not listening to me, I said I saw this dude in the Olive Garden by Van Billings, right next to the Pizza Hut. I got a picture of him, he has these huge tats and a shit-ton of piercings, check this out."

They're not looking at me. They're stoned out of their fucking minds. Paul has got his hand around Sheila's waist, and they're watching Spongebob on the frat TV. Paul's face looks bloated. That doesn't feel normal to me, but I haven't looked closely at Paul in about two months.

"Look at this dude."

"Oh, it's Pete," Sheila says. She looks at me and smiles. Her face looks like a trout, but I won't tell Paul that because he thinks she's the hottest girl he's ever met. She only hangs out with him for his weed.

"Swaggy Pete," Paul says slowly, grinning. How is his face so bloated right now? "Where've you been? Tell us a story, Swaggy Pete."

"Yeah that's what I've been doing, I've got this picture right here." I shove my phone in Paul's face. "Check out this dude."

Paul blinks at the photo. It's this dude I saw at the Olive Garden. He had fifty piercings and a dog collar around his neck, and he had this anklet like the ones you wear if you're on house arrest, except it wasn't beeping or anything so either it looked like that on accident or he lives at the Olive Garden.

"He was eating fettucine," I say.

"Okay," says Paul. He's so fucking high right now.

"I don't know why he was at a family restaurant," I say. "That's not family friendly. It feels unfriendly to me. Like he was going to a monster truck rally or something."

"That's not what you wear to monster truck rallies, Pete," Sheila says because she fucking hates me and my observations. "You wear that to a rave."

"No that's not what you wear to a rave," Paul says, "you wear that... shit. I don't know why you'd wear that."

"It's like Suicide Squad," I say. Suicide Squad is one of my favorite movies.

"Yeah, he's like Jay Leno," says Sheila. Nice. We cracked that one wide open.

"This wasn't a very good story, Pete," says Paul like the major fucking downer he is.

"What do you mean it wasn't good?" I say.

"Like it wasn't very long, and it wasn't very good quality, and it wasn't even funny, which I feel like should be the point if you're not going for length or quality. Like if I rated it out of 15 right now..."

"Rate it out of 12," says Sheila.

"No, 15," says Paul. Squidward is screaming on the television screen. "If I rated that out of 15, I'd give it a 3."

"That's not fair," I say.

"I wouldn't endorse that story. I wouldn't pay money to hear that story. If I heard sixteen other stories and had to rank yours against theirs, I'd give you last place."

"That sucks," I say.

"Well, it gives you a lot of room for improvement," says Sheila. "You can tell better stories. I believe in you."

"Thanks, Sheila," I say, getting up from the couch. "Watch out, cause I'm gonna tell stories you wouldn't believe. Next time, Swaggy Pete is slaying the competition."

"He's not slaying it today," says Paul.

"He will next time," I say.

"Yeah okay," says Paul.