FFF time. "Cassie and the Snake"

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So anyway my girlfriend Cassie is totally pissed about the dead body on the floor of our living room. Okay, maybe it's not even the body she's pissed about as much as all the blood on the floor, and the new four hundred dollar carpet we had recently bought. Hell, at this point, she could be pissed about a number of things, and I would have no clue. And she's not even listening to me as I am trying to explain that this all happened because of her, for her, and for us. She's unreasonable like that sometimes.

Let me back up a minute, the last paragraph probably makes me sound bad, which I don't think I am, and normally Cassie doesn't either. Except when I fuck up badly, or when I take acid. Neither of these happen often, but she still gets pissed. So I had taken acid earlier this evening, only the fourth or fifth time in my life that I had ever done it. Cassie had tried to analyze my desire to do acid once every few years or so, but she had never come up with a good reason, other than I must be a major fuck up. Her words, not mine.

Earlier this evening, before Cassie showed up, but after the acid had kicked in, I decided that I would never take it again. This was one of the times I actually meant it. Other times I told myself that, knowing full well that I would take it again. I was scared now, though. And if I got through this, I would never, ever touch acid or any other mind altering drug again.

I glanced at the phone, wishing I had someone to talk to. Someone who would tell me everything was okay. Someone who would reassure me without giving me crap about being fucked up right now. There was no one that fit into that category, so I tried to watch television. Nope, too creepy. Images bled from the screen, onto the floor. I ignored them at first, but when I found myself mopping up a rerun of Three's Company off of the floor, I knew the television wasn't going to help.

One good friend of mine, dead now for three years, always told me that acid and drugs of that sort opened your mind for experiences that could be rewarding, and insightful, and he always told me to remind myself of that when I was having a bad trip. I reminded myself, hoping it would help. It hadn't so far, but when the snake slithered under the door, I calmed down a bit. The snake slithered past, up a chair leg, and coiled into a chair.

"Have a seat, Brad." the snake said. I expected a snake like lisp on the word seat, but the snake spoke perfect english, no lisp at all.

I sat. The lamp had shared a few interesting stories earlier, when the acid first kicked in, so a talking snake was relatively easy for me to deal with.

"Tonight is a life changing time, like the pie incident." the snake said.

An image popped into my head, of the day my grandmother had been cooking a homemade peach pie, the odor so strong it practically hurt my nose. I heard a thud, and thought she was loading another pie into the oven. I found out later it had been my grandmother hitting the floor when a sudden heart attack hit her. No one ever said so, but I felt even at age seven, if I had gone to check on her when I heard the noise, she may have lived.

"Yes, I'm sorry, you totally could have saved her. That's why I am here now." the snake confirmed, apparently reading my thoughts.

"So tonight, what do I do, what's going to happen?" I asked.

"Cassie's ex is going to show up and you will have to get rid of him." the snake said. "Otherwise, he will end up killing her, and probably you in the process."

"What?" I asked, stunned, but the snake was gone, in it's place was a cat. I tried asking questions of the cat, and then realized it was our cat, Toonces, and not an image in my head.

The door suddenly slammed open, despite my knowing it had been locked, and Cassie's ex stood there. He looked extremely menacing, and was practically growling, "Where's Cassie?"

Without a thought, I picked up a knife from the bar that connected to the kitchen and stabbed him. A few times. I anxiously awaited the snake to return, to validate what I had done, and to tell me things were all good, but that's about when Cassie walked in.

So we're all caught up, and I keep trying to explain that I had a vision, I had to kill her ex to save her, I'll clean up the blood. Cassie is amazingly calm about the body and the blood, she still just looks pissed.

Finally, I give up. "What do I do?" I ask.

"Stop taking acid, you stupid fuck." she says, stepping over the body to rest her hand on my shoulder.

"But, what do I do about the body, and the rug?" I ask, sounding too much like a child asking for an adult's help.

"There's no body, no blood, just acid messing with your head." she says, almost lovingly, or in pity, I can't tell. "Go to bed, I'll lock up."

I walk to our bedroom, my mind clearing a bit, so that's why she was pissed. I take out my Cassie notebook, and a pen, and underneath #87, which reads, "Don't tell Cassie her new jeans make her ass look fat." and #88, "Don't invite the guys over for poker without checking with Cassie." I write in a new entry. "#89. Don't take acid anymore, unless Cassie is out of town for the weekend."

I look at my new entry, in my Cassie notebook, which has saved our relationship time and time again, and cross out the part about "unless Cassie is out of town for the weekend."

I am too old for this shit anymore. I look over at Cassie's pillow, and the snake is coiled there. It looks at me a moment, and says, "Yes, you are way too old for this shit." and slithers out the window.

I underline number 89, and then circle it a few times, to make sure I don't miss it later.

Karmic Revelation

The champagne cork was on the floor and in her hand was the empty bottle it must have come from. Or maybe it was from the numerous other bottles scattered around the floor.

What was the last thing she remembered? Coming to the party, despite the host was someone she despised. Having fun avoiding the host and socializing with her friends. After that? Lots of drinking and having fun. Then she noticed another figure on the floor, near the cork. Another person who can't handle their drinking, she thought? On closer inspection, though, she noticed a puddle of blood that had formed around the person's head and the cork.

What the hell? she thought, edging closer, slowly. It was the host of the party. Her ex. The one who had put her through years of crap, who had inspired her to attend months of therapy, and months of drinking. She said his name, softly at first, then loudly. She considered getting some cold water to splash on him when the phone rang.

After one of his ridiculous answering machine messages, a voice came on the machine, "Hey, Mark, did you get lucky last night? Nothing like boning your ex for some bragging points. Call me later!" Laurie did a quick check of herself, it didn't appear she had participated in any "boning." She bent down and shook Mark, and he didn't move. She leaned in and listened, and he was not breathing, and she felt how cold he was.

Laurie freaked out for a few minutes, and searched the apartment, no one else was there. Apparently, for some reason, her and Mark had been the last ones up, him preparing to get his ex into bed, her drunk beyond reason for even staying alone in the same room with him.

Laurie had experienced years of good luck after breaking up with Mark. She and her friends had always joked it was good karma for all of the bad shit and abuse she had experienced. Apparently her good karma had run out, and somehow she had accidentally killed her ex. What should she do? It was barely dawn, she thought she had a good chance of sneaking out, without anyone seeing her.

She got a cigarette out, to calm her nerves, not noticing the spilled alcohol near the bar by the door. She looked around, to see if there was anything else that connect her to the party. Her fingerprints were obviously all over the place, but it was a party, that could be explained. But who else knew that she had stayed the night?

She walked out, not hearing the small puff of a flame starting by the bar, from her cigarette and the alcohol. Before she could close the door, Mark's friend, Brett appeared, scaring the crap out of her. He had just recently been released from jail again, for beating his wife up almost to the point of death.

"Laurie, have a good time last night?" he said with a sneer.

"Not really, did any of our friends see me stay?" Laurie asked, hoping she sounded embarrassed more than worried.

"Nope, we found you passed out in the guest room after everyone had left. I am sure Mark will fill everyone in today though." Brett said and laughed. He laughed again as Laurie stepped out of her right shoe and almost fell.

"Is Mark still home?" Brett asked, still giggling.

"He's inside." Laurie replied, and before she could pick her shoe up, Brett tripped over it into the apartment. She closed the door quickly and headed to the elevator, putting her shoe back on as she waited.

Later, after an extremely long bath, she sat down in front of the television, and while flipping channels, saw a news reporter standing in front of a familiar building. It was Mark's building. With a voice attempting to sound remorseful, the reported said that only two people had been killed, with a few others being treated for smoke inhalation.

It was Brett and Mark who had been killed. They didn't say it, they hadn't notified their families yet, but she knew it was them. A small smile formed on her lips, as she lit another cigarette, took a sip of her drink, and thought, "Maybe my good karma isn't gone after all."