The Last Club On Earth

“I have Xanex,” Bebe says, nonchalantly.

“Give me, give me!” I pop one.

“Where tha fuck are we going?” asks Jane.

Bebe pops one. Jane, the quiet one pops a half and gives the other half to Mary.

“Pop.”

“Pop.”

“Pop.”

Used pop. We are all used pop.

“Pop it honey,” I tell Mary.

“But where are we going,” she says again.

“But where are we going,” repeats Bebe. “Pop, just pop.”

“We are going to the Lost Weekend,” I tell her, grabbing her tightly. ”Because our weekends have been lost.”

“I need fresh air,” Mary says, and then pops.

“Cleavelander,” Bebe says. “Let’s go to the Cleavelander, it has an outside bar.”

“I have a joint!” Jane says.

“Who has a joint?” Bebe looks back and snatches it.

“I had it,” Jane says.

“I got it,” Bebe says and puts it in her mouth. “It’s mine now.”

“Bitch,” I say. ”Share bitch! Share!”

I have a lighter and I snatch the joint from Bebe. I light it and we smoke it on the way. Four-ways.

“Each bitch must take light puffs!!”

“A joint will not do shit for me!” Bebe exclaims.

“It’s laced,” the quiet bitch Jane says.

“It’s laced?” Bebe and I yell.

“Laced joint,” I say. “It smells like bleach!”

Arm in arms all four, and we finish the joint. We reach the Cleavelander bar and I order a Cutty on the motherfucking rocks with lemon shots for each. It’s happy hour. Mary has a Rum and Coke and Coke. Bebe has another Martini. The quiet bitch Jane has a Long Island. They make me sleepy. Mid drinks we gather up our finished eyes and confront our sad bitch Mary.

“Talk!” I say.

“Speak,” says Bebe.

“Talk,” repeats Jane.

“It’s Jesus,” Mary says, weeping into her drink.

“What about Jesus?” I inquire.

“He won’t get up.”

“He’s sleeping,” Bebe looks around the table. “He’s sleeping and he won’t wake up?”

“I don’t think he loves me anymore.”

“We’ll wake him up and ask him!”

“We shall!”

“We will!”

“Let’s go girls,” I holler. ”Fuck that bitch Elaine Lancaster.”

“I don’t think she’s arrived on the beach just yet.”

“Let’s go bitches!”

Arm in arm, once again, we finish our drinks and take a cab to Mary’s. When we arrive at her place we pay the cab more money than we should and glide up a staircase to her second floor studio and Bebe falls and stumbles and we laugh and she says, “I think I’m gonna throw up!”

As Mary opens the door to the apartment we find her man, Jesus bastard, on the floor, naked, and with a needle sticking out of his left arm. She’s in denial. She sits next to the corpse and shakes, shakes, shakes it.

“Honey,” Bebe says. “Stop shaking him. He’s dea-“

“Shut up! Leave her alone. Let her be!”

“Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?” Jane, the quiet bitch says.

I take my two bitches on the side. “You have to let her deal with it. We’ll call them in the morning.”

“Won’t he smell?”

“We’ll spray deodorizer.”

“Where is the fridge?” Jane says, the one who’s never been to Mary’s.

“Thadaway!” I say, pointing to the kitchen.

“Oh,” she says, wandering off.

Mary holds his face, kisses his blue lips and shakes, shakes, shakes him all in the same order. He is blue and quite reminiscent of the alien on the Fox autopsy video. I light a cigarette and sit on a gray easy chair.

Meanwhile Bebe is trying to turn on the television with the remote control so she can play video games. She keeps turning on the stereo by mistake and the very, very, very famous Whitney Houston song “I Will Always Love You” comes on at full volume.

“Did you know,” I say, having one of my useless pop cultural factoid moments, “that song was written by Dolly Parton for a Burt Reynolds movie called The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas?”