The Last Club On Earth

*previously appeared in LitVision*

(page 2 of 4)

“Do you need a drink?”

“You need a drink.”

“She needs a drink!”

“Let’s get you a drink.”

I grab her by the arm and I lead because I am the leader of these chicks with dicks. The Lord knows we can’t afford the operation.

“I am crying because I hate love,” Mary says, laying the palms of her hands over her eyes.

We are walking arm in arm. All tipsy, all sappy.

“She hates love,” I say.

“Did you hear that?” asks Bebe.

“She said she hates love,” repeats Jane.

“Why do you hate love darling?” I ask.

“I hate love,” Mary says, and we listen intently. “Because it hurts, and it is poison. And it always lets me down.”

“Did you hear that?” I say. “She hates love because it hurts!”

“And it’s poison,” Bebe says.

“It lets us down,” agrees Jane. “How true. Fuck love! And what is love?”

“What is love, Bebe,” I say, leading them past the Euro-trash and bums.

“Where are you taking me,” Mary says weeping more, like a little girl lost in a department store.

“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.




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.

The Last Club On Earth continues...
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About Fawzy Zablah

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Fawzy Zablah is a Florida writer. He is the author of the short story collection Ciao! Miami (LULU, 2006) and the novel, Rarity of the Century (Tiny TOE Press, 2014). His short story, This Modern Man is Beat (Acentos Review, 2011) was just adapted into a short film by screenwriter David Schroeder and more by Alex Merkin. He has spent time in Amsterdam, Rome, and Dublin. He gives a fuck about the Oxford comma.
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