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The Last Club On Earth

*previously appeared in LitVision*


(page 2 of 5)

Pretty soon we are on our way to dance hall land when we run into Mary Misery going the opposite direction. Her blue mascara is running.

“What is wrong?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Why are you crying?”

“Are you crying?”

“Why are you crying?”

“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.”

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About Fawzy Zablah

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Fawzy Zablah was born in El Salvador, and grew up in Miami. He is the author of the short story collection Ciao! Miami. He has spent time in Amsterdam, Rome, and Dublin. He gives a fuck about the Oxford comma.


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