The 'Fax (pontifax) wrote in kwantumwank,
The 'Fax

One Shot

A one-shot full of sparkling social commentary. *grin*

"Dude, this party blows," I said to Gun, who was sitting across from me at the overly decorated table and appearing to think just the opposite.

"No way, Fax," said Gun, sipping punch so weakly spiked that it could only have been the work of a overtestosteroned teen who got his Uncle Mickey to buy him a nip of blackberry Rumplemintz so he could impress all the lay-dehs (said exactly in that manner), ergo trying to strengthen his chances of getting laid, never once realizing that the reason he was at his prom with no date was because no one actually liked him. That kid would probably pass out in a pool of his own vomit later. No one would care.

"How does this party not blow? And if you respond in any way by taking that statement at its literal value, I swear I'll Columbine this gymnasium," I said, sipping punch so weak it couldn't tear a hole in those crappy plastic bags the grocer always puts my milk in, causing the whole damn jug to fall down the stairs when it inevitably breaks halfway up.

"Fax, you gotta take this in perspective," said Gun, drinking punch that could not have been weaker if two cancer-ridden parapalegics had mated and all their diseases had passed on to their offspring, defying the given laws of genetics. "First off, yeah, we're at some random high school's senior prom, but it's a party, man. You gotta let loose. Just admire all these hot young bodies you'll never see naked."

"I'll see them naked if I want! I'm The Fax, bay-beh," I said.

"Then you'll go to prison," said Gun.


We spent the next few moments drinking in feeble tasting silence as we listened to every hip-hop song recorded in the last two years blare in poor quality over the speakers arbitrarily strewn about the high school gym. Girls in dresses that could quite possibly be considered handkerchiefs in other, less civilized cultures gyrated the largest muscle in their bodies against the barely concealed erections of the teen boy in front of them. And by teen boy, I mean there was exactly one. The other males all seemed to be of the above-mentioned stock, standing around the punch-fountain chuckling in that 'dude this is gonna be funny if you're under the age of three or have nothing else going for you except a possible football scholarship which you'll inevitably lose due to drug overdose or just becoming a fatass like that guy who used to play for that team, neither of which anyone cares about anymore' kinda way.

The circle of females only grew wider, and I considered raiding the dragon's hoard of purses and shoes that had been formed around the sweaty pit of 'dancers', but the punch had spread its weakness to my ability to care.

"You know, Fax, if it makes you feel any better, the Boss, Jenn, and Tara called me from the other party. From what they were saying, their party sucks worse than ours."

"Not possible."

"How so?"

"Gun. We're at a high school prom. Did that thought ever cross your mind?"

"Yeah. So?"

"We're not in high school!"

"You're not really a detective and I'm not really a Transformer. Your point?"

"We are so both those things."

"If you say so."

"We don't even have dates, man!"

"Ah, so that's what this is really about."

"Dude, we're, like, the uncoolest kids in school now!"

"If you like, we can go congregate by the punch-fountain?"

"No...they'll just think I'm trying to fit in. Who'd you ask?"

Gun gave me a look that was trying to decipher if I had taken humor too far, or if the moist poison of the atmosphere had actually reverted me eight years back unto my utmost nightmare. To tell the truth, I couldn't tell you myself.

"Tyra Banks."

"And she said no?!"

"No, she was busy."

"Dude, that sucks. I'm sorry. I called Shadow and Tango, but neither of them answered their phones." I took solace in my now empty, but noticeably weakened, plastic cup.

"That's because Tango is way too hot for you, and Shadow's at a party already."

"That other crappy one?"

"No, a different one."

"A third party?!" I said, jumping up from my chair and drawing the unwanted looks of every marginally attractive girl in the room, all of which turned up their noses in disgust. I considered telling them how old I was, hoping to invoke the welcome reaction of knowing I could buy them beer, but would probably end up having the police called on me and spending the rest of my non-date-having-for-prom days in a jail sell with a guy named Susan.

"Yup," said Gun, pretending not to know me.

"What is it? Where is it? Is that party cool? Let's go there!"

"I think it's in England?"


"Yes, Fax, Finklestein. One is a real place, and one is a word you made up or the last name of my banker. You figure it out."

"We have to go!"


"Because she's having fun without us!"

"Dude, it's a secret. Plus, we weren't invited."

"We don't NEED invitations! We're the police!"

"Correction; we're the GRAMMAR police. I'm fairly certain everyone in.....Finklestein.....uses proper grammar. I think they invented it."

"But our two parties suck. We MUST infiltrate this third the Boss."

"Fine." Gun's hand folded downward in a completely inhuman fashion and with a comforting robotic sound, folded in on itself until it became a Razor cellphone. He dialed it with the other hand, spoke a lot of 'uh-huh's, then hung up.

"The Boss says we can't go. He did say there were elephants at that party though."

"Elephants! No fair!"

"And kazoos."

"This sucks."

"And..well...I can't tell you."


"You'll get too excited."

"I won't. Promise."

"Space Trebuchets."
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic
    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.