I came home from work that evening with sore eyes and a sore back. It was Friday; I had had a long week, and I wanted nothing more than relaxation and sleep. I heard some leftover tuna casserole calling my name, even from behind the closed refrigerator door. Not in the mood to argue, I went through the motions of providing nourishment for my starving body. I sat down on the couch in front of the TV. Nothing on. Watching a Ginsu-knife infomercial, I mechanically forked casserole into my mouth. I flipped channels aimlessly, and slowly slid down the couch. My eyes drifted closed. I slept . . .
. . . and was awoken rather suddenly. The phone was ringing. It was my friend Toro. I don't remember how he got that nickname. I think it had something to do with his description of his own sexual prowess. I just called him that 'cuz he got pissed when anyone called him Franklin, his real name. Can't blame him. He was going on and on about some girl he had met - I didn't particularly care, and I wasn't paying any attention. But then he said something about this great party he had heard about. In attendance would be some of the "flyest honeys G ever laid eyes on", according to Toro. (Did I mention that he thinks he was black? Hmmph. Irish. Go figure.) Since I was typically home by myself on a Friday, I thought that taking a sample of these fly honeys might be in my long-term best interest. I agreed to go. Toro picked me up, regretfully - the guy drives like a drunk Mario Andretti (200 miles an hour, on the sidewalk).
We got to the party around 10:30, and it was already somewhat rowdy. Broken bottles and trash littered the lawn of a large three-story Tudor-style. Booming, bassy music was coming from the front door, agape on its hinges. People were milling about everywhere. We passed through the door, and instantly it was another universe. Colored lights throbbed on the walls, streamers were flown in every room, and, of course, the ubiquitous mass of people rolled back and forth like melted ice cream. There was an open bar in the corner, right next to a table with a punch bowl, of all things, sitting right in the middle. I'm not terribly fond of alcohol, so I poured myself a glass of punch. I more than half suspected that it was alcoholic as well, but I didn't mind that much. It was pretty good, anyways.
Development:
The party progressed. People came and went. I saw Toro a few times, each time with a different girl on his arm. I danced a bit, I mingled. Ever so slowly, the world began to turn fuzzy. Colors became sharper, while the objects they adorned became less well-defined. Suddenly, I noticed that I was floating somewhere near the ceiling. I looked down; my legs had grown another six feet. I, of course, was somewhat startled at this revelation, and promptly fell down. On the ground, my only thoughts were of sleep, and, incongruously, of tuna casserole. Sleep was, of course, the one thing that I would not be allowed to have. Countless hands like spiders, connencted to dark, stooped forms, dragged me upright, and over towards a gaping, tooth-lined maw reaching towards me from the wall. The dark figures set me down into the orifice, butt first, but as I contacted it, it changed into a four-poster feather bed. Needless to say, I was surprised. Toro appeared in front of me, but he was changed. His eyes were translucent red, his hair firey orange. Patches of blue and green raced about underneath his skin. His mouth was moving, but I do not recall what he said to me. With exaggerated fast-slowness, his head whipped around, as he addressed the mass of people behind him. That's when the realization began to dawn on me . . . a realization of such seeming magnitude . . .
The people sprouted wings and flew away.
Toro reared up and laughed maniacally while sprouting horns and a pitchfork. Then he disappeared. I was left staring at a bright pink wall . . . and words, like the words of a prophet, were emblazoned on the wall in a bright red scrawl:
SOMEONE SPIKED THE PUNCH
I slept.
Recapitulation:
I dreamt . . . of tuna casserole and punch bowls, dancing with each other.
I awoke suddenly. Someone was shaking my shoulder. I looked up into Toro's smiling face. I sat up, looked around. I was still in the party house. There were a few others lying asleep about the floor, none stirred. The colored lights no longer throbbed, the streamers were all torn down, and, except for those passed out about the room, the people were all gone. The bar was gone, taken back into its owner's custody, ready for the next victims. The punch bowl stood, like a disapproving house-mother, empty, in its place on the table.
Toro began to describe his conquests of the night before; I, instinctively, took them with many grains of salt. I told him to shut up, using his given name, which angered him into silence. He drove me home without another word, until I was just about to get out of the car on my front sidewalk. He informed me of another great party he had heard of. His manner was just as excited as it was the previous night on the phone. In light of my experiences last night, I declined. Once I was back in my house, I promptly fell back asleep, and remained that way until late in the afternoon.
Coda:
I came home from work this evening with sore eyes and a sore back. It's Monday, and I'm tired.