A Tale for the Modern Attention Span
Viveka opened her eyes and saw what appeared to be a thousand faces peering down at her. She was puzzled at first, having forgotten where she was and why. Then it all came flooding back: I was supposed to be getting married to Hugh, but that black man was kind enough to drop by and tell us that Hugh is actually my son—a fact which really precludes us from living together as man and wife. That’s a bad thing, I suppose, though on the bright side I now know who my son is. And it turns out he’s got a little brother. Oh, I bet they’ll get along splendidly. Wait, there was something else bothering me. What was it? Oh yeah, the fact that I fucked my son. What kind of fucking sick woman fucks her son? Just a fucking sick, no-luck whore like me, I guess—
Viveka passed out again, only to stir once more seconds later. Daedalus was kneeling beside her cradling her $500 hairdo in one hand and fanning her with the other.
She looked at him, then past him. This time she took note of the expressions on the faces of the people peering down at her. Pity. Some disgust, but mostly pity.
That she could not bear. She wrestled herself to her feet, pushed through the crowd, and lurched her way down the aisle. Once outside, she regurgitated all she’d had for lunch.
When her stomach was completely empty, she turned and saw everyone standing in the doorway of the chapel watching her. Pity. A little more disgust, but still mostly pity.
She stared back for ten seconds before clenching her fists and screaming like a pubescent girl at a pop concert. Then she turned and ran toward stately Bolt Manor. She heard people coming after her until a voice, Steel’s she thought, halted them: “Let her go. What she needs now is to be alone.”
Viveka flew through the doors off the back patio. She’d lost her bridal shoes while running, so her stockinged feet slipped on the floors as she picked up speed and turned corners throughout the house. Since he had no idea where she was going, she didn’t stop running until she’d emerged onto the front portico. She looked around, perplexed for a moment. Then her gaze found its way to the Bolt’s fifteen-car garage. She broke into another sprint.
Viv got into her luxury touring sedan, silently congratulated herself on her “leave the keys in the ignition” policy, and then drove through—literally through—a $10,000 antique garage door. She proceeded down the crushed-gravel driveway at something approaching 100 miles an hour.
Downtown Crescendo Cove is to the left, but Viveka hung a right. She accelerated heedlessly, no destination in mind, reaching speeds previously unknown to all but astronauts. That is until she saw Chez Pussy approaching on her left. When she did, she drilled the brake pedal to the floor, testing the limits of her anti-locks, and producing a deafening squeal and a cloud of white smoke. She managed to slow down enough to make the turn, then she accelerated wildly again before screeching to a stop in the handicapped parking spot right beside the front door.
The regulars in Chez Pussy on this particular Saturday afternoon cannot be criticized for their slack-jawed reaction to Viveka’s arrival. Women, other than those hired to take their clothes off or to serve drinks, do not often grace the premises of Chez Pussy—let alone women wearing dresses that anyone with a smidgen of fashion sense could tell was a wedding gown. Everything about her was out of place (save the splashes of vomit on her dress).
Viv strode purposefully, though shoelessly, through the room. Passing a naked redhead clinging upside down to the brass pole without so much as a glance, she went up to the bar.
Owing to the incongruous nature of her presence, Isaac the bartender hesitated before coming down to serve her. “Uh, can I help you?” he finally asked.
“Get me a fucking drink.”
Continue Reading: Episode 56: Starring Viveka Bolt as "The Intimidator"