A Special Night

My latest assignment: To write a 1 page story containing a flashback. I had to start in present tense, shift to past tense, and revert back to present tense at the end.

Too tired to write anything else about it. Enjo...zzzzzzzzzzzzz...


A Special Night

“Ughhhhhh…” The struggle to open my eyelids seems extraordinarily difficult this morning. They feel as if they are encrusted with some sort of hardened film, or as I like to call them, “eye boogers”. I force my eyelids open and attempt to ascertain my surroundings while rubbing off the gunk that is hanging from my eyelashes.

What is that smell? As I turn over and look at where I am laying, I see piles of large plastic bags, empty cans of food, boxes, a few banana peels, and what appears to be the remains of some long deceased rodent. Suppressing a sudden wave of nausea, I peer over the side of what appears to be a large blue container, about seven feet long and four feet wide. The cement ground is about three feet below my current elevation, and is covered in a large pile of vomit. On the side of the container, I see the words “Rainbow Disposal”. As I attempt to get out of the refuse bin, I become all too aware of the intense pain in my stomach.

How did I get here? Where is here? Why does it feel like my stomach is being pierced with sharp knives wielded by indigestion goblins? These thoughts pervade my brain as I try and remember what could have possibly happened last night to grant me an experience of such agonizing woe.

Let’s see. I was walking down the street, going to my favorite little delicatessen for a late dinner. It was past 10 pm already, and I was quite hungry after my two hour workout at the gym. I stepped inside, and the place was uncharacteristically crowded for this time of the night. As I meandered my way through a crowd on my way towards the bar, I was intercepted by an old friend of mine whom I hadn’t seen for a while -intentionally - the guy’s a tactless schmuck.

“Jake! How’s it hanging man?”

“Shut up Ricky. You know it hasn’t since the ‘squirrel incident,’” spat Jake.

“Hey man, just joking with you. I thought you were okay with it since you got your prosthetic Italian dinner,” smirked Ricky.

“My what?” demanded Jake.

“Your spaghetti and meatballs,” said Ricky, laughing.

“Yeah, real funny, jerk.”

“Hey, come on man. Take a joke. Here, I’ll buy you something,” offered Ricky.

Looking forward to this dinner about as much as a toilet looks forward to its dinner, I tentatively took a stool at the bar next to Ricky.

“Hey, I dare you to get the Special,” said Ricky nonchalantly.

The Special was the least ordered item on the menu, and for good reason. No one really knew what was in it, not even the locals. Even the chefs and waitresses were bewildered and intimidated enough by it to dissuade anyone who wasn’t wearing a full body radiation suit from ordering it. Rumor has it that a curious customer managed to sneak in the back one day, and reported seeing five burlap sacks in the back, which were dated “1856”, and had the words “Special”, and “May Contain Traces of Nuts or Other Genitalia” marked on them.

Against my better judgment, and even against my worst judgment, for some reason, I order the Special. What it looks like, I don’t know. What’s in it, I don’t remember. Whether or not I’ll ever be able to eat again, time will tell.

“BLARRRRRGGGHHHH,” I retch.