The one with the crutch is saying bourbon sweet bourbon I want to sing with you. The stretch he had early that morning—so good it was almost like pain—was a harbinger of weird shit to come. Jerry's saying there are faces there, in the perverted lick of each flame over the log, and they each one looks like a kid caught in the womb, ultrasounded. One of those bugs that looks like a stick but mobile appears out of nowhere, balancing on some old, disused spider web, and Charlie the girl is screaming loud my god, my fucking god. Her bright red drink spills across the lawn.
How can it be. The headlights. Literally, lights on our heads. And Randal, whose house it is, asking himself who these fucking people are. The cars keep coming. Each engine is like another stab after the body's already gone cold He's thinking of the neighbors and how each new idling must be another slipknot for their REM sleep.
When morning, with bodies sprawled and damp with dew, comes, he'll hold a hankerchief over his face like a veil from some other culture. The door will thwack behind him. He'll say, you bastard roosters, you tangles of shit! Then he'll invite them all in for brunch. Something good, afloat in grease.