I walk into the party compound holding an unconsious Mr. Happy Puppet. The jazz is so loud that all I can hear is a high-pitched ringing in my ears. The low notes of what I assume is a saxophone vibrate my teeth uncomfortably.
The main entrance of the compound leads down a long dark cement corridor. I can see the bonfire at the end and a lot of people kind of standing around.
The corridor opens into a large area with a big fire and all of the most famous celebrities shifting around uncomfortably. Most of them don’t seem to be having a good time, despite the thousands of gallons of alchohol stacked against one wall and the tons of recreational drugs stacked against another.
I see an actor I liked. I don’t remember his name, but he was this really great cop movie that was all artistic and had an ambigous ending. I’d like to talk to him, but first there’s things that need settling.
I locate the stereo behind some empty barrels of beer, shift Mr. Happy Puppet Head in my arms so I have one hand free, and hit the large STOP button. The jazz stops abruptly. Everyone looks around. I climb up onto the crates where they can all see me and I address the crowd. “Celebrities!” I yell. “I’ve come to set you free. Just follow me in an orderly fashion and everything will be okay. Don’t worry about anything.”
This is when the three monsters push through the crowd. I had hoped they weren’t around anymore for some reason. They’re all holding drinks and swaying drunkenly.
“Hey,” says the tentacled one. “Why’d you turn off the tunes?”
“The party is over,” I tell them. “Sorry.”
“What?” asks the tentacled one. I think I knew his name once… was it Marty?
”But we’ve still got lots of booze,” says the bird one with four legs. “Party’s not over till the booze is gone.”
“Yeah,” they all three agreee.
The celebrities have clearly learned their place among these monsters, as they don’t say anything and try to keep as far back from them as possible. I look at them sadly, cast down from so high, kidnapped into one of the most awkward and irritating parties ever. “It’s over,” I repeat. “Come on, everyone. Let’s go home.” I hop off the crates and make my way through the crowd towards the entrance.
Suddenly there is no more entrance, just more concrete wall.
“Yeah, right, cape-wad,” says Marty. I think his name is Marty. The one with the tentacles and the big forehead. “We keep the party rockin’ till the booze and drugs are gone.” They all three aggree.
Then they jump into the air and perform some really complicated maneuver in which there is a lot of spinning and in the end I’m all tied up with rope and they have Mr. Happy Puppet Head. My arms and legs are all pinned together and I can’t really move so I fall down onto my side in the dirt. It hurts, but not bad. It’s just really uncomfortable being all tied up like a coccoon. And the jazz is turned back on, and maybe even louder than it was before. I think my ears are about to explode.
I look over to the monsters and see that Mr. Happy Puppet Head is awake again, and drinking, and hitting on another overweight daytime talk show host. Her show’s not as good as the one who already escaped, but Mr. Happy Puppet Head doesn’t hesitate to vommit on her shirt, too.