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Sharpies in the Mummy's Tomb



The night was as black as the sharpie rolling around inside our blue cups, each member of my old pop-punk band had one. The drummer’s bright idea. At twenty-one years old we were old enough to buy booze, but it was Sunday and we had finished off our stock during the gig at the coffee house in downtown Bowling Green, Kentucky. Now at our friend’s townhouse on the outskirts of the city, we sat cramped around her TV with a room full of odd individuals; university town’s had a way of producing them. The place looked like a trashed prison cell, no furniture, stained carpet, bare walls, and a very mixed crowd of all sexual orientations.

We needed a way to keep the party going and the sharpies we had bought to give out autographs finally came in use.

“1, 2, 3!” We all took the first hit together, careful to cup our hands completely around the cup to keep the sharpie stench trapped inside, getting all the high possible. A dumb move for good boys who had never done a single drug before. Everyone looked around at one another and busted out laughing at the sight of a room full of black-tipped noses.

Our friend—the owner of the apartment—popped an old VHS in. The TV screen went from blue to black. The title flashed light into the room, "Lust in the Mummy’s Tomb." For over an hour our eyes were glued to the tube as we watched a mummy chase around a house full of sexy girls in skimpy clothes. He always caught them and they always had sex. Solid plot. The mummy looked like he had been rolled in paper towels, even his dick had been covered up and the girls never even bothered unwrapping it for fellatio.

Bored of the flick and unable to fight off the munchies, I headed towards the dimly lit kitchen. My best buddy followed. He was the skinniest son-of-a-bitch you’ve ever seen. He leaned on the sink and waited for me to raid the fridge. The contents seemed to float around my head. I reached three times trying to snatch one of the five cupcakes flying around like a baby’s mobile. That’s what I had been reduced to, a giggling baby reaching for the twirling desires in front of my face.

Finally I snagged one and handed it to my buddy. I went back in for another, this time for myself.

The dizziness became too much.

“Oh, shit!” I shouted.

I passed out, crashing face first into the fridge. After some time, I came to. I was still lying in the opened fridge, my buddy leaning on the sink licking his fingers.

“Why didn’t you help me out, ass?”

“Help you? And risk dropping my cupcake to save your ass?”

Friends. They’re not always there when for you when you need them, but right there with you in the thick of it. Come Hell or come cupcakes.

"Friends are not always there for you when you need them." This story was written by S.L. Kerns. Check out his website here >> www.slkerns.wordpress.com
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