"Dude, could you hook me another one?" Tad Webster shouted in the general direction of a group of boys standing around a black Camaro. "I'm tapped out!"
One of the boys, a brown-haired varsity tight end with a severe case of acne and three letters in football, reached into the cardboard case of Budweiser, grabbed a can, and tossed it to Tad Webster. "Hut, hut, hike!" he shouted, tossing the can back to Tad.
The red and white can sailed in Tad Webster's direction. Tad, the first string wide receiver for the Sleepyside Wildcats, put his hands up and caught the beer can.
"Hey Webster!" Dougie Van Handel shouted. "Nice catch! We should get you drunk before every game and then maybe you'd actually catch some balls sometime!"
Tad cracked open his beer and replied with a one finger salute.
As was tradition on Friday nights after football games, players and some students gathered at the end of Louis Road to celebrate another game in the books. Although with the way the Wildcats played lately, the team and the fans were celebrating escaping another undignified domination with some of their dignity intact.
Louis Road was an out of the way dead end road behind Matthew Wheeler's property. It was a place where kids gathered to race cars, make out, or have beer bashes. It was out of the way from the prying eyes of parents and teachers.
This particular October night was thick with the warmth of Indian summer. That distinctive scent of autumn leaves mingled with the scent of malt, barley, hops, beer sweat, perfume, cologne, and weed. Leaves crunched underfoot. Laughter and conversation mixed with ample amounts of hair metal emanating from a boom box perched on the hood of a '69 Dodge Charger that was in need of extensive body work. Occasional snatches of people attempting to sing along with the hair band of the moment then dissolving into laughter or belching was heard among the din.
Hulking three hundred pound offensive lineman and senior Chester "The Tank" Worthington ambled over to the stash of beer and helped himself to his fifth can of Budweiser. He held the beer in his hand, regarding it with a sense of bleary awe. Then he stood with his feet planted about two feet apart. Tank popped the top on his beer, brought the can up to his lips, and bent backwards as the amber liquid slid down his throat, drawing the entire contents of the can in one shot. Then Tank stood up ramrod straight, smacked his lips, and belched loud enough to scare the owls from the trees. "Ew, gross!" A feminine sounding shout came from the distance, but Tank ignored her.
Two freshmen who weren't technically invited to this party, but showed up anyway, looked suitably impressed with The Tank. Chester looked over at the boys with a grave expression on his face. "Beer bongs! We don't need no stinkin' beer bongs!" he slurred to the boys before ambling off into the darkness.
Crunch, shuffle, shuffle, crunch.
"Ohmigod, Angie! I saw the cutest little sweater at the mall last weekend!"
Crunch, shuffle, shuffle, crunch.
"Yeah, dude. It ain't much. It needs some new paint, new suspension, and a new engine, but once I soup up this bad boy…"
Crunch, shuffle, shuffle, crunch
"…and he put his hand up my skirt and then he…"
Crunch, shuffle, shuffle, crunch
"That's nothing! Last summer, at the cottage, I woke up with my head on the toilet seat. Last time I'll ever drink Goldschlager and Jolt!"
Crunch, shuffle, shuffle, crunch
"You know, Stacy, I've never noticed before, but that Mart Belden is kind of hot."
Crunch, shuffle, shuffle, crunch
'Cause baby we'll be
At the drive in
In the old man's Ford.
Crunch, shuffle, shuffle, crunch
"…It was awesome, man! I swear that girl can suck a golf ball through a garden hose…"
Crunch, shuffle…Huh? Tank strained his ears to hear the rest of that conversation.
Behind the bushes
'Til I'm screamin' for me
Down the basement
Lock the cellar door
Shuffle, shuffle…
And baby, talk dirty to…
Shuffle… CRASH!
The bulky silver boom box went flying off the hood of the car, landing on the ground with a sickening crunch. The back panel came loose; spilling eight D sized Duracell batteries into the darkness. Everything went eerily still at that moment.
"Good one, Tank!" a disgruntled party-goer shouted.
"Now what are we supposed to do without music?" a girl wondered.
"Looks like Tank is tanked," snickered Dougie Van Handel.
Shrimpy Davis marched up to Tank. "TANK!" he shouted, looking up at the hulking offensive lineman. "You trashed my brother's boom box! He's gonna kill me!"
Chester "the Tank" Worthington looked around, perplexed. Someone was talking to him, but he couldn't see who it was. His brow puckered in confusion for a moment, but then relaxed when something else occurred to him.
"I gotta pee," he announced solemnly to the crowd.
Crunch, shuffle, shuffle, crunch. Tank ambled off into the woods for a bit of privacy. When he reached a cluster of trees that afforded him some privacy, he took a flat-footed wide stance in front of one tree. He fumbled with the buttons on his jeans. In a moment of clarity, Tank realized that Levi's 501 Button Fly jeans were not really a wise choice in pants when attending a beer bash. However, he did manage to get the buttons undone just in the nick of time. Tank sighed in relief as he heard the sound of liquid hitting tree bark.
As he was doing his business, Tank went through his mental Rolodex of the girls he knew and knew of, trying to figure out which one had the ability to suck a golf ball through a garden hose.
Snap, crunch.
What was that? Tank wondered. Probably squirrels. Tank went back to his thoughts.
Snap, crunch.
Tank went still as the source of the sound came closer. He tried to turn around, but since he was still in the process of "going" and it was dark out, he could not see.
Snap, crunch.
Tank finished his business and tucked his bits back into his Jockeys. He started fumbling with his fly buttons.
Snap, crunch.
Tank turned around, squinting in the dark. There was little moonlight that night, but what little there was showed that the individual was generous in height.
Tank smiled the blissfully ignorant smile of a young man who drank five cans of Budweiser as if they were shots of Jaegermeister. "Hey, Taylor," Tank slurred. "Almost done, man. Hold on."
Taylor leaned in close to Tank's face. He spread his arms out and hissed at the drunken football player.
At that moment, a sliver of light from a departing partier's headlights, showed red glowing eyes and green skin. In his state, Tank knew this was not Taylor. The light distracted the creature. It winced from the brightness.
Tank, in a moment of clarity, gave the creature a shove and ran back towards the party, his pants sliding down towards his ankles as he ran.
Notes: The song lyrics quoted are from the Poison song "Talk Dirty to me".
