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Milton's Historical Logs #94
Saturday, July 26, 2014
Last night was…I feel compelled to log the events but I'm not happy (or proud) about doing so.
The night began like any other party, I suppose (not that I've been to many mind.)
The men were gathered in the church in a herd of excited testosterone, under God's roof doing ungodly things.
The women were huddled in the infirmary with estrogen haunting the air like wisps of a spirits' tattered shroud.
No sane man dared to go to that place at that time.
There was drinking of liquor by those who could and those who didn't (and in Layla's case) those whose religion forbid it, entertained themselves with cold tea and canned fruit juice. But most importantly there was drinking. I repeat myself because this is important to note.
Now, as a man who doesn't indulge much I have to admit that my memory is perhaps the most reliable in recounting the events that unfolded.
First, there was noise. A cacophony the likes of which even the angels heralding the end of days from heaven couldn't reproduce.
The Lieutenant insisted upon karaoke, so of course, there was noise.
There was smoke. Fresh tobacco from Delgado's own crop and dry, musty plumes from the ancient cigarettes found by those who indulged.
Then there was sex. Not in the sense of a grand orgy, the likes of which Caligula himself would endorse, but sex that hung on words and jokes thrown amongst the men like confetti at a parade. They are soldiers and rednecks, these men, and one Marine who descended directly from those old French Kings, who seemed to be the root of sex minded thought and speech. And in the minds of these virile males everything is and was sex.
At times I was thrown into stages of pink cheeked shock by the jokes and comments, having never been around men of such woodshop working, plaid wearing, boot stomping male type. These are like the Brawny Men of the world and all under one roof.
Merle. Merle, that leader of the sex minded men prevailed on all things that night.
At one point I felt as though Merle were the God Bacchus and that the wine and the debauchery were products of his will.
St. James may have supplied some of his deep woods grown, special marijuana for the festivities and I may have inhaled the second hand blue haze which hovered in the air, so perhaps Merle's imposing self was the cause of this firm belief in old Roman God's.
After the drinking. After everyone was in a mellowed mood came Mrs. Douglas. That geriatric temptress with the sienna skin, wrinkled by time and experience, but almost like liquid gold under the light of the candles. She danced like a creature fifty years younger. Like and immortal child of light and fire. She moved like a gypsy.
An old, wrinkled gypsy.
So, there we were. Testosterone high, blood alcohol up there in the solid digits, coming back to life after living among the dead and the ghosts. We needed this release. We needed this night.
Oh God, what have we done?
And some point a fight broke out between Merle and Rhoades.
This was to be expected. Two alpha males high on life, booze and energy, clashing.
And the Lieutenant, he just sat back in his throne-like spot of honour by the pulpit and watched, a small, impish look in his eye. Like he knew. He knew it was to be expected, like in some way he was Puck and he instigated the whole debauchery. Maybe he was. Maybe the Lieutenant was in some small way an earth spirit of mischief and mayhem. Maybe he threw this party to bring us all down.
Maybe I'm still a little high from the pot.
The fight, it lasted maybe five solid minutes of heavy blows and blood and bruises, but when it was over, like all good fights between men, Merle clapped a hand on Rhoades back and offered him a beer. And all was right.
The night was full, it was full to the brim of happenings and things and it all went so fast, so heavy and real, that I can almost still put myself there, in that place. With the smoke and the noise and the vibrancy of the life that electrified those who witnessed the whole ordeal.
Then, like the Queen's they were, the women showed up suddenly, the door to the church was thrown wide and they stood there like Valkyries arriving to drag these warriors off the field of battle, up to the halls of Valhalla.
The noise stopped.
For a moment I thought I had gone deaf. There wasn't a sound. Men rushed to put out their smokes, to adjust themselves for the women as they moved down the aisle of the church, heading for a smirking Cajun on the dais at the front. It was almost as though the man willed it. He looked like he expected nothing less, a knowing twinkle in his eye as the women approached him.
That was when the debauchery went from drunken revelry to a veritable orgy of moving bodies and drinking and I feel like, at one point someone was naked. Or maybe we all were, or maybe it was just the feel of the party as it got out of hand. As people writhed and laughed and danced and sang and drank and stomped and literally tried everything in their power to tear that old structure of the church to the ground with the energy of their bodies.
No one will ever be able to say that this party, this bacchanalia thrown by this single Cajun devil on the night before his wedding to a nun was anything if not epic. And with this record, it will go down in history as the first time, in a long time, we thoroughly lived.
Think I'll go back to bed now. I still feel like I'm walking through a haze.
Current home population: 39 (Both Kowalski's and O'Hara and his men still present.)
Current away population: 0
Current forecast: I don't know. It looks too bright out there and there's a wind or something. I'll have a better gauge later when I can stand bright light and moving.
Current mood: Tired, a little confused, kind of hungry but I know if I eat it won't stay down long.
Addendum: Did I drink last night? There's about eight beer bottles in my bed beside me…I don't even like beer.
P.S. to the addendum: Should I be concerned about this condom at the foot of my cot? It appears to be used…it touched my foot and I thought it was a snake.
Also addendum: There appears to be bright red paint or something on my pillow…
Personal note: I'm sure I conducted myself with a modicum of dignity at the celebration. At least I have that.
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**Daryl**
"I'm the lizard King!"
Eyeing Milton who was straddling the railing at the front of the pews, Daryl smiled and tucked his cigarette in between his lips to clap for the man as a group of soldiers cheered the man on with chants of 'dance, dance, dance' as he struggled his way through a Doors song, the mike too close to his mouth, the joint Milton held threatening to burn the handle of the microphone as the geeky scientist ground against the rail, riding it like a witch riding a broom.
Beside him Merle touched his bottle to his split lip and grinned. "Some people can't handle their smoke."
Finally it was St. James who rescued Milton, taking over the mike and handing it over to Glenn who finished the song as Milton was helped down from the railing and seated at a nearby pew.
Rhoades, who was suddenly best of buddies with Merle after their scrap nodded in agreement and then stood up to catcall Glenn who hit a high note that was about ten feet off key.
Someone hit the karaoke machine and the CD jumped to 'Baba O'Riley' causing Glenn to falter and fumble, before adjusting himself to the situation and going with it. The poor man had come back from the kitchens at the start of the night, warning everyone not to fucking believe a word Ryan Kowalski said, his face pink with some kind of embarrassment.
Spying Carl in the shadows beside O'Hara and Kowalski the Younger, who both seemed to be exuding a dark cloud of fun-sucking negative energy, Daryl stood up and approached the boy, shouting at him over the din.
"Your dad know you're here?" He demanded.
Carl shrugged. "He's watching the kids tonight in the dorms!"
"I didn't ask where he was, I asked if he—"
"What does it matter?" Carl returned. "I'm not drinking!"
"Yet," Merle stepped in, grabbing the young man and handing him a beer.
At Daryl's disapproving look, his brother shrugged and grinned, proud of himself for corrupting Rick's kid.
With a withering glare, Daryl decided to let it slip, moving back to his spot to find Dean slinking into their pew, a beer in hand.
That seemed to be the one thing Merle did disapprove of, snatching the beer from the kid, handing it off to Daryl in order to flick Dean's earlobe.
"Get back to the dorms!" He barked.
Dean slunk off, but rebelled enough to veer off towards Carl's shadowy corner. Merle seemed to miss Carl handing Dean his beer, but Daryl caught it with a sly look.
As Delgado and Sid started up 'Casey Jones', the Lieutenant flopped onto the pew beside Daryl, vaulting the one in front easily with his long legs in order to get at them. Like a true Southern gentleman he clung hard to a tumbler of bourbon, the good stuff that Daryl gave him in lieu of finding a better bachelor party gift. And just like any good Southern gentleman, the vaulting over the pew didn't at all affect the liquid in the glass. No man wasted a drop.
It seemed to please the Cajun better than anything, so Daryl was satisfied with his find.
"Come on, cabri," the Cajun's accent was thicker with drink. "We gon' nex', yeah?"
"Naw," Daryl shook his head. "I don't do that shit."
"F'true?" The Cajun drawled with a glimmer in his eye. "I tink dat's a lie you been tellin'. All night ya been eyein' dat mike like it's da gol' medal ya been wantin' for."
"Naw," Daryl insisted.
"Dere's dis glint in ya eye dat tells me ya lyin'."
"Jesus, you were fucking hard to listen to before," Merle broke in, "now it's like listening to a retarded Frenchman trying to speak English."
"Embrasse moi tchew, grande beede."
"Yeah, fuck you too, coonass."
Leaning across Daryl, the Cajun looked Merle straight in the eye and said, "je vas te passe une callotte. Ya feel me, couyon?"
Without giving him time to respond, the large Cajun had Daryl by the back of his shirt and was frog marching him up the aisle towards the front.
"Speak fucking English I might, dipshit," Merle replied.
"Fuck you, Merle!" The Cajun announced with a grin.
"Fuck you back!" Merle responded gleefully.
Shaking his head in good humour, the Lieutenant murmured. "I'm gonna pass dat man a slap tonight, I feel it."
Delgado and Sid finished their song and Daryl found himself apprehended by the Marine, marched up the aisle and held firmly in place as the Lieutenant picked out a song for them to sing.
The familiar drum beats and pluckings of a guitar started up and Daryl smirked around his cigarette, puffing as the Cajun started.
"Some folks are born, made to wave da flag. Ooo, dere red, white and blue. And when da band plays 'Hail to the Chief'. Ooo, dey point da cannon at ya, Lawd! It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no senator's son, son! It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one, no!"
The men began to get riled up, stomping and clapping along.
The mike was thrust at Daryl and for a moment he stood stunned, and then removed his cigarette from his lips, downed a good swallow of beer, finishing off his bottle and taking the mike.
"Some folks are born, silver spoon in hand! Lord, don't they help themselves, y'all! But when the taxman comes to the door! Lord, the house looks like a rummage sale, yeah! It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no millionaire's son, no, no! It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one, no!"
It was actually alright, considering. No one cared how badly Daryl was singing, and he was sure it was bad. Fay motioned Merle up and the gruff man resisted for a moment, before moving to stand beside them, the three of them bobbing to the music, Fay's arm slinging around Merle's and Daryl's shoulders.
Tucking his cigarette back into his mouth, Daryl belted out around it, singing with Fay and his brother, arm around his waist as the three bobbed and stomped, finishing the song together.
"Some folks inherit star spangled eyes! Ooh, they send you down to war, Lord! And when you ask 'em, 'How much should we give?'! Ooh, they only answer 'More! More! More!', y'all! It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no military son, son! It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one, one! It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one, no, no, no! It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate son, no, no, no!"
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Ciao Bella - Ah yes, the 'who would you go for if you were gay' discussion. I think I've had it too. It's one of the classics.
auntheddy - We'll see who strips in the next part, I promise. (Sadly it isn't Glenn...)
vickih - Mine too! I love that song. I like to think the Lt thinks of it when he thinks of Grace. I don't know why, I just do.
You'reMyKindOfTrouble - I like the idea of Glenn the stripper, he's a total hottie. Also, the Lt is so effing cheeky. I'm amazed he gets away with half of what he does, but I think the more chill and relaxed Grace gets, the more he has to push her to get her ire up.
Yazzy x - Poor Glenn, he always seems to be in over his head. He's such a cutie. I don't know why I don't write enough of him.
Brazen Hussy - Because the Glenn striptease had you so hot and bothered you need Merle's cold steel blade to cool you down? Ehehe...*refuses to believe you dislike the idea of Glenn naked*
Surplus Imagination - Oh, I haven't forgotten either...it may come into drunken Daryl play later...that purple thing.
itsi3 - Ah, Fay...what a little shit.