trade your heroes for ghosts
Okay, you guys. Here is the deal. The . . . situation, if you will (oh god).
I disclaim everything in advance by saying that I was FREAKIN' DARED by someone who KNOWS WHO SHE IS. And, unfortunately, also raised to never turn down a dare.
But, so. I have written wing!fic and OT3 fic and highschool!AU and hooker!AU and random!psychopath AU, and even that one half-finished vampire fic. Look at all the incest stories! Surely nothing fictional could faze me anymore.
Never have I been so self-conscious about posting a story, that is the god's honest truth.
Oh dear.
It's a Jersey Shore fic. (YES I KNOW.) It's Vinny/Mike, you guys.
(forgive me.)
I never usually bother with this kind of stuff, because I feel like it's an insult to the readers' collective intelligence, but, as is especially obvious in this case, character =/= author. These are terrible terrible people who say and do terrible terrible things. You'll probably be offended by stuff in this story. I'm offended by their very existence, for pete's sake. Considering them as fictional characters is a manner of dealing with the moral crisis of not wanting to share a species with them, and yet being unable to look away.
Also I was fuckin' dared.
Anyway, on we go.
*
Jersey Shore, Vinny/Mike, 5793 words, rated a pretty hard R for all of the below.
Warnings for drug use, rank and pervasive misogyny and homophobia, and hate!sex (because I don't believe Michael Sorrentino has any other kind).
Lights, Camera
By Candle Beck
Metallic pinwheel colors and artificial fog and strobe lights flashing white, making Vinny think about his little cousin who used to have seizures, all twisted up and spazzing the fuck out down on the coppery shag rug in the basement, that fucking Japanese cartoon jittering on the TV screen. Running up the wooden stairs, hollowing thud of his feet (that's the bass beat, another motherfucking hip-hop remix) and tear in his throat hollering for his mom and his aunt who'd be drinking coffee out back, watching the wind pick red and yellow leaves off the northeast trees.
Weird random fucking thing, these trains of thought he gets. Vinny's drunk. Fuckin' unbelievably drunk, like smashed in the head with a chair, everything fuzzy and tuning in and out. So many people here and all of them breathing the same recycled air, dancing, whatever the fuck this is that's supposed to be dancing. No goddamn rhythm, lips pulled back to show clenched white teeth, graceless jerking heads and arms, and what the fuck, does everybody on the dancefloor have fucking epilepsy tonight?
It's three in the morning. Vinny's shirt is stuck to his back, the cord for his mike pack itching at his damp skin. This girl he's so-called dancing with is about to fall on her fucking face, loose sloppy mouth smeary red, pushing her tits (fake, and still only a generous B-cup because she'd obviously chickened out at the last moment, fucking waste of a surgery but whatever, her loss) up on him and trying to grab at the back of his neck. Stage four starfucker and clinging al-fucking-ready, her eyes darting around as her nails dug in, looking for the cameras.
Vinny needs another motherfucking drink, and that's about enough of this bitch. He catches her wrist and takes her hand off him, flash of a sweetboy grin that's all for show. She pouts, lower lip looking desperate. She's wearing too much eye makeup, looks like a fuckin' raccoon. Vinny's moving on, fuck her.
Jenny and Snooki are both at the bar, with cameraman Rick hunched against the wall, beaming a shallow puddle of light over them as he films their conversation. JWoww with her shoulders stiff and thrust back to show off the goods, cutting glances to make sure guys are watching even though she never does anything about it. Snooki's bopping around like a fucking bobblehead. Neon pulses, glass everywhere in mirrors and disco balls and people's hands, and the music is so loud it feels like the walls could give out.
Vinny collapses against Snooki's back, burying his nose in her chemical hair as she shrieks and wriggles. Fucking brilliant, one arm around Snooki's waist to feel her warm tits shaking, fingers spreading out towards the rise of her hip, and then she pops him a good one, elbow to ribs, and he falls away, gasping.
"No more tickling, I told you! You're so, agh, ew. Just ew. You want me to fucking throw up all over everywhere?"
"So fuckin' gross," Jenny tosses in, stirring her drink with her dagger nails tapping, keeping time.
Vinny slumps against the bar, hands folded over his chest as if penitent, church face. Big eyes, play it up. Rick's filming. "I was just tryin' to give you some love, Snooks."
"Hardy fucking har." Snooki's shaping her hand primly around the architecture of her pouf, posture all strict and trying to be tough but she's facing Vinny more than Jenny now. Snooki sticks her chest out to improve the view a little, telling him, "You always ruin everything, Vincenzo."
"That's me," Vinny replies with leering amiability, snaking Snooki's pink girly drink off the bar. Swigs too much in the first mouthful and it's incredibly sweet, so strong he might be about to go fucking blind, and he's gasping again.
"Vinny! Give it back, you fucker!" Snooki snatches the drink away but Vinny's okay with that, he can hardly breathe.
"Damn, bro," Jenny says, coming around to peer at him with her scary nails and her black-edged eyes. She's smirking, that fucking I-know-all-about-you look she likes to wear. "Real fuckin' mess, aren't you? Where're your boys at?"
"Where the fuck ever, I don't even fucking care." Vinny endeavors to sit up straighter, vision still all sparkly and fucked up, sequins and matte leather and shiny shirts, all these fucking people.
"Trying to find somebody drunk enough to suck their dicks, right?" Jenny leans in, too loud even in the thunder of the bar. The producers have asked them to try and speak up as much as possible in the clubs; shockingly, the MTV audience is less than appreciative of the subtitles.
"Whatever, yeah probably." Smirk and a shrug, and Vinny orders a jack and coke, staring at two not-quite-hot girls dancing together, their stomachs touching, gold shirt and mesh.
"Aw, baby, did you get shot down that many times?"
Jenny wants his attention, so Vinny shoots her a winning grin and answers, "You missin' your boyfriend's dick so much you gotta worry about mine? You know you just gotta say the word, honey."
He reaches for the curve of Jenny's hip, the place where skin shows between her belt and top. Vinny's thinking about warmth specific to skin, something smooth, that Brazilian girl he was dancing with earlier who let him slide his fingers along the top of her thong. Jenny squawks and dodges away, and Vinny laughs, feeling clumsy and overheated and well-observed, seen from every angle.
Delicious, this jack and coke. Sticky, raw. Vinny licks the taste off his teeth and scans the crowd. Not much worth talking about in this fucking club tonight, horse-faced girls in too-tight clothes and thick makeup, like a fucking whore convention has rolled into town. That Brazilian girl is still a possibility, a little heavier than he usually takes home when he's living with all these people watching, but fuck it, it's late. There is a radius of several feet around the three of them at the bar, weird little desert island picked out by the soft white light over Rick's camera.
Different this year, not just 'cause of Miami but all of it. Down the shore last year, nobody knew who they were, just that they had cameras following them and that must have meant something. Famous in the seedy way of a nightclub slut, but strangers still--none of them ever got recognized on the street until the show started airing.
This time, they can't go anywhere without shit starting up, heads turning. Just like he always dreamed, right right?
But fuck that negativity shit, he's here, roll with it. Jack and coke is one of mankind's true masterpieces. He's only supposed to order Stoli vodka drinks, but the promotional department can go suck a dick. Vinny licks at the rim of his glass. Snooki and Jenny have their heads tucked together, secret chick talk, and cameraman Rick isn't even paying attention to him, just the girls. Vinny is just beyond the edge of the camera light.
So he slips away. Down the stairwell and into the trip-hop room where the floor is trembling, laser effects in the fogged air like a tiny spaceship dogfight in progress. The people dancing down here look like zombies, flushed and jarring together.
Vinny's head aches, and it spins. He is sweaty all over, thick-tongued, concrete in his shoes. How many was that, how many drinks? They've been here for hours. So many rooms in this club, so much fucking bass. It's like the end of the fucking world every goddamn night with these people.
Slow wrenching in his stomach, and Vinny's afraid he's going to throw up. Mike's sausage and peppers, the steamed veggies and bread and rice krispie squares that Sammi made (everyone's mind subsequently blown by this display of basic competence), red wine and Stoli red bulls and jack and cokes, it's all coming back.
Vinny veers for the cramped hallway where the bathroom is, reaching back and under his shirt to claw the cord out his mike pack. The last thing he needs is for every jackass in the fucking country to hear him puking his guts out while they filmed the bathroom door. Fuck that shit. There's a way to be famous like MTV wants and still be fuckin' cool.
And then there's Mike, the motherfucking Situation himself, both hands braced on the wall around some bitch. Looming with his big shoulders, leaning in too close. Shades slipping down his nose, mouth working over some piece of bullshit--Vinny knows Mike's game fucking cold at this point.
No cameras, nobody paying any more attention than the general impression of hostility that Mike attracts everywhere he goes. Vinny can see the girl's hand, scratching nervously at the wall, scratching away from Mike. He can see just a bit of her downturned mouth, her whole body straining subtly away. Trying too hard again, scaring her off, and Vinny grins, fuckin' Mike and his horrible fuckin' act.
Vinny doesn't feel like he has to throw up anymore. He goes up to Mike and tosses an arm around his shoulders, pulling him back away from the girl, who is bottle-blonde with sunken cheeks and no tits to speak of, landmine, her face plainly contorted in a mortified grimace.
"All right, young people, let's make some room for the Holy Spirit now," Vinny says in a gawkish chaperone's voice, bringing back dances in the gymnasium of the girls' Catholic school, dark plaid dresses and Hawaiian Punch in Dixie cups and all the boys strangling in their new neckties.
"Lemme go, you fuckin' asshole, fuck." Mike turns to shove Vinny off, and the girl immediately makes good her escape, darting away frightened rabbit style. Vinny has to laugh.
"Such a ladykiller, bro, there oughta be a fuckin' law," Vinny says, grinning.
Mike rips off his shades to scowl at him but it's like he can't quite focus, or maybe that's just Vinny. Mike's eyes are bloodshot and set even deeper than usual, darker rings underneath, looking totally exhausted. The gel is melting out of his hair.
"What the fuck, Vin? I had that thing fuckin' locked up! You owe me a piece of snatch, you greasy motherfucker."
Leaning in, because the trip-hop is deliriously loud back here, massive fucking speakers just around the corner throbbing and the kids singing along on the dancefloor--some Michael Jackson song done up like electronica, Vinny is dimly aware. Nobody ever does anything original anymore. He's leaning in, bending his mouth close to Mike's ear.
"Bullshit, you didn't have shit. See how quick she fuckin' bolted? Like her ass was on fire, man, whooosh."
Mike pulls back, that broad look of cartoonish affront warping his face, his stupid girl's mouth. A little constant giggle is running in Vinny's chest, something he's got to keep smothered down but it's tough, real fuckin' tough. Vinny has always understood exactly what it is about the Situation that makes him so disgustingly good to watch.
"Fuckin' cockblock," Mike hollers at him, or anyway that's Vinny's best guess, with the volume and the drunk and everything. Mike sniffs hard and pulls his forearm across his nose, and Vinny sways towards him, his eyebrows crawling up his forehead.
"Shit, did you fuckin' score?" Vinny asks, checking habitually over his shoulder for any motherfucker with a camera. Mike looks confused, bleary bloody eyes blinking, swiping at his nose again, and Vinny rolls his eyes, tapping his own nose pointedly.
"Are you going skiing, man," Vinny says, lots of eyebrow and even a wink because Mike can be pretty slow.
"Oh. Oh! Fuck yeah I did." Mike's eyes narrow. He's swaying, holding onto the wall. "You're a fucking prick, though, why'm I giving you any?"
Vinny laughs out loud at that, that high-pitched drunk laugh that he hates 'cause it's totally gay, but it's all right this time because, really. Michael the fucking Situation Sorrentino standing there calling him a prick, it's fucking priceless. Eight people making a fucking pimp's money because nobody has ever seen as big an asshole, but yeah, yeah, Vinny's the prick. Whatever you fuckin' say.
He leans in close again, reaches around to fumble for Mike's audio cord through his shirt, yanking it out of the pack before clapping his hand on Mike's shoulder, big shit-eating grin.
"What, you're a fuckin' loser who does drugs alone? You ain't got no friends, bro?"
Fucked-up and visibly woozy, Mike's face crunches down, mouth pursed, red-faced little boy about to throw a tantrum, and Vinny laughs again, pretty mean-spirited but who the fuck cares, that's the fuckin' point.
"Fuckin' junkie loser, that's what's up," Vinny taunts, and Mike pushes him away huffily, but doesn't resist when Vinny grabs him again and points him into the bathroom.
Girls and faggots elbowing in at the long mirror to do their makeup, intricate tramp stamps showing between tiny shirts and low skirts as they lean forward. Indistinguishable slashes of lipstick and kohl and glitter in the crimson-filtered light, colors washed out so everybody looks infrared. Vinny keeps his face turned away, fakes an itch to cover with his hand, and nobody seems to recognize them before they manage to slide into the last empty stall. Vinny bangs the door shut, and the lock's broken because of course, so he stands with his back to it to hold it in place.
Graffiti everywhere, obscene suggestions drawn in Sharpie. Through the thin barrier of the wall, people are fucking in the next stall, rough panting breath and groans just audible. The whole room is vibrating, bringing back earthquakes in L.A., the Jersey boardwalk when the huge trucks come in the mornings, and now this shitty scenester dance club in Miami, wherever the fuck they are tonight.
Mike digs a little baggie of cocaine out of the pocket in his jeans designed for such a purpose (the jeans are Diesel, a free gift to Mike after he put in a paid appearance at some club promoter's launch party, which Vinny happens to know because Mike never shuts the fuck up about the swag he pulls in), and flicks it to get the stuff to the bottom, holds it up to show Vinny. Mike's fingers are trembling. He's trying to recapture his standard fuck-you smirk, but it keeps slipping off his mouth. He's in worse shape than Vinny, no question at all.
"Guess I figured you were too much of a pussy for the real shit," Mike says.
Vinny shrugs, licking his lips and wishing he had some water and wishing he weren't quite so fucking drunk. He only ever wants to do blow when he's smashed beyond all fucking recognition, and he always has a moment wishing he was more sober, fuckin' paradigm or paradox or whatever the fuck. His head is fuckin' killing him already.
"Seems like you don't know shit about me. Come on, I want a taste."
"You owe me, bro, that's all'm sayin'," Mike mumbles, fiddling intently with the baggie, all thumbs as Vinny's uncle Gino says. "Fuckin' bitch all the time and fuck with my girls and you fuckin', never fuckin' help with dinner or any shit like that."
Mike's puffy ill-tempered face has lost most of its boyishness, glowering down at the baggie and muttering (still loud enough to hear, always loud enough to hear with this fuckin' kid), and Vinny gets impatient, itchy and greedy. He snags the baggie away from Mike, quick yelping protest that has Vinny grinning like a loon as he easily pops the Ziploc open.
"Give me a key or whatever," Vinny says.
"You're such a goddamn cunt, Jesus. Fuck." Just cursing for the sake of it, just exercising his idiot mouth, and Mike gets out his money clip, slides the cash out and Vinny sees that one side hooks slightly, a small spoon perfectly designed for the task of scooping cocaine out of a gram bag.
"Fuckin' came prepared, didn't you," Vinny says, bald insinuation curling his mouth, and Mike calls him a cocksucking douchebag, but hands Vinny the clip.
Quick little bump tapped out on Vinny's hand, in the recessed delta of his thumb, and he brings it up to his nose, hard sniff and a moment of nothing before his blood starts to stir.
Oh it's been so fucking long. Vinny feels starry-eyed, some gay shit like that. Mike is holding his hand up, a standard bitchy demand carved onto his face, and Vinny scoops out one for him and then a second onto his own hand. He's starting to feel it now.
Vinny's second bump is bigger than the first. His brain buzzes, pinging awake like circuits in a motherboard, like the frantic chase of the light show in a good nightclub. Good fucking stuff, and no surprise. They get the best of everything, as a general rule.
"Fuck," Vinny breathes out, tipping his head back and closing his eyes for a second to feel the rush, the rise.
He looks back down to see Mike's head bent over his second bump, and then ripping back, snorting hard through sinuses that are already clogged as shit--he's clearly been at it all night. Mike's eyes are watering, almost badly enough to spill over, which would be fucking hilarious all around.
"Where'd you get that, that shit's fuckin' dope," Vinny says, hearing himself slur and he remembers that he's drunk, suddenly way drunker than he was before.
"Some sketchy-ass Mexican kid, who the fuck do you think?"
"Cuban, Sitch, they're mostly Cuban down here. Cubanos," nice round accent, fun word to say.
"Like I fuckin' care, some fuckin' wetback, and I think he ripped me off too, it was supposed to be two grams but I think it's fuckin' light."
Mike's rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying to surreptitiously knuckle the tears out of his eyes, sniffing sharp and regular. He looks ridiculous, overworked shoulders swelling out his yellow Ed Hardy shirt, short hair that he likes spiked up slumping defeated across his forehead, sweaty and shaking and standing astride a seatless toilet, held in a frame of crude black-marker graffiti.
Vinny holds the baggie up to check and he doesn't exactly have an eye for weighing out cocaine, but the amount certainly looks close to the single gram bags they used to pick up in Brooklyn before hitting the Manhattan clubs.
"Maybe. Or maybe you just snorted a bunch of it without keeping track like a coke-whore, huh?" Affectless grin, the edges of the scene shimmering in and out. God, this drunk. "You look the part, Mikey, I gotta tell you."
"Fuck, fuck you, shut your motherfucking mouth," Mike says, almost sputtering and lifting his shoulders to try and look intimidating. His eyes have gone glassy and it's probably only the terrible red-tinted light that makes them look so dark.
Vinny goes digging for another little bump, his heart galloping along really fucking nicely right about now, pulse thick in the base of his throat. He's aware that he's grinning, fucking loves getting Mike all riled up, fuckin' useless piece of shit deserves whatever he gets.
Six thoughts where there used to be one. Everything really really fast, and poorly considered. Cocaine tapped gently onto his hand, the neat dent of his thumb, an arrow through his brain and Vinny is saying choked and happy, "It's your fuckin' future man, and I can't wait. Once the show's over and nobody gives a shit about you anymore, how long before you're selling your ass on the fucking street? Or, fuck, big fuckin' money in porn, ain't there? Betcha people'd pay top dollar to see the fucking Situation taking it up the ass, that's what's fuckin' up."
Mike, poor stupid Mike, a huge gauzy look of outrage rising to his face, flushed and wounded but not in a way that looks real to Vinny, or maybe it's that Mike doesn't look real and never has, that less-than-human taint that hangs about the utterly soulless. Vinny has always hated this fuckin' guy.
"Give me my blow, you fuckin' cunt," and Mike grabs for it, Vinny feinting and pressing back against the door and laughing at him, so easy to laugh at him. "Give it, give it, Vinny, and get the fuck out of my way."
Vinny shoves him back, a vicious strain of power coiling at the base of his spine. The drug is screaming in him, singing high and off-key and fucking beautiful. The cherry light, the low grunts of the people fucking in the next stall, Mike too warm, crowding Vinny and snarling, teeth bared. Vinny wants to laugh some more. He wants to get out of here and find one of the cameramen, so fuckin' clever right now and he's got to get some of this down on the record.
Then Mike shifts, lunges against Vinny for the cocaine he is holding stretched just out of reach, and in the momentary press of their bodies it's impossible to miss that Mike's cock is hard as fuck.
Stunned breath sucked in through his teeth, and Vinny goes still. Mike does too, jerking a few inches back and then becoming rigid, his chest hitching once. A moment, then another, and Vinny's brain doesn't work anymore, firing random sparks of cold shock and revulsion, a sick fascination running underneath that keeps Vinny from bolting, keeps him pinned.
"You fuckin'," he exhales, stops because he doesn't even know what. Mike flinches, glancing up for a bare second and the undiluted terror in his eyes is one of the most amazing things Vinny has ever seen.
And Vinny can see it clearly then, a fucking vision of the future like floating cities and silver spaceships, except this is Mike on his knees, shuddering and opening his mouth and taking it, every fucking inch, keeping him fucking quiet for once.
The idea slams through him, that picture, and there are no spaces between Vinny's mind and his hands anymore, not when he's not being filmed. A smile like razor-wire on his face, Vinny grabs Mike's wrist and won't let him pull away.
"So it's like that, huh?" Vinny leans closer, fingers tight, feeling violent panic wrack Mike's body. "Coulda fuckin' guessed, after all your shit, of course you like dick."
Mike's eyes flashing white like surrender flags, muscles drawing taut and he's going to run for sure, wrestle Vinny out of the way with every pound of muscle he ever put on in the gym and scamper back to the elaborate hedonistic delusion that is his life, and fuck that, fuck him.
Vinny wrenches his arm and presses Mike's hand to the front of his jeans, where something has been starting ever since Vinny was afflicted by that image of Mike on his knees. Mike is breathing through his mouth, ragged and loud and maybe he always has been and Vinny is just now noticing, but he's not trying to get away anymore. His fingers are a flat line of pressure against Vinny's dick through his jeans, the back of his hand twitching under the forceful press of Vinny's own. Mike's eyes are jammed down and to the left. His throat is ducking up and down, his mouth shaking wildly.
"C'mon, you stupid fuck," Vinny says, hearing the rasp in his own voice. "It's not that fuckin' difficult." He uses Mike's hand to rub at himself, heat spreading and a pant briefly catching in his throat.
Mike's fingers curl, tighten around his dick, and Vinny groans, giddy and viscerally triumphant and relieved beyond all words. Mike starts to stroke him off through his jeans, no kind of rhythm or coordination but it hardly fucking matters. Vinny grips Mike's shoulder in case he decides to fuckin' chicken out, and rips at his jeans fly with his other hand.
"Oh god," Mike says, sounding horrified and detached. He's staring down as Vinny pulls his cock out, lower lip caught unconsciously between his teeth and Jesus Christ, Vinny has never wanted to fuck someone's mouth so bad in his entire goddamn life.
Vinny fumbles Mike's hand onto his bare cock, fingers tangling together for a moment before Mike starts jerking him off properly, and Vinny pulls free, hissing.
"Goddamn, goddamn," Vinny is saying, or somebody is, anyway, and it sounds like him. Mike's hand is dry and soft and tight around him, coarse rubbing thumb dragging Vinny's hips off the stall door in aborted thrusts. Mike is still staring down at Vinny's cock, gobsmacked and panting. With his free hand, Mike is rubbing distractedly at himself, screwing his knuckles against his jeans fly.
"You love it, you fuckin' love it," Vinny mumbles amid a breathless half-laugh, all kinds of fucked up. His head tips back and he latches onto Mike's shoulders, so fucking strange to have to reach up, trying to tug him down. "Get down, c'mon, get, get down on your knees, baby."
Mike makes a punctured astonished sound, his whole body jolting against Vinny's and his hand becoming punishingly tight for a second, and then down he goes, like his legs don't work, like he's just been waiting for someone to tell him to, and all Vinny can do is stare and stare and stare.
Fractures and unhinged edges in Mike's face, his gaping eyes blown black from cocaine and repressed homosexuality, his cruel mouth weak-looking and hesitant at this moment. There is sweat beaded on his forehead, his battered cherub's face warped with enough desperation that he almost looks like a real boy.
Vinny knows him better than that by now. He bends his hand around Mike's jaw and thumbs open his mouth, and Mike lets him, just kneels there trembling and kneading at Vinny's cock and begging for it.
"Yeah, I got you," Vinny says with another heartless untracked smile, feeling a hundred feet tall. "Got what you need right fuckin' here, so c'mon cocksucker show me what you're good for."
Mike's eyes flutter closed as Vinny's cock pushes into his beautiful jerkoff mouth, making little helpless sounds that are the only thing Vinny ever wants to hear out of him again. This is all Mike should ever fucking do.
Vinny is muttering, "take it, take it," and Mike has one hand shoved down his own shorts, fuckin' loves it. The light is red and failing, guttering, or maybe that's only him, this fucking awful vision of his. Vinny curves his fingers around the back of Mike's head and fucks into his mouth, too hard probably, too careless and rough but Vinny couldn't give a shit and Mike is going to take it, everything.
Suddenly it all crashes to a stop.
Someone is hammering on the stall door, jarring Vinny forward and making Mike choke. Someone is shouting, "One person to a stall, one to a fucking stall," and Vinny knows nothing but pure blackout rage for a long moment as Mike yanks away from his dick and staggers to his feet.
"Fuck," Mike spits out, lifting one hand to his swollen mouth. "You stupid cunt, fucking faggot, what the fuck," mushed up and barely intelligible as profound horror sweeps across his face again.
"Get the hell out of there right now," the bouncer shouts, pushing hard enough on the door to stumble Vinny forward, and Mike shoves him back and Vinny is a fucking bumper car for a minute, trying to get his dick put away and jabbing his elbows at Mike and almost tripping over the goddamn toilet, and then they're falling out of the stall and there is a brief impression of an enormous guy wielding a flashlight like a sword, some ugly bitches watching from the sinks, and Vinny gets the fuck out of there.
Mike he loses immediately in the crowd, a sideways glimpse of a yellow shirt disappearing into a mash of club kids. Already Vinny's pretty sure nothing like that is ever gonna happen again, never gonna get that close. It was one of those ridiculous shore things that nobody ever talks about, orgies and ODs and almost-finished blowjobs in the bathroom, all that stupid shit. It's not actually the shore this time, but it's not real life either, none of this is real. And there isn't enough cocaine and liquor in the world to fix what's wrong with Michael Sorrentino. Fuck him anyways, it's pretty clear who the fucking faggot is here. It's pretty clear who's gonna end up where.
Vinny stands on the dancefloor long enough for the bass vibrations to kill all the sensation in his feet, a shivery numbness advancing through his body. He closes his eyes, wanting more of this nothing feeling, this clarity, and when he opens them, he's looking into the questioning white light of a camera once again.
THE END
(and I slink away with my face hidden from view.)
I disclaim everything in advance by saying that I was FREAKIN' DARED by someone who KNOWS WHO SHE IS. And, unfortunately, also raised to never turn down a dare.
But, so. I have written wing!fic and OT3 fic and highschool!AU and hooker!AU and random!psychopath AU, and even that one half-finished vampire fic. Look at all the incest stories! Surely nothing fictional could faze me anymore.
Never have I been so self-conscious about posting a story, that is the god's honest truth.
Oh dear.
It's a Jersey Shore fic. (YES I KNOW.) It's Vinny/Mike, you guys.
(forgive me.)
I never usually bother with this kind of stuff, because I feel like it's an insult to the readers' collective intelligence, but, as is especially obvious in this case, character =/= author. These are terrible terrible people who say and do terrible terrible things. You'll probably be offended by stuff in this story. I'm offended by their very existence, for pete's sake. Considering them as fictional characters is a manner of dealing with the moral crisis of not wanting to share a species with them, and yet being unable to look away.
Also I was fuckin' dared.
Anyway, on we go.
*
Jersey Shore, Vinny/Mike, 5793 words, rated a pretty hard R for all of the below.
Warnings for drug use, rank and pervasive misogyny and homophobia, and hate!sex (because I don't believe Michael Sorrentino has any other kind).
Lights, Camera
By Candle Beck
Metallic pinwheel colors and artificial fog and strobe lights flashing white, making Vinny think about his little cousin who used to have seizures, all twisted up and spazzing the fuck out down on the coppery shag rug in the basement, that fucking Japanese cartoon jittering on the TV screen. Running up the wooden stairs, hollowing thud of his feet (that's the bass beat, another motherfucking hip-hop remix) and tear in his throat hollering for his mom and his aunt who'd be drinking coffee out back, watching the wind pick red and yellow leaves off the northeast trees.
Weird random fucking thing, these trains of thought he gets. Vinny's drunk. Fuckin' unbelievably drunk, like smashed in the head with a chair, everything fuzzy and tuning in and out. So many people here and all of them breathing the same recycled air, dancing, whatever the fuck this is that's supposed to be dancing. No goddamn rhythm, lips pulled back to show clenched white teeth, graceless jerking heads and arms, and what the fuck, does everybody on the dancefloor have fucking epilepsy tonight?
It's three in the morning. Vinny's shirt is stuck to his back, the cord for his mike pack itching at his damp skin. This girl he's so-called dancing with is about to fall on her fucking face, loose sloppy mouth smeary red, pushing her tits (fake, and still only a generous B-cup because she'd obviously chickened out at the last moment, fucking waste of a surgery but whatever, her loss) up on him and trying to grab at the back of his neck. Stage four starfucker and clinging al-fucking-ready, her eyes darting around as her nails dug in, looking for the cameras.
Vinny needs another motherfucking drink, and that's about enough of this bitch. He catches her wrist and takes her hand off him, flash of a sweetboy grin that's all for show. She pouts, lower lip looking desperate. She's wearing too much eye makeup, looks like a fuckin' raccoon. Vinny's moving on, fuck her.
Jenny and Snooki are both at the bar, with cameraman Rick hunched against the wall, beaming a shallow puddle of light over them as he films their conversation. JWoww with her shoulders stiff and thrust back to show off the goods, cutting glances to make sure guys are watching even though she never does anything about it. Snooki's bopping around like a fucking bobblehead. Neon pulses, glass everywhere in mirrors and disco balls and people's hands, and the music is so loud it feels like the walls could give out.
Vinny collapses against Snooki's back, burying his nose in her chemical hair as she shrieks and wriggles. Fucking brilliant, one arm around Snooki's waist to feel her warm tits shaking, fingers spreading out towards the rise of her hip, and then she pops him a good one, elbow to ribs, and he falls away, gasping.
"No more tickling, I told you! You're so, agh, ew. Just ew. You want me to fucking throw up all over everywhere?"
"So fuckin' gross," Jenny tosses in, stirring her drink with her dagger nails tapping, keeping time.
Vinny slumps against the bar, hands folded over his chest as if penitent, church face. Big eyes, play it up. Rick's filming. "I was just tryin' to give you some love, Snooks."
"Hardy fucking har." Snooki's shaping her hand primly around the architecture of her pouf, posture all strict and trying to be tough but she's facing Vinny more than Jenny now. Snooki sticks her chest out to improve the view a little, telling him, "You always ruin everything, Vincenzo."
"That's me," Vinny replies with leering amiability, snaking Snooki's pink girly drink off the bar. Swigs too much in the first mouthful and it's incredibly sweet, so strong he might be about to go fucking blind, and he's gasping again.
"Vinny! Give it back, you fucker!" Snooki snatches the drink away but Vinny's okay with that, he can hardly breathe.
"Damn, bro," Jenny says, coming around to peer at him with her scary nails and her black-edged eyes. She's smirking, that fucking I-know-all-about-you look she likes to wear. "Real fuckin' mess, aren't you? Where're your boys at?"
"Where the fuck ever, I don't even fucking care." Vinny endeavors to sit up straighter, vision still all sparkly and fucked up, sequins and matte leather and shiny shirts, all these fucking people.
"Trying to find somebody drunk enough to suck their dicks, right?" Jenny leans in, too loud even in the thunder of the bar. The producers have asked them to try and speak up as much as possible in the clubs; shockingly, the MTV audience is less than appreciative of the subtitles.
"Whatever, yeah probably." Smirk and a shrug, and Vinny orders a jack and coke, staring at two not-quite-hot girls dancing together, their stomachs touching, gold shirt and mesh.
"Aw, baby, did you get shot down that many times?"
Jenny wants his attention, so Vinny shoots her a winning grin and answers, "You missin' your boyfriend's dick so much you gotta worry about mine? You know you just gotta say the word, honey."
He reaches for the curve of Jenny's hip, the place where skin shows between her belt and top. Vinny's thinking about warmth specific to skin, something smooth, that Brazilian girl he was dancing with earlier who let him slide his fingers along the top of her thong. Jenny squawks and dodges away, and Vinny laughs, feeling clumsy and overheated and well-observed, seen from every angle.
Delicious, this jack and coke. Sticky, raw. Vinny licks the taste off his teeth and scans the crowd. Not much worth talking about in this fucking club tonight, horse-faced girls in too-tight clothes and thick makeup, like a fucking whore convention has rolled into town. That Brazilian girl is still a possibility, a little heavier than he usually takes home when he's living with all these people watching, but fuck it, it's late. There is a radius of several feet around the three of them at the bar, weird little desert island picked out by the soft white light over Rick's camera.
Different this year, not just 'cause of Miami but all of it. Down the shore last year, nobody knew who they were, just that they had cameras following them and that must have meant something. Famous in the seedy way of a nightclub slut, but strangers still--none of them ever got recognized on the street until the show started airing.
This time, they can't go anywhere without shit starting up, heads turning. Just like he always dreamed, right right?
But fuck that negativity shit, he's here, roll with it. Jack and coke is one of mankind's true masterpieces. He's only supposed to order Stoli vodka drinks, but the promotional department can go suck a dick. Vinny licks at the rim of his glass. Snooki and Jenny have their heads tucked together, secret chick talk, and cameraman Rick isn't even paying attention to him, just the girls. Vinny is just beyond the edge of the camera light.
So he slips away. Down the stairwell and into the trip-hop room where the floor is trembling, laser effects in the fogged air like a tiny spaceship dogfight in progress. The people dancing down here look like zombies, flushed and jarring together.
Vinny's head aches, and it spins. He is sweaty all over, thick-tongued, concrete in his shoes. How many was that, how many drinks? They've been here for hours. So many rooms in this club, so much fucking bass. It's like the end of the fucking world every goddamn night with these people.
Slow wrenching in his stomach, and Vinny's afraid he's going to throw up. Mike's sausage and peppers, the steamed veggies and bread and rice krispie squares that Sammi made (everyone's mind subsequently blown by this display of basic competence), red wine and Stoli red bulls and jack and cokes, it's all coming back.
Vinny veers for the cramped hallway where the bathroom is, reaching back and under his shirt to claw the cord out his mike pack. The last thing he needs is for every jackass in the fucking country to hear him puking his guts out while they filmed the bathroom door. Fuck that shit. There's a way to be famous like MTV wants and still be fuckin' cool.
And then there's Mike, the motherfucking Situation himself, both hands braced on the wall around some bitch. Looming with his big shoulders, leaning in too close. Shades slipping down his nose, mouth working over some piece of bullshit--Vinny knows Mike's game fucking cold at this point.
No cameras, nobody paying any more attention than the general impression of hostility that Mike attracts everywhere he goes. Vinny can see the girl's hand, scratching nervously at the wall, scratching away from Mike. He can see just a bit of her downturned mouth, her whole body straining subtly away. Trying too hard again, scaring her off, and Vinny grins, fuckin' Mike and his horrible fuckin' act.
Vinny doesn't feel like he has to throw up anymore. He goes up to Mike and tosses an arm around his shoulders, pulling him back away from the girl, who is bottle-blonde with sunken cheeks and no tits to speak of, landmine, her face plainly contorted in a mortified grimace.
"All right, young people, let's make some room for the Holy Spirit now," Vinny says in a gawkish chaperone's voice, bringing back dances in the gymnasium of the girls' Catholic school, dark plaid dresses and Hawaiian Punch in Dixie cups and all the boys strangling in their new neckties.
"Lemme go, you fuckin' asshole, fuck." Mike turns to shove Vinny off, and the girl immediately makes good her escape, darting away frightened rabbit style. Vinny has to laugh.
"Such a ladykiller, bro, there oughta be a fuckin' law," Vinny says, grinning.
Mike rips off his shades to scowl at him but it's like he can't quite focus, or maybe that's just Vinny. Mike's eyes are bloodshot and set even deeper than usual, darker rings underneath, looking totally exhausted. The gel is melting out of his hair.
"What the fuck, Vin? I had that thing fuckin' locked up! You owe me a piece of snatch, you greasy motherfucker."
Leaning in, because the trip-hop is deliriously loud back here, massive fucking speakers just around the corner throbbing and the kids singing along on the dancefloor--some Michael Jackson song done up like electronica, Vinny is dimly aware. Nobody ever does anything original anymore. He's leaning in, bending his mouth close to Mike's ear.
"Bullshit, you didn't have shit. See how quick she fuckin' bolted? Like her ass was on fire, man, whooosh."
Mike pulls back, that broad look of cartoonish affront warping his face, his stupid girl's mouth. A little constant giggle is running in Vinny's chest, something he's got to keep smothered down but it's tough, real fuckin' tough. Vinny has always understood exactly what it is about the Situation that makes him so disgustingly good to watch.
"Fuckin' cockblock," Mike hollers at him, or anyway that's Vinny's best guess, with the volume and the drunk and everything. Mike sniffs hard and pulls his forearm across his nose, and Vinny sways towards him, his eyebrows crawling up his forehead.
"Shit, did you fuckin' score?" Vinny asks, checking habitually over his shoulder for any motherfucker with a camera. Mike looks confused, bleary bloody eyes blinking, swiping at his nose again, and Vinny rolls his eyes, tapping his own nose pointedly.
"Are you going skiing, man," Vinny says, lots of eyebrow and even a wink because Mike can be pretty slow.
"Oh. Oh! Fuck yeah I did." Mike's eyes narrow. He's swaying, holding onto the wall. "You're a fucking prick, though, why'm I giving you any?"
Vinny laughs out loud at that, that high-pitched drunk laugh that he hates 'cause it's totally gay, but it's all right this time because, really. Michael the fucking Situation Sorrentino standing there calling him a prick, it's fucking priceless. Eight people making a fucking pimp's money because nobody has ever seen as big an asshole, but yeah, yeah, Vinny's the prick. Whatever you fuckin' say.
He leans in close again, reaches around to fumble for Mike's audio cord through his shirt, yanking it out of the pack before clapping his hand on Mike's shoulder, big shit-eating grin.
"What, you're a fuckin' loser who does drugs alone? You ain't got no friends, bro?"
Fucked-up and visibly woozy, Mike's face crunches down, mouth pursed, red-faced little boy about to throw a tantrum, and Vinny laughs again, pretty mean-spirited but who the fuck cares, that's the fuckin' point.
"Fuckin' junkie loser, that's what's up," Vinny taunts, and Mike pushes him away huffily, but doesn't resist when Vinny grabs him again and points him into the bathroom.
Girls and faggots elbowing in at the long mirror to do their makeup, intricate tramp stamps showing between tiny shirts and low skirts as they lean forward. Indistinguishable slashes of lipstick and kohl and glitter in the crimson-filtered light, colors washed out so everybody looks infrared. Vinny keeps his face turned away, fakes an itch to cover with his hand, and nobody seems to recognize them before they manage to slide into the last empty stall. Vinny bangs the door shut, and the lock's broken because of course, so he stands with his back to it to hold it in place.
Graffiti everywhere, obscene suggestions drawn in Sharpie. Through the thin barrier of the wall, people are fucking in the next stall, rough panting breath and groans just audible. The whole room is vibrating, bringing back earthquakes in L.A., the Jersey boardwalk when the huge trucks come in the mornings, and now this shitty scenester dance club in Miami, wherever the fuck they are tonight.
Mike digs a little baggie of cocaine out of the pocket in his jeans designed for such a purpose (the jeans are Diesel, a free gift to Mike after he put in a paid appearance at some club promoter's launch party, which Vinny happens to know because Mike never shuts the fuck up about the swag he pulls in), and flicks it to get the stuff to the bottom, holds it up to show Vinny. Mike's fingers are trembling. He's trying to recapture his standard fuck-you smirk, but it keeps slipping off his mouth. He's in worse shape than Vinny, no question at all.
"Guess I figured you were too much of a pussy for the real shit," Mike says.
Vinny shrugs, licking his lips and wishing he had some water and wishing he weren't quite so fucking drunk. He only ever wants to do blow when he's smashed beyond all fucking recognition, and he always has a moment wishing he was more sober, fuckin' paradigm or paradox or whatever the fuck. His head is fuckin' killing him already.
"Seems like you don't know shit about me. Come on, I want a taste."
"You owe me, bro, that's all'm sayin'," Mike mumbles, fiddling intently with the baggie, all thumbs as Vinny's uncle Gino says. "Fuckin' bitch all the time and fuck with my girls and you fuckin', never fuckin' help with dinner or any shit like that."
Mike's puffy ill-tempered face has lost most of its boyishness, glowering down at the baggie and muttering (still loud enough to hear, always loud enough to hear with this fuckin' kid), and Vinny gets impatient, itchy and greedy. He snags the baggie away from Mike, quick yelping protest that has Vinny grinning like a loon as he easily pops the Ziploc open.
"Give me a key or whatever," Vinny says.
"You're such a goddamn cunt, Jesus. Fuck." Just cursing for the sake of it, just exercising his idiot mouth, and Mike gets out his money clip, slides the cash out and Vinny sees that one side hooks slightly, a small spoon perfectly designed for the task of scooping cocaine out of a gram bag.
"Fuckin' came prepared, didn't you," Vinny says, bald insinuation curling his mouth, and Mike calls him a cocksucking douchebag, but hands Vinny the clip.
Quick little bump tapped out on Vinny's hand, in the recessed delta of his thumb, and he brings it up to his nose, hard sniff and a moment of nothing before his blood starts to stir.
Oh it's been so fucking long. Vinny feels starry-eyed, some gay shit like that. Mike is holding his hand up, a standard bitchy demand carved onto his face, and Vinny scoops out one for him and then a second onto his own hand. He's starting to feel it now.
Vinny's second bump is bigger than the first. His brain buzzes, pinging awake like circuits in a motherboard, like the frantic chase of the light show in a good nightclub. Good fucking stuff, and no surprise. They get the best of everything, as a general rule.
"Fuck," Vinny breathes out, tipping his head back and closing his eyes for a second to feel the rush, the rise.
He looks back down to see Mike's head bent over his second bump, and then ripping back, snorting hard through sinuses that are already clogged as shit--he's clearly been at it all night. Mike's eyes are watering, almost badly enough to spill over, which would be fucking hilarious all around.
"Where'd you get that, that shit's fuckin' dope," Vinny says, hearing himself slur and he remembers that he's drunk, suddenly way drunker than he was before.
"Some sketchy-ass Mexican kid, who the fuck do you think?"
"Cuban, Sitch, they're mostly Cuban down here. Cubanos," nice round accent, fun word to say.
"Like I fuckin' care, some fuckin' wetback, and I think he ripped me off too, it was supposed to be two grams but I think it's fuckin' light."
Mike's rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying to surreptitiously knuckle the tears out of his eyes, sniffing sharp and regular. He looks ridiculous, overworked shoulders swelling out his yellow Ed Hardy shirt, short hair that he likes spiked up slumping defeated across his forehead, sweaty and shaking and standing astride a seatless toilet, held in a frame of crude black-marker graffiti.
Vinny holds the baggie up to check and he doesn't exactly have an eye for weighing out cocaine, but the amount certainly looks close to the single gram bags they used to pick up in Brooklyn before hitting the Manhattan clubs.
"Maybe. Or maybe you just snorted a bunch of it without keeping track like a coke-whore, huh?" Affectless grin, the edges of the scene shimmering in and out. God, this drunk. "You look the part, Mikey, I gotta tell you."
"Fuck, fuck you, shut your motherfucking mouth," Mike says, almost sputtering and lifting his shoulders to try and look intimidating. His eyes have gone glassy and it's probably only the terrible red-tinted light that makes them look so dark.
Vinny goes digging for another little bump, his heart galloping along really fucking nicely right about now, pulse thick in the base of his throat. He's aware that he's grinning, fucking loves getting Mike all riled up, fuckin' useless piece of shit deserves whatever he gets.
Six thoughts where there used to be one. Everything really really fast, and poorly considered. Cocaine tapped gently onto his hand, the neat dent of his thumb, an arrow through his brain and Vinny is saying choked and happy, "It's your fuckin' future man, and I can't wait. Once the show's over and nobody gives a shit about you anymore, how long before you're selling your ass on the fucking street? Or, fuck, big fuckin' money in porn, ain't there? Betcha people'd pay top dollar to see the fucking Situation taking it up the ass, that's what's fuckin' up."
Mike, poor stupid Mike, a huge gauzy look of outrage rising to his face, flushed and wounded but not in a way that looks real to Vinny, or maybe it's that Mike doesn't look real and never has, that less-than-human taint that hangs about the utterly soulless. Vinny has always hated this fuckin' guy.
"Give me my blow, you fuckin' cunt," and Mike grabs for it, Vinny feinting and pressing back against the door and laughing at him, so easy to laugh at him. "Give it, give it, Vinny, and get the fuck out of my way."
Vinny shoves him back, a vicious strain of power coiling at the base of his spine. The drug is screaming in him, singing high and off-key and fucking beautiful. The cherry light, the low grunts of the people fucking in the next stall, Mike too warm, crowding Vinny and snarling, teeth bared. Vinny wants to laugh some more. He wants to get out of here and find one of the cameramen, so fuckin' clever right now and he's got to get some of this down on the record.
Then Mike shifts, lunges against Vinny for the cocaine he is holding stretched just out of reach, and in the momentary press of their bodies it's impossible to miss that Mike's cock is hard as fuck.
Stunned breath sucked in through his teeth, and Vinny goes still. Mike does too, jerking a few inches back and then becoming rigid, his chest hitching once. A moment, then another, and Vinny's brain doesn't work anymore, firing random sparks of cold shock and revulsion, a sick fascination running underneath that keeps Vinny from bolting, keeps him pinned.
"You fuckin'," he exhales, stops because he doesn't even know what. Mike flinches, glancing up for a bare second and the undiluted terror in his eyes is one of the most amazing things Vinny has ever seen.
And Vinny can see it clearly then, a fucking vision of the future like floating cities and silver spaceships, except this is Mike on his knees, shuddering and opening his mouth and taking it, every fucking inch, keeping him fucking quiet for once.
The idea slams through him, that picture, and there are no spaces between Vinny's mind and his hands anymore, not when he's not being filmed. A smile like razor-wire on his face, Vinny grabs Mike's wrist and won't let him pull away.
"So it's like that, huh?" Vinny leans closer, fingers tight, feeling violent panic wrack Mike's body. "Coulda fuckin' guessed, after all your shit, of course you like dick."
Mike's eyes flashing white like surrender flags, muscles drawing taut and he's going to run for sure, wrestle Vinny out of the way with every pound of muscle he ever put on in the gym and scamper back to the elaborate hedonistic delusion that is his life, and fuck that, fuck him.
Vinny wrenches his arm and presses Mike's hand to the front of his jeans, where something has been starting ever since Vinny was afflicted by that image of Mike on his knees. Mike is breathing through his mouth, ragged and loud and maybe he always has been and Vinny is just now noticing, but he's not trying to get away anymore. His fingers are a flat line of pressure against Vinny's dick through his jeans, the back of his hand twitching under the forceful press of Vinny's own. Mike's eyes are jammed down and to the left. His throat is ducking up and down, his mouth shaking wildly.
"C'mon, you stupid fuck," Vinny says, hearing the rasp in his own voice. "It's not that fuckin' difficult." He uses Mike's hand to rub at himself, heat spreading and a pant briefly catching in his throat.
Mike's fingers curl, tighten around his dick, and Vinny groans, giddy and viscerally triumphant and relieved beyond all words. Mike starts to stroke him off through his jeans, no kind of rhythm or coordination but it hardly fucking matters. Vinny grips Mike's shoulder in case he decides to fuckin' chicken out, and rips at his jeans fly with his other hand.
"Oh god," Mike says, sounding horrified and detached. He's staring down as Vinny pulls his cock out, lower lip caught unconsciously between his teeth and Jesus Christ, Vinny has never wanted to fuck someone's mouth so bad in his entire goddamn life.
Vinny fumbles Mike's hand onto his bare cock, fingers tangling together for a moment before Mike starts jerking him off properly, and Vinny pulls free, hissing.
"Goddamn, goddamn," Vinny is saying, or somebody is, anyway, and it sounds like him. Mike's hand is dry and soft and tight around him, coarse rubbing thumb dragging Vinny's hips off the stall door in aborted thrusts. Mike is still staring down at Vinny's cock, gobsmacked and panting. With his free hand, Mike is rubbing distractedly at himself, screwing his knuckles against his jeans fly.
"You love it, you fuckin' love it," Vinny mumbles amid a breathless half-laugh, all kinds of fucked up. His head tips back and he latches onto Mike's shoulders, so fucking strange to have to reach up, trying to tug him down. "Get down, c'mon, get, get down on your knees, baby."
Mike makes a punctured astonished sound, his whole body jolting against Vinny's and his hand becoming punishingly tight for a second, and then down he goes, like his legs don't work, like he's just been waiting for someone to tell him to, and all Vinny can do is stare and stare and stare.
Fractures and unhinged edges in Mike's face, his gaping eyes blown black from cocaine and repressed homosexuality, his cruel mouth weak-looking and hesitant at this moment. There is sweat beaded on his forehead, his battered cherub's face warped with enough desperation that he almost looks like a real boy.
Vinny knows him better than that by now. He bends his hand around Mike's jaw and thumbs open his mouth, and Mike lets him, just kneels there trembling and kneading at Vinny's cock and begging for it.
"Yeah, I got you," Vinny says with another heartless untracked smile, feeling a hundred feet tall. "Got what you need right fuckin' here, so c'mon cocksucker show me what you're good for."
Mike's eyes flutter closed as Vinny's cock pushes into his beautiful jerkoff mouth, making little helpless sounds that are the only thing Vinny ever wants to hear out of him again. This is all Mike should ever fucking do.
Vinny is muttering, "take it, take it," and Mike has one hand shoved down his own shorts, fuckin' loves it. The light is red and failing, guttering, or maybe that's only him, this fucking awful vision of his. Vinny curves his fingers around the back of Mike's head and fucks into his mouth, too hard probably, too careless and rough but Vinny couldn't give a shit and Mike is going to take it, everything.
Suddenly it all crashes to a stop.
Someone is hammering on the stall door, jarring Vinny forward and making Mike choke. Someone is shouting, "One person to a stall, one to a fucking stall," and Vinny knows nothing but pure blackout rage for a long moment as Mike yanks away from his dick and staggers to his feet.
"Fuck," Mike spits out, lifting one hand to his swollen mouth. "You stupid cunt, fucking faggot, what the fuck," mushed up and barely intelligible as profound horror sweeps across his face again.
"Get the hell out of there right now," the bouncer shouts, pushing hard enough on the door to stumble Vinny forward, and Mike shoves him back and Vinny is a fucking bumper car for a minute, trying to get his dick put away and jabbing his elbows at Mike and almost tripping over the goddamn toilet, and then they're falling out of the stall and there is a brief impression of an enormous guy wielding a flashlight like a sword, some ugly bitches watching from the sinks, and Vinny gets the fuck out of there.
Mike he loses immediately in the crowd, a sideways glimpse of a yellow shirt disappearing into a mash of club kids. Already Vinny's pretty sure nothing like that is ever gonna happen again, never gonna get that close. It was one of those ridiculous shore things that nobody ever talks about, orgies and ODs and almost-finished blowjobs in the bathroom, all that stupid shit. It's not actually the shore this time, but it's not real life either, none of this is real. And there isn't enough cocaine and liquor in the world to fix what's wrong with Michael Sorrentino. Fuck him anyways, it's pretty clear who the fucking faggot is here. It's pretty clear who's gonna end up where.
Vinny stands on the dancefloor long enough for the bass vibrations to kill all the sensation in his feet, a shivery numbness advancing through his body. He closes his eyes, wanting more of this nothing feeling, this clarity, and when he opens them, he's looking into the questioning white light of a camera once again.
THE END
(and I slink away with my face hidden from view.)