Writer's Digest Prompt #2
Gwendolyn Carrol was tired of waiting for the SoHo club to open. It was raining and cold and her boyfriend had convinced her to come in a slinky dress that was becoming more and more see-through by the minute. What could possibly be happening in there, she thought, that they have to wait forty-five minutes past the clubs opening time?
She grew more and more tempted to take shelter in the phone booth just a few feet away. Damn not getting into the VIP lounge.
Then the phone in the booth rang.
Gwen never heard of that happening before outside of suspense movies. She sort of wanted to answer it, if only to get a brief respite from the rain. But she knew what would happen; some creepy voice would tell her that she's being watched, or that she only had a few days to live, or the booth would explode with her in it. She'd rather be wet and miserable than dead. But no. Her stupid boyfriend decided to walk to the phone and pick up the receiver. Had he never seen a movie?
"Hullo?" he said. She followed him into the booth and could vaguely make out a voice with a Liverpudlian accent on the other end. "'S for you," the idiot said as he handed Gwen the phone. She reluctantly took it.
"H-Hullo?"
"That club will never open," the voice answered. "Bobbies'll arrive any minute. Owner's dead."
Gwen at once felt skeptical and shocked. "No he is not."
"No who is not?" her boyfriend asked.
"The club owner's dead, Gil."
"What?"
"'S what the guy on the phone said."
"Well, how's he know that?"
"I dunno!"
"Ask him!"
"Alright!" She turned back to the receiver. "How 'dyou--?"
"One 'o my mate's killed him is how," the voice replied. "Now, if you don't mind hanging with murderers and you still wanna have some fun, go down to Turnbull street and I'll make this whole mess up to the both of you."
Gwen was beyond skepticism and into panic. "You want us to party with murderous thugs?! A-and why did he kill the owner? Who are you? How -- ?"
"The more questions you ask, Wendy, the less likely you'll survive our party. Now hurry. When you get there, ask for Beau." With that, the call was disconnected.
Gil looked at his girlfriend in confusion as she hung up the phone. "So? What'd he say? And what thugs?"
"He said meet him on Turnbull and they'd make the wait up to us."
"Well, let's go!" Gil grabbed Gwen by the wrist and marched out of the booth and down towards Turnbull. Police cars rush past them towards the club. Gwen struggled to free herself of her lover's grasp.
"I don' wanna go to a party full of killers, Gil!" Her voice could barely be heard over the sirens' wail.
Still, Gil shushed her. "You want the cops to come lookin' for us, yeah? Then shut up!"
They finally got to Turnbull and found themselves in the midst of a street festival of freaks. A moose three stories tall with fire flaring from its nostrils ate of the canopies of nearby trees. Men and women covered in plant life -- or maybe made of plants -- were performing sex acts on anything with two feet. An old woman with the head of a antelope was beating up on some poor street punks. Midgets were leaping from rooftop to rooftop above them. Insects as large as dogs and bear-pig-rat creatures that stood on their hind legs fed served hors derves to other strange beings. Music blared from every direction.
And in the middle of it all stood a young blond man in a white suit and black tie. He turned to the human couple and greeted them with open arms. "Hullo! So glad you decided to join us! Welcome to Baccanalia!"
Gil finally snapped out of his wonderous stupor and found his voice. "We're looking for Beau."
The young man bowed. "And you have found him."
"You were the one who called us?" asked Gwen.
"Correct," Beau replied. "Now, there's three rules you must follow if you wish to join us: Take all the food you want, but eat all the food you take. Don't snog the wood nymphs unless you're serious about being shagged. And don't tell anyone about what happens here tonight. You don't wanna end up like that club owner, yeah? Well, go on! Have a good time!"
The couple looked looked at each other and then at the "party". Grabbing each other's hands they stepped into the crowd. They had a feeling they didn't have any other choice at that point.
The party was the least of their worries.
She grew more and more tempted to take shelter in the phone booth just a few feet away. Damn not getting into the VIP lounge.
Then the phone in the booth rang.
Gwen never heard of that happening before outside of suspense movies. She sort of wanted to answer it, if only to get a brief respite from the rain. But she knew what would happen; some creepy voice would tell her that she's being watched, or that she only had a few days to live, or the booth would explode with her in it. She'd rather be wet and miserable than dead. But no. Her stupid boyfriend decided to walk to the phone and pick up the receiver. Had he never seen a movie?
"Hullo?" he said. She followed him into the booth and could vaguely make out a voice with a Liverpudlian accent on the other end. "'S for you," the idiot said as he handed Gwen the phone. She reluctantly took it.
"H-Hullo?"
"That club will never open," the voice answered. "Bobbies'll arrive any minute. Owner's dead."
Gwen at once felt skeptical and shocked. "No he is not."
"No who is not?" her boyfriend asked.
"The club owner's dead, Gil."
"What?"
"'S what the guy on the phone said."
"Well, how's he know that?"
"I dunno!"
"Ask him!"
"Alright!" She turned back to the receiver. "How 'dyou--?"
"One 'o my mate's killed him is how," the voice replied. "Now, if you don't mind hanging with murderers and you still wanna have some fun, go down to Turnbull street and I'll make this whole mess up to the both of you."
Gwen was beyond skepticism and into panic. "You want us to party with murderous thugs?! A-and why did he kill the owner? Who are you? How -- ?"
"The more questions you ask, Wendy, the less likely you'll survive our party. Now hurry. When you get there, ask for Beau." With that, the call was disconnected.
Gil looked at his girlfriend in confusion as she hung up the phone. "So? What'd he say? And what thugs?"
"He said meet him on Turnbull and they'd make the wait up to us."
"Well, let's go!" Gil grabbed Gwen by the wrist and marched out of the booth and down towards Turnbull. Police cars rush past them towards the club. Gwen struggled to free herself of her lover's grasp.
"I don' wanna go to a party full of killers, Gil!" Her voice could barely be heard over the sirens' wail.
Still, Gil shushed her. "You want the cops to come lookin' for us, yeah? Then shut up!"
They finally got to Turnbull and found themselves in the midst of a street festival of freaks. A moose three stories tall with fire flaring from its nostrils ate of the canopies of nearby trees. Men and women covered in plant life -- or maybe made of plants -- were performing sex acts on anything with two feet. An old woman with the head of a antelope was beating up on some poor street punks. Midgets were leaping from rooftop to rooftop above them. Insects as large as dogs and bear-pig-rat creatures that stood on their hind legs fed served hors derves to other strange beings. Music blared from every direction.
And in the middle of it all stood a young blond man in a white suit and black tie. He turned to the human couple and greeted them with open arms. "Hullo! So glad you decided to join us! Welcome to Baccanalia!"
Gil finally snapped out of his wonderous stupor and found his voice. "We're looking for Beau."
The young man bowed. "And you have found him."
"You were the one who called us?" asked Gwen.
"Correct," Beau replied. "Now, there's three rules you must follow if you wish to join us: Take all the food you want, but eat all the food you take. Don't snog the wood nymphs unless you're serious about being shagged. And don't tell anyone about what happens here tonight. You don't wanna end up like that club owner, yeah? Well, go on! Have a good time!"
The couple looked looked at each other and then at the "party". Grabbing each other's hands they stepped into the crowd. They had a feeling they didn't have any other choice at that point.
The party was the least of their worries.