(short fiction)
Todd Earlson was not happy as he exited the dilapidated building, and practically fell into his limo as the driver held the door open. He didn’t even look at his driver, Marco.
A glance down the dimly lit street from the shaded window didn’t register anything familiar. Where the fuck was he, anyway? He vaguely recalled that the address for this so-called party had been near Avenue A on the LES. He hadn’t known anyone and most of the people had looked wasted, high or just in a general state of fuckedupness that was the default state for some people. Or was Todd just projecting his own state onto everyone else? He couldn’t even recall how long he had been there or if he had imbued anything questionable. Never a good idea to consume something you couldn’t identify. What might have been in that punch? Molly? Acid? The latest designer drug of the week?
Through a wave of nausea, Todd looked around and his feeling of
disorientation intensified. Not only didn’t the neighborhood look familiar, but even his limo didn’t seem right. Glancing at the driver’s head, he was suddenly aware that it wasn’t Marco at all. Marco was a dark-skinned man of around 30 with a Caribbean accent. This driver was white and much older, with a shaved head.
