Hazy Halos

Emerging from the dim tunnel was a bit of a discombobulating feeling, moderately due to the lights, but ever as much that my responsibility-shirking hourglass had expired. We dropped down the twin steps into the *Bedazzling Halo* to link up with the troupe, passing by a hot tub on our left. Straight ahead was a cluster of furniture spread out over a large yellow-n-purple rug.

From a brown couch with Aircraft-themed throw pillows, Dallas began to clap erratically. “Make way for the dodgy corndogs. Up-to-date, never late, you can calculate!”

Definitely a little tipsy.

Our party strode into the midst of the Fruitless Four members awaiting our return, and I simply glared down at the Boozehound. His comment was frustrating in so many ways it felt like I was being strangled. He hadn’t the slightest clue what events had ensued in the Restroom -- but I remembered our near-skirmish earlier and refrained my Yap from firing.

“Here they are,” Rovone announced, and gestured at Gutt.

A balding head sticking out above the back of a dark blue Life-B-Better-Lay-Z recliner, greeted us. The sofa was near the Tyrant, who had stretched out to hog a whole couch, and a slender lamp was wedged between the two items to loosely forge an L. I decided not to sit in their vicinity. Gutt removed his glasses, rubbed at his face rather gruffly, and then hung them back in place. “When I said ‘Take our time’ I didn’t intend for you to become faint of heart.”

To plead my case wouldn’t be practical, which got under my skin, but to be polite all I groused was a bland, “Sorry,” and surveyed the grounds ahead in search of a home for my behind. I wanted to be, felt like I could be in some respects, but never seemed to be the guy in charge. Not here, & not to date.

Phoenix and I marched past him; I scurried around a stained-glass table and an oblong footrest, as I heard her plop to rest on the wide, red Sofa across the ornamental table from Teeth. From an aerial view it might have resembled a game controller. Rovo was saying something to Malibu. Siggy was the only person present I felt like being around at the moment, and he was noticeably removed from the bulk of the gathering (like I was in the mood to be as well) on the edge of a titanic bed, with a blue bean bag subjugated by his quads.

In order to reach him, I had to walk under this bridge that was in a league of its own: the Sky Fingers. So called for the structure, lined with grey felt, was an elevated platform, mostly one piece, like a hand that broke off at five points, at which, slides hooded with layers of silk allowed for comical landings into various cozy zones around the room. This snazzy bridge snaked above, and squiggled around at four points in this Oval-belt made full of ramps, Walls & slides. One slide to my extreme left, corkscrewed off into Recluse Corner, which showcased a bright red nipple-mattress hybrid full of spongy bumps and twists. A wall to the right displaying Trinkets & Hunting trophies. Bean bags dotted the Lay of the Land like gumdrops.

Clear on the other side of that same branch, a slope dipped its tongue into a Hot Tub, in a manner that reminded me of cream being dispensed into a giant orange cup of coffee. Completely across the room from that, one lead to a piano bench beside a lime Bookshelf. And if one cut their vision from there, across the very bed I was heading toward, there was a forked slide which split into alternate destinations: the starry-checkered bed in front of me, and the porky chairs just on the other side beholding gamer paradise.

I walked in the shadow The Sky bridge cast… (feeling like a chipmunk.)

As I sat on the mattress next to Sigg, I was alerted by a hammering of feet Overhead. My neck craned to observe Trent scuttling upside down on the Bridge. He pulled a couple of boisterous moves and then abruptly halted to dangle from his feet like a bat..

The rotund runt was enamored. “Out. Of. This. World.” was his clarification.

Without the five-toed sock-shoes buckled to his feet, or the matching gloves he sported, the feat would not have been possible, for velcro was applied to the bottom of the black-and-gold paraphernalia.

Trent’s red-brown hair was barely long enough to sway even upside down, and there was a crimp to its strands like curly fries. Suddenly he zoomed off, running a figure eight and sprinkling in some backflips, each flip seeming more of a swing from my vantage point. Real work wore him out, but the fun-Key kind never slowed him down.

I was far from a laughing mood but it was nice to temporarily rid the mind of tough subjects, and I couldn’t help lofting an enchanted chuckle. “Wish I was as high as you man,” I commented. With that I dropped into a spot beside Siggy on an overgrown Fluff-orb beneath the 360 degree experience of an iMax Theater screen, to see the meeting underway.

The Drunkenator was making a gallery of delirious faces at every tiny gesture thrown nearby. Rovone had taken up space beside his sister, elbows determinedly impressing his thighs, as he coached from a hunched position.“Alright, what do we have to rely on? Give me something concrete.”

Things started slow. And that’s putting it nicely.

Dally boy pointed at his temple with confidence and said, “Our wits.”

Indeed dude, Tools of your trade.

“Solid Bro,” Trent summed up my thoughts from his roost.

“We’ll all try our best in that department,” Mali tenderized. “Let’s be more... precise… and,” he succinctly looked up at Trent wriggling inside The Pouch, a basket of wolf fur bolted to the rim of the bridge, “Not so abrasive.”

Capone wasn’t bothered by Trent’s analysis, and looked as conceited as ever. I imagined he wouldn’t be able to aim a pistol later, which was just great. Our manpower was dropping by the minute. The makeshift clan thought deeper to compose a blueprint. There was a period of stiff calm.

Then Pheo's face flooded with inspiration. “Hey don’t forget about the scheduled reinforcements!”

This was instantly met by applause. We had invested so much hope in that team, should we be forced to withstand any unexpected Storm of failure. Rovo cried, “Up top!” and the siblings smacked palms—ferociously.

“Totally slipped my mind!” Trent lauded above, hopping around with renewed vigor.

Gutterson sat up more erect. “Split squad?” There was pleasant surprise in his voice as he congratulated us. “From the looks of it I thought you kids put all your eggs in one basket. Glad to hear you’ve been thinking ahead some.”

The Dictator accepted the tribute, “Why thank you, sir. I am big on brains.”

Pheo threw me a gagging gesture. I returned a crinkled stink face to engage the: 'Yep I know' Syndrome. If i’d had a small projectile i might’ve planted it right in Teeth’s teeth, to make a point how nobody enjoys a braggart or false bravado.

Then I grinned like a mad devil. “Guys, guys, guys! What else was that other girl bringing? Ack, I can’t remember her name.”

Sourly, Trent revealed, “Nobody told me diddly about who was on unit two.” He crossed his arms, now seated in the airborne Pouch. “I’ll shoot the moon and say it’s Lonnie.”

The tyrant laughed hysterically, “No way man! Even if she signed the paper to go, I’d torch it and draft all over again!”

Gutts made a face and mouthed, "This is your commanding officer?"

I shook my head, & mouthed back: 'There wasn’t a vote.' It was the Meathead at the controls, or no expedition at all. He seemed so hyper-secure in the niche of Overcompensating. I lolled my tongue around, and pretended to slit my throat with a thumb.

“Amy?” questioned the Prowleys' at almost the same moment.

“Naw, that doesn’t sound right,” Siggy extended. “This girl is built like a Library... with an absolute river of dark hair…”

“Oh you speak of the witch,” Teeth said offhandedly. There he went stopping at nothing to reassure me he was the scum of the entire earth.

Pheo sprang to her feet & roared, “You fictitious son-of-a-bitch! Who you calling a witch?” Her wrist flinched maniacally into a cargo-pant pocket, like a serpent threatened, and stirred... You could hear pinging sounds inside. I thought she was going to vault clean over that puny table and brandish brass knuckles or razors.