III.IX Public execution

Between 6:30 and 11:00, the party evolved into layers; a bustling kitchen of cocktails and shots, a living room morphing into a dancefloor, an air pregnant with gossip and cigarette smoke. Jake and his crew kept together but loosened their tension slightly. Max danced. Wolfgang disappeared, probably mingling himself in some stuff. Nev vanished and returned with mystery drinks. Eticho posted up on a couch offering chill company to anyone overwhelmed. Jake floated among them, drinking slowly, always scanning. Darcy drifted through the party like perfume; sometimes visible, sometimes felt. 

At 11:00, the lights dimmed, and a cheer rose from the main lounge. The karaoke tournament was about to begin. 

Someone brought out the mic. The screen lit up with neon font. Everyone was now in the large inner courtyard of the villa, their faces turning northwards toward the stage built against the great opening gate of the courtyard and standing under the main building with its gloomy balconies, one of which is connected to a beam on stage with a fishing line thinner than a strand of hair. 

Sami appeared from nowhere, jumping up onto the stage like a game show host, she looked stunning and amazing as always and the energy in her voice was contagious. 

"Lords, ladies, degenerates and friends!" Sami yelled, arms wide. "Welcome to the single-most cursed tradition of my annual parties; the Karaoke Royal Rumble!" 

The crowd roared. Wolfgang whooped. Jake, visibly drunker now, raised his cup in the air, laughing louder than before. His cheeks were flushed, his shirt slightly wrinkled, his tension long abandoned in favour of music and alcohol. 

Sami spun dramatically. "You all know the deal. Sign-ups are done. The mic decides your fate. Winners get eternal glory, losers.... Well, we let's not talk about the deceased, since they died of shame long ago. Bwahahaha.'' 

Everybody everyone cheered and jumped in thundering rapture. Jake laughed. "God, I love this party." 

He stumbled over to the sign-up board to check. His name was locked in. His song? Already queued: "Love the Way You Lie" by Eminem. 

It wasn't random. His feelings for that song were strong; his relationship with Darcy had been a destructive cycle of abusive love-hate flickering. With this song he hoped to close that period with her. After this song I really leave it behind me. Jake thought in sanguine spirit. 

The room buzzed. Performers took turns— some brilliant, others fantastically terrible. Boozy confidence ruled the stage. 

Then Sami called: ''Jake, you ready?!'' 

Jake strutted forward, half-acting, half-fuelled by real heat. The mic felt light in his hand. The first notes hit. He looked right at Darcy, her expression unreadable, and started to rap. Clean, sharp. 

The audience held their breath and looked on in confusion; this was not his usual boisterous, exuberant self showing up and performing a shitfest like the jokester he normally is, no, this Jake was different, vééééry different; no strange tones and deliberately false sounds. This time, everything sounded pure and clean, straight from the heart. The crowd was thunderstruck, deeply stirred and absorbed by Jake's raw voice; emotional and touching. Real. Very real. This was a statement. Nobody doubted that, and everyone wondered to themselves where that emotion came from. 

Jake poured it all out. Every twisted thought, every scarred memory wrapped in rhyme and rhythm. Darcy stared at him like she'd never seen him before. His voice cracked once, but it didn't matter. That just made it real. 

From the balcony above— silent and unseen on the balcony, Lash awaited the final refrain, and now as Jake was about to lift up his voice in one last cannonade of sparkling thunder, she tightened her grip on the fishing line and then she pulled. Her face stood fixed in a distorted jester-like smile; no mercy, only dark delight. This was the trickster's moment of glory— and uttermost happiness.  

SPLASH. 

The bucket tilted. A monstrous downpour of sickly yellow paint burst from above, soaking Jake from crown to ankles in sticky, fluorescent goo. It clung like syrup. Then, before the last drops hit the stage floor— 

WHUMP. 

A barrage of feathers, flung with cruel grace, very slowly and with sinister suspense in the aftermath of the paint: Jake was now truly turned into a chemical Chicken-King. 

He stood there. Frozen. Paint-covered— Feathered like a mutant duckling from hell. 

Time halted. Music stuttered and cut. A ripple of gasps slashed through the crowd like a wave. 

Silence. 

Jake's eyes blinked once, paint dripping from his lashes. His lips, still faintly mouthing the lyrics, stopped. He lowered the mic with a trembling hand. 

He looked like he had just walked out of a cartoon explosion. Except this wasn't a cartoon. This was Sami's party. This was real. 

And then came the first laugh. 

A snort from someone in the front row. Then a muffled chuckle. Then another. And another. 

Until the silence snapped, and laughter exploded like fireworks in July. 

"OH MY GOD!" someone screamed. 

"IS THIS A JOKE?!" 

"I CAN'T— LOOK AT HIS FACE!" 

Phones flew up. Flashlights blared. Videos started streaming. 

Jake stood there, breath shaky. He was humiliated. Utterly, definitively, his pride completely annihilated. 

His once-pristine navy-blue shirt was now a hideous yellow swamp. His jeans clung to his thighs like wet cardboard. Feathers stuck to his face, his collar, even the bridge of his nose. 

Not to speak about his expensive and highly exclusive sneakers, now not worth a cent anymore; unrecognisable drenched. 

He looked into the crowd; the giant max was distraught and in righteous fury, trying to refrain the mood. Scolding people right and left without cease. But to no avail, there were gaping mouths, hands slapping knees, shoulders shaking with cruel joy and venomous delight everywhere. Jake felt the sting of mockery seep through his bones like frostbite. 

Like soldiers of good faith like Eticho, Nev and Wolfgang tried - just like max - to consolidate the situation in calmness, but everyone was too drunk to care, too much in the party mood to be earnest and fair. 

The angriest and most furious person was not one of his buddies, no, it was Misa, his best friend on the female side, she did not scold, and she also did not try to consolidate the situation with soothing words, no, she blew the Gjallarhorn calling upon all realms and worlds the Götterdämmerung, thus introducing Ragnarök, her wild hunt of fury; angrily and grimridden she screamed around her furiously and beat people who laughed too hard. 

And then his eyes landed on Darcy. 

She stood at the edge of the crowd, a wine glass in hand, lipstick perfect, one eyebrow arched. 

And for a moment, Jake saw something strange. 

She wasn't laughing. Of all people he expected her to laugh the loudest. But she didn't.