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"This." He hands me a ragged cardboard box. "Check it
out."
I open the box and what do you know, there's something alive inside. It's a lizard kinda thing, but fatter and
maybe a little meaner-looking than most lizards.
"Holy shit." I raise an eyebrow. "What the hell?"
This shit's just getting too weird, I'm shaking my head, shrugging my shoulders, holding this box.
"It's a he-lah monster," he says. "Spelled G-I-L-A."
LA, I think. Goddamn roommate burned the house down. Old fashioned fucking piece of shit heaters. The world should
ban everything old and archaic.
I watch the box.
The fat fucker inside just squirms around a bit, its arms testing the walls of the cardboard box.
"Does it, uh, have a name?"
"Yup," Proosteau goes. "His name's Muffler."
"Muffler," I laugh. "Good name. He's fat like a muffler."
"Don't know if he'd like you callin him fat, but...huh." Proosteau goes. "Whatever. S'all the same."
"Is he cool to pick up?" I ask.
"Oh no!" Proosteau goes. "Well, for me it's okay, but...that's cause he trusts me. He doesn't know
you. Doesn't know your smell, doesn't know your touch. Just a like a woman, cept he's prettier. And just a like
a woman I say be careful even holdin him in that box. One wrong move and he's liable to snap your finger clean
off your fuckin hand!"
We collapse into laughter at this. Proosteau's delivery in this circumstance proves impeccable, and we just have
a good gut laugh at everything. I start thinking it's not so bad out here after all. The Grand Canyon State. Not
so bad. We laugh hysterically.
"One of the only poisonous lizards," he says, and the laughter ceases.
We go back downstairs into the living room and Proosteau slides open a drawer and pulls out a massive bag of the
cheap weed we've been smoking. He looks at it, puts it away, and says, "Ah, hell with it. Evenin's come round.
You like whiskey? Rum?"
We start in the on the drinks and I didn't even know about this liquor cabinet or things might've been different
the first few days. Jäger, schnapps, dark rum, light rum, whiskey, gin, all kinds of boozes. I start with
a few shots of schnapps, then mix the Jäger with an energy drink and sip that, then I do dark rum jigger shooters,
topped with a tiny bit of skim milk. Proosteau just sips whiskey or scotch or something. I persuade him into doing
shots of schnapps with me.
"Hell," he says, pouring ice from one container into another. "Might as well brew up some margaritas
while we're at it."
"Fuck yeah!" I say.
"I'll put on some music, here," he says, walking over to the stereo. "I'm sure you like Pink Floyd..."
"Fuck that shit," I say. "Everything old and archaic should be banned. Put on something fast."
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