Game Hunting

“ Fuck, I think I’m gonna puke!” I lean forward and gingerly rest the tips of my fingers on the red brick. I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and focus on some random thought. Using my other hand, I pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and index finger attempting to stave off the alcohol induced vertigo and nausea.

Of course Angel doesn’t hear me. He’s 20 feet away chatting up a group of skanks.

The club is closing. The bouncers are herding everybody out like cattle. This is the last opportunity we’re going to have to find someone to take home. Unfortunately I’ve been sidelined, and Angel’s having an off night.

“Chango, no way I’m fucking driving, take these…” Speaking to nobody in particular, I reach into my pocket and pull out my keys. I extend my arm and dangle them out in the air like a carrot for anyone to grab. Angel snatches the keys from my hand as if on cue.

“Fucking bitches, acting stuck-up as hell. I’m not going to sit there feeding their fucking egos… hey you ok?”

I carelessly sit down on the pavement next to a stack of discarded flyers. My foot kicks a half-empty Guiness bottle causing it to spin. Sticky beer splashes all over. At this point, I could care less about my black slacks or Italian shoes. “Where the fuck have you been bro?”

“What do you mean where have I been? Trying to get us LAID Cabron!”

“Any luck?”

Angel’s ignoring me.

He’s scanning the crowd with a furrowed brow, a look of intense concentration splayed across his face. Like a lion, he’s searching for the easiest prey: the sick, the weak. Angel truly doesn’t give a fuck whether he takes home a fat girl, or a funny looking girl, or an ugly bitch. It's not that he's bad looking, on the contrary, he's a very good looking guy, dark and exotic. He simply doesn't care. He’s told me on many occasions, with pride even, “a hole is a hole.” That’s where we differ. I’ve always been a trophy hunter. I have to have the best looking girl by my side or in my bed. I’ve always felt I had a reputation to uphold. If I don’t hook up with the girl with the nicest set of tits, or legs, or the prettiest face, I’d rather go home empty-handed. Of course, like any man, I have a few skeletons in my closet. I’ve banged a few nasties here or there in a drunken daze. Or if, for instance, Angel’s needed me to “distract” an over-protective friend, thereby “taking the bullet.” He’s done the same for me… countless times. I’ll rationalize MY “lowering of standards” with this simple, elegant phrase:

“I find perfection in her imperfections.”

“Hey, look at them over there.” Angel points at two girls smoking by a silver Honda. They aren’t gorgeous, nor are they ugly either. They are simply… there. Imperfectly perfect. Generic. Fuckable. Something stirs inside me… something primitive.

Or maybe it's the booze.

“O.K I’m in. Let’s do this.” I hop up and dust the seat of my pants. I suddenly have a second wind. I’m feeling “firme.”

We walk over to the two girls to make our acquaintance.

I give a genuine, friendly smile. "Hi."

“Hey.”

“ Do you have a lig-………..”

I’m unable to finish my sentence. I double over and puke the entire contents of my stomach onto the curb right next to the street, the Civic, and the two girls... a steaming, dripping pile of half-digested sushi, Red Bull, and Vodka.