"Flyboy Action Figure Comes With Gas Mask" - читать интересную книгу автора (Munroe Jim)

FLYBOY ACTION FIGURE COMES WITH GASMASK

by Jim Munroe.
Originally published by HarperCollins in 1999, this e-book version came out in 2002. You're free to
distribute it as long as it's copied in its entirety.

If you haven't already, you should swing by www.nomediakings.org -- info about my other
projects and resources for do-it-yourself publishing await you there. I also love letters, so feel free
to feedback at [email protected].

***
Fighting evil by moonlight
Winning love by daylight
Never running from a real fight
She is the one named Sailor Moon!
***

Before the time with Cass, I had only come close to doing it once since childhood. This
all happened during my first year at the University of Toronto, characterized by predictable
drunken stupidity. I was again unpleasantly soused, slumped in a chair in what looked to be a
nice kitchen. It was hard to tell, because there was only a candle for light, so as to give the room
the legislated party ambience. Specifically, it was a party full of people I didn't know.
Regardless, I *did* want to know the girl with the short black hair and wine glass. She
was listening to this guy go on about his film project, nodding every so often and smiling in
inappropriate places. I remember smiling back, half-hoping half-dreading she'd catch me. I
wished he'd shut up so I could hear her talk.
The kitchen wasn't crowded, which was lucky considering what eventually happened.
Just two or three pairs of conversationalists. Someone pulled up her plaid sleeve and presented
her forearm to the candle flame. There was a wrench tattooed there, and when she flexed her
muscle it wiggled.
"Bilbo the Dancing Monkeywrench," she said to her friend. Her friend laughed and
raised her glass to Bilbo.
"This must be the party-trick segment of the evening," Film Guy said. He stepped back
for effect, cracked his knuckles and bent his thumb all the way back.
It was funny he'd do that, because I often thought of my ability as a kind of extreme
version of bending my thumb back -- ugly, unnatural and ultimately useless.
"Oh bra*vo* ," I muttered, but not quietly enough.
Black-haired girl looked at me. "Well," she said, "what can *you* do?"
I hauled myself to a standing position. "Me?" I asked her, watching the candlelight on
her face. I noticed her mascara was fucked up, and liked her more for it. Everyone else was
shadows, silent watchers.
And I was really going to do it. I really was. I took a breath and prepared to step out of
myself.
Instead, I turned my head away and puked explosively onto the formica table I had
been sitting at. The candle fell over and went out.
Dazed, I leaned over the table, looking at the mess I'd made. I dry-heaved, went to sit
on the chair again and missed. Busted my lip wide open on the metal table leg on my way down.
"Projectile vomiting. That's really . . ."
"That's really *something* ."
"Yeah."