ICE CUBE LANGUAGE AND DRACULA BOY

“I have to pound the ring with my fish for this. Oh, you would be proud!”

— Tamblyn drunk proverb       

INT. AMBER’S BRAIN—LAST NIGHT.

(V.O.) I’m gonna get drunk tonight at this Lucha Libre show in Barcelona. Why the hell not? I feel frisky. What’s a bad-ass substitute for Maker’s Mark though? Why the fascist fuck can’t Spain deliver in the whiskey department?!? Hmmm. What shall be the death of me this evening? J.D. is an obvious and tired choice. I’d never forgive myself if I celebutanted out all over the pool table tonight because I let cheap whiskey tea bag my class. But maybe that’s just the kind of self-crucifying an actress NEEDS.

Amber to bartender: “Three Jack’s, one Coke please.”

Bartender to Amber: “Ha! You are very small-like, for this types of drinkings, no?”

Amber to bartender: “Oh, wait, is this the advice bar? I thought you were selling drinks. I’m sorry, I was looking for SILENCE and HASTE with my order, not a dad.”

Bartender: “Ha! Feisty! Okay! I will serve you.”

**Dissolve into montage sequence**

I down three Jack Daniels and wander through the crowd with my friend, Jessica (she’s pussying out with vodka tonics). Some strange, handsome type is following me. He keeps dropping directly into my pathway like a stinking Dracula. I’d like to drive one of the spikes of my slut-clogs right through his heart. I smile, coy. Pretend my tight jeans don’t hear him.

Jessica and I get tacos at an indoor food stand. She’s talking about some obscure musical mash-up reference. I’m counting the melted ice cubes in my stomach. Must be close to 30.

The show begins. Smoke fills the tiny stadium room. A ref comes out on stage: bald and leather-faced like a grandpa’s penile skin. Why is he wearing a waiter’s outfit? the cubes in my stomach ask.

He starts dancing. TAP dancing. Some kind of Flamingo breakdance. Headspins! Booty claps! Pretty sure some colorguard moves were in there, too. He’s all over the place. Jessica and I love his moves like a dick in the dark.

Dancers come out on stage to join him… Lakers Girls? Reformed hookers? I question the bulge in the lead dancer’s shiny spandex underwear. And, by question, I mean know. Jessica and I agree, indeed, the lead dancer is, in fact, rockin’ a wang thong.

I decide another drink will Unbreak My Heart. (We heart you, Toni!!)

The wrestling match begins. Their Go-Go Power Rangers masks negate the girth of their muscular form. “Yeah, I got a scary, mean, foaming mouth on top of these flesh nukes, but can you deal with the rainbow of TRUTH covering my face?!?”

Fans in the crowd are screaming as the first round begins. Ripping their shirts off and howling at the dirty fighting. The room smells like hot chorizo breath and salted rims. I feel like I’m at a public execution. My tail starts wagging. The cubes in my stomach tell me I have a tail tonight. I have a real, fluffy fox tail and I’m not afraid to use it.

I order my 75^th ice cube and enter my Golden Years of debauchery. Jessica is starting to slur her words. Noticing this, I take a moment to self reflect. ME, TOO.

During the next few rounds, Jessica and I go backstage to take photos with some of the wrestlers. As one of the wrestlers put his arms around Jessica and me for a picture, I slurred something about how much I loved his dramatic, large beard. “That beard is really awesome. It’s kinda giving me a baby tent.”

“Thank you,” his armpit replied.

Jess and I wondered over to the t-shirt table to buy some Lucha Libre tube tops. I asked if they had any shmiddal sizes left, to which the woman said, “Huh?”

Outfitted in our new Spanish feminist tokens, we headed back towards the crowd at the stage. My new Lucha Libre collectors’ edition watch read, PIXAR ANIMATION O’CLOCK, which might be something Disney executives scream on a Sunday when they check the box office reports for their opening weekend, but it is definitely a figment of my intoxication. “Rave on, little Libre hands! Rave on!!”

The bell rings as the final round begins. From the chains of mediocrity, hell broke loose. Six wrestlers on stage at once. Really beating the cheese out of each other. Wounds, even. Lucha bloody lipbre—Rolling out of the ring, grabbing a chair out of the audience and breaking it over someone’s face. Fans jumping up in the ring like wild beasts. Fans getting bludgeoned, pulverized, and thrown out of the ring like wild beasts. A bra flies through the chaos. A bullet flies through the bra. Someone thought it was a dove of peace. Killed the fucker dead in mid-air. No peace here but pieces. Bells sounding. Murder ballads abound. A tornado of objects and hands and spit. I thought I saw someone throw a baby from the balcony. It was a midget.

Sounds of broken glass and farts. Che Guevara’s creaking grave as he rolls over in it. I actually hope someone won’t get out alive from this.

EXT. CLUB—NIGHT

The fight spills out in to the street, but now it’s with booze, kazoos, masks, and Winston cigarettes. Dracula-boy appears again, right in my sight-line. He stares. I politely smile. Which really means I attempt a wink that looks like I have glue in my eye, and pitch him my signature middle finger.

“Excuse me,” he asks, “When was the last time you were kissed?”

Damn. Did he have to bring this up right now? Did he really want to take a ride on my mood swing? I think I ask him to define a kiss. I think he says something about lips that aren’t just shaking hands. My eyes dodge the question but my mouth cannot wait to tell him how long it has been ignored. To tell him my lips are like the last empty lot in a world of tract housing.

“What curse is this? May I break it for you?”

Of course, he uses the word “curse.” Of course. Dracula boy.

I tell him I’m saving the historic moment for someone else but thanks. Psyche. I turn around, run back, and down a whole glass of him. He tastes like horchata candy. He kisses like a slug on Death Row. Someone’s calling for me but it’s in a language I don’t speak at this moment. English is not my current native tongue. So say the cubes.

Fade to black…